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.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Sunday, April 18, 2010
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?
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?
Thursday, April 15, 2010
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...
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...
Sunday, April 11, 2010
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?
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?
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
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.
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.
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