Tag Archives: body image

Self-Improvement, Interrupted

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After coming off of your last therapy appointment, you spend a week attempting, once again, to be thin.  You’ve lost relevance with your spouse, and with your kids, and really, with life in general, and punishing yourself by starvation seems to be the only appropriate action, the only thing that will make a discernible, desirable difference.

At the end of the week, you fall off the wagon just a bit (OK, a lot) with a leftover half-bag of Doritos (which you don’t even LIKE, but whatever.)  This is followed by your childhood favorite, a Reese’s peanut butter cup sundae from Friendly’s, the five-scoop, which, incidentally, has more calories than you normally permit yourself in a single day.

You catch your breath.  Refocus.  This isn’t working, clearly, and you WANTED to get WELL this year, right?  Beating yourself up with hot fudge and a maraschino cherry when your soul is starving for meaning isn’t exactly super effective towards the desired result.

You remember recently downloading a book that you thought at one time might help you. It’s sitting on your Kindle, in the front of the queue of books.  You have a two-hour plane ride ahead of you, so why not?

Resolutely, you drive to the airport, drinking lots of water to flush your system of the excess sugar.  Upon arrival at the airport, you notice just a touch of hunger.  Instantly, your stomach reminds you of the food court.  There’s pizza there.  You decide that you’re going to do a better job of LISTENING to your body, instead of mentally flogging yourself every time it asks, very politely, to be fed.

You peruse the pizza.  Even though you know you’re not supposed to eat wheat, if it’s pizza your body wants, you shall have it.  You look, and are surprised to discover that the pizza actually doesn’t look all that appetizing.  Wait – pizza doesn’t look good?  Nope. What you really would like is some cheese popcorn.  You stand there for a moment, amazed.  This listening to your body actually works!  You find a small bag of all-natural popcorn and eat every kernel.

Once you’ve boarded, you dive into the book. Meh. It’s OK.  It doesn’t tell you anything earth-shattering – trust your body, listen to what you need.  Get some sleep, exercise.  Focus on what you’re eating, and what makes you feel good – and what doesn’t.  Once you detox, she says, your body will TELL you, definitively, what it needs.  Except the author’s pretty sure you don’t need sugar, dairy, wheat, corn, soy, or caffeine.  (Hmph.  She’s clearly never tried to listen to MY body at 7 AM.)  Experience your emotions; don’t eat them away.

You finish the book quickly on the plane.  Despite the anti-coffee stance (she will pull the coffee out of your cold, dead hands, after a battle where both sides will be hurting, BAD) and the lack of depth, you actually feel…pretty good.  A bit re-energized.  You decide that you CAN get better.  You CAN have feelings. You CAN express your emotions instead of eating them.

And you’ll start tonight – instead of turning inward, sulking about how difficult Sunday nights are – instead of binging on the contents of your pantry while hating yourself and the fat, sodden mess you’ve become – you will, in a very mature fashion, tell your spouse what you need to help you cope.

You can do this!

Head held high, you pick up your luggage (it’s actually arrived, and in a timely fashion – this is a good sign!)  You walk out to the pickup area where your loving husband is waiting for you.

You get in the car.

And, rather quickly, it becomes clear that he is NOT in a good mood.  At all. Issues with the ex, you know.  She’s admittedly giving him a hard time, but….

You let him rant for the full twenty-minute ride home.   You can give him this; you can speak up later.

And once you get home, he insists you look at some artwork he’s getting for his car.  Now.  Before the bags get unloaded, before anything else is tended to.

You take a deep breath.  You have needs, and you need to respect the relationship enough to let him know.

You start to speak.

Instantly, you’re scolded.   You physically recoil as his words slap you – he’s had a rough day, he’s EARNED this rant, he doesn’t NORMALLY rant about this but he NEEDED to today!  And so on.

Chastised, you retreat. You apologize.  You reassure him that OF COURSE it’s FINE to rant; that you truly appreciate him picking you up from the airport and OF COURSE he doesn’t usually rant for the whole ride; that you’re sorry; that it isn’t him, it’s just your issues, and you are sorry he’s dealing with this, sorry you interrupted when he needed you, sorry, sorry, so very, deeply sorry.

Inwardly, you apologize for having needs.  You apologize for existing.

He goes on to spend the evening preparing for a “discussion” (read: showdown) with his ex later in the week – of course, on one of the nights you both normally have free.

Desperate to fill the empty, gaping hole that the reprimand left – the raw place created by you daring to not only have needs, but express them – with something, anything – you reach for an industrial-sized bag of treats from Costco.  It’s about half-empty.

You finish the entire thing.

And you hate the fat, sodden mess you’ve become.

Clearly, this isn’t working.

You catch your breath. You drink some water to flush out the onslaught of sugar.  You weigh and measure a two-hundred calorie portion of food to take to work the next day.  You lay out your running clothes so you can start your day with a calorie deficit.

The next day, after determinedly sticking to your meager rations, you come home from work, where you find your husband feeding rich ice cream treats to his two (very thin!) boys.  He asks you if you want any. Of course, the answer is “no thank you.”  You quickly plan to skip dinner, as your spouse will be so involved with planning his “conversation” with his ex, that he won’t even notice.

You measure out two hundred calories for the next day’s meals.

You lay out your running clothes for your AM calorie burn.

You resolve, once again, to be thin.

Conceivably, then you’ll be worthy of feelings.

Perhaps then you’ll be deserving of the needs you have.

And maybe, just maybe, you’ll have earned your husband’s love.  Or attention.

But if not, at least you’ll be thin.

That may have to be enough.

Step-Ball-Change and Jazz Hands

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There was one other thing that Dr. P and I talked about in my therapy appointment on Friday.

Dr. P asked me what else, other than the art fair, I wanted to do for my “birthday weekend.” (Other than weigh 15 pounds less and have my husband pay attention to me, you mean?  Sigh.)

I mentioned that I had been toying with the idea of getting a new piercing.  I love body art – I have two holes in each earlobe, a helix piercing, my navel’s done (yeah, I know, that’s SO 2003) and I have two tattoos. I’d been thinking about getting something else done – maybe a second helix piercing, or the tragus (here’s a chart – I like to SOUND hip, but in reality I always have to look up the actual names of the ear parts.) But what I really wanted – and have wanted since I was 18 years old (which was about 150 years ago, I KNOW) – was to get my nose done.

Dr. P was enthusiastic about this.  Overly so, in my opinion.  I threw out the usual excuses (i.e. I work in “corporate America”; not everyone is as free-thinking about body art as I might be.)  However, my current workplace PROBABLY wouldn’t mind…maybe.

Dr. P encouraged me to go for it, reminding me that the worst that could happen is that they ask me to take it out or cover it up.  True.  I do, however, work in HR, and as luck would have it, I JUST updated the company’s dress code LAST MONTH, and one of the (many) changes was to replace the “no visible piercings or tattoos” part with “piercings and body art must be tasteful and in line with the company’s mission and values.”  All of the executives heartily approved the policy, but if I run out two days after I issue it and get my nose done, they’re gonna feel like they were set up.

I said I’d think about it.

I mentioned in my last post that I was going to the art fair.  It went about as I expected.  The hubs came along – eager at first, of course! – and I have to admit he was a trooper.  I actually got about 3/4 of the way through it before he actually said out loud that he was bored.

But, kudos to me and for standing up for MY needs – I told him he could go home if he wished, and I’d call him when I finished.  He actually opted to stay…and I actually opted NOT to feel guilty or rushed about taking my time to enjoy MY day.

Go me!

Despite a gloomy forecast, the weather was BEAUTIFUL, and I found some gorgeous things at the art fair, so I’ll give the artists a shout out here. Yes, of COURSE I bought jewelry. But, like a grownup, I ALSO bought art.  Legit art for the walls.  Wow, I’m so, like, sophisticated and fancysauce here. <raises pinky>

So here’s the haul:

For the bedroom, we bought three prints by Mary Johnston (the ones with trees and leaves, in three different themes/color schemes.)  Our bedroom is lilac (hey, the hubs picked THAT color out!) and these will look really sharp above the headboard.

We also bought Joy, Peace, and Perpetual Motion by Chris Ann Abigt.  Scroll down on the page, past the trees and the rocks, to the whimsical paintings at the bottom.  The colors are amazing – they remind me of Dr. Seuss!  They will be lined up side-by-side over our TV.

I know bupkas about art, but these make me smile.  So they’re mine now.

And for jewelry….it was so hard not to buy ALL THE PRETTY PRETTY SPARKLY THINGS.  I showed an impressive amount of restraint, thankyouverymuch.  After much deliberation, I finally selected an Open Circle pendant by Spirit Lala (side note: that is ACTUALLY her name. FOR REALZ.  I mean, how could you be anything BUT an artist then?)

These are really unique pieces – the fronts are original drawings, and the backs have motivational or inspiring phrases.  The pendant I bought has several colors – orange, red, yellow, blue – on the front, and on the back it says, “It’s what’s on the inside that counts.”

A good reminder, I suppose.

I hope I can do more than just wear it.

P.S.  Oh…one more thing.

I DID IT.

nosejob

I recognize that this may be what we refer to in HR as a CLM – Career-Limiting Move.

But F it. It’s my birthday.  🙂

Two Steps Forward…Three Steps Back

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Last week was a hell of a week.  First, work was absolutely frantic, and I was feeling substantially and simultaneously overwhelmed and underqualified.  Even though I’ve been in this field (Human Resources, super duper exciting, right?) for over twenty years, and I know, intellectually at least, that my boss appreciates the work I do, I kinda have this imposter syndrome thing going on where I’m sure one day someone will notice that, like the infamous Emperor, I’ve essentially been parading around naked, and they’ll all realize that I’m woefully inadequate for the gig and will hand me a box to pack up my things.

Anyway, in addition to work being a chaotic mess, I’ve been sucking wind on the recovery/eating side, too.  I’ve essentially been on a week-long binge that started when I was trapped at the airport last week.  By day, I ate healthy snacks, but once I got home, I was a human backhoe, shoveling food directly from the pantry into my pie hole at an alarming rate.

Which, of course, did nothing for my weight, and hence my self-esteem.

So I ended the week anxious, stressed, and exhausted.  And to top it off, my birthday was Saturday, I had nothing special going on, and I WAS GOING TO BE FAT FOR MY BIRTHDAY.

(Yes, I realize how pathetic that sounds.  I really do.  But suffice it to say it was causing me a great deal of heartache. Rational thought be damned.)

I had another therapy appointment scheduled for Friday.  I came very close to cancelling it.  I mean, by this point, I’d been in therapy for just over three months, and all I have to show for it is a two-pound gain.  WHICH IS UNACCEPTABLE YO

But since I’ve already met my deductible, it wasn’t going to actually cost me much to go.  (And how often can you say THAT regarding ANYTHING involving health care anymore?!)  I decided I’d show up, and if I wasn’t getting anything out of that session, I could always leave…right?

So I went.

And she wished me a happy early birthday (SHE didn’t forget.  My auto insurance company called me to wish me a happy birthday, some clinic where I received two facials in 2008 sent me an email birthday wish, and my THERAPIST noticed it was my birthday.  But my husband?  STILL NOTHING. And yeah, STILL BITTER, party of one, sitting here typing.  But I digress.)

Dr. P asked me what I had planned for my birthday weekend.  I told her that I don’t really “do” birthdays…but that I was kind of disappointed that the hubs hadn’t really planned anything for our upcoming weekend together.  Again.

(One of the things that’s been weighing me down is hubby’s hyperfocus on everything BUT me these days – he’ll spend hours working on projects or playing video games…but when it comes to dates?  Nada, zip, zero.  Even though Saturday and Sunday come at relatively the same time every week, in his world it apparently pops up out of nowhere and he’s struck with the brilliant, innovative plan of “uh…I dunno….I got nothing…what do YOU feel like doing?”  Sigh.)

So, as a preemptive strike, I did some Googling and found that there was an art fair in one of the suburbs.  I love art fairs.  They close the streets and regional artists come to showcase their wares.  You can find pottery, jewelry, handmade clothing, paintings, jewelery, fantastic metal sculptures, jewelry, photographs, leather goods, and jewelry.  Did I mention jewelry?  PRETTY SPARKLY THINGS EVERYWHERE that you just can’t find at Mall of America.

So, since the hubs hadn’t planned anything, I decided that I was going to the art fair. The hubs said he wanted to come along.  I knew he’d be bored in short order.  But, dammit, it was MY BIRTHDAY and he certainly hadn’t offered up any alternatives.  So that was MY plan and he was welcome to join me.

Then, we talked about my week-long binge.

Dr. P:  So, how many calories do you think you ACTUALLY ate last night?

Me:  <panicking at not wanting to say THAT NUMBER out loud>  Um. Well.  1500?  Maybe?  <ha, well over 2000, easy>

Dr. P:  Uh…are you sure?  Because that’s a lot of calories, and…

Me:  Well, fine.  Let me tally it up for you.  First I got home and made a turkey sandwich.  200 calories for bread, 75 for turkey, 110 for lowfat cheese, and I didn’t measure the mustard this time but it was easily 4 teaspoons, so let’s say 20.  That starts you with 405 calories. Then came the chips, 130 calories per serving, 7 servings per bag, I ate over half the bag, so about 500 calories in chips. Then a half jar of salsa, which is 15 calories per serving, 14 servings per jar, that’s 210 calories, so say 100 more, where are we, 1000 right there, and then I ate these little chocolate blueberry things, 5 of them are 230 calories, and I know I ate at least three servings, probably four, so 690 calories if it was three which is 1690 calories but could have been more.

Dr. P.  <blink>  Oh.  So you really DID eat 1500 calories.

I don’t know how anyone can specialize in treating folks with eating disorders and have any doubt that WE KNOW EXACTLY WHAT WE ARE EATING.  I’ve been counting calories for thirty-four years by now, chica.  Trust me when I pitch you a number that I’m not embellishing for the sake of added drama and glitter.  (Interestingly, on my initial intake form, she said I didn’t have an “official” eating disorder.  She may be eating those words now.  Hopefully with some crow and chocolate syrup.)

The good news is that, although I’ve been binging, I’ve been keeping it down.  Not that I haven’t been tempted by the calorie-cleansing benefits of a good hurl – but that’s a very dark alley I can’t even peer into – once I stick a toe in THAT whirlpool, I may as well give it up because I’m gonna drown.  It’s a black hole…a point of no return.

But I DO need some tools to help me stop a binge before it skates off the rails and into the wall – some sort of virtual air horn that bleats “STOP” before I’ve eaten enough food to keep a room of gamers full on a tournament weekend.

Dr. P reminded me of HALT – don’t let yourself get too

  • Hungry
  • Angry
  • Lonely or
  • Tired

While I’ve known of that acronym for forever, and actually rattled it off with her, it’s a good reminder; I think this week’s been a combo platter of all four, and I need to start helping myself to a different buffet.

She gave me some excerpts from a book called Hunger Pains, too.  I asked her if I should read the book, or if it’d be “triggering.”  She hesitated – I think she was a little surprised that I knew that word (thank you, pro-ana sites, for educating me so I look at least somewhat legit when I clearly weigh too much to actually have an eating disorder.) She said she wasn’t sure, and that she’d review the book before recommending it to me fully.

So far, the excerpts aren’t exactly mind-blowing.  They’re useful tips like “think about your feelings before you eat” <eyeroll> and “exercise daily and buy nutritious foods” <are you for real?> and “learn to use hunger to regulate your eating.” <choke> HAHAHAHA WHAT?  I suppose the “Smoking Pains” book is equally useful, telling you not to buy cigarettes and to avoid lighting them?

Much like quitting smoking, I don’t need someone to tell me my food issues are bad for me. I don’t need someone to tell me to stop.

I need someone to tell me HOW.

But, as of today, after my non-birthday and the resulting disappointment, I’ve done a full 180 from stuffing my face uncontrollably, and I’m back on the restricted-food bandwagon.

Binging is SOOOO last week, anyway.

I’m over it.

For now.

Sigh.

Can someone bring this emperor a kimono?

Just Another Day

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So yesterday, I had a birthday.  I turned for thirty-fourteen.  (Side note:  Would you believe that someone actually called me “childish” for stating my age as thirty-something?  HELLO – THAT’S KIND OF THE POINT.)

Normally, I don’t make a big fuss over birthdays.  Not because I have some underlying fear of growing older (although, since I’ve been frantically searching info on Botox and fillers, maybe I do.)

I don’t “do” birthdays – or much with other holidays, really – simply because I don’t want to be disappointed when they don’t meet my expectations.  Special occasions aren’t magically special to the rest of the world. For the most part, it’s just another day.

Sure, when I was a kid, we did up birthdays a little – there was a home-baked cake, and there were presents – nothing extravagant; my folks were of VERY modest* means.  But when I was ten or so, I spilled some milk on the carpet in the living room, and was promptly scolded – as my tears fell, I remember the distinct realization that birthdays didn’t give you an enchanted force field around the otherwise painful things in life.  To a frazzled parent trying to run a business and make ends meet, it’s just another day.

*OK, let’s be clear here:  we were poor.  As in “made $50 too much this year for us to get free lunches from school” poor.  Also as in “Dad’s boss gave us his kids’ hand-me-downs so between that and the dresses Mom sewed, we girls wouldn’t be naked.”  They did a decent job keeping that from us, though.  I didn’t figure out how tight money really was until high school, when my folks were really grumpy for awhile, and the mood in the house got really dark; I was feeling abandoned, and it all came to a head when Mom found a list I had left in my room outlining ways to kill myself, and she and Dad came to talk to me and shared that they had lost $3000 (a fortune in the mid-80s) to a customer who defaulted on an order.  They were super stressed but they loved me very much, blah blah blah.  There were tears and hugs and then things went back to normal, meaning I started a new diet and got much better at keeping my disquietude on the DL .  But that’s a story for another day.

Fast forward to high school prom.  Special time, right?  You’ve been looking forward to this for MONTHS; you’re all dolled up in a glitzy dress; your date has a tux – an actual TUXEDO, like he might wear to your WEDDING someday! – and you’re at a spendy, trendy, restaurant, actually EATING.  (I quit eating two days ahead of time so that I could allow myself to have a decent meal with my boyfriend.  I weighed about 102 at the time and he LOVED to see me actually eating – probably because I never really DID that, ya know – so I guess this was a special occasion for him, too.)

As I was looking around, taking it all in, a couple not with our group came into the restaurant…in JEANS.  HELLO PEOPLE – this is PROM here; shouldn’t the world be dressed up, too?  Don’t you think they’d, like, close the restaurant or AT LEAST up the dress code for a day so we don’t have to see non-prom unfancy people in here?  YOU’RE TOTALLY BRINGING DOWN THE VIBE HERE.  But no, to those folks…it was just another day.

I had the same feeling at my first wedding.  You come out of the church chucking rice or quinoa or biodegradable soy-free non-toxic glitter confetti or whatever it’s PC to throw nowadays, and the same homeless dude is sitting on the corner holding the same “WILL WORK FOR FOOD BEER” sign he was holding yesterday.  Where is the bewitching sprite with the magic wand turning the world into fairy tales with happy endings and unicorns?  Well, dummy, she doesn’t exist.  It’s just another day, after all.

And then there was Mother’s Day.  If I were holding out hope for having a day to feel special…Mother’s Day took care of that.  You know how some spouses will buy you a card, or flowers, on Mother’s Day, because he really appreciates all you do to help raise your beautiful children?  Yeah, I didn’t marry that guy.  He got a card for HIS mother, of course – he made it clear that she was his top priority*, after all.

*Later in that marriage, when things were really falling apart, I asked him point-blank about this.  I told him that, as his WIFE, I should be a higher priority than his mother – and that if things were going to work out, he needed to put my needs ahead of hers. 

His answer?  “Well, she won’t be around forever.” 

Me:  So…I need to wait for her to die for me to be a priority for you?” 

He didn’t answer.

I left him in 2005 and she’s still alive, so I’d still be waiting. 

Fast forward to my second Mother’s Day.  I had a toddler and a newborn; I was nursing the latter and the former still wasn’t sleeping through the night, and I was (obviously) BEAT.  My baby was asleep, and my daughter wanted to play outside.  But, sadly, there was a gruesome scene in our backyard – one of the neighborhood cats had completely decimated a bunny.  I couldn’t let her see that, so I asked my husband if he could please take care of it so I could take our daughter outside.

He told me that he couldn’t do it right now, because he really needed a nap.

I think that was the beginning of the end.

I left my little girl inside while I found a coal shovel.   I hauled the broken little bunny over the side of the embankment, tears streaming down my face from exhaustion, frustration, sadness, and disappointment.  That poor little bunny.  My poor, sad, pathetic crappy marriage.  My broken heart and broken dreams.

It was just another day.

So, I learned to keep my expectations pretty low.  It was the only way I could protect my heart from the fissures that cracked and spread when expectations failed to bloom into reality.

Despite all this – despite the fact that I know better than to expect anything different – it still really, really hurt that my husband completely, totally, and utterly forgot my birthday.

We don’t do much for birthdays.  His is three days after mine; we usually hit up Benihana for a free meal a time or two in June, and we usually buy something for the house (this year, it was chairs for the yard.)

But he always gets me a card.  Sometimes two – one funny and one sappy.  But at least one.  And he always says “Happy Birthday”….

Not this year.

No card.  Nothing.

This year, his hyperfocus (I wrote about that a bit before) is on Destiny – he needs to beat some level and he’s been playing a ton – I think six hours yesterday and so far two today.

I know, I know – you canNOT rely on others for happiness; you have to create your own.  And I did my best to do that – I may write more on that later – but still, is it too much to ask to have your HUSBAND just say “Happy birthday, hon!” ?

Apparently, it is.

Sadly, my reaction to this is to quit eating.  Why talk about it?  It just hurts, and the best way to get out of the painful, neglected feeling is to jump right back on the back of the crocodile.  Why?  Because it’s super effective.  Screw recovery – all it’s done for me is turn me beige in a world of color.  It shoved me into the background, unnoticed.  At a normal weight, I’m no longer special. I’m no longer worth worrying about.  No need to be fussed over.  No need to make me feel special, unique, appreciated, or loved.

I’m just another person, and it’s just another day.

So today, I start over, renewed.  I’ll weigh out my food, including yellow mustard (because at five calories a teaspoon, it DOES add up.)  I’ll run four days a week.  I’ll carve out my path with my clavicle and my hipbones.

I’ll obsess over every bite.  I’ll plan and measure every calorie I eat.  I’ll chart every half pound lost, every quarter mile run, and every step taken.  I’ll fret over falling asleep without a rumbling, empty stomach.  I’ll grab handfuls of flesh and scrutinize every lump, bump, and jiggle when I look in the mirror.  And I’ll drink water and coffee and I’ll smile and say I’m fine, just fine.

In other words…it’ll be just another day.

Let Them Eat Cake

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Dear Jerkface Coworker:

(OK.  That wasn’t very nice, I’ll admit.  Let me try again.)

Dear Busybody Employee:

(Better.  Maybe.)

I feel the need to address you again after our brief conversation in the break room on Wednesday.

Allow me to refresh your memory:  It was around noon, the day we had our quarterly employee meeting.  As you may recall, refreshments were served.  (This is common; if employees are stuffing their pie holes, they’re more likely to sit and listen vs. make snide remarks or check Facebook.  I know this because even though I work in HR, I’m an employee too, and am probably doing the same thing when the CEO isn’t looking.)

So. Refreshments.  We had coffee cake.  And it appears that the Activities Committee ordered a bit too much, because they were cutting “slices” that could clearly feed a third-world country for a week.  We also had fresh fruit available.

Later, the extra coffee cake was placed in the break room.  (This is where all “meeting room food” goes when the meeting is done – anything you put up there with a “free” sign magically gets eaten before the day shift leaves at 3 PM.)

I wandered up to the break room at about noon to get some hot water for my decaf herbal tea.  I noticed two large cake boxes on a table.  I went over to have a look.

I opened one of the boxes.  There were four gargantuan pieces in there, each likely adequate to choke a blue whale.  I inhaled.  I’ll admit, that cake smelled wonderful – warm, toasty, buttery; vanilla, cinnamon, and sugar.

Our finance dude came up next to me and took a slice.  He added it to his vending machine stash of a sandwich, a candy bar, and a soda, carrying in one handful more calories than I get in two days.  (Side note:  Do men have ANY IDEA how good they have it?  Between their metabolisms, steady hormones, no monthly “surprises”, and earning a dollar for every 78 cents I earn?  It’s no wonder we’re occasionally mad at you for no discernible reason.)

I closed the lid and walked away.

Then, uninvited, you joined the conversation in my head.

“Go ahead.  Have a slice.”

I paused.  I said, very politely, “Yeah…no thanks.”

Let me point out that in normal, polite society, this is where the conversation would end.

But you’re not normal, polite society, are you?  I’m afraid not, as you continued:

“Why not?  Have some cake!”

Why not?

Well, the simple answer is that I don’t eat wheat, and cake is typically a carrier.

But it’s just not that simple.

Cake is full of sugar.  Sugar completely effs with my mood, my psyche, and my inner peace.

And cake has lots of calories.  Fat, sugar, carbs.

So, this torrid threesome will sit in my guts, punching me from the inside as my body tries to digest it.

It will poke the sensitive sections of my brain, judging me for being weak while simultaneously begging for more, more, more – demanding candy and chocolate and cereal and donuts and cake and SUGAR SUGAR SUGAR which you might as well eat since you’re a hopeless, worthless lump of fat anyway.

This single slab of cake will alter my vision, so that when I next step in front of a reflective surface, my wide, flabby thighs and bloated, shapeless gut will be magnified, swallowing up every last bit of self-confidence I carry.

So.  How do I answer your question, rude as it was?

Well, I do speak American.  Specifically, I speak American Woman.  So, biting my tongue (who really wants to tell you to F off, and by the way, rethink the navy tights with the white sandals, OK sweetie?) I sigh, and say,

“Do you know how far I’d have to run to burn that thing off?”

Seeing understanding nods from the other ladies at the table, I turn my back and tend to my tea.  I think we’re done here.

But you’re not done.

You sneer.  I hear you snort.  (Legit snort.  Are we twelve?) I hear you roll your eyes.  And you say, “yeah, RIGHT”, dripping with so much sarcasm I’m afraid you’ll slip, fall, and make me file a worker’s comp claim.

And then you approach me, and repeat yourself.

“YEAH.  RIGHT.  SUUUUUUUURE.”

I’m making my tea and trying not to throat punch you.  That would be, as we say in HR, a career-limiting move, even though you’ve clearly earned a right hook at this point.

I look up. You’re pretty much up in my grill now.

“And exactly how far DO you run every day?”

I can tell by your expression that you’re trying to call me on my bluff.  And suddenly, I realize something.

This isn’t about me.

It’s about YOU.

This is about YOUR insecurities.  This isn’t about whether I run or if I eat cake.  It’s about you, and your struggles.

It’s about facing, every day, the impossible job of being an acceptable-looking female.  It’s about the media-created fantasy where you desire to be able to bake the treats in Good Housekeeping, yet still look like the front cover of Vogue.

It’s knowing that this is impossible, but wanting it anyway.  Because that’s what society tells us to be.

It’s about you wanting validation that it’s OK that it can’t be done.

And somehow, if you can prove that I wear the size I do while lounging on a recliner eating hunks of cake the size of a politician’s ego – if you can show that there’s no correlation between what you eat and how you look, because some people are just born that way – you’ll feel better.

But I’m still mad at you – or, more accurately, I’m frustrated and exhausted by my own demons so I don’t have time or energy to help you with yours.  So I shatter your small light bulb of hope and let you know that I do, in fact, run 3 1/2 miles several days a week.  And I once again decline the cake.  “But, if it makes you feel any better, I did have an orange this morning.  So I suppose I’ll have four Cheerios instead of six for dinner.”  And with that, I leave the room.

I’m not proud of this.   Hey, I’m human; sometimes painfully so.

But now that I’ve had time to think it over, I wanted to say that I’m sorry.

I’m sorry that you, like me, have your own demons to wrestle.

I’m sorry that sometimes, your own voices tell you you’re not good enough.

I’m sorry that you allow the airbrushed, exaggerated media to help define you.

And I wanted to also say thank you.  Because, really, if I think about it, you gave me a tremendous compliment:  You not only think I look pretty good, but apparently, you think I make it look easy.  Like it comes naturally.  And while that couldn’t be further from the truth, it was, at its core, complimentary.  With a little more patience and social maturity, perhaps, in the future, I can respond with, “I will choose to take that comment in the spirit in which I’m sure it was intended, and say, ‘thank you.'”

We women have a tough path – trying to balance career and family, trying to nurture our husbands and children while depriving ourselves, all while attempting to live up to impossible physical expectations.

The best thing we can do is lift each other up. We can lean on each other.  We can applaud our victories, share our joys, and pass out wine and tissues when we’re hurting.  We can work to love our souls and sign peace treaties with our thighs.

We’re all on the same team here.

So, while I can’t eat the cake just yet, I will have just a small dish of frozen custard tonight.  And instead of forgiving myself, I won’t apologize in the first place.

And I hope that the next time there’s cake, you take a piece just because you want one, and enjoy every buttery, sugary, joyful crumb.

Swimming with Crocodiles

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Recovery isn’t linear. It’s cyclical.

You have days, much like I did a week ago Saturday, where you feel so GOOD that you could just OWN the planet.  Nothing can stop you!

You strut proudly.  You’re feeling stable and solid.  You feel unshakable.

You feel good.  It feels GREAT!

You feel confident.  You feel strong.  Hey, life is…good!

You feel at peace with what you are and where you’ve come from.  You sigh in relief.  No mountain is too tall.  No earthquake is too strong.  You can do this!  You’re tough.  You’re solid.  You’re ready.

This feels easy.

Too easy.

One day, without warning, the wind changes direction.  The gentle breeze you were enjoying develops a sharp edge.  It starts to feel cold.  It begins to sting.

Perhaps it was a snub, a slight.  Maybe you received harsher-than-necessary words from a loved one.  You might feel a bit shut out from friends as you see they’ve planned an outing, a project, without you.  Your teenagers might possibly be waffling between childlike affection and adult indifference, and their flexing of the latter leaves your soul tender and mottled with bruises.

You draw yourself inward, trying to protect what you thought was strong and solid from bending and breaking under the heavy, cold blackness that seeps in.  You look to seek shelter, and the ground quakes around you.  You step gingerly, seeking a secure foothold, not knowing which moss-covered rock will teeter and slide, casting you into the icy darkness.

You struggle wildly, desperate to keep your head above the surface, gulping breaths between violent waves.  You grasp at something, ANYTHING, to keep you from washing away.

A branch.  A rock.

Anything.

Something familiar, something predictable.

Food.

Weight.

All you can think about is stopping the slide.  You want to get out of the cold blackness.  You need to get out of the wind.

You can’t find a branch; the rocks you grasp slip out of hands that refuse to cooperate.   You need to get out of this NOW.

You need to get back in control.

You latch on to the one thing that has pulled you out before.  Ah.  It’s familiar; it feels solid.  You climb on and look around.  You’re still in the river, and it’s whirling around you, but you can SEE that from here, and from this vantage point, none of the dangers that tried to suck you in can reach you.

I don’t need people.  I don’t need their drama and their utter crap.  I need to be thin.  I am powerful when I’m losing weight.  People are more interested in me when I’m thin.  I’m perceived as smarter, prettier, more competent when I’m thin.  I can lose five pounds this week; I’ll eat only fruit, I’ll run four times a week and do crunches until I can’t anymore.  I can be lighter, leaner. 

It’s no wonder no one wants anything to do with you.  Look at how your arms jiggle when you gesture wildly to make a point.  Look down and see the fat that bulges over your waistband when you sit down.  Walk some stairs and notice the bounce in your thighs, your hips. 

You are nothing with this layer of weakness you wear.  You are worthless.  Meaningless.  Nothing. 

Unbeknownst to you, you are not safe.

You were so focused on pulling yourself out of the current that you have hauled yourself onto the back of a crocodile.

You’ve climbed out of the water, but you’re still smack-dab in the middle of the river.  You know the water still surrounds you, waiting to suck you to its black depths. But it’s no longer your primary danger.

You feel safe, because you’re relied on crocodiles before.  On the back of a crocodile, you know what to expect.  Sure, there’s some danger here.  But I’m in control now.  I’m not in that uncomfortable river of “emotions” and “feelings” and speaking my mind and standing up for myself and demanding respect.

I don’t have to do the very difficult job of “working through” this, because all I can focus on is staying on the crocodile.  Because one flick of the tail, a snap of the jaw, and he’ll have me in his unyielding jaws.  He’ll drag me to the bottom of the river, exhausting me quickly as I succumb to the sea.

I should be looking for a sturdier platform.  A branch, a tree.  Something rooted solidly in the bank and the sun.  I should be shouting for help and reaching out for a hand.

But I don’t dare take my focus off the crocodile.

Eventually, the storms will subside a bit, and he’ll swim close enough to shore so that I can leap off his back onto the ground.  Once I do that, I have to run – run hard and run fast – so he can’t drag me back in.

He doesn’t have to try too hard, though.  He just eyes me cockily, and with a tilt of the head eases himself back into the water.

He knows the storms will come again.  He knows I’ll relax, let my guard down, be overconfident, and think I can row the rapids without a life jacket.

Perhaps one day I’ll find some reliable life preservers that I can keep securely on my person, having them at the ready with an emotional poncho.

Because no matter how brightly the sun shines today, the storms always roll back in.

And maybe one day, I can shoot the stupid crocodile and make myself a sweet pair of shoes out of his empty, depleted shell.

Nurturing My Inner Athlete

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So now you know why I’m not the most athletic person (see my previous post.)

But today, I’m getting up early, ON PURPOSE, to run a race.

Deliberately.

By my own free will.  No threats, no guns.

Getting up early.

On a SATURDAY.

To run.

So how did I get here, after a lifetime of being convinced that I was just not athletically inclined?

After high school was over and behind me, I only had to get through some minimal physical education credits in college before mandatory movement was FINALLY BEHIND ME FOREVER.  First, I took aerobics, which graded on attendance – and hey, I can tell time, so I passed!  Of course, I couldn’t follow a lot of the moves, but that didn’t matter – as long as you kept moving, marching in place or some such, you got credit for being there.  March in place?  Heck, I was in the marching band for YEARS – I can march the shiz out of anything.

Next, I signed up for racquetball.  After a few classes, the instructor gently took me aside and said that, given my abilities, if I preferred to just run the track upstairs instead of hitting the ball around the court, he’d give me a C and we’d call it good.  (Apparently, there’s a level of “horrifically terrible” that eclipses your own performance; once you’re so pathetically bad that you’re a hazard to others, it’s a whole new box of goats.)

After that debacle, I generally shied away from voluntary activity.  Oh, occasionally I’d dip a toe into the fitness pool – not because it was good for my heart, not for stress reduction – oh, no – but only because it burned calories.  My distaste for physical activity was trumped only by my need to be thin.  But eventually, laziness, time, boredom, and the fact that I was MUCH better at starvation than I was at exercise led me to abandon the effort.

Then, a few years ago, I tried again.  Years of a poor-quality diet had left me feeling…well, gross.  Sluggish and flabby and…kinda greasy. At this point I had been having mysterious stomach issues, and had begun trying a number of things in an attempt to feel better.  I was cooking – actually COOKING – things with vegetables in them.  I was cutting back on processed (albeit yummy) packaged food.  And it seemed to helping, just a little bit.  And I figured “well, everyone says exercise is healthy – so maybe that’ll help just a little bit, too.”

We live in the Midwest, and the winters can be brutally cold – so exercise had to be something that could be done indoors, or it just wouldn’t happen between November and April.  (Even the heartiest of athletes tends to balk at outdoor workouts when the temperature is 10-20F below zero.  Don’t ask about the wind chill – you don’t want to know.)

The hubs had an old skiing contraption in the basement – a manual-action, dusty, rusty metal thing.  (He had acquired it at a garage sale years ago; how he managed to sneak it into the house without me noticing is a mystery to me.)  It was…kind of big and foreboding.  But, with a little WD-40, it was serviceable.  It was something I could do for a half hour while listening to the radio.  I turned on the local morning talk show and moved my arms and legs back and forth for thirty minutes.

It was something.  It was a start.

I kept that up for nearly two years.

Then, I convinced the hubs to start taking walks with me.  We mapped out a two-mile route and started walking several mornings a week before work.  It wasn’t hard (well, except getting out of bed – that’s always a struggle.)  It gave us a chance to talk; it got me outside in the fresh air.

It didn’t FEEL like exercise.  It was easy.  And I found it quieted my head – just a little bit.

After walking for a couple of years (alternating with the skiing device when the temperature dipped below 15, of course) I thought maybe we should step up our game and try running.  You see, I’d heard that running “burns the fat right off ya” – that was the ONLY thing that was appealing, but for a woman with food and body issues, that was all the motivation I needed.

We didn’t follow any formal program.  (I’ve heard wonderful things about Couch to 5K, and know many people who learned to run through this program, but I hate following directions, and tend to rebel when there’s a process in front of me.  I’m not the instruction-manual type.)  This wasn’t a fancy effort.  We’d walk for a while to warm up, then we’d run until we couldn’t run any more.  Then we’d walk until we were ready to run again.

Learning to run was an interesting and challenging process.  Sometimes, I’d feel like I could run FOREVER, but just wasn’t able to get enough oxygen.  Other times, my breathing was fine, but my legs just could NOT run another step.

(And one day, I found seven dollars!  SCORE!  Ok, not a life-changer, but I was disproportionately thrilled about finding it.) 🙂

Gradually, over time, my legs and my lungs caught up with each other, and I was running more and walking less.

And I kept doing it.

Did my body change?  A little bit, sure.  It wasn’t the promised magic pill to physical perfection – I still struggle with the lumps and bumps; I still frown at the flab, the pooch, and the back fat.

And I don’t look forward to running.  I don’t blast out of bed in the morning like Mary Freaking Poppins, singing a happy song about what a glorious day it is now that I get to go run.  (The day THAT happens is the day you need to lock me up but good.)

But I run.

And when I’m consistent with it…it actually helps.  It clears my mind – just a bit.  It burns off some the cortisol that anxiety and stress have built up in my system.  And when I finish my run, I feel like I’ve accomplished something.

Something I was told I could never do.

Who can run three miles without stopping?  Who can run each mile in under ten minutes?  This girl.  The girl who barely passed high school gym class.  The girl who got kicked out of racquetball.  The fat fifth-grade physical-fitness flunkie.

Who’s a runner?  THIS GIRL.

I am a runner.

I’m running a race this morning.  And I already know I’ve won.

Burying my Inner Athlete

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Historically, I have not been a terribly athletic person.

(Wait. If we break this apart, you COULD say, somewhat truthfully, that if I was athletic, I was terrible at it.  So “terribly athletic” is deceptively close to the truth here.)

I didn’t play sports as a child.  I read books.  Lots of books.  I was a voracious reader with an insatiable appetite.  I remember vividly my mother sending a note to my second grade teacher to please, please allow her daughter to select chapter books instead of picture books.  I guess she got tired of helping me cart twenty books at a time back and forth to school.

So, I spent a lot of time on the couch reading, instead of “playing outside,” whatever THAT was supposed to mean.  My only physical activity, really, was the required “physical education” a couple of days a week in school.

And who here has excellent memories of gym class?

<crickets>

Yeah, me too.

In elementary school, gym wasn’t too taxing, really.  We all looked forward to the days where the gym teacher would roll out the big parachute, and we’d flap it up and down together, taking turns running underneath the bright, billowed canopy. (If your school didn’t do this, you totally missed out.  Trust me.)

I looked less forward to the mandated “square dancing.”  Let’s face it, no one wants to dance with the class egghead. Even in third grade, no one picks the smart girl to dance with.  Especially if she has glasses, braces, and an awkward haircut.  And ESPECIALLY especially if she’s chunky.  Or just plain fat.

It wasn’t just dancing where I was picked last.  That was the protocol for pretty much any team sport – in elementary school, this was largely kickball.  Of course, I couldn’t kick, I couldn’t run, and I couldn’t catch.  (Last-picked loser trifecta!)  I tried to stand in the outfield, sending anti-ball vibes to the kicker.  Fortunately, when you’re seven or eight, no one can really kick it much past 2nd base, so I didn’t screw up any big plays.

In middle school, there were new challenges.  I was still fat – when we were lined up for our scoliosis test (you remember, where they lifted your shirt up and drew down your spine with a ballpoint pen?) and they weighed us, I was the kid on the scale when they moved the “big weight” from 50 to 100.  I remember some gasps.  I remember my classmates’ eyes widening.  I remember that odd sensation of feeling so big and yet so small, all at the same time.

Gym class was harder in middle school.  They actually expected you to DO things.

Pushups.  (To this day, I still can’t do a single one.)

Pullups.  (You’re kidding, right?  I can’t even do a pushup.  What gravitational miracle do you think is going to transpire once you move the chair?)

Climbing the rope.  (HAHAHAHAHAHA.  No.)

And…group showers.  Yep, it’s not bad enough that you’re at least thirty pounds heavier than your classmates, and the only one who needs a bra*, but now, two or three times a week, you’re expected to CHANGE CLOTHES and SHOWER – NAKED – in front of other people.  Funny, I don’t actually remember what anyone else looked like.  I just remember feeling…big.  Naked and big.  Like the Darci doll in a world of Barbies, it was clear I didn’t fit in this toybox.

*Ah, my first bra.  In 5th grade, I distinctly remember asking my mom for a bra, because it hurt to run in gym class.  Mom said I was too young (even though I needed to shave my pits, WHATEVER MOM) but reluctantly took me to the local Ben Franklin to try some on, since I insisted.  I walked out with a 36B.  Mom was, and still is, a 34A.  Totally blew her cups out of the cabinet at the ripe age of 10.  That had to be…awkward. 

In high school, the stakes got higher.  By now, we had some decent athletes among us.  I was not one of them.  (OBVIOUSLY.  I think we’ve established this.)  But, our gym teacher coached track, volleyball, and a few other sports I don’t care about, so she used gym class to condition her hopefuls for the sport in season.

In the fall, it was track.  She had a cross-country course all laid out for us – leave the high school, turn left at the bottom of the hill*, run in front of the elementary school, across the field to the middle school, do a lap at the track, and then back up the hill to do four laps in the gym (as well as some bleacher climbs, pushups, cartwheels, pole vaults, or some other thing that clearly was not going to happen.)

*Our high school hill was legendary.  When it snowed, people came from all over the county to sled down it – well, before there were six lawsuits for every light pole and before helmets were even an afterthought.  It wasn’t truly winter until someone busted a bone doing a total yard sale out of a plastic saucer shooting down High School Hill.

In the winter, we moved the fun indoors…to swimming.  Humiliation, Boss Stage:  you now have to parade around ALL of your peers, boys AND girls, in a <gasp> SWIMSUIT.  (Oh, the horror!)   

And to add insult to injury…remember I said I wore glasses?  I am EXTREMELY nearsighted.  I am “butter the toast, get butter on my nose” nearsighted.  I am so nearsighted that if I hold a book up to my face to read, I have to close one eye, because if one eye can focus on the type, the other eye is too far away to see it.  Yeah.  THAT nearsighted.

So one day I’m standing by the end of the pool, waiting my turn to do a 25-yard crawl.  The gym teacher is at the midpoint.  She’s telling people when to go, spacing us out so we don’t crash into one another.  (Really, I should just go last.  No way I’m catching up to anyone in front of me, and I won’t slow the group down if I’m on the tail end.)

I’m shivering by the edge of the pool, ready to dive in.  I’m waiting, and waiting….nothing.

I yell out to her, “Do you want me to go?”

Nothing.

“Mrs. A!  Should I go now?”

Silence.

After a couple of rounds of this, I relax my stance.  I step away from the edge of the pool.  Clearly, something is wrong, and I’m not swimming any time soon.  (Boo hoo, I’m crushed.)

Then about five minutes later, she’s IN MY FACE yelling at me.  Whu…?  Well, apparently, when I was standing there asking her “can I go?  how about now?” – she was WAVING AT ME to go.  And I kept standing there asking “Do you want me to go?  Do I go now?” while she was waving at me.  The one who LITERALLY CANNOT SEE PAST HER OWN NOSE.  Comedy of errors, anyone?

Worst part is, she totally didn’t believe me that I couldn’t see.  (Gah, I hated that b!tch….)

So that was my introduction to what it meant to be physically fit.  Suffice it to say I didn’t actively seek out exercise of any kind for most of my adult life.  When you’ve spent twelve years being told you’re absolutely terrible at something, you usually quit doing it.

But marry a self-loathing for your body with external criticism about your lack of physical abilities and it’s no wonder, really, that you give birth to a whole family of food issues and eating disorders.

My upbringing and my experiences worked together like well-meaning grandmothers to knit together a robe that I was all too happy to slip on.  It was comfortable and familiar, and I clung to it like a favored baby blanket, reluctant to let go of the security it gave me.

I didn’t ever think about whether I LIKED dragging the old, tired garment around.  It was simply a part of me, and I kept it close long after I should have outgrown the ratty thing and chucked it in the rags bin.

Even now, as I’m working to recover, I can only set the blasted thing down long enough to wash it periodically.

For some reason, I’m unable to get rid of it – this blanket of poor body image, of uselessness, of self-doubt and criticism, stitched with fat-feeling threads on seams that are never thin enough, and finished with a band of anxiety and depression.

I know I don’t NEED it.  That’s just silly.  Right?  But yet, I keep slipping it back on over my shoulders – when I’m stressed, when I’m tired, when I’m frustrated.

I’m just starting to realize that it really doesn’t fit all that well, and the colors are all wrong for me.  But I think it’ll be hard to throw away until I find something to replace it.  Hopefully, something woven from joy, love, and contentment, with a soft lace border of peace.

Drowning the Emotional Babel Fish

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This morning I was reading a recent post by The Persistent Platypus, “It’s ok to feel your emotions.”   She got me thinking a bit, because I’ve been working on expressing my emotions instead of drowning them with a bag of kettle corn.  See, when you have food issues, it’s almost never actually about the food, or your weight.  It’s about the emotions and feelings that express themselves through the voice of the eating disorder.

I’ll give you some examples:  Feeling sad?  No, you’re fat.  Disappointed in yourself?  No, you need to lose weight.  Someone hurt your feelings?  No, you need a cupcake.  Feeling stressed?  No, you’re starving….or, more accurately, you need to eat EVERYTHING, RIGHT NOW.  Even though you may not be physically hungry, something inside you is yelling, shouting, demanding, SCREAMING for a box of cereal, a large pizza, chocolate, ice cream candy bars chips EVERYTHING ALL OF IT NOW NOW NOW

It’s not about the food.

When you live with an eating disorder, or food issues, your mind translates uncomfortable, painful, confusing emotions into a language you’ve spoken since birth:  food and your weight.

It’s not about food, and its impact on the scale – and it never really was.  But, like some bizarre outer-space Babel fish, this is how your brain translates emotion.  It turns it into something you recognize and are accustomed to handling.  It may not be healthy, but it’s familiar and comfortable.

It’s what you know.

In the process of going through therapy and attempting to get well, I’ve experienced a strange phenomenon:  My food issues have a very strong, independent voice.  It’s almost like a separate entity living inside my head.

It’s been there for so long (over thirty years – yes, longer than some of you have probably been alive, rub it in already!) that the Voice and I have developed our own secret language of sorts – it’s been so long since I’ve heard my native language that when I experience an emotion, I only know it in the Voice’s language, and struggle to find the words that others would understand.  And the words don’t make much sense to anyone but the Voice – and me:

Anger is interpreted as “you’re fat.  Quit eating.”

Sadness translates to needing sweets.

Loneliness is deciphered as emptiness, which in this language, means “need to binge.”

Decoding stress is tricky, as it has multiple meanings; its true meaning is modified by one of the emotions above…the pairing of the modifier transposes the actual definition.  It can mean any of the above, or one followed by the other.  Much like English, it’s hard to define directly; all of the rules have exceptions.

I’m working on rediscovering my native tongue.  It’s slow going.  It’s like trying to rename colors – imagine, after years of saying that your favorite color was orange, now having to say it’s blue, even though “blue” looks like what you’ve always known as “orange.”  Or imagine having to switch the words “beet” and “chocolate.”  Or “hot” and “pickle.”  You get the idea.

But I’m making progress, somewhat.  I have, at least, begun to recognize when the Voice is using the wrong words.  This week, I spent three days eating my feelings.  In one evening, I devoured an ENTIRE BOX OF CHOCO CHIMPS.    (Side note:  What am I?  Five?  CHOCO CHIMPS?!?)

On Wednesday, after most of the box was gone, I recognized that I was upset about something.  (I hear all of you out there rolling your eyes and saying “well, duh.”)

On Thursday night, I figured out what it was:  The hubs shared with me that on a recent trip to a home-improvement store, he parked next to a person who had a bumper sticker on his car that he didn’t like – it was, of course, in conflict with his beliefs.  So he decided to confront the guy on his way in.  He told him, “You know, you have some really stupid stuff on your car.”

This apparently bugged the crap out of me.

First, the obvious.  Which is (cue sarcasm font):  Eyeroll.  Yes, dear, you sure told him.  I’m sure now he’s going to know the error of his ways, COMPLETELY do a 180 on his opinion, and probably burn his car so no one else has to see it.  All because a random 6’4″ dude confronted him directly.

Second, I don’t want a bully for a husband.  I married a decent human being, not a bully.  And the hubs was actually bullied as a kid, so you’d think he’d know better. Plus – regardless of the sentiment – would he want someone to approach ME like that?  (Okay, his answer would be, “I’d like to see them try.”  Fair enough; I can hold my own.  But our kids?  Our mothers?  NOT OKAY.)

Third – one of my favorite quotes as of late is, “The world is changed by your example, not by your opinion.” (Credited to Paulo Coelho.)  You don’t change anyone’s opinion by telling them that you don’t like it – we have teenagers, so he should know this from fairly recent experience.  Being a jerk to someone with a different opinion only causes them to justify holding onto it more strongly…namely, because they DON’T WANT TO BE LIKE YOU.

Lastly, the hubs and I disagree on a lot of things –  namely, spiritual things and political things. (We agree on pizza toppings, so we have THAT going for us, I guess.)  But I suppose, if I’m honest with myself…I don’t want him to express or FEEL that disgusted, dismissive emotion towards me.

There.  There it is.  In my native language.

Now I can put the food down.  For a little bit.

As of late, I’ve begun to recognize the Voice as a type of parasite.  Why?  Because she needs me.  She feeds off me.

Without me, she will cease to exist.

That’s probably why she’s fighting so hard to stay alive.

I’ve noticed that, right after a more successful therapy session, that I sort of relapse for a day or two…sometimes a week.  The Voice is fighting – hustling to be heard, wrestling for relevance.

Struggling for survival.

But so am I.

And, while I’ve managed most of my existence cohabiting with the Voice, I think it’s time to serve her eviction papers.  Like any eviction, it’s a long, complicated process, wrought with setbacks and delays.  But if I keep fighting the good fight, eventually I’ll have my space back.  I’m looking forward to redecorating – letting in color and light and making the space my own.

Retail Therapy = Instant Gratification

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Had another therapy session on Friday.  And none too soon, I might add.  I had been stressed and irritable all week – very much on edge, like a cat that you’ve repeatedly pet backwards from tail to head.  As the week went on, I was bristling more and more, flexing my claws and waiting to lash at the VERY NEXT PERSON who DARED utter something mortally offensive, like “Hi” or “What time is it?”

Therapy is one of those spinach-and-broccoli exercises.  You don’t really want to chew and swallow what’s in front of you, but you know it’s good for you do to so, and besides, there isn’t really a more effective way to clean it off your plate.  It’s not like some mental Labrador will come by and happily lick it off for you and make it magically vanish.

So I went.  And we talked about how I had cleaned out my closet, per our last session.  We then went back to talking about my marriage and our relationship.  Although things had been better since he threw out the shirts, I just didn’t understand why I was so angry and irritable this week.

After some back-and-forth, it came out that I’m simply not getting enough attention.  Yep.  Like a spoiled child, I need more focus on ME ME ME to be happy.

I just want some dedicated focus from my husband.

Back story that I should explain – the hubs is, we suspect, on the autism spectrum.  His older boy has the official diagnosis, but in all honesty, he’s just like his daddy.  Back in the day <cue old fogey music and bored teenagers rolling their eyes> they didn’t diagnose all these disorders and spectrums and so forth.  You just sat in class and did the best you could, and if you slipped up, you got whacked with a ruler.  WHICH THEY’D TOTALLY ARREST YOU FOR NOW.

Anyway.  So one of the behavioral markers for autism spectrum disorder is an intense focus on certain items of interest.  Need new shoes?  Drop everything and ORDER IMMEDIATELY.  Think you might need a new car?  Be first in line on Saturday to test drive, after staying up all night reading back issues of Consumer Reports.  Got a new video game?  MUST PLAY UNTIL VICTORIOUS WITH ALL CHARACTERS.

This trait makes the hubs really good at programming.  (Some companies specifically recruit those with autism/Asperger’s to program.  Really.  Check it out!  Diversity is something that a lot of companies claim to embrace, but until they take a swing at neurological diversity, they have a ways to go yet.)

This hyperfocus is also EXCELLENT when we have a home improvement project.  Recently, the hubs redid one of our bathrooms.  It was something of a HGTV “Before” picture – gold-flecked sink circa 1970, dark brown vanity and cabinet that had a thick layer of chocolate brown paint (obviously a failed refinishing project, unless they MEANT it to look like a half-melted, lint-covered Hershey bar,) and mauve tile 3/4 of the way up the wall, with lovely “accent” tiles featuring shiny gold outlines of fish.  The fish even had little bubbles rising from their mouths.  Except HALF OF THEM WERE UPSIDE DOWN so the bubbles were heading south.  (“Mom?  What exactly is the fish supposed to be doing here?”)  Anyway.  Hubs decided we’d redo the bathroom, and he’s spent nearly every waking moment since then ripping out, destroying, re-tiling, grouting, and painting the bathroom.  It’s just about finished now, and looks beautiful, but it wasn’t all smooth sailing.  There were days he got frustrated:

We call this one "Anger Management."

We call this one “Anger Management.”

This is what happens to naughty tile that won’t cut in a straight line without chipping.  (I have no idea what the garage wall did, though.)

So, as of late (several months, at least) – this laser-focus attention has been on the bathroom, the floors, the garage, the kids, the video games, work….but not on me.  And apparently, I miss that.  I miss having him want to spend time with me so badly that he stays up past 10PM.  I miss the dates we used to have – the outings he’d plan, where we’d go to a baseball game, or stroll the art museum, or watching the British Arrows Awards (if you haven’t heard of this, you’re missing out.)

Nowadays, I seem to be more of an afterthought.  He seems to enjoy my company, but not to the point of planning activities for us, or making “us” time a priority.  It makes me sad, sure, but it surprised me to discover that it also inflames my food issues.  Why?  Because when I was ten pounds thinner, I got WAY more attention – because he was worried about me, sure, but it was dedicated attention!  (And the behavioral experts are always telling us that negative attention is better than being ignored; children will misbehave just so someone notices them.  Apparently, I misbehave by slowly starving myself to death.)

Now?  I’m…average.  And average doesn’t get attention.  It’s beige in a world of glitter and rainbows.  It’s flat, dull, and uninteresting.  Blah.

So my homework is to tell the hubs (and we worked on how to say this so I don’t sound whiny, thanks Dr. P!) that I love spending time with him, and back when we were dating, it made me feel very special, valued, and very loved when he’d plan activities for us to do.  And that I enjoy his company thoroughly, and would love to have him plan an activity so we could spend time together building memories and enjoying each other.

(Barf.  I know.  But I need to say it, because it’s something I need, and I need to find my voice and use it vs. silencing it with fistfuls of popcorn and chocolate or shouting over it that I’m disgustingly fat and gross.)

So, therapy was Friday morning.  And since I wasn’t feeling up to any big conversation, and since I had a couple empty hangers in my closet, I decided to go shopping.  (Dr. P approved; even though we realized that it might be an experience that soured quickly, if I could find something I felt good in, in the size I wear now, it might help.)

Shopping?  Don’t have to ask me twice.  <screech of tires and whiff of rubber>

Miracle of miracles:  I found not one, but TWO pairs of pants that fit me PERFECTLY and that I didn’t look completely hideous in.  Seriously, I actually didn’t feel the need to sob uncontrollably, take a flamethrower to the dressing room, and dive headfirst into a pizza.  A MIRACLE, I TELL YA.

I also found this…dress.  I think it’s a dress.  It may be the abandoned love child of Cookie Monster and Big Bird.  I didn’t buy it, so if you head to Saks Off 5th, it can still be yours for the low bargain price of $805.  <choke>

CookieMonsterBigBirdLoveChildDress

Clearly, I will never understand high fashion.

Oh, but don’t worry, kids.  I did get the shoes.

Have I mentioned my love for shoes?  I big-puffy-purple-glitter-sparkly-heart LOVE shoes.  Especially heels.

So after spending considerable time “just looking,” this cute little pair followed me home last night.  How could I possibly say no?  CHECK OUT THESE DOPE KICKS.  I’m in love.

  FABULOUS SHOES

I’m nearly 5’10” in these shoes.  BOOM.   And – of course – they were 40% off.  SOLD.

I realize that shopping didn’t magically fix my issues – it was only a detour on the way to working through some things; a procrastination tool to delay a more difficult conversation.

But, like a mini-vacation, it refreshed my spirits just a bit.  I had fun…and I can’t stop smiling at my feet.  A little burst of happy at a great price is always a fantastic value.  It’s a small investment in my soul.