Okay, so it's been a while. A lot has happened in the past month and a half: I went to Israel, I came home from Israel, and I moved to a new apartment. I would like to just take one moment to pat myself on the back for being an adult throughout all these changes. It wasn't easy, but I hung in there. And I have lots of trees outside my windows in my new apartment, with lots of birds, so I'm happy.
This summer I didn't learn full-time at The Pardes Institute, but I did go to their Tisha B'Av learning program where I got to hear some excellent shiurim and also a panel featuring several of my Pardes teachers. Despite being caffeine- and nutrient-deprived, I did get a lot out of the day, but one moment stood out, and that's what I want to write about here.
It happened in the first shiur I went to, taught by the incredible Yiscah Smith, of whom I am now a major fan. The title of her shiur was, "How To Restore Unity to a Fragmented World: Exploring the inner dimension of 'Loving one's fellow as oneself.'" Citing chapter 32 of the Tanya, Yiscah taught that because the greatness of one's own soul can never be known, it is also impossible to truly know the excellence of the soul of one's fellow...and therefore, one cannot rightfully say that his or her own soul is any better than anyone else's. We just can't know.
At this point, a young woman in the audience asked if this principle applied to all souls, or only Jewish souls? Yiscah explained that in the context in which the source was written, it was intended to speak only about Jews. Not satisfied by that answer, the woman pressed on: "But do you think that a non-Jewish soul is just as precious as a Jewish neshama?"
To which Yiscah replied, "I don't know. You know, the older I get, the more comfortable I am saying, 'I don't know.'"
Magic, those three words: I. Don't. Know. And how brave, an adult who is willing to speak them.
That exchange stuck with me because I was struck by the opportunity Yiscah had to make a faith-based claim of certainty that of course a Jewish soul is special in ways that other souls are not. Or, she could have gone the politically correct route and said that of course all souls are created equal. Each response would have reassured some members of the audience and probably rankled some others, but she would have looked like a teacher who was sure. And isn't that what teachers are supposed to be? I'm interested because I'm also a teacher, so this feels important.
The more I thought about it, the more I thought how important it is to be honest with one's students--and with oneself--about doubt and uncertainty. And the truth is that especially in areas of religion and faith, I am suspicious of people who are too sure. It's like they don't even know what they don't know. I contrasted Yiscah's declaration of not knowing with some conversations I have had with people who are very, very sure of what they believe. And I realized that the reason why those conversations leave me feeling uncomfortable is because there is no space in them for me to express my own doubts without having them erased by the other person's certainty. Whereas with Yiscah, I felt like I could talk to her all day about my struggles with belief, because she also has things she doesn't know.
I was raised Jewish but secular, which means that I was taught that religion is faith, and faith is different from fact. I was taught to be a critical thinker, to base my knowledge on science, and to not take anything at face value without doing my due diligence. But I also unequivocally believe in G-d and feel as though I do have proof, albeit nonscientific, that He exists. All of this together sometimes makes religious belief messy, especially as I have become observant, and can leave me feeling insecure in religious circles where everyone seems so sure all the time. So in the past, I would also pretend to be sure. I echoed what other people said and kept my mouth shut when questions bubbled up in my brain. A people-pleaser through and through, I was certainly not going to disappoint my intellectually and spiritually powerful teachers by asking a question that displayed the insecurity of my belief.
But recovery has been, in large part, about getting more comfortable with uncertainty. If nothing else, anorexia was definitely certainty, or at least the illusion of certainty, which was usually good enough for me. In recovery, I've had to get used to not knowing the nutritional information of everything I eat, not knowing my weight all the time, not living every day by the same rigid routine. I've had to ask myself Big Questions, like, "Do I want to find a partner?" and, "Should I buy a home?" and, "Am I ready to become a mother?" none of which have a clear answer. I just took the step of moving to a new apartment in a more suburban area, and the #1 question everyone asks me is, "Where are you going to go to shul?" I don't know. When I talk with people about wanting to adopt an older child through foster care, people ask how I am going to balance religious observance with the needs of a child who might not be Jewish by birth. I don't know. But if I delayed moving until I had settled on a shul, I would have missed out on this great apartment. And if I wait to become a foster parent until I have figured out all the details of how life with a hypothetical child will unfold, I will probably never become a foster parent, because who can be sure of anything like that? Believe me--I, more than most people, understand the need and desire for certainty. But I also know that that need can be paralyzing. Sometimes we have to make peace with not knowing.
I think one of the greatest gifts G-d gives to humans is that He doesn't allow us to know everything. We might strive for certainty, but usually we won't get it, and that's actually a good thing. It's good because it gives us freedom of movement, both physical and cognitive. It allows us to integrate new information, to assess situations objectively, and to change our minds. Not knowing gives us the ability to discover the world anew every time we dare to look at it differently. And while it might seem as though the people who "have it all together" are the ones who are sure of everything, it is actually the people who are brave enough to say, "I don't know," who know where it's at. I used to want to surround myself with certainty, but in recovery it is the Not Knowers who have become my people.
My hope for us is that we strike a healthy balance between knowing and not knowing. Too much of either can be destructive; the sweet spot is somewhere in the middle. And also that we not be afraid to admit our uncertainty, to ourselves or to others--because when we are brave enough to express doubt, we give other people permission to do the same. And who knows? Then maybe we can discover something new, together.
Showing posts with label anorexia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label anorexia. Show all posts
Friday, August 25, 2017
Sunday, April 9, 2017
Breaking Down the Labyrinth
For me, Pesach prep is a bit like everything else--the anticipation is nearly always worse than the reality. For weeks, I am an anxious mess as I stare down the monstrous amounts of cleaning and cooking I need to do, and then the actual day comes, and I wake up at 7 am, bang it out, and am done by 3 pm. I do recognize that in this one particular instance, living alone in a small city apartment is a blessing, because the cleaning is manageable and I am cooking for one. Bottom line--I'm officially Kosher L'Pesach with time left in the afternoon to do some writing, so I feel pretty accomplished. The OU would probably find fault with a few things, but lately I've found fault with a few of their things, so I guess that makes us even.
Despite all the frenzy (or perhaps partly because of it; it's such a classic cultural ritual), I really enjoy Pesach. I appreciate that it forces me to do things differently--staying up late, eating different foods, etc. But what I really love doing during this holiday, especially in the days leading up to it, is thinking about freedom and what it means for me, personally.
In the conventional sense, I have never been an unfree person. I had the good fortune to be born in the United States to a middle-class family who never needed to worry about money. Though I'm in a religious minority in this country, I'm also in the racial majority, which has bestowed upon me benefits I would be remiss not to mention. I have never been tied down to unfavorable circumstances by debt, and though my finances do not afford me every option, I have enough decent options that I can build a good life for myself. In short, I have been very, very lucky, both as an accident of birth and as the result of planning and hard work.
But there has always been something that has bound me. In childhood, it was OCD; I could not go to bed without making two trips around my bedroom to touch certain objects, and my stuffed animals had to be arranged just so on my bed or it physically didn't feel right. I played endless games of "magical thinking," telling myself that I would do well on a test if I could throw a small object in the air and catch it with one hand three times in a row, three times (also, I loved the number 3). If I was out for a walk and stepped on a manhole cover with one foot, I had to step on it with the other foot, as well. I was never sure what, exactly, would happen if I didn't adhere to these rituals, but I had a firm (if vague) sense that it would be "something bad."
In college, some of those compulsions lessened because I was physically removed from the environment where they took place (my childhood bedroom), but that was okay because I found something better: compulsive exercise and obsessive dieting. Anorexia was the ultimate ritual. Every morning, at the same hour every day, I went to the gym. I did the same machines, in the same order, for the same amounts of time (or a little more, but never a little less). I ran the same distance every day (or a little longer, but never a little shorter). It was mind-numbingly boring, but OMG THE ENDORPHINS. Then, there was eating. I ate at the same times every day, picking from the same narrow variety of foods, counting out numbers of things to make sure my intake was exactly the same as the day before (or a little less, but never a little more). Of course, I had rituals WITH food, too--precise methods of eating from which I could not deviate. By the middle of freshman year, I had come up with a system that I had fully mastered. It did not occur to me that the system had mastered me.
_______________________________________________________________________________
I recently read a book of memoirs called, Abandon Me, by an author named Melissa Febos. I actually don't think I can adequately describe this book or its effect on me, except to say that it is, hands down, the most powerful memoir I have ever read. I got it from the library and it was a "speed read" so there were no renewals, and on the day I had to return it I went to my local bookstore and bought my own copy, even though it just came out and is only in hardcover, and I have a somewhat strict (if informal) policy against paying "extra" for hardcover books. But this book, I needed to own, and immediately.
My favorite essay is the one called, "Labyrinths," in which Melissa outlines her own addiction to heroin and her recovery from it, as well as her brother's battle with bipolar disorder. The title of the essay is a reference to the 1986 movie, "Labyrinth," in which a teenage girl named Sarah (played by Jennifer Connelly) wishes for her baby brother to disappear--and then he does; he gets taken away by Jareth, the Goblin King (played by David Bowie), who stores the baby in a castle in the center of a labyrinth. Sarah has 13 hours to solve the labyrinth and rescue her brother.
Sarah enters the labyrinth and begins to run. She falls into many distracting traps designed to throw her off course; in actuality, like all labyrinths, it is only one path and will inevitably lead to the center, so all Sarah needs to do is follow it. But, as Melissa Febos writes:
Throughout the film Jareth tries to convince her that the labyrinth is too difficult to solve. He drugs her. He sends creatures to mislead her. He promises her that happiness is in succumbing to his fantasy and abandoning her quest to solve the labyrinth.
"I ask for so little," he pleads. "Just let me rule you, and you can have everything that you want."
When I read that, I thought of how similar Jareth's voice sounded to that of my eating disorder. When I fell into anorexia's labyrinth, my list of "everything I wanted" was simple: I wanted to fill the empty space within me. Anorexia promised me that if I allowed it to rule me, it would fulfill my wish by simply erasing my need altogether. And so, I gave in. The labyrinth seemed too complicated, the center too elusive, and so I allowed myself to be swallowed up. The truth is that I didn't even know I was trapped--I still felt like I was in control.
Recognizing the structural layout of my labyrinth was the key to its undoing. Once I knew that the voice of my captor was lying, that I would never be free unless I broke down the walls myself, I started to come back to life. But there were so many distractions. I had to learn to recognize my own anxieties and compulsions for what they were, and to be in tune to the mental and physical cues that signaled I was starting to give in to the eating disorder. Let me say: it was a complicated f*cking labyrinth. But I used my tools: I went to treatment, I participated in therapy, I took my medication. And I found the center, where my self was waiting.
My favorite excerpt from Melissa's essay is in the picture below:
I love it because this is the key to everything, this realization that our addictions, our obsessive and compulsive belief systems, are nothing more than captors trying to take away our power. They will promise us everything, but leave us with nothing. The truth is that we hold the power. The minute we even entertain the idea that we might not have to listen, the labyrinth weakens a little bit. And as soon as we are willing to say the word, "No," even if we just whisper it, that is the moment that we start to get back our freedom. The labyrinth cannot withstand a lack of worship, and when we refuse to fear it any longer, it will begin to crumble.
Sometimes, it can seem tempting to go back to the labyrinth, with its small enclosed spaces and clear boundaries. But it will never again be as satisfying as it once was, because it will have lost its luster. Every time I went back to anorexia after my first round of treatment, I found that I had too much knowledge for it to stick for long--I knew what I was doing, I recognized the irrationalities, and I knew what I should be doing instead. More importantly, I understood what my eating disorder had taken from me, and was still taking from me, and that made me angry. The day I decided that I was simply tired of this particular labyrinth, that it held nothing of value for me anymore, was the day I left treatment and never went back.
Putting my life back together and growing into a functional adult has been a lot of work; it isn't always fun and sometimes makes me cry. But since I left the labyrinth, my life has never again felt as empty as it did when I was held captive by the eating disorder that promised to fill me. I make my own choices, now. I have space for relationships, I have energy and passion for a demanding profession, and I actually have emotions, which are quite possibly the most wondrous part of the whole operation.
Freedom is everything.
And so, my Pesach wish for each of us is that we recognize the labyrinths that hold us captive, and that we start to deconstruct them, brick by brick. Freedom is out there, and in it our true selves are waiting, as they have always been.
Despite all the frenzy (or perhaps partly because of it; it's such a classic cultural ritual), I really enjoy Pesach. I appreciate that it forces me to do things differently--staying up late, eating different foods, etc. But what I really love doing during this holiday, especially in the days leading up to it, is thinking about freedom and what it means for me, personally.
In the conventional sense, I have never been an unfree person. I had the good fortune to be born in the United States to a middle-class family who never needed to worry about money. Though I'm in a religious minority in this country, I'm also in the racial majority, which has bestowed upon me benefits I would be remiss not to mention. I have never been tied down to unfavorable circumstances by debt, and though my finances do not afford me every option, I have enough decent options that I can build a good life for myself. In short, I have been very, very lucky, both as an accident of birth and as the result of planning and hard work.
But there has always been something that has bound me. In childhood, it was OCD; I could not go to bed without making two trips around my bedroom to touch certain objects, and my stuffed animals had to be arranged just so on my bed or it physically didn't feel right. I played endless games of "magical thinking," telling myself that I would do well on a test if I could throw a small object in the air and catch it with one hand three times in a row, three times (also, I loved the number 3). If I was out for a walk and stepped on a manhole cover with one foot, I had to step on it with the other foot, as well. I was never sure what, exactly, would happen if I didn't adhere to these rituals, but I had a firm (if vague) sense that it would be "something bad."
In college, some of those compulsions lessened because I was physically removed from the environment where they took place (my childhood bedroom), but that was okay because I found something better: compulsive exercise and obsessive dieting. Anorexia was the ultimate ritual. Every morning, at the same hour every day, I went to the gym. I did the same machines, in the same order, for the same amounts of time (or a little more, but never a little less). I ran the same distance every day (or a little longer, but never a little shorter). It was mind-numbingly boring, but OMG THE ENDORPHINS. Then, there was eating. I ate at the same times every day, picking from the same narrow variety of foods, counting out numbers of things to make sure my intake was exactly the same as the day before (or a little less, but never a little more). Of course, I had rituals WITH food, too--precise methods of eating from which I could not deviate. By the middle of freshman year, I had come up with a system that I had fully mastered. It did not occur to me that the system had mastered me.
_______________________________________________________________________________
I recently read a book of memoirs called, Abandon Me, by an author named Melissa Febos. I actually don't think I can adequately describe this book or its effect on me, except to say that it is, hands down, the most powerful memoir I have ever read. I got it from the library and it was a "speed read" so there were no renewals, and on the day I had to return it I went to my local bookstore and bought my own copy, even though it just came out and is only in hardcover, and I have a somewhat strict (if informal) policy against paying "extra" for hardcover books. But this book, I needed to own, and immediately.
My favorite essay is the one called, "Labyrinths," in which Melissa outlines her own addiction to heroin and her recovery from it, as well as her brother's battle with bipolar disorder. The title of the essay is a reference to the 1986 movie, "Labyrinth," in which a teenage girl named Sarah (played by Jennifer Connelly) wishes for her baby brother to disappear--and then he does; he gets taken away by Jareth, the Goblin King (played by David Bowie), who stores the baby in a castle in the center of a labyrinth. Sarah has 13 hours to solve the labyrinth and rescue her brother.
Sarah enters the labyrinth and begins to run. She falls into many distracting traps designed to throw her off course; in actuality, like all labyrinths, it is only one path and will inevitably lead to the center, so all Sarah needs to do is follow it. But, as Melissa Febos writes:
Throughout the film Jareth tries to convince her that the labyrinth is too difficult to solve. He drugs her. He sends creatures to mislead her. He promises her that happiness is in succumbing to his fantasy and abandoning her quest to solve the labyrinth.
"I ask for so little," he pleads. "Just let me rule you, and you can have everything that you want."
When I read that, I thought of how similar Jareth's voice sounded to that of my eating disorder. When I fell into anorexia's labyrinth, my list of "everything I wanted" was simple: I wanted to fill the empty space within me. Anorexia promised me that if I allowed it to rule me, it would fulfill my wish by simply erasing my need altogether. And so, I gave in. The labyrinth seemed too complicated, the center too elusive, and so I allowed myself to be swallowed up. The truth is that I didn't even know I was trapped--I still felt like I was in control.
Recognizing the structural layout of my labyrinth was the key to its undoing. Once I knew that the voice of my captor was lying, that I would never be free unless I broke down the walls myself, I started to come back to life. But there were so many distractions. I had to learn to recognize my own anxieties and compulsions for what they were, and to be in tune to the mental and physical cues that signaled I was starting to give in to the eating disorder. Let me say: it was a complicated f*cking labyrinth. But I used my tools: I went to treatment, I participated in therapy, I took my medication. And I found the center, where my self was waiting.
My favorite excerpt from Melissa's essay is in the picture below:
Sometimes, it can seem tempting to go back to the labyrinth, with its small enclosed spaces and clear boundaries. But it will never again be as satisfying as it once was, because it will have lost its luster. Every time I went back to anorexia after my first round of treatment, I found that I had too much knowledge for it to stick for long--I knew what I was doing, I recognized the irrationalities, and I knew what I should be doing instead. More importantly, I understood what my eating disorder had taken from me, and was still taking from me, and that made me angry. The day I decided that I was simply tired of this particular labyrinth, that it held nothing of value for me anymore, was the day I left treatment and never went back.
Putting my life back together and growing into a functional adult has been a lot of work; it isn't always fun and sometimes makes me cry. But since I left the labyrinth, my life has never again felt as empty as it did when I was held captive by the eating disorder that promised to fill me. I make my own choices, now. I have space for relationships, I have energy and passion for a demanding profession, and I actually have emotions, which are quite possibly the most wondrous part of the whole operation.
Freedom is everything.
And so, my Pesach wish for each of us is that we recognize the labyrinths that hold us captive, and that we start to deconstruct them, brick by brick. Freedom is out there, and in it our true selves are waiting, as they have always been.
Sunday, August 28, 2016
Adult Aloneness
Yup, I know. I've been away for a while...readjusting. "Coming down" from being in Israel is always an interesting process and it seems appropriate that it took me pretty much the entire month of Av to work through it. It might have taken longer, but...Starbucks Cold Brew. Secret weapon of champions.
There have been a lot of feelings. One incident in particular really rattled me; it happened on my first Shabbat back at home.
When services were over, the usual controlled chaos ensued: kids made a beeline for the Kiddush tables and adults began socializing. (I want to go on record RIGHT NOW and say that Kiddush is my absolute least favorite part of Shabbat services. Introvert nightmare.) But on this particular day I spotted someone I wanted to talk to, a friend who had also been in Israel at the same time I was. I was excited to trade stories with this person and tell about my experience. So I walked straight over to this friend and was rewarded with a big, warm hug. All good. Until this person asked The Question:
"So...did you meet anyone?"
That was it. No, "How was your learning?" or even a simple, "How was it?" Instead, we got right to what was apparently the critical issue: did I meet anyone. As in, Meet Anyone. Bold and italics.
I was completely brought up short. I had not, in fact, Met Anyone while in Israel. To be 100% truthful, that hadn't been anywhere on my list of goals for the summer. And when I told my friend as much, this friend actually gave me an eye roll and said, "Okaaayyy," as if to imply, "What a missed opportunity!"
At first, I felt a flicker of anger. Wait a HOT SECOND, I wanted to say. I had an AMAZING time in Israel. I learned so much, I grew so much, and all you want to know is if I MET SOMEONE?!
And then shame rushed onto the scene. I felt like I had just failed a test I hadn't even known I was taking. Was I supposed to have met someone in Israel? Would other people be similarly horrified to know that I had not even made an effort to do so? Why hadn't I tried? And then, my all-time favorite, go-to Line of Shame:
There is something really wrong with me.
Because here's the thing: I never think about meeting anyone. Well, not never, but pretty much never. I can't remember ever "playing wedding" as a kid or fantasizing about a wedding dress as a teenager. At the time, I figured I was just too busy with other things. But even once I got to college, I still resisted the pull toward partnering off. A large contributor to my eating disorder was the primal fear I felt at having to enter the dating-for-marriage world; I simply let anorexia take me out of commission. In recovery, I've worked hard to change, "There is something really wrong with me because I'm still single," to, "Maybe being partnered just isn't important to me right now." To me, this feels fine. I am not big on romantic intimacy and I relish my independence. I plan on being a foster or adoptive parent and I do not tie that to the condition of being partnered. In my own head, being coupled feels like a "should," not like a "want," so I've been content to leave it alone.
And yet.
Social pressure is a real thing. I cannot deny that everyone around me is partnering off and having babies. And pretty much nowhere is this more apparent than at shul. I am not exaggerating when I say that, to my knowledge, out of an entire congregation, I am the only single-by-choice person there. As much as my friend's question caught me off guard, it really shouldn't have--the mission of most observant Jews under age 35 is to get married, and the mission of the community is to help make this happen. There's no protocol for how to handle a person who chooses to remain single. And so, I do often feel like something is truly "wrong" with me, because I don't want what everyone else wants. I want to want it, but it's not my truth. My truth is, I'm 34 and single, and that's how I want it to be for now. Even if I am the only person in the world who feels that way, I can't deny that it feels right at this time.
But maybe I'm not the only one.
I am not the biggest consumer of social media, but I LOVE Instagram. I use it mainly to follow people I admire and organizations I support, both for the work they do and the positive messages they put out into the world. One of my favorite Instagramers is Laura McKowen, a writer and "recovery warrior" who writes bravely and honestly about sobriety, motherhood, love, fear, and hope. I am routinely inspired by her work, but about a week ago she posted an image that went straight to my heart:
The temple of my adult aloneness.
YES.
I hadn't even KNOWN there was such a thing, or that other people chose to live in that house, too. It had never occurred to me that is is okay to be single by choice, that it's not merely a condition to be endured until one eventually finds a partner. I mean, maybe most single people do end up getting married, and maybe I will, too. But in the meantime, I can be single without shame. I can live--and thrive--in my adult aloneness. Because that's the house where my soul belongs. Instead of wishing to be different, I just have to honor the way that I am, the way that G-d made me.
I think I could make that house into something beautiful.
There have been a lot of feelings. One incident in particular really rattled me; it happened on my first Shabbat back at home.
When services were over, the usual controlled chaos ensued: kids made a beeline for the Kiddush tables and adults began socializing. (I want to go on record RIGHT NOW and say that Kiddush is my absolute least favorite part of Shabbat services. Introvert nightmare.) But on this particular day I spotted someone I wanted to talk to, a friend who had also been in Israel at the same time I was. I was excited to trade stories with this person and tell about my experience. So I walked straight over to this friend and was rewarded with a big, warm hug. All good. Until this person asked The Question:
"So...did you meet anyone?"
That was it. No, "How was your learning?" or even a simple, "How was it?" Instead, we got right to what was apparently the critical issue: did I meet anyone. As in, Meet Anyone. Bold and italics.
I was completely brought up short. I had not, in fact, Met Anyone while in Israel. To be 100% truthful, that hadn't been anywhere on my list of goals for the summer. And when I told my friend as much, this friend actually gave me an eye roll and said, "Okaaayyy," as if to imply, "What a missed opportunity!"
At first, I felt a flicker of anger. Wait a HOT SECOND, I wanted to say. I had an AMAZING time in Israel. I learned so much, I grew so much, and all you want to know is if I MET SOMEONE?!
And then shame rushed onto the scene. I felt like I had just failed a test I hadn't even known I was taking. Was I supposed to have met someone in Israel? Would other people be similarly horrified to know that I had not even made an effort to do so? Why hadn't I tried? And then, my all-time favorite, go-to Line of Shame:
There is something really wrong with me.
Because here's the thing: I never think about meeting anyone. Well, not never, but pretty much never. I can't remember ever "playing wedding" as a kid or fantasizing about a wedding dress as a teenager. At the time, I figured I was just too busy with other things. But even once I got to college, I still resisted the pull toward partnering off. A large contributor to my eating disorder was the primal fear I felt at having to enter the dating-for-marriage world; I simply let anorexia take me out of commission. In recovery, I've worked hard to change, "There is something really wrong with me because I'm still single," to, "Maybe being partnered just isn't important to me right now." To me, this feels fine. I am not big on romantic intimacy and I relish my independence. I plan on being a foster or adoptive parent and I do not tie that to the condition of being partnered. In my own head, being coupled feels like a "should," not like a "want," so I've been content to leave it alone.
And yet.
Social pressure is a real thing. I cannot deny that everyone around me is partnering off and having babies. And pretty much nowhere is this more apparent than at shul. I am not exaggerating when I say that, to my knowledge, out of an entire congregation, I am the only single-by-choice person there. As much as my friend's question caught me off guard, it really shouldn't have--the mission of most observant Jews under age 35 is to get married, and the mission of the community is to help make this happen. There's no protocol for how to handle a person who chooses to remain single. And so, I do often feel like something is truly "wrong" with me, because I don't want what everyone else wants. I want to want it, but it's not my truth. My truth is, I'm 34 and single, and that's how I want it to be for now. Even if I am the only person in the world who feels that way, I can't deny that it feels right at this time.
But maybe I'm not the only one.
I am not the biggest consumer of social media, but I LOVE Instagram. I use it mainly to follow people I admire and organizations I support, both for the work they do and the positive messages they put out into the world. One of my favorite Instagramers is Laura McKowen, a writer and "recovery warrior" who writes bravely and honestly about sobriety, motherhood, love, fear, and hope. I am routinely inspired by her work, but about a week ago she posted an image that went straight to my heart:
The temple of my adult aloneness.
YES.
I hadn't even KNOWN there was such a thing, or that other people chose to live in that house, too. It had never occurred to me that is is okay to be single by choice, that it's not merely a condition to be endured until one eventually finds a partner. I mean, maybe most single people do end up getting married, and maybe I will, too. But in the meantime, I can be single without shame. I can live--and thrive--in my adult aloneness. Because that's the house where my soul belongs. Instead of wishing to be different, I just have to honor the way that I am, the way that G-d made me.
I think I could make that house into something beautiful.
Sunday, March 13, 2016
The Reckoning
This past Shabbat we finished the book of Shemot, which ends with parasha Pekudei. The word pekudei can be translated as, "reckoning," and the parasha opens with the following verse:
אלה פקודי המשכן משכן העדת אשר פקד על–פי משה עבדת הלוים ביד איתמר בן–אהרן הכהן
These are the reckonings of the Tabernacle, the Tabernacle of Testimony, which were reckoned at Moses' bidding. The labor of the Levites was under the authority of Itamar, son of Aaron the Kohen.
What follows is a detailed list of all the gold, silver, and copper that people donated for the construction of the Tabernacle. Moses kept track of every contribution and how it was used, a biblical version of what we might now call, "transparency."
Coincidentally, during the same week in which we read Pekudei, I was also reading Brené Brown's new book, Rising Strong, and happened to be on the chapter called, "The Reckoning." (Brief book evaluation: not my favorite of hers, a little sound bite-y, but I'm still a fan.) In this book, Brené explores the process of "rising strong" after a fall, and the first stage of doing so is what she calls The Reckoning--engaging with our feelings and getting curious about why we have them.
Brené says:
"I don't think we can learn much about ourselves, our relationships, or the world without recognizing and getting curious about emotion. Fortunately, unlike navigating using dead reckoning, we don't need to immediately be precise in order to find our way. We just need to bring our feelings to light. We just need to be honest and curious. I'm having an emotional reaction to what's happened and I want to understand is enough for the reckoning."
For me, this resonates strongly. Even as a child, I would have emotional reactions to things and would immediately judge myself harshly for what I considered, "wrong feelings" (usually anger or fear). I never got curious or wanted to understand; in fact, I never even really talked about it because I was so sure that my feelings made me a bad person.
When I was a freshman in college, it didn't take me long to figure out that I was miserable. I didn't get curious then, either. Instead, I told myself that there was something wrong with me because everyone else was happy and I was not. Keep it to yourself and deal with it, was pretty much my philosophy. "Dealing with it" meant exercising and dieting away my pain; in short, developing the eating disorder that would control my life for most of the next decade. I shut down all my feelings and all my connections in an effort to protect myself, but didn't stop to think of what this might cost me. As Brené Brown says, "...shutting down comes with a price--a price we rarely consider when we're focused on finding our way out of pain." Truth.
And now? Now, my first response to an emotional reaction is sometimes still judgment (old habits die hard), which nearly always leads to shame. The difference is that I now recognize that this is unhelpful, and instead I try to "observe" my feelings neutrally. Then, usually in therapy, I can do the work of getting curious and figuring out why I reacted the way I did. For me, doing that work in the context of therapy is hugely important because the support of an objective observer (my therapist) helps me to avoid the shame traps that are easy to fall into when I'm alone.
Reckoning with emotion--acknowledging our feelings and approaching them with curiosity--is a lot of work and often feels harder than shutting down. But I've found that this is deceptive; in fact, the reckoning often leads to a way out of the feelings, whereas shutting down pretty much ensures that I'll stay stuck in them. My eating disorder was all about shutting down; recovery is about open and honest emotional exploration. I don't think it's any coincidence that since I've been engaged in the process of emotional reckoning, I've developed more satisfying and authentic relationships--with others and with myself--than I ever did in the entire time I struggled with anorexia.
Sometimes it seems like we are the only ones who feel what we feel, with the intensity that we feel it. This is false. Everyone has feelings; some people just prefer to deny them. I propose a different approach: get honest, get curious. Strive to understand your emotions, rather than stuff them away. It's healthier, and it leads to more resiliency and greater insight. If you're brave enough to engage in The Reckoning, you might just find that you are stronger than you thought--and you will begin to see a way out of the darkness of the icky feelings and back into the light.
אלה פקודי המשכן משכן העדת אשר פקד על–פי משה עבדת הלוים ביד איתמר בן–אהרן הכהן
These are the reckonings of the Tabernacle, the Tabernacle of Testimony, which were reckoned at Moses' bidding. The labor of the Levites was under the authority of Itamar, son of Aaron the Kohen.
What follows is a detailed list of all the gold, silver, and copper that people donated for the construction of the Tabernacle. Moses kept track of every contribution and how it was used, a biblical version of what we might now call, "transparency."
Coincidentally, during the same week in which we read Pekudei, I was also reading Brené Brown's new book, Rising Strong, and happened to be on the chapter called, "The Reckoning." (Brief book evaluation: not my favorite of hers, a little sound bite-y, but I'm still a fan.) In this book, Brené explores the process of "rising strong" after a fall, and the first stage of doing so is what she calls The Reckoning--engaging with our feelings and getting curious about why we have them.
Brené says:
"I don't think we can learn much about ourselves, our relationships, or the world without recognizing and getting curious about emotion. Fortunately, unlike navigating using dead reckoning, we don't need to immediately be precise in order to find our way. We just need to bring our feelings to light. We just need to be honest and curious. I'm having an emotional reaction to what's happened and I want to understand is enough for the reckoning."
For me, this resonates strongly. Even as a child, I would have emotional reactions to things and would immediately judge myself harshly for what I considered, "wrong feelings" (usually anger or fear). I never got curious or wanted to understand; in fact, I never even really talked about it because I was so sure that my feelings made me a bad person.
When I was a freshman in college, it didn't take me long to figure out that I was miserable. I didn't get curious then, either. Instead, I told myself that there was something wrong with me because everyone else was happy and I was not. Keep it to yourself and deal with it, was pretty much my philosophy. "Dealing with it" meant exercising and dieting away my pain; in short, developing the eating disorder that would control my life for most of the next decade. I shut down all my feelings and all my connections in an effort to protect myself, but didn't stop to think of what this might cost me. As Brené Brown says, "...shutting down comes with a price--a price we rarely consider when we're focused on finding our way out of pain." Truth.
And now? Now, my first response to an emotional reaction is sometimes still judgment (old habits die hard), which nearly always leads to shame. The difference is that I now recognize that this is unhelpful, and instead I try to "observe" my feelings neutrally. Then, usually in therapy, I can do the work of getting curious and figuring out why I reacted the way I did. For me, doing that work in the context of therapy is hugely important because the support of an objective observer (my therapist) helps me to avoid the shame traps that are easy to fall into when I'm alone.
Reckoning with emotion--acknowledging our feelings and approaching them with curiosity--is a lot of work and often feels harder than shutting down. But I've found that this is deceptive; in fact, the reckoning often leads to a way out of the feelings, whereas shutting down pretty much ensures that I'll stay stuck in them. My eating disorder was all about shutting down; recovery is about open and honest emotional exploration. I don't think it's any coincidence that since I've been engaged in the process of emotional reckoning, I've developed more satisfying and authentic relationships--with others and with myself--than I ever did in the entire time I struggled with anorexia.
Sometimes it seems like we are the only ones who feel what we feel, with the intensity that we feel it. This is false. Everyone has feelings; some people just prefer to deny them. I propose a different approach: get honest, get curious. Strive to understand your emotions, rather than stuff them away. It's healthier, and it leads to more resiliency and greater insight. If you're brave enough to engage in The Reckoning, you might just find that you are stronger than you thought--and you will begin to see a way out of the darkness of the icky feelings and back into the light.
Sunday, May 19, 2013
What About Love?
Recently, I made a new friend--which, let's face it, is something that becomes exponentially more difficult after graduating from college. I always get excited about new friends, because a) they don't happen that often, and b) I often wish I had more of them. As a textbook introvert, I have a small number of very close, deep friendships, but I tend to run into trouble when those few friends go out of town or can't be reached by phone. So, the promise of an authentic bond with a new person feels exciting and refreshing, but also brings along with it some feelings of caution. Despite my craving for close connection, there were many years in which friendships definitely were not my most successful endeavors. Even now that I am in recovery, when I enter into a new relationship I always have in the back of my mind the thought, "Don't make the same mistakes you used to make."
During my eating disorder, one of my biggest liabilities in relationships was my neediness. At that time, I had very, very few friends--there just wasn't room for many of them in my life alongside anorexia. I was desperately lonely, and as a result I clung tightly to anyone who promised connection. Since I had so little self-worth I usually felt incredulous when someone actually wanted to be my friend...and then I lived in fear that one wrong move on my part would sabotage the entire operation. I went overboard trying to endear myself to others via what one of my friends calls the, "Love Me, Love Me Dance"...and every time one of my emails or phone calls went unanswered, I experienced utter devastation and was certain that I accidentally had done something terrible, that the friendship was over. I hated myself for being so needy, yet I couldn't help it--that hunger for love was so wide and so deep that I felt it would never be satisfied.
Many years of therapy and a few lasting, precious friendships later, I am relieved and happy to say that I no longer approach relationships with anywhere near that degree of clinginess. As I've gained a genuine sense of self-love, I've found that I'm much more able to connect with others in a way that feels healthy. And yet, remnants of former insecurities remain, and I occasionally still worry that friendships I hold dear will one day vanish. I know how to manage those anxieties and understand that they are not, in fact, grounded in reality...but, there they are, nevertheless. Recently I read something in the book, Toward a Meaningful Life: The Wisdom of the Rebbe Menachem Mendel Schneerson, that offered me some insight into the link between self-love and loving others:
"If you don't find a way to love G-d, to love the G-d that resides in your soul, you will find yourself in a constant search for love. We may even turn to unhealthy forms of love to replace this lack of inner love."
To me, this makes perfect sense: when I didn't love myself at all, I needed others to do all that loving for me--and there was no amount of "other-love" that would satisfy the void inside myself. Now that I do have a healthy dose of self-love in my life, now that I recognize the
G-dliness within myself, I'm free to enjoy--but not cling to--positive connections with other people.
Recovery is all about learning, and some lessons I learned the hard way. There were relationships of mine that suffered in large part because of how I approached them. But, although there was a time when I truly hated myself for "ruining" those connections, I don't feel that way anymore. Was it unfortunate? Absolutely. Was it the best I could do at the time, with what I had? Yes. And, going through this evolution of how I approach relationships has made me more able than ever to tune in to myself and assess how I am contributing to a connection: too much, to little, or just right? It's not a perfect science and sometimes there are adjustments to be made...but, I also know that I'm not in danger anymore of reverting to my old imbalanced system.
Recovery is a tough journey, and I wish that all of us have friends to walk it with us. I hope that we can all achieve a genuine degree of self-love and self-worth that will make those connections possible!
During my eating disorder, one of my biggest liabilities in relationships was my neediness. At that time, I had very, very few friends--there just wasn't room for many of them in my life alongside anorexia. I was desperately lonely, and as a result I clung tightly to anyone who promised connection. Since I had so little self-worth I usually felt incredulous when someone actually wanted to be my friend...and then I lived in fear that one wrong move on my part would sabotage the entire operation. I went overboard trying to endear myself to others via what one of my friends calls the, "Love Me, Love Me Dance"...and every time one of my emails or phone calls went unanswered, I experienced utter devastation and was certain that I accidentally had done something terrible, that the friendship was over. I hated myself for being so needy, yet I couldn't help it--that hunger for love was so wide and so deep that I felt it would never be satisfied.
Many years of therapy and a few lasting, precious friendships later, I am relieved and happy to say that I no longer approach relationships with anywhere near that degree of clinginess. As I've gained a genuine sense of self-love, I've found that I'm much more able to connect with others in a way that feels healthy. And yet, remnants of former insecurities remain, and I occasionally still worry that friendships I hold dear will one day vanish. I know how to manage those anxieties and understand that they are not, in fact, grounded in reality...but, there they are, nevertheless. Recently I read something in the book, Toward a Meaningful Life: The Wisdom of the Rebbe Menachem Mendel Schneerson, that offered me some insight into the link between self-love and loving others:
"If you don't find a way to love G-d, to love the G-d that resides in your soul, you will find yourself in a constant search for love. We may even turn to unhealthy forms of love to replace this lack of inner love."
To me, this makes perfect sense: when I didn't love myself at all, I needed others to do all that loving for me--and there was no amount of "other-love" that would satisfy the void inside myself. Now that I do have a healthy dose of self-love in my life, now that I recognize the
G-dliness within myself, I'm free to enjoy--but not cling to--positive connections with other people.
Recovery is all about learning, and some lessons I learned the hard way. There were relationships of mine that suffered in large part because of how I approached them. But, although there was a time when I truly hated myself for "ruining" those connections, I don't feel that way anymore. Was it unfortunate? Absolutely. Was it the best I could do at the time, with what I had? Yes. And, going through this evolution of how I approach relationships has made me more able than ever to tune in to myself and assess how I am contributing to a connection: too much, to little, or just right? It's not a perfect science and sometimes there are adjustments to be made...but, I also know that I'm not in danger anymore of reverting to my old imbalanced system.
Recovery is a tough journey, and I wish that all of us have friends to walk it with us. I hope that we can all achieve a genuine degree of self-love and self-worth that will make those connections possible!
Sunday, March 24, 2013
The Challenge of Freedom
Yesterday my good friend and chevruta introduced me to my new favorite haggadah: A Night To Remember by Mishael Zion and Noam Zion. It has the full traditional text accompanied by contemporary insights, spectacularly clever artwork, and commentary from a wide range of contributors (Rav Soloveitchik, Aviva Zornberg, Yehuda Amichai, and Amos Oz to name but a few). I loved it so much that this morning I had to rush out and get my own copy. If you've never been to the haggadah section of a Jewish bookstore on the day before Erev Pesach, put it on your to-do list for next year.
In a section discussing the meaning of freedom, the haggadah quotes 20th century French author Andre Gide:
"To be liberated--that is easy. To be a free person--that is very hard."
I think this is a critical yet often unspoken aspect of freedom: the challenge of maintaining it after it has been won. In fact, the responsibilities of living as a free human being can be so daunting that sometimes people find themselves missing the predictability and security of slavery. The ancient Israelites certainly experienced this--not even two months into their liberation from Egypt, the Jews began to whine about their new living conditions. What would they eat? Where would the food come from? Oh, if only they had stayed in Egypt where they had their fill of meat and bread! But, the Jews weren't being simply ungrateful complainers. Rather, they were experiencing the fear that comes from understanding the responsibility of being self-sufficient. When they were slaves, the Jews didn't have to worry about their own upkeep--they ate what was given to them and had their basic needs met by their masters. Once the novelty of freedom wore off, the Jews woke up to the knowledge that life was no longer predictable and security could no longer be counted on. Crossing the sea was a scary but finite event; in contrast, freedom stretched before them as a continuous stretch of fending for themselves. Through those infamous rose-colored glasses, the Jews forgot about the backbreaking labor and crushing oppression that had been their lot as slaves, and saw only one thing: the comfort of a lifestyle that had been familiar to them.
Andre Gide's quote resonates for me personally as well. I remember that when I first went into intensive treatment for my eating disorder, I felt relieved that I would no longer be allowed to be a slave to my anorexia. I was scared, of course, but I was also exhausted and tired of having every day be a battle between my mind and body. Treatment provided me with a kind of scaffolded freedom--it taught me how to make more liberated choices around food and exercise but also provided me with a supportive framework in which to practice those skills. A nutritionist watched over my meal plan, a staff of therapists and counselors tended to my emotional needs, and my case manager handled most of the major decisions around my treatment. I had my hands full just trying to assimilate all the new knowledge and emotions, but I definitely didn't have any big "life responsibilities" during that time.
When I left treatment and began to live as a "free person," all of that changed. I still had the skills that I learned in the program, but now I was fully responsible for using them. I had an outpatient team that coached me along, but the major legwork was on me: the responsibilities of shopping for food, following my meal plan, monitoring my own exercise, and providing my own in-the-moment distress tolerance fell squarely on my shoulders. It was very, very hard. There were many times when I wished I could go back to treatment...not because I wanted to be sick again, but because I just wanted to be taken care of. Never mind that intensive treatment had been hard in a completely different way; when I was newly into "independent recovery" all I could remember was that it had been safe and secure. Learning to take ownership of my own life of freedom from my eating disorder was a challenging yet critical step in my process of attaining recovery.
Years later, I still have all the "real world" obligations that come with living an adult life: I have a full-time job, pay my own bills, and cook and clean for myself. I am responsible for continuing to make recovery-oriented choices and for keeping myself physically and emotionally healthy. There are times of overwhelm, but really, these "burdens" don't seem unbearable anymore--they just feel like life. Recovered life. And, although they bring their share of stress, these responsibilities also bring me lots of joy and a sense of accomplishment. I remember what it felt like to be enslaved to an eating disorder, and I am proud that I now have what it takes to sustain my own recovery.
This Pesach, I hope we can all validate for ourselves that freedom is hard, and it is normal to miss the familiarity and security of whatever oppression we've left behind. But, I hope we can also remind ourselves that what freedom brings is infinitely more gratifying than anything we could expect in slavery. Remember--the Jews didn't go back to Egypt. They trusted Hashem, they persevered, and they became a stronger people because of it. If our ancestors could do it, we can do it, too.
חג כשר ושמח!
In a section discussing the meaning of freedom, the haggadah quotes 20th century French author Andre Gide:
"To be liberated--that is easy. To be a free person--that is very hard."
I think this is a critical yet often unspoken aspect of freedom: the challenge of maintaining it after it has been won. In fact, the responsibilities of living as a free human being can be so daunting that sometimes people find themselves missing the predictability and security of slavery. The ancient Israelites certainly experienced this--not even two months into their liberation from Egypt, the Jews began to whine about their new living conditions. What would they eat? Where would the food come from? Oh, if only they had stayed in Egypt where they had their fill of meat and bread! But, the Jews weren't being simply ungrateful complainers. Rather, they were experiencing the fear that comes from understanding the responsibility of being self-sufficient. When they were slaves, the Jews didn't have to worry about their own upkeep--they ate what was given to them and had their basic needs met by their masters. Once the novelty of freedom wore off, the Jews woke up to the knowledge that life was no longer predictable and security could no longer be counted on. Crossing the sea was a scary but finite event; in contrast, freedom stretched before them as a continuous stretch of fending for themselves. Through those infamous rose-colored glasses, the Jews forgot about the backbreaking labor and crushing oppression that had been their lot as slaves, and saw only one thing: the comfort of a lifestyle that had been familiar to them.
Andre Gide's quote resonates for me personally as well. I remember that when I first went into intensive treatment for my eating disorder, I felt relieved that I would no longer be allowed to be a slave to my anorexia. I was scared, of course, but I was also exhausted and tired of having every day be a battle between my mind and body. Treatment provided me with a kind of scaffolded freedom--it taught me how to make more liberated choices around food and exercise but also provided me with a supportive framework in which to practice those skills. A nutritionist watched over my meal plan, a staff of therapists and counselors tended to my emotional needs, and my case manager handled most of the major decisions around my treatment. I had my hands full just trying to assimilate all the new knowledge and emotions, but I definitely didn't have any big "life responsibilities" during that time.
When I left treatment and began to live as a "free person," all of that changed. I still had the skills that I learned in the program, but now I was fully responsible for using them. I had an outpatient team that coached me along, but the major legwork was on me: the responsibilities of shopping for food, following my meal plan, monitoring my own exercise, and providing my own in-the-moment distress tolerance fell squarely on my shoulders. It was very, very hard. There were many times when I wished I could go back to treatment...not because I wanted to be sick again, but because I just wanted to be taken care of. Never mind that intensive treatment had been hard in a completely different way; when I was newly into "independent recovery" all I could remember was that it had been safe and secure. Learning to take ownership of my own life of freedom from my eating disorder was a challenging yet critical step in my process of attaining recovery.
Years later, I still have all the "real world" obligations that come with living an adult life: I have a full-time job, pay my own bills, and cook and clean for myself. I am responsible for continuing to make recovery-oriented choices and for keeping myself physically and emotionally healthy. There are times of overwhelm, but really, these "burdens" don't seem unbearable anymore--they just feel like life. Recovered life. And, although they bring their share of stress, these responsibilities also bring me lots of joy and a sense of accomplishment. I remember what it felt like to be enslaved to an eating disorder, and I am proud that I now have what it takes to sustain my own recovery.
This Pesach, I hope we can all validate for ourselves that freedom is hard, and it is normal to miss the familiarity and security of whatever oppression we've left behind. But, I hope we can also remind ourselves that what freedom brings is infinitely more gratifying than anything we could expect in slavery. Remember--the Jews didn't go back to Egypt. They trusted Hashem, they persevered, and they became a stronger people because of it. If our ancestors could do it, we can do it, too.
חג כשר ושמח!
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
Purim...Unmasked
Last year at this time, I explained why Purim has never been one of my favorite Jewish holidays. This year as the holiday approached once more, I felt myself sighing a little bit internally in anticipation. Recently someone asked me what I was going to dress up as for Purim, and my instinctive first thought was, "Well, nothing." I do not enjoy wearing costumes; if I'm not performing on a stage, I don't do it. I just don't think it's fun, and maybe it's my rigid streak talking, but I don't like pretending to be someone I'm not. Which, when I think about it, strikes me as incredibly ironic, because I feel like I have actually spent--and continue to spend--quite a bit of my life pretending to be someone I'm not. I tend to present myself in a way that I think other people will find appealing. This doesn't mean I adopt a completely false persona, but it often does mean putting myself out there so that only selective parts of myself are revealed. A political science professor whose course I took during my freshman year at college had a favorite saying: "It is not truth that is important, but that which is perceived to be." I think, consciously and unconsciously, in the past I applied the same principle to my own life. It didn't matter what was actually true about me; it mattered what other people thought was true about me.
Which brings me to Purim, and the custom of wearing costumes and masks. Recently I learned that the words, Megilat Esther, themselves reveal a lot of the meaning behind this tradition. The word megilat -- מגילת -- comes from the root גלה, which means to uncover, to reveal, or public. In contrast, the name Esther -- אסתר -- comes from the root סתר, which means to cover, to hide, or private. During Purim, wearing disguises helps us remember that we all have our public selves that we present to the world. Beneath those exterior displays, however, are our true selves that we often choose to keep private. Purim is a reminder that no one is completely as he or she appears to be. We each have a hidden inner self that, though often afraid to make itself known, deserves to be seen.
The most elaborate mask I've ever worn was the mask of anorexia. For years, I never took it off, lest anyone see the scared, lost me who cowered underneath. As a result, every interaction I had during that time was with someone who only saw my outward persona. Every connection was superficial because no one got to know who I really was. In fact, I kept the mask on for so long that I forgot who I was. A central piece of my recovery has been finding ways to "go natural." I began by taking off the anorexia mask in private (or in therapy) and giving myself time to figure out who I was underneath. Then, I started identifying people with whom I felt it would be safe to be more genuine, and I began to let them know me. Over time, that list has grown longer and longer, to the point where I now feel that while I still throw a tiny bit of a disguise on once in a while, overall the self I'm presenting to the world is me.
In an article titled, "Being You -- A Purim Insight", Sara Tzafona writes:
"We can't possibly discern our purpose while attending a masquerade ball within our personal worlds. We're not listening to G-d's message, or even trying to find it, if we are spending our time creating false personalities or attempting to become replicas of others rather than focusing on who we are meant to be.
It's pointless, because the world doesn't need replicas of others; the world needs authentic people who aren't afraid to reflect the G-dly soul that was given to them, who aren't afraid to go natural in this razzle-dazzle world that ridicules morality and ethics and authentic purpose.
We have an obligation to shrug off the artificial masks that we present to the world, because each of us has a job that can be performed by no one else. There can only be one me, one you, and one Esther. We must all do our jobs. And all jobs are created equal, though not the same. All jobs provide a vital piece to the mosaic of this world, a vital channel to its healing."
This Purim, I wish for all of us the ability to enjoy the festivities...and then, when it's over, to find a safe space in which to take off our masks. I hope that each of us can find a corner of the world in which we can shine our true light, as only our authentic selves can do.
Which brings me to Purim, and the custom of wearing costumes and masks. Recently I learned that the words, Megilat Esther, themselves reveal a lot of the meaning behind this tradition. The word megilat -- מגילת -- comes from the root גלה, which means to uncover, to reveal, or public. In contrast, the name Esther -- אסתר -- comes from the root סתר, which means to cover, to hide, or private. During Purim, wearing disguises helps us remember that we all have our public selves that we present to the world. Beneath those exterior displays, however, are our true selves that we often choose to keep private. Purim is a reminder that no one is completely as he or she appears to be. We each have a hidden inner self that, though often afraid to make itself known, deserves to be seen.
The most elaborate mask I've ever worn was the mask of anorexia. For years, I never took it off, lest anyone see the scared, lost me who cowered underneath. As a result, every interaction I had during that time was with someone who only saw my outward persona. Every connection was superficial because no one got to know who I really was. In fact, I kept the mask on for so long that I forgot who I was. A central piece of my recovery has been finding ways to "go natural." I began by taking off the anorexia mask in private (or in therapy) and giving myself time to figure out who I was underneath. Then, I started identifying people with whom I felt it would be safe to be more genuine, and I began to let them know me. Over time, that list has grown longer and longer, to the point where I now feel that while I still throw a tiny bit of a disguise on once in a while, overall the self I'm presenting to the world is me.
In an article titled, "Being You -- A Purim Insight", Sara Tzafona writes:
"We can't possibly discern our purpose while attending a masquerade ball within our personal worlds. We're not listening to G-d's message, or even trying to find it, if we are spending our time creating false personalities or attempting to become replicas of others rather than focusing on who we are meant to be.
It's pointless, because the world doesn't need replicas of others; the world needs authentic people who aren't afraid to reflect the G-dly soul that was given to them, who aren't afraid to go natural in this razzle-dazzle world that ridicules morality and ethics and authentic purpose.
We have an obligation to shrug off the artificial masks that we present to the world, because each of us has a job that can be performed by no one else. There can only be one me, one you, and one Esther. We must all do our jobs. And all jobs are created equal, though not the same. All jobs provide a vital piece to the mosaic of this world, a vital channel to its healing."
This Purim, I wish for all of us the ability to enjoy the festivities...and then, when it's over, to find a safe space in which to take off our masks. I hope that each of us can find a corner of the world in which we can shine our true light, as only our authentic selves can do.
Sunday, February 3, 2013
Tricky Number Ten
As parshiot go, this past week's--Yitro--was a Big One. Amid tremendous spectacle at Mt. Sinai, Hashem revealed to the Israelites the Ten Commandments. Although the rest of the Torah would not be given until later, this first phase was monumental in its own right. For a full translation of the Commandments, visit this page...but, for the sake of brevity, I'll give a quick recap:
1. I am Hashem, your G-d.
2. You shall have no other gods besides Me.
3. You shall not take the Name of Hashem in vain.
4. Remember the Sabbath Day and keep it holy.
5. Honor your father and mother.
6. You shall not murder.
7. You shall not commit adultery.
8. You shall not steal.
9. You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.
10. You shall not covet.
Commandments 1-4 are pretty essential to the essence of Judaism, so it seems logical that the list would lead with these. Regarding Commandments 6-9, these are critical guidelines for morality, not to mention vital to the safety of the community and the maintenance of public order. Although I'm sure no one enjoys a completely conflict-free relationship with his or her parents, it does make sense that (except in the most extreme circumstances) it is a child's duty to honor his or her parents by respecting them and providing them with what they need, materialistically and emotionally, as they age.
But what about Commandment # 10?
Personally, I find this to be the trickiest one of all. It is the outlier on the list because unlike the rest, which primarily govern our actions, this one is directed at our thoughts. While it is relatively easy to control what we do, it is a lot harder to control what we think--especially when the thought is fueled by such a common emotion as jealousy. Is it realistic to think that a person could honestly live in a culture such as ours and never allow herself to feel envious of someone else? Furthermore, let's say I do feel jealous...as long as I don't go out and actually steal the thing I want, or murder someone to get it, is the feeling itself really so bad?
Well, although I'm no master scholar, I've learned enough Torah to know that nothing is in there by mistake. So, I decided to look a little closer at Commandment # 10 and see if I could figure out why it merits being on the same list as "You shall have no other gods besides Me," and "You shall not murder." I started by thinking about the role that "coveting" has played in my life.
Interestingly, my first memory of coveting something of my neighbor's dates all the way back to preschool, when I was fiercely jealous of my friend's long, silky, braided pigtails. I watched the way she would whip those braids around her head with confidence and flair, something I knew I would never, ever be able to accomplish with my standard-issue bowl cut (which, although adorable in retrospect, seemed at the time to be most unfortunate). I looked at my hair in the mirror in dismay. If I could just have those braids, I thought, I would be a better version of me. I was four years old. What an early age at which to start seeing myself as "less than" someone else!
This sense of never measuring up favorably, of wanting someone else's skills, style, or demeanor, only continued. I was jealous of my friends' athletic talents, singing voices, and fashion sense; I envied their social ease and confidence. When I was struggling with anorexia, I strove to make my body smaller and smaller until I could win the much-sought-after title of "sickest girl"--something I never seemed able to attain. The side effect of all this coveting was that I never stopped to appreciate what I did have--the skills I possessed, the achievements I'd accomplished, the character traits that made me special. I was so busy focusing on what everyone else had, and what everyone else's life must be like, that I neglected to nurture my own strengths and validate my own journey.
For me, coveting has rarely been about material items, but it has nearly always been about personhood. Simply put, I was never satisfied with who I was, and I felt that if I could only have whatever "it" was that other people internally possessed, I'd finally be a person worthy of positive attention, a person who mattered. I think this mindset of self-negation is what makes coveting so dangerous. When we want something someone else has so badly that we convince ourselves that we need it in order to be worthy/happy/successful/etc ourselves, we invalidate our own value as the people we actually are. Additionally, coveting leads us to forget that Hashem designed each of us to fill a unique space in the world. We are not meant to all look the same, act the same, or all have the same things. When we covet that which is not ours, we are essentially saying that we know how our lives are supposed to be better than Hashem does. This is NOT to say that we should just sit back and passively take whatever comes our way with the understanding that Hashem will provide us with everything we need. On the contrary, we should take an active role in our own lives, but we should do so in a way that is authentic to who we really are--not in a way that tries to make us into someone else who we assume, "has it all."
I have by no means mastered the art of Thou Shall Not Covet, and I have a feeling that it is going to be a work in progress for a while. But, I do feel that I am more aware of when I slip into that mindset, and I understand better the harm it causes to my relationship with myself and to my relationship with Hashem. I wish for all of us--myself included--the ability to replace thoughts of, "I don't have enough ________", with the thought (and belief) that not only do we HAVE enough, but we ARE enough--as is.
1. I am Hashem, your G-d.
2. You shall have no other gods besides Me.
3. You shall not take the Name of Hashem in vain.
4. Remember the Sabbath Day and keep it holy.
5. Honor your father and mother.
6. You shall not murder.
7. You shall not commit adultery.
8. You shall not steal.
9. You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.
10. You shall not covet.
Commandments 1-4 are pretty essential to the essence of Judaism, so it seems logical that the list would lead with these. Regarding Commandments 6-9, these are critical guidelines for morality, not to mention vital to the safety of the community and the maintenance of public order. Although I'm sure no one enjoys a completely conflict-free relationship with his or her parents, it does make sense that (except in the most extreme circumstances) it is a child's duty to honor his or her parents by respecting them and providing them with what they need, materialistically and emotionally, as they age.
But what about Commandment # 10?
Personally, I find this to be the trickiest one of all. It is the outlier on the list because unlike the rest, which primarily govern our actions, this one is directed at our thoughts. While it is relatively easy to control what we do, it is a lot harder to control what we think--especially when the thought is fueled by such a common emotion as jealousy. Is it realistic to think that a person could honestly live in a culture such as ours and never allow herself to feel envious of someone else? Furthermore, let's say I do feel jealous...as long as I don't go out and actually steal the thing I want, or murder someone to get it, is the feeling itself really so bad?
Well, although I'm no master scholar, I've learned enough Torah to know that nothing is in there by mistake. So, I decided to look a little closer at Commandment # 10 and see if I could figure out why it merits being on the same list as "You shall have no other gods besides Me," and "You shall not murder." I started by thinking about the role that "coveting" has played in my life.
Interestingly, my first memory of coveting something of my neighbor's dates all the way back to preschool, when I was fiercely jealous of my friend's long, silky, braided pigtails. I watched the way she would whip those braids around her head with confidence and flair, something I knew I would never, ever be able to accomplish with my standard-issue bowl cut (which, although adorable in retrospect, seemed at the time to be most unfortunate). I looked at my hair in the mirror in dismay. If I could just have those braids, I thought, I would be a better version of me. I was four years old. What an early age at which to start seeing myself as "less than" someone else!
This sense of never measuring up favorably, of wanting someone else's skills, style, or demeanor, only continued. I was jealous of my friends' athletic talents, singing voices, and fashion sense; I envied their social ease and confidence. When I was struggling with anorexia, I strove to make my body smaller and smaller until I could win the much-sought-after title of "sickest girl"--something I never seemed able to attain. The side effect of all this coveting was that I never stopped to appreciate what I did have--the skills I possessed, the achievements I'd accomplished, the character traits that made me special. I was so busy focusing on what everyone else had, and what everyone else's life must be like, that I neglected to nurture my own strengths and validate my own journey.
For me, coveting has rarely been about material items, but it has nearly always been about personhood. Simply put, I was never satisfied with who I was, and I felt that if I could only have whatever "it" was that other people internally possessed, I'd finally be a person worthy of positive attention, a person who mattered. I think this mindset of self-negation is what makes coveting so dangerous. When we want something someone else has so badly that we convince ourselves that we need it in order to be worthy/happy/successful/etc ourselves, we invalidate our own value as the people we actually are. Additionally, coveting leads us to forget that Hashem designed each of us to fill a unique space in the world. We are not meant to all look the same, act the same, or all have the same things. When we covet that which is not ours, we are essentially saying that we know how our lives are supposed to be better than Hashem does. This is NOT to say that we should just sit back and passively take whatever comes our way with the understanding that Hashem will provide us with everything we need. On the contrary, we should take an active role in our own lives, but we should do so in a way that is authentic to who we really are--not in a way that tries to make us into someone else who we assume, "has it all."
I have by no means mastered the art of Thou Shall Not Covet, and I have a feeling that it is going to be a work in progress for a while. But, I do feel that I am more aware of when I slip into that mindset, and I understand better the harm it causes to my relationship with myself and to my relationship with Hashem. I wish for all of us--myself included--the ability to replace thoughts of, "I don't have enough ________", with the thought (and belief) that not only do we HAVE enough, but we ARE enough--as is.
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
Fire and Ice
In this week's parasha, Va'eira, Hashem begins inflicting the Ten Plagues on the Egyptians. The seventh plague is hail--a tremendous hailstorm descends on Egypt, raining down icy precipitation that destroys all the plant life and also causes significant damage to the animals and humans. But, this is hail with a twist: deep inside every hailstone is a burning flame of fire.
Finding this to be a curious detail, I searched for an explanation. I learned that the Zohar teaches that while the plagues were indeed intended to punish Pharoah and the Egyptians, they also served to teach the Israelites important lessons about spiritual growth. The ice and fire in the hail symbolize two different personalities that reside within each individual. Hail represents an "icy" personality, someone who is cold toward others and appears unable to love, connect, or be passionate about anything. In contrast, the fire represents the spark of positive energy with a person--that which allows an individual to feel compassion, empathy, and enthusiasm for life. Although each person carries that spark within, sometimes it is hidden underneath an icy veneer. However, if the flame burns hot enough, it can melt the ice and burn freely.
To me, this sounds a lot like the dichotomy between who a person becomes when she or he has an eating disorder, and who that person actually is. Although I was never what one would call "bubbly," growing up I definitely had a sparkle to my personality. I had a sense of humor; I was affectionate; I was contagiously enthusiastic about my various passions. When I fell into anorexia, all of that disappeared behind a wall of impenetrable ice. I stopped valuing my relationships and prioritized my food and exercise obsessions above everything else. I had very little to talk about with other people; I lost interest in nearly everything. I felt as though I was wrapped inside my own narrow world, frozen off from the seemingly carefree existence that other people enjoyed. In some ways, I craved the ice--the world was too big, too chaotic, and too loud; I longed for smallness, simplicity, and quiet. Simply put, ice was safer than fire--easier to contain, and less likely to harm.
But, there was always a flame inside me, and my early recovery was nurtured by the people who were determined still to see it. Even if I had forgotten who I was, people who loved me had not...and they found gentle yet powerful ways to remind me of the spirited person I once had been. As I continued on my path, I discovered new ways to cultivate my spark: teaching, hiking, writing, and learning are among the many activities that keep me passionate and connected. I now have energy to feel love toward other people, and I'm aware that this is a beautifully self-perpetuating cycle: my inner flame allows me to demonstrate love and care toward others, and the authentic relationships that form as a result are what stoke my fire and keep my energy burning.
So, my message here is two-fold...
To parents, partners, friends, and loved ones of a person with an eating disorder: remember that the individual who is struggling is still who she or he was before the illness took hold. Even if this person seems devoid of energy, passion, and motivation; even if she or he seems impossible to reach, remind yourself that buried under that ice is the person you love. Find a way to see the spark within your loved one, and nurture it as best as you can, until the person once again can recognize her or his own inner fire.
To the person struggling with an eating disorder: I know life feels dark, cold, and often hopeless. But, remember that your illness is not who you are. It might feel like it has taken over, but you are more resilient than you think. After all, Hashem breathed your soul into you, so you have a piece of the Divine within. That's a flame that will never burn out! Trust the people around you who try to show you your spark--they know what they're talking about. Dig deep and find that flame...and slowly but surely, it will melt the ice and bring you back to life.
Finding this to be a curious detail, I searched for an explanation. I learned that the Zohar teaches that while the plagues were indeed intended to punish Pharoah and the Egyptians, they also served to teach the Israelites important lessons about spiritual growth. The ice and fire in the hail symbolize two different personalities that reside within each individual. Hail represents an "icy" personality, someone who is cold toward others and appears unable to love, connect, or be passionate about anything. In contrast, the fire represents the spark of positive energy with a person--that which allows an individual to feel compassion, empathy, and enthusiasm for life. Although each person carries that spark within, sometimes it is hidden underneath an icy veneer. However, if the flame burns hot enough, it can melt the ice and burn freely.
To me, this sounds a lot like the dichotomy between who a person becomes when she or he has an eating disorder, and who that person actually is. Although I was never what one would call "bubbly," growing up I definitely had a sparkle to my personality. I had a sense of humor; I was affectionate; I was contagiously enthusiastic about my various passions. When I fell into anorexia, all of that disappeared behind a wall of impenetrable ice. I stopped valuing my relationships and prioritized my food and exercise obsessions above everything else. I had very little to talk about with other people; I lost interest in nearly everything. I felt as though I was wrapped inside my own narrow world, frozen off from the seemingly carefree existence that other people enjoyed. In some ways, I craved the ice--the world was too big, too chaotic, and too loud; I longed for smallness, simplicity, and quiet. Simply put, ice was safer than fire--easier to contain, and less likely to harm.
But, there was always a flame inside me, and my early recovery was nurtured by the people who were determined still to see it. Even if I had forgotten who I was, people who loved me had not...and they found gentle yet powerful ways to remind me of the spirited person I once had been. As I continued on my path, I discovered new ways to cultivate my spark: teaching, hiking, writing, and learning are among the many activities that keep me passionate and connected. I now have energy to feel love toward other people, and I'm aware that this is a beautifully self-perpetuating cycle: my inner flame allows me to demonstrate love and care toward others, and the authentic relationships that form as a result are what stoke my fire and keep my energy burning.
So, my message here is two-fold...
To parents, partners, friends, and loved ones of a person with an eating disorder: remember that the individual who is struggling is still who she or he was before the illness took hold. Even if this person seems devoid of energy, passion, and motivation; even if she or he seems impossible to reach, remind yourself that buried under that ice is the person you love. Find a way to see the spark within your loved one, and nurture it as best as you can, until the person once again can recognize her or his own inner fire.
To the person struggling with an eating disorder: I know life feels dark, cold, and often hopeless. But, remember that your illness is not who you are. It might feel like it has taken over, but you are more resilient than you think. After all, Hashem breathed your soul into you, so you have a piece of the Divine within. That's a flame that will never burn out! Trust the people around you who try to show you your spark--they know what they're talking about. Dig deep and find that flame...and slowly but surely, it will melt the ice and bring you back to life.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
No Pain, No (internal) Gain
I would be remiss in my exploration of Elul themes if I did not venture into the realm of teshuva--certainly a central focus of this month preceding the High Holidays. Teshuva (תשובה) is often translated as "repentance" or "penitence,"but there's more to it than that. The Hebrew root of תשובה is שוב, which means, "return." When a person does teshuva, he or she repents for his or her sins, turns away from destructive patterns and actions, and returns to a life in harmony with Hashem. Teshuva also signals new beginnings and a restoration of balance within oneself. For years, the focus of my High Holiday teshuva was always apologizing to Hashem for yet another year spent engaging in eating disorder behaviors, a year in which I had, once again, fallen short of my "best self" in what felt like so many ways. So, I prayed fervently for forgiveness and promised that in the year to come, I would really try to "do better" in recovery. This happened year after year after year...and each time, I fully intended to follow through on my promise. So, why didn't I?
I was a classic case of ambivalent teshuva. I yearned to change, and yet I didn't. It was puzzling and endlessly frustrating...and yet, it seems, not uncommon to the experience of many people who undergo teshuva for a variety of reasons. In his brilliant work, Orot HaTeshuva, Rav Kook deeply examines the concept of teshuva. (For more of Rav Kook's ideas, see this blog post.) This past Tuesday was 3 Elul, Rav Kook's yahrzeit, and I set aside some time that day to explore Orot HaTeshuva. As I read, I came upon a passage that, I believe, gets right to the heart of why it was so hard for me to turn away from my eating disorder, even though I wanted to. (Note: instead of reading this text and making a direct inference that your eating disorder is "evil" or "sinful," perhaps think about it more generally as a negative force in your life.)
"The pain felt in the initial inspiration to penitence is due to the severance of the evil layers of the self, which cannot be mended as long as they are attached to and remain part of the person, and cause deterioration of the whole spirit. Through penitence they are severed from the basic essence of the self. Every severance causes pain, like the pain felt at the amputation of deteriorated organs for medical reasons. This is the most inward kind of pain, through which a person is liberated from the dark servitude to his sins and his lowly inclinations and their bitter aftereffects." (Orot HaTeshuva)
Rav Kook hits the nail on the head: I clung to my eating disorder for so long, despite genuinely wanting to change, because separating from it was too painful. Even though I knew anorexia was harming me, it had become so enmeshed in who I was that detaching it became a labor intensive, often excruciating process of pushing, pulling, and probing. My eating disorder was killing me; yet, it felt integral to my being. Letting go of it did, at times, feel as agonizing as if I was chopping off a limb.
But, Rav Kook is also correct about something else: the necessity of distance to the process of repair. When we are entrenched in a problem, it's often hard for us to see it clearly for what it is and figure out how to untangle it. The same is true of eating disorder behaviors--when we're in the middle of using one, we're hardly in a position to view it objectively and make a plan to get rid of it. For me, the magic of therapy was that it gave me a safe place to detach from my behaviors and observe, with the help of my clinicians, what function each behavior served and how I could begin to chip away at them one by one. Being willing and able to separate from my anorexia in that context was what allowed me to internalize the tools that I needed in order to dismantle it.
So, for any of you who find yourselves wondering this month why you spent another year engaging in your eating disorder despite having had a genuine desire to kick it to the curb, remember what Rav Kook says: it hurts to separate from part of yourself, even from a part that is negative. And, like most people, you do your best to avoid pain. But, remember also Rav Kook's message that separation is the key to repair. If you allow yourself some distance from your eating disorder, you will be able to see it more clearly for what it is. This year, may you be able to tolerate the pain of this separation, and may it lead you to lasting recovery, once and for all!
I was a classic case of ambivalent teshuva. I yearned to change, and yet I didn't. It was puzzling and endlessly frustrating...and yet, it seems, not uncommon to the experience of many people who undergo teshuva for a variety of reasons. In his brilliant work, Orot HaTeshuva, Rav Kook deeply examines the concept of teshuva. (For more of Rav Kook's ideas, see this blog post.) This past Tuesday was 3 Elul, Rav Kook's yahrzeit, and I set aside some time that day to explore Orot HaTeshuva. As I read, I came upon a passage that, I believe, gets right to the heart of why it was so hard for me to turn away from my eating disorder, even though I wanted to. (Note: instead of reading this text and making a direct inference that your eating disorder is "evil" or "sinful," perhaps think about it more generally as a negative force in your life.)
"The pain felt in the initial inspiration to penitence is due to the severance of the evil layers of the self, which cannot be mended as long as they are attached to and remain part of the person, and cause deterioration of the whole spirit. Through penitence they are severed from the basic essence of the self. Every severance causes pain, like the pain felt at the amputation of deteriorated organs for medical reasons. This is the most inward kind of pain, through which a person is liberated from the dark servitude to his sins and his lowly inclinations and their bitter aftereffects." (Orot HaTeshuva)
Rav Kook hits the nail on the head: I clung to my eating disorder for so long, despite genuinely wanting to change, because separating from it was too painful. Even though I knew anorexia was harming me, it had become so enmeshed in who I was that detaching it became a labor intensive, often excruciating process of pushing, pulling, and probing. My eating disorder was killing me; yet, it felt integral to my being. Letting go of it did, at times, feel as agonizing as if I was chopping off a limb.
But, Rav Kook is also correct about something else: the necessity of distance to the process of repair. When we are entrenched in a problem, it's often hard for us to see it clearly for what it is and figure out how to untangle it. The same is true of eating disorder behaviors--when we're in the middle of using one, we're hardly in a position to view it objectively and make a plan to get rid of it. For me, the magic of therapy was that it gave me a safe place to detach from my behaviors and observe, with the help of my clinicians, what function each behavior served and how I could begin to chip away at them one by one. Being willing and able to separate from my anorexia in that context was what allowed me to internalize the tools that I needed in order to dismantle it.
So, for any of you who find yourselves wondering this month why you spent another year engaging in your eating disorder despite having had a genuine desire to kick it to the curb, remember what Rav Kook says: it hurts to separate from part of yourself, even from a part that is negative. And, like most people, you do your best to avoid pain. But, remember also Rav Kook's message that separation is the key to repair. If you allow yourself some distance from your eating disorder, you will be able to see it more clearly for what it is. This year, may you be able to tolerate the pain of this separation, and may it lead you to lasting recovery, once and for all!
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Hod
This is the week of hod--humility--the counterpart of netzach (victory). I'll admit that I've been having a little trouble solidifying my thoughts on humility, because I think it can be a tricky concept for people in recovery. For those of us who struggle with "black-and-white thinking," it's easy to get on the humility train and ride it straight into relentless self-criticism and self-loathing. It's true that part of humility is acknowledging our own shortcomings and our "smallness." But, how can we do this while also remaining self-affirming?
In reading about hod, I found an article containing a quote that resonates with me strongly:
A full cup cannot be filled. When you're filled with yourself and your needs, "I and nothing else," there is no room for more. When you "empty" yourself before something greater than yourself, your capacity to receive increases beyond your previously perceived limits.
For years, my cup was painfully empty and I relied on my eating disorder to give me an illusion of fullness. So effective was anorexia at convincing me that my cup was full, that I shut out people and experiences that really could have enriched my life. I had no room for relationships with people--my relationship with food was all I needed. Going into intensive treatment required me to acknowledge the many ways in which my eating disorder had brought me to my knees. When I was ready to recognize how empty my cup actually was, I made room for the possibility of filling it with things that would add tremendous value to my life. By admitting how much help I needed, I opened the door for deep connection and profound learning. In recovery, I have found that people are more capable of satisfying my relational needs than I previously thought they would be. What's more, I've found that I'm much more able to receive--and reciprocate--the love that others have to offer.
When I think of hod, another story that keeps coming to my mind is one of my favorite Hasidic oral teachings:
A person should always have two pockets, with a note in each pocket. On one note should be written, "For my sake was the world created." On the other should be written, "I am but dust and ashes."
To me, this means that we each need a healthy dose of humility in our lives. It is okay to recognize areas in which we want to improve and things we need to work on. This is what keeps us growing and evolving. Sometimes, it is important to acknowledge that we are really small in the grand scheme of things, and that we are part of a system that is much larger than ourselves. But, we also need to remember that although we are small, we are significant. Everything we are, we are because this is how Hashem wants us to be--all of our strengths, He gave us so that we could use them for the greater good. Humility is what allows us to say, "Wow--I am just one small person in this awesome universe. But even though I am tiny, I have powers that Hashem has given me so that I might contribute to this world in a positive way."
In this week dedicated to hod, I encourage us all to do the following two things:
1) Think about the ways in which your cup is not full. How can you open yourself to people and experiences that might enrich your life and your journey?
2) Acknowledge that you are just one life in a universe filled with Hashem's creations. Take a moment to appreciate what it means to be one small part of a much larger system. Then, consider your personal strengths and recognize that each one was a gift from Hashem, just for you. How might you use your power to get the most out of this world? How can you use it to give the most back?
In reading about hod, I found an article containing a quote that resonates with me strongly:
A full cup cannot be filled. When you're filled with yourself and your needs, "I and nothing else," there is no room for more. When you "empty" yourself before something greater than yourself, your capacity to receive increases beyond your previously perceived limits.
For years, my cup was painfully empty and I relied on my eating disorder to give me an illusion of fullness. So effective was anorexia at convincing me that my cup was full, that I shut out people and experiences that really could have enriched my life. I had no room for relationships with people--my relationship with food was all I needed. Going into intensive treatment required me to acknowledge the many ways in which my eating disorder had brought me to my knees. When I was ready to recognize how empty my cup actually was, I made room for the possibility of filling it with things that would add tremendous value to my life. By admitting how much help I needed, I opened the door for deep connection and profound learning. In recovery, I have found that people are more capable of satisfying my relational needs than I previously thought they would be. What's more, I've found that I'm much more able to receive--and reciprocate--the love that others have to offer.
When I think of hod, another story that keeps coming to my mind is one of my favorite Hasidic oral teachings:
A person should always have two pockets, with a note in each pocket. On one note should be written, "For my sake was the world created." On the other should be written, "I am but dust and ashes."
To me, this means that we each need a healthy dose of humility in our lives. It is okay to recognize areas in which we want to improve and things we need to work on. This is what keeps us growing and evolving. Sometimes, it is important to acknowledge that we are really small in the grand scheme of things, and that we are part of a system that is much larger than ourselves. But, we also need to remember that although we are small, we are significant. Everything we are, we are because this is how Hashem wants us to be--all of our strengths, He gave us so that we could use them for the greater good. Humility is what allows us to say, "Wow--I am just one small person in this awesome universe. But even though I am tiny, I have powers that Hashem has given me so that I might contribute to this world in a positive way."
In this week dedicated to hod, I encourage us all to do the following two things:
1) Think about the ways in which your cup is not full. How can you open yourself to people and experiences that might enrich your life and your journey?
2) Acknowledge that you are just one life in a universe filled with Hashem's creations. Take a moment to appreciate what it means to be one small part of a much larger system. Then, consider your personal strengths and recognize that each one was a gift from Hashem, just for you. How might you use your power to get the most out of this world? How can you use it to give the most back?
Monday, April 16, 2012
Gevurah
As I previously explained, we are currently in the middle of counting the Omer, an opportunity for self-refinement that is simply too good to pass up. Since this is the second week of the Omer period, I am going to begin this blog series by focusing on the sefirah (Divine attribute) of Week Two: Gevurah.
I've seen gevurah translated as both "discipline" and "restraint," and either way, it is a concept with which I'm intimately familiar. Anorexia was gevurah run amok: the positive discipline associated with healthy eating and regular exercise snowballed into a painfully restrictive diet and grueling daily workout sessions; the wisdom of establishing boundaries in relationships gave way to the impenetrable wall I erected between myself and anyone who tried to come near; the prudence of not allowing myself to buy everything I wanted evolved into denying myself even the smallest purchases, such as a cup of coffee or a movie ticket. My eating disorder was all about gevurah in its most punishing form. Recovery has become an exercise in taking my affinity for gevurah and turning it into an tool for positive growth.
What does mean for me? Well, for one thing, it means being less of a people-pleaser and being more honest with my praise and criticism. It means understanding that I do not need to earn people's friendship by giving them whatever they want. At various times, it has meant adhering to a meal plan and treating food as medicine in order to get my body to a place where it is healthy. It means being honest about when I make mistakes and doing whatever clean-up is necessary, without letting that turn into an excuse to punish myself mercilessly.
I would imagine that all of us in recovery can relate to needing to figure out how to keep gevurah in balance. Whether our eating disorders were about having too much restraint or too little, recovery is about discovering how to set limits in a way that is self-protective but not self-stifling. As we work our way through this week of the Omer, I hope we can all find ways of experiencing the positive power of gevurah in our relationships with ourselves, and with others.
I've seen gevurah translated as both "discipline" and "restraint," and either way, it is a concept with which I'm intimately familiar. Anorexia was gevurah run amok: the positive discipline associated with healthy eating and regular exercise snowballed into a painfully restrictive diet and grueling daily workout sessions; the wisdom of establishing boundaries in relationships gave way to the impenetrable wall I erected between myself and anyone who tried to come near; the prudence of not allowing myself to buy everything I wanted evolved into denying myself even the smallest purchases, such as a cup of coffee or a movie ticket. My eating disorder was all about gevurah in its most punishing form. Recovery has become an exercise in taking my affinity for gevurah and turning it into an tool for positive growth.
What does mean for me? Well, for one thing, it means being less of a people-pleaser and being more honest with my praise and criticism. It means understanding that I do not need to earn people's friendship by giving them whatever they want. At various times, it has meant adhering to a meal plan and treating food as medicine in order to get my body to a place where it is healthy. It means being honest about when I make mistakes and doing whatever clean-up is necessary, without letting that turn into an excuse to punish myself mercilessly.
I would imagine that all of us in recovery can relate to needing to figure out how to keep gevurah in balance. Whether our eating disorders were about having too much restraint or too little, recovery is about discovering how to set limits in a way that is self-protective but not self-stifling. As we work our way through this week of the Omer, I hope we can all find ways of experiencing the positive power of gevurah in our relationships with ourselves, and with others.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Considering Kitniyot
Oh, Pesach. So many food rules, so many opportunities for obsessive thinking. Now, I love the holiday's theme of liberation and take seriously the idea of "freeing myself from my own personal Egypt." However, I do think there's an element of irony involved: this holiday, which focuses so much on freedom, also plays right into the food restrictions and regulations that enslave so many people with eating disorders.
For me, nowhere is this struggle more pronounced than around the question of kitniyot. Every year I revisit the same question: Do I eat them, or not? Here are the particulars: I am Ashkenazi; I'm a vegetarian; I'm also fiercely protective of my recovery from almost a decade of anorexia. Each time Pesach rolls around, I have to decide which takes precedence: an ancestral custom that is hundreds of years old, or my internal wisdom that the severely limited diet of a kitniyot-free Pesach might inadvertently reawaken the food-restrictive mentality that I've worked so hard to put to bed.
Aside from the very real halachic issues involved, this dilemma also cuts to the heart of my perfectionist tendencies. If I were to eat kitniyot, would I be doing a "good enough" job of keeping Pesach? Would people find reason to look down on my lenience and criticize my choice? I believe the answer to both questions is yes. Undoubtedly, the norm among observant Ashkenazi Jews is to avoid eating kitniyot on Pesach. The decision to break with this custom would likely meet with some resistance from many members of the observant community. However, there is also the case to be made that where health is involved, the ban on kitniyot is not as stringent as the ban on chametz, and so people are permitted to eat kitniyot if their health requires it. Furthermore, there are Orthodox rabbis who have ruled that Ashkenazi Jews within the land of Israel are allowed to eat kitniyot because the custom of eliminating those foods was unique to Europe and therefore is not binding in the Middle East. Conservative Rabbi David Golinkin takes it a step further in his responsa, which clearly argues that all Jews may consume kitniyot during Pesach "without fear of transgressing any prohibition." Again, I fully recognize that these opinions run counter to the prevailing custom among the observant Ashkenazi community. However, their arguments seem valid, especially when recovery is at stake. I would encourage Ashkenazi Jews who are trying to recover from any type of eating disorder to consider giving themselves permission to eat kitniyot on Pesach. I would also suggest that if a person DOES choose to eat kitniyot as a means of safeguarding his/her recovery during Pesach, that family members attempt to view this decision not as a rebellion or transgression, but rather as a way to protect that which is most precious: health and life.
If you do plan to incorporate kitniyot into your Pesach food repertoire, here are some recipes to get you started! It's possible to find KP versions of all the needed ingredients. Both feature quinoa...because, as a vegetarian, I am always looking for new ways to use quinoa on Pesach! The first comes courtesy of fabulous nutritionist Marci Anderson; the second, from Mark Bittman, author of one of my favorite cookbooks (How To Cook Everything Vegetarian...in case you were wondering.)
Bean Salad with Quinoa
Sweet Potato and Quinoa Salad (when I make this, I add a 15 oz. can of garbanzo beans for a little added protein)
Chag kasher v'sameach!
For me, nowhere is this struggle more pronounced than around the question of kitniyot. Every year I revisit the same question: Do I eat them, or not? Here are the particulars: I am Ashkenazi; I'm a vegetarian; I'm also fiercely protective of my recovery from almost a decade of anorexia. Each time Pesach rolls around, I have to decide which takes precedence: an ancestral custom that is hundreds of years old, or my internal wisdom that the severely limited diet of a kitniyot-free Pesach might inadvertently reawaken the food-restrictive mentality that I've worked so hard to put to bed.
Aside from the very real halachic issues involved, this dilemma also cuts to the heart of my perfectionist tendencies. If I were to eat kitniyot, would I be doing a "good enough" job of keeping Pesach? Would people find reason to look down on my lenience and criticize my choice? I believe the answer to both questions is yes. Undoubtedly, the norm among observant Ashkenazi Jews is to avoid eating kitniyot on Pesach. The decision to break with this custom would likely meet with some resistance from many members of the observant community. However, there is also the case to be made that where health is involved, the ban on kitniyot is not as stringent as the ban on chametz, and so people are permitted to eat kitniyot if their health requires it. Furthermore, there are Orthodox rabbis who have ruled that Ashkenazi Jews within the land of Israel are allowed to eat kitniyot because the custom of eliminating those foods was unique to Europe and therefore is not binding in the Middle East. Conservative Rabbi David Golinkin takes it a step further in his responsa, which clearly argues that all Jews may consume kitniyot during Pesach "without fear of transgressing any prohibition." Again, I fully recognize that these opinions run counter to the prevailing custom among the observant Ashkenazi community. However, their arguments seem valid, especially when recovery is at stake. I would encourage Ashkenazi Jews who are trying to recover from any type of eating disorder to consider giving themselves permission to eat kitniyot on Pesach. I would also suggest that if a person DOES choose to eat kitniyot as a means of safeguarding his/her recovery during Pesach, that family members attempt to view this decision not as a rebellion or transgression, but rather as a way to protect that which is most precious: health and life.
If you do plan to incorporate kitniyot into your Pesach food repertoire, here are some recipes to get you started! It's possible to find KP versions of all the needed ingredients. Both feature quinoa...because, as a vegetarian, I am always looking for new ways to use quinoa on Pesach! The first comes courtesy of fabulous nutritionist Marci Anderson; the second, from Mark Bittman, author of one of my favorite cookbooks (How To Cook Everything Vegetarian...in case you were wondering.)
Bean Salad with Quinoa
Sweet Potato and Quinoa Salad (when I make this, I add a 15 oz. can of garbanzo beans for a little added protein)
Chag kasher v'sameach!
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Intention Matters!
I love rules. Love them. Give me an open-ended task with no guidelines, and I become a ball of anxiety. How am I supposed to know how to do anything correctly, if no one explains the dos and don'ts? One of the things I found most reassuring about anorexia was the intricately detailed system of rules I created regarding food and exercise. Although completely arbitrary, the rules made me feel safe in the belief that if I followed them, nothing bad would happen to me.
Is it any wonder that I am pulled toward traditional Judaism? Look at all the rules!
I didn't begin increasing my level of religious observance until I was well on my way in recovery, but it still didn't take me long to realize that if I wasn't careful, the stringent regulations of traditional Judaism could become mere substitutions for the self-imposed rules of my eating disorder. I'd always been uncomfortable when other people paid attention to my physical body, so I was more than eager to sign up for religiously sanctioned modest dressing. And then, there were the negative commandments forming the basis for laws of kashrut and fasting. How comforting to know that if anorexia wouldn't be controlling what I ate, Hashem would be!
I knew that I did not have the luxury, as some people might, of just taking on rituals and rules without thinking them through. Covering one's body and restricting one's food options and intake might not be triggers for some people, but they definitely are for me. However, these are also important parts of traditional Judaism that I wanted to integrate into my life. How could I do that while still preserving the recovery for which I'd fought so hard?
For me, the key is intention. I need to do mitzvot for the right reasons, and this sometimes requires that I "re-frame" some thought patterns. Here are some examples:
Modest dressing:
Old thought: "Hey! I get to completely cover my body in shapeless skirts and long sleeves because Hashem wants me to! Now NO ONE will look at me! Awesome!"
New thought: "When I wear modest clothing, I am sending the message that my body is precious and not for just anyone to have access to. I can wear skirts and shirts that make me feel attractive while still letting others know that I value modesty."
Kashrut:
Old thought: "Now I have a whole new way to control what I eat and avoid scary foods...and it's totally justified because it's religious!"
New thought: "The idea behind kashrut is that eating should be a sacred act. It is one way I have of striving to be holy as Hashem is holy. Kashrut teaches discipline...by having some limitations on what I eat, I am acknowledging the presence of Hashem. But this does not have to lead to deprivation."
Fasting:
Old thought: "A whole day with no food!"
New thought: "If fasting becomes about weight control, I cannot allow myself to do it. Period. Fasting should be a way for me to focus on repentance, to turn my energy inward. To do it with the goal of food restriction is to completely miss the point."
Bottom line? Yes, it matters whether or not we do the mitzvot. But, it also matters what our intentions are as we do them. Human life has the highest value...the principle of pikuach nefesh clearly states that almost any negative commandment can be broken in order to save a life. If I twist the mitzvot into ways to perpetuate a life-threatening eating disorder, that is not what Hashem would want. As Jews in recovery, it is our responsibility not only to do mitzvot, but to do them with a pure heart, for the purposes for which they are intended.
Is it any wonder that I am pulled toward traditional Judaism? Look at all the rules!
I didn't begin increasing my level of religious observance until I was well on my way in recovery, but it still didn't take me long to realize that if I wasn't careful, the stringent regulations of traditional Judaism could become mere substitutions for the self-imposed rules of my eating disorder. I'd always been uncomfortable when other people paid attention to my physical body, so I was more than eager to sign up for religiously sanctioned modest dressing. And then, there were the negative commandments forming the basis for laws of kashrut and fasting. How comforting to know that if anorexia wouldn't be controlling what I ate, Hashem would be!
I knew that I did not have the luxury, as some people might, of just taking on rituals and rules without thinking them through. Covering one's body and restricting one's food options and intake might not be triggers for some people, but they definitely are for me. However, these are also important parts of traditional Judaism that I wanted to integrate into my life. How could I do that while still preserving the recovery for which I'd fought so hard?
For me, the key is intention. I need to do mitzvot for the right reasons, and this sometimes requires that I "re-frame" some thought patterns. Here are some examples:
Modest dressing:
Old thought: "Hey! I get to completely cover my body in shapeless skirts and long sleeves because Hashem wants me to! Now NO ONE will look at me! Awesome!"
New thought: "When I wear modest clothing, I am sending the message that my body is precious and not for just anyone to have access to. I can wear skirts and shirts that make me feel attractive while still letting others know that I value modesty."
Kashrut:
Old thought: "Now I have a whole new way to control what I eat and avoid scary foods...and it's totally justified because it's religious!"
New thought: "The idea behind kashrut is that eating should be a sacred act. It is one way I have of striving to be holy as Hashem is holy. Kashrut teaches discipline...by having some limitations on what I eat, I am acknowledging the presence of Hashem. But this does not have to lead to deprivation."
Fasting:
Old thought: "A whole day with no food!"
New thought: "If fasting becomes about weight control, I cannot allow myself to do it. Period. Fasting should be a way for me to focus on repentance, to turn my energy inward. To do it with the goal of food restriction is to completely miss the point."
Bottom line? Yes, it matters whether or not we do the mitzvot. But, it also matters what our intentions are as we do them. Human life has the highest value...the principle of pikuach nefesh clearly states that almost any negative commandment can be broken in order to save a life. If I twist the mitzvot into ways to perpetuate a life-threatening eating disorder, that is not what Hashem would want. As Jews in recovery, it is our responsibility not only to do mitzvot, but to do them with a pure heart, for the purposes for which they are intended.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Cultivating Gratitude
There's no doubt that everyone's journey through an eating disorder is different...but one commonly occurring theme is the insidious partnership between eating disorders and depression. I am 99% sure that every single person I know who has battled an eating disorder has also experienced some form of clinical depression during the course of her illness. Personally, I am no exception: during the height of my anorexia I was chronically depressed, and my process of recovery has been peppered with periods of significant melancholy. In my experience, few things make it harder to feel committed to the work of recovery, than being profoundly saddened and discouraged by life.
Although there are, of course, pharmaceutical remedies for depressed mood, there are also a number of "do-it-yourself" exercises that one can do to improve one's overall mental health and happiness. One of my favorites is keeping a gratitude journal. There is plenty of research out there in the field of psychology that asserts that practicing gratitude is a key element to living a happier life. Keeping a gratitude journal is a concrete way to cultivate a sense of thankfulness for all the positive things we experience in our lives. A few years ago I began this practice as a homework assignment for a mind-body workshop, and I loved it so much that I never stopped. The process is simple: before going to sleep each night, I jot down three to six specific experiences I had that day for which I am grateful. The entire exercise takes fewer than five minutes, but I can honestly say that since beginning this nightly ritual, I have noticed a subtle yet significant shift in my overall affect and sense of well-being.
In keeping with the academic research pointing to the importance of gratitude, Judaism has long had a tradition of emphasizing the value of giving thanks. One way of expressing the concept of gratitude in Hebrew is hakarat hatov (הכרת הטוב), literally, "recognizing the good." We all have blessings in our lives, and practicing gratitude means acknowledging all the positivity that we already experience. So central a concept is this, that embedded in Jewish practice are brachot for just about everything imaginable: ingesting any food and drink, going to the bathroom, and waking up in the morning; smelling pleasant fragrances, witnessing thunder and lightning, seeing fruit trees in bloom, and being by the ocean...these are just a handful of the experiences for which Judaism tells us we should be thankful. As I journey through recovery, I feel incredibly fortunate to belong to a spiritual tradition that teaches me to be awake, alert, and appreciative of all the blessings, large and small, that I enjoy on a daily basis.
So...here are some things I have been grateful for this week:
- the feeling of snowflakes landing on my cheeks as I walked to shul on Shabbat morning in light snowfall
- seeing a brilliant red male cardinal at my parents' birdfeeder
- a much-needed phone chat with a dear friend
- adorable valentines from my students
- seeing a particularly beautiful sunrise on my way to work
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Crossing the Sea
I have a little bit of an optimism problem...specifically, the problem is that I am not an optimist. I wouldn't go so far as to say I'm a pessimist, but I'm definitely pragmatic. I do not believe that things will always work out for the best. Risk-taking, for me, usually involves imagining every possible negative outcome I can think of and deciding whether or not I could tolerate it. In short, I'm not big on "leaps of faith." I absolutely do believe in Hashem, and I do trust in His protection...but, at the same time, I am not about to leap into the unknown without at least some sense of confidence that I will not regret it.
It seems the ancient Israelites also experienced this sense of trepidation when faced with the challenge of crossing the Red Sea. Their choice was either to return to slavery in Egypt, or to attempt to cross a vast, cold, unfamiliar body of water. All of a sudden, slavery wasn't looking so terrible...after all, they'd been slaves for so long that the lifestyle offered them a comforting sense of security. Sure, it was miserable...but it was also predictable and familiar. Is it any wonder that when they were staring down that expanse of the Red Sea, they may have started to waver a bit on their determination to escape?
According to one midrash, an Israelite named Nachshon was the first one to set foot into the water. As he waded in, inch by inch, the sea did not part...but he kept going, because he knew that returning to slavery really was not an option. Only when Nachshon was in the water up to his nose, did Hashem finally part the sea, enabling Nachshon and the rest of the Israelites to cross on dry land. Apparently, Hashem was not ready to part the sea until He knew that the Israelites had enough faith to enter the water.
To me, the message of this midrash is beautifully applicable to the risk involved in pursuing recovery. When I reflect on the source of my early ambivalence toward recovery, the word that comes to mind most often is fear. Abandoning the familiarity and security of the confines of anorexia was completely petrifying...even if, objectively, it seemed obvious that recovery offered me a much greater chance at happiness. I think this fear of the unknowns of recovery is often hard for patients' loved ones to understand, because it does seem counter-intuitive: to the witness, the eating disorder is so clearly a source of misery, and recovery is the path to freedom. But, to the person with an eating disorder, entering recovery is like wading into the Red Sea--it requires acceptance of risk and tremendous courage and faith.
In my own process, I've found that once I showed that I truly was willing to do the work of recovery, the path seemed considerably more clear than it did when I was staring at it from the camp of anorexia. It hasn't been a total breeze, but I do feel that once I demonstrated my commitment, Hashem provided me the sources of strength and guidance I needed to make the journey. To those who are still in the place of hesitation: I understand your fear, because I felt it myself. But, maybe if you take the first few steps in faith, you will find the reassurance you need to continue.
עזי וזמרת יה ויהי–לי לישועה
Hashem is my strength and might; He is become my deliverance.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Whatever It Takes
During one of our many thought-provoking conversations, a dear Israeli friend of mine once paraphrased the Talmud when she said, "Eretz Yisrael is earned through hardships." (For those interested in the exact quote, see Talmud Berachot 5a!) My friend and I talked a lot about how this phrase applies to our own lives in a metaphorical sense...what personal "Promised Lands" have we had to struggle to achieve?
This past week, two events teamed up to bring this discussion back to the forefront of my mind. First, I received a surprise phone call from this particular friend, across the many miles and time zones that separate New England and Israel--talk about a total heart-warmer! Second, I had the opportunity to return as a "recovery speaker" to one of the facilities in which I received intensive treatment for my eating disorder nearly a decade ago. The women in my audience were a fabulous bunch, and we talked a lot about what separates people who do recover, from people who don't. What is it about people who attain full recovery that allows them to do that?
For me, recovery is my Eretz Yisrael, and I've had to struggle to make it my reality. As I think most people who've dealt with eating disorders can attest, these illnesses are the epitome of self-inflicted cruelty, both physical and emotional. Mine was no exception--when I was deep in anorexia, I was the most profoundly miserable I have ever been...and yet, I was also strangely comfortable being so miserable. I knew intellectually that life in recovery was what I wanted, but was I willing to leave behind the security and familiarity of my eating disorder? For a long time--years--the answer was, no. I remember saying to my therapist, "I want to BE recovered, I just don't want to DO recovery." In other words, I wanted the end result, without having to endure the hard work and struggle necessary to achieve it.
I've found (surprise!) that this is not how recovery works. The point at which I really began to move towards recovery was when I was finally able to say, "I will do whatever it takes." I will eat the food, I will gain the weight, I will go to therapy, I will keep all my appointments, I will stop lying, I will not exercise, I will not self-harm...it was a daunting list of commitments that were often painful to keep, and each one demanded my full effort. That's not to say I was 100% on board with all of those at once--but I had to be open to the idea and willing to try. For many years, I was firmly on track to becoming one of those women who lives the rest of her life "managing" her eating disorder--functioning effectively, but definitely not free. Why? Because although I wanted recovery, I wasn't willing to do all the challenging work necessary to get there. Now, I know that I will never settle for that kind of life, because I have committed to undergoing the "hardships" of recovery so that I will reside permanently in my Promised Land.
And, here's the best part...although the initial stages of recovery definitely did feel like "hardships," the later stages just feel like normal life--sometimes bumpy, sometimes smooth, but always infinitely preferable to anorexia, and all the more precious because I know how hard I've had to work to get there. No amount of simply dreaming about recovery made it a reality for me--it was dreaming, coupled with action, pure and simple. For me, life in the land of Recovery truly has been earned through hardships--and has proven worth it in every way.
This past week, two events teamed up to bring this discussion back to the forefront of my mind. First, I received a surprise phone call from this particular friend, across the many miles and time zones that separate New England and Israel--talk about a total heart-warmer! Second, I had the opportunity to return as a "recovery speaker" to one of the facilities in which I received intensive treatment for my eating disorder nearly a decade ago. The women in my audience were a fabulous bunch, and we talked a lot about what separates people who do recover, from people who don't. What is it about people who attain full recovery that allows them to do that?
For me, recovery is my Eretz Yisrael, and I've had to struggle to make it my reality. As I think most people who've dealt with eating disorders can attest, these illnesses are the epitome of self-inflicted cruelty, both physical and emotional. Mine was no exception--when I was deep in anorexia, I was the most profoundly miserable I have ever been...and yet, I was also strangely comfortable being so miserable. I knew intellectually that life in recovery was what I wanted, but was I willing to leave behind the security and familiarity of my eating disorder? For a long time--years--the answer was, no. I remember saying to my therapist, "I want to BE recovered, I just don't want to DO recovery." In other words, I wanted the end result, without having to endure the hard work and struggle necessary to achieve it.
I've found (surprise!) that this is not how recovery works. The point at which I really began to move towards recovery was when I was finally able to say, "I will do whatever it takes." I will eat the food, I will gain the weight, I will go to therapy, I will keep all my appointments, I will stop lying, I will not exercise, I will not self-harm...it was a daunting list of commitments that were often painful to keep, and each one demanded my full effort. That's not to say I was 100% on board with all of those at once--but I had to be open to the idea and willing to try. For many years, I was firmly on track to becoming one of those women who lives the rest of her life "managing" her eating disorder--functioning effectively, but definitely not free. Why? Because although I wanted recovery, I wasn't willing to do all the challenging work necessary to get there. Now, I know that I will never settle for that kind of life, because I have committed to undergoing the "hardships" of recovery so that I will reside permanently in my Promised Land.
And, here's the best part...although the initial stages of recovery definitely did feel like "hardships," the later stages just feel like normal life--sometimes bumpy, sometimes smooth, but always infinitely preferable to anorexia, and all the more precious because I know how hard I've had to work to get there. No amount of simply dreaming about recovery made it a reality for me--it was dreaming, coupled with action, pure and simple. For me, life in the land of Recovery truly has been earned through hardships--and has proven worth it in every way.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
"If the world is night...shine my life like a light."
One of my favorite Hassidic stories is the one about the lamplighter. If you have never read it, you can find it here...I recommend reading it before reading this whole post, but if time prevents this, I will give a VERY brief summary:
A Hasidic man once asked a Rebbe, "What is a Hassid?" The Rebbe explained that a Hassid is a lamplighter--a person who walks the streets carrying a flame and, knowing the flame is not his, goes from lamp to lamp to set them alight. A Hassid will go to great lengths to light a lamp, even if the lamp is in the desert or in the ocean. He has worked hard to improve himself, and now his task is to bring the light of self-improvement to others.
I could go on and on about all the elements of this story that I love, but what strikes me the most is how extremely fortunate I have been to have had so many lamplighters in my life. Developing an eating disorder was like plunging full-force into darkness--no connection, no inspiration, no joy. After living this way for years, I grew accustomed to the darkness--to the point that I had adapted my day-to-day existence so that I could function without light; to the point that I had forgotten what living in the light felt like. At some point, the weight of my misery finally registered with me, and I began to give up anorexia a bit at a time...but in its absence, I was left with a whole other kind of darkness--the darkness of loneliness, fear, uncertainty, and self-criticism that the eating disorder had masked.
There to guide me gently out of both levels of darkness have been my lamplighters. Some have been treatment professionals, dedicated clinicians who have helped me repair my relationships with myself, my body, and food. They have answered countless questions with endless patience, even when I asked the same question over and over again. They have given me space to cry, to get angry, and then have shown me how to weather my emotions and release them in positive ways. They got me to a place where I was healthy enough to work on the real issues, and then stuck by me to help me sort out the messiness that comes with life in recovery.
Other lamplighters have been my "recovery mentors"--radiant women who traveled their own journeys of recovery before I did, who were willing to share their stories with me, and who acted as models of what life could be like if I would only be brave enough to let go. These women have been my cheerleaders, the ones who looked me in the eyes and told me they knew I would be recovered one day...and now that I AM in recovery, they have continued to push me to challenge myself and extend my life in ways I wouldn't have imagined.
Finally, there have been my friends, without whose lamplighting power I would surely be lost. My friends have illuminated the best parts of myself and have made me believe that I am worthy of friendship, affection, and love. They've shown me how to live with honesty, how to take risks, and how to clean up messes I might make along the way. I have also been blessed with friends who have helped open my eyes and heart to the beauty of Judaism, who have shown me the richness of my religion and the awesomeness of authentic faith. They've given me the tools to begin to use Judaism to fill some of the lingering void in my life, and have demonstrated to me that there is room for me in this tradition, if only I am willing to be open to it and to make a place for myself.
So, this post is a tribute of sorts, to all my lamplighters--thank you for helping to bring me home to myself, and for making me a more complete version of myself along the way. Toda raba.
A Hasidic man once asked a Rebbe, "What is a Hassid?" The Rebbe explained that a Hassid is a lamplighter--a person who walks the streets carrying a flame and, knowing the flame is not his, goes from lamp to lamp to set them alight. A Hassid will go to great lengths to light a lamp, even if the lamp is in the desert or in the ocean. He has worked hard to improve himself, and now his task is to bring the light of self-improvement to others.
I could go on and on about all the elements of this story that I love, but what strikes me the most is how extremely fortunate I have been to have had so many lamplighters in my life. Developing an eating disorder was like plunging full-force into darkness--no connection, no inspiration, no joy. After living this way for years, I grew accustomed to the darkness--to the point that I had adapted my day-to-day existence so that I could function without light; to the point that I had forgotten what living in the light felt like. At some point, the weight of my misery finally registered with me, and I began to give up anorexia a bit at a time...but in its absence, I was left with a whole other kind of darkness--the darkness of loneliness, fear, uncertainty, and self-criticism that the eating disorder had masked.
There to guide me gently out of both levels of darkness have been my lamplighters. Some have been treatment professionals, dedicated clinicians who have helped me repair my relationships with myself, my body, and food. They have answered countless questions with endless patience, even when I asked the same question over and over again. They have given me space to cry, to get angry, and then have shown me how to weather my emotions and release them in positive ways. They got me to a place where I was healthy enough to work on the real issues, and then stuck by me to help me sort out the messiness that comes with life in recovery.
Other lamplighters have been my "recovery mentors"--radiant women who traveled their own journeys of recovery before I did, who were willing to share their stories with me, and who acted as models of what life could be like if I would only be brave enough to let go. These women have been my cheerleaders, the ones who looked me in the eyes and told me they knew I would be recovered one day...and now that I AM in recovery, they have continued to push me to challenge myself and extend my life in ways I wouldn't have imagined.
Finally, there have been my friends, without whose lamplighting power I would surely be lost. My friends have illuminated the best parts of myself and have made me believe that I am worthy of friendship, affection, and love. They've shown me how to live with honesty, how to take risks, and how to clean up messes I might make along the way. I have also been blessed with friends who have helped open my eyes and heart to the beauty of Judaism, who have shown me the richness of my religion and the awesomeness of authentic faith. They've given me the tools to begin to use Judaism to fill some of the lingering void in my life, and have demonstrated to me that there is room for me in this tradition, if only I am willing to be open to it and to make a place for myself.
So, this post is a tribute of sorts, to all my lamplighters--thank you for helping to bring me home to myself, and for making me a more complete version of myself along the way. Toda raba.
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