Parks and Puppies

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

As another birthday passes, I tend to have high hopes in that this is the year I get my shit together. Sometimes I feel like I have most of it at least contained, but for a good portion of the time, it’s still the same uphill battle. My well-earned façade is great at first glance, yet it masks more than anyone would guess on some days. It’s like shutting a bunch of puppies in a room together. If you’re outside, it’s just a closed door. But inside it’s probably one big mess.

I’ve finally, after 20 years, figured out how to manage my eating disorder. The one that has made me hate myself every day I look in a mirror; throw tantrums over how my pants fit and essentially decimates the rest of the day. It’s exhausting to live in constant dislike for everything you see when you look down. To wage mental abuse for how I’m shaped. I’ve longed for (and had) bones extruding, knowing that’s not my body type. I feel massive guilt if I’ve crossed any food boundaries. Yet, within the last year, I’ve reached a point where I’ve been able to move past some of that. I eat meals, and sometimes I even let myself eat before noon. I’ve learned to be okay with what size I wear and if certain pants don’t fit, to just not wear them. These are huge strides for me that have taken so much work; so much rationalization and constant, unending dedication to preserving my self-worth.

There are trade-offs, though, as none of this is without negotiation with the thoughts that linger. These allowances are all as long as I continue working out. So I’m still striking deals with myself, but they’re healthier than striking the deal to avoid food to make up for any I’ve allowed. Yet I still find times where it would be easier to be waif thin; going against my athletic pre-disposition. Making sure I work out, so I can eat still feels like a compromise with my disorder and at times it’s just exhausting. I don’t just work out to stay “thin” or to eat, I do appreciate how strong it makes me feel and the progress I can see myself make. But the caveats are still there, latent because of how I’m wired.

Despite my affinity for working out and desperation to just accept who I am, I find myself sabotaging it consistently with poor outlets and vices that quiet my brain. These vices tend to negate any hard work or effort I make to stay healthy and be happy with myself and go against the thoughts demonstrated in the above rambling. Therein lies the crazy circle that is my brain. It’s like an amusement park. A really lame one. Where the rides are all broken. Every week I set new goals, or measures of moderation. Every week I slip far away from those intentions and set new goals for the next week. Excuses, rationalization, promises, etc. are all my tools of holding off another week on making those difficult choices to limit myself.

As the above starts to crumble, my depression sets in further, like fish hooks, curving back in which makes them much more difficult to remove. The smallest things trigger my anxiety and dark feelings and it compounds in that same little amusement park. Suddenly it all feels out of control, unsettled, like happiness is too far reaching of a goal and the rollercoaster is stuck at the top and none of us have safety restraints on.

Now, at this age, that usual, familiar cycle is wearing out but beyond that, now I feel like I’m too old to ride this ride. Yet I can’t shut it off and it’s often going too fast to jump off. Even as much as I champion for acceptance of mental illness and struggles, I still lambaste myself for experiencing them at times. Why can’t I get myself under control, why does self-harm have to cross my mind as an option. Will I be 60 years old and experiencing suicidal ideation? I sometimes want to just stomp my feet, and say it’s not fair because I truly don’t know what else to do to manage it.

I certainly don’t intend this to sound self-absorbed or whiny; more in that when I’m struggling, I really struggle. I’ve done such an okay job of managing it and learning the best ways to do so, that if I’m crumbling, it’s been a long time coming. My mental health collapses are now cumulative potentially due to ways I handle it, but also because I’ve learned to be strong through so much, I let less break me until I just don’t have any other idea how to maintain my composure.

This is probably the most selfish thing I’ve written in my blogs; the most juvenile and elementary. But I just want things to be fucking easy and maintain that smooth flow for longer than the blink of an eye. While I understand that things aren’t all bad. I do have positives in my life, things I’m appreciative for and treasure. But mental illness and strife just doesn’t allow you to experience those. You’re too busy surviving invisible monsters who just don’t know how to stay under the bed.

Each time I write one of these darker pieces, I sometimes leave it unresolved. Other times I throw around magic fairy dust and claim I’m going to start living and stop fearing. This one, though, leaves me neutral. I’m admittedly struggling with my age and again, wondering if this is how I’ll continue through life. Stumbling, surviving and managing instead of thriving and enjoying the vibrancy that’s often dulled. What do you do when you feel as though you’re too old to be broken? There are paths I haven’t taken in life I’m starting to realize I may never get to and suddenly I face accepting my story. There’s been so much time spent learning from the last hurdle that the next one is upon me before I get to enjoy walking a road with no interruptions. As I get older I start to wonder if I bartered my happiness and levity in some unknown deal that has been wiped from my memory. That’s extreme, I know. But these are all the only ways I can truly express what goes through my mind during these bouts.

On this one, I really am lost currently. How do I find inner peace and learn to navigate depression and everything else in a way that I am able to find joy again. It’s there in little ways; my kids, a joke, that one moment where I’m okay with me. I’m striving for it to be there without interruption. For it to be easy. I know I can never be too old for any of the issues I face; but I do kind of wish I could “grow out of it.” It’s the part they don’t tell you, or at least broadcast as much. We’re stuck with these brains, and we can do all the work in the world and find progress and really apply therapy the best way possible. But we’re still all wired in that one finite way that certain aspects will find little flexibility and that’s not something we can grow out of. I’m seeking a balance and I desperately hope I find it before I age another year.

Throwing Down a Rope

My therapist asked me once what would happen if I ever found myself bored.

And not in the simplest aspect of the word; but in a lack of chaos. An absence of turmoil and pain, at least on a regular basis. If you know me, or have read my entries, you know I’ve encountered some storms that should have toppled me. In humility, I acknowledge I’ve still had positives; and some of my experiences have been self-induced. It’s slightly frustrating that I feel I have to disclaimer my thoughts, but I don’t want anyone to find me self-absorbed. Just reflective, lost, unsure of what path my life is on sometimes.

I recently returned to therapy after taking a break, due to feeling as though it wasn’t helping me any further. Potentially detrimental, as it’s not as though my depression was “cured,” since that’ impossible. I can’t even say it was fully managed. My anxiety and panic attacks hadn’t necessarily dissipated, they still ran roughshod over my brain. Depression and anxiety still scurried away like cockroaches when I could find a way to turn the light on, but the room was often dark and I somehow just became even more adjusted to the dim lighting.

As I spoke to my therapist, I said, “I’m bored. And you’re right, I don’t know what to do with myself or how to face life.” How selfish of me. To have things going okay and I find dissatisfaction in it. Yet, I also realized there are larger issues at hand.

I’m entirely neutral and shut down; I’m numb and I didn’t even realize it was happening to me. Self-preservation. I’m not sure when just getting by became how I function. I imagine the death in my life, the emotional breakdowns and recovery from them; the emotional toxicity I was exposed to all wore me down. Somewhere along the way, instead of getting stronger, I simply just started maintaining. Surviving.

I’ve always appreciated every aspect of my senses. Emotionally, I found the ties to physical effects from happiness, joy, fear, pain, etc. were what kept the experience of life complete. When you’re encountering joy and your chest swells and it feels as though a wave is rising from your stomach to your heart. It’s often momentary, but it’s there. Or the clench of your chest when you’re afraid and experiencing the fight or flight reaction to a questionable experience.

Those are gone. And I miss them. I feel broken; even more so than usual, yet I appear whole on the outside. A mirage. I still feel what I know; my depression, because it’s a mainstay. Disappointment, because it’s a common theme. My life isn’t shitty; I just can’t seem to be able to open myself to that idea or that realization.

I drink to shut the wallowing off. I drink because it’s what I know; yet it makes me irritable; it decimates the work I’ve done to get my body in shape and it often just leaves me feeling additionally depressed and run down. (Shocker that a downer might have that effect, right?) Sometimes I think it’s because my vices are one of few forms of chaos I have left. I became so used to riding tidal waves that now that the waters only throw me an occasional wave, I don’t know who I am. I live in this endless cycle of saying I’ll get back on track; yet I find myself only doing that in some ways and letting the other negative choices stay where they are. I’m excellent at making excuses for myself and fantastic for essentially justifying a negative choice.

I’m disappointed in myself for not pursuing more of my interests that keep me whole. I don’t write, though it used to make me feel as though I was accomplishing something. Yet it’s incredibly easy for me to explain to myself that maybe I’m not as good at it as I think. I can easily tear myself down in regard to my skills.  I don’t get out of the house as much as I yearn to; there’s just a mental exhaustion I carry around with me that makes me find excuses out of it. I often find myself questioning what kind of friend I am, because it seems at some point I became a less than exemplary one for various reasons. I’m caving to my depression because sometimes it feels like a comfortable friend and I don’t really know how to find the other side lately.

I’m going through the motions and it terrifies me. I used to be able to carry the negative with me; yet allow the positives to shine through. I want to laugh freely and with vivacity again. Find the intensity with which I used to approach life. Find my balance; knowing that my mental health will never be free of some of the shackles, but that I used to be able to dig up the key to free myself most of the time. I’m failing myself; I’m letting down my kids. I’m not being the friend I once was. I’m not me, and I don’t know how my strength allowed this to happen. How it slipped away without me even seeing it happen. I’m watching myself, instead of being myself. I used to chase rabbit trails in my thoughts; in my writing and now I have simply fallen down the rabbit hole. This is one of the first times I’ve written these thoughts out, shared them and not found a resolution. There is no tidy ending; not epiphany. I;ts not even my best writing.

I’m simply expressing myself because it’s a little piece that takes me back to where I once was. I’m yelling up from the rabbit hole in hopes maybe I can start to climb out. But I’m the only one who can throw me a rope, and I’m tired. So tired.

An Unresolved Ending

Sometimes when we get broken in increments, we don’t realize until much later how decimated we actually are. How much our survival skills are what we’ve been living on. Grazing the surface, floating through our days without the inner passion we once had. The emotion overflowing as we were prone to in the past.

I glance into my kids’ room on a day when they’re not here, and my heart swells at the thought of their innocence and how important they are to me. It’s at that moment I realize my heart has lost the desire to be vulnerable enough to feel joy because when that gateway is open, pain has just crept in too often.

We control our reactions to situations, both positive and negative. Decide how we trudge through murkiness or skip in delight. It’s not until later we realize where it’s either dented us along the way or added to our ability to enjoy happiness. I’m not sure it’s truly until after the fact that we actually heal. Or conversely realize the wall we’ve built out of survival has long outlasted the need to be protected. A safe place has become our dwelling place.

Questioning everything becomes the way of life. Wondering if we’re wrong or if we’re just embracing who we’ve become and what we need to flourish comfortably. Because unlike a literal wall, the proverbial ones are actually much easier to build than they are to tear down.

Survival mode stunts our growth because getting by is the main priority; but it’s easy to forget that it’s necessary to come out on the other side. While it’s protecting us, it’s also suffocating what’s beneath the surface. We realize we’re navigating a shell of our being.

My generalization in using the terminology of we and us is more in my embarrassment in admitting that more often than not, I’m obviously speaking of myself. The realization of my selfishness in doing so creates an environment where I want to hide under the blanket of making it about humanity.

I don’t see my life as being better or worse than anyone else’s. I don’t compare on such a myopic level. I just know that through trials, tribulations, triumphs and all the rest, I got to an age where I’ve lost some pieces of myself and I’m not entirely sure how to reclaim it. If my scars are simply just re-opening old wounds, and only kind of healing again since the integrity of the surrounding tissue has broken beyond repair.

I question my tendency to become so internally focused and my loss of the ability to relax and feel light and happiness. I’ve pulled no punches in acknowledging my struggles with depression, anxiety and all the rest of those potholes along the way that at some point, no matter my swerving, the car is going to blow a tire or bottom out on. Yet I also realize how incredibly exhausted I am from it. Strength and armor have become my main stay and I’ve dropped vulnerability like a bad habit. I’m still here, I still care about others intensely, but choose carefully how to feel it. I let my frustration with what are truly minor issues encompass who I think I am. I doubt the moves I make and feel unsettled in wondering if I have more flaws than I realize.

I can blame the situations in my life; and I honestly think I’m justified in doing so, whether or not I made choices that led to them or if I was just in a situation where my emotions led my mind and the fall out was unexpected. That being said, they’ve piled on so often and affected so many, I wore out my welcome mat to asking for help. My need to get insight, communicate in order to hear reciprocation. I talk and talk and talk because hearing my own words and reading them help me realize the root cause, but I fear that others are humoring me or just letting me handle this on my own at this point after offering ears, hands and hearts along the path of my experiences. I’ve been judged for where I’ve invested my heart. Questioned for the choices I’ve made with others and the reactions have encouraged me to retreat further within myself. To realize that I’m living this life on my own when it comes down to it. And I understand the exhaustion of those who have tried to stick it out. I relish the support I’ve had even while causing immense frustration. When you see someone making choices that you know aren’t healthy or will have devastating or damaging fall out, yet know there’s nothing you can truly do. And I’ve been that person more often than not. Wild, inhibited, prone to caving to passion and my heart without reality weighing in. I’m surrounded by wonderful people who have ridden out my life moments, even while tensing up in anger, frustration, etc. Yet I also realize there comes a point where I can’t keep adding my moments to their stories, I have to figure out how to muddle through in order to grow.

That being said, I find myself behind my wall, on an island I went to myself. No one had actual control of me; my coping mechanisms were my own. I chose this place out of safety, exhaustion and need to be as okay as the fragile parts will let me. Yet I’m tired of being here. I’m starting to realize my fear of drowning in the water around my island are preventing me from taking emotional risks. Yet here I sit.

The discouraging part is that I can see land. Where I once would have relished the excitement and risk of what’s over there; I now feel more content viewing from afar. The internal struggle between hating this island and appreciating how contained everything is where I spend most of my energy. As opposed to just trying to swim there and see what happens. There are no life jackets. Solitude was once my enemy; yet now I find that I turn to it because it’s less complicated. Easier to navigate. This island is everything I was once opposed to. And I don’t remember actually ending up here. It just happened. So here I sit with a beautiful view without the energy to be a part of it.

Untitled

The air conditioner kicked on, its slight rattle either from her poor installation or just its standard machinery awakening. The air conditioner would only be needed for a few weeks longer. Summer passed like that, by degrees and the reduced layers of clothing; in moments that somehow seemed emphatic when bathed in sun.

Summer was nearly over. She thought about what summer had come to mean, as an adult.

Your days still go on; you’re still following nearly the same schedule. If there are children, you try to find more time for them when it’s available, yet realize too late that you haven’t.

This summer seemed lost to her in a way. A blur of confusion, choices, fear, laughs, reassurance, stress and aimlessness.

She had survived, she had fought, taken a chance. Yet, somewhere along the way, she felt sad.

Sad that she hadn’t done enough. Diminished in her ability to be the parent she wanted to be. Hell. The person she wanted to be. Worried that she had worried too much. Certain she’d continued patterns she’d hopefully outgrown.

At an age where it all felt in the balance. You keep learning as you go, but the more lessons you encounter, the more chances you’re hampered by the weight of experience.

She spun in the chair, where she had sat far too long; yet was too tired to do otherwise. Worn out by her thoughts and her days. Thoughts whirling enough to just bump against each other at this point. Somehow summer’s vigorous energy felt as stunning yet cloying as the chilly air ahead.

For some reason she identified this as a pinnacle summer. No rhyme or reason. No inclinations how that would even be defined. But the same patterns, the same choices had led here. To a point where she wanted to ensure the experience was rewarding.

She knew she could potentially feel that way for the rest of her summers and maybe that was the idea. She wondered if she was missing the point.

Closing her eyes, she thought about what she wanted. She only knew the basics. To love and be loved. To be happy and know kindness. She wanted to know her children knew how important they were even if her skills in showing it were less than fine-tuned.

She wanted habits that haunted her to diminish in their hold; yet wondered sometimes if that’s what her identity stood on. She sought to feel content in a human way instead of constantly dissecting the flaws, real and perceived. Knowledge that it had started to get better because it was supposed to.

The fatigue from this many summers was catching up. Time doing its diligent best to tick down. She found she was focusing on the fears instead of relishing what emotions and experiences can inspire fear. Sometimes they’re not negative; just so your gut knows the difference between wanting to fight or finding flight away from what’s in front of you.

She sighed as she realized she’d always known, there would just come a point where she took ownership of the knowledge. How she could possibly have been missing the story, when she was the story.

Yet it all still made little sense. What seemed like it should be a somehow tangible thought was no more able to be held than the humid air outside.

So here she sat. Wondering how the answers were supposed to come to her when she was too afraid of actually looking for them. Too tired to pursue accomplishment and satisfaction.

Realizing she’d sat out the summer. With no self-pity for doing so; in that she wouldn’t wallow. What remained was what she would take with her to each season that followed.

She stood and opened the door.

 

A View from the Fork

I’m writing and re-writing this opening sentence, as it tends to be the springboard for the streaming rambling of my thoughts. My attempt at proper characterization of emotions is indicative of their actual definition. A gray area, written and re-written. Backspaced and re-typed.

I’m tired. I’ve said it more than people probably want to hear. I’m not entirely sure where it happened along the way. Single parenting, work, life, love; all topics that are nothing or out of the ordinary for really anyone. Yet I’m feeling swallowed whole. Somewhere along the way, I forgot who I wanted to be or at least an attempt to claim it.

I’ve spent my summer deciding to have a clear mind, yet failing. Living the same cycle I’ve lived again and again. Determined to figure out who I am and own it; no second guessing or debating with myself over my significance.

I might have a good day with my kids, but focus on the bad ones. The rough drop offs; the therapy sessions where I uncover emotions I’m proud my kids understand yet defeated in that they face them. Find someone who cares, sabotage it. Whether it be through second guessing or a brick wall around my soul I’ve pieced together somewhere over the last few years. Through my realization that my beautiful empathy has seen better days. Weathered storms that tore my sails and made me dock the boat. I’m defeated; and it sucks, for lack of eloquence in speaking.

I miss my sparkle. My sass that broke through even the most difficult of moments. I’ve referenced my laugh that carries and I know is too loud. It seems to be in a place where I make it loud in nostalgia of when it was there with little effort. A heart I bear on my sleeve, both metaphorically and literally in ink. Yet right now, it seems to be below the surface of my skin, much like the tattoo mentioned in the last sentence.

There’s nothing to pinpoint being wrong, and that creates the biggest struggle. I battle stress I used to thrive on. I have trouble feeling sufficient as a parent; yet my kids are cared for and loved and I work hard to meet their emotional and physical needs. I have someone who cares for me; which I’ve lacked as of the last couple years, yet I pick at the tiniest fissure I can find in an effort to tell myself not to get comfortable. I’m 36 and I still can’t eat freely without wondering how much I’ll gain and how I’ll feel in the morning. I resist wearing what makes me happy in an effort to cover what is currently haunting my comfort level with myself.  I have friends who are real and substantial and matter and I pull away, to hide the immensity with which I battle myself regularly.

I share this often, and now it rings true:

“One day Alice came to a fork in the road and saw a Cheshire cat in a tree. ‘Which road do I take?’ she asked. ‘Where do you want to go?’ was his response. ‘I don’t know,’ Alice answered. ‘Then,’ said the cat, ‘it doesn’t matter.”

I’m staring at this fork in the road, facing my path. Large grinned cat staring at me in the form of my doubt and questioning. My vulnerability to find myself on an unknown path that could mean I find the next phase that will bring me the peace I’ve sought. My acceptance to live one day at a time with whimsy and handle adulthood with one hand tied behind my back. I honestly don’t know what’s down the other path. It feels familiar. Like I’ve taken it before, and just keep following it to come back to the cat again and realize this fork has been my landmark through my life. I just don’t choose the other path.

This isn’t one I end with resolution. One of my more rambling pieces that visualizes what I’m trying to break through. How I’m trying to find my way out of this darker place and live like the person who has put it all out there before. Thrown caution aside and embraced the potential. I’m woeful of my fear because it means I’ve let it win. I’m not the same as I was before. I was much more. Muchier. I’ve lost my muchiness and I look to go the right way to find it and keep it much safer this time.

 

Life –

 

the letter

 

What are you doing with your dash?

If you know me, you assume I mean that completely inappropriately.

But this time I don’t. A good friend helped me see the side of this thought. Good friends are your heart. Your saving grace. Your life jacket.

Your dash is the point between the beginning and the end. It’s what you see on a gravestone. Birth to death.  The date you were born to the day you reached your end point. No one likes to talk about that end point.

Death. It’s so heavy. Somber. Scary. But it’s a fact of life. Sometimes it comes early. Other times it’s late, which is quite subjective based on what we want. It’s surprising, selfish, peaceful, chaotic, and so many more adjectives than we can express or come up with words for. It inspires grief, which is a monster in itself. Pain, hurt, closure, completion.

As someone who battles depression and is fairly open about it, death is a factor in thoughts that make you want to shake its hand. Is that selfish, completely. But it’s inexplicably and painfully something that crosses the lost person’s mind.

As someone who fights and conquers life’s darker moments, I’m ready to share something I’ve alluded to. Something I’ve touched on. A piece that has been the larger half of my puzzle.

When you need saving, you look to those who have either lost the battle, this time out of perspective or additionally you seek those who want you to be here.

I’m going to share a letter from someone who just couldn’t find those moments of peace. Those life jackets. Someone I loved deeply. Who was troubled and conflicted and made mistakes.

This letter hangs with me. It stops my own choices of selfishness. Whoever loves me going forward will have to accept this as a part of me. But this is a part of my dash. This supplements my story. It saves me.

The image included is an actual picture of what I’m about to share. It’s raw. It definitely happened. I’m sharing this because we’re all human. Very few loved ones of suicide victims get this. Very few. But I did. And I’m sharing it. Openly. Finally.

 

“Jessica,

I’m not really sure where to begin. I’ve been wondering what to say to someone who has not only given my life purpose, a family and meaning… As I write this, I go back to memories of us, of our first date, of the late night “conversations” and it’s good. It makes me smile, and more than a little sad that I won’t be there for you in the years to come. You deserve to be happy and have someone by your side, but it won’t be me. I’ve struggled to fix my life for the last two years, and have contemplated, many times, on “checking out.” I’ve done well to hide it from everyone, but you always seemed to pick it up, when I was in one of my more pensive moods. That said, you have been the one constant that has kept me from acting on it until now. You and the kids showed me what it was like to have a family and made it easier for me to forget the past for a time. I will always love you and those boys for giving me that. Both the memories and feelings of a true family. The reason I left, the reason I’m no longer here is because I can’t get past the past. With my ex, my job, losing everything. I’ve said to you I don’t feel as though I had a purpose, which was only partly true. I lost something after the divorce, after another leaving me. Hope. Trust. A reason for being. Respect for myself or others. To this day I feel listless. Lost and can’t truly imagine a future beyond tomorrow. I used to wake up every day and feel nothing but heartache and despair. It’s what made me drink, smoke too much, lie to you and everyone else I knew. I’ve come to realize I’m living just to live. I plan, scheme, and view everything with a singular thought, myself. It’s no way to live. You are the one bright, trustworthy and unselfish part of me that still exists, and I hope that despise all of my flaws, that I was a good influence in your life as well as the boys. I love you so much, love them so much, it makes me cry to know what you will go through. I want you to know, you were always enough. You were always there for me. Stood by me, by us and for that I am forever grateful. In the end I was just to broken to fix.

I love you, Jessica, forever and always. Maybe one day we’ll see each other again. Take care of yourself and those boys and damn it, woman, you better eat!

Also, I found that shirt you were looking for, the blue sweatshirt. I’m holding it now, and god help me, it smells like you. I’m going to miss seeing your smiling face in the morning. Hugging you, catching your scent as you walk by. I’m glad I have this shirt and photos of you to look at as I drift off. It brings me peace.

I want you to have my tablet and accessories. I know it’s not much, but it’s all I have left to give. I only wish I’d had more…

I love you, hun. Please forgive me.

Fred.”

 

And his dash ended there. It was a part of mine. It always will be. It shapes me. It saves me.  I’m sharing as much to honor the pain there, as much as to show how it can feel to be in that place. It happens to so many of us. I was his saving grace until I no longer could be. We find our purpose and either hang on to it or we let it pass us by.

We’re all human. Strange beings who are just trying to find the happiness.

We have to make the in between whatever we can, while we can.

 

Body Shame

I tore the pants off and threw them to the floor. Atop the other traitors. The pile that had already demonstrated my failure. Shown me that I’d never be okay with me. I struggled with the shirt around my midsection, tugging it away from the rolls I could see; the unsightly bulges I couldn’t hide or avoid. Nothing fit right, nothing made me feel like I was okay.

I’m honestly not sure the more difficult part of having an eating disorder. Actually being in the midst of it or getting through the recovered portion. The point when your body is out of control; your habits unrefined. No one looking at you would believe you that you’d much rather be waif-like; sickly. When you’re supposed to be “okay” and when the voices telling you every bite is a pound should technically be quieted to a level that’s not so distracting.

I feel like having an eating disorder makes me insensitive. Not intentionally; but in a way where I know I can’t ever truly admit to others how much I want to break every mirror; because those perceived complaints could be offensive to someone who struggles with their own weight. Callous in that the world has much bigger problems than how much I weigh. That the amount of time I spend with thoughts of my size taking over the world could be better spent on so much more. But I have no way to just shut it off. Make it go away. I’m not even going to delve too deep into the psychological aspects of it; but I can touch on the pure and utter self-hatred it inspires within me. The lack of control sends my mind reeling with how much better I could be doing. In the true foothold of the disordered thinking; this carries over to non-weight issues. If I’m no good at staying small, presentable, fragile even; am I good at being a decent person? Have I made other mistakes in how I’ve made it through the world? Do I have the ability to find enough pride in everything else that I can brush aside that fact I fear sitting when I’m feeling especially unsightly because I can’t handle how my stomach feels sticking over my pants.

I know. You could possibly be shaking your head at me. Rolling your eyes at my vanity. But there’s no vanity in purging. There’s no vanity in standing in front of a mirror and knowing the outline of your body will never match what others can follow with their own eyes. There’s no true perception of what’s there because I know that if my pants fit, I’m not doing the right things at all. Because baggy pants; too big and hanging from my hips is what means they’re wearable. If they fit, the sensation of the skin hugging the fabric is reminds me of my presence in its entire form. I can be just as uncomfortable in size 0 as I can in a 14 because I’ve been both of those sizes over the last 20 years. And each one in between.

I notice even the slightest fluctuation in my weight. Whether simply a food baby to an actual result of too much cake and beer (dinner of winners). Did that new vitamin I started taking make me gain weight? I should look into that and see… Did that flavored water the other night change my physiology and create puffiness? I should stop drinking that. How much did I eat yesterday? Did I miss a point where I ate more than I intended? Speaking of beer, that’s a lot of calories. That’s all what can go through my mind in a 30 second window.

But again the standard, stereotypical “I’m fat,” whines; the “my stomach is so big” complaints all seem so tasteless when to me they carry so much more weight than your average fat day. I struggle with not appreciating that I even have a body and just not being able to love the one I have, no matter what I do. No matter how many positive mantras I repeat; personal pep talks and perspective; deep breaths and looking again, they all come up against the wall of my sub-conscious. Reminding me of how thin I was six months previous. Or reminding me of when I was much larger and letting me know I’m headed right back that way. Those pants that used to fit. That shirt that wasn’t always quite so snug. Every morning of getting dressed and putting on something I haven’t worn in a while. The punch to the gut when the button doesn’t quite meet when conversely last time; they needed a belt. And to top it all off, none of this is evident to an outside observer; acquaintance, friend, etc. The one saving grace of this quietly screaming illness.

I see others who can easily and casually eat regular meals; like it’s natural. Easy. That it’s just obvious to them to do so. When breakfast terrifies me, because once I’ve failed that early; I feel set back in self-control. Lunch sounds great at times, but I just can’t do it.

It’s not only exhausting; it’s embarrassing. I’m a 35 year old woman. With good things in my life. Yet this just doesn’t seem to get better or to a point that I can relax. I’m not even “overweight” by society standards. I should like me. I’m not perfect, I’m certainly not saying that. I had enough concern with the previous statements that they would seem cocky or obnoxious. I certainly don’t see myself as better than anyone. Therein lies a component of the issue in that I struggle to find myself parallel. Being underweight is what I’ve been good at. How I’ve succeeded at an impossible goal; kept things in control. My outer fragility echoed some of how I felt deep down in a place I keep at bay.

I’m not even sure I can truly convey what I’m trying to express here. Just a glimpse of something that I know others struggle with in a variety of ways. That being human is sometimes so daunting; I wonder if I’ve just let myself be too fragile. That if I share it; I’ll see some message in what I’m trying to make known. That someday I’d like the half of my mind that fights me to come to a compromise with the half trying to fight back. I’m mostly normal; happy when I can be and as whole as a human is going to be. I just have this ongoing additional hurdle that blocks my path. I surpass it to be a functioning member of society; but I wonder how long I’ll have to keep moving it out of my way, only to have it show up again. And again.

The one where I randomly talk about zombies…

As I’ve given advice and support in the last few days, and try sincerely to get others to see how important and how special they are, I realize I’m obliviously hypocritical.

I can’t tell others to love themselves, when I do everything I can to prevent the same within me. It’s far easier to wallow; to stare up from the hole I’m in than to find the ladder to climb out. When in reality, there’s always a way out. It’s just how determined you are to find it. Not to say it’s easy, or it’s going to not involve a fight, an inner struggle and slipping down the rungs here and there. For someone who has fought through everything that comes at me, to keep going and maintain an overall blind forward momentum, I still allow myself to let darkness squelch any light there was at the end of the tunnel.

There are many things I want to do, yet I can always find a reason why I can’t or I will fail. But failure isn’t a negative, it’s a chance to see how to succeed the next time you tackle what you’re trying to conquer. I’ve always been one to plan for the worst; assume something bad will happen. Even if I were to build an emotional shelter from the apocalypse, I could come to find out that the zombie virus is in fact within the walls.

I remember some intentions I had written back in 2008 and decided to re-read them. Follow along:

I’m not going to make these resolutions as much as I’m going to make statements of intention. I think firm ‘I must do this or my year will be terrible’ type resolutions only start the year on a negative note.

I intend to stop letting behaviors and actions of others affect me or upset me. I can’t dictate other people’s lives and no matter how much I hope they’ll change, they probably won’t. I will continue to realize that each and every person in my life (or out of my life) is to be dealt with in his or her own unique way and simply because I feel a certain way doesn’t mean they do or will understand me when I wonder why they don’t.

This one isn’t an intention. It’s a statement. I will continue to wear my heart on my sleeve and be bold with my emotions. I spent a lot of time with emotional walls up and once I pushed past them, I was totally fine with letting people know how I feel as uncomfortable or blunt as it might be. Too many people hide their feelings, either because they’re afraid to face them or they’re afraid to create touchy situations with those around them. I’m not. And I’m okay with that. Honesty is best in the end and being truthful about how you feel is the best kind of honesty.

I intend to live like it’s always summer. For me, summer releases a kind of freedom; an openness that makes me carefree and relaxed. No coat, no shoes, just the crazy hippy skirt I only bust out when I can wear it with a tank top. I think I retreat into myself when winter hits, hiding in the cocoon that is blizzards and winter driving. I avoid leaving the house as often and I think that restricts living. I don’t think fall does the same, but it does cause me to let go of summer and wave longingly to the relaxation I felt in the sun. Spring is a tease. Half cold, half warm, always wet and muddy and I think I get too caught up in letting go of winter and anticipating summer that I forget to notice that the birds came back and flowers are coming out. I’m going to open myself to feeling the freedom summer breezes bring.

I intend to stop worrying about people liking me and compromising my integrity to be sure they do. I know who my friends are and I know why they are my friends. I have some pretty great friends at that. But as strong as I can appear, I sometimes have a fear that people don’t like me. I’m too strong a personality to mold myself in different ways for different people to like me, but every once in a while I find myself thinking of compromising my true opinions in order to match someone else’s. I know exactly where this weakness stems from, but my blog is not a couch in a therapist’s office, so I don’t think I need to go into that. But I need to realize that part of knowing who I am is acknowledging that I’m different and that people like me for who I am; not who they think I should be, and if they don’t, they’re not meant to be an integral part of my life. My ultimate goal with this intention is allow me to trust. Fear of not being accepted has given me an iron-clad resistance to trust completely. While I’ll never let that barrier down completely, I’ll hopefully reach a point where I’ll stop thinking the worst of each situation.”

I realize I’ve always let myself fall back on the insecurities and doubts I have about myself, about others and life itself. Life is messy and scary and brilliant and phenomenal. Not everyone gets to keep it and not everyone finds it within themselves to fight against the odds. It’s just as difficult to decide to give up as it is to keep fighting. I don’t want to be defeated anymore.

If I list things I want to do, I can easily find reasons not to, or to just cross them off the list. Yet I haven’t even tried. I haven’t put the work in to making it happen. I want to see my writing published. I want to learn how to play music on every instrument I can. I want to continue to be a support system for anyone and everyone who needs it. I want to spread kindness and genuine care to even those who seemingly haven’t earned it. I want to look back and be proud of what I’ve done and lead by example for my children. I want to make mistakes that will allow me to pull them through the mistakes they’ll inevitably make along the way. I could get hit by a bus tomorrow, and I’d rather see my life flash in front of me with all the times I tried instead of all the regrets at not even making the effort. I can’t go back and change the way things have happened, and I shouldn’t. Regrets and what-ifs are the zombie virus.

That’s not to say that I won’t falter, I won’t find myself lying on the bottom of the hole, or finding myself confined within the shelter I’ve brought into my head. Strength is innate, but cultivating it and embracing it are what make it powerful. I talk a big talk, yet I find I don’t always back it up in regard to loving yourself and working through problems. It leaves a room full of crutches. Ghosts in the room instead of skeletons in the closet. It’s no way to live and really, maybe zombies are just misunderstood. No sense in hiding from them until I have to cut one’s head off.

I’ll Be Back

I wrote this piece this morning, almost posted and then hesitated. Second guessed my openness. It’s evident that I’m a writer who isn’t afraid to share what others fear. But my concern with this one, is simply and sadly, judgment. I’m exposing a flaw; a weakness here. And my overall point that, while I face these, I always know there is no choice but to move forward and plow through the harder days. Practice what I’ve learned works best for me in facing what I feel and getting through it. But simply put, the fact that I’m opening up about depression could threaten my job search.

Yeah, I know, discrimination like that is against the law. When law is created and carried out by a being that has innate complexities to it, they will be prone to injecting personal opinion and viewpoints that can subconsciously affect behavior and reaction. So, I can understand there might be some employers who see this and fear the instability of the person who has written it. Ironically, part of my emotions below stem from not having work. My brain needs a challenge and when it’s not getting that, it can crash to what I felt this morning and documented below. If I were getting paid for writing, that’s one thing. But I’m not. I write because I enjoy it and a few people enjoy reading it. I don’t want my overall point here to be unheard by even the one person it could help or make feel less alone.

My depiction and recovery below is only shared as a story of me and me alone.  I would never speak for another’s emotions, moments of personal weakness and fear of what feelings they’re experiencing. Nor can I speak for how any other person gets through it. Keep in mind, if you had come across me in person, you’d never have guessed what was below the surface at the moments I wrote this. I know how to put out a front of who I really am while struggling to bring that person fully to the surface again. So I’m going on an edge here, exposing what could be perceived as a chink in the armor, when in fact, it’s why my armor is typically impenetrable.

So here you go. The blog that almost wasn’t.


terminator-arm

I have crumbs in my bed.

In the movie Terminator 2 there’s a scene where Arnold’s character is going to slice open his arm to make visible the machinery underneath to show the owner of Skynet what has happened in the future. Now as the viewer, we all know he’s a machine who just looks human. Even still, watching that scene, knowing it should hurt, but it doesn’t, makes you cringe a bit as he slices open the arm. And what’s beneath is fascinating and bizarre and intriguing. You just have to look past the mild gore of the scene. If you haven’t seen the movie, just keep reading, it’ll make sense all the same.

The crumbs in my bed are bittersweet.

They’re there because the kids and I had a picnic in my bed last night. We hung out, ate dinner and ring pops, read and watched shows. My mind was distracted, running through thoughts. But I tried to enjoy those couple hours, because they did.

The crumbs are still there because I just don’t have it in me to clean them.

I’m always incredibly flattered and humbled when others remind me of my strength. Because maintaining that strength can be incredibly difficult on those days where I feel anything but. I’ve had depression since I was 15 or so, probably earlier, really. Already being someone who feels emotions to my core, even those of others, it’s incredibly trying at times. The difficulty of fighting certain emotions fluctuates depending on circumstances, atmosphere, my fucked up receptors, etc. Sadly it’s something many battle quietly. I’m going to face it today. I’m going to give you a look at the machinery below.

Depression is stifling. Everything that happens is extreme, seemingly all a snowball effect. There are crumbs in my bed, I just look at them and feel messy. Out of control. I drag myself out of bed to take the kids to school. Come home, and face what’s ahead of me. Uncertainty, fear, loneliness. On most days, I can balance those with positivity. I have possibilities open to me, a chance to make a difference and do something new and awesome. I have two amazing kids who love me. I have a beautifully varied support system, all f whom fit like puzzle pieces in my life as a whole. I have somewhere to live, something to drive and something to eat.

Some days, though, it just feels like everything that’s happened as well as present and future difficulties are dodgeballs. And I’m stuck in the gym with them and a bunch of bullies. I can’t go anywhere, all I can do is run and hope I only get hit by a few. It’s easier to just stand there and let them hit you. You can face them, and feel them. It’s difficult and it’s painful, but you run out of options and breath eventually.

Even kindness can create a type of pain during this self-doubt. It creates a feeling similar to when you inhale a gust of cold air. It surprises you, shocks you, sends a chill through you with a touch of a sting. But in this case it feels as though your heart has taken in that breath. The sting and the cold are there, specifically and concentrated. Kindness means acceptance. It means that others see something I don’t right now. The fear of losing that kindness is there though, because that means failure. I’ve done something wrong to drive it away. Scare others into slight head nods in passing as opposed to hugs filled with warmth.
Even the disjointed nature of this piece of writing is indicative of what the difficult days can be like. My mind races everywhere, focuses and then loses focus. Gets excited and immediately crushed. Over and over again. I intend to get out of bed. I just don’t know why. Or how. I set plans and miss them all simply because I’m so weighted down by feeling as though I’ve lost the way. I shame myself for feeling this way and not being able to pull right out of it, even facing it with as much logic and rational thought you can muster. I know I’d be silently judged right now, people wouldn’t understand, nor try to. They’d simply see me as being lazy, throwing a pity party like a child. Not knowing that as I face them my sad eyes and inability to present the full image I’m expected to; I’m underneath there. Beating the nameless wall of emotion to get out. I want to feel like myself just as much as they think I should be easily doing so.

At least the above is how I feel on one of those difficult days. I don’t want my readers to worry about me, I’m sharing this because it’s one of the ways I move through these moments. Sharing them, putting them out there helps me sort through them. I can’t stay stuck here. I’ve worked hard for a long time to come out on top of this on a regular basis. I allow these moments because if I let them happen, I face what’s beneath them. Once I’ve gone there, determine how I’m going to handle how they make me feel, I can make plan of conquering and winning the fight. I’m simplifying far too much, but the point is, I’ll pull through it. There are many out there who won’t right away and possibly never will. Ultimately, I recognize that the machinery is bound to break down for everyone at some point or another. Given the right resources, it can be fixed, if you can find the manual.

I’ll find mine soon enough and hopefully not sleep in crumbs tonight.