Eat Pray Love Made Me Do It (9 page)

—

James Belmont

I
would love to say that
Eat Pray Love
made me jump on the first plane to some exotic destination, eat amazing food, find God and fall in love with a perfectly imperfect man. In fact, as I get older, that might be the story I'll tell (and who's going to argue with an old curmudgeon like I'll be?).

Until then, though, this is what really happened.

I closed the book and just sat there. I was dumbfounded. I actually felt kind of abandoned. Liz had left me! My lifeline to her was cut off as she rode into the sunset. And not only had she left me, but she had left me with questions, and with not one freaking slice of life-altering margarita pizza! What was I supposed to do?

I would like to say that I then progressed, with decorum and grace, of course, through the stages of grief and loss, before arriving at acceptance. Again, in my sunset years, this is how I'm going to tell this story.

Instead, I bawled my eyes out and then grew very angry. There had to be more, right? More love, more wisdom, more food sent straight from the gods! But there was nothing: just me. I was all I had at that moment, and that had to be enough.

In
Eat Pray Love
, Liz started her healing by talking to God and eventually found out (in a good way) that she was also talking to herself. Well, God and I already talked. Like, a lot.

Okay, I'll be honest; I did most of the talking and not a lot of listening. I figured by now She must be sick of my prattle.

So I started actually talking to myself. For two days, every moment when I wasn't working, I was at home having the peace summit of my life.

At first it felt somewhat the same as when I talked to God, except this time, there was a really judgmental asshole on the other end of the conversation. He was super critical sometimes, and super stubborn for most of it. As our conversations grew longer and more intense, I came to an unpleasant realization: he HATED me, more than I ever thought possible.

Slowly, over these two nights of hanging out (with pizza) with that prick, I began to stop talking and start listening to what he was saying. I saw through his bravado. He saw through my fear. I saw through his promiscuity; he acknowledged my past pain. He acknowledged my loneliness but showed me that I was not alone. I started to show him that forgiving both of us was probably the only path we could follow. That scared him. He wasn't sure he could do that.

I confronted him about why he hated me so much. He responded that I didn't deserve to be loved or have any of the blessings I had.

I was shocked and confused. I didn't think I was really all
that blessed. He pointed out all the blessings I had in work, friends, family and (he admitted begrudgingly) talents. I asked him why I didn't deserve them.

“I know what darkness lies in there, dude!” he snapped over a mouthful of pizza. “The thoughts you will never admit; the unbridled selfishness and the sense of superiority. Are you trying to convince me that you deserve to be loved?”

I was stunned. I had no idea he felt this way. (To be honest, I was also a bit stunned that I had just dude-ed myself.)

“But—I love,” I responded, weakly at first.

“Really?” came the snarky reply.

“Yes, I do. It might be quiet, or it might be loud, but I LOVE!”

I am not sure which one of us was more surprised that I was shouting.

“I love,” I continued, much quieter. “I have the capacity to love. We both know what it's like to lose that for a while, and I will celebrate that fact. It's a rare and precious gift to love, and it should be shared. I've lost it before, and I will not lose it again. And I will no longer fear loving myself the way I love other people. Is that clear?”

He got quiet for a moment.

“You know I'm never leaving you,” he stated, almost saddened by the fact.

“I know,” I replied. “And to be frank, I need you. You are a part of me. I acknowledge that. But you are not the only part, and, to be honest, not even a majority shareholder anymore.”

My living room got really quiet. The sounds of a YouTube video could be faintly heard as I just stood there, staring, with a dripping slice of pepperoni pizza in my hand.

A lot of questions went through my mind.

Did I just put a major dent into my epic level of self-loathing?

Is my pizza getting cold?

Why am I thinking of a lion?

Did the neighbors hear all that?

The eerie thing was, this all seemed so familiar to me. Where had I heard a conversation like this before? I was so worked up, I couldn't remember. And why was I still thinking of a lion?

•   •   •

I
looked down, and there was Liz on my coffee table—well, her book anyway—partially covered by the pizza box from two nights ago. I had gotten so worked up during my conversation that I forgot I was mad at her for leaving me.

I opened the book to a dog-eared page. And this is what it roared: YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW STRONG MY LOVE IS!!!!!!!!!

The chattering, negative thoughts in my mind scattered in the wind of this statement like birds and jackrabbits and antelopes. They hightailed it out of there, terrified.

I had found my lion. Cowardly, friendly, but all mine. In me.

My adventure of the past two days was over. I had made a stand against self-loathing and began loving myself for all of who I was. Even as this chapter closed, though, I realized that a new, more fulfilling adventure was only just beginning: learning how to live with myself.

—

Annmarie Kostyk

I
'm not worthy.

I wasn't raised to be independent. I was raised to look for someone wealthy to take care of me. After all, it was just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as it was a poor man. To me, though, money didn't matter
.
I just wanted someone who loved me unconditionally and made me laugh.

As a child, I was plagued by asthma and allergies, and constantly told I couldn't be like the other kids, couldn't do what they did. I was alternately overprotected and overexposed to allergens—smoke, pets, Christmas trees—that made my condition unbearable. Many nights I prayed that I would not die. At five years old, I was bargaining with God for my life. I was afraid.

My fear was only exacerbated by twelve years of Catholic school. I didn't understand this religion that claimed to be superior over all others. Why was my religion right and others wrong? I was constantly afraid of making a mistake or breaking one of
the many rules drilled into us from an early age. I was afraid of not going to church; I was afraid of birth control and afraid of getting pregnant. I worried that if I didn't do what I was told, didn't do the things that were expected of me, I would be denied all the good things in life. I would be punished.

My mother expected me to be a doctor so I spent my entire high school career taking science and math classes. Yet I dreamed of traveling the globe and working in an art museum. Unsurprisingly, I hated school and began to believe I couldn't do anything well. Then I sabotaged myself so that belief became reality. I felt self-conscious around other kids, like I couldn't connect to them, and I had no idea who I was or who I was becoming. All I knew was that I was unhappy.

When I went away to college, I found freedom for the first time in my life. I also found alcohol, which became a coping mechanism for me. I didn't know how to fit in and was desperate to do so. I drank heavily socially on and off for about a decade. Eventually, I developed a sensitivity to alcohol and almost died. Once I stopped drinking, I began having panic attacks. They'd happen when I was stuck in traffic or out walking alone. I went on antidepressants. I had no social life, since venturing outside could mean another panic attack. The world seemed unreachable to me.

Ten years ago, I saw Elizabeth Gilbert on
Oprah
. I was forty years old and still living with my parents. I had never married. I didn't have a boyfriend, children or any real social life. I also had never heard of
Eat Pray Love.
Yet listening to Ms. Gilbert tell her story, I felt such a connection with her that I cried a few times during the show. Realizing that she had tried to be everything everyone else wanted and expected her to be, even though she
wanted none of those things—that hit me right in the heart. The fact that she needed a journey to find herself resonated in my soul; it felt decadent to me. I wanted that, too.

I went out and purchased the book, and read it in one sitting. I highlighted. I wrote in the margins, something I never do. I cried so many times, I thought I was losing it. When I finished, I put the book down and let out a huge sigh. My life could be fixed. I could feel whole again. I just needed to find what worked for me. What was my
Eat Pray Love
?

•   •   •

I
made a very long list of things I wanted to do or try, and things I wanted to change about my life. I knew tackling the list would be a long, ongoing task, and that was okay. It took me forty years to end up in this position, so it made sense that it would take a long time to become who I wanted to be: a loving person who is constantly evolving, growing and experiencing new things.

Two of the top items on my list were, of course, meditation and yoga. I went to the library and researched meditation. I borrowed books about spirituality, Hinduism, Buddhism and self-help.

I started meditating daily. It was tough at first, but I asked the universe to be patient with me since I really needed this. I needed to feel grounded, centered and at peace. I did the work, and the universe answered. Slowly, I built up my practice from five minutes to thirty minutes. I felt great afterward. I was calm. I started sleeping well. I moved out of my parents' home.

I signed up for a beginner's yoga class. After my first lesson, I cried. My instructor told me that often happens, because yoga
releases emotions. She was happy my first class was so successful; I, on the other hand, felt like crap. Still, I kept going. Now, when I do yoga, I feel like I'm reaching my soul.

Over the past ten years, I have been doing exactly what I set out to do. I'm evolving as a being in this wonderful universe. I've learned that I can take care of myself. And I can take care of that kid who, I realize, wasn't all that sick to begin with. I nurture that kid. On occasion, I color. (Yes, I bought myself colored pencils, markers and a beautiful coloring book just for adults.) I became a healthy, active woman. I have a loving circle of friends. I have work that makes me feel good. I'm not at all religious, though I discovered I am extremely spiritual. I believe in kindness and love. I am at peace. I feel lighter.

I'm fifty now. I've crossed off so many items on my list of things to do and try—but I've probably added twice as many new ones! I still have fears, obstacles and doubts, but really, who doesn't? And once or twice a year, I reread my copy of
Eat Pray Love
to remind me of my journey. I remember how far I've come, and I'm proud of myself. This in turn reminds me that I have so much more to experience and enjoy.

Thank you, Elizabeth Gilbert. Sharing your journey in
Eat Pray Love
saved me.

I am worthy.

—

Nosipho Kota

O
n December 15, 2001, I was diagnosed with HIV. I remember sitting in the consultation room afterward, completely numb. I couldn't bring myself to even stand up and leave. In the months after my diagnosis, I slipped into depression. I didn't have the courage to disclose my status to my family or friends, and instead threw myself into my work as a journalist for the
Weekend Post
in Port Elizabeth, South Africa
.
At night, I would lock myself in my rented room, afraid to venture outside. I was convinced that people would know I was HIV positive just by looking at me. I was afraid to laugh and afraid to have an opinion. Meaningful friendships or relationships felt impossible. I didn't think I was fit to participate in my own life. Instead, I let shame and guilt consume me. These feelings ate at the core of who I was until I became just a shadow of myself.

I suffered like this for three years, until I finally sought the help of a psychologist who offered me a different perspective on what life with HIV/AIDS could look like. She was empathetic and helped me work through my fear of getting very sick. I began to understand how the virus works on the body, and that if I ate healthily and took my medication, I could go on to live a long and meaningful life. Most important, I could watch my son grow up. I was pregnant when I discovered I was HIV positive; AZT therapy had ensured my son was delivered safely and HIV-free, and now I was determined to be present for him—to care for him and see him become the young man he is today. He is my reason for living.

Therapy helped build up my courage, and after three months I felt ready to disclose to my mother and sister. My mother was shocked but supportive. She didn't understand the intricacies of life with HIV but said she would do all she could to help. My sister lives in Johannesburg and so wasn't available for day-to-day matters but told me I could always rely on her for emotional support.

My then boyfriend, the father of my son, was a different matter. I was terrified of disclosing to him, even more so than I had been with my family, because of the stigma and blame that I feared would follow. And I was right. When I finally mustered enough courage to tell him, he rejected me. I begged and pleaded for him not to leave me; I couldn't bear to be alone. He agreed to stay, but our relationship was never the same after that. It felt like he used my HIV positive status as a reason to treat me horribly, and I took the mistreatment silently, hoping that somehow things would get better.

It was during this time that a friend recommended I read
Eat Pray Love
. I think she felt it would resonate with me because it was the story of a woman who resurrected her life from the ashes of her divorce and managed to really make something of it. I soaked Liz's words in. I realized that, like her, I had “fallen in love with the highest potential of a man, rather than with the man himself.” My boyfriend was never going to be what I wanted him to be. We weren't living together; he offered neither financial nor emotional support to me and our son. I wanted better for us. I wanted my son to have integrity and to grow into a responsible young man. I knew I had to end things.

My boyfriend and I had been together for four years. Cutting ties with him was heart-wrenching but also liberating. I began nurturing myself back to spiritual and emotional health. I went on long walks and watched movies. I sought solace in books and in journaling. I made new friends. I traveled around South Africa. I started to dream again and self-published my first poetry collection. I am finding my way around loneliness. These days, I invite it in and sit with it, because I know it's a fleeting devil and soon it will pass. I am content in my own skin. When people reject me—and they do—because of my status and their ignorance, I move right along. I don't lose any sleep over it. I have faith that I will find a man who will love me regardless of my status. I know that I am beautiful, and deserving, and it does not serve me to accept anything less than a great, earthshaking, once-in-a-lifetime love.

I am living the life of my dreams as a writer and have become a source of inspiration to friends and family members who are also living with HIV. Because of me, they are able to see—as I
learned myself—that one can have HIV and still live well, and with meaning. It's been fourteen years, and I've come full circle, though every day I am still learning, growing and coming into my own. My son is very proud of all that I have endured. He believes in me. He is the apple of my eye.

Thanks, Liz.