When I purchased my first home, I loved the beautiful landscaping
out front, the lush bushes and shrubs that lined the front and side with
rose-of-Sharons and morning glories coloring the terrain. That love
lasted only until weeds sprung from nowhere, almost overnight it seemed, overwhelming
the view. Never one to enjoy gardening, I knew that as the homeowner,
weeding this mess was solely my responsibility, and thus, I undertook it with
all the enthusiasm and dedication one musters when cleaning toilets.
I wanted this labor to be over before it had started, so I grabbed
at the weeds, haphazardly ripping and pulling, speedily working to clear all
evidence from sight. With chunks of green in my fists, I felt
satisfied--mission accomplished in under fifteen minutes.
"Pull at the roots," my father admonished repeatedly.
"I know, I know, Dad."
But even though I knew what had to be done, I continued to tug only
from the tops, weeding only what could be seen. Weeding was arduous
enough, really digging deep into those roots and ripping them out would only
prolong the misery.
Inevitably, within days, the weeds would reappear; it was really
only a matter of time. Ironically, my refusal to dig deeper was the
"root" of my misery.
When in treatment for anorexia, the daily struggle to eat and to
gain weight was overwhelming. Relearning how to feed myself--what
quantities and varieties of foods my body needed--was some of the hardest work
I had (and have) ever done. Learning to accept a body that took up more
space and to accept that despite body dysmorphia I still needed to eat was even
harder work. Dealing with all of that was only part of what needed to be
done. If I had stopped there, if I had just continued following a meal
plan and maintaining my goal weight, I would have simply yanked off the top of
my weeds and left the roots to grow deeper and stronger.
Because eating disorders have roots, very stubborn, gnarly, tangled
roots, roots that live to grow, choke, and kill our gardens. Issues of
food, eating, and body image are only what others see as the problem, but those
aren’t the real disease. The disease resides deeper than that and is more
insidious than feeling fat or being frightened of French fries. The
frail, emaciated bodies are what many believe the weed to be, but in fact, the
roots are nestled much much deeper within.
To recover, I had to do what was even more arduous than relearning
to eat--I had to face the trauma, the abuse, the self-hatred, the shame, and
fears that gave rise to the eating disorder. I had to dig deep within and
rip it all out, allowing myself to become vulnerable to others, to relearn how
to trust, to learn how to love myself. Only then could my garden
flourish, only then could I be free.
Call me crazy, but I now love to weed gardens. Something feels
cathartic about ripping stubborn weeds from their roots, something satisfying
when I yank and tug until a long strand of white loosens from the earth.
I feel accomplished. My garden is freed to thrive, unburdened by
the choking weeds that threaten its survival. The work is frustrating
and challenging--those roots cling for dearest life--but the rewards are so
much greater.
When I have those days when my thighs feels too large or the desire
to skip a meal overwhelms me, I know its time to weed my garden, and I journal,
do yoga, or visit my therapist. I know that I have dig out the feelings
and not allow those feelings to take root. Life without the eating
disorder is worth the work it takes, so invest in a trowel, some gloves, and a
spade. Start digging.
Cheers!
