Training on Empty: Chapter 2 - (Possible TW)

Possible trigger warning with mention of behaviors and depression

Chapter 2 – Welcome to the Real World

“Being born is like being kidnapped. And then sold into slavery.” – William Shakespeare

I was born too soon. The doctors had set a random date for my mom’s Cesarean section, even though I had given no sign that I was ready to enter this world. I must have been quite content floating around in my mom’s womb, surrounded by warmth and getting nourishment as needed. Who the hell wants to leave that for the cold operating room? But on January 21, 1967, at 8 a.m., I was abruptly pulled out, slapped, and introduced to what must have been my first sense of the unfairness of the world.

I grew up in a fairly typical household. Despite people often thinking that the youngest child in the family gets all the perks, I’m not convinced. Being the youngest in the family had its disadvantages. I was subjected to relentless bullying from my older sister, and I had two older half-brothers who also knew how to tease. My much older half-sister from my dad’s side, whom I rarely saw, stayed out of the fray. The result of all this pestering from others was the gradual grinding down of my self-esteem. By the time I was four, I decided I wanted to kill myself. Now, how a four-year-old gets an idea so severe is one of those unexplained mysteries we may never solve, but that was my plan.

I discussed this idea with my fully functioning, alcoholic father, who asked how I would accomplish such a goal. Being a scientist, he was all about method. In asking my father, who was not psychologically inclined, I was seeking a compassionate response that might make me feel better. I told him that I thought jumping off a cliff would work. I wasn’t sure where to find cliffs, but I was sure they existed somewhere, because I had seen them on TV. Instead of offering sympathy and some comfort, my dad merely let me know that I would get hurt if I embarked on such a leap. Well, that was no good!  I was trying to get out of the pain that I had endured in my four short years on earth. Hum, well, I rationalized; I would use a ladder then. Of course this resolved the going-to-hurt issue, but completely ruined both the actual jumping part and also the much needed “splat” at the end that causes death, my ultimate goal, to occur. When I related this to my dad, he just laughed.

I don’t recall any further discussion on the topic, which today strikes me as odd. I think things were different back then, and children weren’t encouraged to talk about feelings or fears. Being the youngest in a very vocal family often left me unheard anyway, and I think I was in grade school before I actually finished an entire sentence. I grew up speaking half-sentences, because my relatives were too impatient to wait for me to finish. My siblings and parents were loud, smart, talkative and impatient. I, on the other hand, was contemplative, reserved and often dreaming of other, better places. I ultimately concluded that the best solution was to just swallow or push aside any feelings or fears and move on with what I felt was my sad, insignificant life.

Although I eventually managed to hold my own, the effects of those early days persisted. Even now, if I’m under stress, I stammer and hesitate when I speak.

By the time I was six, I was overweight. Looking back at old pictures, I would say that I was chubby, if that. Everyone else called me fat, though. This surprises me, because the way I was teased, one would expect to see an obese person in those old pictures, not someone who could almost pass for normal. It’s possible that I was using food to help squelch all of those uncomfortable feelings, but in any event, I never felt full. I was always fixated on food, and I didn’t understand the art of living, apart from that of eating. Everything I did related to food. When planning to go swimming with a group of kids, I was focused on exactly what candy bar I would buy after we got out of the pool. If one of the parents in the neighborhood took a group of us shopping, the candy section was the first part of the store to catch my eye, and I always made sure to save some cash to buy a little something to munch on during the car ride home. Spoiling dinner never seemed to be a problem, because no matter how much candy I ate before dinner, there seemed to be enough room in my stomach for a full meal when my mother, a native of France, called us to the table with a shout of “a table!”, French for “come to the table.”

Despite our occasional fights, my sister and I liked to spend time together. We had separate rooms, but on occasion I would drag my mattress off my bed and into her room for a mini-slumber party. I would bring my stuffed Snoopy dog, my pillow and a snack that I had hidden in my pillowcase. My snack was usually a package of large Sweet Tarts – two oversized servings of the hard, not chewy, version of the treat; one cherry and one grape, each approximately three inches in diameter and wrapped in cellophane. My sister and I would talk until late into the night. When I was convinced that she had fallen asleep, I would reach into my pillowcase and pull out the Sweet Tart. It seemed that no matter how quietly I tried to unwrap it, I always woke my sister, who would ask what the noise was. “Nothing,” I would reply, hoping she believed me, but she knew I was eating snacks I wasn’t supposed to have. On those nights, she would never rat me out. Instead, she would ask for a bite. Satisfied, she would turn back over and fall asleep again, leaving me to finish my forbidden candy in peace. She never seemed obsessed with food like I was.

In kindergarten, I was the kid who was always picked last, or if lucky, second to last. I was last in races, too. Others saw me as completely nonathletic, even though I walked about mile to school and back almost every day. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy sports. On the contrary, I loved kickball and swimming and playing on the playground. I just hated playing with the other kids who were quick to criticize my slow pace or lack of coordination. Although I didn’t always succeed, even at a young age I was putting pressure on myself to try to perform or look good in front of others.

Some will say that the youngest child in a family gets coddled and spoiled. I would say that it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Not only was I the youngest in my family, I was also the youngest in the neighborhood. Being the “baby” of the group naturally set me apart from the others. I didn’t have many real friends and became a loner very early in my childhood. I did have one friend in the neighborhood who was a year older than I was. Our being younger allowed us to form a bond, but because she was still slightly older, we were in different classes in school. It was a treat for me to be able to play with her as time and our schedules permitted, and spending time with her led to what I consider some of my best childhood memories.

In addition to being constantly criticized for having a chubby body, I was also teased simply for being my age. Occasionally the others would allow me to participate in their activities, but I had to endure their demanding orders and cruel comments– not a fair or pleasant compromise. Most of the time I was forced to sit on the sidelines and watch, hoping that I’d one day be old enough to join in all the fun and games.

I didn’t learn until I was in my mid-twenties that during this period in my life, some much older kids in the neighborhood had tried to force me to be their “porn star” by demanding that I pose in provocative positions and expose myself while they took pictures. Even today I have no recollection of the incident, except of the dress I wore that day. It was one that my mom had made for me. She said I had worn it that day. Apparently I was forced to lift it up for the camera. When my mom saw the pictures, which I never saw, she broke down in sobs. She told me that I looked vacant and she could tell I had been coerced into doing it. How could I repress something I assume was so extremely traumatic? I’m not sure, but this all this came out during my second hospitalization for anorexia. However, once again, nobody ever talked to me about the incident at the time.

While I still have no recollection of the event, I have discovered that as upset as my mom was at the time, she didn’t know how to approach the topic with me. Having grown up in a severely abusive environment as a child, her main focus was how to simply survive, not how to effectively communicate. When I was growing up, most parents didn’t openly discuss feelings, emotions or problems in the household. In the case of my home life, better methods of communication were not encouraged until later.

This wasn’t the last time I would be taken advantage of. I believe that these incidents contributed to my increasing sense of powerlessness, and ultimately led me to try to regain power through other means. My sense of helplessness was increased by the fact that my dad was a binge-drinking alcoholic. Life with someone who drinks is miserable no matter how you slice it, and my life was no exception. I witnessed him harass my oldest brother, make a fool of himself in public, and torment the entire family with his verbal abuse. The contrast between his professional life as a well-respected theoretical physicist and the mess he was at home was tremendous. It's hard to believe that he served as the chairman of the physics department at the University of Colorado given his drive to drink.

When I was twelve, my father kicked me out in a drunken rampage. I could hear him yelling at me that I was stupid and retarded as I ran for my neighbor’s house. Even though he didn’t physically abuse me, the threat of it was always there. The threat of verbal and emotional abuse was a given. He scared me, and at times I hated him with every fiber of my being. My siblings and I never knew what to expect when it came to my dad’s behavior. We used to have to call home and ask our mother if it was “safe” or “clear” to bring a friend home. “Is Dada drunk?” was the question we continually posed.

My sister began keeping a diary when she was eight, and it is filled with page after page starting with, “Dear Diary, Dada is drunk.” Rare were the days that we had any respite from his unpredictable behavior. I sometimes wonder if I would have felt more loved by my dad if he hadn’t been drinking. It’s hard to say, because I never got to know him away from his addiction. I also didn’t know that many years later, I would recreate this pattern of chaos in the partners I chose. Sometimes what is familiar is more enticing than what feels good. I’m convinced that the love I had for my dad wouldn’t have been buried under so much anger and disappointment had he been sober more often.

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Training on Empty: Chapter 1 - My So Called Life (Possible TW)

Possible trigger warning with mention of numbers and behaviors. Some names have been changed, but the content is accurate and true. 

PART I – Red

Chapter 1: My So-Called Life

“An illness is like a journey into a far country; it sifts all one’s experience and removes it to a point so remote that it appears like a vision.”  -Sholem Asch

On an exceptionally cold February night in 1997, after a series of seizures, I was rushed to the hospital with chest pain and shortness of breath. At the age of 30, I weighed 80 pounds. I wasn’t expected to make it through the night. However, to everyone’s surprise and amazement, including my own, I pulled through. It was obvious that I needed help, but since none of the nearby eating-disorder treatment facilities had any openings, I was moved to the hospital’s cancer unit for three days in order to stabilize. I found it disturbingly ironic that I was surrounded by people fighting for their lives, while I was slowly killing myself.

Starvation is considered one of the most slow and painful ways to die. The body can last a long time without food. Typically, people who starve themselves don’t die from an actual lack of food, but from related complications. As the body starts eating itself to keep the brain functioning, muscles and organs begin to atrophy. Organ failure or a heart attack is a common end for anorexics.

The entire time I was in the hospital, I was prodded, probed and tested. I was hooked to an intravenous saline drip in order to regulate my electrolytes. I slept in short shifts, a few hours at a time throughout both the days and nights, taking Tylenol for the excruciating headaches that manifested as my body fought for equilibrium. I ate even less than I had been eating before hospitalization, and I was exhausted from all the blood draws and tests being performed. The longer the lab-rat routine continued, the weaker I became. At one point, a nurse led me to a shower where, after just a few minutes standing on my own, my legs started to quiver beneath me. Once the fastest high-school athlete in all of Colorado, there I was, unable to even stand on my own two feet. I sat down on the shower’s built-in bench and cried as the water splashed over my skin.

After the third day of tests, the doctors told me they wanted to keep me in the hospital a few more days to run even more tests. I was no expert, but the problem seemed pretty obvious to me: My body was malnourished and completely depleted. In short, I was too thin. More tests, it seemed to me, were not going to reveal anything more about my condition, so I threw a minor tantrum and was released. Sleep-deprived, emotionally spent and bruised from all the IV’s and other needling, I headed home. The freedom of merely being outside in the fresh air after three solid days of being stuck in the hospital was overwhelming.

There are people whose lives are complicated by some kind of addiction all around. Many of these people are in denial or accept their addiction as part of who they are, often adhering to the adage, “once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic.” There are others who live with the agony of knowingly operating below their true potential, yet are unable to change. They are intelligent and honest, open about their self-inflicted enslavement, yet completely frustrated by their inability to stop their self-sabotaging behavior. However, there are a lucky few who see beyond their addiction, finding both the courage and the astounding strength to break free from their addictions and jump full force into the unknown territory of recovery.

Heidi is one of these lucky few. I met her shortly before I wound up in the hospital. Over time, she became my mentor and my friend, my counselor and my inspiration. Radiant and strong, Heidi is the kind of person who lights up the room when she enters, a goddess if there ever was one. Her compassion and wisdom go far beyond the realm of what is considered normal in this world. I was immediately drawn to her.

When she was young, Heidi was bulimic. Over time, she forced herself to throw up so much that the acid from her stomach began to irritate her esophagus. At one point, she vomited so much blood that she nearly died right there on her bathroom floor. As she lay with her head on the floor, half passed out, Heidi decided she didn’t want to die, that there had to be a way out. And just like that, she stopped binging and purging. It’s almost unheard of to have the bravery and the will to do something like that, but Heidi had an idea that a brilliant destiny and a better life were awaiting her. She became one of the few women I know who fully beat an eating disorder. I know a lot of women in various stages of recovery; a few have found a way out. Heidi is one of these few.

It takes a magnanimous human being to see the potential behind the illness in a person. Without Heidi, I would have been lost. Her guidance and love helped me find my own path out of addiction and away from the trappings of anorexia. It was a long time before I got even a little bit better, but Heidi helped open my mind to the possibility of getting well, and that was a necessary first step. Once released from the hospital, I started meditating and reading books on spirituality, something that had been missing from my life for years. I opened up my mind, exploring auras and the occult, and I became fascinated with energy and the correlation between intention and manifestation. As a runner, I felt it was necessary to picture myself running well in a race the night before and anticipate that what I imagined could become a reality. The idea was that events would unfold as I imagined they would. Facing a challenge of a different sort, I began to understand how the power of positive thinking could be applied to other areas of my life. Unfortunately, while these new revelations were of great benefit to my soul, I hoped, they did little to improve or correct my self-destructive patterns, and I was still restricting my caloric intake and exercising for incredibly long periods of time each day.

Before I became anorexic, I was at least a somewhat well-rounded child and engaged with the world. I painted and drew, cooked, read books and watched movies. By contrast, my life became very limited and myopic once I became anorexic. I don’t recall doing much of anything once my weight became so abnormally low. I also don’t recall exactly when it was that I effectively stopped being in the world. I was isolated, except for a few select friends who could tolerate the sight of me, and I had dropped all hobbies and interests from my life. Many anorexics are utterly lost in their illness; they no longer have a sense of who they are, what they like or what ignites passion in their hearts. Even at a devastatingly low weight, I spent days on end exercising even though I lacked any real strength. Looking back, I don’t know how I managed.

I also spent my time anticipating the two small meals I allowed myself every day – one in the evening, one late at night. With hunger, time seems to pass more slowly, and because I would allow myself to eat only at certain times, so much time was wasted waiting. I was too hungry to throw myself into a book or engage in anything that required too much thought or energy, so I waited, watching the clock but trying not to be too obvious about it. Occasionally, there were days on which I would eat more normally and even some days on which I would binge, but the guilt was extreme and often very hard to handle. At the time, I couldn’t see that those days on which I ate normally were what my body, mind and spirit craved. At what point in my life had I had lost balance?

Anorexia, for me, was somewhat of a “frog-being-boiled-in-a-pot” situation, a slow evolution in which I subconsciously managed to ignore the water heating up around me. For those not familiar with the term, it is in reference to a study done in which two frogs are placed in different pots of water. In one pot, the water is boiling. Naturally, the frog jumps out in an instant. The frog in the other pot, on the other hand, is put in warm water first, and the water is gradually heated to a boil. In this case, the frog will stay put until it is boiled alive. With any addiction there typically comes a point at which the addicted person becomes aware of how bad things have become. This is the point where she might ask, “How did I get here?” or “How did it get this bad?” The answer, of course, is that these things don’t happen overnight. Getting to a low point – or as addicts put it, “hitting rock bottom” – takes time. It’s by taking many small steps toward insanity that the sane become insane, just in the same way it takes many small steps by the guru to achieve enlightenment. I didn’t just wake up one day with a full-blown eating disorder, it became part of my life so gradually I didn’t realize it was happening. My desire and determination to change happened in an instant, but the disorder took hold slowly. Over time the illness took over, and I realized somewhere along the way that I was stuck. It was too late to do anything, so I stayed the destructive course until eventually my body forced me to stop. Despite never quite having a sense of what was normal growing up, I didn’t cross the line into severe illness until I was a teen. Still, my childhood was far from perfect.

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Training on Empty: Introduction - Possible TW (Mention of numbers)

Possible trigger warning with mention of number and behaviors:

Introduction

Despite my intensely reckless and very unhealthy behavior, I am still alive. At my lowest point, I weighed less than 80 pounds at a height of five feet four inches. I was having seizures and was in the beginning stages of complete organ failure. I was jaundiced. My pituitary gland wasn’t functioning properly. My hair was falling out, and my skin was scaly. I had edema and was constantly thirsty. I looked like a concentration camp victim, yet I felt fat all the time. I had lost touch with reality. I was anorexic.

Anorexia is – pardon the expression – a heavy topic. For more than one reason, it’s not the kind of thing to bring up at the dinner table. Then again, how many anorexics actually sit down to eat dinner?  It’s a sad, painful, scary and destructive path that an anorexic takes-a path that the people around her often end up being forced to travel as well.

I became anorexic when I was 13. It happened in what seemed like an instant. I made a firm decision that I was going to lose weight, and there was no turning back. It wasn’t so terrible at first. I even got more popular as the pounds dropped away. Eventually though, things got weird – really weird. For nearly 20 years after that initial decision, I battled the disease. My attitude toward life took a serious turn, and I let anorexia and all its deception take its all-consuming course.

It wasn’t until much later, well after I had turned onto the road of recovery, that I realized what had been missing from that dark time in my life: humor. After that revelation, I decided to take a different look at this whole anorexia situation, and while I am in no way aiming to make light of the severity of anorexia and its consequences – according to The Alliance for Eating Disorders Awareness, 20 percent of people suffering from anorexia die prematurely from complications related to the disease – I do want to point out that humor heals. For me, it was a big part of getting well. Laughing again after so many years of being silent was an outlet, a way to save myself from the despair of an illness that almost killed me.

I don’t mean to imply that this book is a comedy. I think George Carlin was probably one of the few brave enough to take on anorexia as a comedic topic. What I mean to say is that once I was able to smile again, I realized how dark my life had been while struggling with the illness. When I could fully laugh again, I knew I was on my way to recovery and out of the turmoil that had engulfed me for so long.

My name is Lize. This is the story of my life. This book is meant to give people an idea of what led to my anorexia, how I survived and how I began to heal. Unfortunately, there is no grand formula for getting well, no 12 steps or going cold turkey. However, I do believe there is a way out of the darkness. Each person must create his or her own path to recovery, but perhaps reading what I went through will offer some hope, inspiration and ideas to help others create a path to wellness. I tend to not do things half-assed, so taking anorexia to the extreme was almost predictable. As bad off as I was, however, I found a way. And if I recovered, there’s hope for many others.

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Training on Empty - Foreword by Lorraine Moller

I've decided to post my entire book. It will still be available as an ebook and regular book, but if anyone wants to read it here, I will be posting chapters at random, at least one per week, probably more.

Training on Empty

Lize Brittin

Dedicated to my mother, Janine Brittin.

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Copyright 2012 Lize Brittin

All rights are reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.

Thank you for respecting the author's work.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Foreword by Lorraine Moller

Introduction

Chapter 1: My So-Called Life

Chapter 2: Welcome to the Real World

Chapter 3: Growing Up Is Hard

Chapter 4: Saying No

Chapter 5: A New Me

Chapter 6: Tricks of the Trade

Chapter 7: Running on Empty

Chapter 8: The Running Years

Chapter 9: Women in Sports

Chapter 10:  On M & M’s

Chapter 11: The Making of an Anorexic

Chapter 12: Brittin Won

Chapter 13: Over the Edge

Chapter 14: The Comeback

Chapter 15: Tonya

Chapter 16: Males and Eating Disorders

Chapter 17: My Secret

Chapter 18: The Stress of It All

Chapter 19: Rest

Chapter 20: New Beginnings

Chapter 21: Regret

Chapter 22: My Mom

Chapter 23: The Fundamental Flaw

Chapter 24: It’s All in Your Head

Chapter 25: Lost

Chapter 26: Fear

Chapter 27: Britta Kallevang

Chapter 28: The Long Road

Chapter 29: Leap of Faith

Chapter 30: Living to Die

Chapter 31: Bobby

Chapter 32: The End Result

Chapter 33: A Perfect Example

Chapter 34: Recovery

Chapter 35: A Holistic Approach

Chapter 36: How Lucky I Am

Chapter 37: Conclusion

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Foreword

Athletic competition is a heroic journey. The late scholar Joseph Campbell, himself an athlete, brilliantly describes the path of the hero in his book, Hero of a Thousand Faces. The seeker, in the quest for the fulfillment of a dream, ventures into the unknown. Whether the prize sought is as lofty as an Olympic gold medal or as modest as completing one’s first 5k race it becomes in itself the representation of something of greater inherent value – the process of personal transformation that springs from accepting and loving a part of self that previously remained in shadow. The excitement to go into new territory soon leads one face to face with the limitations of the status quo – once committed the onus is on the seeker to remake her/himself or collapse into the hell of an unrealized life.

Recently I was a guest speaker at a Women’s Quest Retreat, run by my colleague and lifelong friend Colleen Cannon. The women that come to these week-long fitness adventures are typically successful middle-class, self-aware, body-conscious, mothers, sisters and daughters. This evening I thought to ask how many of them liked their bodies. I expected at least half. I was shocked when of the 28 participants only 2 raised their hands. Interestingly enough those two hands did not rise from the young, sleek beauties, but from two of the senior women who had taken the heroic journey, perhaps many times. On the subject of their earthly vehicle they had finally come to rest at a point of appreciation. The other women all wished for a physical composition other than the one they possessed.

The human body, male or female is an astonishing piece of machinery, which we are told is made in the image of the Creator. You just can’t get much better than that. So what is this mantle of depreciation and deprecation that the majority of modern women don that makes them feel self-hatred at their own image?

If we go way back we can see that ever since Eve got blacklisted for giving Adam an apple, women have had a hard time getting their rightful esteem throughout history. Coupling with this undervaluation of the feminine is an overvaluation of the male attribute of aggression through the sustained misappropriation of youthful testosterone into acts of war. The masculine/feminine relationship remains polarized to this day, massively leaking the ingredients of potential miracles.

While the see-saw of gender roles and responsibilities greatly shifted in the 20th century this polarity remains. The car and TV as household items have ushered in the nuclear family for western civilization and we have hailed the pill as the liberation of women and the breakdown of sexual stereotypes. But there has been a trade-off. When women made the inroads into the affairs of men the status of her biologically-mandated role as nurturer took a hit. Institutions took over the role of grandmothers, moved birth out of the hands of midwives into the surgical units of hospitals, and separated babies from their mothers after delivery. The symbol of Mother, the breast, was deemed inferior to the bottle; human milk inferior to a cow’s. In the 70’s economics shunted women out of the home into the workforce en masse, and children into daycares. The family garden plot went to high-rise condos and the source of food became a supermarket. Home-made soup alchemized with mother’s loving hands has now been supplanted with a plethora of pseudo-foods imbued with cold steel and a profit margin behind them. Consequently most western societies suffer from a deficiency of the most basic building block of physical and emotional development that sets us up for health, happiness and the fulfillment of our potential – Mothering. We have been duped, and earthlings are in real trouble because of it.

Our fundament, Mother Earth, has slid to the bottom of totem pole. Her denunciation is a meme personalized through the bodies of women – a miserable slab of granite formed over eons, to which both genders are shackled. Anorexia, bulimia, fatness and thinness, the shrouding and mutilation of women, addiction to superficial forms of beauty, and myriad ways in which women are debased, belong to us all. Sadly this issue has been largely cloaked with secrecy, and inadequately confined to the realm of the individual, rather than addressed collectively. All this brings me to a time where I encounter 26 out of 28 fit, healthy, modern women who are deeply ashamed of their bodies. Among them and behind them is a silent epidemic of girls and women living in a land of unprecedented material supplies who do not even feel entitled to the essential right to feed themselves adequately.

The exploration of the athletic potential of the female body has and will continue to be a face-off with this dense paradigm. Invariably it is one of those obstacles encountered by any woman who undertakes the heroic journey in an athletic arena, as Lize Brittin did. A brilliant young athlete full of hope for a top career, Lize hit the rock at full speed. It almost killed her. Lize’s story is both heart-rending and inspiring. But more importantly her journey of self-discovery so candidly delivered and interspersed with practical and meaningful guidance, offers a unique road-map of the eating-disorder territory, especially for athletic women. The dilemma of the act of running as both savior and executioner is harrowing to read, as are her flirtations with death in an excruciating slow suicide attempt by starvation. But even in despair Lize’s spark shines through with courage and intelligence. Her eventual apotheosis of learning to surrender to the feminine deserves nothing short of a standing ovation.

With this fascinating and informative memoir a big chunk of granite has been broken off, a women’s soul restored to life, and a call to others to take the heroic journey resounds. As a society the job is not done until the last piece of the monolith has been chipped away and transmuted into a new paradigm where the magnificence of our physicality, male and female, is freely nurtured and expressed without apology.

Lorraine Moller

Olympic Marathon Bronze medalist

Author of On the Wings of Mercury

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Instagram & French Fries

I'm not really on Instagram, but I do have an account. I'm among many who probably had brilliant ideas about creating the ultimate account that didn't actually translate into anything interesting. When someone pointed out to me the account of an acquaintance of his, I was shocked, no horrified, to see that this woman is posting what looks like Pro-Ana content under the guise of healthy living. Her alarming images and the general topics are so clearly the result of an eating disorder or, at minimum, disordered thinking. If anyone in an eating disorder forum posted what she does, discussing every calorie she eats or doesn't eat and every single pound she gains or loses, the posts, especially the images, would be deleted immediately.

What's scarier is that people are liking her posts and encouraging her, as if she is doing something good when it's so very clear that this is a train wreck in the making, one that may put her life at risk. The worst thing about it is that she is apparently completely unaware that she is promoting an unhealthy fixation on her already too lean body that could potentially cause a lot of harm to anyone with an eating disorder or on the verge of one, or to youngsters who view this kind of subject matter.

I hope she will be OK, and I hope others will stop encouraging her to lose more weight, eat fewer calories and workout more. It's hard for me to understand why anyone would encourage this, but people might not know how to handle it. People who don't know about eating disorders might not realize how dangerous they can be. I don't like to see anyone suffer, so I hope this woman can get the help she needs to get healthy.

Sometimes I forget how far I have come, because I get caught up in the areas I want to improve. There are some very minor incidents that make me realize that I have come a long way. For example, when I was really struggling, if anyone made comments about what I was eating, I often would feel self conscious and stop. The other day, a friend of mine commented on the large plate of french fries I was eating, but I told him he didn't need to worry about how many fries I consumed. It's the "My Body, My Rules" approach, as Carmen Cool would say. I'm going to eat as many fries as I feel comfortable eating. If it happens to be a large quantity, so be it. The main thing for me is to be aware and keep checking in with how I'm feeling. Mostly, I'm glad I can laugh about these kinds of things now and enjoy both the company I'm with and the food I eat.

In the past, I might have taken things out on myself and punished myself unnecessarily over something so trivial. It feels good to know that those around me understand how sensitive I used to be around these issues. It means a lot to me that my friends try to understand what it was like for me in the past and acknowledge the hurdles I have jumped to get to where I am now.

Quick left turn...

I keep wanting to get some images of the animals in the vet clinic where I'm volunteering, but it's not usually the best environment for snapping cute shots, though I really wish I would have gotten a picture of the bunny rabbit I was holding last week. She was slow to come out of the anesthesia and was still snoring away by the time I had to leave. I tend to leave my phone behind, but that was one time I really wish I had brought it with me. Total cuteness overload! I did snap a quickie of the new batch of kittens on the way into the clinic, though. I don't know how I'm going to resist coming home with a million pets working there, but my heart is still aching with the loss of my sweet little Romo. I'm not ready for another pet, so this is a nice way to be near animals, even though it's a challenging position. I have so much respect for the people who work long hours there.

Sweet little babies at the Humane Society want to go home with you.

On a final note, the lumps in my breast are benign, which is a huge relief. Also, I am able to do some very, very minimal jogging. It's not even really jogging, but it is movement outside. I'm happy with that, even though I know in my heart how hard this is going to be. My feet will never really be the same, and I traded one set of problems for another. I'm so grateful to be able to even walk, though. For a long time, I was worried I wouldn't even get that far. And finally, in August or September I will be a guest on a morning radio show about mental health. I'm excited about that and will post more details when I get them.

Three's A Charm, I Hope

Recently, I got through a third operation to fix my crazy right toe. My doctor has been great. This has, unfortunately, been one of those things. Nobody did anything wrong, and I have been good about recovery and keeping off it as it was healing. A lot of the issues I'm having are structural and genetic, things beyond anyone's control. I am so fortunate that my doctor is compassionate and understands my desire to run again, and it doesn't hurt that he is wise, even more so than most in his field. At this point, though, I will be happy to even walk without so much pain. It has been a long road, and I'm not even close to jogging at this point. The way my second toe is, it looks like I'm giving the world the finger with my lower digit. It's not functioning yet, so I'm being all Beatrix Kiddo about it, imagining it moving until it eventually does.

What I've realized is that I will never get back to real training. I have too many imbalances and issues with my feet and hips. I do believe I will jog again, though. That's my goal for now. It will take a while before I can even do that, but I think I will get there.

What I also realized is that I've sort of let everything slide. I'm not in great shape. I'm not doing much writing, and I'm isolating a bit. My job is going well, and I had a really high point last month with it. Mostly, though, I'm treading water, trying to keep my head from dipping below the surface.

It's only June, but I declare this year one of the hardest I have faced to date. Another April turned into a nightmare of a month, and I'm still stumbling around in a fog. I'm not alone; I know. Times are weird. People are hurt and angry, and there's a general unease in the world lately. There's a lot of hate floating around on both a small and large scale.

In my own world, I have had to let go, say goodbye and grieve too much in a short time. It's rarely easy to have to face big changes in life. I'm exceptionally bad at it. In an effort to make it a little bit easier, I have turned to giving back. It's one thing I know will help me get through these difficult times, especially as I watch people unravel around me, from those who drive like assholes and scream at everyone to those who are fighting their own demons to those who are projecting their rage onto others.

Recently, I became one of the moderators in an online eating disorder forum. There are a few of us for one group that was started by two individuals. The other way I'm giving back is by volunteering at the Humane Society. I worked in the administration office before. This time I'm in the vet clinic, and despite it being rather intense, it's also very rewarding. I'm in recovery, meaning I get to care for the animals as they come out of surgery, but I was lucky that someone offered to also train me on surgical packs. In the surgical packs position, we clean the instruments to be used during surgeries, and pack them into bundles specific to the various operations.

The great thing about the Humane Society is that as a volunteer, you pay a single, one-time, lifetime fee, and you can volunteer in almost any position and even in multiple positions, only you can't be both a dog and a cat handler. That's the only restriction. Other than that, you can volunteer in pretty much any two (or more) departments if you like, though most people (including me) think one is more than enough. There is a LOT of training before you can actually step into the role of a volunteer, but it goes by quickly. Once you have your primary training completed, you do a hands-on training session, and then you are pretty much set to be on your own. The two-hour shifts are every week or sometimes every other week, depending on your situation.

With my head swirling with thoughts, I'm entering a new and different phase of my life. I have no idea where I'm really going or how things will look once I get there. I just know things will be different. In the meantime, it feels really good to be able to help in any small way I can, even if it's just cleaning out the cage for an emergency case in the vet clinic, like I did yesterday when a poor dog swallowed two pounds of chocolate. The little guy was stable when I left, so I'm hoping all will be well with him.

"Things are gonna change, I can feel it."  -- Beck

My Little Boy-O

I know many pet owners probably feel their pet is special. I would say that about all the pets that have entered my life, but Romo was truly an extraordinary little being, the best. From the time I first saw him, he became my heart animal. No other animal will ever replace him. There was an instant connection, and our bond grew throughout the years.

We had a lot of nicknames for my wonderful boy. He was my black and white version of the pink panther, my little boy-o, my sweet pea and my darling boy. Others called him Nana or Romo, the latter his given name that suited him well. 

Romo wasn't like most cats. He was exceptionally smart, sensitive, very vocal, and he came when I called him. We did yoga together almost every morning, and he loved the sun as much as I do. Some might think it's crazy, but he was talkative. He must have had a touch of Siamese in him. I will miss those wonderful sounds, his purr, his meows and the funny cooing noises he created. The adorable feline had a personality that I loved, even when he attacked my ankles when he didn't want me to leave the room. He could be so feisty, and it made me love him even more. 

Losing him has shaken my world. I want the world to stop, the Earth to stop spinning, so everyone can acknowledge the loss of such a remarkable and sweet soul. 

RIP my sweet little prince. You are forever in my heart. The world, especially my world, will never be the same without you. What a good boy you were. 

Thank you Home to Heaven for your compassion and kindness on one of the most difficult days of my life. 

This poem has an odd history, but it's all I can think of that fits right now:

W. H. Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum

Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. 

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,

Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,

Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. 

He was my North, my South, my East and West,

My working week and my Sunday rest,

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.

For nothing now can ever come to any good.

My Fake Birthday

January 21st is my real birthday. That's when I celebrate with cake or a nice meal out or treat myself to some extra alone time, depending on my needs and wants that day, but every April, I give thanks for coming out of a bad case of meningitis alive. There's no specific day or candles or goodies; I just note the month and remember how fragile life can be and how quickly things can change. This month I did things differently, though, and treated myself to something nice.

I recently found out that someone was posting things publicly about me, unkind and personal things, like my unlisted address where I rent a room in Boulder and snide comments about me being a whiner or something. I only saw two of these posts. Apparently, there are more. Both that I saw were pointed out to me by a third party, and I wasn't able to find those or any others in searches. Since these things are posted where few people look or care, I'm not concerned. I asked a lawyer about it. Posting someone's private address is a violation for which anyone can be sued, but I don't want to spend the money unless this gets to a point where it's truly threatening or harassment. I'm lucky I'm not dealing with "the Blog Stalker" or anything more terrible. Still, it's an annoyance I'd rather not have to address. The lawyer I contacted is aware, and that road is always an option. My thought about people who do this type of thing is that it shows more about their character than mine.

Someone close to me is dealing with a person who is on an unrelenting, mad quest to spread lies and defame him, and that case seems far more serious to me. It concerns me more, because the aggressor's reality seems to be so skewed. Every time I hear or see more that goes on in this situation, my jaw drops further to the ground. It's one of those things I will never, ever understand, even though I suspect there's a lot of projection going on, which is a common response when things don't go as one hoped in life. Still, it's unsettling that this person's behavior is escalating. Many months before things got out of hand, I told the one dealing with this situation to go to the police to at least file a report. I was floored when the other person went there first with false claims and a list of lies, but as shocked as I was, I should have known that things like this happen. I just didn't think I'd ever see it up close.

Unfortunately, the courts often get tied up with shit like this. When you see a case that involves real threats and possible physical harm or, in the case of a close friend of mine, actual life-threatening violence, these online stalker-like cases look trivial, but when the minor ones are dragged out for months or even years with the same and worsening behavior, it starts to get a little bit scary, even from the sidelines. Unfortunately, the more someone attacks and attempts to disrupt the lives of others, the harder it is to sit back and take it, which was the advice I used to always give. Don't respond. Don't engage. But when things continue to go too far, it's hard to keep saying that. Legal action or, at minimum, responding looks more and more appealing, just to hopefully put an end to things. Fortunately, this isn't my mess to deal with, though it hurts to watch someone I care about have to face it. For both parties, I wish it would stop.

That aside, at times my blog is more of a journal, but I started it knowing I wanted to help others. The struggles I face show that despite dealing with a life-threatening illness (two of them, actually) and minor injuries and general setbacks and an incredible amount of pain, I still show up for life with something to offer others. I work. I spend more time as a mentor in a few online forums than I do offering advice here, and I will be starting a support group of my own next month. I also recently got reconnected to the Humane Society of Boulder where I used to volunteer. It's time to start up again after a break, so I will begin in a new department in May.

My blog sometimes ends up being a good place to vent when I want to prevent the thoughts in my head from doing a continuous loop, and I'm OK with that, even when others might see me as whining. Not long ago, I mentioned that I often forget to post when things are going really well, but I'm working on that. I look at a lot of my ramblings as a way to process when shit gets heavy. And through it all, I keep a commitment to my recovery from a disorder that kills more people than any other mental illness. Make fun of that if you will, but that's on you, not me.

To celebrate April, I made an impulse purchase and got myself a cruiser bike, on sale. It's pink, and it's fucking awesome.

A woman has to be intelligent, have charm, a sense of humor, and be kind. It's the same qualities I require from a man. -- Catherine Deneuve

Pain

I've decided that if people can't be civil and have to hurl insults instead of being able to have an adult conversation, I won't engage. This comes after some lady stooped to low levels on Twitter when I voiced an opinion. I don't remember her name, Abby or Jamie or something. I had never heard of her before a friend of mine tweeted something about her. The lady is a pro-life advocate. The story goes that after she had two abortions, she decided she wanted to tell everyone else they shouldn't have one. That in itself is fine, but I fully believe in freedom of choice. What seems to get lost on people is that saying that doesn't make me pro abortion. 

I have friends who are pro-life and believe in God, and we get along just fine. There's a mutual respect that seems to be lacking when it comes to some hardcore pro-life supporters. 

Anyway, when someone throws out stupid, stupid comment or any other insult or personal attack, I shut the conversation down. It's weird to me that someone who claims to be all about God feels like it's OK to stoop to this kind of level. The whole angry, in your face, aggressive, put words in your mouth style of arguing is upsetting to me, and I would rather do something productive instead of get into it with someone who makes assumptions, doesn't fully read what his or her opponent writes, and can't help but be mean. I will defend myself, but at some point a line must be drawn.

When this lady asked me something about whether or not I believe alcoholics should be able to talk about their experiences or some such nonsense (well, it's really just unrelated, not actual nonsense), I had a feeling things were going to get wacky fast, and they did. No, that's not what I was saying when I simply noted that I think people should be able to choose and find it odd that someone who had the luxury and freedom to do so would want to get involved with and influence someone else's personal choice. Getting abortions and drinking alcohol are not remotely close in terms of anything, really, except they are both legal.

Lately, I've witnessed a lot of crazy internet stuff, from stalkers to trolls to wars of words. I don't even like seeing it. I feel better when I'm helping others. This last thing on Twitter was a good reminder that I need to stay focused on building up those who need help and ignore unkind people I've never met who want to tear others down. I can't believe that makes people feel good.

Enough on that.

Things are improving with my feet, but it has been somewhat slow going. I'm in a better space than when I wrote what follows, but I still need some time to heal. I'm getting answers and seeing both my PT and my doc about the nerve issues.

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When dealing with pain, it's important to stay one step ahead of it, so I have been told. Unfortunately, I'm the type that seems to get three steps behind before I even recognize how bad it is. Plus, nerve pain is tricky to deal with. The sensations range from burning, pins and needles and numbness to stabbing, throbbing blasts of misery that make you want to scream. With nerve pain, it messes up your brain. It's fatiguing, distracting and flat out uncomfortable. I feel like I must look like Bill the cat, because I'm fried from having to deal with all this discomfort.

I learned recently that being susceptible to nerve issues can be genetic. I believe it, because otherwise it would be a strange coincidence that I would develop similar nerve-related issues every time I have an operation on my feet. You might have guessed by now that I'm dealing with more nerve issues than I started with, this time in both feet. Pain aside, my life is going well, especially in terms of my job, which I love and know how lucky I am to have.

The surgeries:

On my left foot, the goal was to decrease the pain I was having with some nerves that were trapped in scar tissue by cutting a section of the nerves higher up on my foot. The surgery went fine, but I ended up having phantom pain when the severed nerve endings kept active. Phantom pain sounds like it's not real pain, but I can assure you that it is. It feels exactly like the nerves are still intact, because they still fire and send signals to the brain. On top of that, I developed more scar tissue from the new incision, and that made for even more trouble. That should all calm down at some point.

The right foot was more complicated, and the result has been far more distressing. My doctor did a tendon release, so that my second toe would go back into its normal position. It was getting a little too friendly with my big toe. Post-op healing was coming along very nicely until about a week ago when all of a sudden, a big ball of scar tissue developed that trapped yet another nerve. In addition, the toe pad tear isn't fixed, which wasn't going to be a problem had the nerve and scar tissue situations not developed. The combination of everything has made it such that I'm developing a hammer toe, and I'm in an incredible amount of pain. My PT helped relieve some of the scar tissue/nerve pain with Graston, though, so I'm grateful for that. I'm just trying to get through each day without giving in too much to the demons in my head.

 My doctor and PT have been great. I'm very happy with both. I still think my doc is one of the best podiatrists in this area. In addition to the genetic component I'm dealing with, there's also the structure of my feet to consider and the healing process in general, which is different for everyone. My healing didn't go as planned this time, even though I was careful about not doing too much too soon. Shit happens, as they say, but I'm managing. I'm present and aware, and I'm working on staying that way.

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Since I wrote that, I got a shot of cortisone and some PT and a tape job that has helped relieve some of the super sharp pain, so things are going more smoothly. 

I still have hope, and that's a good thing.