A Season of Loss

We’ve had so much going on this year, and I forgot to buy a yartzheit candle to mark the seventeenth anniversary of my mother’s death. This weekend initiates a trifecta of death anniversaries: my mother (April 7), her mother (April 8), and a beloved aunt (April 9).

I have marked these anniversaries back-to-back for years, often lighting candles in my kitchen. For me, marking death in early April can feel incongruous, an affront to the landscape’s perpetual message of rebirth.

This morning, because our past year has been so complicated, I also forgot that today was my mother’s yartzheit. I remembered only after I opened the kitchen door to let our dogs in from the yard. Nature reminded me. Each time I look at a cherry blossom or daffodil, I remember where I was on a Sunday morning seventeen years ago. I go back to the moment before I learned the news of my mother’s death, when I sat on a sofa while the walls turned salt-lamp pink, then swirled around me. I go back to the the moment after I confirmed the news, when I fell to the floor and opened my mouth to scream but no sound came out. My primary experience was one of silence, which now strikes me as an appropriate metaphor for death and grief.

In the past seventeen years I have mourned my mother, I have resisted cultural silences imposed on the grieving. I have resisted avoiding the topic of death. I have resisted language that denies the reality of death and grief. This blog is one form of resistance.

This week, I’ve thought frequently about how hard it was for me to go back to school after I lost my mother, how much pressure I felt to perform normalcy and perfection. I thought about how I learned to hide my sorrow, and how alien I felt in rooms full of 21-year-olds whose parents were still alive, and often paying their children’s bills. At 21, I had no such resources. I was on my own. To this day, I do not know how I graduated from college, only that I did – on Mother’s Day 2003. Some people tell me I’m strong or brave. But I don’t think finishing college was a heroic act. In a period of tremendous instability, the structure of an academic year gave me stability. I clung to stability. If anything, I feared further change. I avoided uncertainty.

After my graduation ceremony, I went out to lunch with visiting relatives but refused to go out to dinner. Instead, I stayed in my apartment with my sister and boyfriend. We ordered takeout. My graduation was not a celebration, and celebration felt fraudulent. My college graduation was the first major milestone I marked without a mother, and I marked this milestone in public, surrounded by jubilant people, on a Hallmark holiday that forefronts motherhood.

That day, I needed privacy. I needed to grieve alone with my sister. The next week, we’d “celebrate” her graduation. I cannot bear to look at photos from either of these events. I had such a sweet boyfriend at the time, and he stayed with me even though it was hard, and we were both too young to understand the emotional pressures bearing down on us. In the graduation photos, my boyfriend stands next to me. He holds me in a protective embrace. But my eyes are vacant, cold, dead.

I am barely there. I do not want to be there.

Something that bonds Carl and me is that we both lost parents young. We both lost the parents with whom we shared a gender identity – my mother, his father. We both walked across commencement stages, received diplomas, fell in love, began careers, bought homes without those parents present. At our wedding ten years ago, we claimed these losses in a candle-lighting ritual. We acknowledged how light and darkness exist side-by-side as natural elements of human experience, our experience. In our family, grief swims beneath each experience of joy.

This morning, because I could not find a yartzheit candle, I walked from our kitchen to our attic, which we’ve recently remodeled into a meditation/Yoga space and writing studio. I sat on my meditation cushion and lit the only candle we have, a rainbow chakra candle I gave Carl for Christmas. Then I carried the candle through our dark house and placed it on the stove, beside a plate of matzah brei I’d made for Carl’s breakfast. A spoon holder that once belonged to my mother sat behind the candle; it’s one of the few objects I have left from her house.

In our kitchen, the makeshift yartzheit candle still burns, will burn all day. I’ll light another candle tomorrow, and another candle the next day. Outside, the daffodils and cherry blossoms will open more blooms. Each time I see them, I will hold despair and hope in the same gaze. Despair. Hope. Neither cancels the other out. Each magnifies the other. Each reminds me how precious, how beautiful a life touched by death can be.

 

To All the Attention Seeking Drama Queens

In January 2002, my mother learned her transplanted kidney had begun to fail. She began dialysis. We spoke on the phone each night, and I visited her as often as I could. The mother I had known, the jubilant mother, grew depressed and fearful.

I offered to undergo a test that would determine whether one of my kidneys could be transplanted into her body. I was 20-years-old. She begged me not to have this test. She didn’t want to do anything that could compromise my chances of becoming a mother.

That is how much motherhood meant to her. She was willing to die in order to prevent me from making this decision. And she had hope. She hoped someone else in her family would come forward.

To my knowledge, no one did.

I write those words with tremendous anxiety of how they will be read: No one did.

My mother’s story is complicated. Perhaps someone came forward and she never told me?

Even so, she could not survive another transplant. Her death was inevitable, and within months of undergoing dialysis my mother began to accept this reality. For the first time in her life, she rejected the false narratives of cure and recovery so often projected on the seriously ill.

But I still harbored delusions. I called delusion hope. I pleaded with members of her family to understand the seriousness of her situation. I wasn’t ready to give up, to let her go. I believed she could recover, as she had recovered so many other times before. Others did not believe my mother was actually sick.

A relative told me my mother was exaggerating.

She said, “Your mother is a drama queen.”

She said, “Your mother likes attention.”

My mother was not a drama queen. She lived with a debilitating chronic autoimmune disease from adolescence through middle age. She was beautiful. She was sick. Because she was beautiful and sick and female, she fell prey to cultural biases that fail to acknowledge serious illness in young women. When people looked at her they saw pretty. They saw young. They saw stylish.

As my mother’s health deteriorated, I ignored her pleas. I had the test done. It was a simple blood draw – I barely remember the needle prick. In the blur of her multiple hospitalizations, and my struggle to perform normalcy as our lives collapsed, the test was not a big deal. Just one more errand.

My results came back after she died: I was not a good match. My kidney would not have saved her.

I was off the hook. I’d tried. She’d known I’d had the test. She’d known I was willing to give her a vital organ, even if that choice compromised my ability to become a mother. She knew I believed her. I had not abandoned her.

I’ve been remembering this time in our lives recently because of my own experiences of not being believed about illness in the past few years. I have also felt abandoned by friends and family who do not communicate with me in meaningful ways about Lyme disease, for which I am still being treated  — and this treatment takes a physical and emotional toll. To many, it is as if I am not sick at all, as if my illness does not exist because I present as able-bodied.

Is my illness easy to erase because I am young and female? Or because I am capable of holding down a job and publishing writing, so I cannot have a serious illness at the same time? Or is it because I typically do not perform a sick identity on social media?

Or maybe, I’ve just needed too much, and my needs are exhausting. Autoimmune disease. A miscarriage. A broken foot.  And then, out of nowhere, Lyme disease?

Maybe I am now perceived as the attention seeking, drama queen.

But I am not an attention seeking drama queen. Attention gives me anxiety. And drama?  Who has time for that?

Fatigue from Lyme disease and my current treatment plan means a lot is changing in my life. I cannot engage in relationships in ways that are expected of young women. No late nights. No long drives. I have to say, “No” a lot. Perhaps my “No” is heard as disinterest and not as self protection. Perhaps people think I don’t like them.

My mother gave me tools I would need to navigate chronic illness in my own young life.  She taught me I could say the word ill and the word did not have to be a negative, a reduction, something to resist or erase. Even now, she is present. She is parenting me when I need her the most, showing me the way.

Long ago, she told me illness would distill my relationships.

“You will know who your friends are,” she said. And she was right. I am figuring out who I can depend on and who I should let go. I am asking myself new questions.

Who will I become? How will illness change me?

That’s the keyword. Change. Lyme disease has remapped my body. I have no delusions of cure, of going back to who I was before. Healing is a complicated idea, not a portal to our past selves.

As Cheryl Strayed has written, “Healing is a small and ordinary and very burnt thing. And it’s one thing and one thing only: it’s doing what you have to do.”

What I have to do now is be honest. Be real. Set boundaries and hold tight to them.
Rearrange a life where I’d once felt comfortable. Advocate for what I need. And then, let go of stories, people, goals, relationships, identities, and expectations that no longer support the person I am becoming because I am ill.

This is not about needing attention or being a drama queen or even pessimism. It’s about surviving and reclaiming and persisting.

Getting “Closer to Fine”

My friend Anne and I saw the Indigo Girls at Wolf Trap in 2015. I could barely move that summer, and going to the concert was a big deal. Before we went, Anne told me she’d ridden her bike to a pool, swum laps, and read a book that day. I couldn’t believe it – like, she could sustain concentration long enough to read a book? When was the last time I’d read a book? Swimming and biking were beyond me, so I didn’t even think about them. The book, I fixated on that. Reading seemed like something I should be able to attain – I have a master’s degree in English Lit. I’m a professional reader. And yet, when Anne spoke to me, reading a book from start to finish seemed as impossible as climbing Mount Everest.

The month of the concert, a weird rash had erupted on my legs. Before the rash appeared, I’d been following my father around Cleveland Metroparks, climbing railroad bridges and doing other outdoorsy things that would have made my mother panic, if she were still alive. I didn’t think to check myself for ticks – I don’t know why. I just didn’t. I was caught up in trying to understand my father’s boyhood, the events that made him the man he became. I was writing my way closer to him, and I did not think about myself. (This is a pattern.)

A few weeks later, I wore shorts and sandals and hiked around Multnomah Falls with Carl. I didn’t check myself for ticks there either. I was having a spiritual experience, completely blissed out on the woods and Portland. Why on earth would I stop and look for ticks?

And then, the rash appeared. Weird pinprick splotches on both calves, just below the knees. It looked like I was bleeding under the skin. And my GP tested me for Lyme and told me I didn’t have Lyme, even though I was too early in the testing window to know. And I didn’t know enough at the time to even know that detail I have just written. My doctor alluded to chronic Lyme as being a completely made up thing, the medical equivalent of a unicorn. Only crazy people had chronic Lyme disease.

I tape recorded him as he spoke because I didn’t trust him. Or I didn’t trust myself.

On the recording, I sound so smart and confident, completely opposite of how I felt in the moment. I do not sound like a person who tape records a doctor because she’s afraid he’s gaslighting her, because gaslighting is what she expects from men in authority. I sound like a person who is relieved because the doctor tells her what she wants to hear –– she’s healthy.  So she ignores all the terrible symptoms that wax and wane and escalate. They are all in her head. They are hormones or hysteria. They are something else and something else and something else. She accepts his version of reality at the expense of her own. (This is a pattern I’m learning to break.)

Anne came with me to a follow up appointment because I needed someone else in the room, and that night we saw Indigo Girls.

We sat outside, our feet touching the grass. We drank wine and ate chocolate and sang “Shame on You” and “Closer to Fine” and “Galileo,” and so many songs that spoke to us when we were younger and had no clue how our lives would unfold. When I think about that summer, I don’t think about all the hours I spent in bed, confused and scared. I think about that concert, about the songs of my past that held such promise for my future.

I’m writing a spiritual memoir and am getting closer to finishing — or “Closer to Fine” – as Anne wrote on Twitter the other day. My treatment for chronic Lyme disease is working, even if my symptoms are still scary and still make me feel like I’m losing my grip on reality. Chronic disease can also feel like gaslighting. I don’t trust my perception of reality. My perception of reality is distorted by a disease that impacts my senses and central nervous system.

This week, to calm myself, I watched Indigo Girls performances from the 1990s, and I rewrote the first chapter of my book, which is about what it means to trust in the multiple paths that carry us forward.

At the end of the 2015 Wolf Trap concert, Indigo Girls sang “Closer to Fine,” a song from their second album, a song that has defined their career. This song is also about what it means to seek, to trust, to take refuge. There’s more than one answer to these questions. 

The chorus of “Closer to Fine” inclines toward the mountain top, the “look out,” but my spiritual awakenings have always begun on the ground. That’s where I go to meditate, or where I lay when I’m too tired to stand. On the ground, I let go of ego and expectation.

This week, I was so tired, I fell asleep on my meditation cushion. I found myself thinking of that song title, the words Anne tweeted –– Closer to Fine –– about how writing and spirituality can be a movement toward something, but not a finish line. This isn’t the answer I – or my students – want to hear, but it’s a liberating truth I need to hear. In this confusion, or darkness, my friends light the way on the journey. They remind me that wandering isn’t the same as being lost.

Indigo Girls 2015
Anne & me seeing Indigo Girls in 2015

 

 

To My Creative Writing Students Now and Always

No one in my family wrote. That is, if you count “writing” as the kind of writing that gets validated in academic settings: journalism, opinion pieces, blogs, essays, book reviews, literary criticism, short stories, and poetry. E-mail wasn’t even a word when I was growing up. My mother wrote shopping lists. Notes to my teachers. Sometimes she wrote the occasional letter or card or college essay when she went back to school for her associate degree.

My parents never told me to write, or not to write. I just wrote. At the end of each school year, for example, I jotted down how I had changed from the year before, everything I could do differently: Write cursive. Multiply. Walk to the bus top alone.

But what possessed me to take a pen to paper and move it across a page? Who encouraged me to write?

A cousin put my first journal in my hand. I was nine, and the journal was baby breath’s pink. Its cover featured a kitten chasing a ball of twine. My cousin wrote an inscription inside the front cover. She told me to record my dreams and thoughts and ambitions. Until that moment, no one but me seemed to care about what went on inside a little girl’s head. Yet, the journal’s inscription bore a symbolic message that informs my work as a writer to this day: My writing and what I have to say are a necessary contribution to the world. It’s the same message I impart to you, my students.

Your writing and what you have to say are a necessary contribution to the world.

I initially started writing diary entries to get acquainted with my voice and to record moments of my life I wanted to remember. I write today to interrupt silences and to make meaning out of my failures or losses. I write to understand the other, the margins. I write to ask, not to answer.

What did it mean that my mother was chronically disabled for so many years?

How did I, as an adolescent and young adult, define myself against her illness?

What was I thinking at 21, when I boarded a plane for Glasgow, Scotland, to work in a country I could barely find on a map?

And then, two years later, why did I leave Scotland for another foreign country – the Louisiana Delta – to write about religion among people whose faith I did not share? What was I running away from? What was I running toward?

In each essay or book chapter or poem I create, I am writing toward and through such questions.

Like Joan Didion, “I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear.”

I write to seek, never to find.

Writing has, in turn, given me a life I never could have envisioned when I was nine and first writing in a baby’s breath pink journal with a cat on the cover.

Writing took me overseas and into parts of the United States I initially feared –– the Deep South, for example. Writing introduced me to my husband. Writing made me a teacher. Writing gave me permission to find myself, to be myself, to live with less guilt and shame or a need for approval.

I can find a thousand reasons to write, and a thousand reasons not to write. I chose to listen to the thousand voices that tell me to write, and I want all of you to do the same. Right now. Tune out every single voice that says you’re not good enough –- or too good –– to be here.

Write when you’re tired, sad, angry, hungry, guilty, ashamed, sick, scared, happy, anxious, wide awake.

There will never be a perfect time to write. The perfect time is now.

Remake the world with your writing. Rebuild yourself. In the words of Wendell Berry, “Practice resurrection.”

Show up in this room. Show up on each page you read, each page you create.

Be who you are when everyone can see you. Be who you are when no one can see you.

Listen. Seek. Question.

Get serious. Own your words. Make them sharp or shiny or beautiful. Make them everything that matters.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Letter to the Woke Misogynist at My Gym

I didn’t see you. I’m sorry. I know you expected gratitude, eye contact –– a flirty smile –– when you held the door for me today. You made sure I knew your behavior was transactional. I owed you.

“YOU’RE WELCOME!” You barked, like a parent reprimanding a child. I had forgotten my manners, and it was your job to remind me. Lest I forget my place in this world. My place which is beneath you. My place which is to please you.

Would you have spoken to me in such an irate and condescending tone if I matched you in height and weight and genitalia? (I’m asking that question rhetorically.) We both know the answer is, “No.” So let’s not kid ourselves that this tantrum you had on your way into the gym tonight was about anything other than gender and power. My gender. Your perception of power.

I suspect you expected me to keep quiet, stay obedient. I doubt you expected me to turn around and pursue you. Did it take you aback when I asked your name? Interestingly, you refused to say. Did you know the wrongness of your behavior, and were you ashamed? Or did you want to act with impunity? Did you believe you wouldn’t be held accountable? (That’s another rhetorical question.) We both know the answer is, “Yes.”

“Why do you feel compelled to regulate my behavior?” I asked, as you turned down the hall. My voice wavered, but I forced out each word. I challenged you. I caught you off guard.

You’d already rounded a corner when I called out, “This is a microaggression! This is sexist!” As if the Microaggression/Sexism Police would rush down the hall and arrest you on the spot. But I forget. This is your world in so many ways. You walked free. And I shook in someone’s office.

Now it strikes me as deeply ironic that you carried a Yoga mat. Was it pink? Purple?

You see, I can’t remember. This is because another man, a man with a voice like yours and a similar stature, once left a bruise on my arm in another doorway. He hurt me when I wouldn’t do what he wanted me to do. He believed I owed him something too. Thank you for reminding me of him tonight. Thank you for reminding me that no matter how far I rise, there is always a man waiting to pull me down. There is always a man who believes my behavior, my body, are territories under his jurisdiction.

I wonder if you took pleasure in your Yoga class. Were you one of a few men in the room or the only man? Did you pat yourself on the back for being so comfortable in your masculinity that you can downward dog and cat cow on a pink or purple Yoga mat? Did you say namaste and chant om shanti shanti at the end –– and feel like such a good person? I hope you cleansed yourself, a little, of your anger. I know that anger. I know what that anger can do. That’s why I’m writing to you now. That’s why I’m holding you accountable.

This letter is me saying, “I know what you did.” This letter is me saying, “Don’t ever do that again.”

Look, we only interacted for a few seconds. I don’t really know you. And you don’t know me. But if you ever see me again, please treat me like an equal. A legitimate human being. A person who doesn’t owe you anything.

Also, please don’t open the door for me. I can open the door myself. I have been opening and opening and opening doors for my whole life. So many doors. You wouldn’t believe them all. There is no door too heavy, none I can’t breach.

And by the way, I can’t stop thinking about how we stood on a threshold tonight. Did you know threshold can mean “on the verge?”  Do you ever stop to think about how a threshold is a passage?  There is no way back. Only forward.

So step aside. I am about to pass you. Surpass you. I have so much work to do. I have no more time to waste.

A Gift, a Burden

I bought my mother a journal with a bird on the cover. We were in an Urban Outfitters near The Ohio State University, and my mother was threatening to buy penis-shaped pasta to serve the next time I or my sister had a male friend over for dinner. And I bought her a pale blue journal with a bird on the cover. Inside, I left an inscription. I encouraged her to write down all her dreams, her hopes. When she died four years later, I found the journal under a pile of sweaters. She’d never written a single word.

_____________

The morning my mother died, I fell to the floor and opened my mouth to scream. No sound came out. I reached up and pulled my journal off the coffee table. I opened up to a blank page, wrote the date in a top corner, then scrawled one giant word on the page. WHY?

I’m embarrassed that my first response to my mother’s death was this question, a half formed “Why me?” At the moment I lost her, my head spun with a thousand questions, and the most persistent one rose to the top.

 Why? I asked as if I could find an answer.

Why? I asked and knew I’d never find an answer.

_____________

I have lived for nearly seventeen years without a mother. I was 17 when I bought her the journal with a bird on the cover. Every year, my relationship to her life changes. My relationship to her death changes. Grief changes. Sometimes grief is a bundle that weighs me down so hard I can barely walk. Other times it’s smaller than a speck of dust, something I can almost brush aside, let drift away. I close my eyes and remember what it was like to have a mother. This memory is a dream that escapes me. If I graze the surface of this dream, it shatters.

_____________

 

Grief, from the Old French grever means “burden.” The word grever derives from the Latin gravar, “to make heavy,” a root of the word gravity.

_____________

My mother was my gravity, my ground, my root. Without her, I am rootless.

_____________

 Grief can be an experience of rootlessness, just as grief can be an experience of being weighed down.

_____________

Two contradictory things are true at the same time. That is grief.

_____________

Why didn’t my mother write in the journal with a bird on the cover? What was she afraid of? Or did she not care? Or was she saving the journal for me, because she saw me as the writer?

_____________

 A year after she died, I went to Greek island of Crete. I took her journal. I slept in a room that looked out on the sea. I filled the pages she left blank. I am still filling those pages. I will fill the pages for as long as I am able, which is to say until I die.

_____________

Carl Jung wrote, “The greatest burden a child must bear is the unlived life of the parents.” There it is again. That word. Burden.

_____________

 My mother’s legacy is a burden, and it also a gift. Neither of these ideas – burden, gift –erase the other. They exist side-by-side, like twins, like my sister and me.

_____________

 My mother’s death did not make me a writer, and I could not make her a writer. I responded to her death with a question because death is a question. I can never know why she refused to write in the pale blue journal with a blue bird on the cover, or why I even bought her the journal in the first place.  Now the pale blue cover strikes me as an important detail. Blue. The color of sky and water. The color of expansion. The color of dreams I cannot touch.

_____________

Birds mediate heaven and earth. I love that word. Between. My mother lives in my memories, my dreams. She inhabits the in-between of her life and her death. She lives in that sentence, in the conjunction and, a bridge between two words, two worlds. Once I had a mother. Once I bought her a pale blue journal with a bird on the cover. Once I wanted to capture her hope in a book emblazoned with a quintessential image of hope.

But she left all her pages blank. She left all her pages for me to fill.

_____________

Do you hear the suggestion of the word “grave” in that sentence, an echo of gravar? I do. I can’t stop myself. Her burial, her resurrection live together on the page, where I recreate her and say goodbye, make her into a memory, a ghost.

I can see her now, standing in the Urban Outfitters aisle, sunlight glittering on the edge of her chin. She holds up the pale blue journal with a bird on the cover. She smiles, as if she knows something I do not yet know.

 

A Year of Revelation

My mother’s mother, my Bubbie Fran, watched me frequently when I was a child. Once, while eating scrambled eggs, I reached for the salt shaker on her kitchen table. My grandmother swatted my hand. I looked up at her furrowed face, and my own face contorted in confusion.

“Why did you do that?” I asked.

“Salt is poison,” she told me, while stirring two fizzy saccharine pills into her otherwise black Folgers.

There were other poisons in her apartment, too. Sugar. Fat. Cholesterol. From my grandmother, and ultimately my mother, I learned that food could be dangerous and even deadly. My mother reinforced a contradictory food message each time she had an insulin reaction, when only sugary foods could save her. In ordinary time, these foods were forbidden: cookies, candy, sodas. But they held the power of God each time her blood sugar dropped.

We both internalized the belief that the worst thing a woman could be was fat. Our bodies were our currency, and thin bodies made us visible, gave us back the sense of control we lacked in our lives. For years, I was thin, and I took my thinness for granted. I believed being thin made me better, made me good, made me worthy. I think differently now. After years of food restrictions, I refuse to deny myself pleasure. I refuse to limit what brings me joy. I’m at the top end of my weight range right now because I take pleasure in eating. I cannot control whether I get sick, even while eating foods I used to fear. That has been the hardest and most poignant lesson of 2017. I am not at fault for my illnesses. Neither are you.

________

Here’s a list of all the foods I’ve eliminated over the years:

  • Sugar
  • Salt
  • Dairy
  • Soy
  • Alcohol
  • Caffeine
  • Grains
  • Raw cruciferous vegetables
  • Fruit

________

Restricting my diet escalated my anxiety. I could rarely eat with other people. I missed family holiday dinners because I feared not having control over the menu. Once, on a meditation retreat, I awakened in the middle of the night in a sweaty panic about quinoa. By restricting my diet, I thought I could cure myself from an autoimmune disease and other mysterious medical symptoms. This line of thinking, while quite common in our culture, is also a form of victim blaming. I believed what I ate made me sick, and I believed what I didn’t eat could make me well. I believed I had power, and I believed I didn’t have power. If I ate the wrong foods, I deserved whatever ills befell me. Food could be a miracle cure, and food could be poison.

I am not alone in my beliefs. Morality and magical thinking have long been associated with eating ––  take it all the way back to Genesis ––  and many women are taught to reduce food intake, to deny ourselves the pleasure of eating in a culture that denies or seeks to limit our power. Also, our oldest stories, our fairytales, imbue food with danger and magic. We are taught to feel shame when we indulge in the pleasure of eating. And when we do not feel worthy of food, we do not feel worthy of pleasure or joy.

________

Earlier this month, a new female physician listened to my mysterious symptoms, viewed another rash spreading across my neck, and said, “I think you have Lyme Disease.”

I laughed. But it turns out she was right.

The last time I pulled a tick off my body was in 2011. I’ve had a handful of bizarre rashes, but never a bull’s eye. And my former GP tested me for Lyme in 2015. Although my labs showed some abnormalities consistent with Lyme, he dismissed my symptoms and the results. In retrospect, he should have ordered repeat tests, as my abnormalities and symptoms were consistent with an early infection.

My new labs showed no autoimmunity, and no abnormalities associated with an autoimmune disease. Despite the fact that I’ve been eating all the foods on my forbidden list for months, my thyroid health is improving.

2017 has been a year of revelation.

Food did not make me sick.

Food could not make me well.

________

The other day, I saw a meme circulating Facebook. The meme pleaded with women not to make New Year’s resolutions to lose weight, and especially not to talk about weight loss goals in front of their daughters. The meme asked women to consider eating as a means to a nutritional end, a practice in body love.

If only our lives were so simple. I know many women who want to follow this logic, who’d love to follow this logic, and yet food and our bodies are so fraught with anxiety and contradictory messages, that we don’t know how to start to free ourselves. We have been given few tools for fighting back against a culture that frequently diminishes our bodies, our habits of eating.

I am by no means cured from my food obsessions, and I still fight against the desire to restrict food. I fear that my diet will be restricted once I begin long term treatment for Lyme Disease, but I hope I will advocate for myself in new ways in 2018. I will not follow a doctor’s advice without doing my own research or seeking a second opinion.

I want less resolutions, less restrictions.

I want more revelation.

We cannot control what happens to us. We can only surrender.