Woman Vs. Food

I have had a love/hate relationship with food for most of my life.

I have always loved vegetables, and my parents never had to force them on me. As a kid, I remember eating frozen peas, canned tuna, or a spoonful of peanut butter for a snack (although not at the same time. That would be gross). I ate my fair share of candy, but overall, I had no health problems, and I would say that I had mainly healthy eating habits.

That all changed once I hit puberty.

Everyone knows that once those awful hormones kick in, your definition of normal goes completely out the window, especially when people around you directly or indirectly try and influence you.

For me, it wasn't magazines or television or the Victoria's Secret fashion show that made me self conscious of my body. It was my parents.

Once I hit puberty, my dad started making comments to me about how I needed to lose weight or I looked chubby. I remember one time I was going out with friends and just as I was about to leave, he said, "You're wearing...that?" I asked what was wrong with my outfit, since I thought I looked just fine. He said, "Well...." and poked his finger into my soft belly. Humiliated, I ran upstairs to put on the baggiest clothes I could find. He said things like this to me all the time regardless of whether or not we were around other people, including my friends. Another day, my dad told me I needed to go on a diet. Wailing with humiliation, I scoured the fridge for celery, vowing that I would never let anything else cross my lips. My mom saw me and said, "I knew you would react like this. We are just trying to help you." She then convinced me to add a scrape of peanut butter to my sparse diet. Eventually, these messages started to sink in, and all I could see was fat when I looked in the mirror.

Junior prom. I was so worried about how my stomach looked. I'm pretty sure I spent most of the day sucking it in.

From then on, I policed my food intake. It felt good to be hungry. I was so depressed at that point that I honestly did not believe that I even deserved to eat, so I would limit myself to one small meal a day. Hunger pains felt good, like I was perpetually punishing myself for the ultimate crime: existing. I truly believed that I was a burden on everyone and deserved nothing - not even basic necessities. I weighed myself at least three times a day: in the morning, when I got home from school, and before bed. My weight fluctuation throughout the day would determine if and how much I could eat. If I was up a pound from the night before, I would go without breakfast and lunch. If I was still up when I came home, I would go without dinner as well, which was easy because most of the time, no one made dinner at home. The dinner responsibility was on your own. I think once I went a total of three days straight without eating. As I saw the weight drop off, that only encouraged me to keep starving myself. I remember one day, my family went to McDonald's for lunch. I was so terrified that I would gain weight from eating fast food that I ordered only a small french fry. If I could have, I would have skipped lunch all together. It took me over an hour to eat that small bundle of fries because I was determined to not gain anything from the indulgence: I took miniscule bites and chewed each bite at least twenty times. I'm not sure if I was doing this initially to punish myself for being a bad person or to try and lose weight. Whichever came first, I was succeeding in both my goals and was receiving praise for it.

People noticed that I was losing weight, and they liked it. My doctor told me to "keep up the good work!" at my yearly check-up, even though I had no health problems or weight concerns prior to this starting. I indirectly was complimented by my clothes. I could fit into smaller and smaller sizes, and the smaller the size, the cuter the clothing was. My dad even laid off me and told me I was finally looking how I was supposed to look. Although my legs were never as muscular as his, as he would often brag to me, even though I rode my bike almost every day in the summer. I got so caught up in this positive reinforcement for bad behavior, and not one single person saw it for what it was and called me out on it.

This strict policing of my food carried on into college. My freshman year, I was again terrified at the thought of gaining the inevitable "freshman 15." I lived in the dorms and had a meal plan, but I only allowed myself one meal a day in the cafeteria and nothing on the weekends. The thing is, the meal plans budget for more than that (and you don't get a refund if you don't use it all!), and by the time the last week of classes rolled around, I still had 40 meals on my card. That was my downfall. I was terrified of losing money even more than I was terrified of gaining weight, so I did my best to use all 40 meals within a week and a half time frame. I gained the freshman 10.

Disappointment abounding, I resolved that it would not happen again. I still only let myself have one meal a day, but I would regularly pay for my ex boyfriend or other friends to eat as well. It worked out great. I used up all my meals, I didn't have to eat it all, plus people seemed grateful. I even started going to the gym a few nights a week and lost 5 of the freshman 10. Life was good.

I managed to do this all the way up until the end of my sophomore year. I was going to study abroad in Scotland for a month, and I vowed to myself that I wouldn't deprive myself of any food experience while I was over there. I wanted to immerse myself in the food culture as completely as possible. Unfortunately, no matter how much walking I did (walking....everywhere.....) I still gained 10 pounds. And you know what? I was ok with that. I had finally allowed myself to live and not struggle with every bite that I allowed to pass my lips.

This was near the end of the trip, so the 10 pounds should have taken hold by now. I thought I still looked great.

When I returned home, however, my family didn't respond to my weight gain as wholeheartedly as I had. Granted there were some other issues going on, but my mom took one look at me and said, "I can tell you gained some weight. Obviously you ate very well over there."

That moment broke me.

I would like to say that I stood up to her once and for all and said, "You know what, mom? If you're going to treat me like this, I'll just leave," and walked out. I did say that, but I didn't leave. At least, not right away. It was that moment that I realized that everything they had said to me about my weight wasn't really about me. It was about them and their own insecurities and attempts to control me. It broke my heart to hear that, but it allowed to for healing, like when a doctor has to re-break a broken bone that didn't heal correctly the first time around.

I still struggle with my body image occasionally, but it doesn't pertain to food anymore. To be honest, I eat a lot of donuts, and I'm not ashamed. I enjoy food now, not just for the nourishment, but also the social aspect. I love cooking in the kitchen with my fiance and sharing our creation together. I love going out and eating with friends. I denied so much of that to myself before. I can't even count how many times I turned down invitations to go out to eat because I only thought of the eating aspect. Right now, my focus is being healthy rather than being a certain size or weight. If I'm going to lose weight, I want to do it right. I never want to starve myself again. I have been working on making positive lifestyle changes to help me get on track to being able to do what I want to do with my body. Yoga has helped build strength and flexibility, while cooking at home has helped spark my creativity and discouraged the need to constantly eat out. I'm getting there, and I'm proud.

I am proud to say that my BMI is 36.7. I am obese. And I have never felt better about myself.

The Art Show

Last Friday, my months of hard work finally paid off. I was in my first ever art show, and it was an amazing experience!

After much confusion and running around (I really got my exercise in that day!) trying to find a space to set up, John agreed to let me share his table. What a nice guy!

One of the items I crocheted was a drawstring bag with a heart on it (i affectionately called them Love Sacks). I sold two of them that night, both to a girl who was probably about 8 or 9 years old. After her dad bought them, she promptly ripped the strings out of both bags and stuffed her hands inside. The rest of the night, I could see her proudly showing off her new "mittens" to anyone who would look. Too cute!

There was so much incredible talent packed into the library that night. Seriously, if you want to be fascinated, go up to an artist and ask them about their work or the story behind a particular piece. John, the guy next to me, talked all night long about the properties of different types of wood and how he goes about finding pieces to work with. Another woman explained to me that when she makes jewelry, the piece develops a mind of its own and tells her a story as she creates it. Yet another artist told me with great anguish how her home studio was destroyed in the flood a few years back, but she was really close to finishing repairs.

That got me thinking about what my art means to me. I first learned how to knit when I was in 2nd or 3rd grade from my paternal grandma. She used to get the biggest kick out of how I would knit - instead of holding a needle in each hand, I found it easier to hold the left one between my knees, which freed up my hand to wrap the yarn around the other needle. However, I never really mastered knitting at that point. All I could make were lopsided squares with an occasional dropped stitch that would unravel into a hole if bothered. I only knew how to cast on, knit, and cast off. Eventually I lost interest, and my yarn and needles were relegated to a far corner of my room. Even when my grandma had to be moved to an assisted living facility and I was given her knitting supplies (I was the only one in the family who had any idea what to do with it), it was added to that sad corner of my room. It wasn't until my maternal grandma past away that I picked up knitting again. My mom and I flew down to Arizona for the funeral and were staying at my aunt and uncle's house where my grandma also used to live. This became the gathering hub of the family - more specifically, the porch, where the adults spent the long perpetually summer days reminiscing and indulging in adult only beverages. I stayed inside on the couch watching TV and helping to go through grandma's stuff. Eventually, my aunt took pity on me and retaught me how to knit. This time, though, I was shown how to cast on, knit, purl, increase, decrease, and cast off. That is basically all you need to know to follow a knitting pattern, and I was hooked. (Side note: I was planning on wearing an Auntie Pat sweater to the art show, but it was SO HOT in the library.) Since then, I've tackled hats, blankets, stuffed animals, and even a sweater.

When I was in college, I was part of a club called Stitchin' Students. Stitchin' Students was a weekly gathering of yarn nerds to knit, crochet, needlepoint, or anything else having to do with fiber. One of our activities in the club involved yarn bombing the campus. For those of you who don't know what yarn bombing is, it is exactly what it sounds like. Here are some pictures.

 

One of the places we were planning on yarn bombing was the railing of the stairway with granny squares. I wanted in on the fun, so one of the members taught me how to crochet a granny square. My first granny square ended up being a granny triangle, but I was still proud of myself. I decided to keep going with crocheting as well as knitting. That leads me to where I am today. I suppose part of why I do it is to remember my grandmas and keep those family ties alive. More importantly though, I do it for myself. I do it for the love of taking yarn and transforming it into something that can be used and/or appreciated by people other than myself. I do it to keep my anxious hands busy. I do it to keep attention to detail alive. I do it to quantify my time (believe me, 2 hours spent knitting is much more visually gratifying than 2 hours spent on Facebook). It's a documentation of my presence, both in speaking of time and personality.

The Evaluation and the Light

If you remember from my last post, I mentioned that I would be going in for an evaluation appointment for a mental health intensive day program. That was yesterday, and I can say that it went really well! Once we got all the insurance and paperwork stuff squared away, I was brought into the psychotherapist's office. I knew I was in good hands when I walked in. Here is where I use my skills from high school to find meaning in all the little things that may be a sign from the universe, a random coincidence, or me just reading into things like every literature class taught me to do (not that this isn't a great skill to have, but sometimes a blue curtain is just....a blue curtain, you know?)

The first "sign" that set me at ease was that the psychotherapist I talked to had the same name as the first real counselor I ever went to. She helped me make amazing leaps in my confidence and self esteem and was always there to give me a hug. For a while, I thought she had been harsh with some of the things she said or pushed me to do in therapy, but I've been reading a book (more on the book in another post) that is told from the therapist's point of view. I have found much of the same dialogue that she used in this book, and while it seemed tough to swallow at the time, seeing it from this new perspective has shown me how it was really helping me along this whole time.

The next thing I noticed was that there were two giant butterfly sculptures on the wall of the office. Butterflies are often associated with great change and transformation, as well as being a sign of freedom and joy. Well, I was definitely here to make some changes as well as find some freedom and joy within myself. Then I got to thinking some more. There were actually three butterflies in the room: the two on the wall, plus one that was on me. Last year on my birthday, I decided to get a tattoo. Originally, it was supposed to be three butterflies - one to remember each of my grandmas. However, I am kind of a big weenie when it comes to pain, so I ended up finishing only one butterfly. I have never been able to bring myself to get the last two done, since as I mentioned before, I am a big weenie. So in a way, it was like all of my grandmas were finally together, cheering me on.

I could go on and on about the miniscule details I noticed and connect them to a larger symbol about why I was there, but in the end, as all symbols, they served their purpose in illustrating a bigger picture. I felt comforted, at ease, and like great things were in store for me. I would have jumped in right away, but my boss has already put out the schedules for the next few weeks, so I will be chocolatier-ing until after the art show.

Ok, now on to "The Light" portion of this post. In my last post, I talked about some of the sticks I was already grabbing on to. I completely forgot to mention my happy lamp! At the beginning of the month, I ordered a SAD lamp to help lift my mood during winter. SAD stands for Seasonal Affective Disorder, which is a form of seasonal depression. Understandably, SAD usually happens in the winter when there is hardly any sunlight, especially up here! SAD lamps help alleviate some of the symptoms of the winter blues by mimicking the sun's light (minus UV rays), which can increase energy, help you wake up in dark hours of the morning, and boost your mood. SAD lamps come in a variety of shapes, sizes, and intensities. The one I decided to go with was a travel-sized lamp that can be placed on almost any surface. The only downside is that it doesn't have the option of running on batteries, only electricity. However, it still gets the job done. The lamp that I have comes with three intensity settings: low, medium, and high. It also has a timer with the options of 15, 30, and 45 minute intervals. Since I find it nearly impossible to wake up in the morning, I use it within an hour of waking up to help get me energized for the day. So far, I have noticed that it is easier to get up in the morning, but I feel like it is hard for me to get back to sleep if I do wake up in the night. On days when I don't have to set an alarm, I have been waking up consistently between 10-10:30. Considering my normal wake up time for many years was around 1, this is a huge improvement. Another thing I have noticed is that I am losing my usual night owl tendencies and am ready for bed way before any party has started. I guess that's the drawback to waking up so early, but at least me and my fiance are getting to be on the same sleep schedule, to an extent.

If you are interested in looking more into it, here is the link for the lamp I bought. It was one of the cheapest lamps I could find, but it suits my needs just as well as a more expensive one.

That's all for now, folks! Oh, and for your audio pleasure, here is a clip of Neil Gaiman reading Green Eggs and Ham. I find it to be very soothing. 

The Stick

So some of you may be wondering why I'm calling my blog "Give Me A Stick!" A while ago, I was wasting time on the internet, and I came across this beautifully written and drawn image. It really put things into perspective for me. Here, let me show you.

For those of you who don't know, I have been struggling with mental illness for a very, very, very, very long time. I was officially diagnosed 2 years ago with major depressive disorder, PTSD, and severe anxiety, but my therapist estimated that I have been suffering from some sort of mental illness since I was about 7. That's a long time to be miserable. For so long I was in denial about needing help, mainly because no one around me seemed to care or even recognized that I was struggling, especially my parents. After years of pretending like everything was ok.....one day it wasn't. Suddenly school seemed impossible, which has never been for me in the past. I was trapped in my dorm room by panic attacks that never seemed to end. I wouldn't know I was having one until it was too late to try and calm down. The stress of school was overwhelming, as was the feeling that everyone thought I was lazy and a bad student for not going to class. That's when I finally decided to get help. Real help. Not from a high school counselor who told me that "if there aren't any bruises, then it isn't abuse and I can't help you."

I needed a stick. I tried going to see the therapist at my college. It helped immensely with my self esteem....but only temporarily. I was put on all sorts of drugs that only seemed to make things worse, especially my grades. I decided that if I was ever going to try medication again, it had to be when I wasn't in school because if the doctors gave me the wrong cocktail (which was always), then I would not be able to focus on school at all.

I continued to go to therapy. Talking through my problems really helped, but it also caused a lot of grief to resurface. Grief I didn't even know I had. But as the saying goes, all good things must come to an end. One day, I just hit a wall. I would sit at my session in a catatonic state, not saying much, and not hearing anything that was said to me. It wasn't worth it, especially since I had changed therapists and was paying for part of these sessions out of pocket.  I stopped going. I also decided to stop going to school as well, for a variety of reasons, but my inability to function like a "normal" human being the main component.

Although I mainly have my anxiety under control right now (I say mainly because I have noticed it starting to creep back into my life a little more every day for about the past few weeks), the depression is still a problem. A major problem. Some days I can't even get myself out of bed. And then I hate myself for having spent all day in bed not doing anything productive. I feel like I have a disability. I know it doesn't make sense to many people out there, but it's kind of like having a case of the flu that never goes away and can flare up at any time. You wouldn't go to work if you had the flu, would you? And if you felt like it was about to flare up, you would stay home, right? Bad analogy, I know. But it's all I can think of right now.

That is why this year, I decided to reach out and grab all the sticks I can get my hands on. Not just surviving sun up to sun down, but actively trying to make my life better and more productive and unlock my true potential. I want to be me again. That's why I am starting this blog. I want a way to be honest with myself about my illness (and, yes, a huge part of that is sharing it with everyone and admitting that some days living is REALLY hard) and to track my progress throughout the year. I have done some amazing things this month already. Let's take a look at what I've accomplished and what I have set up for the upcoming months:

One of my new year's resolutions was to do yoga as often as I could. Every day, if possible. I have gotten a tad off track the past few days due to anxiety issues, but so far for the month of January, I have logged 445 minutes of yoga, or almost 7 1/2 hours! A little bit each day really does add up, and I have noticed incredible changes in my body. I have less pain, and I am able to move a little more freely.

On January 10th, I was in a short play as part of the Chicken Hat plays through Rubber Chicken Theater. Not that theater has ever been a problem for me, but I feel that committing myself to a full day of theater and being around people is a mental health positive. I have also tried to be more proactive about getting out of the house and spending time with friends, which is also a mental health positive.

To help tap into my creative side, I also signed up to be in an art show on February 13th (yes, that is a Friday). It's called Love Your Local Artist, and it will be at the Superior Public Library from 5:30-8. I have been crocheting my butt off! It's really helped me to quantify my time. I can either binge watch Arrested Development on Netflix and have nothing to show for it, or I can crochet for a few hours and have some cute drawstring bags and a wine bottle cozy to show for it! Gosh, I love yarn.

Also because I recognize that mental illness can be very serious, I have an evaluation appointment on Friday at Amberwing. Amberwing is a behavioral/mental health clinic that focuses on teens and young adults. This is probably the most "serious" of things I have lined up and probably the most terrifying as well. After the evaluation appointment, I will be admitted into an outpatient program at the hospital that will last 3-4 weeks. Through a series of fortunate and unfortunate events, I am lucky enough to have the funds available to pursue this treatment because even with insurance, it is still mind-blowing expensive, plus I will have to take a hiatus from work during this time. I am scared, but I am confident that I have the support I need to get through this.

I'm not sure how often I will be adding new blog posts, but at least once every month to give you guys updates. Yay! That's all I have for now. To all of you who are struggling right along side of me, I hope that this is a stick for you. Or at least a twig. You are not alone, and I admire you beyond belief for being alive today, even if all you are doing is perusing the internet. There is great strength in that, too. Love and hugs <3