Still Reeling

Yep, I'm still in shock, still reeling about what I did, about the impossible-seeming act of eating an entire NY cheese cake in one sitting. I mean, how low can I go? Yet, there's a glimmer of hope growing in me, a faint sense that maybe it was a turning point. Since then I've been on plan, abstinent. Tomorrow is OA, a tool that definitely helps me stay on plan.

I want to write about steps 8 and 9, the ones about listing all the people I have harmed and then making amends to them. It's true I have harmed people, especially by lying to them. But the person I've lied to the most and harmed the most is me. Here are a few of the ways I've harmed myself with my compulsive overeating:

1. habitually referred to myself as "fat." I wouldn't say that to anybody else.
2. denied myself the comfort of wearing shorts and short-sleeved shirts in hot weather.
3. denied myself the joy of swimming because I look horrible in a bathing suit. (I love to swim!)
4. denied myself the pleasure of attending social events because I am fat and don't look good enough.
5. thought of myself as stupid. After all, aren't all fat people stupid?
6. harmed my body by yo-yo dieting and by the extra weight I've lugged around most of my life.
7. deceived myself about my compulsive overeating, telling myself lies to justify eating.
8. suffered from extreme shyness in social situations because of my weight.
9. burdened myself with guilt and shame about weight, sneaking sweets, lying about my eating, lack of control, selfishness.
10. jeopardized my marriage and previous partnerships in many ways connected to food and compulsive overeating.

I'm 71 years old, and have been struggling with weight and the above abuse since 5th grade, or about 60 years. That's a lot of harm. Now... how can I make amends to myself? It seems to call for action. Saying "Dear Self, I am so sorry I harmed you" does not constitute making amends in my book. The only real way to make amends is to give up compulsive overeating. That's a crossroad, isn't it?

One thing I can do is stop saying I'm fat. Never mention my fat arms, or my fat legs or my fat belly, or my fat body again.... ever! I don't know if I can keep those words out of my mind, but at least I can stop saying them out loud.

I wish I could say I will wear shorts and sleeveless shirts, and go swimming.... don't think that will happen. Oh dear, this making amends part is really tough.

Island or Mainland?

So many things are out of my control right now. I have two active offers on two different homes, which is the most crazy-making thing I've done in a long time.... juggling the expiration dates, getting an extension on one, while I wait to see what happens with the other, the other dragging on, possibly beyond the expiration date. I could end up with neither home.

The good news in all of this is that it seems to be sharpening my awareness of what I want. If I have to start all over to search for a suitable home to buy, at least I have a better idea of what I want and where I want to live.

The fence-sitting process has finally revealed that staying on the island would be feasible, but not optimal. Yes, my established community is important to me. My friends and fellow OA members are amazing, wonderful and important to me.

For a while I thought staying near my husband was also important to me. When I start considering all the good times we've had, the reasons I wanted to be with him, the things I love about him, it seems reasonable to stay in proximity and work at building a friendship together.

On the other hand, I have lived on this island for nearly 16 years now, all of them as a married person... as his wife. How can I establish a new identity if I stay here? How long will it take? He and I are so comfortable going out to dinner together, to the bank, the dump, the movie theatre... I wonder if we'd just segway into our old patterns, while maintaining separate homes, neither of us building a new, independent life?

A related consideration is my tendency to be a "caretaker." Since his back injury and leaving work, he has become more and more a guy who stays home. Knowing me, I would imagine him as missing me and being lonely. I would actively seek to be there for him.

These considerations and a somewhat discouraging inspection report on the island home are the reasons why I made a second offer, this time on a mainland home.

Unfortunately, there was a second offer made the same day. How nice for the seller.. TWO potential buyers! She made counter offers to each of us. And now we wait. The extension on the inspection report on the home here on the island is good until Monday noon. If my mainland offer is still unsettled at that time, I will have to reject the inspection report and exit my offer here.

Nervous Nelly (that's me) needs to go do some hand sewing. For now, for the next several hours, I just have to let go and let God. Whatever happens (island home, mainland home, or neither of them), I will adjust and keep on keeping on.

Mom & Me

A while ago, Karen of Waisting Time mentioned her son, speculating about what he might notice and/or think about her weight struggles. That got me thinking about my mom.

I recall nothing about Mom and food until I was about 9 or 10. The family was sitting on the floor of our living room playing a game of Monopoly. Mom was kneeling and I noticed that her knees were really large, like big ships on the ocean. Looking at my knees and comparing them to hers I felt some sort of amazement that hers could be so large. I don't remember being critical or embarrassed about her knees, just in awe of them.

Our body types are just alike. We carry weight all over our bodies and tend to have heavy legs even when we are not overweight by medical standards. We tend to retain a waist even at our heaviest. Medical people always raise an eyebrow when they see our weight on the charts... "You don't look that heavy... Must have heavy bones..." Ah yes, heavy bones.

Looking back to my early school years, I never thought of Mom as overweight. However, she probably weighed about what I do now, possibly 20 pounds more. She didn't talk about food or her weight that I remember, not until much later. But she did hide the chocolate chips and the cookies. I always thought she was hiding them from me. But maybe she was trying to put them out of her own temptation sight-lines as well.

Later, when I was in high school, Mom took the two of us to a "diet doctor," who put us both on a pill to ramp up our metabolism. Yikes! I recall the jitters and anxiety experienced while on the pill diet. Mom and I both lost weight. We both gained it back the next year and never talked of it again. Until now, I always thought she went with me out of solidarity, that SHE didn't need a diet, that she went on it with me to help me.

Mom didn't like to chide her kids, at least not very directly. Sometimes that was a good thing. All five of us grew up pretty free to develop our own pathway. She is/was also a very private person. She didn't discuss her problems and she didn't seem keen on discussing mine. She never talked about her weight with me, although once in a while, when I was into queen sizes, she'd find some tactful way to mention a new diet she'd read about. I think we both tried the grapefruit and eggs diet at the same time (during my college years), although we didn't share our experiences with it.

The pill diet was the only time we openly discussed diet or overeating until about 25 years ago when empty-nested, she got into an exercise program and began, in her words, to eat more healthy foods. Her idea at the time was to help Dad slim down a bit. They quit eating snacks, relegated the peanut butter to the back of the top shelf, concentrated on fresh vegetables and smaller portions.

Over about a year's time, Mom went from (I'm guessing here) large or extra-large sized to small or medium sized clothing. She never gained it back. Dad did. After they moved into assisted living, he regained his extra chins and a bit of a pot belly. But Mom stays slim.

When I visit her (she's in Minnesota and age 94 now), I often sit with her while she eats. I watch what she eats. She tries to eat all the fruit and vegetables, picks at the meat, skips most of the bread/potatoes, and only eats dessert if it's really a good one. This is pretty much unconscious on her part (I think).

The change in her eating habits, starting when she was about 70, is now so ingrained that even tempted by sweets for breakfast and desserts for every lunch and every dinner at the nursing home, she maintains her slimness.

Next time I visit her, I'll see if she's willing to talk about her life-time issues with weight. Did she struggle? Did she have self-image problems because of it? Did she binge? Did she look at me and worry about the 240 pounds I carried around most of the time? Was she even aware of it? Certainly I was rarely and barely aware of it with her.

I don't want to weigh 240 again in my life. But it's not so much because I feel ugly or even that it's unhealthy for my heart, feet, back, knees, etc. to carry around so much weight. The main reason is binging. To get to that weight always involves a steady increase in binging with a resulting aura of self-loathing and sense of being crazy. Thanks to abstinence and OA, this is a thing I'm not facing right now.

* * * * * *
Today's gratitude: Mom, Dad, family times together reading out loud and playing board games, everyone in my OA group and recovery bloggers who share so much, rain, our marriage counselor

Seemingly Random Thoughts

easy to write this blog
almost seems to write itself
my thoughts
and even my feelings
pour out of me
into a receptive environment
I'm feeling gratitude

Lois says
you don't have to loose yourself
by forming a partnership
but it sure feels that way sometimes
and the adjustment
is a constant
That is a really good thing
to remember

PJ says
it's a work in progress
her words apply to
relationships
recovery
life in general
I really must start to remember
nothing stays fixed forever
adjust and move on

Jules says
it boils down to trusting me...
saying YES! to me
aye and there lies the rub
those two little words
...to me...
if Jules can do it
so can I

Carol says
I have more questions
that I'm not asking
Peacefulbird says
ask away
questions open doors
unblock the mind

Anne H says
it's all good
sometimes I forget that
but she's right

Karen says
putting the words here seems
to be working for you
yes
I think so too

Beadbabe
I love her name
says
I hope you continue
to keep writing about
your experiences
with counseling
I will
promise

I am feeling gratitude
in this state
it's all good
and everything seems possible

Thank you, Eleanor

Emotional times continue for my husband and me.

We had our second counseling appointment, which was... well... not very productive in my opinion. We both seem to be trying to convince the counselor that the other person is doing a lot of irritating things. Dissatisfaction is the key word. Things that aren't working rather than focusing on things that are. I'm not lily-white on this score either.

Our counselor will be gone for a month, so our next appointment isn't until August 24th. That seems nearly an eternity.

I'm contemplating a solo road trip to see my family in the Midwest. I was going to fly there in the fall anyway, so why not get some time away from each other where we can think and maybe even miss one another a bit? My husband thinks it's a bad idea. But then that's part of the problem for me... many things I do seem like a bad idea to him.

Before I leave this subject, thanks to several bloggers who recently posted "nuggets of truth"... favorite quotes. One person mentioned this one, by Eleanor Roosevelt: No one can make you feel inferior without your consent. I love you for this one, Eleanor! And I can substitute any number of things for "feel inferior" such as:

feel fat
feel stupid
feel ashamed
feel unimportant
feel inadequate

See? So now anytime my husband says something that makes me feel badly, I try to remember to repeat Eleanor's wisdom to myself, substituting whatever feeling I'm having. Then I can ask myself, "Am I really willing to consent to this?"

PS. Here's four pages of quotes by Eleanor.

Dance ~ Part 2

Dance turned a dark corner for me when my ballet teacher told me and my parents that I was too big to be a ballet dancer (previous post). So, when the next school year began, my parents enrolled me in a modern dance class.

Oh joy, I was dancing again. Toward the end of the year, our teacher choreographed "Alice in Wonderland" for us to perform. Oh ecstacy, I got a part in a duet! I was Tweedle Dum and my neighbor, Kathy, was Tweedle Dee. She was very short and pole thin. I was quite a bit taller and much rounder. We had circle skirt costumes.

Performance day came and two things went very wrong. My parents had some sort of concert tickets that evening and so declined to come to my performance. (Baaaaaad Mommy and Daddy!) At least they didn't see our embarassing duet....

For our duet, Kathy and I were to enter from opposite sides of the stage. But somebody had mixed up our costumes. On her side, a helper wrapped my too long skirt around her tiny waist twice and safety pinned it in place. On my side, a helper broke the zipper trying to get her skirt over my shoulders and then tied it around my waist with a cord, which made it so short that it barely covered my crotch.

When we entered, the audience broke into laughter at the sight of our odd, bedraggled-looking costumes. Kathy stood and waited for the laughter to subside. I fled the stage in humiliation. Our dance teacher pushed me back on. The audience laughter increased and again I fled. Meanwhile the music started and Kathy began to dance her part. When Mrs. Kane pushed me on the stage again, I finally figured out where in the choreography we were supposed to be and began to dance.

Although the audience clapped for us, that was the end of dancing for me for a very long time. After that third grade fiasco, I knew, 100%, absolutely I could not be a dancer. I avoided dances and dancing all through my school years. In high school and college, if I went to a dance at all, it was always hugely terrifying and stressful. I'd act out, gossip with the girls, drink (college) and leave early.

I wanted (more than anything!) to dance. I envied the slender, pretty girls dancing close with their boyfriends. I loved the music. My inner body would move, in a way I hoped nobody would notice, to the music. I was trapped in a mind that constantly trumped with one old ballet card and two old modern dance cards.

There's more to discover about me and dance.... next post.

Dance - Part 1

I guess if I'm ever going to recover (as they put it in OA), I have to face the D word... Dance.

At 67 years old and somewhere around 190 pounds, I still have a dancer inside me... All my life... a dancer in me with no outlet, an inner dancer who has only rarely been public, an overweight, sometimes obese, girl/woman hiding a lithe and passionate dancer inside.

I just watched episode 2 of So You Think You Can Dance, which makes me feel my feelings, with tears of joy. I've loved this program and watched every episode since it began. Even my husband, who does not dance and has not ever danced, has developed an interest in seeing young dancers working with excellent choreographers to learn and perform different styles of dance.

What is it about dance? Movement... the body speaking the heart's truth when the mouth is only mute?

As a child my parents took me to The Ballet Russes. Seeing the beautiful grace and electric energy of these dancers at about 4+ years old is still a vivid memory. I felt myself transported into their bodies, my heart into theirs. I wanted to be a dancer, a ballet dancer.

I poured over the performance program and a ballet picture book, practicing the positions in my bedroom with the door closed. My brother and I made crepe paper ballet costumes for the kids in our neighborhood. We showed them how to dance and staged a show for our families on the sidewalk in front of our house.

When I was 8, I finally persuaded my parents to enroll me in ballet lessons. Here is a poem I wrote 15 years ago about those lessons...

You Were Wrong, Mr. Andahazi

I call you back, Mr. Andahazi,
Mr. Russian ballet master,
with spindly legs
and equally spindly heart.
I call you back and place you
in front of a child
who will speak to you now.

You talked to my parents
in my presence
as though I wasn’t there
as though I were
the family puppy –
Look at those feet!
She’s gonna be a big one!
Well, maybe you’re a hot-shot
Russian ballet master, but
you were dead wrong about me.
It wasn’t a waste, Mr. Andahazi,
of my parent’s money
to pay for my dance lessons.

You could see only
the future, the lights,
the stage, the barely fleshed
skeletons of delicate women
held high over the heads
of small men, like you.
Paying money today
to realize an outcome
so many years down the road.
She’s going to be too big
and too tall, you said,
a waste of your money,
no man will be able
to dance with her, you said,
take her away,
off with her head.

I pity you, Mr. Andahazi.
You did not see the pure joy
in my heart. You did not
notice or feel or enjoy
the radiance of my love
for those weekly lessons
right there in your studio.

Little girls, you know,
take words like yours
to heart and turn them
into demons which can
prevent us from knowing
our worth and following our bliss.
I wonder if you care?
It doesn’t matter anymore.
You were wrong.
I have always been a dancer.
That is all I have to say.

I call you back, Mr. Andahazi,
Mr. Russian ballet master
with spindly legs
and equally spindly heart.
I call you back and place you
over there, against the wall
to witness the dancer
you tried to squelch
to watch her twirl gracefully
around the dance floor
like Isadora’s scarves
floating and waving in the breeze.
I call you back to notice,
to comprehend your lack of power
over us, the child and me.
You will stand there
and watch me dancing,
behold my pleasure, my delight,
time after time after time.
But I do not see you.
I do not recognize you.
I do not even remember you.
You are not here anymore.

At that time, I thought I'd banished the demons. But tonight, watching my favorite dance show, I felt them tugging on me again. There's more... more dance and self-image and weight stuff... I hope to deal with it in another post or two...

School's Out

Today, reading a friend's blog about how her son fractured a bone in his leg (skateboarding!) and will be laid up wearing a leg cast for the next two months made me think about the summer I was bed-ridden, the summer between fourth and fifth grades. Actually, I stayed in bed for 11 months, even to the point of using a bed pan!

That was back in 1952. Today medicines would have me back in school, playing full-tilt-boogie again in no time. But back then, the treatment for acute kidney infection was hospitalization for one month (the first week quarantined) and home bed rest for ten more months. I was also on a 100% salt-free diet. I had a home-school tutor for most of the school year.

My parents moved me to the main floor of the house in a sun porch off the living room that faced our back yard, rather than keep me in the bedroom upstairs. I guess that was a good decision because I was closer to family activities and not so lonely as I would have been in my bedroom. Yet, it was torture in the summer months because I could hear and see my siblings and neighborhood kids playing in our back yard, while I had to stay in bed and try to make do with reading, cutting paper dolls or folding origami critters.

The salt-free diet was interesting. My poor mom worked full time and by then had 4 kids. She had to cook special food for me and even baked bread without salt. I got to eat the home-baked bread (with lots of salt-free butter and honey) while everyone else in the family ate ordinary store bread. I recall eating cookies and other goodies (specially baked by Mom) on a daily basis. I never asked her about that, but I think the deserts, honey and other sweets were her way of saying, "Oh baby, I'm so sorry you're having to stay inside for all these months."

As one might guess, the inactivity and sweets and bread began to show on my body. By the time I returned to school, 5th grade, I was definitely overweight. "Fatty, fatty, two by four, can't get through the kitchen door." Boys yelled that at me from across the street as we walked to school.

I think from that time on, my self-image has always been as a fat person, no matter what I weigh. Those formative years started me down a path that doesn't serve me well. Now it's time to let go of it.

As I continue my journey of not overeating, my body will change. In 40 days of abstinence it has already changed... one size down and half way to the next. Reminder to Peacefulbird: start changing how you think of yourself; let's eliminate the word "fat" from the descriptors!