I remember the number

I remember the number on the scale the day I hit my lowest weight in high school. I remember the leotard I wore that day to ballet and the compliment I received. I remember the tasteless smoothie I drank that morning. And most of all, I remember the rush; the one that made me feel like I was suddenly powerful, beautiful, and worthy.

I journaled a lot during that time. 2 weeks prior, I had made a schedule of how much weight I planned to lose before spring break. 

“I’m seriously excited for this challenge. I need it. I need the sweat, the tears, the effort, the change.” 

And I did lose weight. 

Then gained it. 

Then lost it again. 

Fast forward 2 months later: 

“I feel like there’s no way out. I feel like the only escape is to sleep, so I use that escape and then wake up and feel darkness again. It’s all I ever think about, ever. I find momentary happiness, momentary forgetfulness, and then there are other times when I just feel like I’m sinking.” 

This was around the time that one of my dance teachers, with no idea what was going on, said “it’s like a light has gone out of you.” 

He was right. 

ED had sucked the life and light out of me. As my “health goals” turned more and more obsessive, ED ravaged my mind and led me to believe that I would never be happy until I lost weight. 

I’m sharing this because I saw a girl at the gym yesterday working out, then she stepped on the scale, looked at the number, and went back to working out. 

I’m sharing this because 4 years ago I was on exchanges with a sweet sister missionary on her first day in Perú and one of her first questions to me was: “Have you gained weight on the mission?” 

You could hear the fear in her voice. 

I’m sharing this because there are at least 3 billboards on my drive from Provo to Salt Lake advertising weight loss surgery and body transformations. 

I’m sharing this because one of my professors recently shared how much weight he lost this semester and the room applauded. 

I’m sharing this because for every “before and after” picture posted on social media, there is someone scrolling through their feed who exists in a larger body—a body the size of the “before” picture. And when they see it, they will hear the message loud and clear: lose weight.

And most of all, I’m sharing this for young Christine; and by extension, every young girl who currently feels like their body isn’t good enough. 

Did you know that 92% of teen girls (13-16) want to change one aspect of their appearance?

75% want to lose weight.

76% admit to unhealthy actions (binge, purge, laxative use) on a regular basis.

86% of USA women are dissatisfied with their body.

2/5 would gladly give up 3-5 years of life to reach their weight goals.

Working mom #1 wish in the USA is to lose weight.

90% of diets fail after 1 year. Dieting is a consistent predictor of weight gain.

Evidence suggests that repeatedly losing and gaining weight is linked to cardiovascular disease, diabetes, and altered immune function.
(stats from @heytiffanyroe) 

Something is wrong.
Something is deeply, deeply wrong. 

I am not anti-weight loss. I’m also definitely not anti-people who pursue weight loss. 
But I *am* adamantly, fiercely against a cultural paradigm that demands the pursuit of weight loss.

I remember the number.

I remember it because it defined me. My weight was part of my identity and manipulating my weight was my purpose. 

But the light had gone out.

I’m here to tell 17 year old Christine that she was not a failure. She did not lack self control. The darkness wasn’t her fault. She didn’t know it at the time, but she was suffering from a mental illness; one that no one seemed to talk about. 

She had an eating disorder. 

So do me a favor. Check on the teen girls in your life. Open up the dialogue surrounding mental health, body image, and diet culture. Eating disorders thrive on shame and shame thrives on secrecy. 

She might not be ready to open up, but maybe we can help her feel a little less alone, a little more loved, and a little more hopeful.

And for the love—please get rid of the scale. Or at least attach this sticky note to it.

For more background on my journey with an eating disorder:
http://christineparks.blogspot.com/2019/05/the-eating-disorder-that-no-one-talks.html

I'm angry

Every Monday, I sit in a group therapy session with 9 other women with a history of eating disorders and broken body image. Sometimes these sessions leave me in tears; other times laughing, in awe, grateful, or all of the above. But recently, I left one of those sessions with a new emotion—anger.

That week, we did an activity. Each of us took a turn standing behind our chair and introducing ourselves from the perspective of our bodies. To give you a visual, mine started out something like this: 

“I’m Christine’s body, and this is Christine. Christine and I had a good relationship for most of her childhood and youth, until she was about 15…” 

As we went around the circle, each of our bodies told its story. 

I sat there shocked at the themes that were unanimously experienced and felt by all 10 of us:

- Feeling cripplingly insecure about our bodies from a young, young age. 

- Believing we were flawed.

- Determination to change the way we looked. 

- Believing we would never achieve x, y, or z until we looked a certain way. 

- Irreparable damage caused by specific comments of body praise or body shaming. 

- Inability to focus on school, activities, and the people we love. 

- Hiding. Hiding our bodies. Hiding food. Hiding our pain. 

As I heard these stories it was like hearing my own. How could every story be so similar? Each of our bodies are so different. A few girls in the group are small and petite, one is pregnant, one is over 6 feet tall, one is polynesian, and a few are what you might call "average". How could bodies so vastly different be telling the same story? 

And then I realized—it had nothing to do with our bodies and everything to do with the toxic culture we grew up in.

And I was angry. 

I’ve been angry for different reasons since age 15. Angry at my body for changing. Frustrated at myself for binge eating. Resentful of my friends in smaller bodies. Distraught that I could never lose weight. 

But now, I'm angry at diet culture.

As Jennifer Rollin put it: “Instead of getting angry at your body- get angry at the systems of oppression which told you that your body is wrong."

That’s what we’re living in and that's what diet culture is—a system of oppression.

Christy Harrison explains it better than I ever could:
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"Diet culture is a system of beliefs that:

- Worships thinness and equates it to health and moral virtue

- Promotes weight loss as a means of attaining higher status, which means you feel compelled to spend a massive amount of time, energy, and money trying to shrink your body.

- Demonizes certain ways of eating while elevating others, which means you’re forced to be hyper-vigilant about your eating, ashamed of making certain food choices, and distracted from your pleasure, your purpose, and your power.

- Oppresses people who don't match up with its supposed picture of “health,” which disproportionately harms people in larger bodies, damaging both their mental and physical health."
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The girl in my group who’s pregnant gets emotional almost every Monday because she’s having a girl and has no idea how to raise that baby and protect her from the oppressive system that got her into an eating disorder. 

I’m defensive of that unborn baby. I’m defensive of every girl and young woman swimming in this toxic water, and I'm especially defensive of 15 year old Christine who thought her body was the problem. 

I don’t know that there’s a fix-all solution for this. But I do know of one thing that was incredibly healing through that activity a few weeks ago in group therapy:

Giving my body a voice. 

During that activity, my body and myself were two separate entities. As my body told its story, it talked about the turbulent period in my life when it was mistreated and hated. It talked about being denied not only physical nourishment but also connection and love. And then it spoke with gratitude of the miraculous change in our relationship; how I now feed it enough every day, I check in with it, I consistently move it in joyful ways, give it Chick fil A when that’s what sounds good, take it up beautiful mountains, let it rest when it needs to, appreciate its function and abilities and, (miraculously) even its form. 

We need to give our bodies a voice. 

We need to pay attention to our relationship with our bodies.

We need to defend and protect that relationship from the systems of oppression that try to destroy it.

It’s worth it. 

And to me, it’s worth getting angry. 

For more background on my journey with an eating disorder:
http://christineparks.blogspot.com/2019/05/the-eating-disorder-that-no-one-talks.html