Recover (10 of 40)

Remember way back in my first post when I mentioned that some of the objectives for my 40 by forty list are light-hearted and fun, while others would be much more complex and personal? Well, strap on in. This one’s gonna be a doozy.  

I have been wavering on whether and when to delve into this topic. Somewhere between a nebulous-future-date and half-past-never was beginning to sound about right when I learned that this past week was National Eating Disorder Awareness Week. I very maturely thought to myself, “Well shit,” and set about ripping off the band-aid. 

Let’s start with some statistics, shall we? 

• Over 30 million people in the US alone have an eating disorder; one-third of these people are men. 

• Eating disorders carry the highest mortality rates of all mental illnesses. 

• 13% of women over the age of 50 show eating disorder behavior. 

• Less than 6% of people with eating disorders are medically diagnosed as “underweight.” 

You may be able to guess where I’m going with this, but if not, let me officially welcome you to my overshare! As far back as I can remember, my relationship with food has been, well, complicated. In elementary school, I often feigned sick so I could stay home and eat ice cream unbothered. I’d carefully spoon down the surface so that it appeared the same as when I began, only an inch or two lower. Food was comfort, but it was also secretive and shameful. 

As a teen, I was introduced to bulimia after learning a couple of friends I looked up to had become caught up in raging eating disorders of their own. This knowledge, coupled with an intense desire to fit in and a predisposition towards anxiety and depression made the perfect storm. I had no idea the first time I voluntarily threw up in a pizza parlor restroom that I was inviting an insidious shadow figure to be a life-long companion. 

What I naïvely hoped would bring me camaraderie and belonging, actually isolated me further from everyone I knew. To my already sick friends, I was an interloper, overstepping onto hallowed ground I had not been invited to. To my family, I became increasingly crafty at separating my internal and external worlds: straight-A student on one hand, self-destructive cyclone on the other. 

It wasn’t long before I was found out. I began seeing a therapist who diagnosed me with an Eating-Disorder-Not-Otherwise-Specified. To my distorted brain, this was just more proof that I was a total failure; I couldn’t even get an eating disorder right. 

What I may have “lacked” in quality, I more than made up for in quantity when it came to mental pathology. The vast majority of people with eating disorders are also familiar with depression and/or anxiety. Substance abuse and self-harm make guest spots somewhere in the 50% range. Not to brag, but I went ahead and checked ALL the boxes, made a swift downward spiral and spent my senior year of high school in residential and group therapies instead of at prom and pep rallies.

Some times a hard U-turn and a few years of perspective are exactly what is needed to get back on the right track. The structure and stability of my 20’s and early thirties relegated my ominous shadow figure into something akin to a body-dysmorphic white noise. 

Then the bottom dropped out of my life and that structure and stability followed suit. I wish I could say that I handled all the change with grace and healthy coping strategies, but obviously I’d be lying. There’s no question I did everything in my power to ease the transition, but when a tsunami hits, dog-paddling just ain’t gonna cut it. Something was going to have to give, and for me, it was a relapse into the same behaviors I had relied on as a teenager. 

This round has been a harder battle. It’s very easy to have secrets when you live alone half the time...

...when your old friends who should’ve cared aren’t part of your life anymore and your new friends don’t know you that well yet...

...when you have to alternately keep your shit together or fall apart depending on the current custody arrangement... 

...when you’re afraid your personal struggle could be used against you in a court of law. 

Throw in a pandemic and you get the picture. 

As I was composing my list of 40 by forty, I included RECOVER on it. I had to write my goal in code because spelling out the words stop binging and purging felt way too embarrassing for a nearly 40-year-old. To be free of this is one of my greatest wishes and hardest fights. I do believe there is hope for a life on the other side of an eating disorder, but I’m learning that it is an ebb and flow process more than a final destination. 

This last year, I laid out some very specific action steps to help keep me moving in the right direction. If someone were to ask me how to recover, I’d probably shrug, “Hell if I know,” but I’d also mention these ten things that are helping to put an increasing distance between myself and the shadows I have known. 

1. Be honest. (Kinda of regretting that one now, but I digress.)
2. Regularly see a therapist. If in-patient treatment isn’t an option, prioritize weekly sessions. 
3. Consult a nutritionist. Just being properly nourished counts for a lot. 
4. Refuse to jump on eating bandwagons. (I’m looking at you Keto-Paleo-Whole30-EliminationDiet-IntermittentFasting. No hate, just not helpful for my mental health.) 
5. Get a dog. (Yes, I am crazy for adding a puppy into the mix, but I am a crazy girl who has to take the dog for a walk rather than wallow alone at home.)
6. Read Atomic Habits by James Clear. Eating disorders are largely habitual and ritualistic. 
7. Find a creative outlet. (For me: this blog. You’re welcome.) 
8. Limit alcohol. (Not gonna lie, ‘rona has done us zero favors in this regard.)
9. Foster esteem and gratitude. I try to write a list of five things I like about myself, one of which must be a physical attribute, and five things I’m grateful for daily. 
10. Be kind to myself. (Harder than it should be.) 

So, if you made it this far, thank you for bearing witness to a raw and vulnerable part of my life. And if you happen to be or know someone who is struggling with similar sentiments, please know you’re not in it alone. 

Movies to See in a Lifetime (9 of 40)

I came across a list of 100 movies to see in a lifetime and thought to myself, “Yep, gonna do that.” Then the world offered up a pandemic in order for me to make a dent in the list. #winning 

2020 was nothing if not isolating, so I enlisted an actor friend to watch with me. It was fun to have his behind-the-scenes commentary and our virtual movie nights became one of my favorite parts of quarantine. 

I took some creative license with the original list. Several of the movies were ones I had already seen and would not require a rewatch. (Let’s just say 15-year-old Caitlin watched Titanic like it was her job.)

I also found watching one film inspired me to want to see what else a specific actor or director has done. Hitchcock, for example, was sorely underrepresented. Also, how can you watch The Godfather Part One without following it up with Two and Three? 

Below are some of the more notable films along with my one or two sentence take away. I hope it inspires you to expand your own flick index. 

Rear Window: I LOVED this movie. Top three of all time. The intrigue, the esthetic, the voyeurism...I’m all in. 

Rebel Without a Cause: By today’s standards James Dean’s performance may not be ranked among the greatest, but given that it was 1955, wow! Also, for all the alleged “wholesomeness” of the 1950’s, these kids were killing puppies and bringing knives to school, so there’s that. 

Psycho: Is it weird that I {heart} Anthony Perkins/Norman Bates? Like a lot. Like, a lot a lot. 

Paper Moon: Another top contender. Ryan and Tatum O’Neal were pure magic. 

Taxi Driver: I was so unsettled by DeNiro’s portrayal that I initially thought the movie was just a cliché of 1970’s misogyny and machismo. It wasn’t until my actor friend explained that the parts that were off-putting were actually intentional choices that I grasped the brilliance behind it. Side note: an Oscar for Jodie Foster’s performance? Ehhh, not convinced. 

Some Like it Hot: Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon were both timeless and ahead of their time in terms of comedy and content. Also, first time seeing Marilyn Monroe in a movie. Supposedly she was a complete disaster behind the scenes, but she pulled it off on screen. 

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind: Brilliance. Comedians who can also act in serious films have to be some of the most talented humans on earth. 

Godfather Part One: An excellent way to spend three hours of your life. Also, Diane Keaton is in this?! I never knew! 

Godfather Part Two: Note to self: rewatch while sober because I definitely didn’t get the appeal. A solid meh. 

Citizen Kane: Rosebud. Still had to google it to figure out the meaning. 

Pan’s Labyrinth: Beautiful cinematography and story! Beware a brutal scene involving a bottle. Hint: watch with subtitles. 

My Own Private Idaho: River Phoenix and Keanu Reeves in queer-themed cinema...what more could you want? The movie itself was odd but I liked that it had to have been ground-breaking in the 90’s. 

Lost in Translation: I realize that at the time it was filmed, Scarlett Johansson was 18 to Bill Murray’s 52, but I don’t even care. Their chemistry was everything. 

One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest: Ugh, the ending! Poor Randle. 

Now, watching all 100 titles before my 40th birthday is just plain unrealistic. Frankly, I barely have time to do anything with consistent regularity. I have, however, been able to make a good dent in the list and most importantly, I have vastly improved my film repertoire. 

Homemade Pasta (8 of 40)

I’m no culinary expert but over the years I’d like to think that I’ve developed a few skills when it comes to the kitchen. Making meals that my kids enjoy is one of the more rewarding parts of motherhood. I love that there are certain dishes that the kids will always associate with me and that the same recipe made by someone else is just not quite as good as how mom makes it. 

I’m not really a huge fan of pasta so I couldn’t tell you why I felt the need to learn how to make it from scratch. Now that I think about it though, maybe that’s exactly why. Am I missing the true irresistibility of pasta because I’ve only ever had the dehydrated version? Is there a revelation in store for me where I will finally understand the allure of angel hair? SO many unimportant unanswered questions! 

Thankfully I was not alone in my quest for answers. I happen to have birthed a budding sous chef who was willing to take on the task along side me. A Pinterest search for “Easy Perfect Pasta” and an Amazon Prime delivery of a table top pasta machine later and we were in our way.

I should’ve known early on that Pinterest was going to set me up for failure. There was nothing easy or perfect about the pasta-making process we experienced. We gathered our ingredients: a deceptively simple list of flour, eggs, salt and olive oil. Then, we molded the flour into a mound and created a well for the eggs to sit in. 

Everything was going swimmingly until step three: gently break up the eggs and slowly incorporate the flour while keeping the flour wall intact. Whelp, the flour wall lasted approximately 3.8 seconds before Ava and I were desperately mopping up the flood of raw egg running through our fingertips and all over the countertop. 

Once we disposed of the gooey, runny mess, we tried again, this time opting for containment in an oversized bowl rather than the great wide beyond of the countertop. This attempt proved to be more successful and we were able to move onto step four: Knead 8 to 10 minutes until dough becomes smooth and elastic.

Holy Arm Day, Batman! Three minutes in and I was solidly questioning my commitment to the process. At six minutes, I shamelessly coerced the girl child to take over. By minute seven, I found myself regrettably back at the helm. When the timer finally did sound, the dough was more wrinkled and solid than smooth and elastic, but I had done my time and it would get no more action from me. 

Step five was definitely the highlight of the experience: rolling out the sheets of pasta and cutting them into long strands of spaghetti. Now that the grunt work was done, my sous chef suddenly reappeared ready to assist again. We fed the dough through the rolling piece, adjusting the setting smaller and smaller with each pass. We then sent the sheet through the cutter and had our first batch of homemade pasta! 

Thick, gummy, tasteless pasta, but pasta none-the-less! 

I’m sure that with repeated effort, perfecting homemade pasta would be attainable, however I’ve realized that it’s not worth the effort for something I only feel mediocre about anyway. While the final product was nothing like what the recipe intended, my chief taste-tester downed a bowl without hesitation. That feels like a win to me. 

Who vs. Whom and a Word About Tacos (7 of 40)

Allow me to let you into a smidgen of my own personal neurosis. I’m a bit of a grammar/punctuation snob. There’s a very real part of me that feels I may have missed my calling as copy editor. I’m not saying it’s right, but at any given moment, chances are I’m silently judging correcting verbal and/or written conversations in my head.

Among my list of pet peeves:

Phonetic spelling: This is single-handedly why I will never own a personalized license plate. If what you’re trying to say cannot correctly fit in the allotted six spaces, for the love of Pete, pick something else! Otherwise, the GDBY on your plate might mean “good-bye” or “good boy” or “God boy.” Or, maybe what you’re actually trying to convey is “Gee, Debby” in which case I have to ask…"Who is this Debby and what has she done?" I simply do not know, and it’s maddening.  

Extraaaaa voweeeels: Can someone explain this one to me? I noticed the young folk, and by that I mean anyone born beyond 1990, like to do this. Why??? I do not understand the need to hyper-annunciate to the point of incorrect spelling. It also seems inefficient. It takes you longer to type, and it takes me longer to read.

The lowercase “i”: Entirely unnecessary. Spell check will actually correct this for you. It feels like an intentional attack on my eyes and I will be mildly offended.

Irregardless: Once again, loudly for the people in the back: THIS. IS. NOT. A. WORD.

I’m not even going to go into the there-they’re-their debacle.

Now that I’ve gotten that off my chest (whew, what a relief), I have a confession to make: I have gone nearly 40 years without knowing the proper difference between who and whom. The shame, the SHAME I tell you! Worst of all, I only needed a quick Google search to find the answer. I have included a video tutorial below for your viewing pleasure. Enjoy!

https://youtu.be/4B_KU7iQ0pg

Searching for Sand Dollars (6 of 40)

One of my all time favorite activities is beach combing. Not all beaches in SoCal are ripe for the picking, which makes the pay off that much sweeter when I do find something worthwhile. Shells are fine and all, but what I’m really after are the more rare treasures: sea glass and sand dollars. 

The summer that we decided to divorce, we took a family road trip up the coast of California and into Oregon. The week before we left, we told the kids that we were separating. It was an excruciating conversation. It was important for me to have it before we left on our trip, though, because I wanted to practically live out out the narrative we gave the kids: Our family is changing. It is hard and sad and unfair and painful. But we are still a family. It’s going to look different but it’s not going away. 

And so we did the things. We visited Alcatraz and saw incredible NorCal Redwoods. We got lost without cell service, found snow in July and ate grilled cheese at Tillamook. We had a bonfire on Cannon Beach, discovered Voodoo Donuts in Portland and slept in separate bedrooms. Like any family vacation, there were good moments and hard moments, but most importantly there were moments and memories made together. 

We had also planned to visit friends in Medford, Oregon when Cash unexpectedly came down with a middle o’ the night vomit sesh. We thought better than potentially infecting anyone else and instead detoured to Glass Beach in Fort Bragg. This place was like beach comber heaven! While most of the glass pieces were small, there were so many different colors. We each left with a ziploc bag full of ocean tumbled beauty and my heart was happy. 

At some point in the last few years I heard a rumor that a great place to find sand dollars is Pismo Beach. When the kids and I trekked up there this past weekend, I envisioned long walks along a sea-treasured shoreline. Let’s just say frolicking may or may not have been involved. 

I checked the tide schedule and woke early Saturday morning in anticipation of all the wonders that surely awaited me. Stepping out onto the soft sand, I found...nothing. 

Well not nothing. There were long strands of rubbery sea weed, cracked clam and muscle shells, a rogue sock, but nary a sand dollar in sight. To be fair, a quick google revealed that sand dollar season (yes, that is a thing) runs August through October, of which February is shockingly not included in. 

I had resigned that I might not be checking finding sand dollars in Pismo off the 40 by forty list, when I found myself chasing after Nocchi who had darted up shore after a wire-y shepherd mix. Suddenly, as if placed by fate itself, there it was. Against the pale tan sand lay a dark circle of perfection...a single black sand dollar! 

I had never seen one that color and I happily scooped it up to go show the kids. They were less than thrilled. Clearly by the length of my post about it, I am decidedly more so. 

*Disclaimer...before you and the sea-urchin-equivalent of PETA come for me, I have since learned that the sand dollar was dark in color because it was, cough-cough, still somewhat living. In my defense, it was far from the water and fully exposed so I’m gonna give myself a break. Maybe I’ll re-home a spider outside rather than ninja-smash it into a Kleenex to balance things out. Maybe.

Sensory Deprivation (5 of 40)

Last week was grief-heavy for me. When it comes to the aftermath of great loss, I'm learning some weeks are just like that, even years later. Sometimes I can pinpoint the exact cause that has re-pierced the emotional abscess inside me, while other it's just the weighty this-is-NOT-what-I-planned-ness of it all that drags me down. When it comes to outlook, let's just say no one has ever accused me of being an optimist. I've definitely been guilty of my fair share of wallowing in the proverbial darkness. True to my glass-half-empty form, I figured if there is a certain level of satisfaction in proverbial darkness, maybe I should also try wallowing in the actual darkness. Nothing says 'life-giving' like a pitch black, sound resistant water tank, amIright?

Enter Float Lab. They offer two-hour sensory deprivation experiences, and I'm not sure what else to say about it except just that: it is an experience. The brochure boasts all sorts of potential benefits...increased clarity, reduced stress, better sleep, meditation, increased endorphins and decreased cortisol to name a few. When I arrived, I thought I'd be the only one trying this weird, new age-y thing. Instead, I was surprised when the elevator door opened to a waiting room filled with four other people preparing for their own dark encounter. 

The receptionist showed me to a private room with a shower. Against the back wall was a hatch-like door, beyond which the tank lies. After washing off, I put the earplugs in and opened the hatch. Blackness stared back at me. I stepped inside and felt the tepid water pool around my calves. The water temperature mimics body temp so the only sensation from it was the gentle movement as it settled around my body. I pulled the door closed, laid back into the shallow salt water and found myself, in essence, blinded. 

The first thing I noticed was that the sensation of floating without anything to orient myself with gave the feeling that I was perpetually turning. It passed after several moments but it was interesting to see what the body does to establish equilibrium in the absence of external stimuli. I began to focus on my breath; inhaling six seconds, pausing, exhaling six seconds. Ironically, when I stopped focusing on this, I found that I had to remind myself to breathe at all. It was as if suddenly breathing wasn't an automatic process anymore. 

Eventually I drifted off into a lucid dream state, and even briefly fell asleep. Because of the salt content of the water, the risk of drowning is practically non-existent, but when I did become more conscious, I was suddenly concerned with the risk of being forgotten inside the tank. Had I fallen asleep for only a few moments? Or had it been two hours and I had somehow missed the tap on the tank that would signify my time was up?! Though I was tempted to desperately paw for the escape route, I decided to stick it out and hope it would all work out. (Spoiler alert, it did.)

The practical, physical experience of being inside the tank is much easier to quantify than the psycho-spiritual-mental part of it. Quieting all the external brought a greater focus into the deeper recesses of my mind and I found myself connecting with more primal emotions. I won't try to explain that here, in part because I lack the proper language, but also because that is the part that was just for me. You'll just have to try it yourself if you want to know. 

Though I'm not in any rush to retreat back into the darkness and silence anytime soon, I definitely feel like there was value to the experience. I'd be open to going again if and when I feel so inclined. In any event, I'm glad that it was on the list!