In the past week life has gotten in the way of my blog. Between the end of a marking period at school, an unexpected (but happy) last minute trip out of town for family stuff, and the rapidly approaching deadline of a writing project I’m working on, I have had little time to think about food, let alone write about it.
This morning, when I looked back at my previous entries, I was touched by the number of people who responded to my October 29th posting about food fear. Thank you to all who took the time to voice their support and encouragement, and thanks especially to those who spoke up to say they share some of my feelings about food, fat, and fear.
The number of responses suggests to me that I touched on something important, something people want to talk more about, and so I want to respond to a theme that ran through the comments.
A number of people replied that fear of food wasn’t really the issue. They’re right. I think I suggested as much as that entry. Fear of food is a symptom of my fear of becoming fat. My fear of gaining weight is a symptom of my fear that I am not and never will be good enough, that I will never be worthy of love because I am in some irreparable way, flawed. Nonetheless, my fear of food and my fear of becoming fat are real, if irrational. While to really heal myself I must address the underlying issue, while I work through that (and I have been for the past ten years, in and out of therapy, reading self help books, and attending retreats), I can also work on the symptoms.
One respondent suggested that perhaps body image was the real problem. For me, body image is a symptom, much as fear of food is a symptom. Right now, at thirty-years-old, I am proud of my body. I have an hour glass figure and I know how to dress to look like a million bucks. Do I, at times, feel self conscious? At times, do I want to change things about my body? Yes. Who doesn’t?
But back when I was a teenager, when the patterns of thought and behavior that led me to where I am now were first forming, body issue was my biggest problem. At fifteen years old, I wore a size 34 DD bra. I used to joke with my friends that I was fifteen in the body of a thirty year old. I guess the joke’s on me because, I am about the same size now that I was then, and at thirty, I’m pleased with this body. I grew into it.
I grew into my body, and I grew out of a lot of false notions I had about adult women’s bodies. I realized that I had been looking at the world through a child’s limited perspective and made assumptions based on the experiences of my mom and her friends that were untrue: having children means giving up your body, to stay fit you have to starve yourself and exercise like crazy, if you aren’t thin, you aren’t good enough.
Still, even with my adult understanding, those patterns of thought and behavior are hard to overcome. That’s where I am now.
Recently, I had one of those thoughts that changed my whole perspective. The thought was so simple I’m embarrassed it hadn’t hit me sooner. The thought was simply, I am fine right now. Whenever I feel myself caught up in patterns of negative thinking that lead me to the fridge, I stop, I put my hands on my belly, and I take a few deep breaths, reminding myself that right now, in this moment, I am just as I should be. Then I ask myself what I want to do. Usually, what I want to do has nothing to do with food.
What's this?