My Life

I just found this post on my old blog, and while it is rather lengthy, it flows quite nicely, and answers so many questions.  Leave your thoughts...

Monday, Sep 26, 2011:

Here I Am

Here I am.  Today.  Not yesterday, not tomorrow, yet here I am.  I feel constrained, yet that is exactly what I don’t want.  I don’t want to be tied to anything, I want to be alone, and free, and motion-full, not distracted by other stories that invade my mind.  I wish I wish.  That seems to be my life song.  Regret.  Yet I don’t want it.  Remorse.  Yet not over sin, just over decisions, decisions that are neither good nor bad, but simply are.  I am.  He is.  They are.  It is.  And so we exist.

I began, 20 plus years ago, I barely was.  I try to invade the space where that occurred, the time when that occurred, the it that that occurred.  I barely was, yet I grew, unnoticed, unknown, unfelt, unheard, unseen.  My heart was formed.  And then my heart beat its first beat.  My face was formed—unique—my fingers and their fingerprints, my eyes, and their first glimmer of light, so faint through the darkness in my cocoon.  Yet it was not mine.  Already the world did not belong to me.  It was hers.  It was his.  It was His. 

I was born, and chaos began.  Not my chaos, but chaos that would change my life before most of it began.  And so I drank another child’s drink, and waited, cared for by foreign hands, the first words I heard with clarity not being uttered in the language I would learn to speak first, but in the gentle sing-song of my first country.  Time slowed, then, my little fingers grasping for what wasn’t, my tiny mind completely unaware of the prayers cast frantically at the feet of the Father.  My mother lives today.  He saved her.  And He would save me.

I don’t know what happened those first few years.  Those memories will have to wait until further revelation.  Until then, I rely on second-hand information, but these are my words.  Relating unnecessary foolishness can wait for other epics.  I was 2, it was my birthday, the carpet was red, and there was a closet.  That is my earliest recognizable memory, though I have no idea why.  And then I was 3, and the carpet was mint green (except it wasn’t).  There were stairs, and a balcony, and I was born in the kitchen (except I wasn’t).  Ice cream cake.  Granny in the living room—or is that a photograph?  Feeding the ducks—or is that a photograph too?  Dancing in the isle, swinging on the swings, exploring the shed, listening for cougars; now the memories begin to trickle more freely.  My blue flowered coat, standing on the grass, and then my tree.  Now the recollections flow abundantly; my imagination was unleashed.  I could create.

My childhood was beautiful, I danced, I lived, I was.  We played together, we lived together.  My big self is simply an echo of my small self.  At first I thought it was the other way ‘round, but it’s not, at least I don’t think so.  I was so aware of life, so aware of the earth’s spinning, and of the ever-changing stability of green-ness and wind.  I played with imagination, I lived in it, and I revelled in it, drinking in the possibilities like elixir that my life depended on.  Truly immersing myself in the realm of the unknown was my daily sup.  I was fulfilled in my life, for it existed within the One in whom my life began—a pattern that breaks all too quickly for many people.  But this is my story—His story in me.  I could list many little regrets, of the kind that seem so monumental as a child.  Sometimes, when I soak my soul in the fabric of my childhood, they still feel huge, untameable, unconquerable, and my heart cries a little.  Then slowly, my heart’s grubby little fist releases its hold: “Take it, God, it never was mine”. 

Choir.  Capture the flag.  Schoolwork.  Nonsense.  My tree.  Oh, to twist among its branches again—and yet somehow there is incredible comfort in the fact that because it was good and it happened, it will always exist.  There is nothing about those moments that need ever be snuffed out; I can return to that occurrence any time I please.  What a beautiful thought!

And then childhood began to wane, and so did I.  Isn’t that what happens to most of us?  When childhood dies, so does a big piece of our souls.  Mine was slower to be crushed, and solid food has reconstructed much of the repairable parts, yet I still grow worried about the areas that seem irretrievable, unattainable.  Perhaps one day, or one something else.

Regrets really began.  The leadings were inaudible, the directions unclear.  I ploughed forward, unable to make out faces in my soul.  And then, just as I was no longer able to be me, all hell broke loose, because I did.  I wanted so desperately to be me, for that tiny 2-celled organism I had been some 16 years before to come back to life in my heart.  I tried.  I tried.  I tried so hard.  Trying doesn’t work.  And I wasn’t.

I dabbled, I twirled, I drank in the wind, running amuck in chaos of my own, revelling in the wonders that God has rightly placed in this world, from willow, to blood, to body.  I slowly soaked my soul in shame, though I was performing this un-sacred act unaware.  It would take God to resurrect my heart, for it was no longer human, but ghoulish, though its emitting of faerie projections and faux-truth un-realities remained consistent with my deeper yearnings.  Yet the cries of my very being were being slowly stifled too, and so I longed with all that I am for Truth.  Searching frantically with grace became my bread and water, no longer satisfied with the first fruits, drinking un-filled of another one’s drink.  My pudding was swirled.  My vanilla was tainted.  My blood was given up.  I was all but dead. 

And I did not know it.

Deeper rumblings were roaring forth, covering the very existence of life itself with vitality.  He is alone so that I am not.  He was, so that I can be.  I am, because He always has been.  The Lion’s Song has been sung—is singing.  Creation arose from its grotesque slumber.  Salvation is.

And I existed.  The darkness, with its snaky fingers and shadowy penetrations, was torn excruciatingly from my heart, as I writhed in terror and regret, weeping and falling in repentance before the Lamb who is a Lion.  Perhaps one time I shall comprehend the magnitude of that occasion, but today, I can only say that it was the most violent experience of my life to date.  My life was torn from me, reformed, un-violated, grace poured out, and faith appropriated.  My death was undone. 

Yet am I who I was?  I am who I can be, somewhere, yet I don’t even know me.  I followed the will of God, I went where I was supposed to go, and then all of a sudden silent disruptions began to cloud my clear horizon.  Uncontrollable fog began to cover my paths, and fear began to creep its crawly little noses into my peaceful heart.  It was different this time, for I was covered differently, my two-cell self far better preserved, but it hurts.  To this moment, there remains some of that terror, that fright, that distrust that is so shameful to one who names the Name of the Most High.  If He can tear the shroud of night from the blackest of blood-pumping organs, He can be trusted.  Yet the future scares me. 

The future is no less real than the past, I realize that, but its un-reality is unnerving.  My calm has been lost, is lost, yet it is.  He can restore it, as He has restored all else and can and will.  Time is irrelevant, if I am surrendered, submitted, cured, healed, not in control.  Restrained in freedom to the King: That is Life.  That is Truth. 

I have found Truth.  I am afraid of the future, and the past, and the present.  I am afraid of life.  I am not afraid of Life.  Life abundantly, that is what I am promised.  I am promised, for I exist within The Promise.  I am redeemed.  I must walk.  I walk. 

A conclusion cannot be come to, for time is irrelevant, and there is no conclusion for irrelevancy of being, and so all that I can say is this: I am in Him who is I AM.

I am enough.

That big, open, vast place of numbness and desolation.  That's the one that hurts the least and the most all at once.  That moment when the Overwhelming Uncontrollable has acted out its desires and the body screams at its owner who is helpless to change the situation.  The endless loop of "Never again" and "I'll never stop.  I'll never be enough."

It's then that the desire to fade away into the cracks between the wall and the floor overcomes all else and nothing feels at all.  No thoughts, no emotion.  And that is the most frightening feeling of all.  The knees come up.  The hands tuck in, the chin goes down.  All outside input slips further into the space around me.

I venture out, to clean my hands, my mind.  I step into the ocean of breezes just outside the door, knowing that within it are a thousand feelings, thoughts and emotions left there by countless other sojourners on this earth.  I can't hear them yet.  So I cry out to the One who made me to give me grace right now.  I know I won't suddenly be pulled out of this spiral, that I can't make myself more empty promises to break.

So I wander back, breathing deeply, smelling the fragrance of the wind, carrying the response from on High:  "My grace is sufficient."  For this moment.  For today.  For tomorrow and its failures or successes.

And so I struggle on, trying to learn that I am enough.

Thin enough.
Curvy enough.
Smart enough.
Fast enough.
Modest enough.
Individualist enough.
Creative enough.
Friendly enough.
Loving enough.
Faithful enough.
Patient enough.

Enough.

'Share You'

So.  Some of you have noticed the 'Share You' tab at the top of my blog.  This is what I'd like to speak to today.  Something I have discovered since beginning this blog, is that within my world, I am so not alone.  Yes, a few have or have had eating disorders.  No, not all.  But all are learning, and many have had struggles that might make them able to say "Yes, my eating has been disordered."  One doesn't have to be starving, emaciated, binging, or purging, to have a disordered view of themselves, their body, and food. 

What does this mean? (My definitions with plenty of support from others with these struggles)

#1: It doesn't diminish real eating disorders.  I have to say, one thing I am rather tired of hearing when I discuss the struggles of living with an eating disorder is "Oh I understand, I have struggles too."  To which I must respond as follows:  "It is not the same."  Yes, we all struggle.  And legitimate body/eating issues must be acknowledged.  But not all are eating disorders.  That struggle is a terror only those who have been through it can truly know.

#2: Disordered eating is different from eating disorders.  It is something one can experience at any point, or a tendency, or something someone who has had an eating disorder may struggle with post-recovery.  It is any obsession with food, either with eating it or not eating it, its effect on the body, or any fear of food or the body.

#3: Everyone with these struggles needs support:  Whatever one might say, eating disorders are mental health issues.  Those who struggle with disordered eating or a disordered view of their body than food are fragile, tender beings.  I believe that with proper support and counseling, these people can avoid a full-fledged eating disorder, and recover from their struggles.  But we must learn to be vulnerable.

So what can I do?  Well.  I'm no counselor.  But I believe, with this little world, we might support one another.  The best thing for me in this process of recovery has been knowing I'm not alone.

What can you do?  You can head over to the 'Share You' page and comment, either with your name or anonymously, and let all who struggle know:

• That you have been there too. 
• That you have body or food fears too. 
• That you have never been there, but you are behind us all in support and love, and that you truly want to understand. 
• That you have different struggles.
• That you are praying.
• That you are trying
• That you need someone to email you at your new anonymous email and to tell them they can do this. 

And I'm no counselor, and I'm not recovered, but if you want to, email me:
christsinstrument [at] gmail [dot] com

What does recovery mean?

I challenge you all to take a moment and read these two pages.  They are a pretty realistic look at eating disorder recovery.

(From Unbearable Lightness by Portia de Rossi)

On Wearing a Bikini

Warning:  This is controversial.  Please don't hang me.  :)  Thanks!  

It seems to me that within the conservative world we have done the opposite if what we've wished and have thus created another, far greater problem.  Our little girls are growing up learning that their bodies are only sex objects we must hide.  The words may not be such, but ultimately that is the message. 

"Cover your bodies, protect the boys from lust!  Cover your bodies, save it for your husband!  Cover your bodies, honour God!"

I used to believe this with all my heart, for my desire to do right was so strong.  My body was covered, my pride was full, and my soul forgot I was born inside this vessel.  And my vessel was forgotten, given over to hiddenness and secrecy.  It's only my love of childbirth that kept any closeness to this body I was born inside.  The one I was made to wear for all my days on this planet.

And so I regretted the days my body had been open, when I had loved it for what it was.  I covered it to protect it from meandering eyes and sinful lusts.  I held my head high and gave in to this pushing toward thinking only of others and never of myself.  The mirror was the only revealer of my curves and softness, and I agonized over the fact that I was the only one to judge it.  Believing oneself is rather difficult sometimes.

So once again, for different reasons, I found myself bikini-clad, happy amidst the throng of Swiss bathers who were oblivious to the statement they were making to me.  In North America, bikinis seem, generally, to be relegated to the thinnest, the fittest, the supposed sexiest of bodies.  Softer bodies tend to hide themselves in flowing coverage, shamed into the idea that their vessels are worth less, that their bodies are not good enough to be seen.  Perhaps even that their bodies have no sexual value.

And so I ask: for whom are we wearing the one-pieces, the 'modest suits', the potato sacks?  Do we really wear them to 'protect our brothers' (who, I might add, have already seen countless lightly-clothed bodies in their short lives and must learn to deal with any overly-excitable urges they might have... that's another story)? 

Our little girls must begin to grow up with love for what God made them in, so that when that small one's body begins to blossom and become softer and rounder, she has no second thought about her worth, her need to hide.  She should not only be thought of as sexual and beautiful if her body can 'safely' be placed in a bikini.  She should not be responsible for the lustfulness of the male swimmers at the lake.  That is their mountain to conquer, and in this world of fashion and supposed openness, they must!

Her body is bikini-worthy despite the softness.  It is bikini-worthy despite her short stature, her curvy thighs, her tiny breasts.  It is bikini-worthy despite the stretch marks or the growing baby, despite the varicose veins or the loosening skin.  It is simply worthy of our love, no matter how it's shaped or what worth (or lack thereof) it has been given in the past.

For the choice is the woman's to make: to free her skin to the flowing goodness of the water, or to cover it for her personal enjoyment.  Not society's.  Not conservatism's.  Not Christianity.

For our God made these beautiful vessels.  Our modesty is of the heart, before the Lord, in holy, humble joy before him.  So that our lives might be lived worthy, not so that we might make rules to attempt gaining favour with our Creator or others who serve Him.

(Further reading on the topic - to think on, please: Click here, and here)

Why?

Recently I've realized that I need to explain clearly why I am doing this.  Why am I sharing this struggle with the world?  Why am I being open?  Why have I splattered bulimia all over social media?

Why?

Because the can of worms needed to be opened.  The real truth is that so many eating disorders are not just pasted on the front of magazines, but are found in the lives of men and women, boys and girls, of all sizes, shapes, ethnicities, and backgrounds.  The taboo needs to be broken, the open discussion must begin.  The world needs to understand this struggle so that we cease being the brunt of jokes and so that more of those with this struggle can find the strength to be helped sooner. 

How terrifying it is to realize your struggle and yet know that the world won't take you seriously until you look sick.  To feel like you have to go on being sick and getting sicker, because no one will believe you are struggling, that you can't fight anymore.

I started the blog not to get some strange form of attention, to gain pity, or to look braver than everyone else.  Quite honestly, walking around knowing that any of my facebook friends could know my story at all is hard. That it's known that I still struggle with throwing up partially digested food into a bag because I have inner struggles that manifest in this weird way...  What even is that?  Why is that a struggle?

Isn't that GROSS?  

How many do you know, and you'd never even guess?  What is happening beneath the plastered smile and the pretty dress?  Perhaps she doesn't even know.  And how can we help?

These are the questions that must be answered, and this is the why of this blog.  This is why the journey.  The recovery is hard, and I'm making (slow) progress, but one day at a time, with God's help, we can, whatever our struggles, rise up.

And maybe, maybe I'm doing it for all the little girls that this picture of me 4 years ago represents.  Because I want them to love who God created them to be (inside and out) before they even hit adolescence, and I pray that it will continue their whole life long, every day of it.

At my (almost) smallest

Let's Be Real.

Really.  I'm always going to be either a bulimic, or a recovered bulimic.  When I go for days with great leaps ahead, I almost stop thinking of myself that way.  And then there is some trigger.  I don't mean to, I really don't.  But I find myself starving, fighting off the hunger with those old anorexic mantras, the reminders from my ED to my self that it's whittling me away, that being hungry (and the headaches and weakness associated) is a good thing and that I'm better for it.

But ED is wrong.  Wrong wrong wrong.

Because that hunger and self control brings a need to replenish, and that hole seems endlessly deep.  And even if the binge isn't the whole-jar-of-jam-2-boxes-of-crackers-a-container-of-ice-cream-and-some-chocolate kind of size, even if it's just eating the whole package of M&Ms instead of the half you promised yourself to rid yourself of the carb-less-body headache, and even if the purge is itty bitty, it's still the numb, sad, caved-in feeling that comes no matter what.

Fear.  Stress.  Homesickness.  Memories.

Having to tell people over and over again that your summer was 'wonderful', which indeed it was, but it was so much more than just wonderful!  And how can one express the depths of the emotion experienced, the bridges built, the connections made, the hearts entwined, the family found, the satisfaction and terror and wonder and chaos of the kind of summer I had?  How to express it in a catchy little answer?

And so my heart sinks deep within itself and asks itself to tell me, and when I do, I find myself so very alone, and M&Ms are then the 'wonderful' thing.

Starting back at Day One once again.