"As forgiving ourselves is concerned, he wrote, If god forgives us we must forgive ourselves. otherwise it is like setting ourselves as a higher tribunal than him" (CS Lewis)
Psalm 32:5 "Finally, I confessed my sins to you and stopped trying to hide my guilt. I said to myself, I will confess my rebellion to the Lord. And you forgave me! All my guilt is gone."
I go to the Lord today and ask him once again for forgiveness for all my sin and rebellion some are new transgressions, some are the same old ones that I must confess again and again. Maybe I purged, restricted, or looked upon the body he fearfully and wonderfully made with disgust. I still reach for all those parts of the eating disorder he calls me to turn over when I should be reaching out to him. He is happy with me on the days I reach out to him for strength and allow his perfect love to cast out all fear. He also forgives me on the days I falter, but I find it difficult to forgive myself. Who am I to think I am in a position higher than my God and with hold this forgiveness? Is it because I literally keep bringing up the same sins as I purge; bringing up my food? Is it that because I with hold nourishment from my body that I then feel I can't receive grace and take in forgiveness? Is it that I sometimes still lose the will to fight and speak of wanting to live, but not like this?
Today I sit in my therapist office feeling the sting of her words almost like those of my mother when she would constantly remind me of the hurt I inflicted upon my sister when I wasn't there for my niece's birth even as we were both long over it. My sister had forgiven me and in this case, I had forgiven me.
Today, however, I am feeling nothing but guilt, shame and frankly a little bit of irritation as Laura brings up, once again......how my suicidal ideation has greatly wounded my sons especially Mitch, more than I could possibly fathom since he witnessed me falling into a screaming, crying, angry heap. The guilt and shame begin to churn inside the caldron of my soul bubbling to the surface. Then she moves onto the damage and pain I have inflicted and continue to inflict on Kurt each time I fall into talking of not wanting to live like this. Bubble, bubble!! She reminds me of the deep scars left on my family. Bubble, bubble, bubble!!! And then how the rings of damage move outward touching my sister, my niece, Kelsey, and friends. Bubble, bubble, bubble, bubble!!!! My caldron is now a red hot rolling boil of guilt, shame and pain. I think to myself "Why is she bringing this up again? And what the fuck am I supposed to do now!" I think I have addressed this issue with my family, but I guess she feels like I need to do more, but what? I know it isn't in her character to say this to wound me, but I feel cut to the bone.
I remind myself and Laura that I didn't WANT to die, I just didn't want to live in physical pain and mental torment. Why? Why is this mental illness my fault? I didn't ask for the Eating Disorder to be hardwired into my brain. I didn't ask to sink into the depressive thoughts. I need to fix all of this and wondering how to do this eats away at me for days.
I ponder calling Laura, Rich or Jill, but decide I am a big girl with a good head, that isn't always crazy, on my shoulders. I go to God and pray about it instead. He will lead me if I am still and listen. I am tired of running to others to stop me from failing or telling me what to do. I don't want or need anyone's approval to day except God's. How will I ever learn to trust God and myself if I don't step out on my own?
I spend the day in the solitude of my garden and my thoughts. I plant the flowers in the best positions for them to get the right amount of sun and water them in so they will grow and fill in just the way I envision. All the while I am thinking about the thought and care I put into these flowers to see
the beauty of their blooms; my heart is breaking as I think about the seeds of fear and despair I have planted in my family's mind as well as the ones that I have scattered among the other's that love me. I wonder how much I have continued to water and feeds these seeds allowing them to flourish. (Why does she have to keep bringing this up?) In the moment I am sure it is to torture me!
I understand that I have rung a bell and can't un-ring it, but what if I can place my hand on it to lessen the vibration? I picture someone playing the hand bells and the way they place them back down onto the soft surface to stop or dampen the vibration.
I am riddled with guilt and fear for my family, particularly Mitch. He saw the ugliest parts of me, and I saw him drive back to college sobbing and shaking in fear. I did this to him! What kind of mother am I? I feel an intense need to check in with him again, but is this the right thing to do? How many times do I have to go to him and the rest for forgiveness? Is it for my peace of mind or his? I decide it is both of us. My Phone rings just as I was thinking of calling him. "Hi Mom, it's Mitch!" "Really Honey, not only do I have caller ID, but I know the sound of your voice." We both chuckle. I ask him about his job interview, take a deep breath, and say a silent prayer. I check in with him about the tirade he witnessed over a year ago. I ask him what his feelings were about my suicidal talk and what they are today. " Mom, I was terrified, sad and very worried. I feel like you are in a better place so I don't worry as much, but I still worry. You know...I guess I love you" I can tell from the lilt in his voice that he is now messing with me. "I am sorry for burdening you this way. I didn't mean to hurt you. I want you to know that I am in a better place. I also want you to know that if you ever need to talk to me about this, it is fair game. It is fair for you to be angry, sad, and resentful because of my words and actions. If you ever want to talk to a therapist just send me the bill." "Really mom, I am okay," He says, "But a trip to The Atlantis would help!" Ah, I love his humor and I take that as a cue that he is finished talking about this. I hope I have dampened the ringing of this bell for him.
I tell Kurt about my conversation with Mitch. He doesn't understand why I want to go back and revisit such a terrible time in our lives, and he quotes Joel Olsteen about focusing on the positive. This shuts me down. Then he tells me how he used to walk in the door phone in hand ready to dial 911. " I am so sorry! That is really all I wanted to say to say to you and make sure that you are ok and that we are ok. I know it was months ago, but my recent cut on my arm has caused you concern. It was to relieve emotional pain, not to take my life." I try to reassure him that I praise God daily for the blessing he is in my life. "I love you so deeply and try to fathom that you love me as deeply. I am more in love with you today than the day we married. Can you hear that and believe that? You are more than good enough for me. My thoughts of dying had everything to do with me and not wanting to put you and our family through my pain and suffering." I believe that is how anyone who is suicidal must feel, or they wouldn't take there own life. In some twisted way we think we are sparing ourselves and loved ones pain, when really we create pain that one never overcomes.
I ask Kurt to forgive me and if he is okay one last time. He nods and I begin to weep. "I am so very sorry. Every day I work so fucking hard to do all the right things in recovery, taking care of the nerve by doing my PT, and sometimes I just mess up. I can't do it all perfectly! As much as I want to; I can't." "Like the miscarriage?" He says. "Yep," I say "It still hurts, but I have forgiven you. And I understand that you can forgive me, but it still hurts."
It is with these words that I ask if we can forgive ourselves. Maybe it is time for me to take a step down and let God be God and since he has forgiven me and my family has forgiven me, perhaps it is time to forgive myself.
Monday, May 25, 2015
Sunday, May 10, 2015
Voices
Voices
Galatians 2:20 "My old self has been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me. So I live in this earthly body by trusting in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me" (NLT)
I was glad that I made the decision to go to the cottage instead of San Francisco for the invasive treatment of my nerve. I just needed a break from doctors, physical therapists, nutritionists, even my therapist here at home. Has it really been four years that I have been seeing her twice a week? Yes, I am glad I even had a break from her and trying to figure out how to fix myself or be still and let God do it. I need to just be, even if it means ignoring the Eating Disorder and the neuralgia. I can't quite turn off the voice in my head that continues to taunt me, "If the eating disorder isn't a choice, then how does one chose to recover? Is it something like the flu that I can catch again and again? Or is it an illness more like Chicken pox that once you have it you shouldn't get it again? But I got it again! How do I do this? Can I do this? Is It a waste of my time and energy if I will catch it again?" I am able to at least quiet the voice for a few days by just asking God to worry about all of this for me.
As I travel I-75 south back to my home, the critical voice seems to rise above the hum of the wheels on the pavement. I curl up with my dog on my lap and sleep just to halt it's assault on my body image. We turn into the drive way and the wheels of discontent begin to turn in my head. I try to focus on the great weekend(that turned into a week), and that I get to settle into some sort of routine for the next few months. I can't remember the last time I was home for almost three months straight, and I am looking forward to it.
I wake to feeling thick and fear I look as thick as I feel. Maybe I will feel better after I work out? But, after five or more miles on the treadmill watching my breasts bounce up and down in the reflection off the attached TV and catching my side view in the mirrors I feel worse. I can't not step on the scale. I hear its voice calling me into the locker room to face my number one nemesis, the number on the scale. I say it is the number, but it is really me. Just like most of us with eating disorders, I am my own nemesis; my own worst critic. I ignore the compassionate voice that is shyly speaking up inside of me, "don't do this to yourself you are not a number you aren't your disease!" It is drowned out by the call of the scale as its voice escalates like the crescendo of a symphony. I step up to the scale, (Note to self; don't weigh yourself after a vacation) knowing that I am setting myself up for, in my eyes failure! I slide the weight ever so slowly up the lever further and further way from the fulcrum. 118 lbs. Panic sets in and tears form, but do not fall. I inhale deeply and scan the locker room for any voyeurs that at times comment on my weight. (why is it ever okay for anyone except my clinicians to ask about my weight?) I exhale and am alone and lonely in this excruciating moment. I draw another breath feeling an essence of relief that I am not over the pivotal 120lbs, the arbitrary line my clinicians have drawn between sick and well. What if it was 120 lbs? Would that mean I wasn't "sick anymore?" Here is the great myth about eating disorders; that it is about the weight. It isn't about the weight, but what the weight means to those of us enslaved to the scale. It is about our self worth being measured by what we appear to be and not who we really are. Do I have to look sick, to be sick? If I don't look sick does that mean I don't have the eating disorder. Well, here is a common myth, that you can tell by looking at someone if they have an eating disorder. In a February meeting at the NIMH Alliance for Research Progress Cynthia Bulik. Ph.D. states that, "eating disorders come in all shapes and sizes. You could be normal weight yet still have a-typical anorexia nervosa if you have lost a lot of weight." I also know from personal testimonies that some of the sickest people I know are of normal weight, but are binging and purging, or simply purging on a regular basis. So, I guess this answers the question, could I still be sick. As my weight stabilizes, am I allowed to continue treatment for the the parts of me that still feel wounded despite the weight? I wrestle with this concept daily even as I feel stronger physically and emotionally, but not quite there.
I had been speaking to myself all week long about weight and my body. "You will be fine and you will get used to this body just as you grew (far to easily) accustomed to the bony body, the pregnant body, and the one you settled into after Mitch was delivered." Yes, I grew accustomed to all those bodies that was really just one body....mine. Did I like them all?
I loved my pregnant body! This body meant freedom to nurture, but not necessarily myself. I knew I had another life within me, counting on me to nourish it so it could grow. So, if ever there was a time to let go and "step up to the plate" it was now. And when the line appeared on that stick, I was sure this pea sized creature needed a cheeseburger. Why wasn't okay for me to need a cheeseburger? I guess the same reason that I can show compassion, but not receive it, or give it to myself. Although this too is beginning to shift. The thing about eating disorders, addictions, and life is that the shifting is so very tricky. It is like scaling those walls again and again. We go higher, then we slip, then a little higher, then slip, and I am starting to see that this is ok. It keeps us on our toes and reaching for God's hand.
I believed I loved my bony body with the muscles and the veins exposed. I compared, at one point, watching my body move to that of watching a thoroughbred race. The muscles straining just beneath the surface as it thundered toward the finish fascinanting me. I, however, was no thoroughbred. I now see that I was muscled with veins protruding, but more on the verge of collapsing than thundering towards any home except The Lords.
I don't want to grow accustomed to this slightly fuller body; I want to love it. It saddens me that this is so difficult and pulls my mind away from my real value and truth of my eternal identity in Christ. Would I talk to another of His children the way I speak to myself? I found myself in a debate about wearing a fitted running shirt, or wearing one that was more comfortable; that didn't cling to my perceived rolls.
I hate the feeling of this shirt hugging my curves. It screams at me, "Oh my gosh you have gained sooo much weight!" And according to the scale I have gained 3 and 1/2 pounds. Do I force my self to wear it as punishment, or in celebrations for all the hard work I have done? Both seem like viable options, but I am scared that I am losing control and convinced that this sudden weight gain has come out of the blue. I am also scared that it will continue to encroach on my body leaving me fat and somehow hiding my identity beneath it.
I decide I will wear it as punishment for allowing this weight to creep on as I hear a voice from within my head. "You have a let this happen. You have these fleshy rolls, now feel it and deal with it!" I wear the shirt and don't like it! I throw on a light weight vest as if to say "fuck you to the voice." I may have to feel the roles of flesh, but I can't let anyone see them. I am afraid that they will see this new body as a sign of weakness and not of strength. This all plays with my mind. I question what to eat, if I should eat? I sense the freedom I was beginning to feel slip away. Instead of pressing on, I feel the eating disorder pressing in on me like a vice shutting of my air and my voice.
I am hungry but I deny it. Do I hide this body, embrace it, or allow it to fade away again. I feel like a dog toy being tugged at by all three of my dogs at the same time.
Galatians 2:20 "My old self has been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me. So I live in this earthly body by trusting in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me" (NLT)
I was glad that I made the decision to go to the cottage instead of San Francisco for the invasive treatment of my nerve. I just needed a break from doctors, physical therapists, nutritionists, even my therapist here at home. Has it really been four years that I have been seeing her twice a week? Yes, I am glad I even had a break from her and trying to figure out how to fix myself or be still and let God do it. I need to just be, even if it means ignoring the Eating Disorder and the neuralgia. I can't quite turn off the voice in my head that continues to taunt me, "If the eating disorder isn't a choice, then how does one chose to recover? Is it something like the flu that I can catch again and again? Or is it an illness more like Chicken pox that once you have it you shouldn't get it again? But I got it again! How do I do this? Can I do this? Is It a waste of my time and energy if I will catch it again?" I am able to at least quiet the voice for a few days by just asking God to worry about all of this for me.
As I travel I-75 south back to my home, the critical voice seems to rise above the hum of the wheels on the pavement. I curl up with my dog on my lap and sleep just to halt it's assault on my body image. We turn into the drive way and the wheels of discontent begin to turn in my head. I try to focus on the great weekend(that turned into a week), and that I get to settle into some sort of routine for the next few months. I can't remember the last time I was home for almost three months straight, and I am looking forward to it.
I wake to feeling thick and fear I look as thick as I feel. Maybe I will feel better after I work out? But, after five or more miles on the treadmill watching my breasts bounce up and down in the reflection off the attached TV and catching my side view in the mirrors I feel worse. I can't not step on the scale. I hear its voice calling me into the locker room to face my number one nemesis, the number on the scale. I say it is the number, but it is really me. Just like most of us with eating disorders, I am my own nemesis; my own worst critic. I ignore the compassionate voice that is shyly speaking up inside of me, "don't do this to yourself you are not a number you aren't your disease!" It is drowned out by the call of the scale as its voice escalates like the crescendo of a symphony. I step up to the scale, (Note to self; don't weigh yourself after a vacation) knowing that I am setting myself up for, in my eyes failure! I slide the weight ever so slowly up the lever further and further way from the fulcrum. 118 lbs. Panic sets in and tears form, but do not fall. I inhale deeply and scan the locker room for any voyeurs that at times comment on my weight. (why is it ever okay for anyone except my clinicians to ask about my weight?) I exhale and am alone and lonely in this excruciating moment. I draw another breath feeling an essence of relief that I am not over the pivotal 120lbs, the arbitrary line my clinicians have drawn between sick and well. What if it was 120 lbs? Would that mean I wasn't "sick anymore?" Here is the great myth about eating disorders; that it is about the weight. It isn't about the weight, but what the weight means to those of us enslaved to the scale. It is about our self worth being measured by what we appear to be and not who we really are. Do I have to look sick, to be sick? If I don't look sick does that mean I don't have the eating disorder. Well, here is a common myth, that you can tell by looking at someone if they have an eating disorder. In a February meeting at the NIMH Alliance for Research Progress Cynthia Bulik. Ph.D. states that, "eating disorders come in all shapes and sizes. You could be normal weight yet still have a-typical anorexia nervosa if you have lost a lot of weight." I also know from personal testimonies that some of the sickest people I know are of normal weight, but are binging and purging, or simply purging on a regular basis. So, I guess this answers the question, could I still be sick. As my weight stabilizes, am I allowed to continue treatment for the the parts of me that still feel wounded despite the weight? I wrestle with this concept daily even as I feel stronger physically and emotionally, but not quite there.
I had been speaking to myself all week long about weight and my body. "You will be fine and you will get used to this body just as you grew (far to easily) accustomed to the bony body, the pregnant body, and the one you settled into after Mitch was delivered." Yes, I grew accustomed to all those bodies that was really just one body....mine. Did I like them all?
I loved my pregnant body! This body meant freedom to nurture, but not necessarily myself. I knew I had another life within me, counting on me to nourish it so it could grow. So, if ever there was a time to let go and "step up to the plate" it was now. And when the line appeared on that stick, I was sure this pea sized creature needed a cheeseburger. Why wasn't okay for me to need a cheeseburger? I guess the same reason that I can show compassion, but not receive it, or give it to myself. Although this too is beginning to shift. The thing about eating disorders, addictions, and life is that the shifting is so very tricky. It is like scaling those walls again and again. We go higher, then we slip, then a little higher, then slip, and I am starting to see that this is ok. It keeps us on our toes and reaching for God's hand.
I believed I loved my bony body with the muscles and the veins exposed. I compared, at one point, watching my body move to that of watching a thoroughbred race. The muscles straining just beneath the surface as it thundered toward the finish fascinanting me. I, however, was no thoroughbred. I now see that I was muscled with veins protruding, but more on the verge of collapsing than thundering towards any home except The Lords.
I don't want to grow accustomed to this slightly fuller body; I want to love it. It saddens me that this is so difficult and pulls my mind away from my real value and truth of my eternal identity in Christ. Would I talk to another of His children the way I speak to myself? I found myself in a debate about wearing a fitted running shirt, or wearing one that was more comfortable; that didn't cling to my perceived rolls.
I hate the feeling of this shirt hugging my curves. It screams at me, "Oh my gosh you have gained sooo much weight!" And according to the scale I have gained 3 and 1/2 pounds. Do I force my self to wear it as punishment, or in celebrations for all the hard work I have done? Both seem like viable options, but I am scared that I am losing control and convinced that this sudden weight gain has come out of the blue. I am also scared that it will continue to encroach on my body leaving me fat and somehow hiding my identity beneath it.
I decide I will wear it as punishment for allowing this weight to creep on as I hear a voice from within my head. "You have a let this happen. You have these fleshy rolls, now feel it and deal with it!" I wear the shirt and don't like it! I throw on a light weight vest as if to say "fuck you to the voice." I may have to feel the roles of flesh, but I can't let anyone see them. I am afraid that they will see this new body as a sign of weakness and not of strength. This all plays with my mind. I question what to eat, if I should eat? I sense the freedom I was beginning to feel slip away. Instead of pressing on, I feel the eating disorder pressing in on me like a vice shutting of my air and my voice.
I am hungry but I deny it. Do I hide this body, embrace it, or allow it to fade away again. I feel like a dog toy being tugged at by all three of my dogs at the same time.
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