As much as we hope, wish, want.... for someone to save us and magically make this go away...
(and i am not discounting the role of help-seeking in this post)
Ultimately this is a journey that calls upon us to find our own voice, our own strength, and indeed finding our own selves and our separate identities. Many of us don't even know who we are or where we are going in life. It is a lonely journey and there are times when we have to take it alone and we have to be able to take it alone. And being able to do that is part of the growing process and the building process and becoming a stronger person. In dark hours....we have to be able to find our way alone.
Sigh.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Because this is HOW I want to feel
PHENOMENAL WOMAN
by Maya Angelou
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them
They think I'm telling lies.
I say
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips
The stride of my steps
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That's me.
I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please
And to a man
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees
Then they swarm around me
A hive of honey bees.
I say
It's the fire in my eyes
And the flash of my teeth
The swing of my waist
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That's me.
Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say
It's in the arch of my back
The sun of my smile
The ride of my breasts
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That's me.
Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say
It's in the click of my heels
The bend of my hair
The palm of my hand
The need of my care.
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That's me.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Why we shouldn't see plastic surgeons
This story should perhaps have a better name....but you know what, I'm really not going to try very hard with this post, I'm feeling pissy and raw today.
A year ago, after fantasizing about this option for many years, I finally consulted a plastic surgeon for my "baby belly". Due to my Ehler Danlos, my skin is somewhat more stretched out and my stretch marks are more extreme than most womens and I had become markedly more self conscious over this area of my body for a variety of reasons and my husband became supportive of this effort as well. He felt that maybe it would be a way to once and for all fix my body image issues and felt that it would be worth the money to have Ed gone from our lives forever.
This is what a visit to the plastic surgeon is like:
First all the staff make a point of telling you how wonderful and talented Dr. So and So is and how he did "their various surgeries" and how "their various surgeries" changed their lives. Then you quickly find yourself naked and photographed. You then peruse various before and after photographs of other women in unglamorous photo shoots.
Then this is what the doctor does--
He examines (pulls) on the offensive area... I swear he pulled it out past my knees! All the while saying things like.. wow, there is ALOT of EXTRA skin here... I can feel SO MUCH deep FAT here... you are so thin everywhere else... I don't understand why you have so much FAT here, and finally the kicker... we're going to have to remove A LOT of fat. By the time he was done touching me I wanted nothing else than to cover up my midsection and run crying from the room.
Turns out there was no way to afford the surgery, because with my Ehler Danlos I was not even a good candidate for plastic surgery and would require additional precautions. So I was left, feeling greater body self consciousness and no options. Needless to say, I relapsed and I relapsed bad.
But you know what, in two weeks, I got myself together and was PISSED. I was pissed that this man could say these things to me. Could make me feel this way. And could treat me this way just to turn a buck.
Thats all- no brilliance this morning-- just a little pissiness.
-------------
It is evening and I am ready to add my brilliance....
we have to be able to protect ourselves when no one else will. We have to be smarter. We can not walk into these situations. We can not allow ourselves to put ourselves into STUPID situations where we will trigger. Life is full of situations that will always make us vulnerable. To willingly WALK INTO a situation like that is just plain stupid. Again-- BE NOT STUPID.
A year ago, after fantasizing about this option for many years, I finally consulted a plastic surgeon for my "baby belly". Due to my Ehler Danlos, my skin is somewhat more stretched out and my stretch marks are more extreme than most womens and I had become markedly more self conscious over this area of my body for a variety of reasons and my husband became supportive of this effort as well. He felt that maybe it would be a way to once and for all fix my body image issues and felt that it would be worth the money to have Ed gone from our lives forever.
This is what a visit to the plastic surgeon is like:
First all the staff make a point of telling you how wonderful and talented Dr. So and So is and how he did "their various surgeries" and how "their various surgeries" changed their lives. Then you quickly find yourself naked and photographed. You then peruse various before and after photographs of other women in unglamorous photo shoots.
Then this is what the doctor does--
He examines (pulls) on the offensive area... I swear he pulled it out past my knees! All the while saying things like.. wow, there is ALOT of EXTRA skin here... I can feel SO MUCH deep FAT here... you are so thin everywhere else... I don't understand why you have so much FAT here, and finally the kicker... we're going to have to remove A LOT of fat. By the time he was done touching me I wanted nothing else than to cover up my midsection and run crying from the room.
Turns out there was no way to afford the surgery, because with my Ehler Danlos I was not even a good candidate for plastic surgery and would require additional precautions. So I was left, feeling greater body self consciousness and no options. Needless to say, I relapsed and I relapsed bad.
But you know what, in two weeks, I got myself together and was PISSED. I was pissed that this man could say these things to me. Could make me feel this way. And could treat me this way just to turn a buck.
Thats all- no brilliance this morning-- just a little pissiness.
-------------
It is evening and I am ready to add my brilliance....
we have to be able to protect ourselves when no one else will. We have to be smarter. We can not walk into these situations. We can not allow ourselves to put ourselves into STUPID situations where we will trigger. Life is full of situations that will always make us vulnerable. To willingly WALK INTO a situation like that is just plain stupid. Again-- BE NOT STUPID.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Unless....
you accept your body, as it today, right now and are willing to say, I can live with it FOREVER as it is now and are willing to take the risk that indeed, it may stay that way.
You really can never recover.
That is the hardest challenge of all for us. Living within our own skin.
You really can never recover.
That is the hardest challenge of all for us. Living within our own skin.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
as much as it sucks....
I have to say, that the biggest development in my life over the last year has been my ability, to know when to ask for help.
And to know where to go for it.
Help seeking.... it's a good thing. Even though you run the risk of exposing your great big huge giant vulnerabilities and shame and imperfections, at times it may be the only way to get through the darkness.
And to know where to go for it.
Help seeking.... it's a good thing. Even though you run the risk of exposing your great big huge giant vulnerabilities and shame and imperfections, at times it may be the only way to get through the darkness.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
My First Crush-- and what does this all mean anyways....
It is interesting to me how I have spent so much time in the last few years examining my past with a microscope for signs, clues, revealing the seeds of my eating issues (after refusing to for years--of course!). The frequent weigh-ins at my grandmothers house. The liquid diets. The frequent criticism of my physical appearance by several family members and the stressed emphasis on its importance by others. Just examples....
And now as my life changes in other ways, other memories of my past come out of me, and have begun to take greater interest. This morning I remembered…
My first crush. An innocuous memory at first....
I was seven, and how I loved Bobby - for a whole summer. I loved him with a feeling that I couldn’t describe. But I knew it was intense and it was a true longing and desire coming out of somewhere in my very prepubescent psyche. He was part of a twin set, Bobby and Billy "Wicks" (name changed). And although they were identical twins, and quite similar in both appearance and personality, for some reason, to me he was distinct and special from his pair. Now, 28 years later, it’s hard for me to really recall what was unique about this particular boy as opposed to his brother. As far as I can recall, they were boys, typical boys. What I do remember, was during our games of chase and combat among the neighborhood children, he was somewhat milder and would sometimes “tend to me” and play protector. Obviously fanning the flames of my prince charming fantasy! He was almost twice my age, and his frame was certainly twice my size. And I can remember how I would quiver with delight whenever he would pick me up in the water and toss me into the lake. How I would try so hard to get his attention and do anything for those fleeting moments of physical contact.
We spent our summers in a large cottage on a lake in southern Michigan. They lived there year round, in a small home that can be justifiably called a “ramshackle shack”. It was built on less valuable property, on a lower lying slice of marshy land tucked farther back in what was commonly referred to as “the bay”. The houses there were all tiny boxes sitting close to each other in a row next to the main service road. Their parents were opposites in appearance but almost too obviously prototypical: Mrs. Wicks being skinny and overly aged for her years, with toothless grin and leathery skin. Mr. Wicks, balding, round (although not a large man either) and utterly affable. I remember him as being my first exposure to the juicy appearance and smell of chewing tobacco. I remember they laughed a lot. And they were always together on their porch overlooking the bay.
They lived off two sources of sustenance: his social security checks and fish.
Mr. Wicks was the first fisherman on the lake at sun up in their small boat and the last to return every evening. Often Mrs. Wicks was with him leaving the twins unattended. I can remember my grandmother drinking her tea in the morning and saying, “there goes Mr. Wicks”. Seeing him emerge in the misty morning was part of our morning ritual and something that we could count on in our daily routines. Their kitchen counter was always covered with some stage of the fish cleaning process. They ate fish, they talked fish, they lived fish, they smelled of fish. The boys caught frogs and other slimy things for their father to fish with. I can remember peering deep into their makeshift holding tank that floated in the lake that held these slimy things waiting for their doom, and I can remember the deep horror and chill that would run through my pacifist heart. At the end of the summer, bobby contracted a third world type of disease, a fungus growing inside his chest and had to be sent away for special treatment. And I was utterly despondent for my lost love.
What is deeply ironic, as I have found my life seems to always be, is at the same time, I had developed what can only be referred to as a severe phobia of germs. During the school year, I was unable to use the girl's bathroom or touch the hall walls. During gym I found myself unable to touch the gym floor because I knew that only hours before food had fallen on it from lunch time. I questioned if food trays were properly sanitized and ate with my hands rather than use the prepackaged utensils suspecting they had come from a factory far away not meeting my sterilization standards. And during play all year, both at home and in Michigan, I had to return to my home at least every 15 minutes to meticulously wash (scrub) my hands. I can remember even then, being wise enough to know, that this was abnormal and fighting it in my mind, while suffering simultaneously. It affected my sleep, and I can remember having backaches because of the physical tension the anxiety was beginning to cause me. It took perhaps a year to recover from this obsession, but like all children, I was eventually attracted back to the dirt and messy ways of childhood and able to roll on the floor as I was meant to.
But yet, what is ironic, is during that year, when physical contact with the thought of anything unclean in the world caused me intense psychological suffering, I would have given anything, to have been a part of that fishy, smelly, ramshackle family. Ultimately human touch, acceptance, and a world that was real, called out to me.
I think it is important that we remember, that it is all connected. Our needs, our fears, our anxieties, our hopes, our personality---it’s not just about food. No matter how far my mind travels in memories the connections are made. The eating disorder is just one piece of the Amy puzzle. Being a stronger and happier Amy, leads to a dissipation of the eating disorder. Not, the other way around.
And now as my life changes in other ways, other memories of my past come out of me, and have begun to take greater interest. This morning I remembered…
My first crush. An innocuous memory at first....
I was seven, and how I loved Bobby - for a whole summer. I loved him with a feeling that I couldn’t describe. But I knew it was intense and it was a true longing and desire coming out of somewhere in my very prepubescent psyche. He was part of a twin set, Bobby and Billy "Wicks" (name changed). And although they were identical twins, and quite similar in both appearance and personality, for some reason, to me he was distinct and special from his pair. Now, 28 years later, it’s hard for me to really recall what was unique about this particular boy as opposed to his brother. As far as I can recall, they were boys, typical boys. What I do remember, was during our games of chase and combat among the neighborhood children, he was somewhat milder and would sometimes “tend to me” and play protector. Obviously fanning the flames of my prince charming fantasy! He was almost twice my age, and his frame was certainly twice my size. And I can remember how I would quiver with delight whenever he would pick me up in the water and toss me into the lake. How I would try so hard to get his attention and do anything for those fleeting moments of physical contact.
We spent our summers in a large cottage on a lake in southern Michigan. They lived there year round, in a small home that can be justifiably called a “ramshackle shack”. It was built on less valuable property, on a lower lying slice of marshy land tucked farther back in what was commonly referred to as “the bay”. The houses there were all tiny boxes sitting close to each other in a row next to the main service road. Their parents were opposites in appearance but almost too obviously prototypical: Mrs. Wicks being skinny and overly aged for her years, with toothless grin and leathery skin. Mr. Wicks, balding, round (although not a large man either) and utterly affable. I remember him as being my first exposure to the juicy appearance and smell of chewing tobacco. I remember they laughed a lot. And they were always together on their porch overlooking the bay.
They lived off two sources of sustenance: his social security checks and fish.
Mr. Wicks was the first fisherman on the lake at sun up in their small boat and the last to return every evening. Often Mrs. Wicks was with him leaving the twins unattended. I can remember my grandmother drinking her tea in the morning and saying, “there goes Mr. Wicks”. Seeing him emerge in the misty morning was part of our morning ritual and something that we could count on in our daily routines. Their kitchen counter was always covered with some stage of the fish cleaning process. They ate fish, they talked fish, they lived fish, they smelled of fish. The boys caught frogs and other slimy things for their father to fish with. I can remember peering deep into their makeshift holding tank that floated in the lake that held these slimy things waiting for their doom, and I can remember the deep horror and chill that would run through my pacifist heart. At the end of the summer, bobby contracted a third world type of disease, a fungus growing inside his chest and had to be sent away for special treatment. And I was utterly despondent for my lost love.
What is deeply ironic, as I have found my life seems to always be, is at the same time, I had developed what can only be referred to as a severe phobia of germs. During the school year, I was unable to use the girl's bathroom or touch the hall walls. During gym I found myself unable to touch the gym floor because I knew that only hours before food had fallen on it from lunch time. I questioned if food trays were properly sanitized and ate with my hands rather than use the prepackaged utensils suspecting they had come from a factory far away not meeting my sterilization standards. And during play all year, both at home and in Michigan, I had to return to my home at least every 15 minutes to meticulously wash (scrub) my hands. I can remember even then, being wise enough to know, that this was abnormal and fighting it in my mind, while suffering simultaneously. It affected my sleep, and I can remember having backaches because of the physical tension the anxiety was beginning to cause me. It took perhaps a year to recover from this obsession, but like all children, I was eventually attracted back to the dirt and messy ways of childhood and able to roll on the floor as I was meant to.
But yet, what is ironic, is during that year, when physical contact with the thought of anything unclean in the world caused me intense psychological suffering, I would have given anything, to have been a part of that fishy, smelly, ramshackle family. Ultimately human touch, acceptance, and a world that was real, called out to me.
I think it is important that we remember, that it is all connected. Our needs, our fears, our anxieties, our hopes, our personality---it’s not just about food. No matter how far my mind travels in memories the connections are made. The eating disorder is just one piece of the Amy puzzle. Being a stronger and happier Amy, leads to a dissipation of the eating disorder. Not, the other way around.
Friday, January 2, 2009
a simple truth
no matter what else changes in the world, or changes in you.
you will always BE you.
You can't change that, lose that, alter that, runaway from that.
Better learn to live with that.
you will always BE you.
You can't change that, lose that, alter that, runaway from that.
Better learn to live with that.
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