As many of you know, I have had a (now 21 year on and off) battle with bulimia.
"They" say it's not about food. They are right. It's not about food or weight or Vogue magazine or the portion sizes at Burger King. I'm not dismissing those things but that's not the root of this problem. At least not for me. For me the root of this problem is knowing myself.
I watched a show many, many years ago where a young woman was taken to an ice cream shop and asked what she wanted. Not what her sister would want, not what her mother thought she would want, not what she thought she should eat. What she wanted.
She did not know. And she cried.
At the time, I thought, "How could she not know her favorite kind of ice cream?". But at the time, I must have been swimming in a bucket of denial sauce because the thought of going into an ice cream shop and ordering a scoop of ice cream would have been ridiculous. What I wanted was utterly beside the point.
I still struggle with this concept of what I want. Every day. Almost every hour. Not just about food but about everything. What I want in life. What I want in my future. What I want to say, or not to say.
Michael asks me, because he knows about my ongoing battle, what I want. Sometimes I just take the easy road and choose something easy. Something that isn't going cause any attention to be paid to my answer.
This is not a way to live. At least not a good one.
Right now, I am trying, with some exceptions for financial stability, to remember to ask myself what I want. And actually do it.
I am only saying this today because it is what I know and it is what I want. It is a hard thing to say -- especially because I feel like it makes me terribly vulnerable. It also removes the mask of effortless perfection that I try desperately to hold up to everyone. I want to be the crusader against anti-intellectualism, the 24/7 smart chick who can build anything and answer any question. The woman who burdens no one. But that mask; it is killing me.
I am not nearly perfect, an IT girl, or a star. I am scared and tired and confused. But I want to be healthier. Both mentally and physically. I also want to write. I want to write books and articles and tomes.
So here I am, a little exposed. Writing it all down in the audacious hope of coming out on the other end better, healthier and more alive.
"They" say it's not about food. They are right. It's not about food or weight or Vogue magazine or the portion sizes at Burger King. I'm not dismissing those things but that's not the root of this problem. At least not for me. For me the root of this problem is knowing myself.
I watched a show many, many years ago where a young woman was taken to an ice cream shop and asked what she wanted. Not what her sister would want, not what her mother thought she would want, not what she thought she should eat. What she wanted.
She did not know. And she cried.
At the time, I thought, "How could she not know her favorite kind of ice cream?". But at the time, I must have been swimming in a bucket of denial sauce because the thought of going into an ice cream shop and ordering a scoop of ice cream would have been ridiculous. What I wanted was utterly beside the point.
I still struggle with this concept of what I want. Every day. Almost every hour. Not just about food but about everything. What I want in life. What I want in my future. What I want to say, or not to say.
Michael asks me, because he knows about my ongoing battle, what I want. Sometimes I just take the easy road and choose something easy. Something that isn't going cause any attention to be paid to my answer.
This is not a way to live. At least not a good one.
Right now, I am trying, with some exceptions for financial stability, to remember to ask myself what I want. And actually do it.
I am only saying this today because it is what I know and it is what I want. It is a hard thing to say -- especially because I feel like it makes me terribly vulnerable. It also removes the mask of effortless perfection that I try desperately to hold up to everyone. I want to be the crusader against anti-intellectualism, the 24/7 smart chick who can build anything and answer any question. The woman who burdens no one. But that mask; it is killing me.
I am not nearly perfect, an IT girl, or a star. I am scared and tired and confused. But I want to be healthier. Both mentally and physically. I also want to write. I want to write books and articles and tomes.
So here I am, a little exposed. Writing it all down in the audacious hope of coming out on the other end better, healthier and more alive.
Labels: Body Electric
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