Journey to Health, Overcoming, The Anxiety Files, The Work of Becoming

How to Undo Fear: On Fear, Fearlessness + What’s In Between

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When I was a child, I devoured books about strong girls. Old fashioned novels about girls who lived in the woods, and who loved life with this big, abundant abandon. Girls who faced the worst life would give and rose, who were willing to be brave and unapologetically smart. I read Gone with the Wind for the first time when I was ten, and I revered Scarlett O’Hara in all her petty meanness and selfish immaturity—here was a woman bent on survival.

I consumed stories about fearless women, because I imagined that someday, I would grow into a fearless woman. This word—for me, it was a world unto itself.

I think as a kid, I spent more time thinking about my identity than I did trying to create—or at least project—it. Because of that, there were a few individual words—fearlessness among them—that became so big, so prominent in my mental geography. I was this, or at least I would be, when I grew up.

There are a few moments from my life that stand as highway marker, and this is one: In the middle of my freshman year of college mental health crisis, I got lost on a city bus. I misread the schedule or misread the bus—I’m still not sure which—but I wound up getting deposited at an empty transit station, in the wrong downtown, on a street that I did not recognize.

I was terrified.

And not because I didn’t know where I was. This was only six years ago—I had a cell phone with a GPS, and access to both the city wide bus schedule, and people with cars would could come pick me up.

I collapsed in an empty hallway, on a carpet with green and gray squares, and I began to weep. I was so, desperately afraid of absolutely everything. The life I’d been dreaming of since I was a little kid was far, far too big for me, and I was only at the beginning. I was staring down the barrel of my adulthood, and I knew deep in my bones that I was not fearless. I was fear. Without realizing what I was doing, I had accumulated and indexed fears until I was a walking atlas of them.

I was afraid: that my parents would be killed in a car crash, that someone in the transit station would approach me with a question, that I would be invited to a social event and not know what to do, AND that there would be a social gathering and I would not be invited, that my brother would be killed by a shooter at his high school, and that I would never make any friends. I was afraid that I would never write again. I was afraid of my dormitory hallways, and especially afraid of the cafeterias, and afraid of how lonely I was, and afraid of how difficult it was to make friends. I even remember lying awake one night and worrying that I would never have friend with whom I was close enough to fear that someday they too may die a painful and untimely death. (Crazy, I know).

I was a whole landscape of fear, a country of worry held together only by very fragile bones.

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In the months following that breakdown, I had to deal very seriously with my identity. It is truly the only time in my life when I felt utterly lost from myself, and at odds with who I thought I’d been. It wasn’t just that I wasn’t “fearless,” because although I was not, my identity was unstable at a much more fundamental level. I did, however, have to confront the magnitude of my fears.

Ongoing treatment and care for my anxiety has significantly lessened the weight of fear in my life, and the strength of my fears have lessened— less “what is my parents dies in a car accident?” and more “how would I afford another car payment if my transition drops out.” But they are still very, very much with me.

I used to think that I was letting down the young version of myself who thought that strength would be measured, like it was for my heroines, by how little I feared. But here’s the thing. I’ve reread most of my favorite books from my childhood, and I don’t see fearless women anymore. I see fear. These stories are shaped by fear! They’re only compelling because of the fear. Because it’s not a lack of fear that makes Anne beg Matthew and Marilla to keep her, or that makes Hermione brave enough to partner with Harry, or that gives Eowyn the strength to pull off her helmet and look evil in the eye. It’s the decision to act in spite of the fear.

Every single character that I ever adored all had a set of fears unique to themselves, and every single one of them saw their fear, their worst fears, running after them, and not a single one of them ducked. That’s why I loved them. That’s why I wanted to be them.

Fearlessness is not the goal. For me, fear is a companion that I didn’t invite into my house, but that is here, because sometimes it keeps me alive. Maybe it will change, but I doubt it—I’m predisposed to panic, and my craft is my overactive imagination. At this point, fear is in the house, and I can’t make it leave.

I can, however, make it sit in the corner, in the uncomfortable chair, facing the wall. I can tell it to shut up when it starts to drown out the guests that I actually invited over. When it convinces me that the phone only rings when someone dies, or that I can’t take down my Christmas tree, because my dad cut it down, and what if my dad dies before he can down a new tree for me, then I’ll send it to a different room, and make it stare at a blank wall in there.

Giving fear power in the moments when it doesn’t have a valid claim only makes the moments when fear is real, and when it is warranted that much harder. Because fear comes when what we love is threatened. And if we’re being honest, life does not promise to protect that which we life.

One of the very few things we’re promised is suffering. Life will hurt badly. As a friend reminded me after my grandfather died, what I was feeling just then was the result of the very best that life can give—86 years lived, 64 years married, 6 children grown, 14 grandchildren, 5 great-grandchildren. That’s the best, and that aches.

We’ve all read this before: If we live long enough, everyone we’ve ever loved will die, and if we don’t, we’ll leave behind people in pain.

Fear cannot change the facts. It will only make it harder to live with them. This is a hard truth to hold in your hand—I believe it maybe 2 out of every 50 days, and I act out of that belief only 1. Fear is powerful and seductive, and it is almost all empty promises, broken cisterns that leak water when you’re most in need.

Life comes after us, whether we want it to or not. And all my fearing, all my empty worrying, my obsessive indexing of catastrophe, has not prepared me for what happens when the thing I’ve feared becomes the thing that’s real, and takes its own seat at the table.

 

Journey to Health, Lovely Living, On Writing, The Work of Becoming

PHow to Start 2017: Intentions for a New Season

kcuflktxyy4-sarah-dorweilerI love the first few weeks of January. After the holidaying is finished, and the accumulated days of the past year are behind us, there’s comes a cleanness, a sharpness and a specificity to life for which I usually have to fight. For the first few weeks of each new year, I know, more clearly than usual, what it is that I am here for.

I attribute this simplicity to the winter light. My writing desk faces a sloping lawn, and in January, it looks out onto snow, sculpted into elegance by the wind and by the cold.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve made resolutions, formally and informally, for the new year. It’s the idea of the clean sheet, the romance of possibility, of something new. At last new year, I wrote not about resolutions about what I would not quit in 2016, the anchors and tethers to which my life is, for better always and never for worse, bound to. Last year, I didn’t set anything formal for myself (although I did write about the anchors and tethers to which I am, for the better, bound), and the year that came was strange, disorganized and without cohesion. I ended 2016 feeling emptied, my emotional landscape jagged and depressed, my relationships lackluster, my creative output (writing) and creative input (reading) both stagnated. And, two days before, my beloved grandfather died. Grief broke my mild depression, and left me aching, a a blanket of sadness that I did not expect and didn’t (don’t) how to wear.

In the week between Christmas and New Year, I said, again and again, that I wanted to move into the new year, like it was a house I could occupy.

Now that the new year is here, and I’ve returned to a routine, I’ve given thought to what resolutions, if any, I want to make. When I think about 2017, I’ve thought mainly in terms of end results. I want another (and another and another) of my short stories to be published.  I want to return to mental health.

I want, I want, but I can’t guarantee that I’ve actually get any of these things. I can write, but it’s not up to me what gets published. I can save, but I can’t expect the unexpected — an ill-timed car repair could defer home ownership an entire year. I can work towards mental health, but whatever predispositions and chemicals that make me melancholy, and anxious can’t always be wrangled into submission. Desires aren’t goals. They can’t be. You can’t hold onto what burns.

Instead of thinking in terms of “goals” that I can “crush” (language that makes me itch), I’m thinking about intentions fit for my next season. What habits do I have the capacity to build in the coming months that will enrich and enliven my life.

Right now, 2017 is a country of desire. I don’t know (and I mean nothing profound by this) what it will bring. I want it to be a good year — it would be naive of me to say otherwise. I want the new year to bring all its fruits, and let me taste them, but I can’t make that happen. I have only so much power. Instead of naming my desires (I have no patience for vision board thinking) or setting quantifiable goals, I’m setting intentions for myself that I plan to commit to for the foreseeable season. When this season eventually changes, I’ll re-evaluate and re-adjust, but for now, I have four habits I’m committing to to help me build a life of my own doing.

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– Exercise my body –

This, I realize, is the oldest and most artificial of all New Year’s resolutions —  so much so that I almost didn’t include it for fear of being trite. I have a better reason than I ever have before to commit to this habit: As 2016 pulled to a close, my mental health became more precarious than it has in a few years. I met with my doctor to talk about re-medicating a rising anxiety and mild, but stubborn depression. The side effects the last time I was on an SSRI were unpleasant enough to make me hesitant to start a new prescription, and neither I nor my doctor were sure that my symptoms were strong enough to necessitate chemical intervention. As an alternative, she put me on an exercise regiment. As frequently as I could (aim for five days per week), with the purpose of raising the heart rate. Did you know that regular, cardiovascular exercise can have the same effects on stabilizing brain chemical as a low dose SSRI? It was helping in December, and to ease back into the routine after a two week break, I’m starting with a “30 day fitness challenge.”
Habit: four times per week.
Hope: to feel strong and at home in my own body.

– Read daily –

Books are my oldest, and sometimes, dearest friends, but just as I am an inconsistent friend, I am an inconsistent reader. I read an article about committing to read 25 pages per day, and while I usually resist quantity driven habits (see above: allergic to goal crushing), I was drawn to the simplicity. A set of pages every day — so simple it’s almost silly. I love this passage from Mary Oliver’s Upstream: “I read my books with diligence, and mounting skill, and gathering certainty. I read the way a person might swim, to save his or her life. I wrote that way too.” Books have saved me again, and again, and though I already ready a lot, 2016 was an uneven year of reading, and I want — I need — 2017 to be better. I want to read like that swimmer, and then I want to write.
Habit: Read daily.
Hope: Revival.

– Write (almost) daily –

Again, I do this, but I don’t do it well. I write daily and fervently — burn pages — and then, if I don’t want to, or if I’m feeling lazy, or if I’m feeling lost from my story, or if TV or social media or other pedantic pleasures get in my way, I don’t. I don’t care for him, but I resonated so much with a Jonathan Franzen interview I listened to last year in which he talked about how his greatest weakness as a writer is fun — television, and movies, and games, and friends, and entertainment. I feel this sharply, and most days, I have to turn off everything to write anything. There are deeper wells to be tapped, this is what I’m always reminding myself. Writing can be pure pleasure, but even when it’s not, it’s still worth showing up for.
Habit: Write (almost) every day.
Hope: That someday, whether I’ve published or not, I’ll know that I have written ferociously.

– Reflect, purposefully and consistently –

It’s no secret that we, as a generation, as a society, as a people cleaved to device, have all but given up on reflection. As a writer and as a little “h” historian, I think often about preservation and memory. In recent years, I’ve shied away from journaling as a way to preserve, because life is ongoing, and as better writers than me have written, creating a record of days doesn’t create a life, nor can it write an ill-lived life into existence. I didn’t journal out of the fear that it would devolve into little more than a logbook. But then, I think about a friend who journals about each book she reads. She told me once that she’s been using the same journal for several years, and when she flips through its pages, she can chart not just what book she was read, but what her life looked like during each book’s reading. I love the idea of a journal as a space to breed thought and as well as to capture memory. In the coming year, I want to make more time for unstructured and reflective, in a space more private and less curated than this one.
Habit: Regular, written reflection
Hope: Create a space to think + to hold all my evolving selves.

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In addition to these four, I have a handful of smaller, more quantifiable “goals” for the new year. I’m trying to be more diligent about cooking at home instead of relying on takeout for dinner. And as a perpetual project-er, I’m determined that 2017 be the year that I finish all my half-done projects.

It’s a new year, and I think about what Rebecca Solnit wrote about hope: “The hope I’m interested in is about broad perspectives with specific possibilities, ones that invite or demand that we act. It’s also not a sunny everything-is-getting-better narrative, though it may be a counter to the everything-is-getting-worse narrative. You could call it an account of complexities and uncertainties, with openings.”

Though I’m approaching it with reserved and (some) melancholy, I have a quiet and gentle hope that what comes next will be, not by circumstance or situation, but by a bettering, mellowing me, better than what came before.

Bookshelf, Journey to Health, Lovely Living

Life Lately: Getting Back to the Joy of It All

1115“Sitting still as a way of falling in love with the world and everything in it; I’d seldom thought of it like that. Going nowhere as a way of cutting through the noise and finding fresh time and energy to share with others; I’d sometimes moved toward the idea, but it had never come home to me so powerfully.” The Art of Stillness, Pico Iyer

These past four or five months have not been bad months, but they’ve been busy months, and busy is hard for me. Each week has been stuffed with work commitments, and weekly appointments, and friends and family, and I-didn’t-know-that-was-coming, and I’ve looked up again and again and said “I need some rest.”

I prefer to move at a slower pace, keeping open wide swaths of time for the people and pursuits I love best. I’ve heard this called creating margin—opening up time and energy around the unshakable commitments of life to make room for more rest, more joy. While I hesitate to call these margins a “need,” because they’re a luxury afforded to me by age and life-stage and privilege, I do know I struggle when my margins disappear.

This spring wound me tight. So tight I began to fray at the edges. I made myself overworked and overtired and overstressed. I came to the end of my days, and I let myself collapse ointo a heap on the couch. I forwent cooking one meal, then another, then another, and I slowly traded a robust reading and writing rhythm for eleven and a half seasons of Grey’s Anatomy. (Y’all, this show has NO business being on its twelfth season). I isolated myself even more than I usually do until I was only seeing people at pre-appointed times. I filled up every blank minute with some form of distraction, because it feels so much easier passively take than actively create.

I built up all these bad habits, and my body responded. Sleep deteriorated, and as my sugar and caffeine intakes rose, my body and mind both became sluggish. I was perpetually not sick, but not well. Then, a month ago, I began breaking out in hives and eczema, and last week, after a nerve-wracking (and expensive) trip to the ER, I learned that I have costochondritis and pericarditis—both painful, but non-threatening swellings inside my body.

I’m like a car badly in need of an oil change. Not broken, but I’ve gone just a little too long without taking proper care. I’m working on taking proper care now.

I use this space to document the “working through it” of it. The figuring it all out, as vague as that it. Now that work is promising to ease up a bit, and the temperatures are above freezing, I’m working my way through this little pile-up back to the joy of it all.

1113I’m doing that by getting back on top of my reading game. When I don’t read enough, I feel unbalanced, like I’ve left the house with only one shoe one. After a series of false starts and bad reads (who knew I would dislike The Sun Also Rises so much), I did what I haven’t done in months and had myself a little party trip to the book store. I picked up a few thrillers, and devoured Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None in days. I’m currently in the middle of the gorgeous Seating Arrangements. I’ve plunged back into my Granta Book of the American Short Story, and am trying to pick apart the genius of this hard, hard art form. I said last week that I understand the world through stories, and my goodness, it feel good to be back with them.

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Connected to the uptick in reading, I’m also going back to what inspires me so that I can make an easier time of my slow crawl back to a daily writing habit. For me, this means giving myself time to consume and time to think. I’m keeping the TV off, and as best I can, my phone away.

I reread this sad, strange, surreal story about a man who removed himself from the world for nearly thirty years. I’m pouring over the photographs from a recent visit to the Grand Canyon (more on that later—it’s been a month, and my soul still hasn’t settled). I’m doing what I heard another artist talk about, and using photographs as jumping off points for the stories I want to tell.

After the announcement of their 16 Tony nominations, I also gave Hamilton another go, and it all clicked together in a way it hasn’t before. I’ve been listening to the soundtrack over and over, not only because the music is good (it is) or the story is interesting (it is), but because Hamilton is an extraordinary example of what I find most phenomenal and worthy about artwork. At its core, art is the reworking and reimagining and retelling of our oldest stories so that the beautiful, radical, essential humanity of them is clear. Hamilton does this (and with history, no less!), and it’s blasted open the doors of my own shuttered creativity.

Side note: If you’re not already, start listening. It’s a dancing, rapping, race-bending bio-musical about the man who founded the National Treasury, was at the center of America’s first sex scandal, and was killed in a duel by the Vice President. If that doesn’t get you excited, I’m not sure what will.

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I’m turning my attention to food, trying to both follow the Michal Pollan food rules (Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants), and rediscover the joy of creating meals. In response to the skin irritations and the swelling, I spent hours pouring over cookbooks and food blogs, looking for recipes that were low in sugar and dairy and high in vegetables. I’m mixing up what I buy, and what I eat, and trying to reorient my perspective around food so I see it as a source of energy and a gift, but not as a bandage or a salve. My goal is to make and eat food that’s good, real, and energizing, not to create a rulebook around what I “should” or “shouldn’t” and “can” or “can’t” eat. A few recipes from my May meal plan: broccoli melts, oatmeal blueberry breakfast bars, spring fettuccine primavera, and artichoke ricotta flatbread (with goat cheese instead of ricotta, and homemade pizza dough).

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There’s something slow and spectacular in keeping pace with only ourselves.

Journey to Health, Overcoming, The Anxiety Files

A Body of Belonging: Image, Self Worth, and the Cruelty I Deal to Myself

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On Thursday morning, I woke up, and before I’d even finished dressing, I made myself cry.

You’re fat. You’re ugly. Your jeans do not fit, and that tee-shirt was made for a smaller woman. Everyone will see this.

I caught my reflection in the mirror while I was dressing, and without a hint of hesitation, I gave myself this articulate dose of abuse before I’d even brushed my hair.

Hot, shamed tears came spilling down my face as if I’d been insulted by someone outside of my own mind, and for the next thirty minutes, I fussed with my appearance, trying to make style my reflection into something that voice in my head wouldn’t insult. I repeated these words to myself, you really do look like a potato, maybe if you curl your hair, people won’t notice it. No? Try tucking the shirt in. It still won’t look good on you, but you’ll have at least done what you can.

My worth is tangled up with my pant size, my beauty thrown in with my weight. I’ve had these all confused for years now, since early in my girlhood, really, but I’m in an especially cruel cycle of self-loathing right now. I stand in front of the mirror, and I pull at my flesh, tally it as evidence that I am notskinny, and because I am notskinny, I am less. I see the way that my body continually changes, shifts, morphs, and I hurl abuse and obscenities at it. I tether myself to the tyranny of something — the scale, the pant size, the softness of my flesh — and in doing so, I tear myself to pieces. I break myself down in tiny, compromising ways until my heart starts to look like what I’m chasing for my body — Less.

I was far, far too young when I decided that my body was, if not an outright enemy, a thing to be feared and controlled.

For reference, I’m a conventionally small woman. I’ve been roughly the same size since I was 10 years old: 5 feet, 4 inches, somewhere between 120 and 140 pounds, long legs, short torso, a soft layer on top of developed (read: big) muscles. As a child, that mean I was massive, but as an adult, it means I’m shockingly average.

As a young girl, I was was tall. This is one of my earliest perceptions of my body. Tall. And being tall meant something good, something exciting. I saw my height as a gift, specifically given by the women in my dad’s family. They too were tall. My aunt, my girl cousins. Together we were tall, and when I made school-house friends with two other tall girls, I was proud of my tribe. Tall girls. We could see farther and reach higher. We took up more space than our peers, and when you’re little, being big makes you feel strong.

For a long time, I liked my body. Or not such much liked it as didn’t notice it. My mom rocked body positivity (although I don’t think we called it that in the ‘90s), and when I heard my elementary-age peers mimic their own mothers and complain about wide hips or milk with fat in it, I told them they were stupid. In third grade, I watched a friend throw away three of her five chicken nuggets, because she was “dieting” to stay “right at fifty.” The next day, I loaned her my girl power/changing body book, and told her to read the chapter about anorexia and bulimia. In my head, she was stupid, and I was strong, and even though I wasn’t allowed to eat school hot lunches (waste.of.money, my mom reminded me), I knew that no person should ever diet, especially not an eight year old girl who weighed as much as I’d weighed as a healthy toddler.

My body was my tool, my toy, my vehicle. It was my mountain hiker, my tree climber, my soccer player. In my body, I camped, and I climbed, I read and I wrote. It housed all my excitement, all my wonder, all my fears, and all my dreams. It was me, and I had no concept of war with myself. How could I split Torrie from Torrie’s body, they were one in the same. One whole piece.

I hurts me, now, to think about how soon after the chicken nugget episode that I began to turn on my own body. That summer, I was harassed by boys for the first time — teenagers from down the road yelled something lewd and indistinguishable to me while I played in my driveway. When I heard them yell, and realized it was at me, I ran scared into my garage, confused and overwhelmed. I attended a birthday party that involved swimming, and for the first time, I realize that my body was somehow different than my peers. I saw them, with their straight, flat planes of girlhood, and compared it with my own topography of soft swells and ripples. This was the first time I feel uncomfortable in my own skin, and I remember trying to use the water to hide my grown-up form from my much smaller friends.

In increments, I learned to regard my body with increasing shame and suspicion. I stopped being proud of my height, and began to understand myself as burly. Hulking. I learned how to do that thing that every girl at one point learns — where you stack your arms, one on top of the other, and wrap your arms around your stomach, hands curling over you waist and hips — to hide a stomach that had taken on a soft layer years before my peers. The visceral memory I have is of a girl trying to retreat, trying to pull back into her small. While my female peers began blossoming, each at their own rate, I continued to see other girls through a lens of envy and shame. I became used to, but not comfortable with, being the tallest, thickest girl in the room, and if other girls my age struggled with their own bodies, I never knew, so buried underneath my own nascent insecurities.

At the same time, I was also diving into words. I read with a new kind of voraciousness, sought out learning wherever I could. I begin writing the way I imagined adult writers wrote, and, once summer, I even wrote a 300 + page behemoth of a first “novel.” I didn’t have many friends, and the ones I did have didn’t often call. I kept myself from lonely by building words inside my own head. As I grew confident and proud of my brain, of how I could think and communicate and create, I, I wish I could have understood that those were all functions of the same body I was disassociating from, all part of the same team.

My parents, in a move that was ultimately loving and, surprisingly, not shaming, encouraged me to begin exercising. I spent the summer before high school learning about how protein fills you up, and cardio strengthens your heart. I didn’t track my weight or my calories or my measurements, but I began to regain some of the joy I once felt about my body. I became stronger, more confident, and mid-way through high school, I ended my fatwa on sports, and joined the Track and Field team. I was a sprinter (who ran exceedingly slowly), and while I added nothing quantifiable to the team, I learned about how much my body could do. How strong it could be. Some of the softness I’d accumulated melted away, and while I didn’t realize this until the mother of a friend complimented me on “my new hard body,” I did like that I became less aware of my body. It felt like a miracle, a few months later, when I saw myself in the mirror with two other girlfriends that we all looked remarkably the same.

I continued to be active, joining the Cross Country team and proving to myself that I could run an entire mile without dying. Not just that, but I could run two, three, four, seven miles without dying. (I didn’t push myself any farther. I still believe that running a full eight miles without stopping would kill if not my body, definitely my soul).

I was confident, yes, more comfortable, yes, proud, again, of my body and it’s abilities, but I never fully became unified with it. I never learned to love it. I continued to have flesh ripple out where I didn’t want, and continued to pluck at skin and call it excess. I amassed an arsenal of mean girl tricks I could play on myself: comparison and jealousy and magazine cover envy. Every few months, I discovered a new part of my body that could be wrong, and developed corresponding anxieties. After school sports were replaced by an after-school job (one that boasted a perk of constant bread and butter, if I wanted it). High school ended, and I slipped deeper into the anxious depression that would cripple me in the spring of my freshmen year of college. I was increasingly less active, increasingly more sedentary. My emotions flared uneven, and I isolated myself. My body continued to shift and change, and while I remained objectively slim, every few months, I added a couple more pounds onto my frame.

My body remained a thing of discomfort. It betrayed me in dressing rooms when the clothing designed for teenagers and young women couldn’t accommodate my body, and the clothing designed for adult women made me look ten, fifteen times older than I was. It shamed me when strange men used it as an opening to yell filth and degradation from sidewalks. It remained a symbol of my non-belonging, so whenever I was in social setting that made me uncomfortable or anxious, I would slip back into the same confused shame that I associate with being the only twelve year old that needed to wear a real bra. I learn how to manage my mental health, and graduated, and got a real job, and learn how to be a writer. I now lose and gain the same five to ten pounds, and although my clothing hangs when I’m on one end of the spectrum and strains when I’m on the other, I look essentially the same.

I have entrenched myself into a sick, repeating cycle of love and hatred that feeds on the fit of my jeans and the number on a scale, and what is maybe the worst part, is that I am not alone. I’ve just told the world’s most boring story: Twenty-first century woman is uncomfortable with her body. I am violent and abusive with myself. I let my own brain produce chatter that would turn me apocalyptic and vengeful if someone else said it to me outloud. My worth is dictated by the level of disgust I feel at my own form, even though I know the body science of water retention and food digestion and general, basic, healthy fluctuations. I eat chocolate, then condemn myself. Pull fistfuls of flesh away from my bones, and offer them up as fat. I do what I did on Thursday morning, and whip myself vicious over a body that is healthy and happy, if maybe a few pounds in excess. I have not an ounce of kindness on days that I’m feeling “fat,” and when I feel pretty, confident, at peace or even happy with my body, I allow myself only the slightest nod of approval.

I break myself to pieces, and it hurts. It hurts every time I tell myself I can never eat sugar again, because there’s an inch or two of grabbable flesh around my middle. I scrawl vitriol across my body — too thick, too wide, not flat, too much giggle, not enough definition — and whenever I hear someone try to care for me in the way that I’m not letting myself, I brush them off, tune them out, give them reasons why they’re wrong.

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This body is a home. I’m realizing this slowly, and only in pieces. I live inside this flesh, and each cruel word I attach to it is a scar. It’s a mark of ugly anger, of rejection and hatred. I am tired of rejecting myself.

Three times, I’ve let needles scar ink into my skin. My foot, my wrist, and my shoulder. Together, they are strength, brokenness, wonder, and home. Each it’s own direction, it’s own invective. I have them all purposefully, permanently in my skin, because I want my body to be a record. I want it to be a testament of strength, a capsule of celebration, a record of beauty. A home that holds the wear and care and deep, deliberate embrace of a rich, undulating life.

This body cannot bear the weight of my own cruelty. Not if I also want to embrace the overwhelming fullness of this life

You are within yourself one person, and I want you to be whole. I want you to be whole no matter how you thicken and swell, droop and fade, as you invariably will. I want your body to be a place of strength, and of peace.

A place where you belong.

Journey to Health

Health and Wellness: Because My Body Needs My Care

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I’ve had it up to here with my body.

I don’t have health issues, per say, but my body is high maintenance. It has itself some issues.

If you’ve spend much time with me, you’ll know about all my food stuff. I’m lactose intolerant (enough so that it’s not worth it to eat that piece of pizza). I have acid reflux, which keeps me avoiding tomato, onion, spicy heat, excessive grease. I don’t handle hunger or a drop in blood sugar well (hangry is a familiar state, as are the “too hungry to talk to you,” “too hungry to see straight,” and “so hungry I feel nauseous) states. I’m frequently exhausted, and need lots of sleep. My sinus passages are narrow, and I’m prone to painful sinus infections. I did something to my low back years ago, and now the base of my spine throbs with pain if I’m certain positions, sit too long, stand too long. I waged a decade long war with severe acne, and still have sensitive skin (I’m writing this slathered in steroid cream).

See what I mean about high-maintenance?

My body has been revealing these glitches in the system for about five, six years, and in that time, my relationship to general health and wellness has been rocky. If we were a couple, we’d have broken up and come back together a thousand, obnoxious times.

I used to be an avid, almost obsessive, exerciser, but I lost the zeal and the dedication. All through college, I cycled through intense mental commitments to a workout routines and deep love affairs with my bed and my books (and, let’s be honest, Netflix). My eating habits, though never dreadful, slid steadily from lean proteins, fresh vegetables and monitored portions to granola bars and pasta kept ready in the fridge. The growing up of life brought higher levels of stress than I still don’t how to handle, and I’ve never been good at creating environments of health or peace for myself.

And it’s been a while since I’ve really, really cared. Healthy living has always been a priority. It’s always on my list, but it’s been lower on it than, say, re-watching Silicon Valley.

Until recently.

Now, I’m fed-up. Fed-up with not feeling well. Fed-up with eating and not feeling full, with constantly managing my body’s temper tantrums, with having rashes spread down my arms and up my legs, and fed-up with feeling so captive to a body that was designed to run better than this.

I’m fed-up with what comes from not being intentional about health and wellness.

My body is my home. It’s a house for my mind and for my soul and it’s the vessel that carries me through the world. It’s just been recently that I’ve come to really believe this, and it’s made me want to shake my own shoulders: Why don’t you give your body more of your energy? More of your love and your care?

The same goes with food. It’s fuel; it’s the means to my energy. Why do I eat junk that does the opposite of what food is supposed to do? (In an impulse of nostalgia, I bought myself one of those blue-raspberry ICEEs at the movie theater, remembering how often I’d beg my mom for one as a kid. I felt that sugar crash hard, and afterward thought to myself, how many more times will I do that before I really learn?)

So I’m setting myself out on a mission. A pursuit or an exploration or an adventure (I don’t want to call it a journey) into healthy living and general bodily wellness.

I don’t have the money or the time to see a dietitian or an allergist to help me decide what to eat, nor do I have the means to hire a personal trainer to teach me how to enjoy my workouts. I’m also not interested in any cult of “drink this powdered shake,” “take this miracle pill,” “chia seeds/acai berries/eating-like-a-cave-man will save your life.”

I do, however, have an arsenal of exercise options that don’t include a paid gym membership or running (hello, apartment complex workout center, goodbye hell on pavement), and I do have the ability to experiment with my foods. Already I’ve set a (pathetically small) workout goal for myself, and have begun tracking what foods create what effect within me. Already I’ve learned that lentil and avocados are a great combination for me, but the very best cheeseburger I’ve ever tanks my energy levels and turns me into jell-o with legs.

I don’t expect that I’ll widen my sinus passages or make my lactose intolerance go away through healthier eating. In fact, I have a feeling that if I dedicate myself to eating well for my body, I’ll actually become more discerning and have an even longer list of foods I’m not interested in eating.

I do expect that I’ll be able to raise my energy levels. I do expect that eating more thoughtfully will increase my productivity and creativity, and I do expect that working out will make me feel stronger in my body, feel more capable and more energized, and more awake to the world around me.

I also expect this to be really hard. I expect to skip workouts and hate the ones I complete, and I very much expect to find myself shoveling spoonfuls of chocolate chips and peanut butter into my mouth for no other reason that I really, really wanted to. I expect to cook food that tastes terrible, and to be cranky about saying no to things that won’t serve me well.

But I have to start somewhere, right? I can’t start out with all the answers.

My body needs to be precious to me. Not for vanity or pride (though I won’t say no to a dropping a few pounds if it happens), but for durability, and for strength. For knowing that my soul, to which I’ve always given infinitely more care and concern, is housed in a vessel that will sustain my life.

 

P.S. To anyone who has already figured out this lesson, who knows which foods give the best fuel and who get excited for Saturday morning workouts, help me! I’ll take any advice, recipes, food recommendations, workout tips you want to share.