Some random things I learned about myself last night…

I cry easily, I didn’t used to be a crier but somewhere along the line, over the course of the last few months, I’ve become a crier.

I need my big brother to beat up the bullies for me sometimes.

I have the amazing ability to turn ordinary toaster waffles into hockey pucks…that’s right folks, I even mess up toaster waffles.

I’d rather spend the evening hanging out with my 11-year-old watching Disney movies than just about anything else I can think of.

I can do a Kung Fu single legged stance.

I have good girlfriends.

Contrary to what I’d thought previously, the phone isn’t too heavy to pick up when I want to push the self destruct button.

God has my back, when I was really hurting yesterday, the first thought that popped into my head was to lean on my AA sisters. At first I thought I should get props for that but that’s all JC because left to my own devices, I head straight for one of Dante’s circles of Hell in a manner and at a speed that can break the laws of physics, as well as several state and federal statutes, I’m sure.

I have the entire script of the movie Drop Dead Gorgeous memorized.

I have a tendency to workout at my problems.

I can speak my truth.

I can actually feel my heart hardening…it’s feels a little like heartburn with some nausea mixed in case you were wondering.

I still remember how to add fractions with different denominators…take that 7th grade math.

I’m glad I’m alive.

Superman, AC/DC, little girls and Kryptonite...

I Think About You -Don Schlitz and Steve Seskin Everytime I see a woman on a billboard sign I think about you Saying "drink this beer and you'll be mine" I think about you When an actress on a movie screen Plays Lolita in some old man's dreams It doesn't matter who she is I think about you When I see a pretty woman walking down the street I think about you Men look her up and down like she's some kind of treat I think about you She wouldn't dare talk to a stranger always has to be aware of the danger it doesn't matter who she is I think about You eight years old big blue eyes and a heart of gold when I look at this world, I think about You and I can't help but see that every woman used to be Somebody's little girl, I think about you Everytime I hear people say it's never gonna change I think about you Like it's some kind fo joke, some kind of game I think about you When I see a woman on the news who didn't ask to be abandoned or abused it doesn't matter who she is I think about You eight years old big blue eyes and a heart of gold when I look at this world, I think about You and I can't help but see that every woman used to be Somebody's little girl, I think about you When I look at this world I think about you

So this is how my day is going so far…I’ve spent most of it in tears, with my office door closed. At times, I’ve considered crawling under my desk, yes, it’s going that well today. I had a restless night of sleep last night and sleep deprivation is my kryptonite (sidebar…when kryptonite didn’t come up as a misspelled word, I looked it up on dictionary.com and this is the definition they have…”any surviving fragment of the exploded mythological planet Krypton, home of Superman.” Please find that as entertaining and ridiculous as I do…). Like most other folks in the Twin Cities, I could blame this poor night’s sleep on the 65+ mph winds that shook us all night long (see what I mean about kryptonite, somehow I went AC/DC there), but I won’t. My restless night was due to feelings of overwhelming helplessness. Now, when I say overwhelming, I’m not talking I’m-stressed-but-nothing-a-little-yoga can’t handle, I mean holy-shit-life-is-coming-at-me-at-the-speed-of-an-incoming-missile-and-there’s-no-cover.

I hesitate to even broach the subject of why I’m feeling so overwhelmed, but seeing as I’ve already admitted to seriously considering crawling under my desk today, what the hell. Here’s the deal, I just want to be left alone. I don’t mean I want to isolate, I mean I want men to just back the hell off. At the risk of sounding like that don’t-hate-me-because-I’m-beautiful shampoo commercial, I’m tired of being approached by men, wherever I go. I’m tired of getting messages on facebook (which isn’t a word according to spellcheck, someone better get on that because I’m pretty sure society is moving to the place where marriages and divorces will be considered official if announced on there, but again, I digress) from men I hardly know. I know the score, none of these guys really knows me, they know what they see, and for a woman who has been through what I’ve been through, to be viewed merely as a body…well, honestly, I don’t have the words to describe what it does to me. I’m not a personal challenge or a conquest, I’m a mother, I’m a daughter, I’m a sister, I’m a friend. I’m also a survivor of rape who has a hell of a time saying no. For months now, the running joke with my circle of friends is that I’ll accidently get married again because some guy will say “let’s get married” and I’ll say, with resignation “ok.”

I’m also a person going through a very painful divorce, a person who needs some space to breathe, a person who needs to learn about herself, a person who needs to be alone. Apparently, I’m also still a work in progress. I completed Rape Trauma Counseling earlier this month so I should be good, right? Wrong. When “I Think about You” came up on my iPod this morning, it literally brought me to my knees in such emotional pain that I could hardly breathe for a minute. I’m not Lolita for some old man, I’m not “some kind of treat,” I’m still my dad’s little girl, all women are. When I was 8 years old, I was stubborn and willful, and my dad’s little girl. I insisted on doing things my own way. When I was raped, I lost that sense of myself, I no longer knew what my way was. I’m starting to learn what that is again, but I need some time to figure that out and I can’t do that if I’m dating, or kind of dating, or “it’s just lunch”ing.

I need time, I need space, I need sleep and, in attempt to bring this full circle, sans AC/DC, I need my fortress of solitude…

Save second base...

The world ain't all sunshine and rainbows. It's a very mean and nasty place and I don't care how tough you are, it will beat you to your knees and keep you there permanently if you let it. You, me, or nobody is gonna hit as hard as life. But it ain't about how hard ya hit. It's about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward, how much you can take and keep moving forward. But ya gotta be willing to take the hits. -Rocky Balboa

So Monday I had, and failed, my first mammogram. I guess I should have studied. The irony that this news comes to me in October, Breast Cancer Awareness month, has not escaped me. So now what, I get to go to the breast center (which I'm pretty sure is not nearly as sexy as the name would suggest) for another mammogram and an ultrasound. As I've been waiting and worrying, it has occured to me that maybe this is God's way of putting my present circumstances into perspective for me. Yes, I am a survivor of rape. Yes, I was a virgin when I was raped. Yes, I destroyed my first marriage because I was in so much emotional pain over the trauma of my past that the only way I knew how to cope was to pull the pin on my self destruct grenade. Yes, I've spent so many years running away from that pain that all I was actually doing was helping it with its conditioning so when I did I finally stop running earlier this spring, I found a much stronger opponent than I was expecting. Yes, I'm alone and that scares the shit out of me most days. But I'm still alive, none of these "yes's" have taken me out of the game.

But breast cancer might. I'm trying not to get ahead of myself, the reality is that it's most likely nothing and I will be fine, but this has been a wake up call. Though I look at the above quote from Rocky Balboa multiple times, every day (it's next to my bed, on my bathroom mirror, above my sink, next to my desk, you get the picture) it has taken on new meaning for me this week. Nothing is going to ever hit me as hard as life. I've walked through hell and survived, no one in this life can throw anything at me as tough as that journey, but life itself might hit me hard enough to knock me to my knees and keep me there permenantly this time. I've also realized that if the news isn't what I want to hear, I am strong and I will fight. I'm willing to take the hit and keeping moving forward.

So here's where saving second base comes in. Because it is Breast Cancer Awareness month, there is an app on Facebook that allows you to post a bra on your page in honor of the cause. One of my friends did just that and a comment from another friend was "Save second base!!!!" That got me thinking that my greatest ally in every fight has been my sense of humor so while I wait this one out, I've decided to embrace that ally by putting that sentiment on a...wait for it...t-shirt. Save second base.

When you’re going through hell, keep going…

Last weekend sucked. Actually, most weekends suck these days. Those are the times when I’m alone and I’m not a fan of that right now. I tend to think too much anyway and if you give me a quiet apartment, I could make overthinking into something that could rival an Olympic event. This past weekend, had I been competing in the trials for said event, I would have totally nailed it, with not only a personal best, but a new world record, I’m sure.

Backing up a step, things actually started to go off the rails on Friday morning, when I went to workout and found the gym at my apartment complex completely trashed…a perfect set up for a PTSD episode that brought me literally and figuratively to my knees. I called Jim, because that’s what I do. While he was supportive as he talked me back to the safety of my apartment, the conversation ended with him saying that while he loved me and always would, I needed to stop depending on him. I get that, really I do, but it still hurt to hear. For the last 16 years, even though he has rarely known how to combat the demons that haunt me, his presence has given me a feeling of safety and security.

The next day, after an amazing AA meeting (sidebar, I owe my Saturday morning chicks big time. I will never be able to repay them for their wisdom and love) which primed the pump for crying jags that lasted throughout most of the rest of the day, Jim and I had the first heart to heart talk we’ve had in a long time. I won’t go into details, they are still too close to home that even now, as I’m thinking back on it, I can feel the tears creeping up, but it ended with his holding me while I cried. Through my tears, because, as anyone who knows me at all can attest to, I can’t remain serious for too long, I said “have you gotten taller?” because he seemed taller standing there, holding me in my living room. His response was “why, yes I have.” We both laughed as he wiped the tears off my cheeks. What I will say about that conversation is that I talked about being scared to go through this alone and he talked about how I was stronger than I realized.

There’s just something so heartbreakingly sad about this whole situation. It overwhelms me at times to the point where I feel like I can’t breathe. I love this man and he loves me and yet we can’t seem to work it out. Too much has happened, while I love him more than I can express, I don’t trust him and without trust, it just doesn’t work. As I’ve been wrestling with feelings of existential dread lately (remind me to tell you about my ill advised trip to the hair care isle at Target last week that culminated with me blonde for about 24 hours sometime) I’ve gotten love and support from wonderful friends. A woman who is particularly dear to my heart, mostly because I’m convinced we’re twins separated at birth, sent me this quote from Winston Churchill: When you’re going through hell, keep going. I’ve thought a lot about that the past few days. There was a time when I would have done anything to avoid the pain I’m feeling right now, and I did. I've tried to drink it away, I've tried to starve it away, I've tried to exercise it away, all to no avail. The difference now is, while the pain hasn’t diminished, I’ve grown stronger. With love, support, and the sometimes unscathing honesty of my friends I’ve grown strong enough to walk through this pain. There is no way around it, there is no way over it, there is no way under it, my only choice is to go through it. Avoiding it keeps me in it, moving through it will one day get me past it. So today, as I go through this hell, I'm going to keep going.

Always be prepared…

This is not a motto I subscribe to...apparently. I wish I had learned that motto somewhere along the line because this morning I asked a question of my husband and was only prepared for one answer…and you guessed it, that was not the answer I got. Maybe it’s because I was never a Girl Scout…I was a Blue Bird for a little while, but that’s as far I got in Campfire Girls and I don’t remember learning that motto. I do remember learning how to read a compass, in fact, I still have the one I got in Campfire Girls 35 years ago. Even when I’ve lost everything, which has happened a couple of times in my life, I’ve still managed to keep that compass. My obsession with making sure I never lose track of it is both ironic and perhaps pathological. But I never did learn that whole “be prepared” thing.

“Can’t it just be us? Please say your mom will be out of the picture so I can come back home…I want to come back home.” Can’t it just be us was my question, “no” was the answer. It seems ridiculous that this has hit me so hard. I moved out nine months ago, we’ve been to a couple different lawyers, we’ve talked about custody and financial settlements…the fact that our relationship is really over should not come as an earth-shattering-cut-me-to-my-heart-how-am-I-ever-going-to-get-over-you shock, but it has. There is no going back, there is no fixing it, there is no “us” anymore. That’s really what this is about, there is no “us” anymore and without an “us” I don’t know who I am.

When I asked the question, I wasn’t expecting a “yes”…but I wasn’t prepared for a cold as ice “no” either. So now, as a friend has told me time and time again recently, the healing can begin. I’m not sure I’m prepared for that either. Healing hurts. It’s messy, it’s full of tears and stomach aches and sleepless nights. It comes with insomnia, bad movie marathons, the requisite non-working hours uniform of flannel pajamas and his old bathrobe that I took when I left, and headaches. It comes at great cost. You will no doubt tell me the payoff is worth it in the end but please spare me that nugget of wisdom for the time being because I’m not at all in a place to believe you. Not anywhere close. The truth is, I don’t know where I’m at. This is uncharted territory for me. So maybe, just maybe, this is why I’ve kept that compass all these years…

Does this relationship make me look fat?

I’m better off on my own, I’ve known this for a long time. Whenever I’ve gotten myself out of a relationship and the emotional riptides that go along with seeing the light, giving up, letting go…breaking up, subside, I realize I’m centered, productive, happy, and well, just more alive. For years as I’ve felt this freedom that comes with moving on when a relationship has run its course, I’ve told myself it was just because I wasn’t with the right person and that somewhere out there, Mr. Right was still waiting for me and when I found him, I’d finally experience a relationship in which I could share my life with someone and still be centered, productive, happy and alive. Recently though, it has occurred to me that this lack of balance hasn’t been about the person or the relationship, it’s been about me. I could be in a relationship with a man that is a dead ringer for Matthew McConaughey in every way from charm, to humor, to abs and I’d still end up in the same place I always do when I’m in a relationship. I’d end up in that place where I’m insecure, unhappy, a little bit crazy (but I’ll only cop to a little bit) and well, lost. I’d end up down the rabbit hole.

As my husband and I have been working through some boundary issues and figuring out how to untangle our now separate lives, my eating disorders are taking me to the mat. It started earlier this week when we were discussing our son’s schedule for the weekend. “I’m going to a friend’s house for the game on Sunday.” Now, this sentence shouldn’t have bothered me, but it did. I immediately wanted to know who the “friend” was. Was it someone I knew, male or female, if female was the answer to the last question was this a party or just the two of them… And then it hit me, this Sunday didn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things, the truth is, he will move on, if not tomorrow, someday, and it will rip my heart in two. I’ve always known he’d move on, though I’d like to think he’d spend the rest of his life missing and wanting me, and earlier this week, I finally understood that at a deeper, visceral level. As I found myself sitting on the floor of my apartment eating pork fried rice so fast I didn’t even taste it, I suddenly connected the dots for the first time. Sitting there with my messenger bag over my shoulder, with my coat still on, pounding down Chinese food I knew would make me sick, I had a moment of clarity. I was trying to ease the pain of losing my marriage and quiet the fear of the unknown I now find myself in…with fried rice.

I went through treatment for anorexia 15 years ago last month. I’d first joined the ranks of those diagnosed with an eating disorder back in 1986 by an ER doc when my parents took me in after they found an empty box of laxatives in my bathroom trash can (yeah, I never said it was a glamorous disease so if you think it is, think again). A quart of activated charcoal later, and after a promise that I’d eat “like a good girl” I was released. Time marched on, the dark side of life intervened and that promise proved to be a lie. Eight years later I found myself so in love with this man that I was supposed to spend the rest of my life with, that I could hardly breathe. The problem was, he wasn’t in love with me. Not only wasn’t he in love with me, someone else had caught his eye. She was more his “type” he had said at the time. The more-his-type comment sent me full throttle into starvation mode. Because I’m neurotic to the core (again, yeah, the line forms to the left boys, don’t all rush me at once) I wanted to know everything about her that was different…better. She had a job in an office, she rock climbed, she didn’t have an ex-husband and a son, she had long, beautiful curly hair, and she was, well, smaller. That last one was what I latched onto. Losing as much weight as I possibly could became my sole mission, I wasn’t going to lose this man without a fight. For weeks I allowed myself lettuce, but only if I was about to pass out and nothing else. I got up early so I could workout both before and after work. I pushed myself beyond my breaking point and still kept going. Finally, one morning on the way to work, we had a fight over his new interest that culminated in my anorexic bottom. After unsuccessfully pleading with him to either walk away from her or walk away from me (I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me to walk away from him at the time, it is true what they say about hindsight) I went into work and immediately collapsed. The emotional stress of the situation had proved to be too much for my beaten, broken, staved body. When I came to, there were a couple of firefighters leaning over me. They explained that they weren’t able to find my pulse and that I had to keep talking to them until the paramedics arrived. “Stay with us, everything is going to ok.” When the paramedics arrived, they were able to find my pulse at a jaw dropping 60/40, knowing nothing about medicine, I’ve since been told that’s bad. Later at the hospital, I was given fluids and forced to eat. To this day I can still taste those hospital pancakes if I close my eyes and think about it. Once my vitals were stabilized, the doctor on duty pulled a chair up next to my bed and said “Before I release you, I need you to understand that you will die from this if you don’t get help.” There wasn’t a “might” or a “maybe” in there, only a “will.”

The following Monday, I had an intake evaluation (scored 100% for all the warning signs and symptoms, take that Mr. Gimple for that comment to my parents at parent/teacher conferences about my lack of work ethic) and by Tuesday, I had entered day one of 28 at Fairview Riverside. During our first group therapy session that day, my blood pressure bottomed out again and I had to be transported up to the ER. Since I was already in the hospital, there were no cute firemen this time…damn, only one of the counselors from the ED unit holding my hand and making small talk while a clumsy nurse poked around my arm looking for a vein for the IV. Once I was stabilized, I was able to rejoin the unit and continue with treatment. At the end of that first week, we were saying good-bye to a young man that had successfully completed his 28 days. As part of that session, the counselor that was facilitating the session brought out a ball of yarn that we were to pass around. When we passed the yarn to the next person, we were supposed to say one thing we admired about them. I got the yarn passed to me several times but the only comment I remember came from that young man. He said “I admire that you’re a fighter. You got knocked down the first day in here and you came back.” At the end of the exercise, we cut the yarn and each kept a piece. I still have it 15 years later.

He was right, I am a fighter, I do get knocked down and so far, I’ve always gotten back up. But lately I’ve been thinking maybe I need to stay down this time, at least in terms of romantic relationships. For some reason, those push all the ED buttons that will eventually kill me. Earlier this week, while I was sitting on the floor literally (ok, not literally) inhaling that pork fried rice, the question “does this relationship make me look fat?” came to mind. The thought of it made me laugh…and then cry because I was laughing so hard, and then eventually cry because there was so much painful truth in it. Relationships put me through hell, they send me down the rabbit hole, they bring out the absolute worst, most insecure parts of me…they turn me into a Michele that I don’t like. Now, before you argue with me, let me assure you, I get that it’s not really the relationships that do this to me, it’s me. It’s my lack of trust and complete insecurity (if I had a superpower, it would be heroic, almost epic levels of insecurity) within intimate relationships that put me through hell and send me down the rabbit hole. I don’t know if that will ever change, nor do I wish to spend any more time worrying about that. For now, this is a fight I haven’t trained for so I’m staying down.

I’m not the light in the refrigerator…

Shortly after we were engaged, my future mother-in-law showed up at our apartment door with her youngest son in tow. Her plan, which was executed perfectly, was to distract my future husband with an afternoon of video games with the little brother while she straightened me out. The boys disappeared into the other room, determined to save some distant galaxy via Nintendo 64 and we settled in on the couch for a “visit.” Amidst the hoots, hollers, laughter, and in-your-face’s coming from the other room, my future mother-in-law proceeded to outline, in great detail, everything she thought was wrong with me, and laid out for me exactly what I would need to do to be good enough for her son. Her issue with me was, well, me. She didn’t like anything about me or my personality. Her solution was simple, I needed to step into the shadow of her son and let him shine…that, after all, was now my job as his future bride. Like a deer caught in the headlights of a oncoming vehicle…a rather large, loud, obnoxious, exhaust spewing vehicle (come on, I know that was petty but the woman’s made my life a literal living hell for 16 years so just give me this one, ok) I sat there, frozen. I didn’t know what to say…I had never been talked to like that before in my life.

As soon as they left, I told him about our “conversation,” expecting that he would be livid over the fact that she had been so insulting, cruel and judgmental, but he wasn’t…he agreed with her. Sensing that this was a losing proposition, I dug in and worked for the next several years to stay in his shadow. I adjusted my life to revolve around his. I took on all the responsibility of raising our son, paying the bills, scheduling the cable guy, calling Service Plus, doing the grocery shopping, cleaning the house, you get the picture, so that he could do his thing. For our entire marriage, he spent most of his vacation days on trips with the guys, while I waited at home, the dutiful wife, keeping things running, and pretending we were the perfect couple and family. In the process of being the dutiful wife, I lost myself, I became a shadow. I became the light in the refrigerator, just sitting there, in the dark, waiting for him to come open the door. Always there, always waiting for him, always trapped. Since I moved out, I’ve come to realize I’m not the light in the refrigerator though. I don’t have to wait for someone else to open the door, I don’t have to spend my life creating light for others while I sit in the dark alone…