Hitting Rock Bottom...A Story of Personal Accountability

“Ester asked why people are sad.
"That’s simple," says the old man. "They are the prisoners of their personal history. Everyone believes that the main aim in life is to follow a plan. They never ask if that plan is theirs or if it was created by another person. They accumulate experiences, memories, things, other people's ideas, and it is more than they can possibly cope with. And that is why they forget their dreams.”
― Paulo Coelho, The Zahir

Sometimes I get sad. I know we all do and that it's a perfectly "normal" emotion but I find myself feeling selfish (on top of sad)...as if I don't have the right to be depressed.

Years ago (and who really knows when it all started) I suffered from pretty severe depression. Severe enough that over the years I went from a being hospitalized anorexic to an over-weight binge eater to a self-sabotaging, controlling bitch of a wife to a divorced, needy, recluse who couldn't leave the house for anything other than work since that actually gave me a reason to live. I took Paxil just to be able to muster the "I-give-just-enough-of-a-shit" to take a shower and feed myself at least once in a while.

During my stint in the psyche ward in Anchorage, Alaska (for anorexia) I went to therapy sessions daily. They ranged from one-on-ones to groups with a lot of role-playing, acting as the concern parents or as each other as outside observers. I was only 16 (I celebrated my 17th birthday in the hospital, as well as Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years) so I was still looking for others to tell me how to feel and show me how to act. I wasn't ready to be a grown up and with high school graduation looming I knew I was at a crossroads...no longer the youngest child and certainly not ready to face real life. Still, I learned a lot.

After my discharge I went almost a decade without professional help although I struggled immensely as my weight fluctuated up and down the scale and my life remained out-of-control. I married a military man because it was the only life style I knew. Even though the chaos of moving every 2-3 years had previously worn me down my young self saw no way out of it at the time...I depended on the medical benefits. Instead of trying to find happiness I chose to try to control my husband. Things did not end well.

At some point I decided to search for more answers. I'm analytical...I need to see the map before I can commit to taking the first step. I found an Al-Anon program that met locally as I was sure that the root of all of my "issues" stemmed from my dad's alcoholism. I went 3 times a week to 3 different groups. None of it clicked and frankly, it left me more confused and depressed. I looked at the women in those groups, some of them now grandmothers and great-grandmothers who appeared to still be blaming their parent for their entire lives. I wanted to "get over it" not wallow in pity for the next 40 years. I wanted to heal and found quite the opposite happening in these meetings.

Shortly after my Al-Anon experience I really hit rock bottom (I know, you'd have thought that would have happened when I was in in-patient care barely clinging to life). I worked as many hours as possible, often for free, just so I wouldn't have to go home. I lived alone and was in the most destructive relationship I've witnessed. Had I been my own friend I would have slapped myself across the face and asked "what in the hell are you doing to yourself?? Get OUT!!". But I didn't like myself and felt that the pain of remaining in this relationship was my Karma...and it was quite possible I deserved worse.

I beat myself up real good in those few years. It got so I couldn't leave the house and dreaded the weekends when I knew my boyfriend would make promises to come see me but wouldn't...leaving me waiting from Friday after work until Monday morning...unable to sleep, constantly checking my phone or listening for a car door to slam. I missed so much life by just waiting.

I slept all the time until bruises started to form on my body. Then I got brave enough to see my doctor, sounding utterly pathetic as I explained that while I didn't want to die I also really didn't care if I lived. It was too much work and so exhausting to be. That's when I got the prescription for Paxil.

I hate taking medication and, as a control freak I really hated taking psychiatric drugs. I naively felt that "smart" people didn't need drugs...we can analyze things and figure it all out with common sense. But I lost complete control and was spiraling deeper into the abyss. The Paxil was able to slowly start applying the brakes.

In my new mellow state I turned to yoga and meditation and through much diligence was able to get weaned off of the Paxil (with my doctor's help). There were some rough spots and it would have been easy, if not medically sound, to start the pills again but I wanted a clear mind to face the demons head on...even though it was terrifying. The drugs had made me not care...but they didn't fix anything and I wanted to be fixed. If I stopped them cold turkey I would most definitely get sucked right back down that rabbit hole...it was the self-realization and personal accountability that was truly healing me.

I stopped blaming my dad's alcoholism for my issues...that was a far to easy of a crutch to use as I started to approach my 4th decade of life. I stopped blaming my mom for being co-dependent instead of standing her ground (something I was actually very wrong about and I hope to write about my mom's bravery in a future post). That was her battle and not something I was obligated to become just because she was. I learned to accept and embrace responsibility for myself and my actions. And I didn't just say those words...I mean I embraced it...100%. Yes my dad was an alcoholic but that does not define me!!

So many people have uttered those words..."I take responsibility" only to follow up with "but so-and-so needs to take responsibility too". No they don't. This is our own journey and while there may be people hanging out on the periphery they do not have control over your life, your emotions or your future...unless you let them have control. And then guess what...it's still your fault for handing over that control.

It's a hard thing to accept, I know. It means standing in front of a mirror and having a good long talk with yourself. It means facing every situation and making the best decision for you and accepting the consequences good or bad. It means looking at all of those things you'd like to blame your issues on and realizing that you and only you can allow them to continue to control your happiness.

Use those instances as a crutch and I promise you will never heal. We all have our own lives to live and we all make insanely ridiculous decisions on occasion. But we need to move forward or be stuck reliving those moments for the rest of our lives. My dad was an alcoholic. Some shitty things occurred in my life due to his alcoholism but I have released him from any responsibility for my actions or my current or future happiness. It's only fair. He obviously had his own battles to wage...

I still get sad...and sometimes it scares the shit out of me. I know from personal experience how precarious the edge can be. I have a wonderful life and have been born into pretty ideal conditions. I often feel guilty when I feel the sadness creeping in. Sometimes the guilt is worse than the sadness...as if I have no right to just be sad. Sometimes I try to fight the sad until it turns into an ugly form of displaced anger. But in the end what I really need is just to be sad. Maybe even cry. And no matter how beautiful my life or how perfect the day I must embrace this sadness and let it have it's moment...with no blame and no guilt.

*This is my personal story and is in no way intended to replace sound medical advise. Every one is different and it is ill-advised for anyone to stop taking prescribed medication without professional medical supervision as it could have adverse effects on one's mental state. Please seek proper medical advise from a professional for help if you think you suffer from depression.

What Doesn't {but almost} Kill Us...

My last blog post I wrote about my own experience with anorexia. I’ve often referred to this time as surreal, like a story I read or a movie I watched…completely detached, as if I was not the protagonist. I guess it’s sort of a defense mechanism on two fronts. One being the embarrassment of having allowed myself to almost die right in front of my parent’s eyes, with no ‘good reason’…a typical white girl from a typical middle-class family, starving herself to death for what?? Even I didn’t know.

My first full day in Charter North Inpatient Hospital (1987).

The second being my embarrassment over the fact that if you met me you would see there is no physical evidence of this illness. To hear me tell this story in the body I have now doesn’t compute…at least not in my head. It’s easy to disassociate myself because the dots just don’t connect. How could someone who ‘dieted’ from 125 pounds to less than 80 pounds in a matter of a few months now struggle to lose (and keep off) even 5 pounds?

What I have managed to hoard away are snippets of distorted eating and thinking…sneaking food, guarding my plate, trying to stretch calories, abhorring any discussion of my food while I’m eating, and a tendency to eat in a structured way (vegetarian, vegan, raw). Intellectually, I know that I still obsess about food, exercise and my weight. I often wonder if fluctuating between the extremes is really all that much better-as if eating half a bag of Doritos is really a healthy way of thumbing my nose at anorexia or dieting in general (only to later “pay for it” by a day of green smoothies, shakes or all veggies and no carbs).

For years now I’ve claimed to be completely recovered from anorexia, and looking at the scale that would be more than true. But, since part of this disorder is about everything except the weight I can see that I am not truly recovered…not completely.

Like a lot of people I know who battle with eating disorders ranging from bulimia to binge eating, healing the exterior doesn’t always mean the inside is fixed as well. In turning to my yoga mat and meditation I find the bandage being ripped off {again} and the pain being exposed. It hurts, it’s raw…and yes, it might seem easier on the surface to let it hide in the dark corners of mind. But I’m ready to heal…face the intermittent sadness and self-doubt (or hate or loathing) that is truly at the root of all of this.

I’m ready to own the illness that that almost killed me rather than pretend it happened to someone else. Twenty-five years of battling my mind and body is long enough.

My Anorexia Had Nothing to do with Photoshop

To be honest, I was never the type of girl to read Cosmo or worry about fashion. I was too busy reading every thing ever written by J.D. Salinger and Stephen King, riding horses and dreaming of competing at the Olympics. Most of my adolescences was spent as a working student at riding stables. My attire consisted of barn clothes for the most part. I cut my hair short since it spent countless hours under a riding helmet and it seemed rather pointless to fight a losing battle against hat-head. I was half tom-boy and half nerd, which was pretty suitable for an introvert like myself.

My horse, Elwood, and me in Redlands, CA. We won High Point that day in Dressage. This was a few months before I had to sell him and move to Alaska when I was 16 years old.

My older sister and I weren't particularly close at the time so I didn't really have anyone to show me the ropes regarding make up and hair or putting together cute outfits. I didn't have a boyfriend in school and therefore didn't attend any dances or social gatherings (did I mention I was a nerd...and an introvert). I also didn't have any weight issues, ate what I felt like eating and didn't do any extra exercises outside of the mandatory P.E. classes and working at the barn.

 

Me at 17 getting ready for Prom. This was taken after being treated for anorexia. I obviously had reverted to my old non-eating habits.

My experience with anorexia falls outside of what most of society thinks triggers such behavior and outside of what the anti-media community believes contributes to this illness (even though I watched plenty of T.V., looked through my mom's women's magazines and watched movies).  For me, anorexia was about control and later turned to self-punishment and then habit. I didn't want to be a model, I didn't feel the pressure to look a different way, and I honestly did not start off with a distorted body image...I was cognizant that I was "normal", maybe even fit. If anything anorexia was a way for me to rebel and be a non-conformist due to some major changes in my life (we moved from California to Alaska the summer before my senior year of high school). I think it's a dangerous assumption, especially for those directly affected by eating disorders, to view this as strictly a weight issue.Trying to convince the individual (or the world) that photoshopped pictures and under weight models are the root of this disease may totally miss the mark in an attempt to place the blame on 'some one else'.**

 

Tell me I should eat and I'll tell you I'm full. Tell me I'm too thin and I'll drop a few more pounds, not because I feel fat...but because I can, regardless of what you think. That was my mentality. When I was finally hospitalized (I was 16 years old, 5'4" and 84 pounds) and forced to take in calories, I found something else to control...my water intake. Water has no calories and obviously would have no impact on my weight but I refused to drink it anyway...and often dumped it into the pillow I sat on to protect my bony body from bruising.

Admittedly, after several months of starving myself, I was terrified of gaining the weight back...terrified that I wouldn't be able to stop the weight gain. I clung to my old habits convinced it would provide a cushion for the inevitable weight gain that comes with age. But this was not the root cause of my illness. So, when it came to trying to win this battle and save my life, I was lost and confused. Most of the doctors I spoke with had little to no experience with anorexia and dealt more with drug abuse, teen alcoholism and the occasional schizophrenic. Assuming that I was only concerned with being thinner was the wrong approach. And while I did get a rush from watching the numbers on scale drop it was only because it meant I was the winner, the one in control.

What caused me to get help? I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror...naked...from behind. It was the first time I just saw only an image and not me. What I saw reminded me of the pictures of concentration camp victims...hollowed out buttocks and a spine that was so bony it appeared to be outside of my skin. I was exhausted, scared and although I had often desired to just fall asleep and never wake up, I knew I didn't want to die after all. I asked to go into inpatient care some 350 miles away from my parents and school.

It was not an easy task to recover and it was necessary for me to relearn how to eat. I gained a lot of weight, not just because of my metabolism, but because I forgot how to eat and now knew what it was to 'diet'. Strangely enough, having never had a weight issue before, I soon succumbed to the classic yo-yo dieting, the latest and greatest dieting trends and a 20 year battle of dieting because I had starved myself and forgotten how to eat.

By taking control I really lost control. My body recovered but my mind still hasn't (at least not fully). I find I am more affected by the media now then I ever was when I became anorexic. Affected by the 'new science' behind weight-loss, green smoothies, paleo, the raw food movement, skinny rules, the thousands of diet books, inspirational Facebook posts and Pinterest images depicting the "perfect" body.

I became consumed by food rather than consuming food. It became so much more than fuel for my body...it's the enemy and the comforter, the problem and the solution, the life giver and the life taker and (for many of us) it becomes our all-consuming identity. But in all reality...it's just food...calories that keep the living alive and healthy. Food is not meant to be a punishment or reward. It's not something we 'deserve' because we worked out hard or missed a meal the day before. It's sustenance...just like breathing in oxygen (ya know, we don't say we deserve a big ol' healthy inhalation because we've been 'good'). It's a function of nature.

I have an idea that a lot of us are more alike then maybe we imagined...the chronic dieters, the anorexic and the weight-loss maintainer. Our next meal (or lack there of) is always on our mind, calorie content flashes through our mind when we look at the bakery display and in the back of our minds (maybe just for a fleeting moment) we realize that food is dictating our lives instead of fueling our next adventure.
 

We eat or don't eat for control, we eat or don't eat to hide our emotions and eventually we eat or don't eat because we have forgotten how to feed ourselves. Yet we often prefer to remain in our own little group, unaware of how similar we are...that the overweight person who we view has no self-control is the farthest thing from us, the restrictors...the ones who can turn away even a leaf of lettuce for fear of weight gain. Conversely, the binger or maintainer can hardly fathom that someone who once weighed 84 pounds as an adult can contribute anything to a conversation regarding dieting or the hardships one encounters in maintaining a healthy weight. I think we could learn a lot from each other.

 

The body is miraculous. If left to it's own devises it figures out how to survive and maintain balance. But we interfere and throw a wrench in the gears. We break this symbiosis and then sometimes spend a lifetime trying to figure out how to fix it again. Just like a drug addict or tweaker...we take it apart, try to put it back together and, when that doesn't work, we go look for the next fix. Maybe one day I will actually learn to get out of my own way rather than buying yet another diet book.




 

 

**This is my own opinion based solely on my personal experience with anorexia 20 years ago. There is plenty of research out there to support or deny specific root causes to this illness. What I believe is that the mental illness comes before the pounds come off. Otherwise, everyone who reads Cosmo or looks through a Victoria's Secret catalogue or watches the 100's of movies or TV shows with thin actors and actresses would be anorexic too.

Silencing the Past

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I used to keep a journal. It was your basic composition book type journal (the old hard backed black and white notebook), which I felt was very Holden Caulfield-ny...someone I thought I'd rather be, especially when I was writing. Before the composition book when I was a young girl I remember having a real Diary, it even had a lock. Later, in high school, I kept a plain old college ruled spiral bound as a journal, until my father 'accidentally' mistook MY yellow spiral bound book of secrets as HIS yellow spiral bound book of work notes and read it...it was not good. It was then when he learned, at work, that I was no longer virgin.

Me, age 17 on a day pass from the hospital in Anchorage where I was 'recovering' from anorexia. My dad came down from Fairbanks to visit me during Christmas.

But, even as an adult...primarily when I was struggling with some love sickness, loneliness, undefined life plan, or...loneliness (yes, I know I said that already) I felt drawn to write in my hard backed comp book. I had learned of it's importance while hospitalized in Charter North for anorexia at age 16 (not long after the above incident), some 350 miles from our 'home' in Fairbanks Alaska. I had also learned that I could make people laugh and get high praise from my English Lit and Written Composition professors at University by writing about what seemed to me the mundaneness of my life.

When Bridget Jones' Diary hit the shelves my journaling took on a new life. I would be sure to write in it daily lest it miss me too much. It was a friend and confidant. It was a place I knew, in the back of my mind...even while the shit was hitting the fan...where I would go to write down all of the awful things that were happening to me at that instant. Somehow that made it all tolerable, although I would find myself weeping onto the pages as I relived my days...the pain of horrible breakups, empty promises, loneliness, disappointment, financial struggles, etc., etc., etc...

Maxx

I wrote about my horse, Maxx, and the devastating effect his death had on my life. I wrote about my old boyfriend, Adam, who would promise to come over and then never show up...for days or even weeks. I wrote about my disappointment over where my life was headed...no where. Wasted talent, wasted mind, wasted life. Always wrapped up in either a boyfriend or lack there of. Pages and pages of me reasoning with me. It's hard to be smart and logical yet always making the worst decisions possible.

Don't get me wrong, my journaling led to quite a bit of insight, especially when I would reread what I wrote. Often I would barely recognize the words as my own. Sometimes even the handwriting was different...me but not. Or maybe me just telling me in a different 'voice' how to get out of whatever situation I was in. I had no family around me, opting to live in Northern California, 3000+ miles from my parents, even when I was in my mid-20's. There would have been no shame in 'going home' at that age after a divorce and having only a $13 an hour job for income.

The best wine for my limited income.

Instead, I journaled. And watched a shit-ton of Friends and Seinfeld. Oh, and then Bridget Jones' Diary came out on video...so I watched that, over and over and over again. I developed my own break-up/pity-party basket...Gloria Gaynor's song I Will Survive, the movies "Singles", "Reality Bites" and later "Elizabeth", "Closer", and "Love Actually", microwave popcorn and 2 Buck Chuck for dinner. I worked a ridiculous amount (full time with as much OT as I could get at a car dealership and then part-time waitressing at night) just so I wouldn't have to be home...alone.

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But my journal...that's what kept me sane (or somewhat sane because I literally thought my life was spiraling into oblivion and happiness would either never be mine or only found in a pill). In desperation I tried that pill which was called Paxil...only to find out it didn't bring happiness, it brought blase...a non-committal to any kind of emotion happy or sad. And as painful as my life seemed to be I knew that I would rather feel that pain to full extent if that was the only way to be able to recognize the joy that I knew I deserved. I got rid of the pills, focused on my journaling and started meditating.

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Many years have passed and I find myself reading Joyce Maynard's At Home in the World: A Memoir right now (thanks to a post by Michele at Yoga Freedom Blog). Joyce, as well as her mother, kept all of their letters over the years...and even made carbon copies of the one's they sent. Writing on a topic which happened 26 earlier, Ms. Maynard has at her finger-tips, not only an exquisite memory but years and years of correspondence with her family as well as author J.D. Salinger (whom she ended up having a relationship with when she was 18 and he was 53). Being inspired yet again to journal I recall, with mixed emotion, that I have destroyed ALL of my old ones.

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Gone...each and every one of them. Not long ago I came across one (which has since been destroyed) read a few pages and experienced a visceral response (something like embarassment) to the pain and struggle I went through. I felt I had changed so much that I couldn't (or maybe didn't want to) relate to that person who wrote those words...that they came from a moment (or year) of weakness. A weak person, unhappy and confused, whose words were not worth saving. What could I possibly learn from those words and why would I want to reread them anyway?? By destroying those journals I felt I was silencing the past...but the lessons have still been learned.

There are lost moments, realizations, and insights to be sure. But I won't be dwelling on them. Instead, I have my not-so-good memory and those of my closest and oldest friends and sister. It's not that I want to relive my past or dwell there for some sentimental reason. I'm happy right here in the present, while occasionally venturing out to plan some amazing adventures in the near future. Perhaps destroying those journals was the right thing to do...I will never know because there is no other option. Perhaps, for me, that act of writing down my feelings and battling them out on paper was all I needed.

But now, with computers and internet and 'free' blogging sites I find myself enjoying the process even though I know it can be a more permanent record...perhaps not so easily destroyed as those old composition books. As I grow older (and hopefully wiser) I understand that all of those moments...even my weakest ones, are what helped to form who am I right now. And for that, there is no shame or embarassment.

Purging {to save my sanity}...

As I have become more involved with Social Media it's come to my attention that, just as in "real" life, my cyber life often needs to be revisited and prioritized.  Whether it be blogs or Twitter chats, I have recently become aware of the need to place more value on my time and cull the sources of information that I either no longer benefit from or can't contribute to any more (those that I feel my input falls on deaf ears).  It's a natural process yet I still feel guilty thinking of potentially removing a couple of blogs from my already over-whelmed Google Reader.

A few of the things that I am having trouble with lately involve those blogs that have become either all-day, every-day wedding posts as well as the "I'm Pregnant" posts.  Don't get me wrong, I am thrilled to tears when I find out someone is getting married or having a baby but I just can't find the time to read post after post of "25 MORE potential wedding venues" or "Here is our list of baby names..add your favorite in the comments section and we will use RandomGenerator to pick our baby's name".  I know that's harsh, after all, my own few readers may not give a crap that I like author David Sedaris or that I'm training for another stupid marathon, but there are so many wonderful blogs out there that I am finding it difficult to find time to read the ones I can't relate to.  (Note: These are blogs that I was reading sporadically that evolved very rapidly from health/running to almost strictly wedding/baby oriented reads, I have the same 'issue' with a few blogs I thought I liked but mostly seem to lack content in favor of posting daily about random things (like traffic or an hour-by-hour recount of their day)...I haven't built a 'relationship' with any of these bloggers and mostly just cyber-stalked them.  Had they been "friends" I, of course, would be thrilled to be a part of their new life circumstances.)

But the main thing that dawned on me after a recent Twitter chat was the emphasis that many, many people (not just bloggers or twitter users) place on food.  There's the WIAW (What I Ate Wednesday) posts, which are sometimes cool because you can actually *see* what some healthy, clean eating people eat that contributes to their healthy lifestyle, but this latest chat really seemed to be bordering on obsession with questions like: "what's your favorite cheat food?", "what are your favorite sweet snacks? salty?"...I swear, halfway through it all I felt like eating half a bag of Chex Mix followed by a hunk of dark chocolate (I may or may not have actually followed through on this thought, I truly can't recall).

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It seems that many of us that try to focus on healthy eating or weight loss already have, shall we say, an unhealthy obsessions with food in some way.  Whether a binge eater, emotional eater, calorie restrictor, or exercise bulimic we probably spend far too much time thinking about what we will eat at our next meal, how many calories we've already consumed and often are plotting how to make a low calorie dessert even lower calorie.  So, while I want to be able to remain supportive, I also find that I need to protect my own sanity.  I've actually found myself living more 'in the moment' lately (this is a HUGE accomplishment) and to do that I can't be worried about how many more hours until my next meal...let alone what cheat food I would like to eat when I know I will not 'allow' it anyway.

Me, age 17, getting ready for Senior Prom.

This type of thinking only reminds me of the dark days of my anorexia.  I literally spent the majority of my days making lists of foods and food combinations that would maximize a feeling of fullness with the least amount of calories.  While I was failing Chemistry (I only passed with a C because the entire school felt sorry for me) I was filling my notebook with these calculations rather than deciphering the Periodic Table.  I dropped my Pre-Calculus course (which I was doing well in) because all of those numbers interfered with what I felt were more important numbers...the calorie count in every food known to man.  Although I really wasn't eating (I survived, and I use that term loosely, on diet sodas and clear broth) I was spending an unimaginable amount of time THINKING about eating.

While I viewed my own body as grotesque and imperfect I didn't see others in the same way. My mother, who I love dearly, has struggled with her weight for most of my childhood.  During the time I was anorexic she would have been classified as obese, maybe even morbidly obese...yet I didn't 'judge' her or even feel the slightest bit of disgust at her weight that I felt towards my own.  For me, anorexia was an internal beast...I could look at a fit, healthy person and wish I looked like her although I was 30-60 pounds lighter.

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The battles that go on the minds of the binger and the anorexic are often the same...it's about control and the stifling of emotions.  Both generally suffer body dismorphia (distorted body image) and use food to 'penalize' their disappointment in the self.  Anorexics punish themselves by withholding food (and sometimes water) while bingers

I'm beginning to think that if I could just release the obsession...maybe spend 15% of my day concerned with food...that everything would fall into place naturally because no matter how obsessed, no matter what weight I've been (too thin, too fat) I have not found that 'happy place' for my self-image.  Obviously, if THINKING about food and calories could get me my dream body I'd be a successful fitness model by now.  I've read countless diet books...way more books on this one subject than is required for any university level degree program for almost ANY profession yet I STILL scan through new diet books and read about the latest and greatest diets that seem to spring up almost daily.  I've come to the realization that this isn't working...and it isn't healthy, for me.

Source: I highly recommend reading this article by the above artist.

So goes another Tough Love episode in my life.  Rather than focusing on trimming the fat off of my mid-section I am going to trim it off of the daily bombardment of food obsessed, diet obsessed, reading material in an effort to get me back to living in the present.  Please don't get me wrong...there are many 'weight-loss' and 'healthy-living' blogs that I adore and will continue to read, and I understand that it does help some people to talk out their food battles on their blogs while getting support from this community.  I will always be a supporter of these blogs/friends, people who delve into the emotional side of their eating disorders and can offer the kind of insight I have {hopefully} just gained.  And I hope to do the same for someone else.

Trusting Myself...

Just when I think I have stepped-up my workouts, feeling proud of my resolve, it becomes blindingly apparent that I really have to make more of an effort if I want to lower my body-fat percentage.  I figure it is a combination of things...my love of eating (I like to feel satiated at all times), over-estimating my actual effort, under-estimating my caloric intake, and perhaps some residual metabolic damage from my eating disorder.  

Me getting ready for prom, 1988, about 89 pounds.

For years I have felt that I was simply an observer of my eating disorder...that I had healed/recovered so long ago that it was almost like it happened to another person, not me.  But I still have a few odd habits...the need to feel satiated is one of them.  There were "tricks" I learned to deceive my stomach into feeling like I'd eaten...filling up on warm liquids (coffee, tea, broth), diet soda (sometimes up to a 12 pack of Diet Coke a day), air popped popcorn, plain lettuce, and watering down things to make them stretch (ie adding water to pancake mix and thinning it out so much that is barely held together and then eating these watery crepes with sugar-free syrup).  But, as I sit here now, I realize that I still do a lot of these things.  I have no idea anymore if that is good or bad. What I do know is that my body is no longer changing...I am working our 6 days a week yet seeing no real improvements. It's time to take a deeper look, to be honest, to deal with the issues that are apparently still there.

There is a fine line for me between an acceptable level of dieting and compulsive dieting and working out.  It's frustrating because I feel that had I NOT been anorexic then no matter how hard I work out now, no one would question me or my motivation.  Maybe I am mentally sabotaging myself because I can't accept or deal with this issue.  When you feel like your eating disorder was an out-of-body experience yet you are held to a different 'standard' for fear of slipping back into those habits, it feels like a no win situation...I am constantly guarded, having to explain to family and/or friends that I am NOT starving myself if they find out I've lost 5 pounds.  Or that I am not over doing it because I want to run a marathon.  Self-doubt creeps back in and second guess my own motivation, diet and exercise habits...and basically stay the same.

It's time I regain my confidence and self-esteem.  To trust that I can take care of this body without over-thinking and over-analyzing every little thing I do.  I KNOW the right things to do...proper nutrition, proper training, the need for rest, to not obsess about the scale.  I know to measure my improvement by improved endurance, how my clothes fit, inches lost, body fat percentage, and over-all well-being.  And I need to realize that my family and friends are only concerned because they love me and I don't need to get defensive, assuming they are criticizing my health goals (which then leads me to self-sabotage).  I can see, in my mind's eye, exactly where I want to be and I know how to get there...now I just have to get out of my own way!

Tofu Steak Stir-Fry 

1 pound package of Lite Tofu (extra firm)

4 TBS nutritional yeast

1/2 tsp garlic powder

1 bunch of bok choy

2 small sweet potatoes, cooked and cut into pieces

2 cups cooked quinoa

1 TBS Bragg Liquid Aminos, 1 TBS water

salt and pepper to taste

1-Drain and press tofu to remove as much water as possible. Slice into 1/4" steaks.

2-Dredge steaks in mixture of yeast and garlic powder.

3-Brown steaks in a pan sprayed with cooking spray. 

4-Stir fry bok choy in sprayed pan til starting to wilt.  

5- Add quinoa, sweet potatoes, Braggs and water, stirring to coat. Add salt and pepper to taste.

6-Carefully combine tofu steaks and heat entire mixture.

Cashew Sauce

1/4 cup roasted cashews

2 cloves garlic, peeled

1/2 tsp tamari

1/4 cup mirin

1-Combine all ingredients in food processor or blender until creamy.

2-Top stir fry with cashew sauce.