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.