I knew something was wrong. I had lived in my body for 38 years — for better or worse. The "better" portion included years of ballet dancing, running, and traveling the world. During "worse" moments, I detested my physical form. I'd abused my body for decades, struggling with various forms of eating disorders most of my life. I pretended to appreciate my body — but I didn't. I hated it.
Ironically, the summer I finally owned up to having an eating disorder — and started investing time and energy into healing— I began to notice blood in my stool. Twice a month, I'd find a bright red splash mixed in with the clear toilet water. At first, I dismissed it. I was too busy rejoicing the fact I was finally OK eating Cheetos, and not throwing up after.
Throughout my childhood, I trained as a classical ballet dancer. Forced to stare at my still-developing body in the mirror for six hours a day — while silently critiquing every imperfection — I developed strategies for staying thin and lithe. It did not help that I am half Asian (obsessed with appearance and control) and half Italian American (obsessed with appearance and food). In my adolescent years, I learned to manage my emotions by controlling what was — or wasn't — on my plate. If I made a mistake and ate too much, I knew I could always purge to fix it. In high school, I discovered laxatives and added them to my ED toolbox.
After two months of ignoring the blood in my stool, I finally called my doctor. I was told the cause of my vibrant toilet water display was stage 3 colorectal cancer. I sat in my oncologist's office — in total disbelief — as she informed me the tumor had broken through the wall of my rectum and spread to nearby lymph nodes.
"The good news is your cancer is treatable," she said. "The bad news is you are going to need chemotherapy, radiation, and two surgeries."
My optimism — and sense of gratitude — immediately kicked in as soon as I heard the word "treatable."
Then, she added, "You will also need to alter your diet immediately to focus on easily digestible foods, meaning simple foods made with white flour." Nodding, I assured her I'd follow the strict dietary guidelines, knowing it had been a decade — if not more — since I'd eaten a full bagel or bowl of cereal.
Over the next nine months, as I underwent chemotherapy and radiation, I forced myself to eat a bland, white diet of flour-based foods. I ate carbs like my life depended on it — because it did.
My nutritionist advised me to immediately begin a low-residue diet and start taking Miralax to aid with digestion. It was agonizing to accept that I needed to take a daily laxative. My vice had become part of my cure, and my heart and brain were in shambles.
The irony was not lost on me: the experts were ordering me to eat carbs. They'd given me a prescription to consume things I'd spent years depriving my body of. A small part of me couldn't help but wonder—did I give myself rectal cancer? Had years of abusing this specific area of my body resulted in this? I had been obsessed with digestion and mistreated my system in one way or another for the past twenty-five years.
Over the next nine months, as I underwent chemotherapy and radiation, I forced myself to eat a bland, white diet of flour-based foods. I ate carbs like my life depended on it — because it did. I ate bread, cereal, muffins, and pasta. Small bites at first—and then— full meals. I ate until my stomach was full and my body satiated.
I tried to ignore the anxiety I felt around gaining weight. I stopped bodychecking and weighing myself. I always answered "no," when the nurse asked if I wanted to know my weight at my oncology visits. Once she responded, "If I were as thin as you, I would want to know." I was shocked. I knew she meant it as a compliment, so I sighed with frustration at how messed-up beauty culture is, and awkwardly thanked her.
During the horror that is cancer treatment, I took small comfort in the food I usually restricted. Sampling different crackers, pizza, pancakes, and more, became a fun taste test game. I'd been ordered by my doctor to eat every few hours and never let my stomach go empty. With chemo, I felt so nauseous I didn't want to eat much at all. But I had to.
It is not a coincidence that when I was diagnosed with cancer, I finally relinquished control over as much as I could. I've let go of the need for everything to be perfect.
After I got my ostomy, I was able to add additional foods to my diet, but I was frightened and hesitant to do so. The simple, white flour meals had become part of my treatment and I'd come to depend on them. They were easy to digest. My body endured so much during cancer— I didn't want to suffer any further agony.
Now, following my ileostomy reversal, I am allowed to eat whatever I want. Sometimes, I'll become too eager to enjoy a variety of cuisines, and subsequently find myself in horrendous discomfort. Unfortunately, this try-and-test method is the only way I'll know what my body can and cannot handle.
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During these moments, when I am weepy, exhausted, and frustrated, I seek white flour. I turn to it because I know it won't hurt me. It will not disrupt my digestive system or make me cry out in pain — or cause instant weight gain. I desire the foods that were once the cause of my emotional and physical torment. I want bread with olive oil for every meal. A tortilla with cheese, white rice with soy sauce. These items — the very foods I once feared and avoided — have now become a great source of comfort.
Eating disorders are complex, and something I continue to face every day. I understand I tried to exert control over my emotions through eating and restricting. It is not a coincidence that when I was diagnosed with cancer, I finally relinquished control over as much as I could. I've let go of the need for everything to be perfect.
My relationship with my body remains contentious. I'm grateful my body was receptive to cancer treatment — not everyone is so lucky. But also, there are days I am furious at my body for ever letting cancer in. It's a vicious cycle, and I'm still learning how to forgive myself.
At the very least, I forgive myself for the years of abuse. I mostly acknowledge that I did not give myself this merciless disease, though some days my mind still wanders.
Now, I listen to my body. I've learned how to give myself the things I need. In many ways, the disease that almost killed me also cured me of a lifelong mental illness. It turned my life upside down, and inside out. I have a new appreciation for my strong — and soft — body that carried me through cancer. And I am learning how to love myself, for better or worse.
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