Evidence that life is indeed unfair: I feel like a stomach on legs; I swear my belly enters the room before I do. And yet, ZERO increase in the boobage department. Why, why? I know the cerebral answer to my own question, your body pads the organs in the abdoment first, yaddah yaddah, but it doesn't make my apple-ish shape any less frustrating. Embarassing question, but what is a blog without an occasional dose of TMI: For those of y'all that have been through this, do you have to get your period back before the bust begins to well, bust out of hiding?
I still haven't made much progress with decreasing exercise (ok, I'll be honest, I have made no progress whatsoever), and frankly I have no idea how I'll be able to force myself to do that when I am already rapidly becoming disenchanted with this weight gain thing.
I just hate my face. I hate the way it is shaped when it fills out. I look like a blonde potato. I have never had a good opinion about how I look, but in the past I could tell myself "You may not be be pretty, but at least you're thin." Now I don't see myself as either, and it is kind of killing my confidence. I've tried the "exposure therapy" that H. recommended, I still post pictures on Facebook, etc, she tells me that letting shame keep me from sharing shots of myself doing exciting things would be a score for the ED...but I can't help wondering whether everyone that sees them is going to be flabbergasted at my newly flubberized face.
So, all this whining about appearance, which is stupid and inconsistent in light of the my emotional flare-up when H. suggested that my thinking was superficial. Oops. It's not just how I look, though, this also just feels strange. I haven't weighed this much since I was 15 years old, and I have to figure out how I'm going to identify myself if I'm going to give up the ED--which has been the main component of my identity for going on nine years now--and start to look/act more like a normal, healthy person.
Today I saw one of the faculty mentors from a leadership thing that I went to this summer, and she was effusive with the "you look great, much better than the last time I saw you" comments. Aaack so it is noticeable, quick, where is the nearest rock I can crawl under? I forced myself to remember that most normal people like being paid compliments, in NormalSpeak "you look great" is actually a positive comment.
Reading over this post, I feel bad because know a lot of these worries are shallow and trivial, I apologize for the rambling. There are so many people with disabilities, injuries, illnesses, etc, and here I am whining about my f-ing face and bra size. I'm starting to doze off on the keyboard, but tomorrow I'll make an effort to redeem myself by doing some brainstorming on on items to add to the "why recovery is worth it" list.
6 comments:
I totally hear you. I always feel a little guilty when I put anything "negative" on my blog, but those feelings are real and I think it's important to express them. Those of us who have been through this know the struggle of being angry at yourself for being so focused on something so superficial and at the same time being so controlled by it. But I know it's so much deeper than that, and so do you. Never feel like you have to apologize for expressing your feelings, this is your blog afterall, and ultimately it's for you. Part of recovery is learning how to be real and let others help and support you when you need it. :)
I hear you about the boobs. The weight I put on in August is starting to shift around to where I want it. I don't know if that helps.
And your body is NOT trivial. Think about it - it's your presence in the world. Everything you know and perceive is based on something physical, whether the nerves in your skin or the synapses in your brain. Being comfortable in your body is worth working toward - at least that's what I'm hanging onto.
Cammy,
I don't think it's that you are superficial but that this is such unknown, unchartered territory. It seems logical that you would feel so tentative about "embracing" a different body.
I used to try to hide the discomfort I felt about my body, lie that I was super happy with myself, and I think it's actually healthier to rant and rave and work through all of that anger and anxiety.
I also hope that you'll keep working towards a healthier place.
- Kristina
Cammy:
Stick with it. Stick with the discomfort. This is one of the hardest parts to get through but there IS a happy ending: there will come the day when you look in the mirror and say "Hey, that's me" -- not "I'm so ugly," not "I'm so thin" but just a glance of self recognition. That is all the mirror is about, anyway. Just you checking in on yourself.
I think that Lisa is right about weight shifting around, too -- eventually your body will take care of itself, if you let it. It may not turn out the way you want, but trust it that it is doing what is absolutely necessary for you to survive. Have patience. You are worth it.
Ai Lu
Oh, yes, on my last Dr. visit I had gained a little weight and the nurse and Dr. both gleefully exclaimed 'they could see it in my face'. Which of course led to multiple mirror examinations the minute I stepped in my door.
It's good for your heart. It's good for your body. It's good for you. Just remember that; this too shall pass. I'm struggling with that myself, and I applaud you for fighting through it; it's in no way easy.
Reading this post made me revisit posts on my own blog from the Spring of 2006, when I was first regaining weight. Jeez, if I didn't understand that so many of us have such similar recovery struggles, I would've thought you'd been reading my blog and/or my diary and/or mind! I can/could relate to it all--the weird proportions when you first start gaining (I felt like I looked like an Ethiopian child from a Unicef ad, but that's an awfully gauche comparison, I know), the self-disgust for feeling so superficial, the face hatred, etc., etc. And, yes, the recognition of what your body is doing biologically (anybody else hate hearing the term "fatty apron" from her treatment team?), but not being at all comforted by that fact the way you'd like to be. But possibly worst of all: the feeling of tender, tender vulnerability. For years, anorexia was my armor. I often recited to myself variations along the lines of "If I'm not pretty, at least no one can say I'm not thin," "If I'm not smart enough, at least no one can say that I'm fat and dumb," etc., etc. Strip away that layer of protection and what have you got? The trick is not letting that question be merely rhetorical. The work is slowly, surely, honestly, humbly, lovingly trying to figure out the answer for yourself.
Hang in there, kiddo.
Post a Comment