Monthly Archives: November 2015

Fine.

I start this post knowing nothing of the topic I will write about.  What I do know is that I’m feeling really strung out and vulnerable, and it’s been a really hard week.

I am at the point in my life where I am ready to pull a Thoreau and hole up in a cabin (perhaps with Facebook, of course) in the means of hiding from this very cruel, cruel world.  Ok, it’s not that bad and I don’t live in Sierra Leone and all I have are “luxury” problems (God, I couldn’t hate that invalidating phrase more), but I’m starting to be scared by the general lack of compassion in the world.  At least, this is my perception.  But after seeing friends and others rapid-fire judge someone over a comment made online, without asking about it in person or simply inquiring about it, I want to hide.  When I see people judge others about being “lazy” because they are having difficulty paying off their student loans or need to receive public assistance, I want to crawl away into a hole.  What would they think of me?  I wonder.  I needed heat assistance one winter.  I start to think I’m too emotional or “nice” for this world.  And I have trouble trusting people.

When I first get to know someone, I worry they will think I’m too much.  That I’m too much to handle, that I’m too emotional, that I’m too needy, that I’m too ANYTHING.  I’m sure I’ve written about this ad nauseum.  Kinda correlates with my eating disorder.  Am I too big?  Do I take up too much space?  Do I express myself too much?  Do I annoy you?

Ugh, so fucking unattractive, insecurity is.

And yet, somehow, I know my self-disclosure about this human-ness is what motivates you to read this.  How intimate and uniting vulnerability can be.

Being afraid of taking up too much space is the main reason I’ve never been a talker in group settings.  Someone else needs this time, I think, or I have nothing of worth to add to this, or it’s really hard to talk in a male-dominated group.  (I hate that I still have that one.  I do.)  But mainly, I’m afraid that they’ll all laugh at me because what I’m saying is absolutely inane.  That the secret will be out – I’m secretly stupid and soul-less.  I don’t trust those around me in the same way I’ve had a hard time trusting my body to do its job.  (If I eat extra, will my body ever recoup?  Will that perceived inch that I gained on my waist go away?  Will I be desireable again?)

The repetitious diet, the control over what the public sees of me – it all gets threatened when LIFE comes into play.  Over the past week, we buried John’s grandmother, whom he was very close to.  And the funeral was on the same day as my dad’s death anniversary.  There was no room for anything.  Anything.  It was suffocating, really.   And there was more food around, and less time for self-care.  That stuff throws me, as wussy as it sounds.  I tend to box my emotions away and becomes a less life-like version of myself.  And it’s left me feeling like I’m in a daze that I can’t get out of.

I need hugs.  Hugs and love and care and people reaching out, but I tend to sabotage that before it even materializes.

“How are you?”

“Oh, I’ll be alright.”  I’m good.  I’m fine.  Everything’s fine.

Everything is not fine.  I have too many student loans and credit card debt and my credit score slipped a bit over the past month and I couldn’t stop crying Monday.  My father has been dead for a year.  I am the epitome of the anti-Mom, disliking anything domestic, and fear that I actually don’t give a shit about my child because of this.  I have a career where some people get mad and verbally attack me on a daily basis.  I’m also not that great at personal relationships, and would much rather be wrapped on the couch with cake and my laptop as opposed to chatting with a friend.  Every day I try not to drink and try to eat enough.  I am constantly running, trying to get things done, and I disconnect when the going gets tough.  I am disconnected right now.  I feel as if I have 45 plates spinning on top of 45 individual stilts, and it’s my job to keep them all simultaneously spinning.

Everything is not fine.  It’s not awful, but it’s not fine.  And I just thought you all should know that.

Pretty

momdadfionaThe sunset was pretty tonight.  It’s always pretty to me.  Halloween night, the sky was patterned with spotty white clouds, one perfectly like the next.  Tonight, there was a tinge of yellow and pink on the horizon.  Nothing spectacular, but enough to remind me of one of the perks of being alive.

I was told twice this weekend I was pretty.  I’m not sure if that amounts to a hill of beans, but it’s always something I “had”, at least since I stopped being an overweight pre-teen.

I’m fairly sure half of my readers just gave up on this post; I wouldn’t blame them, for thinking I’m vain.  I am.  I can be.  I think we all can be, at least most of us.

My father always talked about sunsets.  And so the sunset made me think of him, which made me think of time.  Because it’s almost been a year since he died.  And how time can strip you of many things – people, energy, health, looks.  Time is frightening.  Pressing, like a weight on your chest until there isn’t space anymore.

I find it frightening that I once was 15 and could operate on six hours of sleep with no problem, and now it’s twenty years later and sciatica is a common word in my vocabulary.  I find it frightening that I once had a tiny five pounder, and now I have a three year old who acts twenty-five and regularly asks me what words “In Spanish” are.  I find it frightening that a year ago, my father existed, as emaciated and twisted as he appeared at the end, and now…he just doesn’t.

Eating disorders are a good distraction from the real issues at hand.  Want to avoid your feelings?  Eat only raw vegetables and protein during the day for prolonged periods of time.  Want to forget that you’re a living breathing human being who will one day, too, stop breathing and stop existing?  Fixate on the fact that you’re becoming less pretty.  It’s a nice “smoke and mirrors” to the friend who you’ve lost from your life, or the brother that just won’t get well.

That’s where I’ve been lately.  Pulling at my jeans because I have gained weight, and I’d rather focus on that than on the fact my Dad’s been dead for a year.  Looking at my growing-out hair, and grimacing, because it makes me look old and fat.  Rather than think about the fact that some of the friends I had in my life last year aren’t here now.

Change: it’s a real ball breaker.

Don’t get me wrong; I love the compliments.  But it always gets my disordered brain thinking, “what if I wasn’t?  Would they still like me?  Would they pay as much attention to me?  What will happen when I’m old, saggy and grey?  Will I ever be able to let go of this attachment of self-worth to appearance?”

I’m sure this all sounds remarkably self-involved; I don’t know what to say.  Parts of me aren’t pretty on the inside.  It’s just the way it is.