Staying in the Debate

In my eating disorder group last Tuesday, one of my therapists asked me what purpose "staying in the debate" has in my recovery. She was referring to the amount of time and energy I spend thinking about whether or not I have an eating disorder and whether or not I want to "buy into" treatment - I am essentially constantly debating the process of recovery and evaluating how deeply I want to dive into all of this.

So, what good is the debate? What is it doing for me - what purpose does it serve? After yet another afternoon of debating my presence in the Kaiser eating disorder treatment program, I decided the time was ripe to pick at this question a little bit, and see what raw bone lays underneath.

Why do I "stay in the debate?" I stay here because I am convinced, still, that I do not fully qualify as eating disordered, that I am not a "good enough" anorexic to need treatment. I don't feel skinny enough or sick enough. I don't feel like I need to follow a recovery meal plan because I'm not truly eating disordered.

I stay in the debate because it allows me to waddle in the pool of treatment without being fully submerged in the water. While I debate whether or not to dive in, I avoid actually being in the water at all, and I can stay timidly on dry land. Rather than spending my energy eating, using DBT skills, or working through my disease, I argue both sides of an interminable argument. I don't actually have to do anything, and I can procrastinate treatment in an underhanded way.

But it's not that simple. I am locked in this argument and refusing to surrender to either side - even though I realize that the debate itself serves the eating disorder's control in my life. The debate feels important and symbolic because I am trying to exert independence in my life again - and isn't blind surrender of control (even to the wise Kaiser ED team) just moving my servitude from one master to another? When does this process become MINE? When do I get to make my own decisions, eat in a way that feels good to me? Without anorexia OR a team of doctors telling me what to do? When will I be able to trust my body and my instincts again? When will I get to declare that my life is MINE again, with all of the idiosyncratic patterns and eating habits that develop when a person is living fully?

I want to get better, and I know that I need to let go of control. But I want to get better in MY way. Even as I write this, I realize that my desire to do things in MY way is maladaptive - yet another tool of the eating disorder. But ED treatment is so uncomfortable, and I am so tired of being "sick." I spent an hour today on the phone with my family members justifying stopping treatment altogether - my argument was that I was tired of seeing myself as "sick" and tired of my eating disorder being the center of my life. I am ready for fullness; I want to build up other parts of my life and accentuate other neuroses and wisdom. I want to stay in my comfortable "yoga/meditation/reading" zone and push myself in ways that feel safe and non-threatening. I don't want to push at ED anymore.

I know. I know. This is exactly why I SHOULD be going to treatment. I have a poster on my wall about the "dignity of daring" by Pema Chodron. Essentially it says that true friends are those who push us past what is comfortable, the people who shove us off of familiar rafts to unfamiliar shores. Perhaps staying in treatment - for me right now - is the highest spiritual discipline. It doesn't look like anything I expect of spiritual growth - it's not yoga or meditation and it certainly involves very few moments of enlightened peace. Instead it feels like a fucking battle every second of the day; I just want a flippin' break. Can't I just stay on my yoga mat, happily chanting with my eyes shut and dreaming of lavender? Isn't that the REAL way to spiritual enlightenment?

WHY DOES MY LESSON HAVE TO SUCK SO BADLY?
And when can I stop? I want control over everything; the fact that recovery presents such a threat to my independence and autonomy is probably exactly why I need it. Damn it, Pema Chodron. Maybe ED treatment is the friend shoving me off of my little brown raft, pulling my little pink heart towards an unfamiliar shore.

Ahk. When I started writing this entry twenty minutes ago, I was set on the idea of quitting formal ED treatment. Blast. What an annoying insight. I guess I'll return again and hesitantly put another questioning toe in the water, and stay in the debate some more. Woof.

Dear Meditation

Dear Meditation,

Thank you for aligning everything in my life when a lesson needs learning. If I don't get it the first time, I am so very grateful for the incessant reminders that pop up until I finally realize what it is that You are trying to teach me. Apparently sometimes I just need a swift kick, while other times I need to be bulldozed with the message I'm meant to hear.

Thanks for the annoying evolving process of Enlightenment.
Yours,
Leah

Seriously.
I just got back from meditation, and the question I keep asking myself is, "seriously?" How is it possible that when there is something we need to hear, it comes up over and over again until we internalize it and finally start to listen? Just yesterday I had a painful awakening about my self-righteous arrogance - the belief that I am "too good" or "too different" to have an eating disorder or submit to the traditional recovery process - and ever since, I've been continuously bombarded with messages about egotism, arrogance, and letting go of the identities to which I cling so fiercely.

My daily Annie Dillard reading was about the childhood realization that we are not invincible - when we realize that we aren't going to grow up to be be a Major League pitcher or the winner of the Nobel Prize for mathematics. There is a point in our growing up when we come face to face with the truth: we are not The Best. We aren't going to shatter every world record or be outstanding in every pool we enter. In our childhood realities, we can do and be anything we desire, and I, at least, never pretended to be "average." We don't dream about being normal - we envision a world in which we are the stars, the headliners, and the centers of attention. For people like us, the rules of this world just don't apply (Hello, Gravity?).

But at some point, our internal realities come crashing into an external world with rules that do in fact apply to us, a world where we aren't always the only shining star in the sea. We get cut from the basketball team, get deemed a geek and relegated to a certain cafeteria table, and break our arms when we jump off the roof fully expecting to fly. Over time, we come to see ourselves as special, but not set apart from everyone else in some sort of distant "Different League."

Apparently, I missed the last part of this lesson. I am still hooked on the notion that I am exempt from the rules and limitations of this world; I see myself as set apart in a "Different League" where being normal is not acceptable and being average could jeopardize my club membership. I hold myself to unreasonable standards, and justify everything I do with the understanding that I am different, better, and "terminally unique." Yep. If this isn't undercover self-righteous arrogance, I don't know what is.

Enter meditation. I walked into the meditation space tonight with my head held high, after a solid day of committed recovery and spirituality. I had eaten all day, spent time reading, writing, and using treatment skills to surf through waves of self doubt and deprecation. I sat on the cushion breathing in all of the things from which I'd rather run away... and before I knew it, I had been swept into a deep visualization. I saw myself in the midst of a great crowd, with everyone dressed alike in white robes. We were indistinguishable; I was one of the crowd. It was terrible. I thought I was going to lose it - all I wanted was to be seen, to be noticed, to be identified and set apart. And yet, here I was, in this space in my meditation where I was just one of many, truly equal, beings.

I still can't shake the feeling of terror that overcame me during the sit. Who am I, if not separate and identified? How will I survive? My ego is fighting hard to survive, and in response, the Universe keeps firing all of these pieces at it to encourage me to bravely begin the process of separating my True Self from the False Identity I cling to for dear life.

And in case I missed the memo that my lesson for the week is about my arrogance and refusal to see myself as an equally lovable (no more, no less) sentient being, the Universe pounded home the message again - following the sit, our meditation leader gave her dharma talk on the ways in which we use our identities to protect and shield ourselves. She talked about how we use identity as a way to render ourselves visible in a world that has often crushed us and made us feel unlovable and invisible. When we are hurt, we react protectively - we cling to our identities and they become the life rafts to which we cling, making sense of the world by dividing ourselves into small boxes and camps where we can be safely recognized and named.

Letting go of these identities - the labels and ideas that have grown around us to protect us and make us feel like we are set apart from the millions of other beings around us - is an incredibly frightening endeavor. During our meditation leader's talk, I wandered back into the crowd of white-robe wearing equals, and found that without the shield of my distinct identity (as a Minnesotan lesbian, college graduate, anorexic...) I was lost. Without those things, I am terrified of becoming invisible - being lost in the crowd - and not having any sense of direction and purpose.

So, apparently my ego is tied to the labels and boxes in which I've found visibility, security, and comfort. What does that mean? It probably means that my process of awakening involves a deep consideration of my identity and a quest to find peace in the sea of white anonymous robes. I hate it, but I have to learn to let go of the idea that I am, somehow, too different to reach outside of myself - too good to settle for average, normal experience - too self-righteous to submit to eating disorder treatment and recovery. Maybe I am not "too special" or "too different" or "too good" for the experience of life. Maybe it is the belief that I am "too... whatever" that is preventing me from experiencing my body in this time and place in a fully wakened state.

Lesson for the week. What am I scared of in becoming "normal?" Why do I panic when I think about becoming nameless, and faceless? What is there in my arrogance that is protecting me, and shielding my ego from letting go into a state of truth and clarity? How do I even begin to put on my white robe, walk in the crowd, and find peace in my soul without being "set apart" somehow?

Until I find out, I'm sure the Universe will continue to throw messages in my direction. It's painful to get hit, but how else will I awake?

Terminal Uniqueness

I write again tonight, reaching deeply for a strong dose of humility and patience. I have been treading water in my recovery in the past month - pretending to "do the work" without being truly committed or dedicated. I go to meetings, struggle through therapy, and do a lot of thinking and talking about my eating disorder. But through all the talk, I've remained addicted to the control of anorexia and have absolutely refused to let go the reigns of control that bind me to the disorder. I haven't been eating - I've been refusing to sleep normally and the survival eating mechanism inside me has been in overdrive. My days are spent planning for the day when I finally will be "ready" to surrender to treatment, and obsessing about my body and the weight I have gained in the past months.

I just got back from an ED drop-in group, which proved to be painfully humiliating. I was trying to articulate why I'm having such a difficult time in treatment - why I still can't bring myself to fully trust the process or treatment team. I was explaining that I completely agree with their meal plans and guidelines for other people, but that I see myself as exempt somehow - I don't qualify to eat three meals a day and two snacks because I am, somehow, different. I need to eat less for some reason - I need to exercise more because of my athletic background - my body won't know how to respond to food in the same way as other people. I can think of a hundred reasons to not surrender to treatment, because I am just NOT LIKE OTHER PEOPLE.

One of my therapists heard this and bluntly said, "yep, that's common. In 12-step programs, it's called terminal uniqueness. It's this idea that your addiction is somehow MERITED because YOU are different - you have special circumstances - no one could possibly understand." Essentially, her point was that I am holding this self-righteous idea that I don't NEED the same treatment plan as everyone else because I think that I should be exempt - I am too good and too different to be "normal." I don't want to play by the normal rules, because I see myself as set apart from the group.

THIS STUNG.

The minute it came out of her mouth, I felt my defenses rise. She was right - I don't see myself as one of the group - I see myself in an entirely different league than the people for whom this treatment is designed. I see myself as needing different guidelines and standards because I have always been naturally thin, because I am a long-distance runner, because I have friends who are thinner than me (which, in my ED logic, means that I should be worried about LOSING, not GAINING, weight).

It stung because it's true.

I asked what it would take to push myself from "pretending to be in treatment" (showing up for meetings and talking about changing) to actually surrendering to the process (which would mean trusting my body, submitting to weight gain, and ACTUALLY EATING instead of just planning and thinking about it). My therapist replied with another stinging reality check: "humility."

Owwwwwww.
It hurts. I know it's true, and it sucks. I know it's true because every molecule in my body reacted... it was as if the word itself vibrated in me. I was so uncomfortable my breath caught in my chest... I HATE BEING TOLD THAT I NEED HUMILITY.

Being seen as arrogant is something that terrifies me - probably because I know that my inner self-composition is based largely on the idea that I am inherently different than (and thus, set apart from and superior to) other people. I know that I am deeply arrogant, and I hate it. It is a part of myself that I try desperately to hide - I don't even admit to myself that it is there. To have someone in a public space call me out on this great "secret" was humiliating, humbling, shame-producing, and defense-inducing.

So now, here I sit, well over an hour after hearing a therapist tell me that my eating disorder is surviving because of my arrogance... and I can't help but think, "no, that's not me. I'm different. The rules don't apply to me because of blah blah blah..."

Maybe I am terminally unique. Maybe that's why this stings so badly and why I am having such a strong reaction to it. I don't want to be normal - I want to stand out from the crowd. If I don't, how will I survive? My entire identity rests in being valuable and worthwhile by outdoing others... what happens if I am just one of many? Who will I be then?

I have to be special... we're told from our childhood that we are unique and special people. I believed it all, and then spent all of my time trying to stand out and find the spotlight by proving my exceptional "specialness." If I'm not special after all, what am I?

How do I LEARN humility? What does humility look like? How can I humble myself without degrading myself or declaring absolute self-failure? Every time I try humility, I end up undervaluing myself, my knowledge, my experience and opinions... I swing from one end of the pendulum to the other.

But I don't want to cling to terminal uniqueness forever. I don't want to continue to see myself as "exempt" from the rules of life - from the process of ED treatment - from the harrowing reality of anorexia. So where is the middle ground? And how do I go about letting go of the only identity I've ever known... the identity instilled in me from my very birth... that I am a "special" and "unique" child in the world?

Funny Little Hybrid Child

I am a funny little hybrid child; currently studying Buddhist philosophy and practicing yoga, believing fully in the earth-based spirituality offered in Paganism, and a Christ-doubting, but God-loving, Lutheran Christian.

It works for me.

My dad is a Lutheran pastor, which means that I always get a good dose of Christianity when I'm home to visit. We Lutherans are "grace-lovers," which is to say that we believe that there is nothing we can do or say to make us more or less loved by the divine. I embrace the idea of grace with open arms, but as a perfectionist constantly trying to prove my worth, I must admit that I still cannot understand how grace could extend to a being as "imperfect" as myself.

The psychologist Carl Jung emphasizes that it is only when we fully love and embrace our "dark parts" that our lights can shine freely in this world. Similarly, the Buddhist nun Pema Chodron writes continuously about the importance of accepting ourselves as we are - wherever we are - however we might be. This means opening to all of our pieces - the broken and dirty ones, the cravings, the addictions, the imperfections - without hardening ourselves against them, wishing they were gone, or trying to cover them up. In a word, trying to love ourselves with the same grace my dad believes in so surely, the same foundational concept inherent in all of my funny hybrid spiritual practices. Accept myself as I am, know that I need not change or do anything to be "better," "more worthy," or "more loved." Live with confidence in grace and impermanence, accepting imperfection and pushing nothing away in this world's experience.

My job is to be open. To be open enough that the universe and the divine can sing through me, blowing through the channel of my being freely and unrestricted. My constant worries block the spirits from flowing through me, obstructing the song that I was meant to produce. When I worry about my body being perfect enough to be worthy of use, I block the channel and destroy my song. When I try to control the tune, tempo, quality, and audience, everything seems to fall apart, and I lose the divine grace that was meant to flow through me without my constant intrusion, doubts, and worries.

I've been worried a lot today - more than usual, I've been acutely aware of what I'm eating, how much I've exercised, and how much weight I've gained. Instead of dropping into the present moment, reflecting on my breath and the impermanent sensations I am experiencing, I've been stuck in a constant string of "what ifs." What if I get fat? What if I don't find a job when I move to Colorado? What if I can't find the true purpose of my life, and wander aimlessly forever? When will I get to live deep in the mountains? When won't I be trapped in debt? When will I be able to fully release from all of this future-boding and rest in the grace of this present moment?

In the middle of all of this chest tightening, breath confining anxiety, I picked up my dad's devotional book and read this - a favorite of mine from when I studied Christianity with slightly more fervor than I do today:

"Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which passes all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ."
Phil. 4: 6-7

I suppose this is a similar vein to the Alcoholics Anonymous foundational thought that a "higher power" is needed to get through any addiction. I love control; I've been resisting the idea that I need help to get through my eating disorder for years. I've wanted to recover alone, prove my strength and discipline, and I've refused all sorts of intervention (both human and divine) with the stubborn resolution that I could prove that I am good enough by recovering on my own.

And now, I'm being held like a small child, fed by my parents who fix my food and keep me company. I sleep during the day and have monitored exercise periods. I've started relying entirely upon what my mom and dad say about the world - when they tell me that I haven't eaten too much, I try to trust them, and rest in the peace that comes from releasing control.

I guess that it's finally time to start relinquishing control on a larger level, trusting that there is something bigger taking care of me - something bigger, even, than my dear parents. Trusting, maybe, that if I stop worrying, the universe will hold me, and that the divine God will in fact sing through me once I stop trying so hard. And the song might just be peace, a peace that passes all understanding because it comes without being earned or deserved. It comes as a song of grace, once I release enough to open myself to the universal instrument I was meant to be.

And as a funky hybrid child, born of many spiritual persuasions, all of this seems to fit and make sense. All things are impermanent, our experience is ours to feel and not protect ourselves against. I am connected to all things - the earth, wind, water, and fire - and am part of all things. My song is not mine, but simply a sound produced in the channel of being I currently occupy. It's a song of grace, impermanence, and light. It's a song of peace and letting go, of accepting and loving the instrument I am, with all of its perfect flaws and imperfect desires for control.

So tonight, I sing. Wild hopes.

Marshmallow Courage

Today I feel like I'm walking on the rim of a ferocious volcano, with red hot lava spitting up at me as I twirl and dance, holding my balance simply by staying in motion. I've been afraid of falling into the pit for so long, and I've avoiding hiking up the volcano for years because I know that a fall is possible - even inevitable.

My younger sister, a brave and bold traveler of this planet, just returned from a grand adventure to Guatemala and Costa Rica. My mom and I met her in Minneapolis shortly after she returned, and we were blessed to hear some of the details of her adventure. If she wasn't camping in the rainforest or jumping through a dark hole in some cave with only a candle and her optimism to hold onto, she was talking with strangers, being led to people's homes to see their weavings, and hiking up the side of the Pacayo Volcano.

For those who follow the news, my baby sister hiked up the side of THE volcano that only TWO DAYS later erupted and killed several people. Not only did she hike Pacayo, but she roasted marshmallows over the hot lava.

She is brave in so many ways - and always has been. She has a spontaneous spirit and a bold trust in this universe that I have always admired. She rides the scary rides, follows the rules only until she finds them ridiculous, and has a confidence about her that I can only hope to one day emulate.

So, back to the volcano. Today I've been stressed, anxious, and worried. I have been at this recovery thing - at full speed - for two weeks. I feel like after talking about getting better and planning to "recover" for the past several years, I finally started hiking up the side of my own "volcano." And now... two weeks later, I am standing on the rim and peering into the lava beneath me, terrified of being burned.

Today I was bored. I was stressed about the future and had a difficult time bringing myself back to the present moment. I ate a lot, panicked a lot, and had a DANGEROUS day. A full box of Hot Tamales this afternoon; hamburger, french fries, AND a milk shake for dinner. I am okay; slightly anxious and uncomfortable, but managing it. I feel like today I truly did wobble alongside the rim of this volcano, playing dangerously close to the edge.

And then I realized... what if I took a breath, calmed down, and trusted that I could balance on the edge? What if, instead of freaking out about what MIGHT happen, I took a cue from my little sister and simply made the journey to the rim a grand adventure? What if, instead of running and wobbling along the rim, I stopped to roast marshmallows?

Trusting that I will be okay is a difficult thing for me. Jumping into a dark hole with no assurance of what awaits me sends me into a panic; following a stranger to see their mother's weaving at a small home (in who knows where) makes my heart race. But my sister just jumps. With grace and trust, she knows that everything will work itself out; and if it doesn't, she knows that we aren't in control anyway, and that such worries are senseless.

My body knows what to do and how to regulate itself. Too much food is uncomfortable, but it doesn't have to result in panic. What if, instead, I prayed in thanksgiving for the feast? What if I stopped running scared and brought out the marshmallows instead?

I love telling people that "life's a party, but no one's going to throw it for you." I find myself often saying this to others, but rarely able to take my eyes away from my fear long enough to relax into the party waiting for me. When I think about my sister, it brings me to tears to realize how proud I am that she ALREADY lives this way.

So, my baby sister will be my guide for today (and, probably, forever). I'll grow into some of her boldness and hopefully give her something in return. And maybe one day, we will roast marshmallows over this volcano together, laughing about the journey, and grateful for the feast.

"Keep your gaze on the bandaged place..."

"Don't turn away. Keep your gaze on the bandaged place. That's where the light enters you."
Rumi

This afternoon I had a victory - something small in the grand scheme, but overwhelmingly large in my own psyche.

It started mid-afternoon; I got bored. My hunger and fullness cues are still out of whack, and I have a difficult time knowing when I'm hungry, full, or tired. All of the sensations are jumbled together right now, and even though I've gotten much better at interpreting my body's signs, I still get confused sometimes.

So what happened was this: I was bored. And it was time for me to have a snack. But the eating disordered part of me HATES the mid-afternoon snack; I am always terrified to eat too much and not be hungry enough (aka "deserving enough") for dinner, and I'm also constantly thinking about food during this part of the day - probably because my body is hungry and trying to get me to realize it, while I fixate on ignoring the sensation.

I decided to have a snack. I ate some Hot Tamales (good Lord, they're my favorite), and then realized that eating something more substantial would be to my benefit. So I made a little bit of trail mix (my mom looked so pleased!) and promptly inhaled that. And then... I couldn't tell if I was still hungry or not. I didn't WANT to eat more, because my brain was warning me to be cautious about "over-eating."

My mom and I were supposed to be running errands, but we got sidetracked and stuck at home. So I was sitting on the couch, in a sort of limbo, waiting for my mom and unsure about how much time I had. Could I take a nap? Should I read a little bit? Watch a movie? I didn't know what I was supposed to be doing... which meant that my brain fixated on its favorite subject... what I've eaten, what I shouldn't have eaten, and what "intellectually" I should decide in the food game I play so often when I don't know what to occupy myself with. I was frustrated and confused, but couldn't label it as such, and decided to eat some cookie wafers.

But the cookies put me over the edge. I felt terrible - it was too much. I berated myself and kept thinking, "well now I've royally fucked up. I won't be hungry for dinner, and I'm going to get fat at this rate... hell I'm already blown up like a balloon." I couldn't help it - my brain went into panic mode and immediately tried to manage my anxiety. I wanted to throw up so badly, but my mom was here and deeply engaged with a contractor about redoing our kitchen floor. I was itching to purge; I wanted the contractor to leave and my mom to finish her errands without me so that I could go about my eating drama in peace. I needed to manage my panic - I needed to undo my mistake.

Instead, my mom and the contractor talked for an hour. Then my dad came home, and my mom left. Somewhere along the line I fell asleep on the couch; I was too terrified to move anywhere because I knew if I got up I would either eat more or try and get to the bathroom unnoticed. So I sat. With my "gaze on the bandaged place," leaning in towards my pain instead of wishing it away or trying to "fix it" in some maladaptive way.

I woke up two hours later, still feeling full and crappy. It was almost dinner time, and I realized that my panic had faded a bit. After all, it was just some afternoon snacks. Maybe it wasn't "too much," but was just an experiment in learning to eat again. It doesn't feel great to eat candy, trail mix, and cookies in one sitting. It doesn't mean that I am bad, or wrong, or disgusting. It just means that I ate some candy, and trail mix, and cookies.

And I was upset about it, but that's okay too. The pain was there, and instead of DOING SOMETHING about it, I sort of leaned in and felt it. Recognizing that I felt disgusting - and separating it from the belief that I am disgusting - was a big revelation. I am not defined by my feelings. The pain and panic are there, but the stories I've been telling myself about what that means about ME are just stories. The things I am so ashamed of - eating too many afternoon snacks, being hungry, getting bigger than the thin and childlike person I idealize - don't make ME bad or wrong or shameful. They don't define me.

So instead of hiding from them, trying desperately to prove that I have no shameful parts... no imperfections to tarnish my identity that I want so badly to be "good enough..." I leaned in towards the pain. I didn't deny it, but kept my gaze steady on the bandaged wounds I've been so scared of for so many years.

I am sick. I don't think rationally. I'm not perfect. I'm not in control of my life, especially when I most desperately need to be. Sometimes I do the wrong things, and eat the wrong things, and worry about everything under the moon. If I had it my way, I would probably eat seven bowls of vanilla ice cream every afternoon. I wouldn't feel very good - physically my body would probably let me know fairly quickly that seven bowls leads to discomfort of some kind - but the truth is that I love ice cream. And I often eat too much.

I'm kind of a pig when I'm hungry - especially because I've been starving for so long. I watch what everyone else eats and try to gauge what is "normal," but long ago I set up a game with rules for myself that don't apply to anyone else. I want to be the one who eats the least - who is the best and thinnest and most disciplined - but in reality, I sometimes act without discipline at all. I don't always crave carrot sticks and I sometimes hate having to exercise. I don't love vegetables any more than junk food and I'm not the picture perfect image of health and happiness.

Pretending to be something that I'm not - and lying to myself for years - has created a deep wound in my soul. I keep looking away from it, trying to make it go away by ignoring its existence. I think, "maybe if I pretend long enough, I will evolve into the person I really want to be and the hole will disappear."

But the hole remains, bandaged.
And this afternoon, my victory was that I kept my gaze on that place, noticing it and trying to have compassion for both my injury and the lies that created it. I ate too much, felt crappy, and noticed it. I am not bad for eating three snacks, I just did. My hole is that I am imperfect, and struggling, and still unable to accept myself with grace. But instead of acting to fix it - or ignore the wound - I kept my eyes on it.

It's not miraculously healed or better; I just know that it's there. And that's okay. I am trusting that, like Rumi asserts, it is the same place where the light will enter me. Or, like Carl Rogers said, "The curious paradox is that when I accept myself just as I am, then I can change."

So the light will come in. I have to trust that it will. And I am okay. Hole and all.

When Does It Get Easier?

Today I was fishing through some old letters and past-loved items, and I came across a book, made for me several years ago by a lover of mine. I have been eating and digesting, feeling, sleeping, and healing for almost two weeks, and my recovery seems to be progressing. My brain and my heart are waking up - and so when I stumbled upon this small book of memories, I found myself sobbing over its contents. Now that I am no longer numb with starvation, I am experiencing emotion more deeply and widely than I have in several years. I found myself mourning a broken relationship long put to rest - my heart heavy with past love and commitment, broken hopes of a future, and of my own unravelled identity.

Even now, as I sit near my beautiful window, looking out on a glorious June evening and hearing the birds sing the sun to sleep, my heart is still holding this deep sadness - a sadness that birthed out of nothing sensible or logical - a sadness that should have been put to rest several years ago. I finally curled up with my mom, heavy heart and all, and simply asked, "when does it get easier? Do broken hearts ever heal?"

Her answer - and the truth, I think - is that it might not ever be "gone" entirely. The residue is there, under our fingernails and in our boxes of old letters and postcards and ticket stubs. The fingerprints left on our hearts and pillows and identities don't ever really leave us... they just kind of fade and become part of the background in our ever changing, active lives.

I'm thinking the same is true for this eating disorder. Because even after two weeks of fairly consistent eating and healthy behavior, I am still feeling anxious panic as I sit here listening to the birds. I would be lying if I said that I wasn't in a deep battle with my body, wanting so badly for it to be thinner and more perfect. I've gotten much better at sitting in this state of imperfection - without acting in a maladaptive way - but I still hate the imperfection. I am eating, but not loving it. I'm not throwing up, but I still think about it and dream up diets and plans and ways to lose the weight I am gaining so steadily.

So after two weeks of refeeding, I keep thinking, "shouldn't I be over this? When will this finally get easier?" But maybe it is like our old loves... the pain fades, but the sadness stays. And I may never be the same. The residue will be there, and I will probably stumble across books or pictures and cry over what was and what could have been. Why couldn't she love me? Why didn't she choose me? Why can't I love myself? Why can't I love all of the imperfect pieces of this life instead of tolerating them and hating myself for failing to fix them? What would my life have been like had I not had this eating disorder to battle? Where would I be now? How much time have I wasted?

I thought at some point that these questions would be silent - no longer a refrain haunting the recesses of my brain. But maybe that isn't realistic. Maybe the best we can hope for is that it fades to a quiet hum... something to remind us of where we've been and what we've learned. And for that, maybe we're lucky. Our lives are littered with residue - lessons learned, loves lost, battles fought, and wars won. Without the residue, would we still be who we are? My guess is, no. But for today, I would like the residue to hold less sadness and be a bit lighter... because when it all piles up, it's difficult to see the way out.

And does it ever really get easier? Will I be able to sit here someday and only listen to the sun hitting the horizon... without the underlying panic of what I've eaten for dinner or the sadness from past loves tainting my thoughts? I cling to the hope that I will... and that all of this "residue" has some greater teaching and purpose waiting for me.

In that, I will place my faith tonight. Maybe this pain and sadness has a purpose. Maybe it is tracing in me a path toward something brighter and more meaningful. Maybe it's good that the residue only fades, and never quite disappears... like a trail of bread crumbs leading me back to myself... back home...

When Nothing Works

Last week, I made a decision. I'm tired and don't want to fight anymore. I need help.

I'm already woven deeply into treatment - but I go to my sessions and have perfected the art of "being there" without being committed to recovering from my eating disorder. In a perfect world, I want to stop throwing up without gaining any weight or eating anything. I love starving. I like being thin. I like the quest to control my body - it makes me feel like I'm ascending above the human world of possibility.

After a lot of thinking, I started rolling the idea of doing an inpatient program around in my head. I've been averse to the idea of hospitalization from the start - I'm not scarily thin and don't have "enough" health issues to rationalize that level of care. But when I honestly sat with the idea for a few days, here's what I came up with...

Health Issues to Consider (and rationalize a higher level of treatment)
1. Osteopenia and bone health - I could break a bone lifting something or stepping off a curb.
2. Insomnia.
3. Shaky hands and lack of coordination in the past few weeks.
4. Inability to hold down my medicine in the morning.
5. Irregular heart rhythms and "concerning EKG" last week at the ED clinic.
6. Signs of dehydration.
7. Lack of energy.

Reasons I Should Not be Hospitalized
1. I'm not thin enough.
2. They'll make me fat.
3. Once I'm done, I may still not be able to eat regularly on my own.

Reasons I Should Not be Hospitalized (that I've used in the past, but are actually untrue)
1. Too expensive (insurance covers it all).
2. I can't get out of work (I'm a business owner with understanding coworkers).
3. It's a symbol of failure (maybe for my friends and family, but I'm failing life right now).
4. It won't be different than my current treatment (I'll be forced to eat and not purge).
5. The other people in the program will be thin and starving; I need to lose weight and don't belong in an ED hospital (my doctors keep telling me that my weight is a little too low still).

I went to the clinic on Thursday and asked my team of doctors what to do. Both the doctor and the therapist said that if I was one of their daughters, they'd want me to be in the hospital.

I confessed that my only real reason for not wanting to do an inpatient program was my fear of gaining weight. I want someone else to force me to do it... I'm not sure that the healthy part of me is strong enough to admit that it's what I need when the fear of getting bigger is woven so deeply inside of me. But with that admission in the ED clinic, I took a step forward, and I think that I will be hospitalized in June for a couple of weeks until I can start thinking and behaving rationally again.

I'm willing to do anything to make this better - except for eat and gain weight. And I guess that is the heart of the problem.

I'm feeling resigned, and stressed. I just want ED to go away. And since I made the decision to try an inpatient program, I've been feeling crazy. My brain's running wild - all I want to do is lose as much weight as possible before I start the program to avoid getting "too fat." This means that I've given up even TRYING to eat normally. I'm starving again - which means that the level of survival eating and purging is escalating at a scary rate. I want to lose weight so badly - I feel like I NEED to lose weight - my heart races all day and I get sweaty with anxiety just thinking about it. I feel like an utter failure; I need to get small as quickly as possible.

I realize the inherent flaw in my logic - I want to get better, and yet...? I want to be smaller? The anxiety around trying to be thinner is making me crazy, and I feel panicked and scared all the time. Since making my decision, it's not just that I don't want to GAIN weight... I'm terrified of staying how I am now... FAT.

I feel turned inside out. Like I've taken a step forward and resigned myself to a higher level of care, but in the process taken away my role in being accountable to recovery altogether. I'm frustrated and tired. And tired of being frustrated. I'm tired to feeling fat and tired of being fat. I'm tired of not getting to eat and then eating what I don't WANT to. I'm tired of spending hours eating until I'm full enough to purge and getting every obstacle (indeed, every THING) out of my way so that I have the time and privacy I need to participate in my own drama.

I don't trust anyone right now - I'm not even certain that I can rely on the process I've been participating in for the past several years to keep myself in check and control. I'm scared to give it all up - but also excited at the prospect of putting my life and worth in someone else's loving hands.

Please, please, please. Let there be movement. Let my heart be changed and strengthened, so that I can make healthy choices and move forward. I am tired of this place, and ready to move on. I'm scared, but ready. And I can't do it alone... because there's something dark in my heart that is pulling me away from the desire to move forward. I can't just rely on my own heart, but I have to start realizing that in the end, I AM THE ONLY ONE who can change this. Blehk. Help me today. Help me this week. Will this get better? I'm needing some hope. And some help.

Today, I Will Not Throw Up

Today, I will not throw up.

It sounds easy - it's something that I've managed to accomplish before - in fact, just two weeks ago I went five or six days in a row without throwing up. But this week has been difficult; the eating disorder has me in its claws and I haven't been able to make it through lunch without purging for the past six days. And once the first purge happens, I spend the rest of the day planning to starve, avoiding meals, and purging some more. I've been throwing up several times a day, and my heart and body are tired.

I want to stop, but it's like trying to halt a fast-moving train. Now that I'm purging again, it seems like a terrible addiction that I can't stop... the train is rushing forward and I can't imagine standing in front of it and calling a halt to the entire business.

What I started writing about this morning is my goal to be "sober" for one full month - something far off in the future that seems like, for right now, an unattainable dream. My cousin is getting married at the end of May; it seems as good a hallmark as any to be my mark of a month of sobriety. I want desperately to have a full month of sobriety under my belt - what a better way to disarm ED and relearn the eating and living process?!

In the past three years, the longest that I've gone without purging was ten days - over this past Christmas. Second to that, I had a full sober week two years ago, but faltered on day eight.

And for this morning, thinking about not purging for a week seems like an impossibility. In the throws of this disease, I feel trapped in the game of purging several times a day, and the idea of even keeping my breakfast this morning down feels like a crazy battle. I keep thinking to myself, I WANT a month of sobriety... I need to stop this... but because the goal of a "month" is so big, I get lost in it. Instead of spending my energy fighting in THIS moment, I spend my time planning and hoping that I'll be able to accomplish my goal.

So, I'm releasing myself from the goal of "one month, no purging." Instead, my goal for today is simple - and itself seems daunting. Today, I will not throw up. Not even "today," but RIGHT NOW. I will not throw up. I will stop the fucking train, not in some superhuman way, but with my blood and sweat and tears. I'm stopping the train - not in the name of some abstract sobriety goal, but in the name of THIS MOMENT. I will not throw up right now. The mantra is simple: Today, I will not throw up. Today, I will not throw up. Today, I will not throw up.

And the train will still be itching to move, but hopefully it won't be racing forward unquestioned any longer. And I can deal with the train and its itch to move tomorrow. ONE DAY AT A TIME, ONE MEAL AT A TIME, ONE MOMENT AT A TIME. Instead of fixating on the goal of stopping this behavior for some set period of time, I am going to try and drop into the present and focus on the one thing that is happening NOW. Today, I will not throw up.

I will eat three meals today, and drink an Ensure. I will eat some Hot Tamales when I feel like it and try desperately to release the criticism that comes with eating any kind of food these days. I won't ignore the voice in my head; I'll listen to it and validate its presence. I can't pretend it's not there - but I can acknowledge it and move on, without action or judgment.

So for today, I will not throw up. Let tomorrow bring what it will. For today, I will focus on the present moment and the fighting I need to do in order to sit through the discomfort. Today, I will not throw up. Today, I will pray for help, and move one minute to the next releasing myself from the obligation to go along with the speeding train.

I will not throw up today. Please help me. I will not throw up today. It seems impossible; but moment to moment, I will fight and try to throw a wrench in my eating disorder's wicked logic.

Today, I will not throw up.

Kites in the Sea

"...Such letting go cannot be attained. It cannot be acquired or developed through perseverance and exercises, except insofar as such efforts prove the impossibility of acquiring it. Letting go comes only through desperation. When you know that it is beyond you - beyond your powers of action as beyond your powers of relaxation. When you give up every last trick and device for getting it, including this 'giving up' as something that one might do, say, at ten o'clock tonight. That you cannot by any means do it - that is it! That is the mighty self-abandonment that gives birth to the stars." Alan Watts

So, letting go, huh? Not something that I can "do" or "practice?"
What's that about?

Hilariously, I've spent the last eight minutes writing and re-writing the first part of this blog posting, trying to figure out how to say exactly this: I am a perfectionist. "Doing" and "practicing" are part of the job. I write and re-write until it's perfect. "Mighty self-abandonment"?! Are you kidding me?

But maybe Mr. Watts is onto something. Maybe what is divine is that we can't DO anything... we can't even STOP doing something because stopping is - in itself - an action. To let go, we need to... well... we need to have no verb holding us. We just need to BE held.

In the last week, I've learned a great deal about the importance of releasing into the present. When I stop worrying, planning, dreaming, rationalizing, and apologizing, I step into a moment where I stop "verbing" and start "being." I can eat without panic, feel physical sensations without moving to make myself more comfortable, and find emotions without judging, labeling, and filing them into small, neat compartments. When I focus on how I feel - right NOW - and stop thinking about how I did feel, or will feel, or what I need to do to ensure that I am "good enough" or "perfect enough" in some future moment, I touch the power the "births the stars."

But the second I realize it, I try to grasp it. I want to touch it, label it, and KEEP it. So in the instant of mighty self-abandonment, I fear losing what I see, and ACT. I don't want to lose it, and I start to believe that I "found" whatever enlightenment I have encountered. In fact, I start to believe that it was something that I did - or didn't do - that got me there. But the moment it is squeezed, the present slips through my palms.

Even "staying" is a verb. Ah, what to DO?!

We are a world of do-ers, trying to eke some meaning of our lives, spending our time doing and trying and perfecting and readying ourselves for... for what? For the next minute, when we'll be hopelessly preparing for another?

Today I shared an afternoon with the sea and the sky - sprawled on a blanket in the sun. With an idyllic view of the Golden Gate Bridge, the ocean, and the kites flying overhead, it was nearly perfect.

But the wind was chilly. The grass was pokey. And on, and on, and on. How long should we stay? Am I hungry? Do I want to be sleeping or reading? Or soul searching? WHAT IF I WASTE THIS PERFECT MOMENT ON THIS MOST MEANINGFUL AFTERNOON???

Holy love, the pressure.

Instead, I closed my eyes. Sunk into the ground. Stopped thinking. Started to focus on what life would be like - ah, what life IS like - when instead of moving all the time to make things "good," we just ARE. The wind just blows, and our leg hair catches it. It may feel "cold," but if "cold" isn't labeled, then it's just an experience. We remain untouched. Nope, remain is another verb. We are untouched. We feel, but our essential selves do not change. Our souls are open, the world comes in, and we just are. This feels esoteric, but revolutionary.

This week, battling my eating disorder has been trying. I had lots of "slips" and frustrations. I am tired of screwing up, scared of gaining weight, and simultaneously afraid that the demon lurking inside of me is merely napping. If I let it out and it takes my life again, will I have the strength to fight my way out again? I am so tired, and so ready to put this whole battle away.

But this weekend I had the realization that when I drop into the present moment - when I stop worrying about what will come - what I WILL eat or HAVE eaten - and instead just take whatever feeling I have in the moment and trust it - I AM FINE. Right now, I am whole and complete. Right now, I am okay. I am.

It's when I sense that "wholeness" and start worrying about losing it that I get into trouble. I plan my meals to make sure they're perfect, and convince myself that unless I work life-drainingly hard, I won't ensure my future wholeness. I am so convinced that I can work myself to perfection - to wholeness - that I spend all of my time working and no time BEING.

Today I dropped into the present. I sunk into the ground and opened my eyes to dozens of kites flying overhead in a sea of blue. The sky was like unclouded water, unfazed by my human perception and imperfection. The kites were flying. I was there.

I was there.
Mighty self-abandonment.

Annie Dillard calls this present living, saying that the only obstacle to true consciousness is "self-consciousness," when we become aware of ourselves in the world and fixate on OUR role in the experience rather than the experience itself.

I am hungry. Not good, not bad. I don't HAVE to respond to this urge, but I CAN. And if I do, I might feel FULL. But that, too, is not good or bad. In that moment, it will just be. I don't HAVE to respond. I CAN, but I don't HAVE to do anything to make it anything other than what it is.

Mess and all.
Kites or blue skies or plates of french fries.
My job: not to re-write this blog eight times or to plan my meals perfectly, but to BE. Be verbless. Radical "letting" go, if we must imply an action. Revolutionary, eh?

If Fat Isn't a Feeling...

I think that I've been stumbling in my writing lately, trying too hard to make it "meaningful" and "poetic" and "together." While I enjoy the process of creating posts that make me proud to read again and again, I think that for tonight, anyway, I must abandon the effort to create poetry and just type as it comes... without an overall theme or meaning.

Entering the realm of "stream of consciousness." Ladies and gentlemen, hold onto your seats. With this brain, who knows what may come out...

I keep being told (by my therapists and books and friends) that fat is NOT a "feeling." But despite what they say, I must admit that tonight - and for the past several days - that is exactly how I've felt.

Fat.

If it's not a feeling, then what is it? What is the emotion I am experiencing in this moment, when I am feeling gross and large and overflowing? I feel like a glutton, an out-of-control college student on the verge of my freshman fifteen. My pants are tight, and I keep catching images of myself in the mirror and feeling flushed with panic when I see how round my belly has become.

Of course, I realize this could be distorted, but I also know that it's partially true. I am gaining weight - at least I'm supposed to - and just the other night, my dear friend said, "Leah, I see you're gaining weight and I love it. I think you look so beautiful - the weight looks good on you." Despite his wonderful and loving intentions, my brain read this as a simple "Leah, you're getting fat. People are noticing. You can't convince yourself that they won't be able to see the difference any more."

I do want to be healthy, but when people (even in their most pure intentions), comment on how I look, my brain goes wild. I panic - full out panic with palm sweating, pacing, and heart-pounding anxiety. Even saying, "you look good," or "you look healthy" induces the panic, and I think what I'm realizing is that I've been living in this exact panicked state for the past several days.

My best friends came to visit last weekend; the time we spent together was one of the most beautiful and rare gifts I have ever received. They left on Monday - and since then, I've felt nothing but fat and out of control and "different" from the person that used to live in my little apartment before they came to visit. While they were here, my self image evolved so powerfully... I stopped seeing myself in terms of my belly and instead saw myself as this essential being full of love, questions, and freedom. With my friends, I felt boundless - not scared to embrace and love my fullness, but eager to do it and redefine my life. They didn't say a damn thing about how I "looked." They just told me about my wild spirit and fierce heart, and reaffirmed every minute that I am a being deserving and worthy of love.

But now they are gone, and instead of holding tight to the evolved self image I strengthened during their visit, my insecurity has returned, and I have been spending hours staring at my stomach in the mirror, pinching and poking and prodding and wondering how I grew so much so fast.

I feel utterly out of control. My fingers feel bloated, my stomach feels like a protruding piece of damning evidence, and I am physically FULL. I have felt FULL every second of the last several days; eating seems like the most terrible punishment. I don't want to do it - I feel fat already.

But I also don't want to minimize my life... in the last several weeks, my fed body has allowed the grace of the universe to enter in and move through me, shaking everything around and bringing intense emotion. I cry all the time; I laugh harder than I have in years. I know that if I start starving, binging, and purging again, I'll lose the "muchness" that I've spent the last month so desperately building. I don't want to lose it. But I don't want to get fat. And those two desires are in equal measure.

And it's hard to fend ED off when I am feeling fat and awful. I don't feel confident or capable, I feel slow and sluggish and heavy. I feel like I weigh too much to walk around without effort or ride my bike to this coffee house without breathing heavily like it's some sort of difficult "task." I am full - I am claiming my womanhood - but I am losing the "I can do anything" girl that I want to cling to so desperately. Feeling like a "woman" means - in my head - feeling fat. And I hate it, because when I feel fat, I don't feel free.

So, I pose a question now to the many people, doctors, and books who keep telling me that "fat isn't a feeling." If it's not a feeling, WHAT is it? And more than that, WHAT is this feeling I am experiencing now? Because there is something very visceral and real happening inside of me on nights like tonight.

I ate dinner tonight - but only because I called my mom and had her help me decide what to eat and how to stay accountable. Learning to do this on my own feels like an impossible feat; just getting my food to stay down tonight feels hard enough.

And to add to it all - I'm having another wave of "I'm not actually sick." Today my mom (with the most loving intention), said that she doesn't think it's important for me to drink my Ensures or have two snacks every day - as long as I'm eating three meals and having a snack. I'd rather eat three meals and an occasional snack, but hearing her say that she thinks I don't "need" all of the food that my treatment team keeps pushing makes me doubt that I'm sick at all. I even have the distorted feeling (distorted, but still present), that my mom is scared that the team is wrong, and is worried that I'm going to gain too much weight. Maybe she even agrees with ED, and believes that I am too big now. I don't need to be eating so much. Or maybe it's just that I am the one thinking these things, and am seeking evidence to prove that I'm not as distorted as my therapist wants me to believe. If my mom doesn't think I "need" as much food as I've been "prescribed," then maybe the treatment team really is wrong and I'm not as sick as they want me to believe. Maybe they are, in the end, just trying to get me fat.

My mom wants the best for me - of that I am certain. But even her encouraging of things like "healthy meals" and "balanced foods" so that I don't feel overwhelmed feels like a double-edged sword - does she honestly understand that overloading my system does my recovery more harm than good? If I eat ice cream, I will probably label it a binge and purge. So in many ways, she is right. I have to be careful when I'm so vulnerable. I need to make good choices and stay safe.

But her concern for "healthy meals" and "not overloading" are being co-opted by ED. Which means that instead of realizing that she really does understand me - and that she understands that I need to do this in a way that is both safe and challenging - I hear what she says and think, "she doesn't believe you're sick." ED is telling me that my own mother is worried about me getting fat, and doesn't actually believe that I'm too thin right now. I certainly don't believe that I'm too thin; ED is now convincing me that my mom agrees with me. And even though she means well, I can't figure out how to tear what she says away from the interpretation ED hears. She has been my savior in this process, and now ED is trying to take even my small sense of alliance and trust away from me. If mom agrees with ED, who's to say that he isn't right? Maybe I am a fat pig, needing to take careful steps to ensure that the world never sees my true, uncontrolled nature.

I don't want to disappoint my mom. I know she wants me "healthy," and I know that she wants me to be capable of happiness and love in this world. But for tonight, ED is using her against me... and I'm starting to wonder if she - and my dad - and my siblings and friends - all think that I'm just mentally ill. And if this whole disease is inside my head, then why does my body need to change in order to make it better? Why then does Megan keep insisting that I eat more food than I think necessary? More food than my mom even sees as "normal?" If it's in my head, then can't I just behave normally, keeping myself in check like normal women, fending off the uncontrolled beast inside of me that would eat until I'm plump and failed and "average?"

Ahk. I'm feeling annoyed. I don't know who to believe - because all of me wants to believe ED when he says that I don't need to get any bigger. So much of me wants to believe it that in fact, I'm gathering evidence and allies for his side of things. And for tonight, I'm having trouble talking back to that voice.

In this moment, I still feel fat. And since I can't understand or change that feeling, I'm going to try and focus instead of keeping my dinner down and getting enough sleep tonight. I'm feeling on the edge of purging... a dangerous zone, indeed. I HAVE TO REMEMBER THAT I HAVE OPTIONS on this edge, though. I CAN CHOOSE. Because even though I feel fat, I don't HAVE to act to make it better.

So, for tonight, I'm going to try and notice the feeling and let it go, without judgment. It won't make me feel differently, but maybe I can let the "soft animal of my body" feel whatever the fuck it wants without giving in to the man in my head offering maladaptive solutions to make that animal shut down and starve its feelings away. That is the task for tonight. I feel fat. I recognize it. Now I must sit in it without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.

I'll most certainly need some divine strength to get through this evening - reaching deeply into myself, I'm finding only frustration, exhaustion, and absolute self-disgust. Time to reach out for that thing that is bigger than me... the thing upon which I must place all of my hope and trust...

The thing that I can't figure out and still don't quite know exists.
But for tonight, please help me...

Runners, to your marks...

I am a runner.

Not a jogger or one who runs for general fitness, but a person who thrives on the competition involved in pushing my body to its physical limits.

The smell of cut grass brings me back to cross country races, losing myself in the back woods or far greens of golf courses filled with the sacred privacy and silence of my effort, hearing my feet and my breath in tandem, pushing me toward the roaring crowd in the distance. Seeing a track washes me with magic, remembering the precise race plans and split times, rounding curves feeling free and unchained, pressing against everything that screams to stop, and finding intense satisfaction in the effort of it all.

I miss running the half mile the most. A beautiful race; four 200 meter splits with four distinct sensations - a distance that is perhaps the most painful and difficult of them all. There is no pacing at high levels of competition; the race is a long sprint, a test of guts and stamina, and a challenge because the entire time your focus is on "hanging on." It's a rush, a dance, and an art.

The first 200 meters are for flying. No thinking, just lifting your legs, rounding the first curve, and cutting in to the inside of the track to "settle" into the race. The first 200 is always the fastest. Afterward, most runners settle into a sustainable pace and finish out their race. But for me, the second 200 meters is the most interesting part.

Imagine: running the back stretch of a track, the race having just begun, and your competitors have fallen into order. At 200 meters, with that order established, the pace slows a bit and the sprint becomes a bit monotonous.

Enter the art. If we create our own realities, then we don't have to follow any rules. We don't have to settle into the established order. We can shatter it. So, lifting my legs and pretending like the rest of the race is only that second 200 meter split, I surge. Rounding the second curve with naive and insensible speed, and finishing the first half of the race with some ridiculous split time that seems unsustainable and insensible.

Then comes the third section: where guts are the most important. You want to die, your muscle fibers are screaming for you to let up and stop, and instead you take your mind and bend reality again. HANG IN. My dad always used to yell to me, "Hang tough, Lee..." Even now, I can see his face, his hat and sunglasses, and hear him against the chain link fence screaming for me to be courageous. Hang on. Hang on. Because even though you feel like you can't do it anymore, the beautiful thing is that you can.

The last 200 meters are almost thoughtless. It's the end, the adrenaline pushes, and once the back curve is rounded, the home stretch becomes the goal. You lift your chest, lead with your heart, and cross the line hoping that you have held nothing back; that you have spent every iota of energy you can summon on that track under your feet. It is exhilarating and exciting, sometimes full of victory and sometimes full of disappointment and failure. But the feeling of of track, and your rubbery legs walking off of it, are filled with life and purpose and meaning.

Somewhere along the line, the beauty and art of my racing became obligatory and painful. Expectations developed about how fast I could run and what I could accomplish. My mind was filled with ideas about what I needed to do to be "good enough," and in the end I spent all of my time trying desperately to prevent failure. Instead of flying, I focused on "not falling." I was so scared that every race - each and every training run - felt threatening to the very sense of self I had established. I was filled with fear.

And yet, I pushed on. I kept running, and kept holding tightly to the feeling of freedom the sport had once brought me. I kept thinking that if I just tried hard enough, I could get that freedom back. I tried so hard that running became a prison and a punishment - a continual reminder of my failing to love that which once brought me life.

Onto today. I sit here, writing alone, while my best friends in the world are running a half marathon and supporting one another in the endeavor. I am here, in Santa Cruz, California, wanting nothing more than to be washed again with the energy of race day. But because I am sick, I am not allowed to run. And, because my brain is so easily distorted and twisted, I've made the decision to avoid the race entirely. Even going as a spectator could trigger something inside me that might trip me up. I am gaining strength, but not yet strong enough to enter the arena that used to so engulf my spirit. Even now that I am miles away from the racing area, I can feel the energy of it all: the finish flags and nervous stretches and concentration filled with hope and fear and challenge. I want to be there.

But I am also feeling something of a release. It hurts. I want nothing more than to be there - but having permission to stay away is also freeing. I want to love competitive running again, but so much of it has been filled with pain and tears and frustration. I still love the idea of it; but the truth is, is causes me a great amount of pain.

So maybe, what I am feeling now is grief. Deep, wide grief. I am grieving the loss of love and freedom that I once found in running - and angry that I have not been able to reach the life-giving energy that competition used to bring me. I have been trying for so long to find that freedom again, and staying away from the race today feels like a grand surrender. Maybe it is too hard. Maybe instead of trying to force it to be freeing, I need to surrender. What once was life-giving is not any longer; I cannot hold onto the past. Despite my gut reaction to "fix it," and keep suffering until I find that freedom again, I am taking my sail out of the wind to avoid getting carried away.

And this grief goes even more deeply. Until last Friday, I had assumed that once I am better - eating regularly and not purging - I would start running and racing again. It is something that I still enjoy (despite the complicated mix of pain that comes with it), and it is something in which I find intense meaning and success. But in my therapy session on Friday, I had the realization that I may never be able to safely be a "competitive" runner again. It will be weeks - maybe months - before I am allowed to run at all. And my therapist on Friday said that it is highly unlikely that competitive running will ever be a healthy thing for me to do.

I have been holding onto hope that one day, I will find the same freedom I used to in the pounding of pavement and pushing physical boundaries. I keep running in pursuit of that freedom - I want it back. And I've been assuming that once I quiet ED's voice, that freedom will be easy to find again. I have dreams of running marathons and winning races and opening my stride with ease and grace. I want to get better to find that freedom again. I want to get better so that I can fly again - and the closest I've felt to flying is in the beauty of sport.

What if I can't? What if I can't return to that freedom, and have to spend my life avoiding the addictive competitive situations that still make my heart race and feel so fulfilling? What if the thing that once brought me freedom, will now forever be something that takes hold of my mind and threatens my health?

It feels unfair. I like running. I have experienced moderate success. Even now, I'm curious about the winning times from today's races. I want to know what the winning time is - I ran 45:27 last summer in a 10K. If I had run this morning, could I have won? I want to know.

But why do I feel like I need to know? I'm curious, but is it because I enjoy the sport or because I need to compare myself to the runners today? Is it because I feel like I am only worthy when I can be successful?

I don't know that times from today; but I just researched last year's Santa Cruz 10K results. If I had run my last 10K time, I would've placed 10th overall and 4th in my age group. Not bad for a race with over 1100 runners, huh? I feel a sick sense of pride right now, but it's a pride that makes me feel safe because I know I could have been successful.

Maybe I won't be able to run safely again. Maybe my brain has been too twisted, and to keep myself healthy I'll need to avoid races and environments where I can base my worth on my ability to outdo others and "stand out" in some important way.

The realization is creating a well of emotion in my soul. I am saddened and filled with intense grief and emptiness; but I also have this visceral sense of release and freedom. If I don't have the opportunity to compare my worth to others based on my ability to outrun them, then I don't have to fear that I will fail and be unworthy.

But what, then, will make me worthwhile? If my worth isn't based on what I do - or what I can accomplish - what will provide meaning in my life? I don't know if the question terrifies me or brings me a sense of freedom and peace... Who am I if not a runner? If not an achiever? If not someone who has the guts to hang on? Where will my mark be, my starting place, and what is it that I'm trying to achieve? Where will I find the freedom and flight that I once found on the track? Who am I without any of this?

An overwhelming and scary question, indeed. Runners, to your marks. People of the world, to your marks. Leah, to your mark. Ready. Set. Go. But to where? And for what?

Love that is Deep, and High, and Wide

Today has been a marvelous, spectacular, wonderful day. The last few weeks have not been filled with such wonder and clarity; I am extremely grateful to be back in this space. Here I sit, drinking my tea, and letting my heart loose again.

The past couple of weeks have been difficult - I've been busy. It's been a great distraction, but I'm finding that when I take on too much - when I bite off more than I can chew - my "recovery work" becomes my last priority. Trying to beat the eating disorder is like a full-time job, and in addition to the job I already have, balancing my worldly tasks, relationships, and recovery has become a difficult trick.

I haven't been thinking about recovery lately - in fact, I've been enjoying a break from the intense emotional journey and work it takes. It's been a nice "release," but an unhealthy one. It feels good to not think about this damn eating disorder all the time, but not thinking about it puts ED right back in the shadows, where I continue my maladaptive eating patterns in secrecy and denial...

So, I guess the answer is the same as it always is: I need to learn some balance. Distraction is good, but I can't forget the work that needs to be done. I need to be, as a fellow soul seeker recently advised me, ruthless. I haven't been committed to this process, and I've been releasing deeply into the excuse that it's not my commitment that's wavering, but my availability.

My priorities need some shifting.
Priority one: I have to eat. I hate it. And I have to fight to keep the food that I do eat inside of me. I hate that even more. I have to eat. I have to eat. I cannot purge. That must be my first priority.
Priority two: I need to get enough sleep. I can't be rational when I'm too tired to see straight.
Priority three: I need to write about how I'm feeling, do the "work" of this process, fill in my journals and worksheets, and throw myself into this fight using the tools I'm learning.
Priority four: Live my life - love deeply and widely, play hard, and enjoy the immense joy that keeps washing over me now that I've started opening to the world again.

It seems so basic, but keeping these priorities organized is tough. The love that is flooding through me is such a wonderful change from the isolation and depression I've known in the last couple of years. It is addictive - and a great way to distract me from the work that needs doing. The love isn't the problem - it's my eating disorder's perverted use of that love to distract me from my quest to become a healthy and recovered woman.

My body is changing, and I hate it. In the last couple of weeks, I've driven myself back into a state of "safety," where ED tells me that I am protected if I starve, gain some self control and discipline, and measure my worth in the flatness of my stomach or the hollow feeling in my gut. I felt my body changing after just two weeks of more "recovered" eating - ED responded with violent panic and a plan to "get back into control."

The funny thing is, I hate being out of control. And for some reason, I've become convinced that when ED is in control, I am in control. So I love letting ED take the reigns. But here's the lie: when ED is in control, I am absolutely OUT of control.

Enter my confusion for the night. I want to feel safe. When I don't, I respond by returning to the thing that I have relied on for protection and safety for the last ten years: the man in my head who promises me life and freedom if I succumb to the disciplined eating, exercise, and work plans he has. Challenging ED means pushing the boundary of that "safety zone," and challenging my most basic assumptions. But if I do too much too fast, I freak out, and my survival response is to lean on ED again. So, what do I do? I need to learn to sit in the mess - the imperfection of my body and my life that feels "out of my control" - but if I push too hard, I enter a "danger zone" that sends me running desperately back for ED.

I've been running back a lot lately.

Today, though, I made a conscious decision to fight again... to make fighting my highest and most important piece of work in this life. I ate fried chicken last night and did not throw up - instead Jabari came and stayed with me until I fell asleep. And when I woke this morning, the sun was shining brilliantly and I felt victorious. I had done it - I had eaten something scary when I absolutely didn't believe I deserved to eat at all, and I kept it. No purging. The small victory gave me the hope that I have been desperately needing.

All day, ED has been whispering to me. And I've been listening. But I also don't want to let go of the feeling of success from last night. So I ate my cream of wheat. I even had part of a scone. I ate lunch. I drank a latte. I made myself dinner, and ate a lot, because... well... because I did. And I did not purge. Instead I planned my evening and carved space to sit with the discomfort in a safe and "doable" way. All along, ED has been whispering to me, and I'm hearing him. But the love that I'm finding - that is deep and high and wide - has been a notch louder.

My best friends in the world are coming to visit me tomorrow - I can't wait. I didn't make plans or go out of my way to make sure everything is perfect before they get here. I figure that, right now, I am whole and complete and perfect - just as I am. Trying to force things to be a certain way only sets me up to freak out when things go awry. And instead of focusing on the love my friends bring, I focus on details that are absolutely unimportant.

And I am falling in love - with a boy (holy shit, I know), and with my life in California, and with my friends both here and far away. Today I keep getting stunned with the realization that my life is so full - and it has been for a long, long time. I just haven't been awake enough to see it. Today has been marvelous - because I gave attention to my recovery first, and in doing so, I was free to run wildly through the love surrounding me. When I don't attend to my recovery first, ED holds me captive, and holds any joy or intensity at a surface level. To free myself - to release into the multitude of bird sounds and warm winds and iris varieties - I have to first acknowledge, fight, and accept ED. I have to eat. I have to cry. I have to struggle.

Because only then I am free.

Distraction, Denial, and the Wagon

Where have I been for the last couple of days? Why haven't I been writing, when this space seems to be an incredible key in unlocking the mess of my heart and my mind? Three words: distraction, denial, and the wagon.

First, distraction.
I have such intense anxiety that eating and then running away - finding something to occupy my hands and my mind - seems to be the only way to avoid the fullness panic that leads to my evil cycle of purging, starving, and what my nutritionist calls "compensatory eating." I don't yet know how to eat and "sit" with the feeling of fullness; I need distraction to get through the high-level panic that I still experience every time I eat.

As a result, I've been trying to fill my days with errands, work, and play - so that I will have as little time as possible to be overrun by the voices in my head. I've been spending time with friends and diving into the many hobbies I have collected in the past several years. I find myself singing and taking long walks and harvesting herbs... anything to get out of my house and out of my head. And slowly, it's working. I'm eating - and tricking myself into sitting through the fullness that usually devolves into immense panic.

My heart and brain have also been deeply occupied in the last week by the possibility of a new relationship - something that seems to have crawled deeply inside me when I wasn't looking. It is definitely the wrong time; there are so many reasons to be scared and run away. I haven't opened my heart to anyone in a grand, long time... the process seems hard and foreign. But I'm realizing that my heart deeply wants to be opening, and that in doing so, I'm having to surrender in exactly the same way I'm doing in this recovery process.

Being distracted has been wonderful; I feel like a "normal" twenty-something! I have some drama, some love, and friends again - people I want to spend time loving.

But in the midst of these glorious distractions, I've been worried about being too distracted - enough that I forget the importance of this battle in which I am so deeply engaged. It's nice to find my brain occupied by "love" instead of diet plans and isolation, but I also haven't been as dedicated to doing the work of recovery in the last two weeks. I've felt better; things have been easier. But I also haven't been confronting the beast inside me with the same unsheltered intensity to which I am accustomed. I can't forget that I'm in battle, or my lovely distractions will become another excuse ED uses to keep me sick. If I'm too busy to be diligent about eating, ED will win.

So, distraction. A wonderful tool - but one to be watched closely. I don't have to be miserable; my current distractions are bringing me great happiness. And I don't have to live in a little bubble in order to do recovery "right." In fact, part of this process is learning to live a multi-faceted life... something that my eating-obsessed brain has been unable to comprehend for a long time. But I can't forget to keep working.

Onto the second piece of all of this: denial.
I have been distracted and busy, and I'm feeling happier and more alive than I have in the past several years. In fact, I've been so happy that ED's convinced me that I am already "better," and don't have to work any harder. Watching my behavior in the past couple of days, I realized that I am again back into an old pattern - I have been starving, eating, and purging with escalating intensity. But I don't feel sick. Usually, the ED process leaves me exhausted and miserable, but in the past couple of days, I have been so "happy" that I've been writing off my purging episodes and meal-skipping as events that "don't count." I don't feel sick, so even though my behavior has been intensely eating disordered, I've been in deep denial about my "slipping" away from recovery.

My distractions have led me to a place of denial - I am lying to myself and to people around me about how the past few days have been. Because I'm not altogether miserable, it's much easier to pretend things are fine and that I'm still on the recovery "track."

Honesty time - I haven't been "succeeding" in the last few days. I purged on Tuesday night - and again on Wednesday afternoon - and spend all day Thursday lost in the "eating disorder woods." Even yesterday (Friday), when I tried desperately to return to "recovery," I slipped. I wiggled out of a dinner party, and spent the evening alone and isolated, trying to figure out how to starve and purge my way back to sanity.

Which leads me to the last piece of today's introspection: the wagon. In Alcoholics Anonymous, they always say that addicts who relapse into their maladaptive behavior patterns have "fallen off the wagon." In the past several days, while I've been wandering through a space of distraction and denial, I haven't written because in my heart I know I haven't been "on the wagon."

The stupid thing about this damn wagon is that once you're on it, it's still easy to fall off. And once you're off of it, it's unrealistically difficult to climb back on. So staying on the wagon is a trick, to say the least.

My therapist told me yesterday that when we throw up, a chemical relaxant is released; anxious purgers get addicted to it and use it to calm themselves down. So, once I purge, it's damn hard to stop the pattern. I think, "this has got to be the last time," but when my anxiety skyrockets, throwing up really does "make me feel better." Climbing back on the wagon seems insensible, especially because once I'm underfed again, my brain stops being able to process anything logically and rationally.

This is all to say that staying on the wagon is hard work, and important work. If I fall, all is not lost. It's just a lot harder to crawl back on than to maintain my seat once I'm up. And if I'm not careful, any small thing can knock me off - forcing me back to the space where I'm fighting to even understand why the wagon is beneficial in the first place.

So, I haven't written for several days for those reasons. It comes down to distraction, denial, and the wagon.

I am currently engaged in something called "dialectical behavioral therapy." This means that instead of seeing every relapse as a failure, from which I have to start everything over again, I simply "recommit" every day - every hour - every minute - to this process. This is an incredibly elusive concept for my brain to comprehend - how can I commit to eating dinner if i spend the afternoon eating and throwing up? Don't I need to wait, get clean again, fast until my eating sins are gone, and THEN begin again? Don't I need to wipe the slate clean, and then work to earn my way back onto the wagon?

This kind of therapy is like grace. It says, "no." You never fall off the damn wagon. You just get knocked once in a while. No slip is too big, nothing makes the work I've already done irrelevant. My spot in recovery is not negated by my tangential voyages into the "eating disorder wilderness," I'm trying to learn that my mistakes mean nothing more than that I am a human, who must learn from her mistakes the imperfection of this process.

I've been avoiding writing because I haven't been feeling like I'm working "hard enough" or doing this in the "right way." But I woke up this morning and realized that despite my distraction, denial, and attempts to leap off of the wagon, I'm still on top of it. I just need to wake up and act like it.

Audre Lorde says, "You cannot find peace by avoiding life." In the past several days, I have been intentionally avoidant, convincing myself that I don't have time to write or that my eating disordered behaviors haven't "counted" as relapses and slips. But there is no peace in avoidance; there is no recovery in dishonesty.

I commit, in this moment, to this process - to all of the success and failure that comes with it. I'm not doing it perfectly, but I'm going to try and keep doing it any way, even though I am not "pure" and certainly haven't "earned" my way back onto the wagon. I ate lunch this afternoon - despite not wanting to do it. It was harder than it had been earlier this week - already my relapsed behavior has set me back a bit. I struggled to get it down and rationalize that I deserved to eat it and keep it. But I did. I'm having trouble with the concept that even if I mess up, I need to keep moving forward. But I want to keep moving forward, and I know that I won't get anywhere by dwelling in the past and fixing my mistakes - or by avoiding them by refusing to give them voice or attention in my heart and writing.

So, from the top of the wagon, though undeserved, I write this... in honesty.

Ah, what then?

My eyes are sleepy and my fingers are itching - I have a thousand things racing through my soul in this moment and the words are sitting heavily beneath my eyelids. I have had an exhausting string of days, stumbling through this process and finding a steady and calming wisdom from the imperfection of it all.

One of my favorite poems is an old one, by Samuel Coleridge. It goes something like this...

What if you slept?
And what if, in your sleeping, you dreamed?
And what if, in your dream, you picked a strange and beautiful flower?
And what if, when you woke, you were holding the flower in your hand?
Ah, what then?

Yes - what then? For several weeks this poem has been lurking in my brain, sliding in between my conscious mind and panicked body. What if I were to live as if all the flowers so delicately plucked in my dreams were real? What if I were to live as if I could, with intention, wake holding the beautiful and strange things for which I so desperately long?

I think that right now my learning is somewhere in this wisdom. I am always so paralyzingly afraid of being discovered as imperfect - what if, in my best effort, I still fail? What if I make the wrong decision? What if someone sees me as anything less than everything? What if I mess up? Hurt someone, even with my most honest and tender intention? What if I can't "do better?"

Fear has, for as long as I can remember, dictated a course for my life. I studied hard, ran for miles in bitter cold weather, and have starved myself in pursuit of some goal or another. There's always something - an art project, a new race, a new way to adequately measure and determine my worth.

But it isn't just that I'm afraid to fail these tests - I'm starting to realize that I'm more afraid of finding out that even when I have given my best effort, it might not be enough. So I've run the gamete, giving my best effort to the point of physical, emotional, and mental agony. In my younger life, this effort was always rewarded with some form of success - I was the fastest, strongest, smallest, smartest...

And my self-image evolved into just that: not simply the "best" at everything, but the one who would die trying before failing.

Here I sit, having built a life on the truth that my self worth is entirely based on my ability to suffer through something difficult that "average" individuals cannot. I can stare at a math textbook for hours, do sit-ups until my stomach muscles hurt so much that I cannot imagine ever laughing again, and starve while the rest of the world bemoans their failed diet plans. And in my adult life, I haven't received the same success and accolades as I did when I was young; I am therefore convinced that I must not be trying hard enough.

Enter the scariest monster eating me alive: fear. If I can't be perfect, then I'll die trying. So logically, to survive in a world where perfection is something that even Mary Poppins can't achieve, I have had to stop trying. If I give all of my attention to something, and still fail, what then? The sun may still rise, but what will it mean? What will be my reason for being here, in this place where the strongest sense of meaning I've found lies in my toiling and struggling to prove myself worthy of something - of anything.

But what if the game changed? What if, instead of letting fear guide me in my decisions and movement, I decided to let love in? What if, instead of needing to ensure success (by taking only those risks in which I can struggle toward perfection), I moved through this life trusting that what I feel, in each moment, is already whole and complete? What if I trusted my body, stopped trying to control the outcomes, and ceased worrying about what will be? What if the game changed and I no longer lived trying desperately to prove that I can be more than I am? What if I picked the flowers that I find rare and beautiful in this instant, trusting that my desire is enough?

And most importantly, what if those flowers, when I woke, were still in my hands?
Ah yes, what then?

The last couple of days, I've been fighting to stop the chatter about needing to do or be anything but the imperfect creature I am. Instead of trying to make myself "better" by proving that I'm worthwhile (by struggling hard and and pushing to desperation), I'm fighting to just take what I am. I'm quieting the worries about being imperfect - as it is already most certainly a certainty - and focusing instead of something else... anything else...

I'm finding that I am waking with flowers in the morning, and that sometimes, I pick sour grass and dandelions. Sometimes the world laughs at the flowers I've chosen, other times I wake up and wonder why I thought the flower in my hand was beautiful in the first place. It's a struggle. But at least the flowers are there.

I'm eating. I'm screwing up. I haven't skipped a meal since Friday, and I haven't purged since Thursday morning. I've eaten desserts, pasta, and pizza. I had a scone an hour after breakfast on Sunday... just because I felt like it. I don't always feel good, but I'm trying to label that feeling and then let it go.

I almost purged this afternoon. I was working, and felt a wave of panic and anxiety wash over me with outrageous intensity. I ate a cookie, and then some of another one... and was ready to finish my job for the day, and finish doing the damage I entertain in order to wash the other damage away.

Midway through cookie #2, I realized that I had a choice. And I also remembered the new rule: if I eat it, I keep it. I thought about Coleridge's poem, and wondered what life would be like if the rules really did change. What if purging isn't an option?

I didn't finish the cookie. I cried instead. And felt nastily imperfect. I went home from work, trying to surrender to the absolute mess surrounding me. And instead of purging, I cleaned my apartment. I didn't feel "better," but I did feel released from a usually unrelenting pressure. I felt human. Not "good," just human.

It's not going to be perfect, I guess. But for tonight, I'm going to pick the flower that I find strange and beautiful - not the one that is the most difficult to find or the most lovely or the most likely to earn me the acknowledgment I so deeply crave. I'm going to try continuing to trust that what I want to choose is right - not because it's the "best," but because it is, in this moment, what I want. And even though I'm not perfect, I am going to trust that my imperfections and failures don't make me "bad" and don't negate my intention to be "good."

And yes, what if that flower is still in my hand tomorrow? Ah, what then? A wonderful wondering, but something to consider when I wake. I will not ravage the field of wildflowers tonight in order to "get it right" - so that I can be proud in the morning. I'm going to try and twist and twirl through the field instead, and let tomorrow bring what it may. Questions, wonderings, mistakes, and all. Instead of focusing on "what then," I'm praying for the grace to trust my heart in answering the question, "what NOW?"

If You Eat It, KEEP It

I am holed up again, in a coffeehouse haven, having had a victorious day.
First, I did NOT purge last night. I made it through until this morning, and woke up feeling proud and ready to stay on the healthy track.

In group therapy we've talked a couple of times about something called "apparently irrelevant behaviors." This is stuff that isn't necessarily directly related to my eating disorder, but enables me to continue starving and purging. So, when I schedule lunch meetings and then don't have time to eat lunch... or when I forget to bring my cream of wheat breakfast to work (which happened this morning), and then can't eat because nothing else feels "safe."

So, I skipped breakfast. I thought about trying to eat something else (I was in a bakery, for the love!), but I couldn't get to a place where I felt safe enough to eat something else without my anorexic brain labeling it a "binge." I didn't want to end up purging, so I didn't eat. I figured I would get home from work around 11AM, eat an early lunch, and have a bigger afternoon snack.

Enter more "apparently irrelevant behaviors." My coworker was having a rough day - I offered to finish her morning work so that she could go home and take care of herself. So, I didn't get home until almost one. I called my coworker when I got home and asked her if she needed a buddy - and she came over. I changed my clothes, planned on eating, and before I knew it she had arrived and we were deep in conversation. My stomach rumbled around 2:30, and I figured it was time to drink an Ensure.

I went to therapy at three, and told my therapist that I had eaten lunch - because I really thought that I had eaten. It wasn't until right before dinner when I realized that the food I had put out to eat was still on the counter, untouched.

So I skipped two meals. Now that I'm writing about my "victorious" day, I'm realizing that I wasn't as successful as I thought. I feel powerful when I'm starving - being hungry and empty makes me feel worth loving and enables me to "function" in the world. I thrive on adrenaline and the rush that comes when I know I'm "succeeding" at non-eating - something that most people strive for and cannot attain. Thus, it is often the case that on the days I label "good," I haven't eaten anything - my sick brain sees those days as success stories. Writing now about missing two meals, I still feel like today was victorious, but I'm also starting to see that I wasn't "recovering" at all.

Tonight I had dinner at the house of some friends. I had an enormous amount of anxiety about going - my friends both know I have anorexia and think the solution is simply "to eat!" I was worried about feeling pressured to eat lots of high calorie foods and feast with them - and worried about having to go home afterward and throw up their kindness.

The dinner party was wonderful. A bit stressful. A little uncomfortable. I felt a little bit too full, but I tried really hard to relax and embrace their generosity. It felt good to be "taken care of" and even better to let in the love offered to me. All in all, I had a good time, and even had ice cream for dessert. And I will not throw it up. I'm here waiting out the panic.

All night I've been thinking about something that Megan - my therapist and doctor - said to me this afternoon during our session. We were talking about trying to "sit" with the "binge" feeling, and replace all of my "food rules" with the simple rule that "if I eat it, I keep it." Meaning, NO PURGING. I wonder if this could work, because usually when I purge, it happens because I "decide" that I have eaten too much (or thought too much about food, or whatever), and then need to "finish" the binge in order to make purging physically possible. Essentially, I subjectively decide I have "binged," and then either objectively or subjectively eat in order to purge. But if purging is out of the game... then when I decide that I have "binged," I won't have throwing up as an option. Instead I'll have to think about whether or not I have truly "over-indulged." And Megan thinks that even if I really do overeat, I should try and "keep it." Which now seems impossible, but if the rules change and I follow them (goodness knows one of my strengths has always been rule-following), then who knows?

Whoa. This concept is big for me. Because if all of my food rules get replaced by this one... I HAVE to eat regularly. Otherwise, I'll get too hungry and push myself into compensatory eating, or I'll get terribly fat because I'll be eating huge quantities of food (that are, I think, sometimes just subjectively huge and are other times truly enormous). This could work.

Megan also thinks I should try and eat something every three hours. She suggested having an entire muffin for ONE snack; this blew my mind. It seems like WAY too much. But last Tuesday night, I purged because I felt hungry and didn't have a snack planned in the evening - so everything seemed off limits and unsafe. This week I am going to try having a "muffin snack," and even tonight at this little coffeehouse, I ordered a dessert bar with apricots and oatmeal because I knew that our dinner party happened hours ago, and that I'll still be awake for several hours. I am trying to ride this out, and so even though I'm not entirely hungry, I'm going to try and push the food.

I feel like last week went well. It wasn't perfect, but apparently, no one is. I had some victories, and made some progress. But most importantly, I was honest, which is a new and important tool in my arsenal for this war.