onceafatgirl

Peace is better than chocolate

Archive for the category “Inspiration”

28 Oct 2012

What do you get when you cross an oven with a mountain?

I started out writing this post a couple of days ago, but since then, I have become aware of something that has changed everything. I was given some insight into how I operate and how it affects my life. I’m having a hard time processing it. So I wrote this rather mixed up post with two analogies that don’t go together. The kind of thing only Shakespeare can get away with. And it turns out he’s dead. But bear with me. It’s at least short and ends with an interesting point…
On Friday, I started out writing about how I deal with relationships by trying to “do it right”. I used cute cooking analogies. I explained that how you cook something affects the result you get. If you cook at a high temperature for a short time, you get a different result than if you cook at a low temperature for a long time. Pan searing versus slow roasting. But that I had come to the realization that I was wrong thinking I could “do it right” when it came to relationships. That unlike food, people are autonomous. And that, as a good friend reminds me, I am only 50% of any relationship. So I was about to declare to you that I was going to give up trying to do it right in relationships. That I was going to start living like I couldn’t do it wrong.
Ok. Now that I have a little more clarity about my MO, let me give you a better analogy about the way I have been viewing relationships. I have been living like sad loneliness is all around, everywhere. And love is the very peak of a colossal mountain with dangerous terrain. That in order to love and be loved I am going to have to scale this mountain. I’ll have to be at the top of my game, in perfect physical and emotional shape, and even then, one false move and I could lose my footing, lose everything, and end up right back at the foot of the mountain. Or I could climb and climb forever and never reach the peak. There is only the peak, or sad loneliness. The journey will be treacherous. There is no room for error or a lack of focus. And my success, as well as my ability to succeed is doubtful.
So here is what a friend pointed out to me. That all of this caution, all of this tentativeness and focus and “doing it right” is doing it wrong. Because it’s dishonest. It’s inauthentic. It’s a manipulation. Because I am doing my best to be what I think I should be in order to be loved by this one, instead of just being who I am and finding the one who wants to love me. Because I’m so worried about not getting rejected, that I fail to notice that I’m not actually getting loved.
So let’s go back to my cooking analogy. I’m going to say that I was wrong about being wrong about doing it right. (No, it’s ok. Feel free to take a minute to diagram that sentence if you need to…I’ll wait.) I have been wanting something to come out slow roasted. But I have been unwilling to stand in the heat of an uncomfortable kitchen. So I’ve been pan searing it. And I have been pain-staking about pan searing it exactly right. But in the end, it still comes out pan seared. And that’s not what I want. So it’s time to turn off the stove top, turn on the oven and heat up the house.
I’m trying to remember that it might not come out right at first. That it might take a few tries before I get the dish I want. But at least I’m on the right track now…
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20 Oct 2012

Resistance is futile. And drama is a lame a** drug.

I don’t have particularly high hopes of being coherent in this post. I am having a hard time unraveling my thoughts and feelings. A lot has been going on this week. In my life and in my head. But I’ll do my best for you.
Last week I distinguished that even eating within my boundaries, I had some foods that I was using to “make it ok” that I am lonely. And realized this because I limited the amount I eat of those foods, as per the recommendation of a friend who helps me set my food boundaries. But I was fighting it. Resisting. Being a brat. I don’t mean that I hadn’t been staying within my new boundaries once they were set. I am talking about my attitude.
This week I decided to stop resisting. I decided to stop fighting this change of my food boundaries.  I decided to surrender to less food. And specifically less of my comfort foods.
Resisting, and the drama that comes with resisting, is another way I “make things ok”. I get to be a victim so it’s not my fault. And I get to be angry at life and the world. And I get to forget that my life is my responsibility. Or at least pretend that it’s not. But more importantly, I get to wrap myself up in a big spectacle so I don’t have to feel my actual feelings. Or investigate the truth of them.
So when I gave up my comfort food and the drama of resisting, when I surrendered, I was left with some enormous, scary feelings. Overwhelming feelings about my worth. And my wholeness. Feelings from before I had words for them.
These feelings are the reason I want to make it ok that I am lonely.  After all, who would want to be ok with that kind of pain? Unless the alternative were worse.
Here’s where it starts to get mishmashed and confusing in my head and heart. I am positive that no one will ever love me. Nor will anyone ever want my love. This is the context of my life. My primary conviction. (That is not me being dramatic. It really is how I see myself.) But I am terrified to actually test this out. Try to prove it wrong. Because I am afraid that it is true. And that I will just end up proving it right. I am afraid of finding out beyond a doubt that my love is worthless and that I lack the capacity to inspire love. And somehow it’s like if I never push too hard or too far, if I never seek or ask or request, if I can just live with being lonely, then I will never have to know if I am unlovable. I am 35 years old and I have never had a boyfriend. I’m beautiful. And smart. And funny. And I am not shy. At all. So why? Why have I been alone my whole life? Is it because I believe that I am unlovable? Or is it because I actually am unlovable?  And if I do decide to risk my heart, how do I learn to accept rejection without believing that it ultimately reiterates the point that I cannot be loved. That I’m broken.
Yes. I can understand why the girl I was ate herself to 300 lbs. It was easier to eat those feelings than to feel them. It was easier to smoke them. It was easier to eat a vat of deep-fried onions once a week than to have to ask myself if I’m willing to put my sensitive heart on the line. And maybe find out that there is something fundamentally wrong with me. Yes, I can see why I have been willing to do anything and everything to make it ok that I am lonely.
But there have been other things in my life that I thought were undeniable truths too. And I was wrong about them. I thought my body was broken. I thought I was fat and could never be thin. I thought I could never stop eating compulsively. And I was afraid to give up sugar. I was afraid to put boundaries around my eating. But I did it. And it didn’t matter that I had held those beliefs about my body and my self-control for twenty-something years. The fact hat I was willing to do something different, even though it was terrifying, and excruciating and left me feeling vulnerable, changed the way those beliefs manifested in my life. Yes, I had to work through those issues. And I had to feel a lot of pain, instead of numbing it. And no, that thinking will never fully go away. After all, it’s why I write this blog. But they are not truths anymore. Now they are irksome thought processes. I can distinguish them. And they don’t get a vote when it comes to my eating and my body. I never, in a million years, thought I would be able to control my eating. But today I don’t have to eat compulsively. So I guess anything is possible.
I took some actions this week. In spite of my fear. I just thought you should know.
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13 Oct 2012
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Love, hold the onions

I wrote my first entry for what would become this blog on January 2nd of this year. I didn’t know at the time that it would become “Onceafatgirl.” (Or maybe I did somewhere in my heart.) But it was the 6th Anniversary of having my eating under control. And I was still thinking and living as if I were walking around in a 300 lb body. Growing up with food issues can mess with your head. Once a fat girl, always a fat girl. No matter what you look like on the outside. And I knew that it was time to let go of thoughts, feelings, and beliefs that had become obsolete.

And so far, this has been a year of healing and spiritual growth. Writing this blog has been a gift to me. What I wanted most was to be willing to take risks with my heart. I had always kept my life small. Been highly risk averse. Unwilling to risk rejection. Or humiliation. Especially in romance. And that kept me lonely. So here I am. For 10 months I have been telling you my dark secrets and painful truths. I keep my self-censorship to a minimum. I keep it honest. I make it intimate.

And when it comes to men and romance, I did, indeed, take a few risks. I am proud of myself. But instead of getting bolder and more sure of myself, instead of letting each risk be a reference to the fact that I survived it, I started out bold and got more and more timid. I started to get scared. I started to doubt.

And then BOOM! All of a sudden I find myself back where I was in January. Feeling small. Feeling my life constrict around me. Feeling lonely and ashamed. Unlovable. Unworthy. Burdensome. Broken.

And this has come up again now because I had to give up some food. And some serious fat girl issues got unearthed. Yes, even though I have maintained strict boundaries around food and my eating for over six and a half years.

See, what occurs to me is maybe a giant plate of deep-fried onions once or twice a week made it ok that I was lonely. And when that got taken away suddenly I was still lonely but I didn’t have the onions anymore to make it ok. So of course I just wanted my onions back. But maybe if I think about it, I don’t want them back. Maybe I should stop wanting things that make it ok that I’m lonely. And maybe I should stop finding ways to be ok with being lonely. Maybe I don’t want onions. Maybe I want love.

What I’m saying might not make sense to you. Maybe you have spent your life knowing that you deserve love. And maybe you have never put something between you and your fellow human beings. But food was my best friend and my lover for the first 28 years of my life. And then even in the past 6+ years, with strict boundaries around my food, I allowed it to be my comfort. And as soon as my comfort food was taken away, I felt vulnerable. Shamed. Punished. Growing up, food was how I convinced myself that I could survive without love. But it was also the reason I felt like I would never be loved.

There is something I am noted for in my work life. “Quality information.” I can be counted on to give it, and I am always grateful to receive it. But that is not true of me with men. With romance I always want to avoid information. Or at least keep the information I seek irrelevant. I never want to look at the truth. It’s too scary! Because I am absolutely positive that no man will ever be interested in me. That has been something I have “known” for as long as I can remember. So I don’t seek quality information. I don’t ask the relevant questions. I just answer the questions myself. Always with the answer that I am most afraid of. Always telling myself that no man is interested in me. You would think I would just ask them! When I answer for them, I never stand a chance.

It’s almost like when I was fat and I would make a fat joke about myself before someone else would do it. I’m rejecting myself on every man’s behalf first. I won’t give them the satisfaction.

Which just goes to show how warped I am. I’m not interested in jerks. I don’t like arrogant or obnoxious human beings at all. And certainly not to date. If I like a man, it’s safe to say that rejecting me would not bring him satisfaction.

I know that fear of humiliation is part of being human. It doesn’t make me different or special. And when I am paralysed with fear of rejection, it’s because I’m thinking that I have something to lose. Maybe I do. But I need to stop aching. And crying. So let’s try this again. I want to take risks with my heart. This time without giant plates of deep-fried onions.

I call a do-over. Starting…now.

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06 Oct 2012

I won’t stop being a brat and you can’t make me

So my weight gain has continued. And this time I gained a whopping 10 lbs in one month. I have now gained 22 lbs since I quit smoking. And I can’t stop crying. I really can’t stop. I’m crying right now. I cry during my morning meditation. I cry on the subway. I cry at work when nobody is looking. I cry sitting home reading. I cried while I was out having coffee with a friend. I have been puffy and red and totally dehydrated for days.
First, I hate my body. Hate it. The sight of it in the mirror makes me break down immediately. And I am deeply resentful that I have gained all of this weight without eating compulsively. I have not eaten sugar. I have not broken my food boundaries. I have not done anything “wrong.” And here I am 22 lbs heavier.
And then something even more devastating happened to me. My food quantities changed. Got smaller. Because I have gained so much weight. And I feel punished. And deprived. I feel unloved. Unacknowledged. Unappreciated. And totally powerless.
Let me note that I don’t “have to” accept these changes in my food. I buy my own food. I cook my own food. It is my responsibility to deal with my food. But there is a woman in my life that helps me make decisions about my food. I requested this help. And I have agreed to take her suggestions. I took her suggestion when she told me to eat more food because I was dropping weight quickly. And her suggestion now that I am continuing to gain weight, is for me to eat less of certain vegetables. And to eat less food in general.
This is rational. It makes sense. Obviously, if I have gained 22 lbs since I quit smoking, my metabolism has slowed way down. And since this is the case, my body doesn’t need as much food anymore.
But, of course, the vegetables I get less of are my favorites. Winter squash. Carrots. And onions! Losing my giant plates of deep fried onions is a huge blow. The idea of a portion a fraction of the size I have been eating for years makes me nauseous. (Literally. That is not an exaggeration.) It makes the thought of them repugnant to me. It ruins all of my joy in anticipating them. As of right now, I am sure I will never eat them again.
And this attitude is embarrassing to admit. Because what an obnoxious brat I’m being! If I can’t have it the way I want, I won’t have it at all! As if anyone cares if I don’t eat my favorite food anymore. As if it’s a punishment to anyone else. But I’m so hurt that I really don’t want my favorite foods. I am actually not enjoying my meals. Which is saying something, since I’m a compulsive eater and food addict.
I have never had this happen to me before. Hating my food. Being resentful of my food. Since I stopped eating compulsively, I have always been grateful. I have been mostly grateful that my eating has been under control and not running or ruining my life. But also, my food has always been delicious. And felt abundant. But then, it has always been abundant. In fact, in 6+ years, the only way my food boundaries ever changed was that I was given more. I have been used to eating huge quantities of food just to maintain a small body. I was unprepared for my food to be reduced. I haven’t been this emotional about food since I first gave up sugar and put boundaries around my eating years ago.
Maybe my food is still abundant and I’m just blinded by the fact that it is now less. I can’t tell.
And I am sorry I never realized I was skinny until I stopped being skinny. It is apparently true that you don’t know what you got ’til it’s gone. I wish I had noticed that at 131- 133 lbs. I was a little thing. But once a fat girl, always a fat girl. At least in my own mind.
Now I weigh 154.4. I’m writing it for you because I don’t want to. I’m admitting it because it’s humiliating to admit it. And I don’t want to run from the truth.
And also, this crying and overwhelming sadness was triggered by having my food reduced, but it’s not about food. This sadness, whatever it is, is old. It’s big and deep. The tears are fat and hot. The crying makes me convulse. It hurts to breathe. The pain in me is bigger than me. Like an undetectable extension charm in Harry Potter or a bag of holding in Dungeons & Dragons. (Oh yeah. I’m a total nerd.) This pain is the same pain I had when I was 4 years old and I lay crying in my bed, and I said to God, “If this doesn’t get any easier, I’m not going to be able to do it.”
And that’s how I feel. I can’t do this, God. If you don’t make it stop I’m going to…
What, Kate? What are you going to do?
I’m like a defiant 8-year-old. I’m full of empty threats. I’ll run away. I’ll stop loving you! Or worse yet, real threats. I’ll hurt myself!
But there is a message I keep getting. Over and over. That this is my transition. Into womanhood. This might seem silly to you since I am 35. But I have been fighting growing up at every turn for my whole life. And since I got my food under control, I have been living the life of the girl I never got to be when I was actually a girl.
But I quit smoking because I wanted to grow up. And it has not escaped my notice that the weight that I have gained from this particular act of growing up has gone to my breasts, hips, thighs and belly. That it has made me curvy more than anything. Womanly. That’s the word people keep using. Womanly.
Maybe these are my last moments as a child. This bratty refusal to accept changes in my life, my body and my food with grace. And trust that God, Life and the Universe are preparing something beautiful for me. Or maybe this is limbo where that desperately terrified 4-year-old girl is in the process of passing that overwhelming pain to that grown woman who is brave and strong. The grown woman who can feel the pain without being destroyed by it. Because she has peace and love. Because she is a woman.
Because when I realize that I have no ultimatum, no leverage against God and Life, I know that I can, indeed, handle the pain. And the uncertainty. And it’s even ok if I am not willing to be graceful yet. If I insist on being a brat. I know me. I’ll give it up eventually. I’ll chose peace in the end. It’s just the kind of girl I am. And maybe it’s the kind of woman I am. And I just haven’t realized it yet…
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28 Sep 2012

Does Lady Gaga understand that revolutions are complicated?…and usually bloody…

I really thought I was gonna stay away from talking about Lady Gaga, and stick with my own story. But it was either this or talk about how my love is a burden and no one is ever going to want it…So Lady Gaga it is!

If you don’t already know, Lady Gaga has come out about struggling with anorexia and bulimia since she was 15. She said she did it to “inspire bravery. and BREED some m$therf—ing COMPASSION.” She wants to start a “Body Revolution” of self acceptance.

Um…Yay? I feel like I should be psyched. Because she’s bringing light to the conversation I want to bring into the light. So why does it feel so yucky to me? Am I really jealous of a superstar? Not for her money, fame, or status, but because she has a built in audience and she’s talking about “my thing”? Really, Kate?
Or is it maybe that she posted “fat” (?) pictures of herself in her underwear and she doesn’t have a single stretch mark, while I am covered in them. And she does have a flat stomach, while I have a big round belly and flaps of skin that embarrass me. Maybe it’s because I look at her stick-it-to-the-man, 25 lbs-heavier-than-her-usual-Hollywood-standard photos and note that her body is still so much closer to the American standard of beauty than my own. And really, is still within the perimeter of that standard. Maybe blurs the edges. But just barely. And that made me feel even worse about myself. When I have already been dealing with my body image issues for weeks. If Lady Gaga’s “fat” body isn’t good enough, mine is a disgusting blob of ugly. Who would ever love that?
Yes I understand that she was feeling shamed by the media for gaining 25 lbs. And that she was making a point. I am willing to believe that it was meant as an act of bravery. Defiance of “the system.” And yes, I think it is gross, wrong, and even evil to express opinions about another person’s body. Even if you are in the media and she is in the public eye. Yes, I know she’s there by choice. It doesn’t matter to me. She’s a human being. That body is her only vehicle. And it belongs to her alone. It should be respected.
But I have a hard time forgetting that her practically naked image has been shaming women for years. Regular women in regular bodies. Me, by the way. She has been shaming me. Hasn’t she been selling skinny as sexy for the past several years? Am I supposed to forget that she has been part of the money-making, ideal-woman-image machine? She is certainly a victim. I won’t begrudge her that. But isn’t she also a perpetrator?
Or maybe I’m feeling jealous and yucky because she’s selling a “quick fix” to an issue that has complicated my entire life. Not only is she talking about my issue, but she’s totally half-assing it.
Does she really think we can just “out” our perceived body flaws and as a human collective we will stop judging one another? And stop hating ourselves? Will we also stop photoshopping the hell out of women in ads to sell an impossible image? And will we stop buying that image? And stop buying it for our daughters? Will we join hands around the world and sing “What the World Needs Now Is Love” too?
And will Lady Gaga declare that her body is beautiful exactly the way it is and be able to believe it? I mean really believe it. Will she stop starving herself (if she does that)? Will she stop making herself throw up (if she does that)? My point is, she’s claiming some serious eating and body disorders. So whatever her issues are, will she stop engaging in the behaviors that make up her personal brand of disordered eating? And will she be able to share that with her community so that they can find some relief? And peace?
I know that eating disorders are no joke. I know that anorexics and bulimics suffer. And that must include Lady Gaga, for all of her money and fame. That it is not about what one looks like on the outside. Or what one has. Or has accomplished. I know that eating disorders are equal opportunity destroyers. That it is the head and heart that go crazy. I know the kind of self-hatred that you have to experience to torture yourself with food. And starvation. And all of the other awful things there are to do to oneself. I know because I have tried a bunch of them personally. And that in many ways, it is this kind of eating disorder that is more damaging than run of the mill, get fat, compulsive eating/binge eating.
At least it was for me. Being fat was hard. Not being able to stop eating was deeply humiliating. And living in a big body was shameful and exhausting. But the exhaustion of the body was nothing compared to the exhaustion of acting on the whims of the bulimic girl in my head. The scheming and worrying. The hiding. I lived in constant action and panic. It was imperative that nobody should ever find out my secret. That I am a fat girl. That I have no will power. That I can’t stop eating. That I am unworthy of love and I will never be good enough. That I am an utter and detestable failure as a human being. My fat girl let it all be out in the open. But my bulimic girl wanted to hide it. She would go to any lengths. To her, my life was a lie, and every day I lived in a socially acceptable body was one more day she managed to fool the world into thinking I had any value as a person.
I have had my eating, as well as my eating disorders, under control for over six years now. I have more peace and freedom than I ever had in my life. My worst day living within my food boundaries is better than my best day with no boundaries and my eating out of control. But none of it is solved for me. I have to cultivate it. I have to honor myself every day. I have to have integrity in my life. I have to have integrity around eating. It remains intensely complicated in spite of all that I have accomplished around peace, self-love and food.
Yes I had to learn to love myself so that I could get some peace and love around my food and my body. But part of that love is in actions of self-care and honor. Actions! Every single day! And it’s still f*cking hard to love myself!
So yes. Declare your self-love to the world. Yes, out yourself for your stretch marks. Or that your breasts are two different sizes. Or that your thighs rub together. Or that you make yourself throw up your food. But what are you going to do to take care of yourself? What are you going to do to hold the demons at bay every day? What are you going to do to not fall into the hole of punishment and torture and despair? How are you going to let go of self-hatred? Because that f*cker is sneaky. And regardless of where it originates, it does not live outside of the self. As much as I would like to blame the beauty and fashion industries. Advertising and society. Self-hatred lives in the boys and girls (men and women) who are taking drastic, dangerous, and harmful actions just to feel worthy of showing up in the world.
I really don’t want to be a hater. But I’m angry. Because today’s publicity opp is not going to stop anorexia and bulimia from living on in actual human beings (who don’t have millions of fans). I want to know what comes next for them. What do you say to the girl who wants to love herself, but can’t. And feels like a failure? And are you willing to be honest about the actual struggle? Because it’s hard to be honest about the actual struggle, Lady Gaga! It can be deeply embarrassing. And shockingly unglamourous. I know. I’ve been doing it for about 10 months. And it’s scary!
I will say that I am grateful that somebody has brought about a call for self-acceptance and love. But I would like it to be a responsible, empowering, honest call. Maybe sh*t’s about to get real. But I think I could handle that. I could be on board. In fact, if that’s the case, I say Viva la Revolucion!
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15 Sep 2012

Even the angry, destructive side of me likes sexy pants

I have multiple eating disorders, hence I have a whole cast of messed up characters that live in my head when it comes to food, eating, my body, and my emotional life.

I talk a lot about my fat girl. She’s relatively easy for me to talk about. She’s lived in my head for almost the longest. (The girl who is a burden has lived in my head the absolute longest. We’re not going there today…) And in many ways, I think my fat girl is the easiest for you to process and handle (unless you have an eating disorder of your own). She’s sad and a coward. She couldn’t stop eating. She hopes I’ll go back to being a coward so she can have her cake back. That’s about the extent of her. Don’t get me wrong. She’d kill me if she got the chance. But it would be a slow death. Diabetes and heart disease. Death by chocolate, if you will. Which I bet sounds great to you if it’s not actually a possibility for you like it is for me.

But there is also a bulimic girl who lives in my head. And she’s the scary one. The one that is the most dangerous. And damaging. The kinds of things I was doing to myself because of my bulimic girl scared me into quitting sugar entirely. She is the reason I keep such strict boundaries around my food. She would rather see me dead than fat. She is angry and obsessive and cruel. And she’s excessively vain. Not a healthy, see-how-I-take-care-of-myself kind of vanity. A seven deadly sins kind of vanity. She has no peace and no love. Nothing is ever ever good enough for her. Especially not me.

My bulimic girl has a tag line. A particular thought. Get it out. Actually it’s more like Get it out. Getitoutgetitoutgetitoutgetitoutgetitout Get. It. OUT! NOW! (And this is said through clenched teeth.)

It was this thinking that had me abuse laxatives, drink castor oil, run 14 miles a day and eventually make myself throw up my food. My bulimic girl was full of hair-brained schemes to deal with the aftermath of my fat girl and her binge eating. If it were humorous, it might be a version of The Odd Couple. A grotesque murderous version…

Since I quit smoking 3 months ago, I keep gaining weight. I have gained 12 lbs since June 1st. It has been hard for me to deal with. (This may be my understatement of the year.) I put on a pair of jeans the other day, and they were tight. This was especially embarrassing and sad for me. In February, they were comically big. They had to be held up by a belt and sagged around my butt. I wore them to babysit when I expected to get dirty. Feeling these jeans pressed up against me was incredibly uncomfortable. Emotionally. Because it was a reminder that I feel incredibly fat. And I know there is nothing for me to do about it. It is not about calories. When I first quit smoking, I didn’t change my eating at all and I gained 3 lbs. The next month, I ate lighter than usual, (more salad, less cooking in butter) and I gained 4 more lbs. So it is not that I have been doing it wrong. It is not something I can control. My body is changing. I don’t get a say.
Guess who hates this? Any thoughts? My bulimic girl. This is killing her. She insists that there must be something I can do. At least don’t get fried onions this week. At least chill out on the full fat yogurt. At least walk a couple more miles a day. Do SOMETHING! Do you WANT to be this fat? GET IT OUT!
So my fat girl wants to give up and eat cake (not like she’s popped up this week – she just always wants to give up and eat cake), and my bulimic girl wants to resist and starve me. I decided not to give up or resist. I decided to accept. My body is what it is. Right now. And I don’t know for how long. And I don’t get a say. There is nothing for me to do.
But that is not true. There was one thing for me to do. And I did it. I went out and bought bigger pants. I bought pants I feel sexy in. Because maybe the hardest part of this weight gain is that I have been feeling incredibly unsexy. And sexy has been a very important part of my life for years now. It is a part of my personality. It is one of the things that I love about myself and my life.
And buying sexy pants that fit my body the way it is right now has shut my bulimic girl up. For now. I’m sure she’ll be back. Just like my fat girl, and my burden, and my good girl. But today, because I have my eating under control, none of them get to run my life.
You can always feel free to share this blog. Or follow me on twitter @onceafatgirl5
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08 Sep 2012
1 Comment

She’s not hungry, she’s my fat girl

As a person with eating disorders, I don’t really know what hunger is. That evolutionary trigger that says “you need fuel or you will die” does not function properly for me. So when I’m “hungry”, I can’t always judge if that feeling is a physical feeling or an emotional upset. And when I was eating compulsively, I promise, it was never a physical feeling. If you can imagine how much and how often a person has to eat in order to maintain a morbidly obese body, then you can imagine that at no point was my body in danger of starvation.

Knowing this about myself is important. Because I have eliminated “hunger” from my reasons to eat. There is actually only one reason for me to eat now. Because it is time to eat. That is part of my food boundaries. There’s a time to eat. Not just one. Three of them every day, in fact. Big, beautiful, abundant meals. And then that’s it. If I have eaten lunch and I am “hungry” I just “be hungry” until dinner. Being hungry for a few hours is not the most horrible thing in the world. Especially for someone as well fed as I am. So far, I have not died from it.

A few weeks ago I may have actually been hungry. When I quit smoking, my metabolism changed. Is still changing. And I was not feeling satisfied after my meals. So when it was time to eat, I made some different choices about what I ate. Giant cantaloupes. Less salad, more vegetables cooked in butter. And that hungry feeling went away and my body started feeling full and fed and content again. So it could be that that was real hunger. The truth is, I don’t know. It doesn’t really matter. Real hunger, emotional cravings. As long as my eating is within my boundaries, it’s basically none of my business. I don’t have to care. I don’t even have to wonder. (it’s very freeing, frankly.)

But this week, I have been feeling “hungry” and it is definitely not a physical hunger. I have been feeling this “hunger” even though my meals have been incredibly decadent and filling. Even when I have just finished a huge, gorgeous meal, and my body is stuffed, I have been “hungry”.

Even knowing that I am stuffed is something that only came to me after I had my eating under control for a while. When I was eating compulsively, I was basically disconnected from my body. Not only did my thoughts tell me that I was “hungry”, but they kept me from ever feeling the sensation of “full”. All of those feelings that lived in my mind and my thinking that occurred to me as hunger trumped any actual physical sensation. I didn’t (still don’t?) have that thing that regular people have that tells them they have had enough. All of the discomfort and shame and pain (and joy – any intense feeling is hard for me to deal with) registered as hunger. And I fed them.

But now, because I have boundaries, and therefore some clarity (not to mention sanity) I can look at feelings of “hunger”. And I have a shot at distinguishing what they really are. And I think I understand what this week’s “hunger” is about.

Right now, there are some areas of my life that are up in the air. There are some things that are not settled. And it’s not time for them to be settled. I don’t know what is going to happen. And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do next. I don’t know when I’ll know what the next right action is. I don’t even know what the next right action is supposed to lead to. So I have to wait. And be still. And I have been getting impatient. I don’t want to wait. I want to know. I don’t want to be still. I want to move. Now! And the not knowing and the not moving are making me uncomfortable. And that discomfort registers as a kind of emptiness. Like there’s something missing. Like there is a hole in my life. And the fat girl who lives in my head wants to fill that hole with food.

Here’s what I already know: There is not enough food in the whole world to fill that void.
I am grateful that I don’t have to eat compulsively today. The clarity that I have has not only let me see that impatience is the real feeling behind the illusory hunger I’ve been feeling this week, but it lets me see that it really isn’t time for me to act yet. And then it will also allow me to be alert and know when it is time to move. And to know what to do when that time finally comes. Not a rash decision and a drastic action. Rational. Honorable. Honest. Maybe not perfect, but definitely not shameful. All that for being “hungry” for a few hours every once in a while. Yeah, not a bad deal…
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01 Sep 2012

The practical lesson of chicken sitting

I have been away from home this week. Not just away from home, but away from people too. I needed to not be with people. It’s been me and animals. And though I was attacked by a rooster, and bitten by a spider, it has been pretty fantastic otherwise. I’ve seen deer outside the window in the morning as well as when I went walking in the woods. There have been wild turkeys outside the fence. I have been surrounded by butterflies and humming birds. Watched chipmunks chase each other. Seen a frog perched on a flotation toy in the pool as if it were a lily pad on a pond. Hawks in the sky (not to mention sitting on the chicken pen – scary!) And of course the chickens I am here to look after. Yes. I’m chicken sitting. Frankly I do not like the chickens. As I said above, the biggest rooster keeps attacking me. But…The eggs. Fresh eggs! As a girl who eats a lot of eggs packed in styrofoam cartons purchased from grocery stores in Manhattan and Brooklyn, let me tell you that fresh eggs are special. Almost worth being pecked. (Can you tell I love food?)

I expected to come here to this (very modern) house in the woods and do a lot of writing and reading. I half expected to spend my time staving off boredom with no city to up and head into at a moment’s notice. Instead I have been wondering at the end of each day where the hours could possibly have gone and wishing for an extra four or five.

I’ve been spending my time here in a lot of quiet reflection. I have begun to unravel some jumbled up ideas and beliefs and caught glimpses of half-formed epiphanies. But there is one thing in particular that I want to share with you. And it is not the result of sitting quietly for hours every day. It’s the result of being willing to leave my house and my kitchen. It is the result of being willing to step out of my comfort zone. Sure, a baby step. But a step none the less.

When it comes to food and keeping my food boundaries, I find a lot of comfort in sameness. In many ways it’s just because I already know same works. I know what to expect. And I know the procedures and the pitfalls. And if something is the same, I have to do minimal preparation, both practical and emotional. When I go to my favorite restaurant, I don’t have to call ahead, to find out if they add something like honey or wine to their vegetables, or if they marinade their meat in something I don’t eat. If I have a reason to go to a new restaurant, I usually do call ahead. I like to be as prepared as possible. But even then, I have to psyche myself up. I have to reassure myself that nothing can go wrong that can’t be fixed. And still I’ll be nervous. Because I am a nervous person. I could of course just go and ask when I get there. And figure it all out then. But I don’t do that. Because that’s way out of my comfort zone.

And this isn’t just about restaurants. I do this at home too. Even in my kitchen, I often eat the same things. Because I know how it fits into my boundaries. And I know that I like it. And I know about prep time and cook time and quantity. If I get tired of something, or want to try something new, it can take me days or even weeks to get around to making a change. To overcome the anxiety of change.

Part of it is that I take my food boundaries that seriously. There is room for honest mistakes, of course.  And I don’t worry about making honest mistakes. But I do worry that some day, if I let my guard down, I’m going to decide to say “eff it” if I make a mistake. Because there is a fat girl who lives inside me who wants her cake back. And the best I can do is keep her on a short leash.

Plus I’m compulsive. When I do something new with my food, I often second guess myself. Is this within my boundaries? Yes. Ok. Wait, are you sure? Yes. Ok. But did you consider (blank)? Yes. And it’s me talking to me. So there is nobody to tell me that it’s all fine and to shut the hell up already.

But then if I’m in my own kitchen making the thing I make, or in my favorite restaurant where I go all the time, and something goes wrong (as it does sometimes, because it’s life and sometimes shit happens) I panic. Or at least get really really upset. I’m so used to the routine, the cadence and the rhythm and the sameness, that a glitch can totally catch me off guard. It’s not that I let myself slip out of my boundaries when this happens. I have never said “eff it”. But I suffer! I torture and punish myself. Maybe for 10 minutes. Maybe 5. Or 2. But I panic and I suffer.

But this week I have been in someone else’s kitchen. I came in with no preconceived notions about how it was going to go. There was no routine in place. There was no way it was supposed to be. There was no sameness. And it was kind of freeing…

It turns out that they have an electric stove, not gas. This was no big deal. But I guarantee you that if my landlord decided to change my stove from gas to electric, I would panic!

I’m almost done with their roll of paper towels and don’t know if there are more. Or where they are if there are. And I can’t get to the store to buy more. I’m ok with this. I’ll figure it out. I’m not worried. If I ran out of paper towels at home and couldn’t get more, I would panic! (By the way, I don’t run out of paper towels at home, because I keep a backup roll. Because I know I will panic…)

When I first stopped eating sugar, I tried plain yogurt and I didn’t like it at all. I didn’t like the sourness. I didn’t like the sharpness. I was used to yogurt being super sweet. I was used to everything being sweet. But if I don’t like something, I don’t eat it. (Even if it’s “good for you”.) So I didn’t eat yogurt anymore. But as the years have gone by, my palate has changed. And a few weeks ago, I had the thought that I would really like to try yogurt again. That I might really like it now. So I bought some from the new-to-me grocery store, on my way to stay in a different house. In my regular Brooklyn grocery store, I have been picking up the yogurt container and putting it back for weeks. Standing in front of it. Leaving the yogurt section and coming back. I would be about to put it in my basket, and I would panic! What if I didn’t like it? Where would it go in the refrigerator? What if all hell broke loose!?!? (By the way, I am totally digging the yogurt. I think I may need to buy a blender to make smoothies. And I’m having fantastic homemade frozen yogurt for dessert!)

I said to the friend whose house I’m staying in that I don’t like to leave my own kitchen. That the thought of traveling makes me worry about my food boundaries. She looked me in the eye and told me that I needed to get over that because I can keep my boundaries anywhere. And keeping myself from seeing the world was going to affect my happiness.

And what I noticed this week was that, like so many other aspects of my thinking, when it comes to sameness vs novelty, like begets like. The more I stay in my comfort zone, the more afraid I am to leave my comfort zone. The more I stay in my own kitchen and eat at my go-to restaurants, the less I want to leave my kitchen or try new restaurants. But then the more I branch out and try new things, the more I trust that things will work out. The more I trust, the more willing I am to step out of my comfort zone.

Look, don’t expect me to post next week that I suddenly booked a trip to Japan. I’m a huge fan of baby steps. But I would like to feel empowered to leave my own kitchen. To try a new restaurant. To just show up and figure it out on the spot. To travel. To see the world in between my meals. To trust that as long as I am willing, I will always be able to keep my food boundaries. Even in Japan (some day).

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25 Aug 2012

Losing battles, my heart and a blunt instrument, and a first attempt at a new humility

When I stopped eating sugar six and a half years ago, I admitted that I have no power over it. That if sugar and I ever end up in a battle again, sugar will win. I will lose. It’s that simple. And that’s ok. I don’t battle with sugar anymore. There is no need. It is the reigning victor.

In other words, do I want to be right, or do I want to be happy? Do I want to prove that I have willpower and nothing can beat me, or do I want to live in peace? I choose happiness and peace. I choose to acknowledge my weakness and my humanity. Not just acknowledge them. Honor them. Give them their proper place and their due. Have some humility.

Because I understand that I am going to have to submit in some way. I cannot have it “my way”. My way does not actually exist. I cannot eat a little bit and stop. Which is not actually “my way” either. “My way” would be to eat and eat and eat and not be fat. Or obsessed to the point that I am careless of others. My way would be to eat whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, with no consequences. Anybody know the secret to that? (Even if you said yes, I wouldn’t believe you.) So I can submit to the acceptance of my weakness and forfeit sugar as an option. Or I can try to control sugar. And control myself around sugar. But I have a lifetime of experience that assures me that I will just end up having to submit to sugar in the end. And be its slave. So I give sugar its rightful throne. And stay the hell out of its kingdom.

But the longer I have my food under control, the more I learn that I have no power over other things too. So many things. More and more things than I ever imagined. And it turns out that I have no control over my heart. I cannot control my feelings.

Let me make some distinctions. I am not talking about my thinking. I absolutely get to choose what I think. And what kinds of thoughts I think. I can stop thoughts. I can redirect my focus. This is important. It is an excellent skill to have. I cultivate it. If I have a thought about how great chocolate cake is, I stop thinking that thought. I cannot afford to romance thoughts about foods I don’t eat anymore. Foods that will kill me. Foods that will torture me first, and then kill me. If I am feeling like life is unfair, and I am throwing myself a pity party, I can list the things I have to be grateful for. I do have power over my thoughts.

The other distinction I want to make is about shutting my heart down. I can do that too. It is a skill of sorts. It was very useful in my early life. It saved me as a child. I had a pain that was too big for a little girl to deal with. Fear that was too dark and scary. But this is not what I’m talking about either. Because shutting my heart down is not like using an exact tool for performing detailed work. It is a blunt instrument. It is all or nothing. My heart is either on, or it’s off. If it’s off, there is numb. If it’s on, there is whatever there is. And that’s what I’m talking about. When it’s on, I have no power over what comes out of it.

I have this agreement with God that I will not “take my toys and go home”. I originally made this promise about men. That I will not run away as soon as I think I might get hurt. That I will not stop caring to avoid pain. That I will follow every relationship to its natural conclusion. That I will be available for whatever a relationship has to offer. And if it’s pain and getting hurt, that I’ll stick around to get hurt. (Oh yeah. Huge fan of this agreement with God…) But what is starting to dawn on me is that I choose shutting down with all sorts of situations. I have spent my entire life trying to control my feelings. So I don’t feel disappointed. Or hurt. Or frustrated. Or angry.

And I have been thinking of this shutting down as a kind of power. That I have power over my feelings. But I do not. If my heart is open, I’m feeling whatever I’m feeling. If I let my heart be open.

So I’ve just come to the conclusion that on is better than off. All the time. That there is no such thing as a bad feeling. Even if the feeling is jealousy or greed or anger. Even if it’s something that I’ve been told to think of as shameful or wrong.

This is new for me. And I’m going to tell you I’m scared. Because I don’t really know what it will mean to stop fighting my feelings. I don’t know what that looks like when practiced and applied. And because I want so much to be a good person. And I’m so afraid of my dark side. And that it is just another log on the fire of my unlovableness. But if I am going to be honest, I have to admit that I am powerless over my heart. And the more I resist it, the more exhausted I am.

When I stopped eating compulsively, I gave up fighting with food. And now I want to give up fighting with feelings. Because the longer I am sober from sugar (and cigarettes) the more clarity I get, and the more I understand that I have spent my life fighting battles I can’t possibly win. So I guess I’ll just have to do my best and let you know how it goes…
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18 Aug 2012

Being committed: It’s not just for institutions anymore

I’ve been a little blocked about what to post this week. Because with only subtle differences, this week is much like last week. Doing that dance with myself. Worrying about my weight. Eating well anyway. Trying to remember that my value is not the size of my body. Forgetting. Waiting it out. Waiting for my body to adjust to quitting smoking. Waiting for what it looks like to be a non-issue again. Waiting for my eating disorder brain to quiet down. And it will. This too shall pass. There’s nothing to do but live my life in between my meals.

But then what am I going to write about? Because I have a commitment to post every week. Even if I have nothing to say. So I have decided to write about that. That kind of commitment. Because that kind of commitment is how I keep my eating under control. And I apply it to other things too. Like my daily meditation. And this blog. And being committed has changed my life.

I didn’t know anything about commitment when I was eating compulsively. I knew about excuses. Sometimes I just didn’t “feel like” doing something I was supposed to do. Or I did “feel like” doing something I wasn’t. But I knew that the right excuse, a strong enough excuse, would “make it ok” in the eyes of “the world”. Whatever “it” was. Whoever “the world” was. If I could get a “who could blame you?” kind of response, then whatever I had done or failed to do was “made right”. And I could move on. This was how I thought, and therefore how I lived.

What I never understood, of course, was that I couldn’t move on. Or at least that I wasn’t moving on. Sure, my feet weren’t being held to the fire by humans with authority anymore, but my conscience actually didn’t give a shit about authority. I didn’t even understand that my conscience was my conscience. All I knew was that I was incredibly hungry. Starving! I didn’t know that that feeling was shame and not hunger. Because food made it go away for a while. I didn’t know that was numb, not fed. So I just kept making excuses and eating. Getting bigger and bigger and never ever being satisfied.

My conscience still doesn’t care about authority, by the way. Its only authority is my word. My truth. My commitments.

When I put boundaries around my food, I had a kind of epiphany. I understood that I had to keep those boundaries no matter how I felt about it. What I “wanted” was taken out of the equation. What I “felt like” eating was irrelevant. Gratification ceased to be an option. There were more important things. Honor and commitment.

In a way, of course, my boundaries are about what I want. Because the big picture is that I “want” to be thin and peaceful and sane. And not be fat, or crazy, or sticking toothbrushes down my throat to make myself vomit. But at any given moment, whether I like the way I eat, or want a piece of cake, or feel like keeping my boundaries, has absolutely nothing to do with whether or not I keep them. I just do. That’s it. No discussion. No negotiation.

And what I learned from eliminating the idea of “feel like it” from my eating, is that there is value in doing things because I do them, regardless of how I feel about doing them at any given moment on any given day. That gratification is a trap. That commitment makes my life better all around. It doesn’t even matter what the commitment is.

So like I said, I have a commitment to post every week. And I don’t even know who it’s to. Myself? God? You? I just know that I do it. There are no excuses. Circumstances don’t matter. Because I almost never “feel like” writing a post. I can think of a million excuses not to post on any given week.

Unless some glaringly obvious eating disorder thing comes up in my life, I always think there is nothing to tell you. And yet I manage to get something up every week. And most of the time I think it’s somewhere between not bad and pretty good. And every time I respect myself for doing it. Respect myself that I did it simply because it is something I do.

But I’ll admit that this commitment often feels like a burden before the post is written. I’m regularly afraid to write. Because I want to wow you! Every time! And that’s not how it works. And that’s not how life works. And that’s the best way to crash and burn and never write another entry again, let alone another entry I’m proud of. Or impressed by. (Because sometimes I do impress myself.)
Needing to top myself every time would be the best way to come to hate this blog. And myself. Not posting an entry one week because it’s not up to par would be an excellent first step in letting this blog end. More like disappear. Because it’s not good enough. And I’m not good enough. Will never be good enough.
So I write every week, even if I have nothing to say. And I post every week, even if it’s not so particularly good. And I keep in mind that to make greatness a requirement for sharing my writing is like killing the Golden Goose. Cutting open it’s belly looking for the gold inside. Forgetting that the gold comes from the magic that lives in the goose. And from the time in between laying the eggs. That there’s more gold. If I don’t get greedy. For pride. And praise.
And wisdom too. Because sometimes what I want most of all is to be the best person I can ever possibly be right now, instead of wanting to just be the best person I can be right now right now.
So here’s this week’s post. I wrote it even though I didn’t feel like it, and was afraid it would come out mediocre. And now that it’s up, I am relieved. And feeling pretty good about my level of honor and commitment. And sure, I do hope you like it. But mostly I just like that it’s done.
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