Enough Is Enough (or, Screw Statistics)

First of all, I recognize it's been a long time since I've posted. Since January, I've been in outpatient treatment, returned to work, crashed spectacularly, entered the hospital in dire medical straits, spent two months returning to life, came home, reveled in my family, started a new school year, stumbled and skidded into dangerous ground again.

In other words, I rode the roller coaster. I ended up pointed in the wrong direction, again, for the thousandth time. My doctors started suggesting a return to the hospital, per my lab results and vital signs. My clothes were hanging loose. My students told me I looked tired. My kids just clung to me. My husband, the most patient and tenacious man on the planet, grew desperate and angry.

And yet. I resisted making the right choices because... muscle memory? Sheer terror? Misplaced faith? I recognized the dire consequences of my actions, but I felt like a computer that's been programmed to perform a specific function. I was coded to lose weight. Even if I knew it would kill me, it was simply what I was created to do. I was a robot bent on self-destruction. Even the statistics predicted my failure: the longer the duration of illness, the lower the likelihood of recovery. The higher the risk of mortality. Chronic. Treatment-resistant. Hopeless.

Until last week, when the universe converged in a way that could only have been orchestrated by God.

Sunday. Husband works, comes home, picks me up for traditional Sunday Date Night. Before we're in the car he's on the offense. "I will make you eat if it's what I have to do. We can't sit by and watch you deteriorate. I will do whatever I have to do to keep you from wasting away." (The ladies at our sushi joint were nearly scandalized, both by his fervor and by the way I discarded all the rice from my spicy tuna roll.)

Monday. A friend spoke to me about her loved one battling addiction. About how he's not himself when he's using. About how she misses the wonderful, amazing him he is when he's sober. About how his struggle pulls everyone around him underwater where they struggle to breathe, let alone thrive. I go out to dinner with my family that night, and have a sandwich. With bread!

Tuesday. I have lunch with one of my very favorite colleagues. We laugh and chat and eat. Later, I babysit a sweet-as-pie little girl overnight. She wants to watch Doc McStuffins. My children are appalled and flee to the far corners of the house, lest they be exposed to childish nonsense for even a moment. I think about how much of their littleness I spent sick, distracted, in pain, in the hospital. I make dessert for everyone, myself included.

Wednesday. I take the day off to escort my middle baby to an important doctor's appointment. Before we leave, my brother-in-law stops by with my wee nephew. He looks around my house for toys, doesn't find any, and looks disappointed. My babies are too old for toys now. Middle and I go out to lunch together. Greek food, my favorite. I pick up my other kiddos from school and we go out for frozen yogurt to celebrate the day. I get sprinkles on mine, naturally, because sprinkles are for winners. We return home and I cook a terrific meal from fresh, delicious ingredients, and I share it with my tribe.

Thursday. I visit my doctor. She tells me I seem more awake, more alert, more energetic, more alive. I smile.

Friday, Saturday, Sunday. My family is all that matters. Time together. Shared laughter. Cuddles. Housework. Errands. A memorial for a dearly loved, dearly missed pastor. Life.

Was there some massive shift in my thinking? Did God reach down and whack me on the head? Did I have an Earth-shaking epiphany? Did the weight of my two decade-long disease suddenly lift and dissolve? No. I don't think it works that way. I think I came to a point where I realized that my disorder is suffocating the people I love the most and robbing me of what limited, precious time I have with them. I think I started to decide that statistics can go fuck themselves; I've never been one to fall in line with norms anyway. My oldest baby will be driving in three years. My littlest will be in college in nine years. It's all flying by. It's up to me how to spend what's left. I'm done sacrificing what I have for the false promises of what could be. What I have now is life. What could be is nothing but darkness and loss. I think I'll take what I've got now.

As Gandalf said, "All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us."

The Problem with Perfect

I want to be perfect and I'm furious with myself when I'm not. I want to be the perfect wife, the perfect mother, the perfect daughter and sister and teacher and friend and woman and American and Methodist and blonde. I want to achieve that seemingly impossible feat of flawlessness.

Funny, right? Because "perfect" isn't a thing. (There's this old book, appropriately titled Everybody Poops. It accurately - if slightly awkwardly - points out that everyone and everything alive does The Dirty. It's a great equalizer.) How many royal scandals have there been, going back centuries? How many celebrities have fallen from grace? How many of our own role models have mistakes and regrets in their stories? Countless. Because "perfect" isn't a thing.

And yet.

I hold myself to a higher standard. I should've learned, I should've tried harder, I should've known better, I should've been kinder, I should've been more, or less, than I was. I work myself to the bone to prove (to whom? Myself? The world? God?) that I'm worthy of acceptance, of validation, of love. I have to earn it, you see.

Here's the thing, though. However hard I try to deny it... however strongly I push against it... I'm human. Sometimes even my best isn't good enough. Sometimes I fail. Sometimes I fall. Sometimes my good intentions go horribly wrong. Sometimes I hurt people, even though it's the very last thing I ever mean to do. Sometimes my actions are disappointing. Sometimes I lash out. Sometimes I come up short. Because I'm human, and that's what humans do. We're not perfect creatures. We weren't designed that way.

When I think about our species, I imagine God cleverly folding together tiny paper dolls, saying, "I love you guys so much. I think I'll let you do your thing, and I'll watch over you while you do it. You'll mess up. You'll bang up against each other and trip over yourselves and tear your edges. But you'll learn, and you'll lean on each other, and every once in awhile you'll glance up to me and trust I'm right there."

We're not supposed to be perfect. We can't be. Expecting perfection is about as fulfilling as expecting to sprout a mermaid tail. (Another goal of mine.) What we are supposed to do is lean on each other, love each other, and honor each other's weaknesses. Because none of us is perfect, but together we are unstoppable.