Moment of Truth

one truth at a time

When my friend found out I was writing about bulimia, she asked,
"Won't that be hard, when you actually do purge, to write about it?"

Yes, friend it is.

I purged on Thursday.
It feels like a betrayal to all the triumphs I have posted here.
I wish I didn't have to write this post.
But I do.

I can't predict when or how purging becomes necessary.
In fact, I was just telling someone on Wednesday,
"I think it's been almost a year since I last purged."

I purged early in my pregnancy with Beckam.
I was afraid to gain pregnancy weight.
I thought I could slow the growth of myself and delicately blossom.
Instead it felt I was exploding from my waistband with gluttonous force.

"Pregnant women throw up all the time."
Right?

Now I have no excuse.
I was just tired.
Tired of trying to be good.
So I ate everything, felt sick, and needed to feel better.
And I did.  I did feel better.  It was like a cigarette after not smoking for a long time....
I think I'm supposed to say I feel so awful and I'll never do it again.
But I don't.  I don't feel much.  I know it won't solve anything. I know this from years of finding myself brushing my teeth afterwards in utter confusion at how I am here again.

The only new thing is: I don't hate myself for doing it.
I don't feel the panic I used to.
There is no frantic strategy being constructed in my brain.
I am bulimic.
I still turned on the fan in the bathroom.
I still took a shower afterwards and was grateful for the fruity fragrance of my shampoo.
I hoped it would cover up the sour smell in the bathroom before my husband came home.

This is embarrassing, and a lot of people I know will read this.
I used to think if I told people about my eating disorder they would watch me eat.
I thought I would reveal this huge thing, and I would never be comfortable with it.
Now I know, most women struggle like me.  Many of them have done just what I do.
At first it seems a great revelation.
"I can starve myself and be skinny.  I can be powerful.  I can be better then people with less control."
Then of course, I got hungry.
"I can eat whatever I want and just throw it up."
Another revelation.

Now I am trying to let go of these beliefs.
It is not easy to be rid of such stark black and whites.
No matter how much I erase, I can still see their outline.
I don't know what's going to happen now.
I hope I don't have to keep purging.
I cannot simply chant a mantra, pull myself up by my boot-straps and force on.
I need to be more gentle than that.
It is a comfort to know that I can write the truth here, whatever it may be.

The "Push/Pull"

Yesterday in marriage counseling I said the same line I've been saying since I was 15 years old.
I used to say it to my Dad, now I say it to my husband,
"No matter what I do, it's not enough for you."
This is not a coincidence and it's not my husband's fault.
This the fuel for my eating disorder.
This one tiny belief has propelled waves of suffering to beat me down.
They come with the consistency of an entire ocean.  They never get tired.  They never stop.
For me, there will never be enough.
This can either be a beautiful truth, or a terrifying reality.

This searching for "enough" implies a stopping place.
It is the frantic grasp for enough food, and the binge which follows.
Upon awakening from the auto-pilot-hand-to-mouth, I see how destructive this need is.
So I vow to have no needs, and thus starve the beast out of me.
I lash at it with all the whips self-loathing has to offer.  I want it to bleed and die.
But the "it" is me.  And I will never win this way.

I've read books which separate the eating disorder and try to kill it.
They say ED is the enemy.
I do not believe this, and mine is not named ED she is named Lydia.
Lydia is not separate from me.  When I type her name, I do not feel a threat or a hatred.
I feel an urge to hold her, as I hold Pepper when she wakes up in the middle of the night, afraid.

In the end, I am simply afraid of my own humanity.

Andrew kissing my imperfection on our wedding day

After marriage counseling, we went to Coldstone for ice cream.
Only I didn't eat any.
Andrew is used to this behavior from me.
"Are you sure you don't want any?"
"Yes.  I'm sure."
"Okay."
He doesn't pressure me.
He doesn't evaluate my body or my food intake.
He doesn't believe I am not enough.
It is just the opposite.
He tells me everyday,
"You look great.  You don't need to change a thing."
In actual words, he tells me this.
To which I respond,
"You can tell me that everyday.  I will never get tired of hearing it."

We love each imperfectly, that is true.
We fight over how full the garbage can needs to be before it's emptied.
We fight about how promptly the oil ought to be changed in the car.
We disagree about where my shoes belong after I take them off.
I play too much, and he plays too little.
But in this push/pull I learn to love.

It is so slow to leave me - this seeking of "enough."
I am finding that I do not need it.
I only need grace to fill in the cracks as I walk forward.
For me, there will never be enough.
This is as beautiful as I allow it to be.

the push/pull in action

Clear Lake

I've been living off Kix cereal.
It's safer this way.
I look at my cat and think,
"You've got it made.  You don't have to make any choices.  You eat the same thing everyday.  To you food is food.  Lucky."
______________________________________________________________________________
14 years ago I lived in New Jersey in my uncle's house.
I was 19 years old.
I ate all day everyday.
I gained 40 pounds in 3 months.
The only thing that fit me was a pair of red satin pajamas because the waist band was elastic.
I ate until my stomach hurt.  Went to sleep.  Woke up, and started eating again
I had never experienced addiction like this before.
I was afraid of myself.
Each morning my resolve became flimsier, like a childhood blanket worn down to lace.
My daydream, as I dipped chocolate chips into peanut butter, was for someone to come and lock me up.
I just wanted to go where someone would make all my decisions for me.  The last bit of awareness, of light in me, seemed the source of my pain.  If I could just kill that, I wouldn't have to dig up and out of this pit.  I could just lay here and eat waffles dipped in whipped cream.
I wouldn't have to know that I had gone from a size 2 to a size 14 in one summer.  I wouldn't have to try to understand why I ate a whole box of granola bars when I was supposed to be babysitting the neighbor's kids.
I abused laxatives. I would eat the whole bag knowing it would heave itself through my system at 3 am.  But I had to do it.  I would put the bag down and come back to it 10 times until it was all gone.
When 3 am came I'd sit on the toilet and cry because I hated myself so much.  The pain was involuntary and acute.  It matched the way I ate.  I deserved this pain.  I was embarrassed.  I still don't know if my uncle heard me.  I can't bring myself to ask him.

I fear food because of this period in my life.
I have never been this out of control with food since, but I've lived in fear of it.
I have dreaded this time when I didn't even have the gumption to purge.  I just let it happen.  All the weight of it.  I bought bigger clothes, and bigger clothes.  I slowed to a stop in every way.

Now I run.  I run to keep myself awake.  To remember my body.
I read a meditation years ago, it has always stuck with me:

"In order to remain clean and clear
a lake must have inflow and outflow"

Writing is outflow.
I name what I see and think and feel and it becomes real.  It gives boundaries to my monsters, turns them into the ordinary.  It lights up moments into tiny well-lit paintings.  I stand back and smile.
Running is outflow.
I expend energy through legs and breath out in a wide spread.
Running is inflow.
I take in all oxygen around mouth, muscles get stronger, and the sun seeps into all exposed skin.
My children are outflow.
Every time I make eye contact, I give them some of myself.
My children are inflow.
They remind me to look out and all around.  They are substance.  They are real grace in plump bodies.
My marriage is outflow.
I let what I want, what I know, what I must defend,  what I fear............float downstream
My marriage is inflow.
Andrew caresses my face when he can see that I am weary.

And sometimes I get very weary.  I want to stop.
But I know what stopping feels like.  I know what it costs.
I know there is no relief in giving up running, or writing, or loving, or eating.
I find relief in the moments where my stride releases and I fly down the road.

New Snow in Summer

Lift up shirt.
Stomach check.
I have been doing this for years.
Evaluating myself first thing in the morning.
Suck in stomach.  Look for ribs.  Ribs are a sign of success.
Not emaciated, skeletal ribs - just a shadow of them under the skin - just a hint of rib is good.
I see it.  The sign that I am on track.

But I can't believe this like I used to.
I can't stick to this tiny orbit anymore.
I need to swing wide and see more.






















Last night I snuggled 5 kids into a down comforter.
The 2 two-year olds escaped and catapulted from couch to ottoman.
Pepper and Finn.  They put on quite a show.
I sat with my 9 year-old Sophie and 2 babies watching.
We laughed until we cried tears and could hardly breath.
Sophie's mouth hung open in a still shot with no sound coming out.
Clearly the performers were hilarious beyond belief.

Finn wrapped Pepper in a rainbow plastic slinky and announced she was his dog.
She acted accordingly and crawled around barking.
Occasionally she'd turn into a horse and jump around, which actually made her look more like a frog.

The Black Stallion played in the background.
A boy and a black horse, silhouetted against the beach.
And I was struck by the innocence with which I am surrounded everyday.
It will not always be like this.
They will grow up and find conflict.  They will question all this.  They will wonder if the love they knew as children can actually exist.
Right now it is held pure.
Like snow that has never been stepped in.  It catches all light and reflects.  There are no shadows.

I could miss this.
If I am not mindful.

I know I can't preserve it.
There is no Mason jar that can hold all that I see and hear and feel in one simple day.
I can only take it in and recognize it.
I can honor it when I see it for someone else.
I can always smile at mothers and children and mean it.

Moab, Actually.

So,  it does not matter - How I Look In A Swimming Suit.
Cuz total time spent in bikini flaunting...anything...was about 27 minutes.
I was too busy doing much meatier stuff.  Such as belaying my nephew, Max.  He took off climbing and I watched the synapses fire.  I saw his endorphines mix with dopamine and he fell in love.  Could not get enough.  The boy who is usually a quiet mouse was chattering his way up the wall.  He asked questions, made observations about the sky and how far up into it he had ascended.  I know this feeling.  From the first time I stepped from the ground to rock in sticky rubber, it felt right.
Just like swimming.
Just like writing.
Just like painting.
I am not exceptionally good at any of these things, but I am in sync when I do them.
I was content to belay him all afternoon.
The sun oozing down my shoulders and into the sweat pooled at the small of my back.  I let the desert fold over me.  My arms like an octopus sucking in rope and flinging it through the belay device to keep Max safe.  It is automatic, this motion, all the while, eyes on my tiny climber.

Then, my lil family hiked through the desert to the circus.
We were just going to watch.
People.
Crazy people,
were jumping off the Corona arch.  To call this a rope swing is an understatement.  The arch is 140 feet tall.  5 bolts at the top secure the ropes, and the jumper wears a harness tied to these ropes and Supermans off the top.
I walked up to the "swing" wearing a skirt, and thought,

"I can't jump because I am wearing a skirt and I can't put on a harness in this skirt.  Phew...relief."

Then my friend, who is significantly smaller than me says, 

"You can wear my shorts."

Crap.

Both cheeks barely fit into those shorts in fact, they probably didn't.

But how could I pass up the chance to fly?

So I shimmied those babies on and strutted up to the base of the arch.

For a second I worried if my husband was embarrassed of his crazy wife in the too-small shorts.
What if I get up there and can't jump?  Decide then.  Jump or not. Do you trust the gear?  Yes.  Do you trust your "belayer?"  Yes. Then the risk in minimal right?  Right.  Just another bolted route.  Jump or not.  Yes.  Jump.  As soon as they say your are clear to go.  You go.  Okay.  It is decided.

So, I set flip-flopped foot onto the ascent.

"You're wearing flip-flops?"  said the other climber.

"It's all I got,"  I said.

And up we went.

The whole time - me - exhaling fear.  Hands shaking.  The space between head and feet quickly shrinking as it does right before I do something terrifying.

My Baby Beckam is at the base of the arch.  He is wearing a floppy plaid hat and his cheeks are tiny cherries. Sophie is down there too.  In nothing but a swimming suit and flip-flops.  

It still makes my stomach drop to remember that initial free fall.  The step off the edge where every instinct in my animal body screams at the edge of my flesh to stop.  

In the morning I ran the desert at sunrise.

My legs flew beneath me and I paced myself straight into the sun.  

It's light trickled along the top of the river and I flowed with it.

I nearly cried, which happens often to me when I run alone.

Because I realize I can go back to my life and live it well.

Also, I grieve for the times I could not.

I think of Sophie's dad, Jeff.

We were married for 4 years.

He taught me to climb, to trust my gear, to talk less.

When I came to the ground off the arch, Sophie was the first to hug me.

"Your Dad taught me how to do that,"  I told her.

"My Dad taught you to do THAT!"

"Yep, he did."

Moab

I'm going to Moab in 2 days.

Me climbing in Moab last year

What are the chances that I can starve away 5 pounds before then?
My husband has been tanning for the last week.
What are we doing?
We are 32 and 34 years old.
We have 3 kids.
We've been off the market for 6 years.
Who cares about tan skin or 5 pounds?
Apparently we do.
And it's comical, really.

But this trip is like a miniature MTV spring break.
And in spite of all my Yoda training, so much sexiness in one place gets to me a little.
I am aging, and it is disorienting.
My painting professor loved to tell us, in the end, we are all making images which reflect our fear of dying.
We are all trying to find immorality by what we leave in people's minds.
Some artists have achieved this...
Van Gogh and Picasso and Leonardo Da Vinci.
They left images which will never be forgotten:  Mona Lisa, Starry Night, Guernica.
It is not likely that I will be so brilliant.  I will have to be content with my actions and hope they count for something when all tallied in the end.

Sophie doing a much stronger job than anyone

But myself, my body is transitory.
I do not need to be remembered by the image of this body.
This body is my vehicle.
My means of transportation.
Perhaps the only constant is my red hair.  I may be remembered for that.
But my muscles will fade, my vericose veins intensify, and the skin around my eyes will grow grey.  I will watch people younger than I am, do things I used to do.

It is embarrassing to admit such silly impulses.
Hopefully my professor was right, and my last ditch effort to flatten out this stomach, is actually fear of death.

Sophie in my t-shirt getting ready to tip-toe up the rock.

Sorting Laundry

I've been reading this book by Jack Kornfield.
"After the Ecstasy the Laundry."
In it I have found answers to the battle with my body.
I have known this eating disorder is my most ruthless teacher.
For a long time, it only taught me how to suffer.
I am not in control.
I am not able to force this body to submit.
I am human.
That is what she teaches me.  I am human. What a scary thing to be...
I have been trying to whip this reality into submission.  Force it to be different.  Force myself to be a super-hero with rock-hard abs.
My back has been flayed open so many times, I can't count the scars.
Now I am looking at them.  And loving their raised surfaces.
I do not try to deny any of it, anymore.
I can look at pictures of myself at every different weight and love them. I can look at the pregnant ones, the skinny ones, the heavy ones, and all the mediocre in between.  They are all me.  I have come to settle into the folding of my life's laundry.


"I used to pride myself on how calm and detached I was, never upset or letting myself feel anger, beyond all stress, flatlining my brain.  But what about my body?  Which organs have I been stuffing it all into, to the detriment of my health?...I'm starting to respect my body, my need for rest, for exercise, to find the physical wisdom I lost for so long."
~Tibetan Lama

"It's also helpful to realize that this body that we have, this very body that's sitting here right now in this room, this very body that perhaps aches, and this mind that we have a this very moment, are exactly what we need to be fully human, fully awake, and fully alive."
~Pema Chodron



"Particularly we need to find a way to bless our wounds and the darkness we find ourselves in.  It takes patience to bless our woundedness, because we haven't been taught a respect for it  But if you do bless your body, you notice that you find what is right for you.  You have the kind of pains that are right for you, as well as the kind of joys that are yours, the experiences that you have honestly earned."
~Zen master

"But someday our body will present its bill, for it is as incorruptible as a child, who, still whole in spirit, will accept no compromises or excuses, and it will not stop tormenting us until we stop evading the truth."

~Alice Miller