No thank you

There are many times when I am very happy that I have an anonymous blog. It’s not that I want to say bad things about other people, it’s that I want to be able to share very personal things when I need to. It often helps me to write things out, and who knows maybe someone else is dealing with something similar…it helps to know you’re not alone.

I’ve been learning to meditate on my younger self. I have few memories of my youth–pre- middle school–and no clue why. I have memories that have been given to me by others, but first-hand in-person memories are few and far between. When my therapist first heard me say this, we have a very long discussion about trauma…she was concerned I had some past trauma that was being blocked. But we were never able to suss it out, and after several different attempts she felt confident that there was no hidden major trauma lurking in my younger years. It’s likely I had “mini” traumas that I had going along (like being bullied in school) that my mind decided wasn’t important for my adult living. But losing those “mini” trauma memories also meant losing a lot of my formative growing up years/lessons. My therapist (“T”) has been using forms of meditation to connect with her own younger selves to work on her own issues, and she has encouraged me to try to do the same. Maybe my younger me can help me deal with some of my present issues.

I have not had much success “speaking” to my younger self. For many years of my therapy I kind of put this idea aside as too “woo-woo” for me. I had no idea what to do or how to do it. My fallback is writing, but even writing didn’t seem to work for me. I have, however, been able to use writing more recently to address some of my on-going issues. I’ll share that another time.

So I started meditating when I’ve been ready to go to sleep. And as I meditated, I’ve tried to build my “safe place” in my younger years, which was my bedroom. I don’t “picture” things the way other people do, but I can bring up the memory of my childhood bedroom. I build the room in my head, writing up the details of the small and very pink space. Then I build a picture of what I looked like at younger ages, and I just start thinking about questions I have about my youth. And as I meditate, I find answers coming to me as if I am actually having a conversation with that young person. I’ve done this a couple of times and I didn’t always get useful/helpful responses.

That younger version of me seemed sullen and uninterested in sharing, but one of the times it seemed like she was telling me that it was more that she more feeling sad and lonely. I spent a lot of my time alone as a child, and my feeling about it was because I didn’t really want to be with other people. But when I asked her why she felt lonely, she said she didn’t want to be alone. So I asked why she didn’t try to be with other people–siblings, friends, cousins–and she said she was afraid to be rejected, so in order to not be hurt by rejection, she chose to be alone. It was easier to reject others before they could reject her.

It was so sad. I always felt like I just hated to be with people. I was incredibly shy as a child, and I figured that the shyness made everything painful and therefore I was really just born an introvert. I still believe I am an introvert–it’s so ingrained in me–and I still am shy and don’t like talking with strangers or being in front of a group. But I also see that I do try to push people away before they can hurt me or push me away themselves. I feel like I’ve spent a lot of my life being hurt by others, just reinforcing the desire to keep others at a distance. People who I love have abandoned me over and over again throughout my life, why then would I trust anyone outside my “love” circle to not abandon or reject me?

Two nights ago, I was having an especially bad night. Every time I managed to fall asleep, I had a terrible nightmare. I woke up at one point, feeling so terrorized that I actually woke Hub and asked him if HE was ok. He was in my nightmare and I thought someone was physically attacking us in our bed. He said he was okay and what was going on? I told him that it was just nightmare after nightmare, every time I closed my eyes. He asked if it would help if he held me for a while–which was very sweet–and the first thing that came into my head was that I didn’t want to be held if he was just going to end up falling asleep and leaving me alone…again. It was 4:30 in the morning, I had woken him from a dead sleep, and I was only thinking about how I would feel rejected and abandoned if he fell asleep while trying to make me feel better by holding me.

On one hand…this is kind of an issue with him. If we’re not talking (and even sometimes if we are) or doing other things while holding each other in bed, he falls asleep. If I didn’t know better, I would have assumed he had narcolepsy. He doesn’t, he’s been checked. But I hate when he wants to cuddle and then just…falls asleep. I end up feeling lonely and rejected and like I wasn’t worth his time. So I rejected him before he could potentially (based on past experiences) abandon and therefore reject me.

I was eternally polite when I said “no, but thank you for offering” at 4:30 in the morning. And then I spent the next hour thinking about how I had just performed that “reject them before they reject me” play. I’m not even sure he remembers having the interaction that night…he didn’t bring it up and neither have I.

It’s a conversation I intend to have, because I do think it explains some of my actions a little better. And I intend to work on not doing that, because I don’t want to spend my life running from things because I might be rejected…for whatever the reason.

I have also tried meditating again to contact my younger self. I haven’t had too much success recently, but I will keep trying. Just in case I have something important to learn from me.

 

The blame game

I guess this month (or two) is going to be about my father. It’s all up in my face since I’m half his caregiver and all his scheduler/assistant/phone answerer/organizational tool.

So far my father has seen several in-home modalities–the visiting nurse, occupational therapy, physical therapy–and with each of them he ended up angry and sputtering…he didn’t want this surgery, he never had any symptoms, and the cardiologist overreacted. He’s out there blaming everyone and everything for his current post-bypass recovery…everyone except himself. No one made him do the surgery, he had the opportunity to say no. His cardiologist told him if you don’t have the surgery you are very likely to have a heart attack. You might die, you might survive, but it’s either that or the bypass. It was my father’s decision as to have the bypass or not. He chose to have the bypass because he would have preferred to not have a heart attack and die. Now he’s telling everyone he wished he had done nothing because dying had to be less distressing than his current state of recovery.

Let me be clear, my father was pretty damn independent before the surgery. There was very little he didn’t do for himself, except maybe grocery shop or pay bills online. Post surgery, despite him being 79 years old with high blood pressure, high cholesterol, type 2 diabetes, peripheral neuropathy, sciatica, spinal stenosis, cataracts, and some mild dementia…he’s doing nearly 80% of what he was doing before. He can’t get in and out of bed on his own (most of the time, but sometimes he can) and he can’t shower on his own, and he can’t put on his own compression socks. Seriously, those are the things he can’t do. Also, he can’t drive, but that’s because he can’t use his chest or arm muscles until his sternum heals. OK. Occupational therapy said they barely had anything for him to do, physical therapy said they’d help him get his stamina back and build up his core muscles so he can get in and out of bed on his own. But he’s pissed off he can’t function on his own and he’s looking to place blame somewhere else.

Fortunately for him, he’s not trying to push it on me, because I’d be out. I don’t baby him, I tell him the choices he makes are his and so are the consequences. I don’t follow him around and I don’t hover…two things he abhors. I told him he has to let me know if he needs my help and otherwise I will leave him alone. I’m in the house and available if he needs me, but it has to be his decision to ask for help. It’s odd for me because it’s very different from how I took care of my mother. She wanted me to be with her, she wanted my company and my distraction. She appreciated my heart and my compassion and my affection. My father gives me the shit he doesn’t want to deal with and rejects my emotional support. I understand why, but it makes me feel like I’m not giving my all. I don’t have the same compassion for my father that I had for my mother. My relationship with my mother wasn’t perfect and I have things I’m still working on resolving from it. My father, I have anger from my childhood and my adulthood and from when my mother was sick. I don’t hate him, but I don’t necessarily have unconditional love for him. I’m not sure what it is. A very deep, mean part of me thinks he has gotten what he has deserved with this surgery. He’s damn lucky he didn’t have a massive heart attack and he isn’t worse off. My mother died from stupid cancer that she couldn’t have prevented, my father smoked for 70 years, ate terribly, refused to take care of himself and didn’t get help 2 years ago when he should have…this is his consequence.

Even writing these things makes me feel small and mean and shameful. Listening to him be pissed off at the doctors who repaired him, at the doctors who cared about him and advised him like they would have their own father…it makes me so angry. All of these people–and his children–they all care more about him than he cares about himself. Why do we all bother? Just so he can moan and yell and lay blame?

So much word vomit from so much emotional vomit. It’s been a very long week and for me (irl) it’s only Monday. Oy.

* Okay, so I’m not neglecting him or treating him poorly despite what I have said. These are innermost thoughts and feelings. I would never neglect or mistreat anyone I am caring for. 💛

 

Who is it for?

I’ve been talking a lot about my personal work toward my transformation. I’m trying to look deeper into who I am and make changes that take me on the path of growth. I’ve had several “A-ha!” moments along the way, and this is another one I wanted to share.

My husband and I have a monthly joint session with T, as we are both working on ourselves independently and together toward a better and more “intimate” relationship. As we learn independently how to be better versions of ourselves, there is both challenge and growth in our relationship. The “moment” I want to talk about happened as an off-shoot of a conversation that we had in joint session.

In the past, I have tried to make changes so that I better show my affection for my husband. I love him–that is not in question–but he is more outwardly affectionate than I am. I am a bit more subtle and quiet and understated in my affection, he is the exact opposite. I am more likely to do things that show my love and affection and appreciation for him, he is more likely to use touch or verbal affection. We are different, and we are working on understanding each other’s needs and each other’s preferences for receiving from the other. For a long while, I was attempting to show my affection the way he did, as his actions showed his preferences for how he wanted to receive affection from me. It took me some time to understand that, shockingly, I am not him. I am not him and I do not need to act exactly the way he does. The way I am, the way I act, is equally as acceptable as the way he is and the way he acts. So initially I was trying to change to be more like him, and during a session I asked if he had seen how I was attempting to act more like him when it comes to affection. I felt I had been working hard at it, and he basically had to be forced into saying that maybe he had seen the change “once or twice.” I was heartbroken…and angry. I was angry that he wasn’t seeing all the efforts I had been making. I was heartbroken because I felt I had been trying very hard, and even that wasn’t good enough for him. Subsequently, I came to the understanding that I don’t need to act like him, I need to act like me. And I need to be comfortable with how I was showing my love and affection for him. Yes, he should have the affection he wants in the way he wants it, but he also has to decide if he can be happy or satisfied with what I am offering him. And then there can be negotiation. And vice versa.

This past joint session, there I was again, asking Hub if he was seeing the changes I was trying to make. I was working hard–I thought–to share how I am feeling physically, mentally, emotionally with Hub. He shouldn’t need to ask me to know, and I should be able to share when I am ready. He is working on learning to let me share, and that he doesn’t need to ask to find out. I asked him during the session if he had seen how hard I was working to do that…so that he knows without asking. And trusts that I will tell him what I need him to know. Once again, disappointment ran through me when he said, “Sure, once or twice you’ve come out and told me…” Not only was I now wondering if he was just not seeing it or recognizing it, now I was wondering if I wasn’t doing as much as I thought I was. I questioned myself for the next day…thinking about whether I was fooling myself or lying to myself. How was it possible that I felt I was working hard and making progress, and yet Hub wasn’t seeing it??

I was literally in the shower when the “A-ha!” struck. Dammit, I was not making these changes for Hub, I was making them for me! I didn’t need to look for validation from him, I needed to find the validation in myself. And in the end, the “number” of times I did these things was irrelevant. There was no reason for me to ask Hub how many times he saw me do something…and I sat down and told him as much, in a nice, loving manner. I told him that I was making these changes for me, and I was no longer going to ask him if he saw the changes, or how many times he might have seen the changes. I told him that I was making these changes for me…and that I was hopeful that these changes would help us grow our relationship. I told him that I was going to work very hard to respond to him in loving and kind ways when we touched on any of these changes, but that I didn’t need his approval or his validation. And I asked him to let me know if he felt I was being rude or hurtful in the way I responded to him…I asked him to call me out, so that I could learn from it and do better the next time.

It’s me. I’m the person who needs to see my changes. Because I’m the person who wants the changes.

And I had a side bar of an “A-ha!” moment. The reason Hub wasn’t seeing the changes I was making was because he didn’t want to. The old me is the person he knows inside and out. The old me is the person he’s comfortable with, because he knows how she is going to behave and react in almost any situation. He’s literally answering questions that refers back to the me of 10 years ago. He’s clinging to a me that keeps him stagnant as well…homeostasis. When you change, the people around you will try to pull you back into the behaviors they know and are comfortable with. I’m well aware of this phenomenon from other family members, but I didn’t expect it from Hub…although I now understand why he’s doing it. But this is his issue to deal with, not mine. I can’t go back to the person I was to make things easier for him…I won’t. I choose not to. He’s going to have to learn to see who I am now and respond accordingly.

I am incredibly grateful to feel confident that my husband will come with me on this journey. I do not worry that he will leave, only that he will feel left behind. It’s up to him to meet me where I am today, as I have promised I will do for him as well.

 

Reflections of love and anger

I have deep love and respect for my mother and my grandmother. These two women were very influential to me all my life. I am positive that I am who I am because of them.

Let me say that again… I am who I am because of them.

I have loved these women from the day I was born. There were times when I rebelled against them, and there were times I wanted to be just like them. And there were times I thought I wanted to be the exact opposite of them. I am the fourth and last of my mother’s children; she was thirty-two when she had me, so she is of an older generation than most of my friends. Both of these women were extremely pragmatic, saving their emotions for their private time. Both women worked hard for the things they had, working in and out of the home, raised families of 3 or 4 children on not enough money, and found ways to survive without us feeling like we were missing out on things. When my parents were the most poor in my lifetime, I don’t ever remember going hungry. I don’t remember wanting for much–except maybe going out to eat–and I rarely remember my mother saying “no” to things we asked for. This was the only childhood I knew, so if we were missing out on things, I didn’t know it.

I had a difficult childhood because I was fat from toddler-hood. From my perspective, my mother and my grandmother were just women, not overweight women. I know now as an adult that both of them struggled with their weight their whole lives, just as I have. I know now as an adult that the baggage I have carried about my body and my weight come directly from the baggage they carried about their bodies and their weight. I also know that I was terribly hurt and angry at how they treated me when it came to my weight. I was always on a diet, I was always being told to eat less, exercise more, lose more weight…

And I know my grandmother often said to me, “You have such a pretty face…if only you were thinner.” If only I were thinner, then what? And thinner than what? No matter what weight I lost, it was never enough for my grandmother. She said terrible things to me, required me to starve myself and count calories and deprive myself…she required me to do things that shouldn’t have been a priority to me as a child. And she treated me differently than my brothers. Their weight was because they were boys; my weight was because I was wrong. That I ate the wrong things and in the wrong quantities. She judged me every day of my life, until the day she could no longer judge anything due to strokes and dementia. This was a woman who was so important to me and I never felt accepted by her as I was, nor loved as I was. Not even when I attempted to share my thoughts and feelings as an adult…she couldn’t understand why I didn’t want to be thinner. This was her ultimate goal…be thinner! Did she accept me and love me? As an adult I can say yes. As I child, I would never have answered that in the affirmative.

My mother borrowed money from my grandmother to send me to fat camp when I was a pre-teen. She and my father asked for money because they didn’t have enough to send me, and my grandmother agreed because she wanted me to be thin. I learned that it was so important to my mother that I be thin that she begged, borrowed, and nearly stole to get me that way. I learned that my mother’s priority for me was to lose weight. It didn’t matter what other attributes or characteristics I had, it was my weight that she was focused on. I knew she loved me, but I also felt she would love me more if I were thinner. All through my childhood. As I got to adulthood, I was able to speak my mind to her about my weight and she was able to hear me. I was always close to her, but after that I felt accepted and supported and recognized. And I felt she was proud of me for being who and what I wanted to be. As an adult, my mother and I were more than mother and daughter, we were friends. She even approved of me seeking therapy when I felt I needed it, although it was something she had never believed in before then.

These two women molded me with their love and their disapproval. They gave me baggage that I didn’t want or need, and I’ve carried that heavy load for most of my life. When I started therapy, I was there for grief and depression and anxiety…and as I moved through my experience in therapy, I began to understand what their love and their disapproval did to me. My mother died five years ago, my grandmother ten years before that. As I learned more and more how they had shaped me, I found more and more anger for them. Who might I have become if they had supported me instead of belittled me? What might I have accomplished if they had loved me exactly as I was instead of trying to make me who they had wanted to be?

Therapy and delving into my life brought me so much anger and disappointment and resentment for my mother and my grandmother. My mother was still alive during some of this time, but I couldn’t find a way to tell her how I felt. I tried, and sometimes I felt so close, but the words never came. The last two years of her life were a fight against cancer, and by that time all I wanted to do was not regret how I spent time with her. When her mother was sick, my mother took care of her and spent as much time as she could with my grandmother. My mom told me point-blank that she didn’t want to regret anything when it came to her mother. When my mother got sick, I said the exact same thing to her and to my husband about her. I put aside my anger and my resentment and I loved her. I loved her through everything that happened during those two years because I vowed I would not regret a moment. It was worth it.

After her death, I delved further with my therapist about her, as well as my feelings about her. As I became aware overall–through my therapy–that how people treat me was not because of me, but rather because of them and their experiences, I became more confused and yet more understanding. Both my mother and my grandmother were shaped by their own experiences with weight and their bodies. They treated me the way they did because of how they felt, not because of who I was or how I was. Their baggage weighed them down, and they treated me the way they did because of it. It was never really about me…

This discovery about reflection has changed me profoundly. Understanding that what my husband says and does reflects how he feels versus it being a response to me or something I’ve done is a game-changer. It’s also a game-changer in my feelings about my mother and my grandmother.

I have found grace and understanding for them. I have forgiven them for how they shaped my life because I now understand it wasn’t about me. I’ve given up the anger and disappointment and resentment I had for and in them because I see all of it more more clearly now. Keeping the anger, disappointment, and resentment does nothing for me except weigh me down. Giving all of it up has freed me and I’ve found relief from all that pain I was holding within me.

I have deep love and respect for my mother and my grandmother. These two women were very influential to me all my life. I am positive that I am who I am because of them.

 

Good enough

Growing up, I was the “good” child. I was a goody-two-shoes, both at home and in school. My siblings made fun of me for following all the household rules as if I were in the military. No questions asked, no back-talk given, I did what I was told. In school, other students called me “teacher’s pet” and said I was a smarty-pants. I listened to my teachers, I did my homework and turned it in on time, I followed the school’s rules. All through elementary school I was like this, both at home and in school. I never wanted to step out of line for fear of getting attention for the wrong reasons. Teachers favored me, telling me how smart I was and how good a student I was. My parents praised me for getting good grades, good reports from the teachers, and for doing what I was told. But truthfully, I was left mostly to do my own thing because I could be trusted to do the right thing.

At the age of 12–in middle school–I started a small and understated rebellion. I was bored in class and angry that the more rambunctious kids got attention. Teachers barely paid attention to me because I was one of the “good” students. There were many times that I thought my teachers didn’t bother to look at anything I turned in because they didn’t have to worry about me as a student. They assumed that I was doing things correctly and that I would deserve an “A” on my work…and that’s generally what I got. Between the boredom and the lack of attention, I was so irritated that I started skipping classes. Sometimes I would just wander around the building and other times I would go hang out in the guidance counselor’s office or the secretary’s office. I never left the building so I wasn’t technically truant, but I was out of the actual classrooms. I think there was a lot of time that my parents didn’t even realize that I was “skipping” class because I stayed on school grounds.

Then when the guidance counselor told me that I could no longer hang out in her office, I had to come up with some other idea. And I realized if I said I was sick, I would not only be dismissed from class but I would be relieved of other obligations. Being sick gave me a kind of freedom from being the good kid…from responsibilities and expectations that came along with being the “good student”. And if I said I was sick, I was able to go home in the middle of the school day. Both my parents worked full time at that point, so I either walked home, or if I had money I took a cab. At home I was free to do what I wanted until someone else came home…either one of my siblings or my parents. And since I was a “good kid” my parents didn’t question if I was actually sick…they assumed if I said I was sick then I was telling the truth.

Eventually my parents saw my quiet rebellion and things came to a halt. I was told in no uncertain terms that I was to return to my formerly good student/child life…period. I was too afraid to say no, so as I moved into high school, I left my small rebellion behind. Instead of being bored and pouting about it, I turned everything around and flew through high school. I took as few classes in the day as I could and still graduate. When I wasn’t in school I was working part time retail. I saw the brass ring hanging out there and I wanted it. My last year of high school I was only in school for three classes, then I left in time to go to my job where I was earning money for my car and for gas and insurance.

As expected by my parents, I went to college. I took classes that looked easy and I breezed through most of them. I was still working while I was in college, and I think my parents felt relief that their “good kid” was on track. Unfortunately, in college I ran into the same kind of inattention/disinterest from professors. After the first few assignments of each class–when the teachers realized that I was smart and knew what I was doing–they stopped reading my work. I know this because I started turning in shitty work and still got A’s. It was disappointing and frustrating. I was left aside for students who needed more assistance. To this day I feel I missed out on a lot of education, but at the time I didn’t do anything about it. If I’d been a better person, maybe I would have stood up and asked for more attention, but I hated being the center of attention or “rocking the boat”. So I skated through and graduated without much issue.

During my junior and senior years of college, I started working full time and going to class part time. I found a career path that had nothing to do with my schooling but had everything to do with things that interested me. Technology. I excelled at my job(s) and took pride in my work. As I moved up through the ranks of my technology job(s), I began to feel the imposter syndrome. I had grown up feeling as if I weren’t good enough, and that ingrained feeling led me right into feeling as if I were an imposter in my job…and essentially in my life. I felt I didn’t deserve any of the things that I had.

I met a young man while I was in college. Our early relationship was online, but then we began dating (irl). I didn’t date in high school or even mostly in college. I felt like I didn’t deserve to have a boyfriend. And when I got a boyfriend, I never felt good enough for him. It wasn’t that he was better than me in some way, it was my old baggage of never feeling good enough for anyone…or anything.

Being a good employee, a good wife, a good daughter, a good sister…I didn’t feel good enough. So my body resorted to what had worked for me as a pre-teen. It made me sick to release me from all those feelings of not good enough. If I was sick, I didn’t feel like I had the obligation or responsibility of trying to be good enough. Or doing things that were good enough. I had several vague illnesses that had no real source. I had labels put on me by different doctors that amounted to different “syndromes”, which really is just a collection of symptoms that couldn’t be attributed to anything specific. I had pain symptoms, fatigue, dizziness, balance issues, gastric issues. I went through a lot of doctors and a lot of tests, but I was never really given any concrete answers. Doctors attempted to help me resolve symptoms, but they were unable to give me the reason why I was sick. And I was really sick…a lot of times I couldn’t get out of bed. I was too fatigued and painful, I took a leave of absence from my job to deal with my ill health. After almost nine months, I was released from my job because I could not return in a timely fashion. I was sick in this way for close to 8 years, although at one point I was writing (and publishing) books. During this specific time I felt very involved in a community and my symptoms waned. They were still with me, but it was manageable. But for the most part my symptoms ranged in severity and specifics over the years. I was unable to hold a job during those 8 years. Most of my family and my husband understood my limitations, and rarely did they ask too much of me. If they did and I could not meet their expectations, they always made sure to tell me that it was no big deal. I wasn’t ever looking for attention when I was sick…I hated the ongoing doctor’s appointments and tests, so it wasn’t that I was seeking attention. I now think I was seeking a break from my own expectations for myself…if I wasn’t well then I didn’t have to strive for the perfection I expected of myself.

A few years later, I actually started feeling better and was able to do more in my life. My home circumstances changed, my parents were living very close by and I was spending more time with them. My husband continued to pursue his technology career and we finally felt more financially stable. Although I still felt badly that I was not bringing in any income, my husband was fine with the situation. My body began to heal, my mind felt comfortable, my spirit was buoyed. I was living in a way that was working for my body. I didn’t push myself too much, and yet when I needed my strength it was there. I felt at peace with my health even though it wasn’t perfect.

And then my mother was diagnosed with cancer. A relatively rare and aggressive cancer. My life changed…and so did my purpose. I became my mother’s cheerleader, her caretaker, her confidant, her friend. I was her secretary during doctor’s appointments–I took copious notes to review later–and I helped keep her calendar. I was with her all the time, keeping her occupied, keeping her on schedule, keeping her fed (this from the child/person who never cooked or baked because she knew in her heart her food would never be as good as her mother’s food)… I had flashes of doubt and impersonator syndrome, but it usually ended up being drowned out by the things I needed to do for my mother. My health stabilized and I found energy and strength that I didn’t know I possessed anymore. Taking care of my mom was not an obligation or responsibility…it was love. That was why my body allowed me to do that. I WAS good enough to love her that way.

After my mother’s two year battle and her passing, I grieved terribly. Other than my husband, my mother was my best friend. During the two years she lived with this terrible cancer, I spent almost every free minute with her. Losing her left me devastated…and lost. For two years I had a job, a purpose, and despite having no experience with caring for a sick person or dealing with cancer, I had been good at it. No one asked me to do the things I did or act the way I did, I just did it. I didn’t worry if what I was doing was good enough (until the end) because I was too involved in participating in my mother’s life and fight. But afterward I floundered. I looked for charities and volunteer opportunities to find a new purpose. But about a year and a half after my mother died, my body rebelled again. Thinking about it now I would not call it a rebellion, I would call it a rescue.

I had a very severe case of classic and vestibular migraine disease. There were months in the beginning where I could not leave my bed. Months where I could not walk, months when I had to go to doctor’s appointments in a wheelchair with dark glasses on even indoors. It took me close to two years to even begin to find recovery with medications, diet, supplements, vestibular therapy, and exercise. And then 2020 hit, and any of the plans I had to participate more fully in life fell away. I was given the opportunity to really focus on my mental health, on my healing, and on my transformation. My physical recovery continued–sometimes slowly and sometimes in leaps and bounds–and I focused my mental recovery on becoming who I wanted to be. And along the way, I have made some pretty surprising discoveries.

This discovery about my physical body and the illnesses that plague it, came unintended. I was going to work on a blog about a different discovery I’d had in therapy over 2020, and a whole different set of words came out. About my health, and how it has affected my life, mentally and emotionally.

My body tried to save me from the torment of feeling not good enough. Of the daily mental and emotional torture of feeling not good enough. When my career became “too much” and I began suffering with imposter syndrome and endless feelings of “not good enough”, my body introduced an illness that took over my life and my focus. I had years of “a break” from those “not good enough” feelings while I was sick because I didn’t have to feel not good enough when I was sick. Because all I had to do was exist. Obligations and responsibilities fell away during both lengthy illnesses…I allowed myself to put away concerns of “am I good enough” because surviving was good enough.

This realization was actually quite difficult for me. My first instinct was to be embarrassed that I “made myself sick” to avoid obligations and responsibilities (even if the obligations, responsibilities, and expectations were from myself). How do I tell my husband that I (or my body) made me sick so I didn’t have to deal with guilt or shame or criticism or judgement over whether or not I was good enough for…anything? Fortunately, my work in therapy came into play and I reminded myself that I did not consciously make the choice to be sick, that it was an autonomic response. And then I reminded myself that without that person–the one who was sick on and off for many years–I would not be the person I am today.

And thanks to my therapy, I am choosing to have compassion for the young girl and the young woman whose body did its best to shield and relieve her of the ongoing mental and emotional pain that would have beat her down in an ongoing fashion for all the years she was sick. I am grateful for the sacrifice that my body made for my psychological health, even if it felt like a struggle to survive during those years.

*I would like to note here that my chronic illnesses have been and are 100% real and sometimes physically disabling. I have not had a miraculous recovery since coming to understand that there might be at least partly psychological reasons for why I was and am sick. I have no idea what recovery might look and feel like, and I am not suggesting that anyone else’s chronic illnesses are not physiological.

 

In defense of my body

Six years ago I wrote a blog post about my body. At that time I thought I was ready to work on the relationship I had with my body. I had my list of cons and pros–all of which still stand–but I was unable to hold onto my gratitude for the physical that carries me through my life.

I have changed physically, emotionally, and mentally since that time, and yet my anger and disappointment in my body still exists as it did that day. Yesterday during my session with T, I talked about my relationship with my body, and how I want to come to an understanding of sorts. Really, I would like to find and hold onto the appreciation I should have for this body that holds my life spirit. It’s the only body I have…I choose to pursue a better relationship with it.

T asked me to look at my body as if it were a physical being on its own, a friend rather than a part of me. Would I be as abusive to a friend as I am to my body? Would I belittle and berate it? Would I be angry at how it stands, how it sits, how it moves? Would I call it names, tell it that it’s too ugly, too flabby, too big, too everything? I would never say or do these things to a friend, how is it that I allow myself to do and say these things to myself? This is not a new concept to me, that I treat myself way worse than I could ever allow myself to treat someone else. Why isn’t it getting through to me?

Every day I carry my craft bag up and down our stairs from bedroom to family room. In it are the things I use all the time, like my crochet supplies, my iPad, some books, my migraine tracking calendar and etc. It has to weigh less than five pounds. And yet there are evenings when I go upstairs that I feel so tired and so heavy, or my knees are tired and painful, that I struggle with the steps. Our steps are U shaped, so halfway up there is a landing that I stop on. I’m not under duress, I’m not sick, I really can climb the steps without issue, but during this year of 2020 I feel beyond. So the other night, I’m stopping on the landing–because maybe I stood a lot chopping and cooking for dinner–and I rest. And a thought hits me…for most of the years I’ve lived in this house and many more in our last house, my body carried fifteen times the weight of my craft bag on top of my current weight. Seventy five more pounds than I am carrying at the moment I had this thought.

My body did that on an almost daily basis. And yes, some days it was harder than others, and some days I took our residential elevator to the bedroom level. Some days my knees hurt more or less, my back hurt more or less, my feet hurt more or less, my myofascial pain flared or didn’t, my migraine pounded or spun, my head ached or didn’t, my stomach rebelled or didn’t…and still my body carried me. Still my overweight, overstretched, overused, over-abused, over-belitted, disrespected body carried me where I needed or wanted to go. My mind and spirit carried so much anger and disappointment with my body, and unrelentingly my body carried me. Yes, there were days when I wasn’t getting out of bed due to vertigo or pain or exhaustion…but my body still held me.

I have got to stop this hate, this disappointment, this abuse. Now. I choose to stop this hate and disappointment and abuse. My body clearly loves me or it wouldn’t do all these things for me…I am choosing to learn to love it in return. Every part, every roll and lump, every bit too big, too broad, too hairy, too short, too everything.

This body that carries me is my best friend. The kind of friend that will do anything and everything for you, oftentimes unasked. It’s time I do the same in return.

 

Empty drawers

Bad lighting, sorry!

I am still learning about my new, smaller body. It’s at once mine and not mine, as I am attempting to move it, wash it, dress it, understand it… When I first lost the weight, I bought a few new things to wear that better fit my body. The reason I did that was because I had been wanting to replace some old pairs of (comfortable) jeans. And when I mean old, I mean…oh jeez, probably more than 15 years old. They fit okay, I took good care of them so they were in good shape, and I liked the colors (one was purple, another was black, the third was a standard blue). Before and after my weight loss, my biggest issue with jeans was that my hips were a good bit larger than my waist, so jeans never fit right. If they fit at the hips, they were too big in the waist. I didn’t wear belts, I wasn’t paying to have a $20 pair of jeans altered, I just dealt with it. The jeans I had were sized/shaped in a way that the gap at my waist wasn’t horrendous, and I mostly covered it with long tunic shirts anyway. For the rest of my wardrobe, I bought knit pants that had elastic waistbands, they were forgiving and stretchy knit that I could wear even if my size changed. I bought leggings and lounge pants for around the house (since I hadn’t worked out of the house in years). I bought tee shirts in tunic lengths to cover my hips and butt. I dressed for comfort, wasn’t looking to show my body but rather was looking for clothes that covered me. The three pairs of jeans I had were the most “fitted” items I owned, and I didn’t even wear them that much because they were not meant for warm climates, so they were winter-only items. And I didn’t bother to wear them at home. Winter sometimes came and went without me going out of the house, so the jeans did not see consistent wear.

I had a slew of clothes from stores like Roaman’s and Woman Within (who are now the same company), because they were the stores that carried my sizes. I bought the same clothes over and over again, when they were on sale so I wasn’t spending a lot of money. Sure the clothes wore out, but I literally bought pants on sale for $10 in every color I could bear wearing. Sometimes I bought multiple pairs in black, blue, and gray. If I was daring, I bought purple pants. Then I had the $10 tunic shirts from the same store, during the same sale. For years I lived (at home) in leggings. Over the last five or six years, I’ve been wearing men’s lounge pants from Target that I buy on sale. They last forever, they’re comfortable, and they have GREAT POCKETS. As I was losing some weight, I went down in sizes, but continued to buy the same lounge pants. And I was collecting tank tops (thanks to my heat intolerance) from whatever store had longer length sizes. Again, cheap and easy care, because I don’t work and I didn’t have to worry about anything more than (sloppy) casual clothes.

As I was buying smaller sizes in clothing, I started taking the larger sizes out of my closet. I hang most of my clothes, so my dresser drawers have either held duplicates of clothing, or things I wasn’t ready to get rid of. I’ve gone up and down in weight for my entire life, but I’ve never lost so much weight as I have in the last four years. I assumed, like every other period in my life, I would just put the weight back on. So far, that did happen because of my migraine medication, but I was able to catch it after 15 pounds. With great concentration and attention, I have lost all of that weight again, and I’m very near to my final goal (another 2 pounds!). I am planning to stay at this weight because it is where I am physically comfortable.

I’ve had so many clothes sitting in my dresser drawers that are…four sizes too big. I was (and am) afraid to get rid of them, because what if I gain the weight and need clothes again? What if I fail again? What if…what if…what if… Last weekend, I got a bug up my butt and went through several drawers in one of my dressers and threw all the bigger clothes into bags for donation. I felt…okay. I knew I still had more drawers of clothing, so I let it go for the time being. Last night I ordered clothes from Woman Within again, because I wanted new leggings that fit and I was familiar with their options. And they were cheap. I stopped myself from buying their tunic tee shirts, because I don’t wear that kind of shirt anymore. And I didn’t buy any of their knit pants, but I have several pairs in only a size or two up and they fit for when I need them.

Tonight I went to my other dresser and started stuffing more clothes into trash bags. Pants that were four sizes too big, shirts that were too big and I would probably never wear again. I had clothes that I’d bought my mother in the last months of her life because she had lymphedema in her legs and needed stretchy knit pants. When she died, I took the pants from her house because I wanted to clean them, and they just ended up in my drawers. I had history with every pair of pants and shirt that I ripped out of the drawers and stuffed into the bags. I had lived my life in these clothes, covering my body without much thought. Covering my body with clothes that covered, not that fit.

After I lost the weight the first time (before the medication issue), I bought jeans. I struggle to find jeans again because my body shape is still such that my hips are 10″ bigger than my waist. I bought and returned clothes (from online) over and over again, giving up time and again. I finally found two pairs of jeans that were manageable, and I bought them. Then I hung them in my closet and didn’t wear them for months. When the winter season came after I bought the jeans, I had nowhere to go, and I was often sick from my migraine disease. I finally started wearing them to therapy because that was the only time I left the house. The winter is coming, I’m hoping to wear them again. I mostly like how they fit my body, and I’m learning to be okay with showing my shape.

I bought a pair of knee high boots that actually fit my legs, for the first time in my life. I’ve never been able to squeeze my calves into a pair of boots…all my snow boots were short because I had big calves. I’ve never worn those boots. I tried them on again tonight, they still fit, but I have no occasion to wear them. But I have them, and they are wearable.

I buy tank tops both that are fitted and relaxed. I wear them all, and I show the shape of my body. I show the shape of my stomach and I show my big upper arms. For better or for worse, parts of my body will never change (without surgery) because my skin was stretched out due to my weight. My upper arms are that way, and despite how flabby and floppy they are, I wear the tank tops and I don’t care. I don’t care who looks at me and sees flabby arms, I see progress in my physicality.

Last week I crocheted a top out of some yarn I’d been hoarding for myself. I shaped the top to fit me because I am comfortable showing my upper body. When I finished the top, I decided to crochet a skirt to go with it, in the same yarn. I figured like all the rest of my store-bought skirts and dresses, I would crochet a long skirt. I usually wear straight skirts, but they are always ankle length. Because I’ve never crocheted a skirt before, I was trying it on constantly to make sure it fit my waist and hips before going straight down to my ankles. As I tried it on where the hem was just above my knees, I stood and looked at myself in the only full length mirror in my house, which is in our guest room. I’m short, and I know logically that long skirts make me look shorter, but I do not like my legs. I have always had very heavy legs, and I really had no shape to them from hips down. So I always covered them with long pants, long skirts, long dresses. I’ve never owned shorts. One year I went crazy for our anniversary trip to the beach (in winter) and I bought capri pants. I wore them at the beach (so we could slosh through the waves) and never again. I literally found them this weekend and just stuffed them into the donation bags. But back to my crocheted skirt…I looked at the short skirt and I looked at my legs. And I looked at my body. And I realized I didn’t know who I was looking at. Again, I’m not–nor will I ever be–small, but I did lose weight and it is visible. And I saw shape to my legs, and I saw that the shorter length skirt looked good. Better than I could have expected. It was…weird. I ended up adding some length to the skirt (I would have been afraid to sit), but only just below my knees. I have no clue where I’m going to wear this outfit, but I made it and it’s pretty neat.

I have a second closet full of more “dress” clothes, the majority of which are the same four sizes too big. Multiple times I have tried to sell some of the clothes–they are all in good condition, but many are old even though the “styles” are pretty classic looking–but I have not been successful. Where I was fine tossing the majority of my casual clothes into bags for donation, the dressier items I would like to get some of my money back. Even if it’s a small amount. I can’t imagine that the companies I donate to will be able to do much with my dress clothes and I hate to see them just recycled or thrown away. I am on the fence about this, so we’ll see how I feel as I find time to go through the stuff in that closet.

I’m both afraid and excited to get rid of the oversized clothes taking up room in my dressers…and maybe in my “dress” closet. I’m trusting myself to stay at this weight, and trust isn’t something I do very often. I fear failure so much that I don’t do things so that I won’t fail. But these days I am challenging myself to grow and learn and be a better version of me.

 

Who I was, who I am, who I will be

I know that title seems very deep, and to some extent it is a deep and soul searching journey that I am on, but for this post’s purposes it probably won’t be a big existential reveal.

Growing up, I was fat and shy. I had a few good friends but always on the outskirts of everything happening. I spent many hours on my own, writing, playing with Barbies, making up stories and poems.

My brothers didn’t want to hang around me, so for the most part I was on my own. B3 is almost exactly 18 months older than me, B2 is 5 years older than me, B1 is 8 years older. When I could get some attention from any of my brothers, it was mostly B3 because he was more my age. We were generally in the same school, riding the same bus to school, and on the same schedule. B2 was the extrovert of the family, the “cool” kid, the person who went on all kinds of interesting adventures. He was the kid who broke the rules, who got into trouble often, and who wanted independence more than anyone else I’d ever met (at that age). I always wanted B2’s attention, but I never got it. I got a lot of B3’s attention, but like me he was an introvert and never seemed to do anything exciting.

I am realizing today that I always longed for B2’s attention. He seemed so adult to me, and did so many interesting things. He butted heads with my parents, rebelled against all authority, and had so many cool friends. From as young as I can remember, B2 rejected me. I can’t say why or explain what he was thinking, I only know how I felt and feel. When he upped at moved out of the family house to move in with an older woman, I felt abandoned. Even though we weren’t incredibly close, he was an idol that I looked up to.

He got married the year–hell, the DAY–that B3 graduated high school. We had to run from B3’s graduation to B2’s wedding. Seriously. The day I graduated, B2 and his first wife brought their brand new baby to the party, so once again he was the center of attention. At the time, I didn’t care because I didn’t want attention…I just wanted to graduate and eat cake. Shocking, I know. Then there was the argument, of which I know nothing (except I heard that the first wife felt my parents’ overstepped some bounds with their first kid?), and suddenly B2 was no longer speaking to the family. He disappeared from our lives, and I was abandoned by him yet again.

Many years later, after they had their second baby, whom we didn’t meet, B2 became unhappy in his marriage and was looking to get a divorce. I had sent him a couple of letters, trying to keep the connection to him but I never told anyone at the time. B2 finally got back in touch with me and asked for help getting back in with the family. He wanted my help to re-establish contact, and I did what I could to introduce the idea and smoothed the way where I could. As I said in another post, B2 lived with me for a year while he was getting his divorce, then he moved in with his new girlfriend (now SIL). He moved an hour away from me, became a family with his kids, his step-daughter, and his new GF (SIL). I had almost no contact with them except at holidays.

As a course of life, I married (my sweet Hub), and eventually we moved to a town about fifteen minutes from where B2 and his family were living. We still saw them rarely. I mean, for serious, I had never even been to their house…ever. Fifteen minutes away. Never once. Then they bought a house walking distance from where Hub and I were living. We helped them move, we saw them a bit more…and in less than a year SIL received an offer to move with her job to the midwest. So their little family picked up and moved…I was yet again abandoned by B2.

Now I know what you’re thinking. He has a life to live! He’s just my brother, he has no responsibility for me. Don’t be rude! No, but really, I’m showing a pattern that has shaped my life. Stick with me.

B2 and SIL and their kids now lived about 12 hours drive away. They were out there for about ten years, and not once did I ever see their house. Never. Not once. Ten years. This is how not close we were. And as I was realizing in therapy today, there was very little communication between them and me. Not emails, not letters, not phone calls, not texts. Maybe we’d talk in email about something, but it was pretty rare. No regular communication. Like the time he “left” our family, he was out of my life again. For about a decade. They promised when they moved that they would come back to visit, split holidays between there and here, stay a part of the family. Sadly, did not happen. They found their “family” (neighbors) out there and they forgot the biological family they left behind.

Our mother got sick during the years they were living in the midwest. B2 did not come back to see her, or to help support her. He promised, but didn’t. He and I were communicating more because I would write reports in email of her doctors’ appointments or tests…or I would inform him as to what was happening. To his credit, he didn’t question or second guess what we were doing, but he also didn’t participate or help out. He stayed 12 hours away.

Until the end. Then he and SIL swept in, acting like they were saving the day, and they were here to see my mother die. She didn’t even know they were here, she was too far gone. Something B2 will have to live with for the rest of his fucking life. S’cuze me, resentfulness slipped out.

After Mom passed, they went back to their midwest home and lived their lives. For some reason, they decided to head back east…B2 always wanted to live by the water with his boat. So they began making plans to move back, despite SIL’s loud and persistent protests. B2’s company wanted him on the east coast to pick up some work, so he moved into my Dad’s house and set up shop in my mother’s den/office. He was here for about a year as he and SIL looked for a place and town to live. I feel like he and I got close again while he was here without SIL. We pulled together and tried to help Dad through his grief. He helped around their house, he spent time with those of us living here, we got to know each other again.

Although SIL continued to put off selling their house in the midwest and complained about not wanting to move, they finally found a house that SHE wanted. It was nothing like he had said he wanted, but was completely opposite. He wanted something simple by the water, with enough room for their kids to come and visit, or my Dad to come out and go on their boat for a day. She wanted–and got–a home almost exactly like they had in the midwest, not near the water, big enough to raise the three kids they had already raised and sent on their way (2 are married already). She had always (loudly) announced that she had no clue why Hub and I bought the house we are living in because it’s pretty large. Why would we want that when we have no kids? Who wants to maintain such a large place for no reason. When they bought their traditional colonial nowhere near waterfront, I said nothing.

During the time they were looking for their new home, I was neck deep in migraine issues. I wasn’t leaving the house, somedays I wasn’t even leaving the bed. Being in a car just to go locally to my doctors or therapist left me with motion sickness for days. B2 and SIL bought a house 90 minutes away from all of us, via highways. I couldn’t help them move (though Hub was integral in assisting them), and I never saw the house. Still haven’t. But guess what? There they went, abandoning his family when they made sure to buy outside of our immediate area. Abandoning me again.

They’ve been living out there for about a year, maybe a little longer. Initially, I was talking to B2 about once a week, because his job is on the road. So when he was bored and had time, he’d call from the car and we’d catch up. It was nice to stay in contact even though he wasn’t living nearby again. It also meant I had some extra support with my father when needed, because he could make time to stop by while he was on the road, or come down over a weekend without too much trouble.

Then the spat happened. I reached out to try to bring us back together, and he walked away. Abandoned me again, like it was no big shit to him one way or the other. Two months went by without one word from him. I had decided I was okay, that I could go on with my life because I’d lived without him before. Two months…

And he emails me. Because he’s having a difficult time with things in his life. And he misses me most of all…because I’m the one who always makes time in my life to support him, to talk to him, to let him come back like I’m not worth anything more than the leftover crap he offers me…on his timeline, in his way.

I got so mad. I’m working very hard in therapy to become the person I want to be. I’m not going to go backwards and let him make me feel like nothing. And I’m going to tell him that. I’m going to tell him that I have parameters and boundaries for my life, and he wants to be a part of it then he’ll have to abide. If he can’t, then I will tell him I love him, but it’s not acceptable to me.

 

Calgon take me away

Preface: This blog is about me and my experience/feelings with regards to medications. It is not a judgement on or valuation of what anyone else does/feels with regards to their anxiety, depression, pain, insomnia, allergies…etc.

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Monday morning I went to physical therapy for my shoulder. I’ve been going for close on to six weeks I think, but only once a week because they are so booked they can’t usually fit me in twice a week. This past Monday, I actually cried during the appointment because the pain was a) so bad and b) so frustrating. For the first three weeks or so, I was doing my exercises religiously at home. Then the therapist started adding in more and more exercises–without giving them to me in written or picture form–and I got overwhelmed and lost. I still try to do stuff daily, but it’s not everything I should be doing. Even so, I’m continuing to progress with my flexibility, but the pain continues. And I guess because the therapist is trying to push my range, the pain is…bad.

I am extremely sensitive to medications, and have been for most of my adult life. I don’t even take OTC pain killers like ibuprofin or acetaminophen or tylenol because they either screw up my stomach or they don’t work. I will take anti-biotics when prescribed, but I hate the experience and it’s mentally very challenging for me.

So last night I was in the shower and thinking about how much my shoulder still hurt, how sore it was, and I was under the hot spray of water and thinking…if I only took pain killers this would be a lot easier. And I knew…I KNEW part of the reason I don’t take pain killers or cold medication or antihistamines or sleeping pills or any other medication is that I would cause a bigger issue for myself. It’s NO LIE that I have medication sensitivities…I very much do have them. But maybe if I searched hard enough I could find things that work for me. I don’t do this…and here’s why.

About fifteen years ago I had a bad cold…a sore throat that was horrendously painful. I started using these OTC throat drops that had some kind of liquid medication in the middle. It was probably Haul’s brand, probably cherry flavored. I used them constantly in the beginning and they seemed to help. Then my throat started getting better but I literally got addicted to them and was continuing to suck on them like they were candy. I had to use them. I was addicted and I had to have one in my mouth almost all the time. It was vaguely terrifying when I finally realized what was happening (maybe like 3-4 weeks later). I quit them cold turkey and made Hub take the bag to work with him to throw away. I knew if they were in the trash in my house, I would dig them out and eat them. I don’t buy those kind of lozenges anymore, though in the last two or three years I have started buying honey-drops for sore throats.

I don’t do drugs and I don’t drink any alcohol and I don’t smoke. I never did any of those things. I feel like if I did or if I started using something like pain killers or anti-anxiety medication or sleeping pills, I would be using them constantly and for the wrong reason. I’d be in less pain, I’d probably have less anxiety, I might sleep more, but I’d also be zoned out and not living. I would just figure out the best way to shut myself off from everything and everyone in life by doping myself up on OTC or prescription medication. I would be gone, in every sense of the word. I’m not sure I’ve ever admitted this fear to anyone out loud, but in my heart I know that I’d use the medications to hide away. I’m not sure I’d be doing anything illegal or overdosing on the meds–or even overusing in any significant way–but I’d be using them in a way that would excuse me from life.

I feel like my anxiety over medications keeps me safe from all of this. Yes, I DID use some pain medication after my first surgery, but it was only a day or so (and so regimented!) and then I used tylenol. And then after a day or so I used nothing. The second surgery I didn’t use pain meds because I didn’t like the way they made me feel the first time, so I used tylenol as needed and I suffered through. I suffer through pain on a daily basis because I’m afraid of who I would become if I muted all the pain in my life…physical and mental.

Before I first got sick in 2001 (at 29yo), I’m not sure I ever really needed medications. Sure, I probably took cold meds on and off over the years, and never gave it another thought. Yes I did use Advil every month for cramps (which is how I ended up with stomach issues!) and probably occasionally for headaches. But after I got sick, everything changed, including who I really was. Who I really am.

The physical therapist said that I could go back to my Ortho doctor and ask to get a steroid injection to help with the pain as we continue with rehab, but I declined. I hate the pain I live with daily, and I hate the pain that reduces me to tears during PT, but the pain reminds me that I’m alive. I’m alive and I’m experiencing life.

This all sounds very fucked up. I guess I’m not surprised at that revelation.

 

Whole30 week 3 done

Blerg.

I don’t feel any differently than before I started, except today I had a weird snack-attack. I’m not sure what it stemmed from and I tried to make my way through it by sticking to the “program” and attempting to eat a “small meal” rather than an actual snack. Then I got partway through the food and I was feeling uncomfortable in my stomach. So I put the food back in the fridge for later, but at the moment I still feel kind of full and bloated. Not sure I’ll be eating dinner or not…Hub is out for most of the evening doing some work stuff, so I’m on my own.

The “program” says that by this time I should be feeling “Tiger’s blood” and be full of energy. Big N-O on that. And despite the “program” purporting otherwise, I have no reduction in my aches and pains…and in fact I’ve gotten a new foot pain that has bothered me enough that I asked my massage therapist if she can squeeze me in tomorrow for an hour to take a look…or a feel, even.

We’ve continued with our food planning, but this weekend we didn’t do a big cook like the previous two weekends. Of course we had just cooked a whole chicken Saturday night, so maybe that counts. Plus, it’s meatloaf tomorrow night, which will give us a bunch of usable leftovers.

Although we are not supposed to look, I have been keep track of my weight. Initially, I lost three pounds the first week, but I’ve since put it back on. Not really sure what that was about. Lots of people said they lost weight, even though the “program” says it isn’t really for weight loss.

I don’t sleep any better and in fact have struggled to fall asleep during these weeks. Some of that might be the excess pain I’ve been dealing with. I just can’t get comfortable these days. It sucks.

That’s pretty much it. Today’s been a crap day…PT was a bitch for my shoulder. Despite my increased functionality and range–to some extent–the pain has not reduced. It’s very frustrating. The PT keeps telling me I’m improving and doing well, but my pain is still there and so I feel kind of defeated.

Blerg.