21 Days: Day 4

Well, it’s official. I’m addicted to coffee. Addiction might too strong a word to describe my relationship with coffee. Maybe in love would be more fitting. I remember from one of my grad school classes some nugget about addicts needing ever-increasing amounts of their substance of choice to achieve the desired effect. Numbness. Euphoria. High. I’ve heard from heroin addicts that they never reach that same first-time euphoria, and that is what they are always trying to replicate. Chasing the dragon. One night, Brad and I were listening to 70’s hits on Pandora, and I kept googling what the songs were about. Almost all of them were about heroin. Even James Taylor (Fire and Rain). I know, right? He seemed like the boy next door with that sweet voice. I’m way off topic. This isn’t about heroin. It’s just about my one delightful cup of coffee. No more. And I feel like myself again not some evil-spirit-possessed-vile-mean-nasty version of myself. Phew…

1. Another snow day. I didn’t even set my alarm, but I did wake up at a reasonable hour grateful for the usual warm bed, happy healthy kids, amazingly wonderful husband (I really miss him on Thursdays), and great friends who love and support me and are always ready and willing to offer an encouraging word, or a beer, or coffee or all three.

2. My back was really super-achy the last two days, so I spent a lot of time sitting up against a heating pad. I think that may also have been the universe’s way of reminding me to be more compassionate to my bony little mom. Today, I decided that I wasn’t going to let my back dictate my day. Okay, so I’m reading Anne Lamott’s Small Victories–I told you that already–but there is an essay about her dying dog. I also have a dying dog, and I’m not nearly as nice to her as Annie is to her dying dog. I mostly get really irritated with my dying dog. She can barely walk. She has limited control of her…uh…functions anymore, so I’m always cleaning up messes. She bites me really hard if I forget and try to give her a treat out of my hand. She wants to go outside 57 times a day, which means I have to go outside 57 times a day, and she doesn’t seem to care that it’s really effing cold.

I promise I’m getting to the meaningful part.

Reading this essay today about how Anne refused to euthanize her dog and tried to make the end of her life as comfortable as possible by maximizing the things she, the dog, enjoyed softened my heart. Our dog fumbles and stumbles around in the house, but outside–especially in the snow–she runs and bounds like a gazelle. So, Lily and I bundled up and took her outside so she could race around and bury her snout in the snow and nearly rip my arm off because I wasn’t going fast enough to keep up with her. She sniffed out where the groundhogs live. She trailed after some random scent like a bloodhound. She was happy. She was young. She was energetic. For about 10 minutes. Then she was exhausted, and I practically had to carry her back into the house, where she has been sleeping for the last several hours. It was 10 minutes of putting another’s happiness above my own, and that felt really good after having been so angry the last few days. Lily had a good time too because little kids never seem to get cold even though one trip down the slide into a snow drift sent snow up both legs of her snow pants.

3. I haven’t the foggiest idea who I’m going to write to yet. I have prayed that God will bring someone to mind soon.

On a Daniel Fast note, I made these awesome little energy balls today minus the orange zest and cardamom and plus vanilla, chia, and sesame seeds. I was contemplating getting out my food processor–which I really didn’t want to do because it takes forever to drag down, assemble, and then clean up–when I thought, well, maybe this will work in the blender. Voila. Seriously. In about 15 seconds everything was perfectly blended to the most amazing consistency, and I did a big happy dance the kind that makes my kids come in the kitchen and say, “What the…” before joining in (Lily) or rolling their eyes and retreating to their bedroom (P). And it was okay because I was in my kitchen not the library. Rock on, you amazing little Kitchen-Aid blender. You’re a shining star.

How are you guys? Did you make anything fabulous today? Or do you have a super meaningful story to tell? Gosh, I’m so much happier with coffee.

xoxo

Feel, don’t feed, your feelings (Emotional Triggers)

The past few days I have felt sad. As usual, I look for external reasons. What day is it–is it an anniversary of someone’s death? Where’s my focus–have I been thinking about sad things? Do I have PMS? This particular time, I can’t pinpoint a reason.

I don’t like the cold and snow, but doesn’t make me sad. The anniversary of my dad’s death is coming up, but not for a week, and I don’t usually feel melancholy so far in advance. I miss my girl and my best friend, but those feelings don’t usually sideline me. I don’t think I have PMS, since that makes me feel less sad and more as if an evil spirit has taken up residence in my body. It is just a non-specific malaise.

However, since I don’t have a lot of coping skills, sadness (specified or not) leads to seeking comfort in food, which leads to an elevated number on the scale which leads to further sadness and feelings of defeat. It’s a vicious cycle–or circle–I never know which one is correct, though both accurately describe this situation.

Since January, I have intently focused on winning the battle against food. Overcoming my dependence on it. Eating to live instead of living to eat. I say: I’m doing this for health and not to lose weight. And I kind of mean it. But gosh darn it, I wish that number on the scale would go down.

I have read books, listened to TED talks and am currently re-reading and participating in an online Bible study for Lysa TerKeurst’s book Made to Crave. But, the same stupid number shows up on the scale every morning. Some days, it goes down a number or two, but it always goes back. One step forward one step back. One step back one step forward–this monotonous mambo is wearing me out.

I have prayed, given this to God, and laid this issue at the cross, more times than I can count. But in times of sadness, defeat, depression, I will not reach for the phone to call a human friend, I will instead reach for my faithful friend the sandwich. I will take comfort in the sweet goodness of a cookie rather than the reassuring words of my husband. While I try very hard to reach out and encourage others, I find it very difficult to reach outside my comfort zone when cookies are usually so much closer.When I feel empty and defeated, I will make a huge meal instead of calling a friend or going for a walk or praying.

Last week at church, there was a display of the most amazing cakes you have ever seen. I wanted a piece so bad. I started to take a piece, and my husband said, “Don’t do it, baby.” Initially, I was shocked–and a little angry–and turned with my mouth hanging open to see if he had lost his mind. “It will taste good now, but you’ll be mad at yourself.” Darn that man I love. He was right, and I didn’t eat a whole piece. I did, however, have a bite and it was delicious and wonderful and everything I had hoped it would be. AND that one little bite was enough.

I think that’s the hardest part of beating this addiction. The “one is too many; one more isn’t enough” mentality. Unlike cigarettes or alcohol, you can’t just quit food cold turkey. We have to eat. But like other substances, I have used innately harmless sweets in an unhealthy way. I have tried to fill voids that no amount of peanut butter could fill. I have had long conversations with trail mix instead of God or even a friend.

In counseling school, the therapist/professor asked, “What would happen if you let yourself feel the sadness?” I would cry and feel sad, but I’ve been there before, and I know that I would stop crying eventually.

Overcoming emotional eating is a process like anything else. There are ups and downs. Victories and defeats. And right now, I feel pretty defeated. I feel a lot like I might never overcome this. I feel alone and empty, and maybe a cookie would make me feel better in this moment, but that is not true. So today, I’m going to focus on feeling my feelings instead of feeding them.

La la la la la la, it’s a Beautiful World.

Day 9 of the Daniel fast. I’m feeling deeply cleansed–this fast has been the spiritual retreat I’ve always dreamed of taking. Here are a couple things I’ve learned:

1. Caffeine withdrawal is painful. 
2. Food is an idol in my life. 
3. I get really jumpy when I can’t eat–see #2. 
4. I no longer enjoy cooking-although I have made a lot of stuff  I pinned. 
5. Comfortably full is a foreign term.

Today, the caffeine headache and sugar cravings have passed, and the clarity has begun to settle over me. (By the way, I have not lost one pound. Today, I said, “F#$K you, scale; you ain’t bringing me down! You’re registering all the additional knowledge in my brain not fat on my thighs!” But, this fast wasn’t about the scale.) I realized that I have relied on food for far too much. Food was my comfort, relaxation, solitude, love, and so much more.

That’s how I grew up. Sick? Chicken soup. Celebration? Cake. Love? Cookies. My mom communicates in food. Still. But now, when she walks in my house with a fresh-baked plate of cookies, I smile and thank her, then I look right in their little peanut butter faces and say, “You are a cookie; you are not love.” I often say it with my mouth full of cookie, but I’m making progress. At least now I realize the cookie’s not love.

Cookies and love. Really?

When I quit smoking over a year ago, I realized that I had absolutely no coping mechanisms. Stressed? Have a cigarette. Tired? Have a cigarette. Sad? Have 100 cigarettes. There are never enough. There are never enough cookies, never enough cigarettes, never enough coffee to fill that hole inside you.

Today is my brother Chris’ birthday. He would have been 53. He died almost 25 years ago and left a big old gaping hole in my heart. A hole that I have tried to fill with so many of the wrong things. Eventually it healed as much as a human heart can heal, but not through any of my attempts to patch it together with peanut butter cookies for sure.

What I’ve mostly learned through this fast is to feel and be in each moment. To question my motives for eating. To realize that food doesn’t satisfy a deep internal craving, it simply paralyzes it for awhile. I have learned that I do have will power. And I learned–again–that when you step out in faith, God sends in a heavenly support team.

So, I don’t know if I’m gonna lose any weight, and I don’t really care. What I do know is that when you stop dulling your emotions with food or whatever your drug of choice is, the fog lifts and a beautiful world awaits.

Day 9, I gave my food addiction to God, and I’m not taking it back. Can I share something with you guys? My husband surrendered his cigarettes to God on day 1. I’m so proud of him. Would you please pray for him?

Anybody Got a Light?

Today, is my one year anniversary free from nicotine. I smoked more than half my life. The first time I smoked a cigarette I was 9. Yep. NINE. Two years older than my baby. I LOVED cigarettes…in fact I still do. I love the way they feel between my fingers, on my lips, the way they smell…I love them. Even now, occasionally, I will pick one of Brad’s up. Just to feel it. But I never light it.

I hated being addicted to nicotine. I didn’t smoke in the house or car, but I can remember feeling so agitated on the way home from anywhere. Anxious to get my kids in the house so that I could smoke a cigarette. I was embarrassed that I smoked too. I didn’t want anyone to know. I took great pains not to smell like smoke or smoke around anyone who wasn’t part of my inner circle. People would say, “I didn’t know you smoked!” Good! I didn’t want you to.

When I began really to put God first in my life, I realized that even He came second to cigarettes. I am not proud to admit that I had to smoke a cigarette and make coffee before I opened my Bible. God, my kids, my husband…everyone was in second place. When I took a long hard look at that and really let it sink in, I started to pray and surrender. Please take this addiction away. Please…make it easy for me to quit. Please help me to wake up and just not want to smoke.

Over the years, I tried just about everything to quit. Hypnosis, books, nicotine gum, patches, herbal remedies, spiritual healings. I quit lots of times for days, weeks, even months. But every time, I would decide that I was back in control and let myself have just one cigarette. I can just smoke when I have a drink. I can just smoke when we go out with friends. I can just smoke on Fridays. I can just smoke on the weekends until…I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t ever just have one cigarette ever ever ever again.

One year ago, on Lily’s birthday, we went to a party with our best friends. I probably smoked 100 cigarettes. The next morning I felt like there was an anvil on my chest. I didn’t want to smoke. I told Brad, “I’m gonna quit smoking today.” He said, “Okay, baby,” but he didn’t believe me. But I did.

I’m not bragging (well, except about God’s goodness and faithfulness); I know lots of people who are trying to quit something. When asked how I quit smoking, I used to say, “I just quit,” because I didn’t like people to roll their eyes at me when I said, “I prayed, and God took away my craving for nicotine.” But, that is what really happened. I woke up and said, “Help me not smoke today,” and He did. And He keeps helping me not smoke day after day.

I have been tempted, but never beyond what I could handle. On one occasion this summer, I begged Brad to give me a cigarette, but I didn’t smoke. Every day, I thank God that nicotine is no longer first in my life. Every day, I thank Him for making it easy. I never could have quit without a divine intervention because I will regrettably admit: I have no will power. Not. One. Bit.

This is the longest I have been smoke-free since the first time I smoked a cigarette 31 years ago. Not in my strength but in His…I am redeemed.

2 Corinthians 12:9-10 (NIV) But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.

You Like Me? You Really LIKE ME?

Over my 40 1/2 years, I have spent a great deal of time and energy trying to make people like me. I don’t do that anymore. Don’t get me wrong: I try to be kind, compassionate, honest, but I no longer change myself to fit someone else’s idea of who/what I should be.

BUT people who knew me when I lost sleep about people not liking me are confused now when I don’t care, don’t engage, don’t kiss anyone’s behind. See, if I compliment you, I genuinely mean it. I do like your hair, perfume, outfit or shoes. I really do think you’ve lost weight and I see that your arms are toned up. For real. I’m not saying that so you like me.

I have been a lot of people’s “person” over the years. And I appreciate the opportunity. I love hearing people’s stories and have been changed and blessed so many times by those who have trusted me with their secrets. I rarely reciprocate, but it’s usually because I feel that my role is that of listener rather than sharer. My brother takes particular offense to this because he is me to many others, while I am usually me to him. I’ve told him lots of times that I do feel I could talk to him if I needed to; I just rarely feel the need.

Mostly I sort out my problems in my head, in a book, and in writing. I don’t trust a lot of people. I guess I have had too many encounters with those who used what I told them in confidence as ammunition down the road. But if and when I want to talk about a problem, I don’t find a lack of willing listeners. Surprisingly enough, I digress.

In the recent past, a few people have decided to dislike me. I apologized in the instances where I felt I may have wronged someone, and in the other cases I just prayed for the person and moved on. The fact that I am able to do this is an earth-shattering change. This is the kind of progress that could drive a therapist, if I had one, to publish an amazing case study, retire early and rest on the laurels of helping that one person who seemed beyond help. At least, I think that is how I might feel if I were a therapist who was able to help a seemingly hopeless acceptance addict such as myself.

When I say I’m a vegetarian, people feel the need to tell me why they eat meat or how little meat they eat or that they only eat chicken. I don’t make judgements about what anyone else eats. You can eat a rack of ribs next to me; I don’t mind. When I say I am a Christian, some people feel the need to explain to me why they don’t believe in God. It’s cool. God made a crazy huge amazing change in my life, and I am super excited about that. Sometimes it’s hard to contain my excitement, but I am not trying to shove it down anyone’s throat. I respect people’s choices. 

Bottom line: I am blessed by the people who give me feedback positive and negative. I love people whether they are Catholic, Christian, spiritual, or atheist. And if you don’t like me? It’s okay; I like you anyway, but I’m not gonna lose any sleep over your feelings about me. Because it was never about me anyway.

Food Revelations

Last week I read Women Food and God. Have you read? Seriously, it changed my life. I LOVE Geneen Roth as if she were one of my people. After the first few chapters, when I sat down to graze in front of the kids’ snack cupboard as is my habit, I literally stopped and thought, “Wait, am I hungry?” It was revolutionary.

For those of you who are wondering, it’s a lot about Women and Food, but not a lot about God. The God part is more light spirituality and less Bible-based eating plan, but it forced me to sit down and have a long overdue discussion with myself about why and how I eat.

If you ever saw my mom and sister, you’d understand some of my food issues. They are tiny little waifs. So is my daughter. I am not a particularly big person, but they are really, really small. My mom always told me that I was big-boned and didn’t “have the eating habits of a thin person,” and I have always held a pretty distorted image of my 5′ 2″ 125 pound self. Yep, I just said my weight out loud to the whole internet. The absolute true weight I saw on that dang-blasted scale this morning. Have I mentioned how much this book helped me?

So one of my biggest food issues is that when I was growing up, food was my mom’s main expression of love. Whatever was going on, good or bad, could be remedied with food. Sick? Chicken soup. Sad? Cookies. Celebrating? Cake. And since that was pretty much my mom’s only expression of love, when she cooked for you, you ate. And the more you ate, the more you were loved. To this day, her favorite people in life are the people she can control with cookies. I’m kidding. A little.

Additionally, I realized that my happiest memories were wrapped up with food. Thanksgiving, Christmas, birthdays, milestones celebrated by going out to dinner, goals met and rewarded with food. In many ways, I had grown to equate food with happiness. Unfortunately, in many other ways, I also equated skinniness with happiness. That crazy combination cannot possibly add up to happiness. I mean maybe when I was 20 and had a pretty fast metabolism, but now it is kind of a problem.

So for the past few weeks, I’ve had a lot of conversations with myself about food, why I’m eating, when I’m eating, what I’m eating and so forth. Turns out it’s not particularly healthy to sit on the floor and eat from the snack cupboard at 10:30 p.m. Huh. Also turns out that eating an m&m every time you walk past the m&m jar until it’s empty is not a great habit. Go figure. And one of the most important lessons I learned is that I really didn’t even know how hungry felt anymore.

In all this dialoguing about why I’m really eating and what I really want, I haven’t lost one pound–in case you wondered. But, I’ve been eating much healthier foods and much less and I haven’t really had any junk. While I have a long way to go, I have been able to pinpoint some serious issues I have to come to terms with:

• I am almost 40, not 20, so my 20-year-old weight probably shouldn’t be my goal weight. 
• Being skinny doesn’t necessarily make you happy or signify you’re happy.
• Not being skinny doesn’t necessarily make you unhappy or signify that you’re unhappy.
• I have a bread addiction, similar to my nicotine addiction. I cannot eat just one piece of bread.
• Just like my husband is as hot to me today as he was 20 years ago, he looks at me and sees the girl he fell in love with (who was skinny, btw). He literally judges my weight by the size of my boobs, so you can probably guess when he’s happiest.
• Food is an idol, and when I give it this much power in my life, I am putting it before God; that is unacceptable.
• My mom lives with me. I don’t eat her cookies. She still loves me.

 So, if you have a messed up relationship with food, I highly recommend this book. If not? Well, you are a rare breed of fabulosity, and I admire you greatly.

Guilt-Free

I am just going to preface this by saying I am in no way looking for sympathy. I love my life, my family, and feel very blessed even though I feel slightly overwhelmed today. In the past month, we moved Chloe to Pittsburgh and sent Lily to kindergarten. After a two-week reprieve, Peyton broke his arm, kicking off an ongoing ordeal of xrays and surgery and more xrays and doctor’s appointments. Thankfully, P is good, his arm is healing, and his spirits are high.

Now, in between all our normal activities of work, school, dance, gymnastics, football–Peyton still wants to go to practices and games–and doctor’s appointments in Akron, we are moving my mom into our house. This requires packing up my family of origin’s home and locking the door on that chapter of life. Thankfully my sister has been vigilantly helping my mom pack because I have been little or no help. To thank her, my mom is giving her a lot of crap and referring to her as the “slave driver.”

Normal right, everyone’s life is busy and hectic to a degree, but I feel like lately there has been a larger than normal chaos cloud centered over ours. I attribute part of that to my quitting smoking. Again. After writing about how I treated myself to the Birchbox, I thought it was pretty bad to enjoy a reward for something I hadn’t done. So I stopped smoking. Like last time, I prayed that God would give me strength to make it through the cravings, that He’d help me not to kill anyone or gain 50 pounds. And He has. Sorta.

But, I should have been prepared. I have been smoking off and mostly on for about 25 years, so I’ve quit lots of times. Every time, Satan freaking unloads on me. It’s as if there’s a little group of evil minions whose sole job is to make sure I never successfully quit. “Come on, she quit again! What are we gonna do this time? Her dad’s dead…Chloe went to college…Lily’s in school…Her mom’s all ready moving in…Let’s break Peyton!” Really, you bastards?

Additionally, every time I quit, I get sick. Really sick. This time, it was the worst respiratory nonsense I’ve had since, well, the last time I quit smoking two years ago. I’ll admit I am a dreamer, an idealist, and often an idiot. I wholeheartedly believe that each time I quit it will be the last time. I truly trust that I won’t gain weight, I will feel like a million dollars, look 10 years younger, and be able to roll around in my bed throwing all the money I save into the air. I don’t have unrealistic expectations. Not at all.

I’m Mary. I’m a nicotine addict. Today is my 9th day clean. I have not killed anyone, but I have gained 5 pounds. Yesterday, I opened my Birchbox completely guilt free.

Spinning Heads

Today I am not smoking. That’s premature. This minute, I am not smoking. I figure my blood pressure is probably close to normal because on any other given morning I would have had at least 4 cigarettes by now. One when I first get up, with my coffee, another before I wake the kids up, another after the kids eat breakfast and go upstairs to get ready, another after they leave for school. This morning, I have had none.

Over the last 16 years, I’ve probably tried to quit smoking 20 times or more. Using various interventions. Well, the only physical intervention I used was the patch, but I’ve played lots of mental games to try to quit. I’ve cut back, smoking only on the weekends, only when I drink, limiting myself to a certain number of cigarettes a day, not smoking in front of the kids, etc. etc. etc. Since I’m writing this, it’s needless to say none of those approaches have been successful.

Pregnancy worked once. It made me sick to smoke when I was pregnant with Chloe, so I stopped easily. With Peyton, it did not make me sick. I cut back but didn’t quit. Before I got pregnant with Lily, I had quit smoking for 6 months. The stress of the surprise pregnancy led me to start smoking again. Ashamed. Hiding it. But smoking. What kind of monster smokes when she’s pregnant? Only a horrible, horrible person, right? I don’t think I’m a monster or a horrible person. I love my children with every ounce of my being. I smoked when I was pregnant. How do you reconcile that?

I am very honest with myself. I no longer say, “I could quit whenever I want. I just choose to smoke. I enjoy it. It helps me relax.” That may be true for any number of “social smokers;” I am a full-blown addict. As I sit here writing, my brain is saying, “You could have just one cigarette…” I imagine this must be what it’s like for all addicts. Lured by a needle, a line, a bottle, or in my case a cigarette.

The last time I tried to quit, I read a book, because that’s what I do. Most crises in my life drive me not to church or to a bar but straight to the library. Anyway, the book talk-therapied you through the quitting process. Examined all the bad things about smoking, reminding smokers that those “good things” are just a trap to keep you addicted. All true. All good points. I didn’t smoke for several days and decided that I’d overcome my addiction to nicotine and would reward myself with a cigarette. Really? Addicts everywhere just laughed at me, with me, whatever.

My kids have given up on me. They used to beg me to quit, come home after anti-smoking programs at school begging me to quit, fearful that I was going to die. Several years ago, Chloe left a butterfly-shaped post-it on my steering wheel that said, “You have a beautiful heart but black lungs.” It hurt my heart. I hung it in the kitchen among other motivational quotes and notes and continued to smoke. Feeling ever more guilty about it. It still hangs there. I still smoke. And every time I see it, it stabs me in the heart.

People talk about how they just quit. My best friend just quit. Brad’s grandma just quit. Lots of people you ask, “How did you quit?” Their response is, “I just quit.” No intervention. Brad is talking about getting Chantix, but he said he didn’t want me to take it because of reports that some people have developed suicidal thoughts while taking it. That simultaneously pissed me off and made me feel very cherished. I would hate to think I’d kill myself over a cigarette, but I understand his concern. Sometimes things get blown out of proportion in my world.

So I’m writing this, thinking I’ll have a cigarette when I’m done. Just one before Lily wakes up. That will be okay. No, it’s not okay. The talk therapy book stressed that once you make the decision to quit, you can never have just one cigarette. Never. Ever. Makes sense. Alcoholics can’t have just one drink. They don’t quit being alcoholics and become social drinkers.

Still it makes my head spin like when I was a little girl in Catechism. The teacher spoke of eternity: If you’re good children, you spend eternity with God in paradise. That scared me, not God or paradise, but eternity. Going on and on and on and on without end.

Never. Ever. Smoking. Again. Makes my head spin.