More Thoughts

"Then you should say what you mean," the March Hare went on.
"I do," Alice hastily replied; "at least - at least I mean what I say -- that's the same thing, you know."
"Not the same thing a bit!" said the Hatter. "Why, you might just as well say that, 'I see what I eat' is the same as 'I eat what I see'!"

- Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

I was in denial over what I was doing to myself for a long time. I would argue that maybe I still am in denial. When people hear of eating disorders, two images come to mind: 1) Women that appear to have stepped out of a post-WWII concentration camp and 2) Women running to the bathroom leaving behind a trail of chip bags, candy, cookies and other various junk foods. I do not fit into either picture.

I love food and always have loved food. I guess you could call it a love-hate relationship. On my mom’s side of the family, we talk about food a lot. My grandma would write letters about company coming over and lengthy descriptions of what meal she prepared and how it tasted, etc… I remember when I was about 19 years old, my then boyfriend, now husband commented that he had never been around a group of people (my family) that could spend hours discussing food.

While I have never been “fat”, I always remember being labeled a “healthy eater.” I was somewhat famous in my family for being able to pack away a 12 oz steak with no problem at the age of 10. Most of my high school was spent slightly overweight for my height. I still had my “baby fat.” Towards the middle of my Jr. Year, I started losing weight. I ate healthy, I worked out constantly and I started to look good. I honestly relished the attention I received as I dropped from a size 8 to a size 0. For as much as I loved bread and pasta, when my family got on board with the Atkins Diet Craze, carbs became a mortal enemy and soon my diet consisted of lots of eggs, cheese, meat, salad, and other various no carb vegetables. Desserts became sugar substitute puddings and custards. But I looked great.

I went off to college that year determined not to pack on the “Freshman 10.” Although to be honest, 10 lbs would have looked good. I was at 105 lbs entering college and my best weight is around 118-125 lbs. The trauma that happened my freshman year became a recipe for my struggle with food that haunts me even now. Food became a sanctuary, a way of coping. But then dealing with the amount of food I was eating became one more thing for me to feel depressed and guilty over.

It never occurred to me to throw up my food at first. No. What came to mind was a different kind of self-injurious action. One night after a blow up with my boyfriend, I got so upset that I went back to my empty dorm room and proceeded to cut myself with a kitchen knife over 50 times on both forearms. You would think after maybe cut 1, 2 or 10 that I might have stopped due to pain, blood, or just the sheer realization of what I was doing to myself, but I didn’t. I didn’t feel a damn thing. It took a long time for feeling to set in. It was like I was some other person; detached and completely separated from my body. There was a feeling like I was hovering over myself watching what was happening and not connecting at all with the pain. In fact, I remember at one point starting to pay attention to the design of the cuts.

I’ve asked myself over and over again what possessed me to do that to myself. I am at the door trying to unlock that secret. Generic answers of feelings of unworthiness, self-loathing, etc… do not quite encompass what was in my head. You know what? I’m going to save the rest of this for a different day. The story is too long and arduous to continue to write at this point…