I usually know Christmas is approaching, not because of the decorations or calendar, but because I get a letter saying I need to attend a bone clinic. It's a joyous occasion where I sit and wait for a long time to be taken into a room, have my skeleton scanned in what is essentially a large photocopier, and then given a picture to take home. I don't put it in a frame or anything!
It's a chore, I'll be honest. I even get a bit stroppy during the days before because whilst I'll go, I wish I didn't have to. I know I will be measured and weighed, I know some of them won't be used to dealing with eating disorders survivors. I walk into that hospital with a bit of an attitude, but that's my way of dealing with it. By far the worst part is sitting there discussing (or should I say being sternly told) why I'm very lucky, or delving into conversations I just don't want to have because it's in the past now, and I'm ok. I'm 100% healthy.
I am lucky, after a couple of years my body has healed itself. No lasting damage, which is in itself a miracle and I question it numerous times. How have I come out of that physically unharmed?
Your body isn't immortal though, I have been incredibly lucky and must have just scraped through everything. This isn't to say that damage wasn't done at the time, I was just lucky enough to be caught in time for eveything to heal.
Next time you think about making yourself sick, or giving up, remeber that if you look after your body you will get better. It's very easy to think it won't happen to you, but it could. There are many reasons why I can't believe how lucky I was, but in reality the potential for it to have gone the other way is scarily real.
In a way it's good that these appointments fall at Christmas, you leave, see a Christmas tree... And get on with your new life!
