In theory...

I have woken up skinny two days in a row.

Hmm...and have not felt such a need to write.

Yet, I'm pretty certain I ate most of the cookies in the Circus Animals bag this week.

This does not add up.

Maybe I am getting better?

Hold on, let me go check again.  Make sure I really am skinny.......................................well, maybe I can see those Circus Animal cookies.

me taking myself too seriously
Andrew loving me in spite of it.

It's okay though.  I still pass inspection.

Last night my husband told me I had a "rockin' body."  He's such a dork, but he means it.  I think it's far from rockin.  It's more like the blues, or folk music to me.  It could try a lot harder, but it just doesn't see the point.  

I was afraid if I gave up control of food he would be disgusted with what I became.  I thought he would scrunch up his nose at my fat and not want to touch me.  I worried he'd watch me in a restaurant and think I should not eat so much.

When I felt hopeful we may get married, my reaction was to eat less so he would be sure to get what he signed up for.  Then during art history class, I penned long letters to him about how he put me on a pedestal for my beauty, and I didn't like it.  I told him, 'I want to be equal to you, and with you...not apart from you.'

I didn't know I did that to myself.  I put the focus on my outward self.  Not him.  He simply loved me, and I was too scared to know it.

Now we have been together for 6 years.  6 years of pushing the question, "Will you still love me if I do...this?"  And the answer is always, yes.  He doesn't want me to write about him in this blog.  But I have to sometimes.  He has been in step with me through every change. Through 2 pregnancies he has held me, and adored me honestly and without hesitation. 

I still hold back.  I still have days where I'm afraid to let him feel the softness on my hips.  I still cry because I am tired of wishing my body were different.  I want to work on a different problem.  It reminds me of early painting classes in college.  I had to paint the same boring still life for weeks.  My professor would point to a mustard bottle and ask, 'What color is that?"  And after a while, I didn't know, and I didn't care.  I saw all colors and the thing morphed as I was staring at it.  I just wanted to move on.   Look at something else.  But I was learning a discipline, and that's not fun.  It is hell, actually.  

Right now I am learning, "My value is not decided by my body's appearance, or by the food I do or do not eat." Andrew helped make this real to me.  I could not do it on my own, or in theory.  He is not the only one.  All the people who have read this blog have helped too.  thank you, friends*  He is however, the most constant.  There is no room for Lydia to pick apart his actions.  Our integrity is real.  Our partnership solid.  In truth, I am not flimsy at all.

laundry vs. art

beets dropped onto a canvas
all images from my most difficult year in  school
when I was trying to find my way...

The clean laundry pile is 7 loads thick.
I should fold it.

As a kid my mom dumped the clean clothes onto a wide slab of table.
She boycotted folding when I was about 10.
Funny thing, she called it the clothes "folding" table.
Shortly after the introduction of this table, she left our family.
Drank heavy for 5 years, and started wearing tiny skirts.
Even though she stopped folding our clothes, she couldn't carve out enough space for herself.
So she had to take it by force.

I take mine in the sprouts of the morning, before anyone is awake.
This is when I swim and run and write.
I scribble eerie self-portraits just so I can remember the lines of my eyes.

Yesterday I went to open studio at Poor Yorick.
Close to 50 artists laid out their colors.
As I slid through in my flip-flops and long blue dress, I realized something.
I've realized it before, when I went to France, and wandered the galleries there.
Art is not romance, or magic, or high above any other human activity.
It is just one more thing we do.  It is an attempt to make sense of a life that is senseless.
We have to put meaning into it, give it shape, and form, and define it.
Or else it swallows us.  Like it swallowed my Mom.

My professor in school said, if you don't make time to paint, the laundry will take over, and you'll never paint again.  As I studied art in school, I struggled with the separation of identities.  Am I an artist?  Or am I a mother?  Am I someone who needs art or just someone who dabbles in it?  Am I this or am I that?
It is this rigidity with identity that keeps me in my eating disorder.
Sarah with the perfect body.  This is what I have to be.  Any deviance is unacceptable.  Any unnecessary food a sin.

But this is not the best lesson art can teach me.  On the other side of this flimsy structure is the true lesson.  Not just of art, but of life.  It teaches me that everything is in flux, and that is okay.  I can allow things to change without making excuses or trying to force a stop.  I only need to be in the process and paying attention.

I stood at the kitchen sink crying into Andrew's chest before I left for the open studio.
"I'm fat and ugly and I don't have any friends.   Everything seems sad.  I don't want to go by myself.  But I don't have any friends.  What happened?"
Bottom lip protrudes and I am five years old.  I must feel sad now. He holds my cheeks in his hands. His eyes look straight into mine.
"It's going to be okay, Sarah."
And I cry even more.  I want to say, I know.  But clearly, I don't.
"Don't drink the wine," he says.
"I want to drink the wine," I say. "But I'll just end up crying in the parking lot.  I won't drink the wine."


We smile at each other, and I go.  I see all the human artists holding up their hopes to anyone who will look.  And I am glad they have the time, the ability to do it.  It is a brave thing to do.  It is a hopeful thing.  I feel something I've not yet felt when viewing paintings.  I feel gratitude.

walking into the dark

I am skinny today.

I woke up and did the shirt-lift-stomach-check.

"Hmm...pretty good."

This makes no sense, considering I did not starve myself yesterday.

How can this be.?

I did however, go for a walk in the sun with my babies in the double jogger.

Face lifted up to the sun, I breathed deep and felt every muscle in my legs.

Even the injured knee was in sync.

I looked down at my thighs, and they certainly jiggled.

But it was the movement of strength, and I was okay with it...grateful for it.

_____________________________________________________________

self portrait 2006

I spend just as much energy trying to recover as I did trying to stay small.

I often ask myself, Is this a worthwhile trade?

Then I realize, it doesn't matter.  I do not have the option to go backwards.

I can only walk forward into the dark cave where nothing is illuminated yet.

I watch other women with eating disorders and try to figure out if it is working for them.

I am still looking for reassurance that I made the right choice.

"Did I really have to give that up?

They look fine.  And they're skinnier then me."

I used to see women who had "given up" on their eating disorders, and swear I'd never let myself go like that.  I thought they just got too tired of keeping it up, so they let the weight come.

In some way, that is true.  I am tired of it.  My choice is not completely noble.  It is out of necessity and desperation.  I could not keep putting my face in the toilet and believe I was okay.

The last time I purged I was pregnant with Beckam.

My belly had barely started to show.

I told myself, "Women get morning sickness and throw up.  How is this any different?"

I did that for about 2 weeks.  I wanted to keep my weight gain "in check."

But then I was battling against my belly, against my baby, against what my body needed to do.

And I was afraid all the time.  That is the worst part...being afraid all the time.

I guess that's why I wonder if my life is really so much better.  Because I'm still afraid.  Everyday.

But at least I am walking into the dark where there is possibility.  It's not the same as walking into the light.  Walking into the light is not scary.  No courage is necessary.  It is warm and inviting.  

Not this.  This is blind everyday.  And there is no guarantee...of anything.  

It is simply the most honest thing I can do.  

wishing for a waistline...

My breasts are stuck to the stomach underneath them.
I am a national geographic photo hiding in a grey sweatshirt.
The veins underneath my winter skin glow blue in my chest.
_____________________________________________________
When I stop nursing I can loose this last 10 pounds....
This thought flashes by me daily.
Am I honestly going to waste the next 6 MONTHS in anticipation of this happening?
Stop.  Stop.  Stop.  No.  No.  No.  I am training a very stupid puppy.
Each time this thought comes to me, I say Stop.  No.
This is not the most important thing.
Don't waste this time.  Beckam is your last baby.  Don't wish it away so you can loose 10 pounds.

It's odd.  I would not consider myself shallow.  Yet this seems such a ridiculous obsession with the surface of myself.  But it isn't.
I am in competition with the whole world.  And if I show weakness, it will come rushing in to shame me.
Lydia tells me I am not like everyone else, and I don't want to be, because they are weak.
But I am strong.  Because I don't have needs.  Not just need for food.  Need for a home, or parents, or a partner, or a car, or an education, or comfort, or trust.
I learned this when my home became unsafe, and my parents became human.
Now I don't trust human.  I loathe it, because it is not safe.
The only safety is to have no needs.
Then humanity - mine nor anyone else's - can affect me.

I don't believe this.  My heart doesn't.
But the puppy of my mind - like I said - is not so quick to learn.
So I spend the countless hours to train it.
Because I want to see Beckam's bright face in the morning.
I want to look in the mirror at my eyes and keep them there.
 I want to be free of the body scan for UPC of imperfection.

Red Lobster

Adoring husband from bathroom line
 at Mayan temple on honeymoon.

Yesterday was my 4 year wedding anniversary.
We went to Red Lobster.  There was a tank full of the poor suckers in the lobby.
I wished we were at Sea World instead.  I didn't want to be eating them, or anything else.
I just wanted to watch them, and hear the tank water fall into itself.

When Andrew and I first started dating I told him,
"I'm not normal when it comes to food.  It's not fun for me to sit down and eat a big meal, so you'll probably never see me do it.  I do my best, and sometimes I struggle.  But I just want you to know, you don't have to do anything...just know.  I am not normal. O.K.?"
He said, "OK."
He didn't try to convince me of my beauty or educate me on nutrition.  He just said O.K.

But we're a couple, and couples go out to restaurants.  That's what they do.

getting close enough to mirror for a shave -
resourceful guy

The couple next to us is celebrating 51 years of marriage.  The man is proud of this.  I don't know how she feels.  He does all the talking.  They are old, and their hands shake.
I stare out the window.  Thank God we are sitting by a window.
I've gotta let this wave pass so I can try to be present.
Crazy kites fly across the street at the park.  It is really windy.  I point out each one and make him look.  He doesn't find it very interesting.
I wish he'd take charge.  For once.  I want that.  He does it at home all the time.  I wait for him to dominate the conversation as he does my oil change regiment or how I load the dishwasher.  He doesn't do it though.  He is giving me the space I asked for in the beginning.

I always blush when I order at restaurants.  Because I don't want to be ordering at all.
I order some lame soup and salad thing, even though there is plenty of good seafood.
When the food comes, he shares his lobster with me.  It's good.

The Lydia/anxiety wave started mounting this morning when he suggested we go out to lunch.  It is nearly passed now.  My tunnel vision is fading from it's pinpoint outside the window and I can see my husband.  He leaves a 40% tip.  His hands are thick and grey with callouses.  I reach out and hold them.  Just like I did during our wedding ceremony so I wouldn't faint.  I don't need him to fix things for me, but I'm glad he's here.  Immensely glad, and I try to tell him this through my fingertips.

Honeymoon close-up

smoke lift

Curse you graham crackers!
You ruined my nearly perfect food day...
who does that?
Who wakes up cursing graham crackers? ....from yesterday?
Apparently, a lot of people.
Today, Sarah.  Today.
__________________________________________________________________

smokestack painting from 1st year in art school

Today I woke up with a 3-month-fresh head of red hair nestled into my armpit.
His hands up over his head, breathing soft as ocean mist.
And I have to admit, for a second, I felt a pit sink in my gut.
He is my last baby.
I gave away all my pregnant clothes.
I told everyone that I was done.  And I am.  I have to be.  The husband is "fixed."
Yet there it is...the ache.
I feel this ache whenever a period of my life ends.

When I move from an apartment, and stand in it's clean, bare center after all the scrubbing is done.
I kneel down and thank Grace for the times I've had in it.
When Jeff and I moved from the cabin in Big Cottonwood Canyon, we cried in the doorway together.
Not sobbing. Just an awareness of tears in both of our eyes, and a huge welling wave that pushed us out to the next landing place.
I am a preschooler hanging onto Mom's skirt, burying my face in it, begging her to stay.

We cannot stay like this.
I'm afraid for my family to grow up.
I dropped off my sister yesterday at the hotel where she lives.
She lives there, and she's addicted to drugs.
We used to be little.  I used to sleep in the same bed as her.
Share clothes with her.  I can picture her eyes when she is listening to me.
She'd chase me, wild as a cat on fire, and try to punch me with all her rage when I'd tease.

Nothing hurts more than watching her walk into that hotel alone.
She says goodbye in her chipper voice, but it flakes away in the wind.
This is adulthood.  Not for everyone.  But for us.
And I wish I could pack her into the mini-van with the rest of the kids.  I'd take her home.
Make her some french toast and set her on the couch to watch Mary Poppins.
Instead, I drive home with that ache and watch the steam rise from refineries along the freeway.

tiny clothes

My knee aches.  I'm never gonna be able to run myself back into a size 4.

________________________________________________________

me - trying to make sense of it all - and getting lost.
Probably trying to avoid food at a family party

Yesterday I unpacked pre-pregnancy clothes.  I unfolded tiny tank tops and wondered,

"How did I ever fit into this?  Wonder if I will ever fit into it again?"

This was a miraculous thought.

Because it wasn't -"I must wear this again or I am too big."  or 

"I must fit into this by June 1st or everyone will know I am weak.  or

"Sarah USED to have a good body, and now look at her.  pathetic".  or

"Oh my God.  The diet starts.  Now."

I simply folded it and thought, "This doesn't fit, so I'll put it away.  Maybe I can wear it next summer.  Maybe not."

Lydia is horrified.  Now she is the one cowering in the corner.  She's not even screaming.  Just watching.  Hugging her knees.  Changes are here.  They're not coming...they are here.

I am Ewan McGregor on Trainspotting.  Choosing Life.  Even though I'm pretty sure he ends up dying, and the chances of me actually staying healthy are slim.  I won't even die a romantic death like Karen Carpenter.  No one is following me around documenting my tragedy.  It is unremarkable.  It happens all day every day.  

me - surrendering
My daughter Sophie and niece Gwen
Youngest daughter Pepper in the foreground
We are lighting a candle for people we love.

I'm not all better.  I am afraid to box up those teensy clothes, and allow that I may not wear them again.  I am always wondering when I'll be "back to normal."  I am scared to allow that my idea of normal is not healthy, and needs to change.  

My life's timeline is decided by what clothes I could fit into.  Size 4 jeans + black Volcom halter top = the 1st year I dated Andrew when I didn't need food and could stay up until 2 am on the sheer high of being next to him. Jeans hung loose on the hips.

I lived on coffee, cigarettes, cottage cheese and Maverick ice cream.  This is the ideal.

Also at that time I wore the black bikini with gold hand-gun emblem and wake-boarded every weekend.

I had hardly any breasts.  nothing to jiggle.

I also pulled more muscles and had more lower back pain then I've ever experienced.

I was scared all the time.  Scared I'd slip and gain weight and he wouldn't love me anymore.

Still, it is hard to give this up.  It equals freedom, beauty, truth and love!  If I could just not eat and play all the time...be in love all the time...have control all the time.  

Surrender comes when I realize that I cannot go backward.

I was not free then.

I was not in control.

Crash is inevitable.

Reclaiming the Water

I must be crazy.  All my kids are asleep, and I'm up blogging at 5 a.m.
Like Christmas morning...I couldn't go back to sleep.
Eyes bing awake, and I just want to get up. See what's out there.

I went back to the pool on Monday.  I haven't swam for about 9 months.  Lydia tells me  it will make my arms too big, and I should stay away from the pool.
"But it makes me feel alive every time I finish a mile swim,  I'm good at it"  Tiny Sarah voice says.

"Is that what you want?  Huge-manly arms?  Cuz that's what you'll get if you start swimming again.  It's not gonna make you skinny.  It's just gonna make you bulky.  In fact, maybe you should just stop exercising all together.  Be like those girls who live off pop-tarts and don't exercise at all.  Then you won't have so much muscle.  Besides, you're not that good at it,"  Lydia echoes in my head.
We are riding in the mini-van down to the rec center.
I am going anyway.

In the locker room I feel enormous.  I put on my swimming suit.  My old pregnant suit.  A tankini.  I look in the mirror.  My baby pocket of a belly pooches out between the top and bottom.  I try to suck it in, but it won't be hidden.  My hips bulge out the sides of the french cut bikini bottoms.  My nursing breasts are far from Baywatch.  I always wear mis-matched suits from the D.I. cuz I wear through them so fast. My ensemble is not cute.  I look like I went rummaging through the lost and found because I left my real suit at home.
My hair is a greasy, grown out A-line.
This is me.
 I take a deep breath.
This is me.

I go out to the pool.  My legs are tree-trunks.  No one knows I just had a baby.  They think this is me.  It is me, and "they" think nothing of it.  The ping pong match - It Matters vs. It Doesn't Matter.

I sit on the edge, dangle my feet into the water as I've done 1,000's of times.
Scoop hair up into cap, and suction goggles onto face, deep breath and I submerge my whole body.
I swim a mile without stopping.  "Just don't stop no matter what"....this has been my mantra.
In the water, I am strong.  No one is watching.  It is only me and the water dripping from fingers tips each time I turn my head to breath...and breath...and breath.

Fat Mom

Last night I took a bath with Pepper and Beckam.
The rest of the house, dark.  All lights off except the bathroom, there in the nucleus of the house.
I soak, nestled with my little ones.
From the bath mat Beckam looks up, grins and bicycles.
Pepper stands above him grinning as if she made him all on her own.
"I gotta go pee," she whispers to herself.
And she gets busy with the ritual.  She even empties the tiny toilet into the big toilet.  Rinses out the cup and puts it back.
"I need tah-lit pay-per."
Which she delicately unrolls from one end of the floor to the other.  Then she looks up at me through her bangs and asks,
"Okay?"
"Okay Pep,"  I reply and smile.  She smiles back because I understand.  Which actually I don't.  I only know it is an important process because of how gently she goes about it.

I stand up from the water and feel my weight come back to me.
The water level instantly drops 6 inches.
I used to watch my mom do this, and her breasts sag.
Mom is fat, she'd tell me.
Oh, I thought, that must be why the water goes down when she gets out.
Because she takes up so much space.
My Mom had 6 kids in 10 years.  I am the oldest.
My siblings taught me how to want goodness for someone else.
I'd give them the first turn, the bigger piece...the last piece.

Now I am in the mirror, sanding the callouses off my feet.
My nursing breast joggles back and forth.  It is not pretty.
Fat Mom.  My conditioning says.  Then I look again.
I am my Mom.
And I almost cry, because she had no one to tell her,
'You're not fat.  You are beautiful.  You are healthy.  Look at all you do.  Look at the lives your body has made.  You have so much to be proud of.'
I didn't tell her.  I wish I could have known.
I would have thanked her at every bath.  Every time she got dressed and lifted her saggy nursing boob up to put it into her bra. Because now I do that.

I smile at myself in the mirror.
The smile of a mother.

Mint Chocolate Chip

2:37 p.m. Monday afternoon

Sophie holding Baby Pepper

Pepper is bounding from couch to ottoman in a tiny naked butt.

Sophie looks cued for the orthodontist.  Her mouth flayed open and I can see every one of her braces.  She is filling the room with her laugh.

Beckam lays next to me kicking his chunks of leg, content.

A pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream is melting.  We are all eating it.

Eating disordered Lydia is hissing, 

"You shouldn't be eating that.  You shouldn't be sitting here.  You should get up and do something active if you're going to eat that.  Or maybe, if you get your lazy ass off this couch, you won't eat it at all."

I look around me.

Sophie holding Beckam

I see my kids.  I see myself enjoying them.  

Me in all my frump and greasy ponytail.

I am granted an out of body experience.

I see how wrong Lydia is. Not just in theory.  

But in real life...real time...real colors, shapes, and sound.  

There is no need for her.

My softer Sarah voice says,

"Stay right here. Don't miss this.  The ice cream doesn't matter."

And I ride up over the crest of another wave.

Rather than crushing me it dissipates, and turns to foam.

I used to think my eating disorder recovery would be swift and thorough, leaving me spotless.

It's so huge, and food is everywhere.  How could it be any other way?

I cannot be a prisoner chipping away at the cement wall with a fork.

I'll never get out.  I'd rather not even hope to get out.

Actually, it is a space I find.  Suspended apart from linear time.  

Separate from measurement, achievement, and progress.

A place where nothing needs to change.  

49/51 me

Could barely get dressed this morning.
Hating my body.
Yet again, cliche.
I have to throw a shower for 15 women.  How many of them hate their bodies?
I put on my loudest leg-warmers and swishy skirt to try and fool myself.
It kinda works.

night surfing in Lake Powell

Even though I am not the one who's pregnant, I am overly aware of my stomach where Beckam used to live...wish I could scoop it out with a melon-baller.
He vacated 3 months ago, but there are still signs of his presence.
I wish I could find beauty in that fact, but I just want it to be "back to normal."
And no matter what kind of feminist spin I put on it, my brain cannot out-wit my eating disorder.
It is a constantly evolving opponent

At sunset, I go for a run.
I learned some stretches for my knees and they are feeling stronger.
My whole body knows what to do.  I've been doing this for 13 years.
Stepping out against the sludge of my self-loathing to reset and remember.
I remember the 1000's of miles my legs have traveled, through Paris, the Appalachian Trail, the Wasatch Mountains, and 50 miles in one day with the boy scouts.
I remember that I want to take my kids to the park and still hang up-side down on the monkey bars.

Moments after Pepper's birth

I remember night surfing in Lake Powell and knowing I could stand on the board...even at 7 months pregnant.
I remember the peak of labor, and the calm I felt because my body has proven itself.
I remember running the grey and unromantic streets of Murray City with Andrew when we first dated.
I remember Sophie's dad, Jeff and I teaching her to climb in southern Utah sandstone.
I remember the strength in his hands...and knowing she would have it too.
And I want it....and I found it again.
As I have hundreds of times.

We survived another day.  My body and I.
The eating disorder did not win.
We did.

confession

I really didn't need that 1/2 pop tart last night.
Upon initial investigation....no change from post-baby body to a rock.
Same soft, twinkie-like center.
Imagine waking up and not evaluating body for a mystical over-night change...
_________________________________________________________________
Pepper noises at 1 a.m. ugh...drag body from bed.
Beckam went to sleep at 11 p.m.
Andrew coaxed me into staying up until 11:30 to watch 30Rock.

the maze of weariness - painted 2009
while pregnant with Pepper

So, total sleep thus far = maybe 1.5 hours.
Eyes started aching from being open too long at about 8 p.m.
Therefore head aching for 3.5 hours.
Not nearly enough rest...bordering on abusive mother territory.
So when I hear Pepper wake up, I am instantly angry.
The voice coming from my mouth is an evil hissing sound.  I am trying to threaten her to sleep, and it's not working.  It only makes the crying louder.
"Sh...you're going to wake up Beckam.  Be quiet right now!"
I clamp my hand over her mouth.  This makes her more scared.  I am making it worse, I know.  But I am just so tired all I want is for her to stop.  Kids don't work this way.  I know it.  I am insane.
I yell into her tiny face,
"Go to sleep!"
Her cry is getting louder.  This is not her Mom.  She wants her Mom.
I wrestle her out of blankets and drag her down stairs.  Throw her onto the couch and yell,
"You have to stop! Stop! I can't take this anymore! When I say go to sleep you have to go to sleep!"
She is hysterical.  I am hysterical.  I want to hit her.  I leave her in the dark.  Go into the other room and take 2 fists full of my own hair and brace them against my head.  Take deep breaths and go way inside.  I hear Sophie out on the couch cooing to Pepper.  They are huddled together.  I remember huddling up this way with my siblings when my parents would fight.  Only there were 6 of us, and no one ever came back and apologized.  No one said I'm sorry we scared you...everything is okay.
"I'm sorry I scared you," I whisper to Pepper, "it's okay, Pepper.  It's okay Sophie."
We are all crying.  I am shaking from all the leftover adrenaline.
Sophie with tears on cheeks and red eyes look up at me,
"It's okay Mom.  We're just having a hard night  We'll get through it."
I am amazed at her composure.  Yet she is not so different from me.
We sit there until Pepper's breathing regulates.  She says to me,
"MaMom, I need love uh you."
"You need love from me?"
"Yes."
"Okay Pep, I love you.  Mom loves you.  I'm sorry I was mean.  I'm sorry I scared you."
Her eyes believe me.  We settle deeper into the couch and breath all together.
"Thank you for your help Sophie.  I'm sorry I scared you."
I hold her just as close as I hold Pepper.  Because I know how it is to be the oldest.

petite heartbreak

Sophie at 3 years old...telling me all about it.

Sophie is 9 years old, yet in her own mind, she has always been an adult.
As a baby she'd scream outrage at being strapped into her car-seat.  She was supposed to be up front where she could see the whole world.
About 3 weeks ago she brought home a page ripped from a magazine.  A hair-lipped child stared out from it,  an image Sophie couldn't ignore.
"Mom, we need to donate money.  Look at her, isn't that so sad?"
How could I say,
"No, Sophie.  We can't really fix this problem.  We are too insignificant.  If you donate money to every heart-wrenching image, you'll be running around writing checks your whole life, and the children will still suffer."
Instead I said,
"Okay.  I'll write you a check for ten dollars."
I got her an envelope, and highlighted the address so she could write it herself.
It went out in the mail this morning.
That kid with the hair-lip watched me from the kitchen counter for 3 weeks.  I couldn't throw her away.
My eating disorder wants me asleep.  When I'm in the food, I am on auto-pilot, soaring from food to food.  It is an odd sensation, because I am afraid to stop eating.  When I stop, I am forced to realize all that I have consumed.  So it is better to just keep going.  Then I don't have to know.  The guilt can't catch me.
All the things I intended to do get pushed out to make room for my excess.  The magazine page would have gone in the garbage had it gotten in the way of a binge.  Not only would it reflect my gluttony, but also my apathy. So it would have to rest with the slimy banana peels and coffee grounds.

Me listening...

Eating disorder recovery is the sloth of them all.  And just like a sloth.  It is amazing that it can survive. Writing this blog helps me see the movements I would otherwise miss.

March wind marching

(Mom rubs palms over face like they do in the movies when bad news comes)
Here we go...the tally is already upon me.  Consumed today:
2 cups of coffee with cream and sweet 'n' low
1/2 an apple
4 bites of kids' left over waffle

Evaluated already:  belly has made no significant change into anything harder/flatter/trimmer.
Heavy sigh into waistband.

But that is not all I did.
I averted absorption of ornery husband's toxic sludge.
Got Sophie to school on time.
Dressed Beckam in grey onesie with green praying-mantis on the front.
Taking friends' son to a meeting cuz he just got kicked outta treatment.
Put away laundry that has been perched on the back of couch for 4 days....

Hedda Sterne

8 hours later...
Walking in City Creek's snow and wide space, listening to my knees tell me,
"You can't run today."
There was a time I thought I HAD to run EVERYDAY.
Now my knees have undiagnosed pain and some days I am content to walk...barely.
Music resonates, James Blunt - Goodbye my Lover.
I feel silly for the tears in my eyes, then decide to let them fall and get cold on my cheek from the wind.
There is one person I always think of when I hear this song.
He orbits so close to me in this tiny Salt Lake City, but we never pass each other.
I see a man walking the opposite direction toward me, and hope it's him.
I know it's not.  But I look closely at every curly headed man I meet.
He is my longest standing love, grief and honest place.  I fell into shards in his arms. He was forced to throw me away. To hope someone else would pull me from the trash and attempt the restoration he could not perform.
That is exactly what has happened, and I want him to know.
I didn't stay broken.  I am very much the Sarah he wanted for me.
Just like My Antonia, I have gone away, had babies and healed.
I am pushing them right now into the March wind.
I don't drink whiskey, and rage anymore.
I don't throw up all my food anymore.
I don't spend days on the couch hoping for it to swallow me.
And I don't need him...but I still want him.
Even after nearly 7 years...I still want him.
Not as a lover.  Just as my pain.  He is the tear that hangs inside my soul forever...thank you Jeff Buckley.
And thank you, Adam.