Having A Purpose

For much of my life, I have felt inadequate. Like I just didn't have anything to offer the world. When I got married and had children, that changed, of course. My purpose was to nurture and care for the family I had made.

I still had a nagging feeling, though, that my contribution to the world as a whole was lacking. That insecurity had plagued me for years. I remember the first time it occurred to me: In fifth grade, my class took a field trip to the planetarium. We sat in the round, reclined and staring upward. The narrator explained to us that, in the grand scheme of the universe, we were absolutely insignificant. At the tender age of 10, I began to feel like my life was meaningless.

At the ripe old age of 25 (26 next week, thank you very much), my perspective has changed. I don't need to change the world in order to create meaning in my life. I simply need to be the best person I can be. Smiling at strangers, being polite, reaching out to those who are struggling, putting others before myself... maybe those small actions will have a ripple effect. Maybe, by being kinder and more attentive to the needs of others, I will have earned my place in the universe.

Telephone

The following is a telephone conversation I had this morning with a receptionist at a doctor's office:

Receptionist: "Such and Such Internal Medicine, how may I help you?"

Cassie: "Hi, I am looking for a new primary care doctor and was wondering if any of the physicians in your practice have experience with eating disorders."

R: "I'm sorry, could you repeat that last part?"

C: "Do any of your doctors have experience treating eating disordered patients?"

R: "What do you mean by 'eating disorders?'"

C: "Like anorexia or bulimia."

R: "Oh. Um, well, they're all internists, and they've probably seen patients with eating disorders before, although I'm not sure. Are you looking for yourself?"

C: "Yes."

R: "Oh. Okay. We'll see what we can do for you."

Now, maybe I'm just extra sensitive, but doesn't that conversation seem a little ridiculous? It's 2010. Chances are good at least someone in that office has encountered an anorexic or bulimic person before. I also have to add that this is the THIRD office I called. The first told me I should check with a psychiatrist, and the second simply said they didn't "deal" with eating disorders.

I don't want a psychiatrist. I don't need a therapist. I want a medical doctor to tell me if my laundry list of physical ailments is a result of past years of self-abuse, or if there's something else wrong with me. I want a physician to check my blood pressure - sitting, standing, lying down - and tell me that while yes, I royally fucked up my body, there's a good chance he can fix it.

I don't want to be humiliated every time I make a doctor's appointment. I shouldn't have to feel like a leper. Yes, I have a disease. No, I'm not contagious. Yes, I'm in recovery. No, I'm not a lunatic.

Thanks for letting me get that off my chest. My appointment is next week. My next issue: admitting to my dentist that I DO have a history of bulimia - which he has long suspected - and asking if all my teeth are going to fall out. Wish me luck.

It Lingers

Sometimes I get really, really scared. About my health. About the ways I've damaged it. About the possibility that, because of years of self-abuse, I will die young.

My resting heartrate is 54 bpm. My blood pressure hangs out around 90/60. My hands and feet are freezing when it's 100 degrees outside. My teeth are sensitive to hot and cold. I'm tired all the time. My hormones are wacky. I have headaches almost every day. My digestion hasn't been normal in years.

All this, and I'm in my seventh year of recovery.

So yes, I get really, really scared. What if I came this far, worked this hard, and the eating disorder STILL wins?

I Had No Right

I have a friend who is very, very sick. Breast cancer. She's 35. Married with two young kids. She's fighting harder than I've ever seen anyone fight, but it's an uphill battle.

I think about her often. I consider how something insidious invaded her body, barged in uninvited and left chaos in its wake. I think about her body "then" - strong, healthy, exactly the way a young woman's body should be. I think about her body "now" - delicate, painful, nothing that someone her - anybody's - age should be. I think about what her husband, her children, her parents, her siblings are facing.

I also think about my years of self-imposed sickness. Trips to the hospital, medical bills, worried family and friends. And I can't help but think, "I had no right to do that. Not to my body, not to my loved ones."

Health is precious. That's another thing no one tells you when you're toying with an eating disorder, or if they do tell you, you just don't appreciate. Health is a blessing, it is fragile, it is not guarunteed. It is to be treasured, respected. Health is not to be taken for granted, not to be trampled on, not to be destroyed in the name of "thin" or anything else.

I had no right.

Pigeonholed

There are so many roles that I play. So many categories that I fit into. Among them are the following:

-Recovering anorexic/bulimic.

-Recovering self-injurer.

-Periodic depressive.

-Sexual abuse survivor.

There are also these identities:

-Wife

-Mother

-Daughter

-Sister

-Friend

And then there are these:

-Volunteer

-Student

-Church-goer

-All-around cheerful person.

There are many, many more. Too many to list, perhaps. And everyone has their own list. So many people in just one person. How do you choose, then, which of them is your primary Self? Or is the very definition of "Self" a combination of attributes, experiences, personality traits, and memories that form one cohesive individual?

Maybe when people ask me who I am, I'll just say "Cassie," and that will be enough.

"Fat Is Not A Feeling."

I don't know how many times I've heard the treatment-ism "Fat is not a feeling." I also don't know how many times I've uttered the words, "I feel fat." I still do.

In fact, I was getting dressed just yesterday, and in my utter exasperation, I declared to my husband, "I feel fat!" Being a man, and a well-adjusted one at that, he replied, "What does 'fat' feel like, exactly? Because you certainly don't LOOK fat." I was unsure how to respond. "I don't know. It feels... big. Wrong. Overflowing. Excessive." He raised an eyebrow and resumed his morning routine.

I started analyzing the feelings, in true recovery fashion. Just what am I experiencing when I "feel fat?" Sure, sometimes I just don't like the way my pants fit. More often, though, it's a lot more complicated than that. Perhaps it's a response to my own confusion. Maybe "fat" isn't fat, exactly, but more like fear. Instead of "I feel fat," maybe the truth is more like, "I feel afraid."

That's okay, too. It's okay to feel afraid. It's okay to feel uncomfortable. It's okay to feel like things aren't quite right. As long as you can keep yourself from turning your emotions into negative behaviors, you're still on the right track. I know I am.

One Day at a Time

Very interesting sermon in church today about the phrase, "lead us not into temptation." The basic gist was that in order to truly overcome temptation, you have to subit to a higher power. Give up your feigned image of self-control and accept that you need guidance, absolution.

Relevant, wouldn't you say? The pastor made many references to AA, and I sat there thinking how similar alcoholics are to people with anorexia and bulimia. I thought about some other AA sayings that relate to our recovery experiences:

"It's easy to talk the talk, harder to walk the walk."

"Fake it til you make it."

"F.E.A.R. - Face Everything And Recover!"

"Try it for 90 days, and if you don't like it, we'll refund your misery."

"We have a disease that tells us we don't have a disease."

"There's no gain without pain."

"If you don't want to slip, stay away from slippery places."

"Progress, not perfection."

And finally, my favorite of all - "Change happens when the pain of holding on is greater than the fear of letting go."