Eight Legged Wonders

I have become fascinated with spiders. They are captivating little creatures. It's fascinating to watch them spin their webs. I am filled with wonder and awe over how such a small creature has been equipped with such amazing capabilities. To be able to create the material that one builds its home from is astonishing. Watching one crawl across the ceiling in the house makes me wonder how they can defy gravity. Seeing them descend from that same ceiling with what appears to be an invisible rappelling rope has become a sight for me to behold. Seeing them sit in their web in wait is patience personified.

Recently two wood spiders who have made themselves at home just outside our front door. They each have their own well constructed web. They each silently sit in the middle of their web waiting and watching every time I walk by. I feel lucky that I get to walk by them at least two times a day, sometimes four and then sometimes I just stand there and watch them. I stood and watched in awe for twenty minutes a few days ago while one was efficiently working on rebuilding its web. It didn't rush. It wasn't frantic. It instead went about its work in a calm methodical way. That was what amazed me the most. The calmness it had in rebuilding its own home. Astonishing.

I remember going to my grandmere's house. My sister and I slept downstairs in the craft room that was in the basement. It was inevitable that when you walked down that small ell shaped stairway that a spider, namely a daddy long legs, would be ready to great you on the way. I would hug the wall on the other side of the stairway to avoid getting any closer to the spider than I had to. I hated that my grandmas house always had so many spiders in it. Though it never seemed to bother anybody else.

The beds that my sister and I slept in remained unused when we weren't there. Every night before crawling into the covers I would roll the bed sheets all the way to end the of the bed to ensure no nests of spideys had made a home while I was away. Only after checking every square inch of bed and sheets was I able to crawl in and fall asleep.

Recently, though, I've noticed I feel a sense of comfort when spiders are around. Especially the two that reside just outside my front door. There is something that calms me when I watch a spider go about its daily activities. They don't show signs of frantic-ness, or stress, or self consciousness. They go about their tasks not caring what others think or about what needs to be accomplished next. I think the trait that I admire most about these eight-legged new friends of mine though is their ability to sit for hours on end. They don't feel the need to find themselves some busy work to do, or go to the fridge and eat simply because they are bored or create a blog to express themselves. They simply are content to sit, wait and watch the world.

I would love to learn to have the ability, to sit and wait and watch the world. I have no idea what I would be "waiting" for but their is an appeal to me in being able to be content with just sitting with my mind not running a thousand miles a minute. I'm always thinking of the next thing I should do, what needs to be done next, how soon I have to be at work, etc etc etc. Many of the reasons why my mind is running a thousand miles a minute is because I'm trying to figure out what is next for me. I want to get myself to decide on what I should do next. Maybe that isn't for me to decide though. Perhaps if I just sit with the quiet that is around me I will be better able to hear my true calling. If I don't make myself decide on something but wait for God to provide me with the answers, I most definitely won't have as so much stress in my life.

It's not every day that one realizes they have over come a phobia such as being afraid of spiders. I feel lucky that I have over come this fear. I'm learning a great life lesson from these magnificent eight legged creatures. The ability to sit with the quiet is a gift to be treasured.

Remembrance Part 1

August 1st 2009. Not one of my better days. To be honest, one of the worst days of my life. It is a sunny beautiful morning. The kind of August day that starts out with a mild temperature but climb to the upper 90's by lunch time.

I'm lying in my bed wishing the night before hadn't happened. Wishing that I could have acted sooner. Wishing that Casey would have come home an hour later. I roll over to my side and crack open an eye. I see that the door to the bedroom is shut indicating that Casey is already up for the day. I groan, snap my eye shut and roll over on my other side. This doesn't help. The sun is beating through the window despite the blinds. It is as if the sun is taunting me, "Yoo hoo, Tamara!! It's morning! You might as well get up because I'm not going to let you sleep!" "Damn sun.", I think to myself. I throw the covers off me, get out of bed and put on a pair of comfy pants. (Comfy pants is my term for PJs.)

I stumble to the living room. I look out the window. There's Casey outside watering the plants. I think to myself, "I hate how productive he is." I shuffle my way to the back door, step outside and plop myself down on a patio chair. I watch Casey for a bit. He's going about his day, basking in the sun and playing with the dog. He shows no sign of anything occurring last night. Until he looks my way. I can see the sadness in his eyes. I can see the look of concern radiating from his face all the way across his body. "Good morning honey. How are you?" He asks with a tone that implies he wants me to have been magically healed overnight. My response to him is to just shrug my shoulders and look away.

I wait for him to turn away from me before I allow myself to look at him again. He has turned away to watch our chickens. He's thrown in some feed for them. The three little feathered ladies are running amok trying to get every last bit as quickly as possible. Almost as if it's their last supper. I watch Casey watching the chickens. His shoulders are slumped, his head lowered and his movements sluggish. I know this man. I can tell that he feels like he's losing the fight. A fight that is not his to win. He wants so badly for me to get better. He wants so badly for me to become a participant in my own life. He has done everything he can to heal me. But I can tell that he is close to giving up.

This thought makes me incredibly sad. More sad than I ever thought I could be, especially considering that fact that I'm more depressed than I've ever been in my entire life. My face contorts into a pained expression. Furrowed brow, mouth downturned, eyebrows knitted and jaw clenched. (This expression becomes frozen on my face for the weeks to come.)

The noise in my head is as loud as it's ever been but for a brief moment there is silence. In this split second I am able to decide what I must do. This decision will impact the rest of my life. It is the decision that will take me from dying to living, although I don't know this yet. I just know that if I don't do something I will lose my chance at the life I've always wanted. The life that will enable me to achieve my goals for love, marriage, children, travel and happiness.

I look back at Casey. He has knelt down next to our big dog. Scratching her behind the ears. He feels my look on him and turns his head my way. The sadness in his eyes is overbearing. He knows I want to say something so he stands up, puts his hands in his pockets. Despite the hurt in his face he gives me his full attention.

I don't want to say this to him. It makes me feel like a loser. It makes me feel like I've given up. It makes me feel like I truly am sick. But then, maybe I am. I look at the man I love and say, "If I don't do this right now I never will. Let's go to the hospital."

Casey drops his hands from his pockets. Breathes a sigh of relief and says to me, "I'll go get my keys."

Scaling Back

I have woken up to a gorgeous day. The sun is shining. The air smells of spring. The coffee I made this morning turned out fantastic. I've got my favorite cozy blanket to snuggle under. Seriously, what could be better? So then why is it that the number one thing on my mind is, "I wonder how much I weigh?" ugh

In all honesty I don't want to know what I weigh. I will be completely happy if I never ever know what I weigh ever again. But there is a nagging inside me that continues to wonder how much I weigh. There is a part of me that wants to know what that number on the scale would say. And I know why. This time of year is the time of year of diets, losing weight and getting in shape for swimsuit season. Without knowing what I weigh I have absolutely no idea how many pounds I need to lose before I'm good enough to be seen in shorts or let alone a swimsuit. Without knowing this number I have to no focus on what I need to weigh to be "healthy".

I reread that last sentence and I'm shaking my head at the insanity of it. Where in the world does it say that there is a specific number that lets a person know when they are healthy?

Well I'll tell you a secret, there is no magic number.

Sure a person can pick a number out of thin air, push themselves to over-workout, eat less and less and eventually achieve this magical number but will they be happier, better and more content with themselves if they reach this number? I tell you from experience, absolutely not.

If you can't be happy with yourself as you are then you won't be happy with yourself 5, 10, 20 pounds from now either.

Contentment for yourself comes from inside. It comes from focusing on what really matters in life. Spending time with family, enjoying the little moments in life that many people take for granted, traveling and so many other experiences that are out there for the taking. These are the things that matter in life. The number on a scale matters so very little.

And yet, I made this the number one thing in my life for so very long. I always knew what I weighed, how many pounds I had to go before I got to the goal weight I wanted to get to. Did I ever get to that goal weight? No. Every time I reached a goal weight, I would set a new and lower goal weight. I never was satisfied with what I looked like. I always had more weight to less.

And now that I don't have a scale to weigh myself I don't fall into this roller coaster of weight loss. I no longer find myself over obsessing about what I ate because it'll show up on the scale. I focus on the conversation during the meal, not the food itself.

So why do I sit here wondering what I weigh? Why am I sitting here actually contemplating buying another scale? Why would I spend money on an inanimate object that causes me so much pain? Because there is a thrill rush in knowing that I'm losing weight. There is a calming effect in knowing that I have "control" over my weight. That last sentence is laughable because I know that I'm not the one in control. ED becomes the one in control. ED so quickly senses my weaknesses and will attach itself to me so very quickly.

So, while I may feel a pull to weigh myself or buy a new scale, I won't. The mystery of what I weigh will remain just that, a mystery. I will continue to redirect my thoughts. Every time I think, "what do I weigh?" I will change the sentence to "what can I accomplish today?"

I thought that by now I wouldn't experience these obsessive thoughts anymore. But I suppose that is why this is called a disease. The symptoms take a long time to disappear. I'm just grateful I don't experience the symptoms as often as I did before entering treatment.

I can't go back to that insanity. I won't go back to that insanity. I won't.

Now, what can I accomplish today?

A Look Inside the Mind of an Anorexic

The alarm goes off. I hear the ever so lovely sound of the bleeeeeep, bleeeeeeep, bleeeeeeep repeating over and over telling me that it is time to get up. I get up out of bed and head straight to the bathroom and step right onto the scale. It tells me I weigh 142 lbs. Quick! I think to myself, "go pee!" Now that I've taken care of that business time to weigh again. I step onto the scale. It now tells me that I weigh 141.6 lbs. I am not at all pleased with this number (and yet it is the least I have weighed ever in my adult life). I run to the dresser and pull out the measuring tape. I get out my journal to log my weight and my measurements. I measure my chest, my waist, my hips, the right thigh, the left thigh, the right bicep, the left bicep, the right calf, the left calf. I write this all down in my journal proud that I have lost an 1/8" on my right thigh. That bugger won't bug! Time to take a shower. But first I'll weigh myself again. I step on the scale and this time it reads 141.6 lbs. Dang it! I was hoping it would be lower. When I'm in the shower I spend most of the time checking different parts of my body to see how much "fat" I still have on me to lose. Convinced I'm not thin enough just yet I commit myself to an hour long run after work. I get out of the shower and dry off. I'll weigh myself again just one more time. Still the same.

I head to work, concious all day long of everyone judging me for how "fat" I am. I do not eat much at all, big surprise right?! I come home after an 8 hour day at work. Jump into work out clothes and head out on a run. Disgusted with myself the whole time because today I ate croutons on my salad.

I'm done with my run and decide it's time to weigh myself yet again. 144 lbs. SHIT! I just went running. What the crap!?? It is decided. Tonight I will have half a grilled chicken breast with vegetables. Nothing else. When it's time to eat I end up giving half of my half of a chicken breast to my fiance along with half my veggies.

I'm angry. I'm full of self hate. I am pissed at myself for eating today. I can't believe that I had that soda at lunch. That's it. Tomorrow I'm eating egg whites for breakfast. Salad with no dressing and only vegetables for lunch and fat free cottage cheese for dinner. Once I have made this pact with myself I head for bed. Too tired to do anything else nor do I have any enthusiasm to do anything other than go to bed.

I lay in bed not able to sleep. Thinking about food, fat, calories, cellulite, working out and weight.

The next morning I wake up to the alarm clock blaring at me yet again. bleeeeep, bleeeeep, bleeeeep. I get up out of bed and head straight to the bathroom and step right onto the scale. etc, etc, etc.

Repeat as needed to become completely insane and totally anorexic.

Exercise?? Are you sure?

Recently I've been feeling the urge to exercise again. I stopped exercising when I entered treatment for my eating disorder. Exercise for someone who has an eating disorder tends to not be such a healthy thing. That person either exercises to an extreme or when they do exercise it's "never enough". I feel into the latter. I always felt like I had to do more than what I did. Even if I had just completed a 45 minute run I never felt like I had done enough to get rid of enough calories to justify what I had eaten that day.

But recently I have felt the urge to start incorporating exercise and/or activity back into my life. Before this I haven't wanted to go near exercise. I was too afraid that it would trigger me back into a relapse of restricting. So I've done a lot of thinking about who really wants me to start getting exercise again. (Ed can be tricky, ya know, he works in very clever ways.) I wanted to be sure that it was I who wanted to get the activity and not one of Ed's ways to get me to go back to him.

I've had to do some soul searching to figure this out. I asked myself, "Why is it that I'm starting to feel this need to exercise? Is it because I want to lose weight?" If the answer turned out to be yes, then I knew I wouldn't be ready to start exercising again. Funny thing though, after giving this question a lot of thought I realized that my answer to the question was no. I don't want to lose weight. I don't even know what I weigh anymore. Which is a huge change for me, as I used to weigh myself 2-5 times a day. It's refreshing though, not weighing myself. I'm not tied down to an inanimate object "telling" me I'm not good enough. Instead I rely on knowing I am good enough just as I am and treating myself with respect.

Which brings me back to the issue that started this post in the first place. Exercise. I knew that this urge to exercise wasn't coming from Ed telling me I "needed to lose weight" but where was it coming from? It dawned on me one day when I was watching my dogs play in the back yard. We were very involved in a game of fetch. My dogs adore fetch. If possible they would play fetch until they dropped from exhaustion. As I played with them I saw the unbridled joy they were having. They were running around crazy happy, after a ball, getting lots of great activity and do you think for one second they were thinking about how they looked? Hell no! All they were thinking about was "ball!"

I had a realization that afternoon. I want to exercise and get activity because it's fun. I want to exercise because I want to be able to use this healthy body I have as a vessel to help me enjoy the activities that I love to do, such as walking, dancing, hiking, kayaking and so on. I have fun when I do all those things and with those things comes activity and exercise. Right then and there I "got it". I don't have to stress about going to the gym and run on a treadmill like a hamster. I don't have to embark on some 3 mile run to get activity. (I absolutely hate running, by the way, and yet forced myself, in secret, to do this for years because I could burn so much more of the food I'd just eaten.) Instead, I can think of a fun activity that I want to do and that is the exercise that will fill the urge I've been feeling.

I'm looking forward to this spring and summer. I'm so excited to have more energy this year so that Casey and I can get out there and do more of the things we love doing. We'll be taking the pups for more walks. We'll be taking more bike rides downtown. We'll be taking the kayaks out more on the river. We'll be doing more yard work together. I know this, as long as I'm enjoying what ever exercise I'm participating in at that moment I think this exercise thing and I are going to get along just fine.

Dance

Dance. It's been a part of my life back to since I can remember. I have always loved everything about it. The way I would take a breathe and dance would flow out of me. The beauty of emoting music through dance moves, the challenge of perfecting a new skill, the thrill of finally completing a graceful quadruple pirouette or finding the perfect balance for a soulful panche. I was elated anytime I was fortunate enough to be able to dance in front of an audience. I both adored and loathed my dance classes. Performing was where I got to fly, so to speak, classes were for learning new tricks to take to flight.

I adored myself when I danced. The feeling I got when my muscles had been worked to their limit to achieve beautiful grace was exhilarating. I miss the daily challenge to see how far my body can take me. I miss the rush of dancing an adagio or an allegro to the best of my ability. I miss the thrill of completing a jump sequence knowing that I gave all the power I had to that one time through and knowing that I would need to muster the same amount of power to complete the jump sequence at least 3 more times.

I started dancing at the age of 3. By the time I was 11 I was taking 5 dance classes a week. Dancing was my life. I knew that dance would be a way of life for me for the rest of my life. As all dancers know, you don't leave the dance world when you walk out of the studio, you embody dance when even not in the studio. Perfecting dance techniques at home, practicing the new routine while waiting for the bus to take you to school and working on ankle strength while doing the dishes at home.

One would think, from reading this, that I was a serious ballet dancer my entire life, yet that is not the case. I have embodied dance for my entire life but much to my dismay and confusion I was pulled out of my beloved dance studio when I was 12 years old. The exact year that I was to finally get my pointe shoes. I was devastated by this. I have never really expressed to anyone how empty I felt when I no longer attending classes regularly. Yes, I still danced, but I was never allowed to have that full on life immersion that I did before.

I realize now that I have never allowed my self to grieve for this loss in my life.

In college I found dance again. I was addicted once more. Yet, something had changed, their was a difference in me. I was filled with resentment to those who had been able to dance seriously their entire lives. I was jealous of the their skill and technique. I was angry of the fact that I never got to excel the way I knew I could have.

It's time to let the resentment of this issue fall away. It does me know good to submerge myself in these memories and feelings of the past. The past is in the past. It is what it is. I can do nothing to change what has made me into who I am. What I can do is look toward where I am headed today and embody who I am becoming.

More and more I feel the urge to begin dancing again. When I think of this I hear a voice inside me telling me I'm insane. I'm 33 years old, I can't dance at this age. Then another side of me steps up to the plate and wonders, "why not?" Where is it written that only those who are adolescents or in their 20's are allowed to dance? It's not. If I want to begin dancing again there is one simple and easy solution. I will dance.

I won't be dancing as I once did where all I did and breathed was for dance but that is not necessary for me to find fulfillment and joy from this art form. All I need to do is let go and allow my body to test itself and reach new heights, as it once did.

All I need to do is allow myself to breathe and the dancing will follow.

A Peacefully Confused Post

Today is a day where I felt the need to write. Yet now that I am sitting down ready to capture all that I have to say I'm struggling with what it is I want to write about. Words are flowing through my head; (peace, recovery, strength, living, the present); but I'm having a hard time figuring out how to piece all of these words together.

These words are not new words in my vocabulary but they are certainly not the words I used to use to describe my life. They are now the words that I can and do use to relate to others about how my life is going.

I often get the question, "How are you doing?". Even though the topic of my eating disorder is not mentioned, it is definitely apparent what the secret message is behind that question. And I'm happy to answer it. I am in recovery, some days are easy, some are hard, but all in all I know that I have the strength now to be at peace while living life in the present. I used to live in the future constantly and there fore never truly was living. My thoughts always went towards what I would look like if I put what ever piece of food was sitting in front of me into my mouth. I am now able to sit down at a meal or look at a piece of food and know it for what it is. Just food.

I am also proud to exclaim that I actually enjoyed eating a meal this last week. Did I have eating disordered thoughts during this meal? Yes, of course I did, it will be a long time before my eating disorder is fully silenced BUT I did not let those thoughts over come my enjoyment of the meal and conversation that I was blessed enough to be a part of.

I still don't really know what it is I'm trying to say and I'm okay with that. Maybe I'm trying to proclaim the fact that I'm now happy living life, maybe I'm trying to let everyone know that I'm still in recovery and will be for a long time or maybe I'm just trying to live in the moment. Maybe I'm trying to express all of the above. Who knows! What I do know is that life is for living and not obsessing about food. Life is about enjoying moments not stressing about what my thighs look like. Life is about time I get to spend with my family not about constantly counting calories and fat grams in my head. It's amazing how much more space I have in my head to enjoy life now that I'm not fully engaged in an eating disorder.

Many people have told me I seem to be at peace now. Well...I certainly am not at total and complete peace but the small amount of peace that I have found is far and above more enjoyable then the insanity that I used to be immersed in.

Eating disorders suck.

Living life is pretty fantastic.