A Series of Mercies

A new post is up over on my new site!

Reflections on the Journey of Anorexia Recovery

It may be of good use to private Christians…to preserve in writing an account of the providences of God …the constant series of mercies they have experienced, especially those turns and changes which have made some days of their lives more remarkable. (Matthew Henry’s Commentary on the Whole Bible)

The idea for this blog came from the book of Numbers: a book about wanderings.

At first glance, Numbers 33 looks like a simple and boring list of places. It lists 42 march sites, way stations, resting places – where the Israelites camped after their escape from Egypt.

To us, of course, these places are mostly obscure and un-pronouncable. (Kibroth Hattaavah and Kehelathah, Makheloth and Hashmonah: say those names three times fast – go!) But these places were real, and they were part of God’s calculated campaign to bring the Israelites to the Promised Land.

To the Israelites, they probably seemed…

View original post 267 more words

New site!

Hi, guys!

From now on, I’ll do all my blogging over at aseriesofmercies.com. Come follow me there!

Thanks for reading!

It Was God the Whole Time

I’m migrating to a new blog shortly, as I mentioned in a previous blog post, because a stage of my life ended – the stage that prompted this original blog – when I put my dog Gracie down last July.

I wrote the following post on the day I said goodbye to her, and I think it’s finally time to share it:

---

By the time it was over, I felt like I’d swallowed a gallon of seawater, then cried it out drop by drop – I, the person who started out hating dogs.

I’m back!!

Hi, friends! Maybe all three of you who follow me have wondered where I went to.

Well, I’ve been here…just not writing.

But – I have a plan, and I’ll be migrating to a new blog starting this week, so stay tuned! I hope you’ll continue to read my blog and be encouraged by it – all three of you who follow me.

Haha!

Fringe (not the TV show)

Matthew 9:18-26, Mark 5:21-43

You are surrounded by a crush of people. A man has fallen at your feet in the dust and the heat. Everyone is sweaty. Your disciples are with you. As you listen to Jairus pleading for his daughter, others are calling to you and jostling forward. Maybe your disciples are trying to push people away from you to give you space. I am in this crowd, standing on tiptoe, straining to see. Suddenly you turn, and you say, “Who touched me?” But the look in your eyes and the tone of your voice are gentle, not aggravated or annoyed, as if to say, “I know you, but I want to see your face anyway. Don’t be afraid.” 

Mark 5:29 says the woman felt in her body that she was healed the moment she touched Jesus’ garment, yet – He sought her. He looked in her eyes, called her daughter. In that moment, she met Him. Her healing was not associated with the dusty hem of a garment, viewed briefly as she stretched her weak hand through a confusion of other hems and sandaled feet. Her healing forever would be associated with the person of Jesus. He wanted to see her face because then, she would see His face.

I love this story. I love what it says about Jesus. And I have identified with this woman; bleeding inside, looking desperately to other, powerless “physicians” that only gave more suffering. I believe that both the bleeding and the healing are gifts. How many physically healthy people were in the crowd, standing right next to Jesus, yet not reaching for Him? I am learning to see the bleeding in my own life as a gift that causes me to reach for Him, to press through the crowd, whatever it is that wants to block me from my Father.

I was physically sick when these verses first spoke to my heart; I felt powerless to reach what I knew would heal me. Then, I identified with the woman’s weakness and the bodily suffering. Now, I identify more with being in the crowd – I long to touch even the fringe of His cloak, but there is a pushing, loud, crazy crowd of thoughts in my mind. Call them distractions, fears, obsessions, even good things – but all of them are a mental throng that I am not strong enough to quiet.

But He knows the touch of faith, even the faintest brush of a fingertip on a hem. After all, He planted the faith in the first place. And I wonder if, when Jesus felt the touch of that bleeding woman, He smiled to himself because He had been waiting for it.

The Old Self Dies Hard

Imagine a nail. Imagine a mallet. Now imagine you are the nail, and the mallet.

The mallet smashes the nail into the wall. Then it bashes it again and again until the nail is as far into the wall as possible. But the mallet keeps banging and whaling that nail.

Take THAT! Maybe THIS will teach you not to be such a gluttonous idiot! Maybe after THIS you’ll do what I say! STAY IN LINE, you

UGLY!
FAT!
LAZY!
STUPID!

NAIL!

Well.

The poor nail isn’t going any further into the wall; all the bashing isn’t accomplishing anything except damaging the wall, probably.

I was seriously nasty to myself this week. I beat the tar out of Meredith for a few relatively minor incidents of emotional overeating.

That kind of self-bashing wears a person out. And it’s pretty demotivating.

Which is why this morning I had a slight…meltdown. Why go to work, when I’m such a loser?

So I just hit snooze. Over and over.
Snooze, you Loser. Snooze, you Fatty. Snooze, you immature, disgusting, attention-seeking, irresponsible, irrational, untalented BUM! 

I finally stopped after – wow…after two hours and 45 minutes, the final 15 minutes being the 15 AFTER I was supposed to be AT MY DESK. When I finally got up, I called my dad and cried.

When I asked my therapist about this episode, he told me he sees it all the time: “The Old Self dies hard,” he said.

It puts up a fight, when you’re so close to a breakthrough, to a true change.

Thinking about my Old Self brought a 2006 incident with eerily familiar undertones to mind:

“I was so mentally unstable I called work to say I would be late and I ended up not going. In the afternoon before work I binged – not as badly as I could have, which is at least some measure of comfort – and tried to purge. But sometimes I can’t make myself vomit, and this was one of those times. So I was just full of rage and started jamming my finger repeatedly down my throat in anger, even though it wasn’t doing anything. I tried to get ready for work – my eyes were swollen and bloodshot, snot was coming out of my nose, my jeans were falling off and I didn’t care.”

My Old Self is the one that gives no grace, punishes, abuses, hates and wallows.

The Old Self is a tenacious little devil because, frankly, self-hatred and pity parties are easy.

Getting up, shaking it off, taking a shower, and rolling into work – albeit a little late – is

pretty

stinkin’

HARD!

But – today I did it.

Give Them an Inch, They’ll Take a Dead Squirrel

“Does this look like the face of a dog who would eat all your coffee cake without leaving any for you?!”

I thought I was done having days like today. Yet I’m always surprised when they happen again, as if I honestly believed – and apparently I did – that I would never binge again,

never wake up nauseous from it the next morning,

never cringe at the thought of having to face the fact of my body by moving and dressing, never throw on a pair of baggy, wrinkled pants and a top without showering, putting on makeup or walking my dog, not caring if I’m late for work.

Never fight the urge to relieve the self-persecuting thoughts by leaving the office and going back to bed.

I’ve lived this exact day – and lived for it to be over – many, many times.

Last night my dog bagged another dead squirrel. At least, I think it had been a squirrel. It was more like a furry grey thing that had been flattened and flattened and flattened and flattened and then baked and rained on and baked and dried into jerky.

This I had managed to successfully avoid for a month, having mentally marked its place on my walk route. Despite several close calls, twice a day for weeks – weeks!! – I kept Gracie from nabbing this carcass. Until a few seconds of distraction last night, a little too much slack on the leash, and it was too late. Gracie won. I threw a tantrum on the sidewalk involving stamping, jumping and screaming. (The woman walking behind me was glad to catch up and pass us, I think.)

All I could do was stand there glowering and fuming and horrified as Gracie chewed and crunched. I did try batting her in the face with the poop bag, thinking maybe I could surprise her into dropping it. That didn’t work. (Only one thing has ever induced Gracie to drop a dead animal, and that was the opportunity to chase live geese up a hill. Those circumstances are hard to reproduce.)

Walking home – I promise this is coming full-circle! – hot, mad and slightly hoarse, I decided the squirrel incident was a good analogy for my struggles. (OK, so the metaphor might be slightly stretched, but that’s fitting for a person whose personality is prone to extremes.)

I worked so hard to keep Gracie away from that dead thing! Just like I worked so hard to keep myself  from slipping. And the longer I’ve gone without a slip, the more discouraging it is when I mess up – again.

I react to myself the same way I reacted to Gracie – with surprise, disgust, frustration, and anger – because I have an illusion that recovery means my eating disorder has magically disappeared. Really, though, it means I’ve by degrees learned to manage it, like walking my unpredictable, hyper, crazy dog. I face-planted a lot at the beginning, but now I’ve gotten to the point where I no longer hear that hilarious “who’s walking who” comment. AS OFTEN.

Dogs are still dogs and eating disorders are still eating disorders, even if I’m not being dragged around. Relax your guard, give them an inch – and they’ll take a dead squirrel.

Recovery for me simply means that even though this still sometimes happens, it does happen less.

“For while we are in this tent, we groan and are burdened, because we do not wish to be unclothed but to be clothed with our heavenly dwelling, so that what is mortal may be swallowed up by life.” 2 Corinthians 5:4

In Which Meredith Makes a Sandwich for Lunch

It should have been so easy.

I only needed oatmeal, peanut butter and a loaf of bread (I already had jelly at home), two or three pieces of fruit.

A few things, a few minutes max in Whole Foods. I thought.

It should have been easy, but it wasn’t.

Even after 6 years, this still happens to me.

I walk up to the fresh peanut butter grinders:

Eating Disorder: You shouldn’t eat peanut butter.

Me: But I like peanut butter, and it’s easy to fix.

Yeah, but you know how many calories it has…it’s way too calorie-dense! The amount you would have to eat to equal a substantial serving of protein would have way too many calories.

Fine…but what else could I eat? Maybe a frozen meal? That’s a quick lunch, and it’s not very overwhelming.

Well, yeah, but it’s a lot smaller when you take it out of the box, and you don’t want to spend your calories on that.

AND – look at how much sodium it has! Definitely put that back.

*Sigh* I guess I could get stuff to make a deli sandwich…

But that’s just too overwhelming. I’d have to buy too many things. I’ll just go back to the peanut butter and jelly. I don’t care if it has a lot of calories. It’s cheaper.

OK. 170 calories in 1/4 cup…DRY. Try to picture the amount of peanut butter 1/4 cup of dry nuts would make. Hardly ANY! There’s probably way more calories in that than the jarred kind. So the serving size would have twice as many calories!

After 6 years, recovery is still hard. Not all the time, of course. But sometimes the eating disorder sneaks up and surprises me. It can be like a fly buzzing tirelessly, insistently in my face. It’s hard to brush it away when my spirit is weary.

I spent at least 30 or 40 minutes in the store, traversing the aisles end to end multiple times, while racking my mental recipe index for acceptable lunches. Peanut butter and jelly? Frozen burrito? Pre-fixed salmon salad? Or – leave, and use what I already have at home, eggs and vegetables? No…need that for dinner… ED shot down every idea. Nothing was good enough for him.

Oh, right…because Nothing IS good enough for him.

God’s way out for me this day was a dear friend who works in the deli. She was deeply intent on constructing a great sandwich for a waiting customer. I felt the customer look at me when I walked up to the counter and said, “Bethany – I’m having a really hard time. I’ve been wandering around the store forever. I need you to just tell me what to make for lunch, and whatever you tell me, I’ll buy.”

She suggested sandwiches. Probably because she works in the deli and was making one.

O-KAY! I marched over to the bakery. Then I thought…rolls or sliced bread? Buns? Maybe hot dogs would be better?

It seems so silly in hindsight – what could be easier than a sandwich?! But at the time, I wanted to cry, I wanted the competing voices to stop, I wanted it to be easy so I could go home.

But I was never promised easy.

I was promised grace.

Epilogue: Meredith eventually chooses bread, lunch meat, and a tomato or two. At home, she finds a bell pepper, pickles and some hummus she’d forgotten about. The next day, she makes a sandwich and eats it for lunch.

And this time, she’s surprised by a good thing – how delicious her sandwich turns out to be.

The End

In Which Meredith Makes a Sandwich for Lunch

It should have been so easy.

I only needed oatmeal, peanut butter and a loaf of bread (I already had jelly at home), two or three pieces of fruit.

A few things, a few minutes max in Whole Foods. I thought.

It should have been easy, but it wasn’t.

Even after 6 years, this still happens to me.

I walk up to the fresh peanut butter grinders:

Eating Disorder: You shouldn’t eat peanut butter.

Me: But I like peanut butter, and it’s easy to fix.

Yeah, but you know how many calories it has…it’s way too calorie-dense! The amount you would have to eat to equal a substantial serving of protein would have way too many calories.

Fine…but what else could I eat? Maybe a frozen meal? That’s a quick lunch, and it’s not very overwhelming.

Well, yeah, but it’s a lot smaller when you take it out of the box, and you don’t want to spend your calories on that.

AND – look at how much sodium it has! Definitely put that back.

*Sigh* I guess I could get stuff to make a deli sandwich…

But that’s just too overwhelming. I’d have to buy too many things. I’ll just go back to the peanut butter and jelly. I don’t care if it has a lot of calories. It’s cheaper.

OK. 170 calories in 1/4 cup…DRY. Try to picture the amount of peanut butter 1/4 cup of dry nuts would make. Hardly ANY! There’s probably way more calories in that than the jarred kind. So the serving size would have twice as many calories!

After 6 years, recovery is still hard. Not all the time, of course. But sometimes the eating disorder sneaks up and surprises me. It can be like a fly buzzing tirelessly, insistently in my face. It’s hard to brush it away when my spirit is weary.

I spent at least 30 or 40 minutes in the store, traversing the aisles end to end multiple times, while racking my mental recipe index for acceptable lunches. Peanut butter and jelly? Frozen burrito? Pre-fixed salmon salad? Or – leave, and use what I already have at home, eggs and vegetables? No…need that for dinner… ED shot down every idea. Nothing was good enough for him.

Oh, right…because Nothing IS good enough for him.

God’s way out for me this day was a dear friend who works in the deli. She was deeply intent on constructing a great sandwich for a waiting customer. I felt the customer look at me when I walked up to the counter and said, “Bethany – I’m having a really hard time. I’ve been wandering around the store forever. I need you to just tell me what to make for lunch, and whatever you tell me, I’ll buy.”

She suggested sandwiches. Probably because she works in the deli and was making one.

O-KAY! I marched over to the bakery. Then I thought…rolls or sliced bread? Buns? Maybe hot dogs would be better?

It seems so silly in hindsight – what could be easier than a sandwich?! But at the time, I wanted to cry, I wanted the competing voices to stop, I wanted it to be easy so I could go home. 

But I was never promised easy.

I was promised grace.

 

Epilogue: Meredith eventually chooses bread, lunch meat, and a tomato or two. At home, she finds a bell pepper, pickles and some hummus she’d forgotten about. The next day, she makes a sandwich and eats it for lunch. 

And this time, she’s surprised by a good thing – how delicious her sandwich turns out to be. 

The End

A Flea

Yesterday I found a flea on Gracie.

A flea.

A flea.

One of the most annoying things ever. I had to go to the store and buy flea shampoo, prep the bathroom and torture my dog. For A. Single. Flea.

Gracie’s hatred of baths penetrates to the deepest core of her being. Therefore she is highly skilled in detecting when a bath is imminent.

I don’t have to say a word. She just knows. 

Her instinctual response: I must run!

See, I’m on the bed. I can’t take a bath right now. I’m really busy. 

After I chase her off the bed –

See, I’m in the closet. I really just need some alone time. Come back never. 

I roust her from the closet. She runs back to the bed. This we repeat several times until finally:

I must wedge myself into the farthest corner of the bed! Oh – there seems to be a headboard under my butt.  Am I stuck? OK…what’s my next move?

By the way, this is the dog – this dog who has to be dragged off the bed and into the bathtub using her collar and leash – this is the dog who has nearly killed me trying to plunge over a 5-foot bank into a sluggish trickle of putrescent runoff water. This is the dog who follows me into the bathroom every morning to sniff inside the tub.

Why she does this remains a mystery, but it is an integral part of our daily routine.

Anyway. Last night’s bath was particularly torturous for Gracie because the flea shampoo had to sit for 5 minutes before being rinsed out. This meant that I sat on the toilet seat across from her holding forth on the benefits of flea shampoo, and how much better she would feel when that one flea was dead, and how sometimes in life we have to do things we don’t like, but it builds character.

Gracie’s translation: I’m making you stand soaking wet in this strange ceramic container for no good reason. The end.

I may have attempted to give Gracie a mohawk while the shampoo soaked.

The floor…the floor…the floor is mere inches away…

Are we done yet? Please? Can I get out now? Please? Please?

Please? Please? Please? Please? Please?

When finally I released my hostage, she rampaged joyfully through the apartment!

I’m FREE!! I’m FREE!! 

She doused the bathroom! She dried herself off on the carpet! She did a flying leap over my knee (a trick she had hitherto refused to perform)!! She snapped tiny treats out of the air! Then she sprawled on the bed and didn’t move for hours, exhausted from the trauma of bath time.

That flea better be dead.