Managing It

I woke up in a good mood. Light week for work being the week between Christmas and New Year's, the holidays were actually decent for me which is rare, and there isn't anything too bad looming in the distance. My pain levels had been increasing for days as the things I use to manage and keep it to a level where I can still function had been taken away with holiday stuff and frankly laziness. I saw as the day wore on that my irritation was heightened. I felt like people were telling me things to purposefully jab at me when they were only talking. I started fighting with people online, and though I joke that it's fun for me (it is), I observed that everything was making me angry and my pain was getting worse.

Deal with the anger or the pain? Are they even separate? I stopped fighting and reached out to friends. One validated my feelings while also confirming that my fighting was only hurting myself. Another gave me just enough comfort that I was able to calm and walk away. I finally got away from social media and went to my yoga mat. As I breathed before doing anything I felt the agony of the pains throughout my body. Though I've been told my condition isn't progressive I can feel the pain is worse. Bessel Van der Kolk's book, "The Body Keeps the Score", talks about how we hold our trauma in our bodies. Yoga theory says we hold our emotions in our bodies. This felt very real as I became full of rage, and my muscles spasmed, and I held back tears.

So much work. I can't imagine most people could fathom the level of work I am constantly doing on myself. It's why when someone tells me I should work on myself that I'll smile and hold back telling them they should work on fucking themselves. I'm exhausted from all the work. I feel like I've been swimming in a turbulent ocean forever, and sometimes get sight of the shore, only to be taken over by a wave. When someone throws out a hurtful cliché, or commentary as to what they feel is wrong with me, it feels like being hit over the head just as you are trying to gasp for air. I will always be a work in progress. I know its only through the work that we make it to the other side. But I'm so very tired.

I did my yoga, breathed hard, and saw a huge correlation between my pain and my anger. They fuel each other and keep me in a state of aggression and suffering. My question is which I should manage first yet I know the answer is both. 

I don't hate my anger as it helped me survive. Had I not gotten livid at what happened to me I would have given up. Being angry gave me drive, it helped me endure, and it got me to this moment. I'm not sure what the pain did for me but I guess it could be said it made me more aware of everything. I don't like either but I accept each has its place. 

How much of this comes down to caring about myself first? Putting my peace above the need to slam someone? Doing what is best for my pain levels in managing my emotions?

I take another breath and try once more.

The Stocking

I write letters to a site called Future Me frequently which allows you to send a note to yourself some time in the future. I send them a month out or even years from now, with the purpose of self observation, seeing how bad situations work out, or simply to give myself reminders of things I feel I need to know. I woke up this morning to a Future Me letter from Christmas morning of 2020. I had apparently done some manifesting work and had been encouraged to project what I'd like to the future so this letter came from a year prior detailing my hopes and dreams. It was a long letter that went to great detail of my hopes for today. Nothing, not a single thing, came true. In fact, I'd say it happened for everyone around me but just not for me. Had it been goals I hadn't achieved, things that require action and effort, I could have regrouped and tried again. Yet my longings were the things that seem to be random luck as to whether you get it or not. Another year of nothing. 

I tried to stuff it down but then the Christmas texts started coming in. "Merry Christmas! What are you doing today?" Today I'm doing not doing anything. Today I'm alone. And I don't want to talk about it or have anyone feel sorry for me. I got through a few more texts and then the tears began to fall. I wiped my face as I replied back "I'm doing good. Might do some yoga later and hit the Christmas wine early. Have a great day with your family!" I glanced back at the Future Me letter and the sobbing grew harder. I looked at my little Christmas tree and decided I would take what little decorations I have up and store them away. I don't want to see it anymore.

A few weeks prior to today I'd looked over at a card I received and noticed a Christmas stocking as part of the picture on it. Wavering between trying not to feel, and fully wallowing in self pity, I thought back to my Christmas stockings of the past 25 years. When I was married I did most everything for Christmas. Even hating it I wanted my son to have good memories and to feel happy. In my family growing up Christmas stockings were really just for candy and presents were wrapped under the tree. I did the same when I had a family of my own but usually including a few trinkets the person might like, a gift card, or something of that nature. And every year I got nothing. I'd bring out the stockings and my husband would make a surprised face and turn to me and say, "sorry....I forgot yours". Every. Single. Year. Now he did give me nice Christmas gifts or at least gift cards to places I genuinely liked. But not once did I have anything in my stocking. I'd look over and give a lock jawed smile, nodding that I understood he was supposedly sorry for letting me down once again. All that empty stocking said to me was that I didn't matter.

While minimally decorating for the holidays I came across my old stocking. I looked at it with pain and hatred with the added reminder that once again it would most definitely be empty. I pondered what I could do to turn this around. How could I bring myself some peace or even just a little smile. With this thought in mind I came across a truly frivolous item. Something I didn't need, a bit obnoxious and over the top, and what I'd truly love. I decided this was my gift to myself for enduring so many years of misery. This would be my little trophy to say that I do matter...even if only to myself. I purchased at the first of the week, regular shipping, and by some twist of fate it came in time for Christmas. 

So today I'll sit home alone, likely drink too much wine, and stare out the window wanting time to speed up and have this day be done. I'll write a Future Me letter to next year with the hope that maybe it will be different the next time. I'll look at my new shiny silver glitter purse, and tell myself that I can fill my own stocking, and perhaps this is simply what my life experience will be. 

My only Thanksgiving dinner

Though I'm well into middle age, decently beyond in fact, I have only cooked one Thanksgiving dinner in my life. The expectation is of course being female and a mother that all of a Thanksgiving meal is on me to prepare. I appreciate some men proudly cook, and that's wonderful, but the stigma still remains for women.

My parents divorced the summer I turned 16 and it was about as tumultuous and bitter as they come. My father was insistent on having us the actual day of all holidays and my mother gave this to him to keep the peace. I walk in the door to my father's house, say "Happy Thanksgiving", and he turns to me and says, "When are you going to start cooking?". Sure I could put together basics for myself; boil some noodles, toast, heat a pizza, but I didn't have a clue as to what an entire Thanksgiving meal would entail. Did he say I should know because I'm female or was that the undertone of it all? I can't recall but I walked into the kitchen in tears with all of Thanksgiving resting on me.

My brothers were watching a parade or football on TV while my father hung with them though coming into the kitchen to critique my work. "The turkey doesn't look right." "How are you going to mash those potatoes?". I was incensed with nowhere to put it. Being the only one with a uterus there I was expected to inherently have this skill in my back pocket. I held it together and somehow pulled it off. It wasn't good, it looked worse than something out of a school cafeteria, but it was edible enough that none of us died. 

By the next Thanksgiving my father had remarried as getting a wife to take care of all the "women shit" was first and foremost on his agenda. I managed to go between their house, my mother's, and eventually my in-laws only having to bring pie, rolls or salad. Basically things I could buy and not have to cook. 

It was around this time that I began hating all holidays. If it involved family or tradition it became a day of pain, stress and anxiety. Getting married didn't help things as I married into as much dysfunction as I had with my family. I ate over it, drank over it, and popped any pill the doctor would give me to shove down the agony of the day.

When I see pictures of beautifully cooked turkeys I still think about my father and I peering in on that ugly dead bird in his oven and cringe at how I felt I had no choice. I was indoctrinated to believe that being female my worth was in my homemaking skills, having babies and being subservient to a husband. I sucked at all of these. I have friends today who are living huge lives, no children by choice, and striving towards their hopes and dreams, and while happy for them there is envy that I didn't feel I could do the same. Now I'm thrilled that I have my son, he was deeply wanted and is the reason I've stayed alive many times. But I didn't see that I had choices. I didn't see any other way.

I am here today happily single, no turkey in the oven and a little hungover from the night before where I laughed, danced and lived out loud. At this stage of the game I know I'll never have to cook a Thanksgiving meal again and I couldn't be happier about that.

Honoring Her

I woke up today to a gorgeous sunrise. There was hot pink in the clouds and back in my Evangelical days I liked to tell myself if I saw hot pink, my favorite color, that meant God loved me. Cute little idea I made up to comfort myself when all signs said otherwise. I now see only the beauty of nature without ridiculous meanings but still love a hot pink sunrise. As with most tragic events in life I didn't see what was coming.

A friend had texted me asking how I knew my friend Bridget. This is a typical thing to do in social media when you see you both know someone and are curious as to how the connection happened. I thought nothing of it. Scrolling through Facebook while starting to text my friend back I see a post that sent me sideways. It looked like something had happened to Bridget but I was confused and couldn't figure it out. I then see the words "Sorry...she didn't make it." What? Who didn't make it? Didn't make what? I scrolled further and was pummeled with the posts saying she'd been hit by a car, driver drove away, and she later died. 

I'm piecing together when we met and the timeline of our friendship. I started going to her yoga classes after running a marathon injured and having no other outlet for exercise. She was an amazing guide who could get you into a pose and help you to feel the full expression of it. Though I say my first time I stepped on a mat was 23 years ago, my true yoga practice didn't come about until I met her. I started taking her workshops and got deeper into my yoga journey. When I was curious about yoga teacher training she was my biggest encourager. She believed in me when no one else did. After becoming a teacher she vouched for me and helped me to get a teaching job where she was teaching. There was an acceptance I felt which motivated me to try harder. My most profound mentor.

When someone dies it's typical for people to gush about them, push aside their bad qualities and anoint them to sainthood. But for Bridget she truly was one of the good people. She exuded a kindness that was genuine. When you spoke she listened, was engaged and you felt heard and seen. She radiated a glow around her of warmth and love. She didn't gossip, didn't speak bad about others, and was held in high regard by anyone that came in her presence. The world was truly a better place with her in it.

All the clichés on death are screaming in my head ~ tell people what they mean to you before it's too late, you don't know what you've got till it's gone, I thought there would be more time. Yet they are true. I know I thanked her but did she know just how deeply she touched me? Perhaps I didn't know until this moment. 

So I am pondering how I can honor this amazing woman who I had the priviledge of being in my life for a short time. I look to how she lived her life ~ with kindness, compassion for all, understanding and love. I don't know when my last day will be but I'm committing to a new path of being like Bridget.

My favorite saying which is used frequently in yoga fully defines her life:

Lokah samastah sukhino bhavantu ~ May all beings everywhere be happy and free and may the thoughts, words and actions of my own life contribute to that happiness and freedom for all.

Thank you, Bridget. Thank you for your teaching, your wisdom, your guidance, your belief in me and for showing us all how to live. I'll miss you deeply.

He was human

I don't hide that I'm glad my father is dead. I know that's harsh for many to hear as they had a lifetime of being cared for and adored but that wasn't my experience. Today is his birthday. I'm sure one of my brothers is composing some post to honor him, which I will completely ignore. Even when he tried to love me you could tell it was difficult for him. He told me to my face "You are my least favorite." Well gee...then I'm not even a favorite at all. All the "Daddy Issues" snarky cuts and comments apply here. He messed me up.

This isn't about his backstory but I do need to acknowledge how horribly abused he was as a child. He felt by not beating us in the front yard with other kids laughing (this happened to him) that he'd broken the cycle. Instead of going to therapy and dealing with his trauma he became a pastor. I'd say the jokes write themselves from here but that's a pretty painful statement.

Recently I was shuffling my Spotify and one of my favorite songs came on, "Don't fall in love with a dreamer". A memory came back that I'd long forgotten where my father said how much he loved that song. I blew it off in the moment out of not caring but now so many years later it struck me as an odd song for him to like. The song is about two lovers last night together knowing they will say goodbye forever in the morning. My father was hard core Baptist and I can't fathom this had ever been his experience, yet it hit him hard. Another memory sprung up of him telling he loved the song "Memory". 

Touch me
It's so easy to leave me
All alone with the memory
Of my days in the sun...

I sensed sadness and regret from him when he'd told of loving these songs. And if I dig deep I could say he always had a melancholy sadness. I do know he wanted to love me. What hurts the most was it was obligatory love and not natural. He believed in truth at all costs so this is why he had no issue telling me I didn't measure up. How much of his own self hatred was projected onto me? Why me? I hurt him too. After a 3 hour knock down fight at a restaurant where I sobbed for him to hear me and care about me, I left saying, "I love you Dad but I don't like you." He never let that go and carried it to his grave.

My father was a human trying to get by on this planet and he made statements that destroyed me. He was a human. Only human. If I allow him grace then how much more grace should I allow myself?

He died at 73 years old of Alzheimer's. His older sister died 2 months later of this. His younger sister now has it. My chances don't look good. I have relationships that need reconciliation. I have some people that I never want to see again. So this gives me roughly 21 years give or take to make it right.

Why are you still thinking about that?

I've been in and out of some form of therapy for at least 30 years. If you looked at the subjects and issues I speak to my therapist(s) about you'd say I was crying over the same stuff with no getting to the other side. Yet I've found even when going over the same things, the therapy and what I get out of it is different. You let something out, gain a new insight, and maybe it's good for a bit but then a memory comes back that sends you sideways and you look at it from a new angle. It's the same but it's not. 

Most people expect our healing to be linear and if you aren't "all better" in whatever timeline they deem appropriate then it's on you. I once had a pastor say that if you weren't over something within a year, no matter how horrific or how long the trauma went on, then you were now sinning. Gee....the church victim blaming? Who would have seen that coming?! Thankfully I no longer believe in "sin" so I'm free to go at whatever pace is right for me.

We tend to expect others to turn their feelings off and on at will. We are dismissive when we see pain that we feel should have been done by now. So the hurting person stays silent for fear of being shamed or having some well worn cliché thrown in their face. We applaud those that seem to skip through life without a care and chastise those whose feelings and thoughts linger on what happened to them. 

Hanging onto bad memories is also a trauma response. Our minds feel the need to stay on guard and part of that is holding the memories close. Our brains do not have the same wiring as those who haven't experienced horror. In many ways we feel behind compared to others.

I do have many thoughts and memories I don't share because I feel to do so would bring on shaming. If you made a bad choice then you might further silence yourself for fear of being told you deserve this pain. Though I will say after decades of this I'm a little better at figuring out who is safe for me. 

When teaching yoga or meditation I frequently say, "You can't control your thoughts. Your brain is going to fire them over and over, and this is good as it means you're alive! But you can acknowledge a thought without attaching to it and spiraling downward with it." I'm working on staying away from that spiral.

The Number

When I travel and first open the door to my hotel I'm always a little excited to see if I have a fabulous room. I love looking around to find anything special or unexpected. While recently traveling I found myself in a gorgeous suite in Las Vegas; amazing view, sunken living room area, phenomenal shower, and a scale. I don't have an exact date but I'd estimate I haven't stepped on a scale in roughly 7 years. Scales are deadly to me in all ways physical and emotional. 

I have an eating disorder that I'm purposefully vocal about both for my healing and the healing of others. A large part of my disorder is a preoccupation with numbers. If you know me well you'll know I actually hate dealing with numbers and it's certainly not my gift in life. When I'm deeply into my disorder my entire life revolves around numbers: weight, measurements, sizes, BMI, hours exercised, calories eaten, calories burned, steps taken, air breathed. At my worst I would weigh myself compulsively; when I woke up, after using the bathroom, after eating, and even in the middle of the night. I would check the sizing of my clothes repeatedly throughout the day and then try desperately to remember if that item of clothing ran large or small, how it fit the last time I wore it, what my weight was the last time I wore it, and endless other questions that I usually couldn't remember the answers to and still I kept asking. I've had times I've cut all the sizes out of my clothes only to still try to figure out what size I thought it was. I say jokingly but with full truth "If you hear me talking numbers then I'm not well."

I gasped when I saw the scale. It was a pretty glass one that complimented the bathroom well. I knew what was going to happen and didn't try and stop it. If I'd reached out to someone in recovery I would have been advised to put it somewhere I couldn't see it or ask the hotel to take it away while I was staying there. But I wanted to know that number. Felt terrified and at the same time excited. I controlled myself the first day but by the morning of the second I woke up thinking about it. I stood before it feeling hopeless as if I had no choice but to do this. I thought for a moment of what number would be acceptable and what number I figured it might be and then stepped on. It was worse that I'd anticipated. Double digits worse. I felt dizzy and held onto the wall as I tried to regulate my breathing. Reminded myself my clothes fit and nothing had actually changed other than I now knew what I weighed. As I got dressed everything felt tight and constricting. Tears welled up in my eyes and I simultaneously started to plan how to lose the weight while also completely defeated.

Eating disorders aren't about weight - they are about control. When life feels unmanageable it's the one thing we can do that no one can take from us. I can starve, over exercise, binge, abuse laxatives, take massive amounts of pills for "energy" or "metabolism" or straight up speed, go on a "detox" (for those of us with ED this is a cute way to restrict that you are praised for), and mistreat my body in ways you'll never know. We can hyper focus on something other than what we need to be dealing with in our lives. 

I'm home now and that number hangs in the air. I put on a pair of pants I wanted to wear yesterday and they were way too tight. My mind flashed to the number on the scale. Mind racing "Fuck! How am I going to lose this? What if I can't this time?" Thankfully I'm far along enough in my recovery that these moments dissipate quickly but the fear hangs in the air around me.

As part of my recovery I've had to accept I'm not going to be the weight I want to be. I've had to accept the body perfection my crazy mind desires would hurt me. But I am more than a number. My worth cannot be measured with a number. I define who I am.