I'd like to start this off by saying that I love my friends who love Bethenny and I hope that none of them take this post as a personal insult!
I follow Bethenny Frankel on Facebook and Twitter. She can be funny, and her daughter is adorable. Plus, it gives me something to talk about with my friends, who are big fans. I have more than one friend who has said that Bethenny inspires her eating disorder recovery. I guess we all have different role models (mine are probably my therapist and nutritionist, but plenty of people look up to Jenni Schaeffer, Oprah, and other celebrities or semi-celebrities who they may or may not have met) but something has just sat with me as not right about this weight loss idol being a recovery role model.
Bethenny denies having an eating disorder, even denies having ever had an eating disorder aside from some occasional bingeing. The books she markets appeal to those considering recovery from anorexia and bulimia largely because she makes it appear that you can have it all – you can be thin and eat delicious things.
The first truth that I think people need to understand is that we can’t all be as thin as Bethenny. She writes Naturally Thin, but it’s important to realize that most people cannot be that thin HEALTHILY. Naturally, maybe, if you consider deprivation to be natural, but not healthily.
The thing that really ticked me off recently, though, was a post that Bethenny made on Facebook. She said that there’s nothing like starting off a Saturday morning with pancakes, even if they’re not real ones. Then she gave her recipe for “faux pancakes” – basically egg whites and sweetener. A truly healthy person would eat the real pancakes if she was craving pancakes – or maybe eat one pancake and some yogurt and fruit on the side. There are all different ways to integrate a food like pancakes into your life. By only eating “faux pancakes,” you are giving pancakes the “bad food” label.
There have certainly been foods that I have labeled as “bad” in my life, and avoided. However, I was never a diet idol – although I do like to think that some people look up to me as a recovery role model.
Bethenny really encourages an unhealthy attitude towards food and eating, and those who think her attitudes are healthy probably have their opinion colored by an eating disorder or the diet culture of the world we live in.
So I want to leave you with this – pancakes are delicious. Not good, not bad, but delicious. And if you like them, eat them. If you’re going to follow Bethenny, remember that she is not some amazing superhero who has figured out the secret to being thin. Remember that every body is different and your mind cannot be healthy if being thin is your top priority.
If you want some sound advice on moderation, check out my fabulous dietitian’s blog!
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Friends
So, I'm taking a request and writing about having friends with eating disorders: the pros and cons, and so on.
For me, there was a time in my life when having friends with EDs was very important to me. It was important to be with people who understood my anxiety around food and could have supportive meals with me, could send and receive support texts, and could just make me feel less alone. When you're friends with people from treatment, you're generally at a similar place, teetering around, walking a narrow balance beam, not too sure if you're going to fall into recovery or relapse. When things are that uncertain, you have so many differences from people who are not eating disordered that you really only may feel close to the friends with EDs, even if you're not always talking about eating disordered things with them.
Then, you may start to develop some distance from your eating disorder and realize that you don't actually have that much in common with most of the eating disordered friends you made from treatment or the internet. So you slowly move away from them. Around that time, you might also start to realize that you are able to connect with people without eating disorders. You might be cautious about this, because you're not sure how much of you they understand, or how much you want them to understand, but you're at a different place. Hopefully, a lot of your friends have followed you to this same mental place and you can still connect with them.
As more time goes by though, you might be lucky enough to be doing better in your recovery than other people. You can probably clearly remember a time when you were that friend who wasn't doing so well, but now you're making progress. Chances are, some of your original ED friends are doing well, and others have relapsed and might be back in treatment, or need to be.
For me, I reached a stage beyond this, where an eating disorder is no longer part of my life, but I do still have friendships that I formed as a result of the eating disorder. I have a few specific friends - M, J, and B - who I am thinking of in relation to this. M is someone who I've known from the time that I've been in treatment, and she's been struggling with her eating disorder for as long as I've known her. We live far away, so we don't see each other so often. She is able to maintain great conversations about things other than her eating disorder, and I think that this is a big part of why we have been able to maintain a great friendship despite her struggling while I no longer struggle. J is someone who I met through an ED friend who I met on facebook, but by this time, none of that matters. We're no longer friends with that mutual friend, but we are very close friends, and right now, we are both doing well with things. There have been times when J was struggling while I wasn't, and she basically keeps to herself when she isn't doing so well.While this isn't necessarily a good quality for her own mental well-being, I think that it allowed us to still maintain a good friendship thereafter. B is someone who I met when I was doing well, and she was struggling. She's told me that she looks up to me, and I think that that "mentorship" type of relationship is what has kept our friendship strong. In the beginning of our friendship, we exchanged lots of long, honest and open emails, and now I trust her so much. I have never been afraid to tell her when I am dealing with something, and she's always supportive. Right now, she is doing well too, and I'm so glad. I have a couple of other friends in various stages of recovery from eating disorders, but these are the people who I am closest with.
I've also had to say goodbye to people who were struggling, because they "triggered" me, or frustrated me, or I just felt like I couldn't relate to them anymore. I've also been that friend that people had to say goodbye to. So, having to distance yourself from friends with EDs is pretty common, but there are some people who you might find you're able to keep around. I don't think there's a formula of when you "have to" say goodbye to someone, but for the most part, if the person is taking up a significant part of your therapy session, that's a good time to insert some serious distance.
For me, there was a time in my life when having friends with EDs was very important to me. It was important to be with people who understood my anxiety around food and could have supportive meals with me, could send and receive support texts, and could just make me feel less alone. When you're friends with people from treatment, you're generally at a similar place, teetering around, walking a narrow balance beam, not too sure if you're going to fall into recovery or relapse. When things are that uncertain, you have so many differences from people who are not eating disordered that you really only may feel close to the friends with EDs, even if you're not always talking about eating disordered things with them.
Then, you may start to develop some distance from your eating disorder and realize that you don't actually have that much in common with most of the eating disordered friends you made from treatment or the internet. So you slowly move away from them. Around that time, you might also start to realize that you are able to connect with people without eating disorders. You might be cautious about this, because you're not sure how much of you they understand, or how much you want them to understand, but you're at a different place. Hopefully, a lot of your friends have followed you to this same mental place and you can still connect with them.
As more time goes by though, you might be lucky enough to be doing better in your recovery than other people. You can probably clearly remember a time when you were that friend who wasn't doing so well, but now you're making progress. Chances are, some of your original ED friends are doing well, and others have relapsed and might be back in treatment, or need to be.
For me, I reached a stage beyond this, where an eating disorder is no longer part of my life, but I do still have friendships that I formed as a result of the eating disorder. I have a few specific friends - M, J, and B - who I am thinking of in relation to this. M is someone who I've known from the time that I've been in treatment, and she's been struggling with her eating disorder for as long as I've known her. We live far away, so we don't see each other so often. She is able to maintain great conversations about things other than her eating disorder, and I think that this is a big part of why we have been able to maintain a great friendship despite her struggling while I no longer struggle. J is someone who I met through an ED friend who I met on facebook, but by this time, none of that matters. We're no longer friends with that mutual friend, but we are very close friends, and right now, we are both doing well with things. There have been times when J was struggling while I wasn't, and she basically keeps to herself when she isn't doing so well.While this isn't necessarily a good quality for her own mental well-being, I think that it allowed us to still maintain a good friendship thereafter. B is someone who I met when I was doing well, and she was struggling. She's told me that she looks up to me, and I think that that "mentorship" type of relationship is what has kept our friendship strong. In the beginning of our friendship, we exchanged lots of long, honest and open emails, and now I trust her so much. I have never been afraid to tell her when I am dealing with something, and she's always supportive. Right now, she is doing well too, and I'm so glad. I have a couple of other friends in various stages of recovery from eating disorders, but these are the people who I am closest with.
I've also had to say goodbye to people who were struggling, because they "triggered" me, or frustrated me, or I just felt like I couldn't relate to them anymore. I've also been that friend that people had to say goodbye to. So, having to distance yourself from friends with EDs is pretty common, but there are some people who you might find you're able to keep around. I don't think there's a formula of when you "have to" say goodbye to someone, but for the most part, if the person is taking up a significant part of your therapy session, that's a good time to insert some serious distance.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
New Blog
I'll be keeping this around, but I started a new blog for my food adventures, both for me to chronicle the yummies, and for other people to hopefully be inspired by the freedom from and enjoyment of food that I am able to experience.
Normal Nomming
Normal Nomming
Friday, September 17, 2010
Nothing to Hide
For one of my classes, we had to post on the class discussion board about what brought us to social work, what brought us to NYU specifically, and why now. After a few days of having the assignment open, none of my classmates had posted, so I posted a brief paragraph about what brought me to where I am. After reading my classmates' posts though, I began to feel guilty for not sharing as much as they did. And I began to think about why.
Although I was always interested in psychology, I decided early on that it would be too suspicious a career field. I assumed that people would think that I was only in the field to heal myself, and that I was too unstable to study psychology. I wasn't so afraid of strangers' assumptions as I was of my friends' and family's. By the time I had started college, I'd flip-flopped through various psychiatric diagnoses, been to more than 10 different therapists, and tried ten or so different medications. Those who knew this, I thought, would definitely look down on me for choosing to study psychology, and would believe that I was incompetent and uncapable.
Those beliefs had to come from somewhere. Why did I believe that they would think these things? Did I subconsciously believe that I wasn't stable enough to go into this career field? Would I judge someone else from a similar background and believe that they were only in it to "fix" them? Where did I get the message that people who've struggled shouldn't help others through their struggles?
I don't really know the answers to those questions, but going away to college was life-changing for me. Within a matter of days, I had grown tremendously, and after sitting through one session of a calculus class for my math and special education major, I decided that this was my life and I had to live it for me. I navigated the system (and thanked the heavens that I went to a small college with accessible administrators), and successfully change my major to psychology. I was brave enough to tell my parents, even though I was expecting to hear, "But you always wanted to be a teacher" or even, "Do you think this is okay, given your own psychiatric history?" They seemed to welcome my first life-altering adult decision.
Once a psychology major, I often said that I didn't really know what I wanted to do. But I knew. I wanted to be a therapist. The funny thing was, at that point in time, I didn't believe that therapy would ever help me. I was a firm believer that most psychopathology was biological, and medication was the only cure. Still, I knew that talking helps. It helps people without psychiatric disorders, and it can also help people who are suffering. I didn't necessarily believe that it was curative, but I believed that it would help people get through the day. And then, I thought, I can guide them to see a good psychiatrist and get them onto the right medications.
Did I tell my family and friends this? No. I told them that I wasn't sure what I wanted to do, and that I was so glad that psychology majors have so many different graduate and career options. I decided that I could be pretty honest with my professors, though, since they didn't know anything about my past. So with some guidance, I decided that I was interested in clinical psychology. To be honest, the graduate school admission standards were intimidating and I didn't think I'd ever get in. As I learned more, I also began to feel that I didn't want to dedicate such a large chunk of my life to research. A PsyD was sounding pretty good, but then I learned about social work.
Social work had a little "something else." It had a two-year field experience, instead of the one-year internship in the PsyD and even PhD programs. It had endless career options, in case I really was choosing to be a therapist based on a desire to solve my own problems. Most importantly, it had these morals underneath it. Social work wasn't about research papers and new treatments. It's about understanding people, helping them to use their own strengths to grow, and the inherent belief that every person is of equally great worth and deserves success, in whatever form success may take in their life.
On the surface, social work was my quick, two-year path to becoming a therapist. In fact, if life had gone according to plan, I'd be a therapist right now, at some agency. I would have graduated 16 months ago and would have a great supervisor, and be working toward an LCSW.
Something that I didn't realize, however, is that life does not always go according to plan. In my past, it seemed to always go the way I wanted it to. I guess you could call me pretty lucky.
Life started to take some turns that I wasn't expecting. In response, I relapsed into my eating disorder. I went into treatment. I recovered. I started therapy, I started school part-time. I worked full-time. I interned part-time. I quickly got overwhelmed. I had more panic attacks than I could handle. I went into the hospital. I quit my job. I dropped out of school for the semester. I left my internship. I started babysitting. I started fresh that January with classes, and then in September with another internship. I began to make headway toward graduation.
And all the while, I healed. And healed, and healed, and healed. I continue to grow and change, through therapy and through my life. And with all this growth, I deserve to be open about why I want to be a social worker.
I was born sensitive, reactive. Maybe my amygdala is bigger than average, if you want to cite the temperament studies. Physically and emotionally. My sensitivity caused my to cry a lot as a child, to have severe anxiety, to have difficulty feeling comfortable. However, by adolescence, I began to realize that my sensitivity was not only a negative thing. I was also sensitive to the needs of others, and I was a very skilled listener. I was a natural giver and helper and caretaker. I suppressed most of these traits in childhood, and presented as anxious, hypersensitive, and difficult to console. Once I began to slowly let my sensitivity take a more positive route, I knew that I had a gift. I am often complimented on my patience. On my empowering advice. On my empathy and compassion. I let these gifts guide me towards a career in social work.
Sure, maybe having my own problems sparked an interest in psychology and led the way for a while, but it's much deeper than that. My own problems allowed me to grow and develop, to enter therapy and heal, and to become someone truly capable of helping. If I want to understand and help myself, I go to therapy. And when I become a therapist, I will continue to go to my own therapy. I also want to understand and help others, to use my gifts in a positive way. For that reason, I am going to be a therapist.
Although I was always interested in psychology, I decided early on that it would be too suspicious a career field. I assumed that people would think that I was only in the field to heal myself, and that I was too unstable to study psychology. I wasn't so afraid of strangers' assumptions as I was of my friends' and family's. By the time I had started college, I'd flip-flopped through various psychiatric diagnoses, been to more than 10 different therapists, and tried ten or so different medications. Those who knew this, I thought, would definitely look down on me for choosing to study psychology, and would believe that I was incompetent and uncapable.
Those beliefs had to come from somewhere. Why did I believe that they would think these things? Did I subconsciously believe that I wasn't stable enough to go into this career field? Would I judge someone else from a similar background and believe that they were only in it to "fix" them? Where did I get the message that people who've struggled shouldn't help others through their struggles?
I don't really know the answers to those questions, but going away to college was life-changing for me. Within a matter of days, I had grown tremendously, and after sitting through one session of a calculus class for my math and special education major, I decided that this was my life and I had to live it for me. I navigated the system (and thanked the heavens that I went to a small college with accessible administrators), and successfully change my major to psychology. I was brave enough to tell my parents, even though I was expecting to hear, "But you always wanted to be a teacher" or even, "Do you think this is okay, given your own psychiatric history?" They seemed to welcome my first life-altering adult decision.
Once a psychology major, I often said that I didn't really know what I wanted to do. But I knew. I wanted to be a therapist. The funny thing was, at that point in time, I didn't believe that therapy would ever help me. I was a firm believer that most psychopathology was biological, and medication was the only cure. Still, I knew that talking helps. It helps people without psychiatric disorders, and it can also help people who are suffering. I didn't necessarily believe that it was curative, but I believed that it would help people get through the day. And then, I thought, I can guide them to see a good psychiatrist and get them onto the right medications.
Did I tell my family and friends this? No. I told them that I wasn't sure what I wanted to do, and that I was so glad that psychology majors have so many different graduate and career options. I decided that I could be pretty honest with my professors, though, since they didn't know anything about my past. So with some guidance, I decided that I was interested in clinical psychology. To be honest, the graduate school admission standards were intimidating and I didn't think I'd ever get in. As I learned more, I also began to feel that I didn't want to dedicate such a large chunk of my life to research. A PsyD was sounding pretty good, but then I learned about social work.
Social work had a little "something else." It had a two-year field experience, instead of the one-year internship in the PsyD and even PhD programs. It had endless career options, in case I really was choosing to be a therapist based on a desire to solve my own problems. Most importantly, it had these morals underneath it. Social work wasn't about research papers and new treatments. It's about understanding people, helping them to use their own strengths to grow, and the inherent belief that every person is of equally great worth and deserves success, in whatever form success may take in their life.
On the surface, social work was my quick, two-year path to becoming a therapist. In fact, if life had gone according to plan, I'd be a therapist right now, at some agency. I would have graduated 16 months ago and would have a great supervisor, and be working toward an LCSW.
Something that I didn't realize, however, is that life does not always go according to plan. In my past, it seemed to always go the way I wanted it to. I guess you could call me pretty lucky.
Life started to take some turns that I wasn't expecting. In response, I relapsed into my eating disorder. I went into treatment. I recovered. I started therapy, I started school part-time. I worked full-time. I interned part-time. I quickly got overwhelmed. I had more panic attacks than I could handle. I went into the hospital. I quit my job. I dropped out of school for the semester. I left my internship. I started babysitting. I started fresh that January with classes, and then in September with another internship. I began to make headway toward graduation.
And all the while, I healed. And healed, and healed, and healed. I continue to grow and change, through therapy and through my life. And with all this growth, I deserve to be open about why I want to be a social worker.
I was born sensitive, reactive. Maybe my amygdala is bigger than average, if you want to cite the temperament studies. Physically and emotionally. My sensitivity caused my to cry a lot as a child, to have severe anxiety, to have difficulty feeling comfortable. However, by adolescence, I began to realize that my sensitivity was not only a negative thing. I was also sensitive to the needs of others, and I was a very skilled listener. I was a natural giver and helper and caretaker. I suppressed most of these traits in childhood, and presented as anxious, hypersensitive, and difficult to console. Once I began to slowly let my sensitivity take a more positive route, I knew that I had a gift. I am often complimented on my patience. On my empowering advice. On my empathy and compassion. I let these gifts guide me towards a career in social work.
Sure, maybe having my own problems sparked an interest in psychology and led the way for a while, but it's much deeper than that. My own problems allowed me to grow and develop, to enter therapy and heal, and to become someone truly capable of helping. If I want to understand and help myself, I go to therapy. And when I become a therapist, I will continue to go to my own therapy. I also want to understand and help others, to use my gifts in a positive way. For that reason, I am going to be a therapist.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Tales from the Obese Body
I never ever thought I'd admit this publicly. But I am obese. This is not an eating disordered comment. If you look at the national institute of health's BMI calculator, I do, in fact, have an obese Body Mass Index.
So why am I writing here about this? Not to complain about my body. To tell you how AWESOME my body is.
I can run miles. I can work do chatturanga after chatturanga after chatturanga during my yoga class. I can carry around babies for hours. I can climb, tumble, and play with the best of the toddlers. I can twist my body into a pretzel, squeeze into small spaces, do headstands and cartwheels. I shop in your standard stores, in the juniors and petites and misses sections, even in the kids section from time to time.
I'm pretty sure that when the NIH developed BMI calculators and split weights into categories, they didn't think that "obese" looked like me. I still have a bit of an eating disordered brain and see myself as "okay" but "definitely overweight." Friends, family, even doctors have told me that I don't "look overweight." So it boggles my mind that I could be considered obese. They do say not to use these calculators for bodybuilders or professional athletes. I'm really neither.
I'm stronger, healthier, and more goddamn attractive than I was 20 or 30 pounds ago. I was always pretty strong. I managed to stay relatively healthy. And I never thought I was that attractive. But in regaining physical and mental health (and a few pounds), I've been able to turn my life around. And around. And around. And around.
I'm somewhere that I never thought possible. RecoverED (not in recoverY) And at a terrifyingly high weight. An "obese" weight. That's not medically unhealthy at all. I have low-normal blood pressure, perfect cholesterol, great bone density (above average, thank you G-d! I must have had SUPER DENSE bones before the ED and insane Diet Coke addiction took their toll), flawless lung functioning. I eat healthily: my nutritionist once told me that people should eat a healthful, balanced diet 75% of the time, and whatever they want the other 25% of the time. I think that's about where I'm at. Any of my physical problems (lower BP, easily dehydrated, tendency towards orthostatic hypotension, crappy immune system) are due to my history of anorexia and bulimia.
I have friends. I have faith. I have clothes that I look and feel good in. I have a treatment team I can depend on. I have a SELF that I can depend on, too. I am goddamn fine. Technically, obesity refers to body FAT, and I wouldn't really qualify, but since the easy way to figure that out is through BMI, most would just consider me "obese." I'm really NOT okay with THAT. But I am okay with myself.
So why am I writing here about this? Not to complain about my body. To tell you how AWESOME my body is.
I can run miles. I can work do chatturanga after chatturanga after chatturanga during my yoga class. I can carry around babies for hours. I can climb, tumble, and play with the best of the toddlers. I can twist my body into a pretzel, squeeze into small spaces, do headstands and cartwheels. I shop in your standard stores, in the juniors and petites and misses sections, even in the kids section from time to time.
I'm pretty sure that when the NIH developed BMI calculators and split weights into categories, they didn't think that "obese" looked like me. I still have a bit of an eating disordered brain and see myself as "okay" but "definitely overweight." Friends, family, even doctors have told me that I don't "look overweight." So it boggles my mind that I could be considered obese. They do say not to use these calculators for bodybuilders or professional athletes. I'm really neither.
I'm stronger, healthier, and more goddamn attractive than I was 20 or 30 pounds ago. I was always pretty strong. I managed to stay relatively healthy. And I never thought I was that attractive. But in regaining physical and mental health (and a few pounds), I've been able to turn my life around. And around. And around. And around.
I'm somewhere that I never thought possible. RecoverED (not in recoverY) And at a terrifyingly high weight. An "obese" weight. That's not medically unhealthy at all. I have low-normal blood pressure, perfect cholesterol, great bone density (above average, thank you G-d! I must have had SUPER DENSE bones before the ED and insane Diet Coke addiction took their toll), flawless lung functioning. I eat healthily: my nutritionist once told me that people should eat a healthful, balanced diet 75% of the time, and whatever they want the other 25% of the time. I think that's about where I'm at. Any of my physical problems (lower BP, easily dehydrated, tendency towards orthostatic hypotension, crappy immune system) are due to my history of anorexia and bulimia.
I have friends. I have faith. I have clothes that I look and feel good in. I have a treatment team I can depend on. I have a SELF that I can depend on, too. I am goddamn fine. Technically, obesity refers to body FAT, and I wouldn't really qualify, but since the easy way to figure that out is through BMI, most would just consider me "obese." I'm really NOT okay with THAT. But I am okay with myself.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
What are you afraid of?
When someone who doesn't know much about you finds out that you struggle with anxiety, they might ask you what you're anxious about, what you're afraid of.
There are people out there who can explain their fears, phobias, obsessions, and so forth. But then there are people like me, who know that they're anxious but don't even fully know what they're so anxious about. Those workbooks don't always work either. Of course with this baseline level of anxiety, it's easy to get anxious about the little things in life, and those simple CBT exercises can work then, but as far as the basal anxiety, there's no way to explain it. You can't really effectively explain what the fear is, or even how it feels. It's not "being afraid of" something, it's different. You know that there's a difference between anxiety and fear.
When someone tells you, "don't worry," you know that they just don't get it. You're not worrying. Anxiety isn't an action, like worrying. It's a thing. A thing that can overtake you and a thing that can shut you down.
It's also a thing that can be overcome, but personally, I'm still working on that.
One song that we learned while I was in Israel is called "Kol Ha'olam Kulo," also known as "the narrow bridge" song.
The English translation of the song is that the whole world is a very narrow bridge, but the most important thing to remember is to not be afraid, at all.
When you're anxious, it definitely feels like the whole world is a very narrow bridge. One that's missing a few slats. One that might fall apart any minute. One that you have to stay on, somehow, because otherwise you fall in. It's shaky and it's scary and through the anxiety that the bridge builds, we become afraid of falling. The main thing is to not be afraid.
For someone like me, someone who has suffered from an anxiety disorder since age two or earlier, it's a good message. It's not saying to stop being anxious; it's saying to stop being afraid. The world being a narrow bridge basically, to me, says that the things that make us anxious (or that trigger any other negative emotion or feeling or behavior) are inescapable. We can avoid them sometimes but there will always be some. The most important thing we can do for ourselves is to stop letting those triggers affect us. Stop being held back. Stop being afraid - fear isn't going to make the narrow bridge any wider!
Basically, my chronic anxiety will never be fully alleviated. I've come to terms with that, although I know that it can definitely get better and be pretty dormant sometimes. But anxiety is one thing, fear is another. I need to live with my anxiety (and we need to live with the fact that the world is a very narrow bridge) but I need not let it control my life because that will only let it get worse (and we need to remember to not be afraid because that will distract us as we walk across the narrow bridge!).
So. I may not be able to describe what I'm afraid of or what my anxiety feels like, but it's different than fear and yet so tied to this beautiful song about having no fear.
There are people out there who can explain their fears, phobias, obsessions, and so forth. But then there are people like me, who know that they're anxious but don't even fully know what they're so anxious about. Those workbooks don't always work either. Of course with this baseline level of anxiety, it's easy to get anxious about the little things in life, and those simple CBT exercises can work then, but as far as the basal anxiety, there's no way to explain it. You can't really effectively explain what the fear is, or even how it feels. It's not "being afraid of" something, it's different. You know that there's a difference between anxiety and fear.
When someone tells you, "don't worry," you know that they just don't get it. You're not worrying. Anxiety isn't an action, like worrying. It's a thing. A thing that can overtake you and a thing that can shut you down.
It's also a thing that can be overcome, but personally, I'm still working on that.
One song that we learned while I was in Israel is called "Kol Ha'olam Kulo," also known as "the narrow bridge" song.
The English translation of the song is that the whole world is a very narrow bridge, but the most important thing to remember is to not be afraid, at all.
When you're anxious, it definitely feels like the whole world is a very narrow bridge. One that's missing a few slats. One that might fall apart any minute. One that you have to stay on, somehow, because otherwise you fall in. It's shaky and it's scary and through the anxiety that the bridge builds, we become afraid of falling. The main thing is to not be afraid.
For someone like me, someone who has suffered from an anxiety disorder since age two or earlier, it's a good message. It's not saying to stop being anxious; it's saying to stop being afraid. The world being a narrow bridge basically, to me, says that the things that make us anxious (or that trigger any other negative emotion or feeling or behavior) are inescapable. We can avoid them sometimes but there will always be some. The most important thing we can do for ourselves is to stop letting those triggers affect us. Stop being held back. Stop being afraid - fear isn't going to make the narrow bridge any wider!
Basically, my chronic anxiety will never be fully alleviated. I've come to terms with that, although I know that it can definitely get better and be pretty dormant sometimes. But anxiety is one thing, fear is another. I need to live with my anxiety (and we need to live with the fact that the world is a very narrow bridge) but I need not let it control my life because that will only let it get worse (and we need to remember to not be afraid because that will distract us as we walk across the narrow bridge!).
So. I may not be able to describe what I'm afraid of or what my anxiety feels like, but it's different than fear and yet so tied to this beautiful song about having no fear.
Kol Ha'olam kulo
Gesher Tsar me'od
Gesher Tsar me'od
Gesher Tsar me'od -
Kol Ha'olam kulo
Gesher Tsar me'od -
Gesher Tsar me'od.
Veha'ikar - veha'ikar
Lo lefached -
lo lefached klal.
Veha'ikar - veha'ikar
lo lefached klal.
IN ENGLISH:
The whole world
is a very narrow bridge
a very narrow bridge
a very narrow bridge
The whole world
is a very narrow bridge -
A very narrow bridge.
And the main thing to recall -
is not to be afraid -
not to be afraid at all.
And the main thing to recall -
is not to be afraid at all.
כל העולם כולו
גשר צר מאוד
והעיקר, והעיקר
לא לפחד, לא לפחד כלל.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Been there, done that.
It's been a while since I wrote a blog entry. I was actually kind of impressed that people asked/demanded that I write again :)
This is actually something that I wrote after Clinical Practice with Groups class, a class where the "first half" of the class is a simulated group (although the group has taken up almost the entire class time most of the time) that kind of takes on a support group setting. I'm usually an advice-giver in the group more than a seeker. These are my thoughts about being me.
So I feel kind of like the resident nutjob wherever I go. I know that I am open to talking about the fact that I have recovered from eating disorders, and the fact that I am in therapy, because there shoud be no shame in that. But I feel like my psychiatric hospitalization makes me stand out like a scarlet letter. When I feel a panic attack coming on and need to pop an ativan, I wonder if people think I'm taking an advil, getting high, or just taking my prescription meds. When I relate to something someone says in class, I always feel as though I'm divulging information that I shouldn't be sharing with, as Meredith put it, a room full of strangers. Although maybe not so much because they'd judge me, as much as the professor would judge me for still being so "mentally ill" yet ignorantly going in pursuit of this MSW, something that should be reserved for the stable person.
Me? In all honesty, I think I'm pretty stable. I am the go-to person for many of my friends, those whose lives have given them more severe and less severe circumstances than my own. And when I have my own problems, I look to my resources - my treatment team tends to come first, and one or two close friends, but when I need to, I can and do reach out farther, accepting a hug from a classmate when I spent the class period crying, or calling a friend to get me out of my rut. I know more CBT and DBT than most of my professors, and my mostly psychodynamic orientation is a combination of treatment I've received and professors I've had.
The scars on my body are healed, faded, hidden, and more than five years old. The psychiatric hospitalization that traumatized me more than the panic attacks and flashbacks that brought me there, was nearly six months ago now. The advisor who dismissed me as mentally ill and doubted my ability to handle HB3 ( a class in which I know all the answers and have been asked my the professor to first see if other people can figure something out before I give them the answer that I knew all along) is no longer my advisor, no longer a part of my academic career. I will even be re-taking practice I and she will just be a memory. So why do I feel that my diagnoses are showing through? That I have a lot to offer but it all comes out in personal experience. I have nearly two years experience in social work roles. First as a service coordinator for early intervention and then as a counselor for a partial care program for adults with severe and persistent mental illness. I also interned as an undergraduate at a behavioral health rehabilitative services agency, and completed nearly one semester in field placement at Rockland Children's Psychiatric Center. These are my relevant experiences. BA in psychology from SUNY Geneseo. 1.5 years as a resident assistant. These are the things I can feel okay talking about. But the truth is that a lot of my life experience came from outside my "credentials." What happened in that second half a year as an RA? Why did I only complete just shy of one semester at RCPC? Why do I no longer work as a clinical case manager at the job I adored with clients who I miss terribly? The answers to these questions are the ones that are just screaming to come out in class.
But like I said today, will the group think I'm crazy? There's always someone who's crazier and someone who's not as crazy. But someone has to be the ultimate, and what if, in this case, I'm the nut? I know people who have gone through this same program whose issues are worse than mine (in my opinion), who are more impaired by their "mental illnesses" and unfortunate circumstances. But comparison all depends on company and if I am amongst a bunch of relatively sane students, independent students who live on their own far from home, do I become the crazy girl who still lives at home with her parents, who babysits instead of having a field placement, who was in the psychiatric hospital when everyone else was in class.
I guess it all depends on how you present it.
I'm more than a number, a diagnosis, a label. We all are.
If I preface a statement to "I learned this in treatment/in the hospital," will it help or hurt my credibility? It's something that I have to judge individually in each situation. And something that we can misjudge, no matter how carefully we made that decision.
Self-disclosure with clients and self-disclosure with peers are distinctly different.
This is actually something that I wrote after Clinical Practice with Groups class, a class where the "first half" of the class is a simulated group (although the group has taken up almost the entire class time most of the time) that kind of takes on a support group setting. I'm usually an advice-giver in the group more than a seeker. These are my thoughts about being me.
So I feel kind of like the resident nutjob wherever I go. I know that I am open to talking about the fact that I have recovered from eating disorders, and the fact that I am in therapy, because there shoud be no shame in that. But I feel like my psychiatric hospitalization makes me stand out like a scarlet letter. When I feel a panic attack coming on and need to pop an ativan, I wonder if people think I'm taking an advil, getting high, or just taking my prescription meds. When I relate to something someone says in class, I always feel as though I'm divulging information that I shouldn't be sharing with, as Meredith put it, a room full of strangers. Although maybe not so much because they'd judge me, as much as the professor would judge me for still being so "mentally ill" yet ignorantly going in pursuit of this MSW, something that should be reserved for the stable person.
Me? In all honesty, I think I'm pretty stable. I am the go-to person for many of my friends, those whose lives have given them more severe and less severe circumstances than my own. And when I have my own problems, I look to my resources - my treatment team tends to come first, and one or two close friends, but when I need to, I can and do reach out farther, accepting a hug from a classmate when I spent the class period crying, or calling a friend to get me out of my rut. I know more CBT and DBT than most of my professors, and my mostly psychodynamic orientation is a combination of treatment I've received and professors I've had.
The scars on my body are healed, faded, hidden, and more than five years old. The psychiatric hospitalization that traumatized me more than the panic attacks and flashbacks that brought me there, was nearly six months ago now. The advisor who dismissed me as mentally ill and doubted my ability to handle HB3 ( a class in which I know all the answers and have been asked my the professor to first see if other people can figure something out before I give them the answer that I knew all along) is no longer my advisor, no longer a part of my academic career. I will even be re-taking practice I and she will just be a memory. So why do I feel that my diagnoses are showing through? That I have a lot to offer but it all comes out in personal experience. I have nearly two years experience in social work roles. First as a service coordinator for early intervention and then as a counselor for a partial care program for adults with severe and persistent mental illness. I also interned as an undergraduate at a behavioral health rehabilitative services agency, and completed nearly one semester in field placement at Rockland Children's Psychiatric Center. These are my relevant experiences. BA in psychology from SUNY Geneseo. 1.5 years as a resident assistant. These are the things I can feel okay talking about. But the truth is that a lot of my life experience came from outside my "credentials." What happened in that second half a year as an RA? Why did I only complete just shy of one semester at RCPC? Why do I no longer work as a clinical case manager at the job I adored with clients who I miss terribly? The answers to these questions are the ones that are just screaming to come out in class.
But like I said today, will the group think I'm crazy? There's always someone who's crazier and someone who's not as crazy. But someone has to be the ultimate, and what if, in this case, I'm the nut? I know people who have gone through this same program whose issues are worse than mine (in my opinion), who are more impaired by their "mental illnesses" and unfortunate circumstances. But comparison all depends on company and if I am amongst a bunch of relatively sane students, independent students who live on their own far from home, do I become the crazy girl who still lives at home with her parents, who babysits instead of having a field placement, who was in the psychiatric hospital when everyone else was in class.
I guess it all depends on how you present it.
I'm more than a number, a diagnosis, a label. We all are.
If I preface a statement to "I learned this in treatment/in the hospital," will it help or hurt my credibility? It's something that I have to judge individually in each situation. And something that we can misjudge, no matter how carefully we made that decision.
Self-disclosure with clients and self-disclosure with peers are distinctly different.
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