Page 72 of The Ground Beneath Our Feet
I wished I’d get to the point where I’d be rooted into the ground and belong.
Mikey’s house was only supposed to be temporary, but I already felt like I’d been there forever. I hadn’t even looked for other places to go.
When I stepped into the office of the therapist, classical music played and a fountain gurgled in the corner. Piles of Psychology Today magazines stacked on the tables.
I wasn’t sure why I was here. I wasn’t sure this was a good idea.
But I also knew I needed to stop shoving food down my throat anytime anything bad happened. Or anytime that anything good happened.
“Come in, Jessica.”
A woman wearing a batik dress came out and led me into the room. I sunk down into an ugly, plain, but very cozy chair.
I looked around the room as she waited, expectant. I wasn’t sure that I wanted to say anything.
But I didn’t think it would get better if I stayed quiet, and it hurt to stay silent. It hurt in a way that wouldn’t get better, unless I took out all those file folders in my head and dumped them out or set them on fire.
“Why did you come here?” she asked.
I immediately answered. “Because I don’t want to be fat anymore. And I think it has to do with something besides food.”
She nodded. I expected her to take notes or something. Todosomething. But she just listened. She didn’t fidget or dart her eyes all over the room. She wasn’t staring at me in a way that was uncomfortable. I knew that I had her whole attention.
And because I knew that she was listening, I kept talking. “I don’t eat because I’m hungry. In fact, I don’t remember the last time I ate because I was hungry. I eat because it’s time to eat, because I want to escape, because I’m happy, mad, sad, stressed, scared, or any other emotion. A lot of the time, I don’t feel any emotions at all. I’m too scared of them. Especially the bad ones. I stuff them all down with food.”
“You stuff your feelings down with food,” she repeated.
“I do. I can’t bring myself to actually feel the full depths of my emotions, because I panic. If I actually felt them, I think I’d die.”
“You have a fear of your feelings.”
“Yes. And that makes me the weakest person in the world. And it’s so stupid. I just need to diet and get this all done, and I keep sabotaging myself. I know it’s wrong. I know I’m being ridiculous. I just want to lose the weight.”
“What are your efforts to lose weight?”
“I can starve myself for a few days. Maybe even a few weeks. But I always gain it back and more. I always stuff myself. I have food right now at home to stuff myself,” I admitted.
“So you’re setting yourself up to fail.”
“Yes.”
“And you feel shame about your body and your eating habits.”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever stopped to think that your eating habits are beautiful?”
I looked at her shocked, and shook my head violently. “No. They are ugly and gluttonous. I eat too much. I’m not one of those dainty girls who sips. I shove food in my mouth as fast as I can to stop the pain. I don’t normally taste food.”
She leaned forward in her chair. “My job is to make you look at this in a different way. Suppose, just suppose, instead of it being ‘ugly and gluttonous,’ you’ve found an exquisitely beautiful way of dealing with the pain.”
I shook my head, but she continued. “Because it works, no? When you eat, you feel better.”
A dawning comprehension came over me. My eating habits came about because it was the only way I knew how to survive. And now I’d kept them longer than they were useful. But they still made me feel better. I nodded. “Yeah. When I eat, I always feel better. Until later, when I feel worse.”
“But if it works, there’s no incentive to give it up. It makes you feel good. Overeating is an exceptionally effective coping mechanism.”
I stared at her. I noticed wrinkles around her brown eyes, which gazed at me with wisdom and understanding. “How do I stop? How do I stop being so unhealthy.”
