NEDA, Lent, and Forgiveness

As the Gospel procession began to return to the sanctuary I wondered why the priest was now holding the Gospel book and not the acolyte. I quickly figured it out--the acolyte (whom I have now learned is a seminarian) stepped into the pulpit.

"Shoot," I whispered to SK (she may not agree with my choice of the word "whispered"), "I really wanted to hear Mary preach." "Mooother!" she whispered back, "You can't say that." For the record, I have already admitted it to both Mary, the priest, and Roger, the seminarian.

For close to a week, no matter how many ways I try to distract them, thoughts have been battering the serenity of my mind. The thoughts started with a book and were quickly joined with knowledge of the approaching (now upon us) National Eating Disorder Awareness Week and the season of Lent right around the calendar corner. In the past, I have been fairly open about my eating disorder, and two years ago, I wrote about the difficult intersection of practices for Lent and body image; (2017 Lent Post) I had hoped, and I had believed, two years on I'd be better off. I mean isn't the fact I now go out in public without having to be put together (have you seen some of my outfits), doesn't that count?

Several weeks ago I started reading a book The Girls at 17 Swann Street by Yara Zgheib. The book is about a group of women struggling with various types of eating disorders living in a group home. I've read 41%; I had to stop. It's not that it's not well written--it's too well written--it's like the author is in my mind--except it's not the recovered author I want to be.

As I read I began berating myself because I no longer had the control over my eating (or not eating) that the girls at 17 Swann Street did. I started wondering what I could start doing to get back to that place. I started looking in the mirror to see how sharp my collar bones were and whether I could see my sternum. I stopped reading. I guess I'm recovered enough to know I was treading in dangerous waters.

But the thoughts haven't stopped....

And others have joined the party....

I'm angry. I'm angry I can't just read a book without being triggered. I'm angry I know these thoughts aren't okay so I hide them (well until today). I'm angry I still can't look at my body without feeling disgusted. I'm angry I take the smallest of things and turn it into something about my body--negative thoughts about my body. I mean the fact I'm not always freezing recently can't have anything to do with I'm now on iron for anemia and oh yeah I'm past 50--it has to be it's because I'm getting fat. And the new rage...I'm angry it has impacted how I talk to my own girls--or rather don't talk to them.

During these weeks I have thought a lot about how I wish I was as comfortable with my body as they are with theirs. But here's the thing, I don't actually know how comfortable they are or aren't because I won't talk about it! I'm so terrified of saying the wrong thing that I say nothing. I'm not off the hook--I know there are times they do feel judged, they've told me (perhaps shrieked at me), but I have lived their lives terrified of passing on this horrible addiction. I have lived their lives remembering all the negative things that were said to me and about me, and in my fear of doing that to my girls, I have done nothing. I have not given them a safe place to be open and honest with me about their bodies--the good and bad, the positive and negative. Oh the tension is there--I just pretend it's not. So this week I have found another reason to be angry and bitter; this week I realize not only has this horrid disease/addiction/weakness robbed me of goodness in my own life, it has also robbed me of open honest relationship with my girls and others.

I reached out to a friend (in an email--not brave enough to voice it).  I told her what was going on with the book, and I asked her to watch me, and I promised I'd talk to my therapist--still planning to keep that promise. There is too much shame for me to tell my family-shame disguised as I didn't want to worry them. Shame--addiction's favorite isolating feeling.

All of these thoughts had been bebopping in my head all weekend--no not bebopping, slam dancing, and it wasn't pretty or comfortable or fun. (Another reality of addiction--obsessive thoughts.)

Then Roger stood in the pulpit and began to preach.

He preached on Genesis and the story of Joseph and his brothers and on forgiveness and how hard it is. I can't remember it all (truth I don't want to remember it all) because the thought that hit me is enough. "I don't want to forgive her."

And there it is--the ugly truth. I'd rather stay angry and bitter, and here it is, I'd rather be "the not responsible for my own behaviors and recovery victim."

Lent approaches; people will start talking about what they're giving up--sweets, alcohol, snacks; I won't be giving those up--or at least not totally. That would be easy, plus it would be about restriction, control and losing weight.--triggers for my eating disorder I work very hard to keep at bay.

This Lent instead of standing in front of the mirror saying something positive about my body, each and every day, as often as I can (and I will set an alarm so it happens at least 3 times a day), I will ask God to soften my heart so that I want to forgive.

My first step towards healing...it's going to be a long hard Lent.