Counting

Have you ever felt the pressure?  The numbers closing in from every side?  Have you ever fought to keep them from haunting you, following your every move, your every bite, your every hour or day?

The pull of knowing.  The terror once you know.  The sickening glee if the number is 'right', the pit of triggered agony when it's 'wrong'.  Oh that agony!

Or maybe it's the theory of numbers - the feeling of increase or decrease, the reflection of 'goodness' or 'badness', 'success' or 'failure'.  Yet no matter how hard you try, how low the number gets... you've always failed.

Calories.  Pounds.  Days.  Steps.  Reps.  Inches.  Grades.  Curves.

Those little numbers are the death of us all.  And I refuse to die.

That's why those numbers are scribbled out - and I promise I ate more that day than 800.  Because I caught myself slipping, I caught myself counting, and I knew if I counted, I would fail, and I would, figuratively, die.

Because living is about more than counting, it's about experiencing, it's about joying.  It's about feeling and hurting and giving and loving.  It's about gracing other with your presence, learning to say no, but also sometimes, to say yes, to give freely, yet to indulge in rest when it's needed.  It's the freedom to say "That wasn't perfect, but it was good."

... or even ...

"I'm not perfect... but I'm okay."

Because ultimately?  It's not about counting.  It's about living, and living well.

Going Back.

"Sheila, you're going to go back."

Rarely do I hear real words impressed clearly - boldly! - on my heart.  I think I have mentioned before about God's clear words to my heart when so many times He has said:

"You're right where you're supposed to be."

And he has said that all these times, not totally in order:

• I'm not married.
• The jobs I've worked.
• The school I'm at.
• Every year, the place I'm studying.
• I'm studying nursing.
• The challenges I've faced and am facing.
• An eating disorder.
• The relationships I've been in.
• The times I've fallen.
• The home I have.
• The country I'm from.
• The place I will be for my life.
• The calling He has for me.

And when I list it out like that, I realize just how often He has said that to me.  The words I wait for, I long for, in the most trying times.  The greatest affliction - and there it is, when I find the stillness in my heart and listen, and then I hear Him calmly say: 

"Sheila?  I love you.  You're right where you're supposed to be."

And though He ministers so often to my soul, He grants me peace and love and joy where I least deserve it, when I hear those perfect words, I am always astounded.

So in these weeks of questions and challenges, when I wonder how God will take me back, how I can live according to the incredible gift of the place in which God made me.  How could I be given such love, such pain and joy for that place, such relationship with the family God has poured into my life and with whom and by whom God has molded me?

It's a frightening thought.  

So when I sit and listen, and he whispers to my soul:

"Sheila, you're going to go back."  

Not as a command, but as a promise.  Not as a threat, but as a joy. 

Because somehow, in this crazy mess of life, He has a good plan.  And I can trust it.

Because He Loves Me.

Real Life Bulimia

Oftentimes on this blog I seem to wax eloquent or talk about the depths, but today I just want to tell it like it is.  This blog is about my life in recovery from bulimia.  What does that look like each and every day?  And be forewarned, for some of you who identify as 'Squeamish' (with a capital S) may find a bit of what I'm going to say to be rather uncomfortable or disgusting.  And for those of you with these struggles, it could possibly be triggering.  Just so you know.

Well I'll say this first.  By some miraculous intervention, I still haven't purged.  Like some 12 days or something now.  But.  That does not mean I haven't binged - I've just managed to keep the binge down.  That also does not mean I haven't wanted to purge.  I have.  And the longer I go without it, the harder it gets.  Honestly after the first few days it got easier, as I  have always found that the first 3 days or so without purging are deathly difficult, but days like, 4 through 7 were actually pretty easy.  Just felt lovely not to be hurting myself all the time.

But then this week, it's been a battleground.  There is certainly a somewhat freeing feeling that comes with not having to hide that need to throw up whatever you just ate, not having to excuse your trips to the bathroom, not having to hide in the corner of a dark room somewhere so you can get the job done... but there is also a mounting fear because literally everything you eat is being processed by your body.

My body.  Yikes!

And that tension is kind of not healthy either.  Just another harming influence.  And that's hard.  There's the hunger that comes, and then there is fear: If I eat, will I be able to stop?  If I don't eat, will I be hungrier tomorrow?  What should I eat?  What even is safe anymore?

Because in bulimia, unlike in anorexia, there are very few safe foods.  For many of us, anything can become a binge food, even if it's unpleasant.  Granted, certain things are more triggering than others:  Ice cream, yogurt, pudding, chocolate.  All the fun stuff.

But as easy as those nice things are to purge, anything can be.  And on bad days, everything will be!  Even the worst of things.  The things that make you shiver as they come up, things that make your body ache.  The things that make you guzzle water and binge on tums the rest of the night.  

But I've not had that the last 12 days.  It's been marvelous.  But I've had the fear.  The fear that I would.  The fear it'll begin again.  The fear that I'll fall again.  The fear that I won't have the strength to get back up.  The fear that I won't be strong enough for everyone else.  For all the people waiting expectantly for me to 'get better'.  

And the fear of the past.  Fear for others.  

And what have I always said?  It's fear that causes pain.  Fear is the reason for pain in childbirth.  (not to say that we should expect painless childbirths by any stretch of the imagination... but that's a whole other topic)

So today my goal is to work on that.  To run back to the Source of Comfort.  To keep pressing on.  

One Week

A week of absolutely and non-absolutes, and recovery, growing.

One week.

A week of learning of myself and of my God.

One week.

A week of stripping off my mask and holding it as far from my face as my arm can stretch - but not dropping it quite yet.

One week.

A week of trusting myself and my story to an incredible Creator God who made stars, and planets, and tiny sparkles that drift from my eyelids to the tip of my nose after a long day.

One week.

Of putting aside the important, conquering the urgent, and enjoying the gifts given so that the important can be conquered all the better by the rest and joy relished.

One week.

Of struggling and fighting, and swallowing hard, and long draughts of water to soothe my longing body.

One week.

Of joy fulfilled because of the step I can see.

One week.

Knowing I won't always succeed, but in the moments that I do, I can rejoice, and the moments that I don't - it's an opportunity to get back up, to practice, to learn, to grow.

One week.

Towards a lifetime of learning and teaching and loving.

One week.

Free.