Calling It What It Is: How Talking About ED Diminishes His Grip on Me

I remember my first crush. We were in first grade, and his name was Chris. He had freckles and curly brown hair that was always in slight disarray. I was a scrawny, fairly awkward girl with a pixie cut that— now that I think about it—probably looked pretty similar to his own hairstyle. Maybe that’s what drew me to him. I don’t know for sure, but I do know that one day I just decided I thought he was cute.

And just like that, BAM, I “liked” someone.

For a while, I didn’t tell anyone about my crush. I relished having a secret of my own, and I spent a lot of time daydreaming about Chris and concocting a fake relationship with him in my head. Having a crush on a boy made me feel special. It was new. It was exciting. It was a little taboo. But most importantly, it was mine.

But kids have this inconvenient inability to keep secrets for very long. Eventually, I decided to tell my best friend, who of course told one of our other friends. Before I knew it, most of the kids in my class found out, followed by my mom, and then (Oh the horror!) the boy himself.

As my “secret” spread, something weird happened: My feelings just kind of fizzled away into nothing, like the bubbles of the sickeningly sweet grape soda I used to get out of the pop machine at K-mart.

The thing is, I don’t think I even “liked” Chris that much. I think I liked the idea of liking him, and I liked that it was something I did in secret. I loved covertly scribbling hearts with our initials in them on the inside cover of my Lisa Frank notebook, and sneaking glances at him in art class when I thought no one was looking. I took pleasure in coordinating the color of my hair scrunchie to the hue of his winter jacket and acting like it was just sweet serendipity when we matched.

But once everyone found out about my crush, it lost its wow factor, and I sort of just stopped caring about it. Then I stopped thinking about it altogether. Soon enough, my daydreams became less occupied with Chris and returned to their regularly-scheduled-program.*

*For those of you wondering, these often involved being both an Olympic gymnast and a famous singer. Also, a hot pink princess dress. There was always a hot pink princess dress involved.

*

You’re probably wondering where the hell I’m going with all this, since this is a piece about eating disorders. If you’re still here, thanks for sticking with me while I reminisce about the simpler days of Dunkaroos and childhood crushes. I promise there’s a point, and here it is:

Something I’ve discovered since starting eating disorder therapy is that the more I talk about ED, the less “special” he seems, and the less significant my relationship—my infatuation, or “crush,” if you will—with him becomes, just like when everyone found out about that first grade crush.

Keeping ED a secret gives him more power over me. It makes me feel closer to him, like we share an exclusive bond that no one knows about. It sounds weird, but let me put it this way: Imagine one of your close friends tells you a secret—maybe that she’s pregnant—and she asks you not to tell anyone yet. How would you feel? Special? Honored? Privileged? Chosen?

That’s how ED makes me feel sometimes. He whispers in my ear that I’m the only one he can trust to keep our secret, that I’m the only one who understands him, and—even more importantly—he’s the only one who understands me. He convinces me to keep our relationship quiet because other people won’t—or simply can’t—“get it.”

And guess what? He’s right. Most people DON’T get it. But that doesn’t really matter. People don’t need to “get it,” they just need to know about it.

This is something that’s particularly difficult for me because I feel an immense sense of shame about my eating disorder and how it’s affected not only myself but also the people I care about. However, with time (and a lot of therapy), I’ve realized it’s not only healing for me to talk about ED, but also vital for me if I want to keep fighting that son of a bitch.

I have to acknowledge ED. Own him. Call him out by name.

Any other Harry Potter nerds here? Remember when J.K. Rowling brilliantly wrote that “[f]ear of a name increases fear of the thing itself?” It’s so true. That’s why it’s important for me to openly admit that I struggle with an eating disorder. In doing so, I become less afraid of it.

*

Unfortunately, I think a lot of people shy away from openly discussing mental health issues. There tends to be this completely misguided notion that they’re too personal, embarrassing, or even shameful to talk about.

But when we don’t talk about this shit, we give it more power over us. When I don’t talk about ED, the proverbial ball is in his court: He’s in control, and I’m left living in the constant fear that I’ll make a mistake, and he’ll expose our relationship to the world: that I’ll slip up—skip a meal, over-exercise, get caught chewing and spitting—and someone I love will wonder, what’s going on with her? I don’t want people to wonder. I want people to know:

I spend every day fighting a fucking eating disorder, and it is exhausting.

I want to share my struggles on my terms, not his. So I talk about ED. I talk about ED to the people who “get it,” like my therapist. And I talk about ED to the people who may never get it, no matter how hard they try, like my husband (who can eat an entire pizza, flex his six pack, and not give it a second thought). I talk about ED to strangers on the internet (I’m looking at you, reader). I talk about ED even when it makes people feel awkward or uncomfortable. I talk about ED when I feel like talking about him, and I talk about ED when I really don’t feel like talking about him.

The point is, I TALK ABOUT ED.

And here’s the thing: The more I talk about ED, the less I find myself listening to him. Sure, I still hear him. In fact, hearing him is a conscious choice I’ve made along my path to recovery. I allow him say his piece, I acknowledge it, and then I call him out on his bullshit. You see, there’s a difference between hearing and listening, and there is power in the choice to hear someone but not listen to what he’s saying.

So when ED tells me I’m not good enough, I try my best to reply with a not-so-friendly “Fuck you” and carry on my merry way.

And if I’m feeling really sassy, I might even go eat a donut, just to remind him—and myself—who’s boss.

Me with my eldest child, who recently asked to take a picture with me in the new shirt I got him.
As you can see, it has food on it. More specifically, a donut. So I thought it was appropriate lol.

ED is a Radio I Can’t Turn Off

And I No Longer Like the Word “Recovery”

Disclaimer: It’s been a long time since I’ve formally written anything, so I’m admittedly (and probably evidently, as you continue reading—if you continue reading) a little rusty. My apologies.

I think this has been a long time coming. If I’m being honest, I’ve been struggling for a while now, feeling unsettled but not wanting to sit down and face my discomfort by putting words on paper (or text on screen, if we’re being literal here). The thoughts have been lurking, festering just beneath the surface, and I’ve been adamantly fighting to keep them there.

But you can’t just ignore that kind of pressure, or you’re bound to erupt.

My “eruption” happened early this morning—this beautiful, glorious morning, on which all three of my boys either slept in or got up and QUIETLY (a rare state in this house) occupied themselves. It was the type of morning that doesn’t come along often when you’re a mom, one that offered the rare opportunity to catch up on some much needed rest.

So of course, because life works in mysterious (i.e., annoying) ways, it was on this enigmatic gift of a morning that I found myself, ironically—cruelly—restless.

Oh sure, I spent the morning in bed, but not getting the sleep my haggard mind and body desperately need right now. Nope. Instead, I spent a good hour or so on my phone, furiously typing in the “notes” app. Why? Because in these rare moments of silence, I could no longer ignore the words that have been fighting their way to the surface for so long.

I could no longer ignore—or PRETEND to ignore—ED.

He really is an effing sunnofabitch.

When it comes to eating disorders, you hear the word “recovery” thrown around a lot:

“I’ve been in recovery for X years.”

“I’m working toward recovery.”

“The road to recovery is long and hard*.”

*That’s what she said. Sorry. Those of you who know me know I couldn’t help myself.

I’ve used phrases like this myself.

But lately I’ve found myself cringing at the word. It just doesn’t sit right with me anymore. Maybe for some people struggling with eating disorders, it’s a comfort. Maybe for some, it’s an inspiration. Maybe for some, it’s exactly what they need to hear to fight ED.

But I’ve finally realized I’m not one of those people.

When I couldn’t put my finger on why the word was bothering me so much, I did something pretty rudimentary: I Googled it. From bed, of course, because duh. (Ah, bless you, modern technology.) Here’s what I found:

Recovery: a return to a normal state of health, mind, or strength.

And there it was: the word “normal.” Google was waving a big old red flag in my tired, wrinkled face.

If there’s one thing I know about ED—or about anything really—it’s that there is no “normal.”

Once you live with ED, you can’t go back. Not completely, at least not in my experience. He flips your “normal” on its head and then gives it a couple of spins on a merry-go-round for good measure. (Excuse the park metaphor—it’s summer vacation and my kids are active.)

I’ve come to think of it like this: Living with ED is kind of like living with the radio on 24/7. Sometimes he’s just background noise, and even though he’s always playing, you barely even notice anymore. Sometimes he’s an annoying commercial, trying to sell you something you really don’t want (and definitely don’t need). Sometimes he plays jibberish, and his lyrics don’t even make sense. Sometimes he plays something that makes you emotional, that takes you back to a place of pain or heart ache.

Sometimes it seems like he’s on repeat, and you find yourself thinking, Didn’t I just hear this song? Can’t he play anything else? but you still find yourself singing—sometimes even dancing—along. It’s a subconscious act.

It’s hard to fight the familiar.

My point is this: ED is always there. Once ED is in your life, he’s in it for good, at least in my experience. Thoughts about food, my body, and how the two interact are with me every moment of the day. When I’m in the shower. When I’m making my kids breakfast. When we’re sitting at the table playing Candy Land. When we’re at the park. When I’m out with friends. When I’m rocking my toddler to sleep. When I’m having sex with my husband. When I’m working out. When I’m not working out. When I’m watching Netflix. When I’m asleep (yes, I have dreams about food and exercise).

When I’m trying to enjoy a rare morning of peace and quiet in the comfort of my own bed.

So many times since ED has entered my life, I’ve asked the question, When will it stop? When will I stop thinking about calories? When will I stop worrying about my body? When will I be able to spend a day without guilt or anxiety about the food I put in my mouth?

When will I be normal?

(There’s that word again.)

But what I think I’m finally starting to realize is this: It won’t. It won’t stop, because ED is like a radio with no off button and limited volume control.

So I have to be aware. I have to be vigilant. I have to get better at tuning him out. Because I’ve come to learn that the more I silence my own voice, the louder his becomes. The less I fill my life with the voices of others—friends, family, people who bring genuine joy and love into my life—the more pronounced his voice becomes.

I’ve learned that when it comes to fighting ED, you can’t become lazy. You can’t become complacent. Because when you do—the second you stop thinking for yourself—ED is there to fill the silence. 

So maybe for me, there is no “recovery.” Maybe there’s only management. Maybe there’s only letting go of any preconceived notions of “normal” and learning how to live within the soundtrack my life’s been set to.

ED plays some pretty damn catchy songs, and I’m still trying to teach myself how to separate the good songs from the bad ones.

But I’m getting there.

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By the way! It's been over two years since my last post, and if you haven't noticed (via the pic on my blog page or the fact that I referenced having THREE boys in this post), I am no longer a Mama to just my crazy twins. I am now a Mama to crazy twins and a crazy toddler. Say hello to Harvey Lew. He's sweet, funny, smart, and a little bundle of constant energy that is constantly trying to keep up with his big brothers (he does a pretty good job).

Cuddle time on the couch

Styled himself. Note the shoes are on the wrong feet and also too big.
(They're actually his big brother's.)

He doesn't know all his colors yet, but he can accurately
identify Mario ("mah-yo") and Luigi ("wee-wee-jee!")

Cutie <3

I Smile at My C-Section Scar

It spans across my lower belly: a thin line of translucent white, fringed with red, curving slightly upward on either end. It stretches and contracts with the gentle rise and fall of my breathing, widening like a smile.

And I can’t help smiling back.

Because when I look at this scar, I don’t see a flaw.

I see perfection. I see a portal to another world: a place filled with love, life, security—a nourishing utopia, where you formed your perfect little nose, your perfect little cheeks, the perfect little wrinkle between your eyebrows, all ten perfect little fingers, and all ten perfect little toes.

I don’t see deformity.

I see beauty. I see a tattoo that extends all the way to my heart and connects it to yours. I see your soul, your vibrancy, your life—carved into me.

I don’t see the mark of someone who had it “easy,” someone who “didn’t really give birth.” I don’t see inferiority.

I see a literal birthmark. I see the spot where they slit me open while I cried and prayed, hoping that I would hold your tiny living body in my arms when it was over, yearning to feel the warm touch of your skin against mine and the familiar rhythm of your heartbeat against my chest, sensations that I’d grown to know so well internally. I see the mark of quintessential motherhood.

I don’t see weakness.

I see strength. I see the jagged edge of love and fear, protruding from my skin like braille. It says life. It says perseverance. It says you and me—we’ll be together at the end of all this—whatever it takes.

I don’t see failure.

I see triumph. I see a battle scar, marking the ground where we fought—together—when you decided to come 10 weeks early. I see will and determination. I see victory.

I don’t see the cold cut of surgery.

I see the tender swell of life. I see a landmark, a historic site where you breathed your first breath, cried your first cry, opened your eyes to the outside world for the first time. I see the precise latitudinal line of where you went from simply living to being alive. I am forever marked by your coordinates.

I don’t see regret, or the disappointment of having a nontraditional birth. I don’t feel disconnect.

I see a property line, extending to my heart, where you first staked a claim, and where you continue to rule today. I feel the memory of the gentle tug as they lifted you from my body—your grasp on my heart never wavering— and the familiar pull on my heartstrings whenever I picture your fragile, red little body rising to meet me. I remember the warmth of your cheek against my lips, and I feel the unique, undeniable magnetism of a mother’s love. I feel connection.

I don’t see detachment.

I see intimacy. I see a doorway, housing the first chapter of your life, locking in the memory of every kick, every hiccup, every flutter of your tiny, miraculous heart. I see devotion. I see it etched in my skin like a signature on a contract, a promise of love and responsibility. A promise of motherhood.

So I will not be ashamed. I will not be made to feel inadequate. I will not feel insecure or embarrassed.

I will not drape a towel or wrap over my bikini line at the beach. I will not turn away from the mirror when I step out of the shower. I will not cover the mended flesh that brought so much beauty into this world.

I will not mask my pride.

I will not be told that I “had it easy,” or that I “didn’t do any of the work.”

I will not feel weak. I will not feel like less of a woman. I will not feel like less of a mother.

I will not allow the loose, slightly puckered skin surrounding this scar to make me feel ugly. Because it is beautiful, and I am beautiful, and you are beautiful.

I will not feel marred, or “butchered,” or broken.

Because I am whole, and it is this scar that has made me so. It is a poignant paradox, a line marking the spot where I was both ripped apart and put back together; and when I look at it, I will remember the day when you were both taken from and given to me.

And I will be grateful.

Because this scar made me a mom.

© 2015 Samantha Wassel, as first appeared on Mamalode