Caged. It's an odd name for something that's been so liberating for me. I remember, when I first went into residential, I drew a picture of a girl (blank enough in feature not to show any semblance, but still recognized) in a metal cage curved like a bishop's hat. She wouldn't meet anyone's eyes (or maybe, like me then, she couldn't meet them) and the sign next to her said, "Do not feed the monster." I showed it, early on, to one of the girls whose smile had enchanted me, and she said, "Oh, wow...is that how you see yourself?" I caved, had trouble replying. It was how I saw my life at that time, certainly. It was how I saw my duty: to contain the badness raging inside me. The poisoned, contaminated essence that could not run freely in the world. The poison I was too shy to attack fully (fatally- though often, in the throes of my depression, I wished to do as much) had to be contained. Somehow, somewhere, my perception tripped and named food part of that same poison. It had a look, I think. Beige or yellow and thick, boiling. At first only the foods that looked the most like that poison went on the list of impossibilities. It didn't take long for the list to grow, though. It didn't take nearly so long to lose myself as it is to find her. Unless it started earlier. Unless you sneak far back into my history, into the first conversations about weight, into the first stomachaches, the first fears, the first time I lost my voice. If you measure from that mark, I've bounced back with almost impossible quickness.

I don't consider myself recovered, a free bird. (A canary, seeing as that was my theme song during sickness. My current perspective is a little different, situated somewhere in between what I had and what I want.) I define myself as recovering, more consistently than simply when talking of disease. This is everything to me, sometimes. The way I make my choices, the way I live and love and move forward- at whatever pace- all come from my recovery. I think I'm the canary perched atop the open cage. I'm still examining it, and myself, and at times (how I hate this) even considering returning to captivity. Even though I know better, even though everything good in my life is sponsored, is made possible by, recovery. And then I remember the poison and the sign and the cage, and I can't help but test my wings again. I like the way the air feels, even if I'm only making the rounds within the confines of a small space (my pet store...) I'm learning about endurance and stamina and self. And eventually that cage will be as light a memory as the drawing of me-not-me inside it.

The closer I come, the more I believe in it. (Most days...)

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