I have heard that there are people out there who know OF me more than they know ME. I have heard that they know I've been to "rehab." They most likely don't know that means I went to inpatient eating disorder treatment; I assume that by "rehab" they think drugs or alcohol. Maybe they regard me with suspicion. Perhaps they believe I can't be trusted, because "once an addict, always an addict."
I want to address this on a couple fronts. First, no matter the kind of problem - eating disorder, chemical dependency, trauma, whatever - the definition of rehabilitation is this: to restore or bring to a condition of health or useful and constructive activity. Who among us can't use a little restoration? Who among us hasn't, at one point or another, experienced a decrease in our health, usefulness, or constructive activity? That's called life. Sometimes things go wrong, we get hurt, and it takes awhile to dust ourselves off. Isn't it incredibly brave that we can acknowledge our struggles and take the necessary steps to heal? Why the stigma?
Which leads me to my second point. Why the shame? Not only the shame those of us who have walked the road of recovery have felt, but the shame some onlookers place upon us? So I went to rehab. What's that say about me? That I couldn't hack it on my own? That I'm too weak to man up and deal with my life? That there's something wrong with me, that I'm broken? Nope, that's a fallacy. I am NOT broken. I am NOT weak. And while yes, I couldn't do it on my own, who can? No man is an island, after all. I needed help, and I sought it out. I was hurting, and I found some peace.
Maybe the media plays a role in the misunderstanding, as it so often does. (I grew up in New Jersey, and not one of my friends or family members bears any resemblence to Snookie.) There's Amy Winehouse's (now-ironic) hit song, "Rehab." People laughed when that song hit the airwaves. "Look at the silly drunk, what a joke." A few people took notice and said, "Hey, wait, maybe she's really sick," but they were the minority. There's a show on MTV or VH1 (you know, where they used to talk about music) called "Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew," in which several formerly-famous people with addictions find their diseases exploited and ridiculed. They act in an outrageous fashion and the viewer at home can say, "What an idiot. Drug addicts are losers," and feel better about his own life. This is not only grossly untrue, its effects are devastating. I wonder sometimes how many lives have been lost because sick people were too ashamed to reach out for help, too afraid of being labeled.
Here's what I know for sure. The people I have met in rehab and in 12-step meetings are some of the most intelligent, kind, motivated, strong, honest, wonderful folks I have ever encountered. We had some cards stacked against us, perhaps: genetics, trauma, etc. We fell hard, got scraped up pretty badly. Fell again and again, in a lot of cases. But we were hopeful enough, brave enough, to get the help we needed. BRAVE. Because that's what rehab requires: bravery, trust, hope, accountability, and a willingness to change the things that lead us away from God's path. We admit that we have lost control, admit that this Thing (for me, anorexia and bulimia, for others, drugs, alcohol, sex, gambling, and on an on) has taken over and we don't know how to stop it. We acknowledge all the things we have done wrong, all the people we have hurt, while we were astray. We say aloud, to each other, that we want something better, know that with God's help and the support of one another, we can and will get better. We will be rehabilitated.
I challenge you, if you have not been in rehab, to take stock of your opinions of those of us who have. What do you believe about us? Are those beliefs fair, compassionate?
And to my companions on the journey of recovery, I challenge you to this: Tell someone new about your experience. Share your experience, strength, and hope. Do your part to change the misconception. Help show the world that rehab is not a four-letter word.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Friday, November 23, 2012
Little Lights
It is hard, maybe even
impossible,
to see the stars on a stormy night.
They always glitter in their
ebony bed,
never vanishing, though our
eyes lose sight of them.
The mournful clouds roll in,
weeping, closing up the
atmosphere with their
shadows.
A long way up, the stars
shine on.
A cold wind bites, aggressive,
assaulting the air.
Up above, the heavens
are still.
The storm will rage,
will cry out, will destroy.
When it passes, as
all storms do,
we will glimpse the stars again.
impossible,
to see the stars on a stormy night.
They always glitter in their
ebony bed,
never vanishing, though our
eyes lose sight of them.
The mournful clouds roll in,
weeping, closing up the
atmosphere with their
shadows.
A long way up, the stars
shine on.
A cold wind bites, aggressive,
assaulting the air.
Up above, the heavens
are still.
The storm will rage,
will cry out, will destroy.
When it passes, as
all storms do,
we will glimpse the stars again.
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Anger: A Love Story
I had a conversation with a dear friend recently about anger. Rather, the denial of it. Anger is one of those emotions that has a funny way of finding its way out no matter how hard we try to push it down. (I am reminded of this every time I bake bread, as my loaf pan has a sizeable dent in it from being thrown across the kitchen several years ago. But I wasn't mad at the time, really.)
Anger is a feeling just like any other - it is natural, it serves a purpose, it is an inevitability. What we do with it is an entirely different matter. Some folks rage, because the potency is just so great and there's no discernible way to temper it in the moment. Some people deny their anger altogether, because it's simply inappropriate to display such a nasty sentiment. Some people have a healthy relationship to their anger and express it in a reasonable and effective matter, though it appears to me these people are in the minority.
Someone once taught me how you can tell if your anger is justified given your present situation, or if it is actually a response to something much deeper, much farther back in the past. It has a lot to do with intensity. Say someone rear-ends you in the parking lot. In Scenario A, you are shaken up and annoyed, but calmly get out of your car, approach the person with the goal of exchanging insurance information, get back in your car, and go about your business. In Scenario B, you hurl yourself out of the car, wrench open the other guy's door, pull him out by the collar, and proceed to tell him exactly what a &^%$&(@'ng idiot he is. In Scenario C, you begin to cry, get out of your car and apologize profusely to the offending driver, insisting that you are actually at fault, that this stuff happens all the time because you're just so stupid. Only one of these scenarios exemplifies an appropriate response to an anger-inducing event. I imagine you can guess which one. Scenarios B and C are examples of explosive anger and anger that brings up shame, neither of which are actually responses to the car accident, but to things from the past that cause great discomfort.
One of my most recent reminders of this anger conundrum occurred a few days ago when I watched the new episode of Glee. (Don't judge... I like to pretend I'm still 16, only instead of the actual 16-year old me, I'm a pop-song-singing, hip-hop-dancing ball of awesome.) This particular episode of the show not only made light of eating disorders, it actually glorified and exalted them. I lost it. I took to social media to blast my opinions, and was greeted with a response that reaffirmed my disgust. I was furious. I was also hurt. How could the writers, producers, and actors be so insensitive? So dangerous? So cruel? So flippant? So irresponsible? Don't they know how devastating these diseases are? Don't they CARE?
I wasn't angry about Glee. It's a television show. I was angry at my own disease, at the years, the experiences, the money, the friendships, the health, it cost me. I was angry about how many people continue to take that first step - skip that first meal, take that first pill, purge that first time - never knowing the years of devastation that will follow. I was angry at my own first step, all those years ago. I was angry at the fact that I still... STILL... stand in front of the mirror, brows furrowed, shame welling up, hating what I see. I was angry, yes. But not at what I thought.
I am thankful for that anger, though. For while it came up unexpectedly, while it surfaced in response to a (admittedly very poorly-executed and socially irresponsible) television show, it reminded me how very far I've come, and how much I stand to lose if I stop walking the right path.
I encourage you to take a look at your own anger. Be aware of it as it comes - is it justified in the current situation, or is it something deeper trying to communicate itself to you? Is there something else there that needs to be examined? Love your anger, appreciate it. I am finding it has a lot more to offer than I ever knew.
Anger is a feeling just like any other - it is natural, it serves a purpose, it is an inevitability. What we do with it is an entirely different matter. Some folks rage, because the potency is just so great and there's no discernible way to temper it in the moment. Some people deny their anger altogether, because it's simply inappropriate to display such a nasty sentiment. Some people have a healthy relationship to their anger and express it in a reasonable and effective matter, though it appears to me these people are in the minority.
Someone once taught me how you can tell if your anger is justified given your present situation, or if it is actually a response to something much deeper, much farther back in the past. It has a lot to do with intensity. Say someone rear-ends you in the parking lot. In Scenario A, you are shaken up and annoyed, but calmly get out of your car, approach the person with the goal of exchanging insurance information, get back in your car, and go about your business. In Scenario B, you hurl yourself out of the car, wrench open the other guy's door, pull him out by the collar, and proceed to tell him exactly what a &^%$&(@'ng idiot he is. In Scenario C, you begin to cry, get out of your car and apologize profusely to the offending driver, insisting that you are actually at fault, that this stuff happens all the time because you're just so stupid. Only one of these scenarios exemplifies an appropriate response to an anger-inducing event. I imagine you can guess which one. Scenarios B and C are examples of explosive anger and anger that brings up shame, neither of which are actually responses to the car accident, but to things from the past that cause great discomfort.
One of my most recent reminders of this anger conundrum occurred a few days ago when I watched the new episode of Glee. (Don't judge... I like to pretend I'm still 16, only instead of the actual 16-year old me, I'm a pop-song-singing, hip-hop-dancing ball of awesome.) This particular episode of the show not only made light of eating disorders, it actually glorified and exalted them. I lost it. I took to social media to blast my opinions, and was greeted with a response that reaffirmed my disgust. I was furious. I was also hurt. How could the writers, producers, and actors be so insensitive? So dangerous? So cruel? So flippant? So irresponsible? Don't they know how devastating these diseases are? Don't they CARE?
I wasn't angry about Glee. It's a television show. I was angry at my own disease, at the years, the experiences, the money, the friendships, the health, it cost me. I was angry about how many people continue to take that first step - skip that first meal, take that first pill, purge that first time - never knowing the years of devastation that will follow. I was angry at my own first step, all those years ago. I was angry at the fact that I still... STILL... stand in front of the mirror, brows furrowed, shame welling up, hating what I see. I was angry, yes. But not at what I thought.
I am thankful for that anger, though. For while it came up unexpectedly, while it surfaced in response to a (admittedly very poorly-executed and socially irresponsible) television show, it reminded me how very far I've come, and how much I stand to lose if I stop walking the right path.
I encourage you to take a look at your own anger. Be aware of it as it comes - is it justified in the current situation, or is it something deeper trying to communicate itself to you? Is there something else there that needs to be examined? Love your anger, appreciate it. I am finding it has a lot more to offer than I ever knew.
Monday, October 22, 2012
Dare (Not) to Compare
"She's so much thinner than I am." "She's so much prettier than I am." "Her clothes are so much nicer than mine." "Her house is so much cleaner than mine is." "Her kids are so much better-behaved than mine are."
That's an inner dialogue that plagues me on a daily basis. Admition: I compare myself to others. A lot. And 98% of the time, I come out in the one-down position. I have found absolutely no benefit in these constant comparisons; rather, they are an incessant reminder of my own shortcomings, my inadequacies, my failures. If only I could be like HER, I think, then I wouldn't be so bad.
Now, I've gotten far enough along in my journey to appreciate some of my lesser-ideal qualities. I am loud, and I am obnoxiously opinionated... but I enjoy that about myself. I procrastinate... and I get a rise from the thrill of getting things done barely in the nick of time. There are other things, though, that continue to cause me grief. My body is an obvious example.
There are a lot of people out there who have "better" bodies than I do. Sure, some of them are 17. Some of them have never borne children. Some of them are professional athletes or models or actresses, and get paid big money to look as they do. Some of them are mired in their own uncontrolled eating disorders, achieving those bodies I've long coveted through the very same behaviors that nearly cost me my life. I recognize all of those things. And still, I compare.
The same can be said for my home, and my children, and every other area of my life that I (unrealistically) view as an extension of myself. My often-messy house, my frequently-argumentative children (by the by, how can I be surprised by this? They are MY children, after all), all force me to acknowledge how imperfect my life is. It's a cruel experience, and it's a type of suffering wholly unnecessary and brought about entirely by my own choices.
You see, here's the thing. All of those "perfect people" to whom we compare ourselves? They're not perfect at all. They have their own insecurities, their own secret failings they pray no one will discover. No one among us is flawless, however that Glamour magazine cover may represent her. I have a couple friends whom, upon first meeting them, I despised on principle: they were so put together, I just couldn't stand it. Then I got to know them, had the privilege of seeing their faults, and I took back my judgements. I realized that it is their very humanity (definition: weakness) that makes them incredible.
If I can love my friends for their flaws, their struggles, their imperfections, then why can't I love myself for mine? The first step in getting there, I think, is to stop the comparing. Just stop it, for crying out loud. Any exercise that concludes with my certainty that I suck is not an exercise conducive to a happy life.
I invite you, friends, to JUST SAY NO to comparing. Celebrate the flaws in yourself just as surely as you love the flaws in your fellows. If we all looked like the girl on the Glamour cover, if our houses all looked like those on the Good Housekeeping covers, if our kids all acted like the ones on the Parenting covers, what a dull world this would be.
That's an inner dialogue that plagues me on a daily basis. Admition: I compare myself to others. A lot. And 98% of the time, I come out in the one-down position. I have found absolutely no benefit in these constant comparisons; rather, they are an incessant reminder of my own shortcomings, my inadequacies, my failures. If only I could be like HER, I think, then I wouldn't be so bad.
Now, I've gotten far enough along in my journey to appreciate some of my lesser-ideal qualities. I am loud, and I am obnoxiously opinionated... but I enjoy that about myself. I procrastinate... and I get a rise from the thrill of getting things done barely in the nick of time. There are other things, though, that continue to cause me grief. My body is an obvious example.
There are a lot of people out there who have "better" bodies than I do. Sure, some of them are 17. Some of them have never borne children. Some of them are professional athletes or models or actresses, and get paid big money to look as they do. Some of them are mired in their own uncontrolled eating disorders, achieving those bodies I've long coveted through the very same behaviors that nearly cost me my life. I recognize all of those things. And still, I compare.
The same can be said for my home, and my children, and every other area of my life that I (unrealistically) view as an extension of myself. My often-messy house, my frequently-argumentative children (by the by, how can I be surprised by this? They are MY children, after all), all force me to acknowledge how imperfect my life is. It's a cruel experience, and it's a type of suffering wholly unnecessary and brought about entirely by my own choices.
You see, here's the thing. All of those "perfect people" to whom we compare ourselves? They're not perfect at all. They have their own insecurities, their own secret failings they pray no one will discover. No one among us is flawless, however that Glamour magazine cover may represent her. I have a couple friends whom, upon first meeting them, I despised on principle: they were so put together, I just couldn't stand it. Then I got to know them, had the privilege of seeing their faults, and I took back my judgements. I realized that it is their very humanity (definition: weakness) that makes them incredible.
If I can love my friends for their flaws, their struggles, their imperfections, then why can't I love myself for mine? The first step in getting there, I think, is to stop the comparing. Just stop it, for crying out loud. Any exercise that concludes with my certainty that I suck is not an exercise conducive to a happy life.
I invite you, friends, to JUST SAY NO to comparing. Celebrate the flaws in yourself just as surely as you love the flaws in your fellows. If we all looked like the girl on the Glamour cover, if our houses all looked like those on the Good Housekeeping covers, if our kids all acted like the ones on the Parenting covers, what a dull world this would be.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Escape
The world is a bright, beautiful place when your head's not in a toilet bowl. That may not be the most delicate way to put it, but frankly, it's my reality. For years - fourteen of them - I was too caught up in escapist behaviors to recognize the simple but brilliant magic of life.
An eating disorder, similar to chemical dependency and even OCD, is an extreme example of avoidance. Life is messy sometimes, it hurts, it's imperfect, people can be mean, they will let you down, you will be disappointed and heartbroken and lonely. Retreating to the perceived safety of a compulsive disease gives the illusion of avoiding the trials of reality. To quote a mantra I used to repeat to myself daily, "Hunger is better than pain." The most obvious drawback to this attempted dodge is the physical one: eating disorders and addictions can, and if left untreated will, kill you. End of story, no postscript. A more subtle consequence is an emotional one. While you may succeed in blocking those unpleasant emotions, you also succeed mightily at blocking the good ones too.
When I was sick, I was never happy. I never felt joy, passion, human connection, or even true empathy for others. I couldn't pick and choose the feelings I wanted to block; it was all or nothing. My existence was just that: a constant cycle of chemical and biological reactions that (mercifully) allowed my heart to keep beating day after day.
I think there are many examples of this self-numbing behavior beyond the extremes of addiction, as well. I know friends who intentionally lose themselves for hours on websites, reality TV shows, and in books just to "get away" in their minds. For however brief a period of time, fantasy - or even good old fashioned mental blankess - seems better than real life. Who's to say that type of mellowed-out escapism is bad? I love a good book and a comfy couch as much as the next girl. It's when the escape begins to intrude on life that a problem exists. "Go away, kids, Mom is reading." "Not tonight, Honey, my show is on." "I can't go out, Jane, I'm trolling Pinterest." Translation: "I don't want to risk the potential frustration and disappointment of human interaction when I can zone out on my own."
There's something interesting I'm learning right now. The very messy nature of life that so terrified me before is exactly what makes it worth living now. What fun would a roller coaster be if it was just a straight track? The ups and downs, the twists and turns, the inverted stomach-emptying drops, are what keep us coming back for more. The disappointments in life have allowed me to be grateful when things do work out. The heartbreak I've felt allows me to cherish the love I have in my life. The frustrations - many and seemingly never-ending - give me a chance to better myself.
I don't want to escape life anymore. I want to live it. We only get this one shot - why spend it playing Solitaire?
An eating disorder, similar to chemical dependency and even OCD, is an extreme example of avoidance. Life is messy sometimes, it hurts, it's imperfect, people can be mean, they will let you down, you will be disappointed and heartbroken and lonely. Retreating to the perceived safety of a compulsive disease gives the illusion of avoiding the trials of reality. To quote a mantra I used to repeat to myself daily, "Hunger is better than pain." The most obvious drawback to this attempted dodge is the physical one: eating disorders and addictions can, and if left untreated will, kill you. End of story, no postscript. A more subtle consequence is an emotional one. While you may succeed in blocking those unpleasant emotions, you also succeed mightily at blocking the good ones too.
When I was sick, I was never happy. I never felt joy, passion, human connection, or even true empathy for others. I couldn't pick and choose the feelings I wanted to block; it was all or nothing. My existence was just that: a constant cycle of chemical and biological reactions that (mercifully) allowed my heart to keep beating day after day.
I think there are many examples of this self-numbing behavior beyond the extremes of addiction, as well. I know friends who intentionally lose themselves for hours on websites, reality TV shows, and in books just to "get away" in their minds. For however brief a period of time, fantasy - or even good old fashioned mental blankess - seems better than real life. Who's to say that type of mellowed-out escapism is bad? I love a good book and a comfy couch as much as the next girl. It's when the escape begins to intrude on life that a problem exists. "Go away, kids, Mom is reading." "Not tonight, Honey, my show is on." "I can't go out, Jane, I'm trolling Pinterest." Translation: "I don't want to risk the potential frustration and disappointment of human interaction when I can zone out on my own."
There's something interesting I'm learning right now. The very messy nature of life that so terrified me before is exactly what makes it worth living now. What fun would a roller coaster be if it was just a straight track? The ups and downs, the twists and turns, the inverted stomach-emptying drops, are what keep us coming back for more. The disappointments in life have allowed me to be grateful when things do work out. The heartbreak I've felt allows me to cherish the love I have in my life. The frustrations - many and seemingly never-ending - give me a chance to better myself.
I don't want to escape life anymore. I want to live it. We only get this one shot - why spend it playing Solitaire?
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Hurt People Hurt People
I'm doing a lot of work in therapy right now to place accountability where it belongs. Specifically, to stop blaming myself for the violence I have endured, and to place blame where it should be (on the perpetrators). I was told that in order to heal, I had to get angry. I disagree.
I have this notion that compassion is more powerful than anger. That maybe, just maybe, peace can be found by forgiving rather than condemning.
I spent years - more than half my life, in fact - punishing myself for things that happened to me as a child. I believed, as sure as I believed the sky was blue, that I was responsible for what happened to me. If I wasn't so inherently bad, so contaminated at a cellular level, I could have avoided all the pain. I recognize now how wrong I was. I was a child, innocent by definition. I had no control over the things that befell me. I was as pure as any other child. God does not make mistakes, and it was a bit presumptuous of me to assume that He made one with me. Starving myself, eating copious amounts and then throwing up, cutting and bruising myself... rather than paying retribution, I was merely revictimizing myself.
I did not decide to be violated. That choice was made for me. I had no say. The popular belief is that in order to heal, I must get angry at the people who made those choices for me. Instead, I am choosing to have empathy.
Make no mistake, I still decry the actions whole-heartedly. Perhaps the most powerful gift bestowed upon human beings is that of free agency. We have the power to choose our actions. The people who hurt me made their choices, knowing, I believe, that there were less violent alternatives. They must be held accountable.
However, I choose to look at myself: a desperately pained, wildly confused girl who did the only thing that made sense - I hurt myself. Perhaps my perpetrators did the same thing. Felt their pain, and lashed out. Look at that old example: "Dad hits Mom, Mom hits Johnny, Johnny kicks the dog." If a person has no awareness of constructive coping mechanisms, that person can only act in survival mode. Sometimes that survival takes the shape of hurting someone else in order to alleviate their own hurt.
Somehow this understanding brings me peace. I am able to think to myself, "I did no wrong. That person did wrong, and it was a choice he made based on his own damage, his own story. I am sad, and I am angry that I was the recipient of the rage, but I forgive."
There is a quote thrown around frequently that I think is quite profound. "Be kind; everyone you meet is fighting their own battle." Think of someone who has hurt you and consider this idea. It doesn't excuse their actions, but it may free you from your suffering, as it is freeing me from mine.
I have this notion that compassion is more powerful than anger. That maybe, just maybe, peace can be found by forgiving rather than condemning.
I spent years - more than half my life, in fact - punishing myself for things that happened to me as a child. I believed, as sure as I believed the sky was blue, that I was responsible for what happened to me. If I wasn't so inherently bad, so contaminated at a cellular level, I could have avoided all the pain. I recognize now how wrong I was. I was a child, innocent by definition. I had no control over the things that befell me. I was as pure as any other child. God does not make mistakes, and it was a bit presumptuous of me to assume that He made one with me. Starving myself, eating copious amounts and then throwing up, cutting and bruising myself... rather than paying retribution, I was merely revictimizing myself.
I did not decide to be violated. That choice was made for me. I had no say. The popular belief is that in order to heal, I must get angry at the people who made those choices for me. Instead, I am choosing to have empathy.
Make no mistake, I still decry the actions whole-heartedly. Perhaps the most powerful gift bestowed upon human beings is that of free agency. We have the power to choose our actions. The people who hurt me made their choices, knowing, I believe, that there were less violent alternatives. They must be held accountable.
However, I choose to look at myself: a desperately pained, wildly confused girl who did the only thing that made sense - I hurt myself. Perhaps my perpetrators did the same thing. Felt their pain, and lashed out. Look at that old example: "Dad hits Mom, Mom hits Johnny, Johnny kicks the dog." If a person has no awareness of constructive coping mechanisms, that person can only act in survival mode. Sometimes that survival takes the shape of hurting someone else in order to alleviate their own hurt.
Somehow this understanding brings me peace. I am able to think to myself, "I did no wrong. That person did wrong, and it was a choice he made based on his own damage, his own story. I am sad, and I am angry that I was the recipient of the rage, but I forgive."
There is a quote thrown around frequently that I think is quite profound. "Be kind; everyone you meet is fighting their own battle." Think of someone who has hurt you and consider this idea. It doesn't excuse their actions, but it may free you from your suffering, as it is freeing me from mine.
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Are we "legitimate?"
When you've navigated the treatment and recovery world for awhile, you are inevitably exposed to some very tragic, heartbreaking stories. You hear about the fallout from truly dreadful people doing unspeakably horrific things to innocents, oftentimes children and youth. You acknowledge, and reluctantly accept, your own tragedies.
You see, very few people wake up one morning and think, "Today I'm going to do something really radical to destroy my body." It takes certain events, certain settings, certain genetic predispositions, to cultivate an environment in which eating disorders and self injury (and also alcoholism and drug addiction, though I have no personal experience with those) will develop and thrive. To summarize, it takes a lot of trauma to make a person not only willing but driven to self-destruct.
It is with this knowledge that I approach the recent media firestorm regarding what one ignorant and ill-informed politician called "legitimate rape." Now, I will not be addressing issues of abortion or pregnancy; though I have my own very strong opinions on those subjects, this is not the appropriate forum in which to express them. Rather, I want to go to the heart of the matter and address the act itself: what is rape, how is it defined, to whom does it happen, and what are the long-term ramifications.
Rape is a violent power-act wherein an aggressor sexually violates a victim. This can occur after a victim has clearly said no (is that "legitimate rape?"), when a victim is unable to give consent due to incapacitation i.e. mental/developmental problems or alcohol or drug use (is that "legitimate rape?"), or when the victim is below the age of consent (is that "legitimate rape?"). There are other situations as well, but the previous three are the most oft-cited.
Rape does not just affect young women of college-age, although many popular TV programs would have you believe that. It happens to children and the elderly, men and women, and people who inhabit socioeconomic spheres. Rapists, though they often personally have a "type," collectively do not discriminate.
The long-term consequences are many and dire. Some survivors (and I was very nearly one of them) simply choose to end their lives, too overwhelmed with pain and shame to imagine life will ever be okay again. Some survivors, like myself, develop very dangerous and violent self-destructive compulsions, starving and throwing up and cutting in an effort to numb out the constant onslaught of memories and emotions. Some survivors fall into the void of addiction, doing anything and everything necessary to escape the hurt.
Some survivors fare better than others. They have the support of family and community, professionals and spiritual leaders, and they are better-equipped to face the long and bumpy road to recovery. Even these people have certain inner scars that will always twinge.
My point is this. No person - certainly no politician without understanding of the intense, life-changing trauma of sexual assault - has a right to qualify any kind of rape as "legitimate" or "illegitimate." Unless someone has walked in these shoes (and I pray every night that no one else ever will), he has no business judging the journey of a survivor.
You see, very few people wake up one morning and think, "Today I'm going to do something really radical to destroy my body." It takes certain events, certain settings, certain genetic predispositions, to cultivate an environment in which eating disorders and self injury (and also alcoholism and drug addiction, though I have no personal experience with those) will develop and thrive. To summarize, it takes a lot of trauma to make a person not only willing but driven to self-destruct.
It is with this knowledge that I approach the recent media firestorm regarding what one ignorant and ill-informed politician called "legitimate rape." Now, I will not be addressing issues of abortion or pregnancy; though I have my own very strong opinions on those subjects, this is not the appropriate forum in which to express them. Rather, I want to go to the heart of the matter and address the act itself: what is rape, how is it defined, to whom does it happen, and what are the long-term ramifications.
Rape is a violent power-act wherein an aggressor sexually violates a victim. This can occur after a victim has clearly said no (is that "legitimate rape?"), when a victim is unable to give consent due to incapacitation i.e. mental/developmental problems or alcohol or drug use (is that "legitimate rape?"), or when the victim is below the age of consent (is that "legitimate rape?"). There are other situations as well, but the previous three are the most oft-cited.
Rape does not just affect young women of college-age, although many popular TV programs would have you believe that. It happens to children and the elderly, men and women, and people who inhabit socioeconomic spheres. Rapists, though they often personally have a "type," collectively do not discriminate.
The long-term consequences are many and dire. Some survivors (and I was very nearly one of them) simply choose to end their lives, too overwhelmed with pain and shame to imagine life will ever be okay again. Some survivors, like myself, develop very dangerous and violent self-destructive compulsions, starving and throwing up and cutting in an effort to numb out the constant onslaught of memories and emotions. Some survivors fall into the void of addiction, doing anything and everything necessary to escape the hurt.
Some survivors fare better than others. They have the support of family and community, professionals and spiritual leaders, and they are better-equipped to face the long and bumpy road to recovery. Even these people have certain inner scars that will always twinge.
My point is this. No person - certainly no politician without understanding of the intense, life-changing trauma of sexual assault - has a right to qualify any kind of rape as "legitimate" or "illegitimate." Unless someone has walked in these shoes (and I pray every night that no one else ever will), he has no business judging the journey of a survivor.
Monday, July 30, 2012
Crime and Punishment
I recently overheard a troubling conversation between two Penn State alumni. They were strangers, bound only by their alma mater, and yet the intensity of their discussion was palpable. And disturbing. (Disclaimer: I know very little about Pennsylvania State University, about the NCAA, or about college sports in general. As always, the opinions expressed in this blog are just that - my opinions.)
Man A and Man B were discussing the recent punishments handed down to Penn State by the NCAA in response to the far-reaching sex abuse scandal most of you have probably heard about. After several minutes of recounting football greatness, Man A said to Man B, "...and all of that gets taken away from us because a couple of fairy boys got their feelings hurt." Man B replied, "Makes you sick, doesn't it?"
At that point I had to get up and leave the room to prevent myself from going all Incredible Hulk on the both of them. My husband, short on words but long on wisdom, reminded me, "They're ignorant idiots, don't let them get to you." And he's right; I can choose not to let the insensitivity of clueless people bother me.
I can also choose to educate.
If you haven't survived sexual trauma, if you haven't personally endured the torture of abuse, you simply cannot fully grasp the lifelong ramifications. I'm going to try to paint a picture of just a handful of the consequences that face survivors: Post-traumatic stress disorder. Alcoholism. Drug abuse. Self-injury. Eating disorders. Suicide. Agoraphobia. Panic disorder. Fear. Hopelessness. Guilt and shame. Misplaced sense of responsibility for abuse. Isolation. Nightmares. Flashbacks. Depression. Insomnia. Low self-esteem. Sexual dysfunction. Disassociative disorders. Impaired relationships. Borderline personality disorder. That's not even a comprehensive list. Then there is the very, very small minority of victims who go on to become abusers themselves, thus perpetuating a horrible cycle.
A bit more than "hurt feelings," no? I have been challenged with the notion of 'time heals all wounds' as it relates to trauma, and it's just not true. Intensive therapy, interventions to resolve maladaptive behaviors and teach healthy coping skills, and in some cases medication, can help alleviate many of the symptoms. Even after all of those things, you never forget. It has been 22 years since my first traumatic event and 14 years since my last one, and I can say that I still battle with the consequences every single day. I have a wonderful family, a comfortable home, safety and security, and access to therapy. Even still, I wake in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, shaking from the images that invaded my mind. I am afraid much of the time. Paranoid, even. And despite a great deal of work, I still struggle with the notion that if my body is starved of its beauty and allure, I will no longer be a potential victim. I am by no means the only one dealing with these things.
In short, I take comfort in the resolution of the Penn State situation. The perpetrator is in prison, and the survivors will have the financial means to access any form of help they need with their healing journies. For most of us survivors, we will never have the same sense of justice; for most of us, our perpetrators walk free and we have to fight for access to mental healthcare.
Be educated, my friends. Know what we're up against. Do your best to protect your children and yourselves. And above all, be kind. There are, after all, more important things in this world than football.
Man A and Man B were discussing the recent punishments handed down to Penn State by the NCAA in response to the far-reaching sex abuse scandal most of you have probably heard about. After several minutes of recounting football greatness, Man A said to Man B, "...and all of that gets taken away from us because a couple of fairy boys got their feelings hurt." Man B replied, "Makes you sick, doesn't it?"
At that point I had to get up and leave the room to prevent myself from going all Incredible Hulk on the both of them. My husband, short on words but long on wisdom, reminded me, "They're ignorant idiots, don't let them get to you." And he's right; I can choose not to let the insensitivity of clueless people bother me.
I can also choose to educate.
If you haven't survived sexual trauma, if you haven't personally endured the torture of abuse, you simply cannot fully grasp the lifelong ramifications. I'm going to try to paint a picture of just a handful of the consequences that face survivors: Post-traumatic stress disorder. Alcoholism. Drug abuse. Self-injury. Eating disorders. Suicide. Agoraphobia. Panic disorder. Fear. Hopelessness. Guilt and shame. Misplaced sense of responsibility for abuse. Isolation. Nightmares. Flashbacks. Depression. Insomnia. Low self-esteem. Sexual dysfunction. Disassociative disorders. Impaired relationships. Borderline personality disorder. That's not even a comprehensive list. Then there is the very, very small minority of victims who go on to become abusers themselves, thus perpetuating a horrible cycle.
A bit more than "hurt feelings," no? I have been challenged with the notion of 'time heals all wounds' as it relates to trauma, and it's just not true. Intensive therapy, interventions to resolve maladaptive behaviors and teach healthy coping skills, and in some cases medication, can help alleviate many of the symptoms. Even after all of those things, you never forget. It has been 22 years since my first traumatic event and 14 years since my last one, and I can say that I still battle with the consequences every single day. I have a wonderful family, a comfortable home, safety and security, and access to therapy. Even still, I wake in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, shaking from the images that invaded my mind. I am afraid much of the time. Paranoid, even. And despite a great deal of work, I still struggle with the notion that if my body is starved of its beauty and allure, I will no longer be a potential victim. I am by no means the only one dealing with these things.
In short, I take comfort in the resolution of the Penn State situation. The perpetrator is in prison, and the survivors will have the financial means to access any form of help they need with their healing journies. For most of us survivors, we will never have the same sense of justice; for most of us, our perpetrators walk free and we have to fight for access to mental healthcare.
Be educated, my friends. Know what we're up against. Do your best to protect your children and yourselves. And above all, be kind. There are, after all, more important things in this world than football.
Sunday, July 1, 2012
You Know My Name, You Don't Know My Story
A wise and wonderful woman once taught me, "You know my name, but you don't know my story." How true those words are. I used to claim open-mindedness when it suited me, but I was often guilty of jumping to conclusions based on appearences. My worst example of this flaw was evident when I was behind the wheel: if somebody cut me off, it was because he was an obvious douchebag with no consideration for other people. Now I am able to rein myself in and think, "Maybe that person just got some bad news. Maybe he's had a rough day. Maybe he or someone he loves is sick. Or maybe - just maybe - he didn't even see me there." That little shift in thinking has worked miracles for my own peace of mind.
I want to take it a step further, though, and use this point to shed a little light on the silent sufferers in our midst. I have had occasion over the last year and a half to share my story - my whole, unedited, often unpretty story - with a lot of people. I can't tell you the number of times I have heard, "I would never have guessed you'd been through that." There's the truth - we can never guess what another person has endured, what she has seen and survived and experienced. Even the people we think we know best often have little pockets of shame within them that keep their secrets hidden. Part of my own past - childhood sexual abuse and trauma - is one of the most intensely concealed skeletons in people's closets. The disgusting and tragic reality is that one in every six women and one out in every 33 men will survive a rape or attempted rape in their lifetimes, and that 500,000 babies born THIS year in THIS country will be sexually abused by their 18th birthdays. This problem is not just prevalent, it is epidemic.
You know survivors, I guaruntee it. It may be your sister, your best friend, your dad, the sweet teenager who babysits your kids, the older gentleman who sings in the church choir, or even that guy who cut me off on the freeway. We are everywhere, in every walk of life, in every socioeconomic sphere. We are Christians, Jews, and Muslims, we are children and the elderly, we are gay and straight, we are white, black, and every other color in the crayon box. You may know our names, but you probably don't know our stories.
My intent in sharing this is not to repulse you with the statistics nor to shame you for passing judgement without having all the information. My goal is to make you aware, as I have been made aware, that survivors are all around us, sometimes candid about their stories but often struggling in silence. Be kind to each other, my friends. You never really know what anyone else has gone through.
(And a little sidenote, my beautiful friends: my page has been viewed over 4,000 times now. I am incredibly humbled and immensely grateful to have reached so many people, and I pray that all of you will take a little something away from my story. Peace be with you all!)
I want to take it a step further, though, and use this point to shed a little light on the silent sufferers in our midst. I have had occasion over the last year and a half to share my story - my whole, unedited, often unpretty story - with a lot of people. I can't tell you the number of times I have heard, "I would never have guessed you'd been through that." There's the truth - we can never guess what another person has endured, what she has seen and survived and experienced. Even the people we think we know best often have little pockets of shame within them that keep their secrets hidden. Part of my own past - childhood sexual abuse and trauma - is one of the most intensely concealed skeletons in people's closets. The disgusting and tragic reality is that one in every six women and one out in every 33 men will survive a rape or attempted rape in their lifetimes, and that 500,000 babies born THIS year in THIS country will be sexually abused by their 18th birthdays. This problem is not just prevalent, it is epidemic.
You know survivors, I guaruntee it. It may be your sister, your best friend, your dad, the sweet teenager who babysits your kids, the older gentleman who sings in the church choir, or even that guy who cut me off on the freeway. We are everywhere, in every walk of life, in every socioeconomic sphere. We are Christians, Jews, and Muslims, we are children and the elderly, we are gay and straight, we are white, black, and every other color in the crayon box. You may know our names, but you probably don't know our stories.
My intent in sharing this is not to repulse you with the statistics nor to shame you for passing judgement without having all the information. My goal is to make you aware, as I have been made aware, that survivors are all around us, sometimes candid about their stories but often struggling in silence. Be kind to each other, my friends. You never really know what anyone else has gone through.
(And a little sidenote, my beautiful friends: my page has been viewed over 4,000 times now. I am incredibly humbled and immensely grateful to have reached so many people, and I pray that all of you will take a little something away from my story. Peace be with you all!)
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Why It's Worth It, and Why Now
Why do I do the things that are hard to do? Why do I work so hard, fight so valiantly, to overcome the insidious voice in my head? Why do I do the right thing when every cell in my body seems to scream for me to do the opposite?
To put it simply, I do it because I know the payoff is worth the struggle. I have a clear picture of what I want - what I deserve - and I will no longer allow that deceitful voice to convince me that I cannot achieve it.
I have so much to give this world, and I will be unable to do so if I continue to punish myself unnecessarily. I have a message to spread; on of hope, one of triumph, one of power. I cannot deliver that message if I am living in a place of despair, defeat, and helplessness.
I know now that the long-held belief in my innate sinfulness is incorrect, untrue. I know now that the idea of being inherently bad is a false one that was put in my head by external sources, and I can choose to believe otherwise. Trusting in my own free agency allows me to have the courage to act positively, protectively, and hopefully.
So why now? Why not? I have spent enough time repeating the abhorrent abuse inflicted upon me in years past. I have proven to myself that there is nothing to be gained from self-desecration. There will never be a cut deep enough, never be a number low enough, to undo what has already been done. There can be, however, a voice loud enough to transcend the pain. That voice is mine, and the time is now.
To put it simply, I do it because I know the payoff is worth the struggle. I have a clear picture of what I want - what I deserve - and I will no longer allow that deceitful voice to convince me that I cannot achieve it.
I have so much to give this world, and I will be unable to do so if I continue to punish myself unnecessarily. I have a message to spread; on of hope, one of triumph, one of power. I cannot deliver that message if I am living in a place of despair, defeat, and helplessness.
I know now that the long-held belief in my innate sinfulness is incorrect, untrue. I know now that the idea of being inherently bad is a false one that was put in my head by external sources, and I can choose to believe otherwise. Trusting in my own free agency allows me to have the courage to act positively, protectively, and hopefully.
So why now? Why not? I have spent enough time repeating the abhorrent abuse inflicted upon me in years past. I have proven to myself that there is nothing to be gained from self-desecration. There will never be a cut deep enough, never be a number low enough, to undo what has already been done. There can be, however, a voice loud enough to transcend the pain. That voice is mine, and the time is now.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Unforeseen Consequences
"If I had known then what I know now..." Yeah.
I have been to the doctor more in the last five months than I think I ever have. I have had more blood taken than I thought was humanly possible. The results? Not so good. I've known for awhile that my heart isn't so healthy. Now, apparently, my kidneys and liver are sick too. I don't know yet exactly what I'm facing, but I do know that my kidneys are not functioning properly, and that my liver is showing signs of distress.
I am so, so frustrated. I have been loyally following my (colossal) meal plan since I've been home from my last treatment. I even bought and faithfully imbibe, twice a day, a medical-grade weight gain supplement that would make most people gag at the first smell. I do it because I vowed that I will beat my disease come hell or high water. What is maddening is that despite my best efforts, my body is still in pieces.
Fourteen years ago, when the thought, "I'll just lose weight, that will make everything better," occurred to me, I KNEW it was the answer I'd been looking for. A decade and a half of coming precariously close to killing myself proved one thing: eating disorders are lying, manipulative, deceitful mother fuckers, and they bring nothing but devastation and misery. I understand that now. There's no doubt in my mind.
The trouble is, the damage has been done. My body, previously healthy and resilient, is now beaten down and defenseless. I am doing everything in my power to rehabilitate it, but it seems to be too little too late. I've said it before in this blog, and I'm sure I'll say it again: anorexia and bulimia KILL. My cardiologist pointed out that Karen Carpenter - perhaps the most famous casualty of an eating disorder - died AFTER she had begun the recovery process. That's the reality, my friends. Skipping meals, taking diet pills, throwing up once in awhile... it can all seem so innocent, until it's not anymore. One day you may wake up wanting nothing more than to live a long, healthy life, only to find out that your body has been damaged beyond repair.
I'm not giving up. I will continue fighting every day I am blessed to walk this earth. I fight not only for my own survival, but for the healing of the millions of men, women and children who battle this illness in secret and in desperation. Please help me, friends. Get the word out. Tell your stories, tell MY story, do what you need to do to raise the awareness necessary to stamp down this disease once and for all. It's never too late. Not for me, not for you, and not for the masses.
I have been to the doctor more in the last five months than I think I ever have. I have had more blood taken than I thought was humanly possible. The results? Not so good. I've known for awhile that my heart isn't so healthy. Now, apparently, my kidneys and liver are sick too. I don't know yet exactly what I'm facing, but I do know that my kidneys are not functioning properly, and that my liver is showing signs of distress.
I am so, so frustrated. I have been loyally following my (colossal) meal plan since I've been home from my last treatment. I even bought and faithfully imbibe, twice a day, a medical-grade weight gain supplement that would make most people gag at the first smell. I do it because I vowed that I will beat my disease come hell or high water. What is maddening is that despite my best efforts, my body is still in pieces.
Fourteen years ago, when the thought, "I'll just lose weight, that will make everything better," occurred to me, I KNEW it was the answer I'd been looking for. A decade and a half of coming precariously close to killing myself proved one thing: eating disorders are lying, manipulative, deceitful mother fuckers, and they bring nothing but devastation and misery. I understand that now. There's no doubt in my mind.
The trouble is, the damage has been done. My body, previously healthy and resilient, is now beaten down and defenseless. I am doing everything in my power to rehabilitate it, but it seems to be too little too late. I've said it before in this blog, and I'm sure I'll say it again: anorexia and bulimia KILL. My cardiologist pointed out that Karen Carpenter - perhaps the most famous casualty of an eating disorder - died AFTER she had begun the recovery process. That's the reality, my friends. Skipping meals, taking diet pills, throwing up once in awhile... it can all seem so innocent, until it's not anymore. One day you may wake up wanting nothing more than to live a long, healthy life, only to find out that your body has been damaged beyond repair.
I'm not giving up. I will continue fighting every day I am blessed to walk this earth. I fight not only for my own survival, but for the healing of the millions of men, women and children who battle this illness in secret and in desperation. Please help me, friends. Get the word out. Tell your stories, tell MY story, do what you need to do to raise the awareness necessary to stamp down this disease once and for all. It's never too late. Not for me, not for you, and not for the masses.
Friday, April 27, 2012
The Plight of the "Sick Mom"
I want to quickly and succinctly address a common misconception: eating disorders are not, have never been, "teenage girl diseases." It is true (although not an absolute) that most eating disorders first manifest in adolescence, but there are children as young as five and six who suffer, and men and women in their "golden years" who struggle.
In that vein, I want to discuss the unique and intensely painful reality of mothers with anorexia and bulimia. There are far more of us than you may realize. I know several from my own treatment experience, and I can pick out many "sick moms" from the elementary school drop-off line... those unfortunates who, through their own ambivalence or circumstances, have not ventured forth into recovery.
I was severely bulimic when I got pregnant with my first child. I continued acting out in my behaviors straight through the first trimester, and only relented when I began to feel the tiny child move inside me. I would like to say that things remained good from then on, but obviously that's not the case. I spent a fair amount of years pregnant and nursing, and although my eating was within the realm of "normal" (albeit decidedly orthorexic), I exercized compulsively. I recall a certain Christmas morning, about three years ago, when I laced up my running shoes and headed to the gym as soon as the gifts had all been opened.
Things took a dangerous and extreme turn as soon as my youngest weaned, an event that signified to me that I no longer had a reason to care for my body. Shortly after my daughter's first birthday, I relapsed spectacularly into anorexia and reached the lowest weight I had ever been. I was at the gym for hours every day, kids in tow, and ate as little and as infrequently as I could manage.
Here is the frightening truth of "sick moms," myself included: we appear shockingly high-functioning. I can't tell you how many times I heard, "How do you do it all?" And even more destructive, "How do you have three kids and stay so THIN?" I was active in church, active in my kids' school, I volunteered, I went to school, I managed a household, I had a social life. On the surface - if you could look past the protruding collarbones and taut tendons - I was Supermom. Here's the truth, ladies and gentlemen: it was all an elaborate ruse, a ploy to distract myself from gnawing hunger and insecurity, and to distract others from my obvious problem.
There are so many of us. So many Supermoms, obsessed with keeping up appearances (physical and familial), consumed by fear. We are terrified that our children will learn and mimic our fatal behavior, but even that threat is often not enough to stop us. We are scared to be found out, scared that people will realize how very little we actually have it together, scared to admit that what we're doing, rather than keeping us safe and strong, is killing us.
We need help. We need people to say, "Listen, I'm concerned about you." We need hugs and love. We need - often for the first time in our lives - to be taken care of, rather than continue the pattern of taking care of everyone but ourselves. Please be aware of us. Know that oftentimes we are sicker than the "teenage girls," both because our illnesses have been around for so much longer, and because we are so much better at hiding them. Reach out. Be patient. Pray. And give yourselves a pat on the back for being educated, open-minded, compassionate, and kind. We need you.
Monday, April 9, 2012
It Didn't Kill Me, It Made Me Stronger.
Well, another month spent in sunny Wickenburg, Arizona. Another four weeks' worth of tears, fear, grief, anger, joy, laughter. Another shot at redemption.
I went away this time because my physical health was failing. My blood pressure was dangerously low. My heart rate was erratic. The capillaries in my fingertips and toes were bursting. My hands and feet were swollen. I was in bad shape. Before I left, I desperately told my therapist, "I'm drowning slowly." She replied, "No, Cassie, you're dying quickly." That's a hell of a reality check, especially given the fact that I'm only 27 years old.
I spent a great deal of my time at Rosewood getting physically rehabilitated. I was taking 27 pills a day in an effort to stabilize and correct the myriad problems I was facing. I found out that my tricuspid valve is damaged (there goes the marathon I had in my 5-year plan). I was terrified. I agreed to surrender to the treatment team absolutely; I allowed them to make decisions for my health, despite any mental or physical distress they caused me, because obviously I was in no state to make positive decisions for myself.
By the grace of God, my body began to even out. My blood pressure, which had been the most immediate concern, returned to a normal range. The burst capillaries healed. The swelling in my feet went down (and my hands are getting better). I had bloodwork taken a few days ago, just before I came home. I hoped it would all be normal, but unfortunately that wasn't the case. I am still anemic. My immune function is compromised. My kidneys are very taxed. It was disheartening to say the least, but a sobering reminder of the destruction my eating disorder has wrought on my body.
In addition the the medical healing, significant emotional work was done as well. I was blessed to have as my therapist a woman I knew from my prior stays at Rosewood, the music therapist, J. She showed me more compassion and kindness than I ever could have asked for. She guided me gently through some of the most painful work I've ever done. I didn't just cry, I wailed. A lot. I told her before I left that if recovery is measured in tears, then I'm cured.
Perhaps the most striking part of this experience was how much closer I drew to God, how much I surrendered to His will, how much gratitude I feel in knowing that He wants what's best for me. I reminded myself day after day, meal after meal, that God created me in His image, and He has a divine plan for my life. He has brought remarkable, spiritually gifted people into my life who bless me with the proof of His mercy every day. He is my endless source of strength and inspiration. He answers my prayers, not always as I want them answered, but in the way that is best for me.
I have a long way to go, physically and emotionally. My doctor told me the day before I came home that she would have kept me for another month had my insurance benefits not run out. I know, though, that I have all the tools at my disposal to stay on the right path. I must be vigorously honest, accountable, and willing to submit to the help I'm offered. I must fall on my knees whenever and wherever I need to, trusting that God will see me through.
Thank you all for your support. It means more to me than you'll ever know.
I went away this time because my physical health was failing. My blood pressure was dangerously low. My heart rate was erratic. The capillaries in my fingertips and toes were bursting. My hands and feet were swollen. I was in bad shape. Before I left, I desperately told my therapist, "I'm drowning slowly." She replied, "No, Cassie, you're dying quickly." That's a hell of a reality check, especially given the fact that I'm only 27 years old.
I spent a great deal of my time at Rosewood getting physically rehabilitated. I was taking 27 pills a day in an effort to stabilize and correct the myriad problems I was facing. I found out that my tricuspid valve is damaged (there goes the marathon I had in my 5-year plan). I was terrified. I agreed to surrender to the treatment team absolutely; I allowed them to make decisions for my health, despite any mental or physical distress they caused me, because obviously I was in no state to make positive decisions for myself.
By the grace of God, my body began to even out. My blood pressure, which had been the most immediate concern, returned to a normal range. The burst capillaries healed. The swelling in my feet went down (and my hands are getting better). I had bloodwork taken a few days ago, just before I came home. I hoped it would all be normal, but unfortunately that wasn't the case. I am still anemic. My immune function is compromised. My kidneys are very taxed. It was disheartening to say the least, but a sobering reminder of the destruction my eating disorder has wrought on my body.
In addition the the medical healing, significant emotional work was done as well. I was blessed to have as my therapist a woman I knew from my prior stays at Rosewood, the music therapist, J. She showed me more compassion and kindness than I ever could have asked for. She guided me gently through some of the most painful work I've ever done. I didn't just cry, I wailed. A lot. I told her before I left that if recovery is measured in tears, then I'm cured.
Perhaps the most striking part of this experience was how much closer I drew to God, how much I surrendered to His will, how much gratitude I feel in knowing that He wants what's best for me. I reminded myself day after day, meal after meal, that God created me in His image, and He has a divine plan for my life. He has brought remarkable, spiritually gifted people into my life who bless me with the proof of His mercy every day. He is my endless source of strength and inspiration. He answers my prayers, not always as I want them answered, but in the way that is best for me.
I have a long way to go, physically and emotionally. My doctor told me the day before I came home that she would have kept me for another month had my insurance benefits not run out. I know, though, that I have all the tools at my disposal to stay on the right path. I must be vigorously honest, accountable, and willing to submit to the help I'm offered. I must fall on my knees whenever and wherever I need to, trusting that God will see me through.
Thank you all for your support. It means more to me than you'll ever know.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Disconnected, inconsistent, confused.
Disconnected. Lately I have been feeling a deep disconnect on many levels: with other people, with my body, with my own feelings. It's a sensation that I'm here but not really HERE; taking up space but not inhabiting it. I suppose it could be a mild state of dissociation ("In psychology and psychiatry, [dissociation is] a perceived detachment of the mind from the emotional state or even from the body.") but more likely it is the result of a deliberate, persistent avoidance of anything and everything that threatens to cause me pain. On the upside, I've certainly escaped pain; on the downside, I have alienated myself from everything joyful as well.
Inconsistent. A perfect adjective for my recent behavior. I have my good days: meal plan followed; affirmations repeated; loved ones relied upon. But more and more often, those good days are broken up by bad ones: excuses for why I can't POSSIBLY eat everything on my meal plan; scathing, cruel self-talk; dodging the obvious concern of those around me. Some days I try my damnedest to do everything I can in the name of recovery. Other days, it's all I can do to lift a fork to my lips.
Confused. I am lonely, but I don't want to talk to anyone. I am angry, but I am silent. I am scared, but I have a smile on my face. I want to ask for help, but I refuse to betray my vulnerability. I don't know what I want, I don't know what to do, I don't know who I want to be. Confused, indeed.
To all my friends who share a similar struggle, and to all those who care about someone who struggles: be patient, be prayerful, and above all, be hopeful. For even in these times of disconnect, inconsistency, and confusion, there is a silver lining. Never take your eyes off of it.
Inconsistent. A perfect adjective for my recent behavior. I have my good days: meal plan followed; affirmations repeated; loved ones relied upon. But more and more often, those good days are broken up by bad ones: excuses for why I can't POSSIBLY eat everything on my meal plan; scathing, cruel self-talk; dodging the obvious concern of those around me. Some days I try my damnedest to do everything I can in the name of recovery. Other days, it's all I can do to lift a fork to my lips.
Confused. I am lonely, but I don't want to talk to anyone. I am angry, but I am silent. I am scared, but I have a smile on my face. I want to ask for help, but I refuse to betray my vulnerability. I don't know what I want, I don't know what to do, I don't know who I want to be. Confused, indeed.
To all my friends who share a similar struggle, and to all those who care about someone who struggles: be patient, be prayerful, and above all, be hopeful. For even in these times of disconnect, inconsistency, and confusion, there is a silver lining. Never take your eyes off of it.
Friday, February 17, 2012
What I Know (and what I still don't)
What I Know:
I have a husband, whom I cherish more than anyone on this earth, who loves me unconditionally.
I have been blessed with three of the most wonderful, beautiful, incredible, smart, amazing children on the planet.
There is a God in Heaven who loves me for who I am, who forgives me for all of my poor choices, and who sees in me a potential I can't see in myself.
I have done my body a great deal of damage, some fixable, some irreparable.
I am fighting a battle against a most formidable foe, one that attempts to convince me every day that it is my ally and not my greatest threat.
I have the most dedicated, affectionate, caring, empathic, beautiful friends.
My past does not define me, no matter how much my memories and nightmares try to prove to the contrary.
What I don't know:
How to truly acknowledge that a number on the scale does not prove my worth.
How to understand that the size of my jeans has no bearing on my value as a human being.
How to accept that I am okay.
I have a husband, whom I cherish more than anyone on this earth, who loves me unconditionally.
I have been blessed with three of the most wonderful, beautiful, incredible, smart, amazing children on the planet.
There is a God in Heaven who loves me for who I am, who forgives me for all of my poor choices, and who sees in me a potential I can't see in myself.
I have done my body a great deal of damage, some fixable, some irreparable.
I am fighting a battle against a most formidable foe, one that attempts to convince me every day that it is my ally and not my greatest threat.
I have the most dedicated, affectionate, caring, empathic, beautiful friends.
My past does not define me, no matter how much my memories and nightmares try to prove to the contrary.
What I don't know:
How to truly acknowledge that a number on the scale does not prove my worth.
How to understand that the size of my jeans has no bearing on my value as a human being.
How to accept that I am okay.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Finding Purpose
I got something of a bombshell dropped on me today. I showed up for my regularly scheduled therapy appointment, and when I went into my therapist's office, the clinical director of my IOP program was also in the room. I immediately went on high alert. Imagine showing up for a chat with your teacher and seeing the principal sitting there.
The two of them told me that, effective this Thursday, I am discharged from the program and no longer eligible to see my therapist. The reason given was that they consider me to be "spinning my wheels" in treatment; not really making any progress, lacking motivation, and, from a practical standpoint, wasting my own money. They said that this situation is somewhat common in people who have been in treatment for a long period of time. They told me I need a break from focusing on the eating disorder. They recommended I immediately begin group therapy for sexual trauma survivors, and shift my full attention to those issues. The eating disorder, they speculated, may ease up once the underlying causes are more intensely addressed. The only remaining tie I will have to this program that has been my lifeline for the last 11 months is my weekly dietary session, which is considered necessary from a medical standpoint. My therapist insisted that I try this new arrangement for the next three months, and after that period of time, should I find myself appropriately motivated, I can return to her care.
Needless to say, I left the appointment feeling confused, angry, and very, very sad. I understand their reasoning, and accept the part I played in the decision. That doesn't make it easy, though. I went right from that session to lunch (how appropriate), then into my dietary session. When I asked my dietitian for her opinion on the matter, she was frank: "I just don't think you care enough right now, and that scares all of us. You need to reassess your reasons for coming here a year ago. You need to find your purpose again." She gave me an assignment: write about the legacy I would leave to my children if I died today, and what I would leave them if I were given more time on this earth. I got home, sat down with my pen and paper (considerably shaken by the idea that I won't have my therapist to discuss this with), and got to work. Here's what I came up with.
PURPOSE
1. If I died today: If I died today, the legacy I would leave to my children would be one of desperate want. I have made it clear to my kids from day one that they deserve to be loved, to be happy, to be cared about, and to be whoever and whatever they want to be. Even at their young ages they seem to understand that I want those things for them. But they also see me refuse to accept those things for myself. If I were gone, they would be left to reconcile that disparity on their own. I know from my own childhood that what kids observe is infinitely more powerful than what they are told. So far, what my kids have seen from me is pretty grim.
2. If I had more time: If I had more time to be an example to my children, there are a number of goals toward which I would work. Most importantly, I would hope to teach them that they are worth fighting for. That no matter what might happen in their lives, they have the strength and the inherent value to keep going. I want the chance to show them that no situation will ever be bad enough, no damage ever deep enough, to make giving up an option. I also want to help them see that, even with all of its challenges, life is precious and beautiful. Every day contains miracles if we're quiet, still, and willing to look for them. I never want the wondering, joyful light to go out of my children's eyes. I don't want it to go out of mine, either.
The two of them told me that, effective this Thursday, I am discharged from the program and no longer eligible to see my therapist. The reason given was that they consider me to be "spinning my wheels" in treatment; not really making any progress, lacking motivation, and, from a practical standpoint, wasting my own money. They said that this situation is somewhat common in people who have been in treatment for a long period of time. They told me I need a break from focusing on the eating disorder. They recommended I immediately begin group therapy for sexual trauma survivors, and shift my full attention to those issues. The eating disorder, they speculated, may ease up once the underlying causes are more intensely addressed. The only remaining tie I will have to this program that has been my lifeline for the last 11 months is my weekly dietary session, which is considered necessary from a medical standpoint. My therapist insisted that I try this new arrangement for the next three months, and after that period of time, should I find myself appropriately motivated, I can return to her care.
Needless to say, I left the appointment feeling confused, angry, and very, very sad. I understand their reasoning, and accept the part I played in the decision. That doesn't make it easy, though. I went right from that session to lunch (how appropriate), then into my dietary session. When I asked my dietitian for her opinion on the matter, she was frank: "I just don't think you care enough right now, and that scares all of us. You need to reassess your reasons for coming here a year ago. You need to find your purpose again." She gave me an assignment: write about the legacy I would leave to my children if I died today, and what I would leave them if I were given more time on this earth. I got home, sat down with my pen and paper (considerably shaken by the idea that I won't have my therapist to discuss this with), and got to work. Here's what I came up with.
PURPOSE
1. If I died today: If I died today, the legacy I would leave to my children would be one of desperate want. I have made it clear to my kids from day one that they deserve to be loved, to be happy, to be cared about, and to be whoever and whatever they want to be. Even at their young ages they seem to understand that I want those things for them. But they also see me refuse to accept those things for myself. If I were gone, they would be left to reconcile that disparity on their own. I know from my own childhood that what kids observe is infinitely more powerful than what they are told. So far, what my kids have seen from me is pretty grim.
2. If I had more time: If I had more time to be an example to my children, there are a number of goals toward which I would work. Most importantly, I would hope to teach them that they are worth fighting for. That no matter what might happen in their lives, they have the strength and the inherent value to keep going. I want the chance to show them that no situation will ever be bad enough, no damage ever deep enough, to make giving up an option. I also want to help them see that, even with all of its challenges, life is precious and beautiful. Every day contains miracles if we're quiet, still, and willing to look for them. I never want the wondering, joyful light to go out of my children's eyes. I don't want it to go out of mine, either.
Monday, January 2, 2012
The Second Time Around
Two weeks pass in the blink of an eye when you're in treatment. I checked in on December 18th, checked out on December 31st, and worked my ass off in between.
Truth be told, the first week and a half were pretty stagnant. I followed my restoration meal plan (translation: weight-gain meal plan), yes, but did very little emotional work. I blamed that fact on the staff, because there were many vacations and sick days taken and clinical treatment was pretty inconsistent. The truth is, though, I didn't want to do the work. I used the situation as an excuse. "I don't feel safe or supported enough to talk about what I need to," I cried. Bullshit. "I don't want to do it," would have been more accurate. Then this past Tuesday, a therapist I worked with during my last stay returned from her vacation, and my pity party was over. "You're being deceitful," she said. I balked. "You're pointing the finger at everyone and everything but yourself," she said, "because you're scared. You have two choices: run back to your eating disorder and play the victim, or do the work and get your life back." Whoa.
So I started talking. And I started crying. And I kept on eating. Those last four days were excruciating, but I learned something very important: it is the things I refuse to name and talk about that pose the greatest threat to me. Nothing will ever be fixed by pretending it doesn't exist. To quote a fun little treatment-ism, "Feelings won't kill you, but ignoring them will."
In all honesty, two weeks was not a sufficient amount of time to bounce back from this relapse. I still have a deep, passionate hatred of my body. It remains number one on my hit list. But I got started, I am following my restoration meal plan (even though it's huge and difficult to sustain on my own), and I am committed to doing what I need to do. I can say that I truly used the opportunity I was given, and I will continue to do so. This isn't easy by any stretch of the imagination, but I have to keep reminding myself that it's worth it.
Truth be told, the first week and a half were pretty stagnant. I followed my restoration meal plan (translation: weight-gain meal plan), yes, but did very little emotional work. I blamed that fact on the staff, because there were many vacations and sick days taken and clinical treatment was pretty inconsistent. The truth is, though, I didn't want to do the work. I used the situation as an excuse. "I don't feel safe or supported enough to talk about what I need to," I cried. Bullshit. "I don't want to do it," would have been more accurate. Then this past Tuesday, a therapist I worked with during my last stay returned from her vacation, and my pity party was over. "You're being deceitful," she said. I balked. "You're pointing the finger at everyone and everything but yourself," she said, "because you're scared. You have two choices: run back to your eating disorder and play the victim, or do the work and get your life back." Whoa.
So I started talking. And I started crying. And I kept on eating. Those last four days were excruciating, but I learned something very important: it is the things I refuse to name and talk about that pose the greatest threat to me. Nothing will ever be fixed by pretending it doesn't exist. To quote a fun little treatment-ism, "Feelings won't kill you, but ignoring them will."
In all honesty, two weeks was not a sufficient amount of time to bounce back from this relapse. I still have a deep, passionate hatred of my body. It remains number one on my hit list. But I got started, I am following my restoration meal plan (even though it's huge and difficult to sustain on my own), and I am committed to doing what I need to do. I can say that I truly used the opportunity I was given, and I will continue to do so. This isn't easy by any stretch of the imagination, but I have to keep reminding myself that it's worth it.
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