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.