Category: At-Home

Yes, I am at home. I have learned to be a good cook over the years, tho’ I specialize in soups (my husband says) and pies (so say my friends.) I drive my children to and fro, dealing with the complexities of having them. I write. I do small photography gigs. I volunteer in the community.

god sees me :: a story of hope

God has shown me twice this week, by marking time in my past, to show me how I have changed.  When this happened I was blown away by how much God loves me, something I have long struggled to believe.  And that in and of itself is so sweet.  So good.  I just sat in the moment, feeling precious.  God loves me enough to show me the changes, the progress, the healing that has come.

When I fell into my first major depression in 02, I didn’t really know what was happening to me.  At first I just sat absorbing the fact that I couldn’t think, or sleep, or make decisions, or read; I couldn’t do anything.  It was strange.  Foggy.  A bit like being in slow motion.  A ten-hour day at home with three small children didn’t feel like a day at all.  It felt like a flash, because I wasn’t really conscious. I had no words to describe what was happening to me.  Depression took everything.

Lost My Way

After five weeks stranded in this place, I finally told Tom that something strange was going on.  And then my friend Carol, then at some point I told my parents.  I remember sitting on my back porch talking on the phone to my father who had called.  Of course he said he would cancel all his plans and come straight away if I needed him.  He was good in an emergency.  But I declined his offer knowing it wouldn’t be that pleasant nor likely to be helpful.  And I don’t remember much about that conversation except saying “Dad, I just want to be happy. I can’t remember the last time I felt happy.”

Looking back today, from the perspective finally of joy and contentment, I have to admit that I never believed I deserved happiness.  It wasn’t something on the conscious level or anything I thought about very clearly.  But at a deep, foundational level I couldn’t remember happiness.  And didn’t believe I deserved it.  I would reach out for it sometimes.  Usually that resulted in hurt because I did it in such needy or aggressive way.  And more than how others treated me, my thinking about myself was so bad, so low; I had a deep hatred for myself.

I can only guess that this was caused by being yelled at so often and so unexpectedly as a child, young adult and adult.  You knew it might come at some point, but you could never guess why he was mad or what you might have done.  My father was unpredictable in his rages.  Berating.  Pushing.  Demanding that you admit wrongdoing.  Keeping at you, over and over again verbally — until you concede to him, whatever it was.  The subject didn’t matter. You must apologize.  You must ask for forgiveness, absolutely.  Looking back, he was Psychotic.

And so, inside I slowly disappeared.  Life was numbing and I was without opinion.  Without question I began to do whatever he expected of me.  And that too reinforces your own loathing.  I was a classic under achiever, my one way of getting his goat.

Every once in a while over the years, the last time happened in the late ’90s, I would meet someone who seemed to see right through  the walls and ask me “Why are you in so much pain?”  It was if I was translucent and they could peer into my heart and soul in a way that I couldn’t even do any more.  I just looked at this person who didn’t even know me, with shock and disbelief at what they saw.  I felt exposed and yet I had revealed nothing.  They felt the pain I had stopped feeling.  It was horrible.  And yet, looking back it was so important.  Again, one of those markers God gives me to see how far I have come.

I worked for my father for many years. My reasons (I see now) were to receive his affirmation.  And it worked, though I worked too much and became a workaholic.  I worked unreasonable hours, had no boundaries between work and my life, and I had hardly any personal life until I met Tom.  Even then, I really had trouble getting home for dinner, worked through lunches, lived and breathed work.  I worked 150% and knew that I couldn’t fail, which was what I was sure was going to happen if I stopped striving, because it was my father’s reputation and his good will toward me that were hanging in the balance.  His love?

It wasn’t until I had my third baby in five years and quit that life to be at home that it all came crashing down around me.  Thank God it did.  I say that because it began a nine-year process of finding myself , FINDING LIFE — Oh, the mistakes I had to make in order for that to happen.  But hey, I was doing the sped up version of adolescent rebellion I guess.  Growing, learning, expanding, reaching, feeling.  Finally feeling. And it felt terrible, and good at the same time.

Nine long years.  And in those years I found

  • Photography.
  • Writing poetry and thought put into words in general.
  • A study of the Bible and the power of prayer with faithful believing women.
  • I developed opinions, thoughts and ideas that originate with me!
  • I found gardening and theology.
  • I have been slowly overcoming of anxiety – mostly social anxiety which I get so badly even still.  I really do hate that.
  • I have found joy.  I’m actually glad to be alive.
  • I have found love from humans and cats,
  • And more important than any of this I have found that Jesus loves me.  No really, he does and I never believed it.  After the phone conversation with my father he sent me a postcard in a frame that said “You are the One Jesus Loves.”  I was so uncomfortable with it that I buried it in a sock drawer for years.  Long past when he died.  I really couldn’t fathom it.   Sunday, right before church, I found the post-it that he included on it which said: “And your father loves you too.  Love, Dad. 7/02” (Yes, in the strange third person.)
  • I don’t want to die anymore.
  • I started smoking in that time, which was a slow suicide and last year I quit smoking.
  • I starting drinking, socially at first, and then heavily and began to abuse it.  And I quit drinking over a period of three or four l o n g years.  When I started to think about quitting, I thought I would never have any fun again.  I actually thought that.  No fun, ever again.  I had no idea what true contentment and joy, even happiness was until I quit drinking, accepted my powerlessness against it, and faced the shit I had been so cleverly (or not so cleverly really) been avoiding.

When I was depressed I thought I would never be happy.  When I overdosed, a small part of me must have wanted to live because I woke up and told Tom what I had done and I lived.  But only a tiny piece of me still wanted life, mostly I still hated myself.

But it has been the process of becoming ME that has made it possible to consider forgiving my father and mother.  I know I am a strong  person.  As I begin to want more from life, I can accept and voice what happened to me.  Yes, my father had to die for me to have the courage.

This near decade long process made it possible for forgiveness.  And it isn’t a short or easy road.  Truly, it has taken all those years.

My first honest words expressed about my dad were in a poem called “Good Dad. Bad Dad.”  It felt so risky, so bold at the time.  After reading it again after all these years, I think I’ll post it here:

Good Dad. Bad Dad.
I shed no tears today
for the warrior who has fallen.
Taken down by Cancer's sword.
My heart is full of memories,
good and bad.
Good Dad. Bad Dad.
Constant worry.
Constant change.
Who could have foreseen
the Cancer overtaking his mind;
that became my liberation
in five short months.
The danger --
of loving too much;
needing tenderness,
and all the things Daddy's are supposed to be.
PAIN. FEAR.
Emotions jangling around me
like some kind of white noise;
pushing their way into my conscious thoughts.
Invaders, threatening to undo
the weak hold I've found on a Good Life.
So many memories
good and bad,
bad and good.
Who was he?  Why was he MY dad?
MY tormentor.
MY warrior;
Finally broken,
beaten by the cancer
that was to become my friend.
Betrayal,
these thoughts which plague me.
Broken;
the unspoken promise
to keep our secrets to the end.
How do I remember?
How do I stay true and honest,
when the Truth causes an ache
too strong to feel,
to face,
to bear.
Good Dad. Bad Dad.
Who was he in the end?
A demon? A saint?
Now simply a Muse --
remembered, but no longer feared.
Thought of
in furtive,
anxious moments.
Good Dad. Bad Dad.
Who is he to me now?
A man driven to despair
Living a chaotic, frantic life.
Not the Good Life I choose,
Not the legacy I will repeat.
Good Girl. Bad Girl.
Who will I listen to?
Who will I believe?
I am the woman I choose to become
today,
tomorrow.
These are the Good Days
that I can change.
Yesterday is Dead.
Burned in the funeral pyre.
Vapors
Mist
Dust settling around me.
Good Girl. Bad Girl.
Good.
Bad.
Good.
by Melody Hanson, 2004

So how does it work, to forgive a tormentor, an oppressor, an abuser?  Does it mean taking someone’s anger and rebuke over and over again?  I’ll never know if I could have stood up to my father?  I have never met someone who did and stayed in relationship with him.  That’s daunting.

Forgiving is “the opposite of ignoring and excusing.  It is moving toward the offense.” And that’s been my path. Naming the pain. Drawing attention to it in my writing.  My father’s anger and rages were ugly and dangerous and as a child I was constantly afraid of him.  With some amount of distance – his death  – and my personal work, I’ve worked to let go of it.  But there will never be restoration and reconciliation because he has gone.

On the other hand, I’ve also experiences anger toward my mom over the years for her lack of action, defense of us and for shutting down.  She also disappeared into health problems, depression, and eventually alcohol. But we, two fragile and broken people are working on a long healing process and I try every day to trust her and not expect or need her to change.

My pastor said recently about forgiveness: “Let go, open your heart, move toward the pain. Recognize the person’s humanity, their broken heart and sense of failure.”  I can do that with my mom.

For the longest time I couldn’t have said that my pain and hurt belonged to my father.   I had a blessedly complex relationship with him.  I longed for his approval while at the same time had much hurt, anger and resentment for his controlling behaviors.  I learned to be exceptionally passive aggressive and sarcastic because that was, I thought, the only safe way that I could express myself.

“Safe” is so ironic.  I don’t remember ever feeling safe growing up.  I was anxious, afraid, tense, doubtful, insecure, wracked with shame, self-loathing, and fear.  Fear of the ambiguity of my home growing up — I actually said to a boyfriend “Treat me well or treat me badly. I don’t care.  Just be consistent.”  I longed for it.

But grace, coming from God in the life of Jesus and the sacrifice done for me — that’s changed everything!!!  He takes the most broken and restores.  Better put, he heals.

He makes like new but different, strong;  his touch, attention, and gaze are profound.  I will never be the same.

I have a new life.  I have a life.  I have started living.  I have hope.  I have joy.   I may not ever feel loved by my human father …but I’m going to be okay.  I don’t expect the way forward to be simple because as I grow God continues to ask things of me that are difficult.

Will you obey?  Will you choose my path?  Will you give such and such up?  Will you forgive?  Will you seek me?  Will you be disciplined to know my words, the Word?  Will you exercise because you know it helps your mood, and eat right?  Will you pray?  Will you have a generous heart?  Will you sacrifice your desires for mine?

Every day, if I am listening, God speaks.

Will I choose life today?

Christian leaders can get their priorities wrong.

“If you’ve ever been part of a loving, healthy family

you have smelled the sweet aroma of heaven.

If you’ve ever lived in a troubled, broken home

you have breathed the foul stench of hell.”

I have never heard someone put it quite that honestly before!  Except myself and I have done it with a bit of trepidation.

One of the things that is so difficult for me to reconcile was my father’s anger issues and other dysfunctional behaviors with being a Christian, an ordained minister and a ministry leader.

It is not that I think anyone can or should be perfect by any means, but it was disproportionate, it didn’t improve, and it was very confusing as a child.  (And as an adult for that matter!)

Turns out half of evangelical kids walk away from Christianity as adults.  I’m surprised the numbers aren’t higher actually.

Christian leaders get caught up so often in the doing, the work, others.

We all need to have to have more intentionality with our children.  It isn’t too late.  I choose not to repeat the things I learned growing up.  It is such a relief to know isn’t to late!

The quote above is from the book It Starts at Home.  I’m thinking of reading it.  I only  have 102 titles in front of it on amazon.com.  (Sigh.)

Cinnamon Toast and Earl Grey Tea (a poem)

Cinnamon toast and Earl Grey tea, a dash

of sugar and milk.  Comfort for a cold, rainy Friday in spring.

I look out the window, all is green even the sky.

A mirror of the trees and lawn. Where did the sunshine go? Taking with it my smile.

My contentment is fleeting. The rhubarb and tomatoes

planted yesterday relishing the rain but like me needing the sun.

My sleepy kitten Jaz

won’t stop laying on my writing arm. Why did she choose today

to sit with me, to pull me down? So, as if unable to resist

I trudge upstairs,

still in my scarf and jacket from rainy rides to school, pajamas

covered in peace symbols.  I don’t even take off the nine-year old’s sandals as I snuggle deep

in the down covers.  Taking Jaz with me we have the illicit nap.  Everything feels forbidden

today, sometimes I forget I am grown.  I don’t have to feel guilty all the time.

But conscience says I must get something done.

Fridays are for cleaning, so that Everyone

is happy on the weekend.  While I scurry around, picking up again to keep it nice;

where children oblivious drop the towel, socks, paper and pen.  A water-glass, plastic soldiers, LEGO, whatever, as they tire of it.

Cinnamon toast and earl gray tea, guilty pleasures

on a rainy friday afternoon as my soul searches

and reality catches up with me, again.

When I’m thin, I’ll …

This is me in Honolulu, about five years ago or six or seven …  With my good soul mate and friend Junko and her son.  I put it here, because I was probably 25 pounds thinner and I thought at that time I was fat.  Just goes to show….

I just found myself writing on Facebook: “I am feeling dissatisfied and out of sorts.”  I know this is true — it has been so for days.  It put me in such a funk last week I thought I was coming down with the Black Dog (you know, depression.)

But I wonder why.  Examining ourselves is hard.  And I get the feeling that I do it a lot.  But I can easily not engage with things emotionally and stay on the surface of life.

On the level of superficial, surface things, I know why I’m grumpy:

  1. There are piles of laundry that are never “done.”
  2. The stuff, everywhere! And I can’t keep up.  My kids are clueless, and useless!  No matter how many reminders, of the stuff they leave  around the house and yard — practically dropping it anywhere they finish with it — it is everywhere.
  3. There is no open surface in my life – except the kitchen – after I clean it – daily, sometimes twice depending on things in the evening.
  4. my garage is driving me nuts.  my basement is driving me nuts. my bedroom is driving me nuts.
  5. I can never keep food in the house.  My preteens are eating everything that isn’t nailed down.  and what we have is never what they want.  Now I’m not one to really care about that, them getting what they “like”  but it starts to rub me wrong, after a while.

That’s the surface and it’s bad, but then if I go below the surface:

I never see my friends.  Rarely have deep conversations with people.  Just living on the surface of my friend’s lives and I feel lonely.  Did I just write that.  I think I’m not sure.  Do I feel lonely?  I mean, I could choose to pick up the phone.  I like isolation I think.  But then, internally, I know accountability in friendship is good and deep connections are so life-giving. Yes, connection is important to me and I don’t have it.  There is no where in my life, not church, not my kids schools, where else do I go – not the grocery store, that I connect with people.  Okay, at Trader Joe’s they are really nice and I always leave there feeling good, because they are quite happy to be talking to you.   That is so pathetic.

Another thing. I decided last year, to not buy clothes for myself, for a year.  Mostly, cause I’m fairly stupid about spending money and I was wasting away the fortune we did not have on this and that.  I mean how many hats does a girl need?  And to be honest, since early October I haven’t spent a dime, on myself.  I did find myself buying a lot more clothing for Emma.  That had to stop cause it definitely defeats the purpose and she’s swimming in clothes.  Really though, I haven’t missed shopping.

I worried about what ideas I was giving my daughter about looks. (I blogged about all this in October of last year.)

The other reason that I stopped was because I was tired of thinking and caring so much about image.  But that bit hasn’t changed (much) and frankly I’ve let myself go over the last six months.  I feel shabby, and dumpy and what was that word that my friend in college used to call me?  Frumpy.  What a word.  I’ve lived up to that of late and I hate myself.  And we won’t even go into the weight thing.  No, not today.  When I say hate I’m talking about the suicide kind of self-hatred, or harming yourself, or anything tragic like an eating disorder.  I’m just referring to simple self-esteem.  Body image.  Naked in the mirror stuff.  Can’t find an outfit that feels good to me kind of days.

And then this trip to the Bahamas comes (two and a half weeks and counting) and I start freaking out.  For some reason, I have this crazy need to impress and  seem cultured and look urban and eclectic and interesting.  It matters to me (and that’s a long story from being an MK that I think I’ve written about here before.)  So I wasn’t going to buy anything.   And then I started obsessing about this awards night banquet that everyone gets all spiffy for and I couldn’t let -it -go.

I looked at my clothes, of which I have an abundance, in sizes 10, 12 and 14 and I don’t have anything  for an evening dinner in the Bahamas, not fancy but not too casual. So, I “don’t have anything” and yet I know that if I was saving money for my kid’s transplant or something I could find something to wear in my closet.  So it wouldn’t be Tommy Bahama   or nicely starched from newness.  But it would be just fine.  One night.  One outfit. Perhaps three total hours of my life.   But there’s no transplant needed, and Tom doesn’t care if I buy a dress, he’s getting a new shirt.

So dammit I bought one, online, it probably won’t even look good.  Which is okay cause I can return it but every time I think about that stupid trip I get all anxious.  Like what’s on the outside is what matters.   Tho I don’t believe that, already I’ve fallen back into that kind of thinking.  …. If I have a new dress, I will also need new shoes, a necklace, earrings,and a decent bag. Oh, and can’t forget the very important cover up for the cool nights and to cover the flabby size 14 arms…..  so I spend the evening last night (while watching Idol among other things) tooling the internet looking for the perfect dress.  And even this morning ….

No wonder I feel dissatisfied and grumpy.   As a friend just said, (on Facebook not in person, I told you I have no face-to-face friendships any more.) I need to check this more closely.

Identity.  Self-esteem.  Body image.  Eureka!  I have ignored the root of my problems with shopping.  Wow!  I can’t believe I’ve been able to stick my head in the proverbial sand about this!

We all do it.  I know we do.  Except for those few say 20% of exercising folk, most of us ignore our bodies a good part of the time.  Just living with regret, or wishing it were different, or saying when I lose those ten pounds, I will  …

Absolutely what I’ve done!

“I will like myself when I’m thin.  I know I’m thin inside there somewhere.  I was thin(ner) for most of my life and that person is still in there.  When I’m thin, I’ll … pursue showing my photography.  And take more risks like searching for a publisher for my poetry.  And ….blah, blah frikin’ blah…”

Well, isn’t that interesting.

P.S.  If you’re one of those actually thin people or in your early thirties (or younger) and you don’t know what I’m talking about — related to your body, just wait.  Call me when it hits.  I will so be there for you to cry on my shoulder.  By then, I’ll be thin.  Surely.

This Strange Desire: On Materialism and Image: How it all started, the year without new clothes.

My Crooked Heart

“There is a sacred quality to words.  They are not information but revelation.”

— Eugene Peterson

I believe every person is on a spiritual journey.  In as much as we are human, we are spiritual beings.  Pierre Teilhard De Chardin put it like this:   “We are not human beings on a spiritual journey. We are spiritual beings on a human journey.”

That has completely been my experience.  De Chardin wrote that everything is sacred because God is shown throughout creation.  My life might seem quite insignificant in the grand scheme of the cosmos, but  human endeavors are epiphanies of the reality of God’s presence.  Though we may, at different times in our life, walk toward or away from belief or what I call faith in an “other” we each walk a unique path of belief and disbelief.  This journey depends on the individual , the people who influence them, and their spiritual openness and experiences with God.

Organized religion, actually, has ruined the journey of many beautifully spiritual people who I have known.  It has hurt them.  Destroyed their fledgling hope in a power greater than themselves. Fortunately for me, organized religion has been a process that has been good, bad and indifferent but not completely horrible.

As a child

I quite easily and naturally believed in the God of John 3:16, the first Bible verse I memorized.  My parents very forthrightly and consistently did things like thanking God for our food.  They gave God credit for home, food, and health, and they knelt in supplication to God for their needs.  God was their source. They gave God all the credit for anything good and never blamed God for difficulties.  Strangely enough, in my childlike perception, they seemed to live well because of knowing God. We never wanted for anything, although we were never well off.  God took care of us.  Yes, I believed that.

In my teens, I found I couldn’t relate to the God that I heard about at church, a southern United Methodist congregation who gave people the gift of speaking on tongues, but not me.  Who was powerful, immediate and super-charged.   I was full of longing and unrequited need, but I never found whatever I was hoping for in those years.  I was never confident of my “salvation” in my teens.  I knew my crooked heart — my huge insecurities.  I knew I was a bad person, so how could any kind of smart God love me?

I was pretty confident that God was real, but I couldn’t accept that Jesus had died on the cross  just for me. No way!  I didn’t fully believe it until my forties.  Yeah, wow, that is a long time. Looking back I realize this means that I did not “believe” but then it was ritual that carried me along.  I found acceptance in the church, but not faith.

During those years my father was constantly yelling.  Arguing with my mom about every little thing; like us kids, or mom’s spending of money, the house being a mess, or our grades.  (When I say arguing with I really mean arguing at, because my mom never argued, rarely defended herself or her children and never fought back.)  He had a generous heart, but he also had this unresolved anger — his Achilles — and although he had a strong faith, a great influence with his life, he never managed to change that behavior or allow God to change him in that area.  This was irreconcilable to me.

(And then I think of the things I have such trouble giving up: my addictions, ….  Did I hold him to a higher standard?  An impossible one?  More on that later.)

Perhaps, but this became a hurdle for me spiritually that probably took thirty or more years for me to resolve within myself.  It hurt me.  I had trouble with the belief that God was all-powerful and could heal, because he never healed my Father of his anger addiction.  And what Dad was doing to us was destructive, and cruel, and just plain mean.   Dad would be apologizing for the destructiveness of his anger, but it was clearly not a true repentance.  I know what repentance means — it is a spiritual u-turn.  A changed behavior.  He never changed.  Some would say that he began to change in his late fifties and early sixties.  I did not see evidence of it, though I was spending less and less time with him.

This spiritual disconnect altered me and impaired my foundational sense of God.  God didn’t change Dad’s anger addiction …  Admittedly I have always been über sensitive — a harsh look from my father would crumble me into tears when I was little.  For years I was afraid to talk, to speak up in groups or pray aloud.  I don’t know how I made it through school.  Perhaps that was a factor in my parent’s frustrations, and my father’s anger, about why such a bright kid did poorly in school.  Early on, I think I was too scared to talk and later simply no longer cared or believed in myself enough.  And looking back over records I discovered that I wasn’t a bad student so it is amazing to me that I got the message that I wasn’t good enough, ever, academically or otherwise.

It’s a tangent, my academic success, but it’s also central.  Deep, deep down I still fight to believe I have good enough ideas, can express myself adequately, or should be trying to say anything unique.  Down there, in the scary place of self-love or in my case -loathing, I have always hated myself. That’s no exaggeration.  In part, why I succumbed to alcoholism, to depression, to constant fear & anxiety.

What changed?  What dragged my sorry ass out of that morose place?  I can say I began listening for God’s voice because I needed to hear it so badly.  When I started listening, God spoke and when I responded (i.e. obeyed) my crooked heart was encircled by God.  It’s still crooked but God continues to  smooth out the roughness and my life is different.  This is an almost daily thing.

In those early years

I was guided down my spiritual path  by a youth pastor (Julian “Hule” Goddard) that helped by answering each annoying question I had about matters of faith. I had many doubts.  I’d sit behind him as he drove the bus on various trips and ask all my questions.  He conveyed to me that they were alright to ask and that he loved my questions!

A love, passion, desire, even craving for the scriptures started then and has been with me as long as I can remember.  I have always loved looking up original meaning and intent and when I learn those things it is as if something inside me grows. A spiritual person was developing inside me even then.  One that got stronger each time I studied.  It is difficult even for this wordsmith to find the words to express this but a similar experience happens when I pray.  And The the combination of prayer and study of the Bible, for me, are transformational.  I am a different person as a result.

And then I grew up and

I never felt farther from God than I did in the thirteen years that I worked at a Christian organization.  I would say my faith was conjecture.  I saw evidence of others’ faith and believed in that, but not in a God that has personal encounters with me.  Even as I floundered I felt dead inside.  I was afraid, working for Christians, when I knew there was no evidence in my life that I had a personal relationship with Christ.  I was afraid to pray.  I even refused to pray with my husband when we were first married, though I never said truthfully why.  Knowing my background, of being controlled all those years, he wisely didn’t insist though I know that it created sadness for him.

I knew nothing about addiction until my thirties when I began to see the results of alcohol addiction in my family.  I wasn’t cognizant of it before that, though a friend mentioned that he was the third gen in an alcoholic family and chose not to drink.  I was curious about, that but didn’t give it a lot of thought because I rarely drank in my twenties or the early years of marriage.   It was when we began to socialize with other couples in our neighborhood that I found there was always a bottle of wine (or five) involved, mixed drinks, open bar which proved to be more than I could resist.

My parents regularly had wine at the dinner table and I would have a glass, but in those days I found that wine made me feel “funky” or down.  At that time I didn’t want more.  I usually regretted drinking at all having a naturally melancholy tendency and didn’t need any help.  But it was always available and one’s glass was never empty at my parent’s place in Colorado.

We visited there for my parent’s 40th wedding anniversary.  It was a horrible weekend for the entire extended family, with a huge altercation breaking out, on our last night together.  My dad announced that he was “giving up the dream of moving to Beijing, China” because the pollution in the city would have been dangerous for my mom. She has a condition called Sarcoidosis of the lungs.  Someone made the mistake (I’m willing to say it was me, but honestly I don’t remember) of saying that mom had given up her dreams over and over for him for the forty years of their marriage. Dad went ballistic that we weren’t more empathetic to his feelings, a long argument broke out and then, finally, dad pouted shamelessly for the rest of the visit.  He made everyone else miserable which was his mode in this type of situation.  When I finally apologized, at Tom’s encouragement and in order to make peace, dad told me I didn’t apologize “correctly” for him (probably because I was saying it with bile in my mouth) and he was still angry.

finding my voice

I guess that story is important because it was fairly typical.  We did something that “made” him angry and then we end up apologizing.  I had so much I needed to say to my father.  I wanted to tell him he had gone too far this time.  I wanted this to be the excuse for walking away from him.  For saying STOP.  I wanted to say that he had gone too far and I couldn’t see him any more.  But Tom’s encouragement to apologize, instead of what I wanted to do, was compelling (and right). And I was not very strong, so I did.  At some point in my life I knew I would have to stand up to my father.  But not that day.

But I never did do that before he died.  I guess, no I KNOW my poetry is a small but important stance against what he did, even with him dead.  My way of telling my part of the story.  And in writing, I am being healed.  Slowly I am peeling away the layers of hurt by writing down my experiences.  Some day I may come to a place where I find myself well.  In a way, I am afraid of that day.  My need makes me open.  My weakness makes me stronger because I can depend on someone greater than myself.

I did tell my father, finally, the day before his brain  surgery how much he had hurt me over my life.  (I write about that here.) I feel I got the one genuine moment of grief, expressed by him, when I did that.  I know from reading his notebook, that he felt a great deal of pain from what I shared.  But doing that made it possible for me to serve him and my mom, as he was dieing, to care for him and to speak genuinely and yet respectfully at his funeral.

and then I was a falling down drunk

During those years I found myself drinking too much but it just resulted in stumbling to bed and dealing with a hangover the next morning.  How may Sundays did I sit in church totally hungover, in pain spiritually, emotionally and physically, and  full of remorse. Too many to count.

Over the years, as I was dealing with a major depression, I began to drink more and more.  I didn’t like being a stay-at-home mom, I missed the purposefulness of work, and I got depressed in a serious way. Ironically, in the recovery period from depression I started drinking more.  With alcohol being a depressant, this was seriously unwise.  But when are drunks wise?

Five o’clock couldn’t come soon enough!  And over time, the occasional glass became a shared bottle three or four times a week.  That led to drinking every day, sometimes harder stuff, like Gin or Vodka which can be so easily disguised with something innocuous.  And  we began hosting parties, a lot of parties, in those years.

About the time my father got sick, and then died, I started smoking.  I got my nose pierced.  I wasn’t reliving adolescence but rather starting to express myself for the first time.  I don’t know how it is all connected but it is.  And smoking and drinking became a daily pattern.  Neither are wrong in and of themselves, in my opinion, just ways of coping that were unhealthy.   I became more attracted to my habits than is easy to admit.

A slow recovery, a melting of my heart occurred as we began to attend a different church.  At this new church I would hear talks from the pulpit that I made sense, were real in an intellectual and mystical way.   I felt like this kind of faith I might be able to get my heart around.  I was in Bible studies with women that kept me searching, seeking and through that I didn’t completely lose my meager faith.  Over time, in a process that I can’t completely explain except to say that it was beautiful and profound I became open.  I was hurt, and lost, and self-medicating.  From that broken, openness God began to reveal himself to me.

I carried tons of pain through out my life — hard childhood, deep, deep insecurities, being a really lousy step-mother, being a perceived failure academically and not doing anything significant with my life, being a broken lover, a sarcastic and mean sister, I essentially hated my parents and yet was profoundly dependent on them even working for my dad for a number of years, my first experience of falling in love had ended in rejection.  I had concluded I was unlovable.  Bottom line, I had no idea how badly I hated myself.   And I thought God somehow hated me.

But I can see God’s big and loving hands on my life: the healer, the potter, the painter, the creator was at work on me. I know that I would not have learned the things that I have about myself and about God if I had stayed at work.  Work filled the hole most of the time.  And I replaced work with shopping (another story for another day), and other things along the way and then finally alcohol.

For forty years,

I equated all the pain I had experienced with God’s care for me and it didn’t feel very good.  I was hurt and angry. And ready to tell God to f-off!  Well, being a drunk is pretty much the last place you’d expect to meet God, but turns out Jesus hung out with people like me.  He kind of preferred the messed up.  My story changed at that point to one of personal redemption.

I was experiencing postpartum depression, I was coming off being a workaholic to being a full-time nursing mom of three in diapers.  My identity issues which had trailed after me all my life flared their ugly head and all of a sudden I felt irrelevant.  When dad got sick with brain tumors I was trying to figure out if I should go on an antidepressant which was a heart wrenching decision and at the same time I discovered I was pregnant.  I flew off to Colorado to be with my parents, knowing I was pregnant and clinically depressed.  I did finally go on the medication.  And for four days I considered an abortion.  Other than feeling I was an unfit mother, I don’t know where the thoughts of aborting the baby came from but six weeks later the baby self-aborted.  A miscarriage.  In the end dad passed away and my mother got help at Hazelton.

things got ugly-er

And I was back with the problems I had before it all started.  Still depressed, confused, lonely, insecure and angry.  Still drinking daily and waking up hung over.  I began to have blackouts after being in settings where the alcohol was flowing.  Having a family history of alcoholism, I have learned, means 1 in 4 are likely to become an alcoholic.  So, I got it and it meant that I did NOT  have that internal meter most people have that says you should slow down, or stop now…  After two drinks, … I go blank.  No conscience.  No internal meter.  No memory of past bad experiences.  No care.  Not one.  Nada.  Just the next drink.

I recall one party where we had colored rubber bands to mark our glass.  I thought it would be funny to add a rubber band for each glass of wine we drank, so I did.  At nine bands, Tom told me it was time to go home.  I remember wondering why?  We just got here. Was I behaving strangely?  When we got home I passed out in our bedroom, which my kids saw, and vomited all over the bed.

Believe it or not, but even then I was denying my problem.  The next day, I would feel bad and have remorse, have those “I never do that again” thoughts or internal conversations.   But, I couldn’t stop myself.  It was just a matter of time.

I don’t think my drinking problem would have gotten so far if I had a full-time job.  I hardly drank when I was working.  And I do believe looking back that the opportunity for ‘abuse’ came with too much time on my hands, boredom, the stress of little ones under foot, the genetic propensity, the almost manic depression that I was getting help for at the same time.  But also the pit in my soul, that hurt so badly, which I was trying to ignore.  To cover up.  To make go away.

I thank Tom and

I am grateful that I had the last ten years to slow down enough to actually know and feel my feelings ; to stop achieving long enough to realize how badly I felt about myself.  When I was working I was a maniacal over-worker.  If I had a slow day I would get this crazy black cloud over me that I had to run from and so I just kept running.  Doing.  Achieving.  I stopped feeling.   I stopped believing in the purpose of my job.  I stopped experiencing God.   My faith was so disintegrated at that point that I remember feeling I had better leave, before someone finds out what a hypocrite I am.  I was constantly fearing that someone would pull the wool off and I’d be revealed for the fake I knew I was.

A part of that while I was working at InterVarsity was allowing  pettiness and bitterness to dominate me.  I overworked people.  I knew there were people on my team who were hurting and I didn’t know how to help them, so I didn’t.  I just took on new things, projects, areas of influence and control, because like my father that is where I felt competence.  I was too proud to ask for help.  And the few times I did ask for help, I was so filled with bitterness and anger that it is no wonder no one could hear me, understand the issues and resolve anything. I disparaged those that I felt were my competitors.  I grew bitter.  I allowed anger to dominate me.  What a hypocrite.

I stopped listening for God and wasted so much time with my dark heart issues.  Strangely I am glad I fell on my face cause when I looked up God was there .  I have sought forgiveness. And I am slowly coming alive spiritually, mentally, emotionally, and in a mystical way I am finding my voice.  For the first time in my life, as I write I see myself for who I really am and I am being healed from the pain I have carried all my life.  I have a voice.  I create things.  I create beauty in my garden, in my photography, in my words.

For each of us, every day is an opportunity to step toward God, and the life of the spirit, or away.

Even with my belief , I have days when I turn away. And a shadow creeps over me, a shiver of loneliness and a wisp of memory darkens my heart.  Then, swiftly I turn back and I am comforted.  Then I am able to express my creativity, to grow things, to ponder, to write.

And I know God is with me.  And I write this, and other things, to be free.  And to help others become free.

Be not judges of others, and you will not be judged: do not give punishment to others, and you will not get punishment yourselves:  [make others free, and you will be made free. ]

Luke 6:37

Is my story one of faith and disbelief, alcoholism, dysfunctional families, or self-loathing or  – love?  I would have to say it is all of those things.  I set out wanting to write about how my faith made it possible for me to give up my addictions. Ironically I had to have that addiction in order to restore my faith.  But this story is about so much more.  How I became a person of faith and just a little about why I believe.  It doesn’t feel like I have been clear, because it’s a story that is difficult to write  linearly since it wasn’t lived that way.  And is much easier to talk about so if that interests you, let me know.  And most of all, I have to say that this God I found, or who found me, this God is so good, so full of love for us, that all the crooked spaces are can be filled.  God will fill you too if you ask.

Be well,

Melody

I write poetry and they are found here. Read them for my full story – there are about fifty poems there which I have written off and onsince 2005.  Someday perhaps I’ll get around to organizing them and getting them printed.  Anyone interested in publishing?

Parenting Tips 101

Some   things

no  one   tells   you

about     being   a

parent  …

or   that   you   won’t

believe    until   you   have   had   your   own  …


  1. That you can get pregnant while nursing.  Dylan was conceived when Emma was five months old.  Yeah, I know harsh.
  2. That you will find yourself picking LEGOs out of the grimy dirt, when you sweep, every single day for up to ten years but who’s counting?
  3. That going out with friends would become a rare treat.  And most of the time it will be sans your partner/spouse.
  4. When you do finally go out together with friends you will talk about your kids all night, even when you resolve not to do so, and you’re thinking you’ve got to stop, and you don’t even want to talk about them.  You will.
  5. You will never again go out to a coffee shop or bookstore  just for fun with your partner/spouse, if anything it will be a drive by for coffee or books.
  6. Your life will be filled with at least 30% more picking up and your house will never be clean or organized.
  7. When your kids are young you will arrange “play dates” so that you can spend time with adults and when they are older you will arrange play dates so you can be away from your kids.
  8. You will soon consider Phineas and Ferb and Sponge Bob high brow television.
  9. You will find some children’s movies that you like, eventually, if you watch enough of them.
  10. There are no absolutes in parenting, because every child is different as well as every parent.
  11. That having no television at all in your life really is a good idea.  People say it but few really do it, but if you start from the beginning it is totally okay.  Your kids will be better off.
  12. That emotional hormones happen to boys as well as girls in the 10-13 years (I haven’t gotten farther yet) and it is okay to let boys cry.   They will be better men for it.
  13. That your car windows will never, ever be without smudges so just let it go.  Seriously I have tried to let it go, I really have, but I still hate smudges in my car.
  14. that your kids will be okay, no really they will no matter what you do (within reason.)
  15. It is never, never worth it to give in to a tantrum you will pay ten times over for your moment of weakness, times how many kids you have.
  16. Children are born selfish and it is a parents job to teach them they are not the center of the universe.
  17. They will eat their buggers, you can’t stop ’em.  And it’s better than the alternative which is putting it somewhere.
  18. that these things really, really are true …

Please add to this list, parents!

I don’t know. (a poem)

I don’t know, oh, there is so much I don’t know.

I don’t know if I will ever feel good, really good.

But I know I’m whistling while I work, unbidden and that’s some small joy.

I don’t know the lyrics to most songs,

but I know I love to sing.

I want the music on all the time.  No matter whether it’s ska, indie, classical, rap, reggae, world or even opera.

It’s what makes me feel safe, the sounds.

And books they make me feel alright.

I know I like order, but I”m messy.  I’ve never learned routines.

I don’t know if I’d change if I knew how.  But I know I like order.

I don’t know if the money will last the month.  Or what we’re having for dinner.

But I know we are here together.

I know, you’ll come home tonight and every night.  And I know you will always have me.

I don’t know if my sister will talk to me or if I’ll ever meet my nephew.

I don’t know what family means any more.  No patriarch, no matriarch.

I don’t know what will happen to us all, what I am supposed to do about it.  I just don’t know that at all.

I don’t know my parent’s history, only the results on our lives.

I don’t know why my dad was so angry,

but I know I stopped it at the door of my home.

I know I have that control and yet I know I’m not the One in control.

I don’t know if what I believe is true, the Truth.

But I know it gets me through.

I don’t know who I’d be without that belief and so I choose to believe.

I don’t know why I had children, but I know that I wouldn’t have found myself without them.

I know I am becoming the mother they need and I am so grateful that I am entrusted with their minds and hearts.

I don’t know what I can give them, but if it were just one thing

I would give each one

confidence.

I wake up most every day scared.

I want them to face the world bravely.  That I know.

Most days I don’t know what I don’ t

Know.  But today, I am sure that these things are true.

I love and I am loved.

I am a mother and that is the  most serious thing I will ever do.

I am profoundly aware of how my parents made me who I am.

I am undaunted.

In the end I don’t have to know as long as I keep whistling and choosing to believe.

When my heart hurts, I wait. (a poem)

I could be doing many things right now, my mother taught me that. 

I should always comes to mind first. I could, gives breathing room. She had a lifetime of shoulds. She lived for every one. And lost herself.  And so, she sits now with her regrets. 

I could be cleaning, calling a friend, or washing up.  I could be playing the piano, or laughing with ‘Mel & Floyd’ on the radio. Even singing.  Or I could be digging outside. But here I sit, with sleepy Jaz by my side. I linger with my heavy thoughts  and the radio that is playing Chaka Khan. Now she is wild and so funky.  So unlike me. 

As the kitten stretches in the sunshine.  I sit and wait for the words.  For I have poem inside and when that happens, I have learned I can wait. It is not time wasted.  Rather, a moment of anticipation. So I go to the screen; the sacred chamber that collects my words and blows them softly  way from me. I sit, pondering hard things.

I could be a better lover. 

I am earnest and devout, but I lack fire. 

I could be a better mom.  I sometimes cave.  If you’re a parent, you know what I mean.

I could definitely be a better friend. 

And should,yes should, take better care of each precious one. 

You and I spoke late into the night of our love, desire and longings.  Of heartache. Of your loyalty.  Of my addictions.  And of God.  And, of other secret things. And in the moments, when my heart hurt so much as if I was being crushed from the inside out I could only hold on to our love. And know that for all the shoulds that sit there between us; unrequited. Honest disappointments.  Pure pain. Still.  It’s you and me.  And I know, even though our journey together is imperfect I am glad to walk this life’s path with you. 

There, it came.  The swirling thoughts are out. Not always what I want to say. Not always something I would choose to admit.  But always when and what is needed.  I suppose the thing I most love about you, is the that though we are imperfect I can wake after such a hard conversation with hope.

April 15, 2010
Marriage.  It’s an amazing thing and yet so difficult.  I don’t talk about my marriage much but I know that just like all the other things that I write about (childhood psychological abuse, addiction & recovery, motherhood, creativity, insecurities, spirituality & faith, disbelief) everyone has relationships and many people have hard marriages.  Mine isn’t difficult, funny enough.  Mine is amazing.  But we have our things and from time to time they raise their head up and demand attention.  I don’t think we should be afraid to talk about it.  Like everything it is delicate and precious.

I once was a control freak

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Image by M e l o d y via Flickr

I found myself yesterday recalling more difficult days.  A time when I was regularly caught up in bitterness and anger.  For nearly ten years that was a theme of my home life.

I resented my husband’s ex-wife.  I resented that he even had one. I resented her very existence.  And even more strongly, I felt total and abject misery about it.  My perspective on being a step-mother was that I was utterly helpless in my situation and terrible at it.

Once, only days after we returned from our honeymoon in northern california,

I woke up at some ungodly hour to screaming from the other room.  Molly had a bloody nose!  And apparently not her first, as Tom yelled back instructions for what to do.  Actually it may have been Tom’s bellowing that woke me and I – was – pissed.  I’m not sure I even gave him time to resolve the bloody nose before I tore into him that he should never wake me up screaming on the top of his lungs again! I’ll never forget that incident because that was the day that it hit me, I was a step-mom.

Yeah, seems like I should have dealt with that fact earlier, but I was in love and could not be bothered at the time with the details of a child.  How bad could it be?  And she wasn’t even with us all the time. It brought new meaning to the phrase ignorance is bliss!

When we married in June of 1993 Molly had just turned five.  If I recall correctly the custody arrangement at that time was week on week off.  And so for those early years of our marriage, we were honeymooners for a week and then became a little family for a week.  It was strange.  It was a bit like playing house for me.  I have very few memories of those early years, except I had no idea what I was doing.

I do remember being in the grocery store and I had told Molly something she needed to remember.  I was angry because she didn’t.  And as if it was yesterday, I recall Tom telling me “With children, you have to tell them about 100 times and even then they may not remember.  They are not robots.” 

“Things would work a lot better if they were robots! “I thought to myself as I stalked off to the dairy department for yogurt!

I felt step-parenting was constantly humiliating and I was consumed with the fact that I had no power –no real authority.  And yet, I was expected to help raise this little girl.

Those were difficult years.  I would go to work and forget for a while and become consumed in my work.  Going home was frustrating, and time-consuming and made me feel incompetent. I behaved shamelessly — doing things I would never allow myself to do now.  A step-parent, no matter how frustrated should never speak poorly about the other parent.  Ever.  It’s petty and shallow and makes it unsafe for the child to talk to you.

Over the years, Tom was a perfect example of self-control.

He was strong and saint-like as he dealt with me (a raving lunatic), his ex-wife (no comment) and his daughter.  He was commited to peace.  Even as I goaded him to fight back or stick up for us or express our viewpoint he remained adamant that he would not do anything that allowed her to escalate.   Peace at any price, for Molly.  Early in our marriage I saw this as weak and even cowardly.  Growing up, I saw arguing as normal.  Sticking up for yourself was important because we had very little power and one had to keep it at any cost.  But I learned – ever so slowly – from Tom was that there was power in not jumping into the fracas.

And over the years I did see that our home was a safe place for Molly, because of Tom.  It took me years, really not until 1993 or 94 top be open enough to allow God to work on my heart.  I wanted control and was no good at letting go of it.  I wanted a clear role and as a step-mother that was a constantly shifting one, as “real” mom changed who she was and what role she wanted in her own daughter’s life.  I wanted authority and as step-mom felt like I never had it, ultimately.  I wanted the injustice and mess of Tom’s divorce  not spill over into my newly married life.  But it boiled over, regularly.  I wanted to help this little girl and in the end miraculously good came of it, but it was very ambiguous and it was not until she was an adult herself that I could really see that I had played any positive role in her life.  I thank God for his kindness, as I had a lot to learn and this little girl was an innocent bystander to those hard lessons.  Fortunately children are resilient and God is tender and merciful.

At some point in the winter of 1994 I took a long walk, pouring out my heart to God.  I expressed my disappointment and anger at this aspect of my life and I needed him to heal me.  I cried out, in my sense of inadequacy and fear.  I was so resentful that this woman existed as if I could wish her away.  Ultimately it came down to something Tom had said to me from the beginning of our marriage.

“You give her all the power by resenting her so much.”

In our pre-marriage counseling, our pastor Craig Barnes, said “She (ex-wife) will be the most important other person in your marriage.  Supporting her role in Molly’s life would become my most difficult task.” [Those were not his exact words.]  If only I had listened.  If only I had believed him.  But I had to sort it out in my way in my time, I suppose.  Ten years of tears, and grief.  But there was a bigger lesson I was learning about power and control and that day, ten years later, I gave up any inclination of my power.  And in a mystical and almost instantaneous moment I was healed.

Over the years we still had our struggles, but Tom and I became a team at that point.  I began to see that in his peacemaking he was strong and had power.  He always chose what was best for Molly and I came to support that and learned to bite my tongue when I wanted to lash out (literally drawing blood at first).  I learned to listen and eventually I let go of my perceived power.  Because that is all it is when you are a parent – the perception that what you are doing will change these little people into what you want.

Who knew that our children learn from our choices to not say or not do something, as much as from what we do and say to them.   No matter whether we are a step – or a “real” parent, we have to let go!

Step-parenting is hard.  Anyone who doesn’t know that is ignorant and naïve.  But it is character building.

If you are given a close relationship with the child you receive into your life, as I have been, well, that’s something to celebrate!

Reblog this post [with Zemanta]We are blessed with a wonderful relationship with Molly today.  She’s an amazing young woman.  And I can also say that my relationship with/toward her Mom is positive and though our contact is limited now that Molly is an adult our interactions today are healthy and supportive of each other.  God is good.

Anger cannot fully describe my emotions.

Folly is what occurred.  (But no dentists were hurt I promise.)

After preparing myself and Jacob all day for the extraction of three of his teeth ….

… took 1/2 day off school.
… talked about it dozens of times, about bravery and necessity and consequences.
… bought bribe toy, comfort stuffed animal, and bribe milkshake.
… spent almost an hour numbing his mouth with the dentist poking him up to 20 times with his long needle of Novocaine, ten of which he actually felt.

… finally,  a small amount of kicking (more like writhing),  screaming (at times blood curdling I will admit) and lots of tears, holding his mouth saying “Don’t pull my teeth!” …

the damned dentist says:

“We don’t have to pull them today.”

“YES WE DO!” I say! It just burst out of me.

“Are you f***ing kidding me?” did not come out until I was in the car later.

But once this was out, my already traumatized eight year old son was very willing to put off for another day what he did not want to do anyway.

I reaffirmed that he would still have to have the teeth pulled, that he would have to repeat everything that happened in the last hour, and he would NOT get the toy in the trunk of my car.

But once the option was on the table, no matter my protest, there was no cajoling, no amount of pushing, (mild) threatening, frustration, anger, disappointment, or fury was going to change his little freaked out mind.

“I can recommend an Oral Surgeon, who has the capability to make him more comfortable ( a dentist’s euphemism for “knock him out cold”) so that these teeth can be pulled.”

Fine. Give me the referral. We start anew on Monday morning at 8:00am where we will have a Consult for pulling the teeth.  Then schedule a teeth pulling, where they likely give him a shot that knocks him out and he won’t remember anything.

I have no more words. But for those of you who have followed this saga here, and here, if I was not convinced before I am now we will be changing dentists.

Here’s what I think he should have done.  Pulled Mom out in the hall to discuss the options.  Let mom decide or at least have a say in whether the child is offered a reprieve.  Am I wrong?

I feel dread, but I am strong

Right?  I’m strong! I’ve been a mother for almost twenty years.

I have dreaded this day for about three months – as long as I have known that the dentists want to extract three teeth from my youngest — My baby.  He’s terrified and so I am calm and reassuring.

“You will feel nothing” I keep saying.  And Tom repeats as well.  Which I am not certain is true because the last time I had teeth pulled I was in high school.   I remember drooling blood as I walked out of the doctor’s office.  That’s about it.

Why do I feel so afraid?  So unprepared?  Because parenting 101 says with everything in your arsenal, you protect your children.  That’s the gut impulse.  That’s what intuition says to do.  And from the beginning, when Emma was born I felt inside me this Mama Lion; powerful enough to hurt someone else if they hurt my child — from first day jitters in kindergarten, to all the testing we’ve done for his learning challenges, hours of extra tutoring,  advocating at school — day after day protecting my baby from the world and getting him what he needs.

I just read that the Mother Lion Defense has actually been used in court where it seeks to justify mother ‘s violent reactions taken to protect her children. Often admitted and successful.  (Good to know.)

I don’t know why I’m thinking in such extremes today, but Jacob has been through so much.  He’s had eight cavities fixed this year. No one prepares you for days like this.

I will bring my weeping, struggling child into the dentist as he begs me to not let them do it.  Worst case scenario I have to carry him in and hold him down.  The pit in my stomach will remain. At that point I have no idea if this is the right thing to do.

I am trusting the experts (first and second opinions given) that he ‘needs’ this.

Jacob is trusting me that I would never let anyone hurt him.

And I feel like crying.

[21 day detox] Days 3 & 4 were pure misery

When I think of the role that food has played in my life it is inordinately flawed and dysfunctional.  The only way I can think that I wasn’t over weight growing up, is that my mom was into healthy eating and we never had junk food.  She baked our bread.  I never ate a Twinkie or Ding Dong until college.  Seriously.

When I got to college I got a really bad habit of eating for taste and comfort.  I was never over weight in college, but I survived on mostly GRANDMA’s cookies and coffee.  Oh, and donuts.  I didn’t realize I had a problem with poor eating, until I fainted dead away at my job in the library.  Turns out I was anemic and malnourished.  Yes, I guess nineteen year old well off Caucasian girls from the burbs become malnourished.  Of course this was the 80’s and there was little known about eating disorders.

My twenties were more of the same.  Eating poorly, feeling poorly, but never really gaining weight due to a good metabolism I suppose.  I have never been an active person, just a busy person.  I have been known to eat chocolate chip cookie dough (from the fridge) for a week for dinner.  Or melted cheese.  Or Ramen noodles.

Although my mom is a gourmet cook and a health nut, I didn’t learn anything growing up about cooking.  Four girls overwhelmed her I imagine and she was always shooing us out of the kitchen.

I learned from her relationship to food though.  My mom had been a yo-yo dieter all my life, at least since we came back from Papua New Guinea and that’s the earliest that I can remember.  Certain things were forbidden and then eaten at other times when fallen off the diet.  For my mom two were Fritos and popcorn.  I hated all three for as long as I can remember.  For the longest time they even made me physically ill if I even smelled them.  I see now was very wrapped up in my mother’s ups and downs.  She hated her body.  I hated my body.

And I had never in my life dieted or been on a diet when I got married.  I hadn’t needed to, because I managed to stay around 130 lbs, give or take five for my twenties and early thirties.

Getting pregnant was the beginning of the end of the “innocently healthy years.”  I was hungry all the time while pregnant and I thought if I was hungry the baby must also be hungry.  Absurd, of course, but I ate my way through and gained 70 pounds.  Actually I stopped looking at the scale after 70.  Horrifying.  And really my OBGYN should be taken out back and shot, for she never said a word to me about my weight.  Nada. (Yes, it feels better to blame her or at least act like it wasn’t my responsibility at all.)

Not taking responsibility could be how you label those years.  Within five months of Emma’s birth I was pregnant again with Dylan.  I gained less with that pregnancy, but then I was carrying some carried over from the previous pregnancy.  With nursing and working full-time, I lost a good part of the Emma weight.   After Dylan was born, then I had more time to get back to my original weight and I was within 20 lbs when I got pregnant with Jacob a year or so later.

I said earlier that I never dieted before I got married.  I hadn’t.  That’s not to say that I have always been happy with my weight, but I would just start working out at the Y if I got to feeling too badly about myself.  And that worked for the most part.

I have actually only been on one real diet in that time.  In 2002 Tom and I went on the South Beach diet.  I lost 17 lbs, and at that point people thought I looked too skinny but actually that put me around 140-145 and that’s a really perfect weight for my age and being 5′ 6″.  I hadn’t felt that great in years!  All those baby years were gone!  I felt like a woman again, as opposed to being a mommy with boobies.

Since 2002, I have been at home and my lifestyle has slowed down year by year and I’ve felt a slow creep.  Of course there was the battle with depression which is a story told elsewhere.  But the weight just crept up, a little more every year.  When I finally decided to do this fast I weighed in at 169 lbs – okay 170 – last Monday.  That is the highest that I have ever been in my life.  It was do or die time.

This beautiful broken tea-cup is really a metaphor for me.  I mean ME, my body, my health, my physical person.  I broke it yesterday, because I wasn’t paying attention to my detox plan and let myself get too hungry.  I was experiencing low blood sugar and ignoring it and put the dishes away. Before I fed myself.  Ignoring my need I broke something that was important to me. 

The cup is from Ukraine – one of a kind, irreplaceable, beautiful, sturdy – priceless.  It was a gift from my mom.  I was at her place the day before and I admired it because I will always have a place in my heart for the Ukraine and Russia.  She said “Take it.  You can have it.”   She is like that these days, physical things becoming much less important to her.  Perhaps it is her age.  Anyway, I gratefully took it feeling a bit selfish. But thrilled!

And used it for a day.  Until I dropped it.

That’s what I do. I ignore my body.  I ignore my hunger.  I ignore the fact that this body, given to me freely and is mine to care for.  I need to take more care.

It’s a lifelong pattern for me to forget about eating. Then eat all the wrong things.  Carbohydrates mostly.

And yesterday I forget that I need to follow the plan.  I need to make sure I eat enough calories.

I am one-of-a-kind, beautiful, and sturdy (ha ha) and I only have this one life.  This one body.  One chance to make things right.

And that is why I have to follow the plan as if my life depended on it.

Back story on the 21 day detox is here.