Mint Chocolate Chip

2:37 p.m. Monday afternoon

Sophie holding Baby Pepper

Pepper is bounding from couch to ottoman in a tiny naked butt.

Sophie looks cued for the orthodontist.  Her mouth flayed open and I can see every one of her braces.  She is filling the room with her laugh.

Beckam lays next to me kicking his chunks of leg, content.

A pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream is melting.  We are all eating it.

Eating disordered Lydia is hissing, 

"You shouldn't be eating that.  You shouldn't be sitting here.  You should get up and do something active if you're going to eat that.  Or maybe, if you get your lazy ass off this couch, you won't eat it at all."

I look around me.

Sophie holding Beckam

I see my kids.  I see myself enjoying them.  

Me in all my frump and greasy ponytail.

I am granted an out of body experience.

I see how wrong Lydia is. Not just in theory.  

But in real life...real time...real colors, shapes, and sound.  

There is no need for her.

My softer Sarah voice says,

"Stay right here. Don't miss this.  The ice cream doesn't matter."

And I ride up over the crest of another wave.

Rather than crushing me it dissipates, and turns to foam.

I used to think my eating disorder recovery would be swift and thorough, leaving me spotless.

It's so huge, and food is everywhere.  How could it be any other way?

I cannot be a prisoner chipping away at the cement wall with a fork.

I'll never get out.  I'd rather not even hope to get out.

Actually, it is a space I find.  Suspended apart from linear time.  

Separate from measurement, achievement, and progress.

A place where nothing needs to change.