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.