2018 One Word - Partake

Choosing one word for the year is an interesting thing.  I always think I know how it will play out, but it always surprises me.  I'm sure this will be the same.

It often starts with a feeling.  I get a sense of what I need to focus on.  Sometimes a clear word.  Sometimes just an ethereal idea.  After pondering on it for a while, usually several days, I settle on the word.  Always a bit before the end of the year.  I've known my word for next year for a few weeks now.

And when I choose a new word, I tend to start changing my life to fit it, even before January first.  Can't help it.

This year's word is PARTAKE.  As usual, I have a very clear feel for what it will be, even if I can't quite say it. 

The first word that came to mind was consume, then consumption.  It was an idea that I needed to be more aware of what I take into my mind and body.  Consume was so completely not the right word, and consumption made me feel like I was in the 1800s with some disease.  I had to work on it for a bit.

But partake is so totally the right word.  It's not about devouring something.  It's about accepting something.  It has a spiritual feel to it.  It helped me flesh out my view for the year.

It's both about not partaking in something unhealthy for me and choosing to partake of things that are.  The duality of that might not be obvious.  But I can choose not to partake of certain negative things and go on my merry way without too much change.  When I'm presented with good options/opportunities, I need to partake of those.

See?  It's totally clear in my heart but tough to communicate.

I've already started to prepare and to put it into practice.  It's very compelling, this year's word.

In a simple and obvious way, I've whittled down my viewing and music choices.  I already leaned on the less adult side.  I already limited my movies to PG-13 and my TV to TV-14.  This cut out so much objectionable stuff.  (For me.  Let me be clear - this is about my tolerance, not a judgment on anyone else.)  But there's still so much that I'm not proud of, that I know isn't good for me, but I was hesitant to get rid of because I like it.

I've gone through Netflix (where I do almost all my viewing) and cleared everything from my queue that's rated more than PG.  I've also cut out some things that are PG but with content I know isn't in accordance with this plan.

I've created a new music playlist without swearing and without sex.  I already had a pretty clean selection, but once in a while I had a song I wouldn't play around other people's children.  I figure that's a pretty good indicator.

These seemed to be a good place to start, easy to discern. 

I tend to be porous, picking up on the emotions of people around me.  Not just aware of them, but carrying them, whether I want to or not.  Until now, I didn't make the connection that I have that same experience with the media I partake of.  It soaks into me in much the same way, whether I want it to or not.  I believe these changes will help lighten my soul.

But it's not just about making better choices about what I consume.  It's also about how much.  And when.  And so many other things.

And as I've begun to put it into motion, without really trying, I've found interesting thoughts cross my mind.  When I was disappointed with something and wanted to be critical, I paused.  We live in a society that seems to relish complaints, criticism, and sarcasm.  They're easy to throw around.  But when I paused I heard these words in my mind - "Partake of positivity."

I found it very intriguing.  When I stop myself from complaining or criticizing, I've always thought of it as an outward thing.  I'm doing this to them, for them.  I'm stopping negative feelings and expression from leaving me and going to the other person.  But in that moment I saw it from a different perspective.  Partaking of positivity, inviting that into my heart, stops the rest.  It strengthens me, lifts me.  It's not that I stop myself from saying or doing anything negative, because that just goes away.  It's just gone.

I know I'm not explaining this very well.  It makes sense to me.  I hope it makes a little sense to you.  And I hope I can observe and document it a bit better this year, so I can share it with you as I go along.

Do you have a word for 2018?

A Year of Purpose in Review

It's time to look back on the last year and how my One Word has played out.  For 2017 that word was PURPOSE.

In anticipation, I expected I would approach things with purpose.  That I would more consciously choose what I did and choose things that had a real purpose.  A purpose of value.  That instead of running around putting out fires, which my life has so often been, I would take a breath and choose.  I would ponder, if only for a minute, what was the proper use of my time and energy.  And that did happen.  Some.

But often it played out differently.  I had something I wanted to do or needed to do and tried to find a deeper purpose in it.  I need to go to the library to pick up a book for my daughter.  But what is the greater purpose for this.  My daughter is currently house bound.  I'm going to the library as an act of service.  I am doing something for her that she can't currently do for herself.  There were many instances of that.

Or I tried to give something purpose.  I'm going for a run.  This run is to build my running base.  Or I dedicate these miles to a friend who is struggling.  Things such as this.

But most often it happened in the middle of something I was doing.  I'm on hour three of a Netflix binge.  Why?  What is my purpose for spending so much time this way?  It's an effort to avoid the struggles of my life.  It's an attempt to dull the things I'm feeling that I don't want to feel.  It's a weird way I can feel like I'm accomplishing something, as I check episodes off.  There was way more of this type of analysis than usual.

I'm big on examining my motivation for things.  But this was a bit different.  Looking for a purpose.  And asking myself if my purpose was a healthy one.  Was it good for me?  Did it serve a larger purpose?  What general direction were these choices taking me, and did that lead to my bigger purpose?  To the broader goals, the long-term goals, I have for myself.

I can honestly say I sometimes did well with this and sometimes didn't.  Finding out what my purpose for doing something was sometimes stopped me in my tracks and made me change direction.  Other times not so much.

I think this one will stick with me.  And it leads well into 2018's word.  Coming soon.

2017 - A Year of Purpose

Seriously?!  Where did January go?  This right here is exactly why I needed my word of the year to be PURPOSE.

Long story short, I choose one word each year.  Lots of thought and prayer goes into my decision.  And then I try to let that word guide my year.  I never know how it's going to play out; there are always interesting surprises.

My word for 2017 is purpose.

It can be tough to explain why I choose the word I do.  Sometimes it's totally clear.  Other times it's pretty ethereal.  Usually writing it out helps.  Let's see what happens this time.

People who know me, people who are close to me, know my life is never boring.  That's the nice way to put it.  My life is often quite complicated and difficult.  There are so many areas of my life that go nuts on a regular basis like a drop of water on a hot, greased skillet.

I often feel like I'm dancing on a moving floor.  Things are rarely predictable.  Try as I might, I rarely feel like I have my footing.  Like I'm running my own life.

But it's been worse lately.  My life has definitely been running me.  A lot!  Flinging me around like a dog with a rag doll in its teeth.  And I feel it.

I've spent way too much time lately feeling in tatters.  Like my dress is shredded, I'm missing a shoe, and one of my eyes is hanging loosely from the socket.  (Still a rag doll metaphor.  Not blood and gore.)

I'm running around putting out fires.  I'm doing this or that because I HAVE to.  I'm the flotsam and jetsam on the ocean, flung wherever the waves take me.

It's not a happy way to live.  It's not peaceful at all.  And peace is always my main goal for my life.

So as I pondered my word, my heart went this direction.  Just as a feeling.  A sense of what I wanted.  But without the words.  And then the word came.  Purpose.  I need purpose.

It's not that I need purpose in my life, overall.  I have that.  I have oodles of that.

I need purpose in the moments.  In the days.  In the plans.  In the relationships.  In the decisions of my life.

I need to steer my life.

We're two weeks into February.  I wanted to write this on January first.  Guess how well I'm doing so far.

I do have moments.  I've chosen to dedicate my runs (or hikes or whatever) to people in my life.  Once in a while, someone will be on my mind and in my heart.  So I take them with me when I run.  Not always, but frequently.  When the run gets hard, I remember whom I'm running for and why.  Usually gratitude floods over me in that moment.  How blessed I am that I can run!

And there've been other moments.  Moments I remember to stop.  Think.  Choose.

But not nearly enough.

Today was kind of an over-the-top kind of day.  I was slammed on all sides.  Stress.  Stress.  A little more stress.  Some anxiety.  And how about some STRESS?  Some irrational demands.  Some innocent demands hitting on top of everything else.  Text.  Text.  Text.  Phone call.  Phone call.  Phone call.  Request.  Request.  Request.  All day long.  And some gut-wrenching struggles for people I love, people I need to take care of.

I was not in control for much of the day.  And then I was.  And it was better.

And tomorrow it will start all over again.

Lots of opportunities for growth.  Lots of chances to find my purpose.

How to Be a Good Friend

Yeah, I have no idea.

There are people who think I'm an awesome friend.  There are people who think I'm a horrible friend.  And there are people who've thought both at different times in our relationship.

I've thought both about myself, too.

Being a good friend is such a subjective thing.  Everyone has a different idea about what makes a good friend.  About what makes a close friend or a best friend.  Even about the difference between a friend and an acquaintance.

I've probably put way more thought into this than most, because I feel it's something I struggle with.  And it's something I think I should want to change.  I tried to want to change.  I even tried to change.  But I think I'm done.

I'm at a point in my life right now where I'm just gonna be me.

I'm not going to be what others want me to be just to avoid guilt or to feel like I'm measuring up to some mysterious golden friendship crown.

Because, to be honest, I just don't have the energy.  If you need a lot of output from your friends, if you need attention (really, any attention) to believe I care and we're friends, you shouldn't choose me as a friend.

I can do great short term.  Maybe we meet when we both have a mutual need.  Or one of us has a need when the other of us has a surplus, and we connect.  We're good for each other and good with each other.

I can drop everything to help you with your crisis.  For a while.

But then, for whatever reason, I just don't have anything else to give.  Maybe it's because my life has so many recurring and ongoing crises.  Maybe it's because of my chronic fatigue or my bipolar disorder.  Maybe it's because I'm just a crappy friend.

And then I will disappear.

Not on purpose.  Not because I'm trying to be mean.  Not because I'm consciously deciding I don't want to be your friend.  But because I have to take care of myself.  And taking care of myself often means neglecting everything and everyone but my family.  Sometimes everyone other than myself.

I will retreat.  For who knows how long.  You might reach out.  You might not.  When I'm gone like this, I probably won't reach back.  I might not even acknowledge you've tried to contact me.

I see you reaching.  I sense your need.  But I can't fill it.  And you can't fill mine.  Because I need to be alone and lick my wounds or find my way.  Or whatever.

I know I've wounded people with this behavior.  I see it.  But I'm doing triage, and I just can't see your need to be with me as a life or death thing.  Or if I do, I pray someone else will treat it, because my hands are tied behind my back.

Sometimes my behavior causes others to pull back, hoping I'll notice they've left and their absence will cause me to reach out.  But that doesn't work.  Because if I notice, which is a big if, it's entirely possible I will just be grateful to not have to fix it.  To not have to figure out the steps to the dance we were engaged in, where I was stepping on your toes.  I'll just be glad the dance is over and head to the punch.

I just truly don't know how to do the dance and am no longer interested in learning.

This is the kind of friend I can be now.  I can be happy when good things happen in your life.  I can be glad to see you when we run into each other.  I can occasionally muster the energy, physically and emotionally, to do something together.  I will think kindly of you when something reminds me of you.  And no matter how much time has passed, I will still consider you my friend.

It doesn't take much for me to consider someone my friend.  Do I know you?  Have we had positive interactions?  Yeah, that's about it.  That's all it takes.

If we're not friends, and you want me to feel that way too, you'll probably have to tell me.  Even then, I'm not sure I wouldn't still introduce you as my friend should the need arise for me to introduce you.

And if you choose to move on, if you decide (for whatever reason) that you're better off without me, I'll most likely wish you well and let you go.  I won't argue.  I won't ask you to stay.  It's just not in my nature.  I'll support your growth in whatever way you seek it.

I know a lot of this will sound harsh to many people.  That's okay.  We're all just finding our way.  And this is just one little trip on the journey of my psyche.  It's a crazy, winding path that's sometimes light and sometimes dark, but always mine.

A Year of Healing

My version of New Year's resolutions is One Word.  I choose one word to direct my coming year.  It's a from-the-gut choice.  I toss and turn it over in my head and heart for days or weeks, working with God to choose what I need for that year.  I've been doing it for a few years now, and it never ceases to amaze me how my year looks in retrospect wrapped in that word.

My word for 2015 was HEAL.  I went into the year not knowing how that would play out.  In most cases, I just tucked that word away in my heart and went about my life.  But once in a while something would happen and I'd notice it.  I'd notice it was an element of healing.  I was healing.

I just went back and re-read my post from the beginning of the year, when I chose this word.  I read through the list.  And I noticed things, areas of healing that had happened, that I hadn't noticed before.  I'm so grateful for that.

But, truly, the biggest change has been my body.

I've got health issues.  Nothing major, just enough to keep me from being and doing what I want.  Enough to force me to see other ways of being.  Others ways to be of value.

I started the year off very unhappy with my body.  With its size and shape.  With its open rebellion against me.  With its struggle to control me, to make me submit to its whims.  Honestly, I was frustrated that I even had to have a body, because I felt it limited me in so many ways.

But things changed.

I don't remember exactly how or when it happened.  It might have started last year.  In fact, I think it did.  Last November I decided I wanted to add some color to my hair.  Not regular color.  Purple.  And early in December, I did.  I got about six inches of the bottom of my hair bleached and dyed bright purple.  Much brighter than I'd anticipated.  And more inches than I'd planned.  (Due to my own miscommunication with my fabulous hairdresser.)  All of a sudden my hair was troll doll purple.  My Little Pony purple.  No longer subtle at all!

I'd spent years hiding in plain sight.  Trying to be subtly present in the room.  Mostly because I was very unhappy with the weight I'd gained and the way I looked.  I felt miserable and it showed.

I loved having bright hair!  It gave me such a lift.  But I wasn't prepared for how others would react to it.  Suddenly, when I walked into a room, there was no question people would be looking at me.  It often made me uncomfortable.  But I have always tried to stand behind my decisions, even if they don't seem to make any sense to anyone else.  I've tried to live by the principle that I shouldn't make any decision, take any action, that I wouldn't be okay if it were exposed to the world.  Stand behind my choices - that's me!

So I decided to embrace it.  I decided to embrace me.  I shared photos of my hair on Facebook.  It was fun seeing how it faded and sharing that, too.  But I hated pictures of my face, so it was tricky to share my hair unless I had someone else take pictures from behind.  I have lots of picture of the back and sides of my hair, with my head leaning so that my hair fell mostly in front of my face.  Because I didn't like my fat face.

Again, I don't know the exact day it happened, but I decided to stop hiding from pictures.  I decided to allow pictures of myself, even some I didn't like, to be seen.  I decided the picture was just a moment.  Even if I didn't like how I looked in that moment, I liked who I was.  And I wanted to remember that moment and have evidence of my presence.

And in the midst of this, there were other changes happening.  I was healing in other ways.  Invisible, inside ways.

In February I heard the words that changed me forever.  In February I found the key that turned off the self-harm switch inside me.  I February I gave up self-harm for good.  Something I knew I was supposed to heal, needed to heal, but didn't want to heal.  I trusted.  I was healed.

This year I came to a healthier relationship with my dad.  I found my footing.  Mostly through taking care of my mom together, he and I have found a new respect for each other.  A new gratitude for each other.  Healing

I've come to a much healthier place with my mom as well.  As she's changing, as her world is changing, I'm finding my footing there as well.  It's been a tough slog.  It's going to get tougher still.  But I understand and accept it better now.  And that helps.  I feel less burdened and more compassionate.  And I feel love toward her.  The kind of love that's been missing for a while.  A healing love.  I'm grateful for that.

But the most noticeable healing I've experienced has been physical.  At the beginning of the year, I was a slug.  I could move and get things done, but everything exhausted me.  Everything was a huge burden.  I'd do what needed to be done and head straight back to bed.  I was so tired and miserable and uncomfortable in my own body.

Again, I don't remember exactly when it happened.  But I know it started before my physical.  As I was approaching my physical, I was evaluating things and had decided I wanted to get off one of the medications I was on.  And, dang it, I wanted to talk to my doctor about losing weight.  My body wanted to move.

Now that I think about it, I think that was how it started.  My body ached.  I lay in my bed aching, and I knew it was because my body wanted to move.  And my brain wanted my body to move.  But I was so exhausted.  Completely depleted.  I had nothing more to push my body with.  Gravity was pulling so hard.

But I wanted to move.

So at my physical, I talked to my doctor.  We made a couple of medication changes.  And I made a plan.  Eat better.  Move.  That was the gist of it.  And that's what I did.  I changed how and what I ate.  And I started walking.

Since then I've walked three 5ks; I ran a little in the last one.  I've injured myself (plantar fasciitis and shin splints), because I pushed too hard too fast.  (Hopefully, I've learned something and will do better now.)  I added bodyweight exercises.  I did some yoga.  I've done some Just Dance.  A little of this, a little of that.  I shared it all on Facebook, to keep myself accountable.  Exercise is now something that's a part of my life.  Part of who I am.  Part of who I want to be.  I want to be a runner!

And, let me just tell you, those are words I never thought I'd say.  I had no intention of running.  I started out walking.  I walked and walked.  Miles and miles.  (Which in and of itself was amazing to me and everyone around me.)  It was in my last 5k, the one where I pushed my body too far and it rebelled.  The one where I ran some.

Hurting.  Crying.  My body ached.  But not because of the injury.  My body ached to run.  I ached to run.  Weird.

I'm still working toward that.  It's a two steps forward, one step back thing.  My body doesn't recover like it used to.  I can't just decide I'm going to go push it for hours and hours and not pay for it like I could in high school.  These days, the cost of pushing is a bit higher.  But not too high.  Not so high that it's not worth it.  And if I pace myself instead of diving off the cliff, which is my inclination, I can do it.  Baby steps.  I'm working on that.

Since May I've lost 33 pounds.  I've gone down a pant size.  I've lost inches here and there.  My face has thinned.  And all of that's great.  But it's not what's most important.

I feel like I've found me.  Like my body and I are working together again.  I've proven I can do this.  I'm not at complete peace about my body all the time, but I'm doing so much better.  I'm so much happier.  I feel more whole.

Like each year in the past, I will carry this word forward with me.  It will remain in my heart.  It will continue to drive me in ways I won't notice until I look back.

And I'm so excited to share my word for 2016!  But that'll be tomorrow.

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.

A Time to Heal

It's a new year.  A fresh start.  Sure, there's no big difference between December 31st and January 1st, but there actually is.  People all over the world are taking this opportunity to examine their lives and decide what they want to change.  How they want to improve.

I love that!  It feels like a moment of unity for our entire species.  That doesn't happen often.

I don't do resolutions, but I do examine my life and look for a new focus.  I choose ONE WORD.  There will be one word that guides my year.  I never know exactly how it will play out.  Some of it is how I change my actions; some of it is the natural flow of life; and I believe God brings people and experiences into my life to help me, because I've opened my heart up to Him in that way.

In the past I've sometimes stewed over what word to choose for the next year.  Other times I just instantly knew.  This was one of the latter.  As soon as I thought about the new year and what I wanted to focus on, a word came to my mind.  Clear and strong and spoken.

Would I go so far as to say God chose this word for me?  Yes, I would.
This year God wants me to HEAL.

The word and a feeling came strongly.  But the feeling was an open one.  Heal is my word, but much of how I interpret that will morph throughout the year.  What I do with that word is largely up to me.

So when I was given that word the first thing that came to mind was working on my physical health (which I think is the direction most people who know me would also go with it).  I have some health struggles that I've sought answers for over the past several years - to no avail.  They interfere with the life I want to live.  They interfere with relationships.  They interfere with who I want to be.

Then I felt selfish.  Always looking at how my life will change.  Always focused on me.  Maybe it's meant to be an outward thing.  Maybe I'm meant to heal others.  Who would I want to heal?  My family, my friends, my parents, the world.  But I don't actually have the power to heal others.  I have the power to help others heal, but only God can truly heal.  And maybe He and I will spend some time working together to help others heal.  I'm open to that.

In order to figure out what God was really asking of me, I pulled inside of myself.  I took a deep breath.  I opened my heart.  And I asked, "What does this mean, this word heal, for me this year?"

And then I wrote:
 - finances
 - past
 - Christmas
 - physical health
 - food issues/habits
 - house
 - garden/yard
 - car management
 - Mother's Day/Father's Day/Parents' birthdays
 - my boundaries/obligations/desires for relationship with my parents
 - mental health separate from my past
 - spiritual health?
 - daily habits/time management
 - relationships?
 - from relationships
 - coping strategies
 - self-soothing
 - self-care
 - household
 - computer
 - writing
 - my relationship with my body*
 - wanting
 - codependence
 - control issues

So, not much.  (Just kidding on that not much thing.)

The question marks were because I'm not sure if He and I think that is an area I need to work on this year or if it's just something I felt I should add (seriously, a moment of allowing myself to be directed by societal expectations; sheesh).  The asterisk is because I felt added intensity from Him on that one.

I know some of these may not make sense.  Some of them don't seem to fit.  But they do.  And they do make sense in my head and my heart, even while they are still left free-floating and undefined - waiting to be discovered.

Because that is part of the magic of choosing one word.  My year is spent in discovery.  How and why does my word apply in this situation, whatever the situation may be?  How does applying my word to this experience affect my growth and my happiness and my peace?  How will this word change who I am?

It's a wonderful journey for me.  Full of magic.  And wonder.  And inspiration.  And challenge.  And failure.  And growth.

I can't wait!

A Year of Creating

2014.  It's almost over.  Where did it go?  And so fast.  It's done and gone so fast.

And what do I have to show for it?

I love to look back on the year and see what's changed.  What did I get done that I wanted to and what plans fell in the gutter?  I especially love this look back since I've started choosing ONE WORD to guide my year (explained here).

Last year my word was CREATE.  I had so many great plans, while still leaving things open to the natural flow of my life and whatever the world would bring my way.  Some of my plans came to fruition.  Others, not so much.

I wanted to draw more.  I did, but not as much as I had planned.
I wanted to create the yard I'd been dreaming of.  I made progress, but not as much as I had planned (thank you hysterectomy).
I wanted to make my room a haven.  I did really well at this (although maintenance is tricky).

I had a list of words as part of my plan.  Some with obvious meaning, others more ethereal.  I created a vision canvas to help guide me.  I hung it on my closet door and referred to it often, to just kind of check in with myself.

I wanted to create:
     - peace
     - stability
     - strength
     - refuge
     - dragonflies*
     - healing
     - haven
     - space
     - calm
     - wellness
     - sanctuary
     - satisfaction
     - fortitude
     - oasis
     - happiness
     - gargoyles*
     - garden
     - structure
     - dragons*
     - wholeness
     - atonement
     - shelter
     - freedom
     - health
     - joy
     - self
     - focus
     - safety
     - divinity
     - dreams
     - escape
     - order

*I didn't want to create dragonflies, gargoyles, or dragons; I wanted to incorporate them into my life.  I love them in a magical way.  They sing to my heart.  I did learn to draw a basic dragonfly that I'm happy with.  I'm still searching for just the right gargoyle(s).  But as for the dragon, I'm not there yet.  I wanted to learn to draw one.  I have some ideas, and a tutorial for a basic one, but no finished product.  I still have today and tomorrow.  Maybe I'll get it done before the year is over.

As for the others on my list, I have had a certain measure of success on all of them.  And that's why the ONE WORD idea works for me.  I don't have to be perfect (perfectionism is a struggle I have).  I keep it very open, loosely defined.  It's a guide, not a restriction.  Even with all the struggles and health issues I had this last year, I'm calling it a win!

I'll keep my vision canvas for CREATE up for a while.  I love the ideas it contains and it makes me happy.  And I'm eager to create one for my new word for 2015.  It's just the perfect word for my life right now.  That will be my next post.

My Facebook Fast

A week ago tomorrow I was done.  Absolutely finished.  I couldn't stand one more minute on Facebook.  So I decided to take a break.

I didn't start out planning to be off for a week.  Just a few days to cleanse my system.  It was making me anxious.  I was feeling social pressure (that probably wasn't even there but was just in my own head).  I felt compelled to like this or comment on that to make sure she knew I was reading her stuff or he knew I still paid attention to his life or she felt like I liked her.  Seriously, it was ridiculous.

I was not feeling peace.  I wasn't acting; I was reacting.  I wasn't being true to myself.  And I am not okay with that.

So I announced my departure and went away.

And very soon I was anxious about being away.  I missed it terribly.  And I started to wonder why.  I started to examine my feelings and their causes.  Why was I uncomfortable being away?  What was it that Facebook was fulfilling in me that pulled me back even though it had been causing me negative feelings?

So I spent the next few days watching my own behavior and paying attention to the pull.

This is what I learned.

The thing I missed most was knowing what was going on in my friends' lives, especially within my own neighborhood.  I missed knowing when a friend was having a bad day or hurting.  I missed knowing who was having a birthday that day.  I missed knowing when someone in my neighborhood needed help.  Facebook has opened up communication in a way that just wasn't there before.  People share more.  I can get the info immediately or whenever it's convenient for me.  We can have a communal conversation over several days.  It's awesome like that.

But the flip side of it is over sharing or people sharing things I just don't want in my life.  Political/religious disagreements.  Posts with the F word.  Griping/whining in a victim-y way, with the same complaints over and over with no intention to try to make their own world better.  Pity parties.  Sexual images and/or status updates.  Non-stop selfies.  Contentious behavior of all kinds.  And certain people who just rub me the wrong way no matter what whom I hid from my feed but then they show up anyway because one of our friends in common likes or comments on their post.  I didn't miss those things.

Of secondary importance, I felt like I lost my voice.  My ability to communicate with the world was severely diminished.  Many times a day I wanted to share something and didn't.  I think this was the most important area for me to evaluate and an area I still need to work on.

I've always been curious.  I find many things interesting and always have.  Growing up I used to talk all the time -- ALL THE TIME!  I made people crazy.  I could sometimes sense it but didn't understand why.  The things I was saying were so interesting (I thought).  I don't remember how old I was when I finally understood (but it was probably much older than I should have been).  I don't remember what happened to precipitate it, but I remember distinctly realizing that I didn't need to share every thought that popped into my head.  In fact, it made people crazy that I did that.  It was truly an awakening moment for me.  It's taken years for me to learn to be quiet, because my brain never shuts up.  (It was many more years after that before I learned that other people want to share, too, and it's so important to listen.)

Facebook has been this lesson all over again.  I find so many things interesting in a day.  I have so many thoughts that I think are incredibly clever.  So many observations I find fascinating.  So many news stories I think are noteworthy and/or important.  I want to share them all.  And some days I know I'm sharing more on Facebook than others want to read/know, but I just can't stop myself.  I can hear people rolling their eyes at me when I post the third news article in a 15 minute time span.  To all of you who are my Facebook friends, please know I do try and I do censor and you aren't getting half the things I want to share.  You're welcome.

And it would be bad enough if that were my only sharing problem, but it isn't.  I started paying attention to the status updates I wanted to post.  So often this last week I found myself wanting to post snotty or complaining status updates.  The kind of communication that has become so much a part of our society.  The kind of communication that takes place on so many of today's TV shows that it's just become how we communicate with each other.  The kind of communication that's flippant and sarcastic, that we've all come to accept as appropriate humor.  The kind of communication that isn't Christlike or kind or sincere.

I don't want that to be my communication style.

Facebook is just too easy and quick and removed.  I don't have to think through, censor, or see the reaction to my thoughts the way I should.

I also missed seeing the updates from my daughter who is on a mission and knowing she's still okay.  That was hard on my heart.

There are lots of other things I missed and lots of other things I didn't miss at all.

So am I ready to get back on?  Kind of.

I still don't feel sure of my ability to regulate my behavior in a way that will bring me peace.  So I'm going to ease into it.  Tomorrow I will begin reading Facebook again.  I will communicate through the private message system about important things.  I will like my missionary daughter's posts so she knows I'm seeing them.  But I will not "like" any other posts.  I will not comment on any other posts.  I will strive to be an observer for a while as I continue to examine my thoughts and feelings.

When I feel like I can be true to myself and behave in a way that brings peace to my heart, I will participate fully again.  Until then, I'm going to practice observing and listening.

A Year of Seeing

It's time to look back, just for a few moments, and evaluate how this year has gone.  Have I used it well?  Have I accomplished what I intended?  Have I grown and become more me?

I chose one word to guide me in 2013.  I chose the word SEE.  I knew what I meant but wasn't sure how to put it into words.  It turns out, words didn't matter all that much.  It wasn't about words.  It was about opening my heart.  My heart communicates very well, but it doesn't use words.

So let me tell you some of what I've learned.

I've learned that when I get caught up in the running around and getting stuff done mode, I don't see much.  But I've also learned that I can step out of that moment and into another one.  I can quit doing and start seeing.  And when I do I am more me.  My heart is more at peace.  I don't do it nearly enough, but it can be breathtaking when I do.

I've also learned that sometimes life does it for me.  Sometimes things come to a crashing halt and I freak out because things aren't going the way I planned.  But then I find that it's because I wasn't being true to me, or life wasn't, and the universe decided to put me back on the right road.  I mope and cry and kick against the pricks.  And then I sit for a bit.  And I look around.  And I ask, "What now then?"  And I find a way that is me.  And it's a happier path.

And sometimes, because I've expressed a willingness to open my heart even when it's scary, God pauses everything.  And He shines a spotlight on just one thing or one person.  And He shows me a little of what He sees.  Without my asking, He shows me things that are glorious, things that are divine, because knowing this and seeing this makes me more me.

It's still tough to put into words.  I hope I've come close so you can feel it a bit.  The next time you and I have a private moment together, I will try to communicate it to you if you'd like.  From my heart to yours.  I will take your hands in mine.  I will look into your eyes.  And I will open my heart.  If you're willing to hear it, I believe my heart can talk to yours.  (It could possibly result in tears and a hug.)

If you are someone I will never meet, please try to hear it.  I am sending it.  My heart is bursting with it.  And it's for you now.

An Interesting Blessing

I have been fiercely independent for as long as I can remember.  To the point of shunning chivalry and sometimes hurting myself because I was too stubborn to let anyone lighten my load, figuratively or literally.

Over the years I've learned to accept help a little more and even sometimes request it.  I've learned that I'm not enough to take on the world all by myself.  This used to scare me.  Now that I've grown a bit and found some people I can trust, it is a bit of a relief.  Because now I understand that I'm not meant to take the world on alone.

But one area I didn't seem to learn this was in my marriage.  Oh, I did become interdependent with my husband.  Especially financially when my health no longer allowed me to work outside the home.  But there was still this I-could-get-by-without-you-I-don't-really-need-you thing left over from all those years of my independence and our struggles.

For so many years I have been his strength, his buffer.  We both knew that if our marriage ended, as it looked like it would more than once, I would struggle financially but be okay otherwise; he would be a basket case and be lost without me.

But recently that's changed.  We tend to pull together in crisis (thank heavens).  So his job loss, while incredibly stressful in other ways, has been good for our relationship.  We've become closer.

That's not the part that surprised me.  The thing that surprised me is what happened during my last PTSD episode (which still isn't completely over, by the way, but is improving).

This last PTSD episode has included so much fear (it always does).  It's tough for me to leave the house.  It's hard to be around people.  I'm claustrophobic.  I don't want anyone to touch me or talk to me too much.  I try not to visibly cringe when others come near me, but I definitely cringe inside.  The nerves in my skin feel like they are all hyper-stimulated at once.  My skin hurts.  And the thought of someone touching me scares me like when someone comes up to slap your back when you have a bad sunburn.

None of that is new.  I get that way every time my PTSD is triggered.

The interesting part is this.  My husband has become my buffer.  He gets between me and what scares me.  Quite often.  He'll take the conversation for me.  He'll sit between me and others.  He'll field phone calls and visits at the door when I just can't face them.  I feel safer when he's with me.  He's become my protector in a very real way.

For many of you, this may sound like a condition you've always had with your spouse.  Why am I making a big deal of it?  Because it's not something I've ever had with my husband.  It's not something I've ever allowed.  It's not something he's ever seen me need.  Being protective isn't his natural response when I'm in trouble.  He's seen me fight my own demons too many times to think I need him.

But this time I've needed him.  And he's come through for me.  As horrible as this episode has been, and continues to be, it's been worth it.  Because it's allowed a new type of intimacy between me and my husband.  I am so grateful for that.

Taking a Break From Therapy

It's time.  I've felt like it was time for a while now.  The initial issue that brought me back to therapy this time is not an issue now.  But I worried that I would have a crisis and not have any way to get in to see my therapist.  I worried that one crisis would be enough to make my life spiral out of my control.  Again.

So week after week, appointment after appointment, I kept scheduling.  My therapist is scheduled a month or two out and I didn't dare let a gap happen. 

It's not like I don't have plenty of issues to work on.  It's not like we haven't gotten good work done.  But the things I have to work on aren't emergencies.  Right now, they aren't even urgent.  I'm feeling strong.  I've got a good support system in place.  I'm getting better at communicating when I'm not okay. 

And over the last few months, when I've had a crisis, it's usually been between sessions and I dealt with it before I got back in anyway.  We ended up reviewing it in therapy, but not really facing it -- because I'd already done that before I got there.

Honestly, I've been feeling like I was using therapy as a crutch.  A crutch is good when you're really wounded, but when it keeps you from making progress in healing, from standing on both feet when you're capable, it's no longer a good thing.

So it was fear of being alone during a crisis, a feeling that I needed backup, someone to protect me, that kept me scheduling.

But my therapist isn't my big brother.  He isn't my dad.  He isn't even my friend.  He is the person I pay to help me see thinking errors and choose more wisely.  It's easy to get confused about that relationship -- especially when I go frequently without interruption. 

It's easy for therapy to just become a part of my schedule.  Just what I do Mondays at 9:00am.  And to get swept up in continuing it because scheduling becomes part of the process.

Even though I've been feeling like it was time for a break for a while, I didn't act on it.  Partly due to that fear, but also because I didn't feel like I had a good reason.  I couldn't explain why. 

Well, that's dumb.  I don't have to explain why.  It's my life and my money and my time; I get to choose how I spend it.  And I don't have to have a good reason.

It took a few episodes of not seeing eye to eye with my therapist, being offended and/or angered by what he said, and another bad session to hit me in the head and wake me up.

When I need therapy again, really need it, I will probably go back to him.  He is a good man who knows my story.  He's good at what he does.  And I think we will work better together after a break.

But it's time.  It's time to get some distance from my therapist so I can get the relationship clear in my head again (and he can, too).  It's time to figure out what I want to do instead of being swept along by the process.  It's time to get back to protecting myself, because that's MY job.

The Delicate Threads

Life is a tapestry.  Every thread is important.

Last night I was asked a question I've thought about a lot.  If I could change one thing about my life, what would it be?

She may have meant to ask what I would change about my current life, but that's not how I answered it.  I answered about my past.

I've had a lot of difficult experiences in my past.  And I've done a lot of stupid things.  But when she asked what I'd change my answer was simple.  Nothing.

When I've thought about this before, in that way we do when we wish for the magical power of a do-over, the one thing that comes to mind first is the times I've hurt people.

*  The time I wrote that mean note.
*  The time I said that horribly mean thing because I thought I was being clever.
*  The time I broke a friend's heart.
*  The time I was selfish when someone needed me.
*  The time I said out of anger that I didn't love someone.
*  All of these thing multiplied numerous times and many others.

If I have any regrets in my life, it would be these.  But if I had the power to take them back, if I had a Jimmy Stewart/It's a Wonderful Life moment, would I?  No.  I wouldn't.

And this is why.  I like who I am.  I like who I am so much better than who I used to be.  And each of those moments affected me.  Each of them led to growth.  They helped me become me.  I would be terrified that pulling on even one of those threads would change the picture of my life.  Would change it into something less wonderful.

And I'm sure many of those moments changed the people I associated with.  They grew.  They learned, possibly just to be more kind than me.  It would be awfully selfish of me to mess with someone else's life like that so I could have fewer regrets.

The threads in my tapestry matter.  Every single one of them.  The picture might not be anything like what I expected, but it's exactly what I need it to be.

Trying to Be Brave

I don't feel brave.  Not at all.  I feel scared.

People tell me I'm brave for writing about my therapeutic journey.  Sometimes it's not hard.  Those days I guess I do feel kind of strong.  But days like today, times like now, I'm just a scared little girl.  I'm afraid someone who knows me and knows my parents will read this and tell them about it.  I'm afraid of getting in trouble with my dad.  I'm afraid of hurting my mom.  I'm so, so afraid.

But I do it anyway.  Not because I'm brave.  Just because I'm so desperate to heal.

I'm fighting that deep, dark place again.  Because of my seventy-year old parents and my own co-dependence.

Eight months ago I wrote about my mom and her struggles.  I'd been out of touch and when I checked back in I'd found her much worse off than I was prepared for.  I thought it was horrible.  I thought it was unbelievable.  I thought it was as bad as it could get.

I was wrong.

She is much worse than she was when I wrote that.  And my life has gotten so much harder.

Things are really ugly between her and my dad.  I've listened to both of them tell my why so many times I don't even listen anymore.  At this point I don't care.  They can't seem to stand each other.  Which would be fine if they could just go their separate ways and be okay.  But they can't.  Because she's deteriorating.  And he's trying to take care of her (I admire him for that).  And she only wants him to do what she wants and leave her alone, whether it's good for her or not.  Whether it's a rational request or not.  Mostly, give me money and go away.  And since she wants nothing to do with him, I've found myself in the middle again.

She doesn't have her driver's license anymore.  It expired.  She didn't know.  Now she has to take the written and driving tests to get it back.  Could she pass them?  Maybe on her best day.  Maybe.  But she doesn't have many best days.  So she can't drive.  But she also can't stay home.

She was practically living out of her car before she lost her license.  She had been for years.  And without her license, the car wasn't going anywhere.  But she refused to stay home.  So before long, her car was parked in front of my house.  Every morning she would walk a mile to my house, get into her car and do her makeup or sleep or whatever, and leave for the day.  She's learned to ride the bus.  She's learned that we actually do have taxis in our area.  And she's done a lot of walking.

But she also gets stranded a lot.  She finds herself two or three towns over after the buses have stopped running or she's run out of money.  And then she calls me to come rescue her.  And spends the next two or three hours complaining to me and holding my life hostage.  This was probably happening three or four times a week.

Which was a hard enough situation to deal with, but it gets worse.

Memorial Day my phone rang.  It was my dad.  He asked if I'd seen or heard from my mom recently.  I told him I hadn't for a couple of days.  He said she'd left in a huff on Saturday saying she would never come back to that house, and he hadn't heard from her since.  He said he was ready to call the police.  I asked him to give me a few minutes to try to contact her.  I called her phone; straight to voicemail.  I sent her a text; no response.  I let my dad know.  About fifteen minutes later she sent me a text.  She was in the next town over and said I better come and get her.  I let my dad know and left to pick her up.

Once in the car, she started in on how awful my dad is and that she won't go back there and if he would just move her small motor home somewhere else she'd have somewhere to stay until they move this weekend.  I really thought my patience and my nerves were completely depleted before this episode.  I really thought I had nothing left.  Apparently there were reserves, but they were very shallow.  I had no idea what to do.  I was not in a strong place.  And I needed her to have somewhere to be other than my front porch -- talking non-stop about her horrible life and how awful my dad is.  Still.  So I did the only thing I could think of.  I told my dad he could park her little motor home at my house until the weekend.

It took him about two hours to bring it down.  We sat on the porch and she talked to me the entire time.  There is no way for me to express what it's like having her talk to me in a way that you can understand, unless you've dealt with someone in the middle of a breakdown.  It's like a bad, non-productive therapy session that just goes on and on.  Like I am her therapist.  And she never runs out of things to talk about.  And it doesn't matter if I'm listening or not.  She just keeps going and going.  It's emotionally exhausting.

She eventually walked to the nearby grocery store to get something to eat so she wouldn't be there when he brought it down.  It's now parked in my driveway, plugged into an outlet in my carport.  She hasn't been much trouble out there, although she has called me from various other locations to pick her up a couple of times since.  And to bring her home.  To my house.

And I am struggling.  A lot.  Having to deal with him and his rants about her and her and her rants about him while trying to help and be kind to both of them has me at my absolute limit.  I've broken down in tears multiple times these last few days.  It's all so ridiculous and pathetic and sad.  And I feel so selfish for not being happy to help.  I feel so selfish for worrying more about how she's interfering with my life than worrying about her well-being.

But today was therapy.  My therapy.  With my therapist.  A real therapist that I pay to help me.  Not some friend or family member who feels trapped and helpless and taken advantage of.  My therapist.

It was a good session, even though it was incredibly hard for me.  We discussed lots of options.  I can laugh it off and just keep going.  I can do nothing and keep complaining.  I can tell them both the hard truth (which isn't going to happen yet in any way, shape, or form).  Or I can do what I need to for my own protection:  I can learn to lie and fake helplessness.  (Let me just say, those two things are so completely not a part of my personality -- which might have something to do with why I always find myself taken advantage of.)  Little white lies like, "I'm sorry.  I can't come right now.  My daughter who just had brain surgery needs me" -- even when she doesn't.  Fake helplessness like, "I'm sorry, dad, I just don't know what to do" -- instead of doing everything possible to solve their problems for them.  I'm supposed to be less available and more helpless than my dad.  So he has to start taking care of things again.  One way or another.

Because this isn't taking care of my parents.  This is enabling.  This is prolonging an unhealthy situation.  This is hurting them more in the long run than confronting them would now.  Even though my heart is struggling with it. 

My dad doesn't know what to do.  But that doesn't mean it isn't his job to figure it out.  My therapist thinks it will take a crisis for him to find his way.  It might take a ride home for my mom in a police car.  From a stranded situation I didn't rescue her from.  And when she tells them to bring her to my house, which she will, I need to be ready to tell them she can't stay and they need to take her back to her house.  Whether she wants to go there or not.  This was about the time in the session when I completely lost it and started sobbing just thinking about her face when I tell her she can't stay and how her heart would be breaking.  I'm letting this idea simmer for a while.  I'm not capable of doing this today.  I don't know if I ever will be or if it will come to this.  But I'm letting the idea simmer because in my therapeutic heart it feels like truth, even if in my tender co-dependent heart it feels like the worst thing I could ever do to her.

For now, I am going to be less available.  And I'm going to work on differentiating between routine care, urgent care, and emergency care.  If it's not an emergency, I am going to work very hard to make myself put it back on my dad.  Because this is his job.  Not mine.

And, come heck or high water, that motor home is leaving my driveway this weekend!

The Blessings of Chronic Illness

Last night I had a conversation with someone who knew nothing of my chronic illness.  This is someone I only run into occasionally, who has only seen me when I'm doing well.  Which makes sense because when I'm not well I generally don't leave my house.

I don't remember what brought us to the topic of my health, but there we were.  I was explaining to her that I've fought debilitating fatigue for twelve years and a chronic headache for nearly eight.  With no answers as to why.  And I watched her face change.  There was concern and sadness.  And she expressed as much.  As she said what kind of specialists have you seen and doesn't anyone have any answers and oh, how hard that must be, I realized I don't see it that way.

And I told her of the blessings I've received because of my chronic illness.  (Some of which I've written about here.)

As a society, we tend to celebrate busyness.  Go, go, go.  That's how to be a good person.  Do, do, do.  There's never enough time in the day.  We have too much to do.  Why can't we do and have it all?  Chronic illness has taught me that this is foolish. 

Doing just to be busy is worthless.  Even damaging.  When we do and have more and more, it is usually worth less and less.  There is such value in choosing how we live our lives, every moment of our lives, instead of getting caught in the rushing flow of life as it happens around us.  And sometimes choosing to do nothing.  Choosing to be still and quiet.  Choosing to do only one thing at a time instead of always multitasking.  Teaching our minds to be at peace.

There are people who can learn this without chronic illness.  I am not one of them.  If I felt better, even now after all I've learned, I would be running around like a chicken with my head cut off -- just like I used to.  Bragging (without realizing it) in a martyr-like way about how busy I was.  Holding my exhaustion up as a badge of honor for the war of busy I fought.  Busy because I couldn't bring myself to give anything up.  Because I didn't have the willpower to choose what was important and get rid of what wasn't.  Because I didn't understand that empty spaces in my schedule were worth choosing. 

I needed chronic illness.  I needed the smack in the head that said, "Sit down and be quiet!"  I needed to be forced to pay attention to other things.  I needed to question the desires of my heart and decide what was important enough to me to spend the tiny bit of energy I have on it.  And it can be summed up in one word.  People.

The things I was doing before were good things.  But most of them were not of eternal significance.  People are of eternal significance.

I'm still working toward the ideal for me.  For now, I have structured my life in such a way that I am able to take the time to be with people when I need to.  I'm blessed that my husband makes enough money that I don't have to work (which I couldn't do anyway because of my health).  I'm blessed that the days of small children needing all my time are behind me.  As I create my new life, which is constantly in flux, the one thing that must remain true is my ability to be with people.  I need this.  To set other things aside and just visit.

Maybe it's an hour chatting on my porch.  Maybe it's a trip out for ice cream.  Maybe it's lunch.  Whatever it is, it will involve intimate conversation about things that matter.  Things no one else has the time to listen to.  I have the time.  I protect the time so that I can offer it to others.

I still have to take care of myself.  I have to remember that I am important, too.  I have to remember that if I don't take care of myself I will have nothing left to offer others.

It is the desire of my heart to connect with people.  To lift and strengthen them.  And in so doing I am lifted.  I am strengthened.  Instead of draining my tiny bit of energy, it increases.  It feeds my soul.

My illnesses and life struggles have taught me empathy and an understanding of a great many things.  Between physical health problems and mental health issues, and the diagnosis and treatment of both, I've waded through many dark waters.  Certainly not all of them, but many of them.  Sometimes I am miserable and hurting.  But I would not trade it for the world.  Because it has blessed me with an understanding heart.

If I could go back in time and do something different that prevented me from getting ill, I wouldn't.  I am so grateful for what I've learned and how I've grown.  I am so blessed to be able to offer what I can.  And none of this would have been possible without my chronic illness.

I watched her face change again as I told her these things.  I watched it soften.  I watched her smile.

If I don't learn from these experiences and bless the lives of others through what I've learned, then it was just a lot of ugliness and unhappiness and pain.  But if I use it to reach out, it meant something.  It has value.  It has eternal significance.

Any Man of Mine

For the first thirty-five years or so of my life I let other people do most of the choosing for me.  They dictated the kind of person I should be.  They told me the things I should like.  They told me what behavior was appropriate and what wasn't.  And I fell into line. 

The reasons why are numerous.  I wish I'd realized earlier that I had choices.

It was around age 35 that I first went to therapy.  Again, the reasons why are numerous.  It was a life saver in a very real sense.  And it was there that I learned I can choose.  If I don't like something about my life I can choose to change it.  I can choose things that make me happy even if the people around me don't like it.  It was a rebirth.  I was deciding who I was for the first time.

It was an incredibly empowering time.  But there were still difficulties.  I had to learn and develop ways to get through those difficult times.  Those people who'd had control over me for so long didn't give that up easily.  My tendency to surrender to their will and be bullied into submission didn't go away after one session -- not even after many sessions. 

New habits and thinking patterns are hard.  It takes time and a lot of work to change who you are, whether you like who you were or not.  And, unfortunately, I couldn't convince my therapist to travel everywhere with me and give me the little nudges I needed in the tough moments.  The moments in between sessions were killers.

That was kind of the long way to tell you about my Power Songs.  I found various things that kept me empowered between sessions, and my Power Songs were some of the best.  Three cds of very personal songs that helped me remember what I wanted and why I was working so hard and that it would all be worth it.

One of those songs was Shania Twain's "Any Man of Mine."  It felt very empowering.  It felt full of self-determination.  It was all about teaching people how you want to be treated, which is a big deal in therapy.

My husband mostly loved my Power Songs.  He (eventually) supported the changes I wanted to make and the new person I was becoming.  He would sing with me when I played my Power Songs.  Except that song.  He hated it.

I assumed it was because it was country.  I'm a fan; he's not.  But when I asked him why he said something along the lines of, "Have you listened to how it talks about men?"

I'm gonna tell you all the truth.  How it talked about men hadn't ever crossed my mind.  Those first stages of therapy were incredibly selfish times.  They had to be.  But it meant that I was so worried about how I was treated that I didn't consider how he was treated.

The song basically says a woman can behave any way she wants and the man better shut up and love it and behave the way she wants.  He better tow the line.

It's often what our society teaches.  It's what my mother modeled.  I believe it's a leftover from the feminist movement of the seventies.  It's the old story of the oppressed rising up and oppressing their oppressors.

But it's not healthy.  It's not good for us as women either.  It's just bullying in a different form.

Learning to treat each other with respect has been a steep, uphill climb for both of us.  Neither of us was taught this growing up.  It wasn't modeled in our homes.  Sarcasm and emotional manipulation and bullying are the languages we learned.  Teaching him how I wanted to be treated was only half of the solution.  Learning how he wanted to be treated was equally important. 

Over time I've learned that the most empowering relationship, the most healthy relationship, is one of mutual respect.  One that makes each person feel valued.  One that's not all about me or all about him but about us.  As a unit and individually.  We matter.

Living in the First Person, Present Tense

2012 was the year of KINDNESS for me.  It changed my life.  It changed me.  An entire year focused on one thing.  Kindness.  It was beautiful and glorious.  And while I will carry kindness forward with me, I am ready to move on.

This coming year I want to SEE.

I tend to be task oriented.  I get so focused on the task, the thing I am trying to accomplish, that I miss a lot.  I want to see more. 

I want to live in the first person, present tense.  I want to be truly present in the events and moments of my life.  I want to spend less time in the second person, worrying about what others do or should do.  I want to spend less time in the third person, observing life happening around me.  And I want to spend a lot less time in the past tense or future tense.  I want to be here.  Now.

Life is about moments.  It's about people.  It's about beauty.  That's where the glory of life happens.  But too often I miss it.

Instead of seeing the 360 degrees around me, I get stuck in tunnel vision.  Instead of seeing the technicolor of life, it becomes a grayish blur in my peripheral vision because I can't take my eyes off what's in front of me.

I want to see the beauty of a moment.  I want to rejoice longer as I watch my children enjoy each other's company.  I want to mourn deeper with my friends who are struggling.  I want to look more people in the eye and seek to understand.  I want to see progress in myself and acknowledge it and be proud of it instead of focusing on all the things I still need to fix.  I want to see purpose in the things I do by rote every day.

When I chose the word SEE to guide me in the next year, it felt so right.  It makes complete sense in my mind and heart.  It's about practicing mindfulness.  It's about making moments mean more.  It's about opening my heart wider.

I want to see with new eyes.  I want to see divinely.  I want to see as God sees.

I've had glimpses.  I sense that there will be times when my heart is overwhelmed.  I sense that I will cry more.  I will admit that I am a little frightened to completely open my heart and feel fully.  But I trust that this is the right next step.

And so, in faith I leap.

I Hate Money

I hate money with a visceral hatred from the deepest darkest place in my soul.  If you mention the word money to me there is a place in my stomach that clenches and I want to throw up.  I hate money so much.

Money has been many things in my life.  Money has been power that someone else had and used against me.  Money has been a way for someone to control me.  Money has been a substitute for love when money was all my parents had to offer.  Money has been an elusive prize that teases and dances, taking one step closer and then running away.  Money has been an avalanche that threatens the life of me and my family.  Money is my enemy.

And I don't think this is the relationship I am supposed to have with money.  It's not the way I want to feel and think about money.  I am so sick of money controlling my life.

I grew up in a home where I don't remember ever not having enough money to meet our needs and then some.  It's possible my parents had financial struggles, but if they did I never knew about it.  My parents never talked about money.  Except when they fought.

My mom grew up very poor.  My dad didn't.  My mom likes to shop.  A lot.  To the point of an addiction.  My dad has money and spends it when he wants to, but I don't know how he feels or what he thinks about it.  Except I know he thinks she spends too much.  It doesn't stop him from giving it to her; it just gives him something to be angry about.  I have heard him complain and yell about money more times in my life than anything else.  I'm pretty sure money is his God.  And a way to control people.  He gives.  It seems generous at the time.  Then he calls in the favors you didn't know you owed; you didn't know you were agreeing to an undefined contract.  And the only thing my mom ever taught me about money is that my dad has plenty and doesn't give her enough.

He's good with money, but he didn't teach me anything about it.  Except that spending it is bad and smart people know how to manage their finances and if you can't be self-sufficient financially then something is wrong with you that you should be ashamed of.

Yeah, my feelings about my parents and money are kind of intense.

And then there's my marriage.  We've had our share of financial arguments.  We don't have the same approach to money.  And I'm pretty sure neither of us would claim to be really good with money.  But we're grown ups so we're expected to know how to do this.

We've been married twenty-two years.  My husband has been the breadwinner the whole time.  I worked a bit but just because I wanted to.  (My health no longer allows me to work.)  And in this twenty-two years my husband has been laid off or fired ten times.  The longest we went without any income was seven months.  We've been on food stamps.  Our children have been on government insurance and received free school lunches.  In fact, the government paid entirely for the pregnancy and delivery of one of our children.  We've gone to our church for food, clothes, and help with our mortgage payment and bills.  We've lived off our food storage and sold many things of value just to meet our obligations.  We no longer have food storage or savings.  We used these up and haven't been able to rebuild them.

And because of this history, because of the many times we had our electricity shut off because we couldn't pay the bill, I am scared.  Whenever we get paid I want to put the money away just in case.  I have trouble paying bills because I'm afraid that will be our last income.  What if I pay the bills and then he gets laid off?  Then I don't have any money and my family is threatened again.

We've had well-paying jobs (I say we even though they were his jobs) and poor-paying jobs.  We've had more than enough financially and not nearly enough financially.  We've happily worked together on budgeting and spending and fought like crazy about money.  We've tracked our money together and spent behind each other's backs.  And for most of our marriage I have been in charge of the money.  Which meant that even though he earned the money I felt the pressure to handle it well.

I am a smart girl.  I am good at math and organization.  But I still really struggle with money.  And it is still a source of shame for me.

But this thing has been a burr under my saddle for long enough.  I'm ready to kick this monkey off my back.  I'm ready to acknowledge that I don't know what I'm doing.  That I've been trying to figure this out for years and am still not getting it.  That I have serious psychological issues that I need to address.

I'm ready for the battle.  And I'm going to win.