 Liz's Current Journal
Did you ever wonder HOW someone makes the journey
FROM body critical dieting TO self-care and self-acceptance?
How the heck did they do that?! Read on and see ...
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Spring of 2007
Dear Journal,
Easter Sunday... Steve walked into the living room a few nights ago and saw me with a bowl of something in my lap...eating, as I very frequently do, once he goes to the back of the house to play on his computer.
"Is this what you do every night?" he asked. Accusatory, frustrated, pained....angry, hurt, hopeless. He felt exactly how I felt as I ate.
"Yes," I answered, almostly brightly. Why lie? "This is the best I've been able to figure out. I have nothing to look forward to when I come home...we won't connect, we won't even have dinner together. I'm lonely, unappreciated, angry and sad. So I eat. It's not a good solution, but it's the best I've been able to come up with,"
"You can't control me," he said, and walked away. Sigh.
We had a Talk. Well, I talked. I wasn't angry at him. In fact, I told him, I felt liberated by being able to talk about the truth. I wasn't trying to control him...I was trying to manage my own pain. I need more connection, affection and expression than I get from him. I can't make him give more than he is willing to give. The frustration of this semingly hopeless dichotomy leads me to the food. It's as simple and as complex as that.
The liberation I felt in being able to talk about it in its simplicity was partly about the mirror he held up to me by saying it out loud, and my ability to love, even if only in some small part, the reflection of myself I saw there. Quite a long way from the little girl who heard her mother sadly call her a pig as she rummaged in the refrigerator...seeking to quell pain in food even back then.
I don't think Steve would want me to start to heal if he knew the firestorm of talk and feelings that will have to be released for me to do so. No way out but through, they say. The dull ache of living with a chronic maladaptive behavior like impulsive eating is almost pastoral compared to the chaos that will precede becoming something else. I tried to tell him this. I don't know how much got through.
But. Another truth that has become self-evident is that regardless of what he does or doesn't understand, it's my choice and only mine whether or not to heal. He doesn't appear to be going anywhere, whatever I choose...and the secret to my marriage is contained within the simple beauty of that truth. He is my rock. I give him much credit for that, and it melts my heart.
After the quiet revolution of that confrontation, several things happened that I associate with the springtime...but this year, as my 50th birthday nears, the springtime seems even more...springy...than it ever has. There's the desire to set my environment right...I described it as being hit by Hestia's magic wand. (Hestia was the Greek goddess of hearth and home. I read Jean Shinoda Bolen’s book “Goddesses In Everywoman” and never though Hestia was one I could possibly relate to! Think: Martha Stewart as spiritual mentor.) The simple elegance of cleanliness and order, and how its lack and the degree of its lack reflect what's going on inside of me. Well, let me tell you. I did open up the curtains, literally and figuratively...I sought light in every room. When I saw the dirt and disorder the darkness had been concealing, I took steps to remedy it. I felt the love for my home, my body, myself, my relationships, all come slowly back. I was shocked by the level of apathy I had descended to.
I made a meatloaf. It's one of those things I love to make, finding bits of leftovers and whatever is in the pantry to make it happen. I was delighted when Steve came home and went straight for it. I felt loved when I fed him...an almost shameful admission, but I know it's as old as time, this joy in nurturing.
I washed his work shirts. I hung them in his closet. For the first time in a very long time, I didn't feel resentful for picking up after him or "doing his work," I embraced it as a loving act. I felt pride in keeping the home fires burning. (If that's not Hestia's influence, I don't know what is.)
Look, caring for what is mine, whether a home, a relationship or my very own body, is a sacred responsibility. I've acted all my life as if you get things, you use them up, then you get new things. There isn't a whole lot of appreciation put into what is here now. (Perhaps this has to do with why I feel unappreciated.) There isn't a sense of continuity. There isn't even an acknowledgment that some things (like this body, this life) are non-renewable. Probably my way of avoiding existential terror. But I think that learning to care for, to nurture, to appreciate all I have and am now has something important to teach me. It may even be a key.
There's something else that came to me, something that is helping me to accept and love this older me. I saw in my mind a woman who was smiling as she watched a young woman, effortlessly seductive and ripe, and the beguiling affect she had on the men around her. This older woman didn't envy the younger woman, didn't feel threatened by her youth and physical charms. She thought: Now it's her turn. She was content to "pass on the crown," in a sense...her smile was wise, understanding, accepting of both the younger woman and herself. And this attitude made her extremely attractive.
It is our actions and our attitudes that attract or repel. Physical attributes are powerful as sexual attractants; but their power is limited in both scope and time. The fire burning inside a woman who accepts herself and others is more powerful and more long lasting.
I bought an Easter outfit. I matched shoes and purse. The shoes are impossible, but I will wear them today. I will wear them to say thank you for the new, the pretty, and to risk being different.
Tuesday, April 17
I had my first coaching session tonight. In answer to the question what would I like to achieve, I answered: To be able to love and care for myself for longer than two weeks at a time. That prompted a really thought-provoking discussion about personas inside me, and "family therapy in my head" where I start to build communication between the controlling maternal me and the tantrum-prone little girl me.
My assignment is to practice a well-rounded breakfast (adding nuts to my oatmeal for some balancing fat/protein) and improve my midmorning snack: cut sweet yogurt with plain to start getting accustomed to less sweetness. In general, the idea is to avoid "naked carbs" to avoid spikes in blood sugar.
I liked the way Kelly dealt with cheese; when I mentioned I was afraid of it because it's one of my main binge foods, she suggested I leave it out for now so as not to trigger the little girl. But it didn't sound permanent or rigid. Everything is so gentle and gradual. I noticed right away that the little girl was calmer when night came...she wanted (and got) two pieces of raisin bread with cream cheese after dinner, but that was it. When she is in rampant full-fledged binge mode, she can easily eat five times that much.
We didn't talk about lunch or dinner; I'm supposed to do the best I can. Bingeing in the afternoon to late evening is my particular issue, so I'm a little afraid of being left alone with it for a week. But I also feel encouraged to trust this process and take baby steps, creating doable successes to build on rather than setting impossible tasks of perfection that my maternal one would feel more comfortable with.
A business acquaintance told us today that he has esophageal cancer. I really wanted to use that bit of information as a stick to beat myself with. I have had such bad acid reflux for so long, directly related to my bingeing, that I thought If this doesn't make you stop, what will? This, despite the fact that punishing, fearful motivators have never done anything but make things worse.
There are other hopes and fears I have about a process of healing from this food and weight thing, of course. Hope that by gradually reducing and maybe even eliminating bingeing, my weight will stabilize somewhat lower. I no longer dream of a skinny young me, but I hope it's not impossible for my face to be less puffy, my features more defined; my fitness to improve so that I can breathe more normally when I exert myself; for my self-confidence to come back and make me feel more receptive to physical challenges, whether hiking or intimacy again.
My fears include what I will have to face and grieve if I am to let go of food/weight as comfort, entertainment, anesthetic and all-purpose excuse.
Wednesday, April 18
My little girl is testing to see if her sweets are being taken away. She wanted one of the homemade chocolate chip cookies someone at work made and I let her have ½, which seems to have satisfied her. She didn’t like the ratio of plain to sweetened yogurt this morning, so tomorrow I’m going to let her have a little more of the good stuff.
I see the benefit of keeping her needs met so she doesn’t rebel with a binge tantrum. The mom side of me feels satisfied that we have had a balanced day so far. Only the fanatic punishing part of me (haven’t quite identified her yet; she reminds me of my grandmother, though) is freaking out about the ½ cookie and still worrying about the 2 pieces of raisin bread last night. But compared to the way my days have been going lately, this is a VAST improvement!
I’m sleepy. I need to get to bed earlier. I feel grateful that I’m not craving sweets or more food right now, as I typically would when I get tired in the afternoon. I’ll be taking my mid-afternoon walk in a little while and I may let myself have coffee, too (that would be my 3rd cup today). I used to drink coffee and diet cola, up to 4-5 a day all together; now I typically have 2 or 3 a day with the cola much less frequently.
I hate drinking water because I have an overactive bladder. I know, I know, caffeine is more irritating than plain water; my rationale is, if I have to drink something, I want it to be something I like! I also don’t believe that YOU HAVE TO DRINK 8 GLASSES OF WATER A DAY NO MATTER WHAT! I’m not dehydrated, so I’m not going to worry about it. (I probably average 4-6 cups of water and other non-caffeinated liquids a day.)
It was for my little girl that I went out to the market late last night to stock up on foods she wanted to have in the house, so that I’m actually looking forward to eating and getting satiated rather than snacking all night long because I didn’t have a satisfying dinner.
Okay, so a pretty typical scenario when I got home from work tonight:
--On the way home, I'm thinking of how to get everything I want to do done. My feelings are calm, neutral. I know there's a lot, but I can handle it.
--Walk in the door; the TV is turned up LOUD. I think Steve is in the computer room (he usually is when I get home from work) so I turn it down. He yells from the bathroom, it turns out he's watching TV from the bath, so he has it turned up.
--I have been annoyed twice, once by the blaring TV when I walk in, and again when he yells. I assess the situation and try to mentally calm myself. I also eat a hot dog straight from the package, standing at the fridge. I am hungry and dinner is still an hour away, but I hadn't thought about those hot dogs until I got upset. I notice what I did and move on.
--I turn the TV back up (not as loud as it had been) so Steve can hear it and start changing clothes, straightening up, getting the kitchen ready to cook dinner. There are dishes I have to wash first. I start running the dishwater. Feel resentful again that the water pressure has gone down noticeably since Steve replaced the faucet.
--Emptying the litterboxes is also on my list. The smell is really quite strong. I scoop them out (3 boxes for 4 cats). All the while, I am aware of my thoughts: Why didn't Steve notice the smell and do this? He promised he would share this chore. I do it more than he does. You'd think he would notice that I'm busy and offer to help! (Why exactly would I think that?) Carrying the bag of used litter through the living room to the backyard garbage can, I ask Steve to help keep the dog from running inside. The bag is leaking on the floor, so I ask Steve to please sweep it up while I do the dishes.
--The vaccuum breaks while Steve is cleaning up. On the plus side, he fixes it. I express my appreciation for his help and for fixing the vaccuum, which I wouldn't have been able to do.
--I finish the dishes and start to boil water for artichokes. I make some stir-fry vegetables and salmon. I'm so hungry (frustrated? tired? disappointed?) that I eat the veggies alone when they're done instead of waiting for everything to be served together.
--We finish our meal together in front of the TV. I eat more than I intended to, but not horribly.
Now it's late and I'm getting tired, so I'll leave the analysis for some other time. But I will say I see tonight as a mixed bag: I did some things that took care of me and made me feel better (asking for help; not bingeing; being willing to see the good and not just the bad) and just a couple of things that didn't (didn't get in my 3rd 10-minute walk; sort of chaotic eating; sort of overeating).
I realize I don't know what to do with resentment. Does it just fade in time? When is it productive to bring it up and when is it better to let it go? How do I let it go? The physical feeling that goes with resentment is an empty ache in my stomach. It says: I can't get what I want. Nobody cares about me. I must not deserve anything better. Why can't he just shape up? Why can't he see what I need and help me?
I'm tired, but it has been a pretty good day. Now I can get to bed before 11:00 pm without bingeing.
Saturday, April 21
When you think of a binge, do you think of a discrete episode..."I really binged on that pizza last night!"?
The experience of bingeing for me begins with a decision. One seemingly small, seemingly insignificant change in plans...Like on Thursday morning, how I changed breakfast. I normally eat my oatmeal at work at around 8:00 am. I had already packed the bag I take to work with all my food for the day, but my stomach was literally nauseous with hunger, so I decided to eat something. I chose the snack I had packed for the afternoon because it called to me the most...and it was protein and fat, which I thought was a good thing.
The pendulum started swinging in my head...should I still have the oatmeal when I get to work? I'm not comfortable eating by hunger, I like having my schedule and set things. What will I have for an afternoon snack now? Fearful food thoughts crowded my mind. I decided to play it by ear, ignoring the fact that this rarely works out for me, especially when I'm already starting to "spin."
That morning at work I ate something like 3 different times, each time trying to respond to hunger but ending up eating from a combination of hunger and anxiety. Since this story is about a 2-day binge that followed, this is the point at which the amnesia that is central to bingeing kicked in. I don't remember the first actual binge food I ate, it might have been a bag of potato chips purchased at the office store. When lunchtime came I ate what I had packed, then followed it up with a roll of hard candy (I was only going to eat a few pieces...). There was birthday cake that day and I had two pieces, one with the group and the second alone in the lunchroom later.
All the time I'm thinking, it's okay, this doesn't have to go on, I can stop...but I didn't. On my drive home I pretty much knew what the evening would be like and it's as if I was on automatic pilot. Zoned out, numb, zombie...moving slowly and inevitably forward to what I knew would be an evening of out-of-control eating, ending with stomach pain and that kind of restless sleep that leads to waking up with a binge hangover.
Not once did I seriously consider stopping to think, listen to myself, feel...that's the point of the behavior, it's meant to take the place of self-reflection. It feels automatic and inevitable...it relieves me of the need (or even the ability) to examine what's going on. It's a train at full speed, a charging dog with hate in its eyes.
When I woke up the next morning, not well rested and still bloated, I made some sort of half-sincere promise not to do it again. But it's Friday, some voice said, and there's still cake at work and I didn't get all I wanted. You can start over on the weekend. So, Friday was pretty much a repeat of Thursday, with chaotic choices and too much. It was free-from-all-rules, party time eating; the type of eating I used to do knowing I could just get rid of it...but now it stays in my body and makes me sick and uncomfortable and will eventually kill me, if I let it.
So a binge, for me, is an undefined time period in which I eat anything and everything I want, only stopping when the food is gone, or if I'm sharing a pizza with my husband, for example, I stop when half the pizza is gone...long before he's finished his second slice.
Then at some point I regain sanity, survey the wreckage I've left inside and outside (who cleans the kitchen in the middle of a plunge into oblivion?), and start caring again.
Monday, April 23
I started caring again today. It's always on a Monday...or the first day of the month...or year...amazing how much time can go by, waiting for the first of something to "start over."
A very balanced day with food. I didn't walk during the day as my boss is just back from vacation and there was a lot of work to do. I could have taken my walks, but I chose not to, and I will walk on the treadmill for 30 minutes tonight.
Today I feel grateful for the opportunity to explore where I am with all this and move gently forward into more loving ways to treat myself. I feel grateful for a body that hasn't broken down, despite the ways I've been less than caring with it.
When I huff and puff now, I think of Kelly saying "think of it as doing aerobics!" and I smile.
Wednesday, May 2:
It’s such a joy and a relief to talk to Kelly. I feel myself relaxing as soon as we start to talk. She is bound and determined to encourage me to be gentle, accepting and loving to myself in all ways.
I just hope she realizes what she's up against.
Kelly: So tell me, what does your exercise look like now?
Me: Well, my goal is to walk 30 minutes a day, most days of the week, but all I’m managing consistently is a 10 minute walk during my lunch hour at work. So that’s Monday through Friday, most of the time, and sometimes another 10 minutes during the day or when I get home…but I do NOTHING on the weekends, and I’m disappointed that I don’t exercise when I have all that free time!
Kelly: I’d like to encourage you to take the weekends off…
Me: (The sound of my jaw hitting the table in disbelief)
She went on to explain the mechanics of muscle building and recovery, which was interesting, but the choir-of-angels-singing moment for me was the concept that I can take the weekend off. I realize that I push myself harder than I think, and really take very little time just to relax (what’s that?) and do nothing. In fact (and this does make me laugh), I’ve thought about taking a class in meditation just to learn how to do nothing correctly.
Obsessive? Moi?
So I’m beginning to see that my dear, clever, ingenious little inner rebel child has her hands full coping with that drill-sergeant adult. It’s no wonder sometimes all she can do is send me to the kitchen to devour a few thousand calories worth of anger-displacement and comfort. Shut up, Shut Up, SHUT UP! she says, and fills my mouth to make her point.
Hmmmm. I wonder if maybe there isn’t a kinder, gentler way to address myself and view my life that won't trigger the child to retaliate.
Isn't it a form of self-terrorism, this insistance to always do more, better! Faster! Harder!! ?
And isn't a big SCREW YOU binge a reasonable response to such constant bullying?
May 5: Dream. Already in fragments:
I had a baby but I told no one until it was born. Or did my mother have a baby? Was I the mother or the baby? In the dream, I was unsure who had given birth...and the baby was never seen, nor was my mother. I was happy. I believed I had done it although there was no labor and no evidence of a physical child. A nurse had me deliver the placenta outside, later, as if it had been forgotten. We buried it under a tree, where later my sister told me something of my mother's had been buried.
Interpretation:
The mother/daughter thing, both between my mother and me and the inner adult/rebel child. Confusion as I begin to sort this all out. Happiness. I'm not sure where that fits in. I was happy to have given birth, but there was no evidence of physical effort or a physical child...because this is all spiritual, emotional work I'm doing. An inside job. The nurse who helped me, a spiritual midwife (could be Kelly). The placenta as food source, sustainer, burying it under a tree (I had to look that up because it was such a striking symbol, and I thought it might be a real ritual and I found that it is, in many cultures, often under a tree)...honoring what used to give me sustenance by ritually burying it and allowing it to nurture the soil where a new form of sustenance could grow...burying it in the same place were something of my mother's had been buried, perhaps acknowledging our old bond, released, hers in death and mine in life...
A very significant and powerful dream to mark the beginning of this phase of my evolution.
May 7
I am feeling low. Down. Sad. Maybe a little depressed. I don’t expect this feeling to last long. But it’s here now, and ewwww.
Here are some issues I’m contending with:
- I have had a dull, cramp-like ache across the lower part of my belly constantly for several months. I can’t tell if it’s my digestive or reproductive system, but I’m guessing I shouldn’t have a constant ache there; or at least I should find out why. I have been trying to get an appointment with a gynecologist in my new insurance plan for several weeks but it’s been difficult. I do have an appointment with my regular doctor in the plan in a couple of weeks, so I’ll talk to her about it. But I have this feeling it’s connected to the fibroids and I want to find out.
- My cat has some sort of nasty skin disorder we’ve been trying to treat at home, but it looks like we’ll have to break down and take her to the vet. I don’t like the vet we have been going to, so I want to find a new one. That seems like a chore.
- What’s wrong with the dog’s foot? Maybe we need to investigate pet health insurance!
- The voice that tells me change is too hard has been whining and getting waaaaaaay too much airtime lately.
Okay, and here are some nice things just because it helps to hear myself say them:
- I enjoyed my weekend. The weather was beautiful, I took the dog to the park twice, I didn’t shirk my chores, and I got to spend time with my sister and a friend on Saturday that had us talking, laughing and thinking.
- I haven’t had an acid reflux attack for nearly a week.
- I really like the new church I’ve been attending and I’m happy my friend likes going with me.
- It’s only 3 more weeks until vacation!
P.S. By the end of the day, here is what had happened:
I hung on hold for half an hour, but I got the appointment with the gyno I wanted, on the day I wanted.
I found a low cost mobile veteranarian who visits a little independent pet store I stopped at on my way home, on a whim. They will look at the cat for free. Plus, I really like the people who own that pet store. Plus - rabies vaccinations $6.00!
Sometimes change is only hard until you give up whining about it, ask for help and be open to receiving it. Then the universe sometimes comes to your aid, or at least throws you a bone or two
May 10
This week my appointment with Kelly got messed up. I moved it so I could take Scarlett to the vet, then when we rescheduled we both forgot to account for time zones. I'm waiting to see if we can find a mutually agreeable time today or tomorrow.
Work was very hard yesterday. We're coming to the end of another audit. Since I've been at this job, I've been through it, oh, 6 times or so...I'm the one who coordinates getting the audit team the information they need, which consists of equal parts disclosure and discretion, along with some manual labor (our files weigh anywhere from three to ten pounds each...times some 200 files) and hospitality duties (these people come from different parts of the country and are staying in our city to do this job).
Of all of it, the most stressful for me is the discretion part...it's an art I've learned the hard way, to give enough to be truthful without setting off any alarm bells. The manual labor part is getting harder as the years go by too, but at least for the weeks they're here, I do get some weight lifting in during the day.
The stress of being under a microscope affects the whole team, and nerves get frayed and tempers flare. Add to that the normal everyday stress of demanding customers and looming deadlines...well, like I said: Vacation is only 2 weeks and 2 days away! And I get to be off for two whole weeks...and celebrate my birthday.
May 11
How many donuts am I allowed to have?
My inner rebel child wants 2.
My inner drill sergeant says zero.
My inner child eats 3.
Aha……
I think it will be more productive to focus on softening the drill sergeant’s stance and addressing her fears than on further attempts to reign in the rebel child. What the grownup feels, thinks, says and how she says it shape the child’s retaliation.
Maybe I’ll start by renaming the drill sergeant. That name came about because that’s how her voice sounds to me and I also really like the idea of strong external control, because I have great big fears about my inability to control things. But as much as one part of me likes being told what to do, another part of me obviously doesn’t and is quite happy to “eat at it” in response.
This isn’t a little thing. Both sides have great big fears they are motivated by and as long as I keep meeting them with attempts to control rather than understand, those fears will never get addressed. That actually makes me feel very sad.
Instead of renaming the drill sergeant, maybe I’ll send her on vacation and bring in someone else to act as grownup. I guess ideally that would be…me, but I don’t think I can do that until I’ve done some sifting through of these great big fears I keep talking about and begin to address them.
So, I’m adding a third inner voice (and resisting the temptation to name her Sybil) to be a sort of mediator between the two, someone who will listen to both sides and help them come up with agreeable solutions that take all feelings into account.
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