Thought for the Day

I found this website, and it makes me smile.
http://operationbeautiful.com/
Its important to remember that we are not alone, and that we are all beautiful.

Starting....Now.

I have done nothing but eat for the past week. And how! Junk, junk, junque!!! It has been disgusting, and I have probably put on at least 8 pounds (in two weeks, I'll say). However, through the magic of prozac, I am secure in the fact that I will regain ground quickly and get back into my healthy eating routine. And, truly, I want to. I feel gross.

Untitled

I have a problem adjusting to change. After my first child was born, I went through some post-partum depression, that was nasty and unexpected. Again, as is a theme with me, I did not seek help and I SHOULD HAVE. I wasted so much time feeling rotten and something could have been done about it! Prideful and stupid!!



I was tired, sluggish, confused, sad, angry...and it festered. I definately was not able to connect with my baby like I thought I should be...and I was ashamed!! I always thought motherhood would come easy to me...not that I assumed it would be easy, but I thought I would be a natural (afterall, I had a good example in my mom). I think that the lesson I had to learn - and that I am still learning - is that I am not my mom. And that is okay.



I never hurt my baby, but I did have really ODD thoughts during this time. I was irrationally terrified to hold her on a sidewalk or the driveway, cause I had overwhelming thoughts of dropping her. Also, I remember at night when she would wake I would be so exhausted that I would think "I can just put her outside of the window and then it will be quiet and I can sleep." And I was lucid enought to KNOW how crazy that was...but it was still a thought that I had!

Anyway, that was the first round of real depression that I have dealt with. Well, not counting my freshman year of college. But that is another story for another time. At any rate, I still feel reverberations from the PPD. In some ways, it is a funk that never entirely went away. I read an article about rumination this week and that fits me to a 'T.' I over-analyze myself until there is nothing there.

Scratch That Off the List

This weekend has been good. I have done most everything that I endeavored to do. Thanks to the weather, I even got 'wash the car' scratched off the list!! I have had a few too many jelly beans (darn the Easter aisle!), but I have been able to get exercise both days. I do love the look of a completed list!!

Soon You'll Be Walking Out the Door...

Writing is easier when I am not happy with myself. This week has been okay on that front. I have done okay with my food choices the last few days and have exercised every day this week, including today, and it is 9:30 on Saturday morning. Exercise is a key to my sanity. It is hard sometimes to make myself do it, but I find that if I stay is a real routine....every day....then it is doable. Is doable a word? Or should I hyphenate? Oh well, I can do it. Enough.

Actually, I am that way with everything, food, exercise, house cleaning, checkbook balancing*, etc. As long as I can stay in my strict routine, I do all right. It has taken me nine years of adult married life to realize this, and yet I still have trouble forcing myself to stay on track. I just get diverted really easily. And then I get overwhelmed. And when I am overwhelmed, I cease functioning. It is easier to avoid the undesirable task than to just do it and get it over with. And then it grows...it is a cycle and I recognize it. Today, this morning, I am owning that.

So, I make lists. I have a list for this weekend that, if I get everything scratched off will leave me with a pretty clean house, happy kids, and an exercised body and rested mind. That is a tall order!! I just have to keep putting one foot in front of the other...

*another confession: I really don't balance my checkbook. Mea culpa.

Background

I am not petite. Never was, never will be. The first time that I remember being big, though, was in the third grade when my dance instructor told me (and the class) that I would be the first to develop breasts. I don't really think she was taking a stab, but even at 9 years old I had the accute sense that it was because I was fat. And let me clarify, I wear my weight pretty well. If you looked at 9 year old me, you would see a girl, a little chubby, but by no means would you think 'fatty.' Baby fat.

In the fourth grade, the teacher got each of us in front of the room and weighed us. Not for announcing the info or anything, but I still question why in the hell she needed to know our weight. I weighed 100 pounds. I was embarassed.

In middle school and through high school my parents would try anything to get me to exercise and diet. They are both physically fit and my mom is petite. I felt singled out, though I would have never admitted it at the time. On a couple of occasions, I remeber making deals (bribes?) to lose XX amount of weight in a certain time and getting a $200 shopping spree. I never got the shopping spree. And still through high school, I was big, but not grotesque or anything. If I had lost 20 pounds, I would have been perfectly acceptable.

I am writing all of this to force myself to try to remember how I got to this point. I am not placing blame, just trying to peel away the layers of the onion.

One more insight for now. I don't like to do things at which I may not succeed. This extended from me not trying out for cheerleader in middle school, to not taking the $200 bribe. I make excuses for not doing things when the real reason is that I am afraid to fail. I think that my body feeds into that as well. It kept me insulated from having to do things that I may have failed at.

Of course....I could also have succeeded.

Where to Begin

I have a lifetime of neuroses to regurgitate. I don't know how to start. Maybe I'll start in the middle and then pick it all apart. Again, having no formal therapy on the subject, I'm not actually sure how to address myself. I don't like saying 'I have bullemia,' because I think that it is less something that I have and is more something that I am. But I really don't like the sound of 'I'm bullemic.' I just don't like the word. It's not pretty.

And then where do I even fall into that? I'm a recovering bullemic? I'm a bullemic on a break? A bullemic once removed? Will I ever not be bullemic, even if I am not practicing? I don't know.

Here's what I do know. I don't remember exactly how old I was the first time I made myself throw up. I was old enough to know exactly what I was doing, so 13 or 14. I knew what bullemia was, and I was desperate to try it. When I was finally successful, I was ecstatic. And then, I really just flirted with it on and off. A few times, here and there, in high school, and even less in college. Thinking back on it, I really think that some part of me assumed that I would become a full-fledged, card carrying bullemic when I went to college. But it didn't really stick then either. Maybe I liked myself just enough to keep it at bay? Maybe I was just terrified of losing my teeth?

It took until I was 30 for it to rear its ugly head again. And I let it fully envelop me. And I couldn't stop. For nearly two years.

Now, I haven't thrown up in three months. A victory, for sure. But I fear that it is just below the surface, waiting for a weak moment to resurface. So I am here to process, to confess, and to recover myself.