My 23rd Womb Emancipation Day

Well, yesterday was my 23rd celebration of escaping the womb.

It wasn't as revealing as my previous birthdays have been. I think that is due to a little something called... consistency...? What's that?

Well, I guess I should start that explanation with some news: I started a full-time job at an outdoor Garden Center as a cashier. It was initially meant to be temporary, to get me through the pandemic. But here's the catch: they PAY ME to take Horticulture classes! So I'm your new ginger-flower-child-horticulturist! Hit me up if you want me to design your Water-Wise Drought-Tolerant Garden! My fee starts at $1,200 per hour. Your girl broke as a joke.

Anywho, being connected with Mother Nature has been incredibly therapeutic (yes, even if it is in the form of capitalism --> cue eye roll). My habitual thinking patterns originally had me noticing things such as: I work with 3 anorexic women, every customer who comes in is looking to ONLY eat what they plant, so you can assume that's extremely orthorexic, rich white patrons are the majority of who we service, and we are expected to know every syllable in the Latin name of a Pansy.... and if you don't? Prepare to get your ass chewed out by some snob residing in the Palisades. It took my brain a while to cope. How did I cope, might you ask?

Well, my silly little eating disorder brain was fixated on feeling LESS, because that meant less stress... right? So, I started skipping lunch. Fine. Just ate a big dinner once I got home.

But my shifts started at 8 am... so that was convenient to start skipping breakfast as well.

Then, I got hunger pangs at 2 am every single night.

So you bet your ass my hungry body thrusted me out of bed and straight into the refrigerator.

Then came the morning bloat.

And the afternoon snaps at my coworkers due to my HANGRYNESS.

The old survival mechanisms were just that: old.

I didn't remember anything I learned throughout the day. Just counting down the hours until I could eat. I wasn't a present human; just a sack of meat with 3 main thought patterns:

Morning - Guilt

Afternoon - Anger

Evening - Gluttony

This wasn't me.

And it didn't take some month-long retreat or hours of therapy to get me to realize it. I know too much now. I know how to rectify the situation; it's just a matter of DOING IT.

So, I did. About 4 weeks ago, I woke up bloated, as usual, and pushed through a normal breakfast. Then, a regular lunch, leading to a lighter dinner. The next day, I wanted a bigger lunch (so I allowed myself to), and a satisfying dinner. About a week in, I woke up hungry at 2 am again. No judgement: just food, then sleep. Then back to normalcy the next day. All creeping thoughts of guilt were cut off when they budded, I didn't let them trail.

The result? I stayed late instead of scurrying home to stuff my face. I made jokes with my boss. I walked out with my coworkers like a Team of Flower Children fighting through the Horticulture Wilderness. I felt a sense of pride in my work. I remembered what I learned that day. I woke up excited to do it again the next day.

Because, finally, there is more to life than my stomach size.

This doesn't mean I no longer struggle. In fact, I do some weird shit with Prozac to help me out on my off-days. Since the entire pill numbs me entirely and I feel like a robotic version of myself with no mental stimulation, I open up the gelatin capsule and pour out a little bit of one-half. I know, it sounds insane... but it helps.

I am also running to help with anxiety.... nearing a little over an hour about 5 days a week. And using some dinky hand weights to feel strong. But I only do it to FEEL myself again. I want to groove to the beat of my headphones and feel the wind in my hair. But this comes with a caveat: the second it becomes about the reflection in the mirror, I will take a break, regroup, and refocus.

I can actually trust myself to do this shit now. Isn't that whack?

The best part of it all? I have an unconditionally loving partner by my side each and every step of the way. James is one-of-a-kind. I don't know if it's the sound effects he makes to fill-in words he can't think of at the moment, or his demand to kiss me each time I fart, or his singing on the toilet... But every day that passes I fall deeper and deeper in love with him.

There was even a time, recently, where I had become uncomfortable with my continuing weight-gain. I demanded to know from him which body he preferred: my "Salt Lake City body" (where I was still too thin) or my "California body" (where I reached a state of normalcy, and pushed the boundaries on weight-gain to prove to myself I could do it). He began with "It's so irrelative. It doesn't matter..." I pushed. And pushed. Finally, he broke: "Just because I am a male raised in American society, and innately attracted to a thin, modelesque type of woman, does not mean I love you any less."

I lost my shit.

I told him, "You have just been placating me! You're the only person whose opinion on my body I actually care about, and you haven't been honest with me?! Every time I have asked you up until now, your answer is always 'you're perfect', but you don't actually believe that. Now I know. I think it's best we split up."

It felt vein. To end a loving relationship because of my bodily insecurities. And to back him into a corner just to validate my biggest fear: that he wouldn't like me for the body I was in. I realized I was doing it to myself, but I also needed him to realize something: I worked HARD for this body. This cellulite, jiggling thighs, hanging tummy and stretch-marked arms. Not only did I fight through 8 months of residential treatment to get my life back, but I continuously fight, each and every day, to earn a sliver of respect from popular culture: to not be objectified, to refuse to allow the male gaze to determine my worth, to live a life of value instead of instant-gratification. This body is a monumental message: it is the conquer of strife, a cry for feminism, a plea against white supremacy (if you haven't been following: diet culture and thinness are rooted in white supremacy. Read more about it here: https://elemental.medium.com/the-bizarre-and-racist-history-of-the-bmi-7d8dc2aa33bb).

He was crying. I was screaming. Threatening to leave. In the middle of the street during our morning walk. It was heart-wrenching to try to figure out the logistics of my leave: who would take Moose? Who would take Daisy? They can't be separated... Who would I stay with? I can't afford a place on my own. Worst of all: who would give me morning kisses? Who would come bolting into the bathroom in the middle of my morning pee to say "MY LOVE! YOU'RE GOING TO LOVE THIS... GOLD'S GYM JUST WENT BANKRUPT!" then run back out...? Who would listen to my rants about disordered eating and misogynistic billboards? Who would massage my feet every night? Whose hair would look so good in a water-fountain type style that you only see on 3-year-olds?

We spent the night silent.

The following day started off glum. He left for work. It was my day off. I somehow kept pre-occupied: went on a hike, cleaned, made food. But it was grueling. My heart felt limp and my soul lifeless. Until he came bolting up the stairs and through our front door: "I am NOT going to throw away a lifetime of happiness because of one dilemma! Seeing you stand up for yourself turned a page in my book. Seeing you take a stand for who you are made me even more in love with you... I have to be with you. We are growing to grow old and saggy together. Our bodies are going to be changing constantly! Emily Rose Van Alstyne, it is you I want to be with. Why isn't my love enough?"

I responded with a hug. I asked, "why isn't my body enough?"

We both cried. And held each other. And mended each other's wounds. It was then that we realized that we made each other 'enough.'

I have to say if this were to happen 2 years ago, my fear of fat would have taken a reign of terror and I wouldn't stop running until I was "thin enough" for him. I would've lost him. This valuable lesson would've gone untouched.

That's the thing about life in recovery: Nothing is ever black and white ever again. I know that in a time of struggle, therein lies a significant, soul-changing wisdom on the other side of it.

Here's to another year (and many more) in recovery.

Not Your Typical Glamor Shot