It's hard to believe that today is December 29, 2010. I'm not exactly sure what happened to September, October and November. I mean, really, it feels like school just started, and we're already looking at January. Even when I was little, I can remember worrying that time was going too quickly and that I would soon be old and die. Now, even though time goes even quicker, I'm confident that when my time is finished I'll be more than satisfied with the gifts I have been given.
Like everybody else, it's hard not to look back at 2010 and weigh the good and the bad. Even though the present moment is where I try to live, I think it's also important to take some time every now and then to celebrate those moments that were memorable and forgive yourself for those moments that you wish you could actually forget.
I've had a bunch of great things happen to me this year. I was able to vacation in Santa Fe with friends this summer. I grew flowers on my back deck. I spent many hours with Grace at the dog park visiting with human and dog friends. I walked countless miles, in good and bad weather, with my best friend at the end of the leash. I read tons, saw another ton of movies. I worked and played hard with my kids at school. I hung out with my own kids and my mom and dad.
I also struck out a few times. I struggled with taking my medicine on a daily basis, not making peace with that until mid-summer. I bought a scale, but never actually brought it home. I gave in to negative self-talk, and often felt like I was a failure as a hard-core anorexic. BUT, I kept moving forward and I did "the next right thing."
In July, I said a formal goodbye to Ed, even though, admittedly, I still dream about him from time-to-time.
Out of everything, my favorite month of 2010 has been December. This may have been my favorite December ever. I started off by putting up my tree (first time in three years). I had convinced myself that my zoo would destroy it, but I think they must have sensed that it was time for a tree. I mailed Christmas cards. I went to my school's Christmas party. I shopped. . . a little. I played Christmas music.
I took my mom and her friend to a concert of gospel music that lasted four hours. I loved how happy and excited she seemed to be. I sat the entire four hours, I sat still and calm and content.
On Christmas Day, my kids and parents all gathered at my home. My home, with a tree and stockings, and lasagna and rolls in the oven, with a dog on the couch and two cats on the bed. We laughed and cried (Well, actually, mom cried). We played games and Sam lost! Will and Dad took Grace for a walk. We took pictures and we didn't pretend to be happy. . we were. In blue jeans and sock feet, with paper napkins and mismatched plates, with cokes in plastic bottles and shampoo gifts in stockings, with a dog trying to figure out how to hold hands when we prayed. We were happy.
Never would I have thought that I would be in such a place. I think I'm starting to live well in spite of a mental illness. In some ways, it feels as if I've learned to live well because of a mental illness. If I had known this was possible, I would have embraced my craziness years ago.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Errands
I'm not a big fan of errands. Even as a kid, I hated them, riding with my mom after school to "run by" the post office, then the bank, the grocery, the drug store. I'm still not sure what Mom was always mailing and it seems like maybe we were rich or something with all the checks that seemed to be coming our way.
When I had to run my own errands, I hated them even more. Errands become full-fledged projects when three young kids are involved. In fact, some of my errands, like getting gas for my car and grocery shopping were run after the kids were bathed and in bed and their dad could stay with them.
During my biggest and final round with anorexia, I was down to one errand. If I couldn't buy it at Walgreens I didn't need it. I didn't even shop the aisles because I knew where the otc drugs, razors, laxatives and diet pepsi were all located! And when your brain is so impaired from lack of calories that you can't remember to pay the bills, who needs the post office.
Anyway, since I've been well, my errand activity has definitely increased, one of the few bad things about recovery, I suppose.
This morning I left my house to run errands, complete with list in hand. (Why is it so satisfying to mark things off a list? I've even added things to my list after I completed a task just so I can put a check mark next to it.)
My first stop was the cable company in Crestwood. I switched servers a couple of weeks ago and needed to close out the account. Check.
Next, I stopped by school to feed our class hamster. Since we had a snow day on the last day before our holiday break, no one had taken her home for vacation. I was afraid she would starve before we went back so my guilty conscience was how Hannah the hamster wound up on my errand list. Check.
Next stop, J. Crew to find a pair of 29X32 pants for my 130 pound 6 footer.
"Collins!" my principal hollered as I was walking out the door.
It turned out she had some gifts for a family in our school community whose house had burned just a week ago. Her car wouldn't hold everything and she needed an extra set of hands and a van.
Rewind. Next stop, 110 Lee Street, LaGrange.
We unloaded my van and practically filled their grandmother's living room with stockings, food and presents. Of course, that was after we ran another errand at Kroger to purchase a gift card for the family.
Naturally, we had to stop for lunch after leaving their house. Naturally.
Nearly two hours had passed since I took a detour from my original errand list. I stopped quickly at the Summitt to buy Will's pants. Check.
I decided to skip the rest of my list so I could take Grace for a walk in the all too fleeting sunshine. She's looking pretty sassy in her Christmas collar, and I like the way she walks like she knows she's beautiful. As we walked along, a friend driving by, rolled down her window and yelled "Merry Christmas, Gracie! You, too, Angela!"
As we continued to walk I realized then that errands aren't so bad. In fact, maybe life is just one big errand. I just need to be willing to take my eyes off the list long enough to notice just what a wonderful life it is.
When I had to run my own errands, I hated them even more. Errands become full-fledged projects when three young kids are involved. In fact, some of my errands, like getting gas for my car and grocery shopping were run after the kids were bathed and in bed and their dad could stay with them.
During my biggest and final round with anorexia, I was down to one errand. If I couldn't buy it at Walgreens I didn't need it. I didn't even shop the aisles because I knew where the otc drugs, razors, laxatives and diet pepsi were all located! And when your brain is so impaired from lack of calories that you can't remember to pay the bills, who needs the post office.
Anyway, since I've been well, my errand activity has definitely increased, one of the few bad things about recovery, I suppose.
This morning I left my house to run errands, complete with list in hand. (Why is it so satisfying to mark things off a list? I've even added things to my list after I completed a task just so I can put a check mark next to it.)
My first stop was the cable company in Crestwood. I switched servers a couple of weeks ago and needed to close out the account. Check.
Next, I stopped by school to feed our class hamster. Since we had a snow day on the last day before our holiday break, no one had taken her home for vacation. I was afraid she would starve before we went back so my guilty conscience was how Hannah the hamster wound up on my errand list. Check.
Next stop, J. Crew to find a pair of 29X32 pants for my 130 pound 6 footer.
"Collins!" my principal hollered as I was walking out the door.
It turned out she had some gifts for a family in our school community whose house had burned just a week ago. Her car wouldn't hold everything and she needed an extra set of hands and a van.
Rewind. Next stop, 110 Lee Street, LaGrange.
We unloaded my van and practically filled their grandmother's living room with stockings, food and presents. Of course, that was after we ran another errand at Kroger to purchase a gift card for the family.
Naturally, we had to stop for lunch after leaving their house. Naturally.
Nearly two hours had passed since I took a detour from my original errand list. I stopped quickly at the Summitt to buy Will's pants. Check.
I decided to skip the rest of my list so I could take Grace for a walk in the all too fleeting sunshine. She's looking pretty sassy in her Christmas collar, and I like the way she walks like she knows she's beautiful. As we walked along, a friend driving by, rolled down her window and yelled "Merry Christmas, Gracie! You, too, Angela!"
As we continued to walk I realized then that errands aren't so bad. In fact, maybe life is just one big errand. I just need to be willing to take my eyes off the list long enough to notice just what a wonderful life it is.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
That Girl
Carly came into the world loving most things; in fact, I could probably count on one hand the things she truly hates. In no particular order, I would most definitely include shoes, peacocks, bigots, injustice and math. And while her "despise list" is rather short, I must say that the hate is deep and intense and for always.
Unfortunately, her hate for all things math has continued into the final days of this semester. She finds herself caught between a D and an F in a class where she needs a C. Her professor has not been much help; her mother advised her NOT to drop the class when that was an option; the tests are on computer so she doesn't even know what she's missing.
To continue in her major towards a degree that will enable her to work with women who are struggling with mental health issues, she has to get a C in math, and unlike so many young women, she refuses to adjust her goal, settle for something easier just because she's hit a road block.
We talked on the phone this afternoon. She asked for my advice like we were old friends.
What she didn't say was even more impressive.
She didn't say,
Her telling me that she had aced the math class would not possibly have made me any prouder. It doesn't take much heart to get an A.
But to fail a class with dignity, with hard work, to know what really matters, now that takes heart. A heart that tries to rescue baby moles and broken hearted friends. A heart that will sit with her crazy mother when it should be the other way around. A heart that will stand up and speak when gays or blacks are feeling the heat of discrimination. A heart that loves carelessly and forgives too quickly. A heart that loves old people's stories and can pretend with any preschooler. A heart that hates shoes and peacocks and math.
I love that heart. I love that Girl.
Unfortunately, her hate for all things math has continued into the final days of this semester. She finds herself caught between a D and an F in a class where she needs a C. Her professor has not been much help; her mother advised her NOT to drop the class when that was an option; the tests are on computer so she doesn't even know what she's missing.
To continue in her major towards a degree that will enable her to work with women who are struggling with mental health issues, she has to get a C in math, and unlike so many young women, she refuses to adjust her goal, settle for something easier just because she's hit a road block.
We talked on the phone this afternoon. She asked for my advice like we were old friends.
- Should she keep working towards a D in math or concentrate on other classes where she can almost smell an A?
- Next semester, she'll get a tutor early in the semester,
- and she'll take the class as a 4-day three hour class instead of a 3-day three hour class.
- Maybe she'll look for a different teacher.
What she didn't say was even more impressive.
She didn't say,
- This is too hard.
- The teacher's not fair.
- I'm changing my major.
- Maybe I'm not college material.
- This is your fault. I told you I wanted to drop the class.
Her telling me that she had aced the math class would not possibly have made me any prouder. It doesn't take much heart to get an A.
But to fail a class with dignity, with hard work, to know what really matters, now that takes heart. A heart that tries to rescue baby moles and broken hearted friends. A heart that will sit with her crazy mother when it should be the other way around. A heart that will stand up and speak when gays or blacks are feeling the heat of discrimination. A heart that loves carelessly and forgives too quickly. A heart that loves old people's stories and can pretend with any preschooler. A heart that hates shoes and peacocks and math.
I love that heart. I love that Girl.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
A Boring Life
I like to think of myself as having a very simple life, what some people would refer to as boring. When I look at the big picture, I'm a mom of three grown children, I teach fifth grade, I'm a daughter to two great parents, and I'm not such a bad friend. It certainly sounds manageable and I sometimes actually wonder how I fill my days with so few "duties."
Today I woke up at 5:30 to walk Grace, my dog, and by 6:45 I was ready and off to school.
At 7:15, I was helping two kids drag in a huge barrel to collect shoes and blankets for the homeless. I then had a lengthy discussion (maybe it just seemed lengthy) as to what a Cheese-a-dilla actually was -- that was what the cafeteria had listed as a lunch choice.
I also timed Collin as he went to the bathroom because he has a tendency to lose track of time, a lot of time. Then noticed that Hannah the hamster's cage was a little stinky and suggested she might need a cleaning. During the day, I also helped a couple kids with long division, listened to someone's Christmas Wishes, which included a visit from his estranged dad, who happens to spend his holidays in prison. Believe it or not, the only college prep I had to any of this was the long division, and I'm not sure how important that is anyway.
I assisted Sean in drilling holes in a plastic bottle to make a bird feeder. He placed the hole too high from the perch in my opinion, but he insisted there were tall birds who needed to eat too. I read aloud from The Great Gilly Hopkins, then read it again to a couple of kids who are so easily distracted they need a private reading. I spent quite a bit of time playing with blocks trying to convince my kids that just because there are three pieces to a puzzle doesn't necessarily mean its divided into thirds.
Somewhere in there I ate Nachos (I opted out of the Cheese-a-dilla) and gave a few high fives in the hall to the kids who reassure me that they're going to be in my room next year.
At 2:30, I put the last kid on the bus and went to a faculty meeting. We talked about our Christmas party and the "dirty Santa" game we always play. It sounds quite provactive but it's actually very tame. Lori, our principal, then talked about a new nationally based standard curriculum, where 5th grade will be assessed in all subject areas. I said "Bring it on." (Actually, I don't think that was my exact quote.)
On the way home, I touched base with Carly, who was in a much better mood. Talked with my mom and dad. At home, I walked Grace, did a load of laundry, cleaned my living room floor (that's almost a daily chore when you live at a zoo.) Now I'm on my way to a book club meeting.
If my life gets any more boring, I'm going to have to start working weekends.
Today I woke up at 5:30 to walk Grace, my dog, and by 6:45 I was ready and off to school.
At 7:15, I was helping two kids drag in a huge barrel to collect shoes and blankets for the homeless. I then had a lengthy discussion (maybe it just seemed lengthy) as to what a Cheese-a-dilla actually was -- that was what the cafeteria had listed as a lunch choice.
I also timed Collin as he went to the bathroom because he has a tendency to lose track of time, a lot of time. Then noticed that Hannah the hamster's cage was a little stinky and suggested she might need a cleaning. During the day, I also helped a couple kids with long division, listened to someone's Christmas Wishes, which included a visit from his estranged dad, who happens to spend his holidays in prison. Believe it or not, the only college prep I had to any of this was the long division, and I'm not sure how important that is anyway.
I assisted Sean in drilling holes in a plastic bottle to make a bird feeder. He placed the hole too high from the perch in my opinion, but he insisted there were tall birds who needed to eat too. I read aloud from The Great Gilly Hopkins, then read it again to a couple of kids who are so easily distracted they need a private reading. I spent quite a bit of time playing with blocks trying to convince my kids that just because there are three pieces to a puzzle doesn't necessarily mean its divided into thirds.
Somewhere in there I ate Nachos (I opted out of the Cheese-a-dilla) and gave a few high fives in the hall to the kids who reassure me that they're going to be in my room next year.
At 2:30, I put the last kid on the bus and went to a faculty meeting. We talked about our Christmas party and the "dirty Santa" game we always play. It sounds quite provactive but it's actually very tame. Lori, our principal, then talked about a new nationally based standard curriculum, where 5th grade will be assessed in all subject areas. I said "Bring it on." (Actually, I don't think that was my exact quote.)
On the way home, I touched base with Carly, who was in a much better mood. Talked with my mom and dad. At home, I walked Grace, did a load of laundry, cleaned my living room floor (that's almost a daily chore when you live at a zoo.) Now I'm on my way to a book club meeting.
If my life gets any more boring, I'm going to have to start working weekends.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Enduring Love
Enter his gates with thanksgiving and his courts with praise;
give thanks to him and praise his name. For the LORD is good and his love
endures forever; his faithfulness continues through all generations. Psalm 100:
4-5
My friend, Pam, posted that quote on her facebook page on Thanksgiving morning. I tend to make fun of her daily posts, which usually consist of "I cleaned my house today" or "Why do I get behind all of the idiots at Walmart?" I didn't have a witty, smart-ass comment to this one.
Truthfully, this one kind of caught me off guard. Probably for a couple of reasons.
First, the familiarity of the posted verse reminded me that my walk towards balance and simplicity did not begin at Renfrew Treatment Center two years ago, but actually started decades ago in a church on the corner of 8th and Main Streets in Covington, KY. My intellect and questions were honored and encouraged there, by a small group of people who were way ahead of their time. (They also managed to stick a few key verses into my brain that had nothing to do with sin and hell, but everything about love and compassion.)
The second reason I was taken aback is that I find that most people quote verses that are self-serving or a poor attempt to explain the crap away that happens in our lives. But not this one. It simply states a fact.
In the eloquence of the poem lies the single truth that is so hard for me to wrap my mind around: love endures. It isn't earned or deserved. It doesn't get killed in car wrecks or lost in a move. Love endures.
Just like Levi's, good leather boots or the Veleveteen Rabbit, the Spirit's love gets more comfortable, more
form fitting, the more you wear it, use it, give it away.
After awhile, after all the enduring, the love isn't just an accessory to who you are, it becomes you. So much so, that "nothing can separate us from the love of God." Love endures. . . For that, I will always be thankful.
form fitting, the more you wear it, use it, give it away.
After awhile, after all the enduring, the love isn't just an accessory to who you are, it becomes you. So much so, that "nothing can separate us from the love of God." Love endures. . . For that, I will always be thankful.
Monday, November 22, 2010
A Letter to Will
Dear Will,
This past Saturday I watched as you ran in your final Cross Country race, and as I watched I couldn't help but wonder where all the years had gone.
It seems like yesterday I was watching you run the mile in a yellow t-shirt, baggy shorts and basketball shoes on the playground at Crestwood elementary.
Then you moved into middle school where you ran 3K's in the early morning hours then we stopped at McDonald's for breakfast as we drove home together. You talked all the way home; I guess there wasn't any competition from your brother and sister.
In high school, you ran 5K's and rode the bus back with the team. (I missed our McDonald's breakfasts.) The Hillbilly Run is still my favorite because they sold cool t-shirts and you always ran a PR there. The Dragon Invitationals were always eventful, too. My least favorite was probably when we had it by the Baptist church and we spent Friday afternoon shoveling piles of cow sh-- off the course. Of course, the record rain and 2 feet of mud that you made your way through as a Senior will always be memorable.
In college, you moved to 8K's. I think Evansville may have been my favorite meet -- I really liked the lake there. (I must say, however, that college races were lame when it came to t-shirts and concessions.) And then all of a sudden, I was standing at Tom Sawyer Park on Saturday as you ran a 10K, and just like that, it was over.
Honestly, Will, watching you run has been one of my greatest pleasures in being your mom. The pride that swells within me at each and every race has never been surpassed by a theater performance or a band competition. This past Saturday I finally understood why.
In all the races that you have started and finished, you never once approached the starting line thinking you would win--that you would get a huge trophy, a standing ovation or a written review in the next day's newspaper.
You did approach the line knowing that you would give your best, that you would finish the race. (I won't bore you with the details, but that profound act is actually biblical. Religious people devote their lives to learning how to give their best and finish the race.)
By continuing to put one foot in front of the other -- even when your shoe was untied (or tied too tightly thanks to Bo), or when you fell in the creek or your shoes didn't fit correctly, or the ground was too hard or muddy for spikes, even when you were lapped by faster runners, even when your blister bled through to the outside of your shoe (how cool is that?), even when it must have felt like things were falling apart--you took the next step, lengthened your stride and kept your eyes up. When you finished, you shook the hand of the runners near you and congratulated them on a race well run. Every time, Will. You did this every time.
Maybe after 13 years of you running I've finally learned the lesson you began teaching me when you were a 4th grader. In all that I do, whether as a teacher, a friend, a daughter, or most importantly, as your mother, I will strive to give it my best and I will most certainly finish the race.
I love you, Will. And not for being good, not for staying out of trouble, not for being the peacemaker in our family. I love you for the heart of a champion that beats inside that weird chest of yours. I love you because you show up and finish. I love you because you are mine.
Mom
This past Saturday I watched as you ran in your final Cross Country race, and as I watched I couldn't help but wonder where all the years had gone.
It seems like yesterday I was watching you run the mile in a yellow t-shirt, baggy shorts and basketball shoes on the playground at Crestwood elementary.
Then you moved into middle school where you ran 3K's in the early morning hours then we stopped at McDonald's for breakfast as we drove home together. You talked all the way home; I guess there wasn't any competition from your brother and sister.
In high school, you ran 5K's and rode the bus back with the team. (I missed our McDonald's breakfasts.) The Hillbilly Run is still my favorite because they sold cool t-shirts and you always ran a PR there. The Dragon Invitationals were always eventful, too. My least favorite was probably when we had it by the Baptist church and we spent Friday afternoon shoveling piles of cow sh-- off the course. Of course, the record rain and 2 feet of mud that you made your way through as a Senior will always be memorable.
In college, you moved to 8K's. I think Evansville may have been my favorite meet -- I really liked the lake there. (I must say, however, that college races were lame when it came to t-shirts and concessions.) And then all of a sudden, I was standing at Tom Sawyer Park on Saturday as you ran a 10K, and just like that, it was over.
Honestly, Will, watching you run has been one of my greatest pleasures in being your mom. The pride that swells within me at each and every race has never been surpassed by a theater performance or a band competition. This past Saturday I finally understood why.
In all the races that you have started and finished, you never once approached the starting line thinking you would win--that you would get a huge trophy, a standing ovation or a written review in the next day's newspaper.
You did approach the line knowing that you would give your best, that you would finish the race. (I won't bore you with the details, but that profound act is actually biblical. Religious people devote their lives to learning how to give their best and finish the race.)
By continuing to put one foot in front of the other -- even when your shoe was untied (or tied too tightly thanks to Bo), or when you fell in the creek or your shoes didn't fit correctly, or the ground was too hard or muddy for spikes, even when you were lapped by faster runners, even when your blister bled through to the outside of your shoe (how cool is that?), even when it must have felt like things were falling apart--you took the next step, lengthened your stride and kept your eyes up. When you finished, you shook the hand of the runners near you and congratulated them on a race well run. Every time, Will. You did this every time.
Maybe after 13 years of you running I've finally learned the lesson you began teaching me when you were a 4th grader. In all that I do, whether as a teacher, a friend, a daughter, or most importantly, as your mother, I will strive to give it my best and I will most certainly finish the race.
I love you, Will. And not for being good, not for staying out of trouble, not for being the peacemaker in our family. I love you for the heart of a champion that beats inside that weird chest of yours. I love you because you show up and finish. I love you because you are mine.
Mom
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Off Balance
For the past couple of nights, I've had trouble sleeping. . . I've actually slept, I suppose, just intense, crazy dreams.
I've also read Unbearable Lightness, a book about recovery from anorexia. I thought it was great, but I can't seem to shake it.
Then, I saw a woman when I was getting my haircut last week who was extremely thin and enjoying it. Honestly, I was a little jealous.
Lastly, my nutritionist weighed me and I had actually gained five pounds in the last few months.
I didn't realize this was actually getting to me until I noticed my dog being very restless and unable to relax. Then I realized I was doing the same thing.
Sometimes recovery feels like shit. When you're at the bottom of the well, all you have to do is get out of bed and the world claps for you. When you're doing okay the bar is so much higher and there's so much more to lose. Today is one of the those scary days, but I have to remind myself those scary days used to be my whole life. Tomorrow will bring balance.'
I've also read Unbearable Lightness, a book about recovery from anorexia. I thought it was great, but I can't seem to shake it.
Then, I saw a woman when I was getting my haircut last week who was extremely thin and enjoying it. Honestly, I was a little jealous.
Lastly, my nutritionist weighed me and I had actually gained five pounds in the last few months.
I didn't realize this was actually getting to me until I noticed my dog being very restless and unable to relax. Then I realized I was doing the same thing.
Sometimes recovery feels like shit. When you're at the bottom of the well, all you have to do is get out of bed and the world claps for you. When you're doing okay the bar is so much higher and there's so much more to lose. Today is one of the those scary days, but I have to remind myself those scary days used to be my whole life. Tomorrow will bring balance.'
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Election Day
This past Tuesday was Election Day. The results were less than pleasing for me when you look at the official win/loss board. The Republicans won the Senate seat for Kentucky, and Democrats lost control of the House. It was really no surprise though.
Since I turned 18 -- nearly 30 years ago (ouch!) -- I have voted in every election, every primary, general and presidential. I went to the polls informed, for several years with a child or two in tow. I even went to vote when I was on bedrest because of the pregnancy with the twins. The officials that year let me go to the front of the line.
I have always gone to the polls, imagining that I was casting my vote for all of the women in my past who were denied that right. I went with purpose and pride.
That changed two years ago.
Election Day 2008 proved to be historical in electing our nation's first black president. It also proved to be the day I hit the bottom that I had been spiraling towards for months.
By the time the final votes had been counted, I found myself at Ten Broeck Psychiatric Hospital, but not before I cast my vote so impaired from prescription pills and starvation that I took out a stop sign in the parking lot at the voting poll. (I'm just hoping I actually voted for Obama, but I couldn't swear to it.)
Anyway, I haven't voted since that day. Feelings of shame, unworthiness and paralyzing dread kept me away. Just thinking about going caused me to feel my heart beat in my ears. I guess I thought of myself as a convicted felon, that I had given up my right to voice an opinion.
This year on election day I cleaned and vacuumed my car out. I took Margaret, Laura's mother, to lunch; I hadn't seen her since I left Jeff. I walked Grace and did some laundry. I talked with my kids and my mom on the phone. I was just getting ready for an afternoon nap when Cathy called. She was predicting the outcome of the election, concerned that Rand Paul would be our next senator. I listened quietly when it dawned on her.
"You haven't voted, have you?" After a couple of seconds of silence, she said quite simply, "Go vote. It's time."
I grabbed my keys and made the short drive to the neighborhood church where I stood in line to vote. I stood there chatting with the old man who was volunteering. I stood there with clear eyes and a steady hand as I filled out my ballot. And while it wasn't an historical election, in the national sense, for me. . . my ticket won before the votes were even counted.
Since I turned 18 -- nearly 30 years ago (ouch!) -- I have voted in every election, every primary, general and presidential. I went to the polls informed, for several years with a child or two in tow. I even went to vote when I was on bedrest because of the pregnancy with the twins. The officials that year let me go to the front of the line.
I have always gone to the polls, imagining that I was casting my vote for all of the women in my past who were denied that right. I went with purpose and pride.
That changed two years ago.
Election Day 2008 proved to be historical in electing our nation's first black president. It also proved to be the day I hit the bottom that I had been spiraling towards for months.
By the time the final votes had been counted, I found myself at Ten Broeck Psychiatric Hospital, but not before I cast my vote so impaired from prescription pills and starvation that I took out a stop sign in the parking lot at the voting poll. (I'm just hoping I actually voted for Obama, but I couldn't swear to it.)
Anyway, I haven't voted since that day. Feelings of shame, unworthiness and paralyzing dread kept me away. Just thinking about going caused me to feel my heart beat in my ears. I guess I thought of myself as a convicted felon, that I had given up my right to voice an opinion.
This year on election day I cleaned and vacuumed my car out. I took Margaret, Laura's mother, to lunch; I hadn't seen her since I left Jeff. I walked Grace and did some laundry. I talked with my kids and my mom on the phone. I was just getting ready for an afternoon nap when Cathy called. She was predicting the outcome of the election, concerned that Rand Paul would be our next senator. I listened quietly when it dawned on her.
"You haven't voted, have you?" After a couple of seconds of silence, she said quite simply, "Go vote. It's time."
I grabbed my keys and made the short drive to the neighborhood church where I stood in line to vote. I stood there chatting with the old man who was volunteering. I stood there with clear eyes and a steady hand as I filled out my ballot. And while it wasn't an historical election, in the national sense, for me. . . my ticket won before the votes were even counted.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Laundry a.k.a Life
My therapist, Erika, has used more than her fair share of analogies in the nearly two years I've been in recovery. (Maybe it's metaphors. I'm never sure which word is appropriate. . . )
In one of our first appointments, she drew a huge oval on the legal pad she uses to write down notes during our sessions together. Truthfully, I'm not sure what she writes -- maybe her grocery list for all I know. I actually have a recurrent dream where Jeff finds all of her notes about me and gives them to our kids. Maybe that's why I'm hoping for a grocery list. Anyway, back to the oval. She used to shade in 99% of it, telling me that was how much of me was controlled by Ed. Over time, a very long time, the shaded part receded significantly and Erika quit drawing ovals.
Next she started talking about new rooms. During the "room period" she helped me to discard some old furniture, some of the more obvious were scales, razors, restricting, and she helped me to pick out some new things, like walking, therapy, food, sleep and prozac that would certainly support the move. I also followed her lead and brought my kids, my parents, my friends, my job, my self-esteem along as well. That's when I knew I could trust her.
Mixed up in there, Erika has drawn continuums featuring levels of assertiveness and sketched out the different stages of the loaded gun called Ed. When my sarcastic self shows up for therapy, I secretly roll my eyes (maybe not secretly) and think we should just read The Little Engine that Could. I'll chant "I think I can. I think I can." click my heels together and find myself in Kansas completely cured.
Overtime though, I find that Erika's ridiculous analogies are ridiculously effective and contagious. I'm telling you, if I drew a self-portrait I have no doubt that it would be a beautiful oval, without a bit of shading, and I sometimes find myself thinking about hanging curtains in my new room but then I realize that would make it my mother's room. All I'm saying is whatever she's selling, I'm buying because it's all proven to be good stuff.
This past week Erika brought out a new one. One that is near and dear to my heart -- laundry. Trying to convince me that therapy is not a sign of weakness, she said that it allows me to iron out the wrinkles of my laundry. Reminding me that the longer I leave the wrinkled laundry to pile up, the more difficult and overwhelming it becomes. (The moral of the story: take care of the anxiety in your life as it comes, while it is manageable.) I think this might be my favorite to date.
Since that session, I've started thinking of my time in residential treatment as when I just threw the whole pile of laundry back in the washer and let it soak for awhile. Trying to iron it all out on my own had proven impossible. After the soak, what hadn't fallen apart, I packed and brought home. For awhile lots of folks helped out with my laundry. . . my mom, Cathy, Erika, even Nancy the Evil Keeper of the Scale. Now, for the most part, I guess I do my own laundry.
All in all, it stays caught up and clean. I don't look for the magic material that doesn't wrinkle or the detergent that promises to get out every stain. I'm beginning to think that wrinkles and stains are what happens to regular people, authentic people, present people. It's our response to them that makes us crazy or not. For so long I've tried to keep my hidden, and I'm beginning to realize that's what makes me crazy not the actual wrinkles.
The phrase "hiding my dirty laundry" has taken on a whole new meaning for me. From now on, mine's on the clothes line or in a basket that I take to Erika's office, where she can iron with me every now and then.
In one of our first appointments, she drew a huge oval on the legal pad she uses to write down notes during our sessions together. Truthfully, I'm not sure what she writes -- maybe her grocery list for all I know. I actually have a recurrent dream where Jeff finds all of her notes about me and gives them to our kids. Maybe that's why I'm hoping for a grocery list. Anyway, back to the oval. She used to shade in 99% of it, telling me that was how much of me was controlled by Ed. Over time, a very long time, the shaded part receded significantly and Erika quit drawing ovals.
Next she started talking about new rooms. During the "room period" she helped me to discard some old furniture, some of the more obvious were scales, razors, restricting, and she helped me to pick out some new things, like walking, therapy, food, sleep and prozac that would certainly support the move. I also followed her lead and brought my kids, my parents, my friends, my job, my self-esteem along as well. That's when I knew I could trust her.
Mixed up in there, Erika has drawn continuums featuring levels of assertiveness and sketched out the different stages of the loaded gun called Ed. When my sarcastic self shows up for therapy, I secretly roll my eyes (maybe not secretly) and think we should just read The Little Engine that Could. I'll chant "I think I can. I think I can." click my heels together and find myself in Kansas completely cured.
Overtime though, I find that Erika's ridiculous analogies are ridiculously effective and contagious. I'm telling you, if I drew a self-portrait I have no doubt that it would be a beautiful oval, without a bit of shading, and I sometimes find myself thinking about hanging curtains in my new room but then I realize that would make it my mother's room. All I'm saying is whatever she's selling, I'm buying because it's all proven to be good stuff.
This past week Erika brought out a new one. One that is near and dear to my heart -- laundry. Trying to convince me that therapy is not a sign of weakness, she said that it allows me to iron out the wrinkles of my laundry. Reminding me that the longer I leave the wrinkled laundry to pile up, the more difficult and overwhelming it becomes. (The moral of the story: take care of the anxiety in your life as it comes, while it is manageable.) I think this might be my favorite to date.
Since that session, I've started thinking of my time in residential treatment as when I just threw the whole pile of laundry back in the washer and let it soak for awhile. Trying to iron it all out on my own had proven impossible. After the soak, what hadn't fallen apart, I packed and brought home. For awhile lots of folks helped out with my laundry. . . my mom, Cathy, Erika, even Nancy the Evil Keeper of the Scale. Now, for the most part, I guess I do my own laundry.
All in all, it stays caught up and clean. I don't look for the magic material that doesn't wrinkle or the detergent that promises to get out every stain. I'm beginning to think that wrinkles and stains are what happens to regular people, authentic people, present people. It's our response to them that makes us crazy or not. For so long I've tried to keep my hidden, and I'm beginning to realize that's what makes me crazy not the actual wrinkles.
The phrase "hiding my dirty laundry" has taken on a whole new meaning for me. From now on, mine's on the clothes line or in a basket that I take to Erika's office, where she can iron with me every now and then.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Time Marches On
I suppose it's been too long since I've written here. I got to thinking that really nothing momentous has happened in the last couple of months but then I thought again.
1. All three kids went back to school, and, believe it or not, each of them calls me almost every day.
2. I ate supper with Cheryl, a friend of Laura's. I hadn't seen her since Jeff and I separated. It was sweet to feel her hugs and spend time with someone who misses Laura as much as I do.
3. I joined a bookclub where there will be food and people that I don't know.
4. I took Gracie swimming at Tom Sawyer park. Let's just say that what happens in the pool, stays in the pool. Both figuratively and literally.
5. I introduced Mom and Dad to Blizzards at Dairy Queen. . . and Dad told me how many calories was in one. (I think for a moment he forgot I had ever been sick!)
6. I now have a KTIP teacher and a student teacher.
7. I've taken my prozac without prompting every day since July.
8. I've actually made a friend at the dog park; I told her I was a recovering anorexic. (She still talked to me.)
9. Grace had a bad ear infection, but my parents came through again with funding for that emergency.
10. I saw Jeff at a Cross Country race; he wouldn't talk to me. I wish that had been different.. . I still carry hope.
11. Mom bought me a Nook and I'm obsessed.
12. Cathy and I have gone to a movie almost every weekend.
13. I planted mums and pansies in containers on my back porch for no one to enjoy but Grace and me.
14. Jeff refused to pay for Carly's books; I paid for them.I think it broke her heart.
15. I haven't missed any school, although I suppose that I should have taken off when Mom had her gall bladder out.. . oh, well.
16. Cathy comes over every evening to help put drops in Grace's ears. . which is so much more fun than having her bring my own medicine to me.
17. I've spend precious time with Carly, falling in love with her all over again, even when, or maybe because, she's so full of sass.
18. I've said countless prayers. . . asking for nothing, thanking God for everything.
To everything there is a season. . this fall will be reflective just like all of the others, but this season rather than reliving the mistakes I have made, I will ponder the goodness in my life.
1. All three kids went back to school, and, believe it or not, each of them calls me almost every day.
2. I ate supper with Cheryl, a friend of Laura's. I hadn't seen her since Jeff and I separated. It was sweet to feel her hugs and spend time with someone who misses Laura as much as I do.
3. I joined a bookclub where there will be food and people that I don't know.
4. I took Gracie swimming at Tom Sawyer park. Let's just say that what happens in the pool, stays in the pool. Both figuratively and literally.
5. I introduced Mom and Dad to Blizzards at Dairy Queen. . . and Dad told me how many calories was in one. (I think for a moment he forgot I had ever been sick!)
6. I now have a KTIP teacher and a student teacher.
7. I've taken my prozac without prompting every day since July.
8. I've actually made a friend at the dog park; I told her I was a recovering anorexic. (She still talked to me.)
9. Grace had a bad ear infection, but my parents came through again with funding for that emergency.
10. I saw Jeff at a Cross Country race; he wouldn't talk to me. I wish that had been different.. . I still carry hope.
11. Mom bought me a Nook and I'm obsessed.
12. Cathy and I have gone to a movie almost every weekend.
13. I planted mums and pansies in containers on my back porch for no one to enjoy but Grace and me.
14. Jeff refused to pay for Carly's books; I paid for them.I think it broke her heart.
15. I haven't missed any school, although I suppose that I should have taken off when Mom had her gall bladder out.. . oh, well.
16. Cathy comes over every evening to help put drops in Grace's ears. . which is so much more fun than having her bring my own medicine to me.
17. I've spend precious time with Carly, falling in love with her all over again, even when, or maybe because, she's so full of sass.
18. I've said countless prayers. . . asking for nothing, thanking God for everything.
To everything there is a season. . this fall will be reflective just like all of the others, but this season rather than reliving the mistakes I have made, I will ponder the goodness in my life.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
A "Dear John" Letter to Ed
Dear ED,
This letter is a long time coming, and, trust me, I’m not writing it on a whim. In fact, when I left residential treatment, my therapist, my nutritionist AND my team director all encouraged me to write this letter, and that was January 2009. I told them quite honestly that I wasn’t ready to completely break off our relationship. There was a part of me that certainly wanted to move you out of my bedroom, but I still wanted to meet you at the neighborhood hotel from time to time.
There have been other moments in the year and a half since then that I thought I was ready to move into the “healthy room,” but I never could quite take the plunge. (I swear, I NEVER thought I would refer to a mental illness as Ed or use Erika’s analogy about rooms in a house, but, hey, it’s a little saner than weighing yourself 50X during the night or drinking Ensure then taking laxatives. After all, who am I to judge?)
Anyway, Erika brought it to my attention that I’ve been hanging out in the healthy room in the last few months, only occasionally looking back into the room of irrational thoughts and destructive behaviors. In fact, without realizing it, I’ve moved some furniture as well – my books, my favorite chair and quilt. I’ve brought my cats, Rufus and Henri along, and Grace even guards the door, allowing only rational thoughts and honest feelings across the threshold. The kids and their friends hang out here, too. My own friends and family drop by my new place without the look of fear or frustration like when they visited the place that you and I shared. Actually, the healthy room has become a house, because frankly, one room just wasn’t big enough for my life.
When I started this journey four years ago, I was in search of a simple life. You tried to convince me that with just the two of us my life couldn’t possibly be any more simple. Unfortunately, we were filling up our room with complicated emptiness and loneliness; let’s be honest, there’s absolutely nothing simple about you. The new place, though, talk about simple – simple laughter, compassion, forgiveness, honesty, love and grace, and because my new place is so full of these simple things there just isn’t room for your complicated, irrational and destructive behaviors. Of course, there is also pain in my new house, but it is accompanied with comfort and hope.
I would be lying if I said I was putting you out on the street; I wish I could, but realistically, I’m not sure I’ll ever do that. But, in case you haven’t noticed, you’ve been moved to the attic, where old prom dresses and the ugly luggage with no wheels are kept.
As crazy as it sounds, I’m grateful to you. You helped me make excuses and find ways to give my exhausted soul a break. But, big picture, you lied when you said that you were all I deserved. Even with that, I’m sure there will be moments when I think of you and maybe even crack open the door, but my new place requires a lot of work and energy, and I doubt if there will be much time for searching in the attic.
It’s over, Ed. Don’t try to convince me otherwise, and don’t think you can scare me either. You have to remember that it’s not just the two of us anymore. My support has moved with me. The Prozac is actually easier to swallow when I take it in my healthy room and Erika doesn’t have to repeat herself so much when we chat while you are in the attic. Oh, and eating and sleeping and even walking with Grace. . . they came too. You see, Ed, I’ve thought of everything.
Don’t worry; I’ll always remember you, and I honor the fact the road we shared in some twisted way has led me to this very sweet place. But the truth remains that the lock to the attic is on the outside; I’ll have to be the one that comes looking for you, and I’m just not seeing that happen.
In the end, Ed, I’ve finally realized that you were wrong; I deserve so much more than you.
Goodbye.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
A Grocery Cart
I go to the grocery a lot since I still don't like to push around a big cart and have tons of food in my refrigerator. As a result of this lingering quirk, I end up at the grocery several times a week. Because of all this Kroger exposure and my own sick interest in what everyone is putting in their cart, I'm beginning to think that there's a dissertation to be written from the observations at a grocery.
As a kid, I remember going to Ralph's, a corner grocery story halfway between our house and my great-grandmother's. He (there actually was a Ralph) had this one little miniature grocery cart that I prayed would be there each time we went. My mom would let me push it around, filling it with food as we went up and down the aisles.
When I was a young wife, going to the grocery for the very first time, I wasn't sure if I needed all-purpose or self-rising flour. And sugar, if you don't drink coffee or bake, does anyone really need 5 pounds of the stuff. I think it took me about three years to stock our pantry with at least the basics one needs to run a semi-functioning kitchen. Seriously, someone needs to write a book about this.
I pushed two carts when Sam, Carly and Will were babies. I guess technically I pushed one and pulled one. I know when the twins were finally weaned to whole milk I bought 4 gallons of the stuff at one time. The carts were full of bananas and applesauce, peanut butter, oatmeal, crackers, grape juice, carrots and sweet potatoes, yogurt and cottage cheese. Anyone with any sense could tell I was a mom trying to do the right thing just by looking at my cart. (Of course, I also bought a stash of diet pepsi and snickers candy bars, but that's another story.)
Nowadays, I'm more of a grocery observer than an active participant. I like the women who come into the grocery with the high heels right after work. They almost always choose a handheld basket and go straight to the deli. The guys on Friday nights with their kids in tow usually have a basket full of Frosted Flakes and chicken nuggets. Then there's the coupon queen her wallet full of 50% off and buy one get one free. The grocery is usually crowded at the first of the month with the older set pushing their carts, usually in the middle of the aisle. Then there's the person with a cart full of frozen dinners and individual cat food cans that I can't help but feel sorry for even though I have no idea if what she is buying is even for her.
A few years ago my grocery habits became very predictable. I stopped at the store almost daily, chose a basket and quickly placed a diet pepsi, a box of laxatives, a container of razor blades, a bottle of robutussin and a box of Wheat Thins into it. I tried to go through the self-serve lane or choose one where the clerk seemed oblivious. I thought I was super slick, but I'm sure someone felt worse for me than I do the cat lady.
Then, I moved onto Ensure and Boost. All I needed to buy then was the protective adult diapers right next to the supplements and anyone would have thought I had an elderly loved one at home. But the fact remained that I didn't. Even with the Ensure, I usually bought an occasional box of laxatives or over-the-counter sleep aid. I hoped the clerk thought I now had a constipated, insomniac I was caring for.
Thankfully, things continue to change in my grocery cart as well as in my life.
Last evening, Will went with me to Kroger. I searched for the smaller cart while he suggested one of the many larger carts available. When I smiled and said, "Not yet," he gently put his arm around my neck. Grinning, he said, "You're crazy, you know?" No need to answer.
Over the next few minutes, we placed grapes and banana nut muffins into my cart. We picked up roast beef, whole wheat bread, bagels, and orange juice. We got a bone for Grace and Gatorade for Will. We even got strawberry poptarts with icing. As we checked out, I looked the clerk and bagger in the eyes and wished them a nice evening. I'm sure they thought I was just a boring mom with a great big dog. You really can tell a lot about a person just by looking in their cart.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
June 19, 1982
Twenty-eight years ago yesterday, I promised Jeff that I would honor and support him until the day that I died. I meant it then, and not being able to follow through on that vow has been one of the lowest points of my life. I sometimes feel that I let the people that witnessed our marriage down, my parents, my children, God, Jeff, even myself.
BUT, I'm beginning to go just a little bit easier on myself this year. Rather than leaving my marriage, I actually walked into a healthy, joyful space. Instead of my kids having a mom who could not manage to be emotionally present but was still married to their dad, I gave my kids a mom who lives separately from their dad but is fully available in every way. Instead of living with the fear of regret, I live in the moment, knowing that what I've chosen will serve my family best.
Yesterday, I almost gave into the anniversary funk, but I realized I really didn't feel so bad. Jeff and I created three beautiful children and we certainly had our moments in the sun. As time passes, I pray that I will be able to embrace those sweet memories.
But, as for yesterday, I went with my 21 year old twins to watch Toy Story 3, complete with 3D glasses, popcorn and smuggled in cokes. I've learned that even one day is too many to waste. Next June 19, I will remember what Carly, Will and I did yesterday and how June 19, 1982 actually made that possible.
BUT, I'm beginning to go just a little bit easier on myself this year. Rather than leaving my marriage, I actually walked into a healthy, joyful space. Instead of my kids having a mom who could not manage to be emotionally present but was still married to their dad, I gave my kids a mom who lives separately from their dad but is fully available in every way. Instead of living with the fear of regret, I live in the moment, knowing that what I've chosen will serve my family best.
Yesterday, I almost gave into the anniversary funk, but I realized I really didn't feel so bad. Jeff and I created three beautiful children and we certainly had our moments in the sun. As time passes, I pray that I will be able to embrace those sweet memories.
But, as for yesterday, I went with my 21 year old twins to watch Toy Story 3, complete with 3D glasses, popcorn and smuggled in cokes. I've learned that even one day is too many to waste. Next June 19, I will remember what Carly, Will and I did yesterday and how June 19, 1982 actually made that possible.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
My Dad
(I wrote this as a nomination for "Father of the Year" at my parents' church.)
Most people who have spent any time at all with my dad probably know the following things:
Most people who have spent any time at all with my dad probably know the following things:
- He's a hard worker, (and he's hard of hearing.)
- He's conservative with his money and in his politics.
- He keeps his yard and his cars neat and clean.
- He likes to fix things -- lawn mowers, running toilets, chainsaws, my mom's opinions.
- He has high expectations for others, even higher ones for himself.
Some of these are things others might not know about Dad.
- His temper is fierce when he does get mad, so don't push too hard when you're arguing with my mom.
- When he's nervous, he talks. . . a lot.
- He only wears ties when my mother makes him.
- He promises that this year's garden is his last. . . every year.
- He prays on his knees every night.
Of course, in his spare time, his hobbies are planning for disasters and worrying about the plans.
He's also a softie. He likes Reds baseball and Louisville basketball because those are his younger grandson's teams. He pretends he enjoys Shakespeare when his older grandson is on the stage. He's been known to buy a car that he's never test driven when his granddaughter picked out the car. My mom almost never pumps her own gas , and somehow, the gas can for my lawn mower (in Louisville) never has to be refilled. He loves and cares for us the way many of our dads do, if we're lucky enough, but my dad has also proven himself in the darkest of seasons.
Nearly three years ago a mental illness that I had vehemently denied having for years began to spiral out of control. My marriage was ending and my children were leaving the nest and it was easy to blame my illness on the amount of stress and change in my life. Unfortunately, by the time the stressors had subsided my mental illness had moved into the driver's seat.
For possibly the first time in our family we had a problem my dad couldn't fix. He couldn't fight or buy the illness away. He couldn't order new parts. He wasn't able to reason or argue with it. He couldn't find any bootstraps to pull up. He couldn't work hard enough or long enough; he couldn't even pray it away.
Just when I was convinced that my illness had won and that I had alienated and disappointed him enough to leave me alone to self-destruct in peace, he got his second wind and chose to walk with me straight into the fire. Believe me, the fire was hot; we all have scars to prove it.
That walk entailed thousands of miles ( and dollars), painful conversations, attempts to explain and understand, the shedding of pride, asking for help, trusting others, looking at God and religion in a completely different way.
I did not have a "road to Damascus" experience -- the walk, as my parents will attest to, has been long and difficult, and we realize that it will never be completely finished. Relapses and unhealthy choices make appearances from time to time, and honestly, I don't think my dad will ever fully understand it, but that doesn't matter anymore. My dad no longer promises me that he can fix things, but just like God, my dad will never leave me, even when the night is dark or I vote a straight democratic ticket. How lucky am I!?!
Friday, June 4, 2010
Maybe It's Time to Write
I've been wanting to write an article, a book, a note, something for awhile. Something that would allow me to tell my story, give it meaning or just talk it through. BUT when I start to think about it, I'm not sure where to begin or even which story to tell or if any of them are even worth telling.
Do I talk about falling in love with the scale the summer I was 10 and recovering from hepatitis? Or maybe I would write about feeling overwhelmed and sleep deprived when my kids were babies - when I nursed too long just to lose weight -- or the hypoglycemia that I struggled with that in actuality didn't exist. (It's funny how when you're starving yourself how your blood sugar will be low.)
Or may I could write about when I was hospitalized when the kids were in elementary school for overdosing on sleeping pills? The psychiatrist then asked me outright if I had anorexia. I told him he was the one that was crazy -- and I really believed what I was saying.
Would I start a book talking about my grandparents' deaths and the journey those events started? Of course, I could write an anthology about a 25 year marriage that I walked out on and what brought me to such an extreme decision.
I could share about time spent at Ten Broeck, a mental hospital, on a 72 hour holdl, with a system full of pain killers, cuts and stitches all over my body, a wrecked car, but still feeling that I was sane and the rest of the world had gone crazy.
I could write about the time spent at Renfrew, drying out and fattening up, searching for my own sense of worth, thinking I could be "cured" in 30 days.
There's the year and a half I've spent in recovery -- going to therapy, practicing coping strategies, lapsing into moments of despair then finding my way again.
There might be a book in the way that Grace, my dog, has been a major player in my sustained recovery, even though on the outside it looks as if I rescued her. A book could come easily with the hours and hours I've spent with Erika, my therapist, talking about "new rooms," staying out of my head, discussing if I'm willing to leave the eating disorder behind for good, and realizing I'm not sure what my answer is to that question. . . still. (It is an old friend, after all.)
I could write about the new relationships I have with my kids, my mom and dad, my friends or the joy I experience each day hanging out with 5th graders in my classroom.
Do the details of the journey make a difference? Is it even worth remembering?
Erika says it's a fine line to walk. I should never allow myself to forget how far I've come and the work I've done, but in remembering, I certainly can't romanticize the disorder or downplay the havoc it brought to my life and the scars that will always remain. I have to write as a healthy woman with a full, rich life, who happens to have a mental illness, NOT as a woman whose life is full of the mental illness. Fortunately, the mentally ill me doesn't show up too often any more so maybe it's time to start writing.
I suppose the bigger story has been told by others more eloquently than I ever could. Quite simply, I was lost but now am found. Maybe that's everybody's story.
Do I talk about falling in love with the scale the summer I was 10 and recovering from hepatitis? Or maybe I would write about feeling overwhelmed and sleep deprived when my kids were babies - when I nursed too long just to lose weight -- or the hypoglycemia that I struggled with that in actuality didn't exist. (It's funny how when you're starving yourself how your blood sugar will be low.)
Or may I could write about when I was hospitalized when the kids were in elementary school for overdosing on sleeping pills? The psychiatrist then asked me outright if I had anorexia. I told him he was the one that was crazy -- and I really believed what I was saying.
Would I start a book talking about my grandparents' deaths and the journey those events started? Of course, I could write an anthology about a 25 year marriage that I walked out on and what brought me to such an extreme decision.
I could share about time spent at Ten Broeck, a mental hospital, on a 72 hour holdl, with a system full of pain killers, cuts and stitches all over my body, a wrecked car, but still feeling that I was sane and the rest of the world had gone crazy.
I could write about the time spent at Renfrew, drying out and fattening up, searching for my own sense of worth, thinking I could be "cured" in 30 days.
There's the year and a half I've spent in recovery -- going to therapy, practicing coping strategies, lapsing into moments of despair then finding my way again.
There might be a book in the way that Grace, my dog, has been a major player in my sustained recovery, even though on the outside it looks as if I rescued her. A book could come easily with the hours and hours I've spent with Erika, my therapist, talking about "new rooms," staying out of my head, discussing if I'm willing to leave the eating disorder behind for good, and realizing I'm not sure what my answer is to that question. . . still. (It is an old friend, after all.)
I could write about the new relationships I have with my kids, my mom and dad, my friends or the joy I experience each day hanging out with 5th graders in my classroom.
Do the details of the journey make a difference? Is it even worth remembering?
Erika says it's a fine line to walk. I should never allow myself to forget how far I've come and the work I've done, but in remembering, I certainly can't romanticize the disorder or downplay the havoc it brought to my life and the scars that will always remain. I have to write as a healthy woman with a full, rich life, who happens to have a mental illness, NOT as a woman whose life is full of the mental illness. Fortunately, the mentally ill me doesn't show up too often any more so maybe it's time to start writing.
I suppose the bigger story has been told by others more eloquently than I ever could. Quite simply, I was lost but now am found. Maybe that's everybody's story.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
A Lazy Saturday
Today is my last "free" Saturday, I suppose. Will and Carly will be finished with finals this coming week and will be heading home. I'm not sure when Sam will be visiting, but I hope some time soon. I haven't seen him since Christmas and I'd like to wrap my arms around him.
This school year has gone extremely fast for me. I think good living causes that to happen, and I've been doing some excellent living. But, I'm ready to close down the year and settle into my summer routine, which includes a full fridge (requested by Will and Carly), cooking (required by Will and Carly), and, of course, the usuals like walking, sleeping in a bit, reading trash, and morning crossword puzzles. I'm also hoping to take a few quick trips this summer, spending time with friends and family, maybe seeing a few things I haven't seen before.
Usually by the time I'm in my summer routine, it's time to get back into the school routine, but maybe that's just part of the routine, too. (I bet not many people can use the word routine three times in one sentence.)
Anyway. . . I don't have too much going on in this very moment so I guess that's a good thing. I've talked to all three of the kids, walked the dog, loved on the cats, read, eaten, watched some tv. . . I continue to be amazed at the goodness of life.
My grandmother died four years ago this past week and I couldn't help but think of her and smile. I certainly didn't love and care for her the way my own kids love theirs'. The dark part of her could be unpredictable and jealous and maybe even a little bit mean. She wasn't brave enough to love deep and hard because she was so very busy protecting her heart. But she managed to somehow raise my mother so there had to be something there, right? In a very weird way, her end of life was the beginning of my own. Watching her die, pondering her life, made me start the search for my own. Who would have ever thought that would be the gift she would give to me, after all of the ten dollar bills in a card, she would come through in the end with the best gift ever. . . permission to be who I was created to be. Even with her faults, without her "square" our family's quilt would be off somehow. There are gifts and lessons everywhere; I am thankful for each of them.
This school year has gone extremely fast for me. I think good living causes that to happen, and I've been doing some excellent living. But, I'm ready to close down the year and settle into my summer routine, which includes a full fridge (requested by Will and Carly), cooking (required by Will and Carly), and, of course, the usuals like walking, sleeping in a bit, reading trash, and morning crossword puzzles. I'm also hoping to take a few quick trips this summer, spending time with friends and family, maybe seeing a few things I haven't seen before.
Usually by the time I'm in my summer routine, it's time to get back into the school routine, but maybe that's just part of the routine, too. (I bet not many people can use the word routine three times in one sentence.)
Anyway. . . I don't have too much going on in this very moment so I guess that's a good thing. I've talked to all three of the kids, walked the dog, loved on the cats, read, eaten, watched some tv. . . I continue to be amazed at the goodness of life.
My grandmother died four years ago this past week and I couldn't help but think of her and smile. I certainly didn't love and care for her the way my own kids love theirs'. The dark part of her could be unpredictable and jealous and maybe even a little bit mean. She wasn't brave enough to love deep and hard because she was so very busy protecting her heart. But she managed to somehow raise my mother so there had to be something there, right? In a very weird way, her end of life was the beginning of my own. Watching her die, pondering her life, made me start the search for my own. Who would have ever thought that would be the gift she would give to me, after all of the ten dollar bills in a card, she would come through in the end with the best gift ever. . . permission to be who I was created to be. Even with her faults, without her "square" our family's quilt would be off somehow. There are gifts and lessons everywhere; I am thankful for each of them.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
What I Did on Spring Break
When I was a kid, I always hated the "What I Did on Vacation" essays. Truthfully, I never thought what I did on vacation actually warranted an essay. My family wasn't exactly on the cutting edge of travel.
We usually managed to get to the country to watch the cows get milked, or watch my mom and dad help in tobacco. For me the exciting thing was having a calf suck on my hand, but it certainly would have been embarrassing to write about at school.
Sometimes, we went to the mountains, where I was afraid to gather eggs with my popaw and most of my cousins wet the bed, which is not a good thing when you happen to be the one assigned to share that bed.
When we were really feeling frisky, we'd go to Frankfort to see the floral clock or go to the Smoky Mountains to pay a one-armed man to feed a bear a pop.
Our one big vacation when I was little was a trip to the beach, where I slept all the way there in the back of the pickup (seriously, the back of the pickup) and my dad got sun poisoned. If I remember correctly, I think my dad's friend Charlie was killed as soon as we got home from that trip.
Anyway, our vacations weren't exactly what you read about in novels. This past spring break wasn't exactly earth shattering either from the outside looking in, but this one. . . it's something to write about.
What I Did on Spring Break
1. Ate with Will and Carly at Red Robin.
2. Colored Easter Eggs with Carly and Mom.
3. Flew a Kite with Carly and Dad.
4. Slept on a pull-out bed with Gracie.
5. Visited with a good friend who is currently in a nursing home.
6. Ate at Jucy's with Pam and Cathy.
7. Went to Shakertown with Mary and Cathy. (I had angel food cake for dessert.)
8. Went to Northern Kentucky to visit with another Mary. (I had quiche there.)
9. Went to El Nopal's for lunch with Marisa and Jacquie.
10. Went to a Reds game with Will (I had hot dog and nachos)
In between I talked with all three kids on the phone everyday. I read two books, The Crazy School and The Color of Water. I saw two movies, Hot Tub Time Machine and The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. I took at least two walks a day and took Grace to the dog park a few times.
Then Carly called on Sunday night as I was starting to prepare for the new work week. Her dear friend, Kiara, had died in a tragic car accident. . . so my last trip for the week was to Bowling Green to hold Carly for just a bit.
Certainly not the way to end a week, except for the fact that it reminded me how precious and fragile life really is. I'm glad my week was so extraordinarily ordinary; life is too short to spend time waiting for the perfect "vacation." Life is the journey. Kiara taught me that.
We usually managed to get to the country to watch the cows get milked, or watch my mom and dad help in tobacco. For me the exciting thing was having a calf suck on my hand, but it certainly would have been embarrassing to write about at school.
Sometimes, we went to the mountains, where I was afraid to gather eggs with my popaw and most of my cousins wet the bed, which is not a good thing when you happen to be the one assigned to share that bed.
When we were really feeling frisky, we'd go to Frankfort to see the floral clock or go to the Smoky Mountains to pay a one-armed man to feed a bear a pop.
Our one big vacation when I was little was a trip to the beach, where I slept all the way there in the back of the pickup (seriously, the back of the pickup) and my dad got sun poisoned. If I remember correctly, I think my dad's friend Charlie was killed as soon as we got home from that trip.
Anyway, our vacations weren't exactly what you read about in novels. This past spring break wasn't exactly earth shattering either from the outside looking in, but this one. . . it's something to write about.
What I Did on Spring Break
1. Ate with Will and Carly at Red Robin.
2. Colored Easter Eggs with Carly and Mom.
3. Flew a Kite with Carly and Dad.
4. Slept on a pull-out bed with Gracie.
5. Visited with a good friend who is currently in a nursing home.
6. Ate at Jucy's with Pam and Cathy.
7. Went to Shakertown with Mary and Cathy. (I had angel food cake for dessert.)
8. Went to Northern Kentucky to visit with another Mary. (I had quiche there.)
9. Went to El Nopal's for lunch with Marisa and Jacquie.
10. Went to a Reds game with Will (I had hot dog and nachos)
In between I talked with all three kids on the phone everyday. I read two books, The Crazy School and The Color of Water. I saw two movies, Hot Tub Time Machine and The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. I took at least two walks a day and took Grace to the dog park a few times.
Then Carly called on Sunday night as I was starting to prepare for the new work week. Her dear friend, Kiara, had died in a tragic car accident. . . so my last trip for the week was to Bowling Green to hold Carly for just a bit.
Certainly not the way to end a week, except for the fact that it reminded me how precious and fragile life really is. I'm glad my week was so extraordinarily ordinary; life is too short to spend time waiting for the perfect "vacation." Life is the journey. Kiara taught me that.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Palm Sunday
I've never really understood the whole Palm Sunday thing. I know it represents Jesus' triumphant entrance into Jerusalem, but I guess since we know the rest of the story, it just feels like a big set-up.
I mean, seriously, one day everybody's having a big parade, waving palms, carpeting the roadway with their coats, chanting "Here comes our Savior!" and a few days later they are figuratively (or literally, depending on your beliefs) crucifying him.
For me, the heart wrenching part of this story, is that they abandoned him. These people who he had loved so dearly, who he had shared so much with, when he needed them, they were gone. The flip side of that is he loved them anyway. . . and he was even glad and accepting when they dragged themselves back to him when Easter rolled around. . . I'm not sure if he even demanded an apology.
I think the scariest thing in the world is feeling alone, especially feeling that way when there is a cheering crowd surrounding you. I wonder if Jesus felt alone as he rode the donkey through the people on that first Palm Sunday. . . maybe even more so than he would feel on Good Friday. At least on Good Friday, he was more than aware of who had really understood him and his message.
I still don't know if I believe the crucifixion and resurrection story in the real sense, but I do know the crucifixion of abandonment and the resurrection of the discovery that we are never alone. Truthfully, whether there is a heaven or hell is irrelavent to me because God is with me in this moment. Love was here before me and it will remain long after me. I can only hope that during my lifetime I can serve as a filter for that love. . . that I can allow it to come in and gently flow from me. That is my prayer.
I mean, seriously, one day everybody's having a big parade, waving palms, carpeting the roadway with their coats, chanting "Here comes our Savior!" and a few days later they are figuratively (or literally, depending on your beliefs) crucifying him.
For me, the heart wrenching part of this story, is that they abandoned him. These people who he had loved so dearly, who he had shared so much with, when he needed them, they were gone. The flip side of that is he loved them anyway. . . and he was even glad and accepting when they dragged themselves back to him when Easter rolled around. . . I'm not sure if he even demanded an apology.
I think the scariest thing in the world is feeling alone, especially feeling that way when there is a cheering crowd surrounding you. I wonder if Jesus felt alone as he rode the donkey through the people on that first Palm Sunday. . . maybe even more so than he would feel on Good Friday. At least on Good Friday, he was more than aware of who had really understood him and his message.
I still don't know if I believe the crucifixion and resurrection story in the real sense, but I do know the crucifixion of abandonment and the resurrection of the discovery that we are never alone. Truthfully, whether there is a heaven or hell is irrelavent to me because God is with me in this moment. Love was here before me and it will remain long after me. I can only hope that during my lifetime I can serve as a filter for that love. . . that I can allow it to come in and gently flow from me. That is my prayer.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
A Nana Entry
Short and sweet. . . just like Nana's journal entries.
Took Gracie to the dogpark since the sun was shining. Talked with Mom, Carly and Will on the phone. ED was a no show, but LOVE was everywhere.
Took Gracie to the dogpark since the sun was shining. Talked with Mom, Carly and Will on the phone. ED was a no show, but LOVE was everywhere.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
ED
The disordered voice has been extremely loud today. I guess the good thing is that I actually realize it's disordered.
- I deserve to be well and happy.
- I am not fat and lazy.
- I need the prozac.
- I really do have a mental illness.
- I'm not kidding myself; I have the capacity to be healthy.
- Therapy is a good use of time and money.
- It's not weird to depend on a dog as much as I depend on Grace.
Just a few of the statements I've made out loud to counter the silent voice that tries to convince me that I'm not worthy, that there's nothing wrong with me, that I'm more messed up now than ever.
I'm glad it's time for bed, and that tomorrow is a brand new gift.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Ash Wednesday
This is the first Ash Wednesday that I haven't attended church services in years. I always found comfort for some reason in the solemnness of the service, the act of repentance, confessing, sacrificing, denying oneself.
The forty days of lent almost seemed like a time when my mental illness was appropriate. Giving up food, cutting, letting the sadness engulf me seemed okay in this time of mourning, knowing that my sins had caused this need for the ultimate sacrifice. Now I know that my behaviors were more self-indulgent than sacrificial even though the feelings weren't exactly joyful.
Last year, new into my recovery, I gave up my eating disordered behaviors as my sacrifice for Lent. . . the opposite of what I had done in the past. That decision allowed me to establish healthy habits, without having to completely say goodbye to an illness that had cared for me so long.
This year is different yet again. I skipped the solemn service. I ate supper and a peanut butter cookie. I listened to music and played with my dog. I even decided that giving up the mental illness wouldn't be much of a sacrifice this year, since I indulge in it so seldom.
So, I think I'll just go with the Easter theme this year and put the Lenten season on the shelf. My illness has caused me to sacrifice too much for too long. God is good. For the next forty days, I'm going to rejoice in that fact.
The forty days of lent almost seemed like a time when my mental illness was appropriate. Giving up food, cutting, letting the sadness engulf me seemed okay in this time of mourning, knowing that my sins had caused this need for the ultimate sacrifice. Now I know that my behaviors were more self-indulgent than sacrificial even though the feelings weren't exactly joyful.
Last year, new into my recovery, I gave up my eating disordered behaviors as my sacrifice for Lent. . . the opposite of what I had done in the past. That decision allowed me to establish healthy habits, without having to completely say goodbye to an illness that had cared for me so long.
This year is different yet again. I skipped the solemn service. I ate supper and a peanut butter cookie. I listened to music and played with my dog. I even decided that giving up the mental illness wouldn't be much of a sacrifice this year, since I indulge in it so seldom.
So, I think I'll just go with the Easter theme this year and put the Lenten season on the shelf. My illness has caused me to sacrifice too much for too long. God is good. For the next forty days, I'm going to rejoice in that fact.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Lessons Learned in the Snow
1. Snow on the weekends is wasted snow.
Even at 47, knowing that the missed days will eventually have to be made up, there's just something exciting about seeing your school's name on the Morning News listed under CLOSED.
2. If you get up at 5:30 to take a walk, it's guaranteed that your footprints will be the first in the snow.
There was a time in my life that I worked very hard at leaving no evidence that I had taken up space. Now I take satisfaction in the mess Grace and I create, especially in the snow.
3. It's easier to trudge through the deep snow than making your way on the shoveled spots where only ice remains.
As with most things, it's when we get a little cocky in our stride that we find ourselves flat on our butts.
4. Watching snow fall from the sky is much more interesting than the American Revolution.
So. . . . my 5th graders and I enjoyed the snow and saved Paul Revere for another day. They are my teachers when it comes to living in the present.
5. Walking next to someone, whether a friend or dog, is much more satisfying, much more safe, than walking in front of or behind the other, especially when the path is snowy.
6. The garage may be my favorite room in the house.
A warm car on a cold morning, even with snow on the ground, can make all the difference.
7. Poop is easier to scoop in the snow.
It's kind of like chasing nasty tasting cough syrup with a glass of orange juice, or holding your mother's hand when you're sick. Mixing something good with something bad makes it all a little bit more tolerable.
8. "Too much of a good thing" is a true statement.
. . . unless of course, that good thing is what keeps you sane.
Even at 47, knowing that the missed days will eventually have to be made up, there's just something exciting about seeing your school's name on the Morning News listed under CLOSED.
2. If you get up at 5:30 to take a walk, it's guaranteed that your footprints will be the first in the snow.
There was a time in my life that I worked very hard at leaving no evidence that I had taken up space. Now I take satisfaction in the mess Grace and I create, especially in the snow.
3. It's easier to trudge through the deep snow than making your way on the shoveled spots where only ice remains.
As with most things, it's when we get a little cocky in our stride that we find ourselves flat on our butts.
4. Watching snow fall from the sky is much more interesting than the American Revolution.
So. . . . my 5th graders and I enjoyed the snow and saved Paul Revere for another day. They are my teachers when it comes to living in the present.
5. Walking next to someone, whether a friend or dog, is much more satisfying, much more safe, than walking in front of or behind the other, especially when the path is snowy.
6. The garage may be my favorite room in the house.
A warm car on a cold morning, even with snow on the ground, can make all the difference.
7. Poop is easier to scoop in the snow.
It's kind of like chasing nasty tasting cough syrup with a glass of orange juice, or holding your mother's hand when you're sick. Mixing something good with something bad makes it all a little bit more tolerable.
8. "Too much of a good thing" is a true statement.
. . . unless of course, that good thing is what keeps you sane.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
The Story-Keeper
Carly came home from Western this weekend. This trip, she actually spent most of the weekend at home. . . and not out with friends. I must say, It was really nice having her here.
We talked a lot. We sat in the kitchen and talked. We moved to the couch and talked. We went out to eat and talked. We stretched out on my bed and talked. Like I said, we talked a lot.
This talk was a little different though. She wasn't venting or complaining or sharing every little detail about a movie or tv show she had enjoyed. She wanted to hear stories. Stories about when she was a baby, about her brothers. She wanted to know about Bo when he was young. She wanted to hear about her great-grandparents. She wondered aloud why Eugene had never married, why Bo had left the mountains, why I had married her dad so young. I secretly wondered why she cared to know.
Truthfully, I come from a long line of storytellers. I've heard the quote often that if you don't tell your story someone else will. Well, in my family, for the most part, that's not a worry any of us have. We tell our story, even if no one is listening, or if parts of it aren't exactly true, or if we have to get on a stage to perform it. But, when I think about it, there aren't a lot of us who actually ask to hear the story. That's what made this time with Carly so very different.
I've read that in the past it was important for the elders to re-tell stories again and again so that those stories would not be forgotten, that they would become part of the legacy they left to their children. I hold a few of those in my own memories. . . I know that Momaw Dunn, my great-grandmother won the spelling bee by spelling the word "squeal" correctly. I also know that my dad ended up in jail (looking pretty and clean) from a run-in with the law over drag-racing. I know that my great Uncle James as a boy said they didn't have greasy ants, but piss ants. I know that Eugene was afraid of the teddy bear, and that my mom visited the entire zoo with a pair of socks tucked into the toe of her shoes. The list of stories goes on and on. . . .
There are some stories that I don't know though. I don't know how Momaw felt when Uncle Howard came to her drunk and mean. I dont know how afraid Granny Collins must have been when she found her nest almost empty and her young husband dead, cut off from her own mother and sisters. I don't know about the worry Buck must have felt when everything was riding on a crop. I don't know how lonely my dad must have felt when he left the mountains and all that he knew for the city. I don't know how frustrated my mom must have been with so much hunger for education, for something more, with so very few options open to her.
Is it better to leave out the tragedies and mistakes and broken hearts in our story? Would that make life too scary for those who travel after us? For me, I think it would have made them all more human, even more heroic in their ability to get through each day.
Any way, Carly wants to hear the stories -- the good and the bad, and I'm committed to sharing them with her, at least the stories that are mine to tell. I hope they will give her whatever she needs for her own journey. I hope that in hearing mine she will also be able to forgive me, when that is necessary.
As the only granddaughter, it falls to her to hold on to the things most valued in our family. She'll no doubt get the rings and the old photos, but she will also be given the stories, our most treasured possession of all. At 21, she has stepped up to the plate, finding her position, her responsibility to our family. When she was young, she would get so angry with Sam when he would tell her (rather smuggly) that he was "the heir to the throne." Little did she know then, that her place would be that of the story-keeper, the most important job of all.
We talked a lot. We sat in the kitchen and talked. We moved to the couch and talked. We went out to eat and talked. We stretched out on my bed and talked. Like I said, we talked a lot.
This talk was a little different though. She wasn't venting or complaining or sharing every little detail about a movie or tv show she had enjoyed. She wanted to hear stories. Stories about when she was a baby, about her brothers. She wanted to know about Bo when he was young. She wanted to hear about her great-grandparents. She wondered aloud why Eugene had never married, why Bo had left the mountains, why I had married her dad so young. I secretly wondered why she cared to know.
Truthfully, I come from a long line of storytellers. I've heard the quote often that if you don't tell your story someone else will. Well, in my family, for the most part, that's not a worry any of us have. We tell our story, even if no one is listening, or if parts of it aren't exactly true, or if we have to get on a stage to perform it. But, when I think about it, there aren't a lot of us who actually ask to hear the story. That's what made this time with Carly so very different.
I've read that in the past it was important for the elders to re-tell stories again and again so that those stories would not be forgotten, that they would become part of the legacy they left to their children. I hold a few of those in my own memories. . . I know that Momaw Dunn, my great-grandmother won the spelling bee by spelling the word "squeal" correctly. I also know that my dad ended up in jail (looking pretty and clean) from a run-in with the law over drag-racing. I know that my great Uncle James as a boy said they didn't have greasy ants, but piss ants. I know that Eugene was afraid of the teddy bear, and that my mom visited the entire zoo with a pair of socks tucked into the toe of her shoes. The list of stories goes on and on. . . .
There are some stories that I don't know though. I don't know how Momaw felt when Uncle Howard came to her drunk and mean. I dont know how afraid Granny Collins must have been when she found her nest almost empty and her young husband dead, cut off from her own mother and sisters. I don't know about the worry Buck must have felt when everything was riding on a crop. I don't know how lonely my dad must have felt when he left the mountains and all that he knew for the city. I don't know how frustrated my mom must have been with so much hunger for education, for something more, with so very few options open to her.
Is it better to leave out the tragedies and mistakes and broken hearts in our story? Would that make life too scary for those who travel after us? For me, I think it would have made them all more human, even more heroic in their ability to get through each day.
Any way, Carly wants to hear the stories -- the good and the bad, and I'm committed to sharing them with her, at least the stories that are mine to tell. I hope they will give her whatever she needs for her own journey. I hope that in hearing mine she will also be able to forgive me, when that is necessary.
As the only granddaughter, it falls to her to hold on to the things most valued in our family. She'll no doubt get the rings and the old photos, but she will also be given the stories, our most treasured possession of all. At 21, she has stepped up to the plate, finding her position, her responsibility to our family. When she was young, she would get so angry with Sam when he would tell her (rather smuggly) that he was "the heir to the throne." Little did she know then, that her place would be that of the story-keeper, the most important job of all.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Goals
My therapist asked me recently that now that I had passed the one year mark in my recovery journey and had managed to get through the holidays without any disorder-driven behaviors, what were some new goals that I might have at this next phase of recovery. After a very long pause, I managed to mumble through a few lines of using lots of words to say a whole lot of nothing. (A gift that most teachers have, I might add.)
However, on our last few walks, I've given that question some more thought and maybe have come up with a few more coherent answers. . . at least Grace, who unfortunately gets stuck being my sounding board, thinks so.
One goal that I have is to write more. . . write here, write in my journals, write letters, write quotes, just spend time writing. I think it's one of those things that I've always considered a luxury (like I used to think about eating) and I felt that my daily work needed to be complete before I could indulge in it. I want that to change.
Another goal is that I would like to get in touch with friends and family that I have neglected or pushed to the side while my time and attention has been focused on recovery.
I want to hang pictures on my walls. . a sign that I'm committed to "taking up space."
I want to work more and learn more in the area of technology so that I can make sure my teaching strategies are current and relevant.
I want to read more trash, where the conflict is man vs. man or man vs. nature. I want to read less where the conflict is man vs. self. There is enough of that in real life.
I want to start paying attention to the credits in the movies I see. The director and the music contributions are just as important as the leading roles.
I want to be a better listener to my own kids and my parents.
I wish I could write that my major goal was to put the eating disorder behind me, permanently, but that would be more than I can write. The best I can do is to say that today I will live well. Maybe that's all the goal I need.
However, on our last few walks, I've given that question some more thought and maybe have come up with a few more coherent answers. . . at least Grace, who unfortunately gets stuck being my sounding board, thinks so.
One goal that I have is to write more. . . write here, write in my journals, write letters, write quotes, just spend time writing. I think it's one of those things that I've always considered a luxury (like I used to think about eating) and I felt that my daily work needed to be complete before I could indulge in it. I want that to change.
Another goal is that I would like to get in touch with friends and family that I have neglected or pushed to the side while my time and attention has been focused on recovery.
I want to hang pictures on my walls. . a sign that I'm committed to "taking up space."
I want to work more and learn more in the area of technology so that I can make sure my teaching strategies are current and relevant.
I want to read more trash, where the conflict is man vs. man or man vs. nature. I want to read less where the conflict is man vs. self. There is enough of that in real life.
I want to start paying attention to the credits in the movies I see. The director and the music contributions are just as important as the leading roles.
I want to be a better listener to my own kids and my parents.
I wish I could write that my major goal was to put the eating disorder behind me, permanently, but that would be more than I can write. The best I can do is to say that today I will live well. Maybe that's all the goal I need.
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