For the past few days, a deep fog has settled in on the east side of the state. Although it leaves trees and light poles with a sparkling white frost, it's a nightmare to drive though, especially when my commuting hours are very early and very late.
Most times, I try to stay in a pack so that a string of red taillights can lead me along I-29. This morning, traffic was light was I was my own guiding light. Visibility was low, only about a quarter of a mile most of the way. All I could count on was that my wheels were straight and the lines of the road would always tell me the direction to go.
The white fog that blocked everything in front of me frightened me. I don't like not knowing where I am going, especially when all that is up head is a cloudy haze. What if something just appeared in the road? Would I be able to avoid it? What if I missed my exit? What if I never see the road ahead again?
As I was trying my best to stay calm, I noticed the metaphor—the road my car was on and the one my life is on were similar. I am not always going to know what's ahead or have someone to follow, and I shouldn't. Sometimes, I got to just bowl right through the fog and pretend to not be afraid. If something appears, I've got to have faith that it won't kill me, even if it might it. I just need to keep driving.
I made it to my destination with no problems. On the actual road or the road of my life, I have to have faith that that will always happen, even if it doesn't. Because having faith is a better way to drive than worrying constantly.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Sunday, January 10, 2010
A new life
I was sunglasses shopping when I got the phone call.
There was a pair of brown-tint, gold-rimmed sunglasses that I passed by a couple days prior and I couldn't stop thinking about them. I ran to the store to get something else and decided that particular night was the one in which I would fork over the $10 for the eye wear.
My heart was set on that particular pair, but I teased myself a bit and tried on a few others, just to make sure I was fully committed to the brown ones. As I was making the poses you make when trying on sunglasses in front of the thin sunglasses mirror, my phone rang. It was a dear friend of mine that lived in a different state. I knew exactly what she was going to tell me before I answered.
She set off on a story about her car dying. She had gone to the store late at night for one specific item and her car broke down on her way home. After the tow truck picked up her car and she got home, she took out the item to answer a question that had been stalled with her car problems but on her mind the weekend before when we attended a concert together. She was pregnant and the late night run to the store was for pregnancy test. My unmarried, boyfriendless friend was pregnant.
The night of of pregnancy test and car failures changed her life. Being pregnant affected every aspect of her life and meant big decisions and questions in the next eight months.
When she told me she was pregnant this past May, my life was on the verge of changing, but in a completely different way. Over the past few months, she has adapted to the idea of being a mom, still very unaware of what that title meant. Me, I grew into my new life, chasing dreams faster and harder than I anticipated. Like me, this isn't how she expected her life to play out. This isn't how she imagined her story going.
But she went with it, jumping hurdle after hurdle. Putting up with judging stares and condemning remarks, as she planned for the arrival of a dependent. In my world, I faced obstacles and doubts from strangers and friends alike who only casually understood this dream. Never once did we believe our journeys were easy, but we gave into the idea it would all pay off.
I had lunch with her a couple of weeks ago, very close to her due date. I asked her if she was ready, later realizing that was a ridiculous question to ask. You can't be entirely ready for that change. She handled each moment with stride, knowing this phase was about to end and another, longer one was about to start. We both seemed tired from our lives, but had no choice to keep pressing on, so we do.
Today, my friend's life changed again. She gave birth to a little boy, a gorgeous little boy. Everything she thought about the world changed today.
My life changes aren't nearly as great or poetic as becoming a mother, but they are what I can handle right now. I admire my friend so much and have no doubt that she is going to be an amazing mother. She was destined to be a mother. I am still in my pregnancy stage, harboring a life that is yet to emerge into this world. It'll come when the time is right. For my friend, even though it's not how or when she planned, Jan. 10, 2010 was the day she was meant to become a mother. Her new life begins with this new life.
There was a pair of brown-tint, gold-rimmed sunglasses that I passed by a couple days prior and I couldn't stop thinking about them. I ran to the store to get something else and decided that particular night was the one in which I would fork over the $10 for the eye wear.
My heart was set on that particular pair, but I teased myself a bit and tried on a few others, just to make sure I was fully committed to the brown ones. As I was making the poses you make when trying on sunglasses in front of the thin sunglasses mirror, my phone rang. It was a dear friend of mine that lived in a different state. I knew exactly what she was going to tell me before I answered.
She set off on a story about her car dying. She had gone to the store late at night for one specific item and her car broke down on her way home. After the tow truck picked up her car and she got home, she took out the item to answer a question that had been stalled with her car problems but on her mind the weekend before when we attended a concert together. She was pregnant and the late night run to the store was for pregnancy test. My unmarried, boyfriendless friend was pregnant.
The night of of pregnancy test and car failures changed her life. Being pregnant affected every aspect of her life and meant big decisions and questions in the next eight months.
When she told me she was pregnant this past May, my life was on the verge of changing, but in a completely different way. Over the past few months, she has adapted to the idea of being a mom, still very unaware of what that title meant. Me, I grew into my new life, chasing dreams faster and harder than I anticipated. Like me, this isn't how she expected her life to play out. This isn't how she imagined her story going.
But she went with it, jumping hurdle after hurdle. Putting up with judging stares and condemning remarks, as she planned for the arrival of a dependent. In my world, I faced obstacles and doubts from strangers and friends alike who only casually understood this dream. Never once did we believe our journeys were easy, but we gave into the idea it would all pay off.
I had lunch with her a couple of weeks ago, very close to her due date. I asked her if she was ready, later realizing that was a ridiculous question to ask. You can't be entirely ready for that change. She handled each moment with stride, knowing this phase was about to end and another, longer one was about to start. We both seemed tired from our lives, but had no choice to keep pressing on, so we do.
Today, my friend's life changed again. She gave birth to a little boy, a gorgeous little boy. Everything she thought about the world changed today.
My life changes aren't nearly as great or poetic as becoming a mother, but they are what I can handle right now. I admire my friend so much and have no doubt that she is going to be an amazing mother. She was destined to be a mother. I am still in my pregnancy stage, harboring a life that is yet to emerge into this world. It'll come when the time is right. For my friend, even though it's not how or when she planned, Jan. 10, 2010 was the day she was meant to become a mother. Her new life begins with this new life.
Sunday, January 03, 2010
My demon
Pppattthhh
My mind was racing, reviewing the conversation and unsystematic group—a mix of strangers, dear friends and people specifically brought into my life for a reason—which I stepped away from for a moment to use the restroom. Initially, I was nervous about this gathering, but all the players seem to mesh well and the flow of interaction was pleasant, even exciting. As I resided in the failed expectation of awkwardness, my thoughts halted at the noise.
Pppattthhh
It’s impolite to acknowledge the sounds others make in a bathroom, but this is a familiar noise, one that only those who’ve made it understand what it means as if it’s badge of secret club. Whatever was happening back at my table seemed distant and irrelevant to what was happening in the stall next to mine. The next sound was exactly what I expected—silence.
I flushed the toilet, exited the stall and washed my hands. Still, no noise from the only other person in the bathroom. I’d been her before and I was silent in those moments too. I could saying something, offer a piece of support, such as “It’s OK, I understand” or “You don’t have to.” I didn’t. Instead, I left, knowing that is what she wanted from me because I would’ve wanted the same thing from her if our roles were reversed. All she wanted at this point was to hear the sound of the door close as I left her nightmare.
Before I returned to my table, I looked. I always wondered if other peopled looked at me, trying to confirm their suspicions before returning to their neat life. Not wanting her to know that I was seeking her devil out, I quickly glanced under the door to check her feet. Sure enough, I saw her heals, meaning that her toes, her stomach, her face were directed toward the toilet.
Leaving, I shut the door harder than I needed to. I wanted her to know I was gone, for she was now alone to continue her battle. Stopping her or saying something would’ve added to the pain she was already enduring. She was the only who could stop herself.
As I returned to the table, images of bathroom stalls reminded me of what I’d overcome. My addiction could control me at any moment anywhere: home, school, work, restaurants, bars, little league fields, rest stops along the highway. It tortured me with the idea that an empty stomach meant I was more significant to the world.
Many, many times I fell into this twisted logic while eroding my teeth, killing my metabolism and endangering my esophagus and heart. Hours and hours of counseling, threats of hospitalization and several prescriptions could do nothing to beat this monster. Sometimes, it would subdue for weeks or months, but stress, frustration or a difficult relationship would invite it to roar again.
The last time this demon visited was in the summer of 2008. It tugged and teased my insecurities and exposed faults until I gave into its demands. The entire summer, I watched every morsel that I consumed, and if it more than the restrictions I set, it would go back up. I knew it was wrong and I knew that I should quit, but I didn’t want to. Only if I could lose just a few more pounds, then I would quit. I was in control and I could quit when I wanted to.
But I couldn’t.
The breaking came after a party with friends. We dined on wine and pizza, but the enjoyment of the occasion couldn’t suppress the voice in my head. “You need to get rid of it.” With too many people in my apartment, I said that I needed some fresh air. I went to the alley to reveal myself of this pain, of this food. Someone, who knew my history with this disease, caught me. I stopped, pretended nothing happened and rejoined the festivities.
The next day, she confronted me. She told me that I needed to go back to counseling and to realize that this will always be a part of who I am. I refused to believe that. I was more than a person with an eating disorder.
That was the last time I purged, and actually had craving to do so. I’m not sure what snapped inside of me, but something did. I said goodbye to the demon and haven’t looked back.
It’s been over a year and half since my last purge, and I feel victorious. Not because of the time that has lapsed, but because of the change in my attitude. I no longer use food and purging as a coping mechanism, although I’m the most stressed I’ve ever been. Snug jeans or tight shirts don’t send me into a fit of crying and despair anymore. A few gained pounds aren’t the end of the world and I don’t lecture myself after a bit too much to eat. When I finally wanted to quit, I did.
It was at the end of my uncle’s life, as his demon was empowering, that I realized what it meant for me to finally let go of my disease. It meant having back a piece of my life and living with a ray of hope, a ray of strength.
I felt sorry for the woman in the stall, but I said a silent prayer for her, hoping one day she would wake up with the honest will to change. I sat down at my table and scarffed another piece of pizza without regret. Maybe I’m too optimistic, but I have faith in her. I have hope that someday she’ll rid herself of this demon. For my demon is buried and it will forever stay that way.
My mind was racing, reviewing the conversation and unsystematic group—a mix of strangers, dear friends and people specifically brought into my life for a reason—which I stepped away from for a moment to use the restroom. Initially, I was nervous about this gathering, but all the players seem to mesh well and the flow of interaction was pleasant, even exciting. As I resided in the failed expectation of awkwardness, my thoughts halted at the noise.
Pppattthhh
It’s impolite to acknowledge the sounds others make in a bathroom, but this is a familiar noise, one that only those who’ve made it understand what it means as if it’s badge of secret club. Whatever was happening back at my table seemed distant and irrelevant to what was happening in the stall next to mine. The next sound was exactly what I expected—silence.
I flushed the toilet, exited the stall and washed my hands. Still, no noise from the only other person in the bathroom. I’d been her before and I was silent in those moments too. I could saying something, offer a piece of support, such as “It’s OK, I understand” or “You don’t have to.” I didn’t. Instead, I left, knowing that is what she wanted from me because I would’ve wanted the same thing from her if our roles were reversed. All she wanted at this point was to hear the sound of the door close as I left her nightmare.
Before I returned to my table, I looked. I always wondered if other peopled looked at me, trying to confirm their suspicions before returning to their neat life. Not wanting her to know that I was seeking her devil out, I quickly glanced under the door to check her feet. Sure enough, I saw her heals, meaning that her toes, her stomach, her face were directed toward the toilet.
Leaving, I shut the door harder than I needed to. I wanted her to know I was gone, for she was now alone to continue her battle. Stopping her or saying something would’ve added to the pain she was already enduring. She was the only who could stop herself.
As I returned to the table, images of bathroom stalls reminded me of what I’d overcome. My addiction could control me at any moment anywhere: home, school, work, restaurants, bars, little league fields, rest stops along the highway. It tortured me with the idea that an empty stomach meant I was more significant to the world.
Many, many times I fell into this twisted logic while eroding my teeth, killing my metabolism and endangering my esophagus and heart. Hours and hours of counseling, threats of hospitalization and several prescriptions could do nothing to beat this monster. Sometimes, it would subdue for weeks or months, but stress, frustration or a difficult relationship would invite it to roar again.
The last time this demon visited was in the summer of 2008. It tugged and teased my insecurities and exposed faults until I gave into its demands. The entire summer, I watched every morsel that I consumed, and if it more than the restrictions I set, it would go back up. I knew it was wrong and I knew that I should quit, but I didn’t want to. Only if I could lose just a few more pounds, then I would quit. I was in control and I could quit when I wanted to.
But I couldn’t.
The breaking came after a party with friends. We dined on wine and pizza, but the enjoyment of the occasion couldn’t suppress the voice in my head. “You need to get rid of it.” With too many people in my apartment, I said that I needed some fresh air. I went to the alley to reveal myself of this pain, of this food. Someone, who knew my history with this disease, caught me. I stopped, pretended nothing happened and rejoined the festivities.
The next day, she confronted me. She told me that I needed to go back to counseling and to realize that this will always be a part of who I am. I refused to believe that. I was more than a person with an eating disorder.
That was the last time I purged, and actually had craving to do so. I’m not sure what snapped inside of me, but something did. I said goodbye to the demon and haven’t looked back.
It’s been over a year and half since my last purge, and I feel victorious. Not because of the time that has lapsed, but because of the change in my attitude. I no longer use food and purging as a coping mechanism, although I’m the most stressed I’ve ever been. Snug jeans or tight shirts don’t send me into a fit of crying and despair anymore. A few gained pounds aren’t the end of the world and I don’t lecture myself after a bit too much to eat. When I finally wanted to quit, I did.
It was at the end of my uncle’s life, as his demon was empowering, that I realized what it meant for me to finally let go of my disease. It meant having back a piece of my life and living with a ray of hope, a ray of strength.
I felt sorry for the woman in the stall, but I said a silent prayer for her, hoping one day she would wake up with the honest will to change. I sat down at my table and scarffed another piece of pizza without regret. Maybe I’m too optimistic, but I have faith in her. I have hope that someday she’ll rid herself of this demon. For my demon is buried and it will forever stay that way.
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