DAY 9

Yesterday I had a conversation with a reader of my blog that upset me greatly. I contemplated not writing about it, not wanting to single them out or make them feel uncomfortable, but I decided that it made ME so uncomfortable that I had to talk about it. It went a little something like this.

Reader: Your last blog post really upset me. I can’t even begin to tell you how much it upset me.

Me: I’m sorry (thinking my binging/purging discussion and clearly disordered eating might be triggering). Maybe you shouldn’t read it anymore?

Reader: I just think you need to be tougher on yourself. The way you told yourself to be nicer and to stop listening to that voice…I think you need to be tougher.

Me: (internally: What?) Uhh…I don’t think I should be listening to that voice. It’s incredibly mean. And it makes me want to hurt myself in an unhealthy way.

Reader: There’s a fine line between being mean and being tough. 

Me: Okay, well…I’m heading to a new hike now, so…

Reader: You should be careful about doing so much strenuous exercise too. Doesn’t it make you hungrier?

Me: Yes. 

Reader: There’s no need to work out that much.

Me: I just don’t think working out four times a week for an hour is that strenuous. It’s pretty average. 

Reader: Okay.

Me: Okay.

Here’s the thing, though. Thinking back on this, I KNOW that this person did not mean to upset me. They meant to be encouraging of my journey and were upset about my very bad day. They were worried. They’re seeing everything from my eyes from the first time, and that can be disturbing. I know; I’m living it. But just as they said there’s a fine line between being mean and being tough…there’s also a fine line between being encouraging and shaming. And I left this conversation feeling humiliated and shamed. Should I stop writing everything that wasn’t the perfect picture of health? Should I be ashamed of my mistakes on my journey? It seemed like they thought I should. 

Luckily, I was meeting a friend for a new (more difficult) hike in Malibu - Temescal Canyon, so I was able to put all my frustration towards my workout. With each ascending step, I pushed through, wanting to be “tougher” on myself. But I couldn’t help but keep coming back to that conversation. I knew I had had a bad day, but how was I not being tough on myself? Just because I’d told my abusive inner voice to shut the fuck up, didn’t mean I wasn’t tough on myself. In fact, it meant the opposite. In a week of seven days, I had worked out the four times I’d promised I would. I had made healthy food choices, swapping my carb heavy meals for ones focused on lean proteins and veggies. I’d made a decision to have at least one cup of vegetables with lunch and dinner and stuck to it. Prior to this renewed effort in health, I would have seen that day as a failure and kept failing. Fail once, may as well give into that voice that tells me I’m just meant to be fat and ugly and keep on my destructive ways. But I didn’t. I went to bed and woke up the next day, and started again. I ate my veggies and chicken, I went for a long walk around the block, and I made a plan to try an even more difficult hike in Malibu with one of my friends. I didn’t give up.

Two miles and an hour and a half of sweating later, we made it to the top of Temescal Ridge (check out this view). 

The endorphins rushed through me as I took in the wide seascape in front of me. We had climbed incredibly high (I should look up the altitude just to see exactly how high, but I haven’t yet). I could see from the middle of the Pacific Ocean all the way to downtown and back. I should have been proud of myself, but I wasn’t. I should have smiled, but I didn’t. Instead, after snapping a few foggy pictures, I headed back down to the car. Even the amazingly large number of calories burner on my heart rate monitor didn’t make me feel better (though today I feel WAY better about it — look how impressive I am, hah!. 

All my doubts rushed back into my head as I drove home. Did my reader think I was a complete failure too? I struggled with that thought, letting it swish around my brain as I made my post-hike brunch (3 egg whites, 3 links of jalapeño chicken sausage, and 2 cups of chopped spinach). It was large and satisfying, but as I continued with my day, I felt it sit there in my stomach. Was my exercise making me eat too much? Was there something wrong with being hungry? My disordered brain went into overdrive, and the mean voice returned in full force. FAILURE, it shouted. WHY DID YOU JUST EAT ALL THAT? it lamented (despite the fact that I’d burned my entire daily intake’s worth of calories merely hours before and wasn’t even close to reaching it). NO MORE FOOD TODAY FOR YOU, FATTY. EATING IS BAD. 

After my shower I crawled into bed under the guise of packing for my trip the next day and cuddled with my puppy. I spiraled and spaced out, not even bothering to turn on the TV. My boyfriend immediately knew something was wrong. But instead of calling me out on it and making me clam up even more (I can’t even count the amount of times he’s heard “I’m fine” when I’m clearly not fine), he gave me a kiss and said, “We’re doing something fun tonight. It’s your last night here for almost three weeks, and I want to have fun with my girlfriend. What do you want to do?” I said I didn’t know about five times before he suggested a local happy hour. I told him I didn’t want to eat gross bar food. It was too unhealthy. We were broke anyway. We could just hang out at home. But he insisted. We wouldn’t have to eat if I didn’t want to. He had salmon filets defrosting for when we got back. He just wanted a beer or two and to spend some time with me. I knew his ulterior motive - he was worried and wanted to get me out of bed, so I appeased him. And I’m glad I did. 

Getting out with him enabled me to take a step back and look at the conversation objectively. Eating is not bad. In fact, I need to eat in order to live. It’s fuel that enables my body to function properly. Last time I lost a significant amount of weight (right after college graduation), I stopped eating. My weekly grocery list consisted of box of ricearoni and two bags of mushrooms. I consumed only 500 calories a day (the recommended intake for a sedentary female is 1800). When I was hungry — which stopped happening after a while, I’d drink a big cup of tea. The weight fell off me. I received praise for my new body and was applauded for my hard work (I told people I was eating better). Little did they know my hair was breaking off, I couldn’t sleep for more than three hours at a time, and I began lying to everyone. No one questioned me because they were just so PROUD of me for looking good. Sadly, this has become my default setting. But I am trying to learn otherwise.

At happy hour I had a beer and we split a plate of chicken tacos - a corn tortilla with grilled chicken topped with pickled onions, cabbage, avocado, and hot sauce (thank you LA for having a Mexican restaurant with healthy options). He told me I looked beautiful and he was going to miss me, and I finally came out of my spiral. The thing is, I know I’m going to continue worrying people. They’re not going to agree with my choices, and my journey isn’t going to be a smooth journey. But I’m not going to hide what’s happening. This complete transparency thing has been the most freeing aspect of my journey so far. In the health and fitness community there’s a motivational phrase - fall down seven times, get back up eight. And that’s what I’m going to do. I can’t take back my failures, and despite my best efforts, there will be more. But I refuse to be ashamed of them. Because I’m strong, and I will get back up again. Shame is not welcome here. 

As always, thank you to those who have been supportive and engaged in conversations with me. Despite this epic ranty-mcrant, I really do appreciate it. Your worry and compassion shows me a love and community I didn’t know I had. So, let’s keep doing this.