Walk Today. Dance Tomorrow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Revelation 3: Therapy is learning to walk again.

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

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

So.

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

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

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

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

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

We have to find ways of repairing the damage.

We have to identify healthy and unhealthy patterns.

We have to break old habits and develop new ones.

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

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

Walk today.  Dance tomorrow.

love each other deeply.

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

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

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

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

Little did I know.

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

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

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

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

#lovewins

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

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

2. What is your reaction to this hashtag today?

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

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

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

Love should ALWAYS WIN!!!

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

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

It really is as simple as that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Still Don’t Get Why I Do This.

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

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

Nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Monday: Admit to physical therapist said fall.

Tuesday: Deny existence of said fall.

Wednesday: Confess to doctor said fall.

Thursday: Receive mixed signals from professionals about said fall.

Friday: Pretend that said fall is inconsequential.

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

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

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

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

Pain.  Joy.  Death.  Love.  Fear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Use me, Lord. Use me.

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

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

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

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

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

"Why does she remember me?"

"Why does he care?"

I've got nothing.  Absolutely nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So why?  Why me?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No one.

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

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

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

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

Yesterday Sucked. But Today I Feel Stronger.

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

That being said, it still sucked.  A lot.

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

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

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

I felt like a truly horrible person.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So I Said No.

I'd like to say I'm sorry.

But not to you.

To myself.

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

I'm sorry I haven't been around.

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

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

Perhaps too excited.

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

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

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

So I said no.

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

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

Restless.

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

At times, I feel pursued by restlessness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sometimes I'm ok to sit with it.

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

Sometimes I simply find myself nudged into exploration.

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

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

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

• A new church to call home

• A new job

• New friendships

• A new car

• A path to healing for my hip injury

• Recovery from my eating disorder and depression

• Renewed relationships with family members

• Twitter

• My blog

• Freelance writing opportunities

• Buffer

• A date

• ...I could go on and on

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

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

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

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

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

There Is No Us. There Is No Them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pain does not discriminate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

There is no us. There is no them.

Tomorrow can be different from today.

Fighting For Our Lives

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

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

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

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

This Morning

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This Evening

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— The Fault In Our Stary

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

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

Tonight

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

Stick with me for one more movie quote:

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

— The Fault In Our Stars

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

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

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

Everything They Told You About Following Is Wrong

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What??

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All because of subtraction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Today Is Tuesday

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

Yesterday was Monday.  The first day of the week.

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

But today is neither.  Today is Tuesday.

And Tuesday has blessed me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I  was wrong.  Boy was I wrong.

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

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

I'm astonished.

Until.

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

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

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

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

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

And today is Tuesday.

Like A Tree

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can’t heal a body you hate.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can’t heal a body you hate.”

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

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

A well-loved body has the capacity to heal.

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

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

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

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

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

Like a tree, my body is...

RESILIENT.

My Body Screams

My body screams at me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm captivated.

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

Why?

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

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

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

But what does a truce look like?

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

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

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

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

My body screams at me.

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

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

Pain reminds me that I'm alive.

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

Why Not Be A Weirdo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, if only it was that easy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

So why not be one of those people?

Whenever That May Be

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the struggle is real. FIGHT.

I don't think people truly understand why I write.  How can they, when I'm not always sure of the reason myself.

I never wanted to be a writer.  There were many things I've wanted to be:

• Oceanographer

• Lawyer

• Surface Warfare Officer

• President

• Doctor

• Artist

• Entrepreneur

• Forensic Accountant

• Professor

All of these careers were--at one time or another--a passionate dream within me.  These lofty goals drove me to be my best.  Unfortunately, they often got the best of me.

But writing?  That one never made it anywhere near the list.  Maybe that's a good thing.  Since my aspirations have a tendency to ultimately become my downfall, it's better that this remains a hobby.

I've had people tell me a variety of things about my writing.  And my life, for that matter.

Mostly, they say that I'm lucky.  Which floors me.  Lucky?  I'm sitting in 12-step meetings because I'm lucky?  Signing myself into treatment for the gazillionth time because I'm lucky?  Seriously?  You call this luck?

I can think of one situation in particular.  A young woman was confiding in me after a meeting.  She spoke of her struggles and the life-changing decisions that she was now faced with.  I shared with her my own experiences and she shook her head.  She told me we were different.  Told me that I'm lucky my life crumbled in the spotlight.  That I didn't have to hide my struggle because people saw it firsthand.  It was justified.  Understandable.  Accepted as a cruel twist in the plot that was my life.  She called that luck.

I don't know whether or not she's right.  There is some truth to her statement.  She made an undeniable observation.  One that caused me to think.  For months now I've been thinking.  Turning her words over in my mind.  In my heart.

They say that secrets keep you sick.  My life fell apart in such a way that there really were no secrets.  No hiding the destruction.  And maybe that was a gift.  With nothing to hide, I was able to heal.  But there's always something to hide.  Even in the spotlight there are costumes, masks, and makeup.  I'm certainly guilty of trying to act my way through life's great tragedies.  Yet still, she had a point.

With my luck comes a responsibility.  My struggle is accepted by many.  At times it is even respected.  Yet there are many who hide their struggles.  They are ashamed and embarrassed.  They feel their struggle is not justified.  That there is no satisfactory evidence for the legitimacy of their struggle.  They think they don't deserve support.  They feel unworthy of help.  Of healing.  Of freedom from their struggle.

No more.

I don't care what your struggle is.  Wether it involves drugs, alcohol, food, pornography, perfectionism, codependency, grief, or any other form of oppression.  Your struggle is real.  It is valid.  It is unique and sad and hard.  Man, is it hard.

You might not see the luck in your struggle.  And that's ok.  But at the end of the day, you have 2 choices: give up or fight.  I challenge you to fight.

I'm currently running a Teespring campaign.  I've designed a shirt that can be purchased in 3 variations: short-sleeved (grey for $15), long-sleeved (black for $18), and a hoodie (hot pink for $25).  The shirt was inspired by the countless people I've encountered who've decided to fight in the midst of their struggle.  People like you.

I'm hoping the luck that has allowed me to reach people through my writing will help bring awareness to a worthy cause.  That it's ok to struggle.  That mental illness is nothing to be ashamed of.  That you are justified and accepted in your struggle.  And that you have the power to fight.

The profit line is small on this campaign.  Half of the funds raised will be donated to organizations that provide healing environments for those who struggle with life-controlling issues.  The other half will be put toward the development of this website so that more individuals can come to know that they are not alone in their struggle.

I encourage you to become part of a movement.  Visit www.teespring.com/reali and order your shirt today!  The shirts will be printed and delivered in time for National Eating Disorders Awareness Week (February 22-28, 2015), but know that they were not designed solely for this event.  The shirt is representative of both my struggle and yours.

Thank you for your support of this cause!

If Only You Could See

It's funny how I can go a whole day receiving no texts, Facebook messages, or phone calls...then get bombarded when I sit down to paint my nails.  I mean giving yourself a manicure is hard enough, people.  Try doing so while engaging in 3 conversations at once...all while watching a movie.  It takes talent.

But I would never let those conversations sit unanswered.  I can't.

Suddenly, I'm transported to a time at Mercy.  My hardest week there.  Without a doubt.  We were blessed with the opportunity to share 2 days with a woman who had just released a book.  She spoke with us and shared the most vulnerable pieces of her own story.  She challenged us.  It was during the second morning of her visit that I received earth-shattering news.  I couldn't stop sobbing.  All day I cried like I've never cried before.  My counselor sat next to me while the speaker taught.  At one point in her teaching, the woman looked up and her eyes pierced my soul.  "You," she said.  "You have a soft heart."

More tears.  Where were they coming from, anyway?

Maybe it's my soft heart that overwhelms me with empathy and compassion when my phone blows up with messages from the hurting.  Those yearning for someone to listen.  With a love for these women who want to share their lives with me.

My Dearest Sister,

You are beautiful.  If only you could see.

See the flawless features of your face.  Your captivating personality.  Your laugh.  Oh, how seldom you laugh.  But when you do, it's glorious.  It fills a room.  Like your smile.  Your real smile.  Not the one you put on for the world, but the one that comes from a peace.  A peace that's so elusive.  I see the way you strain.  You twist and turn and grasp and cry.  If only you could see how close it was.  A state of rest.  The one you so deeply crave.  The one you deserve, despite your doubts.  If only you could see.

See that you are not alone.  That even as I speak to you, there are 3 others doing the same.  Expressing their state of brokenness.  Their shame.  Their hopelessness.  Their disappointment in what they've become.  You are not alone in your desperation.  In your struggle.  See the anger in my eyes.  The fire in my heart that burns with rage at the evil one who crushes your spirit and those of the ones I love.  If only you could see the lies.  That you have been deceived.  Oh how my heart breaks for you.  For us.  If only you could see.

See that the world is more than a shadow.  That you are more than skin and bones and blood coursing through your veins.  You have a heart.  A beautifully intricate heart filled with unique passion.  Talent beyond your comprehension.  You are an all-consuming radiant being.  Carefully crafted by an Almighty God.  If only you could see that "complicated" meant complex, not tormented.  Intricate in the most compelling way.  If only you could see.

See the light that is your life.  The darkness that would fill the world if you were not in it.  The richness you bring to the lives of those who love you.  See that you are loved.  Not for what you do.  For who you are.  See that perfection is a myth.  One that torments lovely women like you.  The trap.  Oh, the trap that leads to death.  Darkness.  See that grace covers everything.  That you are enough.  Now.  In this moment.  If only you could see.

See that you are where you're supposed to be.  That you are fulfilling God's will for your life in the present.  I see your yearning.  The way you punish yourself and wonder.  Oh, your restless heart.  It searches and searches and searches for answers.  The fear.  The fear that you are not where you're supposed to be.  That you made a wrong choice.  That you're on the right path.  See, sister.  See!  That every choice was a right one.  That you are always in God's presence.  Even in this season.  If only you could see.

See the end of the story.  The one that culminates in the ultimate victory.  The crown upon your head.  See that you are a princess; a daughter of the King.  Oh, the beauty of your character.  The loveliness of your heart.  The purity of your spirit.  That it's okay to yearn for more.  That you were never meant to be satisfied here.  That you were created for a different world.  A better one.  If only you could see.

See, my sister.  We are blind to the truth of our identities, yet we see it so clearly in others.  Believe, my sister.  That these words are true for you.  That you are beautiful.  Brilliant.  Radiant.  Unique.  Priceless.  That you are not alone.  Oh, if only you could see.  That the stories you hear are rare.  Embellished.  Edited and revised to convince you that you are not enough.  If only you could see my heart behind this letter.  That your story...your doubts...your loneliness...your shame...your restlessness...it is universal in a way that is devastating.  If only you could see.

See yourself in the mirror.  See the glow.  See yourself surrounded by your sisters.  Feel the love you have for one another and...for a moment...have compassion on yourself.  Let your love for others reflect in your own eyes.  See the truth and not the lies.  See the beauty within yourself.

See, my sister.  See.

Maybe They’re The Crazy Ones

She laughed at me.

I didn't crack a smile.

Half a second later she stopped, suddenly realizing that this was not a joke.  I was serious.

---

It was that time of the week.  The time when I meet with a staff member for a "check-in."  She asks me about my week, goes down a list of questions, then asks me to set three goals.  Some check-ins last longer than others.  This was one of the longer ones.

Impulsive was the only word I could use to describe how I'd been feeling, but I knew it was wrong.  My definition of impulsive didn't match the world's.  I wasn't spending massive amounts of money or engaging in risky behavior per se.

I was raw with emotion; wearing it on my sleeves.  My filter had vanished.  I was recklessly truthful.  I laid it all on the table.  To me, this was impulsive.  It was different from anything I'd ever done.

She asked me a question.  One I hadn't considered.  "Is this impulsivity positive or negative?"  Like I said, I hadn't really considered it.  I had assumed it was bad.  I mean that's what the world tells us, right?  Being impulsive is bad?

For a moment I considered the idea that my behavior was neither good nor bad; merely different.  It screamed in the face of the secrets, manipulation, lies, and deceit that had sabotaged my treatment for the last 3 months.  My impulsivity was an act of defiance against my eating disorder, which I had considered a friend.  So yes, it felt bad.

I thought they'd look at me like I was crazy if I tried to describe this unique feeling of impulsiveness.  I thought they'd panic.  They'd think I was getting worse and raise the alarm--who knew where I'd be next week.  I didn't expect them to call it growth.  Progress.  Maybe they're the crazy ones.

---

It was towards the end of my check-in when she laughed and my impulsivity shattered the glass room in which every one of our previous conversations had taken place.  I was no longer predictable and compliant.  I think it took her by surprise.  It sure did catch me off guard.

I had listed my first 2 goals for the week and she asked me for a third.  "I want to finish my Christmas cards."

Laughter.  Her laughter would have crushed me last week.  But not today.

"Hey.  I'm serious, ok?  I ordered my Christmas cards in November.  They're the really awesome kind with pictures of Skylar and I from throughout the year.  But I couldn't even bring myself to do anything with them until just this past week.  I practically missed Christmas to my depression this year.  So yes, we're halfway through January.  And yes, the cards say 'Merry Christmas'.  But I don't care.  I bought the cards and I finally found joy in preparing them and I'm going to mail them this week.  So write it down."

It was then that I realized my impulsivity was not something to be feared.  Her laughter allowed me to answer that question for myself.  I could feel energy flowing through my body again.  I was engaging with people, my environment, my dreams.  I had leapt off the sidelines and into the game.  I was out of practice; it was exhausting.  But it was exhilarating.

I could tell she was thoroughly horrified by her own foolish laughter.  She offered an unnecessary apology.  Her reaction was innocent and I like her too much to hold a grudge.  When she saw that I was not hurt by her laughter, she smiled.  "Thank you," she said.  "You spoke up.  You found your voice and used it.  You called me out and stood up for yourself.  You taught me something.  Look at you."

I felt alive.  Empowered.  Hopeful.  Courageous.  Challenged.  Vulnerable.  All at the same time.

I no longer feared myself, my growth, or my journey.  I chose to run with it.  To be swept up in the whirlwind.  To lead a recklessly radical quest for life and purpose.  Not next year.  Not after treatment.  Not tomorrow.  Today.

The Perfect Oatmeal

I've written several serious posts recently and I decided it was time for something a little bit more lighthearted.

When recovering from an eating disorder, it is very easy to get stuck in a rut.  We go through meals like robots.  Our minds still perform countless calculations a minute as we strategically compose our meals to fit the "plan."

It doesn't matter what treatment center you go to; the plan is complicated.  Whether you call them exchanges or items, the does and don'ts of a meal plan can be overwhelming.  So we simplify it and then we stick to it.  Some of us get stuck eating the same breakfast every day...the same lunch every day...the same snack every day.  You get the idea.

When such a pattern catches the attention of your dietitian, you are likely to see a sheet of paper stapled to your food logs.  A list of 20 different sandwiches you could make.  A chart full of different snack options.  Pictures of 7 different breakfast ideas.

It can actually be quite helpful.  Even for people without eating disorders.

I received one such list (ok, ok...all of the lists).  But one of the breakfast ideas actually caught my interest: overnight oats.  If you haven't heard, it's a serious thing these days.  The general idea is that you soak oats in milk and/or yogurt overnight.  The next morning you can add pretty much anything your little heart desires.  Google "overnight oats" or look it up on Pinterest and you will be overwhelmed with the countless recipes.  You almost don't know where to begin.

But I have 2 issues with the overnight oats craze:

1. It is not very yummy to eat overnight oats cold.  The recipe my dietitian gave me did not say whether or not to heat the oats up the next morning, so I had to Google it.  In my research I discovered that most recipes instruct you to eat your overnight oats cold.  Ew.  I tried, folks.  I like to do things the "right" way, but this just wasn't going to happen.  I caved and threw my oats in the microwave.  Now they're delicious.  I don't care if it's wrong; I will always microwave my overnight oats.

2. The whole mason jar thing.  Nearly EVERY picture you see of overnight oats displays the oats with all their glorious toppings carefully placed in a mason jar.  They're beautiful.  Who wouldn't want to eat the stuff?  Except you can't.  Ok?  Really.  Look at one of those pictures and think about it.  The only way to actually eat the stuff (and not just drool over how perfect it looks) is to eat the toppings first, then eat the cold oats.  The opening of the mason jar makes it impossible to stir everything together without making a mess and loosing half the toppings on the kitchen floor.  It doesn't make any sense.

I'm not going to give you a recipe because there are already plenty out there.  I have nothing unique to offer you ingredient wise.  I will, however, reveal my secret to the perfect overnight oats:

1. Forget the mason jar.  Fix your oats in a tupperware container, then dump them in a regular boring bowl before adding your ingredients the next morning.

2. Microwave your oats before eating them.  One minute should do the trick.

Your tummy will thank you.

Have you ever fixed overnight oats?

Do you eat them hot or cold?

Share your favorite recipe!

This Time Around

I knew it would happen.  Still, I wasn't prepared.

I've spent a lot of my past in eating disorder treatment.  When I agreed to this intensive outpatient program, I knew the chance of seeing someone from my past admissions was high.  I was right; one of the IOP dietitians was a familiar face.

"You had a good run this time around," she said.

I didn't want a good run, I wanted a good life.

The words cut me to the core.

I swore I'd never go back there again.  I had been set free.  Jesus broke the chains of my eating disorder back at Mercy.  I claimed His victory over my life.  His light had cast out the darkness.

But the chains had dragged me into depression yet again.  I was back at the very place I had worked so hard to escape.

I had failed.

No wonder it took me so long to admit to a relapse.  It was shameful.  It was embarrassing.

I had disappointed so many.  My family.  My friends.  Mercy.  God.  Myself.

...or so I thought...

Anyone who has struggled with mental illness or addiction will tell you.  We all see and hear the stories of those who surrender their lives to God and are instantaneously transformed.  They no longer crave their substance or turn to their addiction as a coping mechanism.  The darkness is shattered with light.  Their transformation is radical.  Captivating.  The miracle is undeniable.

We yearn to experience recovery in such a way, yet the truth is most do not.  We think there's something wrong with us.  We wonder where we strayed.  We torment ourselves with guilt.  With shame.  As if our struggle isn't enough, we condemn ourselves for our humanity.

The world we live in is full of polar opposites.  Right and wrong.  Black and white.  Good and evil.  There is no middle ground.

Some chant the words, "Once an addict, always an addict."  But say this phrase in a church and you will likely come under attack.  "Jesus can set you free," they say.

"Your addiction is not your identity."

"The struggle is real."

"Surrender control."

"Fight for your life."

"Embrace your weaknesses."

"Stay strong."

My spirit is torn in 2 trying to decide whether to struggle, surrender, fight...be strong or weak.  And it doesn't matter what I decide.  Any choice results in failing to fulfill the others.  I will always come under attack.  Every choice is wrong.

Yet if I have any shot at recovery, I cannot stay where I am.  I must choose to move in a direction.  And any direction will do at this point.

So this is what I know to be true.  I am not anorexic; I have anorexia.  I am not depressed; I have depression.  My identity is not in a diagnosis, but in Jesus.

He HAS set me free.  I still struggle.  These 2 statements CAN coexist.  Although one can demolish the other, it does not always do so.  One gives purpose and the other serves one.  I cannot deny either.

The world demands that we step into the black or the white.  Rarely are we allowed to place both feet in the grey and stay.  Confidently.  It takes something special to do so.

We hear the perfect testimony and we immediately see the massive miracle of redemption.  We look at ourselves and we see only flaws.  But there are miracles within each of us.  Grace invades our lives every day.  Inviting us into another chance.  We are not set free to live perfect lives.  We will struggle.  We are set free to struggle WELL.

I DID have a good run, and I WILL have others.  Combined with the bumpy roads, my runs will comprise what ultimately becomes a good life.  Of this I am sure.

Tomorrow’s Great Story

I should have stopped at 2.  Surgeries, that is.  2 hip surgeries per saga.  3 is just too many.

I'm not going to blame my relapse on my hip injury.  Actually, I might.  I think I'm entitled to that.

I first injured my hip exactly 10 years ago.  I had 3 surgeries over the course of a year.  The third one broke me.  I had no idea what was happening to me.  My world spun out of control.  I eventually withdrew from school and dove into a rather extensive eating disorder treatment process.

By the grace of God and a place called Mercy Ministries, I've walked in recovery for 2 years.

But the last year-and-a-half has involved another 3 hip surgeries.  When I found out about the last one, I knew that I had to be vigilant.  My body and mind were growing weak.  I was tired.  I knew that I would have to be emotionally strong to remain in recovery.  I thought this awareness would save me.

It didn't.

The surgeries aren't to blame.  I know that.  But they do have a tendency to create an environment ripe for relapse.

I can't tell you when it began.  The eating disorder is a chameleon.  It blends in with its surroundings.  You grow comfortable with it sitting in the room because you hardly even recognize its presence.  Then it starts to move.  It shows itself.  But you're not afraid because it's familiar.  With an eating disorder you are never alone.

When your life starts crumbling beneath you, the eating disorder is a comfort.  It offers control.  Satisfaction.  Security.  Success.  It's reliable.

My body was failing me.  Again.  For 10 years my body has failed me.  Repeatedly.  I have the scars to prove it.  I've done everything they've told me to and still...still I spend most days in pain.  Only my eating disorder allows me to have some sort of say over how my body performs.  It's twisted, I know.  But it's true.

I recognized the chameleon in September.  He'd grown far too large and active to ignore.  I thought that I had "caught it early."  I started an intensive outpatient program in October with the intention of finishing treatment in 6 weeks.  It's now January.  You do the math.

I'm going to go ahead and pat myself on the back because I was able to recognize that there was a problem and I asked for help.  I never would have done that 3 years ago.  I'm all about progress.  But I think I did myself a disservice in the process.  I tried to convince myself that all I needed was a quick tune-up.  I recoiled when people used the word "relapse."  I refused to identify with the term.  I had forgotten how rapidly the eating disorder deceives and destroys.  There's nothing quick or easy about recovery.

Even though I'd asked for help and agreed to treatment, I was still in denial.  I had relapsed and I could not begin the process of recovery until I recognized and acknowledged it.

On Wednesday, December 3rd, I watched a girl fall apart in IOP and I was suddenly faced with the paralyzing truth of where I had allowed the eating disorder to take me.  When I got home that night, I wrote this short but meaningful passage in my journal:

“Seeing the pain in someone else makes you realize the pain inside of you.  Your perfect world comes crashing down around you.  You realize that you’re not just sitting in the audience anymore.  You’re a player in some great tragedy.  The story you’ve been watching is yours.  We tell ourselves we saw it coming.  Or that it took us by surprise.  Either way we’re wrong.  The plot’s alive and it keeps us guessing, but it’s always in line with the story.  Think about all of the great novels out there.  They’re full of anger, pain, and sadness.  Pain is unique to the human experience.  As much as we love joy, it’s pain that lets us know we’re alive.  So when I feel a deep, heart-wrenching pain, I remember that every decent character does.  I’m just fulfilling my role in one of tomorrow’s great stories.”

December was rough.  Once I acknowledged my relapse, there was a lot to work through.  There still is.  But the depression is lifting.  The meal plan is a little bit easier to follow.  I laugh.  I experience motivation.  I'm feeling hopeful again.

I'm sorry that I wasted 2 months trying to deny my obvious relapse.  I've lost a lot.  Some things I won't be able to get back.  It makes me sad, yet I know that there is much to be gained.  The power of experience is undeniable.  It gives me words.  Wisdom.  Compassion.  It puts me in touch with the deepest, most intimate layers of humanity.

Experience may be painful, but it's priceless.  This one is mine.