No Shame

Because I am desperately trying to live above and beyond the shame spiral in which I have dwelled for most of my life, I am about to share something with all of you.  I am deeply disappointed in myself (which, I suppose, isn't much different being ashamed but I'll allow myself this, for now).  I really truly HATE quantifying weight based on a number on a scale but, such is life, and I'm going to do it.  I currently weigh 175 pounds.  Thud.  I am 5'6" (and, depending on the day, I'm told, 1/2, so I'll grant myself that as well).  If I felt good, was healthy and fit clothes well at 175, I truly believe I'd be okay with it.  But I, most definitely, do not.  I not only look but FEEL overweight, for me.

I have gained at least 10 pounds since being back in New York, if not 15, and I am not pleased about it.  I literally just tried on every pair of pants I own and put each pair that doesn't currently fit in my hall closet, which is good, in a way.  I fully believe that I WILL fit into them again.  I am not just going to sit around and bitch and moan and drown my sorrows in chips and chocolate the way I usually do.  (Gee, sensing a pattern here?  I sure am.) I despise exercise but I will figure out something I can tolerate, even if it's walking the chilly Long Island winter streets.

That is the key here.  I am going to change something I can.  Everyone, every last one of us, can put the Serenity Prayer into action in our daily lives and damn it, that is what I intend to do.  It startles me how relevant those words are to each human being on the planet, whether one is in recovery of some sort or not.

So, despite my gloomy beginning, I want to end this post on an uplifting note.  I CAN and WILL change my weight.  I WILL fit into those pants again, if not a smaller size.  I am not going to beat myself up about this (more than the little bit I already have, taunting myself aloud as each pair of pants went into the hall closet).  I am going to CHANGE.

I feel lighter already.

December

Rough time for me, December. It's hard to remember a time when December simply meant snow and vacation and Christmas and presents and my family the way I used to perceive it. Now there are so many more associations, new ones that have virtually obliterated the former.

I kind of dread December now and I hate that it has to be this way. I want to go back to that innocent carefree time it was in my youth. Although honestly, was it really so carefree? The more I ponder, the more I recall stressing myself out for most (if not all) of Christmas break about one term paper or another or whose house I'd be going to for Christmas dinner that year.

Of course, in retrospect, those were minuscule worries compared to the ones I face now like how will I get my mother through this, only her second Christmas without her son. He died on December 21st, Mom barely had time for it to register last year. Now, there is nothing but time for the reality to sink in. Then there's December 28, the fourteenth anniversary of my father's death, from which my mom has moved on in no way whatsoever.  This will be the first Christmas we have spent together since 2003 so it will be interesting, to say the least.

Rough time for me, December. I guess now I just wait and see.

Truth

I'm learning, albeit slowly, that the fact that not everyone in the world likes me is not only acceptable but kind of a gift. I mean, after all, it's not like I like everyone I encounter, far from it. I've become far more selective over the years about who I want in my life and I've decided that keeping my circle small is not only advisable but necessary to my overall well-being.

That being said, far worse than not being liked is being patronized by people who clearly have issues with me but lack the balls to address them. I can empathize with this plight to a degree because for most of my life, I lacked the courage to engage in much conflict and simply bit my tongue to avoid such. However, now that I've evolved into a self-loving (okay, not quite, not always) or at least a self-liking rather than self-loathing individual, I realize what a true disservice it is not only to me but to the other person to dance around that elephant in the room rather than engage in an honest discourse about our true feelings.

So, the point is, like me, hate me or anything above, below, or in between but please, whatever you feel, be fucking honest about it.

Safe

Wow. Clearly, blogging has not been a priority for me for quite some time. However, the lack of recorded musings does not stem from a lack of thought. My mind races at a hundred (thousand) miles per second, even when I wish it wouldn't (which is most of the time).

I'm well-acquainted with insomnia and I was long before I began taking new depression meds in August, (a story for another day, perhaps,) due to my unquiet mind.  Hell, here I am at 11:30 at night, knowing that my near-constant stream of thought will keep my mind unsettled for some time to come.

I kind of wish I could think a bit less but such is the lot of being me. Well, one aspect of being me. I'm learning, more each day, that we all have a myriad of dimensions, light and shadings, unique to ourselves and seemingly in constant evolution. I'm also learning that this is decidedly okay.

So, rest assured, dear readers (if there are any of you out there) that I am well, better than well, actually. I am pensive and introspective and bemused and 109 other things at any given moment (including this one) and that includes safe. I am safe in my home, in my bed, in my heart and in my head and right now, that is all I need to be.

Little Bird

7-28-13

Silent cries
never heard.
Could not utter
a single word.
Your sickness
went uncured
sweet broken
little bird.

One Never Knows

So, there's this guy I follow on Twitter, I shall call him F, who is celebrating one year clean today.  I'd love to say he's a friend but, to be honest, I don't know him all that well, he knows me even less and I think that would be a rather presumptuous statement to make.  Suffice it to say, F makes me laugh (hard), cry (occasionally) and think (often) a lot more than he probably realizes.  Reading of his achievement made me think two things.  Firstly, that I'm awfully proud of him and secondly, that I will never ever get to share such a joyous moment with my brother, Jeff.  In December of last year, he lost the ultimate battle with his addictions when he died on my mother's bathroom floor, all alone, succumbing to acute pancreatitis brought on by 20+ years of alcoholism and addiction. He was 36.

The first time Jeff admitted that he "thought he had a problem with drinking" he was 15 years old.  I remember it being in the evening.  He called my parents and I downstairs because he wanted to talk about something.  Not long after, he entered the first of many treatment programs, none of which stuck.

I can't presume to know what Jeff's last moments, days or even months were like.  Hell, I can't step into his shoes for even one moment.  I know what his addictions cost me as his sister but that is a tale for another time.  Despite everything he ever did to me, my mother, my husband, every unkind (okay, hideous) word he ever spoke in the midst of drunkenness, he did NOT deserve what happened to him.  Nobody deserves that.

I will be filled with regret and loss every day for the rest of my life.  But, unlike my brother, I still have the opportunity to LIVE a life, which has changed my perspective on my own deep-seated issues enormously (again, tales for another time).  I miss my brother, who he once was, who he could have been again, and I always will.

So, to F, who may or may not ever read this, who may or may not ever become my friend, I congratulate you with my whole heart and I thank you for reminding me that not every addict's path has to end in a cemetery. Well, it does, as everyone's does, but it doesn't have to be as the result of active addiction.  It can be in a nice warm bed, surrounded by loved ones, at the ripe old age of 103, Barbra's voice in the background, singing one off to sleep.

Wouldn't that be nice?

What Matters

Sometimes, I reflect on the huge strides I've made and think, "Wow, is this really me?  Am I truly and finally kicking depression's ass?"  Then days like this hit me like a Mack Truck and I realize that this process, this fucking battle, NEVER ends.  Some days, I am the girl who is fighting and seemingly winning and then, out of the blue, the house of cards that I've so carefully crafted comes crashing down around me and I am a bawling mess like I am right now.  Slights, real and imagined, cut me to the quick and I find myself back beneath the bell jar, looking up and out and wondering if the moments of peace and clarity and, dare I say, joy, were the illusion and this hideous state, my reality.  Needless to say, the pain that I keep dodging and weaving to avoid always seems to find me. I guess the trick is to realize that the pain, like the joy, is temporary, that the clouds will lift and that in time, I will once again see the sun.  Where's that magic when I need it?