If those of us in recovery from eating disorders really want to turn the tables on weight, why not put weight on a turntable?
Consider the following: Anorexia and Fear of Weight Gain invade a life like Brain Epstein and The Beatles stormed the world of music. (No offense to The Beatles.) Once upon a time, the Anorexia Management Group detected a blockbuster future in the fledgling fear (i.e., of weight gain) that pervades all of humanity, and together, the two have created classic hits that shape (bad pun) existence.
Anorexia will work with any act available (because of a healthy, ahem, success-rate fueled by the ever-popular Fear of Weight Gain), so I signed on as a wannabe in 1979. In order to attain any kind of success, I had to follow the Anorexia Management Plan, which included fan-worship of Fear of Weight Gain. I did not question this requirement, as I already idolized Fear of Weight Gain. In fact, by that time, Weight-Gain Phobia looped constantly through my personal headset. And since that time, Fear of Weight Gain melodies have spun through my consciousness in a variety of genres.
Anorexia, being an opportunistic manager, oversaw my personal fear of weight gain in many ways. At one point in my life, when I was around 23 years old, Anorexia would allow me to withstand weight gain only on condition that my treatment providers lower my meal plan when I reached a certain number (no pun intended) that was well-below the “healthy BMI [not the record company, but an apt association, nevertheless]” range. In that particular instance, my treatment providers agreed with the demands, and my life revolved around that magic number (sorry, again, no pun) for the next five years. The process of getting to that number (all right, pun intended) from a much lower number, involved a lot of drama and a lot of compulsive movement to slow or contain the process, but ultimately, I “hit” that magic number. I had great motivation to do so: my family had decided to let me attend Stanford University on condition that I gained to that (ridiculously low-frequency) weight. Anorexia huffed a bit about all of this – the treatment and the (pitiful) weight gain – but the disease also had big plans for me in Cali, home of many (Anorexia-managed) celebrities.
I remember attending Stanford at that “goal” weight and feeling a tad odd – feeling as if I looked “normal,” and therefore no one would know I came from a proud history of eating disorder. As sarcastic as that last sentence sounds, I realize that the odd feeling arose from my desire to be special, a star – a status which anorexia demanded of me. Not looking the part proved disappointing, even though I probably looked the part just fine. Of course, I did not contemplate that I would never be a star through anorexia – Fear of Weight Gain is the star; I am merely an ardent groupie.
After experiencing a hefty weight loss (no oxymoron intended) at Stanford, I returned to Nashville (also known as “Music City”). Back home, I found two angry parents and a concerned doctor awaiting my arrival. For the next year, I spent day after day pretending to distance myself from Anorexia Management – at the time, I was an avid member of Overeaters Anonymous, which is a 12-step program that welcomes all eating disorders. I worked all the dials and controls in the 12-step studio except eat the meal plan designed for me by a dietician.
I did not eat the meal plan, because I could not extirpate Fear of Weight Gain and all its classics from my being. Plus, the siren-song of Anorexia Management blandished me at every turn with promises of life-long security.
I followed Anorexia’s recommendations, and I embraced Fear of Weight Gain.
As a result, Weight Loss never bothered me until it bothered others to the point that they got in my way. And if you have not had a chance to read some of my other posts, I will just mention here that when I was in my mid-20s, my parents and doctor committed me through the court system to treatment in Nashville. The only “locked unit” in Nashville by the mid-1990s was a dive-bar version of a 12-step treatment center. The lead psychiatrist there was crazy; I am not kidding. However, when he waltzed into court to argue how sick I was, and how much I needed to stay in his facility, he brought along, for the benefit of the Judge, the Weight Watchers weight-chart that stated the “normal weight range” for a woman of my height. The lowest weight on the chart was 15 pounds higher than the weight I had deemed suitable for myself at the last treatment center, so, naturally, I, with Anorexia Management arguing as a witness, objected to this crazy doctor. He won, nevertheless, and the court mandated that I stay under the scrutiny of this doctor and his treatment facility until I reached that weight and maintained it for six months.
Over the next two years, I sparred with that doctor and fought the higher weight with subterfuge straight from the Anorexia Album of Achievement. Finally, the doctor discharged me back to my home and told my parents to oversee the weight gain; he had done all he could do, quite literally, and still, I was 35 pounds below the court-mandated weight.
Once at home, something inside me – perhaps disgruntlement with my Manager – motivated me to reach that crazy doctor’s higher target-weight, which was the lowest weight on the Weight Watchers weight-chart for females of my height (if I did not make this fact clear a couple of paragraphs ago). This number also happens to be the lowest number on the BMI chart for my height. I thought that maybe, if I got to a truly “normal” – but still skating on the edge of “low” – weight, my life would improve in all ways: I would get my diploma, develop a career, find a partner, know happiness. Even if I had to dispense with the whole idea of stardom.
Anorexia held a grudge against this defiance and did not release me from my contract, and I did not attempt to breach it. Furthermore, I still adored the entire Fear of Weight Gain discography.
During my foray into “wellness,” my parents oversaw what I ate, because I could not follow a weight-gain-oriented food plan without assistance. I was 26-27-28-29-30-years-old during these years, and I still needed parental help in eating to gain. And with their patient (because I could get obdurate) assistance, I gained a lot of weight rapidly and maintained it, somewhat, for a few years. To assist my and Anorexia’s consciences during this time, I joined a gym and started running and lifting weights. The exercise really did not stop the initial weight gain – it might have slowed it somewhat, but my body determinedly put on those pounds. I reached that goal weight in a couple of months, and I stayed near it (well, just below it) for the next few years, all while exercising for “maximum health.”
I remained a fan of Fear of Weight Gain, and Anorexia Management still had me under contract, so eventually, this attempt at a normal life fell apart as I fled back to Anorexia Management time and again, and I turned up the volume on Fear of Weight Gain’s Greatest Hits.
After reading about ten paragraphs here of my directionless existence (by grace of Anorexia Management Company, who took all the needles from my life’s compass and gave them to Fear of Weight Gain and all the radio stations that play their albums), I bet you ask:
Can we change this record?
The record I just described teems with tracks, deeply engrained, of aimless and atonal agony. Forget society and its “Fear of Weight Gain” fandom; forget Anorexia Management with its false promises and utter greed for every bit of my personal budget (literal and figurative).
While I love music – LOVE IT – I cannot stand crap I do not like. I realize now that I do not like this crap one bit. I cannot hang onto Fear of Weight Gain material any longer; it makes my skin crawl. I want to toss every Fear of Weight Gain album like a frisbee into a bonfire of the past. Good riddance.
Right now, I have Curtis Mayfield’s “Keep On Keepin’ On” playing on my personal headset, from the 1971 album, Roots. I will plant the seeds of change here. Eat all that my battered body requests (high amounts) and gain all the weight it wants. Let’s turn the tables on weight, shall we?
