Tag Archives: marriage

Purging the Pollutants and Poisons

Posted on by
2

So…in case you’re wondering (and I’m sure all three of you who read this have been waiting with bated breath just DYING to know how this turned out, ha ha) – I gave him the letter.  I did it.  I actually did it.

I had had a night of very little sleep when I wrote that post.  I saved it, and rushed off to church (of COURSE I was late. If I show up anywhere early, assume aliens have taken possession of my body, and what you’re seeing isn’t me, but an imposter, and shoot me with a green laser gun before I take over the planet.)

After church, we sat on the couch and talked.  Well…I tried to talk.  I was too upset to say much.  Finally, I told him, “I wrote you a letter.  I don’t want to give it to you.  It may be hard to read.  Some of it isn’t very nice.  But you need to understand it comes from a place where I am hurting.  I hope you can read it in the spirit in which it is intended.”

He asked for the letter.

He read the letter while I cried.

Then he said, “I love you, and I want to talk about this.  But first, let me change my shirt.”

And then he went to his closet and THREW THE MEAN SHIRTS AWAY.  ALL OF THEM.  Every last one.

And then we talked.  Really talked.

I was stunned – still am, frankly – that he actually threw those shirts away.  He must really love me.  I’m overwhelmed by that.  How can I mean so much to him?

He really is an amazing guy.

I walked around for the next week feeling like I had removed an eighty-pound backpack that I’d forgotten I was carrying.  Drama is like that – it starts out as a flashy new bag, which is hip and cool and fun to show off as you twirl and strut.  But as time goes on, it collects rocks and dirt and lead and concrete. It gets heavier and heavier, and for some reason, you keep carting it around like you’re doing it a favor.  As if it benefits you in some way.  It’s only when you eventually unload it that you realize how soul-suckingly bad it was for you, how much of a drain it was on your energy and your joy.

So I spent a full week feeling almost normal.  And then things went sideways again (due to a visit with my folks…doesn’t visiting your parents always remind you of the ways you’ve failed them?  I may write more about that later.)  Suffice it to say I had plenty to talk about in my appointment with Dr. P this week.

One of the things I’ve been struggling with is accepting myself at a higher weight.  I hate saying this, because I KNOW how lame, pathetic, and first-world-problemy it sounds. Really.  I’d totally be rolling my eyes (and mentally slapping her) if anyone ELSE told me how hard it was for her now that she’s eaten her way out of a size zero and is ALL THE WAY up to a size two now.  Boo freakin’ hoo, right?

But when it’s your own body?  When the sign of success you previously had (BMI of 18, yeah!) has faded away? When your clothes are getting tighter?  When no one gasps at how skinny you are anymore, and the one thing you used to be good at, the ONE AREA you could excel in, the ONLY area that anyone in society seems to value (and certainly the one that’s the most prized, yet least attainable, by you) is now an area where you’re not in the best 5%?  Where you’re now just…normal?  It kind of sucks.  It feels like failure.

AND THAT’S STUPID.

Intellectually, I know I am not a fat monster.  I can’t be.  The numbers do not add up.  Even if I looked 20 pounds heavier than I am, logic tells me I cannot possibly be a huge beast.  But when I look in the mirror, my thighs are bulging out in all directions, and my stomach poofs out in an unflattering not-sure-if-she’s-pregnant bloat.  Flesh hangs over the tightening waistband of my pants (hello, back fat.  Who invited YOU, anyway?)  Pants in the smallest size are uncomfortably snug and emphasize every flaw.

Ah, yes, the pants.  I have clothes that have been hanging in my closet, unworn for several months, mocking me.  You can’t wear me.  I cut you sharply across the waist; I stretch in a most unflattering fashion across your thighs.  I’m here to remind you that you will NEVER be good enough. You will never be perfect.  What a shame that you lack the discipline to stick to your diet.  How pathetic that you have so little control.  I’m a prize you don’t deserve to have.

How ironic.  Apparently, it wasn’t just my husband who had hurtful things in his closet.

So, during my session with Dr. P, we decided that I’d clean out my closet.  I had mixed feelings about this.  First and foremost (if you’re female and have ever struggled with your weight, you’ll guess this one) – “WHAT ABOUT WHEN I GET THIN AND CAN WEAR THEM AGAIN?”  I know I’m trying to learn to accept myself at a healthy weight, but I’m not ready to say that I will never be 107 pounds again.  And that’s OK – I’m not there now, but I’m not ready to let go of that quite yet.  In the meantime, the pants don’t fit me well now, so why keep them when all they do is make me unhappy?  And, as Dr. P reminded me, “if you do need that size later, you’ll want to buy new stuff anyway.”  Good point.

And today I did it.  I went to my closet and ruthlessly pulled out all the size 0 pants.  I went through EVERYTHING (and I have a BIG closet, folks.  As if I would live in a house with inadequate closet space. AS IF.)  and bravely deposited in the Donations bag a grand total of…

<drum roll, please>

one skirt and two pairs of pants.

<cue sad trombone>

Wait…that’s it?

All that fuss for TWO FREAKING PAIRS OF PANTS?

(Wow.  Drama much?)

I stared at my small offering in disbelief….Yup.  Out of an entire wardrobe of “clothes I’m too fat for,” I had two – TWO – pairs of pants that are a bit snug to be flattering.  And you know what?  THEY NEVER ACTUALLY FIT ME WELL IN THE FIRST PLACE.  The brown pants were too short in the rise <coughcoughcameltoecough> and the black pinstripe pair were flattering but were always gave me a bit of back fat.  The skirt was skin-tight, but always had been, really, and I hadn’t worn it much because it was borderline inappropriate – a little too Jessica Rabbit for the office.

What’s amazing me about this is the power that these unworn pants had.  I mean, I have like 10 pairs of other pants – that FIT – and I wasn’t enjoying them because I had two ill-fitting pairs in my closet?  And WHY WAS I NOT BLAMING THE PANTS?  I can’t possibly expect every pair of pants to fit well and be flattering.  But…isn’t that what I’ve been doing?

The mean pants are in the donation sack, ready to leave my life completely tomorrow.

And, just like that, I have a closet full of pants that fit.

All my clothes fit.

That sort of feels…good?  Wait, that’s not the word.  More like “not a failure.”

I’ll take it.  It’s not my usual style, but the cut is surprisingly comfortable, so I’ll try to work it into my wardrobe.

Preparing My Speech

Posted on by
11

Time for a serious talk at home.

Last night, the hubs told me, “I feel like I’m losing you.”

It shook me to hear that.

Hard.

But he’s right.  I’m drifting further and further away from the once rock-solid relationship we had.

And it hurts, and it breaks my heart.

I have a couple of choices:  Pretend that things are fine, or address this stuff head-on.  The former clearly isn’t working – apparently, I’m a terrible actress – so maybe I need to try again to get this stuff out in the open.

Maybe working out here what I need to say will help.  Or maybe it’ll give me enough of a mental buffer to throw a lacy tablecloth over the elephant in the living room and pretend it’s not there for just a bit longer.

Here goes nothing.

Dear Hubs:

Last night, you told me you felt like you were losing me.  What struck me about this wasn’t that you were right – because I think that’s fairly obvious – but that you still actually cared.  You sounded like you really DIDN’T want to lose me.  And I have to admit that surprised me a little.

I know that’s probably hard to hear.  And, to be fair, you’ve always been affectionate, and you tell me all the time that you love me.  But…there are times when you don’t SHOW me that you love me.  And it’s hard for me to reconcile the words with the actions.

Let’s jump right to the root of this thing:  we have very different opinions on faith and spirituality.  When we first met, and earlier in our relationship, we were quite good at respectful disagreement.  Or at least I thought we were.  Perhaps we just avoided the issue.

Lately, though, I know you’ve been going through a spiritual awakening of sorts.  You’ve always been agnostic, and willing to question your own beliefs in pursuit of the right answer.  In the last few months, however, your focus has shifted.  You feel that atheists are not embraced in society, and you’ve appointed yourself a beacon of light for all others who share your beliefs.  You’ve done this by writing a thesis of sorts on how irrelevant, violent, damaging, hateful, and inaccurate the Bible is, and you’ve posted this on the internet for all to see.  (Well, that was your plan; I honestly don’t know if you finished it or published it.  Since it hurts my heart to think about it, I don’t ask.)

Additionally, you’ve acquired a collection of T-shirts that boldly state your stance.  Some of them say things like “skeptic” and “freethinker” – those I can handle, mostly.  (Although I’m not a fan of “freethinker” as it implies that those who don’t agree with you are the opposite of free thinkers, when really, in many cases, they are people as articulate, intelligent, and educated as you, who researched the same materials and simply came to a different conclusion.)  It’s your other shirts I take issue with.  I know you’re going for shock value.  For an in-your-face message that you are NOT Christian, or Muslim, or any other organized religion.  I just wish you could find a way to express that without taking pot shots at the sincerely held beliefs of others.  I wish you could find a way to raise awareness without needing to step on other peoples’ faiths to elevate your own belief system.

Because without mutual respect and understanding, no one can hear you.  Your approach puts everyone on defense.  They know, just by reading your shirt, that you’re not open to a frank, honest discussion.  Your mind is MADE UP – and their minds are WRONG.  Period, the end.

I’m digressing a bit – I really wanted to talk about US, not everyone else.  But there IS some relevance here.  A couple of weekends ago, we went out together, and you had one of those T-shirts on.  And you made a point to tell me that a couple of folks commented on it, and really liked it, and that “lots of people really like my shirts.”  I believe I responded with something like “everyone but your wife.” I didn’t press further – but it saddens me that validation from complete strangers is more important to you than your wife’s feelings on the subject.

You know I hate these shirts, but you wear them anyway, and I suppose I need to find a way to deal with that.  Just be aware that you do so at the expense of some emotional currency.  Initially, you said, “Well, I’ll only wear them when you’re not around.”  WHICH MISSES THE POINT ENTIRELY – if you truly feel this way, it doesn’t matter if you’re wearing it on your chest or not.  It still hurts me that you don’t have any respect for my beliefs, whether you parade that in front of my face or hide it behind my back.  (If you didn’t like me taking diet pills, would it be OK if you didn’t watch me swallow them?)

It’s hard for me to feel close to you when I’m staring down a logo that I know is meant to inflame.  This is hard to admit, but it’s also difficult for me to feel attracted to you when how you feel about my beliefs is quite literally staring me in the face.

While I’m talking about respect, I need to also talk about blasphemy.  Not swearing – I can drop a good F-bomb as well as anyone else.  I’m talking about your need to invoke religion into the mix.  You know I hate it. I’m not used to hearing it, I don’t like it, I’ve TOLD you I don’t like it, and I find it completely disrespectful that you continue to DO it.  But you told me quite recently that when you get really mad, nothing eases your anger like a good “F*** you, God.”

(Side note – this doesn’t even make sense.  Why are you saying “F*** you” to someone you believe to be imaginary?)

THIS IS NOT OK.  It’s beyond disrespectful.  It’s telling me that your outbursts are more important than my lifelong, sincerely held beliefs.  I’ve cultivated them for years; I’ve tried to fertilize them, prune them, and encourage them to grow – and here you are, barreling over them with the lawnmower, rendering them into insignificant scraps.

It eases your anger…but you’re paying for it with our relationship.

Is it still worth it?

I’m scared to death that the answer is “yes.”

Yesterday we were shopping for paint.  And as you were loading the trunk, you noticed, for the first time, the ichthus fish I had affixed there a couple of weeks ago, and you said, “I just noticed your Jesus fish.  GREEEEEEEAT.”  Wow.  You actually sneered.  You have many, many emblems and stickers on your car screaming your views to the planet.  I don’t love them, but it’s your car.  And I respect that your views are different from mine.

Then a song came on the variety show on NPR – it was a gospel group singing a capella 4-part harmonies.  Now, I know gospel isn’t for everyone.  You could have changed the station.  Instead, you commented on the “ridiculous subject matter.”

My beliefs are “ridiculous subject matter.”

My beliefs are ridiculous.

I asked myself again yesterday if I could continue to live like this.

And yesterday, the answer was no.

My heart is breaking. I don’t know if this can be fixed.  All I know is that I never would have married a man who owned T-shirts like this.  I never would have married someone who couldn’t respect my beliefs.

Yet, nearly eight years later…here I am.

So there it is.

I desperately want to fix this.  Please, please help me fix this.

I love you.  Always.

Wish me luck.

Pulverizing My Poisonous Provisions

Posted on by
4

So I had therapy on Wednesday.  I know you’ve been sitting here, waiting with bated breath, biting your nails and bouncing your foot on your knee, just DYING to know if I did my homework and threw the peanut butter away.

Well, I won’t keep you in suspense.

It was Tuesday morning.  I knew my next appointment was in twenty-four hours, and I was wrestling with a couple of things:

  1. I don’t like to follow directions.  You tell me to hurry up, I’m suddenly exhausted and need a nap. So since I was asked to throw away food, there it sits in the pantry.  I’d have been more likely to chuck it if no one had TOLD me to.
  2. I know I’m going to be held accountable to this.  And I hate letting my boss, teachers, etc. down.  My therapist is going to be VERY DISAPPOINTED in me if I don’t do this.  And if I DON’T get it done, who knows what I’ll get asked to do next??  Steal someone’s baby?  Knock over a bird’s nest, swipe the eggs, and make an omelet I eat while looking out the window where Momma Robin can stare at me eating her young? File my taxes again?  Give up my shoe collection, INCLUDING my teal cowboy boots, which are the cutest things ever?  NOOOoooooo….I better get to it so I don’t have to do something less comfortable as penance.
  3. IT’S JUST FREAKING PEANUT BUTTER.<sigh>

So, after my morning run, while the hubby was in the shower…I DID IT.  I NOT ONLY scooped out all the chocolate peanut butter with a spatula and washed it down the garbage disposal – I ALSO (being an overachiever when I’m being graded) threw out a mostly-eaten bag of kettle-cooked potato chips.

VICTORY IS MINE!  BWA HA HA HA (You TOTALLY need a sinister laugh when you’re running the garbage disposal.  It makes the process so much more empowering.)

So I was delighted to be able to report to Dr. P that I did complete my task.  And I was impressed that she was prepared enough to remember to ask me about it.  (Note to self:  My therapist apparently prepares for my sessions.  It would seem that she either has an enviable memory, or actually reviewed my file.  Either way, I wasn’t expecting anyone to be that invested in me and my sad, weird first-world problems.  I suppose for what therapy costs, I should expect this level of attention, and the fact that this was a pleasant surprise probably speaks volumes about our health care system.  But I digress.)

We talked about this food-chucking for a bit. I told her what I had thrown out.  She totally called me on putting it off until the last minute, too.  Good for her.  Being held accountable made me actually change my behavior and take action, so we know that works.

Dr. P asked me how I felt about it.  It was odd; after all the energy I invested in avoiding the task, getting around to actually accomplishing it was pretty anti-climatic.  I didn’t feel stressed, or anxious….  I actually felt somewhat relieved, to be honest.  These two items – unfinished remnants of a binge – were no longer hanging around just waiting for me to fail again.  They were reminders of times I’ve failed in the past – but they were also a promise that I’d mess up again later.  Who needs that kind of pressure?  OFF WITH YOUR HEADS, toxic (yet delicious) chocolate PB and nutritionless (and enticingly crunchy) greasy potato chips.  Out you go.  We only have room for fabulous here!

Her other question, though – why did I hide this from my husband?  I thought that was a fair question.  Really, as much as I gripe on here about how much I hate his T-shirt collection, he’s been nothing but supportive regarding my “food issues.”  Dr. P wondered if the hubs saw me actually throw out food, would he think I was suddenly “cured” of my aversion to tossing things, and nag at me when it wasn’t so easy next time?

I really don’t think that was the issue.  I really just wanted to avoid questions.  For one, the hubs really would like me to gain a couple of pounds – so if I’m throwing “fattening” food away that he knows I can eat large volumes of, would he maybe wonder if therapy was good for me – or if I was going at all (maybe sneaking off to Weight Watchers instead?)  Or would he start to wonder what food I actually DID eat, and what I threw out when he wasn’t looking, so I could fast/starve while making it appear I had eaten much more than I actually did?  (He knows I used to do this all the time in high school. Dang courting phase of the relationship where I spilled my deep dark secrets.)

So, since therapy is fairly new for me, and since I think it’s helping somewhat, I didn’t want to upset the apple cart by introducing new opinions.  It’s just me and Dr. P for now, with guest appearances from my pantry’s evil villains.

Incidentally, this was the first therapy session I had where I didn’t bawl my way through an entire flat of tissues.  Progress?  Yeah baby.  I’m wearing my victory like a sassy new pair of heels.  <strut strut>

The real test will come in our next session, where we are going to talk about the hubby’s T-shirt collection and how I can better handle the wearable hate mail…but that’s not for two weeks.  I have time to ride the victory wave.

P.S.  Did I just write 900 words about throwing away a jar of peanut butter?!?  Seriously??  I’ll take “Things That Only People With Food Issues Understand” for $500, Alex.

Driving in the Wrong Direction – Where Can I Turn Around?

Posted on by
1

Rough day today.  I’m not exactly sure where things went sideways, but it was probably halfway between Expectation and Reality, when I made that sharp left at Disappointment.

Hubby and I had a whole kid-free day together.  I wanted to do…something.  The weather’s been unseasonably warm – perfect for a bike ride or a long walk.

I cooked a crustless quiche for breakfast (OK, I’m not sure if that’s really what it is.  You beat 5 eggs, add a cup of milk, and whatever spices and veggies you want.  Maybe some cheese,  Bake in a pie plate at 350 for 45 minutes.  It’s not REALLY quiche, but doesn’t “crustless quiche” sound fancy enough to be special?)  It turned out great.  OM NOM NOM

Afterwards, the hubs decided that he’d really like to go see the automobile show.  I thought that’d be fun, actually – while I drive a sturdy Toyota, it’s fun to look at Alfa Romeos.  So I went online and got us a couple of tickets, personalized – check out our special names:

Tickets

<snort> I kill me.

The show was…nice, I guess.  We saw two cars priced at over $250k (yowsa!) as well as one with a giant, hot-pink stuffed unicorn on top of it.  (Sadly, there was no price tag on the unicorn.)

As we walked around, though, I just couldn’t help feeling like I was a million miles away from my husband.  He was right next to me, but I just didn’t feel like we were connecting.  He seemed to feel something – he even commented on how much he was enjoying just being out with me.  I enjoyed it, too, but I just didn’t feel very close to him.

Part of the reason?  Yes, he wore one of THOSE shirts.  So, although I tried to look past it, I had to walk the show next to GODLESS HEATHEN.  And to further rub lemon juice into my paper cuts, he proudly shared with me that the dude at the mini donuts counter absolutely CROWED about his shirt, and that he gets a lot of positive comments on it.  Sigh.  I’m sure you do. From everyone but your wife.  But I guess that doesn’t matter.  And I guess shouldn’t matter that people will assume I love your shirt too, if I’m with you.  But I don’t.  I hate it.  I want to burn it, and the others, in a fiery pit, after shredding them with the lawn mower.

(For the record, I did not have any mini donuts.  They smelled wonderful, and they taunted me the entire time we were there.  But I’m not supposed to eat wheat, and I know that they probably have about 100 calories each, if not more, so I only would have enjoyed them for the fifteen seconds it took me to inhale the bag.  So I refrained.)

Later, we stopped at Target to get lights and a lock for my bike.  (My knee’s been bugging me, so I was hoping I could ride on the mornings I couldn’t run.)  I suggested we go back home, grab an early dinner, and get back outside.  Bike ride, walk, something.  He wasn’t feeling it, but thought if we went home and ate, he’d perk up.

So we did that, and about an hour later, he decided he still didn’t really feel like going on a bike ride, and really wanted to work on the bathroom (he’s re-tiling our bathroom.  Which is great, and I sincerely appreciate all the work he’s doing on it….but I wanted to go outside, darn it.)  So I decided to attempt to install my bike lock.

It shouldn’t be hard, right?  it’s a bike lock, not a rocket ship.  But the course was charted now; I was in a bad mood because I WANTED TO PLAY, not work.  My bike was in the shed – this alone got my blood pressure rising.  (A little history:  last fall, hubby decided that the garage was “his” workspace, and that the bikes would be perfectly happy outside.  For the winter.  In the midwest.   I threw a fit, because it’s MY bike, and I own the garage, too, and even if he thought my bike would be fine out in the elements, I DIDN’T WANT IT THERE.  I could not understand why there wasn’t room for my bike in our garage.  He told me I was overreacting and just didn’t understand why the hell it mattered.  Well, it mattered because it was important to me, but since I couldn’t seem to explain that, the bikes were evicted from the garage.  As a compromise, they were put in the storage shed.  So going out there to LOOK at my bike reminds me that it SHOULD be in the garage…and starts the downward spiral of mad.)

I found the key to the shed – it was on hubby’s key chain.  And my temper flared yet again.  Great.  He has the only key, and it’s on his car keys – so if he’s not home, I can’t ride my bike.  And right now, THIS WAS NOT OKAY.  I wanted access to my bike 24/7, it’s MY BIKE, after all.  (Not that this has ever HAPPENED, mind you.  I’ve never felt the urge to take a random bike ride when the hubby wasn’t home.  But it could, and this. was. making. me. FURIOUS.)

Breathe, Kate, breathe.

I attempt to install the bracket for my new lock.  Of course, there were no instructions, and I actually ended up futzing with that stupid thing for a half hour before I determined that one of the nut/screw combos was defective.  There was swearing.  I believe the walls of the shed started to melt, but I can’t be sure.  There was lots of throwing things and stomping.  I gathered all the little parts so I could return the blasted thing later.

Now what?

Well, since we’re not doing anything FUN, I may as well clean up the yard.  At least I’ll get some exercise, and it has to get done sometime.  I got my tools, and for the next hour, I raked and I trimmed and I pulled.  And I got madder and madder and more and more frustrated.

Finally, two large bags of yard trash later, I put the tools away.  I went inside.

And I completely fell apart.

I hate when this happens.  In the moment, I can’t explain why I am so overwhelmingly sad – I just AM.  It’s only later, when I’m writing, that I realize it’s the disappointment and frustration I’ve been bottling in has burst out like an overshaken soda.

The hubs is usually really good about this. But when I tried to apologize – tried to say I was sorry I sometimes get this way, I was sorry I couldn’t articulate things better – he scolded me.

<sarcasm>This totally fixed the problem, and I was in a GREAT mood forever and ever.</sarcasm>

He said I shouldn’t apologize because while I was sad, I wasn’t doing anything to HIM.  But…I know my moods are tough to live with.  I know how difficult it can be when your spouse just gets in a bad place.  And I just wanted to acknowledge that.

But he scolded me.  And it hurt.  So I shut up.  And moved even further away from him than I was before.

I sat outside for a while, and decided to look at the lilacs we had planted last year.  I thought they might be budding soon.  And I discovered that the lilac in front of the house – the one that promised to sprout beautiful, deep purple blossoms in the spring – was chewed up.  It was a barren bunch of sticks.  The ends of each branch, which should have been filled with hopeful hints of spring, was bitten off.  Every single bud, gone.

Except one.

They say that lilacs are very hardy plants.  I’m told you can cut them back nearly to the ground and they’ll spring back.  So maybe, just maybe, this bush I planted last year will manage to survive.  Maybe if it still has one bud, It can grow back and be something magnificent.

I don’t feel like I have any buds left today.  I know I must…I just can’t feel them right now.  I’m just overwhelmed with sad.  And I don’t know how many more buds can snap off my marriage before someone no longer recognizes it and unceremoniously mows it down when cutting the grass.

I can put a wire cage over my lilacs.  That will give them a better chance to grow.  I’m just not sure how to protect my marriage or myself.  I don’t know how to shield my soul from all the thorns, slivers, and skinned knees that make it hard to thrive.

I’ll keep trying.  I’ll keep breathing.  And right now, that’s enough.  That will get me through until tomorrow when I can start fresh and try again.

So A Bag of Kettle Corn Tried to Kill Me….

Posted on by
13

Please allow me to share my tale as a warning to those of you who think that this pillowy, salty-sweet, crunchy bag of delight is safe.  It’s not.   Well, it probably is, kind of like saccharin is – if you ingest it in typical, socially normal amounts, it’s probably not going to give you cancer.  But if you are prone to excess, and slog back cans of Diet Fizzy Delite by the case, it just might hurt you.

In my defense, they are selling mighty big bags of kettle corn nowadays, and do you think there’s a SINGLE warning on the stuff?  Anything like, “CAUTION: Read the bag, moron, and pace yourself.  This is NOT a single serving.  You will NOT be labeled a quitter if you use a chip clip and have leftovers” ?  Nooooooooooo.  Not a thing.  So if you use food to self-medicate – BE WARNED, kids – this one is dangerous and not to be underestimated.  And as you’ll see – this wasn’t ENTIRELY my fault.  I was provoked.  I needed help coping, and the kettle corn was readily available….

Let me give you the back story:

Last weekend was the first one in a couple of months where the hubby and I had a weekend together.  No kids, no plans.  I really wanted us to have an old-fashioned date.  I wanted some quality time where he and I did something together other than get groceries or home-improvement supplies.  I suggested the local science museum, the art museum, the comedy club….

His reply was “anything sounds good.  You pick.”  GAH! I HATE THAT.  Does that mean that everything actually DOES sound good and he really does NOT have a preference?  Or does it, as I fear, mean that he really would rather do something else that I haven’t suggested yet?

The lack of enthusiasm caused us to bleed away Saturday futzing around in indecision.  I rested.  We ran a couple of quick errands.  It was OK, but I really wanted us to, you know, reconnect, and this was one item I was unable to find at Home Depot.  I was sad, listless, and a bit lonely.  So I opened the new bag of kettle corn that I had just purchased from Costco the night before.  (Yes, I should know better.)  I stuffed my feelings back with bite after bite of cane syrup and popped corn.  I chewed and I swallowed my emotions so they could leave me alone for just a little while longer.

On Sunday I tried to fly the “date” idea again.  After lunch, we (read: I) decided it’d be fun to go see Lark Toys.  I’d read about this place, and thought its retro toys and carousel would make a nice day trip.  (Trust me.  I know the creepy Santa on their home page would lead you to believe it’s a trap, but it gets lots of good reviews and is locally quite popular.  I swear it is not a trick meant to lure you into the lair of creepy gnomes and possessed antique dolls with pale skin and glassy, unblinking eyes….)

Hubby agreed to drive, and I agreed to let him.  And the drive was actually quite pleasant – he toned down the testosterone display (he usually drives like a rabid cheetah in search of a fresh kill), so I could actually enjoy the ride, as opposed to “tolerate” it (read:  death grip on the door handle and praying for a divine dose of Xanax.)  The drive was really pretty, too – lots of cliffs and bluffs, lakes and rivers, and several small towns one could only describe as “quaint.”

The toy store was lovely.  Not an electronic toy in sight.  It was filled with all sorts of whimsical things – dinosaurs, wind-up tin toys, puppets, building blocks and logs, and active toys to catch, throw, and jump with.  These are the sorts of toys, I’m sure, that parents think are good for kids…unfortunately, given the choice, our little cherubs end up gravitating towards iPads and X-Boxes, and sadly, even the best of us get tired of fighting them and eventually just let them plug in.

The hubby and I had a pleasant day, mostly.  But there was, frankly, something bugging me.  The hubs had decided to wear one of his “special” T-shirts.  I think I mentioned previously that he had recently acquired a collection of in-your-face anti-religion T-shirts, and he decided to wear one today.  Now, to be fair, it was one of the more minor ones…but dang it, he KNOWS I hate them.  And I decided to take it personally that he chose to deliberately wear one on our DATE.  I thought about mentioning it to him before we left – but honestly, what good would that do?  He’d probably change into something else, but it would certainly irritate him and the mood would be dead, and it wasn’t easy to break our inertia to actually get us headed on some sort of a date in the first place…so I attempted to suck it up and try to enjoy the day despite staring into the flame-embellished “HERETIC” written across his chest.

And I guess I failed.

We got home, I cooked dinner in a very quiet house while he played some video game (the current favorite is Destiny, which I call Density, because it’s funny every.single.time.  I am so clever. <chuckle>)  I made a very nice, healthy dinner of Italian stuffed peppers (I use this recipe, and it’s great.  Note, this EASILY makes enough filling for 3 peppers, and I invariably have a spoon or two of filling left over that will only fit in my pie hole.  (Can’t waste it, ya know.)  I don’t put the sauce on top, and I mix up the cheeses depending on what is 45 seconds from going bad in my fridge.  But if you like bell peppers, these are really good.)

And later, I sat on the couch, feeling the same listless, lonely emptiness I’d felt the day before, now highlighted with the fly-in-the-otherwise-lovely-salad disappointment of the day and the fourteen-shades-of-blue Sunday night blahs…and I once again reached for the kettle corn.

And I finished the bag.

I FINISHED THE BAG.  THE ENTIRE FREAKING BAG.

TWENTY-FOUR (!!!) SERVINGS OF KETTLE CORN DOWN THE CHUTE IN TWO DAYS.

I’m not sure if I should be pitied, embarrassed, or high-fiving myself.  (I’ll go with Door #2, Alex.)

So on Monday, I had a well-deserved food hangover.  I was bloated and puffy and had a bit of a stomachache.  (And I’m sure you’re thinking, “Dude.  DUH.  You ate a bag of popcorn meant to feed a small village for a week IN TWO DAYS!”)

Otherwise, it was a normal day.  I worked.  I came home from work.  I made a tuna melt.  I did a load of laundry.  I called my kids, who were at their Dad’s.

About five minutes after I hung up the phone, I suddenly went into labor.

Now, this is concerning for a number of reasons.  One, I’m in my 40s.  Two, I’m not pregnant, to my knowledge anyway.  I had my tubes tied about ten years ago, and if I remember biology correctly, if I AM giving birth right now, this baby has only had a two-week gestation period. Three….it f@$(#@ HURTS LIKE HELL.

I didn’t mull this over for very long (see #3 above) before I told the hubby that I probably needed to go to the hospital.  In about 10 minutes I had blown past “maybe this is just gas” to realizing that the pain was not only THE WORST THING I HAVE EVER FELT, but that it was coming in waves.  Every 3-4 minutes or so, I’d get a brief, 5-7 second respite where I didn’t feel like ripping out my uterus with a fork would be a relief.

The next couple of hours were a blur.  I’m not sure how the wheelchair appeared.  I remember shaking quite violently from the pain.  Somehow, they got an IV started (they must have a sniper on the needle ward.)  I recall being asked how bad the pain was, on a scale from 1-10.  (I believe I said “fourteen.”)  There was morphine.

And then there was relief.

All of the usual tests were run. CT, ultrasound, tubes of blood.  This all took a while….Interestingly, for the CT scan, they had me drink the contrast instead of injecting it.  The nurse said – AND I QUOTE – “because you’re skinny, this will help us get a better view.”  SHE CALLED ME SKINNY.  <swoon>  I may marry her.

By now, it was well after 3 AM.  The doctor came in to deliver the diagnosis:

“Well…we don’t know.”

EXCUSE ME?  I nearly DIED here.  (Ok, cue the melodrama.  To my credit, I was in an insane amount of pain.)

“There is no definitive cause for your pain.  There are some things that may have contributed…but we can’t say why exactly this happened.”

Possible Cause #1:  My bloodwork showed that I was a little low on potassium.  Potassium deficiencies can cause muscle cramps.  So this could have been a Charley horse in my babymaker?  REALLY?  Who does this stuff HAPPEN to???

Possible Cause #2:  “You did show a moderate amount of stool in your colon.  Sometimes, in very thin women, the wrong mass in the wrong place can cause a significant amount of pain.”

(I cannot believe I just wrote that on the Internet.  Humiliation, party of one.  But – did you notice?  SHE CALLED ME THIN.  That’s TWICE now.  It’s OFFICIAL!!!)

“Have you eaten any high-fiber foods lately?”  I shook my head innocently.  “No…nothing I don’t normally eat…?”  (NO WAY was I admitting to my gluttonous debauchery.  NO.  WAY.)

Possible Cause #3:  It’s a virus.  You should feel better in a few days.

Treatment Plan:  Drink this potassium solution to boost levels. (This, for the record, was not yummy.  It was fluorescent orange and tasted a bit like an orange popsicle…that is, if you also blended in the stick, the paper wrapper, and some earwax.)  Take Milk of Magnesia to see if that helps.  And take Advil for pain. (That’ll be $4500, please.)

So we got home at about 4 AM.  And I realized that my spouse had been sitting by my side, holding my hand, for SIX HOURS.

Six long, grueling hours, in the middle of the night, surrounded by germs and doctors and nurses and tests, knowing he needed to work the next day, and not complaining even once.

He was there for me.  In exactly the way I needed.

It’s funny how, just when I think maybe he’d be better off without me, perhaps we’re not well-suited for each other, and maybe he’d be HAPPIER without me sighing and pouting and disliking this and frowning about that and HATING THOSE STUPID T-SHIRTS…something like this happens that shows me in high-definition, high-resolution clarity how much he really does love me.

Even if sometimes, I do stupid things like eat too much kettle corn.  Even if I give an obnoxious T-shirt far more power than it deserves.

He does love me, and this week, that’s been enough.

***************************************

Post Script:  If you’re interested….I guess it really WAS a virus – but the kettle corn certainly, uh, contributed.  On Tuesday I took my Elixir of Expulsion like a good little patient.  (It actually tasted pretty good…like the filling of chocolate-covered cherries.  Yum.  Highly recommend as a beverage of choice over the oral potassium.)

Later that night, I had a similar pain episode, but I headed it off with about 6 Advil and a heating pad, and it subsided after about 30 minutes.  That night, my stomach made some unholy noises reminiscent of demonic exorcism.  (It made the cat jump about a foot.  That was freaking hilarious.) There was no more significant stomach pain after that.

I spent most of the week resting.  I slept a lot, and my stomach kept subtlety reminding me NOT to challenge it.  I started to turn the corner at about 3ish on Friday (just in time for the weekend!  yeah!) and today I broke out in a viral rash – this is something that little kids get, but I didn’t start getting until my 30s.  <insert obvious immaturity jokes.>  My typical pattern is that I break out across the torso once I’m over the worst and the virus has started to wind down.

So I’ll live.

But will I buy kettle corn again?

<sigh>  Don’t hold me to “never”….I can be a really slow learner.

So why am I here?

Posted on by
21

Big question with a long answer….

I’m Kate.  I’m in my 40s.  (EARLY forties, thankyouverymuch)

I have happy, smart, well-adjusted kids.  I have a devoted husband. We both have stable, steady jobs that we don’t hate.   No one has a troublesome illness, police record, or embarrassing YouTube videos.  So everything is wonderful…everything should be fine.

But it’s not.  And it’s a shame, because this should be a wonderful life.

Don’t get me wrong – I do appreciate what I have.   How could I not?  But I’d like to enjoy life more.  And I think I COULD, if I could just get rid of all the noise in my head.

So what exactly is the problem here?  I hate to spell it out, because it feels so trivial in black and white.  But I need a safe place to talk some things out and unload the weight of the thoughts that keep me from seeing the sun in all the places it shines.

I want to find my joy, but I struggle.

I struggle with my relationship with food and my weight.   That began when I was ten.  Until that time I had no idea I was fat, or really any sense of how I looked at all.  Until one day, during a school assembly as I sauntered to the front of the gymnasium to accept some geeky award for math or spelling or some such, my brother’s friend told him that I was getting as fat as he was.  And of course my brother told me, and POOF, I was suddenly fat, and have been ever since.  My weight’s gone up and down a number of times since then – I’ve been 65 pounds heavier and 15 pounds lighter – but I’ve always been too fat.

The trouble with food issues is that it really isn’t about the food.  It’s about a convenient thing to be upset about so you don’t have to think about whatever it is that you’re REALLY upset about.  In other words, the size of your thighs can be easier to fret over than the stability of your marriage, or whether your kids love you, or why your mom doesn’t really like you all that much, or when your boss will find out that you’re really a poseur and have NO idea what you are doing, or why the heck you’re on this planet in the first place and is there really any point to life?  (Side note – I’m not in the market to off myself.  Just don’t feel like I’m doing much more than existing sometimes.)

To add to this, my husband has been stretching through some sort of spiritual mid-life crisis.  Spiritually, this has been a challenge.  To be fair, when we met, I knew we approached religion from different angles – I identify with Christianity, while he is agnostic.   This has mostly worked just fine for us, and we’ve explored some ideas together and kept it respectful.

However, as of late, he’s been on a mission – he wants to be the Voice of the People for atheists everywhere.  This has involved ripping apart the Bible and buying in-your-face blasphemous T-shirts.   I’m all for freedom of religious expression, but it’s hard not to find his behavior hurtful.  It’s hard not to take it personally.  Yes, I know a lot of wars have started over religion.  Frankly, I think God hates that.  I just can’t wrap my mind around the idea that everything associated with Christianity is automatically bad.  People can be very bad, religion can be very political, but that’s not its intent.

I could write a lot about that, and I might later.   But that’s one of the things that brought me here – my husband says he loves me, but when he goes on these anti-religion rants, I feel like he’s wrenching my heart out.  I feel like every harsh, angry, derogatory thing he says reflects how he really feels about me.

So it all came to a head last December, when my husband was at his peak vitriol and my dad suddenly had a heart attack and life just got really dark really fast and I no longer wanted to eat anything at all…and I decided that enough was enough and I’d better learn to handle this better.  I decided I needed to attack this thing and address the noises in my head.

I need to cope better and not be so darn hard on myself.  So this year, I’m working on getting well.

I started therapy.  (I’ve only gone once so far.  But making the appointment and actually showing up is a big step.)  I’m trying to learn to meditate.  I’m trying to get regular exercise.  And I’m trying to be gentler with myself.

I’m hoping that getting my thoughts out here will help me better deal with them.  I’m hoping this can be somewhat of an online journal to assist me with the process of therapy.

And maybe if I post things out loud, maybe it’ll help someone else who wrestles with this mess to walk just a little bit closer to wellness.