I can remember having a conversation, with, I think it was Stargirl, about why it was so hard to stop, just really, for once and for all, quit being anorexic. Reading the post at by flutter is what brought it back to the forefront.
Then, I’d always say something typical when questioned about why, after over a decade, I was still so taken by the emotional vampire that is anorexia. You know, something like, “It’s not that easy.” The same answer every honest alcoholic says, the same one that any person whose just fallen off of a proverbial wagon utters.
And there were typical, and atypical responses, that I’d heard over the years.
“But you’re not fat.”
“It’s so unhealthy. Don’t you want to be healthy?”
“It’s so much energy. Think of how you could use it positively, instead.”
And I’d always agree. And I’d always repeat, “it’s just not that easy.”
Truth be told, it could be that easy, once the ideology of it was broken down.
See mirror, see wrong thing in the mirror, realize that perception is supremely fucked up, ask way-too-honest person for real interpretation, get smacked in the face with exactly how fucked up perception really is. Quit. Rinse and repeat.
I know.
I did it several times.
The thing of it is. As vampiric as anorexia is. It’s also like that boyfriend that taught you that you’re not good enough. He was the only one who loved you, supported you, would be there for you always. That’s anorexia’s motto, when you’re besties.
There’s also a little subtext that anorexia inserts into your mainframe once you’ve been hanging out for a while. It’s a sub-program, it runs adjacent to the hundreds of daily crunches and 100 calorie days – it’s unwavering, for the most part.
Being anorexic makes you special. Invisible. Invinsible. More accomplished and with a much stronger self of willpower than anyone else in the vicinity.
Being anorexic meant that I could go two days without eating, while teaching three classes at the gym, going for two runs, doing four sets of 200 sit-ups and be a fly on the wall. I could be the shy, quiet student that was always chilly and puffing on as many smokes as she could fit in during the class’ coffee break; I could stab the life out of you with my hip bones, bare proof of how much more willing to work for physical perfection I was.
Rarely did I show off those hip bones, except for when my pants were falling down or I was prepping for someone to use them as handles, but they were there and they were fierce.
Mostly, though, without even meaning for it to be, anorexia was a lovely little curtain I could hide behind.
Feelings? We don’t need no feelings, we need to starve until our heads spin and black spots dance in front of our eyes. Hurt? We don’t get hurt. We do the hurting – of others and ourselves. Abuse, betrayal, hands that roamed where they shouldn’t have? Doesn’t matter anymore because we’ve taken our body back, 100%. Under new management.
It’s interesting. I spent….20 years, really, hiding behind this Army of Me(s) – and seriously, if you don’t think there are entire armies devoted to lust of bones and sagging flesh, you’ve never hung out in the social media I used to – and then one day, I blinked and I was pretty much over it.
Call it this past February.
I was done.
I still see the same problems in the mirror. I still want to cry when a size 0 fits tightly. When the pounds creep more toward 110 than 100, it’s still an emotional upheaval. But I’m still done with those moments that spanned months that took all of my energy, sanity and willpower.
I don’t have anything to hide behind anymore, because feelings? They fucking suck, but now I have them. Hurt? Happens nearly continually, but that’s what happens when you trust people (sometimes blindly, sometimes even though you shouldn’t) and I choose to trust people. Abuse and betrayal and hands that roamed where they shouldn’t have? If it happens and I didn’t see it coming, it will teach me something; if I’m asking for it, then it’s my own damn fault (see “sometimes blindly, sometimes even thought you shouldn’t”).
2009. It’s still the year of me.
And me doesn’t have to hide behind an eating disorder anymore. Because I kind of like me a little bit, the more I get to know her and strip away the layers of protective ice and metal.
Despite my beliefs that things happen for a reason and that they all balance out, and my lack of beliefs in a specific higher power, I find myself going Why god? What the fuck did I do to you?
The way-back story:
I live in a part of Vancouver that if you look at certain websites’ maps, is alit with red dots. Those red dots represent addresses wherein bed bugs have been reported. These red dots do not represent all of the bed bug cases in my neighbourhood, but even just looking at the Vancouver map, it’s pretty obvious where’s a scary as fuck area to move around in.
When we moved into this apartment last August, we unknowingly moved into one of those unreported red dots. Two steam treatments, three fumigations and countless loads of laundry later, we were bug free. Then other suites were treated. As far as I know, the building is clean, now – but I’m still suspect every time I see a neighbour throwing out furniture.
Point: this is not the place to live, if you’re interested in buying (or scooping from back-alleys) second-hand furnishings. I won’t even shop for vintage or second-hand clothes any longer – it was hell for three months, not being able to sleep and waking up each morning, counting the new bites – because it’s just not worth the potential reintroduction of the fuckers.
The not-so-way-back story:
About three weeks ago, Isobel started getting splotches. I’d notice them in the morning, as I was getting her dressed, and nearly immediately, various expletives would come to mind as I assumed the worst: more bed bugs.
I let this go on for most of the week – watching each day as she got more splotches, that curiously weren’t itchy and would fade within 12 hours or so. I thought to myself, “Self, this is odd. I’m not getting bitten, and she’s not getting as many as when we did have bed bugs, before. These don’t even look like bug bites – they’re not regular or swollen and they’re not palpable. Maybe something else is up, Self.”
That was in my head, for the record.
So, by the time our little Ikea excursion came to be, I decided to take a little walk-see to the local clinic and have a person with various degrees check her over.
While waiting for him to mosey into the room, I found out that she’s lost two pounds since her last doctor’s visit. Two whole pounds within about six weeks. A. She can’t afford to lose that weight – the kid’s got like, no fat on her, and is now down to 26 pounds and nearly three. And, B. Yes, she goes to the doctor a lot. Which is kind of funny, considering how un-medicated and un-vaccinated she is, compared to a lot of her peers.
Anyway.
He said they didn’t look like bug bites. He said that they weren’t regularly-shaped, and not palpable. {I just play a doctor on the Intarnetz, I swear.} He said to leave her for a couple more weeks and see if, without other symptoms cropping up, the splotches resolved themselves.
I said the word I’ve come to curse: allergies? And he did a quick scratch test on her back, which she passed, fine.
Now, I’ve never been made aware of a scratch test – but apparently, if you scratch a letter with your fingernail – not hard, but enough to leave a mark – and it doesn’t flare up all angry, fire-breathing-demon-like, you’re in the clear for allergies. Something about red welt from a tiny nail graze=histamine levels rising. Histamine indicates an allergic reaction taking place in your bod. Lesson finished.
Anyway, I asked what he’d done, and why she’d passed – I’m always wondering what the grade curve is based on, you see – while looking at her back. He explained the whole demon thing and I said, “Oh, so this is fine, then?” and batted my little eyelashes.
Wait, no, I was wearing good mascara that day. Batted my full, curly, long, dark brown eyelashes. Thank you L’oreal and Almay and The Body Shop lash curler.
“Yeah. Wait. No. That was a delayed reaction. And a rather severe one.”
This coming from the multiple-degreed person who’d just purposefully GOUGED my child with his dirty old-man thumb nail, who was now peering at the swollen, demons-are-too-low-a-life-form-for-this-kid, bring-out-Satan’s-brand patch on her back. You couldn’t even tell what letter he’d picked, it was so angry and huge.
“Yup. She’s being exposed to something that’s giving her a pretty good reaction, I’d say. Watch it.”
Thanks, Doc.
More-recent story:
I racked my brains for what she could have been recently exposed to. Wheat? (that makes her mental and this wasn’t mental.) Dairy? (that makes her physically ill and she’s been pooping like a pro.) Something environmental? (there’s been nothing new, and she would have other symptoms.) Corn? (please god, not corn, too!) Strawberries? (the kid does eat a lot of those. Shit. Maybe it’s strawberries. Shit. Her favourite food. Shit.)
I watched as almost every day, some new splotches – or rashes, as she calls them – would pop up, and I’d put her to bed, seeing them fade practically in front of my eyes.
This was most curious.
We laid off the strawberries, and for two glorious days, she got no new splotches.
Then, she had some blueberries. And three popped up within six or so hours.
Fine. Let’s avoid those, then…raspberries.
Four more splotches.
Cranberry juice? Two more.
Fuck me, this kid is allergic to like, every berry in the world. I’m so sad for her.
She’s pretty happy, because the splotches occasionally show up like works of art. And cuz she thinks she might get a Dora band-aid for them. Or at least extra attention from every. single. person. she. shows. them. to. (yes, even I was annoyed, writing that. Sorry for all the .s)
She doesn’t yet realize, fully, that I’m taking away all of her berries. She’s going to be one sad kid, then.
