Leaking.

*This post was originally written on Thursday, February 11, 2016.  After reading it, you might understand why it took me a week and a half to actually post it.  I've sworn myself to realistic optimism and total transparency. So who am I to withhold this post from the world? Not publishing has also made it difficult for me to write going forward. Nothing I have to say will make much sense if you don't know what you're about to read. This website was created based on 2 principles: total transparency & zero judgment. I ask only that you respect the principles I strive to uphold.*

This is an “I don’t know where to begin” kind of post. Because honestly. I don’t know where to begin. Because truth is…the beginning is still a mystery to me. So it’s nearly impossible to start at the beginning. And who decided that’s the very best place to start, anyway?

It’s 1:00 on a weekday and I’m sitting in Panera. I’m not at a business meeting. I’m blogging. Do you want to know why? Honestly? I’m still trying to figure it out. The easy answer is this: I’m taking a leave of absence from work.

I’ve been conflicted about whether or not to blog about this. Everything inside me screams no. “Noooooo Brittany!!! Don’t do it!!!!!” But why? Well that’s actually an easy answer. I can give you a handful of reasons:

• It’s embarrassing.

• If I can’t work, I shouldn’t be able to do things I enjoy. Like blogging.

• People will think I’m crazy.

• My coworkers read my blog. So reread the above 3 points.

• Did I mention that it’s embarrassing?

But here I am blogging about it anyway. I’ve talked about blogging being therapeutic for me.   So there’s that. I think it’s also my way of accepting myself in the moment. Embracing the truth rather than running and hiding from it. I think it’s also my way of forcing myself into action. To make this time purposeful. Every minute of it. I’m not going to squander the gift I’ve given myself.

I call it a gift and you might call me crazy. Selfish. And you might be right. I might be crazy and what I’ve done is the definition of selfish. In my mind, at least. But I’m told I tend to be hard on myself. Still, it feels selfish.

But so what if it is? So what if my LOA is in fact a selfish gift that I’ve given myself? Does that make it easy? Hell no.

I walked into a supervisor’s office yesterday morning and sat in the corner of a very large couch. I believe my first words were something along the lines of, “…well…this is awkward.” I then spilled my guts about the battle that’s been raging inside of me.   I don’t know what I expected, but acceptance sure wasn’t part of the scenario I’d dreamed up. So imagine my surprise when understanding filled his eyes and I left with a hug and a pat on the back.

“Brittany, it sounds like you feel like you’re leaking.”

YES. LEAKING. That’s the word I’ve been looking for.

I feel like the only thing holding me together is my skin and someone took a pin and started poking holes in my skin and pieces of Brittany started leaking out and I kept trying to patch them up but every time I did a bigger hole would appear and more of Brittany would start leaking and all of the sudden there weren’t enough fingers to plug all of the holes in my skin and I went “ahhhhhh!”…along with my whole treatment team.

And yes. That was a run-on sentence. Because I’m hoping you ran out of breath halfway through trying to read it and maybe you might get an inkling of the exhaustion that results from existing in such a state of being.

I didn’t have a nervous breakdown. I took action BEFORE I had a nervous breakdown. I felt like I could snap at any moment and I didn’t want to put anyone (coworkers, family members, friends, and even myself) through that. So I took a step back to regroup BEFORE shit hit the fan.

It’s hard to put my finger on when it all began.  I’d like to say, “but that doesn’t really matter.” But it does. It matters very much. Because contrary to what some people might think, this LOA is more than just a vacation. And I don’t want to have to do this again. So figuring out when and where it all began will actually be an important discovery.

Most of you know that I battle an eating disorder. That’s pretty much common knowledge around here. What you may not know is that I also have bipolar disorder. It’s a diagnosis that I fought for a very long time. One that I’m only now just beginning to accept.

My mania mostly manifests as extreme anxiety. A state in which I’ve existed in for an extended period of time at this point. And most of my anxiety is related to work. So the quick and easy explanation of why I’m taking an LOA is this: I didn’t like where my mania was leading and I decided it was time to step up and do something about it.

I start treatment on Monday. Part of me is in denial about needing it. After all, I feel a lot better now that I know I don’t have to go to work tomorrow. But I know that taking away the stressor does not take away the symptom. I have plenty to work on.

I was in a DBT group last week when one of my peers said something along the lines of, “Being in recovery is like having another full-time job.” And I realized he was right. And I also realized that I haven’t been treating it like that. At all. I have not given recovery the time and attention it needs for me to live a balanced life.

So I will take this time to pursue treatment. I will set goals so that my treatment has a purpose.   I will develop a schedule and establish priorities that will support recovery. And I will re-introduce work in a way that supports a healthy lifestyle. That doesn’t sound like a vacation to me. It sounds like work. Which is why I needed to take an LOA.

The truth is this. I am leaking. It’s time to patch the leaks and re-inflate.

*This LOA is not indefinite. There is an active plan for me to return to work in a way that will support myself, my coworkers, and the workplace. This period is serving its purpose well, and the rest is a story for another day.*

Put Some Money Where Your Mouth Is, Girl

Well as the title of this post pretty much explains...2016 didn't give me a whole lot of time to start putting some money where my mouth is.  I guess that's the downside of staking your personal brand upon the principles of brutal honesty, transparency, and vulnerability.  I'm told that's what makes me unique and relatable.  I have my doubts, which are usually alleviated when strangers start emailing me in response to what I sometimes view as garbage.  Which is enough to keep me doing what I've been doing...sharing my journey with ya'll.

I spent last night in the ER all by myself and it was horrible.  It is important for you to understand that I DID NOT WANT TO GO.  I mean really, who wants to spend over 8 hours of their day at GBMC?  Tuesdays are therapy days, so I leave straight from work to journey to Towson to see my therapist and dietitian.  It's just part of a normal week for me.

Well yesterday I started having chest pain at around 1 pm and my hand kept falling asleep and getting really cold.  It wasn't the first time I've had the chest pain...I actually had a cardiac workup in November for a similar thing.  Turns out I have PVCs (premature ventricular contractions)...which everyone has.  I just have it more frequently that "normal" but not frequently enough to require medication.

So when things started up yesterday, I was a little worried, but not super concerned.  I went to my therapy appointment as usual.  My therapist, however, seemed to be super concerned.  She went and got my psychiatrist, which I told her not to do.  He came in and was "very worried" and asked me to please go to the ER "right now."  I said ok and he left.  Then I told my therapist that my psychiatrist is not a "real doctor" and that I would not be going to the ER.  Well obviously that one didn't work.

I'm there for forever.  All by myself.  They take me back to run a test, then send me back into the waiting room, then take me for another test, then send me back to the waiting room.  My phone is dying.  I know that if it was super serious, they would have seen me quickly, which meant that I was fine, which meant that I could leave, except that my insurance wouldn't cover the tests if I just got up and walked out.  So I stay.

When it was finally *actually* my turn (there were plenty of false alarms turn-wise), I saw the doctor pretty quickly.  He said it wasn't a cardiac issue (which I pretty much figured).  He suspected it was a panic attack.  To diagnose it, he would give me Ativan and see if the symptoms diminished.  I hate Ativan.  Please note that I am not against medication.  I take several psychiatric medications and I know that they have their place, but I did not want to use an anti-anxiety medication to diagnose my condition.  But whatever.  It helped enough for them to let me go home by 1:15 am.  So there's that.

I was too exhausted and hungover from the ativan to go in to work today.  Who takes a sick day because of a panic attack, anyway?  It ticks me off.  I don't want to be this person. The ER doctor asked me if I was stressed because I'm a "prime candidate for panic attacks."  Well yes, I'm stressed.  Isn't that part of being an adult human?  I mean life is stressful.  Suck it up and deal.

I had a very wise friend reach out to me today and our conversation felt worthy of public exploration.  We'll use the abbreviation WF for wise friend.  And the conversation will be paraphrased to make this a little easier to follow:

WF: Probably good you could stay home today.

ME: I just hate the way it looks.

WF: Say more...the way it looks, which is...?

ME: Brittany is crazy and can't handle life/work.

WF: I know what you mean and I would probably feel exactly the same way if I were in your shoes...I just want you to know that when I hear "Brittany's home sick" I don't think you're crazy or weak. I think about how hard you fight every day and the depth of understanding you offer to anyone who crosses your path.

ME: Yeah, I guess I don't like the idea of "owning" that.

WF: Because if you "own" it, what does that mean? Like it makes it real?

Me: Yeah.

WF: So...just trying to clarify...if you don't "own" it, then you can continue to hold yourself to impossibly high standards and then beat yourself up when you fail?

ME: EXACTLY.  So glad you understand!!! (seriously without any sarcasm). When you put it that way, it doesn't sound like such a good idea. I've just never really been a low standards kind of girl.

WF: How is admitting what is true equalling out to low standards? And whose standards are these anyway? Yours? Gods?

ME: I know they're my own. But I feel like I'm supposed and expected to be this super girl who is smart and competent and able to function like a normal person. Which I don't believe to be unrealistic expectations.

WF: Do you...can you...see that you ARE those things right now?

ME: Some days yes.  Which is good, except then I see no reason why I shouldn't be able to be like that a larger percentage of the time. So it makes me feel unreliable.

WF: I don't know exactly what to say because I think and feel that way a lot too..but for me, I know it has something to do with being grateful, and something to do with not making demands about what it is or isn't. It has something to do with the serenity prayer..."taking, as Jesus did, this sinful world as it is, not as I would have it."  It has something to do with me stepping out of the role of the judge.

ME: Ooooooo yes. Good stuff. Crazy how something you say so routinely sometimes hits you in the face.

So there you have it.  I'm still trying to figure out exactly what I'm owning up to.  I guess I didn't really realize the extent of my denial.  I still pretty much cringe at the phrase "chronic pain" because it makes me feel weak.  I don't want to say "panic attack" because it makes me feel crazy.  I don't want to say "in eating disorder recovery" because most days I feel like I'm not.  I don't want to say "bipolar disorder" because it makes me feel like everyone in the room is uneasy about what I might do or say next.  Plus I always say I'm against labels to begin with.  So the idea of taking ownership of those things goes against everything inside of me.

But fighting them is even more exhausting.  Pretending that those things aren't part of your identity?  That usually just makes them worse.  I can identify with the words without identifying with the things associated with the words.  As my wise friend so eloquently put it...I need to step off the judging stand.  That's not my burden to bear.

I think we all know by now that it's all about baby steps.  In my last post I talked about doing the next right thing.  As I mentioned earlier, I don't have anything against taking psychiatric medication (which will be a blog post entirely of its own in the nearish future).  But I have no intention of taking drugs for these panic attacks.  The side effects from the drugs are just as debilitating as the panic attacks themselves.  So I took my "sick day" to research a more holistic approach.  I have a box full of essential oils sitting upstairs in my bedroom.  So I brought out my diffuser and the room is now filled with the aroma of Joy and lemon.  I started to look for oils and recipes that would help reduce the intensity of the feelings I'm experiencing.  I found and tweaked a recipe to make a roller ball using a blend of Young Living Essential Oils that includes lavender, ylang ylang, Valor, and Stress Away.

For those of you who don't know about essential oils, this might sound pretty hokey.  I honestly felt that way myself until recently.  But I've done a lot of thinking and researching.  The medicines that doctors prescribe are hit or miss.  It's all a matter of experimenting until they find the right medicine for you.  Sometimes it's expensive and sometimes it takes awhile.  More like often than sometimes, really.  Essential oils are kind of the same thing.  Each oil has different properties and benefits.  Oils also effect different people in different ways.  They have incredibly powerful components that can help restore wellness to a person.  The best part?  It's completely natural.  You're not putting a synthetic lab-grown medication in your system.

So it might not work the first time.  You might need a different oil or a different mix.  You might need to make a purchase or two before you find the right fit.  You might feel like you have no idea what you're doing.  But you do.  You're taking an interest in your wellness rather than letting your health be decided for you.  Oils won't fix everything; I'll be the first to admit that.  They're not going to grow back the crappy cartilage in my hip or cure my bipolar disorder, ok?  I'm not a medical professional and you'll never hear me claiming the curing powers of oils.  But do your research and you'll find that they can enhance your life in powerful ways.  And that's a journey I'm willing to explore.

The conversation with my wise friend encouraged me to revisit the Serenity Prayer in its entirety and I'd encourage you to do the same:

“God, grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change,
the courage to change the things I can,
and the wisdom to know the difference.
Living one day at a time,
enjoying one moment at a time;
accepting hardship as a pathway to peace;
taking, as Jesus did, this sinful world as it is;
not as I would have it;
trusting that You will make all things right if I surrender to Your will;
so that I may be reasonably happy in this life,
and supremely happy with You forever in the next.
Amen.”

— The Serenity Prayer

Not Your Typical New Years Post

Writing has been weighing heavily on my mind these past few days.  And not just because it's the start of a new year.  If anything, I would delay blogging around New Years.  It's far too cliche for my liking.  But who am I to deny destiny when it demands that I sit down and pound away at the keys.

Thank goodness for the 1Password app, because I honestly forgot my Wordpress login info.  Then there were 24 updates to install on my dashboard.  I finally get to the page that lists my posts and realize it's been nearly 3 months since I've last published a post.  There are several drafts that never really got off the ground, but it has been far too long since I've last broadcast my thoughts to the world.

I still don't know where to start or where I'm going.  Which is hard.  Really hard.  I start to think to myself, "What's the point in writing, if I have nothing to write about?"  Then I realize that there's a big difference between not knowing where to start and not having anything to write about.  Duh, Brittany.

After scrolling through the website, it looks like my *most recent* posts were about my hip.  So I figure that might be a good place to start.

I'm going to be short and to the point on this one (for a change).  I feel like I've wasted enough of my precious time on this blasted hip of mine.  Bottom line: I had a "super special MRI" (which is what they ACTUALLY call it, by the way...dGemric scan if you want to get all technical) and it basically showed that I have crappy cartilage in there.  Too crappy to do preventative surgery, but not crappy enough to need a hip replacement.  I have a good 5-10 years before that's necessary.  Wait WHAT?!?!  That's right.  I am 29 years old and will probably need a hip replacement in 5-10 years.

The treatment plan?  "Loose weight and do physical therapy."  Like word-for-word out of the mouth of this super-special-specialist.  Excellent advice for a patient who is in recovery for an eating disorder and who has been doing physical therapy for 3 years.  His other piece of advice basically went something like this: "It looks like you might have re-torn your labrum, which wouldn't be surprising.  Just keep going until it hurts super bad, then have a hip scope to clean things up.  Repeat this process until it's bad enough to have a hip replacement.  Then see me for a hip replacement, which will probably need to be repeated at least twice in your lifetime."

Needless to say, I went through various stages of anger, ambivalence, rage, self-pity, contemplation of the meaning of life, and just plain being pissed off.

Where am I now?  Well I guess that's a good place to start, now isn't it?

I'm not doing PT anymore.  I talked to Rick (my physical therapist) and he told me that there really isn't anything I can do that would make things worse.  After the rapid cycling of emotions eased up, I realized that everyone is right; this one is up to me.  It's all about what I can tolerate and what I want out of life.  Now how is that for a reality check?

I've learned a lot about myself over the past several months and what I've decided is this: I desire to pursue wellness.  It sounds simple and obvious and basically anything but earth-shattering.  But think about it.  In what ways do your daily actions move you toward a state of wellness?  Some people are better at it than others.  Me?  I suck at it.

I have a lot of free time now that I'm not running to physical therapy and appointments with random hip specialists.  I've also had some genetic testing done that reveals that I have a genetic predisposition to increased pain sensitivity.  In addition, my body metabolizes most pain medications very rapidly, which means that they have a minimal effect on my pain level.  I also test positive for hypermobility on the 9 point Beighton Scale.

Blah blah blah.  The bottom line is that I am blessed to have a very comprehensive understanding of my body.  I might not "like" what it is that I understand, but I'm blessed to have the understanding regardless.  It's what I do with the information that is up to me.

My stance?  I've got nothing to loose.  Not in an "I'm going to abuse my body because I'm already screwed" kind of a way.  Although I'd be lying if I told you that hasn't crossed my mind more than once.  But my outlook is more of an... "I'm going to do what he said.  I'm going to do the things I want to do (within reason) until I can't do them comfortably anymore, at which point I'll pay Dr. Ochiai another visit and we'll schedule a hip scope.  And I'll just keep doing the next right thing.  And I'll have an open mind about what 'right' looks like in my life."

I'm working out again.  3 years of physical therapy have taught me a lot about what exercises are safe and which ones I should be more conservative on.  So I'm taking things slowly and not introducing too much at once.  That sounds simple, but it's actually really hard for me.  I want to jump in with both feet and I'll even throw in both arms and maybe a shoulder.  But I know that's just going to land me back in a place where I can't do anything at all.  And something...even if that something is little...something is better than nothing.  I just have to remind myself of that.  Daily.  Sometimes hourly, honestly.

Essential oils are also playing a major role in my journey towards wellness.  I can't reverse the damage that has been done to my body.  Some of the damage I've inflicted on myself and some of it...well...we may never really know what caused it.  So although I can't reverse the damage, I can begin to restore and maintain optimal wellness.  But that's a story for another day.

So I guess this did turn out to be your typical New Years post...how 2016 is going to be different from 2015 and every year before.  How I'm going to go to the gym and become a health nut.  Gosh I hate that garbage.  It almost makes me want to delete the whole thing.  But I hope you can catch a glimpse at the deeper meaning here.  My journey to wellness?  It doesn't involve changing my body.  It's about accepting and helping my body.  Which--for any person fighting for eating disorder recovery...or even most people in general--is mind-blowing.

Take Me Off The Schedule

I've piddled away the last 2 hours.  You know, trying to decide whether writing is therapeutic or whether I'd be better off just watching a movie and painting my nails.  Indecisively scrolling through Facebook and Googling things that I'd be better off not Googling.  But in the end, I think I've decided to write.

You know what I'd really like to do?  I mean honestly?  I want to un-friend Nirschl Orthopaedic Center for Sports Medicine on Facebook and un-follow Dr. Derek Ochiai on Twitter.  That's what I want to do.  As if they'd even notice or care.  As if that would bring me some sort of satisfaction or healing.  Come on, Brittany.  Real mature.  Get it together.

It feels pretty lame to write 2 consecutive posts on my blasted hip.  But I'm going to do it anyway.  You can decide it's not worth your time if you'd like.  I won't be offended.  This is just my way of processing things.  And to be honest, there's a lot of you out there who have walked this journey with me.  My family...friends...Jobie peeps..."shipmates"...NROTC staff...recovery warriors...teammates...Mercy sisters...classmates...coworkers.  I mean half of you I don't even talk to anymore, but you still follow along and poke your head in to say hi from time to time.  Even if that only means clicking the "like" button on my Facebook status.  Just that small reminder that you're still there and you still care...I mean you don't even realize the power that holds in my life.

This post won't be all poetic and I'm not sure it will even end with a point.  I'm at more of a "these are the facts" kind of a place right now.  So I'm going classic "lecture note-taking style" on you:

• I have had 7 surgeries and they have all sucked.

  • January 2005: I broke my left femur.  ORIF #1.

  • May 2005: Nonunion.  ORIF #2.

  • December 2005: Refracture.  Bone Graft.

  • April 2013: Labral Repair #1.

  • November 2013: Re-tare.  Labral Repair #2.

  • July 2014: Hardware Removal.

  • March 2015: Labral Reconstruction.

• I have been in physical therapy for over 2.5 years.

• Whenever I start making "progress", my hip flexor flares up and I am practically incapacitated.  I have all my exercises taken away from me.  We wait.  Usually for several months.  We get it calmed down.  We slowly introduce exercises.  BAM. Instantaneous excruciating pain.  Repeat.

• I saw my orthopedic surgeon on 9/29.  I expected him to tell me there was nothing else he could do.  When we decided to do the labral reconstruction in March, he told me that was the last thing he could do for me.  So I was prepared for the worst.  I was pleasantly surprised.  He told me there was obviously something wrong and that there were 3 possibilities:

  1. The graft did not take or I re-tore the labrum.

  2. I needed a capsular reconstruction.

  3. He would refer me to an open hip preservation colleague for further evaluation.

• Even though all the possibilities sucked, I was happy.  Because at least there was somewhere to go with things.  I emailed my physical therapist to give him an update.

• I had an MRI arthrogram on 10/5.

• My physical therapist calls me on 10/7.  He says that the capsular reconstruction makes perfect sense.  All of my issues are due to joint instability (which is why I'm also being evaluated for Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome).  A capsular reconstruction would limit my range of motion and add stability.  He tells me that he really thinks there's not much more that we can do without some sort of intervention (intervention is physical therapist speak for surgery, btw).  Again, this doesn't sound like much fun, but I am now extremely hopeful.  A capsular reconstruction definitely seems like an excellent option.

• I drive to Arlington bright and early to see Dr. Ochiai on 10/8.  He scrolls through my MRI.  Quickly.  He rules out possibility 1; the labral graft looks good.  He then jumps from possibility 1 to possibility 3, completely bypassing the most appealing and promising of all possibilities.  He hands me the name and number of another surgeon and waves goodbye.

• I ALMOST make it to my car before sobbing uncontrollably.  Pardon my french, but...WTF?!?!  This is what I expected a week ago.  I expected him to wash his hands of me and call it quits.  But then he had to go and give me hope.  And now it's shattered.  I'd rather have no hope than false hope.  Call me spiteful, but at least I put a dent in his precious statistics.  Ha! You couldn't fix me!  Brittany: 0...but super stellar hip scope surgeon statistic: -1. BAM.

• I stop sobbing long enough to call and schedule an evaluation with this new doctor.  The earliest appointment I can get is 11/17.  Recommence sobbing.

• I contemplate driving to Illinois, Chesapeake, or Abingdon instead of returning to work that day.  I decide that is foolish.  Instead, I choose to return to work and stare at the carpet instead of look into people's eyes because I don't trust my voice or tear ducts to conceal the devastation I'm experiencing.

• Oh.  Oh.  I almost forgot.  My physical therapist explained what an open hip preservation surgeon does.  They perform osteotomies.  You wanna know what an osteotomy is?  Basically, they cut your pelvic bone and re-align everything.  Then screw you back together the "right" way.  This COMPLETELY changes your ENTIRE body structurally.  Rick really believes that a capsular reconstruction should at LEAST be CONSIDERED before resorting to this.  Also.  Hey!  I just had all my hardware removed!  Now you want to go putting more metal all up in there?  For serious?  ARG.

• I go through hourly cycles ranging from "I don't even care anymore"...to..."I'll just give up"...to..."But I know I can't live like this"...to..."There must be an answer"...to..."I'm crazy"...and pretty much everything in between.

Which brings us to today.  I saw my physical therapist (Have I mentioned that he is amazing?  Because he is.  The whole team at CMRS is In.Cred.I.Ble.).  He spent over 30 minutes with me and we just talked.  A lot.  Then he brought out his laptop.  And we researched.  A lot.  He asked me what my plan was.  He made a few recommendations.  He said he would talk to a few of his contacts.  You know what I love about Rick?  He reminds me that I'm not crazy.  Even if that means telling me what I don't want to hear.

The hardest part of this whole thing?  Like for real?  5 words: "Take me off the schedule."

Rick and I ultimately decided to put physical therapy on hold until we have more information.  I know it's what's best.  I'm the one who said the words, in all honesty.  Even though we were both thinking it.  "I don't want to pull a Dr. Ochiai on you, Brittany."  "Oh please, Rick.  You're not giving up on me.  You're helping me make a Plan B...although by now it feels more like a Plan U.  Maybe even a Plan V.  Regardless, you're empowering me.  That's a big difference.  I'm wasting everybody's time at this point.  It's time to regroup."

He's not going to close my file.  He's doing some networking and will contact me in a day or 2.  He wants me to email, call, or drop in whenever I need to talk.  He says he can always make time for me.  For now though, my evenings are better spent researching surgeons, blogging, going on dates, watching movies, and experimenting with different essential oil recipes.

So asking Shannon to take me off the schedule was not an easy thing to do.  Now I know why they have a box of tissues in the front office.  I've spent several hours a day, 2 days a week for the past 57 months with these people (with a few gaps here and there, of course).  That's more time than I spend with most of my friends.  These guys are practically family.  And even though I know Rick isn't giving up...and even though I know I won't be gone for long...there's something about those 5 words that carved reality into my heart.

But they also granted me permission.  Permission to consider all the outlandish Google search results that I once believed to be drastic, comical, and/or foolish.  Because ain't nothing off the table now, folks.  Bring it.

Please note: Dr. Ochiai is an incredibly talented, professional, and compassionate orthopedic surgeon who specializes in complex hip arthroscopies.  Those of you who know me know that my case is far from ordinary.  It's even far from complex. I will be the first to say that my experience and frustration is not a fair testimony to his impeccable skill and expertise.  If you have been diagnosed with any hip labral deficiency, I would refer you to Dr. Ochiai at Nirschl Orthopaedic Center for Sports Medicine in the blink of an eye.

To Hell With Hope

Hope?  To hell with hope.  There is no hope.

Anger.  That's all there is today.  Once the tears have been shed, that is.

Today is the kind of day that demands you watch every second tick by, just waiting until you can walk through your bedroom door, collapse, curl into a ball, and sob.  Uncontrollably sob.

Why am I crying?  Why else?  Pain.

Although I've freed myself from the fetal position, my thoughts are far from clear.  The tears still stream down my face as I try to make sense of it.  What is "it", you may ask.  And that would be a very good question.

I'm finding the first layer underneath the pain is anger.  It's been awhile since I've acknowledged such an anger.  Rage.

I hate who I become when I'm in pain.  I mean I really really really absolutely despise this person.  I feel weak.  I feel like a complainer.  I feel like one of those people who is always all "poor me."  A person who looks for ways of drawing attention to herself.  I hate those kind of people.  So I guess that sets me up to hate myself when a day like today comes along.

I woke up in excruciating pain.  My hip and my lower back.  I thought maybe I just needed a hot shower and some movement.  Yeah right.

I am so freaking tired.  On so many levels.  I feel like I've invested so much time and energy into recovery; in regards to both my eating disorder and my hip injury.  But I still have to keep food logs and discuss my meal plan because my weight rebounded and now I have major body image issues (a story for another day).  And my hip is still preventing me from functioning like a normal human being.  So now I'm angry.  Furious.  What is the freaking point anymore.  I'm ready to give up.

The son of one of my coworkers has a similar hip injury.  He had surgery to address a labral tear, but continued to experience pain following the procedure.  They got a second opinion and it turns out that the surgery did not take care of things.  The new doctor ran a lot of tests, explained things, and told the boy that another surgery could probably fix his injury.  "He's excited," my coworker says.  "He thought he was crazy...that it was all in his head...but now we have hope again.  Since something is wrong, that means there's something to fix.  It's encouraging to have that kind of hope." (totally paraphrased, but you get the general idea)

We've had several conversations about her son, labral tears, physical therapy, surgery, and so on.  I've always been optimistic and encouraging and telling her not to give up just because they had a bad experience.  Ha.  Not today.  Today I'm standing there listening to her talk about diagnostics and procedures and surgeries and hope and you know what I wanted to say?

Don't believe it.  Don't believe a word of it.  Go ahead and give up now before you've wasted any more time.  Hope is a lie.  There is no fixing this.  There is no shot at normal.  Life will never be the same.  THERE IS NO HOPE.

I didn't say that.  Not out loud at least.  I have no way of determining how the silent tears streaming down my face were perceived.  I try to keep my hopelessness to myself, but I don't have a very good poker face.  Today I wonder what my eyes tell the world.  Are they empty?  I feel empty.  I hope it doesn't show.  But at the same time, I do.  I want the world to hear me scream in defiance at hope.  I want them to feel it in their bones.  I want there to be no doubt that I am serious.  I am seriously angry.  I am seriously hopeless.  I am seriously so raw, that even the weight of a pen in my hand sends an even greater pain coursing through my body.  Each breath is more difficult than the last.  I want there to be no doubt.

The next layer is a place I don't usually go.  It's honestly a place I rarely give the time of day.  It's something I've hardly ever turned to:

Why.

Why.  Why did I break my hip in college?  Why did my dreams shatter the moment my femur broke in two?  Why did a crack in my bone turn into a crack in my heart...into a crack in my soul...my identity...my sanity?  Why did I loose everything?  And why the hell wasn't "everything" enough?  Why am I still haunted?  I've faced and forgiven the many monsters of my past.  Why have I not been set free of this?  Why is the price I paid not enough?

I am daily haunted by what I lost as a result of that first fall over 10 years ago.  I lost my education.  My dream career.  My aspirations.  My drive.  My focus.  And those are all just the direct implications.  Let's not even get started on what I lost as a result of the implications themselves.

Why couldn't they fix me then?  I've told myself many things to make peace with that question.  The best answer I've come up with is this: it was the only way God could slow me down.  Because I wasn't going to listen until I had my freedoms stripped away.  All of them.  And I'm convinced that this is true.  I don't think I just made it up to help myself feel better about things.  I was going full tilt at life and God found the one thing that would grab my attention.  And it hurt.  It usually does.

I tell people I don't regret anything in my life because I wouldn't be the person I am today without those things that might be viewed as mistakes.

Is that a lie?

No.

I don't regret the choices I made (physically, mentally, spiritually, emotionally) that led to my injury.  I don't regret my fall.  But you know what?  I do resent it.  I resent it a whole lot.  Especially right now.

Which has me asking why again.  Ok, ok, so they couldn't fix me then because I had a bunch of really brutal lessons to learn.  Ok.  I get it.  But why can't they fix me now?

I know I'll always have lessons to learn.  And I've tried telling myself that the answer is the same as it was 10 years ago.  Something about God catching my attention to teach me something.  But guess what.  It's not cutting it.  I just don't buy it anymore.  I think it's bullshit.

...

Oh crap.  You know what?  I hate this.  You know what I hate?

I hate that all I wanted to do tonight was write an angry post about how I'm in agonizing pain and that it makes me detest myself to my core.  I wanted to write about my justified hopelessness.  I didn't just want to write it.  I wanted to scream it.

But you know what I just realized?  It's not bullshit.  It's not bullshit at all.  I need to slow down.  Not in the same way that I did as a college freshman, but still.  I need to slow down.  I need to breath.  I need to savor the moments.  Each moment.  Each.  Good.  Moment.  Because there's a whole lot of good moments in my life right now.  Like 95% good.  But the "bad" 5% tends to get 95% of the attention.  Which is honestly where the true bullshit lies.  I've worked too hard to let the 5% have that kind of power.  So yeah.  I guess I needed a lesson in slowing down.  Again.

I'm still angry.  I don't think that's all there is.  There's a legitimate SOMETHING going on with my hip.  I feel it in my core.  I see it in the faces of the people who I interact with.  I hear it in the words left unspoken by my physical therapist.  It's not just some great lesson I had to learn today.  It's always been legit.  And it still is.  And I'm tired of dealing with it.  So yes.  I'm still angry.

I'd like to say that the writing-induced revelations are calming me down, but the truth is that the meds are kicking in.  I hate taking medication to control my pain.  It makes me feel like a zombie.  I'm not sure which is worse.  But I guess that's my red flag of when something is serious.  If it hurts enough to make zombie-mode appealing, it must mean it's time to step back and re-evaluate things.

My physical therapist will evaluate things on his end.  I guess it falls on me to evaluate my spiritual and emotional state.  We each have some things to figure out.  And honestly...I'm not sure who has the more trying task.

So I guess I failed in fulfilling the purpose of this post.  I wanted to denounce hope and all that it entails.  But that's never been my strong suit, and habits are hard to break.  Which isn't always a bad thing.

Walk Today. Dance Tomorrow.

This afternoon has been full of revelation. I'm not going to label it good or bad.  Labels suck.  Revelation is simply an awareness of truth.  And truth has no bias.

Revelation 1: My hip has not functioned properly for over a third of my life.

It's true.  I broke my hip when I was 18.  January of 2005.  And the hip I broke was actually my good one.  My right hip is the one that gave me trouble all the way through high school.  Then BAM.  Freshman year of college.  I break the left one.

Over 10 years have passed and I'm now 29.  18 year-old Brittany would have never imagined this life for herself.  And honestly, that's probably a good thing.  I'm not sure she could have handled the truth.  She would have never let this happen.  She would have definitely done things differently.  And that makes me sad.  Because believe it or not, I like my life.  She would call me crazy.

I've tackled the last few weeks of physical therapy a little bit differently.  I've very much been in the "do whatever they say, exactly as they say it" mode.  I've said it before and I'll say it again: I have the best treatment team in the freaking world.  But I think we all let ourselves get a little bit comfortable.  Things got too routine.  We were going through the motions.  We've been doing it for 2.5 years, after all.

But about 2 weeks ago, I started playing a more active role in my physical therapy.  If the last 10 years have taught me anything, it's to be incredibly in tune with my body.  I decided it was time to start communicating all that information, experience, and intuition to my physical therapist and PTA.  And the result has been pretty impressive.  Even after just 2 weeks.

Revelation 2: Therapy works best when you're honest.

At first glance it's discouraging.  My transparency has meant scaling back on the exercises.  I'm not even doing my 5 minutes of cardio.  It sucks.

But.  We've discovered something.  I won't get into the nitty gritty because it's boring unless your invested in it.  Basically, my hip flexor is doing the work that every other muscle in the abdominal, gluteal, and femoral region should be doing.  In addition, my joint straight up just doesn't glide the way that it should.  It's hard to say which came first and it really doesn't matter anyway.  All that matters is the fact that it's pretty structurally jacked.

Like I said.  At first glance it's discouraging.  But.  With that knowledge comes the ability to address it.  A month ago we were just going through the motions and it was sort of working.  But at the end of the day, we were all doing what we needed to do because it was what we were told we needed to do.  Now we've identified a problem.  Which means there's something to fix.  That's what I like to call direction.  Which is a good thing.

It's not as easy as it sounds.  I can tell from the look in Rick's eye...this isn't going to be easy.  "Brittany, we basically have to retrain your joint to move and stabilize properly."  Ok, I say.  What can I do to help it?  Or what can I stop doing to help it?  Let's do this, bro!

"I'm going to need some time to really think about it.  I want you to give taping it another shot.  I don't know whether or not it will help at all.  But it's a start.  And I'll think and do some research and we'll collaborate and we'll take step 2."

Like I said.  At first glance, it's discouraging.  My physical therapist doesn't even know what to do?  Holy shenanigans.

But it's starting to make sense.  My hip has been "making do" for over 10 years.  It's picked up some bad habits as a means of coping.  It's done everything it could to survive and preserve its fundamental purpose.  And it suffered a lot of damage as a result.

All this time I thought the purpose of therapy was to repair the damage.  And it is.  Don't get me wrong.  But I'm learning that therapy is WAY more than simply repairing the damage done along the way.  It's learning to move again.  The right way.  It's breaking old habits and developing new ones.

When we first start walking, we fall a lot.  But once we get the hang of it, we know it forever.  We know how to walk.  And most of us do it well.  Until something happens that fills us with fear and makes us forget.  And suddenly walking isn't quite so easy anymore.

Revelation 3: Therapy is learning to walk again.

I hope by now you've realized that this post is about way more than me being in therapy to rehabilitate my hip following surgery.  We're talking life here, folks.  LIFE.

When we find ourselves in a pickle, we try to "make do".  We cope...sometimes by using bad habits.  We fight.  We struggle to survive.  To preserve a piece of ourselves in the midst of whatever trouble we've created.  We do a lot of damage.  We hurt ourselves.  We hurt others.  We started off so well.  What went wrong?  Suddenly...living the lives we dreamed of isn't quite so easy.

So.

We have to challenge the status quo and acknowledge the pain.

We have to be honest with ourselves and others to identify the source of the hurt.

We have to be willing to break out of what's comfortable and enter into a process.

We have to recognize the damage we have done to both ourselves and others.

We have to work as a team and rely on each other, because no one person holds the answer.

We have to find ways of repairing the damage.

We have to identify healthy and unhealthy patterns.

We have to break old habits and develop new ones.

We have to wake up and daily commit ourselves to learning to walk again.

Therapy isn't just a part of life that we subject ourselves to when we get injured or find ourselves suffering emotionally.  Therapy IS life.  Life is a therapeutic process.  Be aware.  Be willing.  Be involved.  If we play the cards right, we get to learn, grow, and improve ourselves a little bit each day. So that today is better than yesterday, and tomorrow is better than today.

Walk today.  Dance tomorrow.

love each other deeply.

For a long time, the lock screen on my phone was set to be an alpaca photobomb.  I thought it was cute.  And it made me smile whenever I picked up my phone.  We all need more cuteness and smiles in our lives.

But about 2 months ago, I changed it.  I was skimming through the She Reads Truth app and found a download that I liked.  It was simple.  A white screen with black script:

"love each other deeply." -1 peter 9:8

So I said bye-bye to the alpaca and hello to love.

Little did I know.

The original purpose of this post was truly to talk about my lock screen.  I have no agenda.  I take no sides.  After all, I've said it before: my heart is too soft for sides.

But as I sit here--my heart yearning to speak of love--my flesh is torn to pieces.  Love has become a battlecry.  A fight word.

And I can't even write about it without wondering what people will think.  How my words might be interpreted.  Whether I will offend anyone.  Or if my message will even be heard at all.  Above all the yelling, how could it be?

One of the top trending social media hashtags these days is this:

#lovewins

I'd like to ask you a question.  Actually, I'm going to ask you 2.  And you might not like the resulting conclusion.

1. If you were to see this hashtag 2 months ago, what would your reaction be?  Got it?  Ok.  Next.

2. What is your reaction to this hashtag today?

I'm betting you just gave me 2 different answers.  Regardless of which side of the fence you fall on.

I'm not going to tell you how you feel.  I'm not going to criticize or judge.  I'm just going to put words to what's been on my mind.  And I don't really care what you think about me.

It makes me angry that there is so much tension surrounding the use of the word LOVE.  Of all words?!?!  LOVE.

Love should ALWAYS WIN!!!

Opinions around this issue are electrified.  Few people are going to change their minds.  I can practically guarantee it.  And, in my opinion, you're entitled to yours.  That's one of the great things about this nation.  We are each entitled to our own opinions and our right to express them.  But disagreement does not have to breed conflict.  Most people will argue with me, but I don't see this as a fight.

The dictionary defines love in this way: an intense feeling of deep affection.

It really is as simple as that.

But instead, we use it as a weapon.  A topic of debate.  A sensitive issue.  We attack it or we avoid it.  Rarely is it truly embraced.  And despite the proclamation that #lovewins...our understanding of the word has brought division instead of unity.  A word that should bring goosebumps and giggles is now laced with heat and tension and apprehension and fear and doubt and scrutiny.

Someone recently called me a runner.  Twice.  The first time, it was used as a weapon.  They told me I'm always running from things.  That I'm afraid to stay and fight for love.  They said it to hurt me.  And it worked.  The second time, it was uttered in gratitude.  They were glad I was a runner so that I would chase them down.

By its very nature, love is intense.  It can be exciting, captivating, consuming, enthusiastic, cheerful, gracious, terrifying, suspenseful, arousing, passionate, devastating, and thrilling.  Just to name a few.

Growing up, we're sometimes told that love makes us do crazy things.  And it's true.  Sometimes we do act irrationally in the name of love.  Which is why I'm not up in arms about this most recent sociopolitical issue.  Who am I to say whether or not your words and actions are born of irrational love or hate?  That's one call I'm definitely not making.

By now you may be wondering what my point is.  And truth be told, so am I.  I am not a politician.  I am not a biblical scholar.  I am ignorant and uninformed.  Today I take no stand.  I make no argument.  I rest no case.

I only say one thing: We are called to love each other deeply.  LOVE SHOULD ALWAYS WIN.

I Still Don’t Get Why I Do This.

It's 3:00 pm on a Sunday as I write this.  I'm sitting on the couch.  My cat is purring next to me.  And I'm wrapped up in a sweatshirt blanket in an attempt to keep the icepack on my hip from freezing me to death in the middle of July.  I still don't get why I do this.

I've been trying to write for a month.  A blog post.  A journal entry.  An email.  Anything.

Nothing.

And it's not that I don't have anything to write about.  Nothing could be further from the truth, in fact.

I sit down to write and I have absolutely NO IDEA where to start.  I'm living so much of life in this season.  How do you begin to explain it?  Yet I want so desperately to document every millisecond.  I don't want to miss a moment of what I'm experiencing.

I've started dating again.  It's been a whirlwind.  A rollercoaster.  An adventure.  As I was communicating with a guy the other day, I realized that most of our conversations include me  responding to at least one question with the phrase, "Well, that's a long story."

Finally it struck me.  My life is nothing but a compilation of hilarious and/or devastating long stories.

This week brought me to my knees.  But I refused to recognize it until I woke up at 4:00 am Saturday morning in the middle of a panic attack.  Although I didn't realize it was a panic attack until 12 hours later.  A panic attack?  I haven't had one of those in years.

When I find myself unable to write, I usually just start copying.  Quotes, that is.  I will read and write quotes for hours and hours.  Sometimes I have to rely on another person's words to reflect the emotions and experiences I'm immersed in.  I simply don't have the letters.  At least not in the right order.

It's frustrating to realize that it takes something drastic to slow me down enough that I remember to breathe again.  It shouldn't be this hard.  I should know better by now.  I run and run and run and run until I collapse.  I hold on and fight and grit my teeth and push push push until suddenly my strength fails.

Sunday: Fall down stairs and potentially jeopardize months and months of hard work.

Monday: Admit to physical therapist said fall.

Tuesday: Deny existence of said fall.

Wednesday: Confess to doctor said fall.

Thursday: Receive mixed signals from professionals about said fall.

Friday: Pretend that said fall is inconsequential.

Saturday: Legitimately forget about said fall due to all-consuming physical and emotional exhaustion.

Sunday: Acknowledge intense pain, stop fighting, and start treating said fall.

Mix in the fact that I'm desperately trying not to hurt someone I care about, taking on major duties of an out-of-town coworker, learning that a dear friend is fighting for her life in the ICU, and discovering what I am and am not looking for in a relationship.  I think it'd be kind of weird NOT to have a panic attack, you know?

Oh, and those darn meal logs.  After 9 months, I'm over them.  Much to the dissatisfaction of my dietitian.  But hey, I have bigger fish to fry.

Pain.  Joy.  Death.  Love.  Fear.

I was at physical therapy Friday afternoon.  I'm temporarily restricted from using the Arc Trainer for now, so they let me do the Biostep for some "cardio."  Cardio is in quotation marks because the Biostep is basically a modified recumbent bike for old people.  I'm sorry.  But it's true.  So I do 10 minutes on the Biostep, then do some strengthening exercises.  Seamus comes over and asks how things were feeling.  I shake my head.  He asks me what bothered it.  I start to choke up.  I point to the Biostep.

"This is PATHETIC."  I shake my head again.  "I was doing SO WELL, Seamus.  I was feeling stronger, I was feeling confident, I was...I was....  And I'm just so PISSED right now.  I'm sorry.  But I'm over it.  I'm tired.  I know this is just a set-back and I probably didn't do anything too horrible when I fell.  But I'm just really discouraged right now.  And it sucks."

You know what I like about Seamus?  He nods his head while I shake mine.  He doesn't try to convince me that everything is honky dory.  He doesn't tell me to turn my frown upside down.  Rick is like that too.  They share in my exasperation.  I can see they're just as frustrated as I am.  But they always end in, "We'll get you squared away."  Well, I don't know that I'll ever be square, but I do know I'm in good hands.  If they were going to give up on me, they would have done it 2 years ago when they still had the chance.

So it took a fall, an immense amount of stress, a 3:00 am irate phone call, devastating news, and a 4:00 am panic attack.  But I'm starting to feel like Brittany again.  And no, it's not just because I'm in pain.  Although I'm starting to feel like I won't know who I am without it.

The last 2 days have been rejuvenating. I've spent a lot of time alone.  I needed it.  I needed time and space to just be.  To take a 2.5 hour nap and sit outside for hours doing nothing but copy Story People quotes into my journal.  To finally decide it's not really worth it to sit in pain anymore, when I could be taking care of myself.  Until I eventually cleared my mind enough to come up with a few words of my own.

Although the last week brought me to my knees, it's the last month that has been nothing but crazy.  And it's gone from crazy good to crazy bad and back to crazy good again.  Sometimes in only a matter of hours.  It's exhausting.  No wonder I haven't had the time, energy, or words to write.  But through both the good and the bad, the crazy teaches me something new every day.  And that something?  It's usually about myself.  I get to know myself a little more each day.

Sometimes I get really frustrated.  I LOVE to write.  But it seems as if I'm only ever inspired when I'm in the midst of chaos.  I mean talk about a conflict of interest.  I'm beginning to believe this is something worth exploring.  Am I afraid to write about the good?  Or simply so caught up in enjoying it that I don't want to miss a moment.  Even if just to record its beauty.

I think I spent a lot of years believing that the "good" was always "too good to be true."  Why draw attention to the good?  You were only building a stage and spotlight for everyone to watch as everything went bad for you.

I don't have an answer.  All I know is that it's wrong.  All I know is that's no way to live.  Actually, the more I think about it, the more angry I get with the whole idea.  Embarrassed to experience the good that life has to offer?  If you're fearful of the good, then only the bad is a comfort.  And how twisted is that?

I'm tired of being comforted only by the darkness.  I'm through with only experiencing the good when coupled with shame.

People say life is both good and bad.  That's just the world we live in.

But guess what?  The bad doesn't have to be good, and the good isn't always bad.

There are more than 1 million words in the English language.  Why let ourselves be ruled by just these 2?

Use me, Lord. Use me.

There are people in this world that have no idea what they have done.  The significant role they have played in my life.  The way my voice cracks or my eyes tear-up when I think about them.  Speak their name.  See their picture.

These people marked the most painful pieces of my life with kindness.  Many will tell you they were just doing their jobs.  And maybe they were.  I mean, of course they were.  Obviously.  But their kindness...it overstepped the boundaries of obligation.

If you were to look at my life, you would see these people as peripheral.  You probably wouldn't identify them as major characters in my autobiography.  Or maybe you would.  Perhaps an outside eye would be able to see what I am continually baffled by.

The question I ask myself is always this: "Why?"

"Why did someone go above and beyond the call of duty to extend kindness to me in my darkest days?"

"Why does she remember me?"

"Why does he care?"

I've got nothing.  Absolutely nothing.

I usually try to earn a memory...the care and concern of others.  I work hard.  I'm friendly to others.  I try to be optimistic.  I'm a problem solver.  I like to be present and interact and become part of a bigger story.  I get that.  It makes sense to me.

But this doesn't.  This doesn't make sense at all.  Not one bit.

These people are from the seasons of life I'd like to erase.  Close my eyes and wish away.

But these people saw worth in those moments.  They wouldn't have stepped into my story otherwise.

Because being kind takes effort and energy.  Kindness is intentional.  You don't just fall into it.  You have to want to be kind.

I don't think it was out of pity.  Pity is transient.  These people are invested.  Years later.  Invested.  It's astonishing to me.

I know that a large part of it is simply a reflection of their character.  These people are just "those kind of people." The kind that remember your face and the name of your childhood dog.  Whose home is always open to a guest.  Who is passionate about their work, family, and faith.  Who lives intentionally.  With purpose.  In service.

They are.  They're just those kind of people.

But even they can't be that for everyone.  Even they must pick and choose.  Even they are faced with the decision: which person out of this sea of people will I invest in today?

So why?  Why me?

Suddenly I begin to see a bigger picture.  One that might sound prideful, but still, it must be said.

In those dark seasons of life, I did not even feel like a person anymore.  I was a shadow.  Death slowly swallowed me and hope drifted further and further away.

Yet still...from the shadows...my eyes must have reflected some light.

I thought it had vanished: my ambition, my determination, my hopes, my dreams, my aspirations, my diligence, my purpose, my strength.  I felt like a ghost.  An empty shell.  Whether I gave these things away or they were stolen from me...at the end of the day, they were as I: lost.

But it's impossible to loose your identity.  Your personality.  Your character.  For as long as my lungs breath oxygen, I will possess a unique aura that is distinctly Brittany.

We change.  We grow.  Some parts fade and others are nurtured from seedlings planted in our hearts.  But our identity...it's there.  It's constant.  It cannot be obliterated.  Despite our best and worst efforts.  We cannot be destroyed.

The Lord left some life in my eyes.  Although I was often unable to communicate using the spoken (or even written) word, He never separated me from my identity.  He was doing a great work within me.  He used those dark times to minister to my soul.  But while he was healing the broken pieces of my spirit, he left my virtues.  And every once-in-a-while, the light would catch a corner and they would sparkle.

But the sparkle was brief.  To have any chance of being noticed, someone would have had to be looking for it.  That's where those people come in.  The kind of people who look into a sea of individuals and pick a few to extend a hand of kindness to.

I may never know or understand the why.  And maybe that's a good thing.  Maybe it's better that way.

Even now--years later--these people still impact my life.  The words and acts of kindness they extended to me in the past continue to echo into my future.  Their occasional hello, comment, or smile...it sends me back into a tailspin of thankful reflection.

When I think of them, I am filled with gratitude.  When they think of me, I am filled with...purpose?  Value?  Worth?  Yes.  I am filled with purpose, value, and worth.  For who invests time and energy in a hopeless case?  Who extends kindness to a person without a future?

No one.

So what am I to do with this?  These people are walking around the world completely oblivious to the monumental impact they have made on my life.  And knowing these people...I can't be the only one to have been touched by their kindness.  A thank you just doesn't do them justice.  Trust me.  I've tried.

So I do the only thing I know to do.  I pay it forward.  I try to interact with people in a way that conveys the fact that they have purpose, value, and worth.  When they look at themselves in the mirror, I want them to see what I see.  Beauty.

A smile.  A ride to a meeting.  A cup of coffee.  A hug.  An email.  Whatever the Holy Spirit whispers in my ear, really.

So my prayer tonight is this.  Use me, Lord.  Use me.

Yesterday Sucked. But Today I Feel Stronger.

I'm not going to say that Monday was the worst day of my life, because I know that's both untrue and overly dramatic.

That being said, it still sucked.  A lot.

I love my job, but work was rough.  The last week or so has been pretty bumpy; nothing is ever easy.  Mary says that's because we're doing good work for the Kingdom of God.  I told her if that was the case, maybe I'd better start slacking off.  Just kidding.

That night I hurt someone's feelings (a story for another day).  I hate that.  I hate doing something that you know is going to destroy another person.  Even if you know it's the right thing to do.

I cried at work, I cried at home, and I cried myself to sleep.

I felt like a truly horrible person.

But I was excited for Tuesday.  Mostly because I was only working 7-11:30.  Who doesn't love a half day of work??

But there was a catch.  I was leaving at 11:30 to make it to Arlington by 1:15 for a follow-up appointment with my orthopedic surgeon.  From there, I was driving to Towson for a 4:00 counseling appointment.  From there, I headed down the road for a 5:15 appointment with my dietitian.  Eventually I would make my way back home with an empty tank of gas.

I was excited.  Despite my "Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad [Mon]Day"...I had a little bit of pep in my step.  I just drowned my exhaustion in espresso and I was ready to go.

I don't think I've ever been quite so excited to see Dr. Ochiai.  I love my orthopedist.  Some people think I'm crazy.  "Why do you keep going to someone who has had to repeat the surgery more than once on you?"  Because he's good.  He knows his stuff.  I trust him.  It's not his fault that my history is a nightmare.  I didn't give the guy much to work with, so I think he's doing an awesome job.  I make sure to tell him that at the end of every appointment.

I also feel bad for the guy.  I can read his eyes and body language.  I can see the frustration and discouragement build up...at times I've thought he experiences these things even more than I do.  I've been with him for over 2 years and I think I've challenged him.  He wants to fix me and I haven't made that an easy feat for him to achieve.

Needless to say, I was excited to see him and tell him I thought I was doing well.

He walks into the room and looks at me.  "Well you're smiling, so that's a good sign!  But then again, you're always smiling."  It's nice to know that's what he sees in me.  A smile despite the pain.  I'm always afraid I'm projecting this injured victim-like persona.  That I look weak and whiney.  It's nice to hear otherwise.

He moves my leg around in every direction.  He reads the note from my physical therapist.  He asks me how I think I'm doing.

"Good.  I can't explain it.  Things are tough and there's still some pain and a long road ahead.  But...I just feel stronger."

Now it was his turn to smile.  "I must say, Brittany.  I am encouraged.  Stay the course."  He then proceeded to tell me (more than once) to call him any time; if something didn't feel right, or if my physical therapist was pushing me to hard, or if I just wanted to chat.  Then I scheduled my next visit with him for 2 months out.

During my counseling session several hours later, I felt the same sort of apprehensive confidence.  I laid out the events of the last week or so for my therapist and I did so with a chuckle.  I mean there was some tough stuff.  Some really tough stuff.  But I knew what I had to do and it sucked and I did it anyway.  I think I proved to myself and to everyone around me that I'm capable and wise and vibrant.  I've been doubting myself; wondering if I was truly ready to press in and reach out.  But I proved my doubts wrong.  I just feel stronger.

While meeting with my dietitian, we talked about a lot of different things.  Meal planning, goals, hunger and fullness cues...at times I think the 30 minutes with my dietitian are way more draining than the hour with my therapist.  She asked what eating disorder behaviors I'm struggling with.  I told her something like, "Honestly, I'm doing what I need to do.  I may not like the results.  I'm struggling with body image more than I ever have before.  It's not always easy.  But I'm doing it.  I just feel stronger."

While waiting for my therapist to get me for my appointment on Tuesday, I saw a fellow recovery warrior in the waiting room.  I asked her how she was doing.  She told me.  She asked me how I was doing.  I said, "Alright."  That was it.

Until I finally got home Tuesday night and had a few minutes to reflect.  Why did I tell her I was doing alright?  Gosh darn it, I am way more than alright.  I'm taking chances, making messes, investing in relationships, solving mysteries, laughing, crying, and everything in between.  And I can still wake up each day, take a shower, eat my breakfast, drive to work, and face the day wearing my big girl panties.  "Alright" implies surviving.  But I think it's safe to say I've proven that I'm capable of way more than that now.  I'm thriving.

Last week was rough and Monday sucked.  Hardcore.  But today I feel stronger.

So I Said No.

I'd like to say I'm sorry.

But not to you.

To myself.

I'm sorry.  I'm sorry I haven't written in a while.  I'm sorry this page has collected dust.  I'm sorry I haven't updated my plug-ins for a month.

I'm sorry I haven't been around.

I got swept up in another whirlwind.  My dreams are just so big.  Sometimes I get lost in them.

Last fall I started writing for a freelance agency.  I did a few pieces, then didn't really hear from them until recently.  Then the work started flooding in.  I was excited.

Perhaps too excited.

I kept saying yes.  I was afraid that if I said no, they wouldn't give me future assignments.

Until I realized that the work was flooding in because...well...they liked my work.  They need quality content.  I write quality content.  So they keep offering me gigs.

Fear gave way to the realization that I now had power.  I got to decide which gigs I took and which gigs I passed over.  The ball was in my court.

So I said no.

Flattery tends to get us in trouble.  As humans, we crave the words, "I need you."  We are so easily manipulated through compliments and admiration.  I'm just as guilty as the next guy.

We sacrifice what we love to do that which brings us glory.  We loose sight of the big picture.  We become dissatisfied.  Restless.

Restless.

You know, if ever there was a word that I would use to describe the overall theme of my life, it would be the word restless.

At times, I feel pursued by restlessness.

A lot of people will make accusations when you tell them you're restless.  "Oh, you're restless because you are not fulfilling God's purpose for your life."  "You will not be satisfied and content until you are in God's will."  Don't pretend you haven't heard it.  Or even said it.

I don't like that.  That makes restlessness a bad thing.  And--although it sometimes drives me crazy--I don't think restlessness is all that bad.

Yes, there are times in my life when I am restless because I am not seeking God's will for my life.

But I don't think that stillness brings contentment.  I don't think we're supposed to be satisfied.

I like that restlessness pursues me.  It challenges me to constantly evaluate my life.

Am I happy?  Are there things I'm doing that I don't want to be doing?  Are there things I'm not doing that I would like to be doing?  How are my relationships?  Am I the mother I want to be?  Does my work bring me fulfillment?  Do I feel that my life has purpose?

Being restless usually means it's time to start asking myself some of these questions.  The answers can be yes and they can also be no.  There is no right or wrong.  There's simply insight.  What I do with the insight I gain through my restlessness is really up to me.

Sometimes I'm ok to sit with it.

Sometimes I feel a sense of urgency; a need to make an immediate change.

Sometimes I simply find myself nudged into exploration.

There are times that my restlessness torments me.  "Why can't I just enjoy this moment and be satisfied????"

But then I stop.  I take a step back.  I look around.

In just the last 12 months alone, where would I be had I not experienced restlessness?  I would not have found:

• A new church to call home

• A new job

• New friendships

• A new car

• A path to healing for my hip injury

• Recovery from my eating disorder and depression

• Renewed relationships with family members

• Twitter

• My blog

• Freelance writing opportunities

• Buffer

• A date

• ...I could go on and on

And that's just from 1 year of restlessness.  There have been brief periods when I've been "content" (which in this scenario is simply the opposite of restless).  But the majority of this time has been spent in a state of restlessness.

Restlessness breeds productivity, satisfaction, joy, and growth.  It enriches my life.

I get comfortable too easily.  I need to be nudged.

So instead of asking for God to lead me out of my restlessness and into His will, I ask this:

"Lord, make me restless.  Pursue me.  Grow me.  Shape me.  So that I am never the same as I was yesterday.  Amen."

There Is No Us. There Is No Them.

I don't usually watch the news.  I find that if I turn it on, it's impossible to turn off.  And it's usually the same thing over and over again.  5 minutes worth of news lasts 3 hours as reporters and anchors tell the same story again and again.  It only fuels the fire and causes restless sleep.

I used to love politics.  Now my heart is too soft for it.  My ability to see multiple sides of an issue makes me worthless in a debate.  People are so passionate and I admire them and I used to be them and I get frustrated with myself.  I get frustrated because I'm not out there taking a stand.  Using my Facebook wall as a launching pad to change the world.  Shouting at the top of my lungs.

But I am passionate.  It's just that I'm passionate about people...not necessarily right and wrong.  I have morals and values and beliefs about the world and how we should act.  My passion used to come from rules that I created based on these beliefs.  Screw the rules.  I was never very good at following them anyway.

I'm not coming down on one side or another.  My heart's too soft for that.  So I'm doing the only thing I know how to do with this sort of passion.  I write.

I crawled into bed at 11 last night.  I tossed.  I turned.  Then I gave up and grabbed my phone.  Forget Facebook or Twitter, I went straight to my Notes app.  And this is what happened next:

We spend most of our lives learning to avoid and escape pain. Hide it. Deny its presence or influence in our lives. But we're wrong.

Pain. Pain is the great equalizer. I look at my world; both my tiny one and the one at large. I look at it tonight. I see it in the texts I exchange with friends. In the television coverage. In the fires. In my newsfeed. In the voices of the ones I love. Or the lack of voices...at times that's even worse.

Anger. Violence. Fear. None of it matters. All I see is pain. It destroys me. Pain in every heart. It does not discriminate. It is the essence of the human existence. It's the one thing that can be guaranteed.

Pain does not discriminate.

And I see it. In every face. Every voice. Every heart.

Please. Please. If we could just see each other's pain. I believe we could stop. I believe we could love. I believe tomorrow could be different from today.

But we've become masters of deception. We deny the existence of pain. So when it floods our lives...our cities...our world...we become broken. As if the world wasn't broken enough.

And so we watch as lives and buildings crumble. Paralyzed. Until all we have left is the inescapable call to face it. We see our pain reflected in the eyes of those around us.

Don't look at the fires. Don't tweet about broken windows and totaled cars. Take off the masks. Look up from your phone. Gaze into the eyes of PEOPLE. And I guarantee you'll find pain. And you will find yourself in the company of another human. Because all the time you spent avoiding pain left you stranded and alone. But acknowledging it enables you to enter into relationships again.

This is a chance to start over. Tomorrow is a new day. A day to grieve your pain and be blessed by its ability to strip away everything but the simple reality that each of us is human. That each of us has a story. A past. A present. A future. And although we experience pain, we are not commanded to be governed by it. Let it bring us together rather than tear us apart.

There is no us. There is no them.

Tomorrow can be different from today.

My “Last Chance”

I've talked about it before, but I'm going to talk about it again.  Because apparently it's a big part of my life.  You can't just ignore these things.

I'm 4 weeks post-op from hip surgery #7.  When people see me on crutches, they're all like "Wow, you're a pro!"  Thanks.  I've had a lot of practice.  But I sure would appreciate it if you'd hold the door open for me since you're just standing there with your arms crossed watching me.  I know I've perfected the technique of maneuvering through doors, but it's common practice "niceness" to help a cripple out.  Or so I thought.

Whew.  Vent over.  I didn't see that one coming.  Honestly.

Back to the topic at hand.

I initially developed my eating disorder following my very first hip surgery in January of 2005.  Ever since then, I believe that the 2 have been subliminally linked.  The eating disorder urges kick in when I'm stranded on the couch trying to let my hip heal from surgery.  Every time.  They're loud.  And this time is no different.

When I decided to have this final surgery, I was emailing back and forth with my physical therapist.  He had a lot of questions for me to ask my surgeon.  He also had a lot of questions for me to ask myself.  The one that I keep playing over and over in my head is this:

"Are you prepared for another lengthy recovery (physically, mentally, emotionally)?

I told him yes.

Was I wrong?  Was I overconfident?  Too sure of myself?  Jumping in blindly?

Should I have waited?  Should I have had more ED recovery time before signing up for even more surgical recovery time?

The answer?  Maybe.  But maybe not.

I think that the eating disorder thoughts and urges will always attack me when I'm weak.  I went 7 years in between hip surgeries 3 and 4.  I still found myself under attack.  So no, I don't think waiting another couple of months would have made this time any easier.

Besides, I think knowledge is power.  I know my tendencies and I was resolute to resist them when I signed up for this surgery.  It's easy at first.  Especially just discharging from ED treatment; I felt like I had some momentum.  Well that lasted for a good few weeks at least.

Then the monotony kicks in.  Boredom.  My motivation tanks.  I'm depressed and lonely.  Not hungry.  I'm tired of watching movies.  I don't want to sit outside. I don't want to go to sleep.  I hate myself for staying awake.  It's horrible.

Should I have thought harder when my physical therapist asked me that question?  Should I have said no?

Whenever you have surgery, they send you home with a discharge folder.  I would know, since I've had several folders in my lifetime.  I don't open them anymore.  I know what's inside.

Well one day...in my boredom...I opened the folder and found myself surprised.  First of all, I found a cute little card that everyone on my surgical team had signed...all the nurses, the anesthesia team, and my surgeon.  It wasn't anything super special, but it made me smile.

Then a little card fell out.

"Your recent surgery included the use of a LifeNet Health allograft: a gift of donated bone, heart or connective tissue."

What?  I had heard of labral reconstruction being performed using cadaver tissue, but I just assumed that he was going to use a tendon graft (like I'd watched on YouTube, of course).

That little card changed everything for me.  I had made all kinds of promises to myself.  "You have to take care of yourself this time."  "Don't let the eating disorder in."  "This is your last chance, Brittany."

But none of those threats hold a candle to that little card.  Someone died so that I could have this "last chance."  I mean, I know it's not a heart, liver, or kidney.  I don't want to be dramatic; I know it's pretty inconsequential in the big picture.  But it does make a difference.  A piece of someone lives on inside of me and it's given me another chance at leading a healthy, normal life.  Dare I say a pain-free one?

I'd like to say thank you.  To the family of whoever's labrum now lines my hip joint.  I want them to know that I'm grateful.  That no act is too small.

I've spent the last 6 months in treatment learning how to take care of my body again.  I know that it's important.  Very important.  I've always known that my body is "fearfully and wonderfully made."  But it's not just my body anymore.  Which makes it even more important.  Even more wonderful.

There are a lot of "blah" days right now.  I can't wait for the weekend, then I hate it when it finally arrives.  Part of that is because I have so many things I want to do with my life.  I feel trapped by impossibility.  But I have to realize that this is temporary.  What I do now will determine whether or not I'll be able to do all the things I dream of.

As much as I hate to admit it, recovery from this surgery is intertwined with recovery from my eating disorder.  I can't have one without the other.  It's going to take a lot.  Fighting is exhausting.  And so is resting.

But 2 are greater than one.  And I've been blessed with 2.  How lucky am I??? Not everyone can say that.

Fighting For Our Lives

I haven't written in a few weeks.  Recovering from this surgery is slow, boring, and depressing.  There.  I said it.  I've had no inspiration.

Whenever I find myself lacking in inspirational material, I usually try to watch a movie that's sure to stir some emotions in my heart.  So that's what I did last night.  And it worked.  The lightning bolts always start going off at 11:00 at night.  I was so excited to sit down at my computer and compose a post this evening.

Then today happened.  And right now...I can't make any guarantees as to where this post will end up.

I'm thinking about writing a "This Morning" post and a "This Evening" post.  How can the world change so drastically in less than 24 hours?

This Morning

I watched The Fault in Our Stars last night and I bawled.  I'm not going to take the time or space to explain the movie.   That's what Google is for.  But it has to do with teenagers and cancer...joy and pain...life and death.

As I was falling asleep, I began to wonder why the movie created such intense emotions for me.  Cancer has never really been a devastating force in my life.  Why did a story about this disease move me?

Flashback to the Fall 0f 2014.  It feels like just yesterday.  I was in treatment for an eating disorder.  Sitting in a circle in a group of women and men.  All fighting for their lives.  One woman started talking about when she first told her supervisor that she was going to have to take time off of work to seek treatment.

"I had scheduled a meeting with my boss and I walked in and her face was full of concern.  'Please tell me you don't have breast cancer.'  And in that moment--I know this is horrible--but in that moment, I wish I did.  It's horrible.  I didn't actually wish I had cancer.  But I couldn't help but believe that saying I had cancer would be easier than telling her I needed to be hospitalized for an eating disorder."

This woman is not alone.  Every head in the room was nodding in agreement.  How many times did my treatment team beg me to talk to my employer about going into a higher level of care?  And how many times did they ask me what I would do if I needed treatment for cancer?  And how many times did I say "that's different"?  And how many times do I have to be reminded that eating disorders are the most deadly of all mental illnesses?

Whether we're battling cancer or an eating disorder...we're all fighting for our lives.

In the movie, this teenage girl started going to a support group for adolescents with terminal cancer.  She didn't want to make any friendships.  She was there because it made her parents happy.  But she did.  She made friends.  Friends that changed her life.

I think of all the women I've met sitting in a group like that.  I didn't want to be there.  I didn't want to make friends.  I just wanted to appease my parents or my treatment team.  But something happens.  Something always happens.  And you meet a friend or 2 who end up changing your life.  Forever.

Maybe that's why I wept last night.  The authentic friendships you form while fighting for your life in treatment are boundary-less.  I don't care what disease is trying to kill you.

This Evening

My memory is crap, but there are certain things I can visualize perfectly.

When I picture her, I see this tiny thing perched on the steps at Mercy.  It was my first day.  I thought the adolescents had to go to Nashville.  She looks like she's 12.  Not 28.

Despite everything I grew to know about her, she'll always be that girl to me.  The bubbly girl on the steps welcoming me into this unknown house.  Smiling as she invited me into a truly transformational season of life.

This girl was a miracle.  A complete and utter undeniable miracle of God.  The way she held her head on graduation day as she described her journey through hell and back.  You never would have guessed.  She glowed with freedom from her past that only comes through the purest form of healing.

There's something you should know about my sisters at Mercy Ministries.  We spent 7 months of our lives together working through the most difficult "stuff" that the world has to throw at us humans.  Day in and day out.  There was no such thing as a superficial relationship.  Everything was raw.  Everything was authentic.  Tears were real and masks were stripped away.  Any friendship cultivated in that kind of environment with that kind of intensity and that kind of time is something unique and pure and precious.

I don't talk to my sisters often, but when I do, it's as if we spoke just yesterday.  And there's never an introductory "Oh, hey, what's going on?"  If we have 15 minutes to talk once every 6 months, we talk deep for 15 minutes.  Soul.  Stretching. Stomach.  Wrenching.  Deep.

This afternoon I received a text from one of my closest Mercy sisters.  She informed me that our mutual friend was told she only has a few months to live.  The bubbly girl on the steps.  The bigger-than-life miracle.  I knew she had cancer.  Still, I hadn't kept in touch very well.  And now we are here.

I don't know what to say.  I've reached the point in my post in which I usually come up with some profound statement.  Obviously, I find it a bit ironic that I went from watching a movie about teenagers dying from cancer to finding out that one of my dearest friends is suffering through a similar journey...all in less than 24 hours.  Ironic isn't the word.  I don't believe in coincidence.

But I don't have anything profound to say in this moment.  I'm just allowing myself to sit.  Pace through the last day forward and backward in awe of the intricacies of the universe...both the beautiful and the ugly.

The opening line of The Fault in Our Stars went something like this:

“I believe we have a choice in this world, about how to tell sad stories.  On one hand, you can sugar coat it, the way they do in movies and romance novels where beautiful people learn beautiful lessons and nothing is too messed up that can’t be fixed with an apology and a Peter Gabriel song.  I like that way as much as the next girl, believe me.  It’s just not the truth.  This is the truth.  Sorry.”

— The Fault In Our Stary

The miracle God performed through my friend's transformation at Mercy is not voided because of some disease.  Her life is a miracle, but we're still on planet earth.  If perfection was possible, we wouldn't need Jesus.  Some pieces of the human experience are so messed up that they can't be fixed.  At least not on this side of eternity.

Me and some of my Mercy sisters getting ready for a pre-graduation mall group!

Tonight

I weep tonight for the same reasons that I wept yesterday evening.  I weep for the authentic friendships I formed while fighting for my life.  Not because those friendships are vanishing, but because I am so incredibly grateful for their existence.  And--despite the pain--today I can say that they're deepening and flourishing.

Stick with me for one more movie quote:

“I am not a mathematician, but I do know this.  There are infinite numbers between zero and one.  There’s 0.1, 0.12, and 0.112, and...and an infinite collection of others.  Of course, there is a bigger infinite set of numbers between zero and two, or between zero and a million.  Some infinities are simply bigger than other infinities....  You know, I want more numbers than I’m likely to get.  And, God, do I want more days for [my friend]...But...I cannot tell you how thankful I am for our little infinity.”

— The Fault In Our Stars

It's true.  We each have a number of days.  And each friendship comprises its own infinity.  What we make of our infinities is up to us.  I'm eternally grateful for mine.

My friend is still alive.  She's excited to see friends.  She remains optimistic.  Despite the fact that she lives in a different state, I hope to be able to see her soon.

I don't want your pity and neither does she.  That's not the purpose of this post.  I want only one thing: to make the numbered days in her infinity rich with love and peace.

Everything They Told You About Following Is Wrong

It's true.  Everything they told you about following is wrong.

When I first decided to embark on this "serious" blogging adventure, I did a TON of research.  I researched various blogging platforms, hosting services, themes, color schemes, marketing strategies, networking sites...you name it.  In the end, I picked WordPress over Squarespace, JustHost over Go Daddy, and the Genesis Theme over everything free.  I made an investment and I must say that I have been satisfied.  All the time spent researching has proven to be very valuable and fulfilling.

There is one thing, however, that I have been disappointed in.  All of my research on the subject of social media indicated that I should select just one platform to focus on at a time.  I decided to submerge myself in Twitter.  I developed what I considered to be a pretty decent following.  Everything that I read told you to follow anyone who follows you.  So I did.

Sort of.  I added a few of my own conditions.  I don't follow anyone who still has an egg head profile picture and I don't follow anyone who has a bio that mentions purchasing 1,000 followers for $30.  That's just sketchy.

Then I started seeing a lot of unwanted content on my timeline.  Some of which were inappropriate, some of which were just annoying.  So if someone follows me, I tap on their profile and scroll through their recent history to see what kind of content they promote.  If it's inappropriate, I don't follow them.  If it's appropriate but I have no interest in their content, I follow and mute them.  If it's appropriate and interesting, I follow them.

I thought I had this Twitter thing down to a science.  I was following the best Twitter advice I could find while maintaining decency and relevance.  Perfection.  Until I encountered something I never ever heard about.

One day, I tapped to follow a new follower and received this message:

Blocked: You are unable to follow more people at this time.

What??

Apparently, each Twitter user is only technically allowed to follow 2,000 accounts.  In all of my research, I never came across this information.  Everything I read said something along the lines of "to gain followers, you must first follow."  This technicality stands in opposition to everything I read.

Twitter is very elusive in describing this 2,000 follow limit.  Some say that there is a super secret ratio algorithm.  The number of people who follow you has to be at least 80% of the number of people that you follow.  That's bologna.  I follow 2,577 profiles.  If this ratio was true, I would need to have a minimum of 2,062  followers in order to keep following additional people.  I have 2,341 followers.  There is no reason that I shouldn't be able to follow more people.  It's ridiculous.

There's a moral to this story and it honestly has nothing to do with Twitter or ratios or 2,000 limits.

It has to do with the evolution of what a "follow" means to me.

At first it was just a way of building credibility.  In order to land a freelance gig, businesses look at sample work and various statistics.  Social Media "Presence" can play a major role.  From this point of view, a follow is honestly quite worthless.

Following later became a way to meet new people and network.  Which means I'm more selective in who I follow.  Today, I view a follow as an endorsement.  If I follow you, it means that I believe what you have to say has value.  It doesn't necessarily mean that I agree with you.  I simply believe that you have something to contribute.

In addition to Twitter, I'm also on Instagram.  My Instagram community is a lot smaller than it is on Twitter.  Quality over quantity.  I unfollow people if I don't like their pictures.  Call me a snob.

I recently unfollowed someone because of a single picture.  The individual is an "It Works" consultant and posted a before and after picture of a young woman (It Works sells wraps that claim to shrink away fat, stimulate hair growth, and build strong, healthy nails...among other things).  On the right hand side was the "before" image with the "after" image on the left.  In the before picture, the woman was standing in the ocean, kissing her husband, with a small child pulling at her leg.  In the after picture, she was standing profile in front of a mirror taking a selfie.  There were numbers; she had obviously lost a significant amount of weight between the before and after shots.

But the part that truly angered me was the text.  Under the before image, the text said "miserable."  Under the after image, the text said "happy, happy, happy."

So when she was on vacation with her family, wading in the ocean, and kissing her husband...she was miserable.  When she was examining her reflection in the mirror...she was happy.

All because of subtraction.

We measure our satisfaction and joy using numbers on a scale rather than the quality of our relationships.  We're happier in our cubicles than we are on vacation because "at least we're more photogenic."

I'm guilty.  I do it all the time.  I look back at pictures and think, "If I was unhappy with my weight, I must have been unhappy with my life."  And sometimes it's true.  Sometimes weight and happiness collide, in the same way that sometimes the radio starts playing the song that's been on repeat in my head all day.  It happens.  But I can look back at other pictures, too.  "I look good in that picture, but gosh was I miserable."

Emotions and life satisfaction don't have to be linked to weight.  In fact, they shouldn't be.  Since when was that a thing?  It's something that's been bothering me a lot these days.  I gained a decent amount of weight while in treatment the last 6 months.  I won't be descriptive, but it was weight that needed to be gained.  That doesn't mean that I'm happy with it.  At all.  I've been "rehabilitated" and now I'm on to "maintenance."  They say this is the hardest part.  Sitting with it.  Not acting on symptoms.  I'd agree.  It sucks.  It's worth it, but it still sucks.

The other day I was flipping through the Bible that I used while at Mercy in 2012.  Tucked within the cover was a picture from a conference (the best women's conference EVER).  It was of me and several other Mercy girls.  I looked happy.  I remember being happy.  Genuinely happy.  And then I started thinking.  "Brittany, you know...in that picture...you actually weighed a little bit more than what you do now."

My hope is that one day, those kind of thoughts won't even cross my mind.  It makes me sad that weight enters into my train of thought when recalling happy memories.  But for now, that's my reality.  And this once, it might be a good thing.

I keep looking at that picture.  My smile is real, my skin is glowing, and I'm with incredible friends having an amazing time in room radiating God's presence.  I was happy.  It is possible.  And it has nothing to do with a silly number on a stupid scale.

I've never been one for vision boards, but I've been thinking about making one.  It would probably be a circle, because I find meaning in circles and this photograph would be at its center.  A daily reminder of the fact that everything I want CAN equal everything I have.  Right here.  Right now.

Today Is Tuesday

Ok, so it might not actually be Tuesday.  But I originally wrote this on a Tuesday (2/24/15).  So work with me.

Yesterday was Monday.  The first day of the week.

Tomorrow is Wednesday.  "Hump Day" if you will.

But today is neither.  Today is Tuesday.

And Tuesday has blessed me.

The last week has been a whirlwind.  A silent storm of sorts.

The world tells us that we are a selfish people.  That other people don't think of us anywhere near as much as we think of ourselves.  Which is true in a sense.  But it's also false.

I don't think we realize the magnitude of our lives.  We see ourselves as specs of dust.  Isolated specs of dust.  Insignificant in relation to the rest of the universe.

But even the smallest of pebbles initiates a lasting chain of ripples when cast into the surface of the water.

People remember people.  That is what the last few days have taught me.  People remember people.

And it doesn't matter if those people are from the best or worst times in your life.  They remember you.  They may know your pain or your past, but they remember you for your virtues.

All this time I thought I was just another face in the crowd.  I believed my story was just like every other.  There was nothing special.  Nothing memorable.  Nothing that would cause you to know my name or recognize my profile in a sea of people.  Nothing.  Just a number.  Some statistic.

But I  was wrong.  Boy was I wrong.

I'm special.  I'm memorable.  I'm unique.

Thank you to those of you who notice.  Who remember.  Who know my story--my painful, painful story--yet see me through the lens of my virtues.

I'm astonished.

Until.

I start looking around at the people in my life.  I challenge myself.  What do I remember of them?

I may know their past.  I may see their present struggle.  But I remember them for their virtues.  Those are the pieces of their identities that carve their names and faces in the world.  Their virtues are a timeless echo.

You are special.  You are memorable.  You are unique.

You have etched your personality upon the world and changed the composition of the universe for the better.

Yesterday's the past.  Tomorrow's the future.  Today is the present.

And today is Tuesday.

Like A Tree

Last week was National Eating Disorder Awareness Week.  For those of you who are faithful followers of this blog, you might have noticed that I did not publish a post last week.  Which might seem strange, given that I am a vocal advocate for mental health, eating disorders, and recovery as a whole.  But there are actually several reasons that I did not post during this important week:

• was busy engaging in several of the Center for Eating Disorders (CED) sponsored community events.  I got to hear  from a variety of speakers who had much wisdom to impart to an audience of individuals who struggle with eating disorders, providers, and support people.  I was inspired by stories of recovery and activism.

• Social media was flooded with videos, research, pictures, testimonies, and other pro-recovery material.  Everywhere you turned, there was another reminder.  It was awesome.  It was also a little bit overwhelming. I felt like my voice was getting lost in a sea of email blasts and calls-to-action on Facebook.  Don't get me wrong.  I think the existence of National Eating Disorder Awareness Week is an extremely positive and necessary thing.  It serves as a platform and gives a voice to those who ordinarily wouldn't share their story.  Their struggle.  I believe it saves lives: it tells the world that seeking treatment is a strength and provides individuals with countless opportunities to seek help.  But eating disorders wage war on the bodies and minds of men and women the other 358 days of the year.  I decided to soak in last week's activism and use it to fuel my life, writing, and recovery during the remaining 51 weeks of the year.

• I ran out of time.  Let's face it.  Writing takes time and energy.  Both are things that I've been low on the last several weeks.  The down time that I did have last weekend was spent expressing myself through artwork.  Sometimes magazines and mod-podge are more therapeutic than writing.  It's all about balance.

So this past week created an environment ripe for enlightenment.  One revelation that I had was pretty obvious.  I realized how much I've taken for granted the resources available to me.  The CED provides countless opportunities to actively pursue recovery and engage in a community of people who value mental, physical, and emotional health.  In the past, I have not even acknowledged the programs, speakers, support groups, and various other events that take place less than an hour from my house.  What a waste!  I have decided to begin taking advantage of the opportunities I am privileged to have access to.  I am committed to taking on an active role in my recovery and spreading awareness and hope to others.

One of the women who spoke at the CED event last Sunday said something that struck me at my core:

“You can’t heal a body you hate.”

If you read my last post (My Body Screams), you know that I have an ongoing battle with physical pain from a hip injury I sustained 10 years ago.  My hip has been bothering me again.  More and more.  Last Monday I finally caved and had an MRI arthrogram, then saw my orthopedist later that afternoon.  It was the longest day of my life.

"You don't have a stress fracture and you didn't re-tear your labrum," he said.  Sigh.  "If I was just looking at your MRI and didn't know you, I'd say you'd be alright.  But I know you.  I've been working with you for 2 years.  You're not alright.  And I'm not okay with that."

He went on to say he believes my labrum just isn't viable anymore and asked me to consider letting him do a labral reconstruction.  He stretches out in the chair and his eyes lock with mine.  It's uncomfortable, so I glance at the floor.  I look back up.  He's still there.  He can't make any promises.  I know that.  He hopes a nonviable labrum is the problem because it's something he can fix.  This is truly the last thing he can do for me.  But he makes no guarantees.  Which is one of the things I like about him.

He tells me to think about it.  There's a lot to consider.

My biggest question continues to be directed to both him and myself.  What will make this time any different?

His part of things is really quite simple.  Instead of repairing my labrum, he'll be replacing it.  It's a relatively new procedure and I'm certain not as easy as it sounds.  The task may be complex, but his role is finite.

Mine, however, is not.  My role is dynamic.  It is detailed.  It is trying.  It is daily.

“You can’t heal a body you hate.”

My body has never healed properly, which makes me angry.  And I've always directed that anger at my body.  I've admitted to hating my body.  I've publicly waged ware on my body for years.  I have never properly nourished my body following any of my past 6 surgeries.  I have always pushed the limits.  I have never taken time to rest.

What will make this time any different?  My commitment to love my body and care for it in such a way that undoubtedly reveals my affection for it.  Because if you can't heal  body you hate, the opposite must be true as well.

A well-loved body has the capacity to heal.

As a people-pleaser, one of my first thoughts is that people will think I'm crazy for signing up for yet another surgery.  The weeks on crutches.  The months in a brace.  The hundreds (probably more like thousands by the time we're through) of hours worth of physical therapy.

Maybe I am crazy.  But the truth is this: I'm not ready to give up yet.  I refuse to believe that this is as good as it's going to get.  So if there's one shot left to take, I'll take it.  And this time, I'm going to do it right.  5 months of treatment has restored my body to a healthy weight and equipped me with tools and coping mechanisms to use in times of anxiety, stress, sadness, or anger.  I have been proactive in assembling what I like to call the All-Star Super Steller Treatment Team, which consists of a therapist, psychiatrist, dietitian, and physical therapist.  Plus my amazing support system of family and friends.  I am ready to do this right.

Every year, the CED holds a Love Your Tree (LYT) campaign.  Middle school, High school, and college students submit original artwork in response to the prompt, "Like a tree, my body is...".  Artwork submitted for this year's campaign was displayed in the Sheppard Pratt Conference Center throughout the week and a winner was selected to be used on promotional material.

The artwork was inspiring.  Beautiful.  And it got me to thinking.  How would I complete that prompt?  What word would I use to positively describe my body?  I've always described my body as broken.  Even the professionals have continuously fed me the message that my body is something that needs to be fixed.  "Defective.  I must just be defective."

But I want to heal my body, which means I must learn to love it.  Which is actually a lot easier to do now that I've realized that...

Like a tree, my body is...

RESILIENT.

My Body Screams

My body screams at me.

I'm certain it begins as a whisper.  Every time it warns me.  And I ignore it.  Every time.

I'm angry now.  At my body.  At myself.  I feel betrayed.

My back gave out on me last weekend and by Tuesday I was desperate.  I made the call and the long drive to Arlington to see my orthopedic surgeon.  He told me what I already knew; that my hip was injured and my back had been compensating.  It'd finally had enough.

So he prescribed some medication and made me promise that I would take it.  He knows me far too well.  He asked me if removing the hardware had helped.  I looked at him and tears filled my eyes.  "No."

"Well let's fix your back and then get to the root of the problem: your hip.  At least now we can get an MRI."  Then we scheduled the MRI arthrogram.  I'll see him again in a week.  I consider myself lucky to have found him 2 years ago.  He takes good care of me, even when I do not.

My body screams at me.  I can't move without wincing.  So I stay home while my family goes out.

It's quiet, which is nice.  I've started writing a novel.  An autobiography of sorts.  So the quiet beckons me to work. I consider myself a novelist in training, but I don't have a trainer.  I'm traveling this journey alone.  Today's work is comprised more of reading than writing.  Reading page after page from a tattered $1 spiral notebook.  My first semester of college.

I'm captivated.

My body screams at me.  Apparently, it always has.  Not a page in the story of my life is free from the ripples of physical pain.  It's constant.

Why?

Injury has terrorized and destroyed me.  My dreams.  I'm angry.  Again.

I'm more in tune with my body than most people.  I've learned to listen to it carefully.  Yet still.  It's not enough.

I feel like I'm engaged in a never-ceasing battle.  My body wages war against me and I against it.  I'm tired.  It's gone on for far too long.  I'm done.

But what does a truce look like?

I'm told we need to trust one-another.  But how?

Pain wears me down to nothing.  In the past it's made me starve myself.  It's driven me mad.

Today it drains me.  My energy.  My passion.  My ability to express myself eloquently in conversation.  My motivation to compose a post, work on my novel, or write in my journal.

The medication lessens the intensity of the pain, but my eyes glaze over and my spirit dims.  I feel like a shadow.  I'm not sure which is worse.

My body screams at me.

But the cycle must be broken.  I must rest.  I must eat.  I must listen to my body.  My treatment team.  My doctor.  Myself.

This place is good for me.  It puts me in my place.  It teaches me.  It always does.  There is purpose in these moments.  A lesson to be learned.  Growth to experience.  Revelation to sprout.  Stories to tell.  Compassion to behold.  Freedom to bud.  Humility to embrace.

Pain reminds me that I'm alive.

I do not know where this will lead.  It may be quite simple or rather complex.  Only time will tell.

Why Not Be A Weirdo

Have you ever taken a class on how to make friends?  I have.

I know, I know.  It sounds lame.  And it kind of is.  We all make fun of it while we're sitting in group, talking about how to broaden our social life.  Really?  We need to be taught this?

I look at my daughter and I am amazed.  Kids don't need to be taught how make friends.  They walk up to each other on the playground or at the pool and just say, "Hi."  Then they start making up games and laughing together.  It seems that friendship comes to humans naturally.  It's effortless for a kid.

So what happens?  What changes the chemistry of friendship somewhere along our journey to adulthood?

I don't have many friends.  I don't know how or where to meet people.  I think I don't have time to devote to a quality friendship.  I feel like I don't belong with the "young adults" because I have a child.  And I don't belong with the "young families" because I don't have a husband.  I don't fit in any of the buckets.

Not only am I lonely, but I feel alone in my loneliness.  If that makes any sense.

But it seems that I'm not as alone as I thought.  Many adults express difficulty in establishing new friendships.  We feel like we don't fit in any of the buckets.  We see our differences as barriers to our social lives rather than unique qualities that would enrich a relationship.

But we were created to live in community.  Bad things happen when we think we're alone.

The reality is that there are probably more people sitting alone outside of the buckets than there are those who fit the cookie-cutter bucket requirements.  Which makes me wonder...why not make our own buckets?

Oh, if only it was that easy.

This "friend-making group" is interesting.  When we talk about how to start a conversation or kindle a relationship, most people talk about how awkward it is.  How weird we would feel trying to reach out to a stranger to meet up for coffee or go to a concert.  "No," we say.  "That is far too uncomfortable.  People would think I'm a weirdo."

About a week ago, I came to group very excited.  "This girl at work invited me to lunch!  She said we seem to be about the same age and she thought we could be friends.  I'm so excited!"

The room came alive as everyone started talking about how much we love people like that.  People who reach out socially and make you feel wanted.  They extend a hand of friendship to a stranger.  People like that are awesome.  We like them before we even know them.

It made me think.  Why do we think that if WE reach out to a stranger, we're a weirdo...but if THEY reach out to a stranger, they're one of the coolest people we've ever met?

Why not create my own bucket?  There will always be a reason not to.  Whether we've been burned before or have an insanely busy schedule.  Whether we're shy or lack transportation.  Whether we're on a tight budget or just plain think we have nothing to offer.

We can always make an excuse to stay lonely.  But we desire more.  Otherwise it wouldn't bother us so much.

So why not be one of those people?

Whenever That May Be

If there's one thing I can say about treatment, it's that you meet people who will change your life. Or at least the way you look at it. Whether you just share the air in the art room or become lifelong friends, there's something that binds you together. There is no small talk. Everything is deep. Whether they drive you crazy or make you laugh hysterically, every person you encounter in treatment teaches you something about the world or yourself. They each leave their footprints on your heart.

We don't have to like where we are or who we're with in order to appreciate it. In fact sometimes it's better that we don't. If we liked it, we'd grow too comfortable. Too content. There'd be no reason to pursue more. To take the next step on the journey.

Treatment has taught me how to have compassion on those with whom I don't get along. It sounds simple, but it isn't. The ability to look at someone you don't like, yet love them and want to comfort them. Take away their pain, even for a moment. That is not something that comes easily to us humans. It's not taught in the classroom or the workplace. But it happens in treatment.

I was sitting in a group a few days ago and one of my peers was in great distress. It was clear that she was experiencing a deep depression. She was frightened. Sad. Hopeless.

The group leader asked us to provide her with suggestions of how to distract or create opposite emotions. We bounced around a few ideas. The group leader pushed for more. I saw her point. I saw her trying to get us to relate to this girl's pain, and I did. We got it. But it was so wrong.

Forget CBT, DBT, IPT. Those stupid Ts, gosh darn it. Distract, dissect, discuss. I'm sick of it all. She kept pushing.

I stopped her. "Nothing we say is going to help her," I said. "She is in pain. We could make the best suggestions. Tell her how to self-sooth or use her senses to distract herself from the reality that is her life. But that's not helping her. It's trivializing her pain. That's what it is. It's reducing it to something that can be managed, when in her heart she believes it is unmanageable. That doesn't help."

The truth of the matter is that I didn't say it quite so eloquently. I don't think I made my point very well. I stumbled over my words as I pulled apart my thinking putty. I hope I didn't make things worse in the process.

But it's true. I know that CBT, DBT, and IPT work. They wouldn't spend so much time on it if there wasn't any scientific proof. Therapy works. But sometimes the best kind of therapy is the kind that makes you realize that you need it. Sometimes you just have to sit in your crap. Sometimes you just need to have someone say "Yeah, that's crappy. There's nothing that can fix it." Even though there really is. Sometimes it's better when people don't try to convince you that there's a light at the end of the tunnel. Sometimes you just need to feel the darkness, but know that there are other people sitting in it with you. That you're safe.

That's what treatment is. A safe environment to experience your pain until you come to a place that you can work through it. I've said it in past posts and I'll say it again. Therapy takes on many shapes and sizes.

One of the things that the girl said was something we could all relate to. I saw a lot of heads nodding in the room. "Everyone keeps telling me it's going to get better. Well its not. I want to know. When is it going to get better?"

It's true. They say it will get better. Depression. Recovery. Relationships. Life. They say it will get easier.

But none of us have seen it. Few of us believe it. Many of us have been fighting for months or years and it hasn't gotten any easier. In fact, it's often gotten harder. So what's the point? It makes me think that the whole thing is crap.

But that's when the group leader was able to articulate what kept getting jumbled in the space between my brain and my mouth.

"A lot of what we do here is just trying to survive and get through it and come out on the other side--whenever that may be."

Finally a professional was willing to say what we all know is true. That no one knows when it's going to get better or easier. There are no guarantees, except that it will. The therapy isn't designed to fix us, it's designed as a tool to help us survive these moments so that we come out on the other side. Stronger. Vibrant. Hopeful.