Eat, Pray, Love...

One of my clients, we’ll call her Jane, told me that each night before she goes to sleep, she lights candles and talks to her “angels”. She tells them about her day, what she wants, her fears etc… then she asks them what they want to tell her. She’s been doing this for so long that she’s become quite good at “hearing” them, letting them guide her. I feel Rob is my guide and have for a long time now but I never stopped to ask, “what do you want to tell me?” I’m usually asking for things, sometimes yelling to him to “fix” whatever mess I’m drowning in. If I ever “feel” something it’s felt in my fingers tingling beneath my skin because something is wrong or I have an intuitive thought that is sometimes fleeting but sometimes strong enough to make me do an about face and go in another direction. I’d like to learn to “catch” things before that happens. I decide to try this listening thing and see what comes up.
The first time I do it, I’m in bed, about to go to sleep when I get very still, and begin my usual dialogue. This consists of a lot of please helps and thank yous before I ask “What would you like me to know?”
I fall asleep before “hearing” anything.
The next night, my brain is so scattered and jumbled that I hear nothing but my own racing thoughts, but the night after that when I’m very still and awake enough to pay attention the words “eat, pray, love” appear in my mind’s eye.
My brain attacks this, tearing it to shreds, trying to analyze it. I tell God/Rob that I tried reading the book but only made it half way through as it didn’t hold my attention like I thought it would. “What would you like me to do with it?” I ask.
Silence.
“The movie is coming out I think. Soon I hope. Do you want me to see it?”
Silence.
“Am I’m supposed to travel like that? Cause I want to…”
More silence.
“Sooo… do you want me to just wait and see what happens? Are you going to tell me more?”
Extended silence.
“Ok. I get it. I’ll wait.”
The next morning my first thought was of those words “eat, pray, love.” Maybe that’s how I am to live my life. I write them down and hope something comes of it.
Days later my alarm goes off and I hit the snooze button. I never hit the snooze button. Ever. I’m on day five of ten hour work days (working to make up for time off next month) and today is Saturday, the busiest day complete with a huge wedding party that I’m terrified of. Weddings are stressful and I don’t even put hair up or do formal styling. I usually get stuck blowing out little old ladies which given my southern background you think I’d be a pro at by now but sadly, I am not.
I can barely open my eyes as I roll out of bed. I walk over to my closet and stare at it’s contents willing something to fly out of it and dress me. No such luck. I walk away and turn on my computer. While waiting for it to load, I stare at the wall and think about painting my face and brushing my teeth. It all sounds like a good idea…
I peruse the internet instead being the master procrastinator that I am. I should get ready. I have fifteen minutes now to look presentable. Damn. I wonder what’s in my Gmail inbox…
Agh! Stop! I get up and turn the computer off. I quickly apply some make-up and beat down the rooster mess that is my hair. Back in front of the closet I stare at it’s contents again. Nothing is appealing. For the love of God! Pick something! I annoy the hell out of myself sometimes. I chose a pair of tiny black shorts that I haven’t worn since, well, forever and a black button up shirt wondering just what it is I’m thinking right now. I push my feet into little black heels and race out the door practically running to the train with one eye still half closed.
At the Unicorn I stare out the window eating granola and sipping life in the form of an Americano. I tell myself over and over that I’m a good stylist. I can do old lady hair. If I need help I can ask. It will end no matter what.
After downing the first Americano, I order another and head to work. I enjoy my first client. I wish nothing but good things for her as she tells me about dating a new guy she’s met at work after a series of awkward first and sometimes second dates with random people.
Later, my co-workers Audrey, Lauren and I are in the break room laughing about how all of us were saying positive affirmations to ourselves about today, each of us having our own challenges. We’re all nervous about this wedding party, none of us knowing what to expect.
I get no-showed which opens up time for a run to Whole Paycheck (Whole Foods…however you want to view itJ) and grab lunch. While standing in line I think to myself what a blessing it is to have this break to actually get food. I forgot my lunch and am thrilled I’ll have time to eat this deliciousness I’m about to purchase.
Ah, the wedding party has arrived. There are fourteen people. I look around for my little lady and find her talking with two other little ladies and smile upon laying eyes on her. She’s in her eighties at least, with short, white, curly hair, and sparkling green eyes behind a pair of black rimmed glasses that I have the urge to covet. She lights up when I say her name and introduce myself which makes me light up and feel that this will all be ok.
In my chair she has the energy of an eighteen year old happily explaining how she wants her hair.
“I want it light, airy and festive!” she chirps.
I’m laughing explaining how I see it going. She agrees and I get her shampooed.
In the bowl she tells me all about how she graduated from Northwestern University, majoring in German. She taught German for many years out in Denver where she lived with her husband. I love the sound of this woman’s voice. It’s full of a kind of joy that I rarely experience or see in other people. I’ve heard happiness in people’s voices among other things, but joy? It’s rarely seen.
“How long have you been married?” I ask.
“Well.” she begins. “This year would have been fifty four years but he’s since passed on.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. How long has been gone?”
“Ten years.” she tells me.
“Wow.” I nod.
“Oh but he was a wonderful man!” she exclaims like a newlywed. “We had the best time! We skied all the time out there in Denver and lived in a beautiful home. He was simply amazing. And handsome too!”
I see in her something I once had. She is sparkling as she talks about him. Her words and love are a mirror image of something I had. My entire being soaks her up, desperately wanting that again and thrilled to pieces to be looking at it, feeling it and remembering in the form of another human being. My eyes flood as I rinse her hair. I can have it again. I remind myself. I’m apparently just not ready yet.
Back in my chair it’s as if she and I are the only two people in the salon. She tells me about her life, surviving cancer twice, raising children, teaching, and moving to San Diego after her husband passed away.
I ask what her husband did she said he was an architectural engineer. Amazing.
“I still love him so much. Even after he’s been gone ten years.”
My floodgates are about to burst. I can’t tell her or you what this means to me to hear this. To hear that she still loves him this much after he’s been gone for so long. It’s like putting ice on a burn. It soothes and calms my frayed, scared nerves in ways I’ve been desperate for. She makes it ok for me to still love and miss Rob as much as I do but am afraid to admit.
“Do you still feel him? I ask her.
“Oh yes! All the time! He’s thrilled about this wedding!” she happily replies referring to her granddaughter who is getting married today. “Are you married?” she asks.
I shake my head. “No. I lost the love of my life in a car accident.”
“Oh my. I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you.” I smile. “I ask you all of this because I feel Rob is still with me, so it’s good to know that you feel it too.”
“Oh of course!” she turns to face me and says “Don’t you worry. Another one will come along. Don’t you worry about a thing.”
“I feel that.” I nod and my hands begin to shake. I’m going to lose it.
“Nope. Don’t you worry.” she says again.
My hands continue to direct her hair with my brush and dryer but if I open my mouth to speak all that will spill out will be tears.
I am desperate to find the words to explain how all of this feels. This woman has touched my soul in a way that no one ever has. Her kind words, gentle but sparkly energy has made it’s way into my veins and it’s coursing it’s way through me filling me with more love than I could ever know. I am full of so much gratitude that I have no idea where to put it. It may not mean much to her or to anyone really but to me it’s everything.
I finish her hair and we go our separate ways. I have her daughter next whom I’ve worked on before back in May. I need a breather first and head to the bathroom where I unleash all my tears in heaving sobs, grateful for the release.
“I love you, I love you, I love you.” I whisper to Rob over and over before drying my eyes and going back out again.
Hours later, my client Jane is in my chair and I’m thrilled to tell her about the “eat, pray, love” thing.
“You know the movie came out yesterday.” she smiles.
“What?! I so had a feeling that I needed to see a movie tonight after work. I never feel like doing that.”
“Oh yeah. Maybe you’re going to have a spiritual revelation when you see it.” she smiles.
“I know right? I hope so. I hope I’m not blind to it.”
“You won’t be. You‘re definitely being guided.”
I tell her about my client from earlier today and how amazing all if was.
“It’s no accident that she was booked with you today. I have no doubt that she was supposed to see you to deliver the message that she did. I think she’s letting you know about things to come. You’re being looked out for.”
“I totally feel that!” I squeal.
She tells me about an exercise that she did in a workshop a while back that she’s trying to pick up again. It’s taking time each morning to write out a stream of consciousness. It’s writing non-stop until three pages (No more or less) are filled. Even if it’s just writing “I have no idea what to say”, write it out.
“You’ll be surprised as to what comes up. I’m not going to tell you all of why you need to do it. You need to see it for yourself.” she grins. “I will tell you that it’s a way of letting your inner child express herself. It gives her space to be and keeps your mind calm. Give it a try.”
Oh I will alright. I like it. It goes along with what Beth was telling me about giving myself permission to write freely without judgment. I feel I’ve done a good job with it and am excited for this exercise as it will further my writing into something deliciously unknown. I feel I’m still looking for my “voice” as a writer and I think this will put me on that path.
When I finish her hair I go to check movie times for “Eat Pray Love”. My heart nearly stops when I see that one of the times is 4:20pm. It’s the date that Rob died and those numbers find their way into my daily life from time to time whether it’s the time on a clock, a page in a book or whatever. It doesn’t happen too often but when it does it makes my heart sing.
Miraculously I’m done early enough to catch the 6:05 show. This never, ever happens. I’ve never gotten off early on a Saturday. I sit in the dark theater completely unaware that I’m alone on a Saturday night. I don’t feel sorry for myself but am happy to simply be with myself. It feels good to be in my own company, to take myself out.
A silly commercial plays across the huge screen. One of the characters is named Rob. I simply grin to myself feeling I’m in the right spot.
The movie starts. I’m ready. I’m ready to hear, feel, soak up anything I’m supposed to get from this. I watch Julia Robert’s character decide to get on her knees and pray when she’s not sure what else to do. Tears find me again. I have no idea why.
The movie continues. I already feel I’m going to need to see it twelve times. Half way through it the screen goes blank and the lights turn on. Everyone starts looking at each other. I’m giggling to myself being that I stopped reading the book half way through and here I am in the theater and the movie has stopped where I stopped reading.
Minutes later we’re asked to evacuate. The fire department is out in the lobby as we all make a mass exodus. Apparently someone pulled the fire alarm. My head is swimming and I’m annoyed with the huge mob that’s in the lobby. I decide to call it a night and make my way outside.
Now what? I ask myself. I’m hungry. Ok. I’m able to catch the train into the city. While waiting on the platform I pull out my journal and begin a stream of consciousness. I find it to be easy and I’m hooked. I hope it’s always this easy. I’m still curious after days of doing it, what will happen or appear.
I stop for sushi at one of my favorite places near my apartment. In thinking about the movie I wonder if God was needing me to be distracted while He got something else together. I’m not sure when I’m going to go back and see it just yet.
At home I get ready for bed. I’m so exhausted, the week hitting me like a ton of bricks knocking me face down into my pillow. Before my eyes close completely I ask God/Rob if there’s anything I need to know. “Tell me what you want me to do.”
The answer: Listen.
I roll the word around in my head for a lil bit. “Ok. I’m listening…” I drift off to sleep.

The Black Keys...

In my mind I’m in a café in Paris wearing an oversized black sweater with leggings and boots. My bobbed hair is nearly touching my shoulders. I’ve been writing here for hours at a tiny table by a window, stopping to watch the snow fall while slowly working on a cappuccino.
My reality is much different. I’m in Chicago, it’s August and sweltering outside. A train is taking me home from another ten hour day behind my chair. My brain is so fried I can’t even read. I put in my iPOD and listen the soft piano music that makes up a beautiful song called “Clair de Lune”. This is where my mind takes off. It’s been happening more and more often this daydreaming. I like to think that it’s my over active imagination flexing it’s muscle but really I think it’s my mind’s way of escaping when there are no other distractions present.
My mind continues to wander, playing back the events of the day and the people I met. I worked on a girl today with bra strap length blonde hair and beautiful green eyes. She had me laughing with her story telling until I began to blow dry her after finishing her haircut. It gets hard for me to hear over the noise of the dryer and I get quiet. Once the dryer was off I started to comb through her hair carefully detailing her layers section by section, removing any hard lines with the tips of my shears. I can barely hear the music playing over the white noise of other blow dryers turning on mixed with the various conversations going on around me. My mind stretches, reaching for Rob, thinking about him in a way I don’t remember now to even say when my client’s voice brings me back.
“I love the Black Keys.” she simply states.
“What’s that?” I stop cutting and face her even though I heard her clear as day.
“The Black Keys.” she points upward. “I love them.”
I smile and nod. Funny she could hear it over all the other noise. The Black Keys was one of Rob’s favorite bands. I admit to not being into them much but always smile when I see a t-shirt or a CD of theirs.
I think about sharing this with her, sharing that I was thinking about Rob and then she said that. I decide against it, then think, “Nope. I’m gonna.” So I do.
“Oh wow. That is crazy.” her eyes get big.
“I know.” I giggle even though none of this is amusing to me.
“Wow…”
My hand moves to pick up another section of her hair and I feel her head is heating up. I keep cutting watching her scalp and face turn a light shade of pink. I try not to regret telling her. I sometimes forget myself and the fact that other people are not connected to the things I experience or want to share…

Chatter...

I’m sitting in a pool of words and thoughts swimming around my raw, chapped little body. I feel I need to be in a padded room right now complete with soundproof walls and a straightjacket. These words and thoughts are desperate to come together and form something coherent but I can’t seem to make it all fit.
I want it all to fit. Right this minute. It’s too uncomfortable to sit here and let it all drift by without organizing it. My fingers reach out trying to grab hold of something, anything that will stop the free fall into something unknown but I can’t grab anything when I’m drowning.
Except I’m not drowning. It only feels that way. It’s like watching something on IMAX where it feels like you’re really there on that rollercoaster or next to that shark but you’re not. You’re safe in a theater letting the images play out before you.
I am home. I just took a shower and ate dinner. I can do whatever I want. It’s just me now. Isn’t that what I wanted? Why is hurting so much then?
I have jewelry to make, a journal to continue with, a book proposal I’d like to get started on this century and yet I can’t sit still long enough to touch any of it. Instead I’m taking the long way to the places I need to go to. I feel I’ve spent more time walking and on trains than at the actual places I was using those means to get to.
“It sounds like things aren’t coming naturally to you right now.” my new therapist Beth observes after explaining to her the structure of my days off.
I shake my head. “No. It used to but because of how my work days are, I don’t do anything. I save it all for my days off and sometimes, I just don’t feel like it. I fear that not feeling like it over and over again will end up with nothing accomplished so it feels imperative to get as much done as possible.”
“You’re very disciplined and I’m wondering if we just need to explore your creative process more and redirect how you approach these things. I feel they should be therapeutic and give energy rather than taking energy.”
“Definitely!” I beam.
“Ok, so I want you to simply try writing without an agenda. Let your mind go where ever it goes and write it down. Don’t judge it, just do it. For an hour. If you go longer, great, if not, at least do it for that hour.”
I nod.
“How does that sound?”
“I want it! I do. I’m nervous about actually doing it though. I always have an agenda.”
“I knew you would say that.” she smiles. “Ok, so when you’re writing and you’re getting overwhelmed, stop, and breathe. Really breathe deeply a couple of times and get back to it.”
“Deal.”
My mind goes to all sorts of places that my pen and paper don’t capture. I’m not sure why I don’t record any of it really. I think some of it I’m afraid of. I’m afraid of what I might say or might feel. I’m also afraid of feeling silly or getting stuck so I say nothing.
When I leave Beth’s office I have the best intentions. Ok. I’m going to do this. I get on the train and head to Millennium Park. I walk around and look for a spot to sit and open my notebook, ready for all of this to pour out of me.
It’s awfully busy out here. I observe while meandering. I feel the warm sun on my back and a breeze pushing my straightened hair around my face and smile feeling lucky to be outside today, to have a day off, to be simply breathing.
I plop down under a tree and give in to my compulsive phone checking habit. For six months now Jeff and I have sent bagillions of text messages throughout any given day. It’s going to take a while to stop anticipating the screen of my phone lighting up or the chirping sound it makes when I don’t have the ringer on silent alerting me to some sweetness he’s delivering.
Opening my notebook, I find a blank page and sigh. A screaming seagull captures my attention. Some girls laughing next to me compete with the seagull and with all the people walking around…my head might start spinning. Maybe I picked a bad spot for concentrating. I write a couple of sentences then stop to watch the sun glittering through the leaves on the trees over me.
This is a bad idea. I need less distraction. I pick up and go again ending up at Filter, a coffee shop not far from my apartment. It’s packed but I find a table. I open the notebook again. I get a paragraph pushed out but am still judging, thinking a little too much and desperately wanting to simply let go but I don’t have a clue as to how to do that. I start writing again, asking more questions of myself instead of simply stringing sentences together.
Maybe this is just what it’s going to be today. I pack up after an hour and head home.
The sun is blazing but I run anyway, sweat racing down my spine. I try to remind myself that the writing will come once the dust settles and I find a routine again. My life was just enmeshed with someone else’s. I’m not tolerant of the fact that an adjustment is being made and all I can do is put one foot in front of the other.
Once I make it home again I try to quiet the chatter in my brain to figure out what it is I want to do. Nothing is clear. Well, one thing for sure is clear and that is a much needed shower.
“Just do what you know.” my high school art teacher would tell me when I didn’t have all the answers as to what direction I wanted to take a particular project in. I’ve kept that sentence tucked away with me ever since.
I go through the motions without paying much attention to the water spraying onto my skin or the smell of the strawberry scrub I adore. I get out of the tub and wrap a towel around myself sighing for the hundredth time today.
Once dressed I park my tail on the couch, turn on the computer and take a look at the submission guidelines for a publishing company based in San Francisco. I tell myself I can do all of this. I can write this proposal. I don’t have to have all the answers now but I’ll have them eventually.
Upon reading these guidelines the dermatitis that has plagued me since moving here is sparking. Not only is it eating my hands, it’s threatening to eat my arms too. I click out of the browser set the computer on the coffee table.
I take this opportunity to go to the grocery store and get veggie burgers. On my way back a (seemingly) schizophrenic black man holding a Walkman waltzing toward me is yammering on about God knows what then very coherently says to my face “I love you honey!”
I think of Rob and laugh.
At home I eat and try to be still. Nervous energy is pulsing through my veins. I have enough of it to light up New York City. I try to ask myself what I want. I want to write for hours. I want to write unabashedly until it’s all out of me. I want to be uncensored and unafraid. I want to hurl words in big, bold, all capital letters across a blank page. I want to sing until my vocal chords can’t produce sound and talk until there are no words left. I want to dance all night until the sun begins to rise. I want to cry until my eyes won’t make tears anymore, laugh until I can’t breathe, run until my lungs can no longer expel the air they take in and express myself in all the ways I’ve held back, then…sleep like I’ve just eaten a Thanksgiving dinner.
Until I figure out how to accomplish that, the chatter continues…

OA Lead...

As usual I’m up early and am setting out on my Sunday route to Alliance for a huge Americano and some writing. I have to give the lead tonight at OA and I’m only half way through with writing it out. I’m scared to finish it. I don’t want to touch it. I’m not sure what I’m afraid of but something has me putting on the breaks.
I sit in my favorite spot by the window, computer on, the Americano in my hand, eyes staring out at the world. I alternate between this position and being completely engrossed in typing away, telling a story to my laptop. I was expecting the floodgates to open today spilling words from my mind to my hands to the screen but not much is happening.
I really should work on my lead…soon…
Instead I pack up and head home to drop my things off and go out for a run. I change my route slightly, heading north on Milwaukee instead of south. It’s quieter than I expected which is glorious. I go for forty five minutes then turn around and head home only to grab my things again and head to the gym for a quick workout.
A couple of weeks ago I met John* at a Wednesday night OA meeting. He noticed I wrote nearly the entire time while people were speaking. I love to write down what everyone says. He also liked what I had to share and asked me to give a lead two weeks later at a Sunday night meeting about Step eight. My mind started to formulate reasons why I couldn’t make it. Giving a lead and talking for fifteen to twenty minutes sounded real scary. While part of me was backing away from this, another part was pushing me to do it, reminding me that I am capable. The word “yes” left my mouth before I could talk myself out of it.
So here I am, on Sunday, with this lead half finished. Ok seriously…I have to get this done…
I’m reading while letting this thought bounce around in my head, sipping red tea at Argo Tea downtown after working out, watching people walk by the huge windows. I’m doing more watching than reading. My OA stuff is spread out in front of me like an impatient child waiting for attention yet I continue to ignore it.
Once my tea is finished I’m packed up and heading home where I fix lunch, shower and continue my avoidance of the task at hand that still needs to be completed. Maybe I’ll just head up there and find a coffee shop…
Again, more avoidance. What the hell am I so afraid of? Doing it wrong? Being judged? Suddenly I’m thirteen again and terrified of being made fun of because what I’m saying isn’t good enough. I have to bare my soul to these people. What will they think of me?
My story and my sharing it is an act of faith and love. I have faith that in sharing, I’ll be loved anyway. I will love myself more for taking this opportunity to give service. Fear is paralyzing though as I’m quickly finding. Time is closing in around me as I step off the train and out into the blazing sunshine. I walk for a while before stumbling upon a Starbucks. I have exactly one hour to get this done. No time for excessive thinking. I order a tea and get to work.
I brought along a journal that Jeff gave me. I decide to rewrite what I’ve already come up with to get the ball rolling and to make it neater and more organized. The first page of the journal is filled with his sweetness in the form of a short note to me. I read over it again, smiling at thinking about his hands forming the words on the page.
I turn to a blank page and begin writing. I write and write and write, barely looking up. Words pour out of me splashing across the paper in the form of my messy handwriting. My desire for food is steadily increasing as the minutes tick by. My energy is haphazard and spastic. There is no way I’m giving in to food before a fucking meeting. I glance at my watch as I finish writing the last word. It’s been exactly an hour. Whew! Made it. I pack up and walk to place where the meeting is held.
“Welcome to the Sunday night meeting of Overeaters Anonymous. My name is John and I’m a compulsive overeater and the leader for this meeting tonight.”
John goes through the usual announcements that begin every meeting. Each one is slightly different depending on which day we attend. On Wednesday nights, the meeting I usually attend, we choose three topics to speak about. This meeting someone gives a “lead” talking about a particular subject or step and discussion follows.
“I’ve asked Melissa to give the lead on the eighth step tonight. She’s not from Chicago and I asked her to speak to hear a different perspective that she might have coming from somewhere else.” He nods for me to take over and I beam.
“Hi! I’m Melissa and I’m a compulsive overeater. I’m really grateful to be here tonight.” I exhale, quickly checking in with my heart rate. It’s steady. Thank God. I can do this. “I moved here from Atlanta and this is my second time at this Sunday night meeting. I attended this one shortly after moving here but my schedule doesn’t always allow for me to come as often as I’d like.”
I remember to make eye contact while speaking, only tearing my eyes from other’s to glance at what I’ve written.
“Being asked to give this lead tonight put me in a position where I was needing to check in with myself and make sure I had nothing needing to be “cleaned up” before sharing.
Before diving into that task I felt I needed to reflect on what Step 8 was, what it meant to me upon entering the program and what it means to me now.
Step 8, as we know is making a list of all persons we’ve harmed and became willing to make amends to them all. I find that “willing” is a key word in that sentence. I could make a list all day, it’s the willing part that had me putting on the breaks. For me, being willing means letting go and taking action despite any fear I might have floating around.”
Some heads were nodding. I realized at that moment that people were actually listening. I had their attention and I suddenly got nervous. I paused for a brief moment before taking in another breath, letting it out and continuing.
“Taking action meant stepping into some unknown world and the unknown is a scary place to be. The first time I had to make my list I had to remind myself that it was only a list. No action needed to be taken yet. It was still a scary process. I dunno about you but I like to believe in Melissa’s world, it’s all puppies and rainbows and no one has ever been hurt as a result of something I’ve done!”
Everyone laughs including myself simply needing to release energy.
“None of that is real though.” I continue. “I’ve harmed people and carried resentments against even more people. It’s all been festering in a dark place inside my head. It’s a place I was terrified to look into out of fear of what I might find or feel.
When it came time to visit that place after moving through Steps one through seven thinking thank God we don’t start with eight,” I joke. “I had to stop and ask myself “Why am I doing this?” I hoped that in at least getting curious about my intentions I could move forward with a little more ease.
The answer was simple. I wanted to let go, move forward and take another step in the direction of recovery and self acceptance. I wanted to release the pain and secrets I had been walking around with.
I found my willingness by reminding myself that I will not die from these uncomfortable feelings, or from apologizing. Many people before me have gotten through Step eight and now it’s my turn. I will not burst into flames for these admissions.”
More laughing ensues and I feel good.
“I was struggling as to whether or not I was going to share what my original list consisted of. The only person who has heard all of it is my former sponsor. So I’m deciding to share it with all of you tonight as a reminder that I’m a human being and am not perfect.”
I list all the unsavory stuff…including, but not limited to, the unfortunate resentments I’ve held against friends and family, a man who abused me and the hardest to accept, the resentments I held and sometimes currently hold against myself.
“Seeing it all out there on paper and relaying the details of it to my sponsor at the time all while trying to remember that I am still a loveable human being despite my flawed actions was a tremendous act of faith.” I continued feeling my skin heat up at these admissions.
“As time has moved on, my list is usually kept quite short. It’s no longer the daunting task it once was. It’s never easy though. I took an inventory after committing to this lead tonight and found that I had some residual anger left over from someone I just recently broke up with. I had to be honest, tell him everything and let go. Sure it was hard but I feel so much better that it’s not longer something I’m hanging on to. Without this program I have no idea where I’d be. Without Step eight and all the step before it and after it I’d still be bumbling around in the dark hanging on to all my fear. Without all of you giving me more love than I deserve I’d still be in the food eating my life away. So thank you,” I exhale, trying not to cry. “for being here, for listening and for letting me share.”
Applause erupts around me and I feel myself relax. I feel so happy to have taken John up on the challenge of doing this tonight. For the rest of the meeting I sit quietly, and listen to everyone else share. My little heart is so happy to hear that my struggles and experiences match those around me. People thank me for sharing my thoughts, for the preparation and for admitting the icky stuff and share their own unsavory moments. There is lots of laughing and some tears. I feel I still have a long, long way to go when it comes to self-love and acceptance but tonight, I feel I just made an important step in the right direction.


* not his real name.

Beth...

“I don’t think you’re being open to him.” Beth tells me as I sit, wide-eyed across from her on a couch in her small comfortable office. Sunlight streams through the blinds that cover a large window next to her seated brightly colored form.
I nod. She’s prolly right but I don’t wanna see it, plus I don’t know how to, so I let her words go in one ear and out the other.
It’s the day after the half marathon. My joints are sore but nothing tremendous. This is my first appointment with my new therapist and I’m ecstatic to see what’s in store for my lil brain and all it’s many emotions.
I just told her that I broke up with Jeff. She’s thinking there is more there that needs to be looked at. Like me being open. What does that even mean though? I thought I was. Then again, I think about Dr. M. and her asking me if I feel I’m closed off when it comes to Jeff because of losing Rob. The answer to that question when she asked was an immediate yes. I felt that a part of me was but didn’t know how to unlock it and invite Jeff in. The whole thing felt very heavy and “too much”, so I left.
Being this is my first visit with Beth we gloss over the surface of my reasons for being there which mainly are Rob, my eating disorder, work, and stress management. She’s an art therapist and I talk to her about these collages I’ve been doing when writing gets tough. It started with a handmade journal I bought at a local bookstore in my neighborhood. I got the idea from my roommate at the time when I first moved to Chicago. I cut up magazines and paste images down in these pages and watch what I’m feeling come to a surface. These images are like looking into a mirror sometimes. I don’t usually know what I’m going to come up with before I start, I just do it and am always excited to see what’s reflected back at me. Currently these images have been expanding to canvas. I have three large canvases filled with images waiting for more additions to their already rather colorful surfaces.
“I’d like to see these.” Beth tells me.
“I’ll bring in my journal first as the canvases are tough to transport right now being they’re so big..”
Beth also tells me at the end of our session that she’d like me to create a timeline consisting of major events in my life.
“Start with birth and write down anything that stands out, particularly body image issues, like when they first started.”
I nod. This will be easy enough right?
“I’d like to meet with you once a week for now.”
“Ok.” I nod and we set up a month’s worth of appointments.
Minutes later I’m out the door and walking to the train. I decide to head downtown to get sushi and work on this timeline while things feel fresh in my mind.
Jeff and I are texting. He asks how everything went today. I say that I’ll email him. I wonder when this will stop. When will I stop letting him in on details of my life. I’m terrified of keeping in contact with him, yet I don’t necessarily want to stop. I don’t want to meet up with him some time down the road or get an email from him saying how good things are at work then telling me he just went on a date with someone.
I get off the train when it gets downtown and walk to the sushi place I frequented with Jeff when he’d finish a shift at dinner time. I pull out a pen and a notebook after ordering spicy tuna and a glass of wine. It’s beautiful outside and I’m having one of those moments where I can’t believe I’m here. I live here. I’m sitting in a sushi restaurant content with my own company across from a beautiful park in the middle of downtown Chicago, the world buzzing around outside and I’m a part of it. Never did I ever imagine this when I was sixteen looking ahead at what my late twenties would be like.
I begin my timeline. Everything is easy until age fourteen. That’s when the trouble started. I became painfully aware of my body then. It would take five more years though to begin the eating disorder. Five more years would go by before I acknowledged it and two more years before getting help for it. Meanwhile, I’d float around from boy to boy, travel from city to city, buy a car among other things, always trying to fill the void that threatened to swallow me whole if I didn’t fill it quickly enough with material things, with experiences, hobbies, people, anything really to distract me from myself. I quit a job, started a new one. I fell in love, lived through his death, and started a new life many miles from a place I called home.
Now…who the hell am I?