A little over a month ago, I stopped eating. Not completely. But I severely altered the way I ate. A typical day would look like this: A coffee, which I would drink about half of and then I would decide that was enough and I didn’t really need the extra calories that came from the small amount of creamer I added to it and I would pour the remainder out, watching the dark tan liquid spiraling down the sink with satisfaction. After this, I would go to the gym. Just walking on the treadmill at first. Totally harmless, good for me even. I would get home around eleven and eat one of the following : 3 pickles or 2 bites of cottage cheese or 1 string cheese. MAYBE a combo of 2 pickles, 2 bites of cottage cheese or 2 pickles, 1 string cheese, pulling off 2 strings of the cheese and giving it to my dog, which I estimated took off at least 10 calories, maybe more if I gave her an extra-large string. I would eat a mostly regular dinner, although I’d give the dog more scraps than I normally would. I am not an overeater. I like healthy foods. So eating sometimes 600 - 800 calories a day was something I could do fairly easily because I didn’t really care that much, I didn’t get cravings.
There is a name for this. It’s called disordered eating and I didn’t just learn that word to write this. I very much knew what I was doing when I did it. There was a time in my twenties when I was obsessed with Slimfast shakes, and another time I only ate freeze pops for a few weeks because I went through a bad breakup but otherwise, I haven’t really been a dieter.
A part of disordered eating ( and most, all? eating disorders) is becoming obsessed with the scale. Which, of course, I was not immune to. I weighed myself at least three times a day; yelling at myself if my numbers were all over the place ( which, of course, they were), carrying the scale to all the flat surfaces in my house in an attempt to get my “true weight”, googling “when should you weigh yourself” ( in the morning).
When I was in my early twenties, I was diagnosed with Polycystic Ovary Syndrome. The most notable ( and devastating) thing about this at the time was that it would be difficult for me to have biological children ( A real bonus for men I slept with after this though, “So you can’t get pregnant, like at all?” INSERT BIGGEST EYE ROLL. An oopsy pregnancy for me would have been a miracle, but I digress.) I wasn’t even sure I wanted to have kids but to have that choice mostly taken away from me at such a young age was difficult. As I got older, I realized I also had fibroids ( this combo is basically your body saying fuck you I hate you so much you are never going to live normally). Essentially, this means that my hormones are all jacked up. Just all over the place. For example— Gaining weight: great, no problem. Losing weight: will take a thousand years.
On my mom’s bucket list, one of her items was “Never Weigh More than 135lbs”. I laughed at it for years after I read it, who puts that sort of thing on a bucket list? But I’ve thought about it a lot in the past few weeks and it made me incredibly sad. I understand where that came from now. I know what was going on in her life when she wrote it. And I know that feeling of thinking you’ll probably never get what you want, but you can control this one thing, and maybe, against all odds, it will give you a different outcome.
A month ago, I decided my worth was directly tied to how much I weighed and a very odd thing happened while I was hating myself: I started to like myself. It feels very cringe to write that, like something I read on a cheesy girlpower Instagram account. But it’s true.
“Society” ( I am using that term very loosely because what does that even mean? Hollywood? Judgmental Men? Models that photoshop themselves beyond recognition? I don’t know) would say I should hate my legs. They’re thick—not necessarily sculpted model thick— but I like them. I’ve always liked them. They have generally been in the same size category even when my waist was a size 2. They are tan, the color of almost burnt caramel. They’re strong and flexible. And as Erin recently pointed out to me when we were laying on the beach, cellulite-free.
I started doing weight workouts about two weeks after I started my “starve myself for most of the day” plan. This was a game-changer. I’ve always had pretty decent upper body strength but I could tell I was getting stronger. I was able to do longer, more intense workouts, and most shocking to me, I was looking forward to working out every day. I’ve lost 10 lbs so far ( this would have been far more had I given up booze, which I did not)
Success, right? I still eat what Erin calls my “bird food” although I don’t pour half of my coffee out anymore and sometimes I’ll eat five or six pickles during the day. I still work out most days, although I will occasionally give myself a break ( as experts recommend you do). I’m not sure this will be a habit I break easily until I get to where I want to be. A few weeks ago if you had asked me where I want to be, I would have given you a number. But now, where I want to be is a place where I feel ok in my body and I have no idea what that number will end up being.
It feels incredibly vulnerable to write this; I am crying, imagining all of you immediately going to my Instagram account and thinking “But her face looks fine! Pretty even!” and then wondering what the rest of me looks like ( for the record, my boobs are also good, because they are perky for my ripe old age of almost 40—TBD what they look like when I lose more weight). But it has felt worse to feel like all of this has any bearing on who I am ( also you know I love over-sharing the messy stuff).
I remember years ago when Dad Bods became A Thing and it felt incredibly unfair that a little bit of extra weight became a new way to call certain men hot but for women that would be considered unattractive to most people. While this is undeniably true, men are certainly not immune to the pressures to look a certain way. After all, as explained in this Yahoo Article, Interminetant Fasting is just man speak for disordered eating.
My sister Becky sent this to me recently as I am a fan of The Golden Girls and also Dad Bods
The things that make me, me haven’t changed— I am still sometimes funny, mostly a crier, friendly, kind, and a little bit dramatic. I love all of that about myself. I hope I continue to remember those things—even as I continue working to make the body that holds all those things stronger and more comfortable.
And my legs, those are pretty good too.
Everything you write is beautiful…our heart is beautiful…you are a beautiful soul.