In this webinar, Chasing Silhouettes author Emily Wierenga is joined by bestselling author and mental health expert Gregory Jantz, Ph.D., along with author and founder of FindingBalance.com, Constance Rhodes, as they discuss how you can help a loved one struggling with an eating disorder. From simple steps that help identify if someone you know has an eating disorder to ways to intervene to tips on how to help someone begin the road to recovery, this webinar is full of practical information for those who want to help a friend or loved one.
Almost sickly. His arms look like a boy half his age.
We’re in Canada at a boy’s retreat and my heart goes out to him so I look him square with empathy because I’m ready to hear his story, whatever it might be. Because there is healing in the telling, in the opening of one’s heart and mouth to give voice to the fears residing there.
Fear exposed is fear crippled, so he opened his mouth and began.
“It started a year ago… and it nearly ended one night in the emergency room five months after.”
Twenty boys sit quiet, listening.
“I have a twin brother. He’s the popular one. He’s more accomplished. Girls liked him better. I think my parents did too. And I hated him for it.” …
(for the rest of this post, and a giveaway, follow me to Duane Scott’s place HERE?)
So I began stumbling down this dark path, numb and despondent me, groping along as if blind. And somewhere around the age of 12 or 13, I began to have an aversion to eating. Greasy hamburgers made my stomach turn, and when placed in front of me, I begrudgingly ate a few small bites, and then threw it up.
I was so dislocated from everyone else. They were all enjoying the meal together and talking and laughing but it was like I was on the outside of a dark glass, looking in, unable to join in, this depressed bubble impermeable. I did not like mealtime–I spent my time closed off in the bathroom–isolated, all alone. Paranoia consumed me. When anyone made a comment about how little or how much I ate, the paranoia wrestled me to the ground and strangled me. I suffocated under the weight of this monster. I couldn’t breathe.
The only comfort to me was the only thing familiar–me–just the way I’d always been. The little girl me was scared and didn’t want to change, didn’t want hips, extra fat, things I didn’t recognize–I was losing me. Maybe I was trying to control a life that felt a little like it was on a runaway train. Maybe this was the way I reacted to the negative things said about me–I self-inflicted pain.
I scratched at the wounds and let them bleed out.
No one had to teach me to throw up; I just had an innate response to emptiness.
Maybe I thought if I hugged the cold round bowl enough and let everything force its way out, I could force-empty myself of the pain. But the more I did, the further I sunk into misery and numbness. As the days went by, I ate less and less.
My mother took me to the doctor to figure out what was wrong…why did I lie on my bed all the time and read? Why didn’t I go outside and play like other kids my age? Why did I drag around, listless, no energy? The doctor said there was nothing wrong–suggested vitamins and a well-balanced diet.
Sliding down the hallway doorpost, 14, I was a slumped mess and tears pouring, a girl completely lost and alone. My father had taken a job as a pastor, moved us to a new state where the girls were mean and didn’t like new-comers and pushed me down a flight of stairs. Every day at school they hounded me hard, wrote cruel poems about me, laid them on my desk, snickered as I read, my face flaming hot. They tried to make me ashamed of who I was, hated me and wanted me to hate myself too.
My only solace was the dark sanctuary and seeking God in music at the piano where a young man too old for me would come in and stand behind, bend down, breathe on my neck, lips close to my ear as I played–wherever I went, he would always find me.
My parents were at the church almost every day working and most of the time my sister was there with me–but I was so lonely for relationship and the safety of home. This day I was there by myself, in a heap in the floor, the wet hot liquid boiling over, no friends, and I huddled and rocked back and forth, home silent and dark.
And dark were the places I went to in my mind.
I lie there in the lukewarm tub, holding the razor and thinking hard on how nice it would be to end it all, the blade to my wrist, Satan hovering, his grip tight.
Then a knock came to the door.
Someone had come to my rescue.
My Father had come to check on me–wanted to know if I was okay. The Holy Spirit had prompted him that something was wrong and to see about me. I got out of the tub and eventually came out of the bathroom.
My parents talked and prayed with me, confronted me about what they felt was going on with me. I was balled so tight with a mix of hurt, abuse, despair and depression, and I broke open and began to shake uncontrollably. My father brought juice to calm me down and my mother looked me right in the eye and prayed against Satan’s tight control over me.
I can’t really explain what happened, but in that moment I was healed. Satan left because God was in the midst. His presence was powerful to save and I was so thankful my parents loved me enough to intervene for me like that. Love drives away all fear.
I still had emotions and habits that tended toward anorexia–but I felt the freedom of what it feels like to recover and get better day by day. I began to laugh and smile. I continued to exercise, and I also ate. My parents encouraged me and kept me accountable.
There were times, even years down the road, of short relapse and I would lie in bed, after only eating grapes that day, happy with my caving-in stomach and the feeling of hunger and the control I exercised over it.
But God’s truth prevailed in my life.
Today, I still sometimes look at myself in the mirror, and I don’t like the girl that I see. The years of self-abuse left its mark on me and the abuse and taunting from others, they cut deep wounds that needed stitching and I see threads of hate woven throughout my life still. I am hard on myself. I judge myself harshly according to society’s strict marginal laws beauty falls within. Our culture with its shallow view of beauty, with air-brushed models in swimsuits, hands us a standard to strive toward that doesn’t even exist. It’s an illusion and my human mind spins to keep up. It’s a mirage and my sight is distorted.
But God.
God’s grid and His definition of beauty are different. There is no specific margin for height, width, number on the scale, or size of clothing with God.
And so, as I grow from girl to woman, and more babies come, and hips spread to give life, skin stretches and sags, I place my identity and my beauty in His hands, and I draw from that deep, deep well of His love and acceptance.
And as I begin to walk out this love and acceptance, it isn’t something that happens overnight, but as with all of life, it is by process that I learn this, extending to the marrow of me–I begin to figure out, as one of my commenters reminded me:
“Your adornment (is) the interior disposition of the heart, consisting in the imperishable quality of a gentle and peaceful spirit, so precious in the sight of God” 1 Peter 3:4….
The Message says it this way: “What matters is not your outer appearance–the styling of your hair, the jewelry you wear, the cut of your clothes–but your inner disposition. Cultivate inner beauty, the gentle, gracious kind that God delights in. The holy women of old were beautiful before God that way, and were good, loyal wives to their husbands.” 1 Peter 3:4, The Message
This is what God says about my beauty, about this frail, human body:
“Oh yes, you shaped me first inside, then out; you formed me in my mother’s womb. I thank you, High God–you’re breathtaking! Body and soul, I am marvelously made! I worship in adoration–what a creation! You know me inside and out, you know every bone in my body; You know exactly how I was made, bit by bit, how I was sculpted from nothing into something. Like an open book, you watched me grow from conception to birth; all the stages of my life were spread out before you, the days of my life prepared before I’d even lived one day. Your thoughts–how rare–how beautiful! God, I’ll never comprehend them! I couldn’t even begin to count them–anymore than I could count the sand of the sea. Oh, let me rise in the morning and live always with you! ” Psalms 139:13-18, The Message
“She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come. She speaks with wisdom, and faithful instruction in on her tongue. Proverbs 31:25,26, NIV
“Charm can mislead and beauty soon fades. The woman to be admired and praised is the woman who lives in the Fear-of-God.” Proverbs 31:30, The Message
My Prayer:
God, I want real beauty. I want to be a servant with worn spots of motherhood on me. Let me wear the work apron in place of fine jewels and instead of being obsessed with lashes lavished with makeup, let me have eyes that are a place of found grace when my kids have fallen into sin, not lingerie-store pushed up and out, but a soft breast for little ones to fall asleep on, and not a perfect hour-glass figure, but a wife and mother that prays on the hour for You to come love them through me, and not a mother who checks herself in the mirror, mumbling insults in front of little ears, but a mother and wife that whispers in the ears of those she loves the beauty that a God-made heart holds….
If you want to read the first part of this story, you can go here to Nacole’s blog…
i wrote the majority of my eBook in a week during the summer.
i knew immediately what it was i would be writing about – all spring there was this recurring theme of pulling the little girl inside out of hiding. allowing her a voice, a chance to speak to me and an opportunity for me to listen.
it’s a hard lesson to learn.
through these exercises, i came to accept my broken relationship with food and how memories of my past fueled these tendencies to binge.
pairing these two things together took 25 years.
25 years of turning to food for comfort.
25 years of hiding my emotions in a milkshake.
25 years of fearing God instead of falling into an intimate trust.
it was reading a book in which the author stated that our feelings and habits toward food begin as early as four years old that i broke.
sitting in my counselor’s office, i whispered the words i think i have an eating disorder and she began telling me that the method of survival when i was younger – my life jacket that got me through the day – had now become my straight jacket.
in other words, what gave me relief from pain before was now keeping me from experiencing true freedom.
and when i shared with her that i remember hiding in the food pantry shoving as many cookies in my mouth as i could muster, she smiled.
“of course you did. it’s how you found love. but now you have resources to fight it.”
and i do fight it. daily.
it’s been proven that the very dendrites sparked at the moment of hunger are the same dendrites sparked and used in moments of rejection and despair.
slowly, these automatic reflexes are trading out for normal ones. i know where to go now – i know i can call a friend, know i can whisper weakness to my husband.
even more: i know how to listen to the little girl.
here’s the thing – for so long, my response to emotional pain of any kind reflected a life lived numb. i’d silent her pleas for attention, my heart growing cold to the tiny finger raising an objection.
writing this book was a small step in giving her a voice.
it’s not long and it embraces the messiness of my past few months of healing. but this is why i feel it’s so important – i’m not healed completely – i still struggle and i still have days where i fight the voices telling me i’m not good enough. it only takes a second – whether it be words read or a conversation overheard – for me to reach for numbing agents.
but God.
it’s in these moments i cling to grace and remember the words of a wise friend – baby steps count, elora. always.
and i turn from running, take a deep breath, and let Beauty wash over me one more time.
buy elora nicole’s new eBook, ‘When Beauty Pursues You,’ here.
I looked through old pictures today. It is difficult for me to look at these pictures – painful and raw and heart-wrenching, actually. Four years after being completely set free, I still weep almost every time I look at them. I battled B for 6 long years before he finally left for good. Six years I can’t get back. Six years I can’t erase. But I am blessed. Many fight for a lifetime. Many lose.
I think I cry for the girl in the pictures because she can’t cry herself. Her eyes are hollow. Her gaze is empty. Her life is gone. She’s dead inside. Beauty is all around her, but she doesn’t even see.
But I also cry because I’m grateful. I’m thankful that God helped me win the fight. I can cry. My eyes are bright. My gaze is fixed on the ones I love. I’m alive. And, I can see the beauty all around me.
(This is part six of a six-part series on Bulimia by Deidra Manning)
*For videos and discussion questions on how to heal from an ED, please visit here.
**Thank you for prayers re: safe delivery of my second son. He was born on July 25 at 11:50 am; Kasher Jude, 8 lbs, 14 oz. We are delirious with exhaustion and joy.
B was so angry at me. He harassed me endlessly and without mercy. He tried convincing me that I wasn’t strong enough to live without him. B made fun of me. And for the first time ever, I told him to shut up.
After finding out how much it would cost to stay at the clinic, we were informed I would have to stay for at least three months and that insurance wouldn’t pay for anything. Yet again it seemed impossible for me to achieve freedom from B. We were already barely scraping by, and we had no one able to care for the children while I was away. We went home with deflated spirits, feeling as though the help that seemed so close was actually light-years away.
But something really important happened the following week. I made a choice. The more I thought, the more I realized I could still win. I let B in and I could kick him out. Even though I couldn’t stay at the clinic, I could still fight. I could live. I had to live.
And live I did – one day at a time. Each day I got stronger and stronger and listened to B less and less. I’d like to say that B left completely the day I kicked him out, but I would be lying. He brought luggage and crates and chains with him when he moved in. He had the place decorated nicely. B was comfortable in his home and refusedto be evicted. I battled B for another 3 years before he finally left for good.
For me there was no magic formula – no set of steps to lead the way out. Unable to afford the help of doctors, I knew I had to help myself. I decided I wanted to live. I prayed, I cried, I researched, I read, I released and I fought. My husband loved and supported me unconditionally. God reached down, picked me up, and carried me to safety. He had heard me all along, but He wanted me to fight. He showed me my life was worth living. He gave me a story to tell.
(This is part five of a six-part series on Bulimia by Deidra Manning)
*For videos and discussion questions on how to heal from an ED, please visit here.
**I am due with our second child today; please pray for God’s hand on little Kasher Jude… I will keep you posted
B always did the talking. He never let me speak. If I so much as uttered a sound in his direction, screams, curses, and taunts immediately ensued. He tried to keep me silent, but B was finally losing some of his influence. I knew who he was, why he was there, and how he worked. I was tired of his torturous rampages. I slowly built the courage to attempt to break free.
Irregular heartbeats and fainting spells were becoming a regular occurrence. I knew it was getting bad and if I didn’t do something, B would win. He would kill me. My children would have no mother, my husband would be a 27 year-old widower, and my mother would lose her only daughter. That would be my legacy – a vast trail of tears pointing to my grave.
And so I told. On a Wednesday night on the way home from church I spilled the black sludge of my deceit, self-hatred, depression, and bulimia into my husband’s lap. He sat there. He listened. And in the beautifully peaceful way he always does when things go wrong, he looked me in the eye and told me it would be okay. And just like always, I believed him.
We talked for a long time and I felt the weight of a thousand worlds lift off my shoulders as I released the colossal deluge of waters dammed up inside. It felt so good to tell truth. He told me he had known for a long time that something was wrong. He presumed I was lying each time I made up a reason to go to the store to buy more laxatives. He sensed my vomiting was far more than the stomach issues I pretended to have. He realized my exercise obsession was out of control.
A few weeks later I scheduled an appointment at an eating disorders clinic in Tallahassee, Florida which was only a short drive away. Knowing how afraid I was, my husband drove me there so I wouldn’t be alone. B didn’t like that. He harangued me the whole way there. He tried to trip me as I entered the office. He sought to silence my voice. But this time, I didn’t listen.
I met with a psychologist and at the end of a lengthy discussion, she recommended that I be admitted to the in-patient facility. I was devastated. Her insistence that I stay was like a knife that pierced my soul. I had to make a choice.
(This is part four of a six-part series on Bulimia by Deidra Manning)
*For videos and discussion questions on how to heal from an ED, please visit here.
B was winning. He had taken over and I was unable to stop him. At first, I thought we would just be friends. I thought we would talk occasionally and that I would call only when I really needed him. He could deliver consolation for the current set of woes, and maybe every once in a while he would drop by for a quick visit and then be on his way. I never imagined things could get so out of hand.
When B started visiting every day, I kind of liked it. There was a certain level of comfort I experienced when he was there. I felt empowered and strong. It seemed as though I had mastered my universe. I finally had control. I was looking pretty good, too – sixty pounds lost in five months and still losing. Everyone said I looked so good. They were all impressed with the transformation. People quizzed me about my secrets to success and praised me for my self-discipline.
I liked the attention. People finally acknowledged me. I no longer felt like just another mini-van mom who let herself go. I looked like my old self again. No baby bulge, a spring in my step, and nothing inside. Empty. The thin, pale shell on the outside reflected that truth, but no one could see it. I hid it with cute clothes and a fake smile. I hid behind chubby babies that clung to every part of me.
“Just watching what I eat and exercising,” I would say to people who asked for the secret of my success. Actually, that part was true. I was carefully recording my food intake and I was exercising. But these were concocted code words designed to hide the ugly truth. “Watching what I eat” really meant that I didn’t eat at all and if I did, I threw it all up within 30 minutes of consuming it. And just to be sure I got everything, I used laxatives, and not just one or two. My body became immune to their effects, requiring that I take more and more. I was up to 30 a day. “Exercising” really meant that I was obsessed. I worked out until I couldn’t move anymore.
I wanted B to leave. I asked B to leave. I prayed so hard every day that God would take B out of my life. What kind of Christian was I, anyway? Did God even hear me? Why would He help someone who was weak enough and sad enough and dumb enough to listen to B? I did it all to myself.
(This is part 2 of a six-part series on Bulimia; if you or someone you know struggles with this disease, please contact myself or Deidra, who wrote these gripping posts…)
when asked what they wanted to do with their lives, her children answered “to love Jesus the best that we can.” and i wondered her secret, the secret of the mother behind these voices. she insisted, “nothing! i just pray.”
but then i learned this: when her youngest, who’d lost a friend, stopped talking for a week, she cancelled all of her appointments and cleared her schedule so that “when he decides to talk, i’ll be there to listen.”
when he decides. i’ll be there.
there’s so much to this role of parent, but this, i think, sums up the kind of love we’re all looking for: the kind that lets go, but never leaves.
she let him decide when he was ready to talk, but she swept everything else off the table and sat, waiting, for him to decide, and he knew. he knew that, by her doing this, he was her life. her children were her life. her number one ministry, and isn’t this what we all want? to be loved with this kind of love? the kind that longs for the best for us, the kind that has another life but is willing to die to it in order to help us live?
there’s no way to save your child from the pain. many will be forced to see things, to learn things, to know a kind of pain far too mature for any child, and there’s no way to stop this. the world will enter your home. but you can choose to be there when it does. sitting, waiting, and letting your child be the one who decides when to talk.
as Christ does, for us.
*for videos and lessons on how to walk in wholeness and healing, please visit here.
**PS. friends–just wanted to let you know about a great conference next month for those impacted by eating disorders and body image issues. i’m speaking at it, and can tell you it will be a great time of learning and inspiration for professionals and community members alike. this year’s theme is “A Family Affair” so we’ll be getting into all those fun family dynamics, and learning how to love well in the process of treatment and recovery. it’s at the Glen Eyrie Castle in Colorado Springs June 15-18. click here to see a slideshow from last year, see this year’s schedule, and to register. and if the only thing that’s keeping you from going is funding, let me know!
