Appetite

I feel as though I am constantly at war with my own body... and because it is not a battle fought in the typical, society-approved way, I also feel... alone.

So today, I write to you, dear stranger, in strokes of hard truth.

I am not anorexic, or bulimic, but those words have been thrown at me often. Sometimes venomous, sometimes with real concern… but the intention doesn't matter anymore. It all stings the same.

I will not be making a comparison to the tormented self-esteem of those who have been ridiculed for being over-weight. The two are polar opposites, and trying to box them together only contributes to the formation of warped stereotypes.

Someone who is desperately (or even casually) trying to shed those extra pounds, will find it very difficult to ever empathize with someone like me.

I love ice-cream, cupcakes, fruit roll ups, nachos and bacon. (Oh the bacon).  I am a reclusive stoner and I never go to the gym. I never buy low fat or diet anything. I never have to look in the mirror and wonder if something makes me look fat. So, as far as the outside world is concerned, I don’t have a weight issue at all.

Except I do. I am under-weight. Not always, but most of my life I've struggled with my appetite, and the consequences are only getting more extreme as I get older.  The list of foods I don’t like is lengthy, and even as a child my mother had serious issues getting me to finish a meal.

If I don’t eat right when I am hungry, I don’t get hungry for the rest of the day.  And even if I do manage to hit the hunger-window accurately, it dissipates quickly, and I end up forcing down as many more bites as I possibly can before the opportunity is gone.

I count calories; to make sure I eat more than I burn. I step on the scale every day, fearful the numbers will read lower than the day before.  I take pills, and powders… hoping for some sort of scientific miracle. I scour articles from experts who all claim to have the answers, sometimes for hours, attempting one extreme weight-gain plan to the next. And maybe they work for some people. But not for me.

Very recently, despite new medications to balance my stomach acid, and the added bonus of living with my sister for a while (who is a nutritionist with three kids and lives in a house overflowing with healthy food)… the drop has become much more significant, and the changes happening faster than I can accommodate. Blaming circumstance is possible (I got involved in roller derby, managed to drag myself out of a destructive relationship, moved to a new city, and received a nasty flu as my arrival gift, still lingering after weeks of feeling like complete shit) but it doesn't help me to pretend this is temporary, or hide behind helplessness and convince myself there is nothing I can do.

Some people eat their stress.  I starve mine… and being aware of the issue, doesn't seem to stop it from happening.  I took all the steps they say are necessary. I established a support system, and a routine. I made mental lists of every food high in “good fat” content, and quickly erased half of it in honour of my unbelievably frustrating taste-buds and their aversion to so many common food items. Prescription drugs aren't making any noticeable difference; even the herbal remedies no longer instill the same vigorous munchies of my youth.

I miss my curves. I miss the way my boobs used to bounce around when I ran. I miss the jiggly part of my thighs… fuck, I even miss the love handles I used to wish weren't so prominent.

I wish you could see the look of pure fucking judgment I get from most people while attempting to explain this.

“Just eat.” They say, because it’s so easy for most of the world. Or “You’re skinny. You should be thankful.”  Oh right. How silly of me. I am very thankful for this protruding rib-cage and shrinking stomach. Mostly though, I just love when other people tell me how I should feel without even attempting to sympathize.

I am not sure what I hoped to accomplish in sharing this with you, but it does feel nice to end it all with sarcasm… and a faded glimmer of potential understanding.

Oh metaphor, I've missed you.

Concrete steps, half wet from the remnants of melting snow, make a nice smoking spot. Nothing too spectacular about them, or the scenery they provide. It’s Canadian suburbia, neat rows of family homes nestled in side-by-side. It seems like everyone has a minivan, and a big, loud, white truck. Not surprising for super-moms and oil rich Alberta boys (the ‘grown up’ versions).

 So I find myself on some damp steps, watching smoke swirl away through this picture of domestic paradise…and I still feel like… something is missing.

 I look to the setting sun, and laugh. Of course.

 The neighbour on my left has a rather ugly thicket of branch-like trees lining the edge of his property, and the sun sets right behind them. Through those branches, I can see my preferred version of suburbia. The one with pieces missing. Not just behind trees, but every little thing we can’t see, behind all the beautiful doors and windows. Each one covering up all the secrets, the lies, the scandals, the anger, the sex. 

And the love.

 The kindness and the patience enclosed in lace curtains. The beauty of what I already knew, vividly contrasted against the poetry of what I didn't know, and would never know. Missing pieces of my setting sun, inspired a profound image of individuality.

 I am not a box. I am a million pieces of cardboard… most of which, no one else will ever see. Even if I could write down every one of my experiences, choices, adventures, thoughts, and memories, at every point in my life… they would still be incomplete. I can’t write the smell of the river-bank flowers from my childhood home.

But I can remember.

No one, not my parents, my siblings, or even my son.. will EVER know who I really am. Their version of me, and your version of me, is missing pieces.

 It’s a setting suburban sun seen through the shadows of tree branches.