A Phone Call

The majority of my phone calls are fairly routine.Some people like my mom, Cathy, Carly and Will, I talk to every day where we leave off the pleasantries and get right to the purpose of the call. Sometimes the calls end with "I love you" or "Thanks for calling" or "I can do that." Sometimes it's "Call me when you are in a better mood."

One of my favorite calls used to be "No School due to snow" but that one is starting to wear thin this winter.

Of course, once I was a mom the phone calls were even more memorable.

When the kids were in preschool, a phone call in the middle of the day informed me that Carly was complaining that her "heart hurt." Apparently that's what having bronchitis feels like when you are three years old.

The folks at Space Camp in Huntsville Alabama called to tell me they were taking Will to the hospital because they couldn't stop his vomiting. In the background, I could hear him telling his counselor, "Tell her to come." That was a six hour trip with me arriving about 2 in the morning.

When he was still in college, Sam called me while he was at Bonaroo with friends saying that he wanted to come home. That turned into a four hour trip.

 I'm particularly grateful when it seems like a call serves more as a lifeline than a means of communication. I actually remember once when the kids were just starting elementary school. The voice of unworthiness was shouting in my ear. I had just put the kids to bed and was taking a handful of sleeping pills, when the phone rang. It was a good friend, Barb, who seldomed call, but for whatever reason, she called that night. She was thinking of me. She loved me. I didn't swallow any more pills that night.

Of course, there was the phone call telling me my cousin had committed suicide, that my best friend would probably not live through the night, that my grandparents had died.

On Monday, my phone rang and it was a technician from my gynecologist's office. My first thought was that they were having trouble filing with my new insurance plan. Quickly though, I realized that wasn't the case. Apparently, my mammogram results warranted a diagnostic mammogram with ultrasound on my left breast. She assured me that it was nothing to worry about but that I needed to schedule the tests as quickly as possible.

It was a phone call that was a bit out of the ordinary and I was surprised at my reaction. In the past, this would have been easy to file away, put on the shelf. Instead, I felt a little sad for a bit, called my mom and Cathy, then I called to schedule the appointment.

You see, the voice of mental health speaks the truth. It asks for help, it feels what needs to be felt, then it acts appropriately. Three years ago I would not have even gone for a "well" check-up. My mental illness told me only weak, needy, self-absorbed people did things like that. Now I know the truth. People with much to lose take care of themselves.

So, I'll go have the other test next week. Then, I suppose, I'll wait for the phone call. Statistics say that the results will show that I'm healthy. I'll keep my fingers crossed for that one. But, if for some freaky reason, the  phone call doesn't go that way, I'll feel what needs to be felt, call my mom and Cathy and schedule what needs to be done. I'm so glad that the file and shelf that I used to help me check out no longer exist.

I need to stop writing. I've got a couple of phone calls to make.

I Love You, Phillip Morris!

Cathy and I went to see the movie, I Love You, Phillip Morris, yesterday afternoon.

 Neither of us had really heard of it, although Cathy did mention that she knew it got three stars in the Courier Journal. My movie stipulation was that it start after 5:00, and that we go to the Baxter Theatre.

 The Baxter is an independent movie theatre that shows movies that aren't always played in the bigger movie complexes. The crowd that goes there is a bit quirkier than most, which is one reason I like it. BUT, the main reason we like this particular theatre is that we never see any former or present students there. (Pretty low theatre standards, right?)

That's how we ended up seeing this particular movie. It proved to be quite an experience for me.

First, as we sat there before the lights went down, Cathy noticed rather loudly that there were a lot of men (with no women) in the theatre. She surmised that all of their wives must be in the bathroom. Not. When I looked around, there were only three other women seated and probably about 50+ men.

My first thought was that this movie must be sci-fi, but then I remembered that my own little man, Will, was at home sitting on the couch, eating pizza and watching football. Football Sundays usually result in lots of women at the movies. Anyway, when one of the guys in front of us rested his head on the other guy's shoulder, this suburban mom and teacher finally realized that we were getting ready to see a movie with a bunch of gay guys. So much better than watching a science fiction movie, right? Seriously.

I don't think Cathy and I were exactly sure what we might be in for, but it turned out to be a really great movie. It was based on a true story about a con man who happens to be gay. He is able to talk his way into or out of any and every situation. At one point, his partner, Phillip Morris, finally understands that Steven is a con, and confronts him with, "I don't know who you are; I don't think even you know who you are."

Later in the story, Steven agrees, saying, "Maybe I don't know who I am, but I do know that I am a man who loved Phillip Morris." I liked that.

From time to time, I get confused as to who I am. Much of who we are is defined by our relationships. I'm Bo's girl, Sam's mom, Jack's teacher. Some of who we are is defined by groups we belong to. I'm a democrat, a teacher, a Methodist, an environmentalist, a pet owner. Sometimes, it's our illnesses that  define us. I'm a recovering anorexic. Our ethnicity, our gender, our sexuality, our heritage, culture and traditions define us.

Depending on the day or circumstance I define myself in a dozen different ways, as do most of us, I suppose. Even on days when I choose to identify with a lesser version of myself or even if I'm feeling particularly sassy thinking that I might possibly be the smartest person I know, deep down I simply want to be a woman who loved. I think that's what we all want, if we're brave enough to take the risk, to have our hearts broken.

I'm glad that it seems that maybe we're starting to realize that love really is the answer, whether it's gay or straight, Christian or Muslim, black or white. The rules we wrap ourselves in cause us to separate ourselves in a million different ways, but when the rules quite making sense, love remains. 

A New Day (tomorrow)

I survived jury duty and the gynecologist. I sat for five hours in the jury pool room reading and fretting. (I also have to report again tomorrow.) I was released just in time to make it to my drs. appointment. Dr. Evans responded to me in such a great way. I hadn't been in three years, and her first question was so tell me what's happened in three years. When I tried to laugh off the question, she didn't laugh. I quickly mentioned that I had divorced and that I had been in recovery from an eating disorder for two years. She wanted to know everything about the anorexia.

 She asked where I received treatment, who my aftercare therapist was, if my insurance covered any treatment. She wanted to know what meds I was on, how she could help me, if she should contact my therapist since I was clearly stressed (high bp) about the scale. She also put at the top of my chart "DO NOT WEIGH" for future visits. She said the hallway in a drs. office, with absolutely no mental/emotional support was not a safe place for me to be weighed. Too bad I didn't know that yesterday. Next year, I suppose I won't have to worry as much.

I didn't handle this stress as well as I would have liked, but I went and I talked. It's just that I felt "sick" again when so much (maybe all) of our conversation was about anorexia. I wish I could meet her for lunch so she would realize that I am a great woman, living a great life who happens to have an eating disorder. Instead, I think she probably saw an anorexic struggling with staying well. In her defense, maybe today I was an anorexic struggling with staying well, but just for today. Being an anorexic is too time consuming and exhausting. I've got more important things to do.

Every Now and Then

I try really hard to keep these posts somewhat thoughtful and upbeat; I figure no one wants to hear me whine about my "white-girl problems." (That's Carly's term, not mine. I wonder what movie she picked up that from anyway.) Also, I know that Carly and my mom read this on occasion and I would never want to cause them worry, even for a moment, so I try to keep my real whining in my journal and out of my blogs.

BUT, to keep this blog honest and believable, I feel compelled to share some of my struggles, every now and then. With that being said, I have had a rough couple of days.

I've really been dreading starting the whole jury duty thing tomorrow morning. I'd much rather show up in Room 223 ready to hang out with my 5th graders. Every change in routine brings a bit of anxiety for everyone so I've convinced myself that my feelings are no different from other people's. I'm wondering about fat people that might be part of the jury, someone thinner than I am, what about snack and lunch.

More than jury duty, though, I have an appointment with my gynecologist tomorrow afternoon. I haven't been in more than 3 years when I weighed about 30 pounds less.

 Part of me wants to show up, do all of the exams and stuff and nobody say anything about anything. Another part of me wants Dr. Evans to say that I look great, and she's glad I've gained weight.

Part of me wants her to overlook the scars all over my legs and stomach, but another part of me wants her to recognize them for what they are -- symbols of surviving a very dark place.

My disordered thoughts tell me that she'll probably think (if not say) that she's never seen an anorexic weigh as much as I do and that I better put on the brakes or I'll be back for gastric by-pass, and that she'll also wonder what kind of pathetic nutcase would use a razor to make cuts in her own skin.

The healthy part of me would love to able to say that I've been in recovery from an eating disorder for the last two years and I'm very proud of the weight I've gained. I would love to look at that scale with my eyes open and see that three digit number as a symbol of well-being and not loss of control.

For the majority of the time, my sane thoughts win out these days, but every now and then, the disordered voice whispers in my ear.