Archives 2003

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September 2003

Knocking Down the Pedestals
By Leslie Freeman 

One of my greatest character defects is that I always expect people to be something other than what they are.  It goes like this: 

1. Meet someone new (anyone, friend, man, family member)
2.  Put them on a pedestal--sometimes a high one, sometimes one just slightly above ground, but a pedestal nonetheless.
3.  They do something profoundly unappealing (flake on me, become an addict, part their hair on the wrong side-ok, I am kidding about that one)
4.  The pedestal comes crashing down
5.  Depression, Anger, Guilt, you name it, I feel it.
6.  I realize that they are simply human. 

Ok, so I am still working on number six. It seems to come quicker with recovery.  But it still happens every time.  Why do I do it?  I don't know, it could be a needy thing, it could be a controlling thing--it doesn't really matter to me so much why, as it matters how I can change this pattern.  

I met a new friend, we will call her C, about nine months ago.  It was when I was working at Express.  She came in, looking very professional, she was single, twenty-seven years old, good sense of humor, and had goals.  It was a friendship made in heaven.  As I get older, I find its very difficult to meet single woman to hang out with, and frankly my job was filled with twenty year old yahoos, that couldn't form a coherent goal to save their lives.  I am sure you can see the pedestal rising, right?  We started hanging out right away, and she always made me laugh, we seem to think the same way on many topics.  Especially work--it started getting pretty bad around there, and we would 'vent' to each other.  That should have been my first clue, but I was pretty caught up in it too, so I never noticed.  

We have both since left the company, but maintained our friendship.  In May I went camping with her and some of her friends and saw a whole new side of her.  She is a total partier (which I am not) and I felt peer-pressure for the first time in my twenty-seven years.  Not so much from her, but her friends.  I seriously considered whether I wanted to maintain this friendship, and in the end decided that I would, but I just wouldn't put myself in a position where I would be partying with her again.  

About a month later, her good friend of seven years called her and basically told her that she could no longer be friends because C was too negative, and everything was always about her.  There was more, but the details aren't important.  C called me in tears, and I felt truly bad for her.  I also didn't think she was particularly negative and felt like this other friend was a loser anyway, so whatever!  Besides, woman tend to 'vent' to each other, many find that is the only way they can relate to each other, but I didn't think she was at that level. 

This is when things changed.  Apparently, without this other friend, I got the brunt of her 'venting'.  It seemed that every conversation began to revolve around her and her body issues, work drama, family drama, etc.  I started feeling pretty resentful.  At one point, she called me, and I was going to tell her how I felt, when she shared with me that her boyfriend just told her he didn't want to be with her anymore. 

I ended up talking to my therapist about it, which is what led to the conclusion that I expect people to be something other than who they are, and then am disappointed when my expectations are unrealistic.  This is not to take away from her responsibility for her actions, but simply to acknowledge my part.  She has a lot of issues, and lives in great fear of life.  She is also very likely an alcoholic (although I am sure she doesn't see it that way), so really she is acting just as one would expect.  

I started to take a look at some of the other relationships I have had, and my relationship with my sister came screaming out to me.  I have such a hard time dealing with her, because I expect her to be something she is not.  I want her to be a good mother, responsible, thoughtful, when really she is a drug addict.  Thankfully she is not doing drugs right now, but her life is just as chaotic as it was when she did do them, and she just does the best she can. 

I also took a good look at my relationship with my mom.  Our relationship has gotten so much better over the last year, and I know it is because I have finally been able to see her for who she is.  She can't change the past, and she can only do what she knows.  So I quit expecting her to be the person I turn to for advice, or to say the 'motherly' things I wish she would.  She is who she is and I can finally love her for that.  I think she realizes finally too that I am who I am, and it works for us.  

This is not to say that I just shouldn't expect anything, so that I won't be hurt.  I just need to quit building the pedestals quit so high.  People are just people and we are all just trying to get by the best that we know how.  

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August 2003

I Am Recovering.  I Am Healing.
by Mindy Silbergleid 

I sit here at 4:43 am writing because for the 5^th night in a row I have woken with night terrors.  I waken with sweat dripping from my body, my hands cold and clammy, and new bruises and scratches that I didn’t have the night before.   

I see my eating disorder and trauma specialist three times a week, twice individually and once for group.  Doing intensive trauma work allowed me to begin to remember how to feel.  Unfortunately it flooded me and like others, I began to return to the comfort and safety of my disorders.   

I wasn’t bingeing and purging , restricting or over exercising.  I wasn’t using self injury or alcohol either.  Yes, I the thoughts plagues my mind but the behaviors remained in remission.  Leslie‘s article “The Truth is I Still Puke” frightened me and I didn’t want to identify with it.  Her saying, “It is difficult for me to hear that people could quit and NEVER go back to it. Frankly, I don’t believe that happens. I think people who say that either use other addictions to meet their needs, or they are lying” made me wonder if I was faking recovery.   I had done it.  I had not used any behaviors or other addictions and it had been 6 months.  I had been through a separation from my significant other meaning I lost my best friend and strongest supporter, a dear friend became ill when he went into kidney failure, I learned I would no longer be teaching the boys with autism I had taught for 5 years….times of change and stress were all around me yet I still remained behavior free.   

I continued to work towards my health and recovery and felt good about what I was doing. I’m not certain when the shift happened or why.  But one day I found myself in the bathroom searching in the back of my cabinet for my scale.  I KNEW doing this was not  healthy.  I KNEW it would trigger the behaviors yet I did it anyway.  Perhaps I was just so tired and exhausted of fighting for something I wanted so much and not certain I would ever truly achieve, total peace.  I weighed myself and fell to the floor crying.  The obsessions came back full force, rules began to form, and I found myself slowly returning to behaviors I hadn’t used in months.   

I took my sleeping pill and cried myself to sleep almost nightly.  This is recovery?  This is me healing?  I felt truly helpless and sometimes still do.   

Then I reread Leslie’s article and realized something.  I am struggling, yes…but I’m still in a better place than I was a year ago….two years ago.  I am recovering.  I am healing. 

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July 2003

Last month's Truth article, The Truth is...I Still Throw Up, by Leslie Freeman, really hit the mark for so many people.  We got hundreds of emails about it saying they were so grateful to hear someone say just that.   And that it helped them tremendously, to feel not alone.  

This month, Leslie's written another article about her recent experiences doing a Triathlon.  I thought it was a perfect follow up because it's crucial for all of us to know that yes, we're human and we have set backs, and that's okay, but we also keep moving forward and we succeed.

Thank you Leslie for sharing all sides of the equation.  And much congrats on your success!  

-xoS

Sarah Mason
President and Founder, The Payson Road Organization 

I Am a Triathlete!
by Leslie Freeman

Two months ago, I saw a flyer at the gym for the Danskin Woman’s Triathlon.  The gym was setting up a woman’s training class for those who wanted to train for this event.  The Danskin Triathlon is one of the largest triathlons in the world, and is an all woman event that benefits cancer.  I decided to check out the informational meeting to see what it was all about.  I was interested, but not sure if it was something I could do. 

At the meeting, the fitness director told us that this event is designed for everyone, no matter what your fitness level.  The event itself is held outside and consists of a ½ mile swim (in open water), a 12-mile bike ride, and a 3-mile run/walk.  I decided to give it a shot.  I filled out the paperwork, got my training schedule, and then promptly told everyone I knew that I was doing this event.  I needed to make it real, so I wouldn’t chicken out.

There was so much I needed; honestly I didn’t even own a swim cap!  I got the essentials (including a pretty damn expensive bike—thanks Steve!) and began training.  Right away, I realized I couldn’t swim, but I kept showing up at the gym, and just trying.  About six weeks into it, I lost my job—I still made it to the gym, but I didn’t train as hard as I could have those last two weeks.  It’s funny how women do that to themselves, knocking our success because it isn’t enough.  Never minding the positive fact that I worked out more in the last two months, than I ever. 

The day before the race, we went to the mandatory packet pick up.  It is then that you get your race number (GO 192!), and all the information about the race site, how to set up your transition area, what to wear, that kind of thing.  Sally Edwards also spoke to the first time racers.  She is a major triathlete, and has been the spokeswoman for the Danskin Tri, since its inception.  Her job is to be the last person to cross the finish line (so no one ever feels bad that they are last).  She came out in this great big, ratty robe, with yellow stickies all over it.  On these stickies were all her ‘fears’.  “What if I can’t do this?”  “What if I am last?” “What was I thinking?” and my personal favorite, “What if I am the fattest person out there?”  There were more, but you get the idea.  She basically did a motivational speech, and assured us all that we can do this.  She said, “The woman who starts the race, is not the same woman who finishes the race.” I don’t know about that, but there’s no turning back now.   When I started training for the event, my goal was to finish in three hours (which is by no means a competitive time, but it was a challenge for myself), but by now, I just wanted to not be the last person to finish. 

June 21, 2003—Race day! 

My friend’s husband had volunteered, so we had to be at the race by 5:30am—even though it didn’t start until 8am.  So Jen and I hung out in the Yukon, while he did his volunteer thing.  We spent the morning seriously freaking out. Our swim was in the lake, and boy did it look cold.  We went and set up our transition area.  I was stressing out a bit, because I was in a tank, and biker shorts (the recommended gear for the entire tri—no time to change) and would have to leave my t-shirt at the transition area.  I felt so fat. I was not looking forward to walking around the event in that outfit, and decided early on that I would take it off at the last possible moment, and definitely put it back on for the bike ride and walk.

Of course, the event was delayed—as my fear of the water grew.  It was cold—still cloud cover, a bit windy—and I just wanted to get started.  Finally, we are at the point where they call my number group over to the start line, and I had to separate from Jen (she was in a different wave number).  I stood there, and literally almost started to cry.  I was so scared.  There really was no turning back.  Sally was there to give us all double high-fives, and said, when it gets difficult, tell yourself, “I am a good swimmer”.  When it was time to get in the water, I said a quick, “I can do this” and got going.  Ironically, the water wasn’t cold at all.  What we should have been stressing about was how we were going to finish this without drowning.  As people quickly passed me, I realized I was the last one in my group, and started to stress out.  The first buoy was so far, and the lake water was so different than the pool.  This is when I told myself there was no way that I was going to finish.  The course was sort of a rectangle with slanted edges (I am certainly no geometry major) and it was so damn far to the finish line, there was just no way to finish.  So I decided that I would just make it to the first buoy, and then worry about the rest.  I couldn’t repeat the good swimmer mantra (I clearly wasn’t a good swimmer), but once I made it to the first buoy, I started telling myself, “I can do this” and that became my mantra for the entire race.  At that point, I didn’t care if I was the last person, I just wanted to finish.  When I got to the last buoy, and could see the finish line, I knew I could do this, hell I was doing this, and there was no way the bike and walk parts could be as hard as the swimming.  I came out of the water, with my wet tank top/biker short outfit, to a crowd of screaming spectators (not to mention my screaming calves!), and I just didn’t care that I looked fat, I had to get to my bike, I was in this thing! 

I get to my bike, throw on my helmet, try to dry my feet, and then end up putting my socks on wet, seaweed feet, and throw on some shoes and sunglasses, and I am off.  Screw the t-shirt, yes I am fat, but that shirt was going to slow me down, and I just had to get moving.  You see, I figured as long as I kept moving, I wouldn’t be last.  I was in the game, and there were plenty of people behind me.  Of course, nature called—and I had to make a quick pit stop before I could even get going—let me tell you, a wet bike short and a port-a-potty does not make for fun.  I grab my bike, and hit the pavement.  This isn’t so bad.  Ok, here come the hills, its getting a little more challenging, but not too bad.  All of the sudden, I see the volunteers (which signals the turn around spot) and I am pretty excited—wow, that wasn’t hard at all!  Oh wait, that is just where we turn right, we still have to go up the hill two more miles, and then back another five to the transition area!   I knew that was too good to be true.  Here’s where it got challenging.  I definitely wasn’t fast, but I was doing it.  I had to stop once—I wasn’t too good at taking the water bottle out of the cage while I was riding.  It was at this point that Jen passed me.  The hill to the turn around kicked my ass, and again, I was not sure I could do this, so I began my mantra, “I can do this”.  I stopped and walked my bike up the final part of the most difficult hill, on the way back.  I just couldn’t make the final stretch on that hill.  I felt stupid, but everyone that passed was like, “keep it up, this is a tough hill”, or something positive.  There was definitely a positive vibe to this whole triathlon—I heard, ‘good job’ or ‘keep it up, your almost there’ so many times during that day I lost count, early on.  It’s nice to see woman support each other. 

Back to the race---I finished the bike part, and started off on the walk/run—well the walk, I really can’t run.  At that point, I threw on my t-shirt—it was hot, and I needed a little coverage.  I really thought the walk would be the easiest part, it was only three miles, and it was walking, but when I got off my bike, my lower back, and hips were killing me.  I wasn’t five minutes into the walk, when I decided there was no way I could do this.  I was barely walking, and I really just wanted to sit down.  Again, I decided though, that if I just kept moving forward I would eventually finish this.  Now they had originally said that the walk would be relatively flat, on a paved road, so imagine my surprise, when the road was a dirt/gravel road, and was VERY hilly.  Flat my booty!  Nope, I am never gonna make it.  I literally thought I was going to die.  Then, I see the mile marker, and no joke, there is no way that was only a mile, right—it felt like at least two miles—and the end is no where in sight.  I couldn’t see the turn around spot, but everyone on the other side kept saying I was almost there—just around the bend, they kept saying.  And then I would go around the bend, and no turn around.  At one point I looked up to the left, and I saw all these people walking/jogging, and its high up on the hill.  It was unbelievable, there is no way this was only three miles. There were several points where I just wanted to turn around, and I gotta say, there was a part of me that almost would have, but I still had to walk back, so I figured I might as well finish.   FINALLY—I got to the turnaround.  I fortified myself with lots of water, and Gatorade, and set back on my trek to the finish line.  At this point, I knew there was nothing I could do but finish, because there was no getting back without finishing.  It was still hard though, and I said, “I can do this”, over and over, until it became part of my breath.  Thankfully, people were coming up the hill still, so I knew that I wouldn’t be last.  That was all that mattered to me, once again.  I didn’t have a watch, but I was sure I had been doing this at least four, if not five hours. 

I got to the end of the gravel road, and was only about 300 yards from the finish line.  I saw Jen and Steve, they were waiting ahead of the finish line, to cheer me on, and I just felt such relief, I was almost done. It was then that I saw Sally, she was just starting the run, which meant I was nowhere near the last person, she gave me a high five, and said, “you did it” and I said, “yeah, and I wasn’t last!” All of the sudden I got this burst of energy, and ran in over the finish line.  After I crossed the line, the announcer said, “Leslie Freeman has crossed the finish line, 3 hours, 14 minutes!”  They put a medal around my neck and said, “YOU are a triathlete!”  Yes, I teared up, I couldn’t believe I did it, I really did it! The added bonus was that I did it close to the time I had set for myself when I originally started training. 

As I sat on the grass and ate my post-race half bagel with peanut butter (the best damn food I ever ate!), I saw three little white butterflies fluttering around, and I thought, “one for each event I made it through.” It’s funny how I notice butterflies now, the same thing happened to me on my whitewater rafting trip a couple of years ago (another challenge, another time). Some would say that the butterflies were always around, and I just started noticing them since Payson Road, but I believe they are my little reminders that I can do this! 

I went through so many emotions that day.  Fear, joy, defeat, exhaustion, pride---you name it, I felt it.  Oh yeah, just for your information, the walk was 3.3 miles, not 3 miles, but that’s the way life works out sometimes!  I have such a feeling of accomplishment and no one can take that away from me. After I crossed that finish line, I knew what Sally meant when she said, “The woman who starts the race is not the same woman who finishes the race.”  I am not the same woman who started that race.  I AM a triathlete! 

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June 2003

The Truth is…I Still Throw Up
by Leslie Freeman

I am about to let you in on my secret. I still throw up. Sometimes everyday, sometimes I go weeks or months on end without it. However, it is always there, my security blanket of sorts. I have been in recovery for a couple of years now, but it always amazes me how easily I use that blanket to comfort me. The crazy thing is, I know how bad this is for me, hell I even know the reasons why I do, but it doesn’t always make a difference. One of the most frustrating things about it is that it really doesn’t work for me the way that it did prior to recovery. It used to give me comfort and power, however delusional that was, but my knowledge has taken away that comfort and power that I felt and just left me with a habit, a reflex that just doesn’t disappear.

I remember my early days of recovery. I had quit puking cold turkey, and it was so hard every single day. It was so beyond my comprehension that I would never puke again. I went a long time, and have had long periods of ‘no puking’ time, but it still happens. It was always so difficult for me to hear that people could quit and NEVER go back to it. Frankly, I don’t believe that happens. I think people who say that either use other addictions to meet their needs, or they are lying. Not to say that nobody gets better, hell I am greatly improved over where I was two years ago, a year ago, hell, last week even. And I try everyday to search for different solutions. Sometimes they work, sometimes they don’t, but the important thing is that I try. Focusing on today, helps me just make it through the day, without worrying about the future. A good week for me is when I have more non-puking days thank puking days.

I am not entirely sure what propelled me to write this, except that I know how alone it feels when everyone assumes you don’t puke, because you are in recovery, and you know you do. It’s different than pre-recovery because you haven’t addressed the problem in that stage the way you have when you begin recovery. It is important to me to let people know that they aren’t alone, that I am not alone.

 

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April/May 2003

Overreactions Are ‘Old Reactions
by Leslie Freeman

I recently had lunch from an old friend.  She was one of two people who taught me that friendships are supposed to be equal.  I am so very thankful for that, because until then, I had always been the ‘giver’ in relationships, as many bulimics often are.  Ironically, she was the first friend I let go in my recovery.  It wasn’t a big, knockdown fight till the end, nor did I hold on to the bitter end of our changing friendship.  I simply realized things had changed for both of us, and I let go.  So did she.  I am grateful for what this friendship has taught me.  

Flash to lunch.  Things have gone from bad to worse for her, although she wasn’t the one to tell me.  To make a long soap opera story short, I heard from a mutual acquaintance that her husband is doing drugs (again), she is getting sued for custody of her kids (from a previous marriage), and they are completely jobless and broke.  Clearly she is in denial, her version of the previous details is quite different.  However, I won’t bore you with the details, because they aren’t really the point of this story.  During the lunch I realized that I don’t need (or want) to save anyone.  I also don’t want a friendship based on anything but dishonesty, so I walked away from lunch realizing I have truly grown in my recovery. 

How come then, have I been taunted with dreams about the people from that time, for the last week?  “The people from that time”—I don’t even know how to label them—my boss, the man I had an affair with, his kids, his wife, my nanny family—whatever you want to call them, I have been dreaming, and thinking of them all lately.  And I have to flippin’ wonder, when am I ever going to be done thinking about them?  It is not as though I pine for what  will never be, on a daily basis, but I go through these periods when all I do is think about them, him—wondering why I couldn’t make it work out.

Luckily for all involved, I had therapy this week.  This was the topic of our discussion, and I started tearing up.  When questioned about it, I said, “I guess I just feel like I wish it would have worked out”  I loved him so much, and no matter what anyone (namely his ex-wife) says about my intentions, I really did love the kids, probably more than I loved him.  Basically, what we came up with was that I didn’t just wish it had worked out with him, I wished it had worked out for me, in my own childhood, and I had used the canvas of his family to try and work out my own issues from my family.  It makes sense.  Even before the household got crazy, I did things like reading to the kids, putting special notes in their lunches, painting the girls’ nails.  I could go on.  Once their mom started using drugs, I went into super mom mode.  She thought I was trying to take her place, but really I was trying to make up for her absence for the kids.  I just didn’t want them to feel sad and alone, so I overcompensated.  At least that is how it was in the beginning.  Of course I ended up falling in love with the idea of this family and of making them ok.  And we were happy, for awhile.  But of course it didn’t end up working out. 

First of all, you can’t fix your old wounds with other people.  Even if I had made it work with him and the kids, my childhood wounds would not have been fixed, because frankly I was so flippin’ crazy at that time, and I would have never gotten better if I  hadn’t gotten out of it.  Secondly, I had picked the same characters to play out this drama, that I had as a child.  They were self-centered, lying drug addicts to their core.  I couldn’t make this work anymore than I could make my own family change. 

Making that correlation, between ‘the nanny family’ and my own, reminded me of a saying I have heard many times, yet never really ‘heard’.  It is, “My over reactions are old reactions”.  This has made it easier for me to figure out what is bugging me about this whole situation.  I have been doing a lot of self-reflection, and I am moving toward getting past this once and for all.

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March 2003

Discovering Myself
by Andra Sokale

Every person has an event in their life that permanently alters the type of person they become.  For me, this event has not been the fact that I suffer from bulimia, but rather the steps that I have taken to recover from it.  Recovery has always been something I have wanted; however it was not always something I believed in.  There was a time during the worst stage of my disorder when I did not believe recovery would be possible.  I thought I would be sick for the rest of my life.  Since I had no hope in the fact that it was possible for me to get better, I remained sick.  It was not until I hit what I thought was rock bottom that my mind began to gain some strength, allowing me to think positively, and in turn begin to believe recovery was possible for me. 

"If you cannot find peace within yourself, you will never find it anywhere else" (Gaye,  1993)  It has been my experience that the ability to identify values and discover an inner peace is one that many take for granted.  Personal values are pieces within our lives; we do not seem to miss them until they are gone.  I know what life is when void of values.  A life without values can be a lonely, shameful existence.  I have experienced what it is to be an empty shell, not living but simply existing. 

Bulimia invaded my body, took over my mind and killed my spirit.  This monster flushed me of my system of values, replacing it with an unoccupied hole.  I had no say in what I thought was important because my eating disorder slowly and very efficiently took over my thoughts, dreams, and my life.  I became lost, unable to see who I was and what I thought was important.  My life slowly became an existence void of meaning and I stopped living. 

During this void, and very empty period of my life I was rarely able to feel.  It was as though there were two opposing leaders dictating what I should or should not do and how to behave.  There was a civil war being fought in my head and I was trying to win the battle by surviving, which meant that my values were set aside and with time, eventually forgotten.  I became very tired and extremely unhappy with myself. 

My life became an artificial presentation.  The only thing that was important was what others thought of me.  I was helpful, energetic, and smart, not because I wanted to be, but rather because I felt I had to be.  My new and only value was the obsession of my external self, which I presented to the world. 

My auntie Gudrun has been like a big sister since the day she married into my family.  We have always had an unspoken connection between us, which many people cannot possibly understand.  I value the relationship I have with my auntie as well as the love she has shown me.  It was her love that helped to guide me towards the initial stages of my recovery.

The first counselor I saw was the first person I was able to verbally admit my problem to.  Counseling helped me recognize and change the way in which I reacted to and coped with certain situations.  I was able to stop living life to please others and slowly began to identify who I was.  I knew in my heart I wanted to be well.  It was not until I was able to focus on the outcome, the goal of ending my personal battle, and truly believe I would be capable of accomplishing this feat, that I was able to slowly begin to recover.  For the first time in years I was able to discover some of my own values and begin to fill the large void that had grown inside of me.  I was able to acknowledge that I wanted to be healthy.  I value my health and this realization saved my life.  I am learning more about myself and who the "real" me is everyday.  I have slowly, because of my recovery, been able to accept me for me, live life for me, and am okay with all that I represent, including my weaknesses.  Through my recovery I have discovered the value of myself, and this is the most important discovery I will ever make.  The discovery of this value has forever changed my life. 

(Gaye, M. (1993). In Vanzant, I.  Acts of faith:  Daily meditations for people of color.  New York:  Fireside.

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February 2003

Its Broke…Fix it Already!
by Leslie Freeman

The coping mechanisms I learned so long ago no longer work for me.  What a revelation this is, yet I still keep those ‘ol faithfuls around.  The eating, the purging, the co-dependent, control-freak behaviors that run my life.  This is not to say that I haven’t made progress in my recovery.  I have.  The minute things get tough though, I turn right back to one, or all, of these and wrap them around me like a blanket.  My therapist tells me its time to find some new coping skills.  I am not so sure I am ready to be done with these ones, but clearly they aren’t working.  So I thought, “what the hell?  I will write about it and see what I come up with!”  

Let’s start with the eating.  I don’t remember when I first started eating as a way to fill my heart instead of my hunger, but I suspect I was pretty young.  The youngest childhood memories I have about food are:           

• Christmas and Thanksgiving—We would have a feast and my Grandma and Grandpa’s house, and my Uncle Tom always went back for seconds (and thirds, and fourths….). He was a big man.  My cousin Gina, now she ate like a damn bird, picking, and chewing, picking and chewing.  It was nerve-racking, especially on Christmas Eve, because we always had to wait until everyone was done eating before we got to open presents.
• As young as six, I remember my Aunt Laurie always having so much junk food around her house, and she never limited what we ate.  I also remember somewhere getting the idea that my cousins could get away with eating all that junk, but I couldn’t.  Just the memory invokes a picture in my head of my cousin and I heading off to the liquor store to buy candy.  I am not sure what the picture is about, but its definitely there.
• My mom taking me to the store and telling me to pick out 7 TV dinners, a box of cereal and one bag of snacks.  That was what I ate for the week.  Because we were poor, I got free lunch at school.  To this day, you will not see me eating a TV dinner. 

As I got older, there are several factors that I know played a huge part in my ED.  I have written about them time and again, my grandfather, my sister, feeling alone, unloved, not good enough, invisible. The invisibility was a theme throughout my teens, because I was either being ignored, or wishing desperately to be ignored during those years.  It was such complete and total chaos, more so than the early years. 

It’s is that chaos that gave me my co-dependent and controlling aspects of my personality.  My first memories of being a caretaker are: 

• When I was nine years old, my mom and I were at her boyfriend’s house on the lake.  She woke me up in the middle of the night to leave because she had caught him having sex with another lady who was there.  I remember her telling me all about it, and ranting and raving all the way home about what a jerk he was. 
• My cousin’s babies lived with our family for a year, and I would get up and take care of them in the middle of the night, and get them ready in the mornings, before I went off to 7^th grade. 
• When I was 13, I had to take care of my Uncle Tom, who was dying of cirrhosis.  I wasn’t his primary caregiver, but I distinctly remember being hyper sensitive to the situation.  When he died, life just went on.  My mom says we had a memorial, but I don’t really remember it. 

I think I was older when I truly became so co-dependent.  I had several relationships (some of which I have written about on the site) that were unhealthy and in which I gave so much of myself that I didn’t know who I was anymore.  In fact, I am not sure I ever knew who I was.  I sometimes feel like I have never been anybody.  I don’t mean, I think I am some pathetic ‘nobody’; I mean I am not sure I have ever figured out who I am.  I think I am so buried under the fat blanket I have wrapped around me, buried under the perceptions and the bad tapes that play in my head that I just never became somebody.  I don’t know if that will make any sense to anyone reading this, but its how I feel.  

Like many bulimics though, I hide it behind my fake smile.  We all know about the fake smile.  “No, don’t worry about me, I am fine, great in fact.  Things are going wonderfully, but tell me about you.”  I was twenty-two when I became bulimic.  I was desperate, living in a highly dysfunctional family-not my own, this was during my nanny years-and it just happened.  I never thought it was a good plan.  I can’t tell you why I decided to try it, but I never thought it would send me spiraling down to the depths of hell I have seen since then.  It didn’t make one part of my life better.  I didn’t stop when I lost the weight.  Sure I did lose weight.  Not from the purging so much as from the not eating, but the fact remains that when you eat next to nothing, and purge what you do eat, you will lose weight.  But I stopped doing it before I lost all the weight.  I ventured in to recovery, and really felt like a failure about it.  I never made it to looking great.  I still had about 50 more pounds to lose when I started recovery.  This was not a distorted picture either; I was (and still am) very overweight.  Bulimia didn’t solve that problem.  But it made me feel like there was just one more thing I had failed at.  Like I couldn’t even be a great bulimic.  Never mind the aching head, the burning throat, the blood and bile.  I was lazy, no good, even at something so bad.  I always felt like if I was just X lbs thinner, that is when I would be happy, but I have to wonder if I didn’t sabotage myself on purpose. 

I have never really felt in control of anything.  I had to live in such a sick environment for my whole life that I never learned what a healthy environment looked like.  Sure, I had glimpses, for which I am truly grateful.  They are what made me a somewhat functioning human being. But I still never learned the art of relationships.  I have this idealistic view of the way people and events should go, and am always left disappointed when someone (or thing) proves less than perfect.  So I spend my time trying to control situations so that doesn’t happen, and often times come off as a cynical bitch—which is not my intention.  I have chalked this up to just who I am, many a time, but it just doesn’t fly anymore.  They say, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it”, but it is, and I desperately need to fix it.   The problem is, I don’t know how.  What is a coping mechanism, if not destructive? 

 

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January 2003

Body Image
by Mindy Silbergleid and Sarah-Lou

Are you happy with the body you live in? ....OR would you rather be living somewhere else?  Are there aspects of your physical appearance that you despise?  Do negative thoughts about your looks keep popping into your head?  Do your feelings about your looks get in the way of your enjoying your every day life. Yes. Yes. Yes.  Uh-huh.  Sigh. 

I sat in Borders the other night reading the introduction to the Body Image Workbook by Thomas F. Cash.  After answering yes to each of the 20 something questions posed on the book jacket I sat thinking about how I still have difficulty with my body image even though I've been actively working on my recovery. 

I put the book down and began to imagine myself at age 11, the first time I remember struggling with my body image.   I was home alone.  I stood in front of my mirror wearing my panties and bra and began to examine my body.  It was different from the other 11 year olds I knew.  I had hips and breasts.  The other 11 year olds didn't.  I had started puberty and none of my friends had.  I felt awkward in my body and wished that I didn't look the way I did.  After pinching my arms, legs, and midsection I felt completely disgusting.  Why couldn't I maintain the girlish figure that I seemed to have only two weeks previously? 

I left my room and entered my sisters.  I began trying on the clothes in her closet.  She was older than me and I had always worn her hand me downs.  I remember trying on a pair of black jeans with stirrups.  I couldn't get them over my hips and thighs.  I could just two weeks prior.  What on earth was happening to my body?  What should have been explained to me as normal development wasn't.  Instead, my mirror was switched with my sister's mirror because ironically enough, they were concerned that my sister had an eating disorder.  If only my parents realized how their actions to protect my sister from developing a deadly illness led me right into its clutches.

Right now I weigh significantly more than I did when I was ill.  While my metabolism is stabilizing and I am becoming healthier, I still hate my body.  I still wish that every time I went into the grocery store I didn't see boxes of Slim-Fast and bottles of Metabolife.  I wish that every time I turned on the radio I didn't hear a commercial about losing 20 lbs and 2-3 dress sizes in a month.

The fact of the matter is everywhere we turn we are bombarded with messages that tell us our body type is wrong,  from billboards to magazine ads to children's toys.  What is the perfect figure anyway?  Who has the perfect body?  Is it Barbie?  Many of us that have had an eating disorder look at that toy with admiration when instead we should feel disgust.  The same is true when looking at fitness magazines such as Shape and Self.  The waif-like models are not something that we should admire.  The fact is that these models spend hours in make-up before a photoshoot.  The pictures we see are airbrushed and enhanced with computer effects.  Flaws are erased and we are left looking at the picture of a woman that is not real. 

It is very hard not to be mesmerized by these pictures, though.  It is very hard to quiet the eating disorder voice that only needs to whisper, "She's thinner than you are!"  It is for this very reason that positive self-talk and affirmations are a MUST for anyone recovering from an eating disorder. 

Those of us who have been in residential or inpatient treatment have seen women of various shapes and sizes standing in front of a mirror pinching themselves in disgust and then complain about how fat they were.  Our eating disorder selves idolized the women who appeared more disciplined because they were thinner.  How very sad that is. 

Transforming our relationship with our body is quite difficult, but not impossible.  I admit that even though I am in the recovery process I have a lot of work to do with my body image.  However, I am hopeful that someday I will look at my reflection in the mirror and feel comforted by my feminine curves.  I am hopeful that some day I will believe wholeheartedly that my worth is not determined by the size of my jeans or how much I weigh.  I am hopeful that I will learn that what matters is my thoughts and feelings, who I am as a person, and not what I look like.  

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