“Like A Woman Possessed”

I rarely watch this show, but I caught a glimpse of this dance by Alexa Penavega and her partner on Dancing with the Stars about her 6-year-long struggle with bulimia and it brought me to tears. One of the judges on the show commented after the performance that she “danced like a woman possessed,” which is fitting for the description of any eating disorder. Those who struggle with one are essentially possessed. Our thoughts, our emotions and our behavior are reigned by an irrational desire to control our bodies in order to achieve dangerous extremes. If you struggle with an eating disorder as I have and sometimes still do, this dance embodies the cruelty and pain of the illness, something that when we’re in the midst of it, we tend to forget. It’s a demon of sorts. A tyrant and a villain. And as Alexa tries to do in her dance, we need to fight to get away from its grasp. We need to keep fighting.

http://www.cosmopolitan.com/health-fitness/news/a49062/alexa-penavega-eating-disorder-dance/

My Turn.

I’ve been thinking recently about the journey I took to get to where I am today.

What feels like a lifetime of recovery, really hasn’t been much longer than 3 years.

It was a little over three years ago that I first reached out for help. I started therapy. I walked into AA for the first time (and in and out until finally sticking in 2014). I began to reveal some of my secrets to the first person who I felt I could trust at the time. Three years ago, I knew for the first time… that I needed other people. That I needed to reach outside of myself for help.

Three years seems so long ago. I’ve grown essentially into an entirely different person during that time. I’ve grown into someone that is honest, trusting (for the most part), self-aware, expressive and hopeful. None of these adjectives even remotely relate to the person I was before I started this journey. On the contrary, I was secretive to the point where no one really knew me. I was isolative and trusting of no one. I was a stranger to even myself. I did not know what I was feeling, let alone how to express my emotions. And I had no hope left. I had given up completely to the point that I didn’t care whether I lived or died.

It’s hard for me to imagine myself back then, because so much has changed thanks to recovery, sobriety, the wisdom of others and my faith in a higher power. But recently, I’ve recognized a fear that I have today. I fear going back… I fear living again with that insurmountable pain… I fear that loneliness that suffocated me… The person I am today fears the person I was then.

Three years ago, I had my first taste of what it felt like to no longer be alone. I let others hold some of the weight that I had carried on my own back for years. I let others into my life, into my feelings, into my secrets. I let myself be vulnerable. I let other people save me. Had I not, I guarantee I would no longer be here. And I’m grateful for these past three years.

But now, it’s my turn.

It’s time now, for me to start saving myself, at least partly. This means relying less on others, learning how to cope with emotions that, before recovery, felt unbearable. This means growing more comfortable with being alone. This means truly growing up, becoming independent (not completely of course, but enough that I no longer need to cling to others for support).

And I am scared shitless.

Now that I know what it’s like to be cared for, loved, supported… it is terrifying for me to consider letting go of even an ounce of that reliance. How do I know that I’m capable?

I never thought I’d say that it has been easier to trust others than it has been to trust myself… but the truth is, I’m not sure I ever really have ever trusted myself.

I’ve been educated almost excessively on coping skills, treatment approaches, the twelve steps, emotion regulation and the biological, mental and spiritual bases that I need to stay healthy.

And yet… knowing these things does not guarantee that I will do them.

I have hope, I know.

But I also have fear.

I’ve told myself before that fear is only proof that I value my life today. The person I was before recovery didn’t have much fear. Instead, she was numb, apathetic, uncaring.

Maybe it isn’t hope that saves us.

Maybe it’s the fear of going backwards.

Regardless, I know it’s time to start letting go of the person I was and to start trusting the person I am today.

Twirling

Relationships are a long-feared territory for me.

My weak attempts at commitment over the years have either fallen apart quickly or left me with fragmented emotions that I refused to acknowledge.

This new frontier in my now-semi-stable life is daunting. In relationships, even casual acquaintances, my thoughts are flooded with insecurities, second-guesses of my words or actions, desperation to know what the other people may think or feel about me. I cling too hard to some and then push them away in fear that I may be burdening them. Though I’ve managed to remain sober for some time, to rebuild many areas of my life, this realm of reality remains completely befuddling.

The hardest parts come when I attempt minor romantic relationships. Dating, for me, is like walking across a shaky catwalk with no railings. I’m reaching out for any form of stability, my arms waving wildly in the air, my heart pounding in my ears. The confusing part about dating is that I start dates feeling seemingly confident. I even relax a little at first and try to have fun… that is until I’m asked to speak about myself, to share details about who I am, what I want.  Honestly, the answers to these questions are still elusive, even to me.

And when my mind comes up blank in response to the questions, I feel guilt for bringing someone who is willing to give, to confide, to be vulnerable… on a date with me, a girl with no clue what she’s even doing sitting in that restaurant.

I know that I feel lonely. I know that I crave security, dependency, companionship.

I know that I want to try.

So lately, I’ve been taking one step forward in this dance called dating.

I accept an offer for dinner, I dress up, I smile and crack jokes. I even receive a good night kiss…

…and then, when I’m left alone again, I freeze.

My thoughts start to spin. My fears kick in about whether I feel the way I’m supposed to feel, whether I’ve been genuine, whether this person will hurt me just like those in my past. I start asking myself those same questions of who I am, whether I can be vulnerable, and what it is that f*cking want?

Then, after a moment’s pause in the dance, I make my trademark move: I twirl.

My foot angles sideways, my other foot plants itself beside the other, my body spins so I’m facing away and I distance myself yet again.

Once again, I stop the dance before it begins.

I reach out, then step away.

Twirling. I can’t think of a better metaphor for how I feel in relationships these days. I start to move, to participate in a dance with another person. I feel willing to give someone a chance, and then…just as they get close enough to touch, I spin away from them. I twirl in space, so they can’t hold me still.

I know this must get easier one day. One day, there’ll be some person who makes it easy to stay still, to keep my eyes on theirs, to let them hold me in their arms. Sometimes, I even think I’ve found it. But maybe like everything else in recovery, it will just take time.

After all, I’ve been dancing alone for a very long time. Adding a partner requires learning a new dance.

Stones

It’s been a while since I’ve written which, I suppose, is a good thing because my life today is busy and full of people with whom I can honestly confide in. However, I have missed my writing. I’ve been getting lazy with my journaling which I believe is something I really need to maintain in order to keep sane. Writing gives me perspective and awareness, seeing my thoughts listed on paper awakens me to the reasons behind those thoughts and rational resolutions to my daily problems. And without my journaling, I’ve noticed that I haven’t been as in-tune with myself, as authentic with myself and others.

In the past couple of months, I’ve started a new job and moved to my own apartment. My life has nose-dived into the immediate needs for independence, bill-paying, financial stability and responsibility. I’ve worked and lived on my own before so these are not novel concepts for me, but it has still taken me a while to adjust back into autonomy.

More recently, over the past three weeks or so, something else has caused traffic to build up on this road of transition, causing me to slow and to swerve along my drive. A recent romantic relationship has brought up some emotions that have long been hidden about past traumas and shameful incidents that happened during my addictions. Flashes of these events have clouded my reality, bursting into my mind during the least convenient times. Many of these flashes have left me physically sick and others have left me completed disassociated from the present. In the last few weeks, I can’t remember having a night when I didn’t wake up gasping and sweating in the aftermath of a nightmare.

It has been painful and disconcerting to have the past, yet again, demand attention from my present self. I have to repeat over and over to myself that today is not then, that I am not there, that I am not the person I once was. Being that these events are in the past, I am working hard not to dwell in the self-pity, fear and loneliness that arises alongside these flashes. But at the same time, I know it’s important to acknowledge them, to let my younger self know that she is heard, respected, and loved.

While vacationing near Lake Superior this past weekend, I took several walks along the shoreline by myself, trying to be attentive to the beauty that surrounded me and the blessings in my life today for which I am so grateful. At several points during these walks, I looked around me at the rocks along the shore or in the shallow waters around my feet. The sand was decorated with beautiful stones, many of which I took out and held in my hands while I looked out at the lake.

Holding something so solid and firm in my palm held me still for a while. Stones may not seem so fascinating in the minds of others, but I find them to be beautiful metaphors for endurance, wisdom, stability. I found that the most interesting of stones were those in which I could see small cracks or fissures. I wondered if perhaps, many years ago, these stones had been broken or chipped by some geological movement or change in the earth. But even if they had been broken at one time, the stones remained intact. Not only were they no longer broken, but their edges had been smoothed over time, the pressure of the water on their surfaces molding the sharp edges into an even and almost-glossy appearance.

In a way, these stones gave me hope. Though these recent traumatic memories make me feel newly broken, I know that with time, I will heal. My heart will once again be whole, the faded scars and cracks making it appear even more beautiful in its endurance.

Let Go.

You’ve got to let go of who you were to become who you will be. 

-Janet Fitch

Better, Not Bitter

  

It. Will. Pass.

Something that’s taken me a long time to learn about pain…

is that it passes.

Everyone has felt pain. Physical, from a paper-cut to a gunshot wound. Emotional, from a high school break-up to losing the love of your life. Mental, from overworking yourself before taking final exams to feeling like you’ve lost your identity, your capacity to live and to overcome pain.

So many times, I’ve been in a place in which I was convinced the pain would not end. My body literally felt heavy, my shoulders cowered, my back arched. I could barely hold myself upright. The mere lifting of my eyelids in the morning took the utmost effort. Getting out of bed was a battle that could take hours. Addictions, disorders and traumas had stolen my identity, my purpose and will to live. I had lost my direction. I had lost all confidence. I had lost all hope.

It seemed unfathomable to me that I would ever feel “okay” again.

And yet today, though life is far from perfect, though I am forever imperfect, I can say that I am okay. I still have fears, anxieties, periods of depression, occasional urges to use old behaviors… but today, it’s different. And what makes it different is my knowledge and awareness that these things pass. I don’t have to act on them, to let them reign over my every thought and impulse. What’s different is that I have experience from years of believing I’d never make it out of the darkness…and now living a life in the light.

In my early days of recovery, I did not yet know or accept that my pain would end. I believed (and still sometimes believe) that the smallest problem or inconvenience is a crisis. Others have told me to “just relax,” to “stop overreacting” or to “stop being so dramatic.” These comments used to hurt me, to infuriate me, because what they didn’t know was that even a glimpse of fear, heartache, failure, made me immediately believe I was once again, lost in the endless abyss of pain, self-loathing, terror. To a person who hadn’t lived a long period of their lives in such a place, a tiny problem seemed ridiculous to even be concerned about. But to my newly-recovering self, my negative feelings felt like I was falling backwards in time.

Recovery is (excuse my french) fucking hard. It is not merely stopping a behavior, getting clear or sober, forgetting old traumas. It’s almost insulting when others tell us to just “get over it.” Recovery takes so much more than just getting over something. Our identities are rooted in our addictions, our pasts. It takes dismantling our former realities and accepting an entirely new perspective. It’s about become vulnerable, naked, when you’ve spent your entire life hiding every glimpse of weakness. And every second of early recovery is spent constantly battling against the old version of yourself who just wants a drink, a drug, a purge, a cut, a moment of numbness, relief. Most of all, recovery is abandoning the will to give up, to die… and replacing it with the will to live.

People without these battles often minimize the effort it takes to overcome them. It’s not their fault of course, because they haven’t experienced it. But what I needed to know to get through, was that I wasn’t alone, that I wasn’t terminally unique, I wasn’t the only one who had given up.

Each time I felt the old pain, it became easier and easier to remember the relief that comes afterwards. Knowing that it wouldn’t last forever made enduring it so much more bearable.

Today, I can remember and accept that moments of pain, loss, fear, flashbacks, depression, dissociation… will pass. How do I know this? Because they have passed. And they still do.

Milestones

mile·stone

noun

1. a stone set up beside a road to mark the distance in miles to a particular place.

2. an action or event marking a significant change or stage in development.

This weekend, I’m graduating from college. I will have achieved a B. A. in Psychology. Looking back at this past year, I am utterly amazed that I’ve made it here. Hell, looking back on this life, I’m shocked that I am still standing on this earth, let alone attaining a post-secondary degree. I admit that I still entertain at times, the insecurity that I’m graduating three years after the peers with which I graduated high school. I started college, believing that I’d be graduating three years ago. I held guilt that I’d lost so much time, that I’d gotten so behind.

But today, I have a new perspective, one that I’m reminded of repeatedly by my patient sponsor, my parents, my friends. In truth, I may not have a piece of paper to prove it, but I know that my experience, my wisdom is more valuable than any award for knowledge or education. There is no better teacher, lesson or education than life. There is no comparing this B. A. and my college education with the lifetime of experience in overcoming my addictions, my traumas, the irrepressible pain of my past. Today, I hold no guilt for the time I took to heal, to learn, to grow. Because without that time of recovery, I know I would not be standing on that stage this weekend receiving my degree. I would not have even made it back into the classroom.

I am so filled with gratitude for the life I have today, for the numerous opportunities that lay ahead. Had I continued to live in chaos, in misery, in isolation, there would have been no milestones. In that dark place, I’d given up on progress, on moving forward. I’d given on myself, on my ability to survive, on life. I believed myself so near the end that I didn’t even have hope of minor milestones, like driving past a bar/liquor store, eating a full meal and letting myself digest it, of speaking to a stranger, of not hurting myself for one day. I’d given up on this life so much that I didn’t even believe sometimes that I had will enough to breathe.

There were no milestones left for me.

Because I was no longer moving.

I was waiting for my life to end.

And yet, here I am. With the support of so many people, friends, family, teachers, coworkers… I have many milestones. I am over a year sober, a hope I’d given up on long ago. I have a job in which I can be of service to others. I have friends inside and outside the program with which I am honest, something I so feared being with anyone. I have rebuilt relationships with my family. I have processed some of my past without losing myself entirely. I have felt emotions that I’d not addressed since I was a kid. I haven’t harmed myself for over a year. I have been abstinent from eating disorder behaviors (though I still have to work hard in this area) for some time now. And not only have I passed my classes in school, I am graduating.

I have milestones. And today, I can appreciate them and have gratitude. I have more milestones in the future, because I have hope now that I have one. I have goals which I actually believe myself capable of achieving. What a gift. I actually believe that I possess some worth.

Milestones can be small or big, but the only thing that determines their value is how hard you have worked for them. Eating a meal for the first time in weeks can be awe-inspiring. Getting out of bed despite the weight of depression can be equivalent to winning a marathon. Deleting a drug dealer’s number from your phone can be a person’s independence day. There is no comparison between milestones, because what matters about them, is that they are proof we are still moving.

A Part of Me

My past will always be a part of me. Everything I did, everything that was done to me, everything I’ve been through… That story will always live on inside of me. But what I’m starting to realize and actually believe is that it doesn’t have to define me anymore.

I’ve carried a great deal of unacknowledged shame about my past. I lived in fear that when others found out what I did, where I’d been, who I once was… they would never see me as anything but broken, dirty, weak and unloveable. But I see now that that fear was a projection. Others weren’t as cruel as I was to myself. Even if they knew everything about me, they still accepted me. They looked at me and saw strength, even as I threw daggers at my own reflection.

A lot of that shame has recently been unearthed for me. I guess I always knew that it couldn’t stay hidden forever.

I drew a picture yesterday in ink, of a mirror dividing two girls who faced each other. Their palms touched, but their arms belonged to two entirely different people. The girl on the left was me, today… the girl on the other side was the person with whom I identified for so much of my life. She was naked, scared, bruised, covered in dirt… She was what I believed myself to be because of my past.

…and I’m only just starting to realize that I’m no longer her.

I’m still in the process of honoring that broken girl, that girl who had been through so much, the girl to which I’ve been so ruthless and abusive. She deserves to be respected because despite the past, she carried me through. She survived. And though I may look back at her sometimes and feel guilt, disgust, sadness or even fear that she’ll become me again, she is not unworthy. She did the best she could. And by letting her rest after all that she’s been through, by living on for both of us, I can honor her. I can continue the fight for both of us.

My past will always be a part of me, but it will never again be all that I am.