Daily Diatribes: Love Always Wins

Working as a canvasser (or more impressively: a Field Manager) for Amnesty International has introduced me to a world that is not necessarily new, but a more humble one. It is not necessarily new because the things I deal with while knocking on the doors of Los Angeles to talk about Refugees are things I dealt with on a regular basis since the age of 13: fear and rejection. However, this time the fear and rejection no longer reside only in my head, but in front of my face.

On the good days post-anorexia, I wake up feeling refreshed, ready to take on the day. I put clothes on top of my meat-sack, actively avoid looking down at it or in the mirror, in fear of total shock of what I might see, and scurry along, eating whatever my little heart desires. On the bad days post-anorexia, I wake up in horror of what I own; these fleshy thighs, my stretch-marked arms, and hips wider than the measurement of what my entire body’s girth used to be. I check the mirror to see if my darkest dreams actually came true: yes, indeed they did. In response, I actively restrict everything I ingest until I can’t take the self-sabotage any longer, and splurge on what I truly want. I am not only a “normal” size now, but a “thicker” size. “Thicker” than I ever used to be, in fact. I am now, indeed, eating my own words. I am now living out what I preached for so long: “love yourself no matter what size … eat whatever your precious heart desires … fuck the insidious diet culture that robs you of your enjoyment of food and what mannequins say you should look like in that outfit… fend off the crave for the ‘male gaze,’ it is not everything your broken little girl heart ever wanted.”

But guess what? Practicing what you preach is petrifying.

Loving myself despite what my so-called meat-sack appears to be is an art form of an Olympic grade. Digging to the depths of my soul in order to live my life outside of my head requires ignoring the shouts from my demons, hitting me with a metaphorical hammer, begging to be heard:

“YOU NEVER USED TO BE THIS WAY. THIS IS WHAT YOU ACTIVELY AVOIDED LOOKING LIKE FOR YEARS. WHAT HAPPENED?!”

“WOAH GIRL, YOU’RE TAKING UP WAYYY TOO MUCH SPACE. NO ONE IS GOING TO TAKE YOU SERIOUSLY AFTER YOU TAKE OUT THE ENTIRE 101 FREEWAY WITH THOSE HIPS. FIX THIS. NOW.”

“YOU GLUTTONNESS PIG. I GUESS DAD WAS RIGHT – YOU ARE A BASEKETCASE AND DESERVE TO DIE ALONE AND UNLOVED. IF YOUR STOMACH SPILLS OVER YOUR PANTS ONE MORE INCH YOU WILL BE THWARTED FROM EXISTENCE AND JAMES WILL NEVER LOVE YOU AGAIN.”

Ah, and the most ear-piercingly loud shriek of them all:

“WHAT THE FUCK IS UP WITH THESE STRETCH-MARKED ARMS?! EVERYONE IN THE VALLEY CAN SEE YOUR SELF-INDULGENCE AND THAT IS NOT OKAY, THEY ARE ONLY SUPPOSED TO SEE YOU WORKING HARD TO DEPRIVE YOURSELF BECAUSE THAT IS WHAT’S IMPRESSIVE. SELF-INDULGENCE IS NEVER IMPRESSIVE, NO ONE WANTS TO SEE THAT. GO HIDE AWAY IN A DEEP DARK HOLE SO YOU CAN MELT INTO THE FLESH PUDDLE THAT IS YOUR GOURMANDIZER BODY.”

The world of fear encourages me to find false evidence that forcibly proves to be true. And when that truth becomes the reality my brain chooses to believe, my world shatters. I writhe on the floor in pain, sobbing about the fact that the flesh I currently inhabit will never meet diet culture’s demands of “clean, fresh, lean living” nor society’s expectation that my silhouette fits that of a store mannequin. I will never feel the instant gratification of the approval from the male gaze: because it is nothing but misogyny and objectification. Never. I will never fit that mold. And sometimes that utter disappointment causes me to yell and scream, “GRAB THE SCISSORS I AM GOING TO SLICE MY STOMACH OFF. GET RID OF IT ALL. I CANNOT EXIST LIKE THIS.”

Nevertheless, when I find deep within me the wherewithal to rise above these savage demands, it proves to be more worthwhile than life itself. It proves to teach me not only the art of loving oneself, but the act of saying no to the enticingly familiar fear of living inside one’s head instead of out in the great unknown.

That is why amidst the atrocious battle between love and my eating disorder, love always wins.

Love wins when James throws himself on top of me to keep me from literally beating myself, pounding at my stomach, hoping it somehow disappears.

Love wins when I see the stretch marks I own as growth. I am growing into the woman I was meant to become this whole time.

Love wins when I knock on a person’s door to talk about the human rights of refugees, and their response is, “GET OFF MY PROPERTY,” or, “BUILD THE WALL,” or, “YOU MEAN THE ‘ILLEGALS?!’”. Or when I see a person peer through their window to see who it is and simply walk away without acknowledging my existence as a human being.

Love wins even though some people choose their fear of being scammed over being polite and acknowledging the human at their door, with human fingers and toes, with human feelings. Even though some people choose the fear of conversational uncertainty over the opportunity for an influential conversation. These people fear the vulnerability of an open mind, so they choose the comfort of the xenophobia they’ve lived in for so long, without even realizing it is hatred.

Love wins when an elderly couple from Syria welcomes me into their home to tell me of their voyage of uprooting their lives to a new homeland where they are not persecuted for the side of the world they were born on. Love wins when the eyes of this elderly couple told me of their bitter disappointment with the current state of our near-fascist country. Love wins when this elderly couple told me they were proud to leave the world to a generation of folk like me.

Love wins when I explain the mission of the I Welcome Refugee Campaign in broken Spanish to an abuelita who spoke not a lick of English, but was somehow brought to tears by conveying the pain of the children in these abusive, for-profit detention centers, with her only response being: “My family … my family…”. We embraced, wiping each other’s tears away.

Love wins when 80 doors are slammed in my face only after hearing, “Hello, my name is Emi…” and I am able to walk away amicably simply by repeating, “breathe in peace, breathe out truth.” No matter who stands behind the door.

Love wins when my 40-year-old co-worker who lived 18 months on Skid Row and got herself sober nearly gets us thrown out of Trader Joe’s for yelling throughout the store, “HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MANGO TOFU?! EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOU NEEDS THIS MANGO TOFU.”

Love wins when I look fear and rejection in the face, no matter how they manifest in my life: whether it be in the war with my Eating Disorder, or in the war of activism.

Love Always Wins.