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!
Thursday, August 30, 2012
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:
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!
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
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
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
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
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
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!
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Defining Moments
Recovery can feel insurmountable, especially when one is at mile marker four of a twenty-six mile marathon. How does one reach the finish line when it's easier and closer just to return to the start?
Defining moments. There are so many of them throughout recovery, and oftentimes, we overlook the small milestones that when multiplied, result in great leaps forward.
Here are a few of my defining moments:
1. the moment I put away the scale: For most of my life, even prior to the eating disorder, I weighed myself daily; it was an act as ritualistic and routine as brushing my teeth. As any eating disordered person knows, the scale dictates life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Even in times of relative periods of recovery, I weighed myself to maintain a number I deemed acceptable. A weigh ending in 4, 5, or 9 was terrifying. Weights ending in 0, 1, or 2 gave me strength to survive the day. I set goal numbers, added and subtracted, counted calories, days, and minutes. It was maddening, and I couldn't even begin to let go of ED, until I let go of the scale. Allowing my therapist to deal with my weight, allowed me to--finally, finally--deal with my issues. I couldn't articulate words until I removed the numbers from my head.
2. the moment I spoke up about my feelings: Never in my life could I tell people if their actions hurt me. One day, a group of friends and I were having heart-to-heart. Many expressed how another had hurt them. I sat curled in a ball, an internal argument brewing--talk, shut up, talk, shut up. Then, I realized something: speaking is essential to my recovery. ED cannot be my voice. So, I spoke up. I believe it made us all closer, and made me closer to myself.
3. the moment I returned to yoga: I avoided yoga for a long, long time. It's something I love, but also something I fear. Yoga helps me to connect to my Self and my emotions, and for a period of time, that was dangerous, or so I believed. Returning to yoga meant making peace with my mind and body, allowing serenity to blanket me, connecting me with my fears. Facing these anxieties has drawn me deeper into recovery.
4. the moment I ate a gift: My students often give me food gifts. Sometimes, they bring in cupcakes or cookies or candy--any number of things. Most of the time, I make excuses why I can't eat these treats; other times, I graciously accept the gift and toss it later. One day this past year, a girl brought in cupcakes for the whole group to share. Ooey-gooey, frosting-laden goodness. All the kids were excited. Without thinking, I gave each student a treat and then served one to myself. At 9:30 in the morning, I was enjoying a cupcake with my students. I still ate lunch, still had snack, still had dinner. Life went on. But for those five minutes, my life was a whole lot richer, and I was a whole lot more recovered.
5. the moment I had a slip, but not a fall: I never expected recovery to be easy, but I didn't expect it to be the 9th circle of Hell. In the past whenever life became too overwhelming, I dove into ED. Whenever I lost a little weight, I couldn't and wouldn't stop myself from losing more. It was all or nothing for me. Always. Within six months of ending treatment, life got really, really hard, and my weight dipped a bit. I began to slide. Heck, what was the point of recovery anyway? I loved the bagginess of my pants, the skinny comments--I was getting high on restriction. That could have been the end of my recovery story. This time, however, in that moment, I chose to do something I never did before: stay recovered. I worked more closely with my therapist and dietician, I attended more groups, surrounded myself with more people, and fought for recovery. It worked. I lived in a new circle of Hell for some time, but it got better and a little easier. I learned how to catch myself.
These are just a few of my defining moments. There's certainly many more. I remember the small things, like not measuring peanut butter anymore, eating dinner after 7pm, learning to get off the exercise machine at 28:45, not at 30:00 minutes exactly. Again, it always seems to be about the food, those moments we remember most. But, again, it's never really about the food. I can now tactfully challenge my boss, feel confident in a room, assert my opinions, and hold my head up high. To many, it may seem like I've reached mile twenty-six, but I no longer view recovery as a marathon. I see recovery, not as an exercise of mind over body, sweating through mental and physical pain, but as a leisurely hike through a forest, with twists and turns, leading to new paths, some circling back, some leading me to new adventures, a path that is never-ending, but has an amazing view. The marathon will end, but the journey never will. Take pride in defining moments, and use them to propel recovery toward new horizons.
Cheers!
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
My Letter to ED
This is my letter to ED, originally written while in treatment. In this letter, I compare the eating disorder to a violent abuser, a very apt metaphor. In moments of distress, when I want to engage in symptoms, I remember these words:
September 10, 2009
Dear Eating Disorder,
You
have been a part of my life for twenty years. You were with me for my eighth grade, high school, and
college graduations. You walked me
down the aisle at my first wedding.
You traveled with me to England, Scotland, and Spain. You watched as I signed on the dotted
line for the closing of my house. And though our relationship has waxed and
waned, strong at times, weak at others, together we remained. You have been a part of every milestone
in my life since the age of thirteen, and yet, I need to let you go.
You
are not the supportive lover/friend I need. You feed my fears and anxieties with insecurity, self-doubt,
self-loathing. You tell me I’m
worthless, ugly, undeserving, unlovable.
You beat me with an endless barrage of insults, covering me with
bruises. Because of you, I cannot
accept myself, be myself. I cannot
trust others; I cannot fully engage and interact. This abusive dance has me brainwashed, dizzily twirling in
the belief that you are the answers to my problems. You convinced me that I need only you, taught me anything
less than perfect is unacceptable, torn me from my friends and family,
shrouding me in veils of deceit and secrecy.
You
claim to love me, to want only the best for me, but you continue to abuse me,
criticize me, pressure me to believe your lies. And like an amorous lover, I believed you because at first,
everything went so well. So many
compliments, so much attention and praise were heaped my way from others. Following your ideas, your orders, made
sense. But over time, you
tightened your reign, your grip, taking things away, controlling me more and
more. And each time you beat me
with hours of exercise, you apologized: a drop in weight—red roses—for the
pain. But those thorns were too
sharp.
Looking
around, listening, I noticed the praise ending, others less supportive, me
isolating to focus only on you.
You became jealous easily and would punish me if you perceived me to
stray—more workouts, a binge, purge, cutting, fewer safe foods. The relationship became uglier and
uglier, but I was too scared to leave because I believed every ugly word you
uttered. I feared no one would
love or accept me for who I was. I
had pushed away everyone and had only you. You refused to let me escape, threatening my life. You persuaded me to believe I didn’t
deserve to escape. You held on
tight; you still, white-knuckled, feet planted firmly, muscles clenched, hold
on as I desperately try to pull away.
I have allowed you to grow too strong, become too powerful, allowed you
to usurp my own power and control over my self.
You
need to leave and leave wholly, fully, and completely. I cannot truly rely on you. Your strength, concern, love is only a
façade, a mask concealing the demon within.
I
deserve to be loved. I deserve
happiness, contentment, fulfillment.
I deserve to revel in the joy and beauty of womanhood, free from abuse,
free from constant pain, despair, and self-doubt. I deserve to feel, to live, to be. You will not allow me these quintessential human
rights. You will apologize,
romance me, and attempt to lull me into false security that things will change,
things will get better—that we can remain together, that you can remain,
however small, in my life.
I
refuse to succumb to this lie and all other lies. Get out, leave, go.
Do not look back. Do not
plead. Do not try to
negotiate. Let me go. Let me love, let me live.
--Signed,
Johnny
Stay Strong!
Cheers!
I Love Food
While in treatment, one of my doctors audaciously said to me, "I think, you really enjoy eating. I think you love food." I hated him for that comment.
How dare he tell me that I like food?! I bawled at every meal. I tore at my hair. I pinched my skin until it bled. I trembled, leg bouncing, while I massacred my food into tiny bits. I was anorexic, and anorexics do not like food. Food was the enemy. It's desire was to fatten me up and destroy me. Nothing about food was even in the least bit pleasurable.
Clearly, I was lying to myself.
I remember crying to my therapist, instructing her that I.could.not.eat.chocolate. I just couldn't. Chocolate was part of the treatment program's required foods list, but channeling my inner lawyer, I argued my way out of consuming it. Doing so made me feel triumphant. Besides, I hated chocolate; I didn't eat chocolate.
Again, I was clearly lying to myself.
Why did I act in such this manner? I loved food. All of it, especially chocolate. At the time, I hated myself so much that I could not conceive of allowing anything pleasurable to enter my body. I tortured myself when I did eat out of desperation, the anorexia clawing to stay alive. To admit that I liked food, to eat without tears, protest, or pain would be to admit that I was acquiescing to recovery, and I was terrified to be me without the eating disorder. Food was symbolic of all my fears associated with recovery. Fighting with food meant that I didn't have to fight these fears. Concentrating on food took the concentration off the issues. Hating food was my way of saying, "I'm not ready to let go just yet. I'm not ready to trust life without ED."
Recovery means learning to love food. It's a symbolic act, at least for me. Allowing myself to eat chocolate freely represents that I am willing to experience pleasure freely. Being willing to try new foods symbolizes my willingness to try new things in life. Learning to eat what my taste buds crave represents my willingness in life to meet my needs and desires. Loving foods equates to loving myself.
And boy, do I love food. I love ice cream--chocolate with a ton of chocolate sprinkles. I adore baby back ribs smothered in BBQ. I salivate over veggie pizza, especially from Grimaldi's in Jersey. Recently, I have discovered a love of mussels, clam chowder, and hachee (a Dutch beef stew). Risotto, mushrooms, plums, lasagna, Greek yogurt and honey, buttered popcorn, chicken french--all my loves.
I have learned that ordering food at a restaurant, the meal that nourishes and pleases me, is a symbolic act of love, that selecting such food at the grocery store shows that I respect myself. Eating disorders are never about food, really; they're about everything food represents to us.
So, practice in the bedroom, soft at first, then louder, "I love food." Because, really, we all do. My doctor was right.
Cheers!
How dare he tell me that I like food?! I bawled at every meal. I tore at my hair. I pinched my skin until it bled. I trembled, leg bouncing, while I massacred my food into tiny bits. I was anorexic, and anorexics do not like food. Food was the enemy. It's desire was to fatten me up and destroy me. Nothing about food was even in the least bit pleasurable.
Clearly, I was lying to myself.
I remember crying to my therapist, instructing her that I.could.not.eat.chocolate. I just couldn't. Chocolate was part of the treatment program's required foods list, but channeling my inner lawyer, I argued my way out of consuming it. Doing so made me feel triumphant. Besides, I hated chocolate; I didn't eat chocolate.
Again, I was clearly lying to myself.
Why did I act in such this manner? I loved food. All of it, especially chocolate. At the time, I hated myself so much that I could not conceive of allowing anything pleasurable to enter my body. I tortured myself when I did eat out of desperation, the anorexia clawing to stay alive. To admit that I liked food, to eat without tears, protest, or pain would be to admit that I was acquiescing to recovery, and I was terrified to be me without the eating disorder. Food was symbolic of all my fears associated with recovery. Fighting with food meant that I didn't have to fight these fears. Concentrating on food took the concentration off the issues. Hating food was my way of saying, "I'm not ready to let go just yet. I'm not ready to trust life without ED."
Recovery means learning to love food. It's a symbolic act, at least for me. Allowing myself to eat chocolate freely represents that I am willing to experience pleasure freely. Being willing to try new foods symbolizes my willingness to try new things in life. Learning to eat what my taste buds crave represents my willingness in life to meet my needs and desires. Loving foods equates to loving myself.
And boy, do I love food. I love ice cream--chocolate with a ton of chocolate sprinkles. I adore baby back ribs smothered in BBQ. I salivate over veggie pizza, especially from Grimaldi's in Jersey. Recently, I have discovered a love of mussels, clam chowder, and hachee (a Dutch beef stew). Risotto, mushrooms, plums, lasagna, Greek yogurt and honey, buttered popcorn, chicken french--all my loves.
I have learned that ordering food at a restaurant, the meal that nourishes and pleases me, is a symbolic act of love, that selecting such food at the grocery store shows that I respect myself. Eating disorders are never about food, really; they're about everything food represents to us.
So, practice in the bedroom, soft at first, then louder, "I love food." Because, really, we all do. My doctor was right.
Cheers!
A Day in the Life
Then...
Weigh, hate, berate. Starve, shake, stumble around in a haze. Over-exercise. Weigh, hate, berate. Isolate. Dream of food. Hide. Despair. Starve. Eat. Purge. Loneliness. Hate, berate. Cut. Compare. Judge. Measure, body check. Shrink, shrink, fade away. Weigh, hate, berate. Massacre food into tiny bites. Isolate. Freeze, layer clothing. Physical pain, mental torture. Binge, purge--laxatives, diuretics, diet pills. Cut out recipes, stare at them, never taste them. Berate, hate---justify. Start at beginning.
Now...
Laugh, love, smile. Dance, travel to faraway places. Dine, converse, giggle. Read, knit, cuddle. Breathe in, breathe out. Taste an array of flavors, drink in aromas, sample pleasure. Learn, teach, wonder. Connect. Pick flowers, swing, soak in the sun. Dream. Hope. Open the mind, the heart, the soul. Guffaw. Be free, be spontaneous, be at peace. Sip coffee with friends. Relate, listen, share. Breathe in, breathe out--soak in all of life's offerings. Discover joy, unlock identity, live in the moment. Dream for the future. Start at beginning, add more to the journey...
Cheers!
Weigh, hate, berate. Starve, shake, stumble around in a haze. Over-exercise. Weigh, hate, berate. Isolate. Dream of food. Hide. Despair. Starve. Eat. Purge. Loneliness. Hate, berate. Cut. Compare. Judge. Measure, body check. Shrink, shrink, fade away. Weigh, hate, berate. Massacre food into tiny bites. Isolate. Freeze, layer clothing. Physical pain, mental torture. Binge, purge--laxatives, diuretics, diet pills. Cut out recipes, stare at them, never taste them. Berate, hate---justify. Start at beginning.
Now...
Laugh, love, smile. Dance, travel to faraway places. Dine, converse, giggle. Read, knit, cuddle. Breathe in, breathe out. Taste an array of flavors, drink in aromas, sample pleasure. Learn, teach, wonder. Connect. Pick flowers, swing, soak in the sun. Dream. Hope. Open the mind, the heart, the soul. Guffaw. Be free, be spontaneous, be at peace. Sip coffee with friends. Relate, listen, share. Breathe in, breathe out--soak in all of life's offerings. Discover joy, unlock identity, live in the moment. Dream for the future. Start at beginning, add more to the journey...
Cheers!
Monday, August 27, 2012
The Pull to Rekindle a Toxic Friendship
Yesterday, I just needed my eating disorder. I needed not to feel. I needed to give myself some semblance of control and of strength. I needed to know that I could still restrict, that somewhere deep inside me I could release the anorexic and let her speak, so I didn't have to. So speak she did, and no one heard her cries.
In reality, a person needs anorexia as much as gunshot to the stomach because quite frankly, they both do the same amount of damage. What did I really need? What was I really feeling? The problem was that I didn't know what I needed; I couldn't figure out what I was feeling. All I recognized was distress, and I am horrible at tolerating distress. I am also horrible with the unknown. I need to understand, and when I don't, I find myself getting into trouble, like yesterday.
The tricky part about recovery is that in moments of distress, the eating disorder can feel so comforting, like the nostalgia of reminiscing with a long-lost friend, with a friendship that had become toxic, a friendship that due to some strange bond made ending it long and painful. Sometimes, as time passes and life goes on, we forget the pain of that friendship, of the lies that friend had told, of the manipulation, the tears that friend caused us to shed. And in that first conversation, the memories of the good times are shared, further distancing us from the reality of what that friendship was. "Remember at prom when...?" "Remember rooming together at college and when...?"
However, once a friendship is rekindled, it quickly becomes apparent why it needed to end.
Eating disorders are like these venomous friends: warm and pleasant at first, treacherous and toxic as time passes. In moments of vulnerability, sometimes it's easier to return to what our minds tell us is comforting, having forgotten the pain. That was me yesterday, entertaining an old relationship, the door to which must always remained closed.
I didn't need the eating disorder. What I needed was a real friend. And though I was surrounded all day yesterday with healthy, robust friendships, I choose to crawl deep inside and reminisce with ED. All those feelings of power, of control, and of comfort were lies, and I believed them--hook, line, and sinker.
This morning, I ate a healthy breakfast and wrote this post to remind myself that my real needs and feelings may still scare me and that I will still experience insecurity and the unknown; however, I cannot rekindle a relationship hell bent on destroying me. I must find a way to tolerate the distress and use my own voice.
Cheers!
In reality, a person needs anorexia as much as gunshot to the stomach because quite frankly, they both do the same amount of damage. What did I really need? What was I really feeling? The problem was that I didn't know what I needed; I couldn't figure out what I was feeling. All I recognized was distress, and I am horrible at tolerating distress. I am also horrible with the unknown. I need to understand, and when I don't, I find myself getting into trouble, like yesterday.
The tricky part about recovery is that in moments of distress, the eating disorder can feel so comforting, like the nostalgia of reminiscing with a long-lost friend, with a friendship that had become toxic, a friendship that due to some strange bond made ending it long and painful. Sometimes, as time passes and life goes on, we forget the pain of that friendship, of the lies that friend had told, of the manipulation, the tears that friend caused us to shed. And in that first conversation, the memories of the good times are shared, further distancing us from the reality of what that friendship was. "Remember at prom when...?" "Remember rooming together at college and when...?"
However, once a friendship is rekindled, it quickly becomes apparent why it needed to end.
Eating disorders are like these venomous friends: warm and pleasant at first, treacherous and toxic as time passes. In moments of vulnerability, sometimes it's easier to return to what our minds tell us is comforting, having forgotten the pain. That was me yesterday, entertaining an old relationship, the door to which must always remained closed.
I didn't need the eating disorder. What I needed was a real friend. And though I was surrounded all day yesterday with healthy, robust friendships, I choose to crawl deep inside and reminisce with ED. All those feelings of power, of control, and of comfort were lies, and I believed them--hook, line, and sinker.
This morning, I ate a healthy breakfast and wrote this post to remind myself that my real needs and feelings may still scare me and that I will still experience insecurity and the unknown; however, I cannot rekindle a relationship hell bent on destroying me. I must find a way to tolerate the distress and use my own voice.
Cheers!
Saturday, August 18, 2012
Drunk on Control
Old habits die hard, especially once they have become so deeply entrenched as to become imperceptible. For me, that habit is self-control, and anorexia became the perfect vehicle to steer that habit.
I was a highly sensitive child, highly perceptive, highly empathetic. I scared easily. I needed to understand everything in the world around me. And when I didn't understand, I became afraid. My parents crafted a perfectly routine life for me, but I could not embrace anything outside of that routine. With no outlet for this fear and little means of expressing myself as child, I was left with only one means of communication: tears.
One expects a baby or toddler to cry. Tears at the kindergarten or first-grade level are acceptable, but once a child reaches third, fourth, or fifth grade, individuals have little patience. All I wanted to do was to please the adults in my life, but as I grew older and the tears still flowed, and I watched helplessly at the adults' frustration, I felt more and more out of control, an unease tripling by the day. I simply could not control my body; I could not control myself--and my interpretation of adults' frustration was that I needed to learn some self-control.
Enter anorexia. The power it gave me to control my tears and emotions was intoxicating. Anorexia gave me the power to reinvent myself, and my appetite for more control became insatiable. As events in my life spiraled into a hellish abyss, anorexia gave me a power that I never experienced before. I was drunk on this power. And like any addict, I lashed out at anything that attempted to take it away from me.
In reality, anorexia does not empower anyone. I was dead inside, numb to all emotions and connections to others--and to myself. I may have been able to hold back tears and anxieties, but that was only because I had become so disconnected from my Self that I couldn't perceive them.
Each treatment, each therapist throughout my teens and twenties encountered a monster when attempting to separate me from anorexia. I refused to relinquish control. I screamed, cursed, and talked my way out of recovery. I told the doctors what they wanted to hear, recovered just enough to placate them and to cling to the fragments of anorexia to maintain pieces of control. I was too afraid of the memory and feelings from my past, of being reconnected with that tiny, scared child. In reality, I was afraid of my own power, of the real me that, ironically, seemed so reckless and uninhibited.
In my thirties, anorexia met its match with a therapist who took no bullshit, and who, with riot gear, pried loose the anorexia. With each forkful, the tiny child re-emerged, literally, screaming and crying. It terrified me. Why couldn't I control these tears? Why couldn't I control these emotions? I was acting completely out of control--couldn't the treatment team see that anorexia was the cure for this sickening behavior? Becoming re-acquainted with my former Self was terrifying. Learning that this person was not a freak or abnormal was relieving.
Recovery is teaching me that control is an illusion. I cannot attempt to master control; I can only make peace with the events as they unfold in my life. I need not fear emotion and attempt to suppress it. I need not fear the body's natural reactions to emotion. I need not fear me. Starving my body into submission will not alter the effects of life; it only alters my perception of how I am interacting with those events. The only control we have in life is how we perceive life; our actions may or may not control an outcome, but our thoughts always have an effect.
Cheers!
I was a highly sensitive child, highly perceptive, highly empathetic. I scared easily. I needed to understand everything in the world around me. And when I didn't understand, I became afraid. My parents crafted a perfectly routine life for me, but I could not embrace anything outside of that routine. With no outlet for this fear and little means of expressing myself as child, I was left with only one means of communication: tears.
One expects a baby or toddler to cry. Tears at the kindergarten or first-grade level are acceptable, but once a child reaches third, fourth, or fifth grade, individuals have little patience. All I wanted to do was to please the adults in my life, but as I grew older and the tears still flowed, and I watched helplessly at the adults' frustration, I felt more and more out of control, an unease tripling by the day. I simply could not control my body; I could not control myself--and my interpretation of adults' frustration was that I needed to learn some self-control.
Enter anorexia. The power it gave me to control my tears and emotions was intoxicating. Anorexia gave me the power to reinvent myself, and my appetite for more control became insatiable. As events in my life spiraled into a hellish abyss, anorexia gave me a power that I never experienced before. I was drunk on this power. And like any addict, I lashed out at anything that attempted to take it away from me.
In reality, anorexia does not empower anyone. I was dead inside, numb to all emotions and connections to others--and to myself. I may have been able to hold back tears and anxieties, but that was only because I had become so disconnected from my Self that I couldn't perceive them.
Each treatment, each therapist throughout my teens and twenties encountered a monster when attempting to separate me from anorexia. I refused to relinquish control. I screamed, cursed, and talked my way out of recovery. I told the doctors what they wanted to hear, recovered just enough to placate them and to cling to the fragments of anorexia to maintain pieces of control. I was too afraid of the memory and feelings from my past, of being reconnected with that tiny, scared child. In reality, I was afraid of my own power, of the real me that, ironically, seemed so reckless and uninhibited.
In my thirties, anorexia met its match with a therapist who took no bullshit, and who, with riot gear, pried loose the anorexia. With each forkful, the tiny child re-emerged, literally, screaming and crying. It terrified me. Why couldn't I control these tears? Why couldn't I control these emotions? I was acting completely out of control--couldn't the treatment team see that anorexia was the cure for this sickening behavior? Becoming re-acquainted with my former Self was terrifying. Learning that this person was not a freak or abnormal was relieving.
Recovery is teaching me that control is an illusion. I cannot attempt to master control; I can only make peace with the events as they unfold in my life. I need not fear emotion and attempt to suppress it. I need not fear the body's natural reactions to emotion. I need not fear me. Starving my body into submission will not alter the effects of life; it only alters my perception of how I am interacting with those events. The only control we have in life is how we perceive life; our actions may or may not control an outcome, but our thoughts always have an effect.
Cheers!
Thursday, August 16, 2012
"What's Your Passion?"
While deep in conversation with a colleague, she turns to me, and inquires, "so what's your passion?"
Taken aback, I paused, thought, and after an awkward minute, responded, "I don't know." That question has plagued me ever since.
What is that thing from which I derive pleasure, satisfaction, and fulfillment? For over twenty years, all of my drive and energy was aimed at the eating disorder. I had no room for silly hobbies, no time to explore my interests. While my peers explored their budding independence and curiosities, I was on a treadmill, or in the bathroom, or locked away in a room, isolated. Now that mypassion obsession has dissipated, what is next?
For a time, the act of recovery became my passion. I attended groups, therapy, doctor and nutrition appointments, following my meal plan as prescribed. I did yoga, journaled, read books on recovery, and went to acupuncture. Recovery consumed my days and my energy. And, it was quite honestly a relief. If I couldn't have the eating disorder, I needed something to fill all that empty space it left behind.
Now, however, I am beyond the need for all of that intervention. I am stable, eating intuitively, spending time with friends, and generally, just enjoying life. But, and there's always a but, I feel stuck. In trying to rediscover "me," I've realized that there is a whole "me" left undiscovered.
The simple answer to this problem would be just to try out some things, but I'm never quite sure how to begin, where to begin, and if I should begin. I feel like a teenager, and I also feel a tad bit paralyzed. Instead of risking the possibility that I may actually find a passion, and then consequently, pursue it with the same fervor as the eating disorder, I do nothing. I may not be moving backward, but I'm definitely not moving forward.
And, maybe, just maybe, I remain in this paralysis intentionally, never allowing myself to truly attach myself to any one thing (or things). Because, what if I actually discovered something to replace to the eating disorder? What if I truly became a whole person?
It strikes me as so odd that eating disorders are illnesses in which recovery is so feared. Eating disorders can and do kill; they rot joy and ravage hope, and yet, we cling white-knuckled, sweating and wincing to hold on for dear life. Ironic how willingly, yet unconsciously, we relinquish ourselves to them.
So, in the end, what I really need to do is that which I fear the most: move on. There are no excuses. I can't be too tired, too overworked, too bored, too busy, too unsure, too ignorant, or too whatever else I could possibly be. I need to have an answer to that very simple question. I need to have that answer because I need to be free.
Cheers!
Taken aback, I paused, thought, and after an awkward minute, responded, "I don't know." That question has plagued me ever since.
What is that thing from which I derive pleasure, satisfaction, and fulfillment? For over twenty years, all of my drive and energy was aimed at the eating disorder. I had no room for silly hobbies, no time to explore my interests. While my peers explored their budding independence and curiosities, I was on a treadmill, or in the bathroom, or locked away in a room, isolated. Now that my
For a time, the act of recovery became my passion. I attended groups, therapy, doctor and nutrition appointments, following my meal plan as prescribed. I did yoga, journaled, read books on recovery, and went to acupuncture. Recovery consumed my days and my energy. And, it was quite honestly a relief. If I couldn't have the eating disorder, I needed something to fill all that empty space it left behind.
Now, however, I am beyond the need for all of that intervention. I am stable, eating intuitively, spending time with friends, and generally, just enjoying life. But, and there's always a but, I feel stuck. In trying to rediscover "me," I've realized that there is a whole "me" left undiscovered.
The simple answer to this problem would be just to try out some things, but I'm never quite sure how to begin, where to begin, and if I should begin. I feel like a teenager, and I also feel a tad bit paralyzed. Instead of risking the possibility that I may actually find a passion, and then consequently, pursue it with the same fervor as the eating disorder, I do nothing. I may not be moving backward, but I'm definitely not moving forward.
And, maybe, just maybe, I remain in this paralysis intentionally, never allowing myself to truly attach myself to any one thing (or things). Because, what if I actually discovered something to replace to the eating disorder? What if I truly became a whole person?
It strikes me as so odd that eating disorders are illnesses in which recovery is so feared. Eating disorders can and do kill; they rot joy and ravage hope, and yet, we cling white-knuckled, sweating and wincing to hold on for dear life. Ironic how willingly, yet unconsciously, we relinquish ourselves to them.
So, in the end, what I really need to do is that which I fear the most: move on. There are no excuses. I can't be too tired, too overworked, too bored, too busy, too unsure, too ignorant, or too whatever else I could possibly be. I need to have an answer to that very simple question. I need to have that answer because I need to be free.
Cheers!
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Myths about Recovery
I have learned the hard way about the following:
Myth #1: Once I complete treatment, I'm recovered.
Ha! I actually fell into the trap of believing this one. I believed that because I followed a meal plan and went to therapy that I was doing well. Outwardly, it may have appeared that way. However, I was by no means being honest with myself. Though I wasn't weighing myself, I was using my small clothing to keep me at the lowest end of healthy I could be. My jeans became the new scale.
I maintained a strict exercise schedule. Even though I was following my exercise prescription perfectly, I was simply amping up the intensity, working out through physical pain and illness (I still remember running a 5K on the treadmill, grabbing the machine for dear life because I had vertigo--dumb ass!).
I ate only "healthy" foods, lying to myself that it was an attempt at health. Not only that, but I lived on the same meal plan.
I maintained strict eating rituals. I continued to isolate. I wouldn't ask for help. I didn't explore new interests or opportunities. I didn't seek a new identity. I was striving for "perfection" in every aspect of life. I was purposefully, in more ways that just food, keeping my world small--tiny, contained, and controlled.
Needless to say, relapse was inevitable.
Myth #2: I'm recovered when I am maintaining a healthy weight.
If I'm berating myself on a daily basis, refusing to wear shorts or bathing suits, adamant about NOT having my photo taken, dropping weight because, well, that's something that miraculously happens every January, weighing myself to ensure that I'm not gaining weight, refusing to eat or drink certain things, terrified of eating at certain times, refusing to eat around people, over-exercising to make up for eating, comparing my body to every woman's I see and then hating myself all the more, or hiding out at home....I am not recovered. No matter what the scale says.
Myth #3: I am too old to recover. I've had an eating disorder for too long to recover.
Glad I never listened to that one. In hospital, I remember seeing a fifty-six year old who ended up in treatment every year. She was excited because, for the first time in years, she didn't need to be tubed in order to begin recovery. I also remember a seventy-something year old woman who was receiving treatment for the very first time.
Many may look at these two examples as proof that one, once too old, will not recover; however, I see these women differently. I see hope and this unyielding desire never to give up until one day recovery is theirs. If I tell myself that I'm too old or that I've had it for too long, what I'm really saying is that I'm too scared of failure to try.
Myth #4: I've been in therapy or treatment for FOREVER; there's nothing new to learn. I know what to do, but I just don't do it.
This mantra played on repeat in my head. In fact, one of my therapists once told me this very thing! The problem with this thinking is that if I truly did know it all, I would have recovered long, long ago.
I excelled at my eating disorder. I read about it, studied it, became a true expert in it. However, I was kidding myself at thinking that my studies were about recovery. I was learning how to get better at the eating disorder. I never actually applied the things that would stop the eating disorder. I tuned out the strategies for recovery. I overlooked the meaning behind what my treatment team was attempting to teach me. I filtered the information through the lens of the eating disorder, so yes, there was a LOT more I needed to learn--about recovery, that is. I wasn't doing what I was told because honestly, I didn't want to get better.
Myth #5: I can maintain recovery and still___________________ (fill in the blank with choice of poison).
Skip lunch today? Run an extra ten minutes? Do a detox? Eat diet foods? Ignore my hunger cues? Look for pictures of skinny women? Soak up Dr. Phil episodes with emaciated anorexics on them? Read pro-ana blogs? Save and look at "skinny photos" of a sick me?
Here's the thing: I've been in recovery for so long, and now, recovery is really easy. The problem is that I get cocky sometimes and think I can maintain recovery even when engaging in very triggering activities. Most of the time I'm fine, and everything has a way of balancing out. Other times, I amaze myself at how fast a negative emotion can ignite eating disorder symptoms. Recovery means disengaging in harmful behaviors and thoughts. I am kidding myself if I think I can be immune to things that kept me sick for so long. Being honest with myself and loved ones keeps me on the straight and narrow.
Cheers!
Cheers!
Have you encountered any other myths you'd like to add?
Please comment below.
Two Years and Counting...
August 5. That date will resonate with me for years to come. Two years ago, on August 5, I graduated from treatment. It certainly was not my first treatment, but hopefully, it will be my last. These last two years have been an incredible struggle, but somehow, I have emerged onto the other side. I am living a recovered life, free from the bonds and shackles of anorexia and bulimia.
Let me back up a little and give a brief history. I am 36 years old. My earliest memory of feeling fat was in 2nd grade, when I couldn't squeeze my cute little tummy into a frilly pink dress I loved; however, a taller, thinner girl could. Strike One. Then, in 5th grade, I clearly remember looking down at my ten-year-thighs and realizing that they were "fat." Strike Two. At age 13, I got a horrible stomach bug that hung on for weeks. Strike Three. Mix in a mother who dieted incessantly and promoted beauty as one's sole worth, coupled with an image-obsessed society, and an eating disorder was born.
For over twenty years, I vacillated between various degrees of severely unhealthy to quasi-healthy. The longer the eating disorder held on, the more it became woven into the fabric of my identity. I didn't know who I was without it. I couldn't even recognize that I was ill. Eating disordered became my normal, my only normal.
How does one unstitch the threading when it has become so seamless and unseen?
Very delicately.
I cannot pinpoint the moment or day when the eating disorder no longer controlled my every breath, thought, and action because there is no one thing that made it possible. All I know is that recovery is the hardest thing I have ever done. In many ways it hurt more that eating disorder did, but recovery gives what the eating disorder never could: true freedom, genuine comfort, and limitless joy.
I made it to the other side, and it is my hope that anyone reading this also will emerge to a world teeming with possibility.
Cheers!
Let me back up a little and give a brief history. I am 36 years old. My earliest memory of feeling fat was in 2nd grade, when I couldn't squeeze my cute little tummy into a frilly pink dress I loved; however, a taller, thinner girl could. Strike One. Then, in 5th grade, I clearly remember looking down at my ten-year-thighs and realizing that they were "fat." Strike Two. At age 13, I got a horrible stomach bug that hung on for weeks. Strike Three. Mix in a mother who dieted incessantly and promoted beauty as one's sole worth, coupled with an image-obsessed society, and an eating disorder was born.
For over twenty years, I vacillated between various degrees of severely unhealthy to quasi-healthy. The longer the eating disorder held on, the more it became woven into the fabric of my identity. I didn't know who I was without it. I couldn't even recognize that I was ill. Eating disordered became my normal, my only normal.
How does one unstitch the threading when it has become so seamless and unseen?
Very delicately.
I cannot pinpoint the moment or day when the eating disorder no longer controlled my every breath, thought, and action because there is no one thing that made it possible. All I know is that recovery is the hardest thing I have ever done. In many ways it hurt more that eating disorder did, but recovery gives what the eating disorder never could: true freedom, genuine comfort, and limitless joy.
I made it to the other side, and it is my hope that anyone reading this also will emerge to a world teeming with possibility.
Cheers!
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