Beautifully Broken

www.jerichochambers.com

When I started this blog, I tried hard to publish something at least every other week...I think because I had so much to say, and sharing it felt so urgent. Clearly, I have gotten away from that level of frequency, and it's not that I haven't had anything to write about...it's more that I haven't been able to find the most effective way to write about what has been going on for me. I feel as though I need a degree of separation from things in order to write about them clearly, and that separation hasn't happened yet, so the words haven't come. I say this not as an apology for not writing, but more as an explanation as to why I haven't been on the blog as much lately.





But then, last weekend happened, and words started to come.

I had the privilege of attending a workshop led by the amazing Laura McKowen, whom I have raved about quite a bit on this blog, and Holly Whitaker, whom I have talked about less but who is no less fabulous. These two women do incredibly important work in the recovery world; both are in sobriety and are also in recovery from eating disorders. They are impassioned writers, speakers, and yoga people, and I am a little bit (or a lot) of a groupie, so I took my yoga-ambivalent self to a yoga studio and practiced yoga for four hours, just to learn from them. (Okay, there was writing involved, too, which is more my jam.)

The title of the workshop was, "Never Not Broken," and it centered on the premise that we have each been broken open by various life situations, and we will bear those cracks for the rest of our lives...but instead of weakening us, our brokenness makes us stronger and wiser. I was attracted to this idea because I view my life into very clearly divided "before" and "after" segments: "before," being before I developed an eating disorder my freshman year in college, and "after," being everything after my last hospitalization in 2007 (I call the in-between years, "the mess").  I visualize "before" and "after" through two photographs that sit on my parents' coffee table--one of me as a senior in high school, the other of me graduating from college. When I look at my high school senior self, I see her smile as genuine, the gleam in her eyes as a sign of her full life and endless hope, for she has no idea what's coming. The photo of me as a college senior, I hate. I look at that version of myself and I know my smile is fake; my eyes masking how trapped I felt in my body, in my mind, in my misery. For most of my time in recovery, I have wanted desperately to get back to the way I was "before." Why can I not be happy anymore? I often wonder. Instead, I'm stuck being this broken thing. Put back together, yes, but still cracked in ways that I haven't figured out how to repair.

Before the workshop started, I anticipated that I would spend most of it brooding over all the broken, shattered parts of me, and maybe I would even cry, which would be a huge breach of my "no public displays of emotion" rule. But somewhere around hour three, a weird thing happened. We were journaling in response to the prompt, "What do You Want?" and I realized that although there are still some things I desire but have yet to achieve, I actually have a lot of good things in my life. I have the most fulfilling job I could ask for; I get to do what I love and I know I am making a difference. My "work family" is close-knit and supportive. Through my Jewish education, I have made dear friends in Israel who nurture me in ways that no one else does. My parents and I have great relationships with each other. I am living on my own and paying my own bills, driving around in a car that I own, with enough money saved to allow me to plan for a future child. All told, I am actually not doing too badly. And admitting this was new to me, because my usual line of thinking is to focus on the negative...but sitting there in that workshop, I was able to really see all the vitality I have built into my life, and that I have achieved successes that were absolutely not possible a decade ago.

I pondered this as I lay on my mat, listening to Laura's calm voice easing us into the final restorative pose. Then, from the speakers, I heard familiar tune begin to play...the lyrics came:

I heard there was a sacred chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord...

Yup. She played Hallelujah. She played LEONARD COHEN.

There I was on my mat, with a big old grin on my face, because THIS WAS A WORKSHOP ABOUT BROKENNESS AND SHE'S PLAYING LEONARD F**KING COHEN (no disrespect intended).

Leonard Cohen, the iconic Jewish singer and songwriter, penned the following lyrics about human brokenness:

Ring the bells that still can ring

Forget your perfect offering

There is a crack in everything

That's how the light gets in.

We are all broken in some ways, some of us more than others, but we all bear at least a few cracks bequeathed upon us by the world and our own psyches. The challenge, as with any perceived weakness, is to learn how to leverage it to one's advantage. I know that I, personally, have gained enormous insight into myself and others from having gone through everything I've endured, much of which was excruciatingly painful while it was happening. I might not ever return to that innocent teenager I was before the eating disorder, the one who grins out from that high school senior photo. But I am damn sure more in tune with my emotions, more able to empathize with others, and more able to manage the demands of the world than she ever was. It was a trade I was never asked if I wanted to make; I was never given the choice of opting out.  Brokenness can't work that way, because who would ever elect to be split open? Not I. But there were lessons I needed to learn, that I am still learning, and so I was given the pain and the blessing of being broken to my core.

At the end of the workshop, Laura and Holly herded all 50 of us into a circle, and we did the "go-around": say your name, where you're from, and one thing you're taking away from today. Every single person in the room had been touched by addiction, and many were in the beginning stages of recovery. Some people shared from a place of strength, others from a place of insecurity, but the underlying current was vulnerability.

Vulnerability sounded like the man who had just begun sobriety and said, "I'm on day 28."

It was the woman who ventured, "I'm an alcoholic. I've never actually said that before."

It came through in the voice of a young woman who shared about her suicide attempt.

It was the person who admitted, "I don't actually know anyone in recovery."

And as I sat there listening and waiting for my turn, I could see my self of ten years ago mirrored back to me in my fellow participants' words. I remembered the first time I ever said, "I am anorexic," and how exhilarating was that release, and how terrifying the admission. I remembered my "day one" in my first treatment program, where I finally found comfort among other people who understood the way my brain functioned and the twisted logic by which I lived my life. I remembered meeting my first recovered person, and how powerful that encounter was. I remembered all the times I had gone to bed, wishing that I would sleep forever. And I knew, sitting in that circle, that I wasn't there anymore. I had done the work and was still doing it. And I had a lot to be proud of.

The truth is, I still go through periods of depression, where I feel like I honestly might not make it through the day. I sometimes still find that when I am stressed or in periods of transition, my first instinct is to micro-manage my food as a release. I am socially anxious, extremely introverted, and yet often feel starved for genuine connection. All of those cracks are real. But I know how to navigate them and to avoid the traps they set. I prefer to view my current self as one who has been made stronger for having been broken.

The Japanese have a practice of putting broken pottery back together by sealing the cracks with lacquer mixed with gold dust. The artist Barbara Bloom explains:

www.simplyblessed.heartsdesire.com

"When the Japanese mend broken objects, they aggrandize the damage by filling the cracks with gold. They believe that when something's suffered damage and has a history it becomes more beautiful." 

That's us, lovelies. Never not broken. And growing more beautiful all the time.

The Beautiful People

It seems to me that one way of approaching individuality is to want to stand out from the crowd and be recognized for one's uniqueness.  I definitely felt that way as a child; I yearned to be "the best" at something--anything, really--and craved the specialness and celebration that would come along with that (it never happened).  But as an adult, I seem to have taken the opposite approach:  my wish is to blend in and be, for lack of a better expression, "just like everyone else."

I'm not even entirely sure what that means.

Well actually, I do know what it means, kind of.  It means I want to be like the Beautiful People.  Who are they?  They are the women I work with and the young adults who go to my shul.  The Beautiful People are socially confident, partnered, and fashionable...and best of all, they belong.  They are never the ones standing around awkwardly at kiddush; they never appear uncomfortable; they somehow instinctively know which necklace or scarf will pair well with which outfit.  The Beautiful People follow the typical trajectory of adult development:  degree, job, partnership, kids--all before age 40.  Whatever is the secret to normalcy, they all seem to know it.

And I?  I can stand in one spot for 20 minutes watching birds, but after 5 minutes of small talk I'm bored out of my mind (either move on to what matters, or let's call it a day).  I am often the one standing around awkwardly at kiddush. I literally have to give myself a pep talk before going to social events. Makeup rarely occurs to me.  And, unlike pretty much everyone I know in my age bracket, I'm single and do not have children on the horizon.  

What's interesting is, taken by themselves, none of those traits bothers me much.  I've been to a lot of therapy and I like who I am, more or less.  But there's no question in my mind that I would have an easier time belonging if I was a different sort of person--a Beautiful Person.

Now, thanks to all that therapy, I'm fully aware that I'm engaging in at least four cognitive distortions (perhaps more!) when I get into this line of reasoning.  The truth is, I know that the "Beautiful People" whose easy lives I envy actually have problems of their own. I also recognize that I don't know them well at all, and it's entirely possible that they feel much more insecure than they appear.  But all of that rational thought pales in comparison to the envy and awe that I feel as I watch them move in their social circles, stylish, coupled, and at ease.

Lately I have been thinking a lot about what it means to move through life on a different path and at a different pace than most of one's peer group. I reached out to several of my Recovery Mentors, all of whom are strong, authentic women who have, in one way or another, gone about life in a "less traditional" way.  I asked them two main questions:

1) How do you go about feeling confident in a life that brings you joy if you are not in sync with your peers?

2) How do you counter the inner voice that pesters, "What's wrong with me, that I'm not like everyone else?!"

My mentors responded with wisdom, vulnerability, and empathy. They let me in on their own journeys and how they found confidence and self-acceptance without needing to conform in all ways. Best of all, they showed me that although I often feel like the "only one" who has these challenges, I am most definitely not alone in the struggle to live authentically.  And in response to my second, "What's wrong with me?" question, one of my mentors had this to say: 

"Absolutely NOTHING. There is something so very right and very you that you are not like everyone else."

It was exactly what I needed to hear, and it made me think of the Jewish belief that we are all created b'tzelem Elohim, in G-d's image.  In Chapter 3 of Pirkei Avot, Rabbi Akiva says: "Beloved is man, for he was created in the image [of G-d]; it is a sign of even greater love that it has been made known to him that he was created in the image, as it says, 'For in the image of G-d, He made man.' (Bereishit 9:6)"  Not only are we each created in G-d's image, but G-d has taken the extra step of letting us know this about ourselves, so we can feel at ease with who we are and what path we are on.

When I stop comparing myself and my life with the fictitiously perfect lives of other people, I can recognize that there is a lot that is "so very right" about who I am.  I appreciate my ability to be patient and quiet and notice what is around me. I value my introversion and introspectiveness, but I know that I can connect deeply with other people.  I'm thankful that my mother taught me that a woman can, in fact, leave the house without makeup on.  And, I'm profoundly grateful for the qualities I have that will hopefully help me become a great foster or adoptive parent one day--whether I'm partnered or not.

G-d, in His infinite wisdom, made us each with the precise qualities that we need to have to fill our place in the world--and He has made sure we know that He loves us as we are.  But sometimes we will forget, and in those times, we all need people in our lives who will answer our cries of, "What's wrong with me?!" by saying, "Sister, listen: you are exactly who you are supposed to be."  I wish for us all that we have wise friends and loved ones who can guide us toward self-acceptance in those times when we need reminding of just how "right" we are.      

Make Room for Guests!

Chag sameach--happy Sukkot to all!  Before I dive into the blog post itself, I just want to take a little bit of space to acknowledge that this blog is now one year old!  Developing it has been such a fun journey for me...many thanks to everyone who is along for the ride!

Now, onto the festival of Sukkot, of which we are currently smack in the middle.  After the somber, contemplative mood of the High Holidays, Sukkot brings us into a week of festive celebration.  One of the themes of the holiday is that of, "welcoming guests," or hachnasat orchim in Hebrew.  (For an adorably amusing "Shalom Sesame" video explaining hachnasat orchim, click here...I can't be the only one who gets all nostalgic for "Shalom Sesame!")  Just as Abraham was famous for waiting for strangers to pass by his tent so he could invite them in, so are we supposed to make an extra effort to invite people into our sukkot or to otherwise share the holiday with us.  The spirit of reaching out and welcoming others into our lives is part of what makes Sukkot such a joyous time.

I find the idea of hachnasat orchim to be especially personally relevant because opening myself and my space to others is definitely not a natural instinct of mine.  I am introverted to the core and have been since childhood; but, I am also aware that for the years when I was actively engaged in my eating disorder, I took this particular personality trait to new heights.  In my mind, other people made things messy--and I hated mess.  I wanted things exactly how I wanted them, tightly under my control...and bringing other people into the mix inevitably meant letting in an element of unpredictability and uncertainty, which I simply could not tolerate.  Additionally, I was deeply afraid of rejection and of desiring a relationship with someone who did not want one with me.  I was not willing to risk feeling the pain of being unwanted--better to not reach out in the first place, than to reach out and be disappointed.  One of my early therapists had a name for this:  "people restricting."  In addition to restricting my intake of food, I was also severely limiting my intake of other people--I honestly felt it was the safest way to go.

I've since changed my mind.

Don't get me wrong--I am still a classic introvert who craves "alone time," but I have also discovered that along with unpredictability and uncertainty, other people also inject a lot of energy and love into my life.  In fact, when I think about the moments in my recovery that stand out to me as major milestones, every one of them was an experience that I shared with other people, and the connectedness that I felt with those individuals was part of what made each of those moments so precious.  My eating disorder stepped in to fill a gaping void in my life during a time when I felt profoundly empty.  In order for me to be willing to give it up, I needed something else to slip into that space--and I have found other people to be a critical part of what now "fills me up."  Interestingly, it's only in recovery that I've found myself actually able to present with other people.  Connectedness fuels my recovery, and my recovery powers connectedness--it's a beautifully self-perpetuating phenomenon.

So, although I still find that quiet time alone in a sukkah is sometimes just what I need, I also must acknowledge that when I do go out of my way to let others in, I am almost never disappointed and am almost always enriched.  Hachnasat orchim might not be my natural instinct, but it's definitely one of the best learned habits I've picked up on the way, and is one I am still working hard to cultivate.  During this week of sukkot and beyond, I encourage any other "people restrictors" out there to try a different approach, even just one time.  Invite others to be with you, wherever you are.  It's true--other people do sometimes make a bit of a mess, but they also bring a lot of joy!