Speeches

June 27, 2002 Senate Briefing Speech

Reclaiming My Wings
by Sarah Mason

I was going to start out with something else but I want to say to Mike Watt, I am so sorry about Kristen. Your story really moved me. And I don't know why God chose to take Kristen after 18 months of battling Bulimia and why he allowed me to spend 18 years beating myself up before I finally recovered. I guess I'm one of the lucky ones. But I still struggle with understanding the complexities of this disease and why it haunted me for so long.

To help shed some light on this desperately misunderstood disease, I want to take you into the mind of a bulimic and try to paint a picture by reading you a page out of my old life.

One Monday Morning

Home for the day. Sick with the flu, cold, broken appendage, whatever. Get up. Straighten up the room and take a shower. Clean up the kitchen. Watch TV. Feel hungry. Look in refrigerator. Nothing. Hunger increases. Get dressed. Go to the supermarket. Buy box of brownie mix, bag of Cape Cod potato chips and jar of honey roasted peanuts, strawberries, and grapes. Answer a call on my cell. – long functioning conversation that involves laughter and lucid thought. Hang up. Get home. Don’t even bother putting groceries away. Pull out mixing bowls. Phone rings - Once again, well-functioning conversation. Show off my multi-task skills by mixing the brownie batter while conversing. Clean up. Go watch TV. Eat everything I bought except the fruit. Wait a few minutes. Get up. Go to the kitchen. Methodically clean mixing bowl. Sprint upstairs. Get a ponytail holder for hair. Strip down to underwear while running back downstairs leaving clothing strewn across the room. Go to bathroom. Throw up several times. Completely sanitize bathroom. Go upstairs. Take shower. Walk downstairs. Go back to kitchen. Take out strawberries and grapes from refrigerator and glass of seltzer water. Sit down in living room. Sink into chair for a few hours until the craving succumbs me once again. Repeat process.

This ritual shrouded my life for over 18 years. I would get this feeling and nothing could make it stop. All I could think about was getting in the car and getting the brownie mix, or whatever my food drug of choice was at the time. I was completely focused on that one goal. Nothing else mattered. It was as if I were programmed by one of those hypnotists—who planted the image of some particular food in my head—and once I heard its name, I would be compelled to stop what I was doing and rush out to buy it.

Thus, going to the supermarket—a simple routine for most people—to me was like a drug addict walking into a crack house. When I finally got my fix, I was relieved. Saved. But that feeling didn't last long—maybe a few minutes before I starting getting the itch. The clock was always ticking in my head on how long I had to get rid of the horrible feeling of guilt for eating so much. And then suddenly that became the focal point of all my energies.

The cleaning, in particular, always walked hand in hand with the binging and purging. And, as time went on, I grew increasingly more compulsive about cleaning. Yet it was unbalanced. If I left a few pairs of pants hanging over my bedroom chair, the bed would remain unmade. But if I felt compelled to put the pants away, I’d have to reorganize my jewelry boxes. This tendency toward obsessive-compulsive behavior I’ve found to be common with bulimics. It fits perfectly into the up-and-down, all-or-nothing pattern that imprisons us—a cycle that trapped me for so many years and kept me from truly living my life. Even at my most eloquent I could never fully describe how deeply I suffered.

I functioned to such a high level that neither my friends nor family were aware of what I was doing. But the shame of it was an unbearable burden. And I wasn’t able to do anything I genuinely wanted to do consistently.

My eating disorder started when I was 15, but it really began somewhere else. Somewhere back when the little girl who thought she could fly suddenly lost her wings.

When I was a child I was able to leap tall buildings with a single bound. I had no fear, no inhibitions. My talents just screamed out loud. Soon after my 13th birthday my father left. It devastated me. Things were shifting all around me. The bubble I lived in for so long had finally burst and all those things I’d never seen before were suddenly visible.

There were so many things going on for me. Let’s face it, 13 ain’t pretty. Middle school was a nightmare. Everything was changing so rapidly. I had emotions I’d never known. Body parts I’d never seen. I just wanted someone to help me figure it all out. But my father wasn’t around, my older sister and brother—whom I adored and depended on for emotional support—were away at school. I was left alone with the responsibility of taking care of my handicapped mother who had been stricken with polio at age three and, as a result, walks with the aid of crutches and braces.

My mother is an incredible woman. And I've never questioned her love for me. But being left alone at thirteen with a disabled parent would not be easy for anyone. And it was not easy for me.

It wasn't so much that having a disabled parent was difficult. The problem was that I felt that I couldn't acknowledge that life was different because I had a disabled parent. Any normal teenage activity became an affront to everyone. I couldn’t rebel like a normal teenager. How could I after all that my mother had been through?

I felt very much alone and unable to express myself. It was easier to be a victim than deal with the guilt of surpassing my mother physically. After awhile I started to doubt my capabilities; that I couldn't pass a math test or solve a chemistry problem. I would embarrass myself if I tried out for the soccer team. I became afraid of everything. Symbolically, I disabled myself.

Everyone in my family was so incredibly uncomfortable by anything that represented the idea of overindulgence. So instead of hearing, "You can be anything you want to be", I heard, “That's not realistic. Don't bite off more than you can chew. You need to know your limitations”. As a result, I developed a restricted view of my own potential.

My eating disorder was a release from all of this. It was an easy way to feed myself— physically, emotionally, spiritually and without feeling guilty. What my unsophisticated mind failed to realize was that, ultimately, there was no escape from the guilt. So I fell into a seemingly endless cycle of binging and purging. Binging would save me from all the restrictions I imposed on myself.

My early experiences with therapy were a disaster. If you saw the film, GIRL INTERRUPTED, then you saw one of the institutions I briefly bunked in. I was girl interrupted and girl alone as I was the only one on the unit with an eating disorder. They had no idea what to do with me. They gave me a long list of statistics and facts and explanations for Bulimia and Anorexia—based on not much, as there was hardly any research at the time. They lumped me together with other girls my age who were paranoid schizophrenics, manic, suicidal, and drug dependant.

It was a frightening experience. Nobody wanted to get to know what was really going on with me. They just wanted to medicate and study me. And when I left institution after institution, I’d gained no tools to help me find my way out of this endless cycle. I didn’t even understand myself why I was doing it. I listened to them tell me that I was obsessed with being thin and distraught over my father leaving. But that wasn’t really what was going on with me. It certainly wasn’t about weight. It was about restriction, guilt, and fear. And not having the support I needed to find my way back to my dreams.

It wasn’t until my late 20s that I found not only a great therapist but also someone I consider a mentor. The only mentor I’ve ever had. She took the time to really discover who I was and helped me regain my voice.

It's taken me a lifetime to regain the spirit I had as a child. And it wasn’t a revelation. I didn’t wake up one morning and say, “That’s it, I’m done with this bulimia thing.” It took years for me to recover. And like alcoholics consider themselves to always be alcoholics, sober or not, I consider myself to be bulimic, purging or not.

I believe every body that suffers from an eating disorder to have a unique story. But I also believe that a common factor largely overlooked is a self-imposed or pre-conditioned restrictive thought pattern impairing ones ability to take a real bite out of life, if you will.

My years suffering in silence with this disease wasted so much time. Time I could have been writing, dancing, living. I’ve had numerous health problems including kidney stones, ulcers, chronic fatigue and several broken appendages – one of which ended my professional dance career. The accident cannot directly be attributed to the bulimia but I consider it a result of my inability to take care of myself. And the fact that I did not go back to dancing, I can most definitely attribute to my bulimia and the lack of confidence instilled in me.

I promised myself if I ever beat this disease I would use my experiences to help others avoid suffering as I did. What I’ve tried to do with Payson Road is to guide people back to the things that at their core inspire them. We take the spotlight off their weight. Yes, it is an issue and society certainly plays a role in perpetuating the problem. However, I feel that to truly prevent eating disorders from continuing to grow in these vast numbers, we need to get beyond the band-aid of the troubled body image and institute new programs that will help support people before the cut gets too deep.

At Payson Road we offer a place for people to explore their creativity helping them take the focus off their disease and put it back onto themselves. It’s not enough to just say no to eating disorders. The pattern I developed with my eating disorder played out in every aspect of my life long after I was making myself throw up. We need to find a way to help people change this pattern so they can function once their symptoms are gone.

We try to achieve this through several unique programs at Payson Road. The most popular of which is our monthly Poetry Wall open to anyone wanting to contribute. It has been enormously successful. Additionally, we have three editorial columns, a mind and body healing program and recovery exercises—including a program based on Zen principles and martial arts called the Butterfly Fighting Circle—in which participants earn their belts by consistently doing things that make them happy.

As simplistic as that sounds, many people who suffer from eating disorders are so wrapped up in their disease that they have completely lost touch with the things that they love to do. It has taken some people months to accomplish two days in a row doing one thing that makes them happy.

One of the programs I hope to expand at Payson Road is the Creative Collective Workshops. The workshops are for kids and adults. The camp for kids combines many different artistic mediums—acting, writing, singing, dance, and visual arts. We hope to support children’s creative spirit early so they can discover how much more they have to offer than an eating disorder.

The adult workshops, called the Art of Healing, include a discussion group, creative writing exercises, improvisational acting and a yoga session.

These and many more programs on Payson Road are small steps toward bringing an end to a problem that has gone unnoticed, un-funded, and unsupported for too long. I believe it’s time for everyone to step up to this plate and make a change. For it pains my heart to think of another young man or woman, so rich with promise and talent spending their life with their head over a toilet bowl when what they really deserve to do is fly.

back to policy and action
payson road home

Website designed and administered by Sarah Mason, sarah @ paysonroad.com. Website Logo and Graphics Designed by Tahara Hasan. Payson Road was created Copyright © June 2, 2000. All rights reserved. Copyright © 2000-5 [Payson Road]. All rights reserved. Revised: October 03, 2005.