Again I scrutinize the mirror, willing it to answer.
My reflection stares back, frustrated and expectant.
Do I even know the question anymore?
I don’t like talking about my eating disorder. Or perhaps, let’s personify “my eating disorder does not like being talked about.” I am not one of the teenagers who had a bout of anorexia, went to treatment and was able to move on. Atypical anorexia has burdened me for over half my life. I don’t think it is cured for all of us. Rather, in some, it becomes an illness like substance abuse that one must work at to avoid relapse.
This is where I find myself. The question used to be “am I fat?” or some variation of that, but aging and some measure of recovery and wisdom now points to the question being something more ambiguous like “am I good enough?” which will never be answered in a mirror nor will be changed by any measure of activity, body weight, or food intake.
I’ve never known good enough, but that’s beside the point. The point is my anxiety wants me to believe that if I just [insert eating disorder behavior here] I will be good enough [not fat]. When I successfully laugh at my eating disorder’s irrational process I am still left with tummy-swirling, chest stomping anxiety. 11 years of therapy, a few medications, various self help tricks, advice, and the single most helpful technique aside from exercise (which can bring with it potential problems particularly if you’re in recovery from an eating disorder.. moderation) is distress tolerance.
Sitting with the distress. Tolerating the feelings and knowing they will in fact pass. It’s terrible, I know. I wish I had a cooler answer. There are lots of techniques to tolerate the distress and YMMV on which one(s) work the best for you, so try many, but yep, good job Marsha Linehan.