No More Weighting

Let me start by saying I know how difficult this topic can be.  I know there are many psychological hot buttons involved here.  I know many of us are struggling, many struggling more than me.  Please know that when I am saying something negative and judgmental here it isn't about you.  It has nothing to do with how I perceive you.  It's all about me and how I feel about myself.  I hope that makes sense.  Now here we go.

********************

"Are you freaking kidding me?!"  That's what I thought when I looked at the scale.  I had my annual physical a few days ago.  We all know what that dreaded first assessment is going to be.  "Can I get you to step up here?" the 20-something, size 2 nurse asks me.  She was sweet and kind and just doing her job, but I really want to turn to her and say, "Do I look like someone who wants to step on a scale?"

But I did, because we do.  And I felt like I'd been punched in the gut.

And to follow that up, when my blood test results came back they showed quite a spike in my cholesterol levels.

And I'm not okay with that.

I'm not sure whether it was the weight or the cholesterol, but now I want to do something about it.  Really do something.

So here it is.  - deep breath - 

I weighed in at 216 pounds.  I am 5'4".  I'm just going to let that sit there for a minute while it sinks in.  While I get comfortable with owning my self.  216 pounds.

I'm not comfortable with it.  Not at all.

I've seen lots of people, mostly women, blog about weight loss and openly share their weight.  I swore I would never do that.  Funny thing.  Now that the decision is made to move in a healthier direction, I can say it.

For years I've told myself I wasn't sensitive about my weight.  I knew I was getting heavier, but I was still able to do most of the things I could before, so how bad could it be?  My skin never felt flabby.  (Yeah, it never does.  It grows with the enlarging mass growing under it.  Duh.)  There was always someone larger than me.  That helped, although it shouldn't have.  It really had nothing to do with me.

But it did bother me.  I'd say it was about being healthy, not about how I looked.  Bull!  What a lie.  One of those self-deception things that helped me get through a situation I felt powerless against.

It was bothering me before I went to the doctor.  I addressed it with him as part of my physical.  "I used to have no appetite and could easily go 24 hours without eating (not healthy).  But now I'm hungry all the time.  I'm more physically active than I've been in a long time, but I'm still gaining weight.  Could it be menopause?"  (I had a full hysterectomy last year.  So even though I'm only 45, I'm in full-blown menopause.)

He told me two of the medications I am currently taking cause weight gain.  Wonderful. :(  Actually, I liked when he said that because it gave me a bit of deniability.  "I would totally be losing weight if I weren't on these meds.  It's the meds' fault."  And that's probably partly true.  But not entirely by a long shot.

I'm getting off one of the meds, for other reasons, and cutting the other one by half.  Finger crossed this helps.  And with my new thyroid medication and the Lamictal I have more energy that I have in years.  (Not a lot, but enough to feel like a tired human instead of a rock.)

This is it.  This is the time.  It's only going to get harder if I wait.  And I'm sick of hiding from friends and from pictures.

There are people I used to work with that I avoid seeing, even though I like them and would love to see them again, because I don't want them to see how much weight I've gained.  And I've hidden from pictures for years now.  There are way fewer pictures of me for posterity than there should be.

Because I'm embarrassed.  There.  I said it.  I'm embarrassed about how I look.  I want to say I'm not.  I want to not care about what others think of me.  But I am.  And I do.

A basic history:

  * Other than being shorter than most people, I was never really petite.

  * In high school (which was the first time I remember even knowing what I weighed) I weighed 140 pounds and wore size 8 jeans.  I was not skinny by high school standards.  There were so many girls around me who were just tiny.  Thin little things.  I was absolutely not that.  I knew I wasn't that but wanted to be.  I developed substantial hips at 14.  I have thoroughbred thighs that run in my family.  I was not tiny.  But when I look back at those photos now I realize how small I really was.  Go figure.

  * I only gained 20-25 pounds with each baby (5).  With my first, I lost the weight quickly and even dropped some extra.  I was very active.  I dropped to 130 pounds and a size 6.  That was the happiest I'd ever been about my weight and how I looked.

  * After each following baby, I kept about ten pounds.

  * In the spring of 2001, when I weighed about 180 pounds and my baby was almost three, the world feel out from under my feet.  By June I was in bed.  All the time.  For the next year and a half.  I was able to function just enough to keep my children alive.  I would lie on the couch and watch videos with them or watch them play.  I would talk my oldest daughter (10) through getting them food.  At night I had a tiny amount of energy and would put together sandwich bags of food for the next day.  Cheese slices.  Carrots.  Crackers.  My attempt at taking care of my kids.  Because that was seriously all I could do.  I couldn't move.  I was so tired it made me cry.  And giving up all the things I did, all the volunteering at their schools and coaching of their teams and taking them to the park - all gone.  I never got a definitive answer about what was wrong, it just gradually got better.  But I've never felt well again since.  I go through times when I can function better than others.  And I go through times when I'm flat in bed.

  * I have no idea how much I weighed in between that time and the next time.  We didn't own a scale.  We still don't.

  * In 2010 I wrote "A Weighty Issue," a blog post about being unhappy with my weight but not ready to really do anything about it.  It really shook me today when I looked back at that and realized it took five years for me to be ready.  I honestly don't remember what I weighed then except that I'd probably just broken 200 pounds.  I'd sworn to myself I'd never let myself hit 200, but I did.  And it devastated me for a few days.  But I shook it off, blamed it on still not feeling well, and moved on.  Seriously, if you can barely get out of bed, how could you be expected to exercise?

  * In 2012 I went to my psychiatrist for the first time.  She asked what I weighed.  I said about 200 pounds, which was hard enough to say.  But it wasn't even true.  Because I had just recently had a physical and the scale said 206.  Stupid scale.  But I wrote some of that off as premenstrual water retention.  You know what I mean; right, ladies?

  * And now, three years later, I weigh 216 pounds and wear size 16 jeans.  Like I said, I had a hysterectomy.  So the excuse of premenstrual water retention is off the table.  I am finally able to move enough to clean my house and function almost like a real human being.  And I know how to do it.  I really have no excuses anymore.  (Well, I still have some flat in bed moments.  But I could work out on the other days.  Which I don't.)

So here's my action plan.  Eat better.  Move.  That's it.  It's more defined in my head, but that's the gist of it.

I don't intend for my blog to suddenly become a weight loss blog.  I may or may not report as things progress (because they will progress, dang it!).  And I don't have a before shot of my body.  Honestly, my fat body hasn't been what's bothered me most or kept me from being in pictures.

It's my fat face.

You can hide your body behind other people, but if you hide your face there's really no reason to be in a photo.  And I've got a big head - like 7 3/8 big.  So when I'm in a photo with other people, my head dwarfs theirs.  I look like Andre the giant.  That was even true before I got so fat.  (Luckily, my husband's head is even bigger than mine.  Thanks, honey.)

But I'm ready to own it.  I'm ready to move on.  And in order to move on, I have to acknowledge where I came from.  So here are some of those photos.  (Sorry I don't have better photos.  Not only do I hide from the camera, but I also haven't digitized many.)

My wedding day - 1990, 25 years ago.  This is the oldest digital photo I had of myself that you could see my face in.  This was two years after I graduated.  I think my face looks pretty good here.

Five kids later - probably early 1999, 16 years ago.  I'm not thrilled with my look here.  My hair is pulled up in my "softball/cleaning" ponytail; not super flattering.  But there's no double chin yet.

I'm guessing this is about five or so years later - let's say 1994, 11 years ago.  See how I'm throwing my head back.  At this point I'd started to notice a double chin in photos and was trying to avoid that.

2009 - 6 years ago.  My daughters are super cute, but that's about the only thing I like about this photo.  See how I'm hiding behind them?  Still trying to tip my head up and back a little?  See those flabby arms?  See that double chin?  Yeah, not cool.  But I got in the photo.  For that, I'm proud of myself.

2011 - 5 years ago.  By this time I'd decided I needed to start being in some of the photos.  I'd also learned that being cheesy in a photo made it less bothersome when I didn't look great.  Okay, I look kind of like a drowned rat here because of the rain, but also notice how round my face has gotten.

2012 - 4 years ago.  This is a photo I both love and hate.  It's a picture of me teaching at church, which is something I absolutely love to do.  It was a wonderful time in my life and I'm glad I have a record of it.  But, seriously, can you believe how fat my face is?  How fat I am?  Oh, my heck!  I about cried when I saw it.

2013 - 2 years ago.  Hiding behind someone again.  Tilting my head away and back a bit to try to hide that double chin.  Failing miserably - Ugh.  That double chin.

2014 - last year.  I'm kind of proud of myself for just letting the shot happen.  I'm not hiding or tilting my head back.  I've come a long way toward acceptance of my true body size by this time.  But, oh, how huge my head is.

2015 - last week.  This is me now.  I voluntarily took a photo of my face and put it on facebook.  I own it.  This is me.  I'm a fat girl.

I'm ready to move forward.  No, I don't want your help.  Yes, I'd love your support.

Still Not Good, But a Different Kind of Bad

Funny thing about PTSD.  It tends to make everything else in my life seem unimportant.  That's a good thing when the problems I was having with my therapist no longer matter and I'm ready to get back to work.  It's not such a good thing when I forget about the house payment.

The PTSD is not quite as bad.  I am still cramping a lot.  I am still touch-averse.  The nerves in my system are still on hyper-alert.  But I am able to think a little more clearly.  And, as of now, it doesn't look like he will become a bigger part of my life after all.  There is less fear.

But when the PTSD lets up, all those other things start to be problems again.

The depression is still in full force.  I'm having to force myself to eat and sleep.  It takes a monumental effort to leave the house.  But I was able to perform a couple acts of service this last week.  I've been able to play my flute a bit.  And I even went to book club.  Small victories.

My body seems to be in rebellion as well.  Whatever virus it is that causes my fatigue has flared.  I could easily sleep twenty hours a day (it's a different tired than the depression tired).  Accomplishing any one thing, even just writing a blog post, saps me of all energy and sends me back to bed.  I do a load of dishes; I have to lie down.  I straighten the living room; I have to lie down.  I practice my flute; I have to lie down.  Not being able to do anything doesn't particularly help with the depression.

My headache has been awful, too.  Severe pain.  Blurry vision.  Dizziness.  Nausea.  And an inability to process thoughts or find the words (simple words) to communicate.

I haven't gone back to therapy yet.  I'm still figuring out our insurance options.  But I will soon.

I'm worried about everything:  money, each individual aspect of each of my children's futures, all the ways I've failed to prepare them, everything that needs to be done today, everything that needs to be done tomorrow, everything that should have been done yesterday, everything that should have been done last week, everything that should have been done years ago, my daughter's health, my husband's health, my health, the safety of each family member every second that they aren't with me, my friends' difficulties, my parents' difficulties, all the ways I'm failing my parents, all the ways I'm failing my friends, what I should be doing right now, how much to stay on top of my kids' school work and how much to let life teach them, and any other little thing that crosses my path.

I'm still avoiding people.  I don't want to do anything.  It's even tough for me to make myself go to my son's football games (which are my favorite things in the whole world).  Octoboween doesn't even have the same appeal as usual.

I'm trying to do things anyway.  I do enjoy the football games once I get there.  I am doing an Octoboween count down on facebook to try to psych myself up for it because I believe it can bring me joy -- eventually.  I'm trying to fake it 'til I make it.  I'm trying to convince my body and mind to get back to work.

But I just want to crawl into bed and cry and let the world go on without me.  Is that really too much to ask?

Feeling the Stress

I'm not gonna lie.  I'm feeling the stress.  Quite a bit.  And once I started spelling it all out in my head, it made sense.

I've been helping my mom for almost a year now.  She's really struggling with her mental health.  It's been quite a battle of ups and downs.  And I'm trying to balance helping her with taking care of myself while navigating the dangerous waters of my parents' dysfunctional marriage.  And trying to keep my brothers informed.  They've asked what they can do to help.  Boy, I wish there was something.  My dad feels helpless and doesn't know what to do.  And when he does come up with an idea, she doesn't want to have anything to do with him. 

In the last month or so I've picked her up or dropped her off at multiple locations around the county (she doesn't have her license anymore).  I've taken her to get her prescriptions filled, to shop, and out for lunch.  I've accompanied her to the neurologist, the therapist, and the psychiatrist.  I've taken her for blood tests, an EEG, and an MRI. 

And now the therapist wants me to help my mom become compliant on her meds, which she isn't and never has been.  My mom has PTSD from multiple traumatic episodes in her past.  She has spent years fighting to have control of her life.  Me taking over her meds would be her losing control again and she's just not willing to go there.  I can understand that.  But I also understand that not taking her meds according to schedule is making it so much harder for her to feel better or for anyone to help her feel better.

She says she's willing to try.  When it's time to fill her prescription again she'll let me help her set up a system.  That's the best she could do.  Until then she's promised to try to take them the way she's supposed to.  And she's trying to track it all on paper like the therapist wants.  If she doesn't become compliant she will not be able to get her driver's license again.  And her psychiatrist might drop her.  But she still isn't convinced that taking her meds according to schedule is the right way for her.  She's sure that she's right about using them as needed and we're wrong and she'd be fine if the psychiatrist would just give her more meds.  She's only trying to get on schedule to keep us happy, not because she believes in it.  It's control she's clinging to with both hands, tight fists.

I'll keep taking her to appointments.  And doing what I can to help while trying to keep myself emotionally stable.

On top of this, three weeks ago my husband lost his job.  We've been married twenty-three years and he's been laid off eleven times.  Because of my health I am not able to work.  That was our only income.  He's interviewing and applying and trying.  And I'm doing all I can to be supportive and helpful.  I'm trying to manage what little money we have left.  I'm looking for alternate sources of income.  I'm trying to stay on top of all the medical bills from my daughter's brain surgery and hospitalization and my emergency room visit and stress test and my husband's MRI and my daughter's MRI and all my therapy and all the other miscellaneous medical bills we have outstanding.  I'm trying to keep food in the house. 

But my biggest job has been to keep my husband from slipping into a depression.  His self-definition has taken a major hit.  He's questioning his value.  Every job rejection slams him down again.  So I try to spend time with him.  I try to help him see healthy choices.  I try to keep him involved and active with something other than computer games and movies and sleep.  We've had a few deep, dark days, but are mostly keeping his head above water.  It requires constantly treading water.

And no one leaves my house.

School is out.  My oldest daughter quit her job for the summer (before my husband lost his job).  My second daughter lost her job when my husband did (company went out of business).  My third daughter is out of state for the summer (so I guess she left the house, but that's a little too far gone for too long).  My son doesn't have a job and my other daughter doesn't have a job (they are sixteen and fourteen).  Rarely does anyone go anywhere or do anything other than watch tv and play video games.  It feels like my whole household is sinking into a depression.  I love my kids.  And I want them to be happy.  I want them to have a break.

But I am a homebody.  Partly because it's exhausting for me when I leave (I have chronic fatigue) and partly just because I love to be home.  And I used to get six hours a day to myself in my home.  But now I don't seem to get any time with the house to myself.  And my mental health is taking a hit because of it.  It's wearing me down.  I am really feeling what it means to be in the "sandwich generation."  Taking care of my parents and my kids.  Lots and lots of others needing me.  Not enough time to just be me without worrying that someone is about to knock on my door and need something.

And I recently stopped going to therapy because my therapist and I were no longer connecting well.
And I have become heat-intolerant the last year or so and we are in the middle of a heat wave.
And next week is my daughter's birthday and I have no money for it.
And I have no energy to complete any of the thousands of things that need to be done around the house.
And I have no energy to make anyone else do them either.
And the car didn't pass inspection.
And the faucet in the bathroom is leaking.
And the toilet keeps running.
And I am just not enough.

Things will get better.  But right now I'm feeling the stress.

I Can Strengthen

When I first got so tired that I went to bed for a year and a half, I kept thinking it would get better.  I kept waiting to feel better so I could get back to my life.  While it did improve, it never went away.

And when I got my headache it was much the same.  I kept expecting it to go away so that I could get back to being productive.  So that I could do all the things I wanted to do.

The fatigue has been with me for eleven years now.  The headache for seven.  There are days that are a little better and days that send me to bed.  Mostly I'm tired and hurt all the time.

If you'd told me at the beginning of either of these that I'd have them for the rest of my life, I'm not sure what I would have done.  Having hope that they'd get better helped me go on.  Having hope that I'd get my old life back made it worth trying.

But I'm at a point now where I don't think I'll get better.  I think these will be with me forever.  And even if they won't, they are now.  This is my life now.  And I can't just sit around waiting to get better before I do something with my life.

That's been a tough one.  What can I do?  There are so many things I used to do that I can't anymore.  And there are so many things I wanted to do that I never got the chance for.  It would be really easy to get angry or depressed at my situation.  And sometimes I do.

But mostly, I am grateful.  I have learned so much.  I have learned to slow down.  I have learned to say no.  I have learned to do the important things and let the other things go.  I have learned to listen to my body and take better care of it.

But that's not the best part.  The best part is I've learned that I am more than just what I can produce.  I am more than what I have to offer physically.  I have other things to give, other ways to serve, other ways to be of value.

And one of the best things is, I've learned how to better strengthen others.

In the past my service to others was always physical:  make them dinner, help them clean, take care of their yard,  take some of their work upon myself to ease their burdens.  It was good service; it was heartfelt.  I am glad I could do all those things.

My service now is different.  Now I listen.  I spend time with people.  I share my heart.  It's less obvious service.  You can't see something I cleaned or made.  But I can feel their burdens lighten.  I can see them ready to go back into the fray.  They are stronger when our visit is over.  And so am I.

There is great power in being able to do something for someone that lifts their physical burdens.  It matters.  But there is also divine power in strengthening them so they can lift their burdens themselves.  I'm so grateful I've had the opportunity to do both.

Noticing Progress

I want to be perfect.  I want to have all the answers.  I want to be able to do anything and everything all the time.  Be everything my family and friends want me to be.  Is that really so much to ask?

Of course it is, and it sounds ridiculous.  But time and again those are the standards I judge myself by.

I walk through my house and notice everything that needs to be done.  I notice the mess.  I notice things that are broken.  I notice what I've never really liked about the house that I still haven't changed.  And I feel bad.  I feel like I am not enough because it's not all perfect.  Right now!

I wake up and start moving at the beginning of the day.  From the moment I start to stir, I feel tired.  So tired.  As I get moving I notice how much my head hurts.  Maybe I notice how dizzy I am or how blurry my vision is.  And how little motivation I have to do anything.  I try to get my kids up and off to school, getting irritated and grumpy in the process.  And I feel like a failure because I lose my cool and snap at them.  I want to be the mom that's happy all the time and participates in everything they do.  I want to be at every event.  I want to play with them and study with them and help them when they are sad.  Every time!

But I can't.

I am a problem solver by nature.  My mind is constantly working to fix things:  physical, emotional, spiritual, psychological -- and all the other "al" words.  Which serves me well much of the time.  But it also holds me back and causes me pain.

We can only truly focus on one thing at a time.  Sometimes we fool ourselves into believing that we are multi-tasking, but we're not really.  Our brain isn't paying attention to lots of things at once.  It's swapping out attention from one thing to another, sometimes so fast that we don't realize that's what is happening. 

Why does the inability of our brains to multi-task matter?  Because if we are looking at the problems we are not seeing the successes.  This is a major struggle for me.

I see the messy house.  I don't see the six trailer-loads of stuff I cleaned out and gave to charity or the five trailer-loads that went to the dump.  I don't see all the things I gave away to family and friends.  I don't see all the free things that were offered to me that I politely refused to keep from bringing more stuff into my life.  I see that my life isn't spartan and pristine, not that it's so much better and more peaceful.

I see how tired I am.  I don't see all the doctor's visits, therapy visits, prescriptions, tests, lifestyle changes, and progress I've made.  I don't see that I used to go to bed for days, semi-sedated just to face another day full of pain.  I don't see those months on end when I didn't leave my house except for church.  I don't see those times when I was so depressed that I scared my husband.  Or those times when my mental state was so bad that I sliced my own arms open.  I don't see that these things aren't true anymore.  I overlook the fact that I've checked back into life.  I don't see that I am doing so much, so many things.  I only see all the things I want to do but can't.

Not today.  Today I see progress.  I am not all I want to be.  My life is not all I want it to be.  But I have done so much and come so far.  And that's what I'm going to focus on today.

The Doctor Who Didn't Listen

Oh, how I wish I'd known then what I know now.

Ten years ago, in the spring of 2001, the world fell out from under me.  I was hit with unbelievable exhaustion.  No matter how I ate, how much I exercised, or how much good sleep I got I was so tired I couldn't function.  I couldn't parent.  I went to bed for about a year and a half.  More on that story another time.

After a few months (when I knew it wasn't getting better, and after much prodding from my husband and other friends and family) I finally went to my doctor.  I told him how tired I was.  I told him I couldn't get anything done.  His words are forever burned into my mind.  "You have five small children; of course you're tired." 

And that was it.  Since nothing showed up in a cursory glance, in a routine physical, there must not be anything wrong with me.  I had tried to explain that it was more than that.  It was more than tired.  I was not a human anymore.  I was a shell, a pile of skin and bones, walking around trying to participate in life.

He didn't listen to me.  I felt chastised, like how dare I waste his time?  I felt diminished, like a small child told to get over it because life is hard.  I felt like I'd been told to quit whining.  To suck it up and get back to work.

I would never stand for that now.  I would insist that he listen, I would repeat myself, I would tell him he misunderstood.  And if he still didn't listen, I would leave him and take my business elsewhere.

I was incredibly vulnerable at that time and did not know how to fight for myself.  I did not know I could insist on certain tests.  I did not feel safe questioning what he told me.  I believed doctors truly knew more about my body than I did.

I have had many incredible doctors.  Doctors who listened and cared.  Doctors who were more concerned about making me feel better than I was.  I have friends who are doctors.  I have a brother who is a doctor.  I have great respect for doctors.

But I no longer think they know more about my body than I do.  When I say something is not right, then it should be respected.  Even if I can't prove it or put it into words.  My doctor and I are supposed to be a team.  We are supposed to work together to find the solution.

I will never know if he could have helped me.  Maybe if we had run a blood test at that time something would have turned up.  Maybe I wouldn't still be fighting the debilitating fatigue 10 years later.  Maybe there were answers then that were too far gone by the time I found a doctor who would listen to me.

I will not allow myself to be ignored by a doctor again.  Ever.

What I Hate Most About Chronic Illness

Take your pick on what qualifies me as chronically ill.  Chronic fatigue.  Chronic headache.  Chronic depression.  Or whatever diagnoses we haven't made yet.  Basically I feel horrible all the time.  On a good day I just feel yucky and drained and my head hurts.  On a bad day I can't get out of bed.

And, while there are so many ways this has changed my life, there is one area that bothers me the most.

It's difficult to not enjoy things I used to, to not want to do anything or be with anyone.  It's more difficult to want to do things but not be able to.  But the most difficult isn't the things that I am missing out on.  It's what my kids are missing out on.

For the first ten years of my marriage I was a doer.  I played with my kids.  I took them places.  I cleaned house.  I made meals.  I read to them.  I volunteered at their schools.  I did crafts with them. 

But that was a long time ago.  At about the ten year mark, my health started going down hill.  And I started to do less and less.  And because it was so long ago, they don't remember all those things.  They don't remember me pushing them in the swings at the park or having picnics on a quilt in the living room.  They remember me asking them to be quiet because my head hurts so much.  They remember me telling them to ask their older sister for help on their homework because my mind isn't clear enough.  They remember me sending them to do things instead of doing things with them.

I expected to teach them about hard work by working with them and by modeling the behavior.  But they see me do one small job and then crawl back into bed because I am so dizzy.  I expected to teach them about service by volunteering in various ways and doing family service projects.  Instead, I try to encourage them to work with their youth groups when there is a service opportunity.  I thought I would teach them spirituality by doing all the things our church suggests we do to teach in our homes.  I often don't feel well enough and so those things fall through the cracks and I have to be content with just getting them to church.

I planned to have a beautiful home where my children could find a place a refuge.  A place that was warm and welcoming to all who passed through our doors.  A place where our family could feel peace.  But I can't clean like I need to.  And I am often tense and isolate myself in my room, leaving them to their own devices which leads to mess and fights.

There are so many things I thought I would be as a mother.  So many desires I am unable to fulfill.  For years I waited, hoping that it was just a matter of time.  But it might not be.

This might be as good as I ever feel again.  And I am mourning that today.

Yes, there are great things in my life.  Yes, I have found other ways to teach and show love to my children.  Yes, I have found value in the life I have.

But it's important to allow ourselves to mourn our disappointments.  It is a loss.  And it makes me sad.

**********
Oh, and this is my 100th post.  It's been just over a year since I started blogging.  It's amazing how quickly time passes.

Paralyzed

Please excuse my absence. 

I have wanted to write.  I have needed to write.  But I just couldn't do it.

No, wait!  Don't run off thinking this is another writer writing about writer's block.  It isn't; I promise.

If it were writer's block then the only thing I would be having trouble with would be writing.  And it's not.  I'm having trouble with everything.  I am paralyzed in my life.  Stuck.

I guess it started a couple of weeks ago when the darkness hit.  From out of nowhere it came over me like a black cloud.  A cloud made out of tar.  And everything in my life became a lot more difficult.

I get like this sometimes.  And I have yet to figure out why.  It is so incredibly frustrating.

I was doing so much better.  I was getting stuff done.  Spending time with people.  Really enjoying my life.

And then it went away.  The joy was gone.

There was no big crisis.  There is no obvious explanation.  My life is in a pretty good place right now.  I should be happy.

But I'm not.

And I am frozen.  I look around and see how much I need to get done.  Cleaning.  Bills.  Contact with friends.  Church obligations.  Food for my family.  Each and every one of these things became a monumental task in and of itself.

It's hard to start eating the elephant when you know there is another one right behind it.

I quit eating well.  I quit sleeping well.  I started hiding from family and friends.

I was back in survival mode.  Doing the bare minimum.  Relying on old coping strategies that I know don't work long term but get me through. 

I have new tools.  Things I have learned in therapy and through my own experience.  Healthy ways to change my focus and find my way back to the light.  But they don't appeal to me.

All I want to do is sit down on the curb and watch the world go by.  Without being seen so no one talks to me or expects anything from me.

But I'm not.  I'm trying to go on.  I may not be up and running, but at least I'm crawling.  And if I keep crawling long enough, eventually I will turn the corner.

Pace Yourself

This is something we tell each other when we are doing something difficult, something draining.

I can remember saying it to my kids at their track meets when they were getting ready to run the 400 or 800 meter.  It's something others said to me in the past when I was running too many different directions at once and they could see it taking its toll on me.

I have spent my life trying to learn to pace myself.  And only recently have I learned that I am a sprinter, not a marathon runner.  Sprinting is in my nature.  Can a sprinter run a marathon?  Yes, but we do it differently.  We run until we can barely stand; we rest and recover.  And then we do it again.

Maybe that's not a healthy way to do it.  Maybe it's not the way a marathon is meant to be run.  And maybe, just maybe, my life is not a marathon.  Maybe my life is a series of sprints.

Either way, my nature fits my life.  The older I've gotten the more I can look back and see how past events prepared me for the future.  I was recently able to reconnect with someone who knew me when I was fourteen.  When he spoke of his memories of me from that time, he said that it seemed like I was always running.

And you know what?  He was right.  For the most part, I experience life as a series of sprints.  I am either running or standing still.  Now, while standing still I review and plan, but I don't act.  And this is how I have always lived my life.

And I am grateful.  Because it has prepared me for where I am now.

You see, I no longer experience a day -- or even a minute -- without pain and fatigue.  I am always tired and I always hurt.  Always.  A good day means a little less pain and not quite so tired.  A day when I can function and get a few things done.

So on those good days, I sprint.  I do all I can.  And when the good day passes I rest, review, and plan.  If I didn't know how to sprint, I don't know how I would get through this time.  I don't know how I would go on.

But because of the incredible preparation I've had, I can get through. 

And I am grateful for this awareness.  I am grateful that I can give myself permission to run my own race.