I’ve always felt different from the rest of my family – the so-called “black sheep” – not just because of my mental illness but also my intense personality. I’m passionate and ambitious – obsessive even. I’ve always stuck out and I’m hard to relate to.
While I long for acceptance, it would also kill me to be considered “normal”.
The things that make me crazy also make me a writer.
I’ve been feeling really misunderstood lately. I recently realized that after two decades of recovery, two rounds at treatment centers, and hundreds of conversations around the kitchen table, my family actually knows very little about eating disorders.
I’m hurt – and confused. How is this even possible?
I’ve always been an open book. I have freely shared my story with all of my loved ones, but now I don’t feel as comfortable.
On the one hand, do I continue to share hoping one day they will understand, or on the other hand, do I keep quiet to spare myself heartache and judgment? Which has my recovery’s best interest in mind?
I should add, that my husband is the exception. He always knows what to say and do, and I really don’t know how he does it. He is the one keeping me grounded while still allowing me to live my dreams. I would be very lost and very lonely without him.
This latest round of treatment was very intense – maybe even a little traumatic – and since discharge, my emotions have been an absolute rollercoaster ride.
If you have advice, I’m open to it, but really putting my words out into the universe is therapeutic in itself.
I’m different, and most of the time I’m okay with that, but who doesn’t want acceptance from their loved ones?