An Act of Rebellion

19. July 2010 · Write a comment · Categories: Uncategorized · Tags: , , , , , ,

I fear that my body will win.  I fear that it will do as it pleases, even if it does not please me.  I have viewed my body as my enemy for the last two and a half years.  Whether it is conscious or unconscious, my body and I have been at odds ever since I was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes back in February of 2008.  It betrayed me.  It stopped working in my favor and is now working against my every effort to take care of it and make it healthy.

I can’t take diabetes into my own hands because the fact of the matter is that I simply cannot get rid of it.  But what I can and will take into my own hands is my weight.  Well, I think I can at least.  I wasn’t really ever super aware of my body, how much I weighed, what parts of my body I didn’t like, where I gained weight, etc. until my diabetes made me pay attention to my body at all times.  Now, I know every convex and concave curve on my body in detail.  I know how each item of clothing fits, and I am brutally aware of which parts of my body gain the weight.  And what I know of my body, I don’t like.

So, I’m making a change.  I joined a weight loss program.  For 17 weeks, I have to weigh in twice a week, keep to a strict menu, exercise regularly (which I do anyway), drink tons of water, drink hardly anything at all, and eat almost no dark chocolate (worst part of the whole thing!).  And I’m expected to lose 1 to 2 pounds a week.  Needless to stay, I’m afraid.

I realized what I am actually afraid of today when I went to weigh in.  I’m afraid that my body will win.  That it will spite me even still.  That no matter what I do, no matter how active and devoted and disciplined and motivated I am with this program, I won’t lose a pound.  I didn’t lose any weight when I found out I had a bajillion food allergies and cut out all gluten, dairy, eggs, nuts, beans, soy, sugar, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc.  Not a pound.  Actually, I gained 8 pounds!  I was PISSED!!  I don’t lose any weight when I run 5 miles 3 times a week.  Nope, nothing.  So I’m afraid that I won’t see the change in my body that I’ve been longing for, crying for, wanting so badly.

So what do I do with that fear?  Well, I’m sure it will frustrate the hell out of me.  I’m sure I will cry a lot through this process of prospected weight loss.  I’m sure I will probably hate my body a little bit more before I start to like it.  But one thing that I realized that I need to do before anything: ask the Lord to walk me through this.  Ha, that adds a whole different dimension doesn’t it?  Well, read on to the next paragraph…

The title of this post: an act of rebellion.  Do I believe that I am an image-bearer of God?  Do I believe that I am fearfully and wonderfully made?  Will I do as it says in Isaiah 51–to look to the Rock from which I was cut?  And who do I believe this Rock is?  Do I believe that the function and shape of my body has a divine purpose, and can I even be satisfied in knowing that it does?  Or is this journey through a weight loss program just an act of rebellion towards my maker?  If this body that He has made is not looking like I want it to look despite my efforts thus far, am I just taking things into my own hands?  It’s a similar situation to when I was dating this really really great non-Christian guy who a couple weeks.  Was I willing to rebel and take my love life into my own hands because I was sick and tired of being single?  Boy, I’m sure glad I didn’t take it into my own hands!  That would have spelled disaster with a capital D.  What I know is that I need to be prayerfully walking through this journey and looking to Him to be the rock from which I was cut and to be my eyes when I look at my reflection.

Psalm 13.

(Side note: I also keep a blog about living with diabetes.  If you’re interested, you can keep track at http://blog.oregonlive.com/diabetes)

This Is How I Grieve

23. February 2010 · 5 comments · Categories: Uncategorized · Tags: , , ,

Here it is.  Here is how I’m feeling, how I’m doing, how I’m dealing with the grief that has come from losing my dear friend and brother, Anthony.

I have been flooded with memories of the last 10 weeks.  Memories of what it was like up at Timberline while we were waiting for the search crews to give us news. What it was like the first night I came home and laid on my bed lifeless at one moment, and wailing the next.  What it was like when I heard they found a man’s body on the mountain, but didn’t know which man it was. What that day was like leading up to his memorial. What it was like to be held by my roommates when I fell to the kitchen floor and screamed, “no, no, NO!” What is was like to finally say the words “Anthony is dead” for the first time.  I miss him deep down in my stomach that I can feel it.  I can feel that punch in the gut when the emotions start creeping up behind my eyes.  That punch in the gut that sends all the air wafting up into my throat, forming that lump.

I have been so easily triggered lately.  I watched an episode of Lost last week, the one right after Charlie dies (sorry for ruining it for those who haven’t gotten to season 4 yet).  Everyone on the island was gathered in the jungle discussing the latest discoveries and happenings when Hurley spoke up and started talking about Charlie, his closest friend on the island.  He was emotional as he spoke, but his words stumbled and his sentence went unfinished because he couldn’t utter the words to describe what Charlie was: dead.  “Charlie is…” Tears welled up in my eyes as well as I remembered very vividly sitting and crying with my friend Paul the day after I came down from Timberline.  He walked me through saying the words, but I couldn’t.  I couldn’t go there.  I couldn’t say those final and fateful words because I wasn’t ready to accept their truth.  And now that I think about it, saying those words was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in my life…but I said them.

I got together with Paul again this morning.  I talked about what my current stage of grief is looking like and how I feel about being in this stage.   I realized that although I haven’t been isolating myself, I also haven’t really initiated hanging out with anyone.  I just can’t.  I can’t talk about it.  I can’t be real with everybody.  But I also can’t not talk about it.  It’s too hard to be with someone for an hour or so that I haven’t spent time with in 10 weeks because I either talk about it and cry, or I avoid the pink elephant that is sitting at the table.  What purpose would it serve but ease their curious minds?  And yes, I’m glad they care about me enough to check in, but I just can’t go there.  Not right now.  And I can’t sit there and not acknowledge my loss.  After I shared this with Paul, he offered this quote by an artist named Julia Cameron, “[Grief] is an awkward, tentative, even embarrassing process. There will be many times when we won’t look good—to ourselves or anyone else. We need to stop demanding that we do. It is impossible to get better and look good at the same time.”  I want so badly to look good in this process, to do it right, to let people in, to be real with my emotions, and be able to say what I need.  But it’s messy and I won’t always look good because I want to heal and continue to move forward.

So if you’re one of the people who love me and miss me and want to spend time with me, I love you and miss you and want to spend time with you too, but I just can’t right now.  And to those who I have flaked out on lately, whether it was a birthday dinner or a girls clothing exchange party, I’m sorry I didn’t show up.  It’s not because I actually am a flake, it’s because I’m deep in grief.  (And I’m really hard on myself in the flaky category because I have been on the other end of flakiness and it sucks and hurts and I hate doing it to people.)

I may be 10 weeks into this process of grief, but 2 and a half months doesn’t heal all wounds.  And after 10 months, I might find myself back here again. The waves may get smaller, but they will still roll.

And one last note about the “d” word:  I talked to Anthony’s mom, LaDonna for a long time on Sunday, and she said something that I loved and brought a lot of healing.  She said that Anthony is not dead.  He died, and that’s part of the process of being made alive again.  And we trust and hold fast to knowing that Anthony is so alive right now in Heaven with Christ.

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