The Wedding Singer

Last night Edgewood College closed their most recent show The Wedding Singer.  I'm honored to have been a part of this very talented cast.  I remember going to the read through and I felt like the new kid in school.  I was walking into a situation that most of the cast were students and knew each other and have worked with each other.  Even though the cast didn't know my age at the time, I was very aware that I may be 11 years older than some of these students.  I'm so happy that the cast and crew welcomed me with open arms.

This show has pushed me past my comfort zone and has probably been the most difficult show I've ever been in.  The director and choreographer pushed us and expected excellence.  There were nights I went home and wondered what the heck I was doing in this show.  Why was I cast?  Could I really do everything that was laid before me?

I opened up to some of the cast about my anxiety, social phobia, eating disorder and how last year I was suicidal.  It's not something I just throw out there, but when I could relate to one of their life stories I wanted them to know they weren't alone.  

Wedding Singer has helped me in my recovery.  I was a part of the dance ensemble and with all the dancing we did there was no way I could engage in behaviors and go to rehearsal on an empty stomach.  Being around these college students also reminded me about having fun, that there is more to life than being perfect.  I'll take having fun over perfection any day.

So here's a shout out to all those involved with Wedding Singer!  You have enriched my life with your kindness, openness and talent.  I hope to work with you all again in the future!

Real women have....

Bodies.  And so do men.  It's this fascinating concept.  As human beings we were given this shell called a body.  We are tall and short, big and small, some of us have freckles, some of us have curly hair, some of us are left handed.  We are all different, just like snowflakes.  What makes us unique isn't just our outer shell, but what's inside the shell.

I know, super cliche: beauty comes from within.  And it always seems that only beautiful people say that, right?  Like it's super easy for a thin person to say something inspiring about having curves and make it seem like this positive thing, but that thin person without curves doesn't exactly know what it's like to wear a different shell.  And the curvier person is constantly reminded that she (or he) doesn't quite fit in our society's standard of beauty even though that thin person just tried their best to relate. 

I remember when the movie Real Women Have Curves came out.  I was so excited!  Finally they're making a movie to show it's okay to not be skinny.  But now after being in recovery I see the movie a bit differently.  I know the movie is about empowering women, has a great storyline and the intentions are all good.  However the title bothers me some.  Real women have curves...so...the women who are naturally slim aren't "real women"?  Or an anorexic wouldn't be considered a "real woman"?

What constitutes a real woman?  So much more than her body, that's for sure.  I can't even define what a real woman is and it would be rather egotistical of me to even try.  I can only define myself and I'm just one type of woman.

I'm average height, have black hair, brown eyes (so dark when I was a baby my grandma called them black), is insecure (but working on it), a daughter/sister/wife, heterosexual, hard worker, talented (that's hard for me to say, but dammit I am talented, might as well own it), creative, sensitive, anxious, kind hearted, perfectionistic, a good listener, likes to make people laugh...I could go on and on, there's so much that defines me.  In this definition I purposefully didn't mention my weight (which I don't even know) or my body type (which I'm conflicted about on a daily basis) because there is so much more to me than those facts.  Those are two things about me, just two, and so many of us let those two things run our lives.

But what happens when we stop making it about those two insignificant things and make our lives about being good people and reaching our full potential?  Being a good person has nothing to do with which shell you were given, what you ate for lunch, if you let yourself have dessert, if you went to the gym, if you are a size zero or a size twelve, and everything to do with how you treat others.  Smile more, laugh often, be vulnerable, give someone a hug, tell a special person you love them, make mistakes, cook with a friend.  Above all be yourself because no one else can do what you do or be who you are.

Mirror, mirror, on the wall...

As one can imagine, mirrors aren't my favorite thing.  Most times in a public bathroom, I walk up to the sink, eyes on the sink, get my soap, lather my hands together, rinse, dry, and walk out.  Not once looking at myself.  Why?  Because I don't like looking at myself.  When I do, my mind starts doing jumping jacks.

Can people tell that I've gained weight?  Do I look fat in this outfit?  Maybe I should always suck my stomach in.  How can I make my legs longer and thinner?  From the side can I pass as skinny?  I wish my arms weren't so big.

I could continue on and on, but I'm sure some of you could fill in what's missing because you have your own thoughts while looking in the mirror.

Today I was in rehearsal for the ballet version of A Christmas Carol with the Stoughton Center for Performing Arts.  It's a ballet studio.  They are not in need of mirrors.  They have plenty.  I look around at all the real dancers and wonder if any of them have a problem with the mirrors.

In rehearsal mirrors are important.  We can see how we carry our bodies, if we are in step with the person next to us, and for the real dancers they can keep an eye on their technique.  Today when we had periods of waiting time while the director was discussing something with certain people, I looked in the mirror.  I was wearing an athletic t-shirt and yoga pants.  By brain split in two.

One part of my brain did the usual check.  Thighs touch.  Stomach sticks out.  Wide hips.  Well endowed.  Flabby arms.  Yeah...I'm there alright.

The other part of my brain did something different though.  While the first part of my brain did its check, the second part kept asking, Does it matter?  You are healthy.  You can't trust what you see.  You can't compare your body with those of teenagers.  You want to be a strong dancer, right?

By the end of rehearsal I decided that I looked okay.  That there wasn't really anything wrong with my body.  That I looked like a human being.  That there is more to me than the number on the scale and the number on the clothes tag.  That I love people of all different shapes and sizes and others probably do too.

It's still hard though.  For the people who have seen me skinnier, I wish there was this sign they could read, In Recovery, so they wouldn't judge me that my body takes up more space now, that they automatically understood before I wasn't treating my body right and now I am, that I'm doing the best I can.

In a sense I have to mourn my previous body and ED.  I really don't have a desire to go back and starve and purge and drive myself crazy, but I'm still addicted to the idea of thin.  I still want to be considered the skinny friend, but that's not my role anymore.  My role is compassionate friend, understanding friend, loving friend, nonjudgmental friend, etc.

As I continue my recovery journey I don't know if I will ever love what I see in the mirror.  For right now I'm working towards acceptance.

When I was five years old

It's Christmas time and my church is putting on their annual pageant.  The older kids get to be Mary and Joseph and the Wisemen and the little ones, the five year olds, get to be angels.  

All I remember of this is standing in the back of the church bawling my eyes out because being an angel scared me.  I remember my mom standing in the back with me.  I don't remember what she said, I just know she didn't make me walk down the aisle.  

I wanted to be an angel so bad.  Then why didn't I just walk down the aisle with all the other angels?  Because I was scared of the unknown.  We didn't rehearse.  We were told just walk down the aisle and stand near the altar.  Okay...but...what if I mess up?  Even at a young age I needed to do everything right.  I needed to be perfect.

It's strange to think at the age of five I was already aware of people watching me and judging me and making mistakes and the consequences of mistakes.  Five seems like such a young age to be worried about the world.  These days I see little kids in church just doing their own thing.  They are coloring or looking at a book or even sitting quietly during the Mass.  And we all know those kids who have maybe just a little too much energy and they make themselves known.  (Sorry parents, the whole congregation knows where you are sitting, you cannot hide.)  I think about these active children and wonder why they don't worry about people looking at them or realize that their voice carries or that they make noise when they toss a toy at the ground.  These children are curious and they should be.  They want to experience what is around them.  I think of them as adventurous.

I was not adventurous.  In the confines of my own home I went on plenty of adventures, but bringing me out to the real world I just froze.  I was too afraid to move because...what if I make a mistake?  I don't know exactly what I was afraid of all the time, I just had this unsettling feeling that something bad was going to happen.  I still experience those moments; they're called panic attacks.

Recently I've been trying to motivate myself to finally do what I want to do, but I keep getting in the way.  

I want to write a play.  Okay, write a play, brainstorm some ideas and start writing stuff out.  It doesn't have to be perfect and most likely the first draft will need work, so go head and write a play.  Easier said than done.  Do you know how many times I've started writing a story and I just stop because I'm afraid it sucks?

I want to write music.  Okay, write some music.  Just write what you feel and think and a melody will come to you.  Again, it doesn't have to be perfect, so go ahead and write a song.  Yeah...easier said than done.  What if no one likes it?

I'm still five years old standing in the back of the church crying, afraid to walk down the aisle because...why?  In my last blog I said it's time to get real and I'm still working on that.  I know what I want.  Now I need to let go of my mom's hand, dry my tears and walk down that aisle not having a clue what I'm doing because no one has told me, but that's the point.  No one can tell me what to do, only I can do that.  I can't go back in time and change how that played out all those years ago, but I can challenge myself every day to keep on moving toward my goals and aspirations.  Easier said than done, but if I write a sentence or a phrase, that's better than not writing anything at all...and hey, at least I wrote this post.  ;)

It's time to get real

Blogging has been a great avenue for me to get out my thoughts and feelings  and be an example of what it's like to deal with mental illness.  The Robin Williams suicide still weighs heavy on my mind.  Even though he struggled I like to think that he'd encourage us to keep our heads up and keep moving forward, to get the help and support we need.  I've been feeling a mix of emotions - determined to be 100% in recovery and exhausted from trying to fight.  And then I feel stuck and confused because I know what life was like before recovery and I can't go back there.  It makes me think of the most recent show I was in.  Our director loved building on layers and after we reached a certain level of energy she'd say, "now we've reached this next level, we can't go backwards."

I can't go backwards.  If I'm honest with myself I already have gone backwards a bit, that's what lapses are: shifting your car in reverse because things just got real.  I remember telling one of my friends the reason I was scared to seek help was because it would make it real.  It already is real, was his response.  And he was right.  I don't want any of this to be real, but it is.  This whole time I thought I was accepting the fact that I had a problem, but was I really?  I'm not trying to denounce the strides I have made or the awareness I have brought out, but I'm half assing recovery.  Things got hard so what did I do?  I went back to what made me feel safe, something I knew.  It may make me feel miserable, but I know what to expect.

I need to step out of my comfort zone even more than I have.  I need to feel uncomfortable and yucky and scared and unpleasant to prove that I won't die from it.  I've been standing in my way my whole life.  Why?  Because I'm scared to mess up, to be imperfect, to be a disappointment, to be successful, to actually like who I am, to do something wonderful.  I'm scared to move and to live.

I want to be creative and write and sing and dance and act, but I'm terrified to do any of it.  Excuses always pop up.  It's safer not to fail.  Well fuck that.  

I'm blessed with so many friends who possess wisdom.  Last night a different friend said: You're not writing to impress anyone, even if you think you are.  You're doing it because Emily needs to do it.

So true.  I've been yearning to express myself for so long, but then my fearful self stands in the way and talks me out of it.

I can't do that anymore.  It's time I get real with myself and work harder than I ever have before because I need to.

Mental illness and relationships

This week my husband and I celebrated our five year anniversary.  We've known each other for over ten years.  John is actually the first person I told I had an eating disorder.  I was nineteen and he made me feel safe.  I couldn't hold on to my secret anymore.  So one evening when we were chatting online as usual I told him I had a problem.  It was the scariest thing I could have done at the time, but the closer I became with John, the safer I felt.  I could and still can tell him anything.  

Actually opening up about anything in the beginning was very difficult.  There were times we'd talk on the phone and I wouldn't be able to say certain words or phrases because I was ashamed.  I used to tell him to guess.  I'd be able to only say so much and then the guessing games began.  It always amazed me that he didn't go running in the opposite direction and that he cared enough to wait until I could finally say what was on my mind.

There are many days I feel guilty for having mental health issues because I know it affects him.  I'm not an easy person to live with.  Behind closed doors I am a different person.  There are moments I just want to lie in bed or I'm super emotional and sobbing or I'm anxious and I lose my patience.

Last year when my suicidal thoughts were at their worst I truly believed that if I died he'd be set free from the misery I was causing.  I feel like I cause so much trouble and I find myself apologizing over and over again.  On our anniversary while we were eating breakfast I just blurted out I'm sorry.  I don't  always have the greatest filter and my mind went off on a very unhelpful trail.  I was thinking of everything that I had done wrong.  John is somewhat used to my blurtings out, but he cocked his head and asked, "where is this coming from?"  I didn't really know how to respond because here I was again  feeling bad on a day I'm supposed to be feeling good.  On days that we want to have fun sometimes we have to actively say we are going to have a good day and we aren't going to let things bring us down.  It's more for my sake, to remind myself I'm allowed to enjoy myself and I don't have to be bombarded with negative self talk.  It's easier said than done.

Having a relationship (romantic or not) with someone who is struggling with a mental illness is very difficult.  I almost said "can be difficult", but there's no reason to sugar coat it.  It's difficult, period.  Your spouse, partner, friend, family member, colleague, whoever it is wants to understand, but if they haven't gone through it they can only understand so much.  And as the person with the problem, you can't even control it, even though you try so hard to be a good person.  I remember a specific time last year John became frustrated when I wasn't really engaging in conversation.  He was just trying to get something out of me, but I was so deep in my depression it wouldn't have mattered what he said, I wasn't going to respond to anything, especially if it seemed trivial.  He asked why I wasn't talking and I just lost it.  I screamed at him that I didn't care about the fucking lights in the living room.  

I don't understand where the anger and rage come from.  My therapist says it has to do with my anxiety, that it builds up and has nowhere to go and then BAM, I've exploded all over whoever is in my path.  I feel so out of control when it happens.  It's like I can see and hear myself doing and saying all these terrible things and I can't stop it, I just watch the train wreck happen.  Then a lot of sobbing happens and later apologizing.

Obviously John and I aren't in a constant fight.  I cherish the moments we laugh and do silly things that no one would understand but us.  I cherish the long hugs and sweet kisses.  I cherish date nights and his good cooking.  I cherish going for our walks and stopping by the swingset in the park because I just have to swing.

I want to thank my family and friends for being so supportive and putting up with my good and bad days.  We don't always see eye to eye and we don't always spend lots of time together, but in the end you're there when it matters. I'm here for anyone who needs a helping hand or a good listener.  As I've said before, we don't have to do this on our own.

Suicide

I'm sitting here in shock of the news of Robin Williams' death, his apparent suicide.  I've wanted to blog about suicide for awhile, but it's such a difficult and morbid topic.

Late last year I remember how dark my thoughts became.  How I was going to kill myself and that act was supposed to make everything better.  How I researched online different methods.  I didn't know what I was really searching for: the quickest way, the most painful, the least painful, the potentially irreversible in case I didn't really mean it.  I've come from a long way from those dark thoughts although I still experience them from time to time, but there are people in our lives who struggle with this every day on a constant basis.  Most I'm sure are suffering in silence.

The pain and thoughts become too much that death just seems like the next best thing, the ultimate escape.  I really believed no one would care, life would go on, no one would miss me.  Why would they?  It's just me.

People are going to say that Robin seemed happy, he was a comedian, was so successful, was so funny, made us smile and laugh...how could he take his own life?  It's rather simple, unfortunately.

For so long I put on an act of being happy and put together.  Everything is "fine", "no worries", I'm "just tired"...when really I wished I could scream for somebody to realize something is wrong.  But I always managed a smile, a laugh, a joke.  Just like you can't judge someone on the outside in regards to eating disorders, you can't judge someone on the outside if they are suicidal, anxious, depressed, or plagued by some other form of mental illness.

We are afraid to be viewed as weak if we acknowledge the fact that we struggle, but really we are strong.  What I've learned from this blog and being open and honest is that people do care and they want the best for you.  They are in your corner rooting for you.

Suicidal ideation is no joke.  If you ever start having those thoughts you must tell someone.  I learned that speaking my thoughts out loud actually took away some of their power.  I know it's so difficult to start the conversation, but if I hadn't started it I might not be here.  That conversation was a catalyst for me getting help.  It's an ongoing process, it takes time and effort, it takes journaling and crying and yelling and coloring and talking and hanging out with friends and watching movies and sitting through the yucky feelings until they subside (they eventually subside, patience isn't always my virtue though).

And even if we fight with all our might some of us don't make it.  I can't explain that.  I wish I could.

Rest in peace, Robin.  I pray your family, friends, and fans also find peace in your absence and will keep your memory alive.