Five Years.

I am feeling immensely nostalgic and sentimental today. It is my last day teaching at the pre-school, ever. It is also my five year sobriety/e.d. recovery birthday. Both things are making me even more reflective and clumsily emotional than usual.

I'm also downplaying both of them, mostly out of an attempt to hold back the tears.

I have been teaching at the pre-school for four years, and I have been sober for five. These last few years have been crazy and also amazing. In the last five years, I have been through a lot. Getting sober and e.d. free. Shaving my head and losing dreadlocks full of handmade clay beads (and probably several other unidentifiable things). Having my heart broken by my first girlfriend. Experiencing desperation. Surprise at the power of my own anger. Learning to live alone without unhealthy dependence on drugs, alcohol, and food. Dealing with the aftermath of trauma. Dreams, anniversaries. A spell of nearly three years without being able to compose. Meeting Stacia. The intense, confusing courtship we had from opposite sides of the world. One of my best friends being diagnosed with cancer. Her long, excruciating illness. Her death at 28. The death of my gentle, blue-eyed grandmother. Graduating from undergrad, somehow with a commendable GPA even after all the dropping out I had to do along the way. Getting a certificate in teaching English. Never really using it but taking a good friend away from the process. Losing that friend when our boundaries blurred. Starting a traveling music studio after quitting the terrible job I had with a music-teacher staffing company. Leaving Stacia. Leaving an entire support system. Leaving Luna. Leaving the garden of perennials. Driving to Lake Nokomis and jumping in at dusk because I didn't know what else to do. Traveling to New Zealand. Summit treks by myself. Getting involved in the local music scene. Meeting Dan, my producer and unbelievably generous friend. A string of not-quite-ready attempts at dating. Polyamory. Reconsidering orientation. Climbing to the highest and lowest points in Arizona within the span of four days, high on new love and desert air. Getting my first (maybe only?) commission. Learning to whitewater kayak. Learning to run. Discovering Reiki. Yoga. Finding a new, empowering support community. Recording an album in January, with snow piling in the dark behind us, through a room of windows. Being graced by the talents of my incredible and collaborative friends. Applying for an MFA. Getting a teaching assistantship to pay for graduate school. The sudden death of my 7-year-old cat. Surprising friendships and unexpected community. Maintaining anxiety in healthy ways.

Struggling anyway.

Surviving anyway.

To put this into perspective, five years ago today I was in a residential eating disorder treatment center in rural Wisconsin, drunkenly confessing to the powers that be that I had been sneaking soapy vodka into my bedroom in an empty shampoo bottle and chugging it while my Canadian roommate who referred to her breasts as "ta-tas" talked for hours on the phone to her boyfriend in Toronto.

Only weeks before that I was lying in the ICU at Fairview-Riverside, recovering from a dangerously close suicide attempt.

Fairview-Riverside knew me well then. I once walked into detox (or, more accurately, stumbled into detox) and was greeted by name. "Hi, Liz," the doctor on-duty said, plainly. "I see you're back."

These days, detox and soapy vodka seem like pieces of another lifetime. Someone's else life. This life I have built in the following years is one I am proud of. It's nice to stop and remember how much my life has changed because I so often take for granted the day to day tasks that once seemed impossible to manage. There was a time when a "good day" was measured by how many calories I had ingested, or whether or not the scale tipped a hundred pounds, whether or not I had been kicked out of an all-you-can-eat buffet for eating too much (it can actually happen--it happened to me twice), or whether or not I had blacked out the night before. These things were the central, consuming pieces of my life.

The things that consume me now are much different and much more productive. Yes, today I am happy and proud and grateful, as cliche and buttery as that sounds. There is so much change occurring in my life right now, and I have a lot of fear and uncertainty about what these next years hold for me, but I have clearly been through much worse. And I have learned that I can handle change and even thrive.

Recently, I walked into the co-op and was recognized by a staff member. "Oh, hi," he said to me with a smile. "You're a reg, aren't you?" Slightly embarrassed, I said, "Yep. I'm a regular." Something about the dissipation of my anonymity as a co-op shopper made me feel at first funny, like I had been figured out or caught. I told this story to a friend, asking insecurely if maybe I shopped too often at the co-op. My friend laughed and said, "I think that's one place where it's a good thing to be recognized."

And he's right: I would much rather be recognized as a "reg" at the natural foods co-op than on the detox floor of Fairview-Riverside.

Oh, how things change!

I made an appointment with someone who would alter my bridesmaid's dress without making me feel like I was completely clueless about such womanly things. She said she had plenty of time to make the alterations, but, she said kindly, "please do bring in your shoes and bra."

This meant that I had to buy shoes and a bra.

I have at least enough to sense to comprehend that I can't wear my Mary Jane styled Earth shoes or strappy, rubber-soled Tevas with a satiny periwinkle gown. Nor can I wear the flimsy cotton thing I wear that masquerades as a sports bra for women who are still waiting for their breasts to appear.

So yesterday (when one student canceled because she was striking the set of a play and another student canceled because she happens to attend one of the schools currently shut down to prevent the spread of the ever-so-mysterious Swine flu--oh, whoops--H1N1 virus), I grabbed the opportunity to devote some time to preparing myself for this venture as a Bridesmaid.

First stop: Payless Shoes. Yes, I decided to go for sensibly priced shoes (which, in the end, means not-so-sensibly cut around the awkward shape of my small, wide foot). I deliberated for what seemed like hours, trying on this pair, then that pair and attempting to walk in skinny heels. I toppled over not once but at least three times, nearly taking out an entire display of Airwalks. The woman behind the counter was filing her nails and eyeing me suspiciously. Did she think I was going to jack a pair of shoes? What, me?!

I finally opted for a pair that seemed to fit me the most comfortably but that also sported an impressive height. I don't think Payless even sells dress-up shoes without dramatic heels.

Then I remembered that I happen to own an actual bra--one with all the busty details: a push up wire, padded cups (because I don't think they even make bras in my size without padding), and maybe even fancy lace. I managed to find the bra, tucked away in a drawer with other things I never wear.

And on I went, to the kind women who agreed to alter my dress, un-sensible shoes and busty bra in tow.

When I arrived, she had me slip into a dressing room to put on the dress, with the vital shoes and bra. I carefully put on the dress, shoes, and busty bra, then told her I was ready for the pins. She came in, took one look at me and said, fervently, "Oh, you're not wearing that bra are you?"

She must have seen the disappointment on my face. Now I didn't have the right bra?! Why was this entire process so difficult? Navigating the dress-up world leaves me feeling completely lost and ridiculously frumpy. I stammered something about it being the only bra I have.

She must have felt sorry for me (either because I was so clearly clueless or because I was so clearly in need of a bra that actually fits me, I can't be sure), because she put her hand on my arm and said, "You look lovely. You just can't wear that bra."

She had me slowly turn in a circle while she inspected the lines and contours of the dress, then she said, "You can't wear any bra at all with this dress. No bra. No bra!"

This created a number of challenges, because without the padded bra, the chest of the dress drooped drastically. "Why don't they make bridesmaid dresses that fit women with the body of a twelve-year-old boy?" I asked.

"I will sew you some cups into the dress," she said matter-of-factly.

She asked me to slowly turn in a circle while she pinned the dress for the hem. And that's when my bitterness about the whole process turned a bit softer. As I stood there, in my un-sensible shoes and partially fitting dress, with this warm and unfamiliar woman at my feet, holding pins in her teeth and gently folding the excess fabric that spilled onto the floor, I realized that (antiquated and patriarchal as weddings may be) this process of women tending to each other in preparation for the union of friends is part of a long tradition. And I felt beautiful, standing there in satin periwinkle, even though the dress fit funny, and my hair was mussed in long, tangly pigtails.

And I have had the honor of being there with my friend Nicole as she goes through multiple wedding dress fittings. She stands in front of a full-length mirror, another warm and unfamiliar woman at her feet, pinning, folding, gently smoothing out the long pieces of soft white, while another bridesmaid and I sit, awed at the sight of Nicole's dark curls cascading over her shoulders. She is stunningly beautiful, and we, a roomful of unlikely grouped women, gathered in a small room surrounded by fabric tape and mirrors, are all mesmerized by the intricacy of the inlaid beading, the detailed stitching and draw of the waist, the long, billowing arcs of silky white textile brushing the floor.

So in the end, I am grateful to be a part of this. I may be clueless about how to apply make-up or how to shop for shoes, or even that one needs to have her shoes before getting her dress hemmed, but I still find some loveliness in the tradition and careful attention that goes into this whole thing. There is this unexpected intimacy, an inherent sweetness, about the care and fuss and gentle handling of fabric and folds.

Shoes and bra kerfuffle aside, maybe this stint at being a bridesmaid (just this one time, for Nicole) isn't so bad.