Friday, April 27, 2012
just because you're drop-dead gorgeous doesn't mean I'm not good enough for you.
It took me 27 years to learn, but I think I'm starting to get it.
Monday, April 16, 2012
how it goes down
A good weekend. A good few days. Some serious victories in the lives of my friends and family, and a lot of fun to boot. Not a lot of sleep.
An early morning of good motivation marked by my sassy new lip color quickly devolves into a day of chasing one project after another, trying to find the thread to pull that will cascade backward and make the first project work. Instead of lunch, I drink Pepsi and toss back some trash sitting out for our student workers to munch on.
By 5:30, I'm hungry and cranky. I flee the building and grumble at the wind all the way to my car. I visit twelve restaurants in my mind before persuading myself to just go home to eat. After a sandwich (a favorite childhood indulgence) comes some chips (the kind I used for my first blatantly destructive binge at age thirteen). Nothing's on TV, so I have some lemon cookies (like my grandpa used to eat). Two hours later I'm picking at half a chicken with my fingers (alternating between a Denathorn scene and a Medieval Knights princess fantasy in my head). It's not a pretty sight.
My favorite TV show is on at ten, and I spend forty-five minutes trying to distract myself from an overwhelming compulsion for a milkshake. At 9:45 I give in, get in the car and head to Dairy Queen. Closed. Grocery Store. Open. I snag some sherbet (like when my dad nursed me after surgery once) and a non-alcoholic, non-caffeinated mixer (because I'm being responsible).
I miss the start of my show, but I can't eat while watching TV anyway, so I get everything ready for the first commercial break. Mute the set, look away, ice cream. TV, then more ice cream. Starting to feel sick, I put it away, but I can't stop so I grab a different box of cookies for the next break. As I watch the show, I write this blog post in my head, confession mixed with torture and self-loathing. Next commercial break I rip open the box of cookies, noticing how sad and pitiful the compulsion is but unable to stop it. I can't stop. Being full doesn't help. Not wanting more doesn't help. Being pitiful doesn't help. If only there was someone here or if I had the courage to call a friend. I don't. Nothing helps, not even crying out to God.
Oh wait. Crying out to God. I've been muttering at him but I haven't really said anything. Maybe I've just been muttering at myself. A pause. I remember that he gives miraculous strength. My fingers finish pulling open the box of cookies, then I watch them grow still. Do I have the power to set them down? Yes. I put them on the table, right next to my Bible. Deep breath. I'm shaking. There's been a war in my head all day and all night, and this is the first I've felt the rational side gain an edge. As I sit, not daring to move, I feel the torpor of this strange intermittent binge settle on my body. Like hundreds of nights before, I wish I could purge the food and make it all go away. As always, I decide that one eating disorder is enough. Purging would make it worse.
Tonight, freedom doesn't feel very free. I'm not bound by these chains, but when things get uncomfortable I don't know how to navigate without their familiar weight.
Familiar weight. Ugh, the scale will be ugly this week.
My demons have been chasing me tonight, but they aren't going to win the war. And I'm going to learn how to stand my ground. Someday.
For now I'm going to just ask my God to tuck me into bed. With a good night of sleep tomorrow will be a better day.
...I know that through your prayers and the help given by the spirit of Jesus Christ what has happened to me will turn out for my deliverance. I eagerly expect and hope that I will in no way be ashamed, but will have sufficient courage so that now as always Christ will be exalted in my body... Philippians 1
And hope does not disappoint us... Romans 5
An early morning of good motivation marked by my sassy new lip color quickly devolves into a day of chasing one project after another, trying to find the thread to pull that will cascade backward and make the first project work. Instead of lunch, I drink Pepsi and toss back some trash sitting out for our student workers to munch on.
By 5:30, I'm hungry and cranky. I flee the building and grumble at the wind all the way to my car. I visit twelve restaurants in my mind before persuading myself to just go home to eat. After a sandwich (a favorite childhood indulgence) comes some chips (the kind I used for my first blatantly destructive binge at age thirteen). Nothing's on TV, so I have some lemon cookies (like my grandpa used to eat). Two hours later I'm picking at half a chicken with my fingers (alternating between a Denathorn scene and a Medieval Knights princess fantasy in my head). It's not a pretty sight.
My favorite TV show is on at ten, and I spend forty-five minutes trying to distract myself from an overwhelming compulsion for a milkshake. At 9:45 I give in, get in the car and head to Dairy Queen. Closed. Grocery Store. Open. I snag some sherbet (like when my dad nursed me after surgery once) and a non-alcoholic, non-caffeinated mixer (because I'm being responsible).
I miss the start of my show, but I can't eat while watching TV anyway, so I get everything ready for the first commercial break. Mute the set, look away, ice cream. TV, then more ice cream. Starting to feel sick, I put it away, but I can't stop so I grab a different box of cookies for the next break. As I watch the show, I write this blog post in my head, confession mixed with torture and self-loathing. Next commercial break I rip open the box of cookies, noticing how sad and pitiful the compulsion is but unable to stop it. I can't stop. Being full doesn't help. Not wanting more doesn't help. Being pitiful doesn't help. If only there was someone here or if I had the courage to call a friend. I don't. Nothing helps, not even crying out to God.
Oh wait. Crying out to God. I've been muttering at him but I haven't really said anything. Maybe I've just been muttering at myself. A pause. I remember that he gives miraculous strength. My fingers finish pulling open the box of cookies, then I watch them grow still. Do I have the power to set them down? Yes. I put them on the table, right next to my Bible. Deep breath. I'm shaking. There's been a war in my head all day and all night, and this is the first I've felt the rational side gain an edge. As I sit, not daring to move, I feel the torpor of this strange intermittent binge settle on my body. Like hundreds of nights before, I wish I could purge the food and make it all go away. As always, I decide that one eating disorder is enough. Purging would make it worse.
Tonight, freedom doesn't feel very free. I'm not bound by these chains, but when things get uncomfortable I don't know how to navigate without their familiar weight.
Familiar weight. Ugh, the scale will be ugly this week.
My demons have been chasing me tonight, but they aren't going to win the war. And I'm going to learn how to stand my ground. Someday.
For now I'm going to just ask my God to tuck me into bed. With a good night of sleep tomorrow will be a better day.
...I know that through your prayers and the help given by the spirit of Jesus Christ what has happened to me will turn out for my deliverance. I eagerly expect and hope that I will in no way be ashamed, but will have sufficient courage so that now as always Christ will be exalted in my body... Philippians 1
And hope does not disappoint us... Romans 5
Monday, April 9, 2012
about weight
My neighbors downstairs baked something cheesy tonight. The delicious scent of slightly burnt cheese is so tantalizing, so strong that I can almost taste it.
It smells like I'm six years old, and my mom just pulled a casserole of macaroni and cheese from the oven. The kitchen is too warm so a window is cracked, and the cold air breezes around to my seat at the dinner table, and I shiver. I'm hungry, and I'm rocking back and forth, humming a song, and braiding the white fringe from our green tablecloth - down low in my lap, so my mom won't see and scold. We're having beets with dinner, and their rich smell mixes with the cheddar cheese air. I like beets because their juice turns my macaroni bright pink. We settle at the table and hold hands; not praying, just taking a moment to be glad we're together.
Food and good memories are tightly interwoven in my mind, apparently.
My family disintegrated when I was ten years old, and that's when I started gaining weight. In middle school, I persuaded my parents to let me stay home by myself after school. Most days I'd eat a bag or two of popcorn and have three or four cans of Pepsi while watching a movie and doing my homework. Sometimes I'd have Rice Krispie treats instead. I could make and eat a whole batch before my mom got home from work, then have dinner.
I knew it wasn't healthy food, and I knew I was getting fat. My life was crazy. I had no control over anything else, so I ate. To hell with the consequences. To hell with the dawning realization that I would never reach my dreams. To hell with my shattered, false family. To hell with the boys who taunted me and nicknamed me "Moose" and taught my heart that it would never be loved. Well-meaning friends couldn't dislodge that truth, counselors couldn't convince me otherwise. Singing got the emotion out but made the taunting at school worse. Eating. Just eating and television and meaningless good grades. And eventually razor blades lined up on the edge of a bathtub. And when my cowardice kept me alive, more food.
When I look in the mirror and see my fat, I see the scars from the tumultuous years. God rescued me and has worked miraculous healing in my mind, but the weight is a scar that has not faded.
I want to lose weight. I've wanted it for more than sixteen years. I regret getting fat, but I can't hold it against that girl who had no other anchor than food. I am sad for her. But I'm sadder for the six-year-old at the table with macaroni and cheese and braided tablecloth fringe and family. She had such imagination, so many vivid, colorful dreams. I want her dreams to come true.
I'm learning to live again for her sake. And while abundant life is more important than losing weight, the truth is that I want both... and that I believe both are possible.
Tonight I wrote this blog post instead of numbing my mind.
It's not yet the life that little girl imagined, but I'm getting closer.
Hope is fierce.
And beautiful.
It smells like I'm six years old, and my mom just pulled a casserole of macaroni and cheese from the oven. The kitchen is too warm so a window is cracked, and the cold air breezes around to my seat at the dinner table, and I shiver. I'm hungry, and I'm rocking back and forth, humming a song, and braiding the white fringe from our green tablecloth - down low in my lap, so my mom won't see and scold. We're having beets with dinner, and their rich smell mixes with the cheddar cheese air. I like beets because their juice turns my macaroni bright pink. We settle at the table and hold hands; not praying, just taking a moment to be glad we're together.
Food and good memories are tightly interwoven in my mind, apparently.
My family disintegrated when I was ten years old, and that's when I started gaining weight. In middle school, I persuaded my parents to let me stay home by myself after school. Most days I'd eat a bag or two of popcorn and have three or four cans of Pepsi while watching a movie and doing my homework. Sometimes I'd have Rice Krispie treats instead. I could make and eat a whole batch before my mom got home from work, then have dinner.
I knew it wasn't healthy food, and I knew I was getting fat. My life was crazy. I had no control over anything else, so I ate. To hell with the consequences. To hell with the dawning realization that I would never reach my dreams. To hell with my shattered, false family. To hell with the boys who taunted me and nicknamed me "Moose" and taught my heart that it would never be loved. Well-meaning friends couldn't dislodge that truth, counselors couldn't convince me otherwise. Singing got the emotion out but made the taunting at school worse. Eating. Just eating and television and meaningless good grades. And eventually razor blades lined up on the edge of a bathtub. And when my cowardice kept me alive, more food.
When I look in the mirror and see my fat, I see the scars from the tumultuous years. God rescued me and has worked miraculous healing in my mind, but the weight is a scar that has not faded.
I want to lose weight. I've wanted it for more than sixteen years. I regret getting fat, but I can't hold it against that girl who had no other anchor than food. I am sad for her. But I'm sadder for the six-year-old at the table with macaroni and cheese and braided tablecloth fringe and family. She had such imagination, so many vivid, colorful dreams. I want her dreams to come true.
I'm learning to live again for her sake. And while abundant life is more important than losing weight, the truth is that I want both... and that I believe both are possible.
Tonight I wrote this blog post instead of numbing my mind.
It's not yet the life that little girl imagined, but I'm getting closer.
Hope is fierce.
And beautiful.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
thirteen
It's been thirteen days since I realized that food + tv and food + books are my drugs of choice. Thirteen days ago I decided not to 'use' anymore.
It's been a very difficult thirteen days.
This weekend I made the mistake of buying jelly beans. It's Easter, and when I was little my brother and I would hunt for those bright plastic eggs all over the house. I remember Mom barely holding back from telling us where to look, and Dad mirroring our delight when we spotted one. Most of those eggs had candy: Reese's cups, malted milk balls, and jelly beans. (Some of them had cold hard cash... Coins in a plastic egg make a delicious rattle.)
So I bought jelly beans. No big deal. I am not on a diet. No food is off limits, not even pure sugar. The boundary post God gave me is about food and media. But the separation between the two has been getting narrower.
First I ate only at the table. Then standing over the sink. Then on my couch. Then between TV shows and between book chapters. Then during commercials. If I mute the TV and close my eyes while I eat, it's not technically doing both at the same time, right?
Hello legalism, how've you been? Oh, by the way, I hate you.
It's not about the rule. It's about the spirit of the thing. It's about freedom. It's about not being a slave to unhealthy physical cravings. It's about redemption: God taking things that are broken in my life and making them whole again. It's about the realization that my peace has been false peace - the peace of a woman whose mind is dulled and whose body is atrophying; a distorted peace of lethargy and evasion. It's about waking up to the hope that I could go to bed at night believing that my day was well-lived, my battles well-fought.
I just threw the rest of my jelly beans away.
Right now I'm working on memorizing some scripture, and this morning I came to this bit in Phillipians where Paul's in jail but talking about getting free. He says, "I know that through your prayers and the help given by the Spirit of Jesus Christ, what has happened to me will turn out for my deliverance. I eagerly expect and hope that I will in no way be ashamed, but will have sufficient courage so that...Christ will be exalted in my body."
I want this, you guys. I want my body and my life to exalt God and bring him glory. I can't do it alone. Thank you to those of you who've encouraged me... Will you pray for me, too?
It's been a very difficult thirteen days.
This weekend I made the mistake of buying jelly beans. It's Easter, and when I was little my brother and I would hunt for those bright plastic eggs all over the house. I remember Mom barely holding back from telling us where to look, and Dad mirroring our delight when we spotted one. Most of those eggs had candy: Reese's cups, malted milk balls, and jelly beans. (Some of them had cold hard cash... Coins in a plastic egg make a delicious rattle.)
So I bought jelly beans. No big deal. I am not on a diet. No food is off limits, not even pure sugar. The boundary post God gave me is about food and media. But the separation between the two has been getting narrower.
First I ate only at the table. Then standing over the sink. Then on my couch. Then between TV shows and between book chapters. Then during commercials. If I mute the TV and close my eyes while I eat, it's not technically doing both at the same time, right?
Hello legalism, how've you been? Oh, by the way, I hate you.
It's not about the rule. It's about the spirit of the thing. It's about freedom. It's about not being a slave to unhealthy physical cravings. It's about redemption: God taking things that are broken in my life and making them whole again. It's about the realization that my peace has been false peace - the peace of a woman whose mind is dulled and whose body is atrophying; a distorted peace of lethargy and evasion. It's about waking up to the hope that I could go to bed at night believing that my day was well-lived, my battles well-fought.
I just threw the rest of my jelly beans away.
Right now I'm working on memorizing some scripture, and this morning I came to this bit in Phillipians where Paul's in jail but talking about getting free. He says, "I know that through your prayers and the help given by the Spirit of Jesus Christ, what has happened to me will turn out for my deliverance. I eagerly expect and hope that I will in no way be ashamed, but will have sufficient courage so that...Christ will be exalted in my body."
I want this, you guys. I want my body and my life to exalt God and bring him glory. I can't do it alone. Thank you to those of you who've encouraged me... Will you pray for me, too?
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