2013

2013 started off in a cell for me. A cell I wasn't sure how I got into, and one I did not know how to get out of. One I had put myself in, but never intended to.

This cell was dark. It was quiet. It was predictable, structured, controlled. I knew what my days were going to be like. I could decide who could come visit. But no on knew what it was really like. I cleaned before they came round. I straightened the curtains and made my bed. I pretended like it was great in there.

To me, it was familiar. I knew the cracks, which floor boards creaked, the number of chips in the ceiling. It was peaceful in there. My home.

Something wasn't right though. My body wasn't working the way it used to. Sleep wasn't restful. There was a constant blockage in my ears - like they needed to pop. There was pressure behind my eyes. My hair was thinning. My bones felt sharp. My clothes hung off me. My energy levels - low. My eating - disordered.

My doctor suggested I put on weight. My housemate asked how the thought of that made me feel. Petrified.

I became aware, then and there, of the cell. That being in the cell was making my world a small place.

Over the next few months, the parts of my cell I had found comforting were now a threat. The cracks weren't just quirks - there were hazards. The solitude wasn't just peaceful - it was isolating. I wasn't just hungry - I was starving.

The walls were caving in fast, and my therapist's mention of the word "hospitalisation" resonated loud - I needed to get out before the cell crumbled with me in it.

A plan is what we worked on next. A plan to get out safely to reach a healthy BMI. A literal food plan, careful note-taking and monitoring of the progress, establishing the safest moments to move forward and the times I needed to lie low.

Adrenaline and vulnerability like I'd never known before.

Some days I looked back, craving the drama-free quietness of my old home. I longed for the peace again, to not always need to watch and keep track of my every move.

But somehow, memory of life on the other side of the prison walls spurred me forwards. The hope people carried for me on the outside kept me running towards them.

And I did.

Towards the end of the year, I reached those walls. The BMI considered "normal". I began to climb, ready and rearing for life beyond.

But still, something not right. I could hear no birds chirping, no gentle trickle of a stream, no wind in no trees.

Instead, the world I knew before had turned against each other, it became so obvious when I reach the top of the wall. A civil war had broken out, and I needed to pick a side to fight for.

Two options. Go back to the quiet. Go back and risk never knowing a larger life, an adventurous life.

Or jump. Jump down and face the wide open space ahead, full of uncertainty. Of decisions. Of choosing which side of the war to fight on. Of risk. Of wrong turns. Of anxiety. Pain. Battles. Threats. Carbs. Identity. Purpose. Forgiveness. Love. Hope. Rest. Joy. Dinner parties and chocolate.

2013, I'm deciding to leave you behind. Deciding to be grateful for where you've brought me. To remember you as a battle won, strengthening me to fight 2014 with victory on my side.

PS. I wrote a story for Tell it in Colour last month. Read HERE

Day XXVIII: Crooked Toes, Painful Prodding and Promised Joy

I looked in the mirror on Friday.

I was at the physio, because apparently I have shin splints caused by crooked big toes which are making my knees hurt when I run, and she made me look at my reflection to see what my knees do when I perform one-legged squats (after I figured out how to do a one-legged squat, it was evident that my knees bend slightly outwards). I wasn't aware of this before she pointed it out, nor did I know they weren't meant to bend that way (FYI I didn't look at myself above my knees in the mirror, so the challenge has not failed. I was also pleased to discover my mirror fast hasn't had an effect on my knee-hotness).

The physio gave me two options:

Numero uno - Not bother doing anything. Ignoring the problem isn't going to kill me, it just means running will always be a struggle.

Two - Go to the physio on a weekly basis to fix the shin splints by undergoing various forms of prodding(ouch!), get orthotics for the inside of my shoes to straighten my toes out, and eventually be able to run again.

Running is something I enjoy greatly, so the first option would pose a bit of a problem. Opting for the latter, though more painful and costly now, means I will run again.

I was shown in the mirror what needed to be changed, told how to change, and now the choice to change or not is my own to make! Changing is not the easy route, it's not the cheap route, but it's the route that'll allow me to run again!

Changing is central to living the life God wants us to live. We're called to change ourselves, and then join the fight to bring change to the world (Stay tuned: I'll talk about changing the world in an entry coming up!).

A common problem people have with Christianity lies within the "rules" the bible sets out. Dos and Don'ts and everything in between can overwhelm the reader, and failing to meet them leaves one basking in a pool of guilt. This is not the intention. The bible is more than just a mirror reflecting our bad sides. Its intention is precisely that of the physio: to show us our flaws, give us instruction on how to correct them, and provide us with more support than we will ever need to set them in place. It is not going to happen over night, or in one go, it's going to take sacrifice and patience and stumbles and pick ups and let downs and baby steps and tears and pain and sweat. In Luke 9, Jesus tells us to pick up our crosses and follow him. Daily. When Jesus picked up the cross he was killed on, he was battered and bruised and torn up all over. He picked up a massive tree-sized object and lugged it up a mountain. And he lugged it up a mountain all the while aware he was carrying the thing he was going to be nailed to for hours until he died.

Telling us to pick up our crosses daily in no way implies the ride/hike up the mountain is going to be an easy one. Quite the opposite, there's a daily challenge to face, a challenge not necessarily oozing excitement.

There is hope though. Not the airy-fairy kind of hope we play around with when we talk about the weather in Northern Ireland. The kind of hope the bible uses. A strong and confident expectation, a CERTAINTY that what God has promised will occur. There's a treatment with 100% recovery guaranteed. There's a freedom guaranteed. And that's the reflection God has planned for your mirror.

Question is, do you want to run?