What will you write?
You will need to be very very honest. Which, if you've been hiding your eating disorder and hiding your emotions and hiding all your self-loathing, will be hard for you to do. But hey, nobody needs to read it, except your counselor and you. Neither of those readers needs to be lied to, now do they? Especially if you want to get the root of what's going on...and eventually get better? Do you really want to keep dealing with this?
That's what I thought. So be honest.
Just to help you be brave, I'm going to include (ok, I'm going to edit some parts out...this is the internet after all. If you want the deleted parts, just email me! I'll tell you everything! But, then it will be quid pro quo, so, be ready!) my letter here. I just stumbled across it the other day, and I think it might resonate with some of you, and help you to write your own letter.
Dear Body,
First knee-jerk response: I hate you.
But, that's ungrateful, unChristian, and unreasonable, so I take it back.
I am humiliated and shamed by the parts of you I cannot control.
So, I want to control everything about you.
I'm pretty sure that when God made humans "in His image," He meant some metaphysical, spiritual capacity kind of way. He didn't mean in a farting, burping, snotting, puckering, dimpling, calcifying, swelling, bloating, and especially not menstruating and cramping kind of way.
Maybe in a fiercely beautiful dancer kind of way.
Maybe in an embrace kind of way.
Love notes to my body: Swimming underwater. Dancing (not ballet!). I tried to say sex, but there's the sense of being outside yourself, watching and disdaining. You won't behave, body, so I have had to starve you and run you near unto breakage. And still, stubborn thing, I could not win. There was limping and creaking and farting and acid and aching and inflammation, and always the acne, no matter whether I redoubled my efforts, vowed resurgence or vigilance. Whether I tried drugs or therapy, you would not comply. And, always the returning "gloom cloud" of my junior high journals, without circumstance or reason, the serotonin thickening like jello, till the synapses are mere flint sparks fizzing out, their messages undelivered. The wires are down, down I say, and it feels like a dirty trick.
I have seen the body in death, and worse, old age. None of this seems relevant to an omnipresent, omniscient, and all-powerful God. I also know the body doesn't "matter" to God insofar as it is a healthy and holy temple and able to be of service. So, body, serve.
I can't just give up on you, and let you go on, lolling in obscene obesity, sloth, gluttony--exactly what you would do if I let you. I alternately console and berate myself for my efforts. However inconsistent, at least I am still trying. But so tired of trying. I could say I'm doing better than some? But feeling better by comparing myself to "normal" people is pointless. Role model: Jesus. What about Jesus' body? I wonder. Tan from the relentless sun, lean from his meager supplies, and toned from all that walking, no doubt. Not tempted by whoopie pies, peanut butter, or a Recees cup? Let me satisfy, says the Bread of Life, when I want to gorge on Oreos? Jesus shared our fleshly temptations, but did he ever face an Oreo? Okay, so the Oreo can't be as bad as the actual devil, whom he did face, but I'd like to read a few verses that address the Oreo, all the same. As the model of self-depravation, His beverage of choice was the cup of suffering! If is Jesus my model then: I must be satisfied. Be sated. By Him. Like Him. If I whine because I can't gorge myself on Oreos, when there are people who can't even breathe on their own, I am indeed pathologically shallow.
Be not afraid...of humiliation? Of fat? Of ugly? Of all the body cannot do? It's stumbling, limping, malfunction? It's pruney crust and mortal weakness? The horror! The horror!*
Ok, so, dear body, if I can't hate you, then, indifference. I'm grateful for the essential functions. I'm grateful my assemblage doesn't prevent me from work or service. And, thanks for the babies, no really, good job. But when I slough off this mortal husk, good riddance. Bring on the heavenly gear, the effulgent spirit clothed in heavenly robes. Bring on the release. Oh, immutable joy.
Yours till then, concentrating on the gratitude part,
Tara
*Mr. Kurtz's final words in Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad. Read it.
You will need to be very very honest. Which, if you've been hiding your eating disorder and hiding your emotions and hiding all your self-loathing, will be hard for you to do. But hey, nobody needs to read it, except your counselor and you. Neither of those readers needs to be lied to, now do they? Especially if you want to get the root of what's going on...and eventually get better? Do you really want to keep dealing with this?
That's what I thought. So be honest.
Just to help you be brave, I'm going to include (ok, I'm going to edit some parts out...this is the internet after all. If you want the deleted parts, just email me! I'll tell you everything! But, then it will be quid pro quo, so, be ready!) my letter here. I just stumbled across it the other day, and I think it might resonate with some of you, and help you to write your own letter.
Dear Body,
First knee-jerk response: I hate you.
But, that's ungrateful, unChristian, and unreasonable, so I take it back.
I am humiliated and shamed by the parts of you I cannot control.
So, I want to control everything about you.
I'm pretty sure that when God made humans "in His image," He meant some metaphysical, spiritual capacity kind of way. He didn't mean in a farting, burping, snotting, puckering, dimpling, calcifying, swelling, bloating, and especially not menstruating and cramping kind of way.
Maybe in a fiercely beautiful dancer kind of way.
Maybe in an embrace kind of way.
Love notes to my body: Swimming underwater. Dancing (not ballet!). I tried to say sex, but there's the sense of being outside yourself, watching and disdaining. You won't behave, body, so I have had to starve you and run you near unto breakage. And still, stubborn thing, I could not win. There was limping and creaking and farting and acid and aching and inflammation, and always the acne, no matter whether I redoubled my efforts, vowed resurgence or vigilance. Whether I tried drugs or therapy, you would not comply. And, always the returning "gloom cloud" of my junior high journals, without circumstance or reason, the serotonin thickening like jello, till the synapses are mere flint sparks fizzing out, their messages undelivered. The wires are down, down I say, and it feels like a dirty trick.
I have seen the body in death, and worse, old age. None of this seems relevant to an omnipresent, omniscient, and all-powerful God. I also know the body doesn't "matter" to God insofar as it is a healthy and holy temple and able to be of service. So, body, serve.
I can't just give up on you, and let you go on, lolling in obscene obesity, sloth, gluttony--exactly what you would do if I let you. I alternately console and berate myself for my efforts. However inconsistent, at least I am still trying. But so tired of trying. I could say I'm doing better than some? But feeling better by comparing myself to "normal" people is pointless. Role model: Jesus. What about Jesus' body? I wonder. Tan from the relentless sun, lean from his meager supplies, and toned from all that walking, no doubt. Not tempted by whoopie pies, peanut butter, or a Recees cup? Let me satisfy, says the Bread of Life, when I want to gorge on Oreos? Jesus shared our fleshly temptations, but did he ever face an Oreo? Okay, so the Oreo can't be as bad as the actual devil, whom he did face, but I'd like to read a few verses that address the Oreo, all the same. As the model of self-depravation, His beverage of choice was the cup of suffering! If is Jesus my model then: I must be satisfied. Be sated. By Him. Like Him. If I whine because I can't gorge myself on Oreos, when there are people who can't even breathe on their own, I am indeed pathologically shallow.
Be not afraid...of humiliation? Of fat? Of ugly? Of all the body cannot do? It's stumbling, limping, malfunction? It's pruney crust and mortal weakness? The horror! The horror!*
Ok, so, dear body, if I can't hate you, then, indifference. I'm grateful for the essential functions. I'm grateful my assemblage doesn't prevent me from work or service. And, thanks for the babies, no really, good job. But when I slough off this mortal husk, good riddance. Bring on the heavenly gear, the effulgent spirit clothed in heavenly robes. Bring on the release. Oh, immutable joy.
Yours till then, concentrating on the gratitude part,
Tara
*Mr. Kurtz's final words in Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad. Read it.
Do you find yourself obsessing over calories, or limiting what you eat? Do you find you can't seem to be happy, no matter what the circumstances are? When Christians talk about joy, do you have no idea what they must be talking about? Or, when Christians say that you should love yourself, does that sound impossible, or even stupid?
Then you need my book. And, it's coming out soon! I'll periodically post sections from it here, and if you ever want a copy for yourself, just email me!
Then you need my book. And, it's coming out soon! I'll periodically post sections from it here, and if you ever want a copy for yourself, just email me!
