My Wicked Sense of Humor

I come by my wicked sense of humor honestly... both my parents are hilarious, in very different ways. My mother gave me my sense of irreverence. In the '80s there were these bumper stickers that were very popular: "My [ex-husband, ex-wife, boss, etc] is in the trunk." She wanted to get one and then attach one of these to the trunk:

From that point forward, she created a monster. If I ever offend you accidentally, know that I meant you no harm. If you are still offended knowing that, your loss.

A prayer we can all relate to...

From St. Teresa of Avila:

Lord,
Thou knowest better than I myself
that I am growing older and will someday be old.
Keep me from fatal habit of thinking
I must say something on every subject and on every occasion.

Release me from craving to
straighten out everybody's affairs.

Make me thoughtful but not moody;
helpful but not bossy.

With my vast store of wisdom,
it seems a pity not to use it all;
but Thou knowest, Lord,
that I want a few friends at the end.
Keep my mind free from the recital of endless details;
give me wings to get to the point.

Seal my lips on my aches and pains;
they are increasing, and love of rehearsing them
is becoming sweeter as the years go by.

I dare not ask for improved memory,
but for a growing humility and a lessening cock-sureness
when my memory seems to clash with the memories of others.
Teach me the glorious lesson that occasionally I may be mistaken.

Keep me reasonably sweet, for a sour old person
is one of the crowning works of the devil.

May we learn to celebrate our cracks

When I was younger, I planned to grow old gracefully, to celebrate my laugh lines and wrinkles as testaments to a life well lived. However, as growing old becomes more reality than theory, I struggle with vanity and ego. Intellectually, I know how I want to be, however my ego interrupts my intention. I just saw the above post on Facebook and I am once again re-inspired to celebrate my journey and all the scars that stand as testament to it.

May we all learn to celebrate our cracks and fill them with gold.

We all feel unattractive at times

I am suffering from body dysmorphia lately. I knew it would happen. A year and a half ago, I was down to 103 pounds and was almost solid muscle due to complications from Lyme Disease- I was vomiting and convulsing in pain almost constantly, which, as it turns out, really builds up muscle. I had the “best body” I have ever had; I put best body in quotes because that is based on our unhealthy, media influenced American standards. Once I got healthier (vis a vis Lyme) recovered from the nausea and was able to eat again, I began to get back to a healthier body type. As I gained weight, I was very conscience to keep saying affirmations that I was beautiful, that growing out of a size 0 is healthy. I knew moving from a media driven “ideal type” to a healthy ideal would be hard on me psychologically but with my conscience effort, my self perception didn’t spin out of control.

I then contracted a respiratory infection and wasn’t able to work out for a few weeks. I also got in a relationship. Before I knew it, I was up to 132 pounds. I found myself growing from a size 2/4 to a 4/6 to a 6/8 and I now find myself no longer fitting in my size 8s and having to purchase size 10s. Per our Wii Fit, I still have a healthy BMI, although just barely. I am 5’2” with a thin frame, so I am definitely heavier than I should be; I most definitely shouldn’t gain any more weight. But here’s the thing that strikes me: I shouldn’t feel as hideous as I feel. I really noticed this when looking at photos from graduation this year and cringing at how much weight I had gained. I went back and looked at last year’s graduation pictures (the ones where I, ironically, thought I was fat) and I saw how I was too skinny then. I went back to the current pics and forced myself to see myself as normal and healthy. I looked at pictures of other women (who I consider beautiful) who are of a similar body type to me. I realized that I look no different from them; it is merely my own negative self-perception that is different.

 

I know that I am not the only woman who feels this way. I am here to say: you are not alone. I will continue to work to see myself as beautiful, no matter what my body looks like. I will also continue to work out and will try to eat healthier (much easier said than done for me). I want to be strong enough to conquer Lyme and everything beyond that is gravy. (And while I must force myself to say this) I am beautiful as I am, this day. I know that I will eventually learn to believe myself when I say it.

I am beautiful as I am.

I miss the woman I used to be.

Today is the last day of Lyme Awareness Month and I find myself struggling.

I miss who I was and I struggle to accept that she may never return. I used to bounce, constantly. I had a bottomless well of energy. I was constantly social, always connecting with others. Now even bouncing wears me down. I wouldn’t label myself anti-social, but I no longer make and maintain connections like I used to.

One of the things that hurts my heart the most is that I am not able to be there for my friends like I used to. Supporting the ones I love has always been so important to me. I missed my friend’s bachelorette party (that I helped plan) because of herx reactions. I will miss another friend’s wedding because I don’t have the energy to get there and back. Even just reaching out and being a friend is difficult for me.

I miss being academically gifted. I hate suffering from dysnomia (the inability to recall the correct word from memory.) I am a concise writer and select each word carefully; due to the dysnomia, I will search for the word I want for 20 minutes or more. (ok, I’m also neurotic.) I’ve also noticed that I struggle to pronounce words, which I wonder if that is a similar neurologic process. When talking, I may say what I am thinking but random, incorrect things might come out of my mouth instead. Sometimes I am able to catch my errors but sometimes not. It’s even harder for me to write my thoughts. I am blessed that a friend has volunteered to take dictation for me so that I can finish up my summer semester. I know that I should be careful what I wish for but I almost wish that I wasn’t able to recognize the cognitive changes; I find myself longing for the bliss that ignorance bestows.

In a backwards sort of way I was blessed when twice I considered just giving up. Each time I was presented with an easy way out: the first time I was swimming and ran out of energy; I looked around to find the pool edge to grasp and realized I was in the middle of the deep end. I knew that I could have just allowed myself to drown and I would be released from my suffering. However, I chose life. I kept my lungs inflated, did a deadman’s float and waited until I floated close enough to grab the pool edge. The second time was a couple months ago while I was struggling with pneumonia and was in so much pain I wondered if I could continue to bear it. While swallowing my joint supplement pills, they lodged sideways in my throat. A couple months prior to this a dear friend had choked and died suddenly, so I knew how dire my predicament was. I knew that I could panic and allow my throat to close and that would be it, the end. Once again, I chose life. I remained calm, continued to breathe, and waited for the pills to dissolve and pass through to my stomach. It took a few hours but it was worth it. My doctors say that I have too much life left in me to give up yet.

The fact is that the past is gone. What was cannot be retrieved, so I must figure out how to work with what I have now. I must love who I am now, learn patience and acceptance. I just really miss her.

True Confessions

In less than a week, I will be at my 20th high school reunion. I am normally very secure about my appearance, occupation, activities, etc even though the current circumstances of my life would push most women to neurosis. However, all of sudden I am finding myself obsessing over grooming and appearance. Wondering if I am skinny enough? Whitening my teeth, worrying about breaking a nail (really? Me, worry about my nails?)


These women are like my sisters- that is the nature of what happens in a small girls boarding school, we become family. I am sure there are some who disliked me, always have always will. But the ones who love me, love me for me- always have and always will. They don't care if my nails are perfect or my teeth are white.

I guess this is my public confession that I too am but an insecure girl inside, looking for love and acceptance and approval.