Have you ever felt that way about your derriere?  I know I just don’t look at mine with eyes of adoration… but wish I could!

Post from: Blisstree

Do you have a booty?

I have been fortunate enough that no ever gave me the ultimatum “It’s the eating disorder or me… your choice.”  However, I know this happens within many friendships, relationships, marriages and even families.

When does the person who cannot understand the desire behind withholding nourishment, ingesting massive quantities of food (only to purge it or starve it out later) or taking laxatives night and day simply shut down?  When does he or she say farewell?

Have you ever lost a friend, family member or significant other to your eating disorder?  Was it worth it?

Post from: Blisstree

Saying farewell to the disordered eater

Eighth grade, the first year of my “official” ana status (in my opinion), was exciting but always somewhat overwhelming.  I was quickly losing weight, but confidence in my appearance wasn’t occurring simultaneously.  That school year was definitely spent experimenting with different ways to starve, hide food, avoid eating, and the like.

The next year, ninth grade, was truly not as bad.  Sure, I was holding myself to a certain weight, but I wasn’t making myself go any further down numbers-wise.  I had friends that year and liked to hang out with them.  So even though the anorexia was hanging around, it didn’t define me nearly as much as it did the previous year.

Then came tenth grade and with it a whole host of problems.  Boyfriends.  (Bad ones.)  Senior high.  (You try being a skinny geek.)  Depression.  (Yep, I had it all goin’ on!)  I alternated between starving myself and bingeing when out with a group.  Yet through it all I maintained my weight within a few pounds. 

Eleventh grade was Hell.  Hell.  Hell.  I can’t even describe how horrendous it was.  Ana and I couldn’t have been much closer.

Then came senior year and with it a slight reprieve from the emotionally draining anorexia.  I felt a little stronger, a little freer, a little more confident in who I was as a person. 

The moral of this long tale?  Anorexia doesn’t always take the place of a downward spiral.  Sometimes it fluctuates, which is probably why so many loved ones ignore their relatives and friends with eating disorders.  See, they expect that if you’re gaining weight and feeling better that the anorexia, bulimia or binge eating must have disappeared! 

But we know otherwise, don’t we?

Post from: Blisstree

EDs: Not always a downward spiral

After the relative left, my mother confronted me, but not in the way that you’d think. She pooh-poohed what the relative had said, rolling her eyes when she told me.

Inside, I felt like shouting, “But I AM anorexic!”

I said nothing, of course.

And so the charade continued, undeterred.

Post from: Blisstree

Anorexia… almost discovered

For example, I was at the gym today.  Changing.  As I put on my shorts, a women in her late 40s/early 50s walked up to me.  When she was about a foot away from me, she said (very loudly), “And what are you?!?  A size zero or something?”  She wasn’t laughing, she wasn’t joking around.  She was… well… kind of mad. 

It was strange. 

Was she mad at me?  I wanted to tell her, “Hey, honey.  Chill.”  But instead I just shook my head in shock and answered, “No, I’m not.”  (And truth be told, I’ve never been a size zero, for the record.)

People with eating disorders know about this anger, I think.  Hey, try saying something totally laid back about anorexics or bulimics or binge eaters on a blog like Breaking the Mirror–the angry comments can often be brutal.  I’ve been called everything from a “wannarexic” to a “retard”.  It’s interesting.  And bizarre.

Anyway, I’ve come to the conclusion that the topic of weight and size infuriates people.  I’m not certain why, exactly, but it seems to make otherwise rational persons go nuts.

Thoughts?

Post from: Blisstree

Anger and eating disorders

As I began to get heavier and heavier as a child (mid-to-late elementary school and early junior high), a remarkable thing happened–fewer and fewer pictures of me were taken by family members.  In fact, when I say that I was bigger than the average kid, many people don’t believe me… and I have trouble proving it.

Isn’t it telling that I have virtually no photos of me when I was at my largest?  It’s as if I had been erased by people around me who were embarrassed of my size…  That past, that exile still haunts me today. 

Sadly, but predictably, after I began starving myself, the cameras came out.  My private papparazzi started snapping shots left and right.  “You look great!”  “That outfit looks fabulous!”  “You look like Molly Ringwald!”  (Remember, this was the 1980s!)

And I lapped it up in my desire to finally BE someone and not be treated as if I had disappeared.

I find it very ironic that at my biggest, I was treated as invisible.  Then, when I lost too much weight too suddenly, I had a presence.

God, I hated myself.  And I hated that I was treated as someone even though I felt terribly lost inside. 

Today, I don’t mind getting my picture taken, but I do think, “What if I gained weight?  Would anyone want to photograph me?” 

I suppose the answer is that it doesn’t matter and I shouldn’t give a fig.  But too often, I do.

Would I disappear if I gained weight?

Post from: Blisstree

The disappearing years

And I was reminded of it everywhere I went.

People called me fat.  Or “pleasantly plump” (thanks a heck of a lot, relatives!)  And it hurt.  Oh, it hurt.

I can remember feeding that hurt with food.  I’d stuff my face and tears would run down my cheeks.  “Why am I so disgusting?” I would silently lament.  Yet I couldn’t seem to stop.

Then came the summer after seventh grade.  Something clicked.  I just stopped eating one week at camp and noticed my pants were looser.  Easy. 

There was no diet, no desire to be anorexic.  Just… well… just no eating.

From there, my tango with ana spun out of control.  If I could lose five pounds, I could lose six, right?  Then seven… then eight… then 20… then…

But though my outside shrank, I was still the chubby kid inside.  I still remembered the words, the taunts, the nastiness.  And it still stung.  Tears still clung to my cheeks, though this time I didn’t stuff myself with food when I felt upset.  Instead, I withheld nourishment to punish myself for being so hideous.

Today, when I see an overweight child, I have two instant emotions–to protect and to embrace.  It’s not easy to be heavier than one’s peers, especially at a young age.  I hope no girl or boy ever has to go through the torment I did.

Please think before you ever comment on a youngster’s appearance.  Words can last a long, long time.

Post from: Blisstree

The chubby kid

I’ve always been particularly interested in the middle ages, and it occurred to me that there was quite a bit of self-mutilation during that period.  Most was done in the name of religion, though blood letting was a common “medical” practice.

Nuns, monks, monarchs, aristrocrats and laypersons would fast, would self-flagellate, would make themselves endure physical and mental “challenges”.  And when they did, they were honored for their fortitude, not treated as psychologically warped humans.  The middle ages was truly a time when someone who had what we would today treat as a kind of mental disorder (e.g., eating disorder, depression) would be revered. 

So that led me to wonder whether humans as a race of beings are somehow pre-programmed to hurt themselves?  It seems that many members of every generation have had the inclination to harm itself in some way.  (Think about the women who wore corsets for centuries despite the known health hazards!)  Could the desire to control one’s eating simply be part and parcel of a genetic need to commit a self-hazardous act? 

Of course, I’m not suggesting that we currently revere those who harm themselves… or am I?

Consider the stars who become sticks and are treated like gods and goddesses…  And how about the rock legends who wow audiences with their stories of sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll? 

What in the world will future generations say about us?  And will our grandchildren and their grandchildren continues this cycle?

Post from: Blisstree

Cutting and Self-Mutilation in the Middle Ages

And I dreaded Christmas.

I would spend hours plotting how my Christmas activities with my family would go, right down to how much I would allow myself to eat, how many times I would chew my food, how I would “load up” on ice water during the meal and the many ways I could make a plate of food “disappear” without eating more than a couple of bites.  (Parents, take note of that last one.  We anorexics are very, very tricky.)

It was a dreadful time, very stressful and depressing. 

On some level, I wanted to embrace the holidays, love my relatives and say, “Screw you” to the boyfriend whom I’d allowed to alienate me from friends and a social life.  But I just didn’t know how.

I was miserable.

Fast forward two decades.  I’m a different person than the teen of yore.

I still have anxiety over the holidays, but for different reasons.  I worry that my son will someday experience the loneliness I did.  I pray that he never looks in a mirror and says, “I hate you” to his image.  I want him to joyously devour 10 homemade gingerbread cookies with tons of icing and not worry about how he’ll “work them off” or “starve them out”.

Active anorexia may be a memory, but the ghost of ana definitely lingers on.  We all just need to be brave enough — nay, strong enough — to ask for help and move forward.  I’m working on that day-by-day and so far, this Christmas isn’t stressing me out nearly as much as it has in past years.  In fact, I’m actually enjoying aspects of it that I never thought I could embrace. 

That’s the best gift any gal could receive.

Post from: Blisstree

The ghost of anorexic Christmases past

I mean really desperately.  I think I have two pairs of jeans that fit and three pairs of professional pants that don’t make my rear look hideous.

But, see, I can’t get pants.

Nah, it’s not because of the economy.  It’s not even because I hate to shop in general (which is true).  It’s because I feel FAT today.  Really fat.  Like I’ve gained 20 pounds overnight.  Like my belly needs its own zip code.

And it’s all crap and just my head and my disordered eating and my messed up body image.  Yet knowing that doesn’t make it go away.

To be fair, my stomach IS a bit distended, primarily because I ate a lot of acidic foods last night that I believe have led to some tummy distress this morning.  But that’s not a good excuse, is it?

Post from: Blisstree

Pants Me