I am 175 days into recovery *this* time. This morning, as I was getting ready for work, I started crying tears of gratitude and happiness. Just completely out of nowhere. If I had not been alone, I’m sure it would’ve scared whomever was around. I was thinking about how insanely blessed I am and how very, very, very happy I am at this stage in my life and recovery.
The other week, my husband completely surprised me with a 10-year “upgrade” to my wedding ring. It is stunning. It was a surprise because we have actually been married eleven years, and our anniversary isn’t until mid-October. (I guess he has been working on this or at least thinking about it since the 10th year, but who am I to get sidetracked by facts!) He gave me a card that read, “Best Day Ever” on the outside and wrote to me on the inside that every day together with our little family is in fact the best day ever—I couldn’t agree more.
When I look down at my bedazzled finger, I keep thinking of how different things were–how different I was–ten (OK, 11) years ago. I was actively engaged in bulimia with no end in sight. I was newly married without kids and without the stability later afforded by our hard work in our careers, which were still brand new and tenuous at the time. I was full of rage for my family and upbringing and had not really reckoned with the true trauma of my childhood. I had no idea what was to come, and I had no idea that my every dream would come true.
When I think back to how this life came about, I find myself thinking of Annette, a girl in my 7th grade class who had just transferred in, and who I didn’t know very well. We were a TINY private school (read: incredibly conservative fundamentalists) with shared classrooms for two grades–here, 7th and 8th. At Christmas, we were forced to do a gift exchange, choosing a name from a hat. Annette drew my name, and she gifted me a journal–my first. I started writing, and words became my salvation. They still are. I don’t journal hardly at all anymore, but I wrote daily for many years, filling books upon books and boxes upon boxes, which are now in storage. Now, this blog sometimes fills that void, and I find that I just don’t “need” the written words as much as I used to. I absorb words now relentlessly. I’ve always been a voracious reader of fiction and non-fiction, and I listen to countless podcasts that make me a more informed, healthier person.
I have no doubt that words have saved me, and I am so grateful for that innocent gift nearly 3 decades ago.