Cake

"Happy Birthday a little early," my husband Marc said as he handed me the brown to-go box. We were standing in the parking lot of an outdoor mall in our neighborhood, and he had just returned from grabbing a coffee. My heart began to pound, and my body tensed before I even opened it. I already knew what was inside. It was a bold move by Marc. He knew I hated it when he brought me "treats," and over the years, when he did come home with fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies, big cinnamon rolls, and gooey brownies, they ended up in the trash. Reminding him, "I don't eat things like that," but really meaning, "I'm afraid I will eat ALL of that.” And now, staring at the brown box, I was ready to be pissed off. But then I remembered the assignment from my dietician Gretchen earlier that week, encouraging me to expose myself to" fear foods". The foods I had for years labeled a "no go” as they were foods I loved so much I was afraid if I took even a bite, I would lose all self-control and eat, eat, eat, unraveling all the self-discipline I was so proud to have achieved. And in that box, I knew, was the ultimate fear. Cake, specifically carrot cake, my favorite since I was little.

Confident I had enough self-control to confront it, I took a deep breath and opened the box, and as expected, nestled inside was a perfect square of cake staring back at me. The white cream cheese frosting in perfect little waves, the aroma of cinnamon and sugar wafting up to meet my nose, causing my mouth to instantly water.

Take a bite Sherri, my healthy brain gently coaxed as I ran my finger along the edge of the cake, scooping up some frosting and popping it into my mouth. The creamy goodness coating my tongue and setting my brain on fire. 

That's enough! My anorexic brain shouted, sensing danger, Stop NOW!

But with that one bite, the wheels were set in motion, and, surprisingly, I had no intention of stopping. Maybe it was fear because I was in week two of treatment and had made very little progress. Perhaps it was the determination to prove to Gretchen I could meet her request, or possibly it was the knowledge if I did not cause the hand of the German Dictator to move upwards, I would land in the hospital. But maybe, finally, I just caved and let myself eat the damn cake.   

Satisfying a mid writing craving recently with a piece of that cake. But what is it with my husband and utensils? Jeez! ( 10/2020)

"Did you want me to get you a fork?" Marc asked a look of shock and disgust on his face as I ripped a big piece off, shoving it in my mouth with my fingers, the excess crumbs tumbling off my chin and catching on the front of my sweater.

"Nope, I'm good," I said, my mouth full and my voice muffled, but with a tone that clearly relayed," back the F*&k off." Like being reunited with first love, I wanted nothing to interfere with the moment's electrifying, body tingling sensation. 

I was giddy. I had missed this, the pure joy of eating a food I loved, one that was not only delicious but held so many happy memories of birthday parties and family celebrations. At that moment, a warmth filled my body with a satiety that went far beyond physical hunger.

But when it was gone, the spell was broken. I stared at the empty box, my fingers sticky and my teeth numb, and the reality of what I had just done hit hard. As we walked home from the mall, I waited anxiously for what I knew was to come next. The guilt from consuming so many calories, the uncomfortable bloat from eating something decadent, but mostly, I hung my head and waited for the shame to destroy me. Scolding me for losing my ever-present self-control. I was ready to suffer the consequences of my actions.

But they never came, leaving me instead with a new sensation, one that I had no idea how to handle.

Odd Man Out

He sounds happy! I texted my sister, referring to a recent phone call with my nineteen-year-old son. He just started his sophomore year at the University of Oregon, and during the call, for the first time in a long while, his voice sounded buoyant and content. It filled my mom heart with a mixture of joy, relief, and hope that my sweet boy, who has struggled for years to find his place in this world, may finally be starting to feel okay with who is.

It is what I have always wanted for my kids.  And personally,  at the age of forty-eight,  I wanted that for myself as well. Starting with my new recovery group.

I was the first one to arrive the night of the initial group meeting, allowing me a moment to assess the room and choose my seat around the tables set up in a big U shape. As usual, in new situations, I decided on a chair closest to the door, finding comfort in an easy escape should the need arise. 

Initially, I had not asked Kirsten much about it; even when she shared, it would be "different" than the body image group I initially inquired about. Realizing participation was a condition of Kirsten agreeing to work with me, I readily accepted, confident whatever it was it would help me dig out of the eating disorder hole I had gotten into. As I sat there, waiting for the others in the group to arrive, I felt jittery with anxious anticipation, like before getting on a plane for a long-awaited tropical vacation. It was the only part of the treatment plan that I was looking forwards to. Where I was dreading the bi-weekly weigh-ins and the means I would have to employ to gain weight, I was excited for this opportunity to connect with others who were living in the same unbearably lonely world as me. Delighted for the chance to be in a room where I felt part of something instead of feeling like the odd, anxious, skinny outlier.

I kept myself distant from others. It was how I protected my disease, but it came at a cost that left me feeling disconnected and alone. ( 2016)

As the other participants began to trickle in, I took a quick note of each one. First, was the red-headed woman in her late fifties who sat right next to me. Followed by a petite woman carrying a bicycle twice her size. Then entered a tall, blond twenty-something who looked like a college volleyball player, and shortly after, a masculine-looking woman with gorgeous blue eyes who avoided eye contact with all of us. Two chatty teenagers walked in and took seats across from me, animatedly comparing their scores on a recent chemistry test. Lastly, a suburban mom type who blew in at the last minute,  flustered, and apologizing profusely for being late. As we sat around the table in awkward silence, waiting for Kirsten to begin the group, I could not ignore the obvious. They did not look like me. Not one of them appeared to have extremely low body weight, tell tale signs of anorexia. They all seemed to be of average weight. Maybe the cyclist came close to "too thin." Maybe. I was instantly disappointed and a little pissed off. What kind of group is this? I remember thinking, frustration swelling and the exit door looking very appealing. I was craving a connection with other people. It is why I ultimately found the courage to reach out for help. I was tired of feeling so lonely. In this group, I desperately hoped to hear my struggle come from someone else's heart, helping to make me feel less crazy, scared, and alone. But sitting in that windowless room with these unknown, seemingly healthy women, I highly doubted any of them knew what it was like to live the dark, painful, structured, unforgiving hell of anorexia.  

 And once again, I found myself feeling like the odd one out.

Dictator

No scale. That was the first thing I noticed as I scanned Gretchen’s office for the first time. It was not the sizeable polished antique desk set up against the rustic red wall that caught my attention or the mixed bouquet of fresh flowers that sat upon it. Nor was it not the plush green chair across from the enclosed antique bookcase with the glass front exposing shelves full of books of a personal and professional nature. All of that came to my attention later. For the moment I was looking for the scale. Grethen was a dietician, and I assumed somewhere in the room would be a large white standing scale like in a gym or a doctor’s office. But finding none, I breathed a sigh of relief. Thank goodness , I thought to myself, hoping that maybe eating disorder treatment in 2016 was a modern ”numbers don’t matter” type of thing. Allowing me to keep my daily weighing ritual within my own bathroom walls, accountable only to myself.

The fantasy was nice while it lasted.

Not only did Gretchen have a scale, but it was also a solidly-made machine that she had nicknamed the Little German Dictator. Tucked discreetly under one side of her desk, the little dictator was a bad ass. It was a sturdy polished white and stainless steel machine with a round face and rubber pads to step upon.  It was not digital but instead had actual numbers with the slash marks. Old school. If my flimsy digital scale at home was a Honda Civic, Gretchen’s scale was a Porsche. It sat upon a sturdy board that allowed her to slide it out from its hiding place beneath her desk without disrupting the calibration. 

Gretchen recently shared with me that she kept the Little German Dictator under her desk to remind him of his place in the world. I get it now. Recovery is about so much more than weight.

“I’m going to ask you to step on backward,” Gretchen said as I took a deep breath and got ready to get on for my first weight check.  

WTF? I thought to myself and shot her a “are we really going to do this,” kind of look.

“Gretchen, I know what I weigh, and it doesn’t bother me,” I said casually, waving my hand in the air, to signal it was no big deal, trying to downplay the fact it was a huge deal. 

“Sweetie,” Gretchen said, in a voice that was patient yet authoritative, “I know this is difficult, but you are so thin and it is important to make sure you are gaining weight.”  

I stood there, standing by the scale in my stocking feet, trying to slow my racing heart and contemplated Gretchen’s words, not entirely convinced.

Sensing my hesitation she continued to explain that people with eating disorders are obsessed with numbers such as weight, clothing size, and portion size. That often, their lives have drilled down to a series of numbers that they have allowed to dictate their lives.  By Gretchen monitoring my weight gain it would take the numbers game out of it for me.  

DAMN DAMN DAMN, my own words screaming in my head. Gretchen was describing me perfectly. She was right. Of course I knew with the first uptick on the scale, I’d be running out the door (and down the street across town and... and... and.)

I used to pullout old pictures to remind myself I had a life before rules, structure and scales. A time when an ice cream sundae was not to be feared but to be enjoyed. I had forgotten. (With my aunt Julia circa 1978).

But the thought of stepping on that scale backward scared the hell out of me. Not because I didn’t want Gretchen to see the number but because I wanted to see it. I NEEDED to see it.

Over the years, I had come to rely on that number. It was more than about the weight, it was about safety. Seeing a consistent number on my scale every day was how I assured myself that I was okay. Regardless of what was going on in the rest of my life, it was the one thing that I felt I could control. If it crept up, it was a sign I was out of control in some aspect, and by tightening up on my diet and exercise routine, I knew I could bring it back down to a number that made me feel secure. By controlling my weight, I felt I was in control of everything else in my life.

The number on the scale was my compass, my steering wheel, and my safety net. Without it, I was sure I would lose control of everything I needed to be okay.