"I'll Never Tell"

It's difficult for me to watch the news. Too often I'll see things that touch a nerve. Bring up my stuff. I don't like it. Recently the coverage of Bill Cosby (the man I once, as a small child, viewed as the very pinnacle of fatherly love) has rattled me. I can't substantiate the accusations made against him. There have been no convictions except in the court of public opinion. I won't speculate on his guilt or innocence, because I have no knowledge of what really happened. I do know what happened to me, though.

I was particularly struck by one commentator who dismissed Cosby's accusers outright because of the length of time they had stayed silent. I stayed silent for years. My first perpetrator threatened to lock me in the attic with the boogeyman if I told anyone what had happened. I was five. To me, being alone in the attic with the boogeyman was plenty reason to keep my mouth shut. I was terrified. Besides, who would believe me?

Later on, the "who would believe you" idea became the threat itself. "People will think you're making it up to get attention." So I stayed quiet.

Even later than that, the threat became more realistic, more insidious. "I'll make you pay." Well, if what I had already survived wasn't payment enough, I didn't want to know what was.

I stayed silent because I was afraid. I stayed silent because I thought no one would believe me. I stayed silent because I didn't want people to ask too many uncomfortable questions. I stayed silent, most of all, because I was ashamed.

I reiterate, I have no desire to pass judgment on a case about which I know no facts. However, I want to scream from the rafters that many, many survivors of sexual violence never tell of their experiences, certainly not at first. That doesn't mean the assaults never happened. It means that it takes time, sometimes decades, to muster the courage and self-love to speak out. There's nothing easy about saying, "I was raped." There's nothing simple about declaring, "I was molested." Those are some of the most difficult statements any person can ever make. So before we condemn the alleged victims, we must remember that it's a tremendous feat to come forward against your perpetrator.

I've never publicly named my perpetrators. I don't know that I ever will, even after all these years. I don't know that I can. I do know, however, that I will stand by any person (man, woman or child) strong enough to get up and say, "I was hurt, and that's not okay." Because it's not okay.

Little Earthquakes (what reality looks like)

"Oh these little earthquakes
here we go again...
These little earthquakes
doesn't take much to rip us into pieces..."
-Tori Amos

Recently I expressed to a dear friend how stressed I was about an event at work. I told her how silly I felt, how ridiculous it was to put my entire recovery on the line for something so inconsequential. She wisely replied, "Cassie, it could be a crack in the sidewalk... anything is enough."

Anything is enough to trip and fall. Anything - be it an earth-shattering loss or a simple job demand - offers the opportunity to give in to the temptation of addiction. I've spent a lot of time on this blog generalizing the pulls of addictive behaviors as a whole; now I need to get back to my roots. Get back to my own story.

I've been in "active recovery" from anorexia for about 11 months. Essentially that means I've eaten what I've been told to eat, haven't lost any weight, and have kept my doctors' appointments. I've been working my program, for the 12-steppers out there. What it doesn't mean is that I'm "better."

Lately the combined demands of motherhood, my job, running a household, and keeping up with the myriad other commitments I've made has left me pretty worn out. On top of that I'm dealing with some as-yet-unnamed digestive issue that has me in debilitating pain after I eat. (Super fun when I have to eat every 2-3 hours.) I'm tired. I don't feel well. I constantly think I'm not doing any of these 2,483 things proficiently. I doubt myself. I criticize myself. I want to lose weight.

Wait, what? Lose weight? Are you kidding me? What has that gotten me in the past? I'm a mother! I'm a wife! I'm a teacher! I'm an adult, for God's sake! Lose weight. Like that's going to solve anything. I'm not a teenager anymore. I know the way the world works, I've been to rehab 500 times, I know better. Bowing to my eating disorder doesn't solve anything, it just creates a host of new problems. Not to mention the horrible example it sets to the young people around me, especially my own kids.

But oh, how good it feels. There's no rush in the world like seeing the number on the scale drop. I've never done drugs, but I don't think cocaine has anything on the thrill of getting thinner. Of that elation that comes when pants that fit last week suddenly hang at the hips. It would take the edge off. Not a lot of weight, just enough to regain a sense of control. Just enough to feel like I'm good at something again. Five pounds. Maybe ten. Maybe thirty, because I look like a fucking cow.

Wait. No. I remember now. It doesn't work. I want it to work. I so, so badly want the skinny, bone-clattering me to be able to conquer the world. But she never does. She can't. She hurts, she's tired, she can't focus on anything. Her heart doesn't beat correctly. She's mean because she's hungry. The people she loves the most get sad. They become very, very afraid. She forgets important things. She drops the ball over and over and over again. She gets frustrated and eats even less, convinced that if she just works harder everything will be okay. But it's not. It's never okay.

This is what "active recovery" looks like for those of us with eating disorders. It's not, "She's a healthy weight, so she's fine." It's a near-constant mental dialogue, a perpetual pro/con debate, a maddening internal argument. I eat my food every day. I see my therapist, my dietitian, my primary care doctor, my cardiologist, and the rest of the medical circus charged with keeping me alive. I talk about my struggle. I ask for help. I resist the agonizing pull of the scale, the diet pills, the laxatives, the empty belly. I remind myself moment after moment of all the time my disease has cost me. I keep walking the path of recovery. But it's hard. Sometimes it's really hard. Sometimes it's almost too hard. I know it's worth it, and I put my faith in God to see me through in those moments of despair.

It's important to me, though, to let the world know that we folks in recovery can't be forgotten. We can't be rubber stamped "BETTER" and left behind. We're still vulnerable. We can still succumb to those little earthquakes. We need your help, your love, your support. We are human and we are not invincible. We will get better, but we're not there yet.

Well Look At That. I Made It. (And You Can Too.)

On the morning of my 30th birthday I didn't awaken and run to the mirror to check for gray hair. I didn't examine my face for new wrinkles. I didn't yank on jeans from my junior year of high school for a quick comparison. When I awoke on the morning of my 30th birthday, I opened my eyes, took a deep breath, smiled, and said, "Thank you."

I've addressed before on this blog my past conviction that I would not survive to see 30. It wasn't some fatalistic, grumpy idea that things would end in fire and brimstone for me. It was more of a Y2K thing. Remember Y2K? When we were all vaguely anxious that the world would just stop since the computers didn't know how to function past the year 2000? That's how I felt about 30. It wasn't that I assumed there'd be some catastrophe. It was simply that I hadn't calculated my life span past age 29. There's a reason for that.

When I was a child I could only see what was in front of me. Small kids lack the capacity for true foresight; they see what's there, and they assume that's all there is. I saw chaos, and I assumed chaos was all that was. As I grew older, the chaos around me continued, but the chaos within me became even more dramatic. I was not the most well-balanced teenager. I took everything so personally, felt everything so deeply, was so desperately insecure. I didn't foster within myself the sort of long-term optimism that is sustaining in times of hurt. As I ventured into adulthood, got married, started a family, my maturity increased in spades, but my ability to conceptualize the future never kicked in.

To be honest, in my mind, everything stopped at 30. I had endured too much emotionally. How much can one person take? Then there was the physical piece. My body began taking its lumps during puberty. The hammer continued to fall for years. Every time I relapsed into my anorexia and bulimia, my body found it harder to keep its strength. Over and over I'd lose weight and I'd lose resistance. Over and over I'd beat my organs, my muscles, my bones down, and they'd have a tougher time getting up again. This last time, as I lay in the emergency room with a belly so infected it was a wonder I was coherent at all, I thought, "I can't do this again. One more time and I'm gone."

A funny thing happened in that moment. I gathered some resolve. I was in a hospital by myself, many miles from home, fighting for my life. My family and friends weren't there to comfort or guide me. I had my God, my doctors, and the tiny part of myself that had some fight left. When I gained a little strength I began to pace the halls of the hospital. It was good for my gut, the doctors said. So I walked. I walked through the emergency room and watched people in the throes of drug overdoses. I walked into the Catholic chapel and watched doctors and nurses on their knees beside patients and their desperate loved ones. I walked through the cardiac care unit and watched families praying over the still bodies of their sick loves ones. I walked through the maternity unit and paused to watch the brand new babies, tiny humans with infinite potential and no baggage to tie them down. I dragged my IV behind me and took the elevator all the way to the top floor of the hospital. I couldn't go to the roof where the helicopters landed, so I stopped just below it and hovered near the door. I waited until I could hear a chopper land. I backed up to clear the way for the emergency team, and I watched as a cluster of frantic, selfless first responders threw themselves into the care of a person they had never met.

That experience, so sick and so alone in a hospital far from home, was a turning point. It gave me a glimpse into just how much we ALL struggle. Just how hard we ALL have it from time to time. I used to think my pain was unique. Now I know that I share it with billions of my brothers and sisters. That solidarity, that awareness of the vulnerability of the world, may have been what saved me. It may have been good medicine and a body that wasn't quite ready to quit, but I believe that much of what got me out of that hospital was the promise that I wasn't alone, and that I would be okay.

So when I awoke a few days ago to a decade I never thought I'd see, I wasn't dismayed. I wasn't angry. I wasn't afraid. Rather, I marveled at how someone who was so terribly unhappy, so awfully hurt for such a long time could awaken with a deep breath, a smile, and a simple, "Thank you."

My friends, if you are in pain, if you are scared, if you can't imagine things ever getting better, please hear these words: If I could come from the torment that I used to know and make it to the absolute fulfillment that I enjoy now, so can you. I used to be a sad, mad, wildly confused kid who couldn't imagine happiness. Now I am a joyful, silly, wildly contended wife, mother, friend, and teacher who couldn't ask for a better life. IT DOES GET BETTER. IT WILL GET BETTER. But you have to keep going. No matter what, no matter how sure you are that it's all going to fall apart, no matter what nightmare you may find yourself in, you MUST keep going. None of us knows what awaits us just around the corner. We have to be willing to turn the corner in order to find out. Bless you.

No Means No (or, What Mothers Owe Their Sons)

Every morning in our house, the news is on. It started as a way for me to claim an hour of the day for programming other than Nickelodeon, but it grew into an amazing opportunity to educate my kids on the ways of the world. We might discuss politics over oatmeal, or public policy over scrambled eggs. A few weeks ago it was campus response to rape over cereal. "What is 'sexual assault?'" My 9-year old asked. In an instant my own past nightmares flashed before my eyes. "Sexual assault is when someone forces someone else to have sex when they don't want to or can't say no," I explained. "It's a horrible thing. It's one of the worst forms of disrespect. It's awful." "Oh, okay," my son said as my husband shot me the 'why can't we just watch Tom & Jerry' look. "Can I have more Raisin Bran?"

Am I doing something wrong? My husband, a sweet, respectful, mellow guy, is of the mind that ignorance is bliss. Protect the kids from the evil in the universe, he thinks. It will catch up with them soon enough. I disagree. Ignorance blooms into apathy, which can explode into chaos. Is having a discussion with grade-schoolers about violent sex crimes awkward and uncomfortable? Absolutely. Is it valuable? Definitely, I think.

I can't possibly know if the parents of my assailants (mothers mostly, as fathers were conspicuously absent) talked about boundaries and respect with their sons. I can't possibly know if these young men's mothers ever emphasized that when a girl says no, they need to stop. Maybe those mothers themselves never learned the power of their own voices. I can't possibly know the exact circumstances that turned little boys into rapists. I only know what it felt like to be held down and overpowered by them.

So yes, my boys are young. In an ideal world, they'd be too young to have to acknowledge the overwhelming confusion of sexuality. The world we live in introduces sex at a far earlier age than most of us parents are comfortable with. I want to be ahead of the curve. I want my boys to understand unequivocally that no matter how wildly their hormones may be racing, they have control of themselves. Even if a girl goes along with things for hours, the moment she changes her mind, the situation grinds to a halt. I want my boys to consider how they'd like their sister to be treated. My sons adore their sister; I shudder to think what they would do to someone who sought to dominate her. I want my boys to remember that they are superior to no woman, equal to all women. Their will, their desires, will be contingent upon the clear consent of their partners.

You see, I've lived the life of the disregarded female. I've been the girl for whom "No" meant nothing. I've been the one pleading for release, I've been the one shut up and overcome. I know the psyche-crushing consequences of sexual assault. I expect better of my sons than I received from the poisoned boys in my past. I expect better because I've taught them better, earlier than I wanted to, but as early as was necessary.

Not only do I owe it to my sons to teach them early and firmly about sexual boundaries, I owe it to my daughter. My sweet, kind, quiet, unassuming little girl. My daughter is the type of child who is much, much happier on the sidelines, unnoticed, left alone. The kind of introverted child prime to be taken advantage of. But she knows better. She has been taught right out of the cradle that her body, her whole being, is precious and supremely HERS. She has power far exceeding what her meek demeanor betrays, and she knows it. She won't even shake hands with people in church on Sunday, and that's okay. It's her choice. No means no, and she believes that.

Raising children is hard for hundreds of reasons. This isn't one anyone tells you about when you're big as a house and taking birthing classes. But it's vital. We owe it to our sons - and to our daughters - to teach them about respect, self-control, and equality. If we don't, we need to be ready to face the consequences.

Practice What You Preach

I want to begin by calling myself to the carpet. I am one of the very worst offenders when it comes to not practicing what I preach. In my defense, my (possibly overzealous) attempt to warn younger people of the ills of eating disorders stems entirely from my experience with the consequences. I am terribly desperate to help other people avoid the struggles I have endured. I have had a few ballsy people point out that I am hardly the one to extoll the virtues of self-care and body acceptance. It's apparently difficult to take body-love advice from a woman who still shops in the juniors section.

That being said, my mission remains the same. My pastor, a woman I love and admire tremendously, once told me that she preaches what she needs to hear. That's how I blog. I need this reminder now more than ever, which is why I'm bringing it to you.

Our words and actions carry weight. Far more than we know. Especially when we take on roles like parenting, mentoring, teaching, or otherwise interacting with youth. We become examples. We have the option of either being positive role models or cautionary tales. What we do and what we say is absorbed by a younger generation, still innocent, still idealistic. They look to us to know what they should do, and sometimes, what they should not do. Our influence cannot be trivialized.

I have made it a point in the last few years to educate and inform parents and children about the importance of making healthy choices. In the meantime, I have made some very unhealthy choices myself. I have given speeches on the dangers of eating disorders to auditoriums full of high school students only to head off to rehab weeks later. I have carefully instructed my own children on the necessity of a balanced diet and moderate exercise, only to sit down to dinner meticulously portioning out my boiled chicken and steamed carrots before heading out on a run. I have blogged about ignoring media influences while poring over the latest issue of Shape, criticizing myself for not having an eight-pack. To put it plainly, I've been a hypocrite.

I began to wonder what type of people I myself look up to. Kate Moss, still heroin chic after all these years? The battalion of Victoria's Secret models, strutting their nearly-naked stuff in thousands of catalogs? Any of the countless gangly, pale, hollow-cheeked actresses I watch on television and at the movie theater? No, no, and no. My heroes are Eleanor Roosevelt, Harriet Tubman, my grandma. Women who were and are incredibly intelligent, fiercely bold, unimaginably brave. Women who put justice and mercy and compassion before all else. Women who care far more about the welfare of humanity than about the size of their dresses.

When I consider the impact my presence might have on other, younger people, do I want it to be body-related? Do I want my students to remember me as their "skinny teacher?" Do I want my own precious children to reflect on how little I ate, how disciplined I was? Absolutely not. I want to blaze a trail of bravery, of justice, of love. I want to be remembered as a woman who wasn't afraid to hold strong for her convictions. I want to be remembered as a woman who was resolute in her principles. I want to be remembered as a woman who stood toe-to-toe with her demons and never, ever backed down.

That's the legacy I want to leave. In order to do so, I must act now. What sort of influence do you want to have, and what do you need to do to guarantee it?

On Women and Violence

I have been married to a man for ten years who has never - not one time - so much as raised his voice to me in anger. We have had our disagreements, of course. We have gone at it about money, household chores, parenting, all the average points of contention of committed relationships. But we have done so respectfully, careful to never name-call or demean or cut down. We love and respect each other too much to be cruel.

Before I began my relationship with my husband, my landscape was very different. I'll never forget showing up to work (where my current spouse was my then-boss) with a black eye. Now-husband asked how I got it. I spun some tale of falling, being a clumsy idiot. His response: "Oh. Well... if it was a guy who did that to you, he should be in jail." I didn't cop to it at the time, but it was indeed a guy who gave me that shiner. I had been dating a man for awhile (we'll call him "Joe"), and though I didn't love him and couldn't see any future with him, I stuck around. He was familiar. Joe could be very sweet. He would surprise me with flowers. He would share romantic songs that reminded him of me. He also drank an awful lot. One night he showed up with a tiny gold ring, and proposed. I was 19. I was a mess. I had no desire to marry Joe or anyone else, and I told him as much. He left my apartment, and I assumed that was the end of our relationship. Around 3 am that morning he was back at my apartment, drunk as a skunk, and awfully angry. He insisted I marry him. I refused. He punched me square in the face.

A few years prior to that incident, a boy I had known, loved, and treasured since kindergarten asked me to be his girlfriend. "I can't! It would be weird," I explained. "You're like my brother." He pulled out a knife, held it over me, and sexually assaulted me repeatedly for two hours. That was one of those pivotal, life-altering moments. That single event permanently changed my entire trajectory.

I like to consider myself a very progressive woman. I am teaching my daughter (and my sons) that women don't NEED men. Women can take care of themselves, can fulfill their own dreams, can succeed and achieve at the same level as men, and that's just how it should be. My views are based on personal experience, but not in the conventional sense. I want for women - my little girl among them - to have more than I had. I am tremendously blessed with a good, honest, kind man now, but he came along after a succession of violent abusers. I aspire for a world in which those abusers no longer have a place.

Unless you live in some kind of hobbit hole, you have likely heard about the Ray Rice controversy. Mr. Rice is a very talented football player who was caught on video beating his then-fiancée. The NFL's first response was to suspend Mr. Rice for two games. Two games for knocking out a woman and dragging her out of an elevator by the hair. The enormous public outcry eventually prompted the NFL to revise its stance on domestic violence offenses, and later (much too late) to suspend Mr. Rice indefinitely. In the aftermath, I have heard comments from "reputable" television personalities including, "She cost him his football career," "Why didn't she just leave?" and, "She should've taken the stairs."

I'd like to address this issue, not from the perspective of a football fan (which I am) or a "good ol' boy" (which I am most assuredly not), but as a woman who has been raped and beaten by men, and also treated respectfully and lovingly by a man. I've walked both paths. I know what love can be, and I know what love never, ever is.

In spite of all the gains we women have made in the past several decades - we can vote, we can have careers, we can control our own finances, we can control our reproduction, we can determine our own goals - we still find ourselves in the one-down position. We too often find ourselves at the mercy of the men in our lives. For whatever reason, we find ourselves with less power. Sometimes, no power at all. This affects our psychology. A repeated pattern of victimization by men, often beginning in childhood, leads to a core belief that we are simply not as important, as valuable, as our men. I certainly believed this for a long time. Several years ago, when I sought trauma therapy, I walked into my counselor's office and said, "I know God put me on this earth for the pleasure of men. I need you to help me figure out how to deal with that." Thank goodness (no, thank God) she was a good therapist, and she helped me realize I was the victim of circumstance, not a bad person deserving of abuse. Many, many women never have access to the help that I received. Many, many women never have the opportunity to recognize their own value, their own power. Many, many women will continue to go back to the men who hurt them, because these women believe that they are blessed to have someone to love them. The bruises and fractures and concussions are just confirmation that they don't deserve that love.

Victim blaming needs to stop. Victim blaming only serves to further oppress the people who have already been stomped down. Victim blaming absolves the perpetrators - the people who committed acts of violence against other people unable to defend themselves - from the guilt which is entirely theirs. I am pleased that the NFL ultimately revised its policy on domestic violence, but I am dismayed that it took so long to get there. I am pleased that violence against women is in the spotlight, but I am dismayed that it continues to be so prevalent and pervasive. I am pleased (incredibly grateful, overwhelmingly blessed, hugely fortunate) to be married to a genuinely good man, but I am dismayed at the pain and suffering I endured before I realized I deserved that good man.

The best we can do - and if it's the only thing I do with my time on this planet, I will be thrilled - is to teach our own children how to treat others, and how to be treated themselves. We need to teach our sons and daughters that violence is never, ever acceptable. We need to teach our sons and daughters to respect their bodies, their minds, and their spirits. We need to teach our sons and daughters to demand that same respect from others. We must - we MUST - raise up this new generation to care for one another. And we must lead by example by diligently caring for each other and ourselves.

How Soon We Forget

Those of you who have given birth will understand this phenomenon: during the process of bearing a child, you're overwhelmed with pain, fear, and desperation. The physical torment is unlike anything you've ever experienced. Your body is being ripped in two. All you can focus on is the hope for an end to the hurt. Fast forward a year, and your memory paints a picture of a brief period of struggle followed by the greatest joy of your life. You forget the pain, you remember the greatness.

That's the benefit of a tricky memory. The slipperiness has a dark side, though. I imagine it happens with any addiction; a sober alcoholic may reminisce about the sudden release of anxiety that follows an empty glass. An addict may remember with relish the ecstasy immediately after a hit. A compulsive gambler may delight in the thought of the adrenaline burst of throwing the dice at the craps table. So too do I fall into the trap of dwelling on the good while editing out the crippling.

A year ago I was 94 lbs. I'm 5'8 and have birthed three children, so this was not a physiological high point for me. When I look at pictures from this time last year, I see a very, very thin woman... and I am jealous. Jealous of myself. Jealous of the place I was in, bitter that I'm not there now. I look at the photographs then look in the mirror then spend a very, very long time feeling like shit. Because my memory is broken. I remember the delight of seeing the scale dip lower every morning. I remember the head rush of hunger. I remember the tremendous sense of superiority I felt on the beach, looking at childless high school students who weren't as thin as I was.

I have a much harder time remembering what was really happening a year ago. My heart struggled to beat regularly. I could only walk short distances. I passed out. My husband couldn't stand to be around me. I was mean to my children. I didn't want to have anything to do with the people who loved me because I rejected their concern. I cared more about the calories in a tomato than about the welfare of my family. I was barely a shadow of myself. I was dying, and furthermore, I was angry that I hadn't died already. My disease had full hold, and I was on a runaway train.

How soon we forget. Those of us in recovery (from anorexia and from all other addictive, compulsive disorders) reach a point where we are far enough away from our destructive behaviors to function normally, but still close enough to hold onto their imagined benefits. Like the mother who forgets the pain of childbirth and focuses on the joy of parenthood, we forget the torture of our disease and focus on the illusion of happiness it gave us.

That's what it is, though: an illusion. Nothing more. Losing thirty pounds will not make me happier (despite my mind's best efforts to convince me otherwise), it will just make me dead. Taking a drink after a long dry spell will not take the edge off, it will just bring you back to the misery you worked so hard to get away from. Freebasing cocaine may seem like a way to get a thrill in an otherwise mundane world, but it will find you penniless and alone before you know it. Heading to the casino will be exciting at first, until you've lost your rent money and don't know what you're going to do to keep the lights on.

Memory is indeed a tricky thing. We have the power to bring it into perspective, though. Let us remind each other of reality. Let us not allow each other to fall into the trap of airbrushed reminiscence. We can stay strong together. Sobriety can be hard. It can be painful, it can be lonesome, and hell, it can be downright boring. But it is the price we pay to stay alive, and it's worth it. Walk the path with me, will you?

How Roots Take Hold

When I was a kid I never imagined my life past the age of 30. Never. No, really. Not one time did I envision my "golden years," or even middle age, for that matter. It just seemed a foregone conclusion that I wouldn't make it that far. Well, I'm two and a half months away from my three decade mark, so I've been doing a lot of thinking. I'm thrilled to have (what I hope to be) forty or fifty good years ahead of me. I'm grateful to have been given the chance to defy my own expectations. I'm astonished by the rich life I am blessed to have received. I'm also keenly aware of just how lucky I am to reach this milestone. Insanely lucky, the kind of mind-boggling luck that allows a person to win the lottery twice or survive a few lightening strikes. I shouldn't be here, and yet I am, and because of this I feel it is my responsibility to use my survival as a tool to raise awareness.

When I was thirteen I made the momentous decision to try out anorexia. It seemed like a good idea at the time (like trying crack, or Communism). I was drowning in the trauma of sexual abuse, confused by the chaotic environment of my home, and beginning to understand that, although I was bright, there were people who were brighter. I wanted - needed - a way to feel a sense of control over my body, a way to still my reeling thoughts, a way to make myself stand out. Losing weight seemed as good an idea as any. You see, I came of age in an era when the obesity epidemic was just entering public awareness. Dieting was next to godliness, according to the media. A thin body was something everyone wanted but no one could achieve. "I can be thin," I thought, "that's easy." I made the choice in my junior high cafeteria, as clearly and easily as choosing which book I'd read for next week's report.

The disease didn't explode overnight. In fact, it took years to become full-blown anorexia nervosa. There was a big learning curve. I didn't know what a calorie was much less how many I should eat. I couldn't for the life of me figure out how to throw up my dinner. I really liked tortilla chips. What I had, though, was tenacity. I never lost sight of my goal. I toiled away, figuring out the mathematics of weight loss, ever reminding myself that I deserved the pain of deprivation. It was my penance. My punishment for being the disgusting, disappointing, shameful girl I was. I would earn my absolution or die trying. No one noticed this probationary period, of course. Though my weight may have fluctuated, it never plummeted. Maybe no one was paying attention anyway.

Then, around 15, the hammer landed. Something in my brain switched. It stopped being an experiment, stopped being something I could toy with then replace on a shelf. I could say I became addicted, but that's not entirely accurate... rather, eating disorder behaviors - starving, exercising, binging, purging - became as necessary to me as oxygen. I can't pinpoint an exact moment because the evolution was subtle. Once that switch flipped, though, there was no going back. Nothing was enough. I couldn't work out hard enough, couldn't fast for enough days, couldn't take enough laxatives, couldn't drop enough weight. School, family, hopes dreams, they ceased their meaning. Nothing mattered except what those numbers on the scale told me in the morning, standing naked and terrified and hitching my whole being to the display on a little metal box.

Almost seventeen years. That's how long it's been since that light bulb turned on in the school cafeteria. Seventeen years and over a dozen stints in rehab and a laundry list of failed medications and a petrified husband and three confused children and an unfinished college degree and hundreds of thousands of dollars in medical debt and the body of an elderly person. I never could have predicted, that day so long ago, the consequences of my decision. It's only now that I am able to appreciate the sheer miracle of my survival. There were so many times I should have died. So many times I managed to dodge a bullet. Instead of playing the blame game, or wallowing in self pity or self-condemnation, or putting my blinders on and pretending it never happened, I've decided to use it.

My story means something. It matters somehow. There's got to be a reason I pulled through against all odds. Part of it is to shepherd my three absolutely incredible children through their lives. They deserve a loving, attentive mother, and that is what I'll do my best to be for them. There's something more, though. My story needs to be told so that maybe - just maybe - even ONE little girl (or boy) might think twice before diving into the rabbit hole. If even one child begins to understand that her value is entirely unrelated to her body, then all of this will have been worth it.

As any good gardener knows, roots can run deep, but they can always be pulled out. I think I'll plant some daisies instead.

Priority Check

This afternoon I experienced one of the most horrific things I can imagine (and that's saying something). My three children and I had spent the morning at an art gallery, and stopped for ice cream to cap off the fun. We bought a few chocolate chip cookies for my husband, and stopped by his office to drop them off. As we got on the freeway headed toward home, we came upon an absolutely wretched car accident. All I saw were two overturned cars, people's limbs protruding. I pulled my car to the shoulder and shrieked at my kids to stay put. I got out and ran to the first car, a small sedan on its roof. An off-duty fireman yelled that there were people trapped inside but the doors were locked, and since I was small I was the only one who could crawl through the open window and unlock the door. I dropped to my knees and wiggled in. I saw three unconscious adults, one of whom was almost certainly deceased. There was a screaming infant in an unsecured carseat, and an unconscious small child. There was blood everywhere. I unlocked the door and unsnaked myself from the vehicle's window.

A doctor who also happened upon the scene said, "Is that your van over there? Is it air conditioned?" When I affirmed her, she grabbed the infant and told me to take the small hurt boy, and we sprinted to my car. My own kids' mouths hung open as this stranger and I took two bleeding, broken babies into their safe space. We had to get them out of the 110-degree heat until the paramedics arrived. I cradled the injured boy, swallowing my own terror and my concern for my children's sense of security. I followed the doctor's instructions, monitoring the boy's pulse and respiration. My 7-year old held onto the baby's car seat, doing the only thing he could think of to help. My 9-year old kept repeating, "It's okay, it's okay." My 6-year old just sat in stunned silence.

Eventually, after what seemed like hours, the paramedics arrived. The doctor and I handed over the children. My kids and I drove home, discussing the importance of seatbelts and of feeling our feelings. We prayed for the victims, and asked God to help us navigate our own fear. I privately prayed for the strength to shore up my children. I shook.

When I got home, I tried to shake the picture of the inside of that overturned vehicle. My proximity to overwhelming devastation. I turned on Harry Potter and started dinner. I called my husband and asked him to come home. More than anything, I ruminated about the preciousness and fragility of life. The fact that things as we know them can change in an instant. The unpredictability of it all. How very, very trivial many of my worries are.

I don't know if I have a moral with this post. I am still shell-shocked and nauseated. I want you, my sweet friends, to remember these things: Always, always, always wear your seatbelts. Keep your damn cellphones put away. Hold your family close. And above all else, treasure your lives. They are not guarunteed.

Why you can't judge a book by its cover

A teacher. A principal dancer at the New York City Ballet. The 9-year old son of two NYU professors. A pianist. A police officer. A high school wrestler. A Christian grandmother. A small business owner. A nurse. An obstetrician. A museum curator. A fashion designer. A nanny. An accountant. An artist. A politician's daughter. A dietician. A mother of four. A geologist. A therapist. A journalist. A college student. A professional athlete. An environmental lawyer.

All people with whom I have spent time in eating disorder treatment. Some recovered. Some died. Some, like myself, continue their struggle every day. There are dozens more I know, millions more I don't. All people with stories, some tragic and some decidedly normal. Many of whom would never fit into the stereotypical "adolescent fashion model" perception of anorexia or bulimia.

My 9-year old son asked me today why there hasn't been a female president. He asked with a tone of injustice, with a note of, "I don't get it, it's just not fair." I did my best to be diplomatic; I explained that women haven't had the right to vote for all that long, much less run for public office. He didn't understand. To him, in his childish innocence, everyone ought to have an equal shot at life. To him, we're all the same.

We are all the same, for better or for worse. Just like race, gender, religion, sexual orientation, or economic background shouldn't prohibit anyone from aspiring to the highest calling in the land, those things don't discriminate when it comes to the crippling grip of an eating disorder either.

You never know, really. When you see that super thin mom wrangling her gaggle of kids in the mall and think, "God, I wish I could look like that," you don't know that she may not have eaten since Tuesday. You simply can't know. We all have our crosses to bear. The most successful among us, the lowliest of us, we all have our burdens.

The real penalty of judgement is that it separates us from one another. Life becomes an endless cycle of "us versus them." We are so quick to lay the hammer down on other people, but why? So we can feel better about our own inadequacies? "Well, I may be bad, but at least I'm not THAT bad." How sad that is. We have no way of knowing the trials of others, even those closest to us. Some of the most broken people put on the most impressive masks. That dancer in the NYC Ballet? She died at age 37. The therapist, who helped countless clients battle their own demons? Gone at 43.

We just don't know. We hurt, and since we're human, we have to acknowledge that other humans hurt too. Regardless of their status in the world. Pain is the great equalizer. Instead of lashing out, maybe we ought to reach out. You never know who may be going through just the thing that's hurting you.

Enough is Enough

"I'm not smart enough. I'm not pretty enough. I'm not well-read enough. I'm not educated enough. I'm not accomplished enough. I'm not a good enough wife. My kids aren't well-behaved enough. My house isn't clean enough. I'm not charitable enough. I'm not witty enough. I'm not active enough in my community. I'm not thin enough. I'm not compassionate enough. I'm not a good enough mother."

These are all thoughts I've had in the last 48 or so hours. Distill them down and the core belief is, "I am not enough." I grew up understanding that I am only as good as the good that I do. My worth is dependent entirely upon what I have to offer the world.

I am in the midst of an internal struggle. Part of my recovery process is acknowledging my limitations. In the interest of health and self-preservation, I must learn to say no. I must give myself time to rest when my body and soul require it. I don't take to this notion easily. While I sit back on my laurels, opportunities to prove my worthiness slip by. How can I prove (to whom? to God? to my family? to the people around me?) that I am a decent human being when all I'm doing is seeing to it that my own needs are met? There is such suffering in the world, such glaring urgency. Who am I to tend to my own selfish demands when there is a bigger, more pressing universal obligation? The guilt presses in, crushing the small voice inside crying out, "You can't help anyone if you don't help yourself."

Why do we do this to ourselves? Why do we choose to exist in this pressure cooker of a belief system that tells us we are only as valuable as our actions? I would be crushed if one of my children thought that his worth was contingent upon some measure of performance. That's wrong. My children are worthy of love, affection, and acceptance simply because they exist. They are valuable because they are here, because their souls occupy space in this world. Regardless of their successes or failures, regardless of their accomplishments or disappointments, they are inherently important.

So too am I. So too are WE. If you need to pass on an opportunity to serve because you are simply spent, do it. If you need to decline an invitation to help out a friend because you're feeling very anxious and need some time to decompress, do it. If you need to leave those dishes in the sink because you're hurting, do it. There will be another opportunity to serve. There will be another chance to help out a friend. The dishes will be in the sink tomorrow. What may not be there in the future is the ability to care for yourself, to preserve your well-being.

Today I choose to release the shame of not being "enough" in the world's eyes. I choose to believe that I am enough simply because I AM. I hope you'll do the same.

Choices

"Your choices determine your quality of life," I explained to my son as he was being disciplined for lying. "Make good choices, good things will follow. Make poor choices, and accept the consequences." Then I had one of those 'practice what you preach' moments.

I am in what is called "active recovery." I am following my treatment recommendations, complying with clinical orders, rebuffing my disease when it whispers in my ear. It whispers loudly, though. Whenever some difficulty arises - financial, marital, social, parental, emotional - I inevetably think, "Lose twenty pounds and everything will get better." Logically weight loss is not the solution to an overdue bill, a conflict over household chores, or feeling sad. Logically I acknowledge that descending back into anorexia will not only keep me from solving my problems, it will compound those problems significantly. That doesn't lessen the allure, though.

There's a real appeal to the notion of a quick fix. To the alcoholic, a drink may take the edge off. To the drug addict, a hit may soothe the ache. To the chronic rager, blowing off some steam by screaming may release the pressure valve a bit. And to an eating disordered person, dropping some pounds may numb the deafening noise of life. The ugly truth is that choosing to acquiesce to the urges is choosing to avoid the real issues. Things feel better for about five seconds, until they don't anymore. Then you feel worse. Then you go back to the negative behaviors with even more fervor. And on and on and on, never seeking a solution, ever digging a deeper hole.

Choice. That's what it all comes down to. It's perhaps the greatest gift God bestowed upon His beloved creation. It's the power to decide which path to follow. The easy path, or the right one. The further along I get in recovery, the more healthy coping mechanisms I develop, the more I understand the profound responsibility of choice. I want to lead a fulfilling life. Does the choice I'm about to make reflect that? I want to have an intimate relationship. Does the choice I'm about to make reflect that? I want to raise independent, joyful children. Does the choice I'm about to make reflect that?

Take a breath, in that moment when your vice (food, alcohol, drugs, gambling, sex, shopping, et. al.) seems so enticing, and call upon your values. Remember that you have a choice. YOU have the power. Life happens, yes, and it often throws all manners of chaos our way, but we alone have control over our reactions. Nobody can affect our lives as deeply and profoundly as we can. Choice. That's what it comes down to. As I told my son, awash in his regret over a poor decision, "Your choices determine your quality of life." What sort of quality of life do you seek?

The Gift of Pain

Today I made the step to become a victim advocate for my local police department.  I have shared parts of my story in this blog and I have spoken at some local high schools about what I have survived, but this will take my experience to the next level.

I have endured both child molestation and rape.  I know trauma; it is my bedfellow, my compatriate, my constant companion.  Even after years of therapy and honesty, there are nights when I wake up wailing.  

Surviving a violent crime consists of far more than making it out alive.  In the immediate aftermath there is a tidal wave of shame, the demons of "I should have..." overtaking your mind.  There are the visceral reminders: scent, sound, taste, touch, visual cues.  There is the gaping, astonishing solitude.  The absolute belief that, "I have been poisoned, and I am different from everyone else."

I have been through some pretty horrific things.  Please don't pity me, though.  Please don't treat me with kid gloves.  For though my past is painful, it has equipped me with a tremendous gift to relate to the survivors of today's crimes.  I get it.  I know how it feels.  I want to help.

What is your story?  What traumas have you endured?  How can you turn your pain into action?  That's what it's all about, really.  We find meaning in our hurt by reaching out to others who are hurting.  When we help our neighbors heal, we are able to heal ourselves.

"I Am 'That Girl.'"

Recently I was talking with a friend who is a fellow survivor of sexual assault. She has only shared her experience with a handful of people, and I asked her why that was. Her reply: "I don't want to be 'that girl.'" I asked her what she meant. "You know," she explained, "the girl who's tainted, marked, soiled. The one people are supposed to pity. The one with 'victim' tattooed across her forehead."

I get it. I don't want to be in this club either. By some stroke of shockingly shitty luck I too lived through sexual assault, more than once. If I could edit my life, those experiences would be the first on the cutting room floor. They may have helped mold me into the person I am today, but that doesn't mean I wouldn't do away with them in an instant if I had the power. I don't have that power, though. I tried to ignore my history, tried to pretend none of it ever happened, but that only led to decades of self-harmful behavior. Like it or not, I experienced significant trauma, and there's nothing I can do to change that.

What's important to note is that my sweet friend and I are not unique. One in five girls and one in twenty boys is a victim of childhood sexual assault. Nearly eighteen percent of women will be raped in their lifetimes. Take a moment to allow the gravity of those statistics to sink in. In an average American kindergarten classroom, one boy and four girls will experience sexual abuse. I was one of them. Maybe you or someone you love were as well. Rape, incest, and child sexual exploitation may be taboo topics, but they are by no means rare. Without question you know someone who has been personally touched by this tragedy.

I want to share with you what I shared with my sweet friend. There is no shame in being a survivor. What we have endured does not poison us, dirty us, or make us unworthy of love. Quite the opposite, in fact. We are strong, dynamic, empathic, incredibly inspirational champions of resilience. We have the power to spread awareneass, hope, and justice. It's not only okay to be "that girl," it's a badge of honor.

(If you are moved by the subject of rape, incest, or childhood sexual assault, I encourage you to get involved. Charities like RAINN.org, nomore.org, and aftersilence.org are incredible organizations that provide support to survivors and outreach to communities. We can work together to give our children a better, safer world.)

Let Your Freak Flag Fly

Since my kids were babies, the one message I have tried to hammer home to them more than any other has been, "Be who you are." My oldest is an introvert with a knack for engineering skills that confuse the hell out of me. My youngest is a sweet spirit who loves all living things and cries when people litter. My middlest is one of the coolest people I know; he likes painting his fingernails pink and purple and he'll punch the teeth out of anyone who gives him a hard time for it. My children are individuals, and I couldn't be more proud of them.

Why is it, then, that I've spent so much time and energy suffocating my own uniqueness? Why have I exerted so much effort to appear magazine-worthy (Fitness, Good Housekeeping, Vogue, Real Simple, whatever) when the bits and pieces that make up ME are far more compelling? Why haven't I practiced what I've preached?

Being a good woman is hard. Being a good Christian woman is harder. Being a good Christian wife and mother is damn near impossible. I'm not conservative, I'm not traditional, I don't adhere to gender stereotypes or believe in conformity or support cookie-cutter lifestyles. I like punk rock and I have tattoos and I swear a lot and I read Nietzsche and I drink good beer from time to time. I am a registered Democrat and I've voted for Republicans and I think all politicians are corrupt no matter what color ties they wear. I've taken my kids to pro-gay marriage rallies and I take them to church every Sunday. I have equality t-shirts and t-shirts with scriptures on them. I watch independent foreign-language films and know every song in every Disney movie made in the last 40 years.

I am unique. You know what's not unique? Having an eating disorder. 30 million people in the U.S. have one. This thing that I once thought would set me apart from everyong else has made me a dull statistic. This thing that I thought would help me become "special," since I believed myself so painfully plain, has actually squashed the very parts of me that give me value and allow me to contribute to the the universe.

So maybe I'm not your typical woman. Maybe I'm not your average married Christian mom. What I am - what I always have been, though unbeknownst to me - is a powerful force of individuality. I am ME, and I am proud of that. I stand by my passions and my values run to the very core of my being, no matter what anyone else might think of them.

I want my children to grow up confident that whoever and whatever they may be is not only acceptable but vital to the world. In order to instill that in them, I must live it myself. I hope you do the same. You are your own person, certainly different from me and from everyone else; maybe you even vehemently disagree with some of the things I've shared on this blog. That's okay, that's your right, and I'm grateful for your perspective. I hope you find strength in the fact that you - the REAL you - are important, in your own microcosm of the world, and in the world at large. Hoist your freak flags, my friends, and salute them as they wave.

An Open Letter to my Children

My Dearest Sweet Ones,

I have loved you from the very moment a plus sign glowed at me on a tiny plastic stick. From the intstant I was aware of your presence, I have treasured you and valued you more than any possession, accomplishment, or bit of wisdom I have gained in my life. You gave me the gift of motherhood, for which there is no equal. I would lay down my life for you without a moment's hesitation. You are my everything.

Feeling your first movements in my womb connected me to the vast universal experience of life. Witnessing your birth, your debut in the world, blessed me with great humility. Watching you grow, learn, stumble, and thrive has thrilled me more than any of my own efforts. I love you to a depth no words can adequately express. You won't fully grasp my love until you someday have your own children, an event I look forward to with every bit as much exultation as I did your own dawn.

I feel it important to enlighten you to a few important, sometimes painful truths. First, know that your dad and I, though perhaps perfect in your current perception, are actually quite imperfect. You see our affection for each other, our mutual respect, our adoration. That is real, and it is vital. What you may not see is that we are two different people, joined in marriage and commitment but separated by lifetimes of unique experiences. Dad and I fell and got up and fell and got up many times before we ever knew each other. We had difficult lives, many trials, many failures. Though our love for you is perfect, our histories are not. I hope you will learn to forgive us for our inadequacies as parents and as people. For though we do many things wrong, we both try every moment to be the best we can be, for ourselves, for each other, and for you.

Second, and more personally, as the years go by you will find out more about me and my past, and you may be confused and angry and sad. Your mom, who cradled you, nursed you, placed your band-aids, cheered you on, has gone through a world of hurt. I understand that you will feel pain when you begin to notice this. The months when I was away, those patchy memories you will have of my absence, they will sting. They will smart even more when you learn that it was because I am sick, because I have an eating disorder sparked by trauma and chaos and loss. You may despair. Know, the best you can, that my pain has nothing to do with you. My pain began when I was but a child myself, and your presence in my life not only eased that pain, it gave me strength to stand up to it. You gave me a reason to fight.

Speaking of pain, my innocent babies, you will know it yourselves. As your mother, there is nothing I want more than to protect you from the ills of the world. Unfortunately, I can't do that. You will be hurt. You will have your hearts broken. You will feel betrayed, let down, abandoned. It will rock you to the very core of your souls. You will wonder if you can even survive. You can, and you will. That blistering, raw hurt will eventually subside. That shocking, nearly unbearable agony will not last forever. It will get better, and you will know peace. You will feel joy. You will remember what it was like to be okay, and you will have your dad, your siblings, and me waiting to dust you off and steady you on your feet. You have a family, and family is what keeps us together when everything else falls apart.

The world around you will be its own unique challenge. The world will tell you a lot of things about how you should be, should act, should look. The world will paint a picture of ideal accomplishment, of an ideal body, of an ideal life. You will feel pressure to adhere to the world's ideal. But know this: you are unique. You were given special gifts, special aptitudes, special features that may not fit with the world's script but nonetheless make you vital to the world. You are exactly as you are meant be. Your curiosity, your interest, even your very physical form, is just the way it was created to be, and is intended to serve a very special purpose. You are important. You can offer the world - and yourself - something nobody else can. Be you. If you're wild, be wild. If you're quiet, be quiet. If you're small, be small. If you're loud, be loud. It's who you are, and it's wonderful.

Someday you will fall in love, and I can't wait for that day. When you do fall in love, understand that the color or gender or religion or national origin or economic background of that person doesn't matter in the slightest; what matters is that you respect each other, you have compassion for each other, you find joy in each other, you make each other think and laugh and cry and feel at peace. You deserve happiness, and I hope you find someone amazing to help you enjoy it.

You are individuals. You are valued. Above all, you are loved. Never forget that.

With the utmost devotion,
Mom

Facing Reality (When Reality Bites)

I fell, hard. It started about eight months ago, when I was unceremoniously dismissed from my outpatient treatment program for what can only be described as "failure to thrive." I was told that I needed something different, something more intensive. "You think I'm sick now?" I thought. "I'll show you what sick is." In retrospect, cutting off your nose to spite your face is very misguided.

Over the course of several months I lost weight, lots of it. I yelled. I was mean. I overcommitted. I grandstanded. I lied. I made promises I knew I wouldn't keep. I disappointed people. In other words, I submitted to my eating disorder. I looked that conniving trickster in the face and said, "Fine, have it your way." I went weeks on fumes. Had a family vacation I can only remember in terms of the photographs I (thankfully) took and the arguments I (regrettably) had with my husband. Threw myself into work. Navigated the holiday season on dry toast and wine. Bought clothes in sizes no full-grown mother of three has any business wearing. Anorexia inhabited my body, suffocated my soul.

Sometime around the first of the year it occurred to me that I had two choices. (By "occurred to me," I mean, "was plainly pointed out to me by the people who love me," as I had no capacity for self-awareness.) I could either die, which was the way things were heading, or I could face the disease head-on and fight. There was no middle ground. There could be no status quo. You see, I'm no spring chicken. Much like elite athletes, eating disorder sufferers have a limited life expectancy. Early on you burn brightly, bounce back from injury, appear invincible. As the years march on, the body starts to break down. You get sidelined more easily. Your audience begins to think, "It's time to retire," but you keep on pushing, because maybe, just maybe, you haven't achieved your best yet. And then, with everyone watching your desperation, you hit the ground and just can't get up. Your body won't - CAN'T - do it anymore. Like that athlete past his prime (insert Peyton Manning commentary here) you profoundly disappoint everyone around you, but even worse, your age becomes painfully clear to you.

Every relapse has brought with it new ailments, a longer recovery period, deeper threats. This time was no different. On the precipice of my 30th birthday I face cardiac arrhythmia, hypotension, imbalanced electrolytes, impaired liver function, and, new to the playing field, bowel obstruction. To put it simply, my body doesn't want to play anymore. So that choice, "Get real or get dead," was quite the ultimatum. I had only to look around my own home, at my husband whose fear and frustration sat on his shoulders like a sack of lead; to look at my children, whose innocence is rapidly being replaced by guarded pain, awareness that Mommy's sick and we can't make her better. Some people may have chosen death, and I understand that despair. I, however, decided that my husband deserves better, my children deserve better, by friends deserve better, my students deserve better, and maybe - just maybe - I deserve better.

So the choice was made to face the hurt. Face the fear. Eat. Put on weight. Acknowledge the shame of falling down (AGAIN), but not be consumed by it. Deal with the medical complications of the refeeding process, which were many and nearly crippling this time around. Cut out the things in my life that are not necessary. Learn to clear my schedule. Relax. The choice was made to look at all the chaos in my life and accept it, not starve it away. The choice was made to set an example to my children that sometimes life is terribly, terribly painful, but it is always, ALWAYS worth living.

I am scared, my friends. This is hard. When I happen to glance in the mirror, my skin crawls at the sight of my changing body. Putting fork to mouth is a victory marred by the screams of my dying disease. The disease wants me to believe that I am a worthless failure, a waste of space that inhabits entirely too much of it. My challenge - the challenge of MILLIONS of us who wage this war every day - is to recognize the lie. Starving is easy. Eating... feeding my body, yes, but also feeding that very hungry part of my soul... that's the hard part. I know I can do it. My childrn need their mom, my husband needs his wife. The stakes are high. I can be victorious, and I need all the help I can get. Thank you, as always, for your understanding and love.