On Wearing a Bikini

Warning:  This is controversial.  Please don't hang me.  :)  Thanks!  

It seems to me that within the conservative world we have done the opposite if what we've wished and have thus created another, far greater problem.  Our little girls are growing up learning that their bodies are only sex objects we must hide.  The words may not be such, but ultimately that is the message. 

"Cover your bodies, protect the boys from lust!  Cover your bodies, save it for your husband!  Cover your bodies, honour God!"

I used to believe this with all my heart, for my desire to do right was so strong.  My body was covered, my pride was full, and my soul forgot I was born inside this vessel.  And my vessel was forgotten, given over to hiddenness and secrecy.  It's only my love of childbirth that kept any closeness to this body I was born inside.  The one I was made to wear for all my days on this planet.

And so I regretted the days my body had been open, when I had loved it for what it was.  I covered it to protect it from meandering eyes and sinful lusts.  I held my head high and gave in to this pushing toward thinking only of others and never of myself.  The mirror was the only revealer of my curves and softness, and I agonized over the fact that I was the only one to judge it.  Believing oneself is rather difficult sometimes.

So once again, for different reasons, I found myself bikini-clad, happy amidst the throng of Swiss bathers who were oblivious to the statement they were making to me.  In North America, bikinis seem, generally, to be relegated to the thinnest, the fittest, the supposed sexiest of bodies.  Softer bodies tend to hide themselves in flowing coverage, shamed into the idea that their vessels are worth less, that their bodies are not good enough to be seen.  Perhaps even that their bodies have no sexual value.

And so I ask: for whom are we wearing the one-pieces, the 'modest suits', the potato sacks?  Do we really wear them to 'protect our brothers' (who, I might add, have already seen countless lightly-clothed bodies in their short lives and must learn to deal with any overly-excitable urges they might have... that's another story)? 

Our little girls must begin to grow up with love for what God made them in, so that when that small one's body begins to blossom and become softer and rounder, she has no second thought about her worth, her need to hide.  She should not only be thought of as sexual and beautiful if her body can 'safely' be placed in a bikini.  She should not be responsible for the lustfulness of the male swimmers at the lake.  That is their mountain to conquer, and in this world of fashion and supposed openness, they must!

Her body is bikini-worthy despite the softness.  It is bikini-worthy despite her short stature, her curvy thighs, her tiny breasts.  It is bikini-worthy despite the stretch marks or the growing baby, despite the varicose veins or the loosening skin.  It is simply worthy of our love, no matter how it's shaped or what worth (or lack thereof) it has been given in the past.

For the choice is the woman's to make: to free her skin to the flowing goodness of the water, or to cover it for her personal enjoyment.  Not society's.  Not conservatism's.  Not Christianity.

For our God made these beautiful vessels.  Our modesty is of the heart, before the Lord, in holy, humble joy before him.  So that our lives might be lived worthy, not so that we might make rules to attempt gaining favour with our Creator or others who serve Him.

(Further reading on the topic - to think on, please: Click here, and here)

Why?

Recently I've realized that I need to explain clearly why I am doing this.  Why am I sharing this struggle with the world?  Why am I being open?  Why have I splattered bulimia all over social media?

Why?

Because the can of worms needed to be opened.  The real truth is that so many eating disorders are not just pasted on the front of magazines, but are found in the lives of men and women, boys and girls, of all sizes, shapes, ethnicities, and backgrounds.  The taboo needs to be broken, the open discussion must begin.  The world needs to understand this struggle so that we cease being the brunt of jokes and so that more of those with this struggle can find the strength to be helped sooner. 

How terrifying it is to realize your struggle and yet know that the world won't take you seriously until you look sick.  To feel like you have to go on being sick and getting sicker, because no one will believe you are struggling, that you can't fight anymore.

I started the blog not to get some strange form of attention, to gain pity, or to look braver than everyone else.  Quite honestly, walking around knowing that any of my facebook friends could know my story at all is hard. That it's known that I still struggle with throwing up partially digested food into a bag because I have inner struggles that manifest in this weird way...  What even is that?  Why is that a struggle?

Isn't that GROSS?  

How many do you know, and you'd never even guess?  What is happening beneath the plastered smile and the pretty dress?  Perhaps she doesn't even know.  And how can we help?

These are the questions that must be answered, and this is the why of this blog.  This is why the journey.  The recovery is hard, and I'm making (slow) progress, but one day at a time, with God's help, we can, whatever our struggles, rise up.

And maybe, maybe I'm doing it for all the little girls that this picture of me 4 years ago represents.  Because I want them to love who God created them to be (inside and out) before they even hit adolescence, and I pray that it will continue their whole life long, every day of it.

At my (almost) smallest

Let's Be Real.

Really.  I'm always going to be either a bulimic, or a recovered bulimic.  When I go for days with great leaps ahead, I almost stop thinking of myself that way.  And then there is some trigger.  I don't mean to, I really don't.  But I find myself starving, fighting off the hunger with those old anorexic mantras, the reminders from my ED to my self that it's whittling me away, that being hungry (and the headaches and weakness associated) is a good thing and that I'm better for it.

But ED is wrong.  Wrong wrong wrong.

Because that hunger and self control brings a need to replenish, and that hole seems endlessly deep.  And even if the binge isn't the whole-jar-of-jam-2-boxes-of-crackers-a-container-of-ice-cream-and-some-chocolate kind of size, even if it's just eating the whole package of M&Ms instead of the half you promised yourself to rid yourself of the carb-less-body headache, and even if the purge is itty bitty, it's still the numb, sad, caved-in feeling that comes no matter what.

Fear.  Stress.  Homesickness.  Memories.

Having to tell people over and over again that your summer was 'wonderful', which indeed it was, but it was so much more than just wonderful!  And how can one express the depths of the emotion experienced, the bridges built, the connections made, the hearts entwined, the family found, the satisfaction and terror and wonder and chaos of the kind of summer I had?  How to express it in a catchy little answer?

And so my heart sinks deep within itself and asks itself to tell me, and when I do, I find myself so very alone, and M&Ms are then the 'wonderful' thing.

Starting back at Day One once again.

The Me Behind the Shadow

I have no idea if this post will be post-able.  I just want the chance to write and to feel and to let myself feel me. I've been hiding from myself, trying to pretend that I'm fine, that I've figured myself out, and that's okay - sometimes we just have to sit with our feelings.  Bulimia numbs the feeling too, but only temporarily, and it makes so much else worse, so that's not really the answer either.  I'd like to be wandering through some deserted forest, and most evenings when I could have, I've found myself numbing myself with laughter and stories.  A temporary insulation from the rawness of my life, as raw and crumbling as any other life around me.

I still haven't changed the clock on my computer.  Right now, sometime at night, it reads 7:21am.  I can't bring myself to believe, entirely, that I'm not there, that I'm still hurting because I'm here.  But is that really why I am hurting?  No!  I'm hurting because I felt for so long like I was responsible for the chaos in our lives... our life.  Maybe I was.  Maybe I was too big, too something.  But I couldn't control that and I know it.  That's not it.  Just that I couldn't fix it after, find out sooner.  That I believed lies like some still do.  I want to fix it!  I want to be the one to make it all work...

And I can't be that person.  I can only build my own bridges, meditate on my God myself, find my own story.

Always trying to be wonderful.  Always trying to be the me that is who I think I'm supposed to be.

It HURTS, friends, it HURTS SO MUCH.  Feeling hurts.  And sometimes I just can't bear it.  I just can't deal with everything and how much it overtakes me.  Like the real me trying feel everything I've ever held inside, and that's an awful lot.  Oh inside, come out and let me feel again.

Maybe if I just allow myself to feel on the outside, I can show the real me for everyday, and not try to pretend my life.

To take away the shadow...

After

Being here has been a whirlwind of trying to find my land feet again after a long and wonderful time aboard a beautiful ship called Switzerland.  In some ways it has made dealing with all the lovely ED things more difficult, for the pain of leaving was excruciating.  I'm here for my parents and I can't tell you how lovely it is to be with them, but tearing myself from my roots once again felt like uprooting an old tree: wrong.

B/Ps have been getting smaller at least, even if not less frequent.  It's a start.  I've resisted some.  I've managed to hold back where I didn't think I could.  I've been met with love, when all I felt was anger.  And for that I am eternally grateful.

Anger at myself, and anything that made me do what I do.  Anger about everything that hasn't been as it should.  Anger that I've hurt those around me.  Anger that this monster has caused me to lie and deceive.  Anger that I'm not perfect.

And then joy that I'm not perfect.

And then yet another flood of tears.  Because I know I'm loved, both vertically and horizontally.  Because I both was born and was raised in beautiful places that sing the majesty of the One who made them.  Because I'm so ready to be done with this battle.  Because I'm still fighting.

Because I've been given so much.

I will never be the same.

2 days strong.  Fear diminishing.  Urges slightly less intense.

Having such a hard time processing the last 7 weeks.  In some odd ways it feels as though it never happened.  And in so many other ways, I feel like I'm not even here.  When I begin to interact with the culture of my childhood, I find myself realizing the changed person I am, and I know I can never go back.

I will never not know what I know now about my birth.  I will never not have the relationships I (re)established.  I will never not have felt the depth of surety when I stood where I will live.  I will never not have had the experiences I did, learned the me that hides beneath the shell, bared my soul for the people I did.

I will never be the same.

But as I enfold the little lives I've had the privilege to be a part of, seeing signs of their own growing - gaps in smiles, longer legs, learned pleases and thank yous escaping small lips - I realize that my heart will always be a little bit broken.  And that has beauty too.

I can't undo the good and bad in my life.  I can't force the future to be a certain way.  But I can take steps to uncover the plans that I've made, and to see where they will lead - where, thus, God will guide.

I've pushed down so may boundaries, barriers, and walls, not necessarily to cross those lines now that they are not high, but to be able to see over them, so I might live a life full of more light.

Pressing forward.

On "No" and Perfection

I wasn't planning to write at this moment, but I feel I must.  Here in the middle of a country that is tugging at my heartstrings - or at least where people I love dearly will stay as I leave, I wonder what all this time has taught me.

It's taught me that I can say no.  No to injustice, to being taken advantage of, to burdens that are not mine.  I can say no even to myself.  For 5 years I have kept a 'mini-journal' where I wrote just a couple lines every night to remember that day.  I did it faithfully every day, and somehow the last two weeks, I just couldn't.  Didn't.  Chose not to be a slave any longer even to my own tradition.  I may pick it up again, but I won't be held by what I must or must not do to be perfect or good.

It's ironic, really, for even as I say that I remember myself just a couple hours ago, knowing full well I was strong enough to resist the (somewhat weakened) b/p urge, but still finding myself climbing the stairs to my place of secrecy.  I didn't say no.  

But at least I acknowledged that I could.

I learned also that I don't have to always know.  I can sit back, allow awe to fill my face, and say "No way!  I really didn't know that!"  Or even admit to my own seemingly embarrassing error, smile, and learn from it.

I don't have to feel responsible for things over which I have no control, apologizing for the big and small to gain love or affection.  If love and affection come my way, they are gifts to be treasured, not prizes to be earned.  And I must take people as they are, with their bad days and good, their affectionate moments and the times when they need space.

Maybe I just needed to see that I'm just me, learning and living, unique and precious like everyone else.