Shoes and Pens
This morning as I began my dull meandering through my typical post-wake (pre-coffee) routine, my phone began to ring. Naturally, I haphazardly scoped the kitchen counter for the buzzing pest, finally locating it dangerously near a corner, threatening to plummet to the tile below. Expecting to find my morning alarm unintentionally "snooze"-d, I was stunned to see I was receiving a call. This wasn't your usual too-early-mysterious-area-code-must-be-a-telemarketer-in-some-foreign-land call. This was a wake up call.
This was a pebble thrown into my stream of consciousness; what comes next will no doubt ripple and blend into waves I wasn't anticipating.
I've been offered to be the subject for a series of articles on eating disorders for our local paper. Trust me, I know what you're thinking! Wow, how anti-climactic. Sweet. You must understand that blogging is international, consisting of infinitely many combinations of words in every language, every place, every problem, every solution, every joy, every woe.
This is my town, however, and whether it be because it's printed on a flimsy piece of paper, establishing a timeless authenticity, or whether it be because I'm possibly revealing my story to every person that's ever honked at me, given me a receipt, taught me English, or sipped a latte I've concocted, I'm a tad bit nervous.
I don't know. It's not in a knuckle and jaw clenching, eye dartingly anxious way, but merely in an uneasy butterfly wing kind of way.
Ultimately, I think I'm excited. Excited and proud for the acceptance I feel about that part of me: the part of me which I've been suppressing and ducking to conceal. I survived treatment! But this isn't a survival story.
It's merely a footnote.