KENYA

Hey everyone! Today I am going to talk about Africa. A lot of you have been forced into hearing endless Africa stories from yours truly, and this post is no exception. Yes, Africa was a grand adventure, from my first trip to Kenya in 2005 to my last trip to South Africa in 2007/2008, but the reason I am diving into this topic is because I kind of promised I would. My post entitled Genesis talks about how I left B.C. for Africa thinking that being overseas might be the "cure" for bulimia. I can tell you that it wasn't.

I was 20 years old when I went to Africa for the first time. I was alone, I was excited, and I was naive. Bulimia was a part of my life, yes, but from what I remember, it wasn't a huge giant at that time. The escape to a new culture was probably a good distraction from the binge/purge cycle I had been clinging to, and I am sure it was a sweet relief to live life without that burden for those weeks and months. Kenya was amazing, and I was busy and happy while I was there. I missed home terribly some days, and I know I cried a lot, but I had a very, very "special friend" who we shall call Lucas, and he was always there for me. Lucas speaks perfect English, has an amazing heart for children and ministry, and kept me entertained during my time there. I'd call him someone who knows me best on this earth, and yet he has no idea what I struggled with. My eating disorder was so fresh and new to me, not only did I not understand it at all, but I had no way to explain it to someone else, even Lucas. A month or two into my time there, I began to hear those voices. The same ones who spoke to me in B.C. The ones who told me I wasn't good enough, wasn't thin enough, wasn't pretty enough. And despite being right smack in the middle of my dream, I believed them. Can we talk for a second about the sewage system in Mombasa, Kenya? To be more specific, I lived on a compound in a town called Diani Beach, Ukunda. That's right people, I lived on the freaking Indian Ocean. It was sweet. I bring up the sewage system situation because it doesn't work very well for a girl with severe insecurities to throw up food into a toilet that may or may not flush for several days. Heck, I was lucky to even have a toilet! And can we also talk about the guilt that follows when you throw up food that thousands of your neighbours would have sold a limb to eat? Holy smokes, did I ever feel like the crappiest person on earth. Even now as I write this my face is hot and I am embarrassed but I am going to keep on writing. Barlow Girl has a song called Mirror that I am now going to quote:

Mirror, Mirror on the wall,

Have I got it?

'Cause Mirror you've always told me who I am

I'm finding it's not easy to be perfect

So sorry you won't define me

Sorry you don't own me

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Who are you to tell me

That I'm less than what I should be?

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Who are you? Who are you?

I don't need to listen

To the list of things I should do

I won't try, I won't try

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Some of you out there still might not understand the battle that rages in the mind and body of a bulimic. It is simultaneously mental and physical, bringing you down from every angle. I ate traditional African food, pilau and ugali, and I loved it. But I didn't love myself enough to keep it down. I have searched high and low for a pattern to my strange behaviors over the past 5 or 6 years and have come up almost empty-handed. But there are two fairly obvious triggers that make me want to eat and then dispose of my caloric intake. They are boredom and loneliness. As previously mentioned, Lucas was my special friend. He kept me company and taught me the ropes around our city and the compound. He listened to me and let me cry and made me laugh. But let's be honest here...he is a boy. That isn't the same thing as having a girl friend to talk to. I'm not saying that my behavior would have been any different in Africa if I had had a best girl friend there to talk to, because obviously I have close friends here in Canada and continued to be ruled by a disease, but I do think it would have helped to have some more support.

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In Kenya, when I felt bored or lonely, I would hop on a matatu (bus/van) and head into town to go to Nakumat. Nakumat is wonderful. It is Africa's version of Walmart. Nakumat was my friend, because it sold "American Food", as my friends called it, and of course I was all about the American Food. Instead of heading to an Internet cafe and emailing or calling my Canadian besties, I would buy American Food, take a matatu back to Diani Beach, and eat. Then I would wait for the guilt to set in. And it always did. I didn't always throw up, but even the times I did make me wish so badly in this moment that I can take them back.

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I just want to take a moment to say, to those of you who don't know me as well, that I went to Africa to be a mommy, sister, and friend to the beautiful people who live there. I basked in my role as baby rocker, tummy tickler, and shoulder to cry on. When I previewed this post, I realized again how awfully selfish bulimia is, and it might sound to you that all I ever did there in Kenya was obsess over food and body image, but that isn't true. I wrote this because I wanted you to know that even though I was far, far away in a strange land, my bad habits caught up with me. But those bad habits, in no way, shape, or form, took away from the fact that every single micro-moment spend there was filled with overwhelming love, compassion, hope, and joy.

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Smile...

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~C~

"Yes, I'm Fine"

I have thrown embarrassment, discretion, shame, and fear to the wind. I have decided to be blunt, frank, and honest here, which is why I want to talk about what it is like to hide such a huge secret from the world. What do you say when you emerge from the ladies room of your favorite restaurant with blood-shot eyes, struggling to catch your breath? How do you explain teeth marks in your hands? How do you face a dentist and cry to him/her about your eroding molars? I suppose there is no easy answer, is there? My answer? Pretty freaking universal...it goes something like this:

F (for Friend): Chris, are you okay?

C: Oh yeah, totally. I'm just not feeling very well these days.

F: Really? What's wrong?

C: Oh, you know. Whatever's going around, I suppose.

F: You sure you're okay?

C: I'm fine.

I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm fine.

What's up with this culture anyways? Who invented the word 'fine'? Because at what point is that word actually applicable? Your dog just died, and yet you are fine. You just lost your job, but, thank goodness, you're fine. You're sick, you're tired, you're dying, you're injured, you're broke, but you are telling me you're fine. What a lie! What an acceptable, common, overused, overplayed, huge, big fat lie. I had tears streaming down my face, bent over a toilet bowl, and came out of that bathroom and told you I am fine. I cried myself to sleep and convinced myself I was not good enough, and I told you I am fine. That isn't fine. That is wrong. And I am sorry. I am so sorry. I'm sorry for lying. I wont tell you anymore that I am fine. If you ask, I will tell you the truth.

Anyways, back to the business of hiding big secrets. It's easier than you think, and it is harder than it looks. It's a contradiction, yes. But it's true. I cant believe I got away with what I did for so long. I had 3 or 4 different jobs over those years, lived in 2 different countries, engaged in deep and meaningful relationships with family and friends, all the while hiding my secret. On the other hand, it was hard to lie to people. It was hard to hurt and have no outlet, especially those years where I refused to even journal about my struggles. It was hard to feel so incomplete.

Of course, now that the shoe is on the other foot and I am learning what recovery looks like, things are not automatically easier. It is still hard, because I am trying very hard to love myself with the same acceptance that I love others. It is hard to make bad choices and not have a way to so convieniently "get rid of" the problem. But you know what? It is all a small price to pay for freedom. Life isnt easy, but it is easier. Eating a meal without feeling guilt? Amazing! Going 6 months without the lies and shame and guilt? So relieving. I could easily end this post by saying, "Yes, people, I'm fine". But I wont. Instead, I will tell you, "I'm free".

~C~

Out With It

We might as well be honest here. I have been writing in my journal my whole life it seems, and those volumes (and I MEAN volumes) of books, whether spiral bound or pieces of paper stuffed in an envelope, contain what I used to think was my biggest secret. I have learned over the past few years that it is okay to have secrets. It is okay to have little pieces of life tucked away for you and you alone. Sometimes secrets seem like friends. But my secret was not like that. It wasn't kind to me; it wasn't comforting. It was destructive. Ladies and gentlemen, people of the jury, I am a recovering bulimic. Some of you knew, but I am pretty sure majority rules in favor of not knowing that. This isn't going to be one of those blogs that lead up to a wonderfully exciting adoption or wedding or job promotion. It is going to be a blog that takes you through my journey from addiction to the rest of my life as a reformed addict. I think that we can all relate to addiction in some way. Addiction isn't about drugs, alcohol, smoking, sex, gambling, racing, speeding, food, or T.V. Addiction is about a co-dependency; a compulsion or obsession so strong that you literally feel as though you will die without feeling that high. And mine just happened to be throwing up each time I felt like a failure. Try telling me you haven't felt like that at some point in your life.

Throughout the next several months, I have big dreams for this blog. I want to take you inside my world. I want to let you see what these past 6 (yes, 6) years of my life have been like. The good, the bad, and the ugly. I hope you will maybe see that we all struggle, we all fall down. But it's time to stand up. It's time.

~C~