This is not a surprise, or shouldn't be. Those that have seen me in the last 20 years have probably noticed the scars on my arms and legs. That's a pretty big clue. Prior to that, people in high school may remember me as a pathological liar, very dramatic, or just awkward.
While some of those scars (which are OLD - like, at least 10 years old) are from the typical instances of self-harm, some (a lot) came about because of a psychotic break around fifteen years ago where I was convinced if I dug through enough skin I'd find my actual exoskeleton because there was NO WAY I could be the same species as the rest of the people walking around, whom I didn't understand.
But that's not actually my mental illness, because it was a temporary delusion caused by a extreme external stress and abandonment. I got better.
What's really wrong with me is depression. And anxiety.
My depression is actually under control. It was such a relief that Welbutrin worked for me. It meant that I was actually suffering from a chemical issue. It wasn't just me being stubbornly sad or (worse yet) right about everything.
My anxiety is more insidious. Unlike my husband, who has generalized anxiety that's pretty much always around, mine will sneak up on me. I can see trends behind what might cause a panic attack, but not the exact formula, because I'm not some kind of mathematician or something.
I can experience a new place if I have enough familiar people around. Or if It's a business transaction where I'm not expected/required to chat with anyone I'm not paying.
I can experience new people if I'm in a familiar place.
But, if the ratios are wrong, my stupid brain refuses. I can't force myself to go, can't breath, can't forgive myself for not being able to JUST BE A NORMAL PERSON.
Once upon a time, drugs acted as a crutch, but I let them control my life and depended on them to function like a normal human. People who knew me about 11-12 years ago probably have trouble conceptualizing me as someone with social anxiety. I used to throw huge parties (familiar place, speed/alcohol/ecstasy/acid/etc. acting as a buffer). I used to hop into any environment ready to have fun.
Today, I'm so shy and awkward until I'm comfortable with people that it takes someone exceptionally kind to put up with me until I warm up.
Last weekend, I was actually (sort of) able to beat my
issues. I went to a party for someone I'd like to call a friend, but I
think is actually just putting up with me because she's exceptionally
kind and being nice doesn't cost her anything. For the first half, I
couldn't talk. I sat in my seat, clutching my purse, clutching my
husband, gulping drinks. After that, I was able to chat people up, but
was more annoying than charming because I was drunk.
Tonight, I missed out on attending a huge party of some acquaintances because, when I drove by, the number of strangers sitting outside of a house I'd never been in caused me to tell Jon that I couldn't do it. Then, I cried on the way home because I was so disappointed with myself while he tried to cheer me up by playing fun music and giving me affection, because he's a good husband.
Unlike my depression, which was pervasive and all-consuming, anxiety doesn't rule my world. And I wasn't always this way. As a child, I was incredibly outgoing. Somewhere along the way, I began falling behind my peers in emotional maturity and was fat - neither of which really invoked friendships with other kids. As a result, every interaction I had straddled the line between hopeful and fearful, which is exactly what my anxiety today feels like (except MORE). Even though I can see how it happened, I can't see a way out of it.
I can go days without it impacting me. I'll confidently make plans, and end up having to flake, which makes people want to make less of an effort with me.
I guess this is just a venting session because I was really upset with myself tonight. I also guess it's time to make another appointment with my therapist.
Friday, October 28, 2016
Sunday, October 16, 2016
Ugh, Diabetes - Still?
It's kind of funny. I first created this blog after I found out I had diabetes as a way for me to come to peace with it and myself. However, I've not really talked much about it. Probably because I don't put much thought into it.
My sugar has been stable for a long time. Obviously, I don't pay much attention to carb counting. Once in a while, I'll remember to test my sugar.
Today, I was once again forced to confront it in a way I hadn't in quite a while.
I went on Wellbutrin a couple of months ago. My miracle worker of a doctor recognized a severe and lifelong depression in me and told me that I didn't have to feel that way. What a curious thought: I didn't have to feel the despair that idealized suicidal thoughts and anxiety that made all social interactions nearly impossible without drugs or alcohol. Obviously, it was an option that I'd chosen for a few decades, but I had other choices.
One of the off-label effects of Wellbutrin is a reduction of cravings/binge-eating/appetite. Not everyone experiences it, but I have. It's actually just as freeing as the lack of depression. No longer are food cravings so intense I can't think of anything else. No longer am I falling into food as a cure for boredom. It's freaking lovely. While I haven't lost any noticeable weight (or possibly any, as I stay away from scales to avoid disordered eating), having that level of control is amazing. I'm still struggling to figure out how much food I actually want and over-ordering/buying/cooking, but that's a great problem to be dealing with.
It's actually turned me into the girl who forgets to eat. It's like I've turned into a unicorn.
Which leads to this morning.
In the past, I've skipped breakfast and still took my Metformin without issue because my sugar was high enough that I wouldn't dip into a dangerous low. Jon and I had a movie to get to at noon, so we rushed out, planning to grab something on the way. Timing was off, so we ended up just going to the theater.
Sometime in the movie, I began feeling headache-y. Then severely nauseous. For those of you without diabetes, that means my body is trying to warn me that my sugar is getting low and to eat something. Being in the middle of a movie, I didn't want to get up and miss some of the plot. Then, I got exceptionally cold. Followed by struggling to keep my eyes open. Followed by shivering.
After the movie was over, I had to give Jon the embarrassing news that I hadn't cared for myself enough and now needed an emergency juice.
When I was first diagnosed, I developed severe carb/calorie restricting practices (tied in with daily weigh-ins, obsessive food journaling, and blood sugar chronicling) that forced me to monitor my sugar closely in case it got too low. I really don't want to develop those habits again, because it began looking like an eating disorder and was ruling my life. However, it looks like it's time to keep my monitor on-hand and some glucose tabs in my purse.
Also, eat breakfast, stupid.
Thursday, July 14, 2016
I'm Gross
I am a miserable person.
Normally, I can ignore how awful I feel by surrounding myself by other bitter, unhappy people. However, whenever one of them begins to feel better through therapy, medication, self-improvement, etc., I'm reminded of how truly horrible I feel about life in general.
The worst part is, I've felt like this my whole life, with brief chemical interludes interrupting my despair. I'm just this fucked up toad who convinced itself that the world was populated by other bumpy amphibians, but finds out most people are fuzzy bunnies or squirrels or some shit.
I wasn't cut out for life. I'm trying, but I think I've reached the end of my potential. This is as good as it gets.
Normally, I can ignore how awful I feel by surrounding myself by other bitter, unhappy people. However, whenever one of them begins to feel better through therapy, medication, self-improvement, etc., I'm reminded of how truly horrible I feel about life in general.
The worst part is, I've felt like this my whole life, with brief chemical interludes interrupting my despair. I'm just this fucked up toad who convinced itself that the world was populated by other bumpy amphibians, but finds out most people are fuzzy bunnies or squirrels or some shit.
I wasn't cut out for life. I'm trying, but I think I've reached the end of my potential. This is as good as it gets.
Thursday, June 30, 2016
Where Body Positivity and (My Own) Fat Acceptance Conflict
Last weekend, I had the opportunity to meet with a group of women I share some traits with.
These women were bold, and each had their own fierce style. They were charismatic.
And they were fat.
First, let me talk about the joy it was to be among other fat women. I've had the occasional fat friend, coworker, or acquaintance. This was different. This was a coalition of the clinically obese. This was an association of the adipose. This was a flummoxing of fatties.
For the entire two hours we were gathered, it was constant chatter. Maybe I'm projecting, but it seemed like everyone wanted to talk about the fat issues they've been dealing with, had worked through, or had newly experienced. So much conversation! Mah gawd.
One such conversation revolved around body positivity vs. fat acceptance.
So, agreed. Everyone who has a body should be a body positive activist. As one lady said, everyone has their own body issues. No matter what you look like, there is some part of you that you have issue with.
Truth. Be body positive.
Fat acceptance goes down a layer. Basically, even a fat body is a good body that deserves love.
That one's hard.
So, first: Does my body deserve love? Like, really, does my body deserve love? I guess. I mean, it's the only one I get. So, I love it like I loved my mom. She had her flaws, but I loved her; she was mine. I also hate it like I hate my mom; I can't help but pick at it to expose layers upon layers and many years of disappointment.
I have bad feet; I'm diabetic; I don't have endurance; I have asthma. My thighs not only touch, they keep my feet from touching. My arms are disproportionately big. My breasts are large, but not large enough for my body. I'm not good fat, where I have a scaled up hourglass figure. I'm clumsy. I can't dance because my body and I aren't very good friends.
The problem with fat acceptance is that I'm not only fighting myself, but also public opinion. None of us knows whether I deserve to love my body.
For most people, body positivity is learning to accept yourself. For me, it's that plus trying to get people to stop being disgusted by me.
In my mind, I'm never pretty; I have a pretty face. I'm not sexy; I'm acting sexy. I don't look good; my makeup or outfit is cool. No one can convince me differently because I know how I'm viewed by most of the world.
I honestly don't know where I'm going with this.
Maybe just... It's a constant battle. Sometimes I win, and sometimes I lose. If I win the battle with myself, then I still have one to fight in the world. If we ever win over the world, I'll still be battling myself.
Regardless, if you ever find yourself with an opportunity to participate in a flummoxing of fatties, I highly recommend it. It's so choice.
These women were bold, and each had their own fierce style. They were charismatic.
And they were fat.
First, let me talk about the joy it was to be among other fat women. I've had the occasional fat friend, coworker, or acquaintance. This was different. This was a coalition of the clinically obese. This was an association of the adipose. This was a flummoxing of fatties.
For the entire two hours we were gathered, it was constant chatter. Maybe I'm projecting, but it seemed like everyone wanted to talk about the fat issues they've been dealing with, had worked through, or had newly experienced. So much conversation! Mah gawd.
One such conversation revolved around body positivity vs. fat acceptance.
So, agreed. Everyone who has a body should be a body positive activist. As one lady said, everyone has their own body issues. No matter what you look like, there is some part of you that you have issue with.
Truth. Be body positive.
Fat acceptance goes down a layer. Basically, even a fat body is a good body that deserves love.
That one's hard.
So, first: Does my body deserve love? Like, really, does my body deserve love? I guess. I mean, it's the only one I get. So, I love it like I loved my mom. She had her flaws, but I loved her; she was mine. I also hate it like I hate my mom; I can't help but pick at it to expose layers upon layers and many years of disappointment.
I have bad feet; I'm diabetic; I don't have endurance; I have asthma. My thighs not only touch, they keep my feet from touching. My arms are disproportionately big. My breasts are large, but not large enough for my body. I'm not good fat, where I have a scaled up hourglass figure. I'm clumsy. I can't dance because my body and I aren't very good friends.
The problem with fat acceptance is that I'm not only fighting myself, but also public opinion. None of us knows whether I deserve to love my body.
For most people, body positivity is learning to accept yourself. For me, it's that plus trying to get people to stop being disgusted by me.
In my mind, I'm never pretty; I have a pretty face. I'm not sexy; I'm acting sexy. I don't look good; my makeup or outfit is cool. No one can convince me differently because I know how I'm viewed by most of the world.
I honestly don't know where I'm going with this.
Maybe just... It's a constant battle. Sometimes I win, and sometimes I lose. If I win the battle with myself, then I still have one to fight in the world. If we ever win over the world, I'll still be battling myself.
Regardless, if you ever find yourself with an opportunity to participate in a flummoxing of fatties, I highly recommend it. It's so choice.
Tuesday, May 31, 2016
Happy Birthday
So, somewhere along the line, this thing just became my cry file.
Yesterday, my daughter would have been fourteen.
When I was 22, I had an unwanted pregnancy. It was unwanted for so many reasons, not the least of which was the father - an unmedicated schizophrenic who nearly killed me and ultimately stalked me from New York to Michigan in an attempt to be close with me.
I was also my own sort of messed up, still recovering from childhood, still recovering from being hurt in my first serious relationship, still recovering from being in a relationship with a schizophrenic. On top of that, I was living in a shack with my ex's family.
Regardless, I didn't get an abortion. I wanted one, but at that time in my life $300 was no different than $3,000,000 in terms of attainability. I considered adoption again, but my sister wanted the baby.
Something in the way it was presented changed things. Where I was able to distance myself from the first child I had given up for adoption as a teenager, this baby was still sort of mine. She would be in my life, and we may even have ended up with a loving parent-child relationship. Yet, I still didn't want her. It was all jumbled up in my head, with a major dose of pregnancy hormones as a mixer.
However, that didn't happen. Instead, when I was two weeks overdue and being induced, the worst happened. She died and I had multiple weeks in the hospital and months in recovery.
I spent years and years self-medicating and avoiding myself. I'm still not great at being by myself. Even through it, she was just part of what was wrong with my life. She wasn't something I told even the people closest to me. The conflicted feelings about it (and everything in the world) almost define me.
Somehow, probably through missing a few days of my thyroid meds as well as age and having pregnancy and lack of it consistently in my view, I'm having a bad time of it. Maybe it's just the idea that she'd be a teenager, and that seems so real. My brain did that ridiculous, self-torturing device of imagining what she'd have looked like over the years.
This is one of the big things I don't talk about. No one wants to hear about it. People don't know what to do with that information.
Calliope would have been 14. She would have been an eighth grader. She'd probably not be interested in makeup and clothes, since I am. She would have been close with her cousin Angel and probably obsessed with Angel's son. When I met her sister, Kelly, she would have come with me. Maybe we'd spend summers together. Maybe she would have forced me into sanity earlier.
When a baby dies, all you're left with is the bitterness of what might have been.
Yesterday, my daughter would have been fourteen.
When I was 22, I had an unwanted pregnancy. It was unwanted for so many reasons, not the least of which was the father - an unmedicated schizophrenic who nearly killed me and ultimately stalked me from New York to Michigan in an attempt to be close with me.
I was also my own sort of messed up, still recovering from childhood, still recovering from being hurt in my first serious relationship, still recovering from being in a relationship with a schizophrenic. On top of that, I was living in a shack with my ex's family.
Regardless, I didn't get an abortion. I wanted one, but at that time in my life $300 was no different than $3,000,000 in terms of attainability. I considered adoption again, but my sister wanted the baby.
Something in the way it was presented changed things. Where I was able to distance myself from the first child I had given up for adoption as a teenager, this baby was still sort of mine. She would be in my life, and we may even have ended up with a loving parent-child relationship. Yet, I still didn't want her. It was all jumbled up in my head, with a major dose of pregnancy hormones as a mixer.
However, that didn't happen. Instead, when I was two weeks overdue and being induced, the worst happened. She died and I had multiple weeks in the hospital and months in recovery.
I spent years and years self-medicating and avoiding myself. I'm still not great at being by myself. Even through it, she was just part of what was wrong with my life. She wasn't something I told even the people closest to me. The conflicted feelings about it (and everything in the world) almost define me.
Somehow, probably through missing a few days of my thyroid meds as well as age and having pregnancy and lack of it consistently in my view, I'm having a bad time of it. Maybe it's just the idea that she'd be a teenager, and that seems so real. My brain did that ridiculous, self-torturing device of imagining what she'd have looked like over the years.
This is one of the big things I don't talk about. No one wants to hear about it. People don't know what to do with that information.
Calliope would have been 14. She would have been an eighth grader. She'd probably not be interested in makeup and clothes, since I am. She would have been close with her cousin Angel and probably obsessed with Angel's son. When I met her sister, Kelly, she would have come with me. Maybe we'd spend summers together. Maybe she would have forced me into sanity earlier.
When a baby dies, all you're left with is the bitterness of what might have been.
Friday, June 19, 2015
Ugh - Mortality
Something bad happened this week that has tied into the idea of my dad dying and my mom's death.
I had the worst fever I've ever in my life had (which is impressive - I've been hospitalized twice in my adult life for scary infections). Hallucinations, convulsions, chills, lasting for hours. No apparent reason.
And then my period started.
That's so not normal. I've been Googling stuff ever since, and I'm half-convinced I have cancer. At the very least fibroids. SOMETHING ISN'T RIGHT.
Guess who has two ovaries and hasn't scheduled a doctor's appointment.
There's something comforting in the ignorance. While I know something isn't right, I don't KNOW something is wrong. I'm housing Schrodinger's uterus.
While I was squeezing 10 more minutes of bed time out of the morning, I realized I'm going to be 37 soon. Then 40. At some near future, people will stop thinking I'm in my twenties. I should dye the blue out of my hair because it might be ridiculous at my age. My face won't be oily forever. My skin won't always be soft.
Or maybe it will. Maybe I was off by a decade when I thought I'd be dead by 30. Maybe it's 40 I'll never see, and won't have to worry about old age.
I don't have a will; I need to make a will. I need to get out of debt so I have something to have a will about. At least I have life insurance. Does my father have life insurance? I guess it doesn't matter because he's a veteran. I have life insurance for Jon, too. He's going to outlive me. I hope he gets over the idea that he'll never love anyone else.
So, of course that ruined the last ten minutes of almost-sleep that's better than the entire six hours before.
Does anyone have a life-changing eye cream to help prevent wrinkles? I don't want to look old.
I thought I came to terms with getting older.
I had the worst fever I've ever in my life had (which is impressive - I've been hospitalized twice in my adult life for scary infections). Hallucinations, convulsions, chills, lasting for hours. No apparent reason.
And then my period started.
That's so not normal. I've been Googling stuff ever since, and I'm half-convinced I have cancer. At the very least fibroids. SOMETHING ISN'T RIGHT.
Guess who has two ovaries and hasn't scheduled a doctor's appointment.
There's something comforting in the ignorance. While I know something isn't right, I don't KNOW something is wrong. I'm housing Schrodinger's uterus.
While I was squeezing 10 more minutes of bed time out of the morning, I realized I'm going to be 37 soon. Then 40. At some near future, people will stop thinking I'm in my twenties. I should dye the blue out of my hair because it might be ridiculous at my age. My face won't be oily forever. My skin won't always be soft.
Or maybe it will. Maybe I was off by a decade when I thought I'd be dead by 30. Maybe it's 40 I'll never see, and won't have to worry about old age.
I don't have a will; I need to make a will. I need to get out of debt so I have something to have a will about. At least I have life insurance. Does my father have life insurance? I guess it doesn't matter because he's a veteran. I have life insurance for Jon, too. He's going to outlive me. I hope he gets over the idea that he'll never love anyone else.
So, of course that ruined the last ten minutes of almost-sleep that's better than the entire six hours before.
Does anyone have a life-changing eye cream to help prevent wrinkles? I don't want to look old.
I thought I came to terms with getting older.
Tuesday, June 16, 2015
My Dad is Dying
On a good day, I call myself introspective. On a bad day, I'm self-centered.
Regardless, even through my empathy toward my father and imagining what it must feel like to be facing his own mortality at only 64 (the thought of it takes my breath away, it's so incompressible), it's all getting filtered through my own mind and experiences and how I feel about it.
I met my dad about a year and a half ago. So, I already have many years of abandonment issues after my mother died of cancer when I was 13 and I became a ward of the state. I have issues and issues and issues, that I felt like I had come to terms with and was able to recognize and work around in my day to day life.
Meeting him was total fantasy fulfillment. My dad was a race car driver and a soldier and cerebral. He'd used his time to become some big-shot chemical engineer project manager, traveling the world setting up power plants for different governments.
He also gave me insights into myself - my tendency to disconnect with people who I don't have enough contact with, the low desire to build a family unit or traditional life, being almost sociopathic in my ability to read and manipulate, my avoidance of that label because of my empathy. Basically, meeting him made me understand why I was an alien in my family. Because he was a cuckoo who laid his egg and flew.
Since meeting, we've spoken a handful of times, texted, and done some emailing. We had plans to meet up once he was fully retired and settled into North Carolina. He was going to get a house in the woods and have my husband, dog, and I for a long visit.
We were supposed to have years to know each other.
But instead, my father is dying of cancer and has months. And he doesn't want me to visit. And I'm 13 again.
It's weird, because I can see myself so clearly now. I can see the ways I deal with this and how it's been programmed into me by my previous experiences with trauma. I have friends and an aunt and a husband who want to talk to me and be here for me. Instead, I don't want to talk about it at all. I have this little ball of sad/rage rolling through my body and occasionally finding its way out through my eyes. Normally, though, it's just something I bat away. I don't want to talk about it because I'm not a sad-girl.
My sad/rage ball keeps bouncing around, and the outside world is irritating it. I feel like I just need a respite, but work needs doing and I don't want to tell my boss I need a personal day to get my head together because I don't want to be seen as anything other than together. Together-girl doesn't need a personal day to get her head together. She works through it, makes a delicious dinner, and has many laughs after a hard day at the office.
But I am sad-girl. I'm pretending to be together-girl, and if I act like together-girl, and if everyone thinks I'm together-girl, does that make me together-girl? Is this imposter syndrome?
Regardless, my dad is dying of cancer. In the future-perfect tense, both of my parents will have died of cancer. My dad is dying of lung cancer, my mother died of uterine cancer (though it made its way to her lung, and half of one was removed). I need to schedule an appointment with a gynecologist because now I have cancer trickling its tendrils into me from both sides of the family tree.
I'm going to be an orphan again. Makes sense, since I was one for so long. Things return to their natural state of being.
Regardless, even through my empathy toward my father and imagining what it must feel like to be facing his own mortality at only 64 (the thought of it takes my breath away, it's so incompressible), it's all getting filtered through my own mind and experiences and how I feel about it.
I met my dad about a year and a half ago. So, I already have many years of abandonment issues after my mother died of cancer when I was 13 and I became a ward of the state. I have issues and issues and issues, that I felt like I had come to terms with and was able to recognize and work around in my day to day life.
Meeting him was total fantasy fulfillment. My dad was a race car driver and a soldier and cerebral. He'd used his time to become some big-shot chemical engineer project manager, traveling the world setting up power plants for different governments.
He also gave me insights into myself - my tendency to disconnect with people who I don't have enough contact with, the low desire to build a family unit or traditional life, being almost sociopathic in my ability to read and manipulate, my avoidance of that label because of my empathy. Basically, meeting him made me understand why I was an alien in my family. Because he was a cuckoo who laid his egg and flew.
Since meeting, we've spoken a handful of times, texted, and done some emailing. We had plans to meet up once he was fully retired and settled into North Carolina. He was going to get a house in the woods and have my husband, dog, and I for a long visit.
We were supposed to have years to know each other.
But instead, my father is dying of cancer and has months. And he doesn't want me to visit. And I'm 13 again.
It's weird, because I can see myself so clearly now. I can see the ways I deal with this and how it's been programmed into me by my previous experiences with trauma. I have friends and an aunt and a husband who want to talk to me and be here for me. Instead, I don't want to talk about it at all. I have this little ball of sad/rage rolling through my body and occasionally finding its way out through my eyes. Normally, though, it's just something I bat away. I don't want to talk about it because I'm not a sad-girl.
My sad/rage ball keeps bouncing around, and the outside world is irritating it. I feel like I just need a respite, but work needs doing and I don't want to tell my boss I need a personal day to get my head together because I don't want to be seen as anything other than together. Together-girl doesn't need a personal day to get her head together. She works through it, makes a delicious dinner, and has many laughs after a hard day at the office.
But I am sad-girl. I'm pretending to be together-girl, and if I act like together-girl, and if everyone thinks I'm together-girl, does that make me together-girl? Is this imposter syndrome?
Regardless, my dad is dying of cancer. In the future-perfect tense, both of my parents will have died of cancer. My dad is dying of lung cancer, my mother died of uterine cancer (though it made its way to her lung, and half of one was removed). I need to schedule an appointment with a gynecologist because now I have cancer trickling its tendrils into me from both sides of the family tree.
I'm going to be an orphan again. Makes sense, since I was one for so long. Things return to their natural state of being.
Thursday, May 14, 2015
Things I Am
(I wrote this a while ago and never published it. Probably because I wrote it when I was feeling mopey.)
Fat
Smart
Sexy
Pretty
Funny
Stylish
Wicked
Decisive
Controlling
Creative
Insecure
Caring
Loved
There's tons more, but those are the things that come easily to mind. Only the first item is something most people see when they look at me.
Fat
Smart
Sexy
Pretty
Funny
Stylish
Wicked
Decisive
Controlling
Creative
Insecure
Caring
Loved
There's tons more, but those are the things that come easily to mind. Only the first item is something most people see when they look at me.
Oh, It's Been a While
So, so, so much life has happened since I last blogged.
1. I moved to Atlanta, and that's been... It's been. Remind me to tell you what the first day was like and all of the other bad omens we've had since being here. I don't normally believe in that kind of stuff, but geez - I've been pummeled over the head with it.
2. I met the girl I gave up for adoption, and we correspond. She's amazing and like me and different and it's so weird. She's pretty much everything I wanted to be when I was her age, which is so strange. And dear lord, she's beautiful!!! How did genetics do that crazy shit?
3. I met my father. What?!? Like, I met him, we went out for multiple dinners, we have a picture together, I have his chin, he called me on my birthday. So weird. So much of my identity for all these years has been tied into being an orphan.
4. My father is still a deadbeat dad. He makes promises to see each other and avoids talking to me when he hits the deadline. I have to start most of the conversations with him. My husband is angry about it, but I'm actually not. I don't think I expected much when I initially contacted him, considering he'd already served a 30-some odd year hiatus. At least I know where I get my out-of-sight-out-of-mindness from.
5. Diabetes. I'm still on medication. My sugar is under control, but I eat what I want - which means my life is out of control. This is probably it's own post.
6. I still work from home, only now for one of the biggest electronics companies in the world. My weirdness is saluted and my boss's boss says fuck. I found my tribe.
6. Expect more product reviews!!! Ipsy is a really cool service that sends you multiple products (deluxe samples and full size) that you probably haven't tried. I've found a bunch of really awesome products through this. Also, clothes!!!
So, I'm back from my vacation, and ready to get back out here.
1. I moved to Atlanta, and that's been... It's been. Remind me to tell you what the first day was like and all of the other bad omens we've had since being here. I don't normally believe in that kind of stuff, but geez - I've been pummeled over the head with it.
2. I met the girl I gave up for adoption, and we correspond. She's amazing and like me and different and it's so weird. She's pretty much everything I wanted to be when I was her age, which is so strange. And dear lord, she's beautiful!!! How did genetics do that crazy shit?
3. I met my father. What?!? Like, I met him, we went out for multiple dinners, we have a picture together, I have his chin, he called me on my birthday. So weird. So much of my identity for all these years has been tied into being an orphan.
4. My father is still a deadbeat dad. He makes promises to see each other and avoids talking to me when he hits the deadline. I have to start most of the conversations with him. My husband is angry about it, but I'm actually not. I don't think I expected much when I initially contacted him, considering he'd already served a 30-some odd year hiatus. At least I know where I get my out-of-sight-out-of-mindness from.
5. Diabetes. I'm still on medication. My sugar is under control, but I eat what I want - which means my life is out of control. This is probably it's own post.
6. I still work from home, only now for one of the biggest electronics companies in the world. My weirdness is saluted and my boss's boss says fuck. I found my tribe.
6. Expect more product reviews!!! Ipsy is a really cool service that sends you multiple products (deluxe samples and full size) that you probably haven't tried. I've found a bunch of really awesome products through this. Also, clothes!!!
So, I'm back from my vacation, and ready to get back out here.
Say Hello to My Big F***ing Buns!
Thursday, January 30, 2014
Shopping For Spring Because I'm Tired of Snow - Enter eShakti
First, an explanation for my long absence...
Nope - I can't even fully explain it. I guess, too much, so many big things I could have written about that happened, but they felt too personal to trivialize with a blog post. I guess I could have written about fashion or makeup or something - I mean, I have a billion product reviews waiting in the wings (just wait! I joined Ipsy and have been binging on lip products) - but writing about those things seemed stupid when I had these huge life milestones that were going on.
So, life has calmed down somewhat. While my life has slowed, the weather has become crazier than it's ever been.
Well, that's hyperbole, actually. But damn! It's cold, for reals. Here in MI, wind chills have been in the negative double-digits, and the snow is piled higher than my dog's head (which is why, my neighbors, I'm cool with her peeing on the sidewalk). This winter has been so nasty, it's convinced my husband that this will be his last one in Michigan, even if he has to walk south.
I'm totally over the stupid cold weather. I've never begun longing for spring so early in the year in my life! I mean, I love spring so much, but I know it's just a harbinger of horribledisgustingsweaty summer. But here I am, planning my summer wardrobe already.
And this is where my product review comes in (like how I did that?). I've been perusing my typical plus-size options: Roamans, SimplyBe, Lane Bryant, Avenue, and Torrid. I just haven't been impressed. Roamans and Avenue have reverted back to old lady clothes (mostly - though Roamans tights are still awesome!), Lane Bryant and Torrid speak to the big girls who wish they could shop at Forever 21 or Aeropostale.
I've heard of eShakti for a few years. eShakti is an online retailer based in India that offers admittedly retro styles in sizes 0 - 36. They allow you to customize your order to some extent (change the sleeves, neckline, length, etc.), as well as making your clothing to your specific measurements for just an additional $7.50.
However, the reviews online were extremely mixed - great product, bad customer service, scary billing practices, not meeting deadlines. Also, their options were a little limited.
I'm not sure if my tastes are simply leaning more toward the Zooey Deschanel or eShakti is offering more options (little from column A, little from column B?), but I was starting to dig some of their dresses. Plus, they have nearly constant sales and offer a $30 gift coupon for your first order.
A couple of weeks ago, I placed my order. I chose to customize the sleeves and necklines of the two dresses I purchased, but went by straight sizes after using my measurements to determine the right one.
They told me to expect my dresses by 2/4/14.
This morning, DHL left the package outside my door - about five days early!
The dresses are flawless. They are very well-made, with touches of hand-stitching. It's a perfect fit - like, seriously! No pinching or bunching or anything. Perfect length (they ask for your height), and there's side-zippers to ensure it's form-fitting. And the fabric weight is sort of heavy but breathable. It will be perfect for spring into summer, and even be wearable in the winter with tights and a cardigan.
The dresses are average price for the plus-size consumer, though someone who is used to buying from normal retailers might see it as high. However, you're looking at high-quality, customizable, made-to-fit garments. No matter what size I wore, I'd find it a good value.
One thing to note: I ordered knit material, but most of their dresses are a structured poplin or cotton. If I order a non-knit in the future, I'll be sending in my measurements to ensure proper fit.
Oh - and I'll definitely be ordering from them again. This has been the most positive clothing experience of my life.
Edited to Add:
eShakti sent me a $25 gift card (that's right - after the $30 gift card for being a new customer!) after my item arrived. They are really working on their customer relations, and I'm completely overjoyed!
Also, I tried my dresses on for Jon when he got home from work and he thought they were the cutest things ever! Total win.
Nope - I can't even fully explain it. I guess, too much, so many big things I could have written about that happened, but they felt too personal to trivialize with a blog post. I guess I could have written about fashion or makeup or something - I mean, I have a billion product reviews waiting in the wings (just wait! I joined Ipsy and have been binging on lip products) - but writing about those things seemed stupid when I had these huge life milestones that were going on.
So, life has calmed down somewhat. While my life has slowed, the weather has become crazier than it's ever been.
Well, that's hyperbole, actually. But damn! It's cold, for reals. Here in MI, wind chills have been in the negative double-digits, and the snow is piled higher than my dog's head (which is why, my neighbors, I'm cool with her peeing on the sidewalk). This winter has been so nasty, it's convinced my husband that this will be his last one in Michigan, even if he has to walk south.
I'm totally over the stupid cold weather. I've never begun longing for spring so early in the year in my life! I mean, I love spring so much, but I know it's just a harbinger of horribledisgustingsweaty summer. But here I am, planning my summer wardrobe already.
And this is where my product review comes in (like how I did that?). I've been perusing my typical plus-size options: Roamans, SimplyBe, Lane Bryant, Avenue, and Torrid. I just haven't been impressed. Roamans and Avenue have reverted back to old lady clothes (mostly - though Roamans tights are still awesome!), Lane Bryant and Torrid speak to the big girls who wish they could shop at Forever 21 or Aeropostale.
I've heard of eShakti for a few years. eShakti is an online retailer based in India that offers admittedly retro styles in sizes 0 - 36. They allow you to customize your order to some extent (change the sleeves, neckline, length, etc.), as well as making your clothing to your specific measurements for just an additional $7.50.
However, the reviews online were extremely mixed - great product, bad customer service, scary billing practices, not meeting deadlines. Also, their options were a little limited.
I'm not sure if my tastes are simply leaning more toward the Zooey Deschanel or eShakti is offering more options (little from column A, little from column B?), but I was starting to dig some of their dresses. Plus, they have nearly constant sales and offer a $30 gift coupon for your first order.
A couple of weeks ago, I placed my order. I chose to customize the sleeves and necklines of the two dresses I purchased, but went by straight sizes after using my measurements to determine the right one.
They told me to expect my dresses by 2/4/14.
This morning, DHL left the package outside my door - about five days early!
The dresses are flawless. They are very well-made, with touches of hand-stitching. It's a perfect fit - like, seriously! No pinching or bunching or anything. Perfect length (they ask for your height), and there's side-zippers to ensure it's form-fitting. And the fabric weight is sort of heavy but breathable. It will be perfect for spring into summer, and even be wearable in the winter with tights and a cardigan.
The dresses are average price for the plus-size consumer, though someone who is used to buying from normal retailers might see it as high. However, you're looking at high-quality, customizable, made-to-fit garments. No matter what size I wore, I'd find it a good value.One thing to note: I ordered knit material, but most of their dresses are a structured poplin or cotton. If I order a non-knit in the future, I'll be sending in my measurements to ensure proper fit.
Oh - and I'll definitely be ordering from them again. This has been the most positive clothing experience of my life.
Edited to Add:
eShakti sent me a $25 gift card (that's right - after the $30 gift card for being a new customer!) after my item arrived. They are really working on their customer relations, and I'm completely overjoyed!
Also, I tried my dresses on for Jon when he got home from work and he thought they were the cutest things ever! Total win.
Friday, November 29, 2013
Argh! Diabetes and Thanksgiving
I fell of the wagon, y'all.
Like, I totally had good intentions for the longest time. I freaked out over carbs and checked my sugar a billion times a day to get it as low as possible.
But somewhere, bit by bit, my desire to control it slipped. Then, it stopped mattering what I ate. I mean, the food I ate was good food - unprocessed, home made, tasty and healthy - but I wasn't counting carbs anymore.
My sugar, however, didn't react. As long as I remembered my medicines in the morning and night, I was completely fine.
This wasn't my goal, when I found out I had diabetes. I wanted to get off the medication. Unless I get back into control, that's not going to happen.
Making this decision around the holidays is not the easiest decision. Of course, yesterday was a lost cause (because it was Thanksgiving, fools!).
However, today I woke up and took my meds, weighed myself (ugh), and at 1 cup of fat free Greek yogurt (10 grams of carbs), 1/8 cup of dry barley flakes (7 grams of carbs) and 1 tsp of organic peach jam (5 grams of carbs).
We'll try this again. My name is Trudy. I'm a diabetic.
Like, I totally had good intentions for the longest time. I freaked out over carbs and checked my sugar a billion times a day to get it as low as possible.
But somewhere, bit by bit, my desire to control it slipped. Then, it stopped mattering what I ate. I mean, the food I ate was good food - unprocessed, home made, tasty and healthy - but I wasn't counting carbs anymore.
My sugar, however, didn't react. As long as I remembered my medicines in the morning and night, I was completely fine.
This wasn't my goal, when I found out I had diabetes. I wanted to get off the medication. Unless I get back into control, that's not going to happen.
Making this decision around the holidays is not the easiest decision. Of course, yesterday was a lost cause (because it was Thanksgiving, fools!).
However, today I woke up and took my meds, weighed myself (ugh), and at 1 cup of fat free Greek yogurt (10 grams of carbs), 1/8 cup of dry barley flakes (7 grams of carbs) and 1 tsp of organic peach jam (5 grams of carbs).
We'll try this again. My name is Trudy. I'm a diabetic.
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
Milk of Magnesia is Gross and Also Awesome
So, if you have oily skin and wear makeup, you've probably had to deal with foundation just melting off your face throughout the day (unless you stopped wearing foundation, like I did - outlined here) and feeling as gross as it looked.
While I still feel like I'm happy to go foundationless (and makeupless! I work at home, fools), there are times where I've wanted to even up my tone and be able to experiment with contouring and different colors of blush - which really do require a foundation. Not only that, but what about Halloween makeup? I don't want to worry about whether it's staying on my face in the middle of a party, yo.
So, a few internet searches on the best primers and foundations for oily skin turned up something really interesting.
Milk of Magnesia - that gross, thin, white liquid you may have had to gulp if you couldn't poop (not me. I can't take liquid medicines because they make me vomit) supposedly keeps greasy skin matte when used as a primer.
On multiple sites - Makeup Alley alone being a source of hundreds of testimonials - reported this, and there's real science to back it up.
However, there were also a few people out there who began suffering from cystic acne and dermatitis after integrating it into their makeup routine. Here's the science behind that.
So - my dilemma (really? This is my life's dilemma?) was whether I wanted to risk skin problems where I'd always had pretty healthy skin with just the greasiness factor or deal with never being able to wear foundation for longer than an hour or so.
However, let's go back to science (or what my pinky-gray mass behind my face says it science).
As you all know because you read every stupid word I write on here, I use apple cider vinegar as a toner. Acids cancel out bases - right?
Also, I work at home. How often am I going to realistically going to wear foundation just to talk on the phone with my agents?
This week? Apparently, every damn day.
That's right - I have been making up my face every day in an attempt to see the result of Milk of Magnesia. So that makeup doesn't go to waste, I've been forcing all of my employees to look at my mug on webcam instead of just talking to me like a normal person over the phone.
Saturday was the first day, and it didn't really work. I still got greasy after a couple of hours. I think I didn't wait long enough between toner/moisture/MoM/foundation.
Sunday was less greasy.
Monday and today have been AH-mazing! Like, really. You'd never know I was a greasy gal! I don't know if it's continued use or what, but my skin has been like someone else's. If I wanted a truly matte finish, I could probably maintain it with a little powder or blotting papers (or Starbuck's napkins).
Here's my face with MoM, foundation, sans any form of powder, 8 hours after applying makeup.
Compare that to my face about two hours after washing it, without foundation, a couple of weeks ago.
Using it is sort of self-explanatory. Clean face (baby shampoo is a super gentle cleanser!), use apple cider diluted with water as a toner (1/2 and 1/2), and moisturize (seriously, anything - I use Jergens). Let your moisturizer sink in while you do your hair or something.
Basically, wet a cotton ball or cosmetic sponge with the MoM and put it on your face, making sure to hit everywhere - even the crevices next to your nostrils. Let it dry completely. If there are white spots, just rub them out with your finger or a dry cotton ball. Then, apply foundation. I've been using E.L.F Studio Flawless Finish Foundation, so it's not like it has to be amazing or high-end (though this product is great, considering the price point!).
Then, just do your thing. That's it. For reals.
Alright - so will I be using it daily? Nah bra. However, when I want to wear makeup, fersher. I don't think I'm risking my skin health because of my apple cider routine, and I haven't found anything nearly as effective in controlling my oil as this $6 bottle of Milk of Magnesia.
Also, is anyone tired of my big ole hipster glasses? Ready for a new look? I'm really digging on a pair of brow-liners.
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
Rededication to Health
I have been a bad, bad girl.
I have diabetes, and I have only been paying minimal attention to my eating in the last month or so.
My sugar has been fine, which is almost worse because it's like my body is giving me permission to eat whatever I want. Don't get me wrong - I don't eat junk. I haven't been counting carbs, though.
The problem is, that this is under medication. My goal was to reduce and eliminate what I needed to take. I've learned from some accidental missed dosages that I can't eat what I want and not take my medication. It doesn't work. My sugar shoots up to diabetic and near-diabetic ranges (way better than when I was hospitalized earlier this year - over 300 when I checked into the ER).
I didn't fall off the food wagon all at once. It was little stuff that I excused. Once the little stuff was excused, things like mashed potatoes and ice cream became OK.
This was worse than when I was in the midst of my bottom-of-the-barrel drug days. Then, it was fully recognized that I was out of control. Anyone looking at me could have detected it. Now, it's food - and good food! I use unprocessed ingredients and everything is homemade. I not only know everything that's going into my mouth, but I can figure out the carb count per serving.
Patton Oswalt did a bit about how he couldn't end up in the cool rehab with the rock stars. Instead, he's in over-eater's anonymous with stories about waking up in a hotel room where the underage chubby prostitute took off with your Ritz crackers and how he needed to, "...Swim away from pie," (seriously, YouTube this - it's hilarious, and I totally ruined it).
It's not one decision, though; it's a million decisions throughout the day. This morning, there were cookies on the counter (homemade with all natural ingredients, y'all). I actually thought, "I should just eat these today and work on my food tomorrow. Just call today a wash." Then, I realized it sounded like me back when I'd have a baggie full of Adderall at midnight and work the next day. I could sleep, or I could just power through the night and tomorrow and sleep after that - knowing full well that I'd be calling in sick, but lying to myself about what would actually happen. If I'd eaten the cookies, I probably would have eaten more tomorrow.
But damn if that's now how it feels. I need to swim away from pie. I got my life under control once without having to resort to 12 steps - I'll do it again.
I didn't eat the cookies, by the way. Instead, one cup of fat free Greek yogurt (10 grams of carbs) and 1 tablespoon of homemade apple butter (8 grams of carbs) with two packets of stevia. That puts my breakfast total at 18 carbs. I could have had more (I'm allowing myself 30 per meal), but Greek yogurt is incredibly filling and the tartness curbs my appetite.
It would be so much easier if I was still trying to control my drug use.
I have diabetes, and I have only been paying minimal attention to my eating in the last month or so.
My sugar has been fine, which is almost worse because it's like my body is giving me permission to eat whatever I want. Don't get me wrong - I don't eat junk. I haven't been counting carbs, though.
The problem is, that this is under medication. My goal was to reduce and eliminate what I needed to take. I've learned from some accidental missed dosages that I can't eat what I want and not take my medication. It doesn't work. My sugar shoots up to diabetic and near-diabetic ranges (way better than when I was hospitalized earlier this year - over 300 when I checked into the ER).
I didn't fall off the food wagon all at once. It was little stuff that I excused. Once the little stuff was excused, things like mashed potatoes and ice cream became OK.
This was worse than when I was in the midst of my bottom-of-the-barrel drug days. Then, it was fully recognized that I was out of control. Anyone looking at me could have detected it. Now, it's food - and good food! I use unprocessed ingredients and everything is homemade. I not only know everything that's going into my mouth, but I can figure out the carb count per serving.
Patton Oswalt did a bit about how he couldn't end up in the cool rehab with the rock stars. Instead, he's in over-eater's anonymous with stories about waking up in a hotel room where the underage chubby prostitute took off with your Ritz crackers and how he needed to, "...Swim away from pie," (seriously, YouTube this - it's hilarious, and I totally ruined it).
It's not one decision, though; it's a million decisions throughout the day. This morning, there were cookies on the counter (homemade with all natural ingredients, y'all). I actually thought, "I should just eat these today and work on my food tomorrow. Just call today a wash." Then, I realized it sounded like me back when I'd have a baggie full of Adderall at midnight and work the next day. I could sleep, or I could just power through the night and tomorrow and sleep after that - knowing full well that I'd be calling in sick, but lying to myself about what would actually happen. If I'd eaten the cookies, I probably would have eaten more tomorrow.
But damn if that's now how it feels. I need to swim away from pie. I got my life under control once without having to resort to 12 steps - I'll do it again.
I didn't eat the cookies, by the way. Instead, one cup of fat free Greek yogurt (10 grams of carbs) and 1 tablespoon of homemade apple butter (8 grams of carbs) with two packets of stevia. That puts my breakfast total at 18 carbs. I could have had more (I'm allowing myself 30 per meal), but Greek yogurt is incredibly filling and the tartness curbs my appetite.
It would be so much easier if I was still trying to control my drug use.
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
I'm Not an Orphan
I've called myself an orphan ever since my mother died, when I was thirteen. First, I did it to take the sting out of it - though not knowingly. I mean, I said it like it was a joke. It was never funny, though. Normally, it just made situations awkward. Later, I said it because it was the truth.
Even before my mother died, I didn't really have a normal family. My mother and I lived together, my sisters - both being much older - had already started their families, and my mother's fiancé was only around on weekends because he lived two hours away. My mom worked full-time, sometimes holding down two jobs. I was alone most of the time.
I'd look at people interacting with their families and only understand them the way an observer could. I studied them like an anthropologist, trying to analyze how they worked. They were interesting, but not anything I longed for. They normally seemed more trouble than they were worth, and everyone I knew was hiding most of themselves from them (that may have been more related to the hedonistic lifestyle we were all living, but it was still all I really knew or saw). It seemed like they claimed to love people simply because they shared DNA.
Also, I wasn't completely without family. I have a sister who has kids. But, whenever she said she loved me, I've never believed it. She doesn't even know me. I don't love people I don't know, regardless of relation.
Instead of relying on the fickleness of genes, I built my community from friends. While most of those friendships have drifted away due to life and time, I still have some solid connections. And I love! I love my husband, I love my friends, I love my pets. I'm not some emotionless sociopath.
However, family ties became real a couple of months ago (written about here). Now, I have a father. He's not what I thought he'd be at all. And my god, but I have a fucking father!
We've been chatting back and forth through email and have built a rapport. I chide him for eating poorly, he tells me how proud he is of how I turned out. I cry sometimes because I hate how good that makes me feel. I'm living a family dynamic.
Now, we're talking about meeting - like real meeting in meat space.
Is it too late to have a father? When he says he loves me (which he does), does it mean anything? I mean, like my sister, he doesn't even know me. Is love automatic with genetics? If it is, does it mean I'm missing pieces somehow for not feeling it?
Is it pathetic to want your parents' approval when you haven't had parents most of your life?
When we meet, I don't know if I'll hug him. I'm not good with people I don't know touching me.
Even before my mother died, I didn't really have a normal family. My mother and I lived together, my sisters - both being much older - had already started their families, and my mother's fiancé was only around on weekends because he lived two hours away. My mom worked full-time, sometimes holding down two jobs. I was alone most of the time.
I'd look at people interacting with their families and only understand them the way an observer could. I studied them like an anthropologist, trying to analyze how they worked. They were interesting, but not anything I longed for. They normally seemed more trouble than they were worth, and everyone I knew was hiding most of themselves from them (that may have been more related to the hedonistic lifestyle we were all living, but it was still all I really knew or saw). It seemed like they claimed to love people simply because they shared DNA.
Also, I wasn't completely without family. I have a sister who has kids. But, whenever she said she loved me, I've never believed it. She doesn't even know me. I don't love people I don't know, regardless of relation.
Instead of relying on the fickleness of genes, I built my community from friends. While most of those friendships have drifted away due to life and time, I still have some solid connections. And I love! I love my husband, I love my friends, I love my pets. I'm not some emotionless sociopath.
However, family ties became real a couple of months ago (written about here). Now, I have a father. He's not what I thought he'd be at all. And my god, but I have a fucking father!
We've been chatting back and forth through email and have built a rapport. I chide him for eating poorly, he tells me how proud he is of how I turned out. I cry sometimes because I hate how good that makes me feel. I'm living a family dynamic.
Now, we're talking about meeting - like real meeting in meat space.
Is it too late to have a father? When he says he loves me (which he does), does it mean anything? I mean, like my sister, he doesn't even know me. Is love automatic with genetics? If it is, does it mean I'm missing pieces somehow for not feeling it?
Is it pathetic to want your parents' approval when you haven't had parents most of your life?
When we meet, I don't know if I'll hug him. I'm not good with people I don't know touching me.
Lower Carb Recipe - Eggplant Pizzas
Pizza is a carb-heavy food. While it's alright to indulge once in awhile, it's not something you can consume regularly.
However, if you replace the crust with something lower in carbs (there are options - here, here, and here), you can enjoy the tastes without having to worry about your sugar. With the eggplant replacing the crust, you also get a high-fiber boost.
1 medium - large eggplant (a whole eggplant will have somewhere between 20 and 30 carbs)
1/4 cup marinara or pizza sauce (carbs will vary, but normally less than 10)
1 cup shredded mozzarella cheese (normally about 4 grams)
pizza toppings (take those into account when you're adding your carbs)
Preheat your oven to 425 and grease a baking sheet. Slice the eggplant about 1/2 inch thick. I like to slice it vertically, but it doesn't really matter. If you wanted to use this as an appetizer, you could slice horizontally.
Bake your eggplant for 25 minutes.
When it comes out, move it with a spatula to make sure it didn't stick.
Top your eggplant however you like and bake for another 15 - 20 minutes.
Done!
However, if you replace the crust with something lower in carbs (there are options - here, here, and here), you can enjoy the tastes without having to worry about your sugar. With the eggplant replacing the crust, you also get a high-fiber boost.
1 medium - large eggplant (a whole eggplant will have somewhere between 20 and 30 carbs)
1/4 cup marinara or pizza sauce (carbs will vary, but normally less than 10)
1 cup shredded mozzarella cheese (normally about 4 grams)
pizza toppings (take those into account when you're adding your carbs)
Preheat your oven to 425 and grease a baking sheet. Slice the eggplant about 1/2 inch thick. I like to slice it vertically, but it doesn't really matter. If you wanted to use this as an appetizer, you could slice horizontally.
Bake your eggplant for 25 minutes.
When it comes out, move it with a spatula to make sure it didn't stick.
Top your eggplant however you like and bake for another 15 - 20 minutes.
Done!
Friday, September 13, 2013
The Abandonment Chain
Some things have been weighing heavy in the last couple of months that have been making me rethink family relationships.
So, a few things not everyone knows about me:
I never really had a strong familial bond. While my mom was alive, cousins and grandparents and sisters and stuff - they were the world around me. There was no question of love, and I'm not even sure if children know how to feel that emotion. There was a bond, but not love as I know it now.
After she died, the family fell apart like petals off a cut flower. One by one until there was just a brownish center sitting in dank water. It's only as a teenager that you start comprehending emotions - at least in my case. By the time I started feeling them, family wasn't around to receive them.
At eighteen, I gave birth to a girl. While I didn't really know why, I knew I couldn't raise a child. I thought about it in terms of money and education, but it was really an issue of mental stability. I had years of work to do on my brain before I'd be ready to have anything of worth to offer someone.
I never felt torture about my decision. I gave the baby to a couple I chose, knowing she'd have a good life and would maybe not end up as messed up as I was.
So, scroll ahead 16 years. Here I am, this woman of the world with a (now) sound head on her shoulders and what should happen but a friend of a 16 year old girl asks me what I think of adoption.
What happened was the baby - who is not a baby anymore - got curious about where she came from, found some papers, and found me on Facebook. I mean, really - it's not like I was hiding, and there are only so many Trudy Smocks in the world. One of her friends contacted me - probably at her bidding.
But it hit me like Slap Bet (honestly, How I Met Your Mother is a highly enjoyable show, regardless of the typical sitcom tropes). Wham. I handled it maturely and cut off communication because she's a minor and I don't want to intrude on their family. However, I've spent the intervening time internet stalking her.
I don't know how I feel. Connection, definitely. According to Pinterest, she and I have similar interest. I pore over her pictures. I read her Twitter and realize she's probably struggling with some of the emotional problems I went through. But love? Something. I feel something.
Frustration over being mature and not reaching out to her led me to the other link in this abandonment chain - my father.
Family legend paints my father as a monster. Maybe he was - but I was feeling like rowboat in the middle of the ocean. Even if he was a monster, maybe he could be my monster. Maybe he could give me a reference point of who I could be.
I found him - nothing is sacred on the internet. We're emailing back and forth. I'm mature and accepting - he's loving and regretful. I doubt his love because he doesn't know me, but who am I
He praised me, and it brought me to tears. I HATE that it affected me. It's like I'm that therapy poster child with daddy issues.
It makes me afraid to ever talk to the girl I gave birth to - how badly could I make her feel about not being as self-actualized as she thinks she is? Would she have irrational anger that I'm not more of an obvious mess?
Will she abandon any children she has? Is it in our blood?
It's not all bad. My father is actually pretty brilliant, has a Master's degree, seems concerned, proud, nervous - all of the right things. My guess is that he wasn't a monster, or no more than I've been.
Maybe some people have to be cut out of the skin they're born in by the, "...slings and arrows of outrageous fortune," before they can become the people they want to be. And maybe it's best if they don't drag children down with them.
I don't have answers, because whether you stay or go, you'll cause pain.
I normally don't write about this kind of stuff. Sharing something on the internet... I don't know - cheapens it? This time, I feel like I want some sort of record of it.
Also, maybe the right people will find this.
So, a few things not everyone knows about me:
- I never knew my father. He left when I was less than two and my mother asked him to stay away - which he did. I had a few pictures and a sense of who the rest of my family thought he was.
- I had a baby that I gave up for adoption when I was 18.
- My mom died when I was almost 14, and I moved in with my sister.
- I moved out of my sister's house at 17, and haven't had much connection with any family since then.
I never really had a strong familial bond. While my mom was alive, cousins and grandparents and sisters and stuff - they were the world around me. There was no question of love, and I'm not even sure if children know how to feel that emotion. There was a bond, but not love as I know it now.
After she died, the family fell apart like petals off a cut flower. One by one until there was just a brownish center sitting in dank water. It's only as a teenager that you start comprehending emotions - at least in my case. By the time I started feeling them, family wasn't around to receive them.
At eighteen, I gave birth to a girl. While I didn't really know why, I knew I couldn't raise a child. I thought about it in terms of money and education, but it was really an issue of mental stability. I had years of work to do on my brain before I'd be ready to have anything of worth to offer someone.
I never felt torture about my decision. I gave the baby to a couple I chose, knowing she'd have a good life and would maybe not end up as messed up as I was.
So, scroll ahead 16 years. Here I am, this woman of the world with a (now) sound head on her shoulders and what should happen but a friend of a 16 year old girl asks me what I think of adoption.
What happened was the baby - who is not a baby anymore - got curious about where she came from, found some papers, and found me on Facebook. I mean, really - it's not like I was hiding, and there are only so many Trudy Smocks in the world. One of her friends contacted me - probably at her bidding.
But it hit me like Slap Bet (honestly, How I Met Your Mother is a highly enjoyable show, regardless of the typical sitcom tropes). Wham. I handled it maturely and cut off communication because she's a minor and I don't want to intrude on their family. However, I've spent the intervening time internet stalking her.
I don't know how I feel. Connection, definitely. According to Pinterest, she and I have similar interest. I pore over her pictures. I read her Twitter and realize she's probably struggling with some of the emotional problems I went through. But love? Something. I feel something.
Frustration over being mature and not reaching out to her led me to the other link in this abandonment chain - my father.
Family legend paints my father as a monster. Maybe he was - but I was feeling like rowboat in the middle of the ocean. Even if he was a monster, maybe he could be my monster. Maybe he could give me a reference point of who I could be.
I found him - nothing is sacred on the internet. We're emailing back and forth. I'm mature and accepting - he's loving and regretful. I doubt his love because he doesn't know me, but who am I
He praised me, and it brought me to tears. I HATE that it affected me. It's like I'm that therapy poster child with daddy issues.
It makes me afraid to ever talk to the girl I gave birth to - how badly could I make her feel about not being as self-actualized as she thinks she is? Would she have irrational anger that I'm not more of an obvious mess?
Will she abandon any children she has? Is it in our blood?
It's not all bad. My father is actually pretty brilliant, has a Master's degree, seems concerned, proud, nervous - all of the right things. My guess is that he wasn't a monster, or no more than I've been.
Maybe some people have to be cut out of the skin they're born in by the, "...slings and arrows of outrageous fortune," before they can become the people they want to be. And maybe it's best if they don't drag children down with them.
I don't have answers, because whether you stay or go, you'll cause pain.
I normally don't write about this kind of stuff. Sharing something on the internet... I don't know - cheapens it? This time, I feel like I want some sort of record of it.
Also, maybe the right people will find this.
Thursday, August 22, 2013
Sex, Hooch, and Boardwalk Empire
I just started watching Boardwalk Empire, so I know I'm super-late to the party when it comes to realizing the genius of this show.
So, this show has been lauded for being sexy and dirty and violent.
It's all of that. The men swear and kill and beat. They work real jobs where they use their hands instead of talking on the phone and appeasing customers.
The sex isn't some ethereal, romanticized period piece Cinemax smut. This is hipbone to hipbone awkward, sticky sex. It's sex that leaves a room smelling like mushrooms and fish.
This isn't the F. Scott Fitzgerald's '20s. This isn't the roaring '20s. This is the growling, pissing, rolling in death '20s. This is the era that makes you want to fuck when you haven't showered in a week and there's alcohol burning out of your pores.
We have this image of men (and women) in our history being harder, almost sociopathic when compared to today's standards. Fights, death, and survival were much closer at hand than they are in our modern lives. Slowly, then all at once, we gentrified.
We sanded off our rough spots with cable television, followed by internet, with even more internet after that, with a side of internet. We're introspective (without development, often) and avoid conflict. We've all learned the language of customer service, stand-up comedy, and social media. We're all experts at marketing, and almost no one knows how to butcher their own meat or build a house. Instead of doing something useful, we've convinced ourselves that the only jobs worth doing are the ones that let us sit on our buts.
I don't pine for a simpler time. I want my times complicated, messy. I do pine for a time when people lived in their bodies instead of their heads. I pine for doing instead of thinking or talking.
Is this the evolution of our species?
So, this show has been lauded for being sexy and dirty and violent.
It's all of that. The men swear and kill and beat. They work real jobs where they use their hands instead of talking on the phone and appeasing customers.
The sex isn't some ethereal, romanticized period piece Cinemax smut. This is hipbone to hipbone awkward, sticky sex. It's sex that leaves a room smelling like mushrooms and fish.
This isn't the F. Scott Fitzgerald's '20s. This isn't the roaring '20s. This is the growling, pissing, rolling in death '20s. This is the era that makes you want to fuck when you haven't showered in a week and there's alcohol burning out of your pores.
We have this image of men (and women) in our history being harder, almost sociopathic when compared to today's standards. Fights, death, and survival were much closer at hand than they are in our modern lives. Slowly, then all at once, we gentrified.
We sanded off our rough spots with cable television, followed by internet, with even more internet after that, with a side of internet. We're introspective (without development, often) and avoid conflict. We've all learned the language of customer service, stand-up comedy, and social media. We're all experts at marketing, and almost no one knows how to butcher their own meat or build a house. Instead of doing something useful, we've convinced ourselves that the only jobs worth doing are the ones that let us sit on our buts.
I don't pine for a simpler time. I want my times complicated, messy. I do pine for a time when people lived in their bodies instead of their heads. I pine for doing instead of thinking or talking.
Is this the evolution of our species?
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
What to Wear to an Interview When You're Fat
So, inspired from this XOJane article, I decided to do a how-to of interview do's and don'ts for the plus-sized corporate maven.
I spent most of my adult life working for large corporations, and mostly rebelling against the standard uniforms. It took years of not being taken seriously and turn-downs for positions to finally get me to give in and play the game. Granted, I'm retired from it at the moment, but that doesn't mean I didn't become an expert toward the end.
The biggest obstacle for corporate wear - especially interviewing - is how big I am. The typical fashion advice didn't work for me. I had a hard enough time finding clothes - let alone tailored clothes! - that would actually fit me. Tuck my shirt in? There's no way I'm going to look like a lollipop for your amusement!
Once I started getting the hang of dressing myself and mastering the politics, I was given the task of managing a development program for our employees.
One of the classes in that program was about interviewing. We had an amazing expert-interviewer come in to demystify the interview process as well as discussing what to wear.
The speaker had great standard advice - keep it simple, tailored, blah blah blah - but once again, the world seemed to be oblivious to the fact that fat people can't just follow the simple rules that the thin-privileged put in place.
Multiple times, I had larger women coming to me after these classes asking for advice on what they could, "Get away with," wearing for their interviews (don't get me started on why we have to get away with clothing our bodies!).
Fat women already have a harder time landing a position. Time, as well as many other sources, have studied the effect of obesity on employment. The thin have a number of automatic assumptions about fat people - we're lazy, disorganized, unhealthy, unable to handle day-to-day stress without a steady supply of chocolate - whatever! We have to work way harder to overcome our coworkers' and managers' innate biases, and interviewing can be much more important to us as a way of proving our ability to fit the position we want, regardless of preconceived notions. The last thing a fat person needs is to have their ensemble disqualify them before they have a chance to be heard.
So, here are a list of typical interview outfit rules, and adaptations for the pudgy. Please remember that these are just from my experience, and in a corporate environment. For those interviewing in a more creative or relaxed field, alter appropriately.
1. Wear a dark-colored suit
This is the hardest one to work with for a plus-sized lady. Without the aid of a tailor, suits don't work for most of us. A fat lady is not just a thin woman scaled up! Our bodies distribute fat in such different ways. For example, I have the fattest arms ever! If a jacket fits my body, it still won't fit my arms. If it fits my arms, it will hang off my body.
If you can wear a suit as a fat woman, more power to you. If not, then go for a dark dress or a pair of nice, crisp slacks/below-knee-length fitted skirt and a dress shirt.
This top by Lane Bryant is understated and professional.
You can also pair a nice cardigan (plain, no frills, clean lines!) or scarf with any of the above to help complete the outfit. Three pieces is automatically a little more pulled together.
2. Tuck in your shirt
Only you can decide if it works for your body and comfort level. Tucking in my shirt makes me look like a beach ball, but not all plus-sized ladies are created equal. If it's more flattering and creates a longer line, leave it untucked. Just make sure the hem isn't dropping and you've ironed it.
I like to keep it simple and go with a dress; then I don't have to make this decision.
3. Wear dark-colored pumps, no higher than a 3 inch heel
You will not catch me in pumps. If the corporate compound is large, you have to walk around in those heels, which causes back and leg aches for me. You also won't catch me in oxfords, athletic shoes, or sandals.
If you can wear pumps, awesome. Wear those heels. If not, then go with some plain, dark-colored flats.
4. Keep jewelry simple
This isn't size specific, but it's a good one to remember. Wear no more than one accent item - be it jewelry, a scarf, or a handbag. An interview isn't the time to look like a Macy's float, but one accent item can help them remember you - especially if they're interviewing a lot of candidates.
"I really liked that one girl... The one with the red scarf."
5. If you question whether you should wear it, don't
Again, not size specific. When in doubt, don't wear it out.
Here are the don'ts:
1. Don't wear anything too revealing
This should be a standard for anyone, but especially a larger person. It's not OK, but some people just aren't comfortable with a larger person's body. Once you're hired, you can challenge the status quo. You can't make them rethink things if you aren't around, though.
2. Make sure your clothing fits properly and is comfortable
Nothing says nervous like fidgeting. Your potential employer doesn't know you're putzing around because your pants are cutting off circulation to your feet, and not because you're trying to think of an answer about how you promoted diversity in your previous positions.
3. Don't wear anything faded, pilling, with holes, dropped hems, or just worn out
Don't wear a favorite pair of pants or shirt in the hopes they don't notice the oil stain that's only visible in certain light. It's an interview; they'll notice. This is, like, the only time it's completely socially acceptable to scrutinize someone else.
Basically, your clothing shouldn't speak for you in an interview. It should be an empty canvas, and your resume, personality, and answers should be the main event. Don't give the hiring manager an excuse to turn you away before you've even painted a picture.
Monday, August 12, 2013
My Second Act
I'm trying to figure out what I'm going to do with my for-real adulthood.
The job I have now is what I spent my pretend adulthood working toward: calculated steps and moving with a drive like a teenager playing chicken, unwilling to pull away before the other person does. Everything was a competition, and I was definitely not a loser. In my struggle to not be defeated, I still haven't won.
I've somehow become a corporate leader who specializes in career development. I've helped people figure out what they want to do with their lives and how to get there, been a trusted mentor and supervisor, and become a master manipulator.
And I hate it. It started creeping up like shower mold. Just a corner at first, but eventually you're embarrassed to let anyone use your bathroom and can't believe you actually try to get clean in that filth.
I realized I hated how much of my life was spent working toward someone else's goals in an industry I didn't believe in, so I changed jobs; the new one let me work fewer hours and got me out of privatized banking. It was OK for a while. The only problem was I still hated the standardized coaching and punishment/reward system that infantilized everyone involved in it. I hated thinking of what the company needed, as if it were a sentient being whose well-being was in my hands.
Things have come to a head. I'm done with my job and just biding time until I can escape, for real. My dear husband is working on getting some training so we're not relying primarily on my job, which will give me the freedom to take a risk.
I have no idea where to go or what to do. You'd think I could figure this out, considering that's what I do for other people - but I'm a blank. Follow your passion? Do what you're good at? The only thing I know I'm good at is this - what I've spent my twenties and early thirties building myself into. I'm a corporate machine, and I want to break out of my metal shell.
I can make my life in this business world last a while longer; I could get a different position like training or projects or something - something that gets me out of management. Ultimately, though... I need an actual exit strategy.
What am I good at? What am I passionate about? What should I work toward being when I finish growing up?
The job I have now is what I spent my pretend adulthood working toward: calculated steps and moving with a drive like a teenager playing chicken, unwilling to pull away before the other person does. Everything was a competition, and I was definitely not a loser. In my struggle to not be defeated, I still haven't won.
I've somehow become a corporate leader who specializes in career development. I've helped people figure out what they want to do with their lives and how to get there, been a trusted mentor and supervisor, and become a master manipulator.
And I hate it. It started creeping up like shower mold. Just a corner at first, but eventually you're embarrassed to let anyone use your bathroom and can't believe you actually try to get clean in that filth.
I realized I hated how much of my life was spent working toward someone else's goals in an industry I didn't believe in, so I changed jobs; the new one let me work fewer hours and got me out of privatized banking. It was OK for a while. The only problem was I still hated the standardized coaching and punishment/reward system that infantilized everyone involved in it. I hated thinking of what the company needed, as if it were a sentient being whose well-being was in my hands.
Things have come to a head. I'm done with my job and just biding time until I can escape, for real. My dear husband is working on getting some training so we're not relying primarily on my job, which will give me the freedom to take a risk.
I have no idea where to go or what to do. You'd think I could figure this out, considering that's what I do for other people - but I'm a blank. Follow your passion? Do what you're good at? The only thing I know I'm good at is this - what I've spent my twenties and early thirties building myself into. I'm a corporate machine, and I want to break out of my metal shell.
I can make my life in this business world last a while longer; I could get a different position like training or projects or something - something that gets me out of management. Ultimately, though... I need an actual exit strategy.
What am I good at? What am I passionate about? What should I work toward being when I finish growing up?
Crush - With Black Eyeliner
I have a tumultuous relationship with makeup. I've gone through periods where I had to get fully made up to leave my apartment (hello Goth, 2001) as well as spent several years not even wearing it (corporate living, 18 hour days!). However, I've struggled with what actually looked good on me and tended to try to wear whatever and however my friends were.
Nowadays, of course, my on-again/off-again with makeup is in the honeymoon period. I like creating new looks even when I'm sitting in pajamas at home (like yesterday with teal and black eyeliners with a long corner rather than turned up cat-eye that made me feel like a 1960's Barbie - minus the flawless beauty and unrealistically small waist while hanging out on the couch all day with my husband). My biggest beauty vice, of course, is eye makeup - specifically, eye liner. In fact, there are days where that's all the make-up I have on and I feel perfectly made up.
I love a good liner, and they just seem to have gotten better through the years.
When I was a little girl, I'd watch my mother put her makeup on. She'd start with her eyes - blue shadow to match her blue eyes, black liner, mascara, blush, and lipstick. She used a powder liner and licked the brush between dabs in the pot. I thought it was the most disgusting thing ever.
However, unlike my own initial forays into the world of makeup, her liner was smooth, unsmeared, and bold.
Fast forward several years, and several incarnations of eyeliner trials - pencil, twist-up pencil, liquid, marker/pen, cream, and finally (my new favorite) gel.
Just like my mother, I get to sit in front of the mirror and dab my brush in a little pot (me, sans spittle) and feel like a fancy lady with my little glass jar.
Currently, I'm using L'Oreal Infallible Gel Lacquer - 24 Hours. I'm using Blackest Black and Espresso - depending on my color scheme. It's super creamy and smooth. It goes on like a dream. The brush that comes with it, unlike most complimentary brushes, doesn't feel cheap (but, you know, I have better brushes).
And this stuff - it completely lives up to its promise. I slept in it (don't ever sleep in your makeup!!!), and it was still sitting there, right above my eyelashes where it was supposed to be. I'm greasy, and it still didn't migrate or disappear.
The only drawback seems to be it's promise; it doesn't move. If you want to smudge it, you better catch it within a minute (if you don't catch it, use a fine brush and top it with some matching eyeshadow).
While I'm sure higher-end products may have better results (although, I'm not really sure how), and may end up lasting longer in the jar (cream eyeliners tend to dry up in the pot within a few months with lots of product left over - which is what I'm expecting here), but drugstore doesn't always mean crap product, and L'Oreal has a strong record of quality. I feel like it's what my mom used, even though I have no idea why I feel that way - must be their marketing.
Anyway! I haven't completely rebuked other forms. I use a pencil for my blue liner, use liquid when I need bold precision, pens are always easier to handle (though seem to dry quickly), and cream gives you nice smokey eye (and I'm using the dried up brown cream on my brows when I feel like filling them in - my desire for fat brows is a story for another day). However, this gel sort of feels like the culmination of my own eyeliner evolution and what will become part of my makeup routine.
Who knows, maybe someday I'll have a kid who will remember me sitting at my vanity putting my eyeliner on out of a little pot.
Weird.
Nowadays, of course, my on-again/off-again with makeup is in the honeymoon period. I like creating new looks even when I'm sitting in pajamas at home (like yesterday with teal and black eyeliners with a long corner rather than turned up cat-eye that made me feel like a 1960's Barbie - minus the flawless beauty and unrealistically small waist while hanging out on the couch all day with my husband). My biggest beauty vice, of course, is eye makeup - specifically, eye liner. In fact, there are days where that's all the make-up I have on and I feel perfectly made up.
I love a good liner, and they just seem to have gotten better through the years.
When I was a little girl, I'd watch my mother put her makeup on. She'd start with her eyes - blue shadow to match her blue eyes, black liner, mascara, blush, and lipstick. She used a powder liner and licked the brush between dabs in the pot. I thought it was the most disgusting thing ever.
However, unlike my own initial forays into the world of makeup, her liner was smooth, unsmeared, and bold.
Fast forward several years, and several incarnations of eyeliner trials - pencil, twist-up pencil, liquid, marker/pen, cream, and finally (my new favorite) gel.
Just like my mother, I get to sit in front of the mirror and dab my brush in a little pot (me, sans spittle) and feel like a fancy lady with my little glass jar.
Currently, I'm using L'Oreal Infallible Gel Lacquer - 24 Hours. I'm using Blackest Black and Espresso - depending on my color scheme. It's super creamy and smooth. It goes on like a dream. The brush that comes with it, unlike most complimentary brushes, doesn't feel cheap (but, you know, I have better brushes).
And this stuff - it completely lives up to its promise. I slept in it (don't ever sleep in your makeup!!!), and it was still sitting there, right above my eyelashes where it was supposed to be. I'm greasy, and it still didn't migrate or disappear.
The only drawback seems to be it's promise; it doesn't move. If you want to smudge it, you better catch it within a minute (if you don't catch it, use a fine brush and top it with some matching eyeshadow).
While I'm sure higher-end products may have better results (although, I'm not really sure how), and may end up lasting longer in the jar (cream eyeliners tend to dry up in the pot within a few months with lots of product left over - which is what I'm expecting here), but drugstore doesn't always mean crap product, and L'Oreal has a strong record of quality. I feel like it's what my mom used, even though I have no idea why I feel that way - must be their marketing.
Anyway! I haven't completely rebuked other forms. I use a pencil for my blue liner, use liquid when I need bold precision, pens are always easier to handle (though seem to dry quickly), and cream gives you nice smokey eye (and I'm using the dried up brown cream on my brows when I feel like filling them in - my desire for fat brows is a story for another day). However, this gel sort of feels like the culmination of my own eyeliner evolution and what will become part of my makeup routine.
Who knows, maybe someday I'll have a kid who will remember me sitting at my vanity putting my eyeliner on out of a little pot.
Weird.
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