There have been times within the past twenty-three years when I have appeared to be recovered. My weight was stable and healthy, I smiled more, and I ate without fear of reprisal. Despite what I had convinced myself and others, I was not recovered; in fact, I was holding on to anorexia for a rainy day.
Reflecting back, I see how I was keeping ED in my back pocket. At twenty-three I was in a healthy weight range and ate all kinds of food, but I still made my ex-husband sip my diet soda before I drank it, just to ensure it was in fact "diet." I kept all liquid calories off limits. I continued weighing myself regularly and hating my thighs. I occasionally skipped a meal if I was feeling sad, and I could be reduced to a puddle at the sight of a super-skinny girl. When my rainy day arrived in the form of marital distress, so did my eating disorder.
In my early thirties, I enjoyed a life "free" from the eating disorder. I ate whatever I wanted in whatever quantities I wanted. My weight was higher than it had ever been in my life, and I seemed okay with that. I explored things I never had before and made more friends than ever. But, I was obsessive with my weight. I used the scale to dictate my food intake in weird ways. Number too high? I would "eat less" (restrict). Number dipped below the target I set, I would eat "more" (binge). I compensated for this body size by controlling my period, using birth control pills to cease menstruation, giving myself the illusion that I was thin enough not to bleed. It was the only way I could permit my body to be the size it was. Again, a rainy day arrived, and so did my eating disorder.
There are many ways to save the eating disorder for a rainy day: eating only specific foods day in and out, deluding oneself that exercise, which is an obsessive-compulsive habit linked to ED, is for one's "health," cutting out a food group for its reported "health benefits," believing one must eat "gluten free, meat-free, animal-product free," maintaining strict schedules and routines, overworking, employing obsessive self-discipline in other areas of life, comparing oneself to others, etc...
I never wanted to believe that what I was doing to myself was eating disordered. I believed that if I looked healthy, then I was healthy. I didn't want to acknowledge the truth--that living in eating disorder purgatory kept me with one foot in the doorway to hell. Eating three meals a day and maintaining a healthy weight while engaging in the eating disorder mindset is not recovery--it's a holding pattern, circling the eating disorder, waiting for it to land. And, it will land.
Recovery means letting go--not a little or a lot, but all the way. It means letting a rainy day come and dancing in the puddles, getting soaked and living through the storm, not allowing the storm to destroy you.
So, put away the umbrella, get out the wellies and learn to sing and dance in the rain.
Cheers!
Saturday, September 29, 2012
The New Normal
Before fully entering recovery, my mind beat me with a daily barrage of insults:
"You are so stupid. Why would you ever say that, you idiot? Fat slob. Bitch. Slut. Fat ass. Ugly. You're not smart enough. Why would anyone want to be your friend? Moron. Retard. Loser. Awkward. Flabby assed, flat-chested, saddle-bagged bitch. You say the stupidest things. Lazy-ass slug. Can't you do anything right? Shut up, you asshole; you ruin everything. No one likes you. People only tolerate you. Disgusting. Gross. Annoying. You don't deserve these people; they're better than you. You don't deserve anything. You're a waste of space."
These thoughts became my truth. These thoughts created a world disconnected from reality, a world in which I was the demon, the bad guy. There was no way for me to enjoy life or be present in any moment. My mind was too busy ensuring that I never forgot my place, my status as a lower-class citizen, unworthy of the pleasures and perks life offers.
At some point in the disease, I became the vision of myself that my mind had created. These feelings held deep within my core. I believed that I was so terrible, so bad a human being, that I needed to conceal these awful things about me. I feared people learning about who I "really" was.
In reality, I was not a bad person, but no one was going to convince me otherwise. My belief in this was as real and true to me as mathematical fact. I understand now that holding on to these beliefs allowed me to hold on to the disease. Hating myself and feeling that I deserved the pain of anorexia made engaging in anorexia even easier, and it made my attempts at recovery fool-hardy.
One of the hardest aspects of recovery is changing the mindset. For those who have struggled for decades, like me, self-hatred and self-denigration have become normal, as normal for us as it is for non eating disordered folk to eat when hungry. Finding a new normal feels scary and outright wrong. To change the feedback loop in one's mind from an onslaught of negativity to continuous positivity is daunting. I questioned these new feelings and felt odd without the old thoughts. Quite frankly, I didn't know with what to fill my waking thoughts. If I wasn't thinking about starving, exercising, food, or hating/berating myself, what would I think about?
It turns out, there are quite a few things that can rent space in my mind: fond memories of family and friends, characters in the books I've read, sorting through problems, sex... But most of all, when I have quieted the eating disorder voice, the voice of my dreams, though only a whisper at first, has emerged. I can dream of my future family, of achieving goals long since set aside, of growing old with my husband, of redecorating my house or starting a new hobby. Suddenly, I am beginning to connect with life, with this new normal. The image in the mirror no longer hears the old lies; the truth can finally be freed.
I now say to myself...
I am a good friend. I have a witty sense of humor. I've got a great shape. I look good. I'm happy. My friends think I'm great. I'm fun to be around. I'm smart. I have something to contribute. I'm kind and caring. I'm respected. I'm a good person.
This is an amazing feeling. Throughout this long, arduous journey toward recovery, I have learned that it's okay to like myself, that it's okay to say nice things to myself, that it's more than okay to toot my own horn once in a while. Admitting, voicing, and repeating kindness to myself has been integral to my recovery. It has allowed me to create a new normal, a place where it feels good to feel good about myself. Take that risk and try loving yourself, too. You'll be amazed at what transpires.
Cheers!
It turns out, there are quite a few things that can rent space in my mind: fond memories of family and friends, characters in the books I've read, sorting through problems, sex... But most of all, when I have quieted the eating disorder voice, the voice of my dreams, though only a whisper at first, has emerged. I can dream of my future family, of achieving goals long since set aside, of growing old with my husband, of redecorating my house or starting a new hobby. Suddenly, I am beginning to connect with life, with this new normal. The image in the mirror no longer hears the old lies; the truth can finally be freed.
I now say to myself...
I am a good friend. I have a witty sense of humor. I've got a great shape. I look good. I'm happy. My friends think I'm great. I'm fun to be around. I'm smart. I have something to contribute. I'm kind and caring. I'm respected. I'm a good person.
This is an amazing feeling. Throughout this long, arduous journey toward recovery, I have learned that it's okay to like myself, that it's okay to say nice things to myself, that it's more than okay to toot my own horn once in a while. Admitting, voicing, and repeating kindness to myself has been integral to my recovery. It has allowed me to create a new normal, a place where it feels good to feel good about myself. Take that risk and try loving yourself, too. You'll be amazed at what transpires.
Cheers!
Saturday, September 8, 2012
Anorexia: The Extramarital Affair, Part 2
I'll admit it; I cheated on my husband...with anorexia.
When I was at my sickest, I did things of which I am not proud. The worst thing I did was allow anorexia to be my mistress.
It all began with innocent flirting--a skipped meal here, an extra fifteen minutes on the elliptical, a couple pounds lost. Quickly, things intensified. I thought about anorexia more, began envisioning a life together, spending less and less time with my husband.
I stayed later at work to delay or avoid dinner. I lied about eating meals. I snuck food when I would allow myself to. My sex drive vanished, and I avoided all physical contact with the man I married.
He noticed the signs, of course. But like any affair, no one wants to admit what's really happening. And so I continued, deeper and deeper into "my little secret" that was "becoming harder and harder to hide."
Eventually, the situation was no longer a secret. Anorexia had blown me in to my husband, angered by my thoughts of recovery. I was too weak, too ill, and way too entrenched to comprehend the damage this affair has caused. Not all marriages can survive this betrayal.
Mine did survive. It survived because we were both willing to do the work, both willing to hold each other up when recovery seemed insurmountable. I began to realize how my actions affected him. I am in a marriage, and thus, I have to consider someone outside of myself. If I choose not to recover, that is unfair because my life directly impacts him. Given a choice, my husband wants me to recover, and I have to respect his desires in life as well.
That said, we have had to recover together to repair the bonds severed by the disease. We were strong once before, but we are stronger than ever now. One therapist I worked with believes that eating disorders are diseases of disconnection, that eating disorders thrive and grow through isolation. I agree with her. If we disconnect from our spouses, parents, friends, and family, we are romancing a very abusive lover. We must return and reconnect with those who love us, those who like us, had no voice and control over the eating disorder usurping our lives. Eating disorders are NOT choice affairs, but they are affairs nonetheless, affairs that in which we do not want to engage. Our loved ones are there in the wings, desperately hoping we will return to them. It can't be our little secret anymore.
Cheers!
When I was at my sickest, I did things of which I am not proud. The worst thing I did was allow anorexia to be my mistress.
It all began with innocent flirting--a skipped meal here, an extra fifteen minutes on the elliptical, a couple pounds lost. Quickly, things intensified. I thought about anorexia more, began envisioning a life together, spending less and less time with my husband.
I stayed later at work to delay or avoid dinner. I lied about eating meals. I snuck food when I would allow myself to. My sex drive vanished, and I avoided all physical contact with the man I married.
He noticed the signs, of course. But like any affair, no one wants to admit what's really happening. And so I continued, deeper and deeper into "my little secret" that was "becoming harder and harder to hide."
Eventually, the situation was no longer a secret. Anorexia had blown me in to my husband, angered by my thoughts of recovery. I was too weak, too ill, and way too entrenched to comprehend the damage this affair has caused. Not all marriages can survive this betrayal.
Mine did survive. It survived because we were both willing to do the work, both willing to hold each other up when recovery seemed insurmountable. I began to realize how my actions affected him. I am in a marriage, and thus, I have to consider someone outside of myself. If I choose not to recover, that is unfair because my life directly impacts him. Given a choice, my husband wants me to recover, and I have to respect his desires in life as well.
That said, we have had to recover together to repair the bonds severed by the disease. We were strong once before, but we are stronger than ever now. One therapist I worked with believes that eating disorders are diseases of disconnection, that eating disorders thrive and grow through isolation. I agree with her. If we disconnect from our spouses, parents, friends, and family, we are romancing a very abusive lover. We must return and reconnect with those who love us, those who like us, had no voice and control over the eating disorder usurping our lives. Eating disorders are NOT choice affairs, but they are affairs nonetheless, affairs that in which we do not want to engage. Our loved ones are there in the wings, desperately hoping we will return to them. It can't be our little secret anymore.
Cheers!
Why I Haven't Named my Eating Disorder
*To preface this entry, I need to state that I highly respect Jenni Shaefer and her efforts in fighting eating disorders. I read both her books Life Without Ed and Goodbye Ed, Hello Me. Both books have been helped me immensely throughout various stages of my recovery.*
You may have noticed that I don't refer to my eating disorder as Ed, Bob, Ralph, or Jimmy. There is a reason my eating disorder remains nameless. While the analogy of the eating disorder being an abusive lover or friend makes sense to me and I have written about it as such, I cannot grant the eating disorder personhood. For me, I cannot have a relationship with the eating disorder at all. And while I may refer to it from time to time as ED, I do that mainly for ease of writing.
I have recovering friends who have named their eating disorder, and it works great for them. If it works for you, that is awesome, too; I make no judgments. For me, I need to keep the eating disorder as a thing because sometimes, so no matter how terrible, toxic, or abusive a relationship is, severing that relationship is terrifying and near impossible. (This isn't to say I don't sometimes view the eating disorder as a relationship. I tend to view it that way when I struggle, as evidenced by some of my earlier posts. To break that bond, I must perceive the eating disorder in a way that cannot permit me to become compassionate toward it.)
I once tried out the name Kyle because every Kyle I had ever known was a complete dick. It didn't work for me. Kyle is telling me not to eat. Kyle tells me to exercise longer and harder. Shut up, Kyle. The thing is---Kyle is me, the anorexic me, that part of me I hate, yet look to when I'm feeling self-conscious. I don't fear Kyle; I fear me.
My husband, ironically, the man who for years never understood anorexia and couldn't grasp why I just didn't eat, said something to me after a couple's session we had while I was in treatment:
"The eating disorder is like Venom from Spiderman 3. Once it latched onto Peter Parker, it wouldn't let go. Peter Parker acted in ways he wouldn't have it if weren't for Venom. Getting this symbiotic alien to detach from him was painful and hard, but once Venom was gone, Peter Parker was himself again. Then, Venom needed another human and went after Eddie Brock."
This resonated with me. It explained why my eating disorder couldn't be named. It already had a name--anorexia--and I was afraid of that name. I was scared to voice the word, fearful to believe that I was actually sick and that I may actually have to recover.
Anorexia is Venom, a shapeless pool of blackness that seeks to destroy. I have to name it for what it is, so I can understand it and fight to pry it loose from me.
Cheers!
You may have noticed that I don't refer to my eating disorder as Ed, Bob, Ralph, or Jimmy. There is a reason my eating disorder remains nameless. While the analogy of the eating disorder being an abusive lover or friend makes sense to me and I have written about it as such, I cannot grant the eating disorder personhood. For me, I cannot have a relationship with the eating disorder at all. And while I may refer to it from time to time as ED, I do that mainly for ease of writing.
I have recovering friends who have named their eating disorder, and it works great for them. If it works for you, that is awesome, too; I make no judgments. For me, I need to keep the eating disorder as a thing because sometimes, so no matter how terrible, toxic, or abusive a relationship is, severing that relationship is terrifying and near impossible. (This isn't to say I don't sometimes view the eating disorder as a relationship. I tend to view it that way when I struggle, as evidenced by some of my earlier posts. To break that bond, I must perceive the eating disorder in a way that cannot permit me to become compassionate toward it.)
I once tried out the name Kyle because every Kyle I had ever known was a complete dick. It didn't work for me. Kyle is telling me not to eat. Kyle tells me to exercise longer and harder. Shut up, Kyle. The thing is---Kyle is me, the anorexic me, that part of me I hate, yet look to when I'm feeling self-conscious. I don't fear Kyle; I fear me.
My husband, ironically, the man who for years never understood anorexia and couldn't grasp why I just didn't eat, said something to me after a couple's session we had while I was in treatment:
"The eating disorder is like Venom from Spiderman 3. Once it latched onto Peter Parker, it wouldn't let go. Peter Parker acted in ways he wouldn't have it if weren't for Venom. Getting this symbiotic alien to detach from him was painful and hard, but once Venom was gone, Peter Parker was himself again. Then, Venom needed another human and went after Eddie Brock."
This resonated with me. It explained why my eating disorder couldn't be named. It already had a name--anorexia--and I was afraid of that name. I was scared to voice the word, fearful to believe that I was actually sick and that I may actually have to recover.
Anorexia is Venom, a shapeless pool of blackness that seeks to destroy. I have to name it for what it is, so I can understand it and fight to pry it loose from me.
Cheers!
"Anorexia is so much more of a bitch when you don’t look anorexic."
The following was originally written by Ilona Burton and can be found online at http://blogs.independent.co.uk/2011/11/27/but-you-dont-look-anorexic/. My response to this will appear in bold after the article.
"But You Don't Look Anorexic"
by Ilona Burton
Cheers!
"But You Don't Look Anorexic"
by Ilona Burton
‘Anorexia is so much more of as[sic] bitch when you don’t look anorexic.’
I tweeted this remark in amongst a rare splurge of personal eating disorder related rantage. Within minutes, I had a stream of comments in response, sharing my outrage that to anybody on the outside is so incomprehensible. It didn’t calm the anxieties I was storming my own silly brain with at the time, but it assured me that I’m not the only one who feels this way, who suffers with this torment and who lives every day in a limbo that nobody else has any insight into. It also provoked me to write this – to try to shed a little light on an area that people with eating disorders try so hard to hide.
There is no black and white when it comes to eating disorders and recovery. Between being ill and being recovered there is an expanse of grey more vast than any wastelands or landscapes you’d see on any BBC documentary. Even those who are on their way to recovery, who have made inroads into the path and who are fighting every day to follow that meal plan every day no matter how mundane, who wake up every day wishing it didn’t have to start with breakfast and who sit with overwhelming urges to run as long as it takes to work off the chocolate biscuit they had for snack, even they could be years away from being recovered.
The hardest part is perhaps that our bodies heal much quicker than our minds. As tissue builds back around our organs and slowly we fill out, get boobs and bums and curves and lumps and bumps, we appear as what the world love so much to tell us; well. “Oh you look so well!” “So good to see you looking better.” Switch the word to anything of that effect and it means exactly the same to us. “FAT”. But we know that you mean well, we can’t be angry with well-wishers simply for expressing their gladness to see us looking anything more than a bag of bones wrapped in clingfilm. So we grit our teeth, smile and repeat said comment in our heads for the next hour/day/week/month.
I tried on two skirts today and got my 2 year old niece to choose which one I should get. The two older ladies in the shop oohed and aahed in admiration and sparked up a conversation with my mum. I heard mumblings about my “pins” and about bigger girls coming in and bulging out of these skirts and yada yada. As I thanked them and turned to leave, one said: “Don’t ever change that figure”. Just 10 minutes before, mum had been begging me to get help, knowing full well I’m trying to hide a slight relapse. “Don’t ever change that figure,” indeed.
My perception of myself, how I look, is pretty screwed. I don’t look at myself in the mirror and feel repulsed at the obese monstrosity staring back and I don’t hate every inch of my body – not far off at times, but I can handle it – but I do grab at my tummy and see a roll of flab that shouldn’t be there, stare at my thighs and wish they were thinner and tug at the skin under my chin secretly hoping to wake up one day without a double chin. I’ve been ill for so many years with weight going up and down but never remaining at any kind of natural resting space, that I don’t even know if what I see is real or not. How can I trust something which has always ended me up in hospital? If I am that fat, how come I can fit in the same clothes I wore in the eating disorders unit? There has to be some rationality somewhere but you often have to dig around for it and you’re not in a position to do that when you’re wracked with guilt after eating.
The struggle really begins when the way you look doesn’t match the way you feel. At the moment, I feel far from ill but I know that I’m also far from well. The ladies in the shop illustrate perfectly the point that a person can look well, not knowing at all the intensity of my anxiety when it comes to almost anything food related. Once the body is anything more than emaciated, it becomes a mask and the struggle becomes invisible to the untrained eye. It’s difficult for the recovering anorexic or bulmic. When a skeletal person is crying into their bowl of cereal you can see why; they’re obviously scared to death of anything that might build on that fragility. When a healthy looking person is crying into a yoghurt pot, it makes no sense. They must have done it before, they must eat every day, look, they look fine, they must be fine.
So there we have it: Don’t judge a quivering wreck by his or her oh so healthy looking figure.
I tweeted this remark in amongst a rare splurge of personal eating disorder related rantage. Within minutes, I had a stream of comments in response, sharing my outrage that to anybody on the outside is so incomprehensible. It didn’t calm the anxieties I was storming my own silly brain with at the time, but it assured me that I’m not the only one who feels this way, who suffers with this torment and who lives every day in a limbo that nobody else has any insight into. It also provoked me to write this – to try to shed a little light on an area that people with eating disorders try so hard to hide.
There is no black and white when it comes to eating disorders and recovery. Between being ill and being recovered there is an expanse of grey more vast than any wastelands or landscapes you’d see on any BBC documentary. Even those who are on their way to recovery, who have made inroads into the path and who are fighting every day to follow that meal plan every day no matter how mundane, who wake up every day wishing it didn’t have to start with breakfast and who sit with overwhelming urges to run as long as it takes to work off the chocolate biscuit they had for snack, even they could be years away from being recovered.
The hardest part is perhaps that our bodies heal much quicker than our minds. As tissue builds back around our organs and slowly we fill out, get boobs and bums and curves and lumps and bumps, we appear as what the world love so much to tell us; well. “Oh you look so well!” “So good to see you looking better.” Switch the word to anything of that effect and it means exactly the same to us. “FAT”. But we know that you mean well, we can’t be angry with well-wishers simply for expressing their gladness to see us looking anything more than a bag of bones wrapped in clingfilm. So we grit our teeth, smile and repeat said comment in our heads for the next hour/day/week/month.
I tried on two skirts today and got my 2 year old niece to choose which one I should get. The two older ladies in the shop oohed and aahed in admiration and sparked up a conversation with my mum. I heard mumblings about my “pins” and about bigger girls coming in and bulging out of these skirts and yada yada. As I thanked them and turned to leave, one said: “Don’t ever change that figure”. Just 10 minutes before, mum had been begging me to get help, knowing full well I’m trying to hide a slight relapse. “Don’t ever change that figure,” indeed.
My perception of myself, how I look, is pretty screwed. I don’t look at myself in the mirror and feel repulsed at the obese monstrosity staring back and I don’t hate every inch of my body – not far off at times, but I can handle it – but I do grab at my tummy and see a roll of flab that shouldn’t be there, stare at my thighs and wish they were thinner and tug at the skin under my chin secretly hoping to wake up one day without a double chin. I’ve been ill for so many years with weight going up and down but never remaining at any kind of natural resting space, that I don’t even know if what I see is real or not. How can I trust something which has always ended me up in hospital? If I am that fat, how come I can fit in the same clothes I wore in the eating disorders unit? There has to be some rationality somewhere but you often have to dig around for it and you’re not in a position to do that when you’re wracked with guilt after eating.
The struggle really begins when the way you look doesn’t match the way you feel. At the moment, I feel far from ill but I know that I’m also far from well. The ladies in the shop illustrate perfectly the point that a person can look well, not knowing at all the intensity of my anxiety when it comes to almost anything food related. Once the body is anything more than emaciated, it becomes a mask and the struggle becomes invisible to the untrained eye. It’s difficult for the recovering anorexic or bulmic. When a skeletal person is crying into their bowl of cereal you can see why; they’re obviously scared to death of anything that might build on that fragility. When a healthy looking person is crying into a yoghurt pot, it makes no sense. They must have done it before, they must eat every day, look, they look fine, they must be fine.
So there we have it: Don’t judge a quivering wreck by his or her oh so healthy looking figure.
I read this and say, "yes," "yep," "hell yeah," "fucking hell yeah..." Her blog entry captures one of the dilemmas that has made recovery impossible for me in the past: once the body heals, the mind simultaneously does not, but people SEE health and assume that this health encompasses both body and mind. People do not respond to the outwardly healthy me in the way they respond to the outwardly sick me. People's expectations and perceptions of this new me change. Many act as though the anorexia never existed, and some say really stupid, triggering shit around me which makes continuing the fight for recovery so much harder than it already is.
Ilona is right: "Between being ill and being recovered there is an expanse of grey more vast than" anything one can envision, and that is why recovery can seem so elusive, and why, for so many years, I just gave up. When I had that outwardly healthy body, I couldn't seem to get anyone to understand just how much pain existed within me. I couldn't seem to get the help I needed. I began to believe that I needed to look like walking death in order to be worthy of the help I craved. And then when someone eventually heard my cries, I began refusing help, thinking that I needed to get even sicker and smaller to symbolize the depth of my pain.
Learning to live within the cavernous expanse of grey has taught me that anorexia cannot be my voice. If I am hurt, scared, frustrated, angry, etc..., I must vocalize my emotions and my needs. The anorexia requires silence to breed, and I must choose not to feed it. I must remain connected to the few who understand just how much of a bitch anorexia can be. Those individuals will listen even when I look healthy.
Cheers!
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Skinny-Minny
This marks day number two of my body image meltdown. At this point in my recovery, I should know better than to entertain these thoughts, but it's getting harder to plug my ears to all the noise. I should note that as an educator, this is my second day back at work. More than likely, all of these feelings are related to all the junk accumulating in my brain--fears of inadequacy, imperfection, worthlessness, etc... I just hate that even after all of this time, I have moments like this, when loving my body is a struggle.
Here's the issue: I went back to work, and lo and behold, a female colleague has lost a shit-ton of weight. She didn't even need to lose weight, but she was getting married, and well, we know what brides tend to do. A friend of mine looked at her and called her "teeny." My emotion? Envy, emerald green, jade and evergreen envy. Bitch. SO not fair. Why does SHE get to be so tiny. Um...you can see where my brain went (on a mini-vacation to hell).
When I first saw her, I literally panicked. I glanced from her legs to mine and did the whole comparison thing. I noticed how "teeny" she looked in her dress, her lithe legs, the way her bones slightly showed--my god, I was a mess.
How does one recover from body image HELL? First, I had to acknowledge that somhow I was supplanting my feelings with a focus on the body. That's always where my eating disorder loves to go first and foremost. Anorexia needs me to feel insecure, needs me to feel slovenly and disgusting, so I will begin the endless restrictive cycle. I must recognize this happening, so I can slam on the brakes.
Second, I needed to reconnect with reality. Did this woman lose weight? Yes. Did she lose too much. Yes. Her weight loss has nothing to do with me. It is not an indicator of my beauty or worthiness. I had to get real. Moving my glance away from her, I peered at all of the other bodies around me. I looked at my friend, who is not teeny, but full-sized, and I noticed that her beauty was radiating. I love her just the way she is, and when I look at her, I only see the kindness, warmth, and humor that she possesses. Her size doesn't matter to me.
I continued my scan of the room and witnessed such a variety of shapes and sizes, some bigger than others, some smaller than others--each attractive in its own way. My anxieties settled. Yet, it still bothered me that my eyes are trained so acutely as to see only the smallest of women. It's as though the anorexia seeks out validation that I am no longer the smallest woman in the room, and quite frankly, that's probably the core issue.
Years of struggle taught me to believe that to be special, to be the best, to be worthy, I had to be the smallest. Being the smallest brought me pride and honor. It made me feel strong and in control. But I'm no longer clothed in anorexia. My body is the shape it was manufactured to be--smaller than some, bigger than others. The rub is that it's so fucking hard to relearn the way one perceives and interacts with the world. There are moments when I am strong and confident with my self and don't need anorexia's validation that I'm someone worthy of health. Yet, there are moments, like the last two days, that remind me of how strongly I yearn for my anorexic body--in these moments, I struggle to name the feelings. I'm left with envy, self-deprecation, and unrest. It's just much, much easier to focus all of my thoughts and energy on hating my body and feeling completely self-conscious. When I do that, I don't need to think about those other ugly feelings and figure them out. I don't need to confront or deal with anything. I self-medicate with the self-harm of an eating disorder.
What do I do next? For christ sakes, we work within feet of each other! To mend this glitch in the system, I need to continue sorting through the muck and figure out what I'm really feeling. I need to do self-care, like blogging, talking to friends, getting sleep, eating well and enough, laughing, etc... I need to remember all the wonderful things I have gained from losing the eating disorder. I need to forgive myself for not being "teeny." It's okay to let that go. It's okay just to be the size I was manufactured to be. It's okay.
Cheers!
Here's the issue: I went back to work, and lo and behold, a female colleague has lost a shit-ton of weight. She didn't even need to lose weight, but she was getting married, and well, we know what brides tend to do. A friend of mine looked at her and called her "teeny." My emotion? Envy, emerald green, jade and evergreen envy. Bitch. SO not fair. Why does SHE get to be so tiny. Um...you can see where my brain went (on a mini-vacation to hell).
When I first saw her, I literally panicked. I glanced from her legs to mine and did the whole comparison thing. I noticed how "teeny" she looked in her dress, her lithe legs, the way her bones slightly showed--my god, I was a mess.
How does one recover from body image HELL? First, I had to acknowledge that somhow I was supplanting my feelings with a focus on the body. That's always where my eating disorder loves to go first and foremost. Anorexia needs me to feel insecure, needs me to feel slovenly and disgusting, so I will begin the endless restrictive cycle. I must recognize this happening, so I can slam on the brakes.
Second, I needed to reconnect with reality. Did this woman lose weight? Yes. Did she lose too much. Yes. Her weight loss has nothing to do with me. It is not an indicator of my beauty or worthiness. I had to get real. Moving my glance away from her, I peered at all of the other bodies around me. I looked at my friend, who is not teeny, but full-sized, and I noticed that her beauty was radiating. I love her just the way she is, and when I look at her, I only see the kindness, warmth, and humor that she possesses. Her size doesn't matter to me.
I continued my scan of the room and witnessed such a variety of shapes and sizes, some bigger than others, some smaller than others--each attractive in its own way. My anxieties settled. Yet, it still bothered me that my eyes are trained so acutely as to see only the smallest of women. It's as though the anorexia seeks out validation that I am no longer the smallest woman in the room, and quite frankly, that's probably the core issue.
Years of struggle taught me to believe that to be special, to be the best, to be worthy, I had to be the smallest. Being the smallest brought me pride and honor. It made me feel strong and in control. But I'm no longer clothed in anorexia. My body is the shape it was manufactured to be--smaller than some, bigger than others. The rub is that it's so fucking hard to relearn the way one perceives and interacts with the world. There are moments when I am strong and confident with my self and don't need anorexia's validation that I'm someone worthy of health. Yet, there are moments, like the last two days, that remind me of how strongly I yearn for my anorexic body--in these moments, I struggle to name the feelings. I'm left with envy, self-deprecation, and unrest. It's just much, much easier to focus all of my thoughts and energy on hating my body and feeling completely self-conscious. When I do that, I don't need to think about those other ugly feelings and figure them out. I don't need to confront or deal with anything. I self-medicate with the self-harm of an eating disorder.
What do I do next? For christ sakes, we work within feet of each other! To mend this glitch in the system, I need to continue sorting through the muck and figure out what I'm really feeling. I need to do self-care, like blogging, talking to friends, getting sleep, eating well and enough, laughing, etc... I need to remember all the wonderful things I have gained from losing the eating disorder. I need to forgive myself for not being "teeny." It's okay to let that go. It's okay just to be the size I was manufactured to be. It's okay.
Cheers!
Monday, September 3, 2012
I am Flawed and Imperfect and Happy
As I wrote my last post about the fears associated with fat, I realize that I wrote flawed and imperfect as one of my fears regarding recovery. I can't let that statement slide without addressing it.
All my life, I have pursued the Holy Grail of unattainable treasures--perfection. Growing up, I was told repeatedly about how perfect I was by doting and well-intentioned family members. My beauty was perfect, my shape was perfect, my smile, my eyes, my grace--all were perfect. I could do no wrong. And while that may seem nice that my family regarded me so highly, it left me paralyzed with fear; being so flawless meant that I could never fail, and fearing failure, I was terrified of being anything less than perfection. Happiness, joy, and peace were contingent upon my attainment of perfection, which obviously meant those real treasures lay outside my grasp.
The prospect of recovery meant letting go of this ideal of perfection. That was terrifying. I had grown so accustomed to pleasing others, giving no less that one-hundred-ten-percent, that I did not know how to cope in a world without acknowledgement and praise from others. I craved the validation that I was tops in everything that I did, and when I perceived others as better than myself, I was left devastated, berating myself. Perfection had infiltrated my core, and was I beginning to make me crack. I couldn't be in relationships, do my job, clean my house, undertake a new hobby, etc... because I feared failure. I allowed others grace and accepted their imperfections and flaws but refused to grant those same permissions to myself.
Recovery meant embracing my fear of flaws. One of my therapists once said to me, "You act like you're the only person who's ever made a fucking mistake." She was right; I was acting as if the whole world was immune to error. I am human. Humans make mistakes. Making a mistake doesn't mean that I am a mistake. It doesn't mean that I am a terrible person. It means my choice wrong, and that's it. Though the prospect of this tightens my chest and sucks away my breath, I must surrender and accept that I will err; I cannot control that aspect of humanity. That same therapist also told me that if I always looked so perfect and acted so put together, I was probably turning people off to me, that I didn't seem real or genuine to others. And that meant that I was losing out on true connections with others. Again, she was correct. I am so much more likable as a human being than as a martyr.
Slowly, I have learned to embrace my flaws and imperfections. Doing so has humanized me. I have had to accept that I make mistakes at work, that I say the wrong things to people sometimes, that I forget obligations or important dates, that people won't always like me, etc... I once believed that the only path to perfection was to excel at my eating disorder; now, I realize that I can only strive to be me.
Let's face it: we all make mistakes. I have to learn to forgive myself for those errors, learn from them, and move on. I cannot torture myself by replaying the mistake ad infinitum, for if I do that, I am doomed. Not only will I feel like shit, but I won't learn a thing from the error. Allowing myself the grace to err is refreshing and calming--and has made me a whole lot happier and fun to be around. Being perfect is chore, a huge responsibility that has been lifted from my shoulders. Though it takes of lot of self-talk out of this bad habit, I find that I love the new flawed, imperfect me. I'm sure others do as well.
Cheers!
All my life, I have pursued the Holy Grail of unattainable treasures--perfection. Growing up, I was told repeatedly about how perfect I was by doting and well-intentioned family members. My beauty was perfect, my shape was perfect, my smile, my eyes, my grace--all were perfect. I could do no wrong. And while that may seem nice that my family regarded me so highly, it left me paralyzed with fear; being so flawless meant that I could never fail, and fearing failure, I was terrified of being anything less than perfection. Happiness, joy, and peace were contingent upon my attainment of perfection, which obviously meant those real treasures lay outside my grasp.
The prospect of recovery meant letting go of this ideal of perfection. That was terrifying. I had grown so accustomed to pleasing others, giving no less that one-hundred-ten-percent, that I did not know how to cope in a world without acknowledgement and praise from others. I craved the validation that I was tops in everything that I did, and when I perceived others as better than myself, I was left devastated, berating myself. Perfection had infiltrated my core, and was I beginning to make me crack. I couldn't be in relationships, do my job, clean my house, undertake a new hobby, etc... because I feared failure. I allowed others grace and accepted their imperfections and flaws but refused to grant those same permissions to myself.
Recovery meant embracing my fear of flaws. One of my therapists once said to me, "You act like you're the only person who's ever made a fucking mistake." She was right; I was acting as if the whole world was immune to error. I am human. Humans make mistakes. Making a mistake doesn't mean that I am a mistake. It doesn't mean that I am a terrible person. It means my choice wrong, and that's it. Though the prospect of this tightens my chest and sucks away my breath, I must surrender and accept that I will err; I cannot control that aspect of humanity. That same therapist also told me that if I always looked so perfect and acted so put together, I was probably turning people off to me, that I didn't seem real or genuine to others. And that meant that I was losing out on true connections with others. Again, she was correct. I am so much more likable as a human being than as a martyr.
Slowly, I have learned to embrace my flaws and imperfections. Doing so has humanized me. I have had to accept that I make mistakes at work, that I say the wrong things to people sometimes, that I forget obligations or important dates, that people won't always like me, etc... I once believed that the only path to perfection was to excel at my eating disorder; now, I realize that I can only strive to be me.
Let's face it: we all make mistakes. I have to learn to forgive myself for those errors, learn from them, and move on. I cannot torture myself by replaying the mistake ad infinitum, for if I do that, I am doomed. Not only will I feel like shit, but I won't learn a thing from the error. Allowing myself the grace to err is refreshing and calming--and has made me a whole lot happier and fun to be around. Being perfect is chore, a huge responsibility that has been lifted from my shoulders. Though it takes of lot of self-talk out of this bad habit, I find that I love the new flawed, imperfect me. I'm sure others do as well.
Cheers!
Fat is Not a Feeling
Before reading this post, take a moment and think about all the words that come to mind when thinking of the word fat. If necessary, write all these words down; they may come in handy while reading.
"Melissa, how are you feeling today?" says my doctor.
"Fat," I respond.
"Fat is not a feeling," states the doctor.
"Yes, it is. You ask me how I feel, and I feel fat. Therefore, it's a feeling."
"Happy. Scared. Sad. Those are feelings, not fat. Fat is a descriptor," Doctor iterates, with frustration.
"Well, fat describes my feelings quite well," I quip. End of discussion.
This was me, some fifteen or more years ago when I first entered treatment. In my mind, fat WAS a feeling, and convincing me otherwise was futile. Doctors, therapists, and nutritionists may have assailed me with facts and logic, but my logic was irrefutable in my mind, and thus, I shut my ears to any other notion. Eventually, I tired of the arguing, and switched tactics. No longer did I feel fat; I was fat--I had become what I felt.
(This is a good time to glance at mental or physical notes you took prior to reading this.)
I comprehend now, of course, that fat is NOT a feeling, nor is it a state of being. Fat is simply an adjective for overweight, but the complexity of this word's meaning extends far beyond the dictionary. For countless years, fat meant many, many horrible things: lazy, stupid, unattractive, unlovable, imperfect, flawed, dumpy, unlikable, miserable, unworthy, damaged, gross, disgusting, shameful, out of control, and much, much more. Each time my doctors asked me how I felt, I couldn't think of a single feeling that could comprise all of these fears; fat was the only word that seemed to sum it up succinctly.
The more I became entrenched within the eating disorder, the more I believed I had become all those things that I feared most. Feeling fat became being fat. Recovery meant the possibility of having to embrace these horrible qualities about myself. If I stayed small, I could avoid all those fears; I wouldn't have to be all of those things. However, gaining weight, in my mind, meant the very real possibility that others would view me in the ways that I defined fat. Every time I cried over another pound gained, I was crying at my fear of becoming unlovable, unattractive, dumpy, or imperfect. All of these fears are lies I told myself, lies that I fabricated to avoid gaining weight and to avoid the expectations that I believed others had of me. Surely, if I believed all of this about fat, others did too. Being emaciated contained my world, my fears, and having to live up to expectation---it also caged my world so small that I could not enjoy and truly live life.
Entering recovery will mean gaining the necessary pounds to support the weight of a fulfilling life. Taking up more space in the world will not make me "fat" (AKA: dumpy, unlovable, gross, shameful, etc...). In recovery, I have come to understand the feelings within me. Some days I am sad because I feel left out. Some days I am angry because someone did something hurtful to me. Other days I am incredibly happy because I just belly-laughed so hard I ache. If I find myself feeling fat, I need to stop and check my feelings. I'm not really feeling fat; I'm feeling something else, something that I cannot quite name. Maybe I'm feeling an emotion that brings me shame for feeling--like jealousy, and because it bothers me so much to feel it, I resort to feeling fat, which feels a hell of a lot less shameful than envy. Maybe I feel fat because I'm having trouble expressing to someone how he/she hurt me. No matter what the underlying feeling is, I must figure it out. Allowing myself to feel fat puts me at risk for all the negative and dangerous thoughts that surround believing that I am fat; it sets me up for relapse. Though it may be so much easier to feel fat and restrict away that "feeling," it won't solve the problem. Never has and never will. Anorexia feeds the problem and then locks it away.
Think about all the words you associate with fat and think of how that word affects your recovery. What do you need to do in order to get in touch with the feelings underneath "fat?"
Cheers!
"Melissa, how are you feeling today?" says my doctor.
"Fat," I respond.
"Fat is not a feeling," states the doctor.
"Yes, it is. You ask me how I feel, and I feel fat. Therefore, it's a feeling."
"Happy. Scared. Sad. Those are feelings, not fat. Fat is a descriptor," Doctor iterates, with frustration.
"Well, fat describes my feelings quite well," I quip. End of discussion.
This was me, some fifteen or more years ago when I first entered treatment. In my mind, fat WAS a feeling, and convincing me otherwise was futile. Doctors, therapists, and nutritionists may have assailed me with facts and logic, but my logic was irrefutable in my mind, and thus, I shut my ears to any other notion. Eventually, I tired of the arguing, and switched tactics. No longer did I feel fat; I was fat--I had become what I felt.
(This is a good time to glance at mental or physical notes you took prior to reading this.)
I comprehend now, of course, that fat is NOT a feeling, nor is it a state of being. Fat is simply an adjective for overweight, but the complexity of this word's meaning extends far beyond the dictionary. For countless years, fat meant many, many horrible things: lazy, stupid, unattractive, unlovable, imperfect, flawed, dumpy, unlikable, miserable, unworthy, damaged, gross, disgusting, shameful, out of control, and much, much more. Each time my doctors asked me how I felt, I couldn't think of a single feeling that could comprise all of these fears; fat was the only word that seemed to sum it up succinctly.
The more I became entrenched within the eating disorder, the more I believed I had become all those things that I feared most. Feeling fat became being fat. Recovery meant the possibility of having to embrace these horrible qualities about myself. If I stayed small, I could avoid all those fears; I wouldn't have to be all of those things. However, gaining weight, in my mind, meant the very real possibility that others would view me in the ways that I defined fat. Every time I cried over another pound gained, I was crying at my fear of becoming unlovable, unattractive, dumpy, or imperfect. All of these fears are lies I told myself, lies that I fabricated to avoid gaining weight and to avoid the expectations that I believed others had of me. Surely, if I believed all of this about fat, others did too. Being emaciated contained my world, my fears, and having to live up to expectation---it also caged my world so small that I could not enjoy and truly live life.
Entering recovery will mean gaining the necessary pounds to support the weight of a fulfilling life. Taking up more space in the world will not make me "fat" (AKA: dumpy, unlovable, gross, shameful, etc...). In recovery, I have come to understand the feelings within me. Some days I am sad because I feel left out. Some days I am angry because someone did something hurtful to me. Other days I am incredibly happy because I just belly-laughed so hard I ache. If I find myself feeling fat, I need to stop and check my feelings. I'm not really feeling fat; I'm feeling something else, something that I cannot quite name. Maybe I'm feeling an emotion that brings me shame for feeling--like jealousy, and because it bothers me so much to feel it, I resort to feeling fat, which feels a hell of a lot less shameful than envy. Maybe I feel fat because I'm having trouble expressing to someone how he/she hurt me. No matter what the underlying feeling is, I must figure it out. Allowing myself to feel fat puts me at risk for all the negative and dangerous thoughts that surround believing that I am fat; it sets me up for relapse. Though it may be so much easier to feel fat and restrict away that "feeling," it won't solve the problem. Never has and never will. Anorexia feeds the problem and then locks it away.
Think about all the words you associate with fat and think of how that word affects your recovery. What do you need to do in order to get in touch with the feelings underneath "fat?"
Cheers!
Sunday, September 2, 2012
Anorexia: The Extramarital Affair, Part 1
Imagine Anorexia as the scarlet-lipped mistress and the Anorexic as the speaker while reading the song lyrics below:
My Little Secret
--Cavo
I hope she doesn’t see
The lipstick stain on the edge of the wineglass
Hope that she can’t see it
In my eyes
I hope she doesn’t notice
I’ve come home late every night this week
Trying to keep it together
It’s getting harder and harder each time
To keep this hidden away
I’m running out of things I can say
And I can’t sleep from thinking about you
And I can’t tell lies from the truth
And I can’t hide you like this for very much longer
And I don’t know which way to run
And I feel myself coming undone
And I don’t know how much longer I can keep it
My little secret
I hope she doesn’t notice
This look on my face from thinking about you
Stories are getting harder for me to tell
And each time I try
To take one step away
I find myself
Crashing back into you
Taking this chance that I know now I shouldn’t be taking
And I can’t sleep from thinking about you
And I can’t tell lies from the truth
And I can’t hide you like this for very much longer
And I don’t know which way to run
And I feel myself coming undone
And I don’t know how much longer I can keep it
My secret
Know that there will come a day
When it all comes falling down
I just can’t walk away
I find myself crashing back into you taking this chance and I
Can’t sleep from thinking about you
And I can’t tell lies from the truth
And I can’t hide you like this very much longer
And I can’t sleep from thinking about you
And I can’t tell lies from the truth
And I can’t hide you like this for very much longer
And I don’t know which way to run
And I feel myself coming undone
And I don’t know how much longer I can keep it
My little secret
My little secret
My little secret
My Little Secret
--Cavo
I hope she doesn’t see
The lipstick stain on the edge of the wineglass
Hope that she can’t see it
In my eyes
I hope she doesn’t notice
I’ve come home late every night this week
Trying to keep it together
It’s getting harder and harder each time
To keep this hidden away
I’m running out of things I can say
And I can’t sleep from thinking about you
And I can’t tell lies from the truth
And I can’t hide you like this for very much longer
And I don’t know which way to run
And I feel myself coming undone
And I don’t know how much longer I can keep it
My little secret
I hope she doesn’t notice
This look on my face from thinking about you
Stories are getting harder for me to tell
And each time I try
To take one step away
I find myself
Crashing back into you
Taking this chance that I know now I shouldn’t be taking
And I can’t sleep from thinking about you
And I can’t tell lies from the truth
And I can’t hide you like this for very much longer
And I don’t know which way to run
And I feel myself coming undone
And I don’t know how much longer I can keep it
My secret
Know that there will come a day
When it all comes falling down
I just can’t walk away
I find myself crashing back into you taking this chance and I
Can’t sleep from thinking about you
And I can’t tell lies from the truth
And I can’t hide you like this very much longer
And I can’t sleep from thinking about you
And I can’t tell lies from the truth
And I can’t hide you like this for very much longer
And I don’t know which way to run
And I feel myself coming undone
And I don’t know how much longer I can keep it
My little secret
My little secret
My little secret
Drunk on Control, Part 2
As stated in an earlier post, old habits die hard--control being a habit that is hard to quit.
A few nights ago, a group of friends and I gathered at one girl's home for a night of drinking, something in which I rarely partake. Alcohol has always terrified me. I view it as a means of losing control, both bodily, if one makes herself physically ill, and emotionally, if one loses inhibitions. I have always prided myself as being reserved and contained, and until this night, I never connected just how pandemic my needed for control was.
Since I rarely imbibe, I was inebriated within two drinks, and as such, my inhibitions completely disappeared. I danced like a lunatic, shouted, and belly-laughed, gesticulating wildly and freely. I was booty-shakin' to Usher, head-bangin' to Skid Row, playin' air guitar, and more. I was the center attraction, all eyes and laughs on me, but the next morning I was completely mortified by my undignified behavior. How could I act so uncontrollably?
This wild side of myself is something I rarely share, in part because it terrifies me. Having always been self-conscious, I was never sure if people were laughing with me or at me. Years of toxic relationships have taught me not to trust others, and I often I find myself waiting for a relationship to sour, ending with me being hurt, used, or mocked. It is rare for me to relax enough and show the real me--that crazy, silly, kooky side of me. Only a rare few are privileged to know that side.
Being highly reserved and prim may be self-protective mechanisms that served me well in the past, but as I have grown strong in recovery, my choices in friends have reflected my growing strength. I am now surrounded by those who will not hurt me, who will not purposefully use or abuse me. Still, I keep a closed fist on the real me, too afraid to loosen my grip on the only thing I feel that I can control in a friendship--me.
After that wild night of drinking, I was humiliated and terrified, wondering how my friends would respond to me and what they might think of me. I was reacting in an all-too-familiar and unnecessary way. Opening up and showing this crazy side of myself most likely made them feel closer to me and made me more real than I ever had been. This wild night bonded us in laughter and memory, all solid foundations for a friendship. And that's what I'm afraid of--letting go, moving on, and allowing others to get close to me.
I cannot avoid all pain in my life by controlling every situation. I cannot control other people and their reactions, thoughts, and beliefs. This facade of always being cool and in control that I chose to portray will not endear people to me if I am not being genuine, if I am being what I think other people want of me. What I need to be is me, and only me. I must learn to accept that I am good enough as is and that those who I cannot please are not worth the effort to please.
Ironic that it took me getting drunk to realize just how entrenched my issues are with control. An old dog can learn new tricks--it may just take a little more time and a little more practice to learn--and, a lot more patience. I would never advocate alcohol as means to figuring out problems, but going out of my comfort zone certainly enlightened me. As Eleanor Roosevelt said, "Do one thing every day that scares you." Let go of the need for control.
Cheers!
A few nights ago, a group of friends and I gathered at one girl's home for a night of drinking, something in which I rarely partake. Alcohol has always terrified me. I view it as a means of losing control, both bodily, if one makes herself physically ill, and emotionally, if one loses inhibitions. I have always prided myself as being reserved and contained, and until this night, I never connected just how pandemic my needed for control was.
Since I rarely imbibe, I was inebriated within two drinks, and as such, my inhibitions completely disappeared. I danced like a lunatic, shouted, and belly-laughed, gesticulating wildly and freely. I was booty-shakin' to Usher, head-bangin' to Skid Row, playin' air guitar, and more. I was the center attraction, all eyes and laughs on me, but the next morning I was completely mortified by my undignified behavior. How could I act so uncontrollably?
This wild side of myself is something I rarely share, in part because it terrifies me. Having always been self-conscious, I was never sure if people were laughing with me or at me. Years of toxic relationships have taught me not to trust others, and I often I find myself waiting for a relationship to sour, ending with me being hurt, used, or mocked. It is rare for me to relax enough and show the real me--that crazy, silly, kooky side of me. Only a rare few are privileged to know that side.
Being highly reserved and prim may be self-protective mechanisms that served me well in the past, but as I have grown strong in recovery, my choices in friends have reflected my growing strength. I am now surrounded by those who will not hurt me, who will not purposefully use or abuse me. Still, I keep a closed fist on the real me, too afraid to loosen my grip on the only thing I feel that I can control in a friendship--me.
After that wild night of drinking, I was humiliated and terrified, wondering how my friends would respond to me and what they might think of me. I was reacting in an all-too-familiar and unnecessary way. Opening up and showing this crazy side of myself most likely made them feel closer to me and made me more real than I ever had been. This wild night bonded us in laughter and memory, all solid foundations for a friendship. And that's what I'm afraid of--letting go, moving on, and allowing others to get close to me.
I cannot avoid all pain in my life by controlling every situation. I cannot control other people and their reactions, thoughts, and beliefs. This facade of always being cool and in control that I chose to portray will not endear people to me if I am not being genuine, if I am being what I think other people want of me. What I need to be is me, and only me. I must learn to accept that I am good enough as is and that those who I cannot please are not worth the effort to please.
Ironic that it took me getting drunk to realize just how entrenched my issues are with control. An old dog can learn new tricks--it may just take a little more time and a little more practice to learn--and, a lot more patience. I would never advocate alcohol as means to figuring out problems, but going out of my comfort zone certainly enlightened me. As Eleanor Roosevelt said, "Do one thing every day that scares you." Let go of the need for control.
Cheers!
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