cynosure

Turning twenty was supposed to be especially important because 7 years ago, I thought I’d be dead before I hit two-oh.

There was a time in my life when I thought that I would kill myself before I’d live two decades. That life, at age twelve, had already proved itself not worth living.

My first memory of the thought: I was eight. I had snuck into the kitchen and stared at the knives, already wondering if living was worth it.

I’m not sure how to put into words exactly why. When you’re young and you feel the rest of the world is just so damn antagonistic, what can you do? Of course, I had actual reasons, but their meaning in my life has drifted away, sand on leaves.

So it’s pretty damn amazing to realize that, in the course of little over a one year or so, I’ve moved forward so far. It was March of last year. I had reached the end of a line and knew I had to change or die. To go from a self-hating-bulimic-anorexic-bingeing-self-harming-depressed-and-once-upon-a-time-suicidal ball of self-destruction to happy, content, full of confidence and love and unconditional acceptance for myself… what can I say? In the past I couldn’t have even dreamt such blessings and joy.

Still, I’m not there yet. I’ll never really be there, and to me, that’s what makes life worth living. Always moving forward, because there is no end. No end to this growing, this living, this loving.

I can always stand to love myself a little more each day. We all can.

“To be honest” is, if not my favorite, then my most overused way to start a sentence. I feel compelled to announce when I’m being “especially” honest. It’s my ironically boring way of making “confessions” with a sprinkle of spice.

To be honest, I’m absolutely terrified of talking on the phone. I’ve been working on this for what seems like forever. In high school, I would lie and say I lost my phone.. underneath my bed.. for several days. I prefer anything to communicating telephonically. I actually prefer talking to someone in person (most of the time) to any other way.

To be honest, I have no idea what I’m going to do, you know, for a living, for an extended period of time. And that uneasiness of where I’m headed is clouding my mind, my actions. I don’t know what to do now because I’m not sure what I’m even aiming for. What am I supposed to do in a situation like that? I live in the present, but the present determines the future, and I don’t know what future I want. I want to be … better. That’s it. Smarter. More responsible. Wiser. More clear-headed. Healthier. I should focus on that one first.

To be honest…

This story is unfinished. It always has been. And I’ve been feeling like maybe it’s almost even a little false at this point, because somewhere along the way, I did start binging again. And I did start feeling.. utterly confused as to why. And problems have come back.

I’ve been trying to avoid it, and I think that’s the problem. Clarity comes back to me when I feel like I’m really experiencing life, even if I’m just seeking inspiration in beauty of words and images and life as depicted by others. But lately, very recently, and for several months before that, I’ve been eating mindlessly. Truthfully, weight gain is the least of my concerns. I’m more upset about how helpless, hopeless, and nauseous I’ve ended up making myself feel day after day. I’m more concerned with the fact that I don’t seem to even know why I started, let alone how to stop.

I feel as if I haven’t walked in days, let alone climbed and hiked and enjoyed moving my body. I’ve felt sedentary and sick.

Also, painfully, I’ve realized I have a small appetite and a not-too-swift metabolism. No matter how much I want to, I can’t eat very much. I used to be self-conscious of this. And I used to eat more, a lot more than my stomach could even handle, in company just because I felt others projecting their own insecurities onto me when they saw how little I eat. Ironic that when I was anorexic and hungry, for the sake of achieving an impossible body type I wouldn’t eat at mealtimes even when I was starving. And ironic later that I began to eat more for the sake of making others more comfortable with themselves. That’s not my job. Don’t pressure me.

It’s been hard for me to accept that my metabolism isn’t lightning speed, that my stomach can only fit a little food at a time. I’ve forced my poor stomach to take in much more than it needs for a week… all at once, in a day. I’m getting better, though. Or, I was, until recently I started not even eating healthy food. (Not that just because it’s healthy means you should binge on it, et cetera…)

But I have to accept it. I can’t change it. I have to love that part of myself, too. I have to stop wishing I had a faster metabolism so I could eat more, more frequently. When I eat what my body needs when I’m hungry… I don’t eat much. I CAN’T eat that much. That’s one confession.

(Another thing I have to accept: Depression is a big part of my past life. Just because I’m unbelievably happy now doesn’t mean I can ever ignore that and, especially, not be mindful when it flickers in my life again, warning me to pay attention and stop taking myself and my life for granted.)

I brought my old journal back from the dead so I could read some of my past scattered writings (and retrieve old content for the Never Give Up kit, of course). One particular impetus was to find again this quote, since I left my books on emotional eating somewhere else because I thought (yet again) “I’m ‘recovered’ completely, hurrah!”:

My students often say, “I want to be done with this thing with food once and for all.” But there is no place to get to, no such thing as arriving and never having to leave. If you take a big view and understand that eating, or thinking about eating, will probably always be the way you alert yourself to changes in your inner world, you can relax. You can use turning to food as a method of exploring the corners of your soul; you can think about emotional eating as a gift rather than a curse.

Geneen Roth, from When You Eat at the Refrigerator, Pull Up a Chair

It’s my gift, then, right? The problem is that I’m not using it to my advantage… why, why have I started this terrible cycle again? A few days I’m healthy… a few days later, I’m caving at the first twitch of stress. Why why why. (I’m figuring it out… slow and steady wins the race.)

I know I started this journal for you, but I started it for me, too. And my constant occassional “I’ll be honest” writings are my steps in becoming more open, more vulnerable. I want to tell you everything now, without all these censors I put on myself. I want to share. (And if what I write might move you, amuse you, or even somehow help you, that’s more than enough for me.)

About why my childhood and, more severely, middle school years were terrible enough for me to want to die. (Well, maybe not… that might just be yet another sob story. Maybe.)

About how I was taken advantage of by a 23-year-old classmate (whose girlfriend was in Japan…) on my sixteenth birthday. (I seem to attract guys who cheat on their girlfriends. Sigh. Maybe I’ll tell that story, too.)

About how I was mugged on the streets of Shanghai in the summer of 2007. (Actually, that story’s not as interesting as you’d think.)

About my first real “relationship” (I say it was real yet put the word in quotes… hrm), and my first sexual experience (it was far from “making love”).

About my first love that spanned five years and lasted as a flicker through two unrelated relationships.

About…

(It seems that most of my traumatic experiences happened as a result of males. Tough luck, dudes. Though a couple of males have also been, in a way, my saviors as well, so it balances out.)

One big deterrent was always that these were real people I was talking about, real people who could even be reading this now (though I flatter myself in thinking so). But that’s just one of the risks in putting a slice of one’s self out into the open, right? (And even more so with this medium).

Thanks for sticking with me this far. My story’s only just begun. It’s almost six in the morning and it’s another bright, new, beautiful day. Well, after I sleep and awake again, at least.

And if you were wondering what my first favorite word is… well, at first thought, I’d say it was love… which does happen to be a close first. But the truth is I don’t have one. I love (there’s that word again!) words too much to associate with such petty favoritism. Hah! (I probably should sleep now.)

—

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Sunny blessed afternoons. I read 10 books in April. I’m now ahead for reading a book a week (I was behind the first three months!). I’m now striving for at least 100 books this year.

I still wish I could clone myself so I could actually be in my own photos sometimes, but benches and tables work as good stand-ins once in a while

I bought myself a huge tiramisu cake for my own birthday a week ago. The girl at the bakery asked, “Is it for someone’s birthday?” I nodded yes and she let me pick out a candle and a “Happy Birthday” sign. I still have yet to eat it (or make a birthday wish and blow out the candle!). I wonder when I will.

Likewise, two mango cakes for a half-birthday & an anniversary.

Friday a week ago was fantastic.

Speaking of desserts, which I simply adore, I’m excitedly beginning to create raw vegan desserts. Since cupcakes are tempting (and aesthetically pleasing, which is probably why I like them so much) I made a few yesterday with Oliver. (We also finally did a papercraft project together that we’ve been meaning to do since November.) Making food is fun and exciting.. to me, at least. If you’re asking, how could a cupcake be raw? then the answer is: It’s made of fruits and nuts, coconut butter, and natural unprocessed sweeteners like agave (or honey, which is “beegan”).

Yummy raw vegan chocolate cupcakes with frosting! (The frosting was almost too rich and sweet for me! but maybe because I tasted it too much while I was making it…)

I’ve been meaning to write about raw veganism (and all sorts of healthy delicious food in general) since I first started eating more raw food, and many yummy food writings are coming soon!

I’ve also been vegetarian for a couple of weeks and it’s been both surprisingly and unsurprisingly easy for me. My trial period was 30 days (I haven’t slept past noon in over a month, either! hurrah!) but I think I might transition entirely (or at least to pescetarianism). On some days I’m completely raw vegan, on others, I’m just vegetarian… I’m flexible and I like it that way (plus, I rebel against restrictions, self-imposed or not– restricting and depriving is for the weak!).

Either way, I find myself not missing dead animal flesh at all. After I’m done with my 30 days, I’ll be sure to share my journey, considering my parents used to call me a tiger for my carnivorous tendencies and wonder how a horse (I was born in the year of) that was supposed to eat grass became such a voracious meat-eater. The funny thing is that I (along with a few other vegetarians, vegans, or even raw vegans) used to be one of those people that’d say “I’d never be able to be a vegetarian.” But it’s a process, and it’s gradual. Whew! I’d better not get carried away before this becomes a ramble about vegetarianism.

I hope you had a good weekend, and may you have a good week.

photo by Oliver

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(black forest cherry cake), May 21st, 2008.

(Melodramatic– I thought so even then!– but honest.
May I regain and retain the self-introspection, mindfulness, and awareness of this day, especially in regards to food, every day of my life.)

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I came home earlier than usual, a rare occurence, and when I stepped through the door my mother greeted me with words.

These words can’t be called criticism, yet they can’t be called insults either. They comprise one meaning that, in these days, holds a much more negative connotation than “ugly”– only this word, the concept of this word, could possibly transcend the age-old adjective for unattractiveness.

These were words my parents used to describe me every day; they’d called me this and that since the onset of my adolescent life. The only difference between now and then, however, was that now, they actually meant it. They actually had reason to. I, as a physical being, had changed, somewhat noticeably.

Another difference though, was that these kinds of phrases, sentences thrown at my already too-fragile, broken-twice-and-more resolve, confidence, esteem, whatever you’d call it– my self-image, if that makes things more tangible to you, even if it’s still an abstract concept. I imagine it like glass covering my heart– not cold glass, but a kind of protective glass. Fragile, yes– easy to break, yes– but hard. Strong. Resilient.

Words like the ones that escaped my mother’s mouth like an easy snake, effortless in their appeal– they once, maybe only a few weeks ago, they would have broken me. I would have shattered, senseless, broken, struck stupid by their overwhelming and unreasonable power. Yet somehow, the fragile glass had strengthened over time.

Today, I had chocolate cake. German chocolate cake, the kind with chocolate chips, chocolate frosting, and delicious cherries inside. I’ve had cake before, obviously. In fact, I had the exact same cake, baked by the same wonderful woman, a year ago. But this time, of course, it was different.

The last time, also the first time, was a Monday. I had taken two slices, not because I wanted them, but because I wanted to stuff myself as much as I could before I purged. I had taken laxatives. I don’t remember when, if it was morning, or right before I ate the cake. When I ate it, I didn’t feel it much. Or enjoy it. Food gave me no enjoyment, let alone satisfaction. It was simply a twisted sanctuary for the fears that I tried to swallow in vain.

Afterwards, my stomach began to have spasms of intense pain. I went home before the school day was over, lying, saying it was my period. I went home and purged and purged and purged myself of the dirty deed I had done. I had committed a crime against myself, against the world– how dare I eat cake with such gusto. How dare I eat cake. That was my thought when I was eating it, and that was my thought when I was getting rid of it. How dare I.

This time, though, I hadn’t stuffed myself beforehand, and I didn’t stuff myself afterwards. I ate one orange in the morning to ward off a strong hunger– it wasn’t hollow, though, I just felt like I should let myself survive for a few hours before the cake. I was “warned” about the cake the night before; that was my reason for anticipation.

This time, I had two slices, even though I was moderately satisfied after the first slice. This time, it was not because I was planning to gorge and then purge myself, but it was because I enjoyed it. So many years of eating senselessly and I had never actually really enjoyed it, or learned to enjoy it. To cherish the experience of life for what it was. It pleased me– it was sweet, soft, yet still a little crunchy with the chocolate chips, and with the chewy textures of the cherries. And this time, it was also because I knew now. I could eat it, and not hate myself. I could eat it, and not want to die afterwards. I could eat it, and like it, even if for only the moment.

I had a sugar high and then a sudden drop. It was unbearable, I became extremely sleepy. Yet, I was somehow grateful for this feeling too. It showed that I was still human– in the days that I devoured gallons of ice cream, cookies, cake, and other pastries and sweets and desserts, inhaled sugar in a matter of mere minutes, I rarely experienced a sugar high, I had withstood so much sugar that I almost became immune to it– that my body could still react in human ways, in so-called “normal” ways. It also showed that I recognized the feeling for what it was. Before, if I felt sick to my stomach– quite literally– and if I felt like I was truly dying from what I ate, I still would not stop. I would keep on going, in an endless battle against myself, to punish myself, to tear myself apart, to show myself I was worth nothing and did not deserve the care I so needily needed. But this time, I realized.. I liked the taste of the cake, and enjoyed it in the timebeing, but I actually craved something.. more substantial. Not all sugar. Not something that would send my forehead to the table in the middle of a novel at a bookstore in public.

After I came home, I ate, too. I didn’t pick two of the once-”usual” choices– starve or stuff. I actually found it harder to be full, to be satisfied, to be content, than be hungry. I’d rather be hungry or bursting until I felt like I was going to explode any moment. Comfort, contentment, were foreign– they were fears.

But I was hungry, and I recognized it by the soft rumbles of my stomach, suddenly so gentle to me now, in the weirdest of ways. I had originally planned not to eat again after the cake– I was already tired, sleepy, what-have-you, and the cake was enough energy to “nourish,” if only temporarily, my body for the day. But I had been hoarding some simply– what do you call them? Foods? Dishes? For a few days, I had been waiting for an opportunity to eat specific items.

I walked outside barefoot and ate at a dirty, grubby table that had not seen the darkness of the interior of our house since it had been banished to the backyard. I ate while being cleansed by the sun. Lukewarm soup, rice and eggs, a few crackers. A modest meal, yet I enjoyed it thoroughly. It gave me strength. It gave me realization, growth, maturity somehow. I was eating, I was living. I recognized the overwhelming and irreplaceable feelings of the amazing human experience, life, and suddenly things became a little clearer. They still remain a bit murky, a bit blurred– I’ve hoped for “quick fixes” too many times, only to be disappointed each time. I’ve realized that things take time, regardless of the hackneyed quality of that expression. “Time will tell.” This simple meal, this offering from God, from life, to nourish me, helped me along. Even though I’m far from reaching the end of my road, the road to recovery from my constant and current demons (for I’m sure there will be more demons to take arms against in the future), I’ve taken another few steps. It was as if I had been waiting for this meal my entire life.

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I never really noticed before, but revolution is strikingly close to resolution (I say this particularly because I meant to write the word “resolution” and accidentally spelled it with a v instead), and that’s what I’m going to do.

Revolt against crusty, moldy habits & resolve to truly live differently.

The thing is: Taking care of myself, ALL THE TIME, needs to start NOW. Not tomorrow. Not next year. NOW. Now is the only moment I have, and now is the only moment I can. Every moment is born anew… and I can start the rest of my life ANY TIME.

(This goes for you, too! Taking care of yourself needs to start NOW. Don’t wait. You’re worth more than that.)

Because even though I balk at unhealthy foods, I’ve still eaten them when I don’t even feel like eating at all. (I would have no problem with eating them if I actually wanted them!)

Because even though I love healthy, real food, I eat when I’m hungry, and stop when I’m full most of the time– when I feel out of sorts or simply lazy, I’ve found it easier to eat myself to nausea than make the simple choice to stop eating.

Because I need to stop treating myself like a compost bin by eating something simply because it’s going to go bad soon.

Because I deserve more than to make myself worse when I’m already stressed and tired by stuffing myself at 5 in the morning and feeling sick the next day. Because when I already don’t feel my best, taking care of myself becomes infinitely more important.

Because even choosing to binge mindfully is better than doing ANYTHING mindlessly.

In the first few months I started working through my issues with eating a couple years ago, I put much more effort in actually paying attention than I have been.. basically ever since. And the simple fact is, I became lazy about it. I slipped back into old, rancid habits– harmful and unhealthy ones, in fact– simply because it was “easier”.

But easier never fed anyone’s heart.

Starting right now, I resolve to give my full attention to EVERY delicious morsel I eat…

…for 31 days. (Seems like a reasonable length of time to superglue myself to a new habit. And then I’ll go for 62 days. And then 124. And then 248… and then for the rest of my life!)

I resolve to chew, and chew WELL. And actually taste what I’m eating.

I resolve to stay mindful, and CONSCIOUS of my actions, my choices, and what I’m doing. To be aware of when my body is satisfied. To have the courage to stop: to stop eating when I’m not hungry, to stop using food as my only way of dealing.

I resolve to continue to find healthier ways of dealing with my feelings than binging. To realize that, even if stuffing yourself with three days’ worth of food sucks most of the time, it serves an important role: a big sign that screams, “PAY ATTENTION! Something is not 100% in your heart, and you need to find out what that is instead of trying to suffocate your feelings and just making yourself feel worse!”

I resolve to give up the “all or nothing” attitude ONCE and for ALL. “Well, if I’m going to eat that, might as well eat the whole kitchen while I’m at it!”

I resolve to face the fact that I am always controlling my own actions, and I am the only one who will make the choices that lead to my own happiness.

And I resolved to tell you about it, so here I am!

No need to wish luck, I’ve got my own stubborn determination! Granted, I know the journey ahead won’t be all daisies and perfection, but as long as I do my best, REALLY do my best and not be lazy about it, I’m in control of how smooth that road will be.

No Excuses.

(Speaking of videos– you weren’t, were you?– I love Hot Chip’s new I Feel Better music video. By the by, that’s not the real band in the beginning.. they’re in the crowd, though. Cracks me up… and the male vocalist Alexis Taylor– played by Ross Lee in the video, who is my new crush– sounds like a girl. Not just in that song either. Non sequitur. Elephants!)

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Cookie Monster is addicted to carbs.

This post addresses negative body image as a result of emotional eating, and the effects of using any other activity, addiction or compulsion to try to escape ourselves and our feelings– drinking, smoking, the computer, video games, even compulsive exercising.

I write based on my own experience and observations, which may or may not coincide with your situation. But if they do, I hope it helps you in any way.

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Regardless of what I ate yesterday or a year ago, and regardless of what my body looks like today, when I make healthy choices, when I’m “being healthy”, when I’m eating only when I’m hungry and stopping when I am satisfied– I feel wonderful, I feel alive.

When do I feel negative about myself, about my body image? When I eat something or sometime even though I know it’ll make me feel bad, or sick, or worst of all, disappointed with myself. When I feel too full and bloated because I knew I ate more than my body needed at that moment, and when I continue to make choices that are unhealthy.

More and more I realize that in the end, it’s not about how much I weigh or what I look like or even if I gained enough for there to be two of me that affects my mood.

It’s not because I don’t love and cherish my body that I feel negatively when I eat to the point of sickness. It’s because I know binging and overeating is a way of self-abuse, of not giving myself the respect I know I deserve.

(However, I know I’m not perfect, and even though I’ve recovered from my eating disorder, there are still moments that I will not eat “perfectly”, that I will binge. The most important thing to do in that time is to forgive myself, and realize that instead of being distraught that I still do it occasionally despite recovering, know that it might be a sign from my body or heart that I need to be paying more attention, taking more care, and really finding out what I’m feeling and how to feel better constructively.)

The irony is that oftentimes it’s hard to love our bodies when we have negative body image, but the solution to solving negative body image is loving ourselves. By loving ourselves, we begin taking care of ourselves and our health– which means instead of binging or overeating, we will naturally begin to gravitate towards healthier choices and have a healthier body image.

Emotional eating or binging has nothing to do with willpower or self-control. When you are stressed or bored, it’s not because of lack of willpower that you might reach for food to comfort you– it’s because gosh darn it you’re having a hard time, and the only thing you can think of right now that’ll calm you is a great heaping portion of your food of choice.

For me, I’ve worked out that I reach for food as comfort because when I am truly hungry, eating fills what is otherwise empty. Eating is a way to “fill” myself, for me to feel fulfilled.

But we can fulfill ourselves, we can deal with our stress, boredom, sadness, depression, and any other emotion– including happiness– much more constructively. And much more healthily.

We can make a list of things we enjoy that doesn’t involve eating. Taking a walk, for instance. Treating ourselves in other ways, such as taking time every day just to relax, read, watch a movie, enjoy a bath, wind down or simply not do anything and be silent in the present moment. Slow, mindful breathing. Meditation. Talking to a friend. What about? Just about anything. Write out our emotions when we feel them, instead of eating them.

Because eating our feelings (or getting drunk or smoking or anything else to try to feel differently) won’t make them go away. On the contrary, by eating them we make them a part of us. But instead of a part that we can eventually get over and let go, after crying or being absolutely antsy or realizing how we really feel, we push it down, we make our feelings collapse under the weight of unhealthy choices, and we think we’ve exterminated them when instead we’ve ignored ourselves when we needed to be there the most.

And then as more and more of our feelings get buried under whatever we stuff ourselves with, they will band together, and they will revolt against us for ignoring them in their time of need.

If we don’t let ourselves feel our feelings, they will never go away. And we become numb, anesthetized things, not vibrant and feeling human beings.

Anesthetic only numbs the pain temporarily. It does not destroy it. Anesthetic is a temporary “solution”, and the pain returns later, tenfold as a result of trying not to feel it earlier.

Going numb is not fun. It doesn’t solve any problems and it does not make pain go away. It is a way of coping, but it is also a way of running away from ourselves, from our heart that so desperately wishes to be heard and taken care of.

The only real answer is to let ourselves feel what we feel, regardless of how painful (or even not painful) it might be. To let ourselves feel until, slowly, we naturally heal from having gone through the course of our emotions.

And then we can perhaps feel something else as a result of taking care of ourselves and continually loving ourselves– subtle and quiet, only found within ourselves. Not within anything or anyone else. Not within materialism or appearances or the superficial.

What is that feeling, that state, that journey?

You already know.

“Happiness comes from within your heart, not from your surroundings.”

Or your food, or your weight, or your body type, or validation from others.

In a dramatic, announcer-worthy voice:
Next time(s), on cynosure: The weighty issues of weight.
Losing weight won’t “make you happy” either.
(In fact, nothing can make you truly happy except yourself. But you know that already.)

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