It’s still dark outside. I’ve just nursed the baby and I should be in bed, trying to squeeze in a few more minutes of sleep before my older children wake me up. Instead I sneak into my bathroom and step on the scale with trepidation.
Will it be my friend or foe this morning?
It takes a few seconds for the digital number to appear. I stare at it and then step off the scale. I tell myself I have to let it go, that the number on the scale is irrelevant to my happiness.
I return to bed and watch my sleeping baby’s form. Her eyelids briefly flicker open and I see a sliver of blue. She sighs. Her tiny fist unfurls to reveal her perfect hand and her arm jerks. She folds into me and I feel her heat against my body. I love her so deeply, and I am thankful for this love. Sometimes I think it's my love for my children that keeps me from falling off the edge again, to succumbing to disordered eating as I've done in the past.
I recently stumbled across Deuteronomy 25:18-19 and recognized that vigilance is imperative during this exhausting point in my life. The passage reads: “He harassed you along the way, weak and weary as you were, and cut off at the rear all those who lagged behind."
When I’m exhausted, I’m more likely to cave in to past temptations. When I am weary, I let my guard down and allow the relics of my eating disorder to creep back into my life. It's all too easily to fall into old habits, to let demons of the past haunt me and lure me in.
Every day is a struggle for me. Whenever I feel hunger pangs deep inside of me, I have to tell myself I must eat if not for my own nourishment than for my baby who needs my body to have enough energy to feed her.
I always worry when I bring up my struggles with body angst. People don’t understand, especially since I don't look like I have a weight problem (though I certainly do have a type of weight problem). Even my own husband can't understand it. "You're beautiful," he says. But it's not about beauty. My weight is not about how I look or even how my jeans fit. For me, it’s about being in control. It's about having a quantifiable means of measuring my worth.
My nights are unpredictable and so, too, are most of my days. When I slip between the sheets each night, I never know when the baby will wake up to nurse or how long I will have to hold her upright after each feeding so that the gurgling and the wet hiccups will no longer cause her pain (and keep me awake). I don’t know when my older children will need me – when my day will begin or how it will unfold. I can have a plan in mind, but it can slowly begin to unravel with an unexpected crying jag (from the baby or me), a sibling sprawl over a once-forgotten stuffed animal that has swiftly taken the center stage as the number one toy to have in your possession, or a spilled smoothie seeping into our carpet.
In short, in my fatigue and my dicey days and even dicier nights, I feel powerless. I cannot control the number of hours (minutes!) I spend in REM. I cannot always control my children’s behavior, try as I might. I do not know when (or if) my husband will be home from work to offer support.
But how much I eat, the delightful downward trend of the scale – these are areas of my life in which I can wield complete control. I can whip my body into submission and deprive myself of calories. If I eat too much or the number on the scale gets stuck at an “unreasonable” number, I can always take certain purgative measures (skip breakfast, exercise for longer and harder) to compensate. When I feel lacking as a mother, there's one area I know I can master; I used to be very good at controlling my weight.
Not that I subscribe to the unhealthy habits of my past. I try not to weigh myself very often at all; I resist losing weight unless it's done the healthy way. But I am faced with the temptation to start obsessing over calories and the number on the scale nearly every day.
But then I hear my baby cry. Or my toddler reaches up to me with her deliciously chubby arms and says, “Pick me up, Mommy.” Or my preschooler challenges me to a game of tag. And I know I must eat if not for myself then for the children who need me – all of me – to feed them, hold them, chase them and most importantly, to teach them that their own bodies are temples deserving of respect and honor.
When I begin to notice every inch of flesh, the way it moves when I move. Or when I am tempted obsess over every bite that passes my lips, I tell myself that I need to be strong. I need to fuel my body and not punish it. I need to remember that pursuing thinness has no eternal value at all, but raising children does. And I remind myself that God is in me. He dwells in this body of mine.
I cannot wish away this cross I bear. For a long time, that's what I've tried to do - to forget that I ever had an eating disorder. In fact, not so long ago I wrote to a friend who was struggling with her body image that I used to see myself as weak for not being able to completely rid myself of this inner turmoil. However, what has helped me is knowing that this is a cross I'll likely have for the rest of my life. It's one I must accept and embrace. Much like a recovered or dry alcoholic, I've come to see that I can be physically recovered but that I face an ongoing process of restoration. I'm always working to detach myself from my unhealthy thoughts and to attach myself completely to God. Only then will his love and power for healing have the ability to take hold of my life.
So I will eat for my baby, but I’ll also eat for myself and for the God who created me and loves every postpartum, soft inch of me.
Showing posts with label Eating Disorders. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Eating Disorders. Show all posts
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Porcelain God
I once worshipped a porcelain god. Throughout the day I bowed down to my god in addictive reverence.
During high school, I secretly grappled with bulimia. On the outside, I was a straight-A student who was always smiling and laughing.
On the inside a demon was taking over, eroding my teeth and gums, leaving my throat raw and transforming me from a happy young woman to someone sad, shameful and scared.
Even as I forced fingers down my throat and watched my sustenance and my health and my faith swirl down, down, down, down, I wondered why I wasn’t stronger. I didn’t have the “better” eating disorder. I wasn’t anorexic. In my twisted mind, I was weak because I was unable to completely deprive myself of food.
I did give anorexia a shot and ate only shards of lettuce for several months. I lost weight – a lot of it. People noticed. (I loved the attention. It gave me a sense of accomplishment when people asked me how much weight I’d dropped.)
Then my parents become aware of my problem. “You’re too thin, Katie. Please eat,” my mom begged.
Never one to disappoint my parents, I answered my mother’s plea. I started eating again. Food tasted so good, but when I saw that little red line on the scale climbing, I panicked. I felt out of control. When I was losing weight, the scale was my cheerleader, applauding me for being “strong.” Now suddenly it reared its ugly head, revealing its superego. It was screaming at me, berating me for letting myself go. The barometer of my self-worth was betraying me.
Then I read about a girl who suffered from bulimia and how easy it was to purge herself of the demons that haunted her. Extra calories. Fat. She would gorge on cream-filled donuts, greasy pizza and cookies, only to regurgitate the meal and watch it disappear down the toilet. This unknown woman became my mentor.
I was never gluttonous. No eating frenzies for me. I only used bulimia as a way to hide my eating disorder. My parents wanted me to eat, and so I did. But I couldn’t stand the feeling of food swimming in my stomach. I had to get it out. I had to purge myself and stay thin.
Interestingly enough, today I’d probably be diagnosed with purging disorder, a new eating disorder doctors are beginning to recognize that’s characterized by women of normal or thin weight who purge themselves after eating even small amounts of food by vomiting, taking laxatives or some other purging method.
But back then I was given another label – bulimia nervosa. I was told I had a “full-blown eating disorder” when I finally sought counseling in college. Because I met the puking quota – I had self-induced vomiting more than two times a week for longer than three months – I was seen as someone who needed help.
Amazingly, (I credit my parents’ support and my Catholic faith) I recovered fairly quickly. Although an eating disorder is an obstinate companion that never completely goes away. I still have days when I’m too consumed by my weight. I constantly have to fight impulses to engage in unhealthy behavior – whether it’s fasting or throwing up after eating two cookies – but I have come a long way from those dark days when I worshipped a god that did nothing but hurt me.
In some ways, I was fortunate; I was classified as an “eating disordered patient.” People were trained and available to help me.
Other women aren’t so lucky.
A friend once tearfully recounted an experience she had while trying to seek treatment.
“I wasn’t dangerously thin,” she told me after she learned I had struggled with an eating disorder, “but thoughts of food and diet were controlling my life. I wanted help, but I was terrified the therapists would laugh at me and tell me I wasn’t thin enough to have an eating disorder.”
She said she role-played her counseling session over and over in her mind:
“Do you starve yourself?”
“No.”
“Do you binge and purge?”
“Sometimes.”
“Have you lost more than 15 percent of your body weight?”
“Well, no but…”
“I’m sorry, but we can’t help you. You’re not skinny enough.”
Her premonition wasn’t too far off: She took a slew of psychological tests, briefly talked to a therapist and was then told she was not sick enough to get help. I wasn’t surprised. Insurance often won’t cover therapy for patients who don’t meet certain requirements the Diagnostic Statistical Manual (psychiatry’s bible) outlines for eating disorders.
One in five women is purported to have a clinically diagnosed eating disorder. They’re the ones everyone wants to help. But what about the millions of women who feel like failures because they eat bread (and other “bad” carbs) and aren’t Auschwitz-thin? Or all the prepubescent girls who are on a diet right now? What about the college student who lives off beer, cigarettes and laxatives interspersed with an occasional meal? Are they not sick as well?
We’re all in denial if we think any woman who is preoccupied with diet, fitness or whether or not her thighs touch needs doesn’t help.
Frankly, I’m tired of the term “eating disorder." Many women will never vomit every day (or ever) or starve themselves to the point of emaciation. But that doesn’t mean they don’t have a problem. The obsession with all the media figures who have personal trainers, cooks and their share of eating problems is taking its toll most women. It’s rare to find a woman who loves her body (all the time, not just when she’s on a diet), unless perhaps she’s sucked out the fat, tucked the tummy and taken a knife to her breasts to boost her cup size. (Research suggests that media idealize a female body that only one percent of woman can hope to biologically attain.)
It’s time all women – mothers, sisters, grandmothers, wives, girlfriends – take it upon themselves to stop the self-loathing and the “lookism” permeating in our culture. It’s time we remember we are made in the image of God and that our bodies truly are temples that deserve our respect. It’s time we help our children develop positive body images and not support media that perpetuate unhealthy and unnatural bodies. What’s important is being healthy and knowing our worth is much deeper than our dress size.
As a woman who once was at war with her body, trust me on this one. A fixation with weight only robs you of your inner peace and health. And even when the scale is cheering you on to lose more weight - it is only a hollow, ephemeral espousal that knows nothing of true happiness
During high school, I secretly grappled with bulimia. On the outside, I was a straight-A student who was always smiling and laughing.
On the inside a demon was taking over, eroding my teeth and gums, leaving my throat raw and transforming me from a happy young woman to someone sad, shameful and scared.
Even as I forced fingers down my throat and watched my sustenance and my health and my faith swirl down, down, down, down, I wondered why I wasn’t stronger. I didn’t have the “better” eating disorder. I wasn’t anorexic. In my twisted mind, I was weak because I was unable to completely deprive myself of food.
I did give anorexia a shot and ate only shards of lettuce for several months. I lost weight – a lot of it. People noticed. (I loved the attention. It gave me a sense of accomplishment when people asked me how much weight I’d dropped.)
Then my parents become aware of my problem. “You’re too thin, Katie. Please eat,” my mom begged.
Never one to disappoint my parents, I answered my mother’s plea. I started eating again. Food tasted so good, but when I saw that little red line on the scale climbing, I panicked. I felt out of control. When I was losing weight, the scale was my cheerleader, applauding me for being “strong.” Now suddenly it reared its ugly head, revealing its superego. It was screaming at me, berating me for letting myself go. The barometer of my self-worth was betraying me.
Then I read about a girl who suffered from bulimia and how easy it was to purge herself of the demons that haunted her. Extra calories. Fat. She would gorge on cream-filled donuts, greasy pizza and cookies, only to regurgitate the meal and watch it disappear down the toilet. This unknown woman became my mentor.
I was never gluttonous. No eating frenzies for me. I only used bulimia as a way to hide my eating disorder. My parents wanted me to eat, and so I did. But I couldn’t stand the feeling of food swimming in my stomach. I had to get it out. I had to purge myself and stay thin.
Interestingly enough, today I’d probably be diagnosed with purging disorder, a new eating disorder doctors are beginning to recognize that’s characterized by women of normal or thin weight who purge themselves after eating even small amounts of food by vomiting, taking laxatives or some other purging method.
But back then I was given another label – bulimia nervosa. I was told I had a “full-blown eating disorder” when I finally sought counseling in college. Because I met the puking quota – I had self-induced vomiting more than two times a week for longer than three months – I was seen as someone who needed help.
Amazingly, (I credit my parents’ support and my Catholic faith) I recovered fairly quickly. Although an eating disorder is an obstinate companion that never completely goes away. I still have days when I’m too consumed by my weight. I constantly have to fight impulses to engage in unhealthy behavior – whether it’s fasting or throwing up after eating two cookies – but I have come a long way from those dark days when I worshipped a god that did nothing but hurt me.
In some ways, I was fortunate; I was classified as an “eating disordered patient.” People were trained and available to help me.
Other women aren’t so lucky.
A friend once tearfully recounted an experience she had while trying to seek treatment.
“I wasn’t dangerously thin,” she told me after she learned I had struggled with an eating disorder, “but thoughts of food and diet were controlling my life. I wanted help, but I was terrified the therapists would laugh at me and tell me I wasn’t thin enough to have an eating disorder.”
She said she role-played her counseling session over and over in her mind:
“Do you starve yourself?”
“No.”
“Do you binge and purge?”
“Sometimes.”
“Have you lost more than 15 percent of your body weight?”
“Well, no but…”
“I’m sorry, but we can’t help you. You’re not skinny enough.”
Her premonition wasn’t too far off: She took a slew of psychological tests, briefly talked to a therapist and was then told she was not sick enough to get help. I wasn’t surprised. Insurance often won’t cover therapy for patients who don’t meet certain requirements the Diagnostic Statistical Manual (psychiatry’s bible) outlines for eating disorders.
One in five women is purported to have a clinically diagnosed eating disorder. They’re the ones everyone wants to help. But what about the millions of women who feel like failures because they eat bread (and other “bad” carbs) and aren’t Auschwitz-thin? Or all the prepubescent girls who are on a diet right now? What about the college student who lives off beer, cigarettes and laxatives interspersed with an occasional meal? Are they not sick as well?
We’re all in denial if we think any woman who is preoccupied with diet, fitness or whether or not her thighs touch needs doesn’t help.
Frankly, I’m tired of the term “eating disorder." Many women will never vomit every day (or ever) or starve themselves to the point of emaciation. But that doesn’t mean they don’t have a problem. The obsession with all the media figures who have personal trainers, cooks and their share of eating problems is taking its toll most women. It’s rare to find a woman who loves her body (all the time, not just when she’s on a diet), unless perhaps she’s sucked out the fat, tucked the tummy and taken a knife to her breasts to boost her cup size. (Research suggests that media idealize a female body that only one percent of woman can hope to biologically attain.)
It’s time all women – mothers, sisters, grandmothers, wives, girlfriends – take it upon themselves to stop the self-loathing and the “lookism” permeating in our culture. It’s time we remember we are made in the image of God and that our bodies truly are temples that deserve our respect. It’s time we help our children develop positive body images and not support media that perpetuate unhealthy and unnatural bodies. What’s important is being healthy and knowing our worth is much deeper than our dress size.
As a woman who once was at war with her body, trust me on this one. A fixation with weight only robs you of your inner peace and health. And even when the scale is cheering you on to lose more weight - it is only a hollow, ephemeral espousal that knows nothing of true happiness
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Some Body to Love
I am honored and thrilled to be a new contributor to this blog (thanks, Cathy!). I regret to admit that body image problems have been a stubborn companion of mine for as long as I can remember. Even as a child, I can recall thinking I was "gross" or "fat" despite growing up in a loving, faith-filled family. I was clinically diagnosed with an eating disorder in high school, was "recovered" only to suffer a severe relapse during my senior year of college. Almost daily I have to fight the funny mirror inside my head that distorts who I am and what I look like. I have all the risk factors: perfectionism, a desire for control, a few obsessive-compulsive tendencies (yes, I click the lock button on my car key chain at least three or four times just to make sure the doors are really locked).
But I also have my faith and I've found this is the best armor around at deflecting unhealthy thoughts and behaviors pertaining to weight. I plan on sharing more of my personal story down the road, but I want all of you to know that this blog isn't just for eating disorder patients - it's for anyone who has at one time or another struggled with their appearance, wondered if they'd be happier if they could just lose that last five pounds, or sworn off carbs for three months in an attempt to squeeze in to that old pair of "skinny" jeans.
It's also for people who are blessed to have a perfectly healthy body image but who may have a loved one - a spouse, a child, a friend - who is struggling. Something I discovered in my own journey is that having a loved one with an eating disorder is very difficult. People get frustrated and can't figure out why a person just won't eat or why he or she doesn't recognize their inner and outer beauty. But it's not about beauty or even thinness. It runs much, much deeper. I look forward to sharing my story in hopes that it might help someone out there. Finally, this blog is for anyone who is trying to be healthy and to respect the bodies that God has loaned to us.
Now the real reason I wanted to mosey on over here today is to do what Cathy did and to give my body some love. Without further ado:
Five things I like about my body:
1. My legs. They're muscular and toned. People have asked if I'm a gymnast, which always makes me laugh. I may be a bubbly blond, but folks, I can't even do a cartwheel. Will someone please come teach my poor daughter how to do one?
2. My eyes. They change colors. Sometimes they're blue; other times they're more of a green. My pupils have a golden ring around them. I never noticed that until my husband pointed it out. Awwwww....isn't that sweet?
3. Hmmmm...Okay, there's got to be other things about this body of mine that I love...Oh, my feet. They're very tiny. I can fit into kids' shoes.
4. Just thought of something else, but it may get me into trouble considering all the fuss I seem to cause when I mention the word "breast." I don't care about the way they look and I'm certainly not talking about cleavage or anything sexy at all, but I am in awe of my breasts and the fact that they can feed my children.
5. My smile. Little Orphan Annie was right: You're never fully dressed without one.
Five things I like about my body that have nothing to do with its appearance:
1. My womb. I know I'm being unoriginal and stealing Cathy's idea, but I am so thankful for my womb and the two children it's cocooned so far.
2. My voice. I'm no future American Idol, but I can carry a tune and I've always loved what St. Augustine said about singing: "To sing is to pray twice."
3. My brain. Again, I'm stealing from Cathy. Although mental gaffes have become a little more regular since becoming a mom of little ones who don't seem to grasp that whole "sleeping through the night" idea, my mind is very important to me and I'm thankful it sometimes allows me to string together coherent thoughts.
4. My hair. I guess this does have to do with my appearance, but I've always liked my hair and have never really understood the whole "bad hair day" phenomenon. Plus, it's natural blond and changes colors with the seasons (light blond in the summer and strawberry blond in the winter) and now its color seems to change with my babies. When I'm nursing, it's much darker. Must be a hormone thing.
5. My legs. Yes, I like their appearance, but I also love how strong they are and that I can run and walk with them. These legs have chased after toddlers, ran 26.2 miles in a row, and walked all over Europe during a backpacking trip.
Now, c'mon, what do you love about your body?
But I also have my faith and I've found this is the best armor around at deflecting unhealthy thoughts and behaviors pertaining to weight. I plan on sharing more of my personal story down the road, but I want all of you to know that this blog isn't just for eating disorder patients - it's for anyone who has at one time or another struggled with their appearance, wondered if they'd be happier if they could just lose that last five pounds, or sworn off carbs for three months in an attempt to squeeze in to that old pair of "skinny" jeans.
It's also for people who are blessed to have a perfectly healthy body image but who may have a loved one - a spouse, a child, a friend - who is struggling. Something I discovered in my own journey is that having a loved one with an eating disorder is very difficult. People get frustrated and can't figure out why a person just won't eat or why he or she doesn't recognize their inner and outer beauty. But it's not about beauty or even thinness. It runs much, much deeper. I look forward to sharing my story in hopes that it might help someone out there. Finally, this blog is for anyone who is trying to be healthy and to respect the bodies that God has loaned to us.
Now the real reason I wanted to mosey on over here today is to do what Cathy did and to give my body some love. Without further ado:
Five things I like about my body:
1. My legs. They're muscular and toned. People have asked if I'm a gymnast, which always makes me laugh. I may be a bubbly blond, but folks, I can't even do a cartwheel. Will someone please come teach my poor daughter how to do one?
2. My eyes. They change colors. Sometimes they're blue; other times they're more of a green. My pupils have a golden ring around them. I never noticed that until my husband pointed it out. Awwwww....isn't that sweet?
3. Hmmmm...Okay, there's got to be other things about this body of mine that I love...Oh, my feet. They're very tiny. I can fit into kids' shoes.
4. Just thought of something else, but it may get me into trouble considering all the fuss I seem to cause when I mention the word "breast." I don't care about the way they look and I'm certainly not talking about cleavage or anything sexy at all, but I am in awe of my breasts and the fact that they can feed my children.
5. My smile. Little Orphan Annie was right: You're never fully dressed without one.
Five things I like about my body that have nothing to do with its appearance:
1. My womb. I know I'm being unoriginal and stealing Cathy's idea, but I am so thankful for my womb and the two children it's cocooned so far.
2. My voice. I'm no future American Idol, but I can carry a tune and I've always loved what St. Augustine said about singing: "To sing is to pray twice."
3. My brain. Again, I'm stealing from Cathy. Although mental gaffes have become a little more regular since becoming a mom of little ones who don't seem to grasp that whole "sleeping through the night" idea, my mind is very important to me and I'm thankful it sometimes allows me to string together coherent thoughts.
4. My hair. I guess this does have to do with my appearance, but I've always liked my hair and have never really understood the whole "bad hair day" phenomenon. Plus, it's natural blond and changes colors with the seasons (light blond in the summer and strawberry blond in the winter) and now its color seems to change with my babies. When I'm nursing, it's much darker. Must be a hormone thing.
5. My legs. Yes, I like their appearance, but I also love how strong they are and that I can run and walk with them. These legs have chased after toddlers, ran 26.2 miles in a row, and walked all over Europe during a backpacking trip.
Now, c'mon, what do you love about your body?
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