Simply Sitting

It was early and a layer of frost threatened to show itself, as I climbed into my car this past Sunday and pulled out of my driveway. Arriving at my destination a few minutes later, I parked and carefully zipped a thermos of coffee into my purse before walking inside the large building. I handed my purchased ticket to the taker and a minute later, was comfortably ensconced in the seat of my selection. As the lights of the vast room darkened, I leaned back, raised my newly freed cup of coffee to my hands for a sip, and spent the next 134 minutes blissfully content.  

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Last January, I went to the theaters and saw a movie. I was fresh returned from a visit home and desperate for anything that would curb my mind away from the homesick sadness threatening to devour my wellbeing. When a a co-worker told me I just had to see La La Land I thought Why not?. I'd never gone to the movies alone before; I really enjoyed it. A week later I saw another movie but went to a different theater, one with those luxury recliner seats. I fell in love with those seats.

I've made many more visits to my local cinemas over the year, almost always with a contraband cup of coffee stowed inside my purse. Usually, I'll visit the Kaysville Theatre; it features films already out on DVD meaning cheaper tickets for me, but sometimes a movie looks too good to wait months for so I treat myself to a big-name theater with luxury seats. I've decided it's a fabulous way to kill a couple hours, with certain movies especially, but I've uncovered something else, a deeper benefit lurking beneath the fun.

Sitting is a struggle for me. I’ve shared that before. Since my eating disorder so graciously decided to call my brain was home, I have lived with a constant, ceaseless stream of orders that I stand all the time and move every single second of every single day. I fell prey to the lie that Relaxation = Bad, and spent so many years believing that to be true I have an incredibly hard time thinking otherwise.

I have made progress since going to Mercy. I sit more often at work. I can curl up in my home library and read for hours. I am able to spend a day in the car without dissolving into a full-blown panic attack. I still though, cannot dispense with the whisper; the hiss that underlies all those restful actions commanding me to ‘get up and walk around for fucks sake!’. (apologies for the language) It is so strongly compelling that more often than not I listen and any sitting hours are interspersed with frequent breaks to wash dishes or reorganize cabinets or even go out for a walk.

Going to the movies does wonders in helping to me to not hear those words, to discount the vicious ruse they so strongly promote. I'm not sure why, perhaps the speakers are too loud for me to hear anything else, or the fact that I know moving will disrupt others fun. It has become one of my favorite forms of self-care. A therapy of sorts,  slowly but surely helping me to re-discover how much joy can be found by simply sitting and doing nothing. That it's actually ok to sit in one position for more than 20 minutes at a time without hating yourself. That Relaxation = Wonderful = Important = Good for you!  Who knew.

So I will keep going to the movies. Not every week, perhaps not even every month, but often enough that I don't lose sight of this new (re)found knowledge. That there is peace to be found by watching a movie, simply sitting.

*~*

Parentheses Between Lies

You are sick. You’re not sure with what (yes you do) so you go to the doctor. The nice nurse takes you in the back, checks your vitals, takes a weight. Depending on what kind of day you’re having you either stare obsessively at the number on the scale or look resolutely away. The doctor enters the exam room, notes down all your symptoms. Finally they set your chart aside, look you in the eyes. ‘You are very sick’, they state, ‘if this continues there could be serious damage to your health’. They proceed to list some of the more severe outcomes: substantial bone density loss leading to early onset osteoporosis, body muscle being eaten away – muscle that includes the kidneys, brain and heart, and heart issues. “You could”, the doc goes on to say, “Fall asleep one night and never wake up. Or drop dead from a heart attack in the middle of crossing a crowded street”.

 You’re scared (petrified), understandably so, and ask the doctor about a cure. “Eat”, is their reply, “and not just fruits and vegetables. High protein is important and a lot of desserts. Initially you’re excited (so excited). I mean who doesn’t want to be told – by a doctor no less – to eat more ‘unhealthy’ foods. You leave the office, heading for home you make a quick stop at the grocery store. You grab a basket and pile it high with yogurts and peanut butter and your favorite cookies. Back at home, you take special care to put everything away, almost like it’s a ritual (your deep mind knows it is). Finally, the moment has come; you reach for your favorite plate, split open the papery package, and pull out a cookie. You set the remaining cookies in the cupboard for later then, turn to eat.

 Except you can’t. You stand by the counter. You stare at the plate. The cookie looks amazing; as big as your palm, thick, a bit of a crunch round its edges but soft and chewy closer to the middle. Chocolate chunks galore sprout from all surfaces and you know – from experience – that no other can best it in taste. Yet you can’t bring yourself to take a single bite, not even the edge of that chunk of chocolate sticking up higher than all the others.

 More time passes, minutes or possibly hours, and you ultimately decide that you just don’t feel like eating a cookie right now (a lie). You wrap it up carefully, put it back with the others. Decision made, you devote yourself to easier actions like jumping out of a plane or running barefoot across shards of glass. You’ll eat the cookie later, after you’ve earned the right to do so (you don’t need to earn it).

You never do. It never seems like the right time (it’s always the right time). After a few days you throw all of the treats into the dumpster. After all, you don’t really deserve them (yes you do) and you were probably misremembering how delicious they were (you’re not). The yogurts you bought too disappear, only down the sink drain instead of your throat. The peanut butter is saved, but you’re only allowed it once a week and only after you’ve exercised an entire day and not swallowed any food – or water come to that.

You recall, almost hourly, what the doctor told you. It does make you nervous, truly, because you love your life. You don’t want to die. There are nights you lie in bed for hours afraid to fall asleep, so worried you are that your heart will decide it has had enough and simply stop forever. The fear eats away at your already starved stomach.

The terror always fades in the morning (no, just hides). It’s replaced by dancing elation because you have felt a fluttering of heart pain or spotted a blue glimmer of veins shining through too thin skin. You shouldn’t be able to see those veins or glimpse bones protruding where they weren’t before. You know it’s bad (so bad), but you can’t help but feel a sick, twistful glee. Your body is crumbling. You might have a heart attack. Both are good things (both are terrible).

Some people notice but you discount their comments, evade all questions. You respond; half-lies and sliced-truths tumbling out of your mouth in such chaotic confusion you’re able to refocus their gaze, change what they see. You laugh at this victory and decide to skip your weekly peanut butter in celebration. You are in control, you are shrinking, you are winning (you are dying).

The day comes though when you’re not given a choice. You’re so weak you can’t think straight and you can barely rise from bed to workout (you shouldn’t, your body needs to rest). Someone comes and suddenly it’s no longer just the doctor who knows the truth. Suddenly, another’s strength overpowers your own (finally). You’re forced into a cage (you step into a car) and driven to a dungeon (hospital). Strange people (doctors, nurses) are talking to you, poking and prodding in all the wrong places of your mind. They say they want to help you get better; you tell them they’re nothing but deceptions (they’re not, they are good). They have you sit at a table and set a plate in front of you. A single chocolate chip cookie rests on top. It’s different from the first but still looks incredible, you can almost feel the crumbles melting in your mouth.

 The strange people speak, “You have to eat this. You have to choose to fight” (you’ve known this all along).

“This is dumb”, you yell, “I’m perfectly fine and eating a stupid cookie isn’t going to prove anything. Besides, even if I was sick, I wouldn't want to get better” (false, you have never been more scared). You would shove the plate off the table but you just don't have the energy.

 The people are used to this. They have seen the parentheses between your lies, have heard the suppressed wishes in your heart. They wait. More time passes, minutes become hours. You’re tired and so full of terror it’s hard to transform feelings into thought. That is when it happens. That is when you realize how sick you have become (yes). It wasn’t the yellow brick road you followed; it was a rabbit hole and it dropped you straight into hell (Yes). You decide to stop listening to the evil voice in your head and instead pay attention to the words of your heart (YES!). You reach out your hand. Each finger trembling, from fear or anticipation? (both) You pick up the cookie, bring it to your lips and take a bite. It tastes incredible (it tastes like freedom).

~~~

I started writing this last year. I was at the height a fairly serious rough patch and writing always helped, but for some reason I couldn’t seem to get words to form themselves into the appropriate order.  I took a break and life began to smooth out, but I always intended to finish. An idea came to me recently. A way to reframe this whole piece entirely and I returned to it with new vigor. The words came easy this time. For those who’ve read the first post I shared about my disorder, you’ll know this is not a chronologically exact account of what happened. However, on a deeper level it is just as real and true as anything else I’ve ever written.

~*~*~