Not Your Typical Love Letter

Staring down into the toilet, at the vomit that now was cradled by the porcelain toilet bowl, I felt a wave of relief cover me; I knew I had conquered the unconquerable. With the dull hum in my mind, slow bile crawling through my chest into my throat, and the achiness on my knees, I shifted and sat on the cold bathroom tiled floor, hugging my twelve year old knees to my chest. I rested my head on my arms, allowing my pink hair to softly fall onto my knees. A smile crept on my face as I exhaled. 

I don’t remember when I began binging and purging or when I realized I was engaged in bulimic behaviors. Here are the facts. I was surrounded by people who scraped at my soul daily, publicly teasing me about my weight. My mother was desperately trying to get me to lose weight, putting me on one fad diet then the next - vegetable soup, cottage cheese, raw potatoes… Boys in class leaned over to one another to whisper and snicker whenever I walked past them; “pig” was the most frequent insult hurled. Girls in my dance class questioned my ability because I did not look the part; “she only got the solo because she’s the teacher’s favorite…” Magazines, television, billboards reminded me that to be worthy, I must be skinny.

It was not a conscious decision, or maybe it was. It took care of my needs. Consume all the foods I desired to drown out the nastiness of the world. Feel the pain and discomfort that I created, not the ones inflicted by other people. Remove that pain and discomfort by forcing myself to vomit. And in doing so, cleanse myself of the very thing that caused me pain and discomfort.

I no longer battle bulimia. My faith journey began around that same time, when I met an unapologetic female, white youth pastor serving in a Korean Presbyterian church. She made her presence known, not only by her blazing red hair and belly laughter but in her authentic posture as she related to young people. I found her to be amazing for many reasons, but one of the most poignant things was that time she took to talk with me, listen to me, and teach me...about being perfectly imperfect, about unconditional love that had been extended to me by this all powerful being that is God, and about a worth that is not determined by the world’s standards. Even though I kept much of myself, my chaos and my story clutched close to my heart, I felt seen by this person. And in that same season, I learned about being known by a God who cares deeply about the fine tapestry of each of our lives, even amidst the chaos we create and the chaos that erupts around us. 

High school required physical healing, given the damage I had done to myself from the minutes and hours I had clawed my insides. I am not sure who knew about my struggle back then, but when I look at pictures of myself from then, it is wild to note how thin I was yet distinctly remembering how I truly saw myself, as morbidly overweight, and therefore, ugly and repulsive. It is amazing the ways our own minds can betray us. All the years since have required ongoing emotional and mental healing, much of which I am still learning how to do, identifying the unlearning that is needed and choosing to unlearn and learn every morning. 

I no longer battle bulimia, but my relationship with food remains complicated. On that bathroom tiled floor, as that smile crept over, I cradled satisfaction. Satisfaction birthed from the realization in my adolescent mind that I did have control. In the quietude of the bathroom, I held control over my environment - my parents working endless hours to make ends meet and fighting as our family’s favorite pastime, verbal with the periodic object or fist hurled… I learned to walk on eggshells from dusk until dawn at home, committed to being the last possible catalyst to the already haphazardly planted landmines. 

In the small corner of my world, my relationship with food allowed me to regain a semblance of order and steadiness. If there was going to be pain, I would decide it. If there was going to be a rejection of the pain, I would decide it. That relationship has not changed drastically. Of course I have gained more knowledge about healthy habits and suffered the consequences of harming my physical body; however, my battle with and my need for control continues. 

The chaos in my immediate vicinity has in many ways subsided, perhaps it was a matter of time or intentional efforts to heal relationships and rely on community care, but in that same time, my environment has widened as my story wrote itself, both personally and professionally. In these continuous expansions, I find so much beauty and joy - in relationships, experiences, and adventures. But I also find so many more sources of chaos and pain, seeped deep into the fabric of our society and systems… And when that chaos seems to be all too consuming, there are moments, even if brief, where my mind betrays me, my unlearning evades me, and the desire for order and steadiness overwhelms me.  

Epilogue (is there such a thing in a blog post?)

I recently finished Untamed by Glennon Doyle and she writes:

“I am beginning to unlearn what I used to believe about control and love. Now I think that maybe control is not love. I think that control might actually be the opposite of love, because control leaves no room for trust - and maybe love without trust is not love at all. I am beginning to play with the idea that love is trusting that other people Feel, Know, and Imagine, too…it is wild to let others be wild.” (p. 316)

And it is also wild to allow ourselves to be wild. To love ourselves from an overflow in order to trust our Feel, Know, and Imagine. To allow ourselves to extend love and trust to ourselves in order to block that need for control to even enter a place within our minds. It is an ongoing journey, one that is tumultuous, riveting, necessary.

I am learning to love and trust my Feel, Know, and Imagine. And to be wild.

One of three selfies or pictures I have of myself alone since this pandemic started. But, this is me. Wild and free.