Episode 7: Happy Birthday to My Elbow

In eating disorder recovery programs, arguably the most important therapy sessions happened precisely at the conclusion of each meal. While still digesting, we moved away from the dining table to partake in the very aptly named Postmeal.

In the movies, when someone goes off heroin it's harrowing to watch. During those initial hours of withdrawal, the actor vomits, hallucinates, maybe even has seizures. Having never had an opioid addiction, I can only imagine that this portrayal is real. That being said, eating disorders are closely related to, and sometimes even considered a type of, addiction. In this sense, I was addicted to not eating.

While certainly not as debilitating as heroin withdrawal, I went through my own brand of withdrawal at least three times a day as I abstained from my addiction for mealtimes. Though not accompanied by the Delirium tremens, Postmeal took place when we patients were the most vulnerable, the most anxious, and the most emotional. As a matter of fact, the first time I cried was during a postmeal session. I had just eaten a cookie. That’s, um, well, actually the end of that story.

During these sessions we took a round robin approach; each patient had to share her feelings or reflect on her experience during the meal. “I feel disgusting, I feel fat, I hate my body.” These sentiments were commonplace. In treatment I learned that, actually, you can’t feel fat. Sure, you can be overweight and experience sensations in relation to that, but in this sense the term feel implies an emotion, and fat is simply not an emotion. Part of recovery is accepting that there is some other emotion being felt; that “fat” is but a mask the emotion has donned to distract you.

But let’s talk about hating one’s own body. Again, this is a complicated, brain-designed ruse, invented by the eating disorder to distract the victim from a grim truth: you despise your self. In reality, I have no reason to hate my body. My body totally works, and that’s pretty awesome. I do have some reasons to be dissatisfied with my own self, as I did while suffering through my eating disorder. These faults were, and are, difficult to confront and even more challenging to correct. Loathing my own flesh was, and is, easy. As an added bonus it’s socially acceptable, and maybe even expected, for women to hate their own bodies.

As an anorexic person, I maintained a long list of things I hated about by body. I don’t think it’s a great idea for me to share this list with you. It involves very specific number-of-bones-that -should-stick-out or bone-to-flesh-ratios-that-must-be-met or sizes-of-clothing-that-must-be-baggy that are unrealistic and disturbing, and could be potentially triggering. Let’s just stick with what we already know: I hated my wrists for being thick and un-feminine.

An important part of treatment was learning how to not hate my body. Obviously, the real goal was for me to not hate my own self. Again, eating disorders are mental illnesses with many underlying causes. Like any disease, you sometimes have to treat the symptoms AND the cause. Take kidney stones for instance. I recently passed my first kidney stones. The real cure was this: I peed out some tiny mineral rocks. However, while those torturous calcium nuggets were in transit, pushing their way through my kidneys and my urinary tract, I was given symptomatic relief from abdominal spasms and projectile vomiting via intravenous anti-inflammatory and anti-nausea medications.

To treat my symptom of self-inflicted, continuous body shaming, my therapist gave me yet another awesome assignment. This time, I had to write a birthday card to a specific part of my body. The card was to explain why that body part was so amazing and why I loved it. Plus, I had to thank this anatomical element for all it had done for me. Looking back, it seems like this should have been called a thank you card, and I wonder if I’m actually misremembering it. Oh well!

Upon receiving this assignment, I sat with a blank card in my hands while contemplating which part of me was worthy of praise in any amount. Eventually, I wrote to my elbow. As I started writing, I realized I had a lot to say to my elbow. Without elbow, I wouldn’t be able to bend my left arm to bring my fingers to the violin, nor would I be able to flex the right one and cause the bow to move; without that there would be no sound or melodies from my instrument at all.

Truth be told, I owed my elbow not only a thank-you but an apology. When I lost weight, I also experienced muscle loss. Muscles and tendons run a delicate balance for a violinist, and as my muscle tone decreased the tendons in my left elbow and forearm started to over-extend and strain, causing a bad bought of tendinitis which, in turn, forced me to quit playing altogether for a few weeks. So there you have it; my eating disorder had robbed me of my ability to play the violin.

I really liked writing a birthday card to my elbow, so I went on to the other parts of my body...even my wrists. I thanked my legs for facilitating the long walks I took with my dad, my brain for allowing me to read books, my ovaries for their potential to create new life (no mom, calm down, I’m still not having kids) and….my wrists for the variety of vibrato they can produce on my violin.

This exercise truly made me value my body parts, and on my bad days I would revisit the birthday (thank you?) notes.

And with that, I coined my favorite mantra, one which pushed me through my most body-shaming-full of moments:

The body that functions

Is closer to perfection

Than one which is slowly shutting down.