Tag Archives: mental health

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.  🙂

3 Days, 3 Quotes: Day 1 – Artfully Plating an Opinion

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Earlier today, I was so VERY KINDLY nominated to participate in the 3 Days, 3 Quotes challenge by luvbearlvx.

<coughcoughjustyouwaituntiltheglittereyeshadowchallengecoughcough>

Ok, seriously, he is really quite entertaining, plus he has cats (one of whom typed his username, I think) so you should totally read his shiz.

So, 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.

So…today’s quote.  I don’t actually REMEMBER a lot of quotes – once in a while, I’ll see one that’s been artfully crafted into a meme on Facebook; I’ll smile or chuckle, click “like,” and move on with my day.  The quote flits out of my life much like a butterfly tipped from its perch, quickly forgotten and sent off into the ether to make some other person’s life a bit more beautiful for a moment.

But this quote really stuck with me when I read it.  I liked it so much that I actually emailed it to myself so I wouldn’t forget it.  It spoke to me so clearly, I actually HAD IT MADE INTO A T-SHIRT YO.

“The world is changed by your example, not by your opinion.” ~ Paulo Coelho

shirtfront(Special shoutout to CustomInk for helping me create this.  Isn’t it cute?  It’s awesome and so is their customer service.  You should totally hit up their site and buy a lot of shirts with YOUR quotes on them.)

That’s not me modeling the shirt, by the way.  It’s the model on the site.  And this shirt runs small, so I had to order a <choke> MEDIUM, which would normally mean “I’m fat, I hate myself, and I fail at life,” but I like the shirt so much I DON’T EVEN CARE.  <gasp>

Until I read this quote, I had never heard of this Paulo Coelho dude.  I Googled a little bit, because I don’t want to accidentally support the quotation of, say, some puppy-kicker, or some a$$clown who chucks snow cones at senior citizens just for giggles, right?

I quickly found out that Paulo Coelho has a really, really difficult name to type.  (Seriously, try it. It’s not just me, is it?)  And he’s from Brazil, which probably means he’s pretty hot.  Beyond that, he’s a pretty interesting character, according to Wikipedia:

  • His dad was an engineer, and he was discouraged from pursuing writing.  (Really. I mean, it’s not like the kid wanted to be a wizard, or a penguin, or the Batmobile. Sheesh, let a kid dream a little.)
  • He decided to do it anyway, after researching and deciding that a writer “always wears glasses and never combs his hair” and has a “duty and an obligation never to be understood by his own generation.”   (SAID EVERY TEENAGER IN AMERICA TO HER PARENTS)
  • He escaped three mental institutions before the age of 20 (Misunderstood, yet creative and quite resourceful.)
  • He wrote a whole bunch of books that I haven’t read.  But probably should.  At least The Alchemist.  I mean, MADONNA read it.  And Will Smith.  If it’s good enough for Fresh Prince….?

So – why this quote?  Well, for one, it really explains my FAVORITE BUMPER STICKERS EVAH:

coexist

I like these so well, I put one on the back of my shirt:

shirtbackTo me, these mean something beyond “Live and let live” – they mean “seek, with love, to understand.”   Does it mean we always agree?  No, of course not.  But it DOES mean we’ll hear each other out and be respectful.

Your beliefs are as valuable as mine.

I mentioned in an earlier post that the hubs was, as of late, making some very impassioned downright hateful anti-religion statements.  I know I’ve said I find it hurtful…but even if I step outside of myself and my admittedly selfish, self-centered feelings, I still just cannot see that it’s doing anyone any good.

What’s the benefit of hate?

Does hate change minds?

Does force create converts?

I’ve never thought so.

But this works both ways.  ALL ways.  See, if you want someone to agree with you – if you want someone to listen to you, hear what you’re saying, and possibly adapt your viewpoint as their own – you have to make it appealing.

It’s like food.  You can slop a wad of mystery hash onto a plastic tray next to some cold, soggy vegetables, and bark out orders from under your hairnet to “EAT IT.”  Or, you can pull out some colorful Fiesta dishes, artfully arrange it on a plate with a grain, a bright veggie, and a playful garnish, and serve it with the airplane spoon.

No one will swallow your words if they’re not palatable.  No one will come back for seconds if what you’re saying is too difficult to chew.  Much like many a determined toddler, they’ll either refuse to eat, crossing their arms and staring you down defiantly, or they’ll shove just enough behind their cheeks to get them excused from the unpleasantness that is your dinner table.

You have to present what you’re serving with the concept that it’s a really, really good thing.  That’s the only way to get people to try what you’ve cooked up.  SHOW them that it’s wonderful.

I mean, if you’re presented a new dish, are you likely to relish tasting from a plate violently thrust at you with the command, “EAT THE DAMN SQUID ALREADY”?  I’m guessing notsomuch.  But you MIGHT be willing to dip your fork into the artfully plated broiled calamari with lemon cream sauce.

The human mind is a beautiful thing, really.  I love the incredible creativity and variety that cognitive thought has allowed us to experience.  We all have the opportunity to feed one another; let’s do so with kindness and compassion.  Let’s try to understand how poisonous words and attitudes can be, and instead work to nourish and enrich each other with a balanced, varied diet of thought, respect, and love.

Bon Appetit!

Whoops.  Forgot to select my next victim nominee.  I’d love to hear from Cass at Indisposed and Undiagnosed. I know she’s taking a break at the moment, but I miss her.

The Sisterhood of the World Bloggers Award (and All About My Cats)

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SisterhoodAwardThanks so much to Nikki at Undiagnosed Warrior for this nomination!  If you, or someone you know, struggles with chronic illness – one that frustrates the medical community in the diagnosis and/or treatment – this is one of the many blogs you should be reading, because you’ll find someone who understands.  (You should follow all the blogs on the nominations list, too.  Because I only read awesome stuff.)

The Rules:  Answer 10 questions, and then nominate 7 other bloggers for this award (asking them to complete these 10 questions, too.) 

First, the questions:

Why do you have a blog? 

My first post goes into more detail on why I started writing, but here’s a summary:

I started this blog a few months ago as a “brain dump.”  I was in a pretty dark place with my “food issues” (let’s be real here – it’s an eating disorder, even if I’m not hooked up to an IV at the moment, right?); I was suffering some spiritual attacks from my spouse; and then my dad nearly died and I was quickly sucked into a whirlpool of self-destruction and I couldn’t keep my head above water anymore.

So I committed to getting well.  As part of that, I needed a safe place to let my brain work out what was really bothering me – after all, it’s never really TRULY about the food.  And now, a few months later, I’m not entirely sure what “well” will look like – but things look markedly less bleak from this end.  And when the shadows do come, they don’t stay for quite as long.

I think that’s progress.

What inspires you the most? 

Wow, great question.  I think, sadly, I’m often inspired (or, rather, motivated) by success – or by the ability to stay in control.  (Hello, part of the problem, maybe?)

But I’m also inspired by the incredible beauty in nature.

DSC03099

lillies

Favorite animal and why?

I’m two cats shy of Crazy Cat Lady status.  I have three.  In true CCL form, let me talk about them a little too much:

This is Carrot.  (Because how cool is it to have an orange cat named Carrot?) Carrot (Yes, I know.  I don’t make my bed.  Judge if you must.  Just not gonna happen.)

I got him in 2005; he was two or three at the time and his past four owners had…died.  I was newly divorced, had relocated for a job, and wanted a “forever friend” – so we rescued each other.  (Aw.  Barf.)

He’s my intuitive cat; he comes to me when I need emotional support.  This one seems to be a thinker.  The hubs tells me “there’s a lot going on in that cat’s head.”   You can see it when you look at him, ya know?  He’s also the only cat in the house without an eating disorder.

Then we have Eileen – Lena for short.  BECAUSE SHE ONLY HAS THREE LEGS.  (I kill me.)  LenaLena is sometimes referred to as “the fat sack of basement hate.”  She HATES, with a fiery passion, our other cats.  She’s always hissing at our 3rd cat (to be fair, he is quite literally sniffing up her butt much of the time; I’d hiss too.) She loves people, though, and will snuggle and purr for weeks at a time.

In addition to being obese, she’s also bulimic.  She binge-eats when she can get away with it, and on many a morning, I wander into the basement and stumble upon the aftereffects of Barfageddon.  (Note – Baby wipes do a nice job spot-cleaning carpet. You’re welcome.)

Oh, and I’d say she’s as dumb as a post….but no post ever insulted ME, so I won’t go there.  Sweet purring ball of fur….nobody home when the doorbell rings.  Complete and total mental vacancy.  Intellectual abyss.

And then we have….Oliver.

OliverOliver is also obese.  Of no help to his appearance is that he has a disproportionately small head.  But he’s totally adorable.

He’s kind of…special.  On one hand, he’s the only cat that I was able to teach tricks to – he can sit up and beg for treats.  But then on the other hand, simple devices like doors completely baffle him.  In his mind, doors are push, not pull.  ALWAYS.  He’s locked himself into many a bathroom when the door was open….<push> <click>

Oh, and on more than one occasion, we’ve come home to find that he literally could NOT find his way out of a paper bag – he’d have his legs stuck in the handles, flying around the room with the bag flapping and crackling like a has-been super hero cape.

Oh, and (TMI WARNING:  If you’re easily grossed out, and/or you don’t think puke is funny, skip ahead.)  He thinks Lena is a vending machine.  He hears her starting to gag (which sounds like “bluck, bluck, bluck, bluckbluckblubulck <splat>) and he comes running like an overzealous janitor to perform Cleanup in Aisle 5.  WARM MOIST TREAT TIME!  YUMMO.  It’s disgusting…and hilarious.

(OK, squeamish delicate types can resume reading now.)

What is your favorite color?

Orange – no question.  (I’ll bet you intuitive types have figured that out.)  I’m told that this is unusual….but I love the bright, optimistic energy of a rich orange.  Fall leaves and orange lilies are my favorites!  (Which explains my profile picture.  We went out on a sunny day with a camera seeking the perfect shade of orange and came back with over 100 shots of trees and leaves!)

Do you prefer the ocean or mountains?

That’s a tough one.  I don’t like to be cold and I don’t care for sand.  But both are truly soothing to the soul, and I always feel refreshed and re-energized when I go.

Sunset1Honestly, I think I just like really big rocks.  (That sounds dirty, but trust me, I mean it in a nature-y way.  Which still sounds dirty.  Never mind.  NEXT QUESTION.)

Tea or coffee?

HOW IS THIS EVEN A QUESTION.  COFFEECOFFEECOFFEECOFFEE

Actually, to be fair, I HAVE cut back considerably. I only have ONE cup of coffee a day now.  (Yes, it holds 24 ounces.  It STILL COUNTS AS ONE CUP.  SHUT UP.  I NEED IT.)

I drink it black, because anything else isn’t coffee, it’s dessert.  Plus, I don’t want the metabolism of sugar and cream to slow down the slap-yo-momma-HELLO jolt I get from my morning cup of personality.   (And OK, yeah, calories are an issue, obviously.  So I drink it black and look like a badass.)

After my AM coffee, I do switch to herbal decaf tea, and I do like it.  Sleep is often elusive, so I cut out the caffeine after noon.

How many languages can you speak?

Before coffee?  Caveman.  After?  Much closer to English.

What made you happy today?

This year, the hubs and I bought some Adirondack chairs for the yard – for the sole purpose of sitting outside and reading.

I spent some time today doing just that.  How can this view make you feel anything but joy and peace?  I mean – look at that sky:

OutsideWhat is your dream?

Usually, it’s one where I’m not prepared for something.  Like, college starts tomorrow, and I haven’t registered for classes, nor found a place to live.  Or I have my senior recital tomorrow, and I haven’t finalized the songs, OR the program, and don’t have an accompanist yet.

Wait.  What?

Oh. You mean my personal wish-for dream.  Okay.  I want to win Powerball. The first thing I would do?  Take my alarm clock out to the driveway and back over it repeatedly with my truck.  Then I’d learn how to play guitar and I’d perform in coffeehouses singing folk songs and ballads and donate the money to charity.  Would I quit my job?  Not actively, but after a few days, I bet they figure it out.  😉

What is your favorite food?

Pizza is the shiz-bomb-dealio. END OF DISCUSSION.

Oh, and to be PERFECTLY CLEAR – it has to be “real” pizza.   None of this arugula, water chestnut, pineapple, and broccoli crap.  That is NOT pizza.  That is disappointment pie, and we are NOT having any of THAT in THIS HOUSE.

Red sauce (or white, I’m all about diversity!), cheese (do not even THINK of messing with this) and a host of other toppings will work.  But don’t be going freak show on my pizza.  I will get REAL ugly up in your oven, yo.

Aaaaand my seven nominations:

karmasarma (love her drawings!)

Mermaid in a Mudslide (love the variety)

Remember the Good Stuff (very uplifting)

The Persistent Platypus (I keep saying this – contagious energy)

Living with Confidence (great messages, makes me think)

Fixed on the Son (I love her look and her energy)

Living to Thrive (Positivity with chronic illness)

Thank you all for being an inspiration in so many ways!  Hugs, love, glitter. Barf.  🙂

Self-Improvement, Interrupted

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can do this!

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

You get in the car.

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

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

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

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

You start to speak.

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

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

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

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

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

You finish the entire thing.

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

Clearly, this isn’t working.

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

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

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

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

You resolve, once again, to be thin.

Conceivably, then you’ll be worthy of feelings.

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

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

But if not, at least you’ll be thin.

That may have to be enough.

Step-Ball-Change and Jazz Hands

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

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

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

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

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

I said I’d think about it.

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

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

Go me!

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

So here’s the haul:

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

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

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

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

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

A good reminder, I suppose.

I hope I can do more than just wear it.

P.S.  Oh…one more thing.

I DID IT.

nosejob

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

But F it. It’s my birthday.  🙂

Two Steps Forward…Three Steps Back

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So I went.

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

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

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

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

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

Then, we talked about my week-long binge.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • Hungry
  • Angry
  • Lonely or
  • Tired

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

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

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

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

I need someone to tell me HOW.

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

Binging is SOOOO last week, anyway.

I’m over it.

For now.

Sigh.

Can someone bring this emperor a kimono?

Just Another Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t answer.

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

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

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

I think that was the beginning of the end.

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

It was just another day.

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

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

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

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

Not this year.

No card.  Nothing.

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

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

Apparently, it is.

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

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

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

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

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

Let Them Eat Cake

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Dear Jerkface Coworker:

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

Dear Busybody Employee:

(Better.  Maybe.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I closed the lid and walked away.

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

“Go ahead.  Have a slice.”

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

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

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

“Why not?  Have some cake!”

Why not?

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

But it’s just not that simple.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you’re not done.

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

And then you approach me, and repeat yourself.

“YEAH.  RIGHT.  SUUUUUUUURE.”

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

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

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

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

This isn’t about me.

It’s about YOU.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We’re all on the same team here.

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

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

Swimming with Crocodiles

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Recovery isn’t linear. It’s cyclical.

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

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

You feel good.  It feels GREAT!

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

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

This feels easy.

Too easy.

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

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

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

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

A branch.  A rock.

Anything.

Something familiar, something predictable.

Food.

Weight.

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

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

You need to get back in control.

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

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

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

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

Unbeknownst to you, you are not safe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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