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.
Sunday, August 10, 2014
Saturday, July 12, 2014
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.
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.
Sunday, June 22, 2014
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.
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.
Thursday, June 12, 2014
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
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?
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?
Thursday, April 17, 2014
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.
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
"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.)
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.)
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