That Time I Lost My Anchor

**Content warning: This is one person’s story; everyone will have unique experiences in recovery and beyond. Some stories may mention eating disorder thoughts, behaviors, and symptoms. Please use your discretion when reading and speak with your support system as needed.

Pam Sanderson Lyon lives in Durham, North Carolina, in a home full of animals, people, colored pencils, and half-filled journals.

I don’t know about you, but I have never needed encouragement to think more or live in my head.

“Dig in.”
“Analyze your every thought.”
“Stew on it.”

All unnecessary statements.

I never forget them. They come easy.

I’ve spent most of my adult life trying to do these things less. For a while, I was even somewhat succeeding. I was on my medicine, mostly following through with commitments, eating regular meals, and my anxiety was at a low.

It’s hard to discern whether living in my head is a cause or an effect of the anxiety. I don’t mean that I could reason my way out from under it—mind over matter—only that the two are linked somehow for me.

People have different issues that go along with their anxiety, I guess. Mine aren’t especially interesting or unique: people-pleaser, easily overwhelmed, food issues, difficulty with communication and conflict…blah blah blahty blah. You’ve heard it all before.

Anyway, this is about a time when my issues came to a head, and I had to make a hard decision about how I was living.

As of this year, I’ve been out of stand-up comedy longer than I was in it. However, when I began, I had a mission statement.

(I really did. I also had an expand-a-file for all of the categories of my jokes. I am a wild, wild renegade, people. I fly fast and loose.)

My mission statement was abstract and kind of flowery, but it went something like this:

Every time I got onstage, I wanted

—to serve the audience, not have them serve me
—to treat them kindly
—to tell them something slightly helpful or substantive
—to make them feel welcome in the club, and in the world
—to help them realize their deep value and beauty
—to create a sense of connection within the audience, like a little community
—to feel loved
—and to laugh hard

And I needed to do all of that in three to five minutes.

I know.

It’s a lot to accomplish, even with an expand-a-file.

But I’m nothing if not optimistic.

I was so nervous in those first months, but I kept that mission as my focus. I’d get frustrated with myself because I had this hunch I could do better than I was. Like, I knew I could get closer to that mission statement if I could just get comfortable enough to say things in my own voice. I was frustrated with the task, but it wasn’t so much self-focused frustration as it was a wanting-to-do-it-right frustration.

Somewhere during that first year, I started turning inward. I got stuck in my head. I started focusing intensely on myself…and when I do that, things tend to go dark.

Writing (jokes or otherwise) lends itself to solitary confinement in some ways. And it puts you in your head a good bit. It can be really healthy. But as a stay-at-home mom who was already pretty isolated, it became a challenge.

Also, guess what happens when you go on stage:

People look at you.
Like, a LOT. Almost as if it’s the point.
Because it is.

My favorite place to tell jokes is in a class or a large group. I mean, I like yelling them from the back of the room or the audience. I guess you could say I’d rather compete to be the center of attention for ten seconds at a time rather than BE the center of attention.

So, yes. Heckle, basically. I guess you could say my sweet spot is heckling.

I didn’t love being on a stage the way some people do.

I became more intensely aware of my physical appearance than I had been in years…in a way only someone who’s had years of counseling for an eating disorder can recognize. All that looking and examining myself just turned me inward even more, and made things darker.

Because here’s the thing: when we start dissecting ourselves while we’re in an unhealthy state of mind, very few of us walk away thinking, “Hmmm, nice. I see nothing to criticize here. Looking good, baby. Carry on! No notes.”

But even aside from discovering my baggy elbows that year, the hardest part was knowing—really knowing—that every time I went on stage, some people would like my words, and some wouldn’t.

That’s the nature of the job.

And once I started thinking about that too much…well, I was stymied.

I could hardly choose anything to say.

I also started dressing monochromatically.

Getting dressed and out the door had been really hard for me when my anxiety was bad in my twenties…so hard that I often would not make it out the door at all. One night, as I was heading out to the Idiot Box, my ex-husband said:

“My wife is dressed like Joey Ramone.”

Which was offensive, because he’s not even the prettiest Ramone.

But he was right. I was in all black (again) and combat boots.

When things ramped up anxiety-wise, I either wore the same outfit a LOT, or I went for monochromatic—because it’s easy to match. It takes less mental energy. That’s also why I never wear layers. Who can choose EXTRA garments for crying out loud? Accessories? Am I a wizard?

These days, some people argue that wearing a similar outfit daily conserves precious mental energy you can use elsewhere. I was ahead of my time (but really stressed about it).

Somewhere along the way, I lost my mission. I lost my anchor. And I lost my voice.

Because focusing so inward isn’t anchoring.

It just made me feel shaky and indecisive.

And it made me freeze up like a deer in the headlights.

Which isn’t a very functional place to be.

And when I get to that place, about the only thing I feel I’m still “good at” is losing weight.

So I did that.

When you’re 25 and you lose weight, people are like,
“Hey girl. Lose some weight? Lookin’ good!”

But when you’re over 40 and you lose weight, people are like,
“Hey girl. Lose some weight? You’re lookin’…well, pointier around the edges.”

Around this time, I got a job at the public library.

One day, I told my coworker Thomas, “I think I’m going to take a comedy break; I’m starting to feel thin.”

He said, “Like personally…like Bilbo Baggins? Sort of stretched like butter scraped over too much bread?”

I said, “Well that. Plus, also my pants are really loose.”

But I did feel thin, physically and spiritually.

I’d looked inward so much and for so long that I’d lost perspective. I had a love/hate relationship with myself. I loved myself when I “looked right” and “performed right”—on stage, socially, or as a wife and mother—but I hated myself when I didn’t. And my only measuring stick for any of this seemed to shift constantly.

So.

I took a break.

I prayed.

I ate meals.

It was scary, but I made myself eat every meal.

I wrote things on my wrist like “kept, loved, lovely,” because I needed to remember that god or someone thought so.

And I came out of the dark.

It hasn’t been easy.

But I got that job at the library,

so I go there and see people whom I loved immediately.

And I get to feel the books near me…and that makes me feel good.

And book covers are wonderful—arty and creative—and they remind me that someone once sat alone in their house and typed out that story, in hopes that someone like you or me would see it, and read it.

Sometimes I wonder about those writers…whether they’re depressed or drink, or if maybe their elbows are getting baggy and their pants are feeling loose. I hope not.

And I think, “Hey. Maybe I could do that next. Maybe I could write a book.”

But not now.

For now, I just need to be with the library people, and the loiterers, the book lovers, and the books.

And think about my kids, and my family, and my friends.

And I listen to them, for real…not with glazed eyes like I have been.

And I put away the black clothes for a bit.

If you or a loved one is experiencing an eating disorder, help is available. Reach out to The Emily Program today by calling 1-888-364-5977 or completing our online form.

We want to hear your voice of recovery! If you are interested, please email blog@emilyprogram.com to learn more.