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Excerpt
from Full
Lives
Reprinted
from Full Lives: Women Who Have Freed Themselves from Food and Weight Obsession
By Lindsey Hall
To find out more about this helpful book click
here.
Several
times in my life there have appeared individuals to
whom I am instantly and mysteriously devoted. Eileen
T. Bills is one of those people. Initially, she wrote
to thank me for the inspiration she received from a
booklet I had written in 1980. I was so moved by her
words that I reprinted part of her original, hand-written,
three-page letter in my book, BULIMIA: A Guide to
Recovery, when it was published six years later.
Shortly afterward came another note from Eileen, who
said she had seen the new book and was surprised and
happy to see her letter in it. We continued corresponding
and spoke on the phone from time to time. She has also
been in touch with Jean Rubel all these years, so I
thought it appropriate to seat them together at the
Full Lives dinner party.
I
learned about Eileen's interest in the topic of sexual
abuse when she sent me a copy of her dissertation, "Eating
Disorders and Their Correlates in Earlier Episodes of
Incest," which led me to ask her about writing a chapter
for this book. Although she had never attempted to write
about her own experiences, nor was I aware of the full
extent of the abuse she had endured, I sensed that there
would be power and inspiration in her story.
When
I got her initial draft, I noticed a curious thing.
After the first few pages of introduction, the narrative
slipped from the first to the third person as she began
describing specific incidents of sexual abuse in more
detail. Apparently, it was still difficult for Eileen
to face what had happened to her as a child-even after
having gone through recovery from anorexia nervosa and
bulimia, receiving a doctorate in Counseling Psychology,
and working in the field of eating disorders for ten
years.
Fortunately
for us readers, Eileen is a fighter. She was, in her
words, "willing to endure the anxiety associated with
making changes and to persevere-I never gave up and
it took a long, long time to get well." The chapter
which follows is evidence of this. But to understand
her struggle, and why recovery seemed to take "forever,"
we must face the horror and the pain underneath, just
as she did. We must look beyond the obvious symptoms
for their purpose and meaning.
When
we do this, it becomes clear that although an eating
disorder is in itself a problem, it can also be a way
to cope with extreme emotional pain-in effect, it is
a tool for survival. As Eileen writes, "Dieting and
weight loss became an obsession because I had been repeatedly
sexually abused. Indeed, they were my salvation. . .
" Her eating disorder kept the spotlight off her humiliation,
powerlessness, emerging sexuality, and the conflict
she experienced between wanting a connection with others
and their continual betrayal. Eileen needed protection,
and she found it in a deliberate relationship with food.
Unfortunately,
her story will be tragically familiar to many women
who have been fondled, incested, or raped. However,
it can also bring to mind less extreme, but nevertheless
traumatic, incidents of sexual manipulation at the hands
of insensitive men. The blame for these violations is
often assumed by the women themselves, as though the
very fact of their womanhood is somehow shameful and
potentially dangerous. In Eileen's words, "My body,
my femininity, and my sexuality became the enemy because,
if it hadn't been for these, those vile sexual acts
wouldn't have occurred." Viewed within this context,
an obsession with food and weight can be a way to take
control of one's own body in response to situations
that have been uncontrollable, and escape the apparent
risks of female sexuality.
However,
an obsession with food and weight carries with it its
own burden of guilt and embarrassment, and for this
reason, complete recovery can be a double challenge.
The process of naming and sharing all our secrets, developing
compassion for the childhood self, placing blame where
it belongs, finding our voices and speaking out, trusting
others and eventually healing ourselves, can be long
and difficult. But Eileen wants you, readers, to know
that the process of recovery, "is worth all the years.
Never give up even if you slip a billion times."
During
the editing process, tears welled up in my eyes each
time I came to the end of this chapter and knew that
Eileen was finally strong and happy. As she wrote in
one of her letters, "This time (going over the manuscript),
I was not swallowed by the material, and I appreciated
my innocence even more fervently." The last time I spoke
to her, she was pregnant with her fourth child, happily
married, balancing family life and work interests gracefully,
and truly experiencing loving and living fully. It is
with a profound appreciation for her honesty that I
am privileged to introduce her story.
From
Sexual Abuse to Empowerment
Eileen t. Bills
"I
therefore put forward the thesis that at the bottom
of every case of hysteria there are one or more occurrences
of premature sexual experiences, occurrences which belong
in the earliest years of childhood" (Freud, 1905).
At that time anorexia nervosa was considered a hysterical
neurosis (Lasegue, 1873; Janet, 1903).
The
Travesty
My mother was very unhappy when I was a little girl.
She cried all the time and fought wretchedly with my
father. Sometimes the fighting got so bad that the neighbors
called the police.
My
father was usually a passive participant in these fights.
While my mother was screaming hysterically, he would
just walk away. This would upset my mother even more
and she would go after him. Finally, his control would
give way and he would spew out some vicious remark and
shove my mother back. Eventually, one or the other would
decide that it was time to get away. Frequently, my
father would make motions to leave but my mother would
get in the car and take off first. Then there was a
struggle as to who would take the car. My mom usually
won and would not return for days. I remember one time
my father getting into the car, but my mother would
not let him leave her and got in too. They drove away
and left me alone. The next morning my father had stitches
in his head, the car was smashed, and he showed me his
blood drenched shirt saying, "See what your mother
did to me!"
I
was very afraid when they fought, but stayed close,
believing that my presence prevented them from hurting
each other too badly. Most of the time, they didn't
even notice me pleading with them to stop, nor were
they careful about what they said or did in front of
me. Going to sleep at night was awful when my parents
were fighting. Our house felt empty and cold, and I
felt alone and unsafe.
My
father owned and operated a motel on the beach, and
our house was connected to the motel. We had no neighbors,
only transient guests. I was very lonely. We went to
a cafeteria about once a week for dinner. When I was
finished eating, I walked around the cafeteria and said,
"Hi" to all the people there.
One
time I met and old man who asked me to sit by him in
his booth. He was very tall and slim, had a greyish
white, straggly beard, extraordinarily long fingernails,
and wore a tattered black suit that hung long on his
elderly body. He had a leather coin purse and when he
took money out of it, his hands shook. He had a distinctive
odor, too. It wasn't really foul but it nauseated me.
. . .
Each
time we went to the cafeteria, he was there and I began
feeling obligated to visit with him every time. I don't
remember if it started on myfirst visit or a later one,
but as I sat by him, he would put his hand up my dress,
pull the crotch of my panties aside, and stroke my genitals.
I would sit there and pretend that nothing was happening.
Inside I wanted to get up and leave or ask him not to
do that, but I didn't want to hurt his feelings, so
I just sat there 'till he stopped. Then I rejoined my
family and said nothing.
As
young as I was (maybe six or seven), I already knew
how "nasty" it was having that part of my body touched,
and I was too ashamed to tell. I do remember though,
that my mother always insisted that I wear dresses even
though I asked her many times if I could wear pants—especially
the nights we went to the cafeteria.
I
also made friends with the motel guests. It was easy
because my dad would frequently ask me to take someone
a light bulb or towels. One day, a man moved into number
17. I think he was in his thirties. He always wore black-laced
shoes, black pants, a white shirt and greased his black
hair back with Brylcreme. He was one of our semi-permanent
tenants as he had a kitchen, and my dad didn't rent
out kitchens with the rooms unless the person was going
to stay for a while.
It
was in the kitchen that this man started doing things
to me like the old man had done. He would ask me to
sit on his lap. It's funny the memories that get triggered
when I think about this stuff. I remember the chair—it
was yellow, and where it was in the kitchen—against
the wall that had the window. He would reach around
my body and put his hand into my underpants and rub
me. I don't remember my age but I can recall that I
didn't have pubic hair. I was probably around eight
or nine. A weird thing happened as he was touching me.
My faced got all flushed, a wave of heat came over my
body, my genitals became very warm and then there was
a good feeling. The guilt that I felt afterwards was
tremendous. As in the earlier encounter with the old
man, I would pretend that nothing was happening and
would leave soon afterward, walking down the corridor
and the steps to my house, saying nothing to anyone.
One
day the man in 17 did something that frightened me,
after which I never went back. Maybe he moved soon after.
He had bought a package of hot dogs. I was sitting on
the chair opposite the window. He took the hot dogs
out of the refrigerator and with an uncooked spaghetti
noodle, he poked a hole in the tip of one end of the
hot dog. I became afraid. Almost immediately, I realized
that he wasfinding a way to introduce me to his penis.
I remember thinking that I had asked for this as I had
kept coming back to visit with him and had let him touch
me. Then he took the hot dog and put it in his mouth
and made his lips move up and down on it. He said that
it could be sucked on, and if it was blown just the
right way, it would whistle. Then he handed it to me
and told me to try it.
I
tried to blow, but it wouldn't whistle. Then he dropped
his pants and a huge erect penis was exposed. It was
ugly and there was dark hair all around. He took my
head and bent it toward his penis. I knew what I was
supposed to do, even though recalling this event, I
cannot tell you how I knew about this, young as I was.
He held onto my head very tightly and I opened my mouth
and he moved my head back and forth on his penis. He
made it go too deep and I choked. Then he picked me
up and carried me to the bed and took down my panties
and tried to insert his penis into me. It hurt, but
I was too afraid to make a sound because I didn't want
my father to know that such a nasty thing was happening
to me—especially since I felt that I had asked
for it. At some point he stopped pushing but had me
face him again and had me orally stimulate him until
his penis grew larger and then a horrible tasting, sticky
stuff came out while his penis pulsated. When he removed
it, I closed my jaw with considerable difficulty and
as it closed, it cracked. For days my sore jaw was a
sick reminder of this incident.
Around
this same time, my mother's younger brother, Tony, came
to live with us. He was sixteen or seventeen and had
gotten into drugs. His parents couldn't handle him anymore
and thought that helping out at the motel might straighten
him out.
Saturday
nights, when my parent went out, was Uncle Tony's "free
for all." He had complete reign over the house and approximately
six hours alone with me. To this day, I wonder why my
parents left me alone with him. Even if they didn't
know about how he took advantage of me sexually, they
knew about the drugs and they must have been aware of
how badly he treated me when they were around. I guess
that my mom was too involved with her own life to see
what was happening to me. My dad, in his typical style,
chose to be oblivious.
One
night, when my parents were out, Uncle Tony called me
in his room. He was lying on his bed, his pants were
off, and his penis was erect. He asked me to hold his
penis and to move it up and down. He showed me just
how he wanted me to do it. I don't remember if he came
or not, or how it ended that night, but that was the
beginning of the sexual encounters with my uncle on
Saturday nights that I came to dread.
In the beginning,
it wasn't really threatening. He would ask me to masturbate
him and then he would touch me and it would feel good.
But then, Uncle Tony started getting more and more into
drugs and alcohol. Reds were his favorite. He would
become very hostile and aggressive when he was high.
He would tell me that if I'd do it he would be nice
to me the rest of the evening, or he wouldn't beat me
up. I remember so often that I'd believe him and do
what he wanted, and he'd beat me up anyway. I can remember
saying, "But you promised..."
To get me to do what he
wanted, he would threaten to break one of my toys that
he knew I really liked. Another trick he used was to
stand by the breaker switch and tell me that he would
blow up the house by pulling the switches down if I
didn't comply. (It didn't even occur to me that by doing
that, he would have blown himself up too.) He even threatened
to tell my parents what we did. There was so much shame
surrounding what was happening that I didn't even see
my own innocence. I felt all alone and unprotected in
those days, too ashamed to tell, and not certain that
I would be believed, anyway.
All these incidents happened
to me before I was twelve.
The Effects
From the earliest
grades, I had trouble sleeping. I was exhausted most
of the time. Sometimes it was because I had been left
alone in the house and I was afraid that I would be
attacked by someone. I slept with a hair brush for protection.
I didn't choose anything more lethal because Ifigured
the intruder would take a knife, or other weapon I chose,
and use it on me. Nights that I wasn't left alone, my
mind wasfilled with distressing thoughts, making sleep
nearly impossible.
There was absolutely no similarity
between my world and that of the children with whom
I went to the private school. I was sure that everyone
knew that I was an outcast-a product of a chaotic, drug
infested, violent environment. My emotional development
was uneven, my social development warped. Paradoxically,
I was both a very young, emotionally insecure, frightened
child, and a street-wise individual who had had adult
sexual experiences.
I felt dirty, unlikable, and different
from everyone else. I had no friends. I believed that
my "badness" was transparent and I think I gave off
vibes to keep other kids away from me. I had too many
secrets to maintain. I also isolated myself on one of
the green school benches because of pain in my genital
area. This experience was too distressing and consumed
all my attention. That was grammar school. I don't remember
learning. I don't remember playing. I don't remember
being happy.
Puberty brought the issues surrounding
my abuse to full force. I didn't want to grow up and
be a sexual human being. There was too much terror associated
with that idea. A developing body, sexuality, guilt,
shame, powerlessness, and being out of control were
all one and the same thing...and I wanted none of it.
Once I started to develop physically, though, I seemed
to attract boys and adult men who would fondle me, have
me touch them, or want sex from me. My self-esteem was
so low that I didn't know how to say "No," didn't think
I had the right, thought that that was what my body
was for, and felt that somehow I must have asked for
it. My insecurities made it obvious that I was too afraid
to tell. Someone was bound to be mad at me, and I couldn't
bear the rejection-it would have been all my fault.
I might hurt somebody's feelings if I didn't allow them
to do what they wanted with me.
Puberty was just too
painful an experience to allow to proceed. (In retrospect,
I am amazed at how powerful the psyche is. I stopped
menstruating even before any weight loss!) I was emotionally
still eight years old. There was no hope of integrating
the sexual aspects of my maturing body into me as a
whole person, because I wasn't one.
Repeatedly, over
the years, I had lost control of my body and my will-vital
connections to my emerging sense of self. Nor was I
immune to the social emphasis placed on a woman's body.
Thinness was equated with self-worth, success, and social
acceptance. At the time, the pre-pubescent, boyish look
was in, i.e. straight hips, no fat-a total disregard
for the normal female shape. In search of an identity,
I was extremely vulnerable to this value system. So,
when puberty and adolescence struck, (the critical developmental
period of identity formation) I went looking for a sense
of myself through my body and through control over it.
After all, my body was the earliest identity I had.
I went back tofind it. The alternative, I believe, was
to go crazy.
The Perfect Solution
One day I was walking
home from school experimenting with a more deliberate
walking style, and I felt a calmness inside. I hadfigured
out a way to regain my innocence. It involved being
deliberate in everything I did and thought. In a way,
it was a great solution for where I was emotionally
at the time-in search of an identity. This new plan
necessitated that I stop and examine what I wanted in
every situation in which I found myself.
It became a
problem when I needed extreme control in all situations.
No, I wasn't going to allow anyone to "feel me up" anymore.
I didn't want that. But I was also going to dress very
carefully, fold my collar just so, and walk with my
heal touchingfirst, my knees very rigid, and my posture
erect. I was going to run between the two piers on the
beach every day and do my series of floor exercises.
I could only eat once a day and only after postponing
it (mainly with exercise) as long as I could. In fact,
eating was not allowed unless I had completed my exercise
rituals and organized certain of my belongings in special
ways. I carefully selected and measured portions of
the same ("healthy") food day after day, chewing each
bite a certain number of times and putting my fork and
knife down between bites.
I changed my writing style
by printing very neatly and extremely small. I also
changed my tempo of speech and I chose when and to whom
I spoke. I started withdrawing from people and feelings
because I felt that I could maintain my path better
without these interferences. I became extremely controlled
in all areas of my life, especially those areas related
to eating and exercising. With this new lifestyle, I
started losing weight and defying puberty.
As the pounds
came off, I began to feel cleaner inside. I still didn't
have any friends, but my obsession with my body shape,
weight loss, and exercise camouflaged my need for companionship.
Instead of feeling like an outcast and undeserving of
friends, my obsession allowed me to feel like I was
rejecting them, instead. I didn't need them and, in
fact, I was better than they because I was becoming
pure inside from not eating.
I can see clearly today
the choice I made back then. My body, my femininity,
and my sexuality became the enemy because, if it hadn't
been for these, those vile sexual acts wouldn't have
occurred. I wouldn't have been prey to others who used
my body-used me-to gratify their own selfish needs. The
experience of guilt because my body had become sexually
aroused by such "unacceptable" acts was tremendous.
I truly believed that I was "making up for my sins,"
and becoming pure, by feeling the gnawing tightness
in my stomach from not eating or from making special
additions to my exercise routine.
I never learned to
trust. I had shameful secrets inside of me that I would
never dare tell anyone. So, no one could ever know the
"real me." Relationships remained shallow and unfulfilling.
I never felt connected to anyone. I didn't love or care
for myself. I didn't even know myself. How could I get
to know, love, and care for someone else let alone ever
believe they felt anything nice towards me?
The issues
surrounding my weight and the food I consumed, vomited,
or denied myself continued to be my companion, my identity,
the tools I used to disguise my pain, and the measures
of my worth and lovability. However, while my eating
disorder had helped me cope with the issues that surfaced
during and in the early aftermath of the sexual abuse,
it now caused more feelings of self-loathing and shame.
My capacity for relationships and for intimacy further
deteriorated, fueling the eating disorder into adulthood.
For this reason, resolving the issues affecting my capacity
for relationships and for intimacy was at the core of
recovery.
The First Steps Toward Healing
The sequence
of events from early adolescence until Ifirst went for
help is basically an eating disorder blur. I developed
a bonafide case of anorexia nervosa, was obsessed in
that arena for a good two years, added bulimic behavior
to my regimen, and alternated between the two for about
ten years.
Although what brought me into therapy was
a bad relationship, I really went because I threw up
food, on purpose, and I was not able to stop on my own.
After eight months, my therapist had earned my trust
and I was strong enough to tell her about this behavior.
She wanted me to explore deeper, but I just couldn't
relate to the idea that there were issues underlying
my need for an eating disorder.
Once I let my secret
out, I was ecstatic to learn that I wasn't the only
one in the world to do this. There were even books written
on the subject. I would plant myself in the psychology
section of our school library and go through book after
book, journal after journal, day after day.
During this
implosion period I began myfirst attempt at quitting
cold turkey, which actually worked for a couple of months.
I'd dream about it though, that I had eaten something
forbidden, but I was unable tofind privacy to throw
it up. I'd wake up relieved that it had only been a
dream, but also overwhelmed by the power of this disorder.
Eventually, I couldn't take abstaining any longer. I
needed to feel that relief from throwing up.
Once I
blew cold turkey, it became harder to believe that I
could just quit. I kept having to devise more complicated
ways to prevent the behavior. I'd come up with things
that were more important to me than throwing up, like
a favorite t-shirt, my harmonica, an album. One time
it was $100. What was sad was that I didn't consider
me an important-enough person tofight for. I used so
many "tricks" on myself.
Still, I was able to make progress.
I gave myself stars for each day I went without vomiting.
I learned to look at progress in cumulative increments.
I built up memories and experiences of my ability to
keep food inside under various circumstances and conditions.
If I could resist throwing up during a "nearly impossible"
time, I had that memory to carry with me the next time
an extremely difficult situation arose. I also drew upon
my recollections of the "after glow" when I succeeded
and the pain and sadness when I didn't.
When I moved
to another state afterfive years of therapy, I was better,
but not completely well. I had learned that it was possible
for me to eat and keep the food inside, and I did feel
better about myself. I was occasionally able to feel
what came to be labeled as "connected" although it never
seemed to last. Much of the time I experienced my body
as being "shattered"-not completely lost, but the parts
were disconnected from my heart and mind. I also remained
ferociously angry with my mother but didn't understand
why. I began putting it all together one night in a
group I had joined in my new town.
The Understanding
It was the lastfive minutes. The topic must have been
families or something. As I recalled mine, a feeling
of intense hatred and disgust for Uncle Tony welled
up inside of me. I said how much I hated him, unable
to stop repeating it. I became wild and then suddenly
sullen. Sinking from my seat onto the floor, I collapsed
like a rag doll. I felt beaten, exhausted, with no will
left. I was experiencing for thefirst time the emotions
I had kept buried for twenty years.
I had been a member
of this "personal growth" group for one and a half years,
but I was too ashamed to tell these seemingly "normal"
people that I was working on an eating disorder. Until
that night, I had no feelings related to the sexual
abuse that I had experienced as a child, and had convinced
myself that this latter experience was irrelevant to
my present state of unhappiness and not worth bringing
up. Besides, I had plenty of issues to work on! I had
low self-esteem, was uncomfortable around people, and
couldn't break down and cry about anything. I was lonely,
depressed, and came across as helpless. In fact, my
appearance and demeanor were frequently described as
"childlike."
But that night, I felt hatred as I had
never felt it before. A woman in the group asked if
Uncle Tony had sexually abused me. I nodded. Group ended.
As I walked to my car, emotions flooded over me. I felt
terrified, naked from exposure, and afraid of what was
to come. Driving home I couldn't get the images and
memories out of my mind.
Over the next several weeks,
it became nearly impossible for me to sleep. Self-hatred
and shame had been re-awakened. Intrusive thoughts and
memories of the past offered me no relief. I decided
to try individual therapy again, this time with a male
therapist, the group leader.
Sleep continued to be scant
during thosefirst few weeks of intensive therapy. I
was afraid of something, afraid to let go, lose control,
and dream. I was exhausted, running on empty anxiety,
thinking about the past-things I had not thought about
in a long time. Rather than anger at my abusers, though,
I was feeling ashamed and embarrassed. What did those
people in the group think of me? I felt so dirty. I
wanted to hide and never show my face again.
The night
before my third individual session, I did not sleep
at all. I drove to my psychologist's office as though
in a trance. His approach seemed different this time.
There was more questioning, more prying. With a will
weak from sleep deprivation and defenses in a fog, a
windowfinally opened. The hesitancy that had previously
accompanied my speech was gone. This time images poured
into my mind and the words flowed without scrutiny.
I
told about the pain I had felt when Uncle Tony would
punch me in the breasts. "It made him laugh," I said.
I told how he would hold me down, with his knees upon
on my wrists letting spit drool from his mouth into
my eye. "He peed on me, too," I shuddered.
Then I told
about Saturday nights being left alone with him. An
image came into my mind as vivid as if it were happening
right then. I was about eight years old. It was Saturday
night. I was standing in the alley behind my house.
My parents were all dressed up-my father in a suit and
my mother wearing her mink coat. I watched their car
back out of the garage and drive away. My voice rose,
becoming frantic as I begged my mom not to leave me
alone with him. "I would beg her!" I repeated, becoming
hysterical. And in a torrent of tears I exclaimed that,
"She didn't care!"
I was shocked at the intensity of
my rage. I believed that if indeed I was not sleeping
because I was afraid to face something, it must have
been some sadistic, sexual experience that I had not,
as yet, recalled. However, the rage that I was so afraid
to face was directed towards my mother for failing to
protect me all those years. I hadn't told and she hadn't
seen. That night I slept seventeen hours!
As the months
went on and memories surfaced, I came in touch with
live emotions from the past. I not only came to understand
the choice I made at age fourteen to diet, but I felt
it. I was able to sense myself back then and feel my
reasoning with clarity. Somewhere deep down inside of
me, I raged at my vulnerability, my femaleness, my powerlessness,
and at the vultures to whom I had been exposed. I had
tried many times to vomit up that rage. For me, dieting
and weight loss became an obsession because I had been
repeatedly sexually abused, and there was no one available
to protect me. Indeed, these obsessions were my salvation.
This was one of thefirst things I was helped to acknowledge-that
the choice I made was not only reasonable, but it very
likely saved me. However, it took more than working
through the past and understanding my choices to put
the eating disorder behind me for the last time.
The
early work I did-going through the struggles of keeping food inside of me despite the anxiety, daring to gain
a pound, whittling away at my forbidden list, learning
to exercise reasonably and not compulsively, failing
and having the courage to start again, substituting
adaptive for maladaptive behaviors, learning to trust
my body and myself-was critical to overcoming the disordered
eating pattern. However, what I believe made it stick
for good was that Ifinally believed that the little
girl in the school yard wasn't at all bad or unlikable.
She was really very loveable. She did what she did to
survive.
In order to come to this realization of my
unconditional worth, I had to dredge up the past and
reawaken the emotions and thoughts of the child. Next,
with an adult mind, I had to challenge those feelings,
beliefs, and thoughts. Then I understood the travesty
and its effects. With this understanding came love and
acceptance of myself, which enabled me tofinally risk
intimacy and thereby accomplish thefinal stage of my
recovery.
Intimacy, Relating, and Recovery: The Final
Stage
As an adolescent, I avoided relationships and
intimacy because I didn't want anyone to get close enough
to me to hate me as much as I did. As a young adult,
I had sex because I thought it was expected. There was
no relating, feeling close, or feeling love. I just
felt used and trapped. I didn't know that I had the
right to say "No," and feared I would lose whatever
companionship I had if I did. Rejection, I believed,
was worse than thirty minutes or so of feeling exploited.
As I came tofind out later, I followed a pattern found
in many other individuals with abuse histories who get
involved with another abuser and repeat the past in
hopes of making it go better this time, or who believe
they are getting what they deserve. Thankfully, I got
help and eventually became strong enough to sustain
the uncertainty of being alone and starting anew.
As
I came to like myself better, I was able to risk having
others get to know me. I began to gain control of how
much intimacy I got, and I stopped agreeing to sex when
I didn't want it. This made me feel empowered. As I
began to assert myself more, the intrusive memories
of my abuse experiences were no longer being triggered,
and they went away. This meant that I no longer needed
the obsessions with food and weight to block out negative
thoughts and emotions, and I stopped needing to starve
to prove my worth and power, resulting in even greater
gains in self-esteem and personal integrity. I began
to feel free and strong enough to relate to others as
me. Being able to "connect" to others wasfilling the
void I had inside, and the empty craving for thinness
became less and less intense. I felt more in charge
of me, and therefore needed less and less to be in charge
of food.
Inside, I began to feel and enjoy my femininity.
My sexuality became fun, exciting, and something I got
pleasure and satisfaction from sharing. Perhaps the
most significant change in light of my abuse experiences
is that I came to feel proud rather than exploited when
my sexuality was appreciated and enjoyed. My partner
was my lover and friend, not an extension or reminder
of all my former abusers. I wasfinally feeling loveable
inside and out.
A Retrospective Look and Today
Where
did I begin? I got desperate-so miserable I wanted to
die. Then I let someone earn my trust and I asked for
help. I explored myself and how I got to be me. I wrote
and read a lot. I learned to think for myself and challenged
my beliefs. I tried new behaviors, and new ways of relating.
And I kept on working.
I tried several therapists until
I found one that felt right to me (this in itself was
a sign of "wellness"). I worked through my experiences
of sexual abuse-I remembered, I cried, I grieved. I
understood my choices and I found no present relevancy
for these. Towards the end, I concentrated on relationships,
intimacy, andfinally on learning to "parent" myself.
Recovery for me was like climbing a sand dune. The effort
was continuous and tremendous, the progress tediously
slow, and the slips were numerous. But there came a
time when I saw that I never slipped as far back as
where I had started. Eventually the slips got fewer
and their duration shorter until, one day, I realized
that I was really free-free from my eating disorder
and from my past experiences of sexual abuse. I am left
with me and that isfinally a secure and comforting experience.
It's morning. I wake up to a crying baby. I bring her
to my bed and nurse her under the covers. I feel her
warm body against mine. We fall back to sleep. I feel
a gentle kiss as my husband leaves for work. Some time
later, I feel a soft tapping on my arm. My four-year-old
wants us to get up 'cause she's hungry and wants some
Honey Nut Cheerios. I ask for another minute orfive,
but she's persistent. We all get up and the day begins.
At 7:45 the school bus comes for my seven-year-old.
A seemingly ordinary scene, but miraculous to me.
Additional Resources:
Nutrition Hotline - Finding a Healthy Meal Plan
Nutrition Hotline - Low Carb Diets
Osteoporosis and Eating Disorders
Osteoporosis in Men
Panel Examines Risk for Eating Disorders Throughout the Life Cycle
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