"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.