Oh, the number of times I've heard that one.
For some people, "self-care" means getting a massage. A facial. A manicure. I get it. Those things aren't self-care for me. I get my nails done on a schedule and my regular manicurist is someone I consider a friend. In spite of that fact, I don't consider getting my nails done self-care -- it's something I have to do because I am so concerned that my appearance is always being scrutinized thanks to the stigma of being fat. For the same reason, the only places I don't wear makeup are work (since there's just three of us there), my parents' or my in-laws' houses, the pool, or my voice lessons. Otherwise, I'm scared to look "sloppy" or like I've "let myself go."
I'm actually repulsed by the idea of "doing something nice for myself," because I don't know what that looks like anymore.
I have two main rewards that don't involve working hard to reach a goal. The first is going to Disney World. Since that's inaccessible on a regular old day, the second is food. It's always been food. In my open letter to food, I spend a lot of time explaining that food was my first love and my favorite companion, and my reward for anything and everything. It was also where I always turned in stressful situations.
You might say, "Do something nice for yourself," and I hear, "Go eat something special." You might say, "You don't take care of yourself," and my retort is, "What do you mean? Food IS my self-care." Clearly, food noise has made my brain very confused. My idea of self-care used to look a lot like this post's featured photo.
Today, the day that I write this post (though it may release later) is the third anniversary of my grandmother's death. In my open letter to food, I talked a lot about how food noise dominated my thoughts right after my grandmother died, because it was easier than dealing with a lot of confusing grief. Today, I found myself floundering. I was reaching for my life preserver, but it was nowhere to be found. I have grown so used to using food to help me avoid big feelings, that I reach for it and then... I don't even want it anymore. My instinct wants the food. Wegovy knows better. The truth is, I didn't want the food; I wanted to hug the woman who was always my biggest fan.
I found myself thinking that I should do something nice for myself today, as a reward for facing my grief. Other than spending money on something impractical, the only thing that I could come up with that was "nice for myself" was to eat. To binge. To drive into Mickey D's for two large fries and a medium shake all to myself. Thankfully, my recent aversion to anything greasy and fried was enough to keep me away (I recently tried pizzeria pizza for the first time in four months and was repulsed by it). To add insult to injury, the feelings of grief felt more "in my face" -- especially after three years -- than I thought they would be. However, I shouldn't have been surprised; my emotions come in fuller force when they're not muted by food noise.
My therapist and I have talked about finding things that make me happy, that don't involve working toward and achieving a goal -- like performing in or a producing a show, or getting a press feature about community work, issues, and political campaigns. Performing makes me happy to my core. Being recognized in the community is special. But neither of those things are available to me on a constant basis, for a day like today. Those things aren't classified as "doing something nice" for myself when so much work is required in the lead-up.
I know a lot of people enjoy "retail therapy," but buying useless things for myself comes with guilt for me when we have to pay bills, and I'd rather have money to go out with our friends. Disney vacations are costly and tougher to plan than they used to be. Others say exercise is self-care, and while I love swimming and getting to spend time with my friends at the gym, exercise is another agenda item that I have to squeeze in to an already busy existence. If I have to squeeze it into the agenda, it's not self-care. And so, I am left at square one with thoughts of binge-worthy amounts of food that I no longer want. Yet, I am lost, because I've relied on it for so long. I feel like a dog chasing its tail. Even the idea of binge-watching an entire season of a trashy teen show or a reality show isn't appealing anymore, because I used to binge eat while I binge-watched. So much of my life was accompanied by, dictated by, and surrounded by, food.
Not going to lie, I still am at square one, even as I wrap up this post. Writing is self-care-adjacent for me, that's for sure -- it's my favorite coping mechanism. But it's not necessarily a reward. In my mind, a reward is a prize with no strings attached, and it's preferable if it's given to me by another person so I don't seem biased toward myself. To put it succinctly, a reward is a present that's not for your birthday, Christmas, or Easter (or Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, or any gift-giving holiday). As a child, I wanted to stop at Toys "R" Us as a reward for good behavior, on the way home from the family event where I was the only child present (I could have LIVED in that Barbie aisle). But, I also wanted to come to said event in the hopes that my parents and my grandmother wouldn't like the food served -- and we'd stop at a restaurant on the way home.
I hope that throughout this process, I can figure out what it means for me to "do something nice for myself," to give my inner child rewards for facing hard things and for completing hard work. But, the rewards can't be food. Binge eating, and eating foods that will now cause nausea, can no longer be equated with "self-care." If you think you can help me figure out what can be, I'm truly open to listening. Just don't tell me to get my nails done.
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