First of all, I have a history with people who have eating disorders. Someone very close to me suffered through one during most of my adolescence, which had a profound impact on me emotionally and mentally, and essentially robbed me of my childhood. I more-or-less had to take care of this person because they* also had OCD and psychosis and wouldn't eat unless I were there. It's complicated. Similarly, one of my caretakers spent a lot of energy trying to control my weight and talking about losing weight themselves, which, along with all the societal pressure put on women, had a really profound impact on me.
It shouldn't be a surprise that I've grown up to have some disordered eating habits myself.
I crave food, constantly. But it's more than just a craving; I need to have foods that I enjoy, foods that make me feel good, foods that replace the endorphins and serotonin that I'm not getting because of my severe depression and anxiety. I'll get to those later, but it's like there's a part of my brain--it feels like a snake, perhaps a venomous cobra--that's waiting to rear back and bite me if I don't shut it up by eating and drinking the most delicious foods I can find. Honestly, I can find very few pleasures that come close to the pleasure of eating and drinking good foods; off the top of my head, getting a massage, cuddling my kitten, lounging on a beach (which usually involves a mixed drink...), and being praised for a good piece of art come to mind, but still, I'd almost rather have a big piece of chocolate cake. I only recently realized that.
So dieting is almost literally torture. I've been fairly successful dieting in the past, but it was sooooo hard. From Sept. 2015 through Jan 2016, I lost about 28 pounds, but I was often eating no more than 900 calories a day. I had to have such such a strong will and for such a long time and, eventually, after losing a good amount of weight, I usually ended up succumbing to the need--not want, but need--to eat sugary, fattening foods, so the weight piles back on and then some. My solution has been to not deprive myself but just cut down some, but that doesn't seem to be working; I can eat 1500-1700 calories and still gain weight, or so it seems.
But there's a bigger issue here. First of all, despite what my scale says, I'm tall and pretty muscular, so I'm not actually terribly overweight, just a little. Second, why does it matter that I've got a little extra fat? I'm a pretty good artist and graphic designer, a damn good knitter, I have a decent sense of humor, I at least try to be nice to people, I love animals... Shouldn't that be all that matters?
But it isn't. In today's society and in the eyes of those who raised me, the only thing that matters is if I fit a very specific standard. And, despite the fact that I acknowledge this and know how absolutely silly this is, my brain can't let go of the fact that, since I don't fit that mold, I'm not good enough. I'm a failure. I need to work out 4 hours a day and severely restrict calories and get a nose job and a boob job. That's the only way I'll be happy.
I know there's a body positivity movement going on right now, and it makes me happy, but no matter how often I look at body positive messages or curvy girls in undies smiling beatifically, I just know that I can't do that. I think, Well of course they can love their bodies. They have a cute nose and don't have to worry about a big one like I do, or Well yeah, they look cute in bikinis, but they also have bigger boobs and don't have this little pectus carinatum they're ashamed of. I feel especially deformed and different and I just can't love my body.
One of the arguments body-positive sites often use is that you should love your body for all that it can do for you, and I just think, really? How about all the pain it causes me? I mean, how am I supposed to love my body when my brain is fucked-up and I can't even function normally without psychiatric medications; when my brain randomly has little spasms that cause me to see scintillating scotomas and then have excrutiating pain, sensitivity to light, and mild nausea, sometimes for days; when my eyes don't work properly without lenses; when I've got constant post-nasal drip; when my tongue is too fat and can't stick out very far and my voice sounds like a 12-year-old boy rather than a delicate female; when a bone in my chest protrudes on the left side and pushes my boob over--and, for that matter, when my boobs are so small that my stomach almost pokes out further than my boobs; when acid constantly backs up into my esophagus unless I turn off some of the acid pumps with medication; when my body randomly decides to have diarrhea; when my ovaries weren't formed correctly and can't produce eggs so I have to take birth control just to function normally; when my knees hurt when I try to run; when my feet hurt when I walk too much; when the facet joints at C-7 and T-1 (on my spine) have arthritis bad enough that they cause the surrounding musculature to cramp up and get knots that never go away and cause constant pain?
How am I supposed to love all of that?
So the question is, does this all cause my anxiety and depression, or is this body-shaming and hating a symptom of it? Who knows? But I know that depression definitely compounds the issue, making it a hundred times worse.
If you've never had depression, consider yourself lucky. If you've never had it, you can't really understand exactly what it's like, but consider this: think of the most difficult thing you have to do, about how anxious it makes you, about how you think it through to the end to try to prepare for it, about how it seems so overwhelming and how you'd just rather skip it and how you'd rather do almost anything but that. Now imagine everything in your life is like that.
The opposite of depression is not happiness, but vitality.
If you have some time and are genuinely curious about depression (and I hope you are), take some time to watch this Ted Talk on it. This guy explains it so, so well.
Last night, I had a little emotional breakdown. Dan went to workout and, while I've been trying to work out with him, I found it so, so hard. I expressed this to him and eventually ended up crying and hugging him, letting him know how ashamed I was of my body, even though yes, I know he loves it; how I hate my nose, even though yes, I know he thinks it's perfect; how he shouldn't have to deal with someone that has such a fucked-up brain and deserves so much more. Bless him, he just held me tightly and loved me, and that's all I need.
Well, that and a better body, a nosejob, a boob job, hair that was always perfect, and the ability to eat what I wanted without gaining weight.
*Don't correct my grammar; I'm using the singular "they" on purpose.
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