Wow...it has been a long time since I last wrote! It seems I completely missed writing about Pesach this year--and actually missed the entire month of April--due to G.L.C (General Life Craziness). What can I say? It happens. Good thing Pesach Sheni is around the corner!
But lest you think that I've been slacking off, I'm going to tell you a bit about what I've been doing, and I'm going to be a bit more specific than in past posts because I feel like there's no way to tell this story otherwise.
First, the background: I was an active kid who played several different sports during grade school, but once I got to college, exercise morphed into something completely unhealthy. Like, I actually can't think of one way in which the benefits outweighed the enormous cost to me physically and mentally. When I started working on recovery, I had to quit exercising completely, and I stayed away from it for probably around three years before I tried it again. It did not go well. So, for the past 6 or so years, I've abstained from "purposeful exercise" (that is, exercise done for the purpose of exercising), and have relied solely on "incidental exercise" (such as walking to and from places, etc).
But this past year, I started to feel deeply an intense desire to try exercising again, but the wanting felt different to me--I didn't want to exercise to lose weight or burn calories; instead, I wanted to feel stronger and healthier in my body. I wanted to feel like my body was powerful. My team and I talked about how I would do it differently this time around: no numbers, no pushing for a certain time, no using any technology to record distance, heart rate, or calories burned. I wouldn't do it every day. I would not force myself to exercise outside in bad weather. No gyms. I wouldn't make myself eat less on days when I did not exercise. And on and on. Finally, we agreed on a plan. The only remaining obstacle was, I needed to gain some weight.
Not a lot of weight, but enough to give myself a cushion and to support my body in being more active, and also to help me stay recovery-focused mentally. Objectively, it seemed like something I should have been able to accomplish in a little over a month. After all, I'm in solid recovery. I knew why I needed to gain weight, and I was in favor of it. I had a goal that I really wanted to reach. How hard could this be?
Hard.
What I predicted would take me two months ended up taking four, and not because I wasn't trying. I tried really, really hard. For anyone who has ever had to gain weight, you know what it's like--eating past the point of fullness, eating when your'e not hungry, etc. It's completely unpleasant. But what's even MORE unpleasant is doing all those things, and then getting weighed and hearing, "Your weight is stable." For a while, I heard this nearly every week, and let me tell you, there was a lot of crying involved. A lot of crying, a lot of frustration, and a lot of fear. I was already doing everything I could do. What if I just wasn't able to reach this goal? What if it never happened for me?
When I first set my goal, I shared it with a good friend, someone who I knew would support me but also wouldn't ask me about it unless I brought it up first (if you don't have one, find yourself a friend like this). One day, after a particularly disappointing doctor's appointment, I called this friend and shared with her my frustration and my fear. She listened and gave encouragement, and then said, "You know, hishtadlut."
I said, "What's that?"
She explained that hishtadlut means putting in maximum effort and not giving up until you reach your goal. I looked it up after our conversation and found that even when a person thinks that all the hishtadlut in the world won't achieve his or her goal, that person is still obligated to try. In other words, pessimism is allowed, but giving up is not.
Sometimes, when I'm in the headspace of, "This feels IMPOSSIBLE," hearing someone say, "Just keep trying," feels invalidating. But when my friend explained the meaning of hishtadlut, it felt different, I think because it felt like my problem was common enough that there was an actual name for how to handle it. And the more I thought about hishtadlut, the more I realized that I really had only two options: quit, or push ahead. If I continued to put in all my effort, I had a chance at reaching my goal. But if I gave up, there was no way it was happening. So what else could I do, really, but keep trying?
And here's the thing: it worked.
I met my goal. Today was my first day of exercising, and it felt great--physically, but also mentally, because I knew I had worked really hard for this. It was hishtadlut that got me there.
Whatever your recovery goals, know that sometimes the only way is the long way...but maximum effort does pay off. It's not magic--it's something anyone can do. But there's no giving up. You deserve to feel the satisfaction and elation that comes with reaching your goal, so stick with hishtadlut--that's what will get you there.
Sunday, May 8, 2016
Friday, March 25, 2016
Hearing Haman
Every year at around this time I face the Purim Challenge; that is, finding personal meaning in a holiday that doesn't particularly resonate with me. This year I'm a little late to the game...I struggled with it for days leading up to Purim, and only got inspired at literally the last minute, as I attended the "Last Minute Megillah Reading" on Purim day at my shul. Nothing like taking it down to the wire!
Right before the reading started, the man doing the leyning made the usual request for no talking during the reading because of the requirement to hear every word of the Megillah. I love any excuse to not talk, so that totally works for me. Usually, the only noise heard during the Megillah reading is the racket made by the graggers and other noisemakers when Haman's name is read. But yesterday, when Haman was mentioned for the first time, I started to connect the dots: we only make noise immediately after Haman's name, not during--we don't drown him out. Instead, we hear his name as we must hear all the other words in the story. We register our displeasure, but we don't erase him.
This seems like an effective way to face our own personal stories, which are (most likely) dotted with names, places, and events we'd like to blot out. The problem with that is, if we erase those parts of our stories, the narratives lose a lot of their significance. I mean, where would the Purim story be without Haman? If we take him out of the mix, there would be no villain and therefore no need for the heroism of Mordechai and Esther. The opportunity for triumph would be lost if we took out the crisis.
When I think about my own story, I would LOVE to take a huge eraser and rub out my entire four years at college, which I will always associate with the birth and rapid rise of my eating disorder. I live in a city with lots of universities, and as I walk around and see all the undergrads and campus buildings, I wish I could do that part of my life over in a totally different way. But since I can't, I just do my best to have very little present-day connection with the university I attended. Whenever it comes up in conversation, I would love to drown it out with a gragger!
But maybe this is not the best way. After all, without the struggle born in those four years, I never would have started the journey I'm on--one that has given me insights and skills that I would never want to trade for an easier path. Maybe the best approach is Purim-style: hear the hard parts, register your displeasure, and appreciate them as necessary for the journey.
Just as we can't effectively erase parts of our narratives, we also can't erase parts of ourselves. We all have elements to our personalities that we dislike or find shameful: the judgmental, envious, fearful, spiteful, resistant, insecure parts (to name a few). It's probably fair to say that we are each a little "Haman-esque" in some ways, just as we also have within us elements of Mordechai and Esther. I cannot even count the number of times I have thought, "I hate that I'm like this!" when I catch myself exhibiting any of the above traits. But maybe these elements of our personalities should not be hated and drowned out; maybe they need to be heard and better understood. Sometimes our most difficult attributes need the most love and compassion before we are able to see how they fit into the Big Picture that is us. We say we "hate" Haman, but we also have to acknowledge that he gave us a key piece of our collective narrative and provided us with one of our first experiences of national triumph. What would we have missed out on learning, if Haman had never entered the picture? Perhaps there is also much to learn from our seemingly less desirable traits, if only we can approach them with gentle curiosity.
A local artist named Deb Koffman expresses this much better than I ever could, in her piece titled, "Some of the Parts." She has given me permission to include it here. You can see more of her work at http://www.debkoffman.com. Hopefully this piece inspires you to integrate all of your story, and all of your parts!
Right before the reading started, the man doing the leyning made the usual request for no talking during the reading because of the requirement to hear every word of the Megillah. I love any excuse to not talk, so that totally works for me. Usually, the only noise heard during the Megillah reading is the racket made by the graggers and other noisemakers when Haman's name is read. But yesterday, when Haman was mentioned for the first time, I started to connect the dots: we only make noise immediately after Haman's name, not during--we don't drown him out. Instead, we hear his name as we must hear all the other words in the story. We register our displeasure, but we don't erase him.
This seems like an effective way to face our own personal stories, which are (most likely) dotted with names, places, and events we'd like to blot out. The problem with that is, if we erase those parts of our stories, the narratives lose a lot of their significance. I mean, where would the Purim story be without Haman? If we take him out of the mix, there would be no villain and therefore no need for the heroism of Mordechai and Esther. The opportunity for triumph would be lost if we took out the crisis.
When I think about my own story, I would LOVE to take a huge eraser and rub out my entire four years at college, which I will always associate with the birth and rapid rise of my eating disorder. I live in a city with lots of universities, and as I walk around and see all the undergrads and campus buildings, I wish I could do that part of my life over in a totally different way. But since I can't, I just do my best to have very little present-day connection with the university I attended. Whenever it comes up in conversation, I would love to drown it out with a gragger!
But maybe this is not the best way. After all, without the struggle born in those four years, I never would have started the journey I'm on--one that has given me insights and skills that I would never want to trade for an easier path. Maybe the best approach is Purim-style: hear the hard parts, register your displeasure, and appreciate them as necessary for the journey.
Just as we can't effectively erase parts of our narratives, we also can't erase parts of ourselves. We all have elements to our personalities that we dislike or find shameful: the judgmental, envious, fearful, spiteful, resistant, insecure parts (to name a few). It's probably fair to say that we are each a little "Haman-esque" in some ways, just as we also have within us elements of Mordechai and Esther. I cannot even count the number of times I have thought, "I hate that I'm like this!" when I catch myself exhibiting any of the above traits. But maybe these elements of our personalities should not be hated and drowned out; maybe they need to be heard and better understood. Sometimes our most difficult attributes need the most love and compassion before we are able to see how they fit into the Big Picture that is us. We say we "hate" Haman, but we also have to acknowledge that he gave us a key piece of our collective narrative and provided us with one of our first experiences of national triumph. What would we have missed out on learning, if Haman had never entered the picture? Perhaps there is also much to learn from our seemingly less desirable traits, if only we can approach them with gentle curiosity.
A local artist named Deb Koffman expresses this much better than I ever could, in her piece titled, "Some of the Parts." She has given me permission to include it here. You can see more of her work at http://www.debkoffman.com. Hopefully this piece inspires you to integrate all of your story, and all of your parts!
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, February 21, 2016
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.
Sunday, February 7, 2016
Depression--it's the Pits
You know it's going to be a bad day when one of your first thoughts upon waking is, "I hate this." Never mind that you might not even be sure what "this" is--you're in a Mood, and the Color of the Day is grey.
Maybe you manage to get yourself to work or school where task-driven adrenaline propels you along as the ever-competent person you are, but behind the smiles and efficiency is the thought, "I will not make it through this day." But, of course, you do, because what is the alternative, really? The more you get done, the more overwhelmed you become by all that there is yet to do, even once you finally get home ("Wait...I have to SHOWER?!") The very IDEA of simply standing under the water is enough to make you curl into the fetal position on the couch and stay there for a good long while.
You probably can't help but notice that everyone else in your life seems happy and well-adjusted (even if you know they really aren't, you still allow yourself to think that they are). And instead of rubbing off on you, everyone else's happiness only makes you feel more alone, more sad, and more discouraged at the state of your own life.
After feeling like this for several days, or weeks, you start to worry that you will be like this forever. You don't actually want to be dead, but you also don't want to continue on the path that you're on, and change just does not seem in the cards.
That's depression, friends. I've been there. And it is the worst.
Even though I spend less time in that state of mind now than I did in the past, I still revisit it every now and then, and even though I know it is time-limited and I know it's just me being out-of-sync biochemically, it is still real and painful--and incredibly isolating. I thought about that recently while I was in one of these Moods, and I noticed that during the entire two weeks that the depression lasted, I did not ask any of my friends for help in the moments when I needed it. That led me to wonder, Why is it so hard to ask for what we need?
Personally, I can think of several answers. To start, depression is too hard to explain. What can you really say to convey to someone how awful you feel despite the fact that your life is objectively not so bad? And then, there's the issue of how your "neediness" will be received. Sure, there is the potential for empathy, but there is also the risk of being told some version of, "You're too much for me"...and if you're anything like me, that does not always seem like a risk worth taking.
Last week, as I struggled with the question of, "to tell, or not to tell," I came across a bit of wisdom by Rabbi Joseph Telushkin, in his book, A Code of Jewish Ethics, Vol. 2. He cites a story of some peasants who were drinking in a tavern, and one peasant asked another, "Tell me, do you love me or don't you love me?" The other peasant said that he did love the first peasant, to which the first peasant replied, "You say that you love me, but you do not know what I need. If you really loved me, you would know." The lesson? That loving another person means knowing his or her needs and offering help without being asked. In response to this story, Rabbi Telushkin says the following:
"One day, though, it occurred to me that the second peasant might truly have loved his friend, but just didn't know what was bothering him or precisely what he needed. Indeed, how many people who know you--and who may well love you--might not be aware of all the things that cause you to be upset or sad?...perhaps the first peasant should have told his friend what he needed or what was troubling him and thereby offered him the chance to be helpful and empathetic."
I can see the wisdom in this...after all, when my friends come to me with their sadness or troubles, it feels very satisfying and rewarding to be able to offer them comfort. In fact, those moments bring us closer together. So why am I denying my friends the same opportunity?
Sometimes, when I'm in the middle of depression, it seems like the best thing to do is to just grit my teeth and push through--because that's what a "strong" person would do. But Rabbi Telushkin offers another perspective on that misconception, as well, through a short story:
"A little boy was struggling to lift a heavy stone but could not budge it. The boy's father, who happened to be watching, said to his son, 'Are you using all your strength?'
'Yes, I am,' the boy said with irritation.
'No, you're not,' the father answered. 'You have not asked me to help you.'"
It's hard to remember, in the moment, that asking for help is a sign of strength--in fact, it's foolish to think we can go it alone. Maybe that means asking a friend, or a family member, or a therapist...or G-d. I'll admit that I did not do a good job of this during my most recent foray into depression, but next time (because there will be a next time!) I am going to make it a goal to reach out to at least one friend and try to let her in on how I'm feeling. I encourage you to do the same...because a little companionship can make anything, even depression, a lot more bearable.
Maybe you manage to get yourself to work or school where task-driven adrenaline propels you along as the ever-competent person you are, but behind the smiles and efficiency is the thought, "I will not make it through this day." But, of course, you do, because what is the alternative, really? The more you get done, the more overwhelmed you become by all that there is yet to do, even once you finally get home ("Wait...I have to SHOWER?!") The very IDEA of simply standing under the water is enough to make you curl into the fetal position on the couch and stay there for a good long while.
You probably can't help but notice that everyone else in your life seems happy and well-adjusted (even if you know they really aren't, you still allow yourself to think that they are). And instead of rubbing off on you, everyone else's happiness only makes you feel more alone, more sad, and more discouraged at the state of your own life.
After feeling like this for several days, or weeks, you start to worry that you will be like this forever. You don't actually want to be dead, but you also don't want to continue on the path that you're on, and change just does not seem in the cards.
That's depression, friends. I've been there. And it is the worst.
Even though I spend less time in that state of mind now than I did in the past, I still revisit it every now and then, and even though I know it is time-limited and I know it's just me being out-of-sync biochemically, it is still real and painful--and incredibly isolating. I thought about that recently while I was in one of these Moods, and I noticed that during the entire two weeks that the depression lasted, I did not ask any of my friends for help in the moments when I needed it. That led me to wonder, Why is it so hard to ask for what we need?
Personally, I can think of several answers. To start, depression is too hard to explain. What can you really say to convey to someone how awful you feel despite the fact that your life is objectively not so bad? And then, there's the issue of how your "neediness" will be received. Sure, there is the potential for empathy, but there is also the risk of being told some version of, "You're too much for me"...and if you're anything like me, that does not always seem like a risk worth taking.
Last week, as I struggled with the question of, "to tell, or not to tell," I came across a bit of wisdom by Rabbi Joseph Telushkin, in his book, A Code of Jewish Ethics, Vol. 2. He cites a story of some peasants who were drinking in a tavern, and one peasant asked another, "Tell me, do you love me or don't you love me?" The other peasant said that he did love the first peasant, to which the first peasant replied, "You say that you love me, but you do not know what I need. If you really loved me, you would know." The lesson? That loving another person means knowing his or her needs and offering help without being asked. In response to this story, Rabbi Telushkin says the following:
"One day, though, it occurred to me that the second peasant might truly have loved his friend, but just didn't know what was bothering him or precisely what he needed. Indeed, how many people who know you--and who may well love you--might not be aware of all the things that cause you to be upset or sad?...perhaps the first peasant should have told his friend what he needed or what was troubling him and thereby offered him the chance to be helpful and empathetic."
I can see the wisdom in this...after all, when my friends come to me with their sadness or troubles, it feels very satisfying and rewarding to be able to offer them comfort. In fact, those moments bring us closer together. So why am I denying my friends the same opportunity?
Sometimes, when I'm in the middle of depression, it seems like the best thing to do is to just grit my teeth and push through--because that's what a "strong" person would do. But Rabbi Telushkin offers another perspective on that misconception, as well, through a short story:
"A little boy was struggling to lift a heavy stone but could not budge it. The boy's father, who happened to be watching, said to his son, 'Are you using all your strength?'
'Yes, I am,' the boy said with irritation.
'No, you're not,' the father answered. 'You have not asked me to help you.'"
It's hard to remember, in the moment, that asking for help is a sign of strength--in fact, it's foolish to think we can go it alone. Maybe that means asking a friend, or a family member, or a therapist...or G-d. I'll admit that I did not do a good job of this during my most recent foray into depression, but next time (because there will be a next time!) I am going to make it a goal to reach out to at least one friend and try to let her in on how I'm feeling. I encourage you to do the same...because a little companionship can make anything, even depression, a lot more bearable.
For more on asking for help and responding with empathy, watch this short gem narrated by Dr. Brené Brown. Pretty much nails it.
Thursday, January 21, 2016
What is Righteousness?
I've been working at this recovery thing for a long time--twelve years--and the longer I'm at it, the more I realize that there is always a "next step." Even after you're physically healthy and well-adjusted, you'll likely think, "I want an even better relationship with my body," or, "I want to be even happier with my life than I am right now," or whatever version of the self-improvement tape you play in your brain. This isn't a bad thing; it's just part of being a self-aware human being. But it does mean making goals and trying to achieve them, and THAT means risking failure...because, let's be honest, failure happens.
Even as a seasoned recovery veteran, I am not immune to setbacks. Recently, I made a new goal with enthusiasm and determination...and then I stopped to assess my progress and discovered that actually I hadn't made very much. This was not for lack of trying; it's just that sometimes even when I work hard, it doesn't pay off right away. I know this is normal, but somehow it is always disappointing. So, I reached out to a dear friend of mine and vented about how frustrated I was with myself for not being successful right away, etc. etc. In response, this friend gave me validation and compassion, but more than that, she gave me...a Jewish source. Yep. Because I have friends like that.
"For a righteous man can fall seven times and rise, but the wicked shall stumble upon evil."
-Proverbs 24:16
My friend pointed out that not only does this mean that even the righteous experience failure (and often!), but also that the defining characteristic of a "righteous" person is that he or she rises after falling...and keeps trying. A wicked person fails and gives up, but a righteous person experiences setbacks and continues to fight.
But then, my friend told me something that I thought was even more interesting: she said, it is taught that the worst aspect of the Yetzer HaRa (the "evil inclination" that we all have), is not hatred or anger or cruelty...it's despair. Why? Because when one falls into despair, one stops trying, and then failure is inevitable--not because one never had a chance, but because one stopped believing in that chance.
For me, that really resonates--the idea that the worst thing we can do is to give up on ourselves, to believe that we can never change. When I realized that I hadn't met my goal right away, one of my first thoughts was, "This always happens!" It's natural to follow that thought with, "Well, then why keep trying?" I have often had that thought when I try to implement change, and then I do stop trying, and then, no surprise, I don't change. And that is what the Yetzer HaRa wants: for me to stay stuck in a low place, where I am more likely to slip back into negative thoughts and behaviors.
What would it mean, then, to say, "NO," to discouragement, to rise after falling? It would mean abandoning the easy way out--giving up--in favor of the tougher, but more rewarding, pursuit of the life we want and deserve to have. I have often thought, and heard others say, "I know what I need to do, but I can't make myself do it." That, right there, is the Yetzer HaRa talking. That's the voice of resignation and despair. But we can choose to listen to a different voice, the righteous voice that says, "Keep trying! You'll get it!"
It's hard to switch voices, and it's also hard to take ownership of the fact that we CAN change and therefore need to work to make it happen. But it's so, so worth it. It helps to remember that righteousness means not perfection, but perseverance, and that's something we can all do. Failure is uncomfortable, but it's only permanent if we give up. Instead, we have to listen to the voice deep inside us that says, "Keep going! You can do it! And you're worth it."
Because you are.
Even as a seasoned recovery veteran, I am not immune to setbacks. Recently, I made a new goal with enthusiasm and determination...and then I stopped to assess my progress and discovered that actually I hadn't made very much. This was not for lack of trying; it's just that sometimes even when I work hard, it doesn't pay off right away. I know this is normal, but somehow it is always disappointing. So, I reached out to a dear friend of mine and vented about how frustrated I was with myself for not being successful right away, etc. etc. In response, this friend gave me validation and compassion, but more than that, she gave me...a Jewish source. Yep. Because I have friends like that.
"For a righteous man can fall seven times and rise, but the wicked shall stumble upon evil."
-Proverbs 24:16
My friend pointed out that not only does this mean that even the righteous experience failure (and often!), but also that the defining characteristic of a "righteous" person is that he or she rises after falling...and keeps trying. A wicked person fails and gives up, but a righteous person experiences setbacks and continues to fight.
But then, my friend told me something that I thought was even more interesting: she said, it is taught that the worst aspect of the Yetzer HaRa (the "evil inclination" that we all have), is not hatred or anger or cruelty...it's despair. Why? Because when one falls into despair, one stops trying, and then failure is inevitable--not because one never had a chance, but because one stopped believing in that chance.
For me, that really resonates--the idea that the worst thing we can do is to give up on ourselves, to believe that we can never change. When I realized that I hadn't met my goal right away, one of my first thoughts was, "This always happens!" It's natural to follow that thought with, "Well, then why keep trying?" I have often had that thought when I try to implement change, and then I do stop trying, and then, no surprise, I don't change. And that is what the Yetzer HaRa wants: for me to stay stuck in a low place, where I am more likely to slip back into negative thoughts and behaviors.
What would it mean, then, to say, "NO," to discouragement, to rise after falling? It would mean abandoning the easy way out--giving up--in favor of the tougher, but more rewarding, pursuit of the life we want and deserve to have. I have often thought, and heard others say, "I know what I need to do, but I can't make myself do it." That, right there, is the Yetzer HaRa talking. That's the voice of resignation and despair. But we can choose to listen to a different voice, the righteous voice that says, "Keep trying! You'll get it!"
It's hard to switch voices, and it's also hard to take ownership of the fact that we CAN change and therefore need to work to make it happen. But it's so, so worth it. It helps to remember that righteousness means not perfection, but perseverance, and that's something we can all do. Failure is uncomfortable, but it's only permanent if we give up. Instead, we have to listen to the voice deep inside us that says, "Keep going! You can do it! And you're worth it."
Because you are.
Friday, January 1, 2016
To Disagree, or Not to Disagree?
First blog post of 2016! To be honest (and this may come as no surprise), I'm not a big New Year's Eve/Day person. I don't really do massive displays of collective celebration. I mean, am I the only one who, while watching the confetti fall on Times Square, thinks, "Wow...that's a lot to clean up"?
It follows, then, that I'm also not big on New Year's Resolutions. But lately I have been doing a lot of reflecting about my own process and things I want/need to work on. As we know, the truth is that eating disorders aren't really about food at all, so once the behaviors are under control, there is still a lot of "stuff" to work out. Recently, due to a series of unintentionally confrontational interactions, I became aware of one of my "underlying issues:"
I hate disagreeing with people.
I don't use the word, "hate," often, but this is for real. I hate confrontation of any kind; it actually makes me physically squirm to just think about it. Also, as a recovering people pleaser, I have a hard time separating, "I don't like your idea," from, "I don't like you." When I disagree with someone, my M.O. is to mumble something neutral and keep my real feelings to myself. In situations when I let my guard down and actually do respond and then find myself in the awkward and uncomfortable place of being in conflict with another person, I nearly always leave those situations feeling a combination of: shame (for having my opinion in the first place); guilt (for not agreeing with the other person); and fear (that the other person is angry with me).
This is problematic for several reasons; first, because that level of discomfort around disagreement is probably unwarranted; second, because it renders me nearly incapable of openly stating my opinion about anything even remotely controversial and standing by that opinion. While I don't want to be someone who bulldozes others with her beliefs, I do want to feel like I have principles that I am strong enough to defend--even if it means disagreeing with someone I care about. I want to believe--to know--that the relationships I have built with other people can withstand a bit of conflict without crumbling.
I was thinking about this the other day, after a disagreement that ended with me wanting to call the other person and make sure we were still friends (note: I resisted the urge, and we are still friends). As I reflected on my extreme aversion to conflict, I remembered a great piece of aggadah (a Talmudic story) that I learned with one of my teachers this past summer. It's a long story, but hang in there...it's a good one!
There are two key players:
It follows, then, that I'm also not big on New Year's Resolutions. But lately I have been doing a lot of reflecting about my own process and things I want/need to work on. As we know, the truth is that eating disorders aren't really about food at all, so once the behaviors are under control, there is still a lot of "stuff" to work out. Recently, due to a series of unintentionally confrontational interactions, I became aware of one of my "underlying issues:"
I hate disagreeing with people.
I don't use the word, "hate," often, but this is for real. I hate confrontation of any kind; it actually makes me physically squirm to just think about it. Also, as a recovering people pleaser, I have a hard time separating, "I don't like your idea," from, "I don't like you." When I disagree with someone, my M.O. is to mumble something neutral and keep my real feelings to myself. In situations when I let my guard down and actually do respond and then find myself in the awkward and uncomfortable place of being in conflict with another person, I nearly always leave those situations feeling a combination of: shame (for having my opinion in the first place); guilt (for not agreeing with the other person); and fear (that the other person is angry with me).
This is problematic for several reasons; first, because that level of discomfort around disagreement is probably unwarranted; second, because it renders me nearly incapable of openly stating my opinion about anything even remotely controversial and standing by that opinion. While I don't want to be someone who bulldozes others with her beliefs, I do want to feel like I have principles that I am strong enough to defend--even if it means disagreeing with someone I care about. I want to believe--to know--that the relationships I have built with other people can withstand a bit of conflict without crumbling.
I was thinking about this the other day, after a disagreement that ended with me wanting to call the other person and make sure we were still friends (note: I resisted the urge, and we are still friends). As I reflected on my extreme aversion to conflict, I remembered a great piece of aggadah (a Talmudic story) that I learned with one of my teachers this past summer. It's a long story, but hang in there...it's a good one!
There are two key players:
- Rabbi Yohanan: head of a major 3rd century rabbinic academy
- Resh Lakish: robber-turned-Torah scholar who became the student and havruta of R. Yohanan
The text:
One day there was a dispute in the schoolhouse [with respect to the following], a sword, knife, dagger, spear, hand-saw, and a scythe--at what stage can they become unclean? When their manufacture is finished. And when is their manufacture finished? -- R. Yohanan ruled: When they are tempered in a furnace. Resh Lakish maintained: When they have been furbished in water.
Said he [R. Yohanan] to him [Resh Lakish]: "A robber understands his trade."
Said he [Resh Lakish] to him [R. Yohanan]: "And wherewith have you benefited me: there [as a robber] I was called Master, and here I am called Master."
"By bringing you under the wings of the Shekhinah," he [R. Yohanan] retorted.
R. Yohanan therefore felt himself deeply hurt, [as a result of which] Resh Lakish fell ill...[and] died, and R. Yohanan was plunged into deep grief. Said the Rabbis, "Who shall go to ease his mind? Let R. Eleazar b. Pedath go, whose disquisitions are very subtle."
So he [R. Eleazar] went and sat before him; and on every dictum uttered by R. Yohanan he observed, "There is a Baraita which supports you."
"Are you as the son of Lakisha?" he [R. Yohanan] complained: "When I stated a law, the son of Lakisha used to raise twenty-four objections, to which I gave twenty-four answers, which consequently led to a fuller comprehension of the law; whilst you say, 'A Baraita has been taught which supports you.' Do I not know myself that my dicta are right?" Thus he went on rending his garments and weeping, "Where are you, O son of Lakisha, where are you, O son of Lakisha?" and he cried thus until his mind was turned. Thereupon the Rabbis prayed for him, and he died. -- Bava Metzia 84a (emphasis added)
Despite its rather tragic ending, I love this story because of what it teaches about the value of disagreement. In the traditional way of Jewish study, it's a benefit to learn with a partner who challenges your ideas so that you might both arrive at a fuller understanding of the text. The Rabbis thought that R. Yohanan would be comforted by having a havruta who always agreed with him, but in fact, he missed the constant challenging and disagreeing that Resh Lakish used to bring to their studies. To R. Yohanan, Resh Lakish was a dear friend and valued study partner because they could disagree openly, thereby forcing them both to grow.
As I reread this story, I found myself doing a lot of wondering: "What if I'm selling my friends short by assuming that our relationship can't handle disagreement?" "What if people I care about actually want to know what I truly think?" "What would happen if I said what I thought, without apology?" Maybe we would both grow.
In the end, I don't think I will ever be someone who brazenly declares her opinion with disregard for the consequences; I am hard-wired to be conflict-averse and I think that will always be my tendency. However, I do think I can--and should--inch the needle more towards the middle. This will require a bit of a paradigm shift away from thinking that conflict is always bad; it will also necessitate a bit of bravery and risk-taking on my part...and it's probably something I will try out with a one person at a time, slowly. But it excites me to think that perhaps my relationships which I hold so dear will actually be strengthened, not threatened, by a bit of healthy disagreement. The way I'm doing it now isn't working for me or for my connections...so it's time to try a new way.
I'm not making a New Year's Resolution or anything, but I am making a goal to be more authentic in my expression of opinion with my friends. If this resonates for you, I encourage you to try it, as well. There's no need to make ourselves and our beliefs invisible so that we don't upset other people. We deserve to be seen and heard, and our friends deserve our authenticity. So, here's to 2016--the year of productive disagreement. I think we can make it a great one.
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