I knew it! Ridiculous and stupid. This whole thing was a pointless sham.
I stared at the oblique, strange handwriting. It looked like the writing of a child who was trying to get down a grocery list during an earthquake. As I started knocking stand-up material around in my head, suddenly I got a pang in my stomach and my chest got warm. My eyes welled up. I suddenly remembered that when I was a kid, my dad and I used to spread peanut butter on pieces of bread and draw smiley faces in the peanut butter. Then we’d fill the smiles and eyes with honey from one of those honey bear squeeze jars that always has a shockingly sticky cap. I had completely forgotten about this until now, but clearly it was at the top of my subconscious mind. This little girl was right there, so present in me, and I had been ignoring her this whole time. The only thing that ended up being funny about the situation was that I was using a Hustler store pen, which felt very lascivious, so from then on, I used colored pencils when I did the exercise.
It’s above my pay grade to explain why tapping into the five-year-old version of yourself actually makes you act more like an adult, but it’s been a game changer for me. Since developing a connection with my inner child, I keep a photo of myself at five years old on my phone in a folder called “get better.” In that folder I have all sorts of meditations and screen grabs of things that basically remind me to stop being crazy. Honestly, I’m way more afraid of hackers getting this folder than my nude photos, given it’s chock-full of screen-grabbed inspirational quotes like “don’t ask for a light load, ask for a strong back.” When I’m tempted to abuse myself, criticize myself, or date a stupid idiot who has a tinted phone screen, I go into the folder, look at the photo of myself as a kid, and try to make the decision that’s best for Child Whitney, since Adult Whitney always seems to go for the most masochistic, expensive, and intestine-ravaging choice.
Since I’ve nurtured my relationship with Child Whitney my life looks very different. I treat myself with respect, I have more dignity, I eat at a table instead of in the car, I wear bras without wires in them, and my house is essentially a dog kennel. The more mature I get, the more my child runs the show. I eat when I’m hungry and I buy food that actually comes from the dirt, not from some factory in China. If I can’t pronounce all the ingredients, I try not to put it in my mouth, but if I do, I don’t beat myself up either because that would be counterproductive. I wouldn’t yell at a child if she ate something indulgent every now and then, so I don’t yell at myself if I’m craving something that isn’t kale. A doctor once told me that stressing about eating something unhealthy releases cortisol in the brain, which can actually be just as bad for you if not worse than the chemicals in whatever food you’re eating. If you’re stuck in an airport and your only options are neon-yellow pizzas or candy from Hudson News, you might as well eat the crap and enjoy it so you’re at least not compounding the damage by shaming yourself. I mean, please don’t eat neon food every day, and in general don’t take nutrition advice from a comedian.
Coming to terms with the fact that my mind is being steered by a five-year-old peanut butter addict has also helped me to be more patient with other people’s behavior. When someone’s acting a fool, I remind myself what Vera says: “We’re all five.” If someone is angry, I respond the way I would respond to a child having a tantrum: “Do you want something to eat? Do you want to lie down for a minute?” Sometimes this makes people angrier because they think I’m mocking or patronizing them, but for the most part they’re, like, “Yeah, I’d love something to eat, actually.” In my experience, about half of all conflicts are a result of low blood sugar. You’re mad at someone? Have a banana. I’ve never met a piece of phallic fruit that couldn’t fix petulance.
Looking back on my war with food, I know now that with all my eating demons, I wanted my body to have the equilibrium on the outside I didn’t know how to attain on the inside. Having grown up learning that appearance was everything, I thought if I was perfect externally, my internal state might have a shot. Now that my insides are acceptably copacetic most of the time, my outsides are no longer a priority. I accept the limitations of being human and the dysmorphia that comes with living in the time of ubiquitous models, pervasive Photoshop, and Cate Blanchett’s face.
I hope, if anything, in addition to humiliating myself with this chapter, I can maybe make a dent in removing the stigma of body dysmorphia. Usually when a girl is too thin, works out a lot, or wears too much makeup, we tend to roll our eyes and label her as shallow, dumb, or narcissistic. And look, she may be those things, but in my experience, usually that kind of behavior is coming from a place of tremendous pain and deep insecurity. When I’m feeling judgmental about other people’s choices, it helps to remember that the engine of these behaviors can be a deep fear and disconnection from oneself. I try to remember that nobody wants to have an eating disorder; nobody aspires to that. Nobody wants to hate her own body. Nobody wants to feel like they can’t leave the house without makeup. I didn’t write “reading nutrition information on boxes for half an hour a day” on my vision board. It wasn’t my dream in life to spend half of it obsessing over how many calories are in fuckin’ mangoes.
Today, when things get hectic in my life and I feel like I’m losing control, my brain still wants to get weird with food. If my flight is delayed by three hours, I sometimes think it’s a good idea to eat only pretzels at the airport instead of an actual lunch. If my schedule is insanely packed, I find myself thinking it’s a good idea to drink nothing but coffee and chew gum all day. But I can usually course-correct pretty quickly because I now know how to prioritize that little girl who just wants to be loved and fed. If I just keep treating myself as if I’m parenting a five-year-old, what I should be doing becomes very clear: I have to eat fat, drink water, and avoid reading mean Twitter @replies.
If you glean nothing else from this chapter, the other good news about my overcoming an eating disorder and putting some weight on is that it makes you look about ten years younger. People keep asking me if I’ve gotten a facelift and I’m, like, “Nope, just got that extra side of guac.” If it takes vanity to cure your insecurity, so be it.
So, I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m completely fixed forever, but for the most part I’m fine, you guys.
THE BOOBS CHAPTER