Saturday, January 30, 2021
On Suicide
I haven't posted in ages, because as you realize when you get older, the internet is a luxury and not a right. We all lived through 2020 (except all those who didn't, and we honor them now and forever). It was collectively, globally awful. We are traumatized and afraid and vulnerable and cautiously, so cautiously, hopeful for the future.
My 2020 was wretched in many ways and redeeming in a few. When my family and I toasted our sparking cider to 2021 we acknowledged the deep losses and pledged optimism for the time to come.
We all know times of high stress are especially trying on people who are already fragile. With that in mind I would like to share some thoughts on suicide. I am not a mental health professional (that AP Psychology class 100 years ago notwithstanding) but I have gobs of lived experience to draw upon and I know - at a cellular level - how pressing this issue is.
Who experiences suicidality and why?
Anyone can for myriad reasons. Suicidality is the result of "psychache" - a combination of anguish, hopelessness, helplessness, and the perception of being burdonsome to the people you love. It can come about from loss of relationships, loss of career or financial prospects, issues with sexual orientation or gender identity, chronic illness, perceived failure in life, chronic pain, or profound loneliness. Suicide no longer seems like a selfish act, it becomes a perceived selfless one to rid loved ones of the anguish of caring for a "lost cause." Death feels like a merciful act for self and for others.
I have lived with anorexia for 24+ years and I continue to struggle daily. Do I have thoughts of how much better my family and friends' lives would be without the constant concern for me? Absolutely. I understand the allure of suicide. I live it.
Here's my point in all this. Those people in your life whose problems just don't seem to go away? THEY NEED YOU. Not to fix them, because that's neither possible nor the point, but to stand beside them and say, "I know you're hurting. I love you. I want you around." Some of the biggest deterrents to suicide are a sense of connection and a sense of responsibility. When we know you love us and you need us, we want to stick around. It also bears noting that one of the primary risks of suicide is access to means. If a loved one is desperate and in pain, it's not the time to have firearms or narcotics lying around. Take that shit away. Is the risk of an intruder greater than the risk of your sister taking her life? Put the fucking guns away. Dump or lock up the meds. The risk just isn't worth it.
We folks who are hurting don't need pity or shame or patriarchy. We need compassion and respect and love. Our brain chemistry and trauma and life experience has left us vulnerable to a sense of hopelessness so deep we'd turn on our own self-preservation. We need you.
National Suicide Prevention Hotline 1-800-273-8255
Teen Crisis Text Line TEXT "HOME" to 741741
National Eating Disorders Helpline 1-800-931-2237
Thursday, September 27, 2018
I Hear You, I See You, I Believe You, and Me Too.
I’ve been suffocating lately. The news. Kavanaugh, Cosby, Catholic priests. Me Too, Time’s Up, Speak Out. So much conflict. So much animosity. So much violence. So, so much ignorance. It’s taken me a long time to muster the emotional strength to sit down and write this post. There’s nothing comfortable about acknowledging one’s pain, much less sharing it. My hope is that maybe – just maybe – someone out there needs to hear what I have to say.
First, this. “Why didn’t she say anything when it happened?” I’m glad you asked. It took me years to verbalize the things that happened to me. When I was very young, I believed him when he said the boogeyman would get me if I told anyone. I was small, the boogeyman seemed very real, and I didn’t have the words to explain what had happened anyway. When I was a little older I heard, “No one would believe you anyway, you bad girl,” which seemed perfectly reasonable to me. Who would believe me? I was just a nasty, dirty thing, and nothing I had to say was worth paying any mind. Years later, he laughed at me. He attacked me, made me bleed, held me down, took what he wanted, then laughed. Have you ever felt humiliated? Have you ever been so shockingly betrayed and violated that your very sense of self shatters? And do you know what happens when you report a crime? Endless questions. Retelling your story over and over and over. Suspicion. Accusations. Judgment. Blaming. “Why were you there? What were you wearing? Did you lead him on? Was it a misunderstanding? Did you send mixed signals?” It’s very difficult to stand up for yourself when your emotional legs have been broken to pieces.
Next, this winner. “Boys will be boys, and shouldn’t be punished for things they did when they were young and stupid.” I have sons. They do boneheaded things sometimes. They forget to do their homework. They neglect their chores. One even stole a pack of gum once… and, guilt-ridden, returned it to the store. There is a very big difference between youthful indiscretion and criminal assault. So maybe a college kid gets drunk, as college kids do from time to time. He’s at a party, he’s into a girl, she flirts with him a little, things get heated, she tries to pull away, and he thinks, “Hell, she was into it a minute ago and I’m all primed to go, so we’re doing this.” She may have been drunk too, so she didn’t really know what she wanted, right? He does his thing, buckles his pants, moves on with his evening. He graduates. He goes to law school. He gets married to a nice girl and has a couple freckled babies. It’s entirely possible he never again thinks about that girl at that party all those years ago. But guess what. The girl at the party didn’t forget. She thinks about it all the time. She blames herself, of course. “I never should have gone to that party. I shouldn’t have flirted with him. I shouldn’t have had so much to drink.” Maybe she graduates, maybe she doesn’t. Maybe she turns to more alcohol to dull her senses and help her forget. Maybe she starts sleeping with all the men she can find, since she feels so used and filthy anyway. Maybe she finds a nice man to marry, but they struggle because every night, in bed, she flashes back to that party, that moment where everything she understood about love got turned upside down. The point is, she doesn’t get to pretend it didn’t happen. There’s no statute of limitations on accountability. She deserves justice, and it’s better late than never.
Here’s another loaded indictment. “Women make false accusations all the time, and ruin men’s lives out of spite.” First of all, it’s important to note that this does, very occasionally, happen. There are people out there who will take advantage of the sensitivity of this issue and manipulate it for their own gain. The problem is that this tiny minority pollutes the entire pool of actual survivors. If you have a gallon of clear water and add two drops of blue food coloring, you’ve turned the whole gallon blue. It’s grossly unfair. Revisiting my previous point about why survivors are often reluctant to come forward, this is a big one. I do not want to subject myself to the complete character assassination that often comes with a public accusation. Andrea Constand, who was raped by Bill Cosby, was ripped apart by the media for her hair, her clothes, the way she spoke, and what she “stood to gain” by coming forward. For a lot of us, the cruelty and criticism is just too much to take. It’s horribly unjust to penalize the honest for the lies of the greedy.
Finally, the one that continues to grip my heart every day. “She should just get over it and move on.” Sexual abuse – whether it’s molestation, incest, rape, groping, voyeurism, or any number of other manifestations – changes its victims. Trauma causes profound psychological, emotional, and physical effects. Survivors are vulnerable to substance abuse, eating disorders, and self-harm, as those things help to numb the pain and amplify the shame. PTSD is a very real, very damaging condition. Much like combat veterans, abuse victims may have flashbacks, depression, anxiety, dissociation (the complete disconnect from reality), and crippling nightmares. Everyday things can trigger intense emotional and physical responses. Sounds, smells, textures, tastes become inextricably linked to the traumatic experience, and victims may maintain those associations for years or even decades. My trauma, which took place over a long period of time beginning when I was quite young, gave me a very complicated relationship with my body. In my child brain, I associated my body with the terrible things that happened to me, which led me to the conclusion that my body itself was bad, poisoned, disgusting, and needed to be punished. I’m still navigating the long and painful road of eating disorder recovery as a result. Sexual assault is not like a bee sting; you can’t just tend to it in the moment and wait for the pain to quickly fade away. If people could “just get over it,” we would, I promise you. No one wants to drag this around with them for a lifetime. We can heal, but we never forget.
To my friends who have lived through this suffering: I see you. I hear you. I believe you. If you want to share your story, I will listen. If you want a hug or a prayer, I will gladly offer both. If you are scared right now, or furious, or filled with shame, or just achingly, terribly sad, it’s okay. Me too.
First, this. “Why didn’t she say anything when it happened?” I’m glad you asked. It took me years to verbalize the things that happened to me. When I was very young, I believed him when he said the boogeyman would get me if I told anyone. I was small, the boogeyman seemed very real, and I didn’t have the words to explain what had happened anyway. When I was a little older I heard, “No one would believe you anyway, you bad girl,” which seemed perfectly reasonable to me. Who would believe me? I was just a nasty, dirty thing, and nothing I had to say was worth paying any mind. Years later, he laughed at me. He attacked me, made me bleed, held me down, took what he wanted, then laughed. Have you ever felt humiliated? Have you ever been so shockingly betrayed and violated that your very sense of self shatters? And do you know what happens when you report a crime? Endless questions. Retelling your story over and over and over. Suspicion. Accusations. Judgment. Blaming. “Why were you there? What were you wearing? Did you lead him on? Was it a misunderstanding? Did you send mixed signals?” It’s very difficult to stand up for yourself when your emotional legs have been broken to pieces.
Next, this winner. “Boys will be boys, and shouldn’t be punished for things they did when they were young and stupid.” I have sons. They do boneheaded things sometimes. They forget to do their homework. They neglect their chores. One even stole a pack of gum once… and, guilt-ridden, returned it to the store. There is a very big difference between youthful indiscretion and criminal assault. So maybe a college kid gets drunk, as college kids do from time to time. He’s at a party, he’s into a girl, she flirts with him a little, things get heated, she tries to pull away, and he thinks, “Hell, she was into it a minute ago and I’m all primed to go, so we’re doing this.” She may have been drunk too, so she didn’t really know what she wanted, right? He does his thing, buckles his pants, moves on with his evening. He graduates. He goes to law school. He gets married to a nice girl and has a couple freckled babies. It’s entirely possible he never again thinks about that girl at that party all those years ago. But guess what. The girl at the party didn’t forget. She thinks about it all the time. She blames herself, of course. “I never should have gone to that party. I shouldn’t have flirted with him. I shouldn’t have had so much to drink.” Maybe she graduates, maybe she doesn’t. Maybe she turns to more alcohol to dull her senses and help her forget. Maybe she starts sleeping with all the men she can find, since she feels so used and filthy anyway. Maybe she finds a nice man to marry, but they struggle because every night, in bed, she flashes back to that party, that moment where everything she understood about love got turned upside down. The point is, she doesn’t get to pretend it didn’t happen. There’s no statute of limitations on accountability. She deserves justice, and it’s better late than never.
Here’s another loaded indictment. “Women make false accusations all the time, and ruin men’s lives out of spite.” First of all, it’s important to note that this does, very occasionally, happen. There are people out there who will take advantage of the sensitivity of this issue and manipulate it for their own gain. The problem is that this tiny minority pollutes the entire pool of actual survivors. If you have a gallon of clear water and add two drops of blue food coloring, you’ve turned the whole gallon blue. It’s grossly unfair. Revisiting my previous point about why survivors are often reluctant to come forward, this is a big one. I do not want to subject myself to the complete character assassination that often comes with a public accusation. Andrea Constand, who was raped by Bill Cosby, was ripped apart by the media for her hair, her clothes, the way she spoke, and what she “stood to gain” by coming forward. For a lot of us, the cruelty and criticism is just too much to take. It’s horribly unjust to penalize the honest for the lies of the greedy.
Finally, the one that continues to grip my heart every day. “She should just get over it and move on.” Sexual abuse – whether it’s molestation, incest, rape, groping, voyeurism, or any number of other manifestations – changes its victims. Trauma causes profound psychological, emotional, and physical effects. Survivors are vulnerable to substance abuse, eating disorders, and self-harm, as those things help to numb the pain and amplify the shame. PTSD is a very real, very damaging condition. Much like combat veterans, abuse victims may have flashbacks, depression, anxiety, dissociation (the complete disconnect from reality), and crippling nightmares. Everyday things can trigger intense emotional and physical responses. Sounds, smells, textures, tastes become inextricably linked to the traumatic experience, and victims may maintain those associations for years or even decades. My trauma, which took place over a long period of time beginning when I was quite young, gave me a very complicated relationship with my body. In my child brain, I associated my body with the terrible things that happened to me, which led me to the conclusion that my body itself was bad, poisoned, disgusting, and needed to be punished. I’m still navigating the long and painful road of eating disorder recovery as a result. Sexual assault is not like a bee sting; you can’t just tend to it in the moment and wait for the pain to quickly fade away. If people could “just get over it,” we would, I promise you. No one wants to drag this around with them for a lifetime. We can heal, but we never forget.
To my friends who have lived through this suffering: I see you. I hear you. I believe you. If you want to share your story, I will listen. If you want a hug or a prayer, I will gladly offer both. If you are scared right now, or furious, or filled with shame, or just achingly, terribly sad, it’s okay. Me too.
Sunday, January 28, 2018
The Dark Place
I'm going to let you in on a little secret: Despite what my carefully-manicured Facebook presence might suggest, I'm not even close to perfect. Ditto my children, my career, my marriage, even my dogs. We're all a big, beautiful mess. I have a feeling you'll be forgiving, as you may share that secret yourself.
I have another one for you. This one is harder to admit. I have Dark Places inside me. Sometimes they have names - shame, guilt, rage, fear, grief. Sometimes they're silent films replaying awful scenes. Sometimes they're just hollow silences. I don't like the Dark Places. I'm supposed to be happy! All the time! With everything! I do have an uncommonly blessed life, brimming with my aforementioned beautiful messes. I have an endless gratitude list. And I am grateful. What business do I have with Dark Places?
But here's the thing: the Dark Places exist in the midst of the bliss. The two aren't mutually exclusive. In fact, the more practiced I become at this life thing, the more I realize the two are symbiotic. Without the Dark Places, we couldn't possibly appreciate the bliss.
I haven't always had this sage Mother Willow outlook, however. In fact, for years (okay, decades) I fought to deny my Dark Places entirely. Anger? What anger? Grief? Don't be silly! I'm a wife and a mother and a teacher! I volunteer and go to church every Sunday! I bake cookies for my neighbors! I starve until my organs start to fail and I have to be hospitalized! Oh wait. That last one snuck up on me. It appears there's a cost to denying the Dark Places. In running from them - in denying the emotions and the trials and the unmet needs - I strangled my own humanity.
I don't know about you, but my Dark Places refuse to be silenced. I can try to hide, try to distract with work or good deeds or nice clothes, try to bury my head in the sand, but still the dark seeps in. It pops up in my dreams. It shortens my temper. It fuels my eating disorder. The harder I push against it, the more aggressive it becomes. Sort of like those Chinese finger traps. Panic and yank, you're stuck. Slow and steady, though, and you're out.
Hm. That's a thought. Instead of denying the Dark Places, what would happen if we picked up lanterns, grabbed a pal, and explored them? "On my left, I see anxiety about health problems. Up ahead at three o'clock there's a memory of a man who took what wasn't his. Wow, it really is dark in here. I'm glad you're with me. Let's keep going." Just as I'd take a preschooler's hand and show her the harmlessness of her closet, I can open my own mind and see that its shadows are far scarier than what's actually there.
Here's the thing: I am who I am because of where I've been and where I choose to go from here. Those Dark Places? They've given me the gifts of resilience, empathy, endurance, compassion, and patience. I can visit my Dark Places from time to time. I can turn on Tori Amos and curl into a ball and tend to my 14-year old self. I can turn on Eminem and hurl ice at the concrete and curse the evils of the world. I can call my grandma and ask her to sing me a song. Then I can pick myself up, brush myself off, and head back into the light, stronger for the time I spent in the dark. I can roll down a grassy hill with my kids AND read Sylvia Plath. I can laugh at nothing with my husband AND remember things that hurt. I have light and darkness within me, as we all do, and my darkness only serves to make my light shine that much brighter.
Sometimes I'm still afraid of my Dark Places. The other day when I heard someone deride the #metoo movement as a witch hunt, I froze, retreated, pretended that it wasn't me, too. I hid from the dark. But it WAS me, too, and I don't need to be afraid anymore. I'm still here, a fallible, vulnerable human being, standing tall with my face to the sky. And I have hope.
I have another one for you. This one is harder to admit. I have Dark Places inside me. Sometimes they have names - shame, guilt, rage, fear, grief. Sometimes they're silent films replaying awful scenes. Sometimes they're just hollow silences. I don't like the Dark Places. I'm supposed to be happy! All the time! With everything! I do have an uncommonly blessed life, brimming with my aforementioned beautiful messes. I have an endless gratitude list. And I am grateful. What business do I have with Dark Places?
But here's the thing: the Dark Places exist in the midst of the bliss. The two aren't mutually exclusive. In fact, the more practiced I become at this life thing, the more I realize the two are symbiotic. Without the Dark Places, we couldn't possibly appreciate the bliss.
I haven't always had this sage Mother Willow outlook, however. In fact, for years (okay, decades) I fought to deny my Dark Places entirely. Anger? What anger? Grief? Don't be silly! I'm a wife and a mother and a teacher! I volunteer and go to church every Sunday! I bake cookies for my neighbors! I starve until my organs start to fail and I have to be hospitalized! Oh wait. That last one snuck up on me. It appears there's a cost to denying the Dark Places. In running from them - in denying the emotions and the trials and the unmet needs - I strangled my own humanity.
I don't know about you, but my Dark Places refuse to be silenced. I can try to hide, try to distract with work or good deeds or nice clothes, try to bury my head in the sand, but still the dark seeps in. It pops up in my dreams. It shortens my temper. It fuels my eating disorder. The harder I push against it, the more aggressive it becomes. Sort of like those Chinese finger traps. Panic and yank, you're stuck. Slow and steady, though, and you're out.
Hm. That's a thought. Instead of denying the Dark Places, what would happen if we picked up lanterns, grabbed a pal, and explored them? "On my left, I see anxiety about health problems. Up ahead at three o'clock there's a memory of a man who took what wasn't his. Wow, it really is dark in here. I'm glad you're with me. Let's keep going." Just as I'd take a preschooler's hand and show her the harmlessness of her closet, I can open my own mind and see that its shadows are far scarier than what's actually there.
Here's the thing: I am who I am because of where I've been and where I choose to go from here. Those Dark Places? They've given me the gifts of resilience, empathy, endurance, compassion, and patience. I can visit my Dark Places from time to time. I can turn on Tori Amos and curl into a ball and tend to my 14-year old self. I can turn on Eminem and hurl ice at the concrete and curse the evils of the world. I can call my grandma and ask her to sing me a song. Then I can pick myself up, brush myself off, and head back into the light, stronger for the time I spent in the dark. I can roll down a grassy hill with my kids AND read Sylvia Plath. I can laugh at nothing with my husband AND remember things that hurt. I have light and darkness within me, as we all do, and my darkness only serves to make my light shine that much brighter.
Sometimes I'm still afraid of my Dark Places. The other day when I heard someone deride the #metoo movement as a witch hunt, I froze, retreated, pretended that it wasn't me, too. I hid from the dark. But it WAS me, too, and I don't need to be afraid anymore. I'm still here, a fallible, vulnerable human being, standing tall with my face to the sky. And I have hope.
Sunday, September 24, 2017
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."
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."
Sunday, January 8, 2017
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.
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.
Saturday, November 12, 2016
You're Just an Empty Cage, Girl, If You Kill the Bird (or, I Give Up So I May Carry On)
"What are you proving?" My husband asked recently. "That you're good at being sick? Well, way to go. What an accomplishment." He was challenging my anorexia, forcing me to view it from the outside. He was harsh, but he was honest.
Flash back twenty years. My eating disorder developed as a result of sexual abuse, chaos, insecurity, and pain. It sprouted when I was very young and presented itself as a cure for everything that hurt. It worked. So I kept doing it. Much like the drink that makes the introvert a social butterfly, or the hit that makes the addict forget the anguish, losing weight imprinted on my brain as the cure to what ailed me. I was young. I was scared and confused and lonely. I took the bait and held onto it. Nothing felt so good as those first pounds lost. I was numb. It was blissful. I was hooked.
Flash forward. I reread the Biblical story of Samson and Delilah a couple days ago. If you're unfamiliar, here's a recap: Samson was a super strong dude. He fell in love with Delilah, who was a double agent. She was sent to figure out Samson's weakness so his enemies could take him out. He was suspicious, so he fed her a fake line about tying him with strings to make him weak, and she told her bosses and they did it. But it was a ruse and Samson prevailed. So Delilah went back and had another go at it. Samson said if he were tied with fresh ropes, it would really work. The enemy attacked and Samson again prevailed. Amazingly, the whole cycle repeated for a third time, with the same result. At this point I thought, "Really Samson? What sort of colossal idiot are you?" Finally he told Delilah the truth - despite obviously knowing she had it out for his destruction - and he perished. I was pissed. I put down my Bible, looked at my husband, and said, "Samson asked for it, the moron. What the hell was he thinking?" Then it hit me.
I am Samson. I invited anorexia into my life. Despite two decades of broken promises and countless sacrifices and dances with death itself, I kept going back. My ability to disregard the threat of my disease allowed immeasurable damage to every area of my life. I am Samson. My eating disorder is my Delilah.
I am struggling right now. Life got stressful, as it always does; and as I always do, I retreated to anorexia for comfort and protection. "If I just lose a little weight, if I just get a little thinner, everything will be okay." No matter that the result of my relapses are never, ever good. I was still chasing that high, believing that lie.
Back to my husband's point. Is being sick the only legacy I want to leave in this world? Do I want my children to remember me as thin but scared and on edge and irritable and unpredictable? Do I want my friends to remember me with pity? NO FUCKING WAY. I want to leave this world - many decades from now - after showing my love for humanity. After getting my hands dirty to fight for the oppressed. After cradling and spoiling and cheering on my grandchildren. After traveling the world to do good and spread kindness. I can't do any of those things if I'm sick. I won't have the chance. And if I do survive to live out my future, it won't matter if I'm 100 lbs. or 250 lbs., as long as I'm driven by the passion that burns in my heart.
So no. I don't want to prove that I'm good at being sick. I've already done that, and the universe isn't impressed. I want to prove that I faced down my most insidious, cruel, terrorizing adversary because there is more to this life than the security blankets we pull over our heads when things get tough. I don't want to kill my body to save my soul. My soul has already been saved. Now it's time to pick up my crown and blaze a trail my children can be proud of. It's time to give up the lie that what's killing me will save me in the end. It's time to do hard things and be brave and give to the world what my God put inside me.
This post is meant to be shared with anyone and everyone who may be struggling with eating disorders, addictions, or anything else pulling them away from their purpose. We don't have to do this anymore. We can change direction no matter how far we've strayed or how deep we've fallen or how blind we've become. Spread the word. We're rising to take our place at the table.
_____
Another flashback: When I was a teenager, I was obsessed with Tori Amos, Sylvia Plath, Virginia Woolf, and Anne Sexton. I had a poster of Ophelia's drowning scene from Hamlet. Melodramatic? Maybe. Real? Absolutely. My anthem at the time was Tori Amos's song "Crucify." Its lyrics spoke to the very core of my struggle. Once I hit adulthood I couldn't listen to the song anymore. It reminded me too much of the gritty, ugly, bloody life I wanted to leave behind. Tonight the song popped up on Pandora, and I let it play out. "Why do we crucify ourselves, every day?" The words hit in a whole new way. Here's the song.
"Every finger in the room
is pointing at me
I wanna spit in their faces
Then I get afraid of what that could bring
I got a bowling ball in my stomach
I got a desert in my mouth
Figures that my courage would choose to sell out now
I've been looking for a savior in these dirty streets
looking for a savior beneath these dirty sheets
I've been raising up my hands
Drive another nail in
Just what God needs
One more victim
Why do we
Crucify ourselves
Every day
I crucify myself
Nothing I do is good enough for you
Crucify myself
Every day
And my heart is sick of being in chains
Got a kick for a dog
Beggin' for Love
I gotta have my suffering
So that I can have my cross
I know a cat named Easter
He says will you ever learn
You're just an empty cage girl
If you kill the bird
I've been looking for a savior in these dirty streets
looking for a savior beneath these dirty sheets
I've been raising up my hands
Drive another nail in
Got enough guilt to start
my own religion
Please be
Save me
I cry
Why do we
Crucify ourselves
Every day
I crucify myself
Nothing I do is good enough for you
Crucify myself
Every day
And my heart is sick of being in chains"
Flash back twenty years. My eating disorder developed as a result of sexual abuse, chaos, insecurity, and pain. It sprouted when I was very young and presented itself as a cure for everything that hurt. It worked. So I kept doing it. Much like the drink that makes the introvert a social butterfly, or the hit that makes the addict forget the anguish, losing weight imprinted on my brain as the cure to what ailed me. I was young. I was scared and confused and lonely. I took the bait and held onto it. Nothing felt so good as those first pounds lost. I was numb. It was blissful. I was hooked.
Flash forward. I reread the Biblical story of Samson and Delilah a couple days ago. If you're unfamiliar, here's a recap: Samson was a super strong dude. He fell in love with Delilah, who was a double agent. She was sent to figure out Samson's weakness so his enemies could take him out. He was suspicious, so he fed her a fake line about tying him with strings to make him weak, and she told her bosses and they did it. But it was a ruse and Samson prevailed. So Delilah went back and had another go at it. Samson said if he were tied with fresh ropes, it would really work. The enemy attacked and Samson again prevailed. Amazingly, the whole cycle repeated for a third time, with the same result. At this point I thought, "Really Samson? What sort of colossal idiot are you?" Finally he told Delilah the truth - despite obviously knowing she had it out for his destruction - and he perished. I was pissed. I put down my Bible, looked at my husband, and said, "Samson asked for it, the moron. What the hell was he thinking?" Then it hit me.
I am Samson. I invited anorexia into my life. Despite two decades of broken promises and countless sacrifices and dances with death itself, I kept going back. My ability to disregard the threat of my disease allowed immeasurable damage to every area of my life. I am Samson. My eating disorder is my Delilah.
I am struggling right now. Life got stressful, as it always does; and as I always do, I retreated to anorexia for comfort and protection. "If I just lose a little weight, if I just get a little thinner, everything will be okay." No matter that the result of my relapses are never, ever good. I was still chasing that high, believing that lie.
Back to my husband's point. Is being sick the only legacy I want to leave in this world? Do I want my children to remember me as thin but scared and on edge and irritable and unpredictable? Do I want my friends to remember me with pity? NO FUCKING WAY. I want to leave this world - many decades from now - after showing my love for humanity. After getting my hands dirty to fight for the oppressed. After cradling and spoiling and cheering on my grandchildren. After traveling the world to do good and spread kindness. I can't do any of those things if I'm sick. I won't have the chance. And if I do survive to live out my future, it won't matter if I'm 100 lbs. or 250 lbs., as long as I'm driven by the passion that burns in my heart.
So no. I don't want to prove that I'm good at being sick. I've already done that, and the universe isn't impressed. I want to prove that I faced down my most insidious, cruel, terrorizing adversary because there is more to this life than the security blankets we pull over our heads when things get tough. I don't want to kill my body to save my soul. My soul has already been saved. Now it's time to pick up my crown and blaze a trail my children can be proud of. It's time to give up the lie that what's killing me will save me in the end. It's time to do hard things and be brave and give to the world what my God put inside me.
This post is meant to be shared with anyone and everyone who may be struggling with eating disorders, addictions, or anything else pulling them away from their purpose. We don't have to do this anymore. We can change direction no matter how far we've strayed or how deep we've fallen or how blind we've become. Spread the word. We're rising to take our place at the table.
_____
Another flashback: When I was a teenager, I was obsessed with Tori Amos, Sylvia Plath, Virginia Woolf, and Anne Sexton. I had a poster of Ophelia's drowning scene from Hamlet. Melodramatic? Maybe. Real? Absolutely. My anthem at the time was Tori Amos's song "Crucify." Its lyrics spoke to the very core of my struggle. Once I hit adulthood I couldn't listen to the song anymore. It reminded me too much of the gritty, ugly, bloody life I wanted to leave behind. Tonight the song popped up on Pandora, and I let it play out. "Why do we crucify ourselves, every day?" The words hit in a whole new way. Here's the song.
"Every finger in the room
is pointing at me
I wanna spit in their faces
Then I get afraid of what that could bring
I got a bowling ball in my stomach
I got a desert in my mouth
Figures that my courage would choose to sell out now
I've been looking for a savior in these dirty streets
looking for a savior beneath these dirty sheets
I've been raising up my hands
Drive another nail in
Just what God needs
One more victim
Why do we
Crucify ourselves
Every day
I crucify myself
Nothing I do is good enough for you
Crucify myself
Every day
And my heart is sick of being in chains
Got a kick for a dog
Beggin' for Love
I gotta have my suffering
So that I can have my cross
I know a cat named Easter
He says will you ever learn
You're just an empty cage girl
If you kill the bird
I've been looking for a savior in these dirty streets
looking for a savior beneath these dirty sheets
I've been raising up my hands
Drive another nail in
Got enough guilt to start
my own religion
Please be
Save me
I cry
Why do we
Crucify ourselves
Every day
I crucify myself
Nothing I do is good enough for you
Crucify myself
Every day
And my heart is sick of being in chains"
Thursday, November 3, 2016
Needless/Wantless
All living things have needs. (Primarily food, the irony of which will be addressed shortly.) It doesn't matter if you're a houseplant, a toucan, or a chemical engineer, you require certain things to live and thrive. This isn't just a human thing, it's a universal one.
I happen to hate having needs. At some point in my formative years I learned to equate need with weakness. Weakness was unacceptable to me, therefore my needs were unacceptable. My child-self didn't understand the universality of need. She just saw a sucking void of childishness, selfishness, and dependence. Stop needing, she told herself. So she did.
Little did she know that some of those critical needs are community, compassion, and support, and those are not weak, they're wonderful. Look at any sitcom on television since the dawn of technology. Characters and their friends. Lucy had Ethel. DJ had Kimmy. Rachel had Monica and the gang. Even Walter White had Jesse, dysfunctional as their relationship was. People need people. We need another presence to acknowledge our existence, our joy, our pain. The needless me refuted this as utter nonsense. She still does on most days.
I want to do it all on my own. I want to take care of business. I want to be an Independent Woman, damnit, who can make it after all. Mary Tyler Moore with tattoos. ("But Mary had Rhoda!" Shut it.) But here's the thing. I can't.
I can't do life on my own. It pains me to admit it. It pokes at the very core of my identity - a lone survivor, a self-made girl, a paragon of Teflon and grit. But admit it I must. Remember those basic needs, like food? Yeah, I can't really do that. I don't know how to feed myself. Twenty years of anorexia have obliterated my ability to meet my most basic biological demands. And emotions! PLEASE! What are those?
I've finally reached a point where it's abundantly clear - even to me - that I need my TRIBE. I need people. Being needless may seem cool in a James Dean, The Outsiders, aviator-glasses-and-unfiltered-cigarette way, but it's not sustainable. All those sitcoms touched people because they reflected the value of community. Of togetherness. I need that. I need to look in someone's eyes and say, "I'm a disaster today," and have that person say, "Girl, you're a disaster every day, but I love you anyway and I'm right here beside you."
I need. You need. We need each other. If you've ever been ashamed of your needs, please know that you're not alone. If you're lonely, please know that there are people like me all over the planet praying for you and sending you love. If you're struggling, like me, to figure out how to eat, you need only reach out your hand. Someone will take it. If you're grappling with something else - perfectionism, addiction, despair, whatever - please know that you're just like that houseplant and that toucan and that chemical engineer. You're ALIVE. And there is love out there just waiting to wrap you up and bring you home.
I happen to hate having needs. At some point in my formative years I learned to equate need with weakness. Weakness was unacceptable to me, therefore my needs were unacceptable. My child-self didn't understand the universality of need. She just saw a sucking void of childishness, selfishness, and dependence. Stop needing, she told herself. So she did.
Little did she know that some of those critical needs are community, compassion, and support, and those are not weak, they're wonderful. Look at any sitcom on television since the dawn of technology. Characters and their friends. Lucy had Ethel. DJ had Kimmy. Rachel had Monica and the gang. Even Walter White had Jesse, dysfunctional as their relationship was. People need people. We need another presence to acknowledge our existence, our joy, our pain. The needless me refuted this as utter nonsense. She still does on most days.
I want to do it all on my own. I want to take care of business. I want to be an Independent Woman, damnit, who can make it after all. Mary Tyler Moore with tattoos. ("But Mary had Rhoda!" Shut it.) But here's the thing. I can't.
I can't do life on my own. It pains me to admit it. It pokes at the very core of my identity - a lone survivor, a self-made girl, a paragon of Teflon and grit. But admit it I must. Remember those basic needs, like food? Yeah, I can't really do that. I don't know how to feed myself. Twenty years of anorexia have obliterated my ability to meet my most basic biological demands. And emotions! PLEASE! What are those?
I've finally reached a point where it's abundantly clear - even to me - that I need my TRIBE. I need people. Being needless may seem cool in a James Dean, The Outsiders, aviator-glasses-and-unfiltered-cigarette way, but it's not sustainable. All those sitcoms touched people because they reflected the value of community. Of togetherness. I need that. I need to look in someone's eyes and say, "I'm a disaster today," and have that person say, "Girl, you're a disaster every day, but I love you anyway and I'm right here beside you."
I need. You need. We need each other. If you've ever been ashamed of your needs, please know that you're not alone. If you're lonely, please know that there are people like me all over the planet praying for you and sending you love. If you're struggling, like me, to figure out how to eat, you need only reach out your hand. Someone will take it. If you're grappling with something else - perfectionism, addiction, despair, whatever - please know that you're just like that houseplant and that toucan and that chemical engineer. You're ALIVE. And there is love out there just waiting to wrap you up and bring you home.
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