Feast or Famine

So about now I feel as though, topped with a little chocolate sauce and some whipped cream, I could eat my own shoe. I'm hungry, folks. H. U. N. G. R. Y. I vowed just one month ago to never diet again, to never talk about diets, to relegate diets to the dark, dank dungeons of my brain never to speak of them again. And here I sit with my hunger and my meal plan and my disgusting, fucking pride, on a damn diet.

So here's the part where I try to justify what I'm doing. I want to say, "It's for health reasons. A little extra weight just isn't healthy, people." I want to say, "I just want to feel comfortable in my own skin." But the truth is I will never feel comfortable in my own skin. Not now when I weigh 125 pounds. Not at 100 pounds. Not at 85 pounds. Never. Because no matter what, the weight of my physical body, the weight of my brain, will always overwhelm me. And what I see when I look at myself in the mirror will never be the truth of what I am.

A diet is dangerous to me. Not fatally dangerous. I'm not suicidal. I'm not that much of a moron anymore. But I get addicted to diets the way that some people get addicted to alcohol, or shopping, or crack cocaine. And despite my obligatory complaints about hunger, I actually derive pleasure from that sensation. I could dine on that delicious emptiness for the whole of my life. There is nothing so tasty as the emotional numbness that comes with restriction. Don't get me wrong, I'm not advocating it. I'm just saying that some of us have brains that function in such a way that starvation actually feels like bliss. It sets the world aright. And if you are sitting there thinking, "What the fuck is she talking about?", then congratulations. You are mentally healthy. I would give up orgasms to be mentally healthy. Well maybe not orgasms. But something really, really good. Unfortunately, I don't think there are that many normal people left in the world. I'm hard pressed to find a single person who isn't as concerned about their weight as I am.

The biggest problem with starvation is that physiologically it's unsustainable. The work of Ancel Keys is particularly fascinating to me. What this scientific experiment demonstrated is that most people will respond to periods of starvation with food and weight obsessions and ultimately, binging. Is it any wonder that in a society where everyone is on a diet, we paradoxically have a so-called obesity epidemic? Everywhere I turn - on the news, in magazines, in conversations - there is somebody to tell me that I'm not okay. That what I'm doing to myself is acceptable, even commendable. I came home the other day to find an advertisement for a local gym stuck in my door. You know what it said? "Do you feel fat? Who doesn't?" And even in my diseased mind I can recognize that as twisted beyond belief.

I guess in my own way, I'm trying to fit in. It's the age-old, "well everyone else is doing it!" Deep down, I know it's stupid. I know it's ridiculous. I hate myself for buying into the idea that hating myself is the way to go. But I do it anyway.

I take big risks when I write so honestly about my thoughts. I am not anonymous. I can only hope the people in my life will respect my truthfulness and not over-scrutinize me or worry about me. I am as well as I ever will be. I do the best I can. Each day I arise to a new day and tackle the challenges therein. Full weight.

The Numbers

Current Mood: Living Recovery in an Eating Disordered World

"You're big. I'm small" Liv chirps from her car seat. "That's right," I say encouragingly. Then she comes out with this, "Why don't you be small and I get big."

I had to laugh because even though she has no idea about anything, her statement was pretty meaningful. Think about it. Don't we ladies spend our entire childhoods trying to be bigger than we are? And then when we finally get big, we focus a lot of our energies on trying to be small. I've spent a good portion of my 32 years on a diet, planning a diet, starving, exercising too much, or immersed in a binge/purge cycle. I'd like to believe that my experience is singular, but I know that it is not. We take to a diet like a holy calling. And it all boils down to The Numbers.

I spent a rather disturbing afternoon in the year 2000 walking 7 long and lonely miles on a graveled track. I had not eaten in 5 days and I had not had anything to drink in 12 hours. I didn't know at the time why I was driven to do this...and I still don't know. If I had a Delorian and a flux capacitator, I'd go back in time and slap the shit out of myself. Old me was scary crazy. New me is normal crazy. I diet and I exercise, but I don't take things too far the way I used to do. But I'm still sad about the state of things, about the way that my mind is a ceasing calculator of numbers.

120 calories in 2 tablespoons of dressing
3.5 miles ran
45 minutes spent walking
110 pounds of weight
6 oz water
20 almonds

Some people listen to music when they run. I look at The Numbers. I watch intently as they creep on their intense journey home...to zero. I can't be distracted away from The Numbers. They are my guide. And while I have no intentions of walking 7 miles on an empty stomach ever, ever again, I can't help but see parallels in old me and new me. When does this focus on The Numbers end? When will I stop needing to quantify every bit of every experience? Sometimes when I really decide to examine myself, I realize that the more I change, the more I stay the same. I just find new rituals with which to torment myself.

It doesn't mean that what I do is inherently harmful. There is nothing wrong with being conscious of our bodies, of our accomplishments, of our intake. But I just don't understand when that conscientousness stops being helpful and starts being pathological. This is hard to decipher in such a culture as this that we live in. Everywhere I look there is something or someone telling me I'm not good enough, that I have to try harder, that I have to eat less, that this will give me cancer, that this will lower my cholesterol, that I am not doing what I'm supposed to do. Why can't I just fucking live? Living is too much work. I guess I have a horrible work ethic.

What do we lose when we focus so much on The Numbers? Do we sacrifice quality in our lives? Do we discount joy? I don't know if it's possible to be happy and not be allowed to eat ice cream. But there are moments when I'm eating that and really feeling the love for cold, creamy goodness and I can't help but feel empty. Like something is missing...and then that something hits me like a shovel to the back of the head: Guilt. The Numbers kicking me in my fucking skull. How many miles do I have to run to burn off this indulgence? How many crunches do I have to do to make up for this "moment on the lips", so it doesn't end up "a lifetime on the hips?"

I look everywhere for sanity. I can't seem to find it. I learned during the therapeutic treatment of my anorexia what put the "disorder" in my eating. I just never learned what was normal. I can't help but feel this country is in the throes of a raging eating disorder. It's really hard to live recovery in such an environment. It's like being an alcoholic and forced to live in a bar 24 hours a day.

I heard that in some elementary schools they send home BMI reports to parents of the kids now. If they ever send one home to me I will tear it to shreds and then put the shreds in the kitty litter box and let my cat shit all over them. If a child is having a weight problem, pay attention to it by all means. But why determine BMIs of children who do not appear to be unhealthy or overweight? What is the fucking point of that? We are sending a message to these children that The Number is very important. And we marvel over the fact that about 80% of 7 year old girls are dissatisfied with their physical appearance. These children are inheriting our national disease. And it makes me sick to my stomach.

Obesity in children is on the uprise. Why? Is it because we weren't paying enough attention to The Numbers? I personally believe it's on the uprise because we are. I remember when I was little, playing outside was a gift. We'd play freeze tag and kick ball and dodge ball and jump rope and it was FUN. Now we mandate physical activity like a fucking spelling test. Kids start looking at softball like a punishment. The more we focus on The Number of calories they're burning vs. The Number of calories they're eating, the more they stop listening to their internal cues about hunger and satiety, about pleasure and punishment. Kids, for the most part, have an innate sense of when they're hungry and when they're full. Don't fuck with that. It's perfect just the way it is. Anyone with a toddler can attest to the fact that they are bundles of limitless energy. Maybe most kids would maintain that energy if we weren't saddling them with tons of homework after school or allowing them to sit in front of a computer for hours on end instead of sending them to play outside. I'm not saying I have the answers...I'm just thinking out loud because I'm worried.

Will Liv escape the curse of The Numbers? I'm going to do everything in my power to facilitate that. Right after I get back from running off this pizza I just ate. And thusly I join the Hypocrite of the Month Club. Member Number 1.

The End of The World Is Smaller Than You Think

The end of the world is smaller than you think.
It gropes on shiny days into the batter
calling the creeper towards death
on innocent afternoons.
I ate a tornado for lunch today.
I vomited avalanches into the bowl.
There are universal floods bursting
in every pink pill
and homely portal of potato
with eyes of storms lurking
like leftovers and teabags
steaming their wicked weather into unhealthy guts.
Aromas portend whole world catastrophe
leaking out of sealed pots and bakery chimneys.
I am knee deep in blizzards at breakfast,
cornered by hailstorms of popsicles, meteors, and sugar cubes.
Cruel, wicked joke of a globe.
Consumed by carrots
and a combination of carbohydrates.
Chocolate chip cookies are to blame for disaster
crushing me like a house
under the thumb of an earthquake.
I do not pretend to know aftermath.
I only shield my eyes
from nuclear bomb kitchens
from something out of horror movies
from hurricanes bubbling on the coils.
Armaggedon occurs three times a day.
Plus two snacks.
The Red Cross is not responding to these sorts of emergencies.
~~~~~
So I wrote this poem about six years ago when I was, obviously, immersed in my eating disorder. The reason I resurrect it now? I realize how I haven't really come that far from this cataclysmic attitude towards food. The whole process of selecting food and eating it can still be painful and overwhelming for me psychologically. I can still be racked with guilt for indulging. I still equate victory with restriction. Behaviors are so much easier for me to change than thought patterns. For my physical health, this is very, very lucky. But mentally I am just stuck. I am sure that I am not alone in having a dysfunctional relationship with food. Has any woman grown up unscathed? I want to set Livy free from it all. It is not innately female to hates one's body. There is an alternative way to be. How can break the cycle when I am still not completely healthy in my own mind?