Waiting for happiness

Getting some house-keeping stuff out of the way, yesterday was weigh-in Wednesday and my weight is back up a bit, which I actually kind of expected, so, in the end, I am proud that I didn't let that deter me from stepping on the scale and facing the truth. The only problem is, I am pretty sure my scale is a POS, as it gave me and M 2-3 different readings within a span of a couple minutes. So, I'll get a new scale - no bigs.

I was expecting my weight to have gone up this week, because my eating has been erratic since my particularly emotional therapy session on Monday. I know I was feeling a lot of sadness and I remember addressing a lot of anger that I haven't yet processed, mostly because anger scares me, for a number of reasons. I grew up in a society and family, in which women were not allowed to show anger. They for sure got angry, because there was just so much to be pissed about, but the message that showing anger as a woman was not ladylike or it made you unpleasant or, perish the thought, a bitch, was subtly and overtly present, almost like an unwritten commandment. Living in Germany - a place where effective communication is more important than being tactful - for someone as sensitive as I am has proven sometimes difficult and very painful, but it has also taught me some very important lessons about communication, honesty, and taking care of yourself. I learned that, just like you can take holding your tongue to the extreme, so as to remain quiet even in situations that make you uncomfortable, you can take being honest to the extreme and use it as a sanctimonious shield that protects you from responsibility when your words are unfair and cutting. That being said, I do firmly believe that there are aspects of both that can be conjoined to form a happy medium: practising tact, having a good sense of time (when do I remain silent vs. when do I get loud), while still being an honest person. It's a delicate balance, but it seems like a noble thing to pursue. That being said, I would still take dodging arrows of aggressive "truth" over maneuvering loaded, tense silences barbed with passive-aggression any day. At least with the archer, I know where I stand. More than that, I've grown to resent this aspect of my upbringing - the one that created so deep within me the instinct to remain silent even when my insides are screaming for me to pipe up. This has been a struggle and I imagine it will continue to be, but I suppose life doesn't have to be about toiling under the weight of struggle, but living up to embracing it and becoming stronger for it.

It also came up in my session that, as a child, I lived in a constant state of waiting for the next fucked up thing to happen: waiting to be made fun of and rejected by other kids at school, waiting to hear my Dad's truck pull into the drive in the evening, waiting for something to trip his hair trigger temper (not surprisingly, it was perfectly acceptable for men to show anger), waiting to be in an uncomfortable situation that I felt powerless to protect myself against. And, conversely, waiting for the moments of reprieve I had to take when I could get them, waiting someone to swoop in and take me to a place where I could feel safe and comfortable, waiting for validation that, no you're not crazy, something is rotten in the state of Denmark. I realized that this set a precedent in my mind and body and, jesus, THIS is where that scared, nervous energy comes from. This morning I realized that this is probably also where my tendency to wait for happiness comes from. I cannot say for how long - most likely for as long as I can remember - I've been waiting for that big break in my career, waiting to lose weight (and waiting until then to accept and love myself), waiting for that moment for everything to falls into (and stay) in place. Intellectually, I knew that those moments are choices I can make now or they don't exist, but this sense of waiting on my heels - ears pricked and nose to the wind, ready to run at the first signs of danger - has never gone away. I've been physically putting down roots for years but, in my mind, I've been ready to flee. I've worked jobs, so, so many fucking jobs, and thought, ok, I am here for now, but this isn't it. This can't be it, but... WHAT IS IT? Only to be followed by, what the fuck is wrong with me? I think I assumed that this unrelenting sense of dis-ease was me expecting too much and not being grateful enough for what I do have. This could be part of it, but I think it goes deeper than that. Maybe, I have to first take root in myself before I can lay down roots in my life. Maybe I have to inhabit my body, wholeheartedly, before I can inhabit the world I've created for myself. This definitely feels true, but I know I have to untangle some vines, pull up weeds, and let in some light before I can expect my inner world to be fertile.

Frankenstein's Mother

I had a dream this morning that my mother could walk and communicate again. She was talking about how great she felt - she seemed excited and full of energy. You could tell that she wasn't "normal," for lack of a better word, but I could have actually had a conversation with the dream version of my mother. We could have gone on a short walk together. She could have told me stories of her misadventures and I could have told her abridged versions of mine. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like interacting with my mom as an adult. What would it be like to email each other things, letting each other know, "I'm thinking of you." What would we chat about on skype? If I were sad or feeling lost, what advice would she give me to help me find my way? Would she come visit me in Hamburg and what would she like to see when she got here? She would be there for my wedding and we could drink wine and get tipsy. Maybe we'd even dance together.
Who would my mother be if she hadn't been drifting further away from us for the past fifteen years? Who was she when she was younger? I am pretty sure she was a mischievous girl, but she would never tell me for sure, I think because some part of her feared I would use it as justification to make the same mistakes. Like, she must have assumed I was exactly the wrong person to share those things with. Either that or she was ashamed. I don't know which one is worse.
I caught myself wondering earlier, "When is my therapist going to tell me what to do?" And then I realized that I'm already doing the work. The feelings are the work. And it sucks so fucking much.

I had a session just this morning and this one was particularly emotional. An adult connection with my mother may not be possible, but I do have one with my brother. Missing home feels like nostalgia, missing my mother is like grieving a ship leaving a harbor, but missing my brother is very real. He sent me a text the other day, saying that he hoped I was enjoying my life here, but he missed me. He said we needed to stick together. I have not been able to stop thinking about it, because he doesn't share feelings loosely so, when he does, it carries a lot of weight. Missing where I come from and the people I left behind always comes with guilt. I alone add the guilt as an act of self-flagellation. The messages that I am bad or wrong and that I need to be punished for it are very deep-seated in my body. I don't know if those things go away, but I sure as fuck hope so.
When it comes to childhood dysfunction, or with anything challenging, the only way out is through. There are no shortcuts.

Going Down the Rabbit Hole. Willingly.

Hellllllllo, lovers!
Wednesdays are weigh-in days and, as it should happen, I am down another 1+ kg! This is super awesommmmmmmmme.
Things in general are still kind of precarious, though I would say that my underlying mood is still kind of negative. Bottom line, I am hanging in there.

I am just realizing that there is a difference between intellectually digesting and emotionally processiong problems. Even though I have been working through childhood shit for years and years, I feel like I am just now beginning the work. Like I've mentioned before, there is a long road ahead of me, but I cannot express my relief that the path is finally in view.

Sending my love and support!

Uncle!

God damn, y'all. I have been being actively, super fucking mean to myself for (at least) the past two weeks. It kicked off when I put a dent into this woman's car, as I was getting out of the taxi that was taking us home from the airport. We'd just gotten home - well, we'd almost gotten home - from our trip to London that was equal parts exciting, expensive and stressful. Exciting because we were visiting lovely friends, expensive because what in the fuck is happening in major cities across the planet and stressful because holiday weekend and oh my GOD there were tourists literally everywhere. Also, turnstiles in the tube system, London? Really? Have you not met yourself?
We were only there for a few days and, given the enormity of the city, this is nowhere near enough time to even see all the sights (I feel compelled to mention that, in German, sights are referred to as "Things-Worth-Seeing"), much less get a feel for the city or eat enough pasties and puddings. Let me also take this time to defend English food: it may not be healthy, but dammit, it's tasty. MUSHY PEAS, I tell you! So simple, yet so scrumptious. One last thing - I may have been carrying a bit (a lot) of resentment towards the English, which I must recant, to some extent. The English people I interacted with while there were nothing but polite, helpful and very friendly. I'M SORRY FATHER ENGLAND, ok? My bad. *drops tangent mic*
The be-terribly-mean-to-yourself spree kicked into high gear once I got my days. One night, I noticed myself slipping into the abyss of hopelessness, when I remembered that I was about to enter shark week and realized that I must have been PMSing. The only reason I knew that this was a possible explanation for the dour mood is that I have an app that tracks my period. How often has it happened that I've slipped into depression without realizing that it was a part of my lunar cycle? Regardless, I was upset about the taxi incident, and have been a bundle of overly sensitive, raw nerves ever since starting strawberry week. What the crap is this? Is this really what I have to expect every month until I go through the change? Isn't menopause supposed to be worse, though? Don't you get even more depressed, plus you get the flop-sweats? WHAT THE FUCK. Am I just now coming to terms with what it means to be a woman?
The red tide is subsiding and I'm calling uncle - I don't have the energy to be a harpy to myself any more this week and some part of me knows that I don't deserve it anyway.

That's all I got, internet.

One Step After Another

Hello dearies,

I weighed in today and, as it should happen, I lost a kilo! I am totally amped. :D

There is some shittiness swirling around my life at the moment, but I have been driving myself so crazy with all of it that I don't even have the energy to write about it now. Just send me good vibes and wishes that things turn out for the best.

Hugs!

What skinny jean nightmare is this and when can I wake up?

Shopping for anything besides socks and shoes is a hellacious soul-suck.

Real (fat) talk

Oh my loves,

I started a fab weight-loss memoir yesterday and have not been able to put it down since. It is... so many things that I am not sure where to begin. The accuracy with which she describes some of the experiences that you can, more or less, be promised as an obese woman is head-noddingly, painfully accurate. She is an inspiration, not only because of her dedication and patience, but also because she accomplished something I could only dream of. She started a blog detailing her weight loss journey (um, hi) and eventually penned two books about her experiences of losing-gaining-losing and re-gaining a staggering amount of weight. Dudes, I am trying not to be jealous, but I am totally kind of jealous.
When I was younger, I always considered myself a writer, in that I often found myself writing. I have kept a journal from a very young age, with some regularity. I LOVED creative writing in school, especially when it came to expressing my emotions or working through troubling things from my past (hello again), though I never so much cared for writing essays or research papers. Or fiction. I take that back. I never gave writing fiction that much of a go and, the few times I did, I wrote some steaming piles and gave up in discouragement. My freshman year of college, I had a professor who loved student adoration and knew exactly how to elicit it, and I was too young to realize he was a bit inappropriate and not the final word on anything other than Dante's Divine Comedy. Sure, he had plenty of interesting, valuable things to teach me, but he inadvertently crushed my hyper-sensitive writer's spirit with some unfair feedback on a terribly written essay of mine. That was over ten years ago, I am ashamed to admit, and only recently have I been able to let it go and say, "oh man, fuck that guy so hard." I love writing and I think I finally understand that it is a process: editing is my very good friend and no one shits gold.
I think I have a definite voice that is as strong as my IRL personality, which I am not afraid to say is shining. So, what's the difference between PastaQueen and me? She actually lost weight, that's what. More importantly, she used her blog to hold herself accountable. So, here it is, y'all: I weigh 116 kg (kilograms feel not so intimidating for me, for some reason). My goal weight is 70 kg - this is about how much I weighed when I was the fittest I'd ever been in my adult life. I felt radiantly healthy, strong, confident and like I could conquer the world. And I deserve to feel that way again. I don't have a "plan" as of yet, but I will start thinking of things I can add to my life that make me feel all those things, even though I am a long way away from weighing 70 kg. Because, yes Sarah, you even deserve to feel that way right now.

Baby steps, for they are still steps!