Identity, Tragedy, & Real Hope

I was sitting in choir in high school when my friend confided in me, “I keep my weight down by throwing up my food after I eat it.” I remember thinking how great she looked (having lost about 20 pounds by this method) and that she was obviously onto something. So I went home and tried to do the same. But try as I might, I could not get my food to come back up. I felt like an absolute failure. Sure, I had seen the after school specials about bulimia and even had a relative who had suffered from it, but candidly, binging and purging held much less social stigma for me than being fat. Bulimic girls have boyfriends. Fat girls do not. At least, that’s what I thought.

I’m still struggling with that mentality 26 years later. Image vs. health. Sure, I have learned how to eat the right things, but I’m not sure I will ever master how to not gorge myself. Eating the proper amounts of food takes incredible discipline, and I’ll be honest, I’m not always very good at it.

Today I read a story in the BBC about the 10 year anniversary of Back to Black, the wildly successful album by Amy Winehouse. You can imagine my surprise to learn that not only did she suffer from drug and alcohol addiction, but bulimia as well. The moment I read that, wave after wave of painful images from my past swept over me. As it all sank in, I thought to myself, “of course she had an eating disorder”. Eating disorders and addictions have everything to do with self-loathing, a form of self-expression I am not unfamiliar with.

The first time I heard the song, “Rehab” I stopped. As in, literally stopped what I was doing, parked myself on Youtube, and watched every single video I could find of Amy singing. From late night talk shows to grainy radio interviews, I soaked up the voice that stroked the tender place in my heart. Her words gave voice to my own fragility and the longing I had to be loved. I understood all too well how a broken heart could lead one to do crazy things. And when she sang, “You know I’m no good”, she may as well have been singing my theme song. Long haunted by words spoken by Christian people who questioned my faith—and therefore my personhood—Amy’s music comforted me. Her music told me I’m not the only one. But her songs also made the pain more. They still do.

I have a friend with a significant scar on her lip. When she talks, she covers her mouth with her hand. Every single time she does it, it breaks my heart. By covering the scar she reminds me of all the times I’ve tried to hide my scars. As if by placing a hand in front of hers will somehow make it not there. As if that scar will make me love her any less. As if she is less of a person because of the mark on her face.

Some people are better at hiding scars than others. And I think Fraser McAlpine is right. “We all share the interior monologue that we’re grotesque and unworthy of good fortune. We all carry the suspicion that we are messy, flawed individuals who feel like we can’t do right for doing wrong.”

But I think the most important question of all is lurking there right beneath the surface. Why do we feel that way? Even without the media messages telling me my body isn’t right, I still harbor guilt over any number of things. Bad parenting. Bad wife-ing. Bad employee-ing. And that’s not even addressing all the thoughts and feelings I have about my shortcomings and compulsions. Obesity is just one guilt factor I deal with. Granted it’s a doozy.

Why do we look at people like Amy Winehouse and wish they would get better? Why do we long for their happy ending? While she was alive, I mourned her sickness. I longed to read just one article that gave me a glimmer of hope that she was getting better. I never saw it. And when I learned that she had died, I grieved. Certainly I grieved the loss of a voice and uncommon talent, but more than anything, I mourned the loss of hope. Death is so final–so terrible. And once she was gone I knew there was no hope she would ever recover. As an addicted person, I felt her death rip through me and I felt helpless. I can’t help but think, “What if that happens to me?” Every time someone loses their battle with addiction, it affects me. Because addiction is really only a symptom of the real disease–the real reason we self-medicate–the honest realization that we really are all flawed and broken.

I used to hate before and after pictures. Then I began to seek out those who had found success so I could replicate their results. I still seek out those stories. I need hope. Hope fuels my soul when the darkness of compulsive eating sucks the light out of me. Hope is why I continue to write this blog. Without it, I am a shell of a person.

But my hope is not in people. It’s definitely not in food or in the new fad diet. My hope is not in my job or my paycheck and definitely not in my dog(though he is definitely a really great dog!) My hope is in something tangible–something solid. Because only something real can combat the scars and the voices in my head telling me I’m deeply flawed. I know I’m a mess, but I have a hero who sees me, mess and all, and loves me anyway. He has provided me with a happy ending and he gives me peace until I get there.

I have learned that the shape and size of my body does not define who I am, but that doesn’t make me feel better when my pants inform me I need to take my eating down a notch. As the old hymn says, “My hope is built on nothing less than Jesus blood and righteousness.” And maybe that’s hokey. And maybe it’s not. But it’s all I have to cling to when the voices in my head start their angry tirade.

I didn’t know Amy Winehouse. But I know she was a beautifully flawed human being. Just like me. She left this world too soon, but there are many others, like me, who are still struggling with some form of addictive behavior. I have found peace in my strivings because I cling to the hope I have in Jesus. Today if you are reading this, I hope you will too. Whatever the issue, nothing in you is so ugly or messy that would prevent His help from coming if you ask for it.