I’m Madison, and I’m allergic to bees. I think I am at least. I’ve
only been stung once and afterwards I was very aware my throat existed. For
some reason though, whenever I’m asked to introduce myself and share an
‘interesting fact’ about me, I get extra anxious and this is always my
response. Besides being socially awkward and more anxious then the average
person, I’m also a recovering alcoholic and bulimic. While I’m sure most people
would find this more interesting than a false bee allergy, I’m much more
hesitant to share this part of my life.
I’ve been sober for a little over 2 years, and haven’t made myself
throw up since Labor Day of last year. When I tell someone that I’m an
alcoholic, the usual response is ‘but you don’t look like an alcoholic? Which
isn’t surprising, since I’m a female who is only a quarter century old. I
usually take it as a compliment since I’m assuming they’re telling me they don’t
think I look like an old drunken homeless man. When I tell people about the
eating disorder, I usually get a really similar reply, people tell me I don’t
look like someone who would have an eating disorder. This, I do not take as a
compliment. It feels more like a verbal punch in the gut. I assume they say
this because while I’m a young female, I’m not underweight. I’m actually
slightly overweight. Even after all the therapy I’ve had, I still feel like I’m
drowning in a wave of shame and fury every time my weight is referenced in the
slightest.
Writing is one of the few forms of therapy I've resisted in the
last few years. I'm not sure why I've been so resistant to it since I have been
open to so many other types of therapy that are much stranger. I kind of knew
I'd end up writing at some point but figured something really bad would have to
happen for me start. I kind of thought it would be me forcing myself to puke again
if I’m being honest. If this isn't the place to be honest I don't know where
is!
As it turns out it was something bad that happened that gave me
that push I needed to write; my Grandpa Gene had a heart attack this morning.
Even that sentence is hard to write for some reason, and it's the third time
I've written it today. It has not gotten easier to write; it seems to make it
more real each time I do. He actually had a heart attack when I was about 13,
too. That first heart attack happened on a Thanksgiving, and his second heart
attack decided to pounce on a much spookier holiday, Halloween! I made a joke
at work today about my him always having heart attacks on holidays. Turns out,
people get uncomfortable when you make jokes about heart attacks the same day
it happens. Oh well, it made me feel better.
