Desirée

One guy’s attempt at getting Amazon to hire him

Hiding your hurt only intensifies it. Problems grow in the dark and only become bigger and bigger, but when exposed to the light of truth, they shrink. You are only as sick as your secrets. So take off your mask, stop pretending you’re perfect, walk into freedom.

It’s a funny thing coming home. Nothing changes. Everything looks the same, feels the same, even smells the same. You realize what’s changed is you.

Suddenly everything finally made sense because, paradoxically, I finally accepted that it never would make sense. That’s life. It’s not all wrapped up in a tidy bow - it’s crazy and unpredictable, and so are the people who live in it.

What I know is this: I chose recovery. It was a conscious decision, and not an easy one. That’s the common denominator among people I know who have recovered: they chose recovery, and they worked like hell for it, and they didn’t give up. Recovery isn’t easy, at first. It takes time. It takes more work, sometimes, than you think you’re willing to do. But it is worth every hard day, every tear, every terrified moment. It’s worth it, because the trade-off is this: you let go of your eating disorder, and you get back your life.

No-one can force you to do anything. You choose. You always choose. You can choose not to weigh yourself; you can choose to have a dash of milk in your coffee; you can choose to begin that furtive stumble towards the light. Conversely, you can choose to remain behind. You can choose to cower. You can choose to starve, binge, abuse yourself. It is a compulsion, yes, but it is a compulsion that can be fixed. Patched up. Knitted anew into a healthier form.

If I ever have a daughter...

What I know is this: I chose recovery. It was a conscious decision, and not an easy one. That’s the common denominator among people I know who have recovered: they chose recovery, and they worked like hell for it, and they didn’t give up. Recovery isn’t easy, at first. It takes time. It takes more work, sometimes, than you think you’re willing to do. But it is worth every hard day, every tear, every terrified moment. It’s worth it, because the trade-off is this: you let go of your eating disorder, and you get back your life.

Don’t try to make life a mathematics problem with yourself in the center and everything coming out equal. When you’re good, bad things can still happen. And if you’re bad, you can still be lucky.

It hurts to let go. Sometimes it seems the harder you try to hold on to something or someone, the more it wants to get away. You feel like some kind of criminal for having felt, for having wanted. For having wanted to be wanted. It confuses you, because you think that your feelings were wrong and it makes you feel so small because it’s so hard to keep it inside when you let it out and it doesn’t come back. You’re left so alone that you can’t explain.

Damn, there’s nothing like that, is there? I’ve been there, and you have, too. You’re nodding your head.

Our strength will continue if we allow ourselves the courage to feel scared, weak, and vulnerable.

“I know my head isn't screwed on straight. I want to leave, transfer, warp myself to another galaxy. I want to confess everything, hand over the guilt and mistake and anger to someone else. There is a beast in my gut, I can hear it scraping away at the inside of my ribs. Even if I dump the memory, it will stay with me, staining me. My closest is a good thing, a quiet place that helps me hold these thoughts inside my head where no one can hear them.”