Tag Archives: family

I don’t regret a bite

I was talking with a work colleague last week at lunch and at some point it came up that I’d been a lot heavier (225 lbs) than I am now (currently 180 lbs and 5’7”, so, more or less a US size 12).  They expressed the usual amazement that I had lost all that weight, etc., and stated the usual platitudes about how I must feel better to be “healthier” now.

I didn’t get in to all the gory details of it with them except to say that what mattered more to me than the weight loss was the other changes I made that have made it possible to stay in a weight range that lets me do all the things I want to do— snow shoe, garden, give my niece piggy-back rides, hike, yoga, and otherwise shoulder the weight of taking care of a house and an aging parent who would prefer to avoid carrying laundry up and down cellar stairs.  I don’t care so much about fashion beyond a basic level of vanity in fitting in to a range of size 10-12 clothes where I don’t feel ashamed of my body; I am lumpy and I have the start of a wattle.  That is ok.

What I also didn’t get into was that for me, weight has always been NOT about food (which I love), it has been and always been about love, whether my life is feeling manageable, and whether I am practicing decent self-care.  It’s taken me 40 years, more or less, to figure it out.  I will never look like a supermodel. So what? I didn’t get into the details, because they were male, it was lunch, and I didn’t want to get heavy (hah).  But I’ve been thinking about it (again).

I love food.  I love eating.  I love the act of cooking and feeding myself and others. I love creating something from scratch.  I love growing food and coaxing things out of warm dirt and onto the plate.  I love the meditation of chopping.  I love the alchemy of how butter, eggs, and onion become an amazing perfume. And even though I have been both far heavier than I would choose, as well as skinnier than I would like between bulimia and other illnesses and medication reactions, I don’t ever regret any weight fluctuation that happened as a result of any food that I ate.  I don’t regret a bite of it, ever.

Weight, however, is not about food.  Weight is about weight— it’s about the world crushing you down, and no one around you doing anything to lift it off you.  Weight is about you being Atlas, and you not being told, either at all or effectively, so you can hear it from people who are supposed to care about you, that you don’t have to carry it all.  In my case, between being bipolar and being an Adult Child of two bipolar parents who tried but had their own stuff and just often were not successful, it took me a long time to figure out that I was eating to feel full in the middle and push out against the weight and anxiousness and chill pressing in from outside, and all the people who weren’t doing anything to lift the world off of me.  It took me a long time to push back and say I was not going to carry it all, and that I was also not going to finish everything on my plate just to make others happy.

It took me a long time to realize that in maintaining my weight, in finding my metaphorical and literal center and in feeding myself, that meant I should only eat what I wanted, and that this was both an enormous privilege (in having money and choice, both of which I have gone without) and a burden in that I’d have to speak up for myself and do the work.  I would eat— or not eat, if I wasn’t hungry— what I had prepared for myself, but I’d have to make it.  I would not have feel grateful for food I hadn’t asked for, or eat things I expressly disliked, or have to put up with something that someone plopped down on my plate and told me to finish or it would mean I didn’t love them. Because really, if they’d been paying attention, why would they shove that weighty glop on me in the first place?  But first I’d have to say– no thanks.  I’m full.

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It isn’t full circle

It isn’t full circle, I have to tell myself that, when I find myself in a chair no one held six years ago when I was falling apart and people asked, “Was I doing okay,” but took it at mostly face value when I said yes, then let me fall apart and drop off the face of the earth, only to slowly scotch tape, duct tape, Krazy glue myself back together with no one’s particular help (no matter how much I did try to ask, too little too late, but still, I did ask and they vowed, marital, Hippocratic, parental, but still, they all failed, when asked they unanswered).

It isn’t full circle, I have to tell myself that, that I now sit in the chair that no one held six years ago and tell the truth I did not want to hear.  ”You are not doing okay,” I say, and lay out the hard options, which are take the time off which is some hardship, or take the exit and the door will hit you hard in the ass on the way out, and trust me, that will take longer to recover from.  I don’t say, “I’ve been there,” but I do say that maybe the time off will give them time to straighten things out, and if not, at least give them time to make a more graceful exit.  It’s hard to be kind, but if it’s not kind, it’s true, and it’s a truth no one told me and a tough love I had to learn all by myself (a love for myself I had to learn, too, when the people who owed me nothing didn’t bother to extend me anything, either).

So, no. It isn’t full circle.  It’s miles and loops and six years ahead of myself. And fuck yes, it’s hard, because I want to cry with them, too, and cry for myself, for who I was then and still always will be, just a bit, always a little raggedy-broken unevenly stuck to myself in places it hurts to detach myself from to sit in a different chair than where I ever expected to be— but that is the joy and the pain of learning and growing and doing something for others that no one bothered to do for you.

It isn’t full circle, it’s a line, and it’s a line going forward. That’s better.

(Easier than) waiting around to die

(Trigger warnings for discussions of suicidality, family drama, and other A+ parenting issues.  Also, as usual, language.  This is a sort of undecided, sort of open-ended piece because I need to tweak my meds again and am feeling more than a little blue, but I have already called my shrink & let my therapist know I feel lousy, in case you’re wondering.)

I read some author’s line someplace that we sometimes feel like can’t be who we really are until everyone who’s known us is dead.  Sometimes, it’s even true by circumstances of money or other constraints– you don’t have the freedom to tell other people and their expectations to go screw, and sometimes just heading out for the hills and reinventing yourself somewhere, somewhen else is not in the cards. Continue reading

(Links) Narcissist parents

Raeyn at The Scarlet B blogs thoughtfully & consistently about all kinds of things, including family/life balance and managing the ups & downs of Bipolar 2, but recently she’s been posting about narcissist parents & terminating the relationship, with helpful links to different blogs, including this one at The Invisible Scar.

It’s a subject I’m all over the place about, and still feeling raw & aswirl when I try to write something down.   Continue reading

La Lupa

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I am frequently asked if I have children– I don’t ask people why they ask me that question.  Is it because I am a woman of a certain age and it’s a “natural” assumption to believe that women over 25 should have children?  Is it because I’m not obviously a hyper-masculine bull-dyke and I wear Mary-Janes with quirky socks that coordinate with my clothes that are straight out of an L.L. Bean catalogue?  Is it because my behavior codes as maternal, in my brusque & busybody kind of way?  Is it because I work in a “helping” job and am usually the one with the common sense and resources/information to untangle people’s messes for them?  How do these qualities come to be associated with maternal/”do you have kids?” rather than just “oh my God, you people are idiots, step aside and let me fix this,” which is sometimes what my inner narrator feels like a lot of the time?  I try not to let that uncharitable & condescending sentiment show outside my head if I can.  Is it just that we live in a society where asking about children is part of trying to get to know who someone is?  (Why is that?) Continue reading

Ask for it

If there’s something you want, something you need, ask for it.

You have to ask for it, because it’s the only way to make sure you’re going to get it.

Other people aren’t psychic, much less as attentive or empathetic as we’d like them to be.  You might mention it once, but what’s the off chance they’ll 1) remember and 2) care enough amidst the noise in their own heads to act on your expressed need or desire?

This bleak fact, that at the end of the day, we ourselves are the only ones who can make sure we get what we need, what will make us sane, healthy, happy, and that the people we care or love about, by DNA-roll-of-the-dice or by choice may not be able to deliver, even with prompting, is the hardest lesson of being a “grown-up,” and the one I struggle with all the time.

Asking for help, rather than expecting people to see I need it– asking for hugs, or giving them out so I can get one in return– repeating myself over and over about “no, I do not want to celebrate my birthday and it’s not a thing that’s going to happen,” and then carrying through rather than caving– expressing the need for solitude, or quiet, or to not be the one making decisions about anything from what’s for dinner to how some social activity ought/not to go– these are all exquisitely hard at times, especially when I do manage to say them clearly around the hesitations of not wanting to feel like I am actually as bossy/ bitchy/ a spoilsport/ just acting crazy again as other people might think I am for standing up for myself.  Other peoples’ reactions and criticisms are still really wounding.  I still get really paranoid around silence, and overanalyze what’s going on in that silent reaction.

Brene Brown writes in her books about shame versus guilt– that shame is silencing & paralyzing, but guilt isn’t.  I haven’t read enough of her books to have worked out my own processes to pinpoint all the things that make me shame-turtle, but the “you shouldn’t need help and it’s wrong to ask for it” message clearly got driven home at some point.  At some point, my incapacity to competently and intelligently handle a situation all on my own (even when, objectively, it’s more than any one person could handle), or my need for others to give me some positive emotional reinforcement got deeply entwined with my being a “bad” person if I had to ask for help.  If it was freely given, then maybe it was something I could consider accepting (although even then it was suspect, because I have known lots of people who were just manipulative in the end and that reinforced the “don’t ask” button in a different way).  In the meantime, I put on a brave face or a brusque face or just straight out lie.

And asking doesn’t guarantee that you’ll get the help that you need.  You might get half-measures, or none, and have to still do it yourself, with the anti-climax of breached trust in your fellow humans.  (Hooray!?!  At least it tells you who not to waste your energy on? Framing shit as teachable moments just sucks.)  Sometimes, you’ll get help from unexpected quarters– and that’s good, in the end, but can be complex if you’ve been less than gracious to those folks beforehand, and so you’ve got to reevaluate your own shitty behavior.

I’m writing this on day one of my leave of absence, after precisely two hugs (freely given) and four and a half well-meant expressions of taking it easy or good luck or likewise from direct coworkers. I did get several more well-wishes from folks in my working group, and some unexpected help from that quarter, too– which means, again, that I have to examine the divide between my own self-perception and others’ willingness to help when asked not by me, but my boss. I am seriously questioning how long I will stay at my job once I return, having talked myself off the ledge of trying to quit while I’ll out– but the larger question of the cluelessless and/or disinterest of most of my coworkers and my need to look at what I can do to prevent future overexertion as well as to identify– what is it I like about the job, in case I do decide to look elsewhere, what I need to change in this workplace in me and in others for me to tolerate staying, and what conversations I need to have with colleagues & higher ups to see what would work.

Of course, there are other things to do.  Sleep.  Read.  Socialize.  Tackle the garden.  File for divorce.  Get my dad’s mortgage resettled.  Other family health & legal projects.  They will be good distractions and anxiety-reducers around the hard work of “how did I get here again,” and “how do I ask for what else I need to keep going?”

 

Barking mad

There’s a large (large) standard black poodle who lives across the street– I never see him being taken out for a walk, though I’ll admit my own hours are irregular enough.  When I see him, it’s because I’m walking home from the bus stop and he’s got the run of the side & back yard, but is otherwise locked out of the house.

Every single time, this absolute monster of a dog hurls himself bodily down the stairs and at the wooden fence around the yard until it shudders, barking his head off in a furor.  It’s scary, how violently he hurls himself against the fence, and today as I was walking back to the house I noted that a part of the fence was actually broken and down– and that he wasn’t out, snarling and barking and otherwise creating a ruckus of– well, it’s hard to tell.  Was he trying to get back in the house?  Out of the yard?  Trying to tear off the head of any intruder?  Or taken someplace where he didn’t have a cruddy little side yard as his only outdoors, when he stands probably four feet tall at his head?  (This dog is big, and so is his bark.)

Since today’s bus ride was punctuated by what I’d thought was a crazy lady who was also the offspring of a racist dyspeptic parrot with nonstop complaints about the way the current MBTA was run– only to find, later, once the bus was less crammed, that it was the driver herself who was making all us poor entrapped riders absolutely crazy having to listen to all of her yammer about the goddamned demographic changes to my fair city, traffic, and the general state of the world (and I do mean nonstop), the broken fence on the way home had me noting Scary Poodle’s absence and wondering– how does he get his walks in– and his barking fury all out– when the fence is broken, poor thing?  And why did none of us shout at the crazy bus driver to just CAN IT ALREADY?

I’ve been feeling particularly invisible and unheard lately– it’s something that gets triggered whenever there’s a flare up with my mom, and then my dad will push those buttons as well.  Partly it’s seasonal depresssion & med changes, partly it’s some work situational stuff, but some of it is stuff that I’ve never been good at dealing with and when I get angry or sad, I get really silent until I don’t, at which point I explode, and either rant and rave or get razor sharp.  In the former case, I get told I’m crazy, and in the latter case, I get told I’m mean, but in either event they’re emotions that aren’t allowed because I’m the in control one, and if I’m angry and inarticulate and pissed off and just want time to myself, then that is a massive inconvenience to the people (former husband, father, people at work) whom I usually help.  I’m in a sort of build-up stage right now and have been tweaking my meds, but my dad has also been really crazy lately and my husband particularly stupid about a tax matter even though he fucked me over a few years ago so I don’t know why he expected he could hone in on joint filing status forever, and so I am really primed to be pushed into a reaction that’s horrid, explosive, and mean if either of them (or some particular situations at work) push me the wrong way.  Mostly, I’ve been trying to keep my mouth shut until I can calm down enough to say something to the point and not too awful.

The fact remains, though– in any situation where my BULLSHIT meter gets jammed, my reaction might be amplified, but the fact that I have a mental health diagnosis doesn’t mean that I am not allowed to just be normally tired, exhausted, annoyed, pissed off, and in need of blowing off steam in ways I would never express in public, but ought to be allowed to do safely, at home, without judgement, in safety, at home.  Isn’t that what home is supposed to be?  A safe, supportive environment where your needs are respected?  (Excuse me for a moment of hysterical laughter at the lack of ever having had that, and yet asking that rhetorical question.)

Criticizing me, telling me that I’m wrong to feel the way that I do or that I chose my situation and so I just need to suck it up, refusing to actually listen to the words coming out of my mouth because your own paranoia/denial is so in the way, or cross-examining me about a situation you know nothing about and that you can’t be bothered to stop interrupting me long enough to pay attention to and actually be curious enough to actually learn– all that does is make me fucking furious and invisible and ashamed all at once, because what it says to me is you think I’m doing it wrong even though you have no idea how to do it yourself, and that I have no right to have a shitty day, though you have every right to complain about your shitty life without having to hear criticism about the way your shitty life choices have fed into your current circumstances.  Pardon me for affording you the safe space and the respect of believing you’re an adult who’s aware of your own shortcomings and that except in more dire moments I don’t need to constantly remind you that on occasion, you can be kind of an ass (or whatever descriptor is relevant to the moment at hand)– and that I let you have the audience your ego needs, but you can’t let me just vent in peace, and can’t stand your own company, either, to the extent that when I need solitude you have to pester me to the point that you do trigger a manic raging reaction, because you can’t fix it, and it’s not my obligation to make you feel better about the fact that I’m not paying attention to you or being the competent one in the face of your asking if I want a cup of tea, or what am I making for supper?

I DON’T WANT TEA, and you can make your own fucking food.  I want you to stop interrupting me.  I want you to listen.  I want you to care.  I want you to not criticize my choices, because God knows you’ve made your fair share.  And if you can’t keep your mouth shut on what you think is “useful advice,” then goddamned bite your tongue and repeat the Golden Rule inside your head until you memorize it, because I am capable of making my own bad decisions, including whether I am sleeping too much or not eating enough or spending too much time in my room, and I care too much about your opinion, so consequently, I am no longer going to let myself give one flying fuck what you think, because you can’t be bothered to pay attention, to listen, to really care to anything except your own emotional comfort.

That crazy poodle who broke that fence might have been scary, but I know how he feels– sometimes you just have to throw yourself at the wall, over and over, yelling at the top of your lungs, until something cracks.  And while today’s crazy bus driver had a captive audience to her solo performance and no one responded, I kind of get what she was doing.  Sometimes you just have to keep repeating yourself, no matter how crazy you sound, over and over, until someone responds.  Even if it’s just a “have a nice day” when you get off the bus.

I do hope the poodle made his escape.