God's Presence

My spiritual journey has taken place side-by-side with my disease. I have had periods of feeling utterly abandoned by God, and times of feeling overwhelmingly blessed and forgiven. Even now, when my faith is more established than it has ever been, I still falter sometimes. Below are two poems, one of which highlights my frustration and disconnection, and the other my reprieve.

SILENCE

Hey you. I'm talking to you.
Seven billion people and you're supposed
to listen to me?
They told me to pray.
Said you died for my sins.
Really? Seems a little drastic.
Where have you been, anyway?
I could have used your help a couple of times.
I turned the other cheek like you said.
It just got me slapped twice.
I tried to believe in you, you know.
Didn't really work out for me.
"Who's your daddy?" he said. And I
thought of you.
Then the knife broke the skin.
Mustard seeds and loaves and fishes and
prodigal sons never meant much to me.
What I remember is "Who's your daddy?"
and how you weren't there.

MY PROOF

In the stillness
I feel Your grace.
When I chase after it,
when I yearn for it,
my hands are empty.
But when all is quiet,
when I am broken and
have given up,
Your finger is upon me.
It is in those moments
of heartache and contrition
that I am redeemed.
Your mercy, like rain,
has washed me clean.

The Power of Suggestion?

Tonight in our Body Image group we had a rather enlightening assignment. We were to come up with a body affirmation - something positive about our bodies that we do not currently believe but want to believe in the future. Then we had to fill out a worksheet answering questions about that affirmation. It seems like a rather straightforward exercise, but it threw me for a loop. It exposed the core belief that has driven my eating disorder and other self-destructive behaviors for years. It also shed light on why my progress is going so slowly and painfully. Here is my affirmation, and the ensuing Q&A.

AFFIRMATION: "My body is not the cause of my past suffering."

"If I feel this way, then I will have to..." stop punishing and blaming my body for all the hurt in my life.

"Then what might happen?" I will have nothing or no one to blame.

"If I feel this way, then I will no longer be able to..." excuse all of my self-destructive behaviors.

"Than what might happen?" I would have to stop acting out against myself.

"If I feel this way, then I will run the risk of..." losing my entire identity.

"Then what might happen?" I won't know who I am or why my life has been the way it has.

"If I feel this way, what aspects of my identity might I have to let go of?" My identity as a bad, dirty, unfixable person.

"Then what might happen?" I don't know, and that scares me.

It is with trepidation that I proceed...

I have been writing poetry like a crazy person. It just comes pouring out. Make no mistake, I'm not painting literary pictures of spring rains or blossoming tulips. My work is dark, sometimes explicit, and always very personal. I have gone back and forth for weeks deciding if sharing it on this blog would be wise. In the end, I remain uncertain. But I do know this: as important as understanding the complications and resolutions of eating disorders is, understanding their origins is just as vital. No two people arrive at an E.D. in exactly the same way. Some come by way of chaotic families, others by controlling parents, others from seemingly idyllic pasts, and some - like myself - get here with suitcases full of unresolved trauma.

No matter what form a person's eating disorder takes, no matter how long or short a time the person has suffered, recovery is simply NOT possible without digging into the root causes. That's why my recovery has taken so long to even begin. I have been unwilling (unable?) to do the very difficult work necessary to overcome my past. I am here now, just starting out, dipping my big toe into the pool of therapy. Part of my work is writing. It's something I can do. Simple as that. Some people paint, some sing, some reach out and talk with friends... I write.

If you are easily triggered, squeamish, generally uncomfortable with bad language or disturbing imagery, I discourage you from reading the following poem. If you are looking for a glimpse at the damage that precedes an eating disorder, read on.

REVENGE

I'm naked as a jaybird.
You stink of fear and sex.
My mouth is on your
cock-a-doodle-doo, it's time to wake up.
Another nightmare down.
One of these times I'm gonna get it right.
One of these times I'm gonna put up a fight.
I'm gonna make you sorry for fucking little girls.
For getting turned on by their ribbons and curls.
You just wait.
You just watch.
I'll visit you one night
and my specter will give you one hell of a fright.
You may be up now and I may be down
but soon in my dreams I'll turn it around.
I'll get you, my pretty,
and your little sin too.
You'll be the one begging and crying and
pleading.
You'll be the one damaged, broken, and
bleeding.
Mark my words, Michael, I'm coming to
get you.
Mark my words, Michael, 'cuz I'll never
forget you.

Rx

I don't know how to heal
but I can write.
Nouns, verbs, adjectives, like sutures
knit my ragged flesh back into
something human.
Language, like a medicine,
taken in the right dosage at the appropriate
time.
My pen is a scalpel,
operating on that gangrenous abomination
that is rotting out my soul.
I put on my latex gloves and deputrify
my mind.
Words, like peroxide, burn me clean.

Words of Wisdom

"Don't let the fear of the time it will take to accomplish something stand in the way of your doing it. The time will pass anyway; we might just as well put that passing time to the best possible use." - Earl Nightingale

Whack-A-Mole

Anyone who has been in treatment for any kind of addictive or compulsive behavior will be familiar with the concept of "whack-a-mole." Once one set of behaviors is under control, another set tries to pop up somewhere to compensate for the stress and emotion released by the treatment process. A recovering alcoholic turns to pills. A recovering drug addict turns to sex. A recovering anorexic/bulimic turns to self-harm. It's known as "addiction switching," and not only is it very common, it's also very dangerous.

I was admitted to treatment with a primary diagnosis of bulimia and secondary diagnoses of anxiety disorder and post-traumatic stress disorder. That was quite enough, I thought. But part of my treatment included mandatory daily Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. I resisted the notion at first. I'm not an alcoholic, why should I have to spend an hour a day with those people? God knows I have enough problems of my own. But a funny thing happened when my ED behaviors got squashed down. I started getting really thirsty. Getting buzzed starting sounding real good. Just a couple of drinks, just to take the edge off, no big deal. Oh. Now I see why I have to go to AA.

As an outpatient, I've been working very hard to maintain my meal plan and avoid alcohol. I have had a few drinks, but I have held myself accountable to my treatment team and gotten back "on the wagon." As I wade deeper into my therapeutic work, though, that old foe Self-Harm has popped his ugly head out of his hiding place.

I have only mentioned my self-injury history in passing on this blog. It's been the elephant in the room of my life for some time; many of my scars are visible, but people seem too uncomfortable, too embarrassed, or too shy to ask about them. I have at least been able to say with certainty, "That stage of my life is over." Maybe not.

Many of my self-destructive behaviors are used for different purposes. Restricting is used to control the chaos in my life. Binging, purging, and exercising are used as a method of stress relief. Alcohol is used to numb out. Self-harm, for me, was always a response to intense anger towards myself. It is an act of rage, of violence. Getting into my trauma history has brought that old self-anger right to the surface. Those old urges are back, and as strong as ever.

And so I play Whack-A-Mole, along with all the other addicts out there. At least I know that there's a small army on my side this time: therapist, dietitian, recovery peers, meetings, friends, family. If I hand everyone a club, maybe I can win this game once and for all.