i am my own revolutionary
on recovery, progress + looking back
On Tuesday, I was eating sushi on Willis St in Wellington CBD. It was busy. I sat by the window looking out to the river of people flowing on the footpath. If there had been natural light at the back of the restaurant—less clinical lighting—I would’ve sat there. But I couldn’t stomach the thought of my brief break from the harsh, dry office being spent in the dreary back corner.
They had made my sushi to order so the tofu was hot and the seaweed tougher than usual. There was no way to eat it gracefully; I couldn’t get my teeth through the seaweed and it all fell apart. Just as I leaned over the table, unrolled sushi hanging from my mouth like a second tongue, I made eye contact with a woman as she walked past.
She didn’t react—the moment over in a short second—but I felt my cheeks bloom red. I should’ve sat at the back. I was eating alone—a fact that only made my embarrassment louder. Not only was there no one to laugh it off with; but there I was, alone and in public, declaring that I needed (and wanted) food.
My appetite fell away instantly and the return of my blistering shame was so sudden I was shocked by it. That shock—that space between my thoughts and myself—showed me the truth. What I was doing—sitting in the light, eating alone, listening to a shitty audiobook—was revolutionary. My embarrassment over eating messily was radical.
Food and social anxiety have been with me my whole life, but it hit its peak in my teens and drags its long tail through my life even now.
There were whole years I couldn’t eat in front of my partner’s family. Time I couldn’t eat in front of him, my parents forced to uninvite him from dinner so I could keep gaining weight. At large social gatherings or parties, I would abstain as well. Not purely because I wanted to shrink or control or escape, but also because I was so ashamed of the act itself.
I remember walking through town and watching a woman who passed me eating an apple. I could think of so many reasons why that was a terrible idea—so many ways that could go wrong—but she was looking at her phone. Not even aware that she was doing something unbelievable to me.
Eventually (with time and with boring, uncomfortable persistence) it got easier to eat in front of others. The closer I felt to someone, the more likely I was to eat with them. But long after weight restoration, the anxiety of eating alone remained fierce within me. While this may seem inconsequential, it proved pervasive. I couldn’t eat in the break room with my coworkers or outside in the CBD where everyone else was either. I couldn’t eat during the breaks of long barbershop rehearsals. Sometimes I wouldn’t be able to wait and, in a dizzying daze, would eat on my way to the train station so I wouldn’t pass out. It was mortifying. It seemed everyone was watching me and, under such heavy gaze, I had forgotten how to live in my body. How many times do I chew this? What is the right sized bite?
There was an extra layer added when I considered what I was eating. And then, what that said about me. There were endless layers and all of them awful.
With more time and boring discomfort, I am getting better at eating alone and in public. I feel anxious and embarrassed and I usually do it anyway. Isn’t that the only way?
In the sushi restaurant, not only was I eating, I was eating alone. I was human: fumbling and graceless. I was doing something once so impossible it could only be described as radical. And, despite how I was feeling, I’d forgotten what it used to be like.
There were years I could barely eat. Years I couldn’t catch a bus. All the times I couldn’t leave the house or even step outside. Where I was bedridden with the weight of it all.
Everything I do now—even the most mundane task—is a revolt. Every step I take is acute and loaded. My life and what I do in it is more than I had the capacity to imagine.
I have spent this week slowing down. Watching myself do things that were incomprehensible. Labelling every move as charged and powerful. And it has felt almost political. Like I am rallying against some big, external force with my chin up. Eyes open. Defiant.
Try it.
What are you doing today that was once impossible? What defiance are you enacting? What does it look like when you remember how actively you are fighting for yourself, even subconsciously? When you acknowledge the force that you are. When you look back and see that gravelly, itchy perseverance. Despite it all.
What I’m reading this week:
A novel inspired by the real-life sorority house murders by Ted Bundy in his final killing spree, but of course, all about the women—who often get lost to the infamous celebrity status of one of the worst serial killers in American history.
I’m very nearly finished this book. Like a lot of young women who have dabbled in true crime, I know a lot about Ted Bundy and the atrocities he committed. This book is tearing him apart—dismantling the idea that he was clever and cunning and special when he was really a horrid, narcissistic misogynist.
“The Defendant did not like to be told what to do and when to do it and once jammed his jail cell keyhole with toilet paper so the guards couldn’t get in when they arrived to escort him to his arraignment. For this he was called cunning and clever, though I had a dog who also tore up toilet paper when he didn’t get enough attention”
― Jessica Knoll, Bright Young Women
I can’t put this book down. I feel so invested in the women the story is based around—even though I know what happens every step of the way.
The stories of the first two (of eight) Bridgerton siblings as they find love matches to wed in the high society of Regency-era England.
The books are much worse than the TV shows! The gender roles and misogyny is more prominent! The characters and plot are less complex (in a bad way!) and less rounded out and they have much worse dialogue! The sex is gross! (“the moist heat of her womanhood”, anyone??!!) The characters’ actions are much more problematic and icky! Maybe I should’ve read the books before I watched the TV series and maybe I am bias because I love Jonathan Bailey AND ALSO maybe the books are bad!!! Just rewatch the series!!! (I am now reading book three which so far is tracking to be the worst!!! Books four and five are waiting for me also!!! I love a hate read!!!)