Cutting My Hair

Getting a haircut is considered to be basic life maintenance for most of us but it's actually daunting for me. I call it my "Sampson Complex". When I was growing up, and most specifically in my teenage years, I wasn't one of the pretty ones but I had great hair. I spend a lot of money creating new looks for my hair, keeping it up, as it still feels like that's all I've got in comparison to other women. I'm gagging at that statement, as I want to be supportive of other women and not in competition at all. Obviously this all comes from a place of deep insecurity that without my hair I'd be lost in the crowd and unseen. 

I used to have long hair and I loved it. Yet over the years, and with a massive amount of processing (damaging it to get the look I want), it's been getting shorter. I've tried growth treatments, potions and such and I can't manage to get the length back. While doing it yesterday I made peace, sort of, that I'm going to have to get more length cut off to regain the health and integrity of it. I spoke to my hairdresser, who I trust implicitly, and said, "I can't look like a dumpy old woman. I can't have it go curly and look like some freaked out caterpillar!" She of course assured me she'd never let this happen, yet I'm so scared I'm wiping tears at this moment.

I don't have a face for short hair. Long hair is how I can hide. Short hair is for the cute little ones who are called adorable and darling. Having great hair made me feel like so many flaws are hidden, though they really aren't. I was on a date recently with a guy I really liked and he made some reference to my body. It was mostly complimentary but I don't accept compliments well so I pointed out a few areas that in my mind needed work. He felt the best reply was to tell me I should call Sonobello (a local body contouring place). I crumbled internally but smiled and nodded at him so he wouldn't know. Roughly 16 years since my eating disorder diagnosis, about 80% recovered on a good day, but these kind of off handed statements can still take me out.

This all goes down tomorrow and I find I'm vacillating between terror of how old and bad I'll need to look as I get my hair healthy, and feeling like fuck everyone. Hormonal PMDD isn't helping matters. This is my weak link. I am strong, powerful, confident and ready to kick your ass, yet this can knock the wind out of me. 

Perhaps this is a necessary moment in my self growth. Taking away my perceived safety net to show who I really am. I fear it's not enough. I'm terrified my self worth won't survive this. 

Thankfully one of my best friends is a wig master so I do have a backup plan.

Reclaiming Autonomy

I watched a Netflix special recently called "Strip Down, Rise Up". The description goes "In an effort to reclaim their bodies and lives, a group of women explores the intersections of movement and meaning in a powerful pole dancing program." Barely 10 minutes in I found I was sobbing. I've watched is 3 times since and haven't been able to pinpoint what tore me up so quickly but watching has brought about more insight with each viewing.

Pre-pandemic I used to take pole dancing lessons. Any man I was dating, or potentially dating, would drool at the thought of getting a private show as their only experience with pole was from strip clubs. It was nothing like that. Far from it. One of the reviews, from a male in fact, said this, "What pole dancing is outside of the male gaze: body positivity, trauma recovery and reclaiming body and soul from toxic gender roles. Life-changing and very powerful." That's it.

When I started pole I had the vain assumption I would pick it up easily. I've been in dance, learn choreography decently fast, hyper flexible, and am strong. I sucked. I was truly bad on every level. But I admired the strength (clearly beyond mine) and the large variety of body types and ages all kicking ass up there. I wanted it. 

Watching this show shook me in ways I wasn't expecting. Women fighting for their right to exist as they would like, seeing them struggle through shame and fear and ultimately overcoming, witnessing true support...it left me crying and asking myself what I could do differently. 

If you look at pole dancing everything about it is about as far from my upbringing as possible: half naked, high heels, strong women, body autonomy, sexual on their own terms. This encapsulates everything I want to be: owning my body, owning my strength, owning my life.

I found this picture of me from pole (which I believe is the only one taken) and realized it's something I don't share. And I realize I don't share because of the shame around all the things I want to own. This is at it's core a trauma reaction. Well in the name of new reactions I'm sharing. I'm owning this as a fuck you to everyone that has silenced me, cut me down, and made me small. I own it all and you can no longer stop me.

New Year - New Reactions

"I made no resolutions for the New Year. The habit of making plans, of criticizing, sanctioning and molding my life, is too much of a daily event for me." ~ Anais Nin

I actually love resolutions but instead of framing them as goals to obtain, I look at them as a reset, a time for observation, and a reclaiming of what I lost along the way. This year the weight of time hangs in the air as I not only consider what I want for my life but how much time there is to do it. So with the burden of limited time looming I'm instead focusing on my reactions.

My reactions determine my happiness. I'm carefully observing what triggers me, what hurts me, and where I feel validated. Where am I replaying old stories that are no long relevant? What assumptions do I make about myself when what I need doesn't materialize? And quite possibly could everyone else's reactions not be personal to me?

I was randomly posting on Facebook days ago and found everyone's responses were pissing me off. It felt like I was being purposefully made fun of and jabbed at. After deleting an especially annoying post I looked back at my reaction to it all and saw that I hadn't articulated what I was asking very well and this resulted in comments which felt rude. In looking at my reactions from afar I saw that at least most of the comments were merely people flying through their news feed, likely barely reading what I wrote, and certainly weren't trying to hurt me. Though it didn't feel good I was happy to see the result of controlling my reactions instead of acting impulsively.

One of my favorite people to follow on Instagram is The Holistic Psychologist. This insight hit hard, "Start to observe who you spend time with: how they speak, think, & act. Observe how you feel about yourself & life after being around them." I have noticed there are people in my life who I come away feeling like shit. But how much of this is a reaction to something else? Watching my reactions, even when I'm wrong, and seeing where my feelings aren't facts.

Bessel Van Der Kolk says, "Trauma comes back as a reaction, not a memory." I know I have many old beliefs about who I am, my worth, and what my future holds. I also know they have been simmering in my trauma for decades and my reactions don't always know the difference between a feeling and truth.

I'm slowing down as reactivity is typically quick. I'm taking a breath before speaking. I'm reminding myself that the joy of my future is entirely dependent on me and how I chose to react to what is before me. I will live louder to shut down my own damaged mindset.

New Year - New Reactions

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.