As “Baby” Francis Houseman memorably pleaded to her father, that detective from Law and Order, “If you love me you have to love all the things about me…” So, for those of you who love me, hold on. Shit’s about to get real.
I am bulimic.
Not currently and not consistently (anymore), but I consider saying “I am bulimic” to be the same sort of declaration as “I am an addict” or “I am an alcoholic”. It is something that I will likely fight forever and something that occupies a lot of headspace on particularly trying days.
I’m writing this tonight because I had a mini-epiphany while journaling for the new moon and eclipse. It’s a time of letting go, a time of releasing things that no longer serve us. You know what doesn’t serve me? What has nothing to do with my highest good? Fucking bulimia.
It’s a habit. It’s a coping mechanism. It’s a remnant from days gone by, when I was struggling to stay afloat in an awful relationship, to find myself, and to meet some pretty outrageous demands that I had stacked on my own shoulders.
Bulimia calmed my anxiety. It helped me grieve. It gave me focus. Enabled my depression and apathy and – quite incredibly – created a kind-of force field around my heart. The people closest to me didn’t know what I was doing because the disease that was destroying me was sneakily camouflaging itself. How outrageous is that?
Bulimia is a bitch. Sometimes,due to the force of the vomiting, blood vessels in my eye would burst. I had a seizure. Then another, and another. I went blind temporarily. I thought I died and went to heaven once. My heart skips and sometimes I’m terrified to think what I may have damaged internally. Why do I keep coming back to her?
At least a million times I vowed to stop. A million times I broke the vow. When my son was born I promised to do better. I broke that promise. Even now, when I feel I am more or less in control of my urges, I can hear bulimia whisper to me. “You’re fat”, she says. “Don’t take care of yourself, you’ll feel deprived.” And my favorite – “Eating this whole box of Cheerios and then purging will make you forget all about (Problem XYZ).”
I’ve struggled so long, I figured I always would. Like an addict. An alcoholic. I didn’t like my disordered eating habits, but I figured they were just a part of me.
Recently, all of that began to change. I experienced a shift inside. My heart, my soul, my mind are all transforming. I’ve learned a lot about myself and about how powerful I am, how this abundant universe really works and how to speak things into existence. I’ve learned that I am (and can be) whatever I decide, and that I can change course at any time by simply deciding to turn and go another way. I have found freedom lies in this sort of awakening.
Simply put, there’s no room in my new life for my old habits, hurts, of regrets. I am grateful for the lessons, and let them go.
Tonight, with this magical new moon in the sky representing new dreams and releasing past wounds, I intend to release this disease along with the negative and controlling thoughts, and the shame that accompany it. Tonight’s the night I will step into a new identity. Tonight I am finally ready to say I love myself – and all the things about me.
Because I failed to create any type of plan or structure to ensure preparation and acknowledgment of special occasions like Valentine’s Day, our wedding anniversary, my wife’s birthday, etc., my epic ADD-ness, procrastination and sometimes lack of money created a bunch of negative or lackluster moments in my marriage.
When two people are in a romantic partnership together, there’s always a little bit of give-and-take as it’s impossible and impractical for each partner to satisfy exactly half of all shared responsibilities.
But when someone doesn’t get anything back when they give, give, give, they eventually run out of energy. They eventually stop giving.
Until the final couple of years of our marriage that I should have (but didn’t) recognize as the End Times, my wife was always incredibly thoughtful and an organized planner about almost everything, including things specifically for me.
Did you see it? Did you notice them? Were you, like my family, standing outside, looking up, ignoring the icy cold in order *hopefully* catch a glimpse of something magical?
We stood in the parking lot, the four of us, looking up. We laughed and talked and danced. Yes, we danced to stay warm. We counted twinkles, identified constellations, and hugged each other while giggling about the possibility that if we kept our gaze up long enough, our necks might get stuck this way.
We connected and played and enjoyed each other, imagining dragons as we exhaled smoky white clouds of breath. We talked about distant planets and galaxies and the undiscovered life that might be staring up at us at the same time. There were jokes about aliens, stories of great Roman warriors who now live among the stars, and scientific questions about just what those stars are made of and why they appear to twinkle.
I saw one! I was looking in the right place at the right time, and I saw a star go from here to there, ever so quickly and quietly. Before I could point it out to anyone, it was gone. I mumbled a belated wish to the heavens, but the truth is that in that moment, with my tribe, I was already living my best life. What else could I ask for?
The Gemenid meteor shower came and went, and we lugged our chilly bodies up the stairs to our front door and into the warm, welcoming space we currently call home. Each of us tiptoed like baby birds to our respective nests, and without any more mention of stars, prepared for bedtime.
As I lie in bed waiting for sleep to come, I realized the depth and importance of what felt in the moment like goofiness…
Moments like this are what make childhoods worth reminiscing on. Moments like this become memories that will amuse us, comfort us, remind us for the rest of our lives of the happy, silly time we had “that night”, looking up at the sky, cracking up at what the neighbors must be thinking about us, musing that we might be waiting for our mother-ship to come and whisk us away to the next universe. (Did we bring towels?)
Yes, the stars showed up and twinkled brightly for us, but it was we who brought magic to the night.
My son sprained his ankle yesterday at school. He didn’t tell anyone and the teacher didn’t see, so no one called me. When he got home, he told me all about his day but he didn’t mention his injury. In the evening, when he was winding down, he finally mentioned his foot pain. After some interrogation I got the story and proceeded to perform Mommy Triage. Everything seemed ok, just a bit swollen, so I gave him Motrin and an ice pack.
Everything was fine.
An hour or so later, my son walked over to me and began to cry, almost inconsolably. He was cold, he said. So cold it hurt and he couldn’t get warm. I took his temperature, expecting a fever, but what I saw was the opposite. His temperature was dropping. His skin was cold and clammy to the touch. I carried him, still crying, back to his bed.
As a mom I feel like I’m constantly walking a line between not reacting ENOUGH and TOTALLY FREAKING OUT. There is not much in between for me, unfortunately for my calm, collected, level-headed husband. Husband, of course, thought our son was overreacting, but I had a feeling he was telling the truth. His tears, hot and streaming down his face, were real. The fear on his face was real.
Externally, I tried to comfort him by saying things like “It’s going to be OK”. Internally, I was making a list of who to call, what to ask, and what to pack for the hospital. I called my mom, who is a nurse, and with her guiding me, checked his pulse, his temperature, examined his body for bruising, and put a heating pad in his bed to help him get warm. After watching a couple of episodes of Transformers on Netflix, he fell asleep. I took out the heating pad and left the room, still feeling some anxiety in my gut.
I checked on Emmett every two hours until the morning, taking his temperature, feeling his skin, and watching him breathe. I felt very strongly that he should get x-rays, since he just sprained this same ankle a month or so ago.
Early this morning we arrived at the Pediatric ER. The staff was courteous, if a bit incredulous that I wanted x-rays on what was obviously a sprain.
Fast forward to lunch time, and my sweet boy is in a splint. He has a distal fracture of the fibula that, due to the location of the break, did not present as such. The break is on the growth plate, which means we will see an orthopedic doctor next week to discuss next steps. His “just a sprain” turned out to be a broken leg.
[On the bright side, his cast is red and festive.]
This was a sneaky break. A painless fracture. There is internal damage on a pretty important part of the body. Fluid has pooled in his ankle and heel. The fracture wasn’t visible, so no one I talked to believed it was there. Only after looking inside did they realize how seriously he was hurt.
Considering this, I am reminded me to be more conscious of others. What I can see with my eyes doesn’t often betray what’s going on underneath. A person may look like they have it all together when they are crumbling on the inside. They may not look to me like someone I could befriend, when we actually have a lot in common. NOTHING is ever what it seems on the surface. While I don’t have X-Ray vision, I do have opportunity to dig deeper. I have an obligation to look deeper. To investigate. To find out what’s going on in the heart, the mind, and the spirit.
Finding out about an injury is the first step to healing. Knowing a person, really understanding them takes time, but it is the first step to helping them heal and grow. Stepping out of comfort zones, crossing invisible lines we’ve drawn for ourselves, choosing to let go of old beliefs in order to embrace new friends. These can only lead to good things – things like love, peace, and community.
I am grateful for this awareness, particularly at this time of year.
This holiday season, and always, may you see others – and may you be seen – for the magical, powerful, gorgeous creature that you (we, they) truly are.
I’m vegan, and part Native American so tomorrow is a different day for me. I’ll still be gathering with my lovely family and eating LOTS of things, as well as concentrating on being thankful and in the moment.
No animal products, and a prayer for those who lost their lives in the “civilization” of our nation.
Here are some links on gratitude, veganism, how you can support the remaining tribesmen and women, and blessing loved ones with love and light, if you’re into that sort of thing. If you’re reading this, I love you and I hope your day, however you choose to spend it, is full of joy, fellowship, and delicious food.
One last thought: In the hustle and bustle of the holidays, please remember two important days that come AFTER Black Friday. The 25th is Small Business Saturday, a day to support small businesses, shop local and purchase thoughtful, sustainable gifts for loved ones. The 28th is Giving Tuesday, a day designated for supporting whatever causes you believe in, so please choose a charity near and dear to your heart and rain down love and affection (and generosity!) on them. It will come back to you tenfold.
To make the time go faster, I have been watching Gilmore Girls on my phone while I work out and it’s delightful. Like any true GG fan, I’ve already seen the series a number of times, but that doesn’t subtract from its charm.
I didn’t like the reboot episodes or mini-series, or whatever it was officially titled. It was too political and seemed to really strain for jokes where in the original they came fast and easy. I’m also a fan of Logan, who in real life I’d probably think was a total tool, but I’m allowed to like him because this is make-believe. I love the original show, all the quirky and lovable characters, the speedy dialogue and especially the obscure pop culture references. I’ve actually learned about a lot of random things watching the show, including Pol pot, Groucho Marx, and coffee (which I don’t drink but I do like to smell).
So right now I’m watching the episodes where Luke and Lorelai dated, then broke up, and the town had pink and blue ribbons and yada yada. There’s still some awkwardness between them and Lorelai is currently getting her coffee at Weston’s and Suki is gearing up for maternity leave from the Inn and everything is chaotic and yet somehow, in the midst of the chaos, there’s a pleasant, familiar charm. There’s a knowing that everything is going to work out like it should.
That’s my life right now.
Everything is up in the air, or rather, all the things I’ve recently thrown in the air are orbiting, and it all feels mixed up and crazy and uncertain and yet, I’m standing here, sitting here, sleeping here in the midst of it with a deep knowing that it’s not just going to be ok, it’s going to be brilliant, and I’m not just happy, I’m inching closer and closer to that deeper knowing that comes from within, that everything is exactly as it should be.
So much of my investment in Gilmore Girls has to do with whether the characters do what I think they should do (or what choices I would make if I were in their shoes). Predictably, I yell at the television a lot. But there are those times when the stars align in Stars Hollow and I feel it in my gut.
So much of my own life has to do with my choices, analyzing them, questioning them, garnering feedback on what was right or wrong or stupid or perfectly planned. Predictably, I beat myself up a lot. But there are those times when the stars align in my life and I can feel it in my gut and my spirit.
NOW is one of those times and this week I’ve experienced ALL the emotions. Fear, anxiety, frustration, outrage, relief, contentment, joy, hope, optimism, grief, determination and so on. I am so excited to see where life will takes me. I am letting go of negative things and trying new things with gusto. Hopefully the next steps for me won’t be years of silence followed by a lackluster Netflix miniseries, but if that happens, I promise to include the entire original cast, plus some interesting originals, fast talking and a satisfying conclusion. Much like the original Gilmore Girls, which I’m on my way to watch. Again.
Sitting cross-legged in my bed tonight, I’m staring at my computer screen while my 7 year old is sleeps right next to me. This last week he’s had trouble sleeping in his own bed, which is on the other side of our apartment. I’m not sure what’s causing his dis-ease, I just know I’m doing my best to help him find peaceful rest and security. If I had to guess, I’d say there are two things on his mind:
A scary cartoon he watched without permission last week. This I take full responsibility for, I was distracted and didn’t realize he had floated from something authorized to something that might frighten him.
Loneliness. He was an only child for 6 years before Kid 2 came along, and it’s tough being the Big Brother. There are times he feels (and is) brushed aside a bit because baby screams are priority. He misses his time with his Daddy and me. Exacerbating this, his room is clear on the other side of the apartment from ours, so I’d imagine it feels a little uncomfortable for him to make the long trek over there, be tucked in and kissed goodnight, and then watch the rest of the family go back to the other side of the living space.
I am not an expert Mommy. I do not always get it right. In fact, I screw up on the daily. It does not feel good, but I do the best I can to keep moving forward. To be totally honest most of the time I feel like a trapeze artist who is working without a net. My parents didn’t teach me how to parent (which is a blog series for another day). Basically what I say, how I act, what I’m aware of, it’s all guesswork. Every bit of it of every decision I make comes down to equal parts research (thanks, internet and Mom Bloggers), what I imagine I would want or need emotionally if I were in the situation as a 7 year old, and blindly attempting to calculate the most logical answer to whatever scenario we are currently knee-deep in.
All of that said, I do have compassion in spades and with a sensitive child like mine, it’s basically my super power. In this tender moment between my son and I, a question formed in my mind: What is courage?
The word courage brings to mind many different images, from soldiers fighting in battle, to patients who battle diseases like cancer, all the way to Mel Gibson’s blue-painted face in the movie Braveheart, in which he portrayed the great warrior and freedom fighter William Wallace, who was willing to give his life for his ideals and his people.
What if courage manifests in other ways? I mean, what does courage look like to a 7 year old? Well, for a child this age, courage might look something like jumping off the monkey bars, or standing up to a friend who is being a bully. Maybe, though courage is having the guts to verbalize fear and ask for help when you can’t sleep and you’ve tried thinking positive thoughts and now you really don’t know what to do. Maybe courage is walking out of the room and risking chastisement in order to escape a yucky situation.
Yep, I think for my boy to pour out his heart to us and then ask to not be left alone tonight took some serious guts. I mean, let’s be honest, many of us adults have trouble doing this! I’m proud of him for speaking up.
So on nights like tonight, when it’s been a long day and we all just want rest and the dishes can wait because my hip is hurting and I still have an article to write, when my husband texts me from the living room to say “he is out of bed again and refusing to go back”, I have to get this right. I have to match this courage with benevolence.
This consideration – the idea that kids are people, too – is something I think about fairly often in my job as Mommy, mainly because it’s not something I was given as a child. On one hand, I don’t want my son to think he’s too delicate to face minor challenges. On the other hand, I refuse to invalidate his feelings just because he’s 7. They’re his feelings, and they are real to him.
I walk quietly into the living room, around the sleeping baby, and take my oldest boy’s hand. We walk to his bed, where I plop down cross-legged and begin to investigate (as moms do). He is in tears before I can ask the first question, so I change tactics and just hold him for a while. A few moments later, I try again. He says he’s not sure what’s wrong, but he doesn’t want to sleep by himself tonight. “That’s ok”, I say without hesitation, “you don’t have to”. I continue to speak life to his little spirit, saying what I believe are helpful statements like, “it’s alright to feel afraid” and “you are safe here”. I don’t know if this is right, but I’m trying my best, against the loud sighs coming from my husband, who has been working to keep his annoyance hidden while we get this sorted out.
((Side note: My husband is not a man who thinks guys have to be “macho”. Thank goodness, he doesn’t say things like “boys don’t cry”. He is, however, a man who works very long hours at a demanding job and greatly values his rest time, so the quicker this gets resolved, the better.))
We arrive at the bed that my son and I will now share this evening, him promptly crawling beneath the covers and me grappling with the idea of being kicked, punched, and snored at all night. I know this is right, I tell my husband. I know that when I was a child and I was afraid, all I wanted was for someone to tell me I was safe. I wanted someone to say “you don’t have to be alone”, someone to validate my feelings and not force me to lie in bed, terrified of whatever thought was tormenting me at the time. Being a kid is tough enough without having your protectors leave you feeling exposed and vulnerable.
When my son thinks back over his life, and when he remembers our relationship and what kind of mom I was, so much of it won’t matter. It won’t matter what we had for dinner tonight, but it will matter that I cooked and we all sat at the table and talked and laughed and connected. It won’t matter what kind of car I drove, as much as it will matter that I was there every afternoon after school, happy to see him. It won’t matter one bit that this apartment is not always clean and sometimes (ok, at ALL times) there are clothes and toys strewn about, but it will matter that this place felt like home to him. It will matter that he felt safe here. It will matter that he had (and for as long as I’m living, he will have) a place he can go and just shake the world off. A place where he doesn’t have to live up to anything, he never needs to feel embarrassed, a place where he’s not pressured to fit into someone else’s idea of who he should be or what he should think or feel. It will matter that he didn’t have to question whether he was part of our tribe.
Deep in the depths of my soul, I want that. As a mother, it is what I strive for above anything else.
Again, I ask: What is courage? Courage is the soldier, the cancer patient, and William Wallace. Yes, all those people are brave, possibly beyond measure. But in MY life, in MY circumstance, what is courage? For a mom like me, courage is the willingness to give my boy what his soul thirsts for, even if no one else understands it. Courage is parenting him and him only, without stopping to think about what other moms (or even my own) might think. Courage is stepping away from traditional beliefs and from how I was raised in order to do it better, in order to raise a whole individual, fully functional and free from emotional baggage.
So tonight, clacking away at my old laptop with my firstborn snoring next to me, I rejoice in this budding courage – his and mine – and in the knowing that this time, I got it right.