Holiday Angst

I suppose I should stop being in denial about the arrival of Tishrei?

For those of you interested in keeping track, the month of Tishrei contains the following in the span of three weeks: Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Sukkot, AND Simchat Torah. That's SEVEN festival days if you live outside Israel--seven days on which no melachot are supposed to be done, seven days of going to shul and eating festive meals. Is it any wonder that I love the following month, Cheshvan? It has no holidays!

Now, you might be thinking, "But holidays are fun! Don't you love celebrating, marking sacred time, connecting with the Divine, and all that?"

To which I would reply, "No! I actually don't! I like regular days. I love my routine. Holidays are disruptive. And I can connect with the Divine JUST FINE on regular days, thank you very much."

Though I will admit, hearing the shofar always gets me. And I do love Kol Nidrei (Yom Kippur gets major points for being only one day). But the main truth is, holidays are hard for me, and I often feel alone in that because while everyone else finds them so meaningful and so beautiful (or, at least, they say that they do), I find them somewhat meaningful and beautiful but also majorly stressful and anxiety-provoking. And it's not just the logistics of all those festival days that is a struggle, it's also the sheer magnitude of what these days represent: Book of Life? Book of Death? Genuine teshuvah? Making lasting positive changes to my life? It actually hurts my brain to think about it for too long, because what if I can't truly do teshuvah in the way it needs to be done...WHAT THEN??

If I'm being reflective, though, I guess these are relatively good hangups to have around the holidays, because I used to not be able to get anywhere past the food. And there is a LOT of food, usually in the form of festive meals with family and/or guests. I used to be so stressed out about those meals that I couldn't think about the rest of the holiday at all, and often passed up invitations to meals because it was just too hard. Today, I am proud to say that while I still have some anticipatory anxiety around these meals (How long will they be? When can I leave?), the food is not really an issue anymore; it's the schmoozing that is the tough part. While I don't LIKE disrupting my usual eating routine, I CAN do it when I want to. I can be a good guest and participate in conversation and eat like everyone else, because I am in recovery and I have earned the distinction of blending into the crowd. Just how I like it.

As for the rest of it, I am trying my best with the positive self-talk, reminding myself that I CAN take a couple of days off work to do things a little differently, and it will be fine. I have a new book that I am saving to start on the first day of Rosh Hashanah, along with my annual holiday reading of This Is Real and You Are Completely Unprepared by Alan Lew, and Return by Erica Brown. I accepted invitations to some meals, but didn't over-commit. And with regards to the pressure to make shul a super-meaningful affair, I think I am just accepting that shul is a challenge for me and isn't where I feel most connected to G-d. I'll go and spend the many hours there because that's what we do, but I am not expecting to feel anything out of the ordinary and I don't think G-d expects that of me, either, since He knows how I roll. I'm a "find G-d in nature" person, so I'll be having my Yamim Noraim chat with G-d while feeding an English muffin to the fish during Tashlich.

And here's a little secret: the holidays stress everyone out, even the people who are all spiritual and who love cooking. So if you're privately (or publicly) freaking out about this interminably long stretch of "islands in time," don't worry--you're not alone. Make it as bearable for yourself as you can, and find ways to see beauty even in small things. Give yourself permission to take breaks and relax. Push yourself a little, but not too much. And know that, like a light at the end of the tunnel, Cheshvan is coming!

The Blessing of Rain

You guys, we made it. Cheshvan starts tomorrow night! I have never looked forward to a month so much. Actually, I think we should start a movement to remove "Mar" from "Marcheshvan." Cheshvan is not a bitter month. Cheshvan is the best month. NO HOLIDAYS--an introverted routine-lover's paradise.

So, yes, the chaggim were a bit...much. More to the point, this entire fall has been a bit much, which is why I haven't been writing. I've been too busy trying to navigate my brain chemistry, which has been a little temperamental due to a shift in medications. It is not an exaggeration when I say that there were some days when managing my mood felt like such a monumental task that taking a shower seemed a cruel and unreasonable additional chore.  Oh, you want me to enter assessment data into a spreadsheet? You want me to make travel arrangements? You want me to go to a social event? I'm busy SURVIVING here, people. I'm in full canary mode, sensitive to everything and feeling all the feels.

I don't think it's a coincidence that my mood started to stabilize right as the chaggim were winding down. Cheshvan and a neutral mood--quiet on all fronts. I'll take it.

Since I'm feeling more even-keeled, I've been able to actually stop and think about items that catch my attention. One thing I noticed recently is that we just had a change in one of the parts of the Amidah. Beginning on Simchat Torah, we add the following phrase to Blessing #2, which focuses on Divine might:

משיב הרוח ומוריד הגשם

He makes the wind blow and the rain fall

Taken in geographical context, it makes total sense why we need that addition. We say it during the winter, which is the rainy season in Israel, while during the rest of the year there is basically no rain there at all. So we really need that rain during the winter in order for things to grow and bloom. If the rain doesn't come, the land dies. 

But let's be honest, rain is kind of a pain. You need special boots. You need a raincoat and an umbrella. It makes driving difficult. Streets can flood. It makes everything grey, which is kind of depressing. So it's easy to forget, on your third consecutive day of rain, why rain is such a blessing. It's easy to forget that rain makes things new.

For the past two months, I've been in rainy mode. There were a few peeks of sun, but mostly clouds and rain. I fear that place and when I'm in it, I worry that I will never get out. But I did get out, because the storm passed. That was Lesson #1: The Storm Always Passes. And on the first day I finally felt the sun come out, I was so excited that I actually emailed my psychiatrist and said, "I felt like a normal version of me today! It was AMAZING!" So that was Lesson #2: Rain Brings Gratitude. Probably the best part of that story is that my psychiatrist replied and basically said that she was really glad I had a good day, but there would probably be more bad ones to follow because that's how recovery from depression goes, which I thought was a great dose of realism. There will always be more rain, and for those of us who roll this way, the storms may be extreme. But then...there is the washing clean, and the growing, and the blooming. During my most recent dark time, I learned a few things. I learned how to trust my friends more and accept their love. I became a better observer of my own emotions and reactions without judging them. I also gained confidence in my ability to hang tight and wait it out, without using self-destructive behaviors. Those were all things I needed to learn, and I couldn't have learned them without the dark time, so G-d sent me some rain. It was painful and messy, but it was what I needed.

Come to think of it, my entire eating disorder--the rainiest years of my life thus far, for sure--may have been a complete emotional washout, but it was also where my best growing came from. I am absolutely certain I would not have become the person I am today without my journey through recovery, which would not have happened had the eating disorder never occurred. Once again, G-d gave me the rain I needed in order to bloom. I am NOT saying that, "everything happens for a reason," or some other platitude to brush over the very real and very damaging pain that I went through, or that others have endured. I'm not suggesting that we just put on our rose-colored glasses and thank G-d for all our suffering. What I am saying is that if we're going to go through a rainy season, we might as well reap the benefits. And I do believe that from every flood, every collapse, every breakdown, something new can grow up from the center of the destruction, if only we allow it--and it might be even stronger and more beautiful than what was there before.

When we add the phrase about rain into our prayers, we are acknowledging that we need G-d to send us this weather that is sometimes quite inconvenient, because it is vital to our survival and growth. Rain is what allows us to thrive in the sun. Emotional rain works the same way, and that's what I'm taking away from this holiday season. Rain comes and then it goes, and leaves us with a new beginning. 

Elul...It's On.

Well...seeing as Erev Rosh Hashanah is exactly one week away, I guess I can't continue ignoring the fact that we're in the month of Elul. Okay, I haven't been ignoring it--I just haven't put quite as much energy into it as I would ideally like to. I think that pretty much sums up my relationship with Elul: in theory, I'm a fan; in reality, I'm overwhelmed. And when I get overwhelmed, I avoid.

But I hate walking into the High Holidays totally unprepared, so I needed to do something. I knew, given my current energy level and mental stamina for Things That Are Huge, that I would not be able to deeply examine all major aspects of my life this year. Not happening. But then I found some inspiration courtesy of Laura McKowen, whose blog and Instagram feed I absolutely LOVE. She wrote a post called, "16 Ways to Remember Who You Are When You Forget," and #16 is:

PICK A WORD AND OWN IT.

The idea is to choose a word that you want to be your focus or mantra for the year, or whatever period of time, and channel your energy towards that. I decided right away that I loved this idea and that I would adopt it as my personal Elul practice this year. In the end, I chose a word and a sentence. Here is my word for 5777:

I have always hated risks. In clinical terms, I am considered "highly risk averse." Probably for that very reason, I think this is where I need to put my energy this year. For several years I've felt safe in my life, though not particularly happy...and I'm at the point where "safe" just isn't enough by itself anymore. 

My "safe" approach to relationships has been to show people what I think they want to know/can handle knowing, and to keep the rest private. The upside to that strategy is that I don't give people much material for gossip or weird feelings; the downside is that very few people really know me. And that's lonely. So, very recently I've started taking some risks and being more honest with certain people in my life--people whose friendship is important to me and who have earned a chance to know me. And here's the thing: it's going really well! So THAT feels great, and makes me want to continue being authentic. It's kind of like a relationship positive feedback loop (yep, in another lifetime I was a biology nerd).

And then there are other life questions, like where I want to live, what other people I want to bring into my life, and what kind of lifestyle I want us to have. I have zero answers to any of those questions, but finding them is undoubtedly going to require some risk. A wise friend of mine from treatment once said, "You have to be willing to risk being unhappy in order to be happy." I've never been willing to take that risk...until now. Maybe.

And now, for the 5777 sentence:

I don't know about you, but I am very concerned with everyone else's path. Specifically, I'm concerned with how "everyone" seems to be following one path, and I'm doing something different. I am a conformer and my deepest desire has always been to be a "normal person." I'm not positive, but I think what that means (right now, at least) is that I want to move through life in the same way my friends do, hitting the same milestones and having the same life goals. They just seem so happy, living the way they do. But it's just not for me. I want different things, or at least a different version of things, and it is very, very hard for me to accept being different and to believe that I'm still okay. Sometimes I actually can't go on social media because it is just too painful to look at all my normal, happy friends with their normal, happy lives. Laura McKowen tackles this "Facebook envy" in an absolutely amazing blog post that everyone should read , and her ultimate advice is this:

"Keep going, beauty. Let the Pictured point you to your longing. Consider the Not Pictured and adjust your perspective. Build your own wall and stand on top of it."

And that, I think, is the essence of where my work is: to allow the pain I feel when I compare my friends' paths with mine to guide me toward what I truly want for myself--and then to build my own life proudly. This year, I hope to make decisions that will lead me down the path that is right for me, and to do it knowing that my life also deserves to be celebrated, even if it looks different from other people's. I can make my path into one worth traveling.

Best wishes to all of you as we start the new year. May 5777 be a year of growth for us all!

No Pain, No (internal) Gain

I would be remiss in my exploration of Elul themes if I did not venture into the realm of teshuva--certainly a central focus of this month preceding the High Holidays.  Teshuva (תשובה) is often translated as "repentance" or "penitence,"but there's more to it than that.  The Hebrew root of  תשובה is שוב, which means, "return."  When a person does teshuva, he or she repents for his or her sins, turns away from destructive patterns and actions, and returns to a life in harmony with Hashem.  Teshuva also signals new beginnings and a restoration of balance within oneself.  For years, the focus of my High Holiday teshuva was always apologizing to Hashem for yet another year spent engaging in eating disorder behaviors, a year in which I had, once again, fallen short of my "best self" in what felt like so many ways.  So, I prayed fervently for forgiveness and promised that in the year to come, I would really try to "do better" in recovery.  This happened year after year after year...and each time, I fully intended to follow through on my promise.  So, why didn't I?

I was a classic case of ambivalent teshuva.  I yearned to change, and yet I didn't.  It was puzzling and endlessly frustrating...and yet, it seems, not uncommon to the experience of many people who undergo teshuva for a variety of reasons.  In his brilliant work, Orot HaTeshuva, Rav Kook deeply examines the concept of teshuva.  (For more of Rav Kook's ideas, see this blog post.) This past Tuesday was 3 Elul, Rav Kook's yahrzeit, and I set aside some time that day to explore Orot HaTeshuva.  As I read, I came upon a passage that, I believe, gets right to the heart of why it was so hard for me to turn away from my eating disorder, even though I wanted to.  (Note:  instead of reading this text and making a direct inference that your eating disorder is "evil" or "sinful," perhaps think about it more generally as a negative force in your life.)

"The pain felt in the initial inspiration to penitence is due to the severance of the evil layers of the self, which cannot be mended as long as they are attached to and remain part of the person, and cause deterioration of the whole spirit.  Through penitence they are severed from the basic essence of the self. Every severance causes pain, like the pain felt at the amputation of deteriorated organs for medical reasons.  This is the most inward kind of pain, through which a person is liberated from the dark servitude to his sins and his lowly inclinations and their bitter aftereffects." (Orot HaTeshuva)

Rav Kook hits the nail on the head:  I clung to my eating disorder for so long, despite genuinely wanting to change, because separating from it was too painful.  Even though I knew anorexia was harming me, it had become so enmeshed in who I was that detaching it became a labor intensive, often excruciating process of pushing, pulling, and probing.  My eating disorder was killing me; yet, it felt integral to my being.  Letting go of it did, at times, feel as agonizing as if I was chopping off a limb.

But, Rav Kook is also correct about something else:  the necessity of distance to the process of repair.  When we are entrenched in a problem, it's often hard for us to see it clearly for what it is and figure out how to untangle it.  The same is true of eating disorder behaviors--when we're in the middle of using one, we're hardly in a position to view it objectively and make a plan to get rid of it.  For me, the magic of therapy was that it gave me a safe place to detach from my behaviors and observe, with the help of my clinicians, what function each behavior served and how I could begin to chip away at them one by one.  Being willing and able to separate from my anorexia in that context was what allowed me to internalize the tools that I needed in order to dismantle it.

So, for any of you who find yourselves wondering this month why you spent another year engaging in your eating disorder despite having had a genuine desire to kick it to the curb, remember what Rav Kook says:  it hurts to separate from part of yourself, even from a part that is negative.  And, like most people, you do your best to avoid pain.  But, remember also Rav Kook's message that separation is the key to repair.  If you allow yourself some distance from your eating disorder, you will be able to see it more clearly for what it is.  This year, may you be able to tolerate the pain of this separation, and may it lead you to lasting recovery, once and for all!

Chodesh Tov...it's Elul!

This past Shabbat, we also celebrated Rosh Chodesh Elul.  Elul is the month preceding the High Holidays and is traditionally a time dedicated to introspection, self-evaluation, and spiritual preparation to get us ready for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.  In keeping with this practice, during this month I will aim to center each of my weekly posts around a different theme of Elul and how it relates to recovery.

One traditional Elul practice is to recite Psalm 27 twice a day throughout the month.  Below is a translation of this psalm:

The Lord is my light and my help; whom should I fear?
The Lord is the stronghold of my life, whom should I dread?
When evil men assail me to devour my flesh it is they, my foes and my enemies, who stumble and fall.
Should an army besiege me, my heart would have no fear; should war beset me, still would I be confident.

One thing I ask of the Lord, only that do I seek:  to live in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to gaze upon the beauty of the Lord, to frequent His temple.
He will shelter me in His pavilion on an evil day, grant me the protection of His tent, raise me high upon a rock.
Now is my head high over my enemies roundabout; I sacrifice in His tent with shouts of joy, singing and chanting a hymn to the Lord.

Hear, O Lord, when I cry aloud; have mercy on me, answer me.  In Your behalf my heart says: "Seek My face!"
O Lord, I seek Your face.
Do not hide from me; do not thrust aside Your servant in anger; You have ever been my help.
Do not forsake me, do not abandon me, O G-d, my deliverer.
Though my father and mother abandon me, the Lord will take me in.
Show me Your way, O Lord, and lead me on a level path because of my watchful foes.
Do not subject me to the will of my foes, for false witnesses and unjust accusers have appeared against me.
Had I not the assurance that I would enjoy the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living...

Look to the Lord; be strong and of good courage!
O look to the Lord!

When I read the first half of the psalm, I am struck by the strong faith of the speaker and the confidence that no matter what obstacles rise up, Hashem will offer protection and safety.  The psalmist recognizes that to have such unshakable faith is to know security, peace, and the joy of victory.  This reminds me of the mindset that we often need to spur us into recovery.  Because giving up the eating disorder essentially requires a huge leap of faith, we need to feel confident that Hashem is looking out for us and will help us along the journey.  When we feel this way, we often feel empowered, motivated, and confident that we can do the hard work recovery demands--this is what propels our momentum and inspires us to take risks and grow.  I know that when I have an experience that shows me how far I have come in recovery, I enjoy a delicious sense of accomplishment and power as well as deep gratitude to Hashem for getting me to that point.

The second half of the psalm, however, carries a decidedly different tune.  All of a sudden, the psalmist speaks of fear, of doubt, of loneliness.  He begs Hashem not to abandon him in his time of danger and need, and implores G-d to show him the path to a righteous and holy life.  In my mind, this conjures up times when my resolve has weakened, when I've had setbacks, or when the challenges of living a healthy life seemed far, far too demanding--in short, every time I've ever doubted my ability to "make it" in recovery.  The psalmist expresses the intense fear and anguish that can arise at such a time--it's enough to make a person doubt whether he or she has the strength to keep going.  When we are in such a state of despair, remembering that Hashem's love for us is everlasting can give us the courage to keep engaging with life.  The psalmist recognizes an essential truth:  Hashem never gives up on us and never stops wanting us to connect with Him.  In fact, G-d begs us to seek Him out.  And so, even when his faith is weakened, the psalmist hangs onto his determination to feel Hashem's love...and through this, he finds renewed courage.

Psalm 27 is about oneness--unity between the individual and Hashem, and also the joining inside ourselves of our faith and our insecurities.  Elul is a time to bring ourselves closer to G-d, and is also a time to evaluate that relationship...and, like any relationship, our connection with Hashem sometimes feels strong and other times feels hazy.  But, what I take from this psalm is that this is normal--holding the positive with the negative is part of how life works.  Recovery is not a linear path into sunshine and roses; it is full of the ups and downs of real life in this world.  We need to be able to use the strength that we gather in times of security to help us sit with the uncertainties that are also bound to arise--because we know that if we gather our faith and hang on, we will feel safe and strong once again.

So, as we begin our journey through Elul, I wish for you that you do as the psalmist instructs:  Look to Hashem, and be brave!  You can do it!

Teshuva

I used to really dislike the High Holy Days. First of all, I had to dress up (which I hated), and spend hours in a synagogue where I felt ill at ease. Then, there was the Yom Kippur fast, which was anxiety provoking when I observed it and equally stressful when I did not. Finally, there were the hours passed contemplating all of my shortcomings for which I was supposed to atone: I had not been a sufficiently devoted daughter; I hadn’t called my grandmother often enough; I’d told lies; I had withheld myself from my friends. And, of course, there was the eating disorder, the biggest sin of all. Every year, I would vow to make the coming year the year when I would “really” recover; and yet, when the next Yom Kippur rolled around, I was forced to admit that once again, I had failed.

Looking back, it’s no wonder to me why those High Holy Day experiences were so overwhelmingly negative. One thing that might have helped would have been an understanding of the real meaning of teshuvah, one of the central themes of the time between Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur. I’d been taught that teshuvah meant “repentance,” which inevitably led me to feel remorse and regret. Recently, however, I learned that what teshuvah actually means is, “return.” The idea is that within each human being is a divine spark of G-dly potential. This is our true self, but it gets buried underneath superficial deeds and concerns. Teshuvah is the process of reconnecting with our inner light, of returning to our connection with Hashem.

When I understand teshuvah in this way, instead of experiencing guilt and sadness, I feel joy and hope. Judaism teaches that even when I am feeling hopelessly far from holy, the divine spark still burns inside of me and links me to Hashem. My job is not to sit and lament all of my misdeeds; rather, my task is to actively find ways to clear out the clutter and fill the space with mitzvot, which then bring me closer to Hashem.

There was a long time in which I was so full of self-hatred that I couldn’t have seen my inner light if it had been shining directly into my eyes. Ironically, it is the process of recovering from my eating disorder (formerly Sin with a capital S) that has led me to recognize the potential of my true self and the strength of my desire for connection with Hashem. This year, I enter the time between Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur with excitement. I am finally able to be fully engaged in the journey back to my divine source, and the endless possibilities of what I might discover along the way have me feeling energized. What I hope for myself in the coming year is not that I be “better” than I was in years before, but that I be “truer.” May we all experience truth and reconnection in the year to come. Shana tova!