Oh, belly. You poor maligned soul.
I have spent all the years I remember hating and loathing you. Trying to shrink and control you.
As you grew, so did my hate. For you. For myself. As you flattened, I would begin to forgive you.
You were never worthy of love until you looked exactly like I wanted you to. Then I became magnanimous and bestowed conditional affection on you: "You are finally allowed to be seen. You are enough. But you better stay this way, or else!!!"
But you were never meant for lifelong stasis! And it wasn't possible, with the way I treated you! I made you struggle with food that hurt you and that was hard to digest. Or I ate more than you could handle. And then I railed against you when you responded in the only way you could.
Alicia and I, at her college graduation party, the day I went into labor with Maia. I was using the watch to time my contractions.
You safely carried my three babies, and I was so relieved to have months and months where I didn't have to hate you. Where your bigness was a sign of health. Where my worth didn't depend on your size because I had no control whatsoever over how you formed over my tiny babies' bodies. Then I transferred my hate to my widening face, arms, bum. Once my babies were born, exhausted, you drooped and sagged and instead of thanking you for doing a lovely job, I instantly hated you again. "This is no time for a rest! Shrink! Now! GO AWAY!"
Sweet little Maia touching my belly when I was pregnant with Maddie.
Pregnant with Tess, about two months before she was born.
I was happiest with you in the spring of 2015. I'd finally made myself do what it took to make you, and therefore me, look acceptable. Good, even. This lasted for about a year, but then, slowly, you grew. A lifestyle of rigorous deprivation, with the occasional indulgence, proved unsustainable. And then I was diagnosed with an eating disorder. Intensive treatment began: no more rules concerning food. No more deprivation or diets. No "good" or "bad" foods. And it's working! I can see, looking back, how my relationship with food is changing. Sweet progress. But guess what almost always happens when you are recovering from an eating disorder? You gain weight.
Celebrating my first short-sleeved run of the year! :)
So, even though I know that the size of my belly and the number on the scale have ZERO to do with my value or my happiness, I still want you, my belly, to be smaller. And gaining 10 - 15 pounds (I think...I don't weigh myself anymore) has been devastating for me. Your "new" size has caused me to panic, and feel even more terrible about myself. Again! Argh!
But last week, as I was talking to my nutritionist, she told me that you are responding the way that you're supposed to when healing from an eating disorder. My body is channeling weight to you as a way of saying, "She's finally not depriving us anymore! But she could at any time! So save up, boys, save up! We need to build up our belly stores, stat!" Yay. But here's the good news: once I am no longer in flux, and on the other side of this struggle, my body will trust that it doesn't need to store up fat the way that it currently is. Equilibrium, and my natural, happy weight, is coming. Suddenly, you became a sign of healing! Proof that I am taking better care of myself, not that I am somehow failing. It now feels possible to see you as something to be proud of and not something that I need to hide. You don't have to be a source of shame.
So, belly, I am so sorry. It's still going to be really hard to not wish for you to be less than you are, and I'll probably even still hate you sometimes. I'll still struggle with wanting to look like someone else. But not forever. I'm closer to loving you than I ever have been. Loving me.
Enjoying some rare sun on a walk with Olly.
Thank you for all you've allowed me to do. You've helped me to run thousands and thousands of miles, and to carry and grow three beautiful little humans. You've seen me through diagnosis after diagnosis: clinical depression, a generalized anxiety disorder, an eating disorder, and most recently, PTSD. You've borne the brunt of all my stress and pain and the side effects of medicine after medicine. You've always been there for me, holding me together, and I can finally start believing that I'm glad you're mine. That I'm glad to be me.
So, rock on, belly. We've got this.
I have spent all the years I remember hating and loathing you. Trying to shrink and control you.
As you grew, so did my hate. For you. For myself. As you flattened, I would begin to forgive you.
You were never worthy of love until you looked exactly like I wanted you to. Then I became magnanimous and bestowed conditional affection on you: "You are finally allowed to be seen. You are enough. But you better stay this way, or else!!!"
But you were never meant for lifelong stasis! And it wasn't possible, with the way I treated you! I made you struggle with food that hurt you and that was hard to digest. Or I ate more than you could handle. And then I railed against you when you responded in the only way you could.
Alicia and I, at her college graduation party, the day I went into labor with Maia. I was using the watch to time my contractions.
You safely carried my three babies, and I was so relieved to have months and months where I didn't have to hate you. Where your bigness was a sign of health. Where my worth didn't depend on your size because I had no control whatsoever over how you formed over my tiny babies' bodies. Then I transferred my hate to my widening face, arms, bum. Once my babies were born, exhausted, you drooped and sagged and instead of thanking you for doing a lovely job, I instantly hated you again. "This is no time for a rest! Shrink! Now! GO AWAY!"
Sweet little Maia touching my belly when I was pregnant with Maddie.
You have always been me. Only okay if I looked "right". Only worthy of love if others noticed me and liked what they saw. You have been the lightning rod for almost every bad thought I've ever had about myself. My barometer of self-acceptance. In front of every mirror, my eyes go to you first: "Am I allowed to like myself right now?" I have looked down at you, literally and figuratively, thousands and thousands of times, checking to see if I was acceptable yet.
I was happiest with you in the spring of 2015. I'd finally made myself do what it took to make you, and therefore me, look acceptable. Good, even. This lasted for about a year, but then, slowly, you grew. A lifestyle of rigorous deprivation, with the occasional indulgence, proved unsustainable. And then I was diagnosed with an eating disorder. Intensive treatment began: no more rules concerning food. No more deprivation or diets. No "good" or "bad" foods. And it's working! I can see, looking back, how my relationship with food is changing. Sweet progress. But guess what almost always happens when you are recovering from an eating disorder? You gain weight.
Celebrating my first short-sleeved run of the year! :)
So, even though I know that the size of my belly and the number on the scale have ZERO to do with my value or my happiness, I still want you, my belly, to be smaller. And gaining 10 - 15 pounds (I think...I don't weigh myself anymore) has been devastating for me. Your "new" size has caused me to panic, and feel even more terrible about myself. Again! Argh!
But last week, as I was talking to my nutritionist, she told me that you are responding the way that you're supposed to when healing from an eating disorder. My body is channeling weight to you as a way of saying, "She's finally not depriving us anymore! But she could at any time! So save up, boys, save up! We need to build up our belly stores, stat!" Yay. But here's the good news: once I am no longer in flux, and on the other side of this struggle, my body will trust that it doesn't need to store up fat the way that it currently is. Equilibrium, and my natural, happy weight, is coming. Suddenly, you became a sign of healing! Proof that I am taking better care of myself, not that I am somehow failing. It now feels possible to see you as something to be proud of and not something that I need to hide. You don't have to be a source of shame.
So, belly, I am so sorry. It's still going to be really hard to not wish for you to be less than you are, and I'll probably even still hate you sometimes. I'll still struggle with wanting to look like someone else. But not forever. I'm closer to loving you than I ever have been. Loving me.
Enjoying some rare sun on a walk with Olly.
Thank you for all you've allowed me to do. You've helped me to run thousands and thousands of miles, and to carry and grow three beautiful little humans. You've seen me through diagnosis after diagnosis: clinical depression, a generalized anxiety disorder, an eating disorder, and most recently, PTSD. You've borne the brunt of all my stress and pain and the side effects of medicine after medicine. You've always been there for me, holding me together, and I can finally start believing that I'm glad you're mine. That I'm glad to be me.
So, rock on, belly. We've got this.
No comments:
Post a Comment