An article I wrote about eating disorders is here.
There has been some amazing discussion in the comments section. Do you think that God can fully heal anybody from an addiction? Have you been hurt by Christians who act pious and better than you? Do you think treatment for eating disorders needs to come from professionals and not faith?
Check out the conversation and add to it at the bottom of the post here. Thanks for reading!
I have struggled with anxiety. It used to rear its ugly head in the oddest places, at a checkout counter in the mall, in a nice restaurant, on top of a mountain. But without fail, I would get anxious on planes. Take off, landing and any hiccup in the air would send my heart rate into overdrive, and I would try to get used to the idea of the plane careening onto a deserted island where I would live out my last days searching for someone named Jacob, which was always the best-case scenario. Now? I’ve come a long way.
In the past year, my husband and I have done a lot of traveling. I also saw a counselor. My exposure to turbulence and time spent talking through my issues has been invaluable. This weekend, as we traveled to a wedding in Phoenix, I gazed out the window happily, imagining what it would be like to reach out and grab a handful of cloud, letting it dissolve on my tongue like cotton candy. When we hit some major bumps, I delighted in children giggling and shrieking in joy — totally oblivious to some of the adults around them who shooosh-ed them through gritted teeth, no doubt preparing for their own doom.
My husband, who barely noticed the roller coaster of a plane ride, nor the kids laughing, nor my anxiety-less breakthrough, was too busy mimicking the flight attendant who sounded like Sean Connery. With head phones on, the hubbs loudly repeated what came over the speakers and slipped into an SNL act that brings to mind Burt Reynolds playing Jeopardy. Then he leaned over me to point out mountains, rivers and reservoirs out the window as if he were looking at a big map with labels and scales and topography. I followed his finger, but geography eludes me, and all I could picture was the Aerosmith video when they write words on the corn field with the tractor.
I was going to embed the video — which I practically memorized back in my middle school years — but now in my old age, I find it wildly inappropriate. Liv Tyler in a strip club, paralleling her dad’s performance? Shoplifting? Creepy man outside of a gas station? Yikes. You get a screen shot of the last scene instead.
Anyway, my journey through anxiety and into peace has been a blessing. While panic disorders are relatively common, they can make you feel crazy. But there’s hope. I’m proof.
“Love is the voice under all silences, the hope which has no opposite in fear; the strength so strong mere force is feebleness: the truth more first than sun, more last than star …”
e.e. cummings
Here’s the front of a card I created to celebrate 25 years of marriage:
A short story
“What’s that? Speak up!” He squints his eyes and leans over, craning his ear.
I mutter, “Catch up and pick Olson Mayo.”
He levels his eyes on me. Wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, turns his back and reaches for a bottle.
(earlier)
I don’t mind the explosions as much as I used to. Last year, right after I got the training wheels off my bike, I tasted the freedom of the big kids. I pedaled my way to the end of our street, turned the corner and kept going. Places only two wheels could take me, past the confines of training wheel territory. But the first explosion, followed by several more, ignited a fear in me that pumped those pedals faster than I’d ever gone – before or since. Once I arrived home, I threw my bike down and covered my ears.
A lot can happen in a year. I grew up fast.
Now the big bangs and blasts don’t take me off guard. I expect them. I’m ready for them. I join with everyone else, jumping at the noise but pointing in awe:
“Four at once!”
“It’s changing colors!”
“Time for the finale!”
During the fireworks, we always eat our picnic dinner on our brown blanket, the one with the nubs. It reminds me of sitting on sand at the beach, except it’s just an ugly blanket.
My mouth starts watering in anticipation for Mom’s potato salad, cold lemonade poured from the thermos and a piece of fried chicken, pulled from the KFC bucket with grease spotting the Colonel’s head. I always peal the crunchy skin off first and mix it in with the potato salad. Mom then makes a face but can’t argue with my reasoning: “It’s all going to the same place!”
But now as Mom reaches into the picnic bags, she pulls out peanut butter sandwiches and carrots. Carrots. Is this some kind of joke? Is Dad going to break down and laugh, reaching for a hidden bucket of fried morsels behind his back?
No. Mom and Dad take big, sticky bites out of their sandwiches and look to me to join them.
“Where’s the Fourth of July food? The chicken? The lemonade? I don’t want carrots!” I shout.
Mom tilts her head in a way that means, “Too bad. Get used to it.” Dad shrugs.
I dig my hands into my pockets and pull out lint, two dollar bills, and a warm piece of bubble gum. I look to the hotdog vendor, stand up, and announce my intentions.
“I’m getting a hotdog then. By myself.”
Clutching the money, I get in line. My hands start to sweat, the lint lodging in between my fingers. I’ve never ordered and paid for anything by myself. I watch the people in front of me, memorizing how they step up, name the condiments they want, hand over two dollars, and step to the side to wait.
“Ketchup and pickles and mayo. Ketchup and pickles and mayo. Ketchup and pickles and mayo.” I repeat to myself as I get closer to the man hunched over the grill.
He looks at me. “What’ll you have?”
“Ummm … ” I look down and unfold the dollar bills, wiping the lint on my legs. I take a deep breath and glance up.
One of the biggest challenges — and rewards — of consulting is working with clients. I’ve had great experiences so far, save for a few. One prospective client told me he was a “raging narcissist” during our first conversation, when he refused to pronounce my name correctly. My current client has her own quirks. I don’t have any reservations writing about her; I have a feeling she’s too dense to read my blog.
Our relationship started out great. She’d come meet with me in the mornings, full of energy and excitement, every day without fail. Then I started noticing that she hit an afternoon slump and it was literally hard to peel her off her seat. She is embarrassingly grumpy when she’s hungry — and that’s saying a lot if I have a problem with it. There’s been more than a few times when I’ve had to tell my hubbs, “You’re going to have a crazy wife on your hands if we don’t eat soon.”
When our work started, she was lovable and fun. Now she’s just plain weird. Yesterday I found her sprawled out in my bathtub during her afternoon slump. Of course, my husband is to blame for that one. He gave her treats to get her in there about six months ago, and the positive reinforcement worked.
For another justification of why two professionals would dress up their dog — accomplishing a remarkably scholarly, sophisticated look — click here.
When I went to college, I packed up my zippy blue Neon with purple decor for my dorm room. My mom and I drove 1,000 miles to Waco, Texas, and I watched Saved By the Bell in the hotel room the morning of move-in, about to embark on the biggest transition of my life. My mom cried when we pulled up to the dorm and she saw the balloons marking Move-in Day. I rolled my eyes, discreetly batting away my own tears.
Before we left our house, my mom used a black Sharpie to identify all of my items — from my laptop to my underwear — with my last name. For a girl just trying to blend in, a huge hand-written label doesn’t help.
Also, it doesn’t help if you call up your two “potluck” (aka unknown) roommates during the summer and ask them their thoughts on our room rules, like when we should go to sleep every night. In my defense, someone advised me that it was best to lay out the ground rules early on, so there wasn’t conflict later. I wish someone else had told me that I could wait until at least the first week of school to clinch my dorky status.
Nevertheless, advice from those with experience and camaraderie with those in the same boat is so comforting in the transition to college. That’s why I’m excited to be blogging for my newest client, University Parent. Check out the latest blog post here.
What do you think parents need to know? Appropriate Sharpie etiquette, perhaps?
I’m a words of affirmation kind of gal. Store-bought greeting cards with nary more than your signature added tell me that you took all of 20 seconds and $3.99 to think of me. But a scribbled note on a napkin, a typo-rich top ten list of memories we share or a text that makes me turn on my phone just to read it again … those are the words that hold meaning.
I create personal cards, poems or letters, capturing a piece of your thoughts that you want to share with others. If you have an anniversary coming up, a birthday to celebrate or a grief to mourn, I can help you put your emotions into words. Here’s a birthday invitation I created for a first birthday party:
(front of card)
(inside card)
My services include card design, printing and mailing, or I can provide you with a .pdf of a card, or just the words. This electronic version of this invitation costs $50. For other examples of work like this, click here. Please contact me for more information.
I wrote about alcoholism and brokenness, and it’s here.
So, a bite from the apple was the fall of man. And now a bitten apple (arguably) rules our lives, connecting us to each other and all our vital information. Even if you’re a PC, like this guy.
This can’t be good. I’m just saying.
Picture from http://aintitcool.com
Admittedly, I rarely want to be in my husband’s head. If we feel a raindrop while sitting out on our patio, my mind will say it’s going to start sprinkling, which will remind me of sprinkles on the book cover of A Million Little Pieces, 
which will remind me of the creepy song I recently learned with the line “Liars go to hell,” which is based off a verse in Revelation 21, which will remind me of RUE 21 and some awesome embroidered hippy jeans I bought there at the height of my high school career. My husband, on the other hand, would have noticed the raindrop and then hunkered down to think about Doppler radar and waves and movement and such. Give me my train of thought over his any day.
But give me his at night while he’s dreaming. This stuff is gold. Here’s the latest:
Jack Black is Satan, gallivanting around the world and reeking havoc, as he does. But, as we all know, he’s wily and deceptive, and he has disguised himself as Michael Cera, with one of those masks that you put on your face and it morphs into a skin-tight new face. Think Scooby Doo, but in real life. It’s hard to get around the different body types here, and the believability that Jack Black is Michael Cera, but I’m not one to contribute to body image issues, so let’s leave that out. Anyway, Jack Black, i.e. Satan, i.e. Michael Cera, is gallivanting around the world and reeking havoc, as he does. Sound hopeless? Don’t worry, it’s not.
Picture from http://michaelceratheblog.files.wordpress.com.
Cut to God, hiding behind a mountain. What? Yes, a wood cut-out mountain complete with studio lighting. God is about to punk Satan. What? Yes, he’s snickering to himself and anticipating the inevitable, epic prank of Jack, Michael, Lucifer. What have you. Love it.
Unfortunately, the punk’d episode doesn’t come to fruition. The dream ends in anticipation of the punkage. Mayhap we’ll have to wait for the second coming to see the end.
If you have a problem with the parallels between God and Ashton Kutcher in this dream, or find the casting for Jack Black offensive, or theologically disagree with a God who crouches behind a cut-out mountain, don’t judge me. But you can judge my husband.