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.
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