Month: May 2017

Work in progress.

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I feel tired of seeing clothes I like and almost immediately thinking, “I can’t wear that.”  I don’t seem to ever really have a solid, logical reason.

I can’t wear that because my skin is pale.

I can’t wear that because my arms are too skinny.

I can’t wear that because my stomach isn’t flat.

I can’t wear that because of my age.

Etc.

When I first learned about the magic that is positive self-talk, I also learned to ask myself if I would treat my best friend the same way I am treating myself in a given situation.  Would I tell my best friend that she can’t wear something she likes because she thinks her arms are too skinny?  No.  I would tell her that she should wear whatever she likes.  To Hell with what someone else might think.  Apparently, I have created imaginary rules in my head that only apply to me, and they make me look at myself through a filter that only I am using based on these imaginary rules I created (where I got the fodder for these rules is a whole other entry).  I’m not *less than* or *less worthy* because my skin is pale, my arms are skinny, my stomach isn’t flat.  There’s no reason for me not to wear what I like.

I know that I may find clothes I like, try them on and decide I don’t like them.  That’s not really where I am with this entry.  I’m talking about that initial admiration of an outfit or piece of clothing being immediately followed by my brain making up reasons why I just cannot even try to go anywhere near it because of….see above.

I’m not sure what kind of growth this may lead to, but I’m looking forward to finding out.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I’m researching blog topics and themes almost every day.  I love seeing the body positivity movement and reading others’ inspirational stories.  Last night, I read about how the body positivity movement doesn’t make space for thin women because thin women already have a space.  I know that’s true.

I reached out to a blogger/researcher, via Twitter, to ask her about body dysmorphia & body positivity.  That’s not to say that I suffer from or am a survivor of body dysmorphia, but I’m curious about that dynamic if we are talking about people who perceive their body a certain way that isn’t accurate, which could be a thin person perceiving his/her body as overweight; how does body positivity work in that situation?  Maybe it doesn’t?  Clearly, I need to do more leg work here.  I plan to reach out to others with my questions as I move through articles and blogs and Instagram posts.

I plan to continue to support the #bopo movement and see if I can claim a tiny place for myself there, not as a thin woman, but as a woman who struggles with body image.  That’s my personal work – being more positive about my body as the vessel that carries me and what I have to offer as a whole person, and not as what defines me as good/bad, worthy/not worthy.

I absolutely support others feeling more positive and open about their own bodies.  This life is short, and the filter through which you view yourself may be based on imaginary rules that nobody else is following because those rules are only in your head.  Wear the dress, wear the shorts, wear the low-cut shirt; dye your hair that beautiful shade of purple you have been admiring, pierce your nose, don’t shave your legs everyday, quit tweezing your eyebrows, commit to growing your hair long even when you hit that awkward phase in the growth process.  Ignore whatever aesthetic-related chore you saddle yourself with every day because you think you have to do it to please every person around you.

I know it’s easier said than done.  I KNOW that.  Try to grasp what it will feel like to go through that first full day after you – for example – pierce your nose and nothing bad happens.  Nobody makes fun, nobody laughs, you don’t burst into flames, the ground doesn’t open up to the let the Earth swallow you whole.  It’s more likely that someone will compliment it, comment on your courage or want to hear the whole story.  Another example: not tweezing your eyebrows will be different.  Nobody will comment on your courage or even want to hear the story.  The likely scenario here is that nobody says anything.  That first day turns into the first week turns into the first month and, pretty soon, you don’t know how long you’ve had your nose pierced; you don’t know how long you’ve been letting your eyebrows grow [mostly] wild.  Nothing bad happens.  You just keep being you, keep doing what you are meant to do with an extra hole in your nostril or with fuller eyebrows.  And it all goes back to that first day – the courage you mustered to get you through that first full day feels normal.  It might even feel comfortable.  Courage is courage, friends.  The more you exercise it, the more you have stockpiled.

 

Knowledge is power (?)

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I decided to write

 

So, I log into the wordpress site to check things out; maybe write a little something.  I see that I have 2 “drafts” that were never “published.”  I don’t remember writing something and not publishing it or at least deciding it was trash that needed to be deleted this instant.  I open the first draft and it’s the 4 words you see above.  And, obviously, I didn’t.  I have no idea when I wrote that or where I thought I would go with it.  And why is the title Knowledge is power?  It rings no bells. 

Something I want to practice here, there and everywhere in my life is authenticity.  Upon seeing this “draft,” I felt compelled to provide some explanation and post it.  A little Behind the Scenes of my process, I guess.  That’s right.  I am sharing with you a failed blog entry. 

34.

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“All there is in the end is death, so who cares.  Just be happy!”

Today is my 34th birthday.  I have loved my 30s so much.  My cousin turned 30 earlier this year and I was glad to find that she was looking forward to her 30s.  I have accomplished so many things during my 30s.  The most important thing, I think, is truly accepting and loving myself.  Do you realize how many doors open up with this revelation?  It’s not an arrogant, “I can do anything.”  It’s a humble, solid, “I can do anything.”  And maybe I can’t, but I can damn sure try anything that strikes me as enjoyable or beneficial.  I can finish a half-marathon.  I can go into a new place by myself.  I can ask questions.  I can speak to a large crowd.  I can be assertive.  I can openly communicate with my partner.  I can start a blog and share it with anyone who wants to read it.  I can go out in public with unwashed hair.  I can testify in a court room.  I can make small talk, even if I don’t like it.  I can switch jobs.  I can drive wherever I want to go.  I can get out my little journal and jot down whatever whenever I am called to do so.

To be fair, “truly accepting and loving myself” is absolutely a work in progress.  There are good days, there are great days and there are days when I have to consciously focus on positive self-talk and on reversing all of the negative thoughts that are attempting to overwhelm me.  On those bad days, I can be found writing out a list of positive self-talk statements, like a “newbie.”  There’s no shame in my game, folks.  I will feel proud and tell whoever will listen about whatever it is I do to live my happiest, best possible life – sometimes that’s re-reading an old list, sometimes it’s writing a new list, sometimes it’s just remembering.

Today is my 34th birthday.  I told Tristi this is the first birthday in my 30s that I have felt “weird” about.  I don’t feel old.  I don’t necessarily feel bad, but I feel like maybe I should be doing something bigger.  I can count on Tristi for a lot of things – all good things.  As usual, she came through with a great perspective.  She said, “Be happy.  That’s all that matters!….All there is in the end is death, so who cares.  Just be happy!”  And just like that, I was back on track with enjoying my 30s.  I am happy.  I have a genuinely great life.  The more I think about it, I’m not even sure what I should be doing is real.  I do love my job.  I do believe I am where I am for a reason.   Where in the hell did the thought come from that I should be doing something bigger?

This is me today in my 34-year-old glory; sitting on the sidewalk in front of The Latest Scoop in downtown San Angelo.  Something I hope to achieve in this blog is to be authentic.  I could have asked Todd to take the photograph from a different angle to prevent the sun being in my eyes.  I could have found a more flattering pose.  I could have chosen not to ask Todd to take my picture because I wasn’t wearing make-up, my hair wasn’t fixed, I don’t have a tan, I’m wearing an outfit that could easily pass for pajamas, blah blah blah.  This is the photograph I wanted.

 

BD Flowers

These are the super sweet surprise birthday flowers that Todd sent to me at work yesterday.  I like a good surprise.  I like Todd.  And I like my birthday.

Chris Cornell

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“Cornell was a real one.”   (Jeff Weiss for noisey)

I have “experienced” various famous musician deaths.  George Michael hurt because I remember listening to him with mom.  Chris Cornell hurts because he and Soundgarden and Audioslave were a part of my life.  And who doesn’t at least appreciate Temple of The Dog?  I mean, have you heard “Hunger Strike?”

I learned of his passing while getting ready for work.  I wanted to go back to bed.  I realize that is an overdramatic reaction.  I am an adult, after all.  But it’s Chris Cornell.  How could we lose that voice?  How could we lose that man?  When I think “grunge,” the first person I think of is Chris Cornell.  I feel lucky to have watched his growth since the early 1990s.  I even enjoyed his solo work.

“Please, mother mercy, take me from this place and the long-winded curses I keep hearing in my head.  Words never listen.”

Write here. Write now.

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Before I officially started this blog, I did some research about writing and about blogging.  This included scouring Pinterest for writing prompts and tips.  I actually started to complete a 31-day May Writing Prompt list that I found there.  It did not go well.

On May 3rd, I was prompted to write about My Biggest Victory.  On May 4th, I was prompted to write about a Moment That Challenged Me.  I will copy & paste the results of these prompts:

 

May 3, 2017 MY BIGGEST VICTORY

I’m not sure what my biggest victory has been.  In a way, I think that’s good.  There have been many. It’s difficult to say what has been the “biggest.” 

I’m an introvert, so any time I am able to speak to a crowd is a victory.  About 10 days ago, I gave a presentation during a quarterly department meeting at work.  There were a lot of people.  All presentations were also recorded on video for those who were absent to watch later.  I can’t recall ever being recorded before.  Prior to giving my presentation, I warned the audience that I’m not very good with microphones.  After my presentation, our director said he thought I did a fine job with the microphone.  He also said my presentation was “professional.”  I had co-workers approach me later to compliment my presentation, including a co-worker who has a college degree in performing arts who said I did, “fantastic.” 

I’ve completed 2 half-marathons.  I can’t remember what year, but I completed one in late January and the other in October of that same year.  I feel very proud about completing those races.  My time for the second one was better than the first.  I did not finish last in either. 

I moved to Texas in 2010.  Alone.  It was late July.  It’s now May of 2017, and I’m still here.  I’m doing okay.  I may even be doing well.  Is this a victory, or just life?  I suppose I could have floundered.  I could have failed.  I could have lost.  But I’m still here.  I’ve been through 5 residences, a marriage, a divorce, 2 jobs, various trips back to Ohio, gaining friends, losing friends, becoming more assertive, learning to love myself wholly, gotten into the healthiest relationship I’ve ever had with a man who seems to be the best possible partner for me.  I’ve learned who I am and how I am.  I have been through so much in these 7 years.  Is this my biggest victory?

What about lifting weights?  What about PRs (personal records)?  What about standing up to people, especially defendants at work?  What about overcoming “what others might think” to just be myself?  What about learning to love myself and love my shape?  Maybe my biggest victory is happiness? 

 

May 4 – A MOMENT THAT CHALLENGED ME

 

You read right.  I wrote nothing for May 4th.  Today is May 17th.  It’s very unlikely that I’ll revisit the May 4th prompt.  I mean, it never really worked for me that on May 3rd I was writing about my biggest victory and expected to write about a moment that challenged me the next day.  I know I say this too much, but I can’t even.  Maybe I will pick & choose through the May prompts.  For me, using the prompts was more about making sure I wrote something every day.  I didn’t.  I’m not good at boring topics.  I need passion, excitement, drive….  Wait a minute.  Am I having a challenging moment?

Mother’s Day, 2017

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Why I hate Mother’s Day. 05/14/17

When I was 5-6 years old, my mom was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis (MS).  As a 30-something, that means I can barely remember a time when MS wasn’t a part of my life; when I didn’t know what it is.  Over time, “what MS is” has changed so much, for me, and remained a mystery.

I could go into gory details, right?  I could explain my mom’s decline over the years – over about 17 years.  I could tell you other people’s stories of how they knew something wasn’t right before any diagnosis.  I could tell you what “remission” meant to me as a young girl and how long it took before I realized “remission” was not a gift we would get.  It was not a gift mom would get.

MS is never good.  I would never wish it on anyone.  But, see, there are different varieties.  Some are “luckier” than others.  Many are luckier than my mom was.  Not only did she have the most aggressive, least forgiving type of MS, but she was diagnosed when MS research was still in infancy.  We don’t know much about it now.  We knew even less in the late 80s.  Looking back on everything and listening to others’ stories of what happened and when, my mom’s MS treatment could best be described as, “Let’s just throw all of this at it and hope something helps.”  There is still no cure today, but there are treatments.  There are ways to slow it down or even arrest it, temporarily (sweet remission).  There are treatments that allow those with an MS diagnosis to live full lives of real quality for much longer periods of time than they would have 20 years ago.  I often see, “You don’t look sick” in reference to persons who have MS.  My mom looked “sick.”

It was too late for my mom.  The MS that got her was unrelenting.  Over 17 years, the progression of her MS was all downhill.  I am told and believe I remember the progression slowing down while she was pregnant with my half-sister.  I have read here & there that pregnancy is known to slow MS progression.  When mom was pregnant with my half-sister, I was an ignorant, self-absorbed child.  I really don’t remember the disease progression during those 9 months.

I hope you aren’t still waiting around to read gory details.  They aren’t coming.

My mom passed away in December of 2006.  That reminds me: I’m not terribly cracked up about the Christmas season, either.  Over a period of about 17 years, I watched my mom waste away.  I don’t know how else to describe it.  A slow burn?  Some unusual, long-running trauma?

Since her passing, some Mother’s Days I have spent alone.  Whether anyone else likes it or not, I need to take care of myself on that day.  It’s not personal.  It’s not that I don’t care about any of the other phenomenal “mother figures” I have in my life.  It’s just not the same.  I want my mom on Mother’s Day.  I don’t want to talk about her.  I want to remember her in my thoughts.  I want to take care of myself for her on Mother’s Day.  I want to text my older sister and make that connection to her for mom.  If only for the time it takes to make that exchange with Lindsay, we are both thinking of mom and each other at the same time.  In some weird way, the 3 of us are connected.  And I don’t want anyone else involved in that.  There isn’t room for anyone else in that.

I have spent some Mother’s Days with others.  I should, right?  I know so many incredible women who are mothers and those phenomenal mother figures in my own life who I mentioned earlier.  I can shove my own mom out of my head to be “normal” on Mother’s Day.  Maybe I can spend the whole day not thinking about mom, except when Lindsay & I text about her.  Jesus.  Lindsay is a mother.  I can’t imagine what Mother’s Day is like for her.

I hate shopping for Mother’s Day cards and gifts.  It’s an unfair challenge.  I feel guilty and angry and frustrated.  It is so difficult to do this kind of shopping without my mind wandering into, “If things were different, what would I buy for mom…?”  That is not a good place for my mind to go.  Then I am reminded of how little I know about my mom.  The unfairness of not knowing what questions to ask her when I had the chance.  The unfairness of being a child and, by nature, being self-centered while my time with mom was running out.  The unfairness of being a child and not realizing that our time – her time – was running out.  I took so many things for granted.

After my mom passed away, I heard someone say that on their own birthday every year, they sent flowers to their mom.  What a genius idea.  I don’t get to do that.  I could put flowers on her grave, though, right?  That’s fulfilling (it’s not).

So, I hate Mother’s Day.  I hate advertisements for store sales, brunches, whatever.  I feel so envious of anyone who can go to a Mother’s Day brunch with their mom.  I don’t like “mom and me” activities.  I know I did activities with my mom, but I don’t think we ever wore matching outfits.  I know we never got our nails done together, we never bought/shared make-up.  We never went out for coffee or brunch.  I never drank a glass of wine with my mom.  She didn’t teach me how to cook or how to take care of myself (make-up, hair, etc.).  The only time she was able to watch me graduate from anything was my kindergarten graduation.  She missed the other 3.  The two times I went to the prom, my date & I went to her.

I do many things with mom in mind.  I thought about her during both half-marathons I completed.  I think about her anytime I run, especially when my legs get tired.  Sometimes when I complain about running at the gym, she creeps into my mind.  I may not be happy about running, but I am physically capable of running and what a blessing that is.  I’m not terribly concerned about getting a close parking space.  It’s a nice perk, but so is being able to walk independently.

I often think about mom while I’m at the gym.  “Do it for mom.”  Thinking that often helps me find a hidden reserve of energy or strength.  Half-way through a plank, I can finish it for mom.  I may not always do a great job.  I’m never in the lead, so to speak, but I finish the work.  Slowly and maybe sloppily, but surely.

Everyday.

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Written April 2017

I love to write.  I don’t know when it started, but I remember why.  I know that I once wrote some horrid “poetry” on the family computer in my home – a desktop Gateway that arrived in a cow print box – and I remember my dad encouraging my writing.  When I say the “poetry” was “horrid,” what I really mean is that it was something beyond “horrid.” Something worse.  But I was a child.  I remember writing about “rage.”  I don’t remember why.  Even years later when I wrote angry adolescent “poetry,” I still didn’t really understand rage. 

So, I remember my dad encouraging my writing.  While in high school, I had a teacher who encouraged my writing.  Back then, he was Mr. Dudding.  Today, he is Dr. Dudding.  I wrote stories for his freshman English class.  I wrote poetry and stories for his Advanced Reading/Creative Writing class during my junior year.  I think it was during my sophomore year that I won a creative writing contest in The Athens Messenger.  Well, I didn’t win, but I placed.  My award was $20 – the only time I’ve received money for my writing.  It was a scary story Halloween contest.  I remember Mrs. Beegle helping me reduce my word count so I could enter the story in the contest.  One of the few times (or maybe the only time?) I worked to remove words and length from an assignment.  That was an encouragement.  Mrs. Beegle didn’t have to give my story a second thought.  She didn’t have to go out of her way to help me get the piece into the contest. 

Junior year: Advanced Reading / Creative Writing.  We had to do a “semester project.”  For my project, I turned in a stack of poems I had written.  I probably still have them hidden away somewhere.  I am sure they are bad-bad-bad news.  When Mr. Dudding returned my work to me, he made eye contact with me and said, “Thank you.”  It was very convincing.  Convincing enough to make me feel uncomfortable – being noticed makes me feel that way.  This was especially true when I was a teenager.  In the folder of poems I had handed in, Mr. Dudding put a typed letter to me.  I KNOW I still have that.  It’s on yellow paper.  I have memorized parts of it.  I vividly remember reading that letter and making the conscious choice to be open minded about the things he wrote to me.  I consciously chose to believe that he may be right.  He was right.  That letter changed my life and encouraged me to be more open minded, across the board. 

During my freshman year of college, I took Algebra and Composition I the same semester.  I got an A in Algebra and a B in Comp. I.  Even now, I have no idea how this happened.  I love words; I love writing.  I hate numbers.  I hate math.  I am proud to state that I can’t math.  Even when I can, I just don’t want to math.  I took Comp. 2 and a Creative Writing class during college.  Neither is particularly memorable.  While in Comp. 2, I had the “pleasure” of reading an essay written by a male classmate about how women like to be treated badly. 

I credit college with ruining my writing-for-leisure drive.  I was a Psychology major, Anthropology minor.  The bulk of what I wrote during college was academic out the ass with citations, references, APA formatting…. It wasn’t fun, although I tried to pick up interesting topics for my work (pre-natal learning, y’all).  They got boring after all the research and pressure.  While I believe my Honors Thesis was boring as shit, I find myself thinking about it every once in a while because I work with people who are engaged in a therapeutic relationship and I see and understand how their withholding damages that relationship.  They withhold from me, as well.  It doesn’t serve anyone. 

I also went to grad. school.  I think of it as “diet grad. school” or “grad. school lite.”  Maybe sometimes “watered down grad. school.”  It was not as challenging as it should’ve been, but that’s the nature of the program, I think.  Grad. school was zero creative writing. 

Journals.  Oh, yes.  I have journals for days, people.  I think they are worthless and stupid, but when it comes time to dispose of them, my brain tells me not to do that.  My brain says I might someday want to relive the depression of adolescence.  I might someday want to revisit that abusive relationship that, essentially, went on for 6 years.  I might someday want to reminisce about the guy on whom I had a crush who now has an extensive criminal record, multiple children with multiple partners and no steady job.  My brain is ridiculous.  

However, in those journals there are good memories; happy memories.  I know they are there because I had good times as an adolescent and as an emerging adult.  There are also poems in those journals.  The majority are likely crap, that’s true.  But if there’s even one poem worth saving in all of those journals, I have to keep all those journals so I don’t lose that one page. 

I have kept a journal for years, but not always steadily.  There is much less poetry in the more recent journals.  More recent journals are fitness goals achieved, frustrations at work, relationship complications that I have to write out to resolve, travels, quotes, music shows…. Life.  It’s possible my more recent journals are more rambling because, instead of just whining and crying about an issue, I use journals to write out my feelings, write out the problem and brainstorm possible solutions.  I also use journals to hold small photographs, movie tickets, music show tickets, paper bracelets from music shows, stickers that won’t ever be stuck, small notes, etc. 

During our 2016 Marfa Adventure, Mr. Arber mentioned that Rainer Judd, Donald Judd’s daughter, carries a journal with her at all times.  Not long after that trip, I bought a Kelly green Moleskine that fits inside even my smallest purse.  In this journal, I am doing more jotting than I have done in the past – gift ideas for others, gift ideas for me, story ideas, lists of places visited during an adventure, etc.  It’s easy to get to, and I can expand on a topic later, if needed. 

I once kept an “online diary” at DiaryLand, which I don’t think exists anymore.  I know that was stupid.  That was during high school and college.  I don’t know who I thought I was.  I also previously kept a blog, around 2010 when I first moved to Texas.  I had high hopes for that.  I think a few entries were respectable.  It’s hard to say, because that was the end of my “conservative Republican hey day.” I can’t find that blog now, and I didn’t keep it up because I got wrapped up in building life in Texas. 

I have a few story ideas.  I have a project I plan to begin tackling before the end of 2017, which will involve A LOT of writing.  I would like to keep a blog – I mean really keep a blog – to document my project.  I expect the project to take no less than forever to complete and involve more travelling than I can actually afford.  Regardless of the documentation of the Project Adventure, I would just like to write sometimes.