So, earlier this week I was offered a modeling job in Chicago- it wasn't glamorous and I only turned over a small profit, but it was with an agency that had just offered me a contract, so I was hoping it would be a chance to get my foot in the door for higher-profile jobs. The plan was for me to leave Wausau at 4:30am, meet up with the client and his wife in Hartford (near Milwaukee), drive to Chicago with them, and then return that evening to Wausau.
Well, Wednesday night I went to meet up with my good friend, Maria, for a bit, and then help out with AWANA at church. Just as I was pulling into our meeting spot, though, the "Brake" light came on in my car. I checked to make sure the emergency brake was off (it was...which I knew, since that car won't go over 3 mph with the e-brake on!). I was concerned, but I enjoyed my time with Maria, drove the car to church afterwards, and then drove home after AWANA. The brake light was on the entire time, even though I made absolutely certain the e-brake was off. I mentioned the problem to my dad when I got home, and after verifying that I had NOT just driven across town and back with the e-brake on, he decided it was probably an issue with the switch on the light. Annoying, but nothing that should stop me from driving to Milwaukee and back.
So, I left at 4:30am as planned on Thursday and made it to the client's home with no problem, successfully completed the modeling gig (easiest job ever, by the way. I literally had to stand there and look pretty for a few hours), then returned to Milwaukee with the clients and hopped into my car to drive home, expecting to be home in time to have dinner with my parents. I stopped to get gas before hitting the interstate, and as I pulled in I felt like I had to hit the brakes awful hard to stop...maybe I was going faster than I realized? Hmm...well, I filled up with gas and headed back toward highway 41. I slowed to a stop before turning onto the on-ramp, and that's when I realized my brakes were complete mush! Um...okay, how about if I don't get on the interstate and drive 75mph with mushy brakes?! (By the way...if you were one of the drivers that I confused with my sudden lane change out of the turn-lane, I apologize!)
I went further down the road hoping I could find a gas station or body shop to pull into, but all there was were residential areas and farmland. I finally pulled over in a residential area and called my dad to ask what he thought I should do. He advised me to find someone to look at the car and not drive it home until it was fixed. Thankfully, there happened to be a mom playing with her kids in front of one of the houses, so I approached her and asked if she knew who I could call. She turned out to be a police officer for the county and arranged for the sheriff to come out and call a tow-truck for me. Unfortunately, there was no way my car could be fixed until morning. The repair shop offered me a rental car to drive home, but my insurance wouldn't cover that, so it would cost several times more than what I had just made at the modeling job! Thankfully, I discovered I was actually in West Bend, where my (biological) sister, Justice lives. Actually, the auto repair place was just around the corner from her boyfriend's mother's house, where she was babysitting his little sister. Justice came to my rescue and picked me up, and they were nice enough to let me crash on their couch for the night. As frustrated as I was that I wasn't able to get home, it was great to catch up with my sister and meet her boyfriend's family (and so wonderful not to have to pay for a rental car or hotel!). My car was fixed by 1:00 this afternoon (it turned out that a brakeline had rusted through, and the brake fluid had leaked out), and I was back home by 3:30.
Reflecting on this whole string of events, I am awed by God's hand of protection and His provision. My brakes could have fallen apart in so many other places- as I was driving home from church on Wednesday (and my church is on top of an extremely steep hill!), before I made it to Milwaukee (which would have meant having to cancel the modeling gig and probably never being booked by the agency again), or, had it been 30 seconds later, as I was going 70 miles an hour on the interstate! The timing couldn't have been better on that one! Then, God lead me to a safe neighborhood where the right person to help me just happened to be standing outside with her children. To top it all of, I happened to be in the same town as my sister...even just a few blocks from the place that repaired my car!
What a great reminder of how, even in a time of frustration and uncertainty, God was still present and at work!!
Friday, September 16, 2011
Thursday, September 1, 2011
So How Did it Feel to Have an Eating Disorder?
"So, how did it feel to have an eating disorder? I mean, how did you resist food all the time?"
This question was recently asked of me by a stranger in an online forum. Of course, the beauty/problem of the internet is that it allows you to conceal your identity- I don't know if this person was a 50 year old man or a teenage girl. It sounds like an innocent question- maybe a bit tactless, but innocent nonetheless. However, I remember when I, like so many other people, was the one asking that question...and my curiosity threw me into a long, downward spiral that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. I'm hoping I can answer that question here (maybe, if I can remember where that forum was, I'll send that person a link to this blog.)
Let me start with an analogy that most of us can relate to. Have you ever thrown yourself into a project in a poorly ventilated room? Maybe you were doing intense labor in a room that was already hot and stuffy, and whatever you were doing was kicking up dust (or worse) to add to the atmosphere. Or maybe you were painting or polishing wood or gluing something with rubber cement, or coloring with magic markers, and didn't realize how suffocating the fumes were becoming? Maybe you started to feel a little headachey or nauseous, but you were determined to get that project done, so you kept plugging through it. When you finally finished, you stepped outside- and suddenly, the fresh air hits you. You didn't realize how severe that headache or nausea had become until that breath of clean air starting curing it. Why did you spend all day in that disgusting, polluted room? Well, at least now you have a finished project to show for it, right?
In some ways, that's kind of how an eating disorder feels. Let me explain. As early as age nine or ten, I caught on to something about society: people who were overweight were perceived as lazy, disgusting, a burden to others, and ugly. On the other hand, someone who was too thin was at best "lucky to have that problem," and at worse, "A poor, sick person who needs love and compassion." Okay, so apparently being too skinny was waaaaay better than being heavy.
I was also picking up on a message from the media- diet-product commercials and journalism stories talked about how people had gained weight and their lives had fallen apart, or how they had lost weight and their lives "were changed" for the better. Plus, by junior high, I was being exposed to teen movies and stories that glamorized eating disorders. It was always the prima ballerina, the head cheerleader, or the homecoming queen that was anorexic or bulimic. In the worst of these movies, the eating disorder lands her in the hospital (for a whole three minutes of the movie) and the boy she likes comes rushing in to tell her he has loved her all this time and doesn't want to lose her, or her controlling parents sit beside her hospital bed apologizing for pushing her to this point and promising to listen to her from now on. By the next scene, she's fully recovered, still looking like a model, and hand in hand with her new boyfriend or laughing with her parents about something.
I remember in 6th grade, a few of my girlfriends and I discussed how we "wondered what it was like" to have an eating disorder. I'm sure I wasn't the only one thinking that maybe MY life would be "changed forever" if I dropped some weight, or picturing my crush sitting beside my hospital bed begging me to get well so he could be my boyfriend. At any rate, I was terrified of gaining weight (even though I knew I wasn't done growing yet) because gaining weight made one "disgusting," didn't it?
So, one day when I was almost twelve, I gave in to my curiosity and my fear of gaining weight and tried making myself throw up- actually, I don't think it was the first time I tried, but it was the first time I succeeded. And it didn't feel good at all, but, somehow, it felt like a great accomplishment to me. From that point on, the suffocating fumes of addiction began to flow around me, but I refused to stop because I wanted to "finish" what I started. I knew that my sore throat was caused by purging or that skipping lunch would mean I couldn't focus on my afternoon classes. I knew that the headaches and nausea I felt were the result of disordered eating habits (although I wouldn't admit it to myself). But I was determined to fit into size zero clothes and weigh under 100 pounds all my life, so I wouldn't give up.
I remember a few times when I tried to stop- I remember meeting my friend's mom who had severe dental damage as a result of being sick and throwing up all the time, and fearing that bulimia would cause the same problem for me. But I couldn't stop- the minute I was left home alone or had the chance to skip a meal unnoticed, I would find myself slipping again. Food had control over me- I was either terrified of it, or I was turning to it for comfort or stress relief, followed by painful episodes of purging. I was willing to sacrifice my own integrity for it- I'd lie to cover up my disordered habits, or steel food and hide it...and then I wondered who I was. Didn't I claim to be a follower of Christ? Wasn't I looked up to as a leader in my church youth group and school Bible club? Why was I doing all this?! Of course, the stress those questions caused me only lead me to more episodes of binging and purging or starving myself.
Freedom finally came for me one night when I was seventeen and a senior in high school. I was on a retreat with my church group and listened to a message about offering myself as a "Living Sacrifice," to God. For the first time, I saw my eating disorder not as just a bad habit, but as an addiction and a sin...a sin that God wanted me to give over to Him so that I could find freedom in Him. When my youth pastor initiated an alter call, I went forward and knelt down to surrender my struggle to God. Afterwards, I confessed to the other girls and female youth leaders, and then went with my three closest friends to call my parents and tell them the truth. I had expected judgment (so much for the fantasies in the movies) but only received assurance that I was loved and that my friends and family would stick by me on the road to recovery.
That was when I stepped out of the stuffy, fume-filled room into the fresh air. I had forgotten what it was like to be free of addiction and to have food as an alli, rather than an enemy of my health. I had not realized how much my eating disorder had taken over my life until I remembered what it was like to be physically and emotionally healthy.
There's one way, though, that my opening analogy fails: after I stepped out of that addiction-polluted room into the fresh air of freedom, there was no successful, completed "project" to show for it. I wasn't any more pretty, popular, or successful than I would have been without the pain and suffering I'd put myself through. I try not to dwell on what could have been, but sometimes I wonder how my teen years would have been different if I had committed to a healthy lifestyle, rather than allowing an eating disorder to overtake me. I played tennis from 8th to 12th grade, and I doubt I could have been a star, but maybe I would have won more matches or made the lower end of varsity if I had been physically healthier. Maybe I could have done better academically if I had been more energized and able to focus on school. I guess those are questions that can never be answered. I am extremely blessed in that I recovered physically 100% from my eating disorder- I have heard horror stories of people facing lifelong medical issues, ranging from not being able to lay down unless their stomach is empty (or else they'll throw up) to sterility.
So, to the person who asked me, I hope that answers your question. I am so grateful for God's forgiveness, mercy, and healing power...but, if I had the chance to travel back in time to any day of my life, I would choose that day when I was twelve, and just never take that first step.
This question was recently asked of me by a stranger in an online forum. Of course, the beauty/problem of the internet is that it allows you to conceal your identity- I don't know if this person was a 50 year old man or a teenage girl. It sounds like an innocent question- maybe a bit tactless, but innocent nonetheless. However, I remember when I, like so many other people, was the one asking that question...and my curiosity threw me into a long, downward spiral that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. I'm hoping I can answer that question here (maybe, if I can remember where that forum was, I'll send that person a link to this blog.)
Let me start with an analogy that most of us can relate to. Have you ever thrown yourself into a project in a poorly ventilated room? Maybe you were doing intense labor in a room that was already hot and stuffy, and whatever you were doing was kicking up dust (or worse) to add to the atmosphere. Or maybe you were painting or polishing wood or gluing something with rubber cement, or coloring with magic markers, and didn't realize how suffocating the fumes were becoming? Maybe you started to feel a little headachey or nauseous, but you were determined to get that project done, so you kept plugging through it. When you finally finished, you stepped outside- and suddenly, the fresh air hits you. You didn't realize how severe that headache or nausea had become until that breath of clean air starting curing it. Why did you spend all day in that disgusting, polluted room? Well, at least now you have a finished project to show for it, right?
In some ways, that's kind of how an eating disorder feels. Let me explain. As early as age nine or ten, I caught on to something about society: people who were overweight were perceived as lazy, disgusting, a burden to others, and ugly. On the other hand, someone who was too thin was at best "lucky to have that problem," and at worse, "A poor, sick person who needs love and compassion." Okay, so apparently being too skinny was waaaaay better than being heavy.
I was also picking up on a message from the media- diet-product commercials and journalism stories talked about how people had gained weight and their lives had fallen apart, or how they had lost weight and their lives "were changed" for the better. Plus, by junior high, I was being exposed to teen movies and stories that glamorized eating disorders. It was always the prima ballerina, the head cheerleader, or the homecoming queen that was anorexic or bulimic. In the worst of these movies, the eating disorder lands her in the hospital (for a whole three minutes of the movie) and the boy she likes comes rushing in to tell her he has loved her all this time and doesn't want to lose her, or her controlling parents sit beside her hospital bed apologizing for pushing her to this point and promising to listen to her from now on. By the next scene, she's fully recovered, still looking like a model, and hand in hand with her new boyfriend or laughing with her parents about something.
I remember in 6th grade, a few of my girlfriends and I discussed how we "wondered what it was like" to have an eating disorder. I'm sure I wasn't the only one thinking that maybe MY life would be "changed forever" if I dropped some weight, or picturing my crush sitting beside my hospital bed begging me to get well so he could be my boyfriend. At any rate, I was terrified of gaining weight (even though I knew I wasn't done growing yet) because gaining weight made one "disgusting," didn't it?
So, one day when I was almost twelve, I gave in to my curiosity and my fear of gaining weight and tried making myself throw up- actually, I don't think it was the first time I tried, but it was the first time I succeeded. And it didn't feel good at all, but, somehow, it felt like a great accomplishment to me. From that point on, the suffocating fumes of addiction began to flow around me, but I refused to stop because I wanted to "finish" what I started. I knew that my sore throat was caused by purging or that skipping lunch would mean I couldn't focus on my afternoon classes. I knew that the headaches and nausea I felt were the result of disordered eating habits (although I wouldn't admit it to myself). But I was determined to fit into size zero clothes and weigh under 100 pounds all my life, so I wouldn't give up.
I remember a few times when I tried to stop- I remember meeting my friend's mom who had severe dental damage as a result of being sick and throwing up all the time, and fearing that bulimia would cause the same problem for me. But I couldn't stop- the minute I was left home alone or had the chance to skip a meal unnoticed, I would find myself slipping again. Food had control over me- I was either terrified of it, or I was turning to it for comfort or stress relief, followed by painful episodes of purging. I was willing to sacrifice my own integrity for it- I'd lie to cover up my disordered habits, or steel food and hide it...and then I wondered who I was. Didn't I claim to be a follower of Christ? Wasn't I looked up to as a leader in my church youth group and school Bible club? Why was I doing all this?! Of course, the stress those questions caused me only lead me to more episodes of binging and purging or starving myself.
Freedom finally came for me one night when I was seventeen and a senior in high school. I was on a retreat with my church group and listened to a message about offering myself as a "Living Sacrifice," to God. For the first time, I saw my eating disorder not as just a bad habit, but as an addiction and a sin...a sin that God wanted me to give over to Him so that I could find freedom in Him. When my youth pastor initiated an alter call, I went forward and knelt down to surrender my struggle to God. Afterwards, I confessed to the other girls and female youth leaders, and then went with my three closest friends to call my parents and tell them the truth. I had expected judgment (so much for the fantasies in the movies) but only received assurance that I was loved and that my friends and family would stick by me on the road to recovery.
That was when I stepped out of the stuffy, fume-filled room into the fresh air. I had forgotten what it was like to be free of addiction and to have food as an alli, rather than an enemy of my health. I had not realized how much my eating disorder had taken over my life until I remembered what it was like to be physically and emotionally healthy.
There's one way, though, that my opening analogy fails: after I stepped out of that addiction-polluted room into the fresh air of freedom, there was no successful, completed "project" to show for it. I wasn't any more pretty, popular, or successful than I would have been without the pain and suffering I'd put myself through. I try not to dwell on what could have been, but sometimes I wonder how my teen years would have been different if I had committed to a healthy lifestyle, rather than allowing an eating disorder to overtake me. I played tennis from 8th to 12th grade, and I doubt I could have been a star, but maybe I would have won more matches or made the lower end of varsity if I had been physically healthier. Maybe I could have done better academically if I had been more energized and able to focus on school. I guess those are questions that can never be answered. I am extremely blessed in that I recovered physically 100% from my eating disorder- I have heard horror stories of people facing lifelong medical issues, ranging from not being able to lay down unless their stomach is empty (or else they'll throw up) to sterility.
So, to the person who asked me, I hope that answers your question. I am so grateful for God's forgiveness, mercy, and healing power...but, if I had the chance to travel back in time to any day of my life, I would choose that day when I was twelve, and just never take that first step.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)