[Sigh.] I was going to write this in my little notebook. The one that goes with me everywhere and contains my lists. The one that no one else is every curious enough to ask me what it is or what I'm writing. I love that freedom. I love the freedom of writing my thoughts down on paper, without fear of being judged by anyone else, and without the need to have my thoughts fully formed before I write. However, a) I just proclaimed the need for Christians to be honest if we're going to be Christians at all to my girls two days ago, and b) this really is a low-risk endeavor because I'm pretty sure very few people read my blog.
Here it is. Years ago, I went through the entire gamut of eat disorder-like behavior. I starved. I binged. I (sometimes) purged. The problem came in several forms. I was a chubby child (I much prefered the crazy adventures I had while reading books or playing imagination games to running around outside). I didn't know it until I was 11, my first year at a new school. I thinned out by the time I was 14, partly due to the regular exercise I got, and partly due to puberty's graces. When you're chubby, people feel free to make comments about your body or the foods you are eating. "Look, Sarah, you can eat this!" Actually, it doesn't stop when you're no longer chubby. I felt uncomfortable when anyone referenced my new body shape. Like who I was was wrapped up in my pants size. Somewhere along the way, I gained a couple of pounds. Probably because I was gaining hips. I'm 5'4" and have been since I was in sixth or seventh grade, and while my new looks got me attention then, I'm not quite sure I would look so good at 107-114 pounds at the age of 22. I didn't get that. I didn't understand hips and curves, and that they're ok. They're good, even desirable. And one day, I climbed on my Grandma's scale (one of the few times I was able to weigh myself because my family didn't own a scale), and the number was higher than expected. I freaked out. I was irrational. I started counting calories, and then cutting down on them. Until I was eating too few calories to live on, to think on. But my legs didn't touch, and I felt skinny. Skinny meant something to me. It said something about me. I had begun to believe the lies that my body shape was about who I was. I was in my poetry phase at the time, and I remember writing about this terrible box and I created for myself, about the lock I put on it, and the trapped feeling that went with all of that. And then one day, with some trepidation,I ate one of my favorite Christmas treats. I was so hungry, and they were sitting out. And it felt so good. And before I knew it, I was stuffing them in my face, I was pushing open the box, jumping out, and sticking my chocolate-covered tongue out at it. After that, I gave some effort to normalcy. But truth be told, I didn't know how to eat normally. For years, I had not eaten normally. I had eaten in fear of fat, I had eaten too few calories, I had eaten with somebody else's expectations in mind. There I was, out of the box, without any clues as to where to go from there. So I ate. It didn't matter what or how much I liked it. I didn't feel any insecurity, any disappointments, I felt nothing bad while I was eating. But afterwards, I felt horrible. Stuffed. Disappointed and disgusted with myself.
It's been quite some time since my binging days. I couldn't tell you exactly when I stopped or how. I know the process vaguely, and it was painful. And there was a time when I thought the urge to binge would NEVER come back. That I would not feel that desire to just fill my body with food, any food, but preferably peanut butter, sweets, or carbs. For no reason, other than the fact that I feel the emotional need for it.
Tonight I felt it. [Ugh.] I no longer hold the solo food-fests that I used to. The urge came with a sugar craving, so I did indulge that. But I felt like I could just eat and eat and never feel satisfied. Which is when I know it really wasn't the sugar I was craving.
For whatever reason, I was satisfied with putting pen to paper, either. Nothing would suffice, but a "hand" typed story, written for the "masses." Here it is.