Most people also have no clue that I am in a therapist’s office at least once a week with phone sessions that I can’t count; trying to work on learning to forgive or at least trying to the grasp the simple concept of “letting go”. To live in the moment.
I’m killing myself. (NOT LITERALLY. Calm your tits.) That’s it. I finally have the answer and it truly has been in front of me the entire time.
As far as I can remember, I have pushed back. I pushed back against my parents, friends, ‘the norm’ and especially religion. Let’s not even go there.
I’m still not a religion kind of girl. I don’t believe in ‘God’ however, I do believe that there are powers that are higher than myself in this universe. Now, here’s where it get’s tricky. I am an alcoholic in recovery. I am an alcoholic that got sober with the aid of Alcoholics Anonymous. Alcoholics Anonymous is a ‘God’ based, Christian centered recovery program. I think you can see where I am going with this.
I struggle with the ‘Higher Power’ aspect of thee program also. Yeah, you can call it ‘God’ or ‘Higher Power’ but, we all know that it’s based on ‘God’. “The Man”. “The Holy Father”. And frankly, I have a problem with that.
It’s taken me 8 years to find my way back into the rooms of AA and listening to the journeys of other alcoholics that struggled with the same thing to finally understand; I am more confused than fucking ever. All this talk of getting on your knees and praying every morning and every night but, it doesn’t have to be to ‘God’. It can be to anything. Really? ANYTHING? This leaves the realm of interpretation open ended. I like being quiet in the morning; therefore, I wake up extremely early, make my coffee, walk outside and sit. I sit there and listen to the quiet. I don’t meditate. For lort’s sake, I am an adult ADD sufferer; that’s just too much to ask. But, does this make quiet my ‘higher power’? It’s an utterly ridiculous concept. But, one that I am going to roll with for right now.
And if you have stayed thus far, thank you. These posts tend to be chaos at best sometimes. Honestly?, I totally blame ADD and my therapist says that’s A-Okay. 😉
As I sat outside this morning with my coffee and my Daily Reflections book, it hit me that here I am; I am in a house that is constantly loud.(and, I love it most of the time) I walk outside and it is constantly loud. I go into the grocery store and it’s loud. What the fuck am I doing in a place that is so loud when the only thing that I truly want is to be quiet? And then, I started crying. All this time that I have tried to prove that I was not a “country girl” to others and all this time, I could have been quiet. I could have just accepted that I truly want a place in the middle of nowhere (but, as close as possible to Target and a Starbucks, thank you very much) where I can sit and be quiet. I want to be able to scream in frustration and not worry about the neighbors calling 9-1-1, or sit outside when it rains and not smell oil and asphalt. I am totally not talking Texas Chainsaw Massacre locale or shit like that; fuck you. I need people also. But, right now and at this stage in my life; I need quiet more. And, I think that our family needs quiet.
We are all overly stressed, overly medicated, overly in debt, overly every-fucking-thing. My husband is nearing the end of his military career and after 20+ years, he deserves some quiet.
About a month ago, we made the decision to put our house on the market. It’s been a back and forth, confusing and less than quiet time for me and it seems like something is always in the path of this taking place because this fucking place is still not on the market. HAHAHA
But, yesterday it hit me. I truly believe that shit always happens for a reason. I don’t always like the reason and admittedly, I am not a patient person so, if the process of the reasoning takes awhile, I am not always onboard with this. But, whatever; I digress. Yesterday as I was chatting via text with a friend (her husband is also our agent) about how our scheduling a dinner date is always getting fucked; it hit me. Duh, Melody. Remember? Shit happens for a reason. So, as of today I am going to be quiet. I am going to TRY and let things go as they are intended and not bitch TOO much about it taking so long. The keyword here being “TRY”.
So, all this time and all these years and all I really NEEDED was quiet. What I WANTED is killing me. I love my life for the most part. I love our home, I love the friends that I have here, I love the boys’ schools. I mean, I could be thinner or younger, I could be a millionaire and then you wouldn’t be reading this because I would be in my quiet; in Hawaii but, right now I’m gonna settle for quiet on my front porch. I’m going to take my 0430 coffee and quiet time and roll with it until our family’s reason shows up. I just wish it would hurry the fuck up. lol
Today, as many other days, I found myself preaching to the proverbial choir; my children. As I always make an attempt at doing, I tried to speak with reflection on past discussions and with my best attempt at calm through my clinched teeth and forced patience.
I’m going to make this short and sweet because it hit me, really hit me hard in the gut, that I truly hoped my kids learned something from me during their years at home.
All kids do it. They sit there and “listen” as a parent preaches at them. Tells them what is expected. Explains why they are being punished. Blah, blah, blah. The whole time, thinking in their little child brains, “Is she ever going to just shut up? Maybe if I sit really still and look at her forehead she will think that I’m paying attention and shut up.” I did the same thing. I’m wise to their game; only this time, I’m the old lady that won’t shut up and I just. keep. talking. (Sometimes on purpose.)
This time was different. This time, something would be taken away from my nearing 41 year old, mother of three, gibberish. (And by the way, not going to be short and sweet as I had hoped) This time, I was speaking of a box. An imaginary box but, a box nonetheless. This box, like many other boxes, begins empty. This box then is filled with tiny pieces of well, shit. Yes. Let’s use shit as a prime example. A box is only capable of holding so much shit and then, it’s done. It’s filled with all these little bits of shit and there is now no room left for the big pieces of shit. It’s nearing impossible to carry without help. Now, let’s equate that box of little bits of shit to one’s ability to handle all “the little things” that we are told our entire lives that we should let go.
One can only handle so much before all the little things turn into one big solid THING and its a whole lot harder to rid yourself of that heavy, huge box than one that is halfway or even a quarter of the way full. So, for every little thing that is kept out of the box, there is room for something else. I know, I know. All this talk of shit and boxes; all this is confusing me so, my kids were probably fucked from the get-go.
At this point, the look of confusion is too much to bear and I start giving examples such as small chores. One of which I had assigned them in the past was wiping the table down after every meal. This is not a hard chore. This is not a cumbersome or time consuming chore. It is three (sometimes) times a day and one can accomplish this in two minutes. Three times a day x two minutes = six minutes. Six minutes from their day. Could they spare SIX minutes in order to rid that box of some of the little shit so that I didn’t lose MY shit? The look on their faces was that of, “Well, of course. It’s ONLY six minutes.”
The conversation continued on as I tried to impress upon them that I am NOT trying to be the bitch mom. However, I had tried to be the nice mom, the bitch mom, the friend mom, the spoiling mom. I have been the yelling mom. I have been the begging mom and the pleading mom. I have been the bargaining mom(which I swore I would never be) and I have been the Southern-beat-your-ass-with-a-belt mom. I have taken all of their things. I have donated and given away, sold and trashed their shit. What would it take?
Here lies where I bring up THE stupidest rule as mom that I have EVER heard but, have been forced to well, enforce. The “All for one, one for all” rule. If one of you acts stupid, all of you get punished. My kids ages are 12, 11 and 4. Take a minute and let that soak in. Now, isn’t that “rule” the most asinine shit you have ever heard of? But, it’s the only thing that works. The 4 year old fucks up when you’re with him, all three get punished. The oldest one steals snacks, everyone loses that particular snack. I think that you get the idea. If you are a parent and reading that, is that not the most ridiculous shit? Hell, if you are not a parent and read that; fucking ridiculous. It makes no sense but, it. fucking. works.
Now, here is where it hit me that I truly hope that one day in their lives, they will have that “A-ha” moment that I spoke of earlier. I looked at the eldest and told him that eventually he will have a job, maybe a home of his own. It may be a first job working at a fast food joint with a table that he has to wipe down for a customer or it may be his own table that he needs to wipe off to feed his own kids. I hope that if it’s him or if it’s one of his brothers; in that one second of thought, I hope it goes back to my words from today; “…it was only six minutes”. Six minutes that can help another person more than they will ever know. Six minutes that may just take a lot of that little shit out of someone’s box and make it a little lighter for them to carry.
My name is Melody. I am a recovering alcoholic. I am a mother. I am a wife. I am a woman that is diagnosed as bi-polar with clinical depression, severe anxiety and panic disorder. I am a woman that wears many hats and not all of them are positive. Today, I finally admitted to myself that I am addicted to food.
My entire existence and who I am has centered around food. Food and being fat because of it. I am not a medically reasoned fat person. I know each and every time that I put food in my mouth that I am making the choice. And every time, I sit there and literally ponder what I can cut from my intake in the next day to make up for what I am about to do. It’s a horrible way to live.
How I envy those people that eat to live and not the opposite. How I wish that I could walk away from cookies and cupcakes. How I wish that I didn’t obsess about one particular food for a week. Not eating anything else until I have made myself so physically ill from the consumption. How I wish that after nearing forty years on this earth, I could put down that last bite and be satiated. But, I never do.
At one point in my adult life, I weighed in at 331 pounds. Today, I stand at 168. Last week I weighed 164. Yes, you read that correctly. In one week, I gained 4 pounds. How in the fuck does that happen? Normal people don’t do that, right? Now, most people think that in the scheme of things, four pounds is a mere drop in the pie pan when you compare 331 to 168. Well, not to me. Nothing changed in my life last week. I wasn’t anymore sane or depressed than normal. Nothing changed in my physical activity level (or lack thereof) in the last week. And, it’s not Aunt Flo’s visit. I just gained fucking weight. And, to an extent I can see where 4 pounds is “nothing”. That is until I begin to analyze how that measly four pounds is really going to hurt me. That is when I think about gaining 4 pounds a week for a month. (16 pounds approx.) Then, I think about gaining 4 pounds a week for the seven months that my husband is deployed for. That is where panic ensues.
You know that point when you are eating something and you use KNOW that the last bite(s) are going to make you miserable? You stop eating, right? Nope. Not this girl. This girl sits there with the last bite of food in her hand or on her plate and waits. Waits until it feels like she can manage that one. Last. Bite. Then she gets sick and has to stick her fingers down her throat to vomit because it hurts so badly. This is not normal. This is not the actions of a person that wants to “eat to live” and be happy. Yes, you also read that correctly. I gag myself to vomit if I eat too much.
I am 168 pounds and I am 5’8″. By some accounts, a relatively tall woman. All the charts say that I am overweight. Yet, I have been told that I look “sick” or asked “how much more weight…” do I want to lose. (btw, I am not sick at all and I want to weigh 150) When do I start feeling that my weight is acceptable? When do I start remembering that my husband met me when I was 200 pounds and still wanted to be with me? When do I stop thinking that the rail thin woman is silently scolding me for eating the exact same thing that she has on her plate? Well, apparently not anytime soon since I can’t stop eating.