Eating Disorders, Knees and Summertime
The Beatles sang..
‘Here comes the sun
doo-doo-doo-doo
Here comes the sun
and I say it’s alright’
(Here Comes The Sun by the Beatles 1969 recorded at Abbey Road)
But do you? And is it? Is it alright?
Are you aligned with the fabulous four or does your heart sink along with guilt and shame for not appreciating this planet that gives us life, long light days, warm nights and the summertime joie de vivre that British Summer drops.
I’m not talking about our climate change scenario directly affecting swathes of Europe, and the rest of the world, in July 2022 as I write. I could go off at a tangent re politics, farmers, exhausted firefighters, people and wildlife dying and how no one in political office seems to care or understand – we need to change. Our elected and “desperate to be voted in”, are busy debating the economy and taxes - although when we’re all burning up and running out of water paying more or less on our National Insurance won’t really matter.
No - I’m talking about the onset of summer and how it makes us feel, well, I mean me, or how it used to make me feel. I’ve made a commitment to write as honestly as memory allows, so to clarify I’m no longer rendered obsolete and twisted about leaving the house, that’s firmly in the past and now I love summer but there are remnant’s - like residue grease on glass – leftover feelings, in my system, to this day.
Years ago the thought of shedding clothes and being confronted with my imperfect imperfections in public (walking down the street) was excruciating. I used to DREAD summer. Made worse because everyone around me loved it!
Summer Lover: “Ooh 30 degrees? I can’t wait”
Me: “ 30 degrees? Really?
Summer Lover: “I love the city in the summer. Everyone’s so happy.”
Me: Yeah. Isn’t it great!
As if honesty gets a look in with ED’s.
While friends and family are bouncing I’m panicking. A: not to be a killjoy and reveal my inside self, certainly not B: What am I going to wear?
I’ve spent the winter hiding but now the sun’s out. How can I cover up without melting, or more importantly, how can I cover up the parts of me I hate most - legs, knees, damn those knees (that got me everywhere, and made me mobile) bum, thighs blah. I could wear a sack or mini marquee and be done with it, of course, but I’m desperate to waft along the street in a short, floaty skirt as Passers By stop and stare...
Passer By One: “She looks like a colt. Look at those legs.”
Passer By Two: “ I thought Gazelle”
Both look admiringly at me striding ahead – a confident, fat-free-super-being with my endless long, lean legs and smooth, seamless knees.
My theory back then was if I had such affirmations from strangers I’d be able to accept myself, finally, I’d belong and be really, really, happy and any internal voices spouting endless reels of self-hatred and criticism would either shut up or be silenced.
Ah, if only.
The voice(s) went something like this... you’re so fat, fat, fat, fat, fat, short, out of proportion, too ugly to go out, what are you doing out, can’t believe you’ve let another winter go past and not got into shape (read skeletal) maybe next winter you’ll apply yourself. You’re right I’d respond, I won’t binge or throw up, I’ll restrict for months, change my exercise regime, I won’t over indulge... in anything, I’ll look after myself and then emerge phoenix-like from the ashes (who doesn’t love the transformation narrative) and then next summer...
I’ll look... like her, and her, and her and he will look at me, I’ll be chosen, and wanted and desired ... and on and on the voices droned until a scintilla of hope would appear as I realised I could start again.
The “start again” voice entranced me. I was constantly seduced by it.
It used to say...
Maybe this time you’ll make it.
One of the main drivers motivating my bulimia and the binge purge cycle was to feel the heady joy of renewed hope and starting again.
Reinvention. A new page, clean, fresh and perfect. Redemption.
Without doubt it was one of my favourite bulimic payoffs. It worked really well for a while. And then it didn’t for a very, very long time. Bulimia is a dangerous dancing partner. Dodgy footwork flirts with strangers and rarely picks up the tab.
Options?
I could have just worn the skirt or shorts and be done with it. But that wasn’t an option because then everyone would see me in the flesh.
Oh!
The shame and embarrassment catching my reflection in a window or mirror – that sense of shock and horror and sinking feeling I mentioned before because I didn’t look right or fit in. Faced with my failings, of never, ever being good enough was totally crushing and resulted in overwhelmingly disappointment that I was me. Depression and sadness would follow all the way downhill to utter desolation.
Phew! What a load. How I dreaded the summer. Not alright, not alright at all.
Even the fantasy of a one-way ticket to the Arctic where I could cover up year round and get fit trudging over ice didn’t cheer me up.
This is how the onset of summer or a holiday in the sun used to feel like for me. And it went like this for years and years, season after season until gradually the voices lessened to something above a whisper.
How did I turn it all around?
Honestly, I’m not sure, because at the time it felt impossible. The neural pathways upon which my eating disordered thoughts trundled ever back and forth ran deep but, fortunately, the brain is plastic and capable of change for as long as we breathe. New healthy pathways can be built. You can literally change everything and anything you want. It just takes practice and discipline and commitment to think new thoughts and create new narratives.
Also there were periods when I physically changed shape, to my liking, and these were the times when I didn’t obsess over my perceived faults because I was engaged in something deeper – for instance a yoga practice or learning TRX.
I’ve always exercised. I like feeling strong and flexible and I love how exercise energises me. A life without exercise is unthinkable, my body loves to move and my mind likes to switch off. I know what I’m doing, and now I’m doing it for the right reasons.
If I don’t feel like working out then I won’t.
But really what silenced the voices was years of work and patience around my recovery. And pursuing many modalities for healing and whittling them down to the ones I still resonate with today.
I don’t think it’s possible for disordered thoughts to not make an appearance once in a while. Mine do, actually quite a lot. But I’m not triggered by them, that's the difference, and even if I am it’s no big deal because I have more than enough within me to cope. I have learnt resilience and I’m tuned in to how I feel. So when I have a “knee” moment it might be because I’m overwhelmed or tired or feeling pressurised. And, even though I don’t want to, I accept the shape of my knees. I ain’t ever going to be a “colt or gazelle'' and it’s alright doo-doo-doo-doo!” Just about. Ha!
In fact, case in point. I had a training session with my PT (Personal Trainer) this week. I haven’t trained with him since before Covid locked us down. And it’s been, like I said, hot.
Two years ago I bought a pair of shorts, long (partial knee covers) - think Ed Norton in Wes Anderson’s Moonrise Kingdom. Yeah. Exactly. I look like Ed Norton in these half trousers and when I suggested the likeness to my husband he didn’t disagree.
It’s taken me two years to wear these shorts. Last year we lived in the countryside and it rained. And menopause can make everything look crap and feel tight. Nor have we been on holiday. Anyway I took a deep breath and donned said shorts. After several vest top changes I set off for my PT.
My PT (Jay Brockway from S3) has a new gym. All white interior, brightly lit with mirrors... everywhere. Let me tell you there was no escaping my peeking knees. I tried not to look but it was impossible.
But... drumroll, it didn’t matter. I even said to Jay what do I do about these knees – old habits – faced with an hour of sweat and tears... you know what he said?
Well, that’s your diet, Jem!
Now that comment, coupled with the pressure of the knees would have sent me reeling, I mean, really reeling several years ago. The crushing disappointment, etcetera.
But it didn’t.
Because it doesn’t matter.
I am not defined by my knees or any other part of my body or any thoughts I may or may not have.
My knees are amazing and I love ‘em.
End of.
Know what I sang on the way home? Knees up Mother Brown. No, I did not I sing:
“Here comes the sun
Little darling
Here comes the sun
It’s alright”
Because it is.
And when I got in I sat down and wrote this blog.
Disclaimer:
I have never talked about my knees in public before.
They are not fictional.
They are real.
Knees Inc.