I should have been in therapy. When I was sixteen years old, I exhibited textbook symptoms of anorexia nervosa; I didn't know there was a name for the disorder, but I knew that my self worth peaked or plummeted depending on the number on the bathroom scales.

Fast forward 36 years. Recently I was playing tennis with my buddies. Every lady in this group is fabulous: a stud muffinette. We are active and healthy, we work out, we lunge for drop shots and charge after lobs (despite middle aged joints), we play with abandon and think that we are not too far away from the athletes we were in our younger days; but we certainly don't all look alike. We come in different sizes and shapes and heights and weights. Last week, between warming up forehands and backhands, the subject of weight came up. Several ladies openly stated their numbers, as in THEY SAID THEIR WEIGHT OUT LOUD! I was so jarred by the experience that my obsessive mind started ruminating over those numbers, and what I could do to make mine lower. I could totally give up white flour and sugar. I could give up bread. I could start weighing myself every morning and if the number was dooming, it would drive me to eat less all day. I could stop drinking wine with dinner (okay, I lied; I did not have that thought). At the end of three days, I was appalled at the amount of mental energy I had given to this whole matter! Have I learned nothing in the past three decades of living? How many bright, accomplished, self assured females are out there who still feel their self worth is really about a number on a scales?! I generally hate generalizations, but most of you XYs have no earthly idea how much time persons of the XX persuasion spend thinking about their weight and size. It is irrational, but it is what we females are programmed to focus on.

You cannot imagine how naked I feel baring my soul about this issue, but my pen just keeps moving. I guess secrets lose their hold on our hearts when they see the light of day. I do remember what tipped the scales for me, so to speak, and sent me down this dark, mental path. When I was sixteen, three friends and I saw a special for two-for-the-price-of-one joining membership at an all female gym. (Same sex was a necessity for us strict Mennonites. I can see all your visual thought bubbles forming: no we did not work out in cape dresses. We wore black leotards, sleek and panther-like!) We were all healthy and of normal size, but we wanted to better ourselves. We scheduled the appointment for the initial assessment and introduction to the facility. Wanting to be the best that I could be, I did not eat a bite for two days before we went to be weighed and measured. At our consult, I liked the numbers, which were already on the low side, but knew that I could improve. And so started the sick thinking.

As a child and teenager, I was naturally thin and very active. I was always running and jumping and climbing. I couldn't hold still if my life depended on it. I ate whatever I wanted without self editing. I am wired with an abundance of internal drive, but growing up in my subculture, I had few outlets beyond domestic endeavors. I started cooking and playing with food in my early teens as a way to express my creativity. At fourteen, I was tweaking bread recipes and attempting to make the perfect granola. Along with personal drive, I also have strong perfectionistic tendencies. When I would take a test in school, rather than appreciate the 96% grade, I would be crazed about those four points I missed. I don't think my motive was to show off or impress others; I had the need to achieve to a certain level in order to be acceptable to myself.

A description of the personal climate where my eating disorder germinated, would not be complete without factoring in the tenor of my home. There was always a vague insecurity that things beyond my control could pop up at any moment. Children thrive on stability and being able to trust they will always be cared for. With my father's drowning and my mother's constant heart issues and devastating stroke, I never had that secure feeling of being wrapped in a parent's arms and knowing my world would be okay. So much was beyond my control; what I realized I could affect, though, that day at the gym, was the number on the scales. We friends worked out together three times a week, but I was already creating a world of discipline all my own. It wasn't enough just to step weekly on the tall black scales at the gym; I started weighing myself daily at home. The number so correlated with what I ate, and THAT, I could control! A very small bowl of granola would be all I would allow myself for breakfast. I would eat it with a small jam spoon so there were more bites. Lunch was a huge salad of fresh lettuce and veggies; insurance for lots of bites, but few calories. And I gave up eating supper; it was just too fattening. I avoided detection by being very involved in meal preparations and by serving everyone and then cleaning up the dishes. I was complimented for being so mature and helpful, given my Mom's stroke and all. Unfortunately, no one saw the hurting child inside. In my family, we were all in survival mode, trying to keep our own heads above water.

The number on the scales dipped lower and I was so happy! I added daily 5:30 am exercises before I got dressed for school. My daily caloric intake dropped to 500 calories; my body went into starvation mode. All I seemed to think about was food and how I could get by with less. Rarely, I would splurge and have several of the cookies that I was baking for everyone else. It is painful to relive the self loathing I would feel for not being strong enough not to eat. Stalks of celery have only 10 calories each and if I had to, I could munch on those. Several evenings, I remember going to our little town library and pouring over food magazines. I could feed my eyes all the gourmet meals that I would never ingest in my stomach.

As is typical with anorexia, I was masterful at keeping this ritualistic world private. In social settings, I ate normally and truly enjoyed the freedom, knowing that soon enough, I would be back counting calories. I feel profound sadness for this girl as I relive these dark memories. I suspect there are many gals out there, of all ages, who can identity with my story. Without a doubt, God's grace spared me from continuing further on this road, a path which some girls follow to their death. It is crazy thinking! At my thinnest, I remember looking into the mirror and seeing a fat person, with a protruding stomach.

I believe that much of our life is determined by what we think, whether those thoughts are accurate or not; most days, perception trumps reality. I have had to be willing to adjust how I view food and weight and what makes me valuable. Food is nurture; it is fuel for the body, but it also means love, belonging to a family, and satiety. One of the great joys in this life is lingering over a meal with dear ones we love. It is a way of sharing of yourself and feeling that deep belonging that we all crave. I have to admit, I am more excited about feasting in heaven someday, at a table prepared for us by God Himself, than waiting for the harp music!

And I will never again fixate on weight. When I started eating again after several years of starvation, the pendulum swung to pudgy. There were painful lessons to be learned in self acceptance and being okay with being less than perfect. The unconditional love of my not-yet-husband is a gift I will never fully comprehend. Today the Scales and I are not friends; we warily avoid each other. Please don't misunderstand me. I care deeply about the shape of the body I see in the mirror. Daily I work out, I walk miles, I play tennis, I hike and for the most part, I avoid the half gallon of moose tracks ice cream that I love. If my jeans feel too tight, I use that as a nudge to move even more. I love my strong arms from weight training. If you ever find yourself in an arm wrestling contest against me and Michelle Obama, just throw in the towel right now. My key words are strong and healthy and happy. I have given enough of my mental energies to obsessing about a number on a scales. I need to keep reminding myself, as evidenced by how quickly my thoughts can find those old, worn, grooves in the road. I accept that I will never quite think normally about food. On the bright side, my obsession has led many of you to my table as I have worked out my issues by preparing lavish meals. Thank you, each one of you, for participating in my therapy. Wait a minute; shouldn't you all be thanking me?!

Here is a beautiful quote from Daniel Homan, that my daughter, Lauren, shared with me recently: "The table is the place where you connect and belong. It is a place where the past remains alive in the memory of the very old, and future sparkles with possibility. It is enchanted. We lean close together, we share a glass, we tell a story. Through this simple human relating, the universe feels as though it is right again." I couldn't have said it better myself.