"I know"

I know I hate being wrong. Sirens and flashing lights go off in my stomach when I am proven wrong and I am afraid my cover is blown. Look, eveybody! She's stupid. She doesn't know what she's talking about. How could we have ever thought she was clever.
I know I am funny. I know I love comedy. I know I wish I had the balls to write and perform comedy. I know comedy was one of the first defense mechanisms I developed to protect myself. I needed to be funny to distract people - it was all smoke and mirrors. Look over here! Isn't this great? I thought if I could keep people laughing long enough they wouldn't think to make fun of me for being the fat kid. In my family, I was often a clown because there was so much tension - there were so many conflicts we avoided. Conversations were sometimes like a minefield. There were all these unspoken subjects we were not supposed to brooch. Things felt wrong. I couldn't say why or for what reason. I had no frame or reference of perspective, but I knew it felt uncomfortable. So I would joke to give the illusion that everything was ok.
I know that the first time I ever ate compulsively was when I was 4 years old. We had just moved from the middle of the piney woods, close to my father's family, to a small town close to the gulf where my mother had grown up as a little girl. I know that my grandfather was taking care of me while everyone else worked and that we had gone to my parent's house so he could cut the grass. I don't know if they'd asked him to - I know he loved cutting grass and that he would cut people's lawns without them having asked and without him having announced he would. I know he always felt offended when people didn't say thank you. I know that I was alone in my new house. I know that there were ice cream sandwiches in the freezer. I know I thought at the time, I am going to probably get in trouble for this later, but right now I don't care. I know I ate four in a row. I know I knew that was far too many ice cream sandwiches for one little girl to eat.

"I don't remember"

I don't remember how or when I learned to fear men. I don't remember where I learned to feel unsafe in their presence. I could never remember if a man had hurt me when I was little or if I innately learned from the women in my life, and their open wounds inflicted by men, to be wary.
I don't remember feeling safe. Or comfortable. I don't remember thinking this was out of the ordinary. I don't remember feeling like a child.
I don't remember feeling unafraid of words or judgment. I don't remember thinking, fuck them. I know who I am and I don't care what they think or say.
I don't remember kindness to myself. I don't remember being able to embrace myself, saying it's ok. I am here. I've always been here and I will always be here. I love you. We will get through this together.
I don't remember when I knew I loved to write or why I ever denied my love for setting pen to paper. I know why I grew uncertain of my abilities and I know why I shied away from writing, but I don't remember why I chose to hold on to that criticism for so long.
I don't remember ever feeling like I was enough. I know I would fall asleep many nights going through the never-ending laundry list of things I would change about myself, if I could: I wish I were skinny; I wish I had green eyes; I wish I had the long, spindly legs of a dancer; I wish my skin were dewy and fresh and free of blemishes and stretch marks; I wish I had nice clothes, that I looked like I belonged; I wish I had strong, toned arms... and on and on until I finally just drifted off to sleep. I don't remember when I stopped doing that.

"I remember" workout

I remember learning vocabulary at my grandmother's house after lunch, sitting next to her on their scratchy, unforgiving rust-colored couch. She smelled of Noxzema and toothpaste. Noxzema was her cure-all and she was so obsessive about brushing her teeth, that she had scrubbed them of their enamel.
I remember sweaty, oppressive, Louisiana heat, pressing in on me from all directions. Making me feel like to move was to exert the most effort physically possible. I remember loathing it, needing the air conditioning. I never realized the sun was mostly to thank for the heat. I miss the sun so much now. It's visceral, my desire to live in a place with the bright warmth on my face, shining through my eyelids, making my skin a little ruddier, though rarely tan.
I remember the smell of the public library. That welcomed rush of cold, cold air that was the horseman of a mustiness that can only be pleasant when coming from books. I remember my desire to know overwhelming my curiosity and keeping me from thumbing through a book, any book.
I remember magazines - stacks and stacks of magazines that I wanted to be important to me, but just weren't. I collected magazine after magazine dedicated to Lady Diana after her sudden death but I don't think I ever read a single one. Then of course there were all those other stacks of magazines about teenage boys on television with horrible center-parted hair and too-big flannel shirts. Later there were stacks of Cosmo. Those magazines were both who I wanted to be and who I hoped to deny I actually was. It was similar with books and music. And movies. And sometimes acquaintances.
I remember being so free after high school but also not because I was deathly afraid of myself and everyone else. I was not myself, then again I had no clue who I was. I was groping my way through jungles of self-doubt, anxiety and fear. I have yet to emerge.

Inventory

A) What was particularly nice about today?
-going for a nice, long walk in the woods
-waking up to my smiling, chatty baby
-visiting with a new friend
-listening to Dear Sugar

B) What did you do today that you are proud of?
-I remembered that being proud of myself was a choice and, when I remembered, pulled my shoulders together and down my back, so that my head was automatically held high
-I got out of the apartment even though the weather was super Hamburg-y
-I got out of the apartment to treat myself to time with a smart, funny, interesting woman
-I noticed myself fretting about something I have no control over and managed to cease the constant flow of worry

C) What did you do particularly well today?
-I cooked two delcious meals

Full disclosure

It occurred to me that there are a couple of things I either want to come clean about or cop to or maybe just say out loud, I don't really know.
I don't believe in god any more.
I don't believe there is any inherent purpose or meaning to life.
I believe positive thinking is important and beneficial to one's health. I believe overall health is a sum total of mental, physical and emotional health. But I no longer believe that positive thinking has the power to draw things into your life that you want or to heal disease. (Yes, I completely believed those things. Had I not mentioned that? I had my reasons and they were based on my own personal experiences.) Fuck, I have wasted so much money on self help books. Which like, isn't the concept of self-help BOOKS, plural, ridiculous?? Shouldn't there just be one or MAYBE like a handful? I own so many, I could open a small book shop, composed of one, almost completely full, bookshelf.

when am I?

I got to reconnect with a good, old friend yesterday - one of the dear pets I had forgotten to tell about my pregnancy and little L's dramatic entrance to life. She seemed to appreciate the trauma of our NICU experience more and more as our conversation carried on. That evening, she wrote me a beautiful email about how astonished both she and her little 5 year old daughter were about just how tiny L was when he was born.
Our conversation showed me how far I've come since L was first born, in that I was able to talk about his birth without getting too emotional. She asked me at one point how old I was and, admittedly, I didn't know. On this past birthday, I "celebrated" in the NICU with my baby, other parents whose children were in our room and L's nurses and doctors. I somehow found the time and energy to bake everyone cookies (this is German tradition. you basically bribe people with sweets so they have to tell you happy birthday if they want some.) and S and I went to a Christmas market in the evening, where I had one mulled wine and a sausage. It wasn't the worst birthday I've ever had (that's a tie between my second and ninth grade birthdays, when not one person came to my party and my only friend went to my ex-best friend's party instead of hanging out with me, respectively), mainly because I don't really give a shit about birthdays any more. It's safe to say it wasn't the best birthday either. Still, I was shocked to realize my last birthday was of so little consequence to me that I'd completely forgotten how old I was. SPOILER: I am 33.
I held it together talking about his NICU stay but that email? Man, I sobbed like a baby. I may have come a long way, but I know I am not over it. Not that crying is necessarily proof that you're not over something, but it's usually a good indicator. I was talking to a former classmate, who also had a baby in the NICU, about something similar. She was talking about how she and her husband still haven't recovered from their baby's birth and she's been home from the hospital for a year. I said I think recovery, if you are graced by its presence, is a miracle. I think most of the time it never comes. Yes, you can move on. Yes, you can carve out new grooves. But I don't know if things ever go back to the way they were. And really, they shouldn't. Honestly. What would be the point? If I survive some kind of trauma, I at least want to learn something from it. If I am not open to letting scary, painful things shape me, life will be a lot more uncomfortable and pointless than it already is.

Letter to my mother #3

Dear Momma,

Next Sunday will be my first mother's day as a mom and, while I am proud of all I've been through to call myself one, I am so terribly sad and lonesome for you.
Before little L came into our lives, I had been struggling with what I've been told is mild depression. It has felt graver than mild at times, but I've never reached a point where I couldn't make it out of bed to dress myself and go through the motions of my myriad responsibilities. If there's one good thing I have from the all-pervasive sense of guilt I inherited from you (not blaming you), it's an unflagging sense of duty. It has not always served me well, but has proven to be a boon to my professional life, so thank you! While I have always been prone to being sulky, my sadness worsened in my late twenties and, though I've experienced moments of joy, I've never been able to recover the sense of inner stability I enjoyed for a brief period right before things went off kilter. If I had to pinpoint the most salient aspects of my depression, they would be: an overwhelming sense of hopelessness and the inability to get out of my own head.
Little L has greatly helped the latter. I cannot afford to spend all day, every day, trapped in the rabbit hole. He grants me the permission I need to fixate on something besides my faults. In that way (and in many others) he has helped to heal some old wounds in me. Having him has given me clarity on certain things I didn't understand when I was a little girl: why you worried all the time; why you were always so tired; why you were resentful and angry. Having him has made me immeasurably more grateful and in awe of the sacrifices you made to make sure J and I had everything we needed and then some. Having L has also transformed certain curiosities from my past into unsolvable mysteries: how and why you stayed with Dad; how you did everything alone without going stark raving mad; how Dad could be so dismissive of lives he helped create; how he could take a knee on the banal and grueling minutia of parenthood, yet still always show up in the winner's circle.
I wish now more than ever that you could have given yourself a life closer to what you deserved, because you deserved so much more than you received.

You forged my heart in the fire of your undying love for me. It belongs to you forever.

I love you,
Sarah

Beginning where I am

My life has completely changed between my last post and today. I didn't mention it explicitly in my last post, but I was pregnant with my first child, a boy, the last time I wrote. I had a rather normal pregnancy my first two trimesters, but shortly after entering my third, I became sick and nothing I seemed to do made a difference. My OBGYN sent me to my general physician, who was unfortunately out of his depth and could not determine what was wrong. For a week and a half, I vacillated between being so ill I could not eat, drink or sleep and feeling relatively normal, albeit increasingly worried. I finally went to the hospital, where my son and I were placed under close and constant observation. The status of my health had normalized, improved even, until the early morning hours when it worsened rapidly. I was delirious with pain, so delirious I started praying for what would have been a miracle -- I was diagnosed with HELLP syndrome, an extreme form of pre-eclampsia, which can only be "cured" by delivery. Knowing no more about my condition than my doctors told me, I thought with enough fortitude of spirit and positive thinking I could beat it. I can see now how naive that is, but fear and blinding, searing pain clouded my judgment. Less than two days after I entered the hospital, my doctors decided to deliver my son per emergency c-section at 27+5 gestational weeks.
The first time I saw my son was an out-of-body experience. I was numb from shock, yet still somehow terrified. He was so tiny, like a naked and weak baby bird. Looking at him, I couldn't imagine how he'd survive and was petrified that he wouldn't. But he fought his way through six grueling weeks in the NICU and another 3 in the step-down station. He has now been home longer than he was in the hospital and I am in awe of him. He is all of my pride.

The past half a year or so has thrown my health into sharp focus, but my attitude is so different than it has been in a while. With time comes distance and with distance comes perspective -- I can see now how I've been fighting myself, trying to force and shame myself into becoming my healthiest self, so no wonder I've only grown more and more frustrated with time. This approach never inspires lasting change. I remember that loving myself is the only way. Loving myself is simple but not easy, so thankfully it's a process, rather than one sweeping decision.
I want my son to love himself as much as his father and I do. I want to love myself as much as I love my son. Self love is the key to not only lasting, positive change, it is the key to being the mother my son deserves. I hope to make him as proud of me as I am of him.

Reddit Gold

Hello loves,

Checking back in, with some words to live by I found on the front page today...
From a card to a man who's just entered rehab to treat an amphetamine addiction, sent to him by his grandfather: "Do the work. Be the prize. Love, Pa"
I SWOON!

Hugs to everyone

We've All Got Secrets

I've mentioned before that reading post secret is a Sunday tradition of mine. Every now and again, there will be a secret that hits so close to home, I half wonder if I sent one in and completely blocked out the memory. Here is today's eerily accurate secret I could have sent in myself, but did not:

PRIZZA

No, I don't.

Two weeks ago, my doctor recommended that I watch my sugar and carbohydrate intake, which I have been, outside of succumbing to the occasional slice of cake at work. Small aside, what is it with sweets at work? They are damn near inescapable. Do we keep ourselves in sugar hazes, to numb the reality that is our unfulfilling professional lives? I'm reaching, but damn. People steady bringing cake, cookies, candy to work. It's out of control.

Sweet jesus, mozzarella di buffalo

Back to my point. I've tried low-carb variations of dishes in the past couples weeks, because I don't always want to deny all carb cravings. Sugar cravings are different - in my experience, once I succumb, there is little turning back. They are intense directly after going off sugar or when I am fatigued, but they do subside over time and with adequate rest. Carb cravings are more difficult to quell, especially considering how much of a sucker I am for all things bread. Noodles and breads are the players I've attempted to recast, to varying degrees of success. I made carrot noodles* the other day and was disappointed with the sweetness. They were not even in the same stratosphere of pasta in terms of mouth feel, comfort and satisfaction. But I did not slip into a coma after eating them either, so it's important to remember the trade-offs. I've heard good things about zucchini noodles, but I have been gun shy to try them again after getting ill from a batch I made months ago. I baked a low-carb bread recipe I found (it was basically a mostly savoury, intensely nutty cake) that was not offensively bad, but not so good that I wanted to eat it. I cooked savoury chickpea flour pancakes* the other night, topped with cheese and roasted mushrooms, and they were tasty and filling. They can stay. Last night, I had such a hankering for prizza** that I mustered the energy to cook on a sweltering Friday night, after a grueling week. Having the 'gredients for cauliflower crust already on-hand, plus tomato sauce, buffalo mozzarella and fresh basil, was half the battle. Imagine my elation when it was actually GOOD. No footnotes, not caveats, just straight up good. I will grant you that my crust was still a little too soft, but I attribute that to never having made it before. 10/10 would cook and nom again.

I am still on the lookout for low-carb recipes that don't make we want to flip a table or rob a bakery and turn into this guy. Will keep you posted.

This seemed like a good idea, but now I want to die.

* these are not the actual recipes I used, but I would try them and I might. If I do, I'll let you know if they're any good.

**I realize I keep misspelling pizza. It's a nod to Dr. Steve Brule.

Letter to My Mother, #2

Dearest Mom,

The Prophet was right when he said, "love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation." You've been stepping farther and farther away from the shore, so I've been placing tiny pieces of my heart in little glass bottles and setting them out to sea. I've plumbed the depths of my love for you and I am amazed to find it has no end. No beginning, no end, only an endless ocean that has no boundaries or limits.

I wrote to Dad the other day about approaching milestones in my life and he said he was sad you weren't here to enjoy them with us. Here is what I wrote to him in response:

"I know, Dad. I am sad, too. I am sad I don't get to share our happy news with her. I am sad I don't get to call her up and ask for her sage wisdom when life is scary or confusing. This is grief - being in the sadness, feeling all parts of it, letting it wash over you. I think grief is like any emotional hurt, in that it comes in waves. There is an ebb and a tide, but I don't know if it ever goes away. But there's something beautiful about the pain of grief that isn't always true about other emotional wounds. It hurts so much because we love so deeply and because the love we received was so great. It's no real consolation, it's never the same, we'll never be the same, but I know that her love made us all better people. And I know no one can take that away from me, so in that regard, I'm happy I'll always get to keep little pieces of her, even though she'll be taking pieces of me with her."

I don't know why so much of my love for and grief about losing you has to do with the ocean, but it clearly does. I have a goal to use my sadness of losing you to create an allegory of sorts, though the project has yet to take shape. If nothing else, I think I found my setting. I just hope the muse shows up and helps me write a good story. Here's hoping I inherited your way with words. 

I was reminded of the poem you wrote about me when I was just a little girl (Sarah, my sweet/my sparkling sprite/you wiggle, you giggle/You fill me with delight) and I could not get those words, almost lyrics, out of my mind. I hope to touch others the way you did, Mom. 

I love you and miss you forever,

Sarah

Strong tobacco

Hey kittens,

I've been away for a while because of vacay and so many other things that I cannot get into at the moment.
I just had to share something, if for no other reason, to release it from my mind. Some of my closest friends eva came to visit a few weeks ago and, seeing as I've been feeling particularly uncomfortable in my skin, I tried to avoid the camera as much as possible. I did make it into a few shots and seeing them, taken from all different angles and degrees of candidness, was, as the Germans say, strong tobacco. In other words, seeing those pictures of myself was such a shock, that it's taken the wind out of me. I am almost speechless at my girth. It is no wonder I am not smiling in hardly any of the pictures I didn't know were being taken of me. I've reached a clear high and low, which is never fun, but I have choices.
I can shame myself, bury my head in the sand and continue killing myself slowly. Or I can decide to love and care for myself a little bit more every day. For reasons I cannot explain, the stakes have gone way, way up in my life, so option two is the only way to go, if I ever hope to be happy.

Strong tobacco is strong.

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!