With news of Congressman Anthony Weiner's indiscretions the word "Hung" has frequently been heard. "Hung Over" too entered our conversations. Many asked if he was. "Hung Up" played a powerful role in reflections. "Hung Out to Dry" seems to be the consensus. Crowds of Congressmen and women, citizens from each political Party, and even those who claim no loyalties, say, The Representative must be renounced. Few wish to admit that Anthony Weiner is but you and me.
Supreme Court Justices, who served under Chief Jurist Brennan, perhaps, make three. Any of us might easily say, as the Justices did decades ago; on the subject of obscene or outrageous, "I Know It When I See It." We each do. Still, the definitions vary.
While few of us are officially appointed to write "codes" of conduct, as the Supreme Court Justices are, we too avidly watch the actions of another and judge.
Dearest Doctor, I have come to my senses. Days ago, when you offered your diagnosis, I died. No, not literally. Had you done me in, I would not be here to write what I hope will help inform your bedside manner. Well, in my case only the way in which you approach a patient who merely sits in an examining room chair near you is the concern. You may recall our time together began so innocently. We sat down to review the results of annually scheduled blood-work. I had not felt sick all year or on that day. You had even expressed, it had been so long since we last saw each other. You scanned the pages, and proclaimed, that I must have returned to my bulimic ways. My spirit perished. I had done nothing of the sort! Yet, you said you were sure I had.
Another year has come and gone. Everywhere she goes she hears people speak of New Years resolutions. They all say this time will be different. I will decide to do as I had not done previously or at least had not done well. Countless commit to a life of calorie counting. Others merely muse that they will exercise more. Drugs, drinking, there are also discussions of these concerns. People are confident. This year I will deliver myself from what I think evil. A few philosophize as to their personal career path. Change is the objective. A greater goal is thought to be golden. As Author Mary Anne Radmacher reflected and now millions whisper as their mantra, "Live with intention . . . Choose with no regret. . . . Do what you love. Live as if this is all there is." Therein lies the problem.
The holiday season is the best and worst of times. It always was. The food is phenomenal. The feelings that fill a heart, mind, or is it my stomach can cause enormous misery. For a person immersed in the rituals of bulimia the latter weeks of the year are better than all others. Opportunities to indulge are ample during the holy days. The selection of food fare is far superior. Scientific research on food reaps ample rewards. The secretive practice of self-imposed solitary confinement causes much angst, or could, if one were not able to find an escape in food.
I awoke to the question; Are Your Friends Making You Fat? Apparently, according to a longitudinal study involving 12,000 people, if your best friend is obese you are more likely to gain weight. Researchers say obesity is growing as an epidemic would. The results did not surprise me; the reaction to such a speculation did. People postured; "I make my own choices." "My friends and family do not influence my decision to take good care of myself." The research is flawed. The findings are faulty. It is not possible. Friends cannot make friends fat.
She heard it said every time the topic was brought up. The words flow from their mouths as the food did from hers. Terminology spills into the sink of the uninformed and ignorant just as her fare did almost immediately after she swallowed it. Resembling her refusal to digest what she ate, they reject what is offered to them. Bulimics do not do as they do so that they might feel in control. While marinating in a myriad of feelings and flavors, a binger that purges is not exerting his or her desire to control. She cannot. She knows this all too well.
As we stood face-to-face and quietly discussed my years of anorexia and bulimia, I was reminded of what I always knew and yet, was too distracted to acknowledge aloud. It was not that I never spoke of it before, I had on many occasions. However, this conversation helped me to realize the heartache my illness [and I unintentionally] caused more deeply.
Once you label me, you negate me. ~ Soren Kierkegaard [Danish Philosopher]
An article in the New York Times grabbed my attention instantly. It appeared in the health section. The title, "One Spoonful at a Time." This writing was heartfelt. Author, Harriet Brown tells a gripping tale. It took me to memories of my own struggle with anorexia and bulimia and how these affected my family. In this exposé, the dilemma of how to treat the condition was thoroughly discussed. I wish to share my response to this situation and story. My personal experience of this is vast. I hope my thoughts, realizations, and rejoinders on this topic will be helpful to those grappling with similar issues. I trust that the effects of anorexia and bulimia are trials and tribulations for all those afflicted by these.
The subject of weight alone is a sensitive probing. An individual need not starve, binge, or purge in wrestling with weight. On the same day another New York Times essay loomed large entitled "Big People on Campus." This commentary contemplated the plight of being "fat." I was once that too. Many may muse in this moment, all anorexics believe they are chubby, and while that may or may not be true, I actually was at times in my life. My weight rarely was stable; nor was I when reflecting upon it. However, my weight was never the issue; it was a distraction, a symptom of what was within.
They observe how little she eats and then they say, "She eats like a bird." She wonders, ??Do they know how much birds eat?' Might I inform them that birds will eat their own body weight daily? Would it matter to them? Why should I bother to discuss truth, for they are certain they know exactly what truth is. They think they know me; yet, they do not even know themselves. Criticizing me is their entertainment. I can show contempt towards myself well enough. I do not need their help.
They watch my weight and say that they are worried. They are awaiting my passage. They believe I want to die and think I am working towards this vision. I am not; I never was.
Today, I read "Vegetables of Mass Destruction - Obesity Redux" by OrangeClouds115. The author wrote of food and how it affects us. S/he spoke of obesity and whether this nation's current crisis is due to genetics or is a result of marketing, manufacturing, or the manner in which the medical profession works with those afflicted. This article offered an excellent assessment of a very sad situation.
My resolve lingered; I think it will last for a lifetime. Actually, I know it will. In truth, I did not consciously choose to change the way I interacted with food; I did not think I could. I committed to nothing, I only thought about it, as did Chapman.
She filled her home with food. She shopped daily. Her cupboards were full. She back-stocked; yet, there was never enough. What food would tickle her fancy? Which delicacies would she desire most? What might she indulge in and would these cause her stomach to bulge, even after she emptied it?
She studied food, the way it sat in her stomach and the smoothness with which it came up. Once downed, was she able to bring it all up again? Would parts linger in her belly? If the morsels did not come up in full, how long would they remain within? Would she be able to rid herself of all the food or only portions? What nutrients would be absorbed and what calories?
One day she overheard a neighbor speak of bulimia. Why was this woman discussing this? The young lady mentioned that bulimics destroy their teeth. Is that true? Would she be different?
She recalled how her habit had almost immediately affected her hair. She once had very, very, very long hair; it was extremely thick and wavy. A short time after she started satiating her stomach and then emptying it, she noticed that her hair changed. It thinned. It went straight. She had always wanted thinner and straighter hair, though now that she had it, she realized that it was not as she preferred. However, it was too late. She was locked into this habit, or so it seemed.
She wanted to stop and yet, she did not believe that she could. She tried. She cried, though rarely. The best part of eating endlessly and then throwing-up was that it took time, a lot of time if it were to be done well. She was a very thorough person; she would do it well. This left little time for thinking. Well, that had been her hope.
It was not true. She found herself bingeing and purging for hours. Nonetheless, there was still time. No matter how many moments were spent focusing on food, there was still time to think. She thought.
Initially, the process released her from feeling; however, ultimately, it left her feeling more, more cautious, more fearful, less fulfilled, and less perfect. Knowing or thinking that she could not stop, oh, that was another feeling. That feeling never seemed to fade.
[Chapter Five in a Series.]
Please peruse Chapters One through Six, if you choose.
It began so innocently and it grew so rapidly. It was a conscious decision in a moment and yet, I never thought that it would become a way of life. I could not have anticipated what was to come. Initially it took no effort. It came so easily; actually, the food came up so easily, smoothly. Morsels slid in and slid out. Later, it was a chore, the chore of my life!
No, vomiting was not difficult. My throat had become an amusement park for food; however, I was not amused. I did not want to share this adventure with friends, family, or acquaintances. I wanted to hide. I wanted to hide my food, my feelings; I wanted to hide "me!"
I did not want anyone to know who I was, what I was feeling, or what I was doing. I was a failure!!!!! I was not pretty enough, smart enough, successful enough; I was not perfect! Nonetheless, I survived. Oh, there were those that said I was wonderful, saw me as smart, even brilliant. Some believed me to be beautiful, however, they were not "I." They did not know the real me.
They were not in my head, my heart, my body, or my soul and they did not know. They did not know what I hid. They could not; I was hiding that from myself.
[Part Four in an Ongoing Series.]
Please peruse Chapters One through Six, if you choose.
She sought out food, food, and more food. She was not hungry; well, she was, though not for food. She needed to fill the void, and yet if she felt full, she needed to eliminate that sensation. Her stomach must feel as empty as her being felt; the two needed to be in balance, an empty mind, and an empty body felt best.
The eating was not eating it was as breathing. She inhaled her food, quickly, only to throw it all up just as quickly. When she did as she was doing, she felt nothing, and that was good! She thought nothing, well; at least she thought nothing of what she was doing. That was true for a time, though, not true too. She, while engaging in the deed was somewhat separate from herself. She was there and, yet, she was not.
She planned for the process and yet she did not. She imagined what she would eat, and yet she did not. She heard the cautions for what she was doing and for the consequences that these actions would bring, and yet, she did not. It all began and progressed so innocently; it seemed so insignificant; yet it consumed her.
Consuming was her cycle. Consuming food, being consumed by food, with food, and in truth, it had nothing, absolutely nothing to do with food; it had to do with feeling full, yet feeling empty. More honestly, it had to do with the fear of feeling full and for the sadness of feeling empty. She did not fear or feel sadness for what was in, or not in her stomach.
Did she consider what she was creating, what would come of this moment? Did she consider how a moment, frozen in the cold of the evening would become frozen in time and yet would begin the story of a bulimic? Did she think through what she was doing or why? Did she consider how this choice, this coming, this purging would effect her friends, her family, her life and her self? How would she see herself from this moment on or would she ever be able to see herself again?
Had she just separated the parts of her life? Was she now the person that she presents to the public, to people that she passes, or was she now a different person, a person beginning on a path that she could not, would not wish to imagine? Again she was haunted, although now more deeply, with the questions of "Who is she?" "What would she become?" and now, there was the additional query, "What had she done?"
For her, it began one evening, one cold winter evening in Wisconsin. She felt so empty and yet so full. The emptiness was for her future . . . and for her past, her present. The fullness was a feeling in her stomach, in her heart, in her mind, a fullness experienced through all her feelings. She was empty; she was full. Her experiences and emotions left her feeling empty. Yet, she was filled with food, fear, and thus, the folly began.
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