I am Different:
Seeking Similarities in Recovery
By
“I
am different,” I explained. I was talking with my psychotherapist, Thom
Rutledge, at the height of my battle with anorexia and bulimia. He made
a few remarks, and I nodded my head to cover up for the fact that I was
not listening to a word he was saying.
“But,” I continued, “I am different.”
When I was struggling with my eating
disorder, “I am different,” was my anthem. If I could prove to Thom, to
myself, and to everyone else that I were different, then I had an excuse
for why I was not getting better. I believed wholeheartedly that
therapy, the Twelve Steps, and all of the other recovery tools worked
for “them,” but I also believed that I was different from them. Those
things would not work for me.
Looking back, I now know that I was afraid
at possibly failing at something that worked for everyone else. So my
pride and ego began working in reverse to save me from the possibility
of failure. It was easier to be different than to fail.
When I would walk into a weekly group
therapy session, I would scan the room and analyze all of the
differences that I saw between them and me. I am a true perfectionist;
they are mere amateurs at attempting to do everything right. I am a
workaholic; they just want to have fun. I cannot get better; they can.
Not surprisingly, my practice of focusing on the differences led to
extreme isolation.
“When it comes to eating disorders,” Thom
always says, “isolation is what kills.”
As I slipped away into an unhealthy
solitude, my destructive behaviors with food became worse and worse. I
was isolated, and it was killing me. Terminal uniqueness --- as the
condition is commonly called --- was truly killing me.
I not only compared myself to the people
in my therapy group, but I also focused on the differences between my
family and me. And I analyzed how I was different from all of my
“normal” friends. I even dwelled on how I was different from the grocery
store clerk, the waitress, and the bus driver. I thought that no one
understood me.
The fact is that a lot of people
understood me. Some people even understood why I focused so much on the
differences, because they did the same exact thing that I did. Thom had
certainly worked with many terminally unique clients prior to me.
I am not exactly sure when it happened,
but my ears eventually opened up in a therapy session. (I think my
newfound willingness to listen had something to do with the fact that
pain is a powerful motivator for change, and I was in a lot of pain.) I
finally listened, and Thom said that seeking the similarities ---
instead of differences --- might be helpful to me. I needed to look at
how I might be similar to the rest of the folks on the planet instead of
insisting that I am unlike anyone else.
So I began to admit that I had some things
in common with those women in my eating disorder therapy group. I could
not deny that we all had eating disorders, and our behaviors looked
remarkably similar. We were all in a room together every week trying to
get better, and we all cared about each other. Yes, they cared about
perfectionistic, workaholic me. More importantly, I genuinely cared
about them.
Slowly I took their phone calls and made
some of my own. I began to accept their invitations to coffee shops and
actually had a good time. I even accepted invitations from other
friends; I connected more with my family. Connection felt good.
I discovered that I was similar to a lot
of incredible, courageous people who had overcome all kinds of
difficulties in their lives. Maybe I was incredible and courageous, too.
I considered the possibility that I could overcome struggles in my life
as well.
After many years of never giving up and
continually reaching out for help from others, I recovered from my
eating disorder. In the beginning, I cringed as I opened up to people
and accepted the help that was offered to me. Slowly the cringe turned
into gratitude. Ironically, as I began to appreciate the similarities
that I shared with others, I also came to understand how we are all
unique in our own ways. Today I celebrate that I am, in fact, a unique
person --- just like everyone else.
I used to think that I was different. I
thought that no one understood me. I let both perceived and real
differences trap me in isolation and despair.
Today I choose to think differently.
And it makes all the difference.
****
About The Author:
jenni@jennischaefer.com.
