My Mom and I braved the ice storm and walked across the street to wish my brother a happy birthday. When we arrived my Uncle Donald was there too. My Uncle Donald has always been a shit. When I was a little girl he'd tease the living hell out of me. When he still lived with my grandparents I'd call to talk to my Gramma and he'd answer. This is how most of our conversations would go when he would answer the phone:
Me: Hi, can I talk to Gramma. Donald: Who is this? Me: It's Wendy! Can I talk to Gramma? Donald: Well what do you want? Me: I just want to talk to he, give her the phone ya jerk. Donald: *hangs up the phone*
As the only girl in a family of all male cousins I was always picked on but he just had an unholy delight in targeting me. It's partially because of him that I'm the smart ass jerk that I am.
Thankfully, he has turned his fuckery attention over to my niece, Montana.
So today the conversation started that he was bugging her because she had a ribbon in her hair and her response (because she's my girl and talks back!) was "well you don't have any hair!"
So he proceeded to tell her that while yes he was balding a little bit that he was transplanting the hair from his ass onto the top of his head, that's why the hair on the top of his head was curly. Also, that he couldn't do it all at once because it hurt to "harvest" the hair.
On my suggestion he's thinking about patenting the process. My Uncle, he's not only the President of the Redneck Hair Club for Men, he's a client.
Who are
you? It’s simple enough really, this
question the facilitator posed at the team building workshop today at
work. Each person took a turn answering
the question and as I was last in line to go I listened to the other’s talk
about their roles as wives, parents, what they did for work as I searched my
mind for what I was going to say.
When the facilitator arrived at me all I could say was “I don’t know who I am.” Because to define myself as a job, a family relation
(daughter, sister, etc.) just doesn’t fit anymore. I’m just Wendy. I’m this tangled ball of insecurity, hope,
wonder, magic, hurt, fire and tenderness.
I just am. And I’m not okay with
boxing myself inside the lines of roles, to limit who and what I can be. Yes, I’m the Sr. Bereavement and Palliative
Care Coordinator and I love my work, it nourishes my heart and my soul – but more
importantly than that – I’m WENDY. And I
am fully, wonderfully complete just being me, job or not.
I made this
collage of pictures of before and after weight loss and I would be furthest
from what would be considered a conventional success story. At my highest I was 285 lbs, at my lowest
197.9 and then life, cancer, the breakdown of a significant relationship (not
necessarily in that order) occurred and I ballooned up to 230 lbs. I lost my uterus to the Wendy vs. Cancer War
of 2013 and in the course of a month when I was recuperating I barely ate and I
walked away my pain.
Together
with my trusty canine, Moses I roamed every inch of my parent’s property. I mourned, I hurt, I crumbled and I fell into
a bubble of pain I didn’t think I’d ever come out of, and all I could do was
put one foot in front of the other. And
I thought. And I let my Momma take care
of me. And finally the tears came and
only the trees in the forest bore witness….and Moses. He never left me. He became my constant. My best friend. Holder of my secrets. My savior.
And he didn’t care if I was 500 lbs or 140 lbs. He just loved me, Wendy.
And as I
made this collage I did it to say that yes, I lost weight but what I gained was
a life. That was me wearing a hideous
pink dress playing paintball – fuck yes that’s right, paintball!! That was me not hiding behind my coworkers
and sitting on the arm of the couch.
That was me sitting with Chris Witten & Erin Day-Nunn wearing a
dress that exposed all of my arm and I felt beautiful in my imperfection.
So who am
I? I’m Wendy. And that girl, I like her a whole lot.
place inside all of us where we are all happy and get the warm fuzzies. Our happy places are insulated from the shitheads that make up just about everyone we encounter.
- Urban Dictionary
I totally think that nuggets of wisdom come to you when you're in the right frame of mind to receive the message. The seeds of those words are planted but sometimes it takes time for them to germinate, grow and blossom (okay, I failed biology, suck it). That process of growth can be minutes, hours, days, months or even decades. For me the concept of a Happy Place is a really good example of that.
As a survivor I became an expert at disassociating. It was a wonderful trick of the mind to leave my body, fly far away from the pain. Even when those horrible things weren't happening and I couldn't stand to be in my skin, to feel so vulnerable and unsafe in the world - when the shield of my fat didn't stop the panic, the scream rising in my throat I'd drift, float away in mind. Far away, where no one could hurt me.
When the concept of a "happy place" was introduced to me it was described as a place that you created in your mind where you could get away from the stress of life, a place to find peace. At the time I remember thinking, "but I already do that." And yes, in a way I did, but I think I missed a big part of that definition, an important part. See, when I disassociated from my body and floated away there was no peace in that place, it was just a dark void. There was no happiness, no sadness, just.....nothing. A bleak, dark, desolate prison in my mind where I could hide from pain.
And when I was in my body I judged myself so harshly, those kids on the playground who called me fat, well they weren't even trying...the inner bullying I did to myself left wounds and scars inside that no perpetrator could ever match. Because I was always ready with a joke or inappropriate story I think I hid how I was feeling quite well, no one knew how I felt because I would never let myself be vulnerable enough with someone to share with them my broken, bruised heart. And that bullying and those lies I told myself that I wasn't good enough, that no one like me or loved me I never could describe it, but this quote does a pretty good job:
"And it hurts that I can't be what everyone wants or what anyone needs
and it hurts that I can't be what I want or what I need
because I'm not enough and I won't be enough and I'll never be close to enough
and I'm just so damned tired."
- a.d.r.
In college I met a wonderful therapist, Kaia, and she helped me through some really dark times. That first year of college, I still don't know how I made it through when every class I had triggered me, an experience, a memory...there were days when all I could do was just dig my fingernails deep into the floor to stop from falling off my world. The first time I went to see her she asked how I was, I made a joke and said okay and she looked deep into my eyes and said "bullshit." And the floodgates opened. No one ever had seen past Wendy the clown to see the real me. Ever. And just like when you're a kid and you fall and hurt yourself, if your parent doesn't react and say "are you okay" all in a panic then you're all chill and shit, but as soon as they make a fuss you're a crying hot mess. Same deal with her. I couldn't reign it in, despite trying to be the tough girl. But she shattered my defenses, she wouldn't let me avoid and she wouldn't let me hide. She put a name to what I did when the abuse happened. She validated me and unlike with my family who also joked about everything (you wonder where I got it from), she took what I had to say seriously.
She helped stop the panic attacks, showed me how to create a safe place for myself when I felt I couldn't breathe and terror clawed at my throat. Kaia introduced me to other women, they too were survivors and their stories and shared experience made me think that maybe I wasn't alone in this. They echoed my thoughts of feeling dirty, guilty and full of shame. I was in a better place than I had probably been in years mentally, but I was far from well. I used school work to escape, to not connect with people my own age. I tutored and I was a note taker, I was even a foster parent. And I ate and I ate and I ate some more. Always going through periods of working out like a maniac for like 2 months, then having a set back and eating a fridge-and-a-half daily for 4 months.
It was always this one step forward, five million steps back. Because you see food had always been my secret love, my comforter, my confessor, my worst enemy and my best friend. I used food like some people use a razor blade to cut, piercing their skin, marking it....sometimes to have physical pain that could equal my emotional pain and other times because I wanted to feel nothing at all, to stuff and avoid and numb out and hurt myself for some transgression. And yes, the pressure cooker of emotions brewing in me had lessened, my time with Kaia and with group gave me space to let some of it out so I could at least function. Of course at this time I discovered my new drug of choice, sex. I had physical contact that I so desperately craved, connection and even if at the same time I was telling myself that I was ugly and that I was only good for sex. What I realize is that for me it was a form of control. I got to decide who got to have sex with me, it was almost a "fuck you" to my abusers to prove to them (not that they knew - I didn't say I was being logical) that I was in control. There was no love in these encounters, just control and touch.
When I graduated and was ready to leave college I got really overwhelmed again, out of control, not sure what my future held - and so damned scared of change that I went to that dark place again and things got really out of control....but I spoke about that in another post, I'm not going there again.
Those years after college were much the same. Avoidance behaviours, acting out sexually. Eating so out of control. Numbing out. Anything to face me. And their were bad choices and bad behaviours and inner bullying and bullshit. But there was also wonderful friends, cherished memories and gifts that I would never exchange. Of course I also had sporadic therapy and it would help, peel off layers of hurt but they all felt like crisis management..... I wouldn't go until things were so bad that I couldn't function again. It has seemed like I have always been striving for the "if only's".
If only I could lose weight, I'd be happy.
If only I could go on vacation things at work wouldn't be so out of control.
If only I could find a boyfriend I wouldn't be so lonely.
If only I could win the lottery I'd never have money problems.
If only I was anything but who and what I am I'd be at peace.
In everything I did I was always running at a million miles per minute, in my head, in my job, in my life. I don't think there was any time where I could just be. And as I look at the events of my life, the abuse, the bad relationships, the addictions and even the cancer I realize it was life trying so very hard to get my attention and me being the hard headed stubborn little bitch that I am I tried to avoid life at all costs. Short of taking a shovel and smacking me over the head with it life gave me sign after sign to stop, to slow down, to go to the inner but to no avail.
But there has been seeds germinating in my head from when I had cancer, words that a dear friend and fellow cancer survivor spoke to me. She said "Wendy, Stop. Breathe."
Little buds of that truth have been growing in my brain and when I started to take the anti-depressants in October the mental fog I had been blinded by lifted. And I started to stop. Stop saying yes when I meant no. Stopped pushing my body to exhaustion and really listening when my body said it needed sleep, food, water...love. I made playing with the dog a priority over staying at work for hours on end. Spending time with my parents and chronicling our memories on Facebook for all you to see touched a place in my heart and created joy. I breathed. Every day. Deeply. When I walk in the woods I slow down my breathing, force myself not to take greedy gulps of that sweet country air, but instead savour it slowly as I feel it enter my nose, throat, lungs....along with life, energy and abundance. And the exhale is stress, tension and strain...sending it back to the earth. I walk in prayer, this time that I hold sacred as I let the Universe heal me and in that solitude I have found peace and I've found me. It has taken 41 years and it may take another 41 but this journey into the very core of my being it has been an encounter with the divine.
Slowly I am making peace with my past, memories that could once puncture and tear at my heart are now just lessons, gifts that have made me who I am today and I am grateful to be in a place where I can use that pain to help others. Never before have I been able to sit so fully with another's pain without my own being just a huge a presence. And as I cherish and nourish myself every day that well of giving that I have available just flows over for my clients and the passion and love that I have for this work fills my heart.
And that happy place, that mythical place in my mind that I create to avoid stress, well I don't need that because I am my happy place and life, it is a beautiful place.
I found the key to loving myself and it isn't to have a partner who tells me every day that I look beautiful (today I believe the exact phrase was "u looked amazing today.") - not that I don't appreciate that and encourage it but the key was me. I chose every day to fall a little deeper in love with myself.
I remember in College when I first started to see a therapist and was really struggling with being negative and hating myself. My therapist gave me this exercise where I was supposed to look in the mirror and tell myself that I loved myself.
Needless to say, I failed miserably at that exercise. I couldn't look in the mirror and face the woman staring back, all I saw was ugliness there and I would just look away after a few seconds. 20 years ago I wasn't ready to learn that lesson, it just wasn't time.
But it was my time now.
I took the path of least resistance and started with my hair - because it has always been the one part of me that I really liked and I focused on it. Even though as a kid I got teased for being a ginger and it made me upset, part of me always liked that I was different, special that way. Also didn't hurt that I've gotten a lot of compliments about it. At times when I just felt like a big, blob of sexless fat my long hair made me feel pretty and feminine.
I thought about how my hair colour is tied so much to my personality and that feisty-ness and what makes me - me. The length, the way it looks like dancing flames in the sunlight...... and I think it's just beautiful.
That I'm beautiful.
I started by looking at myself objectively, as if it wasn't me in the mirror - just a stranger that I was observing with none of the judgments that I'd place on myself.
I looked at the shape of my nose. The shape and size, and upon close inspection I was taken by how damned adorable it was. How cute, perky, perfect really.
But if I was entranced with my nose well then my lips were a revelation. That full bottom lip, the delicate pink .... and that's when I fell in lust. With that sexy bottom lip.... that delightful smirk, the devious smile. I traced my finger along my lip, following that line, across to the dimples that flashed in my cheek when I smiled.
And then there were my eyes.
Oh my eyes.
The almond shape and the way the colour changed depending on my mood; navy blue when I was angry or stressed, an almost grey when I was happy, turned on, at peace.
And my lashes, they were so long when I took off my glasses. I never noticed that before.
I fell in love with the curve of my eyebrow, the light, almost invisible arch.
My heart beat a little faster at the twinkle in my eyes, the depths I saw there, the pain, the beauty....like my friend Daniel says, you really can see a person's soul through their eyes. And unlike twenty years ago, I didn't look away from the pain this time, I saw it, I honored it and saw that it too was part of the loveliness.
I became enchanted by my eyes. They drew me in and when I looked at them I knew it was time for the love affair to expand.
In the past my body was a constant disappointment for me, a reason to feel ashamed..ugly. Having lost over 85 pounds meant a lot of excess skin, scars on the outside from surgeries, hyterectomy and then there were the scars that were on the inside. Those invisible ones that no one could see but that in my heart I felt were uglier than even that angry red line on my belly left over from removing my cancerous uterus. A past of sexual abuse and holding onto shame that wasn't mine to hold onto anymore had made it impossible for me to see the beauty in those curves. The femininity, the vulnerability, the beauty. People probably wonder why I take so many pictures of myself to post on Facebook and they most likely assume that it's because I'm narcissistic but the reality is that I'm getting to know me, to fall in love with me and sometimes I need that picture to really believe it is me.
I take a picture of the curve of my breast, the bones in my shoulders, those delicate bones that made me cry the first time they appeared when I lost the first thirty pounds. I take another picture to look at the shape of my bottom - a bum that actually has a shape now....that tapers down from my waist. Then yet another of my legs, legs that look impossibly long.
It took months this process, this love affair but this first part was kind of superficial... lustful. (I'm not saying that was a totally bad thing). What I wanted was not just to love the sum of my parts, I wanted to love ME. And as I thought about that I realized that love wasn't a noun, it was a verb and if I really wanted to love myself then it was action that was required.
After the diagnosis and the surgery I fell into a depression. A deep depression. Cancer had left my body but it still remained in my heart, in my soul...and on my mind. I couldn't change that. I couldn't stop myself from thinking every twinge, pain, bump or spot was the cancer returning. I wasn't sleeping. I was falling back into that same pattern of escaping life by working and pushing myself to exhaustion. And I felt like I was on the edge of a breakdown.
Hell, if I was honest I think I actually had a breakdown.
And that is where the action came in.
After giving myself a verbal ass-kicking that I sorely needed about having fought so hard to be well that I wasn't going to let myself throw that (and me) away. So I got help. I talked to my doctor, I talked to my boss, I went back to see my therapist. I took Friday's off and shortened my work week to 4 days instead of 5. Despite a lot of internal conflict I broke down and started taking anti-depressants. I started to be honest about what I needed and that included sleep, being around people I love, spending time with my boy...and making time for love.
It's only been a month but already I feel clearer mentally. I feel rested. I feel happy. At peace.
Is the exercise finished? No. Every day I commit myself to this life-long love affair with myself.
Oh the world of online dating, it's like the Badlands of dating, the regular rules just don't apply. Dangerous territory really. Some men take the anonymity that is provided on sites like PlentyofDouche (thank you Kathryn MacPherson) and ask the most inappropriate questions - questions that if they asked in real life they'd get their faces slapped. Maybe this is just me, but no man ever has come up to me in the grocery store and asked me how big my breasts are!!!
Now if you know me at all, I'm inappropriate, but never, not once have I asked a man how big his dick is within the first five seconds of speaking with him online. Okay, once. But special circumstances applied, this is when my addiction raged and I was actually looking to get laid. Although I have to say I was a little more creative about it, I found "you have a pretty face, I'd like to sit on it" to be pretty effective. But some dudes, they're just crass.
But I digress.
Now that I've moved past the addiction and I'm actually looking for my Unicorn I just find these guys entertaining and I unabashedly enjoy fucking with their heads. I have to give some of them credit, they're nothing if not persistent in their quest to get laid but I always end up shutting them down.
EXHIBIT A: BOGUS UNICORN: Are you trimmed, shaved or natural? Because I prefer shaved.
ME: Oh that's your preference, is it? I totally get it, I have a preference for my sexual partner's pubic hair too - it's almost a fetish. I'm only really turned on by men who trim their pubic hair to look like David Hasselhoff - and not Baywatch David Hasselhoff, Knight Rider David Hasselhoff- bonus points if you can throw your voice and say "K.I.T.T.....K.I.T.T. I need you!"
EXHIBIT B: BOGUS UNICORN: "That's a pretty dress you have on in your picture, what were you wearing underneath?" (Their leery, ickiness is just oozing through the keyboard).
ME: "I was wearing military-grade Spanx, really the Hoover Dam doesn't have to hold back as much as these puppies. God help anyone who is close if they blow it'll take out a damned eye or even worse."
It's like shooting fish in a barrel really. :P
It seems like a whole lot of trouble, this search for my unicorn, but it is certainly worth it when you have conversations like this (getting ready for the wedding):
ME: "I need to go get beautiful." DA POSSIBLE UNICORN: "You're beautiful right now. You're going to make yourself glamorous."
Yup....so worth navigating those weirdos with ice cream cones smushed on their foreheads. Mmmmmmmmmm....ice cream (Liz Epstein!).
I remember when I was little I used to be such a water baby. I loved the water, I loved swimming, I loved every little thing about it. As a chunky kid - yes, looking at pictures now I was chunky, I wasn't huge, I wasn't this fat blob I told myself I was in my head - the weightlessness of being in the water was my first experiences with disassociating. My fertile imagination dreamt up in depth scenarios where I was shipwrecked on a deserted island and there wasn't anyone around for miles or I was a beautiful mermaid with my long hair floating in the water behind me. I floated on my back, my eyes closed, the sun on my face.....and I just felt all the things that I didn't feel in reality or on land; happy, beautiful, safe, at peace. This was my safe place. No matter how horrible or hurting I was I could go to the water and I would almost automatically feel that serenity. Yet despite this being such a wonderful place for me, I still plugged my nose every time I went under water. I was convinced that if I didn't the water would come rushing in my nose, I'd choke and drown. Squeezing my nose was my protection, my control. If I did that, I'd be fine.
I'm not really sure whether it was that part of me that craved what had become my normal of feeling out of control and in danger or if it was my stubbornness that no one could tell me I couldn't do something that led me to make the climb up the stairs to the high diving board at the Lindsay Rec Centre. I know that I had a few botched attempts, one where I was actually standing on the diving board and had to shoo people out of my way to do the climb of shame back to the bottom 'cuz I wussed out. But finally I got to the top, my pride wouldn't let me turn around this time and I stood at the edge of the board, out of my mind with fear. It was deep, really deep there and I tried to think logically about what would happen, I'd jump (no fancy diving here, just your standard leap of faith) my fingers clamped around my nose would stop the water from rushing in and flooding my brain - I was a bit hazy on biology at the time, I didn't understand that if water came in my nose it would go in my lungs - and I'd hit the bottom and push off and swim safely to the top.
The first part went off without a hitch, I jumped. The second part, not so much. As I hit the water at top speed my hand was wrenched from my nose. I freaked. Silently, in my head...and I couldn't get my hand back up to my nose no matter how hard I tried. It took longer than I thought to hit the bottom...my panic made everything go in slow motion, my heart nearly stopping as I waited....and waited
for my feet to hit the bottom so that I could push myself off the bottom of the pool and rocket to the top. When finally my feet hit the bottom I was desperate, I launched myself up off the bottom as hard as I could but still time seemed to stand still and it was taking so long for me to reach the surface. My lungs were burning. I clawed at the water. I kicked as hard as I could, lifting my face upwards, searching for the surface. Just when I thought I would have to give in and take in a deep breath for my oxygen starved lungs my face broke the surface. I spluttered and coughed (and yeah a little snot came out), gasping for air and swam to the edge of the pool and pulled myself out of the water and shakily walked to the diving board and repeated the experience - to the exact same results.
Now what you'd think I would learn from the whole thing experience is that plugging my nose wouldn't save me from harm, that in fact it made it worse - which could be documented from my many ear infections during swimming season. But no, for years after I still plugged my nose. It wasn't until I was in my late 20's that I finally started to teach myself to swim without plugging my nose underwater. And now, I would never think about plugging my nose. When I go to the cottage and swim with my Boy I imagine that we're dolphins and I leap in and out of the waves, frolicking and playing - yes I still have that fertile imagination - and I have gained back my love of the water, I've taken away that need for control and I just surrender myself to the bliss. And I have to say that Moses has helped me to reclaim that joy, watching him "swimming" or his version of it anyway, he just does it with such abandon, such joy. Have I mentioned how much I love that dog?
What does this all have to do with dating you ask? Nothing, I just thought the diving board was a damned interesting story! Kidding. :) What it has to do with dating is that I've been approaching it all wrong. I've been trying to be such a control freak about it, pre-planning every move, putting measures in place that would protect me from being hurt and not enjoying the experience. it was, until I had a few realizations and I spent some time thinking about what my motives were in dating in the first place. Why was I doing this? What did I hope to gain?
I had the hysterectomy May 7th and was told that it would take 6 to 8 weeks to recover, well after the infection and news that the cancer had spread (thankfully I didn't require further treatment and the hysterectomy resolved the issue) I ended up "recovering" for closer to 3 months. Those first few weeks after the hysterectomy I was numb. I didn't want to eat, all I wanted to do was walk. And walk. And walk and sleep. Three hour, arduous walks during which time I didn't think about anything, I just strapped on my iPod and I roamed. I was staying with my parents for that first little bit as planned but still maintained my rental space in Ajax. I returned home after six weeks, still weak, still feeling like shit and bleeding like crazy and riddled with infection - waiting for the appointment with the oncologist to let me know my fate. Was it going to be chemo? Had the cancer spread? I don't know whether I've ever known "normal" in my life, but during that time I felt as far from normal as I ever had. When I got the news that everything was okay and I didn't need further treatment I just wanted to return to "normal" even though at this point my landlord had gone bat shit crazy and I had moved back to my parents. Everything felt so out of control but at the same time I felt like I had been given such a gift, a second (or more realistically eighth) chance at life.
So I started online dating. And I found myself doing the same stupid, self-destructive shit I did before. The pictures I posted were of me showing an impressive amount of cleavage, I stated I wanted a relationship, but in my heart I still thought I didn't have what it took to be in one. I went on a few disastrous dates and was left feeling horrible. Hurt. Sad. I did a lot of self-reflection after that and gave myself a much needed ass-kicking. I did not go through hell to have this life of misery - especially since most of it was self-inflicted. And I decided, this I'm not good enough shit? It's done. No more. This thinking I was only good for sex? Hell. No! And doubting whether I had what it took to be in a relationship??? Yeah well I beat cancer, I can do anything. Most importantly though, I reminded myself of how fucking fabulous I am. I am beautiful, funny, compassionate, kind and I deserve the same level of awesome in a partner. And at the end of the day, it's all a little too ridiculous to even take seriously and I needed to relax, let go of my control and just have fun. And oh, it has been such fun. :)
I've learned a lot about dating from my "Bachelors" (I refuse to learn their names until they prove themselves worthy of the effort). Here are just a few random facts/observances;
When dating men, you have to be good at math, always subtract 2 from every measurement they give you.
Men will make outrageous claims to get into your pants. I once had a guy tell me that he could help me lose weight through having oral sex performed on me - damn and here I've been busting my ass with diet and exercise - LIKE A SUCKER!
Bachelor #1 named his penis Henry. To all men everywhere - that's just creepy and contrary to what Bachelor #1 believed, not cute at all.
When on a first date it is NOT okay to take multiple pictures of your date - and if you do you shouldn't act all pissy-pants when they ask if you are part of a white slave trade ring.
Acceptable contact/PDA's on a first date are: kissing my hand, gently placing your hand on my back when going through a door, hugging at the end of the date. Unacceptable contact/PDA's include: dry humping me at the monkey cage at the Peterborough Zoo.
Acceptable PDA's AFTER we've been dating for awhile: full on tonsil-hockey style kissing, holding my hand, grabbing my ass. Unacceptable PDA's AFTER we've been dating for awhile include: dry humping me at the monkey cage at the Peterborough Zoo.
Kissing Techniques
Now this needs to be its own paragraph because kissing is important. When it comes to seduction and sexual thrills a man who can kiss well is imperative. What I've discovered is that there are a lot of men out there that are horrible at it. I've placed them in the following categories: THE DIVER - this guy tries to explore the depths of your tonsils by ramming their tongue deep, deep down your throat as their opening act.
THE BLOW UP DOLL - utilizing the same skills needed to blow up an air mattress (or similar item) for kissing they form a tight seal over your lips and ram their face as hard as they can into yours.
THE CHICKEN - A quick peck on your lips, almost impersonal, which doesn't sound that bad but is horrifying for someone who is scared of chickens.
THE PUPPY DOG - my whole face is wet after this experience: nostril or eye socket wetness is not uncommon and is oftentimes followed by having my leg humped.
What I have been looking for is a Unicorn. A rare man that I didn't let myself believe existed. One that was intelligent, funny, compassionate, kind......not perfect, but actively working on making himself better every day. One who recognized how awesome I am, who wanted to be with me, loved spending time with me but also had interests, hobbies, passions outside of me too so that when we came together it was magic. Someone who would stand by me as I fought my demons - and I could do the same for him. What I realize is that I already talked myself out of the unicorn before I even started the search. I told myself it didn't exist and if it did I certainly didn't deserve it. What bullshit. What a coward's way out this line of thinking because all it really boiled down to is that I wanted to save my heart from being hurt. But hearts are made to be broken, to feel joy, love and yes, hurt and this protection I try to put around my heart it is all a lie, I love people - I'm always going to love people and for me to live without them would mean my death. So hurt is inevitable. So enough fighting myself. Enough protection. I'm all in. I'm going to love myself - and make room for my unicorn too.
Whoever said that getting up first thing in the morning to work out is a good thing is basically a dirty liar. The one and only shower in the house is leaking and Billy has been trying to use his mad plumbing skillz to fix it and replace the taps - that was last week and during his reno's I have been able to at least bathe but not shower. Well yesterday he got the new tap and replaced it - now I can't bathe or shower so I dragged my ass out of bed at 5 am and went to the gym to work out and to shower. That's just a godawful hour for anyone to be awake especially since I was up at 1 am, 2 am and 3:15 am (just to switch things up) with the mother of all hot flashes. Anyway, I jumped on the treadmill half asleep and started at a very slow pace. I'm quite sure I dozed off and woke up startled that I was fully dressed and apparently walking uphill briskly on the treadmill, I may have screamed a little - at least I think I did given the response of the guy next to me. So after 20 minutes on the treadmill I switched to the elliptical, or as I refer to it: Satan's Spawn. Like really, who in the holy hell is coordinated enough to move their arms and feet at the same time - well I mean other than the line of other people using making it look effortless - but real people, klutzes like me it's just a disaster waiting to happen. Don't ask how but I managed to trip while using it and had to use the arm thingies as holy shit handles. It was embarrassing as hell but probably burned a few extra calories there.
On the up side I totally got hit on today at the gym, this lady stood outside my shower cubicle and watched me shower - totally inappropriate but flattering - I mean sure she was around 70 and probably Dementia was a factor but I'm taking it as a compliment. Clearly I'm a hit with the senior, lesbian crowd.
Also, can I just say that I'm totally loving my ass lately? I mean yeah, it's big but before it was just a big blob - now I see a curve.
Here I thought that not riding the bus anymore would mean that my adventures would be over - but nope!!! Really it's about perspective and attitude and I just see opportunity for fun everywhere.
The wind howled, the rain beat mercilessly against the ground, I burrow deeper into my coat but the force of the rain batters against my face, the rain so cold that it penetrates through the layers of clothes and skin to settle deep into my bones. There is no reprieve from the elements, standing alone in that bleak, open field. Branches from the trees that dotted the fence line come crashing down. The thunder booms, echoing in the vast emptiness sending vibrations deep in my chest like when the guy next door cranks the bass on his car stereo and blasts shitty 80's metal. The flash of lightening illuminates the terrain, casting shadows and heightening the impending sense of doom and danger. The air was alive with electricity...the force of mother nature produced an unequal carnage. I struggle to maintain my footing, the ground underneath me made unstable as the rain slowly turns the once hard earth into mud. The world feels off-kilter, dizzying blows come from every side and while I am scared, terrified really, the tears remain stuck in my throat, a dull ache in my chest as I focus all my efforts on remaining upright as my body is pummeled by the unseen forces. All my senses are heightened and dulled at the same time and I find it hard to make sense of what my eyes see I'm so
overwhelmed by the assault to my senses so I shut down a little, experience tunnel vision focused on one thing: staying alive. And after what seems like hours the winds start to die down, there is an eerie calm, an uneasy silence. I breathe, my lungs gratefully gulping in the air and I start to gain my footing, the world finally righting itself and I gain my equilibrium. I feel a reprieve, a calmness settling assuming that the worst is over but it is only the eye of the storm and just as I lose that sick feeling in my stomach it comes back, stronger, harder....the winds don't scream, they howl...the rain is like someone is standing over me with a bottomless bucket and I'm drowning....it steals my breath and the scream that tried to escape. The water accumulates quickly under my feet, seeming within seconds to rise to my ankle, then to my knees....swirling angrily around my thighs...dragging me down, pulling me to my knees. I struggle, trying to pull myself upright but now there are waves and they are crashing over my head again and again. I lose track of time, what could have been minutes or hours or years pass by as I struggle to keep my head above water, to gasp for air and fill my screaming lungs when
finally the winds subside....the rain gentles and I tread water. And miraculously the water it starts to calm...and lower, until I find I can stand....shivering, my clothes plastered to my aching body. Slowly the water ebbs away, the clouds start to clear and with it all of my energy....I fall to the ground unable to get up, my brain and body bruised beyond reason and still that edge of fear that this is not over, it can't be over ...and then blackness as my body and mind snap and I collapse to the ground.
I wake up panicked on the ground, the soft earth warm beneath my face....scrambling to my feet, casting my eyes to the sky looking for the dark clouds...and there is none. The sky is a brilliant blue, the sun bright and warm, I can see this with my eyes but I don't trust it...I can't trust it. When I started this journey I knew where I was going, there was a destination, but I can't remember what it is now...my mind can't seem to grasp the strings of that memory yet I know in my heart that whatever that destination was I can't go there anymore for it has forever changed.
I started this blog post three weeks ago, a friend sent me that .jpg about the storm, it was so fitting a description of this cancer journey, but all I could put in was the title, I couldn't find the words to write. I couldn't find my voice beyond that lump in my throat, that lump I tried to ignore because I was so afraid to let that storm loose. I have been living in a constant state of fear, every pain, every twinge of my body settling all I can think is "oh God, it's cancer." I let myself believe that first time that everything was going to be okay and I let myself feel safe and then more bad news hit and now I don't know what to trust, I don't know how to lose this wild eyed fear inside my belly. And then I think maybe the point of all of this wasn't to lose fear, but to use it. Yes, cancer can come back, I could get hit by a bus, aardvarks could attack me in my sleep.....in the end, I can die. Not I can die, I'm going to die....but it can be 5 minutes, 5 years, 5 decades from now but what really matters is how am I going to live? Am I going to go back to how I was living before, ducking my head and plowing through the world ignoring my hurting heart? Or am I going to really take time to cherish my friends? To ride that roller coaster? To hug my Mom? Am I going to use this experience to fuel my heart, my passions and really live life eyes wide open? Fuck yes!
So this next chapter of my life, it's about healing and building relationships and friendships and focusing on the good and the possible. xo
“I can’t tell
you exactly what your journey is going to look like, everyone’s is different,
but I’m not going to lie to you, it’s going to hurt and it’s going to suck….a
lot.”
“For how long?”
“As long as
it takes.”
It’s the same nearly every time, meeting with
people who have suffered the loss of a loved one, especially if it is their
first one, they want to know what to expect.
When I meet a person that first time, I may know a brief history of
their loss but literally everyone’s reaction is different, but whether it’s the
ones who sit there shell shocked as if they’ve been through a war and stare
blankly at me almost as if they can’t remember why they’ve come or the angry
ones whose sadness and hurt is so overwhelming that they revert to anger because
it hurts a whole less than the sadness in their heart or even the ones who sit
there, crying into tissue after tissue apologizing because they can’t stop
crying it’s always the same version of a question. What next?
I don’t have any concrete answers for anyone, I can’t make the pain go
away, I can’t stop their hurt and while it may sound weird, I don’t want to. This is their journey and those feelings –
even the painful ones – and to take that away for them means that they miss out
on something they need to experience. It
took me a few years (okay closer to a decade) to realize you can’t fix people
and it’s really arrogant to think that I can or should even try. What I can do is assure them that whatever
they are feeling or experiencing is normal FOR THEM – you’d be surprised at how
many people are concerned about grieving “correctly,” whatever the heck that
is. I can sit and be present with them
as they tell their story, not flinching from the pain but holding it and
honouring it and giving them a space to let it out. I do that for clients, yes because I get paid
but also because I love the work, it is my passion and I think that there are a
lot of people wandering this earth hurting because they never got a chance to
grieve and it doesn’t have to be like that – not for them and not for me
either.
For the last 2 weeks I’ve found myself wandering
into rooms not remembering why I went there, feeling fuzzy mentally and numb
most of the time depressed at others, wanting to be alone, not wanting to eat
and unable to sleep and it’s only now that I realize that I’m grieving. I guess I have the excuse that I’ve been
healing physically and dealing with pain but underneath that focus on healing
there was that little lump in my throat that I could never quite swallow
down. Those moments when a few stray
tears would fall. I don’t know if I’ve
been trying to be a tough guy so I don’t have to deal with the enormity of the
pain, but if I am then that’s okay, I give myself permission to. Our brains have this safety switch that makes
us numb out when something traumatic happen – it knows when we can’t completely
absorb the enormity of something so it shuts itself down and then releases
information out in little drips, in pieces we can handle without completely losing
our shit. (Sorry to get all technical
there on you). I had my surgery on May
10th and I have to say that the last few weeks have just been a
blur. I’ve went for walks with the dog,
played cards with my Mom, helped Dad around the farm but it’s almost as if I’ve
been standing on the outside watching myself do these things. I nap a lot and even though the pain in my
body has subsided I feel exhausted all the time.
My parents left for the cottage this afternoon and
after I ate dinner I bundled up and went for a walk, my iPod on shuffle. I don’t think I quite made that first field
before the tears started pouring down my face.
My brain finally released that information that has been there all
along. I am never going to have my own
biological baby. I am never going feel
my child growing in my belly. I am never
going to hold them in my arms and rock them to sleep. I won’t be able to kiss the top of their
little head and feel their breath on my neck.
When I was in high school I didn’t have much of a social life, I worked
at the local grocery store after school on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday night
until 9 pm and all day Saturday. After
work at the grocery store (except Wednesdays) I would go to my babysitting gig
and they would drive me home usually at around 2 am. They had a little girl who was around 3,
cutest little curly haired blonde angel named Tricia and a baby who was around
3 months old named Michael. I loved those
kids. Tricia and I would play until it
was time for her to go to bed and then I’d stay up with the baby, rocking him
to sleep in my arms. I never wanted to
put him down, I would just rub his back, kiss the top of his fuzzy little
head….and trace my finger on his cheek - his skin, it was so soft. Life then was horrible. I was so unhappy and sad at school and home,
but those moments with those kids and especially with the baby it just felt so
right. I was so good with kids, they
never made fun of me – and they wanted to spend time with me. They didn’t care what I looked like, that I
never had a boyfriend, that I didn’t fit in….they just accepted me. In all the unhappiness and chaos of my life
at that time this was my calm center of the storm, my safe place. At those times I would dream of having my own
children when I got older, because surely life wouldn’t suck then, right? In college I did two placements with children
and babies and they all loved me, I had the knack to make babies stop crying –
and at the one community center I had a baby in each arm most times. When I first started as a foster parent I had
babies, toddlers, older kids and I was good with them, even when at times I
felt way over my head. Then came the
teenagers… and the challenges they brought with them – and one lifelong
friendship. I guess what keeps coming
back to me is the words of my Gramma Bernice said to me when I was in my early
twenties: “I want to meet your babies.”
Well, that’s not going to happen.
And it hurts and it sucks, just like I said it would.
It’s funny, in school we learn how to add numbers
together, how to read, to learn about chemicals and plants, about distance
lands and wars and the acts of our ancestors.
These are all important things, and while we may never have practical
need of some of these things (I’m looking at you Calculus when I say this) they
make us more interesting as human beings and hopefully somewhere along the line
we learn something that will have meaning later in life but no one taught us
how to grieve or what to do with emotions that seem pretty overwhelming at
times - that seems like a pretty important part in being a human.
So what happens next?
Next is listening to my body, my heart and my
mind. Sleeping when I’m tired. Eating when I’m hungry. Crying until it feels like my heart is
shattered in little pieces. Walking with my bee eating boy, because he makes me happy. Walking every inch of this property, slowing down to remember to breathe, smelling the cedar trees and feeling the damp earth beneath my feet, my safe place to cry, to yell, to scream out loud at the fucking unfairness of this all...or to just to have time alone to figure out how I feel, to find some peace in the silence. I know I've been isolating myself, it feels like just being around people is so draining and I can't handle it, but don't worry Amie, I won't forget to crawl out of the rabbit hole...I just need time. On June 18th I get my results, I will know then whether I have to have chemo or radiation or if removing my uterus has contained the cancer - and I'm scared what those results will be. Every little twinge, pain anything I think it's cancer. And I think that's probably pretty damned normal too - well normal for me. And when this is all over I will figure out a new dream and try to be brave enough to fight for it. But that will come in time, for now I need to listen to my heart that is aching for a good cry. This one does it to me every time.
Every girl knows the story line to follow, we don't even have to read from the cue cards we know how the perfect fairy tale unfolds; boy meets girl, they fall in love, get married and live happily ever after. Sure I was the little girl who grew up on the farm, who more often than not was found covered from head to toe in mud, but I read those books and if I had only them to rely on to judge how I'm doing at this thing called life I'd be royally boned today. See I got to watch a fairy tale unfold right before my very eyes, one more powerful, meaningful and real than any Princess who found her Prince Charming (who was clearly a necrophiliac and into running around kissing non-responsive women. I really do wonder how that fairy tale ended, did he only get off if she "pretended" to be asleep?).
Before I continue this story I need to apologize to the lady who told it to me, she lived this experience and dealt with harsh judgment and probably a lot of shame. When she told me this story she asked me not to talk to other people about this and I have respected that until now, I am not telling this story to place judgment on any of the people involved, I wasn't there. All I can say is that I'm sorry Gramma I love you so much and miss you every day, but I need to tell your story so that I can heal this part inside of me that is hurting so much right now and to find the hope and strength I need to carry on and I hope you find it in your heart to forgive me, wherever you are.
My Gramma and I were best of friends, she was always so kind and loving - quick with a joke and she had the cutest mischievious grin ever. I was so socially awkward growing up, I didn't have a lot of friends and I had a Dad who drank - this woman she made me feel so loved and she lived close to me too. I spent a lot of time with her as a teenager, I'd drop in after school to talk to her when I went away to college we wrote back and forth and called all the time. They were comfortable, but never rich by any means but she gave me a gift no money could ever buy, the gift of herself. We had real conversations, I could talk to her about anything and I got to ask questions and ask about her life...this story is pieced from those conversations.
My Gramma Bernice and the love
of her life, Grampa Jimmy.
She grew up with like a million (okay, probably 10 or 11) brothers and sisters and with that many kids they didn't have a whole lot of money but the way she talked about her parents I got the picture that where there wasn't an abundance in "things" there was in love. She only attended grade school and then she worked at a store at some point and then she met my Grampa Jimmy. I don't know all the details of this other than they had a relationship of some sort that he was her childhood sweetheart and then somewhere along the line they had a fight and broke up. (I don't know all the details because although I appear to be perfectly fine with asking inappropriate questions - just ask my friend Leah who had to field questions as to whether the Church was okay with nuns masturbating - but even I have limits when it comes to those kind of details with grandparents). Anyway she then met and married this other man and had my two older uncles and my Mom. I never met this man, he's not my grampa. He wasn't a nice man, he drank, spent all his pay on booze and then came home mean and violent. They would have to run to get away from him into the ditch. But this was the 50's (ish) and there was no supports in place then for battered women. To have known my Gramma, this beautiful soul, the tiniest woman ever and to think of anyone laying hands on her or scaring her makes me physically ill - and not just because I know that experience all too well myself.
Then somewhere along the line my Grampa Jimmy came back into the picture and they got together. Don't ask me the details of when or how, I don't know - and honestly, I don't care. She divorced my Mom's Dad and married my Grampa and together they had two more boys - but he was a Dad to those three other kids from day one. And again, I wasn't there - and I know there was a lot of hurt and anger on some sides but all I know is that my Grampa was one of the best men I have ever had the privilege to know. He always had perfectly coiffed hair, he used this cream to smooth it back and he had a well trimmed beard - he was a quiet man but then he'd slide these great zingers in, he had a wonderful sense of humour. When I was a little girl I would run and get the comb so I could sit on his lap and comb his mustache. For a little girl whose father barely acknowledged her you don't understand how much that meant to me. You can't even begin to imagine how hard it is to type when you're crying this hard.
They weren't the storybook perfect couple, my Gram swore like a sailor and because of her stomach issues (or so she said) she did have some flatulence issues which would piss my proper Grandfather off to no end. He always said she did it on purpose... and her story probably would have rang true if she had wiped the damned shit eating grin off of her face. I never once heard them raise their voices to each other, yeah they fought, but it was respectful fighting and there was no ill-intent there. One of the best memories I ever have when I was in high school and we had this big bonfire and my Grampa put his arm around my Gramma and pulled her close - my parents aren't affectionate like that with each other - seeing their intimacy and how loving they were with each other - it still touches my heart. Of course once when he was drunk he grabbed her boob and she was always goosing him, but they had romance too. Are you really shocked? It's my family! :)
I was in high school (the mid-90's) when my Gramma had a heart attack, I was there when it happened. She threw up again and again and she was in such pain, laying on the bathroom floor and my uncle had to call the ambulance. My Grampa never left her side, not once. He went to the hospital every day, helped her to recover...held her hand. He was her rock. She recovered, thank God...and I remember us laughing about the book they sent home with her about having sex after a heart attack. I was never more grateful in my life than when she came home and I knew that she was going to be okay. It nearly tore my heart out watching her in that bathroom in so much pain, and I couldn't help her.
In the late 90's my Grampa was diagnosed with bowel cancer and it was my Gram's turn to become the rock - she never left his side either. He had treatment and he was so sick...this vital, strong man just sat on that green chair in the living room or laid on the couch...the morphine making him so sick and pale. Although he still found it in him to make fun of my car. I was so proud, I had a Barney-purple Geo Metro, I drove it up close to the house so my grandparents could see it. He got his can and looked out the door for a few minutes, said nothing. Then out of the blue he says "it's small, has it been sick?" Fucker. lol.
He died when I was away on a work trip to Vancouver. I didn't get to say goodbye. I didn't get to tell him I loved him and how much he meant to me and when I walked into the funeral home and saw him laid out in that casket I cried like I never have in my whole life. And my Mom, the woman who was never a hugger came over to me and folded me in her arms and I wept.
The night of the wake I asked Gram if I could stay over with her and she said yes. I remember we were getting ready for bed, they had a waterbed and a wall with carpet on it - wow, the things I remember..anyway we both just got settled and we were talking for a little bit about Grampa, the wake and how much we both missed him. Then there was silence. I looked over at her and said "Gramma, did you fart?" Thank God it was a motionless mattress because she quite literally shook with laughter, we both had tears in our eyes from laughing so hard.
She never married again, or dated... she was still in love with him and really I still always felt his presence in that house, sitting in the green chair.
Some time in the early 2000's Gramma got diagnosed with Colitis, she was really sick could eat barely anything without it ending in some sort of explosion. Still, she had the best sense of humour ever, we could always make each other laugh. She's always come into my parent's house and grab the leaves of this plant by the door and literally maul it and ask if it was real....my Mom was like "yes, ya bitch, stop wrecking it." Man she would laugh.
I have very few pictures from my wedding, but
this one I cherish with all my heart.
When I got married a friend gave me beanie baby bride and groom bears - my Gramma collected beanie babies and I helped her to find some to add to her collection. Anyway, we went to a family potluck and I brought the beanie babies to show Gramma. Oh how she fawned over them, I packed them away and didn't think about it again. Well two weeks later in the mail I got a package, in it were the two beanie babies with a note that said "don't you love us?" Bitch. So then Steve & I moved into our first apartment together in Bowmanville, she and Mom came to visit. I took them for the very brief tour (it was tiny but beautiful and by the water and you could hear the train), we sat and chatted it was great. Two weeks later again I get a package with the beanie babies in it - she had stolen them! Well I fixed her little red wagon, at my wedding I bought another pair of identical beanie babies and enlisted the help of one of the groomsmen to help with the massive prank. So at our head table we had all these flowers, candles, etc. and my set of the beanie babies...well at one point I removed them and hid them under the table and then our grooms man stood up and announced "someone stole the beanie babies!" and then everyone from the head table looked at my Gramma. She was mortified! I laughed my ass off and then pulled out the other set and gave them to her. lol....she took it like a champ.
SIDE NOTE: An even better story of revenge around my wedding was that my Dad always used to say that I was the mail man's kid - the mail man being Perry Grandell who wasn't even the mail man when Mom was pregnant, but whatever. He really wouldn't let it go, so I put an announcement in the local paper that said Perry Grandell and Gwen Gray (my Mom) along with William Gray are happy to announce the wedding of their daughter.... It caused quite the stir. And go figure, Dad was pissed. Tight assed bitch. Ha!
My Gram and I stayed close and I called her all the time, she was like my go-to person when something good happened, hearing her voice just made me happy. I never really told her about the bad stuff, I don't know why - I guess I didn't want her to be disappointed in me and of all people she could have related the most. I don't live in regret, but there are days that I wish I had reached out to her, but it's hard to reach out to anyone when you're busy punishing yourself I guess and I forgive myself for that...and I know she does too.
Not long after my wedding my Gramma got gall bladder cancer....with mets, well everywhere. She died just before her birthday in July 2005. I remember her laying in that bed, so damned little and in so much pain and I was so filled with anger that this woman, this beautiful, wonderful woman had to suffer so fucking much, I was rocked by the unfairness of it all. She never complained, when I went to go see her in the hospital - she'd ask how I was what was going on in my life. We still had real conversations, even in that hospital where she spent her last days. I told her I loved her every time I left, I hugged her when I saw her and I hugged her even tighter when I was leaving. At then end when they called the family in I was the last one to arrive, everyone else had went in and said their goodbyes so I went in alone and I sat with her. She wasn't conscious. She looked so damned peaceful and even though she was in a room by herself the room felt full, and I knew she wasn't alone. Think what you will, I don't have to defend myself but I saw little tiny pinpricks of light around her bed and whether they were angels or relatives who had already passed on who came to be with her, I felt at peace knowing she wasn't alone. I held her hand, I told her I loved her and I hope that she heard me.
So what does this have to do with my story? Why did I have to tell hers? Because their story is all that gives me hope some days. I have hope that there are men who love their women and don't yell and scream and hurt them and then call that love. I have hope that there is a time for romance....sickness, love, everything, every wonderful, beautiful, painful part of this life still left to live. And listening to this song I think what I got out of spending time with my Gramma in the hospital is that she didn't need me to make things better for her, she didn't need me to take away the pain (although I really, really wanted to more than anything), she needed for me to treat her like a person. She needed me to make it okay to laugh, to cry, to hug....to just be. And from the other side as someone who is going through this right now I get the perspective of maybe not knowing what to say. The other lesson I have learned is that I can't live my life wrapped up so much in my own pain that I escape and live in my head because I miss out on all the wonderful people in my life and being there for them - and that's not okay with me. I can't escape from life. I'm handing in my title, I don't want to be the Queen of the great escape anymore.
I have been vulnerable and scared in my life and before I used being overweight as my shield, to make people not want to be near me - and now, now when the pain feels so overwhelming and like my body is betraying me that feeling of being vulnerable and scared has increased tenfold because I feel like I couldn't protect myself. I need to remember, I'm not in that place anymore. I'm safe. I have beautiful, wonderful friends who love me so much, I've never had a greater outpouring of love and that's what I need to immerse myself in, the love - not the pain. How can I not be living my very own fairy tale? I have friends who are throwing me a farewell to my uterus party and sure it would be cool if the uterus-shaped cake Amie was making me had strawberry jam in it so that it exploded when I cut into it - but her way is good too.
I think Pink says it best: "I'm terrified of the dark, but not if you go with me."
We accept the love we think we deserve. --Stephen Chbosky
I've given this quite a bit of thought, and I'd say in excavating my past relationships that this has been the problem all along. I thought I had done a lot of work around this in the past year and a half, made changes in how I felt about myself and what I deserved but there is still a hesitancy, not believing that I deserve good. Even after agonizing and working up the courage to work towards things I want, I run away the minute there is a bump in the road - I interpret those bumps as an indication that I'm not enough, that no one would ever want me and that I am flawed beyond redemption. This has been what my mind has struggled with since weight loss surgery, I thought what I was fighting against was the half life of not being able to physically be a part of the world - well now I am and that hasn't fixed the core of the issue. I have been so busy fighting fat, fighting cancer...fighting with myself - half in love, half in hate with myself and I realize that's the problem. I'm fighting all the time but the fat - it's part of me. The cancer - it's part of me too. I'm not usually a stupid person but man I have been dumb as shit, I stopped losing weight right around the time I abandoned the promise I made to myself that I mattered and I would do everything to take care of myself and work towards health and happiness. I don't know why I thought my inability to salvage a marriage that was sick on so many levels was all my responsibility - but I thought it was, I thought I should have been able to fix it, fix him, fix me. And it would have been our 11th wedding anniversary on April 6th and I miss him, not the bad times and the fighting and the anger, but I miss him. He was the first man who ever loved me when I was massive and felt so ugly inside and out. And now that so much has happened health-wise a lot of the bullshit has just been cleared and I realize I love him, he was the first man I ever loved and in my heart I will always love him. I have avoided writing about him, I told myself it was because I didn't want to bad mouth him, and that's true... but not the whole truth. I think the real reason I haven't written about him is because it hurts so fucking much. He was my best friend - and good or bad (and yes, there was a lot of bad) - and sometimes I still want to pick up the phone and tell him about my day. I wanted it to be a good goodbye with him, in our marriage we had tons of time for blame and I didn't want our divorce to be about that. I realize now that I have done myself a disservice by not writing about him, he is part of me - I carry him with me and to not honor that and work through the pain has only added to the weight on my shoulders - and today I let that go, it's not mine to carry anymore. I don't need to to bad mouth him, I don't need to excavate the past and lay it out for the world to see. I've found peace with him and I can honestly say that I will always be happy that he was in my life and at his heart he is a good man, his intentions are so pure but like me he just didn't have the skills to make a relationship work: communication, self-worth...I could go on but there is no point. All that matters is that I wish the best for him, love for himself, romance, happiness and health and I know he wishes that for me too. So today I raise a glass to "Steve & Wendy" and I will be sad, just a little but the devastation, the guilt and blame, it's gone. One day there will be romance in my life, I know now I will not always be alone. I still come with flaws and scars, but they are beautiful and so am I and for the person who is worthy of my love and trust well we will build a life on mutual respect and support. This song, it means a lot to me...and I dedicate to Steve & I to the love we shared and the love that is still to come in both our lives.
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