If you know me well, you know of my affinity for all things Christmas. I started decorating my house the week before Thanksgiving. I believe carols should be sung year round. I can quote Charlie Brown Christmas, It’s a Wonderful Life, Miracle on 34th Street, and the delightfully awkward “Night Before Christmas” (featuring clock-making mice) like no one I know. But for me, for what seems like the past decade, I have been doing just that – rehearsing and reciting, but not really experiencing Christmas. In fact, I usually dread and despise the months October-March when the days are shorter, darker, and colder. Beginning around daylight savings time I feel my body start to slow down, shut down, and begin to feel (or not feel) what I can only describe as “auto-pilot” – the result of Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD). Couple this with anxiety and constant stress to out-perform, stay involved, lead a group or plan an event, and you have the recipe (in my case) for bulimia. My eating disorder allowed me to disconnect and numb out from the depression of the winter months, the anxiety of chemical imbalance, and the drive to be better and do more. With it I could sing in the Christmas cantata, work late nights and weekends, volunteer at church, throw parties on weekends, be a “good” daughter and girlfriend, and travel when my job demanded – all with a smile on my face. It’s something you can’t understand unless you’re afflicted with it yourself, or some other obsessive addiction. While you’re in it, you actually think it’s improving your life, but in reality, you aren’t experiencing your life at all.

Last Christmas, I hit my breaking point. It seems ironic to me now, but the day after I hosted a large get together of high school friends home for the holidays, I went into the inpatient unit for Eating Disorders at Somerset Medical Center. Since I left the program in February my struggle with the disease has been a series of ups and downs, minor relapses and recoveries, and new medications (I could write a whole other blog post about that). I’ve finally gotten to a place where I’m consistently okay. My SAD, depression and anxiety are managed, I’m becoming more comfortable in my skin, and it’s been months since I thought about food in the obsessive, unhealthy pattern of a bulimic.

So here’s where I reach what I have bursting at the seams to share with you. CHRISTMAS IS AMAZING. When you have been disconnected and unable to access your emotions for over seven years, experiencing the holiday season in a healthy frame of mind is child-like and wonderful. Instead of stressed I feel bursts of elation and joy when I see Christmas lights, busy shoppers, trees on the roofs of cars and snow flurries on cold December afternoons. I took pride in my handy electrical engineering when I rigged my tree, window candles, and lights to a timer on the only grounded outlet in my 100 year old drafty apartment. I well up with tears at the drop of a hat – at movies, TV commercials, a burst of love for Mike or a puppy. This is strange and new and surprising all at once – kind of like Christmas when you are a little kid; anticipating the arrival of Santa Claus or devotedly rehearsing lines to play the Angel Gabriel in the Sunday School Christmas Pageant (Fear not! For I bring you glad tidings of great joy which shall be to all people! – see, I still got it). Gift giving has become, instead of a chore, just as exciting as getting up early on Christmas morning to see what you received. I’m feeling the same way as I did when I was 6, buying handmade crafts for 50 cents from “Frosty’s Workshop” to give to my mom and dad – excited and confident that they’ll love what I got them. I invite you to remember your own childhood this Christmas – the night before, wiggling in bed with anticipation and straining to hear the pounding of hooves on the roof. The first time your mom let you hold the candle at the Christmas Eve service, staring into the light and lifting your voice to sing “Silent Night” with the rest of the congregation. Secretly sneaking a few more marshmallows into your hot chocolate, or sharpening your candy cane to deadly point. Whatever Christmas meant to you as a child, I hope you will really feel the joy of the holiday this year as you did then.

Eating disorders are not glamorous and there are many out there I know who are still struggling to keep their head above water this December. But if I had to re-do my life, I don’t know that I would necessarily wish away my disease. It’s been a long hard road an I know that there will continue to be bumps along the way. But if it’s this experience that has allowed me to experience Christmas again with awe, wonder, and joy for the miracle that it celebrates, then I don’t regret it. Peace and joy to you, this Christmas.

This isn’t a cry for people to tell me I’m beautiful, loved, wonderful. This is my cry out to my eating disorder to please leave me the hell alone. In the hospital, I’m safe from it. I can’t use it, I’m surrounded my non-judgemental, understanding women who know exactly what I mean when I say, I could never love myself. I’ve heard it said that you can’t really love someone until you love yourself. I don’t believe this at all. Because I have so much love inside me I could burst sometimes. For my family, for my dog, for my boyfriend and friends, for Spoke Folkers, for God, for humanity in general. It all just seems so external from me. Like this love can’t possibly apply to me.

I am happy. Please don’t get me wrong. I am blessed beyond belief. Haha! Listen to me apologizing for feeling the way I do. It’s true though. I love laughing and singing and dancing and I appreciate small things in life. It’s just that I don’t think I deserve them

One thing that’s new in this whole process is dealing with a relationship in the midst of recovery. I’ve let the new boy (we’ll call him for anonymity’s sake) in on my past struggles, but have a very hard time sharing with him that I’m struggling big time, right now. Part of me worries he won’t get it, that it’ll send him running, or that I’ll seem too needy or vulnerable. A lot of times I have a hard time believing that he wants to be with me in the first place…I feel guilty about my weight or my imperfections, or like he’s just putting up with me. Intellectually, I know this to be irrational. But the nagging, emotional weight of it all occupies my thoughts constantly. Like most women, I need to be affirmed…often. But I have put up this stoic, “together” front for so long that I have a hard time letting it down. Or asking for what I need. After all, how do you ask for something like that without sounding whiny and neurotic, or attention seeking? This “grown up” relationship a totally new ballgame, and I feel a little like I’m feeling around in the dark…trying not to make a wrong move and bump into something sharp.

When my last real relationship ended, instead of coping in a healthy way and grieving the loss, I threw myself head first into the arms of Ed. I was going to be fine, and I was going to lose 20 pounds in the process. Now I find myself at the beginning of something, and running to Ed again. It’s safer there, it’s familiar. But it’s pretty painful too, and I’m hoping I can summon the courage to deal with all the unfamiliarity without using symptoms.

Peace and love, friends.

• Relapsed in early September, a.k.a Ed came back with a dirty vengeance
• Declared affections for the childhood crush in an e-mail. Was kindly rejected in the best way possible. Good guy.
• Re-committed to recovery in November, a.k.a. kicked Ed’s dirty butt to the curb again. This involved some significant lifestyle changes, including quitting everything I was involved in outside of work, changing my hours, new meds, and cutting out the gym. So far it seems to be working – 2 weeks symptom free today!
• Met new crush who turned into new boyfriend (yes, there were cupcakes involved). Now I’m dealing with the awkwardness of dating as a grownup and being entirely unfamiliar with this territory. So far my neuroses haven’t scared him away yet.
• Dealing with complete upheaval at work and the negative energy /complete ineffectiveness/mean people of the institution I work for.

The last bullet point has been the main reason for resuming the blog. Work has made me so emotionally volatile lately that I have to have a place to let it out. I have always been blessed with work environments where I felt supported, encouraged, liked, and respected. Whether in college or grad school, I always felt like I knew my place in the work environment. This all changed when I got my first “real job.” This summer I had finally felt like I was fitting in, getting into the groove, and figuring it all out. Yet it was when I was in the darkest time of my relapse this fall, when my treatment team was getting ready to recommend a higher level of care, that I felt completely ostracized and even bullied – almost explicitly because of the changes in hours I mentioned before. If you’ve seen the movie “Mean Girls”, you know what I mean. The thing is, I never experienced the “mean girls” scenario in middle or high school.  I was secure in my friendships and happy about my place in the world. And now I come into this office of catty, immature, unprofessional women. Ladies, if you’ll allow me to pull out my soap box a moment and say, “AHEM. THIS IS WHY WE ARE STILL EARNING $0.77 TO A MAN’S DOLLAR!”

The backstabbing, talking behind people’s backs, worrying about who’s getting special treatment or who’s being treated unfairly is taking up WAY too much time. Time when we could be using our supposed feminine strengths of compassion, understanding, and empathy to further each other in our careers and improve the institutions for which we work.  I might sound naïve, but who does it serve to be griping about whether I come to work at 8am or 10am?

I am blessed that my family and friends are supportive people who I love and trust. I know it’s idealistic to think that my workplace should be a place I look forward to going every day; I know too many people working in miserable jobs to expect that. But wow, wouldn’t it be nice? I’m not convinced that that kind of work atmosphere doesn’t exist somewhere. And at least I’m picking up tips on how to create it if in fact I get to be the boss someday.

Here’s the back-story. I’m what you call a church kid. I can probably count on one hand the times I missed Sunday School from age 3-18. My parents raised me in the Lutheran Church Missouri Synod, the more conservative branch of the greater evangelical Lutheran Church. I sang in the choirs, I was confirmed, and I was youth group president for two years at the same church where I’ve been attending since childhood. I am somewhat of a celebrity there…everyone knows me and knows that I’m very involved. My faith walk has all stemmed out of my relationship with this church, and it’s become a comfortable place for me. Having moved back to New Jersey last year, I again became re-involved at church, spearheading and helping with the efforts to lead a new Sunday worship service, singing in the Christmas cantata, teaching Sunday School, the works. I prayed about it and felt like I was being led to serve there. You can find me most Sundays somewhere at the church, whether leading worship or teaching, or grabbing a cup of coffee between services. I’m not really sure, unless you yourself have experienced it, that I can explain just how big a part this place, this faith, has played and continues to play in my life. I tell you all this so you can understand why I am so distressed.

Friday evening, I heard from a reliable source that an active, involved family in our congregation had left the church. This family left because their oldest son, a senior in high school. is openly gay. Further back-story will tell you that he is a great kid, and up until this point had been very active in youth group, was interested in touring with Spoke Folk, and helped with Vacation Bible School. I was so encouraged and pleased that he was accepted and loved by the youth group, and welcome at our church. That is, until, apparently this boy and his family had a discussion with our senior pastor who told them that being gay was a sentence straight to Hell, and was equivalent to rape and pedophilia.  Needless to say, this family left our church without further discussion. And now, I find myself between a rock and a hard place. Theologically, the argument against homosexuality is valid  – BUT so is the argument against divorce (our associate pastor is going through one right now), pre-marital sex (how many teens would be kicked out of the church for THAT?), and a host of other “sins” which every member of my congregation, myself wholeheartedly included, commit regularly. Jesus has commanded that we love one another, show compassion and mercy and acceptance to the “least of these” and all our brothers and sisters on earth. I believe 100% that this applies to gay and lesbian brothers and sisters as well.

Truly, how can I worship at a place which, although it has provided me with comfort and a place to grow for 20+ years, turns away anyone for the basis of their sexuality? Railing against homosexuals in the church at this point in history in our country seems ignorant to me. I really don’t honestly believe that I can continue to promote and represent a congregation that is so narrow minded, prejudiced, and discriminatory.

I thought I had found my place again but now I’m floundering. Do I turn my back and start up somewhere new? It will be hard. I’m also wary of the “gossip factor” that can so often occur in small-town churches – I would have to seek out the source (this family and the senior pastor at my church) to find out the real story before making a move. I’m looking for support and guidance from anyone who can offer it. My prayers are fervent that I can arrive at a place where I am comfortable making a move if necessary, or remaining at the church if that is what I’m called to do. That hasn’t really organized my thoughts…or helped to settle them. But at least it’s written down to reflect upon and reread. God bless, readers.

So, no, it’s not going to be picked up by Pottery Barn any time soon. And yes, it’s a little crooked and the hooks aren’t all matching…but ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to say that start to finish, I created it. RRRROAR! (that was me channeling my inner feminist – I am woman, hear me roar, get it??).

I picked out a piece of scrap wood. I painted some lovely (if I do say so myself) ivy vines on it. I figured out how to assemble and use a drill with no phone calls to my dad. I wired the picture hangings and screwed in the hooks. I hammered nails into a wall and I hung it! (I just noticed how much sexual innuendo involves hardware…interesting). And now my necklaces have a lovely place to be displayed and not tangled and I did it myself! I find myself alternating between little kid pride in my accomplishment and dread that I have somehow put my dad’s drill away improperly (he’ll know…really).

On this Labor Day weekend, I’m thankful that my parents raised me to be independent, self sufficient, and resourceful. It’s good to remind myself of that every once in awhile, when I’m down about something at work, or feeling small. I’m probably not about to start crafting furniture or wielding heavy power tools anytime soon. My girly persona is firmly in tact (just ask how many pair of shoes I bought today). But every once in awhile it’s good to remind myself that when I put my mind to something, I can do it. Now, on to my Spoke Folk t-shirt quilt!

Well maybe there’s something to this Martha inspired blog, after all.

Great, Laura.

When did I become so boring? Working at my average job, worrying about things like 401ks (ok I work in education, it’s a 403b) and health benefits, watching reruns of “Bones” when I get home. The thing is that I’m scared. Part of me wants to just up and do something spontaneous and awesome – go live abroad, live with a shaman, something Eat-Pray-Lovey and fabulous while I’m still young and without family & responsibilities. But another side of me just CRAVES stability. From 2007-2008 I moved a total of six times. I lived in three different states, and held four jobs (some of them simultaneously). Needless to say is that all I wanted was a schedule and a place to be. And I got that, almost a year ago in October.  But now I’m caught again between antsy (wanting to do something crazy and wonderful) and security (damn, it’s comfortable here).

Perhaps I’ve been disallusioned as a product of my generation, having been told for so long that I could and would do wonderful things. I have a friend who understands his purpose in life so simply, that he is content to be someplace if his only purpose is to comfort a single purpose in a single moment. Me, I feel I’ve failed if I haven’t changed lives, started new programs, achieved greatness. How one does that in the ‘burbs of Jersey, I don’t know. Just how, in fact, do you become content with being average?

As I’ve explained to the aforementioned boyfriends, it’s not really so much about a  profession of love or expectations of marriage, at all. In fact, I have been doing this since I was 14 and before marriage was ever a viable option (here’s looking at you, Peter Kasser).  In fact, when and if that day comes, I’d consider keeping my last name in homage to the proud German’s who came before me. It’s more about being prepared for any scenario which arises.  As a planner, by personality and profession, I like to know what’s coming next. One of the things I love about my job is that I know exactly what I will be doing on June 3rd, 2010. When I told Jay this the other day on the phone he said it sent shivers down his spine, and I don’t think he meant good ones (this is why “Laura Thalacker” is one of the practiced signatures which will probably never be realized). When I was in college, I had four different spreadsheets mapping out the potential scenarios of my courses, majors, study abroad options, internships, etc. I started researching colleges before I finished 9th grade (which is turns out, is fairly common nowadays but 10 years ago was considered absurd). I wanted to know what would happen in any given situation.

Everyone has their way of dealing with the daily anxieties life presents us with. Some of us become neat freaks (my father, case in point). Some of us drink. Others ignore it altogether. I plan.  (So have compassion on your friendly neighborhood control freak. She’s not trying to be bossy or mean.  She’s anxious). To the gentlemen in my life, please do not fear that I am thinking about marrying you after our first date. And if we do end up getting married, don’t worry, I’ll be ready.