What NOT to Say

In case you ever need to know this, in case you don't already know this, I have some news. I have news of something you should never say to a recovering anorexic ANYONE. "Oh look at you having another donut." Don't say it in an office. Don't say it in front of other people. Don't say it in jest. JUST DON'T SAY IT!

I am grateful that I'm in a stable food place because a year ago those words would have spiraled me. They would have spiraled me whether said about me or said about someone else in my presence. They would have shamed me. This year they frustrate me but are not spiraling me.

Yes, I had a second donut that day. No, I won't allow myself to feel guilty that I had 2 donuts on my sons birthday. The words were not intended to be hurtful. They were intended in a "good for you, go get 'em" kind of way. She doesn't even know my history.

And THAT is why to not say food shaming words to ANYONE. You have no idea if the person you are talking about has had food difficulties. You have no idea if someone else who hears you talk has food issues.

I don't look like I battle an eating disorder, many of us don't. Please be cautious with your words. Even when they are well intentioned they can wound.

Day 1 Change

Change.  I could write an entire book about change. The moment you almost figure it all out, the game changes, the players change, the rules change.

Change was a big part of my life growing up.  We moved A LOT, and no, we weren't a military family.  My folks just couldn't stay put.  We moved houses in the same city often, moved to a far away city for a few months, moved back to the original city with two different houses in the year and a half that we lived there until we finally moved here to Denver.  And there were several new houses here as well, six in nine years to be exact.  Homes weren't the only inconsistency.  Almost nothing in my life was constant.

My body started to change and even though I thought I was the ugliest girl ever born, boys still took notice.  But not the boys I ever wanted to take notice, just the ones who saw my body as a way to fill their need without my permission.

My body changed again when I stopped eating.  The curves got smaller.  The complexion got worse.  It wasn't a good change, but it was definitely a change.

Change when I got married.  Learning how to keep a budget (still learning that one!), learning how to cook and clean (still learning those as well!), learning how to communicate when I was hurt and scared that communicating would make him love me less or worse, leave me.

Body change again when I started trying to get pregnant and practically overnight gained 20 pounds.  And then the curves that came with finally growing that sweet baby boy inside of me.  And then again and for good measure one more time.

Everything changed when I relapsed.  I lost friends.  I lost weight.  I lost hair.  I lost time.  I changed.  My relationships changed. My body changed.  My energy changed. Change.  Change.  Change.

Change in recovery.  Changing weights, changing perspectives, changing coping skills. More change.

Even today life changed again. A story for another day, though.

So really in the midst of far too much change, I have these bits of wisdom that I hold on to.
~ The only thing certain in life is change.

~Just when the caterpillar thought her life was over, she became a beautiful butterfly.  (That is a heck of a lot of change right there, and yet it brings beauty in the end)

and my current favorite
~Vision is what carries you through the pain of transformation.  (Yeah, go ahead and read that one again.  A few more times if you need.  It is that good)
 

in which I admit to shameful faults and resolve to work on their root cause

My kids had spring break last week.  It was a fun week of getting things done and catching up with old friends.  One of my friends who I only see a couple of times a year because of the hour plus drive between our houses came to visit me one of the days.  She said some things that have had me pondering all week long, things that the more I think about the more I think she is on to something.

So I've mentioned before that my house is messy pretty much always.  Have I mentioned that messy for me is not what messy for most people is?  There are always dishes in my sink.  I get told "Of course there are dishes, you feed five people!", but this goes beyond some left over because with boys someone is always eating in my house.  I'm a slob, people.  We eat in the living room lately because my kitchen is overwhelmed with dishes and stuff.  My laundry pile is seriously out of control, I'm not kidding when I say I'm going to try to scale Mt.Saint Laundry.  My desk?  Well, I hold my keyboard in my lap when I type because of the bills/papers/dvd cases/magazines/etc. that have overtaken the top of the desk. 

So now that I have stated my slob status, I realize that there may be a deeper issue to my aversion to cleaning.  My friend asked me questions about why it is so difficult for me to clean up.  How often does your mom come to visit you?  Rarely.  Is keeping everything messy possibly a way to keep her out of your house (ahem, life)?  Would she visit more if you kept up with your house? Crap, probably. 

This has been on my mind all week.  I keep pondering and pondering her words.  And I added my own questions.  Like, is this my form of rebelling against everything my mom stands for?  Is this my way of telling myself that I AM NOT LIKE THAT WOMAN IN ANY WAY?  Does my lack of interest in cleaning stem from much deeper issues than I just don't want to?  Hmmmmmmm.......

My friend has known me since I was a tween (hate that word and yet totally just laughed at using it).  She knows my family well.  She had lived with my family for a time when I was younger.  She also mentioned that maybe this is my connection to my mother and my childhood.  Her observation was that my mom's main communications with me while I was growing up were either manipulating me or nagging me about cleaning. I wasn't allowed to be me, to feel my feelings or to think my own thoughts.  Have I taken that to a new level as an adult in my effort to separate myself as my own person?

I have spent so many years defining myself APART from my mother and refusing to let her still run my life, only to realize that I'm still allowing her to control me, just in an opposite way than it used to be.  Until I work through my mom issues, it's never going to get better.  Why did it take me so long to realize this?

Sigh.  I guess I've got some heart work to do.  I'm annoyed that my friend was right.  And I'm relieved she was right because now I at least have a starting point of how to change it.  There is nothing about recovery that is easy.  I do consider this recovery work.  How I keep my kitchen definitely plays a factor in my recovery vs. disease progress.  Plus, I have come to the belief that recovery is combined of all of  the heart issues that cause me to use food (or rather the lack of) to cope with my feelings.

I do hope there will be an "other side" to this disease.  I do hope that as I work on the garbage in my heart that the physical side will get easier.  I do hope that as I find healing in my heart that I will also find healing in my body.  It does seem like it should be a natural assumption, right?

words to live by

I read a great blog post  recently and to be honest there has been a line in there that has carried me through more than a few rough days. 

"Jesus doesn't care if my thighs touch."

Ok, there have been days that statement has brought me a giggle as I walk into work.  There have been days that it has comforted me as I lament how huge and sloppy and FAT my thighs are.  It has convicted me of my own double standard.  I see models and think they look bow legged when their thighs don't touch.  And yet I cry that my thighs barely touch when I'm standing and smoosh together in all sorts of unglamorous fattiness when I sit.  (True or not, it is what I see and is what I lament when I am alone.  Therefore it is my reality.)  Jesus doesn't care if my thighs touch, even when I criticize the too skinny model all the while criticizing my own body for not being that skinny.

When I panic about ordering pizza with my family, Jesus still doesn't care if my thighs touch.  When I sneak a piece of Dove chocolate only to feel guilty the moment I swallow it, Jesus still doesn't care if my thighs touch.  My thighs are not what makes me His daughter.  My thighs are not what I'm counting on to get me into Heaven (THANK GOD!).  My thighs ultimately have no bearing on eternity.  My thighs don't make God think I'm ugly.  My thighs somehow don't even make Hubby think I'm ugly.  The size of my thighs really doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things.  whew, it takes a lot of work to let something so witty transform your perspective! 

Jess, I hope you get a chance to read this post and know how much your comment has helped me.  Short, sweet and to the point, but it has made me think a LOT lately and has brought comfort on several occasions.

Tonight at work a girl came in.  She was leaning over the ice cream cooler and I noticed it, her thighs didn't touch.  I figured it was how she was standing.  Moments later she walked away from the cooler, letting her fingertips linger for just a moment longer than she maybe meant to.  She came to my register with a low cal fiber granola bar.  I wondered what the voices in her head were doing to her.  I know how brutal they can be, especially when they know you have even expressed desire for a forbidden food.  As she walked away I smiled a little because I wanted to hug her and tell her "Jesus doesn't care if your thighs touch."