Tag Archives: mental health

A Season of Spring for the Soul

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Saturday was absolutely beautiful.

First, my long-anticipated 5K.  (My second ever.  My first was in Philly, back in 2002 or so.  At the time, I hadn’t been exercising all that regularly, and certainly wasn’t running, but wanted to give it a go and “just see how I do.”  I got passed by pretty much everyone, including a 75-year-old speed walker. Whomp whomp whomp.)

This race was different.  I’d been running pretty regularly, and I knew I could finish it.  I was as prepared as I could be, and certainly more ready than I’d ever been.  I never expected to WIN, of course, but…gosh, wouldn’t it be cool if I really pushed and did the 5K in under thirty minutes?

I admit I started to worry that I’d be disappointed if I didn’t achieve that goal. But I managed to (somewhat) shrug it off and reminded myself that just showing up meant I’d already won.  And it was perfectly OK to just enjoy the day and do the best I could.

I gave myself permission to just…be.

Ready?

Set?

GO!

I ran the entire time.  I kept running.  At first, several people passed me.  That’s OK, Kate.  You’re here to finish, not to win.  But, as the race went on, I actually passed some people.  Then a few more.  And then a whole bunch more as I crossed the finish line, still running.

My time?  28:20.  BOOYAH.  Who rocks?  THIS GIRL.

I was completely energized by my “win” (don’t laugh – remember, I barely passed gym class in high school and was asked to leave a P.E. class in college) and it painted my entire day in colors of victory and can-do.

I got home and I was an efficiency MACHINE!  RAWRRRR! In a whirlwind, I did a bunch of chores – and then mowed the lawn.    (Our mower is not self-propelled, so wrapping up the yard takes about an hour and 15 and is not an insignificant feat.)  I weeded, and picked up all the sticks that the long winter had tossed about the grass, cutting them down to size and making a clean, neat pile at the end of the driveway.

(Side note:  Our city requires that you not put yard trash in a landfill – YAY EARTH! – you have to lay it out separately for the garbage company.  They come and collect it when they get your trash – for an additional fee, of course – and compost it.  The odd thing, though – trash pickup is on Mondays, and on Sunday, I noticed that my neat pile of sticks was GONE.  Either the 2nd Little Pig was building nearby, or we have some VERY industrious – and large – birds in the ‘hood.  They’re welcome to my yard trash, I suppose, but I sure as heck hope none of them ends up flying over my car.  I’ve heard that people will take ANYTHING if it’s free.  But sticks?!?  People are weird.)

Next, I whipped up a delicious brunch of poached eggs, ham, and toast, and when we polished it off, we were on our way to the local arboretum.  The state university runs this, and it’s your go-to when you want to see a huge variety of flowers and plants, traditional and experimental.  They have this landscaped into a series of hills, complete with both paved and wooded trails.

There’s something about hiking through the woods that gives me a sense of complete peace.  Being outdoors, surrounded by living things.  Breathing.  Being alive.

And the flowers.  Oh, the flowers. DSC03089DSC03108DSC03113 DSC03095 DSC03097 Everything in bloom, reaching out from the cold, damp ground to the dazzling brightness and warmth of the sun.  DSC03078 DSC03070I, too, am reaching for the light and the warmth.  I’m feverishly working to escape the dark, cold places.  The places where I cower and hide; the places where I hug my knees to my chest to close out the blackness.

But when you’re surrounded by this – by light and beauty and LIFE – you want to drink it all in. You want to swim in the river of color and brightness; you want to absorb the vibrancy and unite with the radiant energy.

DSC03105 DSC03099

You breathe without having to remind yourself.  Your shoulders relax; the furrow in your brow fades.

You are so very thankful to be right here, right now.

You have permission to just…be.

And, in this moment, you experience joy.

DSC03066 Saturday was overflowing with contented peace.  How I wish I could just bottle its rich, heady fragrance to scent those dark, oppressive days, spraying a bit into the corners when I need to be reminded to breathe and to seek out the sun.

Nurturing My Inner Athlete

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

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

Deliberately.

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

Getting up early.

On a SATURDAY.

To run.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was something.  It was a start.

I kept that up for nearly two years.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I kept doing it.

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

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

But I run.

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

Something I was told I could never do.

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

Who’s a runner?  THIS GIRL.

I am a runner.

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

Burying my Inner Athlete

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Historically, I have not been a terribly athletic person.

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

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

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

And who here has excellent memories of gym class?

<crickets>

Yeah, me too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Climbing the rope.  (HAHAHAHAHAHA.  No.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing.

“Mrs. A!  Should I go now?”

Silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drowning the Emotional Babel Fish

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

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

It’s not about the food.

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

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

It’s what you know.

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

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

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

Sadness translates to needing sweets.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This apparently bugged the crap out of me.

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

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

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

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

There.  There it is.  In my native language.

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

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

Without me, she will cease to exist.

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

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

Struggling for survival.

But so am I.

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

Broccoli on the Spiritual Path

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I started this blog as an avenue to get thoughts out of my head – to help me wave away the mental gnats that kept getting in my eyes, buzzing in my ears, and generally distracting me from getting on with living.  But one of the benefits of having this blog is that it’s opened up a whole community to me – I’ve been able to read the thoughts of so many others, on a variety of subjects – discussions of spirituality, living with mental and physical illness, and where to buy the coolest new scarves ever.  It’s a virtual buffet; there’s some of everything here.  And I’m free to take a little taste of everything – if I don’t care for something, I don’t have to take additional helpings – I don’t even have to finish what I’ve dished out, and if I love something, I can have it delivered to my inbox as soon as the casserole comes out of the oven.  Sweet and savory, healthy and indulgent  – it’s all here and it all contributes to my level of balance.

So this morning, I read a post that got me thinking – BEFORE I EVEN HAD ANY COFFEE.  (This is not insignificant, by the way.)  So I’d like to share that post here.  It’s from a fellow WordPress blogger that I follow for a regular dose of spirituality that speaks to me.

In this particular post, the author talks about graduating with a Chemistry degree, and accepting a gig at a call center shortly after graduation to make ends meet.  She goes on to explain that the call center job helped her develop skills that were of tremendous value to her eventual career.  This spun off into a “what does God’s plan mean, anyway?” discussion, which you can find here: Whoa! How Did I Get Here? Posted by K. L. Register on “The Ninth Life”

I have been working on developing and solidifying my spiritual beliefs.  I’m familiar with Christianity, but I can relate well to “many paths of enlightenment”; my belief is that God makes Himself known to us in a variety of ways and in a number of forms, and that we call him by a number of names, but it all rolls up to the Big Head Honcho eventually.  I suppose that makes me more of a Deist.    I don’t really need a label, and I fully embrace and support that other intelligent folks will experience life differently than I do, and may look at the same facts and circumstances and arrive at a completely different conclusion.  That’s awesome, because differing opinions help us understand each other better (well, when we’re not fighting about them.  So let’s not do that here, mmmkay?  So if you call God by a different name, or just have an unnamed Higher Power – I’m down with that.   And if you’re an atheist, I still like you.  Heck, I married one!  I’m fully on Team Coexist here.  Join me – we have the best cookies.)

Since I follow a Higher Power that I call God, I sometimes wonder about God’s Plan, and what that means for me.  Is there a plan?  If so, how do I know I’m following it?   As I reflect on this in the context of where I am and what I’m trying to do with my life, I had a couple of thoughts on that subject….

1.  The decision can be the lesson.  Sometimes, God’s plan isn’t dependent on which choice we make – it’s the process of MAKING the choice that prepares us for what’s next.

Let’s say you’ve been feeling a bit trapped living in a really little town, working a steady, but uninspiring, job for a few years.  A new opportunity drops in your lap suddenly….do you relocate 1000 miles away, where you know no one, to embrace a completely new adventure?  Or do you reject the adventure to embrace the stability and non-drama of regular income and a fairly predictable schedule?

You begin the analysis of “should I move across the country for a fabulous yet challenging Job A, or stay in Podunk, PA working at a job that keeps me ‘safe’ and ‘comfortable’ yet painfully restless?” Whatever choice you eventually select, you’ll have learned something about yourself and what you truly want.  You’ll likely have learned what you truly value. And you can use that knowledge to make changes that enrich the very essence of who you are and who you were meant to be.

You make take the new gig, or you may stay local and enrich your wanderlust in other ways (Volunteering?  More travel?  New extreme hobby?) but just making the decision will change you.  Based on the experience alone, you have more insight about who you are, and how to feed your soul, than you did before – regardless of which door you eventually walk through.

2.  A little growth is good for you.  Sometimes, we reach a crossroads, and we’re presented with options we just don’t like.  There’s no easy decision to be made, no option that’s obviously less painful. You just can’t understand why your otherwise happy and stable life got choked up by this event; you were doing FINE without this complication – and you might even wonder how you ticked God off so badly as to put you in this position.

This is not unlike when we were kids, where your delicious plate of mac-n-cheese was accompanied by a pile of GREEN THINGS.  And no way did you want the green things.  But Mom put them there because they’re good for you.  And you usually managed to choke down some of them.  Some, you buried in the cheese sauce.  Others, you tried to feed to the dog (and invariably, got caught.  Mom always knows.)  But you did eat them, albeit reluctantly.

But veggies are good for you.  You wouldn’t be a strong, healthy, robust person on a diet of mac-n-cheese alone.  You need balance; you need variety.  You need the nutrition that the veggies provide in order to grow.

And you know what?  Once in a while, you were surprised to find that the offending GREEN THING really wasn’t so bad.  (Side note – try roasting.  Brussels sprouts are DELICIOUS this way – and I am not a veggie lover.)

Besides – on a constant diet of your favorite childhood dish, wouldn’t you eventually tire of it?  On a consistent helping of everything you think you wanted, at the very least, you’d grow bored.  You’d likely take it for granted.  And after a while, as strange as it sounds, you might actually come to resent it.

It seems that we all need some contrast in our lives.  Conflict to appreciate the peace.  Noise to appreciate the silence.  Chaos to appreciate the monotony.  Pain to appreciate joy.

I’ll admit that there are days where I’d really like a smaller helping of what I’ve been dished up – on some days I want to send the entire dish back to the kitchen and complain to the chef.  But I have faith that as unpleasant as some of these life experiences may be, they’ll help me develop the spiritual muscles that I need in order to grow into exactly what I’m supposed to be.

Retail Therapy = Instant Gratification

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

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

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

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

I just want some dedicated focus from my husband.

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

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

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

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

We call this one "Anger Management."

We call this one “Anger Management.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CookieMonsterBigBirdLoveChildDress

Clearly, I will never understand high fashion.

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

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

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

  FABULOUS SHOES

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

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

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

Be Careful What You Wish For

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A couple of years ago, for the first time in my entire life, I lost a bunch of weight pretty much by accident.  I was plagued by a sick stomach, and generally felt queasy for much of the day.  This was paired with some odd, dull pains in my upper stomach, bloating, and the strangest, most disturbing mushy grinding noises from my lower abdomen.  (These were actually quite amusing – often, I could generate additional noises with a well-placed poke or a brief massage.  I’d record the sounds and send them via text to my kids to gross them out.  You see what you resort to for entertainment when you stop springing for cable TV?)

This came a couple years after my marriage.  While the now-hubby and I were dating, I had admittedly packed on a few pounds, thanks to dates of late-night nachos and Molten Chocolate Cakes.  I had managed to squeeze into a size 9 wedding dress, but I was about 25 pounds heavier than I wanted to be at the time.  So the weight loss was welcome.  I lost those 25 pounds, and then ten more.  At this point, I was loving the weight loss, but figured I best check in with the doc.  You know, just to make sure I wasn’t dying of anything.

Over the next several months, I was screened for pretty much anything that can cause weight loss.  Ovarian cancer, pancreatic cancer, colon cancer.  Celiac disease.  Ulcers.  Parasites. Cat scratch disease.  Lyme disease.  Pregnancy.  (Three times.)  The results were inconclusive:  I wasn’t dying of anything, but something was effed up in my immune panel.  My doctor threw up her hands and said “try not eating wheat, see if it helps.”

During all these tests, I managed to drop a few more pounds.  I was loving wearing a size 0, loving when I’d walk into a store and everything was too big, but I was not loving feeling exhausted and ill all the time.

As I was going through this, I did learn that some foods managed to make me feel worse – particularly, foods with white flour and processed sugar.  In other words – FOODS THAT MAKE LIFE WORTH LIVING.  Twinkies.  Nutty Bars.  Fresh Italian bread.  Those Zingers with the coconut on them.  Cake. Cookies. Donuts.  CAKE.

So I quit eating those foods, and eventually gave up on wheat all together.  And occasionally, when there was an office birthday party or Donut Friday, people would ask why I wasn’t having any. (Because, if you haven’t noticed, people are freakishly interested in what you are or aren’t eating.  I mean, I could light my desk on fire and sacrifice the company’s 2012 tax records while performing an ancient rain dance, wearing only a garbage bag and Crocs, and folks would barely blink. But skip a slice of cake at a company function and suddenly you are the most interesting person on the planet and EVERYONE wants to know what the heck is up.)

So I’d tell them:  “Oh…I can’t eat baked goods.  They make me kind of sick to my stomach.”

Invariably, the response was (I bet you know it, kids, so sing along!) “Wow, I WISH I had that problem!  Then maybe I wouldn’t eat so much!”

Well. About that.

No.  No, you don’t wish you had this. You really do not.  And here is why.

Because when eating a food makes you ill – guess what?  IT TASTES JUST AS DELICIOUS AS ALWAYS.  But after you eat a couple of donuts, or a plate of pasta, about an hour later, it haunts you.  Not just in the usual way – you feel not only fat, gross, and like a complete failure because you YET AGAIN totally blew your diet…as a bonus, you ALSO feel bloated, lethargic, queasy, and drained.  You feel like you’re trying to digest a lump of wet concrete.  (Don’t try this at home, kids.  Suffice it to say it doesn’t feel great.)  So, now you have a double whammy – you can beat yourself up both mentally AND physically with just a single slice of cake!  Two for the price of one!!

Yay.

So, in this process of trying to figure out what makes me ill, after a few years of dealing with this, I’ve come to another surprising conclusion.

Sugar messes with my head.

I’ve finally figured out why I’m such a mess on Sunday nights – because on the weekends, I let my eating “relax” a bit, and indulge – sometimes it’s ice cream, sometimes it’s a gluten-free cookie. (Which generally is not the tastiest of treats, but if you MUST have a cookie, and you don’t want to bite into a flavorless mass of disappointment, try these.  Actually, on second thought, don’t. Don’t even click the link, because you won’t be able to eat fewer than four at a time.  Don’t ask me how I know this.  Moo.)

And by Sunday night, I’m a mess.  Psychologically, I’ve completely fallen apart.  I hate myself, I’m a fat slob, I need to lose ten – no, fifteen – pounds, I’m NEVER EATING AGAIN but OH LOOK SUGAR I MUST HAVE MORE SUGAR CHOCOLATE ICE CREAM CANDY BARRRRRRRRR

<ERROR:  Circular Reference in Prior Logic>

It’s a vicious cycle.  Once I eat a sugary treat, my body releases the food demons.  I’m like a sucrose vampire.  I.  MUST.  FEED.  I.  MUST.  HAVE.  SUGAR.   (I’m visualizing a tray of sugar cookies with terrified faces cowering in fear as I lurk in the shadows waiting to churn them into crumbs.)  It’s an animalistic drive; one I can only sometimes, and only barely, control.

Not only does eating sugar make me crave more sugar, but it also seems to anger those defeating voices in my head.  The voices that tell me I’m fat, and that until I lose some weight, absolutely nothing else matters.  My husband won’t find me attractive. I’ll fail at my job.  I’m a horrible mother to my kids.  And I’m fat.  Huge, wobbly, saggy, weak, worthless, disgusting, nothing.

It’s as if sugar makes the weeds grow.  They pop up and choke out all the peace and harmony I’ve tried so hard to establish and root.  They wilt the buds of hope I was so delicately trying to get to bloom.

I’ve actually tested this theory. I’ve gone for a week or two without any sugary treats, and the stability of my mood is remarkable.  Sure, there are ups and downs, but I can speak logically to myself and back away from the ledge.

Then, once I’ve indulged…well, the baboon is out of the cage.  AND HE AIN’T HAPPY BRO.  I hate myself, and won’t be worth the air I breathe until I get my weight down to 110…105…99.  But I’ll never, ever GET there because I simply cannot stop eating ice cream and kettle corn, along with any random foodstuffs that happen to be innocently lying in their paths.

It takes a few days before I can keep my head above the waves of self-loathing long enough to really be able to see the shore I so desperately want to swim to.  It takes water and clean eating and exercise and rest.  And time.

Last night, I tested myself again.  This week’s leap into the abyss featured a DQ Blizzard.  A stupid Blizzard?  Really?  Not even something GOOD like Ben and Jerry’s or Culver’s, but a lame-o crappy Blizzard?

I’m weak.  Or so the Blizzard is telling me.

I’m working so hard right now to keep the riptide from ripping off my life vest.  I ate fruit and an egg today, and chili and a baked potato for dinner.  No candy, no ice cream, even though the mean, hateful voices in my head are telling me I’d be a size 00 if I had any willpower at all while simultaneously screaming at me to GET A $&%(@$! FROSTY ALREADY.

Sigh.

Why do I keep doing this to myself?!

Because, dammit…sugar tastes good.  The bitter aftertaste doesn’t kick in right away.

It’s still delicious.

It lies.

I wish I could bottle up this feeling and sprinkle it all over all the peanut butter cups and ice cream pints on the planet.  I wish it turned them all a sickly, neon green and make them impossible to swallow.

Until then…it’s like a bad hangover.  I know, at least intellectually, that my body WILL figure this out in a couple of days, and I just have to nurture myself with good food and rest while my body works the poison out of my system.

It takes time to heal.  Things will look better tomorrow…at least somewhat.

Hang on, Kate.  Hang on.

Purging the Pollutants and Poisons

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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

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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.

Basking In The Blessings You Were Born With

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During therapy this week, Dr. P and I did a little work on body image. (I realize that there’s quite a bit of work needed here; it might be quicker to melt an iceberg with a hair dryer.  But ya gotta start somewhere.)

She’s asked me in the past what concerns I have with my body.  (I love how she asks this like she can’t possibly understand how I would have any issues with my physical self.  I suppose they teach acting in 2nd-year psych, right?)

I describe those issues in great detail:

“My thighs.  I hate my thighs.  The skin is loose, I have stretch marks and cellulite, and they’re too big here on top.  The worst are the saddlebags.  They sit right below the pot-belly I have – it’s my FAT EQUATOR.  So if I could lose ten pounds RIGHT HERE, that would help.  I look horrendous in a swimsuit.  I have to wear a skirt, to cover my legs, and it has to be a one-piece because of my belly…and you know, with a skirted one-piece?  YOU’RE NOT FOOLING ANYONE.  Everyone KNOWS you’re fat when you have to wear a skirted one-piece.”

And so on, and so on.

Dr. P:  “So…what do you LIKE about your body?”

Me:  <blank stare>

Dr. P:  One thing.

Me:  …um…Sometimes, people have said I have nice eyes.

Dr. P:  Good, I agree.  (She clearly got an A in that acting class.)  Eyes.  Tell me about them.

Me:  <pausing to think a sec> <shrug>  I dunno.  They’re eyes.

Dr. P:  Hmm.  Anything else you like?

Me:  Eh.  My face is OK.  I mean I have a really strong jaw that sticks out too far, and it’s pretty square, and I have an unusually large head, which looks really ridiculous next to someone with a small head. And I have a very distinctive nose.  But I do OK with what I have to work with…I mean, I don’t make small children cry, but I don’t exactly inspire poetry here.

Dr. P then proceeds to point out to me how detailed and descriptive I am when it comes to talking about the parts of me I don’t like…but when it comes to the parts I DO like, I’m really quite brief.

Dr. P:  Like with your eyes.  You said “they’re eyes.”

Me:  Well…they ARE.  I mean, you get the eyes you’re born with.  You can’t really make them smaller or bigger or change the color.  You get what you get.  No point in trying to change them much.

Dr. P:  But you could, if you wanted to.  You can put on makeup…I have a sister who spends a lot of time on her eyes, playing them up. You can even get contacts to change the color.

Me:  Meh. It’s like feet.  You can’t really fret much about how big your feet are.  Not much you can do if you’re genetically stuck with a pair of flippers.  Your shoe size just is what it is.

But I couldn’t protest too long…because she did have a point.  Then she told me that she thought I had a lot of really nice features.  For one, I have great hair.  Now on this, I do agree.  But there’s a story behind my hair.

I have impossibly thick, coarse, wavy hair.  It’s been a burden for most of my life.  My mother had thin, straight, fine hair…and absolutely no idea what to do with her daughter, who had the equivalent of a Brillo pad growing out of her scalp.  We had no conditioner, and no brushes – only those small pocket-sized combs (which I spent a lot of time running away from.  No conditioner, no brush?  You can imagine the spectacular snarls that grew – and the tears shed as she tried, every few days, to work them out.  I recall the combs were ironically printed with “Unbreakable” – I had the misfortune of proving them wrong more than once.  This was even more entertaining when the broken piece got completely lost in my hair, only to be recovered with the next combing or shampoo.)

Growing up, I suffered through several years of hysterically bad haircuts.  True, it was easier to comb when there was less of it, but every wave and bend insisted on marching to the beat of its own drummer.  I took “Extreme Bedhead” to new levels.  My cowlicks had cowlicks.  My baby sister, trying to be kind, told me, “You look like Janet on Three’s Company!”  Great.  Every little girl wants to look like the “smart” roommate, right?

In high school, I got a brief reprieve.  It was the 80s, after all, and BIG HAIR was in.  I could totally rock the mall chick bangs, and hardly needed any teasing or hairspray to make them sky-high.  (I did, of course, USE hairspray.  Aqua Net Extreme Hold.  We called it Aqua Rock or Aqua Helmet. I’m sure that decade is at least 72% responsible for the hole in the ozone later.  I hope my grandchildren accept my apologies.)

But soon, waves were out, straight locks were in, and I was back to having hair that didn’t fit.  I gave up on haircuts for the most part, and wore it long.  Secured behind a headband, or in a ponytail, it generally behaved.  (Although it was heavy.   I couldn’t secure my hair in any sort of clip – they didn’t make any large enough.  I had to gather a ponytail and stick the barrette through the top third of it in order to get it to work.)  Every few years, I’d chop a bunch off, just for a change – and I instantly regretted the decision every time.

(To give you an idea of how much hair I have:  At one point, when I decided to chop it off, I thought maybe I should donate the hair.  It was natural, and I had PLENTY of it, so why not?  You could probably feed three full scalps with the harvest from my head.  The stylist couldn’t get my hair into a ponytail – there was too much of it.  So she split the mass in half, making two tails to cut.   She started to cut…and dislocated her scissors on the first tail.  After some cussing, and a new pair of shears, I had two very thick ponytails to donate.  I put them into the package to mail, and took the envelope to the postage machine at work, just to ensure I’d have enough stamps.  The package rang up at NINE OUNCES.  Yes – that is OVER HALF A POUND OF HAIR.  Don’t look at me like that.  EVERYONE with food issues reweighs themselves after a haircut.  Admit it.)

I had been living in the Midwest for a few years before I had the guts to try cutting my hair again.  This time, though, things were different.  I hopped on the interwebs and discovered that there were other people who had hair like mine, who not only got frequent haircuts, but LOVED their waves.  So I hit up a salon that specializes in curly hair….and now MY HAIR IS FABULOUS.  What a difference a skilled cut and the right products can make!

So now, I flaunt my curls, because you know you’d HAVE to pay good money to get curls like these if you weren’t born with them.  I play with the color, too – I vary between reds and blonds; every shade between copper penny and honey is fair game and was probably on my scalp at one time or another.

And the shape!  I love my cut.  It’s super short on one side (yes!  short hair DOES work on me!) and chin-length on the other.  (Imbalanced, like the rest of me.  Heh.)

Here’s what it looks like (note – while I have fabulous hair…I do not possess exemplary photo-editing skills.  Ah well, we can’t be good at everything.):

FabHairYo

And the best part?  It’s wash-and-go.  Scrunch, arrange, done. My hair can be done in under 3 minutes.  Fabulous AND low-maintenance.  WOOT.

So what’s the moral of the story, kids?  Make the most of what you have?  Don’t waste energy on the things you can’t change?  Or learn to love what you were born with?

I’m not sure.  But if I can learn to LOVE my hair, after it gave me over 35 years of misery…maybe there’s hope for my Fat Equator to one day not be a hostile territory.