*taps mic,
or—more literally—computer keyboard*
“Hello? This
thing on? Anyone here?”
Greetings to
whatever straggling followers I have left out there. It’s been a while since I’ve
written anything about ED. If you still follow me on Facebook, you may have
noticed that I’ve been dabbling in satire for the last month or two. I felt
like I needed to get back to writing, but the prospect of returning to
ED-related posts just seemed like a little too much for me to handle. Humor
writing is fun, light, easy, and therapeutic. Living with ED is so mentally
draining, and sometimes talking (or writing) about it just feels like I’m
fueling the emotional incubus that he is.
On the other
hand, sometimes getting all that shit out (on paper or verbally) is curative.
So here we are.
For the past
year-ish, I’ve been spending an hour a week (or every other week, because kids
and germs and life in general) with a therapist who specializes in ED. After
years of trying to handle everything on my own, I realized it was time to
recruit another team member, someone who really “gets it” and could help me
navigate my own (often irrational) thoughts. Someone who knows ED intimately,
but from an outsider’s perspective.
And—lucky for
me—someone who’s not afraid to drop plenty of well-placed “fucks” during our
sessions. This woman just gets me.
It was hard for me to finally seek out a therapist. One of the
things ED likes to do is convince you that you don’t need other people, that
you can handle everything on your own. Or, as my therapist likes to tell me,
that “you’re Super Woman.” I tried doing things that way for far too long. And
while I’ve certainly had my ups and downs with ED—my strides toward getting
better, as well as my relapses—I just can’t keep him distanced the way I need
to by myself.
Enter
therapy. And hope. And my almost
acceptance of that intimidating word I used to hate: RECOVERY.
 |
| Getting better for myself AND for these guys. |
ED has been
such a huge part of my life for as long as I can remember that I now realize
part of the reason I was hesitant to enter formal eating disorder therapy was
fear. You’ve heard of separation anxiety, yes? Like when your toddler clings to
you if you attempt to leave him in the hands of a babysitter or (in our case)
in the church nursery? Kids don’t like the idea of leaving the person they’ve
grown to love and trust most in the world—the person who's been there for them their entire lives. And who would, right? The unknown: It's scary and uncomfortable.
Well, that’s
sort of what “recovery” feels like—like I’m being ripped away from my primary “caregiver.”
Even though the
rational part of me realizes ED is never really
taking care of me, the emotional part of me has been relying on him for so long
that it hurts to let go.
I think
there are still a lot of people out there who don’t realize that eating
disorders are diseases, not “phases.” As my therapist has told me, an eating disorder literally changes your brain chemistry. ED is not just in my head 24/7 in a metaphorical sense. He has fucked up my brain, the way I think, the way I see myself.
An eating disorder is not about looking good or being
skinny. When you strip it down, an eating disorder really has nothing to do
with food or body. It does, however, have everything
to do with comfort and control.
My therapist
and I have spent a lot of time exploring why I turn to ED when things get
difficult—when I’m stressed, or exhausted, or just not feeling good about myself.
And I think what it boils down to is this: ED is always there for me when I need him. When I’m having a rough day, when
I’ve made a mistake, when I’m too tired to put up a fight—ED is there, waiting
with open arms to take me back.
ED makes me
feel good. There, I said it. Weird, right?
I know that sounds counterintuitive: Isn’t ED also the one who whispers “You’re not good enough” into my ear on a daily basis? Isn’t he the one who makes me feel shitty about my body? Isn’t he the one that almost killed me about a decade ago?
Yes, yes,
and yes. But, he is also this: He is familiar.
And he gives me “problems” I can fix.
“You’re fat.”
Okay, I’ll just start restricting again.
“You’re
weak.” Well, I can be strong by ignoring
my hunger and delaying my meal times.
“You don’t deserve
to feel good.” Right, so I’ll isolate
myself.
“You’re out
of control.” (This is probably the one I hear most often.) I’ll show you control. Watch me cut my intake and up my exercise.*
And so on
and so forth.
*Note: Exercise is tricky because it is also
one of my “recovery tools.” When I’m in control, it makes me feel strong and in
charge of my own body. But when ED is steering, it has the potential to turn
into a “job” or compulsive behavior. I’m still working on navigating this.
So instead
of dealing with the real issues in my
life, the ones I can’t control or the tasks I fear failing at, I turn to ED to offer
me problems I already have the tool set to fix. It’s easy. It’s simple. It’s familiar. And—because of all that—it’s
comforting.
For as long
as I can remember, ED has been my number one cheerleader, encouraging me to
push myself to eat less, to weigh less, to be
less. And the idea of losing the “support system” that I’ve relied on for
so long is honestly kind of terrifying. And it’s definitely not easy.
It’s hard to
ask for help. I think it’s hard for anyone
to ask for help, let alone someone whose disease tells her she shouldn’t need
it. But I think—no, I know, now—that in
the long run I’ll be much happier accepting help from the people who care about
me than I am when I accept it from ED.
And it may
still take a lot of work, tears, and discomfort, but I look forward to the day
I can finally look that son of a bitch in the face and just say, “Boy, bye.”
 |
| This kid makes a much better workout buddy than ED does. |
