Day 12: Sick as a Dog

Not much to write today as I have been plagued by some horrible stomach virus and spent the majority of my waking hours at the WICC getting fluids. A haiku perhaps:

the stomach wrenches
lips dry the room is spinning
curse those germy kids

Day 11: Blessed by Employment

I feel truly blessed, for I love my work, my work loves me (for the most part) and I will be allowed to return soon and I can't wait! How many people can say that?
Sure it is stressful and there is drama, no work environment comes without these, but all in all, I am blessed. I work in the same room as one of my best friends, I am able to use my brain and gifts daily, and generally leave each day feeling productive and fulfilled that I have helped my patients.

How does one embody that same productivity and fulfillment in care, love and preservation of self?
Anyone? Bueller?

Day 10: Space

Space.
Outer space.
Physical space.
Mental space.
Emotional space.
Personal space.
Shared space.
Common space.
Private space.
Your space.
My space.
Sacred space.

My wonderfully unique, beautifully green, personally designed, sacred space. Where I can escape the chaos with physical, mental and emotional space. Until recently, I did not understand the importance nor desire for such a space. I liked to fill my life to the top, void of space, no room. Now I have room, my room, and space, my space. Sacred.

Day 9: Unstoppable bliss :)

Troubles abound

Raw hurt hovers

Unwavering self-doubt surrounds me

Each molecule of air heavy

But the air glides smoothly and effortlessly through my hair

Laughter lights up my insides

Icy breeze awakens my spirit

Sunshine heals the hurt

Skis carry me away to happiness

Day 8: D-Day in a Whirlwind

Well I will  not be returning to work next week, and I am working on being ok with this decision, as I know it is in my best interest. When I pause, mindfully examining the situation it is the right thing and there is peace in that for me.

Today was busy, so many appointments, very little time to think, to process. I went to my PCP in the AM, did the grocery shopping for the week, unpacked and put away groceries, saw Sue, saw Dr. Fadness, saw Amy, visited work (where I was supposed to have a meeting but it was cancelled), got up the courage to talk to Mark again, went to the pharmacy, picked up the kids in Jericho, got them to bed and watched a great movie (Burlesque-highly recommend it). Somewhere in there I also managed to eat three meals and three snacks. In general, this is a dangerous cocktail, not only with ED but in life. I have discovered in my 8 profound days of recovery that mindfulness is one of the most challenging and rewarding gifts you can give to yourself. I have also discovered that filling every moment of everyday precludes one's ability to be mindful, as one is always moving, never still. Without mindfulness, I feel reactionary, impulsive, constantly falling short of expectations and honestly disconnected from myself and others around me. How is that life? It hurts me and it can hurt others drawn in. So tomorrow is a new day, my hope for myself, mindfulness. Practice enjoying and taking in every moment of the whole day without worrying about "what next?"

Tomorrow's goal: Try living life, not anticipating it.

Day 7: The Eve of the Indecisive Decision

Tomorrow I go to see Dr. R. to discuss my potential return to work. Sue said earlier in the week that she was against my returning so fast, even part time, Amy concurred though with less vigor. They were both going to discuss with Dr. R. I am unsure how I feel about it....

pulled in different directions
an all too familiar feeling
upholding duty, passion
holding up my body and spirit
clinging to security
letting go and letting God
undeniable work ethic
self-defeating behaviors
structure and distraction
fragmented me
sliding down the icy mountain freely
making the trek slow with crampons and equipment strapped to my back
time to spare
time to heal
uplifting competence and confidence
sitting, sinking in emotions
moving on, soaring forward
moving on, trudging through the muck
risking everything to prove my determination
my determination is everything and proves nothing

Day 6: Hannah Montana Forever may have Possibly Saved my Life

Lame right? But so true.

WARNING: this next part is not happy, it makes me sad to type it and it could be triggering for those still suffering.

Monday I had my first "slip," since returning home.  It was scary and basically destroyed my confidence that I could handle this eating thing in the "outside world." It felt really bad. Then Tuesday followed, as tends to happen after Mondays, and things only got worse. I continued to slip, and even missed a meal, which for me is a HUGE red flag. I felt doomed, done for. I emailed my nutritionist, who I love by the way, and some supports who all reminded me to be gentle with myself, take it one day at a time, and recommit to recovery. I went to sleep trying to embody these suggestions recommitting myself to God and recovery, but on the inside I still felt like a failure and that there was no way to "flip the slip," recovery had been short lived.

These thoughts echoed through the night, still resonating in the morning. I sat down at the computer, searching for musical inspiration both to continue my journey and paint my meditation room all by myself. I googled "slip and flip lyrics" and it responded with a myriad of musical genres and choices. That is when I found it. THE SONG. I already secretly like Miley Cyrus because my daughter loves her and dances around and sings every time she hears her, plus "The Climb," c'mon people that song is awesome. Anyway I came across the song "I'm still good," the lyrics:

So I might slip again
Let it in now and then
That don't mean anything
I'm still good
Tryin' to be my best
When I fall it's a mess
Pick myself up again
I'm still good
I'm still good
When days are like that
And I can't shake 'em
It's weighin' on my mind
So I'm just sayin'
I'm only human
Life gets you down sometimes
I think about it
When I wanna give up
How to keep on goin'
How to keep my chin up
Somehow I know it
I'm not gonna give up
Never gonna give up
So I might slip again
Let it in now and then
That don't mean anything I'm still good
Tryin' to be my best
When I fall it's a mess
Pick myself up again
I'm still good
Life puts up a fight with me
But I can take on anything
I'm gonna make it real
This dream I believe in
I think about it
When I wanna give up
How to keep on goin'
How to keep my chin up
Somehow I know it
I'm not gonna give up
Never gonna give up
Oh oh oh
So I might slip again
Let it in now and then
That don't mean anything
I'm still good
Tryin' to be my best
When I fall it's a mess
Pick myself up again
I'm still good
I'm still good
Pick myself up again
I'm still good
I'm still, I'm still good

Needless to say, I downloaded it and have been listening to it, A LOT. I also download some Bell Biv DeVoe ("smack it up, flip it, rub it down") such a guilty pleasure :) But hey, whatever works, right? Hannah Montana Forever helped my recommit. I was 100% compliant with my meal plan today. Thank you, Miley.

When I went to OA tonight, I decided to take a new medallion, celebrating my one day in recovery, one step at a time. Not to celebrate or condone the slip, slips happen, but as a reminder that, "I'm still good."

Day 5: Morning Gratitude (a limerick)

the day greets me still dark and new
to rise i know what to do
my arm silently passes
as i reach for my glasses
but even silence doesn't fool my crew

guinness stealthily crawls to my chest
a cold baloo nose on my shoulder does rest
montey bounds without care
landing on my body somewhere
my morning doggie greeting's the best

Day 4: Sacrilege? Possibly.

Disclaimer/Spoiler: It has been a rough day, The content of this post may offend some (as I compare myself to the Virgin Mary) which is certainly not my intention. Read at your own discretion.


First of welcome to my pity party. I hope you brought your "plus 1," because it has been lonely whooping it up by myself. But I digress.

Today I found myself comparing myself to the Virgin Mary, you know the mother of God, highest of all creatures. Right, that one. Like me, she was just going along, minding her own business, living in what we assume would later be called the "Christian way," when something happened. She was chosen, there was an angel, she gave of herself completely, with grace and mercy. She sacrificed her life as she knew it to carry a child and raise him, the Son of God. She did this without fear or hesitation (little Blues Traveller reference there), because it "was the right thing to do."

Luke 1:38 "Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.”

Similarly, I was living my life, trying to be a good Christian, a virgin, a child really. But that was taken from me. There was no angel, except perhaps in disguise, but turns out he was a demon with lots of little demon followers. Still, I willingly gave myself to him, not to bear the Son of God, but "in accordance with his word." I trusted him as Mary trusted Gabriel, blindly in faith. He was my savior, who I would go to any end to please, because "it was the right thing to do." My sacrifice had huge repercussions on my life, as did Mary's. One of the key differences though, besides the virgin birth of Jesus, is that I did not possess Mary's grace and mercy, perhaps I did, but now I am just effing pissed and bitter.

Meghan 1:32 "Here am I, having served you, and it's not fucking fair, I WANT MY LIFE BACK THAT YOU STOLE FROM ME!!!"

Day 3: Destination Meditation Station

So I think I am pretty freaking clever. In fact, as I type this I am chuckling to myself. At the end of treatment, I realized that I need a place of my own in my house, to pray, read, meditate, blog, "feel"......and even hide. Thus I have coined the phrase "Mindful Creation of my own Destination Meditation Station." Can you dig it?

With the help of my husband, we have begun transforming a large oddly-shaped closet into my only little piece of heaven, or at least a place of peace and reflection with a door that shuts. So far I have a Grateful Dead blanket (that I have had for years and LOVE), a little whicker stand with a burlap cover designed to keep personal items, books, and treatment materials inside and all sorts of soothing items and aromas and sensory items all at arms reach. My goal is to paint the room, and hang inspirational art, poems, lyrics etc. on the walls to create my real and virtual safe space. My sacred space, when the world is too overwhelming, where there is always escape. Here are some photos. More to come, but for now a word from our sponsor, Miss Emily Dickinson.

"Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotion know what it means to want to escape from these.”

Day 2: The Powder in Hope

APPREHENSION. FEAR. DESPERATION. EXPECTATIONS OF FAILURE. UTTER TERROR.

all this

abandoned as 

the powder flies underfoot

perfect frigid flakes flying at my face

marking my glasses indelibly with relief and joy

my karmic body returning the favor of perseverance

no pain, only freedom biting my face as I lift off, ethereal

my dreams come alive again, filled with hope, enduring in ecstasy

i have been waiting for this opportunity, not cognizant of my blessings

not aware that my body is such a powerful tool, that requires love and nurturing

i will not harm you again, you have given me the ultimate gift, I praise God in gratitude as I fly

finally reaching the bottom, it feels like a paradox, because I have in fact reached the top, the summit

thank you for this gift, this chance, almighty God, i will not disappoint you, i will live big in your namesake.

covered in the powder of hope, i head back up the mountain.

Day 1: The Caffeine Incident.

Today my proverbial java-filled bubble was burst.

I left treatment with the lip-smacking, revitalized conviction to resume my delicious coffee habit, complete with dreams of dark roasted, espresso laden, caffeinated goodness. So this morning, I relished in a cup (or two) of my intention. Absolutelyfuckingdelicious. Heaven sent nectar of the gods (may be pushing it but you get the idea). I greeted the busy day refreshed, hopeful, caffeinated.
My gratitude was immeasurable  as I have not been sleeping well on the prednisone and my day was literally jammed with follow-up appointments. Not to mention that it is my ONLY remaining vice, as I have decided to abstain from drinking, smoking, not to mention taking up eating and "feelings." Just the boost and glue that I needed to make it through day #1.

This all came to a screeching halt around 10:30 on Friday morning. My doctor, whom I love, asked the question loaded, cocked and ready, the Colt 44 pointed at my gut, "Are you drinking coffee?" Since I love her and I have also given up lying as a vice, I meekly answered, "yes."

"I don't think that is on your meal plan, or the best idea, you better stick to decaf."

So the balloon of hope, empowerment and revitalization was untied, sent shooting around the sterile office spraying my espresso-filled aspirations all over the walls and floor of the 8x8 exam room. Though my face dropped I showed no sign of struggle, merely relinquished power, watching the my dark-roasted dreams slip slowly down the walls into an evaporating puddle on the floor, drying quickly, leaving only stains of defeat. "Okay," I managed to stammer after a minute, what's one more unrequited passion.

So we continued on the rest of the day, still upbeat and high from my gift of my "last temptation," acquiring some imitation gold on our journey home after a long day. My new wanderlust. Decaf coffee. Yum. Just keep saying it. By the time we got home I had radically accepted this new way of living, though still pining and reveling in that last day of caffeine. Tomorrow to start anew. Letting go.

The next morning a large guffaw echoed from the kitchen as Clay prepared the morning coffee. Barely able to catch his breath,  Clay came into the kitchen holding a coffee can, baring a striking resemblance to the new canister, just purchased the evening before. We had been drinking decaf all along. Figures, son of a biscuit.

Recovery Mountain

Written in reverence to my leaving treatment to reenter life.

Cracked, broken shells walk through these doors

clinging and reaching for the summit of the decaying mountain.

So fragile.

Barely alive, hands sweaty, grasp slipping from the cliff of sanity

ready to let go.

To plummet.

The vast valley of submission below

death.

Taking the literal and figurative step into this house

a choice is made.

The pain, labor and strength required for the climb is obliterated.

The body is placed back on solid ground.

The summit firmly underfoot.

The palms are still cut and bleeding,

the psyche engulfed by the hopeful terror that the cliff will just give way.

ending the pain and preventing any further exertion.

Releasing the resentment of disempowerment,

having wanted to complete the ascent independently.

Knowing, “I can do it on my own.”

Faced with the decent, jumping off the edge seems inviting.

The body, so tired, apparently unable and unwilling to take the first step.

D

O

W

N

the mountain.

However, awareness recognizes the surrounding people

who unite in setting the spark for the journey to begin.

One step at a time.

Soon, putting one foot in front of the other, progress is made without realization.

The trek down is difficult,

marked with ravines, crevices and rapid water carving through the rock.

Rushing, again, inviting.

Thankfully the accompanying guides are prepared.

The journey’s pace is comfortable yet slow,

punctuated by rest, food, water, comfort

there are rafts, ropes and boards to cross obstacles,

lost time back tracking searching for lost or forgotten items.

The trip seems endless and stagnant,

yet step by step the safety  of the mountain’s base approaches,

even though the flat land appears distorted and seemingly unreachable.

But the distortion lifts as feet reach the flat stable ground

Replaced by surreal pride.

No longer broken or empty, scars where wounds once were

regaining strength daily.

The guides, now trusted companions, must depart now,

headed for the next adventure, the next descent.

As they leave to lift another body and spirit  from the peak

they bequeath the ropes, boards, rafts and sustenance

to continue on the journey, knowing there will be more mountains,

different guides, new adventures.

You are ready.

Start living.

-MDF 11/29/11-1/19/12

Snapped.

buckling, bucking, agony
the stairs take me back in time
against my will.
the pain is unbearable.
tied. passive twister.
beasts ravaging their slaughter
pushing, pulling, unaware or unconcerned with the rope and bungee tethers
lack of elasticity.
the human body can only take so much.
unlike the spirit
which can be broken
over
and
over
again.
trampled and torn
limbs disfigured.
A sudden H A L T.
the feast stops.
the beasts retreat.
too far. too risky for them.
lifted into the air.
returned to safety
my savior and my sufferer
protector of my prostitution
healer of this horrific hedonism
ice and a warm cloth of comfort await me in the back of the car
act two.
attention waits at home.
a new unknown variable.
am I deserving?
my head sinks in.

Grounded.

A heaviness comes over me.
weights and chains keeping me still.
here.
on the ground.
I have stopped fighting
ready to accept my undeniable penance
each muscle rigid, paralyzed
the anticipation and prodromal doom literally shake my physical form.
My senses overwhelm me
forcing my presence to what seems to be
inhumane
deterioration
of
self.
Reconconstruction of the soul.
The firm grasp and constant pull of the chains subdue me.
My breath s t a g g e r s
Inhale.
Exhale in pregnant hesitation.
Then it happens.
The chains release, though I remain restrained in grief.
Fists, clenched, eyes glued shut
the pain intensifies, growing harder to ignore
to escape.
A tear bursts forth, cleansing my face as it burns down my cheek
temporarily staining my shirt in indelible devastation and shame.
More follow.
The shaking, burning and staining continue to torture me,
Now inviting my nose to swell and drain in sadness,
every nerve in my suddenly awake,
on fire.
The seconds pass in hours,
infinitesimally slow and devastating.
No choice.
My body slides to the sanctity of the floor
I lay there
P A I N F U L L Y  P R E S E N T
just waiting for the ref to call the round.