Sunday, October 26, 2014
Hope Continues
Hope Continues
10/26/14
Lamentations 3:21-26 (NLT)
21 " Yet I still dare to hope when I remember this:
22 The faithful love of the Lord never ends!
His mercies never cease.
23 Great is his faithfulness;
his mercies begin afresh each morning.
24 I say to myself, 'the lord is my inheritance
Therefore, I will hope in him!'
25 The lord is good to those who
depend on him
to those who search him.
26 So it is good to wait quietly
for salvation from the Lord."
I was up this week to pick the scripture and share it and my thoughts with the people. It is lovely how it spoke to me differently from the day I felt called to use it and then today. Today my eyes fell on the 23rd verse "Great is his faithfulness; his mercies begin afresh each morning." For this I am grateful because I wake this morning, after a night of purging, not feeling very hopeful for my recovery from the eating disorder, nerve, and even my recent resurgence of some gut issues. My guilt manifests into true physical pain in the form of a head ache and the discomfort of my belly and even my chest flutters with some PVC's. Today I don't have to beat myself up because I feel beaten up. I won't back down from this task, even though I feel less than worthy of reading the scripture, because in my heart I know this would serve Satan instead of God.
I read over my thoughts I have prepared for the service, and realize they speak to me even more today than when I wrote them. Did God know about my purge before I did it? OF course he did. My thoughts. I look out into the congregation and I see people that love the Lord, but I also see people like myself that are broken, sick, or facing a struggle or two or three......Maybe some of you aren't in those shoes right now and I praise Jesus for your healing and redemption in your lives. While at the same time feeling a little slighted that I am still waiting. So I, like most of you find myself still desiring healing, recovery, and complete restoration. The world tells me I will possibly manage my symptoms and or struggles, but never be really free of them. Maybe you have experienced the same thing from well meaning people, counselors, or physicians in your lives? I find myself thinking again, is there such a thing as a full recovery and totally arrested symptoms for what ails me or what ails you? Once again, I have no clue what God has in store for you, for me, but I try not to get too discouraged because I know my God loves me and you. He is with us! I NEED to believe in a full recovery for me and for you, or this battle we fight every day would be futile......without hope. This is just what Satan wants us to feel; hopeless! But I know this isn't God's will for you or for me.
When I am tired and weary I remind myself to turn to God the Father and still "dare to hope." I also try to remember that sometimes we don't need to take some giant leap of faith, but just walk in faith and hope one small step at a time.
"His mercies never cease" I cling to this today and wonder if I can except His mercy and grace for me: That same mercy and grace that I stand and encourage the congregation to accept. It is easier for me to extend this invitation to the congregation, than accept it for myself. Yes, I blew it again, but "his mercies begin afresh each morning." I hear God speak to me "Hope Liz, you must continue to hope. Meditate on this scripture. I will be good to you as you continue to search for me. I will be merciful with you each new day. Show others mercy, but accept mine and show yourself mercy and wait on me."
And if a personal word isn't enough God seems to send me a confirmation of his words in a song, Crave by King and Country.
I won't turn to dust now
Let these tears rust now
On my face
Give me the spark now
To believe, to see
Hope is what we crave
And that will never change
So I stand and wait
I need a drop of grace
To carry me today
A simple song to say
It's written on my soul:
Hope's what we crave
So today I will wait and I will dare to hope for my spark of healing even through my tears.
Monday, October 13, 2014
Work!
"1 Chronicles 28:20 (NIV) " Be strong, be courageous, and do the work. Do not be afraid or discouraged for the Lord you God my God is with you.
I find myself in a situation that has caused me stress and heartache as I worry about one of my precious children. The details aren't important right now, but how I deal with it is. I have always been a stress non-eater, but because I am so fresh into some semblance of recovery I am aware that I could easily use this as an excuse to dive right back into restricting. I know the eating disorder can sneak up and grab me from behind like a bandit and quickly pull me back into its snare. I hesitate, but finally admit this to my therapist. Part of me may still want it, but most of me wants it to get the fuck out of my life.
Although she has actually used the term recovery (Oh how I need to hear this) with me lately, and that I am not "knee deep" in the Eating Disorder, I feel it calling for me every day. It feels like I am still caught in its web of symptoms. At times I am free from some of the symptoms, but never all of them at one time. I feel like a fly stuck in a spiders web. Its whole body can be free of the web, but as long as just the tip of its wing is stuck it isn't able to fly. I want to fly! No, I want to soar. I am so sick and tired of this illness. I am tired of caring about my food, my exercise, my weight, my body!
I believe that it is good that I am getting pissed off at it, but I am also frustrated as I don't know how to make all this stuff not matter. I have been strong, courageous, and worked my fucking ass off, and it is still there whether I like it or not. It lingers in my head calling for me like a relentless telemarketer, no matter how many times I hang up on it. I find myself irritated every time my therapist says "that is how powerful the eating disorder is still." Fuck the eating disorder! Doesn't she see, or anyone see, that I don't want to give it power, it takes it. I don't want this anymore than someone wants cancer, Parkinson's, or any other life-threatening illness. Why is mental illness a choice, but cancer and other illness aren't? Actually eating disorders are seen as a choice more than other mental illness, like Bi-Polar, Major Depressive Disorder, or schizophrenia. No one chooses any mental illness. I didn't choose this, it chose me. Sometimes I wonder if allow myself to still purge occasionally, because I don't feel like anyone believes I can truly be symptom free, except maybe Rich. I stare at the toilet, sink, wherever I am and think "what the hell! may as well purge." I need to start thinking fuck you the eating disorder and those who don't believe I can ever be totally free. I believe in my God. And I know he can transform my mind because he promises me this. Can I believe in me? Is there such a thing as full recovery and arrested symptoms? I have no clue, but I try not to get discouraged because God is with me. I need to believe in the possibility of full recovery, or this fight would be futile; Without hope!
I go back and find hope again in Romans 12:2 (NIV) "Do not be transformed my the patterns of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve of what God's will is - his good, pleasing and perfect will." I don't know what this will look like or when my healing will be complete, but this I know for sure; This is not God's will for me the rest of my life. I love how the (NLT) reads, "let God transform" My only job is to step out in faith and trust him. The transformation is his job. I am so exhausted from the fight, but I believe I can find the faith and energy to take one small step at a time. I may not know how to make a giant leap, but I do know how to press through fatigue one step at a time. I do this when I run, even if I have to stop and walk, I always mange to finish the race.
I remind myself of this today as I leave my therapist's office feeling more than overwhelmed as she lists all the different pieces of my eating disorder. I restrict, exercise, purge, and yes I know I have an inaccurate body image. I think "please don't say it, please don't say it!" She says it "It's complicated!" I hear "you are complicated." I try to process what is said. Is it (eating disorders) complicated, am I complicating my recovery, or am I complicated? For a second I am back in second grade asking the teacher for help and she points her finger at me "you need to stop asking questions. You are a nuisance." I know that isn't what my therapist is saying, but it is what I am feeling in the moment. I feel like she thinks there is something more I could or should be doing, but I have no clue what. And just like second grade I am trying to find the answer to questions I am not sure I even understand. I try not to feel hopeless since I am not helpless with God on my side.
There are somethings I can choose to do around the eating disorder. I can choose to eat even when I am not hungry because I do need nourishment. I can choose to keep my food in, and to take a day off from working out. I can even choose to stay off the scale. What I can't seem to choose are my thoughts about food, weight and my body. I can't choose to enjoy food and find pleasure in the taste or texture without first thinking about what my body will do with it. I can't choose to take a day off from working out with out feeling guilty or that my body will turn to mush over night. It is this internal struggle that wears me out, and leaves me wondering if I will ever be free. Is that why my therapist finds this so "heat breaking?" Is it because she believes I will never truly be free and will simply have to learn live in the gray? I try not to let myself go there, because it too breaks my heart.
While others can look at me and see a "perfect" body, I rarely can see it. Even on those days that I see my body through others' eyes, it is hard for me to appreciate it because I know the price I have paid to achieve it. It is just reminder of my eating disordered life. It is like looking at the scars left behind after open heart surgery, or cancer, it is always a reminder of discomfort, pain and suffering.
I go back and find hope again in Romans 12:2 (NIV) "Do not be transformed my the patterns of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve of what God's will is - his good, pleasing and perfect will." I don't know what this will look like or when my healing will be complete, but this I know for sure; This is not God's will for me the rest of my life. I love how the (NLT) reads, "let God transform" My only job is to step out in faith and trust him. The transformation is his job. I am so exhausted from the fight, but I believe I can find the faith and energy to take one small step at a time. I may not know how to make a giant leap, but I do know how to press through fatigue one step at a time. I do this when I run, even if I have to stop and walk, I always mange to finish the race.
I remind myself of this today as I leave my therapist's office feeling more than overwhelmed as she lists all the different pieces of my eating disorder. I restrict, exercise, purge, and yes I know I have an inaccurate body image. I think "please don't say it, please don't say it!" She says it "It's complicated!" I hear "you are complicated." I try to process what is said. Is it (eating disorders) complicated, am I complicating my recovery, or am I complicated? For a second I am back in second grade asking the teacher for help and she points her finger at me "you need to stop asking questions. You are a nuisance." I know that isn't what my therapist is saying, but it is what I am feeling in the moment. I feel like she thinks there is something more I could or should be doing, but I have no clue what. And just like second grade I am trying to find the answer to questions I am not sure I even understand. I try not to feel hopeless since I am not helpless with God on my side.
There are somethings I can choose to do around the eating disorder. I can choose to eat even when I am not hungry because I do need nourishment. I can choose to keep my food in, and to take a day off from working out. I can even choose to stay off the scale. What I can't seem to choose are my thoughts about food, weight and my body. I can't choose to enjoy food and find pleasure in the taste or texture without first thinking about what my body will do with it. I can't choose to take a day off from working out with out feeling guilty or that my body will turn to mush over night. It is this internal struggle that wears me out, and leaves me wondering if I will ever be free. Is that why my therapist finds this so "heat breaking?" Is it because she believes I will never truly be free and will simply have to learn live in the gray? I try not to let myself go there, because it too breaks my heart.
While others can look at me and see a "perfect" body, I rarely can see it. Even on those days that I see my body through others' eyes, it is hard for me to appreciate it because I know the price I have paid to achieve it. It is just reminder of my eating disordered life. It is like looking at the scars left behind after open heart surgery, or cancer, it is always a reminder of discomfort, pain and suffering.
Thursday, October 2, 2014
Body
Body
Psalm 139:13-16 ”You formed the way I think and feel.
You
put me together in my mother’s womb.
14
I praise you because you made me in such a wonderful way
I
know how amazing that was!
15
You could see my bones grow as my body took shape,
Hidden
in my mother’s womb.
16
You could see my body grow each passing day.
You
listed all my parts, and not one of them was missing.
My deepest wish today is to walk past my sacred mirror and
not be enslaved to scanning my body from head to toe to critique it and point
out the real or perceived flaws that can make or break my day. Actually my deepest wish would be to
walk past the sacred mirror and see the image of the amazing wonderful person
God formed in my mother’s womb. To
stop and gaze at this wonderful body as God did watching my bones grow as my body
took shape. How lovely to imagine God
watching his creation (me) grow with each passing day. I remember how I watched in awe from
the outside as my belly expanded with each passing day, not realizing fully the
miracle unfolding in my womb, I can only imagine God’s awe and pride in seeing
his design (me) taking shape in the womb.
I cannot begin know how sad and confused he must be by my
dissatisfaction with my body that he made in such a wonderful way. I have spent most my life thinking,
writing and talking about hating my body when I should be praising him for how
wonderfully he made me inside and out. I should know how amazing he made me and
praise him for that, yet I continue to find fault.
I know that some of this is the eating disorder talking, but
I also believe that women, in our culture are expected to have some degree of
dissatisfaction with our bodies, so it feels prideful or arrogant to just say
thank you when someone compliments our bodies. We aren’t supposed to love our
bodies, but starve them, work them out, and then we are still supposed to
criticize them for not being enough. We somehow have bought into the lies that we are
simply never enough inside or out. I also feel fraudulent, as I know the price I have paid to
attain this "Perfect" body that I rarely see. Social
norms coupled with the eating disorder feeds the poor body image, which in
reality is poor self-image. I
would, because of the eating disorder prefer that people not comment on my body
at all. For those of us that
struggle with, or against our bodies, these comments just create confusion. If I look “good” is this good, or is it
“bad?” When I hear people comment
that I look good, all I hear is “you have gained weight.” When they say I look
“bad,” I hear you are too thin. If
I am not careful both breath life into the eating disorder that hasn’t fully
arrested.
I am frustrated that I continue to find my identity in the
eating disorder instead of who I am in Christ. “Imagine a woman who refuses to use her life energy
disguising the change in her body and life” (Patricia Lynn Reilly). I have wasted so much of my life energy
on my body. I am so much more than my body. My deepest wish would be that I could see my body as Christ
sees it and allow my life energy of the Holy Spirit to burn brightly for all to
see. I regularly dim this light of
the Father as I spend my life energy focused on disliking my body. How can I possibly shine His love for
all of us, when I don’t love this body that he made in a wonderful way? I wonder which comes first loving this
body or the amazing woman that lives within?
I decide that today I am going to go through my usual ritual
of approaching the sacred mirror and stand naked before it, but I am not
allowed say anything negative about it.
I am just going to stand and praise God for how wonderfully made I
am. This is going to be rough and
far out of my comfort zone. Am I
allowed to like my body or at least parts of it? I feel God strongly calling be to go with it, so I do.
I start at the top of my head, and it feels awkward and
un-natural since I always start with my belly. I look at my hair the way it falls straight softly framing
my face. I have come to like my
brown poker straight hair. It has
been short, long, and everywhere in between. I really do have great hair and I like the way it is thick
and full. I love to change it up
with my mood knowing it will quickly grow from short to long so I can change it
up time and time again. I rarely
have a bad hair day. I would love
to let it go gray just to see what it would look like, but it seems like more
work than coloring it.
I grew up believing I was less than beautiful because my
eyes weren’t blue like my mother’s.
My eyes are dark brown like my father’s eyes and grandmother’s. I felt like it was my fault and I had
somehow let her down by having brown eyes. I was too young to understand
genetics at the time. I hated my
brown eyes until the days of Van Morrison and Jimmy Buffett’s Brown-Eyed Girl.
When my husband began calling me his brown-eyed girl I decided my eyes were the
perfect color. Is there even a
song about blue eyed girls? I tell
everyone that this is one song that will be played in celebration of my brown
eyes at my funeral. And yes, I had
some work done to take away the bags the rested under them since my childhood. I like them even better now, but I no
longer wish for blue eyes.
I take a moment and look into my eyes and think about being
the apple of God’s eye. It is hard to look myself in the eyes searching for
beauty when I am used to seeing ashes. I believe I am beginning to see that he
never meant for me to be ashes.
Then I allow my eyes scan my face noticing my freckles. I love my freckles and how they change
like objects of nature with the seasons.
They bud in the warmth of the spring sun, bloom like wild flowers in the
long days of summer’s light: becoming abundant and rich in color. My freckles begin to fade away with the
sinking sun of fall and then almost disappear; hibernating like bears in winter
until spring’s sun once again calls them forth.
There is a slight cleft in my chin that makes me feel unique
and special. No clue as to why,
but I have always felt it distinctive, my own unique beauty mark. I have always wanted to be pretty and
today as I look at my face I am pleased with what I see.
So my brown eyes wander to my body, as I stand naked….Now
What? I like that I am tallish for a woman, and am evenly proportioned. Weight gets evenly distributed when and
if I decide to gain it. I love my
broad shoulders that either came from years of swimming butterfly, or made
butterfly my best stoke. Either
way I like them and the way clothes hang from them down the length of my long
arms. My long arms glide
gracefully through the water or make it difficult to go over or around with a
tennis ball. According to my
coach, I have the wingspan of a 747.
This is good for tennis, but also reaching the top shelves in the
grocery, reaching to the sky in praise and worship, and group hugs. I like that
they are well muscled and look good in tank tops.
I stare at my breasts, which are unremarkable, but then I
remember seeing them in the reflection of the TV attached to the
treadmill. They have filled out
slightly and they have a nice feminine rise and fall to them as I run. Right now it is the best of both worlds. I can see the subtle fullness as they
rise and I can see my ribs across my chest as they fall. With the right bra on I no longer look
shapeless. I stop for a moment to
mourn the bones I once treasured concealed beneath my flesh. I am okay, and as friend after friend
loses some or all of a breast to Breast cancer I am grateful mine are both
intact covering the bones I once treasured. I find myself gently touching my small biopsy scar.
I turn around to look at my back. How am I going to do this? I grab a small hand mirror turning in all sorts of
directions until I can see most of it.
Wow, I am surprised to realize that it has just the right amount of
muscle that strikes a balance between strong and sexy. I think I like it and imagine slipping into
a dress that would accentuate this strength and beauty. It also still has the slight V shape
that either allowed me to be a great swimmer, or came from countless hours in
the pool.
I notice the small of my back how it is gently sloped and
meets the top of my pelvis The first thing that comes to mind isn’t what I see,
but what I feel. I feel a warmth
of affection move through me as I think of how many times my husband has rested
his hand in this very spot as he walks beside me or holds me in his arms. The
small of my back, I decide is just perfect. My eyes start to glance at my flesh just above my pelvis on
my flank. Since I can’t say anything nice, I stop myself and move on.
My ass? I still
really don’t have an ass right now.
I miss my once high shapely rock hard ass, but until I can lift again, I
am happy that it is small and tight.
I notice the area on the side of my hips where the glutes melt into my
legs. I love my legs and the
dancers hollow that is the space between the two. It is an indication of my athleticism. It is something that I have never set
out to create, but just happens from running, swimming, and skiing. I love that I don’t have to work for it
and that it is sexy.
I have always liked my legs they are long, well proportioned,
and muscled. I like the definition
in my quads, that I can pick see each of the four muscles that comprise my
thigh. I turn sideways and admire
the line along the side of my legs the separate the anterior muscles from the
posterior muscles of my hamstrings.
I grab the hand mirror once again to see that my hamstrings are defined
as well. I like the fact that they
are strong and have carried me through all of my days, sometimes walking and
often running. I love the way my
legs look when I wear heels, but quite frankly prefer running shoes and my
cowboy boots.
I stand and stare at myself wondering if I could love
this body as it is let alone with more weight on it.
Did I love it when I was I carried more weight? I find myself baffled by my own
question, because I can only assess what I see right now reflecting back at
me. Although I am not at my
thinnest, I am still not at my goal weight (what is it anyways). Would I still love these same parts of
me that I am able to love today? Is it a risk I am willing to take?
One thing I am sure of is that I am grateful that despite
all I have put it through, it still carries me through this journey! My deepest wish is that one day I can see my body and love it not just for its appearance, but the amazing woman living beneath the surface.
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
Mirror, Mirror.....We Are All The Fairest of Them All
Romans 6:13 "Do not let any part of your body become an instrument for evil to serve sin. Instead give yourself completely to God, for you were dead, but now you have a new life. So now use your whole body as an instrument to do what is right for the glory of God" (NLT)
The sun began to peak through my shades as my puppy nipped at my nose, both indicating that it was time to get out of my cozy bed and face the day. It has been difficult to rise each morning since have relapsed and developed a tormenting nerve dysfunction. I have come to dread those moments when I first open my eyes and begin to take inventory of my pain level. I am grateful that I seem to be having a few good days here and there. It gives me hope that there will come a day when the symptoms will subside. Regardless of the nerve pain I am still bound by the habits of the eating disorder rituals I put my self through before I even begin my day. I stroll pass the mirrors over the sinks on my way to use the bathroom and lift my pajama top to check my torso from hip bones to ribs. It is just quick check to see if I have morphed into something resembling my mother. My belly looks okay straight on, but how will it look in the full length mirror naked from all angles. My flank as always disgusts me from every angle. I survey my face, and cup my breast in the palms of my hands to check for fullness of both. Do they both seem fuller? Are they fuller? I am not sure how much longer I can stay off the scale despite the fact that my "skinny" jeans still fit? I know the reflection I see, is not always accurate and I am in desperate need for some empirical data that I am okay.
How can I possibly use my body as an instrument to do what is right for the glory of God while depriving it nourishment, hating it scrutinizing it, and not appreciating it for the gift that it is? As I now stare in the full length mirror surveying my body from every angle and judging it, I realize how sad it must make God, my father, that I dislike even one inch of this body that he carefully knit together stitch by stitch in my mother's womb, but I do. I find some irony that this same mother who was entrusted with such a gift within her womb, was the one who taught me to hate it. I seem to forget that I am first and foremost his precious daughter.
Despite the recommendation of my husband, therapist, and pastor, I step up to the sacred alter of the scale. I check the locker room making sure that it is empty. This is one of those rituals, like my body scan, I prefer to do away from prying eyes. I imagine God holding my hand as I step on the scale and I try not to panic. I get everything set just right and step up one foot, then the next. I move the weight across the lever of the scale. It rests slightly above the 116 lbs that I have hovered around for over a year. I quickly step down. I am still alone and I take a deep cleansing breath. It isn't as low as I would like, but not as high as I feared. I feel like I do when I have an epic "yard sale" wipe-out on my skis. You know, the type when you fall head over heals down the mountain leaving your gear scattered all over the trail and take a quick inventory of your limbs and head to make sure you are in tact? Once you realize there is nothing broken, except your pride, you gather your shit stand up and continue down the mountain hoping no one saw you.
I step off the scale and take an emotional inventory. How am I? How do I feel? Does this change who I am? Am I different than the moment before I stepped on the scale. I take another long cleansing breath as I realize I am okay and there doesn't appear to be anything broken. I am not broken, in this snap shot of time, I am okay.
I find that I am more conscious about my food today and my body, but try to eat and not restrict even though I am a little nervous. It is like getting back on my skis with my heart pounding and legs quivering, as I ski the rest of the way down the trail after the fall. Two days later after weighing myself, I find myself trying to moving forward, although a little more tentative and cautious with my food and body. This is ok and just like skiing, as long as I am pointed in the right direction, I will eventually finish the run with my heart pounding and my legs quivering.
I walk into my therapist's office and confess right away that I had made my way to the sacred scale. I assure her that, while I am okay, I am still trying to process how I feel about my body. I am not sure if I am seeing my reflection accurately and don't like it, or if the fat I see doesn't really exist at all but is a figment of my imagination. I am not sure what about my body is real and what isn't. I am so frustrated and confused. I am pretty sure that I am seeing myself accurately, but just don't like it. I guess she isn't so sure that I see my body and its "fat' with any clarity. She asks me to walk with her to the bathroom and show her the "fat" on my torso and she will show me her torso for comparison. My anxiety and also a sense of shame escalates in the 30 seconds it takes to walk to the bathroom. I wonder if she is going to say something like others have said to me when I complain of feeling thick and fat. I usually get "now how do you think that makes me feel?" Others just don't understand that those of us with eating disorders aren't just unsure of our bodies, but the soul residing within it. I am becoming more sure of the soul that resides in the body, but there is still some sort of limbic lag that won't allow my body image to catch up with my soul.
I have never thought about my therapist's weight or taken notice of her body before, so this feels awkward to me. I see her kindness, intelligence, compassion, and skill, but not her weight. I try to remember my first impression of her appearance. I was drawn to her gorgeous eyes, wide easy smile, and great hair. I guess because of where I sit across from her I was also aware of her feet. Ugh! I have always been self conscious of my worn battered feet and toes, and she has fucking perfect feet! She had an air of class and confidence that initially intimidated me, but once she swore...I knew I was comfortable, in good hands and could relate to her, and her perfect feet! I could even take my shoes off to tuck my gnarly feet up under me. This exercise, however pushed me way out of my comfort zone with her. I am used to scanning and judging my body, but I don't scan or judge others' bodies.
We stand side by side (I feel like I am going to throw up). She has me lift up my shirt as she lifts hers. She points to the spots that are scars from her gall bladder surgery. Fuck, what if she sees the scars from my own hands on my body? I am relived they appear to have faded or hidden in my skin darkened from the sun. She has me look at her white belly and then look at mine. The first thing I notice is the difference in color not size. To me, she just looks a little round, solid, but I don't see fat. Her skin is smooth and free of "rolls". This is feeling very awkward and intimate, but I trust her, so I continue on. I turn sideways (always to the left), I point out the roundness of my belly and the flesh I hate that sits on the back of my waist. She points at my hip bones that jut out (not like they used to) and reveals that she can't even see her hip bones. I point out that I can't stand anything sticking out past the points of my hip bones. Then she turns side ways and runs her hand along her torso pointing out how it is rounded and soft how women were designed. She asks me to touch her. I am tentative, as she encourages me to see that she is soft and fleshy. She is softer than she looks. And she reminds me that the flesh on my flank is from babies. I remind myself that this is true. Not only is it from them, it was for them to have room to grow. I am sad that I feel that way about the part of my body that allowed for my greatest treasures in my life....my boys. I feel myself blink back tears.
It is days later and I am still trying process my bathroom session. I am a slow processor and was so overwhelmed that it isn't until I journal for hours in the car and re-live the experience that I can express how I truly experienced the session. Not only was I exposing my body to my therapist, but part of my rituals that no one has ever seen. I know that people see my body in the gym, locker rooms, in bathing suits, but I have never had anyone watch me look at my body in the sacred mirror, or touch me while in the process. She turns me around and touches the hollows (dimples) of my pelvic girdle where I have little flesh. I didn't realize she would touch me, I was startled, as I always am when I don't see touch coming, but really I am ok with it. I still, after 28 years can be jumpy if I don't realize Kurt is going to touch me. I am shocked as I realize that I still carry this response to sudden touching of my body. Oh how the body remembers trauma.
The power of this exercise isn't just standing side by side and seeing our bodies, but the intimacy of letting her into my ritual world. The only thing worse would be purging with her watching me! She knows so much about me and now I think to my self she has, with my permission, breeched the "final frontier"of my sacred world. It was so different as she stood inches from me looking me in the eyes, not across the room with her in her chair and me on the couch (looking at her feet). There isn't much space in the small confines of the restroom for me to move away or even look away. My body wasn't the only thing exposed that day and I feel very vulnerable and transparent in the small space.
We talk for a few moments about her body not changing what I think about her, and mine doesn't change who I am. I feel exposed and necessarily violated as I do when treated for my nerve. I am uncomfortable, but hoping the discomfort and humiliation will be worth it. She hugged me while telling me I was okay. I frankly didn't realize the intensity of my emotions until I felt the symptoms of my nerve flaring as a result of my whole limbic system processing and recalling the event.
I am a slow processor especially when it comes to understanding me. What I think was supposed to be an exercise to allow me to see my body with some clarity morphed into an exercise on trust!
The sun began to peak through my shades as my puppy nipped at my nose, both indicating that it was time to get out of my cozy bed and face the day. It has been difficult to rise each morning since have relapsed and developed a tormenting nerve dysfunction. I have come to dread those moments when I first open my eyes and begin to take inventory of my pain level. I am grateful that I seem to be having a few good days here and there. It gives me hope that there will come a day when the symptoms will subside. Regardless of the nerve pain I am still bound by the habits of the eating disorder rituals I put my self through before I even begin my day. I stroll pass the mirrors over the sinks on my way to use the bathroom and lift my pajama top to check my torso from hip bones to ribs. It is just quick check to see if I have morphed into something resembling my mother. My belly looks okay straight on, but how will it look in the full length mirror naked from all angles. My flank as always disgusts me from every angle. I survey my face, and cup my breast in the palms of my hands to check for fullness of both. Do they both seem fuller? Are they fuller? I am not sure how much longer I can stay off the scale despite the fact that my "skinny" jeans still fit? I know the reflection I see, is not always accurate and I am in desperate need for some empirical data that I am okay.
How can I possibly use my body as an instrument to do what is right for the glory of God while depriving it nourishment, hating it scrutinizing it, and not appreciating it for the gift that it is? As I now stare in the full length mirror surveying my body from every angle and judging it, I realize how sad it must make God, my father, that I dislike even one inch of this body that he carefully knit together stitch by stitch in my mother's womb, but I do. I find some irony that this same mother who was entrusted with such a gift within her womb, was the one who taught me to hate it. I seem to forget that I am first and foremost his precious daughter.
Despite the recommendation of my husband, therapist, and pastor, I step up to the sacred alter of the scale. I check the locker room making sure that it is empty. This is one of those rituals, like my body scan, I prefer to do away from prying eyes. I imagine God holding my hand as I step on the scale and I try not to panic. I get everything set just right and step up one foot, then the next. I move the weight across the lever of the scale. It rests slightly above the 116 lbs that I have hovered around for over a year. I quickly step down. I am still alone and I take a deep cleansing breath. It isn't as low as I would like, but not as high as I feared. I feel like I do when I have an epic "yard sale" wipe-out on my skis. You know, the type when you fall head over heals down the mountain leaving your gear scattered all over the trail and take a quick inventory of your limbs and head to make sure you are in tact? Once you realize there is nothing broken, except your pride, you gather your shit stand up and continue down the mountain hoping no one saw you.
I step off the scale and take an emotional inventory. How am I? How do I feel? Does this change who I am? Am I different than the moment before I stepped on the scale. I take another long cleansing breath as I realize I am okay and there doesn't appear to be anything broken. I am not broken, in this snap shot of time, I am okay.
I find that I am more conscious about my food today and my body, but try to eat and not restrict even though I am a little nervous. It is like getting back on my skis with my heart pounding and legs quivering, as I ski the rest of the way down the trail after the fall. Two days later after weighing myself, I find myself trying to moving forward, although a little more tentative and cautious with my food and body. This is ok and just like skiing, as long as I am pointed in the right direction, I will eventually finish the run with my heart pounding and my legs quivering.
I walk into my therapist's office and confess right away that I had made my way to the sacred scale. I assure her that, while I am okay, I am still trying to process how I feel about my body. I am not sure if I am seeing my reflection accurately and don't like it, or if the fat I see doesn't really exist at all but is a figment of my imagination. I am not sure what about my body is real and what isn't. I am so frustrated and confused. I am pretty sure that I am seeing myself accurately, but just don't like it. I guess she isn't so sure that I see my body and its "fat' with any clarity. She asks me to walk with her to the bathroom and show her the "fat" on my torso and she will show me her torso for comparison. My anxiety and also a sense of shame escalates in the 30 seconds it takes to walk to the bathroom. I wonder if she is going to say something like others have said to me when I complain of feeling thick and fat. I usually get "now how do you think that makes me feel?" Others just don't understand that those of us with eating disorders aren't just unsure of our bodies, but the soul residing within it. I am becoming more sure of the soul that resides in the body, but there is still some sort of limbic lag that won't allow my body image to catch up with my soul.
I have never thought about my therapist's weight or taken notice of her body before, so this feels awkward to me. I see her kindness, intelligence, compassion, and skill, but not her weight. I try to remember my first impression of her appearance. I was drawn to her gorgeous eyes, wide easy smile, and great hair. I guess because of where I sit across from her I was also aware of her feet. Ugh! I have always been self conscious of my worn battered feet and toes, and she has fucking perfect feet! She had an air of class and confidence that initially intimidated me, but once she swore...I knew I was comfortable, in good hands and could relate to her, and her perfect feet! I could even take my shoes off to tuck my gnarly feet up under me. This exercise, however pushed me way out of my comfort zone with her. I am used to scanning and judging my body, but I don't scan or judge others' bodies.
We stand side by side (I feel like I am going to throw up). She has me lift up my shirt as she lifts hers. She points to the spots that are scars from her gall bladder surgery. Fuck, what if she sees the scars from my own hands on my body? I am relived they appear to have faded or hidden in my skin darkened from the sun. She has me look at her white belly and then look at mine. The first thing I notice is the difference in color not size. To me, she just looks a little round, solid, but I don't see fat. Her skin is smooth and free of "rolls". This is feeling very awkward and intimate, but I trust her, so I continue on. I turn sideways (always to the left), I point out the roundness of my belly and the flesh I hate that sits on the back of my waist. She points at my hip bones that jut out (not like they used to) and reveals that she can't even see her hip bones. I point out that I can't stand anything sticking out past the points of my hip bones. Then she turns side ways and runs her hand along her torso pointing out how it is rounded and soft how women were designed. She asks me to touch her. I am tentative, as she encourages me to see that she is soft and fleshy. She is softer than she looks. And she reminds me that the flesh on my flank is from babies. I remind myself that this is true. Not only is it from them, it was for them to have room to grow. I am sad that I feel that way about the part of my body that allowed for my greatest treasures in my life....my boys. I feel myself blink back tears.
It is days later and I am still trying process my bathroom session. I am a slow processor and was so overwhelmed that it isn't until I journal for hours in the car and re-live the experience that I can express how I truly experienced the session. Not only was I exposing my body to my therapist, but part of my rituals that no one has ever seen. I know that people see my body in the gym, locker rooms, in bathing suits, but I have never had anyone watch me look at my body in the sacred mirror, or touch me while in the process. She turns me around and touches the hollows (dimples) of my pelvic girdle where I have little flesh. I didn't realize she would touch me, I was startled, as I always am when I don't see touch coming, but really I am ok with it. I still, after 28 years can be jumpy if I don't realize Kurt is going to touch me. I am shocked as I realize that I still carry this response to sudden touching of my body. Oh how the body remembers trauma.
The power of this exercise isn't just standing side by side and seeing our bodies, but the intimacy of letting her into my ritual world. The only thing worse would be purging with her watching me! She knows so much about me and now I think to my self she has, with my permission, breeched the "final frontier"of my sacred world. It was so different as she stood inches from me looking me in the eyes, not across the room with her in her chair and me on the couch (looking at her feet). There isn't much space in the small confines of the restroom for me to move away or even look away. My body wasn't the only thing exposed that day and I feel very vulnerable and transparent in the small space.
We talk for a few moments about her body not changing what I think about her, and mine doesn't change who I am. I feel exposed and necessarily violated as I do when treated for my nerve. I am uncomfortable, but hoping the discomfort and humiliation will be worth it. She hugged me while telling me I was okay. I frankly didn't realize the intensity of my emotions until I felt the symptoms of my nerve flaring as a result of my whole limbic system processing and recalling the event.
I am a slow processor especially when it comes to understanding me. What I think was supposed to be an exercise to allow me to see my body with some clarity morphed into an exercise on trust!
Friday, September 5, 2014
Quiet Is Not Silence
Quiet Is Not Silence!
Isaiah 18:44 "For the Lord has told me this 'I will watch quietly from my dwelling place - as quietly as heat rises on a summer day, or as the morning dew forms during the harvest" (NLT)
Zechariah 2:6 "for whoever touches you touches the apple of his eye - "
I am home from San Francisco and from my final weekend in Walloon, aka My Happy Place! And I find my self trusting that even though God appears to be silent when it comes to my afflictions, that he is indeed watching quietly from his dwelling place. I sometimes confuse his quiet presence with silence. I am discouraged many days as I still struggle with the nerve damage and the eating disorder, but God has not been silent, he has just been quiet. I find that I need to quiet my self and stay in the moment to hear his voice whispering quietly that I will be okay. I seem to be hearing this when I am still and keeping my focus on him and who he says I am in him. I hear his whisper today as I take the paddle board out on the water. It is quiet, it is peaceful as the sun's reflections mirrors God's radiance back at me, and in the whisper of the wind I hear him speak to me "Liz you are going to be okay, you have always been okay, you are the apple of my eye"
My nerve pain isn't necessarily better than before I traveled to San Francisco this time. I am actually worse for a few days and my symptoms flare like a raging fire. I find myself doubled up on the bathroom floor with pain gripping my body from my waist to my knees. There isn't much I can do, but wait it out and hope it last 5-10 minutes, not 30 minutes. It feels like the contractions that come during the transition stage of labor and all you want is to grab the nurse by the neck demanding an epidural. In my episode of pain, I remember that I AM better than I was 4 months ago and try not to panic. I believe God is watching, growing and strengthening me to be the person in Christ he intends for me to be, but it is painful.
So, what does a person with an eating disorder do when they feel pain, apparently physically as well as emotionally? Well this person turns back to it. I face the fact that my physical pain is emotional because it is in these times that I feel God has gone silent on me and I feel alone. It is the emotional pain of feeling abandoned by my heavenly father that tears at me. So I purge, hurting my body on my own terms once again. When the pain both physical and emotional subside, I turn back to God. I am so grateful that my God is always loving and always forgiving. Is my purge my "fuck you" to God for allowing the pain? Maybe, I have never really though about it that way before. I know that people reading my story are sometimes shocked by my words, after all how can a woman of God use such language. Here is the thing, and I don't pretend to be a great theologian, but whether I write the words or say them out loud, God already knows just what I am thinking and feeling, but He still loves me and I am still the "apple of his eye." He loves me through the pain, and I like to think He appreciates my honesty (maybe not my choice of words.) He can handle my anger. He can handle all of our anger as he watches from his dwelling place waiting for us to calm down and return quietly to him. He rocks!
I wake with a well deserved headache and my heart throwing numerous PVC's from the purging. I admit to myself that it does concern me, just a little, and I wonder how much damage I have really done to my body over the years. The wondering moves like a freight train coming at me, from concern to fear as I attend the funeral of a friend who suffered for years from eating disorders and addictions. Her body, in her mid forties, just more or less gave out. I can't go back and repair what I have already done, but can I stop the train from plunging off the cliff?
The Priest's message, for this almost Pentecostal woman, was simple and beautiful. Here is all I need to say "Help me Jesus and I am sorry" I know that there are earthly consequences for the choices I have made, but he wants to help me and he will forgive me. I broke down sobbing like a child, not just in grief for my old friend and her family that loved her desperately, but tears for myself. Tears for the time I did cry out "Jesus Help Me, I Am Sorry!" I am overwhelmed with thanksgiving as I realize that the times I didn't "feel" his presence, He was still there watching quietly from his dwelling place waiting for the right moment to reach down and "Help Me." How do I know he was watching? The answer is simple; I know this because I am here. Had he abandoned me and gone silent, I would have surely perished either in the eating disorder or my own hands.
Close, I was so close to hurting myself and allowing myself to succumb to the eating disorder as a less "messy" suicide. I now understand how, for some, that life just seems like too much. It can be excruciating, and we don't want to leave our children, families, and friends to grieve, and pick up the pieces, but we don't want to live in the pain the leaves us feeling lifeless either. Such is the dilemma for those who contemplate life and death? I am glad I chose to live because I am not as sick or as in much pain physically or emotionally as I was. What if I hadn't waited it out? What if I hadn't trusted God to watch over me from his dwelling place and strengthen my faith to trust that he himself would lift my beleaguered body to its feet. Daniel 8:18 (NLT) " While he was speaking to me, I was in a deep sleep with my face to the ground. Then He touched me and raised me to my feet."
Had I not chosen life, my glorious summer full of laughter and joy wouldn't have happened. My family's and friends' memorable summer wouldn't have happened. Well, summer would have happened, as time stands still for none of us, but the memorable summer would have been replaced with a memorial, my memorial. So I stand on my feet watching the grieving family members of my friend file slowly down the aisle with tears stained faces, and I hope it is not too late for this body to press on. I also hope that this is something I can look back on when life sucks the life out of me, and remember what if I hadn't pushed through one more day......
Isaiah 18:44 "For the Lord has told me this 'I will watch quietly from my dwelling place - as quietly as heat rises on a summer day, or as the morning dew forms during the harvest" (NLT)
Zechariah 2:6 "for whoever touches you touches the apple of his eye - "
I am home from San Francisco and from my final weekend in Walloon, aka My Happy Place! And I find my self trusting that even though God appears to be silent when it comes to my afflictions, that he is indeed watching quietly from his dwelling place. I sometimes confuse his quiet presence with silence. I am discouraged many days as I still struggle with the nerve damage and the eating disorder, but God has not been silent, he has just been quiet. I find that I need to quiet my self and stay in the moment to hear his voice whispering quietly that I will be okay. I seem to be hearing this when I am still and keeping my focus on him and who he says I am in him. I hear his whisper today as I take the paddle board out on the water. It is quiet, it is peaceful as the sun's reflections mirrors God's radiance back at me, and in the whisper of the wind I hear him speak to me "Liz you are going to be okay, you have always been okay, you are the apple of my eye"
My nerve pain isn't necessarily better than before I traveled to San Francisco this time. I am actually worse for a few days and my symptoms flare like a raging fire. I find myself doubled up on the bathroom floor with pain gripping my body from my waist to my knees. There isn't much I can do, but wait it out and hope it last 5-10 minutes, not 30 minutes. It feels like the contractions that come during the transition stage of labor and all you want is to grab the nurse by the neck demanding an epidural. In my episode of pain, I remember that I AM better than I was 4 months ago and try not to panic. I believe God is watching, growing and strengthening me to be the person in Christ he intends for me to be, but it is painful.
So, what does a person with an eating disorder do when they feel pain, apparently physically as well as emotionally? Well this person turns back to it. I face the fact that my physical pain is emotional because it is in these times that I feel God has gone silent on me and I feel alone. It is the emotional pain of feeling abandoned by my heavenly father that tears at me. So I purge, hurting my body on my own terms once again. When the pain both physical and emotional subside, I turn back to God. I am so grateful that my God is always loving and always forgiving. Is my purge my "fuck you" to God for allowing the pain? Maybe, I have never really though about it that way before. I know that people reading my story are sometimes shocked by my words, after all how can a woman of God use such language. Here is the thing, and I don't pretend to be a great theologian, but whether I write the words or say them out loud, God already knows just what I am thinking and feeling, but He still loves me and I am still the "apple of his eye." He loves me through the pain, and I like to think He appreciates my honesty (maybe not my choice of words.) He can handle my anger. He can handle all of our anger as he watches from his dwelling place waiting for us to calm down and return quietly to him. He rocks!
I wake with a well deserved headache and my heart throwing numerous PVC's from the purging. I admit to myself that it does concern me, just a little, and I wonder how much damage I have really done to my body over the years. The wondering moves like a freight train coming at me, from concern to fear as I attend the funeral of a friend who suffered for years from eating disorders and addictions. Her body, in her mid forties, just more or less gave out. I can't go back and repair what I have already done, but can I stop the train from plunging off the cliff?
The Priest's message, for this almost Pentecostal woman, was simple and beautiful. Here is all I need to say "Help me Jesus and I am sorry" I know that there are earthly consequences for the choices I have made, but he wants to help me and he will forgive me. I broke down sobbing like a child, not just in grief for my old friend and her family that loved her desperately, but tears for myself. Tears for the time I did cry out "Jesus Help Me, I Am Sorry!" I am overwhelmed with thanksgiving as I realize that the times I didn't "feel" his presence, He was still there watching quietly from his dwelling place waiting for the right moment to reach down and "Help Me." How do I know he was watching? The answer is simple; I know this because I am here. Had he abandoned me and gone silent, I would have surely perished either in the eating disorder or my own hands.
Close, I was so close to hurting myself and allowing myself to succumb to the eating disorder as a less "messy" suicide. I now understand how, for some, that life just seems like too much. It can be excruciating, and we don't want to leave our children, families, and friends to grieve, and pick up the pieces, but we don't want to live in the pain the leaves us feeling lifeless either. Such is the dilemma for those who contemplate life and death? I am glad I chose to live because I am not as sick or as in much pain physically or emotionally as I was. What if I hadn't waited it out? What if I hadn't trusted God to watch over me from his dwelling place and strengthen my faith to trust that he himself would lift my beleaguered body to its feet. Daniel 8:18 (NLT) " While he was speaking to me, I was in a deep sleep with my face to the ground. Then He touched me and raised me to my feet."
Had I not chosen life, my glorious summer full of laughter and joy wouldn't have happened. My family's and friends' memorable summer wouldn't have happened. Well, summer would have happened, as time stands still for none of us, but the memorable summer would have been replaced with a memorial, my memorial. So I stand on my feet watching the grieving family members of my friend file slowly down the aisle with tears stained faces, and I hope it is not too late for this body to press on. I also hope that this is something I can look back on when life sucks the life out of me, and remember what if I hadn't pushed through one more day......
Sunday, August 31, 2014
Rain
James 5:15 & 18 15"Such a prayer offered in faith will heal the sick, and the Lord will make you well. And if you have committed sins, you will be forgiven. 18"Then he ( Elijah) prayed again, the sky sent down rain and the earth began to yield its crops" Parentheses added (NLT)
I still believe that God is my healer even though I have no clue why the illnesses I have endured persist. So, like the persistent widow, I will keep praying until the day of healing and victory. It is hard to stay persistent when I quite frankly, I don't feel like it. I have spent the last week alone in San Francisco receiving two hours of treatment daily and finally the ever pleasant nerve block. I worry that the treatment has caused me to flare up the symptoms a little. I try to not freak out about it and trust that God has it all figured out. I believe that he is sovereign and there is a lesson to be learned in all of this and I hope to find out sooner than later.
I am feeling so very low as I wait for the jet that will take me home. I hope that this will bringing out of the depression sneaking up on me. The symptoms of the eating disorder also flare despite my effort to eat as a normal person with out an eating disorder would eat. Again, not actually knowing what this looks like, I end up failing and purge. The first night, I do not beat myself up, but try to use it as an opportunity to figure out what triggered the event. I met a good friend that I hadn't seen in over a year for dinner. What are the chances of us being in San Francisco at the same time. It felt so good to see a familiar face in a strange city and to feel her embrace. Was it an issue of sabotaging the good times of my life once again? I think I often lose track of my food when I am present and engaged with people, then once alone, I panic. I have been feeling so thick and uncomfortable in my body lately that the panic, that I have been able to keep to an annoying drip like that of a leaky faucet, began to flow from a stream, to a river, to a cascading waterfall. Once It began there was no holding the food in. Where as sometimes I start the process and can hold it in check like turning on the faucet allowing a little to escape then I quickly turn it off. This time, maybe it was the isolation I felt in the lonely hotel room, as well as the opportunity of being alone, I didn't even attempt to shut it down. I opened up my gut and watched my food pour out of me. Empty! My body felt felt not only empty, but depleted and it seemed to void the beauty of the reunion. How Could I forget that the shame of the purge is so much worse than the discomfort of being full?
Maybe it was needing something to control as I have no control over my nerve disorder. Or maybe it was a release of grief over all that I have lost to the nerve malfunction. It was wonderful to her about my friends triathlons and her success. She is really an elite athlete so I don't compete with her, but I was painfully aware of how much I missed training and competing. As I sat and listened to her, I found myself repeating with my internal voice "you can still run, you can still swim, you can still run, you can still swim!" This is true, but will I ever really compete again? I may, I may not, but I trust for Him to strengthen me to live, for now, in the "GRAY"
I still believe that God is my healer even though I have no clue why the illnesses I have endured persist. So, like the persistent widow, I will keep praying until the day of healing and victory. It is hard to stay persistent when I quite frankly, I don't feel like it. I have spent the last week alone in San Francisco receiving two hours of treatment daily and finally the ever pleasant nerve block. I worry that the treatment has caused me to flare up the symptoms a little. I try to not freak out about it and trust that God has it all figured out. I believe that he is sovereign and there is a lesson to be learned in all of this and I hope to find out sooner than later.
I am feeling so very low as I wait for the jet that will take me home. I hope that this will bringing out of the depression sneaking up on me. The symptoms of the eating disorder also flare despite my effort to eat as a normal person with out an eating disorder would eat. Again, not actually knowing what this looks like, I end up failing and purge. The first night, I do not beat myself up, but try to use it as an opportunity to figure out what triggered the event. I met a good friend that I hadn't seen in over a year for dinner. What are the chances of us being in San Francisco at the same time. It felt so good to see a familiar face in a strange city and to feel her embrace. Was it an issue of sabotaging the good times of my life once again? I think I often lose track of my food when I am present and engaged with people, then once alone, I panic. I have been feeling so thick and uncomfortable in my body lately that the panic, that I have been able to keep to an annoying drip like that of a leaky faucet, began to flow from a stream, to a river, to a cascading waterfall. Once It began there was no holding the food in. Where as sometimes I start the process and can hold it in check like turning on the faucet allowing a little to escape then I quickly turn it off. This time, maybe it was the isolation I felt in the lonely hotel room, as well as the opportunity of being alone, I didn't even attempt to shut it down. I opened up my gut and watched my food pour out of me. Empty! My body felt felt not only empty, but depleted and it seemed to void the beauty of the reunion. How Could I forget that the shame of the purge is so much worse than the discomfort of being full?
Maybe it was needing something to control as I have no control over my nerve disorder. Or maybe it was a release of grief over all that I have lost to the nerve malfunction. It was wonderful to her about my friends triathlons and her success. She is really an elite athlete so I don't compete with her, but I was painfully aware of how much I missed training and competing. As I sat and listened to her, I found myself repeating with my internal voice "you can still run, you can still swim, you can still run, you can still swim!" This is true, but will I ever really compete again? I may, I may not, but I trust for Him to strengthen me to live, for now, in the "GRAY"
Thursday, August 14, 2014
Wondering
Proverbs 29:25 (MSG) "The fear of human opinion disables; Trusting in God protects you from that."
Hebrews 10:32,35-36 Remember those earlier days after you received the light, when you stood your ground in a great contest in the face of suffering...So do not throw away your confidence; it will be richly rewarded. You need to persevere so that when you have done the will of God, you will receive what he has promised.
I have spent the last week or so wondering what would my life be like if I were entirely healed? What if the fear of my mother hadn't disabled me? I find it difficult to imagine leading my life without the eating disorder floating above me or vestiges of it hiding in the corners of my mind. I still wake each day and do a quick scan of my body and heed the call of my full length mirror. It is work to chose relationships with real people instead of my workouts, but I find myself picking relationships over the workouts more and more. Sometimes the mental workout I put myself through to make this decision feels like a workout itself, but once made, it is always worth it. However, I still think about the calories burned or not burned through the day, then wake the next morning and scan my body and realize I am still okay. It is also work to resist the urge to purge, but little by little, I am finding easier to tolerate the "extra" food, more than the guilt and shame of purging.
I am moving forward, but it isn't easy. I am very uncomfortable in my body right now. I lived, as best as I could, for the past month as what I imagine someone that has never had an eating disorder lives like. Of course this isn't fully possible because I do have an eating disorder. None the less, I shook my fist at the eating disorder "not this summer eating disorder! You can't have it, this is mine to claim, enjoy, and savor:" I was as strong in my resolve to re-claim my summer as I was three years ago to restrict, purge, and fade away. And when I felt weak, I called on God's promises and remained confident as I stood my ground and he held my other hand tightly in his fist.
I reached out for my summer, and snatched it out of the hands of the eating disorder, as well as the hands of my ever present neuralgia. I still worked out, but allowed myself to really soak in the majesty of my surroundings, runs by the bay, walks in the woods, open water swims, skiing, and paddle-boarding. Something felt different as I did all these same things that I do every summer. That is it! I felt! I didn't go numb in the working out, but became connected to the creator and all his creation, including people. I laughed, slept, read, wrote, relaxed, and played. I sat and stared at my hydrangeas for no other reason than I was awed by there fullness and beauty. They seemed to bloom before my eyes growing heavier, and more luscious with each passing day.
I allow that disabled child hidden within me rise to the surface, like the nymph of the dragon flies crawling out of the water and then breaking free of the cocoon to fly, explore and play. Forgetting the freezing cold water, I jumped right in to swing my nephews around, or dump them off the raft knowing darn well that I would be dumped in return. I "bathed" in the lake using the suds in my hair to make it stick up in all kinds of funny ways just to see the boys crack up, then dove into the clear cool water to rinse it all away. I float back to the surface feeling free to be me, and I little more aware of who I really am. I think to myself I need to start playing more. I have A LOT of catching up to do.
I am uncomfortable in my body, and terrified to step on a scale because at the same time I kind of like how I look right now....I think? My therapist shakes her head and tells me to stay off the scale. Part of me wants to say "Really? You are not the boss of me!!" Then I remember that not only is she the professional, but I pray daily for her wisdom in treating me. I may or may not step on the sacred scale, but I take back the sarcasm and put on my grown up hat and say "thank you for your wisdom." And, I am still terrified to step on the scale, and immeasurably uncomfortable with my body. I feel like over night the area just above my hip bones on my back has swollen with undesired flesh and I feel like my belly flops onto the crisp cotton sheets of my bed as I lie on my side. I can almost swear I hear it scrape across the surface of the sheets as I move. I am consumed with with checking out my body.
I find myself dressing and undressing in front of the mirror or at least lifting up my shirt to survey the flesh rising above my hips and circling my waist. My skinny jeans? Where are they? Ah, relief as I dig them out of my suit case, pull them on and they still fit. This is still not reassuring as I try to remember how they used to fit, or if they had just been washed and dried. Are they stretched out from wearing them or are they snug from the drier? Does it matter? Does it change who I am? Yes it matters even though I know it doesn't change who I am, and I have a better sense of who I am these days. Seriously, I stand in front of the mirror and hear the the theme song from Frozen play in my head "let it go, let it go...."
Reading an article on body image, I am challenged to think about what image I want to project with my body. Do I want to appear to be fit, toned and muscled, or frail, sick, and weak? My initial response is strong, despite being frail. I look back on pictures of me when I was very "scary" thin. I actually miss that body. The one with the hollow belly, hollow cheeks and veins protruding where they shouldn't. I know I was sick, but there was something about pressing on through physical tasks despite my frailty that made me feel strong. Maybe it was my way of "proving" to others that I wasn't as sick as they deemed me, or maybe convincing myself that I wasn't sick.
Then I look further back and miss my perfect B cup breasts and more muscled yet softly feminine body.
Ugh!! I am so confused. My body, right now, I am guessing is somewhere in between. One minute I am liking the fullness of my breasts thinking that they are full and luscious like the pink blooms of my hydrangeas. The next minute I think they are just heavy, and ready to go like the flowers I dead head and discard as they have lost their beauty as they fall, touch the ground and begin to die. My flank, I will probably always feel thick and unattractive as I remember my mother fingers poking me. "You better watch it, you are getting a little thick in the waist." I sing to myself again "let it go, let it go", but it still haunts me. I try to turn back to what God says about me. "I am fearfully and wonderfully made" Psalm 139:14(NIV) My shape is unique, and it is the sum of all of me that God has made, not just my body!
Hebrews 10:32,35-36 Remember those earlier days after you received the light, when you stood your ground in a great contest in the face of suffering...So do not throw away your confidence; it will be richly rewarded. You need to persevere so that when you have done the will of God, you will receive what he has promised.
I have spent the last week or so wondering what would my life be like if I were entirely healed? What if the fear of my mother hadn't disabled me? I find it difficult to imagine leading my life without the eating disorder floating above me or vestiges of it hiding in the corners of my mind. I still wake each day and do a quick scan of my body and heed the call of my full length mirror. It is work to chose relationships with real people instead of my workouts, but I find myself picking relationships over the workouts more and more. Sometimes the mental workout I put myself through to make this decision feels like a workout itself, but once made, it is always worth it. However, I still think about the calories burned or not burned through the day, then wake the next morning and scan my body and realize I am still okay. It is also work to resist the urge to purge, but little by little, I am finding easier to tolerate the "extra" food, more than the guilt and shame of purging.
I am moving forward, but it isn't easy. I am very uncomfortable in my body right now. I lived, as best as I could, for the past month as what I imagine someone that has never had an eating disorder lives like. Of course this isn't fully possible because I do have an eating disorder. None the less, I shook my fist at the eating disorder "not this summer eating disorder! You can't have it, this is mine to claim, enjoy, and savor:" I was as strong in my resolve to re-claim my summer as I was three years ago to restrict, purge, and fade away. And when I felt weak, I called on God's promises and remained confident as I stood my ground and he held my other hand tightly in his fist.
I reached out for my summer, and snatched it out of the hands of the eating disorder, as well as the hands of my ever present neuralgia. I still worked out, but allowed myself to really soak in the majesty of my surroundings, runs by the bay, walks in the woods, open water swims, skiing, and paddle-boarding. Something felt different as I did all these same things that I do every summer. That is it! I felt! I didn't go numb in the working out, but became connected to the creator and all his creation, including people. I laughed, slept, read, wrote, relaxed, and played. I sat and stared at my hydrangeas for no other reason than I was awed by there fullness and beauty. They seemed to bloom before my eyes growing heavier, and more luscious with each passing day.
I allow that disabled child hidden within me rise to the surface, like the nymph of the dragon flies crawling out of the water and then breaking free of the cocoon to fly, explore and play. Forgetting the freezing cold water, I jumped right in to swing my nephews around, or dump them off the raft knowing darn well that I would be dumped in return. I "bathed" in the lake using the suds in my hair to make it stick up in all kinds of funny ways just to see the boys crack up, then dove into the clear cool water to rinse it all away. I float back to the surface feeling free to be me, and I little more aware of who I really am. I think to myself I need to start playing more. I have A LOT of catching up to do.
I am uncomfortable in my body, and terrified to step on a scale because at the same time I kind of like how I look right now....I think? My therapist shakes her head and tells me to stay off the scale. Part of me wants to say "Really? You are not the boss of me!!" Then I remember that not only is she the professional, but I pray daily for her wisdom in treating me. I may or may not step on the sacred scale, but I take back the sarcasm and put on my grown up hat and say "thank you for your wisdom." And, I am still terrified to step on the scale, and immeasurably uncomfortable with my body. I feel like over night the area just above my hip bones on my back has swollen with undesired flesh and I feel like my belly flops onto the crisp cotton sheets of my bed as I lie on my side. I can almost swear I hear it scrape across the surface of the sheets as I move. I am consumed with with checking out my body.
I find myself dressing and undressing in front of the mirror or at least lifting up my shirt to survey the flesh rising above my hips and circling my waist. My skinny jeans? Where are they? Ah, relief as I dig them out of my suit case, pull them on and they still fit. This is still not reassuring as I try to remember how they used to fit, or if they had just been washed and dried. Are they stretched out from wearing them or are they snug from the drier? Does it matter? Does it change who I am? Yes it matters even though I know it doesn't change who I am, and I have a better sense of who I am these days. Seriously, I stand in front of the mirror and hear the the theme song from Frozen play in my head "let it go, let it go...."
Reading an article on body image, I am challenged to think about what image I want to project with my body. Do I want to appear to be fit, toned and muscled, or frail, sick, and weak? My initial response is strong, despite being frail. I look back on pictures of me when I was very "scary" thin. I actually miss that body. The one with the hollow belly, hollow cheeks and veins protruding where they shouldn't. I know I was sick, but there was something about pressing on through physical tasks despite my frailty that made me feel strong. Maybe it was my way of "proving" to others that I wasn't as sick as they deemed me, or maybe convincing myself that I wasn't sick.
Then I look further back and miss my perfect B cup breasts and more muscled yet softly feminine body.
Ugh!! I am so confused. My body, right now, I am guessing is somewhere in between. One minute I am liking the fullness of my breasts thinking that they are full and luscious like the pink blooms of my hydrangeas. The next minute I think they are just heavy, and ready to go like the flowers I dead head and discard as they have lost their beauty as they fall, touch the ground and begin to die. My flank, I will probably always feel thick and unattractive as I remember my mother fingers poking me. "You better watch it, you are getting a little thick in the waist." I sing to myself again "let it go, let it go", but it still haunts me. I try to turn back to what God says about me. "I am fearfully and wonderfully made" Psalm 139:14(NIV) My shape is unique, and it is the sum of all of me that God has made, not just my body!
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