The Biscetti Incident

A few days ago I was given my discharge date: Friday, June 3rd. On that day I will officially leave treatment at the Eating Recovery Clinic. Since I live in Denver I plan to continue with their Extended Intensive Outpatient Program, in which I will have a lesson, a meal and a process group three times a week for as long as I desire (and insurance wants to pay). Of course I will still be seeing a therapist and dietitian at least once a week, as well.

In every process group we are asked to “give a feeling.” Yesterday, I opened my mouth and without even thinking these feelings poured out: proud, content, excited, and feminine. I had weathered this transition to the IOP program, moving into my new apartment, and starting my internship in such a way that I both respected the difficulty and found a way to make it less hard. I spent a couple days in purgatory, between second and third gear, and emerged on the third day rejuvenated. The beauty of these feelings is that they are not alone. I am also worried about making friends and finding a job. I’m also anxious when the thoughts buzz in my mind. I’m also guilty for getting myself here in the first place. I’m also…I’m also…I’m also… I can observe all of these thoughts and know that the day goes on. In fact, the day might be fun, and if I let these control me I rob myself of enjoying it. So I say “proud, content, and excited” and look back on the progress I’ve made.

Which leads me to the real topic of today’s post: the Biscetti Incident. Growing up, “biscetti”- or, in its mature form, spaghetti- was a frequent player in my life. It was cheap, easy and nutritious, meaning that my mom and dad made it often. I’m also from a large Italian/ Irish family where spaghetti allowed my cooking-disinclined grandmother to feed everyone something that wasn’t green. I think “biscetti” was probably one of my first favorite foods.

When I was in my ED I religiously restricted spaghetti intake. It’s true that I’m actually not that big of a spaghetti fan (I think curlier pasta does the red sauce greater justice). I avoided any place where I might be confronted with the devilish carb. I avoided dinner at my parents house or insisted on making myself “healthier” pasta with no sauce. I ceased to eat at Italian restaurants altogether and sidestepped that aisle at the store. Carbs, sugar and deliciousness, beware!

A few weeks into treatment I sat down at the lunch table, pulled my warming lid off of my plate, and then the ceiling fell on top of my head. It made my eyeballs pop out, right into the bowl of spaghetti in front of me. Spaghetti, marinara, chicken and memories. The spaghetti was like a magic elixir that recalled all of my shame, guilt, and true fear of food. I sat in silence and stared at my plate. The noodles rearranged themselves into the night when I took an hour to prepare my carefully engineered pasta alternative. Then they became the happy memories of my childhood and corresponding nostalgia. And nothing would be complete without ED, who told me that this might just be the one food I cannot and will not eat. “Drink a Boost instead!” it said. “All these carbs are disgusting and empty. They will make you unhealthy. You don’t deserve pasta!” Good ol’ ED, always there to lend some unsolicited advice. Fighting back tears, I lifted my fork.

I barely spoke during that lunch. I thanked the Lord that my table-mates were good friends and energetic that day. I listened to what they were saying, laughed and twirled the spaghetti around my fork. Twirl, insert, chew and repeat. As I ate I felt like my body was waking up. With each bite I realized a little bit more about my eating disorder and myself. I realized that it tasted pretty good, and that it definitely wasn’t killing me. I promised myself then and there that I would never restrict pasta again. I would never sit in the kitchen while my family ate so that I could make myself a “special meal.” I would never skip out on fun with friends because I believed pasta would affect my body in some ridiculous way. I never, ever, wanted to be controlled by my fears- especially fears about something my body really needed.

Before this day I did not understand the true meaning of “fear food.” I thought that I was afraid of some foods, like pastries. I am to an extent: I avoid them because I designate them “unhealthy.” But they do not bring up an emotional response like spaghetti marinara did. Spaghetti was the first food I thought that I literally may not be able to finish. It solicited in me a physical reaction: the fear made my legs tingle, my stomach turn into knots, and my heart race. Forcing myself to eat it was one of the most surreal experiences that I’ve ever had.

Ask me how I feel about spaghetti now. I’ll tell you: I can’t wait for spaghetti night at my parents. Give ma big plate covered in spiced marinara; Hell, even throw some meatballs in. Because I, Emily Stewart, am not afraid of spaghetti. The most interesting part of the whole experience was that as soon as I faced my fear it nearly vanished. Looking it in the eye and sitting through its emotions rid me of the negative thoughts I had developed around it. Comprehending that I had sacrificed a lot in developing those thoughts was a stepping stone in my recovery.

So pull out a big pot. Fill it with water and a little salt. Dump a handful of spaghetti in and stir the marinara with your other hand. Uncork a glass of red, pile the plate high, and sit down Italian-style. It’s biscetti night, my friends. Dig in.

Jiggin' and Giggin'

I jiggle when I giggle
Of this I will tell you.
I jiggle when I giggle
It’s just what I do.

This never used to happen
When I was happy, healthy, and free.
It wasn’t all that long ago
When I could just be me.

But after years of stress,
Fear, and a little shame.
I came to be to too thin
My life was my own game.

So I took myself to treatment
Was I running? Maybe that’s true.
Treatment was a blessing
Of weakness, I got a clue.

While in treatment I did a lot
I even learned to cry.
I learned the world gives gifts
I don’t even have to try.

Rename treatment “food camp.”
Of this I assure you.
While I was exploring myself
I was eating a lot, too.

The weight will redistribute.
The cellulite will fade.
Right now there’s nothing I can do
But look at it like jade.

I spent a year sans giggle
I look back and see that now.
Treatment taught me to jiggle
In ways I never knew how.

I jiggle when I giggle
Haha! I dare say!
It’s really kind of funny
It propels me through my day.

My bike may hit a pothole
My jiggle absorbs the fall.
I feel a little chilly
My jiggle warms me all.

The best thing it can do
Is move the laughter along.
After I’m done giggling
The jiggle sings my song.

Jiggle when you giggle!
You’ve got the time, space, and food.
Try a little jiggle
Trust me- it lightens the mood.

Third Gear

May 23, 2011. I am moving to my new apartment today; I'm nervous about that. I am also transitioning to the Intensive Outpatient Program, which is four hours/ day, seven days a week. I'm nervous about that. I don't yet have a bed to sleep in and my furniture is in my Uncle's basement; I'll get it all figured out, but I'm nervous about that, too. This is real life, third gear, when you click into a place that can carry you all the way up the hill. However, I'm neither in second nor third right now. Instead, I'm stuck somewhere in between.

If you've ever driven a car with a finicky gear transition, you know how it feels. Put your foot on the clutch and move from low left to middle right, but instead of clicking smoothly in, there is a grinding sound. The car lurches against its own momentum. You push harder on the clutch, really jam it in there, and jiggle the gear shift a little. Jiggle, jiggle, and then, hoorah! Third gear's in and you haven't rolled back down the hill.

You can probably remember exactly how being in this position feels because it's kind of scary. In that moment you panic. The harder you try to jam the gear in the worse the grinding. You will always remember feeling the lurch, the push back, and the fear, as the hill seems to grow in front of you. Just thinking about it might make you afraid, even if its actually a smooth transition.

For the last few days I've been stuck in this odd space between second and third gear. I am proud of all the successes I've made; it's like emerging from underwater. Some things about treatment have begun to wear on me a little bit- I'm excited to eat normal meals and not "process" my every thought. I'm motivated to do all those things I'd under-prioritized in my ED, like gardening and spending time with friends and painting my toenails. And I think that I can do this whole living thing, challenges and all.

The resistance is there, though, and I think that's only natural. I've been hiding from the world because the world can be a scary place when someone wants very badly to live it "right." Although this analogy have focused on machinery, I know that it's natural because the same incidence happens in yoga. If you've ever done yoga, you know it: You've been in a position for a few moments when your muscles begin to moan and ache, maybe even shake a little. We call this "hitting your edge," and this is the time when our breath and acceptance is the only thing that gets you through. This is also the time when our coping mechanisms, negative or positive, come into play. At this point I always begin to start planning or worrying. I start thinking about the next hour and the one after and the one after that. It's just like panicking between gears. Mindfulness is being aware of those coping mechanisms. If they are negative, then all you can do is accept your humanity and sit through the pain. If they're positive, then you can remember and use them again the next time.

In all this discussion of resistance and aching and panic and coping, there is no mention of getting rid of the transition. It's impossible, see. There will always be a second gear before a third gear. You will always have a muscle a little too tight, a muscle that shakes before it loosens.

So, I'll breathe through this transition, jiggle second to third, and give my muscles a little time to warm up. I'll get there when I get there. I think I'll just click into place.

What Would Auntie Val Do?

This. Which is one reason why she's my hero. When the going get's tough, take a break. Take a break when it's not tough, too. Life runs by its own course no matter how we try to alter it. That's what Auntie Val knows; that's what I am coming to know, too.

A Day at the Zoo

It's easy to be mindful with friends and elephants.

Growing Young

There's an atrocious phenomenon underway, my friends. It's called young people not having fun. Or young people being too self conscious. Or old people being cool. Cooler than young people, that is. Most recently, I noticed such discrepancy during the Five Points Jazz Festival and again the same day at the Inner Peace Festival. Nearly identical scenes occurred at each musically-motivated event: The older generations were the first to jump out of their chairs. In front of the multitude of supposedly energetic, excitable 20- and 30-somethings, the older generations boogied harder, better and faster than any of their tight-lipped younger incarnates. They weren't afraid of the attention; in fact, they loved it, and wore zebra-print tights and Hawaiian fedoras to match.

I observed this phenomenon in amazement. How was it that the older generations were showing up the younger generations at their own game- merrymaking? It made me want to skip out on all the fun and learning that was supposed to come at this stage in my life and go straight to retirement, where being self-conscious seemed ghastly unreasonable. What was their secret?

I've been thinking a lot about the grannies and granpies shimmying to Caribbean jazz yesterday. I wonder if through their long lives they've simply embarrassed themselves a sufficient number of times to finally be able to let go of worrying about it. The underlying meaning of that belief, then, is that all people will make a fool of themselves because all people are human. That's not a lesson that comes with time; that's a lesson that comes with acceptance and awareness. I don't need to be old to know that I can shimmy. I don't need to be old to learn how to boogie. And I don't need to spend my younger years trying to learn what do in my older years.

I think that Benjamin Button and warped chronology are bogus, and I invite you to share in my newest endeavor: dancing in public places to public music. You can think me a fool, but that just means I'll be a better dancer than you, FOREVER. I'm going to be old now, and young then, and everything in between.

Cribs

Fourth time's a charm, because I've decided on a place to live. I've got all sorts of doubts about my new accommodations. I will be living in a prime location just across Colfax from Tattered Cover. The neighborhood and house are darling, except for one thing: it's a total college spot. I've been debating between living further from the city with a nice teacher or at this location, with two guys and a girl who are all recent graduates. With the teacher, I could expect cleanliness, reserved conversation, and a network of other 30-somethings. The roommates I've chose are all 20-something recent graduates, plus their three cats, dog, musical instruments, late-night personal buffets, and friends. They are all artists and the garage is used for their band. We have plans to make a garden in the backyard, right by the ladder that leads onto a roof where they "like to sit and hang out."

My therapist calls me a "meta-analyist" in that I form thoughts about thoughts, which we all know come from feelings, which are usually demonstrated in bodily sensations. So as I'm walking through this house I feel something akin to butterflies in my stomach, a sign that I'm excited. The excitement leads to the thought, "This looks like fun." And then I feel something like bumblebees in my shoulders and chest, a sign that I'm anxious. The anxiety leads to the thought, "Aren't you past this? Isn't this a little immature?" And then, because of the dichotomy between wanting and distrusting, I feel my legs tingle a little and my heart beat...I'm scared. The thought? "It's just like Benjamin Button. You're losing your independence and maturity and going right back in time."

Because moving into a house that begs for a Swiffer and screams Liberal Arts makes me think that I'm going back to live that final year of college the way a typical student would. Thinking about kicking back with friends, letting my living situation waver on the grimy side, sitting on roofs with beers, gardening, and playing with someone else's animals, thinking about all of this makes me smile. I'd like to loosen up a little and I'd really like to live with people who make nice pictures and sounds for a living. And yet, this doesn't support the vision I had for myself. I expected myself to be in some downtown loft with a good job, making plans to move abroad, and making money to match. Instead, I feel dependent on others. I crave the dorm-life connection. What's more, the house is in walking distance of my parents. Rent can be footed by them, too.

Backward, forward, diagonal; I think the secret truth between chronological logic and gravitational pull is that they only exist when one wills them to. I often find myself floating or sinking, growing up or growing down, while those around me tick like a clock on the wall. Am I regressing? Am I settling for safety and fun? Maybe. Did I lose a year of my life, or more, to my own obsessions? No. I don't believe that. I lived that as much as any other event, and I am grateful for the insight and opportunities it allotted me. But it did alter my life time-line. I think that alteration is something to respect, not fight. So I will move into the Animal House. I will be friends with the very cool people who want me to live there. I'm not sure of how that will look and I do have doubts about my own adulthood. This feels like a risk (a basket weave around my intestines) but I want to give it a try. If time and gravitation don't affect me like everyone else, maybe they fall in my favor?

Sensitivity: The New Business Essential

Yesterday was World Trade Day, the World Trade Center, Denver's largest annual event. I am lucky enough to have employers who are both compassionate and driven, because they signed me up as a volunteer despite being unsure of my status in treatment. Of course, I was more than overjoyed to attend. I thought that it would be good for me to get back into the business world, practice a day of conference foods, and use my anxiety strategies and obsessive thought regulation. Plus, I rejoiced in the idea of not being surrounded by psychologists all day!

When I go out into the "real world" now, I am always delighted at how the world seems to mirror my treatment. Jane Eyre had a past like me; the people on Colfax are delightful, rather than scary; potential roommates want to meet new people and relax, too; Will Ferrell's character on "The Office" is obsessed with counting calories. It's like when you accidentally sign up for two classes that perfectly complement each other: the world and my current life pursuits somehow match.

Yesterday, I realized something much more profound. It is is not the world that matches my treatment or my recovery that is accessible within the daily grind. It's me. My new worldview, my understanding of self and connection to others, that's what's changed. My actions are different now. I express myself in a deeper, more accepting way. And because my mind is more alert and open I can't help but keep learning. My recovery really is about the world, what I choose to take from it and the space I make for myself in it. So when I attended World Trade Day, I learned that my new sensitive self was a fine match for the environment. What's more, I learned that other people valued that sort of attitude, too.

At conferences past I marched through the door, cards tucked in every pocket, heels clicking to announce my arrival, and with a stomach full of nerves (not food). I spent the conference trying to be Superhuman: the best aid to my employers with the most new networked connections, dropping my personal elevator pitch on anyone who looked like they might be able to help me. I learned nothing about the other attendees and spent the whole time frazzled. Not to mention that I spent the whole time playing hide-and-seek with the appetizer plates and free lunch.

Yesterday was different. I focused on taking the day slowly, completing one task at a time. My main job was to be of aid to my employers and I took on these activities with an excited calm. I kept my shoulders back, my chin up, and a smile on my face. I also kept eating. At times I grew very frustrated: the thoughts about food being "enough" or "too much" plagued me and I felt guilty for not being more involved with our clients. I compared my body to those of the other women and noted that they, unlike myself, did not finish their lunch or eat their desserts. I kept grabbing my card and committing to cornering the next business person I saw, and then pulling myself back to the moment. Stay Present. Stay Active. Stay Forgiving.

Guess what happened? I made some of the most lucrative and fulfilling business connections I have yet. And our conversations focused on reflection, critical understanding of business culture, and our personal stories, dreams and pursuits. For instance, I met an incredibly impressive business woman because she looked fierce (very well-coiffed modern suit) and I told her so. We talked for over a half hour. The conversation flowed naturally from one topic to the next. We discussed the importance of having confidence in your external persona and how factors like dress are also a business skill. We discussed life choices and the sorts of careers that both play on your skills and enable others to do the same. She talked about lessons in communication learned while working in HR. I related these lessons to some of the communication tactics I've learned while in treatment.

Then there was the fact that our President invited his yoga instructor, a woman who I've heard about many times before. Don't get me wrong: our President is no hippie. In fact, he's the stoic financial-type, neither strikingly humble nor assertively karmic. But he has explained many times the esoteric influence she has had on his life. The fact that he invited her said so much about his nature. As a successful (and masculine) business man, one would think he'd be wary of seeming flexible, sensitive, or new-age. And yet he invited his yoga teacher because he valued his relationship with her and he was not shy of showing that sensitive side of himself. Myself and others found a new respect for him.

Of course, my day would not be complete without engaging the yoga teacher. True to pattern, I learned that it was her sensitivity that helped her find life satisfaction. She, too, was a DU grad who got caught in the mindset engendered by a school (and society) that values short-term success and achievement. She worked with a non-profit in Honduras but explained this to me: "We were all down there to help these people, but when I looked at the them, I saw they were happy. When I looked around at all of us, I saw that no one was happy." So she came back to the States to teach yoga and help people like the WTC's President be happy. It worked.

I did endeavor to continue on my pursuit of connections that foster my journey to Chile, but this came about much more naturally. Actually, it came from my natural inclination for free schwag. When I ventured to a table with free water bottles, I ended up spending a great deal of time discussing international finance, simply because I was curious. It finally dawned on me that this person might be able to help me and I delivered my pitch. He offered me the card of his friend and an online introduction. I don't think that he would have been so willing to give me this information had we not built some sort of connection before.

Finally, there was the wisdom I gained from one of our older partners. We were talking about how successful the conference was. He stated that 20 years ago these sorts of conferences were attended en masse, thriving with people from all different sectors looking to connect. As business became more and more ends-focused, less people were willing to take the time to attend these conferences. He lamented the loss of business relations and networking to quantitative success and increased pressure. I understood that mentality very, very well.

Every one of the connections that I made yesterday was born not of my search for them but of my being present and willing. I was approachable and interested, motivated and calm. Yes, I felt a little uncomfortable showing so much sensitivity, especially as I am very unsure of the meaning of my treatment in moving forward with my career pursuits. But here I was speaking the language of treatment with a completely different audience, and they spoke it back. It made me confident. And when I left, I felt proud.

I need a lot more practice. I do doubt many things about yesterday, like how appropriate it is to joke about treatment with my employers, or how to handle questions about what I've been doing the last six weeks. But I know that my skills do align with my new mentality and that these things will be well-received (if I manage them well) in the business world. I got a good dose of faith and perspective. It tasted good, just like the dessert.

Riddle Me This

Sarah Casewit Photography: http://www.sarahcasewit.com/p/morocco.html

What if someone told you that you would live the rest of your life exactly as you were right now? How would you feel?

Film Critics

Film Critics

For people with eating disorders, three straight days of rain can be Hell. For me, it meant spending extra hours at the gym since I couldn't move outside, another excuse not to be social, and a reflection of the way I felt inside. All of my Denver readers (who've been stuck inside for these unseasonably rainy days)may hypothesize what a killer the last 72 hours have been. However, a hypothesis is really a glorified assumption. After some careful variable elimination and control maintenance these last three days have actually fomented my newest theory: literary film adaptations relate very well to my life and film critics could ease up on the judgment. I'll tell you why.

Today, Saturday, Rainy Day #3, I felt mentally fatigued. The last week has been a whirlwind of life planning with yesterday being a particularly busy and social day. My afternoon plans with other girls from treatment were falling apart (because I wasn't willing to lead them) and rather than become dejected, I decided to do a little disappearing. I was afraid that this was "isolation," another of ED's tricks, but I knew that if I kept forcing social time I would work myself into an irritated spiral.

Before I left program for the afternoon one of the aides asked to "check-in" with me. I explained to her that I felt burnt out and was taking the afternoon for myself. She asked how I knew this was what I needed. I realized that when I felt this way before I shamed myself, thinking I should have the energy and willingness to live up to my high expectations. I pushed myself to the brink, usually ending in some sort of meltdown. I never really recovered, and we all know where such continuous stress led me. Today was different, though. I wasn't at the brink, and while I could have tried to spend time looking for apartments or with other patients, I really just wanted some alone time. And it wasn't out of desperation. It simply felt right. So I went for it.

I went to the movies. Alone. I walked there, savoring the cool drizzle, and then I bought myself an extra creamy coffee to make up for the burned calories. And then I sat down in a movie theater by myself. To watch a romantic film. Alone. With coffee with cream. And food. Seated.

Let me tell you, my humble audience, how thoroughly awesome it was. If satisfaction and contentment was solar power I could have lit Las Vegas. I laughed loudest, I cried loudest, I fidgeted most, and every time I felt my mind wander I compassionately pulled it back to the moment, to the face of Jane Eyre and that dashing man who played her lover.

When the movie finished I sat for a moment to soak it all in. I eavesdropped on the people in front of me who were obviously Jane Eyre fans. As soon as the credits rolled they began to compare the book to its film adaptation, and like most ardent readers were unhappy with the results. "She's so much more badass in the book," said one. "They left out all the good parts and just made her all romantic and sensitive." I could understand what they were saying- Jane did do a lot more moping, heavy breathing, and tear wiping in the movie. But the more I thought about this comment, the more I wondered, So What?

Jane Eyre the novel is a whole, complete work. It can be no more or no less than what it is, and because of that includes every tidbit of information that the author deemed necessary. Jane Eyre is a badass, wittily standing up for her beliefs. But the movie is not the book, and that's OK. In fact, the director and screenwriter very knowingly chose what to include and how to portray it. They wanted to show a certain aspect of Jane's story, to create something new from their impression of an entire life's-worth of events. They knew, just like my fellow critics, exactly what Jane was made of. Yet, at that point and in that space, they simply wanted to show Jane for what she was in relation to their larger values.

In all my job applying and roommate interviewing I've been struggling to determine just how I want my time in treatment and my battle with an eating disorder to play into the rest of my life. A big thing that keeps coming up is why, when and how to tell potential friends and employers about my ED. It's especially difficult when they start asking questions about "what I'm doing right now" (answer: eating). For the first few weeks of treatment I was telling anyone who would listen about my plight. It was empowering to talk about seeking help. As I move further away from my disordered thoughts and habits I begin to wonder what this time means in the relative space of my current endeavors and in the book that is my life.

Like Jane, I've got a past. I'm not just a disordered person. I'm also not just a woman, or not just a writer, or not just sad sometimes. I'm all of these things; if I were to author an autobiography they would need to included. But what about right now? This time in my life can be viewed as a movie adaptation: the new Emily is the star and she's using certain skills that make her more spiritual, more curvy, and maybe a little more awkward than before. That's the image that I want conveyed. That's the part of me that I want the audience to know. Yes, I have a history, and that will all unfold once I find friends to open the front cover. So what if something is left out? It's all relative to the value of the director. That's me.

It doesn't stop there, my friends. After the movie I took myself to dinner. I struggled to get what I thought was a enough food, and after being distracted from my book with feelings of doubt and guilt, I finally gave in and went to my parent's house to eat a little more. They had Chinese. I ate some. Then, they put on a movie. Two movies in one day?! Coffee with cream, Chinese food, more sitting?!?! No problem.

We watched the Truman Show. In the final scene, Truman walks to a door in the fake sky labeled "Exit." The director's voice sounds over the speaker and begs him to stay. You see the struggle in Truman's face: he knows how safe it is there, how planned and controlled. And utterly unimaginative. Totally hopeless. And not at all true to his true character, that inner spirit that shapes his values and life direction. He turns to the voice and says, "And in case I don't see you, good afternoon, good evening, and goodnight." He steps through the door and into his life.

Today, I listened. My heart told me to give it some lovin'; my body told me to eat more; Jane Eyre told me that I can be who I am and also what I want; and Truman told me that I have the power.

It's supposed to rain Wednesday through Saturday next week. I can't wait to see what hypothesis I can debunk.

Colfax Therapy

Colfax Therapy

I am in love with Colfax; I truly believe that it is one of the most interesting streets in the world. Whenever I feel myself drifting away from the world, a quick jaunt down Colfax usually pulls me right back to the present. Yes, Colfax mindfulness may be more of a protection than relaxation mechanism, but when you get down to it that’s really the same function, right? Yesterday afternoon was a particularly poignant day on the strip. Here’s a bit of the insight Colfax graced me with:

Self-Esteem: Walking down the strip, I received a “Hey, girl, you looking good!” at nearly every corner. Is it just me, or is this new, bigger booty doing the trick? Lesson: They like big butts.

Nostalgia: Walking past the Fillmore, I note the long line of hardcore rockers, eagerly anticipating a mosh pit-filled concert. Then, I noticed two young boys standing to the side and looking as if they want to curl back up into their snail shells. Their mother, eying the mohawks and plaid mini-skirts, muttered, “See? This is what I’m talking about. I just don’t know…” Lesson: It’s good to be a grown-up. And thank you, Mom.

Social Incentive: Walking past the many bars and restaurants, I can’t help but marvel at the young guys and gals who sit back with a beer, riding out the dwindling afternoon hours. They’re completely in the moment, enjoying one another’s company and a frothy brew. Lesson: Life’s good. Make friends and enjoy it.

Healthy Exercise: Walking down Colfax, I am passed by several groups of joggers. It seems odd to me that so many would brave the heckling of the homeless and the exhaust of a never-ending stream of cars, until I see the line out the door at the Irish Snug. It’s Thursday, which means it’s the Snug’s running group night. As I pass the line of sweaty joggers waiting for their post-run free pasta, I am reminded that the body needs to fuel to move. Lesson: Eat, jog, and be merry.

Logic: Walking down the glass-speckled, cigarette-infested, trash-cluttered sidewalk, I encounter a runner going in the opposite direction. This runner is not going to the Snug but straight to the hospital (or so I think he should) because he is running without shoes. Now, I understand this whole “natural running movement,” where going shoe-less is supposed to help your form and be better for your feet, blah blah blah. But running down Colfax without shoes? That’s insane! Lesson: What doesn’t feel good probably isn’t.

Acceptance: Walking down Colfax, I notice that the traffic and people never cease to flow past. Someone once referred to Colfax as a “river” and I know exactly why: it just keeps going, day in and day out, no matter what construction or traffic or dirt tries to get in the way. Isn’t that really how life is? With my willpower I may be able to divert the flow or patch a pothole, but in the end traffic will just keep moving of its own accord. Accidents happen, but things just keep going. Lesson: Have faith in the flow.

Connectedness: Walking down Colfax, I see a lot of people and a lot of interesting things. One moment I’m giggling, then feeling a sense of awe, then extremely curios, then repulsed, or all of these things or none of these things. The point is that walking down Colfax reminds me how beautiful the world is (even in all of its ugliness) and how lucky I am to be an aware, active member of it. Somehow, I feel connected to the little shops and the smells and the homeless people and the prostitutes (don’t worry- connected doesn’t mean friendly!). Lesson: Keep your eyes open, chin up, and you can’t help but see.

I remember one day when I walked from my internship on 16th to my parents house, a couple blocks off Colfax. I felt so drained and depressed that I cried the whole way. I didn’t notice any of Colfax’s wonders; I can’t remember anything from that walk except feeling totally, completely miserable. When I arrived, my sister asked what was wrong. I couldn’t explain it then because I didn’t have the brain power to decipher even my own feelings. All I knew was that I wanted to disappear.

I’ve done the disappearing thing and am so lucky to have had the chance. But now I begin to open my eyes and flex my muscles, and Colfax is still there, ready to boggle me again. There’s a lesson to be learned on every corner and I am its most willing student.

In Short

When you feel well, you think well.

A Values Lesson

The fundamental paradigm behind my treatment program is the belief that it is not enough simply to move away from our eating disorders; we must have something to move toward, something that will guide us in the right direction when our disorder threatens to control our lives again. We are taught that our values provide the road-map to help us navigate decisions and difficult situations. To hone in on what's important we are given a list of the areas of life values but some people. Not everyone shares the same values, but most people espouse at least a few of these. I have rewritten the list and some of the questions here.

As you go through this list, think about concrete goals versus life direction. For instance, a concrete goal would be education; a life direction would be attending DU. Number each section and separate them from one another; you probably won't have goals in one or more sections, which is fine. Do not answer these questions based on what you could realistically get, or what you think you deserve. Answer them based on what you care about, what you would want to work toward, in the best of all situations.

1.) Marriage/couples/intimate relations: What type of person would you like to be in an intimate relationship? What type of relationship would you like to have? What is your role in the relationship?
2.) Family relations: What type of son/daughter/brother/sister do you want to be? What qualities do you want to have in the relationships? How would you treat the other people in an ideal relationship?
3.) Friendship/social relations: What does it mean to be a good friend? What is the ideal friendship?
4.) Career/employment: What type of work would you like to do? Why does this appeal to you? What kind of worker would you be, and what do your work relations look like?
5.) Parenting: What type of father/mother do you want to be? How would you treat your child in that relationship?
6.)Education/personal growth and development: If you would like to pursue an education, formally or informally, or some specialized training, what would it be? Why does this appeal to you?
7.)Recreation/leisure: What type of recreational life would you like to have, including hobbies, sports and leisure activities?
8.)Spirituality: This does not necessarily refer to religion; it refers to whatever spirituality means to you. What do you want your spiritual self to look like? What do you want your spirituality to encompass?
9.)Citizenship: What direction would you like community-oriented activities to take? Why does this appeal to you?
10.)Health/Physical well-being: What are your values related to maintaining your physical well-being?

Throughout our lives our focus on specific values will probably shift. Right now, I have zero goals in the realm of parenting. It's when one's values cease to play a role in their everyday life that behaviors must change. In my ED, I completely lost my spirituality and my ability to partake in recreational/leisure activities. That related closely to friendship- how was I supposed to spend time with friends if I wasn't willing to spend time outside of work and exercise? Even when I was with friends I was never really there. In treatment I am focusing on learning how to be social again, how to connect with myself and the world around me in a spiritual way, how to enjoy free time, and how to temper my desire for education and career success with the rest of my personal aspirations. With the support of my family, another important value, this doesn't seem like too big a task...today...

I hope this provides a little insight on what the heck I'm talking about when I hark on my "values," and maybe can provide a little guidance for your life, as well. Feel free to e-mail with questions! Recess time!

Looking Toward the Future

I chose this image because it conveys a level of maturity that I feel is most conducive to my recovery (i.e., less is more). The elephant is also symbolic of the speed at which I am attempting to plan my future. If anyone ever thought moving at an elephant's pace was easier than that of a cheetah, I challenge them to an hour in my mind.

As I start looking for a place to live and a job, I've begun to feel anxious about what's ahead. I am worried that I won't find a good roommate or that I will have to live in my parents house for some time before I find a place of my own. I am very nervous that I won't be able to make new friends and that I will be isolated with my own thoughts. I wonder if I'm settling for a "fun" job because I'm not adequate enough for the jobs in my career field, and I'm so desperate for an income that I'll take whatever comes my way regardless of how it promotes my future aspirations. Then, I really start to worry: what if I never get to Chile? What if I get stuck in Denver for the rest of my life? What will it feel like if I'm still here in two years, living within walking distance of my parent's and working in a job that has nothing to do with my dreams? What will my dreams be then?

I was discussing this with my parents last night. The big topic was: is it better to invest my time searching for a job in my career field (one that might lead to me going to Chile or some other foreign location) or find something fun/steady for the time-being while I reestablish some balance? This is a classic therapeutic dilemma, because both options support my values. A job that supports my dreams is one that fosters my values of career/education and spirituality. A steady paycheck and laid-back list of duties also supports my spirit and may foster other values like social relations and education. So what is "better?"

My parents offered some sage advice, and in hindsight I see this dilemma as another instance at which my quest for production and efficiency encourage me to alter the world around me. As my mom pointed out, I try so hard to use my intention and power to affect everything around me. I want life so bad that I try to make it the way I hope it can be rather than letting it lead me. When I sit back and let life take it's own course I usually find that it goes my way. I'm a pretty lucky person, actually. And the more I try to alter it the more inadequate I feel.

So I'm trying to take it slow and leave my options open. A smart person is someone who never backs themselves into a corner; they give themselves choices and use wisdom, acceptance, and values to choose. I'm going to try to find a stable job in whatever space seems most fun, bulking up my capital and giving myself time to re-develop myself in the real world. I'm going to keep networking and pursuing my international career objectives (thanks, in large part, to my awesome internship at the World Trade Center) and make sure that I have two days off per week. I'm going to bulk up my resources, keeping mindfulness, self-care and social relations at the top of my priority list. And I'm going to relax, explore, and let the world offer me what it wants.

I'm still afraid of settling, of losing track of my dreams. I'm practicing having faith. But every time I see that cheetah run near, I'll turn around, climb on my little elephant, and take stock of what's around me. Dumbo and I are going to be good pals.

Praise to my Mother

This may embarrass her, but it's got to be done. Here's just a few of the reasons why my Mom deserves much more than the Eggs Benedict and Mimosas that I'm making her this morning:


She married the one on the right...


She produced this one....


And this one...


She let's us go to the bathroom outside...


She helps me when I'm sad...


She taught me how to clean...


She finds lattes in even the most remote of locations...


She makes us feel strong...


And, she even likes to play golf...



As you can see, my Mom is the most amazing person in the entire world, much cooler than all of your Moms (unless of course your Mom happens to be one of my grandmothers or Aunts, whereupon your Mom is pretty cool, too).

I love you more than I can possibly explain, Mom.

Happy Mother's Day!

Calling All Ideas!

My therapist and I have estimated that I've got about a month left in treatment- two weeks in the PHP program (9 hours/ day) and two weeks in the Intensive Outpatient Program (IOP; 4 hours/ day). I plan on picking back up my internship at the World Trade Center, Denver, but have no solid plans for a source of income or living situation. I wanted to solicit ideas from all of you, my brilliant friends and family.

On the job front: I swore that I would never return to restaurants. I am looking for unique, fun ways to meet new people and supplement my international studies/ leadership/ business/ Spanish skills. Things I've considered are working at a gardening center, being a Denver tour guide or corporate tour guide, working at the Littleton History Museum as a pilgrim, and picking up a paid writing gig. I'd love to work outside or with international visitors. Let me know if you have any ideas!

On the housing front: I'm considering moving in with a guy who went through treatment at the ERC, but am a little unsure about how that relationship might work if one of us were to struggle. So I was going to keep my options open, looking for another roommate among friends and craigslist. If you know anyone who is looking for a 6 month-1 year lease, is responsible and clean, but also someone I could be friends with, please let me know. I do not want to live alone again. Then, if you know of a place in the Capital Hill area that between $700-$1,000 per month, I'd love to have a look!

Thanks for any advice, feedback or leads you may have!

Etymology

Etymology

"Holy, Healthy, and Whole- They all come from the same root and carry different overtones of the same meaning." -Island, by Aldous Huxley

Ruminate- to chew the cud; derived from a cow's chewing, mashing their grass into a senseless pulp.

"Sundowning"- A certain time of the day when people with Alzheimers begin to obsess about their particular worries. Remember my 5 o'clock shadow? By the way, every day at 5 p.m. we have an hour of mind boggling free time!

Pleasure vs. Satisfaction- Pleasure is the short-term feelings of relief and reward that we experience when we undertake an action as a means to an end; Satisfaction is the long-term happiness we get when we commit to actions guided by our values.

Guilt vs. Shame- Guilt is the short-term feeling we get when we make a mistake; Shame is turning the guilt on ourselves, believing that we are the mistake.

Are you Feeling?

To better facilitate healthy communication we are given certain frameworks to express our needs and ask others for help. One follows this model: "Are you feeling _________ because _______? Would it help if I ________?" This allows you to guess at what the other person may be going through while giving them the space to explore their emotions and feel supported. Hopefully, they may suggest a way in which you can help.

For example, I might question, "Are you feeling irritable because you need to fart? Would it help if I made you some beans?"
Whereupon my Dad may respond, "Why yes, I am. Beans are unnecessary; can you pull my finger, instead?"

Like I said, treatment really is a blessing.

Foreflight

"Liberte" by Sarah Casewit Photography: http://www.sarahcasewit.com/

Oh, the "gift" that is foresight. What exactly is gifted about it? I have this notorious "gift" and can tell you that I do not like it at all. For all my future-tripping I rarely seem to get the scene entirely correct and spend so much time investigating outcomes that I miss life completely.

For instance, when I prepared for the symposium I had a certain image in my mind of the course it would take. I was envisioning myself speaking in front of a crowd (is it just me, or does "symposium" sound a little like "podium?"), delivering my speech to people who would compare it to the other projects and judge it therein. I envisioned lots of students in suits and professionals with clipboards. I didn't even consider that the symposium would look any different, fooled by foresight.

I quickly realized that the podium and crowd I had foreseen was actually four separate conference rooms, where you were lucky if you had an audience of the students who presented before and after you and whatever guest you had personally invited. Where were the judges? Where was the crowd? Who would even know what I did?! I had invited my contact at the school where I based on my project, as well as it's Dean; at the last minute they informed me that they would be unable to attend (but were sure to give me some corrections to my paper- three months too late). Embittered but undeterred, I invited the Tonelli clan, who showed in full force. When I finally presented the room had 11 witnesses: a moderator, four students, the professor who oversaw my project, and five of my family members. Needless to say, it was much less nerve-racking than I expected!

Since I had foreseen that we would spend most of the time in an auditorium watching other speakers, I was unprepared for the free time we actually had. Free, unfilled time. Correction: not unfilled, but brimming with anxiety. I struggled to find a way to entertain my family, feeling so guilty for having them come to this "presentation" that was more like a show-and-tell. The "luncheon" was sub sandwiches, for heaven's sake!

So I sat through it. As we wandered aimlessly through the campus I checked in with myself. Emily, darling, how are you feeling? I'm feeling like this is a total debacle, you fool! Emily, that is a thought. How are you feeling? I guess I'm feeling dejected, because I wanted this to be a big hoopla, the final fireworks to my undergraduate career, and it makes me embarrassed. That's more like it. Can you talk to me about why the thoughts along with these feelings are silly? Just look at my family. They're totally enjoying themselves just sunning on campus, meeting some old friends, and spending time with me. And I still did my presentation, didn't I? The moderator even asked if I would be willing to speak at another event. And my professor said I was one of his top five students- ever. That's a firework, isn't it? And and and, I haven't even obsessed about what I ate!

I laid back in the grass in my perfect dress and chatted with my family. True, I love the moment to my thoughts sometimes; I think I asked my Aunt three times whether she drank Pepsi or Coke. But then lunch came, and then we talked to my professor, and then I approached an old friend, and then I walked to my car. The warm sun dried my lips until they curved into a smile. Slowly, giggles started to trickle across my tongue until they became chuckles that tumbled out of my mouth. I felt great! Yes, I had to practice every in-the-moment mindfulness activity I could muster. Yes, I felt a roller-coaster of emotions. But I was proud! I was done!

I checked-in one last time. How was my spirit? After all, I had just experienced short-term, quantitative success. Hadn't I determined that that meant I would be disconnected from myself?

My eyes were blue/green. The world smelled like wet grass. My feet bounced to avoid the cracks in the cement. My skin was warmed by the sun. I was walking, my body propelling me with a grace all my own. It was following my heart, whose whispered directions commanded in my mind. My spirit was there.

The last chuckle out of my mouth framed this word: LIVING!

A Friend Indeed

Being Judgmental

By now you are most likely aware of the fact that ED sufferers use social isolation as a coping strategy. For me, isolation was a way to hide and propagate my behaviors. If I went out at night with friends, that meant I might be tempted to sleep-in the next morning, which could infringe on my workout. If I drank I might be more tempted to eat, or I might not be as efficient the next day, or I might lay around in my bed like a hungover slug (just a note: I can't wait for the time when I can be a guiltless hungover slug). I was so afraid of losing control of my actions that I simply would not let myself get into any compromising position.

Because I was putting so much effort into being in control of my life, I felt the need to have that effort validated by those around me. For years I had been told that I was "smart," that I had "the perfect body," and that I would be "successful." I thought everyone around me held me to these standards and was fearful that they might see my weaknesses. So I created higher and higher expectations for my actions, wanting not only to prove others right but to amaze them with my abilities.

When other people didn't contribute a similar amount of effort to the endeavors that I was killing myself to complete it was a hint that I might be out of line. Rather than admit I was hurting myself and trying to change (i.e., face myself), I blamed everyone else for being lazy/immoral/immature. It was so much easier to tell everyone else that they were in the wrong than admit I might be.

I thoroughly regret treating others with such disrespect. No one was safe from my wrath; my parents, roommates, ex-boyfriend, and friends all felt my judgment at one point or another. I cannot stress enough that it actually had everything to do with my own insecurities and nothing at all to do with their life choices. I want to use this space to apologize.

To anyone who ever felt judged by me, I am sorry. To anyone who ever felt like I thought them inadequate, silly or wasteful, I am sorry. To anyone who believed that I didn't value them as a friend or family member, I am sorry. And to myself, I am sorry, because I allowed this hurtful disease to get in the way of the most beautiful things in my life- the people that I love.

Thank You for standing by me. Thank God for second chances!

Being Oblivious

Sarah Casewit Photography: http://www.sarahcasewit.com/

Happy Spring! It's been a cold one, huh?

Rather than blog in the morning, I've been greeting the sun by preparing my Powerpoint for the symposium. After many insightful responses from you, as well as some good discussions with the other patients and my therapist, I decided to attend. It's an odd phenomenon, when the thing that used to rules one's life becomes their greatest fear. My life in ED was conducted through short-term, quantitative successes. If I got this grade on a paper, then I could be proud; if I worked out more hours than yesterday, then my day would feel complete. Trying so hard to be successful in external, measurable pursuits was really a guard against failure. It protected me from admitting how fallible I really fely. But it never ended; there was always more to do and not enough being done, slowly squishing out any other satisfactions in my life. I was a working, producing machine.

To me, the symposium represented that lifestyle. If I felt the familiar accomplishment after a job well done, I would remember how good I was at it, and how much easier it was to register short-term successes rather than continue to work on my values (social life, spiritual self, health). I had promised myself that I would never return to living in a box and didn't want to touch anything academic with a 10-foot pole. Moreover, I had no faith in myself. You see, when I was in India I developed a similar outlook. After connecting with myself and the world around me (and gaining a lot of perspective) I promised that I would never allow myself to become out-of-touch with love and satisfaction again. One month later I had shed all the weight and the motivation. Here I was again, committing to the same things. Would this time be any different?

Still, I had the support of my treatment team, friends and family. They could hold me accountable to the new values I held so dear. There was no better time than now for challenging myself. Running from potential success really didn't make any sense.

So, I've been dedicating my mornings to working on my presentation. I've been taking my time with it, only doing about an hour a day, and staying focused on my thoughts and feelings during that time. It feels good to do something academic again, like riding a bike after winter-time. Then, when I woke up this morning, I realized that all I really wanted to do was blog. The old guilt crept in: my presentation is priority and incomplete; I didn't deserve or have the time to blog. Sorry, guys: I used a little treatment-taught awareness to recognize that thought and nipped it in the bud, gifting you with this ranting post instead. Blogging is fun and therapeutic for me. I deserve as much attention as my presentation does. And the presentation will get done, I can have faith in that. Therefore, I'd like to tell you about some of the things ED hid from me within it...

To complete the presentation I've had to read my entire paper again. It's sad how much I forgot; I blame the lack of fat in my brain. It's also enlightening to rediscover how much I really love the topic and the enjoyment I got out of completing it. In reviewing the work I've noticed several lessons that now seem so obvious but that I was completely oblivious to in the moment. I was miserable and in denial, all the while completing a project that highlighted so much of what I was dealing with. I couldn't even comprehend my own ideas.

For instance, the entire project is based on the coping strategies utilized by refugees in the short-term. To quote myself, "Emotion-focused coping is based on 'managing distress rather than changing the problem situation,' whereas other refugees may turn to social support...Problem-based coping is directed at changing the situation that is causing distress, attempting to alter it by learning new attitudes and skill-sets." I was absolutely using emotion-focused coping, exercising and throwing myself into my career/education in order to avoid the real problem: feeling inadequate and distrustful.

Or this: "Adjustments within these realms [like clothing and social life] are navigated based on a variety of personal characteristics, including particular challenges the refugees encounter, the situation from which they fled, their previous understanding of the American life and culture, and the structure of their living situations." Personal characteristic: perfectionism. What I fled: feeling intimate and accountable to others. Previous understanding: I was a healthy, physically-inclined, confident woman. Structure of my living situation: alone. Resulting adjustment: orthorexia, over-exercise, restricting, obsession.

Or what about the conclusion, which states that refugees carefully choose which new American cultural traits and attitudes to espouse and which of their own traditions to retain. They create an actionable cocktail that is most advantageous to fulfillment of their short-term needs. The ensuing adjustments help them to do things like secure employment and feel safe, but they are often useless or even detrimental in the long-run. Once the refugee earns a position, most of the adjustment they undertook to get there become irrelevant. Here I was, working my mind and body to their breaking point to fulfill my short-term desires, completely oblivious to the fact that I was setting myself up for long-term dissatisfaction.

It's not surprising that I didn't see these lessons. I mostly saw this: PB & J at 5:00. Gym at 5:30. Work out for 2 hours. Internship at 10:00. Lunch at 12:30. Multi-task multi-task multi-task. Snack at 4:00. Emily Griffith School for project at 4:30. Keep it together. Home at 7:00. Dinner at 7:30. Complete something, anything, from 8:30-10:00. Fatigue. Pass out by 10:30. Rinse and repeat.

I can see clearly now; the pain has gone. I am so grateful for awareness, for second chances, and for brain cells. I am scared for the symposium, but I'm ready to jump in. I want to feel proud and complete. I want to feel whole. The lessons around me will light my way.