On Thursday, my family will sit down to a turkey buffet, catching breadcrumbs in starched napkins and comparing the pumpkin pie to the apple tart. Everyone will bundle up in scarves and sweaters to face the biting winter winds that already blow through Chicago. My brother will complain about his job, my grandfather will complain about his every ache and pain, my mom will just complain, my dad will just smile.
Alas, the eldest daughter is missing. She’ll be in the newsroom in Austin, earning journalistic stripes by working a major holiday, yet secretly content writing arts listings and obituaries. She will pick at festive vegetarian options from Whole Foods, wear a t-shirt, and deal with familial obligations via cell phone. If only all holidays were that simple.
This is the second year I will spend Thanksgiving in Texas, and for that I am thankful.
This tradition of solitary celebrating began as a battle of wills. My mom loudly willed me to be in Chicago while I silently willed her to leave me alone. As a recovering anorexic and bulimic, Thanksgiving has always been a tricky day. Do I eat or not? What do I eat? Will I be able to get rid of it in peace? When will I get to work out? Why is everyone else so gluttonous and fat?
Last year was different. The debates were no longer silent musings. Nine months earlier I was in rehab, learning to trust my body with three meals a day, most of which caused endless anxiety and fear. At a holiday feast I would be the proverbial alcoholic sitting in a bar and staring at the rows of bottled comfort. It just seemed cruel.
Despite my self-preserving instinct to run away from this ordeal as quickly as possible, my daughterly guilt began to weigh on me, heavier than a stomach full of mashed potatoes or the massive thunder thighs I envisioned bursting from my body. For me Thanksgiving was about fat and food. For my mom it was about family. Hanging my head in shame, I was ready to pack a bag and face whatever treacherous dinner spread lay before me.
But, like that single lucky turkey given a presidential pardon, I was saved. My mother declared she did not want to spend Thanksgiving with me. Knowing I had been so sick and that I still struggled made her unbearably sad. Many nights she got into bed with the dog, looked at a picture of me as a pigtailed girl, and cried. She did not want to face the prospect of me sneaking upstairs after dinner to take a shower and throw up. Perhaps, she admitted, I should skip the feast and stay in Austin.
It was the first Thanksgiving I felt true gratitude. No aching throat, no bloated stomach, no need for escape. When I opened my eyes that Thursday morning I was in my body. And my body felt like a safe place to be. My blood pumped rhythmically through a healthy heart, warming my limbs, filing me with life.
It was the first Thanksgiving I felt at home. The place I was born and raised, the place my brother nad parents still live, the place so many memories are grounded, is not my home. Neither is Nashville, the setting for college, my first job and inevitable breakdown. Here, in the heat and creativity of Austin, I have found my home. The sky, oh the blue Texas sky, it stretches impossibly high, pale and untouchable. Nothing is holding me in. Nothing is holding me down. I am uninhibited by the city, its buildings and hills, the sun and the rivers, even my own body.
I spent the morning walking around Town Lake. As I walked I prayed. I do not know what I was praying to, I have no saints or gods, but I know what I am praying for. It is a prayer of gratitude. Thank you for my life. Thank you for my body. Thank you for setting me free.