Purging My Story

"9. When you feel like running away, let yourself feel the scare. Think about what you fear will happen and decide what you need to do." ~from Be-Good-To-Yourself Therapy by Cherry Hartman

Yesterday I wanted to numb the scare right out of my consciousness. To hell with all this recovery work. I wanted to throw it far away from me. But, damn. A person can never go back there whole heartedly. It's like wanting to stop for a lobotomy before committing the crime so one can plead insanity instead of guilty. Well, other than where I was yesterday in my thinking was pure insanity as understood in recovery talk. Knowing there is a better way rains on a parade real quick. So I skirted the fringes, dipped in my toes and eventually made a phone call to ask for confirmation that I was lying to myself, wasn't I? We are only as sick as our sickest secret she replied. So I opened the door and told mine. I made a commitment to stop dipping my toes in; behaviour that will lead to a full blown relapse if I continue. It feels like my recovery is slipping right through my fingers.

Pay attention.

Two words.
So easy to type.
Much harder to live.
They're the price of sanity.

I've been reading a book this week Writing To Save Your Life. I thought it was a book on journalling. That seemed harmless enough. I've journalled for years and a new book on it wouldn't hurt anything. At first I read and thought wow and by the end I was thinking fuck, so much for living in oblivion. The author takes one on an inner journey so raw, so true that to put pen to paper will purge my story right out of my body.

That is my big scare right now.

So I've been journalling short and sweet and mindless all week. Not much different than my grandma's diaries of the 1960's where Monday was wash day and Tuesday ironing. Safe, without revealing anything of myself.

I fear my own story.
I need to purge it anyway.

Detached

From my journal, May 7, 2007:

"A new day. I've been laying here reading and thinking for over an hour already. Trying to piece together some observations I've had about myself. Stuff I'd like to hash out with Fr. Charlie when I see him next week.

Detached. I think I live much of this life detached from it. When I listened to the women at the retreat share their stories there was little or no emotional response in me. Others, lots of others, were teary, but not me. And when one women, who I'd had lunch with, who shared with me how healed she is from the abuse she'd suffered, well, when she sobbed through her story I didn't believe her anymore. No one can be healed, have victory and still cry like that. That's what I thought. And I judged her for it and judged myself, too. Victory. I figured out how come I hate that word. To me it equals perfection and how dare anyone think they are perfect.

I was laying here thinking of all that's happened since youngest son moved home - how gracious God has been and I realized I feel detached from it now, too. Dismissive. As if that's behind me, on to the next thing. And I worry that I'm treating lightly what is holy.

Twice lately I've had experiences that have bypassed my detachment. I wish I knew how to tap into that place. I'm sure I'd be healthier for it.

At the retreat Fr. Claude did sign language for a little chorus and watching him moved me to tears. I could have sobbed. He was so connected - his movements and his feelings. There was no disconnect there. He was signing a love song to God as if no one else was there:

"Father, our refuge, with arms open wide.
Your love is our strength and our guide."

Several times over he signed the song as we sang it. He was in a different place, a place of intimacy between him and God in that moment and the beauty of it did me in.

Then this past Saturday I was looking for a Mother's Day card for my mom. I hate looking for cards for her. They all sound phony and far removed from our story. But it had been important enough to me to get a card to her on time that doing so had been my motivating factor for the trip to town. And I picked up one card after another, feeling cynical, because the cards make motherhood into an idol, into something it can never deliver. Then I picked up one that basically said thank you for all you did while I was becoming me. And the tears sprung to the surface in an instant. So much so that I still felt them as I walked down the mall to mail the card.

And so I wonder what it would be like to be able to tap into that place where tears live, without it having to take me by surprise.

What am I missing by being so detached?"

Thank You For Each Moment

I spent the day at a journalling retreat. It was good to get a different perspective on journalling as well as concrete ideas for cultivating a deeper awareness of my spiritual journey through journalling. Here is a prayer we prayed (whose title is this post title) together at the start of the retreat:

Lord, thank you for each moment,
for the blue-sky moment,
the softening earth,
the refreshing wind,
the yellow bush,
for my full heart
and the joy rising in me.

Soften me
to receive whatever comes as a gift
and to praise you in it.

Lord, thank you for each moment
for the twilight moment,
the pause,
the good tired,
for the quiet reflection,
the slowing down,
the mysterious sunset,
for the wisdom growing inside me.

Gentle me
to feel whatever comes as a gift
and to praise you in it.

Lord, thank you for each moment,
for the midnight moment,
the loneliness,
the fretful wondering,
for the watchful stars,
the long ache,
the sleepless wait,
and the hope straining in me.

Focus me
to see whatever comes as a gift
and to praise you in it.

Lord, thank you for each moment,
for the high-noon moment,
the job,
the necessary routine,
for the sweaty struggle,
the impulse to change,
and the courage gathering in me.

Ground me
to wrestle with whatever comes as a gift
and to praise you in it.

Lord, thank you for each moment,
for the shared moment,
the listening,
the unguarded word,
for the fragile openness,
the ready smile,
the accepted difference,
for my passionate heart
and the trust rooting in me.

Stretch me
to grow with whatever comes as a gift
and to praise you in it.

Thank you for each moment,
for the charged moment,
the confrontation,
for the hard decision,
the unexpected growing,
for my intense heart
and the truth expanding in me.

Free me
to be open to whatever comes as a gift
and to praise you in it.

Thank you for each moment,
for the holy moment,
the music,
the child's eyes,
for the sunlight,
the touch,
the tears,
for the trembling pleasure,
the unutterable beauty,
for the life and love and heart in me aware,
and the wholeness spreading in me.

Touch me
through whatever comes as a gift
That I may be grateful
and praise you in it.
~from Guerrillas of Grace by Ted Loder

Telling The Truth

Twenty five years ago today dearest one and I met in person for the first time. He travelled from northern Alberta to the southern tip of Ontario to meet me. We had written to one another as penpals when I was 14 and he 16. Circumstances muddled things up for several years in between but when I was 19 and he 21, we met. That day is still crystal clear in my memory.

One of the things I did in preparation to meet him was go on a diet. My very first one. How I decided I needed to, I don't know, but diet I did. Enough that a friend commented on my (8 pound) weight loss. Funny how one comment like that can plant seeds of a negative kind. If I didn't think I had a weight problem before her comment then I surely thought I had one afterwards. This many years later I know that if someone notices you have lost 8 pounds, there really wasn't anything wrong with your before picture. With 80 extra pounds on my frame now, eight pounds seems like a pittance.

Earlier this summer, when I took the month of June away from blogging, I renewed my habit of journal writing. I've filled more pages in the last 3 months than I did in the previous eighteen. Journalling is similar to having one long album of before and after pictures. You get to see where you've been and where you're going. Within the last week or so I've noticed a reluctance to journal. Missed four days in a row to be precise. Missing days is a sign that something's brewing deep within me. Something I don't want to acknowledge. Never knowing what's going to come out the end of my pen when I start writing can be unnerving so, in order to keep a facade of serenity, I had to stop writing.

The only problem is that when I don't journal then I have to carry around those renegade thoughts and repress them. That takes energy. Yesterday I took up my pen and started to write. Here is what hit the page:

"There's a link between missing days in here and being out of control in other areas of my life. My eating is out of control. Twenty one days of abstinence (from sexual addiction) but my eating is wretched. I am lying to myself when it comes to food. I keep thinking that dealing with the other stuff is enough for now so food is my relief valve. It's the insanity of addiction in another area.
I feel like a two year old having a temper tantrum. I know I don't want to diet. I don't want to write down everything I eat. Yesterday though, I thought about the increasing risk of becoming diabetic and having to keep track of it all then and having to follow a rigid diet. Why do I feel so resisitent? Probably because I am unable to face this reality right now. For now I'm going to pray to become willing. Going to AA is teaching me to face other stuff in my life. I'm alternately glad/pissed off about that."

What I failed to write was that I didn't want to keep track of anything I ate because I want to eat mindlessly. I don't want to be aware when it comes to food. Being aware would demand action. It would be like wrestling my last lifeline away from me and leave me exposed and naked to the truth with no place to hide.

I've known I was sugar sensitive for many years already. Most (if not all) alcoholics are. Getting off of sugar has always been a good thing for me. During my blog sabbatical I returned to AA after an 8 year absence. At that first meeting one of the people said to a newly sober person, "If you come here you'll mess up your drinking. That's what happened to me. I started coming to meetings and it messed up my drinking." We all chuckled but we knew the absolute truth to that statement. And for me I immediately thought of my sugar sensitivity and said to myself "oh great, knowing something about sugar sensitivity messes up my eating too." Same principle, different addiction. I've followed the sugar sensitive program in the past and found relief from the insanity of being a binge eater. I know enough about sugar addiction to know that one bite of something sugary has a domino effect in my life. Although I haven't followed the program for several years, I have enough knowledge to recognize the daily cause and effect of sugar in my diet.

A few days ago I arrived at my AA meeting only to find it had been cancelled. At that moment the only other female member of my home group arrived too. We decided to go out for coffee. During our visit we shared bits and pieces of our history with one another. Through listening to my own words, telling her my story when it came to food, I clearly heard myself justifying my behaviour. Trying to further cover that up with words only made it worse. I might have been able to blot the conversation out of my mind had I been talking to a non addict, but talking with another addict in recovery made it more difficult to ignore. There came a point in our conversation when I realized that I could have substituted the word alcohol for food and been telling the same slippery story. I was glad when our coffee time came to an end.

I know how much I get pissed off when I hear someone lying to themselves. The urge to smack them upside the head is huge. "Wake up," I want to tell them, "You only get one go round at this thing called life." I see I've got my own waking up to do.

Yesterday after communion, when I knelt to pray, I told God I hadn't been hearing much from him lately. The reply I heard in my heart was that God was speaking to me through other people right now. "Ok, I could accept that," I said. So I started talking to God about my eating disorder. Praying those specific words, which have never come out of my mouth before, stopped me in my tracks. Tears came to the surface. I nearly felt like I had been tricked into praying them. There are times when praying spontaneously can seem as dangerous as journalling. You just never know what's going to come out of your mouth.

Wasn't it just a few short days ago when I wrote that facing the pain was worth it? Man, it sucks to eat one's words. It's the one thing I have no desire to binge on.

So now I pray for the courage to face what feels like my last escape hatch. In my head I know that facing the pain is always worth it in the end. But I am not always willing. I know I can do anything one day at a time, but some days I sure don't want to. With the healing I have experienced lately I am more comfortable in my body than I have ever been. It's more about being uncomfortable in my stinking thinking that's the problem. The outward is simply a manifestation of that thinking.

In my email every week I get a newsletter from the Radiant Recovery site. Many months ago, it might've been a year ago already, there was one newsletter where it said, "If you want what we have, do what we do." My initial thought was: "Piss off. Don't tell me what to do." But the words of the newsletter wouldn't stop reverberating in my head. Despite their continued presence, I kept searching for something that would make my path different, easier, without cost to myself. Something where I could have my cake and eat it, too. I never found it. I know now that the phrase "If you want what we have, do what we do" applies to any recovery process, regardless of the addiction.

This morning I picked up my pocket Thomas Merton and flipped to a random page. Here is what I read:

"We make ourselves real by telling the truth."

God continues to speak to me through other people.