Growth

She cries a lot, begging to be seen. She's been through a lot already.

She's about 4, clad in overalls and pigtails with those ribbons from the 80s. She's curious, compassionate and concerned. Her everyday life is one that can change in an instant and she's afraid that it will. There is a tiny crease in her forehead from constant worry.

She's vulnerable and she hates it.

She needs to be strong and helpful and make everyone else happy. She doesn't know yet that it isn't fair to have that kind of responsibility. One of her first memories is comforting an adult.

She learns how to comfort herself with drugs, alcohol and food. She gets depression. She battles suicidal thoughts. She smiles and is compassionate and kind the whole time. No one knows. They don't see her. She can't see it either.

Nothing makes sense. Down is up, left is right, nothing is everything. She goes into therapy.

She's vulnerable again. She's that 4 year old in pigtails, begging to be seen.  She doesn't know how hard it will be. How being seen feels like being burned. It feels permanent, like scars being made. It hurts and she cries a lot.

As she grows, she desperately tries to remember there is strength in vulnerability and power in understanding. It's hard. But she fights. She allows herself to be seen from within first. She comforts herself with care and relies on the few that know how to see her.

She still cries a lot, but they are healing tears.  She's been through a lot.

Leaving on a Jet Plane

I wanna talk about it. I usually can get through stuff if I talk about it. But I can't right now because the words aren't forming. Maybe they will later so I'm going to keep writing.

I'm scared. I'm scared of being on an airplane. Lots of people have this fear right? For me, it's the whole damn experience. From packing to landing.

I hate trying to figure out what to bring with me. I live in pajamas most of the time so thinking of outfits to wear for a week is a challenge. I don't like going over and over my list of things to bring because I'm sure I've forgotten something.

I have to drive to the airport which  means I can't drug myself as soon as I wake up.  Driving to the airport is scary. It's crowded and angry and full of cars at the pick up/drop off spot. Everyone is in a hurry to leave or to be back home. It's super overwhelming.

Leaving the car with strangers for a week off the airport strip seems sketchy. Doesn't seem right to pay to keep a car in a parking lot. And I'm not too keen on driving home when we get back. Again, my drug intake is limited that way.

And then into the airport. More people rushing to get home or away. The sounds, the smells. It's a weird thing, airport smell. It smells like stale coffee, suitcase and anxiety.

Going through security, wondering the whole time if I've brought the right kind of shoes that will help me get through this quicker. Will my stupid underwire bra set off an alarm? Will they pull me out of line and make me spread my arms like a child playing airplane? Then my arms will be more out there more and you'll see that I'm fat and probably won't fit in my seat.

The seat. Fuck. I have to wait until we get there to see where I'm sitting. I probably won't even be sitting with The Hub because life is like that. I will have to cram myself into whatever seat they give me and try to find the best way to make myself smaller. I don't want to spill over into a stranger but that's going to happen because, wait for it, I'm fat.

I don't want to hear that neverending hiss of air as we fly 35,000 feet (or whatever it is) in the air through a germ infested tube. I don't want to hear babies screaming or people sneezing without tissues, or coughing or any of that. The noises seem so loud already and I'm sitting in a quiet room right now, feet firmly on the ground.

I don't want to have to fold my arm in like a wounded bird if I find myself on the aisle. I don't want to plaster myself against the window, irrationally hoping it doesn't open if I'm in a window seat.  And I sure as hell don't want the middle. Spillage on both sides, potentially onto strangers. I will have to cross my arms because that's the only thing I can do with them without awkwardly touching someone.

I don't want to crash. Pretty normal reaction to this excursion.

But my reactions aren't normal because I have fucking anxiety and I hate it. It does this shit to me 3 weeks before my trip. It gets me all worked up into panic at what might happen. 

"Everything will be ok."  I know this because everyone says so. It's very hard to explain that the fear of public humiliation is as strong as someone that fears flying in general. The same? No. But just as strong. My emotions are freaking the fuck out right now and it SUCKS.

I want to go on this trip. I like the person I'm going to visit. I'm looking forward to being somewhere I've never been and exploring new places. But getting there....

I want to be able to assure myself that I am not the only person in the world that looks like me that flies to places. Surely not all of them can afford 1st class or 2 seats to have more room. The airline will not look at me and shake their head, ask me to leave or switch sides to even things out. I am not a bad movie. I am a person goddammit not a freak show.

Then why so freaked out? Because any positive, reassuring stuff is a whisper going against a goddamn bullhorn of anxiety. I fight but that is quiet too. I want to give up louder.

I started writing this post  and I was scared. I still am but I'm angry and frustrated too. Anxiety keeps me from doing things I enjoy. It throws panic in before I can try and that makes for a lot of missed opportunities. Hate is such a strong word but I do. I hate the way anxiety makes me feel and who I am right now because of it. It makes me feel ugly and worthless and pointless too. And that's the fear.


To try and help myself get through this, I used tools from therapy.

What is the worst that can happen?
Besides crashing? Being humiliated.
What's so bad about being humiliated?
Are you kidding? It fucking sucks to be humiliated. And it hurts.
What's the worst that can happen if you get hurt?
I cry. Or have a panic attack. Or both.
What's so bad about crying? Or having a panic attack?
People will see me.
What's the worst that can happen if someone can see you?
They'll see I'm broken.
What's so bad about being broken? 


And it goes on. My main fear is being humiliated. I can't stop that from happening. If someone chooses to be a dick, that's on them. I can only be myself, even if I'm broken.

See that's a good place to stop except there will be another day, another entry where it will be much more like the top half of this blog. Because I might forget how to talk to myself like I did above. Or I might forget that I'm a person goddammit. Or I might forget that I have an amazing tribe of people surrounding me with love and support. I might forget and I'll need to come back here and remember.

Time to Share-Trigger Warning

Right. This one is going to be a tough one to read for some. It's going to be a tough one to write but I started talking about it in therapy yesterday and it's time for me to get it out.

I was sexually abused.

I think I was about 6 or 7 when it started but I honestly can't remember. There were several different instances that I can't figure out were innocent childhood exploration or if they were also abuse. I know for sure that a few of them were. Different people, different situations, different times. Some I blocked from memory, some I just tried to forget. I'm learning now that these circumstances have affected me in ways I didn't realize. I was built, in a way, by these situations. I am who I am because of them.

He was my next door neighbor. Just a little bit older than me and he wanted to 'see my parts'. I was hesitant, I knew that part of me was private. But I was also curious about why his were different. He told me to take my clothes off and because I did what I was told, I did. He took his off and we stood there, looking at each other for what seemed an eternity before he started to touch me. I knew that wasn't ok so I ran. That night, when my dad was tucking me in, he leaned in for a kiss goodnight and I scurried-I distinctly remember scrambling against the wall-away from him. My mom saw this and immediately knew something was wrong. It took a while, but they got me to tell them what happened. Dad went to the neighbor's house and it was never brought up again.

They were the daughters of my mom's friend. I thought they were beautiful and exotic. African American girls with skin and hair different than mine. They liked to pretend. One of them was always the 'boyfriend', one the 'girlfriend' and I was the 'other girlfriend'. I still don't know if the groping and kissing were something I was genuinely curious about and possibly enjoyed.  I remember that one of the girls used a product in her hair that made it kind of greasy and I didn't like it when she kissed me. She always wanted to lay down together and I remember that feeling weird. It was the middle of the day and I was too old for naps.

She was a girl from church camp. My grandmother made me go every year with the pastor's family. She was his daughter. We'd spend the day doing harmless camp things, the whole time her whispering to me that she couldn't wait to get back to the cabin to 'play house'. Or maybe that was me. I don't remember. After a while, I thought this was what all girls did. It was mostly kissing but there was fondling too and I still don't know if this was another one of those exploration things or actual abuse. It was a secret, that I remember. 

She was a neighbor. We'd been friends and then not friends and then friends again like you do when you're a pre teen. She came over one day and we were watching a movie. She started touching my hand and stroking my body gently. It felt nice, but scary. Familiar. She played with the waistband of my pants, her fingers rubbing and prodding. I began to protest, things didn't feel nice anymore. But she told me to 'Relax. It'll feel good.'  But I pushed her off of me. I didn't like it. She didn't stay long once I said no and we were never friends again after that.

They were sons of my parents' best friends. They had one of those mini arcade games-Frogger and I thought it was the coolest thing. I wanted to play it all the time and they knew it. They took me to get sandwiches one day and told me I could play Frogger all I wanted when we got back to the house, as long as I did something for them. Not knowing what it was, I eagerly agreed. This response haunted me for years.  I told them it was ok. When we got back to the house, they led me to a back bedroom and tossed me on the bed. They were older, teens I think, and they were rough housing with me, tickling me. At first it felt like I was their little sister and we were just playing. Then they threw me onto my stomach and pulled my pants down. It felt like their hands were everywhere. They took turns putting them inside me and touching me. I didn't like it and I didn't want to play Frogger anymore. When they were done, they told me not to tell and I never did. I couldn't tell my parents, I couldn't tell their parents...they would have gotten in trouble.

He was a boy I liked. I thought he was so cute and couldn't wait for him to kiss me. He was at my house one night, watching movies with some friends. We were both at the age where a little touchy feely under the blankets was ok. He had his arm around me, and I didn't mind. It was when he pushed me down into the couch cushions and began grinding against me, pulling at my pants that I wasn't having fun anymore. I told him no. My mom was in the next room and I remember wanting to call for her but not being able to. He felt so heavy and I struggled for what seemed an eternity to be free from him. I finally managed to push him off and he immediately became angry. He asked me why I'd asked him over to my house, why he let me kiss him if he wasn't going to 'get some'. I told him no. Told him to leave. His dad picked him up and I threw all my clothes into the wash. I could smell his cologne on them and it made me feel like vomiting. I saw him again a few times. He worked at the mall and my friends didn't know so they teased me about my 'boyfriend' when we went there.


I blocked a lot of these situations. When I was 15, a little older than with the boy from the mall, I had my first boyfriend. He was handsome and he threw great parties and he had a giant Buick that made me feel like I was in one of my parents' cars. I felt safe with him. I liked it when he touched me, kissed me. He gave me my first hickey. I was having fun. One night at a sleepover, one of my girlfriends suggested we sneak out to go see him. I got scared. I remembered the boys that liked Frogger when I hadn't thought of them in years. I remembered everything and began crying. My girlfriends weren't sure what to do with me and I felt bad I was scaring them but I couldn't stop crying. I didn't know what was wrong, just that I knew I'd been hurt by boys before and I didn't want to go see my boyfriend and his friends. I didn't know what they'd do to girls at night that had sneaked over to see them. I never brought up my crying fit again and neither did my friends. He broke up with me soon after that, telling me he wanted to be with someone 'more experienced'.

I held in my secret for another 10 years. In time, the parents of the boys both died. One from cancer, his wife by her own hand. I went to the viewing for her, saw her cowboy boots and dyed blonde hair resting in a casket. I was terrified. Not because it was the first dead body I'd seen, but because I was afraid her sons would be there. They weren't and we didn't have to stay long. I never saw them again.

When I was 25, I held a bottle of pills in my hand and contemplated the end. A friend just happened to stop by and see me. She took me to the doctor and the journey into therapy began. Eventually, my therapist encouraged me to tell my parents even though I couldn't understand why. It had been so long, I didn't even know where they were, who they were. By then I'd been able to forget their names. All of them. Even the girl from church camp or the girls that liked to pretend. I still don't know them.

It took some convincing but eventually I told my parents. My mom cried, apologized for not knowing. I tried to assure her that there was no way she could have.  She felt it was a good idea to tell me her father had gotten drunk a lot and he'd sometimes come into her room at night by mistake. It was then I remembered my own father doing the same once. And my parents slept in the nude. When I told my dad about the boys, he vowed that if he ever saw them again, he'd kill them. And that was all that was said.

Over the years I've had a weird relationship with sex. I lost my virginity later than most. I was 27. Since then,  I've made love, I've fucked, I've had sex. Sometimes I liked it. Most of the time I liked it. But there are still some things I'd rather not do because of what happened when I was a child.

I learned how to keep secrets. I learned how to keep the boat steady. I learned how to forget. I learned how to push things deep inside so that they were kept hidden for decades. And yesterday, I learned it was ok to talk about it. New therapist, new issues.

I was abused. I survived. It's time to share how.

Stoner

"God bless you pot," I think to myself. I'm cutting up pizza-chicken bacon ranch if you're curious. I know it's going to be a delicious pizza. The green stuff makes that happen and I love it. I feel good about being stoned because I finally feel good.

"Your therapist doesn't think you should smoke." The voice in my head is such a killjoy. My therapist doesn't want me smoke. She's not "opposed to it" but she also talked about statistics she felt strongly about that seemed...unimportant to me. I feel guilty though. Like I've been lying to her and she's gonna find out and I'm going to get in so much trouble. The guilt sits there and grows every time I take a toke.

"Ok. She might not think it's working, but she's not you and you are the only one that knows if something is working or not. Besides, people have been smoking marijuana a lot longer than they've been swallowing pharmaceuticals. Also? You can just not tell her. People have been doing that a long time too."

I have this brief conversation with myself as I finish cutting the pizza into 8 even triangles. I've rationalized a behavior by convincing myself it doesn't matter what I do, as long as it's what I want. There's a part of me that knows that's exactly what I should be doing but another part, a louder part thinks that's awfully selfish. So I ignore it.

Confrontation ( A CursiveVerses Post)

She hates me

"I can't believe this. I can't believe how fucking irresponsible you are. Do you even know what you've done? You should fucking know better than this!"

She's right. 

"You are fucking ruining EVERYTHING, don't you get that? NOTHING will ever be the same!"

She's so angry. I've never seen her like this before. What am I going to do?

"What are you going to do?"

I have no idea. I'm so scared. I can't believe this happened. I can't tell her that.

"You just going to run like everyone else?"

Where would I go? Why is she crying ? I don't understand why she's so upset. Why is this happening? 

"You can't just pretend this didn't happen. It's not going away."

I want to go away. I can't leave. 

"Why are you even here?"

I don't know. I should go. She's sad now. Her eyes meet mine finally. 

"Did you ever want...?"

No. 

Right Now

I can't tell if I"m reacting to the med change or if this is what it feels like to be happy.

But right now, I actually want to do things. With people. I want to go outside. I want to walk down the street and let the other person move aside instead of me.

My relationships are strong. It doesn't feel like I'm sucking their energy anymore. I don't feel like a burden. I believe people when they compliment me.

Right now it feels like I'm getting better. I left food on my plate today. People do it all the time but I've been in the Clean Plate Club since I was a kid. It's weird how hard it is to push away a plate with food on it. Years of hearing that children in other countries will die because of your wastefulness...well, I didn't want to kill anybody. The other point taken was that I wasn't going to waste food that was bought with hard earned money. So, I cleaned my plate. But not today.

When I feel anxious, I ramble and that's ok. I stumble over my words sometimes because my brain is going faster than my mouth.  I usually interrupt myself, say nevermind and get all fidgety. That's ok too because I've surrounded myself with patient and loving people that will wait until I can say what I want to say. Like today when instead of giving up, I took a deep breath, sorted my thoughts and said what I wanted to say. 

I got some blood tests back and all signs point to healthy.  The results made me feel like I could flip off anyone including myself, that thought I was unhealthy because of my weight. Cholesterol, kidneys, blood sugar, all that stuff is fine. My doctor has no concerns and didn't bring up my weight at all.  I am not unhealthy. Today, I accepted myself a little more.  

When I have an anxiety attack,  I can feel nauseous. I sometimes break out in a cold sweat or start shaking.  I usually feel tightening in my chest and have trouble catching my breath. It feels like I'm going to die. I can't tell you how many times I've googled the symptoms of a heart attack. But I've learned that these are physical reactions to an emotional trauma. I won't have to google next time. Right now, I know I'm healthy. 

Errands

The day started out pretty good. I got up, dressed, had breakfast, brushed my teeth and hair. These are big steps sometimes. I had an errand, an oil change. Woo. But it was something out of the house and I was looking forward to driving around a bit. The oil change guy was nice, funny. And an older man that was also waiting was kind and picked up my phone when I dropped it. The book I started was good-grabbed me right away and I love that. I was looking forward to going to Target, because who doesn't? The oil change took less time than I thought it would.The day seemed off to a good start.

I felt optimistic about being out in the world today, around other humans. I haven't had a lot of days like that recently. I stick close to home and if I do go out, it's with people I trust and know well. Sometimes even surrounded by those people it isn't  enough to push away the feeling that everyone is staring at me. I'm paranoid about people looking at me, judging me about my appearance because it's happened before.

I was in elementary school when the name calling started.
I had a circle of friends one summer. They told me things like, 'You'd be pretty if you'd just lose weight', or 'I've never had a fat friend before.' I didn't know that wasn't a nice thing to say.
I was in middle school when a car drove past me while I was walking and hollered out the window that I needed to look into Jenny Craig.
I was in high school when I stopped eating because I was invisible and thought 'if only I was thinner...'
I was in my twenties when a guy I thought I loved told me he could never have an intimate relationship with me because I was 'too big'.

I know I've been judged for my appearance. 

But it's been awhile. I'm lucky to have people in my life that tell me over and over that they love me just as I am. I've even started to trust they aren't lying to me. I started a slow journey within to accept who I am just as I am. I've learned tools in therapy to help me stay on that journey. I read books and join support groups to learn how to accept myself. I'm not there yet but lately it's felt like I'm closer. 

It's been a long time since anyone has said something ugly to me. I was almost convinced that people like those from my past weren't in my life because I chose it that way. And then I went out to run errands.

I was looking for a parking space when a guy was pulling out of one. I saw his reverse lights and he didn't see me. The kind of thing that happens a million times. I waited patiently for him to leave the spot and as he passed me he yelled "FAT BITCH" out the window.

Why?

That was my first thought. Did I not give him enough room to get out of the parking space? What had I done?

I found a spot and pulled in, turned off the engine. I sat there feeling the words. All of them. From elementary school up to now. I felt the guy was right. And I cried. Hard. In the shade of a parking lot tree I cried until I couldn't anymore.

All the good feelings from earlier were gone after that and I remembered I still had to go into the store. I needed things.  But now I'd be making myself vulnerable to more judgement. More comments, sneers, looks of disgust. People moving their carts so I can get through. People glancing into my cart when I pass the candy aisle to see how much I got, even when I was just passing through it.  But, we needed things so I went in.

I walked by the women's clothing and heard "FAT BITCH" echo through my mind. I felt my anxiety rise, tears start to build and I knew I had to stop. Breathe. Take a pill to avoid a breakdown in the middle of a store.
I could have left but there was still a small sliver of 'I won't let this get me' left.

I texted 2 friends I trust and told them what happened. They responded just the way I needed them to but it didn't quiet that guy's voice. I wandered the store, getting only the things I needed, avoiding any aisle that might have 'bad' food.

I paid for my things and left. I drove home the long way and then double backed and did it again.
When I got in I fed the cats, put away the stuff from Target. Except that voice. I wish so much that I could let it go, not let it bother me, accept that the guy was just an ass...but my brain rarely lets me do that. I'm trying.

At least I finished my errand. That's a big step sometimes.

Issues

It's very hard to embrace this pro-body era when I've never liked mine. I see posts online of women that call themselves 'fat' and don't understand why they're proud of it. I can barely write the word 'fat' without feeling a twinge of pain from past taunts. It is not easy being a bigger person. Larger. Heavier than the 'accepted' population.  Jesus, maybe 'fat' is the right word because the others just seem like words trying to be kind when they still sting just as much.

Going to restaurants is hard. If it's a smaller place with no booths to hide in, or small chic chairs surround a table that I could fill on my own... I feel discomfort. And humiliation.

I feel it when I have to move the table in a booth especially. Even worse if the table can't move. I try to pretend it doesn't matter and ignore that my belly spills over onto the table. I can feel it when I see the server wince when I  decide to splurge and order a meal and dessert or an appetizer or both. 

 I feel it when I clean my plate.

I can feel it when someone scoots their chair in for me to get by or when I squeeze past someone in a theater's row, hoping no part of my body touches them.

I feel it when I catch my reflection in a building's glassy front.

I feel it when I'm rocking out alone in my car and I remember people can see me.

I feel it when I am shopping for clothes and find myself in the 'regular' size section. I feel like I'm trespassing in a foreign land. I feel it confirmed from the glance of another woman shopping.

I feel it in the look of disgust from the person in line before me at the grocery store. 

Really, any public place has opportunity for humiliation and too often I am hesitant to even risk the pain it can bring so I stay inside. But inside isn't safe either. Humiliation mixes with guilt and the past.

I feel it when someone mentions 'Miss Piggy'. A childhood comment from a bully lingers in the name of  a Muppet.

If someone says 'Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig, Keto diet...' I'm reminded of all the times I failed.

I feel humiliation and guilt when I remember the time I ate an entire box of cookies and then hid the box, shoving it far down into the garbage so no one would know.

I feel humiliation with every creak and groan from the springs in the couch. I feel it when I purposefully avoid chairs that might break underneath me.

I live this way. I feel these feelings every time I leave the house. I feel these feelings when I'm around my friends, my husband, doctors, strangers. I feel these feelings when I cancel plans.

These feelings of humiliation, guilt, self hatred are painful. They remind me of the past, mix with the present and make the future seem bleak. I avoid going out into the world to avoid these feelings.

Someone might see me then, see how I see myself.

Others

I haven't written in a long time because...well, I didn't think anyone would care. Somewhere along the way in this weird ass journey I'm on I really started caring what other people thought and I hate it.

It makes me afraid. And sad and so very anxious all the time.

I have a select tribe of friends that I trust and know that I can be myself with. These are my Safe People and I'm beyond grateful to have them in my life. But occasionally, when things in my head get weird, thoughts drift in like, 'Stop over communicating with them. They don't want to know every thought as it drifts into your head. They have their own shit to deal with. They have jobs, you don't. Quit bugging them all the time.'

And then the not working thing gets all loud. 'Why aren't you working? What the hell is wrong with you? Why can't you just let shit go like everyone else? You worked for literally half your life, what the fuck is wrong with you now?' It's not a nice voice.

So then I get sad. I feel bad. And I start thinking about what others think and it gets worse.  'She's lazy. It's a good thing her fella has money. Must be nice to not have to work. I mean, so she has anxiety and depression (complete with air quotes) -big deal, who doesn't? No wonder she's so fat. All she does is lay around all day.'

And then I feel ugly. I think about how others see me when I venture outside. It's especially bad when I visit the grocery store.  'God, gross. Look at how her chins wobble when she talks. I'm sure she really needs the cookies in her basket right? Oh my god, she actually has a ring on her finger-that means someone is into that.' Ugh, look how she moves. She walks so slow because she can't move any faster. She's SO fat.'

Those aren't nice voices either. But I know them very well.

When they all seem to be shouting at the same time, I become vulnerable. I hide. I put on the Face of  Everything's Fine and send silly memes or include lots of laughing emojis in texts. But I don't talk on the phone. I don't watch dark television shows or read scary stories. I avoid loud places and stop wearing perfume because the smell is too strong. Food becomes ash in my mouth and I feel happy I don't want to eat (because then I might lose weight) and then I remember that's not healthy but choose to eat a piece of pie for dinner.

I talk to my therapist who tells me over and over again that I'm just in the middle of a rough patch, a journey, that a portal has opened up and past hurt is pouring through, right into my face to deal with regardless of if I want to or not. She reminds me I'm planning a wedding and that shit's stressful. She's not wrong.

I talk to my friends who tell me over and over again that they understand and I know they do. They tell me they love me, support me and remind me to be patient, kind and gentle with myself. They're not wrong.

I talk to my family who tell me that I worry too much, that I don't need to stress, that everything is fine. But they don't understand...they're wrong.

And they're right. I worry all the time. About everyone else, even my cats, more than myself. I put all my energy into what others need so I don't have to focus on my own needs. It's easier. And honestly, it makes me feel a little better. If I can help someone, it makes me feel validated and needed. Things I evidently need desperately.

And if I'm nice to everyone, maybe they won't think those not nice things. The stupid part is that I'll never know. And as others have said, it's not really my business what others think. Still, I go out of my way to be friendly and kind, even when I'm literally hating myself on the inside. No one needs to see how I feel, or hear about it. They have their own shit to deal with. They have jobs. I don't want to bug them all the time.

I go back to that beautiful tribe of friends, and I try. I try to remember the support and the love. I try to feel the support and patience and genuine caring they show me. I believe it's there, and that in itself was a mighty challenge to beat. But when things are hard and the voices are loud, It feels too hard to try. I need reminders. I need assurance and validation. And I feel vulnerable asking for it.

I ask my fella to sit with me when I feel this way and he does. He shares space with me, puts his hand on my leg or laces his fingers with mine. And then I want him to leave. I don't want him to see me being like...this...again. And then I start thinking about how whatever this is, it affects him. It affects our relationship and it affects our future. I'm not the same person I was when we met, he assures me no one is. I argue, what if he falls out of love with this 'new' me.

And then I remember all the people that have left before. I think about the hurt I felt, the not understanding why, the pain of never having answers. And I try to remember, that's in the past. He loves me. And then I think about how one day, he will leave. Death is a part of life after all. All those we know will die.

So then I feel sad. I think about those that are already gone. I think about what will happen when my family dies. I wonder about how I'll handle everything from the loss to the assets left behind to the funeral itself. For all of them. Mostly dad, but all of them. My fella's family too. And the cats. And my friends...

And then I think about mom. How much I miss her every day but especially lately as the wedding gets closer and closer. And truthfully, I wonder if I'm using that feeling of missing her to stay in this sadder state. When people ask, it's a great way to get them to stop asking if I'm ok. 'I'm just missing my mom a lot right now' I say and they say they're sorry and we change the subject. It's easier that way.

They have their own shit to deal with. They have jobs, I don't.  I don't want to bug them.

Sorry Not Sorry

This should be interesting. I took a pill to help me sleep about 30 minutes ago and it has failed to kick in. But I can totally feel it making my eyelids heavy and my brain a little foggy so I thought I'd just do one of those stream of consciousness blogs. I can't promise this will make any sense at all.

I've recently read a couple of story collections by women that I relate to very well. One, I admire quite a bit-Jenny Lawson, or The Blogess. I really like the way she writes. She is strong in her words, and yet vulnerable too. She shares a lot and doesn't keep things in the way others might. I try to write that way.

The other author I read was Laurie Notaro and while there were similarities, I didn't like her stories as much. A lot are written with a self deprecating tone and I think I'm too empathetic to read them. I understood that she exaggerates to enhance the story but I don't think you have to do so in the extent that the meaning of your words gets lost.

Of course what the hell do I know? They're published and I'm on a blog with 24 followers. Unless you count Facebook. Maybe. I don't know, I don't really know how my page on there works.

It's getting increasingly more challenging to type and my cat just found a bottle cap that evidently is his prey. Earlier I found a pinecone just inside the cat door and a twig in the kitchen so...this is better I guess?  Cats are weird.

I think I'm finally a real resident of this town now. I've lived here for 4 years and it's taken awhile for me to stop using my gps every time I go to the store. (Not all stores. I'm still not sure how to get to Fred Meyer but I know where Target is and really, do any other stores really matter?). But I've been drinking kombucha so it's pretty official that I am now a native.

I was going to say something witty here about how welcome baskets for PNW would have salmon, coffee, I don't know, mushrooms or something and definitely kombucha.

But see, there are tons of different kinds and not every palate can handle the carbonated vinegar goodness. The first time I tasted one I vowed to never again defile my taste buds in such a horrific fashion. But then a friend said, "Try this one. It doesn't taste like the other ones." And because I trust her, I bought one and holy shit it's delicious. I have since bought half a dozen more and in super tasty flavors like blueberry acai and mango pomegranate. It's so good AND it cleans out the pizza I had the night before. So, if you're one of my 24 followers, Humm brand kombucha, I'm a fan.

I'm NOT a fan of Justin Timberlake's juice. That Bai stuff is just...weird. The first sip and I immediately tasted peach which is good because it was in fact a peach flavored drink. But then the sick sweet FAKE taste of not sugar hit the back of my throat and I just cringed. I checked the label and saw stevia was there, lurking in the list of organic natural flavors. Stevia was great when I was doing keto and living off of wannabe brownies but now that I've changed my eating lifestyle and just limit myself to real sugar stuff, the alternatives are just awful. I respect Stevia for what it is but it tastes like shit. Sorry.

Oh wait, I'm not supposed to be apologizing. And actually, I'm not sorry. Who cares if I don't like Stevia or Justin Timberlake's juice? You can like it. I don't have to be sorry we don't agree. If we don't. But if we don't, you're wrong and then I'm sorry FOR you because you eat things like Stevia.

I saw a good human today. Well, I saw several but this one wasn't a friend or anyone I knew. She was just a nice person. It was so exciting to see they still exist! I felt like Dr. Grant when he sees the first brontosaurus in Jurassic Park. 

This good human was our server at lunch. It was extremely crowded and it took a very long time to have anyone acknowledge us. I mean, at all. And I usually get pretty pissy about that kind of service. I could see they were busy but I was also being judgy and could see that they were all over the place. I saw one server...and that was it. Then a cook came out from the kitchen. Yikes. And then I saw another girl taking orders and I was feeling a little better, despite the hangries. My friends and I were discussing the potential danger to our loved ones when we were suffering from hangry-itis when the good human came to our table.

She greeted us warmly and took our orders. One of my friends had a question and the good human responded, "Well, yes, I think we can do that. I'm not sure, but I'm pretty sure... I don't work here."

My friends and I were stunned. She explained that she felt sorry for the lone server and had gotten up to help. Just because she could and it was a good human thing to do. We all became less pissy about waiting, even though it still took a super long time. But when the food came out, it was hot and good and the good human left us our check right when the food came and wished us a good day. We left a big tip and a renewed faith that there are still good humans out there.

Good humans that hopefully are sleeping because not sleeping sucks. Turns out writing on a sleeping pill is a little weird and writing about an actual occurrence instead of just rambling is hard. Writing under the influence may cause side affects. <== like typos.

I think I'm gonna try the whole sleep thing again since my current thoughts are just about how to make words out of the letters I'm pushing.

Hopefully at least a little bit of this made sense. But if it didn't, I'm not sorry.

Just Coffee

It was just coffee.  Some might even argue it wasn't coffee because it was decaf. I had to switch when my anxiety levels peaked. At least it tastes the same.

She and I had dinner right after it happened and I was terrified. I didn't know what to expect and that fear of the unknown has always paralyzed me. I went anyway and it was fine. Nice in fact. We talked to each other as though we were finally friends. We parted ways with plans to meet again soon but soon turned out to be 3 months.

She asked how I was, I asked how she was, we hugged. There were a couple of pauses that felt weird and I wasn't sure what to think of them so I tried not to think about them at all. I rambled on about the wedding instead. About the dress and the people coming and all the little things I still had left to do. I tried not to see that her face changed when I showed her the picture of the dress and then with me in it. I told myself it didn't mean anything but there was a small hesitation before the compliment and it felt like hours. A million thoughts of 'I knew I didn't look good' flew around crashing into the earlier lovely thoughts of 'I look pretty good in this'. One of those pauses happened then as I sipped my drink. She looked at her phone to check the time.

She asked how my health was and I knew she had genuine concern but I couldn't explain so I turned the conversation to her. I'm really good at that. And she told me about her mother.

Her mother is in a home that caters to elderly folks suffering from Alzheimer's or dementia. I didn't realize the difference could be so slight but I could tell she'd asked that question long ago by the way she described it to me. I swallowed my own fears of Alzheimer's-it's the one thing I'm most afraid of happening. I would be nothing without my memories of who I was.

She talked about how each time she visits, her mom tells her she wants to go home. That she doesn't want to make friends with the other people there-that they aren't her family. Her mom misses her house, doesn't understand that she's in a locked facility and that when her daughter visits it hurts to see her that way and it scares her and it drains her when she's done.

I listened. I knew what it was like. It had been the same with my mom. Telling her it was time to go was terrifically painful. She would cry, tell us how unhappy she was, how much she just wanted to go home. But we couldn't. She needed the care she was getting but it was never enough. It wasn't me and my dad.

I told my friend that I understood. That I was so sorry she was holding on to all of that along with everything else. I thought about how when it was my turn I was barely functioning. I only went once a week and each time I needed 3 days to recover after. I needed the time to wade through the guilt and the sadness. I needed to grieve but I usually numbed myself instead. I told her I was proud of her.

Our chat ended soon after that. Bringing the subject back around to anything else just seemed unimportant. She looked at her phone again and I gave her the out. We stood up, hugged, and told each other how nice it had been to spend time together instead of making plans to do it again.

That's ok. It was just coffee.

ABC

A: accept who I am
B: believe in who I am
C: control is not always possible
D: depression is a liar
E: expect anything
F: forgive
G: grow
H: heal
I: inspire others
J: joy is not impossible
K: Klonopin does not mean you're weak
L: love yourself
M: mend your mind with laughter
N: new discoveries can be scary but they're mostly good
O: only you can prevent forest fires (I don't know, O is weird)
P: pace yourself for healing
Q: quiet the inside voices with love
R: read
S: someone is always there
T: try
U: underneath the layers are more layers
V: very very frightening me ( V is weird too)
W: weird is ok
X: x-men are cool (I mean, can you think of a good X word?)
Y: you're beautiful
Z: zebras think so too

Tunnel Vision

I went back and read the top 5 viewed blogs I've written. I cried. There's a lot of emotion in those words. A few grammatical mistakes too but I write like I talk and I don't always use proper pronunciation. How boring would that be? 

I really wanted to write something happy today. Especially after reading those top 5. I guess even though I feel it, I didn't know I was full of so much...feeling and right now, happy isn't one of them. Happy hasn't really been something I've felt in a while. I've laughed and I've done things that have been fun but I haven't been full on, totally consuming happy in a long time. If you asked, I wouldn't be able to tell you when the last time was.

It's hard feeling this way. It's tiring. It's confusing. It's frustrating and maddening because I don't want to feel this way and I can't make it stop. The good days seem so few and far between, if ever.

I feel like I'm trapped in a tunnel where the world has stopped. The tunnel is dark and crowded with cars that hold the corpses of my past. I have come into the tunnel out of light and now am engulfed with the unknown. Am I alone in this tunnel? Is there something waiting in the shadows to pull me down even further? Why does the darkness feel so thick?

I know there's light at the end but it seems so very far away. Too many obstacles block my path to find the light. I may be able to move them just a bit, squeeze between two of those empty cars holding past hurt and when I do, two more blocking my path. I have to figure out how to move them, or work around them and each time I push or try to climb, I fall, exhausted from the effort. Sometimes I try again. Sometimes I sit on the ground and let the darkness talk to me.

It's hard, knowing there is a light. That I am simply going through the darkness and while it seems I'll never go forward, that I'm stuck in this terrible place, I know otherwise. I know that each time I can get between the cars, I'm making progress.

But this is a long tunnel. It's frightening and dark and full of hopelessness and I hate it. I wish I'd never traveled this way. I miss the light. I miss laughter and peace of mind and enjoying little things that I seem to overlook now.

I want out.



The top 5 that I read this morning:

Own It
Clouded
November 2016
Clunky Girl
Words