Love Yourself

This one is going to hurt me a lot more than it hurts you. I’ve been sitting on this one for a couple weeks (some of it longer if I’m being honest) because I was afraid to open up, be vulnerable. Scared that if I say these things out loud that somehow my world will forever change.

My 8-year old daughter came home from school one Thursday and was abnormally quiet. I hugged her, asked her if she wanted to talk about it and she shook her head no, squeezed me back and went to do her homework. As I watched her walk towards the kitchen, I noticed her shoulders were slightly slumped forward, her normally happy, sparkly green eyes were dark, sad looking. I took a deep breath, fighting every last urge to go after her and beg her to talk. Something felt very different about this and my gut was telling me to let her come to me when she was ready. I’m learning, albeit slowly, to listen to those instincts because they exist for good reason.

There are a few things you need to understand about my youngest daughter, my beautiful, not-at-all typical middle child. She wears her heart on her sleeve. She is caring, empathetic, loving. She is sensitive, nurturing. She is so full of spark, creativity and passion. She is smart. She has a memory unlike any other I’ve experienced with an 8 year old and it’s been like that since she was old enough to talk. She is courageous, brave. Strong beyond her size and years. This is the girl that will make your heart smile when all it seems to know is tears. To see her any other way was weird and totally out of character.

As I tucked her into bed that night, wishing her the sweetest of dreams, she asked me to lay with her for a while. Of course I said yes and she snuggled right into me as I ran my fingers through her hair. I laid there with her in silence and as she fell asleep, I watched a tear escape her eye and run down cheek. I stayed with her for quite a while, trying to figure out what was bothering my little beauty.

The next morning was the same as other mornings. I got up, journaled, read and sent a few emails before getting myself ready for the day. While brushing my teeth, I wandered down the hall to wake up all my babes. She rubbed her eyes and, with a smile, said, “Good morning mommy!” I smiled, replied and told her it was time to get ready for school. A few minutes later, we all met in the kitchen for breakfast. Cereal for the youngest and the oldest, protein shake and fruit for me and my girl decided on strawberries and toast. When finished they all went to brush their teeth. Pretty straight forward morning around here. I do her hair every morning still, although I know the day will soon come when she wants to do it all by herself. I brush it slowly, making sure all the knots are gone and then I gather it up and put it in today’s style choice, a mid-height ponytail. As I twist the elastic around for the last time, her soft voice quietly asks me, “Mommy, do you think I’m fat?” I felt like someone had sucker punched me. I calmly finished her hair, set down the brush and sat down on the floor, tugging her arm so she’d join me.

I weigh my options with how to respond, knowing I have a very short window in which to do so. As I look at her, I see how hurt she is, how sad her eyes are. So instead of answering the question, I say, “That’s quite the question. How do feel about it?” As she crosses her legs, she begins to look thoughtful. After a moment she replies. “I think I’m healthy. I have lots of energy. I eat good food and I have treats sometimes. I like to dance and ride my bike.” She shrugs and starts playing with her toes.

I was 13 when my body image went sideways. Although I can’t recall exactly how it all began, I began watching what I was eating, counting calories and exercising. A lot. The desire to be thin coupled with the value our world put on looking a certain way was enough to make anyone feel insecure. I was average build, average weight. I played soccer, volleyball, I ran. I was athletic. I had a great group of friends. In the beginning, it was all easy to hide.

When people started asking questions about how much I was eating, I would eat enough to make them happy then excuse myself. I’d head to the bathroom, turn on the water in the sink or shower and force myself to throw up, emptying my stomach of all its contents and then some. Then I’d go running, just to make sure everything was used up. After a while, I started to develop bad headaches caused by the pressure increase in my head when I was forcing myself to throw up. Some days they were so bad, it was painful to even get out of bed. As I lay there crying in the dark that night long ago, I figured there had to be a better way.

That’s the thing about obsessions. You eat (well perhaps not in this case)), sleep, breathe it. It becomes your life and your everything. It’s like a tiny, brilliant little being has taken up residence between your ears. Eating disorders are, in some cases, about about a need to control, which is ironic because you’re no longer running the show. ‘It’ is. It decides how to avoid mealtime, the exercise routine, the excuses you make to be anywhere but around people. It isolates you from everything. It becomes your new everything. It twists your mind into thinking that the people that love you actually hate you and are trying to bend you to their will. That they are trying to control you. I became so angry at the world and everyone in it that it was just easier to shut myself away.

When my parents finally figured out what was going on the first time, I was about 80ish pounds. I look back at pictures from that time (there aren’t many that exist because I hated the camera back then and any that did get taken were promptly destroyed by me) and it hurts me to see my sad eyes, slumped shoulders and teeny tiny frame. It got me 7 months of in-and-out hospital care. This meant I lived in a hospital for 5 days a week and at home for 2 while being heavily medicated. I got out when my weight hit 90 pounds. In reality, I was still about 80ish pounds, but I used ankle and wrist weights and bulkier clothing when I was being weighed.

No photo evidence exists from what most believe to be my second kick at it. Truth is there never was and will never be a second time. I fooled people into thinking all was well and I was good to go. That I had it all under control. When I was hospitalized a second time, this time out of province, my admission weight was 62 pounds.

They say I was one of the lucky ones. I say bullshit. Luck had nothing to do with it. Beating out that part of this mental-turned-physical illness took strength, determination and courage. I was afraid to die because I wasn’t done living yet. I hadn’t made my mark on the world yet. I hadn’t done ANYTHING yet and I wanted more time. This is just the Coles Notes version of my battle, super high level. Someday I’ll share the full unrated version because there is so much more that needs to be told. If my story could help just 1 person from living this lifelong hell, then it will all be worth it. It will be hard to write and even harder to read.

I shake my head a little to bring me back to the present moment, afraid to say the wrong thing. I mean, this had to be a bad dream. There’s no way this was actually happening. To MY daughter. I take a deep breath and begin. “Sweetheart, here’s what I know for sure. There are always going to be people who have nothing nice to say. Every single person you meet will have an opinion about something. But just because they share that opinion doesn’t make it right or nice. I think you are exactly as you are supposed to be. I think you are strong, kind and smart and it doesn’t matter to me what anyone else has to say about you. That is their opinion and I don’t have to let it change the way I think or feel and you don’t have to let it change how you think or feel either. Does that make sense?” She nods, a smile lighting up her face and eyes. “Are you going to let their opinion change how you feel?” She shakes her head and says, “No chance mom. There will always be haters and haters are gonna hate.” She winks at me, gets to her feet and scampers off to pack her bag for school.

So many tears spill out of my eyes and I run to the bathroom so she doesn’t see. As I sit on the floor and sob, I wonder how many times this conversation is going to happen in the coming years. My experience with Anorexia leaves me with knowledge of things I’d rather forget, but am unable to. I wonder if I am strong enough to teach them the healthy side of life without falling back into terrible habits. For just a moment I can almost hear a giggle somewhere in my mind. I shut that down with a great big HELL NO.

I found out a few days later that the person who said those words to her was a friend. She won’t tell me which one, but I can understand why she won’t. It makes me sad that someone she’s close to would say something so hurtful. She assures me it’s ok and I believe her. I know the power my littlest girl possesses and someday, this won’t even be a memory. She has moved on and now I have to too.

I know for a fact that this won’t be the last time I have this conversation with one of my kids. We’re entering into the tricky years. I do know that if she was willing to talk about it now that she will trust me enough in the future. Someday when they’re old enough to comprehend what I went through, I will share it with them. I will show them that love always wins, especially when you are brave enough to love yourself.