The secrets that I keep haunt my body like deadly, maniacal pathogens mocking their way through my marrow, tempting my soul with relapse. My disease inflates my balloon of shame so greatly that it creates a blockade between my lungs and throat, making it quite cumbersome to open up and expose myself. The longer I harbor these secrets, the larger the balloon becomes and the less room there is for air. It becomes increasingly harder to breathe and more and more difficult and uncomfortable to be in my skin. Before I know it I’m running down the lane to relapse.
It’s dangerous for me to keep secrets. I’ve kept secrets my entire life and it’s led me to a life of an eating disorder and drugs. Secrets and feelings have to be coped with and come out one way or another. Mine were numbed out through Vicodin abuse and violently escaped me through bulimia. The shame of this cycle became so massive I not only could not tell anyone about it, I couldn’t even admit it to myself. I was completely detached from myself. My balloon of shame had decapitated my brain from the rest of my body. I lost all feeling, all notion of reality, all emotional connection to anyone or anything around me. I was no longer living; a doped up zombie of upside down, backward accord. Thankfully my family took control where I had lost all and sent me to emotional boot camp; rehab. A safe and insulated version of reality but at least in this one I was sober.
In rehab I was forced to expel my secrets, and this time I had to do it using my voice instead of food. I had to become clean. Clean from pills, clean from bulimia, clean from secrets. I had to bare my soul of my secrets that had emotionally tore away at my heart, memories and events that had haunted my mind like shadows lurking in dark corners. Encounters and recollections I had held onto tight as skin escaped my throat through my vocal chords and the shapes of true, genuine words rang out and began to shrink the balloon above my lungs. The more I expelled and revealed the less power the secrets had. The less shame I held in that ever present balloon. The easier it became to breathe. The trick was to keep talking, to keep telling on myself when I felt like using, or felt like crying, or felt hurt or angry or frustrated. The trick, simply, was to just keep talking.
I’m not allowed to bury myself anymore. Even if I believe my feelings to be sophomoric and foolish I know I must not harbor or I’m on a dangerous path. I no longer have the privilege of keeping secrets for they are the ignition to my disease. I no longer have the privilege of keeping my feelings private as I am one to use such feelings as ammunition on my esteem and blow more and more shame into the balloon. I keep the shame at bay by keeping my mouth open and honest despite the tremendous difficulties it so often poses. However, I’d much rather have it be difficult to share than difficult to breathe.
By Molly S.
Filed under: Featured, Recovery · Tags: air, angry, balloon, breathe, bulima, clean, dangerous, disease, Eating disorders, emotional, emotionally, feelings, keeping secrets, life, pills, rehab, relapses, secrets, sober, Treatment, vicodin