Tag Archives: anorexia

Confessions of a Skinny Mom

For my 100th post, I figured I’d write about the one thing I hate to admit.  Who am I kidding, there are plenty of things I hate to admit.  This one, however, is a bit, well . . .  difficult.

I danced around it on my Angela Jolie Post, my Adultery Diet Post and I described some of the effects of it with We Thought You Were Dead, Mommy — Almost F*cked to Death and the Twilight Zone  ponever really say it.  Even here and now within the constraints of a blog post I’m not going into great detail, not in one post anyway.  Plus, posts are supposed to be short, right?  I can only write so much here.  (Thank goodness.)

There have probably been seeds of it implanted in me from my childhood, and in young adult life when I did a miniscule about of modeling.  Years later  I lost a lot of weight after my children were born, initially as a result of breastfeeding multiples and later from sheer exhaustion. See Fertile Myrtle.

But somewhere in my mind I have had this fear of “getting fat.”

Then there was the negative reinforcement of the world, it seems, when people said,

“You don’t look like you have five kids . . . “

It is meant as a compliment.  But it probably got my psyche thinking, “What if I didn’t look like this?

So, after the children,  I kept busy (as if I had a choice with all those kids), watched how much I ate, and stayed slim. And I’d pretty much given my body to my husband, “Sex On Demand“.

Maybe I was still feeling vulnerable from my his stupid  brief affair with a much younger woman.

Maybe,” I thought, “I can’t get younger, but I can make sure I don’t get fat.”  I don’t know.

Maybe I felt out of control because I suddenly had so many children and was completely overwhelmed yet somehow needed to make it look effortless.  The Superwoman Syndrome.

So I stayed slim, but not yet dangerously so.  I got some new clothes, highlights in my hair and was trying to give myself a home makeover — the new me —  still fabulous after five kids, who were finally out of the diaper, toddler, and preschool grind.  I could see a light at the end of the tunnel.  Maybe we’d be able to leave the house soon? 

But then . . .  my husband left me

. . . and I pretty much stopped eating.

Ironically his love interest at that time was younger and  significantly heavier than me.  My being thin and sexually available was ultimately unsuccessful.  Maybe I just should have become an incredible cook . . . but I digress . . .

At first I was too devastated to eat, and that, simply, continued.

I never used laxatives, or induced vomiting.  (I absolutely hate throwing up).  I just  stopped eating, or really ate just enough to keep from falling over.  I had a lot of other “behaviors” — they call them.  Whatever, I don’t want to think about it now.  Though it never got as bad as those horrifying pictures one sees on the internet,  I admit  it makes me uncomfortable to look at pictures of myself during my worst times . . . and I have destroyed most of them.

I was a bit like Emily in The Devil Wears Prada, except not nearly as glamorous.

“Well, I don’t eat anything and when I feel like I’m about to faint I eat a cube of cheese.” The Devil Wear Prada

I was in the throes of a deep, deep depression.  But I had children, so I continued doing what I had to do for the most part, except . . . I failed to nourish myself.  Or, I nourished myself just enough to continue to take care of the children, short-term.

Was it a cry for help or a form of suicide when suicide was not an option?

Funny thing happens when you don’t eat much or often,when you do eat you are rewarded with pain and nausea.  Hardly incentive for a person who was crying all day long anyway.  So I ate just enough to function, but my resistance was down, physical strength drained and when I started having dizziness and heart palpitations and losing my hair and a couple of hospitalizations and a blood transfusion later?  Well, perhaps there was a problem. (Ya think?)  Not to mention my historically unhealthy relationship with my estranged husband, see My High School Self,  and the crap I was dealing with when he left.   It was a rough time.

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Call me Forrest Gump, but that’s all I have to say about that —  now, anyway.

They say I suffer(ed) from Anorexia.

I actually don’t feel like talking about this stuff.  I mean, I’m hardly the face of —- gulp — an eating disorder.  I’m an adult  woman of color who has been diagnosed with  a disease whose poster child is the face of a 14-year-old white girl. The stereotype for me is either the big mama in the kitchen or the strong, sassy and proud single mother.  Well, I was/am neither.   Food and cooking holds no interest for me and I did not choose, nor do I wave the banner of my suddenly single mother situation, it’s just something I have to deal with.

No matter, “Anorexia”  is in my medical charts, I have been referred to  and evaluated by a facility for eating disorders where they determined that because of my family obligations, I should be treated privately.  Whatever.  I don’t feel like discussing it right now.  Wait, did I already say that?  It’s too much for a blog post, anyway, right?  (Thank goodness).

Long, painful, story short, I’m so much better now.  Therapy, medications for depression and medications for my chronic stomach ailments caused by my poor eating habits have helped tremendously.  Though I’m off the daily anti-depressants now, see Getting Off The Meds,  I’ve found that changing my lifestyle and removing triggers — as much as I can — have helped tremendously also.

So I eat now,  not always well and not with enjoyment, but regularly.  I’m at a good weight, or so I’m told —  I never, ever look.  People tell me I look great.  (People in the know are careful not to exclaim that I’ve gained or lost weight.)   To look at me now, no one would know of my “issues.” Still, when I am down or stressed, I don’t eat.  And sometimes,  I just forget.  It’s probably something I have to watch for a long time, maybe forever.  But whatever.  I am much healthier than I was, which is the most important.

Just Me With . . . well, they say it was anorexia. They say.

Humph.

P.S.  This may be the first post I delete.

Before I get beat up in the comments because I’m a mom and have to take care of myself for my kids, etc. , know that this just skims the surface (I mean people write whole books on this stuff), that I love my children and have worked my behind off for them, have tried to protect them and have provided a good home (a good part of which I built myself), that even mothers can go through a bad time, having children does not make one immune.   I’ve learned that I have to feel good about me. Period. The rest will/has to come from that.

The Adultery Diet

Anyone remember that scene from Sex and The City where Miranda, after the birth of little Brady, discovers that she can fit into her skinny jeans?

(And by the way, for you people who don’t know, the original “skinny jeans” do not refer to a particular cut of denim pants.  They refer to those old jeans that women keep in their closet in hopes that losing enough weight to be able to wear them again.)

Well,  Miranda shows up at the club looking great in her skinny jeans and Charlotte asks how she lost the weight:

Miranda: Well, I got pregnant, became a single mother, and stopped having any time to eat.
Samantha: Oh, that’s a diet I won’t be trying.

 

There’s also another weight loss regimen that women don’t rush to try.  I call it,

The Adultery Diet

Simply put, it is when a married woman suddenly drops the pounds, without the assistance of  a gym membership or  Jenny Craig.  No, it’s none of that pesky diet and exercise stuff.   Rather, a woman is on The Adultery Diet when her husband is having an affair and it is making her sick.

There’s just something about finding out or suspecting that your man is screwing somebody else that really kills the appetite.

This revelation may or may not end in separation or divorce, that’s not really relevant to this diet, it’s just a sick, sinking feeling that suddenly makes food intolerable, hence the weight loss.

I bet we’ve all seen the signs.

In walks a female friend you haven’t seen in a while.  Her clothes are literally falling off of her.  Unfortunately, her eyes are sunken, red, swollen and downcast, and she’s unnaturally quiet.  She’ll explain, perhaps, that she’s had a bit of a cold.   In her mind, however, she’s screaming, “Oh my God, this is not happening. What am I going to do?  How could he? ”  And then, she simply doesn’t eat, while continuing her daily responsibilities. She functions, but  just knowing that there are some very uncomfortable silences, discussions and possibly life changing decisions that will have to be made in the near future  — well, it just doesn’t make her want a sandwich. In fact, the mere thought of the situation makes her food taste bland and causes nausea.

Then there’s the time alone — while it is quite possible her mate is not spending time alone — well, it can make a girl literally sick to her stomach. Pounds melt away, baby weight — gone, along with muscle.  Suddenly skinny jeans fit and she needs to tighten her belts.

He has to work late. Again.  I fed the kids; they’re good. Everybody is fine. Everything is fine, except that it’s not.  So I’m just gonna sit here in the dark on the kitchen floor while my life falls apart.  I’m not hungry.  I really don’t feel well.

And the coolness of the kitchen floor is somehow so comforting . . . but I digress.

This Adultery Diet is usually available to married or cohabitating women — because there is something about living with someone who is sleeping with someone else that is particularly offensive to the palate.

So if you are surprised by a sudden weight loss of a friend, don’t just tell her how wonderful she looks and ask about her dress size, her diet,  or whether she’s working out.  Ask about her marriage.  Ask if she needs —   anything.

Don’t ask me how I know.

Just Me With . . .  a weight loss regimen no one wants to try.

Just found this pic of Demi Moore:

Demi Moore post-divorce from a cheating husband.

Message to Demi: Give me a call.  We should talk.

See also:  On Angelina Jolie —  At Least No One Will Say She “Got Fat”

and

Confessions of a Skinny Mom