I love Christmas. From the festive takeaway cups and sparkly lights to hearing non-stop carols on the radio, watching every Christmas film on TV and putting my tree up as soon as it is deemed acceptable - on the 1st of November thank you very much.
Unfortunately, I have been bound by food rules and restrictions since the eating disorder came into existence and as a result not let myself fully live or experience Christmas. Heightened anxiety and fear of weight gain are not a good match. Although I can't remember specificities at the time (too much mulled wine you may suggest - I assure you, definitely not), over the years I have trained myself to have 'healthier' inclinations.
In 2018, it went as far as eating an 'as-clean-as-possible' Christmas dinner - making homemade vegan cashew custard and cranberry sauce and having only the 'healthy' leftovers the next day (basically vegetables). No turkey sarnies, roasted potatoes or pigs in blankets - the best part - and no increased joy from these alternatives.
Just last year in 2019, the season filled me with so much fear I remember explaining the panic I felt to my therapist. Social events - and even a holiday to New York - were red flags. The over drinking, over eating and under exercising overwhelmed me. I had tunnel vision on these components; ultimately, putting on weight and 'what if' that happened was more important than the memories I would be making.
I never had a spontaneous bratwurst, not even one mince pie; I beat myself up over 'wasted treats' and only ordered a festive hot chocolate if I was with someone else and they suggested it. A meticulous plan to fit my diet. As well as this, I made up an excuse for not drinking on games night and declined a slice of our friend's famous banoffee pie, opting for the cheese board option instead (savour = supposedly less sugar = 'better', a decision I still, in 2022, regret). If the opportunity presented itself, when I could I ate as 'clean' and 'safe' as possible, even in New York, swapping a deep-filled sarnie for soup. After Christmas, after returning home from a trip to Wales with my friends, which I ended short by one night, I burst into tears to my Mum. Feeling so insecure and out of my comfort zone.
Prior to this, circa 2016, I remember waking up on Boxing Day and drinking a pure green juice (no fruit) whilst explaining to my sister that I wasn't hungry, to which she replied, "You don't have to be hungry, it's just breakfast". Oh how easy these words are to believe for someone without a devil in their head.
The saddest part is that I remember these moments a lot more prominently than whatever else happened.
This year, in 2020, I was determined to try and challenge myself and, instead of being envious of others, be the person I would usually feel envious of. Small steps, without pressure, but with a real try-hard effort to not hold myself back.
Good intentions; I spontaneously went shopping instead of going for a swim - this took careful consideration - and ordered curry without fret or worry. As you can probably guess, nobody asked or cared about what I drank or ate or how I looked or when I exercised.
But the execution was always going to be hard. I knew my boundaries and often retreated back to old habits. For example, I lacked confidence to take myself out for a Christmas Pret sandwich. Three boozy dinners in one week provoked my fear of weight gain. I often felt like I needed to exercise out of compensation more than want - in the middle of enjoying dessert, dinner or drinks, the eating disorder would preliminarily pencil in a workout for the next morning, as though to justify and make me feel 'better' about its consumption. I even chose to do a pilates class on Christmas Day morning whilst my family were getting ready - and yet I never told them, anyone, in fact.
Breaking away from diet culture is especially hard when others around me continue to restrict, act or comment on dietary behaviour. Hearing a friend remark about being a 'piggy' over Christmas; another deciding to give up chocolate and alcohol in January. Starting a detox being a universal conversation, as though feeling full or 'overindulging' over the festive period is a a once-a-year act. What sends a loud, clear message that choosing to live like this all year round - satisfying cravings when you want to - is wrong, unheard of.
As much as these comments are 'normalised' in today's society, it signals that disordered eating is accepted, expected of us even. Holds weight (mind the pun) - and unfortunately I don't feel stable or confident enough to act care-free. I feel alone, in both my decision to pursue diet culture freedom and thus my choices that to others are apparently 'unhealthy', 'bad'. It tricks my brain into thinking I 'should' do the same, I 'should' decline the cheeseboard and glass of wine too.
So I continue to bodycheck and think about my softer stomach - a reflex that reassures me 'I am ok' (according to diet culture standards) - whilst equally reminding myself that I gain no more respect, worthiness or admiration than if my stomach was skeletal. As much as I fear judgement and criticism from seeing my body change, the confidence I feel - and smugness, no offence - about not restricting enjoyment come January is empowering. I dance between the two mindsets, one step forward, two steps back. And if there's anything I've learnt from 2020, we could miss out on what makes us feel good in the space of an hour. I no longer want to restrict myself to provide a false sense of feeling better, emotional eating and all. Starting a diet in 2021 - I think I'll pass.
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