[20] Tournelle du Soleil (Patreon)

CW: Today's segment includes discussion of food, diet, and restricted eating  

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The energy of this place is busy, productive, bustling. 

None of the other artists I’ve met are looking over their shoulder at anyone else like they’re competition. Everyone here is here because they already have a job. It makes for an incredibly different environment than I’m used to being in.   

The camaraderie and easy atmosphere, unfortunately, don't do anything to ameliorate the subliminal influence of being in the midst of a veritable horde of incredibly fit athletes. So, by lunch I also realize how close to the surface all my old eating disorder habits are. My mind ping-pongs back and forth in the same exhausting dance I’ve been hushing since I was young:

I look at the plate of food my coworker is eating across from me: it’s piled high with roasted veggies, rice, a whole chicken breast, a cookie. My stomach growls as I fish the packed lunch of last night’s leftovers I’ve brought with me out of my bag: a green salad that’s wilted in its vinaigrette; a couple chickpea patties; some hummus; my coffee, now tepid in its cooler.

Wish I’d brought a bigger lunch for myself, I think, staring down at my spread.

Then, the whiplash intrusion of, No, it’s better that it’s small, you were at the high end of ‘normal’ for weight during your evaluation, remember? Don’t you want to be at the low end of ‘normal’? You could get used to this portion size. You’ll be smaller–

And that’s where I interrupt myself. No, I won’t. I never am.

There have been periods in my life where I’ve restricted my food for long enough periods of time that I’ve become smaller versions of myself. It’s never sustainable, I’m never magically happier; and the supposed ‘desirability’ factor of being a ‘lean’ or ‘slender’ performer whose body is scrutinised on stage never actually translates into more or better work opportunities.

Instead, I get tired. I get foggy. I get tired of depriving myself of food. I get tired of feeling hungry. I get anxious that I’m hurting myself by controlling my food.

Eventually, I get more worried that my restriction behaviour is an outward expression of poor mental health, and I’m more scared of poor mental health and the drastic, nearly life-ending consequences that that has had on my life in past … and go back to trying to eat intuitively.

My brain switches tracks. I want chocolate.

You only want that because you’re stressed now, comes quick on the heels of the last thought again. You shouldn’t have that.

What can I have?

I want something cold and refreshing.

I scan the cafeteria fridge, my eyes finding only soda.

Maybe?

No. So much sugar. What are you thinking? You can’t have that–

My eyes land on Perrier water. Perfect.

I drag the sliding door back and grab it out of the cooler. I walk up to the cash to pay for it and check out, thoughts heavy on my mind that all these hypervigilant ways of thinking about my food are all here lurking for me to have these moments of inadequacy, anxiety, and seeking control.

The intensity of ‘feeling out of place’ here has been hard:

First, the change-up with not being able to do what I was originally contracted to perform, my VACUUM act (and the confidence that the months and months of R&D that went into that act can imbue in me); and then trying to find that mental-resilience sweet-spot of confidence, focus, and a certain amount of relaxation to accept the challenge of making up something new in a plexiglas tower instead with very little time.  

Then, this morning, being surrounded by the sveltest, fittest, strongest athletes I’ve seen in years and knowing that I don’t look like that.

And after that, the costume fittings following that carried the additional dissonance of my body not matching the outfit that I’m wearing in the way that my mind tells me it should.

All the things I like about my body – my muscularity, my big shoulders, my solidity – become marks against me , somehow, in that tiny swimsuit.

No waist. Too broad.

Are those hips? I thought your hips were tiny, what are those? Yeesh.

I try to shake it off. Lessen the heat of my brain with some cool logic.

No changes that you might make this week to your diet and nutrition –other than making sure you get enough protein to repair your muscles, enough carbs to have energy, and stay hydrated– are going to make any impact on what you look like in those costumes, or on stage. It’s literally not enough time for there to be a visible difference.

You can’t cut your food intake with the amount of work that you’re doing, the amount of pressure you’re under. That’s a great way to get injured, or make a mistake, or get sick. Be vigilant.

I’ve got to try to watch this and be careful this week, I think to myself.

I try not to feel tired as I realize this.

Somewhere on the walk down the long, long hallway from the cafeteria back to the gym, I rally.

I walk calmly back into the mens’ changeroom and put my backpack back in my locker. I grab my bag of bands and physio balls and head back out onto the floor to warm up.

It’s much quieter now: there’s no other athletes in here at the moment.

My brain feels focused on what’s coming next. I feel a little better.

Digging out my big over-the-ear headphones, I swipe at my phone until I find an up-beat playlist that’s gotten me through many a focused training session before.

Time to get to work.

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Your next instalment of Tournelle du Soleil will arrive tomorrow at 7am EST / 1pm CEST. Until then, stay strange and wonderful. XO - Ess