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.
Friday, February 22, 2013
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.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Rehab Is Not A Four-Letter Word
I have heard that there are people out there who know OF me more than they know ME. I have heard that they know I've been to "rehab." They most likely don't know that means I went to inpatient eating disorder treatment; I assume that by "rehab" they think drugs or alcohol. Maybe they regard me with suspicion. Perhaps they believe I can't be trusted, because "once an addict, always an addict."
I want to address this on a couple fronts. First, no matter the kind of problem - eating disorder, chemical dependency, trauma, whatever - the definition of rehabilitation is this: to restore or bring to a condition of health or useful and constructive activity. Who among us can't use a little restoration? Who among us hasn't, at one point or another, experienced a decrease in our health, usefulness, or constructive activity? That's called life. Sometimes things go wrong, we get hurt, and it takes awhile to dust ourselves off. Isn't it incredibly brave that we can acknowledge our struggles and take the necessary steps to heal? Why the stigma?
Which leads me to my second point. Why the shame? Not only the shame those of us who have walked the road of recovery have felt, but the shame some onlookers place upon us? So I went to rehab. What's that say about me? That I couldn't hack it on my own? That I'm too weak to man up and deal with my life? That there's something wrong with me, that I'm broken? Nope, that's a fallacy. I am NOT broken. I am NOT weak. And while yes, I couldn't do it on my own, who can? No man is an island, after all. I needed help, and I sought it out. I was hurting, and I found some peace.
Maybe the media plays a role in the misunderstanding, as it so often does. (I grew up in New Jersey, and not one of my friends or family members bears any resemblence to Snookie.) There's Amy Winehouse's (now-ironic) hit song, "Rehab." People laughed when that song hit the airwaves. "Look at the silly drunk, what a joke." A few people took notice and said, "Hey, wait, maybe she's really sick," but they were the minority. There's a show on MTV or VH1 (you know, where they used to talk about music) called "Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew," in which several formerly-famous people with addictions find their diseases exploited and ridiculed. They act in an outrageous fashion and the viewer at home can say, "What an idiot. Drug addicts are losers," and feel better about his own life. This is not only grossly untrue, its effects are devastating. I wonder sometimes how many lives have been lost because sick people were too ashamed to reach out for help, too afraid of being labeled.
Here's what I know for sure. The people I have met in rehab and in 12-step meetings are some of the most intelligent, kind, motivated, strong, honest, wonderful folks I have ever encountered. We had some cards stacked against us, perhaps: genetics, trauma, etc. We fell hard, got scraped up pretty badly. Fell again and again, in a lot of cases. But we were hopeful enough, brave enough, to get the help we needed. BRAVE. Because that's what rehab requires: bravery, trust, hope, accountability, and a willingness to change the things that lead us away from God's path. We admit that we have lost control, admit that this Thing (for me, anorexia and bulimia, for others, drugs, alcohol, sex, gambling, and on an on) has taken over and we don't know how to stop it. We acknowledge all the things we have done wrong, all the people we have hurt, while we were astray. We say aloud, to each other, that we want something better, know that with God's help and the support of one another, we can and will get better. We will be rehabilitated.
I challenge you, if you have not been in rehab, to take stock of your opinions of those of us who have. What do you believe about us? Are those beliefs fair, compassionate?
And to my companions on the journey of recovery, I challenge you to this: Tell someone new about your experience. Share your experience, strength, and hope. Do your part to change the misconception. Help show the world that rehab is not a four-letter word.
I want to address this on a couple fronts. First, no matter the kind of problem - eating disorder, chemical dependency, trauma, whatever - the definition of rehabilitation is this: to restore or bring to a condition of health or useful and constructive activity. Who among us can't use a little restoration? Who among us hasn't, at one point or another, experienced a decrease in our health, usefulness, or constructive activity? That's called life. Sometimes things go wrong, we get hurt, and it takes awhile to dust ourselves off. Isn't it incredibly brave that we can acknowledge our struggles and take the necessary steps to heal? Why the stigma?
Which leads me to my second point. Why the shame? Not only the shame those of us who have walked the road of recovery have felt, but the shame some onlookers place upon us? So I went to rehab. What's that say about me? That I couldn't hack it on my own? That I'm too weak to man up and deal with my life? That there's something wrong with me, that I'm broken? Nope, that's a fallacy. I am NOT broken. I am NOT weak. And while yes, I couldn't do it on my own, who can? No man is an island, after all. I needed help, and I sought it out. I was hurting, and I found some peace.
Maybe the media plays a role in the misunderstanding, as it so often does. (I grew up in New Jersey, and not one of my friends or family members bears any resemblence to Snookie.) There's Amy Winehouse's (now-ironic) hit song, "Rehab." People laughed when that song hit the airwaves. "Look at the silly drunk, what a joke." A few people took notice and said, "Hey, wait, maybe she's really sick," but they were the minority. There's a show on MTV or VH1 (you know, where they used to talk about music) called "Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew," in which several formerly-famous people with addictions find their diseases exploited and ridiculed. They act in an outrageous fashion and the viewer at home can say, "What an idiot. Drug addicts are losers," and feel better about his own life. This is not only grossly untrue, its effects are devastating. I wonder sometimes how many lives have been lost because sick people were too ashamed to reach out for help, too afraid of being labeled.
Here's what I know for sure. The people I have met in rehab and in 12-step meetings are some of the most intelligent, kind, motivated, strong, honest, wonderful folks I have ever encountered. We had some cards stacked against us, perhaps: genetics, trauma, etc. We fell hard, got scraped up pretty badly. Fell again and again, in a lot of cases. But we were hopeful enough, brave enough, to get the help we needed. BRAVE. Because that's what rehab requires: bravery, trust, hope, accountability, and a willingness to change the things that lead us away from God's path. We admit that we have lost control, admit that this Thing (for me, anorexia and bulimia, for others, drugs, alcohol, sex, gambling, and on an on) has taken over and we don't know how to stop it. We acknowledge all the things we have done wrong, all the people we have hurt, while we were astray. We say aloud, to each other, that we want something better, know that with God's help and the support of one another, we can and will get better. We will be rehabilitated.
I challenge you, if you have not been in rehab, to take stock of your opinions of those of us who have. What do you believe about us? Are those beliefs fair, compassionate?
And to my companions on the journey of recovery, I challenge you to this: Tell someone new about your experience. Share your experience, strength, and hope. Do your part to change the misconception. Help show the world that rehab is not a four-letter word.
Friday, November 23, 2012
Little Lights
It is hard, maybe even
impossible,
to see the stars on a stormy night.
They always glitter in their
ebony bed,
never vanishing, though our
eyes lose sight of them.
The mournful clouds roll in,
weeping, closing up the
atmosphere with their
shadows.
A long way up, the stars
shine on.
A cold wind bites, aggressive,
assaulting the air.
Up above, the heavens
are still.
The storm will rage,
will cry out, will destroy.
When it passes, as
all storms do,
we will glimpse the stars again.
impossible,
to see the stars on a stormy night.
They always glitter in their
ebony bed,
never vanishing, though our
eyes lose sight of them.
The mournful clouds roll in,
weeping, closing up the
atmosphere with their
shadows.
A long way up, the stars
shine on.
A cold wind bites, aggressive,
assaulting the air.
Up above, the heavens
are still.
The storm will rage,
will cry out, will destroy.
When it passes, as
all storms do,
we will glimpse the stars again.
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Anger: A Love Story
I had a conversation with a dear friend recently about anger. Rather, the denial of it. Anger is one of those emotions that has a funny way of finding its way out no matter how hard we try to push it down. (I am reminded of this every time I bake bread, as my loaf pan has a sizeable dent in it from being thrown across the kitchen several years ago. But I wasn't mad at the time, really.)
Anger is a feeling just like any other - it is natural, it serves a purpose, it is an inevitability. What we do with it is an entirely different matter. Some folks rage, because the potency is just so great and there's no discernible way to temper it in the moment. Some people deny their anger altogether, because it's simply inappropriate to display such a nasty sentiment. Some people have a healthy relationship to their anger and express it in a reasonable and effective matter, though it appears to me these people are in the minority.
Someone once taught me how you can tell if your anger is justified given your present situation, or if it is actually a response to something much deeper, much farther back in the past. It has a lot to do with intensity. Say someone rear-ends you in the parking lot. In Scenario A, you are shaken up and annoyed, but calmly get out of your car, approach the person with the goal of exchanging insurance information, get back in your car, and go about your business. In Scenario B, you hurl yourself out of the car, wrench open the other guy's door, pull him out by the collar, and proceed to tell him exactly what a &^%$&(@'ng idiot he is. In Scenario C, you begin to cry, get out of your car and apologize profusely to the offending driver, insisting that you are actually at fault, that this stuff happens all the time because you're just so stupid. Only one of these scenarios exemplifies an appropriate response to an anger-inducing event. I imagine you can guess which one. Scenarios B and C are examples of explosive anger and anger that brings up shame, neither of which are actually responses to the car accident, but to things from the past that cause great discomfort.
One of my most recent reminders of this anger conundrum occurred a few days ago when I watched the new episode of Glee. (Don't judge... I like to pretend I'm still 16, only instead of the actual 16-year old me, I'm a pop-song-singing, hip-hop-dancing ball of awesome.) This particular episode of the show not only made light of eating disorders, it actually glorified and exalted them. I lost it. I took to social media to blast my opinions, and was greeted with a response that reaffirmed my disgust. I was furious. I was also hurt. How could the writers, producers, and actors be so insensitive? So dangerous? So cruel? So flippant? So irresponsible? Don't they know how devastating these diseases are? Don't they CARE?
I wasn't angry about Glee. It's a television show. I was angry at my own disease, at the years, the experiences, the money, the friendships, the health, it cost me. I was angry about how many people continue to take that first step - skip that first meal, take that first pill, purge that first time - never knowing the years of devastation that will follow. I was angry at my own first step, all those years ago. I was angry at the fact that I still... STILL... stand in front of the mirror, brows furrowed, shame welling up, hating what I see. I was angry, yes. But not at what I thought.
I am thankful for that anger, though. For while it came up unexpectedly, while it surfaced in response to a (admittedly very poorly-executed and socially irresponsible) television show, it reminded me how very far I've come, and how much I stand to lose if I stop walking the right path.
I encourage you to take a look at your own anger. Be aware of it as it comes - is it justified in the current situation, or is it something deeper trying to communicate itself to you? Is there something else there that needs to be examined? Love your anger, appreciate it. I am finding it has a lot more to offer than I ever knew.
Anger is a feeling just like any other - it is natural, it serves a purpose, it is an inevitability. What we do with it is an entirely different matter. Some folks rage, because the potency is just so great and there's no discernible way to temper it in the moment. Some people deny their anger altogether, because it's simply inappropriate to display such a nasty sentiment. Some people have a healthy relationship to their anger and express it in a reasonable and effective matter, though it appears to me these people are in the minority.
Someone once taught me how you can tell if your anger is justified given your present situation, or if it is actually a response to something much deeper, much farther back in the past. It has a lot to do with intensity. Say someone rear-ends you in the parking lot. In Scenario A, you are shaken up and annoyed, but calmly get out of your car, approach the person with the goal of exchanging insurance information, get back in your car, and go about your business. In Scenario B, you hurl yourself out of the car, wrench open the other guy's door, pull him out by the collar, and proceed to tell him exactly what a &^%$&(@'ng idiot he is. In Scenario C, you begin to cry, get out of your car and apologize profusely to the offending driver, insisting that you are actually at fault, that this stuff happens all the time because you're just so stupid. Only one of these scenarios exemplifies an appropriate response to an anger-inducing event. I imagine you can guess which one. Scenarios B and C are examples of explosive anger and anger that brings up shame, neither of which are actually responses to the car accident, but to things from the past that cause great discomfort.
One of my most recent reminders of this anger conundrum occurred a few days ago when I watched the new episode of Glee. (Don't judge... I like to pretend I'm still 16, only instead of the actual 16-year old me, I'm a pop-song-singing, hip-hop-dancing ball of awesome.) This particular episode of the show not only made light of eating disorders, it actually glorified and exalted them. I lost it. I took to social media to blast my opinions, and was greeted with a response that reaffirmed my disgust. I was furious. I was also hurt. How could the writers, producers, and actors be so insensitive? So dangerous? So cruel? So flippant? So irresponsible? Don't they know how devastating these diseases are? Don't they CARE?
I wasn't angry about Glee. It's a television show. I was angry at my own disease, at the years, the experiences, the money, the friendships, the health, it cost me. I was angry about how many people continue to take that first step - skip that first meal, take that first pill, purge that first time - never knowing the years of devastation that will follow. I was angry at my own first step, all those years ago. I was angry at the fact that I still... STILL... stand in front of the mirror, brows furrowed, shame welling up, hating what I see. I was angry, yes. But not at what I thought.
I am thankful for that anger, though. For while it came up unexpectedly, while it surfaced in response to a (admittedly very poorly-executed and socially irresponsible) television show, it reminded me how very far I've come, and how much I stand to lose if I stop walking the right path.
I encourage you to take a look at your own anger. Be aware of it as it comes - is it justified in the current situation, or is it something deeper trying to communicate itself to you? Is there something else there that needs to be examined? Love your anger, appreciate it. I am finding it has a lot more to offer than I ever knew.
Monday, October 22, 2012
Dare (Not) to Compare
"She's so much thinner than I am." "She's so much prettier than I am." "Her clothes are so much nicer than mine." "Her house is so much cleaner than mine is." "Her kids are so much better-behaved than mine are."
That's an inner dialogue that plagues me on a daily basis. Admition: I compare myself to others. A lot. And 98% of the time, I come out in the one-down position. I have found absolutely no benefit in these constant comparisons; rather, they are an incessant reminder of my own shortcomings, my inadequacies, my failures. If only I could be like HER, I think, then I wouldn't be so bad.
Now, I've gotten far enough along in my journey to appreciate some of my lesser-ideal qualities. I am loud, and I am obnoxiously opinionated... but I enjoy that about myself. I procrastinate... and I get a rise from the thrill of getting things done barely in the nick of time. There are other things, though, that continue to cause me grief. My body is an obvious example.
There are a lot of people out there who have "better" bodies than I do. Sure, some of them are 17. Some of them have never borne children. Some of them are professional athletes or models or actresses, and get paid big money to look as they do. Some of them are mired in their own uncontrolled eating disorders, achieving those bodies I've long coveted through the very same behaviors that nearly cost me my life. I recognize all of those things. And still, I compare.
The same can be said for my home, and my children, and every other area of my life that I (unrealistically) view as an extension of myself. My often-messy house, my frequently-argumentative children (by the by, how can I be surprised by this? They are MY children, after all), all force me to acknowledge how imperfect my life is. It's a cruel experience, and it's a type of suffering wholly unnecessary and brought about entirely by my own choices.
You see, here's the thing. All of those "perfect people" to whom we compare ourselves? They're not perfect at all. They have their own insecurities, their own secret failings they pray no one will discover. No one among us is flawless, however that Glamour magazine cover may represent her. I have a couple friends whom, upon first meeting them, I despised on principle: they were so put together, I just couldn't stand it. Then I got to know them, had the privilege of seeing their faults, and I took back my judgements. I realized that it is their very humanity (definition: weakness) that makes them incredible.
If I can love my friends for their flaws, their struggles, their imperfections, then why can't I love myself for mine? The first step in getting there, I think, is to stop the comparing. Just stop it, for crying out loud. Any exercise that concludes with my certainty that I suck is not an exercise conducive to a happy life.
I invite you, friends, to JUST SAY NO to comparing. Celebrate the flaws in yourself just as surely as you love the flaws in your fellows. If we all looked like the girl on the Glamour cover, if our houses all looked like those on the Good Housekeeping covers, if our kids all acted like the ones on the Parenting covers, what a dull world this would be.
That's an inner dialogue that plagues me on a daily basis. Admition: I compare myself to others. A lot. And 98% of the time, I come out in the one-down position. I have found absolutely no benefit in these constant comparisons; rather, they are an incessant reminder of my own shortcomings, my inadequacies, my failures. If only I could be like HER, I think, then I wouldn't be so bad.
Now, I've gotten far enough along in my journey to appreciate some of my lesser-ideal qualities. I am loud, and I am obnoxiously opinionated... but I enjoy that about myself. I procrastinate... and I get a rise from the thrill of getting things done barely in the nick of time. There are other things, though, that continue to cause me grief. My body is an obvious example.
There are a lot of people out there who have "better" bodies than I do. Sure, some of them are 17. Some of them have never borne children. Some of them are professional athletes or models or actresses, and get paid big money to look as they do. Some of them are mired in their own uncontrolled eating disorders, achieving those bodies I've long coveted through the very same behaviors that nearly cost me my life. I recognize all of those things. And still, I compare.
The same can be said for my home, and my children, and every other area of my life that I (unrealistically) view as an extension of myself. My often-messy house, my frequently-argumentative children (by the by, how can I be surprised by this? They are MY children, after all), all force me to acknowledge how imperfect my life is. It's a cruel experience, and it's a type of suffering wholly unnecessary and brought about entirely by my own choices.
You see, here's the thing. All of those "perfect people" to whom we compare ourselves? They're not perfect at all. They have their own insecurities, their own secret failings they pray no one will discover. No one among us is flawless, however that Glamour magazine cover may represent her. I have a couple friends whom, upon first meeting them, I despised on principle: they were so put together, I just couldn't stand it. Then I got to know them, had the privilege of seeing their faults, and I took back my judgements. I realized that it is their very humanity (definition: weakness) that makes them incredible.
If I can love my friends for their flaws, their struggles, their imperfections, then why can't I love myself for mine? The first step in getting there, I think, is to stop the comparing. Just stop it, for crying out loud. Any exercise that concludes with my certainty that I suck is not an exercise conducive to a happy life.
I invite you, friends, to JUST SAY NO to comparing. Celebrate the flaws in yourself just as surely as you love the flaws in your fellows. If we all looked like the girl on the Glamour cover, if our houses all looked like those on the Good Housekeeping covers, if our kids all acted like the ones on the Parenting covers, what a dull world this would be.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)