tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12771053675927736672024-03-05T20:02:56.605-08:00Mo(u)rning Restoration"...weeping may last for the night but joy comes in the morning." Psalm 30: 5elizabeth annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05156360398489307975noreply@blogger.comBlogger95125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1277105367592773667.post-67699166827265711592011-11-29T08:49:00.001-08:002011-11-29T16:05:58.276-08:00onward.<div style="text-align: center;">
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">i've been wanting to write this post for awhile now. i just wasn't sure how to say what i wanted to say. but i think i'm ready now. so here goes.</span></i></div>
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when i was 16 years old, a cute boy from down the street asked me out on a date. and then another date. and then another.<br />
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there was a creek that ran behind both our houses. it had an old wooden bridge over it. we got to know each other on that bridge. sitting and swinging our legs and talking and flirting. </div>
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after a few months of sitting and leg-swinging, he walked me to the bridge one night and gave me my very first kiss.</div>
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we returned to the bridge often. even into college. whenever we were home, the bridge was where we would go to be together.</div>
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the cute boy from down the street is now a very handsome man. </div>
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last night, he took me out on a date. </div>
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afterwards, he walked me to a small stream with a bridge that crossed it and he asked me to marry him.</div>
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<i>{i said yes.}</i></div>
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this stream and the bridge are across the country from the creek and the bridge where our relationship bloomed. they are new and they are different, but they are savoringly reminiscent of what led us to them. they are a unifying symbol that celebrates where we've been and where we are and where we're going. </div>
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i will always be who i am because of where i've been. the struggle and the hurt, the victory and the joy, the eating disorder and God's hand carrying me away from it are undeniable parts of my make-up; seeds that will bloom and grow in a million different ways, time and again before i die.</div>
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but just like the old bridge gave way to the new, i think this journey of healing is ready to yield itself to new chapters. my recovery will be just as influential and present as always. my life is forever shaped by this journey, as my life could only happen once this journey took place.</div>
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but it's time to discover another new bridge. it's time to close the chapter this blog represents and step onward into all that God has.</div>
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so today, i am saying goodbye to the blog. i'm thanking God for holding my heart through the <b>mourning</b> and for keeping His promise of joy from tears. </div>
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today, i am stepping into the beginnings of a new <b>morning</b>. a <b>morning </b>that starts a journey alongside the love of my life. a <b>morning </b>that might never have happened without the <b>mourning </b>that freed me to become one with another.</div>
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<i>"...weeping may last for the night but joy comes in the morning." psalm 30:5</i></div>
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infinite thanks to you for reading. </div>
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much, much love, </div>
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ea</div>
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....and for all who've asked, here is the ring. i could never love anything more :)</div>
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</div>elizabeth annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05156360398489307975noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1277105367592773667.post-3243813375267589072011-11-07T10:33:00.000-08:002011-11-09T07:51:44.480-08:00<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">dear eating disorder,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">today, i figured something out about you...</span><br />
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<em><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">you do not think that i'm fat.</span></em><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">in fact, you think i look pretty great the way i am. you've also noticed that i'm in love, that i'm doing well in school, that i'm embracing the beauty of food and healthfully approached exercise. you hate that i get to look at the mountains every day.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">it is because of the aforementioned things that you want me to believe that i am big. you recognize that although my life is imperfect, i am fully present. you watch me rejoicing in the good and doing my best to grow in the bad. you don't like when i'm alive. you want to paralyze me, and so you tell me that I am too fat for anything else to matter. you tell me that the size of my body invalidates my worth and that if i want to tap into my true potential, i've got to be skinny again.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">but today, i realized that if i were truly fat, you would have no reason to attack me. if i were actually as big as you're telling me i am, then you wouldn't be telling me that i'm big at all. because in order to become big, i would have had to idolize the consumption of food. and if i were idolizing food i would be paralyzed already and you would be satisfied with that. and you would leave me alone.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">but it is because i am far from paralyzed that you so desperately attempt to convince me that i need you.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">so thanks, i'm taking your ambush of bad body image as a compliment.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">i am not you and you are not me, so i get to decide all by myself whether or not i like my body.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">and i decide that i like it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">actually i love it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">and you hate that it is loveable.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">goodbye,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">EA</span>elizabeth annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05156360398489307975noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1277105367592773667.post-70512975750002051492011-11-03T08:28:00.000-07:002011-11-06T06:36:46.060-08:00moderation.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">if you want to know something that's incredibly difficult and
confusing, it's going from starving yourself, to having medical professionals
feeding you six times per day, to trying to learn to eat in moderation and
maintain that moderation every day for the rest of your life. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">there have been times throughout the past six years that i've
been so confused by these different approaches to food that i've cried out to
God, asking Him why in the devil He thought it was a good idea to just let us
all loose down here with a world full of food and expect us to know how to use
it. i've wondered why we can't all be the same size and just eat however much
or little and it not matter instead of being tortured by the tension of
moderation. if he really loved us, why did He make it so hard?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">but then if you think about it, there's hardly anything in life
that we just get to rest on, that we just get to have figured out. God's
mercies are new every morning, but so are our capacities to for idolatry.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">we need love and acceptance. we need to help and we
need to be helped. we need to rest and work and play. we need exercise and we need
sleep. we need to be cautious and we need to be alive. we need to need people
and we need to be secure in who we are. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">there isn't one of those needs that can't be over met or under
met. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">every single one of them is only healthy in moderation. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">and sometimes, moderation is getting a lot or a little of any
one of them, depending on where we are. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">at first thought, moderation is a daunting task. we've got about
a million different facets to our lives, all of which are teetering on the edge
of becoming idols if we indulge or ignore them to extremes. it's frightening
and stressful and it's a lot. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">but it's also a part of what makes us alive.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">and we are alive because God made us and God made us to bring glory to Himself. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">but the beautiful thing about God making us to bring Him glory
is that it's when we're bringing him glory that we get to be the fullest alive. and fullness of life can mean suffering
for seasons, but fullness in suffering is better than emptiness in fun. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">God gave us some clues when he talked about hating gluttony and sloth, but it would have been much easier if He would have just left us a list of
which needs need to be met in what ways in what circumstances. but then meeting
our own needs in moderation wouldn't be living fully for God's glory; it would
be following a formula. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">so meeting our needs without indulging or ignoring them is a
day-by-day, really a moment-by-moment series of choices. to be moderate is to
be in constant effort. it sounds exhausting, but what is really exhausting is stagnation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">the thing about moderation being a constant effort is that our
relationship to God is a constant effort as well. as soon as we think we're good and we can stop trying, we've probably gone too far one way or the other.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">so here is where (<i>i</i> <i>think</i>) it all comes together. to glorify God
in our fullness of life, we need to be in constant communion with Him. to be in
constant communion with Him we need to be in active battle against our existing
and potential idols. And this active battle (<i>i think</i>) is otherwise known as
moderation.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">so moderation is the battle that fights off our idols and
enables us to reach heavenward each time we choose it. But we have to choose it
and we have to choose it a lot of times each day. and to choose something so
in-between extremes requires effort, which requires help, which we get from our
God, which means moderation and communion with Him go hand in hand.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">God blessed us with beautiful, enjoyable means of meeting our
needs. He intended for us to enjoy meeting our needs alongside the people we
love. He intended for us to meet one another’s needs. He intended for us to
bring glory to Him through lives that pulsate and thrive when we meet our needs
in healthy fullness. in His infinite love and grace, God gave us sense and
experience because He intended for us to get to taste hints of His majesty when we meet our needs in ways that satisfy those senses and experiences. we get to enjoy life
and we get to enjoy it most when we lean on Him to help us enjoy it rightly.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">how brilliant a design is that ?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">love,</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">ea</span></div>elizabeth annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05156360398489307975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1277105367592773667.post-91841540420614990462011-11-01T07:47:00.000-07:002011-11-01T07:56:22.219-07:00arms.<br />
i've always had long, muscular legs.<br />
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apparently i got them from my grandfather.</div>
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they're a little awkward sometimes because i'm only 5'4 and my legs take up so much of my height that there is hardly any room left for my torso. so i've got the shortest stomach in the world, probably.</div>
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but i kind of like the way i am because it's a little unusual for a girl who's 5'4 to have legs that are long. even at my sickest i was sometimes kind of okay with them. the real problem i've had has been with my arms.</div>
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the long story shortened is that all i wanted in life was to have stick-like arms. during a conversation that God ultimately used to lead me to the decision to get treatment, a friend asked me what i felt made me worth getting up and living every day. i told her it was because my arms were * inches around, the smallest they'd ever been.<br />
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so naturally, after hell upon hell's worth of months of weight gain and recovering, the thing i hated most about my body was my arms.<br />
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when i got back to school for the fall of my senior year i purchase some dumbbells because i decided that toned arms were not as beautiful as emaciated arms but they were more beautiful than fat arms and so i went to work, trying to get my arms all ripped up. </div>
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my goal was to get my arms so toned that i was special again, the way i was when i was skinny. i thought that that would be the best of both worlds, because i could have what i really wanted in life without giving myself up to starvation. i thought it was a fool proof plan.</div>
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but apparently i am among the 7% of women who bulk up when they strength train, because that is what happened. </div>
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so i stopped with the weights and started with these crazy pushups and arm circles and what not. all i did was think about my arms and try to make them burn so bad i could barely stand it. and once they burned that bad i would endure it for as long as possible, telling myself that this was what i had to do if i wanted to have a good life. </div>
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nothing satisfied me. no matter what, i looked in the mirror and i hated my arms.<br />
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i think that this speaks to the idea that whenever we seek things with the desperation with which we ought to seek God, we will never feel that we've gotten them.<br />
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fast forward to denver.</div>
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i stopped being obsessed with working out and i started to love food and i started to like and sometimes love my body.</div>
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my arms aren't bulky anymore, they aren't toned, they aren't emaciated. they are just my arms and they are what they're supposed to be. </div>
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i don't think i have the most gorgeous arms in the world, but to be honest, i don't think they're half bad. they allow me to hug the people i love and to carry groceries home from the store and they'll make me able to hold ski poles as soon as i dig up enough dollars for a lift ticket and they'll hold my flowers when i get married and they'll hold onto my clients' paperwork when i'm a counselor and one day they'll pick up my baby. </div>
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all of those things are beautiful and all of those things are more than enough to make me love my arms and to make me feel thankful.</div>
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i guess what i really want to say is that i don't want to think of them as arms. i just want to think of them as me. because what i am is a heart and a soul and a mind and those things are the important things but they really aren't anything without a body to be their house and to manifest them here in the world. </div>
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so i guess that's all. </div>
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love,</div>
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ea</div>
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</div>elizabeth annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05156360398489307975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1277105367592773667.post-47148531969910988992011-10-25T08:34:00.000-07:002011-10-25T08:35:09.357-07:00i love fall.<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">and i love halloween.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">and i love scary movies.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">until it's time to go to sleep.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">actually, i recently placed a new restriction on myself in that regard:</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">no more scary movies. ever again. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">i have somewhat of a photographic memory. and images of killers in masks running around with butcher knives dancing through my head at night just isn't something i want going on in my life anymore. so in spite of how fun it is for the hour or two i'm doing it, i'm just not going to enter those images into my head.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">but before i implemented this restriction, i spent one of my favorite halloweens of college in a friend of mine's dorm room watching a couple of horribly scary movies. it was hilarious and terrifying and fun.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">we had been at a party on campus, but were tired of frat boys and their houses and so we left and went to blockbuster because it still existed then and we got our movies and went back to her dorm.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">we watched this one movie called skeleton key. the majority of the movie was one mysterious, creepy occurrence after another until the very end, when the main character is trapped in the attic trying to protect herself from "spooks" by using spells from an old book she'd found lying around the house. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">although she didn't reveal herself until the final minutes of the movie, it had been obvious for awhile that this white-haired, raspy-voiced old lady was the source of all the creepiness and scary music the whole time. so when the main character is attempting to protect herself with the aforementioned spells, the old lady comes creaking up the stairs. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">a wild look in her eye, she steps into the room with the terrified main character, who tells her she's too late, that she's already cast the protective spell.</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">but the old lady laughs and tells her the protective spell could never have saved her. she tells her that the moment she believed the "spooks" were real, she entered their world and she made herself their prey. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">so if the main character had clung to the truth she'd previously known, the truth that "spooks" were make believe, she would have remained immune to them. she wouldn't have lost her life in the last fifteen minutes of the movie. she wouldn't have left disappointed audiences all over place to cope with a horrible ending to a pretty horrible movie. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">the other day, i thought about the fact that body image is a lot like the "spooks". i have spent more time and more energy than i care to think about, taking all kinds of precautionary measures to protect myself from bad body image. i've hoped and prayed that it would stay away. i've helplessly waited for it, like some kind of monster i can do nothing about, trying to enjoy the time i have before it barges in my door and turns my whole world upside down. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">i've had some great body image lately, but i've found myself afraid to believe that it's real, afraid that as soon as i settle into it the scary music will start playing and bad body image will be on its way back to get me. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">but i've realized that to be afraid of bad body image, to be unable to enjoy good body image and the peace that comes with it is to believe that bad body image is more than image. it's to believe that the large and ugly image i see is <i>real. </i></span></div>
<div>
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">in other words, living in fear of seeing a fat person in the mirror is <i>believing</i> that that image is true and believing that that image is true is believing that <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">i am fat</span>. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">so if i am truly fat, then what do i do with the good body image? i can't believe that i'm fat and than i'm not fat, so i have to believe that the good body image is just a trick my mind is playing on me; that it's nice to look at, but only in a heartbreakingly imaginary sort of way.</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">but what if it's the other way around?</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">what if i'm actually kind of a small person, and the fat girl is just a fake production of my mind. what if i actually get to live inside the body i like and i get to simply dismiss the one i don't like?</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">what if i decide that bad body image is all a trick, a ploy from my eating disorder to make me serve it longer and harder. it's just a stupid illusion that can only touch me if i believe it. and there's no reason to believe it because nothing about my lifestyle can sensibly result in my body weighing more than it should. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">what if i decide that good body image is real. that when i like what i see, i'm seeing the real me. that when i don't like what i see, i can laugh and shrug it off and feel bad for my eating disorder because its exhausted all its tricks. that i don't have to be afraid to believe i'm actually okay and happy with where my body is because i don't have to be afraid that good things will always go away.</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">if i do these things, if i take the reigns of what i know about my body back into my own hands, i get to live a free life. i get to stop thinking about how much i hate myself and what i might do to fix it and i get to start using that extra time and those extra thoughts for things that <i>are </i>real and <i>are </i>important. i get to stop being oppressed and start appreciating my body and the things it does for me. i get to start eating awesome food and stop thinking that it's going to make me even fatter. i get to start thinking about my life as a life and not as a quest to escape the fat girl in the mirror. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">i've been living this way for nearly a month. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">it is wonderful. </span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b>and you will know the truth and the truth will set you free. </b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b>john 8:32</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>love,</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>ea</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>elizabeth annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05156360398489307975noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1277105367592773667.post-20084303380748986822011-10-01T16:19:00.000-07:002011-10-01T16:19:42.182-07:00something that is newly true about me is this...<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">...i <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">love</span> food.</span><br />
<br />
i have loved the things food makes possible for me for awhile, but i've been afraid to love food solely for its deliciousness.<br />
<br />
but i've stopped worrying about what good-tasting food will do to me. i've stopped being afraid of good food. i've stopped being afraid of myself.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> i've stopped being afraid of myself having a relationship with good food.</span><br />
<br />
i love macaroni and cheese and granola and toasted ravioli and fish tacos and chips with salsa and deep, dark chocolate and egg sandwiches with cheese on sourdough bread and best of all, frozen custard. i love it all most when it's made with its most real self, not fat or sugar free .<br />
<br />
i've been living this way for a month<b>...</b><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>...and my clothes all fit the same</b>. <b>my clothes all fit the same.</b><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>yes,</b><b> the same.</b><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">i am not a self-indulgent person, i am not an overeater, i am not overweight.</span><br />
<br />
i am a woman who loves to be <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>fully alive</i></span> and loves to experience life's fullness on a daily basis through the taste of beautiful, flavorful, God-given foods.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">i am a woman who</span> is conscious of her health and as a result, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">believes in utter moderation</span> (which is a whole post in itself).<br />
<br />
<i>i am a woman who feels more beautiful than ever when she quits worrying and just eats really good things til she's satisfied.</i><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">i am a woman who <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">finally </span><i>trusts her body.</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: x-small;">{woohoo!!!}</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
love,<br />
<br />
ea<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />elizabeth annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05156360398489307975noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1277105367592773667.post-18710348217461473482011-09-16T08:39:00.000-07:002011-09-16T08:47:45.839-07:00apologies.i've mentioned this <a href="http://mourningrestoration.blogspot.com/2010/12/best-is-worst.html">before</a>, but i think it's funny and also fascinating that as humans, we possess certain qualities in such extremes that they end up being the very best and the very worst things about us at the same time.<br />
<br />
today, i'm thinking about the best/worst idea in terms of selflessness and servitude and sacrifice. more specifically, i'm thinking about the best/worst idea in terms of treating others with utmost concern and telling them we're sorry when we don't.<br />
<br />
it's really funny to me that there are some people who spend ungodly amounts of time agonizing over the way they treat others in the smallest of situations and end up apologizing for however they act anyway, while others take hefty stomps through relationships and interactions, pursuing their own agendas and never thinking twice about the way they're treating others unless they're confronted.<br />
<br />
i've known a lot of fellow strugglers in addition to myself and i'd say that at least 99% of us fall into the "apologizer" category.<br />
<br />
when i think back on some of the reasons i apologized <i>just yesterday </i>i'm slightly amazed at all the things for which i felt guilty and said i was sorry.<br />
<br />
those who are closest to me get the bulk of the apologies and they also tell me to stop (i originally had "sorry to all of you" in these parentheses. i realized it when i was reading back over what i'd written and i laughed out loud). last night, after i'd apologized a few times over the course of an hour or so, a dear someone gently let me know that no more apologies were necessary.<br />
<br />
so then i got mad at myself for apologizing so much. and i nearly had to bite my lips to keep from apologizing for apologizing.<br />
<br />
but this morning i started thinking about it, and i started thinking about owning my actions and my words and what it would've been like if i hadn't gotten really upset with myself for putting too much lemon juice on the broccoli i was roasting or for realizing how much i miss my mom and calling her for 5 minutes to say goodnight while my boyfriend was over or for calling my best friend and talking about myself for a second. i thought about the fact that i wouldn't even have noticed if i'd been on the receiving end of those things, unless of course the person who'd done them had apologized. i suppose i would have noticed the intensely lemoned broccoli as well, but i would've made a sour face and laughed and moved on. and i would've been really sad if i'd known that the person who'd gone a little overboard with the lemon was beating him/herself up inside.<br />
<br />
matthew 7:12 tells us to do unto others as we would have others do to ourselves.<br />
<br />
of course, this means treating others with the respect and love with which we hope to be treated. but i also think that we can infer from this verse that that we should be as vulnerable and as receiving of love and care from others as we hope they'll be with us.<br />
<br />
in other words, if i want people to feel comfortable to be themselves with me, to let their guard down and not worry about inconveniencing me or making a mistake or dumping their problems on me, then i should be my imperfect, disorganized (but working on it), occasionally emotional self with others, knowing that my authenticity in the context of our relationship is as much of a gift to them as theirs is a gift to me.<br />
<br />
i am not saying that we should mistreat others and expect them to mistreat us back and call it all even. what i <i>am</i> saying is that "apologizers" need to be better discerners of what is mistreatment and what is just being human. there's nothing more healthy than admitting our wrongs and expressing our regret for them. but there's nothing more unhealthy than thinking everything we do is wrong and magnifying the effects of our smallest decisions and thinking we're horrible when the people around us never got past sensory perception of those decisions in the first place.<br />
<br />
i am not saying that we shouldn't try to meet others' needs. what i <i>am </i>saying is that "apologizers" need to strive for a more realistic perspective on what others' needs actually are. outside of extenuating circumstances, i can't think of anyone who genuinely needs the person with whom they're spending time to never make a 5 minute phone call or run back to the car to grab a jacket or make one more trip to the produce section to grab something they forgot or act really silly when they're feeling silly or just simply say that they're sad. if anything, the people who love us <i>need </i>for us to be comfortable and confident enough in their love that we'll do any and more of the above without thinking.<br />
<br />
when i write blog posts, i'm usually talking through things that, by the grace of God, i've already processed. i can only think of a few times i've ever written "on the fly" to process through something and hope i can make some sense of it as i type. but, just so everyone knows, i had no idea what this post was going to say until i said it. God came through. He spoke into my emptiness and i typed.<br />
<br />
a few minutes ago i took a break from writing to change my laundry. as i was walking down the hall to the laundry room, my heart and mind felt lighter. i felt allowed to stop treading on eggshells and trying to be perfect. i felt allowed to be the my truest self in the context of striving for Christ's likeness in relationships. i felt like i could stop thinking a million miles a minute and just do unto others as i'd have them do unto me. it feels good.<br />
<br />
love,<br />
<br />
ea<br />
<br />elizabeth annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05156360398489307975noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1277105367592773667.post-65916613282857226852011-09-14T09:07:00.000-07:002011-09-14T09:08:49.080-07:00i never thought i'd say this......but i'm done with working out. at least in my disorder's sense of the idea.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
i think the fundamental error of my previous perception of exercise was that it wasn't my perception at all. it was my eating disorder's insistence that anything short of an all-out sprint fest was nothing more active or healthy than an afternoon spent on the couch. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
i don't want to get into specifics, because i'd hate to trigger anyone or worse, give someone's eating disorder ideas. but i <i>will </i>say that the majority of days i've lived over the course of the past 8 or so months have revolved around workouts. i woke up thinking about working out and i thought about it until it was done. i enjoyed my workouts immensely. not because i was enjoying my chosen forms of activity, but because i was enjoying the feeling of working too hard too often; i was enjoying the feeling of pushing my body to do something to an extreme for which it was not created. it was like an hour-long dose of my eating disorder each day and it felt good.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
my counselor and nutritionist regularly encouraged me to reevaluate my approach to exercise, but it made me feel good to be living out a remnant of my disorder, and i was eating enough to support the calories i was burning, so it was a "best of both worlds" scenario. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
it's hard to believe, but today marks exactly three weeks since i moved to colorado. i'd had every intention of carrying my obsessive workout habits into my life here, but it was during my first run around the neighborhood that i realized it was time to make a change. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
it was a godsend of a combination, i think. because the air here is so thin that it's really hard to breathe at first. even for people in decent shape, running here is a whole new story. as i struggled to maintain my usual pace, my head began to ache i felt a little dizzy. i slowed to a walk, frustrated with myself for not being able to "beat the altitude".</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
as i got my breathe back, i looked around. the sky looked so big. it made me feel close to the old neighborhood trees and the rooftops because the blueness was so far off and beautiful and vast that they could never touch it. i felt myself wanting to stop exercising inside my head, to quit taking in the sinister thoughts and pride in my ability to self-destruct with the same reverence with which i was taking in the trees and the sky.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
i realized that if i was ever going to make a change, it would have to be from that moment forward. i realized that i could drag my old habits into this newness, or i could take advantage of the obliteration of all things familiar and of the lack air that's easily breathed and i could try exercise again, the way that it's meant to be.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
so i loosened my grip on the notion that nothing counts as exercise unless at its utmost intensity and i left it behind. i remembered how much i love walking and stopped supplementing my walks with extra workouts to make them "count". I stopped running to prove my superiority and started running to enjoy running. i stopped timing myself. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
i realize that cardio intervals are quite the rage in the workout world, but i don't care. i'm in an old testament class this semester and right now, we're studying genesis. when i think about the earth in its rawest form, before we had machines to do everything for us, i think about the fact that there wasn't much sedentary living going on. i doubt anyone jumped up and down or ran sprints or tried to see how much they could lift, because cardio and strength related activity were a built-in aspect of daily life. no one thought, "phew! that was a workout!" because living life <i>was </i>a workout. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
i think it'd be healthy if we could somehow get back the idea of physical activity being a part of our daily function. instead of having a workout mode and an everyday life mode, integrating the two so they're one in the same. i realize it would take a little more intentionality than it did for people who lived thousands of years ago, because we can't change the reality of cars and computers and all the other stuff we have. but walking somewhere close by to run an errand or two, or while talking on the phone or talking to God is a great place to start. <i>{note: this does not mean walking everywhere, or for hours at a time. if you are in recovery, this would be something to discuss with your dietician and counselor}.</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
of course, there are times that a good run or gym session just sounds right<i>. </i>but the point, i think, is balance. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
there were times i wondered how i was ever going to keep up with my workout schedule once i became responsible for more than just myself. thankfully, i've now got a workout schedule that is much more reasonably maintained. a few months ago, i would have thought myself better than anyone with the approach to exercise i'm now taking. i would've thought it weak and self-indulgent to enjoy exercise in any form other than its most intense. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
i'm thankful for the thin colorado air and the change it instigated in me. i'm thankful for walking and for slow, enjoyable runs. i'm thankful for yoga and for the fact that i don't have dumbbells in my room anymore. i'm thankful that my body image is better now that i ever remember it being. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
most of all, i'm thankful for truth.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>"then you will know the truth and the truth will set you <b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">free</span>." </b>john 8:32</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i>love,</i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i>EA</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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elizabeth annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05156360398489307975noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1277105367592773667.post-47692238781813434452011-09-03T10:59:00.000-07:002011-09-16T08:47:45.969-07:00life happens.<div style="text-align: center;">
happy saturday, friends. i've been in denver a little over a week. i'm moved in, mostly settled and already trying my best to keep up with a hefty reading schedule for class. </div>
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there's a woman in one of my classes who wants to work with eating disorders as well. she struggled for 27 years, but is now recovered. we were talking the other day and connected on the idea that it can be really tough to move out of recovery and into "real life". we talked about the numbers of people we've watched make numerous returns to treatment and the condemnation we received from our eating disorders for not being right there with them. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
but something i'm continuing to understand is this:</div>
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<div>
recovery isn't force-feeding ourselves; it's experiencing the awakening of mental vitality that comes as a result of the force-feeding and being so thankful for the return of our thought lives that feeding no longer has to be forced. it's putting the beauty and uniqueness of our thoughts to the use for which they were created. </div>
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<div>
recovery isn't creating a world for ourselves in which we feel safe; it's walking a balance between safety and challenge. it is giving ourselves what we need to <i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">move forward,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"> being good stewards of the safeties that recovery entails, using them as the pathway by which we discover our real lives, the ones we never could have expected or hoped for, rather than settling into the safeties and living halfway. </span></b></i></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">(just pretend this is a good picture of the rocky mountains...</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">my iphone does them no justice)</span></span></div>
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<i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;">recovery isn't learning to feel without effect. it is not slipping on a cloak of pride so thick that nothing can touch us; it is learning to feel the bad and the good, loving ourselves and loving others in spite of our imperfections. it is acknowledging that we </span>need other people.</b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"> it is <b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>embracing vulnerability</i></span></b>, even when we're scared, and learning that love is worth all of it. </span></i></div>
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when i began this blog, i found purpose and meaning in my fight for recovery. it was where i needed to be, but it was not where i needed to stay. recovery is not life, recovery is a journey back to life. recovery is a necessary night of mourning from which we wake to <b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">morning restoration</span></i></b>.</div>
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elizabeth annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05156360398489307975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1277105367592773667.post-54160893903594756502011-08-16T15:55:00.000-07:002011-09-16T08:47:45.989-07:00phantom pain.there's this phenomenon among amputees that's known as phantom pain. in the days and weeks that follow amputation, patients often feel pain (or itching or burning or simply a presence) in their no longer existing limbs. because the limbs do not exist, neither does the pain. hence the name "phantom".<br />
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according to the mayo clinic, codeine and morphine are options for some sufferers of phantom pain. but what i don't like about narcotics, as opposed to the myriad of other available treatments, is that they alter the patient's awareness and clarity and presence (and can just threaten overall health) all to escape them from pain that <i><b>doesn't even exist</b></i>. although these medications bring temporary <b><i>relief, </i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">if the victim of phantom pain is ever going to experience<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> true freedom<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">he or she is going to have to face the discomfort and difficulty and longevity of one of the alternative treatment options that will treat the pain at its source, that will get rid of it for good.</span></span></span></span></span></b><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">as i wandered through a dismal week of bad body image last week, i found the core of my being crying out for some relief. i wanted nothing more than to dive into the depths of my disorder, to shut out the screaming voices that have tortured me to no end.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">as i was plotting my return to the arms of my disorder, i remembered what has happened before and what would happen again. i remembered standing in front of the mirror at the lowest weight i would ever reach, tears streaming down my face because what i saw still wasn't thin. i remembered how good it felt to devote myself to the single cause of starvation, how quiet the voices would get when they had me where they wanted me, i thirsted for the quietness, but i realized that the quietness was a sense of relief from an excruciating pain with no basis for existence. i also realized that the quietness would only remain as long as i was actively starving. if at any moment i sought some semblance of satisfaction with myself and the mirror, some strand of truth, the voices would chime in and spur me on to further destruction.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">i realized that treating my body as if it were as big as the false reflection before me would be the same thing as a victim of phantom pain treating their non-existent, aching limb as if it were actually there</span>.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">in other words, starving a body in order to calm a mind is as absurd as</span></span><br />
<div style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">pumping morphine to numb an arm or a leg that doesn't exist.</span></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">the only real solution is for the sufferer to stop catering to the false version of his or her body. at first, It may be impossible to bridge the gap between delusion and reality with thoughts or words, so the sufferer must bridge the gap with actions. the amputee has got to get off the morphine and move forward. the anorexic has got to trust that her perspective is skewed and she's got to keep eating and living and waiting for the day that some ray of truth comes shining in her window.</span></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">when i look in the mirror, the girl i see is fat. as maddening as it is to see her staring back at me, taunting me and telling me i'm worth nothing, i know somewhere, deep down, that the fat i'm feeling and seeing and hating isn't there. it's a phantom- an illusion cast before me by my disorder. as sweet a relief as acting in my disorder would bring, i refuse to live my life according to a perception that isn't real. </span></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">thankfully, my phantom pain is not constantly at its worst. this morning, i was thankful to wake up to a version of myself in the mirror that was a little easier to swallow. so i'm going to keep living and eating and i'm going to wait until the phantom in the mirror goes away for good. until then, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">life is sweet</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span>enough to manage, and it's certainly better than the alternative :)</span></div><div style="border-collapse: collapse;"><div><blockquote type="cite"></blockquote></div></div><i>love,</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>ea</i><br />
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elizabeth annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05156360398489307975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1277105367592773667.post-6020070976866515902011-08-04T08:41:00.000-07:002011-09-16T08:47:46.001-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">1. (see definition 1 above): for most women, a size zero does not only denote the absence of magnitude and quantity of a woman's physique, but of the functionality her reproductive, integumentary and cardiovascular systems; her mental focus and clarity; her relationships; her sense of humor; her outside interests, hobbies and talents; who she is. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">2. (see definitions 2 & 3 above): the number zero is the first of many numbers which were created by man to achieve some cohesive sense of order and quantity. leave it to our culture to seek redemption and self-worth in our own number system, rather than the multitude of beauty (or lack thereof for which we might serve as vessels of restoration if we weren't so distracted) our Creator meant for us to enjoy. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">3. (see definition 4 above): why do we think that we will tap into an unending wealth of self-significance by fitting into a size that is called and recognized by a name denoting <i>insignificance</i>?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">4. (see definition 5 above): for most women, fitting into a zero means hollowing out the place our hearts and minds once dwelled, creating a starvation-induced absence in which we think that we'll find ourselves. we forget what opinions, thoughts, and needs and wants feel like. when we seek neutrality in our pant size, we must accept neutrality in exchange for</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> individuality as well. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">5. (see definition 6 above): perhaps, the size we so desperately desire to claim as our own is as its definition denotes: an arbitrarily, conveniently assigned label; a puff of air we abandon all else to grasp- only to find our hands empty.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>yesterday, i dug the last of the zeroes from my closet and consigned them. my laptop is currently sitting on a pair of thighs that will never touch the inside of a garment sized zero again. i'm thankful.</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><br />
</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>love,</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><br />
</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>EA</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
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</span></div>elizabeth annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05156360398489307975noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1277105367592773667.post-8192772366387238992011-07-26T16:08:00.001-07:002011-09-16T08:47:46.086-07:00clay birds.<div align="left" class="bloggerplus_text_section">
when i was in honduras, a couple other women and i joined a <a href="http://www.thewomenofmyhope.org/" target="_self">mi esperanza</a> founder on a short road trip to a pottery co-op on the el salvador border to restock the pottery we sell in our store.<br /><br />the pottery is made from natural clay derived from the banks of a nearby river and fired in clay stoves behind its makers houses. the co-op with which mi esperanza partners is comprised solely of women. i spent the day getting to know them. they are golden.</div>
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although i had not previously seen its place of origin, i've been viewing/purchasing the pottery ever since i began work with mi esperanza, so i knew which pieces we needed.<br /><br />as i sifted through a floor full of pottery, searching for the bowls and cups and vases we typically carry, i saw a different piece i'd never seen. it was a small bird with a rounded head and a sloping neck that widened and shallowed into a triangular body. it sat a cool smooth weight in my palm and stared peacefully from two dotted eyes on either side of its rounded head that preceded a barely protruding beak. it was striped with off-white lines that swirled down its neck and around its body and across its back.</div>
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a honduran woman had artfully drawn each of the swirls with her hands. the bird was one of a kind. there never had been, nor would there ever be, another like it.<br />I looked at the bird and smiled. I would absolutely be taking one home.<br /><br />When we'd gathered all we were planning to buy, the stocky Honduran woman in charge of the business smiled warmly, lifting her forearm to wipe the shine from her brow before beginning to count our number of pieces.<br /><br />While we waited, the girls and I made our way behind the house, startling black speckled hens with our steps. The ground below was dusty and rough with rocks and twisted roots; but the dust, as if pouring itself forth into regeneration, led into lushness upon lushness. First was green grass, followed by dew-dripping crop rows from which black tree trunks rose, the fullness of their green leaves like an open curtain. The leaves gave way to rising grey mountains which stood in untouchable friendship, as if they protected the lenca potters and their houses and the woman and child across the street scrubbing clothes on a washboard.<br /><br />I breathed a moment and looked, then stepped to shed on the left. The floor was smooth concrete. The roof overhead was held up by four posts, the walls open. Aside from a small path that'd been cleared, piles and tubs full of yet-to-be finished pottery lined the shed floors. There were thousands of pieces, all of them light, wet looking grey.<br /><br />I came to a yellow tub and leaned forward to see inside. The bottom was filled with birds like the one I'd held moments before, none of them with vibrant designs, but identically empty-eyed, each of them the same, murky grey as the pieces surrounding.<br /><br /></div>
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<br />The birds stared blankly from their sides. To look at them was to lose sight of what they were, to understand them as a pointed pile of grey inside a plastic yellow circle. If not for remembering their future as polished cordovan individuals with designs of hand-drawn ivory, to look at them would be a minor heartbreak.<br /><br />I considered the vastness of difference between the finished birds. No two were alike, but all were equally beautiful.<br /><br />I considered the facelessness of the birds at my feet, and I remembered the dull monotony with which I lived each day in my disorder. I wanted to make myself exquisite and unique and beautifully alone; i wanted to be special and unordinary and above; but my very attempt at redemption reduced me to a diagnoses, a single number out of nearly 10 million females in my country alone who were waking up and thinking the very same thoughts. I stripped myself of me. I was empty-eyed and grey, a clay bird in a pile of identicals.</div>
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When for a moment, I understood what I'd done, understood what I was missing, and stepped into the fear, it was as if a kind Honduran women in dirty, black Mary janes and once-white apron reached into the tub and pulled me out. She dusted me off and rinsed me in water. She painted me with stripes and swirls and shapes- a design no other bird would ever have. She made me beautiful.<br /><br />But to set the designs would require a time of firing inside the hot kiln behind her house. Once emerged from the flames, the designs would no longer be painted, they would be an irremovable part of me forever.<br /><br />In many ways, recovery is like a hot kiln. It is uncomfortable and sweaty and sometimes it burns. But recovery, if maintained, will make each of us the person we are- the person we thought we would find in the grey.</div>
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Love,<br /><br />ea</div>
elizabeth annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05156360398489307975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1277105367592773667.post-82481708261599680582011-07-18T13:07:00.000-07:002011-09-16T08:47:46.099-07:00please accept my deepest apologies......as i've taken more than the brief hiatus i promised <a href="http://mourningrestoration.blogspot.com/2011/06/of-one-mind.html">two posts ago. </a><br />
<br />
i was not relapsing, as i fear some of you may have suspected. i was recovering from a case of stubborn honduran diarrhea/fever which was followed by vacation bible school which was accompanied by a terrible cold (who gets a cold when its 120 degrees out?).<br />
<br />
anyways...i'm back now.<br />
<br />
my mom has kind of a terrible back that likes to wedge itself out of place time-to-time. it decided to wedge the other day and in an effort take better care of herself than usual (this stuff runs in families), she's actually staying off her feet, and asked that i help her by running a few of her errands today. for whatever reason, she didn't like when i referred to it as "doing her bidding".<br />
<br />
one of the tasks scratched onto the post-it she gave me was to run by her place of employment (which happens to be my former high school) and pick up a few papers.<br />
<br />
i always feel a little bit like i might have a nervous breakdown when i visit the old campus. it's just hard to reconcile my present self with my eating disorder's old stomping grounds.<br />
<br />
i attempted to mask my discomfort from myself by defiantly swerving my car into a handicapped parking space. <i>i'm an alum, </i>i thought, <i>i can park where i want.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
i walked inside to the office and peaked down the hall, searching for the familiar face with access to the papers i was getting for my mom. moments later, her large brown eyes appeared from a small back office and we greeted one another.<br />
<br />
"you look great!" she said knowingly.<br />
<br />
to my pleasant surprise, i found myself happy that'd she'd said so. to my pleasant surprise, i felt my mouth turn upward into a smile and thank her, as if her words were a nice addition to a day with which i would otherwise have been perfectly content.<br />
<br />
as i walked to my car with a manila folder newly tucked under my arm, i realized what people were really trying to say all those times when they said i looked "better" or "healthy" or "beautiful" or "glowing".<br />
<br />
no one was trying to tell me i'd gained weight or that i was looking chubby or fat or any of the other irrational things i thought.<br />
<br />
i thought about seeing a person after a measure of time and noticing that the person had gained a substantial amount of weight that they did not necessarily need. i thought about how dumb it would be to tell someone that they looked great if they'd gained a whole bunch of unnecessary weight and how most people would just say nothing.<br />
<br />
in other words, the countless number of "you look so much better"s i've gotten and resented would never have formed as thoughts in any of their speakers' minds if i had been fat or an unneeded number of pounds larger when they said them.<br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">what i took as flaming arrows that seared my heart and twisted my thoughts were really just people who loved me wanting to say, "hey- you didn't look so good for awhile- but now it doesn't hurt me to look at you- i see that you've experienced some victory and i wanted you to know that i noticed because i'm sure it's been hard."</span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><br />
</span></i><br />
fellow strugglers- if people are <i>relieved</i> to see us "healthy", so much so that they speak it aloud, then we must have looked worse than we knew before, and we must look far better than we know we look now.<br />
<br />
it's good to be back.<br />
<br />
love,<br />
<br />
ea<br />
<i><br />
</i>elizabeth annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05156360398489307975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1277105367592773667.post-45665810238381279782011-06-29T18:30:00.001-07:002011-09-16T08:47:45.942-07:00some lovely facts. <p><p class='bloggerplus_text_section' align='left'></p></p><p><div class='bloggerplus_image_section' align='center' ><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg00xDQZcG7klvDmzkm7CpmllgJ4IeAteYQXGE51XSRWiWt-tVJol7WrkpvLn6_SPUlvC2h3euVnoHeNnM-RidO5nsDUw7HfZn8GRVsDBixTFm-wE0JZXU1eNTMq0zjpZOt2Y2WsZuDZBXK/' ></img></div></p><p><p class='bloggerplus_text_section' align='left'>1. i changed my plane ticket and therefore, am still in honduras<br><br>2. mi esperanza's awesome jewelry designer is here this week. we are collaborating on several projects and im learning lots from her.<br><br>3. tomorrow, some cool people and i are visiting a beautiful place full of artesian shops known as Valle de Angeles.<br><br>4. i have successfully incorporated a number of new words into my working spanish vocabulary.<br><br>5. my hondo-mom {lori connell: the woman in charge of mi esperanza} made banana walnut pancakes with nutella for dinner. we ate them outside and enjoyed them immensely.<font face='Courier' ></font></p></p>elizabeth annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05156360398489307975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1277105367592773667.post-15555931597838396062011-06-25T09:06:00.001-07:002011-09-16T08:47:45.792-07:00of one mind. <p><p class='bloggerplus_text_section' align='left'>im currently sitting in "my" bedroom in my missionary friends' house in honduras, listening to early birds chirp outside my open window and taking comfort in the humming breeze of the large white box fan at the right-hand foot of my bed.<br><br>beneath me is a patchwork quilt of a hundred different colors and behind me is a stack of feather pillows. i am exceedingly happy.<br><br>ive spent the past twelve days working again with <a href='http://www.thewomenofmyhope.org' target='_blank'>mi esperanza</a>, designing a couple of new products, loving the <a href='http://mourningrestoration.blogspot.com/2011/01/hola-again.html' target='_blank'>women we work with,</a> and spending lots of time with the founder of mi esperanza, one of the very best people I know.<br><br>i can't excuse the past 12 day's lack of blogging with the fact that ive been busy. although I have been on somewhat of a constant go, i would be lying if i said that i haven't had plenty of time for writing at night; this is a third world country and im a young female- there's not a whole lot i can safely be up to after dark. <br><br>I hope that no one takes this wrongly, or assumes what i am about to say as anything more than temporary, but the reason that ive chosen to neglect the blog for nearly two weeks is simple: i haven't wanted to think about eating disorders.<br><br>my eating disorder was such a measure of who i was for so long, that when I went into recovery, I found myself wondering who I was supposed to be. for a time, i think it was necessary and i think it was healthy to just know myself as someone in recovery from an eating disorder. the absence of my disorder left me with little else to which i could cling. i thought just as much about recovery as id thought of my disorder- both were full time jobs- and both required constant care and maintenance. <br><br>ive often wondered about the distant future- when my recovery will be a fact about me, rather than the core of me. I used to fear the time that those days would come true- subconsciously imagining myself suspended in space with nothing to ground me, nothing solid to grab- when I though of them.<br><br>but here in honduras, i am wondering if those days are still so far away. <br><br>when im soaking in this time with some of the most precious souls I know, ive found that to divide my attention, to anchor a portion of my thoughts to my own recovery, to recovery in general, would not solidify who i am as one might think, but would dilute the kind of focus I want to give.<br><br>I am forever shaped by the road that ive walked, but im beginning to see that it is not where ive come from nor where im going that makes me worth being where i am right now. <br><br>i have not blogged for two weeks, because although my actions have continued to mirror that of a recovered lifestyle, my thoughts and my heart have been on the work here.<br><br>i am no less passionate about recovery from eating disorders. in some ways, i think i've found a new level of passion for recovery in my desire to separate my thoughts from recovery itself.<br><br>this is by no means the end of my blog. ill be back next week, but until then, i hope no one minds if i simply don't think about it.<br><br>ill still be me {if not, ill be more of me} when i get back.<br><br>love from Honduras,<br><br>ea...p.s...see a picture of mi esperanza's newest product below:<br><br></p></p><p><p class='bloggerplus_text_section' align='left'></p></p><p><div class='bloggerplus_image_section' align='center' ><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjprvf1DG_GAu5ERphpRxtuD0SGOrrBlQ4LQTGdD7Iess3_2e7RECi9vlcjd_A5Sw5OYIm42Ji4eY9qhxQWtpx1I0eSOpqlp6YV3qAmgJCJUu89JJnJ6I0fNkDtZ1YgoDDW23JJF-NKR7P0/' ></img></div></p><p><div class='bloggerplus_image_section' align='center' ><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKI-Uu7HahVzDZTyOja_4Y8UEDofOTM9wiBymEfIGthV9BOs8Z4HggPbd_kATy35v3hr9bX3o5_c6ge7yRaI6e2UEzGmLBI5MAuvJR37XIjZ6xcNb5i8vSgS5UCWwfSGoQ_zZSmrf-QjJA/' ></img></div></p>elizabeth annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05156360398489307975noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1277105367592773667.post-83997178865400148182011-06-10T09:57:00.000-07:002011-06-10T09:57:42.586-07:00i've got a lot of things i want to say...<div style="font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">..so it's going to be hard to narrow them all down into one cohesive post, but i suppose i'll try.</div><div style="font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">i've spent this past week at the beach with my family. i always think a lot at the beach. i think its because my family is one of those families that likes to keep a lot of things the same. so we've essentially enjoyed the same basic beach vacation in the same condo on the same beach since i was 14. living the same week over and over, one time each year, is quite the thought-provoking tradition, as i can consolidate all the past year's changes and growth into my thoughts and feelings and responses and behaviors of this one week and compare it to its past versions.</div><div style="font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">i was walking down the beach early yesterday morning and talking with God. I found myself thinking that this was the best feeling in the world- communing with my father and best friend- hearing the heart-swelling whispers of His spirit inside me alongside the waves that He created, crashing at my feet.</div><div style="font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">my mind shifted, as it often does, to my disorder. and i thought that sometimes it felt like the best feeling in the world too. i spent a lot of time attempting to cater to my disorder and my life simultaneously- living ** or so pounds underweight, taking downward dives every so often, only to pull myself out for another few months' until i could stand it no longer and i gave in to the compulsion to dip down into worse danger again. each slip deeper into my disorder was a thrilling sense of rightness with myself and with the world. each lowering heart rate i counted, each grave look on my doctor's face when i was in high school, each walk up to my college dorm my junior year that i wasn't sure i was going to be able to finish gave me a feeling like i was holding a kite and it had suddenly caught wind- i was doing what i loved and i was doing it well. it was the best feeling in the world.</div><div style="font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">as lovely a feeling as immersion in one's greatest downfall can be, and as unpleasant as life so often is, I began to wonder how it is that anyone ever makes it out of anything. i concluded that the best way to describe the journey to recovery {from anything} is as a realization of how much one loves the thing one is supposed to hate; an admission that there are two "best feelings in the world". the one of them is real and true- it is a summation of all things felt and experienced- it allows and celebrates the feeling of all feelings- it is imperfect and it is human but it is life. the other, though safe and unpainful and avoidant, is a phony, hollow existence that if not death itself, is a direct route to it.</div><div style="font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">i'd been looking at the houses up the sand banks as i thought. my mind stilled and i shifted my gaze straight down the shoreline. The sun was barely out of the eastern most horizon. It shone low and bright on the morning waves. They were luminescent like molten silver, rising to a bright boil and crashing into the glittering sand. the stacks of distant high rises were a foggy, majestic gray, standing against the sky like a holy city, its only road the silver shore.</div><div style="font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">i turned and stood with my feet wide apart, facing outward to the endless ocean. to my left was the unearthly beauty of the rising sun on sea- a momentary manifestation of divine promise- what i will forever believe was in some way, a preview of my eternal home. to my right was a beach- it was a watercolor palette of blue and sand with white caps and a brushed blue sky. it was lovely. but compared to the regal sight to my left, to turn and to walk to the right would have been an utter waste.</div><div style="font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">it isn't often that we're allowed a black-and-white sort of picture of the choices we have in life. many times, we know little more than what's good and what's best, and we're afraid to choose what's best because we only know that the people we admire and God and everyone else think its best, and we're afraid that we'll give up what we know and love, only to find that what was supposed to be better isn't better at all. </div><div style="font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">but as i stood there, staring out, turning my head to the left then to the right, i felt i was experiencing the way that many of our choices would look if we were able to see their consequences beforehand. </div><div style="font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">but the thing is, we aren't able to see the outcome of our decisions before we make them. to really gain anything in life, (no pun intended) we have to submit ourselves to a measure of risk. we have to risk losing what we think we love, risk feeling what we thought would kill us to feel, risk doing what we thought would destroy us in order to find that for which we were really made to live. </div><div style="font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">i suppose what distinguishes one "best feeling in the world" from another is identifying what we really want our lives to mean. i could refuse to eat another bite for the remainder of today, and i could put on my shoes and make my way to the elliptical and i could stay there and let the euphoric numbness mount and it would feel like the best feeling in the world. but i'm not living for numbness and i'm no longer living to be thin, so as good as immersing myself in my disorder may feel, it couldn't possibly be the best feeling in the world, because it is a path completely opposite from the one that i've chosen to take. </div><div style="font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">sometimes, it's hard to face life without our downfalls, but it'd be harder to walk their shores knowing somewhere deep down that we were making the mistake of a lifetime.</div><div style="font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">love,</div><div style="font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">ea</div><div><br />
</div>elizabeth annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05156360398489307975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1277105367592773667.post-72761040671773515672011-05-31T07:58:00.000-07:002011-09-16T08:47:46.066-07:00a short {angry} rant.i'm fairly sure that the majority of my posts serve as evidence of the fact that i am a selectively religious follower of grammar/punctuation rules.<div><br /></div><div>although i disregard capitalization and find it simply unnecessary to avoid run-on sentences, i try my best to use its and it's in their correct contexts respectively {i've probably erred by sheer carelessness in a number of posts}, and i do not and will not end sentences with prepositions. </div><div><br /></div><div>a preposition just before a period disgusts me about as much as another branch of grammar atrocities- the kind that fill female facebook walls and sorority girls' text messages- the kind involving unnecessary repetition of letters and exclamation points, obnoxious abbreviations and overuse of the words "sexy" and "girl" {the gym shorts and uggs combination of the english language, if you will}. </div><div><br /></div><div>as much as these atrocities make my skin crawl by themselves, what brings me to a boiling anger- the kind so frustrating it's uncomfortable- is when these degradations of the english language are used to congratulate a girl on her recent weight loss. </div><div><br /></div><div>i'm fully aware that there plenty of people whose health depend on them losing weight and that these people deserve to be encouraged when they succeed with healthier lives. but this morning, when i saw a photo of an alarmingly frail version of a friend of mine with comment after comment beneath it, i found myself clenching my jaw and both my fists.</div><div><br /></div><div>"<i>OMGGGGG my girl you look PERF!!!!!!!," </i>one of the comments said. as horrible a version of english as the quote is, what's worse is the fact that "perfect" {or "perf" as the individual behind the quote has chosen as her means of conveying that her friend looks flawless} is something that young women in today's culture are taught to believe is achievable on any level, particularly through starvation and over exercise.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>"sexxxxxy!!!!!!" </i>another comment said. what isn't sexy at all is that the type of thin the girl photoed has reached, the type of thin our culture embraces as attractive is also the type of thin that disables a woman's estrogen production- virtually shutting off her reproductive system- disabling menstruation and poising her for premature osteoporosis by sucking calcium from her bones.</div><div><br /></div><div>what's worse than any of the heinous abbreviations or abuse of exclamation points is the fact that the commenters continued throughout the facebook album's remainder to marvel over the photoed girl's weight loss, without realizing that their encouragement was much the same as telling an alcoholic to keep drinking- that they'd grown more successful, lovable and worthy since they'd taken to the bottle.</div><div><br /></div><div>when i started losing weight, i remember the influx of congratulatory remarks that quickly became my daily sustenance. i lived for each one of them. family, friends, friends' families, teachers and people i barely knew all seemed to notice and all seemed to suddenly hold me with higher esteem than before. i thought i must have been doing something right, and as behavioral psychologists always say, behaviors that elicit reinforcement will be repeated. in other words, the comments made me feel really good, so i kept doing {and not doing} the things that got them coming in the first place. i do not blame any people or their attempted encouragement for deepening my dependence on my disorder. i blame our culture, rather, for being one leads its people to seek redemption and worth in physical appearances and obtainments rather than in things that actually matter. </div><div><br /></div><div>the heart of the problem that's going to cause the photoed girl to read the comments on her album and continue doing {and not doing} whatever it is she's been doing {and not doing} is one with a long and difficult fix. changing a culture was never something that one person could do in one lifetime.</div><div><br /></div><div>but helping one person with an eating disorder means as much as to me as helping a million, so i hope that this short {angry} rant will open at least one pair of eyes to the importance of cautiousness with weight loss comments. </div><div><br /></div><div>you never know to whom {or what} you're talking.</div><div><br /></div><div>love {and a little frustration, perhaps},</div><div><br /></div><div>ea</div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>elizabeth annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05156360398489307975noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1277105367592773667.post-72132909747860254422011-05-27T05:18:00.000-07:002011-09-16T08:47:46.059-07:00one-year anniversary.two days ago, i watched the sun rise from a plane that was 12 hours delayed. my dad and i made our way into the house, dropping our luggage inside the back door and rubbing our eyes as we stumbled up to our beds. <div><br /></div><div>i woke up a few hours later with no sense of direction or purpose for the day other than to lie on the couch and watch crime shows on tv.</div><div><br /></div><div>it's rare that i resign myself to the television for an entire day, but i was too tired and dull to really accomplish anything, so i thought it was fitting that i remain worthlessly on the couch and watch other people who hadn't spent the night in an airport terminal solve crimes.</div><div><br /></div><div>it's also rare that i go a day without looking at my computer, but i was so tired that pulling my computer out of its sleeve in my backpack seemed like some unreachable task, so i let may 25, 2011 slip away without even realizing that it was may 25th.</div><div><br /></div><div>i'm actually really good at going a fair number of days without ever knowing the actual date of any of them. i've managed to make it through life without ever missing any huge deadlines or events (not to say i haven't come close), but unfortunately, as i lay there watching CSI on wednesday, i let the first birthday of the blog go unacknowledged.</div><div><br /></div><div>i don't suppose it's the blog's birthday that holds so much significance as it is the fact that it's been one year and two days since i let everyone know i was starting, "the rest of my life." this is the longest period of time since 2005 that i have lived life outside of my disorder, the longest period of time since 2005 that i have maintained my body weight within a recommended healthy range, and the longest period of time since 2005 that i have experienced consistent joy and peace.</div><div><br /></div><div>{click the links! they are old posts :) )</div><div><br /></div><div>on may 25, 2010, i wrote the <a href="http://mourningrestoration.blogspot.com/2010/05/first.html">first ever post</a> of this blog. i wrote that i was mourning the loss of my disorder, but that i was persevering with the hope of a new morning- one that would be worth all my tears. </div><div><br /></div><div>i was <b>mournin</b>g the loss of my<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> skinny body</span>, of my size 0 clothes, but i <a href="http://mourningrestoration.blogspot.com/2010/07/more-important-than-pants.html">tentatively embraced new sizes</a> and months later, found myself <i>basking</i> in the<b> morning glow </b>of <a href="http://mourningrestoration.blogspot.com/2011/01/i-hope-that-its-okay-that-im-doing-this.html">accepting my new self</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div>i was <b>mourning </b>the loss of what i felt made me worth something, but i awoke to a brilliant <b>morning </b>light, the light of Christ, and i learned i can't make myself worth anything, but He is worth everything and <a href="http://mourningrestoration.blogspot.com/2010/12/brooke-fraser-flags.html">it is only in Him that my life can have meaning at all</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div>i was <b>mourning </b>the loss of my protector, but i awoke to a <b>morning </b>in which i felt <a href="http://mourningrestoration.blogspot.com/2010/11/strong-enough-to-feel.html">strong enough to feel</a>, to <a href="http://mourningrestoration.blogspot.com/2011/05/experiencing-instead-of-ignoring.html">seek Christ's healing </a><i><a href="http://mourningrestoration.blogspot.com/2011/05/experiencing-instead-of-ignoring.html">through the pain</a></i> rather than my disorder's numbness <i>outside the pain</i>.</div><div><br /></div><div>i was <b>mourning </b>the loss of the ease of restriction to combat bad body image, but i found myself thankful for the <b>morning</b> of my last final of college when i was able to succeed because <a href="http://mourningrestoration.blogspot.com/2011/05/what-happens-when-we-fight.html">i fought body image</a>, instead of fighting my body itself.</div><div><br /></div><div>i was <b>mourning</b> the loss of my "eating disorder foods". it's taken awhile, but i now celebrate <b>morning after morning, </b>each of them starting days during which i choose foods because<a href="http://mourningrestoration.blogspot.com/2011/02/yes.html"> i want them,</a> not because <a href="http://mourningrestoration.blogspot.com/2011_01_01_archive.html">i'm not afraid of them.</a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>i now find myself <b>mourning </b>the sweet life- the <b>morning</b>- that this past year has unfolded. i'm going to miss<a href="http://mourningrestoration.blogspot.com/2010_09_01_archive.html"> my friends </a>being next door and down the street, my apartment and my school.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>but i look forward to the <b>morning</b> to come:</div><div><br /></div><div>the <b>morning </b>when my friends and i <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">adjust to living in different cities</span> and fall into a <i>rhythm as easy as what once was</i>- the r<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">hythm in which we stay close through phones and computers and girls' weekends</span></span>- <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">the rhythm that will result in our kids meeting each other one day.</span></div><div><br /></div><div>the <b>morning </b>(the morning i was traveling last weekend to confirm): when i've grown accustomed to life in <b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">denver, colorado,</span></b> where i'm moving in august to obtain a<i> master's in counseling</i> from <a href="http://www.denverseminary.edu/">denver seminary</a>.</div><div><b></b></div><div><br /></div><div>and all the <b>mornings </b>to follow. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">i</span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">'ve got no clue how they'll look</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">,</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">but i know how they </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">won't</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> look,</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';">and how they </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';">won't </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';">look, i've realized, isn't something to mourn. </span></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>it's something to celebrate.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';">thanks to each of you, whether you've been reading for a year or for a week. i can't describe what it means for caring people to walk beside me in this journey.</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">love,</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">EA</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>elizabeth annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05156360398489307975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1277105367592773667.post-6755775687921443542011-05-26T10:01:00.000-07:002011-09-16T08:47:46.039-07:00experiencing instead of ignoring.<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">It’s 11:20 pm and I’m sitting in the love field airport in dallas, texas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I’m typing this post in a word document, which I find strangely less inspiring than typing it directly into blogger©, but my wireless doesn’t feel like connecting, so I don’t have much more of a choice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The reasoning behind my travels is for another post. I’m sorry to be shady, but when a new post begins to pour forth it’s a process I prefer to allow in uninterrupted succession, and if I’m going to mention why I’ve been all over the country this week, I’m going to have to devote the remainder of this post to that mention, and I don’t want to abandon my impending idea. A post devoted to the purpose of my travels is coming soon.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">i am currently stuck in a texas airport 11:20 pm because of a day’s worth of bad weather. It started this morning, causing me to miss a first connecting flight and then the following flight for which I was rebooked when I missed the first. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">We’d boarded our third attempt at a flight when hail began pounding the top of the plane. Moments later, we were de-boarded and then herded down a little known flight of stairs to a dingy hallway inhabited by a number of crew-people in orange vests. i don’t think anyone would have been so concerned, but given recent events, the tornado sirens and weathermen yelling at love field to take cover had gotten some hearts pounding and some faces hardening. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I found myself fearful at first, but moments after everyone had settled in the hallway with their phones and ipads under their noses, hoping for some semblance of service, the orange-vested crew people began to make their way up and down the hall with cups and bottles of water. They were filling the cups and handing them out as fast as they could. Nerves make me thirsty, so I was thankful for the water, but what truly refreshed me was the smiles and the willingness with which the crew served. They were laughing and stepping with spring and looking us all in the eye and acting as if the delay was going to benefit them in some way, rather than extending their work day by an undeterminable amount.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I mentioned this in a <a href="http://mourningrestoration.blogspot.com/2011/05/right-now.html">recent pos</a>t, but there’s something about crisis (or in tonight’s case, a minor interruption of the expected schedule, which many of unfortunately consider a crisis) that opens a unique perspective in which we think about ourselves in terms of being aware of how frustrated and let down and disappointed we are, but mainly, we find ourselves projecting that awareness onto our perceptions of others, trying as hard as we can to help because we know how it feels and we just want to make it better somehow. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">As I sit here and type, i find my heart bleeding for the individuals who surround me. and I think that their hearts are bleeding for me too. there’s a woman with a peaceful face and a consistently soft smile a couple or so feet away. A moment ago she got up and gently covered my bare toes with an airline blanket. minutes later when I’d squirmed and shifted and re exposed my feet, she covered them again. when I told her my mom would thank her, she told me she’d expect someone to do the same for her little girl. I’ve conversed easily with many people tonight. their smiles and sarcasm and laughter and genuine interest in where I came from and where I’m heading have made these hours ones I no longer feel are wasted. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">moments ago, an update on the icelandic volcanoes appeared on tv. a man in a striped shirt to my right began to describe the area of Tennessee in which he lives. the man explained that he lives near some of the richest soil in the south, but that the soil is only the way it is because of a huge earthquake that occurred years ago. the earthquake was so massive, it actually <span style="font-family:"Times New Roman Italic""><i>moved</i></span> the mississippi river. what is now some of the south’s richest soil was riverbed of the mississippi before the earthquake. “so you know,” the man said, “we think these natural disasters are so horrible- and they are- but something good usually comes out of them.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">as I’ve had an abundance of spare time to sit here and rediscover chocolate-covered pretzels (yes.) and think, I’ve found myself realizing how counter productive it is to ignore or numb ourselves to our problems. so often, we think we’re saving our lives by living around our problems rather than through them, but in doing so, I think we end up losing our lives (or at least potential pieces of them) instead.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I suppose I should have reviewed, for those less immersed in the eating disorder field, that eating disorders are in most basic terms, destructive efforts to escape negative circumstances or emotions. For me, I cared so much about being thin, that I felt no more than mere fondness for most other aspects of life. As long as I was thin, as long as I knew I ate less and worked our harder than anyone else, it didn’t matter what went wrong or what I lost. In my eyes, nothing could touch me. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">But the thing that I failed to consider was the fact that things <span style="font-family:"Times New Roman Italic""><i>were</i></span> touching me, regardless of whether or not I <span style="font-family:"Times New Roman Italic""><i>felt </i></span>like they were. When I experienced disappointment, hurt, failure, betrayal, I thought that the sizes I could wear and the meals I could skip served as some sort of exemption for me from life’s faults- that the bad things weren’t actually bad because they didn’t matter in comparison to my size and I had my size under control.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The times I have been rejected have been most predictive of my downward spirals into my disorder. But no matter how many miles I ran or how many calories I denied myself- even if I would have starved to death itself- there was no way I was ever going to erase the rejection. instead of living and learning through my problems and imperfections and becoming the woman I could have been, I chose to become a person who’d been crippled by her struggles. I sought shelter in what I thought was a tunnel that would allow me to escape life’s troubles unscathed and I immerged a self-afflicted victim of the escape itself.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It is 12:50 pm. I am still sitting, seven hours late arriving home, still going to be thrown off tomorrow after crawling in bed whenever I’m finally afforded such luxury. A few moments ago, a short woman with spiky hair and stark white tennis shoes announced that those of us headed to little rock won’t be leaving until 6:30 am. in other words, i’m about to sleep in an airport.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Tonight, I have experienced to the minute-most degree, how it feels to be displaced. The airport venders are closed and our belongings are in the bottom of a plane- each of us is at the mercy of southwest airlines, and thankfully, they’ve come through with all the food, water, and sodas they have. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Tonight, I have been reminded of what people really need. once our basic needs are satisfied, there isn’t a whole lot we can collect for ourselves in an external sense that’s going to make our lives that much better. Once our basic needs are satisfied, it is to love and be loved, to meet the basic needs of others and to encourage one another the best that we can, that will leave us with feelings of overabundance. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Tonight was a problem. But as I sit here with a heart full from the ways total strangers and I have served one another in a time of need, I have trouble calling tonight a problem at all. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I don’t know who I would be if I’d have lived through my problems, rather than around them via my disorder. but I do know, that I want to bear my problems to their full extent from now on, and trust God to bring beauty from all the ashes.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Love,</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">ea</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->elizabeth annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05156360398489307975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1277105367592773667.post-22270197481121846542011-05-20T06:32:00.000-07:002011-11-06T06:39:42.407-08:00the girl with the blanket.one summer night after my sophomore year of college, i remember sitting on the kitchen counter of a friend's apartment, swinging my legs and chatting with some little rock people i love. <br />
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<br /></div>
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a couple of younger kids- all boys- showed up. they'd all gone to my high school and had just finished, i suppose- it was one of those situations in which each of us knew the others names, but we'd not necessarily met or conversed before.</div>
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after a few awkward moments of deciding whether or not we were going to plow through and talk as if we really knew each other or take the time and effort to do official introductions, we opted for the latter. </div>
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i was somewhat full of myself that summer. i slanted my gaze a yard or so across to the other counter, a slight grin on my face, and told them my name. "yeah, yeah," they said, "you hung out with so and so and what's her name." </div>
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a dark-headed one, leaning on the backs of his arms against the counter tipped his head upward and piped in, "hey," he said, "you're the girl with the blanket."</div>
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even then, amidst one of the less-severe stints of my disorder (i'd decided the key to recovery was to maintain my weight ** pounds below healthy but no lower. it didn't last long.), i remember it stinging a little to think i'd been remembered that way.</div>
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when my eating disorder first started, towards the end of my sophomore year of high school, i remember finding myself in a state of constant cold. it wasn't the kind of momentary cold that passes on to be forgotten. it was a cold that lived its own life from the inside of me out. for awhile, i wore this massively oversized fleece sweatshirt of my boyfriend's, but when we broke up, i started to bring blankets.</div>
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i remember wrapping myself from my neck down to my feet. the blanket protected my underweight body the way i thought my underweight body protected me. </div>
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looking back, i must've caught more eyes than i know. i not only covered myself up in class, but i walked the halls with the blanket, too. i wore it wrapped around my shoulders like some kind of old woman who'd used up all her objectives in life other than to remain comfortable. </div>
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its been a long time since my blanket-covered body roamed the halls of little rock christian academy. so long in fact, that a new high school building's been built and the old building became a new middle school. my mom teaches in it.</div>
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yesterday mid-morning, i went to see my mom and my old art teacher. i made it through the parking lot, in the front door and past the office feeling just fine, but when i hung a sharp left into the bathroom i'd used a hundred million times, it was as if an overflow of nostalgia had pressed itself against the wooden door, waiting to envelope me when i opened it. </div>
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the bathroom had been painted a random shade of apricot, but somehow felt the same. i stepped inside and stared at myself in one of the medicine cabinet-sized mirrors above the sinks. i felt one with myself- i thought back to the times i'd stood there and stared blankly, the times as a senior that i'd excused myself during class and reached under those very countertops into the skinniest freshman girls gym bags so i could try on their jeans, the time i'd become so overwhelmed with hatred of my body that i'd left spanish class and sat on those same white tiles and sobbed- i wondered where the person i am now had been all those times. i wondered where she'd been hidden and i shuddered at the fact that my disorder was screaming so loud that i'd forgotten i had ever been someone else.</div>
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those moments i spent in the bathroom, staring at myself like a long lost sister i'd newly found, enabled me to step back and to rethink the past few weeks of my life.</div>
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graduating college is a scary and slightly painful endeavor. it's uncertain and it's overwhelming and to be honest, it's left me longing for the old comforts of my disorder.</div>
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although i've not given in, temptation to restrict lurks in the back of my mind. working out has become equal in priority to things it should fall far below. just moments after i typed the previous sentence, a dear friend called. i immediately threw on shoes so and ran outside so i could walk as we caught up. i found myself having to apologize for breathing so loudly into the phone. as soon as we finished talking i figured i may as well do a workout dvd if i had my shoes on, so i started one up. i pushed play and i went for 60 seconds or so, but felt a pressing urge in the depths of me telling me to stop. </div>
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when i looked in that same mirror yesterday morning, i thought about the girl with the blanket, and i couldn't believe that she and i were the same person. </div>
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but the truth is that the hands typing this post were the same hands that clasped the edges of my blankets closed around my chest, and the voice that's pressing me to spend far more time working out than i should is the same voice that talked me down the road to becoming the girl with the blanket.</div>
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<b>i will not listen.</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320; line-height: 21px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320; line-height: 21px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320; line-height: 21px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“No one can serve two masters, </span></span></span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320; line-height: 21px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">for either he will hate the </span></span></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320; line-height: 21px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320; line-height: 21px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> one and love the other, </span></span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320; line-height: 21px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">or he will be devoted to the one and </span></span></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320; line-height: 21px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320; line-height: 21px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> despise the other..." </span></span></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320; line-height: 21px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320; line-height: 21px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Matthew 6:24</span></span></i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320; line-height: 21px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'courier new';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320; line-height: 21px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320; line-height: 21px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;">love,</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320; line-height: 21px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 21px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;">ea</span></span></span></span></div>elizabeth annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05156360398489307975noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1277105367592773667.post-37582879936752718022011-05-14T05:11:00.000-07:002011-09-16T08:47:45.888-07:00what happens when we fight.towards the end of my <a href="http://mourningrestoration.blogspot.com/">last post</a>, i said i was going to click "publish", put my computer down and continue to study for my last final of college.<div><br /></div><div>i said i was confident that everything would make sense because in spite of my less-than-desirable body image, i had eaten all that i needed for that day and the one before it and that one before that one and so on. </div><div><br /></div><div>the final took me nearly the full two hours. i did my very best and i felt okay about it. </div><div><br /></div><div>yesterday, i checked my grade;</div><div><br /></div><div>it was a 96%.</div><div><br /></div><div>i considered the circumstances surrounding the final and the day leading up to it. it would have been easy and comfortable and natural for me to restrict food. i could have combatted body image with the knowledge that a few more days of sparse eating and all would be well (except it wouldn't have). </div><div><br /></div><div>but i had my research methods final and i wanted to do well, so i ate.</div><div><br /></div><div>and now i'm thinking about a 96% on a test versus bad body image. it would have been really funny, i think, if i would've restricted to improve my body image, because my own perception of my body is false. so in essence, i would have deprived myself of the necessary fuel to do well on a test so that i could advance myself on some continuum of body satisfaction that is based in delusions and lies in the first place.</div><div><br /></div><div>instead, i chose to fuel myself for function, and i achieved a score that cannot become an object of distortion or delusion, a score that is an exact reflection of the intelligence on my inside rather than an false projection of my outside.</div><div><br /></div><div>i think i made the right choice.</div><div><br /></div><div>in a little over two hours i'll be graduating from college. </div><div><br /></div><div>i am infinitely thankful i didn't waste my last year on my disorder. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>love,</div><div><br /></div><div>ea</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>elizabeth annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05156360398489307975noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1277105367592773667.post-36433426649954787952011-05-11T20:10:00.000-07:002011-09-16T08:47:45.876-07:00today wasn't fun......it started wonderfully. <div><br /></div><div>the sun was bright and the sky was clear. i had oatmeal with blueberries, almonds and flax seed for breakfast with some wonderful south american coffee. </div><div><br /></div><div>around 7:30 i started studying for a final i have tomorrow. at 7:45 i got a text message from a friend wanting to go for a walk. </div><div><br /></div><div>at 7:47 i was brushing my teeth and liking myself in the tank top i'd thrown on. </div><div><br /></div><div>around 7:50 i was putting on my shoes and running out the door.</div><div><br /></div><div>i'm not sure when or where things went wrong, but by noon i found myself fighting back tears. bad body image came out of nowhere and nestled itself in for the duration of my day.</div><div><br /></div><div>i had a counseling appointment, which i'd hoped would help. i purposefully wore a tank top because i wanted to tackle this unhealthy obsession i have with arms. my counselor had two points of advice: that i need to accept i'm not perfect, and that some people's bodies don't respond to exercise. </div><div><br /></div><div>i think she wanted me to cope with the arm issue myself, and that was why she took such a non-directive approach. but i didn't want to be brave today. i just wanted her to say all that i wanted to hear. </div><div><br /></div><div>i left counseling aching more deeply than before. </div><div><br /></div><div>hobby lobby is a peaceful place for me, so the fact that i'd been planning on going all day worked out beautifully. </div><div><br /></div><div>i wandered inside and thought i'd sneak past the aisle of full body mirrors for sale and see if i couldn't reconcile myself with my body. i stepped in front of a mirror, hopeful that it might right the day's wrongs and soothe the ache in my chest. i saw a belly poking over the waist band of my white gauzy skirt and two chunky arms fluffing out from either of my rounded shoulders. the overweight young woman staring back at me grew red-eyed and she began to whimper. I walked away, vowing to forget what I'd seen and suck my sobs dry, when a familiar voice called my name. i turned around and my eyes met who i knew was already there: one of my very <a href="http://mourningrestoration.blogspot.com/2010_09_01_archive.html">best friends. </a> She put her arms around me and i told her what i was feeling. my friends have grown to learn, i think, that there isn't a lot that they can do when i'm attacked with body image other than to love on me.</div><div><br /></div><div>hobby lobby calmed my mind and softened the stabbing pain that accompanies bad body image days. i left feeling slightly stronger. i studied awhile, then cleaned my kitchen just in time for my friends to come over and make breakfast for dinner. </div><div><br /></div><div>i didn't want to eat because i spent the majority of the day thinking that i'm heavy. </div><div><br /></div><div>i ate anyway because i only had one reason not to eat, but i could have named a million reasons <b><i>to </i></b>eat. </div><div><br /></div><div>in roughly 60 seconds, i will be finished typing this post.</div><div><br /></div><div>i'll put my laptop down and pick my study guide back up. everything will make sense to me because even though i saw a fat person in the mirror today, i fueled my brain with carbohydrates and i got plenty of fats and protein too.</div><div><br /></div><div>i'll wake up tomorrow and i'll eat breakfast and i'll do my best on my last final of college.</div><div><br /></div><div>i don't know how long i'm going to have to look at the fat version of myself in the mirror, but however long it is, i'll keep eating and i'll keep living.</div><div><br /></div><div>love,</div><div><br /></div><div>EA</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>elizabeth annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05156360398489307975noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1277105367592773667.post-1616276125981927392011-05-09T05:46:00.000-07:002011-09-16T08:47:45.803-07:00right now......i'm sitting in my bed, leaning against some pillows as i type. heat is coming off of my back shoulders, making this daily ritual a littles less comfortable than normal. the reason for the heat and its accompanying sting is something that happens to me far too easily: sunburn.<div><br /></div><div>it happened on saturday as i spent the day cleaning up yards in pratt city, alabama, a small area that was hard-hit in the disastrous series of tornadoes week before last. </div><div><br /></div><div>i kept having to remind myself that i was merely 20 minutes from my apartment, not amidst the impoverished mountains of tegucigalpa, honduras. it's hard to believe that a mere drive down the interstate from the regality of Samford and mountain brook's castle-like homes is devastation so severe it appears third-world.</div><div><br /></div><div>i kept having these swells of emotion that left me near tears, but i think what kept me from losing it was the vast spectrum of feelings that were occurring simultaneously and with equal intensity. i was too overwhelmed to start crying. </div><div><br /></div><div>part of me was undone by the damage and the pieces of peoples lives- teddy bears, parasols, tricycles- that had come from who knows how far and clothes hanging in closets without walls or roofs and the church building, crunched like a dollhouse dropped in a driveway with a pew sticking out of the top of it and the national guard armed and uniformed on every street corner. </div><div><br /></div><div>other parts of of me swelled with joy and amazement at the number of volunteers and especially at a tent full of women beside the doll-house church. a huge grill sat just outside the tent and they were surrounded by tables with hundreds of brown lunch bags sorted on top of them and coolers full of water and soda. the bags were filled with food and the women offered them to any and everyone walking past. they weren't rationing the food or soliciting forced gratitude the way people helping sometimes do. they were a bunch of mothers and the white tent was their temporary kitchen. they were there to love and serve and care and laugh. their common desire was that every person who walked past left with more food than they needed. as i watched them serve i couldn't help but think i was experiencing a micro-sliver of what heaven will be like.</div><div><br /></div><div>working all day was the perfect outlet for the intensity of my feelings. at first, it was hard to feel like i was really doing anything. the damage in a single yard was seemingly endless, and alone, i am capable so little. but the thing is, no one is really capable of that much alone. it's not until we all get together and do the the little bit of which we're individually able that anything can really happen. </div><div><br /></div><div>during the second half of the day we found ourselves standing in an oblong circle around the edge of a mass of the branches of at least two trees that had overtaken a man's backyard when they'd fallen wednesday night before last. the man was kind and seemingly peaceful. he needed a chainsaw and our group had one and so we went to work, moving branches as the men cut them. i found myself using my strength training, squatting low to the ground, grabbing huge limbs and pulling them up and out into the yard's outer edge, trying to use my legs more than my arms so i wouldn't strain anything. </div><div><br /></div><div>we worked for hours, moving branch after branch. some of them were big enough that it took two of us to move them. i was loving that i was capable of moving whatever i wanted. there was this one section of the tree's trunk i'd watched the men cut. i'd had my eye on it for awhile. when we'd moved all the limbs and were waiting on the chainsaw to cut more, i made my way to the piece of trunk and started to move it. i was making some headway when an old man with a round belly and a straw hat took several bowl-legged, hop-like strides towards me, "too heavy little lady!" he crowed, "yer gonna hurt yerself."</div><div><br /></div><div>i was annoyed, pissed actually. but not wanting to be disrespectful, i smiled and said, "sorry, sir. i get a little ambitious at times" then he offered me some sunscreen for which i was apparently too late, hence the redness of my back and shoulders.</div><div><br /></div><div>but regardless of whether i moved the branches alone or with someone else or not at all, i was just so proud of myself for being physically able to move them. there are times throughout the past five years that i remember reveling in my physical weakness, wearing it like a medal of honor, feeling completely capable of incapability. i could run with the best of anyone, but when it came to muscle and strength, i wanted to feel like i'd reduced myself to such a skin and bone state that i was unable to lift anything. i went from being a base on the cheerleading squad my sophomore year of high school, to people telling me i was going to have to get a bone density test if i even wanted to try out again as a flyer ( which i didn't end up doing). sometimes i would attempt things of which i knew i was incapable, just so i could hear someone tell me a little scrawny thing like me shouldn't try such things. those comments were to me as a rush of water is to a dry tongue. nothing could've satisfied me more.</div><div><br /></div><div>the larger implication of me loving that i was weak was the fact the i loved that i couldn't offer anyone anything. as my group and i moved branches, we watched a man's yard slowly reappear. it was an incredible feeling to know that taking care of myself had played a small, indirect part in a man being able to walk outside his house and see more of his yard than he had seen in a week.</div><div><br /></div><div>life is not about me, and that's why i make sure i'm up for it.</div><div><br /></div><div>love,</div><div><br /></div><div>ea</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div><br /></div></div>elizabeth annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05156360398489307975noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1277105367592773667.post-66100674111779157642011-05-08T05:54:00.000-07:002011-09-16T08:47:46.019-07:00my mom...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVc6A_ts0lriHtvi-6Vv0LfpO9N7sZwF4sytJu08_vYbXi78ApTx1FSX6FWmeX5ItOPl1SfcdiDuBCNRButYsUOwNjrw6VVtuQ8oha5oOweJ5X5mX3DG0GUkA2BsMyZR0SNhiGRrA9yitl/s1600/photo.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604455368553754594" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVc6A_ts0lriHtvi-6Vv0LfpO9N7sZwF4sytJu08_vYbXi78ApTx1FSX6FWmeX5ItOPl1SfcdiDuBCNRButYsUOwNjrw6VVtuQ8oha5oOweJ5X5mX3DG0GUkA2BsMyZR0SNhiGRrA9yitl/s320/photo.jpg" /></a> ...makes this pie. this chocolate chip pie. i grew up on it and several other staples- one of them being egg and cheese sandwiches.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br /><div>mom's pie is a big deal. sometimes i feel like other moms only bring us Christmas gifts to ensure that their yearly pie will appear all wrapped in green and red cellophane on their doorsteps. and then they end up fighting their kids and husbands for it. </div><br /><br /><br /><div>one thing i never did give up for my eating disorder was my mom's pie. i think deep down i always knew that i would look back one day and hate myself for having an eating disorder for so long, but i didn't ever want to look back on time with family and wish i'd invested myself better. so whenever that pie was around i took one for the team and i ate a piece. granted- i somehow managed to keep my caloric intake vastly beneath what i needed- even on the days i ate the pie. and if not, i always made up for it afterwards- sometimes one piece of pie projected implications as far as a week ahead for my diet and exercise. but it was worth it to me to be present with my mom and her deep-dish chocolatey masterpiece surrounded by steam swirls from coffee, beneath the kitchen lights at our raw wood table.<br /><br /></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>my mom is a lot like her pie. this pie- it's got a layer of dark, dark chocolate chips and then another layer of some other-worldly kind of goodness. my mom is the same way in that she isn't just one flavor of woman. </div><br /><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>she's got a heart so vast it's intimidating</b></span>- <em><span style="font-size:130%;">she nurtures and she loves with an artful brilliance-</span></em><span style="font-family:courier new;"> but she's completely willing to say what needs to be said- even if that means telling someone close to her that they're being an idiot</span>.<em> </em><strong>she takes life seriously enough to know that laughter is sometimes the only appropriate resort.</strong> <em>she is gentle and kind but genuine and real.<span style="font-size:130%;"> she is sweet, but never so much so she is limitedly tolerable.</span></em><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>eating disorders are often stereotyped as being rooted in the mother/daughter relationship, but recent research does not support such stereotypes. although the idea that a mother could play an integral role in the development of her daughter's eating disorder is more than valid, it is hardly generalizable across the entire eating disorder population. and it certainly is not generalizable to ginger wade.</div><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><div>i remember being a little girl, walking down the sidewalk in my red mary-janes after school. i was in awe of how beautiful the autumn leaves were, and i noticed two or three that i just couldn't bear to leave behind. i picked them up and put them in my backpack. in the moments that followed i became so overwhelmed by the beauty of the leaves that i realized i was going to have to save as many as i could. i ended up 20 or so feet behind my class, stepping and pausing, stepping and pausing, putting flame-colored leaves into my backpack until it was full. when i got home, i ran inside, opened my backpack and dumped the pile of leaves onto the living room couch. mom asked me please not to do that again, but not before she thanked me for bringing the leaves home so she could see them and for appreciating fall because it was the best season. </div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>when i was in second grade or so, i had this smelly red slicker. it had navy blue lining and big pockets. my mom has always loved cinnamon rolls and i somehow knew that. mom made my lunch almost everyday, and they were the best lunches, so when they served cinnamon rolls one day at school i had an easy time trading some kid something for his. i wrapped it in about 30 napkins and tucked it safely into the pocket of my slicker. i tapped my foot and bounced in my chair the rest of the day because i was so excited to hand my mom the sticky white package and watch her open it. i didn't take off my slicker until i walked inside my house, just to make sure the cinnamon roll would be safe. when my mom pulled the sugar saturated napkin away from the gold-brown roll, her face lit up and she went on and on, thanking me as if i'd just presented her with a gift she'd been wanting all her life. she had this soft yellow sweatshirt with red writing on it and that it seemed like she wore more often than not when we were around the house. i remember her standing there in that sweatshirt, microwaving the cinnamon roll and then eating it. she told me it was the most delicious thing she'd ever had. she ate a cinnamon roll that had made its way from an elementary school cafeteria tray to the pocket of a second grader's rain slicker to her kitchen counter, just so i could feel like she appreciated me thinking of her. years later, she told me she didn't even mind eating it- all germ-covered and tasting like wet rubber- she was just so touched by me bringing it to her she was happy to eat every bite.</div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>i remember my mom coaching my basketball team and getting so into it. all the girls loved her because she was perfectly real with them. there was this one girl who was really tall, but just a little bit slow. my mom told her all the things that made her good at basketball, and that if she would just <i>anticipate </i>what was going to happen, that she could intercept any pass she wanted. i don't think there was a game that followed that the girl didn't end up with 4 or 5 steals. one practice, my mom sat the whole team down and told them about Jesus.</div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>when i turned 16, my mom found a barn some way or another and she planned the most magical surprise birthday anyone has ever had. it was perfectly chilly and the barn's wooden beams glowed with white twinkle lights. music was playing and there was fire for roasting marshmallows. she had gotten me this wonderful poncho, woven in a million colors of yarn and i felt special and beautiful and loved. it was the best birthday i've ever had.</div><br /><br /><br /><div>it was roughly three months after the surprise party that my eating disorder started. </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>my mom always says that having a child is like pulling your heart out of your chest and letting it walk all around outside your body. i suppose it was for that reason that my mom fought when i wouldn't fight, ate when i wouldn't eat and loved me when i wouldn't love myself.</div><br /><br /><br /><div>even when recovery felt unnatural and all wrong, and i couldnt think of any reason i wanted to keep going, knowing that i was giving my mom her daughter back made perseverance worth all the struggle. </div><br /><br /><br /><div>thank you, mom.</div><br /><br /><div>i love you.</div><br /><div>happy mothers day.</div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>in Christ,</div><br /><br /><div>EA<br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div></div></div></div>elizabeth annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05156360398489307975noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1277105367592773667.post-28979778756082278852011-05-04T05:44:00.000-07:002011-09-16T08:47:45.857-07:00february 20, 2010i saw my nutritionist today and she wasn't happy with me. <div><br /></div><div>my weight was down * pounds, and although she seemed to understand why, i don't. </div><div><br /></div><div>i feel like all i'm doing is eating, and that's even with me shaving off a few servings of carbs and fat here and there. i didn't think it would hurt anything to miss a serving or two.</div><div><br /></div><div>she asked me to tell her what i've been eating each day. i went through the past couple of days intakes and told her that although i've been skipping a serving here or there, i feel like i'm doing well overall, and i feel like i have gained weight.</div><div><br /></div><div>apparently i didn't figure things correctly, because she went on to say that its my refusal to eat the amount of carbs and fat i'm supposed to thats keeping me stuck where i am. she mentioned something about going back to treatment if i didn't get back on track. she also reminded me that i'm supposed to be gaining, not even maintaining yet. i felt like a dead horse being shot for the millionth time.</div><div><br /></div><div>i, for one, would love to go back to treatment. i'm tired of planning each day around food. i'm tired of going to all-out war with myself over whether or not i'm going to eat each meal and snack. i'm tired of calculating grams of carbs, fat and protein and figuring the lowest calorie ways possible to technically follow my meal-plan.</div><div><br /></div><div> it was so much easier at magnolia creek. yes- they stuffed our faces with things i didn't necessarily find comfortable to eat- but at least there were no choices or decisions involved with any of it. the first time i tried hiding a bag of chips at the creek became the last about five minutes later when i was caught. i knew i was going to have to consume the calories one way or another, and so i did it. i didn't have to feel guilty or gross or self-indulgent because i was being forced. i had the benefits of taking care of myself without it being my fault. </div><div><br /></div><div>all of this to say, it'd be easier than easy to keep on the path i'm going and to nuzzle myself back into the safety of the creek. </div><div><br /></div><div>but then i think about my dad. i think about the pain that seeped from the lines in his face when he came to magnolia creek. i think about the time he picked me up at the airport for thanksgiving break and how scared he looked as he asked if i'd been eating. i think about the surprise new york trip we went on my freshman year and the time he came home early from the masters so he could be there for my indian princess camping trip. i think about his shiny eyes staring at me through the car window when we parted ways at the gas station down the road from the creek last month and the large dent in his bank account all thanks to the cost of treating my disorder.</div><div><br /></div><div>i can't go back to magnolia creek.</div><div><br /></div><div>i'm going to have to do this right here and right now. and if that means eating a few extra carbs, so be it. </div><div><br /></div><div>i cannot and will not do it for myself. but today, i can do it for my dad.</div><div><br /></div><div>love,</div><div><br /></div><div>ea</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>elizabeth annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05156360398489307975noreply@blogger.com1