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.