Another Year... Yippee!

I'm starting 2015 on the edge of depression.

There.  I said it.

It's been a steady descent, but I'm unable to identify it's start.  But I do know that had I not yanked on the brakes and brought this thing to a screeching halt, I'd have gone over into the abyss. I just don't know how long the brake is going to hold.

I'm a fairly pragmatic, no-nonsense kind of person so I usually just barrel through things, especially emotional things.  It's messy.  Too much touchy-feely kind of things.  It's not working this time.  I feel like I'm treading mud.

It's not that I feel sad, or even down.

I feel nothing.

There are no highs.  No joy, no laughter. And what would normally be considered low -tear producing- was passed long ago.  There are no more tears.  So, I can only go up, right?

Yet it doesn't feel that way.

I feel like I'm teetering, and how it goes is beyond my control.  "Beyond my control" isn't something I handle well.  Maybe that's what's helped to hang on so long.  But is it truly possible to have a strong enough mind to just keep hanging on?

I've decided it just might be.  Maybe it's not enough to pull me back up, but it might just be enough to keep me from falling further.

I'm Strong enough

It's amazing how a person's off-hand, insensitive comment can send me back to childhood and, seemingly, undo years of emotional progress.

I'm an adopted foster child.

The early parts of my life were very traumatic, filled with abuse and suffering.  As a result, I was a shy child, always trying to stay hidden and blend into the background.  It also meant emotions were pushed deep down inside and never expressed.

Eczema also ran in my family, and I had it.  Bad.  Stress caused it to flare up, and I was in a constant state of stress for most of my childhood and young-adult life.  And, of course, it couldn't be somewhere hidden on my body.

It was on my arms the most.  I'd be nice and tan most places, except the white patches where I'd scratched off the skin.

The it moved to my neck.  The skin would peel off, exposing gaping cracks in the flesh.  That really made the guys want to ask me out.

I also developed cold sores, and spent most of high school with perpetual cracks at the  corners of my mouth.  People spread rumors that I had herpes and several mature high school guys called me "crusty".

All this just created more stress, which spun the vicious cycle.

My adoptive parents didn't handle it much better.  I was punished for scratching and for breakouts.  I was forced to memorize countless scripture verses about healing, and told I wasn't healed because I didn't have enough faith.  I was dragged from doctor to doctor, enduring scrutinizing doctors, shots and countless creams and lotions.

I felt judged, and punished, for something that was beyond my control.

I grew up, moved out, got married and had children all the while enduring questions and sneers when people saw my skin.  About this time, the eczema had settled on my hands, making it all but impossible to hide.

Thankfully, as I aged I learned better ways to deal with my stress and also received much counselling to deal with all the emotional turmoil I had been in for so many years. Ever so slowly, my skin healed.

The cracks closed.

The blisters disappeared.

The itching was gone.

I have been symptom free for several years now.

Then we got a new color shampoo at the salon I work in.  Several of us are having a bout of contact dermatitis because we use it so much.

So, I've been nursing my hands, attempting to get them back to normal.  Apparently, I'm not doing it so well.

As I was perming an older ladies hair today, she asked me if anyone had complained about me working on people with how my hands looks.  In that instant, all the pain of my childhood experiences came rushing pain.  I wanted to cry, but I pushed back the tears that were stinging my eyes, and instead asked her about her own cracked knuckles.  "Dry skin" she said.  Well, duh. 

Again, I'm being judged for something I have no control over.  The emotions are high, and my nerves are raw.  I'm a little girl, trying to hide.  Wishing to be invisible.

But that doesn't "fit" anymore.  I've grown, matured, healed.  I don't fit in that mold anymore.

I'm stronger now.  I know who I am.  I know what is my responsibility and what burden I truly bear.

I'm strong enough to let go of all the pain from the  past surrounding my skin and how people have viewed me because of it.  I choose to move forward, out of the pain (both physical and emotional) and just. let. go.

Weight is a Mind Game

I just had my five-year anniversary of gastric bypass surgery.
I lost 106 pounds, became a "new" person and gained a whole new lease on life.

Life is hard when so much focus is placed on your weight.  It doesn't matter if you're morbidly obese, borderline emaciated or somewhere in between.  When all the comments you hear are weight-related, it begins to be all you think about, too.

Do my rolls show in this shirt?

Are people judging what I eat?

Will my butt fit in that seat?

After losing all that weight, I still had those type of questions in my head.

How bad does my loose skin look in this bathing suit?

Why is everyone commenting on when and what I eat?

Don't get me wrong, it's nice to have that weight off.  I feel so much better.  I have less stress on my joints, my fibromyalgia is under control and several other issues have subsided.  But I'm still fat in my mind.    Actual weight doesn't change what you see in your mind when you look into the mirror. You see, some of us use that weight as a buffer.  I used it to deflect attention.  I used it as a buffer against physical relationship.

Without it, I'm exposed.
Weight is just as much a mental issue as it is a physical one, and people don't understand that.

Don't get me wrong.  I'm oh-so-glad to have that weight off.  But, honestly, it's a struggle to not go back.  I know that won't make sense to many of you reading this.  Have I gained some weight? Yes, tho not much.  I'm only up one jean size.  Could I have done better?  Absolutely.  But I also could have done much worse.

I'm learning.  My life isn't defined by how much I weigh.  What others think or say, especially those I don't know, shouldn't carry any weight in how I feel about myself. What I see in the mirror is the reality, not the voice in my head.

So, thank you to those who've been on this journey with me.  Your support had been, and continues to be, immensely important.

An Age-triggered Flashback

Today I had the pleasure of doing a sweet young lady's hair for her sweet 16 birthday party.  I had the oldies station on the radio which made her mother and I reminiscent.  As we joked about my grandmother listening to the same music as me, I mentioned how young my grandmother was when I was born (35).  I talked about how glad I was to break the family tradition of young, unwed pregnancy in my family.  She shared some things about her family with me, and then headed home.

Hours later, I was headed home from the mall when I had the realization that my daughter is the same age my mother was when she was murdered.  There's no explaining when these thoughts appear.  Though I'm roughly ten years older than my grandmother was at that time,  I was overcome with how she must have felt.

Death is a hard thing to think about.  When an "old" person dies it's sad and people mourn, but there is also a sense of them being better off.  No more pain.  No more suffering from disease and/ or loneliness.  It's  almost expected.

When a young person dies, especially in a horrible way, it's almost incomprehensible.  How do we make sense of something so senseless?  I can't even begin to understand what life without my daughter would be like.  I'm sure it would be a huge, gaping hole in my life.  Forty-three years later, I still see that wound in my grandmother's heart.

She and I have handled the loss of my mother in totally different ways.  She has dived into a pit of anger, resentment, bitterness and even hate.  I won't lie.  I have experienced every single one of those emotions, plus some more.  But I have chosen to work through each and every one, and not allow the pain to eat me alive like it is her.  At the same time, though, I can't help but think I might act similarly to her if it happened to MY daughter.

I can't explain why I see there as being a difference between the two events.  Maybe because I was so young (3 years) when my mother died, and I've had 22 years with my daughter.  I guess more time means more relationship, which means a greater depth of emotion and investment.

I'm thankful that these age-related flashbacks are becoming farther and farther apart.  They're also becoming less traumatic.  I've learned how to process them in a much healthier way.  That doesn't mean the emotions are any less real, but they are less intense.

I've come so far, yet not far enough to be able to handle such a loss.  My Gram is strong; she passed that on to me. I hope to use that strength in a healthy way. 

Love wins

There's just no understanding loss, or how it will affect you.  Life is full of winning and losing, making choices and taking responsibility, living life together and alone.

I'm a fairly cautious person.  I like things that are reliable and stable.  That works for some things. Unfortunately, not for things that involve people.  People are the "wild card" in our lives.  For the most part, you can't train them.  You can't force them to stay with you.  Or make them love you.  Or trust them to never hurt you.

My family is suffering the loss of someone we love.  No one died.  She just chose to move on.  There was no warning.  No precipitous fight or obvious breakdown of relationship.  Just blind-sided.

I feel lost.

I feel the loss of her as though she were my own child.  I'm lost as to how to process these feelings. I'm lost as a parent.  How do I help my child through this?  This is so out of my realm of experience.  I tend to be more of a burn-the-bridge kind of person.  You know the type.  Just cut and run.

But I can't do that this time.

I know she's in pain, too.  Deep down inside.  Perhaps too deep right now for her to even acknowledge. She needs stability and reliability, to know people who love her will stay, even when she tries her hardest to drive them away.

So, here I stand, in the middle of all the insults being hurled at me, trying to keep being an adult.  Trying not to lash out when accusations fly.  Trying to maintain my calm instead of going Rambo on the person causing my child so much pain.

Love wins.  Always.

I'm not talking romantic love.  Genuine love.  The kind that wants better for the other person.  The kind that looks beyond the hurt to see the pain.  The kind that makes all efforts to understand what is going on on the inside, and not judge by outward actions.   That kind of love WILL win.

It has to.

It's a Long Jump

I've been feeling a strange little stirring for the past few days.  No, I'm not pregnant, so it's not that kind of stirring.  It's a restlessness, an unsettled feeling, a -dare I say it- need for change.  Change and I aren't usually on speaking terms.

Truth be told, I started this post about two months ago. And, yes, I'm still feeling this way.  Physically, there has been many changes.  Most of which I'm not happy about.  There's been emotional changes, too.  Those are way more complicated than any physical change could ever be.

After living in somewhat of a cocoon for five years or so, I feel like I am finally emerging and facing the world in a new way. I'm ready to take back things that were stolen from, or lost to, me.  I'm done hiding in the shadows, believing the lies spoken to me, about me.  But it's hard taking that first step!

I feeling like I'm teetering on the edge, in danger of falling from a cliff.  I also know, though, that the only way to fly is to be pushed out of the nest, with nothing to break the fall but the ground.  I think this step is harder the second time around. I did fly once.  I was strong, brave and courageous.  I was out there.  I was doing. And then I was shot down.  There was no blaze of glory. It was a fiery, hideous crash!  That experience makes it even harder for me to step off the ledge again.

Yet the stirring continues.

I'm Running On... Running on Empty

Well, it's official.  I just registered for my first 5k.  I might have agreed to it in a moment of mental weakness, but now I'm committed.  Or, maybe, should be committed.

I can't tell you the last time I ran. Not for ANY thing.

Rain.

Being late.

Ninjas chasing me.

So, I'm easing my way into this, at least until Lety gets me in training mode.

I made two very important decisions about this: 1) I chose a race fairly far away, and 2) it happens in the dark.  I happen to think I do some of my best running after dark.  Fear is a great motivator to increase my speed.  But, more importantly, in the dark no one can see all my jiggly bits.