My Food, My Body, My Daughter

I've had this blog post rolling around in my head for a few days now. Originally, I was going to write about how training for a marathon has significantly changed my intensely rocky relationship with food for the better. To think of food as fuel is a rather foreign concept to me. For much of my teenage and college years, food was either something I could viciously control, or a hateful reminder that I was a not perfect (a failure).

I am a recovered anorexic and bulimic. It's something I talk freely about with anyone who asks, but not something I've addressed in this blog. Why? Not sure. I do find myself a wee bit uncomfortable right now, not because I'm embarrassed, but because thanks to television, movies & celebrity "news" coverage, eating disorders have become so cliche. I can still remember watching (the original, thank you very much) 90210 where Kelly had anorexia for like, 2 freaking episodes. Really??!! My eating disorder is certainly not as severe as it could have been, but 20 years later I may not be having active relapses, but I still grapple with food and body issues on a daily basis. I spent 2 years of high school in a daze, manically counting calories (usually about 250/day) and desperately searching for new ways to hide the fact that I either wasn't eating, or was spending the majority of the night and early morning purging. It still amazes me that there are rather large chunks of those years I simply don't remember. There's not much room for  memories when every waking thought is devoted to food and how to triumph over it. I had a not-terribly-surprising relapse in college, and then one in grad school that completely caught me off guard. I was 25, married, at my dream grad school doing what I loved, and eating only the broth from chicken noodle soup. Thankfully, the last relapse was rather short-lived and 10 years later, I'm happy to say I've not had one since.

As with many things in life, motherhood included, I've discovered that my eating disorder is another one of those things that will probably be a "work in progress" forever. And now that it's bleeding into my relationship with my daughter, I'm on high alert. I quickly realized that I've got some work to do.

My little family just had a glorious weekend at the lake. We swam. We ate. We water skied. We ate. We drank. We ate. By yesterday afternoon, I was not only filled with food, but with absolute panic. I felt completely and totally out of control. The old inner dialogue, which has been present but quiet over the past decade, was loud and insistent once again. It is NOT OK to eat cake after EVERY MEAL! What if I can't stop eating? The food is there and I can't seem to stop myself. What's wrong with me? What happened to my self-control? All of these thought spinning around in my head as I tried to remain calm and ride it out. And then, to my absolute horror, my inner dialogue started in on my daughter. I am cringing with shame right now, but what's the point of writing about this if I'm not honest, no?

This was a vacation weekend for all of us and we ate accordingly: French toast, bacon, muffins, bagels, chips, popsicles, cake, cake, and more cake, hot dogs...etc. If it is served at a county fair, we probably had it. When I realized that my daughter had been eating just like me all weekend, I felt a whole new kind of panic, followed immediately by incredible amounts of guilt and shame (did I for a moment worry about my son's eating? Nope, and I suspect that is a whole other post entirely). It was a brief and passing moment, thankfully, but it happened and I'm left trying to figure out how to deal with it. Let me say right now, I know that L is a happy, healthy little girl. Once a tiny and malnourished baby (only 8 lbs at 5mos), L is an incredibly active 4 year-old. I know this. I also recall, before parenthood, talking with my husband and stating firmly that I would never allow my eating issues to ever come close to my kids. They were my issues, after all. But it didn't work out that way, no siree.

Once again, the universe has put me in my place. Here I was, thinking I had this thing licked. I was training for a marathon, reveling in the fact that I was actually having a happy and productive relationship with food. At 35, feeling pretty darn content with my body. Hell, even liking the way I looked more often than not. I may not have had a relapse, but I've had my eyes opened. As with almost everything related to motherhood, there is some serious work to be done. I know it's impossible to protect my girl from the barrage media images, all telling us that we aren't tall enough, thin enough, pretty enough, have clear enough skin, tight enough jeans, long enough hair, a flat enough tummy, perky enough tush...etc. My worst fear is that, however unconsciously, I'll be contributing to the barrage that's aimed right at my little girl.

Heigh ho, it's back to work I go.