Slipping, Not Falling

On noticing the pull before it takes over

It’s been a long while since I’ve needed to write like this. There’s an urgency behind my words, my fingers moving faster than my thoughts. Writing is almost a misnomer; I’m not thinking through what I want to say because the words are demanding to come out.

I’ve actually been writing a lot lately, but most of it has been about ideas, psychology, and things that are true without being particularly personal. The writing hasn’t really been for me, though. I’ve been thinking about who will read it and how it will land, instead of writing to understand what I’m feeling. When I write like that, I can’t turn off the performance. I’m thinking instead of feeling, crafting instead of writing. Even when the writing works, it doesn’t feel particularly good. So instead of trying to write well, I came here today to tell the truth.

The truth is this: over the past few days, I’ve felt myself slipping.

It started after we got back from vacation. It was a really good trip, one where I let go of some of my usual rigidity and enjoyed almost every moment. Then I came home and felt different in my body, more aware of it and more uncomfortable than I’ve been in a while.

It’s a familiar feeling, and one I’ve learned not to ignore. It’s how the pull toward anorexia starts for me. The feeling lives more in my body than in my head; almost automatically, I start trying to manage, contain, and narrow my world. When I follow the pull, even a little, there’s immediate relief: my mind clears, the noise quiets, and I feel safe. That’s what makes it so compelling.

Still, I know where it leads, and it’s not where I want to go.

Yesterday, I caught myself standing in my own kitchen, trying to decide if I would allow myself breakfast. I could feel the shift happening in real time: the narrowing, the focus, the quieting of everything else. It would have been easy to follow it without thinking twice.

That’s usually how it works. I push away what I’m feeling by focusing on my body, even though it’s never really about my body.

I think I have a pretty good idea why it’s happening now. A few weeks ago, something happened in my family that brought some old patterns back to the surface. We’ve each fallen into them, the kind where we say less and can feel the distance growing without quite knowing how to stop it. Nothing catastrophic has happened, but the return to unhealthy patterns is familiar in a way my body didn’t miss.

When things feel disconnected in my most important relationships, I turn inward and get quieter. I keep functioning, doing what needs to be done, but beneath the surface, I shut down. I become more efficient and less available at the same time. It shows up in my writing too; feelings become thoughts, experience becomes explanation.

It works in the short term, but it comes at a cost. I lose access to my feelings, to my voice, and to the parts of me I love best.

And almost as soon as I notice myself slipping, another voice shows up. It’s sharp and impatient, telling me I should know better, that this shouldn’t be hard anymore. I recognize that voice for what it is, but that doesn’t mean it disappears.

What feels different now is that I don’t automatically follow the pull.

I can see it for what it is and pause before acting on it. I can name what’s happening and tell the people who support me. That doesn’t make the pull go away, but it gives me a chance to respond differently.

Recovery, at least for me, doesn’t mean I never feel the pull again. There are long stretches when I don’t have to think about it much at all, and then there are moments like this, when old patterns start to whisper again.

The difference is that now I hear them before they turn into a scream.

So I’m trying, as best I can, to stay connected instead of shutting down, to tell the truth about what’s happening, and to remember that slipping isn’t the same as falling.