Stargazing

"Well aren't you living on the edge?" says Dad.

He means I'm drinking a cup of coffee in the afternoon.  Maybe it will keep me up past 7:30 tonight.  It certainly can't hurt my sleeping pattern at this point.  I'm exhausted.

But that's not why I'm writing today.  Nope.  I'm not going to complain today.  Today I'm going to write about victory.

It may be a victory you're tired of seeing me post about on social media, but I'm going to write about it anyway.  Because it's important to me.

I went back to school this week.  That's right.  Back to school.  And boy has it been a journey getting here.  A long one.

I've been wanting to go back to school for awhile now and I've even tried a few times.  I went to Stevenson right after I graduated from Carroll Community College, but had to withdraw the first week of classes for a variety of reasons.  Mostly I found myself in desperate need of a full-time job, which meant no full-time school for me.

Fast forward 3 years and I find myself caught up in the idea of school again.  My sister graduated from grad school and kind of inspired me.  I wanted to go back.  So I started looking at my options and I decided to go the online route.  You might remember a blog post I wrote about it.  I was trying to decide between 2 schools and asked for some input.  Well I made it 3 days into the semester before withdrawing.  I just got so overwhelmed.  My anxiety was out of control at that point.  It led to a downward spiral which ultimately landed me in treatment again.  It was bad.

But I still wanted to do it.  It's still been on my mind.  Why?

Why do I want to go back to school, you may ask.  And it's an important question to answer.  So let's go down the list:

• I love my job, but I can't stay here forever.  I want to build a better life for Skylar and I.  I want to be moving forward.  Planning for the future.  I'm not getting anywhere in my field without something more than an associates degree.  So school it is.

• I get bored.  At work.  At home.  I have too much free time and it only gets me into trouble.  I need something that challenges me and makes me better.

• I need to get out of my bubble.  Meet new people.  Expand my horizons.  I need to put myself out there.

• I don't like to start something and not finish it.  I started my undergraduate degree 14 years ago.  I hate leaving that unfinished.  I want to check it off the list.

• But mostly I want to go back to school because I can.  I know I can.  I know that I can do it.  It might take me a while and it might be hard.  But I can do it.

But how?  I've tried and been nothing but unsuccessful.  I don't have a very good track record with following through on this school thing.  I always run into some major obstacle that holds me back.  What will make this time different?  I didn't even know where to start.

So I decided to use my resources.  I emailed an old professor and we met for coffee and talked about my future and she helped me figure some things out.  She said that she had no doubt that I could do online courses, but that I thrive in the classroom.  And she's right.  So we decided a brick and mortar school would be best.  But I mean...duh.  I've been saying that for years now.  It just seemed impractical.  Where would I go that would work with my schedule?  I had no idea.

Then she brought up the University of Baltimore.  It's actually a school I was looking at transferring to after I graduated from Carroll.  I decided against it when I was passed over for a scholarship that I was practically guaranteed.  I got pretty bitter.  Then I decided on Stevenson.  End of story.

But hmm.  University of Baltimore, you say?  It's worth a thought.  It's local.  Has a good reputation.  Offers evening courses.  Is transfer friendly.  Why not give it a whirl?

So I applied.  And I was accepted. I went to advising.  I picked a class.  I registered.  I bought my textbook.  I went to orientation.  And I survived my first night of class.  I even made it back to my car at 8pm in the middle of Baltimore City.  Bam.

It sounds trivial when I put it like that.  Easy.  A no-brainer.  But it wasn't.  It was a process laced with anxiety and self doubt.  And some more anxiety.  Which a side of anxiety.  And anxiety for dessert.  Ok, so there was a lot of anxiety.  Get it?

And there still is.  But you know what?  I can do it.

I didn't want to write about it as I was going through the process.  And I'm still a little bit hesitant.  I'm not out of the woods quite yet.  There is still time to withdraw lol.  But I'm not going to.  I'm going to finish this.

I didn't want to write about something that had potential, then have to tell the world I failed to follow through.  Again.  I didn't want to get your hopes up.  I didn't want to have you cheering for the loosing team.

But you're only a loser if you don't try.  And it doesn't hurt to have a team of cheerleaders by your side during the game, now does it?

Why am I so hesitant to write about the good?  The things that excite me?  That give me hope?  I take pride in being real on this blog.  Being vulnerable.  Mostly I interpret that to being open about my struggles.  But what if being vulnerable is also about sharing my hopes and dreams?  Especially when they're laced with doubt and the opportunity for disappointment.  What about that?

So here's something I'm excited about.  I'm going back to school.  I'm only taking one class this semester, with the intention of taking 2 going forward.  This semester is Finance 331.  A 300 level course scares me, but guess what.  That's what I'm left with.  Upper level classes.  Suck it up, Brittany.  You're in the big leagues now.

I've done the math and it looks like I have 4 years to go.  Which is overwhelming.  And a little bit depressing.  But when you look at the span of a lifetime, it's really not much when it comes down to doing what you want to do with your life.  Right?  Plus I talked them into counting my calc II as college algebra.  I mean I didn't nearly kill myself as a high school senior taking advanced AP calculus to have to take college algebra 14 years later.  So I've got that going for me at least.

My major is business administration with a specialization in accounting.  Accounting is the specialization that requires the most classes to graduate.  Go figure.  But it's what I want to do.  I want to be a CPA and work as a forensic accountant.  Possibly for the FBI.  And you've gotta start somewhere.  I'm starting on Thursday nights, in room 305, in the business center, at the University of Baltimore.

Class of whenever.

My Deep Dark Secret

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

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

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

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

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

It's horrible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except it does.  And I hate it.

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

Something's gotta give.

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

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

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

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

I control a lot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An Open Letter to My Psychiatrist

Dear Psychiatrist,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wishing you all the best,

Brittany

Real Life

It's been a little bit longer than I'd like to go between posts, but I have a good reason.  I promise.  I've been on vacation!  I brought my computer along to get some writing in, but I think I might have opened the thing once.  So no writey writey on the bloggy bloggy.

My grandparents live on a farm in Illinois so to the farm we went!  I love everything about the place.  Even the fact that I don't get cellphone reception.  It's freeing.  It's a different pace of life.  It's a place of healing and peace and a house full of love and acceptance.  It's perfect.

Feeding the fish with Curly by my side :)

So instead of blogging, I spent some time learning the ropes out there.  I learned how to mow the orchard, spray the fruit trees for bugs, wire the shed for electricity, paddle a rowboat, drive the 4 wheeler, and much much more.  I even have several ugly bruises to show for my hard work.  I loved working outside.  It's very rewarding to see a freshly mowed orchard and bright lights come on in a previously dim shed.  I felt like I was productive.  Contributing.  A member of the family.  Not just a visitor.

I was also quite sweaty.

But it wasn't all roses.  My grandfather is very very sick.  And I don't really want to write about it.  But it's what I do to process things.  I write.

It's hard to see my grandfather struggle for every breath he takes.  It's hard to watch other loved ones care for him.  With tears in their eyes.  It's hard to go to bed not knowing what you'll wake up to.  It's hard to sleep when you have no idea what's going on in the room down the hall.  It's hard to say goodbye knowing it's probably forever.  It's just hard.

People ask me how it is getting back to "real life."  They mean work and stuff.  I know that.  But I feel like my vacation was real life.  I worked hard and watched a loved one fight for his life.  It doesn't get much more real than that.

Real.  What is real?  It reminds me of a Harry Potter quote.  Harry Potter asks Dumbledore whether what is going on is real or happening inside his head.  Dumbledore replies, "Of course it's all happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?"

What is real?

It's everything.  Everything is real.

Just thinking something makes it real.  Real doesn't mean right.  Lots of real things can be wrong.  I can have a crazy thought.  It's wrong.  But it's still real.  It's very existence makes it real.

It's an interesting way of looking at things.  I think it makes me feel a little bit less crazy.  It means I'm not just making things up.  The crazy things that pop into my head aren't crazy.  They're real.  To me, real is the opposite of crazy.  And I don't know about you, but I'd rather be real than be crazy.  Even if the real is tough.

While the concept of real can be freeing, it can also be pretty difficult.  Admitting things are real can be scary.  It means coming face to face with the tough stuff.  The fact that you might be failing at something.  That you have made a poor choice.  That you are sick.  That you are battling a demon.  That a loved one is dying.  That's heavy stuff, guys.

Real life.  It's both beautiful and tragic.  Like all the best stories.  Our lives are stories, after all.  Each season is a chapter and each person is a character.  Some play bigger roles than others.  Some you latch onto and love with all your heart.  And you don't always know what's going to happen.  And sometimes the things that happen are really sad.  Not all stories have happy endings.  But a book is real.  You can hold it in your hand.  You can feel the weight of the paper.  It's real.

This story is a real one and right now it's tragic.  But we don't throw the tragic stories away.  Some of the greatest literary pieces are tragedies.  There will be other chapters.  Other characters.  Other twists and other turns.  And that kind of makes it even more sad.  I don't want another chapter if it doesn't include one of my favorite characters.  It's just too much to think about.  The air gets too heavy.  I don't want a new character, I want the old ones.  I don't want to know what's around the next twist and turn, I want to stay here.  Stay here or even flip back a few chapters.  Because I just can't picture the next page.  And I don't want to.

But nothing lasts forever.  We must let go.  Even the bravest of characters will pass.  It's all up to the author in the end.  What happens next.  It's all up to him.  Even the character doesn't really get a say in the matter.  In the end, it's the author's vision that gets the last word.

There's a bigger picture.  A bigger story.  And I can't see it right now.  All I see is the tragedy.  All I feel is the hurt.  All I experience is the tears running down my face as I listen to a song on repeat for days on end because it just speaks to me so much in this moment.  But the song gets old after awhile.  And you find yourself wondering what happens next in the story.  You're forced to turn the page.  To find out what lies ahead.  Because in your heart you know the story isn't over.  There's another chapter.

And that's real life, guys.  It's the weight of the book in your hand.  The dampness of the tears running down your cheek.  The sound of the song on repeat in the car.  The smell of the freshly cut grass.  The sight of a hand holding yours.

And sometimes it's saying goodbye.

Just Not Today

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

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

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

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

"Just not today."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— A Beautiful Mind

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

#sorrynotsorry

Uncomfortable.  That's how I've felt since publishing my previous post on social media.

Uncomfortable.  That's how I believe I've made people feel.

Uncomfortable.  That's why these things need to be said.

My last post made me pretty vulnerable.  So vulnerable that I waited almost a full week before publishing it on Facebook.  I was afraid what people would think.  Of me.  Of the topic.  Of my story.

I spoke of things that aren't spoken of in today's culture.  I think we're getting better about it, but the topics are still taboo.  And some struggles are more acceptable than others.  Mostly because they're talked about more frequently.  Which means we need to start talking more.

Depression and eating disorders?  Relatively ok to talk about.  Bipolar Disorder?  Maybe.  Suicide and psychosis?  Not so much.  That's just crazy talk.

I wonder what people will think of me when I talk about these things.  Will people look at me differently?  Will they want their kids around me?  Will they hire me?  Will they be fearful?  Uneasy?  Uncomfortable?

Should I have published the post at all?  Was I an idiot?  Had I just fallen flat on my face?

These things all ran through my mind yesterday morning after I hit Facebook's "post" button.  WHAT WAS I THINKING?!?!  I should go take it down.  Yes, yes.  Hope nobody read it and take it down immediately.  The possible repercussions are way too high, I told myself.

So what stopped me?  What prevented me from deleting the post entirely?  Was this a self-destructive tendency?  No.  No, I don't think so.

Someone has to talk about this stuff.  And if not me, then who?  Someone has to fight the stigma.  It's gotta start somewhere.  So why not here?

This blog is all about being real.  From the start.  It's a principal fundamental to its creation.  Keeping it real.  And this stuff?  It's about as real as it gets, folks.

Mental illness is REAL.  It's as real as cancer or a heart attack or diabetes.

And it's time to talk.

And that might make some people uncomfortable.  Some people might refuse to make eye contact.  Some people might distance themselves from me.  Some people might walk on eggshells and some people might think I'm straight up crazy.  Potential employers may not hire me.  Some people might tell me I'm too honest.  Too transparent.  Too much.

All of these things ran through my mind yesterday morning.  And I had to think of an answer.  I had to think of a reason to say "I don't care how they may or may not act.  What they may or may not think.  What they do or do not say.  What the consequences may or may not be."

And all I could think of was 3 words: Break.  The.  Silence.

I'm not going to hang my head in shame.  I'm not going to filter my blog.  I'm not going to hide from the truth.  I'm going to break the silence.  I'm going to be part of something bigger than myself.  Because that's what this is.

Do you think I'm proud of these things?  Do you think I write about my struggles to brag or put myself on a pedestal?  Do you think I crave attention?

No.  But I'm not ashamed of them either.  These things don't make me less of a person.  They don't define me.  They don't make me less worthy or less valuable or less human than the guy standing next to me.

They say secrets keep you sick.  And I have personally experienced this to be true.  But I see it on a larger scale now.  My desire to keep my struggle a secret?  What if it keeps other people sick?  What if my silence means that other people feel alone? What if it means that other people don't get help the need?  The help they deserve?  What if keeping my struggle a secret lets the public stay ignorant?  What if it contributes to a greater problem?

Sharing my secrets may cause a ripple.  And that ripple can be seen as either a positive or a negative chain of events.  Yes, it could change the way people treat me.  But it could also let someone know they're not alone.  It could encourage them to seek help.  It could let them have an improved quality of life.  What if sharing my secrets created positive change?  Even for just one person?  Isn't that worth it?

To me it is.  To me it's worth breaking the silence.  It's worth making people uncomfortable.  It's worth becoming vulnerable and overcoming shame.  It's worth identifying with a stigmatized illness.  It's worth it.

Call me crazy, but I think that one person can make a difference.  I really do.  And if one person can make a difference, think of the power of 2.  Or ten.  Or one hundred.

I don't know the reach that this blog has.  I have no idea how many people read it.  Maybe I'm just making all of this up.  Maybe nobody read my post and nobody is looking at me any differently and nobody really cares what I have to say or how I say it.  I hope that is not the case.

But you can be part of something bigger, too.  If you want to.  You can help break the silence and you can be an agent for change.

I'm not ashamed of my posts.  And you shouldn't be either.  Mental illness is often a silent struggle.  And chances are you know someone who is suffering.  So why not share?  Why not let someone know they're not alone?  Why not be a positive influence in someone's life?  So I'll ask you again: why not share?

I'm looking to expand my reach.  I want my struggle to mean something.  I want to encourage others.  I want to break the silence.  So I'm asking for some help.  Maybe you don't feel comfortable sharing my posts.  I understand.  That's ok.  But maybe you know of a way to get the word out.  Maybe you know a platform I could use.  Maybe you have a person you could connect me with.  Maybe you have more power than you think.

They say the magic happens just outside our comfort zones.  So maybe it's ok to be uncomfortable.  Maybe it's a good thing.  Maybe it pushes us to be something better.

So no, I'm not sorry for talking about the tough stuff.  For making you uncomfortable.  For putting myself out there and potentially sharing just a little too much.

No, I'm not sorry for asking for your help.

No, I'm not sorry about my past.

#sorrynotsorry

20 Questions

I've been feeling restless.  Again.  I feel like I write about that a lot on this blog.  Feeling unfulfilled.  Not knowing what I'm doing with my life.  Feeling directionless.  Wandering without a purpose.  Wanting something more.

I was sitting in my psychiatrist's office the other day feeling slightly annoyed with all the stupid questions he was asking me.  "Are you restricting?"  "Purging?"  "Do you have thoughts of killing yourself?"  "Of wishing you were dead?"  "Of harming yourself?"  "Of thinking people are plotting against you?"  "Are you hearing voices?"  "Are you hearing voices?"

He always asks that last one twice.  And that's what makes me realize.  He's not asking stupid questions.  He's asking them because he has to.  Because 8 years ago, the answers used to be yes.  All of them.  The answers were yes.

And suddenly I have another realization.  This restlessness?  It's a gift.  Because it means I'm answering no.

There's no room for restlessness when you're in the throws of an eating disorder, or suicidal depression, or self harm, or paranoia, or psychosis.  There's no room for a no.

But it's so easy for me to loose sight of this.  It's easy for me to forget where I've come from.  It's easy for me to forget that this life I have?  It's a miracle.  An honest to God miracle.

I was told I'd never be a productive member of society.  That my mental illness would define me.  That I'd never be able to hold a full time job and support myself.  That I would never be "normal".

Well I don't know about normal, but I think I'm doing alright.  Just look at me!  I'm a mom, I'm successful at work, and I engage in life.  I'm a cookie mom, for goodness sake.  I proved them wrong.  I'm a miracle.

So why do I want more?  Why can't I just be satisfied with what I have?  It drives me crazy.

This post has been difficult to write because I'm not entirely sure where I'm going with it.  I've had all these realizations.  I've seen how blessed I am.  Of just how far I've come.  But I'm not satisfied, which makes me angry.  I have made so much progress, but still I want more.  I believe it's not enough.  Then I have yet another realization.  I don't think it's me believing IT'S not enough.  I think it's me believing I'M not enough.  I don't think I'm enough.  After all that I've been through.  After all I've overcome.  After all the fight, all the blood, all the sweat, all the tears.  I still believe that I am not enough.  That I have something to prove.

And it makes me angry.  Because I KNOW I'm enough.  Everyone says it (and please don't repeat it in the comments...this is not a plea for affirmation).  God says it.  And I know it.  But do I believe it?  Not recently.  And that makes me angry.  Why can't I believe something I know to be true?  What kind of lunacy is that?

I've been experiencing intense anxiety these past few weeks.  Sometimes it's paralyzing.  Sometimes I can't eat.  Sometimes I get sick.  I don't think you'd realize it just looking at me.  It's not debilitating and I'm still holding it together pretty well.  I think I've caught it early enough for it not to cause me too much trouble.

But it's been bugging me because I don't have a reason to be anxious.  There's not some "thing" I'm anxious about.  It's just this hovering sense of anxiety that makes the air heavy and my eyes weepy.

It's starting to become clear to me, though.  I think it has to do with this restlessness and I think I know what I need to do.  And it goes against everything I believe I need to do.

To me, battling restlessness means doing something.  I think I need to be doing something with my life.  Moving forward.  Picking a direction and running toward it with all my might.  But I think that logic might be faulty.  At least this time around.

I think I need to stop pursuing "enough".  I think I've been chasing it down for too long.  And it goes against everything I think I know because I believe I'm not doing anything with my life.  How am I supposed to stop when I'm not even doing?

But my mind has never stopped and it's beginning to get the best of me.  I need to chill out.  It's not that I'm not satisfied with my life, it's that I don't LET myself be satisfied.  That's a choice that I've made.  And it's a bad one.

This last time in treatment I worked with the same psychiatrist I've had from previous admissions, so she's seen me pretty crazy.  I saw her 3-5 times a week for 2 months.  And do you know what she would call me?  A superhero.  The first time I laughed.  Who am I kidding, I think I laughed every time.  She'd make that traditional superhero move where they land on the floor with their knees bent and they punch the ground and look up like they just saved the world.  Because they did.

I laughed because the idea seemed ludicrous to me.  I'm no superhero.  But then she'd go down the list of all the reasons I was a superhero.  She'd break out a textbook and start reading me the definitions of my diagnoses.  She'd tell me if I could conquer that, then I was a superhero.  And it got to the point where I couldn't really argue.  Where I actually started to believe that maybe I WAS a superhero.

And what superhero isn't enough?  I mean we can always be better.  Every superhero has a weakness.  We all have faults.  We all wish we could do more.  Even Tony Stark sought to build a better suit.  But that didn't mean he wasn't enough.

Complacency isn't my calling and I believe I have a destiny.  But my purpose isn't found in the future, it's found in today.  I have worth TODAY.  I have victory TODAY.  I have strength TODAY.  I am enough TODAY.  Just as I am.

Because I'm a superhero, damn it.  My powers (found in Jesus, of course) have raised me from near death.  I'm unstoppable.  And so are you.

*insert superhero move*

Messy is Neat

My parents and Skylar are in Georgia visiting my brother and his family.  I'm happy for them, I'm just a little bummed out that I couldn't be there, too.  Treatment gave me a lot, but it also stole all my vacation time.  So I had to sit this one out.  I miss my people.

Alone time is dangerous.  Very dangerous.  So I've tried to keep busy.  I'm very proud of myself because I haven't been binge watching TV shows the entire time.  I'm trying to take advantage of the peace and the space just to be.  I've spent some time meditating.  I went shopping yesterday.  Registered for a class.  Attended church this morning.  I'm obviously blogging right now.  I might clean my car later.  I've read a bit.  And I've been working on art projects.

My art therapist understood the danger of too much down time, so she assigned me something to work on.  It's a mask.  I'm using plaster cloth to make a bird mask.  It's going to be freaking awesome.  I'm pretty excited about it.  It's also quite time consuming.  The first layer took me almost 3 hours.  The second layer took about 2.  I'm estimating another 2 hours for layer three.  I work on it every other day to give it time to dry.  He's going to look pretty sweet once he's finished.

It's awesome, but it's messy.  There's powder everywhere and my hands are wet and plastery.  The cloth doesn't always do what I want it to.  The edges are all frayed.  I can see that parts are a little bit crumbly.  There aren't any cracks yet that I can see, though.  So that's encouraging.  It's messy, but it's neat to see it come together.

It kind of reminds me of life in a way.  I was given a roll a powdery fabric, just like we're each given a life.  But you can't do anything with the fabric.  You have to cut it into strips.  Then you have to wet the strips and press them hard into the mold (this is the messy part).  And very slowly the plaster strips start to form something awesome.  They bind together in unpredictable ways to form a figure.  Sometimes the strips don't smooth out all the way.  Sometimes it doesn't pick up all the details of the mold.  And sometimes the plaster crumbles a little bit after it dries.  But all and all, this little roll of cloth becomes something much cooler than you ever thought it could be.  But only after it was cut up, drenched, and pressed down hard and tight.

You get it?  I don't think I need to break it down too much.  Like I said, the powdery fabric is the life we've been given.  But in order for it to become something awesome, it has to be deconstructed, made messy, and put under some pressure.  Sometimes the final result isn't exactly what we want it to be.  After all, nothing made by human hands is ever perfect.  Even after you're finished, there might be a few crumbly pieces.  But that's ok.  All in all, it's a work of art when you're done with it.  Something you never thought your own two hands could create.  And it's not even done!

I mean after this part, the possibilities are endless.  I can paint it, collage on it, or glue on feathers and beads.  Or I can just leave it as it is.  I'm almost tempted to leave it as it is.  He looks so cool right now.  What if I ruin it with a bad paint job?  What if you can't see the detail because I glued on too many feathers?  But he doesn't look very life like just sitting there as a plain white form of a bird face.  Your work should be appreciated, but he's still a little bit dull.

And so is life if we stop working on it.  We can stay as we are, but where's the fun in that?  And hey, you can always paint over a bad paint job if you hate it that much.  You can always change your path.

My art therapist had a lot of different molds to pick from.  There was a bear, a horse, a fish (I almost picked the fish...he looked like Nemo), the bird, and different human faces of various ethnicities.  She said nobody had picked an animal yet.  Everyone has gone for the human faces.  I have a theory and it's only because of the thoughts that ran through my own head.  The animals didn't seem very art therapy-y.  They're more fun looking.  I could see how a human face could be therapized into something meaningful...everyone wears a mask.  So maybe people lean toward the human faces because they appear more therapy-y at face value ("face" value...see what I did there?).  They're also a lot easier.

But the final product doesn't necessarily dictate the meaning behind a process.  For me, this project was about keeping me out of trouble during a potentially dangerous time.  It was about mindfulness (this takes a lot of concentration and focus).  It was about giving me a tangible metaphor for life and the purpose of its messy nature.  It was about giving me something to blog about this afternoon.  It was about teaching me that it's only through making a mess that you can create something really neat.  Whether it's in art or in life.

So I picked a bird instead of a human face.  Maybe there's something to be read into there.  I don't know.  I'll leave that to my art therapist to decide.  I think for me, it's been more about the process.  And I'm not even halfway there!

I'd say that--so far--my time alone has been pretty positive.  Eating full and regular meals is always a struggle when I'm by myself.  I don't know why, it just is.  But I was given strict orders that I could not have an omelet for dinner every night and so far I've only had two.  I bought a two piece bathing suit (quite an accomplishment for someone coming out of eating disorder treatment).  I purchased two pairs of shorts (another wow).  I've only watched three movies.  I've cuddled with my cats.  I've made strides toward advancing my education.  I started a conversation with a stranger at Panera.  I've attended all of my appointments.  And I've exercised my creativity.  Boom.

I've still been lonely.  It's hard to motivate myself at times.  But that's ok because I'm doing it anyway.  And I'm learning that staying where you are is dull.  Just like a roll of plaster cloth or a blank mask.  It's when you get your hands messy with wet plaster and colorful paint that things begin to get interesting and awesome again.  After all...messy is neat.

(Also, I'm trying to think of a name for my bird.  Thoughts?)

Wheat in the Wind

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— Ariana Reines

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

click.

Well hello there.  My name is Brittany.  In case you've forgotten.

It's been almost a year since I've written anything.  "Why?" you might ask?  Why indeed.  A lot of it has to do with fear.  Something I'm a little bit ashamed to say.  Here I am preaching vulnerability, yet now I confess my fear of writing.  Of making myself known.

Showing weakness is tough.  Especially when you feel like you never show any strength.  I wanted to be strong.  I wanted to be optimistic.  And I felt like it had been too long since hope had shown through my life.  Shown through my blog.  And who wants to read that kind of depressing crap.  I didn't want to be that person.  So I just stopped.

I felt like...since I didn't have anything uplifting to write about...I wouldn't write anything at all.  I felt like I had nothing to offer.  I felt like my life was meaningless.  That I lacked a purpose.  That I was short on words.  I used to love to write.  And now I had nothing.  No words.  Nothing to offer.  Who was I?

The blog has been on my mind more and more.  The truth is I'm still feeling a tad bit directionless.  I'm not sure where I'm heading.  I have no idea what to write about.  But at least I've wanted to write.  And that's more than I've had for a year now.

Still, something has stopped me.  Until today.  Obviously.  Today something clicked.  This weekend I heard a message relating to the idea of purpose.  Of helping other people.  It caused me a bit of soul searching.  And I realize that I don't.  Help other people, that is.  I don't help other people.  Which got me to thinking...what on earth do I even HAVE to help other people?  What do I have to offer?

It's an exhausting thought, mostly because I feel like I exist in a state of exhaustion.  I am in a good place.  I am stable.  I am not depressed.  I am eating.  I am successful at work.  I read to my daughter every night.  I am a functioning human being.  I am alive.  Please know that I am alive and doing well.  But it's still exhausting.  When you come from a place of near death, being alive takes your everything.  Every day is a choice.  You choose to either exist or live.  The choice sounds simple, but it's not.  Living is hard work.  Especially for someone who struggles with mental illness and an eating disorder.  The most basic human needs take a conscious effort to fulfill.  Living is a struggle.  But I'd much rather struggle in pursuit of life than death.  Of that I am quite certain.  This struggle is something I treasure.  Life is something I treasure.  Maybe more than most.  And in that way, my illness is a gift.

Anyway, back to making a difference.  It's hard to think about making a difference in others when living each day takes such hard work.  But they say that helping others brings purpose to your life, which is one of the main things that makes you happy.  And who doesn't want to be happy?

So back to the drawing board.  What gifts do I possess that can make a difference in the lives of others?  Well there's the million dollar question.  If only I knew.

But what about this.  What if...what if the things that--to me--are road blocks to making a difference are in actuality the very things that allow me to make a difference?  What if my struggle to engage in life is something that can help others?  What if what I was doing was actually fulfilling my purpose?  What if my writing was making the kind of difference that others told me it was?  What if my fear of being truly known has made me withdraw from the world?  Has stolen away a gift?  Not my personal gift, but my gift to the world?  What if I've been selfish?

Now I'm not saying that my writing will save the world.  But I can't deny the fact that I have been told it makes a difference.

I'm not saying that my writing should replace acts of kindness.  Of engaging in the community.  Of contributing to the world around me.  Of touching people's lives.  But what if it's a start?

What if my writing allows me to connect with people in a way that makes it easier to physically engage in relationships?  Wouldn't that be a start?

So I'm still not 100% sure what I'll be writing about.  I do know that some of it will be happy, and some of it will be sad.  Because that's the fabric of life.  My plan is for you to see pieces of both.  That has always been--and will always be--my intention.

I'm still afraid.  I'm afraid that I'll publish this post, then clam up and not write again for another year.  How embarrassing would that be?  After all of this.

I'm afraid of who will read this and whether or not it will change the way they look at me.  People from every area of my life read this blog.  What will they say????  How careful will I have to be?  Will they still want me around?  Will they still respect me?  Will they treat me differently?

But let me say it again.  People from every area of my life read this blog.  What kind of potential does that unlock for me to make a difference in even just one life?  And who am I to deny that kind of an opportunity.  Who am I?

That's another good question.  Who am I?  The truth is that I'm not the person I'd like to be.  I'd like to be part of something bigger than myself.  And maybe--just maybe--this is a start.  Or a re-start.  Yes, it's time to hit the reset button.  Click.

“For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God has prepared in advance for us to do.”

— Ephesians 2:10

What has this week taught me?

What has this week taught me?

Nothing.  Absolutely nothing.

That's it.  That was seriously all I was going to write.

Not very inspiring, huh?

...

Still reading?  Sigh.  I kind of wish you weren't.

I have the house to myself and I'm sorta kinda couch bound.  Or at least trying to give my body a rest.  The perfect scenario for some blogging, right?  Right.  Except I've got nothing.  Absolutely nothing. (...as already stated)

Well no.  That's a lie.  I have something.  But it's depressing and redundant and I'm over it.  I don't want a pity party.  I hate parties (I'm more of a celebration kind of girl) and pity parties are the worst.

But hey, I'm here and apparently so are you.  So lame or not, here we go.

We had an epic water balloon battle over Memorial Day weekend.  I did something to my hip.  Not horrible, but enough to scare me into action.  I didn't want it to turn into something worse, so I emailed my physical therapist and he squeezed me into his busy schedule.  My SI (sacroiliac) joint was out, so he fixed me.  I was so happy.

Fast forward 3 days.  I'm walking around town minding my own business when suddenly I can barely put one foot in front of the other.  My hip and lower back are in extreme pain.  Awesome.  You want to know what's even awesomer?  The pain is on my GOOD side.

By Monday I was desperate enough to call my orthopedist and drive down to Arlington.  He gave me drugs and said it's my SI.  Again.  Lame.  When Rick adjusted my left side, my right side started working overtime to try to keep things in alignment.  Or something like that.  So back to PT it is.

Great.

Except not really.  NONE of the meds have put a dent in things.  My physical therapist was on vacation this past week, but he's super stellar and got me in to see someone in the meantime.  She said I was only moderately out of alignment.  Which was actually kind of discouraging.  I know that sounds weird.  But picture this.  It feels like someone ripped out your leg, spun it around a few times, and jammed it up your spine.  Wouldn't it be sweet if your SI was out and they could just pop it back in and you'd feel a million times better?  YES PLEASE.

But no.

That makes me feel like a wimp.  Come on, Brittany.  Get it together.

Sigh.

And that's the end of the story.  Which is why I didn't even want to write this.  There's no moral to the story and certainly no happy ending.  I hate posts like this.

But I've promised to be real here and this is my reality.

And I can't help but be a little bit optimistic.  My physical therapist is willing to start seeing me again, but he wants me to see a specialist first.  He thinks she might be able to help me.  You usually have to wait several weeks to see her, but she had a opening tomorrow morning.  So I'm hesitantly hopeful.

Hope.  I know it's something I've written about before.  At times I hate it.  Hope leaves room for disappointment.  And I don't know how much more disappointment I can take.  But I also don't know how I'll survive another week at work like this, so I'm still holding out for some hope I suppose.

I'm reminded of the genetic testing I had done in the fall.  I'm hypermobile, which sounds great but tends to be a recipe for disaster.  And apparently I have the "A118G variant, which is associated with reduced expression of mu opioid receptors and increased sensitivity to pain."  Basically I experience higher levels of pain than a "normal" person does.  And I require higher doses of medication to treat said pain because my body doesn't properly metabolize the drugs.  A particularly unfortunate combination.  Which makes sense.  I've always avoided taking pain meds because they don't do much for me.  I feel like the amount I have to take to experience relief would turn me into an addict.  I have enough issues.  I don't need to add pain med addict to the list.

I hate that I just told you all of that.  I've just been ignoring most of it.  It's lame (a word I've used a lot in this post).  SUCK IT UP AND DEAL, BRITTANY.  I should be able to tolerate this.  SI pain shouldn't be debilitating.  But apparently denying my reality is just a form of avoidance.  It only results in frustration and doesn't let me move forward.  I'm stuck running (more like limping) in a circle.  Plus they say you shouldn't "should" on yourself.  Which I've always found ironic.  But hey, there's something to it.

Well that's the end for real this time. Abrupt, I know.  Congratulations for making it here.

Derby Day and Dating

Well today is derby day.  The Kentucky Derby, that is.  But this post really has nothing to do with horse racing.  I have no idea where I was going with that.

What this post really marks is a year since I first re-entered the dating scene.  It's something I haven't really talked about on the blog.  Mostly for privacy reasons.  I don't mind talking about myself.  I value transparency and vulnerability.  But I'm not all about divulging the ins and outs of a relationship on the internet.  Maybe one day I'll find a way to do it gracefully, but it's not a risk I've been willing to take.

I've gone on a few dates over the course of the year.  Some have gone well.  Others have been train wrecks.  But they are what they are.  Today I want to share with you what I've learned.

1. Men's face wash is cheaper and superior women's face wash.  It's true.  I was strongly urged to try a particular kind of face wash and I did.  I'm still using it.  It's miraculous.

2. A man who respects you will not call you at 2:00 am to scream at you.  He might say he loves you, but a man with love in his heart will value your sleep.  And your ability to be productive at work.  He also won't scream at you.  Ever. Let alone at 2:00 in the morning.

3. Constant communication is not optimal.  You might think that talking constantly is a sign of compatibility and soulmate status, but it's not.  It's exhausting.  It takes away from your ability to engage with other people in your life.  It causes you to loose focus at work.  It fosters anxiety when communication is lacking.  It's really a recipe for disaster.  Don't get me wrong, I love talking and texting.  But there is a gentle balance in any relationship.  The right guy will value your time, enjoy talking to you, and give you space to fulfill the other roles in your life.

4. Nobody's baggage is any better or worse than yours.  Baggage is baggage.  And by this point in life, we all have it.  The not-so-pretty stuff we think makes us damaged goods.  A man who uses your baggage against you is not worth your time or energy.  You are beautiful.  You have value.  You are worthy.  Your past has made you who you are.  The right man will see the beauty that arose from the ashes.  And that will be all that matters.

5. Flowers can be used as a threat.  I've heard of flowers being used as an apology.  Or as a gift on a stressful day.  Or for a special occasion.  But never as a threat.  I told 2 different people that I didn't think it was going to work out dating-wise.  Both of them said something along the lines of, "Seriously?  I had just ordered you flowers.  Don't you see how foolish you are?"  As if it would spontaneously change my mind.  I know it was probably to make me feel bad and convince me of their devotion.  But it felt like they were using flowers as a weapon in their crusade for my heart.  Not attractive.  And never once did I receive flowers for any of the "normal" reasons.

6. Trust your gut.  And your parents.  They're usually right.

Well there you have it.  Lessons learned from the life of a 29 year-old.  It turns out we're all learning.  All the time.  And sometimes the lessons are hard.  Dating is just as messy as it was in high school.  If not messier.  We have a lot more to loose, after all.

We have a habit of running around, looking for someone to love.  And that's the common thread that I've found this year.  People love for the sake of loving.  They're obsessed with the IDEA of me...not with the actual me.  At first it's flattering.  We all want to be loved.  But the motivation behind the love?  That's what's really important.

Relationships are better when found, not hunted.  They show up unexpectedly.  Right under your nose.  And you never know when it will happen.  So you'd better make sure you're not wasting your time with the wrong person...or you might just miss it.

The Cool Kids

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it didn't make me cry.

That was later.

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

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

And it made me sad.

And it made me wonder.

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

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

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

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

And how do you tell that to a mother?

I don't know.

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

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

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

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

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

Would it really be that bad?

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

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

And what could be better than that.

From The Outside Looking In

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

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

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

Most people just don't get it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We're talking months.

Years.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Eating Disorder: Friend or Foe

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leaking.

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

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

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

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

• It’s embarrassing.

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

• People will think I’m crazy.

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

• Did I mention that it’s embarrassing?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Put Some Money Where Your Mouth Is, Girl

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WF: Probably good you could stay home today.

ME: I just hate the way it looks.

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

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

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

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

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

Me: Yeah.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— The Serenity Prayer

Not Your Typical New Years Post

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Take Me Off The Schedule

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • May 2005: Nonunion.  ORIF #2.

  • December 2005: Refracture.  Bone Graft.

  • April 2013: Labral Repair #1.

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

  • July 2014: Hardware Removal.

  • March 2015: Labral Reconstruction.

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

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

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

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

  2. I needed a capsular reconstruction.

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

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

• I had an MRI arthrogram on 10/5.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To Hell With Hope

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

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

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

Why am I crying?  Why else?  Pain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why.

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

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

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

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

Is that a lie?

No.

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

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

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

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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