Thick

“I’d rather have you sane than skinny”.

My doctor’s words echoed in my mind as I stepped on the scale and saw the number increase again.  I don’t like this new medication she put me on for PPD.  It makes me tired and is making me gain weight.  Like I’ve been winning in either of those areas on my own! But, I had to agree.  I need to be well and my mind needs to be well before I start focusing on the scale.

I can’t help but feel like God is trying to pry through my iron skull to make a point: He loves me regardless of how I look, perform, or how mentally “well” I am.  The coincidence is just uncanny.  My appearance to people may reflect relapse, bondage, or failure but my appearance and state before God is as unchanging as the day I said ‘yes’ to the gift of salvation.  I learned the hard way that personal success puts me in a state of self-righteousness and failure keeps my heart contrite before God.  You know, contrite like the heart of David who had a serious thing for God.  God is stripping me of myself so I can see Him more clearly.

My friend Beth is doing a Sunday School series on the names of God.  Every week she brings a new name and I’m just blown away at how God reveals more of Himself with each name.  (If you want to check it out you can read her lessons on her blog: youllrememberit.blogspot.com.)  This week she brought the name “Jehovah Tsidkenu” which means “The Lord Our Righteousness”.  This was so significant because it met me in the midst of my “I’ve backslidden so far God wants nothing to do with me” pity party (and oh what a party it is.  There’s a pinata).  My acceptability before God has nothing to do with my ability to get it right and everything to do with Jesus.  Let me repeat that for those in the back: nothing to do with me and everything to do with Jesus.  My success or failure in getting things right just isn’t that powerful.  God sees us who are in Christ as righteous, justified, clean.  The very righteousness that made Jesus the only acceptable sacrifice is the same righteousness that has now been given to those to believe.  The Lord is my righteousness.  This is not a task–to do righteous things to be right before God–but it is a state of being that I cannot undo with my waywardness.  The righteousness of Christ is quite literally who I am because of Jesus and the finished work of the cross.

Because I clearly cannot change my brain to save my life these days, I’ve been sitting in this lesson.  Sitting in the truth that God loves and accepts me because of His mercy, and my failure simply isn’t powerful enough to revoke that love.

Clair Huxtable Is In My Head

“Don’t do it, Boo Boo.  Don’t do it” I heard my mental Clair Huxtable say as I inched toward the bakery.  I was running through the store like a crazy person trying to get everything I needed for the final session of a parenting workshop that night and these people needed their cupcakes.  I hadn’t eaten anything save for a Larabar at 7:30 that morning and it was now 3:30; I was ready to eat somebody.  I was in the space of entitlement that said I deserved a good binge.  It had been one awful week.  I was trying to juggle a million things and keep my mind right; which is quite the task on a good day!  I picked up the order and finished getting what was needed.  I started back towards the bakery, my mind plotting on just what I could get and scarf before I picked up the kids and how easy it would be to hide the evidence.  “Don’t do it, Boo.”

There was absolutely nothing to be gained by taking the opportunity to binge in secret.  We had a furnace to replace and our church, not even 24 hours before had graciously covered the cost.  How does spending money I don’t have to  destroy my body honor my church family’s sacrifice?  How does it honor God’s gracious, unmerited provision for my family?My body holds on to every calorie right now anyway thanks to nursing, it doesn’t need any more.  My pants can’t take any more either!  If I had worshiped at Mt. Frosting I would have felt good for about 10 minutes–tops.  I took stock and giving in to temptation just wasn’t worth it this time.  I walked away.

I’ve experienced some pretty cool victories in the last several weeks, some within the same 24 hour time span as humiliating defeats.  I am learning that I am REALLY good at denial.  But when you’re staring at circumstances, relationships, finances and realities that beat you up one side and down the other you find that denial simply doesn’t work.  Facing the issue head-on is quite unpleasant but when there’s no denial there are no surprises and no secrets.  Sometimes the chastisement of Mrs. Huxtable in my head is what keeps me present, engaged, pressing in, and pressing on.

 

 

Fireflies and French Fries

Every summer growing up, we would return to our beloved Mulhall, Oklahoma for a visit to our dearest of church families.  One of my fondest memories is running through Harold and Jo’s back yard chasing fireflies with my sister Becky and our friends Rachel, Sami and Dani.  The dripping humidity gave way to a gentle breeze as dusk turned to darkness and I began counting on those illuminated bug butts to light my way.  As darkness fell and I ran, the firefly I was chasing would light my path just enough so I could see where I was going, even for a moment.  Sometimes I’d miss that tree root sticking out of the ground; sometimes I wouldn’t.  Every captive firefly became my flashlight giving me little glimpses of what lay ahead.

It’s no secret that this is a dark summer’s night in terms of eating well.  Mostly because I’m always sweaty.  Kidding.  Maybe.  Anyway, I feel like each day is a firefly giving me insight into why and how I struggle.  I’m understanding that the immense success I had a year ago was the result of extreme restriction that I labeled obedience.  There may or may not have been some severe repentance.  I saw the 12 months of nauseating, persistent, exhausting hunger as a sign I was pleasing God (which probably explains why I was such a sanctimonious hag to those around me.  Yeesh.  If I haven’t asked for your forgiveness yet please be patient.  I’ll get to you).  I’m getting just enough light from the bright rear-end of the Holy Spirit to see that my food issues go way deeper than a number on a scale.  My warped view of God fed into my warped view of food and postpartum mental health issues have been the context in which I’m coming to understand the struggle.  I’ve spent my life telling people Jesus loves them just as they are but I rejected that love because I couldn’t “behave”.  I would allow God to love me when I got my poop in a group and was an obedient, skinny, mild-mannered ‘lady’.  Seriously, stop laughing. But I’m getting a glimpse that maybe, just maybe, God loves me just as fully in my sugary mess as he does when I act like kale chips are a treat.  He’s giving me just enough light to keep following.  As much as I would love to see the big picture, God is allowing little glimpses.  It’s like each piece of the puzzle is attached to a lighting bug.  Sometimes I catch it, sometimes I trip over the cellar door trying to get at it and fall into a puddle of frosting.

There are days I try and succeed.  There are days I try and fail.  There are moments of deliberate disobedience fueled by a dire need to make my brain shut up for two seconds.  There are moments when I can fight through hunger and others when the nausea and headaches it causes are just too much.  Defeated apathy is slowly giving way to a desire to fall back against the Arms that wait to catch me and embrace me where I am rather than rejecting me because of where I’m not.

Some days I catch me a french fry.  Some days I catch me a firefly.

 

Relapse

I have been avoiding this.  Avoiding this word, avoiding the reality.   I couldn’t bring myself to admit that I was in full-on relapse mode.  It carried such a connotation of hopelessness to me.  I’ve sat and tried to write so many times since this fall when my little world simultaneously exploded with joy and shattered.  My sweet baby girl was born in October and it was beautiful, she was beautiful.  God had been faithful in our infertility journey and I was staring that faithfulness right in the face.  There are no words to express the depth of gratitude and joy I felt in those first few hours.  But then breastfeeding happened.  Yet once I got over that hump I still wasn’t myself.  I was totally overwhelmed by this new life and trying to minister to my older kiddo who was having a very hard time adjusting to the fact that she can’t have all mom all the time.  I felt worthless, guilty, and hungry.  I could see the life draining from my eyes, the wife my husband knew was on a different planet.  If it hadn’t been for the “ask forgiveness rather than permission” friend who referred me to a postpartum nurse I would never have gotten the help for the very thing I feared and swore up and down would never happen to me: Postpartum Depression and Anxiety.

My life’s passion and career are centered around mental health and have a pretty good grip on the ins and outs of depression and anxiety-both organic and as the result of environmental factors.  I was not prepared for how theoretical knowledge would intersect with my own experience, because this would never happen to me.  I’m supposed to be the strong one, the one who gives and reaches.  I’m not supposed to need anything or anyone because dependence meant failure (that kind of garbage is what kept me in denial.  Don’t do that to yourself; it’s dumb) But, my mind was gone.  My brain was betraying me.  I am overwhelmed by daily tasks, can’t think or speak effectively, anxious, not sleeping well, and incredibly, suffocatingly lonely.  Every moment has been a fight to keep going for my girls, for my man, for me.

The thought of getting back on the no-sugar, no-crap wagon was more anxiety producing than it was motivating.  Because I have never experienced a depth of desperation for something, anything to take the edge off so I could function.  In the earliest days couldn’t leave my house, didn’t take care of myself physically, and my best on any given day was just to keep everyone else alive, fed, and clean.  Now that I’m on good medication and my brain is slowly coming back to me (I still struggle to find words and organize thoughts, so here’s your advance apology if you actually have to have a conversation with me) I’m realizing that I’m still a solid 30 lbs from where I was last year when I got pregnant and few of my clothes fit anymore.  But still, this is not a great motivator because if this experience has taught me anything, I’m REALLY good at living in denial.  Denying that the garbage I’m putting in my mouth will affect my health and my mind is something that I’m surprisingly gifted with (why not be gifted with extreme sexiness?  The ability to fly or start a toilet paper roll without obliterating the first several sheets?  But I digress…)

I sat with a friend a few weeks ago whose words are echoing in my mind, she herself had been fighting her own fight for quite some time, and give me a glimmer of hope.  She offered this reassurance: “I have no doubt that someday you’ll be ready, and you’ll get off sugar again.”  That took so much pressure off my back.  The word “someday” implies that the day will come and I will be well enough to detox and get right.

There’s hope in the someday.  Someday I will have my whole mind and life back.  Andy will have his wife back.  My girls will have a mom who can love and minister to them both well.  My family and friends will have their goon back.  Someday my partner at work will have competent help again.  Someday I will wake up and not instantly dream of bed again.  Someday I’ll serve in ministry again.  Someday I will take hold of food-freedom again.  But right now, the road to someday means doing my best and acknowledging that my best is ok.  If I get to the end of a day and my family is alive and fed and wearing clean underwear then I’ve done well.  Other days I’m a full on Pinterest, June Cleaver Mom and that’s my best.  Some days my best is downing an ungodly amount of cookie dough to feel happy for 20 whole minutes because the dishes are still in the sink, the baby won’t sleep, the 6 year old has spent more time on the iPad than I’d like because I can’t handle more than one kid at a time, and a husband who is working hard to provide for us and I am left alone with all of it.  The best I can do will (hopefully) change and “someday” will become “today”.

But until then, pressing on in the hard moments and savoring the good is what gives me hope.

“And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us”-Romans 5:5

 

If we’re honest.

I have to be transparent: I’ve been an ass.  Not like, cute little fluffy donkey behind.  No, more like a giant Clydesdale’s badonkadonk.  In the last few months I have been convicted in the deepest parts of my soul about my mindset, the condition of my heart, and thereby my behavior.  My own self-righteousness has caused those around me pain that they are not due.  Let me back up.

In January 2015 I had a spiritual breakthrough with the Lord; I realized the depth of His love for me.  29 years of lies were broken with Truth and I was set free to embark on my food journey.  With encouragement from precious friends, accountability from those who have walked the road, with the positive reinforcement that came with my changing body shape, I was gung-ho.  Until this journey became my identity.  My righteousness.  My god.  I was walking closer with the Lord than I had in years but it was borne of feeling that I was righteous enough because I had become drunk on the praise of others who were not so inspired by my journey, but rather the dramatic weight loss.  People who never said two words to me were suddenly my best friends because I looked better.  I had fallen into another, much deadlier, trap: the trap of man’s approval over God’s.  Because man’s approval is conditional I became convinced that God’s must be too and my relationship with Him took an all too familiar turn.  So when sugar found it’s way back into my life I was filled with the same familiar shame and rejection I had spent the first 29 years of my life with.  I no longer considered myself worthy to be around my sugar-free friends, I felt like I had failed those who walked with me, I dropped out of a ministry I loved because I was so consumed with shame being around these women who I viewed as having it all together and had no time for someone who couldn’t fake the same.  If I was not good enough for these women, these people, I was not good enough for God.  And heaven forbid I actually talk about the struggle; that is not allowed. The silence we force on ourselves and each other gives the enemy a gnarly foothold.

I believe I have been in this season of personal failure to confront the lies borne of personal success.  Is my confidence in God’s love for me based on performance or the accomplished work of the Cross?  Is my righteousness found in my ability to do everything right (which is horribly suffocating) or in the fact that I have been covered by the blood of Christ?  Does God love me any less because I cannot get it together?  Does He love you any less?  In the depth of failure, whatever that looks like for you, does God’s view of you as His creation and redeemed child change?  If your answer is anything other than “no” you’re probably in good company with anyone who is being honest with themselves and with God.

Just as the year I spent sugar-free was a season, I believe this is a season as well.  I believe there will be a season when I can find the happy medium between my self-righteous, sugar-free self and the zero-craps-to-give, give-me-what-numbs-the-pain self.  I feel like I’ve done far more damage as a successful, “worthy” person than I have as an honest person (this is not to say it all has been a lie, but rather I have been dishonest about my failure in the last 3 months simply by my own silence).  Honest is a far better place to be.  And if I’m being honest, I feel more free in this season because I don’t have to live in bondage to silence because of what others will think of me.  The Holy Spirit is convicting me of the posture of my heart towards God, towards food, towards ministry, towards other people.  It’s a process.  I am a process.  You are a process.

And that is ok.  We can still press on.

 

 

Emotional Nesting

I remember when I was pregnant with Selah, I went into nesting mode quick and fast.  There was no stone left un-turned (and subsequently sanitized and organized).  With this pregnancy (BTW, I know it’s been a minute but it’s another GIRL!  I’m 32 weeks and always hungry.  That’s really all the update you need) I have been far more lax on the physical nesting and making space in my heart and soul for this child.  I remember having Selah’s room ready for baby by about 20 weeks; we just now got most of the crap out of Mercy’s room to get ready for paint and such.  It’s been a strange few months; so strange that I haven’t been able to find the words to write.

Making room for baby has taken on the form of cleaning out my relationships.  Drawing boundaries on toxic relationships so I am not emotionally and spiritually drained all the time.  Not pouring into relationships that are in no way mutually beneficial, because those drain me of contentment.  I’ve narrowed my circle; not out of spite but rather out of necessity.  When I am trying to be everything to everybody I am worth nothing to my family.  Really, my family is my earthly legacy and I want my kids to remember their mother as one who was present, emotionally as well as physically.  I don’t want my husband to have to compete for my attention, energy and affection.  If I want to minister and pour into my family then my thought processes and behavior have to change.

By fleshly nature, I am a people pleaser.  I will take on the troubles of those around me and drain myself of every last ounce of energy trying to fix them.  From music to trauma to interpersonal and work issues to watching babies, cooking meals…you get the point.  If there was something making someone else slightly uncomfortable it was my job to fix it.  No wonder I was drained.  Guess what?  I am not God.  It is my responsibility to love and serve but it is not my responsibility to be a freakin’ emotional Santa Claus.  The transition from codependency to boundaries has been a (messy) freeing one.  I am more present for my kid(s), my husband doesn’t feel the need to compete for my attention.

Making room for baby looks a lot like less clutter, more time, more humility, more of me for the people in my own home.  The room still needs paint, the crib still needs put together, but my heart is becoming more and more prepared for this new little life that God has blessed us with.

Experiments and Anniversaries

I have to confess, I had hoped I would have some big internal celebration as I crossed the 1-year mark in my journey with food.  May 4th came and went, with all the Star Wars puns intact.  I realized that while it was a special day for me, it was a day.  A day on a journey.  Yes, this journey has resulted in 100 pounds lost, a baby gained, freedom in so many areas but it is still a journey.  I also became curious.

What if?  What if I had a piece of birthday cake?  What if I had a soda?  I mean, for pity’s sake it’s been a year.  I bet they would taste terrible.  I bet I would feel so sick I would vow to never do such a thing again.  Long story short: I still cannot be trusted around anything with frosting.  I had one piece of cake…and the delicious weird stuff on the bottom of the pan.  I had a soda, and then another 2 days later.  I had some traditional chocolate and while in the moment it was incredibly sweet, that switch flipped back on in my head and said “MORE!”  I realized that sugar will always be an addiction and I need severely controlled amounts of a little treat if I am going to have one at all.  I know my limits.  I will always crave a greasy burger and fries, but I don’t always have to give in.  If I’ve learned anything crossing this 1-year mark, it has been that I can have some freedom but I can also choose my limits.  Choice is freedom.  Choices also have consequences.

I’ve also learned that while I can look to others who have gone on this journey before me, who have come alongside me to encourage and hold me accountable, I am not supposed to emulate their journey.  Their journey is their journey, this is mine.  If I hold myself to an imaginary (unattainable) standard I’m left with a carton of ice cream and a whole lot of anger and resentment.  If I compare myself and my journey to others, I become secretive because I have to hide the fact that I will never be as good as they are.  What I mean is this: comparison gives Satan a foothold in my life and ain’t nobody got time fo dat.

This is a season also sprinkled (mmmm…sprinkles) with prenatal depression (another lovely gift from the hormonal Santa Claus that is Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome.  Shout out to my soul cysters).  Working through the day-to-day symptoms also mean that I have to have boundaries, but also grace.  Grace for me, grace for my family, grace for my friends who don’t get it.  Grace for the fact that prenatal depression is a giant oxymoron, yet a chemical/hormonal thing going on in my body.  Not an excuse for chocolate and frosting, but an opportunity to practice grace.

I thought this year mark would be one of monumental celebration, but it turned out to be one of continuing to press on.  How appropriate, I began this journey with the admonishment to press on and am continuing this journey with the command to press on.

All rise for the Honorable Judge Mental

I have a confession.  I stopped reading my Bible.  Now before you take up your pitchforks, hear me out.  I spent nearly an hour reading and journaling every day and was farther from God than I should have been.  Somehow, after a period of spiritual growth I fell back into the pattern of reading, praying, serving, etc in order for God to like me.  My hope was built on nothing less than my own self-righteousness (you just sang that in your head, didn’t you?  All a part of my plan…muahahahahahahahahaaaaa).  The same lies I had spent so much time speaking truth into crept back in and I spent more and more time journaling to God how angry I was that He only loved me as long as I could do all the “right things”.  I fell back into the same performance trap; how could this have happened?  This also coincided with finding out that God had given me the deepest desire of my heart: another child.  God blessed me beyond my wildest dreams, how could I stop doing all the right things?  It made me physically sick to read my Bible (long story short, I had always drank coffee while reading and coffee became repulsive to me, so when I would sit down to read I would get super nauseas) so I had to begin relying on the Truths of scripture.

You know what happened?  I began getting convicted about my own self-righteousness, my harsh judgement of others who didn’t measure up to my perception of holiness, my judgement of others who didn’t work as hard or serve as hard as I did.  I stopped being so busy focusing on other’s unrighteousness so I could avoid dealing with my own.  God had the room to move and speak because I wasn’t always trying to shut Him up with justifying why He should like me.  Wow.  That was ugly.  My heart was ugly.  And I was so hesitant to share with even my best friends because I was afraid of their reaction. That they would judge me.  So I judge others and am afraid of them judging me.  Seriously.  All aboard the crazy train.  So, I’m still not reading my Bible daily and having a long quiet time.  But, my prayers are more authentic.  I am open to hearing the voice of God as it is because I am doing nothing to deserve Him speaking to me or giving me the goodness of His presence.  I am re-learning the concept of righteousness being a once-and-for-all gift produced by the finished work of the Cross and not a product of me doing the right things, eating the right things, thinking and speaking the right things.  I stopped reading my Bible.  I don’t know when I’ll pick it back up; but I know I will.  But God is doing a work in me.  Not one that I understand, mind you.  But He is doing His thing.

Unsatisfied.

These cravings are no joke, ya’ll.  No.Joke.  When I’m not wanting to vomit, I’m wanting a variety of food which changes constantly.  One week all I wanted was vinegar and spicy stuff.  Now the thought turns my stomach.  Last week, Selah and I were out for some mama-Selah time and I had a craving for McDonalds.  The warm ketchup on a questionable meat patty made my mouth water.  She wanted to go to the play place.  Now, in 10 months I have not given into a McD’s craving.  But this day, call it weakness, call it knowing defiance, I went for that #2; fries and all.  I expected it to satisfy the itch for warm ketchup and salt.  What I found when I was done was…disappointment.  I wanted more and more and more.  I was not satisfied.  I was unsatisfied on every level.

The guilt of eating garbage when I’m supposed to be feeding my body to grow a people was present, the desire to top it off with ice cream and whatever other garbage struck my fancy in the moment was huge.  I talked to a friend about how to deal with cravings in pregnancy.  Usually, my cravings on a day-to-day basis are mental, emotional, and spiritual.  In this season of life, they are PHYSICAL.  Her answer, in her boldness, was “tell those cravings to shut up” (seriously, she’s great.  She has a blog called Spring Forth that you should check out.  Homegirl is deep).  Normally, in the mental/emotional/physical realm I would agree.  But when she asked if they were physical, she guided me back to the same wisdom as she had shared many times before: are you nourishing the temple or feeding the flesh?  Now that transcends all seasons of life.  In that moment, I fed something unholy.

But God.  But grace.  But the ability to wake up the next day and try again.  And try again the next day.  Ok, it took like, 4 days to get back on track.  I can’t be trusted with cheeseburgers.   God is so merciful.  He is showing me, day by day, that I don’t have to be enslaved by cravings and can have victory despite the added layer of temptation.  Friends, let’s offer our bodies to God as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to Him.  Let’s nourish the temples where His Spirit dwells.  Press on.

Well, this changes things…

Source: Well, this changes things…