Learning to Catch Myself Before a Fall

It's been almost two months since I have blogged. When last I wrote, I had tripped in recovery, succumbing to maladaptive coping mechanisms: restricting, isolating, and self-deprecating thoughts.  For a little while, at least, I was hell-bent on self-destruction, getting high on hunger and the illusion of control.  Anorexia seemed easier than the hurricane of emotions I was experiencing.

My therapist pointedly explained that for the first time since finishing treatment, I was experiencing sufficient turmoil to trigger relapse.  This turmoil was my first true test of recovery: could I apply the skills I've learned and maintain recovery, or would I succumb to old habits and relapse?  I've never been one who accepts failure easily, so I didn't allow the latter to occur.  I may have tripped, but I caught myself before falling.

From this, I learned that my health and recovery affect so many around me.  When I am struggling, I forget how others rely on me and that I play an important role in others' lives.  When I am sick, I perceive the world in such a narrow, limited way, focusing only on my self-hatred and need for self-destruction.  I want to numb my pain, and in those moments, that's all that matters.

The problem with this way of thinking is that I cannot separate my life from those who share my life with me.  If I am not healthy, both in mind and body, I cannot be there for others as they deserve me to be and others cannot be there for me in the way I deserve.  To isolate myself in order to feed the anorexia, I push away my husband, family, friends, co-workers, acquaintances, and students.  My skills, talents, nurturing, kindness, empathy, creativity, and intelligence cannot be shared with those I care about most.

Margaret Cho has said that having self-esteem is an act of resistance.  I agree.  Loving myself enough to  fight for recovery is a bold act.   There will always be tough times, the rain will fall.  However, the sun will eventually shine brightly again.  I have learned that I am valuable in this world, my gifts and talents enjoyed by others.  I cannot allow my fears and self-doubt to steal me away from life.  Finally, after all of these years, I passed the test, and here still, I stand.

Cheers!

Frustration at Others' Forgetfulness

Growing strong in recovery makes people forget the struggles of the eating disorder.  People see how well I eat, how confident I have become, how happy, joyful, and fulfilled I am.  The fragile, emotional ghost of my past seems to fade into the distance.  I have become redefined in many people's minds.

Most of the time, this redefinition is wonderful.  I am no longer perceived as "the anorexic" or "the sick one."  I am me--the sensitive, caring one, the one who is loyal and protective, the crazy, humorous one.  Anorexia no longer defines me, and in the beginning stages of recovery, this greatly bothered me.  Since I had allowed the eating disorder to define me, I needed others to believe what I did.  The struggle to break free from other's perceptions of me, as well as my own beliefs about myself, was a long and hard fought battle, but it is a battle that I won.

There are times, however, when this redefinition complicates matters.  Though I have been strong in recovery, life has this way of unexpectedly throwing curveballs.  Sometimes, all of my skills are not enough to knock that ball out of the park.  Sometimes, I can't even get out of the way.  Sometimes, I just get hit, hit hard, hard enough to knock me over.

When this happens, I need people to remember what I once was.  I need them ask me how I am doing, how they can help.  I need them to call "bullshit" on me.  It's hard when people only see the new me, and forget that I had--have--an eating disorder.  I should be able to call "bullshit" on myself.  I should be able to ask for the help I need.  I should be stronger that anorexia.  Should-a, could-a, would-a: won't stop the ED.

To anyone who wishes that people wouldn't forget the struggle, remember that no one is ever alone.  That people seem to have forgotten the struggle is a compliment and testament to our recovery.  It is our job now to reach out and ask for what we need.  We cannot shrink into the eating disorder, regress into the little girls that we sometimes wish we were, and wait for others to rescue us.  We must rescue ourselves.  We cannot feel unworthy or unloved because others don't swoop in and comfort us.  We cannot let that be fuel for the ED.  We cannot let the ED thoughts stoke any sparks or flames burning.

Eating disorders thrive on disconnection.  We must maintain strong connections when we feel beaten up and knocked over.  In reaching out to others, we strengthen and build those connections with others.  We allow others to feel that they are helping, to feel important in our lives, and in return, they will give us the strength, support, and comfort that we seek.

So, I may be frustrated that people have forgotten I need help, but that doesn't mean I can allow that to stop me from getting the help I need.  ED needs me to retreat into myself.  It needs me to believe my friends don't care and don't love me.  That is calling out bullshit.

This morning I asked for help, and I got it.  My friends were there.  They listened.  They supported.  They didn't judge.  They thanked me for reaching out to them and for trusting them.  Our bond grew stronger.  Hopefully, this will make ED weaker.  Recovery is beautiful.  I don't need to be who I was, but who I am.

Cheers!

Frustrated

I have been in recovery for a little over two years now.  I have reached a point where I am eating intuitively, seeing my therapist less, and feeling strong and confident.  I am more present and connected that I have ever been.  I am trying new things, pushing new boundaries.  I am living a fuller life.

It's in these moments--the moments we least expect--that the eating disorder can sneak back into our lives.

I'm frustrated.  Frustrated that after all my posts about the joys of recovery and the art of tolerating distress that I sit at my keyboard tonight knowing that I am dangerously flirting with ED.  Frustrated that the eating disorder still has power in my life, that I relinquish power to the eating disorder.  Frustrated that I have caught myself thinking: it's okay; I can control this.  Frustrated because I am aware on a very conscious level that choosing not to eat enough is wrong and unhealthy, yet still choosing to restrict.   Frustrated because I keep telling myself how much I don't want the eating disorder even though there's that tiny part of me that cries out for it--and that tiny part always seems to win. Frustrated that the eating disorder thoughts become so real, so all-consuming, so very quickly.

Just eat, dammit--it's really that simple...isn't it?

If it is, and if only one month ago it was, then why has it become so hard?

I realize that the small stressors have collided with bigger stressors, creating an environment ripe for an eating disorder.  The intense emotions and whirling thoughts create so much noise; combine that noise with an intense fear of losing control and it's no surprise struggles occur.

It's up to me to choose the next step along this path. That's a challenge when the eating disorder begins to accomplish what it was needed for in the first place--coping.  I need to take the road not taken, the path that I usually avoid, in favor of the well-worn path.  It's frightening and unsettling, but if I am to succeed in recovery I must be willing tolerate the discomfort.

What is most frustrating is that I can be so aware of all this, yet still struggle to make the right choice, illustrating to me that I may not have all the answers, just yet.  So, until I can figure it all out, I will just keep fighting because recovery really, truly is worth it.

Cheers!

Tomorrow

"I'll eat tomorrow."

"I won't purge tomorrow."

"Tomorrow, I'll stop over-exercising."

"Maybe tomorrow I'll consider going into treatment."

"Tomorrow, I'll try listening to the treatment team."

"Tomorrow,..."

Tomorrows very quickly add up.  One tomorrow became 7,200 tomorrows for me--that's twenty years of tomorrows, give or take.

In that time, I made many sacrifices to my health, well-being, and happiness.  I closed doors on opportunities, friendships, and life experiences.  I spent those 7,200 days putting off until tomorrow what I could have done that day.  Call me the ultimate procrastinator.

I realize now that I took my tomorrows for granted, always expecting them to be there, but what I never considered is that with each passing tomorrow, I was limiting my present and my future.  When we are sick in the eating disorder, we comprehend only the immediate moment and act to soothe the pain within that moment.  We cannot see past the immediate restriction, binge, or purge.  We live to lose weight and harm ourselves, never realizing that the person we are hurting is not just our present selves but our future selves.  None of that matters while fighting the disease: we seek to win our daily battles, but not the war.

As I have grown stronger in recovery, I now feel moments of sadness and regret, having had my future impacted by my destructive past.  When my friends discuss memories of high school friendships, homecoming parties, and sexual exploration, I recall anorexia, starving me of all that they had.  When others reminisce about wild fun and sisterhoods formed in college, I remain silent, mourning an experience stolen from me by bulimia, for my college years were spent  in a car gorging in secret and in a gym or bathroom purging, alone.   Anorexia haunted me in my twenties and early thirties, stripping from me career advancement opportunities and rites of passage that women my age relish with joy in remembering.  And now, I watch helplessly as my friends cuddle their babies, while I struggle with infertility, no doubt related to the years of self-abuse.

I cannot get those years back, and this saddens me.  I could easily wallow in this self-pity or use it to refuel the eating disorder, but I don't.  Years of professing "tomorrow" have taught me something---it's time to stop saying "tomorrow," it's time to proclaim "today."  I cannot change the past, but I can change the future.  I choose to live today, not tomorrow, so my yesterdays can bring smiles, not tears upon remembrance.

For those of us who have struggled with eating disorders, we must believe in a better tomorrow to get through today.  But to make tomorrow a better day, we must stop procrastinating and do what is not easy; we must choose, today, to recover.  Not tomorrow, but today.  There are only so many tomorrows.

Cheers!

The Thousand Piece Puzzle

Who am I without my eating disorder?

This is a question that plagued me throughout treatment as I began to loosen my grip on the eating disorder.  After spending years trapped within body image hell, I had slowly allowed the size of my body to define who I was.  I perceived who I was with what I looked like.  I was convinced that by changing my size, I was changing me--that growing larger would ostracize me from my friends and that they couldn't possibly accept a me that took up more space.  I was the "small" one.  I was the "picky-eater," the "finicky-eater," the one who "ate like a bird."  My size and eating behaviors defined my status within the world.  Without that, I was nobody.

Except, I wasn't nobody; I was me.  As I gained health and pounds, people started commenting--not on my size, but on my personality.  I began hearing things like, "you look happier," "it's nice having you back again," and "you seem to glow."  But, how could that possibly be?  Who was this me people seemed to know so well?  None of this made sense because the person I thought I knew was slowly disappearing and this new, awkward, bigger being was taking its place.

For those of us who have struggled with eating disorders since adolescence, making peace with our true identity is challenging.  Our teen years should have been the time to explore who we are, to delve into our identities, so we could emerge into adulthood, transformed.  For us, the eating-disordered, we lost this precious opportunity for self-exploration.  We mistakenly allowed the eating disorder to usurp our identity.

But, an eating disorder is not an identity--it is a cloak, one that shields us from seeing and seeking the truth.  We cling to the eating disorder thinking that it defines us, not realizing that it prevents us from expressing our true identity. At some point, we have to be willing to let it go and take the risks we may not have taken in our adolescence.  We must learn who we are and what it is we enjoy.  If we cling to the eating disorder identity as a reason not to recover, what we are really conveying is that we fear what is lurking beneath the eating disorder; we fear ourselves and who we really are or may become.  The eating disorder saves us from failing, from having to make choices that ultimately could lead to error or pain.  When we ask ourselves who am I without the eating disorder, we are really asking ourselves am I willing to expose the real me to the world and to myself?

Slowly, I am learning to embrace my true identity.  I am a teacher, friend, wife, daughter, and crazy cat lady.  I am a good friend, but sometimes I say the wrong things.  I'm a good listener, but sometimes, I don't know how to assert my own needs.  I can be overly sarcastic and  a bit of a know-it-all.  I have a great smile. I'm definitely a reader, and I'm working on a being a writer.  I am me--a little of this, and a little of that.  I can't define myself with one word, just as no one can be so limitedly defined.  Certainly, I am not my eating disorder.  I am more than a number on the scale and more than a clothing size.

A puzzle is made up of hundreds or thousands of pieces; one piece cannot make up the whole.  Anorexia is only one piece of my puzzle; there remains thousands of other pieces that define me, that create who I am.  I refuse to allow one piece to represent all of me.  You should do the same.  Embrace all of the pieces that make you uniquely and beautifully you.  Putting together this puzzle is the joy in the journey.

Cheers!

Don't Accept Less

In my teens, I dated a boy who was violent, alcoholic, and abusive.  He terrorized, screamed, and raged at me.  Breaking free was terrifying, and I doubted that I would ever meet a man who would not harm me as he did.

Then, I met my first husband.  He was not the menacing individual that my boyfriend had been.  He loved me, and he didn't yell at or hit me.  He was, however, extremely controlling, and he treated me like a child, criticizing me and smothering me, but I tolerated this behavior.  I didn't know any other way.  He wasn't physically hurting me, nor was he swearing at me.  For a long time--almost fours years--I wouldn't acknowledge that abuse could take many forms and that this relationship, like my last, was also unhealthy.

Finally, I met my current husband, and now I understand.  His kind words, loving gestures, and compassionate actions show me every day that this, this is what a true relationship is.  We are partners, lovers, friends, and confidantes.  It is a joy that I never dreamt could exist.

My journey to recovery has taken much the same path.  At times, my eating disorder brought me to crisis: it had battered my body, assaulted my mind with cruel words, and threatened to kill me.  Other times, I lived in relative peace, relative being the key word.  I may not have been subsisting on three-hundred calories a day or eating laxatives like candy, but I was living in a less-than-desirable way.  I accepted that this was all there was to recovery.  At the time, hating my body felt okay because, well, it was better than it was when I was deathly ill.  Restricting a little was better than restricting a lot.  Sticking to a strict regimen of prescribed foods and exercise was great because, well, I couldn't do this before.  I accepted this because I could not see that recovery was greater than a healthy number on the scale.

How did I break myself free from abusive relationships?  Resolve.  I promised myself that I would never allow a man to lay a hand on me again.  I swore that a man would never control me or put me down again.  I desired more for myself, and more importantly, deep inside, I believed that I deserved better for myself.  And then, I allowed myself to seek that which I desired.

Translate this to recovery from an eating disorder, which for some reason, always seems harder than most things.  I read book after book on true recovery--Life Without Ed, Gaining, Good Enough and more--and I saw glimpses of what true recovery looked like.  I began to want for myself more than what I had had in the past.  I wanted what Jenni Schaefer has.  Though the guilt of giving this gift to myself seemed unbearable at times, I resolved not to fail.  I could no longer allow myself to accept less. I couldn't have less than a full recovery because anything less would be like balancing an elephant on a single thread; eventually the weight of it all with snap the line, and BAM, I would be back into eating disorder hell.

Granting ourselves permission to recover fully is never easy, for we have disciplined ourselves to subsist on nothing.  But, if we are to experience the fullness of life, we must resolve not to accept the minimum.  We must strive for the most and tolerate the space and fullness this brings.  There's something symbolically anorexic about accepting less for ourselves; it helps us to maintain an illusion of the eating disorder without the physical pain.  Holding on to remnants of the eating disorder may give us a feeling of safety, but it is not real.  We delude ourselves if we think accepting less and being recovered can coexist.  A quintessential aspect of recovery is learning to have more, take more, be more.  It's not only okay to do this, it is courageous.  Make no mistake, none of us are cowardly lions.  Roar and fight for all the more recovery can offer.

Cheers!

The Art of Tolerating Distress

Throughout treatment, I sat in group after group learning the fine art of tolerating distress.  Distraction (through reading or knitting), sensory appeal (such as taking a hot shower), making comparisons (by looking at how worse others experience life), etc... were ways to help me manage through the hard times.  The goal was to experience suffering and not allow that pain to affect my eating, not to allow negative emotions to interfere with my health.  In theory this distress tolerance thing seemed brilliant, but it reality it was an idea to which I was struggling to relate.

Though my doctor explained numerous times in myriads of ways that distress need not be a crisis, I could not comprehend exactly what was distressing to me.  I felt guilty for being sick because my life at the time was something of which many people dreamt: a home, a loving husband, wonderful parents, and a rewarding job.  Distress, to me, were those times in my not-too-distant memory, those times fraught with pain, despair, and isolation.

And so each weekend, when left to my own devices, I would relapse into anorexic tendencies, never connecting that distress encapsulated more than the horrific.  I would think to myself my life is so good; why can't I simply get better?  I knew what to do, yet each time the situation presented itself, I could not  bring myself to do what was most challenging: eat.

Two years later, I am making sense of this mystery.  Distress is not what I had envisioned it to be; it is so much more subtle.  Eating disorders have a way of escalating and then snowballing, making smaller issues into greater conflicts.  A little diet leads to a thirty-pound weight loss.  One extra bite leads to a 10,000 calorie binge.  An unbearable pain releases itself with a razor blade through the skin.  Eating disorders are diseases of extreme addiction---in which one meal skipped no longer brings the high and so two meals must be skipped.  The high we crave?  Numbness, loss of feeling.  An end to the distress.   And the more we attempt to avoid the distress, the larger the pain becomes, and the more extreme our methods of avoidance become.

For me, I lost the ability to perceive ordinary stressors as distress until, that is, when the feeling became so great that I could no longer repress it.  That niggling feeling that I wasn't doing a good enough job at work, the butterflies fluttering in my stomach when I worried that I had upset a friend, the hamster wheel that spun around and around, repeating that stupid remark I said---these are the things that fed distress and allowed distress to consume me.

It is only by confronting the negativity and feeling the discomfort each situation brings that I can maintain my recovery.  Otherwise, I may be tempted by the devil to restrict or over-exercise in a fruitless effort to self-soothe.  Recovery requires learning to tolerate the discomfort of shame, anger, guilt, sadness, and fear so that we may experience joy and love.  It means tackling problems before they escalate out of our control.  It means actually using distress tolerance skills, like I am now by blogging, to get through those moments when we feel life has slowed to a stop.  Distress is not a crisis; it is life, the good, the bad, and all the ugly.

That same doctor who taught me distress tolerance skills also shared the following scenario with me:
  A person who fears flying could ride on a plane, sitting in the aisle, wearing headphones and an eye mask, with a blanket on her lap, but she would never overcome her fear of flying because she wouldn't truly experiencing what it was like to fly on a plane.  She would be trying to avoid the fear by masking it.  Though it may it appear that she is conquering her fear, she isn't.  To face her fear of flying, she would need to sit by the open window, take off all blankets, eye masks, and headphones and then feel and see the world around her.  Only then could she learn to tolerate flying on a plane.

So ask yourself, are you attempting to mask the pain or are you truly tolerating the pain?  Learning the fine art of distress tolerance will bring you closer to the freedom of recovery.

Cheers!

On Being a Role Model: Part 2

Back in 2009, I was very ambiguous about this whole "recovery thing."  Anorexia had a death grip on me and refused to acquiesce.  At family group one night, the mother of a teenage patient informed me that I was a terrible role model for my students (I am a junior high teacher).  She elaborated in grave detail while I listened, seething with rage, guilt, and self-hate.

My mind wandered to the months leading up to my medical leave.  I attempted to put myself into the minds of my barely thirteen-year-old girls, who watched me shrink smaller and smaller, layer on more and more clothes, lose more and more hair while growing lanugo over my face, becoming frail, unable to stand and teach, look wan and gray, smiling less and less each day.  I must have appeared to be dying, and in fact, I probably was.  How scary and terrible for them, not knowing why.  This mother clearly was right, and because of that, because I misunderstood, I almost dropped out of treatment, feeling that I needed to return to work to prove myself.

What I didn't understand, and what I comprehend now, is that this mother was projecting her anger onto me.  Her daughter, also ill, desperately needed positive role models to support the journey to recovery.  This mother only viewed me as another adult contributing to the problem.  I see now that I am, in fact, part of the solution.

The act of seeking help and recovering transforms former anorexics and bulimics into role models. We need not tell our stories to kids to make that important difference in their lives; we only need to demonstrate self-care and body confidence.

I eat with my students.  I don't lament the food in front of me; I relish it.  I comment on the savory taste, the nutrition and energy it provides.  I eat a variety of foods with my students: candy, bagels, cupcakes, etc...  I chastise them for skipping meals and explain the need for three meals a day.  I provide snacks for hungry kids.  Teens need to see adult females who aren't afraid of food, who enjoy food, and who feel confident in consumption.  I never had such role models; no adult ever told me what was okay.  Because of that, I took my lessons from the self-deprecation of the women in my life and from TV and magazines.  I learned that one could "never" be too thin and that beauty encompassed the sole of one's worth.

Last year, one of my girls announced to me that she was "fat."  She said, "Look, when I put my thigh on my chair it gets bigger!"  Her comment resonated with me; I had been this girl, terrified that something was completely wrong with my body.  No one explained to me the truth, and thus, I spent the majority of my life loathing my thighs.  I responded to her, "Your thighs are supposed to do that.  They're not fat; that's just how they're made," and I showed her that, yes, mine did that too, "and if your thighs didn't do that then you wouldn't have the energy to run and do the things you like."  Maybe she believed me, and maybe she didn't, but throughout the year, I was careful to project a body confidence that would model self-love.

If we want to change the environment in which our girls grow up, we need to change the conversation.  We need talk positively about ourselves, we need demonstrate healthy eating, eating that includes all foods.  We need to talk openly about the media and its effects.  We need to stop judging others and gossiping about their sizes, end body snarking, and eliminate this focus on the outer shell of a person.  I like to focus my conversations with girls on them---their interests, their hobbies, their intellectual pursuits.

I would like that mother in the family group to see me know, to see how I have transformed.  I would like her to realize that the impact I now have on my students is positive.  But most likely, she will never know and that's okay.  I am no longer ashamed of my anorexia; I am proud to have survived and to have the opportunity to impact my students' lives positively. 

Cheers!

On Being a Role Model: Part 1

This news story made my blood boil.  Bully Calls New Anchor Fat (Click on link to be directed to the video)  Kenneth Krause, who has admitted to struggling with his own weight issues, wrote this letter to Jennifer Livingston, news anchor for WKBT News in Wisconsin:

     It's unusual that I see your morning show, but I did so for a very short time today. I was surprised indeed to witness that your physical condition hasn't improved for many years. Surely you don't consider yourself a suitable example for this community's young people, girls in particular.  Obesity is one of the worst choices a person can make and one of the most dangerous habits to maintain. I leave you this note hoping that you'll reconsider your responsibility as a local public personality to present and promote a healthy lifestyle.

I could write for hours about how ignorant and judgmental this man is.  Nobody, clearly, makes a choice to be obese--and looking at a person gives no indication as to his or her actual health.  Many larger individuals eat healthier foods and maintain more physically active lifestyles than thinner individuals.  Only a doctor is qualified to determine just how "dangerous" Jennifer's "choice" may be for her.

The larger issue is that this man felt it was somehow his civic duty to comment on Jennifer's weight--as if it is within his right to do so.  Moreover, he felt justified in doing so because she is a "poor" role model.  This entitlement mentality regarding weight does exponentially more harm than viewing any "overweight" person on television.  Weight is the last acceptable discrimination.  People feel emboldened and empowered to comment on any person's weight: "She's so skinny!  Look how huge he is; does he ever stop eating?  That woman better stop eating for two; it's going to be hard to lose that once the baby's born."  

We have become programmed as a society to hone in on a person's exterior, examining every nuance for flaws, and when we detect any flaws, we see no problem in drawing attention to all that we see is wrong.

This mentality is everywhere: from television, to advertisements for weight loss, to contradictory tabloids that will announce Jessica Simpson looks amazing one week and frumpy/fat the next week.  It is easier to blame the fat man eating a McDonald's quarter pounder than it is to blame the society that created the quarter pounder and the incendiary media.  We label obesity and eating disorders as choices, not products of a society that loads a gun and lies in wait for the pull of a trigger. We think we know, we think we understand, but in reality, we are misguided, and our ignorance only continues to feed the fire.  

I admire Jennifer.  I love that she dresses her shape well, stands tall and proud, and speaks with authority.  She illustrates that beauty doesn't fit a certain mold, and that being larger than society's vision of perfect doesn't mean having to hide in shame.  Jennifer is modeling to girls the importance of loving oneself regardless of one's size.  She is modeling self-respect.  She is more of a role model than the contestants and trainers on the Biggest Loser, Jennifer Hudson, or any other media personality who proudly unveils a smaller, "healthier" self.

Society needs to be a positive role model to our girls, and this man simply reinforced all of the stereotypes and judgments that work to load the gun for our youngest and most vulnerable.  Let's learn to appreciate people for who they are and who they are, alone.  Let's show our girls what beauty really looks like.

Cheers!

Letting It Go

I learned how to ride a bike later than most kids, maybe around seven.  I was so content with my plastic Big Wheels "bike" that I never really cared to make the switch.  Of course, I owned a "big girl" bike complete with training wheels, but nothing gave me more satisfaction than racing down the steep incline of our driveway and sharply turning at the last possible second, slowly shredding away the plastic wheel.

At some point, I must have been determined to learn to ride that "big girl bike."  It may have had tassels at the handlebars, maybe not, but it did have a way too cool banana seat (this was the 80s).   It was time for the training wheels to come off, literally, and all along the sidewalk, I remember my mother holding on as I wobbled with bold perseverance.  In my mind's eye I can see the lush summer grass, the verdant trees, and my mom happy as a lark when I allowed her to let go, and I simply did it--I rode that bike up and down that sidewalk all on my own.  Learning to ride without training wheels on a real bike opened possibilities for me of which I had never dreamed.  Larger wheels meant longer distances to travel from home.  Larger wheels meant meeting new friends at the end of the street.   Larger wheels meant less help from Mom. My seven-year-old world suddenly became a whole lot larger, and I became  more independent than ever.

Letting go of an eating disorder, like learning to ride a bike, takes a lot of time, some trial and error, and the guidance from and support of those we love.  There's fear in letting go, in doing it on our own.  There's reluctance to envision ourselves doing it on our own, without those strong hands guiding our way and literally propping us upright.  How can we do this without our therapists, our dietitians, our doctors, or our support groups?  How can we guide ourselves along the right path, upright, without toppling over and hurting ourselves?  How can we trust that we have this ability when so many times before we have fallen?

There's a sadness in letting our doctors, therapists, et al. go, those individuals with whom we have grown so close and who know so much about us.  Once the training wheels come off, we must learn to navigate our own lives and maintain a delicate balance.  We begin to travel farther and farther from those strong hands, glancing back to see those hands waving us on our way.

Letting go of the eating disorder feels so bittersweet.  There are losses, there are gains, but in the end, if we persevere through the wobbly learning curve, we emerge with lives much fuller and larger than we could have imagined when we were sick.  The fears of the unknown seem less scary.  There's suddenly so much to do and to see.  We inexplicably desire to explore new pursuits.   Our world becomes so large that the returning to the small, desolate ED world loses its allure.

Recovering requires a lot of faith in oneself and in the world that lies outside of our minds.  Following meal plans, attending groups, journaling, etc..., steady and direct us, help us to grow stronger, allow us to grow a larger, illustrious world in which we want to engage.  We must replace all that was isolating, destructive, and minimizing with connection, joy, and fulfillment.

We may not be the most steady when we let go, but we have to keep going, one foot in front of the other.  Because before we know it, recovery will be as automatic as riding a bike--and looking back just won't be the same.

Cheers!

Saving the Eating Disorder for a Rainy Day

There have been times within the past twenty-three years when I have appeared to be recovered.  My weight was stable and healthy, I smiled more, and I ate without fear of reprisal.  Despite what I had convinced myself and others, I was not recovered; in fact, I was holding on to anorexia for a rainy day.

Reflecting back, I see how I was keeping ED in my back pocket.  At twenty-three I was in a healthy weight range and ate all kinds of food, but I still made my ex-husband sip my diet soda before I drank it, just to ensure it was in fact "diet."  I kept all liquid calories off limits.  I continued weighing myself regularly and hating my thighs.  I occasionally skipped a meal if I was feeling sad, and I could be reduced to a puddle at the sight of a super-skinny girl.  When my rainy day arrived in the form of marital distress, so did my eating disorder.

In my early thirties, I enjoyed a life "free" from the eating disorder.  I ate whatever I wanted in whatever quantities I wanted.  My weight was higher than it had ever been in my life, and I seemed okay with that.  I explored things I never had before and made more friends than ever.  But, I was obsessive with my weight.  I used the scale to dictate my food intake in weird ways.  Number too high?  I would "eat less" (restrict).  Number dipped below the target I set, I would eat "more" (binge).  I compensated for this body size by controlling my period, using birth control pills to cease menstruation, giving myself the illusion that I was thin enough not to bleed.  It was the only way I could permit my body to be the size it was.  Again, a rainy day arrived, and so did my eating disorder.

There are many ways to save the eating disorder for a rainy day:  eating only specific foods day in and out, deluding oneself that exercise, which is an obsessive-compulsive habit linked to ED, is for one's "health," cutting out a food group for its reported "health benefits," believing one must eat "gluten free, meat-free, animal-product free," maintaining strict schedules and routines, overworking, employing obsessive self-discipline in other areas of life, comparing oneself to others, etc...

I never wanted to believe that what I was doing to myself was eating disordered.  I believed that if I looked healthy, then I was healthy.  I didn't want to acknowledge the truth--that living in eating disorder purgatory kept me with one foot in the doorway to hell.  Eating three meals a day and maintaining a healthy weight while engaging in the eating disorder mindset is not recovery--it's a holding pattern, circling the eating disorder, waiting for it to land.  And, it will land.

Recovery means letting go--not a little or a lot, but all the way.  It means letting a rainy day come and dancing in the puddles, getting soaked and living through the storm, not allowing the storm to destroy you.

So, put away the umbrella, get out the wellies and learn to sing and dance in the rain.

Cheers!

The New Normal

Before fully entering recovery, my mind beat me with a daily barrage of insults:

 "You are so stupid.  Why would you ever say that, you idiot?  Fat slob.  Bitch.  Slut.  Fat ass.  Ugly.  You're not smart enough.  Why would anyone want to be your friend? Moron.  Retard.  Loser.  Awkward.  Flabby assed, flat-chested, saddle-bagged bitch.  You say the stupidest things.  Lazy-ass slug.  Can't you do anything right?  Shut up, you asshole; you ruin everything.  No one likes you.  People only tolerate you.  Disgusting. Gross.  Annoying.  You don't deserve these people; they're better than you.  You don't deserve anything.  You're a waste of space."

These thoughts became my truth.  These thoughts created a world disconnected from reality, a world in which I was the demon, the bad guy.  There was no way for me to enjoy life or be present in any moment.  My mind was too busy ensuring that I never forgot my place, my status as a lower-class citizen, unworthy of the pleasures and perks life offers.

At some point in the disease, I became the vision of myself that my mind had created.  These feelings held deep within my core.  I believed that I was so terrible, so bad a human being, that I needed to conceal these awful things about me.  I feared people learning about who I "really" was.

In reality, I was not a bad person, but no one was going to convince me otherwise.  My belief in this was as real and true to me as mathematical fact.  I understand now that holding on to these beliefs allowed me to hold on to the disease.  Hating myself and feeling that I deserved the pain of anorexia made engaging in anorexia even easier, and it made my attempts at recovery fool-hardy. 

One of the hardest aspects of recovery is changing the mindset.  For those who have struggled for decades, like me, self-hatred and self-denigration have become normal, as normal for us as it is for non eating disordered folk to eat when hungry.  Finding a new normal feels scary and outright wrong.  To change the feedback loop in one's mind from an onslaught of negativity to continuous positivity is daunting.  I questioned these new feelings and felt odd without the old thoughts.  Quite frankly, I didn't know with what to fill my waking thoughts.  If I wasn't thinking about starving, exercising, food, or hating/berating myself, what would I think about?

It turns out, there are quite a few things that can rent space in my mind: fond memories of family and friends, characters in the books I've read, sorting through problems, sex...  But most of all, when I have quieted the eating disorder voice, the voice of my dreams, though only a whisper at first, has emerged.  I can dream of my future family, of achieving goals long since set aside, of growing old with my husband, of redecorating my house or starting a new hobby.  Suddenly, I am beginning to connect with life, with this new normal.  The image in the mirror no longer hears the old lies; the truth can finally be freed.

I now say to myself...
I am a good friend.  I have a witty sense of humor.  I've got a great shape.  I look good.  I'm happy.  My friends think I'm great.  I'm fun to be around.  I'm smart.  I have something to contribute.  I'm kind and caring.  I'm respected.  I'm a good person.

This is an amazing feeling.  Throughout this long, arduous journey toward recovery, I have learned that it's okay to like myself, that it's okay to say nice things to myself, that it's more than okay to toot my own horn once in a while.  Admitting, voicing, and repeating kindness to myself has been integral to my recovery.  It has allowed me to create a new normal, a place where it feels good to feel good about myself.  Take that risk and try loving yourself, too.  You'll be amazed at what transpires.

Cheers!

Anorexia: The Extramarital Affair, Part 2

I'll admit it; I cheated on my husband...with anorexia.

When I was at my sickest, I did things of which I am not proud.  The worst thing I did was allow anorexia to be my mistress.

It all began with innocent flirting--a skipped meal here, an extra fifteen minutes on the elliptical, a couple pounds lost.  Quickly, things intensified.  I thought about anorexia more, began envisioning a life together, spending less and less time with my husband.

I stayed later at work to delay or avoid dinner.  I lied about eating meals.  I snuck food when I would allow myself to.  My sex drive vanished, and I avoided all physical contact with the man I married.

He noticed the signs, of course.  But like any affair, no one wants to admit what's really happening.  And so I continued, deeper and deeper into "my little secret" that was "becoming harder and harder to hide."

Eventually, the situation was no longer a secret.  Anorexia had blown me in to my husband, angered by my thoughts of recovery.  I was too weak, too ill, and way too entrenched to comprehend the damage this affair has caused.  Not all marriages can survive this betrayal.

Mine did survive.  It survived because we were both willing to do the work, both willing to hold each other up when recovery seemed insurmountable.  I began to realize how my actions affected him.  I am in a marriage, and thus, I have to consider someone outside of myself.  If I choose not to recover, that is unfair because my life directly impacts him.  Given a choice, my husband wants me to recover, and I have to respect his desires in life as well.

That said, we have had to recover together to repair the bonds severed by the disease.  We were strong once before, but we are stronger than ever now.  One therapist I worked with believes that eating disorders are diseases of disconnection, that eating disorders thrive and grow through isolation.  I agree with her.  If we disconnect from our spouses, parents, friends, and family, we are romancing a very abusive lover.  We must return and reconnect with those who love us, those who like us, had no voice and control over the eating disorder usurping our lives.  Eating disorders are NOT choice affairs, but they are affairs nonetheless, affairs that in which we do not want to engage.  Our loved ones are there in the wings, desperately hoping we will return to them.  It can't be our little secret anymore.

Cheers!

Why I Haven't Named my Eating Disorder

*To preface this entry, I need to state that I highly respect Jenni Shaefer and her efforts in fighting eating disorders.  I read both her books Life Without Ed and Goodbye Ed, Hello Me.  Both books have been helped me immensely throughout various stages of my recovery.*

You may have noticed that I don't refer to my eating disorder as Ed, Bob, Ralph, or Jimmy.  There is a reason my eating disorder remains nameless.  While the analogy of the eating disorder being an abusive lover or friend makes sense to me and I have written about it as such, I cannot grant the eating disorder personhood.  For me, I cannot have a relationship with the eating disorder at all.  And while I may refer to it from time to time as ED, I do that mainly for ease of writing.

I have recovering friends who have named their eating disorder, and it works great for them.  If it works for you, that is awesome, too; I make no judgments.  For me, I need to keep the eating disorder as a thing because sometimes, so no matter how terrible, toxic, or abusive a relationship is, severing that relationship is terrifying and near impossible. (This isn't to say I don't sometimes view the eating disorder as a relationship.  I tend to view it that way when I struggle, as evidenced by some of my earlier posts.  To break that bond, I must perceive the eating disorder in a way that cannot permit me to become compassionate toward it.)

I once tried out the name Kyle because every Kyle I had ever known was a complete dick.  It didn't work for me.  Kyle is telling me not to eat.  Kyle tells me to exercise longer and harder.  Shut up, Kyle.  The thing is---Kyle is me, the anorexic me, that part of me I hate, yet look to when I'm feeling self-conscious.  I don't fear Kyle; I fear me.

My husband, ironically, the man who for years never understood anorexia and couldn't grasp why I just didn't eat, said something to me after a couple's session we had while I was in treatment:
     "The eating disorder is like Venom from Spiderman 3.  Once it latched onto Peter Parker, it wouldn't let go.  Peter Parker acted in ways he wouldn't have it if weren't for Venom.  Getting this symbiotic alien to detach from him was painful and hard, but once Venom was gone, Peter Parker was himself again.  Then, Venom needed another human and went after Eddie Brock."

This resonated with me.  It explained why my eating disorder couldn't be named.  It already had a name--anorexia--and I was afraid of that name.  I was scared to voice the word, fearful to believe that I was actually sick and that I may actually have to recover.

Anorexia is Venom, a shapeless pool of blackness that seeks to destroy.  I have to name it for what it is, so I can understand it and fight to pry it loose from me.


Cheers!

"Anorexia is so much more of a bitch when you don’t look anorexic."

The following was originally written by Ilona Burton and can be found online at http://blogs.independent.co.uk/2011/11/27/but-you-dont-look-anorexic/.  My response to this will appear in bold after the article.

"But You Don't Look Anorexic"
by Ilona Burton

‘Anorexia is so much more of as[sic] bitch when you don’t look anorexic.’

I tweeted this remark in amongst a rare splurge of personal eating disorder related rantage. Within minutes, I had a stream of comments in response, sharing my outrage that to anybody on the outside is so incomprehensible. It didn’t calm the anxieties I was storming my own silly brain with at the time, but it assured me that I’m not the only one who feels this way, who suffers with this torment and who lives every day in a limbo that nobody else has any insight into. It also provoked me to write this – to try to shed a little light on an area that people with eating disorders try so hard to hide.

There is no black and white when it comes to eating disorders and recovery. Between being ill and being recovered there is an expanse of grey more vast than any wastelands or landscapes you’d see on any BBC documentary. Even those who are on their way to recovery, who have made inroads into the path and who are fighting every day to follow that meal plan every day no matter how mundane, who wake up every day wishing it didn’t have to start with breakfast and who sit with overwhelming urges to run as long as it takes to work off the chocolate biscuit they had for snack, even they could be years away from being recovered.

The hardest part is perhaps that our bodies heal much quicker than our minds. As tissue builds back around our organs and slowly we fill out, get boobs and bums and curves and lumps and bumps, we appear as what the world love so much to tell us; well. “Oh you look so well!” “So good to see you looking better.” Switch the word to anything of that effect and it means exactly the same to us. “FAT”. But we know that you mean well, we can’t be angry with well-wishers simply for expressing their gladness to see us looking anything more than a bag of bones wrapped in clingfilm. So we grit our teeth, smile and repeat said comment in our heads for the next hour/day/week/month.

I tried on two skirts today and got my 2 year old niece to choose which one I should get. The two older ladies in the shop oohed and aahed in admiration and sparked up a conversation with my mum. I heard mumblings about my “pins” and about bigger girls coming in and bulging out of these skirts and yada yada. As I thanked them and turned to leave, one said: “Don’t ever change that figure”. Just 10 minutes before, mum had been begging me to get help, knowing full well I’m trying to hide a slight relapse. “Don’t ever change that figure,” indeed.

My perception of myself, how I look, is pretty screwed. I don’t look at myself in the mirror and feel repulsed at the obese monstrosity staring back and I don’t hate every inch of my body – not far off at times, but I can handle it – but I do grab at my tummy and see a roll of flab that shouldn’t be there, stare at my thighs and wish they were thinner and tug at the skin under my chin secretly hoping to wake up one day without a double chin. I’ve been ill for so many years with weight going up and down but never remaining at any kind of natural resting space, that I don’t even know if what I see is real or not. How can I trust something which has always ended me up in hospital? If I am that fat, how come I can fit in the same clothes I wore in the eating disorders unit? There has to be some rationality somewhere but you often have to dig around for it and you’re not in a position to do that when you’re wracked with guilt after eating.

The struggle really begins when the way you look doesn’t match the way you feel. At the moment, I feel far from ill but I know that I’m also far from well. The ladies in the shop illustrate perfectly the point that a person can look well, not knowing at all the intensity of my anxiety when it comes to almost anything food related. Once the body is anything more than emaciated, it becomes a mask and the struggle becomes invisible to the untrained eye. It’s difficult for the recovering anorexic or bulmic. When a skeletal person is crying into their bowl of cereal you can see why; they’re obviously scared to death of anything that might build on that fragility. When a healthy looking person is crying into a yoghurt pot, it makes no sense. They must have done it before, they must eat every day, look, they look fine, they must be fine.

So there we have it: Don’t judge a quivering wreck by his or her oh so healthy looking figure.

I read this and say, "yes," "yep," "hell yeah," "fucking hell yeah..."  Her blog entry captures one of the dilemmas that has made recovery impossible for me in the past: once the body heals, the mind simultaneously does not, but people SEE health and assume that this health encompasses both body and mind.  People do not respond to the outwardly healthy me in the way they respond to the outwardly sick me.  People's expectations and perceptions of this new me change.  Many act as though the anorexia never existed, and some say really stupid, triggering shit around me which makes continuing the fight for recovery so much harder than it already is.

Ilona is right: "Between being ill and being recovered there is an expanse of grey more vast than" anything one can envision, and that is why recovery can seem so elusive, and why, for so many years, I just gave up.  When I had that outwardly healthy body, I couldn't seem to get anyone to understand just how much pain existed within me.  I couldn't seem to get the help I needed.  I began to believe that I needed to look like walking death in order to be worthy of the help I craved.  And then when someone eventually heard my cries, I began refusing help, thinking that I needed to get even sicker and smaller to symbolize the depth of my pain.

Learning to live within the cavernous expanse of grey has taught me that anorexia cannot be my voice.  If I am hurt, scared, frustrated, angry, etc..., I must vocalize my emotions and my needs.  The anorexia requires silence to breed, and I must choose not to feed it.   I must remain connected to the few who understand just how much of a bitch anorexia can be.  Those individuals will listen even when I look healthy.

Cheers!

Skinny-Minny

This marks day number two of my body image meltdown.  At this point in my recovery, I should know better than to entertain these thoughts, but it's getting harder to plug my ears to all the noise.  I should note that as an educator, this is my second day back at work.  More than likely, all of these feelings are related to all the junk accumulating in my brain--fears of inadequacy, imperfection, worthlessness, etc...  I just hate that even after all of this time, I have moments like this, when loving my body is a struggle.

Here's the issue: I went back to work, and lo and behold, a female colleague has lost a shit-ton of weight.  She didn't even need to lose weight, but she was getting married, and well, we know what brides tend to do.  A friend of mine looked at her and called her "teeny."  My emotion?  Envy, emerald green, jade and evergreen envy.  Bitch.  SO not fair.  Why does SHE get to be so tiny.  Um...you can see where my brain went (on a mini-vacation to hell).

When I first saw her, I literally panicked.  I glanced from her legs to mine and did the whole comparison thing.  I noticed how "teeny" she looked in her dress, her lithe legs, the way her bones slightly showed--my god, I was a mess.

How does one recover from body image HELL?  First, I had to acknowledge that somhow I was supplanting my feelings with a focus on the body.  That's always where my eating disorder loves to go first and foremost.  Anorexia needs me to feel insecure, needs me to feel slovenly and disgusting, so I will begin the endless restrictive cycle. I must recognize this happening, so I can slam on the brakes.

Second, I needed to reconnect with reality.  Did this woman lose weight?  Yes.  Did she lose too much.  Yes.  Her weight loss has nothing to do with me.  It is not an indicator of my beauty or worthiness.  I had to get real.  Moving my glance away from her, I peered at all of the other bodies around me.  I looked at my friend, who is not teeny, but full-sized, and I noticed that her beauty was radiating.  I love her just the way she is, and when I look at her, I only see the kindness, warmth, and humor that she possesses.   Her size doesn't matter to me.

I continued my scan of the room and witnessed such a variety of shapes and sizes, some bigger than others, some smaller than others--each attractive in its own way.  My anxieties settled.  Yet, it still bothered me that my eyes are trained so acutely as to see only the smallest of women.  It's as though the anorexia seeks out validation that I am no longer the smallest woman in the room, and quite frankly, that's probably the core issue.

Years of struggle taught me to believe that to be special, to be the best, to be worthy, I had to be the smallest.  Being the smallest brought me pride and honor.  It made me feel strong and in control.  But I'm no longer clothed in anorexia.  My body is the shape it was manufactured to be--smaller than some, bigger than others.  The rub is that it's so fucking hard to relearn the way one perceives and interacts with the world.  There are moments when I am strong and confident with my self and don't need anorexia's validation that I'm someone worthy of health.  Yet, there are moments, like the last two days, that remind me of how strongly I yearn for my anorexic body--in these moments, I struggle to name the feelings.  I'm left with envy, self-deprecation, and unrest.  It's just much, much easier to focus all of my thoughts and energy on hating my body and feeling completely self-conscious.  When I do that, I don't need to think about those other ugly feelings and figure them out.  I don't need to confront or deal with anything.  I self-medicate with the self-harm of an eating disorder.

What do I do next?  For christ sakes, we work within feet of each other!    To mend this glitch in the system, I need to continue sorting through the muck and figure out what I'm really feeling.  I need to do self-care, like blogging, talking to friends, getting sleep, eating well and enough, laughing, etc... I need to remember all the wonderful things I have gained from losing the eating disorder.  I need to forgive myself for not being "teeny."  It's okay to let that go.  It's okay just to be the size I was manufactured to be.  It's okay.


Cheers!

I am Flawed and Imperfect and Happy

As I wrote my last post about the fears associated with fat, I realize that I wrote flawed and imperfect as one of my fears regarding recovery.  I can't let that statement slide without addressing it.

All my life, I have pursued the Holy Grail of unattainable treasures--perfection.  Growing up, I was told repeatedly about how perfect I was by doting and well-intentioned family members.  My beauty was perfect, my shape was perfect, my smile, my eyes, my grace--all were perfect.  I could do no wrong.  And while that may seem nice that my family regarded me so highly, it left me paralyzed with fear; being so flawless meant that I could never fail, and fearing failure, I was terrified of being anything less than perfection.  Happiness, joy, and peace were contingent upon my attainment of perfection, which obviously meant those real treasures lay outside my grasp.

The prospect of recovery meant letting go of this ideal of perfection.  That was terrifying.  I had grown so accustomed to pleasing others, giving no less that one-hundred-ten-percent, that I did not know how to cope in a world without acknowledgement and praise from others.  I craved the validation that I was tops in everything that I did, and when I perceived others as better than myself, I was left devastated, berating myself.  Perfection had infiltrated my core, and was I beginning to make me crack.  I couldn't be in relationships, do my job, clean my house, undertake a new hobby, etc... because I feared failure.  I allowed others grace and accepted their imperfections and flaws but refused to grant those same permissions to myself.

Recovery meant embracing my fear of flaws.  One of my therapists once said to me, "You act like you're the only person who's ever made a fucking mistake."  She was right; I was acting as if the whole world was immune to error.  I am human.  Humans make mistakes.  Making a mistake doesn't mean that I am a mistake.  It doesn't mean that I am a terrible person.  It means my choice wrong, and that's it. Though the prospect of this tightens my chest and sucks away my breath, I must surrender and accept that I will err; I cannot control that aspect of humanity.   That same therapist also told me that if I always looked so perfect and acted so put together, I was probably turning people off to me, that I didn't seem real or genuine to others.  And that meant that I was losing out on true connections with others.  Again, she was correct.  I am so much more likable as a human being than as a martyr.

Slowly, I have learned to embrace my flaws and imperfections.  Doing so has humanized me.  I have had to accept that I make mistakes at work, that I say the wrong things to people sometimes, that I forget obligations or important dates, that people won't always like me, etc...  I once believed that the only path to perfection was to excel at my eating disorder; now, I realize that I can only strive to be me.

Let's face it: we all make mistakes.  I have to learn to forgive myself for those errors, learn from them, and move on.  I cannot torture myself by replaying the mistake ad infinitum, for if I do that, I am doomed.  Not only will I feel like shit, but I won't learn a thing from the error.  Allowing myself the grace to err is refreshing and calming--and has made me a whole lot happier and fun to be around.  Being perfect is chore, a huge responsibility that has been lifted from my shoulders.  Though it takes of lot of self-talk out of this bad habit, I find that I love the new flawed, imperfect me.  I'm sure others do as well.

Cheers!

Fat is Not a Feeling

Before reading this post, take a moment and think about all the words that come to mind when thinking of the word fat.  If necessary, write all these words down; they may come in handy while reading.

"Melissa, how are you feeling today?"  says my doctor.

"Fat," I respond.

"Fat is not a feeling," states the doctor.

"Yes, it is.  You ask me how I feel, and I feel fat.  Therefore, it's a feeling."

"Happy. Scared. Sad.  Those are feelings, not fat.  Fat is a descriptor," Doctor iterates, with frustration.

"Well, fat describes my feelings quite well," I quip.  End of discussion.

This was me, some fifteen or more years ago when I first entered treatment.  In my mind, fat WAS a feeling, and convincing me otherwise was futile.  Doctors, therapists, and nutritionists may have assailed me with facts and logic, but my logic was irrefutable in my mind, and thus, I shut my ears to any other notion.  Eventually, I tired of the arguing, and switched tactics.  No longer did I feel fat; I was fat--I had become what I felt.

(This is a good time to glance at mental or physical notes you took prior to reading this.)

I comprehend now, of course, that fat is NOT a feeling, nor is it a state of being.  Fat is simply an adjective for overweight, but the complexity of this word's meaning extends far beyond the dictionary.  For countless years, fat meant many, many horrible things: lazy, stupid, unattractive, unlovable, imperfect, flawed, dumpy, unlikable, miserable, unworthy, damaged, gross, disgusting, shameful, out of control, and much, much more.  Each time my doctors asked me how I felt, I couldn't think of a single feeling that could comprise all of these fears; fat was the only word that seemed to sum it up succinctly.

The more I became entrenched within the eating disorder, the more I believed I had become all those things that I feared most.  Feeling fat became being fat.  Recovery meant the possibility of having to embrace these horrible qualities about myself.  If I stayed small, I could avoid all those fears; I wouldn't have to be all of those things.  However, gaining weight, in my mind, meant the very real possibility that others would view me in the ways that I defined fat.  Every time I cried over another pound gained, I was crying at my fear of becoming unlovable, unattractive, dumpy, or imperfect.  All of these fears are lies I told myself, lies that I fabricated to avoid gaining weight and to avoid the expectations that I believed others had of me.  Surely, if I believed all of this about fat, others did too.  Being emaciated contained my world, my fears, and having to live up to expectation---it also caged my world so small that I could not enjoy and truly live life.

Entering recovery will mean gaining the necessary pounds to support the weight of a fulfilling life.  Taking up more space in the world will not make me "fat" (AKA: dumpy, unlovable, gross, shameful, etc...).  In recovery, I have come to understand the feelings within me.  Some days I am sad because I feel left out.  Some days I am angry because someone did something hurtful to me.  Other days I am incredibly happy because I just belly-laughed so hard I ache.  If I find myself feeling fat, I need to stop and check my feelings.  I'm not really feeling fat; I'm feeling something else, something that I cannot quite name.  Maybe I'm feeling an emotion that brings me shame for feeling--like jealousy, and because it bothers me so much to feel it, I resort to feeling fat, which feels a hell of a lot less shameful than envy.  Maybe I feel fat because I'm having trouble expressing to someone how he/she hurt me.  No matter what the underlying feeling is, I must figure it out.  Allowing myself to feel fat puts me at risk for all the negative and dangerous thoughts that surround believing that I am fat; it sets me up for relapse.  Though it may be so much easier to feel fat and restrict away that "feeling," it won't solve the problem.  Never has and never will.  Anorexia feeds the problem and then locks it away.

Think about all the words you associate with fat and think of how that word affects your recovery.  What do you need to do in order to get in touch with the feelings underneath "fat?"

Cheers!

Anorexia: The Extramarital Affair, Part 1

Imagine Anorexia as the scarlet-lipped mistress and the Anorexic as the speaker while reading the song lyrics below:


My Little Secret
--Cavo

I hope she doesn’t see
The lipstick stain on the edge of the wineglass
Hope that she can’t see it
In my eyes
I hope she doesn’t notice
I’ve come home late every night this week
Trying to keep it together
It’s getting harder and harder each time
To keep this hidden away
I’m running out of things I can say

And I can’t sleep from thinking about you
And I can’t tell lies from the truth
And I can’t hide you like this for very much longer
And I don’t know which way to run
And I feel myself coming undone
And I don’t know how much longer I can keep it
My little secret

I hope she doesn’t notice
This look on my face from thinking about you
Stories are getting harder for me to tell
And each time I try
To take one step away
I find myself 
Crashing back into you
Taking this chance that I know now I shouldn’t be taking

And I can’t sleep from thinking about you
And I can’t tell lies from the truth
And I can’t hide you like this for very much longer
And I don’t know which way to run
And I feel myself coming undone
And I don’t know how much longer I can keep it
My secret

Know that there will come a day
When it all comes falling down
I just can’t walk away
I find myself crashing back into you taking this chance and I

Can’t sleep from thinking about you
And I can’t tell lies from the truth
And I can’t hide you like this very much longer

And I can’t sleep from thinking about you
And I can’t tell lies from the truth
And I can’t hide you like this for very much longer
And I don’t know which way to run
And I feel myself coming undone
And I don’t know how much longer I can keep it
My little secret
My little secret
My little secret 

Drunk on Control, Part 2

As stated in an earlier post, old habits die hard--control being a habit that is hard to quit.

A few nights ago, a group of friends and I gathered at one girl's home for a night of drinking, something in which I rarely partake.  Alcohol has always terrified me.  I view it as a means of losing control, both bodily, if one makes herself physically ill, and emotionally, if one loses inhibitions.  I have always prided myself as being reserved and contained, and until this night, I never connected just how pandemic my needed for control was.

Since I rarely imbibe, I was inebriated within two drinks, and as such, my inhibitions completely disappeared.  I danced like a lunatic, shouted, and belly-laughed, gesticulating wildly and freely.  I was booty-shakin' to Usher, head-bangin' to Skid Row, playin' air guitar, and more.  I was the center attraction, all eyes and laughs on me, but the next morning I was completely mortified by my undignified behavior.  How could I act so uncontrollably?

This wild side of myself is something I rarely share, in part because it terrifies me.   Having always been self-conscious, I was never sure if people were laughing with me or at me.  Years of toxic relationships have taught me not to trust others, and I often I find myself waiting for a relationship to sour, ending with me being hurt, used, or mocked.  It is rare for me to relax enough and show the real me--that crazy, silly, kooky side of me.  Only a rare few are privileged to know that side.

Being highly reserved and prim may be self-protective mechanisms that served me well in the past, but as I have grown strong in recovery, my choices in friends have reflected my growing strength.  I am now surrounded by those who will not hurt me, who will not purposefully use or abuse me.  Still, I keep a closed fist on the real me, too afraid to loosen my grip on the only thing I feel that I can control in a friendship--me.

After that wild night of drinking, I was humiliated and terrified, wondering how my friends would respond to me and what they might think of me.  I was reacting in an all-too-familiar and unnecessary way.  Opening up and showing this crazy side of myself most likely made them feel closer to me and made me more real than I ever had been.  This wild night bonded us in laughter and memory, all solid foundations for a friendship.  And that's what I'm afraid of--letting go, moving on, and allowing others to get close to me.

I cannot avoid all pain in my life by controlling every situation.  I cannot control other people and their reactions, thoughts, and beliefs.  This facade of always being cool and in control that I chose to portray will not endear people to me if I am not being genuine, if I am being what I think other people want of me.  What I need to be is me, and only me.  I must learn to accept that I am good enough as is and that those who I cannot please are not worth the effort to please.

Ironic that it took me getting drunk to realize just how entrenched my issues are with control.  An old dog can learn new tricks--it may just take a little more time and a little more practice to learn--and, a lot more patience.  I would never advocate alcohol as means to figuring out problems, but going out of my comfort zone certainly enlightened me.  As Eleanor Roosevelt said, "Do one thing every day that scares you."  Let go of the need for control.


Cheers!

The 16-ton Gorilla in the Room, AKA, my body image

I have heard from countless therapists and recovered individuals that body image is the last hurdle to leap in recovery.  Which sucks.  I mean, really sucks.  Here I am, eating all kinds of foods, limiting exercise, tackling tough issues, and BAM! that damn 16-ton gorilla stares back at me in the mirror.  How the hell am I supposed to keep up all this hard work when I know how to magically transform that big mother-fucker into a cute little spider monkey?

The answer: I learn to believe that the 16-ton gorilla is cuter that the spider monkey.

Slowly, I am getting there; self-acceptance takes a lot of work.  And, I can get derailed very easily.  If I see someone who's really beautiful--BAM!  that damn gorilla!  If I see someone with long, lithe, toned legs--BAM!   Someone who's really thin--BAM!  BAM!  BAM!  I'm getting pummeled over here!  Gorillas can tear a human to shreds, and some days, I feel completely ravaged.

Here's the issue.  The type of primate doesn't matter: gorilla, orangutan, monkey, or funny-looking baboon.  What matters is how I am seeing myself. I notice that on most days, I'm pretty cool with myself.  I can put on shorts, wear tighter jeans, even don sleeveless shirts, and I feel okay.  Most days, I like the way I look and like my weight.  How is it that one moment, I'm cute little me, all head held high and loving this awesome body of mine, and next minute I'm Magilla Gorilla?

It's simple: confidence, or lack thereof.  I continue to equate outward beauty with inner worth.  If someone else is thin or beautiful, I can't possibly be thin or beautiful, too.  Right?

Wrong.  There is room for all beauty and all shapes.  Another person's beauty does not negate my own.  Not only that, but that person's beauty doesn't mean that I'm less capable, intelligent, or worthy.  When my 16-ton gorilla starts beating me up, what that really means is that I'm feeling self-conscious, and maybe I don't know why I'm self-conscious--maybe I'm feeling dumb or unliked or ostracized--so instead of figuring out the why, I allow my 16-ton gorilla to figure it out.  Only my gorilla NEVER figures it out.

In the end, I will evict the gorilla from my life when I learn to recognize my insecurities and not entertain these feelings by hating my body.  It's a scary thought: loving my body, my face, and my weight, but it's not impossible.  Imagine what I could accomplish if I didn't have that gorilla to stop me???

Cheers!

Excuse Me While I Climb onto my Soapbox and Bitch

I just need to have a moment and BITCH my heart out.  I am SO sick of these daytime "health" shows, such as The Doctors or Dr. Oz.  These shows claim to inform viewers on various health issues, but somehow the only information these shows dignify is the propagation of media lies: be thin, look younger, be beautiful.

Take The Doctors.  The producers masterfully stage the show with a medical team donning scrubs and lab coats.  The four board-certified physicians range in expertise from pediatrician, OB-GYN, ER, and plastic surgery.  Wait...what was that last one?  Oh yeah, plastic surgeon, because THAT is a practitioner from whom Americans must listen.  But, I digress.  These four doctors are not only professionally, and impeccably, dressed, but they are attractive.  Most ER physicians are so harried and sleep-deprived that there's no possibility of them appearing that put-together.  Dr. Lisa looks as though she is a patient of Dr. Drew Ordon, with her perfectly rhinoplastied-nose and Botoxed face.  Anyway, the producers need the public to trust and like these people, so we will watch and then purchase the products of the show's sponsors and advertisers.  Advertise beauty, sell beauty, make health contingent on beauty and the bait will effectively lure and capture the prey, I mean, audience.

If the show was truly concerned with the health of the nation, wouldn't the inclusion of an oncologist, rather than a pediatrician make more sense, especially given the rapid rise of cancer within the United States?  If the show cared about health, wouldn't it accurately discuss weight as only one small snapshot of health?  How is looking younger even related to one's health?

But, see for yourself.  Here is a recap of The Doctors episodes for this week:

Shocking Germ Traps in Your Home & on Your Body!

August 27, 2012

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Protect your family from harmful germs with help from The Doctors! Learn why you should think twice before watching a DVD, renting a car and using a yoga mat. Plus, the four waxing and shaving mistakes every woman makes.

Look Thinner, Younger & Sexier in Minutes!

August 28, 2012

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Hate all the workouts and treatments it takes to stay sexy? The Doctors show you how to get the look you’re after without the work. Learn quick tricks to lift your face, get six-pack abs, fuller hair and more.

How to Know When Surgery Is REQUIRED!

August 29, 2012

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Whether you’re suffering from serious issues or contemplating cosmetic surgery, The Doctors help you decide if you should go under the knife. Plus, actress Jessica Alba reveals her secrets for staying in shape.

Look Thinner & Sexier Than You Did in High School!

August 30, 2012

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Reclaim your youth with The Doctors’ tips to turning back the clock. Get the sparkle back in your smile, the spring back in your step and more. Plus, how to increase your energy levels and stay active at any age.

Small Changes for Big Health Results!

August 31, 2012

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The Doctors shows you how little changes can lead to big health results! Plus, 30-second solutions for a brighter smile and sexier skin, the surprising drink for a better night’s sleep and tips to curb your sweet tooth.

And, there you have it!  A week's worth of "health" information.  Why turn back the clock at all?  Shouldn't we learn how to love ourselves at every age and stage?  Doesn't self-acceptance equate to a calmer, more self-fulfilled life, which in turn, relaxes the body and keeps hormones in check?  Do the doctors know the hazards of over-whitening, or that teeth that naturally aren't neon-white are stronger?    Do the doctors know that as a 16-year-old (because the average high schooler is between 14-18), one isn't really "sexy (gross)," but still a child and that people get sexy upon adulthood?  Do they know that weight gain is a natural part of aging?  Do I know when plastic surgery is required?  Yes, I do--NEVER!  And, what if, just what if, I'm sexy as I am, without working out to death and undergoing facial/body treatments?

What bothers me about these shows is that the average viewer trusts these doctors and their messages.  The average viewer believes the lies these "professionals" spout about dieting, appearance, and aging, and then follow this advice, which only leads a person toward an unattainable quest--perfection.  Even when these "doctors" actually do discuss real health issues, I struggle to trust this information.  I struggle because if a professional is willing to sell out and tout misinformation about one topic, how am I to believe all the other information?  What is true?  What isn't?  These shows are so disingenuous, so completely immoral.  These shows attempt to balance health with consumerism and marketing.  It doesn't work.  But, so many people believe it does work because they want so badly to fit in with society and to be accepted.  It all just pisses me off.

So, thank you, my fellow blog viewers, for allow me to vent.  Please remember to question all things that look so good on television.

Cheers!