The Llama Truth

(This was written 6 months ago, but has sat in my drafts folder since.)  The first time after you recover from your eating disorder that you realize you've gained some weight is a surreal experience. I don't believe in consulting a scale anymore, so I can't say I know this for certain. I have, however, noticed my clothing fitting a bit tighter. 

You look in the mirror after this realization expecting to be filled with hate; this is always happened in the past when you've gained weight. Instead you survey your hips, stomach, legs, and arms and... shrug. 

Shrug?... Is my story now that anti-climatic? I simply turned around to brush my teeth? Where is the rigid plan to loose the weight? Where is the promise to never eat sweats or carbs or fat again? Where are the "meal replacement" shakes that later become skipped meals? Where is the self hatred? 

There is nothing there but the realization that because of the end of grad school, I have gotten less sleep, have eaten more of what's convenient than what my body needs and craves, and have spent more time in front of a computer. Of  course I gained a little weight. 

And then, there is trust.

When did I become so trusting of this flesh.?

I know my body will regulate itself. I know for 4 years I've been basically the same size (with a range of maybe 5 pounds) even through times of overeating. My body will take care of itself if I listen to the whispers and hungers. And I trust no one else will notice the tiny bit of softness I've acquired. If they do, it won't change their perception of me.

I trust myself with this weight. It is just softness, not a character flaw or personal failure.

I cannot believe this amazing journey is reaching it's end. Three years ago, as I recovered from a severe brain injury, I was unsure whether I would be able to achieve my long-time dream of becoming an art therapist. For a time, I feared I would never regain my ability to concentrate and would forever struggle with my memory. Yet, I finished that last year of undergrad, was accepted to GWU, and now, have finished graduate school with a GPA I would have been proud of pre TBI.

Over the past two years, I have met so many amazing people, I have learned so much about myself, I have been challenged emotionally, creatively, and academically, and I have become confident in my new professional identity.

Although there is still a thesis to finish, I have completed all other requirements for my Masters in Art Therapy and Mental Health Counseling. I’m not who I was when I entered this program and beyond  that I’m not who I could have imagined I would be.

So, thank you for your congratulations, thank you for your encouragement and thank you for your support throughout the past few years. I’d always dreamed of this day but a part of me never imagined it’s possibility.

Sometimes the darkness still weighs heavy on your shoulders while your eyes cling to the color, the light, the rising sun. This is hope. This is real. This is the deep knowing that the trouble will end, you will arrive home, you will feel differently.

This post has been begging to be written for a long time now; yet I have held onto it for a myriad of reasons. The time has come; however, to finally throw this out into space. That said, this story is not mine alone. I can speak to my part, my experience but I know my story is woven with other’s.

For much of my life, I was a pastor’s kid and even when my father was not actively involved in vocational ministry, my family was extremely active in our Baptist church. Faith and family were, for me, inextricably linked. With this information, it may surprise you to learn that my father is gay. When he came out, my parents had been married prior to their separation for over 30 years. I was fourteen years old and unsure how to process such big news at the time. 

I want you to know that over the years I have taken time to break down the scripture passages so often used to cite homosexuality as sinful. I’ve read biblical commentaries and author’s on both sides of the issue. With all of this, I have come to the conclusion that the bible says nothing about homosexuality within a committed relationship. So many times I see posts from Christians that state the bible is clear on this issue, but I always wonder how much time these people have spent considering the scriptures on a cognitive level. I want to give them the benefit of the doubt; however, as I have grown in my faith and theology, I have come to see the bible is inherently complex and multilayered. Unfortunately, God did not leave us a simple instruction manual for life. Maybe the bible is clear and always easy to understand for you, but for me its beauty is held in the complexities, in the metaphors it speaks in, and the trajectory it follows. 

My father lives with his parter, Mark. They have been in a committed, monogamous relationship for over ten years now. They don’t have a “homosexual lifestyle”. They have a life together, but the only real way it differs from a heterosexual marriage is that they are both men. They don’t “live in sin”. They live in the same way, day to day, as you or I do.  My father’s story is his own to share with you in its depth. I had the honor of completing a formal interview about his experience with him over the summer and have such an appreciation for his path. 

More than anything, I want you to know that there is no dissonance between my faith and my role as the daughter of a gay man. In fact, I’m grateful that I had to confront these questions at such a young age: it has strengthen my faith and relationship with God in a way that is hard to describe. 

In previous blog posts, I have shared some about my journey into and out of the world of disordered eating; however, in honor of this year's National Eating Disorder Awareness Week, I wanted to shed more light on the issues that were hidden from me throughout this journey. 

The first time I purged,  I thought I  found the secret to finally achieving a truly successful diet. I had no idea that I had taken a head first dive into what would be my own personal hell. An imprisonment that would threaten my well-being, my relationships, and even my life.

In those first weeks of true disorder, I had no idea that it would be so hard to walk away from. I had no idea how many years of fighting, how much strength, how much money and how much effort it would take to walk away from the eating disorder. 

For a long time, I had no idea that my disorder was NOT about food and it was Not about my weight. Those were the red herrings distracting me-- and those who cared for me-- from the underlying issues. As much as I focused on my body, that was merely a distraction from the pain and turmoil I held inside. 

As I stood in the depths of my disorder unable to see a life beyond that hopelessness, I had no idea that one day I would be free again. I had no idea that one day I would live without the disorder and that one day I would be grateful for the lessons I learned during the process of recovery. 

For many years this scale (or one of it's predecessors) haunted me. I had to check in with the scale the moment I woke up, after I ate, after I purged, after I thought about eating, before I showered, after I showered, before bed and a million other times a day. It was a compulsion that I believed kept me safe in one way or another; however, the only thing it ever did was cause misery.  During my final great push to being recoverED. I decided to get rid of my scale. This was my announcement to myself and the universe that I was finally serious.  I'm proud to say that I haven't bought a scale since that day in 2010. Numbers don't matter when you listen to your body.

There are parts of my eating disorder story that I've chosen not to share.   I once worried parts of this story would discount my years of suffering but now it is time to disclose the bits that have remained hidden. It's time to tell the truth and work to break the myths surrounding eating disorders.

I was never emaciated and I never met all the DSM diagnostic criteria for Anorexia. I desperately envied the girls who could be diagnosed with what I considered the gold standard for eating disorders. I discounted my own suffering because my life didn't match the images of anorexia reflected in magazines and tabloids. Even throughout the first weeks of my admission to Remuda Ranch, an inpatient treatment center for eating disorders, I tried to convince the staff that I didn't need to be there: I didn't need a feeding tube put in. This meant I was fine,  right? 

Two of the most instrumental things in my recovery from my eating disorder were the support of other women and the concepts found in Eating In The Light of The Moon by Anita Johnston, Ph.D. In 2008, I took part in a group based on this book led by Elisabeth Peterson (RD) and joined a women support circle that focused on these concepts. During that time, my thinking changed and I was better able to understand my struggle with food and take the steps I needed to finally and fully recover. Elisabeth and Anita have recently launched an e-course and support group designed to take the concepts in Eating in the Light of the Moon to a deeper, more personal level that can be shared with other women from around the world. This café has such a power to help those struggling with disordered eating or a troubled relationship with food to find support and emotional nourishment as we heal. I encourage you to checkout their website http://lightofthemooncafe.com/ , explore, try a free week, and sign up for this course/group. 

In previous blog posts (here and here) I have discussed the beginnings of my struggle with self-harm/cutting.  In October 2013 I will celebrate 4 years free from those behaviors. Four years since I won the battle.

Even so, that story isn't really over. My years of struggle aren't easily forgotten: they left both emotional and physical scars. My outward scars were once angry, raised, and red but now they are shockingly white and resistant to tan. I don't notice them much until summer rolls around and I am out in the sun with skin exposed. What I once hid with jeans and long sleeve shirts, I now bare without shame. They are part of me, part of my story, part of my victory. 

That is not to say, I don't feel a shock of embarrassment when I see other's eyes wondering over these scars. (Yes, I do see you looking, questioning.) Still  I want to tell the world, "This is me. I'm not pretending anymore. I'm not perfect and I never was."

My scars are visceral reminders of my tattered past: the fear, the anxiety and agony. They remind me of the broken girl I once was and increase my appreciation for the mosaic of strength I am now.  

It seems to me that a story, even from the same point of view, can be told a million different ways. Out of all the moments in my life, all the defining seconds, there is one night that changed the very fiber of my being. I have told that story a hundred times and it still begs to be told again:  sharing these moments is vital in an indescribable way.

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If my life was a novel, one could call the events of earlier that day foreshadowing. I vividly remember my gorgeous friend Avery standing in the shallow end of the pool. She wore a earthy green bathing suit. With her hair flipped over her shoulder,I remember thinking that she looked desperately like my big sister. 

A few minutes later my phone rang. My boyfriend was late had been in a car wreck. He was fine--the car was not. Later that night I sat on the couch in his basement  watching movies with him. His father came downstairs wearing a pained expression. "That was your mother on the phone," he said. "We need to take you home to babysit your brother's kids: your sister has been in a car wreck and she and your brother are on their way to the hospital."