There’s the romantic and fantastical desire to “cast out” the “bad” within us. We do this by swearing off behaviors and ideas, promising ourselves (and sometimes others) we won’t do something again. We also do this with hateful language and negative energy. We have inner speak that reflects our fears: we tell our disorders to “fuck off” and “die”. We say “fuck you” (insert disorder or diseased name here). Sometimes we write letters, full of anger and remorse and resentment.
As I say we, I include myself. It was a long-standing practice of mine to try and “cast out” the “bad” parts of me, the parts I seemed to lose control over and thus lose Alison at the same time. I was confused, terrified and angry and thought that if I stood up to those parts, that they’d lose their grip over my life and I’d move in a different direction.
But it didn’t work like that for me. I had to drop the judgement and take stock in what those parts of me were trying to do, because at some point I developed a story that I needed those parts in order to survive. As a kid I didn’t know what I was doing or how, so I leaned on food and body shaping (read: eating disorder), to comfort me and provide the security blanket I was otherwise lacking. I leaned on coping skills that made me feel less isolated and less afraid, until they didn’t. The story continued repeating itself until those once securing and pacifying practices stopped providing security and peace. Although now I was stuck in the cycle and without help, couldn’t remove myself.
Enter the learned practice of asking my coping skills and behaviors what they wanted? What were they trying to show me? What did they want me to know? Were they trying to protect me? How could I connect? I would also ask if it was true, if the story I was reciting on repeat was in fact true to the person I was today.
I slowly (and am still) learned that no, that old story was no longer effective. Those old coping skills no longer served the woman I was growing into – they no longer aligned with my belief system or my heart. And so a new practice that was introduced to me, instead of casting out those pieces that will likely be a part of me forever, was writing apology letters and using words of compassion – not hate. Because when I hate the parts of me that at one time helped me survive, I also hate part of who I really am. And I do not believe that any parts of us are worth hating; we simply need to learn a new craft in redirecting our thinking and moving our feet so that we align with our higher cause.
Body apology letter – never would I have even thought to share this with you, but someone shared something with me earlier this week that cracked my heart open and encouraged me to get a little more vulnerable still. This was a powerful assignment for me and reminded me of how useful it is and helpful when we’re interested in being the best version of ourselves in communion with the people around us. Although my letter is to my body, yours could be to whatever you identify: your alcoholism, your laziness, your obsession with your children or a partner or your work, whatever aligns with where you are today.
My letter, from 2016, came at a time when I was starting to want to get better. I was starting to want to stop the on-off cycle with all-or-nothing eating (diets), stop the obsession with my body and how I perceived it looked, stop the suffering I had exposed myself to for my entire life. As a sober woman, battling an eating disorder for the rest of the time was often debilitating, frustrating, and shameful. I sought help with a body image group and the practice of writing this letter was introduced to me. It exposed me to my heart and how misaligned my actions were with how I felt about myself and the poor body that carried me around everyday with no complaints. It exposed me to a relationship I had neglected my entire life, afraid of befriending the one thing I was intertwined with as intimately as could be. Frankly, my body scared me. If I befriended her and treated her like the Queen she deserves to be treated, I was afraid that meant I’d turn to a loose sack of shit and stop moving or caring how I looked. As it turns out with all of my fears, that was not true. In fact, today – 3 years later, I can say that it is the polar opposite of what I was most afraid. Today, I care about my body. I care about how she feels, how she moves, how she rests, how she performs. I care that she’s comfortable, nourished, appreciated. I care that she comes with me – for the rest of my life. I feed her more than I’ve ever fed her, and consistently. I grant her recovery days and relaxed walking to keep her joints and muscles loose. I let her sleep a lot and protect her from as much damage as I can. I am still learning to appreciate how she looks right now and stop focusing on what I think she should look like at some point down the road. Some days are better and easier than others, but I can say how we engage is a far cry from when I couldn’t get my head out of the toilet every night at midnight many years before.
The letter from May 2016 reads:
Dear Body:
I’m sorry. I’m sorry for treating you like you haven’t been the only constant in my life, the last 30 years. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being so inconsistent, so inconsiderate, often so rash and hard and cold. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for promising you I’m going to change, that I’ll never do that again, that this is the last time, that I don’t want to hurt you anymore. We both know I am sincere: that when I tell you it’s over, that I won’t poison you anymore, or pollute you, overfeed and overstuff you, make you work and suffer because I couldn’t keep my resolve, I do mean it. But we also both know that in that moment, I am clear – I am aware – I am desperate. And as painful and crushing as every single moment is, they are fleeting; they don’t last. It may seem that I forget these moments, as if the torment and neglect I put you through every single time isn’t enough. And as badly as they hurt when they’re here, as much as my head knows the truth, my poor little heart just doesn’t want to believe it. The little courageous, resilient, incredibly strong heart that you, my dear body, graciously house for me – no questions asked; no expectations of return, no apologies ever asked. That poor little heart, inside your ever capable, athletic, powerful house, doesn’t want to admit that it can’t treat you any better alone. That no amount of pain and suffering, torture and exhaustive neglect will ever be enough, if I continue to try to do this alone. If I continue to hide my little heart’s beautiful, sensitive truth: that I am suffering at the core and can’t do it alone anymore. Dear body, you are the greatest masterpiece I’ve ever known, and for some reason unbeknownst to me, you were given freely to me to experience, to learn from and about, and to care for under any and all circumstances. I’m not going to say what seems so easy to always say to you right now: that was it. That wouldn’t be fair. What I will say; however, is that I’d like the opportunity, if you will allow me, to show you. One day at a time, one step at a time, likely one little moment at a time. If you will, I’d like the opportunity to get to know you a little better, too – like you know me. We could have a lot of fun together, and I believe the Universe has put us together for a reason. So, dear body, if you’d have me, I’d like to start right here, right now, just you and me. We have a lot to explore together, and I don’t want to go without you.
Love,
Me
I finished re-reading that letter, and tearfully know that I have allowed this connection to be what I had sought 3 years ago. It took another full year to finally admit to my innermost self that I really did need the help I felt in that moment and to stop cycling the diets, but now 2 years after that I can say that I am just now starting to really explore and adventure with my friend (body) in ways I didn’t know were possible. It’s the most gratifying and soulful relationship I’ve ever had the privilege of having, and knowing it’s the one nearest me that I have the most affect on, I’m hanging onto it today as I venture into the heat and humidity carrying weight like a mule with grace, love, compassion, and respect.
May you find that relationship that’s been lacking and start to nurture it for yourself, too.