Alcohol, anorexia and God

Of all the many topics I rarely mention or write about I vaguely ever touch on my drinking or anorexia from my past. Alcohol consumed much of my adult life. For almost twenty years of it. It was my means of escape. My means of masking my depression. My means of running and hiding. Running and hiding from the hell of the bipolar that I was trapped in.

I drank every chance I got and that was pretty often, daily. Many times more than once daily. Alcohol was my comfort zone. It was my best friend and worst enemy at the same time. It didn’t care if it got me into legal trouble. It didn’t care if those I drank with were my real friends or not.

It only cared about one thing. And that was that I consumed as much as possible as frequently as possible. It didn’t care about the arguments between my wife and I. It didn’t care about the financial problems it caused. It didn’t care how I ignored my family. The alcohol didn’t care about the hangovers it caused. All it cared about was being in control of my.

I became known as the drunk at my place of employment.

I was a slave to alcohol and I couldn’t stop on my own. I tried many times and many times I failed. I had to stop. For different reason I had to stop. For the sake of my marriage and family I had to stop. The judge told me I had to stop. And to be honest….I WANTED TO STOP. I just couldn’t.

Facing a felony I was sentenced to mental court due to my bipolar. On the condition I was to attend a step study program and stay sober during the proceedings my record would be expunged and I would serve no time.

God was looking out for me and had his hands upon me. Rather than attend AA I requested to attend Celebrate Recovery. With its approval I began attending. I began attending shy and nervous.

I attended as an alcoholic and anorexic. My anorexia was my form of control. It was my way of having some form of control in my life. Every part of my life was out of control, but I had my say in my eating. It was mine. My control. I was in charge. My goals. My numbers.

Needless to say God began to work on me with my eating disorder as well. I was not in control. My eating disorder was in control. It was controlling me. Not me controlling it. It dictated how I ate and how, when and how much. It dictated if and when I purged. It controlled my destroying my own body. The very body the God owns. God proved to me that He was in control.

In time through Celebrate Recovery things changed. God changed me. God opened my heart and my mind. I no longer drink. I can’t remember the last time I did. I can’t remember the last time purged. I still don’t eat a whole lot, but then again I never really have. I’ve always been small.

I love sobriety. I love not seeing food as the enemy. I love enjoying food and not feeling guilting.

He never gave up

I thought it would happen in a moment, an instant, this finding of Jesus, of God.

An event. The day the wandering ended, the climax of the story, the crux, the peg on which I could hang my spiritual hat.

I imagined it happening at the end of a church service, a poignant sermon stomping all over my dress shoes, my icy shell splintering, my steel heart shockingly, suddenly bare, vulnerable.

Perhaps it would come when I closed turned the final page of a book, likely full of theology, telling of practice, even wrapped in story, and it would all make sense and in those words I would find it, peace.

I wondered if it would happen during the Christmas weeks, those days of reverence and beauty, of holy expectation. A candle lit service might hold power where Sunday messages had failed and I would cry warm tears into my folded paper candle cup and I would be new again.

There were those mornings when I woke before the small ones, lit a candle and played quiet piano hymns through speakers, as I was wont to do in days of old. Surely reading more verses, praying more prayers, surely these would hasten the moment.

***

It didn’t happen in a church service.

It didn’t happen when I read a book.

It wasn’t during Advent.

It wasn’t before dawn with a burning candle and quiet hymns.

I found Jesus the day I told Him I didn’t know if I wanted to believe in Him anymore, and was that okay, Lord? Was it okay if I just took a break?

Jesus became real at 2am in the rocking chair, when I cried warm tears with my head in my hands and I begged my God to show me Himself, whispered pleas to be real, be real.

Truth found me in late night talks fueled by red wine, morning conversation over coffee, three hour of writing and editing blogs, and honest confession, sitting cross-legged.

Salvation crept over my soul the day I scrawled fresh words in my journal, that maybe it is all a crutch, maybe I am weak for needing a god, perhaps this God is indeed too high to understand, but that I want a crutch, I am weak and I need a strong God and I don’t even care anymore about anything other than that Jesus, that Father, that Spirit.

Jesus came in the quiet, in the still and the small, and I opened my arms and said, I’m here I’m here I’m here. Take me, take my soul, bind my wandering heart to Thee. Help Thou my unbelief, but I believe

I believe

I believe.

Facing Lies

I’ve been trying to work on my memoir for some time. Maybe I’m not trying hard enough. Maybe I don’t feel my life is at a point to where it is complete. Maybe I don’t feel it is worth publishing let alone reading.

My life has been anything but boring. It has been laced with Bipolar 1 and psychotic episodes, alcohol and drug use…marriages and legal problems. But I’ve had successes and victories in my life.

There have been times when I have tried things and failed. I’ve walked away satisfied just for trying.

Memoirs of bipolar and alcohol use are a dime a dozen. Who would read a story of another? Sometimes I choose to believe the lie I’m just a messed up freak who writes about dark things intertwined with stories of faith and promises of good. So I quit.

Miserable humans we are, we sometimes feel, trying hard to make our fantasies and deepest longings come true for ourselves. We whip lies into submission until they become crystal clear reality in our squishy brain folds.

But then, actual reality. The cruelty of truth creeps in warning us to never do that again.

Then I think of playing in the pain – not being afraid of the darkness, because in the darkness, we find the light. And I’m reminded of that feeling crashing into your purpose and realizing that you’ve been wasting a lot of creativity and energy with excuses.

Maybe you know what I’m talking about.

All of us have dreams. Those dreams are built around purpose – what we’re made to be – what’s in our bones to do. And every single one of us faces a moment where we decide whether or not we’ll go through with it. Every single one of us has a chance to either push forward or quit.

And here’s the best news: even if you’ve quit, even if you’ve believed the lie that whatever it is you want to pursue isn’t worth it or that people won’t understand, there’s always a second chance.

Your dream is worth it. You are worth it. What if you ran with it? What if you didn’t give up and quit?

Grace in labels

The shortest amount of time I’ve ever held a job was three days. And that was last week. Like so many times before my past had followed me. This time it was my legal record. A felony. Some DUI’s. I was upfront about my felony. How I had blacked out after taking an increase in dosage of one my medications that my doctor and I agreed on and then got into a strangers car. The person who hired me had no problem with my criminal record. It was her bosses so I was let go.

I’ve learned throughout my life that the majority of the time what’s on paper is too black and white. If someone put it on paper before you then they must be right.

We have many ways of identifying and labeling people. I have a DOC number. It is to identify me. Yesterday, I saw my probation officer. Pictures of my tattoos were taken. They are to identify me. I lost my job because I have DOC number and a probation officer. Because I have a record.

So I am judged and labeled.

I am bipolar. So I am labeled. I used to self-medicate to try to cope. So I am judged. I am labeled. 

Thanksgiving of desperation

I’ve been mulling over two components lately; prayer and wisdom. Many times I find myself praying for wisdom or even contemplating the notion it’s in our wisdom that God hears us.

I’ve been out of work for a while and finding work is no easy task in my town. I’ve spent much of my kids lives before they went to school as a stay-at-home-dad so I’m no stranger to staying home. But now I’m alone in the house.

You may wonder what does this have to do with prayer and wisdom and praying for wisdom. By no means am “super-spiritual” but I try to spend much of my time conversing with God. Unfortunately, much of that time I question if He hears me. I know logically I He does, but feeling it is a different story.

Ever take anything for granted? Surely. Surely I have. And it’s how I feel about the wisdom God imparts upon me daily. I lost my job in March due to my disability. I’m handling that and that’s a different story to tell. But in the mean time it’s like Murphy’s law has sprung wide open on us. Anything that can go wrong will go wrong. I need to work and I have filled out numerous applications but my illness is actually preventing me from working.