The Flowerbeds Of Your Soul by Kelley Gunter

One of my favorite metaphors is the weed and the root.  You don't have to be a gardener to know plucking weeds doesn’t work.  You’ve got to dig out the root to eliminate those pesky weeds.

And so it is with eating problems.  Bingeing, bingeing and purging and/or restricting are all solutions to root issues.  These behaviors are problematic, but they are not “the” real problem (even though it sure feels like they are!).

Only by going into the hidden parts of your mind can you locate those roots.  Then you can get rid of them for good. Our minds contain hidden conflicts or emotions that motivate our behavior. When we shine a light into the darkness and illuminate what's there, we’re able to make different, healthier choices. 

My good friend Kelley Gunter, author of “You Have Such A Pretty Face” has written a beautiful guest post that illuminates this concept.   Enjoy her message of hope!

The Flowerbeds of your Soul

by Kelley Gunter

I’ve never been much of a gardener.  Don’t get me wrong, I love flowers, I love fresh veggies, but I’ve never really been that girl who liked to dig around in the ground.  

My mom loved working in the flowerbeds.  I remember telling her that the whole dirt-under-the-fingernails look was just not me. She constantly teased me that there had to have been a mix-up in the nursery because I couldn’t be her daughter. She bought me gloves.  Pink ones.  It didn’t matter--it wasn’t my thing.  

I did love the look of flowers.  Since I lived next door to my parents, my mom was kind enough to take care of the flowers, both at her house and mine.  After she passed, it was extremely hard for me to plant flowers for years, because the memories of us doing that together, multiplied the pain and grief of losing her. It filled me with sadness that I no longer had to respond to the love-filled taunts that questioned my DNA. 

I enjoy the flowers so much in the summer, though, that after eight flowerless years, I decided to try it on my own.  To say it was a struggle would be the understatement of a lifetime.  I would chuckle to myself because I was certain my mom was in heaven, Nonnie right beside her, chortling away at the pitiful display my flower beds had become.  Nevertheless, I pushed onward.  Come hell or high water, there would be flowers.  

Planting the flowers wasn’t the difficult part.  At the end of the day, I stood back proudly surveying the results of my hard work and thought, “hmmm…mom would be proud.” I watered the flowers faithfully every night and just like she taught me, I fed them MiracleGro once a week.  I gave myself a much-deserved pat on the back and thought the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.   Luckily, for the next week it rained regularly and I didn’t even have to water the flowers at night.  

The flowers were growing fabulously and looked great—and suddenly, it happened.  

The weeds came.  

They were littered all through my flowerbeds.  What once was beautiful was now being taken over by prickly green things that appeared to grow at twice the rate of the flowers.  My carefully planted blossoms were being suffocated as the weeds grew around them, beside them, and over top of them.   I stood on my front porch amazed at how quickly this hostile takeover had been accomplished.  

I wasn’t sure how to proceed so I did what everyone does, I googled it.  According to all of the online geniuses, I should have initially put down a defensive, plastic barrier to block the weeds from growing.  Good to know, it’s too late for that now.  I read on.  Round-up appeared to be the punisher and killer of weeds that was needed.   I sprayed the weeds and soaked them with the fix-all poison guaranteed to get the job done.  

Just in case, I also openly cursed them to kill their spirits and let them know that they were not welcome in my peaceful little flowerbed.  They turned brown rather quickly, shriveled up and died.  I collected their dead bodies, even though I momentarily considered leaving their dead carcasses in plain view so their relatives could see what happens to weeds that dare to take root in my flower beds. 

Yes!! Success.  I was so proud of myself.  I was getting this flower thing down.  You can imagine my torment a few days later when I discovered that my beautiful flowers were once again, under siege by the very same weeds. 

This time, they came back with a vengeance.  They were bigger and stronger and much more destructive than the first time.  I was pissed.  I yelled at google for failing me.  Following some further research, I discovered I actually needed to get down in the dirt and dig them out by their roots.  If I didn’t, they would continue to come back and haunt my flower beds all summer.  

I was not happy about this task.  I bought some pretty, flowered gloves and gave myself a little pep talk. I got up early in the morning so it wouldn’t be so hot.  I could do this.  As I was digging down in the ground, getting a firm hold on the root and pulling it out, I made sure that I got allof it this time.  I didn’t want any stragglers left behind.  It was time-consuming tedious work, and as sweat rolled down my cheeks, I thought about my life.  

It had been very hard for the last two years.  I had finally disclosed the sexual abuse I had survived during my childhood--abuse that had gone on from the ages of six to fourteen.  Keeping that abuse a secret for 45 years of my life had almost killed me.  The pain from that unhealed trauma, just like the weeds in my flower bed, had taken over my entire life.  It ruled and controlled every single thing I did. That pain was inescapable and no matter how hard I tried to ignore it, my self-destructive behaviors displayed it in grand fashion.  

I had always turned to food as comfort.  My addiction to food began very early in my childhood.  It was the one thing that made me feel good—temporarily.   By the time I was 25, I weighed 391 pounds. After living at that weight for almost two decades, I decided to have weight loss surgery.  I lost 243 pounds in 14 months and had all of the loose skin remaining removed.  I looked and felt great!!  Sadly, though, just like the Round-up in my flower beds, that amazing result was only a temporary fix.

I now realize that it wasn't about the food.  It wasn't about the exercise or diets.  It was about me.  It was about my unhealed pain.  

The shame of being sexually abused had bound me my entire life.  I was a victim.  I had done nothing wrong.  Yet that shame strangled the life and the faith out of me.  It silenced the hope that I had any chance of living a happy, healthy life.  I felt worthless and broken.  I knew that I was damaged goods and that I would never be enough.  Those negative feelings were the weeds in my soul.  

I did many things to temporarily rid myself of the weeds.  I lost weight.  I had plastic surgery.  I built a successful career.  I presented a great façade to the world.  But just like the weeds in my flowerbeds, when the pain came back, it came back with a vengeance. 

I could no longer use food as comfort and that inner pain and unhealed trauma displayed itself in other destructive ways and behaviors.  I developed other addictions to replace the food addiction.  Eventually those behaviors caused me to lose everything and almost everyone I loved.  Surrounded in the aftermath of my own self-destruction, I was forced to finally disclose all of the abuse I suffered. This disclosure finally allowed me to begin the long and sometimes painful journey of healing.  

Standing in the dirt that afternoon, I realized that until I got to the root of my pain and addressed that hidden, horrific truth, just like my flowerbeds, my soul would never be weed-free.  

As I was pulling the thistles out of the ground, even with the thick, gardening gloves on, they sometimes pricked me.  Surprisingly, those little jabs really hurt.  Healing is the same way.  It is definitely painful at times.  

Sorting through the hurtful things that have caused so much emotional pain can be incredibly difficult.  Having said that, I have been working on my recovery for a couple of years now and I have also discovered how beautiful it can be.  It is very powerful to live in the truth of who I am.  I have become so much stronger by facing the beasts that were living in my soul--monsters that were real in my childhood. 

It takes courage to become vulnerable again.  As terrifying as it is, it is also incredibly brave to say to the world, This is who I am. This is my truth.”  

I have no reason to feel shame.  I was a victim. I was powerless.  I survived, I am getting stronger every day, and for the first time in my life, I’m finally getting it right.  At last, I’m presenting my genuine self to the world.  That fact alone allows me to fall asleep at night thanking God for allowing me to heal and discover that I have always been enough. 

Tend to the flowerbeds of your soul.  You’re worth it.  

About Kelley Gunter:

                                                               

Following a lengthy career in social services, Kelley began writing full time. Her first book, You Have Such a Pretty Face, is a memoir detailing the emotional journey of being obese and the surprising changes brought on by her 243-pound weight loss following bariatric surgery, as well as the emotional factors that contributed to her initial weight gain. 

Kelley is currently in the process of writing a second memoir, The Homecoming Queen of Crazy Town. When she is not writing, she enjoys cooking, baking, and reading. She also loves spending time with her son, her best friend, and her three Rottweilers.

Find Kelley's books at www.KelleyGunter.com

Follow her on Instagram @gunterkelley
Follow her on Facebook

The Tyranny of Free Food

I'm pleased to share an essay by novelist JoAnna Novak.  She is the author of I Must Have You (Skyhorse Publishing, 2017) and also Noirmania (forthcoming from Inside the Castle 2018).  I’m thrilled that she has contributed to Make Peace With Food.  Here's a peek into our conversation about her work.

Dr. Nina:  JoAnna, can you share what inspired you to write this essay?

JoAnna: I attended an orientation recently--it was a morning thing--and the host brought bagels. That reminded me how much pressure even the presence of food can create for someone with an eating disorder.

The more I thought about this, the more I realized that I'd skipped many, many, many orientations just to avoid negotiating this particular stress.

It's a stress that always makes me feel guilty, too, because of course many people would be grateful to be given food; that guilt sort of exacerbates the stress, which is really what I was trying to capture in this essay. 

Dr. Nina:  I think a lot of readers on this blog can relate to those feelings of guilt and stress over food.  Please tell us about your new book.

JoAnna:  I Must Have You is a novel, a coming-of-age story set in 1999, in the aftermath of the heroin chic craze, long before anyone was talking body positivity.

Chronicling three women's interconnected eating disorders, the book is about middle school, girl crushes, anorexia, drugs, first kisses, and hunger--hunger for friendship, hunger for solvency, hunger for a firm grasp of one's self.

Dr. Nina:  Thanks, JoAnna.   That hunger for connection to self and others is something that so many people try to fill or express with food.  What I appreciate about your essay is that it’s a rare glimpse into the actual experience of dealing with food:  thinking about it, ruminating, obsessing and perseverating.   It’s a powerful piece and I think it will resonate with lots of people.

TRIGGER WARNING!  This essay describes food in detail and may be triggering.

The Tyranny Of Free Food 

by JoAnna Novak

I don’t want the mini Danish with its gluey bull’s eye. The bready, pre-sliced bagel, cut-side shining its hole up at the fluorescent lights, ringing a tub of cream cheese flanked by plastic knives.

I don’t want to do communal fruit, a spree of honeydew, the jelly packets, Welch’s or Smuckers or Sysco, the butter bonnets, the honey sticks, even the coffee poses questions: decaf or regular, the organic regular or the fair trade regular, cream or milk or soy, sugar, raw sugar, splenda, the green one, the blue one, the stirrer, the scald of exposure when there are no lids and the person standing next to me, a familiar face who, in this context, wobbles like a hologram of a visitor from another dimension, remarks, “Huh. You take it black.”

 You warrior, you, I tell myself. You tough.

 But are you ninja enough to navigate free lunch? More pinwheels than a 1950s block party, wrap after wrap, salmon pink means tomato and mossy green means spinach and that undercooked graham cracker tone is whole wheat, a matte wrap rainbow to distract you from the fact that, whole, every one of those tortillas is calories-enough for a decent meal, and now here they are, the wraps, halved or quartered, or maybe they’re in thirds, and they sprout toothpicks wearing Christmas-light bright cellophane, which makes the whole affair a little trippy, not to mention fatty, what with the roast beef and the ham and the American and Swiss, slices thin as blotting papers in the roll-ups, which you must pick up with indelicate, ineffective, ridiculously gilt silver serving tongs. 

The iceberg salad. The spinach salad, dicey with turds of goat cheese. The fun-size chips and their fun-size bags and their fun-size crunch, an aural tattoo, marking you as a chip-eater, indulgent, fun, when they’re the only thing with a nutrition label in the room. 

You could take a brownie, but it would need salt, and if you salt your brownie you call attention to yourself, the incongruity of your meal, which, if it includes a brownie can’t include “real food.” You could take a cookie and pick out the chocolate chips or the macadamia nuts, but see “you could take a brownie.” See “coffee: you take it black.”

 Free food is supposed to be a gift, a grace, a sign that the world is not all business. It’s in the classroom, the boardroom, the backroom at funerals, at picnic tables, served poolside, in homes and offices.

You are supposed to be thankful. You are supposed to be tickled. You are an employee or a poor grad student subsisting on the myth of subsisting on ramen or a mourner or a daughter or a son or a boss or a volunteer at the literacy center downtown or an idle shopper at Whole Foods on Local Foods Friday.

 “Wanna try Spicy Mo’s Jalapeno Jack on a cracker?”

The only thing lonelier than navigating the minefield of free food is overhearing the way eaters demonstrate they are pleased by it. Their voices bounce with the enthusiasm of precocious child actors. “Mm, this is actually delicious!” “The vegetarian wrap is really good!” “I do love pesto!” “I have to have a cookie—ok, one more! It’s here, so I’m eating!”

You are supposed to appreciate the gesture. Have seconds. Take home leftovers. Fill up. If the food is free, it’s also over-ordered.

Because isn’t there always someone like you, like me? Someone who hears that the first hour of an event is going to be group breakfast—and skips that first hour? Someone who invents conference calls or urgent emails so they can postpone grabbing a plate? Someone with jumpy eyes, whose smile keeps wobbling into a frown? What’s the worst part? Skipping the meal and being alone as you sit and watch people eat? Taking the plunge and eating yourself?

That’s what no one tells you about free food: it’s not free. It’s not free of calories and, if you’ve had an eating disorder, it’s not free of stress. Because free food asks the eater to perform their diet. Who do you want to be to your colleagues, your new classmates, your fellow grievers? You eat nothing and stamp your hungry foot, plead some unseen meal that’s filling you up, say you’re not hungry. 

 You gobble a heap, the whole spread, and field comments about your appetite, your metabolism, your body, where do you put it, your sweet tooth. 

  You build a plate by meal plan, feel the hollowness of scant portions at a table of the ravenous, the regular, the relaxed. 

  You excuse yourself after and puke even if you haven’t puked after anything in years. You try to meditate in plain sight. 

  You make space for your mind to run laps around the dining room while everyone doubles up on dessert.

JoAnna Novak is the author of I Must Have You (Skyhorse Publishing 2017) and Noirmania (forthcoming from Inside the Castle 2018). She has written fiction, essays, poetry, and criticism for publications including Salon, Guernica, BOMB, The Rumpus, Conjunctions, and Joyland. She received her MFA in fiction from Washington University and her MFA in poetry from University of Massachusetts Amherst. She is a co-founder of the literary journal and chapbook publisher, Tammy. She lives in Los Angeles. ​  Find out more at www.joannanovak.com