Fever

I've spent the morning reading Johanna Wendell's psychology thesis on the Eating Disorder Spectrum.
She is relating this spectrum to low "psychological flexibility."
Psychological flexibility refers to one's ability to "go with the flow" without being defined by it.
It is to know their worth, independent of outside stimulus.
Easier said then done.  Good solution.  Can you bottle that, please?

Of course it is all broken down into miniscule parts and WAY too many words.
The reason I am interested is because she uses the term Eating Disorder Spectrum.
She acknowledges about 60% of the female population display ED symptoms, and that most of them are never diagnosed as clinical cases.
This population is suffering, but not enough to get real help.
They exist in a low-grade fever which sucks life from them, but never kills.
This is the population I am concerned with.
It is me.  These are my people.

Lalla Essaydi. Converging Territories #26, 2004.

We walk around believing our spouse thinks we are not good enough.
We exercise while our kids watch cartoons.
We make dinner for everyone else and don't eat.
We hide and nibble protein bars in the pantry.
We exercise when it does damage to our bodies.
We measure our waist by pinching imaginary love handles 7 times a day.
We are lured in by every new diet.  We often bite and get dragged.
We are not sick enough to get help, and not well enough to eat.

She also claims college students are especially vulnerable to this spectrum.
Because of their high aspirations and constant evaluation of performance, they are at risk.

In order to achieve, I must not deviate.  
There can be no mercy for me.  If I am gentle, I will slack and ultimately fail.
I can rest after finals.  Everyone else can do it and I have to keep up.
I can't be the one who falls behind. 
Flexibility equals mediocre, and I've worked too hard to be mediocre.

Yes, this was my brain in school.
This was my brain long before school.
It was my reaction to gaining weight and the loss of identity which came after.
It is the voice of Lydia.  (the voice of ED)
It is the hardest one to love, and the one necessary to embrace.

Lalla Essaydi. Converging Territories #30, 2005

I haven't read this woman's whole thesis yet. I am curious to know her solution.
She had better offer one.
My solution is to bring these voices out into the open.
It is to acknowledge the 60% and let them know, they are not alone.
We do not have to compete with each other.  There is no arriving at the top.
There is only the fear of falling, and the queasiness from looking down.
We perpetuate this sickness.  We generate its heat with our jealous leering at one another's bodies.

"I already know all this,"  I thought, as I read.
This is the crux.  I knew all along, but I didn't want to let go.

I am going to keep researching the concept of an Eating Disorder Spectrum.
I can't find much on it right now, but I believe it is the next step for ED recovery.


Here is the link if you want to read it:

http://digitalarchive.gsu.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1084&context=psych_theses

Also, here is the artist bio for Lalla Essaydi.  I think she fits the perpetuation of female imprisonment as equal to beauty.

lucky charm

Finally got my computer back!
Andrew had ACL surgery, and he took over the office.
Then Grandma came to stay and the computer is in the guest room...which I am not complaining about in the least.  I love it when Grandma comes, and would gladly give up the computer in exchange for her presence.

So, for the last 2 weeks I have been writing blogs in my head.
I have forgotten all of them.
Now the loudest thought in my mind is,
"I don't see what all the hype is about Dunkin' Donuts coffee.  I think it sucks."

As far as eating disorder recovery goes, my head is stuck.
It keeps returning to this article I read on Intermittent Fasting by Sara Solomon.
Apparently - IF - which is the ridiculous abbreviation for this tactic - is the newest diet craze.
How did I fall for this?
How did I get sucked into believing the right strategy will allow me to eat without guilt?
The how is irrelevant.
I should have known when I saw her pictures and read the language.  This is just another quick fix.
I should have known. This is not truth.
Images of her taking a photo of her own ass in the mirror should have told me.
"All you have to do is eat whatever you want for 6 hours a day and fast for the other 18!"
She may as well have been saying,
"All you have to do is maintain control and you'll be sexy like me!"

talisman string for every diet I've tried...

This is no different than any other promise I have made to myself.
And I always fail.
I fail because I am not meant to be a diet.
I am meant to be a whole person.

I've been afraid to write about this
I wanted to believe Sara Solomon.
I wanted to carry her like a secret charm in my pocket.

But I knew.  I owe it to myself and to my handful of readers, to be honest.
I started this blog with the intent of holding back nothing.
So here I am.  Admitting that I fell for it once again.
Now this is me, throwing my little charm into the D.I. box.  It holds no value for me.
It is a cheap imitation of life.

To be alive is to gaze out beyond tightly wound compulsions.  It is to perceive the entire rotation and to stand in awe of my meager place.  I am just one butterfly still in chrysalis.  This is also the relief offered to me by truth.

Last night I drove in my car with a girl new to recovery.
"I never used to notice the changing of seasons,"  she said.
 I smiled.
We sailed along Foothill drive above the valley and watched a cantaloupe-colored sun sink into the great salt lake.
"It looks almost tropical,"  she said.
"It does.  That is the perfect word for that color of sun," I replied.

hoopty truck

Driving with Sophie listening to the new Maroon 5 song on the radio.

We're on our way home from gymnastics.

She knows I like this song, so she leaves it on the station.

"And when the daylight comes I’ll have to go
But, tonight I’m ‘gonna hold you so close
‘Cuz in the daylight..."

"Mom, Why does he have to go?"

I am staring into sky turning turquoise.  She can tell something is inside me.  Her glance keeps flickering over from the passenger seat.

"Because sometimes you have to leave the people you love."

"Why?"

"It's just part of life."

We keep driving.  The hole I've just exposed is still a mass of cold blue concrete.  We pass the off-ramp to Big Cottonwood Canyon.  Her Dad and I used to live up there.  I remember coasting down the exit in his grey truck.  It smelled like desert dust and sweat.  It smelled like him.  A huge metal "cow-pusher" sat on the front.  We'd ram it against a big stump on our flight into the driveway during winter time.  It took a lot of momentum to get up our hill in the canyon snow.  Every rally was a miniature triumph.

I was pregnant with Sophie in that snow.  We had fires every night at the Cabin in the Pines.

Sometimes I cried alone in the bathroom, looking at my belly and trying to understand what was about to happen.  

"Mom, what are you thinking about."

"I'm just thinking about Dad, about how I loved him and I had to leave.  I was thinking that probably doesn't make sense to you."
"It does."

This response surprises me.  

"I loved him so much.  When we met, I could never imagine not wanting to be with him.  Then I got so sick in my heart, and I couldn't find it anymore.  I was confused and I kept trying to find the thing we used to have and I couldn't find it.  I didn't know...I just didn't know.  In a way, I guess I still don't know.  I don't know why it had to happen the way it did."

"I know, Mom.  It's okay.  I am sorry I used to be so mad at you about that.  Remember?  When I was so mad at you?"  she asks.

"You're not mad anymore?"

"No."

"I'm glad.  You were mad for a long time."

We are in the parking lot of Dick's sporting goods.  Tears squat in her thick eyelashes.

I reach over and put my arm around her gymnast shoulders.

We go inside and find her Dad a birthday present.  A swift blue cycling jacket.  

They are going to the desert this weekend.  I wish I could go with them.   I know I made my choice, and I wouldn't undo anything.  But I will always love that little threesome which started my family.  

Passionate Tuesday

My husband is having surgery today.

I passed his crutches by the front door like a stranger in an elevator.
He is having his ACL repaired.
This means he will be home with us for a whole week.
I am skeptical of this set-up.
We got married because we wanted to be with each other.
Because magnets set up by God sucked us into each other and we could not push back.
I guess you could call this "wanting."  In a way it seemed impossible to do anything else.

He crawled into bed hours after I'd fallen asleep and whispered,
"Come 'eer.  snuggle.  This is your last chance for 2 weeks."
I groaned,
"Ugh...you're so cold, and I'm so warm....I'm sleeping...."
He chuckled and I could hear his smile.
"Come on Kappos."
I roll over and kick my right leg onto his thigh.  My head finds its groove in his shoulder pit.
I breath him deep in through my nostrils.  I exhale all my air.

We have gone to marriage counseling twice.
I'm sure we will go again.
Our first counselor called us a hand in a glove.  His strength fits my weakness.
I hold space for shapes he cannot see.
Andrew has taught me how to be consistent, how to respect other people's time and work.
He has taught me the power of doing the same thing over and over day after day.
He has taught me there are no right or wrong feelings, just feelings.
I've learned how to put myself into shoes I would never want to wear.
My definition of myself has spread into a whole woman, not the flighty, over-romantic girl I was when we met.
I am thick.  The veins of life run under my eyes.
I no longer see how things are supposed to be, I see them as they are.

On Saturday I drove my Grandma to Uintah.  It's about an hour drive.
This means I had a whole hour to myself on the way home.
Rare time alone, and I got to listen to my own music.
As Amy Lee sang, I could see her whole mouth splayed open.
Her voice roars up her throat and out completely in an ultimate purge.  She leaves nothing behind.  All of her air is exhaled.
I remembered passion.   Salt Lake City is full of people overcome with passion right now.
People burning and aching for a phone call or a painting or a partner or a ticket to somewhere else.
It sits in their gut and consumes them at stop lights, at the movies, while they fold laundry.
I don't ache for anything.
Not now.  Not usually.  Hardly ever.
To some, I suppose this is sad.
For me, it is just new.
I had my time.  I chased passion for 10 years.  I know exactly what it tastes like.
So when I hear Amy sing, I can still smell it, and it makes my stomach rumble.
But then I remember. I am not hungry.  The creases under my eyes fold into the same smile they have been making for 33 years and I am sated.

I had the urge to keep on driving so the aroma would stay with me.
Instead my hands and feet drove me home.
I found Andrew at the kitchen sink.  He was prepping his ice machine for the upcoming surgery.
I lasso arms around his broad shoulders.  My fingertips could hardly reach and I was on my tiptoes.
I smiled into him holding back nothing.  I am young.  He couldn't help but melt into a grin.
I know this face.  It's his - "I wish you'd let me get back to work, but I adore you." - face.