Kind of Exciting

I've kept quiet about this for a number of weeks now, holding on to a silly superstition I have that by sharing the possibility of an exciting event before said event is set in stone will cause it to disappear forever. I won't go into the details that led up to this either, I have a tendency to over explain things. Anyone who read the original version will notice quite a few differences. There are certain aspects of this version I like better, and parts of the first I still prefer; however, in both the words are my own. Regardless, the fact that someone with no personal connection to me whatsoever, found in my original words and story something worth sharing with others is an incredibly humbling experience.

Mushing to Recovery

                     Cobwebs

I took the road paved with cobwebs of time,
  having nothing but hope as to what I would find
I stumbled on darkness and was taunted by fear,
  I worried I'd lose before even a year

But while time comes with struggles, it also gives strength,
  and as I persevered troubles, I began to find faith
And slowly those cobwebs of time were changed,
  woven through by my story, my life, my name

My journey's not over, I've a lifetime to go,
  but I have no doubt of the path that I chose
I know any other would have brought me no peace,
  and that only this trail leads to freedom - leads to me.


I woke up this morning with the first line of this poem being the first conscious thought I had. I wish I knew what I'd been dreaming of that would have caused me to bring those words with me to the waking world, but I truly can't remember. I know I didn't wake up feeling anxious or scared, so I know it wasn't a bad dream and that definitely counts for something. I actually woke up in quite a wonderful way, on my own - no alarm or loud noise ripping me from sleep - with a purring Faelina next to me, and birds singing outside. It was early and last nights rain had left gray skies lingering, so I got dressed and went out for a walk. Just before I left, on a whim, I grabbed a small notebook and pen. I thought that maybe I would work on the rest of the poem I had woken up with, and as I circled the quiet, calm beauty of the Bowdoin quad that is exactly what happened. I have no clear idea of what it is supposed to be about, only the knowledge that these words were in my heart and they needed to be put to paper.

There is one other thing I'd like to share. Yesterday while perusing the internet, I found a list someone had written of things to be happy about. I loved this idea and decided to create one of my own. It is not all encompassing by any means. There are hundreds of events and happenstances with which to be happy about, but I did have to draw a line somewhere. So without further ado, here is my list.

I hope you all have a lovely Sunday afternoon, 'Fair thoughts and happy hours attend on you...'

To My Mother

Dear Mom,

Happy Mother's Day! I wish I could be there for to celebrate like years past,  or to even just give you a hug. Of course that can't happen, so I'm writing instead.

We have, without doubt, had our rough moments. There are frequent disagreements, there have been screaming fights ending with slammed doors. The memory of your reaction when I cut my then two year Kairi's hair as short as a boys still frightens me a little (for everyone else reading, I was grounded a month for that one), and there are times I have found myself glad that I live so far away because sometimes that distance is needed. That being said, I wouldn't trade you for anything. You made my life amazing, and I know I owe you more than I could ever repay. Here is a thank you for just a few of the millions of things you've done for me.

Thank you for your decision to homeschool in such a way that I learned how fun learning can be.  Thank you for constantly playing Mary Chapin Carpenter through the years so that I could fall in love with her songs. Thank you for showing me how wonderful books are before I was even able to read by playing me books on tape. Thank you for letting me sleep in every day so I could stay up reading late at night. Thank you for saving your Trixie Belden books from when you were a child so that I too could experience her adventures.Thank you for giving me the best birthday parties growing up, and for making my memories of holidays some of the favorite I own. Thank you for making almost too big a deal about achievements like awards and graduations.Thank you for your love of adventure and dreams of exploring the world that you then passed on to me. Thank you for encouraging me to follow those dreams even if that meant leaving home behind, and thank you for being one of the few people who seem to understand why, despite how much I miss home, it's necessary for me to not be there right now. Thank you for not letting me spend my childhood in front of the tv, for making me read, or play games, out enjoy the outdoors instead. Thank you for forcing me to go camping and hiking when I was young, because that led to my deep love of nature now. Thank you for moving to Alaska so I could learn where my true home was. Thank you for Big Bend, Germany, roadtrips through Canada, and long drives across the US. Thank you for making clothes for Samantha when I was little, and for me too. Thank you for years of Saturday morning sourdough pancakes breakfasts and waffles on Sunday, and for always getting us the real maple syrup instead of of the cheaper fake stuff. Thank you for all the years you made me chocolate Malt-o-Meal with milk and colored sugar, to this day I can't quite make it like you did. Thank you for letting me go through my hair dying phase fairly young, and for not making an issue of it when you woke up one morning to find your brunette child had dyed her hair black overnight. Thank you for mushing, dance classes, violin lessons and ice skating. Thank you for giving me an understanding hug and letting me cry when Michelle Kwan lost the Olympics in 1998, and then again four years later. Thank you for being there at the hospital the night I broke my ankle and holding my hand as my already painful ankle was twisted to an excruciating degree to get the cast set right. Thank you for coming to comfort a frightened five year old when I had woken up crying from a dream that still makes my top 10 list of worst nightmares ever. And thank you for last year, for not only seeing how much trouble I was in, but for standing up to something stronger than us both and forcing me into health and recovery - at great mental, emotional and financial expense to you. To say that you saved my life is not even remotely an understatement.

I love you, always and forever,
KC

New Trails, New Tears, New Strength

This week I came closer to skipping a meal than I ever have since Mercy. I'd had a day where my mind had quite literally become hell on earth. I was tired, and so worn out that it physically hurt to walk, to speak, even to think. Nothing in that day seemed to be going right and then something else happened, completely unrelated to food or exercise, and I was just done.  

To be honest, life the last two weeks have been the tough, the hardest since I first started training for my new job an almost tripped into relapse because of the whole sitting issue. Like then, this most recent struggle is (likely) due to the fact that I've started down a different trail on my recovery journey - exercise. I've written before that exercise had a top spot among my disorder behaviors. If night came and I hadn't gotten in at least a couple good workouts and a walk or two the day was considered a failure. I considered myself a failure. Of course, even if I had done those things - or more - there was always her voice in the back of my mind taunting me, telling me that I could have done more. When I first started at Mercy, physical activity of any kind was not allowed. I wasn't allowed to even walk up the street, and stairs were definitely out (you should have seen the Dr's face when she found out I lived on the 3rd floor of a building with no elevator). It was a major shock to my mind to have to sit all day, but my body embraced it with relief, and I know without doubt that it was exactly what I needed.

Since discharging from Mercy, I've been good about keeping those Jillian Michael's dvds out of site and my workout clothes hidden in my closet, but a few sessions ago I talked to my therapist about moving from walks and light yoga to something more serious. I had my reasons for why I thought now was the time, which she agreed with, and together we came up with a plan. No more than 3 times a week although walking every day was still allowed, for now nothing on weekends (since those had been my worst behavior days), I have to eat something to make up for it - no exceptions, and most important ONLY IF I WANT TO.

I was cautiously excited that first morning I woke up and let my body move in ways it hadn't been pushed in months. I was surprised by just how hard it was to eat something extra, but I did. When I woke up the next morning and felt my legs screaming in protest of the soreness in their muscles I smiled, because I had (crazy as it sounds) missed that feeling. I wish it was as easy as that, but eating disorders never allow for simplicity. Since that first day she has tried to get me to break my rules. She wants more daily workouts, she wants my walks to become runs, she wants me to eat less - a lot less, and she wants pleasantly sore muscles to transform into painful injuries and death like exhaustion as proof that I've overdone it.

I lost weight that first week (only a little) and she practically glittered with glee. I on the other hand spent much of last weekend confused, miserable and mentally exhausted. In an attempt to ground myself and build my strength, I reached out to a friend from Mercy, called my best friend for a long talk, made a trip to the library, and started reading Neil Gaiman's newest book (which is amazing!). Each of those things helped, but not enough and opening my eyes Monday morning felt like waking on the eve of a battle.

I did the absolute best that I could. I added even more food into my day on the days I exercised. I tried so hard to let myself sit when I was tired (this continues to be a daily struggle that I usually lose). I wrote, I read, I breathed deep, I hoped for peace. It wasn't enough though, and as the hours wore on the wall I've built up between my thoughts and hers went from thick wood, to thin plaster, to a sheer curtain threatening harm. She was gaining ground, and I was just so tired, and then Wednesday morning that wispy curtain blew in the wind and then vanished. Suddenly I'd gone back in time to walk in the world where she ruled my life and I merely existed. She was done with bargaining, finished with suggesting that I move a little more or chose a lighter meal. She'd had enough of her desires being put on the backburner to mine. She took control and demanded that I do exactly what she said, or else. 

I spent Wednesday evening hating myself. I fell asleep knowing I was a pathetic failure. My thoughts were filled with tears of pain. Those feelings ran wild because, as I've said, I'd lost the boundary between us and her feelings were my own. I felt that way, because she lost and she hated me for it. I ate, I didn't exercise more, I chose to not disappoint the people who love me. I knew that as awful as it was to live through that night, if I gave in to her I'd wake up feeling worse the next day. I knew also, that skipping a meal would be a huge setback and a definite sign that I wasn't ready for exercise. My therapist often says to me that as awful as I might feel to give in now would make everything I've put myself through up to this point a total waste. So I fought with misery and her echoing words as my allies. 

I woke up Thursday morning with more faith in myself and my desire to truly recover. I still have miles upon miles to go, a trek that makes the Iditarod look a cakewalk in comparison, but I shot down an enormous obstacle this week. When I stepped on the scale this Friday, I got a smiling thumbs up and a big hug of encouragement from the nurse. Of course that comes with mixed emotions, and part of me felt dejected and upset, but I dealt with that. I am proud of myself for getting through this week, and even more hopeful that one day she will no longer haunt my thoughts, and I will be able to live this beautiful life I've been given in freedom.

A Secret Door

Most nights I can be found sitting by my window lost in the pages of a book. While usually immune to the happenings going on in the street below me, I sometimes find my concentration broken by the flickering on or off of the street light across my way.

In design and color it looks just like all the other lamp-posts who start their glowing nightly guard of Maine street in the early evening hours. But with this one there is a slight difference, it doesn't always stay lit. Once off it stays that way for sometime before once more coming to life. The most likely explanation for this is simply a faulty bit of wiring, something in the mechanics of the post itself that doesn't quite work the way it's supposed to. I however, have come up with another possibility, one that is much less likely, almost definitely impossible, yet infinitely better. Magic.

Growing up I, like millions, was charmed by the story of The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe. The idea of being able to walk into a closet and out into a world so fantastically different from our own, is one I have hoped for ever since I first read those words. What stuck with me in that story, almost as much as the idea of getting into Narnia itself, was what Lucy first saw when she arrived. A lone black lamp-post shining among the snow and the trees. The random on and off of my own lamp-post has sparked in my mind the idea that it isn't just some innocuous piece of metal and electricity, but rather a symbol, a gate to enter some more magical world.

What is if is a sign, to those much more in the know than we, that a different dimension, another universe, is once more open to crossing over. What if the light turns off when the secret entrance is closed and turns back on once more when the magical key has been turned to unlock it's hidden door. Or it could be the opposite, the light turns off when one is about to cross over so that we don't see them disappear into nothing. What if all one had to do was know the exact right spot to look when that light turned back on in the deep hours of midnight, know the secret steps to take, the right way to knock. Just imagine the possibilities, think of all the different things one could see and discover if that one lamp-post was not at all what it appeared. 

An Unexpected Gift

A couple days ago I started reading "The Edible Woman" by Margaret Atwood. It was a book I'd read a very intriguing recommendation on and since I'd devoured "A Handmaids Tale" years ago I immediately put in a request for it at my library. Segue here: for an example of just how much of an issue I have when it comes to my library books, when I got the e-mail notifying me that the book had come I was surprised; I had so many other requests out, and so many other books had been put on my list of books to read, that I had forgotten about this book entirely. Anyway back to my main point. I had picked up the book on Sunday and just read a few pages, so it wasn't until last night that I made my discovery, well two actually.

The first was that there are apparently others like me that like to underline certain passages in the books they read, and at least one person who has no qualms with doing that to a library book as this particular copy is filled with such markings. I only wish I was that brave. I had curled up the in bed and picked up the book to read when the second finding fell onto my lap...

From what I have read so far, this list is probably made in reference to the characters and their story, but isn't it also the perfect list for someone who is fighting to overcome an eating disorder?! I am just so grateful for this serendipitous little gift that literally fell into my hands. 

As far as how I am doing, thinks are OK. I am eating what I need to and have held steady weight wise. I am of course convinced that I have gained 10 pounds in the last week. I realize I say that every week and that so far that has never happened (at least not since Mercy - there I'm not so sure), but it really does feel like it this time. I am finding it next to impossible to feel comfortable in my own skin at all, and other than maybe a few moments right when I wake up or just before falling asleep, self-comfort and acceptance don't really exist in my mind. I do hope that changes, this is not a very fun way to live. Maybe that's why the universe sent me this list, to give me the extra bit of wisdom I need to find my way back to myself again.

The Book of Lost Things

It is not often when reading that genuine shivers of fear race through my veins, not fear for myself, but rather the characters facing known or, to them at least,

unknown dangers. When this does happen it is usually because their is a story, a world, that I have come to believe truly exists somewhere in the universe.

Normally when I read a book, the characters in that story cease to be simple words on a page and instead transform into real, living, breathing individuals who have graciously allowed me into their lives if only for a brief period of time. Usually though, once I have finished reading their story they turn back into words within pages and live only as a memory in my mind. But sometimes, I stumble across a character whose life and world are so incredible that I know that even once I reach that last page and am no longer allowed to follow their footsteps, they are still out there in another world - walking, talking, breathing, existing. I have to believe that, because the alternative is simply to devastating to consider.  Out of all the books I have read, very few have the honor of holding such a special place within my heart. "The Book of Lost Things" by John Connolly has just surpassed the odds and made that list.

Quite some time ago, I had mentioned on this blog the awesome service the Brooklyn Public Library offers readers, that by filling out an online form with books and authors you've loved - and those you haven't - a librarian then creates a reading list of recommendations just for you. Weeks ago, I decided it was high time that I actually use that list for something other than just looking at. It was time to pick a book to read. "The Book of Lost Things" was the one that seemed most intriguing to me so, decision made, I skipped down to my library to get it. Of course, at the time I  was already deep into the pages of a several other books so it sat on my bookshelf for a few weeks before I was free to open the cover and see what excitement it's pages could offer. And, as you may already have guessed, I love it.

The story is captivating, enthralling, and has all the elements of what it takes for me to fall in love with a book. There is magic mixed with reality, there is darkness, the stories of Snowhite, Sleeping Beauty, Rumpilstiltskin and others are peeled back to reveal the sometimes awful truth behind their legends, there is fear destroyed, and love discovered(although in this case not the romantic kind). And of course there are words set together in such a way that my heart grows calm with their truth or my imagination explodes with the possibilities they promise. Needless to say, I highly recommend this book to anyone, but just in case you never get a chance to delve into it's pages - or you just need a little more encouragement - here a few of my favorite passages...


"And David could tell, by looking at her face as she read, whether or not the story contained in the book was living inside her, and she in it, and he would recall again all that she had told him about stories and tales and the power that they wiled over us, and that we in turn wield over them."

~~~~

"The window seat was David's favorite place in which to read. The books still whispered and spoke among themselves, but he was now able to hush them with a single word if his mood was right, and anyway they tended to remain quiet while he was reading. It was as if they were happy once he was consuming stories." 

~~~~

"And in the dark corners of his dreams, a shadow capered, and it threw its crooked hat in the air with glee."

~~~~

" 'We all have our routines,' he said softly. 'But they must have a purpose and provide an outcome that we can see and take some comfort from, or else they have no use at all. Without that, they are like the endless pacings of a caged animal. If they are not madness itself, then they are a prelude to it.' " 

~~~~

"How could he explain his sense that the Beast was familiar to him, that there was a corner of his imagination where the creature had found an echo of herself?"

~~~~

"She was very cold, colder even than when she had lain in her open coffin, so cold that the touch of her was painful to him. It numbed his lips and stilled his tongue, and his breath turned to crystals of ice that sparkled like tiny diamonds in the still air."

~~~~

"Snow sparkled in the eternal dusk, and icicles hung like frozen tears from the bushes and the trees." 

~~~~

"And the Crooked Man heard her dreams, because that was where he wandered. His place was the land of the imagination, the world where stories began. The stories were always looking for a way to be told, to be brought to life through books and reading. That was how they crossed over from their world into ours. But with them came the Crooked Man, prowling between his world and ours, looking for stories of his own to create, hunting for children who dreamed bad dreams, who were jealous and angry and proud. And he made kings and queens of them, cursing them with a kind of power, even if the real power lay always in his hands. And in return they betrayed the objects of their jealousy to him, and he took them into is lair deep beneath the castle..."