You Gotta Bring Your Own Sun

THIS POST MAY BE TRIGGERING. BINGING BEHAVIOR AND SIDE EFFECTS OF PURGING ARE DISCUSSED IN DETAIL. PLEASE TAKE THIS INTO ACCOUNT BEFORE READING.





Lots to say, little organization to my thoughts tonight. This post could go anywhere or nowhere, you've been warned.

Today marks the start of Eating Disorder Awareness Week 2011. My boys and I celebrated by attending the first Tampa Bay NEDA Walk yesterday morning (sainted husband, spending his birfday morning in a park being aware of eating disorders). It was amazingly well-run, considering this was the inaugural event for Tampa, and that it was coordinated by a 16-year old. Impressive on both counts. "Excited" wasn't the word for my feelings about going; "emotionally obligated" or "willing to participate" better conveyed the sentiment. Upon arrival, though, I realized I could change that to "more than somewhat freaked out". The light switch flipped and suddenly there was this awareness that I was going to be standing and/or more or less exercising with members of the ED community. Oh boy. That'll make a girl real fat, real fast.

Then again, certainly it wouldn't have helped to see several obviously active bulimics (how do I know this? We're going there in a minute, no worries.) and a girl who required assistance to sit down, while someone insisted she eat a banana and drink water. Here's where things get creepy for me. I'm standing there watching this girl gnaw these tiny niblets off the end of this banana with her front teeth, trying to nonchalantly make it look like she doesn't want to punch somebody or cry or both while she "eats", and I'm shocked and horrified.

Why would I be horrified? Why not appropriately sympathetic, what with my couple or so years of recovery?

BECAUSE I'VE BEEN BANANA GIRL. I have met the enemy, and it was that banana. Or a banana equivalent. I've been the girl people needed to essentially force-feed to keep me from toppling over. More than once, more than a few times. Please, find me something enjoyable about being that girl. It was just part of my life, the way things often turned out, a minor inconvenience. Beyond that, though, I realized how I must have looked to other people. What was normal and commonplace to me is incredibly bizarre and incomprehensible to you, if you're not also a Banana Recipient. I never gave it much thought, people pushing food at me all the time, looking at me like they were afraid I was about to topple over and expire, making (what to me now are rather derogatory) comments about my weight...hmmph. Life. Gah. Watching myself being forced to eat an overripe banana.

Awww. Self-actualization. Oh, I'm not done....so, so not done. Don't I wish.

TRIGGER WARNING

One of Cutiepatootie's favorite Sunday lunch spots is one of those all-you-can-eat salad bar restaurants. We printed off the coupon this morning and headed off for some soup and veggies, much to his delight. Obviously we hit it at the wrong time, because seating was at a premium and the line was long. With tray at the ready, I hit the salad line and immediately catch a glimpse of the girl making her own plate in front of me. Remember I told you about spotting bulimics in a crowd? Jesus, Mary, & Joseph...her salivary glands were swollen, bilaterally, to the size of large lemons. The big lemons, not the 3-for-$1.99 ones. Looked like an athlete, I'd guess a runner because she was too tall to be a gymnast. Crazed look on the face, trying to play it cool as she made a salad big enough for several people. She bypassed the cashier....yep. It's binge day at the buffet. The one remaining booth sat us with her directly in my line of vision, meaning her array of used plates and soup bowls weren't exactly out of sight. She'd been there a while, reading (The Joy Luck Club) and eating. 5 minutes later, she's up again.

And again.
This time it's the bread.
By the time we left, she had gotten up for food 8 times, not including what was already on the table when we sat down. She had refilled her drink 4 times. By the time she made it to the second huge helping of ice cream, the look on her face had gone from "look at my cool exterior while my heart beats through my shirt" to sad resignation - "now I have to get rid of all this." My guess is this is a cycle she repeats multiple times, day in and day out.

At one point I garnered the nerve to go to her table while she was refilling and leave a small temporary tattoo with the NEDA symbol on it. She picked it up, tucked it into her book, looked around, and cleaned the table where it had been. Eye contact wasn't in the cards here - I mean, cripes, I'd already anonymously called her out - but I wanted her to know that someone knew. Someone saw, and someone understood. I was never bulimic, purging was never my cup of tea. No matter. The underlying motivation is all the same, if you really think about it. Fixing what hurts in the only way you can, albeit temporarily.

We had to go. I couldn't sit there to see how long she was going to go on eating. My only hope is that this wasn't the time when her esophagus ruptured, when her potassium level plummeted and stopped her heart from beating, when she didn't begin seizing because of whacked-out sodium levels and stop breathing. It very well may have been. We have to celebrate Eating Disorder Awareness Week because the fact remains that eating disorders DO kill. Far, far too many people. I am daily grateful not to be among that number.

And since I'm obviously going to be aware of eating disorders all week and I need to stay focused on being grateful to be in recovery from one, I gotta bring my own sun. Welcome to England.

Because You're Mine, I Walk the Line

Old school Johnny Cash. Not bad.

This week, I ran face-first into a parenting wall. You know what I mean, parents. The crossroads of your expectations and others' actions. Ouch.

There are a few things I'm an unabashed hardass parent about. Teaching my kid to say "please", "thank you" and the appropriate "ma'am/sir" is one (sorry, Mayim Bialik. I like ya, but in my world manners matter.). Limits on TV time and corporate consumption for toddlers is another. We are fairly strict in our home about how much time Snoogle gets in front of the box, and what he is allowed to watch when we turn it on. This means there are shows we don't allow him to watch, even though they are designed for children. Perhaps we don't like the way the characters interact with each other, perhaps we don't think they model appropriate behavior, perhaps we just think they're annoying as hell and we don't want to have to put up with them around the clock (you know what I mean by this, too. It's okay to admit it.). I press on with these restrictions, knowing I walk the line between "you're a nutjob, lady" and "may I borrow some of that discipline, please?" most of the time.

I take Little Bit to the gym with me on the days he doesn't go to school. We usually go in the afternoons. I'd noticed the use of the DVD player in the toddler area before, but I also noticed that my son reeeeeeally doesn't like Yo Gabba Gabba and would walk away from it to play with other things. By all means, feel free to envision the look of abject horror on my face when I was told that he was plopped in front of A Show We Do Not Watch and sat there. If you'd like, you can also go right ahead and envision the look of abject horror on the face of the staff when I responded to this news with "UGH. I cannot stand ASWDNW." You'd have though I had simultaneously ripped the head from a kitten and driven over the Bible with my car.

Okay. Maybe my reaction was a little much, but I have a hard time understanding why they need to show videos in the TODDLER area. The school-aged kids' section, fine. They have a WiiFit there, they could show DVDs. But to assume that all parents are okay with their two-year-olds (and younger) watching TV? My assumption is that if I was an unhappy parent, there's at least one more. Thus far, that's been my experience. It's rarely, if ever, just me.

Long story made short, we went back to the gym yesterday afternoon, and the staff made a point of not turning the TV on at all, and telling me about it. I did my best to explain myself without being too defensive or putting them on the defensive. In truth, what it boils down to are these few things:

I have the responsibility of raising my son with the values our family agrees are important.
Not everyone has the same values, or the same way of teaching the same values.
There will be times I will realize no one really gives two good s**ts what values matter to us, because they are acting strictly out of convenience.
I will not like this realization. It will make me angry.
Most important, though....

Because he's mine, I walk the line. I'm willing to be a pariah about some things if it means I get one more shot at protecting my son from influences I don't think are appropriate. My influence will be limited by plenty of other people soon enough. Give me this time with him NOW. Let us teach him what matters to us now, so that he can sort out the rest for himself later.

(and yes, I ran 3 days this week. More running news to come.)

Happy birthday to my wonderful, amazing, funny, best-ever husband and best friend. You're 40 tomorrow...I'll gladly spend the next 40 years with you.

Reclamation

I'm tired.
Sleep is eluding us in this house.
Many days lately, small boy and mommy run on hours of sleep that can be counted on one hand.
The longer it goes on, the more anxious and irritable I become. There are people you'd rather be around than me right now, in a nutshell.

The worst of it is that my escape isn't working for me anymore. Having been so passionate about running, and now being so indifferent - or just plain loathing the days I know I'm scheduled to run...ouch. The realization came this morning. I need to not register for the March 12K. Training is not good for me right now. In fact, it's time to admit I need to take a break. Spin more for a while, lift some weights, maybe get back to some yoga, something other than running on a schedule. Pushing myself is great, but not when it's for the wrong reasons. Right now I'm finding that running is a way for me to make up where I feel like the rest of me is lacking. Definitely, most definitely a road I don't want to go down.

I read a wonderful quote recently: When you run, always be sure you're running TO something, never away.

Away is where I've been headed. The worse my running performance gets (which isn't helped by the poor calibration skills of the nike+, thank you, I know my mile markers to a T and it misses them every time), the more the feelings of inadequacy are compounded. So it's time to stop. For now.

I'm going to stop relying on fickle Lance Armstrong to tell me what kind of a person I am a few days a week. I'm going to take the sensor off my shoe. When I feel like it - and ONLY when I feel like it, I'm going to put those shoes on and hit the road, outside, with no agenda other than to find the love again. No timing, no distance requirements. Just me, running until I've had enough for one day. However long or however far that is. Not to worry, I'm still Philadelphia dreamin'.....

but I need a reclamation. And I'm going to make it happen.

25 Things

It was supposed to be 100 per the email I got today, but my attention span these days prohibits my counting to 100, much less thinking of 100 things to say about myself. So. Twenty-five, coming up.

1. I go by my middle name. My mother, who is also called by HER middle name, swore she'd never do that to her child because of the raging pain in the boo-tay it is. Mmmmhmmm. Middle name, that's me.

2. One of my bucket list items is to see every one of the 50 states. Last count was 27, if memory serves. I better get crackin' if I want to finish this off, but somehow convincing the spouse to take me to the Dakotas just so I can check this off isn't working out.

3. Every now and again I toy with the idea of becoming a vegan, for ethical reasons. Vegetarianism isn't hard for me, but it's complicated living with and cooking for someone who has no interest in being either of those.

4. Another bucket list item: learn to sew.

5. I detest politics and don't affiliate myself with a political party. In 38 years, I've been very conservative, very liberal, conservative-ish, and now I am firmly settled in the middle - but will lean left in a stiff wind.

6. The Amish fascinate me.

7. Actually, religion fascinates me, although I don't consider myself "religious" by any means. That's not to say I'm agnostic or atheist, because I do believe in God, but organized religion doesn't foster any sort of spiritual connection for me.

8. I cannot remember the last time I ate fried chicken or anything from a drive-thru. This is something that isn't likely to change anytime soon.

9. Speaking of food, cooking makes me indescribably happy. Even when the dish comes out tasting like you-know-what, I had fun being in the kitchen. Especially on Friday nights, because that's "new recipe night."

10. I don't watch much TV. At all. If there is anything background in the house during the day, it's not the TV.

11. What IS background here is NPR, or the music channels on the TV (okay, so the TV is good for something). Right now, it's Big Band and Swing.

12. My musical taste is best described as "eclectic"; however, the two things I cannot tolerate are Country and Western. That's right - not country, not western. Certainly not Country & Western.

13. I much prefer red wine to white. Much. White wine isn't a bad thing necessarily, but it's so damned fussy. Temperature and all that. And I'm not fussy by nature.

14. Pictures that aren't straight give me the jeebs. Doesn't matter where I am, if there's a crooked picture, I'm coming to the rescue. Look at me all you want, crazy picture-straightening lady's got a job to do here.

15. Cripes, I can't think of more about me. Wow. Have I become this uninteresting?

16. I watch cycling. Stop laughing.

17. The sound of metal on metal will give me icky goosebumps for DAYS. Amazing that I can use silverware.

18. I can fold my tongue into the shape of a shamrock. No, there will be no picture.

19. A pet peeve: having to type in "@yahoo.com" or "@hotmail.com" when I check my email. Don't they know it's @yahoo or @hotmail? Why do I have to tell them?

20. My sense of direction is pathetic. Like my mother says, if you tell me I have to walk north or die, I'll lie down and die right here, thanks. This is a source of both frustration and amusement to my better half.

21. How many more of these are there? So grateful I didn't go all out for 100.

22. Most people want a dog, or a cat. Me? An alpaca. Obviously this has gotten the kibosh.

23. If I did have a dog, though, it would be a black dog and I would name him Kanye.
Just because.

24. In order of preference: dark chocolate, milk chocolate, white chocolate. Actually, white chocolate should be eradicated. From the earth. Everyone should be forced to eat quality dark chocolate.

25. I have to wear a visor when I run outside. Yes, it makes me look like a jackass, but sunglasses just don't work and hats make my head want to explode. So visor it is.

And there you have it. 25 totally random things about me, only one of which involved running. I'm running in the morning, so maybe I'll have a story to tell then.

Happy weekend, and if you're here in my neck of the woods, be careful shivering your timbers tomorrow....

Take Two News Segments (and call me in the morning)

Today's post is a difficult one to write. I'm grappling with how I want to spend the next few years, and it will be a big decision regardless of the outcome. Like so many life-altering choices do, this one affects more than just me, so there's ample reason to put impulsivity and throwingcautiontothewind-ism on the back burner about it. Which, if you're me, means wallowing in it. I'm a wallower, people. When I need to make a choice, a huge one, I wallow. It's all part of that lovely obsessive-compulsive thing. Frankly, it sucks rocks.

I was putting fresh sheets on the bed, and wallowing, and the opening chimes of All Things Considered blared out of the bedroom radio and it took me back to November, 2008. A newborn, a birth plan that went completely down the crapper, a freshly incised uterus and abdomen, and no one here to help me. Welcome to postpartum depression.

I'll admit it. There's a stigma, yes, which is one reason this post is hard to write. Lots of people experience it, few people want to come clean about it. Think for a minute: do you want to tell someone who is fawning over your beautiful bundle of joy how miserable you are? How you're falling to pieces? How it's everything you can do just to hold your shiz together long enough for your husband to get home from work? No. So you don't. Maybe you didn't, or maybe you did. Read on.

Today it hit me that, while I was sitting in the glider, sweet baby boy at my breast (my sweaty, unshowered breast that was right near the armpit that reeked as only postpartum armpits do, don't ask me why that is because for the love of God I have no answers), my days were marked by that opening chime. Four o'clock, on the dot. It meant that the downswing of the day had begun, that I only had 3 or so more hours to be alone after the crushing loneliness of another day. It was my hope. Those NPR announcers with the funny names (Silvia Pojole! Mandalit del Barco!) were a lifeline. They became my friends. Adult voices telling me stories I wanted to hear about places I couldn't see because I didn't know how to do anything right anymore. News I wasn't part of, but I was, because they were bringing it into that nursery. NPR had been part of my daily routine for 10 years or so, but they saved my sorry ass that winter. Spring and summer, too. There's no room in your life for an eating disorder when you are nursing a newborn, so instead of taking comfort in starving myself to death I had to make do with what I had. A radio and a glider.

Yes, I did get help. Had to. So should you, and don't be embarrassed about it anymore. I know, mama, what you're feeling: desperation, utter exhaustion, isolation, shame. What I don't know is if I'm willing to put myself at risk again, knowing that if I fail, this fall could be the last one. On most levels I'm not.

Which brings me back around to the song - which will always remind me of that darkness.

Now and again we try to just stay alive
Maybe we'll turn it around because it's not too late...
It's never too late.

(please, if you are experiencing postpartum depression, i encourage you to call your doctor today. there is no shame in asking for help....only courage.)

Raise Your Glass

Even though there's a dinner to be cooked (not to mention a husband wanting food), the past few minutes have been spent watching the Jets beat the Patriots and perusing my favorite online natural parenting community (NP, HOLLA! lol). We've got a new obsession around those parts.

Mormon Mommy Blogs. Hereafter to be called MMBs.

Wow, dude. These women are serious. They knit their dogs sweaters with matching diapers, spend hours applying mosaic tiles to end tables, hand-embellish coordinating outfits for their freshly-scrubbed-and-never-ever-filthy twin toddler offspring, and do all this while eating home-baked bread with preserves they made themselves. From the fruit of their own backyard's trees. Using their great-great-great-great-grandmother's secret recipe. You can, if you choose to, spend hours perusing these chronicles of unbelievable perfection.

Just to clarify, I'm in no way trying to be negative about the LDS church, or anyone who attends it. I don't know enough about it to act like that. There are a few members on our board who have been kind enough to give the rest of us a bit of a tutorial, though, and it's been very interesting. Interesting enough for me to know that I, in all my glory, could nevah, EVAH, live up to even half of what is expected of the traditional LDS woman. Especially these MMBers.

To steal a line from Clueless...."No way, no day."

In my house, my cat doesn't wear clothes. Which reminds me, he needs to go get shaved again. I don't currently HAVE an end table I'd want to mosaic, mostly because I can't seem to locate a spare end table hanging around. The Boy's clothes come from places like Old Navy, Gap Kids, Janie & Jack, and *gasp* the consignment shop. He's pretty dirty by day's end from all that crawling around on the floor and rolling around "like a steamroller" (and I quote) at the park. We pretty much buy the groceries, and most plants that come into our home only narrowly escape death. I've got some great family recipes, and I can cook like a champion, but that's about where the similarities between my style of motherhood and the women of the MMBs' typical day come to a grinding halt.

So maybe my life isn't MMB-worthy. You know what, though? I carried a child to 9 days past his due date, and suffered through 2 days of induction and a Cesarean. I nursed that child for almost 2 years, and until last week, sprayed that boy's poopy cloth diapers in the sink in my laundry room. I wore him in an Ergo until he just wouldn't let me anymore. I've baked cookies with him, sprayed him with the water hose to make him laugh, and snuggled him under a "cozy" reading book after book after book. We've battled wills and both of us have lost. I've already heard my mother's voice come flying out of my mouth. This is my life, my wrinklydustysticky life.

I would not trade it for all the money in the world.
I suspect you feel the same about yours.
On that note, ladies and gentlemen.....

Raise your glass.

One Voice in a Million

Before I get into prattling on and on about running (which I'm going to do), I wanted to share this song. I have satellite radio, so I don't listen to local radio stations much, but the other morning the hubs had left the radio on in the bathroom and I happened to catch it. It took me approximately 45 seconds to sprint to the computer, pull up iTunes, guess the singer, find the song, and download. Now that you know it's Natasha Bedingfield, you don't need to sprint. Just go download, and if you run, or are in recovery, or both, make sure it finds its way to your ears often. What? You don't want to download this, or you didn't watch it? Fine. I'll give you a lyric:

Take what you want, steal my pride
Build me up or cut me down to size
Shut me out, but I'll just scream -
I'm only one voice in a million, but you ain't taking that from me....

One of the reasons people develop eating disorders is that they feel like they haven't got a voice. When you don't feel like you're being heard, or feel like you don't have the right to speak, you turn inward. Anorexia (or bulimia) becomes your voice, your way of telling the world things aren't right. Eventually, even though you may desperately WANT to speak, you can't. Not on your own, and not without help. If you stumbled onto this blog because you used "anorexia" as a keyword, and you need help, please don't wait. Please tell someone. It's not too late. You have every right to use your voice, even though you may be one voice in a million. It takes a million voices to make a million voices.

Aaaaaaaaand, we're back to running. Told you so.

I can't seem to pull it back together since the post-half hiatus. Lots of time has been spent pondering this, analyzing piece-by-piece what could be wrong. Since eliminating most refined sugar and processed food from my diet has, in general, made me feel much better and given me much more energy overall, I would assume that's not the problem. The shoes are new, so I can't blame the shoes (man, it's so nice when you can blame the shoes!). Time of day hasn't seemed to make a difference either; I'm just kinda sucking regardless. Over the summer I hit a rough patch which seemed to be as mental as physical, so you think it would be easy for me to look back at that rough patch and compare it to now and know that this too shall pass. It's not proving to be that simple, which is a little bewildering.

Especially since I'm planning to run a 12K in March. Meaning that serious training starts next week. 4 miles is proving to be a sticking point again...but a 12K is more than that, so I need to sort this out and push through it. If you have any advice for me, by all means don't hesitate to share. You would definitely be appreciated.

In the meantime, there shall be a clinging to the principle that the only way to run BETTER is to run MORE. Next week I shall add the 4th day.

If you're digging out, stay warm. If you aren't, be glad. As for me, I am happy to be wearing sleeves. Have a wonderful weekend!