April's CR Diary

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August 23, 2005

Somewhere A Curse Had Been Lifted

That's a line from an Edie Brickell song called "Olivia." I've always loved the song, and this weekend that line rang rather true. In the past, other lines have jumped out at me, but I'll leave it to the hardcore Edie Brickell fan to figure that out.

I have blogged often, most recently in the issue Campaign for Real Beauty, about my aversion to the backlash against women who really are thin and/or beautiful. I've written very passionately on the subject, and I've often wondered if you've wondered what the hell happened to me to make me such a freak about it. Well, I feel like it's time to tell you.

To make a long story short, and with the names changed to protect the guilty:

In 2002, I left my then-home in New Jersey to go to Vermont to take on the biggest career challenge of my career to date, a career challenge that if I was successful would make me somewhat famous in my profession. There was no guarantee of success, and I left everyone close to me, taking only a small calico cat, to venture off into the wilds and slay the big dragon.

To take on this challenge, I had to supervise a staff of ten, seven of whom were women. I was excited about this because I had met them before, and they welcomed me onboard as something of a savior. They had hated the person whom I replaced, a man, and they treated me at first like a conquering heroine, the architypical strong female leader.

It wasn't long before things began to go bad. It started with questions about how I dressed, how I looked. As you have probably figured out, I am the kind of girl who wears make-up and dresses in a feminine style. I am rarely seen in pants, I have long hair, and as I write to you now, my nails are painted a nice shade of red. In Vermont, women tend to dress in more hippie style, with little or no makeup, and high heels are rare. In the ultra-left culture of Burlington, VT, it seemed to call one's feminism into question to appear at work in a dress with red nails.

So my female staff began to criticize me. Publically. Staff meetings rapidly became a referendum on how April looked, dressed, and acted. How did these people get away with what is clearly unprofessional behavior? Well, that's a long story, which I'll save for my blog about screwed up organizational politics. Suffice it to say that I had no power to fire them, and indeed had to get along with them well enough to make them work so that we could prevail in an effort where 1200 people's work lives depended on us.

It wasn't just about my looks. It quickly became about my sexual behavior too. I had begun a relationship with a fellow worker in the organization. Both of us were single, and we were not in a supervisory relationship. But the women on my staff decided that this was immoral. I was called a whore to my face, in a staff meeting. I was accused of sleeping my way to the top (to which I have always wished I had the wit to respond, "*This* is the top???") I was accused of having an affair with a married friend (luckily, the next day, his wife sent me a gorgeous bouquet of flowers for my birthday. Scratch that accusation!)

Every day when I went into work, I was subjected to insults, questions, and criticism. Almost worse was the whispering behind my back: the way the conversation would stop the second I walked in the room. The way no one but my one loyal friend (a man) would eat lunch with me.

Needless to say, I was stressed. There I was, a stranger in a strange land, attempting to do a very important job, and being attacked every day for my looks, my clothing, my relationships, and my sexuality.

Work wise, I held up beautifully. I led the campaign to stunning victory. The staff never doubted that I was a great organizer... in fact, they used to call me a genius. They just said that I was an evil genius! That I used my bewitching powers to enslave men. That I was a part of the patriarchy. Never mind that I had spent seven years helping a workforce of primarily WOMEN achieve economic independence and empowerment.

But emotionally, I was a mess. One by one, I had watched the women I thought were my friends betray me. My body started to fall apart. I couldn't eat, and had trouble keeping food down. My loyal friend John would sit with me every day while I tried to eat, attempting to tempt me with yummy treats. He was there when I couldn't stop throwing up. One day he almost picked me up and took me to the hospital because we thought I was throwing up blood... until we remembered that I had eaten a few grape tomatoes! I wanted to eat... I wasn't anorexic or bullemic! But I was so terrified and hurt that my body wouldn't accept nourishment. I shrunk. On May 29th, I weighed about 123. On July 26, I weighed 110.

And it was not a healthy 110. I didn't know to get protein or healthy fats. When I did eat, it was mostly spaghetti with marinara, or anything I could get down. I looked like a ghost. My skin was ashy and white, and my clothes hung off me in an unappealing fashion. I looked nothing like I do now, at a healthy, well-nourished, well-loved 103.

I was diagnosed with cervical dysplasia.

Eventually, I went home. I was offered many jobs after the triumph in the campaign, and I took the one where I could go home to Philly and work with a team of people I already knew and respected, especially a colleague who I knew would never, ever let staff walk on me again. I entered an environment of tremendous support, and have loved going to work every day.

But the emotional effects of the trauma didn't subside so quickly. When I read the description of post-traumatic stress disorder, I am fairly sure I had it. I was easily startled. I had terrible insomnia. I had hideous anxiety and was constantly convinced that something awful was about to happen. I was terrified everytime I had even the slightest conflict with friends or family that they would leave me forever.

I started to gain weight. In part, I was refeeding from the starvation. But I wasn't refeeding with eggwhites and flax oil... I was refeeding with nachos and margaritas. There was a part of me that wanted to get fat so that women would stop hating me and calling me a slut. Surely, if I was fat enough, no one could call me names like that, right? It was unconscious, to be sure, but in retrospect I can see that it was very real.

The crisis came two years later, and you've read much about my road to Damascus conversion to CR. Somehow, I decided that my body deserved to be loved and respected with healthy food in the right amounts. I pulled myself out of the downward spiral, and the results were downright amazing.

But still, some of the effects of the trauma remained. I have been easily startled, and MR can tell you that I seemed to jump several feet in the air at even a loud noise. I remained terrified of losing my close friends and family, so much so that at times I would need constant reassurance. The people around me were supportive and got used to it, and I was incredibly functional (as you know), but I was never quite right. It seemed like I just couldn't shake it, whatever "it" was, free.

Then this Saturday I had a rather bizarre experience. It is part of my private religious life, not for discussion on the blog, but suffice it to say that in the aftermath, I seem to have lost the signs of the Vermont trauma.

I am no longer ambiently afraid. I don't jump at loud noises. I don't feel the need to question my loved ones at every moment about whether or not they plan to abandon me.

And here's the other weird thing: I feel like some barrier has been removed to my CR practice. I've been consistently eating about 1000, and I plan to eat more than that here and there to avoid overly quick weight loss, but I'm no longer craving foods that aren't in my CR plan.

Will the effects last? Who knows? I definitely feel good now. Even if the only thing I've gained is the courage to share my Vermont story with you, my dear bloggiefriends, it will have been worthwhile.

So will I stop railing about the joys of loving my body? Never! I've come too far from being ashamed of my body and my sexuality to ever go back. I encourage all women to take control of their bodies, their health, and their sexuality. Maybe that will mean taking up CR and dating men who weigh less than 125 pounds, maybe it will just mean adding an hour of exercise and a vegetable to the daily routine. These things are very individual. There aren't that many healthy adult men who fit my specifications, so it's probably just as well if others' taste run to the heavier.

But for reasons known and unknown, I feel strangely free.

Somewhere, somehow, a curse has been lifted.

The Goddess lives.

Posted by april at August 23, 2005 9:40 AM

Comments

Posted by: Judy at August 23, 2005 6:24 PM

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