Wondering pt. 2

Why do people talk about other people’s weight?

One of the girls I discussed this with began recovery by living in an intensive treatment center.  Essentially, she had to because she couldn’t get better on her own.  When she returned, a man she knew from work greeted her.  He knew where she’d been and why she’d gone there and how serious it was.  Nonetheless, the first words out of his mouth were, “Well, looks like you’ve put on some weight!”  Entirely well-meant, of course, but you can see why that would bother her (or most girls, ED or no).

A nutritionist at Wheaton told me almost the same thing, but a little better – “you put on weight; you look good.”  But at the time, it felt like she was trying to soften the truth (weight gain, which I didn’t like) with a compliment.  A relative of mine told me, “I can tell you’ve put on weight.”  Somewhat hurt, I tried to shrug it off, but she insisted, repeating, “You have, you’ve definitely put on weight.”  In all honesty, it’s salt in the wound.  I’m already struggling with my body image – do you have to remind me that I’m noticeable heavier?  It’s sad because these people were obviously trying to compliment me, but instead they were triggering one of my biggest fears.

Aside from direct statements, any talk of weight can affect me (and, I’m sure, others).  “So-and-so has definitely put on weight.”  “So-and-so is skinny!  She was always heavy, but she looks so good now.”  Friends and family tell me my weight isn’t important, in attempt to help me fight anorexia.  Then they can easily turn around and talk about other people’s weight, complimenting the slender and pointing out the overweight.  To anyone, this could send a clear message that thinness reigns supreme.  To someone with anorexia, it’s doubly painful.

It’s natural to notice others’ weight and maybe it’s natural to want to comment.  It only bothers me because weight is such a touchy issue for many people, myself included.  Even if you don’t have an ED, couldn’t you be affected by the attention other healthy people give to weight?  Maybe I’m being unrealistic, but I wish people would think twice before praising/condemning any given weight.

Wondering pt. 1

For some time now, I’ve had two related thoughts/questions.  I’ll get to the second question later; here’s question one:

Why do people talk about other people’s food?

Hypoglycemia came hand-in-hand with anorexia for me, while I was working six-hour shifts at a fast-food restaurant.  Less than two hours after a meal, I would be dropping soda cups, missing the slot when I tried to swipe credit cards, and forgetting orders the instant I heard them.  I had to eat almost constantly just to stay functional.

During this time, I had just started fighting anorexia.  Hypoglycemia was really hard to handle, since food was one of my greatest fears.  I struggled every day – I knew I needed the food, but it was so difficult to eat.

As if my own internal battles weren’t enough, question one came into play.  People commented on my food and eating habits, saying things like, “you’re ALWAYS snacking.”  This was a huge trigger for me, setting off additional stress and making my necessary but painful task even harder.

I don’t expect everyone to understand what it feels like to have an eating disorder, and I know those comments weren’t meant to upset me in the slightest.  I just wish people would put a bit more thought into comments about food.  A friend of mine who also has hypoglycemia gets these remarks as well, and she always wonders, “Would you walk up to someone obese and say, ‘gosh, you eat so much?’  Why do you think it’s ok to point out how much I eat?”  You don’t have to be anorexic to worry or wonder when someone tells you, “You eat a lot,” and it just seems like a strange thought to say aloud.

My two cents.  There you have it.

“…and Despair.”

A few other points that affected me pre-anorexia:

A good body image is something I don’t think I’ve really had.  Before I turned 12, I was convinced I was fat.  During puberty, my favorite clothes became anything baggy and casual, because I thought this hid me.  I felt my fatness was a secret I was keeping from everyone, or else a topic my friends avoided so as not to hurt my feelings.  I remember receiving compliments, and believing whoever gave them was flat-out lying or carefully pointing out one good quality among my endless flaws.

I had always disliked doctors after experiences with Soviet healthcare.  From age 11 onwards, I also dreaded doctor visits because of the scale – doctors directly confronted me about my weight.  They would explain numbers to me on their little charts, saying I was at the top of my age/height’s weight range.  They would tell me I should be careful.  Hearing someone say those things only confirmed what I’d told myself for years.  All I heard and thought was “you’re fat” when I went to the doctor.

I also grew to hate shopping for multiple reasons.  In America, I was bombarded with huge posters of smiling size 3 models in every store.  Unsurprisingly, those did nothing to improve my self-image.  Changing rooms were hell – I always had a discard pile of shirts or pants that were too small, and seeing my body in the mirror when I changed set off more resentment.  In Kazakhstan, it was even harder to find clothes that fit – understandable, but frustrating.

In addition, I had a love/hate relationship with food throughout my teens.  I could freely enjoy a greater variety of dishes than I do now, but I always blamed my love of food for my weight.  I’m also somewhat obsessive by nature and very self-critical.  Again, I don’t have a specific reason for these things happening; many of my thoughts, I’m sure, were not atypical of other girls my age.  I’m glad, however, that not everyone who struggles with body image ends up with an eating disorder.

“Compare…”

I don’t remember when I started comparing myself to the girls in my Russian school.  I do remember why I started.

I didn’t take many of the classes my fellow students took, which had them assuming I was ignorant concerning those subjects (math, for example).  I didn’t speak Russian like them, either; it took me much longer to memorize poems or read.  My classmates were astounded to find out I was turning 11 that January, since most of them were nine. Essentially, I was completely different and to me, that was a bad thing.

It was probably because of the prazdniks that I first compared.  While the other girls could wear the costumes, I didn’t fit.  Even the tailored outfit I wore for one dance was too short and tight.  I suppose I thought they looked better in whatever we wore, as well.  I remember getting measured.  I remember my skin rubbing raw in a costume I assume was too small.  I remember wishing I were thinner and tying one lone string around my stomach, as if that would fix me.

It wasn’t a terrible year; still, there was a lot I didn’t factor into my situation.  When comparing sizes, it never occurred to me to take age into account, though I knew I was at least a year and a half older than most of the girls.  That’s a big gap for kids still growing, so it’s no surprise I wasn’t as small as them.  Obviously I knew I wasn’t Russian, but it still bothered me that everyone else was so much better at school than I was.

I read a book about someone who recovered from bulimia.  One of the truths she repeated to herself throughout recovery was “compare and despair.”  If you compare yourself to others, you’ll find something “wrong” – you won’t feel thin enough, tan enough, curvy enough, etc.  If you don’t compare, there’s no “enough.”  There’s just you, the way you are, because physical appearance isn’t meant to be a hierarchy, even though society loves it that way.  Later, I journaled that people are like apples, carrots, pumpkins, and grapes – all different sizes and shapes, but MEANT to be different, not compared.  I do my best to remember that now.

95%

One day, Wheaton’s campus newspaper carried an article by a girl struggling with an ED.  She wrote about her doctor asking, “How often do you think about food during the day?”  In response, she told him, “95% of the time.”  Because she wasn’t underweight and she didn’t binge/purge, she hadn’t thought she was sick.  However, she came to realize something was wrong with the way she approached food, though she’d been that obsessed with it some time.

I understand that her percentage must be mind-boggling to people who don’t struggle with food like that.  I also understand exactly how she feels.  Personally, 95% is quite an accurate number. When I’m eating, I think about my food, what I’ve already eaten, and what I should eat during the rest of the day.  When I’m not eating, I think about when I’ll eat next, or what I ate yesterday, or what I’ll eat tomorrow.  As unbelievable as it may sound, my thinking is consumed by food.  (That pun was unintentional, but it was also the first word that came to mind, because it’s horribly true.)

In Wheaton’s gym, I once saw a girl on a treadmill, with her jacket draped over the front of the machine.  I knew why she had it there – she was covering the screen on her treadmill so she couldn’t see the calorie counter.  I do the same thing, because I’m always tempted to focus on the numbers.  Even when I’m preoccupied with homework, a workout, or a movie, food and worry worm their way through my thoughts.

I don’t have some profound point to make with all this, except, I suppose, that’s how I live every day, and how I’ve been living for the past year and a half.  It makes for exhausting, stressful, and terrifying moments, even if I appear to be enjoying a meal or functioning normally.  That’s a hard truth to explain to people, but I thought I’d give it a shot.

Explanation, absent.

I wish I had a reason for being anorexic.

I’ve read many testimonies from people who suffered through an eating disorder (ED).  Most people, it seems, have obvious factors that led to their ED.  When I joined a support group last year, I heard these stories during every session:

-competitive dancing from a young age

-constant academic pressure from family

-bullying or abuse

-stressful family problems

-affirmation for a low weight

-teasing for a high weight

None of that happened to me.

I’ve tried to explain why I’m anorexic, but I can’t find a completely satisfactory answer, even for myself.  Thoughts patterns that I developed when I was little are the main reason, but why did those patterns emerge?  Maybe I’m prone to bad habits.  Maybe I’m prone to negative thoughts.  I don’t know.

I suppose it doesn’t really matter; a clear answer wouldn’t give me a clear solution.  I think I want a reason so my story would make people understand, or let me understand why I ended up here.  This way, I have to work harder to explain, methinks.

I’ll still give it a go.  Hang in there.

Defined.

anorex·ia ner·vo·sa – noun.

An eating disorder primarily affecting adolescent girls and young women, characterized by pathological fear of becoming fat, distorted body image, excessive dieting, and emaciation.

-dictionary.com

It’s not difficult to define anorexia.  I only wish it were as easy to explain what it feels like.

“It’s like Alice in Wonderland, following the white rabbit down the rabbit hole,” my doctor at Wheaton told me once.  “You think you’re just going to a certain point, but once you start going you never catch it.  Everything gets twisted and convoluted inside, and you don’t even know where you are.”

To myself, I described anorexia as a hole, too – a black hole.  It swallowed my present, my future, my friends, family, schoolwork, and all emotions except fear and stress.  Every waking second (and often in dreams, as well), food was on my mind.  It usually is, still.

Anorexia gets inside your brain and weaves itself around your thoughts, pretending to be you.  Sometimes I can hear it like another voice in my head, allowing arguments.  “I might have dessert,” I think as I head for the freezer.  “There are X calories in that ice cream,” anorexia reminds me.  “You just ate dinner.  You’re not hungry, so you don’t need to eat.  Why eat extra on purpose?”  “It’s fine for tonight,” I can answer.

However, I often hear only myself counting calories or planning ahead.  I’m in control; my caloric intake, my weight, and my appearance seem to be in my hands.  The thought of surrendering that power – willingly embracing the void of no numbers, no knowledge, no control – can terrify me.

But the reality is if you’re anorexic, you’re out of control.  In fact, you’re at the beck and call of anorexia, bursting into tears at the thought of eating a specific dish for dinner, or slipping food into the trashcan when no one is watching.  Next time I quake at the thought of eating something, I should ask myself, “Still think you’re in control?  Do you really want to live like this forever?”

Sometimes I think I do.  The relief that I feel when I stay under my allotted calories for the day or manage to skip dessert can be convincing.  As long as I rigidly control what I eat, I can be certain I won’t gain weight, and I can feel safe.

But sometimes I realize I’m trapped, and I hate it.  Then I want to escape this personal hell – personal because I’m alone, and personal because I’m also the one perpetuating the torture, a partner in crime with my eating-disorder enemy.

There’s never just one chance to answer those questions, either.  If I decide today that anorexia will not win, tomorrow I may allow food to dominate my thoughts.  It’s a constant battle, one I’ll attempt to explain.  So here I go…