Numbers are numbers - Perspective is what matters.

When I was fourteen I traveled to the south of France with my family and drank my very first glass of wine while sitting with them at the dinner table. The four of us raised our glasses to cheers, and for the first time in a long time, I felt included. I was not the baby anymore, I had matured- at least enough to share this moment. Later that night I got a case of the giggles in the hotel room I was sharing with my older brother. 

You know, he said to me, this means you are an alcoholic- just like Daddy is. I was offended but mostly incredulous. It was just one glass? I argued. It is what it is, my brother reaffirmed, and my giggles turned to tears as I rolled over and tried to go to sleep under a thick layer of shame- I might have been young, but I knew that being an alcoholic was nothing short of disgusting (my mother’s words). 

After that incident, I never wanted to drink again- even though I lived in a country where the drinking age was never enforced, and booze flowed uninterrupted. (Ecuador is a fun place where anything can go.) So, while my peers drank at parties and get-togethers, I kept a panicked distance from all of it, terrified of becoming what my brother had told me I already was.

Ironically, while I was able to keep a distance from the addiction that consumed my father, I fell into my own compulsion at age sixteen when I became bulimic- though I didn’t consider my bulimia to be an addiction. For me, binging and purging was simply an issue of control and the lack thereof, spearheaded by cultural expectations to look a certain way and my desperate need to mold myself into a thinner me so I could finally feel worth something.

But bulimia was an addiction, whether I realized it or not. The repetitive cycle of eating uncontrollably and then emptying out the contents of one’s stomach triggers a serotonin high that can often beg for more. 

Regardless of the science behind it, I thought what kept me in the vicious cycle of eating and vomiting, was the ability to start over after a mistake. It was the perfect do-over. A blank slate. A new chapter. Especially because most of the time, food/eating was exactly that- a horrible mistake on the road to impossibly skinny. By emptying the contents of my stomach on command, I had the power of a fresh start. So, I became addicted to what I thought was a second chance of getting it right.

A couple of years after fostering my bulimia, I transitioned into anorexia. This time, what got me hooked were the numbers- the wrong ones. From calories and pounds lost to minutes spent on an elliptical to pants size, cup size- even shoe size, I lived my life playing an obsessive game of less is more, more is only better when it leads to less, and how much less can I become? I had managed to average fewer calories in a day than most people consume during breakfast, and could wear children's clothing- yet it wasn’t enough to make me happy. I wanted more- well, less. 

Today I know that no matter what the addiction is, the intention for an addict is always the same- an escape from a life too emotionally complex to handle, followed by a vicious cycle of denial and shame and remorse all wrapped up in an impossible promise of a flawless- or at the very least ‘better’ tomorrow.

I lived with my addiction in the form of eating disorders for over a dozen years. Then as many addicts do, I hit rock bottom and finally found recovery in therapy and medication, a team of good doctors, and a strong support group. But my brain was so conditioned to measure and compare, that living a life free from numeric values required enormous effort. 

I was able to stay the course, but my progress ebbed and flowed. And, even as I became strong and healthy, I struggled through running my first and only marathon, my first and only pregnancy (which felt like a marathon), and the first years of motherhood (again, a marathon), before finally realizing that life is best lived when we focus on experience and performance instead of sizes, measurements, and shape.

I was in my forties when I began to take care of myself, ignoring the numbers that accompanied my daily routine, my size, my weight, or my efforts, and for a moment, I felt my numbers no longer mattered. Then, one day, my husband went to the doctor for a check-up and found that his numbers (cholesterol, blood pressure, and blood sugar) did matter. They were a matter of concern. 

If there is anyone who likes to solve a problem with numbers, it is my husband. Give him data and he will conquer all. So, as expected, he got straight to work on turning his numbers around. He bought a scale, an apple watch, and a glucose monitor. He scheduled a full body mass scan followed by a cardiorespiratory fitness test and signed up for a gym with a pool. He dusted off his old bike and bought new spandex from Amazon. He started a new chapter.

In a matter of months, the walking-breathing-swimming scientific method that is my husband had produced the exact results he had set out to achieve. He showed me a graph in which his numbers were a steady red line in decline, working their way lower and lower the way the stock market does on a lousy day- and, just like that, I wanted back in the game of declining numbers.

I wanted to start my new chapter the same way my husband did his, with the full body mass scan and the cardiorespiratory fitness test. But what for? My husband asked. You are healthy, incredibly physically fit, and don’t need to change a thing. Why do you want this?

Truth be told, I wasn’t sure. It had been years since I had stepped on a scale, looked at the caloric value of the foods I ate, or measured my value in a number. My fitness level had also been steady for years- I run and bike and box regularly, and my size hasn’t changed in over a decade. What was I looking for?

I mulled it over for a month or so wondering what I could possibly want from numbers if I had been so happy without them for so long. Finally, I settled on the fact that I had been feeling stagnant in my athletic performance, and what I wanted in the numbers was challenge and an educated change. A show of progress. A new milestone to reach. I wanted the numbers to help me escape the plateau I felt I was in. Some call this a healthy dose of competitive spirit and the drive for personal growth- and I agree, but for me, personal growth is also a way to feel better- because sometimes I feel like I’m not quite good enough. Therein lies the problem.

Since numbers have been my devil, I fear them the way a burn victim might fear a fire- I don’t want to get too close- or close at all. But still, I wanted to be able to move forward. I feel that when we choose to live in the dark, we can’t really get anywhere with intention. I could stay in my comfort zone and not change a thing, or I could find a way to live with numbers and not become their slave.

Athletes use numbers every day, I told myself. They train by them, nourish with them, and learn about their bodies with them. Data can be good! I felt I was being reasonable, so I took the plunge.

My body scan revealed that I look the same on the inside as I do on the outside, that my scoliosis has deteriorated significantly, and that my bone density has improved since the eating disorders have been in remission. My cardiorespiratory fitness test revealed at what heart rate I should train to improve my speed and stamina. Great! - I guess.

My husband explained to me that by training at a specific heart rate, one can increase one's cardiovascular capacity and eventually, over time, run or bike faster for longer periods of time while keeping a low heart rate, thus becoming a better athlete. It all sounded interest- I mean, boring because somewhere between my body scan and the trip home, my mindset had changed. I forgot all about living life free from numbers, and once again all I could think about were declining numbers. 

The next morning, while my husband was at the gym, I stepped on the scale. I knew that a person’s weight did not factor in the equation of heart rate training, but I didn’t care- I was on a mission. Later that afternoon, I skipped dessert. A few days passed and I stepped on the scale again. This time the number was down by one. I felt as though I was soaring through a clear blue sky, wings spread wide, and nothing but clear skies ahead. I didn’t even care about heart rate or endurance, I was back on my sauce. 

I played the numbers game for a month or so, weighing myself every other morning or so and always in secret, telling myself that I was doing it for good measure and consistency. As for heart rate and training, what heart rate training? 

One day, after spending a long weekend off the scale, I got myself naked and hopped right back on. The number had gone up, and the most terrifying familiar panic set in. I had gotten too close to the fire.

It took a lot of effort not to spiral that day. The addict in me wanted to go back to my old ways, but I also know how hard it is to leave the darkness and step back into the light. Keeping my addiction at bay is not always easy, no matter how many months years, or decades I have been clean, the monster always seems to be lurking. It was a long, grueling day.

I spent the following week getting back to basics, using the recovery tools I learned in therapy to cope with the anxiety that comes with falling off the wagon. I returned to eating and reminded myself that I value health and wellness over anything, no matter how strong the temptation of addiction is. Of course, the scale had to go. Well- it technically didn’t go anywhere because it’s a great tool for my husband. But, it’s a dangerous one for me- at least for now. I just can’t use it. It’s a trigger and I have to accept that and keep moving on.

As for measuring my fitness level- I still wanted to look to the numbers as a road to improving my performance. For years my training was an amazing cycle of familiarity, stability, and reliability- but I wanted to leave my comfort zone and explore the what if? What would happen if I leave my comfort zone and try something new? What if I have it in me? 

It has been about a month or so since I started training by numbers. It’s not easy. Some days it’s harder to quiet the voices in my head that rate me on a numerical scale. But I know I have to trust the method, the science, my body, and my passion for movement. Numbers are everywhere we look, there is no escaping them. But, I have found that if I shift my perspective, the meaning of numbers will shift as well. 

The achievement is not in whether my running is faster on day one or day ten- the achievement is that I keep at it. There is growth with every step I cover and in doing what is necessary to keep going- no matter some number. The achievement is in how many times I allow myself to be right where I am, and then keep moving forward. So, for now, I am letting go of the numbers that don’t matter and trying to hold on to the ones that do.