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One thing that I love about 12 step meetings is the slogans. I used to go to meetings in a dingy church basement on 96th Street, and I’d read the wall, a collage of slogans—a slogan gallery wall. There was a weird smell, and it was a weird time in my in my life, but that wall brought some solace.
Slogans are cliches, really, but cliches are cliches for good reason: they start with a kernel of truth that is so universal as to become, well, cliche. They become tired precisely because they are so very resonant.
Recovery is hard. When almost ten years ago (!!) I walked into my first meeting and admitted I had an eating disorder, my heart/brain/gut started firing with a million new emotions and ideas. I heard people speak out loud the things I barely admitted to myself—the way they used food as a weapon against themselves, the sneaking and lying, the diets and cleanses, the awful cycle of making all kinds of false promises to ourselves and breaking them and promising harder…the shame.
I saw these bright, shiny eyes that gave me the tiniest glimmer of hope that something else was possible.
I had a ton to learn. I still do, ten years later.
Sometimes they say, “It’s a simple program for complicated people,” which I guess is another slogan, and another one I like.
The slogans help make recovery even simpler, ideal for when life is a big and untidy and I don’t need a lecture or a book or a treatise, just a few pithy words to hold onto. Here are some of my favorite slogans:
One day at a time.
Which is often just one hour at a time, one moment at a time, one breath in and out. I don’t need to have my whole life figured out. Someone once explained this to me as living life in “day-right containers.” Tomorrow will be a new day.
(Also, everything feels worse in the nighttime. Things look different and less scary in the morning.)
Easy does it.
Easy does it!! That is NOT how my brain works. My brain says, “complicated and difficult does it.” My brain makes things epic and existential and profound (not in a good way, just in a stressful way). I’m still learning how to approach things with a lighter, gentler touch. I will probably be learning this one forever.
You’re only as sick as your secrets.
I didn’t tell anyone about my eating disorder. Not really. Not my best friend. Not my mom. Certainly not the guy I was dating. Honesty is a journey for sure, and I started by being (more) honest with myself. The first time I told a room full of (mostly) strangers about my eating disorder was truly revolutionary. I didn’t combust. Lightning didn’t strike me down. I did have suddenly sweaty palms and a crescendo-ing thrum of my heartbeat. I also felt like a million pounds were released from my shoulders. As soon as I share my secrets, they lose some of their power, some of their teeth, some of their hold over my heart.
Progress, not perfection.
Perfection was the name of the game for my eating disorder. The thing is that a “perfect” life is a small, sad life. (It also doesn’t exist.) The life I want is big and messy and involves messing and up learning from my mistakes. As long as my personal compass (personal Google maps?) is pointed in the right direction, there’s definitely room for some getting lost and making weird turns. Then I will reroute my inner GPS and try again.
This too shall pass.
Nothing wonderful or excruciating lasts forever. Not this painful work project. Not this time in seemingly endless traffic with a crying baby who puked all over her new car seat. Not her babyhood, or her childhood. Not my fear, or my joy. This too shall pass.