Thanksgiving--it's a Jewish Thing

It's here--my favorite non-Jewish holiday, Thanksgiving!  I love it for all kinds of reasons; mainly, it's the first "vacation" of the school year, and I get to visit with my extended family, whom I hardly ever see otherwise.  But my last post was kind of a downer and I just couldn't have that be the lead-in to this holiday, especially because my absolute favorite thing about Thanksgiving is that it's called, "Thanksgiving," which means...gratitude.  I love gratitude.

My first real exposure to making gratitude part of my daily routine came many years ago when my group therapist suggested that I keep a gratitude journal.  I did this faithfully for years, writing down at least three things every day that I was grateful for (I went through a lot of journals).  Then, a few years later I took a professional development graduate course on positive psychology.  Unlike "regular" psychology, which focuses on mental illnesses and how to get people back to a baseline of functionality, positive psychology studies how an average individual can actually rise above the baseline and live a happier, more fulfilling life.  It was a fascinating class, and one thing that stood out to me is how prominent a feature gratitude is in the lives of people who self-identify as happy.  There is a lot of evidence that actively practicing gratitude can lead to increased levels of optimism, self-esteem, and motivation to take care of oneself.  Personally, although I have stopped writing in gratitude journals, I still take time every night before saying Shema to think of things from the day for which I'm grateful. This gratitude practice is one of my favorite daily rituals and it plays a big role in my health and happiness in recovery.

It should come as no surprise, then, that one of my favorite features of Judaism is that it has a lot of built-in gratitude.  Every morning, the very first words we say are, Modeh/modah ani, thanking G-d for returning our souls to us and waking us up.  We then move through Birkat HaShachar, in which we give thanks to G-d for, among other things, the ability to see, clothes to wear, being able to walk, and strength when we are tired.  What I love about this is that it is a chance every morning to go back to basics and appreciate all the things that I otherwise would take for granted.  For example, since I have always been able to see, I don't usually take time to think about what a miracle it is that my eyes create images and my brain processes them correctly.  But in the morning, as I look out my bedroom window at the sun rising over the city skyline, I am reminded that the simple act of seeing is something to be grateful for--every day.

Gratitude also plays a prominent role in the Amidah, which we say three times a day.  The Modim is the eighteenth out of nineteen brachot in the Amidah, and its entire focus is thanksgiving.  I will admit that at the crack of dawn when I daven Shacharit, it is very, very hard for me to stay focused on all the brachot.  But I always make a big effort to focus on the Modim, because to me it feels like the most important part of the entire prayer.  In the Modim, we acknowledge that our lives are in G-d's care and that He works miracles in our world every day--not "burning bush" miracles, but "everyday" miracles:  sunrise and sunset, forces of nature, our physical well-being, etc.

I recently read an essay by Rabbi Jonathan Sacks that explains a feature of the Modim prayer that I previously had not understood.  When the prayer leader repeats the Amidah, all the congregation has to do to signal their agreement with the leader's words is to say, "Amen," after every blessing--then, it is as if the congregants had said all the words themselves.  The exceptions are Kedushah, in which the congregation responds out loud, and the Modim.  When the prayer leader repeats the Modim out loud, instead of just sitting quietly and saying, "Amen," at the end, each person in the congregation has to say a parallel blessing, called "Modim of the Rabbis."  Why?  Rabbi Sacks cites the work of Rabbi Elijah Spira (1660-1712), who teaches that we cannot give the responsibility of saying, "Thank you," to someone else to do on our behalf.  Every person has to say it for him- or herself.  I like to think that this is for two reasons:  1) Hashem deserves to hear, "Thank you," directly from each of us; 2) saying, "Thank you" (and meaning it!) will actually make us happier, healthier people.

In a way, Puritan origins notwithstanding, celebrating Thanksgiving is a Jewish thing to do--it's just something that we usually do every day.  But why not take one day a year to do it with friends and family?  Personally, I think it's a great idea.  Believe me, I know that Thanksgiving can be a tough holiday for people with eating disorders.  But remember:  even if you aren't yet in a place where you can enjoy all the food and company, you can do gratitude.  All you need is a sense of awareness.  Try finding three specific things you're grateful for, and maybe say them out loud to someone special in your life.  It just might make the day a little brighter and a lot more meaningful.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Thoughts on a Hard Week

It has been a rough week for the world.

Seven days ago, I turned my computer on after Shabbat to find out that in the 25 hours I'd been media-free, France had been hit with a horrific string of terrorist attacks, the country's deadliest spate of violence since WWII.  Following that were (at least) 12 other terror attacks across the globe:  Nigeria, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Mali, Iraq, Cameroon, and Israel all suffered incidents of terrorism, to say nothing of the ongoing carnage in Syria.  For those of you doing the math, that's almost two attacks every day.  At that rate, I find, it's very hard not to become at least a little bit desensitized to what seems to be an endless stream of horrible news.  By Thursday, I was just scanning the headlines; I couldn't even read the articles anymore.  But then, I saw this:

Whenever I hear about another terrorist attack in Israel, I feel the old block of fear and tension settle into my stomach.  But this one was particularly impactful, for two reasons:  1) The shooting happened at a spot where I have stood many times waiting for buses or for friends to pick me up in their cars; 2) One of the victims was 18-year-old Ezra Schwartz, z''l, a recent graduate of a Jewish high school in my town.  Though I didn't know him or his family personally, I am friendly with many people who did, and the loss has hit our community hard.  For three days, I've been thinking about this boy and about how his family and friends must be feeling.  I've also been thinking about my friends and teachers in Alon Shvut, who lost their friend and neighbor, 51-year-old Yaakov Don, z''l, in the same attack.

From this latest shooting, I have learned a sobering lesson that should have been obvious but that I think I had been avoiding:  the people I love in Israel are vulnerable--they are not protected by virtue of being people I love; additionally, when I am in Israel, I am also vulnerable--I am not protected by virtue of being an American who doesn't actually live there.  How is it possible not to be consumed by fear in the face of such harsh uncertainty?

Rabbi Marc Baker, the Head of School at another local Jewish high school, proposes an answer to this question.  In his weekly message to the community right before Shabbat, Rabbi Baker writes,

"One of the most natural human responses to uncertainty and loss is fear.  Sadness is an important part of a fully lived emotional and spiritual life.  Fear, however, can paralyze us as individuals and disconnect us from one another and from ourselves...

One of my close friends in the Maimonides community wrote to me yesterday, 'People need to be together and communicate at this time and not be alone.'  People need to be together and reach out to one another, letting one another know, 'I am with you in your pain, your loss, your confusion, your shock.'  Sometimes, that is all we can say. 

My friend's words reminded me of the words of the 23rd Psalm and so many other Psalms:  'Lo ira ra ki ata imadi--I will fear no evil because You are with me.'  The Psalm does not say, 'I will fear no evil because I know everything will turn out okay.'  We find comfort and confidence not because we know what will happen in the end, but rather because we do not need to experience our not-knowing alone.

Going into this Shabbat, I turned Rabbi Baker's words over and over in my head.  Personally, I have always found connecting with G-d and with my inner self to be much easier than connecting with other people.  But if I'm being honest, when I am staring down The Unknown, I really need all three--G-d, self, and others--to strengthen me against the fear.  And lately I've been realizing just how critical connection to others is to me in this stage of my journey.  

I consider "community building" to be the Last Great Frontier of my recovery.  As I've said many times, I am probably one of the most introverted people ever.  Socializing is work, and self-confidence amidst a group of peers is not something for which I am known.  And yet, this Shabbat, the only place I wanted to be was within my shul community where we all, to varying degrees, were feeling the same sense of sadness, exhaustion, and pain.  Even when we talked about other things, just being in the presence of others who "got it" was enough to strengthen me against the emotional roller-coaster of the week. It reminded me of how group therapy was once so important to me in my recovery because it was the only time when I was with other people who truly understood.  Today, even though it required some effort, being in community was exactly what I needed, and what I know I will continue to need as I move through life--because no one can do it alone, and I am no exception.

As we all face the scariness of living in an uncertain world and the fear that comes with confronting the unknown, may we find points of connection with G-d, with ourselves, and with others--and may we take comfort in the knowledge that we are not alone.

The Wrong Prayer

Today I want to revisit a familiar theme:  taking initiative.  It feels particularly relevant to my life right now, and also (conveniently) is a theme that runs through the last several parshiot we've read.

On a personal note, this theme resonates with me deeply.  I am at a beautiful yet challenging place in recovery--beautiful, because I feel better about my life, my connections, and my body than I have in a very long time; challenging because there is still more that I want, and getting it requires pushing myself in ways that are sometimes uncomfortable.  I have "hung out" where I am for a long time, and while I *could* feasibly stay here and have a healthy and productive life, I know that this isn't where I want my end point to be.  To move further along, I need to give myself a little shove, which means pushing myself socially, emotionally, and also with food. I'm not opposed to any of that on principle, as I am open to the growth--both internal and external--that would happen as a result.  What I am often opposed to, though, is being uncomfortable, which means I sometimes don't challenge myself as much as I should.  For example, I don't like eating when I'm not hungry, partly for the obvious reason of it feeling physically awkward, but also because it reminds me of a time, early in recovery, when I was constantly needing to eat when I wasn't hungry.  It feels like a remnant of an unhealthy era, and it's hard for me to remember that just because I still need to do it occasionally, it doesn't mean I'm back in that unhealthy place.  Because I know that this cognitive challenge sometimes blocks me from pushing myself, I developed three strategies for beating it:

1) Remind myself what my goals are;
2) Reassure myself that I am healthy and doing well in recovery, but this will just help me go farther;
3) Ask G-d every morning to give me the strength to make good choices.

Despite my best intentions, these strategies didn't always work, and I didn't understand why until I read an article by Rabbi Jonathan Sacks about last week's parasha.

Rabbi Sacks points out that this part of the book of Bereishit is all about taking initiative.  In last week's parasha, Abraham faces the reality that although G-d has promised him both a land and millions of descendants, he currently has neither.  He owns not a single plot of land, and he has only one unmarried son who will continue the covenant.  On top of all of this, at this time Abraham is 137 years old, so it's not like he has decades more in which to fulfill his destiny.  He needs to act--so, he negotiates the purchase of the Cave of Machpelah and its surrounding field, and he also sends his servant to find a bride for his son, Isaac.  In this way, Abraham himself ensures that Hashem's promises to him will be fulfilled.

In this week's parasha, this theme of initiative continues.  When Isaac's wife, Rebecca, is pregnant with twins, Hashem tells her that she will give birth to two nations, and that the older one will serve the younger.  As the time of Isaac's death nears, he prepares to give his older son, Esau, his blessing.  But because Rebecca knows that the younger son, Jacob, is supposed to be the dominant one, she needs to come up with a plan to make sure the blessing goes to Jacob.  She disguises Jacob to pass for Esau, and Jacob does receive the blessing, thus ensuring that Hashem's plan for the covenant to continue through Jacob is realized.

In his article on parashat Chayei Sarah, Rabbi Sacks writes the following:

G-d promises, but we have to act.  G-d promised Abraham the land, but he had to buy the first field.  G-d promised Abraham many descendants, but Abraham had to ensure that his son was married, and to a woman who would share the life of the covenant...

Despite all the promises, G-d does not and will not do it alone.  By the very act of self-limitation (tzimtzum) through which He creates the space for human freedom, He gives us responsibility, and only by exercising it do we reach our full stature as human beings...G-d gives us the strength to act, but we have to do the deed.  What changes the world, what fulfills our destiny, is not what G-d does for us but what we do for G-d.

When I read this, I realized that every morning I had been saying the wrong prayer.

Praying for G-d to, "give me the strength to make good choices," doesn't get to the heart of the issue. G-d has already given me the strength to make good choices.  I don't need more strength.  What I need is to act on the strength He has given me.  If, at the end of the day, I have not pushed my own recovery forward, it's not because Hashem didn't strengthen me enough to follow through--it's because I didn't take the initiative to do what I knew I needed to do.  The burden is on me, not on G-d.  I have, within me, all the strength I need--I just need to use it.

So, I changed my prayer.  Now, instead of asking Hashem to give me strength, I promise Him every morning that I will act in ways that move myself forward.  As Rabbi Sacks notes, it is not what G-d does for us but what we do for G-d.  I want Hashem to see that I am using all that he has blessed me with to make the best choices for myself in every moment.  It's not a flawless system, but I don't think it's any coincidence that since I've changed my prayer, I have been much more consistent in doing what I need to do.  It's amazing what a little responsibility does for a person.

I think we all need to remember that we have within us the strength needed to live healthy, satisfying, full lives--but it's up to us to use it.  We have to partner with Hashem in the creation of our best selves.  So let's not be afraid to take the initiative and assume responsibility for using all the strength we have!

The Ideal and the Real

It all began with a thread.

As I was walking to shul this past Shabbat morning, I happened to glance down and I noticed a thread dangling from the hem of my skirt.  It was a long thread--the skirt was knee-length and the thread hung to the lower part of my shin.  I tried to shove it back up the inside of the skirt, but to no avail--I would take a few steps and it would fall down again, hanging there obtrusively.  Going home to change didn't seem like a good option, which left me with two choices:  a) leave it; b) tear it off.  I stood there in the middle of the sidewalk, debating.  On the one hand, "tearing" is a form of work that is prohibited on Shabbat.  Did this include ripping a dangling thread off of a piece of clothing?  I wasn't sure.  On the other hand was the possibility of going to shul with this awkward, easy-to-spot thread hanging off the bottom of my skirt, and I'd like to say that I'm part of a community that either wouldn't notice something like that or, if they did, wouldn't care, but let's be real.  So...I would either do something that probably was a violation of Shabbat but might not be, or, I would be stuck with this stupid thread distracting me and making me self-conscious for all of shul.  In the end, I made my choice:  I ripped off the thread.

I felt okay about it for about three seconds, and then the guilt set in.  How could I put my own insecurity/vanity above the sanctity of Shabbat?  I say that my relationship with G-d is paramount, but then how could I act in a way that disregards His wishes?  I told myself, "This is why I'm a bad observant Jew." Around and around the mental hamster wheel I went, aware that this line of thinking was not helpful since the deed was done, but I was in it...and I felt I deserved it.

So, I sat in shul feeling guilty and ashamed, trying to daven with extra kavanah so that maybe Hashem would know I was sorry and regretted my choice.  And then came the dvar Torah, given by a rabbi in the community who happens to also be a friend and mentor of mine.  Since it was parashat Noach, he said, he wanted to talk about the nature of the covenantal relationship between Hashem and the Jewish people.  Why did G-d destroy humanity through the flood?  Because He was deeply disappointed with their shortcomings, and He wanted to start fresh.  In this way, Hashem was like an artist who was willing to destroy His creation over and over until He gets it "just right."  But ultimately, G-d realized that He had become invested in His creation, despite its imperfections, and He vowed never to destroy it again.  What we can learn from this, taught the rabbi, is that it's not perfection that matters, it's investment.  The nature of our covenantal relationship with Hashem is that we are invested enough to continue to strive for the ideal, and Hashem is invested enough to be accepting of what is real:  the mess and the imperfection.

It's not about perfection--it's about investment.

As I pondered that, my guilt and shame started to lift because I understood that I had ripped the thread in a moment of imperfection, but I was still deeply and passionately invested in my relationship to G-d and my commitment to Judaism.  Hashem wants me to strive for His ideal, but He is willing to meet me at my "real."

This seems to be a message that is also easily applied to recovery.  In recovery, the "ideal" is Zero Eating Disorder Behaviors or Thoughts, but the "real" is, every now and then a slip happens.  Personally, whenever I would make a choice that was not recovery-oriented, the aftermath would always be guilt and a litany of shaming thoughts:  You always do this.  You're weak.  You are bad at recovery. Even today, though I am secure in my recovery, my self-talk often turns negative and critical when I feel I have made a choice that doesn't reflect all the hard work I have done.  But...what if I look at recovery as a covenantal relationship with myself?  Can I say that while I remain firmly invested in striving for my ideal self, I also accept myself in reality and love myself anyway?  100% yes.

That's not to say that slips are "okay," just as it's not technically "okay" that I tore the thread off my skirt on Shabbat.  But neither Judaism nor recovery operates on the "three strikes, you're out" policy.  Instead, they are committed, intimate relationships in which investment--not perfection--is the most important thing.  May we all keep that in mind as we journey on, continuing to strike a balance as best we can between the ideal and the real.

Cheshvan Meets Scaredy Squirrel

Well.

In the past month, we've been through seven full days of Yom Tov plus four days of chol hamoed, we've eaten festive meals, we've fasted, we've davened, we've eaten in the sukkah, and we've danced with the Torah.  It's been beautiful.  It's been exhausting.

And now...it's time for Cheshvan.

I love Cheshvan.

Cheshvan is the only month in the Jewish calendar with no holidays and no special mitzvot.  It comes in sharp contrast to Tishrei, the month immediately preceding it that is packed full of chagim.  The "official" name for Cheshvan is Marcheshvan, which many people interpret to mean that it is a "bitter" month (mar is Hebrew for "bitter") because of its lack of holidays.  But there's no mar in MY Cheshvan, and to explain why, I turn to a wise and trusted source:  Scaredy Squirrel.

Scaredy Squirrel is the brilliant creation of children's book author Mélanie Watt.  He is also the mascot of my recovery.  Scaredy is a routine-bound, safety-loving squirrel who never leaves his nut tree because he is afraid of The Unknown, with all of its associated dangers.  But one day, a rogue killer bee forces Scaredy to leap out of his nut tree...at which point he learns that he is actually a flying squirrel!  He glides through the air and ends up crashing in a bush, where he plays dead for a few hours until he is satisfied that nothing terrible is actually happening in The Unknown.  This realization leads Scaredy to amend his daily routine:

From Scaredy Squirrel, I learned one of the most important lessons of my recovery:  sometimes, you just have to leap into the unknown....and then, you might need to play dead for a while, which is okay.  And that, my friends, is why I love Cheshvan.  It's time set aside to play dead.

Let's be real:  the chagim are wonderful, but ohmygod the overstimulation.  There are the MANY hours of energetic (loud) davening in shul, hours-long meals, and seemingly endless socializing.  As a supreme introvert, I really have to push myself to make it through.  Every year, I look forward to Tishrei with a mix of excitement and anxiety because I welcome the chance to jump into the holiday whirlwind but I also know how stressful it is going to be for me.  And when it's all over, I need some major alone time...in other words, I need to play dead.  

Playing dead is not escapism, and it's not regression.  It's rejuvenation.  It's how we take care of ourselves so we can get ready to jump back into the unknown.  Cheshvan is historically the month in which the Great Flood began, and also the month when it ended a year later.  The flood was intended to cleanse the world and give it a fresh start, and that's what I think Cheshvan is all about.  Play dead, refresh yourself, and then when you're ready, get back out there into the unknown.  After all, Chanukah is right around the corner!

  

(Im)patience

Does anyone else find this time of year totally overwhelming?  Don't get me wrong--I think there's a lot of beauty in the chaggim.  But (and I'm not sure if this will make sense)...to me, the sheer magnitude of what these days represent actually precludes me from being completely present to experience them.  The idea that these ten days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are the days in which Hashem will decide, based on our merit, whether we will live or die in the coming year is simply too vast and profound for me to digest.  So, I don't go it alone--I try to dedicate time each day to read the works of other people who are, to put it plainly, more spiritually erudite than I.  And one of my favorite books for this time of year is Erica Brown's Return:  Daily Inspiration for the Days of Awe.

In chapter 1 of her book, Brown explores the significance of the Torah reading for the first day of Rosh Hashanah:  the story of Hagar.  At first glance, it seems odd that this would be the story chosen for one of the holiest days of the year.  But actually, it comes to teach us an important lesson about faith, especially when juxtaposed against the Torah reading for Day 2:  the Akeida.

Abraham and Hagar both receive the same blessing from Hashem:  that they will give birth to nations.  Hagar's promise of multitudes will be realized through her son, Ishmael; Abraham's will come through his second son, Isaac.  But when Hagar comes up against a significant obstacle--she and Ishmael run out of water while lost in the desert--she gives up too quickly.  She places Ishmael under a bush so she doesn't have to watch him die, and then she bursts into tears.  Despite what Hashem had promised her, Hagar can't manage to find a way out of her situation or wait until one becomes apparent. Only when an angel comes and opens Hagar's eyes does she notice the well of water right near where she sits.

On the other hand is Abraham.  G-d promised Abraham a nation through Isaac, but then commands Abraham to slaughter Isaac as an offering on an altar.  The stark contradiction must have been confusing for Abraham, but he didn't waver in his faith.  He made all the preparations for the sacrifice but at the same time believed that, "G-d will provide the lamb for the burnt offering."  Indeed, as Abraham raised his knife to kill his son, an angel stopped him and at that moment Abraham saw a ram caught in a thicket.  Abraham's situation paralleled that of Hagar:  both were given promises but came up against serious obstacles.  The difference is that Hagar lost her faith and didn't have the patience to see her situation through, while Abraham patiently hunted for a solution with his faith intact.

Regarding the differences in the faith of Hagar and Abraham, Erica Brown writes:

"Faith demands patience in the face of a future that we cannot see and the determination to make good things happen.  If we could know the future with certainty, we would not need faith. But because we cannot know, we have to trust in powers greater than ours to guide us.  Our faith is not the passive faith of Hagar's tears but the active joy of Abraham's laugh. We admire his propulsion forward, his drive to create an ambitious, dream-worthy vision even if all of the particulars comprising that future were beyond his immediate understanding.  Faith demands that we engage in a delicate balance of both relinquishing control to an authority above us and acting within our full human capacity to realize our dreams."

In other words, what is needed is a balance of patience and impatience.  Patience to trust that a path toward our dreams will become apparent; impatience to force ourselves to shape our own futures.

During my first few years in recovery, I fully believed that I would be completely recovered "one day," but did not take the steps necessary to make it actually happen.  It is no surprise, then, that many years went by in which I made only the teensiest bit of incremental progress toward this goal.  I was content to drift along and keep wishing, but I wasn't impatient enough to push myself.  And then, of course, I felt incredibly guilty and ashamed of "wasting" all those years.  I developed a concept of myself as someone who says she has goals, but doesn't actually do anything to reach them.  It wasn't until relatively recently that I understood that although patience is supremely important in recovery, impatience also has its place.  If I want something in my life, I have to both actively seek it out and have faith that I will be shown the way to reach my goals.

I think this lesson from Abraham and Hagar is a critical one to carry into the new year.  It is so easy to let a whole year go by without doing much to move toward our goals, and then we end up back at Rosh Hashanah wondering how it is that we are in exactly the same place as we were last year.  In the coming year, may we have Abraham's faith that we can realize our dreams for our best life, and may we have the balance of patience and impatience needed to make those dreams become reality.

!גמר חתימה טובה

Write a New Ending

DISCLOSURE:  I, the quintessential rule-follower, am about to stray from my pattern of bringing traditional Jewish sources.  This week, I want to highlight a new blog I've discovered:  Momastery (note:  you do not need to be a mom to appreciate this site).  Momastery's blogger is a woman named Glennon Doyle Melton.  She is a recovering bulimic, alcoholic, and drug user, and believe me, she has what to teach us about living with authenticity and showing up despite our imperfections.  And, it just so happens that her message is pretty much perfect (I think) for Elul.  So, hang in there with me, and it will all come together!

My introduction to Momastery was the post, "Rising Strong:  This is My New Ending."  One of the main purposes of this post was to promote Brené Brown's latest book, which I definitely plan to read, but that's not the point.  What is the point is the way Glennon tackles the theme of how we experience "failure"--and how, as adults, we get the chance to rewrite our own stories.  In case you don't want to read the whole post, here is my favorite excerpt:

As I read this, I kept thinking, Yes! Yesyesyesyes.  Not to the cheerleading bit specifically (that actually would have been my worst nightmare), but to the broader theme of receiving the message from the world that we are not worthy, how we carry that message with us into adulthood, and how maybe--no, definitely--it is time to write a new ending to our defining moments of "failure."

From age 6 until college, I never had a best friend.  I had good friends, but no best friend, and what kid doesn't want a best friend?  So, I tried really hard--I did whatever I thought might win someone's allegiance--but at the end of the day, I was always passed over in favor of someone else.  The lesson I extracted from this whole experience was:  There is something wrong with me.  I stopped expecting I would ever have a best friend, and settled on what I considered the next best thing:  having people need me.  If people need you, I reasoned, they keep you around.  And what I knew, in that adolescent brain of mine, was that it was better to be used than ignored.  I remember very clearly how, when I was in my high school biology class, all the "Cool Girls" would suddenly become "friends" with me before every exam.  I knew exactly what they were doing--using me for study help--but I let it happen; in fact, I looked forward to it because in those moments of usefulness I had a taste of what it felt like to be "in."

As an adult, I can look back on that and shake my head and say, That was so ridiculous to let myself be used by girls I didn't even LIKE, but the truth is that even as an adult, I am still vulnerable to this dynamic.  I want people to like me.  But the Core Belief that I've carried around since those childhood rejections is:  People will only like me if I please them and do things for them.  This belief led me straight into anorexia ("Oh, let me just be small and unobjectionable!") and is something that I've had to work very hard to reframe in recovery.

But Glennon gives me an idea.  Why not rewrite the ending to that story?  If I could go back in time and talk to high-school me, here is what I would tell her:

I know it has been hard for you.  I know that.  But you have to hang in there.  One day, you WILL have a best friend.  And in the meantime, know that you are 100% worthy of love and belonging regardless of what you can "do" for other people.  Respect yourself--don't sell yourself just to win someone's approval.  You don't need it.  Not everyone is going to like you, and you're not going to like everyone, and that's okay.  But you don't need to change who you are, or let people use you, just to win friends.  You are awesome,  just as you are.  

The truth is, that's a message I could still use.  And so I am going to carry it with me into the end of Elul as I prepare for the new year--the knowledge that I can rewrite that story and live out a different ending in the present.  From now on, I am going to remind myself of how much I've grown since I was that teenager.  Recovery Headline:  I do not have to buy my worthiness.  I get to be myself--authentically imperfect--and know that I am worthy of connection without changing myself or selling myself out to suit someone else's whims.

I think we all probably have stories like that, stories that we wish we could rewrite...and the thing I learned from Glennon is that in recovery, we CAN.  And there is no better time to do it than right now, at the turning point into a new year.  So:  for what story do you want to write a new ending?  Recognize old narratives that aren't working for you anymore, toss them to the curb, and write a new ending!  You deserve nothing less.

שנה טובה ומתוקה!