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.

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.