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.


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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.

Shabbat Shalom?

Last week I had the privilege of co-facilitating a discussion on eating disorders in the observant Jewish community.  We initially thought only a few people would voluntarily come to something like that...were we ever surprised when over twenty women showed up!  The discussion was passionate and thought provoking, and one topic that rose to the surface time and time again was:  Shabbat.  How, exactly, does an individual with an eating disorder navigate that "island in time"?

The Jewish year is dotted with festivals, but they each happen only once:  there is only one Pesach, one Yom Kippur, to get through each year.  Shabbat, however, comes EVERY WEEK.  This is supposed to be a blessing, a weekly opportunity for pleasure via food and rest.  But, what if you find neither food nor rest pleasurable?  For a person struggling with an eating disorder, Shabbat easily turns into 25 hours a week of facing head-on that which is most stressful.

I suppose it's not a stretch for people to understand why the lavish meals and seemingly constant presence of food can be so threatening to a person with an eating disorder.  The challenge posed by rest, however, is perhaps more difficult to parse out.  For me, physical rest is satisfying only if my brain is also able to quiet down...and, when I was actively engaged in my eating disorder, my brain was never, ever quiet.  I've always compared the endless stream of anxious, obsessive thoughts to the ticker tape that runs constantly across the bottom of the screen on CNN.  It felt like there was never a moment when my brain wasn't broadcasting some worry, and the way I dealt with the anxiety (and with any uncomfortable feeling, really) was to exercise.  Aside from the obvious "benefit" of burning calories, physical activity was my outlet for feelings and my way of coping with sensations that were unpleasant and scary.  For many people with eating disorders, exercise serves that dual purpose.  It's understandable, then, that to be faced with a day that is full of food AND devoid of physical exercise might feel like too much to bear.  

So, the challenges are clear.  What can we do?  Well, some aspects of Shabbat are probably not going to change.  There are always going to be meals, and it's probably never going to be considered "shabbosdik" to go for a long, sweaty run.  However, there are ways to work within the system that can make the Shabbat experience, if not actually pleasurable, at least bearable to someone with an eating disorder.  

Regarding food:  My discussion co-facilitator made the brilliant suggestion of simply not keeping platters of food on the table where people are eating.  If possible, put the food on a separate table or ledge so that it's not constantly staring people right in the face.  This also helps people focus on whom they're eating with, not just what they're eating.  To give the struggling individual some sense of control over the food, allow that person to serve him or herself, and ask ahead of time if he or she would like to be involved in the menu planning.   

Regarding rest:  "Rest" does not have to equal, "sitting around doing nothing."  It is perfectly permissible to do leisurely activities such as taking a walk, playing board games (may I suggest Bananagrams?), or going to the park.  Weather permitting, I personally go for a walk in nature EVERY Shabbat, and I also try to do something intellectually stimulating such as learning Torah or having a meaningful conversation.  But, really, people are encouraged to engage in any pleasurable activity (within the bounds of halacha).  For someone with an eating disorder, "distress tolerance" skills will be especially important on Shabbat and that person should be permitted to do whatever he or she finds soothing, no matter how "unusual" the choice might seem to others.  

For people working on recovery, know this:  there are going to be tough Shabbats...and that's okay.  You are NOT a "bad Jew" because you fail to enjoy Shabbat, or because you can't freely partake of what everyone else seems to find pleasurable.  You are doing the best you can.  Beating yourself up for all the Shabbats that you "should have" enjoyed serves no purpose other than to make you feel badly about yourself.  I was a big-time self-berator until I finally realized that punishing myself for missed opportunities did not bring back those chances, nor did it do anything to help me take advantage of future ones.  That said, knowing I was unhappy was a major motivator for me to get well.  And, now when I actually enjoy sitting at a Shabbat table with friends and good food, the experience is so much sweeter because it is a prize I've won.  I wish for all of you that you find your own paths to future Shabbats full of pleasure and satisfaction--one small step at a time.

Victory...In Meal Form

Shavua tov!  I hope we're all emerging from Shabbat rested and energized for a new week.  I was fortunate to enjoy a beautiful Shabbat in Jerusalem and want to share a bit of the experience with you.

On Saturday I had Shabbat lunch at the home of one of my Pardes teachers, along with five other students from my program.  Walking into large groups of people tends to really stress me out, so I arrived a little early to give myself time to settle in before everyone else came.  (It helped that my teacher has two adorable children under age 5, and I was more than happy to keep them occupied while she and her husband finished preparing the meal!)  By the time we sat down for kiddush, I felt comfortable and ready to be present for the experience of the lunch, which turned out to be one of the best Shabbat experiences I've had thus far in Israel.

What made this Shabbat lunch so amazing?  Well, many significant things happened:  1) I arrived at the table hungry, and I was okay with that; 2) I ate foods that I did not cook myself and whose ingredients were at least partially unknown to me; 3) I made conversation; 4) I listened to what other people said; 5) I ate dessert, not because I was particularly hungry but because it looked delicious; 6) I left the table feeling full, and I was okay with that.  Even as I write this, I am aware of how mundane those things seem...it sounds like any ordinary meal.  And yet, for me the beauty of this experience was its sheer simplicity and the knowledge that the basic act of enjoying a leisurely meal with friends was something I could taste for myself. 

There were whole years full of Shabbats when none of this would have been possible.  If I made it to the table at all, it was in body only--my mind was frantically calculating, measuring, comparing, and worrying--leaving no room for being present.  This past Saturday, the victory was in being able to take full delight in an experience I used to be able to only watch others enjoy.

Despite having spent all morning in shul, I believe my most spiritual moment of the day occurred as I sat around that table, surrounded by delicious food and delightful company.  I felt intense thankfulness to Hashem for seeing me through recovery to that day, that meal.  I'm glad Hashem knows what's in my heart even when I can't express it in words, because there's no way I could truly verbalize the gratitude I feel as I reflect on what I was able to be present for this past Shabbat.  It was, as I like to say, a total "Baruch Hashem moment."  It was also not the first time in recovery when I've had such a moment at a meal, but part of the gift is that it is exciting every time.  For me, recovery means being in a perpetual state of shehecheyanu, because I never take for granted being able to enjoy eating freely in the company of others.

I share this anecdote not because it contains some deep Torah insight or profound spiritual teaching.  Rather, I share it because there was a time when I did not believe such an experience would ever be within my reach, and this past Shabbat I found the prize firmly in my grasp.  I want to say that it is possible to trek through the arduous process of recovery and emerge on the other side, able to engage fully with the delights of this world.  If it can happen for me, it can happen for you, too.

Why Deny?

Hello again!  I decided I needed a little breather in the wake of my Omer-marathon leading up to Shavuot, but last week's parasha (Nasso) sparked a little fire inside me and I have been mentally formulating this blog post since then.  I realize that Nasso is chock-full of material ripe for discussion (perhaps we will come back to the sotah issue another day), but what I want to focus on is the nazirite.  Simply put, a nazirite (in the time of the Temple) was an individual who took on vows of asceticism in an effort to achieve a higher level of holiness.  Specifically, the vow was to abstain from wine and all grape products, to refrain from cutting one's hair, and to avoid contact with the dead and with graves.  It would be a reasonable assumption that Judaism, with its famously stringent laws of kashrut and Shabbat prohibitions, would proclaim virtuous any person who is willing to be even more restrictive than the religion demands.  Interestingly, this is not the case.  When it comes to the nazirite, the Sages are split in their opinions.

Because I think many of us with histories of eating disorders know all too well how seductive and appealing the practice of self-denial can be, I am going to bypass the Talmudic commentary that looks favorably upon the nazirite (although, to be clear, it certainly exists and is easy to find, if you're motivated to do so).  What I find much more fascinating are the words of Sages who clearly do NOT approve of the nazirite vow.

When an individual ends his/her term as a nazirite, that person is required to make a sin offering to Hashem.  If a nazirite is so holy, what purpose could there be for a sin offering?  Rabbi Eliezer Hakappar argued that a nazirite was required to make atonement because, by practicing extreme self-denial, he had "sinned against the soul."  Despite all its laws and regulations, Judaism values the enjoyment of life and does not encourage people to be more restrictive than necessary.  As the Sages asked, "Is it not enough what the Torah has forbidden you, but you wish to forbid yourself more things?" (Nedarim 9:1)

This resonates deeply with me because for so long, my guiding principle was Restrictiveness.  Forget the fact that I was deeply miserable--there was something about self-denial that also gave me a feeling of superiority, of separateness, of virtuousness.  I thought I was special because I could resist what others could not.  In that mindset, I never once thought of my vigorous suppression of appetite as "sinning against my soul."  But now I think that's exactly what it was.

The Talmud teaches,

"In the future world, a man will have to give an accounting for every good thing his eyes saw, but of which he did not eat."  (Kiddushin 4:12)  Rabbi Elazar believed this so strongly that he regularly set aside money so that he could taste every kind of food at least once a year.

When I think about that, it almost brings tears to my eyes--that kind of dedication to pleasure and value of delicious experiences.  What would it be like to live in that way, to prioritize and savor the enjoyment of food?  How can we shift our paradigm from the societal messages of, "Avoid x, y, and z if you don't want to get fat," to the much more nurturing perspective of, "What am I hungry for?  What would be yummy?  How can I be good to my soul in this moment?"  Perhaps just asking the questions--and listening to the answers--is a solid place to start.

Gone Kosher

As a Jew who doesn't particularly enjoy going to the movies or having hours of unstructured time, I tend to find Christmas Day to be somewhat challenging. It doesn't help that the day falls in the midst of the New England winter, making outdoor activities iffy at best. In the past, Christmas Day has often seemed interminable. This year, however, I had a plan: I kashered my kitchen.

This was not a spontaneous decision; rather, I'd worked my way up to it over a period of many weeks. I did some research; I consulted with my rabbis; I purchased necessary supplies. Being a vegetarian made the process somewhat easier. Also, I have a galley kitchen (fancy term for, "really small kitchen") so the amount of cleaning was less than it could have been. However, I still had to contend with all my pots, utensils, appliances, and countertops, so it took a solid four-and-a-half hours to complete the job. End result: my kitchen looks the same, albeit cleaner. What feels different is internal.

For most of my adult life, I'd tossed around the idea of "keeping kosher" but had never given it serious consideration, for the simple reason that I couldn't handle another set of food rules. I was too busy adhering to the rules dictated by my eating disorder. I made food choices based on nutrition information and my own set of fears, not based on whether or not the product in question had a hekhsher. My eating disorder called all the shots--what G-d wanted me to do was not even on my radar screen.

A lot of work has gone into my journey from that place of eating disordered tunnel vision, to my newly kashered kitchen. I am proud to say that now, when I go food shopping, my chief concern is kashrut--not calorie counting. I am able to see the distinction between the Jewish practice of being mindful of what I eat, and the eating disordered trap of being obsessed by it. Before, when (if) I ate with other people, what set me apart were all the rituals and regulations of anorexia. Now, I am making the choice to be set apart once more--this time, as a Jew who keeps kosher. The difference is that the former separation felt oppressive and driven by fear, while the latter feels like an opportunity to be closer to Hashem. It is up to me to keep my practice of kashrut one of pure intentions, and not let it morph into another way to restrict what I eat. The Jewish tradition is full of evidence that while certain foods are indeed prohibited, this by no means implies that we should deny ourselves any foods that are not--in fact, quite the opposite. For me, the truth is that I like keeping kosher in recovery--I like that I can eat with friends, bring food to share, and try new recipes...while still being mindful of my connection to Hashem and to this world.

...and You Shall Be Satisfied...

When I first started exploring how Judaism might support my recovery, one of the first books I turned to was God In Your Body by Jay Michaelson. I stumbled upon it quite by accident one afternoon at the library, and like a magnet I gravitated immediately to the chapter on eating.

The central message I extracted from the text is, eating is sacred and being satisfied is a key part of the process. In Deuteronomy chapter 8, Hashem describes the land into which He will bring the Jewish people, a land full of bounty. He then declares, ואכלת ושבעת וברכת את יי אלהך על הארץ הטבה, "...and you shall eat, and you shall be satisfied, and you shall bless your G-d for the good earth".

For me, this was a revolutionary concept...the idea that Hashem wants me to eat to the point of satisfaction. Eating, in my world, was an act of necessity. I ate prescribed foods at prescribed times, often regardless of hunger or fullness. Satisfaction was not even on my radar. I considered it a luxury and an indulgence to take pleasure in eating, to give myself more than the bare minimum--and if there was one thing I refused to do, it was self-indulge. But when I read that the Torah actually commands that we be satisfied, I was forced to examine the act of eating from a new perspective.

Food is what sustains us. Without it, no matter how pure our intentions or how righteous we are, we will die. Our hunger for food, rather than being a weakness, is actually Hashem's gift to us--it signals to us that we need to nourish ourselves, to fuel our bodies and care for them. And, allowing ourselves to experience satisfaction is part of the beauty of the act of eating. If eating truly is a holy act, it follows that it should also be pleasurable. Hashem has provided us with such plentitude. I like to think that, just as a parent finds joy in watching his or her child take pleasure in life, Hashem also delights in watching His children satisfy themselves with the food He has provided.

For me, this outlook on eating has changed the way I approach food. Now, before I put the food into my mouth, I spend a few seconds focusing on it in my hand or at the end of my fork, and I say the bracha for that food. I do my best to eat to the point of satisfaction (although to be fair, this sometimes still seems like a work in progress!)...and when I am done, I feel grateful to Hashem for having given me the nourishment I need, and I express this thanks through a blessing. Eating will, in all honesty, probably never be my favorite activity. But now, at least, I consider it a meaningful, sacred potential source of pleasure which Hashem wants me to experience.