It's true; I am.
I am quite short of stature and am host to an endless list of insecurities. I have generally low self-esteem and even worse self-image. I am constantly in the company of people whom I admire for a variety of reasons, and who therefore intimidate me-- be it for their height, wit, looks, or drive to better themselves. I love to be around them, but feel painfully awkward beside.
I have been told by three different people, all good friends of mine who have never met one another, TODAY, that I am an inspiration to them.
I am bewildered, and I am humbled.
Friday, August 29, 2014
A night with anxiety (written last November or so)
Anxious. Jaw clenched, abdominal wall contracted, neck stiff, brow furrowed. Jimmies rustled. I just want to go to sleep.
My heartbeat is muffled through swollen eustachian tubes but deafening against distressed tympanic membranes. I just want to go to sleep.
The soles of my feet are burning hot but my blood feels cold, deep in my chest. I can taste a ghost of dinner in my throat. My forehead is slightly damp with sweat, but there is a shiver and a bone-deep ache in my arms.
Just go to sleep already. There's work in the morning. There's nothing to worry about that can't wait. Life isn't really that hard. It can wait. Go to sleep.
What are you even worried about? Do you even know?
The thoughts run so fast there's no telling one from the next-- just a constant, drowning feeling. Water pressure builds exponentially as you sink deeper and deeper and it becomes proportionately difficult to keep your lungs from collapsing, to keep your ribs from breaking, to resist the urge to breathe in the water. It will hurt like hell, but only for a minute.
I just want to go to sleep. I'll admit I'm not very much interested in waking up later, but first things first, here.
My heartbeat, it pounds in dull thuds against the fatty padding of my brain. The constant, rhythmic change in pressure blurs my vision with its offense. I hurt. I'm tired.
I'm hot. I'm cold. I'm irritated because I have to get up for work at some point and really need some goddamn sleep and it is such a simple and basic thing to need, something anyone, anything can do, but I can't. I can't.
I know my heart pounding is just the anxiety. I've wasted enough medical professionals' time to reasonably prove there is nothing wrong with my heart-- it's just my brain trying to kill me. But the cruel part is, my brain is all I have, the only way I can experience myself and the world, my literal eyes and ears. How am I to contradict it? How do I become separate from myself? When did I become multiple beings working in conflict?
Goddammit
I just want to go to sleep.
My heartbeat is muffled through swollen eustachian tubes but deafening against distressed tympanic membranes. I just want to go to sleep.
The soles of my feet are burning hot but my blood feels cold, deep in my chest. I can taste a ghost of dinner in my throat. My forehead is slightly damp with sweat, but there is a shiver and a bone-deep ache in my arms.
Just go to sleep already. There's work in the morning. There's nothing to worry about that can't wait. Life isn't really that hard. It can wait. Go to sleep.
What are you even worried about? Do you even know?
The thoughts run so fast there's no telling one from the next-- just a constant, drowning feeling. Water pressure builds exponentially as you sink deeper and deeper and it becomes proportionately difficult to keep your lungs from collapsing, to keep your ribs from breaking, to resist the urge to breathe in the water. It will hurt like hell, but only for a minute.
I just want to go to sleep. I'll admit I'm not very much interested in waking up later, but first things first, here.
My heartbeat, it pounds in dull thuds against the fatty padding of my brain. The constant, rhythmic change in pressure blurs my vision with its offense. I hurt. I'm tired.
I'm hot. I'm cold. I'm irritated because I have to get up for work at some point and really need some goddamn sleep and it is such a simple and basic thing to need, something anyone, anything can do, but I can't. I can't.
I know my heart pounding is just the anxiety. I've wasted enough medical professionals' time to reasonably prove there is nothing wrong with my heart-- it's just my brain trying to kill me. But the cruel part is, my brain is all I have, the only way I can experience myself and the world, my literal eyes and ears. How am I to contradict it? How do I become separate from myself? When did I become multiple beings working in conflict?
Goddammit
I just want to go to sleep.
What happened when my old trainer left (a two-part narrative from late last December)
I have worked with a personal trainer for very nearly three years. I met him because I joined a local gym that offers two free sessions with a trainer as part of a welcome package. I was at my heaviest, and we got along okay, so I gave him a shot.
We spend an hour together every week. We talk a lot. I can be kind of weird with people when I don't yet know them well, and he took all my weirdness in stride.
My first year with him, I lost a few pounds, but I was probably a bit of a difficult case as I was significantly out of shape, weak, and uncoordinated. I was also a bit lazy and would cancel sessions at the last minute simply because I didn't want to go. In the second half of that year, my life took a sharp downward turn as a perfect storm of life/work stress and a medication fiasco left me nearly unable to function (and nearly minus an arm). He didn't judge me when I showed up with cuts all over my arm. He asked what happened, expressed concern, but accepted my responses and kept me focused on working out. There came a point late in the year where I sank into a depression so profound I was unable to even show up to work, and I took a couple weeks off from training-- from even going outside. He told me to take my time, and let him know when I could be back.
All of that really came to a head in December of 2011. Somewhere in there, I figured my shit out apparently, because I stopped cutting, was properly diagnosed as type II bipolar, was assigned a new medication schedule, and... got the fuck to it. I went back to work. I went back to the gym. I stopped the horrifying binge-eating episodes and watched everything I ate (maintaining a balance of carbs/proteins/fats while under a daily allowance of 1600 calories). He measured me every month, and the weight just flew off, the muscle piled on, and I was becoming happy. He congratulated my efforts-- in all aspects-- along the way. Even as I was having my larger scars treated for hypertrophism, he would sometimes remark, "Hey, they're looking flatter. Nice!" I lost over 50 pounds in 2012 alone.
This past year has not been quite as impressive in terms of total weight lost-- perhaps 15-20 pounds down in the last 12 months. But under his teaching, I continuously become leaner and more muscular. I started running at some point in there, which was outrageously unfathomable before. I fucking lift weights. Deadlifts. Cleans. Push presses. Effin back squats and kettle swings. I am almost always in the "men's" area of the gym, and it earns me a lot of (kind of weird) attention from all the bros. I'm one of them.
The point is, he helped me survive the lowest and hardest period of my entire life, and then LITERALLY made me stronger than I have ever been, ever. In many ways, I owe that man my life.
Today he let me know that he and his fiancee are moving back east to their home state.
They are leaving in two weeks.
I had often thought about what to do when I wouldn't be working with him anymore. It had to happen eventually-- either one of us would move away, or some other thing would happen, but in any case, of course I could not continue a personal training regimen indefinitely. I always came to the same fears and questions-- how would I take care of myself? I have all these notes and records of my past sessions, and I repeat them on my own all the time, but how do I made a new sequence? How do I know how much weight to add as I get stronger? Whatever will I do?
We talked a little while about some of that today, but in the next two weeks we will go over it more in-depth. He says I could try one of the other trainers (he said he specifically would trust one in particular, so we'll see), or if I wanted to, just move on to doing things on my own. We'll figure something out. He says, "I won't be here physically but I'll still always be here, you know, call/text/facebook, you always know how to reach me if you have any questions or just wanna shoot the shit or whatever." It's one of the rare times I actually believe someone telling me that.
Still.
What the fuck.
I don't know what to do.
I don't know what to do.
I am a strange person and have a hard time bonding with people, and then when I do, they leave, and behind them are all these calluses building over my heartstrings, and eventually it can only be a solid mass of inflexible, unfeeling scar tissue, and that day can't fucking get here soon enough.
I am so lost, and I am so upset, even more than I thought I would be, and I don't know what to do.
--------
Since my old trainer informed me he was leaving, I have been an emotional wreck.
There were definitely phases of grief-- from the immense, heaving sadness to outlandish and nonsensical "this is my fault" thoughts. He's gone now, and I'm starting to get the hang of things, I suppose.
Throughout my history, I have used excess as a means of coping. Excessive drinking. Excessive drug use. Excessive eating. Excessive (and risky, nearly anonymous) sex. Excessive sensory stimulation (in the form of cutting and self-harm). Over time, I have changed some of my habits, but not all of them: so I put everything I had into working out.
Part of me just wanted the opportunity to see him every day until he left. I wanted to soak up the sounds of his voice and embed them in my memory, because the worst thing I can do when trying to let go of someone is to forget them. The rest was seeking that excess-- so I worked out, every day, as hard as I could. I went in full-force, lifting heavier weights, doing extra reps and sets, adjusting to make everything more challenging with each round. I only skipped Christmas and New Year's Day, because the gym was closed.
Yesterday I went in and finally my body told me that I am being ridiculous. I got through the first sequence for 3 rounds, like normal, but I couldn't get through the second one. I was losing form, fast, and had to cut my losses. I did a couple of 'finishing' moves, stretched, and went home in a shroud of failure.
I got immensely depressed yesterday, and quite suddenly. It is hard to say exactly what was going on biologically, but the fact is I have exhausted my body as I have exhausted my mind, and I suppose having reached a literal failure, I dropped. It hit me while I was in the kitchen trying to get some dishes put away. I shuddered and felt so very small and ugly, and when I caught my reflection in the window all I saw was frailty and fear.
This was followed in the evening by what I sometimes refer to as my "night psychosis"-- this is by no means an official, medical term, only one of my own use. It happens just before I go to sleep (usually), when I become exceedingly anxious and convinced there are monsters or ghosts or demons or SOMETHING TERRIBLE in my closet, in my doorway, etc etc. When I first turn off the light it isn't so bad because everything is black, but as my eyes adjust to the darkness and I make out the shadows and outlines of my bedroom's topography, I am overwhelmed with a bone-deep fear. I am convinced that if I turn my head, or if I open my eyes again, something will be there, staring at me, watching me. I have never been able to pinpoint why this happens, but it does, and with some frequency. Sometimes it strikes in the shower, when I close my eyes to rinse my hair and I can't compel myself to open them again because I KNOW something will be staring at me when I do. It's the damndest thing.
All of that isn't the point here, though.
Today I met with my new trainer for the first time (rather, for our first session). She is clearly knowledgeable and fit and muscular, which I take to be a good sign. My old trainer specifically recommended I work with her, and I can sort of see why.
Things are different. She is different. I know it will never be the same, but maybe it will be okay. She knows I like lifting weights, and she seems enthusiastic about keeping up with that (as well as incorporating more HIIT and metabolic stuff so I can continue losing weight). She referred to lifting as the "fun stuff," and that is definitely a good sign.
So I think it will be okay.
I cried very briefly when I left the gym today.
Things will be different now.
But I think it will be okay.
We spend an hour together every week. We talk a lot. I can be kind of weird with people when I don't yet know them well, and he took all my weirdness in stride.
My first year with him, I lost a few pounds, but I was probably a bit of a difficult case as I was significantly out of shape, weak, and uncoordinated. I was also a bit lazy and would cancel sessions at the last minute simply because I didn't want to go. In the second half of that year, my life took a sharp downward turn as a perfect storm of life/work stress and a medication fiasco left me nearly unable to function (and nearly minus an arm). He didn't judge me when I showed up with cuts all over my arm. He asked what happened, expressed concern, but accepted my responses and kept me focused on working out. There came a point late in the year where I sank into a depression so profound I was unable to even show up to work, and I took a couple weeks off from training-- from even going outside. He told me to take my time, and let him know when I could be back.
All of that really came to a head in December of 2011. Somewhere in there, I figured my shit out apparently, because I stopped cutting, was properly diagnosed as type II bipolar, was assigned a new medication schedule, and... got the fuck to it. I went back to work. I went back to the gym. I stopped the horrifying binge-eating episodes and watched everything I ate (maintaining a balance of carbs/proteins/fats while under a daily allowance of 1600 calories). He measured me every month, and the weight just flew off, the muscle piled on, and I was becoming happy. He congratulated my efforts-- in all aspects-- along the way. Even as I was having my larger scars treated for hypertrophism, he would sometimes remark, "Hey, they're looking flatter. Nice!" I lost over 50 pounds in 2012 alone.
This past year has not been quite as impressive in terms of total weight lost-- perhaps 15-20 pounds down in the last 12 months. But under his teaching, I continuously become leaner and more muscular. I started running at some point in there, which was outrageously unfathomable before. I fucking lift weights. Deadlifts. Cleans. Push presses. Effin back squats and kettle swings. I am almost always in the "men's" area of the gym, and it earns me a lot of (kind of weird) attention from all the bros. I'm one of them.
The point is, he helped me survive the lowest and hardest period of my entire life, and then LITERALLY made me stronger than I have ever been, ever. In many ways, I owe that man my life.
Today he let me know that he and his fiancee are moving back east to their home state.
They are leaving in two weeks.
I had often thought about what to do when I wouldn't be working with him anymore. It had to happen eventually-- either one of us would move away, or some other thing would happen, but in any case, of course I could not continue a personal training regimen indefinitely. I always came to the same fears and questions-- how would I take care of myself? I have all these notes and records of my past sessions, and I repeat them on my own all the time, but how do I made a new sequence? How do I know how much weight to add as I get stronger? Whatever will I do?
We talked a little while about some of that today, but in the next two weeks we will go over it more in-depth. He says I could try one of the other trainers (he said he specifically would trust one in particular, so we'll see), or if I wanted to, just move on to doing things on my own. We'll figure something out. He says, "I won't be here physically but I'll still always be here, you know, call/text/facebook, you always know how to reach me if you have any questions or just wanna shoot the shit or whatever." It's one of the rare times I actually believe someone telling me that.
Still.
What the fuck.
I don't know what to do.
I don't know what to do.
I am a strange person and have a hard time bonding with people, and then when I do, they leave, and behind them are all these calluses building over my heartstrings, and eventually it can only be a solid mass of inflexible, unfeeling scar tissue, and that day can't fucking get here soon enough.
I am so lost, and I am so upset, even more than I thought I would be, and I don't know what to do.
--------
Since my old trainer informed me he was leaving, I have been an emotional wreck.
There were definitely phases of grief-- from the immense, heaving sadness to outlandish and nonsensical "this is my fault" thoughts. He's gone now, and I'm starting to get the hang of things, I suppose.
Throughout my history, I have used excess as a means of coping. Excessive drinking. Excessive drug use. Excessive eating. Excessive (and risky, nearly anonymous) sex. Excessive sensory stimulation (in the form of cutting and self-harm). Over time, I have changed some of my habits, but not all of them: so I put everything I had into working out.
Part of me just wanted the opportunity to see him every day until he left. I wanted to soak up the sounds of his voice and embed them in my memory, because the worst thing I can do when trying to let go of someone is to forget them. The rest was seeking that excess-- so I worked out, every day, as hard as I could. I went in full-force, lifting heavier weights, doing extra reps and sets, adjusting to make everything more challenging with each round. I only skipped Christmas and New Year's Day, because the gym was closed.
Yesterday I went in and finally my body told me that I am being ridiculous. I got through the first sequence for 3 rounds, like normal, but I couldn't get through the second one. I was losing form, fast, and had to cut my losses. I did a couple of 'finishing' moves, stretched, and went home in a shroud of failure.
I got immensely depressed yesterday, and quite suddenly. It is hard to say exactly what was going on biologically, but the fact is I have exhausted my body as I have exhausted my mind, and I suppose having reached a literal failure, I dropped. It hit me while I was in the kitchen trying to get some dishes put away. I shuddered and felt so very small and ugly, and when I caught my reflection in the window all I saw was frailty and fear.
This was followed in the evening by what I sometimes refer to as my "night psychosis"-- this is by no means an official, medical term, only one of my own use. It happens just before I go to sleep (usually), when I become exceedingly anxious and convinced there are monsters or ghosts or demons or SOMETHING TERRIBLE in my closet, in my doorway, etc etc. When I first turn off the light it isn't so bad because everything is black, but as my eyes adjust to the darkness and I make out the shadows and outlines of my bedroom's topography, I am overwhelmed with a bone-deep fear. I am convinced that if I turn my head, or if I open my eyes again, something will be there, staring at me, watching me. I have never been able to pinpoint why this happens, but it does, and with some frequency. Sometimes it strikes in the shower, when I close my eyes to rinse my hair and I can't compel myself to open them again because I KNOW something will be staring at me when I do. It's the damndest thing.
All of that isn't the point here, though.
Today I met with my new trainer for the first time (rather, for our first session). She is clearly knowledgeable and fit and muscular, which I take to be a good sign. My old trainer specifically recommended I work with her, and I can sort of see why.
Things are different. She is different. I know it will never be the same, but maybe it will be okay. She knows I like lifting weights, and she seems enthusiastic about keeping up with that (as well as incorporating more HIIT and metabolic stuff so I can continue losing weight). She referred to lifting as the "fun stuff," and that is definitely a good sign.
So I think it will be okay.
I cried very briefly when I left the gym today.
Things will be different now.
But I think it will be okay.
"about me" challenge: 29 non-sequiturs (compiled in March)
1. I have a mild cognitive speech impediment. There is nothing physically wrong with my mouth or throat, but there is sometimes a hiccup between my brain and the muscles in the area. This is why it sometimes sounds like I have an "accent" or just have an odd or inconsistent way of pronouncing vowel sounds. It is the most evident when I have been drinking, am very tired, or am speaking with people with whom I am very comfortable.
2. I did not start speaking in even short sentences until around age 3. Prior to that I had a handful of words, and a fair shake of grunting, pointing, and sometimes screaming. This, coupled with my aversion to touch (and loud noises) and a stunted ability to relate to other children, led to my parents suspecting I place somewhere in the autism spectrum. It was never diagnosed as such, but my mom is still pretty sure.
3. Though I still have difficulty relating to people, I do experience a great depth of empathy. My heart bleeds for you. I would always prefer to experience pain than to let someone else have it.
4. When I was a kid, my tia would leave our home with a parting, "See you later, alligator!" Being the literal-minded autist that I am, I would flip right the fuck out every.single.time. Wailing screams of "I AM NOT AN ALLIGATOR" could be heard across the street. She did it on purpose, to make my parents mad.
5. I had a bike as a child, with training wheels. All I learned to do was ride leaning to one side or the other. I got my leg stuck in the chain and decided never to try again-- until I was 23, and actually learned to ride a bike properly. I still fall down sometimes.
6. I have many irrational thoughts, but three major and highly irrational fears:
6a. If I blow my nose too hard, an unpopped popcorn kernel will force its way from my tear duct.
6b. If I try to wake a sleeping body, it will turn out to be a dead body.
6c. If I take a shower at my sister's house, a beluga whale may come crashing through the tile wall.
7. I used heroin through most of high school. I was intensely secretive about it, and was very careful to keep it hidden. My parents both worked, and sometimes odd hours, and I spent most of my time in my room, floating out of my mind. I wouldn't say I was a "junkie," exactly, as clearly I was still as functional as teenagers get, but it was hard to let go of, and I still sometimes wish I could go back.
8. What started as an odd pain in my belly eventually led to the surgical removal of my appendix. When I spoke to the surgeon the next morning, he described it as "not ready to burst, but plump, and you don't need it anyway."
9. The relationship I have with my best friend can only be described as transcendental, and even that is a trite and contrived description. I stopped cutting myself because I consider her to exist in my veins and viscera, and I feared that every drop of blood lost was a bit of her slipping away from me.
10. I have a lazy eye, and I wore an eyepatch as a youngster to help correct it. Although I am told it is not noticeable, I am intensely self conscious about it and am constantly adjusting the muscles in my face in an attempt to compensate. I'm not scowling at you; I'm trying to make my eyebrows lie evenly.
11. I did not do well in my baking and pastry class (in culinary school). I was a much better butcher.
12. I've never dated, in the traditional sense, and I've never been asked to. [When I say "traditional," I mean to be asked directly and for the implicit purpose of intended romance. It's a formal courtship dance, to which I've not yet been invited.] I also don't know much about flirting or how to read it, so feel free to tell me what's going on. Heh!
13. I have a handling allergy to shellfish and okra. I don't like okra but I will eat the shit out of some crab legs.
14. I studied Spanish for a total of 10 years and never gained fluency (though was proficient in literature).
15. As I understand, I was treated very poorly by a nanny/sitter (and her boyfriend) in my early childhood. I don't remember it, and I am irritated that such treatment may still have left permanent impressions upon my disposition.
16. I have an older half-sister, and a younger half-sister and half-brother, but am genetically an only child.
17. I am insanely jealous of people with less pigmented irises. I find the inescapable brownness of my eyes immensely boring.
18. When I was in summer school (high school) I was stupid and I swallowed half a bottle of excedrin. I just wanted to know what would happen. Of course, it made me very sick, so when I got home I tried to induce vomiting with ipecac. I was not aware of ipecac's potency, and so became uncontrollably sick, and finally I called 911 for help. From the ER I was whisked away to a psychiatric ward, and to this day I feel like no one believes me when I say IT WAS NOT A SUICIDE ATTEMPT. It was just an ill-planned experiment.
19. Around the age of 11 or 12, I was OBSESSED with Savage Garden. While their music is terrible, I still think of them fondly from time to time.
20. My first official hangover happened after a highly irresponsible party during college. I spent about 16 hours vomiting, retching, and shaking. Later I came to realize I probably should have sought out medical attention. Oh, well.
21. I dream with some frequency (and immeasurable detail) about the end of the world. There are different ways it happens, and different points of view, different stories. I'm different people, seeing it through different eyes. I wake up feeling tired, alone, and contented.
22. In my early teens, I was quite talented on guitar-- particularly classical Spanish. Finger-pickin' like a mofo.
23. I process black and white (D-76) film, both 35mm and 120mm, in my kitchen sink. I own an enlarger for printing, but not some other parts (or the space).
24. Due to a hormonal disorder, I am very likely infertile (or, if I do conceive, very unlikely to carry it to term). I am effectively unable to bear my own children (a shared sentiment among many, I bet! Right? heh! ....) Anyway, that's fine. I don't really want kids. It would be irresponsible to pass my genetics along. However, I realize there are many women who want so badly to have children but can't, and being the bleeding heart I am, I wish I could give them what little ability I have.
25. I am type-II bipolar, and reasonably well managed on medication (also, with years of practice).
26. When I am very upset, or very nervous, I stop breathing.
27. I can wiggle my ears. With years of practice, I learned to wiggle them independently.
28. I also frequently dream about having facial deformities. Once, my nostrils fused into one.
29. I have a very small tumor living on my pituitary gland. I often joke, when I have a headache or find myself in a state of confusion, that it must be the tumor growing. I am joking, but deep down, I also worry about it all the time.
2. I did not start speaking in even short sentences until around age 3. Prior to that I had a handful of words, and a fair shake of grunting, pointing, and sometimes screaming. This, coupled with my aversion to touch (and loud noises) and a stunted ability to relate to other children, led to my parents suspecting I place somewhere in the autism spectrum. It was never diagnosed as such, but my mom is still pretty sure.
3. Though I still have difficulty relating to people, I do experience a great depth of empathy. My heart bleeds for you. I would always prefer to experience pain than to let someone else have it.
4. When I was a kid, my tia would leave our home with a parting, "See you later, alligator!" Being the literal-minded autist that I am, I would flip right the fuck out every.single.time. Wailing screams of "I AM NOT AN ALLIGATOR" could be heard across the street. She did it on purpose, to make my parents mad.
5. I had a bike as a child, with training wheels. All I learned to do was ride leaning to one side or the other. I got my leg stuck in the chain and decided never to try again-- until I was 23, and actually learned to ride a bike properly. I still fall down sometimes.
6. I have many irrational thoughts, but three major and highly irrational fears:
6a. If I blow my nose too hard, an unpopped popcorn kernel will force its way from my tear duct.
6b. If I try to wake a sleeping body, it will turn out to be a dead body.
6c. If I take a shower at my sister's house, a beluga whale may come crashing through the tile wall.
7. I used heroin through most of high school. I was intensely secretive about it, and was very careful to keep it hidden. My parents both worked, and sometimes odd hours, and I spent most of my time in my room, floating out of my mind. I wouldn't say I was a "junkie," exactly, as clearly I was still as functional as teenagers get, but it was hard to let go of, and I still sometimes wish I could go back.
8. What started as an odd pain in my belly eventually led to the surgical removal of my appendix. When I spoke to the surgeon the next morning, he described it as "not ready to burst, but plump, and you don't need it anyway."
9. The relationship I have with my best friend can only be described as transcendental, and even that is a trite and contrived description. I stopped cutting myself because I consider her to exist in my veins and viscera, and I feared that every drop of blood lost was a bit of her slipping away from me.
10. I have a lazy eye, and I wore an eyepatch as a youngster to help correct it. Although I am told it is not noticeable, I am intensely self conscious about it and am constantly adjusting the muscles in my face in an attempt to compensate. I'm not scowling at you; I'm trying to make my eyebrows lie evenly.
11. I did not do well in my baking and pastry class (in culinary school). I was a much better butcher.
12. I've never dated, in the traditional sense, and I've never been asked to. [When I say "traditional," I mean to be asked directly and for the implicit purpose of intended romance. It's a formal courtship dance, to which I've not yet been invited.] I also don't know much about flirting or how to read it, so feel free to tell me what's going on. Heh!
13. I have a handling allergy to shellfish and okra. I don't like okra but I will eat the shit out of some crab legs.
14. I studied Spanish for a total of 10 years and never gained fluency (though was proficient in literature).
15. As I understand, I was treated very poorly by a nanny/sitter (and her boyfriend) in my early childhood. I don't remember it, and I am irritated that such treatment may still have left permanent impressions upon my disposition.
16. I have an older half-sister, and a younger half-sister and half-brother, but am genetically an only child.
17. I am insanely jealous of people with less pigmented irises. I find the inescapable brownness of my eyes immensely boring.
18. When I was in summer school (high school) I was stupid and I swallowed half a bottle of excedrin. I just wanted to know what would happen. Of course, it made me very sick, so when I got home I tried to induce vomiting with ipecac. I was not aware of ipecac's potency, and so became uncontrollably sick, and finally I called 911 for help. From the ER I was whisked away to a psychiatric ward, and to this day I feel like no one believes me when I say IT WAS NOT A SUICIDE ATTEMPT. It was just an ill-planned experiment.
19. Around the age of 11 or 12, I was OBSESSED with Savage Garden. While their music is terrible, I still think of them fondly from time to time.
20. My first official hangover happened after a highly irresponsible party during college. I spent about 16 hours vomiting, retching, and shaking. Later I came to realize I probably should have sought out medical attention. Oh, well.
21. I dream with some frequency (and immeasurable detail) about the end of the world. There are different ways it happens, and different points of view, different stories. I'm different people, seeing it through different eyes. I wake up feeling tired, alone, and contented.
22. In my early teens, I was quite talented on guitar-- particularly classical Spanish. Finger-pickin' like a mofo.
23. I process black and white (D-76) film, both 35mm and 120mm, in my kitchen sink. I own an enlarger for printing, but not some other parts (or the space).
24. Due to a hormonal disorder, I am very likely infertile (or, if I do conceive, very unlikely to carry it to term). I am effectively unable to bear my own children (a shared sentiment among many, I bet! Right? heh! ....) Anyway, that's fine. I don't really want kids. It would be irresponsible to pass my genetics along. However, I realize there are many women who want so badly to have children but can't, and being the bleeding heart I am, I wish I could give them what little ability I have.
25. I am type-II bipolar, and reasonably well managed on medication (also, with years of practice).
26. When I am very upset, or very nervous, I stop breathing.
27. I can wiggle my ears. With years of practice, I learned to wiggle them independently.
28. I also frequently dream about having facial deformities. Once, my nostrils fused into one.
29. I have a very small tumor living on my pituitary gland. I often joke, when I have a headache or find myself in a state of confusion, that it must be the tumor growing. I am joking, but deep down, I also worry about it all the time.
bad night (written in February)
I've been doing pretty well for a while now. I have bouts of depression, bouts of hypomania, nothing that can't be managed with some careful observation and steely resolve and support from friends.
I haven't cut myself in over two years. The urge comes back here and there, but is mitigated by my stubbornness. I refuse to relapse. The shame would be unbearable. So my streak continues.
Tonight, I feel repulsive.
The whole thing kind of pisses me off. Damaged and defective thoughts are stupid and wasteful, and the worst of it is they can't be fought with reason and evidence.
I can't stand the sight of me. My face is a nightmarish monstrosity of asymmetry and ill-proportion. My body I can't even begin on.
And normally this is not the case! I am not so unfortunate of countenance; I am not misshapen nor disfigured; I am not grotesque and I am not wholly unattractive.
I am bright, and funny, and smart, and on some days I am even pretty.
Not today. I am repugnant.
I have this urge that is so strong and disturbing that it actually frightens me to feel it. I don't just want to cut myself-- I want to cut my face.
When I was cutting, I never understood why but the urge was always somewhere specific. It was always my left arm or my right leg, and sometimes my lower ribs, but never have I felt an urge to cut my face.
I'm not going to do it. I'm not.
I'm not looking for pity or sympathy. I'm not.
I have to write this out to get it out of me. I need someone else to take this burden, if only for as long as it takes to read and not longer; it will be enough.
I'm not going to do it, and I hate that I want to.
I haven't cut myself in over two years. The urge comes back here and there, but is mitigated by my stubbornness. I refuse to relapse. The shame would be unbearable. So my streak continues.
Tonight, I feel repulsive.
The whole thing kind of pisses me off. Damaged and defective thoughts are stupid and wasteful, and the worst of it is they can't be fought with reason and evidence.
I can't stand the sight of me. My face is a nightmarish monstrosity of asymmetry and ill-proportion. My body I can't even begin on.
And normally this is not the case! I am not so unfortunate of countenance; I am not misshapen nor disfigured; I am not grotesque and I am not wholly unattractive.
I am bright, and funny, and smart, and on some days I am even pretty.
Not today. I am repugnant.
I have this urge that is so strong and disturbing that it actually frightens me to feel it. I don't just want to cut myself-- I want to cut my face.
When I was cutting, I never understood why but the urge was always somewhere specific. It was always my left arm or my right leg, and sometimes my lower ribs, but never have I felt an urge to cut my face.
I'm not going to do it. I'm not.
I'm not looking for pity or sympathy. I'm not.
I have to write this out to get it out of me. I need someone else to take this burden, if only for as long as it takes to read and not longer; it will be enough.
I'm not going to do it, and I hate that I want to.
Thursday, August 28, 2014
On being beautiful, but also lumpy (written in March)
When I was a freshman in high school, one of the projects in my biology class had to do with "ideal body weight."
We took measurements of our wrists and ankles (maybe a couple other points-- it was a long time ago), calculated that with height and gender, and came up with rough estimates of what we "should" weigh. The teacher reminded us that it was only an estimate, and not to worry too much should our physical selves not match perfectly with the theoretical, as the theory did not very well take muscle mass (and a few other factors) into account.
My result was 140, which still sounds pretty reasonable, I think (as opposed to standard BMI charts, which would like me to be in the 110 range). However, I was horrified to be an entire 20 pounds overweight, and did not complete the assignment as instructed.
About 12 years later, I got all the way up to 264-- and that 20 pounds was next to nothing compared to being 124 pounds overweight. Long story short, I've lost about 70, and still have quite a ways to go. BUT, but, due to the muscle I've amassed over the past couple years, 140 still might be unreasonable.
But that's not the point. My 195 pound, 28 year old body now is worlds different from my 195 pound, 18 year old body then. It has weathered and toughened with age, and the skin has stretched and changed shape, and the fat itself holds different textures, and there is defined muscle beneath it. I'm different.
The more weight I take off, the better I look in clothes, and the worse I look naked. It's distressing, knowing that if I lose more, I will only become more distorted.
YET--
Stretch marks and cutting scars, they speak stories of my life, and are part of me. The wobbly bit of overhang on my lower belly, and the way the skin of my back and armpits flops gently over the top seams of corsets and tank tops, these things are unsightly at first but they tell of endurance. The scars on my arms and legs record heartache and chaos, but also resilience. I can only have scar tissue because I am still alive, because my body has repaired itself as best it can, and they are as much a part of me as the birthmark under my arm and the upturned tip of my nose.
So perhaps I still work to get in "better" shape. I still strive for my health, and to fit into smaller clothes, and generally be more comfortable with my size. But there is no hiding here. I can't wear Spanx all the time.
This isn't about being content, or even being okay-- simply, being.
We took measurements of our wrists and ankles (maybe a couple other points-- it was a long time ago), calculated that with height and gender, and came up with rough estimates of what we "should" weigh. The teacher reminded us that it was only an estimate, and not to worry too much should our physical selves not match perfectly with the theoretical, as the theory did not very well take muscle mass (and a few other factors) into account.
My result was 140, which still sounds pretty reasonable, I think (as opposed to standard BMI charts, which would like me to be in the 110 range). However, I was horrified to be an entire 20 pounds overweight, and did not complete the assignment as instructed.
About 12 years later, I got all the way up to 264-- and that 20 pounds was next to nothing compared to being 124 pounds overweight. Long story short, I've lost about 70, and still have quite a ways to go. BUT, but, due to the muscle I've amassed over the past couple years, 140 still might be unreasonable.
But that's not the point. My 195 pound, 28 year old body now is worlds different from my 195 pound, 18 year old body then. It has weathered and toughened with age, and the skin has stretched and changed shape, and the fat itself holds different textures, and there is defined muscle beneath it. I'm different.
The more weight I take off, the better I look in clothes, and the worse I look naked. It's distressing, knowing that if I lose more, I will only become more distorted.
YET--
Stretch marks and cutting scars, they speak stories of my life, and are part of me. The wobbly bit of overhang on my lower belly, and the way the skin of my back and armpits flops gently over the top seams of corsets and tank tops, these things are unsightly at first but they tell of endurance. The scars on my arms and legs record heartache and chaos, but also resilience. I can only have scar tissue because I am still alive, because my body has repaired itself as best it can, and they are as much a part of me as the birthmark under my arm and the upturned tip of my nose.
So perhaps I still work to get in "better" shape. I still strive for my health, and to fit into smaller clothes, and generally be more comfortable with my size. But there is no hiding here. I can't wear Spanx all the time.
This isn't about being content, or even being okay-- simply, being.
Wednesday, August 27, 2014
Things my self-worth is wrapped up in, however irrational, in no particular order
I can know, rationally, all day long that these are not really what makes up someone's worth (what does, after all?), but it doesn't stop the sometimes crippling feelings. The items that seem the most minuscule are what ultimately hurt the most.
-how frequently, and how hard, I work out
-how tidy any particular part of the apartment is (difficult, as I am a terrible housekeeper)
-the results of any and all baking projects (I have had full meltdowns after burning muffins)
-the results of any and all cooking and confectionary projects, including basic dinner meals
-how well I can maintain a demeanor of being funny, witty, intelligent, and sociably well-adjusted
-how well I can handle touch out of my direct control
-eyeliner
-my body fat percentage
-results of art/photography projects (notice they are increasingly rare)
-my ability to control what I eat and drink
-my ability to not cry in front of other people, particularly when I deem it "inappropriate" (read: in almost any context)
-how much I can get done in a workday
-how long I can resist recurring urges to self-harm (so far so good)
-how well I can keep up the appearance of being "okay" when I am desperately not
-how well I can cover (with makeup) the still-healing mark from a recent cold sore on my lip
-how well I can keep my face (eyes/eyebrows) looking "even"
-how well I can maintain seeming "okay" while simultaneously remaining very open about my mental illness
-how well I can keep the symptoms of my hormonal imbalances (hello, testosterone) in check and "undetectable" (see: facial hair and acanthosis nigricans)
-the tone, sound, and cadence of my voice
-how well I can consistently pronounce vowel sounds when speaking
-how nicely I can plate a dessert for 600 people (this is troubling, because I think I am actually quite good at plating and have an aesthetic style that I enjoy, but logistics and certain shitty bosses have a way at eroding my love for it)
-how well I can be a "good friend" (haven't gotten the hang of that yet, I'm pretty sure)
-how well and by what means I can help someone who needs it, and my willingness to do so
-how "likeable" I am, or think I am (it's not good)
-how frequently, and how hard, I work out
-how tidy any particular part of the apartment is (difficult, as I am a terrible housekeeper)
-the results of any and all baking projects (I have had full meltdowns after burning muffins)
-the results of any and all cooking and confectionary projects, including basic dinner meals
-how well I can maintain a demeanor of being funny, witty, intelligent, and sociably well-adjusted
-how well I can handle touch out of my direct control
-eyeliner
-my body fat percentage
-results of art/photography projects (notice they are increasingly rare)
-my ability to control what I eat and drink
-my ability to not cry in front of other people, particularly when I deem it "inappropriate" (read: in almost any context)
-how much I can get done in a workday
-how long I can resist recurring urges to self-harm (so far so good)
-how well I can keep up the appearance of being "okay" when I am desperately not
-how well I can cover (with makeup) the still-healing mark from a recent cold sore on my lip
-how well I can keep my face (eyes/eyebrows) looking "even"
-how well I can maintain seeming "okay" while simultaneously remaining very open about my mental illness
-how well I can keep the symptoms of my hormonal imbalances (hello, testosterone) in check and "undetectable" (see: facial hair and acanthosis nigricans)
-the tone, sound, and cadence of my voice
-how well I can consistently pronounce vowel sounds when speaking
-how nicely I can plate a dessert for 600 people (this is troubling, because I think I am actually quite good at plating and have an aesthetic style that I enjoy, but logistics and certain shitty bosses have a way at eroding my love for it)
-how well I can be a "good friend" (haven't gotten the hang of that yet, I'm pretty sure)
-how well and by what means I can help someone who needs it, and my willingness to do so
-how "likeable" I am, or think I am (it's not good)
Thursday, August 7, 2014
the flaw in my defenses
It seems, upon deep introspection, that a great many of my behaviors (and even traits) reflect an intrinsic level of vigilance and self-defense. My heart and my ego are exceptionally fragile pieces of my anatomy, and it seems the rest of me is dedicated to their protection.
I'm not a touchy-feely person in general: I never have been, and probably never will be. It is incomprehensible to me that friends should embrace each other as a casual greeting-- to me, these acts of overt affection are reserved for those I care for the most, and even then on special occasions (such as a great congratulations, or just before a long and painful goodbye, or upon return from such an absence). Touch is not to be taken lightly.
Although I am generally able to get along with people and be friendly enough, I am intensely particular about whom I genuinely want to pass time with, and in those select few I invest an enormous proportion of my energy. My ego being as protected as it is, they may not know how much they mean to me, but I do.
Some have been around for quite some time and I am confident that they will always be a great part of my existence-- whether they move away or I do, or we stay within city limits, we'll always be friends. That is wonderful. It is not generally the case.
I fall in love, all the time. It is not necessarily romantic. Although it's said that there is no upper limit to the amount of love one heart can produce, it feels as if it is straining against the workload. People touch my life without realizing it (or perhaps they do-- I can't tell if they don't tell me, and I feel like I can't explain myself without sounding like a fucking creeper lunatic), and all too often, they leave. They transfer to another job, or they move away, or both, or whatever it is they do, they leave. They take portions of my ragged heart with them, and it is not a clean excision.
Every time, I am broken. I can't help myself. I try so hard to heal up quickly and move on, and I tell myself not to let it happen again-- do not make yourself so vulnerable, do not open up, do not take such a vested interest, and above all, do not care. When I fall for someone, I recoil from their touch even more, and I revel in it, I crave it, but I recoil because the moment their skin touches mine it triggers something even more terrifying: I start to bond with them, and my heart swells in response. As little as a fist bump and it is like tiny barbs settling in place in my tissues. It feels great going in, but it hurts like hell coming out.
Try as I might to steel myself against this repetition, it never works, and I am constantly broken again. It never really heals; the wounds merely compile and compound. The scar tissue simply becomes more brittle.
Try as I might to be aloof and indifferent, there is always someone to undermine the mechanisms of my defense.
Try as I might to tell myself otherwise, it appears it is simply in my nature to love wholeheartedly, even when I cannot bring myself to admit it.
I'm not a touchy-feely person in general: I never have been, and probably never will be. It is incomprehensible to me that friends should embrace each other as a casual greeting-- to me, these acts of overt affection are reserved for those I care for the most, and even then on special occasions (such as a great congratulations, or just before a long and painful goodbye, or upon return from such an absence). Touch is not to be taken lightly.
Although I am generally able to get along with people and be friendly enough, I am intensely particular about whom I genuinely want to pass time with, and in those select few I invest an enormous proportion of my energy. My ego being as protected as it is, they may not know how much they mean to me, but I do.
Some have been around for quite some time and I am confident that they will always be a great part of my existence-- whether they move away or I do, or we stay within city limits, we'll always be friends. That is wonderful. It is not generally the case.
I fall in love, all the time. It is not necessarily romantic. Although it's said that there is no upper limit to the amount of love one heart can produce, it feels as if it is straining against the workload. People touch my life without realizing it (or perhaps they do-- I can't tell if they don't tell me, and I feel like I can't explain myself without sounding like a fucking creeper lunatic), and all too often, they leave. They transfer to another job, or they move away, or both, or whatever it is they do, they leave. They take portions of my ragged heart with them, and it is not a clean excision.
Every time, I am broken. I can't help myself. I try so hard to heal up quickly and move on, and I tell myself not to let it happen again-- do not make yourself so vulnerable, do not open up, do not take such a vested interest, and above all, do not care. When I fall for someone, I recoil from their touch even more, and I revel in it, I crave it, but I recoil because the moment their skin touches mine it triggers something even more terrifying: I start to bond with them, and my heart swells in response. As little as a fist bump and it is like tiny barbs settling in place in my tissues. It feels great going in, but it hurts like hell coming out.
Try as I might to steel myself against this repetition, it never works, and I am constantly broken again. It never really heals; the wounds merely compile and compound. The scar tissue simply becomes more brittle.
Try as I might to be aloof and indifferent, there is always someone to undermine the mechanisms of my defense.
Try as I might to tell myself otherwise, it appears it is simply in my nature to love wholeheartedly, even when I cannot bring myself to admit it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
