Measures of our worth

I read this article today about a scale bashing party. I thought what a fantastic idea for those who struggle or feel chained to the scale. If you're in the central New Jersey area, this might be a good event for you!

It's funny how a mere piece of metal can be symbolic for many of us. Where did we learn this?

I've never been what I called horribly "chained" to the scale. It mattered, but for me it was more how my pants fit and whatever my tape measure read. Yes, I don't think I've ever mentioned this on this blog, but I used to have a bit of an obsession with my tape measure. Similar to a scale, it used to be the measure for what I was going to consume that day (or not).

Even when I was in college and in my 20s, when I tried buying a scale, I wound up taking it back to the store a few days later. I was somehow afraid I'd become a devout worshiper to it. However, I could not let go of my tape measure which I brought with me to many conferences, sleepovers, visits to my parents's houses, etc. It essentially went with me everywhere!

Where am I now with this once over obsession? Well, it's not completely gone but a whole lot better than it used to be. It no longer holds so much value as it once did but is still a lasting reminder of the ED. It's like the old pair of jeans you know you should get rid of but hold on to for security purposes.

What are reminders of your ED that you know you should really get rid of? Is it the scale, a piece of clothing, a book, etc.? What are other measures of your worth?

On the same taken, have you ever bashed your scale, burned clothing, books, journals, all out of symbolism?

The representation and power of objects

I called my mother the other day to go over last minute details of our upcoming trip. Specifically, I wanted to know if we were going to go grocery shopping there, so I could determine whether I needed to bring certain "Tiptoe" food or not. She said that we would be and not to worry about it. Half of me was glad, the other half not.

Just as I was about to hang up the phone, another conversation started:

Mom: Oh, I found that medallion.
Me (very surprised): Really, where was it?
Mom: It was in the jewelry box. Not the ballerina one, but another one. You are right--it is beautiful and quite heavy. There is no hole in it, but there is a chain with it.

I thanked my mom for finding it and then hung up the phone. As I sat in my car, I had a sudden surge of emotions that filed through every part of my body. It didn't make sense to me why I felt this way since I had originally asked my mom to look for this specific medallion.

I know it may not make sense to those of you reading this, but this medallion has a lot of history. It represents a time I wish to forget, a time of hurt, confusion, pain, and shame. I told my therapist C. about this medallion awhile back and said if I found it, I would burn it. I got this idea from a friend in college who I knew wound up burning all her love letters from her ex-boyfriend who did not treat her well. She told me it was a very cathartic experience for her. I began to think that maybe I could feel that way too if burned this piece of metal.

Now, however, I don't know. I don't know whether I am gutsy enough to burn such a beautiful thing despite the fact it represents not only an awful time in my life but a very twisted individual. I've thought about other things to do with it--pawn it, send it to postsecret (might be too heavy for a postcard though), or maybe give it to goodwill. None of these feel "right," but at the same time I don't know what is the right or wrong thing to do.

By keeping it, it's similar to holding onto a pair of skinny jeans. Those skinny jeans torture and taunt us. They remind us of how we once were, things we once did to wear them, to belong in them. In the end, it's just a purposeless piece of fabric sitting in our closet. But at the same time, it's hard to let go of something with such a powerful meaning.
Note--*Hopefully, in the next week or two, I'll take a photo, post it here, and be able to elaborate further into how/what I'm feeling. If anyone has been in a similar situations or have words of insight/advice for me, I welcome them.

On hair and identity

For months, I've been saying how I need to get my hair cut. Originally, I had said after my May marathon, I would get it trimmed. That rolled around, and it did not happen. So then I changed the date to June, July, and now October?

I was trying to ask myself WHY I was stalling on getting my hair cut. It's not like it is a big deal, right? I've gotten my hair cut before with no problems. I never had some kind of traumatic incident with a hairdresser, so there shouldn't really be any fear. And I'm not sure fear is really the right word, it's more that I'm having trouble letting go of my hair. Rationally, I know 8-10 inches is not a lot of hair for me, and whenever I actually do get my hair cut, I'm donating it to either Locks of Love or Pantene Beautiful Lengths.

So still, the question of why I'm stalling about it so much. I think I've realized that hair has really become a part of my Identity. It's the one part of me that never seemed to have suffered even through the worst of the ED. I know I am incredibly lucky in this way, and it's something I've never taken for granted. The only instance I've had in my life where my hair was damaged was after taking a potent medication which thinned out my hair. I seriously cried about that, now understood what my mom may have felt when her hair thinned out from chemo.

It is evident that many of us have an emotional attachment to our hair as can be seen here at the f-word blog. I'm not sure how many of us can say it is apart of our identity, but it is certainly important to many of us.

So for me, growing up, I always wanted "long-time" hair and for the most part, that's how I've had it. I've had a few changes here and there--my hair at my shoulder, bangs, and even interesting highlights of blonde, red, and blue, though not at the same time. However, still it's always gravitated toward being long and thick.

The interesting thing is growing up, I kind of had a love/hate relationship with my hair. As a kid, I didn't quite understand what was so special or interesting about it and expressed this to my fifth grade teacher. She couldn't understand why I was being so negative about my hair when it was beautiful to her. Other people in elementary school felt the same way. I don't know if it was so much that they really liked it or that it was different. Practically being the only Asian in school, well, they just didn't see Asian hair much. The place I grew up in was fairly conservative and most of the population was either Caucasian or African-American. Many of my African-American friends always wanted to touch or braid my hair. It was a bit insane at times, but I think I enjoyed it too? I remember another friend of mine who described me as a horse (we had to describe classmates as various animals) due to my ponytail which I always wore at that time. She said it reminded her of a mane of a horse.

In high school and college, I played around with my hair in different color of highlights. Eventually, I let the color grow out, so my traditional locks were seen again. It's only been the last few years where I've really grown to love my hair. It's now become part of my identity. It's how people recognize me. Just other day while checking out a book at the library, I ran into a woman who lives near me. She asked if I was out running that morning since she was out walking. I told her I was. She said she thought so since she recognized my long hair. Awhile ago, someone else said the same thing. Then some random person at a store said how much she liked my hair even when it was barely brushed and was sweaty from a run.

Rationally, I know of course, that I am still somebody even if my hair was cut to my chin or something, but it's just the letting go of it that seems so hard to me. Although different, I kind of equate it to a person with an ED who has always been viewed as "anorexic," the "skinny girl," "the girl who doesn't eat," etc. It becomes a part of their identity, and without it, they are unsure of who they are.

I know I'll eventually get past this. Even though this is an insanely small issue compared to other things in my life, it still somehow holds a lot of importance for me. After all, hair is symbolic of many things.