Compassion

Sometimes I feel so far from my eating disorder, like it was so long ago that I can’t even claim it anymore. And then other times, like now, it’s like it is sitting right next to me as if we are breathing the same air and thinking the same thoughts. My eating disorder has always had its slight whisperings. On healthier days I can bat away the unhealthy thoughts  like a harmless fly. Yet, in my weaker moments when I feel down and let’s face it, fat. The eating disordered version of myself raises the volume from a whisper into a familiar tune inside my head played on repeat. As I look into the mirror to inspect the days outfit she likes to say, “Lindy this shouldn’t come as a surprise to you but your thighs, they look huge! Just as they’ve always looked. What were you expecting something different this morning?”

I take her words to the gym. I take her words into the day and while it doesn't blanket all the happiness my life posses it does cast a cloud cover. A shade to make things not quite as bright as they otherwise could be.

I’ve been listening to her a lot lately. See, she can sense vulnerability and she can sure as hell sense even the slightest of weight gain. She is there when my jeans fit a little too snug. She is there when I exercise in spandex and she’s there whenever I put on my cycling attire. I try to argue with her I really do. I’ve tried with logic, “Listen, I know my shape isn’t considered ideal. I know I’m short and stout. I’ll give you that . But listen when I say to you that I’m fit! I feel good! I can do the things I need to do! And just let me tell you what my so called big thighs have accomplished. They can out ski just about anyone. They have run countless marathons and triathlons, they climb mountains and bike steeper pitches then you’ve ever dream!” I shout tirades at her trying to defend myself.

Her replies are short and cruel.”Ya ya, you just keep telling yourself that. Live in denial. Whatever makes you feel better.”  

She knows how to get to me and when to get to me because she is me. She’s not the best version of me. She’s not the version I take out into the world. I know her and my husband knows her. Other than that I keep her close to me. She lays on my chest causing distress even as I rest and when I awake she resides on my shoulders weighing me down as I walk.

I am no longer interested in name calling or shaming her into silence and I’m too tired to be angry. Someday. Someday soon. I hope to look her in the eye, gently cup her face with my hands and say, “I see you.”

I want to feed her with a compassion that we have never known. I want to be able to say, “I don’t think you’re cruel. I think your upbringing and the expectations and standards this world places on women fed you and then I listened to you thus nourishing you even more and together we made this twisted life. We have a history, you and I. Albeit an unhealthy one.”

I will sit down with her and talk to her in the same soft tone I reserve only for my children to say, “We have been through so much and I can honor the journey we have had together. From you I learned pain, deprivation and self loathing. We overdid everything you can overdo. Too much exercise, too much self discipline. And because, despite our accomplishments,  you were always telling me I wasn’t good enough this motivated me to just keep going. Run another mile, ace another test and hopefully worthiness would be around the corner.”

But all the self discipline, all the angst, only led to more angst and more self hatred. Somehow we disguised our disorder into races and straight A’s wrapping our filthy habit in a pretty bow where bystanders would ooh and awe.

But the worthiness never came. The accomplishments were never enjoyed.

I will embrace the eating disordered Lindy and tell her I know how lost and alone she feels and that it’s really not her fault. I will hug her tight and let her cry into my shoulder until she and I decide together that her voice, the critical one needs to be replaced for both of us to be happy.