“Why don’t you want to get well?”
Posed to me by a friend with whom I’d just shared my recent bingeing, the question gave me pause.
Obviously there was something going on … after fifteen years of recovery, I’d begun compulsively eating again in a move that was less tiptoe into a murky pond than nose-dive into shark-invested waters.
I gave my (rather shaming) friend the answer I provide to every question of which I do not know the answer: “Huh. Good question. I’ll take that into my mediation.” (Full disclosure: I’m horrible at meditating.)
After some serious introspection, I realized that I actually do want to get well … I’m just afraid to.
“Fat Girl” Series
The answer to the question is too long for one posting, so I’m going to break it up into a series, called”Fat Girl.”
I’m going to explore how I went from a super-lean, married workout freak living in a three-bedroom house with a dishwasher, to a single, can-barely-do-a-YouTube-workout, muumuu-wearing single gal washing dishes (badly) in the stained sink of a crappy apartment.
Take No Offense
No need to get all bunched up about the name … “Fat Girl” reflects not the pounds on my body, but the state of my mind. It’s an attitude I’ve carried no matter what the scale reads, whether that’s 120 or 230 pounds and trust me, I’ve weighed both.
“Fat Girl” comes from a deep and primal place; it’s the feeling that I am unlovable, inherently flawed, and do not deserve to exist.
“Fat Girl” is the crippling mental and emotional state that has followed me from growing up as the only child of a single mother, to the wife of an older man prominent in his community, to my current state of single bad dishwashing.
So thank you, oh nosy, condescending friend for asking me the question that I suspect will ultimately provide me with levels of freedom such as I have not known. I’ll get back to you in a few days.
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