In Search of My Identity, Part 1

I always ducked when girls at bat hit a ball my way.  Not a softball player.

I was afraid of falling off the parallel bars and balance beam.  Not a gymnast.

I liked to draw, but what I saw in my head was not what others saw on paper.  Not an artist.

Numbers jumbled on the page and made my head hurt.  Not a math scholar or scientist.

I could pluck on the guitar, string words together, and pound the keyboard, but what I produced was never as good as others' masterpieces.

But I was good at starving myself.  I could make myself small.  Others took note of my skill and heaped attention on me.  I wasn't the smallest or the sickest, but I knew that if I worked my hardest, I could get there.  I had found my niche, my identity--nothing, no one, could take this from me.

For me, the most terrifying aspect of recovery was losing my identity as the smallest, the sick one, the one who ate like a bird.  My life had become defined by numbers on the scale and clothing tags, doctors appointments, and self-hatred.  As much as anorexia tortured me, it was my comfort, providing me with a false sense of identity.  If I couldn't be "X," at least I was skinny.  Each time recovery was within my grasp, I relapsed, too fearful of losing myself and too overwhelmed by the prospect of creating a whole new self.

I understood that there were no trophies for the skinniest nor the one who could purge everything, but I desperately craved to be something and to have talent in something.  Years of being sick, especially throughout adolescence, stripped valuable time from exploration into and formation of my Self.  While my friends sought interests, I sought thinness.  While my friends apprenticed at sports, the arts, or music, I would trial and error at starvation, accumulating skill in self-destruction.

I could have been a mathematician, or a painter, or a runner, or anything else that made my heart swell.  I didn't become those things because I was too afraid to fail, too fearful of not being the best.  All those years spent working at the eating disorder could have been spent working on true desires.

In recovery I found the courage to write, a hobby that has brought me joy since I penned my first word.  I am not the best writer, nor will I ever be...and that is okay.  Striving to be the best prevents me from exploring my one true pleasure.  Besides, other writers' incredible skill does NOT negate my ability--my skill will continue to exist even when someone else comes along who is more talented.  In other words, I am learning to let go of perfectionism, learning that no one person holds talent trump.

To recover, we have to be willing to take risks, to allow ourselves to fail and to learn from that failure.  We must be willing to accept that being mediocre at something doesn't negate our uniqueness as individuals.  Recovery means exploring ourselves in gray, not just in black and white, fat and thin, good and bad.

I may not be the best runner, writer, knitter, yogi, or Candy Crush player, but I am a good friend, a loving wife and daughter, a nurturing teacher, a terrible cook, and one hell of a crazy cat lady.

What My Loved Ones Need to Understand

To Those I Love,

         There are things I need you to understand.  There are things about this eating disorder that don't make any sense.  There are things I cannot control.  I need you to listen.  I need you to understand.

         I need you to understand that I am terrified.  Even though I may admit to needing help or say I am sick of being sick, the prospect of losing the eating disorder is frightening.  My eating disorder gives me security and control in a world that is anything but safe and predictable.  Logically, I know that ED is killing me, and I know starving myself, purging, bingeing, etc… is not normal, but emotionally the world of the eating disorder makes so much more sense.  Losing this comfort feels wrong, like I’m being asked to dive from a cliff to my death.  Please understand that because of this, I may become ambivalent about, or even opposed to, recovery.  After all, my most “effective” coping mechanism is being stripped from me.

         I need you to understand that it’s not about food.  Abusing food is simply a symptom of a greater emotional distress.  I cannot articulate why I do what I do—I just know that when I restrict, binge, or purge, the storm within me subsides.  Facing food—eating it and keeping it in—means that I must face a tempest raging with all-consuming violence.  At each meal, with each bite, I relive this experience.

         I need you to understand that I am not my eating disorder.  With each step closer to recovery, ED barrages me with verbal assaults, trying to convince me that I am unlovable, unworthy, and undeserving so ED can survive.  The noise in my head is deafening, and sometimes, oftentimes, I believe what ED tells me.  So, I will fight with anyone who tries to keep me on the path to recovery.  I will say nasty things, I will lie, and I will manipulate, but understand that this is the eating disorder, not me, lashing out.  See past my behavior as challenging as that may be.  Remind me that I’m still in there.  Remind me that I’m not the eating disorder, that the voices in my head are manifestations of my illness.

         I need you to understand that I didn’t choose this path.  No one chooses an eating disorder.  I can’t turn it off.  An eating disorder is a biologically-based mental illness, not a cry for attention, not a stage that I’ll outgrow, not extreme vanity, not a tantrum, not a choice.  Don’t blame me, nor shame me, for this “choice” I never made.

         I need you to understand that making comments about how I look, how others look, how so-and-so is losing weight, how much I have to eat, etc… fuels the voices in my head.  Hearing about diets, clothing sizes, love handles, numbers, pretty or ugly faces, etc… will be heard and translated through ED’s lens.  Even though, with best intentions, you may tell me how healthy I look, all I will hear is “you’re fat.”  Even though you do not mean to hurt me when you talk about Weight Watchers Points, or how Aunt Janey looks like she gained a lot of weight, all I will hear is that how I look, how skinny I’m not, is what matters.   Even though you would never intend to trigger fear within me, when you point out how much I have to eat or comment on what I eat, ED tells me is that I shouldn’t eat at all.

         Most importantly, I need you to understand that no matter how hard I try to push you away, no matter how much I isolate myself, I truly need you not to leave me alone.  The harder I push you away, the harder I need you to pull me closer.  I’m not pushing you away, the eating disorder is.  If ED can get us apart, ED can grow stronger.  Don’t let him win.  Hold me close despite myself.

         Loved one, I know you want to help me.  I know that this eating disorder exhausts you and brings you to your breaking point.  ED makes you feel helpless, leaves you feeling scared.  If you are feeling this way, imagine how I must feel, in a continuous, never-ending battle.  ED prevents me from loving myself, ED stops me from reaching out for help, ED keeps me in fear and despair.  Deep, deep down inside I want to live again, and though I would never say this aloud, I need you.  I need you.

                  Love,

                  the one you love