Making a little room....

Well holy crap.  Just wow.  Sometimes muddling through feelings is like trudging into a wall. You sink deeper and deeper and the wall just keeps closing in, looming like a giant waiting to knock you down.  Well by golly, maybe that's for the best sometimes.  Sometimes the only way to look up is by being knocked down. Hard.  I won't lie and say it doesn't hurt, but the vision from the ground is better than the vision from the hole of self loathing.   I guess I've been pretending....angry at people and at life, trying to cover the anger I feel towards myself.  I pride myself on being happy, on loving people but how loving am I really? If there is anger and hate in my heart, how can I really love anyone?  I feel like hate squeezes love out of its rightful place.  Holding onto hate puts the person who is hated into the place where there should be loved....how arrogant is that? My desire to hold onto hate is more important than the love God has given me to give out freely? Well I'll be....

So I've been angry about years of wasted time.  More arrogance....isn't God the keeper of time? Didn't he put me where he wanted me, when he wanted me there? I say I've been running on a treadmill, getting no where, making no progress.  What a load of crap I've been believing.  It hasn't been a treadmill at all, it's been a ladder.  Each vertical step taking me closer and closer to the truth and the final plan of God.  The view around me seemed the same the whole time, until I reached the top and realized....the world is so different after a change of perspective.  They say it takes more muscles to frown than it does to smile.  Maybe I've been the one wasting my time.  Holding onto grudges for years, who knows what that has held me back from? God I am so sorry. 

Well I will let go of all of the room my hate has been taking up and I will make some room for you.

Bitter root

There's no doubt that my progress has been hindered lately on my path to recovery, but I think it's because I've found myself slipping away from the desire to improve my situation.  I've been taking a slow move into apathy, and I'm not finding the right gear.   Neutral is a comfy place to be, and I can't seem to shift into drive.  I'd rather roll backwards down the hill....

I'll get by...

Why is it that sometimes when something is right it feels so wrong? I've been running at a zillion miles an hour and I reached the edge of something...something steep and it was either turn around or jump and wish for the best.  Well, I jumped.  As I'm falling there are so many thoughts buzzing through my head faster than the wind through my ears.  There's the "why am I so stupid?" thought.  The "I could have turned around" thought. The "how the heck is this going to end?" thought.  God, please let me have a soft landing, I'm not sure I could live through breaking again.

Regaining an Identity

Well hello there, Elizabeth here.  Elizabeth, Liz, Libby, I've been called all of those names but who am I really? The question seems so simple and commonplace.  A nickname is nothing more than that, right? Or is it? In some ways I feel like each name is an alternate version of me.  Do the people who know Libby really know Liz? The people who have known Liz have never met Libby.  And what about the people who had Liz, and are suddenly getting Libby? What are they to think? What are they going to expect? And is there really a difference? Which side of this multi-dimensional self are all  these people getting? And which side of me am I getting? Which one of me is the real me, and how do I decide? Libby did some bad things in her time, but hasn't Liz, too? Never before have I decided who I actually want to be, nor have I ever really identified ME the way I want to be known. My parents made a good choice, naming me Elizabeth.  Biblically speaking, Elizabeth was Gods chosen one.  Geez, sometimes I don't feel very chosen at all.  So how do I figure it out?  How do I reconcile all these different versions and land on one that calls me by the name I truly am? I am Elizabeth, but I won't make everyone call me that...people are lazy.  Maybe I'll just be El. Or maybe that is pure laziness.  I know my identity is a child of Christ, a follower of him...and my middle name is Christine.  Maybe my parents knew when they looked at me for the first time what I cannot grasp in this moment.  Then again, what is a name, really? I don't think it is exactly the literal name that I battle with...it's the identity I've formed and attached to all of these possibilities.  The Libby I was, and the Liz that I became are two different people entirely.  The question is, who am I know? A combination of both? Or maybe a better version of the two? An Elizabeth.

Miserable Failure

God, I've been failing so miserably. I've grown into an apathy all of my own.  Settled in like a warm blanket, but this blanket is not doing me any good.  Knick by knick I chip away at my own canvas, as if struggling to reach some unknown goal.  Drip by drip of my own blood brings me farther from where I'm trying to go, yet I continue.  A little more shame bubbles up each time a bandage comes off, revealing a dismal progress that is far from satisfying.  Maybe I'll never be satisfied.  Maybe this is the natural state of things....an innate inability to fix oneself. God, why am I such a mess?

day by day.....

OK, so for the longest time, my hubby kept telling me, "Liz, that looks really bad." I'd smile and nod, "uh-huh."  I would tell him, usually because I didn't really know how bad it was.  Usually the spots that are visible aren't THAT bad, but when there is a spot that I can touch, but NOT see, well, let's just say it becomes the grand canyon. So finally, Ez and Brad caught some peeks at my back, and told me "Liz....that really is bad." Needless to say, my soon-to-be-a-nurse of a Husband demanded that he doctor me up as soon as we got home.  It was oozing, bleeding, all kinds of nasty medical words to describe an infection.  So, I let him bandage me up.  He had to put two bandages on, because I've actually been known to pick UNDER a bandaid.  Needless to say, the results are amazing.  Take a peek.

Looking at these pictures I realized...I have a lot of scars all around that sore.  If you look at the top picture, every white patch surrounding the red spot is some type of scar.  Really is a different perspective when you look at a picture...

A Little Bit More

So after my last entry I got to thinking, if the choice to pick or not to pick, to be or not to be is entirely up to me, it's going to take a whole lot more work and attention than I've been giving it.  I've been going at it half-way, all the while still clinging desperately to the label I've created for myself....I'm a picker, and that's it.  Wow.  How I've been demeaning myself all these years!  Thinking it was an inevitability and then degrading myself when I failed?  What kind of twisted logic is that? I guess I have to hold myself more accountable than I have been.  Quit blaming the caffeine, quit blaming the circumstances...nothing is twisting my arm and making me inflict harm upon myself.  (Yes, I have finally come to terms with calling it that.  Calling it what it is. Deliberate self harm in an innocent disguise of a "stressed-out mom." Yeah right, let's quit lying here.)  The fact of the matter is I am the responsible one.  God cannot magically free me of this burden, but he can cover me with his grace and love and give me the strength I've been meant to have so I can help myself.  I think that's what he does, and that is the point of my faith.  I think "God" said it best in Evan Almighty:

"Let me ask you something. If someone prays for patience, you think God gives them patience? Or does he give them the opportunity to be patient? If he prayed for courage, does God give him courage, or does he give him opportunities to be courageous? If someone prayed for the family to be closer, do you think God zaps them with warm fuzzy feelings, or does he give them opportunities to love each other?" 

God can lift me up, and raise me to a higher standard than I've been holding myself to for twenty years.   He is able, I alone am not.  God...make me able.

Stronger than a little bad habit

Well team, the battle seems to have reared its ugly head once again.  It almost seems like it goes in waves, but I think I've lost my grip on it.  I think I have let it over take me.  I've let it bubble up to the surface and have control. Well I don't think a bad habit, an addiction, an OCD, or whatever it is should have that kind of power over me.  I am stronger than a little bad habit, and I am not going to allow it to run my life.  For so long I've just defined myself by a bad habit.  A picker.  I am what I do.  I pick, I am a picker.  Wow, have I been lying to myself for a while now.  Where the heck has that gotten me???  Well here's what I have to say to you, you terrible thoughts....YOU ARE CAPTIVE NOW! I've always heard that verse in church about capturing every negative thought and holding it captive to Christ, but now I think I know what it really means.  I am not what I do, I do what I am.  I am not A Picker.  I am a child of God who picks.  That is such a better way of seeing it, so freeing.  When I look at it that way, it feels like I have the choice in this.  I am not a victim of my circumstances, I don't need to dig at my flesh to feel alive, to wake up to the world, or to drift off to sleep in it.  My hands can do so much more.  I can do so much more.  I have been holding myself back, hiding away, staying in the shadows of my embarrassment.   All the foundation and powder in the world can't cover what I'm really hiding. Short and sweet tonight, because it's late and I'm hoping, with the strength and the Grace of God, this could be my last entry.  Could every entry from here on out be of my success?  Of my power and my beauty? My boldness and security in who I am? I think so, because I know who I am.  And who I really am is SO MUCH better than the lie.

Thankfulness

Okay well I haven't blogged in a while, partly because I haven't bad anything of consequence to say, and partly because I don't want to admit that I've been slipping. That, however is not the topic of this post. I had an incredible opportunity today. In fact, it was so incredible, im blogging about it on wifi! anyway, My unit goes to the Old Country Buffet on our drill weekends and today there was a WWII veteran and his German wife eating lunch. Did you hear me? WWII veteran! Do you know how many of those brave men are still around? (In hindsight I wish I would have gotten a picture of he and I...but that probably would have been creepy). So I approached him and he says to me, "it's been 75 years since I wore that uniform." And that was all he said, he didn't need to say anything else, because my gratitude and his, were both apparent. As I sat back down I looked around and realized...I was the only soldier to go talk to him. It kind of crushed me a little bit. This man gave his all for our country...without his sacrifice, I don't think our country would be worth fighting for. And all around the room are America's "patriots". Some patriots we are. Maybe it's just me, but every time I meet a veteran, they leave a hand print on my very soul. And it got me to thinking....how grateful am I really? Not just to him, but to everyone, all the people who have been there for me along the way. Lately God has been working in me, showing me the things around me I've been too blind to see, and I am seeing how grateful I really need to be. Grateful for the help, the love, and the forgiveness I've received over the years. I don't know about you, but to me, that's what love is really about.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Pick. Pick. Pick.

So my dad came up to Saginaw on Tuesday to get me my medicine, and to see Sam and what not.  He told me to call him in the morning and confirm.  I did, but it went straight to voicemail...I called again, voicemail.  I don't think too much of it because I was under the impression that he would be at my house around 3.  Three o'clock rolls around and I find myself 4 feet tall again, braces, glasses and a mullet, peeking through the blinds every five minutes, waiting to see if he had arrived. A car door would slam, and I would jump.  Little five-year-old me, drenched in eagerness and excitement.  If I close my eyes I can still see it, still hear it...

Propped up on the couch with my head glued to the window, eyes whizzing

 left and right with every car that sped past, knowing it was in vain.  The haunting

tick, tick, tick of our mantle clock a constant reminder that time wasn't standing still

for me, not now, not tonight.  This night, like so many others, had started as an 

afternoon, and had agonizingly progressed into an evening, and then, into a night.

It had become a night with a book, nestled into our lazy boy, under our giant 

floor lamp.  Just me and my vivid imagination, my best and constant friend.  As the 

moments ticked away, I would lull myself into a daze, rocking in the chair, and 

picking at my face, the same spot I'd been working on for a week like some kind of

overdue pet project.  Of course, my little mind had no idea any of this was transpiring, 

it was just...me.  Some days when the windows were open, I would feel the Michigan

breeze dance across my face, causing my tears to draw little squiggly lines down my

rosy cheeks.  This was the position I found myself in for probably a decade.  Always

waiting for something different, always waiting for the prince to show up, but 

he never did.   At fourteen, in my homecoming dress, heels and make-up, I found

myself in this same position, desperately trying to ignore the clock, despite its ever

present hourly chimes, reminding me of the hopelessness of the evening.  Maintaining

hope, I kept my eyes focused on the road, eyeing every headlight with childlike

eagerness, knowing the next car would be the one.  Fast forward to seventeen, a 

little older, a little more jaded, but still waiting.  Still picking, still passing the time 

in the only way I knew how.  

Why is it that the people you are waiting for never show up, but the one you don't want to see is always there? That was the agonizing question for so many years.  Couldn't I just pick better people?  Couldn't I just take control over the situation?  Twenty-four, and a self proclaimed control freak, I still battle this waiting  phenomenon. Except now, I never give anyone a chance to blow me off, I'll cancel

on them before they have the chance to not show up.  I won't ask just on the off chance that they won't do. It's the human condition, after all.  Well holy crap.  It's not the God condition.  Something tells me HE's not going to mess this up, he's not going to leave me waiting.  So maybe I should stop expecting it. 

  

A disturbance in the force....

Well, everybody, long time no talk.  Life hasn't been very eventful, I'm sad to say.  The coffee battle is going pretty well though! Go me! I've only been drinking a cup of decaf a day.  And I think I've decided I'm going to let my hair grow.  I think its time I let myself be a girl for a change.  Maybe I don't have to hide behind this distorted identity anymore? For so long I've defined myself by my short hair, I think I'm ready to make a change! Well, it's going to be a looooong journey!

Nothing too insightful tonight...

But I'm trying something new tonight for my soothing nighttime drink! I'm hoping it hits the spot and helps with my cold!

Mmmm yummy

Good for thought:

Dear Me

Dear me...well I thought I would write you a little note to tell you I forgive you.
You aren't the same you, I know.
You've been dying inside and hating yourself even now.
But you aren't all that you think you are.
You are so much more.
Stop holding yourself back
Stop holding a grudge against the mirror.
Its always going to show the same thing
No matter how long you stare.
Live again, I dare you.
The past was then
We all know it can't be undone
So why try? Because you're always going to fail.
Promise me this, Me.
You'll lower the bar, just a little bit
You'll give yourself room to breathe, if not just a little bit.
Dear me,
I just want you to know
Everything you think
Everything you feel
It's all okay
And even if it wasn't
That would be okay too.
I promise you this, here and now
It's not wrong to move on
It's not wrong to forgive, just please don't forget.
And don't forget that you've been forgiven.
If you only hear one thing from me, Me
Let it be this:
The only one unforgiving is you.
God did it, so you can too.

Gonna share a smile today

Found this in the bathroom at school, and thought it was a great thing to pass along!

A little off topic

Well I'm laying here trying to take a nap but my brain won't stop running....today's lesson at church has me going a mile a minute. Our fathers love....well, um, what exactly is that? I want so bad to give it all up and surrender into his fatherly arms, but well, to put it gently, I have never had very good results when I do that. I know he will never let me down, but the thought makes me apprehensive. And then there is the whole.....forgive others and care about those who have hurt you. Gosh, that one is an uphill battle. I keep thinking about "the other guy" and how much I hate him. I don't want to, I want to be free of that hate and that anger but at the same time, it makes me feel victorious over him, like yeah, he used me and left me to pick up the pieces, but I have the last laugh now. Except....I don't, do I? I know hatred is like an ulcer slowly eating away at the soul, I know it's a poison, but I feel....content in it. Powerful almost. Gosh that is so wrong, I don't want to be that vengeful person, vengeance isn't mine anyway. So I keep those wrong, nasty things to myself, and I think that if I'm nice enough, if I smile enough, if I'm perfect enough, it will make up for what I did, and how terrible I feel about it all. Oh I know, it's just so wrong. God help me with that. I don't want to feel a demand for perfection, but I can't help it...if I'm perfect, no one will see the truth. Me: the vengeful ex-Mormon cheater. Geez, maybe I should be in therapy. :p. I'm going to sleep now. Thanks for listening

Well well well...what do we have here?

Why is is that sometimes the simplest, most unlikely suggestion is the right answer all along? Why is it that an insignificant plight can wreak detrimental consequences?  Coffee.  I love it.  I don't think I bleed blood, I bleed coffee.  For months now I've been agonizing (whining) over this battle with picking.  Sometimes I just wanted to scream about it!  I hated it, but I loved my coffee. My day went something like this:

Wake up at 6:45, shower, get ready for school, make coffee.

Out the door at 7:30, sipping on coffee.

Get to work at 8:00, settle in, sip my coffee, pick at something.

Go to class, finish up my coffee.

Lunchtime, 11:20, find another cup of coffee somewhere, go to next class.

Sit in second class, finish off my coffee and pick at something.

Head to work without any coffee.  Pick at a lot of somethings.

Go home at 16:30, make a cup of coffee, pick at something.

Put Sam to bed around 20:00, watch TV, sip some coffee, pick at something.

Go to bed, dream about coffee.

OK, just kidding about that last part. (Partly) Here is the irony, you ready? Irony: the coffee was the trigger.  Granted, not the underlying cause of the problem, but...I guess it could be best described as the stimulant.  So this begged me to research a little further.  I was not going to blindly accept this depressing phenomenon, I am a Social Work major after all, and I don't always take things at face value.  The SVSU Journal database allowed me to do whatever prying my little heart desired.  What I found, I can't honestly say surprised me.

Association between ADORA2A and DRD2 Polymorphisms and Caffeine-Induced Anxiety

"Caffeine is the most widely used psychoactive substance in the world. In the United States, approximately 61% of the population consume caffeine daily (Dews et al, 1999). The mild psychomotor stimulant effects of caffeine, such as increases in alertness and arousal, are presumed to be the basis for its widespread use. However, at high doses, or in some individuals at moderate doses, caffeine produces anxiety and dysphoria. In particular, some people are sensitive to the anxiogenic effects of caffeine, perhaps because of polymorphisms in the genes that encode receptors where the drug acts. Thus, functional polymorphisms in genes relating to the central actions of caffeine may be related to anxiogenic responses to caffeine."  (Emma Childs, Christa Hohoff, Jurgen Deckert, Ke Xu, Judith Badner, & Harriet De Witt, 2008.)

Considering my above listed schedule, I have classified myself in the "high doses" category of caffeine use! Oh boy, whatever will I do now? Maybe these people are just crazy? Doubtful.  I guess the question is, do I have this gene they are talking about here? No way to know really, but I do know that I will be cutting back (when my lovely husband will let me) on my caffeine intake in the future.  In fact, I might take as bold of a step as to drink decaf!!  OK, so that is a little extreme, but we're talking about my mental health here, remember?  Well faithful reader, if you're out there, I hope you have learned something today! I have! It's not just a rumor or something my hubby and therapist have agreed on, it is actually a statistically significant (learned that definition and how to come to it in my Statistics class today.) result! So it's time to make a change....

P.S. Sorry about the font change and the white highlight....I've been trying to twenty minutes to make it go away, and I eventually just gave up!!!  And do you like my progress????

Day 3? Or is it 87?

OK, so I forgot to have my coffee the other day, and my hubby noticed I was hardly picking at all.  So he, being the sweet little brainiac he is, suggests, or rather, tells me, to stop drinking caffeine.   I say, coffee, or caffeine all together? *please just say coffee*.  Both, he informs me.  No joke, my heart started racing at the thought.  No coffee?  Is this man insane? Does he want me to go postal or something? How can this possibly end well? Literally, panic was starting to set in at the mere thought of parting with my beloved morning (afternoon/evening/before bed) cup of Heaven.  "Liz," he said, "I think you have a serious problem."  Yeah, well he would know, he's been married to me for four years now, I guess he knows me better than anyone else possibly could.  Soooooo, maybe he's right.  Needless, to say, we are on day 3, and though exhausted, I feel perfectly fine.  And my face is showing improvement as well!  Score one for the Hubster.

Ladies and gentlemen, the results speak for themselves!

Oh, and speaking of results, I went off and got the tattoo I was talking about the other day.This battle with picking and some of my weird OCD things have been controlling me for a long time. When I came across this verse, I just knew I wanted it close to my heart. I couldn't literally put it on my heart, so I put it on me. Whenever my hand reaches to my face to pick at something, this verse hits me in the face. It's a constant reminder that God has given me a sound mind, I do not need to be afraid of anything. It's a symbol that the battle has already been won, and I do not have to fear! I have the power, and I'm never going to forget it.

Thinking about things...on a cellular level

Ok so I'm in a human biology class this semester, and the first few weeks, although really boring, have also had a few hidden gems.  I'm willing to bet that I'm the only one in my class who has thought about science outside of our two our window of scholarly enlightenment. OK, I'm sure you're wondering, where is this girl going with this?  Well stay with me here.  When we look at our bodies, what do we see? Hair, eyes, skin, nails, freckles, acne? It's hard to remember that we are so much more than that.  The funny thing is, I'm not speaking metaphorically, or even spiritually, I am speaking literally here.  We are more than those things, we are trillions and trillions of little miracles.  The human cell performs mitosis thousands of times every day.  Without us even knowing what is going on, our body is healing itself...on a cellular level!  Too small to be seen by the human eye, our cells run everything.  A liver cell belongs in the liver, it operates there.  A liver cell can't go into the eye, or the skin, it just wouldn't work like that.  It boggles my mind that even though our brain controls almost all of our bodily functions that allow us to live, these tiny, microscopic fragments of ourselves are operating completely separated, yet for the same purpose, of each other.   

So what, you wonder?  How does that apply to me and why am I writing about cells? I admit, it's probably kind of weird, but stick with me here...so now that I have this visual in my head:

I can't help but think that every time I pick at something, this microscopic cell is destroyed, or damaged, or has to start over again.  Maybe it's dumb, but I feel like, knowing that these little things are the building blocks of my life, it's almost as though I'm destroying a tiny, tiny, tiny bit of me every time I do something to myself.  And it's not like this little thing is just some waste of space, this little thing is what makes me physically me! Are you following? Or did I totally lose you? When I pick at myself, yes it's only skin deep, but when you're microscopic, that's not that small! 

My Little Twilight Zone

I want to try to blog regularly, so I can get my thoughts out in some productive way, but sometimes it feels like....I don't know, like I have no thoughts.  I've noticed that when I get going on one of my picking sprees, I go blank.  It's like my mind is in a trance and I get lost in the moment.  Or the hour, or however long it is at the time.  It's like I sign out of life, and trap myself in this little bubble where nothing can hurt me. I am invincible at that moment, because I'm not really there. My mind is just lost somewhere in space. Maybe that's what it is?  Kind of a dumb form of self preservation, huh?  Hurt myself little bits at a time to shield myself from the bigger hurts?  Except nothing really hurts right now, so why do I still do it? It's like I'm hypnotized.  I'll be in my stats class trying to pay attention, and the harder I try to focus, the more I find my hands wandering to one of my little spots of temptation.  Once I find it, I'm flooded with relief, and my mind can slow down and focus on the lecture.  Everything else is gone at that instant, and I am only in ONE place.  

Gosh it would have been nice to be in one place when I was growing up. My parents, they did their best, I know my mom did. She didn't want to ship me off every weekend to a different house, a different family, a different set of rules, a different set of expectations.  My heart aches for her.  Saying goodbye and knowing where we were headed off to every Friday.  I don't know how she handled that, and I love her for it, for being strong enough.  So why am I not strong enough? Why do I still have to escape into this nothingness?  I don't want to hide there, not anymore.  The sound of my little girls' voice echoes in my head, "I'm a big girl!" Maybe that's a philosophy I need to adopt.  That was then, this is now, there's nothing to hide from but memories, and I control my memories, they don't control me, right? 

In the book Bondage Breaker, he talks about how our dark memories only have as much power as we give them.  We will only live life the way we think we are supposed to live it.  Geez, I guess I need a drastic overhaul.  I guess Jason Castro says it best....

"This is only a mountain."

Bondage Breaker Prayers

Neil Anderson on his book....