Dear Bee,
May 3, 2005
Well, I’m ______ tall and _______ lbs. I could stand to lose 5-10 lbs.
I wrote that eight years ago today.
Unfathomable.
Something was telling me to flip through an old journal tonight (after a really rough day in eating-disorder land) and this is what I stumbled upon. Isn’t that fabulous? 2005. Wow.
And of all ironies, I weighed myself yesterday morning. It was an impulsive choice–one that took me by surprise. It was the first time I stepped on the scale in a long time. Obviously, this is a lose-lose action, but in that brief moment, I didn’t care. I just wanted to see that number.
I’ve lost weight. Relief- that was my instant reaction. Relief that even that lowish number must be probably higher than my actual number due to the water weight from yesterday’s binge.
Regret. That was my second reaction.
I have an urge to weigh myself again, but I am committing that I’m not going to, because I know there is nothing good to be found in that number. There is nothing in that number that can possibly tell the picture of my recovery or of my journey.
My body then wasn’t fully developed, and I weigh maybe ten or twelve pounds more than I did when I wrote that down eight years ago. Are eight years of restricting, bingeing, compulsively exercising, counting calories, hurting others, therapy, support groups, writing, researching, and doing everything in my willpower to recover worth ten or twelve pounds?
Back then, I obviously struggled with body dissatisfaction. I recall loosely flirting with diets, trying to eat healthier and work out more. The disordered pathology wasn’t quite cemented. I didn’t understand how to use food as a coping mechanism. I didn’t realize I could block out pain or numb myself from pain with it. Moreover, eating disorders seemed stupid to me. I didn’t know anyone who personally had them, but I had read brief snippets in Seventeen and Chicken Soup. Those individuals seemed insane to me. Who would want to starve themselves? Who would want to puke? Who would want to continue eating long after feeling full?
As if any of us ever had a choice.
I know that as long as I’m measuring my success by numbers, be it calories consumed, pounds weighed, or minutes exercised, I’m not going to be successful in recovery. Numbers might not be what got me sick, but they were what kept me sick. And by sick, I mean, they kept me preoccupied, obsessive, and disordered.
I don’t know what else it is I need. The support in my life is so overwhelming, kind, and amazing. My friends are here for me. Any of them would help me out if I ask for it. My mom, bless her beautiful soul, made me cry on the phone yesterday morning because she told me that she’d do anything for me, that she’ll try her best to give me anything I need, and I just need to ask her, and that she’s so proud of me. How many people have a mother who is that supportive? Probably nobody. And then there are the people in OA and my therapist. All of them have infinite words of wisdom and a myriad of knowledge. I know I can go to any of them when I need a lift…and yet, why is it so hard for me to just reach out before and not after the crisis. I also have my Higher Power, but…BUT…I simply couldn’t wrap my head around having faith in anything greater than my own self. I just didn’t want to listen to anyone. I didn’t want to have faith in myself, and in turn, I didn’t have faith in myself.
My ex-boyfriend cried when I told him about my history of eating disorders about a year ago. He couldn’t understand why I was continuing to struggle. He told me I was beautiful every chance he had and he loved me unconditionally. He saw eating disorders as a breeding ground for insecurity, and he believed I had no right to feel insecure. He thought his love could save me. Can I blame him for the ignorance? No, because at one point, I thought people had the power to save me as well. I think we all do well. But people get married. They have children. They have best friends. They have wonderful families. They still have eating disorders.
I wish I could just ride the infinite love in my life and use that as incentive to believe them and heal myself. First, I have to love myself, and I understand that. Because yes, if we loved ourselves, why would we possibly punish ourselves? That would be irrational and absurd. But when you’re into something deep, it seems like self-esteem and love are not going to be the only lifeboats saving you from the clutches of this disease. And I’m tired of people believing a lack of self-love or respect for oneself is the only thing keeping us from sanity.
We don’t expect love and support to cure other illnesses. Love alone cannot cure the common cold, cancer, schizophrenia, or any other physical or medical diagnosis.
Why should eating disorders be any different?
Dear Bee 