Treats

So, pretty much, vacationing = eating whatever you want, right? No? Oh, well for us it did! Hannah, Will (LOL) and I laughed and played, yes, but we also ate. Often and well. It was glorious.

I work at a rec centre. Translation: one of the healthiest work environments ever. The gym is open from 5am-12am, and it is one of the nicest gyms in the world. I am surrounded by fit people, and those who are not fit are aspiring to be. It is all quite motivational and inspiring, not to mention the fact that I have virtually no excuses not to work out and be my best. The truth is, I love my runs, and I love sweating, and I love feeling good about myself. Especially in the past 8 months as I have been learning to balance good physical health with good mental health. Part of working out means, for me, not eating a lot of junk food, but I swear, sometimes the 13 year old in me calls out begging for swedish fish, chocolate bars, pop, and chips. I don't often indulge, but this time, I did...

And basically that is how it was. Did we have self control...mmm, kind of. But there was a lot of Starbucks-ing and getting ice cream in Disneyland and there was an easter egg hunt. I think the weakness came during main meals. Of course, when you are staying in a hotel for 6 days you are bound to eat out. A lot. We frequented the Hard Rock in Hollywood as if we were locals, Denny’s knew us by name, and McCafe saw us bright and early more than once. It was so nice not to do dishes and to be served and sit down after long days of walking and exploring (please don’t feel sorry for us, though!). I have never been one to order drinks other than water and the occasional diet pepsi, but this time I did. I had lots and lots of pink drinks. And I don’t regret it at all.

It was 6 days of living. LIVING. Enjoying every second, every bite, every sip, and every giggle. It isn’t realistic to enjoy as many treats as we did in 6 days on a daily basis, but for the time being we sure enjoyed it.

And you know what, my friends? Never, not even once, did I consider throwing up. What a sweet relief that was.

Elizabeth Gilbert wrote a book called Eat, Pray, Love. It is a diary/documentation/memoir of her year traveling in Italy, India, and Indonesia. In Italy, she recovers from a broken heart, learns to speak Italian, and she learns how to eat. I think she even gained 30 pounds. But she didn’t care, because she was nourishing herself. And I don’t mean drowning her sorrows in junk food; I mean nourishing her soul beginning with her body. I have no intensions of gaining 30 pounds, but I do intend to learn from Liz. I feel like the next step in my healing journey is learning to eat. Maybe I am already on my way.

I love to eat. You probably do, too. It is just human of us. Eating ice cream at Disneyland is the best. I hope you do it one day soon.

Enjoy the weekend, friends. : )

~C~

The On-Set of a Set-Back

I can't say that my life has been overly stressful these last few months. Sure, we all hit those jolting bumps in the road that make us want to quit this game called life and run away, but on a stress scale from 1-10, I would say I have been averaging 2-6. (For the record, spring break tipped the scales). I know I am fortunate.

I've talked a bit about how boredom and loneliness have, in the past, triggered my need to control what I eat, when I eat it, and if I keep it down. One more thing, though? S.T.R.E.S.S. Big Time. I could probably eat a house or a horse on those days where stress hormones invade my blood stream.

Here is what is going to happen in my life in the next 5 weeks: First, I will need to wrap up the Summer 2010 planning I have been doing for the past month as a specialty camp coordinator for the City of Abbotsford. This needs to be signed and sealed by Friday. Then I will work all weekend. Then I will leave for California (!) next week and RELAX! Then I will come back to B.C., pack up my precious, beloved home, bid Tanya goodbye and move out. Where? I haven't got my ducks in a row yet, but things are working out so far and I have a couple leads.

The fact that I don't know where I am going to live is something that would have pushed me over the edge at any point in the past few years. I am a planner, and I like life to be organized and predictable. When I face challenges, such as putting my trust and faith into something that I can't see, you could say that some internal freaking out occurs. I like to pretend that I am calm and have everything under control, but the pounding head aches and sleepless night attest to the opposite.

Bulimia is a very manipulative, controlling disorder, and I used to rely on it as a coping mechanism to get me through stressful times. So what does the new-and-improved Christina do for the next 5 weeks as I search for a safe, clean and quiet home in which to dwell? Well, I will keep focused on the positive things in life. I will smile often and listen to my summer playlist on iTunes. I will get plenty of sleep and make quiet time a priority. Instead of binging, I will go to the market and choose the brightest, juiciest, most colourful fruit and go crazy eating it. Instead of throwing up I will continue training to run further, faster, and harder. And lastly, instead of just plain old worrying, I will exercise blind faith and anticipate the story this will turn into. Because the bottom line is, I won't be homeless.

I'm not one to be doling out advice on trust and stress, but it would be kind of cool if we could all try letting go of something in our lives that is weighing us down. I don't know what that would look like for you, but for me it is learning that worry is useless and wasteful in times like these.

My fellow British Columbians...how GREAT was the 2o degree weather today? Now that in itself is something to smile about! Summer is just around the bend, my friends!

~C~

Follow-Up

So, I didn't tell her. I honestly thought I would. But it just didn't come up, and didn't even have a chance to. I got to the doctors office slightly late, which isn't like me, because I was chatting with my boss and lost track of the time. By the time I got there, I guess I had kind of missed my appointment and the receptionist had put someone else ahead of me (fair enough!). While I waited for my turn, I played the brick breaker ping pong-ish game on my blackberry and contemplated how calm I was. Finally they called my name, and off I went to a little room. Then I met my new doctor. She seemed all business at first, a character trait I have never been totally comfortable with (being the emotionally-ruled person that I am), but once I opened up and started talking to her she seemed to adapt quickly to my needs. Somewhere in my head I was aware of the fact that I should bring up the bulimia, but what basically happened in my allotted 20 minutes is that we had to sort through my health issues and make a game plan. She gave me a new prescription for my inhaler (one with steroids---yikes!) and antibiotics because apparently my head aches, "hot flashes" (fevers) and phlegmy coughing (sorry, too many details!) are due to a lung infection. Then she ordered blood work, an x-ray, and a respiratory test at ARH. Then she said goodbye, that it was nice to meet me, and told me to make an appointment for next Thursday.

So....maybe next week? I'm not worried. It will come up in due time.

Going to the doctor isn't the nerve-wracking experience it once was. I found comfort rather than alarm in her gentle concern, and I am happy that there are such bright people out there who know how to care for us!

Thanks, Doc!

~C~

What's Up, Doc?

Tomorrow I have to go to the doctor. It is a doctor/patient consultation with a brand new doctor here in Abbotsford. I haven't been able to find a family physician since my paediatrician (MD) retired 3 years ago. It's been walk in clinics all the way for me, baby. And it's just not cutting it anymore.

I don't have any life-threatening health issues, but I have had some problems in the past few years including an auto-immune disorder and some lung restrictions. It isn't fun, and it isn't very effective to be seeing different clinic doctors every few months who have no idea who you are. I am excited to be going in for some testing and hoping to get to the bottom of some questions I have been having.

Here's the thing, though. My mom and I were chatting on Sunday night, and she really thinks I need to tell the new doctor about my past struggle with bulimia. For me, that is really scary. I can tell you guys, sure, but to tell a professional is a different story. I am so worried that she is going to look at me like I belong in the looney bin, or like I am not strong. And one day if I need a doctors note to travel or be part of some organization, I don't want her to say that I have psychological issues and need to be monitored or something. I know it's a long shot since I have been in the healing process for some time now, but it is still a scary thought.

On the other hand, bulimia isn't funny and it isn't healthy and who knows what kind of unseen damages I have caused my body. It makes me sad, really. Sometimes I look in the mirror and have to apologize for the ways I have hurt myself.

In the end, I will probably mention it to her. She has hopefully been trained to be somewhat sympathetic and won't judge me, but it is still pretty hard. So stay tuned; I will let you know what my decision was and how the kind doctor handled it!

~C~

Lean On Me

I would like to recognize some incredible women in my life who have shown great courage, bravery, and strength in the months since I have opened this blog. Women who, in their own words and their own ways, have opened up about their struggles with bulimia or other related eating disorders. It doesn’t matter what details are encased in each story; the struggle they face, and have faced, is enough to bring me to tears. I am broken for each one, although I feel hope and excitement for the road ahead. For all of us.

It’s no secret that eating disorders are fairly taboo in our society, which is crazy considering how many people struggle to have a healthy relationship with food. Sure, there are other things that no one wants to talk about, but I would sure like to see the veil lifted and people more open to talk about bulimia and anorexia. I have had some recent conversations with people who start out brave and are able to use the word ‘bulimic’, but as soon as it comes to the throwing up part, it is usually referred to as “that”. As in, “Yeah, I knew someone who did that”. I don’t know why this is, but I really, really hope it changes. At least in the circles I run in. Let’s just be open!

Anyways, back to these women. If I was gonna pay individual tribute to each one of them, I would change their names (for privacy sake!) to Brave, Adored, Cherished, Beautiful, Lovely, and Wonderful. It has been amazing to realize this support system exists; one where I can be honest and have someone be equally (or even more so) honest back. It’s not to discredit my family and friends who talk to me about my struggles at all, but there is something so sincere about talking to others who know the ins and outs of having an eating disorder who really, truly “get” what you are going through. I am so grateful. And for the record, I don’t just appreciate the stories about eating disorders. Many of you have shared stories about other struggles you have faced, and each one has humbled me and been locked away in my heart. I often draw on the strength of you guys; you faithful readers who have blessed my socks off.

So I say, keep the stories coming, you guys! If you’re on facebook, feel free to email. And if not, we can connect through the ‘comments’ page. This is an incredibly cheesy way to wrap up a post, but since you know me so well, I am going to go for it anyways. Cheese should have been my middle name!

Sometimes in our lives we all have pain

We all have sorrow

But if we are wise

We know that there's always tomorrow

Lean on me, when you're not strong

And I'll be your friend

I'll help you carry on

For it won't be long

'Til I'm gonna need

Somebody to lean on

~C~

Consequences

I used to really, really fear God. And my parents. And my teachers. And my leaders. And it is because for most of my life, I did not understand the difference between consequences and punishment. Up until a few years ago, I thought they were the same thing. You do something wrong, you get punished. I was frequently grounded as a teenager for the usual kid stuff; the breaking curfew and having a bad attitude kind of thing, and I do believe that getting grounded is a punishment. However, getting charged interest on a credit card you never pay off is not exactly a punishment at that point; it becomes a consequence. For the last few years as I have dug a little deeper into my psyche, I have come to learn that I don’t like consequence OR punishment. And who can blame me? I bet you don’t either.

My housemate is a pretty neat girl. I am really, really blessed to have lived with her for the past 24 months. In all our time living together and being friends, we have only had one “fight”. And it wasn’t even a fight. It was her disagreeing with me. To make a long story short, I had made plans with my Lama for the following day, and my Lama kind of bailed. I am sure she had a good reason, like gardening or pressure washing or something, but I took it personally and was really bummed. Tanya had overheard my conversation and came into my room after and asked me what was wrong. When I told her Lama bailed on me, she reminded me that I had kind of bailed on someone that very night. That was pretty embarrassing. It opened this whole can of worms, and my housemate proceeded to remind me of all the times I start something and don’t finish or duck out of consequences. I was kind of mad at her, but the wheels started turning.

Later that week I was visiting a couple in my church who are very, very dear to me. They have walked me through some yucky things in life and know me quite well, so I asked them if what my housemate said about me is accurate. They said...yes.

I have come to learn that bulimics are often like this; we are experts at avoiding consequences and punishment. Here is a good example: We indulge ourselves, overeat, and soon after become fearful of becoming fat. Instead of accepting that, we throw up to avoid the weight-gain, therefore avoiding the consequence. And since we are also afraid of punishment, we hide our behavior from others. It is a horrible, unsettling, tricky cycle.

When I first started blogging I mentioned freedom a few times. I know this sounds weird, but it has been so wonderful learning how to accept consequences these past few months. Realizing that I can forgive myself for making mistakes instead of frantically trying to “undo” them is such a relief. I am not scared of cheese cake anymore. Or popcorn. This freedom has even followed me into the workplace, and if my boss asks to speaks to me, I am not scared anymore of getting fired. I have learned that making mistakes makes me human, and with certain choices comes consequence. But it doesn’t have to be a bad thing. I am beginning to see that we cannot grow without being corrected sometimes, and I am just grateful that I have people in my life who care enough about me to help me break out of the cocoon I spent years building. I am learning to fly.

~C~

Letters to My Father

I was a huge fan of the counseling centre at my high school. I buddied up with the weary and over-booked guidance counselors, and alternated between my roles as a student with issues to a student who was freakishly empathetic and could usually relate to their weariness and heart-aches. I could often be found there in those counseling offices, instead of in class and even instead of with my friends during lunch and nutrition break. It was a soothing, quiet, comfortable place, as burdened as the atmosphere was with the troubles of hormonal teenagers. After I graduated I realized that counseling costs a pretty penny in the real world, and as much as I would have loved to have a safe place in which to pour my heart out to professionals, my empty wallet didn't allow for that luxury.

In 2006 one of my best friends gently talked me into going back to counseling after suspecting that things were worse than she thought on the whole bulimia front. It's not that I was resistant, but I was afraid of being labeled forever as a failure of some sort; someone who couldn't stand on her own two feet. I don't know what had changed for me, where this prejudice had come from, especially considering how gung-ho I had been about counseling in the past. Nevertheless, off I went, 20 years old and in real, live counseling for what felt like the first time. My counselor, who I will call Julia, was really, really young. The reason I could afford her was because she was a student at Trinity Western University with ACTS Seminary and charged at a discount rate since she was technically still learning. Julia and I spent a few weeks scratching at the surface of some basic struggles; valid yet mediocre issues that we needed to get out of the way.

It was probably about 3 weeks into my time in counseling that the subject of my biological father came up. There was so, so, so much to sort through where he was concerned, and I didn't know where to begin. Julia and I began by making a family tree and she helped me put members of my family in their respective places. There was one weird thing that came up, though: to save my life I could not think of the names of my paternal aunts and uncles or my grandparents, and I did not (do not) even know how many cousins I have. When I looked blankly at Julia she asked me if this surprised me, and I said yes. I guess I felt this huge void in that moment, this crazy feeling of detachment and distance from the very people I share a blood line with. Julia started to dig a little deeper, and whether it was her intention or not, I began to feel like half an orphan. It made me angry and sad and confused all at the same time.

For the record, my dad and I were fairly close for most of my life. Sunday was "dad day" and he bought me toys and we went for bike rides and stuff like that, and there were some happy times in the mix of divorce and custody and child support and fear. It wasn't until I kind of "grew out" of dad day and started forming my own ideas and perceptions that it occured to me that we were not at close as I thought. I have always known that my father loved (loves?) me, which is more than some kids can say. But in the moments where I desperately longed for a daddy to shelter and protect his little girl, I felt a loss. There was so much inconsistency and disappointment in our relationship that it caused a lot of distrust between us and I always set us both up for failure: Neither of us could seem to come through for the other. He was always late (if he even showed up), and I was always too chubby. I was super, duper sensitive, so when I would sing along to the radio and he would turn up the volume, I automatically projected that as him believing I had a terrible singing voice. I thought he was embarrassed of me.

Coming back to counseling and Julia, she would send me away at the end of each session with homework to think about. One week the task she set in front of me was both daunting and exciting all at the same time. She simply asked me to write this man a letter. The man who I both adored and feared. It started with your basic 3 point essay: thesis, intro, p1, p2, p3, conclusion, and was actually a lot of fun. The Letter grew and grew until it was probably about 6 pages long and it was stuffed full of what I consider grace. There were memories in The Letter, both good and bad, as well as deeply rooted thoughts and emotions. The most important part, though, was where I forgave him. My father never beat me or abused me the way some kids go through, and I do believe he loved me the best he could, but there were still things that needed to be forgiven and I felt good letting go of those things. The Letter brought about freedom, and not just for me. When I read it to my mom and younger brother they both cried their eyes out and I think it helped them. Here is the thing, though: that letter was supposed to be a healing exercise and that is it. It was never my intention to send it to him. But I did. And I still to this day honestly don't know whether that was a good choice or bad.

The Letter was mailed in July 2006. At that point I hadn't spoken to my father in well over a year. The silence continued until that September when a letter arrived via Express Post to my mom's house. It was from him. His Letter was pretty brutal. He was mad. Really, really mad. It stated, "[...] I can only hope that the Jesus you claim to know is more forgiving and understanding than you [...] Have a nice life [...] From, Asshole". There were other things in his letter not worth repeating. I was embarrassed for pouring my heart out to him and receiving such a harsh reply, but I didn't cry. Instead, the binge/purge cycle intensified as I desperately clung to the hope that I am loved. I am loved. I am loved.

I never heard from that man again. Ironically, I will miss him until the day I die.

It took me a long, long time to stop throwing myself under the bus and reliving the repercussions of The Letter(s). I don't know what percentage of the times I over-ate and then puked were due to him, and my intention is not to blame him in any way. I am 100% responsible for my choices and behavior, and I am thankful that I even had a father to give me life and care for my needs for so many years. But it makes me think: would it have been better to have been raised solely by Mom and Gramma? Would I still have struggled through half a decade with an eating disorder had it not been for this man? I wrote this post not only for you readers this time, but also as a way to evaluate the situation. It's been awhile since I visited this topic.

So counseling sure opens a can of worms as you can see. The crazy thing is that over the course of 3 or 4 months in counseling, bulimia did not come up even once! Oh, denial. My time with Julia was only the beginning of a long road to self-discovery, healing and mistakes. But I guess in the end I don't regret writing/sending The Letter. I have to trust that my Daddy (in my heart) knows best and has orchestrated this all for the sake of healing and peace. And I have certainly got my share of love. Yes I do.

~C~

KENYA

Hey everyone! Today I am going to talk about Africa. A lot of you have been forced into hearing endless Africa stories from yours truly, and this post is no exception. Yes, Africa was a grand adventure, from my first trip to Kenya in 2005 to my last trip to South Africa in 2007/2008, but the reason I am diving into this topic is because I kind of promised I would. My post entitled Genesis talks about how I left B.C. for Africa thinking that being overseas might be the "cure" for bulimia. I can tell you that it wasn't.

I was 20 years old when I went to Africa for the first time. I was alone, I was excited, and I was naive. Bulimia was a part of my life, yes, but from what I remember, it wasn't a huge giant at that time. The escape to a new culture was probably a good distraction from the binge/purge cycle I had been clinging to, and I am sure it was a sweet relief to live life without that burden for those weeks and months. Kenya was amazing, and I was busy and happy while I was there. I missed home terribly some days, and I know I cried a lot, but I had a very, very "special friend" who we shall call Lucas, and he was always there for me. Lucas speaks perfect English, has an amazing heart for children and ministry, and kept me entertained during my time there. I'd call him someone who knows me best on this earth, and yet he has no idea what I struggled with. My eating disorder was so fresh and new to me, not only did I not understand it at all, but I had no way to explain it to someone else, even Lucas. A month or two into my time there, I began to hear those voices. The same ones who spoke to me in B.C. The ones who told me I wasn't good enough, wasn't thin enough, wasn't pretty enough. And despite being right smack in the middle of my dream, I believed them. Can we talk for a second about the sewage system in Mombasa, Kenya? To be more specific, I lived on a compound in a town called Diani Beach, Ukunda. That's right people, I lived on the freaking Indian Ocean. It was sweet. I bring up the sewage system situation because it doesn't work very well for a girl with severe insecurities to throw up food into a toilet that may or may not flush for several days. Heck, I was lucky to even have a toilet! And can we also talk about the guilt that follows when you throw up food that thousands of your neighbours would have sold a limb to eat? Holy smokes, did I ever feel like the crappiest person on earth. Even now as I write this my face is hot and I am embarrassed but I am going to keep on writing. Barlow Girl has a song called Mirror that I am now going to quote:

Mirror, Mirror on the wall,

Have I got it?

'Cause Mirror you've always told me who I am

I'm finding it's not easy to be perfect

So sorry you won't define me

Sorry you don't own me

.

Who are you to tell me

That I'm less than what I should be?

.

Who are you? Who are you?

I don't need to listen

To the list of things I should do

I won't try, I won't try

.

Some of you out there still might not understand the battle that rages in the mind and body of a bulimic. It is simultaneously mental and physical, bringing you down from every angle. I ate traditional African food, pilau and ugali, and I loved it. But I didn't love myself enough to keep it down. I have searched high and low for a pattern to my strange behaviors over the past 5 or 6 years and have come up almost empty-handed. But there are two fairly obvious triggers that make me want to eat and then dispose of my caloric intake. They are boredom and loneliness. As previously mentioned, Lucas was my special friend. He kept me company and taught me the ropes around our city and the compound. He listened to me and let me cry and made me laugh. But let's be honest here...he is a boy. That isn't the same thing as having a girl friend to talk to. I'm not saying that my behavior would have been any different in Africa if I had had a best girl friend there to talk to, because obviously I have close friends here in Canada and continued to be ruled by a disease, but I do think it would have helped to have some more support.

.

In Kenya, when I felt bored or lonely, I would hop on a matatu (bus/van) and head into town to go to Nakumat. Nakumat is wonderful. It is Africa's version of Walmart. Nakumat was my friend, because it sold "American Food", as my friends called it, and of course I was all about the American Food. Instead of heading to an Internet cafe and emailing or calling my Canadian besties, I would buy American Food, take a matatu back to Diani Beach, and eat. Then I would wait for the guilt to set in. And it always did. I didn't always throw up, but even the times I did make me wish so badly in this moment that I can take them back.

.

I just want to take a moment to say, to those of you who don't know me as well, that I went to Africa to be a mommy, sister, and friend to the beautiful people who live there. I basked in my role as baby rocker, tummy tickler, and shoulder to cry on. When I previewed this post, I realized again how awfully selfish bulimia is, and it might sound to you that all I ever did there in Kenya was obsess over food and body image, but that isn't true. I wrote this because I wanted you to know that even though I was far, far away in a strange land, my bad habits caught up with me. But those bad habits, in no way, shape, or form, took away from the fact that every single micro-moment spend there was filled with overwhelming love, compassion, hope, and joy.

.

Smile...

.

~C~

Point Five

Today is kind of an important one...it marks a day I never thought I'd see. I used to think about this day and wonder what it would be like to be here, but it's better than I thought. Today, my friends, is my 6 month anniversary. Not 6 months since I started seeing someone. Not 6 months since I received a promotion or won a major award. It is simply this: It's been 183 days since I decided to change my life. I may not remember the first time I threw up, but I certainly remember the last. Last, last, last. Ever. By choice, I mean. One day I may be in my first (or is it second?) trimester puking my guts out, but at least I will know it's for a good cause! ; )



The past 183 days have been tricky. It has been a roller coaster ride (wow, totally over-used metaphor!) and it hasn't been easy. I actually can't define for you what made me stop this time, how it was different from the countless other occasions in which I vowed to change my way of life. And to you faithful readers, you WILL be hearing about those countless other occasions. ; ) All I can tell you today is that it IS different. I have felt it in my heart, in my spirit, in my soul for a long time now.



I was going to hold off on this story for a later date, towards the end of my adventures in blogging, but I think I am going to go ahead and tell you about August 18th, 2009. I have a beautiful friend named Tamara who came into my life in a very quick, real, and random way last spring. We knew each other a total of about 45 minutes before we made coffee plans. And about 20 minutes into our coffee date, it was decided that she would be staying with me for an indefinite amount of time. It was an answer to prayer. I needed her in my life. She needed me in hers. I had no idea at that point though how badly I needed her. I was just pretty thrilled to get to know her. Our friendship solidified and we bonded over some chaotic moments while she packed to go tree planting and I prepared for a summer of leading thousands of little monkeys through camp. All too soon, Tamara left for Northern Alberta to plant the trees that are currently providing us with crisp, clean oxygen.

While she was away, I turned 25. It felt to me like all the years leading up to 25 were my "kid years", and that was my #1 excuse for having an eating disorder. Before my birthday, I decided I would really, really, really try this time to stop. Unfortunately, that didn't exactly happen and I struggled through the summer. I actually think that summer was one of the lowest points for me. I was in great pain and did my best to hide that as I went about the bright, sunny days trying to enjoy the wonders of July and August in British Columbia. But I can see now that I had to feel that pain. I had to really want it to go away. And I knew exactly how to make a change. I was just too scared, though.

To my great delight, Tamara returned to me on August 18th, 2009. 183 days ago. When I met her at the airport, it was like welcoming home a sister. As we attempted to put a dent in all the catching up we had to do, a knot started to form in my stomach. We were busy discussing the inevitable summer flings, the most dominant bits and pieces of news, and it hit me: I had to tell this girl my secret. That night we collapsed, exhausted, on my bed (the comfiest, softest, most snugly bed in the world) and all the good stuff started to come out. It was like we had to muddle through the 'news' before we could discuss our hearts. I was shaking, but it wasn't as if this was the first time I had made this particular confession. On the contrary, it was probably the hundredth (or something like that). But like I said before, something was just different: I was finally ready. One of us cried. Maybe we both did. The details are blurry. But I do remember being curled up in a little ball, feeling safe and accepted and loved. And do you know what else? I felt secure. That was something I hadn't felt in a long, long time. She played with my hair. She rubbed my back. She told me some struggles of her own, and drove home the point that we are all in this together. I was no longer alone.

2 or 3 days later I almost fell off the wagon. I was feeling ridiculously guilty for going with Tamara to McDonald's. I had promised to tell her if and when I felt like throwing up, so I awkwardly blurted it out as we got back to my house. She marched me to my bed, made me get under the covers (even though August was boiling hot!) and she sat beside me and prayed for me. For strength. For love. For hope. And then she told me, "You. Don't even think about getting out of this bed until you KNOW you are not going to throw up. Stay. Here." And like an obedient child, I did. And to throw in another cliche, the rest is history!



The past 183 days have been hard, but that is a story for another time. For now, I am celebrating my success. It may be even more exciting than the 2010 Winter Games (although I am pretty excited about that, too!).



I visited New York in 2005 and fell in love with the musical 'Wicked'. Elphaba, the Wicked Witch of the West, is my favorite character, and she is quite inspiring! While speaking (singing!) to Glinda, the Good Witch, she proclaims this:

Something has changed within me. Something is not the same.

I'm through with playing by the rules of someone else's game.

Too late for second-guessing. Too late to go back to sleep.

It's time to trust my instincts, close my eyes and leap!

It's time to try defying gravity. I think I'll try defying gravity.

And you can't pull me down!

(Can't I make you understand? You're having delusions of grandeur)

I'm through accepting limits 'cause someone says they're so.

Some things I cannot change, but till I try, I'll never know!

Too long I've been afraid of losing love I guess I've lost.

Well, if that's love, it comes at much too high a cost!

I'd sooner buy defying gravity.

Kiss me goodbye I'm defying gravity.

And you can't pull me down!

~C~

High

I have given a lot of attention to some pretty painful aspects of my struggle in these past few weeks of my web-log adventure. Come to think of it, are there even any non-painful aspects? I have been thinking about you readers lately, thinking about those of you who understand all too well the battle that defines bulimia, and thinking of those of you who have never really gone down that road before. I have been thinking that you might be thinking, " How in the world does one get so lost in the depths of insecurity that they would resort to such stupid coping mechanisms?". Is that what you are thinking? Are you wondering how so many of us, ladies and gentlemen alike, have found ourselves knelt over toilets, plastic bags, bowls, bushes, whatever, just to dispose of the darkness we have felt? My friends, I am not here to endorse this strange and confusing behavior. I am not here to tell you that it is acceptable or fun or right. I am, however, going to tell you that it was my escape, and as twisted as this sounds, bulimia was my happy place. It gave me control, it gave me power, it gave me hope. Hope? Really? I wish there was a word better suited to what I am trying to say...I guess what I mean is that when I made a bad decision, nutritionally or otherwise, I had such a physical and tangible way to let go of the stress I was feeling, and I felt hope. I felt happy. I felt high.

I tried really hard to find a good definition of the word "high" to share with you, and was amused to find that Google could only come up with High-Definition televisions and cable. But I did find an interesting article on Wikipidia that talks about intoxication, and this is what The Man has to say: "Effects [of intoxication] may include an altered state of consciousness, euphoria, feelings of well-being, relaxation or stress reduction, increased appreciation of humor, music or art, joviality, metacognition and introspection, enhanced recollection (episodic memory), increased sensuality, increased awareness of sensation, creative or philosophical thinking, disruption of linear memory and paranoia or anxiety." Hmm...sounds about right to me! I used to pride myself on the fact that I have never taken drugs and I am nothing but a light-weight, social enjoyer-of-Bud-Light-Lime, but despite my lack of narcotic experience, I still bring a lot to the discussion table on how "nice" it is to feel high. I remember smiling. I remember feeling happy. I remember those few precious moments after an episode where I really, truly believed that I had it all figured it out. And havent we all been there?

The point here is, those years were a mix of my most awesome adventures and experiences (hello, world!) as well as my most destructive behavior. It is hard for me sometimes to separate those memories, but each choice I made, the good and the disastrous, are a part of who I'm meant to be. I felt high whenever I strapped myself into the seat of a moving aircraft. I felt high whenever I threw up. I felt high when I felt someone reach out to me, and I felt high when I reached back. I remember feeling immune to addiction, and have learned the hard way that none of us actually are. But I have also learned abundantly more from my addiction than any text book, any professor, any Discovery Channel program ever could. And at the end of the day, I am thankful for it. For the tools that have helped me learn the true meaning of empathy...for the beautiful people who walked me through.

There's always gonna be another mountain.

I'm always gonna wanna make it move.

Always gonna be an uphill battle.

Sometimes I'm gonna have to lose.

Ain't about how fast I get there.

Ain't about what's waiting on the other side.

It's the climb.

"Yes, I'm Fine"

I have thrown embarrassment, discretion, shame, and fear to the wind. I have decided to be blunt, frank, and honest here, which is why I want to talk about what it is like to hide such a huge secret from the world. What do you say when you emerge from the ladies room of your favorite restaurant with blood-shot eyes, struggling to catch your breath? How do you explain teeth marks in your hands? How do you face a dentist and cry to him/her about your eroding molars? I suppose there is no easy answer, is there? My answer? Pretty freaking universal...it goes something like this:

F (for Friend): Chris, are you okay?

C: Oh yeah, totally. I'm just not feeling very well these days.

F: Really? What's wrong?

C: Oh, you know. Whatever's going around, I suppose.

F: You sure you're okay?

C: I'm fine.

I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm fine.

What's up with this culture anyways? Who invented the word 'fine'? Because at what point is that word actually applicable? Your dog just died, and yet you are fine. You just lost your job, but, thank goodness, you're fine. You're sick, you're tired, you're dying, you're injured, you're broke, but you are telling me you're fine. What a lie! What an acceptable, common, overused, overplayed, huge, big fat lie. I had tears streaming down my face, bent over a toilet bowl, and came out of that bathroom and told you I am fine. I cried myself to sleep and convinced myself I was not good enough, and I told you I am fine. That isn't fine. That is wrong. And I am sorry. I am so sorry. I'm sorry for lying. I wont tell you anymore that I am fine. If you ask, I will tell you the truth.

Anyways, back to the business of hiding big secrets. It's easier than you think, and it is harder than it looks. It's a contradiction, yes. But it's true. I cant believe I got away with what I did for so long. I had 3 or 4 different jobs over those years, lived in 2 different countries, engaged in deep and meaningful relationships with family and friends, all the while hiding my secret. On the other hand, it was hard to lie to people. It was hard to hurt and have no outlet, especially those years where I refused to even journal about my struggles. It was hard to feel so incomplete.

Of course, now that the shoe is on the other foot and I am learning what recovery looks like, things are not automatically easier. It is still hard, because I am trying very hard to love myself with the same acceptance that I love others. It is hard to make bad choices and not have a way to so convieniently "get rid of" the problem. But you know what? It is all a small price to pay for freedom. Life isnt easy, but it is easier. Eating a meal without feeling guilt? Amazing! Going 6 months without the lies and shame and guilt? So relieving. I could easily end this post by saying, "Yes, people, I'm fine". But I wont. Instead, I will tell you, "I'm free".

~C~

The Wonder Years

It would be far too easy to say that adolescence is complicated, would it not? So instead I will say that MY adolescence was rather...confusing. You could probably have called me naive to a lot of things going on around me, but I really feel as though that wasnt exactly true: Just because I wasnt engaging in certain stereotypical behaviors didnt mean I didnt 'get it'. I have always been the mother; the one taking care of intoxicated friends, the one keeping people company in the smoke pit, the one passing out tissues to poor girls who got dumped by their lame boyfriends. All that to say, I played that mother role to a very, very dear friend of mine who we shall call Samantha. She was (IS) so beautiful, and as cliche as this sounds, her beauty always came from within and radiated to everyone she met. When we were in our mid-teens (heaven help that age group!) Samantha began to change...she stopped talking as much and starting acting as though she had a secret. It wasnt long before Samantha began to lose weight...rapidly. And people, I am telling you: She did not need to. Sam would eat what she liked and laugh along with the rest of us at the movies while holding her popcorn and candy, and she seemed hungry a lot. It wasnt long before Samantha came to me with her secret. She was bulimic. Sure, I was in that peer mentoring club thingy and should have seen the signs, but this was pretty big news for me. I was scared. I thought that she was going to die. She agreed to see a school counselor as long as I came along, but that didnt seem to help. One day we were hanging out at my house and for whatever reason we were in the bathroom together and I actually stood there and watched her make herself throw up. I will come back to this moment shortly.

Samantha eventually seemed to 'grow out' of this phase in her life, and she moved on after highschool to pursue some pretty awesome adventures. We have had far too few follow-up talks her (our) struggle.

So while all this was going on in Sam's life, I think I was kind of the opposite about my body image...I couldnt care less what I ate, what I wore, and what I looked like. I specifically remember being lectured about the nutritional value of slushies after years of believing that since they were liquid, they were calorie-free. Oh, one could only hope! I went to McDonalds as often as possible. I was Oriville Redenbachers #1 fan, keeping the microwave popcorn industry alive. It never really occured to me to be anything but carefree. YES, I had those freak-out-in-Mariposa moments when I couldnt find clothes that I liked. I was your average teen with braces and social problems. But once I graduated from highschool and moved into my late teens and early twenties, I truly felt as though I had made it through, scotch-free, on the whole eating-disorder front.

It was September, 2004. That is my earliest memory of this disease. I dont remember the first time. I dont remember why. I just know that I stuck my fingers down my throat and...well, you know. What I wouldnt give for a record of my statistics of that moment: what was my emotional stance? what were the surrounding circumstances? did I cry? where was I? did I grasp the concept that I would battle for many years to come? I dont want this information as a way to torture myself. I want it because for years I have been searching for answers. And there is STILL a missing link to this puzzel that I have yet to find. All I know is that one day I was fairly confident in who I was, and the next I was not. Can anybody else relate to that?

Coming back to Samantha and watching her throw up...I can tell you that I was absolutely broken in that moment. I felt helpless. I felt weak. I felt sad. I felt scared. I would have given anything to have her stop. To have her be whole again.

August 18th, 2009. Remember this date. That was the last day I will ever, ever, EVER force myself to throw up again for the rest of my life. Because in that moment I had a vision of standing there watching Samantha break...only this time it was me. I am not helpless. I am not weak. I am not sad. I am not scared. And I HAVE given anything to have ME stop. And I am on my way to being whole again.

~C~

Genesis-August 7th, 2007

You know, journals are funny things. You can be so honest, and yet you can totally lie to yourself, or whoever it is who will one day read these pages after you are gone. I always thought of myself as being quite candid in my quiet times over the past 6 years, but it appears that I was not. I spend time periodically throughout the years combing through these journals of mine, smiling and laughing, and weeping, as well. Yet tonight I sat down to read through them with a purpose: to find a first entry on my struggle with bulimia. I know, know, KNOW that it began in 2004, and yet there is absolutely no written evidence of this disease until August of 2007. I could not believe that. Was I really in denial for THAT long? I guess so. At any rate, here it is. My Genesis.

August 7th, 2007

...I havent been feeling very good about myself these days. I'm scared that I am gaining weight because I havent been excersizing and I almost cried in Target because I felt so fat. I am PMSing and really do need to go to the gym, so I am not too surprised I feel this way. I am buying a gym pass this month so there are no excuses, and it's something I really will use. I could stand to lose more, but even another 10lbs God. Please help me. I am very uncomfortable in my body right now. Especially my breasts. I hate them.

August 8th, 2007

Hey God. I was hoping that after I wrote that yesterday I would feel foolish and wish I hadnt said that I hate my breasts, but today, as it stands, it is still true. I guess I am realizing that I am for real trapped in an eating disorder. I'm quite surprised actually, it was never an option or issue all throughout my teenage years, and I just figured it wouldnt come up. I know I am on a dangerous path, but I keep thinking that after I lose my 22.5 lbs then I can be happy and eat properly and not struggle so much. I'm hoping I'm right, but if that is true than why are so many girls dying of this? I can look at Mackenzie* and have these memories come rushing back to me about how sad I felt that she struggled so badly. I wanted to fix her. Now she is relatively "healed", but claims that anorexia will always be a part of her life. Is that how it is going to be for the rest of my life now? Even if some day I am living in Africa and still want to throw up after every meal? That doesnt sound so good to me. Will I need to see some special therepist or will a regular counselor do? Will 4 weeks of counseling help, or should I have a South African counselor as well?** I dont even know if anyone suspects I am dealing with this. Danielle* for sure knows, but never brings it up. Sierra* knew 3 years ago but probably assumes it is over. Kari* knows I did struggle with it, but I dont think she knows I still do. And other than that, no one has ever said anything, seen anything, heard anything. And I am going to the gym which explains the weight loss, even though I havent actually lost anything in awhile. I just need to start being more hard core.

*Names changed to protect my friends.

**Less than 4 weeks after I wrote this, I moved from BC to Pietermaritzburg, South Africa. Though it was not my first time living overseas, I honestly felt like this might be the "cure". You will see as we journey through many more pages of my life that it was definitely not the case.

Thanks for reading up on my Genesis. I know that the content may be offensive to some, but it is just real, raw, honest, truth.

~C~

Out With It

We might as well be honest here. I have been writing in my journal my whole life it seems, and those volumes (and I MEAN volumes) of books, whether spiral bound or pieces of paper stuffed in an envelope, contain what I used to think was my biggest secret. I have learned over the past few years that it is okay to have secrets. It is okay to have little pieces of life tucked away for you and you alone. Sometimes secrets seem like friends. But my secret was not like that. It wasn't kind to me; it wasn't comforting. It was destructive. Ladies and gentlemen, people of the jury, I am a recovering bulimic. Some of you knew, but I am pretty sure majority rules in favor of not knowing that. This isn't going to be one of those blogs that lead up to a wonderfully exciting adoption or wedding or job promotion. It is going to be a blog that takes you through my journey from addiction to the rest of my life as a reformed addict. I think that we can all relate to addiction in some way. Addiction isn't about drugs, alcohol, smoking, sex, gambling, racing, speeding, food, or T.V. Addiction is about a co-dependency; a compulsion or obsession so strong that you literally feel as though you will die without feeling that high. And mine just happened to be throwing up each time I felt like a failure. Try telling me you haven't felt like that at some point in your life.

Throughout the next several months, I have big dreams for this blog. I want to take you inside my world. I want to let you see what these past 6 (yes, 6) years of my life have been like. The good, the bad, and the ugly. I hope you will maybe see that we all struggle, we all fall down. But it's time to stand up. It's time.

~C~