My words have abandoned me—book writing burnout, I suppose. I know better than to try and force it. My writing muse needs to rest and so I'm giving her a much needed sabbatical.

I've turned my creativity toward sewing: one of my first loves. I decided to make a "Victorian Lady" Halloween costume for Jasiel.

I learned how to sew in 7th grade on my mother's old sewing machine from the 1970's. But before that, I'd always loved dresses—especially period costumes. One of my favorite pastimes as a child was playing dress up and playing with paper dolls. I had a paper doll book from the Smithsonian Museum which showcased dress styles from the 1800's. I adored it. I practiced drawing the costumes I saw in the book. 

I've always been fascinated by clothing rituals. In college, I wrote a huge semester research paper on  the intricacies of Victorian and Romantic-era dresses and how it related to the status, wealth and ownership of women. Aside from the intellectual and feminist implications of female dress, I've always maintained a deep admiration for the artistry of handmade garments. 

About seven years ago, I purchased a simple flower girl dress pattern. My idea was to sew up a nice special-occasion dress for my oldest daughter, Jewel. She was 9. Well, I only got as far as cutting out the fabric for the skirt. My twins were eleven months old. What was I thinking trying to sew when I had baby twins? HA.

Fast forward to last week. I took out my sewing things—just for fun. I needed to PLAY. I came upon the long neglected, unfinished dress. And I had an idea. Why not tweak the pattern and create a Halloween costume for Jasiel?

My sewing philosophy: keep it simple and PLAY. Believe it or not, this costume was incredibly easy to sew. It LOOKS complicated, but it's not. Anyone with basic sewing skills can make this costume. 

Here's how I did it:

This is the pattern I used: McCall's MP295 (it looks like McCall's no longer carries this pattern). 

But that's ok. All you really need is a simple, straightforward "special occasion" dress pattern. I would go with something like this from Simplicity. 

Now, let me explain my process. I always look for ways to make things simpler. In my opinion, dress patterns are ridiculously difficult to understand. All the symbols, dots, arrows, wrong-side/right-side, double-thickness fold...ACK! It's just too much. It kills the joy of creating! Remember my philosophy? KEEP IT SIMPLE AND PLAY! 

Trick #1: Sew the skirt first! I always cut out the skirt and sew up the side hems because BOOM! Hardly any time at all and I feel like I've accomplished something. Then I cut out the remaining fabric pieces and begin work on the bodice.

Trick #2: Play with the sleeves! For a costume piece, nobody is gonna see the inside of the sleeves, so instead of lining the sleeves, I used the lining (which is just a second piece of sleeve fabric) and added it to the cap sleeve. Voila! A fancier, "more Victorian" 3/4 length sleeve. To make it even fancier, I sewed PRE-MADE hair bows to the bottom of the sleeves (see above pictures).

Trick #3: Tulle covers a multitude of sins. Got a messy seam? Cover it with an explosion of tulle. Also, tulle is amazing. It adds mystery and whimsy. I tore apart one of Jewel's old dance costumes and bunched it up on one of the shoulders as a kind of flowing, side-cap (note in the pictures, I also used it as a collar/shawl around her shoulders). I hand-stitched the tulle to the shoulder and fancied it up with a sequined, flower hair clip.

Trick #4: Why use zippers when you can just use velcro? Zippers are annoying. For me, at least. I mean, sure. I'll USE a zipper if I have to. But in a costume, we are PLAYING. So, instead of a zipper in the back of the dress, I just stitched in a long strip of velcro.

Trick #5: DETACHABLE bustle, yo. Nobody has time to sew a bustle ONTO the costume. I used a large square of fabric, stuffed it with a whole bunch of excess tulle (TULLE IS AMAZING!), gathered the fabric toward the center and used a rubber band to secure it. Above the rubber band, I created draping and folds in the fabric, securing with pins and later running a straight stitch over a few places to keep it together. Below the rubber band/fabric knot I folded a separate rectangle of fabric to create the bustle "tail." I sewed the top of the bustle to a half-circle of fabric that I'd made stiffer using iron-on interfacing. Then I attached the half-circle to a sash that could be tied around the waist.

Trick #6: A pretty sash makes everything pretty. I folded a long piece of rectangular fabric in half and attached a pouf of tulle on the inside. This sash sits on top of the bustle sash (to hide the bustle sash) and is attached UNDER the bustle in the back. 

I purchased a "mini top hat" and black lace fan from Amazon. To make the dress pouf out, I used an old "southern belle" costume. I cut off the bodice and ruffles until all that was left was the wire hoop skirt which Jasiel wore under her costume.

I had SO MUCH fun putting this costume together. I kept coming up with new ideas and just PLAYING as I went along. When we took some pictures, Jasiel really got into it—as you can tell from her facial expression in this picture. HA. It was a blast. I can't wait to sew something else!!

I'm no sewing expert, but if you have any questions about this costume I'd be happy to answer them! Thanks for reading! XO. EE.

Writing is lonely business. Especially for those of us who haven't received the "validation" of a book contract or thousands of blog readers, we may wonder if we can even call ourselves "writers." I was there. I wrote in obscurity for decades before people started reading my words with any regularity. Today, I want to use my space to encourage you. To highlight the beautiful work you are doing. This past week I posted a call for submissions and am happy to present these fine pieces to you. Please take the time to leave a comment and follow these writers on Twitter. Here's what my agent always tells me: "If you can't NOT write, then you are a writer." Keep writing, friends. Your words MATTER.

Dear Congress, I write you this letter so that you can see the face of a survivor.  I write you this letter as someone who saw with my own eyes the horror of a mass shooting, a shooting that took the lives of my twin and younger sister and injured my father at New Life Church in December 2007. And most importantly I write this letter to open a dialogue about the role that gun violence has played in our country. —Laurie Works (blog) and @LaurieWorks (Twitter)

When a woman tells you her story, please don't ask why she never spoke up before, what she could/should have done to avoid it, or why she didn't press charges...If they tell you their story now they are being brave and need you to listen, believe them and don't search for a way to make their sexual abuse or rape their fault. Please just allow them a safe place to free that painful, awful secret. —Carole Turner Smith (blog) @CaroleTurner (Twitter)
 

These are lovely Scriptures, really, and they make such lovely memes when superimposed over pictures of babbling brooks, majestic mountains, or sandy shores. And for some people, that's what they need. But when you live with chronic anxiety sometimes those verses are a reminder that you've failed. You are a Bad Christian. —Rea Tschetter (blog) @ReaTschetter (Twitter)

While time seems to fly by, a lifetime can be pretty long. Our paths may once again cross with people we have shut out years ago. We might even need to ask for help from a person we'd long forgotten. —Stephen Robles (blog) @StephenRobles (Twitter)

Racism’s heritage still exists in theological institutions beyond the issue of slavery or inerrancy. Whenever we associate purity with whiteness (the song “Whiter than Snow”, for example); when students of color feel uncomfortable in chapel service; when a majority of the faculty do not reflect the diversity of our nation; such racism continues to manifest itself. When white students aren’t challenged to read people who are different and think differently from them, they believe their theology and practices are correct and the norm, thus implicitly presuming a white perspective is the best perspective. —Kate Hanch (blog) @KateHanch (Twitter)

With God on their side, many Christians take the liberty afforded to them from on high to run roughshod over any boundaries I’ve set, even over boundaries set by societal norms, in order to convince me to change my ways. After all, the Word of the Lord will not return void. So who cares if anyone has a problem with it, amiright? —Dani Kelley (blog)  @danileekelley (Twitter)

Bravery is waking up each day and still being here.  The gift of a day has become almost a curse with a body that is not willing to cooperate; however, he still opens his eyes to face the day. It's the face of a ninety-one year old veteran, who still shares stories of life in Italy.  It is this man who has bravely lived life fully despite the loss of a wife and son many years before.  —Janene, Everyday Extraordinary @Everydayeo (Twitter)

What I needed was not to figure out what to do in the silence, but how to be at peace with it. How to be at peace with empty arms, a quiet house, no cradle in the nursery, no stroller on the sidewalk, no baby at my breast. How to be at peace in the silence..."LORD God, please look upon your servant's misery and grant her a child. I am your servant. May it be to me according to your will." This prayer has changed me. Yes I still long for a child, deeply. But when I pray this prayer, the excruciating hollowness inside me floods with peace. True peace. —Jillian Burden (blog) @jillian_burden (Twitter)

The church is supposed to be a safe haven for the hurting, a hospital for the sick, a lifeline for the drowning. People should be able to walk through the doors of every single Christian church and feel accepted, loved, and a sense of belonging. They should be safe. An overwhelming “we are so glad you are here” should be the church’s response. People should be able to bring their doubts, fears, insecurities, and baggage and find refuge,  peace, and protection. —Angela Clavijo (blog) @angelaclavijo (Twitter)

Modesty culture teaches men that women are scary. All of them. All the time. Yes, you should “treat them like sisters,” but really, you should be terrified of them. They could “reduce your life to a loaf of bread.” It’s really best to domesticate them. We don’t want any wild and free women roaming the countryside, luring unsuspecting holy men.Women are powerful, a force to be reckoned with, and if you’re not careful, they will ruin you. That’s why women need to dress modestly, cover their power. So be cautious. Keep them at a distance, lest you be snared. —Jonathan Trotter (blog) @trotters41 (Twitter)

Depression is not fair. I hate that I find both relief and unspeakable loneliness in isolation. I hate that I struggle to connect with people, to find deep friendships. I hate that asking for help sometimes feels like putting a burden onto people I love, so sometimes I don't ask. My depression cycles always end at some point. That gives me great hope, or at least enough oomph to carry on. —Brenda Marie (blog)  @justbrendap (Twitter)

A couple of weeks ago, I was invited to be a guest on the Drew Marshall show. We discussed everything from the definition of a cult to warning signs of abusive churches. And then I got all fired up about how other people don't get to tell us how to feel about our own experiences. If your experience as abusive, nobody gets to tell you otherwise! Take a listen and let me know what you think. BIG PROPS TO ALL THE SURVIVORS OUT THERE. xo.

My lovely, whimsical, soul-deep friend, Erika, has written a beautiful book called Bandersnatch: an invitation to explore your unconventional soul. 

I'm so proud of her! It's the kind of book we ALL need. The kind of book that encourages us to ask ourselves who we are. Erika has generously offered a free copy of her book to one of my readers.

To enter the giveaway, simply leave a comment. But first, watch this GORGEOUS book trailer for sneak peek at the surprise that awaits you in Bandersnatch.

I'm always open to sharing the sacred, tender stories of abuse survivors. Sharing our stories helps us know we are not alone. Today's post was written by a young woman named "Ellie" who grew up in conservative Christianity. Please honor her bravery by leaving an encouraging comment. If you'd like to submit a story to be published on my site, please email me through the contact form on my contact page. All my love to you, courageous ones. xo. EE.

These are the lessons I learned from being spanked as a child:

1. I am not strong enough or good enough to make wise choices on my own.

Spanking was framed as a way to train out the sin and rebellion in our hearts and remind us to do better next time. But by relying on punishment rather than respect and teaching me that I was sinful and rebellious at my core, spanking taught me I could never be trusted to do the right thing on my own. I learned to follow the rules out of fear of punishment, even though I called it love for God.

I did not learn that I was capable of examining a situation and making good choices until I was 25 years old. This led me to stay in several very painful situations, including a job with an abusive boss, rather than recognizing my gut instinct that the situation wasn’t healthy.

2. It taught me that I was a passive recipient, not a person with agency.

Parents have responsibility for their children, so they do have some authority. But authoritarian parenting goes further. It says that parents have total authority over their children—physical, emotional, and spiritual—and that they are stand-ins for God’s authority.

This taught me that I couldn’t leave a bad situation, set boundaries with people to keep myself safe, or defend myself when I was unjustly accused. I had to wait for God or another authority figure to do it for me. If they didn’t magically fix things, then God was using the situation to teach me something, and I needed to submit to it to learn my lesson as fast as possible.

This taught me a lack of agency, which is not something that is unlearned when they turn 18. I had no idea that I had the power or the right to take steps to improve my own life (other than pray more for God to intervene, or change my heart so that I could be happy in a toxic situation).

3. It taught me that pain is healthy and loving, not an indication that something is wrong.

I genuinely believed that everyone should endure pain patiently because it’s for our own good. I embraced this philosophy wholeheartedly and buried my emotions and feelings. I stopped listening to my body because I believed it would lead me astray. I stayed in painful situations that damaged my health because I thought I was supposed to—and because I thought the pain was making me holy.

This belief was so ingrained that I didn’t even realize I was being emotionally abused by my boss. I was so trained to obey authority that I had no idea he had crossed the line from unpleasant to unhealthy. I simply wasn’t aware of the toll it was taking on my mental and physical well-being.

4. Spanking taught me that perfection is more important than resilience, and that the consequences of mistakes are bigger than grace.

Resilience says that even if I make a mistake, I can recover and do better. Perfectionism, on the other hand, says that nothing but Plan A will ever be good enough. Mistakes are disastrous.

In perfectionistic systems, any deviation from Plan A means I have to pay penance, experience guilt and shame, and be punished so that I don’t deviate again. Then, an external agent (community, church, Jesus, society) has to restore me to Plan A—as a “sinner,” my only job is to suffer obediently.

True grace says that mistakes don’t ruin us. It says that life after mistakes can be great, even though it may be complicated or require a little extra work to repair things. And to tell the truth, none of us are living Plan A. It’s much healthier to teach kids how to make Plan B (or X, or ZQF, or WTF) awesome than to tell them they’re second best if things aren’t ideal.

Understandably, growing up under perfectionism led to hypervigilance and anxiety for me, because I was constantly making sure I didn’t forget a rule or make a mistake. I learned that there was no grace for mistakes—people who make mistakes deserve to suffer and be punished. This leads to both shame and judgmental vindictiveness can instill a permanent sense of shame in a child, as well as lead to a judgmental, vindictive attitude towards the people around them.

5. Spanking taught me that love—especially God’s love—looks a lot like punishment.

My parents made very clear links between their authority and God’s authority, and they taught me that punishment was an essential part of love. Even though I don’t believe that anymore, my image of a loving God is deeply tied to this system. In some ways, it would have been better if my parents had spanked us only when they were angry. At least then, I would have associated pain with anger (recent research has upheld this as well).

It might have been better if spanking was an erratic, occasional punishment rather than a systematic way to root the rebellion out of our hearts. At least then, I could chalk it up to a mistake they made rather than blaming myself for being broken and deserving of punishment.

I still love my parents, and we are working through these lessons. But they were quite literally beaten into me over more than a decade and are now deeply ingrained in my body and soul. If the research is to be believed, I may deal with them for the rest of my life.

It’s no wonder that I’m afraid of making mistakes or doing what I think is right if it means breaking the “rules.” My mind, soul, and body were trained for over a decade to believe that such a choice would be swiftly rewarded with pain and punishment. And that I deserved it.

Before you spank your child, ask yourself if these are the lessons you want to teach them, too.

Ellie grew up as a conservative Christian who was "sold-out for Jesus." She grew into a very different kind of faith when she studied abroad in Europe for five years. Now, she explores her past, present, and future on http://ellieava.tumblr.com/

The unscheduled hours often felt like a cavernous vacuum. We didn't know how to live our lives without someone telling us what to do, where to go, when to arrive, and when to leave. What did normal people DO with all their spare time?...I'd told myself that leaving The Assembly was the solution we'd been waiting for, that freedom was all we needed to create our new-and-improved lives. I'd assumed that I could easily cobble together a patchwork quilt of belonging. If I drank Diet Coke, wore the right clothes, attended a thriving megachurch, and made friends with Southern California Christians, I'd find my place. I'd find my home. —excerpt from Girl at The End of the World, page 152, 154

Here's one thing I know for sure: loneliness is real and it keeps coming back.

Perhaps loneliness is a kind of homesickness.

What if my loneliness is homesickness for God? What if loneliness is homesickness for home I've rarely known, a home more Person than place?

I've tried to assuage this homesickness with everything other than God. I've done this with "good things" like small groups and Christian conferences and scrubbing toilets to pay for my daughter's ballet tuition. I've also tried to fill the homesickness with dangerous things like alcohol and sarcasm. All of these things end in disappointment.

Do you want to know the times I've felt most lonely? Directly after a big, success. Right after a big speaking engagement. Right after an appearance on national television. Right after a packed-out book signing. Right after a conference. Right after a deeply intimate moment with someone I love. 

I'll be flying home or going back to my regularly-scheduled life and I can feel it: a black cavern of loneliness cracking open inside me. Sometimes it makes me scream.

I've worked through some of this in therapy—the panic and emptiness is sometimes a result of self-sabotage. One of my core negative beliefs is that I'm not good enough, that I don't believe I deserve success or good things in my life. So, when good things happen I feel like it's a mistake or a fluke. I feel like a fraud. 

But there's another aspect to my loneliness: success truly highlights how empty and unfulfilling it all is, how NOT GOD it is. In fact, the bigger the success, the more NOT GOD it feels. The bigger my accomplishment, the more lonely I feel.

I am learning that a tiny sip of God is much sweeter than an ocean of personal achievement.

I am learning that I am precious and free. These days I find God in the backrooms and basements of 12-step groups. I find God in our common fellowship of brokenness, not successes. 

I find God in the deep, bottomless chasm of my loneliness. I find God in the nothingness.

This nothingness takes me to the beginning, to the the nothingness before creation. It is "formless and void, and darkness was over the surface of the deep..." (Genesis 1:2, NASB).

I am learning that darkness is nothing to be scared of because even in the darkest nothingness, God is there, the Spirit of God is "moving over the surface of the waters."

And in that nothingness, I breathe a prayer: "God, all that I am—please, take it. I'll do whatever you want because my way has led me down all the wrong paths. My way leads to greater pain and disappointment. Teach me Your way."

I am just so tired of trying to fill my homesickness with something other than God. I don't have any other ideas. I don't have any more "tries" left in me. I need Jesus and that's all there is to it.

Here's another thing I know for sure: all of us are lonely and when we help each other, some of that loneliness melts away.

I feel the least lonely when I make food for my children and teach them about God's love. I feel the least lonely when I help old people, when I do volunteer work, when I buy the homeless guy a lunch, when I go to bed numbering all the things in my life, when I call my mom just because I know she likes phone calls, when I write a note of encouragement to someone who is going through a stressful time, when I hold space for a friend who is struggling, when I help a young mom who is frazzled with her new baby, when I listen to my husband talk about his business, when I smile at a stranger.

Service is the antidote to loneliness. 

Pope Francis' visit to the United States inspired me to dedicate more of my life to service. Today, I am putting that into action. This afternoon I'll begin teaching First Communion classes to 2nd graders. I am terrified and feel inadequate. But I can feel the Spirit "moving over the surface of the waters" and so I'm stepping out in faith...God, I offer myself to You. Do with me as You will for Your will is always good.

Don't you miss the good, old days when you could push two chairs together and call it a bed?

Me, too.

These days I find myself waking up at 4:28am shouting epithets at Donald Trump. Or Tea Party Republicans. Or the California drought. And just when I'm feeling all ridiculous, I remember that I'm an old lady now and waking up at odd hours to worry about things like incontinence and government shutdowns is totes norms. 

I gotta say, though, old age isn't all bad. It's a relief to ease up on obsessive attempts at being good and let myself be real and honest instead. 

Speaking of honesty, having five kids has ruined my bladder. 

"Mom, why do you cross your legs when you sneeze?" my kids ask. I have no good answer for this except: "It looks prettier that way! Like a curtsy!" GAH.

Anyway, 4:28am. I heave myself out of bed and hobble to the bathroom—yes, hobble. I'm the oldest 38 year old you've ever met. My bones ache. My back hurts. I'm a hunched over heffalump. It's super sexy.

Now that I'm an old crone, my latent hypochondria has flared up. I worry constantly that maybe I have a serious, deadly disease. I pose this question to my sixteen year old daughter who is the Voice of Reason in my life and she rolls her eyes, "You don't have cancer, Mom. You have five kids." 

This answer actually works for a variety of questions: "Why am I so tired?" Because I have five kids.

"Why am I never organized?" Because I have five kids. "Why did someone carve a happy face in the dining room table?" Because I have five kids. Why do I yodel in the grocery store? Because I have five kids. Why do hipster dudes in skinny jeans tell me: "Dude, you have kids EVERYWHERE"? Because I have five kids.

This answer also works for a variety of kid questions: "Mom, why can't we do organized sports?"

Because we have five kids.

"Mom, why can't we have a house and boat up in Lake Arrowhead?"

Because we have five kids.

"Mom, why does Savannah get to have a big birthday party every year?"

BECAUSE SHE IS AN ONLY CHILD.

I don't really mind growing old except that I live in Orange County, California, where you're supposed to look young even when you're seventy because WHY ELSE THIS LIFE? 

The comment I hear most often is: "Wow, you don't look like you've had five kids!" which I guess is a compliment in a backhanded kind of way. I like to reply by saying: "Well, my bladder looks like I've had five kids." 

[My mother is dying of embarrassment because I'm writing about Private Body Issues on my Public Blog and WHAT would the Brethren think?]

But bodily dysfunctions aside, the dead giveaway that I'm an old lady now is that my most exciting recent purchase was....a mattress.

Other ladies go bonkers for Jimmy Choos, I go bonkers for individually wrapped coils. And cooling gel pillow tops and foam cores and EGADS, IS THAT A SHREDDED LATEX PILLOW? 

Sidebar: Do you know ANYONE under the age of 60 who uses the word "egads"? No? Point proven. I'm geriatric.

ANYWAY: mattress. I researched it for months. I took naps on hundreds of mattresses. I sprawled out in showroom after showroom. It took me a long time to find my favorite because not only am I an old lady, I am also as sensitive as The Princess and The Pea. I finally found my perfect fit and it was called the Black Diamond because that's about how much it cost. 

Welp, I didn't buy it. BECAUSE WE HAVE FIVE KIDS.

In the end, I bought a mattress I didn't even try. I bought a mattress that was highly reviewed and quality tested and about a quarter of the cost. It arrives tomorrow and I'm about as giddy as if I just popped Donald Trump in the schnozzle. WHAM! BAM! SHIZAM! I may be an old lady, but I'm still a superhero. I'm The Princess and The Pee Party.

My board of directors says I need to remind people that I WROTE A BOOK AND YOU SHOULD PLEASE BUY ONE OR FIFTY. Then tell your friends that I wrote a book. Because book. I wrote. Read, please. Thanks, The Management.

It will always hurt this much. It will never go away. Nobody cares. You are all alone. Better off dead. 

This is what Depression says to me. And it is a lie. All lies.

The truth is this and it is ALWAYS this:

It will pass. It gets better. I am loved. I am not alone. My life matters.

****

It was hard for me to get out of bed one morning this week—and not because I didn't get enough sleep the night before.

It was Depression, hanging heavy around my neck. I dragged it like a ball and chain to the bathroom, then down to the kitchen to fix breakfast for the kids, then back up upstairs where I crash landed in bed.

The tears came. Hot and fast. Not again, I thought. Please, God. Not again.

But Depression isn't something I can control. It comes when it wants, it leaves when it wants. 

Still, I am not helpless. I have my tools: daily medication, daily meditation, prayer, exercise, healthy food, a support network.

When I feel the darkness closing in, all I want to do is fall asleep because sleep is an escape.

But it is not a solution.

This is the truth:

Depression wants me to give up, give in, let the darkness take over.

I don't have to let it. Even when the darkness is all around me, I have choice.

I have agency.

****

I didn't stay in bed today. I let myself cry for five minutes because it's good to cry but it's also good to stop. And I need limits and boundaries.

I asked for help. 

I talked about it.

I got out of bed and did my hair. I put on makeup. I got dressed—and not in sweatpants. I wore nice clothes.

"Mama, you look so pretty!" 

The children notice. It means something to them that I get out of bed and fix myself up. It makes them feel secure, I think. Like their world is ordered and stable. If Mama is OK, then everything is OK.

And so I do it for them. And I do it for me.

Getting dressed doesn't fix everything, but it is something. And that something is always better than nothing, always better than burrowed deep under the covers with dirty hair and unbrushed teeth.

I don't know why lipstick helps, but it does.

****

I met up with some friends. Man, that was hard. It was hard to get in the car and drive to meet them. It was hard to park and get out of the car. It was hard to walk across the parking lot. Depression was pushing me back every step of the way. Like walking against 100 mph winds.

But I kept going.

Smiles met me.

Depression says I need to be alone. Depression says nobody wants to see me. 

But those, too, are lies. Depression thrives in isolation.

The truth is that my friends want to see me. They are happy to see me. Their smiles are like sunshine. And it dissipates the fog of melancholy. Yes, I'm struggling. But I'm not struggling alone. That makes all the difference.

****

I went for a walk. This is what I've learned: it's hard to stay really depressed when I'm outdoors. The sunshine, the breeze, the sky, the birds....being in nature soothes my worried mind and restores my soul.

Going on a walk feels like a Herculean task when I'm depressed. But I go anyway. And about a half mile into it, I feel the weight lift. I feel the inner sigh of relief. 

It might be hard to get outside when I'm feeling bad inside but when I do, I always feel a little bit better. And every little bit helps.

****

This is what I want you to know: it's not your fault. Please hear me. It's not your fault. You didn't choose Depression. 

I also want you to know there is hope. Every day. There is always hope. You are never, EVER alone. If you feel like nobody cares, keep looking. There are helpers everywhere.

You are infinitely and unconditionally loved. Your life matters. Do you hear me? YOU MATTER. Yes, you. We need you here. I need you here.

Just for today, get up. Just for today, reach out. Just for today, don't listen to the lies.

Just for today, believe that you have a life worth living.

Now look around you. Can you pick out ONE good thing in your life?

Just one thing. I know it's tough to see the light when everything feels dark.

But the good is there. Look for it.

See it? YES?! Me, too!

I'm holding onto the good today.

I'm holding on with you.

We're gonna be OK.

If you're like me, you stared in helpless horror at the image of a drowned little boy washed ashore on a Turkish beach.

If you're like me, you couldn't sleep that night. You tossed and turned. You couldn't get that image out of your head. His little blue sneakers. 

If you're like me, you started reading and reading and reading. You wanted to know what had happened and WHY. And when the magnitude of this disaster hit you—nearly 12 million people displaced by ISIS, 50% of them under the age of 18—you felt helpless. What can one person do to stop this horror?

I felt this helplessness. I know I can't do much. But I can SOMETHING. I can do ONE or two things. Maybe three.

Here's how I helped and how you can, too!

1. Make a sign with the hashtag #RefugeesWelcome or #RefugeesWelcomeHere and tag your local or state representative on social media.

2. Donate to humanitarian organizations already on the ground, ready to serve. I donated to World Vision. They have a special crisis relief fund especially set up for Syria. You can FIND THAT HERE.

3. Partner with the Justice Conference, World Relief and Ann Voskamp to help welcome refugees.

Alone, we can't do much. Together, we can change the world. Let's be the church. Let's be the hands and feet of Jesus. #RefugeesWelcome #RefugeesWelcomeHere

Lots of fun stuff has been happening around here, not the least of which is:

1. I finished my 2nd book ("Spiritual Sobriety" hits shelves March 2016! WOOT!)
2. The kids went back to school
3. I started a podcast!

Yep, I've joined the ranks of the podcasting. And let me tell you, it is SO MUCH FUN. I feel a new freedom! So much of my writing is serious. Podcasting offers a way for me to explore topics more loosely and in a casual, relaxed format. Plus, you get to hear my voice! My tone! My inflection! 

My podcast is called "Accidental Expert" because I'm an expert on things I never intended on being an expert in. 

I talk about everything from movie reviews (I just watched The Breakfast Club for the very first time!), tips for managing depression & anxiety, time-management for ADD, my irrational fear of the DMV and how I'm learning to reconfigure my understanding of God. Check it out! Here is the latest episode!

My plan is to do about TEN episodes of "Accidental Expert" and then sometime in October, switch to a new, book-themed podcast. Of course, I'll keep all the fun stuff because what's a podcast without the fun?

You can see ALL of my "Accidental Expert" podcast episodes here. You can listen on any device by pressing play or by opening it in your own podcast app.

Please give it a listen and let me know what you think! I'd love to hear your feedback, comments and suggestions.

Other interesting stuff that happened in the last few months:

I wrote an article for TIME magazine about the Duggars (this was before the Ashley Madison hack):

"Whenever I watched TLC’s 19 Kids & Counting, I never questioned what I saw—I questioned what I didn’t see. I just knew too much. I grew up in a similar religious environment. As a little girl, I knew how to put on a good public performance, and I also knew what happened when nobody was watching."

I wrote an article for Christianity Today about the Netflix show "The Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt":

For those of us who left isolationist, abusive, or restrictive religious environments, “making it” in the outside world is often much harder than we expected. There is so much to learn and so much to unlearn. It’s disconcerting to realize that even though we’ve left the cult, the cult hasn’t left us. And many of us need therapy, support groups, and an ongoing commitment to “deprogram” harmful patterns of thinking. Even with a super-positive attitude like Kimmy’s, adjusting to mainstream America was bewildering.

And today, September 2nd, I'll be joining my friend Jennifer Fulwiler on her radio show! SiriusXM, channel 129 @ 3:20pm EST, 12:20pm PST.

Have you subscribed to my email list yet?

Insider updates coming soon—ONLY to email list subscribers!

Internet, stop gloating for one hot minute. Sure, we saw this coming. Sure, we TOLD YOU SO. Sure, we are not surprised. But reveling in someone else's tragedy? Is that the kind of person you are—the kind who gets pleasure out of other people's suffering? No? Ok, then knock it off. 

Have a little decency. Imagine what it's like to be Anna Duggar right now:

In the span of three months the world finds out your husband molested little girls—his sisters!—then you have a baby and then? THEN he's exposed as a cheater. Your husband confesses to being the "biggest hypocrite ever" and just like that you're having the worst day of your life. And PEOPLE ARE HAPPY ABOUT IT. Heck, they're practically gleeful.

Tabloids are screaming and everyone has an opinion. Everyone seems to know what is best for you. Thousands upon thousands of people are saying hateful things about this man you love. Thousands upon thousands of people are saying the most hateful things about this family you married into. On top of that, your heart is shattered. Did I mention you just found out your husband cheated on you? Did I mention you just had a baby? 

Here's what's up: leave Anna Duggar alone. She doesn't have to make a decision RIGHT NOW RIGHT NOW BECAUSE THE INTERNET SAYS RIGHT NOW. Anna gets to make her own decision. We don't have to like what she decides but we don't get to decide FOR her.

It's enough to know that the Duggar family is screwed up fifteen ways from Sunday. It's enough to know that Josh Duggar is one sick puppy. It's pretty clear Jim Bob and Michelle have no clue WHAT is happening or how to fix it.

It's pretty clear this problem is much  bigger than the Duggar family.

This isn't just about Josh Duggar. It's about an entire system of abuse (see also my article for TIME magazine).

This isn't just about one guy's sexual screw-ups. It's about American Christian culture as a WHOLE and OUR really messed up relationship with sexuality. 

This isn't just about the downfall of one family, it's about an ENTIRE Christian culture that is now reaping the bitter fruits of our misguided, ugly "culture wars." This is about an entire CULTURE of American Christianity that equates political victories with moral ones.

The biggest mistake we can make right now is to believe that what is happening in the Duggar family is an isolated incident and isn't indicative of the broader, American Christian culture.

This is about an American Christian culture that made insane promises like: "If you just wait until you're married to have sex, everything will be wonderful."

This is about an American Christian culture that turned purity into profit; using a 21-year old kid named Josh Harris to promote the fantasy that if you just "kiss dating goodbye," you'll end up with a faithful, godly, loving spouse for the rest of your life.

This is about an ENTIRE culture of American Christianity that has wreaked havoc in the physical, emotional and spiritual lives of millions. This is about an ENTIRE culture that has traded an authentic relationship with God for the trappings of "good Christian living."

This is about an entire culture of Christianity that became so obsessed with 'looking like a good Christian' that it created an impossible standard of "purity" and made it completely unsafe to be a real, broken human being. 

This is about a Christian culture that sets people up for failure. 

This isn't just about Josh Duggar, it's about our really sick, twisted relationship with sex, shame, self-loathing and perfectionism.

And if we can't see that, then NONE of us will get better.

Further reading:

"I Kissed My Humanity Goodbye: how evangelical purity culture dehumanizes women."

"I've always wanted to write a book." This is, by far, the most frequent response I get whenever I tell someone I've written two books.

My response: "Go for it!"

Followed by: "Even if it never gets published."

Here's How To Start, Keep Going & Enjoy It!

1. Write a book because you have a burning desire to WRITE and TELL A STORY—not because you have a burning desire to get published. (Or make money! HA!)

Getting published is a nice bonus but truly, writing is its own reward. I know, I know, it's easy for me to say, right? But hear me out: long before I was a published author, I loved writing. I wrote because I couldn't NOT write. Writing fed me, healed me and fascinated me. I can tell you with 100% certainty that even if my work didn't get published, I would still be writing. Why? Because getting published didn't make me a writer. Writing made me a writer!

This is good news because it means the joy of writing is available to you, right now, today. You don't need a book contract to experience the joy of writing. You are allowed to love writing and be a writer right NOW.

And if you want to share your writing with others, then write what you know and write for the people you know. Start there. Who knows? Maybe you'll end up writing for millions. Or maybe you'll bring joy to five people and listen to me, THAT matters. To this day, I write to five very specific people in my life. I can't write for five million people—I don't know them! But when I write honestly and beautifully for my five people, then those words make wings and fly to all the other people who need my words, too.

Secondly, most authors I know can't make a living just by writing books. Most of us have to do something else as well: teach, tutor, create e-seminars, host sponsored podcasts or just work a regular 9-5 job. Only a very tiny, TINY percentage of published authors make enough money to live on. Even NYT bestselling authors often have to subsidize their writing income with other work like paid speaking engagements. My point is, don't write a book because you're hoping to get rich. Write a book because you can't NOT write a book.

2. Set specific goals.

When I first started blogging, I had a specific goal in mind: to build an online platform large enough to attract the attention of a literary agent. It wasn't enough to say: "I'd like to write a book someday." I needed to be more specific. Wanting to write a book is a desire, but unless you have a specific action plan it's not a goal. Blogging worked for me. As a stay-at-home-mom, I wasn't able to attend writers' workshops or get an MFA in writing. A long time ago, I read a piece of writing advice that said: "Just get your work out in front of other people." Blogging did that for me. These days there is talk about the death of blogging and that bloggers aren't getting book contracts anymore. I say: ignore the negativity. Even if you don't blog everyday, having a personal website can act as an excellent portfolio. Agents and editors are always looking for compelling content. You can do that by providing high-quality writing through blog posts and links to your published works (or guest posts!). The point is, get your work in front of people. Even if blogging doesn't land you a book contract, the practice of writing for an audience is beneficial. It hones your writing skills.

Other specific goals might be: 1. attend a writer's conference to learn more about the craft and business of writing, 2. join a writer's group, 3. research writers in your genre (pro-tip: a writer will often thank their editors and agent in the Acknowledgments sections of a book—this is an easy way to see which agents are representing the kind of book you're interested in writing).

And if you're really serious about getting a book contract, you will take the next step:

3. Write a book outline or book proposal.

Maybe you already have a good idea about the kind of book you want to write. Awesome! Outlining your book will take that idea and make it a concrete reality. I love the snowflake method. It's an easy-to-follow guide for turning your book idea into tangible, helpful structure. For my first book, I did a book proposal instead of a full, snowflake outline. I did this because I already had some solid sample chapters ready and had written one full draft even before I got an agent. Believe me, when you approach a literary agent (or the agent approaches you), you want to be ready. You want to be able to say exactly what your book is about—preferably in one sentence. Good agents and editors are busy. They don't have time for rambling explanations. You don't necessarily need to have your whole book written (although some agents require a complete first draft, especially for fiction) but you need to have done your homework.

4. Set limits.

I learned the hard way that I need to set limits on how much I write everyday. I can produce high-quality writing for two hours. Then I need to take a break. I need to do something entirely different. I know there are some writers who can write for 4-6 hours. They amaze me! I can't do it. I've tried. My best writing happens when I write for two hours in the morning and (maybe) 1-2 hours at night. In between, I live my life. And sometimes, all I can do is two hours in one day. That's OK. Two hours of good writing is better than no writing at all and it's also better than 6 hours of crappy writing. Good writers do other things besides write: they read extensively, they exercise, they have relationships.

Writing requires discipline, organization and patience. Being a writer isn't romantic. Try not to get swept up in the romanticized idea of a "Writer's Life." Smoking all morning, drinking all afternoon and hanging out in a writers' Facebook group until the wee hours isn't the same as actually writing. There's this old Earnest-Hemingway-esque adage that says "write drunk, edit sober." I think that's a bunch of crap. Writing is like any other job: you need control of all your faculties and you have to work hard. Just like other jobs, you can't do that very well when you're drunk. Set limits on your writing time, your drinking and your Internet. You'll be a better writer for it. 

Lastly, setting limits often means saying no to things you love—for a season. Book writing season is for book writing. Try not to remodel the house at the same time. DON'T ASK ME HOW I KNOW. 

5. Set deadlines.

Most writers, myself included, can attest to the magical powers (and agony) of a deadline. We need deadlines because without them, the work doesn't get done. And while people like to say: "You can't force art!"—it's amazing how much you can do when you have a little deadline motivating you. If you don't have an editor or agent yet, you can still set deadlines for yourself. In fact, self-made deadlines are my favorite. I get really anxious when someone else creates a deadline for me. I'd rather set my own pace, thankyouverymuch. If you're just beginning your writing journey, set a deadline for everything I mentioned in this blog post: set a deadline for setting goals, set a deadline for writing an outline, set a deadline for writing a book proposal. You can even set a deadline for setting limits. For example, while I was writing my books I had to set limits on how much volunteer work I was doing at my kids' schools. I loved volunteering so much that I knew I wouldn't have stopped unless I set a deadline for stopping. 

This is important: if you don't meet your deadline, forgive yourself. Here's my dirty secret: I've missed a bunch of my deadlines. I've learned that hitting the deadline isn't as important as having a deadline. Write it down. Start working towards it. Editors are more willing to give you an extension if they can see you are making progress. That said: don't take advantage of the deadline. Make every effort to be prompt. A finished manuscript is better than no manuscript. Let yourself turn in imperfect writing (that's why we have editors—or friends who will read it and provide feedback). Resist perfectionism. Here's the thing: every time I finish a book, I'm always convinced I could have done a better job. It's never gonna be perfect. And that's ok. I completed two books. That's amazing!

I hope this inspires you! Please let me know if you have any further questions or comments!

If I can help, I'd love to share what I've learned!

XO. EE.

Dear Feminist Sisters,

Have we forgotten who we are? Feminism is not about gatekeeping. Feminism is about throwing gates open.

When I was locked deep inside patriarchal fundamentalism, feminism was the beacon of hope that told me my voice mattered, that even if I didn't agree with every feminist—we stood together. Among the feminists I met in college, there was mutual respect. We didn't attack our own and publicly humiliate them. We didn't try to silence each other. We celebrated our differences.

Today, I know who I am. I know what I believe and, yes, I am pro-life. This does not endanger my feminism.

The way I see it, the only thing that endangers feminism is feminists tearing each other apart. 

This must stop.

Listen to me: feminism needs pro-life feminists because without diversity, feminism won't thrive.

Without pro-life feminists, our cause is in danger of becoming a hyper-polarized, ivory-tower feminism that is completely inaccessible to the everyday, potential ally who isn't up-to-date on all the approved terminology and dogma.

I believe in a feminism that finds common ground. I believe in a feminism that loves and respects men. I believe in a feminism that doesn't demand conformity.

 You can write hurtful blog posts saying you don't "trust pro-life feminists," you can leave unkind comments on my FB page telling me you "literally don't even care one little bit" that the Planned Parenthood videos disturbed me, you can use your social media platform to tear me down— but that kind of behavior says more about you than me. I've earned my stripes. I know how hard I've worked to become the woman I am today and I am proud of my pro-life feminism. Nobody can take that away from me—not even other feminists.

But here's the thing: when feminists tear down other feminists, it hurts our cause. It hinders our ability to gain allies. It diffuses our efficacy and potency. 

Maybe you can't see it right now, but believe me—feminism needs pro-life feminists because if the only "feminist-approved" response to the Planned Parenthood videos is "BUT EDITING!" then feminism looks heartless and inhumane.

Feminism needs pro-life feminists because if the only "feminist-approved" response to the Planned Parenthood videos is "BUT IT'S NOT ILLEGAL!" then feminism looks amoral.

Feminism needs pro-life feminists because if the only "feminist-approved" position is to side with adult women, then feminism looks like it sides against the women in our wombs.

Feminism needs pro-life feminists like me who cry out that something is terribly wrong with discarding a baby while preserving its organs. Feminism needs pro-life feminists because feminism is not an either/or cause. It is both/and. Feminism can support mamas AND babies both. 

I need pro-choice feminists to stand with me and say, "Hey, maybe we don't agree on everything but your voice is important because it reaches people outside my sphere of influence and so we need to work together." 

And the truth is that there is so much that unites us. For me, being pro-life encompasses so much:

• Being pro-life means I support mamas and babies before AND after birth. 
• I don't believe tax dollars should go toward Planned Parenthood but I DO believe in subsidizing low-cost/free prenatal care, WIC, free school lunch, subsidized preschool, food stamps and affordable housing.
• A consistent pro-life ethic means that I am anti-death penalty. Because ALL life is sacred.
• My pro-life ethic means I stand with St. Francis when he says that "the only way to win a war is never to go to war." America, let's stop going to war and instead, spend that money feeding and educating our kids!
• A pro-life ethic means I don't stigmatize ANY pregnant woman. I support my local teen pregnancy shelter.

Sisters, we need each other. Our cause is big enough for all of us.

Let's stand together.

Today, I am honored to share my space with author, Tam Hodge. Her book, "And Now I Choose: a story for those who believe they have no choice," is the story of how she found hope and healing after suffering abuse, homelessness and multiple abortions. Tam has graciously offered a free copy of her book to one of my readers. Please leave a comment. Recipient will be randomly selected and notified by email. I hope Tam's story touches your heart as it has touched mine. xo. EE.

 

 

A Letter To My 16 Year old Self in the Abortion Clinic

Dear 16 year old Me,

It’s 28 years, almost to the day, from where you are sitting right now. I see you there.

I see you in your white paper gown that you’ve struggled with all afternoon, trying to prevent it from opening and exposing your bare self. I see you sitting there, even in the gown, still bare.

A part of me feels like you can hear me. Or, at least, you sense me. I can see it in your eyes. You’re looking around the room, searching for something, but you can’t find it. It’s me. You’re searching for your voice. I know you want to get up and run. I know you are afraid. I know you feel alone. I know you know what to do but you’re too afraid to do it.

I know deep down you don’t want to do this. I understand.

You are going to wake up soon and you will be in a tremendous amount of pain. You will physically hurt. You will hurt a lot. Oh, how I wish you could hear my voice right now. Because the physical pain will pale in comparison to the heart and emotional pain you will carry with you.

I see you waking up. I see you crying. I see you holding your tummy. Yes. Yes, you did it. No. No, it isn’t there anymore. It’s gone.

I want so badly to hold you. I know no one is holding you. I know no one is going to hold you. I’m sorry you’re alone. I’m sorry you feel alone. But you’re not. I’m there. God’s there. You don’t know it… but we are.

You need to know that you’re going to have a very tough journey. You’re going to be very mad at yourself. The amount of shame will feel heavier than anything you’ve ever felt before. You will hurt in ways that you will never understand.

You will think about this day forever. You will find yourself rubbing your tummy, crying, wondering…

You will have triggers. You will have reminders. It will never go away.

Can you hear me? Why can’t you hear me? I want so badly for you to hear me.

You can’t see it now, but your life is going to get better.

Though the memory of that day will never, ever, go away. You’re going to relive the day you spent in that white gown. You’re going to relive it often. It will always be a part of who you are.

But one day you will learn about grace and forgiveness. One day you will learn about true love. Hold onto that. Tuck that away in your heart, because there will be days when the hope of that moment will be all you have.

Tam, you need to know that I forgive you. And I will forgive you when you’re back in that gown next year, too. I understand why you’re doing this. You really believe you have no other option. Why can’t you hear me…

I will be here waiting for you, and you will soon see that forgiveness and redemption will hold your heart and you won’t be alone any longer.

You will find that one day, the choice that you are making now, will somehow help another young girl not make the same decision.

And though that doesn’t make what you’re about to do right, it will at least give those little ones a beautiful legacy.

But still, I wish you could hear me...

***

Tam Hodge is a writer and speaker. You can find her online at www.tamhodge.com and on Facebook. She lives in Franklin, TN with her husband and their two children. Tam says: "If I could share one thing with everyone I meet it's that we don't have to live under the pain and regret of our life's choices and hurts. We can let them grow us into something powerful that God can use to help others." Thank you, Tam, for sharing your love and light with us.

As I'm becoming aware of my addictive behaviors around food, I'm learning quite a bit about the difference between willingness and willpower. I'm noticing that relying on willpower to resist over-eating doesn't work. My willpower manifests itself through diets, resolutions, commitments; i.e., "trying harder." I've learned the hard way that addictive behavior doesn't respond to "trying harder." It does, however, seem to respond to willingness; a willingness to let go to a power greater than myself; i.e., God.

I've sketched out some of the differences between willpower and willingness and thought I'd share them with you:

Willpower is:

1. Finite: even if I have the most amazing willpower at 8am, chances are that by 2pm, my willpower is fizzling out. There are limitations to my willpower. Therefore, relying on willpower alone is not a reliable tool for sustaining healthy eating.
2. Affected by external circumstances: it's easy for me to make healthy choices when the bills are paid, the children are happy and my marriage is peaceful. When everything is going well, so is my willpower. But when stress comes, my willpower loses strength. I need something stronger than my own willpower to help me eat healthily even in times of stress.
3. Self-generated: my willpower comes from me. The problem is that my food addiction is stronger than me. All my resolutions and diet-plans fall down when faced by the cunning beast that is my hankering for Skittles. 
4. A brutal dictator: There is no room for grace or mistakes in my willpower. When I fail, my willpower just tells me I wasn't trying hard enough. My willpower shames me so hard that I usually give up because I can't even live up to my own standards for myself.
5. Isolating: my willpower functions from a place that says I can do this all by myself, that I am the "self-made" hero of my own story. My willpower won't allow me to ask for help. It certainly won't allow me to admit my mistakes to others. The thing is, I can't get better on my own. I need the help and fellowship of those who have struggled and found some recovery.

Willingness is:

1. Infinite: willingness is limitless because it doesn't come from myself, it comes from God. Yes, I do my part by making a decision to turn my will over to the care of God but then God is right there, immediately meeting that decision with an infinite supply of His grace and strength. Willingness comes after I've experienced God's love. I can only turn over my will to God when I believe a. God is good and b. God loves me. In his book, Breathing Under Water: Spirituality and the Twelve Steps, Richard Rohr writes that turning our lives over to God means, "a radical surrendering of our will to Another whom we trust more than ourselves" (p. 21). When I come to believe that God is FOR me, everything changes. I am more than willing to surrender because saying "Thy will, not mine be done" isn't scary; it's more like relief, more like letting my burden fall into the unconditional love and mercy of an ever-loving God.
2. Hopeful: unlike willpower, willingness is not affected by circumstances. Willingness is founded in hope: hope that things can get better, that everything will work out, that God will do for me what I cannot do for myself. Willingness is not derailed by stress, a broken washing machine, grouchy kids or my own exhaustion. I can be willing even when everything is falling apart. Willingness is the hope that says: "I can't, You can, I'll let you."
3. God-generated: willingness isn't dependent upon my ability to "work up" some kind of feeling or transformational energy. 
4. Full of grace and truth: willingness is an economy of acceptance. Shaming myself only makes things worse. I know the truth (things need to change) and grace is the willingness to accept help. 
5. Fellowship: willingness leans on the support of others. Willingness understands that we cannot heal alone. We need the non-judgmental support of those who have struggled similarly. In the fellowship of brokenness, it is safe to be willing.

The question is: how do I become willing?

My 12-step sponsor suggests that one way to become willing is to pray for the willingness to be willing. Ha. 

Also, pain. When I'm in enough pain (regret for overeating, shame, feeling yucky, low energy, etc), then I become willing to do something different. When the consequences for my overeating become painful enough (stepping on the scale, for example), then being willing to change is the lesser of two pains.

I wish I could say I choose willingness because I'm all spiritual and stuff. But NOPE. Usually, I find willingness once the consequences of my addictive behavior are more painful than turning my will over to God.

In other words, I get SO SICK of doing things my way that I'm finally like: God's way has to be the better option. At the very least, I'm willing to see if it is. I'm willing to see if maybe God is God.

Success for me today meant not eating ice-cream when I was stressed. I ate bacon instead. PROGRESS, THO.

— Elizabeth Esther (@elizabethesther) August 1, 2015

Some of my food-sober friends say that the first step is awareness. If that's true, then boy oh boy am I aware. For a long time I was eating unconsciously, just stuffing food into my mouth whenever and wherever and without any kind of awareness.

Now, I can see my hand going toward my mouth and I'm all: WAIT. IT'S NOT MEAL-TIME. WHY AM I SNACKING?

And then I get to sit there and feel all my feelings. WHICH REALLY SUCKS.

I would so much rather stick a handful of Cheez-its in my mouth than feel all my feelings.

Here's the awful truth: after I binge on Cheezits, I feel even worse. I still feel what I felt before I ate and on top of that, I feel guilty for eating so much.

It's been really hard for me to admit this to myself but I have a problem with gluttony. I am a compulsive overeater. Cue weeping and gnashing of teeth.

Here's why I want to change: because I just don't feel good. Eating like this makes me sluggish, tired, low-energy, grumpy.

This week I discovered that being tired is a HUGE trigger for me. My brain starts short-circuiting. My eyes get prickly. My back hurts. My shoulders sag. I yawn incessantly. And then I start snacking.

I learned this awesome little acronym: H.A.L.T. It stands for: Hungry, Angry, Lonely, Tired.

Whenever I'm feeling super-tempted to gorge on Cheezits, I HALT. I ask myself: am I hungry, angry, lonely or tired? I'm beginning to distinguish between Real Hunger and Boredom/Stress Hunger. I'm also realizing that my body needs to nap. Everyday. I'm a napper. It's just how it is. If I don't get a 15-20 minute nap at about 2pm, I will be a raving lunatic by 5pm.

Here's another revelation: you're supposed to feel hungry before a meal. That's normal. Huh. WHO KNEW?!

It's like I've been running around for the past two years desperately trying to avoid Ever Feeling Hungry. Because feeling hungry makes me feel all kinds of other things like: anxious, worried that I won't get enough....

I'm still working on what foods I need to abstain from—I'm going really slow about this because my tendency is to OVERWORK my food program. I will abstain from All The Things! I'll never eat sugar again! DEATH TO DONUTS!

But deprivation is the road that leads straight into Taco Bell. DON'T ASK ME HOW I KNOW.

Yesterday afternoon by 4pm, I was exhausted. I'd been driving the kids around all day long. Then my washing machine broke. Then one kid sprained his ankle. Another kid lost her favorite friendship bracelet.

I was crying by 4:30pm. And I still needed to make dinner. GAH.

Here's another thing I learned: I need to plan my meals in advance because if I wait until I'm starving, I will just grab whatever is in front of me. 

Awareness, man. It's like my entire life has been lit up by stadium lights and I can't NOT see what I'm doing. I can't pretend anymore. I see it all and holy maccabees, this food-sobriety journey will probably last the rest of my life.

This is Day 2.

I.

"I want to tell you something," grandfather said, pulling me aside after a family dinner. "Don't let yourself go."

I blanched, felt the heat rise in my cheeks. I tried to suck in my tummy. I'd had a baby ten months ago and struggled with losing the baby weight.

I nodded furiously, forcing myself not to cry. "Of course," I said. "You're right. I'll work on it. I'll get skinny again."

He patted my shoulder. "That's a good girl."

That night was my sister's engagement party. The whole family had come together to have dinner at the beach. Sixteen years later, the only thing I remember about that night are the words my grandfather said. And how much I hatred I felt for my post-pregnancy body.

II.

Small. Quiet. Preferably, invisible. These were the virtues of womanhood.

Take up as little space as possible. Keep your thoughts to yourself. Make yourself useful and helpful—but without drawing attention. Eat small portions. And never take seconds.

The first time I had a Coca-Cola I was in high school. It was so sweet, too sweet. But Diet Coke—now there was a soda I could drink every day. It was diet.

III.

Every year or so there was some new "holy" diet. Pritikin. The Zone. Juicing. Cleanses. And if there wasn't a diet, there were prohibitions: no sugar, no white flour, no white rice, sometimes no dairy, millet for breakfast, steel-cut oatmeal. I stayed slender and small the first twenty years of my life. And then I had my first baby and couldn't stop eating.

IV.

I gained and lost, gained and lost for the next eight years. If I wasn't pregnant, I was breastfeeding. 

My eating was out of control. I developed an appetite for donuts—I'd never eaten donuts while growing up. And cheeseburgers. And fries. And pizza. Now that I was out of my parents house, I could bring home whatever I wanted. Diet Coke, Cheetos, Oreos. I discovered Dr. Pepper.

After the twins were born, I made a significant change. I started exercising regularly. Hard exercise. Bootcamp. I lost twenty pounds—which for a 5'2" woman like me makes a big difference. I was the fittest I'd ever been in my life. 

But then I wrote two books. 

V.

Since June of 2013, I've gained thirty five pounds. 

For whatever reason, the stress of writing two books broke something in me. I couldn't stop eating. I was hungry all the time. Ravenous, really.

I was eating for comfort, eating to numb out, eating to relax, eating to celebrate, eating because I was bored.....

But then I couldn't stop.

VI.

Being strict with myself didn't help. Fasting didn't help. Trying a new diet didn't help.

I was burned out on bootcamp. High impact exercise was taking a toll on my joints. My knees ached all the time. My wrists and shoulders hurt.

Six weeks ago I began barre class.

Four weeks ago I attended my first Overeaters Anonymous meeting. I cried because I recognized my story in other people's stories. Afterwards, I felt sane. For the first time in two years, I didn't eat anything after dinner. I didn't need to eat anything. I didn't feel full but I felt...satisfied.

It's not about the number on the scale. I know the weight comes off—but something inside me needs to change.

There is a big, empty hole of hungry inside me that no cheeseburger can fill.

I can bootcamp my way to physical fitness, but that still won't heal the hungry little girl inside me.

It's time to make a change—but this time my goal is different. I'm not aiming at weight loss so much as I'm aiming at soul healing. I have an unhealthy relationship with food. I want to understand why. 

When I know better, I do better.

I'm tired of food running my life. I don't want to feel like this anymore. I want more of that sanity I felt at my first OA meeting.

Day One begins today.

In hindsight, that TWANG I felt while the dentist drilled into my partially numbed skull was when I should have raised my hand. Or punched him in the nose. But since I'm prone to giving the patriarchy the benefit of the doubt, I did nothing but submit to the drill, baby, drill.

The second clue that Something Was Rotten In The State of Toothmark was when medicine-drenched cotton balls were stuffed into the gaping hole that used to be my cheekbone.

I was cranked into an upright position and firmly exhorted to sit still and not swallow, DO.NOT.SWALLOW. 

Of course, what I heard was: "We've just filled your mouth with poison. GOOD LUCK WITH NOT DYING!" 

And then the good doctor and his efficacious assistant scurried off to another patient while I sat alone in a quiet panic. I told myself not to salivate so I wouldn't need to swallow. DO.NOT.SALIVATE. Spoiler alert: salivary glands do not take kindly to orders.

Do you know how hard it is not to swallow when Niagara Falls is pouring into your mouth? It's like dry drowning, if such a thing exists. My only option was to drool all over that humiliating baby bib they tie around your neck.

"Georgia On My Mind" was piping through the overhead speakers. You know, soothing music to keep the masses from PANICKING OH MY GOD MY JAW IS DISSOLVING.

I hate that song now. Just an old sweet song keeps Georgia on my mind? Yeah right. More like an old sweet tooth keeps drill-a on my maxilla.

When the assistant came back to check on me she called me a "CHAMPION SALIVATOR" which was NO COMFORT AT ALL. Nor did it win me any prizes. On the bright side, I didn't swallow poison. Soooo.... winning?!

Then there was more drilling and more smoke spiraling up out of my mouth and flecks of tooth flying in all directions. It was basically the Battle of Waterloo going on in there. I closed my eyes and said my final prayers. I said goodbye to my children. I apologized to my dogs for not giving them more treats.

And then the dentist was like: "You're all set."

I blinked.

What?! I'm alive?! I survived.That was my prize. Well, that plus a bottle of Norco.

Guess how long it took for the searing pain to stop smarting? Yep. Two weeks. Just in time to come back in and get the permanent crown cemented into my head. Because that is so exactly how my life goes.

I don't mind telling you that I cried like a baby the second time around. No, really. They had to stop everything, sit me up and offer tissues until I could pull myself together.

Here's the thing: I've birthed five humans. I know pain. But this pain? It was unreasonable. I mean, when you push seven pounds of baby out of your body, you expect it to hurt, ya know? But one tiny tooth RUINING MY LIFE FOR WEEKS? That's nope. That's what I call Nope-Pain.

Here's what's crazy: three days after the permanent crown was in, the pain magically disappeared. All of it.

I could finally chew on that side of my mouth like a normal human. No more gnawing at steak with my front teeth. No more nibbling at soft foods like a geriatric squirrel. I finally had a properly functioning mandible.

It was GLORIOUS.

And the heavens opened and all the angels and saints rejoiced for the woman who forgot her anguish because of her joy that her new porcelain tooth had been born into the world.

Now, I'm recommending my dentist to everyone I know because oh my word he's not the patriarchy, he's a superhero. The Tooth Liberator, if you will.

He will free you from your miserable banana diet and liberate you to steak and nachos! He will restore all mandibles unto himself! He even swoops in singing hymns! "CROWN THEM WITH MANY CROWNS!" 

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some granola cereal to enjoy.

This is what you need to understand about Megyn Kelly's interview with the Duggar girls: she wasn't speaking with Jill & Jessa themselves; she was speaking with an ideology.

Why? Because context is EVERYTHING. A free woman? Yes, she can speak for herself. But women inside families like the Duggars' are not free. In that environment, everything a woman speaks has been pre-approved and vetted by the men in "authority" over her.

From infancy, they are literally TRAINED to submit themselves to the "headship" and "authority" of men—first their fathers, then their husbands—because submitting to your father/husband is the same as submitting to God.

In this environment, it's impossible to think for yourself, let alone speak for yourself.

So, if you watched Megyn Kelly interview Jill & Jessa Duggar, you were listening to pre-approved talking points. You were listening to a cleverly crafted, Daddy-and-husband-approved message.

How do I know this? Because I had to do the same exact thing.

When I was living inside a fundamentalist group (you can read more about that in my book), I was coached on how to "give an answer" to anyone who asked about our way of life. I was told that whenever I spoke, I was representing The Family or The Church. If I ever spoke "off message," my good standing with God AND my family was in jeopardy. 

My well-being DEPENDED on me staying on message. Thus, I would have told ANY media outlet that I WANTED to be in my church and not to call my abusers ABUSERS. I, too, would have claimed to have forgiven and "moved on."

Most heartbreaking of all? I sincerely believed what I said. It was like religious Stockholm Syndrome. I loved my abusers.

Back to the interview.

Here are the talking points I noticed:

1.) The abuse wasn't abusive but the media talking about it is TOTALLY abusive. 

During the interview, Josh's sexual abuse was NEVER ONCE referred to as sexual abuse. It was repeatedly called "inappropriate touch" and "a mistake." When you can't name the evil, then you can pretend it doesn't exist. And that makes it easy to sweep it under the rug, tell yourself you're OK (hey, it could have been worse!) and "move on." Cleverly, though, the girls still hung onto the "victim" label—not as victims of Josh but as victims of the media. Megyn Kelly picked up this refrain and by the end of her show she was actually suggesting that public discussion of child abuse will PREVENT and DISCOURAGE other people from speaking up. Ugh. So irresponsible. The truth is that by raising awareness about this issue, MORE of us will recognize abusive behavior and SPEAK UP. 

2.) We didn't even know what had happened.

Both girls claimed they didn't "know what had happened." But there's a big difference between NOT KNOWING what had happened and NOT REMEMBERING it. Megyn Kelly *almost* made the distinction, but didn't follow up on it. My guess: Jill & Jessa remember very clearly what happened but because no-one had ever talked to them about sexual assault, they literally didn't KNOW it WAS sexual assault. 

3.) Our parents protected us. SAFEGUARDS!

This is probably the most heartbreaking talking point because it's the one most fraught with fear. In fundamentalism, the worst sin of all is to "bring shame" upon your parents. Speaking up, questioning, casting ANY doubt on your parents is a huge no-no. Even if Jim-Bob and Michelle HAD acted negligently, Jill & Jessa would NEVER say this outloud—and especially not on TV. Remember, they are under intense pressure to preserve the family reputation. I'm not Jim-Bob and Michelle did NOTHING to protect their daughters, but it's pretty clear it wasn't enough because the abuse happened repeatedly. My point, here, is that the context from which Jill & Jessa were speaking absolutely prevented them from even suggesting that their parents could have done more.

Many of you have asked: "Well, what SHOULD the Duggars have done?"

My friend, Mary DeMuth has a beautiful and touching response to this question. Please read her post: WHAT IF? 

THAT is how a Daddy defends and protects his daughter. THAT is what we ALL should do to protect our children.

That is what our precious children deserve.

I almost feel a moral obligation to write about the Duggars—not because I am a former fundamentalist who wrote a book about that kind of life— but because I'm sick of the gleeful, click-baity tabloids dominating the narrative.

So, let's start there.

To the tabloids: shame on you.

I have no idea how tabloid editors sleep at night. They clearly have problem devastating the lives of four young women in pursuit of pageviews and money. Editors, if you truly CARED about the victims, you would have redacted and redacted and redacted until their identities were fully and completely protected. You cannot pretend to care about women while simultaneously destroying their privacy. Period.

To Jim-Bob & Michelle: I hear your story. Do YOU hear it?

There is something missing from the story Jim-Bob and Michelle told tonight. I've heard many, MANY Christians tell difficult  stories about their lives and I know when I can trust the words they're speaking because there are three essential ingredients: humility, responsibility and understanding.

The first missing piece of the story was humility.

Let me explain by summarizing the Duggars' main talking points: "We did all the right things. Josh repented. Everyone is fine. We love Jesus and that's why we're being victimized by the media." 

Nowhere in the interview did we hear Jim-Bob or Michelle express regret for launching a reality TV show in the immediate wake of the abuse (Josh was 15 when he was sent to a "Christian treatment center" and the show began when he was 16). Nowhere did they express sorrow for how badly they had handled things when they FIRST heard about it— a terrible lapse in judgment that led to further molestation incidents. 

The second missing piece was responsibility

Instead of taking responsibility for how they handled things, Jim-Bob and Michelle repeatedly deflected, shifted blame and defended their actions. At one point, Jim-Bob said he'd talked with "other families who had worse things happen." Did you catch that? Basically, Jim-Bob is saying: "Hey, what Josh did is NOTHING compared to what so-and-so's son did!"—which is really no defense at all but essentially an admission that there is ALL KINDS of sexual molestation happening in homeschooling/Quiverfull/ATI/Gothard families. I really hope the authorities follow up on that. 

It was pretty clear that the Duggars viewed themselves as the true victims. Michelle suggested there was "an agenda that purposed to twist and slander" them. Essentially, Michelle is saying: "People hate us because we love Jesus." You know, I'm really, really weary of Christians saying this. It's a cop-out. The truth is that this whole thing could have been avoided if the Duggars had simply been upfront and honest BEFORE they signed onto a TV show.

By not taking responsibility for the abuse going on in their own family, the Duggars simply participated in their future "media victimization." 

The third missing piece was understanding

In talking about the sexual molestation, Michelle said: "Every one of us has done wrong things. That's why Jesus came!" Michelle doesn't understand how this statement downplays abuse. Jim-Bob said: "This wasn't rape or anything like that"—I mean, what kind of comfort is that to victims of sexual abuse? It's like saying: "Hey, at least you weren't raped."

But those statements demonstrate the critical flaw in the Duggar fundamentalist theology; it's why they don't see sexual molestation as particularly worse than, say, lying about how many cookies you stole from the cookie jar. When everything is evil, NOTHING is actually evil.

What the Duggars fail to understand is how serious sexual molestation is and why it's not something you can just resolve at a "Christian Treatment Center." It's not something you sweep under the rug when a TV show knocks on your door. I think what most disturbed me about the Duggar interview was the way Jim-Bob kept trying to direct the interview to IT'S ALL RESOLVED NOW when what we really needed to hear was that he truly understands the gravity of what happened and why his subsequent actions were so disturbing. THAT was missing from the whole interview. THAT is what makes me worry for the safety and wellbeing of his other children.

Hear me on this: I truly feel pity for the Duggars. 

Watching their interview reminded me of the time I had to confront my cult-founding grandfather about the domestic violence happening in our family. Although my grandfather never admitted to his cover-ups (at least Jim-Bob admitted bad things happened), I recognized the similarities in speech and tactic.

Like my grandfather, Jim-Bob had a lot of "Christian-speak" going on. Jim-Bob talked about Josh becoming "a new creature"—I can only imagine how that sounded to a secular audience. A new what? What's a new creature? But this is the only language Jim-Bob has to describe what happened. Fundamentalism is, by its very nature, not a language of the heart but of a cold, black-and-white theology. 

Like my grandfather, Jim-Bob's answers to direct questions were vague and dodgy. On the one hand, I was relieved to hear that all the children involved had received "professional counseling." Then again, every fundamentalist I knew never took their kids to professional counselors. So, I was left with more questions than answers: what sort of professional counseling? And what kind of "Christian treatment center"?

It took me a long time to forgive my grandfather for the abuses he wrought on my family and so many others in our cult. My heart softened when I stopped seeing him as evil and began seeing him as a terribly, terribly sick person. I forgave him when I realized his lies had so sickened him that he was fatally ill with religious addiction. 

And this is how I feel about the Duggars. In my heart of hearts, I feel nothing but pity and sadness for them because this is a terribly sick family.

This is a family so entrenched in the story they've told themselves that even if reality differs, the Duggars would rather see themselves as victims of persecution than admit something might be wrong with the story they're telling. 

That should break all our hearts.