Recently, my mother was accused of not fostering enough spirituality into her children. (meaning myself and my twin sister) She had posted on Facebook about how she was going to Midnight Mass for the first time because of her admiration of the new Pope. You mind that she is NOT Catholic and grew up on the Church of England because she is originally from there. So one would think people would use their logic here and assume that therefore, since she is a born and raised Brit, that, technically speaking is the denomination and Church that she belongs to, despite her actual beliefs and practices. She does not practice Catholicism or even Christianity. So, why criticize someone in that manner? Why say, that the only reason my sister and I had ever suffered from bouts of depression was purely (or even at all) because of our lack and deprivation of spirituality. I have bipolar disorder, which is intrinsically biochemical to some extent, no if, ands, or buts about it. How is one supposed to be the judge of another's spiritual "thermometer" just by there attendance (or lack of attendance) at Mass? Even so, in my opinion, not having any spiritual path is perfectly okay with me, personally.
I, as a matter of fact, have plenty of spiritual outlets, but I like to keep them on the down-low and tucked under my sleeve. This is due to some reasons: I don't believe in one practice or Faith over another and like and dislike parts and "snag" the parts that I like, so therefore, I don't want a full-fledged someone to come and spout off on Faith with me if I don't believe in all of what it stands for. The second reason being is that I had a very personal, intense, and direct spiritual experience.
Long story short, I died when I was a premature baby in the neonatal intensive care unit. I have a very vague, mysterious, and foggy "memory" of an out-of-body experience. I saw my soul come up and out of my frail little body and up towards, what I believe to be Heaven in a sense. God was like fog, barely humanoid, and indistinct. I still debate whether He (or even it) was in fact a person or just a "force" if you will. He promised me He would always look out for me whenever I needed Him, but solely when I solicited it. That's just my personal belief. Nonetheless, it is ALSO my personal belief that everyone has the chance to experience the ultimate being of their Faith. In other words, only people who believe in Heaven go to Heaven and only Buddhists can attain Nirvana and so on and so on.
Me? Well, as for me, I'm kinda stuck in the middle. One could possibly in theory that is, hypothesize that if I believe in God and Heaven that I must be Christian. False. In reality, I personally do not choose to identify as ANY religion, Faith, practice, or ideology as a matter of fact, simply because I have too much of a hodge podge of spiritual beliefs that I don't fall under any one "category." I believe in God, but not Creationism, I believe that He does not intervene unless you want Him to and that His intervention is honestly and subconsciously me trying to "fix MY mind" instead of Him trying to do so for me; that all in all, God does exist, but it's almost as if God were my mind on a deeper level of Being for me. That God was my mind at its Highest Level of Being, which is my philosophy with my relationship with the Buddha. That my psyche is so chaotic sometimes that the only possible way to end the cycle of chaos is to find ultimate inner power and to call it God or The Buddha or both. It is my only way of attaining the most enlightened part of my mind. So I guess God is half imagination, half real to me.
Through discussion of religion or practice of Faith, I think I agree on equal amounts of what my atheist friends have to say, my agnostic friends have to say, my Christian friends have to say, what my Deist friends have to say, and what my Buddhist friends have to say and in my worldview, I like it that way. It gives me richness. A lot of my friends are very surprised about my belief in God and Heaven and angels because I am a liberal, bisexual, pro-choice feminist who swears in front of a few choice people that I deeply trust. In a sort of idiosyncratic way, I like to keep people guessing.
The type of therapy I'm doing is a million dollar word called dialectical behavioral therapy, DBT for short. The best and most succinct way to explain it is if standard cognitive behavioral therapy and Buddhist ideologies had a baby. Therefore, I pray to God while listening to Buddhist chants and listen to Flyleaf while chanting in Sanskrit. And it is that combination that gets me to the deepest level of Being that I can possibly ever get to, and that is My Own Faith; it can be yours, but it doesn't have to be.
Sunday, December 29, 2013
Wednesday, December 25, 2013
Beautifully Made: An Eating Disorder Story
Inspired by my favorite slam poem called "I Know Girls (Bodylove) by Mary Lambert" sent to me by my friend Jane.
Walking into a cafeteria could pass for a "Was that just a nightmare?" moment. The bathroom is your worst enemy; the home of things that like to trick you into thinking you need to have more of the "control" you think scales and toilets give you. A sense of false security, false control, and inconsistent and unreliable management flood the room. It is the most bittersweet feeling ever every time you eject physical and differentiated mental repulsiveness from your body. You don't even know why you do it. An ounce is five pounds and a pound is more like fifty. The question "What do you want to eat?" has you in a dizzy spell. A panic attack. A stream of thoughts that scream, "I don't even want to eat anything ever again." You feel as if each bite you took brings a puppy closer and closer to death. Now imagine seeing an empty plate and thinking, "Oh no. Did I just kill a puppy??" so sometimes, you don't eat at all. Other times, you "go at" food like Superman. Dashing around, your voice quivers: "Can I have more food please?" for the seventh time in a row. They get so sick of it that they just stick the box of cookies right in your face. Control goes down to zero percent as you eat 20 cookies in 10 minutes. You feel shame and chocolate now tastes vaguely like salt because of tears. You can't believe you're doing this. That's what "food guilt" is like for someone with an eating disorder. The guilt overwhelms you, consumes you. It's eating you alive. That's what an eating disorder is: food is metaphorically "eating you," but you have to get healthy thoughts into your brain to stop this in order to physically eat it. You have to find some relief and you resort back to your demon. You fear that there's always that awful chance that you'll start to forever etch vomit onto the teeth that will not be coated with enamel anymore.
You wonder if you'll have to go to the emergency room one day because something happened because your electrolytic balance was out-of-wack and they'll have you drink shitloads of Gatorade. You have nightmares about it even. Yet, you don't listen to those fears, you don't listen to the risks because you have an even more intense fear.
That fear consists of two little words that contain a whole heap of other words. Gaining weight. Gaining weight feeds a sense of, "I don't have any:"
1) control
2) self-worth
3) discipline
4) self-respect
5) chance of ever getting laid
First off, before I spout off on my personal eating disorder story, let's clear the air on what the term "eating disorder" actually means from a "shrink's standpoint" so to speak. I've created my own general criteria (they all have their own set of criteria) for any eating disorder besides pica (restricting or binge-purge type) anorexia, bulimia, binge eating disorder, rumination disorder, EDNOS) is defined by all of the following:
A. A marked disturbance or overall change in behaviors, habits, or patterns regarding eating
B. The disturbance directly correlates to an underlying disturbance and distortion in the way body weight is perceived and the patient will have an intense fear of gaining weight (i.e. the patient will claim they are overweight when severely emaciated, etc) and/or the disturbance directly correlates with an underlying emotional problem
C. The disturbance in eating stated in criterium (A) is taken on in the form of a maladaptive coping mechanism as an attempt to alleviate the underlying issues or body image disturbance stated in criterium (B)
D. The disturbance in eating is detrimental or potentially detrimental to the patient's physical health in one or more ways
E. The patient's desire to engage in these disturbed eating patterns is compulsive and it is difficult to control urges to engage in the disturbed eating patterns, especially when in distress.
F. The patient engages in these behaviors on at least somewhat of a regular basis.
So, now that we've established that, I will give you some history:
I was severely "palsy skinny" growing up. I was 38 pounds at 11 years old and you could see my ribcage. "Is she eating enough???" people would say cluelessly, not knowing that I just happened to have this physique by nature. Their concern had gotten so ludicrous and unduly that they had me get a gastronomy tube inserted into my stomach. I still have the hole: a daily reminder of the unintentional emotional abuse they had put me through. Memories of me puking up the surplus of formula that they endlessly badgered my parents to put in there still hauntingly pervade my brain. The "tubey" as I childishly called it from preschool to second grade was thick and long and came out of my stomach like I was a fucking machine. Lines marking the ounces were filled up to the brim with PediaSure. I desperately wanted to ask for a lower "dosage" of fornula, but I knew being the precocious little girl that I was, that I would be much less of a force in that aspect of my life and would unfortunately and inaccurately be perceived as the obstinate child who refused to eat. We stopped the G-tube at eight when it fell out of its hole again. People still continued to overanalyze and micromanaged and constantly reminded my parents I was well off the growth charts. I was ordered to drink Ensures multiple times a day. (I heavily advocated for the chocolate ones as I remember) and power bars (also chocolate-flavored to lessen the formulaic taste) That was Step One in people "crafting" my eating disorder.
My mother had always been a bit of a foodie and her recipes were definitely not geared towards picky eaters, that's for sure! My twin sister and I had bowls of curry placed in front of us at three years old. (she put little dollops of sour cream at that age to lessen the spice that is to say, which she also weened us off of) We can remember us eating the whole complementary jar of hot peppers in one go at a local restaurant. Julia Child's famous recipe for boeuf bourguignon and salads filled with berries, prosciutto, various gourmet cheeses, and artichoke hearts dressed with balsamic vinegrette and blueberry honey were part of our diet; and I was proud that I ate well.
Around eighth grade or so, I started to gain weight and my weight "rocketed" up to the mid 40s into the mid 50s. I gladly weened myself off of the Ensures and power bars and started to eat like a "normal" kid. I ate well and healthy, yet I always had a bit of a sweet tooth. My mum got a job as a pastry chef at a fine dining restaurant when I was in seventh grade. (she's always been a Jack of Many Trades) I was given chocolate seduction cake on a regular basis and cleaned my plate and licked the fork every time. I was now criticized on the speed of which I ate: "Wow! You ate that like a vacuum cleaner." I was now perceived as "the girl who ate SO much" People commented on how they could never get enough food in me. I, who was normally called "light as a feather" had apparently morphed into a "ton of bricks." Step Two had now been instigated.
Sophomore year came around and the visibility of my bones had vanished; I started developing baby fat and "chunk" and chub in my thighs and stomach and was no longer looked at as a "fairy" or a "stick" or "as skinny as a rail" by me or anyone else for that matter. Those chocolate brown French Connection pants made of velvet and embroidered with jewels had no longer buttoned without sucking my bulging belly in. My thighs were incased in the pant legs and to me, they looked like sausages or butternut squashes. I thought I had begun to look like the bear on the packages of Teddy Grahams. I didn't think I was downright fat per se, just chubby. I was 68 pounds, still numerically emaciated technically, but not physiologically speaking. That made me sad. I suppose I should've been slightly more excited considering the fact that this meant that I could fit into double-zeros and XS sizes at stores for hip young women, which I had wanted for years. Bebe and Arden B. now fit me and I could rock it. I've always been very into fashion, starting at a very young age when my mother owned a trendy boutique. I should've been grateful; I finally got to wear the clothes that I wanted to wear. Yet, I wasn't, because I wanted to be a stick.
Curves confused, overwhelmed, and upset me to say the least. I thought I would be Audrey Hepburn when I grew up, not Marilyn Monroe. My pipe cleaner sides became womanly waves and my breasts connected like a wide boombox. The women I was close to in my life, meaning my mother, grandmother, and two 30-something year old best friends, Erica and Heather commented on how I was blessed to have large breasts and my mind couldn't really decide if it liked hearing that or not, or in other words, if it agreed.
All this internal conversation was going on and I still got comments about the way I ate, much to my dismay. This, unlike my moods (I also have bipolar disorder) were thought patterns that I could hide; I was a pretty good actress in my perception of my body and how much food I had consumed. People had no clue about how immense prandial guilt was surging through my mind, making it sick, and too ill to handle or manage on my own eventually.
My junior year, about a year ago from now, I had a nervous breakdown. My unpredictable moods and bad relationship with food and my body as well as my self-harm and panic attacks had finally made me crack, break, falter, flounder, and crumble. I had reached the end of my rope and could not cope, take it, or have the will to participate in society. I was depressed beyond belief to put it mildly. The final trigger (the last straw in English!) happened to be about food after academic pressures contributed as well. I was eating one of the Christmas cookies we had made in math class for the Holidays. My math teacher apparently felt compelled to say that I had inhaled the cookie. It was that moment that my soul had collapsed. The third and final step had been put into place. I went to the bathroom sobbing and didn't care anymore that people would find out and I tried to purge after two years of urges. I failed.
The next day was the start of Christmas vacation. After Christmas dinner, guilt was gulping me down its windpipe. I got down on all fours, bruised my knees, and tried and failed. Again. I sat down on the cold bathroom floor in utter defeat and misery. My makeup came off from my endless crying and gave what my dad and I call "Courtney Love eyes." The thought of the Yorkshire puddings and trifle going through my system made me absolutely, mentally and physically ill.
The break was over and as soon as I got to school and 7:35am, I forcefully pressed the handicap button to the restroom, wheeled like Speedy Gonzalez into the stall, unbuckled my seatbelt, and tried and failed, yes, yet again. My math teacher had found me, got me to come out of the stall, cupped my face in her hands, looked me dead in the eyes, and said, "You need serious help, young lady. You've been needing it for a while, haven't you?" I nodded slowly, and soon enough, I was at the local counseling center. I knew my life would never be the same after the visit.
Howie, the on-call person, was a very warm man who was easy to talk to and polite. He asked me why I was there. I decided to keep it short and sweet until I met my actual therapist. I simply told him I was there because the guidance counselor called over after my teacher found me trying to purge. As he jotted the info down on his notepad, I decided to elaborate a bit more and I explained that I had been depressed for a little under two weeks or so. He asked me some questions and I answered honestly. We then went back to discussing the eating disordered thought patterns. He chuckled and said, "But why? You're skinny!" I explained the history in short and also added in another component: control. I use it to control my life. He seemed to understand a fair amount and that made me feel good for a little bit. But there were other things I didn't tell him that I would only tell my future therapist. Things like how I was a perfectionist or that this was a way of coping with a broken heart from two years ago because my first love was anorexic or the fact that I was a dancer.
Two and a half weeks later, I met my therapist, Sacha, who I would work with for a total of seven months before I moved away to boarding school. In all honesty, Sacha would become one of the people who would shape me into the person I am today. I could tell she wanted to help, she was going to, and she was absolutely brilliant at her job.
My weight had a bad habit of yo-yoing back-and-forth just like my moods did, although it took a bit longer for my weight to stop than my moods. The yo-yoing that my weight had done was very subtle, and only I, who was weighing myself several times a day could see the fluctuations, usually five to ten pounds gained or lost. Despite not memorizing them, I would also have the "classic" habit of looking carefully over the nutrition facts on whatever food I could. I want to ensure that I knew exactly how much fat, sugar, and sodium was going into my system as well as how many calories I had been consuming,
Through a dynamic and challenging combination of both dialectical behavioral therapy (DBT) and talk therapy, I was able to rewire my cognitive thought processes. To be completely honest though, the thing that brought me to recovery all in all was our great chemistry; we understood each other and it was far from boring. I'd bring in weekly mood trackers at her request and it felt so good every time I got to note "Purging: No" (I did eventually purge) partially because I knew she would be pleased. It was challenging. Birthday cake was my worst enemy, but I pushed through. That's not to say that I didn't give into the urges sometimes though. Sacha reassured me that it was okay if I did so, that it took time, and I had to believe that myself.
Earlier today, on Christmas afternoon, I ate that same meal: roast beef, Yorkshire puddings (popovers made of egg), mashed potatoes, green beans, and trifle, and didn't bring it back up. I know I should be proud of that, and so, I am. Because, unlike the bipolar, there are no meds that directly treat eating disorders (although Prozac has been proven to be helpful in some cases, even though I'm on Lamictal instead). It takes pure "brain training" gone cold turkey. The strength it takes to not be scared is greater than words could even begin to describe. When I ate sushi (my favorite food) for the first time in May since recovery, it was the greatest feeling to have it be "My Favorite Food" instead of "Uncontrolled Food" where you either don't eat it at all OR you eat and then bring it back up.
Today, I got new bras that were a size 32B. (which is big proportionally for me) and I told myself I was okay with it. I was a woman of 17 now and I had to learn how not only to be okay with it, but to take pride in it, just like I had to do with my bisexuality. I looked in the mirror with one of them on and shooed The Eating Disorder Fairy away, so she could not morph the image in the mirror any longer. There it all was: my body, my G-tube incision hole included. I repeated a poem called "I Know Girls (Bodylove)" which I plan to get tattooed around the hole.
I still keep in touch with Sacha via E-mail (and the rare phone call) by her request and my delight because. I can't wait to tell her about my feat on Christmas. I think one of the biggest things that Sacha taught me indirectly was this quote from an unknown source: "You are beautifully and wonderfully made." Eating disorder recovery is not about eating food; it is about realizing the truth in that quote. That's what I am learning each day. I am up to 80-something pounds now, the biggest I've ever been and I am trying to tell myself that this is a good thing. That my body deserves to be what it wants and needs to be and that I am NOT defined by a number.
Walking into a cafeteria could pass for a "Was that just a nightmare?" moment. The bathroom is your worst enemy; the home of things that like to trick you into thinking you need to have more of the "control" you think scales and toilets give you. A sense of false security, false control, and inconsistent and unreliable management flood the room. It is the most bittersweet feeling ever every time you eject physical and differentiated mental repulsiveness from your body. You don't even know why you do it. An ounce is five pounds and a pound is more like fifty. The question "What do you want to eat?" has you in a dizzy spell. A panic attack. A stream of thoughts that scream, "I don't even want to eat anything ever again." You feel as if each bite you took brings a puppy closer and closer to death. Now imagine seeing an empty plate and thinking, "Oh no. Did I just kill a puppy??" so sometimes, you don't eat at all. Other times, you "go at" food like Superman. Dashing around, your voice quivers: "Can I have more food please?" for the seventh time in a row. They get so sick of it that they just stick the box of cookies right in your face. Control goes down to zero percent as you eat 20 cookies in 10 minutes. You feel shame and chocolate now tastes vaguely like salt because of tears. You can't believe you're doing this. That's what "food guilt" is like for someone with an eating disorder. The guilt overwhelms you, consumes you. It's eating you alive. That's what an eating disorder is: food is metaphorically "eating you," but you have to get healthy thoughts into your brain to stop this in order to physically eat it. You have to find some relief and you resort back to your demon. You fear that there's always that awful chance that you'll start to forever etch vomit onto the teeth that will not be coated with enamel anymore.
You wonder if you'll have to go to the emergency room one day because something happened because your electrolytic balance was out-of-wack and they'll have you drink shitloads of Gatorade. You have nightmares about it even. Yet, you don't listen to those fears, you don't listen to the risks because you have an even more intense fear.
That fear consists of two little words that contain a whole heap of other words. Gaining weight. Gaining weight feeds a sense of, "I don't have any:"
1) control
2) self-worth
3) discipline
4) self-respect
5) chance of ever getting laid
First off, before I spout off on my personal eating disorder story, let's clear the air on what the term "eating disorder" actually means from a "shrink's standpoint" so to speak. I've created my own general criteria (they all have their own set of criteria) for any eating disorder besides pica (restricting or binge-purge type) anorexia, bulimia, binge eating disorder, rumination disorder, EDNOS) is defined by all of the following:
A. A marked disturbance or overall change in behaviors, habits, or patterns regarding eating
B. The disturbance directly correlates to an underlying disturbance and distortion in the way body weight is perceived and the patient will have an intense fear of gaining weight (i.e. the patient will claim they are overweight when severely emaciated, etc) and/or the disturbance directly correlates with an underlying emotional problem
C. The disturbance in eating stated in criterium (A) is taken on in the form of a maladaptive coping mechanism as an attempt to alleviate the underlying issues or body image disturbance stated in criterium (B)
D. The disturbance in eating is detrimental or potentially detrimental to the patient's physical health in one or more ways
E. The patient's desire to engage in these disturbed eating patterns is compulsive and it is difficult to control urges to engage in the disturbed eating patterns, especially when in distress.
F. The patient engages in these behaviors on at least somewhat of a regular basis.
So, now that we've established that, I will give you some history:
I was severely "palsy skinny" growing up. I was 38 pounds at 11 years old and you could see my ribcage. "Is she eating enough???" people would say cluelessly, not knowing that I just happened to have this physique by nature. Their concern had gotten so ludicrous and unduly that they had me get a gastronomy tube inserted into my stomach. I still have the hole: a daily reminder of the unintentional emotional abuse they had put me through. Memories of me puking up the surplus of formula that they endlessly badgered my parents to put in there still hauntingly pervade my brain. The "tubey" as I childishly called it from preschool to second grade was thick and long and came out of my stomach like I was a fucking machine. Lines marking the ounces were filled up to the brim with PediaSure. I desperately wanted to ask for a lower "dosage" of fornula, but I knew being the precocious little girl that I was, that I would be much less of a force in that aspect of my life and would unfortunately and inaccurately be perceived as the obstinate child who refused to eat. We stopped the G-tube at eight when it fell out of its hole again. People still continued to overanalyze and micromanaged and constantly reminded my parents I was well off the growth charts. I was ordered to drink Ensures multiple times a day. (I heavily advocated for the chocolate ones as I remember) and power bars (also chocolate-flavored to lessen the formulaic taste) That was Step One in people "crafting" my eating disorder.
My mother had always been a bit of a foodie and her recipes were definitely not geared towards picky eaters, that's for sure! My twin sister and I had bowls of curry placed in front of us at three years old. (she put little dollops of sour cream at that age to lessen the spice that is to say, which she also weened us off of) We can remember us eating the whole complementary jar of hot peppers in one go at a local restaurant. Julia Child's famous recipe for boeuf bourguignon and salads filled with berries, prosciutto, various gourmet cheeses, and artichoke hearts dressed with balsamic vinegrette and blueberry honey were part of our diet; and I was proud that I ate well.
Around eighth grade or so, I started to gain weight and my weight "rocketed" up to the mid 40s into the mid 50s. I gladly weened myself off of the Ensures and power bars and started to eat like a "normal" kid. I ate well and healthy, yet I always had a bit of a sweet tooth. My mum got a job as a pastry chef at a fine dining restaurant when I was in seventh grade. (she's always been a Jack of Many Trades) I was given chocolate seduction cake on a regular basis and cleaned my plate and licked the fork every time. I was now criticized on the speed of which I ate: "Wow! You ate that like a vacuum cleaner." I was now perceived as "the girl who ate SO much" People commented on how they could never get enough food in me. I, who was normally called "light as a feather" had apparently morphed into a "ton of bricks." Step Two had now been instigated.
Sophomore year came around and the visibility of my bones had vanished; I started developing baby fat and "chunk" and chub in my thighs and stomach and was no longer looked at as a "fairy" or a "stick" or "as skinny as a rail" by me or anyone else for that matter. Those chocolate brown French Connection pants made of velvet and embroidered with jewels had no longer buttoned without sucking my bulging belly in. My thighs were incased in the pant legs and to me, they looked like sausages or butternut squashes. I thought I had begun to look like the bear on the packages of Teddy Grahams. I didn't think I was downright fat per se, just chubby. I was 68 pounds, still numerically emaciated technically, but not physiologically speaking. That made me sad. I suppose I should've been slightly more excited considering the fact that this meant that I could fit into double-zeros and XS sizes at stores for hip young women, which I had wanted for years. Bebe and Arden B. now fit me and I could rock it. I've always been very into fashion, starting at a very young age when my mother owned a trendy boutique. I should've been grateful; I finally got to wear the clothes that I wanted to wear. Yet, I wasn't, because I wanted to be a stick.
Curves confused, overwhelmed, and upset me to say the least. I thought I would be Audrey Hepburn when I grew up, not Marilyn Monroe. My pipe cleaner sides became womanly waves and my breasts connected like a wide boombox. The women I was close to in my life, meaning my mother, grandmother, and two 30-something year old best friends, Erica and Heather commented on how I was blessed to have large breasts and my mind couldn't really decide if it liked hearing that or not, or in other words, if it agreed.
All this internal conversation was going on and I still got comments about the way I ate, much to my dismay. This, unlike my moods (I also have bipolar disorder) were thought patterns that I could hide; I was a pretty good actress in my perception of my body and how much food I had consumed. People had no clue about how immense prandial guilt was surging through my mind, making it sick, and too ill to handle or manage on my own eventually.
My junior year, about a year ago from now, I had a nervous breakdown. My unpredictable moods and bad relationship with food and my body as well as my self-harm and panic attacks had finally made me crack, break, falter, flounder, and crumble. I had reached the end of my rope and could not cope, take it, or have the will to participate in society. I was depressed beyond belief to put it mildly. The final trigger (the last straw in English!) happened to be about food after academic pressures contributed as well. I was eating one of the Christmas cookies we had made in math class for the Holidays. My math teacher apparently felt compelled to say that I had inhaled the cookie. It was that moment that my soul had collapsed. The third and final step had been put into place. I went to the bathroom sobbing and didn't care anymore that people would find out and I tried to purge after two years of urges. I failed.
The next day was the start of Christmas vacation. After Christmas dinner, guilt was gulping me down its windpipe. I got down on all fours, bruised my knees, and tried and failed. Again. I sat down on the cold bathroom floor in utter defeat and misery. My makeup came off from my endless crying and gave what my dad and I call "Courtney Love eyes." The thought of the Yorkshire puddings and trifle going through my system made me absolutely, mentally and physically ill.
The break was over and as soon as I got to school and 7:35am, I forcefully pressed the handicap button to the restroom, wheeled like Speedy Gonzalez into the stall, unbuckled my seatbelt, and tried and failed, yes, yet again. My math teacher had found me, got me to come out of the stall, cupped my face in her hands, looked me dead in the eyes, and said, "You need serious help, young lady. You've been needing it for a while, haven't you?" I nodded slowly, and soon enough, I was at the local counseling center. I knew my life would never be the same after the visit.
Howie, the on-call person, was a very warm man who was easy to talk to and polite. He asked me why I was there. I decided to keep it short and sweet until I met my actual therapist. I simply told him I was there because the guidance counselor called over after my teacher found me trying to purge. As he jotted the info down on his notepad, I decided to elaborate a bit more and I explained that I had been depressed for a little under two weeks or so. He asked me some questions and I answered honestly. We then went back to discussing the eating disordered thought patterns. He chuckled and said, "But why? You're skinny!" I explained the history in short and also added in another component: control. I use it to control my life. He seemed to understand a fair amount and that made me feel good for a little bit. But there were other things I didn't tell him that I would only tell my future therapist. Things like how I was a perfectionist or that this was a way of coping with a broken heart from two years ago because my first love was anorexic or the fact that I was a dancer.
Two and a half weeks later, I met my therapist, Sacha, who I would work with for a total of seven months before I moved away to boarding school. In all honesty, Sacha would become one of the people who would shape me into the person I am today. I could tell she wanted to help, she was going to, and she was absolutely brilliant at her job.
My weight had a bad habit of yo-yoing back-and-forth just like my moods did, although it took a bit longer for my weight to stop than my moods. The yo-yoing that my weight had done was very subtle, and only I, who was weighing myself several times a day could see the fluctuations, usually five to ten pounds gained or lost. Despite not memorizing them, I would also have the "classic" habit of looking carefully over the nutrition facts on whatever food I could. I want to ensure that I knew exactly how much fat, sugar, and sodium was going into my system as well as how many calories I had been consuming,
Through a dynamic and challenging combination of both dialectical behavioral therapy (DBT) and talk therapy, I was able to rewire my cognitive thought processes. To be completely honest though, the thing that brought me to recovery all in all was our great chemistry; we understood each other and it was far from boring. I'd bring in weekly mood trackers at her request and it felt so good every time I got to note "Purging: No" (I did eventually purge) partially because I knew she would be pleased. It was challenging. Birthday cake was my worst enemy, but I pushed through. That's not to say that I didn't give into the urges sometimes though. Sacha reassured me that it was okay if I did so, that it took time, and I had to believe that myself.
Earlier today, on Christmas afternoon, I ate that same meal: roast beef, Yorkshire puddings (popovers made of egg), mashed potatoes, green beans, and trifle, and didn't bring it back up. I know I should be proud of that, and so, I am. Because, unlike the bipolar, there are no meds that directly treat eating disorders (although Prozac has been proven to be helpful in some cases, even though I'm on Lamictal instead). It takes pure "brain training" gone cold turkey. The strength it takes to not be scared is greater than words could even begin to describe. When I ate sushi (my favorite food) for the first time in May since recovery, it was the greatest feeling to have it be "My Favorite Food" instead of "Uncontrolled Food" where you either don't eat it at all OR you eat and then bring it back up.
Today, I got new bras that were a size 32B. (which is big proportionally for me) and I told myself I was okay with it. I was a woman of 17 now and I had to learn how not only to be okay with it, but to take pride in it, just like I had to do with my bisexuality. I looked in the mirror with one of them on and shooed The Eating Disorder Fairy away, so she could not morph the image in the mirror any longer. There it all was: my body, my G-tube incision hole included. I repeated a poem called "I Know Girls (Bodylove)" which I plan to get tattooed around the hole.
I still keep in touch with Sacha via E-mail (and the rare phone call) by her request and my delight because. I can't wait to tell her about my feat on Christmas. I think one of the biggest things that Sacha taught me indirectly was this quote from an unknown source: "You are beautifully and wonderfully made." Eating disorder recovery is not about eating food; it is about realizing the truth in that quote. That's what I am learning each day. I am up to 80-something pounds now, the biggest I've ever been and I am trying to tell myself that this is a good thing. That my body deserves to be what it wants and needs to be and that I am NOT defined by a number.
I know girls who are trying to fit into the social norms like squeezing in last year’s prom dress.
I know girls who are low-rise, Mac eyeshadow, and binge-drinking.
I know girls who wonder if they’re a disaster and sexy enough to fit in.
I know girls who are flinging bombs from the mosques of their skin.fallible
Playing Russian Roulette with death is never easy to accept when our bodies are and flawed.
But when do we draw the line?
When the knife hits the skin, isn’t that the same thing as purging?
We’re so obsessed with death.
Some women just have more guts than others.
Girls like us don’t shoot; we swallow pills.
Still wanting to be beautiful at the morgue.
Still hoping that the mortician finds us attractive.
We may as well be buried in our shoes and handbags and scarves.
Girls, we flirt with death every time we etch a new tally mark into our skin.
I know how to slit my wrist to reveal a battlefield too, but the time has come for us to reclaim our bodies.
Our bodies deserve more than to be war-torn in collateral offering.
This kingdom is a pathetic means to say, “I only know how to exist when I am wanted!”
Girls like us are hardly ever wanted.
We’re used up and sad and drunk and perpetually waiting by the phone for someone to pick up and tell us that we did good.
We did good.
I know I am because I said I am.
I know I am because I said I am.
My body is home.
My body is home.
I know I am because I said I am.
I know I am because I said I am.
I know I am because I said I am.
My body is home.
My body is home.
Try this:
Take your hands over your bumpy lovebody naked and remember the first time you touched someone with the sole purpose of learning all of them.
Touch them because the light was pretty on them and the dust and the sunlight danced the way your heart did.
Touch yourself with a purpose.
Your body is the most beautiful royal.
Fathers and uncles are not claiming your knife anymore.
They are not your razor.
Now put the sharpness back.
Lay your hands flat and feel the surface of scarred skin.
I once touched a tree with charred limbs.
The stump was still breathing, but the tops were just ashy remains.
And sometimes, I wonder what it’s like to come back from that.
Sometimes, I feel forest fires errupting from my wrists.
The smoke signals send out the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.
Love your body the way your mother loved your baby feet and remember that this is important.
You are worth more than who you attract.
You are worth more than a waistline.
You are worth more than beer bottles displayed like drunken artifacts.
You are worth more than any naked body could proclaim.
More than anyone in the shadows.
More than a man’s whim or your father’s mistake
You are no less valuable as a size 16 than a size 4.
You are no less valuable as a 32a than a 36c.
Your sexiness is defined by concentric circles within your wood.
It is wisdom that you are a tree stump with leaves sprouting out; reborn.
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