love & potato chips

I'm certain that the fact that my once loose-fitting "I'm feeling so skinny" pants are now the snug "I'm glad I can still zip them up" pants couldn't have a thing to do with the fact that I've been padding the bottom line of the Kettle Brand Chips company lately. It couldn't possibly, could it? I mean, I know I'm pregnant and all, but ...

Could it?!
Yeah, that's what I thought.

I was really hoping that I would be one of those women who, when pregnant, sailed and soared through pregnancy without nausea or vomiting or lagging energy. So far, I've dealt with all three. Foods and meals I previously enjoyed now turn my stomach (split pea soup, vegetable soup, hot rice cereal, etc.) and foods that I've never enjoyed a close relationship with (eggs being at the top of this list, and orange juice being another) are now amongst the short list of things I can stomach without difficulty and actually crave.

So far, the best thing to eat -- the thing I've enjoyed the most and have not gagged on once -- are salt & vinegar potato chips (Kettle brand only, Little Bean is quite picky). James and I discovered a little grocery outlet near our home that sells the smaller bags for $1 when normally, they retail for $3-4. It's nice getting the food you crave on the cheap, and this is a very, very good thing for James whose task it is to take care of a very tired, very nauseated, and very hormonal woman.

And yesterday, I was nearing the bottom of the last bag we had in our apartment. Quelle tragédie!!

Too nauseated to go out myself, I asked this wonderful man if he wouldn't mind picking up another bag or two -- you know, since I've got this child growing inside me and all and this is one of the rare foods that doesn't make me gag to look at, smell, ingest, or have within a half-mile proximity of my person.

The man came home with 2 cases of these potato chips from the grocery outlet. That translates to 2 big boxes, 30 bags, and approximately 22,500 calories of tangy, salty goodness taking up residence in our laundry/pantry area. Now that is love.

I sure hope I have a hungry baby ... or that s/he doesn't suddenly develop a preference for the jalapeno flavor!!

body talk: part 7

read previous body talk posts:
part 1
part 2
part 3
part 4
part 5
part 6



I think a lot about that day at the gym a couple of years ago. I think about how easy it is to get so fixated in thinking that achieving the lithe and too-lean body shape that typifies the current paradigm of beauty is worth even the most extreme cost. I talked to these women briefly but frankly about the pain I had been through, about lengthy and pointless doctor's visits, about too many prescriptions, about pain and emergency room visits and not being listened to, and about being unable to engage in my own life because of all these things. I told them about my low iron, low calcium, low adrenal gland function, low red blood cell count, and watched their lips part in mild shock. This is not the answer they were expecting.

But even after all this, I still "looked fantastic", apparently.

I went and lay down in the sauna after that and cried, for them as much as for me. After subjecting my own flesh to the starvation and torture that I did, I could not judge them. I knew what it was to examine myself closely from the side in any flat object that offered even the dullest reflection. I knew what it was to obsess over calories and garment labels and to be on the eternal quest for the next five pounds. I knew what it was never to be satisfied with what I saw, to be convinced that my personal happiness and fulfillment would be found when I couldn't find an ounce of fat on my body to pinch.

There was a time at which I would have given anything, subjected myself to any regimen to achieve the ability to fit into a size 2 pair of pants like I could on that day. Anything. There was a point at which nothing was off limits. But as I looked again in the mirror and saw empty eyes staring back at me, it was hard to imagine how I ever thought that a number on a label was worth the anything I was, at one time, so ready and willing to offer. I gladly would have taken ten or fifteen pounds from anyone if it meant I could look in the mirror and really see myself again. This time it had been an illness that had consumed me, something not wholly within my control. Before that, it had been a desire for performance, for control, for perfection according to the standards of the world around me. I wanted to hear from the voices around me: you look fantastic.

And so I knew for sure now: it did not matter to me what the world reflected back to me about my body, even if it was to shower me with accolades. I was learning to attune an ear to the voice with which my own body spoke. I learned quickly because the voice had been raised to shouting: This is not right. That is out of balance. You need more of this. You need to eliminate that. You need to stretch. You need to rest. You need help. You need to be gentle with me.

As I've shared bits of this journey with people around me throughout my life, many have asked how to help someone who is starving themselves or throwing up their meals or obsessed with achieving a size that is entirely unnatural for them. And the truth is, I don't really know. I doubt there is any one approach that would work, since any number of circumstances and wounds can bring a person to alter her lifestyle habits because depriving herself to extremes seems to be the only solution.

For me, I was ripe for the damage to which I subjected myself long before I was handed a calorie content printout in my high school biology class. Thanks in part to the splashy media images, the taunts of some junior high and high school boys, my controlling and perfectionist tendencies, and living in an environment in which I received the message that it was my performance and my achievement that gave me value, I don't know how much of a chance I stood. I had been wounded and damaged by so many things around me; I had internalized the message that I was not good enough as I was, that I was not thin enough to be considered attractive, that my value as a human being was impacted directly by my ability to measure up to the predetermined standards of performance and beauty. If I hadn't started starving myself, what else might I have done? If not an eating disorder, in all likelihood I would have found other self-destructive habits to which to subject myself.

Whatever the answer is in helping her, it is not necessarily in getting her to eat more. It is not in pointing out how you recognize how little she eats, how much she exercises, or how you've noticed she has mastered the art of moving food around on her plate to make it look like she has eaten more than she actually has. I am not sure that it is even in telling her that she is beautiful just the way she is. I am no expert in this area, but as I consider what that starving girl who was me needed, the only way I can phrase it, the only thing in the way of advice I can offer is this: love her into the truth of herself. She is bombarded with lying voices. Love her to drown out all the voices around her. She thinks she is not good enough or pretty enough unless she strives, achieves, and bends herself to the standard she sees. Love her to show her performance or size is not what speaks to or determines her worth. She sees a fat girl in the mirror when she sees herself and she hates it. Love her so as to be her mirror. Love her into the truth of herself so that she is shielded from the lies that come at her. Love her so she will love herself.

I am continuing on this journey and in so many ways, am still healing from it. I'm still in the process of discovering and internalizing the truth of who I am and what it means to love myself in a right and healthy way, to love the body I have instead of longing for one that I don't. In the course of assessing my body's changing needs, I recently returned after more than a year's absence to the practice of Bikram yoga. As I lay on the floor in savasana (corpse or resting pose) yesterday, the instructor encouraged us in our practice and in our rest. How many people are sitting at home on the couch right now, smoking a cigarette, drinking a Coke, and neglecting and even abusing themselves? You're doing so much good for your body right now. So many people hate their bodies. But you're here, you're working to your absolute best for you, and now you're engaged in total rest. It's like you're telling your body, thank you. I haven't always been good to you. But you're doing so much good for yourself right now, working to your absolute limit and then engaging in one hundred percent relaxation. It's as if you're saying, thank you, Body. You've done so much for me. Thank you for carrying me through my life.

Sweat dripping out of every pore in my body and on to the towel underneath me, it might not have been noticeable to anyone else. But I was crying. In a few seconds, the instructor had encapsulated for me what I have wanted not just to say to myself, but to say to myself and know with every fiber of my being that it was true: Thank you, Body. I haven't always been good to you. You've done so much for me. Thank you for carrying me through my life.


Postscript
Part of the reason I wanted to write this series is that I've been re-examining my relationship to my body as I prepare for marriage and for sharing it with another. In one conversation, I described recent frustrations with my health and how desperately I longed to get an advance on my resurrection body, how much for I longed for a new one that worked as it was meant to work. I felt a lump rise in my throat when he said to me, "I'll help you love the one you have."

And that's what this is about for me: learning to love the body I have -- listening, accepting, adapting, and letting go of my ideas of what "should" be. Breathing into it, engaging with it, challenging it, being gracious and kind toward it. This is all a part of loving myself in a right and healthy way, in a way no one else can do for me.

Thank you for joining me for the journey. Namaste.

body talk: part 6

read previous body talk posts:
part 1
part 2
part 3
part 4
part 5


Simply put, I was spent. After spending twelve weeks in a neck brace, of spending my senior year of high school not participating, but observing, of not engaging in life, but surviving it, I felt completely broken and lost.

The rug I once stood on so securely had been pulled out from under me. I mourned the loss of my enviable first-chair viola position in the orchestra. I remember sitting in my typing class, eyes glazing over in front of the computer screen, behavior that was atypical for me. I was escaping; I was doing my best to escape the persistent and profound physical pain in my body. The numbness that resulted from overloaded nerve pathways extended from my face and limbs and eventually captured my heart, too.

My post-school hours were no better. Every day, I went to the chiropractor for an adjustment, and every day he made me wince. Two days a week, I saw a massage therapist in his office. Those sessions were helpful, but not at all pleasant given the throbbing pain that pulsated through my body. Three days a week were spent in physical therapy using big blue exercise balls and traction devices that would stretch my neck for me. My favorite part was when the PT put ultrasound goo on my neck and lightly run a smooth heated wand over it. I had only periodic visits with the neurologist, who was paid thousands of dollars to tell me things I had already heard.

When after this protracted period of time I realized that I was not healing quickly, that the pattern of my days had changed and would remain changed for some time, I felt like I was losing my identity. I could no longer perform and produce at the levels I once did. I could only exist, warming chairs and consuming oxygen. The things according to which I found my worth -- things I had wrapped myself around -- were gone. I felt stripped and confused, disoriented by my circumstances. Sensing how worn down I was and how in need I was of someone to talk to, my chiropractor referred me to a friend of his who practiced psychotherapy.

We discussed a lot of things. I told her that I didn't know who I was anymore and that those who were once my friends no longer cared to be. I told her that my conversations with God circled like a hamster on a wheel, with me the hamster. I ran and struggled and strived and tried, but didn't get anywhere. I lamented my new routine, and I mourned the loss of those things that provided enjoyment: being able to move freely, being able to play music, preparing for a solo piano recital. I told her how worthless this made me feel. She asked why.

I'm not doing anything, I said with disdain, landing heavily on the words "doing" and "anything."

Why do you need to be doing something? she asked.

I sat in uncomfortable silence for a few seconds, not understanding the question. What did she mean, why do I need to be doing something? We all need to be doing something. I remember wondering, what if nobody did anything, what if we just all sat around and consumed oxygen and stared at each other? Is that really what she's getting at? How will anything that needs to get done, get done?

After a few minutes of silence, I told her, I don't know what to say. I don't understand.

Why do you need to say anything? she asked.

First, she's asking me a question that may or may not imply I don't need to do anything and now here I sit on this couch across from her, my therapist, who is telling me I don't need to talk? What in the world is going on here?

The confusion must have been evident on my face. Kirsten, she said. Do you believe that just sitting here on this couch, not playing an instrument and not talking to me, that your worth hasn't changed one bit? Do you think perhaps that just sitting here, "taking up oxygen" as you've said, that you are every bit as valuable as when you are producing and performing at your peak?

I was utterly stunned.

I was in tears, weeping for the rest of the session.

I began to realize that I had defined myself according to what I did, to how well I performed, to how much I produced. Rest meant a loss of worth. Mistakes meant to me that I lost my value to others, and if I lost my value to others, what good was I as a person, what good could I possibly do in the world? I could not control the expectations of those around me, and my response was to bend myself to meet them, as ridiculous as those expectations might have been or however skewed my perception of them had been. I learned quickly in the world that pretty = thin and so I bent myself to that expectation. I realized how out-of-control I had felt and how my body felt the self-imposed wrath I had against God and the universe and the people around me.

No longer able to define myself according to how I could perform or what I could produce, I had taken on by necessity a lifestyle of rest and self-care. I resented it utterly. I felt weak and worthless. I defined myself according to the loss of my ability to execute on any of these things.

And now I was forced to acknowledge: I had built my worth around a vacuum.

The paradigm around which I had centered my life was crumbling. The rug beneath me was gone and the world around me was spinning.

body talk: part 5

read previous body talk posts:
part 1

part 2

part 3
part 4

I woke up on the morning of Saturday, February 23, 1996 with a tight and stiff neck. While sleeping on the floor of a college dorm room certainly could not have helped this state, the memory of the day before came flooding back. Crunching metal. Speeding across wet pavement. Police cars. Phone calls to worried parents. Shock.

On our way to Seattle Pacific University for a preview weekend designed for high school seniors, P and K and I were deterred by the unexpected. Just a mile away from our exit, the car in front of us stopped abruptly. P was driving a large yellow Plymouth from the 1970s. When he slammed on the brakes they locked and we slid, fifty miles per hour, into the car in front of us. The long front end of the car folded like an accordion and steam rose from underneath the crumpled hood.

Oh crap, was all P said.

No kidding.

And so there I lay on the floor of the dormitory the next morning, barely able to move my neck, feeling a tight soreness in my shoulders that I had never before experienced. Any movement to the left or to the right produced sharp and piercing pain. I touched it lightly with the intent of attempting to coax relaxation into my soft tissue. But I winced at the lightest touch.

I was accompanying K in her cello audition later that morning. I was glad my accompaniment was on the piano and not on the viola; I couldn’t stomach the thought of lifting my stringed instrument to my chin, flexing the stiff but tender muscles of my neck to hold it against my shoulder.

My dad came and picked me up later that day; my mom had already arranged for me to see her chiropractor so we could begin the initial assessment of what kind of injury I might be dealing with. Dr. H touched me lightly, palpitating my spine and massaging my muscles. He gave me a soft neck brace that I affixed with Velcro at the back of my neck. It would be twelve weeks before I would take it off.

The relationship I bore toward my body changed entirely. My focus changed from keeping a thin body to managing its pain. There were many times where I would lose all feeling in my face and my arms. I learned that my nerve pathways where so overwhelmed with pain that they would shut themselves down.

I soon learned the full weight of what multiple physicians told me: I would have been better off breaking my neck. Soft tissue injuries were slow to heal. I had third-degree whiplash and it would be months before my life would assume even the appearance of normalcy. My piano lessons had stopped and plans for a senior recital were all but canceled. I had to give up my first chair position in the orchestra and instead sat and listened to music instead of participating in it. Every afternoon after school was spent at the chiropractor, the massage therapist, and the physical therapist. After a few months, I was referred to a neurologist. Eventually, the stress and the strain caused me to seek out a psychotherapist. That made for five health care providers I saw on a regular basis.

At first, I maintained a sense of humor about my circumstances. I made a show of wearing the neck brace and deliberately dressed myself in such a way so as to coordinate with it. I joked about making note cards with an explanation of the accident and my ensuing treatment so I wouldn’t have to tell the story again and again. But after weeks of worsening pain, I was not able to maintain the humor. In my spirit, I was so broken. When I prayed, it seems every word hit the ceiling and came crashing down to the floor with a leaden thud.

I followed the rules. I gave myself over to every prescribed treatment. I trusted my doctors. And nothing was getting better. In fact, it felt like it was getting worse. I was trapped. I was a victim and my body was holding me hostage. For the first time, I admitted to myself that I hated it. I hated my body.

What I didn’t know at the time is that this accident was precisely what was saving me.

body talk: part 4

read previous body talk posts:

part 1

part 2

part 3

summer 1995
(i'm at the far right)

I came to the end of my junior year of high school in June of 1995 and went straight from school into working as a counselor-in-training (CIT) at the summer camp I grew up attending. An unpaid position, being a CIT was all about service: setting tables, prepping food, washing dishes, cleaning bathrooms, cutting the occasional trail, and generally whatever manner of grunt work the leaders determined needed to be done. As a camper, I had always looked up to the summer staff and was really looking forward to the opportunity to see the working side of a place that was already so deeply entrenched in my personal history.

By this point in time, I had already earned a reputation amongst my friends for the strict dietary rules I had imposed upon myself. I limited my consumption to a total of 1,200 calories and would permit myself just 20 grams of fat on a daily basis. I never veered from this regimen. A typical school day lunch included an apple and a slice of bread with jam on it, sometimes occasionally splurging with a thin layer of peanut butter. I was expert at taking small portions at dinner, filling up on water just beforehand to ensure I felt full before I had consumed too much. These and other habits of exercise kept me at what I had determined to be an acceptable shape and size. I was staunchly vigilant about maintaining it. The nutritional and caloric content of every food that passed my lips was tattooed in my memory. Keeping a daily running tally was easy. My mind was constantly digesting these numbers.

This reputation is what earned me my camp name. What could be more antithetical to my regimen than pure fat? And so I was named for Saffola margarine.

One thing I hadn’t considered going into my CIT summer was camp food. This was going to pose a major problem for me. I hadn’t considered how the kitchen served loaves of bread at dinner with melted butter over the top. I hadn’t memorized the caloric content of tater tots and there was no way I was putting something as fattening as ranch dressing on my salad. That I didn’t know these things was a constant source of tension for me. It seemed that everything that came through the camp kitchen was swimming in oil or butter or cheese. As my rules strictly forbade these things, this was the source of some unparalleled anxiety for me.

So I ate salads without dressing. I ate raw fruits when they were available. If there were any protein sources or vegetables not swimming in butter or oil (rare from a kitchen accustomed to people eating these things only if butter or oil was an accompaniment), I’d have those. I’d have cereal with nonfat milk. And that was about it. I couldn’t eat anything else they provided. My frame had already thinned out given my year of continuously cutting back on calories. Given a caloric intake that was further diminished and spending the bulk of my days in strenuous physical activity, what pounds remained melted away quickly from my body. A pair of jeans that had fit well going into the summer soon slid up and down over my hips and thighs easily, even when fully zipped and buttoned.

While I did not object to my thinner shape, I also experienced the truth that I couldn’t sustain the physical activity the CIT position required of me without additional nutritional support and energy. So on my weekends off, I bought yogurt and bagels. I bought dried fruits in bulk. I bought things that didn’t give me anxiety and that I could eat safely. But damage had already been done. I wasn’t eliminating normally anymore. My periods had stopped completely. People started looking at me like I had escaped famine somewhere, especially when I donned a bathing suit. And they started to tell me: you are too thin. I thought they were lying, being nice. I would examine myself in the mirror from the side to see if they were telling the truth and decided that they weren’t. Five more pounds, I thought. Just five more pounds.

The summer was about one-third gone when one of the members of the leadership team came looking for me. Hey Saffola, he said. Bubba (the camp director) wants to see you. Though I knew that Bubba knew who I was, it wasn’t altogether common for a CIT to be called to the camp director’s office. All the same, I didn’t think much of it and went to see him.

I stood in the little trailer with my hands clasped in front of me and when he asked how things were going, told him I was having a good summer.

Are you okay, Saffola? he asked.

Yes, I’m fine, I said, smiling.

(Why wouldn’t I be?)

You’ve lost a lot of weight, he said.

Yeah, I agreed and I explained about the increased physical activity and the sensitive stomach that wouldn’t allow me to digest the customarily rich foods that our kitchen produced. I was used to answering these questions with ease.

Really? he asked. Is that true?

He looked at me intently, his full attention toward me. I looked at my feet. Escaping this inquiry wasn’t going to be as easy as others had been.

Yeah, I’m just trying to be healthy. Still looking at my feet.

I’m just really concerned about you. A lot of people are, you know. You’re just too thin.

There it was again.

I told him about how I had started bringing my own food, about how I knew I needed to eat more. This seemed to placate him.

Okay, Saffola. Just please take care of yourself.

His gaze was intense. Disarming, even.

Okay. I replied. I will.

And I’ll see if I can talk to Pat in the kitchen about setting aside some food that you can eat.

I thanked him and walked away, determined to maintain and hide my supposed thinness from prying eyes. I was resolved again to be invisible, every bit as much as I did in the days I carried the soft, round body that I hated. It would be just seven months later that I would receive a physical shock unlike any other, one that would call me out of hiding and force me to face myself in a way I never had before. I would have to face the disappearing girl in the mirror.


To be continued ...

body talk: part 3

Read Part 1
Read Part 2

IMPORTANT NOTE: I cannot stress enough how this is not intended to be a “how to” for someone seeking to lose weight. I now recognize the patterns described below as self-destructive and all too common for women who use extreme and unhealthy means in an attempt to achieve the cultural standard of beauty. I share these details because I think it’s important to recognize how slowly and seemingly innocently these patterns can develop, how they can snowball, and how all-consuming they can become. In order for my recovery to mean what it means, this ugly piece is vital to the totality of the story.


Those sheets of paper were magic. They were what I had never known I had always wanted.

I studied the nutritional content of bread and pasta, of cheese and fruits, of meats and sweets, of cookies and peanut butter and parmesan cheese. I studied it all. I filed these facts in my brain, cataloging them to recall them later. For those foods I didn’t know, I referred to a book on a shelf above the cookbooks in my mom’s kitchen. It had been my grandmother’s before she died and was a proverbial catalog of every food, the detailed breakdown of its nutritional content spelled out in the most finite detail. I was in heaven.

As per the project requirements, I wrote down everything I ate on a piece of paper and estimated how much I was eating. At home, I pulled out my mom’s food scale so that I could get an idea of what four ounces of turkey looked like. I visually cataloged what a teaspoon of peanut butter looked like. I measured out mayonnaise before slathering it on my turkey sandwich and was elated to learn that mustard was virtually calorie-free. I deliberately took smaller portions so I wouldn’t have to write down a large number of calories. I didn’t want my tally at the end of the week to say that I was going to gain weight. In my mind, I was already pudgy and round and soft enough and I was worried about what Mr. F would think if my tally said I would maintain my weight, or even worse, if I would gain some. I was academic about my calculations and my consumption. I was vigilant. I was a voracious for that information.

I remember tallying up my daily calorie totals for the project. My number was higher earlier in the project and by the end of the week, my daily totals were in the 1200-1300 calorie range. In my final assessment, I said that if my eating trends continued, I would lose weight. I was proud. I felt as though I deserved a medal or an achievement badge. A gold star, perhaps? I remember when he handed back our graded assignments. I saw his comment, written in his characteristic block letters, below my final assessment of the project: You don’t need to lose any weight, Kirsten. He followed it by a smiley face.

But he had no idea. My tall, lithe, athletically-built biology teacher was sweet, but in my mind, just didn’t and couldn’t understand. He couldn’t know what it was to be a teenage girl whose soft, round body had been an object of torment. He couldn’t know how out of control I had felt my whole life with my allergies and my sinus infections and getting the flu every year and a set of DNA that had predetermined such a soft and solid body as mine. He couldn’t know how much worse puberty had made these things and how desperate I was for some semblance of control. He couldn’t know how much I wanted to silence my accusers, to prove something to those who had ever made an offensive comment about my weight and my shape. In my mind, he was simply being kind. It was his job to say things like that.

Long after the project for class was over, my personal quest continued and picked up speed. It became my primary mission. The control I felt was intoxicating and liberating. I saw my body as a project, a challenge, a wild thing that had once held me captive, but now that I was equipped, that I could tame. I would look at an apple as large as my fist and recall perfectly calories, carbohydrates, fiber. A bowl of hot cereal (how much did one cup look like in my bowl?) with skim milk. I made a mental note of my sandwich: 2 slices of bread, mayonnaise (how much? I didn’t measure), cheese. I mentally made notes of which foods had the highest caloric content and made plans to reduce and finally eliminate them. I kept track of everything I swallowed, keeping a mental daily tally of calories and fat grams.

Around this same time, my mom also started exercising more, going for walks around the neighborhood. I joined her. I also sought out other forms of exercise. I would dance or jog in place in my room, getting as sweaty as I could, challenging myself to go for increasingly long intervals. I would grab the jump rope and if the weather was bad, head out to the garage. I’d plug in the old black radio and turn on the local rock station while the green rope rhythmically slapped the floor, as I jumped and skipped and kicked my legs out, imagining myself defeating every last fat cell in my body.

Clothes became looser and others began to comment on my increasingly lean shape. People began to look at me as though I was attractive. I walked down the halls more confidently, looking up instead of at my feet and the dirty white tiles below them. I smiled more. Shopping became less of a drudgery and more of a pleasure when I took smaller sizes with me to the dressing room. I would turn to the side in the mirror and take pleasure in my shrinking belly. If feeling as in control as I did was intoxicating, then the feeling of being in control and attractive and complimented was intoxicating and powerful. The feeling was like a drug and I was addicted to the euphoria it produced.

But I wasn’t done. Hmmm. They think I look good now? I thought. I will show them that I can do even better.

The growl in my stomach was already a mark of victory in my mind, a herald announcing that I was succeeding.


To be continued …

body talk: part 2

Read Part 1

easter best photo

(i'm the one in pepto pink and polka dots)
taken by dad

I was never a skinny girl. Especially as a child, I was blissfully unselfconscious about the soft, round shape of my flesh. Since it had been that way for the majority of my young memory, there was no reason to direct much thought toward it. I could swing my leg over the fence in the backyard and I could ride in the neighborhood big wheel races like nobody’s business. What else did I need?

This happy ignorance ended about the same time that I imagine it did for a lot of people: middle school, junior high, whatever you want to call it. Puberty strikes, a cruel combination of hormones and acne take over, and you are never the same again. I was especially blessed also to be dealing with some severe allergies and chronic sinus infections which left me completely lethargic most of the time. My body was stuck in limbo somewhere between childhood and adulthood in the awkwardness of puberty (otherwise known as the third circle of hell), and I had an incessantly snotty nose and itchy eyes to boot. Because clearly, adolescence isn’t mortifying and painful enough.

I realize now that everyone around me must have felt equally strange about the changes they were experiencing inside them and observing around them. At the time, it felt like I was the only one under a microscope, every miniscule aspect of my appearance magnified and occasionally used as fodder for thirteen-year-old boys to point and laugh at. These things didn’t happen frequently, but it was impossible to forget when they did. I wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear, just dissolve into the dirt and cease to exist. At the time, it seemed like the best option.

And so I carried myself in such a way as to try to be invisible, to blend in. I’d wear gray sweatpants and a soft, white Washington Huskies sweatshirt at least once a week. In class, I’d bury myself in whatever subject was at hand. I’d ride home on the number thirty-nine bus and if I didn’t have a particular friend to ride with, would set my large rectangular viola case beside me, my way of warding off anyone who might find me a convenient opportunity to make themselves feel less awkward. On those days, I’d bend my knees, rest them up against the back of the seat in front of me, and settle in for the ride home.

My habits of invisibility were hard to unlearn, and so I carried them with me into high school. I continued to excel academically, making me a star to my teachers. Socially, I did my best to blend in, rising barely above the surface of my desire to be invisible. I found a few friends to each lunch with, people I felt safe with, who shared my penchant for excelling academically.

It was my sophomore year that I wound up in a biology class with Mr. F. I quickly became fascinated with the science of living systems. I could tell you all about mitochondria or the precise path blood took through the heart and the names of all the valves through which it passed. I didn’t get queasy dissecting the lamb brain, the frog, or the cow eyeball. It was a cakewalk for me. At one point in the semester, we had a unit in which we learned about nutrition. Mr. F talked about different forms of energy: carbohydrates, fat, and proteins and the calorie counts per gram. I was no less fascinated, even though this unit did not require me to wield a scalpel or handle a cow heart as large as my head.

We were given a chart given the approximate nutritional content of a variety of foods: the total calories, as well as what types of calories those were. I studied it voraciously and was thrilled to learn that we’d be tracking what we ate for a week, recording all the foods we ate and their nutritional content. At the end of that week, we’d figure out the average number of calories we consumed on a daily basis and make the determination that if our eating habits continued, whether we’d gain weight, maintain our weight, or lose it.

Given my academic discipline, I knew I could excel at this project just like I could at any other. But unlike other projects, I knew I could really make this one work to my advantage in a personal way. I knew exactly what I could do armed with this sheet of information.

body talk: part 1

Anyone who has read this blog for any length of time knows that my body and I have been on quite a journey over the last few years (if not, this post aims at giving you a very broad retrospective). As the journey continues, I find myself revisiting and in some ways, reliving these previous experiences, turning and returning to what I’ve already learned, letting to truth drive deeper (but not always without a fight).

I’ve aimed to be as transparent as decency and the ridiculously public nature internet will allow, and it is my aim to continue to do so. The journey is one that has included periodic peaks, a whole lot of valley, and the occasional precipice over which I have frequently been tempted to throw myself. Amidst the extremes in weight loss and weight gain, digestive complications and accompanying physical pain, nutrient deficiencies, extreme fatigue, and thyroid issues that have vacillated between both hypo- and hyper- with some antibodies thrown in for variety, there were days I desperately wished to trade in this tired old body for a new and improved model. But I continually and repeatedly bumped up against the fact that I was stuck with the body I had, woefully in spite of every attempt I made to improve it. That’s how I thought of it: stuck.

I have yet to find adjectives to describe adequately what this experience was. Frustrating. You bet! Infuriating. For sure! Powerless. Certainly. Empty. Yep, that too! Betrayed. Oh, yes. Mix them all together into one large, unruly, and homogeneous lump, then amp up the volume. That's kind of what it was like.

While I am [mostly] better these days, I still have a few lingering issues that my body seems perfectly content to hang onto, but which still have me scouring the internet from time to time in a frantic search for any possible remedy I might not have yet tried. For the record, I’ve only found one remedy I’m not willing to try. If I told you what it was, I would bet my next paycheck (heck, why not the next 10 paychecks?) that you wouldn’t try it either, no matter how dire the particular ailment. As a result, I find myself toting around a few extra pounds around my midsection that I had gotten accustomed to going without.

And I’ll be honest: I don’t like it. This is where people will typically interject, But you look good! If appearance were all this was about (it is a factor for me, but not the whole story), I could probably become content with that. In my mind, however, I’m still in earnest pursuit of good health, the perfect kind of health I enjoyed all too briefly but left me a little over a year ago.

I still miss it. And frequently, the frustration at its loss becomes consuming. I’ve learned that given my appearance, most people will roll their eyes and groan if I let loose that things aren’t as I’d like them to be. Should I allow the frustration bubbling beneath my sweaty, fresh-from-the-gym surface to escape, I am almost certain to receive the requisite groan and eye-roll.

I don’t want to hear it. What are you and your little size X butt whining about, anyway?

And I understand where they’re coming from. But like many women, I also do daily battle with certain aspects of my appearance and inwardly loathe the ailments that I believe are at the root of them. I look at the other women at the gym and envy their slim arms and fuller chests, their flat bellies and the tiny waists that look as though they were carved from marble. There are times that I’m so caught up in my own battle that it baffles me utterly to realize that others might view me with similar envy. But then I look at those women and imagine saying to them: I don’t want to hear it. What are you and your little size X butt whining about, anyway? and I wonder if they have stories that are anything like mine.

I remember when I was still in the thick of the worst of my illness. I constantly felt sharp, stabbing pains in my stomach. I was in the middle of the elimination diet. I constantly had something my naturopath referred to as leaky gut, which is every bit as unpleasant as it sounds. I was fatigued no matter how much I slept, oftentimes passing out on the couch before 7 p.m. and not waking up until it was time for work the next day. I was severely anemic, had a diminished red blood cell count, and with sadly subpar adrenal gland function, felt like a zombie. My calcium and vitamin D levels were ridiculously low. And I had an underactive thyroid to boot. I was miserable.

I remember being at the gym once at this point in time (trying desperately to maintain some semblance of my normal life), coming slowly down the stairs one leaden leg at a time. I saw two women near the water fountain who were leaning in their heads toward one another, chatting animatedly and looking my way. As I made my way toward the fountain to fill by blue Nalgene bottle, I learned that I had been their topic of discussion, specifically my recent and very noticeable weight loss.

We’ve just noticed how much thinner you’ve gotten. You look fantastic! What’s your secret?

I gave them the Reader’s Digest, large-print edition version of what my weight loss “secret” was. In broad strokes, I described incessant stomach pain, constant fatigue and sluggishness, a variety of deficiencies and bodily malfunctions, and a severely restricted diet.

Oooh, that sounds awful, one of the women said. I could never go without bread or cheese!

[Pause.]

But you look fantastic!

I was concurrently profoundly disgusted and inexplicably sad. It hit me all at once: the way I had viewed skinny women, the deep wrongness of the mindset that thinness is desired at any cost, and just how much I had missed (and still miss) the point.


To be continued …

mirror self-portrait by kirsten.michelle

in which she waxes medical

Thank you, friends, for coming alongside me in this place. "Thank you" sounds utterly pathetic in proportion to the love, prayers, words, and shoulders you've offered me, not just today, but over the course of the past year and a half. I'd rather not be morose and something I dislike only slightly more is putting said morose-ness in this space.

I have so many thoughts zooming about in my brain about how beautiful the Body of Christ is, about how He whispers to me so quietly in these spaces sometimes, and about how much I am looking forward to the resurrection (Creation restored!! A working body, YIPPEE!!). I've got symptoms and root causes on the brain and already have a few ideas of how I could write about that. I'm thinking about God's presence, about the enemy's assault on our souls, and about the myriad of lessons being embedded and burned into me right now. Those will be forthcoming, I am sure.

I have an update, so I wanted to share. I'd just like to say that I have the best naturopath in the world. I called today and spoke with Tracy the wonder-office manager who, incidentally, has known me since birth and also (because she is so terrifically engaging) knows my woes as well as my naturopath does. I explained what was going on: ever since changing my thyroid regimen, there's been a domino effect. Everything else was falling out of line (not surprising since, where many important aspects of health are concerned, the thyroid is running the show). So the message was relayed and I discussed options with the good doctor.

Without getting into the gory details, several things have been terribly off since my thyroid started getting back in shape. Or should I say: the last time my thyroid started getting back in shape. Where thyroids are concerned, I'm pretty sure I've got the wackiest one in town. It's dangerously down. It's up way too high. It's down again, but not too bad. It's up, way way too high. And it's starting to take a dive again. The most recent blood work (taken a week ago) confirms the thyroid hormones are trying to see just how low they might go. The antibodies are still present (boo!!), but the good news is that those numbers are dropping.

Bleh.

This is where the awesome naturopath comes into play. Since the supplement I took the first time that worked so well eventually sent things sky high and scary was obviously not an option, we are opting to take advantage of modern medicine. I have a new prescription that is designed to regulate this very moody thyroid of mine and will follow up with Dr. W in 2-3 weeks. If it works like we're hoping it does: the scary weight gain will cease and desist, I'll feel a rebound in my energy, and these other things that are out of line as a result will follow suit.

There are two things that impressed me about my naturopath today:

1. He didn't question the wisdom I have about my own body. He asked me my thoughts on what was happening. How many doctors do this? We've been working together on my thyroid for about two years now and when I told him that all these things fell out of order with the most recent regimen change, he didn't question it. Having been to my fair share of doctors who think I don't have a clue, this was a breath of fresh air and is one of the reasons I keep going to him.

2. He prescribed an honest-to-God synthetic prescription medication as treatment this time around (and it's something that is known well for being an effective treatment). It would have been great if more natural remedies were working, but they just weren't working with my specific set of circumstances and challenges. Having witnessed the occasional raised eyebrow from some medical doctors when they hear I'm seeking treatment from a naturopath, I genuinely appreciate it when health professionals (no matter their branch) don't get so sidelined into thinking that their specialty is The Only and Holy Way of Health that they won't explore the wider array of options available for treatment. It helps affirm for me that I'm in partnership with someone who has my best interests in mind.

So that's where I'm at. And I just realized this might be one of the most mundane posts ever written, but I think I'm going to post it anyway (she says with a grin).

Love to you, and many thanks again.

reprise

I'm in this place again. Turns out the relief was short-lived and I am back where I started.

Frack!!

Add a failed laptop power cord (can't even turn the thing on), some very creepy guys who think they're all that and a bag of chips (do I have to deal with this right now?), a gaping hole where a really cute cat should be (I miss how he would cozy up my lap when I read a book), and some seriously misplaced hope into the mix and you have one very tired and emotionally volatile woman. If I could figure out how to do it, I'd infinitely prefer to run away. But I can't, so here I am.

And that's about all I've got.

hope rising

I can't thank you all enough. If I had any doubts as to being cared for, all I would need to do is to look at what you all wrote in response to my previous post. You people blow my mind and invade my heart. Seriously.

And you pray. Boy, did you all pray. But I'm getting a bit ahead of myself.

On Monday (the day I published that post), I went to my family doctor to follow up on some things that had been ongoing for several months. I had received instruction to come back and get checked out if they hadn't changed.

CAVEAT: Sorry if I am being vague, but I want to be sensitive toward any readers who aren't particularly curious or desirous to read about the finer details of how my body does or does not function. If you want to know, I really don't mind telling you -- really, I have no inhibitions left when it comes to discussing the topic -- I just don't want to put it out for general consumption or to cause anyone to lose his or her cookies while reading.

I already knew I'd be in for more tests: more needle sticks, more deep breathing while shiny stethoscopes were pressed on my skin. More lying back on cold tables covered in white tissue paper. I told my doctor what was happening: or rather, what wasn't. Two months and no change. And I got one of those looks again. Oh, and some new digestive complications too. That's been going on two months or more, too. Another frown. I told her I had already scheduled an appointment with the gastroenterologist again. August 25.

I was sent to the lab again; the phlebotomist and I are familiar to one another now. Once we knew the results, my doctor would know what our next steps would be.

On Tuesday, I stayed home from work. I was worn out. I felt overwhelmed with sadness and confusion; my anger had worn me out and my boss was kind enough to give me a mental health day. I slept in, I drank my coffee out on the back porch. I made a second cup. I read my Bible and I journaled. The words weren't as angry this day.

It was shortly after 10 a.m. that things changed. I suppose they changed a little before that, but that is when I made my discovery. The two chronic complaints? Let's just say things are working as they should. The things that weren't working started working then (at the same time) and they are still working. My digestive and other (formerly chronically troubled) body systems are normal and functioning as they were designed to function. [Cue loud music and exuberant dancing around the house.]

Yes, you better believe I danced that morning. I'm still going to be vigilant, still going to follow-up with my physicians, but ... yeah. Things are good right now. And that's really good news.

As for the lab results, I received the official word today: even my thyroid is back to normal.

So thank you, people of God, for bathing me in prayer, for lifting me up to the Almighty. Less than 24 hours between the time I posted and the time God chose to extend His healing toward me. You were on it.

He turned my mourning into dancing, my weeping into laughter. This is your party, too.

Anyone wanna dance with me??

sunrise photo by kirsten.michelle

in a dry & weary land

Hi friends,

It's been awhile -- at least it seems that way to me. I could hardly believe it when I saw my last post was two weeks ago. But as blogging seems to have slowed down in general for the summer, I'm okay with it.

I'll be honest: I've had a hard time of it lately. My health is not improving; in fact, my insides are behaving as though they're forty or fifty years older than I am. As I was discussing the latest slough of symptoms with my naturopath, he told me that the conversations we're having about my health now are ones he usually has with patients in their seventies. Simply put, my body is failing at some of its most basic processes: digestion, elimination, absorption, and some others that I just don't want to talk about here.

The word chronic has been used.

On a good day, I'll tell you that this body makes me long for heaven. I'll tell you that I am finding blessing in unexpected places. I'll tell you that I know and trust that God will redeem this.

But on the days that aren't so good or as hopeful -- on days like today -- I am angry. I'm frustrated and weary and truth be told, just plain furious. I wonder what my later years might look like if this is my life and my health now. I wonder what the point is of trying to be healthy at all when my body is failing anyway. I wonder where God is when I cry out for mercy and heaven is silent and still again, again, and again. I wonder with the Psalmist, How long, O Lord? How frickin' long?

I'm tired of investing money and energy and hope into remedies that seem to help at first, but later have no effect on my body.

I'm tired of the way hope inflates and deflates inside me.

I'm tired of having a carrot dangled in front of me only to have it yanked away time and again.

I'm tired of being chronically unwell. I'm tired of the sounds of my own complaints.

I'm tired of trying to find blessing or anything good in this place. I'm tired of taking the long view, of wondering how God might use this to bless others in a distant time known only as someday.

I'm tired of the tension that exists between knowing God is there, but having the feeling as though He's absent, silent, and idle. I'm tired of how any prayer I offer hits the ceiling and falls in a heap at my feet.

I'm tired of spending time in the offices of every doctor who has a chart for me, of talking about my bowel and menstruation habits at length, of being subjected to test after invasive test, of lying exposed on cold tables, of hands pressing in on my body.

I'm tired of the looks from physicians who are as baffled and frustrated as I am.

I'm so tired of trying every possible option to be well and as far as I can tell, of it meaning nothing.

I'm tired of how isolated and alone this makes me feel, of how difficult it is to feel engaged in my own life, of how much I don't want to accept that this is my life.

I'm tired of being the oldest thirty-year-old that I know.

This doesn't mean that I don't want to know how you are, and it certainly doesn't mean I don't want to celebrate with you or hear about your days. This doesn't mean that I don't want to talk about other things or that I've lost sight of the world beyond the boundaries of my skin or that I'm incapable of laughter. I may be quiet or I may be absent from time to time, but I'm still here and I love knowing that you are, too.

I know it's difficult to be with people like me in these kinds of places. There's nothing you can say or do, no solution you can offer that will make it better. I understand this, and I can appreciate the difficulty. That being said, please know that I don't expect solutions or cures or words that will illuminate all of this perfectly. I don't expect you to know how to fix this.

I'm just glad that you're here, listening and sharing in this life with me.

body coup {brokenness & redemption}

The past few weeks in this body have been difficult; the dialogue I have had with my own flesh over the past month or so hasn’t always been particularly kind or gracious, even though I wrote awhile ago about learning to bear grace in this direction.

I was so delighted to be bounding with energy that I didn’t notice at first when other things veered slowly further and further from what is healthy and considered "normal". And so one of the prices I paid for a thyroid finding its way back to balance was a malfunctioning lower digestive system. Oddly, things in this part of my body were working perfectly, humming along at a steady rhythm when I was in the place where I could barely move my limbs or lift myself out of bed in the morning.

I was patient with the dilemma at first; this is usually my way when presented with a difficulty, bodily or otherwise. My prayers are usually something like, Hi God, I’d really appreciate if You would bring healing to this area. I’m doing okay though and know You’ve got a lot going on and there’s probably something you’d like me to learn from this. So I’m just going to wait it out and learn what I can, but if you could put fixing this thing on your list of Things to Do, I’d really appreciate it.

I waited and waited. Days stretched to weeks and finally a month had passed and nothing had really changed. My lower digestive system was increasingly rebellious, staging a rather impressive coup. I was doing everything I knew to do: eating the right foods, drinking lots of water, drinking cleansing teas, taking the appropriate supplements. I was even exercising regularly again. Nothing was working; things were terrifically wrong in this area and it was starting to impact my ability to move comfortably through my days. But it was only getting worse. My concern slowly escalated.

I’d put my hand on my belly and pray for some holy magic healing touch to be conveyed through my fingers, wondering. Waiting. Please. Nothing happened.

And then finally my patience had been exceeded and I reached the point at which I began to crack; every emotion spurt out with impressive force through the fissures, knocking down anyone who was so unfortunate as to be in its path. I often reach this place after being patient for a time, waiting and waiting with my body for things to get better, but instead moving toward rightness, things venture further and further from where they should be.

I was in the shower when the tears just started coming. I was frustrated. I felt tight and uncomfortable, expanding and stretching all over. I knew this was a failure of good health. It did not help that earlier that day, I had lost a button and a clasp on pants that had fit comfortably not long before to crazy activities like getting out of my car and sitting down at my desk. I felt like the skin around my belly, thighs, arms, and chest were stretching to their outer limits. One friend kindly suggested that the pants were poorly made. Another posited they shrunk in the dryer. While I appreciated their efforts to provide alternate explanations as to why buttons and clasps were popping off my pants, I had closely watched my body puff out and swell over the previous days and weeks and knew that their suggestions while kind, were not accurate.

I desperately wanted a vacation from my own flesh, an advance on the new body waiting for me at the resurrection. I made fists and pummeled the wall of the shower. Damnit!! I asked why can’t You just fix it? Why can't things just work? Why am I always breaking? Why why why?

It is simple to assent in an intellectual kind of way that I can’t control what happens in my body, even if I follow the proverbial Rule Book of Good Health to the letter. I get this and have witnessed this devastating truth in others. I’ve known a healthy mom in her early forties take a sudden last gulp of air before dying of a massive heart attack in her bed early one morning. A co-worker of mine is battling cancer and enduring the rigors of chemotherapy for the third time in the few years since I’ve known her. And then there’s me: the regular exerciser, obsessive supplement-taker, she who loves and regularly consumes vegetables, the bearer of a body who just can’t get along with itself. None of it really makes any kind of sense. At least not in the way I'd like it to.

It is hard to explain how heartbreaking and deeply disconcerting it is: I know better than to expect any of life to be fair, but this body journey has taught me that in my heart, I still want this and to a certain degree, expect it. I don’t know whether it’s intrinsic to our design as humans or if I’m just clinging to childish notions of how the world should be. But I do know that it’s much easier to acknowledge the elementary truth that life isn’t fair when circumstances are to my liking, or when it is someone else enduring under hardship.

This is all so humbling.

So what I come to is this: regardless of how my body responds, it is a temple. There may be cracks in the wall and the paint might be peeling. I might not like what I see when I look around. But it is the space in which I am uniquely me, a sacred space inhabited by the Holy Spirit. It is my responsibility to be good to it for as long as I have it. Even so, it is slowly aging and will one day die. And more than what I do or don’t do, more than rules and notions of rightness or supplements or vitamins or vegetables, I need to cling to Him. He is the One who will redeem this fantastic mess and one day, make all things new.

photo © 2008 jen fox photography

this unnatural fog {part 2}

Read part 1 here.

On the morning of Friday, June 6 at a quarter to five in the morning, the annoyingly cheerful chimes of my alarm steal into my sleep. I roll over and hit snooze once, twice, and a third time, muffling a groan with my pillow: I must get out of bed.

I move slowly these days, as if wading waist-deep through murky swamp water. Lying on my side, I press my palms into the mattress, pushing my torso away from the bed. The cool air pricks my skin, gooseflesh rising on my arms almost instantly. Begrudgingly, I swing my legs out from under the sheets. Like the rest of me, they are stiff and heavy, reluctant to obey my rather unconvincing mental order to move. I yawn and let my head fall toward my chest.

Just one thing is crystal clear in my mind: I don't want to get up.

The last call I received from my family doctor tells me that second blood test shows my thyroid levels are normal. Normal: an appallingly nebulous and strikingly inaccurate word for whatever this is. This doesn’t make sense. I wonder if this is all in my head. I’m anxious to hear the results of the blood work the naturopath ordered. My head is foggy and empty and I can’t remember what he had tested. So many long words have passed over me these weeks, medical terms with too many syllables and not nearly enough vowels.

I rub my eyes and lean forward, standing to my feet. When I get to the bathroom, I look in the mirror and see dull, empty eyes staring back at me. I cannot see myself anymore. I’m not sure where I’ve gone. I've never felt so disconnected from my own flesh.

When I get to Dr. W’s office later that afternoon, I inhale the familiar scent of the old brown house and burning herbs. I sit in the waiting area, thumbing disinterestedly through a natural health magazine. It’s not long before he comes into the office holding my file and a clipboard casually at his side.

Get back here Kirsten, he says with his usual dry humor, gesturing toward his office. I follow him and take a seat in the familiar chair covered in navy velvet. I set my messenger bag down on the hardwood floor and wait as he pages through the yellow sheets of my file and asks me how I am. He should know, I think. I let go of the breath that has gone stale in my lungs, looking to the shafts of sunlight streaming through the window and puddling on the floor near my feet. He keeps turning the yellow pages back and forth, scanning them through his dark-rimmed glasses.

He looks up at me. Your iron is good, your T3 and T4 are fine. Your TSH is within normal range (again with the "normal"). But you’ve tested positive for thyroid antibodies, he tells me.

I’m not sure what this means, not having heard this term before. This alerts me to listen carefully. He explains to me that the supplement I’ve been taking over the past fourteen months to treat my hypothyroidism may have been working too well, stimulating the thyroid to produce TSH (thyroid stimulating hormone). Interpreting the increase as an unwelcome invasion, my body zealously produced the antibodies to subdue it. The fog has a name, then.

Unable to comprehend fully what I’m hearing, I am nonetheless relieved to have an answer and a direction to go with it. I would research antibodies more later and read that their presence typically indicates that an autoimmune failure is just around the corner. As I sit with this new information, it strikes me how utterly dependent I am in this place: that the right tests are ordered, that the right questions are asked, that I trust my physician to be thorough. How long might I have lived in a body at war with itself? What might have happened if I had waited too long? I don't want to consider it.

I leave his office carrying two white bottles: a thyroid support supplement to replace the one I have been taking, and another that is designed to enhance my immune system's ability to function appropriately while also diminishing the extreme antibody response. I hold them in my hand and peruse their labels. Dr. W has been spot on with my health every time before, one physician willing to get at the root cause of my health issues when some others were dismissively prescribing anti-depressants.

I lay awake in bed that night, my mind turning over facts and thoughts again and again; I am restless, unable to fall asleep. But in a good way.

It's because I’m hopeful. And that is everything.

Part 3 is coming...

sunlight photo by kirsten.michelle

Please note: I understand there are many schools of thought when it comes to how to manage one's physical health. I kindly ask that you refrain from posting comments containing disagreement with choices made by me or by my physician. The purpose of these posts is to share my journey through the health challenges I face and to describe how I am choosing to pursue wellness in a manner consistent with my convictions and my own ability to assess what is best for my body.

this unnatural fog {part 1}

I've been trying to come up with a way of describing what the past few months have been like. In a previous post, I mentioned some of the medical issues I was having; without regurgitating details from my ever-thickening medical files, suffice it to say I've had a number of issues to contend with. Or as my doctor told me at my last visit: you've exchanged one melodrama for another.

Or a few others, rather.

Unless you've spoken with me on the phone, you may not have noticed much of a difference. Or maybe you have. I did my best to maintain a presence here, even when it was the last thing I wanted to do. It wasn't so much out of a sense of obligation as it was out of a desire to maintain some semblance of connectedness, to keep my head above the surface when I felt pulled under.

Over the last several months, I've felt a slow descent into what I can only describe as a terrible fog. At first, I was just a little more tired than normal. Less energetic.

About three or four weeks ago, the descent sharpened and picked up speed. I became forgetful, my head cloudy. It required all the abilities of concentration I possessed to maintain my focus visually. My limbs and my body felt unbearably heavy; every movement was laborious. Getting out of bed seemed especially impossible. Unless I paid particular attention to it, my speech became slurred and slow; even my jaw and my tongue felt too heavy to move. I spent all my waking hours in a stupor, feeling as though I was heavily drugged. It didn't matter how long or how deeply I slept. Every day felt the same, my state of being residing in an odd place where feelings of inebriation and profound exhaustion intersected.

I watched my calendar fill with more and more medical appointments: follow-ups, ultrasounds, blood tests. I held carbon copies of lab slips and sat opposite white walls on which clocks ticked away the seconds, oddly colorful gifts of pharmaceutical companies eager to sell little pills with impossible names. I can still see the little holes trailing above a river on indigo on my arm.

For the most part, I stopped caring about everything. I didn't care that I wasn't exercising, that I wasn't blogging (or writing anything for that matter), that I wasn't taking pictures, that any food I prepared all tasted the same -- the things that once mattered so much to me were gone. I learned to fake it: to calculate and make up the distance between my fog and the self I remembered, but distantly.

My days passed and these things I remembered enjoying at one time sifted easily through my fingers like sand. I'd let my hand drop with a heavy thud at my side, not worrying about picking up those things I'd lost. I was just too tired to care, shrouded by a heavy cloak of apathy. Wanting anything seemed a distant possibility; the ability to do much but exist had ceased. Separated from desire and will, I found I wasn't left with much. I felt as though I had been hollowed out. I knew God was present, but in a very cerebral, distant memory kind of way. I wasn't sensing Him – or much of anything -- at all.

I had moments where I seemed to emerge from this, to rise above the surface: to get excited or angry about something, to want to work on a writing piece. Most of the time, these bursts of emotion and life manifested themselves as full and unrestrained tears. My defenses dissolved, I always returned to this place where I felt the throbbing pull at my ankles dragging me under toward numbness, weighing me down. It was a strong and steady undertow that I was too weak to resist.

I was empty. And even now I wonder if it's honest to write any of this in the past tense. But somewhere in the distance, I think the sun is coming up and that maybe it will burn the fog away; I want it to come up.

evening mist photo courtesy of freefoto.com

Please note: I understand there are many schools of thought when it comes to how to manage one's physical health. I kindly ask that you refrain from posting comments containing disagreement with choices made by me or by my physician. The purpose of these posts is to share my journey through the health challenges I face and to describe how I am choosing to pursue wellness in a manner consistent with my convictions and my own ability to assess what is best for my body.

Read part 2 here.

for judy {spicy quinoa & lentils}

NOTE: The content of this post is now lives here.

I'll be back right after a reserve myself a room in the nearest space with padded walls. :o)

for my body {confession & reconciliation}

Dear Body,

I feel as though I owe you an apology; it is long overdue, but I’m here now, hoping that it’s not too late for a little forgiveness.

Even though you are what enables me to live and to move through the world, it seems only recently that I’ve been especially aware of you. I’ve harbored nasty feelings toward you, I’ve abused you both verbally and physically, I’ve shut you up and ignored you, chained you to a pipe in the basement and padlocked the door.

I remember the first time I was shocked into an awareness of you at the age of thirteen at summer camp, when I first passed through that bloody rite of womanhood. It was a sunny Sunday morning in July. I was wearing a polka-dotted bathing suit, on my way down to the lake to go swimming and had stopped by the restroom; that’s when I noticed. I had been educated on the matter as a fifth-grader, and I knew as much about it as a twelve-year-old could, but it still came as a terrific shock to my system. I cried and cried and cried that morning in my bunk bed, my face puffy and wet, words coming out in chokes and gasps. My counselor told me this was a beautiful gift from God, that it meant I was a woman now. But her saying that made me want to scream and rip out my hair. I didn’t know why, I just hated it.

And then things really started changing: my child’s body began to change shape without my willing it, malleable as Play-Doh without my consent. My straight, hipless form bloomed outward and pulled inward in places. My lithe form began to puff out, acquiring pounds that seemed to come from nowhere. I felt as though you had betrayed me. The child’s body was something I knew and could navigate, this new thing was foreign to me and I was trapped in it. You held me hostage.

With the added pounds came the teasing and taunts of others. I drew inward and loathed this mess of flesh I was trapped in. I was powerless to escape it and so I told you things like: you’re fat and nasty. People hate you and so do I. It would be better if you were skinnier. Lose weight, damnit!

And I continued to abuse you with my words and my thoughts. I would look in the mirror and point out all your flaws, tell you to shape up, that you were no good as you were.

Finally, I had had enough and the abuse turned physical. I started memorizing food labels and adopted a plan to get you to where I thought you needed to be. I’m in control now! I’m the boss! I restricted calories and nutrition, I put increased physical demands on you. As the puffiness diminished, as pounds evaporated, the compliments poured in and I was addicted to them. I ate them instead of food and exercised even more, feeling proud of myself for starving you. I had taught myself to love the growling in my stomach, and I chased after that emptiness more and more.

Even when others said you’re getting too skinny, I thought only of how to get skinnier, of how to make sure you really knew that I was the one in charge here. You would not hold me hostage again. The goal was always that I’d strip you of five pounds and when that was achieved, it would be five pounds yet again. And eventually my periods stopped and I could pull my tiniest pair of jeans up and down, up and down while they were fully buttoned and zipped. I felt so proud. I had tamed you.

And then came February 22, 1996, a day tattooed in my memory, a day that took us both by surprise. It was my senior year of high school and I had so much going for me. That car accident changed everything. I was only a passenger, but life changed for you in the instant that the brakes locked and that hunk of metal slid at fifty miles per hour across slick wet pavement, colliding into another car.

You hurt like you had never hurt before. I took you to the chiropractor, the massage therapist, the neurologist, the physical therapist. The pain would not stop. I lived in those doctors offices and the neck brace became a regular part of my attire until I forgot what I looked like without it. I adopted a new vocabulary, one that included phrases like soft tissue, nerve damage, and it would have been better if you had broken your neck. You and I hurt so much and we both learned to go numb.

In college the pounds came back on slowly and I let them return to you a few at a time, but begrudgingly. I was too worried about academics to concern myself with making sure I maintained a vigilant watch over you, to make sure you didn’t get out of line. But this is where I learned new ways to push you, like staying awake when you pulled me toward sleep, ingesting cup after cup of cheap black coffee heavily syruped with sugar.

I skipped meals, always reasoning that a few more minutes of study were more important than giving you those things the cafeteria attempted to pass off as food. I asked you to keep going, keep moving, keep running and denied you regular fuel. And then I’d get angry with you and call you names when you got sick or tired or achey or were sapped of energy. I berated you again and again, demanding health and energy and wellness even though I gave you nothing to work with.

Then one night my heart began to rebel, racing at several hundred beats per minute, startling me from a still sleep. The episodes continued for months and no one could find out what was going on inside you. The doctors pressed you, poked you, probed you, took blood. No charts or graphs or books could explain why you did this. Nothing changed until hands were joined in a circle around me, hands put on you, and healing called down from heaven. There were no more episodes after that, and you became a testimony of something divine reaching down to earth, touching flesh.

I began to feel differently about you then.

I felt like we got healthy after college was over when I was on my own, giving you lots of vegetables and fruits and lean proteins, exercising in a healthy way, giving you what you needed to assume a healthy shape. I felt really good, and was pleased that our relationship had improved. And then a few years ago, new things started happening that no one could explain. My stomach was stabbed with pain, and my chest burned. Several rounds with several different medicines didn’t help and we had no relief. Things escalated and got worse, and I took you to the emergency room more than once.

The ache moved down my gut. I grew sluggish and tired, fell asleep too early every night. Doctors wanted to give you vicodin and anti-depressants, but I refused. I was trying to help you and I knew innately that you did not need those things. I didn’t know what you needed, but I knew that vicodin and anti-depressants weren't the answer. I sometimes felt like you were a squealing infant and I was the parent, not knowing what you needed, not knowing how to understand where you were hurting and why. I felt so helpless. We were both trapped, chained to each other in the dark.

It took awhile, but I finally found someone who could teach me how to listen to you, who helped me learn to hear the things you were saying. In the process, I discovered other parts of you that suffered quietly: blood cells, bones, thyroid, adrenals. I learned what things were hurting you and I took them away; I got supplements to provide what you lacked, to aid in healing those places you suffered most. You had been hurting so long, and the healing is still happening. I can’t imagine that either of us will be quite the same again. But we are here now in a new normal that is healing and energized and as it should be.

So my body, I’m sorry I ignored you and said unkind things. I’m sorry for having neglected and abused you. I’m sorry I hurt you and starved you and asked impossible things of you. I’m sorry for the pain you’ve suffered, that we’ve suffered together.

We are married, you and I, and we are still learning to speak to one another, to listen with attentive ears, still learning how to move in this dance we do together. We were knit together inside my mother and we are inseparable, you and I. My mind and heart and soul are fused with you. You are how I hug my sister, talk to my friend, how I laugh and smile. You are how I dance with joy, cry out loud, and how I can write any of this down at all.

You are the first place to which I extend the most basic kindnesses and grace: food, water, rest, exercise. I marvel at your abilities to lift, stretch, bend, heal, and grow strong. You are good from your beginnings, and I am learning to honor the goodness that has been there since the moment you took form.

So I guess what I’m trying to say, body of mine, is that I’m not perfect. I wish I could promise you that I would be good to you always, that I would never transgress against you again. That I would never wish you were shaped differently, or that you weren’t sensitive to certain foods, or that you didn’t have the limits that you do. But you are the only body I have and I’m beginning to learn that you are utterly marvelous and within those limits, capable of so much.

And so I will continue on this path of learning to be good to you: to provide what you need, not demand what you cannot give, to cooperate with you; to listen to you and respond appropriately to the things you say; to give you compassion. And I’m learning that in return, you give me the ability to embody fully the life I’ve been given, to give my own unique shape to love, sadness, happiness, friendship, and faith.

I guess what I’m saying is that I have your back, good body of mine, and that I know you have mine; that we will learn this dance together, giving one another grace for the journey.

confession photo by kirsten.michelle

Linkage love {check out links to this post}:

pain in the neck (and back) by betsy

there's something about belonging by miriam

the arsenal

It is a truth universally acknowledged that it is more preferable to maintain wellness than it is to combat illness. But on the occassion that some sneaky rhinovirus up to no good should penetrate one's defenses of wellness ... well, basically you're sick.

I have a cold. Or should I say, a cold has me. This one has some good-sized claws. I am nearing the end of Day 6 in my fight against the virus. I fear the virus may currently have the upper hand. But I am not giving up; I do have a battle plan.

Behold the Arsenal

From L to R: Ricola Honey Lemon with Echinacea throat drops, Echinacea supplement, Bija Cold Stop Tea, Airborne

Not pictured are: clear fluids, my pillow and bed, Kombucha, and all the good people who have told me to go home and get some rest. Speaking of which, it's time I lay down. Your regularly scheduled intelligent posting will resume once the virus has been subdued.

Black Bean Love

I don't know what the weather is like where you live, but here in the Pacific Northwest there is a sharp autumn chill in the air. As for me and my kitchen, this means that there is plenty of good cold-weather food cooking.

I have long been a fan of the black bean. Whether in spreads, soups, or side dishes, these beans are a favorite with me and my diet. I recently found a couple of very simple and tasty recipes that use my favorite little bean. They're healthy, they're cheap to make, they're gluten-free, and they're vegan to boot (provided you omit the dairy ingredients in the soup, as I must). If you're a meat-eater, don't let that information stop you! These are great as side dishes or can be easily modified to suit the carnivore's palate.

Black beans pack some serious nutritional punch: a single cup has about 15 grams of fiber and just as much protein. When it comes to anti-oxidants, these bad boys are hard to beat. The dark skins of the beans contain flavonoids that work together with vitamins in the body to prevent oxygen-related damage. Add to that that they'll do your heart a lot of good: studies have shown that consumption of black beans reduces the risk of heart disease and heart attack.

What I particularly love about this particular Black Bean Soup recipe is its simplicity. Every recipe I've found until now calls for soaking black beans overnight. Because I tend to eat on the fly (and tend not to know what I want to eat until the mood strikes), I wanted a recipe that used the canned variety of beans. The recipe calls for little prep time (opening cans, some minor chopping, and the ability to use a blender or food processor) and is so quick and easy, you won't even realize you're cooking!

The Quinoa & Black Beans is good as a meal (especially for smaller appetites like mine) or a side dish. Not only is it simple, but it makes plenty! This recipe was tested in my kitchen on Friday and we've been eating leftovers since. For lunch, I cooked up some lean chicken-garlic sausage, chopped it up, and added it to the mix. It was delicious!

Because I cannot take credit for either recipe, I'm providing the links so you can take a look when the appetite strikes.

Black Bean Soup

Quinoa & Black Beans

Enjoy!!

More Medical Fun!!

Yesterday I had Endoscopy # 2 (see previous post). It went smoothly and without a hitch. The doc took some biopsies from a couple different spots along my digestive tract. Thanks to the fact that I was in the lovely state of drug-induced conscious sedation, I don't remember a thing and was able to go home to enjoy a four and a half hour "nap" afterward.

I came home with a printout of the initial findings and recommendations, not to mention some lovely full-color pics of my insides. I learned last time I had this procedure done that looking up medical terminology on the internet that one is not already familiar with is a VERY bad idea (what you tend to find are worst-case scenarios). So there are things on the report I'm not familiar with, and some that I am. The hernia is still there of course, but not the source of any real trouble. My stomach lining is still severely atrophied. Not good news. There were other findings not listed on my previous endoscopy; these are the things I am deliberately not looking up, but will wait instead for my kind and very thorough doctor to explain to me in person.

Tomorrow I go in for an abdominal/pelvic CT scan. These types of scans are used to further assist in diagnosing causes of abdominal pain and/or diseases of the bowel & colon. In preparation for this test, I get to drink two large (450 mL), nasty bottles of a barium sulfate suspension 3 hours apart. The solution is a radiocontrast agent, meaning this will help make the length of my entire digestive tract viewable on the x-ray, assisting my doctor in identifying any further issues not appearing on my endoscopy.

Perhaps I'm speaking too soon (as someone who has not yet had to chug nearly a liter of this chalky barium sulfate solution), but I really do feel blessed by all this. I was dismissed as "stressed out" and just having a "spastic stomach that needs to learn to relax" by a previous doctor, and here is someone who is taking my health seriously and actively seeking answers.

Thank God for the availability of second opinions!

As always, I will continue to keep you updated as I learn new information. I know this isn't the most thrilling of reading, but I'm grateful to know that near or far, whether you've met me or not, there are people out there who care. Color me blessed!!