Perfect couple, perfect kids, perfect house, perfect Christmas card. We've all seen the attempts. Chances are you have the aforementioned cards displayed in your home right now. Perhaps your Facebook feed is incessantly updated with happy! brilliant! beautiful! talented! family tidbits. Maybe I have been an offender in this assault of domestic perfection.
If so, I apologize. I'd like to come clean. It seems that the harder I work to prove my "have it all-ness," the less I actually have. I do have an awesome family, that's no lie. My kids are smart and articulate and insightful. They're also messy, snarky, and prone to outbursts of manic emotion, details I may leave out when I'm gushing of their greatness. My marriage is blessed and strong, but it's also tried by issues like money, extended family, and more than anything, my disease. My house is decent-looking, but only as a result of my compulsive need to purge excess (eating disorder parallel, anyone?). To summarize, my public got-it-together persona isn't a lie, per se, it's just a meticulously-edited version of the truth.
Nearly all of the mothers I know suffer to some degree by the "have it all" myth. It's not good enough to be okay, we have to be GREAT. It's not good enough to be average, we have to be THE BEST. We try to teach our children that it's their effort that counts, not the product of that effort, but we reject that notion for ourselves.
For me, this myth is becoming dangerous. My drive to appear high-functioning is compromising my willingness to admit struggle, my ability to ask for help. I'm a sick person with a worn-out body, and I don't have the endurance to withstand the constant grandstanding. In my case, the pursuit of "having it all" can cost me everything. How artfully-decorated would my living room be if I wasn't there to arrange the furniture? How cheerful would those Instagram pictures of my kids be if they were motherless? It sounds harsh, but sometimes that's life.
I don't need to be perfect. I CAN'T be perfect; such a goal is futile. You can't be perfect either, and frankly, I wouldn't want you to be. It's your flaws, your mistakes, your inadequacies that make you interesting and dynamic. It's your irreverence that makes me gravitate to you. It's your REALness. A painting can be captivating, but it's the wounded artist that's the real treasure.
I would rather slouch in my poor-postured imperfection next to my wild children than perish trying to be the upright person I'm not. I hope you feel the same.
Friday, December 20, 2013
Saturday, December 7, 2013
"Just Talk to Me," or, the Need for Understanding
I was in a surly mood. "Just talk to me," he implored; "I won't try to fix anything, I'll just listen."
I've been feeling desperately cut off lately. Since being effectively shut out of my outpatient program, dismissed from therapy, and told - ironically - that I'm "too sick" to treat, I have been feeling afloat. Drifting through my disease, my distress, without the lifeline of a community of understanding. People express their concern, their desire to help, but how do you explain to someone that you hate what you're doing but you go on doing it anyway? You don't. You smile, thank them for their warmth, and swallow the pleas for aide.
Which led to the recent exchange between my dear husband and myself. "Just talk to me," he said. So I did.
"I feel like I fail in every area of my life," I explained. "As a mother, a wife, a teacher, a friend... I feel like I'm never good enough, like I never give the people who need me what they deserve. But damn can I stay thin. I have to feel like I'm good at something; doesn't everyone need to feel proficient? Isn't that some basic human need, the need to feel accomplished? And when I recognize that the only thing that makes me feel accomplished actually makes me a worse mother, wife, teacher, and friend, I am drenched in shame and retreat even further into my behaviors."
"That's a bitch," he said, trying hard to keep his promise of not being a fixer.
And that was it. He went to sleep, I went to sleep, we woke up and began our suburban middle-class working-parent day. He with his inner dialogue of "I have a sick wife and I have no idea how to handle it while ensuring my kids and home are taken care of," and me with my inner dialogue of "You idiot, next time just keep your damn mouth shut."
We all have a need to feel understood. We, as human beings, are social creatures; no man is an island unto himself. We were not created to be completely autonomous. We need each other, and what's more, whether we admit it or not, we WANT each other. I have had a handful of opportunities recently to spend time with good friends. During each encounter my inner un-sick person was screaming out for me to engage. Admit my challenges. Ask for a hug. I didn't. I talked about Christmas, kids, work. I baked. (Heads up: if I bake for you, insist you eat my baking, and give you my recipe, it's because I'm hungry and eating vicariously through you. It's an anorexic thing.)
Why do we squelch our need for help? Why, when we need to feel understood and validated, do we instead assume we're broken and keep our pain to ourselves? You may not have an eating disorder. Maybe you struggle with some other addiction, struggle with chronic shame, or suffer that horrible ailment known as "Mommy Guilt." Can you honestly say you reach out whenever you need support? More likely, you, like I do, keep quiet. Pretend it's all okay. Smile smile smile. We're supposed to be fine, so we pretend to be fine. Someone once taught me that "FINE" stands for "Feelings Inside Not Expressed."
This is a rough time of year for a lot of people, for a lot of reasons. I get it. If you need help, if you need to feel understood, I implore you to find someone you trust will get it, and reach out. REACH OUT. What's the worst that can happen? The person to whom you reach out may think, "Wow, this person I thought had it all together actually has the same struggles I do." Not only have you asked for help, you've given another person the gift of feeling understood.
P.S.
I give my husband tremendous credit. It takes a great deal of humility to acknowledge that you do not, in fact, understand, but you love someone enough to be there anyway.
I've been feeling desperately cut off lately. Since being effectively shut out of my outpatient program, dismissed from therapy, and told - ironically - that I'm "too sick" to treat, I have been feeling afloat. Drifting through my disease, my distress, without the lifeline of a community of understanding. People express their concern, their desire to help, but how do you explain to someone that you hate what you're doing but you go on doing it anyway? You don't. You smile, thank them for their warmth, and swallow the pleas for aide.
Which led to the recent exchange between my dear husband and myself. "Just talk to me," he said. So I did.
"I feel like I fail in every area of my life," I explained. "As a mother, a wife, a teacher, a friend... I feel like I'm never good enough, like I never give the people who need me what they deserve. But damn can I stay thin. I have to feel like I'm good at something; doesn't everyone need to feel proficient? Isn't that some basic human need, the need to feel accomplished? And when I recognize that the only thing that makes me feel accomplished actually makes me a worse mother, wife, teacher, and friend, I am drenched in shame and retreat even further into my behaviors."
"That's a bitch," he said, trying hard to keep his promise of not being a fixer.
And that was it. He went to sleep, I went to sleep, we woke up and began our suburban middle-class working-parent day. He with his inner dialogue of "I have a sick wife and I have no idea how to handle it while ensuring my kids and home are taken care of," and me with my inner dialogue of "You idiot, next time just keep your damn mouth shut."
We all have a need to feel understood. We, as human beings, are social creatures; no man is an island unto himself. We were not created to be completely autonomous. We need each other, and what's more, whether we admit it or not, we WANT each other. I have had a handful of opportunities recently to spend time with good friends. During each encounter my inner un-sick person was screaming out for me to engage. Admit my challenges. Ask for a hug. I didn't. I talked about Christmas, kids, work. I baked. (Heads up: if I bake for you, insist you eat my baking, and give you my recipe, it's because I'm hungry and eating vicariously through you. It's an anorexic thing.)
Why do we squelch our need for help? Why, when we need to feel understood and validated, do we instead assume we're broken and keep our pain to ourselves? You may not have an eating disorder. Maybe you struggle with some other addiction, struggle with chronic shame, or suffer that horrible ailment known as "Mommy Guilt." Can you honestly say you reach out whenever you need support? More likely, you, like I do, keep quiet. Pretend it's all okay. Smile smile smile. We're supposed to be fine, so we pretend to be fine. Someone once taught me that "FINE" stands for "Feelings Inside Not Expressed."
This is a rough time of year for a lot of people, for a lot of reasons. I get it. If you need help, if you need to feel understood, I implore you to find someone you trust will get it, and reach out. REACH OUT. What's the worst that can happen? The person to whom you reach out may think, "Wow, this person I thought had it all together actually has the same struggles I do." Not only have you asked for help, you've given another person the gift of feeling understood.
P.S.
I give my husband tremendous credit. It takes a great deal of humility to acknowledge that you do not, in fact, understand, but you love someone enough to be there anyway.
Monday, November 25, 2013
The God Paradox
"You're not praying hard enough." "You're not praying the right way." "You're letting Satan have the upper hand." These are just a handful of the theological reprimands I've gotten on my journey. I could write a book on all the ways my eating disorder is "proof of my spirital fallibility." People seem tremendously eager to point it out. I'm not sure why; perhaps to the ignorant, the only explanation for self-injurious behavior is demonic possesion. While I certainly battle with demons, every single day, I resist the notion that I'm possessed by anything other than a misguided, deeply-entrenched system of coping.
If we're to bring religion into the mix, we should examine the contradictory messages in the Bible itself. 1 Corinthians 6:19-20 tells us, "Do you not know that your bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your bodies." An obvious admonition to anything that harms our Heavenly-made bodies. But then, what do we make of Paul's statements in 1 Corinthians of striking a blow to his body, making it a slave in the name of God?
My point isn't to argue that Christianity stipulates deadly self-denial. It does't. My point is to discourage religious rhetoric as a cure for eating disorders. It is as easy for me to make a case for self-flagellation (Catherine of Siena, a 14th century saint, famously starved herself to death to prove her own purity), as it is for other people to make the case for anorexia's wickedness.
Let's leave religion out of it. Please don't question my faithfulness, my spirituality. Don't challenge my religious conviction. I am imperfect, yes - deeply so. But so are you and everyone else on this Earth. The only perfect one was Jesus, remember. And lest you suggest that my (our... there are millions of us) only way to physical and emotional redemption is through submission to God, allow me to share this: I pray every day, many times. I have a dialogue, a relationship with my Heavenly Father. I know and feel His love. I acknowledge the pain my disease causes Him. But I also know - as I believe He does - that my disease is not the product of some wicked whisper. It is the product of a host of childhood traumas, a generous helping of poorly-modeled coping mechanisms, and a culture frought with messages of inadequacy. Most importantly, it is the product of a fractured sense of SELF, not of God. It is by repairing the relationship with Self, not with God, that will mean recovery.
Please don't question the faith of the eating-disordered. If you feel compelled to do anything, I ask only tht you extend your love and mercy, as God has commanded us all to do.
"Mercy triumphs over judgement." -James 2:13
If we're to bring religion into the mix, we should examine the contradictory messages in the Bible itself. 1 Corinthians 6:19-20 tells us, "Do you not know that your bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your bodies." An obvious admonition to anything that harms our Heavenly-made bodies. But then, what do we make of Paul's statements in 1 Corinthians of striking a blow to his body, making it a slave in the name of God?
My point isn't to argue that Christianity stipulates deadly self-denial. It does't. My point is to discourage religious rhetoric as a cure for eating disorders. It is as easy for me to make a case for self-flagellation (Catherine of Siena, a 14th century saint, famously starved herself to death to prove her own purity), as it is for other people to make the case for anorexia's wickedness.
Let's leave religion out of it. Please don't question my faithfulness, my spirituality. Don't challenge my religious conviction. I am imperfect, yes - deeply so. But so are you and everyone else on this Earth. The only perfect one was Jesus, remember. And lest you suggest that my (our... there are millions of us) only way to physical and emotional redemption is through submission to God, allow me to share this: I pray every day, many times. I have a dialogue, a relationship with my Heavenly Father. I know and feel His love. I acknowledge the pain my disease causes Him. But I also know - as I believe He does - that my disease is not the product of some wicked whisper. It is the product of a host of childhood traumas, a generous helping of poorly-modeled coping mechanisms, and a culture frought with messages of inadequacy. Most importantly, it is the product of a fractured sense of SELF, not of God. It is by repairing the relationship with Self, not with God, that will mean recovery.
Please don't question the faith of the eating-disordered. If you feel compelled to do anything, I ask only tht you extend your love and mercy, as God has commanded us all to do.
"Mercy triumphs over judgement." -James 2:13
Thursday, September 19, 2013
The Glamour is a Lie
A few nights ago an acquaintance at church remarked to me, "You're so thin. Are you still losing weight?" I mumbled something about how I didn't think so. "I only say so," she went on, "because I'm jealous." Jealous? Really? Of me? Yes, I'm skinny. Yes, I can buy clothes off the rack and wear them as they were paraded on the runway. Yes, people often express their disbelief that I bore three children.
There's more to the story. I have a great deal of trouble opening the heavy door to my boss's office. I fight with that damn thing every morning, earning me pity from my coworkers. When I sit on a hard surface (by hard, I mean ANY), my protruding tailbone wails in complaint. I'm cold all. the. time. It's Phoenix and it's summer, and my fingers and toes are purple. Those awesome clothes? They looked more flattering on the hanger.
There is nothing - NOTHING - hot/sexy/attractive/appealing about anorexia. You know those paintings you learned about in junior high art class? The Botticellis, the Renoirs? Those ladies were curvy, and they were spectacular. Once upon a time a woman's flesh - that life-giving, health-sustaining signal of prosperity - was celebrated. Then came Calvin Klein and Kate Moss, and suddenly starvation was something to aspire to. I challenge you to travel to a third world country and ask a hungry person if they feel fashionable.
What's the deal? How can my body - the body of any eating disordered person - be considered an ideal? I am ill. I am at the doctor's office weekly... GP, cardiologist, whatever... just to maintain something like a functional existence. I work my ass off (pun not intended) to be the best mother, the best wife, the best teacher I can be. But the albatross is ever hanging from my neck; my choices, my thinness, come at a price.
I want to set the record straight to every person who has ever had a Thin Complex. GET THE FUCK OVER IT. So you're a little overweight. You think my malnutrition is a better alternative? News flash: science has proven that underweight is associated with fatal outcomes more than overweight is. "Thin" should never be a goal. "Strong" should be the goal. Strong. Open that freakin' heavy door without so much as a grunt.
You know what it takes to be as skinny as an anorexic person? Misery, pain, and crippling loneliness. So the next time you see a model-ish woman (or man), consider this: there's no satisfaction there. The starvation took it away.
There's more to the story. I have a great deal of trouble opening the heavy door to my boss's office. I fight with that damn thing every morning, earning me pity from my coworkers. When I sit on a hard surface (by hard, I mean ANY), my protruding tailbone wails in complaint. I'm cold all. the. time. It's Phoenix and it's summer, and my fingers and toes are purple. Those awesome clothes? They looked more flattering on the hanger.
There is nothing - NOTHING - hot/sexy/attractive/appealing about anorexia. You know those paintings you learned about in junior high art class? The Botticellis, the Renoirs? Those ladies were curvy, and they were spectacular. Once upon a time a woman's flesh - that life-giving, health-sustaining signal of prosperity - was celebrated. Then came Calvin Klein and Kate Moss, and suddenly starvation was something to aspire to. I challenge you to travel to a third world country and ask a hungry person if they feel fashionable.
What's the deal? How can my body - the body of any eating disordered person - be considered an ideal? I am ill. I am at the doctor's office weekly... GP, cardiologist, whatever... just to maintain something like a functional existence. I work my ass off (pun not intended) to be the best mother, the best wife, the best teacher I can be. But the albatross is ever hanging from my neck; my choices, my thinness, come at a price.
I want to set the record straight to every person who has ever had a Thin Complex. GET THE FUCK OVER IT. So you're a little overweight. You think my malnutrition is a better alternative? News flash: science has proven that underweight is associated with fatal outcomes more than overweight is. "Thin" should never be a goal. "Strong" should be the goal. Strong. Open that freakin' heavy door without so much as a grunt.
You know what it takes to be as skinny as an anorexic person? Misery, pain, and crippling loneliness. So the next time you see a model-ish woman (or man), consider this: there's no satisfaction there. The starvation took it away.
Monday, August 26, 2013
A Clear Perspective
Recently a friend of mine made a very true (albeit blunt) statement: "Anorexia is not something you live with. It's something you die from." I want to expand on this idea.
For a decade and a half I have operated under the notion that if I can only hang on to a little of my disease, just be a tad underweight, just skimp on a few calories, everything will be fine. An article I read earlier this week called this the "almost-eating disorder" philosophy. Living on the edge, if you will. It's a fallacy. One of the hallmarks of eating disorders is that there is no end point. There is no place, no weight, no size, at which you declare, "That's it, I'm good!" Marya Hornbacher, noted author of the heartbreaking memoir "Wasted," said: "You set out to lose five pounds, lose them, set out to lose ten, then twenty, then thirty, then die." It's startling, but it's factual.
After the birth of my last child, I set a goal. Once I was done nursing, I'd get back to my "good weight." She weaned herself at a year, and I got to work. I achieved my goal weight in a relatively short period of time. "May as well keep going, since I'm doing so well," I decided. Within a few months I was skeletal. That had never been my intention. I never set out to relapse into anorexia. I never meant to put my life in peril. I just wanted to look decent in a bathing suit.
I lost perspective then, as I have many times since. "Just a little weight" inevitably turns into "just keep going." It's not only eating disordered people who fall victim to this, though. I was chatting with a friend not long ago and she mentioned the new juice fast she is on, "just to get in shape for my sister's wedding." Another friend was telling me about her seven-day-a-week workout regimen, "just to look good in vacation pictures." Another shared a recipe for low-calorie brownies (!!!), "just to avoid the guilt."
Just, just, just. The word itself is a rationalization; yes, I am doing this outrageous and unhealthy thing, but it's JUST because __________.
"Just" has threatened my life. Continues to do so. Please, if you will, accept this challenge: evaluate all the "justs" in your life. Try to gain perspective, as I am, on the crazy things we do in the name of... anything. Weddings? Pictures? Bathing suits? Are they worth the sacrifices? Are they worth gambling with our lives?
For a decade and a half I have operated under the notion that if I can only hang on to a little of my disease, just be a tad underweight, just skimp on a few calories, everything will be fine. An article I read earlier this week called this the "almost-eating disorder" philosophy. Living on the edge, if you will. It's a fallacy. One of the hallmarks of eating disorders is that there is no end point. There is no place, no weight, no size, at which you declare, "That's it, I'm good!" Marya Hornbacher, noted author of the heartbreaking memoir "Wasted," said: "You set out to lose five pounds, lose them, set out to lose ten, then twenty, then thirty, then die." It's startling, but it's factual.
After the birth of my last child, I set a goal. Once I was done nursing, I'd get back to my "good weight." She weaned herself at a year, and I got to work. I achieved my goal weight in a relatively short period of time. "May as well keep going, since I'm doing so well," I decided. Within a few months I was skeletal. That had never been my intention. I never set out to relapse into anorexia. I never meant to put my life in peril. I just wanted to look decent in a bathing suit.
I lost perspective then, as I have many times since. "Just a little weight" inevitably turns into "just keep going." It's not only eating disordered people who fall victim to this, though. I was chatting with a friend not long ago and she mentioned the new juice fast she is on, "just to get in shape for my sister's wedding." Another friend was telling me about her seven-day-a-week workout regimen, "just to look good in vacation pictures." Another shared a recipe for low-calorie brownies (!!!), "just to avoid the guilt."
Just, just, just. The word itself is a rationalization; yes, I am doing this outrageous and unhealthy thing, but it's JUST because __________.
"Just" has threatened my life. Continues to do so. Please, if you will, accept this challenge: evaluate all the "justs" in your life. Try to gain perspective, as I am, on the crazy things we do in the name of... anything. Weddings? Pictures? Bathing suits? Are they worth the sacrifices? Are they worth gambling with our lives?
Saturday, August 3, 2013
Rebirth (or, How Butterfinger Changed My Life)
My whole life changed with a conversation about Butterfinger candy.
Let's backtrack a little. I've lost a lot of weight over the summer. Like... a lot. Enough that my husband came home from work today and said, "You need to decide right now if you want to live. You're one cold away from being in ICU with pneumonia." Whoa. That's intense. I burst into tears. I insisted that he was pressuring me to decide between a (short) life in which I admire my body, and (a hopefully much longer) one in which I cringe every time I look in the mirror. He said, "Think of how many people you're hurting, disappointing. Your family, your friends, your coworkers, your students. Do you want to be thought of with pity?" Kudos to the man who loves me enough to tell it like it is.
We tabled the conversation and sat down to watch "Lord of the Rings," a delightful departure from the brevity of my reality. Suddenly I remembered a Pinterest pin that inspired me: "What if you made a s'more with Peanut Butter Cups instead of regular chocolate?!" "Even better," he suggested, "what if you made them with crushed Butterfinger?" Hold the phone. Butterfinger. The one candy bar I covet and adore above all others. The velvety chocolate. The multi-layered, satiny crunch. "I haven't had a Butterfinger in over ten years," I admitted. "Sucks for you, they're great," he succinctly remarked.
Sucks for me indeed. I have anorexia. I have a disease that convinces me, day in and day out, that not only am I a revolting failure if I eat, but I am a resounding success when I can do something millions of people can't: lose weight. I feel a real air of superiority in knowing that, while scores of folks can't lost those last ten pounds, I can be a good 15 or 20 under without batting an eyelash.
But I love Butterfingers. I love good cheese. I love spiced olives and short ribs and sweet potato fries and cobbler. For me, the failure isn't in "giving in to indulgence," it's in giving in to the eating disorder. Believing the lie that tells me I'm better for holding back, weaker for feeding my appetite. Sometimes it's not only okay to respect your cravings, it's downright heroic.
I don't want to disappoint my family or friends, don't want to let down my coworkers or students. I want people to think of me for my compassion, intelligence, and humor, not for my collarbones. And damn it all to hell, I want a Butterfinger. And I want to eat it with the man brave enough not only to stand by me, but to smack me square in the head.
Let's backtrack a little. I've lost a lot of weight over the summer. Like... a lot. Enough that my husband came home from work today and said, "You need to decide right now if you want to live. You're one cold away from being in ICU with pneumonia." Whoa. That's intense. I burst into tears. I insisted that he was pressuring me to decide between a (short) life in which I admire my body, and (a hopefully much longer) one in which I cringe every time I look in the mirror. He said, "Think of how many people you're hurting, disappointing. Your family, your friends, your coworkers, your students. Do you want to be thought of with pity?" Kudos to the man who loves me enough to tell it like it is.
We tabled the conversation and sat down to watch "Lord of the Rings," a delightful departure from the brevity of my reality. Suddenly I remembered a Pinterest pin that inspired me: "What if you made a s'more with Peanut Butter Cups instead of regular chocolate?!" "Even better," he suggested, "what if you made them with crushed Butterfinger?" Hold the phone. Butterfinger. The one candy bar I covet and adore above all others. The velvety chocolate. The multi-layered, satiny crunch. "I haven't had a Butterfinger in over ten years," I admitted. "Sucks for you, they're great," he succinctly remarked.
Sucks for me indeed. I have anorexia. I have a disease that convinces me, day in and day out, that not only am I a revolting failure if I eat, but I am a resounding success when I can do something millions of people can't: lose weight. I feel a real air of superiority in knowing that, while scores of folks can't lost those last ten pounds, I can be a good 15 or 20 under without batting an eyelash.
But I love Butterfingers. I love good cheese. I love spiced olives and short ribs and sweet potato fries and cobbler. For me, the failure isn't in "giving in to indulgence," it's in giving in to the eating disorder. Believing the lie that tells me I'm better for holding back, weaker for feeding my appetite. Sometimes it's not only okay to respect your cravings, it's downright heroic.
I don't want to disappoint my family or friends, don't want to let down my coworkers or students. I want people to think of me for my compassion, intelligence, and humor, not for my collarbones. And damn it all to hell, I want a Butterfinger. And I want to eat it with the man brave enough not only to stand by me, but to smack me square in the head.
Thursday, July 4, 2013
Judgement (What We See, and What We Don't See)
Recently I encountered a woman considerably thinner than myself. "Damn," I thought, "How does she do it, and why can't I?" My envy was palpable. My shame at not measuring up was painful. I learned from another gal that the woman in question had just gone through several rounds of chemotherapy for ovarian cancer. Talk about smacking me upside the head.
As humans, it is imperative to our survival that we make hasty judgements about our surroundings at all times. We have to protect ourselves, after all. Is this situation, this environment, this person safe? Am I under threat? Will I be okay? This is an evolutionary tool that allows for self-preservation. However, judgements based upon external appearance are thready at best. When you factor in the media-driven insecurity about body size, these judgements can become downright toxic. As evidenced by my aforementioned "She's smaller so she must be better" conclusion, no gain is made by measuring oneself against another.
On any given day, I have countless opportunities to compare myself (and my body) to others. And I take those opportunities. Either I come out one-up (Ha! I'm thinner than she is! I must be doing something right!), or, much more often, I come out one-down (Look at her. I'm a disgusting, pathetic excuse for a human being). The thing is, I have absolutely no information about someone else's situation. Her personal history, her story, her genetics, her lifestyle. Furthermore, it's none of my damn business. I was jealous of a cancer survivor, for God's sake. What's that say about me?
I don't want this to be a statement on petty envy, because that's not what it's about. It's about our innate drive to be good enough. Our incredible drive to prove (to whom? Only to ourselves) that we are okay. A giftedly astute friend recently posed this question to me: "When you die, do you want to be remembered as the skinny one? Or do you want to be remembered for your passion, your creativity, your scruples, the love you shared with the people around you?" I can compare my body to any of the others around me. Most of us have two arms, to legs, a torso, a head. However, there are things you have that I don't have, that nobody else has. Beautiful, spiritual, God-given things. There are things you alone were put on this Earth to offer, to give. I have those things too.
My hope is that the legacy I leave will be one of principle, of commitment, of unyielding love. I don't want to be remembered for my body. I imagine that gal who just beat ovarian cancer is thankful for the years she has left to laugh, embrace, talk, bake, nap, read, kiss. I imagine she couldn't care less what her dress size is. I don't want to care either. I don't want YOU to care.
I will try to remember, the next time I rush to judgement, the next time I stack myself up against someone else, that no one life is comparable to another. We all have our own paths to walk. We all have our own histories to face, to embrace, to transcend. We all have our own DNA. As I tell my children, God made us all unique so we all have things to offer one another. And God makes no mistakes.
As humans, it is imperative to our survival that we make hasty judgements about our surroundings at all times. We have to protect ourselves, after all. Is this situation, this environment, this person safe? Am I under threat? Will I be okay? This is an evolutionary tool that allows for self-preservation. However, judgements based upon external appearance are thready at best. When you factor in the media-driven insecurity about body size, these judgements can become downright toxic. As evidenced by my aforementioned "She's smaller so she must be better" conclusion, no gain is made by measuring oneself against another.
On any given day, I have countless opportunities to compare myself (and my body) to others. And I take those opportunities. Either I come out one-up (Ha! I'm thinner than she is! I must be doing something right!), or, much more often, I come out one-down (Look at her. I'm a disgusting, pathetic excuse for a human being). The thing is, I have absolutely no information about someone else's situation. Her personal history, her story, her genetics, her lifestyle. Furthermore, it's none of my damn business. I was jealous of a cancer survivor, for God's sake. What's that say about me?
I don't want this to be a statement on petty envy, because that's not what it's about. It's about our innate drive to be good enough. Our incredible drive to prove (to whom? Only to ourselves) that we are okay. A giftedly astute friend recently posed this question to me: "When you die, do you want to be remembered as the skinny one? Or do you want to be remembered for your passion, your creativity, your scruples, the love you shared with the people around you?" I can compare my body to any of the others around me. Most of us have two arms, to legs, a torso, a head. However, there are things you have that I don't have, that nobody else has. Beautiful, spiritual, God-given things. There are things you alone were put on this Earth to offer, to give. I have those things too.
My hope is that the legacy I leave will be one of principle, of commitment, of unyielding love. I don't want to be remembered for my body. I imagine that gal who just beat ovarian cancer is thankful for the years she has left to laugh, embrace, talk, bake, nap, read, kiss. I imagine she couldn't care less what her dress size is. I don't want to care either. I don't want YOU to care.
I will try to remember, the next time I rush to judgement, the next time I stack myself up against someone else, that no one life is comparable to another. We all have our own paths to walk. We all have our own histories to face, to embrace, to transcend. We all have our own DNA. As I tell my children, God made us all unique so we all have things to offer one another. And God makes no mistakes.
Thursday, May 9, 2013
Not Just A Teenager's Disease
It's true, I first got sick as an adolescent. I remember - as vividly as if it happened yesterday - sitting in the lunchroom at Mount Elden Middle School, a few days after a violent sexual assault, thinking, "My body is the problem. Stop eating, shrink my body, that's the solution." That was the beginning for me, the first seed of what would grow to be a catastrophic, potentially deadly eating disorder.
That was fifteen years ago. I am an adult now, with a husband, children, a job, a mortgage. And this morning, at breakfast, I thought, "I don't have to eat this. I'm too big. I can be smaller." (For the record, I ate breakfast anyway.)
It is a very common misconception that eating disorders are "teenage girl" diseases. It is believed that they are reactions to unfair and inaccurate media portrayals of ideal body types, and while that is indeed true, anorexia and bulimia are far more complicated and pervasive than many people understand. I have been in treatment with women in their twenties, thirties, fourties, fifties, SIXTIES. Women who, at their stages of life, "ought to know better." Here's the truth: age ain't nothing but a number.
I am dancing on the edge of the big 3-0. Does that mean I have a rock-solid understanding of my place in the world? Does that mean I have a tremendous respect for my body, my self? Nope. It means I'm in year fifteen of a disease that still threatens my life every day, every meal. The specifics are different, of course. I no longer have collages of painfully thin models and actresses adorning my walls. I no longer visit pro-anorexia websites, trolling for tips and tricks. Who has the time? And besides, after this long, I know all there is to know. Rather, my triggers and my soft spots have matured right along with me.
Now, as an adult, the meaning of my thinness is more defined, more literal. I still struggle with the idea that a small, androgynous body is a safe one. If I am tiny, I am not a target. If I am sick, I will be okay. Also, parenting itself is a challenge. Nothing in the world can make a person feel more out of control than being a mother. There are little people for whom I am responsible, and no matter how hard I try, they will bring up my inadequacies. Can't control my children... but I can lose weight. Let's take that a little further. I can't make my spouse do what I'd like him to do all the time... but I can lose weight. I can't make enough money to do what I'd like to do right now... but I can lose weight. My body is the one thing I know I can master, and in a terrifying, unpredictable adult life, mastery is rare.
Anorexia and bulimia may strike most often during the teen years, but make no mistake, there are women you know - women you see every day - who suffer. We want so badly have it together. We want so badly to feel like we're good at something. Understand, if you can, that we're not immature. We're not stuck in an adolescent fantasy. We're sick, and we're desperate.
Fortunately, we also have some of the most powerful incentives to get well. My body was amazingly resilient ten years ago. Now, not so much. My heart conditions make even the slightest descent into eating disordered-behaviors potentially deadly. I don't have the luxury of youth to help me bounce back. I also have those aforementioned little people watching me all the time. I might like to believe that they don't notice what I do, what I eat, what my attitude towards food is, but that's a lie. Children are incredibly perceptive, and mine notice everything. Do I want to teach my kids that dessert is never okay? That the only acceptable body is a sick one? Of course not. I also have the adults in my life - my friends, my co-workers - who have seen me fall and get up and fall again. Their love and support in the face of my struggle is inspiration enough to make the right choices.
My challenge is this. If you are an adult struggling with an eating disorder (or "disordered eating," which includes all manners of dietary or exercise preoccupations), please reach out. Talk to someone who understands. Seek compassion, empathy. Get the support you deserve. Adulthood brings with it the hope of fulfillment, and fulfillment is impossible in the grip of anorexia or bulimia. If you are a friend or family member of an adult who is struggling, please hear this: We need your presence. We need your validation. We need your hugs, your willing ears, your open hearts.
Teenagers with eating disorders have it rough. I know, I remember. But we adults may have it even tougher, because we feel like we're not allowed to experience what we do. Help us help ourselves. Help us break free.
That was fifteen years ago. I am an adult now, with a husband, children, a job, a mortgage. And this morning, at breakfast, I thought, "I don't have to eat this. I'm too big. I can be smaller." (For the record, I ate breakfast anyway.)
It is a very common misconception that eating disorders are "teenage girl" diseases. It is believed that they are reactions to unfair and inaccurate media portrayals of ideal body types, and while that is indeed true, anorexia and bulimia are far more complicated and pervasive than many people understand. I have been in treatment with women in their twenties, thirties, fourties, fifties, SIXTIES. Women who, at their stages of life, "ought to know better." Here's the truth: age ain't nothing but a number.
I am dancing on the edge of the big 3-0. Does that mean I have a rock-solid understanding of my place in the world? Does that mean I have a tremendous respect for my body, my self? Nope. It means I'm in year fifteen of a disease that still threatens my life every day, every meal. The specifics are different, of course. I no longer have collages of painfully thin models and actresses adorning my walls. I no longer visit pro-anorexia websites, trolling for tips and tricks. Who has the time? And besides, after this long, I know all there is to know. Rather, my triggers and my soft spots have matured right along with me.
Now, as an adult, the meaning of my thinness is more defined, more literal. I still struggle with the idea that a small, androgynous body is a safe one. If I am tiny, I am not a target. If I am sick, I will be okay. Also, parenting itself is a challenge. Nothing in the world can make a person feel more out of control than being a mother. There are little people for whom I am responsible, and no matter how hard I try, they will bring up my inadequacies. Can't control my children... but I can lose weight. Let's take that a little further. I can't make my spouse do what I'd like him to do all the time... but I can lose weight. I can't make enough money to do what I'd like to do right now... but I can lose weight. My body is the one thing I know I can master, and in a terrifying, unpredictable adult life, mastery is rare.
Anorexia and bulimia may strike most often during the teen years, but make no mistake, there are women you know - women you see every day - who suffer. We want so badly have it together. We want so badly to feel like we're good at something. Understand, if you can, that we're not immature. We're not stuck in an adolescent fantasy. We're sick, and we're desperate.
Fortunately, we also have some of the most powerful incentives to get well. My body was amazingly resilient ten years ago. Now, not so much. My heart conditions make even the slightest descent into eating disordered-behaviors potentially deadly. I don't have the luxury of youth to help me bounce back. I also have those aforementioned little people watching me all the time. I might like to believe that they don't notice what I do, what I eat, what my attitude towards food is, but that's a lie. Children are incredibly perceptive, and mine notice everything. Do I want to teach my kids that dessert is never okay? That the only acceptable body is a sick one? Of course not. I also have the adults in my life - my friends, my co-workers - who have seen me fall and get up and fall again. Their love and support in the face of my struggle is inspiration enough to make the right choices.
My challenge is this. If you are an adult struggling with an eating disorder (or "disordered eating," which includes all manners of dietary or exercise preoccupations), please reach out. Talk to someone who understands. Seek compassion, empathy. Get the support you deserve. Adulthood brings with it the hope of fulfillment, and fulfillment is impossible in the grip of anorexia or bulimia. If you are a friend or family member of an adult who is struggling, please hear this: We need your presence. We need your validation. We need your hugs, your willing ears, your open hearts.
Teenagers with eating disorders have it rough. I know, I remember. But we adults may have it even tougher, because we feel like we're not allowed to experience what we do. Help us help ourselves. Help us break free.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Presentation as Representation
For the last seven or eight years (save for periods of pregnancy), I have gone two or three times a month to my favorite neighborhood wine bar. I take a good book and stay for a couple hours, drinking in the quiet atmosphere and enjoying the solitude. I went tonight, dressed smartly, copy of Kierkegaard's "Fear and Trembling" in hand, savoring a glass of sauvignon blanc. I read for quite awhile, occasionally glancing up to peer at the patrons around me, when suddenly a radical idea smacked me in the head: "I am putting on a show." The clothes, the literature, even the wine was a calculated display. This realization came less in the judgy, "Oh my God, I'm a pretentious asshole" form, and more in the awareness that my presentation - my very BEING at that time - was an intentional portrait of how I want to be perceived. Boiled down further, my clothing, my book, even the flamboyant vocabulary with which I ordered my wine, was an effort to scream, "Look, I'm intelligent! I'm intellectual! I'm refined!" At it's most basic, my self-portrait is a plea to the people around me to disregard my body and notice instead my mind.
To be fair, even when I'm by myself I appreciate fashion, enjoy good wine, and delight in existentialism. Those are authentic parts of myself. However, it is important to note, for me, the implications of emphasizing my brain over my body. I have an eating disorder. Plainly stated, I have a disease marked almost exclusively by body obsession. I have a desperate, dangerous infatuation with perfecting my physical appearance. Why, then, the (probably obnoxious) effort to display my mental prowess? I think the two are born of the same flesh.
Much is made in the therapeutic sphere about "core beliefs." Simply stated, your core beliefs are the long-standing beliefs you hold about yourself, other people, and the world around you. These beliefs were formed early in life from messages - both overt and covert - received from your environment. One of my most damaging core beliefs is that my body is a wicked, dirty, nasty thing. In this context, the eating disorder makes perfect sense: my body must be punished, beaten into submission, made penitent, made undesirable to others who may wish to do harm. Starve to save, in other words. The hyper vigilance around displaying my intelligence makes sense too, though: maybe, just maybe, if I can distract you and impress you with my brain, you will miss the abomination of my body.
My goal in sharing this realization with you is not to highlight my own neurosis (God knows you've already seen that). Rather, I want to invite you to think about how you present yourself to the world. Are you completely authentic, putting your true self out there to the world with confidence and enthusiasm? (If so, please sit me down and impress upon me all your wisdom and clarity.) Or, like me, is your presentation a calculated effort to hide the parts of yourself of which you are ashamed? Do you put your best face forward while turning away the face that is flawed, that makes you human? Is there a part of you you've done your very best to hide?
I will never stop loving A-line skirts, wine from New Zealand, or Herr Kierkegaard. However, I hope to begin loving my body as well, that part of my being that allows me to slip on a dress, pick up a glass, and crack open a book. My hope for you is that you can embrace the painful but honest parts of yourselves too.
To be fair, even when I'm by myself I appreciate fashion, enjoy good wine, and delight in existentialism. Those are authentic parts of myself. However, it is important to note, for me, the implications of emphasizing my brain over my body. I have an eating disorder. Plainly stated, I have a disease marked almost exclusively by body obsession. I have a desperate, dangerous infatuation with perfecting my physical appearance. Why, then, the (probably obnoxious) effort to display my mental prowess? I think the two are born of the same flesh.
Much is made in the therapeutic sphere about "core beliefs." Simply stated, your core beliefs are the long-standing beliefs you hold about yourself, other people, and the world around you. These beliefs were formed early in life from messages - both overt and covert - received from your environment. One of my most damaging core beliefs is that my body is a wicked, dirty, nasty thing. In this context, the eating disorder makes perfect sense: my body must be punished, beaten into submission, made penitent, made undesirable to others who may wish to do harm. Starve to save, in other words. The hyper vigilance around displaying my intelligence makes sense too, though: maybe, just maybe, if I can distract you and impress you with my brain, you will miss the abomination of my body.
My goal in sharing this realization with you is not to highlight my own neurosis (God knows you've already seen that). Rather, I want to invite you to think about how you present yourself to the world. Are you completely authentic, putting your true self out there to the world with confidence and enthusiasm? (If so, please sit me down and impress upon me all your wisdom and clarity.) Or, like me, is your presentation a calculated effort to hide the parts of yourself of which you are ashamed? Do you put your best face forward while turning away the face that is flawed, that makes you human? Is there a part of you you've done your very best to hide?
I will never stop loving A-line skirts, wine from New Zealand, or Herr Kierkegaard. However, I hope to begin loving my body as well, that part of my being that allows me to slip on a dress, pick up a glass, and crack open a book. My hope for you is that you can embrace the painful but honest parts of yourselves too.
Saturday, April 13, 2013
Amends
I am not myself when I am active in my eating disorder. Like any addiction, it takes over. The thinner I get, the sicker I become, the more my true self gets buried. This time around I took a real hit. I don't have a very clear picture of the last few months. I functioned well, practically speaking - my house was clean, my job was done well, my kids' homework was turned in. Superficially, I was okay. Emotionally, spiritually, and physically, I was suffering. I don't remember many conversations, how I acted, how I treated the people I love. I imagine things weren't great.
Once I (and most people who have battled anorexia) cross a certain point - a line in the sand, be it a specific weight or BMI or duration of symptoms - I lose the ability to recognize the danger I'm in, fight for my survival, or even relate to the people around me. I didn't only cross that line this time, I leapt over it. I am not attempting to make excuses for the exhausting, frightening, probably infuriating situation my disorder has placed my friends and family in. After all, I was in a perfectly reasonable head space way back when I initially decided to "cut back a little." However, it is important for me to explain that I reached a point where I lost touch with myself and the world.
To those who read this, to my family, to my dear friends, and to any folks out there unfortunate enough to have an ill loved one who has caused pain: I offer these amends.
I have lied. I have told you that I was fine when I was anything but. I played the, "I ate before I came, I had a big breakfast, I'm not feeling well, I only look thin because of this outfit" game. When you saw through it, I got angry. I became defensive and lashed out because your concern posed a threat to my disease. You reminded me that I was doing something I shouldn't be doing, and my eating disorder didn't want me to get that message. When I became more malnourished, I simply couldn't think straight. I became obsessive about food. Maybe I cooked for you, asked you about your meals, watched you eat. I was hungry and I ate through you. I brushed off your worry, attempted to pacify you with untruths, and resented your helpful intent. I may have been rude or inappropriate. Any way to steer you away from the truth of my disease was acceptable to me.
I am sorry. I am sorry that I have taken you for granted. I am sorry that I have caused you pain, that you have been afraid for me, that you received my misplaced anger. I am sorry that you may have wondered what you could've done differently. The truth is this: anorexia - like chemical dependency or alcoholism for others - will not stop until it drives everybody I love away and eventually kills me. Only I can stop it, and I took important and meaningful steps to do that over the last month. I am not a bad person trying to get good, I am a sick person trying to get well. I hope that you can accept my sincere apology, and even if you can't, I hope you can accept that I am grateful for all the love you've shown me.
Once I (and most people who have battled anorexia) cross a certain point - a line in the sand, be it a specific weight or BMI or duration of symptoms - I lose the ability to recognize the danger I'm in, fight for my survival, or even relate to the people around me. I didn't only cross that line this time, I leapt over it. I am not attempting to make excuses for the exhausting, frightening, probably infuriating situation my disorder has placed my friends and family in. After all, I was in a perfectly reasonable head space way back when I initially decided to "cut back a little." However, it is important for me to explain that I reached a point where I lost touch with myself and the world.
To those who read this, to my family, to my dear friends, and to any folks out there unfortunate enough to have an ill loved one who has caused pain: I offer these amends.
I have lied. I have told you that I was fine when I was anything but. I played the, "I ate before I came, I had a big breakfast, I'm not feeling well, I only look thin because of this outfit" game. When you saw through it, I got angry. I became defensive and lashed out because your concern posed a threat to my disease. You reminded me that I was doing something I shouldn't be doing, and my eating disorder didn't want me to get that message. When I became more malnourished, I simply couldn't think straight. I became obsessive about food. Maybe I cooked for you, asked you about your meals, watched you eat. I was hungry and I ate through you. I brushed off your worry, attempted to pacify you with untruths, and resented your helpful intent. I may have been rude or inappropriate. Any way to steer you away from the truth of my disease was acceptable to me.
I am sorry. I am sorry that I have taken you for granted. I am sorry that I have caused you pain, that you have been afraid for me, that you received my misplaced anger. I am sorry that you may have wondered what you could've done differently. The truth is this: anorexia - like chemical dependency or alcoholism for others - will not stop until it drives everybody I love away and eventually kills me. Only I can stop it, and I took important and meaningful steps to do that over the last month. I am not a bad person trying to get good, I am a sick person trying to get well. I hope that you can accept my sincere apology, and even if you can't, I hope you can accept that I am grateful for all the love you've shown me.
Saturday, March 9, 2013
A Heart is a Terrible Thing to Waste
I don't like these posts. These, "Oops, I did it again," posts. These admission of guilt posts. These I'm-in-trouble-again-and-can't-get-myself-out posts. Like them or not, reality is undeniable. Bear with me as I do my best to express myself and my position.
My body is so sensitive at this point, so fragile and delicate, that I think sometimes it will simply crumble to dust. I haven't done some terrific, dramatic swan-dive into relapse, but I have made some poor choices. A younger person (says the geriatric 28-year old), a person who hasn't been ill for a decade and a half, a person walking around with a strong body, would be able to weather these behaviors pretty well. Bounce back from them easily, with the proper effort. My body, though, is simply conditioned to be ill; by this point, if I miss breakfast my physiology reacts as if I've been starving for months. Miss breakfast a few times, and things look pretty grim.
My heart, which has had its share of difficulties, showed an alarming new complication on an EKG this week. The kind of complication that makes even the most hardened minimizer (like myself) sit up and say, "Oh, shit." In addition, I had to go to the emergency room yesterday for tightness in the chest, which turned out to be spasms in my lungs. Didn't know my lungs were unhappy with me; guess they felt left out. These symptoms, added to the already complicated constellation of bodily woes, leave me with one clear choice: Go back into treatment for medical stabilization, or walk around with a grenade in my pocket hoping for the best.
It seems rather cut and dry, doesn't it? Go into the hospital to save your life, or stay home and gamble with it. Here's the rub: a cunning little voice inside my head keeps whispering, "You've got no chance. You can't get better. You've tried over and over, fought tooth and nail, and here you are again. Your body's too wounded, you've been sick for too long, don't even bother." That voice is called Hopelessness, and as I said to a dear friend last night, hopelessness is fatal. Even in the absence of confidence, even when the cards are stacked against me, even when all past evidence points to failure, I must not give up hope.
"Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life." -Proverbs 13:12. My heart is sick indeed, and the tree of life is located on a hill in Wickenburg, AZ. Your support, your overwhelming love and encouragement, and most of all your hope, means the world to me. I will be gone for about a month, from 3/16 through mid-April. Please keep my family and me in your prayers.
My body is so sensitive at this point, so fragile and delicate, that I think sometimes it will simply crumble to dust. I haven't done some terrific, dramatic swan-dive into relapse, but I have made some poor choices. A younger person (says the geriatric 28-year old), a person who hasn't been ill for a decade and a half, a person walking around with a strong body, would be able to weather these behaviors pretty well. Bounce back from them easily, with the proper effort. My body, though, is simply conditioned to be ill; by this point, if I miss breakfast my physiology reacts as if I've been starving for months. Miss breakfast a few times, and things look pretty grim.
My heart, which has had its share of difficulties, showed an alarming new complication on an EKG this week. The kind of complication that makes even the most hardened minimizer (like myself) sit up and say, "Oh, shit." In addition, I had to go to the emergency room yesterday for tightness in the chest, which turned out to be spasms in my lungs. Didn't know my lungs were unhappy with me; guess they felt left out. These symptoms, added to the already complicated constellation of bodily woes, leave me with one clear choice: Go back into treatment for medical stabilization, or walk around with a grenade in my pocket hoping for the best.
It seems rather cut and dry, doesn't it? Go into the hospital to save your life, or stay home and gamble with it. Here's the rub: a cunning little voice inside my head keeps whispering, "You've got no chance. You can't get better. You've tried over and over, fought tooth and nail, and here you are again. Your body's too wounded, you've been sick for too long, don't even bother." That voice is called Hopelessness, and as I said to a dear friend last night, hopelessness is fatal. Even in the absence of confidence, even when the cards are stacked against me, even when all past evidence points to failure, I must not give up hope.
"Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life." -Proverbs 13:12. My heart is sick indeed, and the tree of life is located on a hill in Wickenburg, AZ. Your support, your overwhelming love and encouragement, and most of all your hope, means the world to me. I will be gone for about a month, from 3/16 through mid-April. Please keep my family and me in your prayers.
Friday, February 22, 2013
An Appeal to Family and Friends
Disclaimer: I will use the pronoun "I" rather than "we" in this post, because I can only speak for my own journey. That being said, my sentiments are shared with a great number of eating disorder sufferers, and can likely be applied to many situations.
I am struggling right now to reconcile my distorted body ideal with the reality of my precarious, dangerous medical situation. I have a heart condition. It will probably not get better. It can absolutely get worse. I have been asked by my team (including my medical doctor, my dietitian, and my therapist) to make strides I have only ever made on an in-patient basis. I am at home, with my family, at work, living my day-to-day life. These requests (including, not surprisingly, gaining a fair amount of weight) are challenging. I am not taking them particularly well, to which my husband will readily attest. I am angry. I am bitter. I am scared. I am also willing to do whatever is necessary to preserve my health. It is with this knowledge that I wish to make an appeal to all of the family members and friends of individuals struggling with eating disorders. You are likely afraid, likely confused, possibly mad, probably at a loss. I want to help you help us.
First, know this. "Just eat," is not a phrase that will help me. If this disease were simply a matter of eating, I would not suffer like I do. You may enjoy your meals, may look forward to a dinner with friends or a barbecue with the family, but those things are terrifying to me. Eating - especially in an "indulgent" fashion - represents a loss of control. Eating ceases to be just eating when a person has an eating disorder. It becomes "giving in," or "giving up," or "admitting weakness." Please reserve the simplistic advice.
Second, try to realize that I really do want to get better. Just because I fall down (over and over and over) does not mean I've thrown in the towel. It does not mean that I don't care about you, or my family, or the people who depend on me. It means that this disease is such an entrenched part of my life that I am not sure how to cope with stress without its presence. Life gets difficult for me just like it does for you, but I am not sure how to cope with those difficulties without my go-to behaviors. However destructive they may be.
Third, know that I am still me. Beneath my anger, beneath my defensiveness, beneath my general nastiness (and by God can I be nasty when I'm sick), I'm still the person that you love. I haven't disappeared. I have been buried in my turmoil, preoccupied by my disorder, but I'm still here. My passion, my personality, my potential - it's all still here.
Fourth, please see how much I'm struggling. I tell you that I'm fine, make jokes almost constantly, smile all day long, but that's not my reality. I hurt. I'm lonely. I'm leaning on my disease to give me the support I really crave from the people around me. I may be the life of the party, but the after party is a sad affair indeed.
Fifth, I am truly afraid. I know that what I'm doing is dangerous. I don't have a death wish. Quite the opposite, in fact; I want to be alive, want to be the me that God intended, want to live up to the expectations others - and even more, I - have placed upon me. I am just so scared that I don't have what it takes. I don't want to disappoint you.
Sixth, my body image is not only distorted, it's completely perverted. I have no idea what you see when you look at me. When I look at me, I see excess, fat, failure, a nauseating mass of flesh that doesn't deserve to take up space. Please try to understand that I am not being dramatic - my perception of myself is completely skewed.
I know that these ideas are hard to accept. I understand that you may look upon me and think, "But why? Why can't you see what I see? Why can't you accept how much you are loved?" The answer is simply this: I have been sick for a long time, with a disease more insidious and destructive than most people realize. I love you. I need you. I long for your support. I don't want to push you away. I'm fighting a battle that is more difficult than many people can imagine, and I'm doing the best I can. I appreciate your presence, whether you realize it or not. You are crucial to my recovery, even if the only words you say to me are, "I love you, and I am here." Especially if those are the only words you know how to say.
I am struggling right now to reconcile my distorted body ideal with the reality of my precarious, dangerous medical situation. I have a heart condition. It will probably not get better. It can absolutely get worse. I have been asked by my team (including my medical doctor, my dietitian, and my therapist) to make strides I have only ever made on an in-patient basis. I am at home, with my family, at work, living my day-to-day life. These requests (including, not surprisingly, gaining a fair amount of weight) are challenging. I am not taking them particularly well, to which my husband will readily attest. I am angry. I am bitter. I am scared. I am also willing to do whatever is necessary to preserve my health. It is with this knowledge that I wish to make an appeal to all of the family members and friends of individuals struggling with eating disorders. You are likely afraid, likely confused, possibly mad, probably at a loss. I want to help you help us.
First, know this. "Just eat," is not a phrase that will help me. If this disease were simply a matter of eating, I would not suffer like I do. You may enjoy your meals, may look forward to a dinner with friends or a barbecue with the family, but those things are terrifying to me. Eating - especially in an "indulgent" fashion - represents a loss of control. Eating ceases to be just eating when a person has an eating disorder. It becomes "giving in," or "giving up," or "admitting weakness." Please reserve the simplistic advice.
Second, try to realize that I really do want to get better. Just because I fall down (over and over and over) does not mean I've thrown in the towel. It does not mean that I don't care about you, or my family, or the people who depend on me. It means that this disease is such an entrenched part of my life that I am not sure how to cope with stress without its presence. Life gets difficult for me just like it does for you, but I am not sure how to cope with those difficulties without my go-to behaviors. However destructive they may be.
Third, know that I am still me. Beneath my anger, beneath my defensiveness, beneath my general nastiness (and by God can I be nasty when I'm sick), I'm still the person that you love. I haven't disappeared. I have been buried in my turmoil, preoccupied by my disorder, but I'm still here. My passion, my personality, my potential - it's all still here.
Fourth, please see how much I'm struggling. I tell you that I'm fine, make jokes almost constantly, smile all day long, but that's not my reality. I hurt. I'm lonely. I'm leaning on my disease to give me the support I really crave from the people around me. I may be the life of the party, but the after party is a sad affair indeed.
Fifth, I am truly afraid. I know that what I'm doing is dangerous. I don't have a death wish. Quite the opposite, in fact; I want to be alive, want to be the me that God intended, want to live up to the expectations others - and even more, I - have placed upon me. I am just so scared that I don't have what it takes. I don't want to disappoint you.
Sixth, my body image is not only distorted, it's completely perverted. I have no idea what you see when you look at me. When I look at me, I see excess, fat, failure, a nauseating mass of flesh that doesn't deserve to take up space. Please try to understand that I am not being dramatic - my perception of myself is completely skewed.
I know that these ideas are hard to accept. I understand that you may look upon me and think, "But why? Why can't you see what I see? Why can't you accept how much you are loved?" The answer is simply this: I have been sick for a long time, with a disease more insidious and destructive than most people realize. I love you. I need you. I long for your support. I don't want to push you away. I'm fighting a battle that is more difficult than many people can imagine, and I'm doing the best I can. I appreciate your presence, whether you realize it or not. You are crucial to my recovery, even if the only words you say to me are, "I love you, and I am here." Especially if those are the only words you know how to say.
Saturday, January 26, 2013
Our Bodies: To Whom Do They Belong?
Feminism is defined as the theory of the political, economic, and social equality of the sexes. In the last fifty years, tremendous strides have been made toward the liberation of women both through the organized feminist movement and through the smaller, quieter insistence of individual women that their rights be recognized and respected. 2013 is a very different social climate for women than 1963 was. For that, we should all be grateful. Access to contraception, availability of education and career, economic freedom, independence, and creative expression are all present for women now in ways our foremothers could have only dreamed of. The fight is not over, though.
It is my opinion - based on my value system, my worldview, and my own traumatic experiences - that one of the final frontiers of feminism is the female body itself. I'm not coming at this from a reproductive angle. I am speaking to the vast, accepted, terribly damaging sexualization of women. Flip on the television for a moment. Any channel, it doesn't matter. Press the mute button, and observe the female forms on the screen. Commercials, reality tv, sitcoms, crime procedurals, network or cable news - the context is nearly irrelevent. Look at the BODIES of the women. What do you see? Young women, thin women, pretty women, sexualized women. Compare them to their male counterparts. Notice a discrepancy? This contrast is blatant especially on news programs, where a handful of heavily made-up, physically attractive women sit amongst aging, usually white, sometimes balding men. The men, you see, are there to contribute their ideas. The women, the message seems to be, are there because they HAVE to be (this is 2013, after all, and there are quotas to meet) and because they're just so darn easy on the eyes.
Another exercise. Pick up a magazine. Any periodical, it doesn't matter. Flip through it. I defy you not to find at least one article or advertisement promising women beauty, youth, and that prize coveted above all others: thinness. This reality is so entrenched in our culture that we scarcely notice the all-out assault on our self-esteem that we endure when we're just trying to read a damn magazine.
Where I believe the feminist element becomes apparent is when we notice that all of these media messages seem to suggest that we, as women, must be acceptible and attractive to men in order to have value. If we are not sexy, we are not worthwhile. It's okay for a man to stand on his character and intellect, but a woman must have character, intellect, and a smokin' hot body. The perpetuation of this myth is another example of patriarchy: men are superior, and women's survival is dependent upon male approval. Even the catty nature in which women are portrayed interacting with other women (hello, Real Housewives) seems to point to a battle for male attention.
I have seen violent male domination of the female form in my own life. I battle its effects every day. But rape is the most extreme point on a very broad spectrum. The media's sexualization of women exists on the very same spectrum. It is about having power and control over the bodies of women. Our individuality, our ideas, our visceral power as human beings - those are the things we have to offer this world. Those are the things by which we will be remembered when we are gone. Those are the legacies we leave to our children. Being brave enough to reject the messages with which we are smacked day in and day out - that we must be thin! Beautiful! Young! Toned! Visions of physical perfection! - is a challenge I will not minimize. It's possible, though. Even more possible when we sisters grasp hands, stand up tall, and say, together, "I WILL NOT DO THIS ANYMORE."
It is my opinion - based on my value system, my worldview, and my own traumatic experiences - that one of the final frontiers of feminism is the female body itself. I'm not coming at this from a reproductive angle. I am speaking to the vast, accepted, terribly damaging sexualization of women. Flip on the television for a moment. Any channel, it doesn't matter. Press the mute button, and observe the female forms on the screen. Commercials, reality tv, sitcoms, crime procedurals, network or cable news - the context is nearly irrelevent. Look at the BODIES of the women. What do you see? Young women, thin women, pretty women, sexualized women. Compare them to their male counterparts. Notice a discrepancy? This contrast is blatant especially on news programs, where a handful of heavily made-up, physically attractive women sit amongst aging, usually white, sometimes balding men. The men, you see, are there to contribute their ideas. The women, the message seems to be, are there because they HAVE to be (this is 2013, after all, and there are quotas to meet) and because they're just so darn easy on the eyes.
Another exercise. Pick up a magazine. Any periodical, it doesn't matter. Flip through it. I defy you not to find at least one article or advertisement promising women beauty, youth, and that prize coveted above all others: thinness. This reality is so entrenched in our culture that we scarcely notice the all-out assault on our self-esteem that we endure when we're just trying to read a damn magazine.
Where I believe the feminist element becomes apparent is when we notice that all of these media messages seem to suggest that we, as women, must be acceptible and attractive to men in order to have value. If we are not sexy, we are not worthwhile. It's okay for a man to stand on his character and intellect, but a woman must have character, intellect, and a smokin' hot body. The perpetuation of this myth is another example of patriarchy: men are superior, and women's survival is dependent upon male approval. Even the catty nature in which women are portrayed interacting with other women (hello, Real Housewives) seems to point to a battle for male attention.
I have seen violent male domination of the female form in my own life. I battle its effects every day. But rape is the most extreme point on a very broad spectrum. The media's sexualization of women exists on the very same spectrum. It is about having power and control over the bodies of women. Our individuality, our ideas, our visceral power as human beings - those are the things we have to offer this world. Those are the things by which we will be remembered when we are gone. Those are the legacies we leave to our children. Being brave enough to reject the messages with which we are smacked day in and day out - that we must be thin! Beautiful! Young! Toned! Visions of physical perfection! - is a challenge I will not minimize. It's possible, though. Even more possible when we sisters grasp hands, stand up tall, and say, together, "I WILL NOT DO THIS ANYMORE."
Thursday, January 3, 2013
A Woman's Right
I am at a tenuous place in my recovery. I am being faced with the most difficult realities of my past and my present, and it is incredibly difficult. It would be so much easier to retreat to the comfort of my behaviors, watch the emotions melt away with each pound lost. I refuse to do that, so I am using my voice instead of my body to communicate my pain.
I am far enough along in my process to begin dealing with the real nastiness of my illness. I have trimmed the leaves of destructive behaviors, hedged the branches of relational difficulties, and I now find myself hacking at the real roots of the disease that has threatened my life for far too long. What I am discovering is this: these roots run deep, and they will choke the life out of me if I don't deal with them soon. I am not immune to relapse. On the contrary, I have fallen down over and over and may do so again. What is different this time is that I truly want to live free of my disease. That freedom comes at a price, and the price is facing those menacing roots.
A long time ago, I was hurt. Several times, actually, but one incident in particular has defined my struggle, been the albatross around my neck. Another human being, one I loved and treasured and trusted, betrayed me in the most annihilating way. He took something from me, many years ago, and I will never get it back. He stole my sense of safety, my respect for my body, my idea of humanity. He destroyed what was never his to touch.
I have wreaked havoc on my body in the years since in an attempt to erase, numb, obliterate what was done. Each day I deal with the emotional and physical scars I was left with. Simple things, inconsequential to most, are exceedingly difficult. Being told I am pretty is like being told I asked for what happened to me. Being touched unexpectedly is like being given a one-way ticket back to my worst nightmare. I have learned to navigate the post-traumatic stress, but I have not healed.
I am angry sometimes that one night - just a few hours - condemned me to a lifetime of struggle. It maddens me to know that while I must deal with the repercussions of this event every day, my perpetrator likely has no such burden to carry. For him, it was an expression of power, of rage, that ended when I walked out his door. For me, it was a life sentence for a crime I never committed.
I don't speak of my experience flippantly. I am not sharing to gain attention for myself, to get pity, to get some kind of "survivor glory." This shit hurts, I am terribly ashamed, and I most certainly don't take any of it lightly. My purpose in sharing my story is to highlight a key point: All people, women and children included, have the right to be safe. We have the right to be protected. We have the right to live free of fear, free of persecution, free of oppression, free of violence. We have a right to live a life focused on dreams, hopes, and goals, not on terror and shame.
I have a right to be angry. I have a right to demand change - change to our society, to the way our sons are raised to treat women and to the way our daughters are raised to treat themselves, to the way we react to violence. WE have a right to end our own suffering. WE have a right to be safe. WE have a right to rise. Pain shared is not doubled, but halved. If you have your own story, please be open. I am here for support, for love, for unending compassion. Rise with me. Shake loose your wings and fly above the hurt.
I am far enough along in my process to begin dealing with the real nastiness of my illness. I have trimmed the leaves of destructive behaviors, hedged the branches of relational difficulties, and I now find myself hacking at the real roots of the disease that has threatened my life for far too long. What I am discovering is this: these roots run deep, and they will choke the life out of me if I don't deal with them soon. I am not immune to relapse. On the contrary, I have fallen down over and over and may do so again. What is different this time is that I truly want to live free of my disease. That freedom comes at a price, and the price is facing those menacing roots.
A long time ago, I was hurt. Several times, actually, but one incident in particular has defined my struggle, been the albatross around my neck. Another human being, one I loved and treasured and trusted, betrayed me in the most annihilating way. He took something from me, many years ago, and I will never get it back. He stole my sense of safety, my respect for my body, my idea of humanity. He destroyed what was never his to touch.
I have wreaked havoc on my body in the years since in an attempt to erase, numb, obliterate what was done. Each day I deal with the emotional and physical scars I was left with. Simple things, inconsequential to most, are exceedingly difficult. Being told I am pretty is like being told I asked for what happened to me. Being touched unexpectedly is like being given a one-way ticket back to my worst nightmare. I have learned to navigate the post-traumatic stress, but I have not healed.
I am angry sometimes that one night - just a few hours - condemned me to a lifetime of struggle. It maddens me to know that while I must deal with the repercussions of this event every day, my perpetrator likely has no such burden to carry. For him, it was an expression of power, of rage, that ended when I walked out his door. For me, it was a life sentence for a crime I never committed.
I don't speak of my experience flippantly. I am not sharing to gain attention for myself, to get pity, to get some kind of "survivor glory." This shit hurts, I am terribly ashamed, and I most certainly don't take any of it lightly. My purpose in sharing my story is to highlight a key point: All people, women and children included, have the right to be safe. We have the right to be protected. We have the right to live free of fear, free of persecution, free of oppression, free of violence. We have a right to live a life focused on dreams, hopes, and goals, not on terror and shame.
I have a right to be angry. I have a right to demand change - change to our society, to the way our sons are raised to treat women and to the way our daughters are raised to treat themselves, to the way we react to violence. WE have a right to end our own suffering. WE have a right to be safe. WE have a right to rise. Pain shared is not doubled, but halved. If you have your own story, please be open. I am here for support, for love, for unending compassion. Rise with me. Shake loose your wings and fly above the hurt.
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