2013

2013 started off in a cell for me. A cell I wasn't sure how I got into, and one I did not know how to get out of. One I had put myself in, but never intended to.

This cell was dark. It was quiet. It was predictable, structured, controlled. I knew what my days were going to be like. I could decide who could come visit. But no on knew what it was really like. I cleaned before they came round. I straightened the curtains and made my bed. I pretended like it was great in there.

To me, it was familiar. I knew the cracks, which floor boards creaked, the number of chips in the ceiling. It was peaceful in there. My home.

Something wasn't right though. My body wasn't working the way it used to. Sleep wasn't restful. There was a constant blockage in my ears - like they needed to pop. There was pressure behind my eyes. My hair was thinning. My bones felt sharp. My clothes hung off me. My energy levels - low. My eating - disordered.

My doctor suggested I put on weight. My housemate asked how the thought of that made me feel. Petrified.

I became aware, then and there, of the cell. That being in the cell was making my world a small place.

Over the next few months, the parts of my cell I had found comforting were now a threat. The cracks weren't just quirks - there were hazards. The solitude wasn't just peaceful - it was isolating. I wasn't just hungry - I was starving.

The walls were caving in fast, and my therapist's mention of the word "hospitalisation" resonated loud - I needed to get out before the cell crumbled with me in it.

A plan is what we worked on next. A plan to get out safely to reach a healthy BMI. A literal food plan, careful note-taking and monitoring of the progress, establishing the safest moments to move forward and the times I needed to lie low.

Adrenaline and vulnerability like I'd never known before.

Some days I looked back, craving the drama-free quietness of my old home. I longed for the peace again, to not always need to watch and keep track of my every move.

But somehow, memory of life on the other side of the prison walls spurred me forwards. The hope people carried for me on the outside kept me running towards them.

And I did.

Towards the end of the year, I reached those walls. The BMI considered "normal". I began to climb, ready and rearing for life beyond.

But still, something not right. I could hear no birds chirping, no gentle trickle of a stream, no wind in no trees.

Instead, the world I knew before had turned against each other, it became so obvious when I reach the top of the wall. A civil war had broken out, and I needed to pick a side to fight for.

Two options. Go back to the quiet. Go back and risk never knowing a larger life, an adventurous life.

Or jump. Jump down and face the wide open space ahead, full of uncertainty. Of decisions. Of choosing which side of the war to fight on. Of risk. Of wrong turns. Of anxiety. Pain. Battles. Threats. Carbs. Identity. Purpose. Forgiveness. Love. Hope. Rest. Joy. Dinner parties and chocolate.

2013, I'm deciding to leave you behind. Deciding to be grateful for where you've brought me. To remember you as a battle won, strengthening me to fight 2014 with victory on my side.

PS. I wrote a story for Tell it in Colour last month. Read HERE

Day IX: I haven't given up!

I've had a spot this week. I rarely get spots. It is located in between my eyebrows, eliciting countless semi-racist Indian jokes from my so-called friends. Because I've banned myself from mirrors, I couldn't check it out at all. This annoyed me a bit.
Otherwise, the urge to look in the mirror has been virtually absent. The number of times I automatically search for a mirror drops with every day that passes. And though still conscious about how I look, the thoughts about my physique are not as harsh and damaging as they were.
I know that's not a lot of information to give you about the progress of the challenge, but it is after all a progress, which by definition implies my world isn't going to flip over night (even though I often wish it would).

Day II: My crappy self-portrait

So, this whole mirror fast is full of lessons, apparently. This morning, I was jogging along the river. It was one of those crisp, bright mornings, where the sun shone bright, frozen puddles needed to be avoided, and ducks wandered the path in front, refusing to step foot in the cold cold water. During my 3rd mile, I noticed I was casting two shadows ahead of me; one from the sun, the other from the sun's reflection on the water. They were sat on top of one another, following my every move. The shadow cast by the sun was below the other, and was darker, more defined and showed my entire body, head to toe. The one cast by the reflection was above it, and was hazier, flickered, and only revealed me from my shoulders up. I thought it was pretty sweet, and kept on running. When the image cropped back into my head later today, I realised it painted an accurate picture of me.

When I look at myself, when I think about myself, I don't see the whole of me. When I look in the mirror, I see what I look like at the moment I look in the mirror. As soon as I remove myself from the mirror, I no longer know what I look like, I have only what I saw in the mirror to go by, and won't know what I look like until I next look in a mirror. My image of myself flickers. I only see moments of who I outwardly am throughout the day. Honestly, this outward part of me is the part of me I spend most time working on and thinking about, but it's only a part of me. There's a whole bigger part of me inside. And this part, I can't fully understand. I am a complex human being, acting in ways I often don't get, with capabilities beyond my knowledge. If I did fully know me, my actions would never surprise me. I would be able to predict exactly how I would react to everything that comes my way. Like the shadow cast by the river, the picture I paint is incomplete. And more often than not, I can't bring myself to love this incomplete me.
When God looks at me, thinks about me, He sees all of me, inside and out. He sees my personality, my past, my thoughts, my limitations, my potential, my face, my stomach, my hair, and all the bits of me I don't even know are part of me. His view is complete. He created me, he's bound to know how I work! He sees all of me, and LOVES me all the same.
Yet I ignore what He thinks of me, and I put my perspective, largely determined by other people's perspectives, above His. The perspective I pursue in the mirror, in other people's opinions, is an incomplete version painted by imperfect me! The only way to love me is to drop all other paintings and pursue the masterpiece image drawn up by a perfect God, who probably finished it and framed it, and has it hung up straight!

I'll end this one with a challenge: tell God you don't want to know what you, or anyone else on this earth, thinks about you, but you want to see you from His point of view. Every day. Every time you feel inadequate. Every time your insecurities creep up. Tell Him. He wants to hear it, and I'm fairly sure He'll know what to do with your crappy self-portrait.

Actually, I'll end with this: "For we are God’s masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things he planned for us long ago" Ephesians 2:10

Day I: I have 2 mirror radars

My first taster of life without mirrors has been insightful. I woke up, did my hair and put some makeup on from the warm comfort of my bed (perk number 1: not having to get up for the mirror), got dressed (went for an outfit I had tried out before - no daring wardrobe moves today!), ate breakfast, and set out of the house for possibly the first time ever without even a glance at what I looked like.
The walk into town was an interesting one. You know how people say that when someone goes blind, their other senses compensate for the loss and become heightened? Well that's kinda what happened. Because a part of me was set on not looking at myself, another part of me immediately became aware of every window, puddle and shinny car surface I could check myself out in.
As soon as Charlotte appeared, the radar switched itself off. I was well aware that I didn't know what I looked like, having Charlotte check I didn't have mascara up my forehead, but the distraction of interacting with someone took my mind's focus off mirrors, and this happened throughout the day.
I went to my cleaning job soon after, and the house I clean would give the house of mirrors a run for its money. The sinks are mirrors I have to polish, as are the dressers and bed side tables. There are grand mirrors hung about the place, and where mirrors aren't, big windows are. Despite all these, I found it relatively easy to focus on the dirt on the reflective surfaces, and not on what they were reflecting. When I thought about not looking, I resisted. When my conscious radar was on, I didn't look. It was when I got distracted that the challenge became real.
I saw myself once while cleaning in the master bedroom, once at Gemma's house that evening in her kitchen window, and once in my taxi driver's rear view mirror. I would be talking, or daydreaming, and that's when I would automatically look at myself, see myself, startle myself, and quickly look away, all in about a trillionth of a second. I'm surprised at this. The subconscious radar is the one that's going to be an issue. I thought the difficulty would be an inner wrestling match with myself, me fighting with me to stop me from looking. This problem may still arise, I have another 28 days to go, but for now the issue is getting myself out of the habit of subconscious glancing, a habit which seemingly expresses the sizeable concern I have with my outward self.