As far as moving forward from disordered eating goes, there has to be at least some part of the process that involves dealing with food, my eating and how this impacts my weight. Right?
For me, this whole process thus far has had to focus on the other stuff first. What other stuff?
Well, off the top of my head, this has included things like:
-Getting an idea of why I may have developed a disordered relationship with food in the first place
- Asking for help - and accepting it
- Therapy
- Attending support groups
- Finding the clues that (in retrospect, at least) suggest I have been succeptible to developing an eating disorder
- Looking into my past, at other issues I have had, and working on letting them go
- Re-building friendships and making new ones
- Working on forgiveness (of myself and others) for all kinds of things
- Figuring out (slowly) who I am, now that I'm no longer the person I was before, or during, my eating disorder and accompanying depression
- Learning to take risks, make decisions and get my braves on!
All these things, and many more I'm sure I'll talk about on this blog, have helped to alter my relationship with food in a positive way. I can't quite put my finger on how this has worked, but I can tell you that it is working to improve my issues with food and the impact it has on my weight.
Since taking these non-food related steps forward my weight has stabilised at a little over what I believe my natural, non- eating disordered, weight probably will be. I've been in the same size clothes for around 3 years now. my food fears are at an all-time minimum and I am currently at my closest to having a "normal" relationship with eating in the six years since my eating disorder, as such, began.
I am therefore proving to myself (and others) that even without directly tackling the issues I have with food, moving forward from disordered eating is possible.
Two or more years into my committment to move forward, I feel like I am now only just getting to a place where I can begin to look at the specifics of my eating.
Why now and not then?
There are a couple of reasons why I believe I can now handle this stage of moving forward.
First, I am able to look at what I eat, how and when I eat certain things, without judging myself as a person on my eating. This is a huge thing for me, and for anyone whose worth has essentially been pinned on what they look like and what they put into their body. To not have to feel bad for putting food in my mouth is wonderful! Yet now that I tend not to feel this (though occasionally it does happen), it doesn't feel like such a big deal anymore. It is, and it's a huge step to being able to really look at what's going on in my relationship with food.
Importantly, there's also the fact that I am no longer trapped in the bingeing-dieting cycle. I don't even believe in dieting as a valid lifestyle choice any more. I can think more clearly (because I am not biologically all over the place as a result of some serious self-medication with food) and I no longer fear slipping back into an eating disorder. Don't get me wrong; there are temptations at times and I am not naieve enough to think it an impossibility. I just know that it's not worth it, for me. I have too much to get out of living a life without it, than to go back to not living a life, but being in the grips of an eating disorder.
I am also now at a point where I can begin to entertain the notion of changing the foods I eat and the habits I have around food. I thought that wanting to move forward from my disordered eating was the same thing as changing my relationship with food. I've learnt that it is and it isn't.
When I made the decision to move forward with my life, it definitely included a different way of eating. A happier, more comfortable and relaxed way of eating. I just couldn't do it straight away. My head had to get to a more happy, comfortable and relaxed state first. I had to prove to myself that I could change, by showing myself in other areas of my life, before I could let myself believe that the same was possible for my eating. I think I have enough evidence stashed up to support me in experimenting with changes in my eating.
Stepping away from the evidence-based reasoning as to why I am willing to now look at addressing the food side of my disordered eating past.... Well,it just feels right for me to do this now.
So in answer to the original question at the beginning of this post, moving forward from disordered eating will inevitably involve dealing with food issues. It just might not be as soon as you'd think. And that's okay.
Wednesday, 6 July 2011
Confessions of a Blogger with Writer's Block
Okay. Time to speak the truth about my absence from my blog.
I struggle with writer's block here, and yet, I write all the time elsewhere.
My bag typically holds my journal and when I'm stuck at the computer, I use a great site called 750 words (http://750words.com/) to journal for myself. Sometimes, I tweet, text or email friends for support.I've even started writing content for my book.
So what's up with getting my writing up here?
Fear
I self-edit like crazy before posting here.
Confession time: I am afraid that if I post here, regularly and honestly, someone I know will come across it and will know all my "secrets".
I am afraid of writing. Which seems ridiculous, given how much I do and how big a part of my life it has become in my moving forward.
But here's the thing: By putting my writing (including the non-edited, non-perfect bits) out there, I feel that I am putting myself - and my dreams of becoming a published writer - up to be judged, shot down or criticised.
Perhaps someone influential will read it... and (literally) write me off as a failure before I even truly begin.
Perhaps a friend, or a family member, will read it... and worry that I am spending too much time thinking about issues I ought to be so over - so past this - by now.
Perhaps a stranger will read it... and never come back.
Perhaps - and this is the worst one of all - no one will really care. What's the point in writing this blog (or - gulp! - my book) at all, if no one will read it?!
Scary stuff, huh?
You may be thinking why even bother? I can tell you that this has definitely crossed my mind a million times. And yet here I am. I can't quite let go of the idea of writing a blog. My other forums for all sorts of different writings are brilliant - they truly are - and yet... here I am.
Moving forward has become about so much more than food, and my disordered relationship with it. It has opened up to being about allowing myself to dream. It's about allowing myself to try new things. It's even about allowing myself to fail, and if that is what becomes of my blog, my writing, my book then so be it.
So be it.
You see, there's a whole other list of 'perhaps' I overlook when the fear kicks in and it goes something like this:
Perhaps someone influential will read my blog... and will really love it. Maybe - just maybe - they'll love it so much, that I could stand a real chance at getting my dream job as a writer.
Perhaps a friend, or family member, will read my blog... and they will really understand what's been going on for me. Maybe my relationships will change for the better as a result of my being honest about my experiences of moving forward with my life.
Perhaps a stranger will read my blog... and will keep coming back.
Perhaps there are people out there who will care about what I have to say. Perhaps I will realise just how much of a positive impact I can have, with my words.
Today, in the spirit of committing to moving forward, I am choosing to believe in myself, my writing and in you - the people who may just happen to come across this blog.
Thank you for reading this. I sincerely mean it and I hope that you find something here that inspires or intrigues you enough to keep coming back.
I struggle with writer's block here, and yet, I write all the time elsewhere.
My bag typically holds my journal and when I'm stuck at the computer, I use a great site called 750 words (http://750words.com/) to journal for myself. Sometimes, I tweet, text or email friends for support.I've even started writing content for my book.
So what's up with getting my writing up here?
Fear
I self-edit like crazy before posting here.
Confession time: I am afraid that if I post here, regularly and honestly, someone I know will come across it and will know all my "secrets".
I am afraid of writing. Which seems ridiculous, given how much I do and how big a part of my life it has become in my moving forward.
But here's the thing: By putting my writing (including the non-edited, non-perfect bits) out there, I feel that I am putting myself - and my dreams of becoming a published writer - up to be judged, shot down or criticised.
Perhaps someone influential will read it... and (literally) write me off as a failure before I even truly begin.
Perhaps a friend, or a family member, will read it... and worry that I am spending too much time thinking about issues I ought to be so over - so past this - by now.
Perhaps a stranger will read it... and never come back.
Perhaps - and this is the worst one of all - no one will really care. What's the point in writing this blog (or - gulp! - my book) at all, if no one will read it?!
Scary stuff, huh?
You may be thinking why even bother? I can tell you that this has definitely crossed my mind a million times. And yet here I am. I can't quite let go of the idea of writing a blog. My other forums for all sorts of different writings are brilliant - they truly are - and yet... here I am.
Moving forward has become about so much more than food, and my disordered relationship with it. It has opened up to being about allowing myself to dream. It's about allowing myself to try new things. It's even about allowing myself to fail, and if that is what becomes of my blog, my writing, my book then so be it.
So be it.
You see, there's a whole other list of 'perhaps' I overlook when the fear kicks in and it goes something like this:
Perhaps someone influential will read my blog... and will really love it. Maybe - just maybe - they'll love it so much, that I could stand a real chance at getting my dream job as a writer.
Perhaps a friend, or family member, will read my blog... and they will really understand what's been going on for me. Maybe my relationships will change for the better as a result of my being honest about my experiences of moving forward with my life.
Perhaps a stranger will read my blog... and will keep coming back.
Perhaps there are people out there who will care about what I have to say. Perhaps I will realise just how much of a positive impact I can have, with my words.
Today, in the spirit of committing to moving forward, I am choosing to believe in myself, my writing and in you - the people who may just happen to come across this blog.
Thank you for reading this. I sincerely mean it and I hope that you find something here that inspires or intrigues you enough to keep coming back.
Tuesday, 8 March 2011
Fear, Food and Chopsticks
This weekend I went with my boyfriend for a traditional Chinese meal. Since I said yes to an offer of a business trip to China six weeks ago, time has flown and what was just a blip on the horizon is not right up in my face. And I’m scared. A little excited, but mainly scared. This was my plan for exposure-style therapy; confront your fears and they become less… well… fearsome.
Having opted for hot pot on the advice of someone in the know, we entered the fairly drab, unremarkable restaurant and were presented with a hot plate. On top of this, a young girl placed a bowl of boiling flavoured stock. I think she asked me what we wanted this stock to be, but I was kind of flustered and chose the least fish-like. We filled a bowl with sauces we didn’t recognise. (He thought the garlic was sugar.) We chose bits of food that looked vaguely familiar from the buffet to put in the pot. And noodles (I know where I am with a noodle).
I ate on auto-pilot at first, hoping that the eat-first, think-later strategy might serve me best. I guess it did for a moment or two, before the flutters in my stomach grew and the tickly sting of tears rose behind my eyes. Two or three panic-breaths escaped my mouth. My boyfriend looked anxious and disappointed (I think he was getting ready to have to leave in his head). One lone tear crept down my right cheek, almost invisible through the steam clouds round our heads.
In that moment, though I made my choice in a split-second, I somehow knew inside I had a really important choice to make. Was I going to let this food fear get the better of me or was I going to push through and see what’s on the other side? If I let it win, I could go home and eat something I know I like. I would also have to look at the disappointment on his face, mirroring the same disappointment I would feel in myself, not knowing which was more painful. If I push through it, I don’t know if it will get any better, but I know I can’t feel much worse.
I pushed through it. And whilst I can’t honestly say I liked the meal, I didn’t hate it. My boyfriend says it’s okay not to love every single food I eat, and that sometimes, the joy in eating it is in the not being sure of whether we like it or not, but in the experience itself.
I wouldn’t normally support the idea of eating over emotions, but in this case, I know it was something I needed to do. I needed to prove to myself that I can do it. I needed to know that I can be strong enough to brave new situations. I needed a little faith to cling to before I’m out there, in the big, wide world, alone, experiencing new places, and people, and foods.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, the first pangs of fear I have around this trip gravitate towards food. It’s my fall-back worry for when I’m afraid or unsure of something that I can’t quite (or don’t want to) pin down. Truth is, I’m getting so much better around new foods that these fears are pretty minute. I momentarily wavered at the restaurant this weekend, but I think now that maybe this was less about the food than it seemed.
This will be the longest period of time I’ve spent apart from my boyfriend since we met. It’s also the first solo trip I’ve made since my time living abroad, with depression, suicidal feelings and binge-eating disorder (following a period of anorexia).
Typing these out and saying the words, I’ve got that same flutter in my stomach and prickling of tears behind my eyes as I did in the restaurant. I am scared. I am scared that, perhaps, I won’t be able to cope with being on my own. I’m scared also, perhaps, because maybe I will, and maybe he’ll think I need him less. I’m afraid of being alone.
I’m scared because it might bring back those memories, and with them, the feelings of loneliness and desperation that I’d rather forget. I’m scared because I’m not the same girl that set out by herself before. I don’t yet know how this woman will handle things. I’m afraid of facing my past and stepping into the future.
The truth is, I just don’t yet know the answers to these questions.
And it’s this – the uncertainty – that’s the real fear. Not knowing. It makes me feel vulnerable, lost and child-like. Knowing stuff is something I’m extremely good at, and for which people have praised me. Maybe this is why I find it so hard to accept uncertainty.
But accepting uncertainty, and facing my fears, is a lesson for which I’m long overdue. Like the meal, this trip will not necessarily be easy. I’ll need to look my fears in the eye and I’ll stare them down. I’m telling myself that there are always going to be things I don’t know, or might have to wait to find out. That knowing to expect the unexpected makes me feel better – more prepared – but truth is, it doesn’t settle the flutters in my belly. I know that there’ll be moments I’ll want to cry, even if I don’t.
I also know it’s the pushing through these moments that allow me to move forward, move further from disordered eating and thinking habits. This IS the “recovery” purported by so many people with all kinds of afflictions and addictions holding them back in life. It’s not all happy and pretty; it’s uncomfortable and unnerving, but ultimately leaves me in a better place than I was before. I’m a stronger, more beautiful woman because of these moments. This is what I hope to learn from this trip, as I’ve learnt at the restaurant on a far smaller scale.
I also learnt another important thing: I really like Chinese rice pudding parcels, tied with string and steam-cooked inside palm leaves.
Having opted for hot pot on the advice of someone in the know, we entered the fairly drab, unremarkable restaurant and were presented with a hot plate. On top of this, a young girl placed a bowl of boiling flavoured stock. I think she asked me what we wanted this stock to be, but I was kind of flustered and chose the least fish-like. We filled a bowl with sauces we didn’t recognise. (He thought the garlic was sugar.) We chose bits of food that looked vaguely familiar from the buffet to put in the pot. And noodles (I know where I am with a noodle).
I ate on auto-pilot at first, hoping that the eat-first, think-later strategy might serve me best. I guess it did for a moment or two, before the flutters in my stomach grew and the tickly sting of tears rose behind my eyes. Two or three panic-breaths escaped my mouth. My boyfriend looked anxious and disappointed (I think he was getting ready to have to leave in his head). One lone tear crept down my right cheek, almost invisible through the steam clouds round our heads.
In that moment, though I made my choice in a split-second, I somehow knew inside I had a really important choice to make. Was I going to let this food fear get the better of me or was I going to push through and see what’s on the other side? If I let it win, I could go home and eat something I know I like. I would also have to look at the disappointment on his face, mirroring the same disappointment I would feel in myself, not knowing which was more painful. If I push through it, I don’t know if it will get any better, but I know I can’t feel much worse.
I pushed through it. And whilst I can’t honestly say I liked the meal, I didn’t hate it. My boyfriend says it’s okay not to love every single food I eat, and that sometimes, the joy in eating it is in the not being sure of whether we like it or not, but in the experience itself.
I wouldn’t normally support the idea of eating over emotions, but in this case, I know it was something I needed to do. I needed to prove to myself that I can do it. I needed to know that I can be strong enough to brave new situations. I needed a little faith to cling to before I’m out there, in the big, wide world, alone, experiencing new places, and people, and foods.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, the first pangs of fear I have around this trip gravitate towards food. It’s my fall-back worry for when I’m afraid or unsure of something that I can’t quite (or don’t want to) pin down. Truth is, I’m getting so much better around new foods that these fears are pretty minute. I momentarily wavered at the restaurant this weekend, but I think now that maybe this was less about the food than it seemed.
This will be the longest period of time I’ve spent apart from my boyfriend since we met. It’s also the first solo trip I’ve made since my time living abroad, with depression, suicidal feelings and binge-eating disorder (following a period of anorexia).
Typing these out and saying the words, I’ve got that same flutter in my stomach and prickling of tears behind my eyes as I did in the restaurant. I am scared. I am scared that, perhaps, I won’t be able to cope with being on my own. I’m scared also, perhaps, because maybe I will, and maybe he’ll think I need him less. I’m afraid of being alone.
I’m scared because it might bring back those memories, and with them, the feelings of loneliness and desperation that I’d rather forget. I’m scared because I’m not the same girl that set out by herself before. I don’t yet know how this woman will handle things. I’m afraid of facing my past and stepping into the future.
The truth is, I just don’t yet know the answers to these questions.
And it’s this – the uncertainty – that’s the real fear. Not knowing. It makes me feel vulnerable, lost and child-like. Knowing stuff is something I’m extremely good at, and for which people have praised me. Maybe this is why I find it so hard to accept uncertainty.
But accepting uncertainty, and facing my fears, is a lesson for which I’m long overdue. Like the meal, this trip will not necessarily be easy. I’ll need to look my fears in the eye and I’ll stare them down. I’m telling myself that there are always going to be things I don’t know, or might have to wait to find out. That knowing to expect the unexpected makes me feel better – more prepared – but truth is, it doesn’t settle the flutters in my belly. I know that there’ll be moments I’ll want to cry, even if I don’t.
I also know it’s the pushing through these moments that allow me to move forward, move further from disordered eating and thinking habits. This IS the “recovery” purported by so many people with all kinds of afflictions and addictions holding them back in life. It’s not all happy and pretty; it’s uncomfortable and unnerving, but ultimately leaves me in a better place than I was before. I’m a stronger, more beautiful woman because of these moments. This is what I hope to learn from this trip, as I’ve learnt at the restaurant on a far smaller scale.
I also learnt another important thing: I really like Chinese rice pudding parcels, tied with string and steam-cooked inside palm leaves.
Monday, 7 March 2011
Building on the Writing Blocks
Writing in my journal comes naturally to me. So does writing on a scrap of paper, come to think of it, and writing an essay or assignment. The words just seem to flow, and I can get lost in the process of writing. It's a skill I've used and developed in moving on from disordered eating and thinking. It's an essential tool to staying sane, really.
When I get an attack of that critical voice - the one that tells me whatever I've done, said, thought or indeed am is wrong - my best move is to pull out my journal (or whatever's at hand) and scribble it all out. I write out what that voice is saying. Sometimes it's hard, because the words hurt, embarrass or sting me. Sometimes it's as easy as turning on a tap. And then I formulate my counter-attack and rebuke whatever arguments are thrown at me. I make it positive, non-judgemental and supportive. I write to myself as my own best friend. And then, invariably, the knots in my stomach unravel a little and the volume of the voice goes down a few notches. I move forward another step.
Whilst writing myself better, I've learnt that writing also makes me happy.The movement of my pen on the paper, feeling relieved as the words spill on the page, and excited as I can't write as fast as the words appear in my mind. The whole thing is pretty exhilarating, despite never leaving my seat. I feel silly even typing this.
Happiness in writing is not something I can remember feeling whilst obsessively counting calories. Happiness only came from losing pounds or dropping sizes.. Looking back, I'm not even sure I'd call it "happiness" anyway - perhaps relief or a sense of achievement is more accurate. Writing the numbers down and listing myself into a frenzy, I used writing against myself to account for myself. Each and every mouthful logged in little notebooks, until the bingeing began and I couldn't face writing anymore. I guess this partly why writing feels so brilliant now.
It's perhaps not surprising that I'm discovering how passionate I am about writing a book. A real book. No one needs to see this book but me; I just need to write. I've got a couple of ideas for what I'd like to write about, both of which I think have promise. I'm not so overwhelmed by my new job and my eating issues nowadays that I cannot make some space to write little and often. The scene is set and the future looks promising, right?
Yet when I put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) to write for this purpose - to fulfil this dream or burning ambition (over-used cliches, I know, but sometimes the oldies are goodies) - I stop short. I can't seem to get the words out. My head feels like alphabet soup. It's all consonants and no vowels, Carol.
I don't yet know why this is, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it's that critical voice again rendering me frozen with fear. I can't remember what it was to have dreams and ambitions; ones that are truly mine and mine alone. I've achieved things, sure. I'm moving forward in life, in terms of the usual progression markers of work and relationships. But very few of these feel truly mine. The closest I can get is my relationship with my partner; yet that is ours - relationships imply more than one person - and I'm talking about the solo stuff here.
Writing is something that is entirely mine.
No one is pressuring me to write (but me) and no one knows this is even a dream of mine (but me and him indoors). Being all mine perhaps makes it that bit more precious and fragile.
At the moment, it feels like I'm holding a glass bird in my hands; I can't open them for fear of it falling and breaking. My emotions run high whenever I dare to even consider it. If I'd been a different child, had a different life, dreams might be like sugar stealers. I'd be able to voice them aloud and blow them away, and perhaps a few would seed and grow. Being the person I am, with the life and experiences I've had, it's pretty understandable that the rarity of these dreams might make me a little more Gollum-like.
My writing is perhaps "my precious". But to really feel happiness in my writing, perhaps I need to let go a little and just let it come. See what happens. Maybe it won't shatter; maybe it'll shine a little brighter if I give it the freedom just to be.
When I get an attack of that critical voice - the one that tells me whatever I've done, said, thought or indeed am is wrong - my best move is to pull out my journal (or whatever's at hand) and scribble it all out. I write out what that voice is saying. Sometimes it's hard, because the words hurt, embarrass or sting me. Sometimes it's as easy as turning on a tap. And then I formulate my counter-attack and rebuke whatever arguments are thrown at me. I make it positive, non-judgemental and supportive. I write to myself as my own best friend. And then, invariably, the knots in my stomach unravel a little and the volume of the voice goes down a few notches. I move forward another step.
Whilst writing myself better, I've learnt that writing also makes me happy.The movement of my pen on the paper, feeling relieved as the words spill on the page, and excited as I can't write as fast as the words appear in my mind. The whole thing is pretty exhilarating, despite never leaving my seat. I feel silly even typing this.
Happiness in writing is not something I can remember feeling whilst obsessively counting calories. Happiness only came from losing pounds or dropping sizes.. Looking back, I'm not even sure I'd call it "happiness" anyway - perhaps relief or a sense of achievement is more accurate. Writing the numbers down and listing myself into a frenzy, I used writing against myself to account for myself. Each and every mouthful logged in little notebooks, until the bingeing began and I couldn't face writing anymore. I guess this partly why writing feels so brilliant now.
It's perhaps not surprising that I'm discovering how passionate I am about writing a book. A real book. No one needs to see this book but me; I just need to write. I've got a couple of ideas for what I'd like to write about, both of which I think have promise. I'm not so overwhelmed by my new job and my eating issues nowadays that I cannot make some space to write little and often. The scene is set and the future looks promising, right?
Yet when I put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) to write for this purpose - to fulfil this dream or burning ambition (over-used cliches, I know, but sometimes the oldies are goodies) - I stop short. I can't seem to get the words out. My head feels like alphabet soup. It's all consonants and no vowels, Carol.
I don't yet know why this is, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it's that critical voice again rendering me frozen with fear. I can't remember what it was to have dreams and ambitions; ones that are truly mine and mine alone. I've achieved things, sure. I'm moving forward in life, in terms of the usual progression markers of work and relationships. But very few of these feel truly mine. The closest I can get is my relationship with my partner; yet that is ours - relationships imply more than one person - and I'm talking about the solo stuff here.
Writing is something that is entirely mine.
No one is pressuring me to write (but me) and no one knows this is even a dream of mine (but me and him indoors). Being all mine perhaps makes it that bit more precious and fragile.
At the moment, it feels like I'm holding a glass bird in my hands; I can't open them for fear of it falling and breaking. My emotions run high whenever I dare to even consider it. If I'd been a different child, had a different life, dreams might be like sugar stealers. I'd be able to voice them aloud and blow them away, and perhaps a few would seed and grow. Being the person I am, with the life and experiences I've had, it's pretty understandable that the rarity of these dreams might make me a little more Gollum-like.
My writing is perhaps "my precious". But to really feel happiness in my writing, perhaps I need to let go a little and just let it come. See what happens. Maybe it won't shatter; maybe it'll shine a little brighter if I give it the freedom just to be.
Monday, 10 January 2011
Happy New Year
Being the first week of the New Year, talk of New Year’s resolutions (and inevitably, dieting) is everywhere. Literally everywhere I turn – in the office, on the bus, on television – someone is excitedly planning on taking a new fitness class, determinedly bulk-buying diet drinks, adamant that this is their year. This is the year they’ll get thin once and for all. Sounds great, right?
Well, no. Not for those of us who have ever suffered from disordered eating and – more importantly, perhaps - disordered thinking about ourselves and our bodies. In brief, when we think our value lies in what we look like and how other people judge us, dieting becomes more than just losing a little extra weight.
It became a way of showing people that I was worth something. I could control my food intake and I could obtain a body shape and size that others would envy; thus I was a worthwhile human being and earned my place in the world. I had to earn it (did you think you had to earn your place in existence?) because the Critic in me told me I was a failure; I was damaged goods and would never be good enough as I was.
Becoming someone thin would prove to myself and others that I could achieve something worth having. And so started the Special K diet and then Weight Watchers. And then some kind of amalgamation of the two. Ultimately, I made my own rules – or at least, I thought I did (my Critic was truly the one in charge, I see now).
One year down the line, and I was thin. I was a severely depressed, incredibly lonely and vulnerable young woman, but I was thin.
Looking back and unpicking these things so I can see things for what they were has taken time. Five or six years to date, to be precise. Whilst I don’t waste any more time wishing things had been different, this is time in which I could have been living, had I not made dieting my life that New Year.
And this is the point I’d like to make in my post today:
It only really makes your body smaller, and whilst that might be part of making positive change happen, it doesn’t work if it’s part of an outside-in, rather than an inside-out approach. If you feel like you’re not good enough the way you are right now - and by this, I mean in every aspect of who you are (your personality, career choices, relationships) as well as what you look like – then it’s INSIDE which is off-kilter in the first instance. The inside issues probably were there before the outside – maybe they were always there, like for me. And so it’s the inside that needs looking at before the outside has a hope of lasting longer than the time it takes to break into a packet of biscuits.
And the other point?
When the diet was over I had as close to a perfect body as I could ever have hoped for. Now, I know that a ‘perfect’ body doesn’t exist. But looking back, I was extremely thin yet had toned, tanned skin and hours in the gym gave me enviable stomach muscles and legs that, for the first time in my life and despite my ED tunnel vision, even I felt able to bear in skirts. When I had enough insight to be vaguely rational, I knew I looked good to the outside world.
When my boyfriend saw a picture of me like this on an old phone, my heart broke as he complimented me on how great I looked. He said what everyone else saw; I had everything, as far as they were concerned. Even now, I have times when I wish I had been able to see it more clearly and have taken advantage of having the body I had always longed for.
And then I remember the true picture – the bit that includes the inside. And inside, I was dying.
Physically, I was exhausted. Running on adrenaline, I daren’t miss a gym session or sit down for more than short periods because I worried that stopping moving, I’d have put on weight.
Mentally, I was a wreck. Desperate for someone – anyone – to see just how much I was hurting inside and ask me if I was okay, and yet desperately clinging on to this achievement that drew so many people to ask how I’d done it; how I – this nobody, I supposed – had THAT body. It was the most confusing time. I yelled at my sister for trying to make me eat a jacket potato and beans she’d made me, and for pointing out how my ribs showed unnaturally through my skin, and yet I remember welling up because I’d waited so long for someone to see it.
By this point, I knew this wasn’t my natural body state (any more than it is natural for me to be very heavy). I knew there was something more to this was, way sooner than things fell apart, and yet I lived in fear of ballooning and being found out as an unworthy failure for months. I worried about every single mouthful of food. I cried when my friend asked me why I couldn’t eat like a normal person, having caught me measuring sunflower spread with a teaspoon. But at the time, I couldn’t risk going out for a meal or drinking alcohol as I might gain a pound, and that felt like the worst thing in the world. The thinner I got, the more I hated people looking at me. Men made my skin crawl and I couldn’t bear anyone to touch me. Someone I’d been casually seeing accidentally went to touch me and his hand went under my ribcage. I cringed and I reckon he did too.
I’ve written more than I intended here, and as I write, I can tell you that it still hurts to think back to this time. I can see how much of a textbook anorexic I was, but textbook or not, these thoughts, and feelings, and experiences happen to people like myself. At the time, I hadn’t a clue I was doing anything other than starting a New Year with a New Year’s diet. But circumstances and experiences combined with this diet to mark me in a way that can never quite be erased.
You can’t predict if someone will develop an eating disorder. It can happen at any time and place. But if you know that this New Year, deep down, what you’re looking for is to be happy, you won’t find it at a fee-charging diet ‘support’ group and you certainly won’t find it at the bottom of a cold can of diet shake.
I’ve learnt this in the hardest way possible, short of being hospitalised and pulled into the mental health system. So when I’m feeling a bit unnerved by changes going on in my life – changes that have nothing at all to do with the number in my jeans – I refuse to make resolutions that this’ll be the year I’ll get that thin body back. I can’t say it isn’t tempting. Sometimes, I wonder whether the self-knowledge and insight I have now would equip me well enough to handle the body I once created.
And I know that I’m missing the point, because I have something now I could never have, living the life it takes to look quite so ‘perfect’: I am happy. I am loved. I’ve got the energy to be interested in and care about other people (disordered eating doesn’t do relationships and as such, I lost just about all my friendships). I’ve built friendships and I know what it feels like to be loved – really, really loved . I can socialise with other people, around food and drink (disordered eating doesn’t do... well... eating), and actually enjoy myself. I can choose to have a life in a way I couldn’t even consider in the depths of my dieting days.
So I won’t join in the conversations in the office, or with friends, when it comes to dieting. I’m not comparing the market for the best offer on gym memberships. And I’m definitely not buying women’s magazines this month because I can guarantee that they’ll proffer solutions to rid my ‘post-Christmas bulge’ or get me ‘in shape for summer’. Please don’t be offended or think I’m taking the moral high-ground if I don’t get into what you weighed then, now or tomorrow.
I’m just choosing to be happy this year and every single year here on, and hope that you can too.
Happy New Year.
Well, no. Not for those of us who have ever suffered from disordered eating and – more importantly, perhaps - disordered thinking about ourselves and our bodies. In brief, when we think our value lies in what we look like and how other people judge us, dieting becomes more than just losing a little extra weight.
It became a way of showing people that I was worth something. I could control my food intake and I could obtain a body shape and size that others would envy; thus I was a worthwhile human being and earned my place in the world. I had to earn it (did you think you had to earn your place in existence?) because the Critic in me told me I was a failure; I was damaged goods and would never be good enough as I was.
Becoming someone thin would prove to myself and others that I could achieve something worth having. And so started the Special K diet and then Weight Watchers. And then some kind of amalgamation of the two. Ultimately, I made my own rules – or at least, I thought I did (my Critic was truly the one in charge, I see now).
One year down the line, and I was thin. I was a severely depressed, incredibly lonely and vulnerable young woman, but I was thin.
Looking back and unpicking these things so I can see things for what they were has taken time. Five or six years to date, to be precise. Whilst I don’t waste any more time wishing things had been different, this is time in which I could have been living, had I not made dieting my life that New Year.
And this is the point I’d like to make in my post today:
Dieting is never the answer to unhappiness.
It only really makes your body smaller, and whilst that might be part of making positive change happen, it doesn’t work if it’s part of an outside-in, rather than an inside-out approach. If you feel like you’re not good enough the way you are right now - and by this, I mean in every aspect of who you are (your personality, career choices, relationships) as well as what you look like – then it’s INSIDE which is off-kilter in the first instance. The inside issues probably were there before the outside – maybe they were always there, like for me. And so it’s the inside that needs looking at before the outside has a hope of lasting longer than the time it takes to break into a packet of biscuits.
And the other point?
Dieting can have long-lasting consequences.
When the diet was over I had as close to a perfect body as I could ever have hoped for. Now, I know that a ‘perfect’ body doesn’t exist. But looking back, I was extremely thin yet had toned, tanned skin and hours in the gym gave me enviable stomach muscles and legs that, for the first time in my life and despite my ED tunnel vision, even I felt able to bear in skirts. When I had enough insight to be vaguely rational, I knew I looked good to the outside world.
When my boyfriend saw a picture of me like this on an old phone, my heart broke as he complimented me on how great I looked. He said what everyone else saw; I had everything, as far as they were concerned. Even now, I have times when I wish I had been able to see it more clearly and have taken advantage of having the body I had always longed for.
And then I remember the true picture – the bit that includes the inside. And inside, I was dying.
Physically, I was exhausted. Running on adrenaline, I daren’t miss a gym session or sit down for more than short periods because I worried that stopping moving, I’d have put on weight.
Mentally, I was a wreck. Desperate for someone – anyone – to see just how much I was hurting inside and ask me if I was okay, and yet desperately clinging on to this achievement that drew so many people to ask how I’d done it; how I – this nobody, I supposed – had THAT body. It was the most confusing time. I yelled at my sister for trying to make me eat a jacket potato and beans she’d made me, and for pointing out how my ribs showed unnaturally through my skin, and yet I remember welling up because I’d waited so long for someone to see it.
By this point, I knew this wasn’t my natural body state (any more than it is natural for me to be very heavy). I knew there was something more to this was, way sooner than things fell apart, and yet I lived in fear of ballooning and being found out as an unworthy failure for months. I worried about every single mouthful of food. I cried when my friend asked me why I couldn’t eat like a normal person, having caught me measuring sunflower spread with a teaspoon. But at the time, I couldn’t risk going out for a meal or drinking alcohol as I might gain a pound, and that felt like the worst thing in the world. The thinner I got, the more I hated people looking at me. Men made my skin crawl and I couldn’t bear anyone to touch me. Someone I’d been casually seeing accidentally went to touch me and his hand went under my ribcage. I cringed and I reckon he did too.
I’ve written more than I intended here, and as I write, I can tell you that it still hurts to think back to this time. I can see how much of a textbook anorexic I was, but textbook or not, these thoughts, and feelings, and experiences happen to people like myself. At the time, I hadn’t a clue I was doing anything other than starting a New Year with a New Year’s diet. But circumstances and experiences combined with this diet to mark me in a way that can never quite be erased.
You can’t predict if someone will develop an eating disorder. It can happen at any time and place. But if you know that this New Year, deep down, what you’re looking for is to be happy, you won’t find it at a fee-charging diet ‘support’ group and you certainly won’t find it at the bottom of a cold can of diet shake.
I’ve learnt this in the hardest way possible, short of being hospitalised and pulled into the mental health system. So when I’m feeling a bit unnerved by changes going on in my life – changes that have nothing at all to do with the number in my jeans – I refuse to make resolutions that this’ll be the year I’ll get that thin body back. I can’t say it isn’t tempting. Sometimes, I wonder whether the self-knowledge and insight I have now would equip me well enough to handle the body I once created.
And I know that I’m missing the point, because I have something now I could never have, living the life it takes to look quite so ‘perfect’: I am happy. I am loved. I’ve got the energy to be interested in and care about other people (disordered eating doesn’t do relationships and as such, I lost just about all my friendships). I’ve built friendships and I know what it feels like to be loved – really, really loved . I can socialise with other people, around food and drink (disordered eating doesn’t do... well... eating), and actually enjoy myself. I can choose to have a life in a way I couldn’t even consider in the depths of my dieting days.
So I won’t join in the conversations in the office, or with friends, when it comes to dieting. I’m not comparing the market for the best offer on gym memberships. And I’m definitely not buying women’s magazines this month because I can guarantee that they’ll proffer solutions to rid my ‘post-Christmas bulge’ or get me ‘in shape for summer’. Please don’t be offended or think I’m taking the moral high-ground if I don’t get into what you weighed then, now or tomorrow.
I’m just choosing to be happy this year and every single year here on, and hope that you can too.
Happy New Year.
Tuesday, 21 December 2010
The meaning of loving myself
In order to move on from disordered eating, you first need to learn to love and accept yourself exactly as you are today.
This is one of the most difficult things I have had to even consider in deciding that yes, I do want to move on from this. I've heard it said a million times, in many guises and in many forms; on the internet, in books, at groups, in counselling. And as many times as I've heard it, a little bit of me has hoped it wasn't true.
I didn't quite get why this was at first, but as time has passed, and I've allowed myself to really hear what this is saying to me, I think I understand myself a little more.
Loving and accepting yourself today means letting go of what you think you should be tomorrow.
This is a terrifying thought at first glance. No more hoping that in future, I will be thinner (just one more diet, and that will be me - sorted).
No more hoping that one day, I might be that bit more beautiful and attractive (just a bit more time, money and make-up).
No more 'future is brighter' thinking.
I'd have to make do with how I am now, and entertain the notion that I might be this way for always. The notion that this is as good as it gets. .
Time has passed since I first wrote this post. It's from a time earlier in the year, when I had been musing over what I had learnt.
As with most people, there are things I'd like to improve. This is what keeps us moving forward, and is a positive thing on the whole. Still. There lingers a bit of darkness around the edges. That bit of the eating disordered, negative mindset that hasn't quite disappeared. The part of me that would drive me to push for perfection, given half a chance.
Today, I cannot honestly say that I totally and whole-heartedly accept the idea that this is as good as it gets, or indeed that I am as good as I can ever be. But I can say that in practical terms, I'm moving closer to the positive and further from the negative than ever.
Until I'd given these ideas a go, they seemed very scary.
For example, it means not waiting until the next diet proved successful before I let myself buy new clothes. I would have to buy those clothes I want (or need - often it gets to the 'need' stage before I would brave a shop) today and wear them today. No saving them for best and waiting until the "right" moment. Why? Because I need to know that I am worth spending money on today. I'm not waiting for a better me to come along. I'm not waiting until I "deserve" nice things because I'm telling myself - through my actions and sometimes in my head - that I deserve them now. Just for being me.
It means going out and meeting new people, and making time for friends. I've missed many social occasions because I didn't feel that I was thin enough, beautiful enough, well-dressed enough, funny enough, interesting enough to "deserve" to go out. I've been afraid that if I did spend time with people, they'd find me out. I'd be shown to be an ugly, mean, uninteresting fraud.
Accepting that this body - this me - might well be all I have has meant having to work with it as it is, and live in it. Part of this has meant making myself - sometimes even forcing myself - to go to social occasions. Most of the time, I'm glad to have gone. It's proven to be far more successful that I'd thought and I have been accepted and even welcomed by other people.
Don't get me wrong; meeting people is something I've always been a little nervous about and still makes my stomach flutter sometimes. There are certain people and certain situations I'm yet to face. But I have faith that when I choose to do those things, they'll turn out far better than the previews in my head would have me believe.
It means treating myself with lovely, beautiful things - non-food things like underwear, bath treats and books - for no reason other than I am worthy of being surrounded by wonderful things. Books and bath treats have been pretty easy. Baths are an occasional - and often rather brief - pleasure, and relaxing is getting easier each time. Except when the water's too hot. I can always find a book I'd like to read, and making time to do so is getting to be a little more habitual.
What I'm yet to master is buying myself the longed-for underwear and making every day an occasion worthy of its wearing. I've not the easiest shape for buying lingerie, and it's not something I revel in doing, but it is up there as something important that I need to do for me. To show me that yes, I am a beautiful, gorgeous woman. I have curves and there are beautiful things I can wear on them and do with them. And I am well worth the investment. I'm sure my boyfriend wouldn't object all too strongly either!
So what more can I say on the subject of loving and accepting myself at this point?
Ultimately, it means not waiting until I am thinner to be happy. It means finding things to be happy about today - including how I look and feel about myself and my body. And I'm getting there.
Reality Bites
There is nothing I love more than to plonk myself on the sofa in my comfiest pyjamas and no-make up to watch reality TV. (Note: There are indeed things I love more, but you get the idea...)
Big Brother, Dating in the Dark, The Hills… I will literally watch anything and everything that's out there. It gives me a little thrill - a guilty secret - albeit one that doesn't make me feel guilty and is no longer a secret, evidently.
My all-time favourite show is America's Next Top Model, or ANTM, as devotees will know. This programme has its own acronym, it is so legendary! This programme technically goes against all that I stand for, in terms of not changing who we are - or what we look like - to fit with other people's opinions of who we should be to make it in this world. Being a modelling show, where the primary mode of judgement is on a person's appearance, it doesn't seem to fit that I'd be talking about its merits here.
But this is what I plan to do. And here's why.
There are three things I've taken from this type of programme that help me to feel good about myself and think about how I see myself and others. I think it's important for me to share them here, because chances are, some other women with issues around food and their bodies are out there, watching these programmes. If we're going to watch them, we might as well get something positive from them!
So here goes... ANTM does positive body image and here's my evidence:
Lesson #1: Being thin does not make you happy.
We see this time and again on this show and I've experienced it for myself. Attaining thinness and society's idea of beauty does not equal feeling happy, confident and secure.
There are more tears than tiaras at ANTM headquarters as the girls experience being judged, comparing themselves to others whilst learning who they are, and who they want to be. They suffer the same worries about wearing bikinis or being naked on film as I have (and still do) when the prospect of a camera being near arises. The sheer bafflement I first felt at why beautiful (read: thin) girls who appear to have everything (again, read: thin) would feel insecure now makes sense to me.
We all have issues. Including people who are thin and fir the mould of what is deemed beautiful in our society. And, rightly or wrongly, I find this reassuring.
Lesson one, then, is that being thin will never make us any less us. We'll still feel how we feel and we'll still be us at whatever size or shape we happen to be.
As an aside, I remember hearing comedian Russell Brand once talking about the frustration at never being able to take a holiday from himself, as he always has to take himself along. How many of us would choose to leave ourselves behind if we could, and have a week away from ourselves?
Lesson #2: SMIZE!
Tyra's catchphrase over the last couple of seasons is to repeatedly telli the girls to 'smize' in their photos.
For those of you not yet in on this one, it means she wants them to smile with their eyes. To do this, we need to think of something that makes us feel happy and it will then show in our eyes (whether or not we are doing the model standard of not actually smiling). Seeing the girls of ANTM smizing for the camera - and, of course, for Tyra and the judges 'on panel' - I've picked up something I can use myself in real life.
By focusing on the things that make me feel happy, it shows in how I look, think and behave. I come across differently; I exude an inner confidence that others can really see.
For me, my inner happiness comes from thinking about my boyfriend's cat purring in my lap. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy, and loved. It makes me feel happy. He also does the perfect cat-shaped smize; something that's probably rather necessary since he doesn't have the ability to actually smile!
Lesson two then, is that how we feel shows in our faces.
And this is the essence of SMIZING. Deep, Tyra, deep.
Lesson #3: Technology makes or brakes the images we see.
It's said time and again, but it's only when I see the behind-the-scenes work that goes into producing the 'perfect' picture or video that it is brought home to me. Airbrushing changes how people look. They don't look like how they look in pictures. So why is it that we go along with the notion that we should be held to this standard as we go about our daily lives?
Now, don't get me wrong.
I love magazines. Truly. I adore the imagery, real or unreal, and can be known to sneak a sniff of the pages pre-read (I do make it clear that I've got issues, right?). And I will be the first person to say that the media wasn't a deciding factor in me developing an eating disorder.
It's just important to remember that a photograph or a carefully edited television show is what it is: an image. Pieces of art. They are not an accurate snapshot of a person at that given point in time. They are manipulated to portray a message, and it's not always a message we should act upon, or take upon ourselves to live out.
Lesson three, then, is to be media savvy. Don't forget that for every image you see, there is a whole team of people working to make it what it is. The model's just one part of the picture. It's a collective work of art.
So there is more to reality TV than meets the eye, right? Well... yes and no.
On my own journey to move forward from disordered eating, I've learnt not to see things through an eating disordered filter. I can appreciate that for many, this isn't yet possible. It might thus be more beneficial for those people not to watch things that they may see as "triggering", for lack of a better term.
Whilst I can appreciate how ANTM might not be the best viewing for those with disordered eating, for me, it's fun. It's escapism. I hope that I've shown that we can take what we will from the media. If we choose to see it as threatening, we will find nothing but the bad in it. If we can put on our positive specs, we might see it a little differently.
Looooooooove me xxx
Note: Written earlier in 2010, whilst at work. Underemployment = spending too much time thinking about ANTM. Could that be another lesson?! ;-)
Big Brother, Dating in the Dark, The Hills… I will literally watch anything and everything that's out there. It gives me a little thrill - a guilty secret - albeit one that doesn't make me feel guilty and is no longer a secret, evidently.
My all-time favourite show is America's Next Top Model, or ANTM, as devotees will know. This programme has its own acronym, it is so legendary! This programme technically goes against all that I stand for, in terms of not changing who we are - or what we look like - to fit with other people's opinions of who we should be to make it in this world. Being a modelling show, where the primary mode of judgement is on a person's appearance, it doesn't seem to fit that I'd be talking about its merits here.
But this is what I plan to do. And here's why.
There are three things I've taken from this type of programme that help me to feel good about myself and think about how I see myself and others. I think it's important for me to share them here, because chances are, some other women with issues around food and their bodies are out there, watching these programmes. If we're going to watch them, we might as well get something positive from them!
So here goes... ANTM does positive body image and here's my evidence:
Lesson #1: Being thin does not make you happy.
We see this time and again on this show and I've experienced it for myself. Attaining thinness and society's idea of beauty does not equal feeling happy, confident and secure.
There are more tears than tiaras at ANTM headquarters as the girls experience being judged, comparing themselves to others whilst learning who they are, and who they want to be. They suffer the same worries about wearing bikinis or being naked on film as I have (and still do) when the prospect of a camera being near arises. The sheer bafflement I first felt at why beautiful (read: thin) girls who appear to have everything (again, read: thin) would feel insecure now makes sense to me.
We all have issues. Including people who are thin and fir the mould of what is deemed beautiful in our society. And, rightly or wrongly, I find this reassuring.
Lesson one, then, is that being thin will never make us any less us. We'll still feel how we feel and we'll still be us at whatever size or shape we happen to be.
As an aside, I remember hearing comedian Russell Brand once talking about the frustration at never being able to take a holiday from himself, as he always has to take himself along. How many of us would choose to leave ourselves behind if we could, and have a week away from ourselves?
Lesson #2: SMIZE!
Tyra's catchphrase over the last couple of seasons is to repeatedly telli the girls to 'smize' in their photos.
For those of you not yet in on this one, it means she wants them to smile with their eyes. To do this, we need to think of something that makes us feel happy and it will then show in our eyes (whether or not we are doing the model standard of not actually smiling). Seeing the girls of ANTM smizing for the camera - and, of course, for Tyra and the judges 'on panel' - I've picked up something I can use myself in real life.
By focusing on the things that make me feel happy, it shows in how I look, think and behave. I come across differently; I exude an inner confidence that others can really see.
For me, my inner happiness comes from thinking about my boyfriend's cat purring in my lap. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy, and loved. It makes me feel happy. He also does the perfect cat-shaped smize; something that's probably rather necessary since he doesn't have the ability to actually smile!
Lesson two then, is that how we feel shows in our faces.
And this is the essence of SMIZING. Deep, Tyra, deep.
Lesson #3: Technology makes or brakes the images we see.
It's said time and again, but it's only when I see the behind-the-scenes work that goes into producing the 'perfect' picture or video that it is brought home to me. Airbrushing changes how people look. They don't look like how they look in pictures. So why is it that we go along with the notion that we should be held to this standard as we go about our daily lives?
Now, don't get me wrong.
I love magazines. Truly. I adore the imagery, real or unreal, and can be known to sneak a sniff of the pages pre-read (I do make it clear that I've got issues, right?). And I will be the first person to say that the media wasn't a deciding factor in me developing an eating disorder.
It's just important to remember that a photograph or a carefully edited television show is what it is: an image. Pieces of art. They are not an accurate snapshot of a person at that given point in time. They are manipulated to portray a message, and it's not always a message we should act upon, or take upon ourselves to live out.
Lesson three, then, is to be media savvy. Don't forget that for every image you see, there is a whole team of people working to make it what it is. The model's just one part of the picture. It's a collective work of art.
So there is more to reality TV than meets the eye, right? Well... yes and no.
On my own journey to move forward from disordered eating, I've learnt not to see things through an eating disordered filter. I can appreciate that for many, this isn't yet possible. It might thus be more beneficial for those people not to watch things that they may see as "triggering", for lack of a better term.
Whilst I can appreciate how ANTM might not be the best viewing for those with disordered eating, for me, it's fun. It's escapism. I hope that I've shown that we can take what we will from the media. If we choose to see it as threatening, we will find nothing but the bad in it. If we can put on our positive specs, we might see it a little differently.
Looooooooove me xxx
Note: Written earlier in 2010, whilst at work. Underemployment = spending too much time thinking about ANTM. Could that be another lesson?! ;-)
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