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.