My Plate Died

Before

This is my plate.  A plate that was made for me by someone who is very special.  A plate that was created in the year 2000.  I would only eat off of this plate for over a year after it was given to me.  This plate gave me peace and the ability to overcome all the fear associated with eating.

Last night my plate died.

I am sad.

I think there's quite a bit of existential meaning behind the death of this plate.  I had a few moments of silence celebrating the life of this plate after it broke.  Then I have a few moments of sadness thinking about what the plate represents to me.  After that, I felt strange for the rest of the evening.  Then, today, our pastor talked about the spiritual discipline of fasting and now I feel like there is something even more meaningful behind the death of my earthenware.  It is a beginning.  An ending to be sure, but also a beginning.  Here's why:

12 years and 1 pervasive relapse later, I am still a recovering anorexic.  When I returned home from my in-patient treatment for the disorder in 2000, my friend Valerie made me this plate.  I was so scared to eat.  I was so scared to live for that matter.  Somehow, though, I had to go through the motions of living so that I would survive.  Eating was a task not a pleasure.  It still feels that way now.  After a year or so I was able to eat off of other dishes but I kept this as a reminder of my journey.  It has lived in cabinets, displayed on the counter, and now it lives in a really big bowl because I cannot part with it. When eating hurts too much, I pull out this plate.  I am reminded that although I do not feel like I am up for the challenge, I can muster the strength to put something in my mouth.  Sometimes I wouldn't pull out the plate because I knew I was willingly allowing myself not to eat and it served as a reminder that I am stronger than that.  That is sad.

After

But this plate made me smile.  It entertained my palate.  It gave me hope.  And now it is dead.


So what does this death represent and why do I feel so connected to it?  As I try to process my feelings I cannot seem to reach a solid conclusion.  Perhaps the death of the plate means that I am no longer bound to props serving as substitutes for my real life.  Maybe I don't need a crutch anymore.  Wouldn't that be a joy?  12 years for an anorexic is an accomplishment.  Not that I don't struggle with body image and fear on a daily basis but somehow I have managed to keep things in check...until this past January or so.  I do not know when the relapse started only that by the time I realized what was happening it was too late.  I ate less than I ever have, was more active than I've ever been, and so incredibly lonely.  The pain  increased and I, in turn, denied my feelings and fought hard to become a perfect storm of destruction.

I have a son.  I love him dearly.  He needs his parents.  Even that was not enough to stop the downward spiral.

Pathetic.  

I went back to the things I knew helped before and even then it took months to make any progress.  I am better today.  Not healed.  Not perfect.  Not there yet.  But I am better and that is something.  So maybe the broken plate represents me.  I was colorful and lovely and gave hope.  I put myself away in a cabinet for a while and let myself, my soul self, go.  I pulled myself out every now and then to remind me how exuberant I used to be and then I would hide because I knew the truth.  Then I broke.  It was too much.

Now I am free to be whatever it is I am to be.  Whatever it is I am today.  That is enough.