For awhile there was a hashtag floating around on Twitter
called “Confess your unpopular opinion.” Here’s mine: I really don’t like
Thanksgiving.
I think I like it. Every year I think: Oh, it’s going to be
fine. But it’s basically a national excuse to binge eat and (in New York, at
least) overexercise, and frankly, it’s often a reminder of what I don’t have.
My father’s father died on Thanksgiving morning when I was five – the table was
already set for guests. And my grandmother died the day after Thanksgiving six
years ago, after I’d overexercised (it was either two or three hours) then
binged so badly I passed out and didn’t call her on Thanksgiving – and I
usually called her every day. I never got to speak to her again.
I thought I might avoid Thanksgiving entirely this year, but
instead I had it twice – on Thursday and Saturday. The eating disordered voice
in my head found this stressful and difficult (especially with a trip to NYC
looming), but on the flip side – and in the past six months, I have gotten a
whole lot better at seeing the flip side – I have friends who care about me and
sometimes go to pretty great lengths to show it.
On Thursday the plan was just to go to an English friend’s
for dinner. I had eaten every meal except breakfast out for the previous week,
and was looking forward to a relatively safe dinner (friend is from treatment.)
But she surprised me by making the whole dinner, texting an American friend of
ours pictures to check things were turning out right. It was incredibly sweet
and thoughtful. (And yes, it turned out right, down to the cornbread, which is
not something we ever had at our Thanksgiving growing up, but which I love.)
Saturday a Scottish friend and her half-American housemate
threw a Thanksgiving dinner party. It was the first time I’ve done much
drinking in nearly six months, and I have to say, it did make things harder on
the food front. I struggled so hard to stick to one plate of food and one plate
of pudding – so much so that I left earlier than I might otherwise, in part
because the only way I could imagine staying would be consuming more. (Also: I
was tired.) Yesterday I felt terrible: Hungover, tired, depressed (you forget
when you haven’t drunk for awhile that alcohol is a depressant), and the
cravings were through the roof. I spent the whole day basically waiting for it
to be over, and it felt uncomfortably close to how I used to feel post-binge.
But on the plus side: I had a plate of food and didn’t even
consider whether it was carbs or protein or fat – just food. I had a plate of
pudding, just like everyone else. And I didn’t overexercise and didn’t restrict
either before or after. I confess I thought about jumping on the scale to
monitor the damage, but I can’t, because I have nothing to compare it to.
177 days -- and boy am I grateful for them.
