Thanksgiving Crazy.

Thanksgiving is hard. No, check that, life is hard and great and gritty and wonderful and sweaty and beautiful. The holidays, just bring all of that…stuff to the surface.

Holidays are in-laws, out-laws, blood family, and dirty houses and clean houses and cooking, and drinking, and politics, and politeness, and love and frustration and gratitude. It can make us and it tries to break us and everything in between us.

I love hate Thanksgiving. It’s like an ugly beautiful. I want to eat all of it, all the southernness of gravy and mashed potatoes, but then the eating disorder rears its head and I think I should have a paleo or a gluten free Thanksgiving, or just the wine, I will settle for just the wine…and the olives from the martinis, yes, yes that would be a good Thanksgiving.

For those of us who carry a mental illness, an eating disorder, the holidays are prime time to give into the crazy. All of the hard healing work starts to go to hell and I am tempted to jump into the looney bin.  Why? Because I am hosting and I want it to be perfection because the opposite would be utter humiliation. The mental illness speaks ugly words and tells me that my worth lies in my ability to pull off the impossibly perfect Thanksgiving and….. to not eat any of it.

The day before Thanksgiving I am one big hot mess as I run into Target for wine. FOR WINE. Nothing else but wine. And sugar and cajun seasoning. Then I add flowers and martini olives. I am wearing clothes that are three sizes too big and in great need of a washing. There is flour on them from making 23 individual apple tarts, my fingers have dried remains from making mashed potatoes, I smell like butter and cinnamon and vaguely like dirty dish water. My hair has the resemblance of a braid, but I can’t be too sure. No makeup, which isn’t a totally new thing for me, I tend to do without, but today, the no makeup adds to the hot mess quality, and house shoes, stinky house shoes. I sail into Target, make a bee line for the wine aisle. I grab the wine and opt for blue cheese olives for the martinis, some flowers, and that other Turkey Day stuff and I make my way to the checkout line.

As I unload my groceries and pause to smile at the cashier my appearance becomes painfully obvious. I start to cringe at my nonbraid braid and my dried mashed potato fingers. My crazy is so painfully obvious. My hair from the devil, my stinky clothes…… That inner voice starts to hiss at me. “Thanksgiving is stupid.” It whispers evil in my ears.  “Everyone else is so put together. All these other women can cook 23 apple tarts without needing wine. You are weak.” Have you ever had to pretend to be normal in public when you are fighting the crazy voice? It takes energy to fight. It takes divine intervention.

Just then a young mom pulls her cart in behind me. She has two young children with her. They have to both be under the age of four. They are both crying. I look at her. Her eyes are closed and she is concentrating on her breathing. She sighs and opens her eyes. She looks at me.  As I pay for my items (that just reaffirm my state of insanity) I look straight at her and say “Stay strong, momma.” And as I say this, I am empowered. I realize I can do this Pilgrim celebration. I can host this Thanksgiving mess. I can. So can that momma. Encouraging her made me stronger. Reaching out and embracing her, makes me strong. It makes me realize I can and I will conquer that turkey and mashed potatoes, and those stupid individual apple tarts. All 23 of them. I will keep fighting the crazy and….I start to feel my peace come back to me.

 Every women has crazy in some form or another. In that moment of pushing aside my crazy to encourage another woman I realized just what role women play in Thanksgiving. Women can create a space of gratitude. Gratitude for this life that is hard and great and gritty and wonderful and sweaty and beautiful. We are of the sacred, holy, embracing love. Women have the grace, instinct, and energy to create small spaces of gratitude for our families, friends, and perfect strangers. My crazy makes me sensitive to the crazy in others. What a gift. I can be broken and give blessings and I am no one special. If I can do it, so can other women. We can create the holy. We can create the collaboration. We can and we will. We just need to see past our perceived limits and look into each other’s eyes.

Thanksgiving is good. I smiled at her, she smiled at me. I grabbed my wine and flowers, went home and made more apple tarts.

One Life

Just like Santa he comes around once a year.  The glorious sound of One Particular Harbor.  The one who sings of Wings and Fruitcakes.  The one who reminds us we only have 24 hours, maybe 60 good years.  It is really not that long of stay.

And I almost ended it all.  On the weekend we live for all year.

We (a term I use to describe the friends who have become family over the last two decades) have followed Jimmy Buffet for 20 years now.  We weren't even legal age when we started attending his concerts.  His music fits our group. Carefree, a little politically incorrect, live the moment, drink it up, learn to be still (at least for this one weekend, please don’t think we live in the ‘drink it up’ mode).

You arrive Friday and leave Sunday to attend a concert on Saturday evening.  You proudly stay in a parking lot all weekend and welcome the unique and quirky personality traits your neighbors in Cement Margartiaville have to offer.

Yet with this weekend comes girls with bodies who are thinner than mine.  Food, drink, guys that appreciate the female form and have had just about too much to drink, and Captain Jack.

As I write these next paragraphs please understand these words are new and freshly spoken to those who share this weekend with me.  To those who love me, to Captain Jack, who cherishes me and I him above all earthly things.

My husband can be a dead ringer for Captain Jack Sparrow.  Jimmy sings of pirates.  It is only fitting my husband takes on the persona of Captain Jack.  We love it.  Every one of us.  Sometimes, girls swoon just a bit too close for comfort.  Captain Jack has never forgotten he is a married gentleman.

I would stress over the weekend.  I would think about the smaller legs on girls ten years younger than me, the food, the drinks, girls swooning and suddenly I was the insecure 19 year old in the midst of an eating disorder.  Broken all over again.  Looking for meaning, looking for worth, looking for Blessed. Eating disorders may give way to healthy bodies and weight gained back, but the mental game is still there.  Exhausting.  Trying to trick and trip you at every corner.  The mind game can wear you down.

Captain Jack could feel my stress as we set out that morning.  He kept asking what he could do and I kept saying nothing.  But for some reason this year was tougher than others.  He pulled into a Target. “Let’s get you a new outfit”, he offered.  30 minutes later I had purchased a black sundress that covered my shoulders and thighs.  Black, that was how I felt, black.  I was tired.  I was so tired of thinking and arguing with myself.  I was so tired of broken. “I just want the thoughts to stop.” I said as we entered the highway.

Then it occurred to me - I could end it.  I could make it to where I never had to think again.  Pain would be there, but fleeting, and then I didn't have to think ever again.  Captain Jack was going 70 mph.  An 18 wheeler was approaching.  I could time it perfectly. All I had to do……. I counted down.  Hands in position.  3,2,1…..

I caught myself.  What the hell.  WHAT THE HELL! No, this isn't what is supposed to happen.  This isn't how my story ends.  I give in? I give up?  No.  I have one life.  I HAVE ONE LIFE.

I put my hands back on my lap.  I looked at Captain Jack.  He didn't notice. He doesn't know what I almost did.  I close my eyes and start to breathe again.  Swallow the cutting tears.  Bury it down.

I never mentioned it.  It happened four years ago.  I never said anything to anyone until this year.  I told Captain Jack and he cried.  So, then I cried.  I let go of the last broken bit and I admitted I didn't want “this” buried anymore.  When I let it go, when I admitted nearly ending my life, when I whispered the words, the Blessed poured in. That was when I hit my knees with hot messy tears.  That was when God said “My daughter, I couldn't take away your broken because in your broken I have given you purpose. Share your story, help others through theirs.” Live.

 Every one of us has moments of broken.  But we must remember we also have blessed moments.  For some reason we let the broken rule us.  Instead of excitement we feel anxiety, instead of love we feel fear, instead of hope we feel desperation.

Life, this one life, it isn't meant to be easy, it is meant to be gritty.  We are meant to have an attitude of grace and confidence.  Why do we choose the negative when we know the positive feels so much better?  Is it because we have let our worth go?  We do not deem ourselves worthy of Blessed?  Let me shout it, YOU ARE WORTHY! LIVE!

Ladies, let go of anxiety and get excited about the rest of your life.  Get excited about the joys and triumphs.  Get excited about the opportunities that lead us to a better understanding of our grit.  Get excited about opportunities to grow, change, get uncomfortable, and be triumphant.

One life. Embrace this knowledge. Embrace each other. Just embrace. 

Gaining

When you let go of depression you gain energy.

When you let go of sadness you gain happiness.

When you let go of addiction you gain relationships.

When you let go of anorexia you gain weight.

That is the last part of healing.  Weight gain.  Accepting the weight gain.  In a society that is all about thin…no, skinny- you have to be okay gaining 10, 15, 20 pounds.

You are moving against the flow.  You are swimming upstream and it is hard.  IT IS HARD!

Everyone around you uses the ED (Eating Disorder) terms.  “I was bad today I had two pieces of chocolate.”

For me eating two pieces of chocolate….that would be a good thing.  It means I expanded my food repertoire.

When someone says “I was good today, I only ate 600 calories.”

For me, that would be bad.  I am looking to be comfortable with 1,100+ calories.

Then there was the one time I watched someone take a bite of a candy bar chew it for a second and spit it out.  She was proud of her move.  I couldn't help it, I blurted out “That was a classic anorexic move.”

This is hard stuff.  Constantly reminding yourself to be okay eating 10 bites instead of one.  Eating two pieces of pizza instead of tearing one piece to shreds and pretending to eat it.

This is painful stuff.  Watching females check their calorie counter after a Barre class to see how many calories they burned.  Wanting to scream “IT CAN’T BE ABOUT THE CALORIES!”  The feeling of health has to come from the soul.  Not the brain, not the calorie counter - THE SOUL.  The piece of you which God has gifted from the moment of conception.

I am trying to grow to love numbers, but I truly hate them.  I hate sizes.  I hate the assumption others make about my size.  I hate the scale - I don’t have one.  I hate the fact that fashion magazines say you need a scale to make sure you don’t gain weight.  I hate that women turn to fashion magazines for inspiration to lose weight.  Please turn to Him.  He knows WAY more than Cosmo.

I still fight with this gaining weight thing.  I have held the weight steady for many years.  When I relapsed I lost weight but eventually gained it back.  It’s hard.  I wish we could change the terminology.  I wish I wasn't sensitive to it.  I wish we could realize we all have our stories of weight and that is all they are, just stories.  Weight doesn't make you good or bad.  Yes, it can make you healthy or unhealthy (it goes both ways too low or too high).  But I will stand firm on this: Weight. Is. Not. My. Worth.

My worth is in my soul.  It is given from Him.  He did not assign us numbers.  We assigned those to ourselves.  He assigned us worth.  Amazing wonderful worth.  I have worth, you have worth, and she has worth.  We have it.  We have to share it the way we share our weight and diet stories.  What if instead of saying “I was bad because I ate a piece of cake,” we started saying “Today you are loved because He made you.”

Maybe if I start this conversation I won’t be so sensitive to others who express their worth through weight.  If I change the conversation in my head, I will realize my worth never changes with the size of my thighs.  A decrease in thigh mass, doesn't increase my worth with the Father.  Maybe it will free another recovering bulimic or anorexic.  Health is a struggle, I get it, but when we start nourishing our souls through Him, health is no longer a struggle.  He points us to the steps we have to take to be healthy, and for me, it was to gain weight.  There I said it.  I GAINED WEIGHT TO BE HEALTHY (enter feelings of extreme vulnerability).  It is a tough mind shift, but, when we can bridge that gap between His worth for us and health, amazing things start to happen to our bodies.  The way the Lord works is a beautiful thing and that beauty is “good” for everyone.

Questions

Why do I wear makeup? Is it okay that I don’t? Am I hiding my true face if I do? What will my daughter, Intense, think if I wear makeup? Should I ask her if she wants to wear makeup? Is 13 old enough? Should I let her ask me about makeup first?

Am I less because I wear over-sized sweat pants from 1994 to Wal-Mart? Am I a snob because I wear nice clothes to go grocery shopping in at Target?

Am I less because I have bigger thighs than her, but smaller thighs than her? Why do I care? Why do I still look at her when I say I don’t care? Am I fake?

Am I less because I eat gluten? Am I less because I ran three miles and she ran 5? Am I less because I didn't work out? Ate cheese, put sugar in my coffee? Does it make me more because I drink my organic tea straight?

Am I less because I order the nonfat mocha with whip?

Am I less because I get up at 6:00 and not 5:00? Am I less because I leave my family for an hour to work out while they sit at home and watch TV? Am I less because I ate pizza for dinner. Processed pizza and almost burnt?

Am I less because I want to wear something sexy? Does it mean I have low self-esteem…….. or high? Does it mean anything?

Am I a snob because I like big sunglasses and fancy coffee shops? Does it make me high maintenance? Should I try to be simple? Do guys realize that women worry about how they will be perceived? Wait, does worrying about that make me high maintenance?

Is it okay that I get emotional? I get loud mad? Am I less that I cry and get emotional when I talk about my story? Does it make me weak? Does it make me strong? Do others see vulnerability as credibility? Why do I care? Do I need to care? Am I judged because I have opened my heart up to others?

Am I selfish if I want time to myself? Does every woman need time to herself? Can I call myself a lady? Why do I want to call myself a lady?

Do I hide behind my hair? Does it make me low maintenance if I get my hair cut at Great Clips? Should I cut it somewhere fancy? What would the difference be? Wonder what the hair dressers think?

Did anyone just see me adjust my pants over my stomach as I sat down?

Is it okay to want expensive makeup and highlights if I am teaching girls to embrace who they are?  

How in the world does God still love me? How have I not reached my ration of grace yet?

Am I on my phone too much? Do the kids play too many video games?

Will I appear unintelligent if I ask her what the word she used said meant?

Is it acceptable to be a woman….lady…. that wants to make a lot of money? Should I be content with being a stay at home mom? Is it okay that sometimes…..a lot of times, I don’t want to play with my kids? Am I less because she enjoys motherhood more than I do at this moment? Is it okay that I am happy my children aren't babies anymore?

Is it okay I don’t craft? My kids birthday parties are store bought, are they missing out on something?

Is it okay I wait till the last minute to plan something? Is it okay that this weekend I didn't take my children on any adventures….accept to Wal-Mart?

Is it okay that we like to just play in the backyard instead of go, go, go? But sometimes the opposite is true, can I flip flop like that?

Is it okay that I raise my children with a cultured background? Is it okay that I do take them to plays and museums? Is it okay that one child may like the theatre more than sports?

Is it okay that I have wrinkles in places that she doesn't? Am I less because I have stretch marks where a child grew in my belly? Where others see it as a mark of motherhood? Is it okay if I don’t have stretch marks?

What the hell?

How can I stop the questions?

How do I teach Intense to not question?

Truth is I can’t. Questions are a part of life. The part that can unfortunately make us feel less and unfortunately can also make us feel more. So, now what?

 I can teach Intense to know herself second, after her Lord, but above the rest.

I can teach her how to identify her level of comfort. What it feels like when comfort and confidence come together. That combination of feeling is empowerment. That is where the phrase “I am enough” was created. That is where the answers wait for us.

But first. I must find my place where comfort and confidence meet and learn how to wear that feeling. Learn how to be empowered. When I find that place, I know what direction I need to grow in. I must also realize my place will not be her place and I must let her be empowered with the realization that she is not an extension of me. 

    Broken sat on the floor typing. Empty wine glass beside her, dishes in the sink, left over junk food from the football game fed her for dinner, kids eating sugar and up too late, only exercised for half an hour today. Broken had missed her meeting and she is balancing that guilt with the guilt of not having an evening at home with her family in two weeks and so tonight, her worth is being weighed. Broken’s daughter, Intense, doesn't understand why broken is so tense and moody. This makes Intense wonder what she has done wrong.

    Broken is weighed by her reality is tonight. Yesterday she carefully planned her week. Careful goal setting down to the minute. Right now, the 7:00-8:30 pm slot was supposed to go to the board meeting. Sick husband and kiddos superseded it. But the 3:30-4:00 running time went to drinking coffee and holding the boy in her lap. Broken wonders why she only feels worthy when she is living a regimented and scheduled life that involves eating Kale, working out for an hour a day, and marking everything off her to-do list. Why doesn't she feel worth when she is holding her son or choosing family over work?

    She realizes she self-fulfills. She calls herself broken. She doesn't like it. She refuses to capitalize it. What else should she expect, though? When you call yourself broken, you live up to that expectation. But……….what if she called herself…….. Blessed? Dare she? Would she be judged? Would they say she is righteous and still pretend perfect? Would they say she is egotistical? Would it matter?

    I call myself broken and I should not. I close my eyes and breathe. I remember my small voice and listen to it. It tells me to turn toward God. Song of Songs sings out “You are altogether beautiful, my darling, there is no flaw in you.” He who creates does not call me “broken” He calls me Beloved, Beautiful, His, Daughter. How dare I think I know better than He? Audacity courses through me. I dare to think I know myself better then He who created me? He, who knows every hair on my head. He, who has plans for me.

      If I change the broken to Bless, I change the question of my worthiness. I WANT Blessed. I capitalize it. Blessed means I let life unfold naturally. I do not fight the losing battle of trying to make life happen my way. I understand I cannot control everything. I let go of perfection. I let go of failure, anxiety, the size of my thighs. It means I accept Messy Monday. I accepted the imperfection that accompanies the start of the week. The things I cannot plan for. Strep throat, 5 hours of sleep, late night trips to the store for medicine, surprise company that smelled the stench of unwashed dishes. I accept it as part of life. Life that is Blessed. If I can glory in the imperfection, then I can fully love Him. I can fully love Him because I can fully appreciate every nuance of life. The perceived broken and the Blessed.

     Don’t you see? Oh, what a wonderful gift this is to receive! The knowledge that worth is not from accomplished to-do lists, long work outs with hundreds of burned calories, clean homes, Pinterest worthy dinners. I release the frustration of an imperfect evening and when I do I feel empowered. Every day I am faced with the question “What will I let go of today?” I am not a task master. I am a woman. A woman who loves her Lord and her family. I want to be known for living, true living moment to moment. I want to know my worth is constant in good times and bad.  Contradictory to my thoughts- my worth does not ebb and flow. My worth is always. ALWAYS! FOREVER! Oh, ladies it is always.

       No longer broken and without worth. But always Blessed and worthy. In fact, I am not the only Blessed. We are all the Blessed. Ladies, I take away your broken. I take it and present you Blessed. You are Blessed. When you doubt the Blessed you must remember Song of Songs 4:7. “You are altogether beautiful, my darling, there is no flaw in you.”

      Sing it, talk it, breathe it in you. Do you feel it filling in the dark crevasses? The warmth of His grace. It only stops when we refuse it. There is power in this realization. We stop our worth, we question our worth, not Him. Why would we dare stop it? Why not accept it, bathe in it, and share it. Worthy are you, His daughter who creates His daughters. You, who grows and cultivates strong girls whether they are from you or from another. Girls who will learn their worth from first watching you before she knows to turn to Him. We must show her first. We must show her how.

Blessed readjusts. Breathes in her worth and calls out to Intense “What did you let go of today?”

A Day without Makeup

Broken has a daughter.

 I saw her like I had never seen anything before. I saw her with such clarity it frightened me. I sang “isn’t she lovely.” I looked at her. She was quiet. No noise. She had gray blue eyes. She had dark hair. She was intense. I was in awe. She was in me and now beside me and I saw her and nothing else.

She was so fragile. Glass. She could break so easily. I feared dropping her. Hurting her. I wanted to protect her. Suddenly 25 was too young to have a child. I wasn’t old enough or mature enough. Suddenly I was weak. Full of doubt. Who was I to be trusted with this daughter with gray blue eyes? This intense baby who stared. Broken had a daughter who was as physically fragile as broken was mentally fragile.

I would lay her down on the floor and put my head next to her and weep tears of appreciation. I admitted I created something wonderful but could not comprehend it. My body created her. This body that I blasted. This body that I bruised. This body I deemed unworthy. It created this intense baby. It created a feminine life. She, the female who would turn to me. I buried broken. Shoved it down. Did not talk about it. Yet, always thought about. It is amazing how long you can stay buried and broken. However, God has a purpose and when His purpose is only discovered through the broken. The broken will emerged. But for now, it stayed buried.

Intense is now in school. I love her. Her eyes have taken on the warm brown of her father’s. She is nothing like me. She has carved her way with attitude and might. She does not listen to “no”. She is smart, really smart. She is cunning and savvy. I did not give these to her. God knew. God knew I would not be able to so He put them in her Himself. I am convinced of it.

 I need do nothing to help her succeed. It is in her. She does not need me to comfort her. She will not tolerate dresses or bows. She will not brush her hair. I let it go. I am relieved. God simplified her needs. With the exception of one. Perfection. She needs perfection. I talk with her. I am trained in this. We go on. Intense continues to coast.

Intense gets older and so does the perfection. It won’t go away. I ask for advice, but don’t take it too serious.

Intense is in 3rd grade.

I wake up one night in a cold sweat. In less than two years she will be in 5^th grade. 5^th grade. That was when broken started for me. I stare into the dark. It has happened too fast. This passage of time. How do you make someone believe they are imperfectly perfect in less than two years?

How do you do it when you don’t believe it to be part of your truth?

This daughter of intensity. This daughter of cunning style. This daughter which I try so hard to bury the broken so she won’t see. How do I make her unbreakable?

 When God wants you to pursue something He makes it obvious. National Eating Disorder Month appeared on my calendar as I prepare my February work schedule. I stare at those words. They are me and it is an odd feeling. I don’t own the eating disorder yet. I don’t bless it. I try to make it no big deal. However, “no big deals” don’t need to be buried. The news starts to fill with stories of girls who go without makeup to show Beauty Redefined. I talk to young girls about self-love.  I start a lunch group….I lunch group that I don’t eat at. Moms respond with appreciation. I feel fake. I tell the girls love yourself, celebrate yourself. I yell to myself. I AM FAKE. Pretend Perfection. Pretend not hungry. Raw. Broken. Guilty. I cry over my perceived failure. Remember, crying is admittance. After the cry comes the voice. I ask myself what if……. What if I didn’t hide? Would I feel free? Would it open others to feel free? Broken hissed I would be made fun of, people would yell that I seek attention.

When God wants you to pursue something He will make it obvious. He kept at me. Everywhere I turned voices spoke of self-doubt, never enough, a choir of hurt. Girls needing something else. Esther breathed in me. “For if you remain silent at this time, relief and deliverance for the Jews will arise from another place, but you and your father’s family will perish. And who knows but that you have come to your royal position for such a time as this?” Esther 4:14. She was saying to me: “Perhaps this is the moment for which you have been created.” I take a deep breath and challenge, for the first time, broken.

I ask them. “Would you go without makeup?” “Would you come and sit in public with your daughter at lunch…… without makeup?” They did. These moms did. Something loosened inside of me. Emotions of warmth filled the broken.  They, those moms, those coworkers, went a day without makeup. Something fluttered inside.

That day, Intense sat with me, my mother, and my sister. All without makeup. We ate. I ate in front of moms and daughters. I ate God’s purpose. Broken gave way to a type of grace I had never known. Strength rose up from broken.  I knew broken was still there. I would still trip. In fact, I would trip so hard that I would fall and not get up for a few months………twice.  

But for that moment….that moment. The way to show Intense and the girls around her that they imperfectly perfect, was to show them a village of women, who took off their masks and redefined beauty for one day. For one group of girls.

 

To those moms, to those coworkers, to sister and mother, to all who supported A Day without Makeup- that was an instrumental moment for me. A stirring of something deeper to come. A hope that maybe I could extend out of my broken and find something more for others. I never truly conveyed how deep my appreciation went.

Thank you.

 

 

Joy Comes in the Morning

The morning cries out with the sound of the alarm.

To others it is an annoying beep. To me it is the start of another broken day. It yells “Get up and run so you will know you are worthy.”  Worth comes from running and controlled eating.

The world is still asleep at 4:45 a.m. The world is dark. The darkness matches the broken.

I do not know if I love the running or if I hate the running. The truth lies somewhere in between. I know I never regret the running. Many years ago, before I admitted the broken I ran to be perfect. Quick prayers to the One who blesses. Rote prayers rehearsed for many years. I say them in my head as I think of other things. I am empowered with this false power of multitasking.

Prayers done, marked off the list, music on, and go. Run. Run. Run. I will never be overweight if I run. Running saves me from fat. My mind obsesses. Soon I run to the cadence of the word “fat”. Every time my foot hits the ground it sounds off “fat” like a symbol. It clanged so loud in my ears. The word gave way to fear. I ran out of fear.

I was never such a person to be superficial. He didn't create me to be superficial. But I thought the word over and over again. Sometimes I said it. I let it come from deep inside me and I said the word over and over out loud. A crazy, broken person repeating herself like a broken record. In the dark, you don’t have to hide your words. The dark covers you and lets you be ugly broken. It is always so dark in the mornings. Before 5:00. I can hear the coyotes and disturb the deer. My broken dares coyotes to seek me out. I run and say the word that haunts me.

One day I say it and a tear falls. Somewhere inside me the broken breaks a different way. It has reached my soul. Broken smiles as it hits my soul. Broken already won my mind, it has my heart. I am only worthy when I push myself to the extreme and the extreme makes me fragile and easier to break. The crack hits my soul and the tear falls. It falls hard. I am confused and then the voice comes. It is soft I could almost ignore it but I heard it. “Why not Joy?” it asks. I am confused. Joy. My heart gave up on joy so long ago. But the voice was compelling. I stop saying fat. I try to listen. I keep running. Another tear falls. The spirit has been touched. There is such sadness in the place where broken and spirit meet. The spirit is ready. The spirit has the last battle. Spirit is gentle grace. Broken is jagged fear.

The crying starts. The winter freezes the tears. Jagged pieces of salted water run down my face. Tearing at the broken. Crying is admittance. Admittance takes so long to come forth and to become a truth. In the dark you do not have to wipe the tears away. In the dark broken tells you to fight the truth.

Now I speak to your spirit. Listen. Listen to me. There is a voice that comes after tears. It is a small but clear voice and it brings warmth and a choice. The voice tells you not what you want, but what you do not want. Your spirit will tell you what is no longer acceptable. The choice is still ours to make. Broken has won the brain and the heart. Spirit, however, is God given and will rise up when given the chance. But first the crying comes. Sometimes the crying stays for a while. My crying stayed for 20 years. Do not falter. I will lead you through yours. When you hear the voice, you must listen.

When you cry and open your ears to your spirit you hear grace. Grace leads to strength. These are given with the presence of our Heavenly Father. He gifts them freely. You must listen. You hear the solid promises of a different life. The dark that hid you becomes the dark that transforms you.

The rote prayers turn into an improv routine. Preacher dares us to talk to God. I dare to talk to Him. “I want joy.” I say. I know not how to pray. I just talk words. Confused, mixed up words. Soon my words fill my run. The music is never turned on. Although the broken still keeps me, I start to think of my run as time to get to know Him and He can help me endure the broken. His wisdom knows I will learn strength and grace from the broken. He will not deny me of strength and grace.

 I think of the Bible and how Adam and Eve would take walks with God. 

Pre-apple fiasco. I think of sermons at church. I think of what I know to be true about God. I do not know what is true of myself because broken robs me of my own identity. I know God. I know who and what He is. Crying was the step from broke and empty to admittance-- life had no joy. Joy in life comes with the knowledge of God.

 I ran without saying the “fat” word. I still would cry. My crying now admitted I was no longer running to escape. I was not running away. I was running to. I was running to Him. The crying admitted I did not want broken. The voice said “I am worthy of Joy.”

One morning I wake up and the alarm cried “Run to Him and know you are worthy”. I run to Him. As I run I realize I must stay with Him even after the run. I decide I must turn to the Bible after the run to get to know Him better. I finish. Breathing heavy, contemplating joy. I see the sun rising. I hear His promise. “Joy comes in the morning.” 

Broken to Blessed January 5,2015

From Broken to Blessed

 Follow me as my broken and jagged pieces come together for the blessed life I am leading. I know the hurt, the incomplete, the “never enough”. No more pretending. Let’s just be raw and real. Let’s grow together.

 I thought I was one of the few who were broken. Nobody else seemed broken. There must only be a few of us.  I broke early-- 5^th grade. I broke deep and wide.

I even got a name for the broken- Eating Disorder-Anorexia.

The broken doesn’t disappear. It is always. I discovered that broken is how many of us operate. It is hard to get out of the broken. Few can do it on their own. Few are strong enough or brave enough to reach out for help. You hold so tight to the little pieces, afraid if you let go you may fall instead of fly.

Every day of 2014 I asked for the broken to go away. But it didn’t. So, sometimes it was just easier to give into it and fall into the crevices. The deep dark crevices that lead to the self-sabotage, anger, and hurt.

Climbing out is tiresome and hard and leaves mental cuts and physical bruises and then the dreaded guilt. Guilt overwhelms and makes me want to escape. I hide in pretend perfection. I work out and eat right and maintain my weight and do family dinners, and focused work. I sneak chocolate, take breaks at work, lose my temper, and become prickly to the husband. I let the coveted few know I am broken. I am light hearted about it, but really I am broken. Very deep and very wide.

 I can twist life and pull and get loud. I can manipulate. I am jealous. I am selfish. I am numb. The color of broken is black with red outlines. The sound of broken is piercing words, the feeling of broken is empty, and the look of broken: bruises on the arms no one sees.

I cannot continue with this. I ask for it to go away and He does not lift it from me. So, I reach out to those trained to help. Sheepishly knowing, I am one of those who are trained.  I reach out and she helps me see the broken as not a part of me but its own entity. Slowly, I pull away from it. It is hard work to separate. Broken is sticky and manipulative. It makes me doubt my ability to fly. I will NOT be defined by it. God has plans for me. I know He does. He promised. He breathed it into His book.

It is a big ball of grey, the broken. It sits in the corner of the room. I see it separate from me. Now I can walk around it. Sometimes, it trips me…makes me fall. But I know how to get back up. It still sits. Some days I think it grows smaller. Other days it looms large. Most days, it just sits. We don’t touch. I stay away from it. It angers me for sitting there. I don’t understand why it doesn’t disappear. This mass of broken. This mass of guilt and anorexia, this mass of self-doubt and anxiety. Nobody else seems to notice it. Well, maybe the husband does. But he even says it is smaller than it used to be.

 I pray for it to go away. Broken is stubborn. It started at the age of 11 and it still here at 38. Every day I ask God to heal me completely and make it go away. Every day, it is still there. Frustration overwhelms my spirit. How can I lead when the broken sits in my life?

Then, it hits me. The loathed and hated broken made part of me. The diamond in the coal. It gives me purpose.

I have to BLESS the broken. The thought drives me down to the floor. On my knees, heaving tears, hot and messy. This raw honesty brings a painful release.

For you see, my broken is a gift. I know how it lives and breathes. I know the tricks it plays and how it grows. I know the manipulation. I am wiser for the knowing.  I know my way through the dark crevices I have visited so many times and I know how to be a tour guide through it. I use to think I was a stepping stone. But I now know I am a tour guide. Through the broken to the strong.

Dear Heavenly Father,

 Who was I to doubt You? You tell me again and again “For I know the plans I have for you….” and I refused to listen.

You knew the broken was hard and made me doubt who and what I was. You hurt and were frightened when I questioned living. You cried with me. You walked with me through the darkness and it was You who turned my Broken into Blessed. You knew my story could help others. You knew if you took it away I would not grow into graceful strength and You knew if You took it away I would not have Gracefully Strong.

Heavenly Father, bring the women who read this blog together. If I am to be a tour guide through the broken, help me to bring these women together so that we may embrace each other and our struggles so that we may all move together from Broken to Blessed.

Your Daughter,

Heather