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?
Monday, August 26, 2013
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.
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