Finding Me

I've been struggling to find my place in the blogging world as of late. In college, it seemed like I had found my place and my groove. But in the crazy post-college time where recovery seemed to be all I was doing, my blogging seemed to fall apart. Blogging friendships weren't maintained (we were going different directions anyways). People got married (and I didn't until I did). Blogging took time and effort and emotion and I was too emotionally exhausted to bare my soul to the world (still true). I've tried to create my little space over here at Wiferella, at a new address, a new place, with my new little life...and it hasn't come together as neatly as I planned. I mean, I didn't really plan things out and life got busy and blogging wasn't a priority...so I didn't do it. I failed to plan, so I kind of planned to fail. I'm still not sure exactly what I want this space to look like, but in my ideal world, it might include blogging some recipes, some activities that I've done with the little, and then some more soul baring-sharing (because that's kind of what I'm all about). I've come to accept that this probably isn't going to be the perfect little mommy blog, and that's okay. I'm just not that kind of blogger. I don't have time for that...and I'd rather keep the memory keeping to something like Instagram. It gets done that way, and I'm a huge proponent of "done is best" sometimes. :)

A few years ago, I wrote a "Mission Statement" as a part of an art therapy assignment. While looking through files on my computer, I came across the document again and it made me start thinking about picking up blogging again. I love being a wife and mom, but sometimes I need to dig a little deeper and search for who I am and what my purpose is in my core inner being. That core purpose has a huge influence on how I wife and how I mother. When that core purpose is lost or forgotten...things start falling apart. I forget how I was made to be a storyteller, made to bear the light of hope found in Christ to a fallen world. So, today, as an act of accountability, I'd like to share some pieces of my Mission Statement.

I will remember, in all things that I do, that I want to guide my life and my decisions with these qualities that I value most:Sobriety, Courage, and Love.
I know that I am my very best self when...I am sober in my recovery,
I am pursuing a passionate personal relationship with God,
and I am engaged in relationships with others.
I am most at peace and happiest when I spend my personal life:focusing on God more than self,
letting my creativity and imagination flourish,
and when things are in their place.
I will be most at peace and happiest when I spend my work life:loving people,
sharing my story,
offering hope to a fallen world,
and sharing the love of Christ.
I will seek out times when I can use my inborn gifts to:be a storyteller
spread the gospel to others,
and shining my light.
I know that I am meant to:love God and love people.
Nothing else matters.
I will work hard to be known as someone who:is strong,
courageous,
bold,
and brave.

Sometimes I lost track of what is important- those three qualities at the beginning: Sobriety, courage, and love. When I lose track of these things, my life begins to crumble. My recovery becomes shakey and behaviors begin slipping their way into my life. I don't speak up for myself and how I feel and I grow resentful of others. My relationships with both my husband and child begin to fill up with irritation and frustration. I become overwhelmed and the cycle repeats over and over again until I am worn down, tired, laying on the ground in a heap sobbing. I find my place in the place that I swore I'd never be again, struggling the same demons. That isn't to say that remembering the qualities means that life is 100% okie dokie all the time either, but I am much more able to reach out for support and do not become as overwhelmed.

Way back in the Spring of 2013, I blogged at a different space (laurenelizabethadam.blogspot.com if you ever want to know what I was like back in college). I changed the name of my blog to "Finding Free" and I wrote the following explanation for the change. Reading it today was encouraging and frustrating at the same time. There are still so many lessons that I need to learn about true freedom, but I have come so far from where I was back then. 

Be brave. Let Him make you brand new. That's what I want to be right? Brand new? A new creation? But, this is a painful process. It kind of hurts. It hurts to be real and honest. But, secrets don't bring freedom. Secrets bring shame. Secrets bring guilt. Secrets keep us entangled. Secrets keep us in chains, in bondage.They hold us back. They keep us from living...really living! But, being open and real and honest and admitting that we have struggles? That we have strongholds that bind us? That brings freedom.

The new name of this little space on the internet is "Finding Free".The title is inspired by Maya Angelou's "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings". My favorite part of the poem is the last two stanzas:
"But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing
The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom."

The truth of the matter is: I feel like I'm that bird standing on the "grave of dreams" with clipped wings and tied feet. I feel like giving up some days. Sometimes the struggle to live and breathe and function seems to be too much work. That's why I entered a treatment program for eating disorders a month ago. For the last four years, in addition to keeping up this blog, I've struggled off and on with anorexia. It's easy to hide things when you feel like your whole life is a secret. It's easier to not let anyone know that you're struggling. But, over the last few months, things hit a breaking point. I wasn't able to hide my secret struggle anymore. I felt so ashamed for living this way. My secret was killing me (literally). So, I finished off a rough last semester to complete my degree, and then I entered a program to help me recover. It's been one of the best decisions I've ever made. Recovery? Is ridiculously hard. But, I'm finding free. And even though I'm not free yet, I'll sing the song of freedom from my cage, because I know that redemption is coming. 

I'm learning to love and trust myself in a way that I never imagined. I'm finding what "free" really means. Life isn't just about growing up, moving out of your parents' house, getting married, buying a house, giving birth to 2.5 babies, and working at a job you hate until you can retire. Life has to be something more. There has to be a purpose for living- a passion behind what you do. I think that when you live life in this manner, it won't matter how the details work out. It won't matter what kind of house you have, when you get married, or how much money you make. It won't matter what color the walls of the foyer are painted or how many smocked dresses your precious baby girl owns. What matters is that you are FREE. Free to be the person that God created you to be. Free to travel, explore, and have adventures wherever life takes you. A life lived "free" is a life without limitations. It's not limited by false ideals of perfection. It's not limited by what other people may think. Finding free means learning to embrace life at it's fullest. It means running with the moment and enjoying what each and every moment brings....the good and the bad. It means shifting your perspective to focus on the positives of the situation, even when everything is falling apart. It means living for today, and letting tomorrow worry about tomorrow. Finding free means running in full pursuit after the coattails of the creator of the universe. It means dancing in the fields of wildflowers... even if they make you sneeze. It means fighting for life with every fiber that you've got. It means clinging to faith when you have nothing left. I may be standing on the "grave of dreams" right now, my voice may waver with a "fearful trill", but it's okay...I'm singing of freedom. As the Beatles' put it in their famed "Blackbird",
"Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise"
I may be broken. I may be down. But I will rise. I'm finding free.

Maybe the purpose of this blogging drought I've been in is so that I can rediscover the wisdom of old and drink it deeply.

Maybe I was only waiting for this moment to arise.

...to be continued

And if not, he is still GOOD

But even if he doesn't, we want to make it clear to you, Your Majesty, that we will never serve your gods or worship the gold statue you have set up. 

-Daniel 3:18

This verse has been echoing through my mind the last few days. 
There's just so many things that I seem to be waiting for, and sometimes it feels like they are never going to come. It can be really really hard sometimes not to lose it. It can be really really hard sometimes to not give in and blame God. It can be really really hard sometimes to not turn to false idols, to not let my dreams and ideas and plans become these idols. I mean, sure- I'm not worshipping Buddha or Baal- but these things- these good things- can still become idols in my life if I keep building them up and letting them get in between me and God. 

I'm about to get a wee bit personal here- and vulnerable- and I'm a little scared to write what I'm about to write and publish it on the internet. I SO so so don't want to hear lectures about how we aren't ready, or now is not the time, or about how I just need to be patient and give it some time. I know, I know...if I'm overwhelmed with our new puppy- I definitely shouldn't be wanting to add a baby to the mix. So please- I'm asking you- don't offer advice. I just want to sit down with a cup of tea and chat with you guys for a minute and let some thoughts out. Okay? Awesome. With the knowledge that we were going to be making a nine hour move five months after our wedding- T and I started discussing the idea of having a baby. I mean, it started innocent enough. We weren't going to be super-psycho-serious about it- we were just going to let things happen if they happened, if you know what I mean. Well a month later, a day late, and a negative test later- I was devastated. Sure- I "knew" that making babies wasn't that easy. I knew it could take some time. But suddenly- I really really wanted to be pregnant. I really really wanted a baby. Its become a bit of an obsession over the last four months. From ovulation testing, to other things that I'm not going to discuss on a public blog that my father reads (Hi Dad!), to obsessive peeing on a stick- I began to feel very very negative about myself. I mean, surely- if God had put this desire to be a mommy in my heart all of those years ago- wouldn't he make it easy? Why are we not getting pregnant? Why can't a stupid line show up on a test? Why do I feel the need to let the results of a test define my worth and value? I feel like everybody that I know is announcing a pregnancy. No lie- I had three announcements on my Facebook timeline last Saturday. I began to beat myself up internally. I began to believe awful, terrible lies about myself and about God. My innocent longing to be a mommy turned into an anger against God. What horrible thing had I done to deserve this? Does this mean that I'm going to be infertile? What if we can never have a baby? What if it's just me and T and our new puppy forever and ever? I began to fall into the shame spiral. I began to let the darkness engulf me. And--I might have wasted another pregnancy test that I knew was going to be negative because it was way, way, way too early for anything.

No, I don't have a cute little announcement at the end of this post about how the last four months have been insanely terrible but that some magical glitter sparkle baby dust flew into me and decided to form a baby. It hasn't yet. Like months 1, 2, and 3...I'm still waiting. But, when I came across this verse at the beginning of the post, it really made me began to think about how I'm made my ability (or lack thereof) to bear a child into an idol. Even if we don't get a positive this month- HE is still GOOD. Even if we don't get a positive this year- HE is still GOOD. Even if we never ever ever get a positive pregnancy test or are able to carry a child- HE IS STILL GOOD. I don't have to turn to false gods, I don't have to curse the name of God, I don't have to say that he is an evil evil god because he won't give me a child to carry in my womb. I can know that all things work together for good for those who love God and are called according to HIS purpose. I can know that God DOES have a plan for my life, and T's life, and our life together- and if it is his will, he can make any kind of miraculous act occur. Patience. Patience. Waiting. Waiting. This really really stinks. But, in the middle of the mess, I know that even if my plans don't come to fruition, even if it takes a long time, or never happens- he is still good and I will worship Him.

10 Months Sober, or Wearing the Scarlet Letter

Ten months sober, I must admit- just because you're clean don't mean you don't miss it.
Ten months older, I won't give in- now that I'm clean I'm never gonna risk it.
- Taylor Swift, "Clean" 

A year ago, I was another girl. A year ago, I was a completely different person. I was a depressed, miserable, mentally unstable, skeletal, shadow of myself. A year ago, I wrote the following in my journal:

Running. I am running hard and fast into the cold, hard ground. My face is slamming against the pavement. I am so frustrated. Here I am, sitting at twenty three years old, a college degree under my belt, and I’m unemployed and will most likely be underemployed for my entire life. My light is going dim. I am so depressed right now. My motivation is lacking. I find it hard to conceive complete sentences and coherent thoughts. The days run into each other like a freight train flying fast down the tracks. I am frustrated. This is not how I imagined my life to be. I always imagined I’d be happy. I’d be either employed or married with children. I always imagined my life to be so much different than this. It does not seem fair that mental illness has stolen so much from me.

I wish I could say that things got better in August. They didn't. The descent into darkness was not as a slow, seeping drop of syrup, dripping down the bottle. No, the decent was a spiral of doom, a black hole, a tornadic even with enough force to hold me in, so that even though my nose was against the glass and I could see what was outside...I could not escape. August turned into September, and the storm seemed to get darker and darker, stronger and stronger. That's where this post really begins.

Ten months ago, shit hit the fan. Pardon my language, but there is no other way that I can think of to adequately describe it. I had told my therapist that I was self harming, but nobody really knew the point it had reached. At a doctor's appointment, wounds were discovered, people freaked out, and my mom and dietitian were called- something had to be done. I was to be shipped off to rehab again- in hopes that this time would be the time that everything magically got better. I remember sitting with my mom and her crying and begging me to "please make this work" that it was "rehab or the psych ward" and that "we could lose everything". Honestly, in the darkness of that long night of waiting, I just wanted to die. But, I knew I had to fight this- I didn't want to cause any more pain to my family than I already had. So, I agreed to not self harm until I got to treatment. This was huge. At this point, it had been almost two years since I'd gone more than a day or two without harming. It was incredibly frustrating. I just wanted to feel something. I wanted to numb all of these emotions within the confines of my brain and quiet the noise for five minutes. But, I lasted until the Sunday that I admitted to treatment, if only because of the threat of locking me up in a psych ward. And then treatment went south, and I begged my parents to just let me come home. It was a terrible, awful feeling. On the phone, I made all sorts of agreements- agreements to eat, to not purge, to not harm myself, to be better. Honestly, I didn't believe myself as I agreed to most of the conditions for me returning home. I just didn't think it was possible. But, I was desperate to do anything to get out of that place and return home- I would agree to anything. When I got home, everything from before changed. Yes, a part of me still wanted to die. A part of me still wanted to continue the slow painful suicidal actions of before. The day I left treatment was September 17, 2014.

I met T on September 27, 2014- honestly, it was probably not the wisest decision I've ever made. My therapist was begging me to get off of online dating. My parents were not terribly happy with it. It was honestly just another one of those bipolar/borderline "let me feel something" spells- until I met T. Things didn't change overnight, but they did change quickly. I suddenly had a reason for living, a reason for fighting. So the "no self harm" thing continued. Eventually, by the grace of God and the love of my wonderful husband, I was able to quit purging. As I look back to my life a year ago, I realize just how different things are, and it amazes me that God could take the brokenness of my life a year ago and change it into something this beautiful. As T and I were driving to therapy today, the song at the beginning of this post began to play. Since the CD was released, I loved "Clean". I loved the words. And I loved the truth and vulnerability contained in the line "Ten months sober, I must admit- just because you're clean don't mean you don't miss it." There is so much truth in that statement. There are some days that I miss my old destructive coping mechanisms. They sneak into my brain and they taunt me- telling me terrible, horrible lies. As I sat in the car today, I realized that it's been TEN MONTHS since I last self harmed. Ten months since I picked up a sharp object with the intent of harming myself, in the name of "feeling something". I'm really proud of myself for this feat. It's a huge thing. 

Nothing can prepare you for the moment when the person you love discovers your wounds and your scars for the first time. The most horrible, most awful moment in my relationship with T happened when he ran his hand across my leg and found those horrible awful marks, still not completely healed. Having to answer the quiet question of "what happened, honey?" totally gutted me. I felt so teeny tiny at the moment. The first time, I answered something like "I don't really want to talk about it" and he didn't press it. But the next time, he patiently prodded me on to explain this chapter of my story. For the most part, a majority of the scars have faded or blend into my skin. But, there is one section that I fear never will- the section where I carved the word "fat" into my thigh. The scars from these terrible letters haunt me every time I get dressed, every time I see my leg, every time my shorts go up to high, every time I'm lying in bed with my husband and his hand brushes across it. I can't wear a bathing suit without showing the world my scars- literally. They have faded somewhat, but I fear that they will never be completely gone. How will I explain this to my future daughters? 

If you are struggling with self harm, please reach out. There is so much more to life than spending your days and nights punishing yourself. It is not worth it- and please, learn from my mistakes so that you don't have scars of your own someday. I don't want you to have that awful experience of explaining to your husband that there was a time when you used to hurt yourself, when you used to carve terrible awful words into your thigh because you believed that you deserved to carry that scarlet letter. You don't have to carry that scarlet letter. Jesus came down and because a man and walked on this Earth and died on the cross so that you didn't have to bear that scarlet letter. He bears it for you. Please reach for healing today? Please reach out for help? Please know that you are not alone in this darkness- Jesus is standing there with open arms, just waiting to embrace you and love you as you are- as messed up and shitty as you might feel that you are. You are never too broken for Him. He redeems. His job is making broken things beautiful. Don't bear your scarlet letter alone.

Big Girl Legs and Feet

7/18/14


I came into the world, bumbling and scared. My mother had contractions from the time that she was three months pregnant with me and some doctors believe that the increased adrenaline that was secreted over these many months is the cause of my anxiety. I don’t know what I believe. I know that I’ve been anxious since I was a small child. One of my parents’ favorite stories to tell is about how I would have walked much earlier than I did- had I not been scared. All of the signs pointed to me beginning to take my first steps. I would pull up and we all thought that I would be one of those “early ones”- I’ve always wanted to be ahead of schedule. But instead of pulling myself all the way up, I would stand on my knees and walk around on those. I walked on my knees for months, never daring to pull myself all the way up, never daring to take a first step on my feet. I was scared, a scared little girl that had a fear of falling, and for months I lived on my knees. My parents bought knee covers to go over my knees so that I wouldn’t get carpet burn since our house had carpet. I’m sure that they wondered if I’d ever gather up the courage to climb to my feet- or if I’d be eighteen, graduating high school, walking across the stage to accept my diploma on my knees. Eventually I walked. I don’t remember it. I was little, but one day I made the choice to quit walking on my knees and walk on my big girl legs and feet instead. One day, not a super memorable day, but an important day nonetheless, I made the decision to walk. I gathered up my courage and pulled myself up and took the first of many many steps on my big girl legs and feet.


I’m at the same crossroads that I was at all of those years ago. I’m a scared little girl, content with walking around on my knees, because walking on my knees seems safer and nicer and more secure and I really don’t want to make the choice to walk on my big girl legs and feet because I might fall. I might trip over my feet. I might stumble. I might bump my head or hurt myself. But in order to grow up, in order to become a big girl and truly live and dance and sing, I must walk on my big girl legs and feet. I must let go of my security blanket, must let go of what seems safe and not dangerous. I must walk…on my feet. I feel like my eating disorder has served the same purpose as walking on my knees did all of those years ago. It makes me feel small and safe and secure. It’s what I know. It’s what I’m comfortable with. It’s “how I live”. But I don’t want to be eighteen years old and walking across the stage at my graduation on my knees. I don’t want to be thirty or forty or fifty years old and still clinging to this eating disorder. I want to walk on my big girl legs and feet. I want to get the courage to let this security blanket go.


But this all seems so scary. I am afraid of stumbling and falling. I am afraid of walking on my big girl legs and feet. I might fall. It seems safer to walk on my knees. I mean, it’s okay to walk on my knees. It’s not really that big of a deal. Sure it might be a little different, but nobody will really notice or care. My parents bought me knee pads, I am okay. I can just keep living this way, in my safe little bubble. All will be well, I don’t have to be courageous and strong. I can stay a scared little girl. I am afraid. I am a one year old and I am reverting to walking on my knees again. I am afraid. How do I let go? Okay, fine. I pull myself up and I stand, wobbling, on my big girl legs and feet. I teeter for a moment. I grab the edge of the couch for dear life. Nope, I’m not letting go. I stand for a moment, grasping the couch. These big girl legs and feet are kind of neat. It’s kind of cool to be a big girl. It’s kind of cool to not be stuck on my knees. I can see so much more. Maybe I can let go. Maybe tomorrow I will take a step away from the couch on my big girl legs and feet. Maybe I’m not there yet, but I will be there someday. I won’t be eighteen and walking across the stage to get my diploma on my knees. Someday, I will walk on my big girl legs and feet. Someday, I will let go of this crippling fear and I will really and truly live.

My message today is short, but I feel like it's important to share- no matter what, there is hope. You are not too far gone. You are not your past mistakes. You are not a conglomeration of all that you've never done, been too scared to try. Life is scary. That is a part of living- it is natural to not feel totally comfortable when trying new things. But, let me encourage you to take the risk. Stand up and try out your big girl legs and feet, because you never know when things will all come together and you will be able to do things that you never imagined.

Last September, I was trapped by an eating disorder and severe depression. I didn't see how life could possibly be worth living. Life seemed to stink, everything was hopeless. It was dark and dreary and I didn't know how I could possibly make it through another five minutes, much less an hour or a day or a week or a year. And then one day? Something clicked. I don't know what it was, but I was awoken from my stupor and I saw the light. I saw how God had planned so many marvelous things for me, and that even though I had given up on myself and I didn't love myself and I didn't think that I was worth it- he hadn't given up on me, he loved me where I was at, and he thought I was worth it. It hasn't been easy- these last almost seven months have been difficult. Things have not always been easy. I've had to deal with some health consequences of my actions. I've had to deal with water retention and weight redistribution. I've had to deal with thoughts and feelings and anxieties that I had previously numbed through destructive actions. But, it has been worth it. I ended my journal entry last July, written just two days after my twenty-fourth birthday with the lines, "Someday, I will walk on my big girl legs and feet. Someday, I will let go of this crippling fear and I will really and truly live." I  truly believe that I am walking on my big girl legs and feet. Do I tremble sometimes? Sure. Do I waddle or wobble during hard and trying moments? Certainly, but that is a part of learning to walk, a part of being a toddler is toddling sometimes. I can now say that someday I WILL let go of this crippling fear. I am beginning to experience the joys of really and truly living, and I never want to go back to the darkness now that I have not only seen the light- but I have experienced the light. I will leave you with some of my favorite words- an adaptation of Martin Luther King, Jr's "I Had a Dream" speech and from an old spiritual- "Free at last. Free at last. Thank God Almighty, I am free at last!"