I got my haircut at Wal-Mart on Saturday, and it got me thinking... or remembering rather. And realizing.

The little SmartStyle salon was (not surprisingly) a little dingy and a tad untidy. Even though I set my navy canvas bag on the counter while Roseanne cut my hair, it had dozens of human hair dots and dashes stuck to it when I left. And along with the heat of the day and the fuzzy, sensitive stubble on the back of my neck (my hair is chin-length now, so she took a razor to the two uncovered dips of hair at the base of my skull), the sight of all those hairs clinging to my bag set me back thirteen months. It might as well have been August 18, 2002, the day I shaved my head. And while I still consider that (going bald) a personal victory--probably the only thing that kept me mildly sane for a while--it happened during (and due to) a dark time.

So there I was, picking up my developed film, searching for the cheapest shaving cream, trying to decide which new face-wash to buy, and I was back in an old self, the more troubled me, the more sick me, the quieter (mute) me. I realized it because suddenly I was trying to analyze if my love handles had come back, and I was thinking about going to electronics to look at scales instead of to the grocery section, which is really where I needed to go next. At this point I had a strangely inspiring moment. I wasn't thinking the best of thoughts, but I was (for the first time) catching myself right at the beginning of them. They were just little sapling weeds, easy to pluck.

This is not to say it was all that easy. And let me interrupt myself at this point to say that I don't feel like I have this down, I still feel clueless in a lot of ways. In fact, I have trouble even admitting that I have an "eating disorder." I just know I've been unhealthy during periods of my life (and what that means specifically, that I'm going to put words to because I'm learning their power, is that sometimes for weeks or months at a time I eat unhealthily--either too much or too little--and often purge), but I always seem to be able to, at least momentarily, stop. And then I'll be fine for months, even years. But July, 2002 - April, 2003 was a bad period for me.

So, yes. I apologize for getting myself off-track. My story continues; I stood in the personal care aisle in Wal-Mart and let those thirteen months fall all around me. I remembered the humiliating--no, beyond humiliating, abusive--events right before my brother's wedding in July. The striving to lose weight to fit into my dress. My disappointment when I only lost a size and a half instead of two full sizes. The loathing I had for the bronze-colored dress that I felt was too skimpy on top because it showed the scars on my back and accentuated my chest. How awful I felt when I heard one of my brother's friends commenting to my brother on the fact that he never knew I "had such a nice rack." And how they laughed.

I remembered August, and telling my parents about the pre-wedding traumatic events. How they told people after I asked them not to. How they did nothing supportive, and I officially wrote my father off in my mind as useless.

I remembered October, and that by then I was losing weight, but the renewal of family conflict made me feel even worse. The nights when my sister called me bawling, talking about feeling helpless and wanting to die. Calling my mom to find out what was going on, only to comfort her, because she couldn't comfort my sister.

I remembered December, and long car rides through barren Midwestern fields, and silence even though there were four of us in the car. The "required eating events" my mother coordinated during our family get-togethers. The need to be less. Less noticeable. Less needy. Less big. Less me.

And I remembered the super-achieving Spring semester. I came back to school, determined that I would kick ass in all 21 hours I was taking, determined that I would exercize daily, determined I would eat right, and if not, I would correct the mistake of not doing so (after all, how else was I to learn?). Then everything in my life would be just fine...

And I realized. I realized it wasn't just the haircut that triggered thirteen months of thoughts, anxieties, fears, and woes. It was my hectic schedule, the need I feel again to perform well, the fact that I'm poor and can't buy all the good food I'd want, the fact that I don't have time for staying fit and therefore my jeans might be fitting a little tighter. The fact I haven't taken time to reflect upon things (me, how I am, what I'm feeling) in the hurried month I've been here, which is not good considering the things I've had to deal with.

Gosh. This is getting so long--I didn't expect that. I'll try to share the hopeful part, since I mentioned it was a strangely inspiring moment. The inspiration came from not wanting to fall back into the void of July 2002 - April 2003. I felt all these events and fears and all the pain, and I knew I didn't want to deal with it the way I had. I knew it would have been easy to. But I suddenly wanted more than anything to avoid electronics, to pick up some fresh produce and bread and sandwich meat and even butterscotch candies, to take it home and have a sensible dinner, to call my counselor and tell her all that had transpired during my simple Wal-Mart excursion.

And O, blessed counseling! If I ever spoke harshly of it, I stand corrected! I am it's most faithful convert! When I talked to my therapist yesterday, before I even got to my point, she asked... "How's the eating? How's the bulimia? Are you taking care of yourself?" And I didn't argue with her for using the word 'bulimia' (partly because we've argued it enough, partly because I'm wondering more and more if my refusal to use the word is denial), I shared my struggles, but I could answer "I am doing my best to take care of myself, and making huge strides." And that is a great thing!

Anyone who read this entire descant deserves a huge reward. Drop me a line or come visit; I'll see what I can do.

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