DISCLAIMER: this is not an article detailing my hopes and ambition for a miraculous Damascus of a recovery, in which I spend each day indulging in the richest, most luxurious of foods every breathing second. So don’t be expecting it. It ain’t gonna happen. You have to be realistic about recovery. I gotta suck it up and accept the fact that I am never going to be a Nigella. As much as I may dream to be. A moment’s silence in praise of Our Lady Lawson, please…
Instead, this post is about these:
No, not my ridiculously distorted facial expressions in every single photograph of me ever taken (although that would prove an interesting read). This post shall be about that little booklet of treasures in my hand. If you can decipher the smudgy black line along the top of the page, it reads: EATING PLAN FOR – NIAMH LUNDY. Boring. Sorry.
My dismissive smirk in this selfie is a tad misleading. I don’t know what I would do without this. I was pathetic. I am pathetic. I didn’t know what a snack food was. I didn’t know what filled a sandwich. I didn’t know what an appropriate dinner portion was. I still don’t. This is why my meal plan is the greatest thing to happen to me in the past six months. It is essentially my holy bible, my guide to maintain…well…an existence, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Who would have thought that seven stapled pages could literally be a life saver?
Now for downfall. Many people believe that sticking stringently to such a plan equates to being a recovered individual. After all, you are eating. Ergo, you are normal, right? No disordered eating patterns here, isn’t that so? This plan does it all for me and I just have to think of it as medication, like someone with a physical ailment would take pills at particular intervals throughout the day to keep their health in check. I have had these thoughts. I was one of those people who was led into a false sense of security, believing that because I was putting food into my belly in accordance with a meal plan that I was fine and dandy, that I could keep following this plan for the rest of my natural existence and everything would be okay.
This is not okay. This is not normal eating.
How many people do you know that cling to a booklet which dictates exactly what they eat (right down to teaspoon measurements and milliliters of liquid accompaniment, I kid you not) and at what precise hour they eat it? How many people do you know who have seven meals assigned to them which must be consumed in the seven days, with no adjustments or replacements? Yeah. The silence is deafening. This is not recovered eating. This is one of the earliest stages of recovery, missy. You are nowhere near recovered.
Clichés are my forte.
I am not putting us down. This is my attempt at encouragement, as backward as it may be. The thing that fuels me is the desire to be adventurous. I will say it: I AM BORED. I am bored of the same dinners, I am bored of being dictated to by a piece of paper telling me when I can and can’t eat something, I am bored of having to use the excuse, “It isn’t in my meal plan,” or, “It doesn’t comply with my meal plan,” when my friends invite me out. This is not the life I want to lead. This meal plan allows for existence. This meal plan does not allow for living. I want to live. I deserve to live.
I will admit, it is my freedom with fruit that I miss most of all. I want to be trusted to lead a healthy lifestyle again but not exploit it, to acknowledge that I deserve to be treated to foods that aren’t necessarily part of a ‘clean eating’ diet and to recognise that if I’m craving the darn cake, I should eat the darn cake.
Been a bit cake on the brain since I made this lemon drizzle badboy…
I have been promised greater freedom of choice with the foods I eat once I reach a BMI between 17 and 17.5. Today, my BMI was calculated at 16.2. But slow and steady wins the race. And victory will be sweet.
-Niamhy xx
High Priestess Resurrected 