There are lots and lots of changes going on in my life right now. Good, hard, sad, exciting...lots. I mean, it's typical, right? I'm now a college graduate (still — cannot believe that), and I've got my life in front of me. And, given that it's me we're talking about, I'm all nostalgic and melancholy and oh, y'all, there's so much running through my mind.
One thing's stayed the same, though, amid all of these changes. I still struggle every day with food, with eating, with bingeing and purging, with restricting, and with enormous hatred of my body and the way it is. I haven't written about that in a while.
For months and months, I tried to pretend I was okay. I was still having unhealthy behaviors, but I had managed to convince myself that I was doing better, that this was just something I was going to live with for the rest of my life. But it was okay, right? Eating massive quantities of food and subsequently sticking my fingers down my throat one day, and the next not eating much of anything at all was okay. Right?
I was consumed with feeling so, so self-absorbed with regards to my eating disorder. I felt so guilty for drowning in thoughts of me, myself, my body, my food, my weight, my my my MY everything. I pushed those thoughts away as best I could, and took comfort in the knowledge that even though my behaviors were still unhealthy, at least my weight was remaining the same — a weight that I didn't love, but was something I could deal with okay. As long as I maintained it.
And then I started gaining.
I've put my body through so many roller coasters over the past few years. And long periods of severe restricting, followed by periods of bingeing and purging, have really caught up with me. I'm seeing it now. If I restrict now, my body goes into hyper-overdrive. It's like a biological pull, a drive, that I have to then eat. Eat. Eat. My body is so afraid that I'll go back into severe restriction for a long time that I just can't anymore. If I don't eat for a bit, then my body slams into the opposite direction — and I can't stop eating. Which leads to puking. Which leads to more eating. And puking. It's an endless cycle of wearing a path between the kitchen and the bathroom that always leads with my head in the toilet.
I've been dealing with this for long enough to know that the best thing for me is to establish a normal, regular pattern of eating. And I try. But that scares the shit out of me. Especially now that I've gained some weight back...I'm just terrified to eat 'normally.' So I plod through the days trying to balance eating enough that I'm not starving, but not eating so much that I can't stop eating (oh hey, compulsive over-eating disorder).
Cait sat me down for a come-to-Jesus talk a few weeks ago. I was in serious denial about my eating habits. And she calmly, firmly made me see what I'd been trying not to see for so long.
It was hard.
I feel enormous. I look in the mirror, and I see fat. Cellulite. Blubber. Every bit of me is just. too. damn. CURVY. On top of this all, I'm going to be in a bathing suit on the beach for the next week — I'm going with Clara's family on vacation. That scares the living shit out of me.
But. I have to keep remembering what's most important to me in life: becoming a mother myself. Sooner rather than later. And if I'm going to do that, I have to get to a point where I'm healthier. Not just so that my body can be physically healthy enough to grow and birth a child, and then nurse that child...but so that my future children grow up with a good role model in regards to food, weight, and our bodies. I want my children to know that our bodies are sacred, they are special, and they should be cherished and treated well.
I need to get there myself, first.
I think of myself with my own children down the road, and I want to be healthy for them. I want to get healthy for them. And so I begin a renewed effort to fight back these demons. If I can't do it for myself, I can do it for my kids.
I have to.