Recently I came across a journal that I began after enduring the first couple of years of my debilitating depression. I was about to leave on a month long journey to Ghana in order to “heal” myself and was grasping at everything I could to stay afloat. In one of my more hopeful entries I quoted a beautiful passage from Spoon River,

“Have you ever been in the darkness when an unknown door suddenly opened before you, and you stood, it seemed in the light of a thousand candles of delicate wax?”

I know that I longed for and searched for that door over the next ten years. Relentlessly. I looked for it in Africa. I grasped for it in Hollywood. I meditated, prayed and chanted waiting to serendipitously run into this door that contained the light I knew I could potentially feel. None of it worked. It wasn’t until I surrendered my desperate hunt and learned to accept and move through my darkness that I stumbled upon the most delicate light. It is now in this newfound gentle warmth that I realize I pursued my recovery with the same obsessiveness that I pursued my disease, expecting to inexplicably be healed by something outside of myself. I became obsessive about healing my obsessions. I went out into the bush to be healed by African tradition instead of asking myself why, perhaps, I was feeling so unlovable. I tried to prove myself as an actor to all those around me instead of just proving to myself that I was acceptable as I was. I meditated, prayed and chanted trying to rid myself of my abusive thoughts instead of asking myself why I felt I deserved to be treated in such a manner. I felt that I was being punished with my depressions and diseases instead of treating them as a part of life. I needed to realize that it was not so much me that was flawed, but life in general, and each challenge, each heartache was an opportunity to grow not a personal attack on my soul. And it is so fucking dark because it is so fucking hard. It’s supposed to be. So the next time you find yourself in the dark open your eyes. Breathe it in. Feel every ounce of pain you can withstand and stand strong when confronted by those voices in your head. Know that each bead of sweat that forms during this grueling time lights one of those awaiting wicks and soon your light will flicker like you never knew it could.

My daughter is goofy. My daughter is beautiful. My daughter is fascinating. My daughter is pleasantly plump. It would be a disservice to say that cuddling my daughter in my arms is the most unbelievable feeling in the world, because it is so much more than that. After the adjustments of becoming a new mom, the minor postpartum depression and the all around up-rooting of my world, I feel that deep seeded love that I have always heard about but in which I never truly believed. And just as I begin to relax into this glorious moment, this glorious world, I am confronted with one of the many fears which, brick by brick, built my walls of disassociation and depression. At my daughter’s two year check up, my concerned doctor sat me down and worriedly claimed that my daughter was in danger of being overweight. Obese I believe was the exact word. I’m pretty sure in that moment he was completely unaware of the potential consequences of his statement, but, for me, my heart began to pound as my mind slowly began to run towards its track of obsession.

My fear of not being a good mother, not properly giving love and not properly getting love stems from many factors with the main one being that I am a third generation anorexic. Although I was never really overweight, my father feared I’d be wearing a muumuu due to my trunks for legs. I was from a young age told to suck in my stomach. Later on I was referred to as “the big girl.” I was sexualized before I was comfortable due to my growing curves which were out of my control. Who knows that if I did not have the genetic make up I was given if I would have even experimented with any type of eating disorder. But I did, and I did and it was incredibly difficult and still is. And because I did, and my husbands family did, my daughter is in danger as well.

I am incredibly aware of the fact that I hold the power to trigger that gene into an internal war against my daughters now beautiful ego, self esteem and sense of self. And even though my doctor doesn’t know, his mention of the word obese triggered me to want to count my daughter’s and my calories and run us sweaty. And to be shamefully honest, I don’t know if it’s because I’m afraid of her being obese or whether I’m afraid of other parents on the playground looking at her or judging her to be obese. What hurts me is that my daughter is 2. Thankfully I have done enough therapy and work to prevent myself from doing any of these distrustful things, but even so, it is incredibly scary and mortifying to know that I even think about it. She is nowhere near obese and she and I should not have to worry about her weight. I should worry whether or not she’s healthy. I should worry whether or not she feels loved. I should worry whether or not she feels she can express herself. The word obese is so overly used in this nation it works against us the same way “skinny” did. People talk about being too skinny instead of hoping they’d look healthier. They talk about this fear of obesity instead of promoting balance. These types of statements should not be used when referring to the fight for anyone’s health and certainly not at a 2 year olds check up. Why we throw out these negative and debilitating words when trying to lead people on the right path, a healthy path, is beyond me. So just as my daughter possessively grabs onto my leg in the playground and declares, “Mine mommy!” I shall do the same for her. And the next time a doctor or a parent or anyone mentions her weight, especially in front of her, I will hold her close and say, “Look in those eyes, look at her smile, look at that ray of light around her. Doesn’t she have the biggest heart you’ve ever seen?” Because that’s all that matters.

Privilege: A right or immunity granted as a peculiar benefit, advantage, or favor

A few years back I was having dinner with two girlfriends. One was an old friend from high school, the other was a newer friend I’d met through my husband. My high school friend and I were discussing some of the emotional problems we had experienced over the years, hoping to stumble upon a resolution to our pain. My newer girlfriend sat there quiet, perhaps a bit incredulous, when she suddenly blurted out, “But you’re privileged!” It evoked the same emotions that it always has, guilt, shame, fear, more shame and more guilt. How could I experience any feelings, much less express them because I was so “privileged.” When I was in grade school, my father, through his incredibly hard work, became successful. I went to a private school and at the end of my freshman year I moved into a larger home. My family became upper-middle class. I feel very grateful to have had an excellent education, to have lived in a beautiful home and to be raised in a beautiful city. I was by no means showered with expensive gifts, given a huge sweet sixteen party and a white rabbit convertible with a big yellow bow. But even if I were, even if I were directly born into money, it saddens me to think that people would believe that this would give me an automatic advantage in life. And by advantage in life, I mean an advantage to truly living. Such beliefs suggest that it is fancy schooling, fancy homes and fancy cars that will ensure ones happiness. It suggests that one’s collection of shoes or Prada dresses will fulfill one’s deep seeded longing for love. It suggests that one’s 4000 thread count sheets and four poster canopy bed will provide one with the comfort, connections and hugs one needs to get through the trials and tribulations of life.

There is a reason that anorexia is considered a privileged disease. It is not because the rich desire to look like the models in the magazines, making them willing to starve themselves until their heart stops beating. It is because the illusion that money solves all of one’s problems silences the cries of those hungering for love. There is a reason drug and alcohol abuse is rampant among the elite. It is not because the privileged just love to party. It is because the illusion that success and fame will make you feel whole exacerbates the disappointment one feels when one’s loneliness prevails. Being “privileged” the way it is currently defined in our society is not the key to life. Being privileged does not protect you from having negligent, addicted or abusive parents. It does not protect you from being raped, molested or used. It does not give you the comfort of a loving family or pride in who you are. It does not cure your pain nor provide you with love.

But I will not argue with my old friend anymore. I am privileged, by my own definition, and can honestly say that where I now stand, a lot of my problems have been tackled. I am privileged that I was given a family with a number of emotional problems and obstacles, for we all worked incredibly hard to create incredibly plush and prosperous relationships with one another. I am privileged to have survived a number of years with anorexia, depression and various other mental diseases for now I have learned to nourish and satiate my hunger for love. I am privileged to overcome abusive relationships, postpartum depression and marital ups and downs for I feel visceral connections that show me the richness of life. It is all of my obstacles and set backs and emotional successes and victories that have given me my advantage in life. It has granted me immunity to illusions and helped me experience life’s favors, and that, my friend, has been an incredible privilege.