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.
Thursday, July 4, 2013
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.
Friday, February 22, 2013
An Appeal to Family and Friends
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.
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.
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."
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