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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.
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.
the struggle is real. FIGHT.
I don't think people truly understand why I write. How can they, when I'm not always sure of the reason myself.
I never wanted to be a writer. There were many things I've wanted to be:
Oceanographer
Lawyer
Surface Warfare Officer
President
Doctor
Artist
Entrepreneur
Forensic Accountant
Professor
All of these careers were--at one time or another--a passionate dream within me. These lofty goals drove me to be my best. Unfortunately, they often got the best of me.
But writing? That one never made it anywhere near the list. Maybe that's a good thing. Since my aspirations have a tendency to ultimately become my downfall, it's better that this remains a hobby.
I've had people tell me a variety of things about my writing. And my life, for that matter.
Mostly, they say that I'm lucky. Which floors me. Lucky? I'm sitting in 12-step meetings because I'm lucky? Signing myself into treatment for the gazillionth time because I'm lucky? Seriously? You call this luck?
I can think of one situation in particular. A young woman was confiding in me after a meeting. She spoke of her struggles and the life-changing decisions that she was now faced with. I shared with her my own experiences and she shook her head. She told me we were different. Told me that I'm lucky my life crumbled in the spotlight. That I didn't have to hide my struggle because people saw it firsthand. It was justified. Understandable. Accepted as a cruel twist in the plot that was my life. She called that luck.
I don't know whether or not she's right. There is some truth to her statement. She made an undeniable observation. One that caused me to think. For months now I've been thinking. Turning her words over in my mind. In my heart.
They say that secrets keep you sick. My life fell apart in such a way that there really were no secrets. No hiding the destruction. And maybe that was a gift. With nothing to hide, I was able to heal. But there's always something to hide. Even in the spotlight there are costumes, masks, and makeup. I'm certainly guilty of trying to act my way through life's great tragedies. Yet still, she had a point.
With my luck comes a responsibility. My struggle is accepted by many. At times it is even respected. Yet there are many who hide their struggles. They are ashamed and embarrassed. They feel their struggle is not justified. That there is no satisfactory evidence for the legitimacy of their struggle. They think they don't deserve support. They feel unworthy of help. Of healing. Of freedom from their struggle.
No more.
I don't care what your struggle is. Wether it involves drugs, alcohol, food, pornography, perfectionism, codependency, grief, or any other form of oppression. Your struggle is real. It is valid. It is unique and sad and hard. Man, is it hard.
You might not see the luck in your struggle. And that's ok. But at the end of the day, you have 2 choices: give up or fight. I challenge you to fight.
I'm currently running a Teespring campaign. I've designed a shirt that can be purchased in 3 variations: short-sleeved (grey for $15), long-sleeved (black for $18), and a hoodie (hot pink for $25). The shirt was inspired by the countless people I've encountered who've decided to fight in the midst of their struggle. People like you.
I'm hoping the luck that has allowed me to reach people through my writing will help bring awareness to a worthy cause. That it's ok to struggle. That mental illness is nothing to be ashamed of. That you are justified and accepted in your struggle. And that you have the power to fight.
The profit line is small on this campaign. Half of the funds raised will be donated to organizations that provide healing environments for those who struggle with life-controlling issues. The other half will be put toward the development of this website so that more individuals can come to know that they are not alone in their struggle.
I encourage you to become part of a movement. Visit www.teespring.com/reali and order your shirt today! The shirts will be printed and delivered in time for National Eating Disorders Awareness Week (February 22-28, 2015), but know that they were not designed solely for this event. The shirt is representative of both my struggle and yours.
Thank you for your support of this cause!
If Only You Could See
It's funny how I can go a whole day receiving no texts, Facebook messages, or phone calls...then get bombarded when I sit down to paint my nails. I mean giving yourself a manicure is hard enough, people. Try doing so while engaging in 3 conversations at once...all while watching a movie. It takes talent.
But I would never let those conversations sit unanswered. I can't.
Suddenly, I'm transported to a time at Mercy. My hardest week there. Without a doubt. We were blessed with the opportunity to share 2 days with a woman who had just released a book. She spoke with us and shared the most vulnerable pieces of her own story. She challenged us. It was during the second morning of her visit that I received earth-shattering news. I couldn't stop sobbing. All day I cried like I've never cried before. My counselor sat next to me while the speaker taught. At one point in her teaching, the woman looked up and her eyes pierced my soul. "You," she said. "You have a soft heart."
More tears. Where were they coming from, anyway?
Maybe it's my soft heart that overwhelms me with empathy and compassion when my phone blows up with messages from the hurting. Those yearning for someone to listen. With a love for these women who want to share their lives with me.
My Dearest Sister,
You are beautiful. If only you could see.
See the flawless features of your face. Your captivating personality. Your laugh. Oh, how seldom you laugh. But when you do, it's glorious. It fills a room. Like your smile. Your real smile. Not the one you put on for the world, but the one that comes from a peace. A peace that's so elusive. I see the way you strain. You twist and turn and grasp and cry. If only you could see how close it was. A state of rest. The one you so deeply crave. The one you deserve, despite your doubts. If only you could see.
See that you are not alone. That even as I speak to you, there are 3 others doing the same. Expressing their state of brokenness. Their shame. Their hopelessness. Their disappointment in what they've become. You are not alone in your desperation. In your struggle. See the anger in my eyes. The fire in my heart that burns with rage at the evil one who crushes your spirit and those of the ones I love. If only you could see the lies. That you have been deceived. Oh how my heart breaks for you. For us. If only you could see.
See that the world is more than a shadow. That you are more than skin and bones and blood coursing through your veins. You have a heart. A beautifully intricate heart filled with unique passion. Talent beyond your comprehension. You are an all-consuming radiant being. Carefully crafted by an Almighty God. If only you could see that "complicated" meant complex, not tormented. Intricate in the most compelling way. If only you could see.
See the light that is your life. The darkness that would fill the world if you were not in it. The richness you bring to the lives of those who love you. See that you are loved. Not for what you do. For who you are. See that perfection is a myth. One that torments lovely women like you. The trap. Oh, the trap that leads to death. Darkness. See that grace covers everything. That you are enough. Now. In this moment. If only you could see.
See that you are where you're supposed to be. That you are fulfilling God's will for your life in the present. I see your yearning. The way you punish yourself and wonder. Oh, your restless heart. It searches and searches and searches for answers. The fear. The fear that you are not where you're supposed to be. That you made a wrong choice. That you're on the right path. See, sister. See! That every choice was a right one. That you are always in God's presence. Even in this season. If only you could see.
See the end of the story. The one that culminates in the ultimate victory. The crown upon your head. See that you are a princess; a daughter of the King. Oh, the beauty of your character. The loveliness of your heart. The purity of your spirit. That it's okay to yearn for more. That you were never meant to be satisfied here. That you were created for a different world. A better one. If only you could see.
See, my sister. We are blind to the truth of our identities, yet we see it so clearly in others. Believe, my sister. That these words are true for you. That you are beautiful. Brilliant. Radiant. Unique. Priceless. That you are not alone. Oh, if only you could see. That the stories you hear are rare. Embellished. Edited and revised to convince you that you are not enough. If only you could see my heart behind this letter. That your story...your doubts...your loneliness...your shame...your restlessness...it is universal in a way that is devastating. If only you could see.
See yourself in the mirror. See the glow. See yourself surrounded by your sisters. Feel the love you have for one another and...for a moment...have compassion on yourself. Let your love for others reflect in your own eyes. See the truth and not the lies. See the beauty within yourself.
See, my sister. See.
Maybe They’re The Crazy Ones
She laughed at me.
I didn't crack a smile.
Half a second later she stopped, suddenly realizing that this was not a joke. I was serious.
It was that time of the week. The time when I meet with a staff member for a "check-in." She asks me about my week, goes down a list of questions, then asks me to set three goals. Some check-ins last longer than others. This was one of the longer ones.
Impulsive was the only word I could use to describe how I'd been feeling, but I knew it was wrong. My definition of impulsive didn't match the world's. I wasn't spending massive amounts of money or engaging in risky behavior per se.
I was raw with emotion; wearing it on my sleeves. My filter had vanished. I was recklessly truthful. I laid it all on the table. To me, this was impulsive. It was different from anything I'd ever done.
She asked me a question. One I hadn't considered. "Is this impulsivity positive or negative?" Like I said, I hadn't really considered it. I had assumed it was bad. I mean that's what the world tells us, right? Being impulsive is bad?
For a moment I considered the idea that my behavior was neither good nor bad; merely different. It screamed in the face of the secrets, manipulation, lies, and deceit that had sabotaged my treatment for the last 3 months. My impulsivity was an act of defiance against my eating disorder, which I had considered a friend. So yes, it felt bad.
I thought they'd look at me like I was crazy if I tried to describe this unique feeling of impulsiveness. I thought they'd panic. They'd think I was getting worse and raise the alarm--who knew where I'd be next week. I didn't expect them to call it growth. Progress. Maybe they're the crazy ones.
It was towards the end of my check-in when she laughed and my impulsivity shattered the glass room in which every one of our previous conversations had taken place. I was no longer predictable and compliant. I think it took her by surprise. It sure did catch me off guard.
I had listed my first 2 goals for the week and she asked me for a third. "I want to finish my Christmas cards."
Laughter. Her laughter would have crushed me last week. But not today.
"Hey. I'm serious, ok? I ordered my Christmas cards in November. They're the really awesome kind with pictures of Skylar and I from throughout the year. But I couldn't even bring myself to do anything with them until just this past week. I practically missed Christmas to my depression this year. So yes, we're halfway through January. And yes, the cards say 'Merry Christmas'. But I don't care. I bought the cards and I finally found joy in preparing them and I'm going to mail them this week. So write it down."
It was then that I realized my impulsivity was not something to be feared. Her laughter allowed me to answer that question for myself. I could feel energy flowing through my body again. I was engaging with people, my environment, my dreams. I had leapt off the sidelines and into the game. I was out of practice; it was exhausting. But it was exhilarating.
I could tell she was thoroughly horrified by her own foolish laughter. She offered an unnecessary apology. Her reaction was innocent and I like her too much to hold a grudge. When she saw that I was not hurt by her laughter, she smiled. "Thank you," she said. "You spoke up. You found your voice and used it. You called me out and stood up for yourself. You taught me something. Look at you."
I felt alive. Empowered. Hopeful. Courageous. Challenged. Vulnerable. All at the same time.
I no longer feared myself, my growth, or my journey. I chose to run with it. To be swept up in the whirlwind. To lead a recklessly radical quest for life and purpose. Not next year. Not after treatment. Not tomorrow. Today.
The Perfect Oatmeal
I've written several serious posts recently and I decided it was time for something a little bit more lighthearted.
When recovering from an eating disorder, it is very easy to get stuck in a rut. We go through meals like robots. Our minds still perform countless calculations a minute as we strategically compose our meals to fit the "plan."
It doesn't matter what treatment center you go to; the plan is complicated. Whether you call them exchanges or items, the does and don'ts of a meal plan can be overwhelming. So we simplify it and then we stick to it. Some of us get stuck eating the same breakfast every day...the same lunch every day...the same snack every day. You get the idea.
When such a pattern catches the attention of your dietitian, you are likely to see a sheet of paper stapled to your food logs. A list of 20 different sandwiches you could make. A chart full of different snack options. Pictures of 7 different breakfast ideas.
It can actually be quite helpful. Even for people without eating disorders.
I received one such list (ok, ok...all of the lists). But one of the breakfast ideas actually caught my interest: overnight oats. If you haven't heard, it's a serious thing these days. The general idea is that you soak oats in milk and/or yogurt overnight. The next morning you can add pretty much anything your little heart desires. Google "overnight oats" or look it up on Pinterest and you will be overwhelmed with the countless recipes. You almost don't know where to begin.
But I have 2 issues with the overnight oats craze:
It is not very yummy to eat overnight oats cold. The recipe my dietitian gave me did not say whether or not to heat the oats up the next morning, so I had to Google it. In my research I discovered that most recipes instruct you to eat your overnight oats cold. Ew. I tried, folks. I like to do things the "right" way, but this just wasn't going to happen. I caved and threw my oats in the microwave. Now they're delicious. I don't care if it's wrong; I will always microwave my overnight oats.
The whole mason jar thing. Nearly EVERY picture you see of overnight oats displays the oats with all their glorious toppings carefully placed in a mason jar. They're beautiful. Who wouldn't want to eat the stuff? Except you can't. Ok? Really. Look at one of those pictures and think about it. The only way to actually eat the stuff (and not just drool over how perfect it looks) is to eat the toppings first, then eat the cold oats. The opening of the mason jar makes it impossible to stir everything together without making a mess and loosing half the toppings on the kitchen floor. It doesn't make any sense.
I'm not going to give you a recipe because there are already plenty out there. I have nothing unique to offer you ingredient wise. I will, however, reveal my secret to the perfect overnight oats:
Forget the mason jar. Fix your oats in a tupperware container, then dump them in a regular boring bowl before adding your ingredients the next morning.
Microwave your oats before eating them. One minute should do the trick.
Your tummy will thank you.
Have you ever fixed overnight oats?
Do you eat them hot or cold?
Share your favorite recipe!
This Time Around
I knew it would happen. Still, I wasn't prepared.
I've spent a lot of my past in eating disorder treatment. When I agreed to this intensive outpatient program, I knew the chance of seeing someone from my past admissions was high. I was right; one of the IOP dietitians was a familiar face.
"You had a good run this time around," she said.
I didn't want a good run, I wanted a good life.
The words cut me to the core.
I swore I'd never go back there again. I had been set free. Jesus broke the chains of my eating disorder back at Mercy. I claimed His victory over my life. His light had cast out the darkness.
But the chains had dragged me into depression yet again. I was back at the very place I had worked so hard to escape.
I had failed.
No wonder it took me so long to admit to a relapse. It was shameful. It was embarrassing.
I had disappointed so many. My family. My friends. Mercy. God. Myself.
...or so I thought...
Anyone who has struggled with mental illness or addiction will tell you. We all see and hear the stories of those who surrender their lives to God and are instantaneously transformed. They no longer crave their substance or turn to their addiction as a coping mechanism. The darkness is shattered with light. Their transformation is radical. Captivating. The miracle is undeniable.
We yearn to experience recovery in such a way, yet the truth is most do not. We think there's something wrong with us. We wonder where we strayed. We torment ourselves with guilt. With shame. As if our struggle isn't enough, we condemn ourselves for our humanity.
The world we live in is full of polar opposites. Right and wrong. Black and white. Good and evil. There is no middle ground.
Some chant the words, "Once an addict, always an addict." But say this phrase in a church and you will likely come under attack. "Jesus can set you free," they say.
"Your addiction is not your identity."
"The struggle is real."
"Surrender control."
"Fight for your life."
"Embrace your weaknesses."
"Stay strong."
My spirit is torn in 2 trying to decide whether to struggle, surrender, fight...be strong or weak. And it doesn't matter what I decide. Any choice results in failing to fulfill the others. I will always come under attack. Every choice is wrong.
Yet if I have any shot at recovery, I cannot stay where I am. I must choose to move in a direction. And any direction will do at this point.
So this is what I know to be true. I am not anorexic; I have anorexia. I am not depressed; I have depression. My identity is not in a diagnosis, but in Jesus.
He HAS set me free. I still struggle. These 2 statements CAN coexist. Although one can demolish the other, it does not always do so. One gives purpose and the other serves one. I cannot deny either.
The world demands that we step into the black or the white. Rarely are we allowed to place both feet in the grey and stay. Confidently. It takes something special to do so.
We hear the perfect testimony and we immediately see the massive miracle of redemption. We look at ourselves and we see only flaws. But there are miracles within each of us. Grace invades our lives every day. Inviting us into another chance. We are not set free to live perfect lives. We will struggle. We are set free to struggle WELL.
I DID have a good run, and I WILL have others. Combined with the bumpy roads, my runs will comprise what ultimately becomes a good life. Of this I am sure.
Tomorrow’s Great Story
I should have stopped at 2. Surgeries, that is. 2 hip surgeries per saga. 3 is just too many.
I'm not going to blame my relapse on my hip injury. Actually, I might. I think I'm entitled to that.
I first injured my hip exactly 10 years ago. I had 3 surgeries over the course of a year. The third one broke me. I had no idea what was happening to me. My world spun out of control. I eventually withdrew from school and dove into a rather extensive eating disorder treatment process.
By the grace of God and a place called Mercy Ministries, I've walked in recovery for 2 years.
But the last year-and-a-half has involved another 3 hip surgeries. When I found out about the last one, I knew that I had to be vigilant. My body and mind were growing weak. I was tired. I knew that I would have to be emotionally strong to remain in recovery. I thought this awareness would save me.
It didn't.
The surgeries aren't to blame. I know that. But they do have a tendency to create an environment ripe for relapse.
I can't tell you when it began. The eating disorder is a chameleon. It blends in with its surroundings. You grow comfortable with it sitting in the room because you hardly even recognize its presence. Then it starts to move. It shows itself. But you're not afraid because it's familiar. With an eating disorder you are never alone.
When your life starts crumbling beneath you, the eating disorder is a comfort. It offers control. Satisfaction. Security. Success. It's reliable.
My body was failing me. Again. For 10 years my body has failed me. Repeatedly. I have the scars to prove it. I've done everything they've told me to and still...still I spend most days in pain. Only my eating disorder allows me to have some sort of say over how my body performs. It's twisted, I know. But it's true.
I recognized the chameleon in September. He'd grown far too large and active to ignore. I thought that I had "caught it early." I started an intensive outpatient program in October with the intention of finishing treatment in 6 weeks. It's now January. You do the math.
I'm going to go ahead and pat myself on the back because I was able to recognize that there was a problem and I asked for help. I never would have done that 3 years ago. I'm all about progress. But I think I did myself a disservice in the process. I tried to convince myself that all I needed was a quick tune-up. I recoiled when people used the word "relapse." I refused to identify with the term. I had forgotten how rapidly the eating disorder deceives and destroys. There's nothing quick or easy about recovery.
Even though I'd asked for help and agreed to treatment, I was still in denial. I had relapsed and I could not begin the process of recovery until I recognized and acknowledged it.
On Wednesday, December 3rd, I watched a girl fall apart in IOP and I was suddenly faced with the paralyzing truth of where I had allowed the eating disorder to take me. When I got home that night, I wrote this short but meaningful passage in my journal:
“Seeing the pain in someone else makes you realize the pain inside of you. Your perfect world comes crashing down around you. You realize that you’re not just sitting in the audience anymore. You’re a player in some great tragedy. The story you’ve been watching is yours. We tell ourselves we saw it coming. Or that it took us by surprise. Either way we’re wrong. The plot’s alive and it keeps us guessing, but it’s always in line with the story. Think about all of the great novels out there. They’re full of anger, pain, and sadness. Pain is unique to the human experience. As much as we love joy, it’s pain that lets us know we’re alive. So when I feel a deep, heart-wrenching pain, I remember that every decent character does. I’m just fulfilling my role in one of tomorrow’s great stories.”
December was rough. Once I acknowledged my relapse, there was a lot to work through. There still is. But the depression is lifting. The meal plan is a little bit easier to follow. I laugh. I experience motivation. I'm feeling hopeful again.
I'm sorry that I wasted 2 months trying to deny my obvious relapse. I've lost a lot. Some things I won't be able to get back. It makes me sad, yet I know that there is much to be gained. The power of experience is undeniable. It gives me words. Wisdom. Compassion. It puts me in touch with the deepest, most intimate layers of humanity.
Experience may be painful, but it's priceless. This one is mine.
The Not-So-Christmas Spirit
"I feel like I'm out of control. I have no way of channeling my emotions," I said.
"I was hoping your blog would help you do that," replied my mother.
"I can't write about this. Not really. I have called myself The Realistic Optimist, but I am anything but optimistic right now. I'm drowning in darkness."
I know that my mother is wise, but she caught me by surprise when she looked at me and asked this simple question. "Who are you to withhold your words from those who might need to hear them the most?"
She's right. I was wrong. And for that I'm very sorry.
I am The Realistic Optimist. Sometimes I'm heavy on the optimism. Other times the scale tips deep into the real. I'm always seeking balance, but sometimes I fall short.
The reality of my situation hit me while sitting in Sunday school right before Christmas. The rest of my family had already left for vacation and I was left in an empty house. Our Sunday school class had been covering various individuals in the Christmas story. This final week was spent talking about Herod. The pastor leading our group asked us which of the characters we identified with the most in the story of Christ's birth. We talk about Mary, Joseph, the shepherds, and the wise men. Even the little drummer boy. But rarely do we consider the role that King Herod plays in the greatest story on earth.
As we talked more and more about Herod, I came to the startling realization that there was no one in the entire Christmas story that I identified with more than King Herod. It was everything I could do to contain my tears in that moment of revelation.
Every year after Thanksgiving, people refer to something called the Christmas Spirit. It usually involves a joy of decorating, singing, and baking. This year I experienced none of it. I did not want to decorate. I avoided Christmas carols at all costs. And as for baking...and here's the "real" part folks...that just wasn't happening. I'm knee-deep in eating disorder treatment and festive food is the last thing on my mind.
(That's right. You read correctly. Eating disorder treatment. Today it may seem like I'm glossing over this radical life event, but I promise to address the issue in the near future. For this story, however, you only need to know the nature of my struggle.)
Back to Herod.
While everyone else in the Christmas story joyously celebrated the birth of our Lord and Savior, Herod saw the event as a threat to his kingship--his power and control--everything he had worked for--his life. The presence of Jesus in this world was a direct challenge to everything that Herod valued.
This year the Christmas spirit haunted me. It burdened my soul. It was not until that day in Sunday school that I realized the truth. That the coming of Jesus threatens the control I've tricked myself into believing that I have. My ability to control my food intake and body is an all-consuming illusion. An illusion that brings me nothing but complete and utter misery. An illusion that extinguished the true meaning of the birth of the King. It robbed me of joy, left me in a perpetual state of exhaustion, and slowly drained the warmth from my skin and the sparkle from my eyes. Yet I clung to my illusion and avoided anything that threatened its existence. The thing I feared was the very thing I needed--the only thing that could save me--Jesus.
I'd like to say that this realization changed my heart and allowed me to joyfully celebrate Christmas with my family.
It did not.
Revelation does not always breed immediate change, but it does aerate the heart. Which is exactly what I needed.
People often confuse the Christmas spirit with Advent. They become blended together; a single entity. But Advent is a season of preparation and anticipation. It involves the heart and the soul, which means it might not always be cheerful or involve and upbeat melody. For me, Advent meant observing my role in the story and realizing my devastation at what had become my reality. In it's own way, the Advent season prepared my heart to realize the magnitude of what was to come: an all-powerful King who destroyed my very need for an illusion of any sort.
I know I'm a little late in sharing this story. Most people have already begun taking down their Christmas lights. We're going back to work and school. Walmart is already filling their empty shelves with Valentine's Day candy. But I thought it was a story that deserved to be shared. Because I have a feeling I'm not the only person who found Christmas difficult this year. Perhaps you don't have a heart like Herod. Maybe illness has shaken your world or a valued relationship has been destroyed. There are many forms of pain that can keep us from experiencing joy. Often our knowledge of this fact can be more devestating than the pain itself. And that's ok.
It's ok to admit a hurt. It's ok to feel sad. It's ok to cry while everyone else appears to be laughing.
Because a King has come and the story has a happy ending. The pain will not last forever. This is not the end.
So cry. Mourn. Scream.
As long as you are breathing, there is room for a revelation. One that will aerate your heart and provide a breeding ground for hope and renewal.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Wait. He will meet you here.
Just Keep Showing Up
About a month ago, I was on the phone with a friend who I admire a great deal. Actually, I must say that I admire all of my friends in one way or another. Whether it's for their strength, character, vulnerability, or sense of humor, each of my friends has at least one quality that I personally desire to possess and grow in. But I digress.
This particular friend lives far away (I can say this without revealing their identity because, unfortunately, many of my friends live far away). We don't talk frequently, but that doesn't mean our few conversations don't run deep. We typically don't waste much time discussing the superficialities of life, rather we dig beneath the surface and address the core issues that we are experiencing on a day-to-day basis. I believe this is want makes a true friendship.
It's no secret that I've faced some serious trails in my life. I think everyone has. Mine just happened to occur in the spotlight rather than the shadows. I've been told that this makes me one of the lucky ones, but that's a story for another day. During our conversation, this friend shared with me her recent struggle and her decision to work through the issue with a therapist. She said to me, "Brittany, some days I don't want to go and I don't know why I even bother. But I just keep showing up."
I laughed a little, not because it was funny, but because I thought she might finally understand a piece of my own journey. The kind of piece you can only understand having gone through a similar experience yourself. Our conversation didn't solve any problems or reveal the mysteries of the universe, but I think we both hung up the phone feeling a little less alone.
Her words have clung to me even now...more than a month later. I think we all seek healing of some kind. There are times we want to give up the fight; times we don't even know why we bother engaging at all. But whether it's to a therapy session or life in general, we just keep showing up. Sometimes we're fully clothed in armor and other times we hang our heads in rejection and exhaustion. But we're there.
5 Reasons Why I Keep Showing Up
It never leaves me any worse off. Sometimes showing up to life or to an appointment doesn't seem to make much of a difference. The things that cause us pain are rarely resolved in the short-term. But I'm never any worse off as a result of showing up. So I do.
It gives me something to do. Having something on your mind is annoying, but not being able to do anything about it is even worse. It can drive you crazy. Showing up means you're taking action. You might not be sure what the action is or what the result will be, but at least you're doing something. It makes me feel better about myself.
I'm hopeful. Not everyone has this reason; I've lacked it a few dozen times myself. Today I'm here to attest to the fact that hope can be restored. Lives can be transformed. I've seen it and I've experienced it. So even when I don't see hope in a situation, I am hopeful.
It's all I've ever known. It's hard to break a habit, and showing up is one that's been etched into my character since youth. If I felt unprepared, I took the test anyway. If I was exhausted, I ran the race anyway. If I was nervous, I recited my lines anyway. If I was scared, I woke up anyway. If I was weak, I asked for help anyway. If I failed, I tried again anyway. You might not see it in yourself, but I'd challenge you to search for it anyway. If you're reading this, I'm certain you've had every reason not to do something...but done it anyway. You keep showing up because it's all you've ever done.
I'm not ready to give up. I've felt like a failure many times over the years. Just when I think I've defeated a stronghold, I find myself under yet another attack. It's discouraging. I've had many opportunities to give up. Some would say I've even had good reason to do so. But you know what? I'm not ready. I still have fight in me. Each time I admit my weakness, I find a little bit more strength in Christ and suddenly I'm back in the ring. I'm not ready to give up because I know that the battle has already been won. Victory is mine. Who gives up a battle they've already won? While I may have been called crazy a time or two, I'm not foolish. So I keep showing up.
Before I close, I want to make one thing clear. "Showing up" is not equivalent to "fighting". You can still show up, even if you don't have much fight left into. Showing up just means walking through the door. Being present. Engaging in the process. Sometimes you're conquering dragons and other times you're crawling out of bed in the morning. Either way you're showing up. See, you're already doing it :)
Why do you keep showing up?
Why Crutches Still Stand By My Mirror
It's been 2 months since I've needed them, but my crutches still stand by the full-length mirror in my bedroom. My daughter pointed them out to me the other day and asked why they were still there. I didn't have a very good answer for that one. It wasn't until later that I discovered there are actually...
5 Reasons Why I Still Keep My Crutches Handy
I'm lazy. Part of the reason the crutches still reside in the corner of my room is that I've been too lazy to move them elsewhere. It's just that simple.
I'm scared. I'll be the first to admit that there is a sense of fear involved. I've experienced enough to know that pain does not discriminate between days or seasons. My hip can feel just fine one day, then cause me excruciating pain the next. When experience mixes with the unknown, a degree of fear is not a surprising development. So it doesn't hurt to be prepared.
They're a part of me. There have been long periods of my life during which my crutches were just another accessory that I wore daily. Just as I clipped on my watch or slid on my Mercy ring, so did a grab 1 or 2 crutches to get me through the day. All of my most necessary accessories are within arms reach of my mirror. It's natural.
They inspire gratitude. When I look at my crutches, I'm reminded that there is much to be thankful for. There were lots of things I wasn't able to do while using crutches. Most things that I could do took a lot longer to do. One of the most devastating realities of being stuck on crutches was my inability to carry a cup of coffee. Now that's a rough life, folks. So when I see my crutches at the start or end of the day, I'm encouraged to think of life's simple pleasures that I am free to enjoy.
They remind me. It's true. Those crutches remind me that anything is possible. Both the good and the bad. The world will try to knock you down, but there's always someone who will carry you. Setbacks are practically guaranteed and nearly always unexpected. But they don't last forever. In a way, my crutches symbolize Jesus. I don't put them away because I don't put Him away. I always need Him and I always look to Him. Some days I lean on Him more than others and that isn't necessarily a bad thing. It's okay to need some help guys. Jesus would rather me lean on Him in painful circumstances than try to tough it out myself. He's strong enough to bear the burden that weighs me down.
I know it's a mixture of simple, silly, and serious, but it's all true. You probably won't see or hear of me stowing away my crutches in the near future. They're an important part of my story and I can't say for certain that their role is finished in the plot that is my life.
What random item have you been reluctant to place in storage?
Stripped Away
Raw. Naked. Vulnerable. This is how I feel.
Stretched to the max. Out of my comfort zone. At the breaking point. This is where I am.
Crying. Laughing. Straining. This is what I do.
In the past, I've written posts that draw the parallels between the lives of humans and rose bushes; I strongly believe that we must be pruned before we can grow. I know that our lives have seasons, but what I'm experiencing is more.
Right now I feel like a tree. I am stripped of all that flourishes. The things that made me beautiful, that rustled in the wind, that provided a place of refuge for others, that protected me...my leaves have fallen. I can hear them crinkle beneath boots. While they no longer clothe me in brilliance, they provide joy for others as they jump into colorful piles of my former radiance with both feet.
I stand bare before the world. Vulnerable to nature and the storms that threaten to overwhelm me, but strong nonetheless. For my roots go deep and are nurtured in rich soil. My vulnerability reveals the strength of the solid ground on which I stand. It is good.
This feeling, place, and process is not without meaning. With my leaves stripped away, I am free to see myself as I am. Not as who I've imagined myself to be and not who I aspire to be in the future. I see myself in the present. Whole. I make no judgement, but accept myself for who and where I am. Now.
And that's when God begins to work. Just as a tree must shed its leaves to give way to new life, so must I let go of defining characteristics to embrace my future. God cannot bless us with newness until we have let go of the old. We must be willing to sacrifice the beautiful in faith; trusting that the best is yet to come.
I am bursting. While there are losses to mourn, the brightness of the future overwhelms me. I am astonished at the blessings that are being bestowed upon me in my present condition. In the past, this "raw" feeling would have destroyed me. I would have been imprisoned by fear.
This week I've had several people ask me what has changed. What allows me to function in these simultaneously joyful and sorrowful times? That's simple: I've been set free. I am no longer a captive of hopelessness. The veil of darkness has been torn. I've broken through the lies and I've seen the truth. I still struggle. I'm human, imperfect, and flawed. But I struggle well.
The leaves on the trees turn lovely shades of red, orange, and yellow. They fall to the ground. And I'm reminded that we exist in a state of constant change. I honestly wouldn't have it any other way. It's painful at times, but I have no desire to stay as I am. And the future is brilliant. Transitions are scary and unsettling to say the least, but the tree doesn't die when it looses its leaves. It lets the leaves fall because it knows there's newness in store.
God continues to strip away the comfortable to lead me into a greater story.
What does fall mean to you?
We All Need Therapy
I spend a lot of time in my car these days and most of that time is spent driving to and from therapy. If you've read any of my previous blog posts, you've probably realized that I'm in desperate need of therapy. "What kind?" you may be asking. Well, there's the obvious physical therapy for my hip injury. Then there's the emotional therapy to help work through the day-to-day journey of this thing called life. And finally there's the spiritual therapy that helps to heal the wounds of the past so that I can enjoy my future.
Physical Therapy
Physical therapy is essentially the use of physical methods (rather than medication or surgery) to heal an injury. It's physical rehabilitation. My physical therapist wants to help eliminate my hip pain and he works wholeheartedly to do so. It's a lot of work for both him and I. He has to think of methods that will solve the problem and I have to commit to the process. It takes a lot of time and energy. There is pain and there are tears. We both shake our heads in frustration at times. But we share and believe in a common goal: to restore my body to its pre-injury functionality. Or at least get as close as we can
Emotional Therapy
Emotional therapy means something different to every person. I use emotional therapy to help me work with through present circumstances. It's mostly talk therapy. My therapist listens while I talk. She offers suggestions here and there, but mostly she just provides direction. As I talk and reflect, I usually come up with some sort of resolution or epiphany. We figure out alternatives and action plans, then she holds me accountable to my commitments. We don't seek to eliminate the highs and lows that life brings, but we work together as a team to restore balance in my life.
Spiritual Therapy
Spiritual therapy is not really a common term. In fact, I might have just invented it myself. But I think spiritual therapy is something we're all seeking, whether we know it or not. Physical and emotional therapy are things that enable us to better function in the present and future. Spiritual therapy takes things to a new level; it allows for the healing of our hearts, which frees us from our past. It's the most elusive but the most valuable. My time at Mercy Ministries was a period of intense spiritual therapy for me, but it is something that must remain an important part of my daily routine. Currently, my spiritual therapy includes Bible study, prayer, journaling, and involvement in our local Celebrate Recovery ministry. I surrender my life to Jesus and together we work towards freedom.
...On the Road...
On one of my therapy road trips I got to thinking. There really isn't much difference between the different kinds of therapy that we find ourselves needing throughout our life journey. And I only listed a few. As I reflected on my experience, I came up with some therapy criteria:
Therapy involves more than one person. Whether you need a physical therapist, a "licensed clinical professional counselor," or Jesus...you can't give yourself therapy.
The goal of therapy is restoration. Whether you're seeking physical healing, emotional balance, or healing from a past experience...we're hoping to restore something that we lost along the way.
Therapy requires commitment. You have to carve time out of your life and dedicate it to seeking healing and freedom from past damage. It's going to require time and energy. Make it a priority.
Therapy is something that must be maintained. Keep doing your exercises. Keep talking through your struggles to implement solutions. Keep studying God's Word, praying, and journaling. If we don't actively engage in these therapeutic practices, our healing will not be complete and lasting.
I've gotten to the point that I don't see these road trips as an inconvenience to my everyday life. They enhance my life. My life is better when I am engaging in the therapeutic process. Participating in therapy means that you are an active participant in life itself. You're not sitting on the sidelines; you're playing the game. You're fighting. And that's a good thing.
What is your "go-to" form of therapy? Yoga? Running? Chocolate? A phone date with your BFF?
My Secret Weapons
Several weeks ago I published a post about my Influenster Vitality VoxBox. Influenster is a community of people who test, review, and promote products as they see fit. If you qualify for one of their campaigns, they mail you a box containing the product(s) you will be trying. Thanks to all my friends and followers, I received my first VoxBox rather quickly and it was full of wonderful goodies. Once you receive your box, you are given a task list: write reviews, promote via social media, take pictures, etc. The best way to qualify for future Influenster product campaigns is to complete the tasks and earn more badges.
I've completed 9 out of the 10 tasks required to earn the Vitality VoxBox badge and for awhile I was just going to throw in the towel on the whole "Influenster thing." You see, the last task is to "Share the secret weapon to your #BikiniReadyLifestyle." One of the products in the Vitality VoxBox was a sample of Bikini Ready Energy Gummies. The name is pretty much self-explanatory: the gummies claim to boost metabolism and increase energy to make your body bikini ready.
I've fought hard to walk in recovery from an eating disorder and I know that several of my readers are fighting similar battles. Life and death battles. It seemed irresponsible of me to write a blog post on a product that plays into the struggle of so many men and women. So I wasn't going to do it.
But as I completed more and more tasks, this one task was all that stood between me and my badge (I know this sounds a little bit dramatic, but go with it). So I read the task over again: "Share the secret weapon to your #BikiniReadyLifestyle." As is commonly the case, I was making something simple into something quite complicated. The task wasn't asking me to endorse a product I didn't believe in; it was asking me to share my secret. What a great opportunity to share a piece of my journey with the blogging community in an unexpected way!
To most people, being "bikini ready" usually means being thin and tan. Not to me. To me, being "bikini ready" means being comfortable in my own skin; confident and strong. Plus, the whole tan thing...I don't get it. Everybody knows that if you already have a tan on day one of pool season, you did not get it naturally. I go to the pool to get a tan. If you already have a tan, why are you at the pool? But I digress. Today's mission is to reverse your concept of what "bikini ready" really means with...
My 5 Secret Weapons to a #BikiniReadyLifestyle
Prayer. I believe in the power of prayer. No journey toward self-improvement will be successful without God's intimate involvement in the details of each and every step. Prayer covers a multitude of weapons needed to conquer a battle. Whether your struggle is to gain, lose, or maintain weight, you will not experience victory without the healing power of God. Ephesians 6:10-16 talks about putting on the armor of God. When you're fighting a battle, you're going to need some armor. And God's armor is the best you'll ever find.
Positive Affirmations/Truth Statements. We feed ourselves lies day in and day out. It's habit. "I'm stupid." "I'm ugly." "I can't do anything right." "I'm worthless." NO, NO, NO! It's time we start speaking positive truth into our lives! "I am smart." "I am beautiful." "I am enough." "I am worthy." My personal favorite is this: "I am a daughter of the King." I simply can't say the words without smiling in my soul.
A Support System. We like to pretend that we can do this on our own. We want to be independent and prove ourselves. But the truth is that we're wired to need each other. When we're fighting a battle, we need people who will keep us accountable, yet encourage us when we need it. We need people who believe in us and who are willing to fight with us from time to time.
Balance. At first this number read "A Balanced Diet." But as I started writing, I realized that the real concept that I was trying to communicate was the importance of balance. We need some balance in our lives, people. When our lives are out of balance we start to grasp desperately at things that give us a feeling of control. Food and exercise are 2 of the most common things we latch onto and it can manifest itself in a variety of ways. We should always strive for balance in life, food, exercise, sleep, work, and play.
Vigilance. This is so important, yet frequently overlooked. We tend to celebrate once we've achieved our goals and we should! But the work does not end after the celebration; we need to be vigilant in all we do. We cannot become complacent or content. We must keep a watchful eye out for anything that threatens to steal away our freedom, for the battle is even harder the second or third time we fight it.
So these are the things I focus on in my attempt to feel comfortable in my own skin. I want to be confident and strong, not thin and tan. I don't care so much whether I'm bikini ready, so much as I'm ready. Ready for whatever life brings; the good and the bad, the daunting and the serene, the laughter and the tears.
Dear Lord,
Make me strong, courageous, confident, and ready for all that you have in store for me.
Amen.
What is your secret weapon for a #BikiniReadyLifestyle?
Let's talk real life today, guys. I'm hungry for a conversation!
“Summer Suits You”
For most people, writer's block comes when they can't think of anything to say. I am not most people. I experience writer's block most frequently when I have a lot to say. There are so many ideas. There is so much emotion. The passion is overwhelming. I don't even know where or how to start.
I'm not going to tip-toe around the point of this post because I have a lot to say and I don't want to risk losing your attention: I am taking this semester off from school.
The official term is "taking a hiatus". I like this term; "I'm taking a hiatus" sounds and feels a lot better than "yeah, I decided to drop out." Hey, I'm a writer; words are important to me like that.
My hip injury has plagued me for nearly 10 years now. I first fractured my femur in January of 2005 and I've always told people that not coming home to take care of myself was one of the biggest mistakes I've ever made. I didn't want to miss out or lose momentum, so I kept on pushing through and I've been doing it ever since.
As luck would have it, I somehow re-injured my hip last week. It's not going to require surgery, but the recovery process is going to be long. Most of my surgeries have occurred mid-semester. It's easy to push through when you're halfway there, thoroughly invested in your coursework, and have a reliable reputation as a decent student. But I don't have any of that right now. I'm a week in and it feels like it's mile 21 of a marathon. None of my professors know me. And I have the luxury of looking behind at the past for a glimpse of what my future would hold should I decide to push through just one more time.
The truth is I didn't have to withdraw. If you were to look at the history of my injury, you'd probably ask, "Why now? The one time you DON'T need surgery is the one time you DO withdraw? What's up with that?" Good question. I could have done it. I know I could have. But at what cost?
One of my greatest concerns about deciding to withdraw was what people were going to think and say. I felt like I needed a really good reason to do it. I think a lot of us fall into that trap. We think that we should stay in school until we literally can't do it anymore; until we're checked into the hospital for some physical, mental, or emotional diagnoses or threatened within an inch of our lives. Who made up that rule? It's backwards. The whole thing is backwards.
We think we need a really good reason to take a semester off. And we do. But we need to change our definition of what a good reason really is.
Traditionally, it is in my nature to continue pushing through until my life, body, and sanity shatter into a million pieces. That takes awhile to clean up and I'm usually practically useless for the first several months of the process. It's horrible. It's scary. It's messy. But for some reason I believed that it was the only permissible way.
Today, I'm doing things a little bit differently. I'm in tune with my body, my mind, and my environment. I can sense danger and make choices that will protect and preserve me. I let myself look at the broken pieces and pick them up rather than waiting until things shatter into dust.
I've decided to take the semester off because it's what's best for me. I need to let my body heal. I've been at war with my body for nearly a decade now. It drains me of my energy, enthusiasm, patience, and capacity to love. I'm tired of that. My body is pleading with me for care and attention and it's pulled my soul on board as well.
My "free time" will be well spent. I plan on investing in my blog, working on my freelance career, reading fiction and non-fiction books, learning to cook, and dedicating myself wholeheartedly to rehabilitating my hip. I plan on being a mom to my daughter. I plan on filling my lungs with air and breathing again.
The title of this post is "Summer Suits You". I know that summer is nearly over, but the title really has nothing to do with summertime and everything to do with 3 words spoken to me by my marketing professor several months ago. It was a few weeks after graduation and I ran into her in Target. We were chatting for a good 20 minutes when she looked at me and said, "Gosh Brittany, summer suits you." She wasn't talking about my tan or my cute sundress. She was talking about my affect. I laughed at the time, but I was also a little bit sad. I was sad that the difference between the "School Brittany" and the "Summer Brittany" was so drastic. I wanted to spend the summer getting to a place in my mind where I could maintain the summer affect in the midst of a semester at college.
I didn't quite meet the mark on that one, but I've bought myself some extra time. I want to find that place in my mind where summer and winter combine and form something glorious. I know it exists. I know it's possible. And I believe this hiatus is my opportunity to press in rather than push through.
What steps do you take to engage in self-care?
5 Things You Never Want to Hear From Your ER Staff
Last Friday I spent the evening in the emergency room. Always a pleasant experience.
As many of you already know, I recently had my 6th hip surgery. They removed all of my hardware (except that stray screw if you recall) and I've been off of crutches for about 3 weeks. Well last Friday I woke up and started walking around--just like any other day--when suddenly I found myself doubled over in pain. Every step that I took literally took my breath away.
The first thought that came to mind was: "I have never felt anything like this before."
One problem: I have. Twice actually. Both times the pain was determined to be the result of a stress fracture. Both times the result was life-changing. Needless to say, this kind of pain stirs a fear within me. Apparently it also stirred a fear in my physical therapist, my physical therapist assistant, and my orthopedic surgeon. By the end of the day, all 3 sent me straight to the ER for testing.
The ER is not a happy place to be. No one wants to be there and anyone who is there is either sick or injured. Basically, everyone in the ER usually has an excellent reason to be miserable, so they are. Plus--even though I know it's not true--it usually feels like the ER staff does everything they can to extend the length of your misery.
We left the house at 5:00 pm and got home around 1:30 Saturday morning. By the time I got discharged, I had come up with a new list of the...
5 Things You Never Want to Hear From Your ER Staff
"Just Google it." Seriously. The PA told me that she can never remember where potassium comes from; she usually has to Google it. From that moment forward I had complete confidence in her medical competence.
"I'm here to take you for your CT scan." This one might seem innocent at first, except...I'd already been taken for a CT scan. And the fact that this happened twice? Totally reassuring.
"You should have just called you doctor." I did. He sent me to you. I know, what was he thinking?!?!
"Remember to hop when you use your crutches." This goes against EVERY lesson on using crutches known to man. You NEVER hop. Even when you're non-weightbearing, you are still supposed to go through the stepping motion. Hopping while using crutches is a beginner's error and can further complicate any injury. This is the worst advice ever.
"Just try not to fall." Oh. My. Gosh. First of all, I can't even begin to count the number of time I've been told this one. Second of all...really, who actually TRIES to fall. The statement "try not to fall" implies that, for some reason, I was previously trying TO fall. What a pointless, insulting statement that makes me want to trip you with my crutch so that, when you get up, I can tell you, "Oh, please, just try not to fall again, ok?"
I'm not a heartless person. I know that pain and illness makes people irritable and impatient. My mom was an ER nurse for years, so I appreciate the drama that the ER staff endures on a nightly basis. My CT scan and ultrasound came back clean; no stress fracture and no blood clot. I'm really no worse for the wear. But seriously..."just Google it"?!?!
What is the strangest thing that has ever been said to you by a medical professional?
The Perfect Surgery
My surgeon and I have 2 very different definitions of the word perfect.
To me, the perfect hardware removal surgery would mean...I don't know...that all the hardware would be removed. But maybe that's just the crazy talking. Maybe I've had a few too many pain pills. Because my orthopedist tells me, "The surgery went perfectly, Brittany!" Yet he's standing there telling me that the head of one of the screws broke off while he was trying to remove it. So he left it in there. To me, perfect doesn't include broken screws.
I hate the word perfect because you might as well say impossible. Earthly perfection is purely objective. There is no right answer. My definition of perfect is different from yours. We place varying degrees of value on portions of the equation. Your perfect is not my perfect so no one is ever authentically happy. It took me awhile to realize this. I spent most of my youth pursuing this ever-elusive so-called perfect.
I'm sorry, but the only thing that's perfect is God's love. End of story.
So I guess it doesn't matter what my orthopedist's definition of perfect is because no one's perfect is every going to measure up to my definition. My version of the perfect surgery would have erased the past. I mean, that's what I was looking for, wasn't it? I wanted all evidence of my medical history removed. I wanted a clean slate. I expected the scars on my leg to be the only trace of the 6 surgeries and countless years that have gone into rehabilitating my hip. I demanded the impossible, and that's not all that fair, now is it?
But still. Dude. Seriously. It was hard enough explaining why a person my age had the hardcore hip hardware that I flaunted when undergoing medical diagnostics. But at least that could be explained. I now have what looks like a stray screw floating inside the middle of my femur. 6 surgeries. Countless scars. 1 stray screw. No rational explanation.
Please, people, help me out. This is dying for a good story. "I got in a fight with a nail gun." "My brother thought I was a two-by-four." "It was a dare."
I want to hear the best story you have to explain away this mystery in an entertaining yet mildly believable tale.
Number Six
It's funny. When I was creating this website, I copied over some of my more popular posts from a previous blog. One of them was about my lack of patience and it was written last summer. I won't get into the details, but I will use this opportunity to update you on life and hopefully weave some insight into the mix.
For those of you who aren't familiar with my story, I should probably mention the fact that I fractured my hip as a student-athlete at the age of 18 during my freshman year of college. Within the first year I had 3 surgeries to repair the original fracture, a non-union, and a re-fracture. The short version of the story is that I didn't take care of myself very well and I paid the price. Fast forward 8 years and we come to the winter of 2013. I was having a lot of hip pain and started physical therapy. They discovered a labral tear, so I had surgery (number 4) in April. I got about halfway through the rehab when I re-tore the labrum and had another surgery (number 5) in November.
I have an amazing treatment team. My physical therapist and physical therapist assistant are phenomenal. They're the ones who first discovered the labral tear. When it was officially diagnosed, I went on a hardcore quest to find the right surgeon. Arthroscopic surgery to repair labral tears is a relatively new procedure and most surgeons have little-to-no experience with these cases--especially one as unique as mine. I found a highly specialized and experienced surgeon who is well worth the time I spend on the road to see him.
My family travelled to Disney World this April and about a week before we left for Florida, I started to have excruciating hip pain. My orthopedist squeezed me into his schedule and hooked me up with an ultrasound guided cortisone injection (think horse needle into hip joint) to get me through the trip. He then scheduled some tests for when I returned. I think we both knew what was coming.
I hope you're still reading and that I haven't bored you too much because I'm finally getting to my point. You know, the one about patience?
It's been 3 months since that pre-Disney appointment. My orthopedist is a pretty thorough guy. There's a new program for reading CT scans and he wanted to run me through the protocol before making any big decisions. But nothing is ever that easy. It's a new program, which means there were lots of technicalities involving both humans and equipment. So we only just finished up all of the testing last week.
The day before my graduation in May, I told my physical therapist that we had 3 months. 3 months to get my hip back on track. I had a timeline in my mind of how everything would go. This CT protocol kept messing with my timeline. In the moment, each phone call I received that postponed the decision was frustrating. More like enraging, actually. It seemed as though no one was paying any attention to my timeline!!!!
But here's the thing. Usually, within 24 hours, my frustration and rage had diminished and I was able to accept the news. I've even been able to find some good in the "bad" news that continuously screwed with my 3 month timeline.
I've been scheduled for hip surgery number 6 at the end of July. Please note: that's nearly 4 months after I pretty much knew that another surgery would be in my future. If things had gone according to my plan, this would have happened at the beginning of June to allow for optimal healing time. Because that would have been the most convenient and logical thing, of course. But guess what; the world doesn't revolve around me. And, I'm coming to realize, that is not a bad thing.
I've spent more days than I care to admit dwelling on the details and inconveniences of this process. But those days are like drops in the bucket when compared to how I would have handled things even 6 months ago. In my "patience: not my virtue" post from last summer, I ended with a prayer asking God to help me become a person of good temper; for peace in disturbed surroundings. It's a process, but I really do believe God is doing a work in me.
Surgery number 6 will basically just be a hardware removal procedure. I have a lot of metal in my hip and they're finally going to take it all out. Up until now, the surgeons have been reluctant to remove the device. While the procedure isn't as intricate as others have been, it does carry a fair amount of risk. It will take about 6 weeks for the bone to fill in the areas that the hardware has occupied for the last 9 years. Those are some big holes, guys. The risk of fracture is high during the first month and I'm both fragile and accident-prone, which is not a good combination. So I'll be uncharacteristically careful and obedient to the "doctor's orders."
But, as always, I am realistically optimistic.
PS: If this just wasn't enough info for you and you have more questions, please visit the Contact page to send me a quick note. I'm really open about my experience with hip fractures, non-unions, bone grafts, and labral tears. There isn't much information out there about some of these topics and I've had to do a lot of research on my own. I'd love to share what I've learned with others who are muddling through their own journeys!