First Day of School

I survived my official first day back Gettysburg in almost a year. I managed to make it through each of my three classes today without much trouble, but now I am extremely exhausted and ready to sleep for a while (especially since my anxiety kept me up much of last night, which is just how you want to start a new semester at college...) 

Awkward first day of school picture.

Today didn't suck. Parts of it did, but as a whole, today was okay. 

I felt a great amount of shame walking into and sitting through my stats class and Introduction to Brain & Behavior, mostly because I should have completed both of these courses last fall. It is really hard for me to come to terms with having to retake them, even though I know those medical withdrawals last fall were for my health and will be best for me in the long run. Most of the time I can't see the forest for the trees, especially when it comes to my future and my recovery. 

(I know most would think retaking these courses would give me an advantage because the majority of the material--at least for the first two months--will be review. This is not the case! I was active in my eating disorder last fall, which means my brain was not processing information to long term memory as effectively as usual, thus resulting in my not remembering much of what I learned last year. I am in for a frustrating semester with these two courses... So please, stop telling me they should be easy for me.)

On Monday and Wednesday afternoons, I'm taking this course called "Writing through Conflict," taught by Hugh Martin, a contemporary author (read more about him here). It'll be an interesting course, for sure, albeit a ton of work. I think the hardest part of the course for me will be handling the stress of its workload, as well as the memories the professor's presence brings to my mind--he reminds me of someone I'd much rather forget. 

Academically, I think this semester will be okay. It'll be an intellectual challenge, but I think the hardest part will be acting against this perpetual exhaustion I've been feeling to get myself to class, get myself out of my apartment, get myself to do my work.

The most difficult part of this semester, by far, is going to be dealing with the loneliness/aloneness I've felt since arrival. Don't get me wrong--I have friends here. At least, I think I still do. Little by little, I've been realizing the friends I still have here, although it's going to take time before I feel loved and cared for and supported here again. It's going to take time to build my relationships back up. I know that, logically. 

I can't help but feel I don't have someone I can turn to here when I'm having a bad day. I feel like I'm fighting the war all on my own, which is a hard thing to do when it seems each battle is never-ending. I feel I can't articulate my needs to people here. I feel I can't share my emotions here. I feel I'm walking on such eggshells here. I thought that was because of knowing if things get bad again, I going home and not coming back, but I'm realizing it's not. 

In a conversation with someone today, I was told, "Congratulations on beating eating disorders!" I was a bit taken aback by this statement at first, until I thought about it some more. 

I think there is this expectation of people--my friends, professors, acquaintances--that once I'm back, I'm better. That ten months at home is enough to "fix me" or "make me feel better." I don't think it's anything uncommon, but most people believe mental illnesses like depression, anxiety, and eating disorders can be cured, when in reality, I don't think they can. 

My Brain & Behavior professor gave an example from the media in class today when talking about depression and I think it applies well here. He said someone (I forget the name) rich and famous was being interviewed on the radio and was asked how he could be depressed when he was so well-off. This person responded with a question, inquiring how someone similarly well-to-do could have asthma or cancer or any other more socially acceptable illness. 

My professor was trying to illustrate the idea of mental illness being a result of an inconsistency in the body, but I think his analogy was slightly incomplete. Mental illness is more accurately depicted as a chronic condition--asthma or allergies, for example. It's not something you can treat once and then it will go away. (Wouldn't it be nice if it worked that way?!) 

Eating disorders, like depression and like anxiety, are something you learn to live in spite of (Most people say you learn to live with these conditions, but they suck the life from you, so I think it is more accurate to say live in spite of these conditions). I am learning to live in spite of my disorders. I am earning my education in spite of my disorders. I am back at Gettysburg and got through my first day of classes in spite of my disorders. 

Let that be enough.

Unpacking

I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry. 

Those words have been my mantra tonight, at least for the past few hours. I've been on the verge of tears and/or in tears tonight. 

Today, I moved back to Gettysburg, one of my favorite places in the world. I should be happy and joyful and excited to be back. 

[I see you over there, "Should Statements," trying to distort my cognitive functioning...]

Tonight I am sad and anxious and lonely and in pain. Tonight I am an emotional mess. Tonight I am crying because my emotions are real and valid and important simply because I feel them (Thanks, Laura Jensen, for reminding me!). 

And I was thinking about these feelings in the shower and trying to get to the root of why I'm feeling this way already, after not even being here for 24 hours and I realized: it's because I'm not unpacked yet. 

I don't mean not literally unpacked, although I am not that kind of unpacked either, but settled here. I'm not in a routine. I don't officially have a treatment team here yet. I'm not sure what my life here looks like. 

I don't know what I look like here. 

Yes, I've been here before but it's completely different. I'm different. 

I guess it's similar to when you move and you're trying to fit all your old stuff into your new house (or apartment or dorm room). Trying to fit the old and the new together and figure out what it all looks like and how to make it work. 

I guess it's a little like that. 

Because right now I don't know what sort-of-recovered-and-still-in-recovery-Sarah looks like at Gettysburg because I've never been in this position here before. I suppose that maybe after my assessment tomorrow, maybe once more friends get here, maybe when classes start, I'll feel more settled and okay and unpacked. Who knows? 

Right now, I know I am having emotions that I don't like. I know I'm having emotions that I shouldn't be having right now. I know I don't think I can handle being back if I can't handle tonight. 

All of this is okay and valid and real because I am feeling it; so I am going to let myself feel it--all of it--every bit of pain and fear and anxiety and loneliness and sadness, every bit that thinks I can't handle this. 

And it's going to get better (and easier), right? 

In Times of Tragedy

There are nights when I stare at my computer screen trying to come up with some compilation of words to sum up what had happened that day, nights when I wish I could string letters together into profound thoughts to make things just a little better. Last night was one of those nights. 

There's a lot in life I just don't understand and that I probably will never understand. Tragedy is near the top of that list, and lately, my community has been forced to deal with too much of it, but yesterday, it directly hit my band family. 

A 2014 graduate of my high school and a member of my high school band tragically fell 100 feet to his death while hiking with his girlfriend. He was killed instantly. 

There are no words for this kind of accident. 

This kind of loss seems unreal. This kind of loss shakes everyone to the core. This kind of loss brings unfathomable pain. 

I only knew Zach for two years in high school, but he was a good kid--kind, polite, humorous, ambitious, smart, and talented. He was an important part of our band family and all of us, no matter how close we were to him, are mourning his loss. 

Last night, I watched from the stands as my marching band paid tribute to Zach by wearing high socks on the field. 

Last night, I held candles and friends as family, friends, and classmates gathered together around the flagpole at my high school for a vigil in remembrance of Zach. 

Last night, I prayed with my community for healing and comfort in this time of brokenness. 

And last night, I repeatedly asked myself "Why?"

Sometimes there are no answers for our questions. Sometimes there are no words to be said. Sometimes all we can do is remember the lives touched, the laughs shared, the memories made.

And sometimes it is simply enough to be with one another. 

Friends, you are not alone in your grief. A community of people stands beside you, mourning for the loss of one of our own. We all have heavy hearts and carry this burden with you.

You are not alone.

Sunday Sermons: Recalculating

Lately I've had a love/hate relationship with church. It seems every Sunday, I sit through the sermon and I leave feeling like I was smacked in the face with some important life truth. This Sunday was no exception, however, I also left questioning my plans to return to college in the fall. Pastor Jeff is doing an excellent job of challenging me in my faith. 

Today's sermon was based on Numbers 22:21-35: 

22 But God was very angry when he went, and the angel of the Lord stood in the road to oppose him. Balaam was riding on his donkey, and his two servants were with him. 23 When the donkey saw the angel of the Lord standing in the road with a drawn sword in his hand, it turned off the road into a field. Balaam beat it to get it back on the road.

24 Then the angel of the Lord stood in a narrow path through the vineyards, with walls on both sides. 25 When the donkey saw the angel of the Lord, it pressed close to the wall, crushing Balaam’s foot against it. So he beat the donkey again.

26 Then the angel of the Lord moved on ahead and stood in a narrow place where there was no room to turn, either to the right or to the left. 27 When the donkey saw the angel of the Lord, it lay down under Balaam, and he was angry and beat it with his staff. 28 Then the Lord opened the donkey’s mouth, and it said to Balaam, “What have I done to you to make you beat me these three times?”

29 Balaam answered the donkey, “You have made a fool of me! If only I had a sword in my hand, I would kill you right now.”

30 The donkey said to Balaam, “Am I not your own donkey, which you have always ridden, to this day? Have I been in the habit of doing this to you?”

“No,” he said.

31 Then the Lord opened Balaam’s eyes, and he saw the angel of the Lord standing in the road with his sword drawn. So he bowed low and fell facedown.

32 The angel of the Lord asked him, “Why have you beaten your donkey these three times? I have come here to oppose you because your path is a reckless one before me. 33 The donkey saw me and turned away from me these three times. If it had not turned away, I would certainly have killed you by now, but I would have spared it.”

34 Balaam said to the angel of the Lord, “I have sinned. I did not realize you were standing in the road to oppose me. Now if you are displeased, I will go back.”

35 The angel of the Lord said to Balaam, “Go with the men, but speak only what I tell you.” So Balaam went with Balak’s officials. 

Pastor Jeff began his sermon by talking about the conspiracy Mapquest, GoogleMaps, YahooMaps, and all other directional websites have to get him lost. (Personally, I just think it's a user error...) Then he spoke about how now, he has a GPS, but sometimes, he still gets lost and when he does, it passive-aggressively complains about the fact it has to recalculate. 

His question was: Is the exasperated recalculating voice our own when we have to shift direction in order to find where we need to go?

We all have goals for our lives--dreams we want to achieve educationally, professionally, personally--and even though we know the directions, we sometimes miss a step or turn or a new situation may arise, be it a health problem, a family problem, or just a door being shut. And in these moments, we find we need to recalculate and this may come with anger, frustration, sadness, annoyance and other emotions. 

In Numbers, Balaam has a special relationship with God. He's going to meed the king of Moab, but God is not super thrilled by that idea, so He sends an angel with a sword to stand in Balaam's path and for some reason only allows Balaam's donkey to see it. The donkey, seeing the danger, diverts the course in order to save Balaam from percieved danger three times, and Balaam, frustrated because he has to recalculate, hits his donkey each time for not staying on course. 

After the third time, the donkey says to Balaam, "WHY DO YOU KEEP DOING HITTING ME?! IT HURTS!" And the donkey and Balaam then argue, until God allows Balaam to see the angel, who explains why the donkey kept averting the course. 

Balaam, now realizing he maybe should not be going to see the kind of Moab, wisely decides he should go home rather than risk his life, but the angel encourages him to go on to meet with Balak, but only if he does what God says. 

Pastor Jeff then began to talk about the journey of faith and how it involves discernment. There are moments when life recalculates us, and in those moments, we need to ask, is God leading us or are we deciding where we go? We need to discern the difference between our voice and God's. We need to be actively figuring our which is which, following the one and leaving the other.

Especially when life seems to recalculate us. We need to turn to God and ask, "Now what?"

This process of discernment means paying attention to the divine messengers God places in our paths--our friends, teachers, mentors, maybe even our donkeys. Who is God asking us to pay attention to? What are the voices saying? Is God asking us to recalculate our plans for our lives or to go ahead with His blessing?

God is always speaking to us in the moments when life recalculates us, not passive aggressively, with exasperation, anger, frustration, or annoyance, but with a voice of love, challenge, and grace.

Ten months ago, my life recalculated me. It sent me home from my dream college to deal with my health and mental illnesses. It took me down a road I never thought I would be on at this point in my life. I still find myself exasperated and saddened I missed out on a semester and a half of college.  

In 22 days, I am planning on moving back to Gettysburg for what should be my junior year of school. And for the past four months or so, I have been having doubts about returning. Others in my life have also been having similar doubts, to which I've put on a brave front, but the truth is... I'm filled with so much anxiety and fear about returning that I'm not sure it's the right decision. If it was the right decision, I'd feel 100% confident in it, wouldn't I? 

And this morning, I was challenged to ask myself another question: Is God leading me or am I the one deciding where I go? 

I honestly don't know. If I look at the could-be messengers God has placed in my path, I am hearing mixed opinions. I'm listening to the voices but I don't know what they're saying to me. 

How do I know who God is speaking through? How do I know if God is telling me to go ahead with the journey I'm on or if He is asking me to recalculate my plans? What if I don't have enough faith to discern any of this? What if I misunderstand God's voice and make the wrong decision? 

I don't know. 

On Being a Recovery Blogger In Recovery

I am a recovery blogger.

I write about my recovery from my eating disorder and my other co-occurring conditions.

On my Facebook page, I share links about mental illnesses and recovery. I share body positive articles; I share articles about anxiety and depression recovery, about body image, about mental health in general.

I am an eating disorder and mental health activist.

I am an Assistant Editor and Writer for Libero Network, and I blog on occasion for The Project Heal.

I am a psychology major hoping to one day specialize in the treatment of eating disorders.

But I am also in recovery.

This means that sometimes, I am full of hypocrisy. Sometimes, the words I write, the articles I share, the advice I spew out of my mouth is full of truths I don't believe. Sometimes it's riddled with ED's deception goals to fake people into thinking everything is peachy. Sometimes it's all just bullshit.

Sometimes I have months like these past few and cannot for the life of me spin my experiences in a positive manner. Months where I take two trips to the emergency room and receive stitches for self-harm. Months where I accidentally drink too much in front of my entire extended family. Months where I am not even close to full meal plan compliance and my doctor threatens to not let me go back to school. Months where I struggle just as much to keep food down as I do to get food in my body.

I think I sometimes get so wrapped up in my role as advocate that I try to manage perceptions of me so I will seem more credible and trustworthy because I've been through the war. Who wants to wants to read a recovery blog by someone who's struggling? What kind of credibility do I have offering advice on healing when I'm not healed? How do I promote acceptance and recovery when I don't always want it for myself?

So instead of admitting I don't know all the answers, instead of admitting weakness, instead of sharing my struggles, I hide. I avoid coming to my blog and sharing my journey. I avoid writing posts and articles for other organizations. I avoid commenting on any articles I share on Facebook.

Here's the thing--the very nature of recovery means some days will be miserable and others will be amazing. It means some days are wired for struggle while others are pure bliss. It means there will be bad days and good days.

Sometimes my wanting to control my image perception as an advocate gets in the way of my recovery. It's hard to focus on recovery when you become obsessed with gaining blog followers and becoming a successful writer. It is harder to recover when you are consumed by your image, your credibility, your fears.

I originally began this blog for me, as a way to connect with others, process my journey, and chronicle my life. It was a way to achieve healing and peace within my own mind. I just wanted to write.

I think it's time I get back to that.

Thoughts on Shipwrecked in LA

For a while now, my Social Psych professor has been encouraging me to read Shipwrecked in LA by Christin Taylor, and after a few months of watching the book collect dust on my overcrowded bookshelves, I finally read it.

Taylor's book is centered mainly around her post-college life and her dreams of becoming a missionary within Hollywood's film industry. However, as is bound to happen, her plans for her future seem to come crashing down around her just a few months after moving to Hollywood. For the next few years, Taylor faces an overwhelming internal crisis as she attempts to discern her true purpose and self when everything had fallen apart. Taylor interlaces the novel with relevant and current research surrounding what is termed a shipwreck, which she summarized here:

Shipwreck is the metaphorical coming apart, the crash that rips through the very fabric of our identities. Everything we have thought about ourselves, our lives, our futures, even our faith, suddenly comes apart beneath us, and we are left scrambling, trying to put together any type of lifeboat to make it to shore. (p. 15)

Shipwrecked in LA your basic memoir, coming-of-age novel interspersed with some research about emerging adulthood.

The first few chapters took me some time to get into as her story seemed to be laced with the stereotypical trials of a PK (Preacher's Kid), or more accurately for Taylor, an MK (Missionary Kid): the entry into the "real world," no longer softened by the cocoon of the church. It was in those moments when I was tempted to give up reading the book altogether because I really didn't want to hear about how uncomfortable she was watching Hannibal with other film students or how she struggled to love on everyone in the irritated environment that is the world outside the church. My attitude is most likely a result of the fact these are some of the things that most irritate me about living in a Christian community. (Although to tell you the truth, I faced that same uncomfortableness with the drinking culture at college, although that was more to do with my being sheltered as a child and less to do with my faith.)

But I am glad I didn't put the book down after the first few chapters.

The research she cited in her book made continuing on worth it in itself, but her story became remarkably more similar to mine. Even though I was filled with envious frustration at Christin Taylor's ability to hold tightly onto her faith, I learned a great deal from her commentary on it. In chapter 13, she explained where faith comes from:

Faith is ultimately a response to a promise you consider trustworthy, to a sense of well being offered by an experience or person. We encounter something or someone, feel a sense of connection, wholeness, or relation, and faith is born to us and in that thing. (p. 83)

I found this description to be very powerful, especially since it gave me an operational way to define such an abstract contruct as faith. This definition fits, very easily, into what I feel I've been feeling I'm lacking when it comes to my faith.

Part 3 of Taylor's story is where I really started to relate to her. She talked about struggles she had with anxiety. She recounted a crying episode she had her freshman year of college saying, "I couldn't tell her what was wrong, because I didn't know. But I remember feeling frightened that I would 'burn her out'" (p. 108). She could have taken the words right out of my mouth in that sentence and how I feel about searching for recovery support. Another time she related envy over a longing to have a home, saying "I wanted to belong, fit in, be known, and not feel so outside the community, so wind-tossed by my emotions and fears" (p.114). Again, right out of my mouth--most days that's all I want.

Part 4 of Christin Taylor's story is entitled "Company for the Road," and it focused on the people who helped her rediscover herself, piece herself back together after her shipwreck. The research in this chapter and Taylor's story itself touched a raw spot in my heart, mainly because it is so difficult for me to allow others to share in my journey, but as research shows, it is so vital to not walk alone. In Part 5 of her book, Taylor illustrated how her shipwreck transformed her sense of self and allowed her to see the world in a new light.

In her epilogue, Taylor talked about the research of Sharon Daloz Parks:

Sharon Daloz Parks says that life does not end in the waters of a shipwreck. That seems to go without saying. Yet when we have encountered shipwreck, it is difficult to believe that there could be meaning, life, or faith beyond the wreckage. But as Parks says, "If we do survive shipwreck--if we wash up on a new shore, perceiving more adequately how life really is--there is, eventually, gladness." And this is where the beauty sets in.

We look up and discover a vital, more nuanced understanding of life. We are transformed. And though nothing can lessen the loss or pain of the shipwreck, somehow the existence of this pain within the new discovery revitalizes us and invades our beings with joy.

We do not want to go back to life before the shipwreck. We do not want to slip into that old way of looking at the world. As Parks says so eloquently, "We do not want to live in a less-adequate truth, a less viable sense of reality, an insufficient wisdom."

[...]

Parks says that the power of the experience of shipwreck in our lives lies precisely at the heart of our inability to imagine that we will ever come out of it. This makes sense. We have no idea what life will look like beyond our tragedies. As she puts it, "How could we know that even this might be survived?" Even if we are brave about our shipwrecks and meet the dissolution of our identities and faith with courage, we may still believe that nothing as good as what we have experienced waits for us on the other side. Life will just go on. We will survive. But then, when we discover that meaning and joy wait for us on the other side, we are amazed. 

In the end, our identities pull back together not only through suffering, but somehow, miraculously, through joy (p. 238 & 248).  

It was in those last 10 pages I found the most hope, in the idea that on the other side of the pain I am experiencing right now, there is joy and meaning and beauty. And in the idea that it is completely normal not to see life, meaning, or faith beyond the wreckage of my life right now.

As I'm writing this, I am able to notice the judgments that come through my head about Christin Taylor's story, judgments that want to minimize her pain and her shipwreck, as well as judgements about myself for not holding onto my faith as tightly as she had. I'm finding I need to remind myself that everyone fights hard battles and theirs are just as hard for them as mine are for me. But it also reveals another truth, that everyone has their stuff, everyone has their shipwrecks, everyone has imperfect lives. I am not alone in that.

As frustrating as her book was to read sometimes, I got hope out of it. In the ED world, especially among those who have recovered, people say that when you recover, you become so much stronger and life is better on the other side. I don't know if I've ever fully believed that. Taylor takes her story and her research and shows that in a completely different situation, life is, in fact, better on the other side of the pain and the struggle. Taylor's book ultimately made me feel less alone, to read her story and the research to see that even in different circumstances, others have felt the same as I do. It made me feel hopeful. It makes me willing to try to believe that one day, I will reach the other side of this. 

Scars (Possible TW)

Today I had a day off from all my responsibilities for the first time since class began at the beginning of June. My parents and I traveled to Michigan to celebrate one of my favorite holidays with extended family. Overall, it was quite an enjoyable day, and I walked away blessed by time in fellowship with my family and my soul reenergized by the love they have for me. 

It was also a day filled with internal chaos and struggle, some minor food anxieties as can be expected around any holiday, but mostly, my struggles had to do with body image, although not in the way one might expect. 

My body is covered in scars. 

Some of these scars are from old injuries when I was a child--from falling over the fence surrounding the portion of our yard my rabbits played in, from old softball injuries when I scraped half my leg open sliding into a base, and of course, from mosquito bites (and poison ivy!) that I could not keep myself from scratching. But those are never the ones people notice when they look at me. People notice the scars on my shoulder, the scars that blanket my forearm and wrist, and now, the newly healed ones on my thigh, which are not always completely hidden by whatever shorts I choose to wear. 

These scars all have stories, although there are so many I cannot always remember them. But I can point out the ones from when my longtime best friend and I had our first huge fight, which led to the demise of our friendship. I know which ones came from desperate efforts to feel something when it seemed impossible to feel anything at all. I know which ones were half-hearted attempts to end my life and which were whole-hearted attempts to keep myself alive. I know which ones grounded me and silenced the voices and memories when they all came on too strong. 

But none of these are stories I want to share when someone asks what happened to me. And after all these years, I still freeze whenever someone asks about my scars. Sometimes I can muster out an excuse about a biking accident or a pet or lately, about an accident at work, but usually I just shrug off the questions, quietly say, "Nothing," and change the subject. 

Every move I made this weekend was guided by how I could best make my scars invisible to my family. Not once did I feel comfortable in my skin, not once did I relax into the safety and support I was enveloped in while with my relatives. It turns out the only person to ask about them was my 12-year-old cousin, although I'm sure he was not the only one who noticed my scarred skin. 

I have a hard time admitting that I struggle with self-harm. It's something I would rather avoid talking about because I feel a great deal of shame, embarassment, and guilt around it. I feel like everyone hears that and recklessly judges who I am based off lies and stigma they have bought into about people who self-harm. I feel like when people see my scars, they see me as my scars and not as a person.

I've heard it said that scars are battle wounds, that they remind us where we've been or how far we've come; people say that scars show strength and survivial. In the Tumblr community, people refer to self-harm scars as beautiful because they resent the struggle and the overcoming of something all-consuming. 

My scars are the farthest thing from strength and beauty. My scars are hideous reminders that the past is indeed real and that my life is not something beautiful. My scars show weakness and doubt. They make me ugly and imperfect, and I am reminded of that every time I run my fingers over the braille lines  I have etched into my skin and read the stories I carved into myself. My scars make me damaged goods for all eternity. 

Once something is damaged, it can't become beautiful again. It's always going to have remnants of the thing that damaged it, no matter how much effort is made to repair it. My scars damaged me, damaged my life. And it's never going to be beautiful and undamaged again, no matter how much work is put into repairing it. 

So why try to make something beautiful when it will always remain scarred?