Frustrated and angry over several things, my therapeutic process included, I texted my therapist a couple days ago: “I hate my process.”

It’s interesting and frightening—the things that I start to hate about myself when I’m not obsessed with primarily hating my body.

The truth is, I don’t hate my process at all. I fear she does. Or that anyone who I might let into it, will judge it. I think that’s partly why being walked in on during session a couple weeks ago felt so intrusive. It’s this sacred thing to me that I can’t let out because no one else will understand, and if people don’t understand, I’ll have to stop.

I feel so much safety inside of it, I don’t want anything or anyone to ruin what is working so well, including myself. So, I do what I know to do: I tread carefully–too carefully–and start to over-analyze everything I’m doing and she’s doing and wonder if I’m too much.

The truth is that I love my process. I think it’s comforting, self-reflecting, and has a direct correlation with personal growth. Isn’t that the whole point of therapy? I love that I have wanted this opportunity pretty much since I began to have any self-reflection and analytical skills around age eleven, and I have it now. I get to go. I get to have the person God knew I needed, to do it with. We get to do it together. I love that I have a place to go and a trusted person to go to with anything. I even admire and respect that the relationship is sometimes messy. Because it mirrors real life. And allows me to, for the first time ever, find out that if I mess up, or she does, we can still be ok. Better, even, from those messy spots.

I hated every part of myself when I began therapy. Now, I like more parts than not. It’s just that I fear admitting that. As if the conceited police will arrive the minute I say out loud anything positive about myself.

I wasn’t born to live like that. I don’t want to live like that. I want to live with lots of love to give and it’s so much easier to give it out when it’s in abundance for myself, first.

More meals with solid nutrition is helping my brain work the way it’s supposed to. Less nutrition only sends me to places I don’t want to be in. The way I want to live involves peace with food. A neutral stance in terms of my body’s appearance. And meaningful, impactful, real relationships.

My therapeutic process got me here. That is SO cool. I’m doing it in a way that is the most healing for me, and in the only way that makes complete sense to me. There is no reason to be ashamed or embarrassed by what works for me. I am beginning to think that the parts of my therapy incorporated uniquely for me, are the most healing parts. The non-textbook parts. The holistic parts. The somatic parts. The parts that I was afraid to say out loud at first, the things I knew I really needed, those are the things that have the biggest impact on me. Not that the textbook stuff doesn’t help. It does. But I’m going to leave my own judgement (as much as humanly possible) out of my process from now on. It doesn’t have a place in my journey anymore. And, I’m going to leave fear of other’s judgements out, too.

I am kind of a badass rockstar (words recently spoken about me, to me, that I am choosing to take on, because fuck it)! And my eating disorder, trauma, depression, and anxiety don’t get to rob me of that anymore.

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