The Transformation of the Fat Girl


transformation

“If you’ve been fat, you will always feel and see the world as a fat person; you know how difficult it is… It’s the same coming from a working-class background… it never leaves you.”
― Caitlin Moran, Moranthology

Living my life as a fat person has been the hardest of all the challenges I have encountered. Overcoming emotional abuse and the dysfunctions of my childhood pale in comparison to my struggles of self-acceptance and finding a place of self-love that transcends what I look like. My existence has been marked by a shame spiral that circulates between my humiliation over my weight and the weight of the shame that holds me back from tackling my problem. My strategy has been to overcompensate for my largesse by trying to distract people from really seeing me. Humor and intelligence, accomplishments and pleasing are some of the sharpest tools in my bag of tricks. Yet, every day I have looked in the mirror and focused in on my fears about what people would see and how what they see might influence how they perceive me. My goal was always to find a plan to shield them from what I internalized as ugliness. What looks back in the mirror at me is viewed, by me, as an abnormality – a misfit who is unacceptable and, surely, unworthy of love. When I reflect on all the struggles throughout my life and the darkness that has lurked so deep within me, I know the truth is that my weight helps to keep perpetuating the pain and reinforcing the message that I have been running to escape – no one will love me.

This is not a new story for me but, like everything else in my life, it has shifted as my life has evolved. As we work through our challenges and commit to improvements, we have to keep diving deeper to study the roots of our emotional baggage. There are layers of experiences and pain that have resulted in our current selves and, sometimes, what looks to be the source matter is, in fact, just a projection, distracting us from the more painful reality that is out of our reach. My relationship with myself and my journey of self-acceptance has finally led me to here and now I have the space to explore this deep and secluded area of myself. All the work I have done to move past the traumas and deep scarring pain has led me to this place. I know, with certainty, that this is the final frontier and truly the last piece of the puzzle for me. Around the corner, I can see peace and love and acceptance but first I need to confront the darkest core of my soul and unlock the safe where I keep all the shame that plagues me.

Despite all of the unpleasantries that have marked my difficult life, my weight has, hands down, caused me the most pain and has most held me back from being the person I always believed I could be. That simple acknowledgement causes me even more shame and discomfort because it feels like failure. Hiding behind my weight feels like I’m using a lame excuse to cloak and protect myself from the heavy lifting required to live an authentic life. So, when I decided to write this blog, I had to be metaphorically ready to stand in the middle of Times Square, fully naked, with the words “I am fat” tattooed across my stomach. And I had to be comfortable with everything that came along with that. Alright then. Here I stand. And, for the record, I am really not comfortable at all. Give me what you’ve got. I can take it as it is all part of the process.

To be clear, I have travelled a long road to where I am today and I’m confident that I’m close to reaching a destination that feels awfully good but, in order to get through the final leg of this journey and ensure my admittance to the Emerald City, I need to confront the truths of how I got to where I was. I have had to burrow down a bit further to understand the roots of my weight issues. And, most importantly, I have to step out into the light and acknowledge who I have been and who I am becoming today.

I had a deeply traumatic childhood, riddled with emotional abuse and abandonment. Food served as an emotional pacifier for me, providing a salve for my wounds and serving as a stand-in for the love that was so painfully withheld. I can intellectually lay that out on the table and I grieve for that young girl who was so tortured as she sneakily comforted herself with cake and cookies. The most distant element of my battle – the part I struggle to wrap my brain around – is the emotional understanding that would afford me a level of self-acceptance. For me, while the truths behind my addiction to food are abundantly clear, there has been no absorption of this deep in my psyche and I have continued to abuse myself by reinforcing the disappointment and shame. Over the years, I have read stories about people who have lost large amounts of weight, only to swiftly gain the weight back because they never addressed the underlying pain that resulted in them gaining or maintaining their excessive weight. They were incapable of making the mental adjustments necessary to see themselves as anything but the overweight person they were. For me, being fat is what I know. It is, quite frankly, synonymous with me. I cannot imagine a world where I am not a fat person. Yet, for the first time in my 48 years of life, that might be the case.

I have had a private and dysfunctional relationship with food. Food has been my best friend and worst enemy. I am not one of those people who loves to eat but, instead, I eat to soothe. For me, eating has always been a private affair. I would eat late at night or when no one was looking. Even after I was married, I would quietly slip downstairs after my husband was asleep and pour myself a bowl of cereal or fill a large bowl with ice cream and tiptoe back upstairs, eating the food quietly, hoping my husband would not wake up and find me.  Or, I would wrap a sleeve of cookies into a napkin and pour a glass of milk, feeling my anxiety and sadness slip away as the sugar made its way into my bloodstream. This was my heroin. I could numb myself standing in the darkness of my nighttime kitchen, flooded by the light of the open refrigerator, shoving leftovers into my mouth, silently hating myself with each bite. I would lay in bed at night thinking only of the food that called out to me from downstairs.  I needed to fill the bullet holes left behind from the massive assault I experienced throughout my childhood and young adult years. Food was a bandage that stopped the bleeding but, of course, couldn’t ward off the infection that was inevitable for I never dealt with the underlying disease. What has been hard for me to accept and absorb is that, as I grew older, I was creating more holes by repeating this cycle. No one was hurting me anymore except for me.  Food became my drug of choice and my weight became my weapon of choice.

Alarmingly, my food addiction and associated weight issues became a comfortable place and I used them as a way to distance myself from the rest of the world. Despite my desire to have intimacy and close relationships, I spent my life living life on the fringe, withholding myself from others.  I could more easily tolerate my disruptive upbringing by letting my weight be what distanced me from the rest of the world. Being fat meant that I lived outside of the mainstream and I didn’t have to address the loneliness left from the abandonment and loss of family. When I struggled with dating when I was younger, I would always blame it on my size. All I could see was an ugly girl who grew into an even uglier woman. I believed what my mother and sister told me for years (as an encouragement to lose weight) that no man would ever date me if I was fat. Instead of looking at my emotional dysfunction, I would focus my disappointment on my weight and neatly distance myself from the realities of having to engage in an emotionally mature relationship. While I can never deny that living outside of the lines of conventional beauty is challenging, I never had the emotional maturity to understand that I had the ability to emanate beauty from a different place and could attract love just as easily as my more traditionally attractive friends. Instead, even when I met my husband, I quickly attempted to pawn him off on my more attractive friends because I never believed he could sustain an attraction or love towards me because I didn’t fit the part. I was really fucked up. Focusing on the fat meant I never needed to zero in on the truths that I was too scared to face which was that I wasn’t sure if I could emotionally endure an intimate relationship with anyone.

“Overeating is the addiction of choice of carers, and that’s why it’s come to be regarded as the lowest-ranking of all the addictions. It’s a way of fucking yourself up while still remaining fully functional, because you have to. Fat people aren’t indulging in the “luxury” of their addiction making them useless, chaotic, or a burden. Instead, they are slowly self-destructing in a way that doesn’t inconvenience anyone. And that’s why it’s so often a woman’s addiction of choice. All the quietly eating mums. All the KitKats in office drawers. All the unhappy moments, late at night, caught only in the fridge light.”
― Caitlin Moran, How to Be a Woman

I have often believed that it was some type of miracle that afforded me the opportunity to secure myself a husband and, rather than using that as evidence of my worthiness, my self loathing deepened even more over the years. As a result, I found myself moving further away from a sense of normalcy and deeper into a dark cave of loneliness and depression, padded with humiliation. Over the past 25 years I have gained and lost weight, never achieving any significant results and, like most yo-yo dieters, adding more weight in the end.  I would secretly attend Weight Watchers meetings or try fad diets, never admitting to anyone what I was doing. There was some twisted part of me that believed if I never told anyone that I was on a diet, they wouldn’t notice that I needed to be. While all I saw was fat and all I believed that anyone else ever saw was fat, I worked tirelessly to hide it.  My life was a costume party with me donning disguises to mask the truth. I think I was the only one I was fooling.

I endured myriad struggles. I could never really shop with my friends.  I’d go to stores and pretend that nothing was of interest to me and then secretly shop on my own. I could never admit that I was relegated to the plus size departments. Shame. No one could ever know my size. Shame. Perhaps the most humiliating experience came when I should have felt most beautiful. After I was engaged, my girlfriends wanted to shop with me for my wedding dress and all I could think was how dreadful that seemed. I couldn’t bear them knowing the truth about my size. I was dying on the inside as the seamstress took my measurements and announced to the group that I would need a size 18 dress. There was no place for me to hide and I averted their eyes in fear that they would judge me. It has taken me a long time to understand that my real fear was that they would stop loving me because I secretly believed that my weight was to blame for my family’s lack of acceptance of who I was. So much bigness wrapped up in that small little word. FAT.

When I was pregnant, I struggled to find maternity clothes in my size. I found plus size shops and purchased whatever I could find to fit my rapidly growing body. I was disappointed to not have the cute outfits I saw my friends wearing and tried to create looks that would emulate theirs. During my pregnancies I couldn’t wait until my stomach got so large that there was no question as to whether or not I was just that fat or, in fact, I had a baby in my belly. I never experienced that exuberance of “popping” like so many of my girlfriends did.  Well, I knew that I had popped but it was months before anyone could see the protrusion of my uterus beyond my otherwise thick belly.

“We fatties have a bond, dude. It’s like a secret society. We got all kinds of shit you don’t know about. Handshakes, special fat people dances-we got these secret fugging lairs in the center of the earth and we go down there in the middle of the night when all the skinny kids are sleeping and eat cake and friend chicken and shit. Why d’you think Hollis is still sleeping, kafir? Because we were up all night in the secret lair injecting butter frosting into our veins. …A fatty trusts another fatty.
― John Green, An Abundance of Katherines

To further cover myself, I often avoided hanging around other fat people, choosing instead to surround myself with the most attractive people I could find. I had this twisted perception that I would stand out less as the one fat person in the group because I would be overshadowed by all the beautiful people. It felt like I could become invisible in this group. This served to be an even more painful version of torture because it was a constant reminder of how much I was not like those around me. All I focused on was what people looked like and I berated myself for not being able to look “normal.” I moved so far away from the core of who I am and neglected the parts of me that most needed my love. The recording in my mind was repeating hatred and disgust, pushing me further and further down. And, even worse, my existence became even more solitary because I never had anyone with whom to share my struggle. When I was finally ready to confront my truth, I realized that no one around me really understood my challenges or could relate to what I was going through. I had distanced myself from anyone who looked like me and stood alone. No one I knew understood what it meant to have this branding from early in their life. No one shared my identity that was marked by only one characteristic – FAT. When I was finally ready to broach the subject, I didn’t know how to openly discuss my feelings about my size. So, the first time I publicly confronted these emotions was about two years ago in my blog. To an anonymous audience, I revealed the secret truth about how I looked at myself and, for the first time, acknowledged how much my weight influenced how I traveled in the world.

In the beginning of 2011, I hit bottom. I am not sure how much I weighed at the time but I know I had ballooned past 280 lbs. (When I weighed myself for the first time after I started working out, that became my starting point. Yet, I’m fairly certain I hit a mark closer to 300 lbs., which is painful to even acknowledge today). I recognized that something had to change but I was so very lost. I’ve shared before that, sort of by accident, I began a journey of transformation. The universe led me to what I needed right then and I first found a pathway to fitness. At the time, while I had no diagnosable illnesses such as diabetes or hypertension, I could barely walk down the stairs in the morning because of the pain in my knees and my feet. I struggled to get myself out of bed in the morning because even sitting up was difficult and walking up a flight of stairs was overwhelming. I was in denial and frightened about my future. On a drunken dare, I began kickboxing, finding the courage somewhere deep inside me to make myself vulnerable and show up in a way very different than I had ever done before. Fitness and exercise became a fundamental part of my life for the first time ever. But the underlying issues were never addressed. Within a year, I had lost 50 lbs. and started to see myself in a whole new way. My body began morphing into something different but I was still emotionally eating. I was like so many of the people that I read about. And, sure enough, about a year later, after an injury, I was not able to exercise regularly and the weight started piling back on. And within another year, I had gained back 25 lbs. of the weight I had worked so hard to lose. I was free-falling back towards a place I swore I would never return to. After feeling such great accomplishment, I was awash in a new level of embarrassment and disappointment in myself.

Like most of us, I have watched people on television or read magazine articles about people who have managed to have success with extreme weight loss. I’ve always paid attention to these stories looking to identify their secret. What changed for them? How did they finally find the willpower and discipline to change their lives? What I realized is that no one can ever explain the shift that takes place in your brain when you are ready to change your life. It just happens and you know it. And then you have to be ready to endure it. No one rolls out the red carpet for you, enabling you to strut your way to transformation. You don’t reach the end of the line, walking past the black rope in a new body. You trip and fall and get back up and cry and struggle and breakthrough lots of pain. And then, if you have managed to endure all of that and still have the discipline to stay the course, you might actually make it to the other side. In the late winter of 2015, the switch flipped in my head. I can’t exactly say why and I am not sure I will ever truly understand. Perhaps I was simply ready and had found the strength to look at myself for real for the first time. What I do know is that on March 1st I committed myself to being open and honest about the deep pain associated with my relationship with food and my self-loathing and I knew I was ready to really change my life. I started an emotional and physiological cleanse. I chronicled the journey in my blog, publicly sharing my battle with my weight and holding myself accountable to whomever might have been along for the ride. I started unpacking some very heavy bags and couldn’t help but notice the shifts occurring. The heavy weights that had been buried so deeply inside me were starting to melt away and, with them, the fat on the outside of my body disappeared too. After three weeks, I had shed 15 lbs. and, within months, I was down nearly 30.  I felt different and began to see glimmers of sunshine that had never made its way to my eyes before. In August, after maintaining my weight for a while, I decided to cleanse again, as if to exorcise any remaining demons. And, another 15 lbs. were gone. And then more. Today, I hit a milestone of 70 lbs. lost. I can actually see the end of this road in sight.

After my first cleanse ended in March, I sat with my best friend and shared small pieces of my struggle with him. It was the first time I had spoken so openly about my weight with him and he listened intently, aware that this was a breakthrough. In all of our deep discussions about the various elements of our lives, we had never touched this and he didn’t dare ask because, instinctively, he knew it was a place I was not ready to visit. This time, I told him that I was ready to tackle my issues head on and was committed to take control of my weight and find a place of self-acceptance, wherever that might be. I knew I would know it when I saw it. About a month ago, I sat in therapy and told my therapist (who, by the way, also acknowledged that I had not been very open about my weight battles) that I no longer feared that I would regain this weight. I implicitly knew that something had shifted inside me. I am no longer hiding. This shit is all out on the table. It doesn’t feel great but I know it is where I need to be.

This transformation process has been rough and emotionally challenging. Seeing my body become something I am not familiar with has been both wonderful and disruptive. I struggle to see what others see and often try to imagine how someone who meets me for the first time perceives me. I don’t think the first thing people see is the fat girl anymore. In fact, while I still have a ways to go before I will stop thinking of myself as overweight (and before the medical charts will stop referring to me as obese), I am not entirely certain that the rest of the world sees me as the fat person I once believed I was. My friend explained to me that he thinks I have rewritten my script so dramatically and have made so many other emotional and internal changes that how I show up is so very different than how my old self did. I am not hiding nor pretending to be someone else. I am living out loud and proudly strutting my peacock feathers. I feel bold and beautiful and, most of all, proud and confident. My arms are jiggly, my belly is saggy, my neck is wrinkly and my thighs will forever touch but I feel so good about myself. After covering my body for years when working out, I am now wearing tank tops and funky bottoms. I am coming out of the shadows and confidently showing up, less concerned about what others see. I want everyone to know my story. I need everyone to know my truth. My wish is that it will help another person come out of hiding and feel comfortable enough to confront their own truth.

And, something really remarkable happened to me last week. While, for most, it will not seem all that amazing or noteworthy, for me it was a truly incredible experience. I was out shopping with a friend and we walked into Banana Republic where I saw a jacket I liked. I tried it on, out in the open of the store, and it fit perfectly. I calmly walked up to the register to get in line to pay and, on the inside, I was doing a victory dance. Right there in the regular people’s department I found a jacket I loved. Just a plain old size Large. That was pretty cool. For the first time I can honestly say that I like being Large.

DAY FIFTEEN


truthful gandhi

Yesterday it rained for what seemed like 24 hours straight. A mixture of misty drizzle and heavy downpour continued from before I arose to well after I went to sleep. When I woke up this morning, still hearing some patter of raindrops on the skylights above my bed, I was curious to see what it would look like outside. What I found was that the rain had washed away much of the snow that had blanketed our yards and streets and finally revealed the grass and ground that lie underneath. It felt like a perfect metaphor for my cleanse. I have washed away some of what had been covering up the person within me. When I got dressed this morning, gearing up for the gym, I was marveling at how much had been melted in just two short weeks. Gone are the tight clothes and discomfort and what is left behind is fresh and energetic. Make no mistake, two weeks has not healed years of abusing my body but it certainly helped to reveal a me that I have not seen in a year or more.

What I consumed:

  • Cleanse Shake with strawberries, bananas and pineapple
  • Sweet potato
  • Chicken with lemon, garlic, olive oil and shallots
  • 2 clementines
  • 19 gigantic supplement capsules
  • 64 oz water

How I felt:

Sleep problems are continuing which is frustrating. I fell asleep at around midnight last night and was awakened at 3am. When I started stirring, I instinctively knew it was way too early to get up and groaned when I looked over at the clock and saw the numbers flashing 3:00. I suspect this has something to do with the fact that I have been having very vivid dreams, some good and some disturbing, that are pushing me out of my restful slumber. I did manage to fall asleep for a little while longer but, by 5am, I was up and ready to go. I also had a splitting headache today and some dizziness that are unexplained. I don’t think it had anything to do with what I ate since my diet has been pretty consistent over the past few weeks.  Perhaps it was atmospheric.

Physical Activity:

55 minutes on the elliptical doing a really tough mountain climber workout. I was so tired and sweaty at the end of the program that I could not do anything else!

Today at the gym I had to pause my workout in the middle because I had an intense itch on my leg. The pause caused my machine to restart and I realized that I wasn’t sure how much time had already elapsed. It didn’t really matter, of course, except that I feel an overwhelming responsibility to accurately track my time because I am reporting it in my blog. The precision that I require seems silly but I am unquestionably truthful to a fault. This is rooted in my childhood when my mother branded me a liar because I would sneak food and shamefully lie about it. I was humiliated every time I was caught and felt dirty and disgusted with myself for my dishonesty. My mother would proudly boast her moral superiority as she admonished me for my untruths. Ironically, as I grew older, I came to learn that much of my mother’s life was rooted in lies and that she opted to skip the little white lies and focused her efforts on the big fat destructive ones. Realizing her duplicity was jarring for me and broke any trust I had formed with my mother. It also made me begin to question everyone around me.

I have become very sensitive about honesty – both my own and that of those closest to me. Deceit is very hard for me to tolerate and, when I learn that someone close to me has been lying about anything – even something minor – I struggle to not feel a betrayal of my trust. As an outcome of my relationship with my mother, I keep close track of everything that people tell me and I’m always checking to see if their stories hold up. I am on the lookout for the lies and praying for the absence of them. Naturally, I know people lie – everyone tells little white lies. Unfortunately, I am so hyper-vigilant about the truth that I typically catch even those little ones and then am challenged with how to deal with that information.

My measurement of honesty, as it relates to my own behavior, goes far beyond the things I say and extends to how I live my life, from a holistic standpoint. For instance, yesterday, I was looking through the old text messages between me and my best friend again. I wanted to spend more time studying the dialogue on my end in an attempt to recapture my state of mind during that period of time. It was a difficult time for me, both personally and professionally, and I was reassessing many elements of my life. Knowing that, when I looked at the content yesterday, I found my words to be very inauthentic. It appeared that I was creating a persona that was not truly reflective of who I really was. The texts were all very upbeat and funny (with some darker moments), filled with way too many exclamation points. I was trying too hard. What I am unclear about was whether I was trying to shield my friend from the darkness lurking beneath the surface or if I was actually that far out of touch with myself. My guess is the latter. In contrast, when I look at how he and I communicate now, it is much more aligned with the realities of my life. The way I show up today far more authentically depicts the truth about my life. I am much deeper in the trenches and more openly dealing with the difficult and ugly matters in my life. There’s no doubt that, back then, my words felt very authentic but I don’t like the person I was then as much as I appreciate and value the person I am today. I am more serious and focused. That woman seems silly and immature while the one I see before me now is far more of an adult.

One of the things I have uncovered in the past year is that I have spent much of my adult life in a suspended state of adolescence. Because I didn’t have the opportunity to evolve in a natural and healthy way, a lot of my emotional maturation got stunted in my teens. I grew older and exhibited adult behaviors like getting a job, getting married and starting a family but, on the inside it never felt genuine. I was always frightened because I never felt equipped to take on the real responsibilities and expectations of an adult. Most of this was not apparent to the outside world because I did an excellent job of covering my vulnerabilities and came across as emotionally sophisticated. It was all a facade – a big lie. Only I had no idea I was lying. Until I did. Another one of those bells you simply can’t unring – and I had to do something about it. Three years ago when I was exchanging those silly texts with my friend, I was in the throes of avoiding adulthood. My life was filled with parties and drinking and hanging out with my friends and I thrived on this for a while until it became clear to me that I was not living my authentic life. I needed to mature, evolve and find out who the adult me really was. I was living a flat out lie.

So, I became a grownup. I turned inward and took the time to grow up and get to know myself. My friend was a great help in this process when he challenged me to look at myself today rather than focus on the dogma of the past. I learned my truth – I am a very serious person who needs to live a wholly honest and authentic existence. I don’t actually love those big parties – just intimate gatherings with my closest of friends and, mostly, would prefer one-on-one time to focus in. I don’t like drinking to excess but sometimes find it incredibly liberating. I have a life filled with more responsibilities than I can sometimes manage and burdens that overwhelm me more often than not. I am a product of my mother and father – two people who were incredibly fucked up and made the big mistake of getting together and procreating without thinking through the responsibility that entailed. I get angry, I get sad and sometimes I am just plain content – but that is less frequent than I would like and something I am striving towards. I suffer from envy, wishing that I could live other people’s lives because sometimes mine is just too hard. I have self-pity and feel frustrated that no one can rescue me from my own life. And then I remember that this is my puzzle to solve, not anyone else’s – and I don’t always mind that because I know I am the only one who can really figure things out. I still struggle with intense insecurity and, conversely, sometimes I fumble from overconfidence. I’m stubborn and fierce and strong willed and also gentle and calm and incredibly loving. I am one of the strongest people I know and equally one of the most fragile. My heart breaks easily and often. I am, for sure, one of the most complicated and challenging people around but I am worth knowing because I enrich the lives of those around me. I’m not ashamed of my dichotomy or my weaknesses and am most proud about my intense honesty. I am living an honest and authentic life.

And that, above all else, makes me happy.

TRUTH


truth“To be nobody but myself-in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make me somebody else-means to fight the hardest battle any human can fight, and never stop fighting.” – e.e. cummings

I have been writing this blog for just a little bit over 3 years and, in that time, I have published nearly 85 posts – in fact, this will mark number 85. I would have expected with more than 1000 days under my belt, I would have written much more but I know that, contained in those entries, there are lots and lots of words and lots and lots of thoughts. One of the fun parts of blogging, for me, is studying all the metrics to see how many people are looking at each of my posts so I can, hopefully, get an understanding of what topics resonate with my readers. Of course, as with all measurements, there are many factors to consider when looking at the numbers but I usually see a direct correlation between the content and the results. I typically know when a post is going to gain some traction. That is, most of the time. In doing some research today, I found that my all time, most popular blog post is My Gay Best Friend. It is certainly one of my favorites and I loved it when I wrote it back in October of last year while in the midst of dissecting a lifetime of powerful relationships with gay men. (And it certainly got a great reaction from said best friend!) As I discussed in the original post, I seem to collect gay men – they naturally flock to me – and I find this rather interesting. Well, apparently a lot of people find this interesting, I guess. Every week, there are more and more hits to this particular blog entry. I was called by the Huffington Post to participate in a webcast to talk about the topic. People regularly mention this one to me when they talk about my blog. And, frankly, I am fascinated by all this.

I have poured my soul into this blog. I share intimate details of my life – things that I have not shared with most people and certainly have not publicized in a public forum. And, while I have received amazing support and incredible validation on some of the most painful topics, my relationship with my gays is quite compelling. But, I guess it should not be that surprising because I sure am fascinated by it all. What I recognized in my first post about the topic was that I seem to be kindred spirits with a lot of my gay and lesbian friends. There is a connective tissue between their struggles with acceptance and my own. Recently, I have been spending some time working with a female gay friend on some writing she is doing and I had the unique opportunity to slip inside her life and explore some of her most intimate thoughts. It was a very personal and very illuminating experience for me because I was able to explore the mindset of someone who has lived a life outside the lines. She is someone who, while comfortable in her own skin and confident about her lifestyle, acknowledges that she often perplexes people because they do not know what to make of her. Her masculinity is apparent yet she has a softness that only a woman can exhibit. She has a gentleness that, in a man, would be recognized as effeminate but, in her, is appropriate because she is, after all, a woman. As someone who has always felt like an outsider – peering through the glass to watch as everyone else lives their lives – I found myself connecting to some of her experiences of not belonging. (While not nearly as popular as my most popular blog post, I have written about this several times, including in Difference just a few weeks ago).

With my gay friends who are closest to me, I pay close attention. I always wonder what it is like to be out in public with their partners nowadays as compared to 5, 10 or 15 years ago. I happen to live in a very diverse community where there is an abundance of same-sex couples with and without children. It is so common for our children’s friends to have two mommies or two daddies. My kids don’t question it, we definitely don’t and nobody around us ever questions it. It simply is the way it is – and we love that about our town. However, we may very well live in a little nirvana here and it’s likely true that even this evolved environment was not always as accepting. Quite frankly, early on, I had to take a minute to get used to it because it was unfamiliar to me. Despite my great affection for my gay friends and my unyielding commitment to supporting their equal rights, I did not grow up around a lot of openly gay people so I had never seen two men or two women display intimacy with one another. It was strange. It was unfamiliar. I was definitely uncomfortable at first. So, I often wonder how my gay friends feel when they are out in public with their partners and openly show affection to one another. I wonder how long it took for them to be comfortable doing this. I wonder how they assimilated when, for so long, they were viewed as unusual. With my closest gay friends, I observe closely. I watch how they interact with their partners and I feel so proud and happy when, outside of gay-centric environments, they feel comfortable being their authentic selves.

Several months ago I was having a long and involved discussion with my gay best friend and he shared a lot of details with me about his journey towards coming out which moved me tremendously. I marvel at the courage it takes to stand up and declare that you are different, often in environments where that difference is not so readily accepted. For my peer group, coming out happened in the 70’s and 80’s and, in some cases, the very early 90’s – a world apart from today’s society where there are gay characters on television, in the movies and on the public scene. And while there is still an unacceptably large portion of the population that believe that my friends should be rejected, exiled or even harmed for being who they authentically are, there a plenty of visible role models that help parents, friends and family members who might not be familiar or might still actually be uncomfortable with the notion that their loved one is gay. Today, we have gay icons who demonstrate that there is no difference between being heterosexual or homosexual, except for the partner you choose to love (which, of course, is nobody’s damn business, gay or straight). Today, we have some level of acceptance making it just a little bit easier for young people to live their truth.

For my friend, his journey was difficult and I have such respect for him. I felt the pain in his struggle and, while I could not relate to having to “come out” to anyone, I connected my journey here with my blog as a coming out of sorts because I am revealing my truth to the world. I am allowing others to see me for who I really am rather than hide behind some fictionalized reality of my life. I would never compare my trek or my struggles to those of my friends who face persecution again and again but I do relate to the freedom and liberation that comes from being honest and living a truthful life.

Today I was on a hike with my kids and my younger son, after watching me cut up my legs in a brush of thorns, asked me about the tattoo I have on my right ankle. It is a Japanese symbol that means truth. He wanted to know if I knew what it meant and, upon learning that it was truth, he asked me why I chose that. Never missing the opportunity for a teachable moment with my kids, I told him it was because I believe that we have to accept ourselves and be honest with the world about who we are. He nodded his head in agreement when I said it but I know he didn’t understand the depth and gravity of my words. He loves my gay best friend like an uncle, he cherishes all the wonderful friends we have who are same-sex couples and he never considers for one second that there might have been a time when they were in hiding, not able to live their truth. He assumes we live in a world where it is always ok to be whomever you are. Sure, he’s 9 and blissfully naive. However, my hope – my eternal wish – is that if I had to write that blog post again, I would just simply write – My Best Friend.

MY DIRTY LITTLE SECRET


secretI have a dirty little secret.

I suffer from depression.

Not the blues.  Not feeling down in the dumps.  Full on depression.  The kind that takes me to a very dark place.  And, apparently, I share this disorder with 14,999,999 other Americans – a vast majority of them women.  I don’t necessarily keep this fact a secret but it is not typically my lead-in when I meet people.  Oddly, I don’t actually think of myself as someone who gets depressed but, as part of my efforts to live authentically, I have had to come to terms with what I refer to as my “dark periods.”  These periods do not pop up that frequently.  In fact, I can go years without having any type of serious depressive episode but, like earthquakes, it is not about the frequency, it is about the magnitude.

I suppose it was my birth right.  My mother suffered from depression most of her life.  She attempted to take her own life on two separate occasions when I was a young child.  Both times she downed an excessive amount of pills (likely aspirin because we didn’t have too many medications in our house) and I remember being in the ER at the hospital wondering what was wrong with her.  Despite the fact that she was often going to therapy, she never seemed to be able to treat her depression and, I suspect, it is because she desperately needed to be medicated.  Her depression was only one one of her many mental ailments.  My father struggled with alcoholism his entire life.  My brother is bipolar and my sister, like me, lives with depression and, likely, other forms of mental illness.  Our family legacy is both biological and environmental.  There is severe mental illness in my mother’s family and my parents, fighting with their own demons, inflicted a significant amount of trauma on my siblings and myself which, according to science, likely created a chemical imbalance and a form of PTSD that we each confront in our own unique ways.

Over the years, I have become skilled at dealing with my depression, from looking for the warning signs and fortifying myself, using exercise and diet as a minimizer, as well as treating it with antidepressants.  One of my challenges, however, is that my depression typically creeps up on me when I have either run out of things to distract my attention from it or when crushing stress becomes too much for me to bear.  Sometimes there are specific incidents that bring it on like negative interactions with people that leave me empty, wasted or diminished.  But, in most cases, I don’t see it coming and once it is upon me, I can’t find a way out of it.

I recently researched symptoms of depression to help me understand it a bit further.  I wanted to determine if what I was experiencing was truly depression or just some low periods.  I compared my feelings to the list:

  • persistent sad, anxious, or “empty” mood – check
  • loss of interest or pleasure in activities, including sex – check
  • restlessness, irritability, or excessive crying – check
  • feelings of guilt, worthlessness, helplessness, hopelessness, pessimism – check, check
  • sleeping too much or too little, early-morning awakening – check
  • thoughts of death or suicide, or suicide attempts – check
  • difficulty concentrating, remembering, or making decisions – check

People often think that those of us who suffer from depression are downers who have difficulty functioning in everyday life.  These are just some of the myths that create stigmas and often prevent people from being honest about their own mental illness.  For me, the truth is I function very well and, most often, I am pretty upbeat – typically the life of the party.  And no, I am not bipolar.  I simply am not depressed every single day.  But when I go down, I go down hard.  And once I am down, it is very hard to get back up.

Recently, I went through an extremely dark period.  It felt like it came out of nowhere but, upon reflection and analysis, there were many triggers including work stress, holidays, and some challenging personal relationships.  I realized it was chasing me down and I was running from it like an animal being hunted as prey.  I just didn’t consciously realize I was scurrying from capture until it caught me and pummeled me.  When I saw the face of my demon, I recognized instantly that it had been sneaking up on me for a while.  Unfortunately, once I thought I got rid of the beast, I relaxed a bit and was shocked when it quickly reappeared and lingered  like a stalled-out hurricane.  It blew in, did some destruction and then seemed like it was moving out to sea.  Much to my surprise and severe disappointment, it changed direction and ended up blowing back in, this time much stronger and hanging on for a much longer period of time.  I was absolutely certain I was having a nervous breakdown. The darkness was so severe and so intense that I could not see my way to clarity.  I did not think the clouds would ever pass, that the winds would ever let up or that the rain would stop pouring down.  But, as is always the case with storms, they do pass and the sun shines through the clouds offering the hope for a brighter tomorrow.

Depression is even more complicated in my life because it is magnified by the echoes of the traumas of my childhood – the scars of which layer on top of my depression and validate many of my dark thoughts.  When I sink into worthlessness, my memories of words or experiences that traumatized me as a child, come to the surface and haunt me, giving credence to every distorted feeling I experience during these episodes.  It’s as if I am an alcoholic and, despite my efforts at recovery, there is always an open bar or a  friend standing by with a bottle to prevent me from ever achieving sobriety.  I have enough ammunition to keep me down for decades and, during some of these dark periods, I am rather confident that the sun will never shine again and that all of my worst experiences are my truth and personify who I am and what my life is meant to be.

The scariest part of depression, however, is not the admission of my illness nor is it the actual experience of going through the dark periods.  The scariest piece comes in the aftermath when, with a clear head, you realize just how low you have fallen.  When you realize just how easy it is for your mind to take you to places that seem unfathomable when you are rational and have your senses intact.  You realize that, in a split second, the pain that you are experiencing will take hold and you are captive to its powers and incapable of freeing yourself, left only with futile attempts to defend yourself and preserve some level of sanity so as not to have devastating outcomes.  I recently had a conversation with a close friend who had spent some time with me while I was in the middle of this recent episode and he shared with me his and his wife’s experiences and concerns for me.  It was humbling and, to some extent, overwhelming and humiliating.  He was kind and thoughtful in his comments and shared his fears in a compassionate and loving way.  But, it was in that moment that I realized how far away I go during those periods and how far removed from reality I am.  That is frightening and makes me feel vulnerable in the worst possible way.

Ultimately, my depression does not make me a bad person.  It does not prevent me from engaging in intimate and meaningful relationships.  It does not inhibit my ability to live a productive and successful life.  It does, however, force me to be acutely aware of the triggers and make choices differently than others who might not endure the same struggles.  It is like any other disease.  If I were diabetic, sugar would be my enemy.  If I had a heart condition, cardio would be a danger for me.  My medical ailment, caused by chemical imbalances in my brain (and, possibly, exacerbated by the hormonal disruption caused by the onset of menopause) forces me to think very seriously about how I interact with people, situations I put myself in, and how I deal with stress and anxiety.  I am neither ashamed nor afraid to share my truth but I realize that many will never understand this dimension of my life.  I need not be pitied or treated any differently.  It is just part of my truth.  And, fortunately, severe depression is something that rarely strikes me but, I acknowledge, that even if it happens once every five or ten years, it is real and it is dangerous.

So, I share my dirty little secret for the millions of Americans who are afraid to share their truth for fear that they will be stigmatized or ostracized.  I am not afraid because I am fortunate enough to have a small, intimate group of friends and family to whom I can turn for support during my dark periods and who understand my struggles and provide me with the love and nurturing that I need to get through the haze.  I also have an amazing therapist who works with me during dark days and, more importantly, during the bright ones to keep me focused on tackling the demons that bring me down and keep me down.  But, for many, they don’t have such luxuries and cannot be honest with themselves or anyone else because they feel shameful or afraid of the consequences of revealing their truth.  And, for some, like my own mother, they simply are not capable of seeing the truth in themselves and spend their lives living in denial, inflicting pain on those around them.

If you struggle with depression or know someone who does, take a moment to learn more and create a safe environment for yourself and others to live honestly and authentically.

LOVE


Today’s post is short and to the point.  We’re talking about love.  Something that is scarce yet abundant.  Something that is colorful yet black and white.  The idea of love is something that I wonder about frequently because I continually challenge the notion when it comes to my relationships.  My brain has been working hard on this recently as I have been reading Brene Brown’s Daring Greatly – the type of book filled with powerful messages that roam around in your mind for days and days after you’ve read them.  I find myself highlighting passage after passage and going back and re-reading to make sure I understand the import of what she is saying.  Ultimately, this book is forcing me to think very deeply about the relationship I have with myself and the ones I share with others in my life. Today I read a poignant passage on love:

We cultivate love when we allow our most vulnerable and powerful selves to be deeply seen and known, and when we honor the spiritual connection that grows from that offering with trust, respect, kindness and affection.  Love is not something we give or get; it is something that we nurture and grow, a connection that can only be cultivated between two people when it exists within each one of them – we can only love others as much as we love ourselves.

Those are some big, strong, meaningful words.  Words that swim around in my head and make me think about every person in my life.  I wonder about the vocabulary I use to describe how I feel about them.  I am not one to throw the love word around that much.  In fact, I tell very few people that I love them because when I say it, I want to be certain I mean it.  I use it mostly with my husband and kids.  Because, with them, I am sure.  When I measure love against Brene’s yardstick, I know that I love them fully and completely.

I remember, as a kid, my mother used to tell me “I love you but I do not like you.”  They were hurtful words meant to invoke her disdain for my behavior or something about my personality that she did not enjoy while still ensuring her underlying implicit love for me as my mother.  As a child and then as a young adult, my whole body tightened up when I heard those words because of the sting of the blow.  And I found them hard to process.  In my mind, the one clearly negated the other. Of course, she could be angry with me about something or be displeased with my behavior but she should not have stopped liking me in the process.

I do not believe I can love someone whom I do not like.

I do not believe I can love someone with whom I have not shared a deep personal connection.  

I do not believe I have the capacity to love anyone when I am feeling lost and not able to find the strength or courage to look at myself and love myself.

When I think about my mother’s words today, I recognize the impact they had on me and the impact the continue to have on me.  How can I possibly like myself if my mother does not like me?  How can I possibly love myself if I do not like myself?  I struggle every day to rid myself of those words and to not identify her pain with me.  Yet, on my darkest days, those words are an oasis that allows me to reinforce why I feel badly about myself and offer me a hole to climb into so I can run away from the hard work of being present and vulnerable.

I know when I love someone because I can physically feel the emotion that comes from my connection to them.  I can feel the trust and the comfort that comes from being vulnerable and open.  At the same time, I also know that I can abuse this love because I feel safe and secure.  And, naturally, they can abuse me as well.  It’s risky.  And, while we certainly don’t set out to hurt those we love, sometimes it just happens.  What this means is that we have to work harder to take better care to ensure that we choose the right words, we express our love for each other openly and honestly and we protect those most fragile and significant relationships.

I have a lot of wonderful people in my life and lots of people who I truly adore and have strong feelings for.  However, when I look at Brene’s words and I put them to the test, I recognize that my loved ones are very few and far between.  It’s hard work to get to love and stay at love and I am just fine with that.

MISSING


“Only when we’re brave enough to explore the darkness will we discover the infinite power of our light.” – Brene Brown

I am currently working on a very meaningful project – coaching someone to help them uncover their story.  I love this for so many reasons but mainly because I am helping them find their story to authentically and passionately share with others the importance of the work that they are doing.  It is an exciting journey for them because they are being pushed to explore aspects of themselves in ways they may not have before and it is interesting for me because I am challenging myself to be present on their ride and partake in the same activities.  Part of my role is to provide journal prompts each day to encourage them to write.  The prompts are often benign and are intended to simply get them to explore some thoughts and put them down on paper.  I’m not particularly interested in what they write.  I simply want them to write.  But, of course, the mere exploration of thought creates pathways to information and the act of scribing creates further connections and suddenly stories are unfolding right in front of you.

Yesterday, I offered up a prompt to write about someone that you miss, dead or alive.  I put no parameters around this topic because I wanted them to explore on their own who they missed and why and, perhaps, what it meant to miss someone.  Do you miss someone because they are no longer part of your life?  Do you miss someone because they have passed on?  Do you miss someone at that very moment even if you are going to see them the very next day?  The exercise was intended to allow them to journey along all those lines.  As I am trying to parallel the exercises and simultaneously write on the very same topics, I commissioned myself to tackle the same subject…and fell short.  With each journal prompt, I also ask that we write about something that we are grateful for and/or something we are disappointed about from our day and, last night, I got really hung up on the first part.  I focused on my lack of gratitude, which was, conversely, a source of disappointment for myself.

Ironically enough, I am not someone who enjoys journaling because, for me, it sometimes seems forced and I am often harshly critical of what I write.  Because I typically write with the intention of having others read it, I am extremely focused on my choice of words, the deeper messages and having compelling content.  And, of course, that is exactly what journaling is not and exactly why I should spend more time on that activity.  Journaling is most powerful as a tool to allow for a free stream of thought to enable you to find those pathways to your inner voices.  I recognize that it’s nuts that I resist it and, as a result, I am forcing myself to take advantage of this opportunity to embrace the art of journaling if only to have some connection and authenticity with this project.  What comes from it will only be the icing on the cake.

Last night when I set out to write about someone I miss, I struggled.  I could not really come up with anyone that I missed so much that I wanted to write about it.  There are a lot of people that have been a part of my life that I do not have any connection with anymore because of life circumstances.  I do miss some of them and, sometimes I feel badly about the role I played in our disconnection.  I miss what they used to mean to me and I feel sad about the fact that, in many cases, I allowed the person to slip out of my life.  There are also certainly people who are currently a part of my life who I do not see very often and I surely miss them.  In truth, some of the people that I am closest to live at a great distance from me so I am constantly missing them but that has become a regular, ordinary characteristic of my life.  I don’t like to write about it because it frustrates me and also makes me very sad.  So, ultimately, I avoided the topic entirely and I ended up spending my time writing about my own disappointment in myself for not feeling more grateful and for letting myself continually get caught up in malaise rather than focusing on the positive aspects of my life.  The subconscious thoughts about how missing people makes me feel bad surely inspired a whole lot of negativity towards myself and was a perfect platform to display my deep levels of disappointment in myself.

This morning, as often happens when I am returning from dropping my kids off at school, I took a few minutes for some self-reflection and started thinking about the exercise again (yes, this is how this stuff works.  A simple little prompt can permeate your thinking and just sit with you for days.  It’s pretty awesome).  With a somewhat clear head, the loud and resounding noise was that the person I missed most right now was me.

I’ve gone away.  I have allowed myself to get caught up with the messiness in my life.  I focus on all the things wrong and nothing that is right.  I have become blind to the beauty around me like the rich fall colors and the fragrant aromas of the season that so often make me feel whole and connected.  I feel disappointment in myself in regards to many areas of my life.  I am harshly judging myself and critical of my thinking and endeavors. I am, as the brilliant Brene Brown would say, caught up in a shame spiral.   She says that “shame is the intensely painful feeling or experience of believing that we are flawed and therefore unworthy of love and belonging.”  That is a potent message and, when I reflect on my life right now, it truly represents how I feel and why I miss myself.  I miss the person who rises above and feels tremendous gratitude for all the richness and texture that makes up my life.  I miss the strength that I typically exhibit to work through the clutter and chaos and the pride I feel for having muddled through and come out the other end feeling confident and powerful.  I miss waking up every day looking forward to the challenges before me and going to bed at night feeling tired but inspired and excited about what comes next.

I miss me.

The good news, I suppose, is that I can see myself in the distance and know that I am not far away.  And, chances are, it will likely not be too long before I return.  However, in the spirit of honoring this exercise, I will recognize that the person I miss is me and I will pine for myself and encourage myself to find my way back.  I will, like any good friend, extend a hand to help myself back up the hill, shout out directions as I traverse the rocks and catch myself if I slip.  And, until my return, I will keep on missing me and will remember another passage from Brene:

“Shame resilience [is] the ability to practice authenticity when we experience shame, to move through the experience without sacrificing our values, and to come out on the other side of the shame experience with more courage, compassion, and connection than we had going into it.”

She says, “shame derives its power from being unspeakable…language and story bring light to shame and destroy it.”  So, I guess this little exercise, this benign journal prompt is exactly what I need to help myself as only I can.

BLIND SPOTS


“Vulnerability is our most accurate measurement of courage.” – Brene Brown

This week I was, thanks to a fortuitous blog post from a friend, reminded of some of the powerful words of Brene Brown.  Her research, talks and writing on vulnerability have inspired me over the past year as I have embarked upon what has been a very painful journey to find the courage to be more vulnerable and, ultimately, find peace in my life.

My story began so many months ago after the death of my mother.  She and I had been estranged for many years after a lifetime of emotional abuse that resulted in me becoming hardened, cynical and judgmental.  I steeled myself with the belief that surrounding myself with love, going to therapy and practicing different behaviors would ensure that I could protect myself from the long-term effects of both the abuse from my mother and the scars left from my alcoholic father (who had also passed away just months prior to my mother).  It took a while but I did, ultimately, realize that this plan was not going to work.  Shoving all my feelings into a locker inside me and trying to forget the combination would not prevent the leakage of all the pain and abuse that I endured.  It is insidious.  It permeates our cells.  It comes out in every place we least expect it to and at the times we least want it to.

On Leap Day – February 29 – I shared in a blog post that my mother had passed and it was the first time anyone, except for a very close few, had heard the news.  It was not something that I shared publicly because it was only noteworthy in that I felt a bit freed from the grasp of her will.  Even at her advanced age, even as she suffered from cancer, she continued to try to torment me and I continued to play into her hand, allowing myself to question everything, doubt my feelings and resort to behaving like a petulant child.  Once I learned of her passing, I felt a sense of relief and, consequently, a sense of guilt at not feeling the appropriate grief that one feels when their parent dies.  There was no practical way for me to explain this to most of my friends who have not previously been dragged through the muck that comprised my relationship with my mother.  I simply commented on it and expected that some might take note but did not anticipate that the result would inspire a whole new level of self-examination.

Sometimes I underestimate my impact on others – both positively and negatively.  I frequently find myself surprised to learn that someone is thinking about me or has been inquiring about me outside of my presence.  It sounds silly but is deeply rooted in wounds from my childhood and makes perfect sense to me.  Similarly, I do not always realize how widespread the impact of my negative actions can be.  I assume they go unnoticed by most because who would be paying attention to me – and, of course, that is a giant underestimation of its impact.  It is like the opposite of narcissism but, sometimes, equally dangerous.  Despite my deep level of self-awareness resulting from careful analysis of my feelings, actions and behaviors, I have a unique ability to blindside myself with my actions and behaviors.

In my work, we use a tool called Johari Window to help people understand the concept of blind spots when giving feedback in a corporate setting.  Every one of us has blind spots and they reside in the window of what people know about us but we do not know about ourselves.  And, while I generally believe that is a very small window for me, I also recognize that I can be a bit more clueless than I imagine myself to me.  My inability to recognize how others view me or that they even spend the time to think about me sits squarely in my blind spot.  When I wrote that blog post, I was standing in my blind spot.  I never anticipated that anyone would actually pay attention to the information about my mother dying and react with such support.  The outpouring of love and positive messaging was unexpected and I was both grateful and uncomfortable because I had revealed something very personal and I did not appreciate or recognize its significance because of my blindness.  One of the very valuable and powerful outcomes was the gift given to me by my closest friend, an expert in the field of blind spots, who utilized his craft on me to help reveal to me what I was so painfully missing.  By revealing my blind spot , he helped to thrust me into a place where I needed to search for answers and my first stop on the journey was vulnerability.  And so, it became a huge focus for me this year.  What I knew then about vulnerability is that I dreaded it, I loathed it and, what I have come to know for certain is that it is the only pathway to freedom, love and happiness.  Brene Brown says, in one of her TED talks:  “And I know that vulnerability is kind of the core of shame and fear and our struggle for worthiness, but it appears that it’s also the birthplace of joy, and creativity, of belong, of love.”

Another valuable outcome of the revelation of my blind spot, is that I am someone who values connections.  I need to feel connected – to be part of something.  Growing up without a strong sense of family and no formalized religion, I found myself drifting through life, often feeling like a misfit.  I never really belonged anywhere.  Lots of parents of friends would take me in and care for me over small periods of time but I always knew that I did not belong. The result was that I felt even more disconnected rather than being able to accept their offer of love and belonging.  I didn’t fall in love until i met my husband at the age of 24 so, until that time, I was a floater, seeking out personal and romantic connections. And even with him, it took years for me to shed my armor and truly connect.  Nearly 21 years later, I am still working on being raw and honest with him and finding a way to truly trust.  The wounds are deep and they show up nearly every day, with or without my notice.

The tragic reality of me is that, throughout my life, despite my desperate effort to make connections, I was always hiding.  I was hiding behind my vulnerability, afraid that if anyone really saw me, they would patently reject me.  I denied the fact that, in order to truly have a connection, you must be authentic.  You must bring your full and real self to the table.  Instead, I became masterful at matching other people’s behaviors and building artificial rapport in order to try to fit.  I never had to reveal anything to anyone that I didn’t want them to know because I was so adept at becoming whomever I needed to be in order to fit in.  I borrowed from other people’s personalities and adopted them as my own so I looked like I belonged.  I made superficial connections which, not surprisingly, did not have much strength and could not last beyond a little wear and tear.  As a result, many of my relationships were transient.

When I wrote my post in February, I truly believed that I was well on my way to becoming my authentic self.  And, to a great degree, that was true.  I had made some very meaningful connections and was allowing myself to be seen for who I truly was.  A little more naked than ever before.  But it was hard and took its toll on me.  And, what is also true is that, much like maintaining our bodies, we must also maintain our minds.  There is no final destination – it is always all about the journey.  If we spend months or years to build and tone our muscles and then suddenly stop working at it, our bodies will soften – and rather quickly.  When we are intentional about our beliefs and behaviors and feed ourselves positive thoughts and allow ourselves the time and space to accept ourselves, we tone our emotional muscles.  As soon as we take our eyes off the road and put our psyches on auto-pilot, we quickly return to unconscious negative input and easily sabotage our hard-earned efforts.  That is what is happening to me now.  I have lost focus and am straying far away trying to find my way back to my path.

I had a laser focus on what I wanted in my life and who I wanted to be.  Authenticity and vulnerability were priority #1 for me because I knew, without a doubt, that it was a passageway to freedom for me.  It was the route that most certainly ended in happiness.  So, how is it that I have felt so unhappy lately?  I have manufactured an environment surrounded by the people who I believe bring out the best in me.  I have consciously pushed away the influences that I believe are destructive and detrimental to my journey.  I have set intentions to be honest, authentic, loving and vulnerable so I can allow those who I want and need to be close to me get and stay close to me.  What I have not planned for is the reality of life and the bumps and hurts that come along.  Those who love us most also sometimes hurt us most.  And we also hurt them.  I have also not accounted for the leakage of my pain locker that has yet to be emptied.  Inside of it still resides years of residue that adds toxicity, even more fervently when I am in a weakened state.  When this occurs, I immediately retreat to a place where I can protect myself from feeling the pain until, all at once, the earth shudders a little too hard and the cracks spread and the walls collapse and I get sucked right into the floor, crushed under a pile of bricks.

Suffice it to say, I know that everything good and bad is only temporary and, as my husband often says “the difference between your best day and your worst day is your state of mind.”  I say with all authenticity and all vulnerability that I have stumbled.  I tripped over myself because I lost sight of my path.  I lost faith in myself and allowed the demons to take over.  I wish I could just will myself back into step but I know it is part of the journey to learn how to use the tools I have to pick myself up, dust myself off and keep moving forward.  Lately, I haven’t felt so motivated to move forward and thought perhaps my journey was futile.  But I had a moment, in between the raindrops of tears and anguish, when I realized that perhaps I had, in fact, made a major step forward because, if nothing else, I am feeling quite vulnerable and am just sitting with those feelings no matter how painful they may be right here and now.  With that, I know, at least, the road I am looking for is the right one and once I resume my journey I will do so, hopefully, without too many blind spots.