sand dollar

12/26/12

Wow.  has it really been 2 weeks since I've written?
Mindfulness has perhaps taken a back seat to aquisition.
Christmas tunnels my vision and exhausts my insight.
I am reaching out gathering objects, gifts, and only a glance inward.
Only to notice that I am not writing...............

12/27/12

.........and that's as far as I got yesterday.....
Amazing how quickly I feel there is nothing to say.

So I'll start back at the beginning.  I will write "what is" right now.
For breakfast I ate 6 chocolate covered pretzels.  I also noticed that Andrew had eaten all of my chocolate covered cinnamon bears. Damn him.  It's probably a good thing.
Then I went downstairs to Sophie's room and stared into her box of chocolates.
I spent 20 minutes trying to figure out which one matched each picture as if I was actually going to eat one.
In the end, I nibbled the outside chocolate from  the strawberry and orange cream ones.
I threw away the orange and pink centers.  I just wanted the chocolate.
Then I opened the other box of chocolates.  The one I bought for Pepper.
Except I didn't eat any of those, I just read the pictures.
Did I just call that breakfast?
And did I mention this was at 4:23 in the morning?

I woke up craving chocolate, that's how I know I went to bed hungry.
I once read this story about an anorexic woman who would wake up and eat 4 Hershey's kisses every night.
It was obvious to me that her body was lacking fat.  So it tricked her in the middle of the night.

Now it is 5:47 a.m. and I am not so much different than her.
Not today.

I stood in the shower last night thinking, mine is a subtle form of dishonesty.
I deny my needs, not because I believe I don't deserve them, but because there simply isn't enough.
Not enough space or energy for me to sleep, to eat, to write, to feel, to listen to my own music.
I have been here before.  I have believed my needs won't get met, so it is pointless to admit them.
I am surprised to find that I still do this.
Because it doesn't work.
I end up waking at 4 a.m. and eating my daughter's Christmas chocolates.

However, there is one difference.
I am not doomed to follow this path all the way to the end where I check into rehab.
I can gently observe my dishonesty.  I can turn it over in my hand like a sand dollar washed up on shore.
It is a side-effect of motherhood.
At least I went for a slow walk this morning and found it lying there.
I can eat a piece of toast, and drink a glass of milk, and sit down to write.
Because it doesn't take too much time.
It takes as much time to deny hunger as to satisfy it.

too skinny

A friend told me I was too skinny yesterday.
Actually, she didn't say too skinny.  She said,
"You're looking very skinny right now."
Then she screws up her nose, jams hands on her hips and looks me up and down.
My first thought is ~ 'That's funny cuz I was fat 2 days ago...didn't you read my blog?' ~
"Really," I question "Well that changes for me everyday.  I have no idea what the truth is."
"Well, ya, you're tiny."
I try to explain to her that Andrew said the same thing to me a couple weeks ago.
I assured him too, I am not restricting, not starving.  In fact, I don't even exercise everyday.
And I can feel myself scrambling.
She is posed, chin in palm at the kitchen counter, eyes folded up at me in doubt.
Is it doubt, or do I just perceive it that way?  Maybe she doesn't even care.
Certainly, she doesn't care as much as I do.
I am unloading the dishwasher and grabbing at acceptable reasons to present her with.

Now that I am writing this, I see it more cleearly.
I don't need to justify my body size to anyone.
The truth is, I don't know from day to day what size I actually am.
This sounds ridiculous.  Had I not experienced it, I would not believe it.
Of course you know what size you are.  How could you not?
When I say size, I guess I am not talking about a number.
I have been a size 7 for a while.  I know that.  My brain knows that.
I also know that I can wear anything from a size 2 to a size 12.  So size is relative.
I am talking about my judgement of:  Am I skinny enough?
If I am.  Then I am afraid to eat because I have to keep it going. 
If I am not skinny enough, then I deserve punishment for my failure, and I don't get to eat. 
So whether I am skinny or not skinny, I do not get to eat.
Not eating results in binging and more failure.
This is why I don't get to decide anymore.
Because if I don't have to trust my judgements of skinniness,  I am allowed to value myself for other reasons.

waiting for the bus

Yesterday I rode the UTA bus with 8 teenage girls.
(One of whom was my daughter Sophie, she is only 10, but fancies herself to be 13)
We missed the first bus, even though I sent two of the most spastic sets o' legs to chase it down.
So we sat at the bus stop drinking hot chocolate.
I sat back like Yoda just grinning and loving them.
Most had never ridden the bus in their life.
We brought with us 4 fleece blankets made by the girls themselves.
Sophie insisted on carrying the child-sized table we had decorated.
There were two matching Modge Podged chairs to go with it.
All the weeks of my pushing paid off in one afternoon.
As a teacher, I often wonder, do they even care about what I am trying to teach them?
What am I doing?
But after yesterday, I know they got it.


quote from a patient inside an IV bag

The idea came from them.  After sitting twice a week after school, I found out they had soft spots for children.  I also learned they like making 3-D art as opposed to 2-D art.  They want something to put their hands on.  Ours is a community where the most imortant thing is to unwind and be with each other.  It is a sewing circle, an old-fashioned space where women shell peas, or darn socks.
They won't make art for their own expression.  I don't know why.  But they will make something for someone else. 

As we entered the hospital we were greeted by a Christmas tree.
First we meandered casually on the outside ring, but curiosity brought us closer.
We read the ornaments.  We read the description of how the tree came to be.
Every ornament was made from medical equipment used to treat two girls in the process of a bone marrow transplant.  More than 11,000 pieces were used.
The volunteer explained to us what such a transplant involves.
When a child is in this process, they cannot leave their room for weeks. 
They have no immune system.
They are completely wiped out. 
I watched the girls who had been impossible to reach in the beginning.
They were skeptical of me and of art.
I could see their minds and hearts stretching in amazement. 
I watched their worlds get a little bit bigger. 
I was proud of them.  It was their idea to come with me up to the hospital. 
It sounded too complicated for me.  I am so glad  I listened.

As we walked back to the school, they asked, how old do you have to be to volunteer at the hospital?
They overflowed with ideas for our next project.

On that day, I was not too small in any sense.
I am gaining in substance, in faith, in life.

 

Making a wish on our way out 

 

I'm taking my ball and...

"I am fat today."
Thank you, Lydia.
Do you ever have anything else to say?

I just took a shower.
Lydia told me my stomach is getting thicker.
I can't decide if I believe her or not.
After all these years...after all I know...I still get confused.
My body has morphed 12 times today, and I don't know what is real.
I can't always comfort Lydia, I can't always love her.
Sometimes.  Like now.  I just want to tell her to shut-up and push her down.
I watch my 3 year old, Pepper do this when she is tired.
She picks fights.
I want to pick a fight with Lydia.
I don't want to be kind, or understand.
I just want her to stop taking things from me.
I want her to stop picking on me and making me cry.
I want to push her down and take my stuff back.
I want to hide out in my fort with my pudgy arms folded across my chest and my chin tucked in tight.
I want to sit in there until a new story unravels.
Hopefully it will involve running through clean air on strong legs.
There will be a sunrise and I will shoot my body straight into it with all the music pushing me faster.
I will breath and breath and breath and nothing will catch me.
I will outrun it all. In front of me will be only possiblility rolled out like a red carpet.
At the end I will arrive with floppy legs and a heart that remembers.

So instead, I will go to bed, and see if I love her in the morning.
I will decide if I'm actually fat when I wake up.
Good night.

Pretzel

My baby Beckam has had diarrhea for the last 5 days.
"He has lost weight," my husband notices as I plopped him in the bath.
Then he looks askew at me.
I've just stepped from the bath which Beckam is now soaking in.
I am bent in half drying my calves.
"And so have you...I've never seen you this skinny."
"What?"  I feel unsteady on my guilty legs. 
Loosing weight on accident is not a good sign.
Hearing "too skinny" comments from people who care about me is not a good sign.

Lydia and Sarah are swelling fast.

Lydia:  Yes! We are winning!  See. 
             You don't really know the truth.  You are still dilusional. 
             You have always known that.  You are not really getting better. 
             You are a fraud.  Anyone who looks at you knows what you are...
             a scared little girl who can't let herself eat.

Sarah:   It's okay.  You are on the path.  
             You don't know what it's supposed to look like.  It is always
             changing.  Just trust.  Even though you are scared.  None of it is wrong.

I get dressed in my tightest shirt to try and see what he is talking about.
I don't.  I can't see it.  But I know he is right.  I am small right now.  I only know this because of how my jeans fit today.  I noticed a couple of times.  My tight jeans are not so tight.  I felt relieved.  At least opening the food doors all the way has not made me gain weight, but I didn't expect to loose any.  So now I don't know how to answer him when he asks,
"Are you ok?"
We are bundled up on the couch about to watch Walking Dead.
I don't like gore or death or blood or violence.  I don't understand why it is interesting.
I watch it because he watches it.  I suppose it's kind of like a soap opera.  I just want to know what happens next.
I am a pretzel folded into the crook of his arm.  It is one of my spots.  I venture out slowly,
"Usually I'm ok.  But I really don't know how to answer that question.  You tell me I'm too skinny, and I honestly can't see it.  I don't believe you."
"Really?"  He is truly surprised by this.
I feel like I'm sinking.  I want to give him something that makes sense.
I explain to him what I am trying to do, what I am trying to let go of...it's not coming out right.


So I finally tell him the one thing I do know,
"When I am talking to a woman I know has an eating disorder, I never comment about her body."
It clicks,
"Oh, because she'll always be too fat or too skinny?"
"Ya, she will always be failing or succeeding."
"Ok, I get it."
"I need my outside appearance not to dictate whether or not I'm okay."
"So, are you okay?"
"I don't know.  I think so....maybe it's just from carrying Beckam around all the time.  He is pretty heavy.  It's a lot of work."
He smiles, and kisses my forehead.
"Yes it is."

To recover, I must learn to trust.  Trust Sarah.  This is the hardest part.  I have been so dillusional that I stopped menstruating for a whole year, yet still deprived myself of food.  I have ravenously eaten until my stomach balled me up on the couch, then walked straight to the kitchen for more.  I have purged at my daughter's school into the toddler toilet just minutes before wrapping her in my arms with a smile.  I have purged while pregnant because I was terrified to gain weight.  How can I possibly know what is healthy for myself?  The path is messy.  Uncertain.  Undefined.  Pain...with moments of light, warmth.

The only way is to trust...to walk....

step............^^^write^^^.............step......((rest))............step.....step.....**pray**.....^^write^^....step......((rest))....**pray**......step..........^^write^^.......step......**pray**

~~~~~~~~~thank you~~~~~~~~~

"A good traveler has no fixed plans, and is not intent on arriving." – Lao Tzu



Anselm Kiefer, Varus, 1976

 



.

slaying giants

4:30 a.m.
I pop up as my 8 year old self.
The only thing I wanted then, in 1987, was to
play Super Mario Brothers and eat cereal.
Today I want only to drink coffee and write.

As I tip-toe around my house in slipper socks with favorite snowflake mug, I realize something.
My husband and I got into a roaring fight.
Him yelling with finger pointing.
I just as angry,  but breathing deep to keep the rage in.
Our force of fear an equal match like two Jedi light-sabers clashing, vibrating.

And for the first time, I did not go directly to starvation.
I did not look in the mirror and think I don't get to eat today.
I did not binge when the storm settled and the house was quiet.
I did not hear Lydia's voice hissing,
"You never should have trusted him.  Look at the vulnerable place you've put yourself in.
Why did you have to speak up in the first place?  Now you've rocked the boat.  You've made this place unsafe and you have to run away.  You should have known better.  You don't get to eat today.  Food will only feed this anxiety."

In fact, I didn't think about food at all.  I didn't equate the fight with my body's worth.
Instead,  I called a friend. 
I cried.   I did the dishes, and I cried.
Gave kids a bath with blue fizzy tablets that turn the water purple.
Fed them breakfast. 
Fed myself breakfast.
Dressed a very squirmy baby Beckam while singing him a song.
Convinced Pepper that she did actually need to wear shoes in winter.
Buckled kids into car seats and drive, breath, pray.
Went to support group, cried a lot.
I heard myself saying,
"I am scared...I am just so scared,"  and staring into my blurry lap.
I received hugs and beautiful one-line advice.
"Just say to him:  I really need to talk to you, and then tell him how you are feeling."
In response, I nodded my head and cried more.

At the end of the day, I snap at him,
"I've had a very hard day!"
"Why?" he is buttering a grilled ham and cheese sandwich.
The ham is a mountain, but I don't hate him for it.
"Because I've been crying all day."
"Crying all day...why?"
"I don't want to tell you, you'll get mad."
"Just give me a chance," and he flashes a smile from our dating days.
He uses it when he knows it will work.
"I'll tell you after you eat.  You are much nicer if you're not hungry."
After the sandwich, I tell him how I am feeling.
He does get mad.  He bolts up from his chair and goes downstairs.
I am left sitting there.  The words  I just said lying flat on the kitchen table.
I breathe again.
I gather the kids' coats, kiss him on the head, and take them to see the Christmas lights downtown.

There was no pit in my stomach. 
I never thought, "You should have stayed small."
I was not fat.

The equation used to be:  Vulnerable + Scared = Fat
I don't dare say I will never believe this equation again.  It doesn't work like that.
But at least it is not true today and it wasn't true yesterday.

All of this because we have to buy a new house.
That is why the fighting.
We have to buy a new house and we are scared.
He is afraid we won't have enough money.
He is afraid I will fight him every step of the way.
I'm afraid we won't be able to work together, and I'll have to either fight him or acquiesce.
Both options will create resentment in me.
We are afraid to trust.

I have heard so many of my married friends say,
"It's not supposed to be like this.  My husband is supposed to do/say/feel________"
This is a tempting rut.  My wheels want to roll into it.  Then I am absolved.
I get to sit back, roll along in my rut, and wait for him to get with the program.
But this is not love.  This is lazy.  Love requires my attention. 
Love easily morphs into sickness.
If  I'm not careful, I will be infected and not even know it.

I came home from the Christmas lights with two sleeping children
There mouths hanging open and winter coats still bundled under their chins.
My husband had morphed from Ogre back  into Charming-dating-smile-man.
"Why are you grinning?"
"Because I found us a way to get a down payment on a house."
Hallelujah...one giant slain...

    



 

 David = Sarah     Goliath = fear                                              Marshmallow = prayer

YMCA wheelchairs

white screen.
just like a canvas.
only less intimidating.
I've faced it so many times.
I know it doesn't have to be right.
only true.
_______________________________________
I want to go running this morning.
Saturday is the day of my long run, and I relish it.
But the tendons along the top of my foot are complaining.  Should I take my own advice and stay down today?
When I speak to other women about recovery I tell them,
"Be gentle with your body.  She does not deserve punishment.  Exercise when it fits, and do it with pleasure."
Ugh...maybe I do need to stay down.

On Thanksgiving morning, I joined the mass of runners in City Creek canyon.
The Turkey Trot where everyone earns the right to eat whatever they want that day.
But not me. 
As I whisked past the leaves curling into the ground, my footfalls a prayer,
"Thank you for hanging in there with me, body.  Thank you for this."
I apologized to her for every time I drank too much and made her shake, made her forget.
For every time I starved her and made her run anyway.   Even though it hurt, even though it caused injury.
For every time I binged and made her get rid of it...for every time I binged and didn't get rid of it.
For every time I made her lie beneath a man who didn't care about her. 

She ran faster and forgave me.

















The first time I realized my body is a gift was at the YMCA.
I was visiting my aunt in Tujunga California. 
Just as the sun came up, I tip-toe out of the house before anyone is awake.
I drive huddled in a lump of grey hoodie, asking myself why I do this when it is so cold outside.
Then I open the locker room door, see the familiar expanse of lap lanes, and remember.
The pool sits nestled in a green house.  Glass squares make a lattice over the water.
In the early morning, steam billows up to fill the whole space.
Swimmers trail magic spells into it as they windmill over the surface.
Halfway through my swim, the door opens and a procession of wheelchairs surrounds me.
They are part of a city program. That day their activity is the swimming pool.
Only about 4 of them can actually get into the water.
The rest watch.
They are stationed at the deep end all in a row.
Every time I come to my flip-turn, I see them through a film of ripples.
"They don't even have the option to learn this.  They will never know how this feels.  If they had my body, they would never punish it, like I punish mine."
At every turn, a new guilt punctures my chest. 
I am in awe of my own lack of gratitude. 
That was 14 years ago.  I still think of those people in the wheelchairs when I swim.
They are whole people, not just symbols.
They want freedom and life just as much as I do.
I suppose some of them hated sitting there watching us do something they will never be allowed.
I wonder if some could see the beauty in it.

I drove home with a quiet soul.

 

This one's for Bill Murray...

So now it is the end of the day.
The day I passed out in the shower.
A couple of people called me and asked,
"Are you okay?  I read your blog this morning."
I tell them all the things I know:
I have always had low blood pressure.
I usually get head rushes when I pray in the shower.
I have been eating.  In fact, I've been less restrictive with my food than I have in a long time. 
Blah...blah...blah

But I am more interested in what I don't know:
I don't know why I passed out today and I never have before.
I don't know if I will ever settle into a place where my food is not in question.
I don't know if I am still dillusional about my own body.
I don't know if I would be okay to allow food in my stomach if I were 15 pounds heavier.
I have no idea how much Thanksgiving dinner I ate today.
I don't know if it was enough or too little or just right.

I avoided piling a up a whole plate.
I could feel my waistband loose and I wanted to keep it that way.
I didn't have a whole slice of pie.
I shared one with Beckam.
I ate slowly. 
I didn't want to check out into a pile of mashed potatoes.
Because the older I get, the more heart-breaking my family becomes.
The sun is setting and it has grown grey like dusk when the details are lost.
I remember the colors from Thanksgiving when I was 8.
We had a red and yellow highchair which doubled as a desk if you flipped it over.
Grandma's tablecloth wore wide, warm yellow flowers.
Outside was a coral pink geranium plant 14 feet high.  I can still smell it.
I never grew bored with picking them and rushing inside to ask Grandma for a vase.
The wooden deck had faded like coffee when you add milk.
The trampoline was stretched over a giant pit which we crawled down into when a little kid would loose a toy. I can still smell the musky, half-wet gravel.  It was almost moldy.  I hear the discarded Big Gulp cups crunch as I step on them.  We all hated going down there.
Back then, I lived in a one-dimensional cartoon.  Each character played a single role, and it all made sense.
Now when I see my family, each member has so 6 different faces.
Nothing is as it appears.
I see their suffering.  I know their stories.  They are whole people all smashed into one house.  Somehow smiles sparkling into each other's faces, even though we live worlds apart.
Even though most of them barely know me, and I only know them as the role they once played in my childhood movie.

I still feel driven to separate myself from them.
They are so vast and threaten to swallow me.
But I know I don't have to be scared.
I just have to go slow, breath and pray.
I don't have to get lost.

Bob (Bill Murrray) and Charlotte (Scarlett Johannson) after a night of Karaoke in Japan
Lost In Translation

Charlotte: I just don't know what I'm supposed to be.
Bob: You'll figure that out. The more you know who you are, and what you want, the less you let things upset you.

doubt

Today I am skinny.
And it feels flat.
Lonely.
I go to Thanksgiving dinner today. 
My brain says, "Everyone will look at you and see that you are succeeding.  They will eat too much, and you won't because you don't do that.  You are separate.  Better.  More clean."
But my softer, true self just smiles with eyes like Santa Clause.
____________________________________________________
2 hours later
____________________________________________________
I just passed out in the shower.
I kneel down into the steam and ivory surface to pray.
I usually have to hold onto the wall after I stand up.
Everything goes black for a minute and I breath heavy and fast like a woman in labor.
I like this rush.
But today I actually fell down.
I found myself on the bathtub floor with water pittering onto my head,
"Where is Pepper? 
Where is Beckam? 
How long have I been here? 
What day is it? 
Is Andrew home?
Am I okay?"

Now I feel scared of myself.
I haven't been this thin without purging and compulsively exercising.
Now I eat whatever I want.
Days go by without exercise. 
How is this happening?
Is this my healthy self?
I was feeling so good, now I have doubt.
I don't have much time to write or think about it.
I have to go to Pre-Thanksgiving dinner.
But I didn't want to ignore it.

the storm

It beat on the windows.  The hail outside is like gun fire.  It is 2 a.m.  I flip my pillow over to the cool side and bury my face.  I want to go back to where I just was.  Even though I know it's not real.  I can't really taste it.  But my soul mate was there, and I ache to talk with him one last time.
__________________________________________________________
“People think a soul mate is your perfect fit, and that's what everyone wants. But a true soul mate is a mirror, the person who shows you everything that is holding you back, the person who brings you to your own attention so you can change your life.

A true soul mate is probably the most important person you'll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake. But to live with a soul mate forever? Nah. Too painful. Soul mates, they come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then leave.

A soul mates' purpose is to shake you up, tear apart your ego a little bit, show you your obstacles and addictions, break your heart open so new light can get in, make you so desperate and out of control that you have to transform your life, then introduce you to your spiritual master...”
― Elizabeth Gilbert, Eat, Pray, Love
___________________________________________________________

It's been 7 years.  When I walked away for the last time, I was physically sick.  My stomach  dropped and dropped and dropped.  I felt it in my stomach because that's where the tether is.  It is still there.  Sometimes the right song will pull it tight again.
One drunken night he yelled at me.  He thrust a fist into his gut and pleaded,
"Cut this!  This metaphysical tether you are holding!"
As usual, I rolled my eyes, popped out a hip and slurred,
"What are you talking about?   God you're so dramatic."

Years later I would yell back at him when I realized what he meant,
"You think I did this!  I don't want this tether either!"
We were stomping through San Francisco streets, drunk as usual.
I wore a tiny red dress that swished around my thighs like ocean waves.
"Isn't it obvious!" I shouted.
"What?"
"That we're fucking in love with each other!"
A year and a half after we stated it, I said goodbye for the last time.
We weren't exactly in love.  We were in bondage, and I had to get free.

I was 16 when we met.  There must have been something pulling.  Because I showed up on his door-step one night, and informed him we were going to drink together.  And we did.  Jaigermeister, the whole bottle.  This became our ritual.  I had a personal shot glass he kept in his cupboard.
After ringing the door bell I wondered, 'What am I doing here?'  But then he answered.  It was as if he was expecting me.
We talked all night.  My mind was equally agile to his.  What a relief to be able to run that fast.  Like a horse whose reigns are finally released we bolted into wide open space together.

For 10 years I circled wide, but always came back.
I migrated all over the state and to the east coast for a year and a half...trying to outrun myself.
Trying to tame the horse I'd let run.
I never didn't write to him.  More than half of my letters, he has never seen.

We tried to be a couple twice.
Both times ending in implosion like a black hole.
But just before we went black, we were sublime, too bright for this world. 
We couldn't function, we could only theorize.
I can feel the tether now, as I write.
I was certain this would all have faded by now.  It hasn't. 
And especially in my dreams, I can sense all of it.
Like how one smell retreives an entire section of life, I can bring it all back.

I don't wish this away anymore.
I've made peace with the ache.  I am glad for it.
It helps me not fall asleep. 

We took a road trip to a place called Pagosa Springs once.
I was drinking so much at that time.  I don't even know what state we were in.
But we sat out on the patio of an empty restaurant.
A pizza and a pitcher of beer.  I was only drinking beer.
All of a sudden, Christmas lights fluttered awake all around us. 
An orange and red glow held our little table.
The loan server of the restaurant popped his head through the sliding door and said,
"I thought I should turn the lights on.  Cuz it looked like a movie, ya know?"

The sad thing is we didn't talk much anymore by then. 
I am an alcoholic, and I couldn't survive drinking like we did.
I was shriveling up and he knew it.  I knew it.  Like the spouse of a cancer patient he took note of every moment.  He tried not to know what we both sensed.  Our days together were ending.
We ran as fast and fierce as we could, tears and wind blinding us. 

On our way home from Pagosa Springs, I drank vodka all day.
We had a half gallon jug in the trunk and I refilled my cup every time we stopped.
"Isn't this great! Drinking in the middle of the day?" I bubbled.
Six hours later he brought he me into the house and spread me out to dry like a delicate sweater.
I would surely come unraveled in the full heat of a dryer.
"I'm sorry...I'm sorry. I shouldn't have drank so much," I whimpered.  My head dangled on my neck.
"I know," he said, and smoothed my forehead.
My hangovers lasted 2 days.

That's how it was.
We'd invite friends over for dinner.
I'd push my ravioli apart trying to make them look scarce.
I went to the kitchen every ten minutes to add more gin to my glass.
It took all my attention to keep my head stable and eyes open, but I could do it.
From across the table, his eyes would ask, "Aren't you going to eat anything?"
To which I'd shrug my shoulders in acquiesence. Not to him, but to the way it was.

I self-destructed in the cage he built up around me.
He built it to keep me safe.
Not many people understand this. To most it appears simply a sick relationship.
But what human heart ever loved without becoming sick from the potency of it?
He pushed on me because he knew I could handle it.
I wanted to handle it.   He made me defend everything.
He called me his Grace. Every time he gave me a hug, he held on too long.
He held on long enough for me to know his smell and to feel him breath a whole breath into his chest. 
He has kicked me out of his apartment numerous times.
One winter night, I stumbled a mile from the bar to his apartment.  I wore a giant, pink leather coat with fur around the neck.
He refused to open the door.  I passed out crying in the hallway, into the coat.
I woke up to creaking stairs, his neighbor leaving for work, and way too much sun.

Now I have been sober for 7 1/2 years.
I hear his echo all the time,
"What is it that makes you believe you deserve punishment?"

"If I could teach you one thing, I would teach you to be deliberate."

"Why can't you see it, what you are?  Why do you try to pretend you are not exceptional?"

"Once you go there, to that place of wishing life to end, you can never go back...you can never go back to before you knew it.  I wish you didn't have to go there."

He said this to me, after I slit my wrists in his bathtub.
He was crying and holding.  My body limp like in the movies, and him rocking it.
I couldn't cry. 
I meant it when I did it.
Roaring out of a drunken black-out, maybe momentum to go deep enough?
I just wanted it to stop, all of it.  I didn't want to endure one more cycle.
Luckily, I hadn't learned how to be deliberate yet.

He drove me to the treatment center 4 days later.
The run was over.  We both knew it. 
I can still feel my legs sticking to his leather seats as we drove.
The alcohol sweating out.
We stared at the road, a gaping space between our two seats now.
There was nothing left to say.

After that, I had to choose.
I want him to know that I chose life.
I want to tell him thank you.
About 5 years ago, I watched V for Vendetta.  Afterwards, I curled into a ball and cried, because I realized what he had done for me.  I never knew if he was an angel or a devil.  Now I know.

Evey  - V for Vendetta

V - V for Vendetta

Mistakes Allowed

"Skinny-mini" 
I've heard that twice in the past week.
"Thank you," I say. "I feel a little disoriented in my own body right now."
A friend stopped by whom I hadn't seen in about 4 months,
"Whoa!  You shrunk!  You're tiny!"
"Really? Oh.  Well I guess I'm back to my original size after having Beckam...thanks?"
On the outside, I am the same.

Yesterday I ate 4 pieces of my kids' Halloween candy.
Afterwards, I looked around the room, crickets chirping.
Without the binge cycle.  Candy is just candy.
I went back to painting rocks with Sophie.
She leaned into the table, intent on her technique of creating stars with tiny paint dots.
She picked up her rock to show me, and dropped it.  Her creation ruined.
Ten minutes later, I did the same thing.
"We both dropped our coolest rocks," She smiles and shrugs her shoulders.
Mistakes allowed.
I realize how rarely I make art with my kids.
Pepper has the biggest rock which she is slathering with red paint.
I offer her another color.
"No," she asserts.  "Just red."

I have been practicing the mantra from Women Food and God.
"Eat what your body wants."
I pause, look at the food and ask, "Does my body want this?"
About 15 minutes ago, I ate Sophie's other crepe. 
It had a sprinkling of sugar and a hint of vanilla.
I am still more inclined to eat other people's food than my own.

Now I am sitting in the same grey sweatshirt I have been wearing for the past 8 years.
Every morning I slide into it, half dreaming.
It is loose.  It always fits. 
A basket of toys is dumped at my feet.
In spite of the 44 trinkets on the floor, Beckam insists on crawling under the computer and reaching a pudgy finger out to push the Off button.
Pepper is dribbling her inner monologue all over his head like chocolate syrup.
Sophie is in the other room watching Clue for the 5th time this week.
Beckam just sneezed two rivers of snot down his face.
It is hard to listen with all this.
It is hard to know what my body wants, and she gets desperate.
Sometimes I just feed her whatever is immediate.
And that is ok too.

About 20 women are coming to my house today for a Clothing Swap.
A giant indoor yard sale descends upon my living room.
Only it's all free.
We sip coffee and sift through each other's discard items.
"Oh, you'd look so good in this!"
"Try this on, it's the perfect color for you."
We trade in Lydia's hissing for the sing-song choir of each other.
I may never have to go shopping with Lydia again.

sex

I've been avoiding the computer.
Because what I have to write about is sex.
And sex is not "appropriate."  But appropriate for what?  For children, okay.
But for adults?  How is it hidden?  Why is it hidden?
Who am I afraid to offend?
Hell, this is a blog about a woman who eats and throws up her food on purpose.
 Gross?
   Inappropriate?
      Raunchy?
         Life?

It is not the sex that is significant.
It is the panic clench which comes after it.
It is the crying.  It is the body trembling.
It is the compulsive smoothing back of stray hairs in effort to compose an unraveling form.
It is the rapid breathing and never enough oxygen.
It is the Lydia voice, which is self-loathing-in-Cruela Deville-form, who comes roaring at me from every corner of the room.  She pushes on my body until I am in origami fetal position.  Everything is sharp.  There is no perspective distance between myself and every other object in the room.
She drips acid from the corners of her lips as she hisses,
"How dare you put yourself in this position.

Origami Lydia

See how disgusting you are.
You can't trust anyone.
You are not worth saving, not worthy of gentleness.
What you want doesn't matter.  How you feel doesn't matter.
You are an object.  You are a performer.  You do not exist.
It is easier this way.
Why would you ever hope for anything more.
Stay down....this time....stay down."

These are the same thoughts I hear each time I approach the toilet to purge.
Eventually they were distilled into, "You know you have to."

This is not my husband's fault.
This is 17 years worth of programming.  Programming I allowed.  I accepted, because I thought it would make things easier.  I thought it would make me Beautiful.  Simple.  Manageable.

I haven't felt this way in years.



On Halloween night it came raging back and filled me.  I thought I was rid of it.  But there was more.
I let it come. 
It started with me holding my breath.  Trying not to cry.  Pressing face hard into the mattress.
"My body wants to cry."
Let it cry.
Quiet into the sheets it seeped, fiber by fiber.
Then gained in substance to a moan and gasping for breath.  I need more air to make this voice.
Still trying to hold it in...no...let it come.
Then it bellowed out in rolling waves like the ocean during a storm.
I was startled by its force. 
I sat up cross-legged and slid palms over forehead and across hair over and over.  Trying to smooth myself.
Keep it together.  Keep it together. Breath.
Scared of myself.  This is real.  Let it come.
All identities outside of this moment do not exist.

Is my body grieving her abuse?  Her prison I put her in? 
Is she telling me it hurts...she wants out?

I don't know.
I want to be able to explain all of it, but I can't.  Not now.  Maybe not ever.
How do you explain grief?
I want to, but it's not necessary.

When I first met my husband Andrew, I warned him,
"Sometimes I fall in a hole.  I become Lydia.  It's like my brain is screaming.  I can see everyone outside of the hole, being normal, but I can't get to them.  I can't do anything, and everything is dark.  I shut down.  It's not your fault, but I just want you to know."

He was quiet for a minute.
Then he said,
"I guess I'll just have to learn to love Lydia too."

And he amazed me once again.
No one had ever approached my snarling dogs this way.
"Ok," I said and cried a few tears.

On Halloween night he let me cry.
He did not try to fix it.
He held me, he held Lydia.

Dance Class

Wow, new computer.  So fast.  It feels like Christmas morning.
I laid with eyes shut, trying to go back to sleep.  But my feet swung out of bed and onto the floor.
I had no choice.  The appetite for writing has never left me.
And I knew my new box was down here, just waiting.

On my way through the kitchen I stopped at the cupboard and lifted a wad of peanut butter out of the Jif jar.
I do this often.  Especially if I go to bed hungry.  I am still learning.

In the book Women Food and God.  She offers eating guidelines.  One of them is:  eat what your body wants.  She then clarifies, Not what your Brain tells you to want.  Eat what your Body wants to be Alive.
Years ago this advice would have been quarantined and starved out.  Geneen Roth.  She is the same woman who wrote the book Intuitive Eating.  
"Intuitive Eating!  If I did that I'd either inhale a whole Costco chocolate cake or restrict to coffee and  cottage cheese.  What an idiot!" 
I was petrified by the combination of food plus myself.  I couldn't allow intuitive eating to inhabit my mind as an ideal.  It was far too loose, like letting stoned hippies feed me.  This body cannot afford free love.

Yesterday I tried it.  I would reach for something, and then look at it again and think, 'My body doesn't want that.'  Golfish crackers.  Halloween candy.  Orange and Black tortilla chips.  Beckam's old 1/4 of a peanut butter sandwich.
I saw how compulsive my hands are.
I am so afraid to starve myself, that I eat random food without thinking.  I have believed it is the only way I can allow myself to eat. 
In the book she describes this guideline as taking lead boots off.  I no longer have to trudge through quicksand in their weight.  I can glide...or dance. What did I choose to eat for breakfast?  A tall steamy cup of roasted tomato soup and a hunk of whole wheat bread.


"Dance Class" Despicable Me



I took Pepper to "Dance Class" at the rec center.

She got this from the movie, Despicable Me. 

It isn't actually a dance class, but to her, it is.

While she there, I did a gentle run for my sore back.  I stopped and streteched and ran and stretched and walked when I needed to.

I went to pick her up at Dance Class.  Pepper was the last one there.

She didn't see me for the first 4 minutes.

I watched her answer questions and stand on tip-toes.

Her face turned a bit to the side with her thinking mind.

She sees me, "Mommy!" 

She skitters across the wood floor to my lap.

"Look at my magic wand!"

She shows me how she flew like a bat with red scarf wings.

How can you say no?

Her face is pulled up at every corner with a glorious smile.

She really is flying.

I wish her dad could see this.

Just before bed, she asked me to take her to dance class again.  I told her, 'your teacher is sleeping.' 

Today I get to take her trick-or-treating.

I don't know why it took 4 1/2 years of eating disorder recovery to get to this place.

In this place, I can allow a guideline like, eat what your body wants.  I can hear it and let rest with me.  It is sitting right next to me now, and I am not appalled by it's smell.  I welcome it.

I know I could always get lost again.

I could forget what is true, and go screeching through days with bloody heels and eyes sealed shut.

But I can't let that stop me from trying.

Me laughing at Pepper on a walk to the state capitol by our house.  joy.

The Metal bikini

I am writing this from my phone.  It feels like a text message to the universe. The click of  iPhone letters make it sound more like an s.o.s.

maybe it is.
I don't want to eat. It's all because of the Princess Leia costume.
I thought I was stronger than the metal bikini.
But I am not.
I spent two afternoons clipping and sewing and hot-gluing my fingers together.

Now it is finished.

And I am afraid of what my stomach will be.

Silly.

I do not have the stomach of  a woman who's carried 3 children.

No stretch-marks.  I should be grateful.

But "should" is no match for a lifetime of programming.

And I've been on this ride enough times to know - it is not about what is reflected.

So here I sit, telling myself the truth via black and white...yet again.

The truth. 
Peace does not come from zero calories. 
Peace does not come from weight loss.
Peace comes from releasing my white nuckles from the reigns.
Peace is a quiet belly, not an empty one.
Peace is now...not tomorrow night.

Why do I wait so long?  Why do I hold on? 
Why...because.  Look at that belly!  Looks pretty hungry to me!
What have I done to myself?!



I have confused a hungry belly with a quiet one for so long.
It is hard to tell the difference.
I looked up Carrie Fisher now, and this is what I found:

http://www.carriefisher.com/

"actress,author,failed anorexic"

I guess we have more in common than I thought.

Everything I searched was about her fall from Grace. 
How dare she go from sci-fi-sex-icon to doughy-overweight-mentally-unstable-drug addict? 
The media slopped her in the trash and took a picture.  They posted it everywhere.   Disgusting.

This is why I'm afraid.  This is why my knuckles get white.  Because no matter what self affirmations I offer myself, I would be just like her.  If I went to the dark side and ate all day every day people would be just as harsh to me.  No matter what ideal we "should" adopt about accepting people for who they are.
I've done it.  I've eaten myself from a size 2 to a size 14.   This fear sits in my belly still.  I fear it less, but it is there.  Maybe it always will be.  Sometimes I think it will go away completely.  Then I see the halo where the original spill happened. 

I am still reading, Women Food and God.

The author says, stop the war with my body.
She also says I orbit in loops of old stories.  In order to stop the war I have to cut the loop.  I stop believing it will be repeated.  Just because I eat one blueberry muffin, it does not mean I must gain 40 pounds.

The word God is in her title, and that's the tricky part.  I need help from Grace, right?  Or God if you prefer, but I don't.
The only way I know how to let Grace in is to tell the truth.  So, here it is.  I will be hungrily awaiting her arrival.

synonym for prison

Breakfast = 2.6 cups of coffee - 1/2 cookie - 3 bites of Beckam's pancake - 6 bites of Pepper's oatmeal with a baby spoon - 1/2 cup of whole milk (full fat for Beckam's brain development)...is that really all?
Yes.  So far.
I know what their needs are.  I go days without realizing mine.
_________________________________________________________________
A friend gave me the book Women Food and God.
I read it this morning while Beckam was in the bath.
There is a wooden step stool by the sink.  Pepper uses it to brush her teeth.  I perched my butt on it like a clown in a tiny circus car.  I read for a whole 10 minutes before being interrupted by her chirping.

I read that my beliefs about food reflect my beliefs about the world, about myself.
The author claims at some point I was let down.  I was abandoned by people, love, safety i.e. God, and food came rushing in. 
Maybe she's right.  I don't know how much that matters now.
I remember not having enough money for food.  I remember being on welfare from the bishop's store house.  I remember concocting strange meals with my siblings of home-made frosting and graham crackers.  We scavanged the neighborhood for apricots and cherries in the spring.  Like animals we hopped fences and took what we could gather. 
At 13 years old, my family unraveled.  The blanket which had muffled the outside world's screams, her reality, her cold, fell from my shoulders.  At first I cowered.  Then I grew thick.  My callouses took on the guise of philosophy, education, sex.  I decided.  I will have no needs. 
Of course this is impossible.  My pendulum swung wide and fast. 
I need nothing. 
I need it all. 
All the food.  All the speed.  All the warm blankets fresh from the dryer. 
Then I'd curse my weakness, shlep backpack onto shoulders and head straight out into the cold again.

But I already know all this.
What I struggle with is trust. 
Why should I put the gun down?  I am in a draw with life, and for good reason.
If I surrender my weapons I may be fatally wounded.
Yes.
Life is one long, drawn-out fatal wound.
I can preserve nothing. 
So I stop trying to preserve my weight.
The dillusion that I am able to dominate.
I used to hear people say,
"Eating disorders are about control.  Food and weight is the only thing a person can control so they become obsessed.  It's not about how much they weigh.  It is an attempt to gain authority in their own life."
'That's so stupid,' I'd think. 'I just don't want to get fat.'

synonyms for Control:


"Restraint" pastel drawing 2007



 authority, bridle, charge, check, clout,

          ___containment___

                      curb, determination, direction,

discipline, domination, dominion,

                                           force, government, guidance,  jurisdiction,

                      limitation, management, manipulation, might, oversight,

             predomination, regimentation,

       regulation, restraint, restriction,

rule, supervision, supremacy, sway,  weight

I could use every one of these words as an ideal I've held for myself.

For how I need to approach food, exercise, and what I see in the dressing room mirror.

Myself.

I was afraid of myself.

Of my impulse to run.

My ability to be lost.

I still get scared.

So why trust? 

Why welcome humanity?

She is destructive, gorgeous, unpredicatable, irrational, and heart-breaking.

Because I am going to die anyway.

My painting professor used to say, "In the end, all art is a response to the fact that we are going to die.

It is an attempt to avoid it or come to terms with it."

He would seem to be correct.

I wish I could have understood this stuff when I was actually in college.

Better late than never...

a dream for Judy

I am confused by the thin person I see in the mirror.
I don't know how I want to be.
When I am not thin, I long for it.  I want to see a hint of ribs and long branch of torso curve up into my armpits.  But I know this is not IT.  I cannot be defined by this body anymore.  That is the whole point of recovery, right?
At the same time, I am afraid to eat and mess it all up.
I know if I don't eat, it will get worse, and my distortion will grow.  I will get thinnner, and more confused, more driven to eat less.  Many people I know read this blog, people without eating disorders.  I get embarassed to reveal these thoughts.  I'm afraid they will think I am crazy, but I am here to tell the truth. 

At 4:12 a.m.  I rolled from my bed.  I kissed Andrew and put on my cozy clothes.  I made a cup of sugar-free hot chocolate and came to nest at the computer.  Now it is 2 hours later.  I am comfortable here, in this writing voice. 
I don't have to know anything. 
Be anything.
I just get to observe.
Then I record what I observe.
That's all it is.  Writing is noticing.

I studied art in school.

My best professor said, "I hope by the end of this class, you have learned to see in a new way."

It was a figure drawing class.  He said nothing about drawing.  Only about seeing.

Writing is the same.

It's my observations that reveal truth.  Just as a kid will draw what they think a cat looks like rather than an acutal cat.  I could fall into writing what I think I feel, or see, or do. 

When I shed all that and just record what is in front of me, a beauty is distilled.  I don't know how it happens.  It's like magic every time.  And I find, once again, there is enough.  Right here, there is enough.  I don't have to run ragged searching.

My favorite song as an 8 year-old girl was Somewhere Over the Rainbow. 

Now I am 33.

I am not waiting for a land from a lullabye where bluebirds fly and dreams come true.

Not anymore.  I liked this song because it was about transcendance.

Even though I was a kid, I knew. 

I knew none of this actually defines us.

I won't be satisfied by getting stuff, or keeping stuff, or becoming a title.

I bounced from thing to thing, never finishing.

I didn't attach myself to anything, anyone, at least not for long.

I screamed at life to show me something worth my time.  My heart.  My hope. 

That's how the eating disorder grew.

I thought, "I'm always going to be hungry.  It is never-ending.  So I may as well just not eat.  At least then I'll be skinny."

No needs.  That seemed the best way.  It still feels true sometimes.

The only way to contentment is an absence of appetite.

______________________________________________

I just got up and ate a tuna sandwich.  Odd breakfast.

But the truth is, I do care.

I do have things to eat for, to live for, to ache for.

Judy Garland died from an accidental overdose of barbituates.  She had cirrhosis of the liver.  Her whole adult life she felt inadequate.  Too fat.  Too crazy.  At 18 she began seeing a psychiatrist because of an emotional breakdown.  She started juggling amphetamines and barbituates to manage weight and mood.  Her weight not only fluctuated, but it was caught on film within the space of one movie.   She was married 5 times.   Her first suicide attempt came at 25 years old.  The same age I got sober. 
Here our paths veer apart. 
She suffered for 30 years and died at 47 years old in her bathroom.
I have been in recovery for 7 1/2 years, and it is worth all my time.  I live with my whole self today.  I am not crazy or separate or fat.  I am in.  I am all in.