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.

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:

• 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. 

  

The Besht Knows Best

Sometimes when I want to blog, it is hard for me to think of what to write...nothing feels quite right.  But then there are other times when something hits me and begs to be written.  That's how I felt when I recently came across a particular quote attributed to the Baal Shem Tov (the "BeSHT").  I wanted to write about it right away, but first I wanted to find the original source...and that's where I ran into trouble.  Nowhere could I track down the name of the work in which the Besht wrote/said this, so I dispatched my "research team," (aka, friends who know a lot more than I do) but to no avail.  However, my research team DID feel pretty confident that it was at least a paraphrase of what the Besht actually said, so I am just going to go with that.  And if anyone out there does know the original source, please end the mystery and tell me!  But for now, we'll just call it a slightly modernized paraphrase of the Besht, and I think we can agree that it's still pretty awesome.

"There are times when G-d hides His face.  But then there are times when G-d hides His face and we don't even realize that His face is hidden; we dwell in darkness, and think it is light.  This is a double galut [exile], a concealment within a concealment."

When I read this quote, I was immediately transported back to my sophomore year in college (which was, I think it's safe to say, pretty much a disaster, thanks to my eating disorder).  I remembered a particular phone call with my parents, in which I stood in the hallway of my dorm, looking out the window, while my parents told me that if I didn't gain weight I would have to leave college and come home.  I could not believe the audacity of that suggestion, partly because leaving college might have been an option for other people, but definitely not for me...but mostly because I firmly believed that my eating disorder was what made my life bearable, and how could no one else see that?!  Incidentally, at that time I wouldn't even admit that I had an eating disorder.  So I exercised a lot--so what?  It gave me endorphins.  So I kept losing weight--so what?  It was cool to watch the number on the scale go down.  Those things kept me going.  Why did everyone else think it was such a big problem?

My perception of reality was so warped that I had exactly zero appreciation of how much trouble I was actually in.  I lived enveloped in the darkness of an eating disorder, and thought it was light.  I have never, before or since, been so completely wrong about anything.

Unfortunately, I think this is a pretty common phenomenon among people actively engaging in eating disorder behaviors--the belief that the behaviors are making life better, when they are actually doing the opposite.  Just recently I was talking with a high schooler who is working on recovery, and she admitted that she felt if she could just be skinnier or prettier, she would have more friends.  Now, this is a truly amazing girl with whom I would totally want to be friends if I was back in high school, and she is making herself sick and miserable because in her mind, using behaviors will lead to more friends.  There it is again--darkness masquerading as light.

Part of the "G-d paradox" is that He gives us opportunities to feel His presence, but because of His greatness we can never truly know Him.  If one believes that we are all, in a sense, in a state of exile from a G-d with whom we can never fully connect, then an eating disorder is absolutely a "double exile"--we become estranged not only from G-d, but also from ourselves.  And because we believe that the eating disorder will bring us out of darkness, we don't realize that it actually is the darkness, that it is making it harder for us to connect with ourselves, with others, and with G-d.

Sometimes, a reality check is needed.  The euphoria that comes with starving and over-exercising is not the same thing as happiness.  The numbness that follows purging is not the same thing as contentment.  The clinical relationships we have with our treatment providers are not actual friendships.  The eating disorder might be a shiny distraction from our problems, but it is not actually solving anything--and it is absolutely, positively, not light.  Don't be fooled.

I will be the first one to say that life in recovery is not, as the saying goes, all sunshine and roses.  But it is so, so beautiful.  I truly believe that, and I am not exactly someone who oozes positivity.  I'm a realist.  And I really know that all the "light" promised by the eating disorder is actually just exile in disguise.  The light comes in recovery, and it is better than any of the fake "highs" I felt when I was using behaviors.  You deserve to live in the light, too.  Once you really experience it, you'll never be fooled again!

The Great (Chanukah) Debate

Note to self:  Erev Chanukah is not the best time to go to the Kosher market, unless you want to be packed amongst the entire Jewish population of the neighborhood, all of whom are waiting in line to buy sufganiyot.  Live and learn.  But, hey, it's Erev Chanukah!  The kids are excited, the adults are in good spirits, and everyone is ready to cast some light into the darkness.  What's not to love about that?

Recently, I was doing a little pre-Chanukah reading, and I came across the old machloket (disagreement) between Hillel and Shammai regarding how to light the menorah.  According to the House of Shammai, one should light all eight candles on the first night and decrease by one each night thereafter.  The House of Hillel, on the other hand, rules that one should light just one candle on the first night, and increase by one each night that follows (halacha follows Hillel's ruling).  There are a couple of explanations for their positions:  one suggests that Shammai lights for the days still to come, while Hillel lights for the days that are gone.  Another explanation is that Shammai lights in accordance with the bulls offered on the altar for Sukkot, while Hillel asserts that we ascend--not descend--in matters of holiness.  It's an interesting debate, and as I was learning about it I came across an article by Menachem Feldman of the Chabad in Greenwich, CT, in which he draws a parallel between the different philosophies around lighting the menorah, and different ways to enact change in one's life.

By starting out with a full menorah, Shammai is saying that one has to combat the darkness with all of one's strength, right out of the gate.  If we go at it a bit at a time, our efforts will fail to take hold--positive change requires our complete commitment and 100% effort right from the beginning.  The good news is that every day thereafter becomes a little bit easier; since we've weakened the darkness so dramatically on the first night, on each night that follows we need a little less energy to fight it.

Hillel, on the other hand, is saying that this isn't a realistic strategy.  Now that there's no more Temple and we're in exile, it's hard to muster up the energy and bravery needed to just plunge right in with everything we've got.  We need a new approach, and that approach is:  little by little.  By building on positive change one step at a time, our efforts accumulate until we are at our full strength.  To start, all we need is one candle.  But by the end, all of our light will be burning.  

Recovering from an eating disorder requires a lot of positive change, both behaviorally and mentally. The truth is that there is room for the approaches of both Shammai and Hillel--sometimes it works to commit 100% right from the start; other times it makes more sense to gradually build up to change.  Personally, I found that being in intensive treatment was very "Shammai-esque":  a lot of change all at once, because ripping off the proverbial bandaid is sometimes easier than peeling it off a tiny bit at a time.  But when I was at the liberty to go at my own pace, I was always someone who enacted changes very, very slowly.  Like, I didn't just stop measuring all my food cold-turkey--I stopped measuring one food at a time.  As you can imagine, it took months to phase out measuring, but I did it.  And, in the end, I suppose it doesn't matter how I got there, just that I arrived.

When we're going through recovery, we need to be aware of whether we lean more toward Shammai's or Hillel's style of change and respect our own preferences, but we also need to acknowledge that there is a time and a place for both.  Sometimes, we just need to dive in and take that leap of faith.  Other times, we might choose to do it more gradually.  What I think is so cool about the Hillel-Shammai debate is that even though we have ruled in favor of Hillel, Jewish tradition has preserved Shammai's argument because it is still valuable, even if we don't follow it. There is much to learn from both approaches, so we need to keep them both in our consciousness.  So, as you gather the strength to combat your personal darkness, I wish you the wisdom to know which approach will work for you, and to go with it--knowing that either way, in the end, the darkness will surely give way to light.  

!חנוכה שמח 

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!