A new set of numbers?

It is so, so easy for me to define myself in the numbers I see on the scale each morning. I can tell you exact ones along my journey: 135 pounds the first time I started working with a nutritionist, 151.2 pounds when I began Jenny Craig; 118 pounds when I left for college, 110 pounds when I was diagnosed as anorexic; 121 pounds two days before my wedding, 118 pounds two days after; 130 pounds the morning of our D&C, 134 pounds the morning of my hysteroscopy. In a recent therapy appointment, when my (wonderful) therapist said "so, you said it was tough when you saw 133.6 on the scale," I grimaced immediately; she was wrong, as I'd said 132.4, and that's a very big difference.*

Other numbers seem insignificant to me. When my therapist asked about my BMI, I had to admit that it falls within the healthy range, but I shrugged it off; it's above the middle of that range, so I refuse to believe that it's worthy of any kind of praise. (Besides, what if it just continues to grow? That fear claws at me daily.) Clothing sizes also plague me; a 6 seems to define success, while an 8 is alright, but a 10 is failure. Who made these arbitrary definitions of success? And exactly what sort of success am I measuring?

Wearing a size 6 doesn't make me teach a more effective lesson on the complicated Fool of King Lear to my seniors, nor does it make me a better advisor to the ten girls I love so much. Being under 130 pounds doesn't make me better able to love or care for my husband, and it certainly doesn't make me a better daughter, sister, or friend. None of these numbers will make me a better mother--in fact, my obsession with them may just have a detrimental impact on a future child, particularly if a daughter picks up on my compulsive behaviors.

And so, this week, I was challenged not once but twice to think of numbers in a new light. First, a nurse during my pre-op hospital appointment took my bloodwork, looked at me, and said, "are you a runner?" I scoffed; not only do I hate running, but I hardly think I have the body anyone would believe is willing to wake at the crack of dawn to pound the pavement. She continued, "an athlete, then? Your blood pressure is excellent: 99/57." I shrugged again, prepared to shuttle the compliment into the back corner of my mind--until my surgery Thursday. I woke up in PACU (Post-Anesthesiology Care Unit), eyes blurry and abdomen sore. The nurse quickly came over and said, "We've been wondering--you're a runner?" Groggy still, I shook my head. "An athlete, then? Your resting heart rate was just 40-50 BPM--excellent." What? Again with the athlete? Again with the assumption that me--the person in this body--could be athletic? Strong? Healthy? Beautiful?

And so, as the "twilight" sedation slipped away and I returned, I began to think. What if the 134 pounds I weighed in at that morning at the hospital was okay? What if I stopped thinking my healthy/beautiful/successful range was under 130 pounds? What if I accepted that I am not every petite, 5'4" woman, that I have curves, that I can be who I am and still be healthy (I'll never think of myself as an athlete, I don't think), still be beautiful, still be sexy to my husband?

I won't lie--I haven't accepted it yet. And I'm not certain if or when I will. But even the glimmer of a possibility, even the hope of believing I'm beautiful today--instead of tomorrow when I starve myself, or the next day when I weigh 129.8, or next week when I'm a size 6--is enough right now.

What if I'm actually enough--right now? That's a heady thought.

* I'd like to add a cautionary note at the end of this post: I know just how much of a catalyst numbers can be for one struggling with any kind of weight issues, but particularly for those with eating disorders. I don't share the numbers in this post for any kind of comparison or competition but merely to express just what a prominent place they hold in my mind, just how clearly I can remember numbers from 3 or 10 or 16 years ago. Instead of wanting to exacerbate issues for those of you who read this blog and struggle with the same things, I want to help those of you who don't face these battles understand just how much they consume the lives of those of us who do.