1 Corinthians 6:19
Do you not know that your bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God?
I was 15 years old and suffering from another night of crippling anxiety that led to insomnia. I was hungry after my post-3 hour volleyball practice run, so I ate 3/4 cup of unsweetened bran flakes and skim milk after 8 pm. I was convinced the carbs from that cereal, not the anxiety I was experiencing from over-exercising and starving myself, were the reason I could not fall asleep.
After crying a little too long, I allowed myself to get up and call for my parents. I hated doing this. I hated feeling like a burden on my parents, ever. Afterall, my parents liked me so much because I was excellent at staying out of the way.
I was well-behaved and high achieving. Top of my class, homecoming princess, captain of every sports team I played on. The one speech and debate competition I entered, I won.
I was fine. I was more than fine! I needn’t interrupt their lives by asking for their help.
Until I absolutely needed to ask for their help.
I was suffering immensely from anorexia. I’d been obsessing over food and exercise, starving myself, and weighing myself every single day for 3 months. I’d lost nearly 40 pounds. My hair was falling out and my period stopped. I was wearing Limited Too clothes from 4th grade. (Which like, yay Limited Too but not so cool in high school.) I had a thick layer of hair growing all over me as my body’s effort to keep me warm since I didn’t have enough fat to do the job.
I beckoned my dad to come keep me company. “Daddy . . . I . . . can’t sleep. Can you please . . . can you come lay down with me? Just for a little bit. I promise I’ll try to fall asleep fast.”
In that moment, I was the “stay small” messaging so many young women receive fully embodied.
Always apologize. Never ask for what you want or need. Do not be a burden. Do not be too much.
My dad walked upstairs and held me while I sobbed myself to sleep.
We’d only recently gotten the official diagnosis that I was fully, and detrimentally, anorexic. My parents noticed the physical changes, and then saw the personality changes. I didn’t have friends. I never did anything social. All I did was read my Bible, exercise, eat a slice of turkey. Rinse, repeat.
“We’re taking you to the doctor.” My mom told me as I stood in the kitchen making exactly 2 egg whites and a half a slice of cheese one morning for breakfast.
I internally shouted at my body regularly, “What is your deal? Why can’t you just cooperate AND BE SKINNY?!?!? GET IT TOGETHER ALREADY, YOU STUBBORN BITCH!”
I panicked. I didn’t want my parents to pay to take me to the doctor for a problem I’d brought upon myself.
“No. That’s not necessary, Mama. I can just . . . eat more.” I replied.
She didn’t buy it. We went to the doctor.
My family practitioner was a sweet woman I’d been seeing since I was a kid (remember those days in American healthcare???), so I trusted her to take good care of me. She took my vitals, including weighing me. I was proud to see a number below 100 on the scale. Afterward she asked some questions.
“How much of your day do you spend thinking about food, Mattie Jo?”
“Umm . . .” I started.
“Can you give me a percentage? Fifty percent? Seventy percent . . . ??”
“Ninety percent.” I answered honestly.
“What’s the other ten percent?”
“Exercise. And homework.”
Saying it out loud made me a for-real lunatic.
On the drive home, I tried to be positive.
“Well, now that I know what’s going on, I can get better!” My Virgo brain figured a few more calories and months later, I’d be perfectly healed from 15 years of messaging that led me to this disorder.
A combination of inheriting my mother’s body trauma, along with the church’s repeated messaging about women needing to suffer and shrink in order to be upheld in the eyes of the Lord landed me in that doctor’s office. Not to mention the patriarchal culture at large that convinces women their main priority should always be to take up as little space as possible. All of that was not going to go away with a few more calories in and a few less hours exercising.
After I started eating again, I gained 50 pounds in a few months. My anorexia was no more, but now I had some new fun eating disorders—compulsive eating, exercise bulimia, and laxative abuse—to manage.
The next decade of my life was spent trying to heal from my body and food obsession. I went to therapy, got on anti-depressants, went to 8-12 Step programs. (Celebrate Recovery, anyone?) I tried diet after restrictive diet. Signed up for half-marathons and exercise challenges.
I hated my body.
I hated that my body was hungry. I hated that I had to eat. I hated that I had to starve myself to make her look the way I thought others found attractive. I internally shouted at my body regularly, “What is your deal? Why can’t you just cooperate AND BE SKINNY?!?!? GET IT TOGETHER ALREADY, YOU STUBBORN BITCH!”
By the time I graduated college, I had accepted the fact that I would always hate my body. That was part of being a woman anyway, wasn’t it? At least as far as I could tell, I was really no different than my female peers. We all shit-talked our bodies on the regular, and treated them horribly. From overeating to over-drinking to over exercising and then complaining about how fat we were . . . I was just partaking in the “normal” (excessively harmful) behavior of being a woman.
I truly believed that, as a woman—especially a woman of God—I could not love my body. I mean, bodies are BAD. They want sex and food and wine and ugh. I would tell God I couldn’t wait to go to Heaven. There I wouldn’t have to put up with this fucking shell of hunger cues I have and constantly fight against.
Furthermore, in my mind, women who loved their bodies were self-absorbed sluts. Prancing around proudly in abdomen-exposing shirts, getting naked with men (see: having sex), and actually liking themselves?? That was pride, not humility. Women of God are humble. Grateful. Covered. Small. Out of the way.
I think my rock bottom came when Colin confronted me in the kitchen. Holding his jar of peanut butter that I had definitely compulsively eaten a decent amount from in a recent binge, he stared into it and said, “It appears there is a peanut butter elf in the apartment.” How embarrassing!
I internalized all of these messages to mean I had to diminish myself in order to be attractive. I had to hate every part of me or else I was “prideful.” Anything that was not of the Lord, was of me and that was bad. Especially my body. This fleshly thing that kept me at war with my spirit. And fat.
Upon moving to New York, I quickly learned I was not going to be able to keep up with the overeating, exercising, and laxative-using I’d made a way of life throughout high school and college. Mainly because I didn’t have time. I had places to be and shit to do that couldn’t involve shitting all day.
I couldn’t miss a full day of work and auditions to be near a toilet. I couldn’t spend 3 hours at the gym because I bought a six pack of cupcakes and ate the whole thing in one sitting the night before. If I was going to be able to pay rent and prove I could do this whole actor thing, I could not maintain this life of excess and abuse.
I think my rock bottom came when Colin confronted me in the kitchen. Holding his jar of peanut butter that I had definitely compulsively eaten a decent amount from in a recent binge, he stared into it and said, “It appears there is a peanut butter elf in the apartment.” How embarrassing!
How low did I have to be to be eating my incredibly generous and rich roommate’s peanut butter on a binge because I’d run out of my own food to binge?!?!
Determined to recover from my embarrassment, I did what I’d normally done in the past—treat the symptom and not the source. I walked next door to the Crunch gym and signed up for a membership. This would hold me accountable to, at the very least I thought, stop overeating my roommate’s peanut butter.
Stay Tuned for Part 2 Next week :)
Anyway here is a real ass picture of a tour bus in front of my house the day I moved to New York. We still don't know who it belonged to.
Comments