Moving On

This has been a particularly hard couple of weeks as I guess I should expect.  Last Friday was Will's funeral and I could not be there as I wanted to be.  I considered how I could make it happen but my daughter's birthday was the next day and it would have just been logistically too difficult.  I also didn't want to intrude on Will's family.  This has to be devastating for them and I wanted to give them some space.  During his service, I wrote to Will.  I told him I was thinking a bout him and his family.  I'm pretty sure he would  have understood my not being there.  I was with him in spirit all that day though.  I could not stop thinking about my friend.

With Will's passing, I have had re-open some issues and revisit some painful memories.  Not all have been bad though.  Death has thankfully been a rare occurrence in my life.  But that also means I forget how it feels, how it hurts and how I am supposed to grieve.  This has also been the first death in my life that has been someone so young.  I've had grandparents die and co-workers and acquaintances.  Each loss has been painful in its own unique way.  The fact that Will died from his eating disorder, which was treatable, and the fact that Will was so very young, has been a new type of loss that I have not experienced before.  It has brought up a lot of feelings:  Deep sadness, intense anger, irritability, guilt, and moments of refection and happiness in remembering him.  I had forgotten some of Will's antics and it was so wonderful to be reminded by others who knew him.  His Bon Qui Qui imitation could not be matched.  And it repeatedly brings a smile to my face to think of him shouting "BOOM!  YA DONE!"  Remembering him dancing in an open field with a toilet brings me to laughter.  What a character he was.  He truly was a piece of me that I will hold on to forever.

In the  last week I have talked to many people I have lost contact with from Denver.  It has been comforting and healing.  The community immediately came together to support each other in the ways we were able.  Texts, e-mails, gatherings and Skype sessions served as a reminder that we were not alone in our loss and sadness. I took the day off last Monday to process, think and grieve.  I went to my favorite place to be alone; the cemetery.  Yes, I know it's weird.  But I have always had a love of cemeteries.  They are quiet, beautiful, sad and full of life all at once.  Being among the forgotten names and wondering about the histories underneath brings me peace and comfort.  And, if I couldn't be with my friend Will, then I could be with my friend Robin (whom I have never met but who has the most beautiful headstone in the cemetery I visit).  I wrote, I listened to music, I walked, I lay in the grass, I prayed.  I even sang.  Some people when they  experience a loss say they feel "numb".  I suppose I did at some point.  But in that cemetery on that beautiful day, I felt more alive than I had in a while.  I was reminded of how precious life is.  How very short it can be.  I watched nature move on.  The bees were buzzing in the flowers next to me.  Birds were chattering.  I noticed the smallest things around me like the tiny ants climbing the blades of grass.  The sun was blazing hot.  The clouds seemed infinite and I felt so small.  Everything felt so real in that time I had alone.  It was lovely and sad all at the same time.

I went back to work.  Started moving back into my normal routine.  Eating the food that Will would have wanted me to eat. "Will would kick your ass if you gave up," one friend reminded me.  I got in to my dietician appointment two weeks early.  I cried and cursed in her office while she sat calmly and looked on compassionately.  I actually contacted my therapist whom I haven't seen for six months.  I took special care of myself.  Listened to what felt right in regards to grieving and recovery.  I did (and am still doing ) exactly what is right for me.  I cry at random moments, and I swear a lot.  I still have anger with no where to direct it.  Last night on the drive home from Seattle, I  got ridiculously mad.  Mad at the disease.  Mad at how miserable people are with it.  Mad at how many lives are destroyed or wasted because of it.  Mad at the system for failing those who need help.  I felt helpless and small.  Right now I have two mentees who are struggling and several friends.  What can I do?  I can't do a damn thing!  I was so very angry.  I eventually remembered; I can only take care of myself and offer comfort to others.  I can feed the fight against this illness.  I can speak out.  Loudly if I must.  I can be the truth behind the lies that ED feeds its sufferers.  It is not always the easy way, but still I fight.  Not only for myself but for my family, my friends and for those who can no longer fight.  The people who die because of their eating disorders.  My fighting is the only way I can shove back.  I don't want to be lonely, afraid, sick, tired, numb or empty.  I want to be full of life and sometimes that includes anger, sadness, pain and regret.  I'll take it.  All of it.

Live on,

-Kristy

Losing Will to Anorexia...

I met Will Brooksbank nearly three years ago.  We were both patients at a eating disorder treatment hospital in Denver, CO.  The community was especially gossipy the day he arrived.  We were getting in a new admit and it was a guy!  In a treatment facility filled almost exclusively with girls and women, this was big news.  I remember seeing him for the  first time.  He was in the hallway of the center with his treatment team.  He had white-blonde hair and fair features.  He was small.  Not just thin, but small like a child.  His face looked so young.  Like maybe he was 12.  In actuality he was 19.  An adult.  And, something about this guy was immediately likeable.  Even though Will was sick, seriously, visibly sick with anorexia, he still carried a radiance about him.  Somehow he was still full of energy.  He had a theatrical charisma.  The class clown.  He settled in so easily with the established community.  I remember him saying on his first day in group, "I know a lot of women here have had issues with men.  I'm sorry that happened to some of you.  I'm not one of those guys.  I understand, please accept me."  It was this statement along with actually being one of the very few men there, that made my heart tighten and my eyes well with tears.  Where has this man been in his life?  What has he seen or been through that has given him such sensitivity, insight, kindness, compassion...and anorexia.

William Arthur Brooksbank the IV was hysterical.  So very witty.  Always there with a warm, genuine smile and a lilting laugh.  He was constantly saying funny, ridiculous things to make us all laugh especially there where we needed to laugh a little.  He was deeply religious and faithful to his God, but he didn't push it on anyone else or try to convert anyone to his beliefs.  He believed in God and Christ, passionately but it was his relationship, not a belief to be forced on anyone else.  He would sing.  He would dance.  He would play with anything that was available to play with.  A pencil could be made into a sword.  A piece of paper into a cape.  Sometimes after program a small group of us would bus it (because most of us had no other form of transportation) to either Target or the Mall, or a park.  He would play and laugh and put on silly hats while in the stores.  He'd use outlandish accents which he had perfected over the years.  He would come in program in the morning, look me straight in the eye, touch my arm, and ask me how I was doing.  He genuinely cared about others, their feelings, their struggles, their recovery.  He was the light of the hospital.  The beacon.  The hope.

Underneath all of the playfulness though, occasionally, one could see something deeper.  I remember him having trouble with the food.  I remember him getting angry and frustrated.  Of course we all did in treatment.  It was as if there was a little boy in there.  Confused, lost, afraid.  He was so smart and quick and determined.  And my heart aches for him now.  Because dammit, anorexia won.  An eating disorder actually beat someone, and this someone was special.  I am so sad and angry, with no place to put my anger.  Anorexia is not a person I can swear at or punch in the face.  It doesn't have feelings that I can hurt by silent treatment or screaming.  The only way I can show my hate for this disease is to continue to fight my own battle.  To keep eating the fucking food.  With each bite, I can have my say.  And I can say it for Will.

For a while today I had "the thoughts".  The "I miss being skinny" thoughts.  How can I get it back just a little.  All I want are thin arms, a thigh gap, I miss my bones.  Oh my ribs, my long-lost shoulder bones...I recognized the thoughts and felt fear.  It has been a long time since I've though deeply about my feelings about my disorder.  I have been so busy with life and advocacy work.  I suppose I have forgotten to take time out to get mad and sad and fearful.  I guess I need to remember how truly terrible being trapped in the ED is.  This is not a game as it has often felt to me.  "I can play a little."  No, this kills people.  They are here and then they are gone.  The family and friends are devastated and hurt.  It's not romantic or beautiful.  It's insidious and ugly and mean.

I have regrets.  Will and I did not stay in contact over the last couple of years.  Occasionally a Facebook "hi" or something.  But we lived far apart and he had so many friends.  And I was so far along in my own recovery.  I can't help but think, what could I have done for him?  What could I have said?  I guess we all feel that way when someone passes away.  What would I have done differently?  What did I miss?  Why didn't I call him?  What the fuck just happened?
This is my first friend to die.  The first person I have known personally to die from an eating disorder.  Sure, I had head about it.  I have seen the statistics and read the memorials.  But this hits home.  What's worse, is that I don't think it will be the last.

For Will Brooksbank, I eat the food.  I fight the fight.  And I win.

Live on,

-Kristy

And Now I'm Going to Eat Pie

I'm here!  I know.  You've all been wondering where I am.  Where are the posts?  What is happening?!  I've been slacking on the writing I'm afraid.  But I am here...and there; everywhere!  The last couple of weeks have been BUSY!  That is a good thing for me since I was kind of in limbo for a while.  I felt a little lost and unmotivated.  I didn't feel like I had much going on and I was starting to panic.  Apparently I need a certain amount of stress in my life to function.  I had to remind myself that sometimes not having "something" going on, is a good thing.  It is life's little way of saying "Chill the eff out!  RELAX!"  It appears I don't know how to do that very well. 

Now I am back with a full plate (so to speak).  I have been putting in some extra time at work, taking care of the short people who live in my house, and preparing for the next few weeks  The sun has been out and I have been taking time out to get my fingers filthy in the garden, (don't look at my nasty nails) watching the neighborhood kids play, (or try to kill each other.  However you want to look at it) and relaxing with their parents.  I love B.S.ing with grown-ups while the plethora of kids play, cry and make us laugh.  It's been a good start to the spring/summer season.  Bring on the outside world!

The month brings on a bunch of things.  The kids are finishing up school and my daughter is turning 7.  In less than two weeks I will be hosting my own booth at a local Wellness Connection Expo.  I will be speaking, telling my story and talking to the public.  This whole thing has brought up some mixed emotions and thoughts.  I have contacted every single local eating disorder treatment provider I can find in the Western Washington area.  The response was swift and sweet.  NEDA sent me a whole box of information and flare to pass out.  Opal has given me a bunch of goodies.  Vibrant Health has given me info to share as well as The Center for Discovery.  I feel pretty confident that I have enough "stuff".  My fear is doing this alone.  I will be at my own booth talking to the public about a very personal topic.  A sometimes embarrassing topic.  I thought I might have a partner with this but now it looks like I am going solo.  My self-critical mind takes over.  Thoughts of inadequacy flood in.  "What are you doing?!  You are not a professional!  You don't have a degree in this!  You are not a healthcare provider.  What are people going to think?  You should not be doing this."  I fight back with a self-inflicted mind smack.  I should be doing this, and I can do it alone.  I have to remind myself that sometimes people aren't looking for a "professional"  sometimes people are needing to hear from someone who has been in it.  This is a perfect time to show myself what I am capable of and that I am enough just as I am.  I'm educated on the topic.  I can do this. 
 
On another note, I was selected to be a MentorCONNECT mentor.  It was quite a process!  I had to apply and then answer some tough questions.  I have to say I'm very proud to be chosen and I can't wait to get started.  This scares me a little too but I know I have the support of the program and help is always available.  I have been doing a little of this type of work on my own, now I am part of a group which feels pretty dang good.  I also decided at the last-minute to participate in the Seattle NEDA walk.  This year I am not quite as involved as I was previously.  I am taking a backseat and trying not to get too competitive about it, which is really difficult considering I'm the most competitive person I know.  I am am going to do what I can, but not overextend myself too much.  My own recovery, life, happiness and family come first.

Well that's an update.  I'm going to go eat a pie.



Live on!

-Kristy

Just a Taste of Rehab- part 1

**Trigger warning If you are currently struggling with an eating disorder, the following post could trigger strong feelings.  If you choose to read on, please do so at your own discretion.**

Véronique Godbout

At 7:00am we would wait with the other patients for the van to pick us up.  We were staying at an apartment complex about a mile from the treatment facility.  It was chilly that early in the morning in Denver.  Even during the summer.  We would try to find a spot in the sun.  We would make awkward small talk.  Some would smoke a cigarette.  We would talk about the previous day's drama or about the staff.  We'd all keep watch for the white van and try to guess who was picking us up that day.

This, was PHP

PHP stands for Partial Hospitalization Program.  Those of us in this program were out of critical medical care and participating in treatment  all day, every day.  Monday through Sunday.  It was mandatory we show up if we wanted to stay in the program.  If we wanted our insurance companies to continue paying for our treatment.  If we wanted to be released home to our families and friends.  Most people who were in the PHP came from the In Patient/Residential Program.  A place were they were monitored 24 hours a day.  Others were "Direct Admits" and were brought directly into the PHP.  This program allowed us to leave for the night, only to sleep in a strange place with people we didn't know, and were constantly changing.  But at lease there was some freedom and a reprieve from constant watching eyes.

When we arrived at the facility we were immediately separated into male and female groups and led to the bathrooms.  I would always feel a twinge of sympathy for the one or two guys that were thrown in with this group of women.  What must it be like to be a man with an eating disorder?  It's often considered a "woman's problem."  The men I met always handled the overbearing population of women so well and gracefully.  Form teens to  the elderly, all different races, religions and economic backgrounds, we were all in this together.

Some mornings we would have to take a breathalyzer test.  I had never had to use one before  "Keep blowing until it beeps."  We were then asked to pee into a cup.  Every morning.  The sink would often be running for those that had performance anxiety.  We stripped naked.  Put on a see-through mesh gown.  Chatted amongst ourselves, made jokes, tried to lighten the mood to comfort each other while we waited for a staff member to join us.  The staff would test our urine.  They were making sure we were not water-logging to up our weight, taking any drugs we were not prescribed, and checking our general health.  We would be weighed backwards on the cold digital scale so we could not see the dreaded number.  We could wear nothing.  No socks.  No jewelry other than the basic wedding ring or stud earrings.  We sat and waited for our blood pressure to be taken along with our pulse and temperature. On Mondays we would shuffle down to the lab.  We had to give some blood before breakfast.  I fainted the first time even though I was already laying down.  I would chat with the nurse and crack jokes from that point on to keep distracted from the needles and vials of blood.  A profile picture was taken on our first day for our files.  I looked gaunt, gray and resolved to my situation.  Broken.  I remember the purple striped shirt I wore in that picture.  My collar bones protruding.  My face sunken and miserable.

After vitals were taken we would each find our own spot in the facility to prepare for our day.  There were a couple of common rooms with TV's, couches, chairs.  We would meander, or chat, or isolate, or sleep while we waited for the breakfast call.  Our anxiety would grow with each passing minute.  We were dreading it.  Begging for it.  Afraid of it.  Starving.

The staff would announce our meal was served and we would trot like sullen lambs to the dining room of doom.  A place that brought up such fear, such anxiety, that it was palpable.  Our crafty name tags would be laid around the  circular tables like we were in kindergarten.  A staff member was assigned to each table along with 6 or 7 other patients.  We would stand at our named spots and recite a prayer of sorts.  A non-religious mantra about accepting things we cannot change.  I would hold my breath as I sat.  We set an intention for the meal we were about to have.  "My goal is to not make faces at my food."  "I am not going to clock-watch today."  We looked at the food that was prepared for us carefully by the kitchen staff.  Everything precise.  Everything exact.  Everything according to our specific meal plans devised by our respective dieticians in the previous meal planning session.  We could have nothing more...and nothing less.  Everything was calculated down to the amount of butter, syrup, ounces of milk, salt.  We looked at our plates examining, re-calculating to make sure nothing was slipped to us that wasn't' supposed to be there.  People knew down to the ounce how much they agreed to have.  Some of us would moan and grumble as we picked over our food.  Nothing could be changed.  Meal plans which we signed off on were often dug out and analyzed.  "No, see you did order your egg scrambled, not hard-boiled."  "You didn't specify you wanted melons excluded."  Often we would take a big breath and accept the reality of our plates  Sometimes a patient would lash out or desperately try to find a way to get around eating something in front of them.  No jackets, purses, bags or hooded sweatshirts were allowed.  Hands were to be above the table.  Occasionally a breakfast bar or muffin was able to be slipped up a sleeve or hidden in a pocket, but this was hard to spot.  We would glare with anger or jealousy at the whomever was able to get away with such a move.  Why did they get to sneak away their food while we had to eat ours?  We reverted back to children.  We had become experts at concealing food.  But the staff had become experts at watching and seeing.  Our plates were over-turned to make sure we didn't hide a morsel.  Little purple orchid blossoms were placed on each of our meals to...I don't know, bring a smile to our face?  Give us something other than a pile of calories to look at?  A time was written on the whiteboard in the room.  A time we could leave our seats.  Exactly half-an-hour to eat our food.  Many of us struggled with the clock.  We had to learn how to eat at appropriate speeds.  Not too fast, not too slow.  The digital clock would tick by.   As we choked down our food, we tried to play games with each other to pass the experience.  Name that celebrity or alphabet games.  Anything to distract us from our plates.  When someone was struggling we would leave them be or ask how we could support them.  Sometimes one or two people could set the mood for the whole table or the room.  Some would finish early while others would cut down to the wire and desperately shove the last bites in just the nick-of-time.  Those that did not finish had a choice:  Drink the calculated amount of calories of "Boost," a dietary supplement drink shake, or sign off as non-compliant.  We would have to do whichever we chose alone with a staff member after the others left the dining room.

Each day started like this.  We learned what to expect quickly.  The routine became both irritating and comforting at the same time.  This was just the beginning of the day.  The real work hadn't really even started.

Alone on the Stage

I am considering giving my fist public talk on eating disorders and my road to recovery at a wellness conference in June.  I have thought of extending my advocacy work to public speaking for a while.  Perhaps talking with teens at schools.  Or joining a group that supports positive body image and speaking.  Perhaps a panel answering questions on the topic from a patient perspective, along with professional providers.  After all, I already blog, have written my story of hope for the National Eating Disorder Association as well as Hungry for Change UK.  I have been open and honest with family, friends and acquaintances.  I have helped others find treatment that works for them.  I have been an advocate for recovery in many ways for a couple of years.

But this terrifies me.


It's not so much about getting up in front of people.  I was a competitive figure skater as a child and in theater in school.  I have no problem speaking in a crowd.  This is a different kind of fear.  My inner voice tells me I am a fraud.  I have contradicting thoughts.  One says I have never truly experienced an eating disorder.  This is not a new thought.  I have had this argument for years within my own head.  I have invalidated myself even while I was in treatment.  "I don't belong here." I would tell myself while in a locked down eating disorder facility.  I have said straight to my dietician's face, "I don't have an eating disorder."  Then there is this other side that tells me I am not well enough to help others.  Why on Earth should I give a speech on eating disorders when food is still such a battle for me.  How can I have both of these thoughts at the same freakin' time?!  It's all part of the disease of course.  Contradicting facts and lies.  It never makes any real sense.


With all of this doubt, why should I give a talk?  Why should I put my face and my body in front of a crowd to expose myself.  Writing is one thing.  I can hide behind a screen and a keyboard.  I don't have to look people in the eye or answer the tough questions face to face.  Even blogging and "coming out" has been incredibly scary.  I see people at the grocery store who know how messed I have been.  I get texts and e-mails from people asking for my help and opinions.  I have people coming up to me and saying, "I read your blog.  I get it.  I know what you're talking about."  It has been extremely eye-opening to see how wide-spread the problem with food is.  I feel honored that people trust me enough to talk with me.  And I really don't think I would change anything at this point.  I have come to terms with the embarrassment and the shame and turned it into helping others reach out.  Sometimes I just miss the anonymity of being quiet.


So I have a big decision that I pretty much need to make in the next day or so.  Do I get up in front of a crowd and tell my story?  What do I say?  Where do I begin?  How much do share?  What do I hold back?  What if I have to answer hard questions?  What if I don't have the answers?  On the other hand, what if one person, one mom or young girl or husband can relate?  What if I can get one person to seek treatment and live a healthier, happier, more free life?  What if I can get a family member or friend to understand?  Is that worth it to me?  I think it is.  I think my decision has been made.


Live on,


-Kristy

Is This All There Is?

Awwww crap.  It's happened again.  I was just sitting here, bored out of my freaking mind, trying to come up with something that I am looking forward to.  What do I have to get excited about?  What is going to keep me motivated to stay healthy, happy and optimistic?  Come on, what's going on this summer?  Fall?  I've got to get pumped!  What is it?  There has got to be something coming up.  Anything?  The thought smacked me in the face; a whole heaping pile of nothing.  Nada.  NOTHING!  I don't have jack to be excited about.  In fact, if anything, I have things coming up that are bound to make me mores stressed than usual.  This is always very dangerous.  Stress + boredom often = eating disorder behavior.  This is true for me anyway.  I'm trying to think if I have anything coming up.  A trip?  An event?  Life plans?  An adventure?   My sister is visiting at the end of August but her trips always come with mixed emotions.  I'm looking forward to seeing her but I always think about the unavoidable loss I will encounter when she leaves.  And of course her trip back home is more about her than it is about me.  What do I have for myself?  Ok, now I am feeling selfish.  Is that bad?


The only thing I could come up with is my trip back to Australia...in another two years.  The saving for this trip is going S-L-O-W.  I am feeling discouraged and sad that it is so far off.  I don't want to have to wait two years.  I need something sooner.  I need to make some plans immediately to keep me going.  Living life day in and day out the same way is suddenly not doing it for me.  So what am I going to do about it?  What am I going to do to keep me grounded and looking forward to the future with excitement.  Life is short.  What am I going to do?


I dunno.  (Insert pouty face here.)  Sigh...whine...woe is me.


Perhaps it is time for me to dig out my bucket list and actually complete (or start) some of things on it.  I keep getting stuck.  I can't.  I don't have time.  I've got kids to think of.  My husband needs me to do this and that.  I'm to old to learn, do, try something new.  It is time to stop throwing my own pity party.  Nobody is showing up to this shit show.  It's time to get off my ass.  I need to see things I've never seen before.  Expose my kids to the world.  Try something new!  My son is learning how to play guitar.  Why can't I learn too?  I've wanted to know how to speak Spanish for years.  So why am I not learning it?  Why am I not actually not doing that photography project I came up with a year ago?  Why am I not going to those yoga workshops I have thought about?  Can we not take a road trip down the Oregon Coast this year?  Why have I not bought those ticket for my son's first rock concert yet?


Something has been holding me back.  I have been sabotaging my own plans.  Plans I have conjured up on my own.  I suddenly don't feel good enough or up to the challenges.  Going in and out with the ebb and flow has been easier.  Safer.  No trying, no failing, right?  How boring is that?  How boring am I?  This is how depression begins for me.  It starts off here and goes down hill at an accelerated rate until I am really, really unhappy and sick.  At least this time I can notice it.  A step in the right direction!


So, my goal tonight after the kids pass out is to have an open discussion with my guy.  I need to do something.  We need to make some plans and get excited about the next few months.  Even better, maybe he'll read this post and know just how much I need this to stay healthy.  What is the whole point of it all if there is no excitement or passion?  Maybe he's feeling the same way too.  Our lives have gotten pretty monotonous and routine.  Same shit.  Different day.  Perhaps it is time for a change.


*Do you ever get stuck in a rut?
*What do you do when life is feeling ordinary and dull?
*How do you motivate yourself?

-Live on!


-Kristy

Eating and Thowing Away the Croissant

This morning I had an epiphany.  An "Oh my God!" moment.  A real eye-opening experience.  Are you ready?  Here it is:  I can throw food away.

I didn't know it could be done.


The story begins last night.  I skipped dinner yesterday because I just was not hungry.  I had a bowl of cereal as a snack in the evening but that's about it.  Come this morning, I was hangry (hungry enough to make me angry).  I ate one hard-boiled egg from the Easter batch we dyed last night.  It didn't cut it.  I wasn't about to kill anyone anymore but my hunger was definitely not satisfied.  On my way in to work I stopped by Starbucks to get a breakfast.  I do this pretty regularly but it is almost always a mind-battle:  "What do I get?  Should I get something healthy?  What sounds good?  What is good for me?  What do I plan to have for the rest of the day?  How many calories is in this vs. that?  I should get oatmeal.  That is healthy.  Fruit, grains, protein..."  BLAH BLAH BLAH!  Today I just drove up and didn't think.  I got my usual drink (tall caramel macchiato) and a chocolate croissant.  I love them.  I haven't had one in a while.  It was what sounded good.  Gooey, warm, chocolaty.  Yum!

I got to work and did my thing.  Clocked in, turned on my music, looked for my debit card that I thought I lost again.  Sipped my sweet, creamy coffee.  And I started nibbling on my croissant.  Normally I would scarf that sucker down like it's going to run away from me.  After all, I don't know when I am going to have one again.  It is sooooo good.  So forbidden.  So bad.  So not allowed in my diet a couple of years ago.  And if I did "fail" and eat one, right back up it would have come a few minutes later.  Along with some other compensatory actions.  Food like that had a power that no food should process.  The calories were calculated and the ingredients judged like they had done some terrible crime.  Over time, by allowing these types of foods back into my world as only what they are: Food and fuel, the power of them has decreased.


Today I ate my croissant at a normal speed.  You know, take a bite.  Put the rest down.  Chew it.  Taste it.  Swallow it.  It took me much longer to eat it.  I chatted with my co-workers, checked my e-mail.  Not distracted.  Just doing what I wanted to do while eating.  When I came down to a couple of bites I was full.  Satisfied and happy.  No longer hangry, I had a different kind of battle with myself.  This time it was, "Do I finish, save or throw away?"  Typically that thing would have been gone instantly and I would have wanted more.  This time I was listening to my body.  Feeding it slowly but not too slowly.  I'm full.  I don't really have enough to save.  l can throw the last couple of bites away.  "What?  NO!  You can't do that!  It's precious!  Special!  There are children starving!  You don't know when you will be able to get one of these things again!"  Guess what?  I can get a chocolate croissant tomorrow if I want one.  Yep.  Two in a row if that is what I feel like.  I tossed the last couple of bites.  I have never done that before.  I had never even considered it before.  If it was something "special,"  If it was right there in front of me,  It was going down.  It's been a few years since my food came back up.  But the battle in my brain has always been there.


Someone asked me this week what "Normal Eating" is.  It's a question many of us who do and even those who don't have disordered eating think about.  What is "Normal" anyway?!   I love Ellyn Satter's take on it.  She explains it so perfectly:

What is Normal Eating?

by Ellyn Satter, MS, RDN, LCSW, BCD


Normal eating is going to the table hungry and eating until you are satisfied. It is being able to choose food you like and eat it and truly get enough of it-not just stop eating because you think you should. Normal eating is being able to give some thought to your food selection so you get nutritious food, but not being so wary and restrictive that you miss out on enjoyable food. Normal eating is giving yourself permission to eat sometimes because you are happy, sad or bored, or just because it feels good. Normal eating is mostly three meals a day, or four or five, or it can be choosing to munch along the way. It is leaving some cookies on the plate because you know you can have some again tomorrow, or it is eating more now because they taste so wonderful. Normal eating is overeating at times, feeling stuffed and uncomfortable. And it can be undereating at times and wishing you had more. Normal eating is trusting your body to make up for your mistakes in eating. Normal eating takes up some of your time and attention, but keeps its place as only one important area of your life.
In short, normal eating is flexible. It varies in response to your hunger, your schedule, your proximity to food and your feelings.

So yeah!  I can throw something special away.  Or I can eat the whole damn thing!  I just have to listen to what my body and soul are needing at that particular moment.  I just need to listen to those things rather than all the extra junk going on in my head.  If I do this consistently I will be a normal eater and my body will know just what to do.


Live on!


-Kristy