The Body Conflict

Fact: I can never have the body I want - the body I've always wanted, the one I've come so close to before - if I want to heal the wounds in my heart.

Fact: If I choose to dominate and manipulate my body, to whittle it into the image I have in my head, I will sacrifice my mental-well being and - almost assuredly at this point - sacrifice my life.

Fact: I do not want that body - that angular, clean, pristine thing - any less than I ever have.

Fact: I am furious by this. Spitting mad, in fact. So angry that I am precariously close to unleashing a torrent of four-letter words at my dietitian, whose insistence that my body stay where it is now is fueling my inner conflict.

I can articulate my emotions until the cows come home. If you've read my blog for awhile, you've seen evidence of that. I can wax on about the trials of recovery, the pitfalls of struggle, the beautiful victories of choosing life. Right now, I'm too mad for eloquence.

You see, here's a REAL fact: I have an eating disorder. Rather, IT has ME. Even after all I've learned, after all I've seen, after all I've been through, that little bastard has me in his scaly clutches. Sure, most of the time I follow my meal plan to the letter, keep all my appointments, show up to Group regularly. I walk the walk, in other words. But that sure as hell doesn't mean it's not a daily fight to do the right thing.

I've tried to figure out why this Body I dream of is so important to me. "It's just a shell," I try to tell myself. "It's not who you ARE." Ay, there's the rub. In my head, it IS who I am. In my head, excess flesh is tantamount to complete, shameful failure. I am told, week in and week out, that my body is "healthy." It is "where it wants to be." It is "how it was designed to look." These statements are maddening to me. They suggest that my body is simply beyond my control, and I have to accept it without conditions. That's not an easy task for someone like me.

I know I could go back. It wouldn't take me long to get that Body I fantasize about. I know how to do it; I've done it before. That knowledge is a comfort to me. But I also know that if I ever hope to put my past to rest, if I ever hope to live out the future I want for myself, I have to surrender the Body Conflict. I cannot be well and sick at the same time.

That understanding doesn't keep me from being angry, though. And it certainly doesn't stop that demon from whispering in my ear, "Just a few more pounds won't hurt you." This disease is a killer, friends, and it fights dirty.

Memory

Every day I carry a thousand tiny heartbreaks
in my pocket.
They sting my fingers when I'm reaching for my keys.
They jangle when I'm running for the bus.
Their razor-sharp edges cut me when I'm not careful,
which is most of the time.
Every once in awhile I try to clean them out.
They shift and splinter and multiply like ground glass
and they tatter my lungs when I inhale.
So mostly I let them sit quietly in my pocket,
piercing me with their reminiscence when I move
to walk away.

The time has come to tell the truth, to expose the demons of my youth

I am about to embark on the most difficult leg of my recovery journey yet. EMDR therapy. For those of you unfamiliar with the process, let me give you a layman's overview: EMDR stands for Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing. It's a form of therapy designed for use in Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (though now it's use is extending to include many other purposes.) The main gist is that, while intently focusing on details of a trauma, your brain is bilaterally stimulated - with lights, tones, hand taps, or other stimuli. When the trauma initially happened, the brain was not able to store the memories in a functional way. (Understandable, since it was kind of busy helping you stay alive.) As a result of improperly-stored memories, PTSD symptoms like nightmares, flashbacks, intrusive thoughts, and hypervigilance occur. The bilateral stimulation used in EMDR is thought to bring those traumatic memories to the forefront of the brain, then store them appropriately, thereby eliminating or greatly reducing the distressing symptoms.

There's your psychology lesson for the day; now I'll get back to how this is affecting my life right now. For seven months (or, since I first began seeing my therapist and she suggested it) I have been absolutely terrified of doing EMDR. I don't think it's possible to overstate my reluctance. The element that is so frightening to me is that I will literally have to bring the most horrific details of my trauma front and center in my mind. Let me put this in perspective for you: I have spent nearly 14 years starving, binging, purging, and cutting in an effort to AVOID those memories. Now I'm being asked to sit down and have tea with them. It's turning my world upside down.

I haven't spoken much about my PTSD diagnosis on this blog. I'm comfortable discussing my eating disorder, I'm becoming less inhibited about my self-injury. But the trauma? The very root of everything else? That's a lot harder for me to face. Especially in a public forum. I'll do the best I can.

I have a pretty extensive sexual abuse history, beginning with molestation at age 5 and culminating with a violent rape at 13. I kept my mouth shut for a long time, only admitting what little I have when a well-meaning counselor pushed me (too hard) to do so when I was 14. By then I was already entrenched in my behaviors and there was no going back.

I will be 27 years old next week. There is a lot of distance, time-wise, between the traumas and me. My brain doesn't know that, though. And with the cessation of my E.D. and self-harm, I no longer have any defenses against the onslaught of vivid, awful memories. I don't sleep much, because exhaustion is preferable to the nightmares. I have a ridiculously exaggerated startle reflex (something that "friends" used to rib me about in high school). The littlest things in my surroundings trigger intrusive memories that are all but impossible to get out of my head. I won't even start on the impact this has had on my marriage.

I'm scared. Like, really, really scared. I already have one foot out the door and on the way back to Madness because, while it's deadly, it's a hell of a lot less frightening. But seven months ago I made a commitment to myself, my husband, my children, and God that I would do whatever it took to free myself from my disease. I think I finally - FINALLY - understand that there will be no freedom without a long, hard look at the past. If you have ever found yourself at a point like this, please share your experience with me. If you suspect that you may find yourself at this point some time in the future, please reach out for support. We don't have to go this alone. We've already spent enough time in isolation, alienating ourselves from the world. It's time to grab hands and walk this road together.

Please excuse me, I'm late for my next mistake.

I'm going to admit something to you that I really, really loathe: I'm not perfect. Not only is my character imperfect, I am also inclined to make some really bad decisions on occasion. The kind of choices that, were my life a horror movie (not so far a stretch sometimes), you would be yelling at the screen, "No, don't do it! Stop! Go back!" Just as the poor misguided blond meets her untimely demise, I put myself into bad situations and cause myself unnecessary distress.

It doesn't happen all the time, thank goodness. I AM capable of making good decisions, particularly when the outcome involves other people. I suppose the stakes are higher to me when someone else could get hurt. Why, then, do I not recognize myself as equally important as everybody else? That's probably one of those questions that requires 250 hours of therapy to unravel.

Self-sabotage comes to mind. I'm pretty damn good at it. Things are going along fine, the water is calm, and I don't like it. I throw a stone into the still water because the ripples soothe me. I'm used to chaos. I'm accustomed to suffering. It sucks, but it's comfortable. Comfort is a really powerful motivator. We humans are biologically driven to stay close to our baselines: physical, mental, emotional. When your emotional baseline is one of distress, like mine, the world just seems wrong when everything is okay. It may not make a lot of sense (why would anyone WANT to live in constant turmoil?) but at the same time I think it's pretty accurate.

I think, for me, it comes down to fear of the unknown. I simply don't know what it would be like for my life to be simple and calm. I don't know what I would do with myself. How would I function? It's a scary thought. Recovery, though, is about facing your fears. It's about acknowledging all of that awful stuff from the past that you've been running from for so long. It's about recognizing the uncertainty of the future and having faith that maybe, just maybe, you'll be all right.

It's Always Darkest Before the Dawn

"Why did this happen to me?" "Why does it hurt so bad?" "How will I ever get through this?" "Will I ever get a break?" Sometimes in life, the blows just keep coming. One suckerpunch right after another, with no time to catch your breath. It's easy, in those times of chaos, to become bogged down in despair, desperation, and hopelessness. I know. I've been there.

A wise person once told me (translation: my therapist told me last week) that wisdom is not gained from the good times. Wisdom is gained from going through hell and coming out on the other side. So what do you do when you're IN hell, and the other side seems so far away? Do you curl up in a ball and try to wait it out? Do you revert to those behaviors that have been there for you in the past - starving, purging, cutting, drinking, using? Do you just throw up your hands, say "fuck it," and give up?

All of those options are there, will always be there. But choosing one of those paths prohibits growth and impedes the development of wisdom. Having gone through the things that I have, lived the life that I've lived, I simply HAVE to believe that there's some greater purpose in my suffering. None of it is in vain, if we make the choice to use our pain to propel ourselves forward. And it IS a choice. I could have thrown in the towel long ago (in fact, ten years ago I tried to do just that, and it was only by some cosmic miracle that I came out of it okay). I have a suitcase full of reasons why it's all just Too Much. But I also have desire. Passion. Motivation. Dreams. So I've chosen to fight this never ending war. I've chosen to suit up and show up, day after day, despite the fact that there's no uphill battle quite like Life. I've chosen to use my experiences - the good, the bad, and the ugly - to grow as a person, and maybe, hopefully, to help someone else get through similar trials.

Yes, in the middle of the darkness it's awfully tough to believe it will ever be light again. It is my sincere hope that you will choose, as I have, to carry the faith that it really is darkest before the dawn. Daybreak will come, my friends. It always has, and it always will.

A Note on Shame

"Shame is a little whip we always carry with us. We can shame ourselves easily; the little whip stings. We often use it to punish our feelings, because they evoke the helpless children we were. So we learn to suppress our feelings of fear, or rage, or desire. We would rather not feel at all than feel the sting of shame.

Why should we punish our feelings? Everyone feels much the same things. Why should our humanity shame us? Perhaps somewhere we acquired the notion that it's wrong to be human; that an inhuman perfection is the only proper public image.

Love can heal the pain of shame. Self-love and self-acceptance can make us strong enough to discard the little whip. We're much more lovable when we acknowledge our humanity and let go of our shame. We're also better able to love others. Shame shuts us up; love opens us to joy."

-from "The Promise of a New Day" by Karen Casey & Martha Vanceburg

The Importance of Support

I don't think it's possible to overstate the importance of support in recovery. I want to discuss two fields of support that I believe are equally vital: clinical, and family/friends.

First, clinical support. I can say with 100% certainty that I would not be where I am today were it not for the guidance of my treatment team. Those people include my therapist, my dietitian, and the other therapy/dietary staff at my outpatient program. I have been so blessed to find a therapist who is absolutely committed to her work, passionate about her calling, and unfailingly ethical. She also never hesitates to call me out on my bullshit. I trust her completely, and for me, that's a big deal. She's firm and tough when she needs to be, but she's also beautifully compassionate and mercifully gentle. My dietitian knows her stuff through and through, and unflinchingly combats the eating-disordered thoughts that threaten to take me back to where I used to be. She understands the reality of this disease, its power, and - thankfully - the ways to beat it. The other members of my team are there for me on a daily basis, encouraging me when I succeed, and supporting me when I struggle. I am grateful for all of them.

Family and friend support is different, but just as important. Many of my friends and family members don't understand first-hand how this battle works, but that doesn't diminish their impact on my recovery. To have people to go to when I just need a hug is pretty powerful all by itself. Then there are my peers in recovery, who intimately understand the nuances of the disease. Their empathy and solidarity are beacons in the night.

It is impossible to go through this journey alone. I know; I tried. It is a very long road, littered with blind turns and potholes and flash floods. It can be awfully discouraging. But - as with any endeavor - it's a road best travelled with company.