French Toast and Rocking Horses

It's Wednesday.  I don't know what I think about this day... just a middle of the week one.  I suppose there are many things one can do on a Wednesday, or any day, but the "doing something" part is what often stumps me.  And I sit and wander in circles - always moving, never really stopping, in hopes of something wonderful inspiring me to DO.  In therapy yesterday I expressed how prevalent this wandering, uneasy, discontented feeling has become most hours of the day.  I say hours, because if I said it was just a few days I would be lying.  I don't want to lie - eating disorders lie, and I'm trying to rid myself of Chaz.  CHAZ NO MORE!  Great t-shirt slogan.  Hmmm.  I think I like that idea (and it would make so many people ask questions!)  

Well, today I decided I would make french toast, which has become one of my favorite things to make in the mornings...

So, I did.  I know, the picture doesn't do any kind of justice to how it actually tasted (completely delicious) but it's what I have to share.  I must tell you, though, that if you were to offer to make this for me I would not let you.  I would be internally throwing a fit, while externally politely declining the kind offer.  Trust.  I struggle with trusting others to make my food - a twisted, yet brutally honest, part of my particular type of disease.  Now imagine this:  if I am unable to trust people I know to make my food, just think how completely terrifying it is to order this in a restaurant!  Goodnight!  I laugh at myself telling the waiter, "well, I'll have this... made this way... and, actually, I'll just go help the chef.  I should meet him, and be certain he's measuring and portioning everything correctly.  It's just how I am.  Thank you!"  I'm so certain they would welcome me with open arms.  All that to say, overcoming this takes the smallest baby steps I can possibly take - think Bill Murray in "What About Bob."  I find myself repeating many of his quirky phrases throughout the day (which is, well, a bit of comic relief.  For example, "I'm sailing!"  See, don't you feel better?)

And now onto rocking horses, which I think I'll talk more in-depth about next posting.  This small figure brought up extreme feelings of fear while I was in sand tray therapy Monday.  In short, I can relate to a rocking horse in so many areas of my past and present life.  It doesn't move where it would like, and only does what other's instruct it to do.  If the sweet, little horse could talk he'd probably say, "I just want to be like the real horses and run through the pastures!"  Something along those lines, anyway.   It's interesting to think that a toy evokes many other emotions when placed in a therapeutic "let's get down to what the hell is holding you back from complete recovery" room.  

I hope you have a happy-french-toast-goodness kind of Wednesday.

Love, Betsy