My story starts here. Sort of

Not unlike many young Mormon women, I was married for the first time at entirely too young of an age. I went forward with naivety and hope that I was completely prepared for an eternity with my first real boyfriend. 14 years and 3 husbands later, I’m even more convinced of that. But 5 years into that marriage, #1 and I couldn’t see making it another month together. We envisioned a life of blissful date nights, unified bill paying, delightful couple outings to the grocery store, and more specifically never-ending, never-fading lust, infatuation and butterflies. Pff, ya’ll know how that works out. So we concluded in a very dooms-dayish resolve that perhaps it just wasn’t meant to be and each of us, along with our preschool son, would be happier, better adjusted and all around more whole if we parted ways and sought greener pastures. Read More

Hello you.

You.  Hello you.  I’ve met you before.  A younger, still hopeful, and somewhat arrogant version of me – she met you in a club 10 years ago.  You were unlike anyone she’d ever known and yet somehow, she knew you’d be her undoing.  One date in and that ME knew that she was done for.  She staggered forward anyway.  It’s not like she stood a chance, but she didn’t have a choice.  There wasn’t a world or a lifetime that she wouldn’t fall absolutely and recklessly in love with you.  And that’s just what she did.  That girl would go on to turn herself inside out to love you.  And man, did she love you.  If I’m being honest, I do too.  We never stopped.  Even when your words and your actions and the world would force her to leave the dimension in which we were still one.

And now, a decade later, we meet again.  You look different this time.  Tamer and more refined.   Taller and leaner with perfectly coiffed dark hair, except when it’s not and, God, do I love when it’s not.  And your beard, well it’s fuller and darker and haphazardly flecked with grey and completely different than the one I knew yet I’m still unable to keep my head about me.  You smile less and are conservative with your conversation.  You used to freely offer opinions and compliments and your laughter was barely contained by the edge of your thin lips.  Your jawline is still impossibly pronounced and I will never not crave it against my skin.  My chest constricts with ache to touch these new, fuller lips that act as gate keeper to the thoughts that could only be constructed by an insanely beautiful and flawed mind.  I remember when you eagerly and so damn confidently gave me your heart; you were the most unexpected contradiction and the very best tool to break through my cautionary wall.  But now, you vigilantly barricade your heart and keep your arms rigidly to your side as I plead for you to pry mine from this higher, more fortified wall.

I affect you differently this time.  I never understood the way you looked at me, spoke of me, and protectively held me.  We must have seen different things when we looked at me because you never hesitated to love me even when I couldn’t seem to commit to myself.  All these years later, I must have worn off on you.  You see me differently.  It feels like you might finally see me the way I see me; in jagged pieces.  You seem undecided, torn maybe.  I wish I could go back to the you that was blind to my physical imperfections and found my eclectic quirks endearing.

The form you currently inhabit and the one I first came to love, are very different vessels.  And I can’t deny the canyon of differences in the way you feel this go around.  Your energy seems to emanate from an entirely different source but is breathtaking, nonetheless.  The two of you, you’re not just separated by a decade.  The chasm between you seems impossible to bridge.  But don’t think my soul didn’t recognize you for what you were.  And more than that, I could already foresee what would happen.  Older and broken yet reformed; terrified and stubborn, I already knew I would love you.  How could I not?  I already knew what it felt like to have my soul find its mate.  So I knew that regardless of how you felt, I would fall absolutely and recklessly in love with you.


May 16th, 2017

I relapsed for the first time since being in recovery last summer.  During the 4 months that I was “sober”, binging, purging and restricting never crossed my mind.  I was astonished at how ED seemed to have been completely banished after 10 years of living with it daily.  Recovery looked like it would be the easiest and surest thing in the world.  So I was completely surprised when I found myself in the middle of a binge for no apparent reason and knowing very clearly that it would end in a purge.  I wasn’t stressed and I was unapologetic about what was going down after the longest stint of sobriety I had experienced in a decade.  Fortunately, during this time, I was still seeing Dr. W. every other week.  I was very open when I confessed to the episode and relayed how shocked I was both that it occurred and that I was so indifferent to it.  We combed through the seemingly minor events that preceded it and there were 2 things that she got stuck on.  Both involved me not speaking my truth.  One included me offering forgiveness, reassurance, and wishing happiness upon #3’s mistress when she reached out to me two years after being caught to offer an attempted explanation and apology.  Being motivated to a fault by peace and the avoidance of conflict, it is not unusual for me to attempt to comfort someone who has wronged me.  And I wasn’t fake.  I did feel at peace when I offered this woman compassion and wished her well.  But what she’ll never know, is what I had to pass through to offer her that compassion.  Or the many times going forward that I will have to talk myself down from one of the memories involving her.

Trigger warning: Read More

Still here, huh?

In just a few days National Eating Disorders Awareness week will commence.  Which means it’s been one year since I came out.  I came clean in the name of bravery, compassion, healing, and helping.  Or at least I believed those were my reasons.  I announced to my little world that for years I was ensnared in the hungry jaws of an eating disorder.  For a decade, I played puppet to a master whose commands differed so greatly from one moment to the next that the strings holding me upright were twisted and tangled and hardly even functional.  I spent years counting steps and calories; pounds and fat percentages until my body ignored my calculations and stopped responding to my efforts to control it.  And probably much like a teenager, it began to rebel and do the opposite despite my hysterical and erratic demands.  I put on weight and retained water; my eyes were puffy and blood shot from the strain of purging and my gag reflex built up a tolerance to my bitter efforts to expel any trace of a binge.

So after months of weekly therapy, group therapy, sessions with an ED specific dietician, and a maxed out credit card to fund my recovery, I began to live for the first time in years without ED as my guide.  Except that isn’t actually the case.   And maybe I’m alone in this, or maybe there are others like me.  Even though I was no longer hypnotically obedient to my disorder, it was never not present.  I had to guard my developing, healthier mind set in the way that I imagine a drug addict would have to monitor his external surroundings and double check his internal cravings.  I had to unfollow fitness and food accounts on social media.  I had to leave behind friends and family whose interests seemed to be primarily weight loss or fitness centered.  But there were also those that had nothing to do with fitness.  Beautiful women who I associated with #3’s ever wandering eyes were a big No for me.  Family and friends that I’d lost in the divorce now became painful evidence of all the ways that, for everyone else, the world remained unchanged.  And that recognition often led to thoughts of rejection, inadequacy, and the never fully buried idea that I was unlovable.  Bye bye, Self Love.

My relationship with food evolved, yet again.  Months of encouraging my mind and body to accept the “bad” foods led to a problem of a different sort.  I became unable to tell if I was eating a cookie because it’s buttery soft texture and assortment of chocolate and raisins was exactly what I needed or if I was indulging because I’m mental and thought that if I didn’t eat the cookie then ED would win.  More often than not I partook to show that I wasn’t sick rather than because of its gooey glory.  I worried that if my coworkers didn’t see me eating pizza they’d whisper about me slipping into my old ways.  I don’t know, but this still feels kind of broken to me.

My attempts to start dating last summer after 2 years of boycotting boys, has been equally enlightening to my lingering insanity.  At times, I had a very sound internal conversation.  If a potential date’s bio and pics seemed indicative of a fanatical fitness lifestyle, I swiped left knowing that he would awaken the lightly sleeping demon within.  This seemed totally reasonable and what a recovering alcoholic would do should they come across a basement brew master.  On those that I dared to swipe right on, I convinced myself that his sufficiently svelte self would undoubtedly find my more regular body wanting.  And while I’ve never been one to shy away from tough talk, I found myself blurting out that I’ve been in recovery for an eating disorder and was force fed carbs and had my gym privileges revoked and that’s why I was 20 lbs. heavier than when…well never mind about that because you just met me but still just trust me that I used to be super lean and crazy chiseled, thank you very much.  Keep in mind, that this wasn’t necessarily in response to a question posed and that they had already swiped right on me and wanted to meet me…all extra 20 lbs. of me.  But also keep in mind that I never considered myself crazy chiseled or super lean nor was I ever tube fed and banned from a gym but this just goes to show that ED was either alive and well or talking from the grave.  Y’all know I love me some ghosts…but this homeboy needs to be exorcised.

So today, nearly 1 year to the day that I made loved ones and voyeurs alike aware of my issues surrounding my body and its care and keeping, I am reflecting on the most recent time that someone was brave enough to ask me directly about ED.   Two nights ago an old friend reached out and, after the requisite chit chat and catching up, bravely texted “How is ED doing?”.  I was surprised and touched.  Both emotions for the same reason; no one asks anymore.  And why would they?  People want you to be good mostly because they love you but also because what the hell are they supposed to do if you’re not?

Wanting to be both honest and light about it, I responded with “Ed is like the old boyfriend that keeps resurfacing”.  Given the history with this friend, there was no need to elaborate.  But yeah, that’s where ED and I are.  We’re no longer in an exclusive relationship, because he sucks.  But there are definitely triggers and memories that will cause my thoughts to wander.  And moments of embarrassing weakness where I reach out a little and he eagerly draws me back in.  I know that I don’t want him in my life and that there is no future with the two of us but just like the literal ex, too many lonely nights, wine, or stupid nostalgia can leave me vulnerable and open to the comfort of the pain I already know in place of the potential for experiencing new.