A Clearing

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So I’ve been clearing out all the old stuff from my storage unit.  Finding so many reminders of all the plans I once had.

The high-heeled boots I bought senior year of high school, right before the Halloween dance.  My friends and I were all going to go as “sexy cops.”  (I know).

My running “spikes,” as our cross-country team called our specialized lightweight racing shoes.

It’s bittersweet, to look back and remember all of the optimism I had towards my goals– goals I would never reach.  Especially when I can recognize that some of those goals were pretty unhealthy.

Why did I need to wear high-heels?  They were only making things worse, as I was developing compartment syndrome.

Why did I need to run?  I truly loved it… but at the same time, I wasn’t truly listening to my body, and ran it into the ground.

So much pressure, to be thin, to be pretty.

So now I’m clearing out my storage unit, and there are just so many clothes.  So many clothes, in just about every size.

My size 2 clothes– the last clothes I bought before my health issues spun out of control and a medication forced me to gain weight.  At the time I thought it was horrible, but now I can see it was a blessing in a disguise.  It took something overpowering, and dramatic, to truly break me out of that way of thinking.

Chronic pain finally pushed the obsession with being thin out of my head.  There was no room for anything else; there was only survival, from one minute to the next.  I’m not sure if anything else could have done that– not without it taking years.

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But I’ve held on to my old clothes all this time.  I loved them, because they were my way of telling the world, at 16, that I was an adult.  (An adult that wanted to dress just like Buffy!).

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My outfits, at the time, felt like works of art.  Handbags, sweaters, dresses– everything perfect.  My mom had picked out all of my clothes for me as a kid, and in the cutthroat world of high school girlhood, it took me a while to define my style.

Once I did, my clothes became my way of making a statement.  I discovered that the better I looked, the more power I had in the social world of high school.   If I looked perfect, it was harder for other girls to make fun of me.  My clothes became my armor.

When I gained weight at first (right after high school ended), I held on to all my old things because I thought I’d eventually be a size 2 again.  Then, once I realized I never actually wanted to be a size 2 again, I continued to keep them simply because it felt strange to part with them.

They’d helped me to define myself as an adult.  At one point in time, they’d protected me.

And they’d been waiting for me for so long, like a lost bookend, marking where I could find the life I’d been waiting to come back to when things finally got better.

I wasn’t ready, until now, to let them go.

But I don’t need or want that life anymore.  I no longer feel like I need to wear high heels in order to be a true girl.  I don’t want to put on eyeliner every morning like it’s war paint.

And I don’t need to weigh 115 pounds, or to be able to see the outline of my hip bones perfectly, in order to be attractive.

I just want to be me.

Inner Limits

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I’ve realized something about myself recently– something that has implications for my ability to heal. I’m sharing it with you all, in case it can help spark a similar realization for anyone else out there.

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As many of you know, when I was in high school I had an eating disorder. I was very rigid; every day I ate a specific number of calories, and every day I burned a specific number of calories. If I wanted to eat more than my designated limit, I had to exercise even more.

Through obsessive calorie counting, and running an average of 5 miles a day throughout most of high school, I managed to keep my weight a good 10-20 pounds below my body’s natural set-point.

Sometimes, now, I forget what a big deal that really was. After all, it was something that was ultimately within my control, unlike the years of inexplicable chronic pain that came afterwards.

However, it recently dawned on me that my eating disorder past was affecting me more than I’d realized, in unconscious ways.

Right now I’m dealing with the very complicated and frustrating process of trying to stabilize my hypermobile SI joints.

I was finishing my exercises the other day, and after a good 2.5 hours of going to the gym, using the pool and then coming home and doing even more exercises– and then stretching– I was feeling exasperated. Why, after all of this time, am I not better?

Fuck it, I thought. Why don’t I just keep going? Sure, I just spent two and a half hours exercising, but there’s more I could do. I could do more exercises. I could do more stretches. I could get on my computer, and research more.

Then it hit me. A tiny voice, from 16-year-old Christy, telling me I was afraid to do more. I didn’t want to invest too much; didn’t want to give myself over completely to anything that involved fixing or changing my body. Because that’s what I did with my eating disorder. It was an around-the-clock process to keep my weight that low, and I ended up losing all other perspective.

Now I had regained perspective, but unconsciously, I was terrified of losing it again. In fact, I was keeping my fist tightly clenched around it, restricting the time I spent trying to fix my physical problems in a way that wasn’t all that different from the way I had once restricted my calories. In both cases, I was using an artificial number to place external limits on something that scared me.

Of course, as soon as I realized this, I was automatically able to write it off as a fear that wasn’t worth holding on to. 31-year-old Christy knows that just because she spends more time trying to fix her SI joints, it doesn’t mean she is going to go back to a rigid way of thinking and denying her body what it needs. If anything, it means the opposite.

So I’m going to listen to myself. I’m not going to force myself to do anything, one way or another. If I want to only do my exercises for one day, and then stop, that’s what I’ll do. Another day, if I feel like exercising, and then doing some research, and then going to the chiropractor, that’s what I’ll do.

It’s not about the numbers; it’s about the process. It’s not about imposing limits; it’s about flow.

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I only understood myself…

A few days ago, I went for a walk around this beautiful historical estate that’s practically next to where I live now.

I’ve been making some big changes in my life recently, and some of them have been pretty difficult.  This park feels like home to me, so I went there to clear my head.

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I walked around for a little while, and then stopped to lie down on the grass.  It was so peaceful, in the warm sun.  I just wanted to take in the moment.

And then I looked up, and saw this view:

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Suddenly, it hit me.

I thought back to the days in high school, before I got compartment syndrome, when I would have been here running.

Rushing, rushing, hurrying, going as fast as I could.  A high-intensity day. Three miles, in as little time as I could.

Or maybe it would have been an endurance day, and I’d be purposely holding myself back for the first few miles, so that I could stretch my run out to six or seven.

I loved running.  I loved pushing myself, the freedom.

But you know what I wouldn’t have been doing?  Looking around me.

Looking up, specifically.

You can’t really look up when you’re running, at least not when you’re outside.  You have to look at the ground almost constantly, to make sure an awkwardly-placed tree root doesn’t leave you on crutches for the next two months.

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I loved running.  Everything about it– the thrill of pushing myself, the endorphin rush, the adventure of being outside.

But it was always a blur.   Even when I ran through my favorite places– and I knew some beautiful trails– I was never able to stop and enjoy it.   In my head, it was keep going, keep going.  You have to burn calories.  You’re going to get fat.

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I could never pause, never rest.  Even on Sundays, when my coaches made all of us promise not to run… I tried to go for walks, but I just wanted to be running.

I’d be in the middle of the most beautiful nature scenes, and all I’d be able to think about was how hungry I was.  And how fat I was going to get from not running that day, from the meager calories I’d decided to allow myself.

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Things are so different now.

I can’t do the same things with my body that I used to, but I can look up.

I can go to a beautiful place, without having to spend almost the entire time staring at the ground.  I can stop if I want to; I can pause.

Don’t get me wrong; I will always love running, and exercise in general.  I love a good endorphin buzz even more than I love coffee in the morning.

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But I exercise now because I want to; not because I’m afraid of what will happen if I take a day off.

It’s such a crazy feeling, and I don’t know if anyone who hasn’t been through it themselves can know what I mean.

I know what it’s like to have the ability to pause, because at one point I lost it.

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(Check her out, she’s an amazing writer!  http://sadeandriazabala.com/)