Owning Your Story

It's been awhile, friends. Life got demanding, like a toddler in the toy aisle. I've thought for months about writing, but there were too many demands on my time and attention. (Full disclosure: I've been afraid to write. Vulnerability can be a real hindrance to military-grade productivity.) Today I took a moment to check my blog, and I had a private message from a reader in South Korea. As it turns out, I have a lot of readers in South Korea. Who knew? (To my friends in the far East, thank you, I see you, and you are loved.) Anyhow, this reader was succinct: "I need to hear your words. Your story is like my story and I don't know how to tell mine. Please write." Wow.

Now, there are a few directions I could've taken with this request. My initial thought was, "Oh my God, what have I done? This poor kid thinks I'm some kind of a role model. I'm a disaster. I need to take down my blog." That was followed with, "Hey, look at me! People on another continent have read my stuff!" Finally - mercifully - I thought, "Okay. Here's proof that all the shit I've been through, all the shit I still face every day, has a purpose. It means something. It's for something."

As luck, or fate, or God, would have it, this message was followed almost immediately with a lunch date with the new pastor of my church. A little background may be helpful here. My old pastor recently retired. Before she did so, in addition to being at my hospital bedside when my babies were born, she was my spiritual wingman through multiple rounds of eating disorder treatment. She was gentle when I started to slip and a real hardass when I was dying. In short, she was a rock star in the concert of my life. Fast forward to this new gal, and I was hopeful but cautious. I didn't introduce myself with, "Hi, I'm Cassie, I'm a longtime church-member and chronic anorexic!" I didn't mention it at all. During our lunch date, after finding common ground in kids and work and books, she recommended I read Glennon Doyle Melton's Love Warrior. I downloaded it as soon as I got home, and that's where this tornado started blowing.

I'm not far into the book, but one thing's for sure: it strikes awfully close to home. (I highly recommend it, by the way. Unfiltered truth is the best.) The book's beginning describes Melton's descent into bulimia and addiction and her willingness to sacrifice her body for a fleeting, insincere sense of value. I get that. I thought about my own past, with its two decades of starving and purging and cutting and lies and false perfection, and I thought about my friend from South Korea. "I need to hear your words. Your story is like my story and I don't know how to tell mine. Please write."

Message received, universe. Here's the truth: I'm having a hard time. Would I love to be 95 pounds again? Absolutely. I'd do it in a minute. No questions asked. Every single day I put food in my mouth reluctantly, spitefully, resentfully. I eat for my family, I eat for my students, I eat for all the people I don't want to disappoint again, since I've disappointed them so many times before. But here's the thing. As agonizing as this process is, there's joy in it. There's joy in the knowledge that I'm looking at my past and saying, "Nope, not anymore." There's joy in the ability to climb out of bed in the morning, take my dogs for a walk, and share breakfast with my kids. There's joy in the progress I've made, even if there's still a long way to go.

I'm owning my story, because one person in one corner of the world asked me to do so, and because one new pastor - who, jury's in, is wonderful - prodded me out of my comfort zone. I'll be writing more. I'll be sharing more. I'll be vulnerable, despite the hit it may strike to my robotic productivity. There has to be a reason I've seen and survived what I have. I intend to own it.