Unfortunate, but not Unloved

I'll never forget one of the first times that I acknowledged my mother's unexpected pregnancy. Casually, I mentioned the fact that my mom didn't expect me and that she chose a tough life when she kept me. When I said so, she looked me in the eye, smiling, "Emily, you may have been unplanned, but you weren't unwanted." // This blog post is actually about my friend, Adrienne, who took her own life a few months ago. She had been struggling with her eating disorder, alcoholism and depression for years. Eventually, she left us. As I sat down to write this post, I struggled to name it...how could I adequately frame her story, and my perspective on it? // If you've been following this blog, you're probably aware of the last time Adrienne was in Denver. She visited me to attend my "Totally Rad Females Idea Party" and proceeded to have a devastating alcoholic relapse. We met when we were in treatment for our eating disorders and were instant friends. But I never knew about the depths of her alcohol addiction. In the end, I had to put her in a hotel room. Her mom flew out to pick her up. I didn't get a chance to say goodbye. Eventually, her mom sent my mom and I a couple of department-store gift cards and an apology letter. // The whole experience felt surreal to me. I remember looking at the creature with the same blond hair and beautiful, big eyes, and knowing that somewhere in there was my friend Adrienne. The week that I spent trying to get her healthy and home will be etched into my brain forever. Watching someone put themselves through Hell, literally throwing their entire physical and emotional self into a bed of filth, is one of the most humbling experiences that I have ever had. That's really how I felt the whole time: I wasn't angry, I wasn't scared, and I wasn't depressed. I was totally and completely humbled. The ability for the human mind to so pollute a beautiful life...it blew me away. All I wanted was for Adrienne to jump back out of that person and giggle again. // My mom found out about Adrienne first. As I mentioned before, Adrienne's mom was highly involved in getting her out of Denver. I called her early on in the relapse to let her know what was happening, and after that got my own mom involved. The only thing that truly angered me throughout the ordeal was the fact that Adrienne's mom consistently deferred to my mom, instead of talking to me directly. It hurt that while I mopped Adrienne's vomit her mom treated me like I might break at any time, too. So when Adrienne's mom told us, she emailed my mom first. In the email, she had a request: // She asked us to remember Adrienne the way she was "healthy," not the way she was when she came to visit. // And I wondered, how else could I remember her? // Adrienne was not that entity crawling around a hotel room with raw alcohol. Adrienne was the person that I fell head-over-heels in love with in the Einstein's parking lot, where we were allowed to stand outside 3 times a day for "fresh air." People, you listen to me: Adrienne was the epitome of a TOTALLY RAD FEMALE, and she had every right to be at that party. // Adrienne was one of the most unapologetic, genuine people I ever met, and she was also (thankfully) one of the most fun, gracious, and kind. She walked around this world wearing pink/ animal print/ heels/ gold, like every sidewalk crack was a shell on the shores of South Beach. She laughed all the time, at herself and you and that tree and at herself for laughing at all of that. She flit through this life like a butterfly, delighted, so apt to see the positive in any situation. Her bright, glittery makeup perfectly complemented her personality. Even if you were a Gothic Satan-worshipper you would be hard-pressed to admit that Adrienne wasn't the most charming 90's starlet on this side of the equator. The best thing? She didn't even know it. // Adrienne...Adrienne did Sodoku every night. She put on her pajamas and turned on some silly television show. She knew how to have fun. She knew how to relax. In fact, Adrienne coined the oft-used term, "mindlessness," that became our way of saying, "I am going to veg out and not feel guilty for it and IN FACT I'm going to enjoy every minute of it JUSTTRYANDSTOPME!" She had wit, that girl, and she used it with humility.// I was going through my phone today. Her name floated across my screen. I deleted it. Is that it, then? That's all? Can't she just come to one more party, do one more Sodoku, get kicked out of the dining hall for dipping her Oreos in her milk with me, just once more? // When I was young, I realized that a wrinkle existed in the fabric of my life. My mom told me just how important that wrinkle was: "unplanned, but not unwanted." My mom helped me through the wrinkle-- no, the rip-- that was Adrienne's last visit. Adrienne's mom requested that we remember the beauty in her. I can't help but do that. However, her life will always be creased by the fact that it ended so tragically. // Adrienne, you may have been unfortunate. But you were not unloved. // God bless you.

Hope!

A really good soup inevitably leads to soul-sharing, I swear it's true. After a particularly warming Ramen yesterday afternoon, I found myself listening to the love tales of a new friend. The guy had had a rough couple of years, to say the least; too young and too smitten, he had rushed into a marriage only to divorce a few years later. He retreated and bachelor-dom for several months until he eventually fell in love with a beautiful friend. Of course, the divine machine had other plans. He was offered a job in Denver. Alas, his love stayed back in Michigan, a mitten none too warm...The thing that hurt the most, we decided, was not the forced distance. No, it was the fact that he had just gotten a little taste, a tiny morsel, of hope. Real hope, exciting hope, the type of hope that doesn't just say, "things will work out in the end." It's the type of hope where you jump out of bed, feel surges of creativity, and want to act, want to move, want to sip that hope through a candy straw in a 1950's diner. He could love and be loved again.// Yesterday, we both recognized the power of this kind of hope. And today, a little spiritualism taught me why. // One of my favorite religious rituals involves going to the Sacred Retreat Jesuit services in Sedalia. I meet my grandparents there, eat donuts, then go back to their house to spend a good portion of the afternoon discussing the sermon and enjoying their company. I love the Jesuits because they bring a modern mentality to such...dated...stories. Every once in a while they deliver a sermon that tells me exactly what I need to know, perfectly illuminating whatever ideas were stewing in the dark corners of my conscience. Today, they talked about hope.// According to the man in the nice purple dress (it's the second week of Advent, folks), hope is made up of three main ingredients: desire, imagination and mutuality. // Desire is the ability to describe what it is that we want. He challenged the group to wonder, "Do I truly desire to walk in the path of Christ?" He explained that we have the ability to pave the way for Christ. It felt like the Hindu teaching of "attraction," wherein we put into the world what we want to get out of it. Or like when, at my job, we "prime the tubing," which means preparing our medical device tubing by running water through it before the actual medicine. You know, stretching before a big game. // Then comes imagination. So many self-help books evoke the idea of "visualization," instructing us to imagine our desires achieved. Really, isn't that just a lot like prayer? One good idea, said our priest, was to imagine yourself walking in the path of Christ with someone else. Maybe even someone that you don't particularly like. Imagine being with them in that blessed state, without any addendum to your relationship ("I could walk with them if they just..."). A little good hopeful empathy.// Finally, there is mutuality. Mutuality is "excitement," the stimulus to act that is inspired by our relationships with others. Mutuality, said the priest, is where the spirit is.// All this talk about hope walked straight up to the front door of my heart and entered without knocking. You see, I could (and will) apply this hope-help to all the aspects of my life that I value: my spirituality, my career, my personal motivations, my friendships. But in that moment all I could think about was my open, aching heart.// Because it was hard to listen to my friend talk about the electric hope of a new love, since I felt that same hope-- about him. Yes, ye loyal readers, my newest love interest was telling me all about his love interest. I was completely blind-sided. In fact, I felt like I had been led-on. The point was that it hurt. Like mistaking Wasabi for guacamole. // Today I pulled my aching heart out of bed and into the hands of a gray-haired older couple and a man in a white and purple dress. And they told me about hope. My Grandma gave me a hug. The sun poured through the stained glass windows. The pine trees smelled like Christmas. And I felt love, love, hope and love. I sat in church desiring to love and be loved, to form the type of hope that would persist despite Amandas and Evans. I imagined myself finally writing again, putting all of this creative inspiration into the form of words, something I truly love. And then I saw my Aunt and my Grandma, their husbands, and our mutual bond.// Hope. Full.

P[ublic] R[elations] As you are well aware, I love writing in my blog. It became for me this multi-faceted connector of life's elements, from my relationship with my own prides and neuroses to my relationships with my family and strangers. I loved being able to sit down, spout my thoughts on the screen, and then watch the public river sweep them over the pebbles until they resembled something I never even imagined they could be. A couple months ago something changed. My posts had been sputtering due to a lack of time and restlessness (we all know how assumptive the "unhappy artist" scenario can become). The last time I posted was April 4. My dedicated readers (thanks, Grammy) kept asking why I stopped writing. And I didn't really have an answer. Yes, when I started my new job in March I really needed the time to get established there, move into my new place, and reconfigure my life. However, I had been successful in this new scene for nearly 2 months now and still possessed no desire to funnel my words into the world. I blamed it on obsessive reading, which is true: I can't seem to gobble up enough books right now. But there was something going on a little deeper. After some consideration, I think it might be an issue of poor PR. While waiting for my computer to a bath courtesy of the Computer Geeks, I ran across an article in "Psychology Today" discussing the power of dialogue in overcoming or overwhelming a situation. The article stated that simply talking about a negative situation in one's life is helpful in making it seem less intense. The act of voicing one's worries revokes some of their overwhelming significance. Talking about something that you're unhappy about ("venting," if you will) is a great means for recognizing, validating, and then moving past it. Ask anyone who's spoken with a counselor, at a 12-step meeting, or over a mimosa at brunch, and they will probably concur. That's where the article took a turn. It stated that while talking about negatives mitigates their power, verbalizing exciting and positive elements of one's life can have the opposite effect. Talking about the newest accomplishment dis-empowers it in the same manner, meaning that it can seem less special and important. Apparently, keeping it quiet is like planning that surprise party for your friend where almost all of the excitement is in the build-up. Once the news finally springs, then it's out there, no longer warming in the oven of your soul. This fascinated me. I had spent the last year of my life telling everyone everything. I tried to tell anyone who would listen about how busy I was in attempt to assert my successes despite my faltering ego. Then, I told anyone who would listen about my eating disorder, "I feel" statements dotting my vocal canvas like clocks on a Dali painting. Every single time I told someone about my struggles I empowered myself to move past them. And every time I told someone about my successes, I felt a tinge of guilt, like I was trying to hide behind them. So blogging was an excellent function in the recovery process. No secrets, no hidden agendas. Just me and what I felt. Actually, me and the world and what I felt, if they would listen. Until I began to notice some corresponding implications in my PR activities. Like, when I made things really awkward (case in point: I told an entire crew of volunteers that I couldn't drink coffee because I have an anxiety disorder and it made me wacko. I swear I felt this collective thought cross their minds: "I saw you slugging the free coffee like Michael Phelps on Gatorade not even one hour ago...O, god"). Or when I told people what I felt and it happened to end with something like, "And that's why I don't like you right now." It all came to a hilt when I applied to the Peace Corps. A brief disclaimer: Yes, I am now going to tell you why I regret disclosing my Peace Corps application status, that I really wish I had kept it secret, and I am going to do so in a blog that will surely dismantle any secrecy that I still had on the topic. This is venting, it's getting out one of those negative things so that it will seem less important. Goodness forbid there be no method to my hypocrisy. Right now there's probably a 50/50 chance that I will make it through this next round of application approvals. I was accepted through the first application and interview with flying colors. I disclosed my eating disorder and time at ERC from the get-go. I, like my recruiter, felt like it was actually a differentiating factor that could help my candidacy (I'm obviously a driven person who cares). They asked me for a special medical review, where my former treatment team was required to describe my treatment and sign-off in support of my attendance. That's currently under review. It is likely that I won't be accepted. The problem was that when I very first started the process I forgot to set boundaries about who I wanted to know. All the sudden my grandparents were telling the neighbors that I WAS IN and they were congratulating me and asking WHEN I WAS GOING. In reality, I knew that I might have to come back to them four months later and say, "Oh, yah, I didn't actually get in because I went to the skinny/loony-bin a few months back...." That's not a conversation that I wanted to have and definitely not one a seasoned PR professional would ever place themselves in the position to take. So I drew back. I didn't want to keep divulging my innermost thoughts and then suffering the public consequences. I wanted to turn inside for a while, put a happy little calzone full of self-care and pride in my wood-fired oven and let it roast for a good, long time. And I didn't want to mop-up after my own PR disasters. It was like when all those little Disney stars finally get the memo to stop sending nudie pics, no matter how tight their new little boobies are. But I miss writing. I miss sitting in front of my computer and quietly funneling my thoughts into nearly-identifiable statements. I miss looking at the incidents in my life through a creative lens. And sometimes, I really miss being able to vent, because I can say things here that I could never say in the open air. The open page is just a little more conducive to rationality. And loonies like me benefit from some logic now and again. So, I'm back. I'm going to try to focus this blog on finding the best means to dissect my negatives and carefully convey my positives. I'm also going to try to bring less "me" and more "it" into it by illustrating low-brow ideas rather than focusing (wholly) on my own interpretations of them. This is a PR project, people. You're the P! Can you Relate?

Growing Pains

This post was inspired by the book, "The Social Animal," by David Brooks. He looks at the human psychology, including birth, love, careers, macro-level political structures, and aging, by taking the reader through the life-story of his two main characters. The ironic thing about this entry is that it's all about how we mature throughout our lives, but the book that I've turned to since completing "The Social Animal" is "The Hunger Games." I swear, it's only so I can discuss it with my sisters...

One of the most interesting parts of "The Social Animal" is the fact that the author spent much more time exploring the lives of his main characters in the years after they turned 30. I figured that he'd focus on those "coming-of-age" moments during the vibrant, active, exploratory younger years. After all, isn't the best time of people's lives their 20's?

In fact, when asked, many people say that the age they'd least like to return to is that period between high-school and "middle-age" (which we tend to think of as beginning around 30). David Brooks presents this time as a big messy journey; a day-to-day, cutthroat, stressful period that's really just a psychic mess. It's like a purgatory between the operational growth of the younger years and the meaningful journeying of those years past 30.

I couldn't agree with him more. In our society we purport this belief that once you hit a certain age, usually between 30 and 50, you've basically become "who you are" and can't expect to change much. After that there's some years of smooth sailing, when you live with your partner, have kids, maybe move a couple of times, enjoy a stable job or two, and begin planning for your retirement. Then you retire and either spend your time being silly and useless, taking care of grandchildren, or fighting off your doom. There's a common understanding that as you get older you become less able to "learn:" you function more slowly and are less likely to undertake in the sorts of activities that educate you, unless it's a lecture that you may be able to dose during and still retain some information about.

In fact, all sorts of statistics show that this idea is unfounded. As David Brooks justifies, when placed in stressful work environments those employees over the age of 55 respond just as rapidly and also more logically than their younger counterparts. Moreover, when asked to learn tasks and recall memorized facts the older generation does it just as well and often with more accurately. Given the increasing longevity of our lives, our retirees may live 40-50 years without the stress of a job, partaking in the sorts of exra- and intra- exploration that we assume is only for the young. Plus, they have the time and wisdom to really dive into their topics, allowing them to create the sort of cognitive linkages that create true knowledge. There's nothing silly or useless about getting old.

The other day I was thinking about my parents and recalling again how difficult it must be to raise children. I sometimes wonder if one of the reasons I don't want to have kids is because it will force me to question every idea I have come to cherish, force me to doubt the means and morals that guide my life. I think having kids must be like venturing to a foreign country: you look at your map and apply for your passport but truly have no idea what to expect. When you get there you're observant and reactionary, waiting for the next new event to pop up and hoping you've got just enough knowledge not to get yourself into trouble. We expect, even demand, that our parents have it together, that they be some sort of stoic pond of wisdom. But I've watched my parents grow with me every step of the way. It's that growth, the ability to admit wrongs, learn from mistakes, and apply new messages to their lives that makes them good parents.

When I think about the guidance that my parents and grandparents provide I think about how they feel like a strong wall, right up against my back, ready to offer a steadying presence. By connotation, this sort of presence seems opposite to the chaotic and confusing fluctuations of "growth." But, the ability to be strong and wise while undertake self and world-exploration are not mutually exclusive. The difference lies in the rate at which one explores and the way they navigate such a relationship. My grandparents and parents are calmer in their growth; they evaluate things with a certain understanding that it may change. They see the world as being parts of a puzzle and take each piece as it comes. They portray a sense of careful, calm willingness. They don't freak out.

That's what growing means. It doesn't mean going through puberty and slamming on the breaks. It means learning how to mature and committing to that process, forever. It means growing in conjunction with those around you. It means that this is not the only time I have to establish "who I am" and "figure it all out." I've got, like, 80 more years.

Sarah Casewit Photography

The E-True Bollywood Story

Sarah Casewit Photography

Time flies when you're having a life.

Let's rewind to one year ago today.

On March 11, 2011, I finished my last final and graduated from DU. On March 15th I took my certification course for Group Fitness Instruction. On March 19th I celebrated my graduation; on the 20th I was fired from my newest fitness gig because I was showing "obsessive behavior." On the 29th my mom and I walked my little red suitcase down Downing street, crossed over 18th, and signed me into treatment.

2012: Today marks one-week in my new Capitol Hill Apartment, paid for with my new salary, outfitted with furniture given to me by others.

At this time last year I believed myself to be very, very alone. I exercised alone; worked alone; ate alone; and even when in public I was so self-absorbed in my quest for success, efficiency, and 'fitness' that I was alienated from all surrounding me. What's odd was that I had a hard time connecting the dots between feeling lonely and not contributing to the situations of others. Shamefully I wondered why no one called me to hang out. It seemed like going to the gym was the only thing that kept 'positive feedback' coming my way, although people's exclamations of "How do you get a body like that?!" I now realize weren't actually compliments. Still, I felt like there was no one on my side. And I didn't care because I didn't need them anyway. Right?

Wrong. Two weeks ago my mom and I went out for coffee. We chatted about my new place, upcoming events, and other mundane topics until she abruptly looked at me and said, "There's something I haven't told you. You have a savior."

It all began autumn of 2007, when I bounded up to DU to begin my freshman year. I loved going to the group fitness classes the school offered and began to be recognized as "fitness girl," which was totally fine because I enjoyed every minute of it and compensated dearly with dorm food. My favorite fitness instructor was a woman name Kat*, the highest-energy, most positive butt-kicker I'd ever aerobicized with. When two high-energy talkative women get into a room it's a recipe for fun- we became fast friends. For four years I took Kat's classes and when I decided to get my fitness certification I began interacting with her on a deeper level, telling her about my progress, asking her advice, and taking her to coffee.

As my body and mind deteriorated she told that she was concerned and offered support. She wasn't over-the-top about it; she explained some of her own troubles and warned me to be careful and of the long-term ramifications of such strenuous exercise and malnourishment. She said, "You had such a cute little body. Now you look old." This was genuine, kind, and honest. I wanted badly to take it to heart, but the words bounced off of me like oppositional magnetic fields.

Kat knew this, too. Instead of trying to convince me to change she began working for me behind-the-scenes. "She spent three months trying to find my contact information," my mom said. Around one year ago today she finally located my Mom's phone number. She called my mom and said, "You have to do something; I'm afraid Emily will die in her sleep." My mom and I got in a huge fight that evening and I remember feeling confused- I didn't understand where it came from. It wasn't until two weeks ago that my Mom told me it came from one of the most compassionate people I've ever been blessed enough to have in my life.

Kat didn't just call my mom. Every time I told her about a new fitness gig she also called that company and told them not to hire me. She was the reason I couldn't seem to get a job anywhere. As much as it hurt her to watch me be confounded by another rejection, she secretly knew that she was helping me on my path to recovery.

As I sat listening to this story the room mushroomed around me. The branches on the tree outside stretched further toward the heavens; my coffee cup grew heavy in my hand. The sun brightened. I was so, so small, the most humbled I have ever felt in my life. How could I have believed that no one was on my side, that no one was fighting for my right to sit and type this now? There are some people in this world who live in a genuinely compassionate way. They are people who possess the unbridled love for others that allows them to act selflessly without considering payback or consequences. They are people like Gandhi and Mother Teresa and my friends Sarah and Aaron. I cannot describe to you how awestruck I feel when I reflect upon the love that they show. They are my heroes. They are also my saviors.

This is the E[mily]-True Bollywood Story, the facts behind the scenes. I went to India and I came back with the dedication to become a better person. In my quest, I became a self-absorbed worry-wort and doomed myself to skinny-dom.

There are bigger processes happening behind the scenes. There are people and places and things clicking away, aligning the stars so that you can achieve the life God has blessed us with. You're not alone because someone, somewhere, loves you, is working to help you, is sending vibes your way. You're ever-so-small. Isn't that fantastic?

Like, Whoa

There are those times in life when one is transposed into a state of total awe, incapable of forming concise expectations or impressions of a situation because it is so utterly foreign that they are able only to observe its snaking, momentary events as they unfold. I hope that you've experienced one of these times before; they are intensely humbling, thought-provoking and perspective-granting.

I can list three major times in my life when I've been rendered audience to the happenings around me. The first time was when my family and I moved to Ireland. I was young and naive in a very complex land. I never really knew where I was, what people around me really meant by their words and gestures, why my family struggled so much, and what I even wanted from the journey. I spent my days exploring, with my mom or alone, just seeing. I didn't handle this time well; I tried too hard to make it what I thought it should be, and in the end we returned to the United States more self-aware than ever before.

Then there was my study abroad in India. I signed the dotted line to a contract with the unknown and never looked back. I wanted to be shown a new dimension of the world, an audience to a Shakespearean reality. It worked. Yet, again I committed that constant error that haunts all of my undertakings: the error of trying to smash every one of my life's lemons into lime-ade. Rather than let Ireland and India grace me with their lessons, sitting on the boat as it sailed down the river, I took up a paddle and tried to go upstream. I tried to control the situation as best I could, subsequently suffering the consequences of missed expectations for years to come (read: I became a total control freak and landed in treatment. C'est la vie).

The third and final time (to date) that I've become a 5-year old on the first day of life's Kindergarten started last Thursday night. I'm positive that I will wake up to a new dawn of lessons from this experience for years to come.

On Thursday night I threw a "Totally Rad Females Idea Party." It was TOTALLY RAD. The most TOTALLY RAD part was when all the incredible women that I invited rallied together to explain to my grandmother what the term TOTALLY RAD meant. I invited as many impressive women as I could, including Heather*, a friend from treatment from a city on the East Coast. Obviously, treatment is an experience of immense bonding, and I really felt like I knew her. In fact, I do believe I know her; what I didn't know was the depths of her diseases: alcoholism and anorexia/ bulimia. At the party Heather told me that she was allowed a glass of wine. She got drunk but it was okay, because all of the other women were letting their guards down too and she just kind of blended in. Heather and I had an awesome Friday planned, but she started acting weird when I called in the morning. When I arrived at 10:30, her teeth, face, and shirt were stained with red wine. I called her mother and eventually convinced her to spending a sober day with me. It was my first day off in 3 weeks and I wanted to enjoy it with my best friend. That evening I left her at the loft for a couple of hours. When I returned, she was wasted.

That was when things started to get real. Heather was intoxicated on wine or hand sanitizer and Listerine until her mother finally came to pick her up on Tuesday. The whole experience has been utterly surreal. Watching someone self-destruct is like standing in an invincible protective bubble while a Mach-5 tornado swirls around you. What I'm most thankful for is the fact that the Totally Rad Females Idea Party the night before had endowed me with an invigorated sense of self, key to weathering this storm. Once I became cognizant that the beast was not Heather and that her demons were much larger than the situation, I was able to act moment-to-moment and garner the support I needed to ensure that she did not die on my watch. I called in the troops (my mother) and moved her out of my grandparent's loft and into a hotel (word to the wise: don't let an alcoholic drink red wine in a modern white loft. Word to alcoholics: if you're trying to hide your drinking, don't drink red wine).

Heather swore she'd stay sober enough to catch her flight home, then ordered two bottles of wine as soon as we'd left the room. Heather tried to lock us out of her room, so we had to have the hotel remove the lock. Heather ran the bathtub and passed out naked; luckily, my mom came to check up on her just in time. Heather threw up all over the hotel room and slept in it. Heather awoke before the liquor stores opened and was cut off by the hotel bar, so she bought Listerine and hand sanitizer and mixed it with juice for a new type of cocktail. I don't think that one will hit mixology menus any time soon.

And, somehow, I was working 10-hour days, cleaning the loft and house-sitting, and trying to maintain my new job while thinking incessantly about the thing that used to be my friend. I didn't try to understand. I didn't cry. I didn't smile. I just watched and reacted in as stoic a manner as possible.

Truth be told, this has been a Godsend. I have never found prayer so naturally, hearing my mind utter hopes and thanks without willing it to. As I mentioned in my last blog, this new job has tried my path to recovery, but Heather's disorder provided the slap in the face that I needed. I've been so self-absorbed these past few weeks that I disconnected from all that was real in the world. Heather brought reality crashing back to me. Heather also reminded me how invaluable my family is, how lucky I am to have a support system like them, and how important it is to be honest with myself and those around me.

What emotions I've experience (some anger, some hatred, a lot of gratitude) have been secondary to that primary emotion of awe. It was like learning about sex for the first time: I had NO IDEA that this was even a possibility. Learning what it means to be an alcoholic has altered my world-view in so many ways; I can no longer laugh at the drunks on the street because I wonder if my friend might one day join their ranks. I know that my friend will die if she stays in her disorders. I know that I will, if not physically then physiologically, if I live in mine.

Right now, I am proud of one thing: I did not squish lemons into lime-ade this time. I didn't even have to tell myself not to, actually. Evidently, I have internalized that seminal lesson to let life run it's course and use my natural instincts to operate within it. I didn't try to control the situation and didn't form silly expectations about it. I dropped into cruise control, embracing whatever tools God blessed me with (internally and externally) and can now reflect and learn.

Nothing of everything makes no sense. Thank the Lord.

Sarah Casewit photography

WWAV/ SD?

Hello, all. It's been almost exactly one month since I last wrote, and the only reason that I am able to write today is because I decided to skip my morning work out so that I could get to work early so that I could leave early so that I might still be able to attend my own party. It's been busy, the type of busy that gets into your bones. The type of busy that turns on all the switches in my mind that activate a myriad of coping mechanisms with innumerable precipitations, sometimes helpful and sometimes detrimental.

I accepted a full-time, salaried position in Denver. Of course this position presented as soon as I had declared myself Miami-bound: I was sick of looking for jobs in Denver and ready to embrace my true gringa. In Denver I was strategic with my applications; however, I was also starting down a new path of self-employment, where I made ends meet by signing up for contract work, promotional gigs, and creating my own Business Development Consulting company. I recognized that this was not sufficient means to meet my ends; in fact, it wasn't even sufficient to move out of my parents house. But each lead brought me a little closer to some connection. The lifestyle was exciting and creative and it involved a lot of fun coffee and lunch meetings. Plus, I work well independently.

Then, a very good friend told me that her sister's company was hiring. I went in with a "what-the-hell" attitude; I was moving to Miami, and if I wasn't moving to Miami I was making it on my own in Denver and enjoying (albeit onerously) doing it. Still, I was earnest during the interview. Considering my limited working experience, my constraints limitations as a business development consultant were glaring. Plus, it was good practice.

A week or so before my interview I had had an enlightening meeting with a business consultant who recommended that I look less desperate when I go into interviews; she thought it might be showing. That must have worked because they offered me the position on Friday, February 13 and I started the following Monday.

Except that I still had two contract gigs during both weekends and was still "working" as a consultant and contract employee for other companies. It was like down-shifting when you're driving full-throttle and not bothering to slow the gas: everything was grinding and I was expending massive amounts of energy but going very slowly.

The job that I have accepted is perfect for many reasons. It's a new start-up on forefront of it's class, full of 12 other young, fun people. There are committed to transparency in their business so I get to watch the start-up process from the front seat; hell, I even get a chance to be a driver. It's fascinating to me and information that I will use for the rest of my life. Then there's other things, like the fact that I can walk there and that I finally have a customer service position on my resume. But boy, it's kicking my ass.

I have never been salaried before and I didn't realize how easy it was to never leave the job when you're being paid a flat-rate, versus hourly. I invoked the sort of dedication to efficiency that I pursued under hourly income. After 10 hours on the job this renders me completely exhausted. I've learned a helluva a lot this year yet this is the first time since graduation that I've had to learn new information, per say: facts, logistics, metrics, processing, etc. This really doesn't feel anything like the psychological insights I gained at the ERC, that's for sure. Every employee stays long past their hours; 10-hour days are common, and since we're on customer service that means sitting at a desk in front of a couple of monitors for the entire time.

In some ways I'm still clinging to my old lifestyle, which invokes all sorts of secondary emotions of guilt and shame- after all, I prayed for this job for so long, how can I be unhappy with it?! I miss blogging. I miss feeling proactive and successful. I miss being able to find endpoints. And I'm tired: right now I've started a new job, I'm house and dog-sitting, I'm trying to find a new place to live, one of my best friends is coming in for a visit, I'm hosting a party, and I still have other contract gigs running their course.

I think my primary emotion at this point is, once again, fear. This job scares me because it's a commitment to staying in Denver and to living this new salaried lifestyle. It means lots of sacrifices, but I'm not sure what sacrifices are forever and what just needs to happen now so that I can weather the transition. I get so much fulfillment from the volunteer committees that I'm on and from going to lunch and coffee with friends and from blogging and from exercise. My lifestyle is beginning to look like it did at the height of my disorder, when every hour of every day was spent in attempt to accomplish something: work, exercise, eat, sleep...work, exercise, eat, sleep. No social life and the constant humming in my head: Have you done this? Will you do this? You must be forgetting something!

The job has also been difficult on my eating disorder and I'm pretty sure that I've lost some weight. I eat constantly throughout the day at my desk because it gives me an excuse to move around, and I am proud of that, but I still don't think I get the calories in that would send a smile across the face of my nutritionist. I am aware that everyone else at the office notices this because they comment on it, which makes me feel self-conscious. Every morning I wake up at 4:45am so that I can get to the gym because I think I may go crazy sitting for 10 hours and not getting a work out in.

Right now I'm trying to focus on recognizing the patterns in my mind and pursuing those ones that will allow me the most peace and fulfillment. I know that it's natural to want to exercise when I sit for 10 hours; however, that doesn't mean that I need to pound out each workout with the ferocity of a lion on the prowl. I also know that I will make mistakes as I go through this learning process; that doesn't mean that I need to engage in useless comparisons wherein I wonder if everyone else made as many mistakes as me or if the new girl will be better at picking up the processes than me. And just because I need to sacrifice some of my personal life right now doesn't mean that I won't be able to pick it back up when the dust has settled, so to speak. In fact, that's a perfect reasonable thing to do. Finally, I don't need to spend time at my desk wondering if my coworkers like me, or if they think I'm doing a good job, or if I'm proving my worth.

Because: My name is Emily Stewart. I am a dedicated, ambitious person, with many skills and the capability to learn more. I am devoted to living my life in a happy, healthy, way, where I take opportunities and listen to my heart. I know that people want to be around me because they tell me so and I know that I can trust people in their actions because they also want to live honest, fulfilling lives. I know that my work is not a demonstration of my character but actions by it. And I know that if I live with my heart shining outward and an open smile on my face that good will come to me.

Tonight I'm hosting an event: The Totally Rad Females Idea Party. When I didn't feel prepared enough for it I almost canceled it. Then I thought of two of the women who inspired me to host this event: Sarah Casewit and Auntie Val. Both of these women share the same divine ability to surf the waves of the world. They make the term "fly by the seat of your pants" seem like artistic instruction rather than negative disorganization. They would show up to their own party, put everything together on the spot, and laugh about it; they would use that disorganization to entertain the crowd. And they would know that that little stuff doesn't matter- what matters is the vision, which is to join so many spectacular women in one place and get them a little tipsy.

WWAV/SD (What Would Auntie Val/ Sarah Do?) Throw their hands up and giggle.

About a Mom

Once upon a time there was a young woman with brown hair and an Italian nose. She was fiercely independent and considering becoming a politician. She did well in high school by being active in student leadership and forming many positive friendships. At the end of high school she met a young man who looked like James Dean and tried to act like him, too. Their fated relationship was the pebble dropped in the pond, causing ripples that spread for years thereafter...

The young girl graduated and left for college at Colorado State University. She spent a semester there, struggling to adapt to her new surroundings and unsure of what she wanted to study. Frustrated and lovesick, she moved back to Denver to be closer to that bad-boy fellow of hers. She enrolled in university in the city, got herself an apartment and a roommate, and was just settling into the swing of things when...

Something swung right into her. She was pregnant. It was the worst possible news at the worst possible time in the worst possible situation. She was broke, young, and unhappy; her relationship with the bad-boy was exactly as one might expect- bad. He was unkind on a level for which the term "unkind" does no justice. Her parents were strict Christians who would surely disown her for her indiscretion. Should she decide to marry her boyfriend, she would fate herself and her unborn child to a broken, abusive life. But what other options were there? Having an abortion was out of the question; she was staunchly pro-life and couldn't imagine losing her child. Putting the baby up for adoption was an alternative, but when she thought about the beauty and potential of the life inside of her she knew there was no way she could give birth and then let it go. Yet raising the child herself seemed the most fearful option of all: she was poor, uneducated, single, and could barely count on the support of her family (at first, that is).

What did she do?

Twenty-three years, four months and nine days later another young girl sits in a small corner cafe, wasting an hour between promotional work at crowded Saturday-night clubs. She sips tea, snacks, and reads a magazine she "borrowed" from a nearby stand to occupy herself. She absentmindedly turns to an article about a young woman who was forced to give her child up for adoption after her husband revealed that he had led a double life. Like the first young woman, the woman in the story was forced to determine the best possible decision regarding her future and that of her unborn child, a decision whose importance bears unfathomable consequences. The woman in the article decided adoption was the best choice; the first young woman kept her child.

Now that same child sat in a cafe, sipped tea, snacked, and looked at her reflection in the dark windows around her. She looked at her eyes and saw the iris of her mother; looked at her nose and saw the same Italian curve; listened to her heart and felt its courageous beat, knowing that the blood that pumped through it was a gift from her mother's life-giving blood.

My mom chose to keep me. She made the perfect decision, which is the best decision, which is the decision made from a careful analysis of all current data. My mom's heart, soul and circumstance instructed her that raising me was the right thing to do. Regardless of whatever decision she chose, it would have been right, because she was courageous and thoughtful and selfless and genuine in doing it.

Right now my mom is sitting away from me, reading her favorite magazine in her favorite chair with her favorite glass of wine. I love the way her hair looks in the soft light behind her. I love how humble and smart she is, that she reads every night and lets herself relax into it. I learn so much from my mother, both by watching her today and wondering about the woman she was before I was born. She reminds me that we can only make the best decisions and after that we just have to trust them and move forward. That risks can be taken and improved upon. And that love is the reason any of us are here at all.

I love you, Mom.

One Request

If you're going to deny me a job, please don't do it on the same day as someone else.

And on the same day that I take off exercise.

I feel like this:

But less cute.

What it Feels like to be Really, Really Triggered

One aspect of being disordered that I think is difficult for many of the non-disordered to understand is the causation, function and outcome of being "triggered." According to the Eating Disorders Glossary (access online), a trigger "Refers to a person, place, thing, event or emotion that sets an eating disorder in place. This is a controversial term, and used in several ways that can be confusing. The word 'trigger' is very often confused or conflated with 'cause,' leading to more confusion. In much of the eating disorder community, trigger is used to describe things that are upsetting and lead to eating disorder behaviors. It is common to hear a patient speak of being 'triggered' by specific foods, situations, and interactions. Another school of thought and use of the word is to describe events that lead to actions or emotional states that activate an underlying brain disorder. For example, people often refer to dieting or athletic activities as triggering an eating disorder biologically by putting a person into a state of malnourishment or negative energy balance." This is one of the best definitions that I've ever heard for a trigger because it encompasses both the emotional and physiological aspects of being triggered. One can be triggered to act out on their disorder by some outside event and then become further triggered by the physiological reaction to eating/ acting disordered. It's a cycle.

Last week I was triggered multiple times in the span of 48 hours and then was dumbfounded when I awoke from a series of frightening dreams in a state of deep depression. After a useless day, I realized that my mental capacities were totally drained by the emotional roller coaster. What's difficult to understand is how such a variety of seemingly unrelated things can become so passionate and convoluted in the disordered mind. Let me walk you through it.

I can break triggers down into two main categories: historical danger zones and spur-of-the-moment explosions. The first of my ill-fated series of triggers was a weekend full of drinking, eating, and celebrating. In fact, one of my greatest prides is my re-incorporation of drinking, dining out and celebrating into my life; I can weather these events with barely an emotional tug, but it still takes considerable self-coaching to do so. Still, it's easy for me to justify working out a lot and eating less when I've got a party every evening to attend.

I got through the weekend of historical danger-zones. Then, the day after the last party a close acquaintance accused me of restricting my carbohydrate intake. She had mentioned that I was looking a bit thinner, which I appreciated so much. But when I felt like she was watching everything that I was eating I was appalled; since she didn't know dietary exchanges she also had no idea how many carbohydrates I was actually taking in. The most triggering aspect of that conversation was actually the fact that I had watched her skip dinner the night before. Comparisons are another historical trigger.

There are some times when the world presents triggers and other times when you pick up the gun and load it yourself. I can explain to you the difficulty in weathering triggers and the many things that can set me off but I cannot explain to you why sometimes I seek to be triggered, why I let myself go into those dark places knowing full well the havoc they may wreck on my soul. I'm sure it's the same reason an alcoholic takes a sip. Something drives us to hurt and test, and yet we become completely ashamed when we don't pass. We set ourselves up to fail and then hate ourselves for doing so.

One thing I've never been able to let go of is breaking up with my ex-boyfriend nearly two years ago. Whether it's relevant, I place so much of the blame on my eating disorder. I feel more guilt and shame regarding that break-up and am still in love with him (ouch). For the past two years I've followed his and his new girlfriend's blog. It had been several months since I'd opened that wound. Then, one night last week I was a little bored and curious. "I'm over him, really, so it won't do anything," I convinced myself.

BANG! goes the trigger, historically dangerous but with spur-of-the-moment damage. His girlfriend's latest post was about his style, featuring pictures of him wearing clothes that I had bought him. It was like jumping out of a hot-tub into the snow, except I was not partying with friends in a cute bikini. My little world turned into a black pin-prick. As I drove to my next event, I missed two exits and have no idea what was on the radio.

My next meeting was a focus-group. Focus-groups are another one of my "funny-money" income sources. I walked in with my head in the clouds and then got hit by a passing plane: someone from my high school was there. My cheeks turned bright red and my intestines fused with my kidneys. What would he think about me, former student body president with a destiny to rule the world, attending a focus-group for extra money? I spent the evening darting behind various tall people and pieces of furniture to avoid having to speak with him. Surely he pitied me; I pitied me at this point. What if he asked me if I was still dating my ex? O my god, he looked like me ex! BANGBANGBANG.

The next morning I woke up. I rolled over and went back to bed. I woke up again and completed a robotic work-out, far from my body. I tried to work on proposals and strategies for my clients but felt too frail to render any creative energy. I mostly ate fruits and vegetables and cake. It was one of those days when nothing I did was enough and yet I didn't have enough in me to do anything. I just counted the hours until I could go to bed. I gave up on the day. It was just depressing.

The next day I woke up bright, shining, and ready to go. The storm had passed and I was grateful for having let it do so. Still, I can't afford to allow triggers to render me useless for 24 hours straight. I look back and wonder what I could have done in the moment to handle the emotions rather than retreating into my safe warm hole once the predator was already hovering over it.

When I was sick and these days happened I would judge myself for them. I'd hate that I became so crippled, willing myself to work harder and be stronger. Now, I am proud of the self-care that I undertook and proud that I rallied so naturally once I gave myself the space. Actually, writing this blog has made me (dare I say it?) excited for the next trigger. I know that my hand will not be on it and I know that I will recognize it when it comes. Can I act in the moment, rather than after the fact, to take care of my bleeding heart? I know I can. We cannot undo the experiences we've had, but can only learn from them. I'm excited to see what the world fires at me next.

Response/ Comment Confusion

Dear all,

I just finished up a meeting with a friend of mine who mentioned that he had e-mailed me responses to my post. The e-mail was one he found on this blog- some sort of "noreply." I can't figure out where he got this link. Moreover, I haven't received any of his comments to my e-mail or on this post.

I LOVE hearing from you! If you've ever tried to e-mail me to a "noreply" account, please let me know where you got the address and if you received anything back? If you are unable to post directly to this blog, please e-mail me at emilytonellistewart@gmail.com

Thank you so much for your continued interest!

A little quote for today:

"We are God's gift to the world; what we become is our gift to God."

Sarah Casewit Photography:

The Obesity "Epidemic"

One of the things I'm currently fascinated by is the media's preoccupation with the obesity "epidemic." In fact, there is mountain evidence against such claims. Health journals and works like "The Obesity Myth" increasingly attribute the obesity epidemic to analyzing statistics are being causal, rather than correlative, and exaggerated. More evidence points to the fact that there are a wide range of BMI's that produce positive health benefits; that there is little relation to high BMI and high mortality; that it is more detrimental to one's health to be five pounds underweight than dozens of pounds overweight; and more. What I truly hate is that "health" today is intrinsically tied to "thinness," to the point where anyone perceived as being "overweight" can expect the suffer the sort of hatred and judgment that is deemed "prejudice" in other facets of our society. I recently read a friend's blog that ranted about having to pay taxes to maintain the health of the obese. It's sad and scary that we've plunged so deep into this unsupported and unhealthy measure of "normal."

Here's one article, from obesitymyth.com:

"Overweight" and "Obese" Celebrities and Sports Stars

The federal government defines "overweight" and "obese" using the body mass index (BMI), a simple calculation based only on height and weight. "Normal" weight is defined as a BMI between 18.5 and 24.9. "Overweight" is defined as a BMI between 25 and 29.9. "Obese" is a BMI of 30 or higher.

Actor. Govenor. Fatso? Are these classifications meaningful? According to the government standard, Tom Cruise, Sylvester Stallone, and Mel Gibson are technically obese. So are sluggers Sammy Sosa and Barry Bonds, boxer Mike Tyson, quarterback Donovan McNabb, and wrestling superstar The Rock. And if politics is your thing, it turns out that California Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger—a bodybuilding legend—is obese, too.

It’s not just the official category of obesity that has been affected by numerical hocus-pocus. Thirty-five million Americans went to sleep one night in 1998 at a government-approved weight and woke up "overweight" the next morning, thanks to a change in the government’s definition. That group includes currently "overweight" celebrities like Will Smith and Pierce Brosnan, as well as NBA stars Kobe Bryant and LeBron James. It even includes George W. Bush, considered the most fit president in U.S. history. "Overweight" had previously been defined as a BMI of 27.8 for men and 27.3 for women; in 1998 it was lowered to a BMI of 25 for both genders.

The 1998 redefinition prompted a group of researchers to criticize the new threshold in The American Journal of Public Health. They wrote:

"Current interpretations of the revised guidelines stigmatize too many people as overweight, fail to account for sex, race/ethnicity, age, and other differences; and ignore the serious health risks associated with low weight and efforts to maintain an unrealistically lean body mass … This seeming rush to lower the standard for overweight to such a level that 55% of American adults find themselves being declared overweight or obese raises serious concerns."

A research letter published in JAMA (the journal of the American Medical Association) reported that 97 percent of players in the National Football League are technically overweight and more than 50 percent are obese. The NFL responded by calling the BMI "bogus," since it "doesn’t consider body muscle versus fat."

"Before calling it an epidemic, people really need to understand what the numbers do and don’t say."
— Rockefeller University professor Jeffrey Friedman in The New York Times, 2004


National BMI Distribution By redefining the definition of "overweight" the federal government made more that 35 million Americans overweight - more than doubling the size of the category. In 2004, the redefinition counts an additional 22% of Americans as officially fat.

Bi-Weekly Patience/ Communication Practice: Staying in Topic

You'll notice two updates to the Patience Practice Series: 1) It's bi-weekly, and even that's subject to change, should I feel the need to be particularly patient; 2) There is also a focus on communication, because I believe my difficulties in each realm are intrinsically tied to and demonstrated by the other. Finally, it's obvious but still of-note to mention that I will continue to live with the mantra "Pick Your Battles" painted in my mind. The idea is that these practices will become habit. Feel free to remind me of them at any time.

This next practice is one I decided to do without outside research. I do think it's highly valuable to research these practices from external sources. Like most people, the problem is not knowing where my flaws lie but figuring out what to do about them. Still, I am aware of the fact that in conversations I often jump between topics. The source of such hyperactivity is anxiety, curiosity, a desire to keep the conversation flowing, and hyperactivity itself. I have had several people comment on this fact, more proof that it is actually a huge detriment to discourse. Plus, it makes me look like a kindergartener on cake. Or like I have an eating disorder (and Lord knows I don't want to look like that).

So, over the course of this next two weeks-ish I will concentrate on staying on topic in my conversations. I think the best way to achieve this is by allowing the conversation to naturally dawdle and waiting for the other person to offer a new topic when it does. Potential landmines include silent time, censuring my ideas, and the desire to ask more questions. It will also take a lot of energy: I'm so used to putting in new ideas that it actually takes far more energy to censure myself than keep chatting.

Through yoga and treatment I've learned that one of the best ways to stimulate more energy is actually to foster internal repose, to water the energy inside of you rather than ripping out the seeds and trying to plant afresh. By relaxing in conversations, really listening to what the person is saying, and identifying my own responses before I say them, I believe I can cultivate the internal energy required to be blabber-free. My mantra: "pottum," which in Tamil means "enough."

Give me a call! Invite me to lunch! I can't wait to listen to you. Maybe we'll even sit in silence.

Free of my own loquaciousness.

Houston, We Have a Problem

The world is full of paradoxes. While it's wisest not to read too far into these situations (as the Jewish say, l'chaim) a certain paradox in my own life has demanded my attention for the past week. I'm intent on discerning its traits and alleviating its burden. This paradox lies in my (in)ability to communicate well.

It may seem odd that I am unsure of whether I am an extremely skilled or skillfully atrocious communicator. Take a moment to read the following selection of comments regarding my communications, taken from the last week, and you may understand wherein the confusion arises:

In an interview, after a sales role-play: "That was really good. So few people know how to hold a conversation with a stranger. It's shocking how many people just clam up, but you jumped right in."

In an interview at a restaurant: "You need to learn how to talk less. The general consensus here is that you talk too much."

From a client: "You're ability to communicate and network is really your greatest asset."

From my EDA group: "I know that you want a dialogue, but this really isn't appropriate here."

From my family: Nothing. Because I barely communicate with them at all.

Sometimes my outspoken nature and articulate self-expression are applauded, sometimes inappropriate. In one instance it almost landed me a job; in the other it sent me one step closer to claiming Unemployment. I can ask too many questions, or not the right question, or just the right question, or no question at all. And while all of these aspects are valuable communication methods, I can never seem to use them in the right place, at the right time, or with the right audience.

While shy people are often misidentified as being rude, talkative and aggressive people are often believed to be confident and socially at-ease. For me, this is far from the truth. One of the reasons that I have such a difficult time communicating is because I'm thinking about it. Sure, I have the confidence and imagination to strike up a conversation with a stranger. And I am adept at dialoguing with acquaintances for hours at a time. But I spend most of those conversations engaged in a second mental discussion, trying to determine what sorts of questions to ask next, how the person is responding to me, whether I'm asking too much or too little, and any other number of variables. Rather than helping facilitate my communication these thought processes actually deter from my listening and the fulfillment that my partner may experience. It causes me to interrupt the other, to jump from one topic to another, or to act just a little distracted and bizarre. I want so badly to connect with the person across the table from me that I end up barely connecting with them at all.

I struggle very deeply to deal with this habit. Conversations can become so stressful to me that I end up being asocial or making sure that my social time is spent "doing something" with the other person, offering an endless stream of things to comment on or the ability to hide behind the stimulation. I also think it may be the reason that I act so aloof around my family; I'm wary of starting a conversation because I know I'll feel drained afterward. I know that this issue has kept me from more than one opportunity to create a new personal connection, land a job, or get to know my friends and family better. I want very badly to be able to relax socially, say nothing at all, or laugh without foreshadowing it.

Of course, when I'm underfed or obsessing about food my ability to communicate gets exponentially worse. I can't begin to tell you how distracting it is to try to have conversation with one person while listening to the little man in your head obsess about what to eat/ how to eat/ when to eat/ feeling hungry. I become anxious, acting and feeling like a chipmunk stuck in a spinning wheel. When I'm hungry and disordered, efficient communication is my last priority in energy expenditure.

A few weeks ago I decided to practice one patience activity every week. The first activity I chose was "Pick Your Battles." After one week I happily acknowledged that it was one week too short and that to really practice patience I needed to be patient. So I've extended those activities to bi-weekly alterations. The reason I decided to keep "Pick Your Battles" around was because I found it helped in my communication. When I catch myself poorly communicating I almost immediately jump to judging myself for it: Why can't you just relax? Why did you cut them off again? Are you actually listening? Why do you talk so much about yourself? Why do you ask so many questions and not talk about yourself more? Picking my battles allowed me to say, "I'm not going to judge myself for that. I'm just not going to cut them off again." It gave me the permission not to worry about what was happening and to stay in the moment: the battle outside was enough.

Still, I could use more work on communication. I'm not sure how to handle it exactly. There's so much involved: self-consciousness, lack of self-awareness, genuine and uninhibited curiosity, a desire to avoid talking about myself and an inability not to try to insert my own statements as a means to connection. If you have any ideas, I'd love to hear them. For now I'm going to search for my next patience activity with this dilemma in mind.

People keep telling me that it's part of being young. That's fine, except for the fact that I haven't gotten a paycheck in 6 months and am sick of going to lunch as my primary means of socializing. I'm about to land on the moon and I've still got no idea how to speak Martian.

The Right Bank for Me

The mafia is now Italy's #1 bank, according to Reuter's online. What threatens the demise of every other organization in the country provides limitless success for the mafia.

Sorry, Wells Fargo; looks like I found just the bank for me. I'm giving up on the corporate world. Need an "Independent Contractor?" I'm your gal, no 10-99 required. All I request is a giant stoagie, a sweet hat, and $1,000 in cash. That's not too much to ask, right?

Sign and date the dotted line, please.

A Great Example

In my last post I discussed pursuing things that I'm afraid of, despite the fact that I'm afraid of them. Last week I was honored and horrified to find myself at the pinnacle of this paradox.

While I was in outpatient treatment last Spring I noticed a few people touring the facilities. Prospective patients regularly toured the facilities but it was rare to see healthy-looking people walking around with notebooks and cameras. They didn't speak with any of the patients; I assumed that they were part of the media and that they hadn't been granted access or were unsure how to approach us. After a little sleuthing I learned that the Managing Editor of 5280 was writing a story on the ERC. I got in touch with her and found myself being interviewed, one week later, about the story.

The editor was interested in my blog and spent some time looking it over. She deemed it worthy of a special section in the article. The Health Issue was released the first week in January, with a brief article on my story, my blog, and an excerpt. The article online can be accessed here:

Obviously, I wanted to tell my story and wanted, in some way, to be recognized for it. I offered to be interview and offered the link to my blog. I had to approve the story and send her a picture to include with it. And I wanted to keep blogging because I was aware that more people might log on. Still, it's nerve-racking to know that strangers might now tune in to the things I'm writing. I worry that they'll think my discussions are insignificant; after all, people are dying from terrorism and I'm agonizing over whether to eat a cupcake or an apple, run a mile or 10. Truly, I know that the things I deal with here are larger than food and exercise- the point is that eating disorders have very little to do with food. But everything I stress about can seem so useless in the grand scheme of things.

There are more worries. What if they think I'm a terrible writer? What if they like it and call me and offer me a book deal and I become Carrie Bradshaw? What if I think things like that and become totally dejected because they never happen? What if I don't have anything to write about?

My choices are clear. I can run away from this publicity, allowing my fears and hopes to overwhelm me. Or I can keep writing because I enjoy it, it helps me to notice the funny and beautiful things in my life, and because someone, somewhere, might be touched by my story. It's a way of communicating with the masses as much as my own parents; I know that they've read things here I'm too embarrassed to say to them directly. This blog serves a purpose and I'm grateful for it, no matter how many or how few people read it.

Being afraid and doing it anyway. Write on!

Being Afraid of Everything and Doing it Anyway

I was pondering my patience practice of the week ("Pick your battles") and got to thinking about the term "battle." When I went in to treatment it was really a way of escaping the daily battle of my life. I created such high expectations and felt so inefficient that I fought with everything that came my way; I squeezed and pushed and tried to make everything perfect and felt horribly dejected when it wasn't. Quick reminder: perfection is impossible. So giving in to the compassion of others allowed me to stop fighting everything around me. It allowed me to relax a little.

I am proud to say that I no longer drop-kick the daylight out of every day. I noticed that prioritizing and making decisions comes much easier than it used to. When I was sick I obsessed about every decision, always trying to pick what was "best." Now, my priorities are more than clear; they're a part of my mindset. For instance, I recently picked up a job serving tables. I agonized over taking the position: I had sworn off working in restaurants after my last two ED-laden disasters. I also had to admit that my current pursuits simply weren't paying the bills.

However, it was without a second thought that I told my manager I needed three nights off a week: two for my Eating Disorders Anonymous meetings and one for the Spanish class I recently enrolled myself in. Actually, it wasn't until I walked out later that night that I realized what a milestone that was.

It feels nice to step out of doubt and into a little faith. I know I can get everything done that I need to, I know I can be healthy, I know things will fall into place. After discussing faith with people in many different walks of life, it seems to me that faith generally corresponds to having less fear of the unknown or of failure. Unfortunately, some neuron in my brain blocks this rule because I am afraid of everything. And I do it anyway.

That's where my battle lies: not in the doing it, but the freaking out about it all the while. While I can pick my battles I can't stop myself from getting really scared. I'm that soldier standing at the front line, warpaint on my face and stick in hand, wishing that I was wearing panties under my kilt because a little yellow trickle is running down my shaking knees.

I'm afraid of everything and its' reverse. If I get a new "normal" job than I might lose all the exciting independent business pursuits I'm following. But I'm afraid of pursuing them because I'm under-qualified. I'm afraid of going to the Peace Corps because it will take me away from the safe life I've built, but I'm afraid of not going because then I'll be stuck in this damn city. I'm afraid of missing an opportunity and afraid of taking too many. Exercising too much or too little. Eating too much or too little. Being too nice, too mean. Doing everything or doing nothing. Afraid, afraid, afraid.

And yet, I keep doing it. Why do I rush into this battle? Not because it's better than standing in my own puddle. No, it's because I've got this Russel Crowe Gladiator man championing my way. Who is that man? It's me. It's my conscience and my gut, telling me to have a little faith and keep doing what feels right.

So I'm the solider. I'm the Gladiator. Who's the enemy?

That's right: I am my own enemy, too. I have every tool I need to push myself down and employ them often. The greatest tool is fear, that puddle below the pleats. I am the reason that I cannot go to battle but I am also the reason I can win. And realizing that I am all players guarantees one indispensable truth: I WILL always win. Unless of course I cower, don't move at all, and continue to water the grass.

That's simply not an option.

The glorification of a battle won:

Jumpin' in a Junker

A few weeks ago some poor fellow attempted to break into my car. Why, I can't really be sure. In the darkness they must not have noticed the broken front headlight, the dented front and back bumpers, the mess of the interior, or the fact that if you lift your leg high enough you can basically step right over the thing. The alley must just be that dark.

To get in, they removed the lock from the driver's side door. I'm not sure if they succeeded and then came to their senses, deciding not to take the car (or the homemade CDs inside, the only thing of value on the whole vehicle). But they took the lock with them.

Rather than pay 3x the value of the car to get the lock replaced, I've taken to shimmying across the passenger seat to get in the car. And, boy, is it a riot! When it snows I carefully tap my toes together, dusting off the wet in a very Dorothy fashion. When I'm wearing a skirt or dress things get creative. I've found my yoga ability has strengthened with this daily twist-and-tuck practice. Finally, it's totally satisfying to watch people's confused faces as I bail out of or plunge into the passenger-side door. Gas stations can be particularly comical.

You only hope you'll get to see this circus, my friends.

Patience Exercise of the Week: Pick your Battles

Fittingly enough, I got this patience exercise from "Power to Change," some sort of Christian website. It seems God is pretty gung-ho about the whole patience= acceptance= love thing. I'll take a leaf out of his Book, then. Here's the excerpt:

"Allow others to fail you. Like cats petted backwards, impatient people tend to attack others when things aren’t done right. But Proverbs 19:11 advises: “A man’s wisdom gives him patience; it is to his glory to overlook an offense.”

Realize people are like jigsaw puzzles – sometimes they don’t fit together perfectly. We tend to be leaders, doers, cheerleaders or watchers. Through the strengths and weaknesses of each personality type, we develop patience.
Pick your battles. Major on the majors, like relationships. Dora liked a tidy house but her roommates didn’t share her standards. “God knew I needed to learn flexibility,” she admits. “I got something better than a neat home. I learned how to really care for people.”"

This feels especially important to me in reflecting on my actions over the last week. It is with incredible shame that I admit I've been an ogre to live with. I've felt ungrateful, which makes me feel guilty, so much so that I can't figure out how to be patient, compassionate, or even crack a smile. When I get this way I have a hard time looking my family in the eye because I think they'll somehow see right into the dark interior of my confidence-less thoughts. I've been snotty, irritable and aloof.

Rather than apologize, I'm going to practice patience. To me, this excerpt means choosing what I want to get aggressive about. Do I need to snap at my sisters for leaving their dishes around, or my Mom because she didn't warn me that she'd be making popcorn? No.

More importantly, it means picking my battles with myself. The reason I war externally is because I feel insufficient, anxious and any other myriad of emotions internally. If I better choose what thoughts I want to command my energies, I will create a more positive external environment.

I commit now to consistently NOT choosing this battle: trying to exercise more and eat less because I "didn't get enough of a workout." That's been a pretty consistent battle over the past few days that really just doesn't serve me. Damnit.

Wish me luck.

The Meaning of Holidays

You may have noticed (and I'm afraid to admit) that this blog has laid relatively untouched during the holiday season. One might think that during such a stress-laden time I would have chosen to write more frequently, to address the many stressors of the season- after all, blogging is one of my favorite coping mechanisms. If New Years celebrations bless us with the opportunity to reflect, than my first evaluation of the past few weeks brings me to the conclusion that yes, blogging would have been helpful and yes, I will continue to do so.

So what was it, then, that incited me to shirk from expression at a time when it may have provided some valuable insight? Holidays are a generally difficult time. With an eating disorder lurking in the shadows they can be downright dangerous. The act of blogging forces me to admit, explore, and hold myself accountable to my emotions. It asks me to shed light on that which causes me guilt, fear and embarrassment. It separates emotions from my thoughts and, at the very least, shows me how not to act on them. It is an active and aggressive way to connect with my own mind, something that my treatment at the ERC would support. But, it's in no way a vehicle to avoidance, which was my chosen tactic for coping from November 24th to January 1st.

I decided to "cruise control" the holidays when I realized that I had beat myself down last year by working up ridiculously high expectations about them. Last year I was so sick. There's a picture of me from Thanksgiving, cutting into the tendon of the turkey that looked oddly like the tendons in my forearm (picture below). I wanted the holidays to be perfect: I would live in the comfort of my parent's home, eat whatever treats came my way, and rid myself of my guilt by expressing my love, indebtedness, and gratitude to anyone that came my way.

What became of the last holiday season? I was a mess, and it wasn't hot. An incessantly spinning dradle, and I'm not even Jewish. Every day I woke up anxious, trying to predict what hazardous food might wash down the Grand Canyon of possibility before I could grab a veggetable life-raft. Daily scheduling was a struggle. I woke up lacking the energy to exercise and trying to strategize when and how to do it by drawing the least attention to myself and eating at the optimum time to work it off. I became emotional at the slightest provocation, especially when an activity ran contrary to my hopeful expectations.

I spent New Years at a 2-hour yoga clinic, feeling faint the entire time and trying to force some sort of divine awakening from it. Afterward, my ribs shaking from cold, I went to buy my first celebratory cookie in months. I ate it in my car, hiding, and went home to pass out. The next morning I woke in the bathroom with stomach flu and didn't leave my parent's couch for the next six days. I was sick and alone.

As this year's holiday season approached I remembered, swearing that I'd never live another holiday like that one. However, I had no idea how to live this one. I was cautious to create an intention around the season, wary of habitually dramatizing these sorts of events. My dilemma was that I constantly made the holidays more important and meaningful than they needed to be. Really, the holidays are a beautiful and enjoyable time, but they didn't matter all that much. I wasn't doomed to a horrible year if I had a regrettable New Years. The presents that I gifted weren't tangible evidence of my devotion. So I decided to ride the holiday wave by choosing a careful neutrality that I hoped would help me to weather the storm.

It worked. Thanksgiving went well and Christmas went well. I had a blast buying presents for many of my cousins on my grandparent's behalf. I went to holiday parties, inviting new friends as guests, and was very, very social. I ate lots of pie. I worked out too much (a combination of lots of time and even more nerves), but I did manage to take a couple days off.

So it worked, in a way. Except for the fact that in this last week, I felt myself graying and fraying around the edges. I had the week off and set my alarm in the morning to get up early so that I could tackle all the little tasks that had fallen by the way-side. I wanted to move forward on the many initiatives that have come to fill my often empty time (my job is unstructured and insecure, to say the least). But somehow my finger kept finding the way to the snooze button. My hands found the way to novels, coffee shops and errands, rather than to my never-ending list of tasks.

After a few apathetic days I admitted my lack of motivation. I honored the funk. I kept sleeping in, napping, lunching with friends, and immunizing against the cold that lurked in the depths of my nasal cavities. I was positive that the New Year would bring new busy-ness, motivation, and opportunities. I promised to let myself rest through this last week and then greet the treasures on the New Year with renewed vigor.

Last night I found myself sitting on the floor of an Indian-themed apartment, having my tarot cards read by a new friend, her girlfriend, and some of their friends. I had planned on partying in Breckenridge but high winds and power outages sent us scurrying back to Denver. It seemed divined that these friends would ask me to spend my most feared holiday in the safety of their home, reading astrology and tarot cards to forecast my year to come. I was positive that the cards and horoscopes would reveal everything I expected about 2012: that it would be a new, opportunistic, life-changing year, the final separation of the demons of 2011. Good riddance.

Regardless of the dubious validity of tarot card readings, I think it's an excellent way to draw one's mind to new ideas and ask those difficult, unacknowledged questions. Plus it's totally fun. As my cards were laid in front of me and their meaning detailed by my friend, my heart slowly found its way to my spleen. They told me that this year was a time of hard work with little return. That this good fight, which had led my thumb on "snooze" and my mind to cruise control, wasn't over yet. The miraculous change sure to rise with the 2012 sun would not happen. My task was to keep moving forward, one day at a time, patiently. Another card instructed me carefully acknowledge and respect of my emotions. The battle was not over, and if I didn't pay attention to my emotions, it's old "superficiality" would ensue.

What a downer. As I mulled over my situation and sipped champagne, it seemed that every little bubble enlightened my inner depths, until finally I sensed that these tarot cards were exactly what I needed to hear. I had built up unreasonable expectations about 2012 without realizing. I wanted so badly to be rid of the daily grind that had come to characterize my life: searching for jobs, working the ones I could find, taking steps further away from my ED, trying to be a positive member of my parent's household, etc. But January 1, 2012, is a day like any other. I was still the same Emily, in recovery and transition. It was exactly the realistic caution that I needed. Somehow (champagne aside) I felt the gears in my soul turning, clicking into 3rd, ready to keep climbing this noble hill.

People who've been in treatment or rehab don't set "resolutions;" for anorexics, it's usually not resolve they lack. We set "intentions," giving ourselves space to falter. After this year's warring and last night's revelations my intention for 2012 is to practice one exercise in patience a week. I will let you know what my exercise is, practice it every day, and slowly become a little more flexible and forgiving. Or at least gain a little awareness. Let's get real.