The Enemy Within

As I post my old journal entries, I am even suprised at the level of bold honesty found in these words of self reflection. Even though there is part of me that is terribly embarrassed, scared to expose such intimate parts of my past and still a bit ashamed of some of the things I have done, I know sharing these experiences are a necessary part of my continued healing. The risk of being honest about who I am and what I have done are worth the reward of possibly helping one other woman know she is not alone in her shame in similar experiences and feelings.

Even though the original journal entry was titled; The Ugly Side of Pretty, as I read this now almost four years later, I see more cleary than ever that there was enemy living inside that wanted to destroy me and any possible good in my life. This enemy inside me fed on each bad choice and destructive behavior and would have killed me had I not surrendered to God. I am so grateful I lived through these experiences and really believe that the only way I can keep the life I have today, is to give away what was so freely given to me; shared experience, strength and hope.

Much of my life was a death mission. Self sabotage and destructive behavior were normal to me. By the Grace of God, another way was layed at my feet. I was barely strong enough to get on this new path and hands were extended to me and I was lifted out of my misery. For a long time I depended on the strength, courage and example of others who had made it through this same wilderness, lost and then found.

I learned that it is possible to move on, get close to God, love yourself and help others. It is possible to live through the pain of facing yourself completely and in fact it is necessary for our souls survival. Daily prayer and service to others are what keep me on what the native Americans call the "good red road". There are times even today that I cringe at some of these memories and weep for the losses. The feelings pass, as I pray or just sit with myself, get interested in others so I can remain grateful to God that the enemy within didn't win. I don't ever want to forget what it took me so long to learn; God's Love is the only answer and I am not alone.


The Ugly Side of Pretty

Since I can remember, I just wanted to be beautiful. Not just pretty but absolutely gorgeous. I have gone to many extremes to get this. I have undergone high risk plastic surgeries, exercised excessively, dieted only to find my self satisfied temporarily with the results and let down from my unrealistic expectations to find myself left with me once again. I always identified with Cinderella. Not so much from the perspective of evil step sisters but from the aspect of time running out to make my prince love me and see how lovely I could be. If I could just be my best self for a minute and he could see me that way somehow a spell would be cast and he would be mine forever. He would go to any length to find me once I ran back to my cave before I turned into the pumpkin. He would carry my size 11 glass slipper until he found the big foot to fit it and hopefully it would be mine.

As I face this eating disorder and the reality that this is not just about food. It is about this image I have of myself that is not really me. One of the biggest challenges of this whole thing is that I have built my whole life’s work around this image. What you want me to be. Not that you really want me to be anything but that I expect that you must want me to be someway or something to make you love me. If you have an expectation of me, at least I have something to work with especially if it is an unrealistic expectation. Then I really have something to chew on. It is the endless cycle of lets see if she can meet the goal, jump through the hoop, be thin enough, have big enough breasts, a small enough nose, tan enough, accentuate the good, hide the bad and on and on and on. Oh how I have tired. How I have beat myself up. I try and measure up, never can, punish myself for failing, feel helpless and hopeless and then begin the insanity again. This monster the 12 step groups like to call the disease of addiction, the compulsive over eater, the alcoholic.

Christians call it Satan or the Devil, the accuser. Neal Donald Walsh says in Conversations with God: Words are the least accurate way of communication. Does it matter what we call it? Isn’t it more important who we find out is listening to it’s call? I have killed unborn life within heading it’s not so subtle commands and accusations: no one will want a fat, unmarried pregnant teenager. You have your whole life ahead of you to get any man you want. Don’t throw it all away for somebody who is going to hate you anyway. Your parents don’t want you. Look at how fat you’re already getting to be. You better hurry up an end it before you get any worse. And I did.

The same night of the day of my abortion, I was ready to go out again. Someone had invited me to a party and I remember trying to stuff myself in my jeans which I could barely peal on, never mind I was still swollen, bleeding and cramping. I remember I was at my friend Tamara’s house. She and her divorcee mom let me stay at their house while when I ran away from Utah once I found out I was pregnant. I remember the look of disgust on her face and the accusing tone in her voice; “Your actually going to go out tonight? Don’t you think you ought to stay in?" I could tell it wasn’t my rest she was concerned about. It was like she wanted to feel sorry for me but couldn’t because I wasn’t laying down and playing hurt. Why should I? I didn’t have time to stop and feel the pain. What good would that have done. I had fish to catch, don’t you know. I had just killed my baby and this had better be worth it. I had better get that gold at the end of the rainbow. I had to justify what I had done and I would spend the next 20 years trying to prove to myself and the world that I had made the right choice. I would get the prize at any cost. I was wrong. I lost. Now I wanted to die.

I can’t remember when I started throwing up on purpose. I know my first experiences with food obsession include stealing from the local corner market, stealing from my mother’s purse to by a health food bar at the health store. Whenever I got caught I always had some clever excuse like “I was hungry” When I came up with that one, the Arabic market store owners felt so sorry for the cotton haired 5 year old they simply took her to the back room where their family was eating and fed her. I told my mom that I had sold magazines from the garbage bins at the post office to old ladies to get enough money to buy the Tigers Milk bar she was too busy to get me as she sorted through all her bills from the PO box once a week. I could always manage to get what I wanted and I learned to be sneaky to do it. Sneaky became the theme of my life. I could figure out how to get a desired outcome for almost any situation, manipulating and controlling from behind the scenes while you weren’t looking or even if you were while maintaining the image of what you thought you could trust.

I became what I knew you thought I was so I could get my way. The bulimia was no different. I could eat what I want, when I wanted in the quantity I wanted and wouldn’t have to suffer the consequences such as weight gain because I could just throw up. It was so simple… so I thought. The thing about being sneaky is that you can’t fool all of the people all of the time. Most of the people you think you’re fooling actually know you are full of shit they just let you think you are so they have one up on you. It’s really a sick little deal. I wouldn’t listen to anyone. One Thanksgiving, my cousin Terry went into the bathroom after I had thrown up. My aunt confronted me about a week later and said that her daughter Terry had gone into the bathroom after me and had seen vomit on the toilet. I was kind of angry that she had the nerve to say that. Did she think I was stupid? Why didn’t they just say they heard me throwing up or had suspected I was throwing up? How dare they insult my ability to cover my tracks? I was always very careful about cleaning up after myself. I had such a fear that once someone found out about my secret I might not be able to do it anymore just because I would be so ashamed that someone actually knew and what they thought about me would be unthinkable.

I had an image to maintain so I took so many precautions not to get caught. I would turn on the bathtub water (it was louder than the sink), simultaneously flush the toilet while I threw up and washed the bottom of the toilet seat for any signs of food or color that could have splashed up from my hurling into the toilet water. Movie theaters were the trickiest. I always liked the big theaters with lots of toilets. I would pick the Handicapped stall because I could position myself in such a way that I couldn’t imagine anyone seeing my feet facing toward the toilet. No one would know I was leaning of the bowl throwing up my large bag of popcorn with extra butter, Raisonettes and Peppermint patty bites washed down with diet coke. The trick was trying to time those body sensor toilets that automatically flush when you stand up. The ritual of the obsession and compulsion to binge and purge was almost as exciting as the prospect of not have to experience the consequences of being able to eat my cake and throw it up too. My body started to disagree. I couldn’t trick my body anymore. I started to experience extreme abdominal pain. It got to the point that I would go from not having any urge to have to go to the bathroom to feeling like I would shit my pants in 2 minutes.

My bladder also started to weaken as I started to lose control of my ability to hold it as long as I could before. I started to have a raspy ness to my voice and a tickle in my throat almost all the time. I started to get sick more frequently. I noticed that the times I would get sick would be close to the times I was especially violent with myself during binge and purge episodes. At times I believe my body was just holding onto the food to live. It absolutely would not let it go. No matter how hard I tried. No matter how many times I stuck my finger down, even to the point of ulcerations on the back of my through, my body was going to keep it. I remember especially feeling like a failure those times. It was excruciating for me to realize that no matter what I did, my body was going to have to digest those calories and all I could do was wait. I could make it up in the morning.
Sometimes I would stand in front of the mirror and look at myself almost in disbelief. After hours of binging and purging not being able to get the food up my eyes would turn black and blue by morning.

Breaking blood vessels that had collapsed due to excessive pressure were now betraying me and leaving evidence of my self mutilation. Fluid would collect in my upper and lower eye lids to protect the tissue I had damaged and as I saw this damaged little girl wanting to be the pretty woman worthy of love there were moments I truly felt sorry for myself. Not in the rebellious self pity gained from a distorted sense of strength from being a victim but in a sweet kind of sadness. Like a friend watching someone they love hurt themselves needlessly yet being powerless to offer unwanted help. There was a realization, just a glance at a time, a slow admittance to myself; this was a battle and I was lucky to be alive. This dis-ease was beating me up but I was not yet beaten.

Cold cucumber slices and professional grade department store concealer were my friends. It was show time again and I was off to the gym. Extra cardio, drop set training, aerobics, pilates, whatever it would take, I would work it off. I had to cover my tracks. I couldn’t show any sign of the failure by weight gain. I could handle it. I had to be strong.

Now working out 5-7 times per week, sometimes three times a day, protein bars and shakes were the only thing I would put in my body on the days I felt especially fat. I considered myself healthy because I drank a lot of water and took supplements every night. Everyone told me I looked the best I ever had and I knew it was true. Some of my happiest time was turning around in the mirror when I could see my rib cage from my back and my shoulder bones sticking out. I had finally made it and I wasn’t going to let this go. I had reached my fighting weight and I would never be fat again. Never.

June 9, 2006

I have been free of bulimia since June 11, 2006.