It’s funny. I didn’t think I had any material to publish, and then it came: my disease (or negative thinking, lower self, etc.) doesn’t want me to be happy. I’ve been feeling super fat and sloppy in my skin with intermittent cravings to stuff my face with anything terrible and wondering why, and now I know. I just won the biggest event of my life, one that I prepared all year for both physically and psychologically, and I can’t help but share that the few weeks since have been tricky.
It makes no rational sense: if you feel fat and sloppy, why would you want to eat things that make you fat and sloppy? Because that’s what we do when we give into that voice: we sabotage ourselves, proving how we feel true. We don’t let the feeling pass or the voice subside, and we attach to the thoughts which make us react and behave in a manner that inevitably places us in a position to be hurt. By ourselves. My clothes fit the same (regardless of my perception that they do not). I am carrying a little extra water but it’s minimal, temporary and a byproduct of rest and resetting as required.
So while I was sitting here, relaxing with Bam and watching my want to eat anything awful pass, it hit me. This is my disease attacking my joy. This is my disease robbing me of the right to celebrate. This is my disease casting shadows, making them so real I have been believing them.
So, what’s different? Despite my discomfort and belief that I look different (worse) and am unsexy, my commitment to taking care of myself has triumphed. My resolve to remaining open and flexible and living with food has prevailed. I have still eaten out on the weekends once or twice. I have still eaten foods that nourish me and delight me, leaving me feeling fueled and comfortable and happy. I still went up to my parents’ house and ate like a child with them on a Friday night. No, the food doesn’t move as quickly when you’re not running for hours on the weekend, but it doesn’t mean I am any less for my choice in the moment.
It has taken a long time to learn that recovery from a disordered relationship with food does not mean I need be deprived, bored or afraid of the foods I choose to eat. Recovery from how I have related to food and my body does not mean I have to wait until I feel like I’m in stealth mode (read: shredded) to go out to eat and be with the people I love. Recovery means I stay where I am, and let it pass. Recovery means I let people into what’s happening so that it can pass. I still go to bed as early as I am able, get as much sleep as my mind will tolerate, go to work and show up for myself and for my peers, regardless of how I feel. I do not increase my exercise to combat the “fat”, and I do not decrease my calories (unless prescribed).
Rationally, I know (and so do you) that it is not possible to gain a pound a day if you are tracking your food and eating well, as I do. It is not possible to gain a pound a day even if you’re logging less steps, as I have been. It is possible to gain a pound of insecurity and vulnerability a day though, and not know how to express it. I had no idea I was coming down off a high. I had no idea I was coming down off something that still doesn’t even seem real. I had no idea that I was feeling isolated and disconnected and needy because as much as I relish my own company, I crave the communion of others, too. Especially when I am vulnerable and wanting to celebrate and recover all at the same time. I didn’t realize this despite the pull to go to my parents’ house and spend the night. I just assumed it was the next best thing to do for my mom (and still is, just not independently). There’s a reason I’ve let Bam sleep in my bed several times, and it’s not only because I felt badly about making her go back downstairs). There’s a reason I’m so tired and feeling quiet, and it’s not just because I flew across the country twice and ran at altitude for over 9 hours.
It may not make sense to be overly vulnerable after besting what you even thought you could do. It may not make sense to be misplaced and unsure after tackling your demons. But I am. And I have learned over the years that it makes no difference when I analyze it to death, try to figure out how and when and where, think about it incessantly or even talk about it more. What does help, is taking care of myself. What does help, is showing up for what I know is my truth. Some nights it’s going to bed early. Other nights it’s asking to be kept company or going out to see familiar faces. Some days it’s a run in the woods (my heart rate is still all over the place so I’m being careful) and other days it’s climbing. Some days it’s an extra walk with Bam while others it’s a sit on the couch.
Nothing has changed, yet a lot also feels like it has. I didn’t know I was capable of doing what I did in Tahoe; I really didn’t. I didn’t know I was mentally able to hone in my focus to a place that nothing else mattered. I never felt the cold, I never succumbed to any tiredness, I never worried about my hunger. I just kept doing what was in front of me and got it done.
And now that I have literal proof that I can do that, I really know that I can do anything. There is nothing too great or too small to tackle. If I want something, and if I do the work, I can get it. And guess what that means?
So can you.