“I never thought I would be that person who had to squeeze into the seat on an airplane, unsure of where in the hell to put my arms since my fat rolls covered the arm rests.”

Part of what lead to my diagnosis of Celiac Disease was my massive weight gain where one of me became two.  (Although, I will never understand how boobs could EVER possibly be in bra sizes that involve consonants that toddlers often have trouble with).  Since my switch over to eating gluten-free and following a very strict diet, I’ve been dropping weight.  As in..like, it’s melting off of me.  Two are becoming one, without that whole looming essence of marital bliss, and my pants may actually soon disqualify for moonlighting as a circus tent.

Last night I filled up my water bottle in the kitchen while talking to my husband.  “Ooh, guess what?!  My pants are buttoned I can still do THIS!”  I slid my normally snug jeans to my ankles, bent over, and exposed my dimpled, super white ass.  He laughed, shook his head, and said, “I love you.”  Bearing my ass in that moment wasn’t about being playful or outlandish.  It was the mini-celebratory dance, if you will, of finally shedding the parts of me that have imprisoned me for a few years now.  It was emerging of the inner, confident me that has been dormant for so long, simply saying, “I’m baaaaack!”

My husband doesn’t know that side of me, although he’s seen glimpses.  He knows only the fat me.  He knows I once modeled…that I was beautiful…that I had it going on.  He doesn’t know the me that is spontaneous or vivaciously filled with a zeal for life.  He knows the me that has been crippled by a weight gain I didn’t cause and medical issues that seemingly ruled my life.  With my diagnosis of hypothyroidism (now known to have been caused by my Celiac’s) and Celiac Disease, I’m healthy again.  My body is back in working order and ready to roll…ready to shed the weight forced upon it.

I can see my wrist bones again.  My collar bones are pushing upward, showing the contour of what used to be (and will once again be) sexy shoulders.  I see it in my face, my neck, and THANK GOD, my boobs.  I’ve always had big boobs…even at my normal size 8-10, I wear a D cup.  Granted, I’m 5’8″ and I have a large bone structure with full hips, so I don’t look ridiculous with large breasts, but they’re still…big.  At my biggest, I was a J cup.  As in JUMBO.  Now, I am in a GG cup and still working my way down.  The neck and shoulder pain is lessening and I was actually able to go bowling.

Bowling?  Yeah…low impact, right?  WRONG.  Not if you are leaning over with GG boobs, again and again, to toss a 10-pound ball down the alley.  Let’s just say that even at my hardest day at the gym working on my back and core wouldn’t compare to the three-day pain and stiffness in my back after bowling.  I paid dearly for it…but it was worth it.  I did something fun and spontaneous again!  We received tickets to Universal and I know that when we go over Spring Break, I can actually fit into the rides again.

Oh, the things we take for granted.  And how quickly our minds can be changed from once long-held views.  I always considered bigger people to be…well, undisciplined and lazy.  I never questioned their value or worth as people, but I resented that they would complain about their weight and then not fix it.  I never thought, in a million years, that I would be one of those people someday.  That I would be the one having to sit to tie my shoe, wear clothes that said “Women’s” followed by “World” as if the size of my ass wasn’t bad enough without the comparison.  I never thought I would be that person who would go out to eat and people would stare at what I ate, how I ate it, and whisper to their friends, all the while continuing to stare at me.  I never thought I would be that person who had to squeeze into the seat on an airplane, unsure of where in the hell to put my arms since my fat rolls covered the arm rests.

I’ve been humbled in ways that words could not express.  I’ve learned that Fat Me still wanted to feel sexy and be loved and touched and caressed in exactly the same way as Skinny Me did.  I still wanted to perform a strip tease for my husband, but I lacked the confidence to allow me to follow through.  My desires…my wants…my goals…they didn’t change.  But the way I saw myself did.  The way other people saw me certainly did…in fact, I know that how others treated me is what impacted how I saw myself because I didn’t know that I was to see myself any differently.

When I was thin and beautiful, I would walk into a room and heads would turn.  Literally.  I grew used to being stared at and watching girlfriends elbow their beaus.  I was used to getting into clubs without waiting in line and being given extra special treatment…just because I was pretty.  I remember landing every.single.job I ever applied for…even if I didn’t qualify.  When I started gaining the weight, things changed and I was very confused.  Men no longer noticed me, held doors, or made eye contact.  Little girls no longer looked up at me and smiled with toothy grins.  I no longer got jobs, even though well qualified, because I didn’t “best represent the company image.”  I learned, very quickly, that a pretty face isn’t enough.  I learned that being fat means being ignored, disqualified, and generally overlooked.  It was a phenomena that happened so quickly that I didn’t have time to grasp the seemingly overnight change of becoming invisible.

I don’t judge anymore.  I can’t because those scars will forever be on my heart. Even when my body once again matches my spirit, I’ll always remember.  I was teased as a kid for developing early and having full hips and a large chest in middle school.  I had the body of an 18 year-old at the age of 12, which was eerie both for my classmates and my parents. I was teased for being fat, but upon entering high school, that hour glass figure became an asset instead of a detriment. I shed the baggy clothes and began to wear figure-flattering things, but I never forgot those girls who teased me for blooming before they did.  In fact, most of them were late bloomers and didn’t receive any attention, often placing me in the lime light.  Part of me wanted to throw it back in their face, but I remembered how much it hurt to be judged for something I had no control over.  I didn’t want to be that person.

This though?  This wasn’t just puberty being the black hole of development that it is.  This was adulthood, where I expected people to be civil and understanding.  Oh boy…how wrong I was.  Life is just a continuation of high school, really. I remembered having to prove I had brains and wit when I was Skinny Me.  Now? I had to go out of my way to prove I had anything — personality, brains, wit — to even be acknowledged.  And once I was noticed, I had to try even harder and continue to prove myself to be of any value.  Especially in the job market.

Soon, all of this will be a memory, but I will not forget the lessons learned or the spirit of empathy surrounds my heart.  I am grateful that I can change the place I’m in — that I have hope again — but I am sad that society places people in such a position where they are less, worthless, and futile in their endeavors.  That old cliche saying of you never know where someone has been until you’ve walked a mile in their shoes is true. Painfully so.  I often thank God (or the Universe, or whatever you choose, or not, to call it) for offering me such a valuable lesson.  How often do you get to visit life on the other side of things?  Not very often.  As a kid, I was inspired by Black Like Me.  A bit prophetic, don’t you think?

2010
02/02
CATEGORY
Health and Wellness
The Work In Progress
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“Ahhh…so THAT’S why my girl parts were minty fresh!!”

I have zero motivation today.  I woke up, took my Armour Thyroid and Sam-e Complete, and forced myself to get into the shower.  I didn’t bother shaving.  Still tired, I threw on some shorts and a t-shirt and fixed a quick breakfast.  Still tired. Checked my email and facebook.  Went back to bed and laid down.  My body was feeling perfectly content.  My mind, however, was listing all of the things I had to do.  Reluctantly, I got up and hit The Find (my favorite shopping search engine) and found all of the things I was about to run out of.  (I save a boat load of money using that search engine.  It’s totally worth checking out).  Here’s what I bought:

As you can see, I tend to go the all natural, organic route.  The hype is true — it makes a difference.  I can tell a big difference and I have seen the benefits of switching over — and I have in nearly every area of my life.  It works for some, not for others.  I don’t do organic veggies, but I drink organic milk and all natural meat is like night in day, both in quality and flavor.  Usually I can’t afford all natural meat, so I look for sales and stock up when I find it cheap.

I was using all natural laundry detergent, but my clothes weren’t getting as clean as I liked (I tend to drop things on my chest during meals since I have a shelf just below my chin).  I switched back to Gain and my clothes were stiff, itchy, and the colors seemed to fade quickly. (And no, it wasn’t because I used too much soap — I generally use VERY little because it is ridiculously concentrated). Once this stuff is done, I am switching back to all natural.

There are certain cleaning products I haven’t switched over yet, just because natural ones aren’t available.  Like Scrubbing Bubbles for instance.  I love that stuff.  I hate recycled trash bags because…well, they suck.  Another thing that sucks?  Recycled paper towels and toilet paper.  I end up using so much more because the absorbency is lacking…which kind of defeats the purpose.

As far as feminine products go, I don’t use them.  I switched over to the Diva Cup a year and a half ago and I will NEVER use pads or tampons again.  Not only does my body appreciate it, but so does my wallet.  I was nervous in trying it because, well…I had tried that birth control ring and it was too big for my…girl parts…so I was skeptical with the cup. Once I got it, I had to watch/read tutorials to learn how to insert the damn thing.  It was mighty uncomfortable, so I ended up having to cut the tip off and I flip it inside out so that none of it sticks out of me.  It’s perfect.  Just FYI — if you decide to switch over, just be prepared that when you use the cup, your body maintains it’s natural protective moisture barriers, so when you pull the cup out, you get a wad of stringy goo.  It’s gross, but you get used to it.  (Obviously, I’m not the squeamish type).  No smell, no leakage…none of the crap you have with other feminine products.  And…it never runs out, so no need to make quickie runs to the store.

An aside:  I use denture effervescent tabs to clean my Diva Cup (which was a fluke, but it ended up being the best “let’s try this and see” ever). While using my cup, I removed it to empty and clean it, and I noticed that my…fluids…in the cup smelled minty.  It kinda freaked me out.  I washed it with hand soap (Kiss My Face, naturally), did my weird leg separation technique, and put it back in. Again, it smelled like mint the next time…and for the rest of my cycle.  For the life of me I could not figure out what the hell was going on.  After my cycle finished, I rinsed my cup, added it to my denture container of hot water, and dropped in a minty denture tab. Then it hit me.  Ahhh…so THAT’S why my girl parts were minty fresh!!  (I had no idea those tabs were minty — I had never used them for anything else prior).

TMI?  *smirk*

2010
01/31
CATEGORY
Health and Wellness
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“I finally pushed to have a voice and found the courage to demand more, both from myself and from life.”

I wrote this a few months ago and re-discovered it while organizing my documents folders.  I thought it was blog-worthy.

I spent years avoiding that long trip home. I knew that once my feet touched that thick, red soil once again, my heart would burn with the regret of leaving. I left the mountains to find myself, to work through issues, to separate myself from the cycles and methods of dysfunction. Some of it followed me. Some new appeared. I hoped to drown it within the sea, shedding my skin, stepping onto the warm sand, renewed. It took seven years.

At sixteen, I knew that I could no longer handle the insanity that seeped from my mother’s skin, so I left and went to the only other place that would take me – my biological father. There I found the reason my mother left him, that friends did not remain close, and the reason he was removed from church after church. I earned bruises and scars, many of which were on my soul, unseen, while others stained my skin like juice from fresh berries.

I ran from him, too. The comforts I sought were elusive and did not exist. I did not understand how the very hands that created me were also the hands that wounded me. My mother would beat me in her fits of rage and then fail to remember what it was, exactly, that made her so angry. I was expected to forgive as the anger left her, but I couldn’t. Not yet. My biological father impregnated me with his Jesus doctrine, using it as his justification in touching places on a child that should never be touched. He touched to soothe after beatings with a thick, leather belt.

I was an only child, given animals to spend time with and seek affection from because my parents were too busy for me. I was an inconvenience and a burden on both their relationships and their careers. Perhaps that is the reason I favor cats so. In those quiet moments at night, when I was alone in my room, I would hold my kitty close and cry tears of release. I begged God to let me die. I cannot remember a single night of my childhood when I didn’t ask God to release me from the hell I experienced. In fact, I think I prayed that very prayer up until just a few years ago.

My mom and step-dad divorced when I was 18. I thought losing my childhood companion, Michael, was the absolute worst hell I ever could have encountered until the summer when I discovered that a father’s love is only as deep as his bottle of liquor. My step-dad was my hero. My world. He was the balance, the stability, the nurturance, and the love that I had been denied from those that created me. I’m not sure what changed the bond between us, but I remember the last time my Dad held me as his daughter. I remember our last moments together as a family. I remember the police. The blood. The tears. I remember being absolutely alone with nowhere to go.

I married my ex shortly thereafter. My family was ripped apart in the divorce and I was denied access to either side – my Dad’s because I wasn’t “really” his and my mother’s because I took “his side.” I was completely alone and I just wanted to belong somewhere and have a place to call home. I married a Marine who seemed poetic, stable, and wholesome. Soon after we were married, I discovered that the truths he offered were, in fact, lies. He told me that had I known the truth, I wouldn’t have married him. And he was right. I wouldn’t have because I would have rather been alone and desolate than marry a man with a past such as his.

I fled to Florida halfway through my previous marriage, knowing that somehow, I would find myself in the process. I refused to allow myself to go home until I had worked through my issues and found healing. Moving to Florida was a huge step for me because it was then that I awaken something in my soul that pushed me to grow. I was in Florida for two years before I was able to tell my then-husband that I wanted out of the marriage and before I began school. I finally pushed to have a voice and found the courage to demand more, both from myself and from life.

Years of deceit, adultery, fathering a child with another woman, dysfunctional cycles, bitter arguments, emotional abuse plagued my life. I was no saint, either. In that marriage, I resembled my mother. In that marriage, I was the unhealthiest (mentally, spiritually, physically) than I had ever been. Finally, in one single moment, it all ended. With a gun pressed to my chest, I knew that I would either have my lifelong prayer answered or that I was going to be given a chance to start over.

It was then that my journey began. I realized I hated nursing school. I discovered that I’m not a yeller. In fact, I loathe confrontation. I’m actually quite feminine and I enjoy feeling pretty. I love cats. They symbolize comfort, family, and acceptance and I really don’t care of having six of them borderlines on whacky. I learned that I’m a lot smarter than I ever thought and that settling on a two-year degree was beneath my capability. I also learned that I had the courage to strive for more. I discovered that I didn’t have to settle and that I was worth more than I had ever been shown. I learned that I had the power to choose and to make my life what I wanted it to be.

Finally, after working through issues and healing, I was able to make the trip home. I met with old friends, visited old places, and walked through long-forgotten chapters of my life. My friends saw the change within me — the surface of calm and peace. They saw me as the person they always knew I would become. When I boarded the plane to return to Florida, I wept. I wept, not because I was leaving, but because I finally found a sense of belonging, a sense of wholeness, a sense of home…within myself. As it turns out, the person I was looking for was here, this whole time. I just had to take the journey to find her.

2010
01/30
CATEGORY
Retrospective Analysis
The Work In Progress
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“…Gemini and The Harlequin Twins…”

This new “Monochrome” layout came out and I liked it — obviously.  I like that it’s sleek and modern with a touch of funky, gender-neutral, and still professional.  My house is decorated like that too — except in rich, deep earth tones.  The accent walls are a burnt red while the other walls are a dijon-mustardy-bartlett-pear-y kinda gold.  The cabinets are a chocolate brown and the furniture is espresso wood with a modern-tranditional style.  I like clean lines without clutter.  I dislike knick knacks and crap that can be pushed off the top of a shelf by one of my six cats.

Oh, yes…I failed to mention that before, didn’t I?  I have six cats.  Three of which just sort of…happened.  I already had three from my days of working as a vet tech — all rescues.  One night, my husband and I went to a play and there was this SWEET black and white kitty who allowed us to pick her up, hold her like a baby, and smoosh our noses into her face.  We never had the “should we keep her conversation.”  We just knew she was meant to be ours.  Given her color, the sign of that day in June, and her temperament (she growled at the chick at the drive through when we went to get drinks on our way home), we were compelled to name her Gemini.  A couple of weeks later, she showed signs of pregnancy.  Lo and behold, we were going to have Kittens! on our hands.

On July 31, Gemini was acting unusual, but nothing that anyone else noticed.  I just sensed she would have her kittens. I told my husband we needed to leave the house to give her “space” and that by the time we returned, we would like have a kitten or two waiting for us.  We were gone about an hour and we came home to the first kitten — a male.  An hour later, Gemini began pushing out her second kitten — a female, whom I ended up helping out of the birth canal.  And that was it.  Just the two.  (The irony of naming our cat Gemini while she was pregnant with twins is not lost on me).

A big litter would have been easy to separate with.  We hadn’t planned on keeping any of them, really.  Having just two, though, made it mighty difficult not to get attached.  In fact, my instincts to love, nurture, and respond to those kittens was much like having a newborn for me. I awakened at the slightest whimper and I didn’t leave them out of my sight for long.  Almost immediately we knew we were going to have six cats on our hands — a certifiable case of insanity, for sure. Both kittens were born with massive white masks on their faces which prompted one of my best friends to suggest the names “Harley” and “Quinn.”  It seemed oddly…perfect.

Today Gemini and The Harlequin Twins are being vaccinated, microchipped, and neutered/spayed.  This particular vet keeps surgical patients overnight to administer post-surgical pain medications and to ensure there are no reactions to the anesthesia.  Given my previous experience as a vet tech, I understand the need for this, but I also know what to observe for…so leaving them in someone else’s care bothers me. I would rather have them home than in some metal cage in an unfamiliar environment.  They’ve never been separated, so I fear they’ll just sit there and cry out to one another.  I’m terribly bothered by leaving them.  I might plead with the vet to reconsider.  I haven’t decided yet.

It’s odd how attached I am to my animals.  I’m pretty sure my level of attachment borders on bizarre — which most true animal lovers may empathize with.  I love my cats (and dog) with the same intensity that I love my human family.  I love them with the same devotion.  I’m sure much of it has to do with being an only child and having a cat as my sole playmate and family support (my parents were entrepreneurs who wanted me “out of [their] hair”).  I never thought I would be able to love each of them as much as I do and love each one differently, but equally.  If I am this way with my animals, I cannot imagine the depth of the emotion I will feel for my own children.  I look forward to it…

2010
01/28
CATEGORY
Four-Legged Kiddos
The Work In Progress
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“I think I can swallow my fingers.”

I have Celiac Disease (a wheat/gluten “allergy.”)  While I typically eat very healthy and eat organic/hormone-free/antibiotic-free products, sometimes it’s just good to have some Taco Bell.  Unless of course they change their recipe for the Mexican Pizza.  What used to be two corn shell tostada-like flats is now some fluffy wheat-induced concoction.  I ate it first and then suddenly realized…oh God…that wasn’t corn.  I went on Taco Bell’s website…checked the ingredients…and I had just consumed enough gluten to make me very sick for a very long time. Immediately ran into the bathroom and induced vomiting.  I prayed and prayed I got all of it up…I kept at it until nothing would come up, until my stomach was so painfully sore.  I then downed some Benadryl in hopes that it might actually help on some level, and crossed my fingers.

I awoke this morning to feeling normal.  The Benadryl had knocked me out and made me groggy — but there were no feelings of ingesting gluten.  I’d been lucky.  The only proof of last night’s near-scare were the tender abdominal muscles that took a beating in my moments of heaving.  I would make a horrible bulimic as I loathe every aspect of vomiting.  Oddly enough, I can induce vomiting by just *thinking* about it, but last night, I had to do the whole fingers-down-the-throat action to get everything up as quickly as possible.  I honestly had to weigh my odds — vomiting now or feeling like crap and being stuck in bed for the next week?  Hmm…yeah.  I think I can swallow my fingers.  What made everything so much easier was the condition of the toilet once I lifted the lid.

My husband is an atypical guy.  He thinks he aims well, yet often leaves a little puddle on the floor, just to the right of the toilet. If I happen to go in and use the toilet after him, the result of his poor aim will drip from the bowl onto my legs.  Worse than stepping in his urine, or having it drip down my freshly-showered legs, was the view of that edge of the toilet.  Only in public bathrooms have I seen it that bad.  It had drops of urine, not yet dried, resting next to layers upon layers of dried urine.  Pet hair, resembling pubes, added an almost sickening decorative flare.  I was beyond grossed out.  It was so bad I had to clean the toilet first JUST SO I COULD VOMIT IN IT.

You think I would be embarrassed telling you this story as it reflects on my cleaning habits…but no.  I told my husband that if he were not willing to pee sitting down since we share a very tiny bathroom (read: 4 x 4), that he had to clean the bathroom from now on. It’s bad enough that I have to wash my feet and legs several times a day because he would rather piss everywhere than have the common courtesy to clean up after himself.  Okay, okay…I get that in the middle of the night, this request isn’t fair, but what about the rest of the time?

He swears he has “great aim” but my toes and the back of my legs beg to differ.  I’ve had many male roommates over the years (and I was married once before) and this is the first time I’ve had puddles of pee waiting for me.  The only other time I’ve seen this is when my friend was potty training her son.  And I think I can excuse a two year old for faulty aim when he tries to pee standing up instead of sitting.  It’s not cute for a grown man who thinks he has great aim to leave a disgusting mess for me to deal with on a daily basis.  I wonder how he’d feel if I wiped my pee-covered toilet tissue against his skin every day.  I’m just saying…

2010
01/23
CATEGORY
Health and Wellness
The Work In Progress
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“Secretly, when no one is around, I wonder if there was any truth in how they saw me.”

I’m 30.  Newly re-married.  No kids.  About to be accepted to a doctoral program (God-willing).  I’m in college, my husband younger than myself, my friends typically five years younger as most are my peers in within the collegiate environment. I don’t feel 30.  I still feel rather clueless and impressionable.  I still feel as though having kids is an option for years down the road when I’m ready.  Will I ever be ready?  Will I be ready when it’s too late?  In my late 20’s I figured out the things in life that most people figure out in their early 20’s.

In my early 20’s I felt years older than 30.  I was stuck in a shitty marriage, faithful in taking my birth control pill, and too busy surviving to actually live.  I felt as if I would have a mid-life crisis and end up in some psych ward disclosing my then-husband’s infidelity and how I lacked the coping skills to just pack my shit and leave him.  While that person I was is merely a memory (and not a fond one, at that), that whole story feels like a scene from a book or movie, not a portion of my life laid to rest. I remember what it was to feel old.

The medical field claims that at the age of 35, women reach the threshold for advanced maternal age and high risk pregnancy. The risk for down syndrome increases, as does the rate for multiples (I’ve always felt as though I would have twins).  My doctoral program is five to six years in length, which gives me a year before I exceed the age limit of a certain government agency I long to work for.  If I were in my 20’s…all of this would be feasible.  I feel that pursuing my dreams means I have to sacrifice motherhood on some levels.  Other parts of me think I could swing it — have kids after I complete my graduate courses and before/during my dissertation.  It’s highly do-able.

Or…I could give up my dream to work in that particular government agency and start my family around the age of 35, which is actually quite common these days.  I would have the career, the lessons learned, five years with my husband, and he would be finished with his initial schooling as well.  At that point, he could join the military as planned, and we could go on our merry way as I can work just about anywhere with my educational background.  I could be the stay at home mom/part-time consultant that I’ve always wanted to be.

There are so many options before me.  I think I’m just fearful of the roads ahead.  Truth be told, I’m terrified that I won’t get into a doctoral program because my GRE scores weren’t what I wanted them to be (even after rigorous studying).  There is a strong possibility that I have a learning disability (even with a genius IQ) that screws up processing.  My scores didn’t align with my grades, my letters of recommendation, my CV, my devotion to activities gearing me toward grad school.  I now doubt my personal statement (which I felt absolutely confident in at the time I sent it).  Frankly, I fear failure.  I fear that I won’t fulfill all of the dreams that I have — that one lifetime simply isn’t enough.

I can still hear the perfectionistic tone of my step-father, telling me as I grew up college wasn’t an option — it was a definite, and later, as an adult, just encouraging me to get an associates degree because he didn’t think I could hack going any farther. I’ve proved him wrong, numerous times, and yet I still seek his acceptance and approval.  I will never get it.  Consciously, I know that, but on some level, that little girl within me thinks that if I just do *this much better* that he’ll notice.  He didn’t notice when I was thin and beautiful…when I modeled…and I fit the mold he always expected me to fit into it.  He didn’t notice (or come visit) when I was in the ICU for a nearly a month with a guarded prognosis.  He didn’t notice when I graduated with my first degree with honors.  He didn’t notice when I re-married.  Oh, wait…he did notice when I remarried…only because his wife fell upon my social networking site and saw the pictures.  He noticed that HE hadn’t been invited.  Regardless, he has never had faith in me — he assumed the worse — and part of me fears that this time, he could be right.

A peer at school already received her first request for an interview from a PsyD program.  I check the mail daily…hoping…yet reserved because just as easily as I could receive a request for interview, I could also receive a letter of rejection.  This is more nerve-wracking than my letter of acceptance into college or the nursing program.  I’m due for my miracle and I know I am an excellent candidate, but it doesn’t change that looming fear that anticipation brings.  In these tense moments, my friends have said that they hear the voices of their parents, loud and strong, reminding them to hold onto faith — they can do it — they WILL do it.  I hear the voices of my parents telling me that I will fail — that I should have tried harder — that I should have planned better.  I’ve been strong enough to silence the voices of my past and continue to push forward, having to fight even harder to overcome those voices and the spirit of failure they spoke on my life, but sometimes I wonder.  Secretly, when no one is around, I wonder if there was any truth in how they saw me.

2010
01/22
CATEGORY
Retrospective Analysis
The Work In Progress
Undergrad going Grad
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“Awkward silences are only awkward if you allow them to be…”

My sister-in-law is in the awkward stage of the teen years.  She’s the black sheep of her family — they are sci fi geeks, she likes theater.  They like to play video games.  She likes to sing and dance.  They routinely make references to Star Trek, Dr. Who, and Stargate in their every day conversation.  She quotes song lyrics.  They wear jeans and t-shirts.  She’s a fashionista.  Given that she’s home schooled, she’s odd girl out most of the time.  So, my husband and I bring her to our house so she can text her friends, sit on facebook, take naps, eat until she’s had her fill (she often doesn’t get enough food at home given the family often doesn’t have the means to provide enough for everyone), and generally escape from the hell that is her reality.

I’m an only child.  I don’t understand sibling dynamics on an intimate level, but I can see when something is amiss.  My SIL stepped foot into our home and immediately, my husband’s demeanor changed.  He was acting like the rest of his family toward her — distant, disinterested.  I pulled him aside and we talked. “I don’t know her.  I don’t know who she is, what she’s interested in, and she’s so walled off.”  So, the three of us sat and laid it on the table.  I said, “I don’t care how you functioned at your house growing up.  That is not okay here.  Awkward silences are only awkward if you allow them to be and I would give anything to have a sibling to bond with because who else understands what you went through as kids.”  They just needed permission to be clueless and awkward.  I told my SIL that I don’t fully understand the whole sibling thing…so if she needs and or wants something, she has to let it be known. “It’s okay to tell us what you need.  We won’t ignore you…we’ll meet you half-way.”

When my husband said to his sister, “So…how have you been for the last five years?”, it dawned on me that even the closest family members are strangers…even when they see one another routinely and regularly.  I thought being siblings was a magical bond that somehow brought forth the whole “Us Against the World” type of union.  I was mistaken.  I was not mistaken however, in the beauty of my husband.  Normally a very private person, he put himself out there for his sister, knowing if he didn’t share of himself, she wouldn’t open up to him.  I watched a brother reach out to his little sister and try to understand her…find out about her life…and even take an interest in her interests by learning how to swing dance in the living room.  I watched a little sister come to life because she was the center of attention and we truly cared about her feelings, her thoughts, and we gave her space to be herself.  And I watched the story unfold before me.  I was watching two people who truly need each other re-open doors.  I saw wounds heal.  I saw trust renewed. Two people went from simply being in the same room to filleting their feelings and being raw and transparent for the sake of holding on to whatever sibling bond existed below the surface.

When I dropped my SIL back at home, she said, “Thanks for letting me come over and just letting me rest.  I really needed that. Thanks for just…being there.”  That’s when it hit me — for the first time in my life, I have a little sister.  All of that crap I went through as a teenager has made me highly sensitive to where she is. She relies on me to let her be open, flawed, imperfect, but still loved and accepted. She allows me to be the person she exposes her darkest secrets to, knowing I won’t be shocked, appalled, or judgmental. She knows I’ve seen a lot in my life…I am extremely open with her.  I keep no secrets because I never want her to feel like she can’t come to me.  I know now, for sure, that she knows that when she feels no one else in the family “gets” her, loves her, understands her…she knows that I do.  As much as she needs me to be her sounding board, I need her, too.

2010
01/19
CATEGORY
The Work In Progress
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“i need to tell my story, regardless of whether or not anyone listens.”

I’m not sure if starting off a blog with heavy-handed posts is necessarily the way to go, but I write when I need to vent.  I write because it is in the writing that I sort things out.  It’s a habit I learned in childhood, really, when I didn’t have supportive parents who would listen, siblings, or friends.  (We moved quite often as my parents were always increasing the size of the house with the increase of success, so the opportunity to build lasting friendships was non-existent.)  I had my cat, my books, and paper.  Actually, I think the story goes back farther than that. Let’s step back, shall we?

Before my mom and my step-dad married, my mom was a beauty queen, winning Miss-Tall-something-rather in the early 80’s. Given my mother’s inability to nurture and narcissistic nature, I stayed with my grandparents quite often.  In fact, from the age of three until the age of around six, I have no memories of my mother.  I remember only my grandparents.  I remember being snuggled in my grandparent’s huge, king-sized bed next to Grandpa while Grandma sat in her big, comfy chair next to the bed. Together we read Dr. Seuss books and watched television. My grandparents encouraged my creativity through lots of coloring, drawing, books on tape, story telling, reading, and allowing me to write stories on their computer in DOS.

The wonder of writing a story on the computer and watching my words print on paper was amazing.  My favorite part was tearing away the hole-punched strips on the sides of the paper, as if tearing those pieces away were the finishing touches to my story.  I wrote few stories in comparison to the magnitude of poetry. My poetry as a tyke was much like it was in my teens and early 20’s — free-written and strangely complex.  I was not exposed to much poetry as a child, so my inclination toward it still perplexes me.  I’ve been told my poetry is amazing.  There are a few pieces in which I would agree, others are simply a vented mess of  prose written by an isolated teenager who was trying to develop an identity without the support or love of her parents. Actually, most of my poetry revolves around being desperate for love…loving, but not being loved back.  It’s actually hard for me read because the woman in me longs to hold and comfort that little girl from long ago.

My poetry became my refuge.  I would ache, I would cry, I would write.  I never had to keep my poetry hidden, as my parents never took an interest, so I wrote whatever I was feeling at that moment, wrapped in the sanctuary of my room.  I often left poems laying about the house, hoping…just hoping, one of my parents would find it and realize just how lonely I truly was.  I wanted them to read it and suddenly realize that they had a child…one that required more than a house and food to prosper, to grow, to flourish.  Instead, I would be disciplined for leaving “my shit” lying around.  My heart.  My words.  The deepest crevices of my soul called shit.  I knew they would never understand or “get” me.  I knew then that my words were my own…for me…for God.

When I began blogging six years ago (next month will make seven years), a friend encouraged  me to write because I was “really good.”  I struggled to find my voice, my topics, my audience.  Eventually, I learned to just write what I felt…just as I did when writing poetry and I quickly developed an audience. Unlike my parents, people actually cared.  Or they were nosey.  Whatever. They took an interest in what I had to say.  It was amazing, refreshing…and very scary.  I often wrote about how we struggled for money and some readers called me a “beggar.”  I wrote about how horrible my then-marriage was.  Readers told me to leave him.  I learned, very quickly, that just venting and sharing my thoughts and feelings opened the ground for ridicule and advice. At first it was a rough ride for me, but then I learned to cherish that advice, that support, and even the ridicule because the many voices of my readers helped me grow as a person, often guiding me toward the lessons my parents failed to teach.  These voices helped me to open my eyes, grow up, and move forward.

I’ve written one or two pieces of poetry since I’ve blogged.  Blogging replaced my poetic inclination.  I made the mistake with my first (and most well-read) blog in revealing who I am.  People in my real life discovered my blog and my raw honesty ended up biting me in the ass and alienating me.  I jumped from blog to blog to blog, but I still wrote.  I lost my readership.  I lost my words of wisdom, my guidance, my “virtual parents.”  I was okay with that though.  Those first years of blogging had a strong impact on helping me change my life around.  I was empowered and strong.  I learned to stand on my own, so I wrote for me.  I wrote to vent…to sort out my feelings and allow myself to analyze my behavior and improve it.

So…if my many of my posts seem heavy-handed and focused on the past, it’s not that I cannot move forward, but it’s the logical place to start.  Our childhoods are such a pivotal part of who we become that I often refer to it. I acknowledge it so I can conquer it and possibly uncover something I haven’t really examined at length.  If I cannot be transparent with myself then what is the point?  I’m still working through issues challenges from my past.  I think I always will be on some level.  A friend of mine wrote me a quick note about how she doesn’t have an earthly father to go to, so she seeks refuge in God.  She still references her past (which is also a part of her present) and longs for things to be different.  I think we all do.  By remembering, we re-route our paths in life and make better choices, not only for ourselves, but for our children.

Without introducing my past to you, dear non-existent readership, I haven’t laid the groundwork.  It’s hard for me to just write about my day and explain how a phone call from my deranged mother could upset me so greatly if I do not inform you, first, just how deranged the woman is.  I cannot tell a story without some background.  Otherwise, it’s really not worth reading.  At least not to me, anyway.  My initial posts will be intense, vividly painful, and poignant.  They need to be.  Not so much for you, but for me.  I need to tell my story, regardless of whether anyone listens.  It is through telling the story that I discover myself, make sense of my world, and move forward…stronger, better, and free.

2010
01/10
CATEGORY
Retrospective Analysis
The Work In Progress
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“I am sorry I drove you to a point of losing your shit so completely.”

For a long time I’ve hated myself.  I hated who my parents were and what they raised me to be.  I hated that I married a man and carried those habits and that dysfunction into a marriage.  I hated how I acted in that marriage.  For years it has weighed heavy on my heart and I finally developed the courage to send him this letter, privately, through a social networking site.

…I keep coming back to your page wanting to add you as a friend. I have to believe in all of those years of hell that we put one another through that we still had that underlying bond that brought us together in the first place. I still think of you, quite often actually, and my husband is very accepting of the fact I do talk about you with fondness.

We both screwed up Danny. In fact, I honestly think I screwed up more than you did and that I pushed you to do a lot of the things you chose to do. I was so unfair (and horrible!) to you in the beginning and that laid the groundwork for some serious dysfunction. I always wondered why you changed from the blessing you were to me initially. Well, looking at how I treated you from day one, it was no wonder you changed.

I had to face a lot of darkness in myself. I had some serious issues (I prefer the word “challenges” instead, because they can be overcome), but facing who I was and what I had allowed myself to become was inevitable. The thing is…we repeat the cycles we learn as children and I went straight from dysfunction into a marriage and I brought it all with me. All of my crap became your crap. Looking back I never would have wanted that for you. Ever. I wouldn’t have wanted that for myself, either. Neither of us deserved the things that happened to us as children. Neither of us deserved to throw our dysfunctional childhoods into the mix during our marriage. But…it happens. We cannot change the past.

I am wiser now. Wiser and a hell of a lot more humble. I’m still not perfect. I was very touched when you sent me that happy birthday message. I cried, in fact, because I have hoped for years that we could be friends someday and that you might just forgive me for the years of torment I put you through. Yes, you did a lot of things that were inexcusable, but not unforgivable. I forgave you…for everything…long ago. I just haven’t forgiven myself for what I put you through. I still carry a lot of guilt, Danny.

You were my best friend. You stood by me when my parents left my side. You stood by me in the best way you knew how given how you were raised. All of those years, despite our faults and problems, that had to have meant something. It did to me. Even when I didn’t like how you acted, I still loved you. Even when I wasn’t IN love with you, I still loved you. You were my friend first. Even when we fought, we still came together as friends. We were horrible as a married couple, but we were good as friends. I miss that.

Since I am writing all of this, I have to tell you something else. I NEVER meant for you to go to jail, Danny. EVER. My intent was to file a police report and file for divorce. I had no idea you would be arrested and left in jail. When I saw you wearing orange, shackled and handcuffed, crying your eyes out…I have never hurt that badly before or since. I just wanted to rush over to you and make everything okay.

I didn’t lie about the gun incident. Woody pulled the weapon from your hands. He and and someone else were willing to testify, but I told the DA that I didn’t want you to be charged with a felony. You were SO drunk that night…it took you nearly two days to recover. You were so upset that you were no longer in the Corps, and frankly, you were sick of being married to me. Plus, you were going through the horrible changes of coming off a very strong medication…all of that combined let to that incident. I was so scared because it was SO OUT OF character for you. I never thought filing a police report would turn into a years of hell for you. I cannot tell you how sorry I am.

I made a trip to the County Jail a few months ago to interview some inmates there. As soon as I finished, I went to my car and sobbed because I saw how you lived and knowing your choices landed you there (but it was MY FAULT you were arrested) ate at my soul. I spent the next two days in bed after, simply unable to deal with the mixture of emotions swimming in me. I wouldn’t have wished that place on my worst enemy, and especially not you. Oh Danny, I am so sorry.

One more thing I really want to say…regarding Woody. He and Isabella kind of had this thing going when all of us lived together…an unspoken attraction…and they’ve lived together for a for years now. Right now they’ve been “serious” for six months and are now trying to have a baby (sshh! That’s a secret!). After everything went down, I kept Woody close because he pulled the gun from your hands and kept me safe. I didn’t feel safe without him there. I often went to his room after having nightmares and we would take turns rubbing one another’s back because I didn’t want to go back and lay beside you. He was trying to calm me. He was being my friend. I was told you thought I was having an affair with him. Yeah, um…no. But I can see why you thought that and I am sorry I led you to feel that way.

How do you fix years of hurt? You don’t. You learn from it and better yourself and you don’t make the same mistakes. I’m a better person because you were in my life. I am a better person because I was so comfortable with you that I allowed myself to be a true asshole and expose my darkest behaviors. I am a better person because who I am now had to wrestle who I was then and really REALLY work through some challenges.

You once said that we have a shapable destiny. You are so very, very right. I’ve made some horribly shitty choices in my life, but luckily, I’m only 30 and I have years ahead to make the right choices. You were such a big part of so many of my years (and you will always be, if only in memory). You tolerated me through the verbal abuse, psychological abuse, and emotional abuse I unknowingly put you through. In those years, I resembled my mother. In those years, I was at my worst. I am sorry I drove you to a point of losing your shit so completely. I am sorry I did that to you.

I hope, someday, you’ll be able to forgive me. I hope, someday, we can be friends again (even though it would shock the hell out of some people…but I don’t have to explain myself to anyone anymore, nor will I). I miss your laugh. I love seeing that you are happy and content.

His response was timely.

I forgave you a long time ago, I don’t want to end up bitter like my mom. As for being friends, I have some serious walls up, but we’ll see.

To Which I responded:

Thank you for the forgiveness. (What an awesome way to start this year…thank you). As for the walls, I completely understand. Take all the time you need.

……

For years I could not see what I had done to fail in that relationship.  I rationalized, justified, and ignored my way into blaming him.  Looking back, he did everything in his power to fix things, many times, but I was so wounded that I refused to believe him.  After all, he did father a child with another woman while we were married.  He lied to me before we were married and revealed things that, had I known of, would have kept me from marrying him.  He had other affairs.  He had a pornography addiction.  At 19 years old, it was too much.  It was too much at 25 years old, too.

While I was with him, I couldn’t see beyond the affairs.  I was haunted by them during the day and I had tormenting nightmares at night.  I was critical of him, even before he cheated the first time, but much more so as time went on.  I kept using the horrible nature of his behavior to justify mine in treating him poorly.  I never realized the cycle we were caught in or how I played a role in it.

After our divorce, I had a few years to think about it.  Things didn’t really hit me until I remarried, though. My husband would tell me, “Do you realize you do this?” and it would be the same words my ex used.  Oh. My ex wasn’t being an asshole or just being mean or just trying to point fingers.  I really DO do that.  Over time, more and more was exposed.  I remembered our fights…my behavior…my reactions to things he said and did.  I shared these things with my husband and he was surprised — all of the things I shared with him were “so out of character” for me.

When I was finally able to admit my wrong-doing and face the person I used to be, I wrote that letter to my ex.  The tears flowed as I wrote it.  I wrote it to free myself from the guilt, to truly apologize, to beg for forgiveness that, in many ways, I was not deserving of.  When he responded, my heart broke into a million pieces and came back together again, this time with a sense of peace and warmth.  He had forgiven me, I just hadn’t known about it.  His ability to forgive me allowed me to forgive myself.

Healing can only go so far until you learn to let go.  Once you let go, it is then that you finish the process and become whole.

2010
01/06
CATEGORY
Retrospective Analysis
The Work In Progress
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“…I didn’t realize I was his victim…”

I remember telling a fellow psychology student about the so-called repressed memories that surfaced during a counseling session.  The memories were of my biological father molesting me.  The first words out of my peer’s mouth were, “Are you sure?  I don’t mean to be rude, but memory isn’t reliable and repressed memories are usually bits and pieces of various stories.”  She is right.  I know the cognitive framework of memory and the weaknesses that underlie.  The evidence shows that our memories are absolutely unreliable and that eye-witness testimony in the most flawed (and usually trusted) aspect of court cases.  Given that knowledge, I myself doubted my own memory, questioning if I had watched too many crime shows and read too many stories and created a mosaic of memory which became my own.

My brain told me one thing.  My gut told me another.  I found out the truth, for sure, when I confronted my biological father in court.  Again, he was harassing me.  While the previous retraining order was not granted and my attempts to rid this man from my life were ignored, this judge had the presence of mind to honor my request.  During my plea of why the restraining order should be granted, I told the judge that my “father” had molested me when I was younger and attempted to do so even into my teen years.  My sperm donor denied harassing me.  He denied showing up at my home.  He denied everything — even the things I had witnesses to corroborate my story for.  He didn’t deny molesting me.  In fact, he seemed stunned that I even addressed it.  Were all of my memories accurate?  Perhaps not, but the theme of them was certainly spot on.

From that point, I had to admit that I was the victim of a sex offender.  Was I the only one?  Had he done this before or since?  It was addressed by the family, at points, that he seemed overly friendly with young children.  I had never made the connection, because at the time, I didn’t realize I was his victim.  I just found his behavior creepy and obscure.  In fact, most things he did I found to be creepy and obscure simply because he was a paradox.  He taught me not to steal and that tithing to the church was important, but then I would catch him working around the truth — not lying outright, but not being entirely honest, either.  He had a way of justifying and rationalizing things to the point where you actually believed what he was saying.  He would spank me, without panties on, with a thick letter belt and then console me by having me wrap his legs around him and rub against me, all in the name of Jesus.  I remember watching him urinate and holding his penis for him because I asked, “What does it feel like?”  My moment of child-like curiosity of a different body part became a moment of opportunity for him.

Did I block these memories because they were too painful?  Did I block them because my mother might have implanted them for her own benefit of being “the better parent?”  Did I create a story so that I could play the victim?  Was I looking for a reason that allowed me to hate that man as much as I did?  It could be a culmination of things, but my instinct tells me that I didn’t remember because he was so completely subtle about it that I didn’t understand the underlying action.  There was no actual incident that reeked of sexual overtones.  Everything he did was subtle and could be excused away had I said anything.  I knew it felt uncomfortable and eerie as a child, but it wasn’t until I was older and pieced the puzzle together that I realized what he had done to me. Perhaps that is the reason I was always so afraid of his closet.  Perhaps that is why his bedroom always felt so scary, dark, and dangerous.  Perhaps that is why I don’t like people to touch me when I am upset or hurt — because my vulnerability, then, makes me even more vulnerable.

I’m looking forward to moving out of state for grad school for numerous reasons, one of which being that my sperm donor isn’t financially capable of following me across the country, again.  It won’t be as easy for him to pay a visit to my neighbor and tell them what a horrible person that I am and that he has “unfinished business” with me.  It won’t be as easy for him to drive passed my home, again and again, holding a silver revolver out of the window.  It won’t be as easy for him to follow me to and from work just to “keep an eye” on me.  Even with the restraining order, he follows me.  I document it, more for my records than anything, because the police have their hands tied.  My sperm donor operates just under the radar, just as most sociopaths often tend to do.  That fact alone may be primary factor in me pursuing forensic psychology…to figure these bastards out and help put them behind bars.  I spent years trying to figure out his next move, how to evade him, and how to know where he was at all times.  While I loathe this man with my entire being, I’ve also developed an insatiable curiosity of understanding the criminal mind thanks to him.

I’ve always believed everything happens for a reason.  If I can take the horrors I have experienced and use it for the greater good, then it was worth it.  If I can spare someone else from suffering at his hands (or someone else’s) because of my knowledge and understanding, then it did happen for a reason, and a very good one, at that.

2009
12/12
CATEGORY
Retrospective Analysis
The Work In Progress
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