Say Something…I’m Giving Up On You

“I’m going to get straight to the point, Janet. I am concerned about your health.” These words were uttered last Wednesday, October 18th. The speaker? A woman I respect, admire, and aspire to become. What she may not have known was how welcomed and warm her words were or how often these sentiments had revealed themselves in the past weeks and months. From my child’s parent-teacher conference to an early morning encounter at the office to a weekend lunch date with a friend, everyone seemed to share in her concerns, yet her words mattered. While others commented, “You look gaunt,” or inquired, “Have you been losing weight?” She voiced them. She made space for me in her jam-packed life. She paused to show care. It seemed like every person before her was more or less saying, “…I’m concerned…and I’m giving up on you.” Kind of like the song lyrics:

Say something, I’m giving up on you
I’ll be the one, if you want me to
Anywhere, I would’ve followed you

Say something, I’m giving up on you

And I am feeling so small
It was over my head
I know nothing at all

And I will stumble and fall

I’m still learning to love
Just starting to crawl

~A Great Big World

Perhaps that’s what it is: We are all still learning to love, just starting to crawl in our ability to talk about the hard stuff, to hold ourselves able to be vulnerable, to expose ourselves in ways that depict our humanity. I have noticed. I am 40 pounds lighter than I was when my employer started a wellness plan. My clothes are different. I can no longer slip on the skirt I’ve kept since I was in high school or lounge in my favorite pair of soccer mom sweatpants. They don’t fit right. The conundrum? I am exercising less than I ever have and eating more. I pack in a good 2,000+ calories a day and teach Jazzercise on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays at 5:30 AM, with an occasional fourth class if my friend needs a sub during any given week. Along with that, I am sleeping worse, typically getting five or six hours a night and struggling to fall back to sleep if I wake up. About a month ago, my arm, wrist and hand began to inexplicably swell (the Reader’s Digest version of the story is that there are approximately 100 things I do not have wrong with me, including Lupus, blood clots, and more). Nonetheless, I am clearly struggling. My body is responding to something, but the mystery in what and why pervades many of my thoughts and the medical profession at large.  Specialists and doctors can’t tell me why, which places me in a precarious situation with anyone who is genuinely concerned asks questions. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to respond. I get uncomfortable. I don’t like to talk about myself. My attempts to reassure them that “I am ok” are futile as I am not even sure if I’m ok. What I do know is that I am grateful for the people who voice their care with compassion and grace. How else can people voice concern, you might be thinking? Hurtfully.

In the past six months, I have heard others call me “gaunt,” “too thin,” “anorexic,” and other descriptions that convey judgment and unbelonging. As a woman who has experienced trauma, these words are cues of danger. My automatic response is flight and barriers. Protecting myself and my person within become of grave concern. Nothing else matters. Because of this, my relationships have suffered and I find myself driven to places of comfort: my work, solitude, and silence. These are not all bad, but I know they are not sustainable. As Brene Brown notes, “We are made for connection.”

Friends and colleagues, thank you for those of you who have said something, anything. Even when it has been hurtful, I know that you are coming from a place of care and concern. Please pray for me and answers in discovering what might be causing these symptoms and changes.