Coming in Last

Why do we put ourselves last?

Actually, I think the real question here is: Is last place the worst place?

I will often panic during competitions when I think I might come in last. I will fight and claw my way to any other position OTHER than last. Second to last? Fine. As long as I'm not DEAD LAST.

Last January my workplace had a Biggest Loser competition. Perfect place for a girl with Disordered Eating, right? Apparently I thought so too, because I was first in line to hand in my entry money.

"Weight loss competition? I got it. Please. These people are amatuers. I've been dieting since I was eight! Not a problem." So I handed in my money and got excited for the first weigh in. "This might be fun," I thought. "I'll happily take my coworker's money."

Week One came. Everyone weighed in privately with a non competing coworker, who recorded the weights and was going to let us know who was in the lead. Everything was private, and I didn't really have any concerns. After all, even if I didn't win, it's not like everyone would know if I came in last, right?

Wow. I couldn't have been more wrong. Next day I walk into the Teacher's Lounge and hanging on the wall is a 3' by 2' POSTER with every one's results. HOLY. CRAP. It had a space for the entire 8 weeks of the competition, so every week everyone would be able to see who had lost weight, who had gained, and who had stayed the same.

Also? Who was in last place.

I guess it could have been worse.

I actually won the first week. Like I said, professional dieter over here. Need me to not eat for a week? No problem. But sustain it? For eight weeks? Not gonna happen. Add the pressure of not coming in last place? I don't think I could DESIGN a more perfect storm of binge eating and excess stressing.

Weeks Two and Three came. I stayed the same, not a single ounce lost. Everyone else was making good progress towards their goal, and I sitting in a corner in the fetal position, messing up any chance I had at winning because I was so worried about coming in last.

Week Four. I gained a pound. And guess what? DEAD. LAST.

Over the next four weeks of the competition I stressed out and exercised myself into exhaustion. I didn't think I had a chance to win, but I just didn't want to end up in last place. ANYTHING but last place. Ended up second to last, with a five pound weight loss and a loose grip on reality.

I made myself sick just so I wouldn't be at the bottom of the barrel. Why? Why is coming in last the worst possible place to be?

Mr. Muggles doesn't think so.

At Crossfit, I'll look at the Whiteboard at the beginning, middle and end of a workout, just so I can estimate where I'll end up compared to everyone else. If I sense it's going to be last, I panic. I'll whine. I'll push. And if there's no chance? I'll give up. Because apparently just getting a good workout isn't enough. Nope, I need to not be in that last position. Nothing else is good enough.

I often walk into a room and look around. Am I the fattest one here? The ugliest? The dumbest? Why must I compare myself to others for self worth? Why do I have to be "better" than someone in order to be "better" in my own mind? Why can't I just be my best ME, regardless of anyone else?

Who cares if I'm dead last? I'm still first in my own race.

Disordered Eating

Let's just get this out of the way:

I have an eating disorder.

I have never actually said that to anyone other than a therapist before. My husband is aware of it, of course, but I'm not even sure he's aware of the extent of damage.

More specifially, I have Disordered Eating. My therapist once told me that an Eating Disorder is a diagnosis, which people assume can be cured, where as Disordered Eating is a journey that needs to be constantly monitored. I have ranged from anorexic, to bulemic, to binge eating, to obsessiveness about where my food came from and whether or not it met an impossible standard of health, to a complete disregard to anything health related as my "rebellion."

My Disordered Eating is my earliest memory. It was Christmas, and I was maybe 4 or 5. I was wearing a red plaid dress, and eating potato chips non stop. We never, NEVER got potato chips at home, and this was an unbelievable treat for me. I was unable to stop. Literally. I ate and ate and ate and ate the entire day. My Mom told me to stop eating so much, so I proceeded to hide the fact that I was eating anything unhealthy from her for the next ten years. (I guess I tend to be extreme when it comes to eating) I ate potato chips until I threw up that day, and discovered the release that came from the binge and purge. Thus the dangerous cycle began.

My sister on the left, me on the right

My first diet was at eight. Despite my first experience of the binge and purge, I was unable to control the purge (that came later), so I was stuck with the binge. There was a certain comfort in eating until I was uncomfortable. Obviously, I was overweight. My best friend, Nikki, was one of the gorgeous, tan, bubbly girls who being thin and graceful came naturally. I was chubby, had super short hair, and liked to punch boys on the playground. We practically invented the word Frenemies. Of course, it was really only my issue. She was nice, I was the jerk who couldn't stop eating and hated myself for it. At eight years old.

The face of a boy puncher in the making.

So I went on a diet with my Mom. She also has Disordered Eating, fed by an even more Disordered Marriage, and was willing to try and help my habits by addressing the effect rather than the cause. I lost weight, and was secretly wishing my entire life would be different because of it, while still unsure why I thought that. I mean, I was eight. How bad was my life anyways? But I remember thinking, "Great, now everyone will like me better!" Instead, Nikki's mom came up to me after Coffee and Donuts at church one day (where I had just had a 30 minute debate with myself about eating a powdered donut or not) and asked me if I had lost weight.

I was mortified. Terrified. Beyond embarrassed. Everyone was supposed to like me better now, but no one was supposed to know WHY. No one was supposed to notice that I had been chubby in the first place! If they now noticed I was thinner, that meant they had noticed I was fat in the first place! I immediately went home and binged on Oreos. I need the comfort that came from being uncomfortably full. It was my punishment for trying to better myself.

Throughout High School and College I ranged from not eating in front of certain people, to binge eating in my basement, to binge eating in public to prove "that I could." I was unable to disconnect who I was from what I ate, and my self worth was based on how much I weighed and how much control I had over food.

Me and the Hubby our Freshman year of college.

Generally my Disordered Eating was of the binge and occassional purge variety, which led me to be chubby throughout my life. Then my parents announced they were getting divorced when I was 21. I was shocked. During my parents divorce, something changed. I was unable to control anything else in my life except my eating, so I took it to an extreme (surprise, surprise) and just stopped eating. I sustained myself for three years on a single bagel with peanut butter every other day. It was the only time in my life I was happy with my weight. Too bad I was so unhappy with everything else.

As things got better with my family, I lost control of my eating again, and gained weight again. I was even a failure at eating disorders, apparently.



That cycle continues to this day. I have had so many episodes of self punishment I can't even begin to outline them here. Every event in my life, good, bad, whatever, is connected in my mind to food and my weight. What did I eat that day? What did I weigh?

I was 134 lbs on my wedding day, and had an egg and cheese sandwich from Dunkin Donuts while getting my hair done. Ate just about nothing for the rest of the day, though I actually think thats pretty normal.

First day of college I was 152 lbs and ate NOTHING, because I was determined to not be the fat girl who ate too much.



Parents divorce? Thinnest I've ever been in my life, 119 lbs, ate a bagel with peanut butter every other day and not much else. 

First CF party? 139 lbs, was drunk, and a few fellow CFers jokingly convinced me that I had eaten a bite of pizza, so I threw up in the bathroom. That was in November of this past year, but I mostly have had control of that aspect of my life since August, other than that one incident.

The point is not how much I weighed, or that I remember what I ate. It's that it's not a healthy relationship with food. It's full of emotion and guilt and punishment. It's not an enjoyment, even when I'm enjoying the food. And I DO enjoy food. Hence, the Disordered Eating part, not the Eating Disorder. I cannot be cured, but this whole thing CAN be managed.



Friends and family keep me sane throughout.



I'd like to say that CF and Paleo have saved my life, and that I've been able to get full control of everything else, etc. But, that would be a lie. It's probably what I could make you believe. I've convinced people my whole life that I'm fine. My husband, love him though I do, often will tell me to "Just stop eating the chocolate, Babe. You can do it!" His encouragment, though well intended, simplifies the disorder.

 I've actually convinced myself at times that I don't have a problem because I'm not skinny. "Only skinny people have eating disorders!" Paleo and CF became my latest obsession; the newest, coolest way for me to punish myself. "Is that Paleo? Can I have that? OMG, NOT PALEO? I'm not eating it. OMG, I ATE SOMETHING THAT WASN'T PALEO? I'M A FAILURE."

But, I'm not. I'm on a journey, with stumbles and bumps in the road. I'm not even remotely close to perfect. I will never be. My goal for the year is to finally accept this. And be a little more open and honest about my Disordered Eating.

Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes, Knees and Toes (and a Lower Back!)

I talked about my back injury in my other post, but I figured, what the heck, it's my blog, so why not talk about it a little more? No one but me can say "I can't." "You can't" means nothing.

So, I hurt my back. Lower back, to be exact. I am still thanking God that it wasn't worse than it was, and I am still being really careful about it, but my PT keeps telling me not to baby it. Babying it is only going to continue to problem, he says.

Whatever, it's not HIS back. He's not the one who was scared the pain was permament. He's not the one who was scared she wouldn't be able to hold her nieces and nephews, and God forbid, her own kids one day. Nope, that was me. So, yeah, sometimes I might baby it a little. So bite me.

I'm not even sure exactly what happened to my back; how I hurt it, when, etc. Over Christmas break I noticed it was starting to bug me a little bit. I chalked it up to too much munching on bad things and too much watching of bad movies. Basically I completely ignored it.

I went back to school and continued to notice it every once in a while. Maybe when I was standing for too long, or sitting at a weird angle. It didn't feel like anything major though, so I thought, it must be the weather/stress/shoes/outfit/anything else I could think of. NOT. A. BIG. DEAL. I told myself. So I took a day off here and there from CF and couldn't understand why it wasn't just going away.

I got a massage, and feel SO much better when I walked out of there. "Fixed it," I thought. But I woke up the next morning with a MAJOR neckache. Like, momumental. Crap. Now what? So I talked to everyone about it. And everyone had a different idea. "It's not a big deal." "OMG, you're going to die." Pretty much everyone thought something different, but everyone agreed that I needed to stop working out. Which was CRAZY, right?

So I went to a Chiropractor. Which is when it got bad. I'm sure there are awesome Chiropractors out there, but mine was not one. He didn't listen at all when I said that when I worked out I got a small square of numbness on my back. He didn't want to hear about moves that made it worse. Nothing I said was considered. He took x-rays and went about his routine. Crack, Crack, CRACK. Oh boy.

I went three times to the Chiro, because each time I kept expecting it to work. The last time I went, the numbness became a constant fixture on my back, and started creeping down my butt into my thigh. I was constantly aware of the numbness and tingling, and while I wouldn't describe it as painful, it was not comfortable. I ignored it a little more, and went to CF. I knew I couldn't do a major workout, but I figured some work with a pvc pipe couldn't hurt, right?

I made it through the workout one Sunday, went home and got in the shower. That's when the blinding spasm began. I got out, went downstairs and told my husband that I needed to go to hospital. So off we went.

Going to the hospital wasn't hugely helpful, but I did get some muscle relaxers, which helped a lot. I started PT two days later, which has been amazing. It's been slow (I'm still not 100%), but I'm starting to get back to CF and feeling a lot better about that.

The worst part (other than the pain) was feeling like a failure again. I have been in battle with myself for 28 years, and I finally felt like I found the winning side. Then I went and messed it up. I felt like it was my fault, and I was the stupid one, I was the failure, AGAIN, and I that had no one to blame but myself. I started comparing myself to other woman, which has always been a big problem for me. Only this time, I wasn't comparing myself with the skinny girls, I was comparing myself with the super fit superwomen at my CF. Why couldn't I be like them? WHY?

Anyways, I'm learning, SLOWLY, that I can't be like them because I HAVE to be myself. I know it's cheesy. I know it's a mantra I've said before. But, here I am, on the verge of 30, finally making a effort to accept myself for who I am. Finally letting go of what people want me to be and who I want to be like. I want to be like myself: bad back, dislocated shoulders, crunchy knees, awesome hair, pretty eyes and silly laugh.

All of it is me.

I am the only one saying "I can't." "You can't" means nothing.

SINS are not bad

I've been inspired by the SINS movement, and decided to add my blog to the growing group of awesomeness that is already populating the web over there.

So, I'm a 28 years old NYC High School teacher who has had a lifelong battle with myself. I know exactly what to do to "lose weight," but I end up fatter, tired and unhappy every time.

This past January 2010 I made a decision to lose weight, and went on a Gym Binge. I took Spinning, Pump and Pedal, Step, Cardio Kick, Kick and Step, Buns, Buns, Buns, and Baby Weights. (Those last two might not have actually happened. But seriously, who makes up these names. They're either silly - Pump and Pedal? Or extremely boring - Step. Seriously, 'Step' was as exciting as you could make this sound? Although, after taking it, I understand.)

Fast forward to around Memorial Day 2010. I was exhausted, and had lost about five pounds. FIVE POUNDS? That was impossible. I was in the gym AT LEAST an hour, five days a week. I was eating 1100 calories. I needed to lose about 20 pounds. HOW DID I ONLY LOSE FIVE?

So, like all the times before, I quit. Again. My husband and I went to Greece in July, and I had been pretty much not doing much of anything physical for two months. I went to the gym occassionally, but nothing like the prior five months. I gained back the five pounds I had lost when I LOOKED at gyros in Greece. The additional two pounds came from eating them.

At least we had fun!

I joined Crossfit August 1st, 2010. My friend had been bugging me to do it since March, but it was too expensive, too hard, too much, too intense. Too EVERTHING. So I resisted. "I lift weights," I said. "Heavy ones! I just started using the 8 pounders in my Pump and Pedal class! Only two other girls lift that much!" Finally I gave in.

I wasn't afraid of heavy weights when I joined Crossfit. Despite only lifting baby weights before, I DID actually like it. So that wasn't the problem.

No, I was afraid that I would be the one girl who joined Crossfit and got fat. I was afraid of being the one girl who was unable to get healthy, unable to lose weight. I was afraid I would fail. Again.

In about three weeks, I lost eight pounds. I re-lost the weight I had initally lost, plus some. I looked less "puffy" all over. I was actually pleased with how I was starting to look. I was lifting heavier and heavier each time, and making some serious gains! I continued going with my husband (who, of course, is incredibly athletic and was able to do just about everything RX'ed right away.) about five days a week for the next five months.

Then, I hurt my back this past January. I was finally getting close to doing a workout RX'ed, and I hurt myself. I tried to work through the pain, and the tingling, and the numbness, only to have it get worse, and worse. Finally, I ended up in the hospital after going through a workout using only a PVC pipe. I needed to take a major break.

So here I am, it's going to be March, and after some serious PT I am not in pain anymore, and I am starting to get back into WODs. It was shocking, because I was afraid the world would end when I stopped Crossfitting. I thought everything would change; everyone would hate me, I would get a divorce, and I would be a useless fat blob.

Oddly enough, the world continued to spin. My husband, who is Mr. Freaking Crossfitter, still loves me. (LOL! Imagine if six weeks off of Crossfit ended an 11 year relationship? My thoughts go a little wild sometimes.) I rehabbed myself, and now I'm back Crossfitting (though not 100% yet), and plan on running a 1/2 marathon May 1st.

I would like this blog to become my outlet for my marathon fears, my Crossfit journey, my food struggles and my family adventures. Join me?