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.
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Friday, November 9, 2012
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.
__________________________________________________________
“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
Sunday, November 4, 2012
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.
.JPG)
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.
.JPG)
Friday, November 2, 2012
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.
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.
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 |
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
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.
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. |
Saturday, October 27, 2012
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.
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.
Friday, October 19, 2012
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:
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 |
___containment___
predomination, regimentation,
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...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)