Last weekend I had the opportunity to interview alongside the founder of the Realize Your Beauty nonprofit on the Tanya Mercado radio show, Raise Your Glass. Thinking I had this ED talk on lockdown (it’s pretty much all I’ve done this past week in accordance with NEDA’s 2015 awareness week) I naturally tried to take center stage with my story until, oh wait, I realized I’m not the most original thing going on in eating disorder awareness world. (It was painful, yes, but I survived)
Thank God I did ’cause the women at Realize Your Beauty and Endangered Bodies are working together to raise awareness to the bullshit that goes on in our 2015 jargon.
While we’ll never be able to rid the ”pro-anorexia” Instagram or Facebook accounts, we can raise awareness to the way we talk in our daily conversations.
How often do we hear “I feel fat.”
“I. FEEL. FAT.” From our friends, our partners, our bosses even- this term is an epidemic phenom in our culture.
It’s become accepted to describe our worth- our feelings- in terms of how we look that we don’t even think about it on a day-to-day basis.
It’s like when I was a kid growing up and using the term “you’re gay” when I was mad at someone.
Did I know what gay meant? No. Not really. But rarely was I corrected from using it.
It became such a household “term” down South that no one bothered to remember you’re degrading a group of people whom you can’t possibly categorize by one term. Whom you’re stripping the character of.
I feel as though for years I dumbed down my language instead of examining what it was I was actually trying to say. I used what was easy and accepted instead of actually thinking about what my words meant. Or what it was I was even trying to convey.
This is the new “gay” to me.
“I feel fat.”
You don’t feel fat. And if you do- then let me know what it’s like to “feel fat” sift through your body, cause hell- I betcha I’ve thought I felt that too.
What are we really trying to say when we say “I feel fat”? For me, it was an endless vacuum of lack-of-self-worth and anxiety.
For 8 years, I said I “felt fat” when really all I felt was terribly unworthy. Terribly anxious.
And scared because my self-worth was based solely on how other people thought of me.
In rehab, the “f” word was banned from conversation. And while 1 year later, I’ve still been known to mutter it in times of stress or anxiety- I’m a helluva lot more cautious, and a lot more in tune with my emotions because I’ve had the ability and opportunity to really evaluate what “feeling fat” actually translates for me.
Let’s change the way we speak. Let’s continue thinking about our words. In 2015, we are a society that craves being “PC,” that craves being “in touch with oneself,” so there’s no earthly reason why Facebook should have an emoji that supports the idea of “feeling fat” on a public status.
That they would end, you say finally. I always knew they’d end.
Okay, your therapist says. I’m going to ask you to explain.
You really do hate when she says that.
You appreciate things when you know they aren’t permanent I guess- appreciate the tiny things more- Make yourself aware of them so you can hold on to them when you know it’ll leave.
Why do you think things always need to have an end? She asks.
I don’t know, you admit. I just don’t trust myself or anyone else to keep their word on anything.
Do you think your eating disorder plays a part?
Sure, you say. In part- but in part because I personally never have. I’ve never been faithful to anything- no one. Even when I loved them.
I think it makes sense.
I don’t. I think it’s awful, you say. I think it’s horrible. I’ve loved people- loved them- in whatever way you can love another person- flaws and all- and I still cheated on them. Was always looking for something else.
She eyes you from her desk chair.
Do you think you’re real in your relationships?
You don’t know. I mean to a degree, you say. But isn’t that how everyone is?
I give what they need me to. I’m intuitive, you say. I read people well.
She nods. But do you know what you need from them?
I never know what I want from anyone besides attention.
You realize you set your relationships up for failure before they ever begin, she says. You throw yourself into them without really giving anything- you just donate yourself.
You shake your head. I don’t know if I believe that.
What are your needs then, she asks. What do you want from someone?
You say ”lots of things,” and she nods.
Right, but you don’t ask for them. Your problem is that you only ask “What can I give to you?”
You smirk, I’m not that selfless- believe me.
No, she says. In fact, it probably means you can be pretty selfish- when you’re constantly looking for validation.
Okay, you agree. But doesn’t everyone?
To a degree, she pauses. But the difference is that you don’t like who you are and don’t trust yourself enough to know what you need, or even think it through.
You make a face.
When you don’t accept who you are- you can’t know what you need from other people- so you become the version you think they’ll want, she pauses. It makes you feel better that way, doesn’t it? To be accepted.
I want everyone to love me, you admit. I’ve always been that way.
Well, she says. You probably get that then. You have it here- you’re an enigma. You have a personality that draws people in.
Thanks, you say.
Not here to compliment you, she shakes her head. I see how you are with the other girls- hugging on them, asking questions, playing with their hair, making sure they’re okay- it’s charming. But I’m not sitting here to tell you that you’re charming- you know you are.
You don’t say anything.
The problem is that when you live your whole life like this- floating from person-to-person, seeking approval-
But approval for what? you interrupt. Like I don’t really know what I’m looking for.
I don’t know either, she says. But when you go around giving 10% of yourself to this person, 5% to that one, another 7% to this one- what are you left to give to someone new at the end of the day?
You recross your legs.
You draw people in, she says. But with no real intention of keeping them close- how can you? You’re so busy running from person to person making sure they still want you that you can’t really be with only one.- Am I somewhere on the dot?
I don’t know, you say. Probably. It’s a joke with my family that I can’t date anyone longer than 6-8 weeks, you pause. It’s incredibly accurate.
Alright, so go through the cycle with me, she says.
I meet someone- “Love” them. Love everything about them- Think I can be them.
They’re into me- I can feel it, we’re jiving, you pause. I’m enthralled with their life, love that they’re ”different” from the last one- think it’s gonna work, you say. And then something happens.
I don’t know, you say. Just something happens and I’m done. I check out- Don’t answer calls- don’t answer texts I just leave- I always leave I hate it. It’s awful.
Okay, she says. Why do you think that happens?
It gets too serious- That’s the thing with me. I can talk about anything but I can’t stand when someone starts making me a priority- Scares the shit out of me. Makes me feel like I’ll never be myself ever again.
Makes sense, she says. How can someone make you a real priority when you know you’re only giving them a piece?
You nod, Seems logical, doesn’t it?
It’s always easy to say things- she smiles. Harder to do anything about it.
You agree. My best friend always says that. She always makes a point to be like ‘yeah, you’re a great girlfriend for the 8 weeks someone knows you.’
Do you agree?
Yeah, you say. I’m the coolest girl around for 6-8 weeks. I’ll be anything you need me to be- I’ll do anything you want.
You see the problem with that?
Of course, you say. The whole time I just let shit build up in my head and don’t say anything. I just lie. I lie and omit and it just feels terrifying to have someone start relying on you.
Have you ever been honest with anyone about your eating disorder?
You think about the times your exes caught you.
When you snuck up the stairs at his mother’s house and threw up in her porcelain toilet.
Vomit splashing back up on your face.
And you- standing there in front of the mirror wiping snot from your nose
Reapplying concealer around your chin.
As your boyfriend rapped on the door.
You’d opened it then, your eyes watery.
And he knew.
You both knew.
But he let you smile then, and throw your make up back in your purse
You can’t be honest when you’re sick, she says. You can’t know what it is to be truly intimate with someone when every day you’re pulling yourself away bit by bit.
You just do it though, you say. You do it and get numb to it and you don’t think about it anymore.
But what happens later?
You resent them- At least I did. Resented everyone for not figuring it out.
You want your relationships to save you- she says.
In a way- I want them to make me feel better I guess. I resent them when they can’t.
She looks at you. You know, you’re one of the scariest patient I have, Linds- you’re smart.
Not true- you say. Not really.
You get ahead of yourself, she admits. But you know people. You know how to reach people- you manipulate.
You nod- You know.
I have to check myself with you-
I’m a chameleon, I know.
She agrees. You’re also one of the most defensive patients I work with.
You make a quiet face- but don’t say anything.
You know what I mean, don’t pretend like you don’t.
I have the nurses check on you twice the amount of times at night, she says.
You can’t help but snort. Nu-uh.
Yeah, she says.
I’m really not doing anything, though.
This bothers you that I don’t trust you, doesn’t it?
Well, yeah, you say. I mean you’re the golden ticket for me.
You’re your own ticket, she says. I don’t think you remember that sometimes- that this is your recovery. This is your treatment- not mine. You don’t have to prove shit to me, your parents, your friends- My job will still be here when you leave- Their lives will still move forward whether you’re sick or not.
You agree. I’ve just always been defensive.
I know, she says. You put yourself out there the way you do so you can control what people think- have you noticed that?
Sometimes, you admit. I think it’s why I don’t have any boundaries.
She nods. Think about that this week. Where your boundaries lie.
You say you will- notice the time.
Get up from the couch.
I want you to do something for me, she says. A homework assignment.
I want you to write a letter to your future partner.
You sigh, standing in the middle of her office.
Write it- write a letter to this person and tell them what you want- everything you think you want for a life that includes someone else- so you’ll know. So you’ll have it somewhere to keep yourself in check.
You tie your sweatshirt around your waist. “Alright,” you say. Will do.
It’s later that night- wrapped in your white blanket on the couch- Titanic playing in the background with your friends- that you write this- and you hope you mean it:
You beautiful person- I’m writing this now- to give you a chance to exist.
So that when I discover you- when I see your potential with mine-
I’ll read this and remember that it’s you that I want to sit at a kitchen table with.
Brush my teeth next to.
Drive in a car and flip radio stations with-
Of course this seems crazy, doesn’t it?- To imagine a life that you can’t predict- but there are times I think about what my life can be with someone. What a life with someone would mean.
And it doesn’t always seem pretty- in fact it seems hard. It feels hard- a lifetime with someone-
But I’m writing this to you because I think you’re the person that I might want to try it with-
The person I want to make coffee for in the morning. You’ll want your coffee different than mine, but I don’t think I’ll mind. I’ll wait till you pour it into our cups, and pour Hazelnut in mine.
I’m writing you today, because I think you’re the person I want to see get dressed in the morning. To watch from my bed while you dig through the drawers looking for clean socks- While you push your hair from your face. As we get older, I imagine you might have a stomach that goes over your boxers (“I need to start working out again,” you’ll say) and I’ll notice it when you bend over, complaining about how I haven’t done laundry in weeks.
I’m writing you because I want to have a pet with you. A dog that you pick because I refuse to get a cat. You’ll pretend to hate it but we both know you’re the one who will feed it every morning before you leave- listen to you scoop out the dog food into a metal bowl and smile as you force it to eat, growing impatient. Mumbling under your breath.
“Eat your food boy,” you’ll say. “No. Not there- there. It’s right there- Eat.”
I’m writing because I want to look at you those mornings, when I walk out of our room- a robe lazily hanging from my shoulder- and notice the wrinkles forming beside your eyes. The age marks on your arms. Your hair turning grey.
Perhaps, I’ll think that you look more like your dad. That, like your dad, you’ve grown more attractive with each year, and sometimes I’ll still want you. Run my hands over your shirt.
I have to work, you’ll whisper, smiling at me in that way as the dog comes trotting into the hallway, jumping up on you- getting fur on your pants.
See you later, you’ll sigh as you walk out.
“There’s a Lint Roller in the glove compartment,” I’ll say.
And I’ll tell you that I love you.
And you probably still won’t say it back like I want you to- Because I’m dramatic and wordy.
But I’ll know you think it.
I’m writing you because you’re the person I want to have kids with- Go to our children’s events together. The Christmas plays where our kid plays one of the sheep- but you know I’ll film it anyway. You’ll say that it’s a waste of film, but as soon as you see how mad it makes me you’ll sit back quietly and let me film as he or she walks across the stage, looking for us in the audience.
You’re the person I want to have conversations with- Those quiet ones that married couples forget they have. You tell me about a book you’re reading. I tell you that I’m afraid my dad’s getting older, losing ability to move well. You’ll tell me that’s life and that your dad was sick for a long time before he died.
I want to lay on the couch with you at the end of each day. Listen to the dishwasher as it dries cracked dishes. Listen to our kid while they play the piano-play it badly. You’ll make fun of them but never to their face. Imitate the way they bang around on the keyboard.
Why are we forcing them to play? You’ll ask.
I’ll tell you that they’ll get better- That I got better with time. And that music is a theory worth knowing.
You’ll mumble about it, disagree but give up.
When they’re finished, I’ll tell them to go upstairs and get ready for bed. I’ll complain that you never help me and you’ll say “I never let you help,” before you settle into the couch flipping the channels on the TV.
I’m writing because I want to travel with you- All over the world. We’ll be in the snow more than I care to be, but I’ll accept it. And I’m willing to compromise on that as long as you promise to take care of your knees and shoulders and don’t end up in a wheelchair.
We can go all over together. We’ll conquer the continents. Drag our children along on leashes. You’ll be mad that I rented them and I’ll say it’s practical- Maybe we’ll compromise on a stroller. I’ll wear a camera around my neck and you’ll make jokes about how ridiculous I look until I tell you to piss off when the kids aren’t around. We’ll see everything, wont we? That’s what I want.
We may never have the money we want, but we’ll see the things that are worth seeing.
And we’ll go to Disneyworld- And I’ll watch you cool yourself down with the Mickey Mouse fan, complaining about how hot it is. We’ll ride every ride the kids want, and while I’m worrying about them falling out of the roller-coaster, you’ll be complaining about how uncomfortable the seats are.
I’m writing because you’re the person I want to run through an airport with when we’re late to a flight. Listen to you yell about how I took too long putting make up on and how it’s my fault if we miss it. I want to drag along a suitcase that’s old and broken because we both refuse to spend money on a new one. And I want to watch you later arguing with the attendant- and want to see you be proud of yourself when they check our bag even though we’re 10 minutes late.
I want this kind of life with you- of making dinners that I don’t really like but know you enjoy. Of learning how to cook food that I otherwise wouldn’t. Of listening to you talk to your mom on the phone on Sunday afternoons in the backyard. I won’t understand your conversations but will listen to your tone. You’ll sit with your feet propped on a chair, the sun peeking out on your face. I’ll watch you move your hands from the kitchen window. Cast them in the air when you talk. A beer half- drank on the patio table in front of you.
I want to go to parties with you that we don’t care about. That neither of us want to attend but have to because we said we would. Complain about it in our minivan the whole way there. Enter the room together and talk to people we find boring. Count down the minutes till we can leave. Look at the buffet line and agree that all the food looks like plastic but pick out some crackers and cheese wedges anyway.
I want to visit our families together. Try to get the whole family together, but fail every year. Laugh at the dining room table at my parent’s house in Texas. You and my dad eating pie and talking about how the world is going to shit while my mom and I clean up the dishes in the kitchen. I want to have little annoying kids running around the living room.
I want to grow old with you, get fitted with glasses at the doctor. Make fun of each other and how we can’t see anything anymore. Stub my toe on a piece of furniture and cuss under my breath as you laugh.
I want my breasts to sag so I can complain about it. How I hate getting old. How death feels like it’s on our doorstep and have you smile and say, “Well, get used to it. We are old.”
I want to fight with you- and I know we will.
We’ll fight over everything sometimes- And some years we’ll fight more than others, and we’ll hold each other less-
But I’ll know, I’ll remember- that no matter how mad you make me, how much I want to walk out-
you’re still worth holding onto.
And that I waited so many years to have my life fit with yours.
I want to fight with you over the things that matter, and the things that don’t. Argue with you in a car about which direction to take, about how much money we’re spending, argue over how annoying it is that I don’t do the laundry enough, argue about our jobs, and where we’re going to live. And argue about how to raise a kid in this world.
I want to cook dinner for you and feel you come up from behind me, grabbing a piece of chicken off the skillet and throwing it into your mouth. Feel your hand on my hip as you do it. Smile and tell you to get out, I’m almost done. Watch you grab a beer from the fridge and open it with your teeth.
I want you to be the one that stands at my head when I’m having a kid. You be the one that gets more worked up and I have to tell you in between pushing to shut up and hold my hand. Watch your big eyes stare at this thing we’ve created- and be scared to death when it comes time to put him or her in a car seat.
“What do we do with it?” You ask.
“It?” I’ll say. “Please don’t refer to our child as an ‘it.’
I’ll want to take a break from life with you sometimes- when things feel overwhelming and the kids are throwing toys at each other, and there’s marker on the wall and the fridge smells like something died.
Go to a bar close by and drink beer to feel young and talk about how we could’ve ended up a million different places but here we still are. Talk about all the dreams we didn’t do but should’ve. Think about what our life could’ve been and what worked and what didn’t-
Leave happy, knowing that I still have this small life with you.
I want to sit in airports with you. Watch our flights get cancelled, make faces, cuss, be mad with one another over something completely unavoidable and laugh it off later. Drink wine in the TGIFridays bar to pass the time, getting so drunk we stumble through the airport gates looking at the boarding passes over and over again to remember which one.
Gate 16, you’ll say. Are you sure it’s not 15?
I don’t know, do you have the boarding thing?
It’s Gate 15.
How far are we?
How would I know. We’re at 32.
Watch you drop our bags on the tile accidentally. Scramble to pick them up and over your shoulders.
What the hell did you pack? You’ll say. Rocks?
I want to start looking like you- How couples that have been together forever look, do the same things.
Walk the same walk- Dress alike and don’t even know.
I want to go through all the good years with you, and the bad ones too. The years we get job promotions, the years our parents die, the years we don’t have enough money, and the years our children take over and become the only thing we focus on.
And when it’s over, when this small little life is over, I want it to be you that I’m crying over.
I want it to be you that I have to say goodbye to.
Isn’t it funny how you can want someone without even really knowing who they are?
Because I believe that this will be a pretty life to live- and I’m happy that I think I want to share it with you.