“I would just say, hope is just pretending to believe in something until one day you don’t have to pretend anymore.“(Former Ohio State Buckeyes offensive lineman Harry Miller NBC Today Show 3/21/22.)
11 Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. 2 For by it the people of old received their commendation. Hebrews 11:1 (ESV)
Sometimes, all it takes is some Imagination:
I stand and watch my granddaughter learning to ski from the bottom of the bunny hill. She moves her little skis from french-fries (skis in a straight line, parallel to each other), to pizza wedges (tips together, tails opened) and back again. She maneuvers her way down the slope; pizza to stop and turn, french-fries to coast straight and fast. There is a gentle rhythm that she begins to find as she skis her way back to us. The slope is wide open with plenty of space for generous sweeping turns as well as to tuck and ski satiating her need for speed. She pizzas her way to stop, sweeping her arms over head. “I am the Olympic Champion!” she declares.
Next up… ice skating! Her eight-year-old imagination takes her further into her pretend “Wide World of Sports.” She pretends to win each event and we pretend to place medals around her neck. It is her own little winter wonderland where she gets to pretend to be anything she wants to be. A Hope of the gold medal is found in each adventure.
I read the quote of Harry Miller and wonder what it would be like to not have to pretend to believe in something until one day I don’t have to pretend anymore? If pretending is hope, then I am filled with it. I am the great pretender. I am great at pretending, while holding onto hope that someday I won’t need to pretend. I will just be and won’t have to work so hard.
I believe I am somewhere in between hope and imposter syndrome, or between remission and a full recovery. By full, I mean, freedom from falling over the obstacles I try maneuver around day in and day out. I desire silence instead of the reverberation of the illness that calls for my attention.
As long as it takes:
How long do I need to pretend I am in a full stable recovery to feel whole, authentic, and real? How long does one have to fake it until they make it? I have decided it takes as long as it takes, and I am trying to be okay with this. Pretending or acting “as if “I never had an eating disorder has kept me alive and nourished. I know that I don’t have to like it, but I need to do it. I also know that surviving isn’t the same thing as thriving or living out of the fullness that God desires for me.
I didn’t like a melanoma diagnosis and the subsequent cancer surgery, and yet, surgery was the next right thing to do for survival. I didn’t and still don’t like the 8-inch scar down my leg, but it beats the heck out of having melanoma eating away at my body. As I enter short and bathing suit season, I pretend that I am not bothered by the scar. I must pretend it isn’t there because I can’t hide it beneath jeans and long pants in the heat of the summer. I have never tried to swim in jeans, and my guess is it would be quite cumbersome. I remind myself that I may have scars, and they don’t define me, nor do they define what my amazing legs can do. The more I pretend that this scar doesn’t bother me, the less I remember it is there. Could it be that the more I pretend that I am comfortable in this weight restored body, ease my discomfort? I have been living “as if” my one size too tight skin I live in doesn’t bother me, and yet…it does.
Will it always be an uphill climb of one false summit after another offering tiny moments of rest with just enough time to slow my breath and rest my limbs before I resume the assent? Hope is air in my lungs and untapped power I need to continue climbing, or to uncover my body as I slip into a bathing suit. Is my changed body a sort of battle scar pointing to surviving an eating disorder, just as my shiny scar points to beating cancer?
The difference in the scars is the ones of surviving anorexia are hidden, there is no outward evidence of a battle fought and won. Yes, there is the weight restoration, that feels like an ugly, jagged, scar, that the rest of the world sees as beautiful.
Stumbling:
Somedays I feel like Dick Van Dyke falling daily over the ottoman that he knows is in his path. How many times did the man have to trip and fall before he knew it was there and figure out a way to leap over it? Here is the thing, I know how to leap over the obstacles, I am just tired of hurdling and running, hurdling, and running, only to face another obstacle to hurdle and out run.
Often, when I am acting “as if,” it isn’t the obvious that trip me up, but the gravel of small things I slip and fall over. I fall over the picture posted by a friend on social media, a sideways glance into a mirror, it is my favorite pair of worn and patched jeans entombed in the bottom drawer, a well-intended comment about my body, or the insensitive nurse that hands me a summary of my visit with me weight on it. Some days the gravel can feel loose and other days, while shopping for new clothes, crying on the dressing room floor, it is shards of glass.
This is exhausting especially because I continue to do the next right thing believing the science that reports that the longer one stays weight restored and nourished the less aggressive the actual anorexia becomes until it eventually slinks away. For God’s sake “slink” away already!
I am still waiting, and I feel deceptive as I encourage clients to wait it out and just hang in there because it will get better. Honestly, I have no clue when or if it will get better. Well, that isn’t entirely true; it does get better, but it doesn’t feel like the freedom I desire. I hold hope that it will for you and me that one day we shall experience freedom. I must or I would just give up and give in. I would rather surrender to the angst, (most days) than surrender my life to the most deadly of all mental illnesses.
Game face:
I wonder if all those proclaiming healing and freedom are merely pretending because this is what they need to do. Do they need to project their “game face, to save face, or simply to save their lives. There is such a deluge of shame that washes over me when I come face to face with my inability to snip of all the relics of anorexia. No longer aggressive it now just torments me, buzzing around me like a mosquito. Even if doesn’t bite, it is so annoying and distracting. Do you know how many car accidents are caused by tiny insects distracting a driver? Ok, so I don’t have an exact number, but I can only imagine it would be considerable.
So, I pretend that recovery is full and as delightful as tripping through a field of daisies. I pretend that I love this weight restored body when most days, it feels like restless acceptance. I pretend that I am not fighting the desire to purge with all my focus and energy while pretending to pay attention to the conversation. I am pretending that I am not sad and lonely living in the residue of this illness. I pretend that I am not sad and lonely just because… I am sad and lonely and may always have the undercurrent of anxiety and depression running through me. I pretend that I have irradicated self-loathing and doubt, but it can bubble to the surface. I pretend for my clients, or maybe for myself that I hold a faith of certainty, when I am not even sure of who God is these days.
I pretend that going out to a fancy restaurant is a celebration of food, wine, and friends, instead of anxiety, fear and often calculating “safe” by perusing the menu before walking in the door. I pretend I am comfortable in my clothes. I pretend that your newest diet doesn’t trigger me. I pretend that I am not insulted when you come to me asking for my professional opinion, and then dismiss it. I quietly listen and I want to scream “then stop asking me! Go do your own hours of research, sit through CEU’s, etc. read the damn book, don’t read it, I don’t care. But do not, do not dismiss my lived experience, do not dismiss my pain, my journey.”
I am so tired of pretending that I am ok, and I am tired of the assumption of people that looking okay equates to being okay. Who am I kidding, even when I was so very thin and obviously sick, I was still expected to do life with my game face on.
Spoiler Alert!
I didn’t choose the “hard,” of an eating disorder, bur I did choose the “hard,” of beating anorexia one bite at a time. So, keep pretending, fake it until you make it and doing the hard work and one day I hope that you will find the freedom I have found. Remember that a false summit, leads to the summit. Keep climbing!