Abandonar

If you are reading this and don't happen to live under a rock, then you know that I've been struggling for a long time now with an eating disorder. I've been in a recovery of sorts, led on by a book called Intuitive Eating. I recommend it. It saved my life. Unfortunately, books can only point you in the right direction. I have to be the one to walk the steps, to put in the work, to wage the mental wars, yadda yadda.

The part of the process that I'm in at the moment encourages you to eat. To eat whatever. To make it a goal to eat when you're hungry, and to notice when you feel full. To not give a !@#$ if you do happen to over-eat, or binge-eat, or whatever-eat. I am too hot and grouchy to elaborate any further, but if you're interested then message me or e-mail me at ad1284@txstate.edu and I will attempt to be less grouchy and hot at that time.

ANYWAY, as I'm chugging along this process I've noticed that hot on it's heels would be that beautiful little tidbit that I am so fond of, weight gain. It is a pain in the ass. Almost literally. No, definitely literally, because when I try to put on my old jeans it fully and completely hurts my ass. And hips. And my general spare-tire area. Boys look at me less often (the horror!), I feel like a cow considerably more often...it's uncomfortable.

However.

This summer has been quite the teacher. I have come to realize that if I put enough hard work and dedication into my studies, that I can make A's in my science classes. I'd gone through my entire life assuming that I just didn't have what it took to be a doctor. This summer has shown me that I can do anything. Literally. When your mother pats you on the back and tells you that you can do anything, they are just words. I can show you, I can prove to you that I can do anything. I'm fucking hungry for success and I am just starting to see how capable I am at filling that emptiness.

There are always road blocks, you'll notice, and my weight will probably always be mine. It keeps me from doing a lot of things that I'd like to do. But I read this little bit from my book the other day, and it did weird things to me.



"Why do you read so much?"

Tyrion looked up at the sound of the voice. Jon Snow was standing a few feet away, regarding him curiously. He closed the book on a finger and said, "Look at me and tell me what you see."

The boy looked at him suspiciously. "Is this some kind of trick? I see you, Tyrion Lannister."

Tyrion sighed. "You are remarkably polite for a bastard, Snow. What you see is a dwarf. You are what, twelve?"

"Fourteen," the boy said.

"Fourteen, and you're taller than I will ever be. My legs are short and twisted, and I walk with difficulty. I require a special saddle to keep from falling off my horse. My arms are strong enough, but again, too short. I will never make a swordsman. Had I been born a peasant, they might have left me out to die, or sold me to some slaver's grotesquerie. Alas, I was born a nobleman, and bigger things are expected of me. I must do my part to honor my house. Yet how? Well, my legs may be too small for my body, but my head is too large, although I prefer to think it is just large enough for my mind. I have a realistic grasp of my own strengths and weaknesses. My mind is my weapon."





I'm sure no one got as much out of that as I did, but it really did teach me something. It gave me a glimpse of the person that I could be: realistic. I have never been realistic. If I'm going for beauty, then I will be the most beautiful. If I'm going for skinny, then I will be the skinniest. I never seemed to notice that when you set your sights so far, when you are so hard on yourself, you fail every time. My body is what it is. I have wide hips. Realistic. I hate starving. Realistic. I do not, and will not ever have a Cameron Diaz jawline. Realistic. My body type will never be modelesque, no matter how brutally I starve it and flog it and try to shape it with the force of my will. Realistic.

Those are some hard facts to live with, if you're someone like me. And so I would not live with them. I would just interpret my failure as a reason to push harder, to work out longer, to eat less. And each time I failed, each time my poor hungry body finally did eat, I was wretched. And I would punish myself by cutting, by eating until I was sick, by vomitting...and as I would be leaning over a toilet bowl with my fingers down my throat I'd promise myself that I'd do better next time, that I'd succeed next time, that I wouldn't be bad next time. And I would have done this until I was dead. Not emotionally dead, but DEAD. Until I killed myself from the shame and agony of failure.

The force that drove me was the need to win, the need to biologically be the most desirable woman and to have that verified by the eyes of the men around me. That's the point of life, isn't it? From an atheistic point of view, anyway. The object of the game is to find the most biologically pleasing mate that you can find, and then you make babies. And then those babies have a greater chance at survival and further reproduction. You've all taken basic biology classes, you know the drill. I was captivated by this idea.

But let me tell you something now: I quit.

That game meant everything to me, and it means everything to the thousands of collegiate knuckleheads that you are surrounded by on a daily basis. It is the reason for wearing short skirts, muscle tees, makeup, for getting haircuts and breast lifts and rhinoplasty. Oh come on, Blogger..."rhinoplasty" is totally a word. Anyway, the game means everything to everyone. It's why we wake up. It is sometimes the only reason why we wake up and go to our 8 a.m. College Algebra class (Heyyy hottie in the 5th row, yeah I see you!).

You know what you look like when you're at home by yourself without the slightest chance of seeing anyone. Guess what you would look like if you never played the game? Bingo.

But I am telling you now that I have to stop. The never ending hunt for approval, for a hot sexy mate, it has to end here. I took it so far that it almost ended my life, and now I am at a point where I have to choose to either find my worth elsewhere or continue down the path that leads to the end of me.

I am brilliant at balancing chemical equations. Realistic. I got a 98.75 on my cumulative Microbiology final and will do so again on my Chemistry final. Realistic. I am compassionate and able-bodied and will from now on be donating my time and my body to the people who need it more than I do. I'll quit disrespecting my body by putting it to work against me, by forcing it to run and sweat and peddle faster all the time. You know who could use my body more than I can? The sweet little thangs in the animal shelter. And I bet the hospital staff could use some help doing some things. And sharing my own struggles has already helped let some of you know that you're not alone. My point is, I've had all of this time using my body and look where I got myself. It's time to let someone else use it and we'll see what I can really do.