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~

Enough

When I thought about what I wanted to write this week, the question "Who Am I?" came up. I would have liked to make that the title of this post, but I just couldn't do it.

It is a question I have always struggled with. There is no obvious way to answer it, yet there are millions and trillions of options and opinions. In the fall I was taking advantage of the free counselling services at my university, and after a few weeks of getting some good, solid advice from "Hillary" pertaining to my future plans and my current life in general, we tackled some deeper issues. Hillary can see right through my "I've Got This All Figured Out" act, and she recognizes that really, I am an over-achiever and afraid to fail. She asked me some hard questions. Questions no one has ever really asked me before. It was hard work to think about some of the things we talked about, and eventually I got kind of frustrated. She would ask me things about how I deal with anger and how I saw myself in certain situations and what I would say to a certain person had they been sitting in the room with us. And I usually drifted in the direction of sugar-coating my answers, until Hillary would pull me back and remind me that there was no danger of being "in trouble" for being real.

One day I came armed with a question of my own. To me it was a totally valid question, but it was the only thing I ever asked Hillary that she didn't know how to answer. When I had taken off my coat and settled in she asked me what was on my mind, and I said, "Hillary, if I could ask God one question today and have it be answered totally audibly with no hidden meaning or parables or indirect wisdom, I would want to be told exactly who I am". I sat back, crossed my arms, and waited for the brilliance to come pouring out of her mouth. But it didn't. She looked at me quietly, her steaming cup of lemon tea between us, the soft light from her lamp brightening her eyes, and she very gently replied, "Why do you feel that is so important to you to know?". I was kind of shocked. All I wanted here was some way to get my wish. I guess it isn't that simple though.

She sent me on my way an hour later with a lined piece of paper that was blank all but for the words, "Why do I need to know who I am?". And this is what I wrote:

Because I am used to believing in who I am not. (like fat, ugly, childish, etc..)

Because I want to accept myself for who I am.

If someone asked you, "Who is Christina Marand", some of you would say I am your friend. Some would say I am that girl who works with the kids at ARC. Some would say I am nice. Or sweet. Or funny. A few of you out there would tell them I am your sister. Two of you would say I am your aunt. Some would say I am a child of God. Or a princess. Or a drama queen.

Albert Einstein once said, "I am enough of an artist to draw freely upon my imagination". But really, I just like the part that says, "I am enough". I will continue to accept myself for who I am. I will continue to love me for me.

During my time in South Africa, I lived in the province in which Nelson Mandela was arrested for being an anti-apartheid activist. The province is called Kwa'Zulu Natal, and he was arrested in the Midland Meander, which was close to 30 minutes from my home. Not only did I visit the place where he was arrested, but I also worked in a school called Gateway Christian Academy, which was formerly the jail that Mandela was taken to following his arrest. I became a bit fascinated by the heart and soul of this brave man. I wanted to share that bit of background with you before I share one of his masterpieces. It is a quote that causes a paradigm shift in me each time I read it. It calms, if even for a moment, the "who I am" storm that wells up in me. So without further ado...

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.

Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.

It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us.

We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?

Actually, who are you not to be?

You are a child of God.

Your playing small does not serve the world.

There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you.

We are all meant to shine, as children do.

We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us.

It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone.

And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.

As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."

*Bold print mine

Enjoy the rest of your week, everyone. : )

~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~