Journal Entry/IE Article

[Guest guest]

Hey all,

Just thought I'd share this journal entry / article I wrote the other

day about my journey so far with IE...thanks for reading if you do!

It's kinda long, haha.

____

" I'm Having a Fat Morning "

I woke up with a hand on my stomach, and down came the levees. Down

came the voice.

First, it told me I was too fat. Then it told me that it felt the way

all of my pregnant girlfriends' tummies looked to me, except where

theirs is all beauty and womb-y, life-sustaining goodness, mine is

just layers of fat sloshing around where air used to be.

I got in the shower and looked down: yep, the voice said, there it is.

And, to be honest, I was kind of surprised: it looked a bit smaller

than the Hindenburg zeppelin I had thought it would be. But it was

still bigger than what it was when I got married back in the Spring,

and that's all that mattered.

I'm feeling fatter these days because in truth, I am heavier. About

four years go, I went on a diet and lost not only a significant amount

of weight, but also, apparently, my mind. I started dieting like every

" American woman should " to look the way every " American woman should " ;

and that pressure, coupled with a massive amount of stress and the ton

of bricks I carried around called co-dependency, grew from something

harmless to something dangerous. I would go on endless cycles of

binging and restricting - and, at my very worst, resorted to chewing

and then spitting out food. That was the part one of the one-two punch

that ultimately knocked me down. Part two was my brittle self-esteem

and the crippling desire to be perfect. Needless to say, it all caught

up with me. Two years after I started my diet I was diagnosed with an

eating disorder.

I did some intensive work with a tag-team of a therapist (who worked

on my insides) and with a nutritionist (who helped with the outside).

Working with them I was able to start identifying the reasons for my

behavior - and although it was scary, I began the long process of

finding a healed relationship with food and the people around me. But

although the work was good, it was on a limited-time-only basis,

because only a few short months after starting therapy, I got married.

After my wedding I moved with my husband to a new state, hours away

from my friends and family and job and all that was familiar. There

was a significant gap in between the time I moved and found a new job,

padded by many rough days that are painful to remember, and best saved

for another essay. But with all that free time on my hands, I decided

that would be the time (if there ever was one) to finish what I had

started back when I decided to treat my eating disorder and finally -

really - practice intuitive eating.

Intuitive eating is that natural state we're all born into as humans

that helps us decide when we're hungry, what we want to eat, and when

we're full. It's the age of the baby that cries when it is hungry and

stops when it is satisfied. It's the age of the toddler who, no matter

how much you beg, cajole, or threaten, will not put anything into her

mouth if she doesn't want it. Somewhere along the line, I had lost

that ability. I'm pretty sure it's around fifth grade, because I

remember weighing 100 pounds when I was that age, and for some reason

I couldn't figure out then, that was a Bad Thing.

So, armed with the tools my nutritionist and my therapist gave when I

was still back at my parents' house, I began the journey. And boy, did

it suck. I had to level the playing field and legalize the foods I was

always scared to eat. I had panic attacks along with my pop-tart for

breakfast. I flipped out when I ate rice. Anything white or refined,

forget it. But I kept going, kept listening to myself and started

eating when I was hungry and stopping when I was full. It did suck,

but it got better. It got easier. I found that when I honored my

hunger with things that satisfied me, I was able to pay attention to

other things. I read up on politics, a subject that had always eluded

me. I got a sewing machine for my birthday and tooled around with it a

bit. If I was tired at the end of the day, I would rest on the couch

instead of trying to give myself false energy by eating when I wasn't

hungry. When I was sad, I cried; when I was lonely, I cried; when I

heard a funny joke I laughed; when a favorite song came on the radio,

I sang along. And I began to learn when I was hungry and fed myself,

and then moved on - because life goes on.

It's been six months. I've stayed at around the same weight for four

of them, give or take a few pounds. I'm learning to accept it because

I should accept myself, but some days it's a real struggle. Because

now I get to deal face-front with all I was hiding when I was

punishing myself with food. Better to feel guilt over eating something

I felt I shouldn't rather than deal with the pain of my parents having

their house foreclosed. Better to feel awful for not exercising as

much as I should than feeling awful for not being able to live up to

my own unrealistic expectations at work. Although having to

acknowledge the root causes of my disorder is freeing, it is also

tough work.

Like it is this morning. Last night I baked some bread, something I

both enjoy and am terrified of. I enjoy it because of the measuring,

the smell of the bread, and the way my hands get dusty and covered in

bits of flour. I'm terrified of it because of the idea that if I start

eating it, I'll never stop. And when you're baking for two people,

there is usually a lot left over. My husband, who doesn't worry about

what he eats, said he'd have some for breakfast. I said I would too.

But the voice told me I shouldn't; and it didn't so much tell me as

scream at me not to. I walk around the kitchen this morning, following

my routine as usual, debating the pros and cons of eating this bread

for breakfast. I want to eat it, but for some reason, I can't. My

rational mind breaks down the ingredients for me, while my irrational

mind calculates the massive amount of weight I will surely gain as a

consequence. My rational mind tells me it is probably more healthy

than the fake bread we have at home, while my irrational mind says to

look out for the best interest of my jeans - how would they feel if I

couldn't fit into them any more?

So I walk over and cut two pieces. I put them in the toaster, and then

take them out. I put butter on them and walk over to the couch. I

listen to myself. I take the first few bites of my breakfast and push

through the fear. It tastes good - chewy and thick and hot. Just as I

near the end of the first piece, I hear another voice: my stomach. It

tells me in a little voice that it's full. The other piece is still on

my plate, glistening and ready for consumption; and although I'd like

to eat it, my stomach honestly doesn't want anymore right then. So I

listen to myself, walk over to the garbage, and throw out the

remaining piece. I get my coffee, check my email, and start this article.

Snow is falling outside. It's not sticking; it's not cold enough. But

I think about the world outside myself, how good that feels. It fills

me up, and I keep going with my day.