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.

nude

Okay, so it would seem we are winning here.
My aspiration to be thin is rising to the top like cream.
I wish I didn't think this way.
I wish I didn't care, but I do.
Sometimes I get scared and think:  If I'm in recovery, I'm not supposed to care about being thin.
But this is not true.  It is also not possible.  At least not today.

However, it is easier to eat when I don't think I must loose weight.
I suppose in that way I am not so different from anyone else.

"The Bather" Oil by James P. Kerr 

But my thinness does not cost so much as it used to.
The jagged edges in my thinking have been smoothed.
I no longer stand in front of the mirror and pinch my fat.
I don't spend an hour getting dressed.
I don't have fat clothes and skinny clothes.
I don't have to run everyday.
I run every other day, or every 3rd day.
I can go 5 days without exercising at all and not hate myself.
I ate a whole donut today and I am not in trouble.
I don't need to go shopping every time I gain or loose 3 pounds.
There is not a single item on my forbidden food list.
I can have sex whenever I want, and I do.  With the lights on.

I am simply a woman.
A 33 year old woman.
I am not amazed by my appearance nor am I disgusted by it.
Both options seem silly.
Today I ran 4 miles.  My pace averaged between a 10 minute mile and peaked at an 8 minute mile.
No part of my body hurt or begged me to stop.
My run was not punishment.
It was simply an action to help me stay well.
In a way, it was not my accomplishment at all.
It was a prayer.  It was a thank you.

The older I get, the more I realize...I have been carried by a thousand arms doing their simple work.
The work which transcends outward appearance and quiets lofty fantasies.  The work that makes dry hands and ponytails.  This ocean of daily life has rolled me into the polished rocks I used to find on the beach.  My grandma had a whole jar of them in the kitchen. The jar was filled with water so their colors would reflect.  I'd sit and stare at it while she did her work.  I remember watching her and realizing that she worked all day.  It looked awful, but she always smiled and just kept doing it anyway.

Degas - Bathers series

4 little pictures

"You're looking really tiny these days."
"Look at you! You've lost so much weight!  You're tiny!"
"You're lookin' hot girl.  What have you been doing?"

These are direct quotes from the last 24 hours of my life.
They are intended as compliments.
But they scare me.
My first feeling is guilt.  Then I wonder,
"Am I ok?"
I am not intending to loose weight,
"Am I lying to myself?  Do I think I'm eating but I'm really not?"
I have not weighed myself in 10 years, but that doesn't mean measurements do not find me.

My response is always some nonsense about how,
"I don't know why...I work out less now then I ever have in my life.  (Which is true)  It must be from chasing and carrying kids all day cuz I don't do anything special, really.  My Grandma said she never had to work out when she had little kids because she was always running around with her little boys.  Now I know what she was talking about."

Awesome, Sarah.

I'm sure they really needed that whole explanation.
Why can't you just say thank you.

Because I am scared.  Guiltly and scared, so I feel that I have to explain myself.
And I cannot take their compliment as intended.
I haven't learned how to do that yet.
Also, it's hard to say thank you when I am not grateful.
The truth is, I wish they would not say anything.
I wish they would keep their judgements about the value of my body to themselves.
But that will never happen.
I never make comments about other people's bodies.
Ever.
It is not my business, and it is not my place to judge another person's body.
I've wasted enough time competing with the rest of the population.
Now I aspire to see other things in the people around me.

Of course - I still do the automatic scan.
"Are they skinnier than me?  Have they gained or lost weight since the last time I saw them?  Does my ass look like that?"
But I can quickly dismiss it, just as I do the impulse to ram a car in front of me when they drive too slow, or to smack my kid and make them stop crying.  Not trustworthy instincts, obviously.

But the comment that hurt most was one made by my husband.  I came home from Vegas with this strip of pics in my wallet.  My daughter Sophie and I escaped an akward moment at dinner with her team-mates and popped into a photo booth.  We found it nestled in a corner of the casino's blasting arcade.
She was struggling with feeling left out by her friends.   I was seated across the table from my x-husband, and her Dad. My eyes burning with tears that needed release.  Not because I missed him, but because I realized that we never get to parent Sophie together.  She never gets to be adored by both of her parents at the same time.  This was the first time, and she deserved it, and we can rarely give it to her.  Too much.  There was just too much going on in that red vinyl booth.  We were both about to pop.
Our eyes met.
"Wanna go for a walk?"  I sparkled at her.
Wide cheshire grin, "Ya."
"We'll be back!"  We chimed in unison, and bolted.

After the pictures we walked with arms about each other's waist through the casino.
We both had the tears on our lashes, but they were not tragic anymore.
They were simply human and we had grins to go with them.
She looked up at me as we rode the escalator down and smiled.
She leaned her head into my torso.

When I got home from the trip and showed the pics to my husband he said,
"You look sick."
I deflated.
It wasn't an accusation, he said it with concern, and rightfully so.
Maybe I was.  The truth is, I struggled to eat on that trip.  I got slammed with more emotion than I expected.  I was traveling with a man whom I used to be married to.  He is Sophie's Dad and he's very good at it.  I was in mourning all over again.  Then at the same time immensely grateful that we were there together supporting her.  After all my worry for her well-being when we got divorced, she is okay.  The whole weekend was a paradox of pain and joy and reverence.  But the pain made it hard to eat.
"Really?"  I wimpered, "That was a pretty important moment for me."

He didn't mean to hurt me, I'm certain.  He was just trying to tell me the truth.
I will fluctuate.  My ability to eat healthy is still growing, and sometimes, it is not there at all.
People's arbitrary judgements of my exterior stand to rob me of what I know about myself.
But they don't have to.
I know I am doing my best, and that my best is not consistent.
I suppose I'm just scared because I don't want to go back.
I don't want to pretend I am well when I am not.
I'm afraid I'll forget how to be honest, and I will find myself in the cage again, looking out and wondering how I got there.  It has happened before.
My hope is - to write and feel and eat and question and stay free.

Night Drive

I prayed out loud last night, in my car.
I was driving home from picking up cold medicine for Pepper.
It was 10 p.m. and I nestled deep into the nest of my Northface down coat.
I felt my hair growing longer around my face, and a small sense of success.
I've been trying to grow it out.  The only way I can let it grow is to ignore it.  I clamp it into a banana clip and don't wash it for days.
One day it will be long, and I probably won't care very much.
 I'll be accustomed to ignoring it.

The thing I wanted most a year ago was to loose my pregnancy weight.
"One day I will fit into all my old clothes.  I will be thin again, and feel more like myself."
Now I do.  I fit.  But I don't feel any more like Sarah.
I miss the fluency of my writing a year ago.  I miss the acute nature of post-birth pain.
I miss my baby boy Beckam who fit right under my chin.  I miss our 2 a.m. movie dates when the whole house was asleep.
I don't remember the extra 20 pounds.  They are not in my memory.

So why do I work so hard to keep them at bay?
The why never comes when I am begging for it.
I stumble over the why as I walk the path, unconcerned with it anymore.
If I don't ask why, then I am just left with is.
That's what I prayed about - what is now.

"God, I am sorry I am still this way.  I'm still scared.  I still struggle.  I don't want to, and my brain knows better.  I know I don't need to starve or loose weight.  I know that it doesn't work.  But this is deeper than knowing.  This is about what I believe....it's about what I am.  It's about how I'm supposed to be small and big at the same time.  And I'm mad, and I'm scared, and I can't be just one. I don't know how to do this.  I guess I still want something based on my good intentions rather than work.  Is the work just time, and life?  Or is it the absence of work?  Am I working against myself?..."

"Of course you are."

Then God and I had a good laugh...

I remember noticing this in philosophy class during college.
The only truth existed as a paradox.
Whatever is also necessarily isn't.
And then class was just funny.
Because the whole point of philosophy is to discover truth - I think.