Road to Emmaus

So today feels like I am walking on the road to Emmaus or living in that story somewhat.  In the story in it is two men walking together, but in my story it is me and all of you who walk with me.  Only in this story Jesus hasn't made his appearance yet.  We are walking and for me this walk is a struggle lately.  You see on my right are all of the people who journey with me supporting me along the way, and on the left or maybe even on my back is the black dog that is depression.  As many of you know I struggle with major depressive disorder and since late February it has been pretty good.  I have been feeling energetic, happy, and for the most part like I can tackle life.  Recently though, my depression  has gotten worse, especially over the past two weeks.  So while I walk to Emmaus the journey for me has become arduous, difficult, a real challenge, but thinking about it, it shouldn't be a challenge because the road is smooth.  It's an easy road, one without bumps or pot holes, a road that has probably recently been paved so it is really smooth and easy to walk on.  So it isn't the road's fault really, it's who or what I walk with that is the problem and it's not you or y'all it's me or my depression really.  See not to long ago this walk was lovely, I enjoyed the scenery, nature, and my company greatly.  It wasn't until depression showed up that it has been hard.  I'm weighed down, tired and sluggish, feeling like this journey isn't worth it and that Jesus will never show up.  But that is why I keep walking, I know that something greater is going to come of this.  I know that the depression, negative thoughts, and most of all my mental illness won't be the end of the story.  I know I am walking for a reason.  I know that on this road lies my purpose, the reason why I carry this black dog with me at times.  Deep down, I know that Jesus has shown up already, and walks with me just like all of you.  Sometimes he carries the depression for me, and sometimes that sly dog wiggles away. 


You see Jesus is in all of it, the good the bad, the beautiful happiness and the overwhelming sadness, he's there.  Jesus doesn't show up to take away the depression or mental illness, he shows up to let us know that he has walked with it on his back too, he has felt the pain and the sadness too, and he came back from it just like we will.  Depression isn't the end of the story or even the story itself.  It is a character that is with us at times and other times it retreats knowing that we are not only stronger than it, but we know we are stronger.  We are for an indeterminate amount of time able to realize that we have a reason we are walking this road, that we matter to those we are walking with and really Jesus has shown up to walk with us.  Jesus has been there with us whispering in that still small voice, "Go on, I am with you." So as you walk today whether it is easy or challenging remember that Jesus has shown up, Jesus is walking with us, sometimes cheering us on and sometimes carrying the load for us.  No matter the conditions, He's there. 

Like giving birth...

**trigger warning**

It has been a long while since I have found myself back here on my blog.  Oh how I have missed this sacred place.  Unfortunately I find myself here right now out of somewhat of a necessity and maybe even a little desperation.  I am in the midst of trying to block strong ed urges.  Let me paint a picture for you if I may.

About thirty minutes ago I finished dinner, and that is something that is no small feat either for reasons not limited to my ed.  Dinner is sometimes more challenging because of the simple fact that I have children whom I adore, but they act their age and sometimes younger.  Tonight was one of those nights where they decided to act rather special, no table manners, getting up, acting up, you get the idea.  Having to constantly correct and redirect really affects my anxiety.  I try to choose my battles or ignore and extinguish, but it doesn't work 100% of the time and let's just be honest, kids are kids.  So my anxiety is already up because of dinner and it is now going higher because of the children's behavior.  I finished my food and I am sitting at the table with them just trying to make myself relax and enjoy the time with them.  This is the first part of what feels like I am giving birth.  I am sitting there practically bending spoons trying to will myself to be ok in the moment.  Perhaps my first mistake.  Then I get a phone call and go back to the master bedroom, this becomes my second mistake because of the proximity to the bathroom.  I finish the phone call and just lay down because my anxiety is overwhelming me like piggy back contractions coursing through my body.  I am just laying there with these awful feelings, wanting to act on my eating disorder so badly that my body physically hurts.  So I text a friend to talk me through the labor of tolerating these feelings and they ask if I have had an epidural aka taken my anxiety meds. No. I am a sadistic nut job who didn't think to take the one thing that would help drastically. DERP!! So instead of getting the medicine I decide to just stay where I am in location and pain while riding the feelings out, mainly out of fear of walking past the bathroom.  I stay put. Tolerating the feelings of overwhelming guilt, anxiety and self-hatred, just breathing thought the overwhelming pain. I lay there, pressing my body into my mattress, feeling the sensations of being deeply connected to something and just tolerate these feelings all the while continuing to remember my breathing.  Breathing and just repeating to myself to tolerate this moment, it will pass.  The pain is still there, the urge is still there and I am still breathing. Breathing breathing breathing. Staying put. Eyes closed.  Just breathing and being one with my breathing.  Then my friend texts again pulling me out of the trance I had put myself in and somehow without really even noticing what has happened the moment has passed and my labor is over, giving birth to beautiful feelings of strength and peace.  I hold these feelings tightly and let the feelings of warmth and light course through my body.  The distress is over. The urge has passed. 

Thanks be to God.

Through Mud Covered Eyes

     I am sitting here trying to pull together the words to write this entry and my head is just seriously swirling.  I am a raw amalgamation of emotions and thoughts, none of which feel very positive.   Today, after months of fighting for insurance I was able to see my therapist again and it was nice, but a little too honest for me.  Maybe it was to honest for ed and all of the struggle that has been my life recently.  My therapist ganged up on me along with a few other people in my life and agreed that I should go back to IOP treatment for my eating disorder.  I totally understand where everyone is coming from, and some very small part of me knows that this is the right thing so I can get better.
     In spite of what everyone is actually saying, all I am hearing is that I am a failure.  I am a horrible fucking screw up who couldn't hack recovery.   Behind every encouraging, "You should do this, it's the best thing", I hear, "Beth you are nothing but a screw up and burden to everyone.  Not to mention a fraud."  Ugh, this relapse and the push back to treatment is excruciatingly painful, especially because I am the source of my own pain.  I am to blame for where I am and the eating disorder that has been my best friend for the past twenty years.  To make it worse, when I was discharged from treatment last year I arrogantly said to my doctor that I would never see her again, ever.  I am sure as I walked away she could see the fraud that I was and will see it again soon enough.
    Oddly enough, in spite of all this anger and self-hatred, right now I feel a closeness to the blind man from John 9.  This man was born blind or at least lived with it for the majority of his cognitive existence, meaning it is all he ever knew.  He lived a life, hearing what it could be like, but never seeing or truly experiencing what was around him.  He heard feet running through the street, but never saw the excitement of a foot race.  He heard laughter, but he never saw joy or happiness.  He heard the sounds of water, but never saw or appreciated it simple beauty.  All of these things in the life around him, he never got to enjoy because of his blindness. He was living in somewhat of a fog, until that day, that day when Jesus used his spit and dirt to heal him.  It wasn't extravagant or through some magic show, but more like the instructions off of a shampoo bottle. Spit, mix, apply, rinse, and rejoice. It was so simple, but messy and beautiful all at the same time.  It's all messy, healing, recovery, wholeness, etc. It is a messy journey.  Sometimes the time between the mud and the rinsing is long and difficult.  Sometimes we need to go back to the water and rinse again because we didn't get it all the first time.  There is so much recovery grace in that story it is practically jumping off the page.  See, for me being a survivor and someone who wanders through recovery I get it. I am the blind man because for twenty years I have lived in this world where I know there are people who can eat a meal and take it in for the nourishment that is gives, but I can only imagine that world.  I sit in my blindness, listening and wondering what it is like to experience this freedom that sounds amazing to me.  A part of me is excited because I know my savior is near, and I know that he can heal me, he's the one who can make me whole.   Then I feel the mud and think something is happening, it is gross, cold, messy and amazing.  So here I sit, with mud covered eyes, walking into the waters of recovery, and hoping to be healed, to be made whole

Bad Neighborhood

     One time my therapist told me,"you need to get out of your head it's a bad neighborhood."  I simultaneously love what she said and hate it so very much. I love it because it makes sense, it's cute and it kind of makes you laugh. I hate it because it is so fucking true and I hate how painful that truth is to accept.  My head is the worst kind of neighborhood. It is worse than skid row, nobody wants to go there especially at night because it is dangerous. It is crawling with dark alleys that are packed with dangerous bad guys aka my thoughts. No matter how dangerous it may be I can't get out. I am trapped because I know this neighborhood so well, I am familiar with these alleys and corners. The idea of leaving this place and possibly going to pleasantville scares the shit out of me. So here is stay, looking longingly at how nice it seems to get out. 

     You might be asking yourself how is this neighborhood that bad? I do this thing a lot where I want to do something, try something new, a new social situation, go to a friends wedding, hang out with friends, or whatever "normal" people do. I look from the outside and think to myself, I'm gonna do it!" I even try to picture the positive things that could happen or new people to meet. Then somewhere along the line something happens and then I do it.  Let's take for instance this new event someone has invited me too and even texts me to see if I am coming or to tell me that I was missed.  Every week it I tell myself I am going to go, I even tell my husband I am going and then it happens. I start to think about what will happen at this event in particular and all the reasons why I can't do it, basically why I am scared. I'll give you a scenario of what happens.

    Self: I really want to go but you know what they are serving food at this thing so I probably shouldn't, maybe I'll have a little bit of food so nobody thinks anything out of the ordinary. Then they will see me eating and they will think I am fat and disgusting, I will accidentally take a bite that is too big or drop something off my fork and they will think I am a disgusting pig. I shouldn't eat. There's this girl who will probably be there who's tall and thin and just beautiful and people will wonder why someone like me would come. All of these smart and super amazing people will be there and then people will realize what an ungifted blubbering idiot I am. I will probably say something offensive and then everyone will hate me. That one person from my church will probably be there and unless I act and speak perfectly she will tell this other person from my church and then they will hate me. How am I going to talk to these people? I am so bad at small talk and asking questions about other people. I will probably just sit there and not contribute to the conversation because I don't know what to say and look like a complete idiot. I will just be this fat disgusting idiot that wil ruin everything. I probably shouldn't go. It is pretty far. I should save the gas. I'm staying home. 

     That is just one event, just one thing that I can't bring myself to do. Just one out of many things that this tape or similar tapes play on in the background keeping me trapped in this place. Does that look exhausting? It is.  I really want to just live life, do new things, meet new people and be who I think I might just be called to be. But I can't. Why can't I? Because I am scared. I am terrified. The worst part about that is I can't articulate what scares me.  Probably the biggest one is that he will be right in all he ever told me so I just shouldn't even try in the first place.  I know that I will try something and then fail and he will be right.  Then that will mean I was wrong about everything I have ever done to try to heal and move past it or to somewhere else at least. So in this neighborhood I stay until maybe one day I can get out if that day comes. 

I WANT IT NOW!!!!

This blog post started while I was at the Extravaganza a few weeks ago so we are going to go back in time then fast forward.  HERE GOES!!

     So I am sitting here at the extravaganza listening to the key note speaker talking about what frames us.  This idea or theme is really shaking me. I feel like I have let things especially my past, hurts, wounds, and my eating disorder frame me.  For so long I thought that I could keep it separate from everything else, but I can’t.  I don’t want to be burdened anymore, I am tired of being bound and it affecting everything else.  I want to reframe everything especially the lenses in which I see to walk through my faith journey.  I want to grow, I want to share that growth and most of all I want my story and everything to matter. I want to know that all of this shit that I have carried with me for so long to amount to something meaningful.  I want God to use me, all of me, every nasty disgusting part of my story and all of the beautiful parts too.  I just want to be used, I want to do something great, and I want my recovery to shine a light for others.  I want people to see the light of Christ through everything especially my recovery.  I want to recover.  I want to reframe. 

    That was Friday January 31 and here we are February 20, almost a month later.  Do you want to know what is different? Not a damn thing!  Here I am twenty days later and I feel more frustrated with everything.  I haven't reframed anything or at least it doesn't feel like I have.  I want to be different, I want to be more, I want to be better, I want to be whole!! God dammit I want to be healed!  I am so tired of carrying all of this stuff with me, all the hurt and pain with my childhood is so heavy. It feels so overbearing it is almost suffocating, it weighs me down so much I feel like my head is barely above water.  I feel like my own existence is drowning me.  A friend asked me yesterday in what ways has Christ made me knew and I couldn't answer the question.  What the fuck is wrong with me?!?!?!! I am supposed to know this stuff and I seriously couldn't find anything.  I seriously feel like Veruca Salt right now pitching a fit about all the things I want.  I am throwing a tantrum and stomping my feet at God.  I feel like I have been more than clear, I want to be whole, I don't want to carry around this stuff forever, I don't want to live a trapped life forever, I guess most of all I want to be made new.  Why can't it just happen?  Why can't magic happen and I get the help/treatment I need, I go through "the process", I heal, and I get "fixed?"  Why can't that just happen?  I am so unbelievably tired of having an eating disorder, it is exhausting being fixated on the food you eat or don't eat, and it just feels awful in every way possible.  In the same sense I want to recover, but I also want to just starve, I just want to not eat, I want to waste away into the nothingness that I am.  Today I thought to myself if I never ate again it would be too soon, I just don't want to be bothered with food or having to eat.  Maybe because of the power and control food holds or exudes is why I am just so done with it.  I just want to be normal, I want to enjoy things, I want to be happy, and I just want to be free.  So, God if you are reading this please don't send me down the bad egg chute that I am probably destined for, but could please just polish me, make me beautiful, make me whole, and maybe make me a good egg? Like now?

Air

I have to disclaim that this post originally started on super bowl Sunday.  So here is the beginning and the continuation.  

After some events today I feel like I just need to clear a few things up. 

I hate the word fat, it makes me cringe, makes me sad and uncomfortable all at the same time. It is a word I wish we could wipe from the dictionary. I have an eating disorder(feel free to ask and not assume), I am in recovery and struggling a lot right now.

I was in treatment in the spring for said disorder and I am still a work in progress. I will be over sensitive, defensive, moody, happy, sad, etc, it's part of the grief process that is eating disorder recovery. 

I am a survivor, in particular a survivor of abuse, abuse of which I will not go into detail here. If you are curious just ask. Again, ask don't assume. So because I am a survivor I don't find jokes about rape, abuse, victimization or marginalization funny so please save them and just never say them. 

I have PTSD and I have never been deployed or in the military. So when you suddenly touch me, grab me, etc. I could have a flashback. The human touch thing isn't me being weird it is me surviving. I know this is a lot of information all at once but I feel like I need to get this stuff out. This time at the extravaganza has been amazing, God had been doing work both professionally and personally. All of this stuff is part of who I am and I am called in spite of it.

I hate all or nothing thinking, it is my linch pin, it keeps me disordered and perpetuates a lot of negative shit.  There is no "if, then", like ever, there is no if we do this then this will happen.  We just are, we just live and survive through all of it, good or bad.  

All of this and more make-up who I am or maybe who I'm not.  I am broken, wounded, healing, whole, sinner, saint, and so much more just trying to live in response to the gift of grace that was extended to me.  If this seems random or like a lot to take in then read this again or maybe again after that.  Just take a step back and remember that everyone is fighting a different war or celebrating a different party, just respect that and try to be graceful to that fact.  That's all.  

Dusting

    Ugh! I am such an unfaithful blogger.  Thank goodness my blog is not a lover because it would get tired of my shenanigans and leave me in a heart beat.  So, here I am, back again this time I am resolved to be more faithful and really blog more often.  I need to blog no matter what, when things are great, recovery is awesome and even when is it the shittiest thing ever.  I do so much better when I am writing, when I invite people into this journey somehow it helps me along.  I haven't figured it out yet, but I am sure that is major scientific proof.  Now onto the catching up.
    It appears that my last post was over a year ago. WTF!! After reading that post, it seems that recovery was pretty good because I had just destroyed my scale.  If only I had known then what the next few months would bring.  For a while recovery kept going well, until March when it just started to go downhill.  Slowly at first, then after an event in April it plummeted faster than the Flash and I had relapsed horribly(even though I had already been there for a while).  So, sometime in late March both my nutritionist and therapist ganged up me and said that I was either going to go into the Partial Hospitalization Program(php for short) or if I refused it was inpatient against my will.  Well then! If you put it that way then I guess I'll go.  So on May 20 I started treatment in php and stayed there for 14 days then I was transferred to IOP for 8 days.  Treatment was an interesting experience, in PHP it was like you were in this vacuum and you could really work on your eating disorder without the distractions of the real world, for 12 hours a days you are immersed in dealing with your shit and it is kind of nice, sort of hopeful.  Then you get transferred to IOP which is only 4 hours of dealing with your shit and adjusting to normal life the other 20 hours of the day.  When I left PHP I was doing really well and ready to finish the work in IOP.  I really wanted to get better, I wanted my life back, I wanted to live and most of all I just wanted to be free. So about halfway through IOP I felt a change in myself and my recovery focus was starting to get blurry.  I was supposed to discharge 6/21 because I had to go back to work and go on our summer service trip.  The staff on IOP strongly urged me not to discharge, I wasn't ready even though I felt hopeful they thought that I was not strong enough in my recovery to discharge especially after only 8 days.  I knew better, I told them that I had my out patient treatment team, I would be making my regular appointments and that everything would be fine.  Oh how wrong I was, how utterly and miserably wrong I was about leaving.  I wasn't ready at a all, not to deal with normal life, and especially not ready to deal with the shit storm that was coming.
     The Sunday following my discharge from IOP I left with my youth on our summer service trip. It was going to be great and I knew that I was so strong. I was completing my meals, following the meal plan and not worried at all that I was going to be a badass recovery warrior while at the same time being an awesome youth director.  Before I left, my nutritionist gave me a challenge to try one of my fear foods, Pop Tarts.  I decided that what better time to do it while I was with people I love on our summer service trip.  So during the middle of the week during some down time in the gym I had a pop tart.  I was not ready.  It triggered me. BIG TIME.  Slowly through the rest of the week ED's voice and influence started creeping back in, me being tired and unfocused from focusing on other things was vulnerable to fight back.  On the way home from Kentucky we stopped at this amazing place in West Virginia and at dinner I was terrified. My anxiety was super high and I struggled to finish the meal, even my very close pastor friend noticed it and tried to help me snap out of it, but his voice was drowned out by ED's.   Even though I had about 3/4 of my meal I felt defeated.  I get home, recover from the sleep deprivation of a youth trip and return to my appointments.  Everything was fine, I was challenging myself, sticking to the meal plan and even added another group to my out patient work.  Then comes July and we learn that we have no health insurance benefits because of my husband's reduced hours.  No health insurance=no op treatment.  So rather suddenly my work in recovery just comes to a halt.  I keep trying, I am clinging to recovery with whatever strength I have. So we muddle through July, we go on vacation have some fun and then come back to reality or whatever reality is for us.
    Then comes August, I go to Churchwide Assembly, the girls go back to school, and the shit hits the fan.  I get a call from the landlord that the rent checks bounce and I have no idea what is going on.  At that point I learned of our reality, my husband is barely working, he's getting like 2 hours a day and we don't have enough to survive.  That had been going on longer than I knew and we were slowly drowning.  Then he loses his job completely. Fuck.  I beg our landlords for mercy and they let us stay in the house living one month behind and come up with an agreement to make it up.  In September I took on a third job and Jason got a new job so things were looking up.  We were struggling but it felt like we were on the path to things getting better.  I am working like a dog, every day of the week, over 60 hours a week and nothing feels like enough.  At that point my life was too much to deal with and I just give up. I don't accidentally relapse, I went and found my old friend and embraced him then asked him how he could fix things.  Oh he had such great ideas and I listened, I followed along fully accepting what I was getting myself back into.  So I start acting on symptoms, my anxiety becomes way more than I can deal with so all I have is my eating disorder.  On my most hopeful days, it's all that I can do to stick to my meal plan and not the one given to me back in the spring.  Then we lose my car on the day that my husband's grandfather was laid to rest.  Two weeks later we lose our house and have to move in with my in-laws.  Then, at the end of the year my husband loses his job.  Nothing gets better.  Through and awful series of events things just get worse.
     So here we are in January.  Cold, overcast, dark January.  I am struggling more than I ever have before.  I want desperately to get better and to not only live life but to thrive.  I want God to use me, use my story, use all of this for his good, but in the depth and darkness of despair it feels like he can't.  That's what's happening with me, what's happened since last January.  I am still hopeful, I know that this isn't permanent, I know that I will some how find recovery again and most importantly I will heal from all of the wounds I carry.  I don't know how. I don't know when. I just know that I will.