10/29/2011

I am afraid of leaving my disorder behind.  I am afraid of letting go of something I have had as a part of me for so long.  It is who I have been.

I am an amazingly, strong, powerful woman.  I have and continue to bring up and educate three fabulous children.  Any time anyone has ever praised me for the beauty they see in my children, I have always said that it wasn't anything I did, it was all them.  And yes, it is them, they came into this world as they are, they chose me to be their mother because they knew I was strong enough to be the support and role model they needed.  They knew I was the mother who would allow them to flourish and become the people they are meant to be.

Yes, they came into this world as they are supposed to be, but if I weren't who I am, they then in turn, wouldn't be who they are.

They are my strength, my inspiration, my blessings.

I am honored to be their mother.  Thank you for honoring my life with your presence.

I am...still a mother

10/28/2011

I have always knocked therapy. How do you compress 47 years into 45 minutes? I must not have been in the right place for it.

Here in “behavioral health services” we have group therapy a couple of times a day and individual therapy. While it took me a while to open up in group therapy, individual therapy was surprisingly easy for me. To finally open up and say everything that I have been bottling up inside of me was eye opening was .

One of the many things I was able to admit to is just how sad I was about my decisions about children. My choice to have given up a child, to not have had any more children, the disappointment of not being able to have any more and the deep, deep sadness at not having done this on my own from the beginning.

Being able to talk with someone and say “Had I had the chance to think things through I would have kept my child.” is liberating. Being able to talk about my disappointment at why I never just went ahead and had children on my own and why I didn't wait a few years after my last one before having tied my tubes was freeing.

I could have had them alone, I mean, fucking hell, I picked two of the biggest assholes on the planet to have three of the most beautiful children on earth. I have been raising them alone all these years. Their fathers are narrow-minded, egotistical, controlling and manipulative and my kids are nothing like that. They are strong willed, independent and compassionate. And they learned that from me. I have been their role model. I could have done it alone, like I was, but without those two useless bodies next to me bringing me down, controlling me and tearing down my self-worth.

I could still have more children. Science has made it possible for women to have a first child at 62!!

Right now, I have to work on myself again. On remembering my strength, on asking for help if I need it and focusing on the three angels I actually have been blessed with. I haven't given up on the thought of having another child, but right now, in this moment, I have to focus on myself and what I have. But it felt good to let it out, to have cleansed my soul of this pain and sadness and to work on living in this moment. It felt good to talk about yet another thing that I've been bottling up inside of me.

I am...healing.

10-27-2011

I committed myself into a mental health ward. I was going to kill myself and leave my three beautiful children alone. How incredibly cowardly. The world, life, my situation became so overwhelming that I considered leaving it all behind and abandoning my children. And they are the reason I committed myself.

How could I do such a terrible thing? How could I leave the only three people I asked to be in my life? They gave me the most amazing honor of making me their mother; how could I ever make them think that I didn't love them enough to stay, that their love for me wasn't enough?

I knew I wasn't strong enough to do this on my own. My pride, my strength, my stubbornness, my fierce independence brought me to this deep, dark, nasty place that had no way out and no solution.

My strength, my stubbornness, my independence and my pride are also what made me make this decision.

This is a scary place to be in. Everyone is in various degrees of lucidity. The staff follows me around, controls what I do, where I am, and when I sleep. I am checked on every single minute, 24 hours a day. They kept all my belongings, my make up my clothes, my PHONE! (gasp!) Someone has to unlock my closet for me to get my clothes.

When I went to the emergency room, I was told to put on a hospital gown and everything I had, my purse, my phone, my boots, my clothes, everything was taken out of my room, “for safe keeping”. I remember telling my friend “Betty” , who took me there, “huh, they must have had some things stolen, because I've never had my things taken out of my room before.” She smiled at me. It wasn't until later on that I realized that they did that because I was on suicide watch.

The morning when I faced the fact that I was no longer strong enough to make it through the day without help, I called her. I didn't realize that I had so many people around me who were so ready to put their lives on hold and rally around me and my children and to do whatever it took to get me the help I needed. As usual, my children clicked right into crisis mode and stuck together into one unbreakable unit.

My beautiful baby girl wanted to drive back to Virginia, not to take care of mom, because she knew I was being helped, but to take care of her brothers. My friend “Betty”*, with five children of her own was ready to take my two in. My friends “Betty”, “Marty”* and “Olie”* and I are all close friends from EDA and we had already formed a close bond through EDA. I am in awe of how beautifully they flowed into this seamless action plan of action, support and love. “Marty” and “Ollie” dropped everything and moved into my house and stayed with my teenager, “Betty” kept my youngest at her place so he could be with her kids.

I also didn't realize until later that there was always someone next to me, around me, with me. I said I was going to kill myself, I was going to get help, but meanwhile, the people around me, those who loved and cared about me, were going to make sure I wasn't alone.

I was so angry with myself on the first morning I first woke up in this place. I had no control, I was taking some pretty strong medication for my anxiety and depression and to be able to sleep. The medication made me feel like I was in a fog, I was nauseous and I just wanted to sleep. I was still in the ER gown, no make-up, no phone, no cigarettes, no COFFEE! I had to follow everyone else who was just like me into the dining room, with too much food and the nasty food smell and my mind was ready to bolt out of there, yelling and screaming. But there was a small amount of sanity in there, (probably the drugs), that kept me under control. “I have an eating disorder and I can't be in here.”

It took most of the day of waiting, but I was finally able to talk to a doctor, a psychiatrist. First time ever. And my brain said “You are officially insane” and then it said “and here is where you are going to get help.” No, I am not insane, I am not crazy, I am not mad.

I have been trying to hold down, bottle in, control, repress and ignore everything.

The doctor asked, “So, what happened that caused to you have these thoughts of wanting to kill yourself?”

“Where would you like me to start?”

“Where ever you want.”

“I am the single mother of three; I am getting divorced for the second time; no one knows where my boys dad has disappeared off to; I have a protective order out against him; I am afraid he will come after me and hurt me; our marriage wasn't supposed to end this way; I have a “typical” teenager who loves me to pieces but is fighting against me to assert his independence and I love him so much; my “baby” boy is the most precious, kind, caring ,soul who is obviously quiet and mellow because he doesn't want to upset anything or anyone; I am looking for stable work; I am giving up my house to the bank; I have an eating disorder; I have lost 16 pounds in two weeks; I am still madly in love with my high school sweetheart and he is still my best friend; my daughter just went off to college and I miss her so much, she is my sounding block, my best friend; her father was mentally, emotionally and physically abusive to me and is now trying to atone for his sins by swooping in a “saving” me and I don't want him to “save” me; my mother has been an alcoholic since I was 9years old; my mother, my father and my brother have all announced that I am dead to them because I took my sister in law's side during her divorce from my brother; my brother is a sick twisted bastard; I  was attacked by a man when I was a child while going to buy my mother a bottle of gin and my mother knew about it and laughed it off; I am afraid of men; I have a job offer on the other side of the continent that I have to put on hold until my divorce is final; I wake up every morning in pain and my body feels like it's fighting against me and I want to control it all.”

His response; “Wow...”

And I finally admitted to that and a whole lot more. We discussed my medication, I accepted that I needed it in order to stabilize my moods; for now. I got my “street clothes”, I got my make up, I saw a therapist, I accepted help, I let go and I slept.

I don't want to be here because it's scary. I am afraid of the men in here, I'm scared of not being let out again, I miss my children, I want coffee and I need a cigarette. But I have to be here. I have to take care of myself. I have to learn to deal with everything I've been given. I accept it all but but have repressed and hid and tried to control it all on my own. I am here to take control of my life, but only of the things I can actually control and let go of the things I can't.

When I told my son that I had to get help, that I couldn't do this on my own, he said “I'm proud of you mom.” The beautiful people I've asked to help me have all surrounded me with love and support. I've heard “I'm proud of you” a lot and my reaction is to cringe. I feel like a coward for wanting to kill myself. I am doing something very scary; I am asking for help so that I can learn the things I need to do to be the person I know I am.

I am...taking one step at a time.

*Names have been changed to protect the privacy of my sane loved ones.

Big, Bold, Flashing Scarlet Letter. Wear it proudly Gabriela!

I was that woman.  

Hester Prynne, the mistress, the concubine, the lover, the Dirty Little Secret. 

And when I, as The Dirty Little Secret, was shown to the world, I was shown, like Hester, with a vengeance and malice and spitefulness that I am still paying for today.

I was accused of the very same things my accuser did.  I was “married, with children” and I took her man away from her.  I slipped into his bed and stole him away from a happy, blissful marriage.  The laughable thing about it?  She lived with this man while “married, with children” when they first started out.  And yet I AM THAT WOMAN.

He bent over backwards to do whatever it took to leave her the way she wanted, how she wanted, on her terms and with any wishes, discretion and desire she wanted.  He did whatever it took.  Because he was wracked with guilt and couldnt' face his own choices. But when she found out about his Dirty Little Secret – ME, she splashed it all over the internet.  She emailed every single person they both knew, starting with their lovely children all the way to his boss.  And yet I’m the unscrupulous woman.  The one with no morals and values. I was bombarded with emails and texts about my morals and values and the most disgusting words I have ever heard.  And I was left alone to confront them as any good little mistress should be.

I took someone’s MAN.  Some woman’s possession.   

When my daughter’s father cheated on me, the woman he cheated on me with didn’t “take” him away.  He went willingly.  She wasn’t married to me.  He was.  And actually, she and I get along rather well now.  I have never had any ill-will towards her, I never publicized the fact that he “cheated” on me and I have never spread untruths about her.  She has been good and kind to my daughter, she has helped my daughter through rough patches and she loves my child. And yet I am an unscrupulous woman. 

I knew what I was getting myself into.  I knew what I was doing and I knew there would be consequences.  And the consequences did not include paying for this by being branded a harlot, nor did they include being discarded like someone’s pig slop. 

And yet, here I am.  Dammed proud that I will never, ever stoop so low as to insult someone. 

I stand here, knowing who I am and not ever regretting anything I have ever done.  I have no shame.  I am bold, wiser and oh so very much more than some bitter, unhappy, dominating, uncaring person could ever be for as long as they ever could live.

I wear my Scarlet Letter across my face. I wear it with my head held high, my shoulders up and my back straighter than ever, because I know who I am, I accept my truths and I knew what I was doing.

I am… Hester Prynne.

A shell of a voice

You are blind

Blind and ignorant

Blinded by the lights that have shined in your eyes since before you were You.

Blind and scared.

Too scared to jump. To know, believe, trust.

Too scared to trust that you will land in a safe, comfortable spot. Cushioned and peaceful.

You are blind.

Blind and ignorant.

Blinded by some foolish idea, ingrained in your head; senseless, useless; something even you cannot understand.

Too ignorant to look over the ledge

To see beauty

To hold on to faith

Too ignorant to know

Ignorant you judge and hide and  accuse

Blind, deaf, ignorant, scared, unwilling to change

And your blindness will bind your being; burn inside you, scream out for light

And your ignorance will paralyze you; bury you and choke your dreams

And you will never be free to open your eyes, trust your soul, rid yourself of ignorance and just

JUMP

Change, with a dash of patience

My daughter is the perfect child.

And all parents say that. “My son is perfect. He's a genius.”

“My daughter is wonderful, she is just so loving.”

All parents talk with pride about how wonderfully perfect their child is.

And they talk about how amazing their accomplishments are but they gloss over the fact that this “perfect child” has been angry with them and has treated them like insignificant people for years. Or they ignore the fact that the child is spoiled and demanding and takes advantage of them as human beings.

I have three perfect children. But I'm well aware of their flaws, their insecurities and their occasional bouts of self-entitlement...except my daughter.

She has never had a bad word to say about anyone. And there have been many people around her who have deserved to have really nasty things said about them. People who she has placed her trust in who don't deserve it.

When I was ready to leave her step-father; the father of her younger brothers, and I had made my decision that I wasn't going to stay in this relationship any more, I would become impatient and irritated with everything that came out of his mouth. She would say , “Mom, you need to have patience. You need to be nicer.” And she never criticized, never complained, and never questioned. She showed compassion and love and understanding towards him, even when he didn't deserve it from her.

When her father tries to dominate her and tell her what to think and what to do and how to do it, she would vent to me about her frustration, and never once use one single mean word against him and would always end her rants with “He means well. He just wants to show he cares for me.”

I have lost my patience with her many times. I have gotten angry and loud and argued with her. And she would always come back and try to understand where my anger was coming from and be patient and understanding and caring so that she and I could fix whatever was causing our argument. And she always understands me. She knows me, sometimes better than I know myself.

I see a lot of myself in her. Her fierce independence, her drive, the stubborn way she has to get to where she needs to be. But I have never had her patience. I have never had her compassion and I have never been as responsible and mature as she has always been. I am not as mature at this stage of my life as she has been all her life.

She cares about other people, their feelings and their way of seeing life. She is a genuine friend, a confidant, someone you can really count on. She is the perfect child.

She knows how unhappy I am now. How desperate and impatient I am to leave this place and erase everything that is associated with this life. I want to throw everything out, pack my truck with our backpacks and leave everything behind so no one knows where I'm going and no one ever knows where I'll be.

We have been living in chaos for a year and a half. I used to clean the grout between the floor tile with bleach and an old toothbrush. Now, I've been in various stages of packing and purging for all this time and am so overwhelmed with the enormity of the challenge that we live in a house that my children have never been exposed to. Piles of boxes and containers and papers. It's not dirty. We still sweep and vacuum and dust. It's just chaotic. And she has been trying to help me organize it all because she knows my brain doesn't function with chaos. And I keep repeating that this is no longer my house, I hate it here and I don't want to do anything that is going to make it seem like I'm going to stay here.

Last night we were texting about “home”. I told her “home” was going to be an RV that was going to take me to Santa Cruz and be parked on the beach.

“I want to be in our house with you guys and scrub and clean and vacuum and put it all in neat little piles and make it a happy place while you're there.”

“This isn't home anymore.”

“Okay, but you have to live there, right now, don't you? Why not make the best of it? You've been saying it's not your home for months now yet you're still living there, and that makes for an unpleasant state of mind that you don't need in your life right now. That's like a caterpillar being depressed the entire time he's in his cocoon because he refuses to believe that he has to stay there for as long as he does, and he just keeps saying “I'm just going to pack my shit and go someplace sunny” and God knows if he did that, he would rip open his cocoon and limp around, half-caterpillar and half-butterfly, never truly able to get on his feet in wherever new place he goes, because he was in too much of a hurry to leave.”

She is the Perfect Child. And I defy you to say otherwise.

Crumpled pile of useless, disposable, nothingness

Disillusioned, disappointed, cynical.

It comes from rolling over someone’s soul.

Running over their trust.

Racing through the speed bumps they had always laid out.

So cautiously passing the intersection, looking both ways, expecting the train to come barreling through the flashing lights.

Letting go and trusting.  Trusting…That the lights won’t turn red, the steamroller won’t reach you, the car behind you will stop before it smashes into you and slams your head into the steering wheel.

And you release the white-knuckled grip you have on the wheel, and you ease into the lane; trusting, believing, knowing…

But they saw the train coming head-on, they knew it was there.  They let it smash into you, shattering the windshield, slitting you open with shards of cold, sharp, painful glass, slicing you in half. Scaring you for life.

You trusted…

and so...now?

I am stuck…

I am stuck trying to figure out how to get this all out of my head and onto paper.

Seems like everything before this was desperately seeking to get out and it came so easily and quickly and flowed so well and now, I’m stuck.

I have gotten so far down and so deep into my thoughts, stuff I’ve stifled so far deep down inside, that I can’t seem to make sense of them enough to let them out.

They all seem to be jumbled together, fighting with each other for attention and space on paper. I know what thoughts they are…I can hear them, I recognize them and I hear what they’re saying, I just can’t seem to organize them and have them make sense.  

My thoughts now are like my DISorder…I fight it, I hold on to it, I try to ignore it and only when I let it out, when I make it stop, when I throw up whatever is making me feel out of control, only then do I feel I have actually exhaled.  And my thoughts are all racing to the top, scratching and clawing at each other to be the first ones out, not caring how they look or sound or how they will end up. And that doesn’t help me feel any better about having let them out.

So I start one thought, and write it out, and follow that with whatever random thought comes after it, but they don’t seem to bring any sort of peace.  I wonder if it’s because they are scarier than anything else I’ve been able to say…

Random thoughts of madness, insanity and DISorder, all jumbled and scary and uselessly chaotic.

Says Who?

You can’t.

Who says?

You shouldn’t

Says who?

You mustn’t

Who says?

Don’t

Why?

Why live by what you want for me?

Why live your life for you?

Who says it can’t be done?

I can, I will, I shall.

I will prove you wrong. 

more

tear off my flesh and feed it to the crows

it feels better than this

dig out my eyes and feed them to the ants

it feels better than this

strip my being of all it can give and leave it for the wild animals

rip away my soul

throw it all out, leave it all behind, give it all away, burn it, ignore it, forget it

useless, worthless, meaningless

you will have better than this

And so we meet on craigslist too.

My daughter was home from college this past weekend. Her “other” family spent two days with us.  Her father seems to be trying to atone for his past sins and I finally feel that maybe, just maybe, I might be able to believe that he isn’t trying to take advantage of me. 

It’s hard to think that way.

I have yet to meet one single person who I have not given birth to, who’s not looking to one up me, who’s not looking for an angle in what I share with them or who won’t decide they can’t hack whatever it is I’ve got to offer.

I can say that I am guarded but not threatened by her father anymore.  It’s empowering.  Up until right before she left for college, I was still afraid of him. 

Now, I’m casually civil, not intimidated and oh-so-very secure.

So we had this little conversation about religion.  He and I were brought up catholic and he still is.  Regardless of whatever he wants to be in her life right now, he’s still very narrow-minded, opinionated and still trying to dominate his daughter. 

I don’t believe in what was forced upon me in catholic school.  I didn’t believe it then and I don’t now.  Back then, I had no other choice but to follow along, now, I don’t have to. 

In our little conversation, when we started our discussion, I could feel our daughter take a huge breath in and I could see her tense up.  She got up to do the dishes. Her father and I actually discussed issues without an argument, without raising our voices and without insulting each other.  I, of course, was right (joke!)

Later that evening my daughter said to me that she was really surprised that we actually discussed our own opinions without an argument.  And that she was really nervous at first but then realized that we weren’t the same people we used to be. 

One of her observations about me was that I am “so quick to submiss when you don't feel challenged, but there is a defiance in you that wants to test how far you can push someone, only when they're pushing back. Ergo, when you are met with resistance, you resist. When met with accord, you concede”

These are her exact words, I had her write them down for me because she said exactly who I am.   

I love this child.

And that’s exactly how I feel. I always, because of my experiences, feel I have to push, I have to defend myself, I have to look out for whatever is going to come my way.  The other shoe is ALWAYS going to drop and it will hit me on the head if I’m not ready to move out of the way.

And here’s the perfect example; I’m selling something on craigslist for $150.  I get an email from “john” (his ‘real’ craigslist name) “Is this item still for sale?” Me: “yes”  and his response:

 “Alright,I am buying this for my Cousin,I would have love to come over
to your place and see it myself but my running of day to day business
activities will not give me chance to do that and i will love to see
pics, I will offer you $250 including shipping and i will be paying
you through PayPal so kindly get back to me with your PayPal email or
send me money request so that i can make the payment as soon as
possible to your PayPal account and you need to get back to me as soon
as possible and i want the item to be shipped out as soon as possible
because it is very urgent.”

And there it is…another fucking idiot trying to figure out a way to get the better of me just to see if they can.  Not because he/she knows who I am and says “AH! That’s Gabriela, let’s roll with this one and see if we can fool her.” 

No, just because this person, male or female, decided they’d see who they could fuck over.  And it just so happens he/she got me on a day when I am in no mood to have yet another asshole try to figure out a way to take me for a ride.

I hate it when someone thinks I don’t know what they’re doing.  Not because I think they can get the better of me, but because it’s exhausting keeping your guard up all the time. 

But, I’d rather be exhausted from keeping my guard up, than have my soul stripped to nothingness because I wasn’t looking at where the iron shoe would fall.

Armor on, chin up, back straight, shoulders back.  

And never, ever let your ground down.  Even for a second.

I am...all of this, too much for you, bigger than this.

I started off this blog anonymously.  Not because I was concerned about what anyone would think about me, but because I thought it would be easier for someone to read this without thinking about who was writing it.

I just hung up from the most eye-opening conversation I’ve ever had.   

Don’t ever trust anyone. I’m going to say how I feel, what I feel, when I feel.  I won’t be saying it to offend, judge or upset anyone.  I’ll be saying it because I am open and honest.  If someone doesn’t like what I say or who I am, they have the choice to delete my information from their files, or as is normal - to ignore me or stop reading this blog.

I’ve been opened and honest with people, not because I cared what they thought about me,  but because that is who I am.  And what I’ve inevitably and without fail have gotten back is lies and dishonesty.  I have bared my soul and shared with loved ones the deepest, darkest parts of my being. And when they get that far down inside of my being, they do a double-take and decide they no longer like what they see or who I am and choose to start behaving differently.  And here’s what I have to say: “That’s on you.” 

I will not change for anyone, I will not trust anyone and I will never, ever be who you think I am. I will be me; messed up, insane, passionate and TRUE.  I won't be going back on anything I've said and you can be sure that if you share your most intimate thoughts with me, I won't later act like we never shared our lives together.

And you all know what you can do with what I am if you don’t like it; ignore me, delete me, disown me.  That’s on you. 

You are now welcomed to read my bio, it’s who I am.  And just because I tell you who I am, doesn’t mean I trust you.  It means I am honest.

"Cure for an obsession: get another one." Mason Cooley

“Between half and 90 percent of people with eating disorders have a mood, impulse control, or anxiety disorder that should also be treated in order to achieve successful recovery” (Facing an Eating Disorder as an Adult)

 

In relation to Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, a common ailment and/or sign that is seen in both eating disorders and OCD is the obsession and ritualistic behaviors that tends to be cyclic and incapacitating to the patient. In anorexia nervosa, the afflicted individuals will have unusual methods of eating, dieting and exercising to satisfy their compulsive obsession to keep weight off.  According to Thorton & Russell (1997), anorexic individuals are much more likely to have a predisposition to acquiring anorexia nervosa from pre-existing OCD and in fact, almost 37% of anorexic patients have OCD. (OCD Chicago.org)

 

“Impulse control disorder”.  Yup, Impulsive is my middle name.  I jump first before thinking about where I’m going to land. Once I’m up in the air my brain starts to wonder how hard the surface will be when I land and how the jolt will feel on my knees.  Impulsive, but aware that there are consequences to my impulsive actions, which I figure I’ll deal with after the fact.  Yup, that’ll work.

I’ve started trying to add veggies to my “diet” of almonds and coffee.  Bean sprouts and zucchini seem to work nicely. I’ve tried adding lentils; some days they work, some days they don’t.  But then, along with adding food comes adding more time on the treadmill.  Which ties into the OCD of this DISorder.  Obsessive weighing has been replaced by obsessive exercising.

I obsess about a lot!

I carry hand sanitizer in my purse, in my car and on my desk. Germs are everywhere!

When I walk into a grocery store, I repeat over and over three things I need to buy to stop myself from thinking of the germs that have touched the cart I’m pushing. (Those handy-dandy sanitizing wipes available at the door don’t seem to do much)

I can’t stand holding money. I don’t like the smell it leaves on my hands.  I’ve tried to figure out if it is because of all the other hands that have touched the money before mine did, but no, it’s the smell.  Money smells bad, (probably why I’ll never win the lottery!)

I obsess about smelling stuff.  I cannot for the life of me hold a book, a magazine, a pamphlet, anything printed, in my hands and not HAVE to sniff it! I love smelling things, sharpened pencils, crayons, ammonia, flowers, the sea…anything.

I obsess about my iPhone.  I’ve had it crash a few times and I’ve lost all the information on it and I don’t want anyone to touch it.  I don’t sync it with my computer, I don’t let anyone add anything to it, and I don’t update it.  Just leave it alone and we’ll all be fine.

I obsess about brushing my teeth. 

And now that my brain has taken a vacation with the obsession with the scale, it’s now decided to obsess about running again. 

This past weekend my daughter was home from college for a few days.  She and I and her brothers, along with her “surrogate” mom and pop, all went out for dinner to her favorite Mexican restaurant.  I thought I did well with dinner.  No meat, no rice, no beans.  Just tortilla chips and two flour tortillas (loaded with carbs!), guacamole (loaded with fat!), and salsa (loaded with guilt!). I thought I did ok, I was ignoring the carbs and the fat and the guilt and the anxiety to get home and brush my teeth.  And when we got home, not only did I brush my teeth, but without a conscious thought in my pretty little obsessive brain, I put on my workout clothes and I got on the treadmill. I know exactly how much I have to run in order to work off anything I eat.  So, I’m eating and not obsessing about the scale, I’m now obsessing about the treadmill.  I’m just substituting one obsession for another.

“…OCD is the obsession and ritualistic behaviors that tends to be cyclic and incapacitating to the patient…”

 

I Am My Disorder…all of them.

 

 

 

In life after life, in age after age forever.

I seem to have loved you in numberless forms, numberless times, 

In life after life, in age after age forever. 

My spell-bound heart has made and remade the necklace of songs 

That you take as a gift, wear round your neck in your many forms 

In life after life, in age after age forever. 

Whenever I hear old chronicles of love, its age-old pain, 

Its ancient tale of being apart or together, 

As I stare on and on into the past, in the end you emerge 

Clad in the light of a pole-star piercing the darkness of time: 

You become an image of what is remembered forever. 

You and I have floated here on the stream that brings from the fount 

At the heart of time love of one for another. 

We have played alongside millions of lovers, shared in the same 

Shy sweetness of meeting, the same distressful tears of farewell - 

Old love, but in shapes that renew and renew forever. 

Today it is heaped at your feet, it has found its end in you, 

The love of all man's days both past and forever: 

Universal joy, universal sorrow, universal life, 

The memories of all loves merging with this one love of ours - 

And the songs of everypoet both past and forever.  Tagore

Fantasylandia

I don't want a knight in shining armor to swoop down from the Enchanted Castle on the hill and save me from the dragons.

I want to slay the dragons myself. I have my own armor, my own sword, all the gear I need to slice off heads and feed them to the crows.

I would like a knight to help me take off my armor, hang up my belt, help me with my steel-toe heels and say "Wow! Awesome job!"

I don't need a knight to help me dig the trench around my fort, I don't need him to let down the drawbridge, or lug the firewood in.

I would just like him to notice my hard work and offer me a warm spot next to him after I've built a fire.

Knights in shining armor and I have a lot in common; we both live in a fantasy world.

I am...stubborn.

I am...

Doing what I can
Facing what I am
Living where I am
Loving how I can

Living as well as I can
Knowing who I am
Struggling with what I am

I
Am
Here

Trudging through a vat of pudding.

Inside myself, looking into what I think, what I believe and who I know I am, I hear the voice of cynicism. I hear the voice of what I can only call disappointment.

I am disappointed at the truths i face every day, although I can still trudge on, carrying them with me, not allowing them to bare me down but very aware of their constant and heavy load. 

I don't believe there is any worth in what I've given of myself, because in this thick vat of pudding I trudge through, I can feel it try to suck me in.

But aren't we all trudging along together? Don't we all have truths that make us realize that we are disillusioned and disappointed  in ourselves?

I am aware that my truth is that, what I have done, who I have loved and the way in which I have lived my life has meant nothing.

The only thing I can hold on to is the love that I give and receive from my children. That is not in question. They are my entire life. There is nothing that makes me doubt them. I am proud of how I have raised them. Even with my feelings of worhlessness, I can see who I am in them, without my disillusions, disappointments and cynicism.
I see their strength, their fierce independence and the strong and unwavering values and beliefs they never let go of. 
I taught them that. They learned that from me. They learned to stand up for what they believe in no matter if it means they must stand alone.
I did that.

And yet, what has that brought me?  What has my fierce independence, my stubbornness, my love for others brought me? 
I have never wavered in my beliefs. I have been who I am always, even when others have wanted to beat my stubborness out of me, I have still held on to it. 

And it has meant nothing. To no one. For no one.
 It is all worthless. I am replaceable by anyone who can become what I think I am. 

I have nothing left to give. I can shield myself from the disillusionment I carry, not let it beat the stubbornness out of me, remember who I am but I will never forget that I mean nothing to no one.

I am...my own defense.

I am...worthless

Completely replaceable.

i am so god-damned useless i can be replaced any time.
By another child, another lover, another warm body.

i can feel how useless i am.
i have been replaced. By your other child. By your other lover. By anyone else BUT me and what i have to give you.
Because it is totally and completely and utterly useless.
It is worthless. 

And i am that - W O R T H L E S S and replaceable by anyone else, anything else, whatever else.

Worth: ZERO.

Open mouth, insert foot.

Nobody ever walks up to someone and says "wow! Look at how fat you've gotten! Are you ok?"

Why does every fucking person on this crazy, insane, absurd, planet, have to go up to someone and say "wow! Look at how thin you are!" "Are you ok?" With some slight variations: "Are you dieting" "are you working out?" "are you stressed out" "are you eating?" 
I like that one; "are you eating?" That's funny. I've had the same person ask me that twice in a three month span.  "Did you get new boobs?" I asked. She looked at me as if I had sprouted alfalfa from my nose.

What the fuck kind of a question is that? 

Ask a fat person about their weight, see what happens!

"oh my god! Look at how much weight you've gained! How much have you been eating?" Rude, right? Yeah, that's how I feel when someone uses that in reverse. "Oh my god! Look at how thin you are. Are you eating?"

Maybe it's because I'm so conscious of my DISorder or maybe it's because I look in the mirror and don't see "thin". But it bothers me and I want to creep into a hole and hide my body and my face and my entire being!

"hey skinny-Minnie!" what the hell is that? Shall I say "hey, fatty-patty!"?
Politically correct idiots in a fifty mile radius would surely have my hide, roast it and feed it as comfort food to the person I've just insulted by calling them Fat. 

Cheese on bread! What the fuck with stupid ass labels? Why do people feel the need to comment on the thinness of someone?

A lawyer today, who I hadn't seen in ages and I know very well said: " Haven't seen you around in a while. You look good. You look very good." 

Bee-cause I looked like WHAT exactly before?!

Fucking hell: "Are you eating?"

"No! I'm starving myself because I'm not aware that I'm hurting my body and food makes me want to throw up!"

That ok for you?

I am...not okay

Some of the few things I used to enjoy eating; avocado, lettuce, salmon, prosciutto.

I had a particularly difficult time the last time I ate salmon and have not been able to eat it since. 
A "difficult time" involved throwing up after eating  which is really disgusting to actually say and it requires facing the truth of my actions...so, ok...let me start again- 
The last time I ate salmon, I made myself throw up and now I can't eat it anymore...fuck! That was hard to say out loud.

So "safe food" became avocado, lettuce and prosciutto...

And somehow, lettuce was no longer comfortable and avocado went right along with it.

So that left prosciutto. And coffee. A lot of coffee.

I cannot seem to be able to eat anything without my body going into panic mode and every cell in my body screaming at the top of their little iddy-biddy cellular lungs that they don't want this to happen.

What exactly goes through my mind? No fucking clue! I have no dammed clue why my brain reacts this way and smacks my body into panic-mode but tonight it went absolutely bronco-bucking WILD!

Open fridge, remove prosciutto, place on counter, unwrap, roll up slice, place in mouth, chew.
Something I've done over and over. Countless times. 

Safe, fast, easy.

Except tonight; when my brain looked down at the prosciutto, saw it's nasty presentation, felt it's disgusting texture being chewed and it went: "DEAD! RAW! PIG!"  Literally. 

And that's the end of that. 

Something I have have felt comfortable eating for ever and ever is now joining the ranks of "if I allow myself to chew this horrid thing, I will be physically ill."

What the fuck is my brain doing? 
What kind of ignorant games is it tying to play?

Every single dammed food is wrapped in a cloak of disgust and fear. Of what? What is inside my brain that makes it all so fucking sickening and scary?

I am Insane.

I am...tired

Peace
I seek

Peace
I lack

Peace 
I need

Peace
Eludes

Peace
I crave

To Be

I

A
M

M
Y

Deranged
Irrational
Senseless
Obsessed
Ridiculous
Demented
Extreme
Repulsive

I am...her

I am that woman.

I am the one who believes in true, passionate, deep, all-encompassing love and whose heart was shattered to pieces.

I am that woman.

I am the one whose pain is secretly hidden in the countless bodies that cover her skin.

I am that woman.

I am the one whose strength is tied up in a mental illness that cannot be erased.

I am that woman.

I am the one whose secrets haunt her and build a canopy of darkness around her soul.

I am that woman.

I am the one who is stoned in the village square for taking a life, for being the harlot, for becoming the concubine, for destroying another woman's dream, for loving the impossible, for her insanity.

I am that woman.

I offer no explanation, no excuse, no justification.

I will stand tall, fierce, proud and strong while you pelt stones against me for the sins you keep hidden. 

I am...eternally yours.

I am still in love with my highschool sweetheart. I've been in love with him since he was 15. I've always had him in my heart, he knew me before I was me, he broke my heart, he is the one I still love deeply.

When he went off to college, I knew he was going to own the world. He was going to grab it by the balls and make it his. 

Almost 30 years after I fell in love with him, we are still connected. We share a bond that is unique, that transcends miles, that has no explanation, that defies logic. I have loved him all my life, in all my lifetimes and those still to come. It just is.

It makes me happy to be able to share my life and that of my children with him. To have shared my daughter's prom with him, to have been able to hold his hand during her graduation and to share my son's first homecoming. I was comforted by his voice when my son ran away, when my daughter's cutting got out of control, I can share with him the mellow nature of my youngest and he was the first person I was ever able to be honest with about my eating disorder.

He and I got into mischief together as teenagers, (I think he got into more than I did,), but I can share those stories with my children and they know who I'm talking about, and they can see who mom used to be.

He is the sane, mellow, patient, compassionate one in our friendship, while I'm the insane, illogical, impulsive one. He guides me down from my impulsive decisions, he knows who I am and has infinite patience with my temper and my outbursts.

I love the sound of his voice. I love the warmth and comfort in it when I talk to him. Actually, I love everything about him, down to the core of his soul. And I love him because of who he is. He has no malice in his heart, he is a beautiful person who cares deeply about those he loves.

It makes me happy to be able to have him in my life, as my best friend, as my sounding board, as someone I wish I could be; loving, compassionate, kind and patient. 
Thank you for being in my life.
Namaste.

Insanity looms large.

I found out, not too long ago, that an eating disorder was a mental illness. I never thought of it that way. But how can it not be? It's insane to CHOOSE not to eat.

I am the single mother of 3 with a job that involves a very long commute, a lot of money for gas and a paycheck that arrives whenever. We are going through a tough time financially the likes of which I have not seen since I was a single mother the first time. But, I can still pay my electric bill and put food on the table. I can occasionally send money to my daughter in college and we have counted on the help of very close friends, who I'm so very grateful to.

I consider my childhood one of privilege.  I went to the best private schools, a private university, had a brand new car and never remember needing anything. But somehow, I always felt uncomfortable with it all. My second husband grew up poor and while we were married, he worked very hard to have "things", which he did for everyone around him to see what he had. 
I taught my children to dislike material possessions and to see that "stuff" really didn't mean anything. They learned well, never took their things for granted and never put much importance on the "stuff" they did have.
They see how difficult it is for us at the moment and they continue to be grateful for what they do have and they see how much more difficult others around them have it. Some of my teenaged son's friends cannot pay for their own school lunches and the spare change he has in his pocket he gladly shells out for his best friend's meal. 
There are people going to the shelters to get food and many of the charitable organizations are struggling to feed the community. 

But I still choose not to eat. I make that my decision.  That is my mental illness. Choosing to do something that others are begging to do.  It's just as bad as having "things" so those who aren't as well of can see how good I have it.  It's ridiculous to hear myself say "let me see if I can eat a slice of toast today." 
That is insanity. 

How insane is it to volunteer with my boys at the rescue mission and be offered to sit with them all and choose not to eat? How does that even begin to make sense?

What good does it do to teach my children to value themselves and not their "things" when I am choosing this? I am insane. I beg the divine universe that my insanity does not get in the way of what I have instilled in my children. I am no better than those who see "stuff" as something of value. I am my DISorder. 

Rainbows and unicorns

 I love Santa Cruz, CA. I love Seattle Washington. I love Seattle Sounders games at Qwest Field.  I love cappuchinos from Peets in Freemont. I love watching the Super Bowl. I love walking along the Cumberland River. I love wet sand on my feet. I love the mountains. I love fishing. I love the ocean. I love the river. I love warm sand between my toes. I love skipping stones on the water. I love really, really high heels. I love pretty nails. I love diamonds. I love hot, sticky, sweaty, summer days. I love a cigarette with my first cup of coffee. I love makeup. I love tattoos. I love toe rings and anklets. I love loud music. I love reading.  I love cowboy boots. I love horseback riding. I love the movie BUCK. I love wildflowers picked by my kids. I love the way my daughter's hair smells. I love the curls my oldest son has. I love the way my youngest son flicks his hair from his eyes. I love listening to people share their lives. I love dogs. I love running. I love my kettlebell program. I love the feeling of an empty stomach. I love seeing how long I can go without eating. I love.

No conditions

Do you except an “I love you” back?

When you tell someone “I love you”, are you waiting for the “I love you” back? 
Or are you content with just saying it? 
Is your “I love you” conditional upon them saying it back?  
Would your “I love you” change if you don’t get it back? 
 
I like those words - “I love you”. They are beautiful and happy and satisfying to say.  And while I feel different degrees of “I love you”, I never expect it back.  Because my “I love you” isn’t conditional on whether you love me or not.  I feel this way, regardless of whether you do or not.  Your feelings aren’t going to change the fact that I love you.  I’m still going to.  If I feel close enough to you to tell you “I love you”, it’s because I do.  Whether I love you with the pure, deep, open, honest, all-encompassing love of lifetimes of eternal knowing; whether I love you because you are a wonderful person, with kindness and compassion in your heart; whether I love you because you’re my child, who fills me with wonder and awe and a love so deep that it fills my soul and makes me whole…I love you.
And it isn’t conditional on whether you love me back. 
 
So I don’t need to hear it back.  It makes me happy just to tell you “I love you”, because of who you are, because of how you think, because of your soul.
 
I love you.

"They have balls. Your mother has them in her purse. They just have constructive possession"

What have I ever done to you for you to have hated me all my life? You have an evil soul that spouts out hatred and venom for the failure you became. 

I didn't ask you to be in this world, I never asked you to love me but I don't understand your hatred.

I have lived my life fighting against everything you ever did, every nasty word that came out of your mouth; every angry, disgusting, evil thing you ever did against me.

I have become the mother you could never be.  I chose to love my children. I never wanted to be like you and I have made that the focus of my childrens' lives; to let them know with every waking breath, what an honor it is to have them in my life, how incredibly lucky I am that my children chose me to be their mother and what amazing and beautiful beings they are.

Something you never taught me. 
Your hatred and your envy and your greedy never turned me into you and I am so grateful I am nothing like you.
Even with my DISorder, I can still see through it to love my children, to want to get better for them not to fear that I will turn against them.

You were a nasty, hateful, disgusting alcoholic who hated her own flesh and blood and despised every beautiful thing in her life.
I loved you, even through your disgusting alcoholic rages, I loved you. And all you gave me was contempt.

I was born of the soul of the earth and abandoned to the winds of fate. I have no mother. 

I love being a girl.

I don't consider myself a feminist.
As a matter of fact, I enjoy ribbing the whole feminist movement and find it absolutely ridiculous that a woman could feel that heels and hose are a man's way to oppress and dominate women. It's so beautiful to see a well dressed woman and personally, there is no such thing as heels that are too high.

I love pretty feminine clothes. I love putting on make up and getting pretty for my man to look at me and sigh and i have done it and will continue to do it for my man to like what he sees. I love having the door opened for me by a man, I like a man who knows what he has, I like doing his laundry and I like to take care of him.

I can also change my own oil, fix a flat and check the transmission fluid. I can hang drywall, lay tile and fix the plumbing. I choose not to do it if there's a man who can do it for me. 

I do believe that you can subject yourself to your partner without losing yourself and he can own you without dominating you. Just like you can own him. You can give your heart and soul, your entire being to each other and not let that be a reason to lose who you are.

I believe men and women have their place in a relationship without either one feeling less of a person. Men are physically stronger than women, most of the time, but let me see a man carry a child for nine months, deliver an 8lb baby, breast-fed every two hours and still get up, go to work and take care of the home and then we can talk about who's stronger than whom. I personally, can't lift anything heavier than a two year old so I won't put myself any higher than a man.

But why do some women believe that if they allow a man to make a decision, to take control, to show he can care for her, suddenly she is inferior to him. Why the need to emasculate a man just to prove she too has a brain?

Why is the woman "expected" to cook and clean and serve her man just because that's her "role".

I believe that true love, understanding and a real partnership between a man and a woman, involves the understanding of just that, a partnership. I take care of you, you take care of me and we both join together to love, honor and obey each other, without either one of us loosing ourselves to the dominance and control of our partner.

I am not a feminist. 
I will take care of my partner, I will show him how much I love him, I will make him feel like the most beautiful soul on earth, because I know, understand and expect him to do the same for me. And it won't make either one of us any less of a person. It will make us stronger as human beings to know that we have someone who loves, honors and appreciates us for who we are; their equal in love.

Cranberry with a slice of gut wrenching anxiety

My busy little bumble bee daughter was always running around after she got her license her senior year.

She had her own car and I had the confidence in her to know that she knew what she was doing and didn't give her a curfew other than to say "well, I'll see you in the morning."
Sometimes I'd wake up and her car was home and sometimes I'd wake up to a text, "mom, its already late, I'm crashing at so and so's place, I love you."

Now in college, it's no exception. She's always rushing off somewhere. We text each other many times a day but sometimes don't get a chance to talk. 

Last night, we had a nice long "catch up on the last few days chat."

She was telling me about a lecture she had gone to, given by a woman in recovery for an eating disorder.
"mom, she was you. I could totally relate to everything she said because I've heard you say the same things. "
And we talked about her cutting and what different places we both are in now in our "recoveries" and how much better we are able to communicate now that neither one of us is accusing the other of pretending we're both in control to be the stronger one in our relationship.  Did I mention just how amazing this child is?

And then we turned the conversation to Thanksgiving...Groan.

I just want it to disappear. I don't want to have a house full of the smell of food, have a table full of ridiculously huge plates of every food imaginable and have a refrigerator stuffed with left overs.
I want to wiggle my way out of having to face food and having to cook and smell and see food!

In terms of weeks, thanksgiving is a long way away. In terms of an eating disorder, thanksgiving looms right around the corner and I can already feel my body tense up and anxiety fills the core of my being.

I am trying to face this DISorder. Im trying to gain some sort of control and power over it. I don't want thanksgiving to drag me under the murky water and leave me gasping for air.
It's as if I'm healing from an injury and my body is fighting an infection all at once, and instead of resting and taking my medication, I rush off to climb a mountain and forget my prescription...not going to help heal anything; it feels to me like a major setback.

The difference this year, is that I can actually ignore thanksgiving. With my daughter coming from college for four days and her father and his family wanting to see her and my boys also figuring out what her schedule will be so that they can decide when they're going to see their dad, it's an easy decision for me. It won't be the first time they've all been away for "stuff your face with disgusting and nauseating crap" day, why not this year too?

I can ship them all off to their wonderfully caring and oh-so-incredibly-sane fathers and presto! All gone! No smells, no food, no left-overs, no stress. It's only one day and we can all come together and spend some comfortable, stress-free family time after all the excuses to eat are over with.

But would I be facing my DISorder, or hiding from it's grip?
And having admitted that I don't think I can do this, am I on the road to recovery or ignoring something I desperately need to face? 
Does it matter? Does the fact that I know I don't want a set-back make up for those questions? 

Such a long way away and yet already threatening to undo the little bit of progress I'm pretending to make.

It's getting cold out there.

I wonder what it would be like to have someone hold my hand and say “Come on, let’s tackle this together.”

I’ve faced some intense and very scary situations along the path that lead me here and I can’t ever remember hearing that.

I believe I’ve steeled myself to doing things on my own because I’ve never had my hand held during times when I’ve needed it.  I’ve never felt the warmth and safety of a hand to make mine stronger.

When I look back at the difficult times in my life, I can’t think of anyone I can rely on who would have been strong enough to have held my hand, given mine a squeeze and have made me feel protected.

And I’ve learned to face things on my own without that comfort.

My hands are cold and they ache for the comfort of another one to warm them up, hold them tight and say “I've got you.”

I know they will always be cold.  Because the occasional “Hey, how are you doing today?” of a well-intentioned friend doesn’t bring warmth if it’s accompanied by the knowledge that they have their own hands to warm up.

I have faced everything I have been given, I can face everything to come, I have grown accustomed to the cold. 

I wonder how it would feel if I could just entwine my fingers around the warm, comfortable strength of someone else’s and those fingers would squeeze mine tightly and take the edge off the cold...

I see...

I have a shameful little secret.
It is sealed inside of me.

I have a shameful little secret.
And I'm afraid to let you see.
I wonder if you'd hate me if I unwrap that part of me.

I have a shameful little secret 
And no one shares that part of me.

When you discover my little secret you will know that you are me.
But one thing separates us,
YOUR secret is safe with me.

Consider the source

How do you explain a life?

My daughter will be nineteen in a few weeks and I am constantly amazed at the beautiful being that she has always been. I am in awe of her and the maturity with which she faces the world and the beauty and compassion she sees and shows everywhere.

When people ask her how many siblings she has, how does she explain that she is the oldest of six but that three of them have different last names, two of them have a different mother and three have a different dad? Sounds very ghetto, but she has had the same set of parents up until recently when I divorced my second husband.

Her father and her step-mother have been together since before he and I were divorced and my second ex-husband and I had been together for sixteen years.

She calls her step-mother “mom” and I know who she’s talking about by the tone of her voice when she talks about her.  I get along well with her.  She’s a tough cookie and from very early on in her relationship with my daughter’s dad she had the guts and backbone to stand up to him, something I was never able to do.

I have nasty memories of the eleven years we were together.  It was a physically and emotionally abusive relationship and the memory of his strength and anger haven’t faded even after seventeen years.

Now that our daughter is off in college and I’m divorced a second time, he seems to believe he needs to atone for the sins of our relationship.  And I can’t let myself believe that he isn’t looking for some way to get the better of me.  Not in a sexual sense, but in an emotionally dominating way.

My daughter knows how I feel about him.  It’s never been a secret to her that the scar across my forehead was put there by him, that my eating disorder was his favorite weapon against me and that I can’t trust a word of what he says.

And yet, he has said that he wants to put the past behind us and he wants to make up for what we went through before.  He says our daughter turned out the way she did only because of how I’ve brought her up and what an influence I’ve been in her life.  But does that mean that I forgive and forget the evil I see in his face when I remember our relationship?  Do I betray my daughter’s trust in me and become his “friend” and therefore, no longer make her uncomfortable when we’re both in the same room together?

When she would come back home from staying with him and his family, she would share with shock and disgust the things he was teaching her other siblings.  “Mom! He said that if a white person and a black person have children they will be albinos!”  “Mom! They believe that gay people are vile and they are all going to burn in hell!”  “He said that people who have tattoos and nose piercings are all scumbags who won’t amount to anything but drug abuse and end up in jail.”

Needless to say she keeps her small tattoo well hidden and it took her a long time to keep her nose piercing in place when she would visit him.

The things she heard from him haven’t changed her own personal beliefs nor have they made her dislike him. But he still wants to tell her what she needs to do, how she needs to do it and what she isn’t doing right. 

I’ve let her make her own decisions, trust her own judgment, believe in her own gods and she has been independent to come and go as she pleases since before she was a senior in high school.   And she has always known that I have her back. No matter what.

She can’t depend on him that way.  She shows an incredible amount of compassion and understanding and patience with him but continues to do things the way she feels she needs to, no matter what he says to her, but she is always weighed down by knowing that she has to keep things hidden from him.

Why would I want to become “friends” with someone I know will always try to be a dominant force in my life?  Haven’t I had enough of that before?  Wasn’t it bad enough when we were “in love”, what would make it any better now when I see him as still being narrow-minded and untrustworthy?

In honor of my daughter’s strength and maturity, the only thing I can do to make her life easier, is to be civil and polite with him in her presence.

For my own emotional safety, I cannot ever trust that he truly wants to make peace for our past sins and really cares about my well being. I trusted him once before and my life was a living hell.  

I have been honored with the presence of this amazing child in my life. And her soul explains it all.

A mind is a terrible thing to waste.

It’s hilarious to see my mind at work.  It’s rather entertaining.

I have music on (really, really loud) most of the day when I’m alone at home.  It makes the noises shut up. The problem with that is that as soon as I turn it off and get the sensation back in my ears, the noises come back with a vengeance!

I don’t believe I dwell on these noises.  I just keep them bottled and stuffed and pressed way, way , waaaay down deep in the bottomless pit of who I am.

And this is why I write.  Because I don’t want to speak out loud the thoughts that go through my head.  I don’t have the energy to open my mouth and say all the things that rumble inside my skull.  Once I take what’s inside this iddy-biddy little insignificant brain and pour it out on paper, empty it into the great wide open, it makes room for yet another mass of insignificant chatter and the one on paper isn’t as loud anymore.

“Cheap Therapy” my daughter says.  

I’ve dabbled in Therapy.  I’ve sat across the room from someone who furrowed their brow and took notes and asked questions as if they really cared what was coming out of my mouth.  I see the little cartoonish thought bubble above their head and the sound of Charlie Brown’s mother in his tv specials is what I imagined they were thinking.

How is what I tell you in 45 minutes going to make you understand who I am and what I am stuffing and stifling inside of me?

It’s an interminable loop that leads one to the other and can’t be compartmentalized into little chunks of life that fit into 45 minutes of the sound of my voice bouncing around the walls punctuated by the hems and haws of fake understanding that a PHD gives more credibility to. 

And after 45 minutes of an uncorked soul, there is still more that needs to follow that same stream and now it is supposed to be reigned in and calmed and compressed and shoved back inside and tightens it’s grip and threatens to choke my being because it’s already seen the glimpse of light. 

So, what?  I’m expected to just stop spewing feelings and wait for the next time I’m sitting across from a face that feigns concern and understanding of issues they’re heard countless times and because they’re heard some things countless times I’m going to be lumped into the same pot of boiling, scalding, interminable madness?

I see things differently than their license to practice listening and appropriate body language allows them to pretend they understand.

So I write.  

 Because I can drown out the noises with the clicking of my keyboard, or I can abandon them with the blink of the cursor, or I can organize them and make them look pretty. 

And I don’t have to shut up in 45 minutes.

There are no coincidences

Why do people lie?         

A lie, an omission, a pretense, it’s all the same.

Do people believe that if they omit something, then they aren’t really lying?

As far back as I can remember I’ve had this odd ability to feel things that other people couldn’t. “Normal people” call it a sixth sense. I call it a part of who I am.

I used to feel my grandparents for a long time after they died.  Sometimes, my grandfather would be in the same room with me. He would just be there.  He didn’t have a particular form, it was just his presence. 

I felt that same way with my grandmother after she died.  

It wasn’t as if I could actually see them or hear them, it was more like sensing that they were there. I wasn’t particularly close to them; I’ve lived on the other side of the world, thousands of miles away from them all my life, so it’s not as if I had been with them much while they were alive. I don't believe in ghosts so I know they weren't "ghosts".

When I lived in Peru, I used to get an odd sensation sometimes.  It wasn’t something that made me unable to function, just an odd sensation that was sort of hovering over me. And it never failed that there would be an earthquake not too long after I became conscious of this sensation.  It’s not as if I could predict an earthquake, I didn’t know what the sensation was.  It just sort of happened that after I became conscious of this very particular sensation, an earthquake would occur. 

OK so, earthquakes happen in Peru a lot! But I don’t believe in coincidences.  Nothing in life is a coincidence.  Every single thing happens for a reason.

With some people around me, I can “feel” them.  I can sense something else that I don’t feel with anyone else.  I don’t necessarily have to be attached to that person, I can just feel something. With some people that I’m really, really close to, I can look into their eyes and it’s almost as if I can see under their skin.  I can feel when they are omitting something.  It isn’t a conscious thought that makes me stop and say “oh, you aren’t being truthful.” it’s just a  feeling.

My older son used to tell me that there was music in the sound of the car tires.  That he would see “things around people”, that he sensed people’s energy.  He would stare at someone and tell me, “Mom, I see their head really, really small and far away.” And I remember trying to explain that feeling to my mother; except I wasn’t as young as my son was when he said it to me. And I know exactly what he’s feeling and it’s inexplicable.

I believe that I’ve had other lives that I’ve lived before and that I will live again.  Not in the biblical sense of my soul going up to heaven and finding eternal peace with a band of angels and the Hallelujah chorus in the background. No, I mean real, alive, breathing, walking on an earth that may or may not be this one.

I don’t believe there is anyone outside of my three kids who I’ve shared this oddity with.  I can’t explain it, I don’t feel I have to, it just is.

Maybe that’s why I can’t stand it when people lie.  When I look them in the eyes, stare deep down inside of them and know that they are lying or to make themselves feel better “Omitting” something.

Why would you lie to me?  So I might get hurt, so I might ask lots of questions, but after I understand what you’ve said, or understand how I feel about what you’ve said, I will eventually shut up.  And it will make me feel different and probably closer to you. 

People that I’m especially bonded to, I can tell just by the sound of their voice that there’s something inside them that they are omitting.  I can feel something about them even from far away.  It’s as if their brain wave just jumped and I could feel that something in them just changed.  And it isn’t always something negative, and it doesn’t mean I know exactly what it is, I can just feel it.

So it drives me insane when I ask a very, very specific question and I know, I can “feel”, I can sense that someone is lying, or simply as my son who shares my same oddities says “I wasn’t lying, I was omitting certain details.” 

"I am the eye in the sky
Looking at you
I can read your mind
I am the maker of rules
Dealing with fools
I can cheat you blind
And I don't need to see any more
To know that
I can read your mind."(The Alan Parsons Project)