If you read one of my recent posts, I had planned to start doing what I’ve been told to do. I had decided to take all that excellent professional advice instead of finding excuses and continuing to whine. I had planned to work through Body Kindness by Rebecca Scritchfield, RDN.
I bought the book. I bought a journal, some colored pencils, some post-it notes. I placed all my supplies on the corner of my desk where they still sit today.
I could not do it. I could not open that book. Even now, several weeks later, the idea of opening that book creates an ache in my chest and a burn in my eyes. Why? What’s wrong with me?
I consider how much money I’ve spent trying not to let food and my hatred of my body control me. The amount is astronomical and still I can’t open a $15 book that asks me to be kind to myself and love my body as it is. Why? What’s wrong with me?
I spent over twelve years in therapy. I’ve been to groups. I’ve been in inpatient treatment. And yet, here I am AGAIN. Why? What’s wrong with me?
Before I get too far into the negativity, I admit that all of that treatment has helped me in other ways. I no longer drop into deep depression because I recognize the signs and work hard to stop the drop. I have been able to fight through many battles against fear. I have developed and maintained deep relationships. Heck, I still write this blog.
And yet, this eating disorder controls me. Why? What’s wrong with me?
And yet, today I look at myself and see someone who looks “okay”. Yesterday, I looked at myself and saw every grotesque chunk of blubber.
I’ve developed strategies to manage other compulsive behaviors (mostly). But this eating thing defeats me. I used to say that my eating disorder was a two-year old dragon who simply wanted her way. I created this cute image in my head. My dragon had pink hair with a bow. She smiled with a charming manipulative innocence. She rattled her [my] cage when she wanted one more bite.
Now, I don’t see her as cute or charming. She’s a monster with super strength. She’s ugly and snarling and devious. She’s both overt and subtle. She’s able to keep me from opening a simple book and reading one paragraph. She needs a name so I can talk to her, try to understand her, help her love herself. Any suggestions?
I’ve found a new therapist and I’ve begged her not to waste time digging into my past. I’ve done that enough – I have the t-shirt. I’ve asked her not to bother with DBT (dialectical behavior therapy) – I’ve had so much of that I could teach the classes. What does that leave? I have no idea but she says she can help me.
If only I believed her.
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