Finally Free

I want to write a poem,

But I don't know where to start.

Life before you, life without you,

Or when it fell apart.

You've stolen oh so much from me.

My worth, my heart, my time.

You've stolen my identity,

It's like I've lost my mind.

I used to be so brave and strong,

The smartest of the smart.

My future was bright and hopeful,

But you made it fall apart.

You swept in and promised me the world,

You told me we could win.

My problems, they could disappear,

If only I'd let you in.

So I did, I welcomed you with open arms.

I offered you my life.

At first you were my friend and pal

You helped me live my life.

But slowly you destroyed my soul.

You were a parasite.

You stole my joy, my hope, my goals

You took away my fight.

My future--you erased it all.

I was left with nothing but you.

You, who lied and spun the truth,

It's like you already knew.

Knew that I was left with nothing.

That you had won the war.

That I was no longer what I had been.

That I was helpless on the floor.

But was I helpless?  Was I gone?

Had you really won the fight?

Or was I resting while you reigned,

Gathering my might.

I wasn't going to let you win,

And neither was my team;

My family, friends, and loved ones, too

We all were battling.

I'm stronger than you think I am.

I am a warrior.

I'll fight for my life, if that's what it takes.

For all of this and more.

You stole it all, but that's ok.

I can take it back.

It's not the same, it will not be

I know that it's a fact.

But I can make something new

Out of the old that you destroyed.

It can be more beautiful

Than the evil you employed.

My future can be bright again.

I can reclaim my life.

Your presence has no business here.

You've caused me too much strife.

No longer will you rule my world.

You're not victorious.

It's time you leave, it's time you go

You really, really, must.

I want to feel the sunshine

Upon my glowing face.

I want to know what joy feels like.

True love I want to taste.

You promised me and told me lies

That you could not fulfill.

I'm going to say goodbye to you.

Go flee beyond that hill.

I'm finally free, you'll only be

A story from my past.

You've made me who I am today,

You played a role in the cast.

You were the star for far to long,

But now it's time to leave.

This story's mine, I'll take it back

I finally believe.

That life is good and happiness

Can actually exist.

That I deserve these things and more.

That I can taste the bliss.

When Recovery Gets Boring

"I'm bored."  That's what I told my therapist.

"What's boring?" she replied.

"Recovery.  Recovery is boring."

And it's true.  When I was in the throws of my illness, I was enveloped with insanity.  My mind was a battleground.  And there's nothing boring about a war zone.  There's always something going on.  A bullet to dodge, a grenade to outrun, a bomb to disarm.  There's always something to do.  Your mind and body are busy trying to keep you alive in a dangerous environment.  There's nothing boring about that.

But now...I mean...I know I'm not out of the woods yet.  The world is a treacherous place.  But compared to life in the war zone?  This is boring.

I'm not going to the hospital every evening for treatment.  They're not playing with my meds every week.  I'm not going to bed every night hoping I won't wake up in the morning.  I'm fine.  Good, even.

And it's weird.  This whole good thing.  I'm not used to it.  I don't know what to do with it.  It's foreign to me.  How do I exist in a world that's ok?  That doesn't require daily damage control?  How do I thrive in boredom?

I know it may sound twisted.  I'm not romanticizing my illness.  Believe me.  I know that it wasn't a good kind of exciting.  War never is.  It nearly killed me.  More than once.  So I have to find something else that's exciting.  Something not quite so dangerous.

Here is what I'm doing to fight the boredom and find something exciting in recovery:

1. I write.  Obviously.  It's just what I do.  Journal, blog, scribble.  It doesn't even matter what I'm writing about.  As long as I'm writing.  Writing keeps my mind from racing.  It makes me slow down.  Focus.  Find perspective and purpose.  It makes me feel productive.  It passes the time and I have something to show for it at the end of the day.  It satisfies me.

2. I learn something new.  That's why I enrolled in school this semester.  I figured it was time to get back out there.  I always feel better when I'm exercising my brain.  It makes me feel less stagnant. It gives me a sense of growth.  Of movement.  That's the kind of thing that fights boredom.  You have to use your mind.  And that doesn't have to mean you enroll in a college course.  It means you find something that interests you and you learn about it.  Home improvement?  Crafts?  Cooking?  Watch a YouTube video.  Check out a book at the library.  Just look for ways to nurture your inner curiosity and learn something new.

3. I use my creativity.  This can look like a lot of different things.  It can mean painting, drawing, sewing, knitting, weaving, collaging, taking pictures, singing, playing an instrument...the list goes on an on.  Doing something creative means thinking outside the box.  It means looking at the world through a different lens.  And you get to pick whatever kind of lens you want to use.  So pick an interesting one!

4. I go outside.  It sounds simple, but it's harder than you think.  It's difficult for me to make this one a priority, but it helps to have a dog.  She practically begs me to go for a walk when I get home from work.  With those big puppy eyes.  It's hard to say no to that.  But getting outside means going on an adventure.  Even if it's just around your neighborhood.  And even if it's a cloudy day, the fresh air wakes you up.  It catapults you out of zombie land and into the world.  It awakens you to the possibility of the day.

5. I daydream.  I know, I know.  I just talked about fresh air waking you up and now I'm telling you to dream.  But I think it helps.  It helps to dream about the future and all its possibilities.  It inspires me to take action in the present to help those dreams become a reality.  And that usually means doing something exciting.  Something out the ordinary.  Something outside my comfort zone.  Something that defies boredom.

And you know what?  I couldn't do any of those things when I was in my illness.  I constantly had writers block, I couldn't focus for school, I had no desire to engage my creative side, I hid from the sunlight, and I feared the future.  Sure, I was living life on the edge, but was I really living?  It was more like I was fighting death.

Recovery doesn't have to be boring.  It's just different.  You have to find excitement in other things.  Like nature.  Art supplies.  A classroom.  The future.

The future.  Recovery has given me a future.  My illness chained me to my past and caused me to do nothing but survive the day-to-day struggle of the present.  Recovery gives me permission to be ok.

Ok might sound boring at first.  Especially when you're used to the excitement of a war zone.  But recovery can have its own type of excitement.  Because you know what these 5 things help you do?  They help you find yourself.  The illness strips you of your identity.  You have to go out there and find it again.  And what could be more exciting than that?

Why I’m #donewithdieting

Project HEAL has started a #donewithdieting campaign and it's got me thinking.  I AM done with dieting.  But why?  And how?  I mean it's one thing to say it, but it's another thing to back it up.  So it's time I stepped up to the plate and did a little explaining.

To put it simply, dieting destroys lives.  End of story.  It becomes all-consuming.  It takes over every aspect of my life until I no longer do the things I love.  I no longer surround myself with the people I care about.  I become a shadow of a person.

My brain is filled with nothing but numbers.  Pounds, calories, sizes.  It's all I can think about.  I don't have room in my head to think critically and perform well at work.  Or understand what I'm reading for school.  Or play a game of checkers with my daughter.  Those damn numbers take up too much space.

I become hyper-focused on my appearance.  Do these pants fit differently than they did last week?  Is my shirt too tight?  Can you see my muffin top?  Are my boots too snug against my calves?  It gets to the point that I don't want to wear anything but sweatpants and oversized t-shirts.  It's the only way to turn off the self-criticizim.  And there's no way I'm going out into the world dressed in pajamas.  So I'll just stay in my room.  Under a blanket.  Taking a nap.

If I'm not taking a nap, then I'm in the basement.  Working out.  Burning off the few calories that I did consume that morning.  And it's not a choice.  It's a requirement.  Unless I want to spend the rest of the day wallowing in guilt and shame.  It's a compulsion.  A "have to."  Don't let me fool you when I lie through my teeth telling you that it's fun.  It's not fun.  It's torture.  But I don't have a choice.  This is it.

Isolation.  Depression.  Compulsion.  And for what?  I never reach my goal.  And even if I do, I'm too miserable to enjoy the victory.  The goal changes every time I reach it.  It's never good enough.  I can always do better.  There's still more weight to lose, more calories to burn, more sizes to drop.  I can never get enough.

Dieting holds me hostage in my own body.  I become controlled by fear.  Fear of a number.  I let this little box on my bathroom floor tell me whether I'm allowed to have a good or bad day.  Forget the A on a test or the positive feedback at work.  Forget the hug from my daughter or the dog's tail wagging as I walk through the door.  Forget the moment when my favorite song comes on the radio.  None of it matters if the scale tells me what I don't want to hear.  None of it matters.

I think that's what gets me the most.  The overbearing thought that none of it matters.  None of my life matters when I'm on a diet.  Not my work.  Not my people.  Not my hobbies.  None of it.  And I know it.  I know it as it's happening.  I see myself becoming this shadow.  But it doesn't matter.

I'm fading.

Fading.

Into nothing.

Dieting doesn't cause me to lose weight, it causes me to lose myself.  And in the process, it causes me to lose everything I love.  Everything.

You know what I regret the most about my pursuit of the perfect diet?  The number of years that I've lost to it.  The time with my loved ones that I'll never get back.

My loved ones.

Which leads me to my how.

How do I ditch the diet mentality?  It's not easy.  When I've spent half my lifetime trying to control my weight, it's a difficult thing to leave behind.  But what it really comes down to is people.  My daughter, especially.

I want more for her than I've settled for myself.  I want her to be free from the compulsion to diet.  I want her to bathe in self-love, not self-criticism.  I want her to focus on her friends, not her food.  I want her to dress herself in kindness, not the perfect outfit.  I want her to find her worth in Jesus, not a scale.  I want her to count her blessings, not calories.  I want more for her.

And to give her more, I have to be more.  I have to be more than a number on the scale or the size of my jeans.  I have to be more than the food on my plate or the growl in my stomach.  I have to be more than miles on my bike or the tread on my sneakers.  I have to be more.

But dieting makes me less.  Less human.  Less loving.  Less compassionate.  Less less less.  And I want to be more.  I HAVE to be more.  I guess that means I'm ditching the diet, eh?

It's the only way.

I am done with dieting.  I want more for my daughter.  I want more for myself.  I want more for the world.  I'll shout it from the rooftops if I have to.  Dieting doesn't work.  It destroys lives.  It comes to kill.  It comes to steal joy.  It comes to drain the light from your eyes and the spunk from your soul.

So what about you?  Are you through being told you're not good enough?  Tired of believing you're unlovable?  Over the isolation?  The depression?  The failure?  The only things that diets bring?

Me too.  So join the movement and be #donewithdieting

This post was republished by The Mighty as Dieting Doesn't Make Me Lose Weight, It Makes Me Lose Myself ...check it out and give it some love at The Mighty!

Remember, Hope, Pursue

I have some exciting news!  I've been submitting my work to a website called The Mighty for awhile now and I always get turned down.  But I've kept at it and guess what?  They've decided to publish one of my pieces.  I am soooo excited, guys!  So go ahead and follow them on Facebook or keep an eye on their website for an edited version of my post "An Open Letter to My Psychiatrist" :)

I got the news just before a therapy appointment, so naturally I mentioned it to my therapist.  She asked what it was about.  Oh gosh.  Why didn't I see this one coming?  Now I had to tell her that I blog about my treatment team.  Great.  She said, "What, did you blog about your entire treatment team abandoning you?"  Well.  Sort of.  I didn't mention the fact that my therapist went on maternity leave at the exact same time that my psychiatrist decided to stop seeing patients.  Just my luck.

Anyway.  The bad part of telling your therapist that you're about to be a published blogger?  She tells you to blog about stuff.  Sigh.  But blog I shall.

It's time to write about something that's been on my mind for awhile now.  Something I haven't said out loud.  Something I've kept to myself.  Mostly because I didn't want to offend anybody.  Or scare them.  Definitely because I didn't want to scare them.  My treatment team, my family...you name it.

So here it is.  I don't really see the point of going to therapy anymore.  There.  I said it.

Therapy is great and it's helped me out a lot in life.  I've worked through a wide variety of things.  Through therapy, I have learned how to manage PTSD symptoms and urges to self harm.  So much so that they don't even cross my mind anymore.  I mean that's powerful stuff, folks.  Really powerful.  And therapy helped me journey that seemingly impossible path towards freedom from those things.  It's a miracle.

Therapy helped me navigate difficult relationships.  My divorce was messy.  Coparenting with my parents is tricky.  Sharing pieces of my struggles with my coworkers is necessary.  But therapy has helped me manage all those things.  Without loosing my sanity.  Another huge milestone.

Therapy helped me believe in myself.  It helped me realize my potential.  That I could be more in life than a statistic.  That I could hold a job, serve as a leader, thrive as a mother, and be a successful student.  Therapy helped me believe in and execute these goals.  Another thing to celebrate.

Therapy has helped me out a lot.  But I'm kind of at a standstill.  I've accomplished all these things and I feel like there is nothing left to do.  We basically spend our sessions catching up on the week.  Sure, we do a lot of problem solving, but isn't that something I could do by myself?  Why do I need to travel to Towson once a week for a brainstorming session?  I feel like there is nothing left to fight for.  In a good way.  I've overcome so much.  Faced so many fears.  Fought so many battles.  What else is left to conquer?  In the therapy world, that is.

Is therapy meant to be a lifelong thing?  Do you ever graduate?  Do you ever get that hour of your life back?  Or is it forever?  These are the questions I ask my therapist.

Hmm.  Good question, she said.  It depends on the person.  Do you think you still have things to work on?

Hmm.  Good question, I said.  Do I?

Yes.  But...I mean...don't we all?  If that's the case, shouldn't everyone be therapy?  Maybe.

I do have things to work on.  I will always struggle with believing in myself.  There will always be difficult relationships to navigate.  And there will always be a vice I wrestle with.

Am I really ready to be done with therapy, or am I just hesitant to dig into more difficult things?  I've existed in crisis mode for so long that being in the green means things are great.  Are things really great, or are they just manageable?  Am I satisfied with "ok" because I haven't been ok in so long?  Does therapy have the potential to make things great again?  Is that really even possible?  Maybe my doubt leads me to believe that I don't need it anymore.  Maybe I doubt its effectiveness.

But therapy has given me so much.  Why should I doubt its capabilities now?  After all of that?  After all that it's proven?  Why doubt its potential?

The truth is that therapy is work.  It takes effort.  Time.  It's more than just an hour of your life once a week.  It's hard.  And I haven't been doing it.  I haven't been putting in the time or the effort.  I've just been going through the motions.

I feel like I don't need therapy because I feel like it has lost its point.  But what if it's not therapy that has lost its point.  What if it's me?

Therapy is only as good as what you make of it.  And I haven't been making very much of it recently.

Therapy is definitely necessary when you're in crisis mode, but the real work starts when things get ok again.  You have to work on skills that will keep you out of crisis mode.  You have to work to obtain the life you've always imagined.

It's easy for me to forget how far therapy has brought me, which makes it easy for me to doubt its purpose in my present life.  But it can have a purpose if I give it one.

I think therapy is a journey.  It changes with time.  My journey might mean going to every-other week to give me more time to work.  Or it might mean taking a break sometime.  Or it might mean therapy forever.  Who knows.  All I know for now is this:

Today I choose to remember.  I choose to remember all the great things that therapy has helped obtain.

Today I choose to hope.  I choose to hope that great is possible.  That I don't have to be just "ok."

Today I choose to pursue.  I choose to pursue that hope.

And (for now) I choose to use therapy to do it.

My Deep Dark Secret

"I want to write but I have nothing to write about," I said to my mom.

"Brittany, you always have something to write about," she replies.

Hmm.  What to write about.  I start a few rough drafts but nothing really feels right.  It's just not working for me.  "Why not?"  I think to myself.  Because it's not truly what is on my mind.  That's why.

But what's on my mind is embarrassing.  I don't like talking about it.  And I certainly don't want it circulating around the internet.  But I'll start writing and we'll see what happens.  Sound like a plan?

I haven't been able to sleep through the night for months now.  I wake up and I have a snack.  At least twice every night.  Sometimes 3 times.  3 midnight snacks a night.  It's ridiculous.  A small bowl of cereal here.  A cookie there.  A granola bar this time.  You name it.  I hate it.  I hate myself for it.  So I roll out of bed in the morning with this giant cloud of guilt hovering over me.  I don't eat the whole breakfast I prepared the night before.  Because I had at least half of it in the middle of the night.  And it goes on and on and on.

It's horrible.

I take trazadone, melatonin, and benadryl before I go to sleep.  I drink bedtime tea with steamed milk.  I diffuse lavender.  I listen to a sleep story.  I feel like I'm trying it all.  But nothing is working.  I still wake up multiple times a night and snack away.  I just can't seem to stop.  It's incredibly frustrating.

I saw my dietician last week and she had a few thoughts for me.  "Brittany, I think your body is trying to tell you something.  It's not happy."  No, it's not allowed to not be happy.  Because I said so.  But I heard her out.

I'm paraphrasing, but this is essentially what she said:

"When I first started working with you you weighed about 15 pounds more than you do right now.  I think that's where your body needs to be.  And you're not letting it.  I think it needs more food.  And you're not giving it enough.  I think you're trying to control your body.  But it knows what it needs.  And it's doing what it has to to get it.  And right now that means waking up in the middle of the night for snacks.  I think your body requires more than the basic meal plan.  I think you might need standard.  Or at least a hybrid of the 2."

It's not what I want to hear.  I'm crying.  But I know she's right.  She has to be.  There's no other explanation.

I don't WANT to need standard.  Basic should be enough.  I'm not underweight.  I don't need to be on a weight gain protocol.  There's no reason why I should need the standard meal plan.  My body shouldn't need that much food.

Except it does.  And I hate it.

It makes me angry and sad at the same time.  Angry at my body and sad that I feel angry.  I want to be in recovery.  I don't want to still have these thoughts and crave this control.  I'm sick of it.  But I STILL WANT CONTROL!!  I hate it and I need it at the same time.

Something's gotta give.

Why do we crave control so much?  Why do we have this desire to force things into existence?  Why do we chase this illusion?  When it often threatens to kill us.  Or at least make us miserable.  Why do we need it so much?

I have no idea.  It's brought me nothing more than pain and suffering.  Yet I cling to it.  Hold out hope.  For what?  I mean what exactly IS control anyway?  That seems like a good place to start.

Control.  I think it's trying to make something a certain way.  But we don't have that kind of power.  Or do we?

A lot times I feel out of control.  I forget the things that I DO have control over.  I control what I wear.  Whether or not I brush my teeth.  Whether I drink my coffee black or with cream and sugar.  If I put on matching shoes.  Which earrings to wear.  I control which way I drive to work.  What music I listen to.  If I hit the snooze button once or five times.  How often I check Facebook.  Whether I use a paper plate or a ceramic one.  What color I paint my nails.  What I watch on TV.  What book I read.  What my next knitting project will be.

I control a lot.

So why do I only look at what I CAN'T control?  Just because some things are OUTSIDE of my control doesn't make ME out of control.  They're 2 completely different things.

I can't control the weather.  Or what kind of disasters I walk into at work.  I can't control whether my daughter is in a good or bad mood.  Or when I loose my voice.  I can't control whether the dog goes to the bathroom inside the house.  Or if the cat decides to tip over her water dish for the 100th time.  I can't control the traffic.  Or the line at the pharmacy.  And I can't control my body.

I can't control my body.  I can TRY.  But it never ends well.  When I try to control my body is when I loose control of my sleeping pattern.  Or my concentration.  Or my energy level.  Or my effectiveness in the workplace.  I can't control my body, but I CAN care for it.  I can care for my body.

Why am I writing about this?  Why am I broadcasting my secretive middle-of-the-night behavior?  Because I don't think I'm the only one.  I'm not saying that you indulge in midnight snacks on a daily basis, but  I don't think I'm the only one who craves control.  And I certainly don't believe I'm the only person who has ever tried to control their body.  Diets, exercise programs, eating disorders.  They're rampant.  So many people try to control their bodies and it does nothing but consume and destroy us.  The things we do to obtain control make us miserable and broke.  And it never works anyway.  Which just makes us more miserable.  So why do we do it?

I don't know the answer to that one.  I think we might be wired for it.  It's the only explanation I can come up with.  Because it seems to run so deep in my personality.  I don't know who I am without it.  But I'm going to have to try and figure it out because I can't keep this one up.  I'm tired of fighting my body.  I'm just going to have to give it what it asks for.  Even if that means gaining some weight.  Which is terrifying.  At least for me.

I like to have control.  And to give up trying to control my body makes me feel dizzy.  Lightheaded.  Lost.  But then I realize that once again I've forgotten.  I've forgotten what I CAN control.  I can't control my body, but I can control how I treat it.  And I'm deciding to treat it well.

It needs a good nights sleep, which apparently means it needs some extra food during the day.  Sounds simple enough.  I think I'll give it a try.

An Open Letter to My Psychiatrist

Dear Psychiatrist,

It was an ordinary appointment.  Nothing special at all.  Until the end.  When you said you had something to tell me.  Then I got scared.  Not because I didn't know what was coming, but because I did.  I knew what you were going to say before you said it.

"I've been given a lot more administrative responsibilities, so I have made the difficult decision to end my outpatient practice."

And that was it.  You told me how proud of me you were.  How far I've come.  What a pleasure it's been to work with me.  And that was it.  I think I thanked you.  Held back my tears.  And said goodbye.

I cried a good bit on my way home that night, but we had company at the house and I had to pull myself together.  No sense in crying over a lost psychiatrist.  It was bound to happen sometime, right?  Why not now.

But it's not nothing.  I can minimize it as much as I want, but it doesn't change the fact that it's a loss.  A major loss in my life.  Because you were important.  Very important.  And I don't think you know.

I don't think you know how many times you saved my life.  Literally.  Saved.  My.  Life.  I am eternally grateful for all that you did.  All the time you sacrificed.  All the phone calls you took on my behalf.  All the times you got me the care I needed.  All the times you saved my life.  I will never forget.

I don't think you know how much I valued your opinion.  Even when I didn't listen.  Even when I made poor decisions.  Even when I defied my treatment team.  I valued your opinion.  A lot.

I don't think you know how well you knew me.  You knew what I needed before I did.  You always looked out for my best interest, even when I was hellbent on self-sabatoge.  You cared.  You took an interest in me.  Not my case.  Me.  As a person.  And that's saying a lot.  You see a ton of patients, yet you took the time to know me.  And actually care.  Invest.  And that means something to me.

I don't think you know that I recognized your belief in me.  You never gave up on me.  Even when you thought I might be a hopeless case (let's not lie to ourselves...there was a point in time when you thought it).  Even then, you still saw to it that I was cared for.  That I was given what I needed to be as successful as possible.  And look what I did with it.  Look what I did with that chance.

I was a broken person when I came under your care.  A victim of abuse, pregnant, underweight, lost, suicidal, confused, dissociating, having flashbacks, nightmares, self-harming...I was a mess.  But you took me on your already heavy caseload and began caring for me.

I want to take this opportunity to tell you what an AMAZING staff you have.  Inpatient, PHP, IOP, outpatient...your team ROCKS.  They genuinely care about every patient that walks through your doors and gives them the care they need and deserve.  You're the best because you work with the best.  And I want you to know that.

But even though I got super stellar care, I was still an utterly hopeless case.  That's when I left your practice to go to a residential treatment program called Mercy Ministries (now called Mercy Multiplied). It is there that I began to heal.  I met Jesus face to face and the program helped me stitch back together the pieces of my life.  Since graduating the program, I haven't had a flashback, I haven't self-harmed, and I haven't plotted my own death.

Miracle?  I think it's safe to say yes.  I am a miracle.

You've watched me go from a hopeless case who would "never be a productive member of society" to a real life miracle.  I got my associates degree, have a full time job that I'm good at, I'm a solid mother, and I'm going back to school in just a few weeks.  Who would have thought?  Who would have thought that something like this could have happened.  I sure didn't.

But it wasn't all roses.  After graduating from Mercy, I began struggling with my eating disorder again.  The depression and anxiety started getting pretty bad.  I knew I needed help.  So I came back.  I was worried that you wouldn't want to take me on again.  That your case load would be full.  That you wouldn't want to see me.  But I was wrong.  You took me back.  And this time we were a team.

I don't think you know how much it meant that you didn't hold my past against me.  That you took me for who I was at that point in time.  Not my past self.  My current self.  You saw me.  You took my history into consideration, but you did not hold it against me.  I never felt judged again.  I felt like an equal.

I know I wasn't always easy.  Or compliant.  I like to think I kept you on your toes.  Didn't want you to get bored or anything, you know?  But you never got exasperated with me and you never gave up.  You kept pushing me to do the next right thing.  You kept saying you believed in me because you had seen what I was capable of.  When I didn't believe.  When I didn't see.  You did.

I want to say thank you.  Thank you for everything.  For saving my life.  For caring about me.  For believing in me.  For ensuring that I received the best care possible.  For your time.  For your energy.  For your tinkering with my meds.  For your problem solving skills.  For making time for me.  For making me feel important.  Thank you.

I also want to say that I will miss you.  This is a huge loss for me.  You have played such a huge role in my journey towards recovery and it's still hard to picture life without you.  Even after a month and a half.  It's still hard.

And I imagine it must be hard for you, as well.  For someone who cares as much as you do about your patients, it must be difficult to let it all go.  To say goodbye.  I don't think you'll ever stop caring.  And that has to be tough.

But it's time for the next steps in your career.  And I consider myself lucky to have been your patient.  Having you as my psychiatrist was truly a blessing in my life and I'm not sure that you can ever be replaced.  I am eternally grateful for all you've done for me and my family.

Wishing you all the best,

Brittany

Just Not Today

I'm going to be honest with you.  I've been struggling.

When I was experiencing that intense anxiety a few weeks ago, I had a hard time eating.  My stomach was a mess.  Well my anxiety is better, but I guess I got into some bad habits.  Eating full meals is a challenge again.  And it's embarrassing.  I hate to admit it.  I didn't want to write about it.  Writing about it makes it real and I feel like I'm disappointing people.  If they know I'm struggling, they'll think I'm a failure.  They'll think my time off from work to go into treatment was a waste.  They'll think I'm going to fail open again.  That it's only a matter of time.  And it's too soon for that.

"It's too soon for this to happen."  That's what I said to my psychiatrist when I confessed that I'm struggling again.  He told me that struggling and slipping a little bit is to be expected.  That's when I told him it's too soon for that.  And you know what he said to me?  "Well, Brittany, just say that.  Tell the eating disorder that you can't relapse today.  Tell it 'Hey, maybe in a few months.  Just not today.'"

Just not today.  That's a good mantra.  I like it.  Sometimes the guy frustrates me, but he always comes up with something useful that puts things into perspective.

"Just not today."

You know what else he said?  He asked me if anyone had noticed.  I shrugged my shoulders.  My mom's mentioned it to me a time or two.  So I guess the answer is yes.  But no-one else has.  He asked me if I was afraid people would notice.  I said yes.  I'd think they were worrying about me.  That (again) they'd think I was a failure.  If they notice, they'll think it was all a waste.  They'll pressure me to eat more.  And I don't want any of that.  He told me that should be a sign, too.  Fear that other people will notice should be another sign of a potential relapse.

Then he said something that really hit home.  He looked me straight in the eye and said, "Are you sure no-one is noticing?"  I looked straight at the floor and said, "Well, I told you my mom has said something once or twice."  He asked me again, "And there's no-one else that's noticed?"  "Not that I know of," I say.  And then I get where he is going with it.  "Well, I guess so.  I notice."  "Exactly," he says..."you notice."  Exactly.

I notice.  I notice that I'm not following the meal plan.  That I'm missing items.  That I'm not always finishing.  I notice.  And I choose.  Every day.  Every meal.  I can make a choice.  I can decide whether or not to tell the eating disorder to wait another day.  "Maybe tomorrow.  Just not today."  I can say it at any point in time.  "Just not today."

So things haven't been perfect since that conversation sitting in my psychiatrist's office.  The eating disorder thoughts still run through my mind.  I've missed an item here or there.  My head hasn't always been in the right spot.  But I'm closer and I'm aware.  I'm aware that it's a choice that I can make at any moment.  I can choose to wait another day.

When I was in treatment, I named my eating disorder Charles.  I used to think it was weird when people named their eating disorders.  "Is that really necessary?" I would think.  Doesn't that just give it more power?  But then I got to thinking about the movie A Beautiful Mind.  How John Nash had a friend named Charles.  Charles was a huge part of John's life.  When John finally had the realization that Charles wasn't "real", he would yell at him some.  Then there would be a scene where Charles stood pacing in the corner while John just ignored him.  Charles was there.  Pacing in the corner.  But John chose not to engage with him.  He would either yell at him or distance himself.  When he did engage with Charles is when he found himself in trouble.  It never ended well when that happened.

So I named my eating disorder Charles.  He's always there.  Pacing in the corner.  Sometimes I have to yell at him to keep him at bay.  And the days I engage with him are the days that don't go so well.  Maybe one day Charles will go away.  I don't know whether or not that's in the cards for me.  He might always be there.  But I choose whether or not to engage with him.  And now I have a new line to add to my arsenal.  "Not today, Charles.  Maybe we can talk tomorrow.  Just not today."

John Nash says something incredibly profound in this movie.  Well, he says a lot of incredibly profound stuff, but this line sticks out to me today:

“I’ve gotten used to ignoring them and I think, as a result, they’ve kind of given up on me.  I think that’s what it’s like with all our dreams and nightmares...we’ve got to keep feeding them for them to stay alive.”

— A Beautiful Mind

What truth.  I want Charles to give up on me.  He's a nightmare.  I've gotta stop feeing him.  Stop engaging.  Tell him.  Every meal.  Just not today.

Wheat in the Wind

Despite being out of "full time treatment" for several months now, I still spend a lot of time in Towson.  I have regular therapy on Tuesdays and see my dietician and art therapist on Wednesdays.  Plus my psychiatrist once a month-ish.  When it comes up in conversation, people sound surprised.  I'll admit it's annoying.  Some days I just want to go home after work.  Being stuck in rush hour traffic drives me crazy.  And I'm just straight up "over it" at times.  Recovery is exhausting.  But it sure beats the alternative.  I'd rather spend 2 afternoons a week in therapy than be stuck in the hospital all day for months on end.  Even IOP would have me traveling to and from Towson 4 nights a week.  2 afternoons is worth it.

They say recovery is a process.  It doesn't end after a course of inpatient, partial, and intensive outpatient treatment.  It is ongoing.  You have to be vigilant.  Things slip much too quickly to be anything but aware. To have accountability.  To be dedicated to the process.  One day I won't have to follow a meal plan.  And perhaps what is now a weekly routine will fade into a biweekly commitment.  Maybe one day I'll get more than a month's supply of medication at a time.  But right now that is not my reality.  And I'm ok with it.  I'm committed to doing what needs to be done.  The price otherwise is much too high.  I'm not gambling with life anymore.

Sometimes people ask me how it's going.  I usually give a short "it's going well" kind of an answer.  Most people don't want the details; they're just being nice.  But I'm not lying.  Things are going well.  Things are actually kind of boring (which can be a bit of a dangerous place for me to be).  But boring is better than dramatic.  Or sick.  So I'll take it.

But I see progress.  Progress means seeing a less than desirable BMI but eating dinner anyway.  There may still be a meltdown, but recovery is not hindered because of a number.  Progress means going shopping and buying clothes that actually fit rather than oversized pieces of fabric to hide in.  But today we'll be talking about the kind of validating external progress: trust.

You see, my weekly trips to Towson are important, but my treatment team sees their purpose.  The purpose that sometimes get lost in the routine.  The purpose is for me to lead a fulfilling life.  So when things came up, boy was I surprised by their reaction.  Skylar's chorus concert was on a Wednesday, which meant missing my dietician and art therapy sessions one week.  They gave me the week off without a question.  Then Skylar's bridging ceremony for Girl Scouts was changed from a Saturday to the following Wednesday.  I was worried my treatment team would put up a fight and say I really shouldn't miss 2 weeks in a row.  But you know what they said?  They said that being there for my daughter was important and that I needed to be a mom.  I was able to see my dietician on another day, but my art therapy session got cancelled.  Which was really saying something, because Bri is on vacation this next week.  So I'm going 4 weeks between art therapy sessions.

Some people might see art therapy as a frivolous extra, but it's played an important role in my recovery.  And I believe it will continue to do so.  One day I'll go into it, but today I have some other points to make.  Right now we're talking about progress and trust.  The point is that my treatment team trusts enough in my progress to let me skip a few weeks of sessions so that I can participate in the life I've worked so hard to obtain.  Now that's the kind of progress I'm talking about!

But this doesn't mean things fall to the wayside.  My dietician still expects me to fill out food logs and my art therapist sent me away with homework.  That's right.  She left some art supplies with my therapist and emailed me some prompts to work on over the next few weeks.  One of the reasons I love her.

We've been working a lot on mindfulness.  I was struggling a fair amount with anxiety.  Especially in the mornings before work.  My psychiatrist asked me if I had tried mindfulness.  Usually I would roll my eyes.  But about 2 months ago, I decided that maybe it was worth a try.  So I did.  I started getting to work 10-15 minutes early so that I could sit in my car and do a meditation.  And I think I've seen a difference.  It's hard to tell with so many variables changing.  In addition to trying the mindfulness, they've also been playing with my medication.  But I believe my morning meditation really does set the tone for the day.

Mindfulness.  It's much more than the nap time we often made it out to be while laying on mats in inpatient treatment.  It's intentionally sitting in the present without ruminating on the past or fantasizing about the future (both things that I'm practically an expert in).  It's HARD.  But it's worth it.

So anyway, my art therapist sent me away with some mindfulness homework and art supplies.  She wanted me to spend 15 minutes painting with watercolors using my left hand.  In addition to practicing mindfulness, she wanted me to challenge my perfectionism.  Watercolors are difficult to control, as is painting with your non dominant hand.  You have to be present.  Mindful.  So that's what I did.  I flipped through my art journal and found an image I liked, and I tried to copy it using watercolors and my left hand.  She then asked me to reflect on it.  Here is my reflection:

I actually like this exercise.  Painting with my left hand gives me freedom from perfection.  I know it won't be perfect, so I'm more willing to give it a try.  The watercolors were frustrating.  I couldn't get the lines to be thin enough.  I needed brown and there was no brown.  Things blended together when I wanted them more defined.  I wasn't able to get the sky to fade the way I wanted it to.  Painting with my left hand meant things were kind of shaky.  But part of mindfulness involves non judgement.  Which is hard.  Turns out I'm a very judgmental person.  Especially when it comes to myself.  So I kept coming back to the present and just focused on painting.  I didn't have brain space for that other nonsense.  My image does not match the one I tore from the magazine.  And I know I'm not supposed to judge, but I think it turned out ok.  It's not a masterpiece, but it's not a disaster.  It just is.  My expectations were lowered because I knew it wouldn't be perfect.

Perfect.  Now there's a funny word.  And so my mindfulness practice comes full circle.  I use an app called Calm to do my morning meditations and they have a "daily calm" session that lasts about 10 minutes and changes every day.  Thursday's meditation ended in a quote that I rather fell in love with regarding perfection.  And here it is:

“Come to me whole: with your flaws, your scars and everything you consider imperfect.  Then let me show you what I see.  I see galaxies in your eyes and fire in your hair.  I see journeys in your palms and adventure waiting in your smile.  I see what you cannot: you are absolutely, maddeningly, irrevocably perfect.”

— Ariana Reines

See perfection all depends on your point of view.  It isn't always bad.  What do you view as perfect?  What one person sees as flawed, another see sees as maddeningly perfect.  So don't focus on the scars.  Focus on the fire.  The galaxies.  The journeys and adventures.  For you are absolutely, maddeningly, irrevocably perfect.

The Cool Kids

Before I get started here, I'm going to do a little bit of education.  Because knowledge is power, right?

Ok, here is your mini lesson and it has to do with the treatment of eating disorders at Sheppard Pratt.  There are 4 "levels of care."  They are outpatient, the intensive outpatient program (IOP), the partial hospitalization program (PHP), and inpatient.  Outpatient means you're seeing your therapist, dietician, and psychiatrist on a regular basis but outside of the hospital setting.  IOP is a program that goes from 3:30-7:30 Monday-Thursday.  It's for people who need increased support and consists of group therapy, weekly check-ins with a psychiatrist, and dinner every night.  PHP is a program that goes from 7am-7pm 7 days a week. This program is "on the unit" which basically means you're in the hospital but you don't spend the night.  You eat all 3 meals on the unit, see your psychiatrist daily, and attend a variety of groups.  Inpatient is for people who need 24/7 support, who are not medically stable, and/or who cannot be safe.  You're basically living in the hospital.  So the more you're struggling, the higher the level of care it is that you require.

If only it were that simple.  The people who make the call as to how much you are struggling have no idea what's going on inside your head.  Sometimes YOU have no idea what's going on inside your head.  What you really need.  Then you start throwing in things like stingy insurance companies and you have yourself in a real mess.

The reason for this mini lesson is because you learn a new language when you enter the realm of eating disorder treatment.  And you take for granted the fact that most people have no idea what you're talking about.  It's kind of isolating.  It's like you have this exclusive club.

But clubs are dangerous.  They can be founded on either good or bad principles.  Is the club rooted in illness or in recovery?  The line is a blurry and often dangerous one.

When I took my LOA from work, I started IOP.  Yeah, the thing that triggered my need for an LOA was my bipolar disorder and extreme anxiety, but let's be honest.  My eating disorder symptoms had re-entered the picture as well.  And I've been through enough to know that if my eating isn't right, ain't nothing right.  So IOP it was.

Last night was family night at IOP.  On Wednesday nights, you can invite a family member or support person to have dinner and attend a group with you.  I personally dread family night.  It's awkward and I never have anyone come.  Traffic, work, child care, etc.  I don't even invite anyone, honestly.

But I can see the benefit.  It makes sense.  It's supposed to give support people an idea of what it looks like to follow the meal plan.  It also gives them a chance to ask questions and receive educational material.  It serves a purpose.

Anyway.  Last night was family night.  Our dinner table consisted of 5 patients and 2 mothers.  We talked like we usually do.  One of the patients was "new."  I put new in quotation marks because it's not her first time in IOP and most of us already knew her.  But it was her first night in IOP...this time.

I've been in treatment with her before.  She asked me how my daughter was.  Couldn't believe Skylar had just turned 6.  I told her I'd found an old journal from when I was inpatient during my pregnancy.  One of the pages was a tally sheet.  The patients were guessing whether the baby was a boy or a girl.  To my surprise, she said she remembered that day.  The day they voted and I got to leave the unit for a few hours and I came back with an ultrasound picture in hand.  It's a girl.

I got a little sad.  Some of life's biggest milestones have been spent on the unit.  Or at least in some form of treatment.  I mean that's a little sad, isn't it?

But it didn't make me cry.

That was later.

After dinner, we had group.  One of the mothers who had sat at our table asked a question.  She essentially asked the group leaders for statistics.  She wanted to know the success rate.  Because after attending several family nights and listening to dinner conversations, she noticed that we all talked about "that one time"...as if this wasn't our first rodeo.  And it was for her.  It was her daughter's first experience in eating disorder treatment.  And she wanted to know why we all talked about "times" as if there was more than just this one shot.

I don't think anyone noticed me wiping the tears from my face.  As I looked around the room, I realized that she was right.  I had previously been in treatment with probably at least half the patients in the room.  She had every right to ask her question.

And it made me sad.

And it made me wonder.

What must she think of us?  Us repeat customers who can't seem to get it right?

What fear must she have for her daughter?  That this may not be the last time she sits in a room full of eating disorder patients fighting for recovery? For her life?  That our fate may in fact be hers as well.

The weight of her question was heavy.  I felt like hopelessness hung in the air.

I mean what do you do with that?  What do you do with the reality that an eating disorder relapse is more common than a first-timer would like to admit?  What do you do with the fact that there's a "first-timer" term at all?  That repeat customers exist and that staff members still ask about your baby girl because you spent half your pregnancy and the first years of your daughter's life in and out of the unit?  What do you do with the fact that relapse is real and likely and sucks?

And how do you tell that to a mother?

I don't know.

I haven't been on the unit in over 4 years.  This is my second time in IOP since then, but I've managed to steer clear of PHP and inpatient since March of 2012.  Which I see as quite an accomplishment.

But there's a click and I'll admit to being in it.  The repeat customer click.  We wear it like a badge of honor because honestly what else should we do with it other than hang our heads in shame.  So we hold our heads a little higher because we've been around the block a time or 2.

I'm not saying it's a good thing because usually it's not.  We tend to meditate more on the bad than the good.  We shouldn't find camaraderie in illness, yet we do.  And from the viewpoint of a support person, that must be incredibly scary.  I mean I even scare myself.

But I think there's more to it than that.  I think camaraderie is important because otherwise you just feel crazy.  And if we didn't talk about the past, we'd forget about those important life milestones that were mixed in with the misery.  We'd forget about the darkness and how far we've come.  And those things should not be forgotten.

So here's what I would like to say to a mother who fears her daughter might share the fate of the other patients in the room:

Would it really be that bad?

Because you know what I see in the room?  I see a circle full of fighters.  Of girls who've had plenty of chances to give up and let this illness kill them.  Of women who make difficult choices daily.  Who pursue wellness, even when they're not entirely sure they want it.  I see fight.

So yes, your daughter might sit in this circle again.  She might talk about "last time."  She might share memories with a fellow former patient.  But you know what that means?  It means that your daughter is a fighter.

And what could be better than that.

From The Outside Looking In

Well two and a half weeks certainly flew by and I found myself back in my cubicle early Monday morning. I actually had a lot more peace than I thought I would about the whole thing. I have mixed feelings about whether the peace came from God or the combination of drugs I'm on.  I figure there's nothing that says it can't be both.

You know, I talk a lot about God and the healing He has brought me over the years. I also talk a lot about how real my struggle is. I talk about therapy a fair bit, too. Something that doesn't come up much is the topic of medication. Well I think it's time to switch that up a bit.

I think that psychiatric medication is a topic worth discussing. Partly because it's taboo and partly because it came up in a recent conversation that I had with someone who has played an important role in my life. We'll call this person Logan. I was frustrated with him because I felt like he didn't support my need for medication. He was frustrated with me because I never explained it in a way that gave him that capability. Throughout our relationship, I had told him that I needed him to support my need for medication, even when I didn't believe in it myself. But from his point of view...well...looking back...from his point of view...who could blame him for not being able to do so.

Most people just don't get it.

One of my goals during my leave of absence from work was to determine where things started to go downhill. Well, I can now point to the moment perfectly. It happened during the first week of November. You know...the week we went on vacation? Let's just say I now have doubts about ever going on vacation again.

Over the summer, I convinced my psychiatrist to start tapering me off one of my medications. I had an idea of the med I wanted to come off of, but he had a different idea. He won. He usually does. He's usually right. About everything.

So I'd been tapering off one of my psychiatric medications, I went on vacation, and about halfway through the week I realized that I had left that medication at home. Since I was coming off of it anyway, I figured it'd be fine to stop taking it cold turkey. I guess I figured I knew better than my doctor with years and years of medical school and clinical experience. Not exactly my most genius move, but I've made worse, so cut me some slack.

Well to make a long story short, things have never been the same. I experienced some mania, then plunged into depression. The depression began to lift, then the anxiety snuck in and began stealing more and more from me.

What Logan didn't understand is something I didn't explain. Something you wouldn't get unless you've walked through this painful process yourself. Finding the right psychiatric medication is a marathon. Not a sprint. There's rarely a magical pill that takes away your symptoms overnight, or even over a few weeks. We have the media and marketing material to blame for that illusion. Getting worse after starting a new medication doesn't mean it's not working. And your symptoms might not be relieved by any single med. More often than not, it takes a combination of medications to bring balance back into your life.

From the outside looking in, it doesn't make any sense. The doctor starts me on a new med. My symptoms start getting worse. My doctor increases the dose. I don't get any better. My doctor increases the dose again. From the outside looking in, it doesn't make any sense: The medication isn't working. You should be stopping it, not increasing in. Right?

The doctor sees my anxiety increasing. He adds a different med. "ANOTHER med?" Logan says. And who could blame him. When the other medications seem to do little to improve my symptoms, why would my doctor add another. It doesn't make any sense.

From the outside looking in, the process must appear ludicrous. And I take for granted my understanding of the process. I hate it, but I understand it. When you get physically ill, there's usually a go-to medication. You take the med for a specific period of time, your symptoms improve, and then you're better. But there are exceptions. You might have to try a few allergy medications before you find the one that works for you. And it's not something you can stop taking after a few weeks. Some acid reflux medications might treat your symptoms better than others. Still, the waiting game is brief and the experimental process moves rapidly in comparison to that of psychiatric medication.

We're talking months.

Years.

Your life is quickly falling to pieces around you and the best your doctor can do is say, "Give it some time, Brittany. We don't know if it's working yet." So I give it some time. I up the dose. I wait.

Wait for what? For him to tell me, "I guess that just isn't the med for you; let's try a different one." Or, "Let's try adding this one in and see how it works."

See how it works??? Subtract? Add? How does he decide??? Sometimes I feel like my psychiatrist is more of a weatherman than a medical doctor. To me it seems like a guessing game. I have no idea what is running through his mind when he makes these decisions. What variables he's factoring in when he comes up with his master plan. I can only assume he's as frustrated as I am with the intricacies of the process.

But still, I trust him. He's been with me at my worst and he's seen me at my best. He has nothing but my best interests at heart. He knows the long list of medications I've tried. He know's what's worked and what has nearly killed me. He often reads me better than I read myself. He knows what I need before I realize I need it. I trust him.

From the outside looking in, it makes no sense. And up until now, I've done a crappy job of explaining it. How can I expect someone to support me without providing the tools needed to explain it. This shit is messy and frustrating and ugly and senseless...even to me, at times. To expect a level of understanding above that which I posses is both unrealistic and unfair. That one's on me.

To you who do not understand...I don't blame you. I don't hold it against you. I do not know what it must feel like to watch me go through this process. To feel so out of control. To sit and see nothing but absurdity and experience pure frustration. And for that I sincerely apologize.

What I will say is this. I trust my psychiatrist. Sometimes more than I trust myself. I trust the ugly trial-and-error process that is painfully slow and frequently devastating. I realize that just because a new medication isn't making me better, doesn't mean it's not working. It might be stopping me from getting worse. I believe in what I cannot see and I trust the science behind it.

Mental illnesses are caused by chemical imbalances. Psychiatric medications work to correct these imbalances. And the process is an experiment. There aren't any hard and fast rules. There's not a specific scientific equation that will cure me. I have seen advances in science that can improve and quicken the process. And I believe there are more to come. But this is my present reality and it is a reality I share with countless others.

The truth is I don't know what it's like to be on the outside looking in. And I don't know that I've done a good job of cracking the window open a bit today. But I hope I've at least opened the blinds. Medication is a mystery to those on both the outside and inside. A frustratingly painful mystery. But one that can restore and bring life back into the eyes of those who struggle with mental illness.

Just because you don't understand something, doesn't mean you can't be understanding of it. That is a choice for you to make.

*Please know that I acknowledge the fact that there are other illnesses out there for which the process of properly medicating symptoms is equally challenging. The statements I have made in this post are broad and meant for the general population. It is not my intention to minimize the struggles that others experience as a result of illness. If you experience a similar struggle, my heart goes out to you and I encourage you to discuss it in the comments section of this post. This is designed to be a supportive and uplifting community.

My Eating Disorder: Friend or Foe

This week is National Eating Disorder Awareness week and a friend of mine recently asked me to help her with a little project. She wanted a clip or 2 about the positive and/or negative effects the eating disorder has had on my life. She wanted to give a voice to all sides of the eating disorder. So I sat down to write what she asked...a clip or 2. This is what happened:

When everything in my life went haywire, my eating disorder gave me a sense of control. It helped me cope with the crazy. It distracted me from the pain and the hard truths that had become my reality. In those ways, I think the eating disorder helped me survive. That’s one of the reasons it’s so hard to give it up. It was there with me through those dark spots in my life. It’s reliable. I know it works. It’s effective. It brings me a sense of stability.

But it’s all a lie. The control is just a huge illusion. In truth, the eating disorder controls ME; not I it. It takes over my thoughts. Sure, it distracted me from the chaos and pain in my life, but it also distracts me from the good. It makes it impossible for me to enjoy the simple pleasures of life. The ever-present calculator in my mind is all consuming. Numbers become more important than people. Relationships suffer. My brain is starving, which makes me ineffective and unproductive at my job. My thoughts are jumbled, my memory is useless, and my concentration is non-existent. What brought me stability now throws me into turmoil. I am perpetually unsettled. Floundering. I am unreliable as a friend and as a worker. Does that sound like control? No. It sounds like torture.

The eating disorder takes something reasonable and manipulates it. It does so subtly, so you don’t see the lies until it’s too late. Until your relationships, your work, your body…they all start to suffer. And even then it’s difficult to recognize how unreasonable the whole thing is. The eating disorder is a master of deceit. It even goes so far as to deceive you into deceiving yourself. Which makes it even more difficult to dispute and reject. Because by that point in time, disputing the eating disorder means you’re disputing yourself, which goes against everything we’re wired to do as humans.

You know, there are two schools of thought out there when it comes to recovery. One school of thought says “once an addict, always an addict” (and by addict, I mean anorexic). The other says that you don’t have to be defined by a label. Now I believe in the healing power of Jesus. Please believe me when I say this. And I believe that there are people in the world who have truly been set free from the chains of their eating disorders. And I’ve asked myself more than once why I’m not one of those people. But the truth is I’m not. I have come to accept the first school of thought as my reality, or I will always remain under the control of my eating disorder. The phrase “once an addict, always an addict” reminds me to be vigilant. It keeps me on guard. It makes me listen for the lies instead of pretending they no longer exist for me. Because the minute I believe school of thought number two, is the minute the eating disorder starts feeding me lies disguised as truth. For me, accepting school of thought number one is the key to freedom...despite the label.

What has the eating disorder stolen from me? Time. I can’t begin to comprehend the amount of time I have lost to my eating disorder. Time that could have been invested in my family, friends, education, and career. I never finished my undergraduate degree, I’ve disappeared from the social scene to enter treatment countless times, I’ve strained relationships within my family through the illness. My body has even lost time. I’m 29 years old and it is predicted that I will need a hip replacement within the next 5-10 years.

Yet I will still sit in front of my treatment team advocating for the control my eating disorder provides over my life. That’s the kind of power I have allowed this illness to have.

I recently attended a seminar in which the speaker talked about eating disorder memoirs. She said they all focus on how bad the eating disorder was…how intense the treatment process was…bad, bad, negative, bad, bad, bad. Because that's what's "interesting." Then the last 2 pages say something along the lines of “and then I was set free.” People rarely write about what that freedom looks like or how recovery works. I don’t want this post to mimic such memoirs, but I also don’t want to lie. And it is my intention to one day write a memoir of my own; one that will bring both tears and laughter. One that will speak truth and hope into the lives of its readers. Some days, that intention is all that keeps me focused on reaching and maintaining recovery.

I do fight the eating disorder. I reach a place where I recognize the lies for what they are. Where I’m tired of being manipulated. Where I want life more than the illusion of control. Where I’m ready to reclaim and rebuild my life. I call a relapse for what it is and I set to fight against it. And I like to think I reach this moment of realization a little earlier each time. The interventions required to re-establish recovery become less intense. I am more easily able to combat the lies with truth; even if I don’t always believe it. Where I realize the importance of a meal plan. Where I’m reminded that while the eating disorder is not a lifestyle choice, actively disputing it is. And it’s a choice I want to make more frequently than not. So I think Brittany gets a little stronger each time. And recovery becomes more concrete each time. My vigilance becomes more robust each time. And the eating disorder becomes less powerful each time.

The eating disorder has always been a source of comfort, but it has also brought destruction. It has always been a coping mechanism, but it has also created more problems with which I need to cope. It has always been a friend, but it has also stolen friendships. It helped me survive some darkness, but it also threatened to kill me...more than once. That’s what makes the struggle so real. That’s what makes the fight so hard. That’s what causes so much inner turmoil. That’s what makes treatment so serious.

There are no easy answers. The eating disorder is a chameleon. It serves its purpose well. But the havoc it brings is devastating, sometimes irreversible, and sadly often deadly. So I say to you what I say to myself daily: stand up, fight, and have hope. Fight lies with truth. Surrender control to gain it. Life is more than an illusion. We were not created to survive, we were created to thrive.

I never really thought to give a voice to the "positive" side of my eating disorder. I don't exactly know why. I suppose I wanted to come off as a fighter. A warrior. Fighting the good fight against the enemy. But the truth is I wouldn't have developed an eating disorder if it didn't serve some sort of purpose. The eating disorder is in my life for a reason.

My friend made a good point in asking me for these clips. I don't know what her project is, but I know what it inspired within me. And I hope it inspired something within you. If you are a person who struggles with an eating disorder, I hope you know you're not alone. You're not crazy for wanting to keep a piece of your disorder. You're not insane for returning to it more than once in your life. You are not alone and you are reasonable and you are strong and you are a fighter. And you are so much more than an illness.

For those of you who don't struggle with an eating disorder, it is predicted that one out of every two of you know someone who does. I'm hoping that this post gave you some insight into the complexities your friend, family member, or co-worker might be facing in their personal battle against the eating disorder. And the understanding spirit of a support person is just another weapon in the arsenal your acquaintance can use against the eating disorder. Understanding is powerful. I hope you gained some today.

If you or a loved one is battling an eating disorder, there is hope and treatment and a future. Call the NEDA helpline (800-931-2237) or visit NEDA or National Eating Disorders Awareness Week to start a journey toward wellness today.

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

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.

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.

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.