When triggers don’t
As is my routine, I’ve been listening to Glennon Doyle’s podcast, We Can Do Hard Things, this week, while taking my morning walks with Ruby. Her show is my must-hear on Tuesdays and Thursdays. (Mondays and Wednesdays belong to Brené Brown, and Fridays are a grab bag.)
This week, Glennon did a very, very hard thing of her own: she spoke openly and honestly about her recent eating disorder relapse, after 20 years of what she calls sobriety—not telling lies to herself, about herself. (I love this definition, but it is heavy and I will come back to it…at some point. Later. See my post on Lies and Regrets. I’m just not there yet.)
At the beginning of both of this week’s episodes, Glennon’s sister, Amanda (who co-hosts…co-converses?…with Glennon and her wife, Abby), offered their listeners a very considerate warning: if talk of mental illness or eating disorders triggers you, you may want to skip this week and come back next Tuesday.
I heard the warning, but wasn’t sure if she was talking to me. Although of course, I knew she was.
As I contemplated whether to keep listening or not, I decided that if I did, one of two things would happen:
1) I would understand and empathize with the experience, question my own recovery, and turn inward into a spiral of self-doubt.
2) I would understand and empathize with the experience, be grateful to Glennon for sharing something so difficult, and turn outward with compassion and appreciation.
I did not even contemplate a third option.
3) That I would start jogging.
I am not a jogger. I am not a runner. Up until six months ago, I was not even a walker. I was a hard core, eating disordered, orthorexic, stationary bike addict. And I mean addict in a very literal sense of the word. Seven days a week, I’d wake up before dawn to bike. Sometimes it was 30 minutes, sometimes it was 45, and if I was feeling especially like I fucked-up with food the day before, it might even be an hour. But regardless of length, but it was always at maximum effort.
I was competing against myself to push harder, burn more calories, get more miles, reach a new record, do longer and more intense intervals. I didn’t even have the encouragement of a hyped-up Peleton instructor yelling at me through most of this—it was just me and some shitty steaming TV shows. But I couldn’t stop. If I missed a day, I’d double down the following one. I’d cut even more calories off of the measly 1100 my so-called nutritionist was already limiting me to. I’d add an extra session of Power Yoga into my evening routine. I HAD to bike. I’m ashamed to admit that there were even a few times when I felt like I might faint mid-ride…and only gave myself 30 seconds to catch my breath before pushing on through.
When a health coach I was working with to try to lose my extra few pounds in a “healthier” way initially suggested I might be experiencing disordered eating patterns and orthorexia in early 2021, part of me was shocked. But another part of me knew she was just giving voice to what I’d been trying so hard to silence.
Giving up my bike routine felt like cutting off an arm. Same with giving up the macro counting, calorie counting, step counting, daily weighing…all the trappings of some pretty messed-up shit. But I also knew that if I was going to get better, the best way to do it—for me—was to go cold turkey. If I gave myself an inch, I’d take a mile. So a few days after that Zoom consult that called-me out, I stopped. All of it.
I will share more about that process another time. But ever since then, I have been afraid of getting back into any kind of exercise, because I’m scared that once I do, I won’t be able to stop. My only purposeful physical activity these days is my daily morning walk with Rubes, and long hikes in the mountains on the weekends we’re up there.
While I was in the thick of my disordered eating, I thought I enjoyed my biking; the sweat, the racing heartbeat, the sense of accomplishment I felt afterwards. But in retrospect, it was definitely more of an obligation than something I looked forward to. I only kept pushing myself because I thought I had to. It was all about an end goal: not loathing my body. Getting back to the weight and shape I felt most comfortable in. Feeling control over something in my life. Maybe there was some twisted need to punish myself in there, too. For what, I’m still not exactly sure. Maybe for letting myself down? For feeling like I was losing the the “tiny, petite Amy” identity I’d had all my life? There’s a lot still left to unpack.
But fully unpacked or not, I’m in a place now where whatever movement I engage in isn’t usually to achieve an end goal…unless you consider making sure your dog poops an end goal. I move because I enjoy it. And the only thing I enjoy right now happens to be walking. I may not always want to get up at 5:30am, but I do almost always enjoy my morning strolls with Ruby in a way that’s not self-destructive. I’m not pushing myself to do anything. I’m just trying to being present in the moment with her. And nature. And whichever podcast is up that day.
There’s a critical word in there: walks. Because like I mentioned, I hate running.
Except…
This morning, as I kept listening to Glennon share about her struggle, I started picking up the pace. At first it was almost like I was lightly skipping once in a while, even jumping over some of the cracks in the sidewalk. Then it turned into a fast stride, the purposeful kind that people make fun of in airports, but bouncier. Then it just happened, and I found myself full-on jogging. I was breathing in the cold air, feeling my heartbeat rise, sensing the impact of my sneakers in the pavement, hearing Ruby’s rhythmic breathing and tippy-tap toes as she joyfully jogged alongside me. I felt muscles in my legs that I hadn’t felt in six months. There was something light and energizing about it. Celebratory, even.
It probably sounds all kinds of terrible that I felt a sense of freedom while listening to someone I deeply admire talk about her struggles. But this wasn’t the kind of feeling that’s built on comparison or self-congratulation. It wasn’t a “whew, I’m glad that’s not me” kind of response, or even an “oh, I feel so bad for her” emotion. That’s not empathy, that’s just pity.
What the jogging felt like for me was a rush of connection, understanding, and love. I was, and am still, so in awe of Glennon’s courage and vulnerability. I am grateful for how much she trusts her wife, her sister, and her listeners to withhold judgement, and compassionately hold space. I think that’s part of what I was celebrating, to be honest. That there are people in this world who are willing to put themselves out there, not because it’s easy or showy, but because it’s hard. And it’s necessary. Maybe I was also celebrating is how far I’ve come, and that I finally trust myself enough to know what’s going to trigger me and what’s not.
I JOGGED. And I did not keep pushing myself to run harder, or faster, or longer. I stopped when I got back to my house. I picked up something that scared me, and I was able to put it back down.
AND.
And and and. Just like Glennon, I’m starting to get to know what triggers me, and what doesn’t. If (or when) I slip back into some of my old self-destructive habits, I know also that I’ve gotten through it once. And I can do it as many more times as it takes.