Gotta Letgo
It was never a question of am I going to share with the world the details of my eating disorder, but rather, where to start. This is the million-dollar diagnosis. This is the big one…the ugly, scary disorder that no one talks about in a way that I am going to. As with all my writing, my intention is to be real, honest, and raw but not to trigger or offend. This is also my own, personal, experience and not a generalization by any stretch. I hope you will keep this in mind as you are reading.
My relationship with my body began deteriorating between the ages of ten and thirteen. There were a lot of factors that contributed to the downward spiral, but in all honesty, the origins of the disorder are irrelevant. I am not interested in blaming my father’s own undiagnosed eating disorder or my mother’s inability to release control over our emotions as kids. The truth is, regarding healing, it doesn’t matter.
So that is where I am going to start. Share my thoughts and secrets, and eventually trudge through the muck of “how we got here”.
When I sort of, kind of admitted I had struggles with food and diet, I assumed that it would all fade away when I had my daughter. I could not have been more wrong. My healing journey did not start until last year (2023) when I was 43 years old; when I realized I was struggling beyond my own capabilities. What changed? What woke me up, opened my eyes, directed my awareness? What was it that lifted the veil?
Changing my relationship with alcohol.
When I stopped drinking, I was able to evaluate my behavior on a different level and dig all the way in to figure it out. It took me a very long time to be able to say, “I have an eating disorder”. I tried to soften it, diminishing it in my own brain and to make other people less uncomfortable.
The extremes I experienced could be different than what anyone else has experienced, however, I want to share my extremes with you.
I would eat away from all people if I could, and if I couldn’t, I would just skip eating. I would not eat at work gatherings, school events, trainings, parties and even yoga teacher school. In fact, I had an easier time discussing my exposure to abuse than I did discussing my fear of eating. I removed myself from the bonding experience of breaking bread because I chose to eat alone, in my car. I have an extensive history of saying “yes” to parties, or gatherings, and then cancelling the day-of, after having a full-blown panic attack about the food situation. I thought all of this was “normal”.
Every time that I would eat what I considered to be too much, I would spend the next 24-48 hours in mental hell. All I could hear in my head was a voice, “you shouldn’t have eaten like that”, “what is wrong with you”, “you don’t have any discipline or self-control”, “no wonder you eat like that, look at you”. This mental hell would only be relieved with starving myself. If I did eat a lot, or even what I labeled excess, the next day or two would be deprivation to make up for it.
I have punished my body for years and years. I thought putting myself through hell would be worth it, someday. The number of migraines caused from not eating, the years of smoking cigarettes knowing nicotine suppressed appetite. Hours in the bathroom convincing myself to vomit, then attempting, then vomiting.
I drank the “false motivation” juice and adopted mantras that were counterproductive to self-love. “I will be happier when I lose 20 pounds”, “my thoughts will matter more when I can fit into a smaller size “, “no pain, no gain”, “where there is will, there is a way”, “stop making excuses and just get after it”. These poisonous messages make millions and millions of dollars, promoting shake powders that taste like sweaty armpits and water powders that will make you shit your pants.
I never ever walked, ran, danced, stretched, or worked out because I legitimately wanted to. I always felt obligated because I never allowed myself the joy that comes from dancing for no reason. I refused to allow myself to see the joy in playing football with my son, instead I focused on every minute of movement counting.
I was fat phobic and constantly participated in various forms of confirmation bias. I would come across someone on the internet that I thought looked similar to me, and I would screenshot and then chose who I would send it to and say, “this is similar to my body right?” Confirmation meant I needed to go spend every dime I could on the same clothing that the influencer was wearing because “she looks so good for a fat person”.
Multiple times throughout my life, I would give credit to my body shape when it was not appropriate to do so. For example, “they offered me this position because they need a fat person represented”. I would diminish my talents, thoughts, qualities, or abilities and summarize my presence as “the fat girl”.
I would be so relieved and almost excited to get sick. Any kind of sickness, especially a stomach bug, was a joyous occasion. With sickness comes loss of appetite and when your appetite is not present, you can stop yourself from eating, thereby losing weight without trying.
I was obsessed with food. I was obsessed with recipes, cooking shows and videos, and articles about food. I would devour books, podcasts, Pinterest pages saving recipe after recipe after recipe. I would wake up thinking about what I ate the day before. Then while I sipped my coffee, I would feel relief that I was not hungry. I would then spend the rest of my waking time thinking about what I am about to eat, what I did eat, what I should and should not eat, being fat, being thin. Food was all I could and would talk about. Too afraid to show any weakness, cooking was always a home run for conversation.
My inner mean girl told me that I was only following the body positive movement to justify being in a bigger body and not actively trying to lose weight. People in this life judge you based on how you look, and I do not believe any person that says otherwise. In my previous life, I witnessed this every single day. People were judged based on the evaluation of their looks, immediately assigning a title or judgement.
I have had strong suicidal ideations based solely on my body size. While this is no longer the case, I do recognize how sensitive this is. If you or someone you know is at risk of suicide, please call the hotline at 988.
In yoga, I heard Trevor Hall’s “the old story”…
“you could play it out, but all of it’s in your head, holding on with both two hands – gotta let go now”
Is it really you knocking at your own door? Always looking for something more…don’t be a fool.
Don’t be a fool.
Oh no, no, no, you just gotta let that old story go…You just got to let that good river flow into your heart, it’s a start…
It’s a start.”
What do my extremes have to do with healing? How does it all tie together?
What are my old stories? What are my fears? What are my worries? Every single worry and fear, every single story, every identity, and attachment, everything I had was somehow tied to my body and my weight. What story had I been telling myself?
That I am a good yoga teacher for a fat person. That I am a good Mom for someone with mental health struggles. That I am not the person I could be because I have “extra” weight? I started digging. I started doing the hard work…the kind of rebuild that requires complete demolish. What I found broke my heart.
I had a few significant relationships in my life with people who benefited from my inability to maintain a boundary, my lack of self-confidence, self-esteem, and self-love. If they kept me feeling like shit, that would create a need. I would be dependent on them. It was co-dependency at its finest.
Excerpts from the most difficult are below. This list is certainly not exhaustive, however, the verbal abuse I thought I deserved is devastating.
“Oh, you had a good day? I am SOOOO glad for you, I wish I could have a good day”.
“You are feeling better? So that means you don’t need me anymore, what does that mean for me?
“Good luck finding anyone who could ever deal with your shit”.
“Just switch to light beer, your jeans will fit, and we will be ok again”.
“You would feel better if you exercised more”.
“I fully support you dieting for as long as it takes”.
“You gained 50 pounds pregnant? Jeez, that’s way more than I ever did with three babies”.
“Just don’t eat like that every day and you’ll be fine”.
“What is the diet of the day?”
I lost countless hours of my life hearing this bullshit over and over. The voice got louder and louder, taunting me, torturing me in the evilest of ways and then laughing about it. When the world I knew stopped in September, I was given a second chance. There was absolutely no way I was going to waste this opportunity crumbling under the weight. It was time to finally make a change, it’s a lifestyle right?
I let go of all of the weight.
The weight of resources, recipe bloggers and eating disorder support groups. The heaviness of the body positivity movement advocates and the weight inclusive influencers. The burden of my weight determining my identity. The pressure from the voice and its provocation attempts. The weight of expectations, norms, and ideal bodies.
I decided to change the story.