As one part of my brain was seriously considering buying a box of snack cakes another part was wondering “what the hell is going on, Ginn?”
I watched myself wander around the grocery store, drawn to rich, sweet, fatty, creamy foods that hadn’t called my name in years. As I walked I thought about my food choices earlier that week - pizza, pasta, and an entire Italian sub - and how I kept eating after I was satisfied. That habit hasn’t been around for months.
What the hell indeed. So I thought back to see if I could find a trigger.
Two weeks ago I came across a listing asking for female volunteers to talk about overcoming childhood sexual abuse. I’ve spent years coming to a place of peace with what happened so I decided my input was valuable enough to share. The woman running the study as a basis for her thesis contacted me, and after a brief discussion about what the study entailed I agreed to be interviewed.
I swear I thought I was fine.
A week later we had a thirty minute conversation, not about the abuse itself but about the things I did to work through it. I talked about seeing therapists and journaling, about reading books and listening to podcasts. I told her about the writing exercise one therapist suggested where I was to give back to my grandfather the shame of what happened. That exercise lead to a many year return to what I called The White Room, a place to confront the people who had let me down during those early childhood days.
It was two days after the phone call that I experienced the siren call of the snack cakes.
On my way home from the grocery store I finally put two and two together. These cakes, these indulgent creamy foods, were what I went to for comfort before I even knew I needed to heal.
You probably saw that coming, didn’t you?
In my defense, my mind had convinced me that I was done healing when in fact my body had kept the score.
This was a completely physical reaction to thinking about my grandfather and all that I went through while I was “overcoming” his abuse. My body was on autopilot while my mind was busy with day-to-day life. There was no other manifestations of the trauma - no tears, no irritability, no compulsive thoughts. It was just my body wanting to ingest simple carbohydrates.
It made sense, When I made the connection I immediately felt compassion for my body as if it were a being separate from me. It was holding on to the terror of being a small frightened child whose world had collapsed around her, with no one to go to for comfort.
I also uncovered whispers in the dark recesses of my mind telling me “of course you’re eating bad it’s who you are and you will never change.” They had been so quiet that I was barely aware of them but they were persistent in their denigration of who I am becoming.
After I few days I recognized that those were not the only voices whispering. Let’s back up in our timeline.
On the day I first spoke with the woman about her thesis I also returned to a friend group that I had intentionally moved away from last year. I had been playing cards every week with them for years but had hit a point where it just didn’t feel right. So I stepped away to … well, let’s just say to do some healing around women in my life and friendships.
It was the right move and I was in a much better place. So I asked to return to the group and was welcomed back.
That was the wrong move. Just because I was in a better place - and by that I mean in a more solid relationship with myself and who I am - it did not mean that I could return to a group where I feel out of sync with the others.
These are all lovely, smart, friendly women but they are not my tribe. And no amount of self-work is going to make them my tribe.
I came home that evening and started drinking again after dinner. It has been awhile since that was a habit but I found myself pulled in and unwilling to say no to another glass of wine. And another.
Even now I can feel my body tense as I think about playing cards with them again. What kind of wacko would I be to opt out again? The sane answer is that I would be the kind of wacko who values herself more than she does appearances. I have not yet convinced myself to be that kind of wacko.
I’m a work in progress, as are we all.
I got blindsided by my body’s cries for comfort food but now that I see them for what they are I can be gentle with myself. I never did buy any of those cakes and I have put drinking back on the shelf for however long it takes me to convince my body that it is safe.