I've had a horrible time writing this blog post. The words just weren't coming out. I was writing in circles. But I think I finally figured it out.
How does my eating disorder detract from me and the life I want?
I think it can be put into one sentence. My eating disorder has made it feel impossible to hold truth in my mind. It fights so hard whenever anything comes in that tries to shoo it out. It tears down logic and throws out self esteem.
Take the scale. (And throw it out hah! Just kidding. Not yet. Working towards that. Gotta tackle the OCD first.)
The number on the scale displays itself on a clock in my mind. Even when I'm not looking at it currently, the clock ticks. The more I try to clear my mind and find peace, the louder the tick becomes. I know, logically, because my care team has told me, that the number on the scale doesn't really mean anything. But, I mean, time doesn't really mean anything either, right? But in our lives it holds great value in order to run and organize our days.
Gosh this blog post made so much more sense as I was falling asleep last night.
So that clock on the wall that tells me my weight.
I eat a handful of nuts and am terrified to see the number jump forward so much. Did that really happen? How could I have lost track of that number for so long so as to let this happen?
I restrict for days, weeks. Fast until I can't move from the couch. And when I look up at the clock, nothing has changed at all. What a horrible feeling, to feel like the hands on that clock have frozen and nothing is moving. Your work is doing nothing.
But when the clock move along in a way that I find pleasing and that I feel is predictable, then oh how productive it makes me feel. Like I can set a schedule. I can set goals. Like by using this abstract measure that doesn't really mean anything, I can become the person I want to be as long as I follow it precisely.
And we live by clocks every day of our lives. Deadlines to meet. Errands to run. Appointments to make. Time. Matters.
But have you ever been on a vacation? Where you wake up whenever you want. You have a general idea of things you could do that day, but nothing is set in stone. You can do whatever you want. You follow your feelings and find amazing adventures that you wouldn't have found if you were constantly checking the time. And time doesn't matter. You know at some point it may come up but at this moment it doesn't matter. And it feels like this is the way you want life to be.
I haven't been on vacation like that.
Because the number on the wall of my mind is always there. Holding me accountable. Punishing me greatly for not setting some kind of goal, working towards it, and meeting it. Every piece of food is an assignment in some way. Either a way to meet the goal that the scale has set for me, or a way to make others happy.
And I don't know what I want. I try to find what I want. I try to think of who I want to be. But everything is dictated by the scale. How could I possibly do any of that when I am so fat? When you just hit this number, well, that's the number you have to meet to be able to live the life you want. That future you have imagined. You can't live fully if you are spending your days thinking about diets and weight loss! And the only way to stop thinking about diets and weight loss is to get to THAT. NUMBER. And then you can be a writer. And then you can be the life of a party. And then you can be social and get out of your shell and be the one that others want to be around. But you can't be that right now. I know, I'm so sorry, I wish you could be too, but you can't.
At its best, this voice is encouraging and rewards me with a high unparalleled. At its worse, it because harsh and ragged, telling me that if I keep it up like this, I will NEVER be anyone. And that I'm weak for even listening to it. What kind of backwards gaslighting manipulative abuse is that?
But at its normal, day to day, it just ticks away. Loudly, making it impossible to really live in the way I imagine life is supposed to be. Makes it difficult to rest. Makes it difficult to enjoy things.
Makes me feel like I will never reach that future of what I want life to be.
3.23.2020
3.01.2020
Special
Today my paper is about "Why does your eating disorder make you special."
Just a little call back to third grade. To maybe make this topic a bit less heavy, if you are here, reader. Which you're probably not. I don't intend to share this one on my social media. But I know some of you wander the interwebs until you found something. So maybe you found this.
This one is for me. And maybe for my therapist, she asked me to write it.
I told her that I feel like I can't let this go, this eating disorder. That I know that it hurts me, but that I love it. When asked why I love it, I answered that it makes me feel special.
And maybe that wasn't the right answer, maybe that's not really what I feel. So let's just talk about how this eating disorder makes me feel on the good days.
On the good days it applauds me for my discipline. Not everyone can live on 600-800 calories a day. You can. You are something different for that. You don't have to feel the food in your teeth, rotting them away. You don't have to feel it in your stomach, pulling you down to the earth. It doesn't have to fill your time. You are free from the chains that the rest of the world is wrapped in.
On the good days it gives me hope. Hope that I can be whoever I want to be. If I can carve my body out into the way I want it to be, mold it, shape it, then I can likewise be the soul artist in my own life. That the abstract future can be as easily malleable as my physical existence. And living in a time of life where I truly don't know what I want to be, a thought that scares me, the hope that I could be anything I want is worth gold.
On the good days it feels like me. I don't worry how my clothes weigh. I don't feel my skin and fat fold on each other, reminding myself that I am there. I feel like my own soul. Where I am a mother, daughter, wife, friend, teacher, neighbor, an active member of my community.... being defined by outward sources makes me feel so fragile. Like the only thing that makes me ME is my relationships to others. So when I lose those relationships, then I lose me. I've moved through life wearing many different faces, to make others like me, to make others comfortable, and even to benefit myself, it became hard to figure out who I really was. I was bold and loud, I was quiet and coy, I was smart and loved reading, I was emotional and composed and boyish and frilly, loving color and sound and fearing attention from new people. I was a lot of contradictions. And now I don't know who I am. I know I've changed drastically since I met my eating disorder. I'm certainly a lot more quiet. Colors give me headaches. I speak strong but mentally slap my hand if I extend my presence too far. My relationship with my friends and family has changed. So really, it really feels like the only thing that's been there the whole time is the eating disorder. Like it is the most consistent thing about me. The most me thing about me.
And if I let it go, who will I be? Chasing wild, impossible dreams for a few days at a time, launching businesses, writing books, recreating our home every few weeks. I feel like if I let go of this then I start spinning out of control. Like I'll have no chance at being someone important at all. My sister creates gorgeous dresses. My mother is an amazing quilter. I can't be the person that doesn't know who she is.
So my eating disorder makes me special because I feel that it makes me, me. Intrinsically. Not a definition put on me through my footprint in my world, but because it is inside me, and it knows me. It has always been there. It gave me control through the madness of high school. It gave me consistence through navigating life outside my childhood home for the first time. It gave me power through an abusive relationship, where everything was taken from me. I still had this.
And really speaking of that. Where my ex told me that he could never be with someone with an eating disorder, someone "broken". Having it now feels like an act of rebellion. Like being my own person and showing him that he has no power over me anymore.
This is long winded.
This got off topic.
This feels very confusing and hard to put down in words, and even harder to understand.
But this is why it makes me special.
Just a little call back to third grade. To maybe make this topic a bit less heavy, if you are here, reader. Which you're probably not. I don't intend to share this one on my social media. But I know some of you wander the interwebs until you found something. So maybe you found this.
This one is for me. And maybe for my therapist, she asked me to write it.
I told her that I feel like I can't let this go, this eating disorder. That I know that it hurts me, but that I love it. When asked why I love it, I answered that it makes me feel special.
And maybe that wasn't the right answer, maybe that's not really what I feel. So let's just talk about how this eating disorder makes me feel on the good days.
On the good days it applauds me for my discipline. Not everyone can live on 600-800 calories a day. You can. You are something different for that. You don't have to feel the food in your teeth, rotting them away. You don't have to feel it in your stomach, pulling you down to the earth. It doesn't have to fill your time. You are free from the chains that the rest of the world is wrapped in.
On the good days it gives me hope. Hope that I can be whoever I want to be. If I can carve my body out into the way I want it to be, mold it, shape it, then I can likewise be the soul artist in my own life. That the abstract future can be as easily malleable as my physical existence. And living in a time of life where I truly don't know what I want to be, a thought that scares me, the hope that I could be anything I want is worth gold.
On the good days it feels like me. I don't worry how my clothes weigh. I don't feel my skin and fat fold on each other, reminding myself that I am there. I feel like my own soul. Where I am a mother, daughter, wife, friend, teacher, neighbor, an active member of my community.... being defined by outward sources makes me feel so fragile. Like the only thing that makes me ME is my relationships to others. So when I lose those relationships, then I lose me. I've moved through life wearing many different faces, to make others like me, to make others comfortable, and even to benefit myself, it became hard to figure out who I really was. I was bold and loud, I was quiet and coy, I was smart and loved reading, I was emotional and composed and boyish and frilly, loving color and sound and fearing attention from new people. I was a lot of contradictions. And now I don't know who I am. I know I've changed drastically since I met my eating disorder. I'm certainly a lot more quiet. Colors give me headaches. I speak strong but mentally slap my hand if I extend my presence too far. My relationship with my friends and family has changed. So really, it really feels like the only thing that's been there the whole time is the eating disorder. Like it is the most consistent thing about me. The most me thing about me.
And if I let it go, who will I be? Chasing wild, impossible dreams for a few days at a time, launching businesses, writing books, recreating our home every few weeks. I feel like if I let go of this then I start spinning out of control. Like I'll have no chance at being someone important at all. My sister creates gorgeous dresses. My mother is an amazing quilter. I can't be the person that doesn't know who she is.
So my eating disorder makes me special because I feel that it makes me, me. Intrinsically. Not a definition put on me through my footprint in my world, but because it is inside me, and it knows me. It has always been there. It gave me control through the madness of high school. It gave me consistence through navigating life outside my childhood home for the first time. It gave me power through an abusive relationship, where everything was taken from me. I still had this.
And really speaking of that. Where my ex told me that he could never be with someone with an eating disorder, someone "broken". Having it now feels like an act of rebellion. Like being my own person and showing him that he has no power over me anymore.
This is long winded.
This got off topic.
This feels very confusing and hard to put down in words, and even harder to understand.
But this is why it makes me special.
1.16.2020
Who I am without you
"It is breaking my code of ethics to continue to treat you when I am not qualified to do so."
I squeezed Joe's hand.
My therapist continued to explain that my eating disorder is not going to get better under her care. That all that anxiety and depression... everything is so masked by this eating disorder that nothing really will get better until that's taken care of.
She turned to Joe.
"This is something you get better from, or you die from. There is nothing else."
I waited for her to laugh or say loljk or something. Nothing.
So now I'm on a new journey.
The eating disorder isn't something I've talked about. Not with my parents, not with Joe, no one. Somehow I got the courage to mention it to my last therapist in the last 3 minutes of our session. When I moved to a new therapist, she passed along notes, which very briefly mentioned eating disorders. She really brought it out and dug into it. Dug hard. It made me realize a lot of things.
For one, I have an eating disorder. It's an ugly thing. I weigh myself constantly. I care deeply about every 2 oz gained or lost. I look in the mirror and I don't know what I see. I don't know what my own body looks like. I eat a slice or two of toast a day and I hate myself for even eating that. And even as I'm writing this, I know that I'm probably gonna cut back on that today too, because it's time to get down to business. If this eating disorder is going away, then it and I need to have a heckuva time together before it's bye bye.
And that sounds ridiculous but it feels so true. I've come to truly love this eating disorder. I recognize that it beats me and that if I upset it, I will end up black and blue, maybe in the hospital. But I've been with it for so long SO LONG. Over a decade. That I don't know who I am without it. We've built a life together. We have dreams together, of our future. It has been there for me when I felt alone, or out of control. It empowered me in ways that nothing else could.
It also convinced me that everything else was the enemy. That my body was stubborn and bitter for holding onto weight. That it really wasn't as abusive to me as others said it would, that it was normal and that it was sorry for hurting me and that it would be better next time. And I forgave it. I forgive it still. Every time. Because even though I know it is slowly taking everything from me, it feels so much a part of me that I would no sooner try to escape than I would cut off my own arm.
But I see people on the other side and they seem happy. I don't know who I am on the other side so it feels impossible to imagine myself there. I know that it destroys my confidence, and more than I want to be thin, I want to feel confident, I want to love my body and feel like it is worth something, it has a place in this world. Other people pump my mind full of reassurance but it doesn't hold. My mind has been so taken over by this monster that it's full of holes. Logic pours out. Love pours out. All that stays is the eating disorder. The script it reads me that it's not enough, I'm not doing enough, I'm not enough.
It's loud.
It beats along like a metronome, and all that doesn't keep time with it, isn't real music.
When your therapist tells you that it's get better or die, why isn't that a straight forward choice.
If I knew that I could love myself, if I knew what I could do and be without it, that would be a whole new game plan. But I don't know.
I contacted the care center last night. I'm waiting for the specialist to get back to me with the results of my initial evaluation.
I don't want to do this. At all. If I could just lose xx lbs before doing this, oh how easy it would be. Maybe I wouldn't even need to go get care at all, maybe that weight loss would give me the confidence I need to just be done with it!
And I've told myself that before. It didn't stay true for long. Because the controlling partner that it is won't let me be free without an intervention.
Which is what I got last night at therapy.
My therapist wanted me to write about it. To put a very bright light on this secret part of my life so that I could see that it was ugly, that other people would know. That I wouldn't deflect and say "I'm fine I'm fine though!" because that enables me still.
Ugh.
This post doesn't have a happy ending because I don't know what it looks like. Right now I feel unhappy. Right now I feel like I'm going to have to walk away from something that has brain washed me into loving it, but regardless, I do love it. It feels like the absolute scariest thing I could do. To possibly end up gaining weight at the end of this. Something that makes me feel physically ill right now, faint.
Well.
So there it is. There's the light on the dark places.
I squeezed Joe's hand.
My therapist continued to explain that my eating disorder is not going to get better under her care. That all that anxiety and depression... everything is so masked by this eating disorder that nothing really will get better until that's taken care of.
She turned to Joe.
"This is something you get better from, or you die from. There is nothing else."
I waited for her to laugh or say loljk or something. Nothing.
So now I'm on a new journey.
The eating disorder isn't something I've talked about. Not with my parents, not with Joe, no one. Somehow I got the courage to mention it to my last therapist in the last 3 minutes of our session. When I moved to a new therapist, she passed along notes, which very briefly mentioned eating disorders. She really brought it out and dug into it. Dug hard. It made me realize a lot of things.
For one, I have an eating disorder. It's an ugly thing. I weigh myself constantly. I care deeply about every 2 oz gained or lost. I look in the mirror and I don't know what I see. I don't know what my own body looks like. I eat a slice or two of toast a day and I hate myself for even eating that. And even as I'm writing this, I know that I'm probably gonna cut back on that today too, because it's time to get down to business. If this eating disorder is going away, then it and I need to have a heckuva time together before it's bye bye.
And that sounds ridiculous but it feels so true. I've come to truly love this eating disorder. I recognize that it beats me and that if I upset it, I will end up black and blue, maybe in the hospital. But I've been with it for so long SO LONG. Over a decade. That I don't know who I am without it. We've built a life together. We have dreams together, of our future. It has been there for me when I felt alone, or out of control. It empowered me in ways that nothing else could.
It also convinced me that everything else was the enemy. That my body was stubborn and bitter for holding onto weight. That it really wasn't as abusive to me as others said it would, that it was normal and that it was sorry for hurting me and that it would be better next time. And I forgave it. I forgive it still. Every time. Because even though I know it is slowly taking everything from me, it feels so much a part of me that I would no sooner try to escape than I would cut off my own arm.
But I see people on the other side and they seem happy. I don't know who I am on the other side so it feels impossible to imagine myself there. I know that it destroys my confidence, and more than I want to be thin, I want to feel confident, I want to love my body and feel like it is worth something, it has a place in this world. Other people pump my mind full of reassurance but it doesn't hold. My mind has been so taken over by this monster that it's full of holes. Logic pours out. Love pours out. All that stays is the eating disorder. The script it reads me that it's not enough, I'm not doing enough, I'm not enough.
It's loud.
It beats along like a metronome, and all that doesn't keep time with it, isn't real music.
When your therapist tells you that it's get better or die, why isn't that a straight forward choice.
If I knew that I could love myself, if I knew what I could do and be without it, that would be a whole new game plan. But I don't know.
I contacted the care center last night. I'm waiting for the specialist to get back to me with the results of my initial evaluation.
I don't want to do this. At all. If I could just lose xx lbs before doing this, oh how easy it would be. Maybe I wouldn't even need to go get care at all, maybe that weight loss would give me the confidence I need to just be done with it!
And I've told myself that before. It didn't stay true for long. Because the controlling partner that it is won't let me be free without an intervention.
Which is what I got last night at therapy.
My therapist wanted me to write about it. To put a very bright light on this secret part of my life so that I could see that it was ugly, that other people would know. That I wouldn't deflect and say "I'm fine I'm fine though!" because that enables me still.
Ugh.
This post doesn't have a happy ending because I don't know what it looks like. Right now I feel unhappy. Right now I feel like I'm going to have to walk away from something that has brain washed me into loving it, but regardless, I do love it. It feels like the absolute scariest thing I could do. To possibly end up gaining weight at the end of this. Something that makes me feel physically ill right now, faint.
Well.
So there it is. There's the light on the dark places.
12.09.2019
Mental Illness, Type:Mine
My therapists have avoided putting labels on things, rightly so. But terms have been thrown around.
Anxiety
Depression
Eating disorders
Obsessive Compulsive Disorder
And all of these terms come with visualizations of what it must be like, but I thought I’d put down in wooooords *how interesting life is with these in the world*
And really, I mean interesting, because it does add a certain spice to life, even if there’s too much at times and it makes the food of life to spicy to consume.
So what does this feel like?
There’s a great picture I relate to of a person talking to a therapist. Their speech bubble is shown as a tangled mess of yarn.
And I think that’s pretty accurate in a lot of ways. All of these mental conditions are like balls of yarn, certain colors, certain thread content. But when this ball is tangled up it can look like a lot of different things. And when it’s tangled with different balls of yarn, it gets even more wild. While many components of mental illness are the same, the way they look from person to person can vary. So then the job of the therapist is to untangle the mess. They really know how to do it, too. Have you ever had headphones awfully tangled and the more you try to fix it, the worse it gets?
Yeah… me too. Well, not really, I can untangle headphones any time, if you need help lemme know.
But that tangled mess of brain yarn.
It’s been a looong time that I’ve been trying to untangle that mess on my own. Which lead to me messing it up pretty badly, eventually pulling out a pair of scissors to hack away at it and then trying to tie it back together in a way that made sense... which didn’t help anything.
So what does this feel like?
It feels like stepping on a scale before and after every meal. Before taking a shower, after taking a shower. It’s knowing how much certain pairs of jeans weigh, how much shoes weigh, how much a glass of water weighs. And no, throwing away the scale doesn’t work because then every thought is consumed with finding ways to escape to the store to use the scale, followed by a walk around the store, and another visit to the scale. Multiple times a day. It’s feels like being bitten by mosquitoes, all over your body, feeling the sting and knowing how bad it’s going to be, but deciding to sit through it. That’s what it feels like to NOT give into this behavior. It feels like letting the mosquitoes suck me dry. My skin crawls and my brain cries out. So I find ways to measure myself to relieve the itch.
It feels like driving to Trader Joes and running through your grocery list when a thought pops into your mind, wondering what would happen if you got t-boned in the intersection. What would it look like, what would it sound like, what would it feel like, what the phone call to loved ones would sound like, what the other car would look like, who they’d be. And shaking your head and realizing that a crazy, sad, random thought that had no place in your brain. But it got there anyway.
And really, I mean interesting, because it does add a certain spice to life, even if there’s too much at times and it makes the food of life to spicy to consume.
So what does this feel like?
There’s a great picture I relate to of a person talking to a therapist. Their speech bubble is shown as a tangled mess of yarn.
And I think that’s pretty accurate in a lot of ways. All of these mental conditions are like balls of yarn, certain colors, certain thread content. But when this ball is tangled up it can look like a lot of different things. And when it’s tangled with different balls of yarn, it gets even more wild. While many components of mental illness are the same, the way they look from person to person can vary. So then the job of the therapist is to untangle the mess. They really know how to do it, too. Have you ever had headphones awfully tangled and the more you try to fix it, the worse it gets?
Yeah… me too. Well, not really, I can untangle headphones any time, if you need help lemme know.
But that tangled mess of brain yarn.
It’s been a looong time that I’ve been trying to untangle that mess on my own. Which lead to me messing it up pretty badly, eventually pulling out a pair of scissors to hack away at it and then trying to tie it back together in a way that made sense... which didn’t help anything.
So what does this feel like?
It feels like stepping on a scale before and after every meal. Before taking a shower, after taking a shower. It’s knowing how much certain pairs of jeans weigh, how much shoes weigh, how much a glass of water weighs. And no, throwing away the scale doesn’t work because then every thought is consumed with finding ways to escape to the store to use the scale, followed by a walk around the store, and another visit to the scale. Multiple times a day. It’s feels like being bitten by mosquitoes, all over your body, feeling the sting and knowing how bad it’s going to be, but deciding to sit through it. That’s what it feels like to NOT give into this behavior. It feels like letting the mosquitoes suck me dry. My skin crawls and my brain cries out. So I find ways to measure myself to relieve the itch.
It feels like driving to Trader Joes and running through your grocery list when a thought pops into your mind, wondering what would happen if you got t-boned in the intersection. What would it look like, what would it sound like, what would it feel like, what the phone call to loved ones would sound like, what the other car would look like, who they’d be. And shaking your head and realizing that a crazy, sad, random thought that had no place in your brain. But it got there anyway.
It feels like walking into your babies’ room multiple times a night to put your hand on their chest and make sure they’re still breathing. Burying yourself in real life horror stories of the worst thing imaginable happening because you feel like if you know everything there is to know about it, then you’ll be prepared for it if it happens, or maybe knowing it all will stop it from happening. But watching it happen over and over again in your mind’s eye, and you change the channel, but the same show pops up on that channel too and so the only thing you can do is to turn it off. To turn your brain off. To escape your body and feel your soul drift away into a place of emptiness and nothingness because it’s the easiest way to get away. So you sit still on a chair and the world passes you and you don’t hear it or see it.
It feels like your fingers and toes jumping with energy but the weight on your chest is heavier that day. The thought of doing anything is exhausting. Talking to people would surely drain you. You question every word you’ve ever said to anyone and eventually it’s just easier to not talk at all. To cut off friends and family and neighbors because you don’t have the energy to maintain relationships anymore.
It feels like your fingers and toes jumping with energy but the weight on your chest is heavier that day. The thought of doing anything is exhausting. Talking to people would surely drain you. You question every word you’ve ever said to anyone and eventually it’s just easier to not talk at all. To cut off friends and family and neighbors because you don’t have the energy to maintain relationships anymore.
It feels like needing to be perfect. Those mosquito bites again. You need to prove to others that you are fine, because if they believe it then it’ll be true. So you don’t go out of the house wearing sweatpants even though you want to so bad… because that may make people worry. Your makeup is always on. You’ve got the smile and voice down to a perfect science so no one would ever expect it. But when you start talking about your insides just a little bit… it’s very shocking. Even though you’ve felt like that for herm… over a decade… it’s a shock because no one saw it before.
It feels like begging to cry. If you could just cry, the rain would cause the dam in your heart to break and everything would flow out and you could feel well again.
It feels like enduring so much abuse in an ex relationship that you had to learn how to save yourself. And that savior looks like lying, manipulating others, and gaslighting yourself into believing that things didn’t happen. You know you don’t need those tactics anymore but it feels easy and safe when you feel weak and tired. And scared. Because you know you’re safe now. You truly do know that. But after a time in life where you were so scared… that feeling lasts.
So you sit in your therapist’s office and see it written down on paper that you were truly abused in every way possible for your situation. And it starts to make sense a bit more.
And I didn’t have time to process and heal then, truly. I thought I did. I was scared out of my eating disorder through the abuse. I thought I had beaten it, but it just was pushed down as I tried to emotionally survive. And the relationship ended so so so abruptly (thank goodness) and I found my best friend and safe place so soon afterwards that I never did process it.
Those wounds last. They sit there and I try to heal them through cutting that ball of yarn and tying things up until nothing makes sense anymore. And my body and mind feels it is in danger all of the time, so it finds relief through just not feeling much of anything anymore. It’s a light switch where one side is feeling panic and the other side is sitting in darkness.
Woof.
This feels like a lot.
It feels like begging to cry. If you could just cry, the rain would cause the dam in your heart to break and everything would flow out and you could feel well again.
It feels like enduring so much abuse in an ex relationship that you had to learn how to save yourself. And that savior looks like lying, manipulating others, and gaslighting yourself into believing that things didn’t happen. You know you don’t need those tactics anymore but it feels easy and safe when you feel weak and tired. And scared. Because you know you’re safe now. You truly do know that. But after a time in life where you were so scared… that feeling lasts.
So you sit in your therapist’s office and see it written down on paper that you were truly abused in every way possible for your situation. And it starts to make sense a bit more.
And I didn’t have time to process and heal then, truly. I thought I did. I was scared out of my eating disorder through the abuse. I thought I had beaten it, but it just was pushed down as I tried to emotionally survive. And the relationship ended so so so abruptly (thank goodness) and I found my best friend and safe place so soon afterwards that I never did process it.
Those wounds last. They sit there and I try to heal them through cutting that ball of yarn and tying things up until nothing makes sense anymore. And my body and mind feels it is in danger all of the time, so it finds relief through just not feeling much of anything anymore. It’s a light switch where one side is feeling panic and the other side is sitting in darkness.
Woof.
This feels like a lot.
I don’t know why I thought to write it all down. There’s so much more to it than this. Last night I scrolled through articles, looking for someone who could explain how I feel, someone who could put it down in words. Nothing touched it quite right. I’ve got a jumbled mess of genetics and history that puts me into a sticky tar pit in California that is tough to move in and pretty gross.
This isn’t to cause concern though, truly.
I laugh with my babies. We roll around on the ground playing and laughing until our sides split and tears are running down our faces. I love my husband so deeply that it’s just become a part of me that I don’t even have to question. Such a place of profound security. I look forward to family visits and I get excited about cooking and I sit down and read a book and truly soak it in. I sit in my backyard in silence, under the Arizona sun, feeling my skin drink it in while the wind brushes my face and I take in the world with a mind silent from all of the confusion. I lay down and listen to music and feel my heartbeat change to match the pulse of the song.
I laugh with my babies. We roll around on the ground playing and laughing until our sides split and tears are running down our faces. I love my husband so deeply that it’s just become a part of me that I don’t even have to question. Such a place of profound security. I look forward to family visits and I get excited about cooking and I sit down and read a book and truly soak it in. I sit in my backyard in silence, under the Arizona sun, feeling my skin drink it in while the wind brushes my face and I take in the world with a mind silent from all of the confusion. I lay down and listen to music and feel my heartbeat change to match the pulse of the song.
But the wounds are there. If exercise could have worked the turmoil out of me, it would have. If the hours spent on my knees in prayer could have cured me, it would have. If blocking out everything that caused me undue stress or the reverse, taking it all on and learning how to manage it could have helped… it would have by now.
Sometimes these things are just more complex than that. And sometimes you need a true professional to take the balls of yarn as you feed it to them, so they can roll it up nicely and untangle the mess.
The truth is I can’t just magically walk away from it all. Eating disorders will probably be a part of my mind forever. The memories of abuse won’t go away. But having those parts of me rolled up tightly makes it easier for me to put them into a box and fill my mind and my life with the present, which is so wonderful. Medication has helped the process move along quicker, and finding a therapist who knows what they're doing, and who I truly felt guided to through a series of such fortunate encounters has been a saving grace. I don't ask family and friends to cure me or solve me or carry this for me. I'm at a place now where I don't need advice unsolicited. I've found a beat that works for me and I'll walk it until it stops working.
The truth is I can’t just magically walk away from it all. Eating disorders will probably be a part of my mind forever. The memories of abuse won’t go away. But having those parts of me rolled up tightly makes it easier for me to put them into a box and fill my mind and my life with the present, which is so wonderful. Medication has helped the process move along quicker, and finding a therapist who knows what they're doing, and who I truly felt guided to through a series of such fortunate encounters has been a saving grace. I don't ask family and friends to cure me or solve me or carry this for me. I'm at a place now where I don't need advice unsolicited. I've found a beat that works for me and I'll walk it until it stops working.
And all of these, I don’t consider them to be weaknesses despite the way they make me feel. At least, I wouldn’t call anyone weak for battling them. There are strengths to be found in the mess. I’m perceptive of my environment and dangers that may be there. I am constantly ready with escape routes from any situation that may grow dark. I can relate keenly and empathise deeply. I’ve learned to look for light in new ways.
I’m getting better, I truly am. It’s exciting to see the small changes adding up and to feel the knots inside me undoing.
I’m getting better, I truly am. It’s exciting to see the small changes adding up and to feel the knots inside me undoing.
And to everyone reading this. Thank you for your unfailing support and patience. I’ve got a memory that won’t quit (literally) and I will never forget things that you may have brushed off as being easy nothings, but that meant the world to me. All I ask of people is to continue what you’re doing.
And to anyone else who needs a support system, I fancy myself a good listener, and my work hours are crazy enough that I’ll probably be available whenever you need it. You’re not alone, and there is help and happiness ahead. You’ve got this.
And to anyone else who needs a support system, I fancy myself a good listener, and my work hours are crazy enough that I’ll probably be available whenever you need it. You’re not alone, and there is help and happiness ahead. You’ve got this.
8.21.2019
The Small
I've been slowly starting to refine my interests. Emphasis on the word slowly. One day I'm certain that I want to do xyz and the next day, that sounds like torture. It's slow progress, but I feel confident I will get to wherever I'm going. The potential of the unknown is gradually becoming less terrifying and foreboding, and more interesting and inviting. At least today it is. Tomorrow it will probably be back to the scary parts.
I stopped writing for a while. Why is that. Well. I think I stopped writing because I didn't know what to write about. You know those image compilations (I can think of a certain sea sponge themed show with such a compilation) of a person going through their day, not moving, as the scenes flash behind them showing the same thing over and over and over again. That's me.
It's this tricky sort of relationship, though. You see, I think I like routine. Routine holds me accountable. I love a good healthy, to do list. I love writing the list, and I love it to be full, and the satisfaction of crossing it off. But being a SAHM, your list starts to dwindle down as your tasks become things like "Change the kitty litter" "Air out the rooms" "Vacuum" and so on. I mean, there's lots of other important things on there, too, of course. I have my "boy" time where we sit, with nothing to do, nothing to distract us too much, and we talk. Maybe we find a magazine to flip through. Maybe they drive cars all over me. That's meaningful work, the connection. But running a house while your husband is at work is made of a lot of non-connection. For a person that craves meaningful connection, who suffers greatly from social anxiety and has a hard time creating those meaningful connections, and who is stuck in a monotonous routine... life starts to lose meaning. And when life has no meaning, then there's nothing more to write.
And to be fair, I'm not innocent in this. As certain mental health challenges have risen up, I've definitely sacrificed parts of myself to feed the illness in the name of "self care" which wound up to be ways that didn't particularly serve myself, and may have done more harm in driving me further into a ditch than anything. Figuring out how to round out those areas that have deflated will be a challenge in and of itself, but hey, there are definitely pockets of meaning tucked away in there.
But while I'm here, I might as well look for the inspiration. I suppose no greater way to scratch the itch of creation than looking for inspiration when it's difficult to find it.
So here are some things that inspire me.
I love watching Minus eat. I love how methodical he is in the process. He licks off his fingers and slowly presses his fingers along the corners of his dishes to find the last bits of food. He holds his sandwich like an adult and chews slowly, looking at the food as he eats it, to learn what it tastes like, what it smells like, and what it looks like. Meanwhile Didik smashes up his bread into a little ball and picks it into tiny crumbs until it's all over the floor, and none of it is in his mouth.
I'm calling them by the names they called each other, starting out, by the way. I didn't actually name my children Didik and Minus.
I love watching Didik when he's still (which is rare) and happy (which is common). His eyes turn into little moons. It's the best way I can think to describe it. Crescents turned on their sides. I suppose calling them rainbows would be a more practical way to create the image, but calling them moons feels more accurate. They're dark, but they shine. He looks like a cartoon character, perfectly arched eyes that shoot happiness out of them. It's so beautiful.
I love listening to Minus's voice. Oh how he loves the sound of his own voice. He was born loving it. I love listening to him babble and sing different pitches. He speaks in complete sentences, but when the words run out (because trust me, when you talk as much as he does, the words run out) he resorts to just "ah" and "duh" and "boo", sung at different volumes, and different pitches, experimenting with how it feels and sounds.
I love my relationship with Didik. He is so critical of me, and I don't know where he got that from. He will not hesitate to tell me when I do wrong. He has no shortage of attitude there. "Mom, I told you already..." "Mom, I'm just saying..." He's three. And he's not like this with everyone, just me. Almost annoyance, though I know it's feigned when he crawls onto my lap and curls up and runs his hands through my hair. I feel lucky that he's so comfortable around me that he doesn't hesitate to call me out when he thinks I'm wrong. Sometimes he's right. But only sometimes.
I spoke with my therapist this week about selfishness. I feel very selfish in some areas. I feel they are quite big areas of life, though. I don't really want to get into it. She pointed out that I'm quick to compromise in many areas, though. At the core of it, what I perceive as selfish is simply me trying to preserve the parts of me that I feel are important.
But maybe I am selfish. I'm very selfish in claiming the three boys in my life (four, if you include the cat) as mine. I feel so fortunate to have them as mine. I selfishly love being the queen of the house, with all the rights, royalties, inclusions and exclusions that come with it.
I think today is a good day. Maybe I'll have to tell my mood tracker that. Today is a pretty good day.
I stopped writing for a while. Why is that. Well. I think I stopped writing because I didn't know what to write about. You know those image compilations (I can think of a certain sea sponge themed show with such a compilation) of a person going through their day, not moving, as the scenes flash behind them showing the same thing over and over and over again. That's me.
It's this tricky sort of relationship, though. You see, I think I like routine. Routine holds me accountable. I love a good healthy, to do list. I love writing the list, and I love it to be full, and the satisfaction of crossing it off. But being a SAHM, your list starts to dwindle down as your tasks become things like "Change the kitty litter" "Air out the rooms" "Vacuum" and so on. I mean, there's lots of other important things on there, too, of course. I have my "boy" time where we sit, with nothing to do, nothing to distract us too much, and we talk. Maybe we find a magazine to flip through. Maybe they drive cars all over me. That's meaningful work, the connection. But running a house while your husband is at work is made of a lot of non-connection. For a person that craves meaningful connection, who suffers greatly from social anxiety and has a hard time creating those meaningful connections, and who is stuck in a monotonous routine... life starts to lose meaning. And when life has no meaning, then there's nothing more to write.
And to be fair, I'm not innocent in this. As certain mental health challenges have risen up, I've definitely sacrificed parts of myself to feed the illness in the name of "self care" which wound up to be ways that didn't particularly serve myself, and may have done more harm in driving me further into a ditch than anything. Figuring out how to round out those areas that have deflated will be a challenge in and of itself, but hey, there are definitely pockets of meaning tucked away in there.
But while I'm here, I might as well look for the inspiration. I suppose no greater way to scratch the itch of creation than looking for inspiration when it's difficult to find it.
So here are some things that inspire me.
I love watching Minus eat. I love how methodical he is in the process. He licks off his fingers and slowly presses his fingers along the corners of his dishes to find the last bits of food. He holds his sandwich like an adult and chews slowly, looking at the food as he eats it, to learn what it tastes like, what it smells like, and what it looks like. Meanwhile Didik smashes up his bread into a little ball and picks it into tiny crumbs until it's all over the floor, and none of it is in his mouth.
I'm calling them by the names they called each other, starting out, by the way. I didn't actually name my children Didik and Minus.
I love watching Didik when he's still (which is rare) and happy (which is common). His eyes turn into little moons. It's the best way I can think to describe it. Crescents turned on their sides. I suppose calling them rainbows would be a more practical way to create the image, but calling them moons feels more accurate. They're dark, but they shine. He looks like a cartoon character, perfectly arched eyes that shoot happiness out of them. It's so beautiful.
I love listening to Minus's voice. Oh how he loves the sound of his own voice. He was born loving it. I love listening to him babble and sing different pitches. He speaks in complete sentences, but when the words run out (because trust me, when you talk as much as he does, the words run out) he resorts to just "ah" and "duh" and "boo", sung at different volumes, and different pitches, experimenting with how it feels and sounds.
I love my relationship with Didik. He is so critical of me, and I don't know where he got that from. He will not hesitate to tell me when I do wrong. He has no shortage of attitude there. "Mom, I told you already..." "Mom, I'm just saying..." He's three. And he's not like this with everyone, just me. Almost annoyance, though I know it's feigned when he crawls onto my lap and curls up and runs his hands through my hair. I feel lucky that he's so comfortable around me that he doesn't hesitate to call me out when he thinks I'm wrong. Sometimes he's right. But only sometimes.
I spoke with my therapist this week about selfishness. I feel very selfish in some areas. I feel they are quite big areas of life, though. I don't really want to get into it. She pointed out that I'm quick to compromise in many areas, though. At the core of it, what I perceive as selfish is simply me trying to preserve the parts of me that I feel are important.
But maybe I am selfish. I'm very selfish in claiming the three boys in my life (four, if you include the cat) as mine. I feel so fortunate to have them as mine. I selfishly love being the queen of the house, with all the rights, royalties, inclusions and exclusions that come with it.
I think today is a good day. Maybe I'll have to tell my mood tracker that. Today is a pretty good day.
8.14.2019
Back At It Again; Alt: Who Am I
Well hello there.
It's been about two years.
I stopped for a while. I do this thing where I try to get "famous" and it ruins everything for me. I need to stop trying to be famous. It takes the joy out of it. And what is the point of doing anything unnecessary if there is no joy in it?
But lately I've been at a stand still. I've been going through a huge life change. It's like a mid life crisis except I'm 27. I'm realizing a lot of things about myself that I didn't know before. I'm realizing a lot of things about myself that I thought were true, are false, and a lot of things I thought were false, are true. These narratives I've told myself. And it's good. But after kids and marriage and working from home for 3 years, I feel I need to figure out who I am. And it makes my husband laugh because he knows who I am, but hey, if he could just tell me, then we wouldn't be here.
The one thing I've realized is that I need to write more. I need to write and I need to read and I need to learn and consume art and information that serves me.
A lot of this "who am I" is oriented around what I want to do with my life. I used to be a very busy person. In high school, some nights I'd sleep in a chair in the auditorium because extracurricular activities were stranding me there. This was a rare occurrence, but it did happen. I thrived in that environment. In college I took 22 credit hour semesters, and flourished. And now my time is filled with sweeping, mopping, laundry, throwing away broken toys, and a lot of thinking. It's not all bad. But it doesn't feel like my prime. And I refuse to accept that my prime is over, at the age of 27. So after all of the crumbs have been swept, what will I do?
Here are my thoughts lately.
In no particular order.
I could be a therapist? I've been interested in the way the mind works for some time. My best friend is a phenomenal therapist, and I look up to her and aspire to be like her. My own therapist is so big in my life, and I would love to be that for someone. I'd love to help sort out other's thoughts and while doing so, maybe sort out my own. It would involve more school, which I'm not opposed to, re:I love school. It would involve hours and hours of certification, which may not be ideal. And there's a big unknown of where would I work? Could I find a job? Would it be one that made me satisfied?
And I'm not really a fan of the unknown.
I could be an organizer? Not a cleaning lady. The kind of lady that instagram famous ladies and rich old ladies pay to come in and organize their pantries and closets. I guess there's not the fulfilling aspect here of changing a person's life in the way that therapy or teaching does, but there is the satisfaction of putting someone's home in order, and by doing so, restoring a little more order to a world that really needs it. It's a passion around my house, and I think I'd be good at it. But there is a whole lot of unknown there, and a huge potential of business failure, which comes with the sacrifice of a lot of money and even more time.
I could be a secretary? This one made my husband laugh in shock. I don't mean the kind of secretary in Monster's Inc. I mean the kind of secretary in I Feel Pretty. I literally want the chick flick life secretary job. Joseph said he never imagined me as wanting that kind of job, sitting at a desk and taking calls. And it's not that, that's not what I want to do. I suppose it's just in those movies, they start in that job -- "And they then become owners of the company?" No, Joseph. Sometimes they do. And sometimes they do something else. But the job is the point that they start at, and after the course of 2 hours, they figure out who they are. So being a secretary would help me figure out who I am. I guess maybe real life secretary jobs aren't like that.
Listen, Joe, I don't want to be a secretary at Honeywell (Joe's job)
I want to be a secretary in a big building with glass walls, lots of light, and I can wear lots of suits.
Ah. I see. You want to be a secretary from a chick flick.
Yes. Is that too much to ask?
I could be a gardener? I love plants. I love taking care of them and feeling the soil between my fingers and smelling their leaves. It grounds me. I love walking around under the sun with a watering can and a tiny shovel for pulling leaves. I love talking to people and teaching them that they can indeed be a plant person too, it's just a matter of finding the right plant. You don't walk into a dog shelter and pick out any old dog, you pick out the one that is your other half. And it's the same with plants. I think I'd be quite good at that. But I guess I don't know what all entails working at a garden shop. Maybe it's not all pulling weeds. What else could it be? Anyone else work at a garden shop?
I could be a librarian? My personality tests really pushed this one. A literally quiet job, with a lot of learning. I mean, doesn't everyone want to be a librarian in some way. Burying yourself in walls of books, losing yourself in hallways of stories. Shushing people. Shushing so many people. Anxiety creeps in though. Libraries seem to be places where all kinds of people end up at some point or another, including some of society's worst. I may just have to hire a body guard. And the whole practical aspect of it requiring a master's degree (which isn't the worst) and the jobs are low in number, and prospecting librarians are high in number (which is the worst.)
And then we come back to teaching. Something draws me to it, at the same time that it pushes it away. I feel sort of like maybe teaching is an abusive lover. Or maybe I'm the abusive lover? But we can't stay away from each other, but maybe we're not the best for one another. I crave contact, changing lives, changing the world. But there's no time for such things, as a teacher, anymore. It doesn't help that all elementary school teachers I know are counting down the days to summer from the second the bell rings on the first day of school. And sure there are a lot of moments where it all makes sense. Sprinkled among testing, difficult students, difficult parents, difficult administration, difficult rules. If I could have a one room schoolhouse, in the olden days, that would be great. I'd love my own classroom. Truly my own classroom.
Ah the days of yore.
Well.
I guess that's all. In all of this, I think I need to write more. I think writing really helped me through college in guiding me, and I think it could help me a lot now. So what do you say?
It's been about two years.
I stopped for a while. I do this thing where I try to get "famous" and it ruins everything for me. I need to stop trying to be famous. It takes the joy out of it. And what is the point of doing anything unnecessary if there is no joy in it?
But lately I've been at a stand still. I've been going through a huge life change. It's like a mid life crisis except I'm 27. I'm realizing a lot of things about myself that I didn't know before. I'm realizing a lot of things about myself that I thought were true, are false, and a lot of things I thought were false, are true. These narratives I've told myself. And it's good. But after kids and marriage and working from home for 3 years, I feel I need to figure out who I am. And it makes my husband laugh because he knows who I am, but hey, if he could just tell me, then we wouldn't be here.
The one thing I've realized is that I need to write more. I need to write and I need to read and I need to learn and consume art and information that serves me.
A lot of this "who am I" is oriented around what I want to do with my life. I used to be a very busy person. In high school, some nights I'd sleep in a chair in the auditorium because extracurricular activities were stranding me there. This was a rare occurrence, but it did happen. I thrived in that environment. In college I took 22 credit hour semesters, and flourished. And now my time is filled with sweeping, mopping, laundry, throwing away broken toys, and a lot of thinking. It's not all bad. But it doesn't feel like my prime. And I refuse to accept that my prime is over, at the age of 27. So after all of the crumbs have been swept, what will I do?
Here are my thoughts lately.
In no particular order.
I could be a therapist? I've been interested in the way the mind works for some time. My best friend is a phenomenal therapist, and I look up to her and aspire to be like her. My own therapist is so big in my life, and I would love to be that for someone. I'd love to help sort out other's thoughts and while doing so, maybe sort out my own. It would involve more school, which I'm not opposed to, re:I love school. It would involve hours and hours of certification, which may not be ideal. And there's a big unknown of where would I work? Could I find a job? Would it be one that made me satisfied?
And I'm not really a fan of the unknown.
I could be an organizer? Not a cleaning lady. The kind of lady that instagram famous ladies and rich old ladies pay to come in and organize their pantries and closets. I guess there's not the fulfilling aspect here of changing a person's life in the way that therapy or teaching does, but there is the satisfaction of putting someone's home in order, and by doing so, restoring a little more order to a world that really needs it. It's a passion around my house, and I think I'd be good at it. But there is a whole lot of unknown there, and a huge potential of business failure, which comes with the sacrifice of a lot of money and even more time.
I could be a secretary? This one made my husband laugh in shock. I don't mean the kind of secretary in Monster's Inc. I mean the kind of secretary in I Feel Pretty. I literally want the chick flick life secretary job. Joseph said he never imagined me as wanting that kind of job, sitting at a desk and taking calls. And it's not that, that's not what I want to do. I suppose it's just in those movies, they start in that job -- "And they then become owners of the company?" No, Joseph. Sometimes they do. And sometimes they do something else. But the job is the point that they start at, and after the course of 2 hours, they figure out who they are. So being a secretary would help me figure out who I am. I guess maybe real life secretary jobs aren't like that.
Listen, Joe, I don't want to be a secretary at Honeywell (Joe's job)
I want to be a secretary in a big building with glass walls, lots of light, and I can wear lots of suits.
Ah. I see. You want to be a secretary from a chick flick.
Yes. Is that too much to ask?
I could be a gardener? I love plants. I love taking care of them and feeling the soil between my fingers and smelling their leaves. It grounds me. I love walking around under the sun with a watering can and a tiny shovel for pulling leaves. I love talking to people and teaching them that they can indeed be a plant person too, it's just a matter of finding the right plant. You don't walk into a dog shelter and pick out any old dog, you pick out the one that is your other half. And it's the same with plants. I think I'd be quite good at that. But I guess I don't know what all entails working at a garden shop. Maybe it's not all pulling weeds. What else could it be? Anyone else work at a garden shop?
I could be a librarian? My personality tests really pushed this one. A literally quiet job, with a lot of learning. I mean, doesn't everyone want to be a librarian in some way. Burying yourself in walls of books, losing yourself in hallways of stories. Shushing people. Shushing so many people. Anxiety creeps in though. Libraries seem to be places where all kinds of people end up at some point or another, including some of society's worst. I may just have to hire a body guard. And the whole practical aspect of it requiring a master's degree (which isn't the worst) and the jobs are low in number, and prospecting librarians are high in number (which is the worst.)
And then we come back to teaching. Something draws me to it, at the same time that it pushes it away. I feel sort of like maybe teaching is an abusive lover. Or maybe I'm the abusive lover? But we can't stay away from each other, but maybe we're not the best for one another. I crave contact, changing lives, changing the world. But there's no time for such things, as a teacher, anymore. It doesn't help that all elementary school teachers I know are counting down the days to summer from the second the bell rings on the first day of school. And sure there are a lot of moments where it all makes sense. Sprinkled among testing, difficult students, difficult parents, difficult administration, difficult rules. If I could have a one room schoolhouse, in the olden days, that would be great. I'd love my own classroom. Truly my own classroom.
Ah the days of yore.
Well.
I guess that's all. In all of this, I think I need to write more. I think writing really helped me through college in guiding me, and I think it could help me a lot now. So what do you say?
1.23.2018
That Time When I Went Instagram Famous
Joe changed his blogger name, so he's not Martha Stewart. And yes, I'm logged in and blogging from his account, but I assure you this is me, Lara. I can prove it by telling you that I scootered a lot in college, and that's what 90% of my blog is about, my scootering days in college. I'm just too lazy to log into my account, and not entirely sure I know how to, either.
But here you go, mom, I'm blogging. I've been missing from the blogosphere (I feel like there's a word like that, but I'm not sure what it is.) This blog post might give some insight as to why that is.
A preface... this post is not looking for pity or kudos. If I was looking for people to verbally boost me up, trust me, I would have written this a long time ago. The only reason I'm writing it now is because I've gotten over that, and now I'm writing it for me.
A couple of months ago I got hit with the urge I'm sure everyone is hit with. And that was to become iNsTaGrAm FaMoUs. Specifically Instagram. Because the facts are these folks (as she puts on a fedora and pulls out a candy cigar) Instagram is a young person's game, yeh see? And if you want to stay cool, Instagram is where it is, yeh see? Facebook just isn't gonna pay the bills, yeh see? *End bad mobster scene*
I dunno what it is. I was doing a yoga challenge on Instagram for fun, I started getting likes, I wondered what it would be like to get more likes, I wondered if I could get free stuff on Instagram, so I decided to learn more about that. I read articles about SEO and "influencing" and all that you've got to do to become famous. This isn't going to be a blog about what it takes, because honestly I think that stuff is as dull as nails. And maybe that's why I'm not Instagram famous, because I consider all that boring.
But I took the step. Decided to dedicate a large portion of my life to this new hobby, and career of sorts, because it IS time consuming. The first step was making my account public. Which isn't that bad, actually. I don't post many pics of my kids faces on my Instagram, I don't post their names, and I screen every account that passes through mine and block them if I get a bad vibe.
A strange thing happened, when I did that, though. It wasn't the fact that my account wasn't private anymore... it was just the knowledge that I was moving forward with this plan to get ***famous***... but a part of me mourned. It was really strange. I remember the day, remember where I was sitting, remember embarking on this aMaZiNg JoUrNeY all Bachelor style and feeling like I wish I could go back, already.
I did all that stuff. I created a page in my planner where I'd track my progress. I'd use all the hash tags, I'd look for other accounts and follow and engage with them. I'd learn what hashtags were trending. I tried to stylize my feed.
What the crap is all that about? Stylizing your feed? Making sure the pictures you take match the pictures you took before? UGH. That was probably the worst part for me. I mean, I like a certain look in my photos, I like them to be warm and colorful and stuff, but heaven help me if I post two yoga pictures in a row, or take a break from the yoga photos and post a picture of the beach. But it disrupts the entire aesthetic.
Pathetic.
That's mean. And I don't really mean that.
But in a way, it is. I've battled my whole life with finding a balance between recording and living, because the two don't seem to mix together any better than oil and vinegar do. In the end, you may come out with a nice salad dressing but it's going to be fighting to separate the entire time.
Do I witness life with my own eyes? (Or through my contact lenses... because... I didn't listen when my mom told me to stop reading books in the dark. I've got a rebellious streak like a bad girl, obviously.) Or do I witness life through my phone camera, or professional camera? Do I take in moments and enjoy them in my soul without thinking about how I'm going to portray it on my blog? Do I pursue adventures for the sake of enjoying my family and my life, which, at the ripe old age of 25 already feels like it's moving too fast, or do I take adventures as an opportunity to write and photograph, not for myself, not for my kids, but for my doting fans?
I didn't want that life. And that's what I felt die inside me. I felt my brain start to analyze the pictures I took of my kids. "Are these candids really that good? Are they too blurry? Are my kids looking perfect enough here? How long can I get them to sit still in this position or recreate this moment over so I can take a couple hundred more, where 99 of them won't be good enough and only 1 will be worth sharing?" I started picking apart my yoga photos, and with it, my home, and my body. "Ugh, I wish I had a brighter paint color to make these photos pop more. And maybe I need hair extensions and what is that fold of skin doing on my hip, ugh."
And yeah, I do wish I had a brighter paint color because I love the light... but why did it have anything at all to do with my Instagram feed?
This isn't to take a jab at those who are "Instagram Famous." I applaud you. I recognize how much work it takes. It really is a job. And many of you are inspiring to others.
And that's what I thought I could do, perhaps I could get to a point where my words would move masses and I could share powerful truths and give a voice that maybe wasn't there before. I do have platforms I care about. Eating disorders. Body acceptance. The gospel of Jesus Christ. The importance of education and children and those who have less than...
But at what cost. Do I set aside what matters most to me... my family, my children, my own *self* and craft a world that, while powerful and influential, is not authentic.
Or do I put down my camera for a while. Do I take a break from writing. To focus and be present. To take in life at that moment. With my own eyes. Own hands. Own lungs. For me, and for no one else in that moment but me... Because being there in my own skin is the best thing I can do for my family.
So I did.
And now I post whatever the crap I want on Instagram. Which is not that much, actually. Because that experiment of becoming famous really did a number on my relationship with social media, and I'm still working out those kinks. I still do hashtags, too, because it helps me connect to a really interesting and fun yoga community.
But this blog post isn't for the famous. Because who among them is going to read it, honestly.
This blog post is for the ones out there like me. Who don't get many likes. Who have a junky phone camera and a fancy point and shoot. (RIP DSRL camera....)
And now you can't say "So no one told me life was gonna be this way..." because I did. So there.
But here you go, mom, I'm blogging. I've been missing from the blogosphere (I feel like there's a word like that, but I'm not sure what it is.) This blog post might give some insight as to why that is.
A preface... this post is not looking for pity or kudos. If I was looking for people to verbally boost me up, trust me, I would have written this a long time ago. The only reason I'm writing it now is because I've gotten over that, and now I'm writing it for me.
A couple of months ago I got hit with the urge I'm sure everyone is hit with. And that was to become iNsTaGrAm FaMoUs. Specifically Instagram. Because the facts are these folks (as she puts on a fedora and pulls out a candy cigar) Instagram is a young person's game, yeh see? And if you want to stay cool, Instagram is where it is, yeh see? Facebook just isn't gonna pay the bills, yeh see? *End bad mobster scene*
I dunno what it is. I was doing a yoga challenge on Instagram for fun, I started getting likes, I wondered what it would be like to get more likes, I wondered if I could get free stuff on Instagram, so I decided to learn more about that. I read articles about SEO and "influencing" and all that you've got to do to become famous. This isn't going to be a blog about what it takes, because honestly I think that stuff is as dull as nails. And maybe that's why I'm not Instagram famous, because I consider all that boring.
But I took the step. Decided to dedicate a large portion of my life to this new hobby, and career of sorts, because it IS time consuming. The first step was making my account public. Which isn't that bad, actually. I don't post many pics of my kids faces on my Instagram, I don't post their names, and I screen every account that passes through mine and block them if I get a bad vibe.
A strange thing happened, when I did that, though. It wasn't the fact that my account wasn't private anymore... it was just the knowledge that I was moving forward with this plan to get ***famous***... but a part of me mourned. It was really strange. I remember the day, remember where I was sitting, remember embarking on this aMaZiNg JoUrNeY all Bachelor style and feeling like I wish I could go back, already.
I did all that stuff. I created a page in my planner where I'd track my progress. I'd use all the hash tags, I'd look for other accounts and follow and engage with them. I'd learn what hashtags were trending. I tried to stylize my feed.
What the crap is all that about? Stylizing your feed? Making sure the pictures you take match the pictures you took before? UGH. That was probably the worst part for me. I mean, I like a certain look in my photos, I like them to be warm and colorful and stuff, but heaven help me if I post two yoga pictures in a row, or take a break from the yoga photos and post a picture of the beach. But it disrupts the entire aesthetic.
Pathetic.
That's mean. And I don't really mean that.
But in a way, it is. I've battled my whole life with finding a balance between recording and living, because the two don't seem to mix together any better than oil and vinegar do. In the end, you may come out with a nice salad dressing but it's going to be fighting to separate the entire time.
Do I witness life with my own eyes? (Or through my contact lenses... because... I didn't listen when my mom told me to stop reading books in the dark. I've got a rebellious streak like a bad girl, obviously.) Or do I witness life through my phone camera, or professional camera? Do I take in moments and enjoy them in my soul without thinking about how I'm going to portray it on my blog? Do I pursue adventures for the sake of enjoying my family and my life, which, at the ripe old age of 25 already feels like it's moving too fast, or do I take adventures as an opportunity to write and photograph, not for myself, not for my kids, but for my doting fans?
I didn't want that life. And that's what I felt die inside me. I felt my brain start to analyze the pictures I took of my kids. "Are these candids really that good? Are they too blurry? Are my kids looking perfect enough here? How long can I get them to sit still in this position or recreate this moment over so I can take a couple hundred more, where 99 of them won't be good enough and only 1 will be worth sharing?" I started picking apart my yoga photos, and with it, my home, and my body. "Ugh, I wish I had a brighter paint color to make these photos pop more. And maybe I need hair extensions and what is that fold of skin doing on my hip, ugh."
And yeah, I do wish I had a brighter paint color because I love the light... but why did it have anything at all to do with my Instagram feed?
This isn't to take a jab at those who are "Instagram Famous." I applaud you. I recognize how much work it takes. It really is a job. And many of you are inspiring to others.
And that's what I thought I could do, perhaps I could get to a point where my words would move masses and I could share powerful truths and give a voice that maybe wasn't there before. I do have platforms I care about. Eating disorders. Body acceptance. The gospel of Jesus Christ. The importance of education and children and those who have less than...
But at what cost. Do I set aside what matters most to me... my family, my children, my own *self* and craft a world that, while powerful and influential, is not authentic.
Or do I put down my camera for a while. Do I take a break from writing. To focus and be present. To take in life at that moment. With my own eyes. Own hands. Own lungs. For me, and for no one else in that moment but me... Because being there in my own skin is the best thing I can do for my family.
So I did.
And now I post whatever the crap I want on Instagram. Which is not that much, actually. Because that experiment of becoming famous really did a number on my relationship with social media, and I'm still working out those kinks. I still do hashtags, too, because it helps me connect to a really interesting and fun yoga community.
But this blog post isn't for the famous. Because who among them is going to read it, honestly.
This blog post is for the ones out there like me. Who don't get many likes. Who have a junky phone camera and a fancy point and shoot. (RIP DSRL camera....)
My life is better when my photos are hurried and blurred. When hairs are astray. When I post a picture of a beautiful, memorable and hilarious moment that gets only 5 likes rather than 500. My relationships are happier when they're not only not posed, but also not analyzed in the candid to make sure there are no flaws.
I'd honestly recommend this experiment to anyone, though. It's rough. But it will open your eyes up a lot more. Since doing it, I've cut back my social media usage from 3-6 hrs a day (that's disgusting and embarrassing to admit) to 30 minutes a day. With my spare time I've picked up books, taken walks, gone on bike rides, cleaned, changed diapers, raced, sang nursery rhymes, hiked, laughed, and yes, cried a lot, because I'm me and I'm not gonna be able to get through life without the crying hahah.
When I look to the people I truly admire the very most in life, the people I want to emulate, the people who inspire me beyond description... my parents, my family, my husband, my children, my friends... it has so little to do with their presence online and so much to do with our personal connection, and my connection to their own lens of life.
I have a bad habit of not knowing how to end blog posts... but I guess... maybe.... if you're worried about this stuff, it's not bad to give it a try. Maybe you'll be wildly successful at it. But maybe you'll notice how much you missed the before. And maybe it will give you an opportunity to go back and do the before again, but with a new found appreciation and respect.
And now you can't say "So no one told me life was gonna be this way..." because I did. So there.
9.08.2017
Married, Not Ready For Kids
Check it.
Today I'm blogging as Martha Stewart. This glitch catches me off guard every time.
Ok so you know when you're on Facebook, and Facebook is like "Look at these groups! Join these groups!"
I get those a lot. I tried to Kon Marie a lot of facebook stuff (Kon Marie: The art of getting rid of stuff you don't need or want) But I'm still in a lot of groups, and facebook thinks I must like groups, so I get a lot of suggestions.
Like a LOT of Lipsense suggestions. None of which I join, sorry friends...
A lot of area suggestions, weirdly specific ones, like "Mesa/Gilbert young adult skydiving fishers group!" That one doesn't exist yet, but if I did either of those things, I'd start that group.
One makes me laugh though.
Married, Not Ready For Kids.
Ok laugh might not be the right word. It makes me feel a lot of things. It makes me miss the days of just Joe and I. It makes me remember that time of life.
But it really makes me laugh because it so aptly describes me.
Today I'm blogging as Martha Stewart. This glitch catches me off guard every time.
Ok so you know when you're on Facebook, and Facebook is like "Look at these groups! Join these groups!"
I get those a lot. I tried to Kon Marie a lot of facebook stuff (Kon Marie: The art of getting rid of stuff you don't need or want) But I'm still in a lot of groups, and facebook thinks I must like groups, so I get a lot of suggestions.
Like a LOT of Lipsense suggestions. None of which I join, sorry friends...
A lot of area suggestions, weirdly specific ones, like "Mesa/Gilbert young adult skydiving fishers group!" That one doesn't exist yet, but if I did either of those things, I'd start that group.
One makes me laugh though.
Married, Not Ready For Kids.
Ok laugh might not be the right word. It makes me feel a lot of things. It makes me miss the days of just Joe and I. It makes me remember that time of life.
But it really makes me laugh because it so aptly describes me.
Hello. I'm Lara. I'm not ready for kids.
And here's the kicker. I've got two of them.
Joe and I did a lot to prepare for kids, we really did. We waited until we were done with school, had our savings built up, and were well on our way in our careers. We were married about 3 years before our first was born, and had a lot of time to do the young married couple stuff. We got that "Are you newlyweds?" question a lot and did the cutesy giggle type thing when we said "Hehehhee kinda!"
Are you nauseated yet?
No but I'm all for that. I respect people who are not ready for kids. I know it's not for everyone, but I respect people who wait a while until they're financially/emotionally/mentally ready for kids. That's a good thing! I will be the last to convince you to have kids if you're not ready. Kids need ready parents.
We did that.
And I wound up where I am today, two kids, still not ready.
I'm not ready for kids I thought, a few nights before our first was born, and I realized our late night food runs were probably nearing an end.
I'm not ready for kids, I thought, watching the oldest sleep, as a newborn, while holding my breath and waiting for him to take his. It's crazy how long that half a second seems, waiting to see if they're still breathing. It's an agonizing eternity. And it happens a lot.
I'm not ready for kids, I thought, as I pulled out handfuls of hair. That wonderful thing people don't tell you about. Pregnancy treats your hair great. Post partum does not. And it doesn't help that little babies have grabby hands that crave your hair, especially if it's long.
I'm not ready for kids, I thought, as I changed the billions of diapers, and wiped poo off the ground, and ran like a mad woman just now as my oldest is running around diaper free, post bath, while I blog... and he just started saying "Uh oh... poo..."
How many diapers?
I'm not ready for kids, I thought, as I realized how hard it is to make friends now, and I wondered when the last time I went out was, and I wondered if I ever would have good, close friends again. I do. That still happened. Don't worry, women, there is hope. You can still have friends. But it may sometimes feel bleak.
I'm not ready for kids, I thought, as I cleaned the kitchen after cleaning the living room, and before cleaning the SAME living room again, because my oldest was tearing it apart.
I'm not ready for kids, I thought, as my throat swelled up when I saw two pink lines for the second time around, and my oldest was just a baby. I'm not ready for kids, I'm not ready for kids, I'm not ready for kids, I'm not ready for kids, as I held the oldest and cried and wondered how in the world we were going to handle this new unexpected family member.
I'm not ready for kids, I thought, as I watched that oldest child get bullied for the first time, 15 months old. Because it's not like I can MAKE other kids play with him. And I don't want to be fighting his battles.
I'm not ready for kids, I thought, as I watched my body morph into something unrecognizable, and something that was and is difficult for me to love.
I'm not ready for kids, I thought, as I closed out the news website on my phone and wondered how in the world I'm supposed to protect my kids in this world and said a silent prayer that my kids wouldn't be the ones that others would need protection from. As I then questioned every parenting choice I've ever made, ever.
I'm not ready for kids, I thought, as the tears came.
His tears. Because he wanted juice. Because he wanted my phone. Because he wanted to go outside when it was 120. Because he wanted to run through the entire Story Bots show for the 3rd time that day. Or from the youngest, because he wanted his brother to play with him but his brother was over it.
Or my tears...
His tears. Because he wanted juice. Because he wanted my phone. Because he wanted to go outside when it was 120. Because he wanted to run through the entire Story Bots show for the 3rd time that day. Or from the youngest, because he wanted his brother to play with him but his brother was over it.
Or my tears...
The tears from fear, of the unknown. Are they going to be the people I want them to be? Are they going to be happy?
The tears from worry. Is it ok that he just drank a bottle of nail polish? Is it ok that he keeps spitting up? Is it ok that his diaper looks like that? Is it ok if he eats that? Is it ok if he shoves chips in his 2 week old brother's mouth? IS IT OK IS IT GOING TO BE OK IS EVERYONE OK?!
I'm not ready for kids.
The tears of laughter, when he ran around the corner and Joe jumped at him and he threw up his hands and screamed. When he looked utterly horrified at the prospect of going to Sudan on his mission. When our youngest gave us his first laughs, and kept laughing, and kept smiling, and didn't stop.
The tears of pride, when the littlest, at 3 months old, comforted his older brother. When the oldest took his own binky out of his mouth, the binky that he relied on for EVERYTHING, and he gave it to his brother. When he reached out his hand to pet a dog, overcoming his crippling fear of dogs.
The tears, when he came and gave me a hug around my neck when I sat down and cried because I'm not ready for kids, I'm not ready for kids, I'm not ready for kids....
So here I am. Two kids later.
I'm not ready for kids.
And I may never be. I don't know what is coming up. Despite dedicating my life to working for and learning about children... I have no clue what is on this map of parenthood. It is uncharted territory. And I'm not ready for kids.
But it's ok. I think we'll work through it together. The good and the bad. Today I accept the fact that I'm not ready for kids.
8.24.2017
The One About Yoga
Get it? Because it's a reference to Friends. Making me the most basic woman alive.
Watches friends
Does yoga
Drinks herbal tea
Talks about "Kon Marie" stuff
Has fancy pens and tape
I'm just not gonna call myself wifey. You can't make me do it. I am a wife. Not a wifey.
Unless you wanna tease me, but watch yourself, because I can bite back.
Ok perhaps the most common questions I get are...
"How are you?"
"What's your name?" (with work...)
"How old are you?" (also with work. Not rude if it's cute lil Chinese babies asking you for your age.)
"What's for dinner?"
"Mmmm?" (How lil lion says "more")
and....
"How did you get started with yoga?"
I bring all of those on, they're invited, I provoke them.... so I thought I'd answer them all in one blow today.
- Pretty good.
- Lara Jean Becar, yo.
- 25 and LIVING LARGE (said in the coolest way possible. Difficult for me to achieve.)
- SHOOT it's falafel and I need to get started on it.
- No
And...
How did I get started with yoga.
Ok we'll start at the very beginning, the place that I always start.
About a year and a half ago I was in a bad place, not loving my image, not wanting to go running because in AZ that's a tall order, and I needed something to DO. I went to my bff, Melece, cried some, and she suggested yoga as a kinda fun thing to do. I lol'd a bit, because when people suggest yoga, they're usually not serious, and I don't think Melece intended me to take it the way I did either. But she held me accountable, I rolled my eyes some, but I was willing to try it.
And I didn't stop.
Ok but where did I start. I knew Melece used an app, but it was one that I had to purchase and on principle I don't buy apps. Yet. (That yet will be elaborated on.) I did find a free app, Down Dog. I downloaded it but started with YouTube, asking for advice from people on their favorite videos. Everyone, without fail, suggested Yoga With Adriene . As do I. She was the second person to get me going with yoga. When you're starting an exercise routine, if you're like me, you don't like to be coddled into it with sweet, airy voices and phrases like "chakra" and hocus pocus like that. I'm kinda a straight to the point person. Give it to me how it is. Tell me what I'm doing.
And that's what Yoga With Adriene did. There wasn't a lot of hippy-dippy nonsense to it, and she had a sense of humor. I really appreciated that. After learning the basics, I went to the Down Dog app. Where I am now, I LOVE DOWN DOG. It's an incredible app. Crazy fun. But I'd be lying if I said it was easy. That is some hard crap there. Even on the beginning level, it wiped me out. I decided I couldn't stick with it. It was damaging my drive to do yoga, so I went back to Yoga with Adriene. I stuck with her for a year or so, before I felt like I was falling into the same routine and wanted to try some new things. Now I'm on the Down Dog App again, sometimes I do my own routines too, and I love this app. It actually may be an app that I buy, I love it that much. Yoga is making me an app buying person.
Ok that's my start.
Now for the good stuff, my tips on how YOU can start.
Watches friends
Does yoga
Drinks herbal tea
Talks about "Kon Marie" stuff
Has fancy pens and tape
I'm just not gonna call myself wifey. You can't make me do it. I am a wife. Not a wifey.
Unless you wanna tease me, but watch yourself, because I can bite back.
"How are you?"
"What's your name?" (with work...)
"How old are you?" (also with work. Not rude if it's cute lil Chinese babies asking you for your age.)
"What's for dinner?"
"Mmmm?" (How lil lion says "more")
and....
"How did you get started with yoga?"
I bring all of those on, they're invited, I provoke them.... so I thought I'd answer them all in one blow today.
- Pretty good.
- Lara Jean Becar, yo.
- 25 and LIVING LARGE (said in the coolest way possible. Difficult for me to achieve.)
- SHOOT it's falafel and I need to get started on it.
- No
And...
How did I get started with yoga.
Ok we'll start at the very beginning, the place that I always start.
About a year and a half ago I was in a bad place, not loving my image, not wanting to go running because in AZ that's a tall order, and I needed something to DO. I went to my bff, Melece, cried some, and she suggested yoga as a kinda fun thing to do. I lol'd a bit, because when people suggest yoga, they're usually not serious, and I don't think Melece intended me to take it the way I did either. But she held me accountable, I rolled my eyes some, but I was willing to try it.
And I didn't stop.
Ok but where did I start. I knew Melece used an app, but it was one that I had to purchase and on principle I don't buy apps. Yet. (That yet will be elaborated on.) I did find a free app, Down Dog. I downloaded it but started with YouTube, asking for advice from people on their favorite videos. Everyone, without fail, suggested Yoga With Adriene . As do I. She was the second person to get me going with yoga. When you're starting an exercise routine, if you're like me, you don't like to be coddled into it with sweet, airy voices and phrases like "chakra" and hocus pocus like that. I'm kinda a straight to the point person. Give it to me how it is. Tell me what I'm doing.
And that's what Yoga With Adriene did. There wasn't a lot of hippy-dippy nonsense to it, and she had a sense of humor. I really appreciated that. After learning the basics, I went to the Down Dog app. Where I am now, I LOVE DOWN DOG. It's an incredible app. Crazy fun. But I'd be lying if I said it was easy. That is some hard crap there. Even on the beginning level, it wiped me out. I decided I couldn't stick with it. It was damaging my drive to do yoga, so I went back to Yoga with Adriene. I stuck with her for a year or so, before I felt like I was falling into the same routine and wanted to try some new things. Now I'm on the Down Dog App again, sometimes I do my own routines too, and I love this app. It actually may be an app that I buy, I love it that much. Yoga is making me an app buying person.
Ok that's my start.
Now for the good stuff, my tips on how YOU can start.
- Love it. It's not really that complicated. The first thing you gotta do to enjoy yoga is to ENJOY yoga. If you're not enjoying it, then maybe it's not for you, and that's ok. I was really beating myself for not loving running for a long time. I'd do it over and over and over and I never loved it. I'm of the strong belief that exercise is not meant to be endured, but enjoyed. Find something you enjoy. Maybe it's yoga. Maybe it's weights. Maybe it's running. But love it. Now, if you WANT to love yoga and you're having a hard time with it, keep reading!
- Listen. This may sound like hippy dippy nonsense but it isn't. When you start out with yoga, I think it's really important not to kill yourself quickly. A favorite quote of mine is "If you listen to your body whisper, you don't have to let it scream." The key isn't to push your limits. It's to find your limit, sit there for a while until it's a little more bearable, and then try again the next day. Your limit will grow. It's not a sprint though. It's a marathon. Pace yourself. Don't throw yourself into crazy vinyasa sequences before you're ready. Listen to your body. Notice the way your arms feel in down dog. Notice how your hips feel in warrior two. Notice your breathing in a chaturanga. Listen to the small things. It's kind of fascinating.
- Prioritize it. Put on a cartoon for your kids. Turn off your phone (or not, if you're using it for your practice...) but make it important to you. It's not about the exercise being important. If that were the case, then you could go to the gym. But this is about you. About connecting your mind to your body to your breath. Having a little conversation with yourself, seeing how you're doing, seeing what's stressful, seeing if you can put aside the stress for a mere 30 minutes to be still. It's so important to be still. If you don't have a lot of time, cut out 20 min in the morning when you wake up. That's what my Joe does. If you have a lot of time but a lot of distractions, be patient. It's ok to stop after 10 min and put the binky back in your baby's mouth. It's ok to pause after 23 min and drink some water. It's ok if an hour practice take 2 hrs because your mom called or you had an important email to answer. In an ideal world, you can carve out all that time just for yourself. But it's ok if you're not in an ideal world.
- Create your world. Find a place you love. I've found that I love natural light and plants. It must be swept and clean. This helps me to focus on it. In addition to that, find a program you like! My Melece doesn't like Yoga with Adriene very much. And that's ok. It's not for everyone. Try out different things! Not all instructors are the same. AND you DON'T have to go to a class. Confession, I've never once been to a class. I'm entirely "self" taught, with youtube, apps, reading up on stuff, and lots of practice. I believe the best yoga is done on your own when you're not worried about how you look. Because it doesn't matter how you look. My Fallen Angel pose up there looks horribly crooked and comical most of the time. It's fun to laugh about, and I don't care that I don't look perfect because I'm alone.
It's crazy. To not care about looking perfect. There's not a lot of time in my life where I feel like that.
Now if you're sitting here saying I WANT to, but I can't....
Here are some things.
- You don't have to be strong. I'm not strong. It's hilarious how little muscles I have. I'm VERY unsculpted. I've got a blobby post baby body.
- You don't have to be flexible. Joe is NOT flexible. Despite his time in gymnastics as a youth, he couldn't touch his knees for a while. But he's growing.
- You don't have to be a hippy. Heaven knows I'm not. Or wasn't... I still drink soda after many of my practices, and take ibruprofin for headaches like it's going out of style. I enjoy the thought of working in corporate America sometimes. (Hippies hate that, right?)
- To reiterate, you don't have to look like a catalog. My first down dog was painful and awkward. Painfully awkward, even. But I listened and focused on areas for improvement.
- You don't have to become a yogi. You can just do it for fun. And run still. Or lift weights. Or watch Netflix.
This IS your world.
But know this also.
This is where it gets hippy and emotional. Sorry guys.
Your body has power you can't even comprehend. You'll be amazed at the way the energy bursts from every limb when you do your first arm balance pose. You'll be surprised at how quickly you're able to advance through things when you unlock your confidence and true inner strength. You'll learn about new muscles. You'll feel the blood pump through you in a way unlike anything else. You'll feel your mind relax and sharpen, somehow simultaneously. It is an incredible high. When you finally get it, when it finally clicks, you can take on the world. You can.
Take it on with me.
8.01.2017
Rough One
I'm getting increasingly terrible at blogging. I'm not super great at goals. Or blogging goals. Or goals about making 5000 steps when it's over 100 degrees out. Or goals about doing some big adventure every day.
I've been doing bujo lately, though...
bujo: Kinda like journaling and planning and doodling all had a baby.
That's the literal definition from the dictionary.
But nah yeah it's cool. I make note of my days. I stay organized. I make it look pretty. And my life gets recorded in small amounts. So it's not like nothing is getting recorded. Just not for the whole world.
Besides instagram/facebook.
I kinda put everything out there, huh.
Well. The boys are asleep so I thought I'd write some. There is something different about writing on the computer. I'm pretty fantastic at typing. I can type fast! And I love the sound of clicking. And watching the words fly across the screen. I like that. And writing is something I can do. Writing is one place where I don't feel like I need to compare myself to others. It's a nice art, in that way. Writing is just me. And here is my most efficient place of doing that writing.
What has been going on lately...
Little M was blessed.
It was a beautiful weekend, surrounded by family. Lion child and M were very spoiled with all of the attention from both sets of grandparents, their great grandparents, and one of their uncles. Lots of playing outside. The weather has been marvelous, not a day over 110 in some time.
Which is kind of pathetic, that I consider that marvelous.
And we've resorted to talking about weather on this blog, so things are very thrilling right now.
Things truly are pretty exciting though. We like to keep our life full of changes. Like car shopping, planning remodels, work... And boy work has been great. I've picked up more time. I realized that I have the ability to control our financial situation with my work. So I took the reins and did just that. I feel a lot happier when I'm working like this.
Hmm.
I've been continuing with my yoga thing. If you're on instagram, you see that. A lot. But my instagram is private, so for all of you at home...
I've been doing bujo lately, though...
bujo: Kinda like journaling and planning and doodling all had a baby.
That's the literal definition from the dictionary.
But nah yeah it's cool. I make note of my days. I stay organized. I make it look pretty. And my life gets recorded in small amounts. So it's not like nothing is getting recorded. Just not for the whole world.
Besides instagram/facebook.
I kinda put everything out there, huh.
Well. The boys are asleep so I thought I'd write some. There is something different about writing on the computer. I'm pretty fantastic at typing. I can type fast! And I love the sound of clicking. And watching the words fly across the screen. I like that. And writing is something I can do. Writing is one place where I don't feel like I need to compare myself to others. It's a nice art, in that way. Writing is just me. And here is my most efficient place of doing that writing.
What has been going on lately...
It was a beautiful weekend, surrounded by family. Lion child and M were very spoiled with all of the attention from both sets of grandparents, their great grandparents, and one of their uncles. Lots of playing outside. The weather has been marvelous, not a day over 110 in some time.
Which is kind of pathetic, that I consider that marvelous.
And we've resorted to talking about weather on this blog, so things are very thrilling right now.
Things truly are pretty exciting though. We like to keep our life full of changes. Like car shopping, planning remodels, work... And boy work has been great. I've picked up more time. I realized that I have the ability to control our financial situation with my work. So I took the reins and did just that. I feel a lot happier when I'm working like this.
Hmm.
I've been continuing with my yoga thing. If you're on instagram, you see that. A lot. But my instagram is private, so for all of you at home...
I think I could do to use way more b&w, don't think there's nearly enough there.
Yoga has been really great. I started it shortly before becoming pregnant with M, and he really did put my progress on hold, as much as I didn't want to admit it. Inversion poses and twists are NOT great when you're carrying an 8lb baby on the front of your body. I kept the practice going in order to stay flexible and fit (and it paid off in labor!) but didn't progress. Really just maintained. I did build strength though, because chaturangas with a said 8lb baby on your front really strengthen your arms.
Some words on yoga.
I've been fighting myself again. That's vague enough for you. But this yoga thing has helped me de-OH SHOOT THE OLDER CHILD IS AWAKE.
Well.
Yoga has helped me maintain fitness of body and mind. Watching one's body stretch and do things that typically aren't found in nature really fuels your mind with confidence. 30% of the time I look at the pictures I take of my routines and think "Heugh, that is what I look like?" but 70% of the time I think "Woah! I can do that?! Not too shabby!"
And that's pretty great.
Hm.
What else to talk about.
I'm not really sure.
I suppose I have this wanderlust lately? But wandering is significantly more difficult in that heat that was afore mentioned and with two little boys. So I've been trying to think of ways to meet that need for adventure from the confines of an air conditioned room.
It's tricky.
If you have any ideas, let me know.
This whole blog post has felt wholly uninspired. So I'm gonna cut it out and go bujo some before I start critiquing this too much.
Everyone have a swell day, you hear? Tah tah for now, my readers.
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