No More Self-Help Books

This summer, I packed all of my self-help books into five boxes and put them in the garage. I swore off anything that promised I could create my own reality in 10 easy steps and instead, I took up reading trashy romance novels. I grieved the loss of these books as I pulled one after another off the maple book shelves that flank the red brick fireplace in our living room.

My entire being over these past several years has been all about pushing and prodding myself to change. My comrades in arms were my books. Whenever life felt a little overwhelming, a trip to Barnes and Noble, three self-help books and sixty dollars later, I felt relief from the anxiety of living in my own skin. I had a plan for improvement as I pored over the chapters and took inventories of my most glaring defects (but only usually after I was bored with taking inventories of my enemies both real and imagined), I prayed for release and then promptly sat on my duff, exhausted and bloodied from the civil war raging inside. I was beaten into submission by my inability to change myself. One would think that I would learn the lesson that pushing and prodding don't work - acceptance does.

But about one month ago, I was reading. Again. This time, reading felt like all of the old diet schemes with the charts and graphs and expectations that teased, tempted, and tantalized but never satisfied. Empty in the way my favorite binge foods left me craving and sick to my stomach at the same time. And then I heard it. The plaintive wail of a five year old voice from deep inside me begging “Leave me alone. I don’t want to change.”

This five year old knew more about Sacred Hunger than I gave her credit for. I was coming to believe that the root of my compulsive eating lay buried in my refusal to accept myself as I was – blessed imperfections and all. I knew my eating was a valid response to whatever was eating me, which usually involved thinking I was not quite good enough. Although I had waved the white flag of surrender in my attempts to diet, I was not yet ready to call a halt to forcing myself into the confines of perfection.

My husband noticed my habit of self-flagellation long before I became aware of my addiction to perfection, pain, and struggle. He noticed I had a penchant for hurting myself as I wandered through the house because he heard me saying Ouch every 15 minutes or so. Passing through the bathroom, I would bump against the door on the way out. Ouch. Reaching for a can of diced tomatoes while making Sunday night spaghetti sauce, I scraped my finger on the shelf. Ouch. Putting the clean sheets on the bed, I banged my hand against the headboard. Ouch and ouch again.

I started to notice that I said Ouch at least 30 times each day. One day, I received the grace-filled gift of breathing space between a self-critical thought and the Ouch. I had spilled milk on the counter and a string of abuse flew through my mind like a intercontinental ballistic missile bent on destruction. “How could you be such an idiot? What is wrong with you? Look at what you've done. You've made such a mess!”

OUCH. I spilled milk. Nothing more. It was not an unrecoverable event like launching a nuclear missile which would shower the world in fall out, creating a by-product of cancer. Or was it? The cancer of the constant self-criticism was out-pictured in real bruises, cuts, and scrapes on my limbs. The tiny child within me trembled in terror in front of the adult who was on a perpetual search and destroy mission for who I thought I shouldn't be and what I shouldn't do, instead of praising what courageous steps she made each day. No wonder she’d had enough. Sacred Hunger asked for tender mercy in my way of relating to myself.

This mercy came when my husband challenged me to adopt his daily on your knees prayer practice. Little did I know that this almost infinitesimal act would begin to lead me away from a rocky battle ground and into gentle pastures. On my knees each morning, I whispered humble prayers of gratitude and acceptance while savoring the simple silence of communion with my Creator. I prayed to embrace everything – especially my imperfections. While on my knees, I found my footing once again when I was reminded of my earliest lesson of recovery: Act as If. In the first 30 days of my recovery walk, intuitively I had known that the only way to learn to love and accept myself was to make small changes that did not overwhelm me or feel like work. These movements needed to be so small that they could squeak through the enemy lines drawn by my inner rebel.

I remember peering into the mirror one wintry February morning. Shivering and covered in goose bumps from the English wind whistling through the space between the window and the sash, I asked myself one question: What would someone who really loved themselves do for themselves every single day? A simple response to a simple question arose in my gut: A person who loved themselves would wash their face every night before they went to bed. And so I did. Every night for more than 7 years, I washed my face before crawling into the warmth of my bed.

Eight years later and with no small amount of surprise, it feels as if I'm in that same bathroom asking myself the same question again. The call of Sacred Hunger for self-acceptance asks me to take one small action, which I can practice daily, in an attempt to love and honor my body. I made a deal with my husband that I would take my vitamins every day and drink a glass of water before each meal. These two tiny movements feel like revolutionary acts. No complicated campaign this time, but rather a strategic maneuver in making and keeping promises to myself, which are the bricks and mortar of self-trust and self-love.

This morning, I took an inventory of these seemingly unimportant acts. The list included:
1. Pray on my knees
2. A daily gratitude list
3. Using the bathroom on the 1st floor at work instead of the close at hand bathroom on the 2nd floor
4. Walking twice a week with a friend after work
5. Writing 15 minutes daily
6. Eating 9 servings of fruits and vegetables on most days
7. Stretching for 10 minutes while my husband and I watch t.v. each evening

And oh yes....the glasses of water and vitamins. Frankly, I was amazed at the growing list of these seemingly inconsequential micro-movements. Somewhere I was taught that if you look at your checkbook and your calendar, you will find out what matters to you. Looking at the list, I could no longer buy the lie that I didn't like myself. The truth was I mattered to myself. War over. Truce declared.

It’s been a while now since I’ve heard myself saying Ouch. My bruises have healed, and the self-help books are back in the garage. I'm hopeful that soon they'll be on their way to Goodwill. In the war against perfection, I’m learning to surrender to Less is More. And that feels good.

Blessed Be.