July 31, 2010 § 1 Comment
I have a difficult time knowing how much to share with people. The dilemma is in their reactions. It’s not so much that I share stories which are too personal, but rather the quantity of stories I share. What is too much?
I am a naturally chatty person, and as a kid it was cute; now that I’m older I think it annoys people. First is the problem of over sharing in the first place; telling people things that will make me vulnerable without realizing it. Then, I worry about dominating the conversation. Far too often I will be in the middle of a thought with someone and they will completely cut me off and go on their own tangent. Not even related to the subject at hand. Sometimes you get the “oh, I’m sorry. You were saying?”, but most of the time, they don’t. Which can only lead me to believe they weren’t listening at all. Clearly I bore them with my anecdotes. I’ve learned to just let it drop and if they want to hear the rest of the story they will ask. When they don’t, it stings a bit.
But sometimes I try to ease up and not talk as much. Let them dominate the conversation and throw in a few things here and there. When I do that, they complain that I’m being a Debbie Downer and that there is obviously something wrong with me. I JUST CAN’T WIN!!!
So how much is too much? And how little is too little? And is it possible to find a medium that is just right? Where’s Goldie Locks and them three bears when I need them?
July 29, 2010 § 1 Comment
Most people in my life do not know that when I was 18, I was a self proclaimed alcoholic. I was “dating” this guy Michael who I was infatuated with. He was where the sun rose and set to me, and he was all that I had. It was the first year after graduation, and all my friends were away at school or preoccupied with their boyfriends. I had decided to take the year off after my doctor read my blood work wrong and told me I had diabetes (yeah, I was pissed when I found out it wasn’t true), and consumed myself with work. Michael worked with me at Rite Aid, and I thought he was flawless.
What I later came to find out was that Michael was an alcoholic. It actually runs in his family, and sadly, he hasn’t admitted to it yet. And since he was six years older than me, there was little we could in this farm country area I live in, so we took to his apartment most nights – me attempting to get away from my mother and all the family drama, and him needing to be surrounded by someone who loved him – and drank. Now, I have older brothers, so I was not a stranger to alcohol, but never had I been able to drink a lot. Michael changed that.
By the time I was 19, I was binge drinking every night with him. I was able to drink two entire bottles of rum straight and still be ready for more. Then, at a party one night, I got alcohol poisoning. I didn’t even know until two days later when I had a friend come check on me since I was still sick, and he said I should have had my stomach pumped two days prior. Since then, I haven’t been able to stomach the stuff. I’ll have a drink here and there (especially now since I’m of age) but even the thought of being that wasted again makes my head spin. And people in my life have a hard time accepting that I won’t drink heavily anymore. It makes being 21 bitter-sweet. I have no problem being sober, but everyone around me does, which makes me feel guilty.
The point to my sharing this is that something wonderful happened last night. I went out for a friend’s 21st birthday and didn’t have a single drink. That alone made me feel wonderful, but on top of that, I was with people who didn’t pressure me one bit to drink, and even more, we’re okay with the fact that I wasn’t. I talked with an attractive guy all night and we enjoyed the conversation with me being sober. People laughed at me, sober. People we’re happy I was there. I had the most amazing time, and am finally starting to feel more and more like myself!
July 28, 2010 § 1 Comment
Today, I finally became an adult! I have been deathly afraid of needles since I was a child, and when it comes time to get my blood drawn, I have a panic attack and tend to resort to extreme measures in order to escape. When I was a kid I once locked myself in the bathroom at the diagnostics office – they had to have security take the hinges off the door in to get me out. I would cry and scream the entire time. Then as I got older, I would just put it off. I told my doctors that I needed three weeks to mentally prepare myself. Not to mention that I have only ever let one lady draw my blood.
Today, however, at my doctor’s appointment for my wrist (which I found out I will be needing surgery on – EEK!), I also brought up some other issues, one of which is my weight. She is fully supporting my efforts and helping me come up with a way to finally lose it, but first she wanted some blood work.
So not only am I willingly letting doctor’s treat me, instead of hiding my health problems in fear, I marched right into the chair and had a new lady draw my blood, in the same ten minutes I was told it needed to happen. Okay, so maybe there was a small elevation to my heart rate and I scared the lady by threatening her that she “only gets one shot”, but all in all, I did a fantastic job!
On the way home, I realized that growing up is doing everything you don’t want to do solely because it has to be done. No more hiding for me! I am going to take care of business whether I like it or not!!! *Progress*
July 25, 2010 § 2 Comments
I never intended to become overweight. It’s not as if I wished growing up that I could be the largest version of myself. Plus, I haven’t always been overweight. As a child, I was a tiny little thing, and cute as can be. Throughout elementary school I was very athletic – I played softball for years, even basketball one year, and ran around outside for hours on end every night. I never wanted to come inside as a kid. My life was on the street, and in the backyards, and in the trees, and rolling around on the grass. I lived on my bike, flying down the steepest hills in the development with no fear. There was nothing I wouldn’t do, and I have the scars to prove it.
Thinking back over the years, I know exactly when things changed, and I used to blame them (that’s a story for another time) for everything that had gone wrong in my life. Finally, and more recently, I have come to the realization that it’s all my fault. I am the one to blame for it all. No, I was not the one bullying myself, and I wasn’t the one fighting and calling the cops – both events of which I believe had serious implications on my life – but I was the one cramming Kudos bars down my throat when no one was home, I was the one insisting I could eat as much as my older brothers, I was the one who refused to work out even though I had every opportunity handed to me, and I was the one who didn’t ignore it all. Granted, this was all a lot for a middle-school-er to handle, but I’ve always been stronger than anyone else, and I could have done it. But, for some reason, I’ve never been able to do it.
Now that I’m older, I have to pay for the actions of my younger self, and it’s hard. What a lot of people don’t understand is that I didn’t do this to myself on purpose. I was so young and was dealing with the weight of the world, and quite frankly, some things just aren’t as pertinent in a kids mind. I could have focused all my attention on myself and my weight, but I chose to take care of my mother when she was a mess. I chose to care for the house when no one else paid it any mind. I chose to be there for my few friends when they needed me. I chose other peoples’ happiness over my own well being, because that’s the kind of person I am. And now, I will pay the consequences.
Out of everything which is made more difficult for overweight people, I think the hardest is the looks. People look at you as if you are the scum of the Earth. Most people just think I’m lazy or I can’t help myself; it’s not in pity though, but rather in disgust. I disgust people. If only before judging, they took a minute to ask me. This is what I would say:
If you think it’s hard to look at me, imagine being me. I wake every morning to the image of how my life has scarred my body. But, I haven’t gained weight in five years. I have maintained within a ten pound radius for five years! My weight is something that was done a long time ago. It was done because I care, entirely too much as times, about those I love. I am willing to sacrifice for those who mean everything to me. There was nothing I wouldn’t do. And after all the shit life has thrown my way, well…
I have the scar to prove it.
July 21, 2010 § Leave a comment
I have three kinds of days. There are days that I am the happiest person alive; nothing can bring my spirits down. Those are the days that I am up for anything and I laugh in the face of danger. The days I want to go skydiving, and run a marathon. I feel that nothing is out of my reach. They are also the days that I feel the prettiest; when I look in the mirror, I am beautiful no matter how large I am (coincidentally, those are the days I fit into my clothes the best).
There are also days, like today, which are in the middle. I don’t feel bad, but I could feel a lot better. I still want to do things, but instead of buying a ticket to jump out of a plane, I go to the library to pick out some new reading material instead. I notice that I have all the potential in the world to be beautiful, but it’s a little harder to convince myself that the girl looking back in the mirror is as good as it’s going to get today.
Then there are the bad days; nothing seems right. I have no energy. I would rather stay in bed all day, not reading but rather sleeping, because I hope that I can sleep away my reality and awaken in a dream for the rest of my life. Those are the days, if I decide to get up at all, that nothing fits, my hair won’t cooperate, and no matter what I do, I see a monster looking back in the mirror. No amount of makeup will cover up the truth on these days.
There was a time when the bad days were all I had. I wouldn’t shower for days – what was the point? My closet was a sea of blacks and browns. I felt no need to force color into my life. Days, weeks, months even, would pass without a single glimmer of hope for a good day. It felt like this time would never pass, and I gave up. Bad days turned into a lifestyle, with no drive to ever change. I had been numbed by the world and felt that there was no chance of ever changing this.
Fortunately, one day, there was a tiny sparkle of warmth from a light that was close. No light at the end of the tunnel yet, but I could feel it was coming. I started clawing my way out of my hole, my abyss, and I did hit that light eventually.
Now I have the good days, a life filled with them. But what they don’t tell you about coming back from the other end is that it still happened. I feel less like I am in a whole new place, as I feel that I am living in a house next to the hole I climbed out of. It’s still there, and I have to see it; maybe not everyday, but I cannot avoid it, because in order to live in the good days, I have to acknowledge the existence of the bad ones. Some days, I get scared and want to climb back in just for the security of familiar walls. I haven’t lived in this world long enough to know it’s limitations. How do I know that some big bad wolf won’t come by one day and huff and puff and blow it all away? And every time I walk past my old home, I feel a tug. I become so nostalgic and all but pine for the life I used to live, because even though it was sticky and difficult, it was real. The feelings and the hurt made me feel almost alive, although ironically dead. I am happy now, but have nothing to work towards. I am no longer numb, but I feel nothing. How does that make sense? I am bored with life so much. Bored with happy.
I need more than happy now, but I do not know how to get it.
July 13, 2010 § 1 Comment
One. Two. Three.
My breathing picks up pace as I settle into my hiding spot.
Four. Five. Six.
Surveying the area, I see that I have the best spot. Mike hid in the closet in his room: a dead giveaway. He’s sure to check there first. John’s in the shower with the curtain pulled closed. Chris behind the hall closet door.
Seven. Eight. Nine.
With my legs pulled into my chest I steady my breathing as to not give away my location. I feel safe inside that hamper. Being the smallest of the bunch, it’s easy to maneuver my way into tight areas, and with some extra clothes thrown on top of my head, I’m sure to win.
Ten! Ready or not here I come.
Within seconds, Billy finds Mike and John, and after a bit longer, Chris is discovered. I can hear them right next to me in the hall wondering where I am. Doors swing open, covers are thrown back as they search for me for the next duration of time which seemed to last forever. And it was during this that I realized, maybe I hid too well. Maybe, they won’t ever find me; and suddenly, panic sets in. How long would they search for me? Would they even bother to find me? Just then, my thoughts become reality when I hear the television click on downstairs. They… actually gave up looking for me. Their own sister and friend, could just vanish and they wouldn’t even care. One tear races down my cheek and it was then, that I realized…. I’m all alone.
I’ve hidden from the world for so long with the hope that someone would come looking for me. Is it so much to ask that someone care? That someone would finally come along and dig me out from the hamper of dirty laundry, pull me out and exclaim “I found her! I win!” Or am I so far buried in trauma and filth that I’m not even worth the energy or time to find? Should it be seen as a gift that I can hide so well and fit so easily into unimaginable situations, or a curse? Will entrusting my safe rescue to others ultimately end in being found or will it always cause my savior to abandon hope?
I am learning, slowly, how to not hide so well, but you still have to play the game…