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.

When "Having It All" Means Losing It All

Perfect couple, perfect kids, perfect house, perfect Christmas card. We've all seen the attempts. Chances are you have the aforementioned cards displayed in your home right now. Perhaps your Facebook feed is incessantly updated with happy! brilliant! beautiful! talented! family tidbits. Maybe I have been an offender in this assault of domestic perfection.

If so, I apologize. I'd like to come clean. It seems that the harder I work to prove my "have it all-ness," the less I actually have. I do have an awesome family, that's no lie. My kids are smart and articulate and insightful. They're also messy, snarky, and prone to outbursts of manic emotion, details I may leave out when I'm gushing of their greatness. My marriage is blessed and strong, but it's also tried by issues like money, extended family, and more than anything, my disease. My house is decent-looking, but only as a result of my compulsive need to purge excess (eating disorder parallel, anyone?). To summarize, my public got-it-together persona isn't a lie, per se, it's just a meticulously-edited version of the truth.

Nearly all of the mothers I know suffer to some degree by the "have it all" myth. It's not good enough to be okay, we have to be GREAT. It's not good enough to be average, we have to be THE BEST. We try to teach our children that it's their effort that counts, not the product of that effort, but we reject that notion for ourselves.

For me, this myth is becoming dangerous. My drive to appear high-functioning is compromising my willingness to admit struggle, my ability to ask for help. I'm a sick person with a worn-out body, and I don't have the endurance to withstand the constant grandstanding. In my case, the pursuit of "having it all" can cost me everything. How artfully-decorated would my living room be if I wasn't there to arrange the furniture? How cheerful would those Instagram pictures of my kids be if they were motherless? It sounds harsh, but sometimes that's life.

I don't need to be perfect. I CAN'T be perfect; such a goal is futile. You can't be perfect either, and frankly, I wouldn't want you to be. It's your flaws, your mistakes, your inadequacies that make you interesting and dynamic. It's your irreverence that makes me gravitate to you. It's your REALness. A painting can be captivating, but it's the wounded artist that's the real treasure.

I would rather slouch in my poor-postured imperfection next to my wild children than perish trying to be the upright person I'm not. I hope you feel the same.

"Just Talk to Me," or, the Need for Understanding

I was in a surly mood. "Just talk to me," he implored; "I won't try to fix anything, I'll just listen."

I've been feeling desperately cut off lately. Since being effectively shut out of my outpatient program, dismissed from therapy, and told - ironically - that I'm "too sick" to treat, I have been feeling afloat. Drifting through my disease, my distress, without the lifeline of a community of understanding. People express their concern, their desire to help, but how do you explain to someone that you hate what you're doing but you go on doing it anyway? You don't. You smile, thank them for their warmth, and swallow the pleas for aide.

Which led to the recent exchange between my dear husband and myself. "Just talk to me," he said. So I did.

"I feel like I fail in every area of my life," I explained. "As a mother, a wife, a teacher, a friend... I feel like I'm never good enough, like I never give the people who need me what they deserve. But damn can I stay thin. I have to feel like I'm good at something; doesn't everyone need to feel proficient? Isn't that some basic human need, the need to feel accomplished? And when I recognize that the only thing that makes me feel accomplished actually makes me a worse mother, wife, teacher, and friend, I am drenched in shame and retreat even further into my behaviors."

"That's a bitch," he said, trying hard to keep his promise of not being a fixer.

And that was it. He went to sleep, I went to sleep, we woke up and began our suburban middle-class working-parent day. He with his inner dialogue of "I have a sick wife and I have no idea how to handle it while ensuring my kids and home are taken care of," and me with my inner dialogue of "You idiot, next time just keep your damn mouth shut."

We all have a need to feel understood. We, as human beings, are social creatures; no man is an island unto himself. We were not created to be completely autonomous. We need each other, and what's more, whether we admit it or not, we WANT each other. I have had a handful of opportunities recently to spend time with good friends. During each encounter my inner un-sick person was screaming out for me to engage. Admit my challenges. Ask for a hug. I didn't. I talked about Christmas, kids, work. I baked. (Heads up: if I bake for you, insist you eat my baking, and give you my recipe, it's because I'm hungry and eating vicariously through you. It's an anorexic thing.)

Why do we squelch our need for help? Why, when we need to feel understood and validated, do we instead assume we're broken and keep our pain to ourselves? You may not have an eating disorder. Maybe you struggle with some other addiction, struggle with chronic shame, or suffer that horrible ailment known as "Mommy Guilt." Can you honestly say you reach out whenever you need support? More likely, you, like I do, keep quiet. Pretend it's all okay. Smile smile smile. We're supposed to be fine, so we pretend to be fine. Someone once taught me that "FINE" stands for "Feelings Inside Not Expressed."

This is a rough time of year for a lot of people, for a lot of reasons. I get it. If you need help, if you need to feel understood, I implore you to find someone you trust will get it, and reach out. REACH OUT. What's the worst that can happen? The person to whom you reach out may think, "Wow, this person I thought had it all together actually has the same struggles I do." Not only have you asked for help, you've given another person the gift of feeling understood.

P.S.
I give my husband tremendous credit. It takes a great deal of humility to acknowledge that you do not, in fact, understand, but you love someone enough to be there anyway.