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.