Recently a phycologist reached out to me after having read Jessica Carew Kraft’s Why We Need to Be Wild ( @jessicacarewkraft ). I make a small appearance in the book, and what had caught this psychologists’ attention was that I had said I helped to recover from my eating disorders by learning how to hunt and forage.
I spent 15 years of my life horribly possessed by what I have come to think of as an Eating Disorder Demon. I don’t know how many folks know this about me, though I certainly don’t keep it a secret. I was horrifically ensnared by an all-consuming, dark force that I definitely wasn’t born with, and that I think is completely created by modern dominant culture. I had every flavor of ED out there, including orthorexia disguised as Paleo or Keto or Intermittent Fasting or carb cycling or blah blah fucking blah. I’ve been fully recovered for 6 years, but I’m still in the wake of the destruction that it caused, and I still feel the claws of it at my back sometimes.
This month I’ve been feeling that crawling sense of lethargy and like I’m trying to keep rituals of self-care while on a tilt a whirl. Mountainous upheaval, Big City summons for necessary school credentials, my stuff split up in several places, and I just haven’t been able to move my body in the ways that feels really good. I’ve been staying in town, so most of my daily needs are already met, and it doesn’t really require me to move my body at all. And of course, when I’m feeling unsettled, or tired, or lonely, or sad, that little voice comes in whispering, trying to convince me into listening again. Saying that I’ve gained too much weight, and lost my muscle mass, and that I’m generally pretty gross and probably don’t deserve to be happy or loved. But don’t worry, because if I just hit the gym hard for the next couple months, I’ll bounce back and I can be happy again.
It sounds so ridiculous saying it out loud, of course, which is why my best friend and I started to speak out loud the things our demons were saying to us. It’s quite dark. and so much less compelling when exorcised into the light. The things this demon had brainwashed me into believing are heartbreaking. Big Grief worthy. And somehow 25 years into it, he is still at it. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t act on anything. I’ve got so many tools on the belt to handle the little whispers. I actually think I’m a babe and love my body and everything she does for me. I would never diet or restrict anything every again. I would never use exercise to control my body, and I don’t believe in fat phobia. I’m just amazed that the feelings can still creep in, even though they are clearly not my own feelings, and they aren’t welcome.
There was always a cognitive dissonance with it. I’ve been pretty radical since I was a teen, opposing the mainstream media and its branded ideas of beauty. I stopped shaving, wearing a bra or makeup, was very aware that media created photoshopped, fake, and targeted illusions of women’s bodies in order to manufacture insecurities so that we continued to buy shit from them. I understood the mechanisms. And yet I couldn’t get myself out of the trap. I was living two lives. One where I fought against women hating themselves, and one where I really, really hated myself.
When I recovered from my ED I got rid of all mirrors. For the first couple of years, I just avoided all reflective surfaces. In a reflective surface all of a sudden, I’m not inside my body looking out anymore, I’m looking in. It’s the same problem with trying to write your own Bio. I just wanted to be in my own body. Moving to the mountain off grid was the best possible thing I could have done for my recovery. The Ravens weren’t judging me for how I looked. No mirrors, no reflective surfaces, no crowds or social ladders or societal pressures. My psychologist friend and I were wondering about recovery in a city. I honestly don’t think I could have ever made it without the Wild Ones. The plants were so gentle, so loving. Life continued on around me, unconcerned with how my body looked. Imagine the peace.
I started recovery while I was living in Montana, working at the butcher shop as the big game skinner. One of my buddies was over helping me one day, and we were marveling at the cow elk coming in, with inches of warm, succulent fat on their rumps. I love slicing off rump fat straight from the fresh animal and eating it. It just melts in the mouth like booty butter. Other areas of fat can be a bit chalky, but not the rump. We were in awe of these big mamas, and somehow or another we realized, with much laughter, that being a fat ass cow was wonderful. We lovingly started calling each other fat ass cows. Fat ass cow. Oh, the healing was sweet.
The journey to recover was long, and though it was a bit hellish, it wasn’t nearly as hard as suffering from the demonic possession. The beginning of my recovery was during the days of helping run a mobile slaughter and learning how to hunt. It was interesting that I felt that I could never binge and purge wild animal meat, or the plants I gathered. Something stopped me. I don’t know if it was the respect I had for them, or having looked them in the eyes and seen them die, or if they themselves somehow blocked me from that dark trance. Maybe all of it.
They healed me. With a whole lot of Fuck It thrown in there too. I peeled my soul away from the abysmal black by stepping out of society almost completely. I went to lick my wounds in the woods. And it worked.
I have friends who have recovered in towns and cities. So I know it can be done. I don’t know how it compares, and I’m not here to say if anything is better or worse. It is just what I needed to do to find serious, long lasting, unconditional recovery.
I hope that you can adopt the term Fat Ass Cow for your own healing journeys. If anyone else is struggling out there, please reach out to me. I think we women have spent enough time under lock and key.
Gentle learnings to you,
Harmony