I have this one cousin who's a bit older than me (late 40s maybe?) and I've always considered her kind of my "weird" cousin, and though we know each other we haven't been together in person for many years because she lives in (you guessed it) Florida.
Her son, whom I've never met (aside from, possibly, as babies) just dropped dead the other day. He complained of severe pain in his upper back and neck, enough to warrant a trip to the ER, but the doctors didn't see anything immediately wrong. They said it looked like he'd torn a muscle in his back, prescribed ibuprofen, and sent him home.
Hours later, he complained of dizziness, lost consciousness, and died shortly thereafter. He would be 24 on the 18th of this month.
There is a bit of a scary condition lurking around in my genetic background-- a predisposition for acute aortic dissection. In short, the largest blood vessel in your body bulges and suddenly bursts, and you bleed to death before you make it out the door. His mother, my cousin, has had two surgeries already relating to this condition (and our common grandfather was revealed unexpectedly to have a bulging vessel, also surgically treated), but it was not known that her son was affected until it was much too late.
I feel like this winter season has just been studded with reminder after reminder that we are intensely, frighteningly fragile specimens of life.
Monday, January 5, 2015
Tuesday, November 11, 2014
to grieve with another, for another
So Baltazar died.
He killed himself.
We weren't close friends. We were more like friendly acquaintances, if I'm honest-- he was close friends with my close friends. But, we knew each other.
I don't know why he did it. I'm not sure anyone does; I'm not sure anyone ever will. He had everything; he had youth and love and a future he was continually building with his beloved fiance. What darkness compelled him to end it all, I can't fathom.
So I weep for him-- what tragedy that his mind called it all off in spite of the great washes of happiness surrounding him. But so much more, I weep for his fiance, his young widow; I weep for his friend-- my friend-- I weep for the great devastation he has left behind.
---
I'm really messed up about the whole thing.
More than I think I should be.
More than I think I have the right to be.
I didn't lose a fiance, a companion, a best friend, a son, a brother... I barely lost anything at all. Yet, what a terrible vacuum in the space he once occupied in the minds and hearts of everyone he touched.
If there is one glaring, fatal flaw in my design, it is that my heat loves wholly, and bleeds dark for those around me. As stoic and unfeeling as I pretend to be, my empathy is profound beyond my control.
I am hurt, I am angry, I am confused.
I am overwhelmed and struck.
I keep crying. I keep choking. I can't breathe, the grief is so thick in my lungs.
His fiance, his widow, the first words she said to us at the chapel were, "You guys were supposed to be at my wedding, not his funeral." That statement will haunt me for some time.
Now alone, she's tasked with not only the immense loss, but to adjust to a new life on her own. It is confusing, and difficult. I am reminded, of all things, of a line written in Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, wherein Will's grandmother (a widow) comments regarding her late husband: "The remembering is easy... it's those days when I forget he's gone that I can't stand."
---
The service was lovely, but different. Unfamiliar.
Most of the (few) funerals I have attended have been for elderly relatives. There is a great sadness, to be sure, but it is underscored with soft sighs of relief. "It's time, it's over, now to rest."
Baltazar was, I believe, the youngest body I have ever seen, and the only one to die of his own volition. I looked upon his carefully preserved and recreated body lying stiffly in the casket, decorated in his familiar leather jacket, wire-rimmed glasses and carefully combed-back hair. It is a strange experience. The mortician applies heavy layers of makeup and delicately conceals the seams holding everything in place, and ultimately this husk, this shell, resembles your memory of the person you've now lost. I look upon the body, and as always, it is simply not that person anymore. They are gone.
The pastor opened by explaining that he and Baltazar shared a common ancestor, and so were family. He had baptized him as a baby, and now spoke at his wake.
Immediately following this introduction, he reminded all of us, repeatedly: Do not blame yourselves, do not feel compelled by guilt, it's not your fault, it's not anyone's fault. I've never heard that said to such a large group of people before. It gave me chills.
When people got up to speak, to share their stories, these are the parts of a service that hit my viscera. I never-fail lose it when I hear a grown man's voice crack as he begins to cry mid-sentence. Someone tells a story with a funny little punchline, and everyone laughs briefly, and in that space immediately afterward the immense sadness is suddenly compounded, and I lose my shit again.
There was an incredible quantity of photographs, but a tragic lack of variety: he did not get to live a whole life. There was so much potentially ahead of him, but there will never be new photos now.
---
What if something happened to Scott?
What if something happened to Jessica?
What if either of them abandoned ship of their own accord?
How would I cope? Would I ever recover? Would I go about the rest of my days all broken and gray?
I think about these things all the time-- probably much more than I should-- but never before have I been so confronted with these worries.
It was always impossible, because we have all always been invincible.
But we're not.
We're frail.
---
I have not truly suffered a loss myself, here, but I am close enough to it that the repercussion has hit me hard. So hard, that the impact itself is bewildering and difficult for me to comprehend. Part of me is scrambling to find what evidence of him is left online. His facebook pages were taken down immediately, but there are other traces of him still. I found my own photographs of him, taken at parties years ago. I pore over them, and keep asking them for an explanation. Anything to try and make sense of this mess. Anything to help tame down these emotions that, for the time being, have such a stranglehold on my sensibilities.
I am hurt, I am angry, I am confused. I am at a loss. I am heartsick.
I am sorry. And I am reminded to remind everyone who should know, that I love them with all my heart.
He killed himself.
We weren't close friends. We were more like friendly acquaintances, if I'm honest-- he was close friends with my close friends. But, we knew each other.
I don't know why he did it. I'm not sure anyone does; I'm not sure anyone ever will. He had everything; he had youth and love and a future he was continually building with his beloved fiance. What darkness compelled him to end it all, I can't fathom.
So I weep for him-- what tragedy that his mind called it all off in spite of the great washes of happiness surrounding him. But so much more, I weep for his fiance, his young widow; I weep for his friend-- my friend-- I weep for the great devastation he has left behind.
---
I'm really messed up about the whole thing.
More than I think I should be.
More than I think I have the right to be.
I didn't lose a fiance, a companion, a best friend, a son, a brother... I barely lost anything at all. Yet, what a terrible vacuum in the space he once occupied in the minds and hearts of everyone he touched.
If there is one glaring, fatal flaw in my design, it is that my heat loves wholly, and bleeds dark for those around me. As stoic and unfeeling as I pretend to be, my empathy is profound beyond my control.
I am hurt, I am angry, I am confused.
I am overwhelmed and struck.
I keep crying. I keep choking. I can't breathe, the grief is so thick in my lungs.
His fiance, his widow, the first words she said to us at the chapel were, "You guys were supposed to be at my wedding, not his funeral." That statement will haunt me for some time.
Now alone, she's tasked with not only the immense loss, but to adjust to a new life on her own. It is confusing, and difficult. I am reminded, of all things, of a line written in Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, wherein Will's grandmother (a widow) comments regarding her late husband: "The remembering is easy... it's those days when I forget he's gone that I can't stand."
---
The service was lovely, but different. Unfamiliar.
Most of the (few) funerals I have attended have been for elderly relatives. There is a great sadness, to be sure, but it is underscored with soft sighs of relief. "It's time, it's over, now to rest."
Baltazar was, I believe, the youngest body I have ever seen, and the only one to die of his own volition. I looked upon his carefully preserved and recreated body lying stiffly in the casket, decorated in his familiar leather jacket, wire-rimmed glasses and carefully combed-back hair. It is a strange experience. The mortician applies heavy layers of makeup and delicately conceals the seams holding everything in place, and ultimately this husk, this shell, resembles your memory of the person you've now lost. I look upon the body, and as always, it is simply not that person anymore. They are gone.
The pastor opened by explaining that he and Baltazar shared a common ancestor, and so were family. He had baptized him as a baby, and now spoke at his wake.
Immediately following this introduction, he reminded all of us, repeatedly: Do not blame yourselves, do not feel compelled by guilt, it's not your fault, it's not anyone's fault. I've never heard that said to such a large group of people before. It gave me chills.
When people got up to speak, to share their stories, these are the parts of a service that hit my viscera. I never-fail lose it when I hear a grown man's voice crack as he begins to cry mid-sentence. Someone tells a story with a funny little punchline, and everyone laughs briefly, and in that space immediately afterward the immense sadness is suddenly compounded, and I lose my shit again.
There was an incredible quantity of photographs, but a tragic lack of variety: he did not get to live a whole life. There was so much potentially ahead of him, but there will never be new photos now.
---
What if something happened to Scott?
What if something happened to Jessica?
What if either of them abandoned ship of their own accord?
How would I cope? Would I ever recover? Would I go about the rest of my days all broken and gray?
I think about these things all the time-- probably much more than I should-- but never before have I been so confronted with these worries.
It was always impossible, because we have all always been invincible.
But we're not.
We're frail.
---
I have not truly suffered a loss myself, here, but I am close enough to it that the repercussion has hit me hard. So hard, that the impact itself is bewildering and difficult for me to comprehend. Part of me is scrambling to find what evidence of him is left online. His facebook pages were taken down immediately, but there are other traces of him still. I found my own photographs of him, taken at parties years ago. I pore over them, and keep asking them for an explanation. Anything to try and make sense of this mess. Anything to help tame down these emotions that, for the time being, have such a stranglehold on my sensibilities.
I am hurt, I am angry, I am confused. I am at a loss. I am heartsick.
I am sorry. And I am reminded to remind everyone who should know, that I love them with all my heart.
Thursday, September 18, 2014
how the heat is killing me
The heatwave is having disastrous effects on my psyche. There are some other things going on, internally and externally, contributing to my general malaise and discontent, but there is one symptom in particular that worries me:
Binge-eating spells are creeping back on.
They're not at the level that they have been in the past. I would classify these more as "regrettable eating choices" more than proper, full-on binges, but they worry me all the same. The quantities are not as alarming as they could be, but the feeling is there. The hunger. The rage.
I eat continuously throughout the day. I am endlessly hungry. Then, for brief periods, I eat without hunger, without taste, until I am so full that I feel painfully sick. I cram it down quickly, forcefully, one thing after another, hand over fist, until I manage to regain a semblance of control and stop.
It fucks my digestive system up, and the guilt is only surpassed by the physical pain in my belly. From outside, with my hands, I can feel the distension of my stomach on my left side under my ribs. It swells to a hard mass. I never did get the hang of purging.
The feeling reminds me of when I was cutting-- there is this intense feeling of control as I literally force things down my throat, yet I feel utterly powerless to stop. Control, out of control.
I suppose I have this tiny hope that speaking up on this ugly matter will somehow help me regain balance before it has a chance to get really, irreparably bad. The heat is a trigger, but I can't let triggers rule over my behavior. I am better than this; I am more whole than this; I'm just cracking at the moment, and have to recover again.
But I really need it to cool the fuck down before I lose it.
Binge-eating spells are creeping back on.
They're not at the level that they have been in the past. I would classify these more as "regrettable eating choices" more than proper, full-on binges, but they worry me all the same. The quantities are not as alarming as they could be, but the feeling is there. The hunger. The rage.
I eat continuously throughout the day. I am endlessly hungry. Then, for brief periods, I eat without hunger, without taste, until I am so full that I feel painfully sick. I cram it down quickly, forcefully, one thing after another, hand over fist, until I manage to regain a semblance of control and stop.
It fucks my digestive system up, and the guilt is only surpassed by the physical pain in my belly. From outside, with my hands, I can feel the distension of my stomach on my left side under my ribs. It swells to a hard mass. I never did get the hang of purging.
The feeling reminds me of when I was cutting-- there is this intense feeling of control as I literally force things down my throat, yet I feel utterly powerless to stop. Control, out of control.
I suppose I have this tiny hope that speaking up on this ugly matter will somehow help me regain balance before it has a chance to get really, irreparably bad. The heat is a trigger, but I can't let triggers rule over my behavior. I am better than this; I am more whole than this; I'm just cracking at the moment, and have to recover again.
But I really need it to cool the fuck down before I lose it.
Thursday, September 4, 2014
People. They're everywhere.
So I've been around [the local fetish community] a while now. I've learned a lot.
Lately, I've been thinking, less and less is surprising, or "shocking." What began for me as a notion of the "open relationship" was replaced with an understanding of the endless variations on polyamory. The idea that people are either men or women (or maybe trans) was replaced with the notion that people exist all over a spectrum of gender-- and that it can evolve and change over time. The idea that people are either straight, gay, or bi replaced with the understanding that sexuality, too, exists on a spectrum.
Pretty much, I've learned that people are people, and people are each individual, complex beings. I am so used to you now, and more used to myself.
Some of my coworkers I am quite comfortable talking to in regards to my participation in kink activities, and the lives of the fascinating people I've come to know, and I am comfortable talking to them because they are generally open-minded and simply eager to learn about the lives of other people. Yet... every now and then, apparently, I shock them, too.
When I was a teenager, fancied myself as bisexual. However, such a label never quite seemed to fit, because as it turns out, by my personal definition, I'm not. I like ladies, but I have a strong preference for men, so I list myself here as 'heteroflexible.' And that's fine!
But I mentioned to someone that I may be looking at entering the dating scene (sort of) for the first time, with women. That was shocking to him. Shocking to someone who has known for some time that my relationship with my husband is non-monogamous, and that I have played sexually with other women. "So are you, like, part-time lesbian?" "No, I don't think so." "Are you bisexual?" "Not exactly, no." "Well what the hell are you then?"
As stated, I have a general preference for men, romantically, sexually, and personally. However, I am attracted to people more than genitalia. I don't get to control what my heart desires; it's like [my friend,] Troll; it does what it wants. So, what the hell am I?
I'm Laura.
Lately, I've been thinking, less and less is surprising, or "shocking." What began for me as a notion of the "open relationship" was replaced with an understanding of the endless variations on polyamory. The idea that people are either men or women (or maybe trans) was replaced with the notion that people exist all over a spectrum of gender-- and that it can evolve and change over time. The idea that people are either straight, gay, or bi replaced with the understanding that sexuality, too, exists on a spectrum.
Pretty much, I've learned that people are people, and people are each individual, complex beings. I am so used to you now, and more used to myself.
Some of my coworkers I am quite comfortable talking to in regards to my participation in kink activities, and the lives of the fascinating people I've come to know, and I am comfortable talking to them because they are generally open-minded and simply eager to learn about the lives of other people. Yet... every now and then, apparently, I shock them, too.
When I was a teenager, fancied myself as bisexual. However, such a label never quite seemed to fit, because as it turns out, by my personal definition, I'm not. I like ladies, but I have a strong preference for men, so I list myself here as 'heteroflexible.' And that's fine!
But I mentioned to someone that I may be looking at entering the dating scene (sort of) for the first time, with women. That was shocking to him. Shocking to someone who has known for some time that my relationship with my husband is non-monogamous, and that I have played sexually with other women. "So are you, like, part-time lesbian?" "No, I don't think so." "Are you bisexual?" "Not exactly, no." "Well what the hell are you then?"
As stated, I have a general preference for men, romantically, sexually, and personally. However, I am attracted to people more than genitalia. I don't get to control what my heart desires; it's like [my friend,] Troll; it does what it wants. So, what the hell am I?
I'm Laura.
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
Friday, August 29, 2014
I am easily intimidated.
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.
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.
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.
Friday, July 20, 2012
"What's your secret?"
At New Year's of this year, I found that I could not bear to look at myself anymore, much less to cram my folds and bulges into piles of elasticized fabric. At 262 pounds, I was 38 pounds more than my previous "I will never get this heavy again" mark.
There are any number of reasons why I put on so much weight. Most of it was gradual; I've always been a heavy girl, and it slowly but steadily rose over a number of years. I also went through a fairly severe psychiatric episode, marked by fairly severe self-mutilation, debilitating depression (for the first time in my adult life, I could not will myself out of bed for days, and missed nearly a week of work), and a general listlessness and discord as the war between my brain's chemicals and the ones introduced to it raged on.
One of the key things, I should say, is that in all this turmoil what I instinctively sought most was control. It isn't easy, but... it is something to hold on to, in the midst of chaos.
So far, I've lost 40 pounds. I have a lot more to go, but this is a solid start, to be sure. Being that I live with myself, I don't really see the difference. I have to rely heavily on empirical evidence. Weight. Measurement. And the reactions of those around me.
People-- mostly at work, but elsewhere as well-- remark almost daily regarding my weight. It's flattering, I suppose, though it makes me incredibly uncomfortable. I don't enjoy the attention, even if it is primarily positive. I am asked just as often, "What is your secret?" "What diet are you on?" "What do you eat?" "Atkins/South Beach/Alli/grapefruit/cabbage soup/etc??"
There is something that people have been saying for ever and ever, and it is key: "Eat less; move more."
That's really it.
Everything else is just details to tailor it to your life.
For specifics, here is what has worked for ME---
1) FOOD JOURNAL.
Many diet/fitness/health plans suggest this, and with good reason. One of the most important things you can do for yourself-- and this applies, really, to every area of life-- is to be mindful. Think, for a minute, about what you are doing. Certainly, there are many situations in which there simply is no time to think, and one must react immediately-- lunch is generally not one of them.
When you write down what you eat-- every single thing you put in your mouth-- you don't even have to be on a diet plan to see some behavioral change. Try it out, even just for a day. Eat anything and everything you want, but you have to write it down. In doing so, you have to look at it, think about it, recognize what you have done. Make sure you note down the quantities, too.
I took to using an app on my phone called My Fitness Pal. Basically it is a glamorized food journal. That's its primary function. When you set up an account, however, it takes into consideration your current weight, goal weight, and general activity level. From this it can calculate a goal number of calories to try and eat each day in order to reach your goal weight, based on what it figures you burn by being alive and creating a reasonable deficit. (Side note-- this actually goes both ways, so if you need to gain, it will calculate a surplus).
It has a massive database for calorie counting, and it is partly user generated-- so if you happen to be eating something that has a nutrition facts label on it but doesn't happen to show up in the database, you can still enter it. You can also keep track of any exercise you do, and cardiovascular exercises (for which the 'calories burned' can be reasonably calculated) are figured in. Basically, the more you move, the more you can eat. You make room for dessert, as it were.
So treat yourself! ...But earn it!
2) VIGILANCE.
Many schools of thought say to not weigh yourself every day. This is mostly because it can be rather disappointing, or even self-defeating, to do so. Myself, I need this constant knowledge. I don't only weigh myself every day-- I actually weigh myself several times a day, on three different scales. I try to keep these things consistent: at home, I weigh myself first thing in the morning, wearing only underwear; at work, I weigh myself throughout my workday, wearing my full uniform, with cell phone, no apron; at the gym, I weigh myself before and after working out, in my gym clothes. I even like to weigh myself before and after using the restroom, just to see how much I've left behind (fun fact: my record was 2.4 pounds!). With this, I have a very good understanding of how my weight fluctuates throughout the course of a day, primarily with the intake and loss of fluid and water. I can say with confidence that I can gain and lose up to 5 pounds in one day, just depending on the time of day.
On a monthly basis, I actually take measurements. I work with a personal trainer at my gym (more on that later), and once a month he takes my weight, along with four pinchy-caliper measurements to calculate my body fat percentage. Usually on the same day (or maybe the day after), I do measurements by inches in several parts of my body. This gives me a clear idea of what kind of mass I have lost, and where I have lost it the most.
Sure, most people are happy to be wearing smaller sized clothes-- or just to fit into their existing clothes better-- but for me, it's all about solid evidence. It keeps me going.
3) EXERCISE.
This has always, always been key for me. Most people, when they come down with the flu, they lose weight. They lose it because they are sleeping most of the time and living on a couple of cans of chicken soup for sustenance. It's like the best diet ever!
...Not so for me. When I get sick, I get fat. It happens every single time. I don't eat much because I'm not feeling well; I eat the same crappy condensed soup everyone else does (and perhaps, broth with tortellini). I sleep as much as I'm hazily awake. The thing is... I don't move. Not any more than absolutely necessary. And so, at the very best I might maintain my weight, if not just start to gain it back.
Watching what I eat certainly can't be discounted as somehow less important, but, quite frankly, it sort of is. Move.
It doesn't really matter what kind of moving you do, so long as you do it. I have no interest in sports, nor in having a workout partner, nor do I particularly like being outside. Therefore, I go to the gym. And it's no accident that my gym is close to home-- and directly on my way home from work. No accident at all.
When I joined my gym, they gave me two free sessions with a personal trainer. Pretty much this was to give me an idea of how that could go-- and I went in, full force. I signed up to work with Kyle, and it's been one of the best decisions I ever made. It's not cheap, but not impossibly pricey; I'm at a rate where I work with him just one hour a week, and really, that's enough. I learn so much more from him than I would ever do on my own-- from full body movements to proper posture and form. He's even worked with me to significantly improve my balance; I can do so much more on one foot now than I had previously thought possible, and with relative ease. Plus, all the things we do while "in session," I can do on my own (for the most part, anyhow), so there's no shortage of possibilities when I'm at the gym. And when I don't feel like putting any kind of mental effort into anything, there's always the stationary bike, or the treadmill, or my favorite: the elliptical trainer.
4) DON'T STOP.
There's no finish line in this. Even if I lose all the weight I need to lose, that doesn't mean I don't have to concern myself with my health anymore.
That sounds sort of pessimistic and defeating, but really, that's just how all of life is. For the most part you're not just trying to 'push through' your whole life until you reach the sweet relief of death... right? Chances are good you'll always have bills to pay, and you'll always have to feed yourself, and you'll always have to wash dishes, and you'll always have to get your oil changed... The thing is, you get used to these things; they become routine. It's not that bad, really.
5) NO EXCUSES.
Just that. Sure, some days, I am just too tired from work. Some days I've been on my feet running around a kitchen all day and I still need to get to the grocery store and get home and make dinner and go to bed early because I have to be at work the next day. It happens. Sometimes, I'm actually just too sore from a training session, or perhaps I'm not feeling well, or whatever. Maybe I don't go every single day. That's ok.
But really, short of major illness or injury (or something drastically time-limiting, like working two full-time jobs and raising three children), there isn't much good excuse for not going at least a few times in a week. Sometimes I really, truly, simply, do not want to go. I don't want to get changed into stretchy pants. I don't want to get on that machine. I don't want to be sweaty. To be completely honest, there isn't much about exercise that I enjoy at all.
I don't remember where I first saw it, or maybe someone told it to me, but this little sort-of mantra sticks with me: "Nobody ever said, 'I wish I hadn't gone to the gym today.'"
The first time, I kind of blew it off as just another lackluster motivational-poster-type sayings; as I took a moment to think on it, however, it really touched me. Just think about it. Can you really regret doing something positive for yourself?
While I'm at it, I have to add-- no blame. I am not disabled. I am not bedridden. I am not impaired in some way that makes me unable to care for myself. I, and only I, am responsible for what I eat, and for what I do. It's not anyone else's job to make me eat proper foods-- and in proper portions-- and in proper increments of time. It's no one else's charge to make me take the stairs or walk to the corner market.
It's only me.
And you know, it hasn't been easy, not by a long shot. Losing weight is HARD WORK. Sticking to anything is difficult. If you ask my husband, he can tell you how much it stresses me out. I let him in, now and again, to how my anxiety-ridden and overly analytical mind runs, and he is taken aback and thinks I am ridiculous. Thinking about food, in any capacity, makes me nervous. I am constantly concerned with what I am eating, how much I am eating, how it was prepared, what kind of nutritive value it has, how my body will react to it, how much SALT is in it, how long I have gone between meals, whether I have eaten properly before working out, what I should (if anything) eat after exercise, how many calories are in an ounce of vodka, what foods should be paired together, what is the lowest-calorie food amount that I can eat when I take my calcium supplements so they don't make me sick... The list goes on. It gets to a point, at times, where it strongly resembles an eating disorder. I must, continually, temper all this worry with some leeway to relax, and with concrete guidelines. Remember how I said that I need to know my weight at all times? It sounds neurotic, but the point is, it keeps me grounded in reality. This way, even when my worry-addled emotive mind says "I'm so fat today; I can't eat anything because I'm only getting bigger," I can look at factual measurements and say, "That's not true; you're just feeling off; you're doing fine, so relax." Along the same lines, when I use my food-journaling app, I am trying diligently to not go over my daily caloric allowance-- but I don't want to go very far under, either. Eating too little is just as destructive. If there is anything that must be remembered in all of this, it is that all things in life must be kept in balance.
So there. That's my "secret."
Eat less. Move more.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
More and more, I don't
More and more, I don't fit in, and it isn't my fault. They're the idiots.
Not fitting in isn't all bad.
Not fitting in isn't all bad.
Monday, April 23, 2012
hypnogogia
I can't sleep.
Everything is too bright. My eyes won't stay shut, and I'm stuck listening to the low snap of each blink.
My husband breathing.
The cat snoring.
I roll over, and my pillow seems thicker and puffier than it was a moment ago. Nothing is quite as I remember it. Still, I'm not exactly sure what has changed-- only that it is not the same.
My mind is dead awake; it's racing, but I can't pick out any particular thoughts.
My stomach aches. I have seven days of treatment left, and already it is tearing my insides out.
My head hurts. My back hurts. To be frank, my whole body feels sore. Sick.
I want more than ever to leave. I'm done here.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
soon
They're going to figure it out. They'll see me for the fraud that I am.
It isn't my fault. I don't know what else to be, but to pretend to be what I (currently?) am.
They'll figure it out, and then it will all be over. They are only fragments of a world I made up in my head, and this will be the key to accepting that they aren't real.
Then I'll be alone.
It isn't my fault. I don't know what else to be, but to pretend to be what I (currently?) am.
They'll figure it out, and then it will all be over. They are only fragments of a world I made up in my head, and this will be the key to accepting that they aren't real.
Then I'll be alone.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
dismissable as paranoia, I suppose....?
Things don't seem "normal."
I don't recognize something I've written as truly being my own. Everything appears to be some sort of elaborate illusion-- it is all a very close fascimile, but there is some loss in the details. I can't pinpoint what, exactly, but it's not quite right.
Religion. Gangs. History. Everything I know about people, about science, about anything-- are those real things? Did that really happen? Was I really there?
Consequences don't register. I kicked a hole in the wall the other day, and still am convinced it didn't happen. The scars on my arm seem like they were placed there, like they are just makeup applied in my sleep.
The monsters in my apartment at night. I tell myself not to get worked up. I tell myself it's just the creepypasta stories getting my imagination all revved up. It's not real; none of it is real.
...am I so sure of that? How do I tell the difference anymore? Why have I had these abstract fears of the "other" for so long? Why does everyone experience that creepiness from time to time?
My whole life, every action, it's all surreal, as though I am merely watching it play out. I am only an observer here, and everything happens on its own-- if it happens at all. Am I to believe what my senses are telling me?
And why should I?
I can't seem to accept any evidence with even the slightest bit of certainty. I remain convinced it is all a lie.
I can't tell if it was constructed by an outside source, or if the whole world around me only exists within the confines of my mind.
I can't quite express this feeling in words; I don't think it's even possible. Sometimes I'm not sure why I am trying, since there's no use in explaining myself to all the figments of my imagination.
Did I construct all of this? Did someone else?
I don't recognize something I've written as truly being my own. Everything appears to be some sort of elaborate illusion-- it is all a very close fascimile, but there is some loss in the details. I can't pinpoint what, exactly, but it's not quite right.
Religion. Gangs. History. Everything I know about people, about science, about anything-- are those real things? Did that really happen? Was I really there?
Consequences don't register. I kicked a hole in the wall the other day, and still am convinced it didn't happen. The scars on my arm seem like they were placed there, like they are just makeup applied in my sleep.
The monsters in my apartment at night. I tell myself not to get worked up. I tell myself it's just the creepypasta stories getting my imagination all revved up. It's not real; none of it is real.
...am I so sure of that? How do I tell the difference anymore? Why have I had these abstract fears of the "other" for so long? Why does everyone experience that creepiness from time to time?
My whole life, every action, it's all surreal, as though I am merely watching it play out. I am only an observer here, and everything happens on its own-- if it happens at all. Am I to believe what my senses are telling me?
And why should I?
I can't seem to accept any evidence with even the slightest bit of certainty. I remain convinced it is all a lie.
I can't tell if it was constructed by an outside source, or if the whole world around me only exists within the confines of my mind.
I can't quite express this feeling in words; I don't think it's even possible. Sometimes I'm not sure why I am trying, since there's no use in explaining myself to all the figments of my imagination.
Did I construct all of this? Did someone else?
Monday, April 16, 2012
weiter weiter ins Gelassenheit
I've been home a couple hours from the gym, and just now have I taken a shower. It's not that I don't want to be clean-- in fact, like most people, I want the stink and filth of work and exercise off me immediately.
But it's just such a chore. Undress. Turn on the water. Adjust it. Step in. Even then, you can't just stand there; you have to get the shampoo in your hair, and soap on the loofah, and rinse the whole mess off. Don't get me started about toweling afterward.
Even now, I got my unders up to my knees and gave up, sitting bare-assed on the edge of the sofa.
And this is it. This is the undeniable evidence. A wave of depression has settled in. There's no telling how long it will be around, and there isn't much I can do about it, but wait it out.
I've put quite a bit of time and effort into learning about myself, as a patient of mental illness, and simply as a person. It does not define me exactly, but is a large part of my overall state of being. I've been trained to look for signs; I'm ever-vigilant of triggers and stressors, all in an elaborate attempt to pre-empt some of the worst possibilities. I think I do a pretty good job of it.
But if you have arthritis, you have arthritis; you can stretch and exercise and take your anti-inflammatories and joint-essential nutrients, but you still have it, and sometimes it's just going to hurt anyway. I go through cycles of hypomania and mild-to-moderate depression with some frequency. I have mood swings. I have very sudden and very severe flashes of violent rage (which, fortunately, are usually very short-lived).
But sometimes, perhaps twice a year or so, I get depressed in a bad way. In a draining, aching way. I'm so tired, but I can't sleep. I'm so lonely, but I don't want to be around anyone. I get hungry, but don't really want to eat.
I just want to be sated; I don't want to have to eat.
I just want to be clean; I don't want to have to bathe.
I just want to be rested; I don't want to have to devote hours to sleep.
It's all such a chore. So difficult. You'd think I was being asked to count leaves in a rainstorm.
I don't, however, feel hopeless. Well, sometimes I do, but it's not a lingering feeling. There are two reasons for this: for one, I don't have the same need for a sense of "purpose" as I have seen many people have. I'm grateful for this freedom. As far as I'm concerned, my only purpose in life is to exist, and I do that, so that's pretty much settled. Even when I feel really, truly horrible about myself, I am still pretty sure that that's my only for-certain job. I don't put a lot of stock in the future (which is part of why I have trouble with planning...), and that frees up a lot of my worry (which is good, because I have so much worry in the present-moment all the time, I don't really have any to spare on silly things like an uncertain future).
The other is simply that I know this thing passes. I have "battled" (read: endured) depression several times before. It's just a waiting game. I hate that I lose so much time to it, but I accept that, so it's not so bad.
I went to work this morning, and I kept my training appointment at the gym, and I took a shower, and eventually I'll finish putting my underwear on. And you know? For one day, that's enough. I've done enough.
I might be able to do more tomorrow; I might not; no matter what, it will be enough, because I will have done my best in that moment, whatever my best may be.
But it's just such a chore. Undress. Turn on the water. Adjust it. Step in. Even then, you can't just stand there; you have to get the shampoo in your hair, and soap on the loofah, and rinse the whole mess off. Don't get me started about toweling afterward.
Even now, I got my unders up to my knees and gave up, sitting bare-assed on the edge of the sofa.
And this is it. This is the undeniable evidence. A wave of depression has settled in. There's no telling how long it will be around, and there isn't much I can do about it, but wait it out.
I've put quite a bit of time and effort into learning about myself, as a patient of mental illness, and simply as a person. It does not define me exactly, but is a large part of my overall state of being. I've been trained to look for signs; I'm ever-vigilant of triggers and stressors, all in an elaborate attempt to pre-empt some of the worst possibilities. I think I do a pretty good job of it.
But if you have arthritis, you have arthritis; you can stretch and exercise and take your anti-inflammatories and joint-essential nutrients, but you still have it, and sometimes it's just going to hurt anyway. I go through cycles of hypomania and mild-to-moderate depression with some frequency. I have mood swings. I have very sudden and very severe flashes of violent rage (which, fortunately, are usually very short-lived).
But sometimes, perhaps twice a year or so, I get depressed in a bad way. In a draining, aching way. I'm so tired, but I can't sleep. I'm so lonely, but I don't want to be around anyone. I get hungry, but don't really want to eat.
I just want to be sated; I don't want to have to eat.
I just want to be clean; I don't want to have to bathe.
I just want to be rested; I don't want to have to devote hours to sleep.
It's all such a chore. So difficult. You'd think I was being asked to count leaves in a rainstorm.
I don't, however, feel hopeless. Well, sometimes I do, but it's not a lingering feeling. There are two reasons for this: for one, I don't have the same need for a sense of "purpose" as I have seen many people have. I'm grateful for this freedom. As far as I'm concerned, my only purpose in life is to exist, and I do that, so that's pretty much settled. Even when I feel really, truly horrible about myself, I am still pretty sure that that's my only for-certain job. I don't put a lot of stock in the future (which is part of why I have trouble with planning...), and that frees up a lot of my worry (which is good, because I have so much worry in the present-moment all the time, I don't really have any to spare on silly things like an uncertain future).
The other is simply that I know this thing passes. I have "battled" (read: endured) depression several times before. It's just a waiting game. I hate that I lose so much time to it, but I accept that, so it's not so bad.
I went to work this morning, and I kept my training appointment at the gym, and I took a shower, and eventually I'll finish putting my underwear on. And you know? For one day, that's enough. I've done enough.
I might be able to do more tomorrow; I might not; no matter what, it will be enough, because I will have done my best in that moment, whatever my best may be.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
I am going to destroy myself someday. (or: how sometimes, the brain can't be trusted)
It comes on suddenly. It doesn't begin that way, however-- the feeling creeps and lulls around in my body and in my mind for hours, sometimes days. I try to fix it ahead of time-- get some rest, get a bite to eat, relax, have some fun. Whatever it takes.
But I know it isn't going to work. I lie to myself and say that I can stop it, that I can cut it off somehow, but I know that isn't true. I can hardly even postpone it.
It comes on like a sickness, like a flu that starts with just one sneeze. An itch. A crawling feeling, like tiny worms are writhing around just under my skin, pushing against hair follicles and nerve endings, setting off the alarms that tell me to scratch.
But scratch everywhere. Every inch of me a miniscule warzone, and as far as my senses are concerned, I must be covered in ants carrying feathers. There is no relief from this maddening itch, and soon enough it progresses, and heads inward, and now I itch from within.
All the while, I can feel my cheeks and my ears flushing hot and red as blood rushes to the surface; every sound unbearably loud, every source of light intolerably bright, every sensation horrific and insufferable. My muscles ache and creak, as though they've somehow come to exist too large for their fleshy casing, at any moment ready to burst out of the fascia and skin reining them in. Everything tenses and squeezes, tonic and sore, and the pressure feels as though it threatens to snap my bones like dry tinder.
What I want most in this moment is first to flay my skin completely, to peel it off like a giant, dead scab, the kind that forms over a deep burn and loosens as pus builds under its surface. I want, desperately, to be bound into immobility, wrapped up so tightly that my blood can hardly traverse its vessels, and on top of that pressed down with immense weight. Perhaps not so much that I couldn't breathe anymore, but close enough to it.
I don't believe I've ever had a seizure, exactly, but I imagine there must be a form that feels rather like this (though of course I assume an actual seizure to be much worse). I am rendered incapable of sitting still; rather, I writhe and twist, my hands in fists and my toes curled, my arms and legs gnarled in bends and my spine wrenching into tight, crooked arches, all indications pointing to me being a fat contortionist. It even appears, at times, that this lack of control gives me incredible strength, as I find myself holding my own body in odd positions that I might not be so able to hold while calm.
But it is exhausting, and awful as I am sure it looks from the outside, it is even worse from within. Anything inside of me-- partially digested remains still in my stomach-- are most certainly to be purged.
And through all this, my mind is a haze of overstimulation, and I am lost in an endless sea of perfect rage. I can only even describe this as some sort of Heironymous Bosch-esque hell, with so many images and thoughts passing through that there is certainly no way of putting any sense into it. It is, in essence, a pure and vitriolic violence, and I get the faintest sense that if I were to let go, even for a moment, I might break apart the bones in my own hands all in an effort to find peace again.
But, but, perhaps the worst notion at all, is that there isn't really anything that can be done. It's all I can do to ride through it, to suffer and endure until it finally passes on its own. I'm not sure how long it lasts in realtime-- I would estimate not more than 10 minutes at its worst-- but it feels like ages, endless and limitless. That is one of the truly terrible fears-- the, "what if this time, it never ends at all?"
I'm told this symptom is akin to a panic attack-- the difference being that instead of a fear response, something triggers the "fight" in me. Rather than being overwhelmed with terror and the desire to run away, or the shaking and sweaty palms, I am thrust into the suit of the berserker, an impenetrable and unbeatable force of brutal rampage.
And then, just as it began... it is gone. And I am tired. And I try not to think on it too much, other than for the purposes of keeping track of when it happens, or what may have triggered it, or in this case, for documentation. I know it does no good to dwell; still, I often feel like I am just waiting for it to happen again.
But I know it isn't going to work. I lie to myself and say that I can stop it, that I can cut it off somehow, but I know that isn't true. I can hardly even postpone it.
It comes on like a sickness, like a flu that starts with just one sneeze. An itch. A crawling feeling, like tiny worms are writhing around just under my skin, pushing against hair follicles and nerve endings, setting off the alarms that tell me to scratch.
But scratch everywhere. Every inch of me a miniscule warzone, and as far as my senses are concerned, I must be covered in ants carrying feathers. There is no relief from this maddening itch, and soon enough it progresses, and heads inward, and now I itch from within.
All the while, I can feel my cheeks and my ears flushing hot and red as blood rushes to the surface; every sound unbearably loud, every source of light intolerably bright, every sensation horrific and insufferable. My muscles ache and creak, as though they've somehow come to exist too large for their fleshy casing, at any moment ready to burst out of the fascia and skin reining them in. Everything tenses and squeezes, tonic and sore, and the pressure feels as though it threatens to snap my bones like dry tinder.
What I want most in this moment is first to flay my skin completely, to peel it off like a giant, dead scab, the kind that forms over a deep burn and loosens as pus builds under its surface. I want, desperately, to be bound into immobility, wrapped up so tightly that my blood can hardly traverse its vessels, and on top of that pressed down with immense weight. Perhaps not so much that I couldn't breathe anymore, but close enough to it.
I don't believe I've ever had a seizure, exactly, but I imagine there must be a form that feels rather like this (though of course I assume an actual seizure to be much worse). I am rendered incapable of sitting still; rather, I writhe and twist, my hands in fists and my toes curled, my arms and legs gnarled in bends and my spine wrenching into tight, crooked arches, all indications pointing to me being a fat contortionist. It even appears, at times, that this lack of control gives me incredible strength, as I find myself holding my own body in odd positions that I might not be so able to hold while calm.
But it is exhausting, and awful as I am sure it looks from the outside, it is even worse from within. Anything inside of me-- partially digested remains still in my stomach-- are most certainly to be purged.
And through all this, my mind is a haze of overstimulation, and I am lost in an endless sea of perfect rage. I can only even describe this as some sort of Heironymous Bosch-esque hell, with so many images and thoughts passing through that there is certainly no way of putting any sense into it. It is, in essence, a pure and vitriolic violence, and I get the faintest sense that if I were to let go, even for a moment, I might break apart the bones in my own hands all in an effort to find peace again.
But, but, perhaps the worst notion at all, is that there isn't really anything that can be done. It's all I can do to ride through it, to suffer and endure until it finally passes on its own. I'm not sure how long it lasts in realtime-- I would estimate not more than 10 minutes at its worst-- but it feels like ages, endless and limitless. That is one of the truly terrible fears-- the, "what if this time, it never ends at all?"
I'm told this symptom is akin to a panic attack-- the difference being that instead of a fear response, something triggers the "fight" in me. Rather than being overwhelmed with terror and the desire to run away, or the shaking and sweaty palms, I am thrust into the suit of the berserker, an impenetrable and unbeatable force of brutal rampage.
And then, just as it began... it is gone. And I am tired. And I try not to think on it too much, other than for the purposes of keeping track of when it happens, or what may have triggered it, or in this case, for documentation. I know it does no good to dwell; still, I often feel like I am just waiting for it to happen again.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
