My Addiction, and Why It Doesn't Win

I am, medically termed, a disordered eater. Specifically a binge eater. I am overweight due to my addiction. But I am trying dammit. Yes, I slip. Often. But I chose to love myself. I look at my full hips, wobbly upper arms, and extra full midsection and the statistics flood my brain. Obesity leads to higher medical risks. Diabetes. Heart Disease. Stoke. And having a hard time climbing more than four flights of stairs. But I choose to love myself. My wobbly arms can put a newborn baby to sleep in less than two minutes. My extra full midsection may jiggle when I bounce my kiddos around a room, but my extra wide hips balance me out and create the perfect spot to hold a child. I am me, wholly and beautifully. And as the title of this blog suggests, my eating is something that I am striving to change. I train with a personal trainer once a week and take group training sessions twice a week. I try to eat the freshest and healthiest foods when I’m not on a binge. I do binge. It happens. I cry, I go to bed. I wake up and train for an hour. No. This is not a solution or a long term fix. But my arms are getting stronger. My stride is longer and more sure. I dance without care with my one year old charges. I am happy. And my addiction will not take that from me. My hurts and pain are nothing compared to the love and healing power offered to me. So I try.

An Addiction, In Progress

Little things can be triggers. Things you have seen a million times. You’re watching your favorite TV show at midnight on a Friday. And the fight begins. Your mind is racing ahead, connecting dots to your experience. And it hits, the nausea. My dramatic childhood is a warm Spring day compared to so many others, and yet it is night terror to me. Little things trigger large emotions that suddenly flash flood my body and leave me reeling. My brother had a fight. This fight was a constant in our home, until the night that he left. I remember the yelling. The subject of the fight varied, but the subliminal current of struggle was the same. A very broken child struggling to reconcile the pain of the past, inflicted by those who were created to shelter and protect. It’s heart breakingly difficult to accept love and acceptance when you have been  pushed aside, neglected and hurt. It’s damn near impossible. He couldn't find a way. He struggled and we struggled. We bent and twisted in a hurricane that came too hard and felt like it would never leave. And he broke. And when my brother broke he splintered me as well. My family will never be the same. We are healing, but still very broken. We pulled together, coped. My brother and I share that same struggle though, but I have chosen a very different path to beat. I was a very broken child. I still am, in 100 different ways, still that same broken child. Each day I reach out my empty palms and I expect them to be pushed aside. And each day I am learning to reach higher and expect my hand to be gently grasped by those I love. The ones who love me come beside me, holding me up when I need them to, hand after hand offering the support that I need. Hand after hand nudging and guiding me towards my Savior. This is the story of my addiction, and my journey towards healing.