In Body I Trust

by Lauren Dow

  Amelia leaned her back against the wall in the hallway and slid down to the floor. She pulled her legs towards her chest and laid her forehead across the tops of her knees.

  Breathe. Just breathe. You have the tools.

  The tools. With her eyes closed, she inhaled on a four count, held her breath on a four count, and exhaled on a four count.

  You can either dwell on and endure the tired, or you can find the message, your call to action to do something about it. Soul farts, Amelia.

  She pulled the neck of her shirt above her eyes and held it shut to block out any light. She continued to breathe deeply and tried to slow down her thoughts.

  I can do this, but I have to slow down.

  She had to acknowledge that there was still a lot of dark she could very easily fall back into. Amelia was the one that held the power, not her inner monster. With the lights of her own universe shut off, she continued to breathe and painted a mental picture of her future.

  She sat at a coffee shop, writing, while someone played the piano in the background. She had a cup of coffee, a notebook, and Luna laying by her feet. Her neighbors surrounded her; a community of individuals who lived the slow life. Never rushing, just existing with contentment. She wrote stories about the people she saw, about the tiny licks Luna gave her toes through the tops of her sandals. Her arms were exposed and she didn’t even worry that someone might notice her triceps sagging just a bit from age.

  She was transported to the backyard of a small bungalow where her children played. She could keep up with them because she quit smoking. Her hair was long with hints of gray, which her future partner adored; a man whose face she couldn’t quite see. There were lights strung throughout the yard. Friends both new and old gathered together for a celebration: the release of Amelia’s book.

  Amelia’s eyes shot open as she tilted her chin towards the empty room.

  She knew what she wanted her life to look like. She was just taking the long way round.

  As a child, she’d written elaborate stories about being a photographer, a flight attendant, or a middle school teacher. She made up overly fantasized tales about her family vacations and holiday gatherings. Amelia had spent her life writing down scenarios she’d conjured in her head, always wishing they were her reality.

  Amelia ran to the hallway closet and grabbed a giant whiteboard and dry erase markers. She pulled out a chair from the dining room table and propped the whiteboard against the chair back. She knelt down on the floor, directly in front of the blank board. Purple marker in hand, she began to scribble out the thoughts racing through her mind.

  She scrawled out different story ideas, subplots, and feelings she wanted to explore. She wrote down situations and people she’d come across throughout her life. She set the scene with words that made her feel the grass beneath her feet.

  She looked outside towards the balcony. Thick clouds were coming through, alluding to a storm that would last the rest of the evening. Amelia knew, just like Monday, that it would feel like morning all night long. It was the perfect setting in which to write. She had nowhere to go, and everywhere to explore.

  After an hour of purging her thoughts onto the whiteboard, she pulled back and saw a beautiful, breathtaking mural of organized chaos that would change her life forever. She saw what she’d been searching for, her future smeared across white plastic in purple marker. She felt like the writer she wanted to be, the writer she always was.

  A slight twinge of doubt shot into her stomach.

  Would anyone ever actually read what I have to say? How could I possibly do this? This is irrational. I’m just being manic. I’m getting too far ahead of myself and shouldn’t be so over the top.

  She closed her eyes and took four more deep breaths. This wasn’t irrational. This wasn’t a manic, impulsive moment. Her body was telling her that this was her truth. And her body never lied.

  Amelia could feel the withdrawals from not having a cigarette; she wasn’t ready to cave. A sharp pain abruptly pierced her fingers. She looked down at her hands and saw that she’d clasped them together tight enough that her rings had cut into her skin. As she opened her palms up towards the ceiling, tears followed suit.

  It was as if she was seeing them for the first time. She’d written down her darkest thoughts in eclectic, yet poetic ways with these same hands for years, but, somehow, they still felt like strangers. Each and every line that contoured her hands seemed brand new to her in a matter of seconds. The way the skin broke along her knuckles. The brittle flakes of skin stung with every flex. They didn’t look like the hands of a thirty-year-old. These hands had seen pain, extreme temperatures, and an obvious lack of care. These hands were tired.

  Amelia finally gained the courage to lift her head up from her aging claws. Her fingers slowly caressed the edges of her pants, feeling the cotton matted with sweat from anxiety. Silence filled the room, vibrating with anticipation.

  Now get up, Amelia.

  She quickly stood up from her chair. A blanket of white covered her vision. Small, spotted stars floated around making everything feel slightly off kilter. She put all of her weight onto her hand against the back of the chair to keep her standing.

  I have to eat. I can’t do anything about creating a damn future for myself if I’m not alive to witness it. I have to eat.

  She opened the junk drawer in the kitchen and sifted through an assortment of takeout menus from Chinese restaurants, breakfast diners, and food trucks throughout Denver. She finally landed on a locally owned sandwich shop around the corner from her apartment. Amelia picked up her phone and called the number on the menu, ordering herself a portobello mushroom sandwich with goat cheese on a hoagie roll. The person on the other line said it would be ready in fifteen minutes. In that moment, Amelia had taken a piece of Miranda’s advice and dialed in on her emergency list. One small victory.

  Amelia went into her bathroom to splash water on her face. She grabbed a towel, dried her cheeks, and opened her eyes. She shifted her gaze upwards towards the mirror. She had to test herself, to see if she truly had what it took for that next step. Amelia began examining her face in her reflection.

  The bags under her eyes were exaggerated by her puffy eyelids. She stretched the skin on her face, starting from the corners of her lips and moving up along the curvature of her jaw line. She held it tight just below her earlobes. She released her hands and everything in her face dropped. There was no hate or disgust for the face she saw looking back at her. Maybe God really did have a plan for her. It might not be the one she wanted, but it would be the plan she needed.

  She looked down from the mirror and returned her gaze to her hands. They were miraculous.

  These two appendages were capable of so much more than she ever gave them credit for. They could comfort someone with a hug or with a simple touch. They could build a home for a family or tear down walls. They could hold a newborn baby or comfort a life near its end. Her two hands had the literal power to save a life or take one away. These hands were more than ready to face her eating disorder. If they had the ability to write her suicide letter, they had the ability to give her demon a name, a face, a persona to confront and conquer. These hands were ready to write the letter to her eating disorder.

  She ran over towards her nightstand, opened the drawer, and grabbed a pen and paper. Sitting on the edge of her bed, Amelia began to write.

  Dear Lauren,

  For the last two years of my life, I’ve been your puppet, performing in your screwed up theatrical play. I’ve allowed you to dictate my thoughts, desires, wants, and actions. I used to hate you, yet I gave you more love and attention than you ever deserved.

  I’d see you as this beautiful thing, one that had control and a thigh gap I envied, a screwed-up version of my reality where I believed this is what it meant to be beautiful, to be strong, and this was the only way I could ever be loved.

  But now I see I was never empathizing with you; I was commiserating alongside you. I wa
sn’t compassionate; I was codependent. Your familiarity and consistency provided me a comfort, dragging me down to your level. Now it’s time for me to get uncomfortable and lean into it— to learn from the discomfort, not push away from it.

  I have to learn the lesson behind your pain.

  It was necessary for me to meet you. Your fragile arms that were barely able to pick yourself up when you fell to the ground time and time again. Your long brown hair tangled in a way that shows a lack of care. Your fingers that have grabbed ahold of the skin along your waist so hard it bled as a form of punishment for existing. You were necessary, because if I didn’t experience a life with you, I wouldn’t be where I am today.

  Every little piece of the bigger puzzle matters. You are a part of my story, and that story has brought me to the exact point I’m at today. If I didn’t know you, I wouldn’t have been perfectly positioned in this universe to have adopted Luna. I wouldn’t have ended up in Denver to start finding myself.

  You will always be a part of my story, Lauren. But you are no longer the lead character. I am. You play a supporting role, teaching me what I’m made of, where I need to go, and that all of the struggles, pain, and hurt you have exposed me to has been worth it.

  Today, I am thriving and not even you can take that away from me.

  I love you, and I’m sorry you’ve been bottled up for so long. But I am no longer commiserating with you. I empathize with you and your brokenness. I’m compassionate towards your lack of self-love and desire to put everyone else before yourself. I’m in awe of the struggles you’ve had to endure while still managing to see the light of day.

  But I think it’s time we start working with each other rather than against each other. Dominic was a chapter in our story. Corey and Emmett were paragraphs. All the words are important, but they are not the story. I control the narrative from this point forward. I am the story.

  Thank you for showing me where there is work that still needs to be done. Thank you for dragging me down to the bottom so I could see the place I never want to end up again. Thank you for every lesson you’ve taught and will continue to teach me. But don’t take my kindness for weakness, not anymore.

  Know this. I am my own savior, not you, Emmett, Dominic, or anyone else. I am more than ordinary, I am extraordinary.

  We have a long road ahead of us, but I know that it’s a road worth taking. We have to trust our body. Our body never lies. We just need to hold on a little longer.

  Sincerely,

  Amelia

  Resources

  If you or someone you know is suffering from an eating disorder or other mental health conditions, here are just a few of the numerous additional resources available where you can find education, support, and professional care for you or your loved one. This list is not exhaustive and many other resources and organizations are available along with what is listed. Many of these are located in the United States, but provide valuable information, resources, tools, and support for those all over the world.1

  7 Cups

  7cups.com

  ADAA (Anxiety and Depression Association of America)

  adaa.org

  AED (Academy for Eating Disorders)

  aedweb.org

  AFSP (American Foundation for Suicide Prevention)

  afsp.org

  ANAD (National Association of Anorexia Nervosa and Associated Disorders)

  anad.org

  Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance

  dbsalliance.org

  EDF (Eating Disorder Foundation)

  eatingdisorderfoundation.org

  F.E.A.S.T. (Families Empowered and Supporting Treatment of Eating Disorders)

  feast-ed.org

  iaedp™ (International Association of Eating Disorder Professionals)

  iaedp.com

  It Gets Better Project

  itgetsbetter.org

  MHA (Mental Health America)

  mhanational.org

  NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Health)

  nami.org

  NEDA (National Eating Disorder Association)

  nationaleatingdisorders.org

  NIMH (National Institute of Mental Health)

  nimh.nih.gov

  Project HEAL

  theprojectheal.org

  Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration

  samhsa.gov

  Suicide Prevention Lifeline

  suicidepreventionlifeline.org

  Trans Lifeline

  translifeline.org

  The Trevor Project

  thetrevorproject.org

  1 *Please note that the author and publishers have no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

  Acknowledgements

  I look back at the person who started writing this book in the summer of 2020, during the midst of a global pandemic and in the beginning stages of my recovery. I guarantee she wouldn’t believe me if I told her I’d have an entire village to thank for the creation of this book. If I were to acknowledge every person who has made an impact, I’d never stop writing.

  To my family who made me, formed me, and challenged me to become the independent and courageous woman I am today.

  Anna Dow, you are a queen. A true presence of light and love, I am blessed to have been paired with on this Earth.

  Michael Dow, Daddy-O, you give me the space to breathe, the courage to be free, and the reassurance behind my doubt.

  Jonathan, Alicia, and Kelly, our blood flows deeper than our hearts.

  Haven, Paz, Gisele, Lily, Moses, Bijou, Mikayla, River, and Lucca, you kiddos are my heart, through and through.

  Tim Porosky, I was drowning in the moment, and you kept me sober. Thank you for always answering the phone.

  Chris Feld, there would be no book, no thought-dump, no possibility of saving myself without you. You are the reason I found what it took to thrive. I only hope that this book shows you how much you truly mean to me, and how much I undeniably miss you. Happy 11th birthday. You didn’t did it; you done it.

  Chelsea Wilde, Bryanna Hinkle, Joanna Vossahlik, Elli Mercer, Sven Hevia you were there from far beyond the beginning of this book, all the way through to the end. You were the first eyes on the very first chapter of this creation. Your brutal honesty has shaped me. Your never ending love has changed me. You are my chosen family. And I would choose the five of you every single time.

  Timmy Miller, for listening to me talk about this book nonstop for a solid year, for holding me when I cried about how hard it was, and celebrating every small victory. Thank you for making the hard decisions. Thank you for it all. And to your family, for being on my team without even knowing me.

  Taylor Fraser and Nicole Sylvester, the two of you took time out of your lives to not only read my book, but finish it with absolute love for a person you barely knew. You both read it in its rawest form, and still, you two women gave me the confidence I needed to put this book into the hands of others.

  A special thank you to an amazing group of individuals who helped turn this book into something tangible for others to experience. Thank you to my outstanding editor, Claire Evans, to my kick-ass accountability partner for keeping me on track, Rhiannon Roberts, to Sterling Fraser for the countless hours you’ve spent teaching me and having my back, to Abigail Wilde for being the first to hear the words out loud, to Drew Rivera, PA-C for finding such value in this book reflected by your nomination of In Body I Trust for the Mental Health America 2021 Media Award, and to Jason Brueckner for sharing your knowledge, being my sounding board, and doing it all with nothing but undeniable compassion, space, and embrace.

  To the advanced review readers, podcast hosts, bloggers, and incredibly beautiful human beings who have helped me continue my mission of normalizing mental health and reinforcing self-love, you are a part of this adventure a
nd I couldn’t be more grateful for each and every one of you.

  Without the help of my therapist (who I’ll leave anonymous for the sake of everyone’s privacy) and my family at the Eating Disorder Foundation, I would’ve never been able to believe in a future for myself. What you all have done, and continue to do for so many people, is beyond words.

  Thank you to every single person who preordered In Body I Trust to help benefit Project HEAL. Your contribution went to an incredible organization that is helping to break down systemic, healthcare, and financial barriers to eating disorder treatments, provide life-saving support to whom the system fails, and continue quantitative research for underrepresented populations. To learn more about what your contribution to Project HEAL is doing, visit theprojectheal.org.

  I’d like to acknowledge the people who were there from the beginning of this journey. From the very real experiences I encountered that inspired this book to the moment I shared my story of recovery, hundreds of you have supported and encouraged me to keep going. To keep living. And to those of you who shared your personal stories with me, I’m honored that you trusted me to lean on. Your truths have been fuel to my fire towards this accomplishment.