Ambivalence

Webster's defines ambivalence as "simultaneous and contradictory attitudes or feelings (such as attraction and repulsion) toward an object, person, or action."

"Ambivalent" is perhaps the most accurate description of my feelings toward the recovery process. On the one hand, I am deeply committed to doing all I can to overcome my disease. I recognize its threat, I acknowledge its destructive power in my life, and I want to be rid of it for good. On the other hand, it makes me feel better. It is comfortable and safe and secure, and I don't want to live without it. Simultaneous and contradictory attitudes indeed.

This has weighed heavily on my mind in the past few days, as I have been given a hefty ultimatum by my treatment team. To sum up, it's pretty much "shape up or ship out." My weight has not been stable, and unless I take drastic and immediate action to rectify the situation, I will be discharged from outpatient treatment with a recommendation for higher-level care. I can't go back in-patient; I have neither the money nor the time. So I have to get my act together and do everything I'm told, regardless of how miserable it makes me. "I'll tell you right now, I'm going to be a raging bitch for the next couple weeks," I told my therapist. "That's okay," she replied, "I can treat a bitch, but I can't treat a ghost." Touche.

And so I must put my nose to the grindstone and slog through the inevitable grief that comes with recovery. I must take it day by day, meal by meal, doing the next right thing every time I can. I am not happy about it. I am not even "okay" with it. But it is necessary, in that painful, unpleasant way a root canal is necessary. I will do it. But I will need help.

Famous Last Words

"I just wanted to prove to myself that I could still do it."

So that crooked manipulator in my head has been trying all kinds of tactics to horn his way back into my life. I had been doing pretty well coming up with bulletproof rebuttals. He'd say, "Look at your kids' friends' moms, they're thinner than you," and I'd respond with, "My kids need a mom who's present, attentive, and affectionate, not a mom who's skinny." He'd say, "You're giving up the only thing that makes you special," and I'd respond with, "Millions of people have eating disorders. I'm the only person with my unique personality and gifts." He'd say, "You'll be in danger if you give me up," and I'd respond with, "I have a great support system, I don't need you anymore." He's a persistent little bastard, though, and finally he got to me with the one thing for which I had no dispute: "I think you just can't do it anymore. Anyone can eat 'normally,' anyone can eat and throw up, but you used to be able to live on air, and you don't have it in you anymore." Damn.

So I thought, I just want to show myself I CAN still do it. That I haven't lost the knack. That I can still do what most people can't. I'll just cut a few things out, lose a little weight, and then I'll get back on track. It's just an expiriment, really. Just a test. No big deal.

"What's going on?" People started asking me. "Nothing," I'd claim, "You're just over-sensitive. I'm FINE." A little lie here, a little one there, after nearly eight months of brutal, unnatural honesty. Heading full speed in the wrong direction.

But then something funny happened. In the midst of the cacophony of weights and calorie counts and paranoia in my head, a little voice piped up. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" It said. "You're only hurting yourself. Do you really want to throw it all away? You made your point, you showed yourself that you can go back any time you want. Now cut it the fuck OUT, before you've passed the point of no return. You're smarter than this, you're stronger than this, and - most importantly - you deserve BETTER than this." And miracle of miracles, I agreed.

So I started copping to my misbehavior. I started admitting my mistakes. I started taking responsibility for my actions and my life, in an attempt to show that sneaky devil in my mind that the biggest challenge of all - kicking his ass - is more important to me than a number on a scale ever will be. I need accountability, friends. I need to be reminded again and again to keep my eye on the prize: a long, happy, healthy life.

Vacation, E.D. style

Think about your last vacation. Think about the food. Chances are good you ate all your meals out, ordered whatever sounded good, ate more than you normally do, and indulged in some special desserts and maybe a few cocktails. That's part of the vacation experience, right?

Now think about the kind of mind-strangling anxiety that deviation from normal might cause someone with an eating disorder. Let me give you a little insight into the stream of consciousness that takes place: "How am I supposed to know how many calories are in that? Is that cooked in butter or oil? How much is a serving size? Am I supposed to eat that? Does that fit into my meal plan? Oh my God, I just know I'm going to come home ten pounds heavier. This is disgusting. I'm disgusting. Why did I even come on this stupid trip? I am miserable. I have no control. I want to go home." Sounds like a fun vacation, eh?

We just took our annual family trip to Disneyland. Prior to going my weight had been doing a provocative little downward dance, and I had been warned that I was entering "the danger zone." I really had no room to mess around. The trip could go two ways, as I saw it: I could either use it as a really convenient excuse to stop eating ("I don't know what happened, I swear! I guess I just walked around a lot more than usual.") or I could use it as a chance to prove to myself that I can eat like a normal human being. I chose the latter, as I have neither the time nor the money to drive myself back into in-patient treatment.

So we went, and I ate. Not especially extravagantly, mind you, but certainly more and differently than I do at home. I had dessert. I had fried stuff and chocolate and *gasp* non-diet soda. "Look at me," I thought, "I'm doing just fine." But that's not entirely true. I spent a good percentage of our family vacation compulsively pinching my arms, legs, and stomach, trying to see if I was gaining weight as rapidly as I thought. I compared myself to every single woman I saw between the ages of 18 and 30, thinking, "Am I thinner or fatter than she is? If I'm the same size, is that okay? Why can't I have legs that little? She's got kids too, what the hell is my excuse?" It was exhausting.

So yes, I had some food victories, and I'm proud of myself for those. But it's clear that I have a very long way to go on the road to body acceptance. When I'm in my own home, immersed in my own routine, it's not too hard to feel secure in my body. I may not love it, but I deal with it. When I'm out in the Big Wide World, though, it's a different story. It's scary and threatening and full of uncertainty, so I run back to the only thing that keeps me safe - focusing on my body. To my own detriment.

Kind of ironic that the thing which makes me feel most safe is actually my greatest threat of all.