I’ve recently realize that I’m not doing as great a job in recovery as I claim to be. I have the bad habit of talking a big game, dressing up my reality with assertions of strength and determination. And yes, I’ve definitely made progress. I’ve experienced some food freedom around loved ones and have been able to challenge some fear foods.
But in reality? It’s not enough. This isn’t real recovery.
I live on my own (with a roommate but still), I pack my breakfast, lunch, and snacks for work every day, unless I buy lunch in our cafeteria, which has nutrition information so conveniently plastered on the menu. I do all my own grocery shopping. I own measuring cups and spoons. Essentially, I have almost complete control over my intake.
And guess what? More often than not, it’s too hard for me to relinquish that control and push myself out of my comfort zone. I cut corners, use behaviors, stick to routines. I’ve been in this plateau for a WHILE now-like nearly six months. And the frustrating part is that I’m STILL gaining weight- it’s creeping on in the most sinister ways, making me dread the mirror, dread getting dressed in the morning, making me wish I could rip off my own skin, at times.
The question is: What am I holding on to?
I was writing in my journal the other night, ruminating on this question. What is it about restricting or being thin that has such a powerful hold over me that I am willing to put my freedom and future on standby to maintain something that ‘s beyond the bounds of possibility?
Here’s what I came up with:
“Not being thin means not being special. It means getting passed over by your first major crush by for the petite ballerina who seems to glide across any room she enters, while your footsteps always seem to make noise. It means crossing your arms in front of your torso when giving a class presentation, hiding in the back of photos, not fitting into tight spaces or needing to put your belt on the tightest loop. It means taking up space. It means, somehow, not being pristine, untouchable. Not being something to be loved or protected. It means coming down from my city on the hill and having to discover myself on the basis of something other than the circumference of my waist or the visibility of my bones. It means change. It means exposure. It means taking up space.”
I reflected on what I had written; and in that moment it all seemed so narcissistic. It all boils down to one thing: my disordered thinking has made me believe that I am special. My weight, somehow, puts me in a different class of people, a different way of life.
And, well, yes. Being underweight and restricting DOES make my life different than everyone else- it makes me miserable. Antisocial. Irritable. It turns me into someone that isn’t lovable or full of potential; because starving my body also means starving my soul and my mind.
This toxic association I make between thinness and distinctiveness does not serve me. It will not help me grow. It will keep me in a cage of my own making.
I looked down at the chicken-scratch and added one more sentence to the cacophony of fear and uncertainty that looked back at me:
“But maybe, just maybe, not being thin doesn’t mean these things. Maybe I’ll have to find out. And maybe whatever does happen is something I can handle.”
But in reality? It’s not enough. This isn’t real recovery.
I live on my own (with a roommate but still), I pack my breakfast, lunch, and snacks for work every day, unless I buy lunch in our cafeteria, which has nutrition information so conveniently plastered on the menu. I do all my own grocery shopping. I own measuring cups and spoons. Essentially, I have almost complete control over my intake.
And guess what? More often than not, it’s too hard for me to relinquish that control and push myself out of my comfort zone. I cut corners, use behaviors, stick to routines. I’ve been in this plateau for a WHILE now-like nearly six months. And the frustrating part is that I’m STILL gaining weight- it’s creeping on in the most sinister ways, making me dread the mirror, dread getting dressed in the morning, making me wish I could rip off my own skin, at times.
The question is: What am I holding on to?
I was writing in my journal the other night, ruminating on this question. What is it about restricting or being thin that has such a powerful hold over me that I am willing to put my freedom and future on standby to maintain something that ‘s beyond the bounds of possibility?
Here’s what I came up with:
“Not being thin means not being special. It means getting passed over by your first major crush by for the petite ballerina who seems to glide across any room she enters, while your footsteps always seem to make noise. It means crossing your arms in front of your torso when giving a class presentation, hiding in the back of photos, not fitting into tight spaces or needing to put your belt on the tightest loop. It means taking up space. It means, somehow, not being pristine, untouchable. Not being something to be loved or protected. It means coming down from my city on the hill and having to discover myself on the basis of something other than the circumference of my waist or the visibility of my bones. It means change. It means exposure. It means taking up space.”
I reflected on what I had written; and in that moment it all seemed so narcissistic. It all boils down to one thing: my disordered thinking has made me believe that I am special. My weight, somehow, puts me in a different class of people, a different way of life.
And, well, yes. Being underweight and restricting DOES make my life different than everyone else- it makes me miserable. Antisocial. Irritable. It turns me into someone that isn’t lovable or full of potential; because starving my body also means starving my soul and my mind.
This toxic association I make between thinness and distinctiveness does not serve me. It will not help me grow. It will keep me in a cage of my own making.
I looked down at the chicken-scratch and added one more sentence to the cacophony of fear and uncertainty that looked back at me:
“But maybe, just maybe, not being thin doesn’t mean these things. Maybe I’ll have to find out. And maybe whatever does happen is something I can handle.”