The Next Generation

It's no secret to my friends, my family, and the readers of this blog that I've been through a lot in my few decades on our planet. I've seen things and endured things that don't bear repeating. I've struggled, I've floundered, I've survived, I've overcome. I've packed a lot of living into 30 years. I spend most of my time these days feeling grateful and doing my best to translate my experiences into meaningful contributions to the world around me. I've climbed back out of the rabbit hole.

Recently I've been confronted with a distressing fact: there's a whole new generation going through the thick of the ugly. Kids who don't have the benefit of perspective or hindsight are facing challenges we old folk never knew. My 10-year old son, a wickedly smart, startlingly insightful, hypersensitive, anxiety-ridden kiddo, is mired in an internet-fueled crisis. Some of his peers exposed him to a website full of content about violence, self-harm, and suicide. He panicked. He didn't want to get his friends into trouble, but he also intuitively knew things were dangerous. He came to me (thank God) and shared his fears. He cried. He admitted his own lack of confidence, his anger, his confusion. He drew pictures depicting the traumatic images he witnessed. He asked me why things like that exist.

I put my mom pants on and calmed him down, did my best to reassure him, and praised him for coming to me. Inwardly, though, I shriveled up. Every nerve in my body shrieked in painful memory. I had always assumed that my past hurts were uniquely mine; that the crippling loneliness and anguish I felt as an adolescent were exclusive to me. The situation in which my son found himself proved to me that bewilderment, isolation, and despair are achingly common in children. That's a stinging reality to face.

Part of me wanted to shut down and run away. Too many reminders, too much raw emotion. A bigger part, the mama bear part, knew that hiding wasn't an option. I laid my soul bare to my son. I told him about the times in my life I've felt inadequate, scared, unloved, corrupted. I told him that I've had negative thoughts that kept me awake at night. I told him that I've been in situations that I couldn't make sense of, and how distressing that was. I told him how I kept going anyway. How I asked for help. How I kept the faith that things would get better. How things DID get better. I hugged him tightly and told him how much I love him. That was all I could do.

There's a whole new crop of humans ready to make their debut in the world. We owe it to them to be vulnerable and to expose our own imperfections. To expose our own humanity. Only then will they be prepared to acknowledge and accept the tumult that will inevitably grow inside of them. Only then will they feel confident to face their trials head-on, secure in the awareness that victory over struggle has been achieved and will be achieved again.

Wings

Wings

Birds hold the sky.
They occupy a world above our own, awake to the insignificance of ground and gravity.
Starlings and robins and sparrows dominate the air
on wings of paper.
Hollow bones fragile as reeds in October. Vulnerable like china in the hands of a child.
Tiny, insubstantial creatures, birds.
Tiny, insubstantial creatures fashioned to command the heavens.

The Long Road to Goodbye

I've been agitated lately. Restless. I've had that crawling-out-of-my-skin sensation pretty consistently. In response, that old familiar temptation has slunk out from the shadows: "Just lose a little weight, you'll feel better." The voice grew loud enough to set off my alarm bells. I brought my concerns to my therapist, and she posed a fairly basic question. "What feeling does losing weight give you that you aren't getting from another source?" "Euphoria," I replied immediately. Pure, unparalleled elation. What came up for me next was nothing short of an epiphany.

I was addicted to anorexia the way some people are addicted to drugs. Loose clothing, sharp angles and a shrinking number on the scale gave me the same visceral ecstasy that others get from a hit of cocaine or heroin. Nothing I've ever experienced comes close to the rapture of that sensation. The realization that I made when I responded to my therapist was this: If I choose to remain in recovery, I will never experience that euphoria again. Never. Choosing to live my life healthy and free of addiction also means choosing to turn my back on the most pleasurable feeling I have ever had.

The more I considered this - with a mix of horror and stinging sadness - the more it made sense. Why else would I have relapsed so many times, returned to anorexia even in the face of overwhelming evidence of its destruction? "Just one little taste," I'd lie to myself, "just to take the edge off." As anyone who has ever struggled with addiction knows, there's no such thing as one little taste. I wondered for a moment why this realization took so long to materialize (after all, I've been in recovery for over a year), but I understand that as well. I think my brain knew back then that I wouldn't have been able to commit to recovery if I was fully aware of the sacrifice. Only now, having proven to myself that I can be successful, am I able to come to terms with what I have given up.

I asked my therapist if it's okay to feel as sad as I do. If it's appropriate or normal to grieve the loss of something that aggressively tried to kill me. She assured me that it is okay, and encouraged me to say a proper farewell. I need the closure. I need to acknowledge and accept that I will never again know the intoxicating madness that anorexia gave me. I have chosen to change direction, to walk a new path, to embrace an unpredictable future that will bring all sorts of joys and pains. I have chosen to leave behind the disease that took so much from me but also made me the resilient, ambitious, hopeful woman I am now. It's time to say goodbye, to close the door, so that I may turn my attention to the rest of my life.

Reflections on a Year In Recovery (If I Can Do It, Anyone Can)

I got a phone call last week from the Eating Recovery Center in Denver, CO. Pam, the friendly alumni coordinator, reminded me that it had been a year since my discharge. She congratulated me and asked how I was doing. "I'm doing really well," I told her. And I spoke the truth.

"I'm doing really well" was the truth. The actual TRUTH. I meant it. It wasn't the flat-out lie it has been so many times before. It wasn't crippling denial. It wasn't the diversion from my anorexic life I've attempted more often than I care to admit. I actually AM doing really well.

A year in recovery. Barring pregnancy and nursing (which gave me a necessary reprieve from eating disordered behaviors but didn't represent meaningful change), I have never gone this long without relying on my obsessive/compulsive need to be thin. I eat what I need to eat every day. I see my therapist weekly. I see my dietitian monthly. I visit my cardiologist and medical doctor when needed. I go clothes shopping and grocery shopping. I work. I engage in meaningful relationships with my husband, my children, my extended family, my friends. I do yoga and take walks and I avoid the gym like the plague. I go out to lunch with people on low carb/gluten free/no fat/no foods that are brown diets and I still eat what I need to eat in order to thrive. My body is the same size it was when I came home from Denver. I wear the same clothes and follow the same meal plan. I have neither exploded into obesity nor withered back into my old sick body. I have simply sustained health. Wow.

Tomorrow marks the beginning of Eating Disorders Awareness Week, and as Pam reminded me, I can count myself as a success story. A SURVIVAL story. After 17 years (seventeen. Holy shit.) years of bondage, I live free of my oppressor. It's an astonishing and humbling feat. But it hasn't been easy.

I don't want this to be another post extolling the virtues and joys of recovery. While my year in remission from anorexia has given me countless experiences for which to be immeasurably thankful, it has been hard. Not "I don't feel like doing the laundry today" hard. Really, really, really difficult. I have made many mistakes. I have plain old fucked up. I have said things that have hurt people I love deeply. I have dropped the ball a few times. I have been selfish. I have stood in a department store and thought, "If I fit into a size _ I'll kill myself." I have sat in restaurants and passed over things that sounded really yummy because they were too scary. I have faced life challenges that gave me every reason to dive back into my disorder: medical problems, relationship drama, plain old overwhelming stress. I have gazed into the mirror and marveled at how dramatically my body has changed.

But I kept on going. I had those negative thoughts (I'm so fat, I'm disgusting, I'm a failure), recognized them as poisonous lies, and kept on eating. I went on the best family vacation of my life, a vacation during which I was able to see, hear, smell, touch, and taste amazing things with the people I love most, and actually create memories. I faced my fears, set boundaries that needed to be set, and spoke my peace. I apologized when I did wrong and asked for forgiveness. I forgave myself. I recognized my own humanity and saw the humanity around me. I bought clothes that fit, not clothes that would fit when I lost more weight. I hugged my husband and let him hold me, hold my body with all its curves. I cuddled my children. I got a puppy, a delightful little creature who couldn't give a flying fuck what my dress size is.

My point is this: I am living recovery. It's not easy; in fact, sometimes it's downright agonizing. I actually have to feel all that nasty stuff I spent almost two decades avoiding. But it's worth it. Those feelings? Fear, pain, guilt, loneliness, anger, shame? They serve a purpose. When I'm able to acknowledge them and ride them out, I end up better for having done so. I learn. I grow. I wake up every day excited for what lies ahead. I no longer wake to the suffocating dread of what the scale will say when I step upon it. Scale? Screw that shit, it's my doctor's job to keep track of my weight, not mine. I no longer face every meal with the sense of impending dread usually reserved for a visit to the oncologist. I am living free. You can too. But first you must face the thing that scares you most. The only way out is through. I can't wait to see you on the other side.

"I'll Never Tell"

It's difficult for me to watch the news. Too often I'll see things that touch a nerve. Bring up my stuff. I don't like it. Recently the coverage of Bill Cosby (the man I once, as a small child, viewed as the very pinnacle of fatherly love) has rattled me. I can't substantiate the accusations made against him. There have been no convictions except in the court of public opinion. I won't speculate on his guilt or innocence, because I have no knowledge of what really happened. I do know what happened to me, though.

I was particularly struck by one commentator who dismissed Cosby's accusers outright because of the length of time they had stayed silent. I stayed silent for years. My first perpetrator threatened to lock me in the attic with the boogeyman if I told anyone what had happened. I was five. To me, being alone in the attic with the boogeyman was plenty reason to keep my mouth shut. I was terrified. Besides, who would believe me?

Later on, the "who would believe you" idea became the threat itself. "People will think you're making it up to get attention." So I stayed quiet.

Even later than that, the threat became more realistic, more insidious. "I'll make you pay." Well, if what I had already survived wasn't payment enough, I didn't want to know what was.

I stayed silent because I was afraid. I stayed silent because I thought no one would believe me. I stayed silent because I didn't want people to ask too many uncomfortable questions. I stayed silent, most of all, because I was ashamed.

I reiterate, I have no desire to pass judgment on a case about which I know no facts. However, I want to scream from the rafters that many, many survivors of sexual violence never tell of their experiences, certainly not at first. That doesn't mean the assaults never happened. It means that it takes time, sometimes decades, to muster the courage and self-love to speak out. There's nothing easy about saying, "I was raped." There's nothing simple about declaring, "I was molested." Those are some of the most difficult statements any person can ever make. So before we condemn the alleged victims, we must remember that it's a tremendous feat to come forward against your perpetrator.

I've never publicly named my perpetrators. I don't know that I ever will, even after all these years. I don't know that I can. I do know, however, that I will stand by any person (man, woman or child) strong enough to get up and say, "I was hurt, and that's not okay." Because it's not okay.

Little Earthquakes (what reality looks like)

"Oh these little earthquakes
here we go again...
These little earthquakes
doesn't take much to rip us into pieces..."
-Tori Amos

Recently I expressed to a dear friend how stressed I was about an event at work. I told her how silly I felt, how ridiculous it was to put my entire recovery on the line for something so inconsequential. She wisely replied, "Cassie, it could be a crack in the sidewalk... anything is enough."

Anything is enough to trip and fall. Anything - be it an earth-shattering loss or a simple job demand - offers the opportunity to give in to the temptation of addiction. I've spent a lot of time on this blog generalizing the pulls of addictive behaviors as a whole; now I need to get back to my roots. Get back to my own story.

I've been in "active recovery" from anorexia for about 11 months. Essentially that means I've eaten what I've been told to eat, haven't lost any weight, and have kept my doctors' appointments. I've been working my program, for the 12-steppers out there. What it doesn't mean is that I'm "better."

Lately the combined demands of motherhood, my job, running a household, and keeping up with the myriad other commitments I've made has left me pretty worn out. On top of that I'm dealing with some as-yet-unnamed digestive issue that has me in debilitating pain after I eat. (Super fun when I have to eat every 2-3 hours.) I'm tired. I don't feel well. I constantly think I'm not doing any of these 2,483 things proficiently. I doubt myself. I criticize myself. I want to lose weight.

Wait, what? Lose weight? Are you kidding me? What has that gotten me in the past? I'm a mother! I'm a wife! I'm a teacher! I'm an adult, for God's sake! Lose weight. Like that's going to solve anything. I'm not a teenager anymore. I know the way the world works, I've been to rehab 500 times, I know better. Bowing to my eating disorder doesn't solve anything, it just creates a host of new problems. Not to mention the horrible example it sets to the young people around me, especially my own kids.

But oh, how good it feels. There's no rush in the world like seeing the number on the scale drop. I've never done drugs, but I don't think cocaine has anything on the thrill of getting thinner. Of that elation that comes when pants that fit last week suddenly hang at the hips. It would take the edge off. Not a lot of weight, just enough to regain a sense of control. Just enough to feel like I'm good at something again. Five pounds. Maybe ten. Maybe thirty, because I look like a fucking cow.

Wait. No. I remember now. It doesn't work. I want it to work. I so, so badly want the skinny, bone-clattering me to be able to conquer the world. But she never does. She can't. She hurts, she's tired, she can't focus on anything. Her heart doesn't beat correctly. She's mean because she's hungry. The people she loves the most get sad. They become very, very afraid. She forgets important things. She drops the ball over and over and over again. She gets frustrated and eats even less, convinced that if she just works harder everything will be okay. But it's not. It's never okay.

This is what "active recovery" looks like for those of us with eating disorders. It's not, "She's a healthy weight, so she's fine." It's a near-constant mental dialogue, a perpetual pro/con debate, a maddening internal argument. I eat my food every day. I see my therapist, my dietitian, my primary care doctor, my cardiologist, and the rest of the medical circus charged with keeping me alive. I talk about my struggle. I ask for help. I resist the agonizing pull of the scale, the diet pills, the laxatives, the empty belly. I remind myself moment after moment of all the time my disease has cost me. I keep walking the path of recovery. But it's hard. Sometimes it's really hard. Sometimes it's almost too hard. I know it's worth it, and I put my faith in God to see me through in those moments of despair.

It's important to me, though, to let the world know that we folks in recovery can't be forgotten. We can't be rubber stamped "BETTER" and left behind. We're still vulnerable. We can still succumb to those little earthquakes. We need your help, your love, your support. We are human and we are not invincible. We will get better, but we're not there yet.

Well Look At That. I Made It. (And You Can Too.)

On the morning of my 30th birthday I didn't awaken and run to the mirror to check for gray hair. I didn't examine my face for new wrinkles. I didn't yank on jeans from my junior year of high school for a quick comparison. When I awoke on the morning of my 30th birthday, I opened my eyes, took a deep breath, smiled, and said, "Thank you."

I've addressed before on this blog my past conviction that I would not survive to see 30. It wasn't some fatalistic, grumpy idea that things would end in fire and brimstone for me. It was more of a Y2K thing. Remember Y2K? When we were all vaguely anxious that the world would just stop since the computers didn't know how to function past the year 2000? That's how I felt about 30. It wasn't that I assumed there'd be some catastrophe. It was simply that I hadn't calculated my life span past age 29. There's a reason for that.

When I was a child I could only see what was in front of me. Small kids lack the capacity for true foresight; they see what's there, and they assume that's all there is. I saw chaos, and I assumed chaos was all that was. As I grew older, the chaos around me continued, but the chaos within me became even more dramatic. I was not the most well-balanced teenager. I took everything so personally, felt everything so deeply, was so desperately insecure. I didn't foster within myself the sort of long-term optimism that is sustaining in times of hurt. As I ventured into adulthood, got married, started a family, my maturity increased in spades, but my ability to conceptualize the future never kicked in.

To be honest, in my mind, everything stopped at 30. I had endured too much emotionally. How much can one person take? Then there was the physical piece. My body began taking its lumps during puberty. The hammer continued to fall for years. Every time I relapsed into my anorexia and bulimia, my body found it harder to keep its strength. Over and over I'd lose weight and I'd lose resistance. Over and over I'd beat my organs, my muscles, my bones down, and they'd have a tougher time getting up again. This last time, as I lay in the emergency room with a belly so infected it was a wonder I was coherent at all, I thought, "I can't do this again. One more time and I'm gone."

A funny thing happened in that moment. I gathered some resolve. I was in a hospital by myself, many miles from home, fighting for my life. My family and friends weren't there to comfort or guide me. I had my God, my doctors, and the tiny part of myself that had some fight left. When I gained a little strength I began to pace the halls of the hospital. It was good for my gut, the doctors said. So I walked. I walked through the emergency room and watched people in the throes of drug overdoses. I walked into the Catholic chapel and watched doctors and nurses on their knees beside patients and their desperate loved ones. I walked through the cardiac care unit and watched families praying over the still bodies of their sick loves ones. I walked through the maternity unit and paused to watch the brand new babies, tiny humans with infinite potential and no baggage to tie them down. I dragged my IV behind me and took the elevator all the way to the top floor of the hospital. I couldn't go to the roof where the helicopters landed, so I stopped just below it and hovered near the door. I waited until I could hear a chopper land. I backed up to clear the way for the emergency team, and I watched as a cluster of frantic, selfless first responders threw themselves into the care of a person they had never met.

That experience, so sick and so alone in a hospital far from home, was a turning point. It gave me a glimpse into just how much we ALL struggle. Just how hard we ALL have it from time to time. I used to think my pain was unique. Now I know that I share it with billions of my brothers and sisters. That solidarity, that awareness of the vulnerability of the world, may have been what saved me. It may have been good medicine and a body that wasn't quite ready to quit, but I believe that much of what got me out of that hospital was the promise that I wasn't alone, and that I would be okay.

So when I awoke a few days ago to a decade I never thought I'd see, I wasn't dismayed. I wasn't angry. I wasn't afraid. Rather, I marveled at how someone who was so terribly unhappy, so awfully hurt for such a long time could awaken with a deep breath, a smile, and a simple, "Thank you."

My friends, if you are in pain, if you are scared, if you can't imagine things ever getting better, please hear these words: If I could come from the torment that I used to know and make it to the absolute fulfillment that I enjoy now, so can you. I used to be a sad, mad, wildly confused kid who couldn't imagine happiness. Now I am a joyful, silly, wildly contended wife, mother, friend, and teacher who couldn't ask for a better life. IT DOES GET BETTER. IT WILL GET BETTER. But you have to keep going. No matter what, no matter how sure you are that it's all going to fall apart, no matter what nightmare you may find yourself in, you MUST keep going. None of us knows what awaits us just around the corner. We have to be willing to turn the corner in order to find out. Bless you.