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Monday, March 29, 2021

Little Brown Feet

 A poem for my not-so-wee-anymore wee one.











Little Brown Feet

 “Little brown feet.”

Your lips curve like a crescent moon when I say it,

framed by dimples that punctuate your cheeks

like quotation marks. Your smile

speaks to me as I skim one finger along

the inner arch of your foot, tracing the well-worn

path to your heel. Your skin is tanned

like leather, soft but durable. It strikes

a balance between tender and hardened.

 

Yours are the feet of a young traveler.

They’ve touched concrete, gravel, stone,

caressed shredded rubber at the playground

where we played when Daddy was away.

They’ve kissed dirt, sand, and snow,

slid and shuffled across the hardwood of our kitchen floor,

been heated by the sun-soaked nylon

of the trampoline as you bounce with your brothers,

and frozen by frosted grass on cold winter mornings.

(You don’t like shoes, and I don’t like arguing.)

Some soles aren’t meant to be contained.

 

Those little brown feet have danced with my spirit

and tiptoed into my heart.

 

“Mama, those are my feet,

my little brown feet. Like chocolate,” you laugh

as your vocabulary bursts open like a chrysalis

at the peak of spring. Your wings are spreading,

and I witness it from the closest distance you allow,

a casual observer awed by rapid evolution.

“Yes,” I agree, my head nodding under the weight

of nostalgia as I note how big those feet are becoming.

“Like chocolate.” The words taste bittersweet.

 

“Do you want me to carry you?”

We walk along the battered country road,

your (still somewhat) little hand cupped perfectly inside mine

like a Russian tea doll. You blithely skip

over potholes, dodge rocks, navigate the banked asphalt

like a seasoned explorer. You look ahead

to where Daddy and your big brothers press onward.

“No, Mama,” you say, “I can do it.”

You release my hand and surge forward.

 

I watch as your (maybe not so) little

brown feet slap the pavement, carrying you

away from me. I feel my lips pull upward,

lifting at the heaviness in my heart as I marvel at how

feet so little can leave footprints so large.

Wednesday, December 23, 2020

In the Shower

Depression doesn't always "look" like depression.


In the Shower

My wrist mimics the motion of the rounded
metal valve as I spin it all the way to the left.
I let the water scald me,
but the heat and pressure always fall short.
I just want to feel something.
I step out into the opaque cover of steam.
It hides me from myself. The mirror
is blanketed in fog, the way I like it. Reflection is
too much to handle. I reach for the towel, the ratty
one that's always waiting for me—a mere 
arm's length awayand cloak myself in the familiar
synthetic fibers. I wrap and tuck my body
like an origami swan, hiding the ugly
duckling beneath. My mind lingers on those places
where the fabric brushes against
bumps and curves, those corporeal protrusions
I fight so hard to ignore. I drop the towel,
vacating my shell of safety like a hermit crab,
cringe at the momentary exposure,
and reach for the baggy clothing carelessly
tossed next to the sink, as I have a thousand times.
I move with the muscle memory of one who's mastered
the art of not seeing herself clearly.

I dress in near silence, nothing
but the sound of residual water dripping
from the showerhead. And for a fleeting moment,
I think perhaps I do feel something
envy, clear as those final droplets as they escape
down the drain.

Monday, December 14, 2020

Alone on a Sunday Morning


Alone on a Sunday Morning 

I stand at the kitchen sink, peeling
boiled eggs, fingertips grasping at the hardened
opaque membrane. Cracked skin is met
with cracked skin. I can feel
the sharp fragmentation as
I cradle life, arrested, in my hands.

I dig at shattered remnants, desperate
to find purchase, to reach the softness within.
I lift away broken layers that pull
at the gentle flesh beneath,
too stubborn to let go. They cling to the vestiges
of what was

once whole. I watch the purity of white flesh
become marred by my earnest desperation.
I clutch the segments of fractured, empty shell.
Consumed by the endeavor, I become
lost, unable to remember how it feels
to be unbroken.



Monday, June 1, 2020

I Got Slapped in the Face by My Own White Privilege, and It Made Me Want to Be Better



I have a somewhat embarrassing confession to make: I didn’t know the details of what happened to George Floyd until about four days after the fact.

I know what you’re probably thinking: How is that even possible? It seems like EVERYONE is talking about it.

But you see, here’s the thing: I wasn’t entirely ignorant. I knew that something tragic had happened.

I saw the headlines.

I saw the photos.

I saw the countless Facebook posts.

I saw the rally cries, the Black Lives Matter hashtags, the petitions, the memorials, the brilliantly composed song lyrics, the faces—both black and white—painted with pain and outrage.

I saw the world burning. Literally, in some cases.

I “saw” all of it, but I deliberately chose not to SEE any of it.

I didn’t click on the news stories, didn’t watch the videos, didn’t engage in the discussion. I didn’t join my friends in their public outcries for justice. I avoided Facebook and news outlets. I didn’t ask my husband what he’d heard about it. I didn’t want to hear about it—or worse—think about it.

In fact, for days after the incident, I stayed in my safe little COVID-19 quarantine bubble. I sat around in my home, reveling in the familiar comfort of my favorite bathrobe and house slippers. I sipped my coffee, played with my kids, and forcibly repressed my curiosity whenever it began wandering into dangerous territory. I intentionally chose the numbing bliss of unawareness.

Why?

Because I knew. I knew if I plugged myself back into the broken world we live in that it would hurt—that I would hurt. I knew once I read the details about what happened, I wouldn’t be able to get them out of my mind. I knew I’d feel lost in a sea of confusion, anger, sadness, and helplessness. I knew it would leave me feeling unsettled.

 At the risk of sounding juvenilely simplistic, I knew that facing the reality of everything would make feel “yucky” inside.

So I delayed the inevitable for as long as I reasonably could. I avoided awareness. I avoided truth. I avoided pain. I put off the discomfort until I felt a little more emotionally prepared to face all that heartache and ugliness.

And that’s when the realization slapped me in the face: THAT—that luxury of avoiding and delaying all those “yucky” feelings—is just one example of my white privilege.

There are people out there who wake up with that “yucky” feeling every damn day simply because they happen to have more melanin in their skin than I do.

There are people who have to function in a state of relentless emotional exhaustion all the time.

There are people who worry about the safety and security of their family and friends every minute of every day.

There are people who walk out into the world on a daily basis feeling like “the underdog.”

There are moms who have to weigh the risks and benefits of allowing their kids to play outside unsupervised.

In fact, when my own black son—who is now “adorable” but already “big-for-his-age”—gets older, I will become one of those moms. There will be a day, a few years down the road, when I’ll have to explain to him why he can no longer play with nerf guns outside of our home. I just pray I have the wisdom to handle it with as much grace as possible.

Coming face-to-face with your own white privilege is not a pretty thing.

In fact, it's rather ugly. It can make you feel embarrassed, ashamed, and futile. I don’t think any decent human being likes knowing that there are people out there who have it “so much worse” than they do. It’s just another one of those things that makes you feel kind of “yucky” inside.

But you know what else it is?

It is necessary.

That awareness is one of the driving forces behind beautiful and altruistic things like homeless shelters, food pantries, foster care, and mitten trees at Christmas time. It makes us want to be better. It sparks positive change.

In fact, as life coach Tony Robbins once said, “All growth starts at the end of your comfort zone.”

We owe it to one another to acknowledge and face our minor discomforts, like white privilege, in order to spare our brothers and sisters from the major ones—the tragedies, like what happened to George Floyd and countless others before him.

We are all human. We are capable of change. We are capable of being better.

I’ll admit, I am still figuring out exactly how I—as a privileged white woman—can be better. But here are some things I do know:

Choosing to be aware of my own privilege and allowing myself to acknowledge the pain and injustice around me is a good place to start.

I also know that as a Christian, I am supposed to hold Jesus’s words—“Love one another as I have loved you”—as the greatest commandment. Jesus advocated most often for the frightened, the poor, the lost, and the oppressed. I am going to strive to love as He did.

And finally, I know that as a mom, I have perhaps the greatest power—and concurrent responsibility—to heal this world with both awareness and love. I can raise my children to do better, to love better, and to be better.

Because at the end of the day, what I want most is a better world.

For all of us.

Monday, February 17, 2020

Calling It What It Is: How Talking About ED Diminishes His Grip on Me


I remember my first crush. We were in first grade, and his name was Chris. He had freckles and curly brown hair that was always in slight disarray. I was a scrawny, fairly awkward girl with a pixie cut that— now that I think about it—probably looked pretty similar to his own hairstyle. Maybe that’s what drew me to him. I don’t know for sure, but I do know that one day I just decided I thought he was cute.

And just like that, BAM, I “liked” someone.

For a while, I didn’t tell anyone about my crush. I relished having a secret of my own, and I spent a lot of time daydreaming about Chris and concocting a fake relationship with him in my head. Having a crush on a boy made me feel special. It was new. It was exciting. It was a little taboo. But most importantly, it was mine.

But kids have this inconvenient inability to keep secrets for very long. Eventually, I decided to tell my best friend, who of course told one of our other friends. Before I knew it, most of the kids in my class found out, followed by my mom, and then (Oh the horror!) the boy himself.

As my “secret” spread, something weird happened: My feelings just kind of fizzled away into nothing, like the bubbles of the sickeningly sweet grape soda I used to get out of the pop machine at K-mart.

The thing is, I don’t think I even “liked” Chris that much. I think I liked the idea of liking him, and I liked that it was something I did in secret. I loved covertly scribbling hearts with our initials in them on the inside cover of my Lisa Frank notebook, and sneaking glances at him in art class when I thought no one was looking. I took pleasure in coordinating the color of my hair scrunchie to the hue of his winter jacket and acting like it was just sweet serendipity when we matched.

But once everyone found out about my crush, it lost its wow factor, and I sort of just stopped caring about it. Then I stopped thinking about it altogether. Soon enough, my daydreams became less occupied with Chris and returned to their regularly-scheduled-program.*

*For those of you wondering, these often involved being both an Olympic gymnast and a famous singer. Also, a hot pink princess dress. There was always a hot pink princess dress involved.

*

You’re probably wondering where the hell I’m going with all this, since this is a piece about eating disorders. If you’re still here, thanks for sticking with me while I reminisce about the simpler days of Dunkaroos and childhood crushes. I promise there’s a point, and here it is:

Something I’ve discovered since starting eating disorder therapy is that the more I talk about ED, the less “special” he seems, and the less significant my relationship—my infatuation, or “crush,” if you will—with him becomes, just like when everyone found out about that first grade crush.

Keeping ED a secret gives him more power over me. It makes me feel closer to him, like we share an exclusive bond that no one knows about. It sounds weird, but let me put it this way: Imagine one of your close friends tells you a secret—maybe that she’s pregnant—and she asks you not to tell anyone yet. How would you feel? Special? Honored? Privileged? Chosen?

That’s how ED makes me feel sometimes. He whispers in my ear that I’m the only one he can trust to keep our secret, that I’m the only one who understands him, and—even more importantly—he’s the only one who understands me. He convinces me to keep our relationship quiet because other people won’t—or simply can’t—“get it.”

And guess what? He’s right. Most people DON’T get it. But that doesn’t really matter. People don’t need to “get it,” they just need to know about it.

This is something that’s particularly difficult for me because I feel an immense sense of shame about my eating disorder and how it’s affected not only myself but also the people I care about. However, with time (and a lot of therapy), I’ve realized it’s not only healing for me to talk about ED, but also vital for me if I want to keep fighting that son of a bitch.

I have to acknowledge ED. Own him. Call him out by name.

Any other Harry Potter nerds here? Remember when J.K. Rowling brilliantly wrote that “[f]ear of a name increases fear of the thing itself?” It’s so true. That’s why it’s important for me to openly admit that I struggle with an eating disorder. In doing so, I become less afraid of it.

*

Unfortunately, I think a lot of people shy away from openly discussing mental health issues. There tends to be this completely misguided notion that they’re too personal, embarrassing, or even shameful to talk about.

But when we don’t talk about this shit, we give it more power over us. When I don’t talk about ED, the proverbial ball is in his court: He’s in control, and I’m left living in the constant fear that I’ll make a mistake, and he’ll expose our relationship to the world: that I’ll slip up—skip a meal, over-exercise, get caught chewing and spitting—and someone I love will wonder, what’s going on with her? I don’t want people to wonder. I want people to know:

I spend every day fighting a fucking eating disorder, and it is exhausting.

I want to share my struggles on my terms, not his. So I talk about ED. I talk about ED to the people who “get it,” like my therapist. And I talk about ED to the people who may never get it, no matter how hard they try, like my husband (who can eat an entire pizza, flex his six pack, and not give it a second thought). I talk about ED to strangers on the internet (I’m looking at you, reader). I talk about ED even when it makes people feel awkward or uncomfortable. I talk about ED when I feel like talking about him, and I talk about ED when I really don’t feel like talking about him.

The point is, I TALK ABOUT ED.

And here’s the thing: The more I talk about ED, the less I find myself listening to him. Sure, I still hear him. In fact, hearing him is a conscious choice I’ve made along my path to recovery. I allow him say his piece, I acknowledge it, and then I call him out on his bullshit. You see, there’s a difference between hearing and listening, and there is power in the choice to hear someone but not listen to what he’s saying.

So when ED tells me I’m not good enough, I try my best to reply with a not-so-friendly “Fuck you” and carry on my merry way.

And if I’m feeling really sassy, I might even go eat a donut, just to remind him—and myself—who’s boss.


Me with my eldest child, who recently asked to take a picture with me in the new shirt I got him.
As you can see, it has food on it. More specifically, a donut. So I thought it was appropriate lol.

Friday, May 3, 2019

It’s Scary Letting Go of ED


*taps mic, or—more literally—computer keyboard*

“Hello? This thing on? Anyone here?”

Greetings to whatever straggling followers I have left out there. It’s been a while since I’ve written anything about ED. If you still follow me on Facebook, you may have noticed that I’ve been dabbling in satire for the last month or two. I felt like I needed to get back to writing, but the prospect of returning to ED-related posts just seemed like a little too much for me to handle. Humor writing is fun, light, easy, and therapeutic. Living with ED is so mentally draining, and sometimes talking (or writing) about it just feels like I’m fueling the emotional incubus that he is.

On the other hand, sometimes getting all that shit out (on paper or verbally) is curative. So here we are.

For the past year-ish, I’ve been spending an hour a week (or every other week, because kids and germs and life in general) with a therapist who specializes in ED. After years of trying to handle everything on my own, I realized it was time to recruit another team member, someone who really “gets it” and could help me navigate my own (often irrational) thoughts. Someone who knows ED intimately, but from an outsider’s perspective.

And—lucky for me—someone who’s not afraid to drop plenty of well-placed “fucks” during our sessions. This woman just gets me.

It was hard for me to finally seek out a therapist. One of the things ED likes to do is convince you that you don’t need other people, that you can handle everything on your own. Or, as my therapist likes to tell me, that “you’re Super Woman.” I tried doing things that way for far too long. And while I’ve certainly had my ups and downs with ED—my strides toward getting better, as well as my relapses—I just can’t keep him distanced the way I need to by myself.

Enter therapy. And hope. And my almost acceptance of that intimidating word I used to hate: RECOVERY.

Getting better for myself AND for these guys.

ED has been such a huge part of my life for as long as I can remember that I now realize part of the reason I was hesitant to enter formal eating disorder therapy was fear. You’ve heard of separation anxiety, yes? Like when your toddler clings to you if you attempt to leave him in the hands of a babysitter or (in our case) in the church nursery? Kids don’t like the idea of leaving the person they’ve grown to love and trust most in the world—the person who's been there for them their entire lives. And who would, right? The unknown: It's scary and uncomfortable.

Well, that’s sort of what “recovery” feels like—like I’m being ripped away from my primary “caregiver.”

Even though the rational part of me realizes ED is never really taking care of me, the emotional part of me has been relying on him for so long that it hurts to let go.

I think there are still a lot of people out there who don’t realize that eating disorders are diseases, not “phases.” As my therapist has told me, an eating disorder literally changes your brain chemistry. ED is not just in my head 24/7 in a metaphorical sense. He has fucked up my brain, the way I think, the way I see myself. 

An eating disorder is not about looking good or being skinny. When you strip it down, an eating disorder really has nothing to do with food or body. It does, however, have everything to do with comfort and control.

My therapist and I have spent a lot of time exploring why I turn to ED when things get difficult—when I’m stressed, or exhausted, or just not feeling good about myself. And I think what it boils down to is this: ED is always there for me when I need him. When I’m having a rough day, when I’ve made a mistake, when I’m too tired to put up a fight—ED is there, waiting with open arms to take me back.

ED makes me feel good. There, I said it. Weird, right?


I know that sounds counterintuitive: Isn’t ED also the one who whispers “You’re not good enough” into my ear on a daily basis? Isn’t he the one who makes me feel shitty about my body? Isn’t he the one that almost killed me about a decade ago?

Yes, yes, and yes. But, he is also this: He is familiar. And he gives me “problems” I can fix.

“You’re fat.” Okay, I’ll  just start restricting again.

“You’re weak.” Well, I can be strong by ignoring my hunger and delaying my meal times.

“You don’t deserve to feel good.” Right, so I’ll isolate myself.

“You’re out of control.” (This is probably the one I hear most often.) I’ll show you control. Watch me cut my intake and up my exercise.*

And so on and so forth.

*Note: Exercise is tricky because it is also one of my “recovery tools.” When I’m in control, it makes me feel strong and in charge of my own body. But when ED is steering, it has the potential to turn into a “job” or compulsive behavior. I’m still working on navigating this.

So instead of dealing with the real issues in my life, the ones I can’t control or the tasks I fear failing at, I turn to ED to offer me problems I already have the tool set to fix. It’s easy. It’s simple. It’s familiar. And—because of all that—it’s comforting.

For as long as I can remember, ED has been my number one cheerleader, encouraging me to push myself to eat less, to weigh less, to be less. And the idea of losing the “support system” that I’ve relied on for so long is honestly kind of terrifying. And it’s definitely not easy.

It’s hard to ask for help. I think it’s hard for anyone to ask for help, let alone someone whose disease tells her she shouldn’t need it. But I think—no, I know, now—that in the long run I’ll be much happier accepting help from the people who care about me than I am when I accept it from ED.

And it may still take a lot of work, tears, and discomfort, but I look forward to the day I can finally look that son of a bitch in the face and just say, “Boy, bye.”

This kid makes a much better workout buddy than ED does.


Wednesday, July 25, 2018

ED is a Radio I Can’t Turn Off


And I No Longer Like the Word “Recovery”

Disclaimer: It’s been a long time since I’ve formally written anything, so I’m admittedly (and probably evidently, as you continue reading—if you continue reading) a little rusty. My apologies.

I think this has been a long time coming. If I’m being honest, I’ve been struggling for a while now, feeling unsettled but not wanting to sit down and face my discomfort by putting words on paper (or text on screen, if we’re being literal here). The thoughts have been lurking, festering just beneath the surface, and I’ve been adamantly fighting to keep them there.

But you can’t just ignore that kind of pressure, or you’re bound to erupt.

My “eruption” happened early this morning—this beautiful, glorious morning, on which all three of my boys either slept in or got up and QUIETLY (a rare state in this house) occupied themselves. It was the type of morning that doesn’t come along often when you’re a mom, one that offered the rare opportunity to catch up on some much needed rest.

So of course, because life works in mysterious (i.e., annoying) ways, it was on this enigmatic gift of a morning that I found myself, ironically—cruelly—restless.

Oh sure, I spent the morning in bed, but not getting the sleep my haggard mind and body desperately need right now. Nope. Instead, I spent a good hour or so on my phone, furiously typing in the “notes” app. Why? Because in these rare moments of silence, I could no longer ignore the words that have been fighting their way to the surface for so long.

I could no longer ignore—or PRETEND to ignore—ED.

He really is an effing sunnofabitch.

When it comes to eating disorders, you hear the word “recovery” thrown around a lot:

“I’ve been in recovery for X years.”

“I’m working toward recovery.”

“The road to recovery is long and hard*.”

*That’s what she said. Sorry. Those of you who know me know I couldn’t help myself.

I’ve used phrases like this myself.

But lately I’ve found myself cringing at the word. It just doesn’t sit right with me anymore. Maybe for some people struggling with eating disorders, it’s a comfort. Maybe for some, it’s an inspiration. Maybe for some, it’s exactly what they need to hear to fight ED.

But I’ve finally realized I’m not one of those people.

When I couldn’t put my finger on why the word was bothering me so much, I did something pretty rudimentary: I Googled it. From bed, of course, because duh. (Ah, bless you, modern technology.) Here’s what I found:

Recovery: a return to a normal state of health, mind, or strength.

And there it was: the word “normal.” Google was waving a big old red flag in my tired, wrinkled face.

If there’s one thing I know about ED—or about anything really—it’s that there is no “normal.”

Once you live with ED, you can’t go back. Not completely, at least not in my experience. He flips your “normal” on its head and then gives it a couple of spins on a merry-go-round for good measure. (Excuse the park metaphor—it’s summer vacation and my kids are active.)

I’ve come to think of it like this: Living with ED is kind of like living with the radio on 24/7. Sometimes he’s just background noise, and even though he’s always playing, you barely even notice anymore. Sometimes he’s an annoying commercial, trying to sell you something you really don’t want (and definitely don’t need). Sometimes he plays jibberish, and his lyrics don’t even make sense. Sometimes he plays something that makes you emotional, that takes you back to a place of pain or heart ache.

Sometimes it seems like he’s on repeat, and you find yourself thinking, Didn’t I just hear this song? Can’t he play anything else? but you still find yourself singing—sometimes even dancing—along. It’s a subconscious act.

It’s hard to fight the familiar.

My point is this: ED is always there. Once ED is in your life, he’s in it for good, at least in my experience. Thoughts about food, my body, and how the two interact are with me every moment of the day. When I’m in the shower. When I’m making my kids breakfast. When we’re sitting at the table playing Candy Land. When we’re at the park. When I’m out with friends. When I’m rocking my toddler to sleep. When I’m having sex with my husband. When I’m working out. When I’m not working out. When I’m watching Netflix. When I’m asleep (yes, I have dreams about food and exercise).

When I’m trying to enjoy a rare morning of peace and quiet in the comfort of my own bed.

So many times since ED has entered my life, I’ve asked the question, When will it stop? When will I stop thinking about calories? When will I stop worrying about my body? When will I be able to spend a day without guilt or anxiety about the food I put in my mouth?

When will I be normal?
(There’s that word again.)

But what I think I’m finally starting to realize is this: It won’t. It won’t stop, because ED is like a radio with no off button and limited volume control.

So I have to be aware. I have to be vigilant. I have to get better at tuning him out. Because I’ve come to learn that the more I silence my own voice, the louder his becomes. The less I fill my life with the voices of others—friends, family, people who bring genuine joy and love into my life—the more pronounced his voice becomes.

I’ve learned that when it comes to fighting ED, you can’t become lazy. You can’t become complacent. Because when you do—the second you stop thinking for yourself—ED is there to fill the silence. 

So maybe for me, there is no “recovery.” Maybe there’s only management. Maybe there’s only letting go of any preconceived notions of “normal” and learning how to live within the soundtrack my life’s been set to.

ED plays some pretty damn catchy songs, and I’m still trying to teach myself how to separate the good songs from the bad ones.

But I’m getting there.

**********

By the way! It's been over two years since my last post, and if you haven't noticed (via the pic on my blog page or the fact that I referenced having THREE boys in this post), I am no longer a Mama to just my crazy twins. I am now a Mama to crazy twins and a crazy toddler. Say hello to Harvey Lew. He's sweet, funny, smart, and a little bundle of constant energy that is constantly trying to keep up with his big brothers (he does a pretty good job).

Cuddle time on the couch

Styled himself. Note the shoes are on the wrong feet and also too big.
(They're actually his big brother's.)

He doesn't know all his colors yet, but he can accurately
identify Mario ("mah-yo") and Luigi ("wee-wee-jee!")

Cutie <3