onceafatgirl

Peace is better than chocolate

Archive for the tag “personal choices”

09 Mar 2013
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How many bodies can one girl have?

I’m going on a trip! South! I’m so excited! I get to escape the city! I get some sunshine! I get to spend time with an old friend! And he has a Y chromosome! (Just sayin’.)

While I am definitely looking forward to it (as you may have gathered by the number of exclamation points in that first paragraph), I was a little upset when I started packing. I had to go into my spring/summer stuff to find some things to bring with me. And when I was trying things on, I found that a lot of them don’t fit anymore.

It’s funny. It actually seems to be a Pavlovian reaction. Experience clothes not fitting, feel fat and get upset. But I have a commitment not to indulge in negative thoughts about my body. When I notice a thought about my body being ugly or not good enough, I stop having it. I cut it off. I have given up the right to disparage my body. I am already trained in being ashamed of it. I am retraining myself to love it.

What’s fascinating is that a lot of my dresses do still fit. (I only wear skirts and dresses in the summer. After 8-9 months of cold I don’t even want to look at a pair of pants from May to August!) And for the most part, my favorite dresses still look fantastic on me. Not passable, Fan-freaking-tastic! Which is such a blessing! I’m not dreading the thought of suffering in clothes that don’t fit, or worrying about having to buy a new summer wardrobe.

It’s my cheap, babysitting dresses that, for the most part, don’t fit anymore. The dresses I bought for between $8-$15, with big, bold prints, so that when a 2-year-old touches me with their ketchup hands, I don’t feel like a careless slob for the rest of the day. And I can live without those. I don’t have to mourn them.

But no matter what, putting on clothes that used to fit and don’t anymore is very confronting. It forced me to acknowledge the truth of my body. Again. On an even deeper level. But once I got over the part of me that wants to fight against the truth, and agreed to accept what is actually so, something interesting happened. I became aware of my body in ways I haven’t been since I started gaining this weight. Yes, I am decidedly bigger. I already knew that I gained at least 27 lbs, and apparently all in my ass. But more than that, I am an entirely different shape. I thought that my stomach was so much bigger, but it is really that my back arches now, pushing my butt back and my stomach forward. My weight distribution is different. The way I stand is different. Even how I hold my shoulders and neck is different.

Somebody asked me if my butt was always the first place I gained weight. But it’s not. I have never been this shape before in my life. Not when I was fat. Not when I was losing weight. Not the last time I weighed this much. This is a whole new body to me.

And a girlfriend pointed something out to me. She said that I am a whole new me. That this body is accompanying a new lifestyle. When I quit smoking, I did it because I wanted to grow up. And what I got was a whole new level of presence to life. When it comes down to it, this body is the direct result of being willing to become more present than I have ever been before. And then taking the action to do it.

It does not escape me, by the way, that I quit smoking to “grow up” and got a more womanly body.

At first, I was a little embarrassed (or maybe disappointed) that this body was going on the trip to see my old friend, instead of my skinny, size 6 body. But when my girlfriend said that to me, I realized that the girl who lived in that skinny, size 6 body would not have been available to go on this trip. Personally, emotionally, or spiritually. That this trip and this body are inextricably linked.

And then I had another epiphany of sorts. This is not going to happen less as I get older. It’s going to happen more. Menopause. Muscle loss. Slower and slower metabolism. It’s called aging. And it’s going to happen to me. (At least if I’m lucky.) So if I’d like to do it gracefully, now is probably the time to start practicing that grace. I’m a beautiful, healthy woman in a beautiful, healthy body. And even while I stay beautiful and healthy, it is going to keep changing.

I want to keep loving my body. And keep remembering that loving my body will keep it beautiful. In whatever shape or size it is in at any given moment.

And, by the way, my ass is actually pretty fantastic. Just so you know…

Posted in beauty, Body image, Inspiration, Life, Relationships and tagged , , , , , ,
02 Mar 2013

It’s not you, it’s me. Oh no. I’m wrong. It’s totally you.

The first thing I want to note is that I did not weigh myself yesterday (March 1st). I did not make the decision for myself. I have a select group of people with whom I discuss my food boundaries. And one specific friend who helps me make decisions about my food and how I deal with my body and body issues. And she said that it made sense to skip weighing myself this month. That it seemed punitive to get on the scale. She said that the amount of torment I was experiencing far outweighed the benefit of following my rule of weighing myself on the first of every month.

It’s not forever. I will get back on the scale on April 1st. But for this month I’m grateful to not have to worry about the number. And to have not made the decision myself.

When I make decisions about my food and my body by myself, I can get confused, paranoid, ashamed. Crazy. And even if the decision is right and good, I don’t know it. Because I don’t trust myself around food. (And I shouldn’t.) I don’t trust myself to know what I look like. (And I shouldn’t do that either.) These are the things I am sick about. But I also don’t go around asking advice from any and everyone either. A select group of people who have experience in this area. And one friend to help me make final decisions. I trust her. I don’t expect her to have the perfect answer to my troubles every time. But when I go along with her and trust her, I don’t have to question and second guess myself into insanity.

The other thing that’s on my mind this week is my Good Girl. She’s been popping up this week. Or perhaps I should say that I am noticing the places I have been letting her slip by in my life. And what I am realizing is that there is a deeper level of Good-Girl-ery that I hadn’t been aware of until now. And I don’t like it.

Yesterday, I came home from work and was making dinner, when I realized that one of my knives was not where I left it. And then I realized that it was not in the kitchen at all. And I was pissed. I was banging-cabinets-and-swearing-pissed.

What I really was, of course, was scared. When my food or my utensils are out of order, I feel unsafe. I feel violated. I feel crazy and out of control.

I was taught early on in life to feel bad about getting angry over having my boundaries crossed. To be ashamed of expressing my anger. I think many people are taught that. To be ashamed of being so “selfish”. It’s just a knife, Kate.

And even though I do get angry, and even though my body has a physical reaction, instead of honoring my feelings, I have been feeling bad about getting so upset over a knife. (Or a pot. Or a spatula. Don’t even ask me about the time I came home and found my roommate cooking a kind of food I don’t eat in my antique cast iron skillet…)

And people in my life want me to “calm down”. They want to run interference. They want to explain me. Explain for me. They want to soften my harshness. “For my own good.” “You can’t live like that.” What will the neighbors think?

And I often take that on myself. Want to apologize for my crazy. And for getting so upset. You know, the old “it’s not you, it’s me.”

But guess what? It’s you! You took my knife. When there are plenty of knives in the house. You took it (which you shouldn’t have done in the first place), and then you left the house without putting it back. You live with me and see with your own eyes that I maintain strict boundaries around my food. Every day. You see me treat my food, my cook ware and my utensils with love and respect. And yet you took my knife? So wait, why am I apologizing for being angry? Right! It’s so not me. It’s definitely you!

Yes, I can imagine that my kitchen stuff looks very appealing. Things that are loved and cared for the way I care for mine look inviting. Your stuff could look like that too if you took as much care of your own.

When I was telling the story of the knife to my friend, (the one who helps me make decisions around my food) I was telling her all the ways that I am not selfish. And she stopped me. She said “Selfish is not a dirty word. It means interested in ourselves.” And I thought, Yes! I know this! I believe this! This is right!

I feel like part of it is that my issue is food. It occurs in the world like such a minor “problem”. And cook ware? Utensils? How could that stuff be so important? But it is important! It is very important to me. And I want to stop agreeing with people who tell me that thinking so makes me petty. Or cruel. Or in some way bad.

I was even going to end this post by telling you about all of the ways that I am generous. And all of the ways being selfish actually makes me a better person. But I’m not going to do that.

I care about myself. I want to take care of myself. I want to put my own needs first. Unapologetically. It turns out it’s my life. I have to be able to live with myself. And if you want to live with me, it would behoove you not to touch my food or my utensils. Period.

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15 Dec 2012
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It’s always an eating disorder blog because I always have eating disorders

I wrote a post earlier today, but I don’t think I want to share it. Not today. Not yet. It’s about my anger. My hate. My distrust. I have a lot of it. I am overflowing with it. And it’s ugly.
I am not afraid to show you my ugly. But it would not do any good right now. It would not serve me. Or you. There would be nothing for either of us to learn from it. Except that I am human. And that I have ugly feelings. Which I already knew. And you probably did too.

I am doing my best not to be ashamed of my ugly feelings. I am doing my best to remember that denying them doesn’t stop them from existing. And that the closest thing there is to making them disappear is to eat them. which is not an option. And I would like to say that I know that there is nothing virtuous in turning my hate in on myself instead of hating the people who have hurt me. But I have always used self-abuse and martyrdom as a kind of substitute for virtue. And I can forget when my rage scares me enough.

So for today, I will spare you my ugly feelings.

A friend said recently that my blog is as much, and maybe more, about quitting smoking lately than it is about compulsive eating. I think that may be true. And I told him that I made a decision a while ago to let it be what it is. That both the experience of getting control of my eating and that of quitting smoking are similar for me. I’m actually pretty sure that in time, my eating disorders will return to the forefront. I just happen to be going through a particularly difficult time with regards to quitting smoking. I am having a hard time with the feelings and the weight gain. I am having a hard time finding my footing after making a significant choice about who I want to be in the world. And who I want to be in the world is even more awake and aware and alive. I want to be not numb.
But there is something that I know, that you might not. In my mind, every day, always, I think of myself as a woman with eating disorders. I am a compulsive eater and bulimic with body dismorphia. A woman with a sugar addiction. And more specifically, woman who painstakingly takes care of her life with food so that she can be sane and stable. That is my primary identity. (I know…sounds super sexy, right?)

I have given up many things as a compliment to that identity. Smoking is one of them. Along with alcohol, and smoking pot, sugarless gum, diet soda and excessive caffeine. And behaviors like making rash decisions, and acting out in anger. But first, last, and always comes the food. Food was my first drug. It was my first numb. And getting control of my eating and letting go of getting high on sugar led me to realize that I actually wanted to be alive. That I don’t actually like numb. And that one step at a time, I want to come back to life fully.

I am in excruciating pain at the moment. I am more angry and hurt and scared and tormented than you can possibly imagine. I am burning with rage. I am overwhelmed with grief. I wake up puffy and swollen and encrusted with dry tears. My throat is sore from how tight I clench it. I am more miserable than I can remember being in the past (almost) 7 years.

But I do not eat to numb it! I would rather be here in honest, living, livid pain than be numb. Than be dead. Because eating compulsively is death to me. Numbness and death.

Yes, I have been talking a lot about smoking. And I’m ok with that. But my life, all of my life and every fiber of my being, is about being free from the food. I was able to quit smoking because I have my food under control. Because I learned how to feel pain when I let go of sugar and put boundaries around my eating. And if I thought that my eating boundaries were in danger, I would certainly go back to smoking. Or caffeine. Or chewing gum. Or whatever. Because the food will kill me quickest and make me hate myself the most.

So I hope you’re ok with my smoking talk. That you can somehow see that quitting sugar and quitting cigarettes are connected. Or if you can’t, that you still think I’m brilliant whatever I write! Or that you’ll humor me…

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08 Dec 2012

Is it just as judgy to judge people for judging?

I’m a little less body-miserable these past few days. Maybe it’s because, with weigh day behind me for the rest of the month, I put my body hatred it in its compartment. Maybe it’s because I have hope that by next weigh day, my metabolism will have started regulating itself again, and I will start losing this weight I have gained. Or maybe it’s starting to seep in that I am not, in fact, grotesquely fat in this body, and that I can have some peace if I can surrender to it being what it is. (That last one’s a stretch, but I believe in miracles.)

My big issue this week is how aware I am of people giving me unsolicited opinions and advice. And how offensive I find it. And how aggressive it makes me feel. (Not act…Ok, maybe a little. But I have managed to keep my clever and cruel remarks to myself.)

There is a saying I love. “If you want what I have, do what I do.”

I keep hearing from people who do not have what I want.

For example, I do not want health and lifestyle advice from a morbidly obese girl more than 10 years my junior.

I do not want to be told that my quitting smoking is “really for the best” by a woman I never see smile. And who looks something between bored and disgusted. Always.

I am glad that I quit smoking. For all of the pain that has come with it, there has been a new clarity and a deeper level of self-love, self-awareness, and self-confidence. I love that, even though it has not been an easy six months. But I don’t want other people telling me what is best for me. I like to decide that for myself.

And today, I can. When I got control of my food, I stopped doubting myself. I could trust my eyes and ears. I could trust my thoughts. I could trust my assessment of situations. I stopped wondering if I had it all wrong and was doing it all wrong.

And another thing I lost when I got control of the food, was the need to get it all right. (Ok, that’s a bit of an exaggeration. There are still things that I get very angry at myself for getting wrong.) But every day that I don’t eat compulsively, I have a lot more room for my humanity. And for everybody else’s.

And even one more thing is that I stopped feeling the need to give other people advice. I stopped needing to show that I had all the answers. That I was so smart. I started to understand the value of minding my own business! Who knew!?!? (By the way, I had zero answers when I was eating all the time. I sure hope nobody was actually taking the advice I kept forcing on people…Oh well. Too late now…)

So why am I so upset with people giving me their unsolicited opinions and advice? Why can’t I have room for their judgment? Why can’t I let it roll off my back?

I think because cigarettes were how I numbed the feeling that other people didn’t like me. Didn’t approve of me. Didn’t think I was doing it right or well. Didn’t think I was good enough. Being judged hurt. And cigarettes made that pain go away. It was a kind of manufactured indifference.

But now I have to acquire a new coping mechanism. And I don’t think I want it to include indifference. But I don’t want to own someone else’s judgment of me either. I need to figure out what that’s going to look like. Because I don’t know.

What I do know is that I don’t want to judge those who judge me for judging. I want to acknowledge their right to have thoughts and opinions about me and my actions. And know that those thoughts and opinions are none of my business. Even if they insist on telling me. I want to have room for their humanity, whether their words come from love or spite. I want to be protected by my confidence and personal sense of security. I want to learn to love my fellow human beings. Not because they deserve it. Because I do.

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24 Nov 2012

If the world ends right this instant, I will at least have made one more afghan

One thing I’m prone to is obsessiveness. And right now I am obsessed with crocheting. I have 2 projects going simultaneously. And I’m in love with them both. Which is a blessing and a curse, since they are both gifts I’m going to give away.

Mostly, a little obsession over a hobby is not a bad thing. I am pretty good at crochet. I use it to do a lot of calm thinking. Each project has a natural conclusion, so it never feels overwhelming. And it’s deliciously satisfying to spend my time making something tangible. When I have put in a certain number of hours of work, it turns out there is an afghan. Or a scarf. Or a hat.

But if there is a problem, it’s that I never want to stop. I’m on a roll! I want to keep going! One more skein, one more row, one more stitch. I may never have the chance again! It may all disappear and slip away in an instant.

I see this with so many things in my life. This obsession. This wanting it NOW. Before it goes away. It’s more than just the desire for instant gratification. Somewhere in my warped mind, I really believe that it could all go up in a puff of smoke.

I buy an apple for every day of the week to have for breakfast. But every morning, I want all of them. Now! As if they will disappear. As if there will never be another apple ever again!

If I am reading a particularly good book, I read until I pass out. Literally. I may wake up with a book or my kindle on my chest. I can’t stop. Just one more page. Just one more sentence. Just one more word. I may never get to read it again!

And of course, when I was eating compulsively, this is how I dealt with food. I wanted it all! NOW! Before it went away! And I had no rules, no boundaries. So I ate it all. Now. Because there might never be any more ever again.

Don’t think the irony has escaped me. Oh God! There will never be another piece of chocolate cake ever again! led directly to Thank God! There will never be another piece of chocolate cake ever again!

Plus my obsessive nature can cause me to burn out. At first I want more because it’s fun. Or exciting. Because it feels good. But after a while, whatever it is that I’m obsessed with becomes a need. It’s not so much that I like it, as that I am afraid I will be unhappy if it goes away. It’s about my inability to let go.

But I can’t live like that anymore. And I am grateful that the way I live my life now insists that I keep my obsessions in check. I have things that I am committed to doing. Daily and weekly.

I must eat 3 times a day: breakfast, lunch and dinner. I must meditate every morning. I must write a blog post every week. I must sleep 7-8 hours a night. I must go to the market. I must cook my food.

And thank God! This structure reminds me that my crochet projects will still be there in my free time. And if they are not, well…I will live. I will move on. It will all be ok. I have lived the last 6+ years without chocolate cake. Happily. Joyfully. Without regret. So if I can do that, I am pretty sure I can survive just about anything.

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18 Nov 2012

You don’t feel sorry for me, and I won’t tell you where you can stuff your turkey

At the farmer’s market yesterday, somebody wished me Happy Thanksgiving. She must have thought the 4 lbs of Brussels sprouts and 3 lb head of cauliflower were for some huge gathering I was hosting. She probably also assumed that the 9 apples were for a bunch of pies that I was making to share with my loved ones.

No. It is all for me. Share and food are not words I like to put together. In fact, that last sentence makes me a little uncomfortable. And if anyone were to try to touch my market haul, they might lose a hand.

Needless to say, being wished Happy Thanksgiving reminded me that my favorite time of year is here.

If you know me personally, you know that this is really the ultimate in Kate sarcasm. I hate winter. I hate cold and snow and dark. And I absolutely abhor the holiday season.

I do not actually hate individual holidays themselves. There is nothing wrong with Thanksgiving or Christmas. But I don’t participate.

And even this would not be a big deal if people wouldn’t make it such a big effing deal.

What I hate about the season is that every year, everybody and their brother has to make a big to-do about how nobody should be alone for the holidays. And here’s why I’m super-duper über not looking forward to this year. Because I’m already unhappy. And I can already see the pouty simpers on the faces of all the kind people who will insist that it would be a terrible thing for me to be alone for Thanksgiving. They would be worried about me. Especially when I’m having such a hard time.

Let me assure you I am not suicidal. But that I might become homicidal if you simper at me…

Let me also assure you that the last thing I want is to spend the day when I am already blue around a group of people and an over abundance of food. Food I don’t eat.

Let me also also assure you that I have a family. They would probably like to see me. It turns out they like me. But they also like to fill various rooms with food. Food I don’t eat. And for the most part, they have come to terms with the fact that I won’t be joining them.

It’s not that I don’t like people. For the most part, I do. But I also need a lot of time alone. And there is a particularly frustrating, annoying, obnoxious thing that people do, particularly during the holiday season. They want to give me permission to “cheat” on my “diet.” (I am not on a diet. And I don’t cheat. Ever. No really, never.) Oh go on. It’s Thanksgiving. Treat yourself. Because they don’t understand that the rest of that sentence is like crap. Spiral ever downward into an eating disorder hell prison. (And just so you know, if I were going to eat outside of my boundaries, I would not wait for somebody’s well-meaning permission. In fact, I would probably steal Mr./Ms. Well-Meaning’s pecan pie out from under their nose.)

But maybe what I am starting to understand that I never realized consciously before is that I need to stay away from Thanksgiving and Christmas because they are dramatic. Not because people make them dramatic. More because they make people dramatic. They are about light in the darkness. They are about survival when the Earth has gone to sleep and isn’t going to provide for a while. They are about the end of a 365 day cycle, and looking at what you have made and done for a year. They are about taking inventory of your life. These are big, dramatic things. So we as humans celebrate these things with spectacular displays. To show that we honor how spectacular life is. With bright lights and shiny decorations. With abundant food and dramatic music. (Sure I hate Christmas music, but who isn’t moved by Oh Holy Night?!)

When I am not feeling burdened by the expectation to participate, I can see that there is something beautiful in this way of celebrating life. I’m moved just thinking about it. But I can’t handle it. It’s too much for me. It’s too big for my already sensitive, overly emotional heart. On the scale of 1-10, I live life at a consistent 8 ½. And the holidays can ramp me right up to a 100 in the blink of an eye. And I’m not the only one, of course. Ask any parent. ‘Tis the season for over-stimulated-meltdowns.

Anyway, I will be having a regular Thursday this week. That’s what I choose. But let me wish you a Happy Thanksgiving. I hope it’s moving and dramatic in the best possible way. And I hope the only meltdowns are the cheese and the chocolate.

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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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04 Aug 2012
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How a giant cantaloupe saved me from the evil vortex

Most of the time, since I got control of my eating, my eating disorder brain stays essentially dormant. I always have it, of course. But my issues are not necessarily prominent in my day-to-day life. My body stays basically the same. I eat basically the same. I’m not hungry or full. I eat 3 meals a day. Those meals are within my food boundaries. The rest of life goes along as it does. For the most part, since I no longer eat compulsively, food, eating, and my body are non-issues. But from time to time, my eating disorders move into the prime real estate in my head. And since I quit smoking and my body has been going through some big changes, my body image issues are reclining in a penthouse with an ocean view.
A few weeks ago I posted “Stupid mirror! I said fairest, not fattest!” That particular body image disorder attack was about looking at myself in the mirror and seeing a distorted image of myself.  Seeing myself as fat when I am not.
And then I realized last night that for several weeks now I have been having what I call “diet-head” issues. And I didn’t exactly realize that I was in my “diet-head”. Because my eating disorders are sneaky and subtle and disguise themselves in myriad ways.
Since I quit smoking, I have had two things come up that are a double whammy when they come at the same time. I have been hungry and I have been gaining weight.
At least that’s what the scale says. Which is a whole other issue between me and my eating disorder brain. Because I was shocked to hell. I was actually expecting to have lost weight before I got on the scale the other day. I have not been feeling fat. My clothes fit. My face, neck and collar area are looking as slender as ever. And my stomach has been getting smaller. Frankly, if I didn’t know what the number on the scale was, I would not have thought twice about being back in my “regular” body. But I did, indeed, see the number on the scale. It was 140.  (Yes! 140! Can you imagine how I freaked out!? I totally freaked out. Called my friend crying like a 3-year-old!) And it does not matter that I had been feeling thin and pretty and back to normal. The number on the scale trumps liking what’s in the mirror.  Eating disorders are a trip, right?

It is very rare that I get hungry. It happens maybe three or four times a year. I eat multiple pounds of fruits and vegetables every day. Plus eggs, dairy, olive oil, butter, and a few times a week, meat. But for many weeks now, I have been hungry. I don’t know if it is emotional or physical. But either way, I have been afraid to do anything about it because the scale says I’ve been gaining weight. And my body image disorder brain has a desperate fear of getting fat.

My food boundaries are just boundaries. There is a lot of room within them. For example, how often I eat meat, or how much fat I want in my dairy products is absolutely changeable. My boundaries are not about deprivation or “dieting”. I never eat sugar, starch or simple carbohydrates, but I have plenty of options. I have plenty of room with the foods that I do eat to make sure I do not feel like I’m being punished. There are ways to eat within my food boundaries that can compensate for being hungry or feeling like it’s too much. One of the ways I can do that is with the size of certain fruits and vegetables. And sometimes I forget this.

When I was first getting control of my eating, I ate positively ginormous fruits and vegetables. I would go from market to market in search of the biggest and the best.

As the years have gone by, I do that less. It eventually started to become too much food. (That’s crazy to me, by the way. That I have reached a point in my life where there is such a thing as too much food! I’m a food addicted compulsive eater. That’s a freaking miracle!) So I generally stick to the basic fruit and veggie quantity. Like I said, it’s still multiple pounds every day…

But I’ve been hungry for a while now. When I have finished my meals, I have not been feeling satisfied. But I have been afraid to go out and find the biggest and the best like I did in the beginning. Because I want to get back to being 133 lbs and not 140. And because I already eat huge meals. I have been feeling like I should be satisfied. Like it’s shameful to want more. Plus the whole thing has seemed damned unfair! I quit smoking and I get punished with both being hungry and gaining weight!?!? Ugh! How am I not supposed to take this personally, God?

And then a good friend said “Stop thinking about it. Forget about your weight and enjoy your food.” And I said yes. I agreed. But in the back of my mind, I was thinking about enjoying fresh and delicious on the lighter side. Because good Lord, I weigh 140!

And then I was at the farmer’s market, and I saw giant cantaloupes. My body said, “Want! Want!” My terrified-of-getting-fat eating disorder brain went. “Tsk tsk. Better not. 140.” And then I heard my friend’s voice say “Enjoy your food!” And I bought a giant melon. Bigger than my head. Half for dinner last night and half for breakfast this morning.

And you know what? For the first time in weeks I felt satisfied. I went to bed with a smile on my face last night. I went to work today with a song in my heart. And I am not ashamed. And I am not afraid of getting fat. And last night, after dinner, I realized that for the first time in forever, I do not feel like I’m being punished. And that I do feel like I deserve. To enjoy my food. To enjoy my life. That I deserve to be satisfied. That I’m worth that!
I am starting to understand that deprivation feeds the idea that I don’t deserve, as much as feeling like I don’t deserve makes me deprive myself. That it is also circular, like the eating making me fat and ashamed, and shame making me eat. Basically, my eating disorder brain is like a giant, evil vortex. It swirls around and around and it will take starvation and deprivation as soon as gluttony and shame. It’s all the same as long as I am punished and miserable.
Let me be blunt. I’m walking a line here. I’m doing a dance with myself and my eating disorders. I am navigating food choices, emotional and physical comfort, self acceptance and body image. Food comforts me. Eating a giant cantaloupe made me feel better. Bacon and fried onions do too. There are things it would be dangerous for me to withhold from myself. Satisfaction in eating. Foods I enjoy. I need these things as much as I want them. For my sanity and my health. And at the same time, it would be dangerous to let myself actually gain more weight than I can be comfortable with. But I also know that I just quit smoking. And I need a little self-love. And some comfort. I don’t know what’s going on with my body. I’m just going to have to wait and see. But in the mean time, I am going to enjoy my food. Within my boundaries, of course. But there’s so much abundance and deliciousness withn those boundaries. So if keeping myself comfortable and cared for means that I am going to have to occasionally eat a cantaloupe bigger than my head…well so be it…
Posted in Body image, Inspiration, Life and tagged , , , , , , ,
27 Mar 2012
4 Comments

Why the f*** do you care so much about how I eat?

I just got back from a weekend with my great-aunt. She’s my late grandmother’s sister. My dad’s mom and I were incredibly close. Losing her was losing one of the great loves of my life. And having her sister is definitely comforting. Plus, this aunt is so much fun to hang out with, not to mention side-splittingly funny. But going to visit her this weekend turned out to be stressful for me. Because she doesn’t understand about my food issues. And worse, she cares about what I do with my food. And not in a supportive way. I spent my weekend defending myself, justifying the way I eat, and protecting my control over the food.

In case you don’t know, how I keep a handle on my food looks extreme to the outside observer. To me, it is not so extreme. It is not nearly as extreme as the obsession that it alleviates. My eating and body image disorders are grotesque. The things they compelled me to do created misery and insanity. So sure, I no longer get to participate in society’s food rituals. But participating in the society’s rituals in public had me creating my own sick, crazy rituals behind closed doors. When I was fat, I would eat an entire box of cookies and a pint of ice cream in one sitting. Not a day. A sitting. And then go out for more food when that was done. (Yes! More food. No! I was not full. No! I was not sick. Except in the head and heart.) And then I had more scary and destructive rituals when I was a normal weight but still eating compulsively. Drinking castor oil. Abusing laxatives. Making myself throw up. Running 7 miles in the morning and 7 at night, and binge eating in between. So much that I was still gaining weight. Running to the point that I was injuring myself. And then refusing to rest because I had to run off the food that I ate. Or was going to eat. And that’s not the whole list. That’s just a sample of how I harmed and tormented myself, just so you know. I could not stop eating. But I had lost so much weight and I never wanted to be fat again. I cared more about food than I did about my body or my life. Food was my life.

What I have noticed is that the people who have the strongest negative opinions about what I do with my food are the people who have food issues themselves. This aunt had been big when she was younger, and then lost 90 lbs on a well known commercial diet program. She never got “thin” on this program. Or not what I would consider thin. (She got down to a size 12.) But she was able to keep that 90 lbs off through her life. And, as she explained to me, she could still eat anything and do the things that everybody else does.

But here’s the other part. My aunt just got through cancer. Thank God! And after the chemo and radiation, she is now a size 8. And to hear her tell it, being an 8 is the greatest thing that ever happened to her. So why she can’t understand why I do what I do, if only for the sake of having a body I love, is frustrating for me. Of course, I don’t do what I do for the body alone. I do it for my sanity more than anything. But I would be lying if I said the body didn’t have anything to do with it. Having a body that I love, that I’m proud of, rather than ashamed of, is part of staying sane for me.

I kept control of my food while I was with my aunt. I maintained my rigid boundaries no matter what she said or how much of a “pain in the ass” she told me I was. That control is more important than anything else in my life. Literally anything. Since I found my solution, it has always been more important than any person, place or thing. So it is even more important than a 78-year-old, cancer-surviving, generous and hospitable family member’s feelings. Yes! That important! But having to protect myself against someone I love…well, it fucking sucks.

Since I started doing what I do with food, there is a litany of things I commonly hear. Why don’t you just have one? (Because I can’t stop after one.) That’s so inconvenient! I could never do what you do. (That’s ok. You don’t have to.) Don’t you ever wish you could eat like a regular/normal person? (Wishing won’t make it a reality.) Don’t you ever cheat a little? (No.) Don’t you ever take a day off? (No.) Not even for Christmas? (No.) Not even for your birthday? (No.) You’re going to eat all that?!?! (Yes. I eat between a pound and a pound and a half of vegetables at both lunch and dinner.) And my personal favorite…Don’t you have any willpower? The answer to that last one is a resounding NO! No, I have zero power over food.

Writing this right now is making me cry. Because most people don’t understand. They can’t. I’m sick in the extreme. I have no right to expect anyone else to comprehend it. But there is something I have come to expect. And I don’t always get it. Respect. Respect for the deeply personal choices I make about what I put into my body. And when. And how. And how much. And what I can handle. And what I need. For myself!

As I’ve said before, if I lose control of the food to accommodate someone else, they are not going to come into the bathroom with me and hold my hair back while I stick the toothbrush down my throat. They are not going to gain 165 lbs from my inability to stop eating. So I have to admit that, while I love my aunt so much, I dread the thought of going back to visit her. Because I will never bow to her ideas of what I “should” do. And standing my ground to take care of myself is exhausting. And painful. But it’s my own responsibility. And thank God. Because if I left it up to the rest of the world, I would weigh over 300 lbs. And be shamed regularly for not being able to eat just one.

Posted in Life and tagged , , , , ,

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