Until the Fat Lady Sings, or Gets Weight Loss Surgery, loses a shit ton of weight and has a fabulous fucking life.

 The nerve of those Whos. Inviting me down there - on such short notice! 

Even if I wanted to go my schedule wouldn't allow it. 

4:00, wallow in self pity; 

4:30, stare into the abyss; 

5:00, solve world hunger, tell no one; 

5:30, jazzercize; 

6:30, dinner with me - I can't cancel that again; 

7:00, wrestle with my self-loathing... 

I'm booked. 

Of course, if I bump the loathing to 9, I could still be done in time to lay in bed, stare at the ceiling and slip slowly into madness. 

But what would I wear? 

I did something I never thought I'd do after all that I have been through, after how hard I fought; I gave up.  I gave up on me, my dreams, my hopes...I found myself in a pit of despair so deep I didn't know how to get out.

I have had PCOS (Poly Cystic Ovarian Syndrome) for over a decade now - basically that means that I get multiple cysts on my ovaries - I know, clever name.  My period has never been regular, going from gushing the amount of blood one expect from a stabbing victim to not having a period for literally years.  When I was finally diagnosed it was with the discovery that I had cysts on both ovaries they did surgery laproscopically (through my belly button) and were able to remove the cysts.  At the time they told me it was because I was fat that I had this problem and that I needed to lose weight, etc. which of course at that time I was too fucked up to heed that advice but I sure took it to heart.  Again the cysts came back, this time the size of a grapefruit on the one, it damaged it so much that when they did the surgery this time they were forced to take one of the ovaries and part of the other one.  I was told at the time that there was a chance that my remaining ovary would come back and start to work but again, I had to lose weight.  Next came the pap smear and the abnormal cells that were later determined to be cancerous - a quick d&c and that was taken care of.

I didn't have a period for years after that second surgery where I lost my ovary, no sign that my body was functioning in any way, shape or form.  And I put that dream of babies into the back of my mind, tucked it so far back in the recesses that I didn't have to touch it, to feel that pain but it was always there.  I told myself that my marriage wasn't stable enough to bring a baby into - and it wasn't, and I don't say that to lay blame at anyone's feet because it took two of us to form the relationship and two of us equally and in our own ways contributed to the instability and the insanity.  Here's the thing about me, don't ask me where I get it from but there is this stream that flows through me that even in the most desperate, sad, scary times and that is hope.  This optimism that some way, some how things will work out and inevitably they do, maybe not how I envisioned them working out, but work out they do.

When I had weight loss surgery and lost 30 pounds prior to the actual surgery because of that devil's nectar Opti-Fast the day of my surgery who should appear but my period - of fucking course, because it was inconvenient and the worst fucking timing ever, but there it was - my period.  A sign, surely that my remaining ovary was actually working and more importantly that the chance for a baby was indeed possible.  If you have read my blog (and shame on you if you haven't) then you know what happens next, I lost a shit ton of weight, got so healthy and strong physically and fell and got back up again repeatedly.  And still, my period was irregular maybe once every 3 months but hell, it was there.

In May I discovered that again the lining of my uterus was again thickened and because of my history my doctor referred me to the Oncologist I saw at Sunnybrook.  It twinged with me then that possibly this baby thing was going to be affected, but I didn't let it overwhelm me and I still had it, that hope and even if it was cancer that I could beat it like before.  I even went so far as to ask for a referral for a fertility specialist and I went to that first appointment and I quickly realized that this couldn't be an option for me - not with the state of my marriage and I put it on the back burner.  Next came the discovery of a "mass" above my uterus.  Again, I tried not to freak and I held it in - told few people - and held onto that hope.  I made the decision to end my marriage in August and I'm not really going to go into it here but needless to say it was many things - mostly my fear of cancer and what that would mean, but to say it was only that reason is a lie and right now I can't talk about that, maybe one day, just not today.

Anyway, a few weeks ago I developed this pain in my belly...well actually it started in my belly, went to my side, my back and finally my chest.  It was horrible, it made me keel over and I went to the hospital but pretty much shrugged me off as nothing.  Last Tuesday the pain got so bad that I said fuck it and drove myself to the ER.  After hooking me up to a morphine and doing xrays and an ultrasound two days later I had the report from the doctor.  In addition to the stuff I already knew about, the mass, the uterine lining - I now had cysts on my ovary AND cysts where the missing ovary should be.

I bruise so easily.

Call it intuition or whatever, but from that first visit to the ER when the pains started I knew what this was.  I had felt this pain before, the twisting and rupturing of cysts in my belly.  I became frozen inside - there's no other word for it.  I literally stopped feeling anything.  I went to work, put in crazy hours, came home and went to sleep.  I avoided friends, I avoided Facebook.  I avoided life because that sense of being frozen, it was my protection.  It saved me.  Because I lost my shit at that moment.  Hope died.  After all the weight I had lost, how hard I fought it still wasn't enough and I had failed.   And that little nasty voice in my head, the one that I have tried so hard to overpower came back.  That I didn't deserve a baby or love or support.  I punished myself....the most evil kid in school couldn't come close to how I bullied myself.  I did everything I could not to feel, because I thought if that sadness, that hurt, that anguish came up even a little bit I wouldn't be able to handle it - that I didn't have the strength to deal with it anymore and that I didn't deserve those tears because I did this to myself.  My friends, my beautiful, wonderful friends...they called me, texted me, Facebooked me...and I couldn't bear to talk to them.  I shut them out.  I froze them out.  I froze myself out....I did the very thing I promised myself I'd never do ever again and that's give up on me.

That second visit to the ER, that's what started the thaw, maybe it was the morphine - it is delightful stuff - but my guard came down and everything spilled out. And I cried.  I cried doing the dishes, I cried making my bed, I cried in the shower, I cried in my doctor's office, I cried on the drive home, I cried at Shopper's Drug Mart (which made the cashier pretty damned uncomfortable to say the least)... I was written off work until November 30th and the walls, just crashed in.  Without work I had nothing left to hold onto anymore.  The depths of that sadness were like nothing I've ever felt before and I thought I've known pain, I wasn't even close.  And the anger, with God, with myself was a burning hot rage that took my breath away.  It sounds horrible, and yeah, it really was and on the other hand it was the best thing that ever happened because whatever part of me that wasn't ready to give up reached out to my friends.  And their forgiveness and understanding, I don't know how I ever deserved to be so blessed but I am so grateful for each and every one of them.  I called my Mom and she came and got me and took me home and has been taking care of me ever since.

I have some perspective of this all now, given that I've been weaning myself off the morphine - 1 day sober, I'll take it and I realize that even though it has felt like pretty much the worst thing to happen in my life ever that there are victories to be found in this experience.  One, I didn't eat my way through a refrigerator of food.  Two, I didn't leave a trail of sexual partners and condoms.  Three, even though it took me awhile to get there I actually responded in an emotionally healthy way to this situation.  I cried when I was sad because that is the correct response to sadness, not eating a cookie.  I cried when my heart was broken because that is the correct response to heartbreak, not degrading my body with strangers.  I cried because I was afraid and lonely...because THAT is the correct response to fear and loneliness not finding 700 ways to self-destruct in an epic fashion.  Yes, it took me awhile to reach out to friends, but I forgive myself for that and they forgive me too.

Thanks to a much needed dainty foot of a Southern gal up my frozen Canadian ass (thank you Carolyn DeDeugd) and the sweet, loving friends and family who have surrounded me in light and love I woke up this morning with a new resolve.  I'm not going to give up.  Not on me, not on my dreams.  So I checked my work emails, worked on some stuff that needed to be done and I bundled myself up in some warm woolly socks over my pyjama bottoms, put on my Mom's rubber boots and a thick jacket over my pyjama top and I went for a walk through the field with my boy.  Sure I could have probably used a slow moving vehicle sign strapped to my ass that's how slow I went but the fresh air cleared my head, the movement eased some pain in my body and I took that opportunity to take down the banner, pop the balloons, throw out the horns and wrap up this pity party.  I got on the phone and harassed the gynecologist office until I got an appointment (December 3rd) - I have an appointment with the oncologist December 17th.  I re-affirmed in my mind what my goals are - and have been all along.  I want to be healthy and happy and damnit I want to be a Mom.  So I'm going to take this one step at a time, weigh my options.  And if this means a full hysterectomy - which the chances are pretty high of it being what needs to be done then I am getting my financial life in order and my power of attorney (thank you Amie Heaslip-Cosgrove) and do what needs to be done - on my terms.

Hope, it's not dead and neither am I.

Happy Birthday to Me

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME

In one hour, 1 minute and 39 seconds I will no longer be in my 30's.  It's quite a milestone, one that I admit I had some trepidation about meeting.  I don't know really what I thought turning 40 would do, what would change or where the fear came from.  Maybe it was the thought that I hadn't reached all the goals I thought I should have reached by now, become who I thought I should be.  I can't help but smile at how foolish I was with the expectations I had set for myself, the goals I had.  There is also a part of me that was happy to leave behind my 30's, the disasters, the pain... but then I thought that no, I don't want to leave it behind either.  I don't want to forget.  I can hold in my heart both pain and joy... there is room for both and one does not diminish the other.  I honor both of them.  I honor the Wendy that was 30, I like her. No, wait, I love her.  She was someone special and beautiful and I know that by the people who showered her with love this weekend.  No one that is horrible could have friends that are as amazing as those people who have blessed my life so I guess somewhere along the line I must have done something really right.

I danced this weekend.  Me.  I shimmied, I shaked, I jiggled and again I felt such joy, such freedom in my body.  And typing this I am crying, not because I am sad, but because I am so damned happy that for once in my life I got to fully be me.  No fear.  No shame.  No hiding.  I wore a little black dress on Sunday with the brightest, prettiest pink coat (Yes, pink!) and I rocked spanxed and no, I didn't look perfect, my body isn't even close to perfect but I felt beautiful.  Like a princess... and that smile on my face it was real.  I felt joy.  To my bones joy.  And gratitude.  So 40, bring it on.  I can't wait to meet Wendy at 40.  So here I sit, huddled in my blanket a smile on my face no one can wipe off because I can't wait to see 40... what adventure comes next.  So again, I hold my hand out to you, my friends... come join me in the adventure, the best is yet to come.  :)

The Selfish Act.

I packed all my things neatly and stacked them on my bed, erasing every sign that I had existed once in the space.  I didn't want anyone to have to go through the bother of sorting through my life afterwards, didn't want to be an inconvenience.  I never wanted to be an inconvenience.

I left everything behind that day; everything but the letters from my gramma's that I folded up into my pocket and that bottle of pills and the voldka.  I didn't cry at all on that 30 minute drive from Thunder Bay to Kakabeka Falls.  I just remember hoping that for once I would do something right and that they'd find the letter on my bed only after I did what needed to be done.  And empty.   I felt empty inside.  All the hurt, the pain the fear it was gone and I felt nothing.  I parked the car and I walked into the forest, I picked there because it reminded me of my gramma's forest and I wanted the last thing that I heard to be the water.  I sat at the base of a tree, my back against the bark, it was hard but somehow comforting and I started taking the Tylenol, chasing it with mouthfuls of the voldka.  It burned as it went down, but I just closed my eyes and kept going until the both bottles were empty.  I lost all sense of time.  I pulled the letters out of my pocket and sat in the dark, holding them against my heart.  I curled up in a ball, waiting.  And waiting.  Feeling sick.  And anxious.  I didn't know how fast this was supposed to happen, but somehow in my head I thought it would be immediate.  It wasn't. I fell asleep at some point, and the nightmares came again in my sleep and I woke up, clawing for air to the sound of my name being called.  I was disoriented, it must have been my imagination.  But no, there it was again... and my brain so fuzzy couldn't make sense of it.  Then the face of my angel appeared, but not the dropped from heaven, wings and things kinda angel - the living breathing kind.  It was Terry my friend, my roommate had found the letter and called her.  And I don't know how she found me in that big, dark woods but she did.  She bundled me up and put me in her car...I don't even remember the walk, I just remember waking up in the hospital and being so very fucking angry.  At the world, at her, at myself for not even being able to get this one thing right.  I also remember having that disgusting charcoal and feeling like I wanted to die even more.

That happened close to 18 years ago, but that memory remains vivid in my mind.  I had finished college program, my gig with the Children's Aid was ending and it was time to go back home.  To my family.  And I couldn't deal.  Everything that I had run away from 3 years previously I had to go back to and I had to go back with debt and a sense that I still didn't have the skills to deal with it.  I just couldn't do it.  And what strikes me the most is that so many people say that suicide is such a selfish act for those that you leave behind, but I disagree because in my head at that time I didn't matter.  In my head I was of no importance to anyone and my death wouldn't affect them at all.  Was this based on logic?  No.  Of course not, I had just tried to kill myself logic wasn't my strong suit at that point.

So why is this coming up for me right now?  Well partly because of the workshop we had on suicide last week but also because of some of the work I've been doing with my clients - both palliative and bereavement.  I have sat with people who have lost a loved one to suicide and my heart has ached for them, but I think I've been able to give a little insight as to how that person might have been feeling at the time and hopefully given them some peace - I get that I can't fix it for them, but I can provide a measure of comfort.  And I think at that time of how devastated my Gramma's would have been and not just them, all of my family and friends.... and how fucking sad I feel right now that I didn't know at 21 how very loved I was.....and how very hurt and broken... and fuck, now I can't stop crying.

Where was I?  Right, the palliative client.  I met this lady who suffered hugely with cancer, her family was worried about her, that she was depressed.  I remember going into the room and pulling up a chair beside her bed and asking her how she felt.  She described the physical pain she was feeling, of the suffering that had went on for so long and the loss, the loss of life and of self.  Hers was the face of suffering and pain, physically, mentally and yes of the soul.  There are times in this world where I feel ill equipped to deal with the situations life throws at me but when I stop and I listen to my gut - that whispering that comes from my heart I find the answers.  I took her hand and squeezed it gently and told her what her family didn't want to - that it was okay for her to let go.  That I saw her pain and I understood.  And we both had tears in our eyes when she squeezed my hand back.  She died a few days later.

That was all I wanted then, was for someone to see my pain.  To tell me that they understood.  It's all I want now.  But I realize that no one is going to see my pain or me unless I take off the mask and let them see me.  Well friends, my mask is off.  This is me.  I am hurting right now.  I am mourning the loss of a relationship.  I am dealing with debt.  I am waiting for an appointment with an oncologist that might mean big health implications.  I am struggling.  I fell hard and got off track.   I haven't been exercising or seeing my therapist - honestly, I can't afford it.  Well there's a lie, it costs nothing to exercise.  And yeah, it sounds horrible, but it's not.  It's manageable because I've realized that I'm someone of value, that yes things may not be perfect but I want to live and I'm willing to do whatever it takes to make this work and to fight for me.  And words, they mean nothing without being backed up with action one step at a time - and my first step was at 5 am this morning when I got dressed and walked out into the dark, rainy morning and put one foot in front of the other.  And I'm going to hold my hand out to those who love me because this journey, I can't do it alone.  Won't you walk with me?

What You Said. What I Heard.

"You were a mistake."

Those were his exact words.  God knows I sometimes take poetic license and exaggerate just a smidge conversations or words that were said, but in this case it was a direct quote.  I don't remember the whole conversation word for word, just that line.  I also don't remember him saying  afterwards  ".....but I'm so happy we had you."  or ".... you were the best mistake I ever made."  I don't remember him saying that because he didn't.

In my logical mind today as a 39 year old woman I can look at the fact that as an 18 year old kid with two babies under one (my brother and I are 10 months apart), both in diapers, both unplanned pregnancies that it must have been crazy overwhelming.  But as that kid, that awkward, ugly, bruised and damaged kid all I heard was I never wanted you.  I don't want you.  I don't love you.  You're not beautiful or special or worthy and my life would be so much better without you.

And really, I forget what I did yesterday but those words have never left me, it's a tape that runs through my head in vivid detail.  In my mind's eye I can see our living room, that ugly, faded couch with the mustard yellow patterned upholstery and the tufted buttons.  It was summer and I had on shorts, shorts that I bulged out of and I felt the cold bite from the metal ring where the button should have sat on digging into my thigh.  He was drunk, again, telling stories about the good ole days - you know, the ones when he was drinking with his buddies.  I honestly don't ever remember him telling stories about times when he came to see us in a school concert or play a sport but then again it's difficult to have memories of events you never attended.  What I remember is how his eyes lit up when he talked about his adventures in drinking, how he laughed remembering a specific event - usually ones involving copious amounts of alcohol being consumed and then getting into whatever car and driving around, because his love for drinking was nearly on par with cars and really, nothing's funnier than drinking and driving.  He got on the topic of when I was born and that's when he said it.  I was a mistake.

If he had taken a gun and pressed the cold barrel against my chest and pulled the trigger it would have hurt less.  I could have taken that pain, but as it was he ripped out a piece of my heart that day and stomped it into the ground.

My Dad would never have won Father of the Year, he never told me he loved me or hugged me.  He drank.  He got angry a lot and he scared me.  He was impatient and selfish. He never asked about anything in my life and would rattle on about General Motors (where he worked) for hours, and I know nothing about cars.  I think a little bit of me died that day because I always had this stupid hope in my head that deep down he loved me.  Even though I would spend hours sitting on that cold concrete step outside the Janetville store after my shift waiting for him because he forgot to pick me up and I was exhausted after being in school all day and then working I had that stupid hope. Most often he'd show up drunk, no apologies or on the rare times that I allowed myself to feel angry for him being such a dick I would start that long walk home in the dark (I mean this was the country, there were no street lights - just never ending dark) and eventually he'd come along, but I couldn't express my anger to him because that wouldn't be okay - still, I had hope.  But then he said those words and that hope, it died.  He killed it.

Maybe my vision is skewed on this because I can't ever have my own kids, my feminine bits are nothing but spare parts rattling around, hacked away at by doctors and cancer and I would have given anything to have my own baby.  There have been times that I just ached because I held someone's baby in my arms and smelled the top of their sweet head and I hoped so much for my own.  And I wonder, how did he hold me in his arms when I was a little baby, so innocent and new and not feel overwhelmed with love and protectiveness?  I look at those pictures of me as a baby and my heart aches, I was beautiful.  I was precious.  Why wasn't I enough?  Why was I not protected and held and kept safe and loved?  How did he not see my hurt as I was growing up?  How did he let me suffer?  How did he not see how damaged I was?  And why after all this time and therapy can this rip at my heart and make me cry?

It's crazy how those words have had such far reaching consequences and how despite how devastated I felt at his words (and actions) I've done my best to recreate that relationship over and over again in my life. How fucking sick is that?  I seem to have gone out of my way to chose and create relationships where my safety is neither expected or required.  I have chosen people who are either emotionally unavailable or abusive - and it's not like these weren't hidden flaws, I knew what it was from the beginning.   I think at the root of it all I don't believe I deserve to be loved and this is where the sexual addiction comes in.  Or at least a part of it, realistically there's a whole other ball of wax at play here.  But if my own father didn't want a relationship with me (get your mind's out of the gutter!), I mean a loving father-daughter relationship then why would any man ever want me as a partner?  My value is sex.  Not sharing myself, because that's too fucking scary.  Not being vulnerable because god knows they already have the ability to hurt me and I can't open myself like that.  

I write about most things as if I have my shit together and I'm so kick-ass and really, I'm just floundering around here just trying my best to keep my head above the water.  I think the worst thing about this all is those words, what he said, I took them into my heart and I owned them.  I validated them.  And I hurt that little girl in so many fucking ways  that I made his words real.  And my Dad, well I don't need to forgive him.... he is who he is and that's not going to change but I need to forgive myself.  I need to find peace in my heart because I don't want to continue making the same mistakes, punishing myself over and over again.  How do I do that?  I don't have a fucking clue, but I think writing this was a good start.   

I Fell Off the Wagon and Onto a Dick OR Recovery, Relapse and Forgiveness.

The wicked witch of the west, she's dead.  That over dramatic bitch melted all over the place after they chucked the water on her.  And poof, just like that, she was gone... all that was left was a puddle.  No more flying monkeys sent to eviscerate the Scarecrow, no maniacal broad with a skin condition hell bent on revenge plotting against them.  They reached Oz.  They got a heart, courage, a brain, an all expenses paid trip to Kansas (which seemed kinda fucked to me dude was ready to give her anything after she exposed his bullshit scam, me personally I would have asked to have been sent somewhere in the Caribbean first - some all-inclusive resort, I mean she had just went through a hellish time and she could have made it back to that shit hole Kansas on her own after that, right?).  But I digress.

When the movie ended I thought 'but the story isn't finished.'  I really wanted for there to be a sequel to show how the characters of this twisted little fable made out after their wishes were granted and had completed this incredible journey.  I mean I imagine that the Scarecrow still woke up in a cold sweat after being chased by flying monkeys in his dreams.  The Tin Man probably had commitment issues, because yes he was given a heart but he wasn't ready or given the coping mechanisms for the reality of how easily it could be broken, how people would steal little pieces of it when he least expected it and how overwhelming it would feel to have it nearly burst with love.  And the Lion, well I wouldn't be a little bit surprised if that poor fucker needed years of therapy because being such a little bitch for so long that label would be hard to ditch and all the courage in the world wouldn't stop people from being dicks to him.  And then there's Dorothy.  Dorothy who literally went through a tornado only to end that horrific experience by killing somebody, with a house.  I mean sure, it wasn't premeditated or anything and the bitch was evil, but still murder is murder and I'm sure the guilt ate her up when she had time to process it all.  Then she meets all these fucked up individuals who journey with her to what she thinks is her heart's desire.... to go home. But who knows what happened when she got back?  I mean that chick was a hick from Kansas her experiences in Oz were beyond her normal - like me being from a small hamlet in Ontario and going to the Gay Village in Toronto for the first time, terrifyingly delightful.  And that home, that Dorothy she was she can't go back to that, even if she takes off those fabulous ruby red slippers she can't go back, because at her core she's changed.

I think about her line, "there's no place like home, there's no place like home." and I struggle.  I struggle because no matter how many times I click my shoes together (okay, so their flip flops maybe that's why it doesn't work) I don't get "home."  Maybe because there is no magical "home" and if there is, I don't know what it is.  I know that there is no Auntie Em waiting for me to engulf me in loving arms and tell me how worried she was about me and that she's so happy I'm alright.  That just doesn't exist, no matter how much I wish it did.

I went to Oz (and by Oz, I mean Toronto Western Hospital) and asked for my wish to be granted: to lose weight.  There was a part of me who hoped, against all hope that I would lose weight and that I would finally be happy.  I wished so hard for that damaged, dirty, ugly, broken part inside of me to be taken away,  for there to be an end to the loneliness, fear and hurt even though part of me believed that I deserved it.  I lost weight.  A significant amount and I felt happy, I really did.  For once in my life I nourished my body, I fed it good healthy food.  I worked out with a personal trainer who pushed me, encouraged me and helped me to feel strong and healthy and for once safe.  I looked in the mirror and I liked that woman I saw looking back. I liked her face and I loved her heart.

So the story ends there, right?

I'm fixed.

Yeah, not even close.

Life became stressful again, overwhelming and all of my old insecurities, my old demons who I thought I had battled and had beaten came back and reared their ugly heads.  I stopped listening to how I felt and honoring those feelings.  I just wanted to numb out and all my old partner's in crime were right there suited up and ready to go.  I couldn't eat a whole bunch at once, but I could graze all day, fill my poor little stomach till it hurt, because God I was hurting so much and no one knew, no one saw and I just needed to take that emotional pain away for awhile, focus it somewhere else because I just couldn't take it anymore.  That aching loneliness returned and I lost myself in another, floated away and looked down at that body that wasn't mine and ended up feeling even more alone.  Those moments where I celebrated my body and the wonderful sensations it could have became just another way I used to punish myself.

So recently I've slayed a few of my demons, I've made some changes.  Am I still an addict?  God yes.  Do I still do stupid shit?  Uh yeah, almost on a daily basis.  But I feel like in a way I've come out of that dark place I was in.  I've found some peace.  But like Dorothy, my story isn't over.  And that's the most wonderful thing I can think of, because it means that I still have a chance to change how it ends.  It's like a choose your own adventure book.  But like all stories I have to figure out the why - the point of it all - and I don't think the point of this story of my life is to reach this magical, mythical place where I'm perfect and life is wonderful and I'm all Martha Stewart-y and shit.  I think the point is to take the shit that life throws at you, learn to stand strong when you can't duck, to take responsibility for the shit that is yours, to deal with the shit from the past as it comes up, layer by layer, but most importantly to master the art of self-forgiveness.  That's a big one for me, I can forgive the trespasses of many, but fuck me I'm so hard on myself.  I said that I don't have an Auntie Em in my life who can take me in their arms and cradle me and tell me everything is okay, but I can do that for myself.  In my brokenness there is beauty, grace and an opportunity to take the broken pieces and glue them lovingly back together to form a creation that is amazing beyond words.

My very own Freddy Krueger OR Insomnia, It’s not that Bad

I claw my way out of the dream, my heart racing, my throat on fire and breath ragged from running and screaming in terror, tears streaming down my face, I rip at the blankets that have me trapped, ensnared…and slowly, much too fucking slowly I awaken and the feeling of having barely escaped something or someone completely evil subsides, but only a little bit.

I lay in the dark, try to catch my breath as my eyes adjust to the dark, the comforting blue light on my cell phone blinks on the table beside me.  I unconsciously take my left hand with my right and hold it, like I did when I was a kid and pretend like it’s someone there holding my hand telling me it’s okay.  I’m going to be okay.  But the tears don’t stop.  And I think that even though it’s the monsters, the doubts, the insecurities, the fears that keep me awake most nights are horrible at least I can keep them at bay when I’m awake, when I’m alert, I can keep the wolves at bay – light fires fueled by planning, eating, distraction anything to encircle me – keeping me safe.  But in my dreams I am chased by monsters that come in masks of people from the past and I can’t fight them.  I can’t save myself from them and I am just so fucking afraid all of the time and when I sleep I let myself relax, I let my stomach unclench for two seconds and that’s when they come for me.

And this is not new to me, this monster, this fear….this holding vigil at 3 am because my mind won’t shut off.  But I just realized that this is different.  I don’t have to let this fear rule me anymore.  It’s time to face the monsters, stand my ground and say you don’t scare me anymore.  I’m gonna stop running and I’m going to stay and fight.  I have a lot changes coming up and I can beat myself up every day and in every way for choices I’ve made or I can just say enough.  It’s just enough.  I can’t change anything about the past I can only make better choices in the future and try to create a safe, loving space for myself right now, today.  I thought that I wanted the approval of other people for the decisions I’m making but that’s not true I want my approval and my forgiveness.  I am on the right path.  I forgive myself for the hurts I have visited on others and on myself.  I’m hurting right now but I am not alone, I am surrounded by people who are holding out their hands and hearts to me every day I just have to reach out to them.  I deserve to be safe and I’m going to create that safety for myself.  And this punishing myself thing, yeah, it’s going to stop.  No more numbing out with food, no more sitting on the couch, frozen with fear.  I’m going to nourish myself with good food, move my body and lighten my heart.  I’m going to be accountable for myself and to myself alone.  I can do this, even if it is only one step at a time or one breath at a time.  And the first step is to go back to sleep.

Fuck you Freddy Krueger.

How I Exercise

Me this Morning:

4:40 am, damnit I slept in, I'm so tired I don't want to get up.

Well I'm awake now I might as well go, it's   last time this week I'll just suck it up.

My body hurts, I don't want to run.

Just do it one lap at a time, focus on that wall, you can get there once, right?  Don't look at the clock, just find a spot on the wall each time, run for there.  Sweat is running in my eyes, I can't see the wall...the lines on the floor, yup I can still see them..look there.

My legs are so stiff, I don't want to run up these stupid stairs.

Jesus fuck (actually, I said this part out loud).  Oh my God this hurts.......  Holy crap, I told Barry about my shitty day yesterday and I was still running, I can run and talk that's pretty fucking amazing.  Mother fucking son of a bitch (I said this part out loud too).  Half way there?  Is he fucked?  I already did 5 laps, I'm going to die.  Holy shit, I'm going to die.  My legs are on fire.  Fuck you stairs - GO FASTER!!!  Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck (I said this part out loud).

Great, put on my boxing gloves he says but I know he's going to make me run too, bastard and my shoulder hurts.

One-two's?  Shit, which one do I start with again?  I'm so picturing that this bag is his head, don't say that out loud he'll make you do burpee's.  Ow, my nose...I need to stop pushing my glasses up when I'm wearing boxing gloves.  Run faster?  I can't even fucking see I'm gonna hit the wall.  Punch right away?  I can't even breathe!  Faster.  Harder.  My arms are jelly.  Don't slow down he says doesn't he know my arms hurt?  I think my spleen is about to explode.  Is that my spleen?  Oh God, my biceps are gonna rip.  I want to cry.  I want to puke.  What an asshole telling me to push it can't he see I'm dying here?  I'll show you how fast I can go.  When do I get to punch you again?

Squats?  Goddamnit I hate these.

Oh sweet jesus I'm down I don't know if I can get back up.  Okay, I'm up.  Again?  Fuck!  I think I just pulled a groin muscle.  Wow, I can do these without being supported by the wall.  Hey, I made it to the end of the building that was quick.  That fucker is going to make me do this again isn't he?  Of fucking course.  Ohhhhhhh why does this hurt my butt muscles so much?  Since when do I have muscles in my butt?  Wow, I went low on that one.  Ewwwww...ewwwwww...spider.  Right, squat... that one felt pretty good.

Lunges?  What fresh hell is this?

I'm gonna topple over like a weeble.  Weeble?  Weeble's wobble but they don't fall down... is that what those stupid things were called?  I need to google that when I get home.  What in the hell was a weeble anyway?  Fuck these are hard.  Shit, I'm done.

Oh great, he's bringing out the weight bar I so want to beat him with it.

Breathe when I'm pushing up?  Why do I forget how to breathe each time?  I feel like I'm hyperventilating.  I feel like I'm hyperventilating (I said this part out loud).  Ow, I hit my nose.  My arms are gonna fall off like Spongebob's do...god I love that cartoon.  Patrick is my favourite.  Bahahahahahahahahahaha (a la Spongebob).

Yes!  Abs, I get to lay down.

Planks?  Shit.  I can do this.  Just breathe.  Relax.  Oh my god my arms won't stop shaking.  Put your butt down.  Nope.  Don't start thinking about what your butt looks like in this position, don't even go there.  Three more??  Fuck.  I'm gonna fall, I'm gonna fall....I can't hold this, my stomach hurts, my legs hurt.  Shit, my glasses fell off.  Two more, I can do this.  Breathe.  Just breathe.  Just breathe, slower... wow, I can feel every muscle in my body it's kinda cool.  Last one.  The shaking stopped.  Man my body feels strong.

That's it? Where did the hour go?

5 am Monday? (I said that part out loud too).

I am NOT an addict.

On June 28, 2012 I celebrated my one-year surgiversary.  Stunning really that a whole year has passed since this event which has been so life-altering.  It seems like only yesterday that I sat in the waiting room, my friend Sylvie holding my hand while I tiptoed the line of acceptance of the decision and visions of bolting screaming from the room, my considerable bum exposed as I ran as far from the hospital as I could.  But maybe it was the fact that I wouldn't have made it halfway down the hallway without having to stop and catch my breath or it was because I was just tired of running that I stayed put and made the best decision of my life.  So you'd think it would just stop there, right?  I'd have this miraculous surgery, my tiny new stomach would only be able to hold less than a cup full of food at a time, I'd be gorgeous and skinny and all my problems would melt away with the pounds and I'd emerge this beautiful, pristine butterfly with a slammin' new bod, right?

Yeah, no, not even fucking close.

Well the first part was true, I did have a tiny new stomach, I could only eat a cup at a time - hell, I lost close to 30 pounds before I even went under the knife...and slowly the weight did melt off.  85 pounds of it to be exact.  So here's the part where I'm supposed to be all normal and shit and not fucked up anymore, because you know only fat people have problems.  It quickly became evident that while yes, less food + more exercise (or ANY exercise) = weight loss.  Easy peasy.  My stomach wouldn't allow me to eat much food, I was petrified of eating sugar, fried food, etc. for the fear of vomiting or other dire consequences (ie: dumping) so my portions were cut and for once, I was putting good food in my body.

I screwed up the courage and asked Barry if he would train me and it was a huge victory for me to be scared shitless and embarassed as hell to go to the gym and expose the depths of how out of shape I was.  Despite sometimes not saying very nice things to him when I'm on the verge of vomiting I will be forever grateful for what the support he has shown me, believing in me when I didn't believe in myself.  For almost a full year at 5:30 am three days a week I ran those fucking stairs, turned my "there's no way I can do that's" to "let's do this!" (and sometimes a - "there's no way this is a real exercise, you're making shit up" thrown in for good measure)and my body started to get shape.  I could run up stairs and not run out of breath.  I had muscles.  I had energy that was almost limitless.  My clothes fit better.  My mind became clearer, stress was reduced.  It was wonderful. I was on track, right?

Nope.

Because from the beginning of it all was this person who sabotaged me at every turn, who whispered taunts in my ear of what a failure I was, how fat, stupid and ugly I was always going to be - that I couldn't do this and that I shouldn't even try.  I have lived with this person my whole life, I don't ever remember not hearing their scathing comments.  And that person, she's me.  (Yeah, didn't see that one coming, did ya?).  Some people talk about this fat version of themselves as someone separate from who they are now.  I don't buy it.  Fat, skinny, it's just me.  And my shit.  The more I tried to distance myself from this "other" Wendy the worst it became, ignoring her made her more loud, more obnoxious, more out of control.  I reached a point where "I" felt out of control and life became too overwhelming - I had a new job working with people who were dying, work that has always been a part of my heart and it was in jeopardy, all my hard work too.    I was in such a dark place that I decided I had to seek professional help and that I couldn't do this alone anymore.  I went "shopping" for a therapist online and knew that I was looking for something around addictions (thinking food at the time), now you're probably thinking I was doing research, looking for who was the best, most recommended, etc. but to be truthful I stumbled upon this website after typing in addictions and Ontario and this website was about sexual addiction.  My immediate reaction was to dismiss this - I wasn't a sexual addict.  Hell, I'm the most stubborn, proud person ever, admitting I had a problem to begin with kinda bit my ass - but an addict????  Hell, even with the food addiction, I was more thinking food "problem"... I don't know why I had such difficulty with the word addiction.  I think in my mind it meant that I was weak, flawed... everything my Dad, the alcoholic is and everything I didn't ever want to be.  Anyway, there was a self-quiz on the site about determining whether a person has a sexual addiction so I took it.
1. Do you frequently fantasize or think about sex?
Not frequently, no.... sure when I'm driving in the car, but that's boring right?  I'm just killing time.  And I'm sure everyone who sees a good-looking man and/or woman thinks about them naked.  Well and when I can't sleep sometimes my mind just drifts there.  But everyone does this, sex is natural, fantasies are natural.  I don't have a problem.

2. Have you made promises to yourself or others to change or stop some of your sexual behaviour, and then broken these promises?
Well yeah, but I mean it wasn't a promise written in stone and it was only to myself, that surely doesn't count.

3. Does your sexual desire cause you to associate with people you wouldn't normally be with or do things you wouldn't normally do?
Hey, I was experimenting in my 20's, sure there may have been some people that I did things with sexually that I may not have done if I wasn't just so damned horny.  Again, I'm sure that everyone has had sex with someone they wouldn't necessarily have done it with when they were desperate.  And really, we were consenting adults there's nothing wrong with my behaviours...sure there were a few times I nearly got caught having sex in public places, but that's part of the thrill, right?

4. Has frequenting sex sites on the internet for sexual stimulation become a habit for you?
Habit?  No.  I mean sometimes when my imagination isn't doing the trick, sure but it's not a habit.

5. Is masturbation a frequent activity for you?
Oh come on now, everyone masturbates!  And what is deemed as frequent?  What kind of question is this?

6. Do you frequent, or have you frequented X-rated movie theaters?
Once.  Fuck, I mean what the hell?  It was a dare, it was just something that was a thrill at the time.  This fucking quiz is ridiculous.

7. Do you frequent other sexually oriented businesses?
Well do porn shops count?  I've been to them before, of course.  It's natural, right?   Right?!?!?!?

8. Are you especially excited by sexual behaviour that includes the risk of being caught?
Well not especially excited, but sure I mean it does up the thrill quite a bit and there was that time in the park... but surely I'm not the only person who is into that.

9.Is anonymous sex with others a frequent indulgence you seek, or one you periodically return to?
Look, I was lonely.  We  were consenting adults.  It wasn't an indulgence, it was a physical necessity.  Why am I even doing this stupid quiz?  I do NOT have a problem.  

10. Does some of your sexual activity cause you to have a secret life that is hidden from others?
Fuck.

And there it was.   That secret activity.  That secret life.  Like eating next to nothing when people were around and then gorging myself to the point of pain - that was my 20's... fucking recklessly, numbing out in every way possible.  Being so fucking sad and empty inside that I just wanted something to fill me (yes, that pun was intended), something to make the pain stop even for a little bit.  Someone called me "tough" today and when they said that I laughed because I feel like such a ball of insecurities and fear some days that thinking of myself as tough is just ridiculous.  But I see it now, how I try and come off as nothing bothers me. Really I don't know who I was trying to convince though...probably myself.  I didn't want to face my problems.  Admitting to my destructive behaviours meant taking responsibility for the consequences and as a recovering fat girl that is something I wanted to avoid at all costs.  When I was fat I could eat whatever I wanted, I didn't ever have to exercise, because I was already fat...why not just be fatter. But I'm off track... I was talking about sex.

Me and sex, well that's a fucked up thing, always has been.  Without going into detail I had some things happen to me when I was a kid and during those times I remember leaving my body.  I looked down on myself while those things were being done to her, "the other"....because it wasn't me.  All through high school I never dated, I purposely made fun of the guy who was going to ask me out to prom so that he wouldn't ask me out....and after growing out my hair after that disasterous head shaving incident in grade 9 I basically hid behind my hair as I walked through the hallways, just trying to disappear, to make myself as small as I possibly could.  I remember the first time I ever drank, it was probably in grade 10 and I blacked out... I hit on my brother's girlfriend's Dad apparently...and a few other people that thankfully I didn't remember.  Luckily my friends were so kind as to share the details of my shameful behaviour as I technicolor vomited up the Southern Comfort I'd drank.  I learned two things from that night: Alcohol was not my friend (specifically Southern Comfort) and the other was that me having those needs was shameful and led me to just pull even further inside myself.  I masturbated.  A lot.  I worked two jobs, went to school and had no social life, of course I masturbated.  It comforted me when I was upset, I could zone out...and it helped me chase away the demons that made sleep so elusive.  In college my first consensual sexual experience was with a man who was 35 years my senior.  He was sweet.  He told me I was beautiful and sent me roses.  I'm sure he was an adequate lover... looked that way anyway as I floated above my body.  When I was finished college I moved to Toronto and discovered a new "family" at my new job - a bunch of gay men who took me under their wing.  I guess this is where my addict's black and white thinking comes from because I saw these men go to bath houses and have what I thought were these glorious sex lives where there were no inhibitions and everyone just got laid lots and had fun.  Well I decided to do the same.  I hooked up with random men on chat lines... lots of men and a few women.  I had told myself that I was being uninhibited and sexually forward in my thinking... it was such a lie.  I could go weeks, months without a hook-up and then when the stress and the loneliness got too much I'd reel another one in (seriously, men are way too easy) and get my "fix."  Not once did I remain in my body during any of these encounters.  I never orgasmed.  I never felt a connection - hell it's hard to feel a connection with someone who you haven't given your real name to.  I believed in my heart that I was only good for sex, that no one would ever want to know me, to love me.

When I met Steve the sexual addiction became under control, but eating went completely out of control, spending money stupidly - it was just a never ending cycle of abuse.  I feel sad that I brought that fucked-up ness to my marriage but in my defense I can say I wasn't even aware of how fucked up I was, I was just in so much denial.  I forgive myself for that for truly I didn't know better.

Anyway, as the weight started to fall off a new horror started.  I started to "feel" my body.  My dear friend Ben hugged me a few months after my surgery, I had maybe lost about 50 pounds by then, it was a huge bear hug, the sweetest, most non-sexual hug ever and I freaked inside.  There wasn't a layer of protection against me and the world.  Parts of my body that had never touched another person's body became exposed and I wanted to cry... I still don't know if it was in fear or relief.....relief that for once I had an intimacy I had denied myself for so long.

Over the past few months I have been posting and sharing my innermost thoughts, sharing my homework that my fucking therapist has given me and it has been painful.  So fucking painful that sometimes I don't know what to do with the pain that I have inside but I ride the wave and hold on for dear life and it gets better, day by day it gets better.  That inner voice, that one that berated and defiled and belittled, its still there some days and I listen to it, I honor it because at one point it was true and I know that behind all the hate filled words is fear and shame and to ignore it means that I will never be set free.  So day-by-day and step-by-step that voice gets quieter and it is being replaced with something new - a feeling of peace, of purpose, of me.  I'm gonna fall down, I'm gonna mess up and I know that this is not something that is going to be fixed overnight but I'm committed to me.  I'm committed to being well and whole and happy and yeah, I'm still going to be sarcastic and quirky and sometimes inappropriate because that is part of my charm.  So every morning I will wake up and make a commitment to myself - to make good choices, to be gentle with myself, to take responsibility and to make this life the best I can make it.

<3 to you all.

Random thoughts that when I'm feeling less lazy I will turn into an actual post.

Don't Look Back
I used to like that message about not looking back, only moving forward but I think I needed to look back, to find my perspective and to see how very far I've traveled. And it doesn't mean that I have to be sad all the time or dwell in what was, but on these days where I'm struggling and feeling like I am a failure I stop myself. I reassess what is truth. Yeah, this shit is hard and I'm stumbling but there are always going to be times in this life when I'll be knocked down and dragged through hell and I'm gonna mess up and I just have to learn the hardest thing ever, kindness to myself. Humility. And the choice to pick myself up and dust myself off, pick up my sword and fight again or go back to my half life and die a little inside every day. And my strength, it isn't in acting like nothing is wrong... it is in letting the people I know who love me how I really feel and letting them see me scared, grieving, weak....and vulnerable. The sword it has to be used to fight the monsters, to battle for the life I want, not to hold at bay the people who care because I might get hurt. So it's time to recommit to creating this life I want for myself....and enough self-sabotaging and fucking up and feeling sorry for myself. I WILL make this happen. And I will do it because of you wonderful, beautiful people that I have been blessed to have in my life.


The Fireflies Showed me the Way Home
I took the dog out for a walk tonight - it was late, pretty much completely dark except for the few pink streaks across the sky. It's been a rough few weeks, lots of stress (not to mention polyester-clad trolls who need to be stabbed in the eye), indecision....and yes, fear and I've gotten off track. Fallen into old patterns of avoiding issues, eating stupid shit, not moving my body and more importantly, not taking the time to listen, to remember who I am and what I want my life to be.

I really needed this time to just stop and breathe and listen - look for the path. I remember when I was a kid and things were sometimes scary and confusing I would walk alone at night and I lived in the country, there were no street lights then. I just remember feeling this sense of peace then....looking at all of the stars and feeling so connected. The howling wolves never scared me even though they sounded like they were just over my shoulder because there were monsters in real life more scary than anything nature could throw my way. I just remember the smell of the earth, the sweetness of the breeze....the stillness, the quiet... and the fireflies. When it was so dark that I couldn't see my way in front of me on those moonless nights they lit my way. I felt so safe then, almost part of the night, invisible and it was then that I found clarity, untangled my mind and felt in my heart that the Infinite Being (call it God if you will) who created me made the fireflies shine for me, that I was special and I was loved.

There are monsters in this world, people whose actions are deplorable and it is a choice I have to make, to stand and fight for what I know to be right or back down and let the monsters rule. I remember in Grade 10 a quote that stuck with me, "the inhumanity of one is the inhumanity of all." And tonight, with the fireflies dancing at my feet I realize again, I am loved and I choose love and I'm going to stand for what's right, backing down isn't an option - and whatever the consequences are I'll take them.

The Bucket List
Bucket list is slowly getting ticked off. Today was Cedar Park with my girl Julie Bonsell-Kimmett and her awesome kids.
1) Jumped off the diving board. To be honest, I went up once, chicken shitted out and climbed back down. Went back up the second time, said "fuck it" and jumped screaming my fool head off - with my sunglasses on which gently floated to the bottom. Luckily some kid dove down and got them for me.
2) I went down the water slides - okay only number one and 2, 3 was scary ass... but I ran up those stairs a dozen times. I would have won in the race against Julie's son except for he forgot to mention that he was a track and field star. I'm pretty sure he was on performance enhancing drugs too. I screamed my head off there too...but I was also laughing.


Fear
In 11 days it will be my one year surgiversary where even though I was scared shitless and right up till the last second nearly turned and walked out the door I made the best decision of my life. Yeah, I've lost a shit load of weight, but more importantly I've lost fear. A year ago I wouldn't have went on that slide because I would be afraid I'd get stuck and be embarassed. I wouldn't have got on the diving board because I'd be ashamed of how hideous I looked in my bathing suit. And you know what, I still don't look perfect in a bathing suit....but I still rocked that shit because in the end, I'm alive. 10000%, balls to the wall alive and that is all that matters in the end. :)


Tag and Release
Hard to believe that I met one of the most crazy, perverted, beautiful woman who I am so proud to call friend Sylvie while working at a christian agency. If this isn't scary she asks me for advice on life, men, etc.... I told her about the tag and release program. That's where you sleep with men who are far too attractive to date then release them back into the wild....after you tag them. I am thinking some sort of system where you "tag" them so that you can identify them later in case you meet them and they were so forgettable that you didn't remember sleeping with or dating them. I'm thinking like a permanent marker dot under their balls (God knows most don't wash there), and a colour system:
Blue: Hung like a smurf (I'm guessing smurfs have small penises)
Red: Stop, into some freaky shit that you're not into
Green: Go get you some of that again.
Black: This one is risky because this may not even be a marker it could just be dirty balls...I'd steer clear of this one.
Yellow: Again, there are too many other stains that could make it look like marker... I'd just go with green.

Stand by my grave and weep...

Went to a workshop today put on by basicfunerals.ca - it was pretty cool. The premise of being able to plan your funeral online and not having to go into one of those creepy funeral homes seems pretty cool to me. Anyway, their "icebreaker" was to have each person go around the room and tell what they envisioned their own funeral to be. Well I have went to way more funerals/memorial services, etc. than any human being ever should be and have put a lot of thought into this.

First, if I am at the point where I need a memorial service/funeral - I'm dead. Sure, I may be a ghost at this point but in general dead and have way cooler shit to be doing such as hanging out with Johnny Cash and scaring random people....maybe doing one of those "Ghost" scenes with someone who is doing pottery just to creep them out. Second, I know that I am not one of those people who doesn't want to upset people. I hear that a lot from clients, etc...they don't want people to be upset at their funeral, so they have a closed casket or they don't even have a service. Fuck that. That poem "Do not stand by my grave and weep..." that does not apply to me at all - I want the people in my life to stand by my grave and weep, I want them to fall on the casket in hysterics and be overwhelmed with sadness that I'm not around anymore. For most of my life I've been surrounded by people who don't show emotion and I've always been left to wonder if I mattered to them so when I die I want that big show of emotion because I want to know that I was loved and that I mattered. No, fuck it - I want that now, I don't want to wait until I'm dead.

My ideal life

So my fucking therapist (it's okay, he knows I call him this, I think he gets a kick out of it) gave me some homework to do.  I've been struggling a lot lately and needed to get re-focused and back on track so what it was is asking the question: "My life would be ideal if....." in the following areas of my life: Relationships, Money, Emotional/Spiritual & Job/Work.  I struggled with this homework, I avoided it for 2 weeks - I don't know why it was so hard - I've never been shy to say what I think but then I really thought about this.  My whole life I have spent reacting, surviving....flying by the seat of my pants in the midst of chaos and never once has there been a safe place for me to really think about what I WANT.  What I want my life to look like.  And the other piece was that I've hoped before, I've secretly wanted in my heart and I've had those hopes shattered.  Well you know what I'm gonna hope and yes, some of these things are not going to happen but to not put my intention out into the world and work as hard as I can to create and shape the life I want is bullshit and I might as well give up now.  So here it goes....


My life would be ideal if….
RELATIONSHIPS
My life would be ideal if I had a relationship where we both treated each other with respect.  Where my partner and I supported each other emotionally and could talk, not yell when we had disagreements.  We shared some common goals and wanted the same things from life.  He would stand by me as I saved myself and he would be my biggest cheerleaders and I would do the same for him.  We would both want what was best for the other and be happy when good things happened for the other.  We would trust each other, with no jealousy and it would be safe.  My partner called me on my shit and didn’t let me away with crap but was also my safe place to land – and I could be his.  My partner would show interest in some of my activities and mine in theirs – but also to have separate interests and time apart.  We would spend time with each other’s families and friends – my partner would like my family and understand that they are important to me.  My friends and family would like my partner and his family and friends would love the fuck out of me.   Sex would be an important part of our relationship and it would be creative and often.  There would be a lot of hugging, cuddling, non-sexual touching and kissing.  We would sleep in the same bed and never lose that attraction for each other.  We would be committed to making our relationship work no matter what.  He would be my best friend and I would be his.

MONEY
I had control over my spending, that money was not yet another way to place myself into chaos to punish myself, a drug to numb out the pain, or something to spend recklessly before it is taken away from me – but that it was just a tool to create the life I wanted.  In the perfect world money wouldn’t be so emotional to me.  I would have a job that compensated me well for what I did – so I was comfortable.  I would have an emergency fund so that I would never be placed in a situation where I panicked.  I would have savings so that I could build a retirement fund.  I would have a budget that I followed religiously, not just sporadically and then “binged” and got out of control.  I would be able to always take care of myself financially and provide for myself – the basics and more.

EMOTIONALLY/SPIRITUALLY
I had a system in place to deal with stresses when they arose that didn’t involve me eating my way through a fridge, having sex when I don’t really want to or spending money stupidly.  I would be able to be truthful and speak my mind so that I don’t carry and hold onto anger and resentment.  I would have a physical outlet for my stresses that wasn’t sex.  I would be able to respond appropriately to emotions/situations – like crying when I’m sad.  Being so sure of myself, proud of myself, aware of myself that I only attract goodness to me and don’t accept that which doesn’t fulfill me and promote the good.   I would have a support system in place, a network of people, friends and family who could kick my ass when I need it and be a shoulder to cry on.  Spiritually I would have regular time in nature where I could be in the presence of the divine.  I would feel an inner peace and acceptance of myself.

JOB/WORK
My life would be ideal if I had a job where I had regular, meaningful interaction with people – the messiness of human life – to walk alongside people in their journeys.  Where there was a commitment to equitable treatment and a commitment to promoting the wellness of everyone involved including staff, volunteers and clients – that it wasn’t just lip service.  I would feel challenged and had a cause/issue that I really believed in with all of my heart.  I would have a close, family-like relationship with my coworkers where we were each other’s support system and all worked for the common good.  My boss would respect me and my abilities and give me free reign but also temper it with constructive criticism – and would be a mentor, someone whose beliefs and core values matched mine – and they were backed up by action.  I would be paid a decent wage.  I would not work more than a 40 hour work week so that I had a balance of work and fun.

Pretty in Pink

PRETTY IN PINK
(Bear with me on this one, it has been bubbling at the edges of my brain for the past week and I just need to get it out. Fuck and here I thought I should have bought stock in Duracell to be a millionaire, turns out Kleenex would have been a good bet too).

So last weekend I went to the cottage with my best bud Patricia Jones. We met these older dudes from the cottage next door and after making fun of them (they were from Oshawa, it was almost too easy) for their girlie pina colada drinks and well, just about everything they invited us over for a campfire that night. Well that night Trish and I had a great meal and a little bit of alcohol (by a little bit I mean she drank a bottle of wine and I had a few beers), we had reminisced and caught up and just reconnected again. This girl, she's the best friend I have ever had....and when I called her a cunt stain when we were playing cards I said it with love. We giggled, we laughed....it was exactly as it is every time we are together. So around 11 we headed over to the neighbours for the bonfire - turns out they were far drunker than we were so the fire was going by they were all on the porch of the cottage shooting the shit. We had the best time ever, we laughed so hard especially after Patricia told them I had called her a cunt stain earlier in the evening. That was like any semblance of class was completely doused by then and we just all let loose. I called one guy a pussy because he kept complaining that the mosquitos were biting his butt and it was itchy....and I said what butt? So he dropped trou and showed us. We teased the living hell out of each other - trash talking, and Roman (the owner of the cottage) kept threatening to kill someone. As in, "if someone doesn't clean up these beer bottles I'm gonna kill someone." I dunno guess you had to be there. I felt so relaxed, comfortable in my skin and entirely, completely me. Anyway, the one guy called me Pretty in Pink.... because I was wearing this pink shirt. That and I'm pretty sure he couldn't remember my name because of his girl drink buzz. It was innocent, it was sweet, it was genuine... and it fucked with me.

So I have been wondering why this week that line has messed with my head so much and today I figured it out as I was driving home from the gym - it's funny how you have the clearest mental moments when your body is so completely spent. When I was in grade 8 I went through what could only be called an awkward stage (one that lasted approximately 23 years).... my Mom had made me get my hair cut super short and permed, I had these huge glasses than 80-year old wouldn't be caught dead in and I was about 230 pounds. Well my Mom bought me this outfit, it was light pink pants and a pink sweater (fuck you, it was the 80's and yes my Mom dressed me!). She kept telling me pink looked great with my skin tone and red hair. Anyway, I wore it to school one day and I remember after lunch they rang the bell which signaled us to line up and get ready to go into the school. As I walked by this group of guys one of them said "look at the baby pink elephant." Loud enough so I and the other people in line could hear. I was so embarrased, my cheeks went bright red, I wished the ground would open up and swallow me whole. He and his friends laughed. I had tears in my eyes but I wouldn't cry. They would never fucking see me cry. I walked away...and I tortured myself for days after thinking of clever retorts I could have made. Bad names I could have called him. How I could have made him cry with my words (because trust me, I have that super power). But what really happened that day was that a part of my heart got shut down. The walls came up. I became that Wendy that no one would ever see cry or hurt or vulnerable. I always had a smile, a joke....most times at my own expense. I would make you laugh at me so you never had the power to hurt me first. I became an expert at that, hurting myself. Putting myself down. I'm going to be 40 in three months....thirty nine years on this earth and today, today I feel pretty. I no longer look in the mirror and see that pink elephant. I see a beautiful woman who has been scarred and damaged - but I look past that and in my eyes I see wisdom. Tenderness. Vulnerability.

I have never, in my whole life told that story to anyone.... it was my shame that I have held in my heart...for far too fucking long. I now know what people mean by the elephant in the room. It has been mine. Well guess what? I was fat (wow, it's funny how fat used to almost be a swear word up there with puppy killer), morbidly obese....but I was beautiful then and I'm beautiful now. That is not my shame anymore. Today, I forgive myself... not him, he's a dick.... I forgive myself for walking away from me. I forgive myself for shutting down... and doing things that harmed me.... I won't let that happen anymore. Finally, today, I have me.

Hot Yoga

So in my efforts to break this stupid weight loss stall and really get my shit together I decided to try Hot Yoga with some coworkers after they peer pressured me into it (which seriously why couldn't they peer pressure me into doing drugs or something fun)...anyway I have serious misgivings about Hot Yoga. One, I sweat like a hooker at church to begin with when I exercise but add heat on purpose - wtf? Second, I'm more into the kicking, punching kinda exercise so while all the people around me are being all calm and serene trees I just wanna kick them over. So tonight for some reason this place didn't have hot yoga until much later so I ended up doing this class called Fat Blaster. Holy. Fuck. I thought i was in shape, but no, no I am not. It really wasn't helpful because the a/c at this place wasn't working so I literally probably sweated out 20 pounds right there. The instructor was this young girl who wasn't paying attention to the participants to see if they were doing the exercises correctly and didn't appear to notice the fact that as she demonstrated (and I use this term loosely) the exercise that most of the class was looking at her like she was explaining quantum mechanics. Clueless I tell ya. To make matters worse since I'm trying to combine my efforts to be more comfortable with my body in combination with having something that isn't so damned hot as a t-shirt to work out in I had on my new Old Navy tank top with the built-in bra.......which apparently I should have got a size smaller since I was burstin' out all over the place. I literally felt like dying by the end of the hour, I was drenched in sweat, could barely lift my arms above my head but I swear if I had the chance I would have found the energy to chuck that medicine ball at Workout Barbie's head. Yeah, can't wait for Hot Yoga next week. Kill me now.