I am terrible at updating this, I apologize.

I know I said I'd be taking pictures everyday and whatnot, but I've been finding that seriously impossible given that my schedule has been jampacked since the moment I made my last post. Inbetween working, attempting to figure out school nonsense, my family, my friends, and my boy (:]!), everything has been rather hectic. So, my sincerest. Today's post will not have very much to do with my life at present, nor will it feature a picture I have taken. It is instead a picture of the poster for a movie I watched recently which reminds me of a very different time in my life.



I am very aware that August Rush is not what one would consider a 'good' movie. It is predicatable, at best, and the story line in and of itself is slightly, if not entirely ridiculous. I fight the urge to call it stupid only because I wouldn't be writing about it if it were. But, in many respects, it is a wee bit silly. However, regardless of how absurd the plot is, it still holds a very significant place in my heart.

Before I left for treatment in Florida, I was forced to wait a week because of the lack of bed space. I can say without hesitance that that week was the longest of my life. I later found out that had I not entered treatment at the opportune moment that I did, that week very well may have been my last. I think a part of me recognized that, at the time, even without that information, and I tried my damned hardest to make the best of it, though I had very little energy with which to do so. I painted on a happy face for my family and friends, strung Christmas lights, even baked with my sister, fearing all along she'd be the one to find my dead in the morning. One of my last evenings home, I took her to see August Rush, which is why it's so important to me. I did not expect much from the movie, nor did I expect to be able to sit through it - by this time I was having a very hard time sitting without sleeping and a very hard time doing simple things. Like, for instance, breathing. Everything seemed exhausting beyond comprehension and I feared I wouldn't be able to make it through the simplest of tasks. I can actually remember believing I would die before the movie ended because the scent of popcorn was driving me out of my mind, my stomach growling louder and louder and louder as the movie progressed.

I cannot say the movie touched me very much - I was so distanct and detached from even myself at that point that whatever could touch me had to be beyond the normal stretches of sentiment. What touched me was my sister beside me, the fear in her eyes, her hands wringing and wringing, her decision to avoid popcorn for my sake. Her love for me so evident in even the smallest of actions. The movie represents that love.

Recently, I watched it, again with my sister, and as difficult as it was for the movie to touch me before, it touched me then, and for entirely different reason. Even if the movie is silly and poorly made, the music is beautiful, the story is beautiful. I watched it and felt whole, like something had been clicked magically into place, like everything was going to be okay. That the things that once meant nothing now meant everything, and vice versa. I recognize the difference, not only in my ability to grasp meaning, but in myself, period.

I am astoundingly altered. I find that I cannot remember the last time I fought with myself over anything food related, or even had a temptation to use symptoms. I am, without doubt, a completely new and unblemished individual. And, I value that. I often worry, extensively, mind you, about falling backwards. If it were possible to finally find recovery, who's to say I may not eventually reject it, as I did last time? I am, essentially, the same person, even if I am different, even if I am new. I have just shed my former skin, molted like a snake. However, in the end, I am still a snake. But, perhaps no longer a venomous one...

I have been sicker than sick. I have accepted death three times more than I should have had to and I have lived anyway. This did not always make me happy, but it does now, and I am thankful that I somehow managed to maintain the strength to keep going. I enjoy food. I no longer stand in front of my kitchen cabinet arguing incessantly with myself over calories and starches and calculations and exchanges. I no longer find need for that. If I want to eat a bowl of cereal, I'm going to eat it. I no longer answer to that bitch in my head. I answer to myself.

I never thought I'd be here. Never in a million years. I stand in front of the mirror and don't think or look twice. This is my body. And, it's fine. It's beautiful, actually, and I am lucky to have it. So, so lucky. I have two arms, two legs, two eyes, two hands. These are the important things. There is no sense losing sleep over cellulite and the now non-concavity of my stomach. I have far more important things to worry about.

I am happy. Everything in my life makes sense for the first time in six years. I have fantastic friends, a supportive family, a great job, which I will be returning to both in the winter and next summer, and a boy that really respects and appreciates me, which I appreciate more than he will probably ever know. I have my moments, still, I am human, after all, but they have become fewer and far between, which I find awe-inspiring. I've never been so amazed by myself, and I mean that in the least conceited way possible.

Life is great. I don't even need this blog, haha. I really have nothing to whine about.