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.

**********

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

What You Don’t See When You Look At That “Skinny Mom”

She sees you, looking her up and down, your eyes traveling the length of her slender-by-society’s-standards body. She sees the sneer on your face, the slight look of disgust – or is it envy? – that flickers over your features. She sees you divert your gaze the moment her eyes meet yours.

You see “one of those skinny bitches.” The kind that other moms poke fun at on social media. The kind alluded to in many a blog post, spoken of in tones of bitterness and jealousy, cast as an outlier, used as a scapegoat so that other women can feel “normal.”

But you don’t see everything.

You see the shadows, dips, and curves of muscle, the smooth sinew that flexes beneath her skin as she bends down to scoop her son up in her wiry arms.

Not the constant repetition of numbers in her head, the oppressive reiteration that governs her day: counting pushups, counting calories, counting the miniscule cookie crumbs she allows herself to eat off her kid’s lunch plate, and the minutes she’ll have to work out to burn them off.

Counting everything besides the things that really count.

You see a narrow, delicate waist, resting above slightly protruding hip bones.

Not the queasy stomach inside her, the one that is filled, not with food, but with the sickening feelings of self-doubt and insecurity. You don’t see the way she slips her hand beneath the hem of her shirt, assessing what her delicate fingers find there, pinching love handles that are as nonexistent as the love she shows herself.

You see a “runner’s body,” bronze cheekbones, and a tan complexion.

Not the inner voice that tells her she can outrun anything, even the demons that haunt her, telling her she isn’t – and never will be – good enough for anyone or anything. You don’t see the destructive thoughts in her head that she is so desperate to escape, or the sense of calm that overcomes her after a hard run, when the only feelings she’s left with are the burning in her lungs and the trembling in her quads.

You see one of those moms, a woman who seemed to drop all the baby weight two days out of the hospital, who looks like she’s never carried any extra weight on her slender frame, let alone the weight of two children.

Not the woman who cried through years of infertility, who struggled to get pregnant due to both a medical condition that was beyond her control, and fear that she knows should have been within it. You don’t see the conflicted heart, the one that nearly broke as it struggled to make peace with the cruel paradox: a body she hated, housing the children she loved.

You see a “fit mama.”

Not someone who questions every day whether she’s fit to be a mama.

You see a toned body, someone who has the time and discipline to exercise regularly.

Not the anxiety and panic she feels if she sleeps past 5:30 and fails to get a workout in before her kids wake up.

You see a c-section scar that spans a flat stomach, resting beneath taut abs.

Not the emotional scars left behind from an eating disorder that haunted her for years, and still rears its ugly head in her moments of weakness.

You see her engaged with her kids at the playground, laughing as she scurries after them up the tube slide, her lithe body swinging freely as she chases them across the monkey bars.

Not the dark places her mind goes to as she pushes her kids on the swings, or the guilt she feels for allowing it to go there. You don’t know that her time with them is always tainted because – no matter how hard she tries – she can’t just enjoy the moment.

You see someone who’s lucky because she “doesn’t have to worry” about putting on a bikini when she takes her kids to the beach.

Not the tears she sheds in private as she tries on a million different bathing suits, finally walking out of the store empty-handed, convinced that each one accentuates one of her many flaws.

You see a size zero.

Not someone who feels like one on the inside.

You see someone who turns heads.

Not someone who wishes she could disappear.

You see her body.

But you don’t see her.

Are you even really looking?

© 2015 Samantha Wassel, as first published on Scary Mommy

To the Woman Lost in Her Eating Disorder

To the woman struggling, the woman caught in the death grip of her eating disorder:

I see you. I know you’re trying to hide—to disappear—but I see you.

I see you because I was you.

*

Do you remember those yellow rubber Livestrong wristbands that were all the rage in the early 2000s?

I do. In fact, I’ll always remember. I’ll remember because while other people were using them to show their outward support for a worthy cause, I was using one to support the ongoing deterioration of my self-worth.

I was using one as a catalyst for my own self-destruction.

I can recall, very vividly, slogging away on an elliptical in a tiny workout room near my college campus, periodically sliding that yellow band slowly up and down my withered arm: I would start at the emaciated wrist, traverse the path to a bony elbow, cross the spot where the bulge of a bicep used to be, and finally end at the top of a protruding shoulder bone.

I would leave that bright yellow band there, for a few minutes—tucked beneath my armpit—and relish in the knowledge that it still fit there, that all my hard work was paying off.

I would leave it there to remind me that the hours of exercise, the days of starvation, the constant sense of being half-alive, was worth it.

That isolating myself from friends and family was worth it.

That living the shell of the life I once knew was worth it.

That being numb was worth it.

That ED—the disease that had possessed me with a ruthless, unforgiving ferocity—was worth it.

I convinced myself that as long as my arm was skinny enough for that little yellow band to encircle every part of it, everything I was doing was worth it.

And yet, even though I believed my destructive behavior was worth all of the consequences, was worth losing myself, I never stopped feeling worthLESS.

*

That’s what anorexia does to you. That’s what an eating disorder does to you. It tricks you into thinking that you’re working toward something—an accomplishment, a meaningful goal, a happy ending in which you’ll finally feel fulfilled.

But there are no happy endings, no dreams fulfilled, no real achievements. Those are all figments of your imagination that ED plants in your mind to keep you under his control.

You can never reach your goal because there’s always another one. There’s always more weight to lose, less food to eat, longer workouts to perform.

There’s always more you can do to become less.

And so it becomes a manipulative cycle. ED convinces you he’ll make you happy if you just keep giving him a little more of yourself, until finally there’s nothing left to give. Eventually, you’ll forget that you ever even hoped to be happy, because happiness becomes an elusive, intangible concept—like the soft serenity of a cloud in the sky that you can clearly see but know you’ll never touch.

It’s like signing a contract with the devil. You sell your soul for empty promises, and you end up with nothing but—

Emptiness. In every possible sense of the word. Physical, emotional, mental, spiritual.

*

This is the part where I’m supposed to talk about the turning point in my life. This is the part where I’m supposed to tell you that everything works out in the end, that there is light at the end of the tunnel.

That you are stronger than your eating disorder.

But I’m not going to do that. Not today.

Today I’m going to tell you the truth, and the truth is that not everyone beats ED. The truth is that you’re not inherently stronger than your eating disorder. The truth is that you have to choose to be.

The truth is that people die from this disease. The truth is that I was almost one of them.

The truth is that you could be one of them, and that if you don’t make the choice to fight, you probably will be. I don’t believe you want that. I don’t believe that you—the real you, the you without ED—is ready to sacrifice your life to this disease.

So don’t. Instead, CHOOSE. Choose right now not to become an empty statistic. Choose right now to fight for what you want.

Do you want to be that girl on the elliptical, measuring her worth with a small yellow band, suffering quietly—senselessly—as a means to an (unhappy) end?

Do you want to continue sacrificing yourself for empty promises?

Do you want to BE empty?

Do you want to just keep going through the motions, the ones that are slowly killing you?

Or do you want to STOP?

Stop and look at what you’re doing to yourself. Stop and ask yourself if there's something you're blatantly ignoring: an instinct, a deep-rooted feeling that you want to stop, a sign from the universe... 

*

It was right there—literally at my fingertips—all along: the words I needed to see.

Livestrong.

Live. STRONG.

*

You have to choose. No one else can do it for you.

Choose to live. Choose to be strong.

Because even though I’ve never met you, even though you don’t know me, I know you. And I see you.

I see that you’re worth it. Just like I was—just like I am—worth it.

It’s about time you see it, too.

*

For more information on National Eating Disorder Awareness Week, and what you can do to help save a life, check out nedawareness.org. And please, if you know someone who's suffering, consider sharing this post <3