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!

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!

Recovery Wisdom from the Fathers

Spring is definitely in the air!  It's hard to believe Pesach has come and gone, and we're now counting the days until Shavuot...woah.  This means it's time for two of my favorite seasonal rituals:

1) Feeding the leftover matzah, in small doses, to the geese and ducks at the pond

2) Reading Pirkei Avot

Both bring me a lot of joy in completely different ways, but for the sake of thematic consistency, I'll focus here on #2.

To be honest, I read Pirkei Avot in snippets throughout the year, but it excites me that the weeks between Pesach and Shavuot are earmarked for reading this tractate of the Talmud in earnest.  Yesterday, during the closing hours of Shabbat, I studied the first chapter with my friend (and chevruta par excellence), and then when I got home I couldn't resist looking ahead.  Toward the end of Chapter 2, I came across one of my favorite quotes, from Pirkei Avot 2:16:

"He [Rabbi Tarfon] used to say:  You are not expected to complete the work and yet you are not free to evade it."

In its original context, this quote relates to the immense tasks of acquiring Torah wisdom and working to repair the world.  However, I think it can be generalized to other realms of life and applied to any situation in which a person faces a daunting yet necessary task.  Certainly, then, it speaks to the work of recovery.

In the beginning of my recovery, I often got overwhelmed when I stared down the road ahead, seeing the end result that I sincerely wanted but having no idea how--or if--I would get myself there.  One of the most supportive things my treatment team did was to communicate to me that I did not have to do everything at once, and none of it would have to be done alone--but they were not going to let me avoid the work, either.  Baby steps, they accepted and encouraged; inertia, they did not.  To be honest, this balance served me well.  I needed someone to acknowledge that what I was doing was hard and scary, and to reassure me that "slow and steady" would get me there, in the end.  But at the same time, I needed to be held accountable and to be reminded that it was my responsibility to take myself as far down the recovery road as I possibly could.  Rabbi Tarfon understood this principle and the truth of his words reaches out to us today:  We do not have to do everything, yet we must do something.

Which brings me to an excerpt from one of my other favorite quotes, taken from the famous words of Rabbi Hillel:

"And if not now, when?" (Pirkei Avot 1:14)

Let's face it:  There is never going to be a time that actually feels like a convenient time to work on recovery.  There's always something in the way:  work, school, family obligations, vacations, etc.  Few of us believe we have the luxury of "taking time off from life" to focus on getting well...but the truth is, it's not so much a luxury as it is a necessity.  Life, after all, is more than just going through the motions. If anything we do is going to have any meaning for us, we will have to be fully present to experience it.  I would argue that time invested in recovery--even when it initially feels like a loss or concession--is ultimately going to result in a life that is richer and more satisfying than anything you could experience through the haze of an eating disorder.  It's as Hillel said...there is never a good time, so the best time is now.

I hope you can take the words of Rabbi Tarfon and Rabbi Hillel with you into the coming weeks as you work on your respective journeys:  Take small steps, but take steps...and take them now!

The Challenge of Freedom

Yesterday my good friend and chevruta introduced me to my new favorite haggadah:  A Night To Remember by Mishael Zion and Noam Zion.  It has the full traditional text accompanied by contemporary insights, spectacularly clever artwork, and commentary from a wide range of contributors (Rav Soloveitchik, Aviva Zornberg, Yehuda Amichai, and Amos Oz to name but a few).  I loved it so much that this morning I had to rush out and get my own copy.  If you've never been to the haggadah section of a Jewish bookstore on the day before Erev Pesach, put it on your to-do list for next year.

In a section discussing the meaning of freedom, the haggadah quotes 20th century French author Andre Gide:

"To be liberated--that is easy.  To be a free person--that is very hard."

I think this is a critical yet often unspoken aspect of freedom:  the challenge of maintaining it after it has been won.  In fact, the responsibilities of living as a free human being can be so daunting that sometimes people find themselves missing the predictability and security of slavery.  The ancient Israelites certainly experienced this--not even two months into their liberation from Egypt, the Jews began to whine about their new living conditions.  What would they eat?  Where would the food come from?  Oh, if only they had stayed in Egypt where they had their fill of meat and bread!  But, the Jews weren't being simply ungrateful complainers.  Rather, they were experiencing the fear that comes from understanding the responsibility of being self-sufficient.  When they were slaves, the Jews didn't have to worry about their own upkeep--they ate what was given to them and had their basic needs met by their masters.  Once the novelty of freedom wore off, the Jews woke up to the knowledge that life was no longer predictable and security could no longer be counted on.  Crossing the sea was a scary but finite event; in contrast, freedom stretched before them as a continuous stretch of fending for themselves.  Through those infamous rose-colored glasses, the Jews forgot about the backbreaking labor and crushing oppression that had been their lot as slaves, and saw only one thing:  the comfort of a lifestyle that had been familiar to them.

Andre Gide's quote resonates for me personally as well.  I remember that when I first went into intensive treatment for my eating disorder, I felt relieved that I would no longer be allowed to be a slave to my anorexia.  I was scared, of course, but I was also exhausted and tired of having every day be a battle between my mind and body.  Treatment provided me with a kind of scaffolded freedom--it taught me how to make more liberated choices around food and exercise but also provided me with a supportive framework in which to practice those skills.  A nutritionist watched over my meal plan, a staff of therapists and counselors tended to my emotional needs, and my case manager handled most of the major decisions around my treatment.  I had my hands full just trying to assimilate all the new knowledge and emotions, but I definitely didn't have any big "life responsibilities" during that time.

When I left treatment and began to live as a "free person," all of that changed.  I still had the skills that I learned in the program, but now I was fully responsible for using them.  I had an outpatient team that coached me along, but the major legwork was on me:  the responsibilities of shopping for food, following my meal plan, monitoring my own exercise, and providing my own in-the-moment distress tolerance fell squarely on my shoulders.  It was very, very hard.  There were many times when I wished I could go back to treatment...not because I wanted to be sick again, but because I just wanted to be taken care of.  Never mind that intensive treatment had been hard in a completely different way; when I was newly into "independent recovery" all I could remember was that it had been safe and secure.  Learning to take ownership of my own life of freedom from my eating disorder was a challenging yet critical step in my process of attaining recovery.

Years later, I still have all the "real world" obligations that come with living an adult life:  I have a full-time job, pay my own bills, and cook and clean for myself.  I am responsible for continuing to make recovery-oriented choices and for keeping myself physically and emotionally healthy.  There are times of overwhelm, but really, these "burdens" don't seem unbearable anymore--they just feel like life.  Recovered life.  And, although they bring their share of stress, these responsibilities also bring me lots of joy and a sense of accomplishment.  I remember what it felt like to be enslaved to an eating disorder, and I am proud that I now have what it takes to sustain my own recovery.

This Pesach, I hope we can all validate for ourselves that freedom is hard, and it is normal to miss the familiarity and security of whatever oppression we've left behind.  But, I hope we can also remind ourselves that what freedom brings is infinitely more gratifying than anything we could expect in slavery.  Remember--the Jews didn't go back to Egypt.  They trusted Hashem, they persevered, and they became a stronger people because of it.  If our ancestors could do it, we can do it, too.

חג כשר ושמח!