Day 127

On one of those extra-large days, I sat on the beach at MexPipe, watching the pros paddle out. It was so big that specialized equipment was necessary for survival. The pros used huge, pointy boards called “guns” that they used to generate more speed to get into the waves. They wore floatation suits that made them look like sumo wrestlers. They had special leashes made extra thick, with quick-release pins just in case they went “over the falls” and their board dragged them under water. These men were going to war. They were athletes of the first class. Their minds and bodies were prepared for the battlefield. I was at the beach early because the force of the waves was shaking my apartment and woke me before dawn.

When the ocean has that much energy, the entire town does as well. The surf paparazzi already gathered on the beach. Drones equipped with cameras filled the sky, a buzzing, voyeuristic flock.  I laid out my towel and snapped a larger lens onto my camera. Looking through the zoom, I spied a pink surfboard in the line up. That’s funny. In big wave surfing, the pros like to use colorful boards so they show up better in photos. Apparently, some guy wanted to stand out badly enough that he surrendered to the idea of a pink board. A few minutes later, the pink board and its rider took off on a massive barreling wave. The surfer looked like a rock climber on the edge of a massive sheer cliff. Snap snap snap, I shot about twenty frames. I touched the camera’s display screen, hitting the zoom button to admire the wave.

“What!” I said it out loud even though no one was around. The pink-boarded surfer was a woman. I looked back to the other surfers in the line up. I looked back down at my camera. I looked up at the sky. Holy crap! Women can do that too!

I drew a quick breath. Anxiety fired in my sternum. Something inside me snapped, and in that moment any excuse I had for living small was obliterated. It was like a little monster had just cracked out of its shell, deep within by belly. The anxiety spread, threatening to crush my lungs. For years, I had been fooled into believing I was damaged. Suddenly, seeing that woman blasting through barriers, I saw the truth. My greatest fear was confirmed: I was more powerful than I had ever imagined. My heart swelled. My head went wild. You can do that too. My mother’s words flashed through my mind: “You can do anything you set your mind to.” I was empowered…and terrified.

Offering a way out, The Voice quickly enumerated a list or reasons why I couldn’t do it:

I am female. Well, I guess that reason was now invalid.

I am too old. Actually, I remembered, most of the big wave surfers I had met were older, simply because of the mental maturity required to play the game at that level.

I haven’t been surfing since I was a child. But research is showing that adults actually learn at the same rate as children, if they can clear their minds of learned patterns. Neuroplasticity supports the training, and I was witnessing it in myself as I lived in a new culture and learned a new language.

My body is too big. Big wave surfers are often bigger than your average surfer. Most of the pros on the World Surf League tour have gymnast body types. Such bodies can throw airs and make huge turns. But big wave surfers don’t do those maneuvers. They need brute force to be able to paddle into mountains and survive beatings.

My heart reminded The Voice of some pertinent facts: In high school I played soccer. I was the starting goalie, a position requiring fearlessness to dive head first for the ball, sacrificing my body with every play. I also played basketball. I was the center, a position in which a big body and brute strength dominated. After high school, I played linebacker in the National Women’s Football Association, a full-contact, semi-pro football league for women. Again, a position of fearlessness, aggression and power.

I was an athlete. I had always been. In that moment, I embraced it. My body and my mind were made for big wave surfing.

I told no one about what I had seen that day. I was terrified that my ego was out of control. The truth was that I was still very much a beginning surfer. I worried that people would laugh, that I would be forced to face some unfaceable reality. But, the little fire that had started in my belly was growing bigger each day. I started to let myself believe that it was possible for me to do what I had seen that woman do. Though I couldn’t admit it to anyone else, I started to create my own reality.

A few days passed. Still, I remained silent. One day, I ate lunch with a group of very competent surfers from Peru and one local professional big wave surfer. We chatted about the training required to surf big. The local pro, a guy who was actually living it, a guy who had seen me surf on multiple occasions, looked at the other guys and said something I will never forget:

“Melanie should surf big. She gots the body for it and she not afraid.”

I flashed back to Mr. Hilbert’s words, “You have some ability in Math,”

I heard Kurt’s voice, “You are so smart,. You can start any business you want.”

In that moment, the baby monster exploded in my chest. That was the only thing missing. In my own head, I was struggling to hear the difference between The Voice and my truth, but validation from an outside source who has actually been where I wanted to go was exactly the confirmation I needed. With a casual comment, the pro confirmed that my reality was real enough. I couldn’t keep silent any more.

“I want to surf big!” I blurted out.

“Then do it.” He gave me the permission.

It was one of those days that forever demarcates a Before and an After

Controlling My Body, on a Whole New Level.

T-minus 1 year

Submitting to my hunger sucked.

I slowly began to admit to myself that I did, indeed, as the therapist had told me, have an eating disorder. After eight years of starving myself, three years of compulsive exercise and restrictive dieting, followed by a few years of bulimia, I finally accepted it.

I was starting to develop a deep sense that my body needed to feel safe. It needed an abundance mentality about food. My body was fighting for survival. I understood this meant eating as much as I wanted, of whatever I wanted, until my body was persuaded that it could get what it needed, when it needed it. But, releasing control and giving into desire isn’t easy. Not when you’ve grown up believing the body is flawed from birth and should be kept under tight reins at all times, lest its sinful passions be allowed to consume you.

I toyed with the idea of trusting my body. The Voice kept reminding me of my inescapably sinful nature. From birth, I was a disgrace before God. Intellectually, I knew these ideas were wrong.  Unlearning them would be a process. At my core, i knew I was good. I understood that my body and my desires were not things to be controlled, kept under lock and key, but rather friends who would help me to live my best life. Yet, acting on on this belief was incredibly difficult. Releasing control would mean gaining weight, I just couldn’t go there.

There was a famous hamburger joint in Ocean Beach with the best milkshakes on earth. During one of his visits, my Dad let me have a sip of his own milkshake. That memory of sweet, cold cream on my lips, running down my throat, kept me up at night. In a book by Geneen Roth, I’d read that in order to recover fully from disordered eating patterns, you need to eat when hungry, but only eat what you are truly hungry for. I decided that, next time I was hungry, I would trust my desires and allow myself the indulgence of a milkshake. This would break pretty much every rule I’d ever had about food: no dairy, no sugar, no carbs, no bad fat.

It took a few weeks before I was both hungry and hungry-for-a-milkshake–at the same time. When the day arrived, I grabbed my phone with excitement to order the milkshake to go. On the other end, a woman picked up, and I could hear in the background the telltale clanking and chatter of a restaurant.

“Hodads. How can I help you?” She sounded like a fat lady.

“I would like one strawberry milkshake, please.” I was surprised that my voice didn’t crack. My hands were definitely shaking

“Alrighty, that $5.17 and I’ll have that ready in about ten minutes.”

WAIT! That was it? I’m not sure what I expected her to say, but something a little more judgmental would have been appropriate. I mean, what kind of gross slob orders just a milkshake at two in the afternoon? Where was her surprise? Where was her shock? No scolding?

I jumped on my bike and sped to the burger joint to pick up my sin. I walked up to the counter, sunglasses still on. I knew a lot of people in that little town. What if someone saw me?

“I have a to-go order,” I told the lady at the counter. She wasn’t fat. Clearly, she never ate the food at her place of employment. I assumed she would recognize me as the fat slob with whom she had just spoken and know instantly which order was mine.

“What was it for, hon?”

Oh, she didn’t know? I removed my sunglasses. I leaned in and practically whispered,

“A milkshake, a strawberry milkshake.”

“Is that it?” she asked, setting down in front of me a gleaming, white paper cup. She expected me to eat more?!

Salivating, I handed over the money. I grabbed the straw, purposely leaving it wrapped. I wanted to wait. I had planned to sit on the beach to savor the object of my desire. But the one block walk to the beach was simply too long, I couldn’t make it all the way. As soon as I was out the door, I plunged the straw to the bottom of the thick liquid, pursed my lips over the red straw and sucked hard.

Disappointment swept through my body. The shake wasn’t that good. Well okay, it was good in a way…but it was really, really sweet. Sweet and, well, not that good. I took another sip. Nope, not that good. I finished it off anyway, but the sexiness of the forbidden was gone, along with the desire ever to have a Hodad’s milkshake again.

Day 143

“La Chica, La Chica!” The entire class was cheering for me to come up front. There were about thirty-five guys and five women in the class. Were were all in a twenty-hour course designed for big wave surfers and body boarders. The training focused on breath-holding to survive long hold-downs. We were nearing the end of the course, and the instructor was explaining that, as you hold your breath, your heart slows down to conserve energy. Being that I was a yoga instructor and in the best shape of my life, I had earned a reputation for being able to hold my breath for quite a long time. Of course, I loved attention, so I jumped up and mounted the stage when asked to give a breath-hold demonstration to the class. A heart rate monitor was placed on my middle finger. I laid down on a towel and started to slow my breathing. The entire class left their seats and gathered in a circle to watch the digital readout on the monitor.

Inhale…long slow exhale….inhale…long slow exhale….inhale belly, inhale ribs, inhale chest, inhale throat…hold. I closed my eyes and let space and time drift away. I was just a body. Time passed but I didn’t know it. I was focused on how my body was responding to the change in its physical state. I waited, completely calm, completely still. No one in the room made a sound. As time passed, my body grew uncomfortable and eventually started having minor convulsions, like hiccups without the breath. I knew this to be my halfway point. When this happens, my lungs feel panicked and desperate. My body is fighting for survival. But my brain knows better. My brain has a lot of practice in controlling my body. My brain understands that I’m only halfway there, and even if I push a little too hard, the worst case scenario is that I black out. In which case, I’ll involuntarily resume breathing with no long term negative consequence.

The convulsions continued and strengthened. I told myself to feel and enjoy them. I told myself that it is just sensation. I told myself to move into the sensation. For a brief second, I noticed my extremities were numb. My heart had stopped pumping blood to them in order to preserve blood flow for vital life functions. A wave of panic struck, feeling strangely like guilt. I felt like my sternum was burning in acid. I made no attempt to calm myself.  I liked this feeling. I told myself to like this feeling.

I told myself to move into the fear, to feel it, to make friends with it. I became aware that the crowd of people above me had fallen utterly silent. I wondered if they were holding their breath too. The idea that this was a performance, that I would be applauded for my success, fueled me to move deeper into the sensation of my body slowly powering down. At some point I realized, I am not going to stop. I am not going to draw another breath. I felt utterly at peace with this. The sensation in my lungs was awful. My legs felt like I had been sitting on them for hours, but my mind was blank–no, better than blank. My mind was high. Convulsions shook my entire body. Every fiber of my being screamed for breath, but my mind was getting a control high.

I felt so proud of myself for being able to deny my needs that I actually loved the feeling of being without.

Eventually, the instructor tapped me on the shoulder and told me to stop. I remember that, as I came back, a young guy shouted “Treinta y tres! Treinta y tres!” My heart rate had slowed to 33 beats per minute, having started at 93 before the breath-hold. It had been four minutes and twenty-five seconds since my last breath. I had learned to control my body so well, I could control my heart rate.

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*some names have been changed to protect privacy

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