Tag Archives: marriage

The Love/Hate Challenge! Part 5: A Second Pot of Coffee

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Bear with me, folks – we’re on part five of six – I PROMISE I’m wrapping this up here.  Eventually.

Coffee was the subject of my last post, and I suspect will occupy the better part of this one.  But because my daily cup of personality allows me to spell it “morning” instead of “mourning,” it deserves a little extra love and attention.  So pour yourself a fresh cuppa joe, prop up your feet, and get comfy.

lovehatechallengeDA RULES:

  1. List 10 things you LOVE
  2. List 10 things you HATE
  3. Nominate a few suckers to do the same

10 THINGS I LOVE and 10 THINGS I HATE (in unranked order)

PART 5:  MORE COFFEE COFFEE COFFEE

9.  I love gas station coffee, and I hate Starbucks.

In my last post, I may have mentioned that I love coffee.  And while this is very true, I’m totally blue-collar about it.  As long as you’re drinking it black, I’m the furthest thing from a coffee snob that there is.

Confession:  I actually drink – and like – coffee from the gas station.

<passes smelling salts for delicate flowers who dead-fainted>

Hey, don’t knock it ’till ya try it – if you can’t find a McDonald’s, know that Sheetz, Holiday, KwikTrip, and SuperAmerica all have decent roasts – and they sell 24oz cups to tote it in.  WINNING.  (Side note:  Sheetz actually has some decent food, too, for a 24/7 gas station.  Certainly a few notches above Taco Bell, and deny all you want, I KNOW you are totally eating that shiz on the sly.  Taco Bell is the Walmart of fast food – the largest chain where <cough> “nobody” eats, EVER.)

My fave chain coffee is Dunkin’ Donuts.  I’m self-aware enough to realize that it was probably because I was raised on the stuff – I’m from the East Coast, and Dunkin’ dominated; back home, this chain is everywhere. Although Tim Hortons is seriously encroaching on the terrain; once we let him out of Canada, he started to spread like some sort of mutant coffee kudzu.  But if he chokes out Starbucks, I’ll consider it a symbiotic relationship and agree to peacefully coexist.

Side note:  Where you’re raised definitely influences your tastes.  I remember reading a study years ago (it was probably Consumer Reports, but do you think I can find it now?) with taste-test results for different brands of dark chocolate.  Hershey’s makes one called Special Dark.  You probably remember this as the also-ran in the bag of miniatures, left to grow stale long after the Mr. Goodbars and Krackels were gone.  (Except in my house, where Mom and I fought over them.  We also fought over the Brazil nuts in the Chex Mix.  Ah well.)  Although it tends to get mediocre ratings nationwide, Special Dark tends to be the favored brand of dark in the region surrounding Hershey, PA.  Whether they actually like it, or pretend to out of unfailing loyalty, I can’t say for certain, but if you know any Steelers fans, you’ll likely lean to the latter theory.   Because those people are in their own special category of uniquely nutzoid.  Green Bay and Dallas fans have NOTHING on loyalty next to Steelers fans.  Nada.  Zip.

Usually, I brew my own coffee at home.  I justify my addiction by supporting small farmers and/or local businesses while I’m getting my fix.  (Shout out to Velasquez Family Coffee, who delivers my monthly prescription subscription of beautifully delicious beans.  African Cinnamon is da bomb, but they’re all excellent.  Trust me.)

But if I’m on the road, and there’s no Dunkin’ available, I will happily hit the local fill station for my morning boost.  No matter how questionable the store appears, the coffee there HAS to be better than what I’ll find at Starbucks.

Ah, Starbucks.  The one chain coffee I canNOT stomach.

This isn’t a political statement, nor is it a protest against the overpriced blended dessert drinks made-to-order with a brutally bastardized handwritten approximation of your first name.

It’s simply because THEIR COFFEE IS TERRIBLE.

Aficionados of the swill will claim, with their noses pointed high, “it’s DARK roast…you must not like coffee that dark and robust.”  I raise my pinky delicately <snort> and call BS on y’all.  Folks, it’s not “dark roast” any more than charcoal is ebony wood, or broken glass looks JUST LIKE diamonds.  The Emperor is naked – in the name of decency, grab a tarp to cover the floppy bits.  THAT SHIZ IS BURNT YO.

The last time I voluntarily drank a cup of Starbucks coffee was in 2005.  I had to make a long drive, and it was early in the morning on a holiday and I was bone-tired.  I was heading into a rural area (read:  nothing open, not even gas stations) and, out of desperation, made a regrettable decision – I pulled into Starbucks to grab a small cup.  Just a little, to get me through the drive.  I mean, it was either that or headbob my way into swerving offroad through the forest.

I did what I had to do.  I knew it wouldn’t be great, but how bad could it be?   I needed it, right?

I selected something called Christmas Blend.  Gamely, I raised the cup to my lips.  My sophisticated tasting palate has identified the composition of this brew, just in case you’d like to replicate it at home:

  1. Chop down a pine tree.
  2. Let it rot in your backyard for approximately 12 months.
  3. Burn it to ashes (be sure to leave the dead bugs, dog hair, and bird droppings!)  Grind well.
  4. Pour hot water over the whole thing and drink up.

Halfway through the cup, I gave up and chucked it out the window.  And probably killed an endangered turtle or something.

My aversion to Starbucks has gotten so bad that the very smell of it triggers my gag reflex.  It’s like morning sickness all over again, when the smell of the fireplace, of all things, sent me on a frenzied sprint to find a bathroom. (Hmm.  Fireplace = burnt wood.  Coincidence?  I THINK NOT, Starbucks.  I.  Think.  Not.)

If Starbucks is the only option available, I will actually make the risky and painful decision to <gasp> FOREGO coffee, even when I desperately need it (read:  mornings with boring meetings, mornings when I didn’t get much sleep, mornings in general, and mornings on days of the week ending in Y.)

I’ve attended enough local seminars to know which hotels have the hazard placard on the silver vat of caffeine:

hazardsign

Image obviously from http://www.starbucks.com

(Dear Hilton:  I used to be an HHonors Diamond member.  DIAMOND.  THIS IS HOW YOU THANK ME?)

Thankfully, Starbucks hasn’t ruined tea.  Yet.  So that’s still a relatively safe bet if you’re stuck in an endless meeting and can’t get out to bring your own.  It’s a poor substitute, true, but it might be just enough caffeine to keep you on the left side of regrettable decisions that get you fired, arrested, or both.

Of course, that might be a super effective way to get banned from meetings for a while.

<raises Friendship mug and winks conspiratorially>

One more and I PROMISE we’ll be done with this.

I pass the torch to Lauren Hayley at Madness, Sparkle, and Creative Flair.  She’s pretty busy but I suspect she has a lot to say, too. 🙂

3 Days, 3 Quotes: Day 3 – Keep Swimming, Keep Treading Water…Keep Going

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LAST DAY OF THE 3 Day, 3 Quotes Challenge!

DA RULZ:  For 3 days, post a quote and express what that quote means to you.  And nominate 3 other suckers lucky bloggers to take the challenge as well.

Today’s quote kind of speaks for itself.  It’s one I started using years ago; to this day, I’m known for sharing it with my friends.

hellbrainThis quote is often attributed to Winston Churchill.  Although we aren’t entirely sure if it’s his, it may as well be.  You can read a lot of boring political and historical stuff on him, if you like – history isn’t my entertainment of choice, but it’s a pretty impressive list.  He made quite an impact for a dude of 5’6″.

Despite the historical snoozefest, he had a lot of interesting things to say:

“Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.”

“You have enemies? Good. That means you’ve stood up for something, sometime in your life.”

And my fave:

“I may be drunk, Miss, but in the morning I will be sober and you will still be ugly.”

HAHAHA  HOW CAN YOU NOT LOVE THIS DUDE?

In my last post, I talked about the point in my life where I realized there was more to life, and to relationships, than emotional abuse, and had made the decision to leave my marriage.

What I didn’t fully understand when I made this decision was that the next eighteen months would be some of the most difficult days of my life.

First comes the challenge of separating yourself from an emotional abuser.  It’s a lot like trying to unscramble an egg.  You’re so used to the constant churning of the whisk that it’s tough to understand which of your muddled thoughts are yolk and which are the whites, and he’s always chucking in pieces of shell and other garbage to keep you second-, third-, and fourth-guessing yourself.

Even though you KNOW the yolk is yellow and the white is not, a champion manipulator that’s been chipping away at you for years can make you willing to accept that there’s no difference between yolk and shell, or that eggs are, in fact, blue and pink and pop out of a bloated bunny.

I threw a few additional stressors in my life, too.  For starters, I accepted a promotion and transfer at work; my new job was 60 miles away.

When I started my new role, I discovered that the plant was smack-dab in the middle of a unionization campaign.  From the Steelworkers.  In Pittsburgh.  (This is essentially fighting the enemy on their home turf; you’re battling tradition and “local values” in addition to trying to fix a broken workplace culture.  Ask an HR person how much fun this can be.  It’s not for the inexperienced, unless you relish being doused in A1 and set out for the wolves.)

And, of course, I had to relocate.  There were plenty of houses available – but the challenge was paying for one.  I was still on the mortgage at the house I shared with my ex; this significantly reduced the amount I could spend on a house.  And no, he wasn’t interested in refinancing, or actually divorcing, come to think of it, so I was stuck.

Finally, after obtaining a first – and second – mortgage on a property, I was able to move.  Then came the segregating of the household goods.  One bright spot:  my then-spouse was a bit of a hoarder, never getting rid of extra things, so I was actually able to pack up quite a few things we had never used (NEVER.  IN OVER 10 YEARS OF MARRIAGE) and other than buying silverware, I had a mostly-stocked kitchen.  But when the movers came, he refused to let me take either one of the dining room tables, even though I had purchased one set with a gift from my uncle.  Even though I was leaving all the antiques we had collected over the years.

It’s just stuff, right?  I was leaving with something far more precious – my soul.  It was bruised and battered, but still alive.

Then, as I arrived at my new house, I saw a note taped to the door.

It was a court order for alimony.  ALIMONY.  Because he hadn’t worked in years, and I had been the sole provider.  Yes, he was able-bodied; he had a master’s degree in education and COULD work…he just chose not to.  And now, I was legally obligated to support him.

There’s a “stress scale” that’s often referenced – if you have enough stressors at the same time, supposedly you’re at risk for illness.  You don’t have to be terribly good at math to know I was scoring pretty high here.

It was the tipping point.  I was ready to break.

I just couldn’t do this.

It was too much.

It was too hard.

I could go back.  I could cancel the moving truck.  I could get my old job back.

It would be easier, right?

I could give up.

No.  NO.  NO.

I could go back, but it would kill me.

I resolved to stay strong.  I stopped asking “Why me?” and instead shook my fist at the universe and said “BRING.  IT.  ON.”

I kept moving.

I closed on my house.

I negotiated a lower alimony.

I bought a keyboard instead of a kitchen table, because music makes me happy.

We defeated the Steelworkers by a two-thirds vote.

I was surrounded by flames, and chose to dance.

firedance

My divorce took nearly three years to complete – he fought me every step of the way.  Somehow, I kept going.  I kept my focus on where I wanted to be, and slowly made my way through the pricker bushes and rattlesnakes.

If you’re going through Hell….keep going.  It’s the only way out. The only way through.

There’s a new song playing these days; you might hear it on your local pop station.  The lyrics really caught my ear and reminded me how far I’ve come:

I might only have one match
But I can make an explosion

fireworks(Starting right now) I’ll be strong
I’ll play my fight song
And I don’t really care if nobody else believes
‘Cause I’ve still got a lot of fight left in me 

My final nominee:  kbailey374 at Walking After Midnight.  She’s legit in the water today so she gets to be today’s sucker.  😉

3 Days, 3 Quotes: Day 2 – Changing Direction, Heading Home

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Yeah, I know, it’s been a few days.  Nowhere in da rulz did it say three days in a row, so I’m just going with “the next three days that you blog.”  🙂

So, here’s Day 2 of the challenge:

For 3 days, post a quote and express what that quote means to you.  And nominate 3 other suckers lucky bloggers to take the challenge as well.

Today’s quote is one that I actually heard back in 2004.  I heard this quote at a conference, and I wish I could remember who the speaker was.  I suppose it doesn’t matter, really.  What’s important is that it stuck.

I was working up the courage to make a major life change – I had realized, after 10+ years of marriage, that my then-spouse was mentally abusive.  I discovered that my soul was a shriveled, dried-up fraction of what it used to be.  I was existing solely because I was constantly “in costume” – I focused all of my energy on being the person I thought I was SUPPOSED to be – the person I thought my spouse wanted me to be – not on who I actually was.

And I wasn’t sure who I REALLY was, anymore.  I didn’t know if any of the vibrant, outgoing person I had once been still existed.

I had the opportunity that year to attend a large HR conference. Now, if you’re an employer, and reading this, you should know that these conferences are a fantastic value – your HR professional will come back motivated, energized, connected, and informed.  The knowledge s/he will bring back to your organization will result in increased revenue, improved employee engagement, and capitalization of numerous efficiencies.

(If you’re an HR person, and reading this?  It’s one huge honkin’ parTAY.  Get your drink on and prepare to violate every company policy you’ve ever written.  BOOYAH)

That year’s conference was in New Orleans.  It was an opportunity for me to get away from my confused, stifled persona – a chance to shed the constricting, ill-fitting uniform I had worn for years, and step into something more comfortable…me.

For four days, I could just be myself – whatever that looked like.

So first, I decided I was a fabulous dresser, and bought a couple new dresses and shoes for the trip.  (OK. I was always a shopper, even then.)  The then-spouse was NOT fond of this – of the trip, of the clothes of any of the other changes I had been attempting to make.  In all honesty, my new things were very classy – but were, admittedly, brighter and shorter than anything I’d bought in the last ten years.  (He preferred to have me dress more “vintage” – if by “vintage” you mean Pilgrim.)

“Why’d you buy this dress?  Who are you wearing it for?”

Me.  I’m wearing it for me. 

“You must be meeting someone at this supposed ‘conference.’  Who is he?  Why are you doing this?”

I’m going for me.  I bought these dresses for me. 

I was excited for my trip.  Even my then-spouse, with his put-downs, frowns and scorny scowls couldn’t kill my anticipation.  I was looking forward to meeting my virtual network – a bunch of people whom I had only “met” online but had been communicating with for years.  I was eagerly awaiting the chance to wear my pretty new things at social events.

But most of all, I had a voracious longing to meet….me.  Myself.

The conference was a superior educational experience valuable networking opportunity

Dude.  It was NEW ORLEANS.  ROCKIN PARTY YO

It was amazing.  I made new friends.  I relaxed.  I had fun.  I wasn’t looking over my shoulder to ensure I was sustaining the approval of a controlling, manipulative spouse.  I laughed as loudly as I wanted; I drank more than one hurricane; I <gasp> danced until 2 AM.

My soul found water and light, and sprouted and bloomed.

I was happy.  I was ME.

Then the conference came to an end.  One more half-day of educational sessions, and we’d all be on our way back to our normal, everyday lives.

But I didn’t want to go back.  I had found my voice; I had found my light.  And she wasn’t going to quietly go back into that dark, confining shell very easily.

I had tasted freedom, and I didn’t want to stop drinking it in.

Right before I chose which final session to attend, a new friend asked me to sit with him at the session HE was attending.  I glanced at the description – something about a life coach.  Meh.  I doubted it’d be of value, but since I was, realistically, probably too exhausted to absorb anything that was actually educational, I figured I’d go along and maybe catch a nap.

The session began.  Instead of dozing off…my eyes widened.  I perked up as I realized that this session was right here, right now, at the right time, just for me.

Are you unhappy with your life?

Are you on a path that isn’t satisfying you?

If you’re alive, it’s never too late. 

turnaround

When I got on the plane, I laid out a plan.  I knew that I couldn’t go back home to the way things were when I left.  After a week of gorging on freedom and peace, my old costume no longer fit.

But I knew I was still alive.  I still had a lot of life left in me.

It wasn’t too late.

I turned around and forged a new path in a completely new direction.  What followed were the most difficult 18 months of my life…but I knew where I was headed.  The vision of peace lit the path in front of me like a promise.

The direction was clear, and I knew exactly where I was going.

Home.  Back to me.

Today’s victim nominee for this challenge:  lynneggleton at Lyma’s Life – because I love reading her stuff and just wish there was more of it.  🙂

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.

I Was in It for the Frosting

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Today, I need to write about something different.

It’s about a darker time in my life.  A time I’m not proud of; a time where I’d use an “undo” button if there ever was one.

But as I work on recovery, I feel the need to purge my soul of this.  I don’t pretend that simply writing it out has any impact whatsoever in undoing any hurt or pain I may have caused.  I acknowledge that it’s probably selfish of me to post about it at all; I really should carry the pain to my grave.

I hope in reading this that you will be able to continue to accept me, warts and all, as a flawed, damaged human being who royally screwed something up.

And perhaps – just maybe – I can reach someone else who’s toyed with making the same mistake.  And if I ask the universe for forgiveness, maybe I can finally start to forgive myself.

Affairs are like this: Imagine that you love cake.

Cake is sweet and moist. It comes in a variety of flavors. It’s a treat. It’s something you have for special occasions; on days worth celebrating. Cake highlights and underlines events, transforming them from “ordinary day” to “celebration”.

And the reason we eat cake? FROSTING. Gooey, sweet, decadent. It comes in many colors. It adds beauty, flavor, and pleasure to your cake experience. Let’s face it: Cake is the avenue by which it’s socially acceptable to eat spoonfuls of sugar and fat mixed together. Casually nosh on a stick of butter rolled in sugar, and people will raise eyebrows; whip it and place it artistically atop three layers of cake, and you’re a genius.

And you love frosting so much that not only do you covet the corner piece with the largest frosting flowers, you also, when no one is watching, run the spatula just a little bit to the side to pick up the frosting borders that others have left behind, saying, “It’s too sweet, it’s too much.” You also pick up that super-thin, extra-moist layer of cake often left on the serving board. That smear of cake, mixed with forkfuls of frosting, is absolutely heavenly. It’s the very best part of cake.

Imagine now that you have heard, through a friend of a friend, that there is an elaborate tea party planned at the fanciest local hotel. Many prominent members of the community will be attending; it’s rumored that some well-known celebrities will be there. You know the venue well; it’s a glamorous space, replete with luxurious, graceful silk drapes and chandeliers rich with sparkle and shine.

You didn’t receive an invitation, but your friend says that he knows someone who is working the event, and he’s quite sure he can get you in. There will be cake, he says, and he knows how much you love cake.

The day of the event, you don your prettiest dress. You fuss with your hair and carefully select jewelry and shoes that communicate sophistication and quiet glamour.

When you arrive at the event, you notice the other attendees. Ladies are dressed in their finest frocks, complete with pearls, slingbacks, and even gloves! You look down at your outfit and wonder if you’re underdressed.

You glance at a passerby and notice, in her hand, a richly embossed invitation that exudes understated refinement. A bellman, impeccably dressed in a crisp uniform, begins to admit the patrons. The attendees start to enter the hotel, handing their invitations to the bellman.

You glance around wildly. You don’t, of course, have an invitation of your own, and you can only stand outside for so long before others start to stare. After most of the guests have gone inside, you finally see, out of the corner of your eye, your friend waving to you from the side of the building. Relieved, you go to him.

Your friend takes your elbow, and walks you around the side of the hotel. He guides you down a side alley, which is littered with an empty fast-food bag and a few abandoned fries. You notice a skittering as a small mouse scampers away from the scattered crumbs.

Your friend turns the corner, and you find yourself at the back of the building. The wall is the same gray, stained, industrial concrete as the stoop, beside which is a dumpster.

“Wait here,” your friend says, as he enters the back door.

As he enters the building, you stand outside, waiting. There’s a window in the door, and when you peer through, you first see the kitchen on the right. It’s clean and bustling, as servers and chefs perform their elaborate waltz.

You continue to watch, taking your gaze to the left. You gasp. The hotel is elegant, beautiful, refined. The chandeliers are shining, sending glittery twinkling sparkle all around. And the flowers! Copious volumes of the whitest, fattest blooms are everywhere, adding to the gorgeous, glamorous picture.

It’s magical. It’s breathtaking.

You watch the guests as they are seated. The staff gracefully begin to serve tea. You notice the ringing of spoons stirring sugar into delicate fine teacups; you hear the sophisticated laughter of happiness and delight.

And then you see the cake.

The cake is absolutely stunning. It’s at least four feet tall, and eloquently decorated. Opulent layers of rich, pearl-white frosting cascade over the many tiers.

You watch as the cake is cut. One by one, the slices are distributed. You can see the guests’ faces light up in sheer pleasure as they take delicate bites of the decadent treat. You watch, longingly, as the cake slowly begins to disappear, piece by piece.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, noticing the pinch in your heels. It’s hot out here. You suspect that your makeup is beginning to melt a bit; your hair is surely wilting. An unpleasant, decaying odor hits your nostrils. You turn and see the dumpster just a few feet from the door, sticky puddles underneath it, oozing into the sidewalk.

You continue to wait. You hear the clink of plates as the serving pieces are cleared. You desperately want to sit, but you’ll surely get dirt on your dress, and it can’t be much longer now, can it? Has your friend forgotten that you were here, waiting in the alley with the mice and the dumpster?

Finally, your friend emerges. Relieved, you step towards him. He holds up a hand to stop you from entering the building. You pause, confused. But he’s smiling.

“I have something for you,” he says.

He hands you the nearly-empty serving platter. You recognize the hotel’s logo on the heavy, expensive tray. On the plate is one small slice of cake, broken from handling and travel, and a thin, filmy layer of cake from where the pieces were incompletely served. Around the edge of the plate are several abandoned lumps of frosting.

“It’s your favorite. I brought this out just for you!”

A dark wave washes over you; the air escapes your lungs as your stomach clenches. You swallow back bitter disappointment as you attempt to smile bravely.

He hands you a fork, and returns inside to the celebration.

Resolutely, you sit on the stoop, no longer caring about your frock. You take the fork and begin to eat, tears rolling onto your feast. You realize you have absolutely no right to cry, because you’ve received exactly what you thought you wanted, and nothing that was ever yours.

 

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.

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.