I Still Don't Believe It!

So, per last week's post, I was scheduled to leave for the e.d. treatment center on Monday. Packed and repacked, eager and anxious at the same time, I am grateful the day is finally arriving. Except it isn't, or it doesn't, or whatever.
When I ran by Walgreens Friday to get my meds, I was informed that I do not have insurance any longer. I was further informed that my COBRA (can you say evil) policy ran out March 31. This is most confusing as I have Explanation of Benefits, etc where the insurance company has paid claims through both April and May. Of course, since it is the weekend I can't do a thing about it until Monday. So I spend the weekend in limbo. Not.A.Good.Weekend. I call Cobra yesterday and they confirm that, in fact, my insurance was cancelled on March 31 due to non payment. (yes, I sent payments for both April and May). By now, however, I have checked my bank statement and neither check posted. Yet, I am still confused. Why did they make payments on claims over those two months if I didn't have insurance for more than 60 days. The answer: They are shorthanded. The turnaround time to let the 'paying people' at the cobra insurance office is about two months. Now, I don't know exactly what to think, say, or feel. I am angry. I know that much. It may not be the cobra insurance's fault that they never received my checks. (I mailed 2 checks of 2 different accounts in one envelope and yes I put my id number on them), but I do know, KNOW, that had they not been paying those claims in April I would have taken care of the problem by now because I would have known something was very much amiss. The lady asked me, "Don't you check to see if your payment posted to your account?" I said, "Lady, when you pay you electricity bill and turn the light switch on, if it comes on, do you then go and check your bank statement to see if it posted or do you just think 'wow, damned thing musta posted cuz I still have lights'?" That is my only defense. They used up my grace period because of their slow turn around. I could be at the treatment center right now, probably carrying on about how I want to come home but instead, I'm sitting in a coffee shop getting madder by the minute as I type this. I have filed an appeal. Big Whip. Apparently Cobra, at least as it pertains to former teachers in Arkansas, is an entity to itself and doesn't have to answer to the insurance commissioner in Arkansas, who I also called. In other words Cobra-God. I don''t know. I just don't know. Maybe I'm missing something. I just don't know. But if anyone knows of a decent facility for treating eating disorders that is nonn-profit or offers financial assistance, I would be so incredibly happy to hear from you.

ps. I'm too mad to proof this. just whatever.

IRamblings on Insurance, Gratitude, and Giving Up.

A lot of people care about me. I'm not entirely sure why, but they do. I was supposed to leave this morning for an eating disorder treatment facility in St. Louis.
I had gone back and forth about it for weeks before finally committing to entering treatment. Of course, best laid plans and all that. After picking up my prescriptions Friday afternoon, I found out I don't have insurance coverage any longer. Never mind that I have documentation stating several things have been filed and paid, even through May. Cobra with ArBenefits says my coverage terminated on March 31. Nevermind that I made payments for the two months after that. They don't show up on my bank statement so for what ever reason they either didn't make it to Little Rock or didn't get posted. My guess the payments didn't make it for one reason or another. Why the first two made it and these didn't, I don't know. Anyway, the whole episode is making me very insane, very upset. I want help for my eating disorder. I want health insurance. I am very well aware that ultimately it is my own fault I am in this predicament in the first place. I never let myself forget it, trust me.
But even in the midst of all this crap, people are surrounding me, trying to help me any way they can, whether I want it or not. What I really want it to go to sleep and stay that way for eternity. At least that is how I feel right this moment. Hopefully, those feelings will change.
The ArBenefits division gave me the option to appeal, which I have already done via fax, and now I must wait a minimum of two weeks to find out my fate. I am so sucky at patience and waiting in general. And I have been packed since Thursday. Did I say that already. The people in my life who are supporting me are full of rallying messages: "this is your disease talking." "You have a mental illness that is running the show right how, it will get better." Maybe they are right. I know they are about the mental illness, anyway. But, I do not want to have a mental illness. I never have wanted one, though I can't remember not having some degree of something that looks like, talks like, walks like mental illness. I just want help with the eating disorder. I checked with the place I should be at even as I write this. They don't offer scholarships, etc. that would allow me to seek treatment there. I understand that. It is a business after all. I am just disgusted. I am also grateful for sponsors, therapists, and friends who continue to believe in me when I do not have the slightest belief in myself.
I am staying at a hotel tonight. I want to be a lone. Good idea? I don't know, maybe not. Do I care? Not so much right this moment. Do I want to be me? Not in the least. Is this a pity party? Possibly, but I do not really give a flying fig right now if it is. I am angry, primarily with myself, frustrated beyond words. I am just so very, very tired of me.
I'm also not proofing this. I just don't care right now.

Eating Disorder Treatment-Needs, Fears, and Desires, Oh My

 On Monday, I am going to treatment for an eating disorder, a disorder that has been with me so long I do not know a version of me without it. "Eating disorder" is a broad term that covers a continuum of conditions like anorexia nervosa, bulimia, and emotional eating. There are others, but the one characteristic they all share is extreme attitudes, feelings, or beliefs around food and/or body image and weight. For me, it is a huge dose of body dysmorphia, a couple of scoops of diet pills, washed down with liters of food obsession and what I have been told are irrational beliefs about my body.Very much extreme, Very much qualify. So after changing my mind, packing and unpacking, doctor's visits and blood work mix-ups, I will leave Monday morning to embark on yet another trek in the recovery journey.  


I have fought this more than anything else I have done in recovery, EVER. Even the first treatment center for sex and love addiction in 2006 was easier for me to commit to than the eating disorder thing. It has been with me the longest, so I suppose that makes sense. I was a skilled disordered eater before I even knew about boys and sex and such. I have fought with my body and with food as far back as I can remember. And while I've done some work on it, it has never been the intensive, eating disorder focused treatment my therapist has been telling me for 8 years I need. So off I go, kicking and screaming, yet hoping this work will lead to the grounded and connected feeling that so eludes me almost every day. 


I am scared to do the work. I'm not scared of doing work, just scared of doing this work. I dread the anxiety and shame that comes with being away from home and away from the girls. again. I dread the little girl feelings of terror because my safe places are 500 miles away. I dread worrying about the money. But, truth is, what I dread most of all is a life forever filled with the obsessions and beliefs that mark my eating disorder. I am expecting a lot from this treatment because I need a lot from it. Fear or not, I will do the work. And when the 6 year old in my mind takes over, I plan to take the best care of her I ever have in our life. She needs to know she is worth it and so do I.

Undecided.

It is no secret that I have been dealing with disordered eating since the pre-teen era. It is also no secret that I have never had treatment for said disorder. I get a phone call today from the lady at the treatment center I've been in touch with lately telling me they would like for me to begin their program next Tuesday and suddenly I am all about not going and all the good reasons, really good reasons, I can not possibly go right now.

The truth is I am terrified of feeling that trapped, anxious feeling that goes with being somewhere I cannot readily leave on my own. At first I was to be in the day program and would have access to my car and could leave if I wanted to, not that I have ever left treatment before. But now, they want me to stabilize in residential. I get the reasons for it, but holy the freaking cow that is one scary, trapped feeling swelling up in me right now. I don't know. I just don't know. I don't want to even think about it. I don't want to think about feeling like this for the rest of my life, either. I am tired. Apologies for the quite unedited dumping.

Eating Disorders, Daughters, and Dimples

I have been in California with the oldest since Tuesday. The USMC has done an awesome job stationing my future son-in-law on both the Gulf of Mexico and the beaches near San Diego. It doesn't get much better. Being so far from home, however, reminds me how shaky my feelings of safety still are even after trauma treatment and the ongoing therapy. I was ready to head for home the first full day, but I am getting a little more comfortable. It may be that some of my comfort is motivated by the awareness that I am scheduled to enter treatment for my disordered eating/body image issues when I return home. I am both ready and terrified, but when I think about my daughters and their own body image issues, my mom and her issues, and the cycle, I cannot imagine not going.

Sometimes it seems as if am a professional treatment-goer, or would that be 'treatmenter'? Sex and love addition treatment, trauma treatment, iop trauma treatment, now eating disorder treatment. Honestly, though, before I even knew what sex was I knew my thinking and behaviors around food and my body were too intense to be healthy. I thought I would grow out of it. I did not. My feelings of self-worth are just as connected to my feelings about food and my body as they ever were, possibly even more so since the trauma work. Even though I have a lot of fear around this treatment, I am even more fearful of not addressing something that has been such an integral part of my world forfreakingever! It hurts hearing my girls voice the same kinds of concerns and messed-up thinking that has ruled a huge part of my life. And I thought I did such a good job of keeping the insanity to myself and not letting my thoughts spill over into their lives. Looking back, I realize it is impossible to hide something this big and this consuming. Food obsessions and body dysmorphia are huge serenity busters. I think 47 years of it is enough.

So I'll finish my California vacation and do my best not to let the body image stuff be a barrier to the beach and to enjoying time with my daughter. I will think about the message I am sending her and how actions speak louder than anything, and I will look forward to that day-post treatment-when my worth as a person does not have one thing to do with dimples on my butt and jiggling body parts-a very worthy goal indeed.

Faith-When Size Doesn't Matter

I have never really cared for hot holidays. I think it is a combination of sticky, sweaty childhood memories and my insane issues with body image. I start dreading them as soon as Easter is over. Memorial Day, Fourth of July, and Labor Day all commemorate people and places well deserving of a national holiday, so I know my dislike for summer festivities and such is selfish. Nonetheless.

I am 47 years old and there are many things so much more important than the size and shape of my thighs or the all over my body jiggling feeling that seems to go on long after I have stopped moving. Those thighs work well along with the rest of my body.  My children's bodies are healthy. My entire family, from my 70 something year old mom to the baby due in August is healthy  and well. So why, I mean I'm hardly a hormone-driven teenager anymore, do I still freak out at the thought of wearing shorts or, O.M.G. a swimming suit. I cringe at the idea of wearing a swimming suit even in my own back yard. Some of this insanity may have something to do with the recommendation from my therapy team (Team Breath.Repeat) that I pursue treatment for disordered eating. Honestly, I do not have a memory of being carefree in or about my body, a fact that sometimes fills me with shame considering how blessed I am in so many ways. But again, it is nonetheless the truth of it all.

Amy Steinberg, the best female vocalist and lyricist world wide, in my opinion, sings Beautiful in Me which you can find here (also available on amazon and itunes). My favorite part of the song says, "I got these thighs, I got this hair. I will not even dare compare." This verse is even more appropriate if one knows that my hair is the curliest, frizziest crown of glory ever. The song contains a very affirming body image message. "Today I choose to only see the beautiful in me." She actually sang this song just for me once. I work on accepting my body a lot. I have been for a long, long time. I do not seem to be making much progress on my own. I think the team is right. I really am going to need some help with this one. And I think it is time.

 Fighting addictions is often like the whack-a-mole game, that annoying game at Chuck-e-Cheese. You know the one where the player has a hammer-whacker thingy and whacks a little rodent-like head as it sticks out of a hole only to find another rodent face staring at you from another hole. It is very annoying and very much like addiction. With help, you get one under some control and another is vying for placement. And when dealing with addiction, there are no tickets to exchange for some sort of plastic loot. You just get more work. Some folks would say more opportunity for growth. I believe this to be true, but I usually feel like I have enough growth opportunities already. No need to add more, I'm saying.

I've tackled the relationship addiction. After 6 years of SLA recovery, I am still so grateful for the freedom from bondage I was in for years due to serious, sometimes deadly, problems with relationships which affected EVERY aspect of my life. I have worked doggone hard on trauma issues. The Life Healing Center in Santa Fe is the most therapeutically safe place in the world, again in my opinion. I learned so many, many things during my stay there which I still apply to my life on a daily basis in an effort to heal from the steady diet of chaos that was my childhood. The disconnection and dissociation are so much better. That constant static or fuzzy television noise in my head is more manageable. I have more nightmare free nights than before I went to LHC, and when I do find myself in a bad place, I am better equipped to handle it.  What I know about my disordered eating, however, what I have always known about it, is that it is the most elusive and most difficult rodent  for me to whack. There may be more than one type of bondage, but no matter the kind, bondage is miserable. I feel like Seymour from Little Shop of Horrors who cannot get away from Audrey 2, regardless of the consequences. Come to think of it, that could be a pretty thorough analogy from the beginning. How much harm can a little extra of this or that really hurt, after all? Until it does. It hurts in a way that has nothing to do with that helping (or second helping) of Moo-Licious ice cream.

Anyway, I need help. When I have asked for help before, I have gotten it. Why am I so scared of this? I mean how hard can it be, really? Why so much shame around this? I mean how much shame can be involved in getting help with disordered eating after I have been the ONLY sex and love addict in a treatment center full of alcoholics and drug addicts. I was wickedly popular. And the treatment did help. I learned that even though my behavior has consequences, I am not a bad person. I did what was suggested and it has changed and is changing my life. Why do I sense that the Higher Power who has gotten me this far is unavailable or unable to help me with this? I believe this is going to require a Leap of Faith. Just a small leap, because with faith, size really does not matter.

Dear Fear of Failure

Fear of Failure,

You have certainly been a powerful part of my life. Unfortunately, you have been one of  the most powerful, but I am relieved to see the back side of you. It has taken years to gather the positive resources necessary to reach the place in my life where I can say GET THE #(@) OUT! I have earned the right to every #(@) YOU I send with you as I kick you out of the door.

I am aware of no gratitude from having known you. Some day my perception may shift into believing you have initiated positive growth in some way. For now, however, my only awareness is of the countless number of things I have been afraid to try and to pursue because of you. From climbing a damned tree to believing I could ever again write a poem, from daring to swing with abandon at recess to the willingness to accept someone's love for me, you have been my constant companion. As both a soft, quiet whisper and a powerful and piercing voice, you have prophesied how I could and probably would fail. Your mantra has been the theme song on the soundtrack of my life, and just like that stupid song one cannot get out of her head, you have haunted me. Your power has been nothing but a dam to possibilities.
So #(@) OFF NOW!

I am going to know failure in my future; I am going to know even more success. But what I am not going to have anymore, what my ears refuse to listen to again is your echoing message. I will no longer sway in rhythm to the fear of failure melody you love to sing.

Today it is time for a new song.

Courageously,
ME

If Your Friends Jumped Off A Bridge...

In addition to my oldest who is 22, engaged to be married, and a sweet, beautiful girl who already knows practically EVERYTHING and only needs her mother in times of crisis, I also have 14 year old twins, females. They need their mom for money, that's a laugh, and a ride. One is blonde and has blue eyes while the other is more like her mother and oldest sister, brown hair and brown eyes. Anyway, the brown one proudly handed me my Mother's Day card last Sunday. It had about 5 stick figures jumping off a bridge and one lone stick figure standing safely on the side looking down at the others. The inside said, "See, and you thought I wasn't listening." Not only did it fit her personality perfectly, she has quite a sense of humor, it also mirrors our relationship in a a lot of ways.
I have a difficult time discerning the difference between the times when my kids are listening, however reluctantly, and when they are rolling their eyes behind me just waiting for me to shut up my endless speech on subjects for which I'm hardly qualified to have an opinion, let alone speak. What's more, the times I grow some and decide to speak up regardless of the blonde one's overwhelming disgust at my completely uneducated comments, I get the ever eternal, older than God, Why.

Why can be followed by any number of phrases and such. One of my most interesting, yet confusing 'why's came to me like this "So, why HAVEN"T you ever ridden an alpaca?" It was asked in the most accusatory fashion and I found myself feeling downright guilty for not seeking out an alpaca in the middle of the soybean and cotton fields in my back yard and riding the damn thing. Never mind I've yet to see one that is ridable, rideable, able to be ridden (i.e. not in a zoo or on tv, etc), the guilt can be paralyzing.

Not counting the gajillion 'why's I asked my own folks, I have been the recipient of at least that many as a parent, if not more. I swore growing up that I would never insult and dismiss my own children's honest and sincere questions with the insulting and dismissive response I received from my own mom: BISS.TW (Because I said so. That's why). For the most part I've followed that vow. I just tweaked it a little and answered my sweet babies inquisitive natures with IDHTGUAW (I don't have to give you a why.) So much more respectful and affirming, don't ya think?

Do You Bring TOO Much to the Table?

I am supposed to begin treatment at a local eating disorder outpatient facility. The facility has recently undergone some changes and is now part of another mental health care group. I say all that to acknowledge that it IS still in the growing stages and things do tend to go slightly awry at start ups and such. That being said, I have been in contact with the marketing director and also have gone through the assessment protocol. One of the qualifications is medical clearance, EKG, blood work, your basic physical stuff. So I took care of all of that. This was NOT an easy thing for me to do as the first, the very first, question on the physical clearance form is weight. Now, I do not weigh. There are too many reasons to list, so we will just leave it at that. But, I gathered up all my courage, stuck it in my bra where all important things you don't want to forget are placed, and went for the physical.
So far, so good. I made it. The next step was waiting for blood work, etc to come back and make it to the clinic so I could get started. Again, I've been in treatment for addiction before, just not for an eating disorder, and I am honestly more frightened of this than of any treatment or recovery work I have faced in my life. I know many reasons why this is the case, and I also know this fear must mean it is very important. So, again courage in the bra as I wait for the start date.
AND THEN, you knew there had to be more, I go to see my therapist last week. Great guy, been working with him for years. He has an abundance of all the qualities a good therapist needs to be effective. ANYWAY, he tells me he received a call last week from the clinical director of this program, a lady who is very well-known in this area for her eating disorder expertise. I have never met this lady. I wouldn't know her if she walked into this coffee house and sat with me. She, however, tells my therapist that she is concerned that I might be 'bringing too much to the table." WTF. Does that mean what I think it means? That I am too crazy for treatment? That I am a hopeless case. And what table? And what am I bringing to it that is more or less or different in some way than other eating disordered people seeking treatment. Let me tell you, my ego took a direct hit. I mean how could it not? I know I have issues, and I know I have been working on them for some time and have had some great success. I am not a liability in any way I can see. I'm not a s&*#stirrer. I participate and contribute to group when appropriate. It did help, a lot, that my therapist who knows me better than anybody, was equally confused and disturbed. I kept asking him what he wasn't telling me. What's wrong with me that even I don't know about yet? He had no answers. He was as baffled as the next person, who was me. Besides my ego being stabbed, I was scared. Now what? I was kinda leapfrogging to the program while I still had the balls to do so. Am I back at the beginning? Is my cobra insurance going behind my back in an attempt to rid themselves of my off the chart mental health bills? I don't know.

Keeping in mind I've never laid eyes on this woman, nor spoken to her, I cannot imagine where this information is coming from, so I think my therapist and I were perfectly justified to be in such a baffled state. Unless he was lying to me and knows I am so out there there are not even words to describe the state.

BUT, and isn't there always one, my avenger-therapist calls the marketing director, who he knows personally, and they determine it isn't even me the clinical director was referring to when she called. SHE CALLED THE WRONG THERAPIST ABOUT THE WRONG CLIENT. We aren't even going to go into the hipaa laws or whatever and releases of information that were never signed. While I was certainly relieved that I'm only the degree of nuts I've known about all along and there isn't anything new I need to be freakin' about, the whole thing doesn't instill a great amount of confidence in the program. Besides, the whole episode triggered my ptsd and now I probably need to return to the Life Healing Center for a refresher course. And, if I'm being told the truth that it is not me, there is someone out there who still has too much for the table.

Ok, final decision at this point in the day which may change in 2 seconds: I will probably enroll in the treatment program regardless of this mix-up. The primary reason, besides the fact they are new and growing pains are bound to occur, is that my therapist has great respect for the therapists in this program and maintains that despite what has happened heretofore I will be hard pressed to find the quality of therapists they offer. So, because I trust him, and because I believe this happened for some reason, I will go into the program with as open mind as possible, hoping I do nothing that my be too much for the table. I really have nothing to lose but some time which I am mostly wasting these days anyway. The treatment is fully covered by my insurance and good heavens knows this eating disorder that has ran my life since before conscious memories needs to be addressed.

ps. The zoo was amazing. Simply amazing. I made some incredible 8 year old friends. I believe we both enjoyed the field trip more just by being together.

Today I choose Zoos (and purple)

Today is Zoo Day. I get to/have to go to the zoo today. Honestly, I am honored to be invited. One of the little girls I tutor wanted me as her field trip companion, and it IS an honor and privilege to be invited. However, I am not a zoo-loving person. It just isn't my thing. I can take it in small doses, even smaller doses when the forecast is for 90 degree weather. I will, however, enjoy the day and the monkeys and fishees and other such zoo residents. I will, I will. I am choosing to enjoy the zoo. And to see the sunny, 90 degree weather as an opportunity to get a little vitamin D and further lead my skin into the weathered saddle look. It is going to be GREAT!!! Awesome even. My tutoree is a sweetheart and will make a great companion and we will throw peanuts to the bears or elephants or whatever animal it is that likes peanuts. We will squeal at the snakes and hold our noses by the hippos. I will fight the urge to check the time every five minutes and relish in the opportunity to be a part of something for someone else instead of just for me. Really, I will.

My blog has received its first comment. Given the choice, There is no one else  I would rather it be.  (though I'll take any and all comments just to know someone other than me, and on occasion Erin, is reading this thing). Erin of The Queen of Spain fame responded to a rather somber entry I made a week or so ago. I am wearing my team#SuckItLupus purple and am considering a few purple streaks for my hair. Nothing looks better on naturally curly hair than a little purple. Thank you, Erin.

That Gratitude List

Yesterday I mentioned two blogs that provide me with hope when the intense noise in my head tries to block anything closely resembling a desire to move forward. In an attempt to try out the idea that one can chose to change a negative attitude or negative belief to something more positive, it seems like a good time to list a few more people, places, and things that have influenced a willingness to look forward even during those times I was not totally convinced it was a great idea.

1. Amy Steinberg. Info can be found here: http://www.amysteinberg.net/  A friend of mine (ok, my therapist) turned me on to Amy a couple of years ago and I will be forever grateful. She writes all her own stuff and has an amazing voice. Inspirational, funny as hell,  or love ballads, her music can reach me when nothing else will. Hope is the first song I heard by Amy and it has remained one of my absolute favorites. It can be found here:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ksICuUewmyo. You can buy Amy's music on Itunes, Amazon, and cdbaby.

2. Dancing  I met my current boyfriend at what I only half-jokingly call a Senior Citizen's dance. He claims he had no choice but to ask me to dance since he already knew the other members of my party, and we have been dancing ever since. We aren't quite ready for Dancing with the Stars, but we are getting close. Plus, I like being pretty much the youngest one at the dance.

3 MollyDog Molly was rescued by a local animal shelter after her owner had kicked her out and left her in the middle of the town square. People actually saw this man force her out of his truck. She avoided all attempts by the good people of the animal shelter to rescue her and waited 5 weeks for this sorry jerk to return. Finally, when winter weather left her with little choice, she found herself warm and well-fed at the shelter. 3 weeks later we found each other. She is amazing, and we both have abandonment issues. We are a perfect match.

That's three. Certainly more than I deserve sometimes. And for number four, my family. I'm going to hang out with my kids-all incredibly bright, sweet, and all other great things despite their mom,  at one of the twin's softball games. One of the best catchers in the 14 and under league, if I do say so myself. So definitely, I am saving the best for last.

Mind Bomb Hokey-Pokey

I'm going to preface this post by acknowledging I am attempting to let go of my comma splice, sentence structure, mechanics/grammar obsession in order to write this post less 'hindered' by the English teacher who is alive and well within and constantly choking my thoughts with her red pen. 

I can't remember a time when suicide was not an option. The idea has been with me since elementary school, approximately 40 of my 47 years. It has either lurked quietly in the shadows, ready to spring forth and 'save the day' or held center stage causing me to feel like a wussy failure for not following through with it. That some people go through life without ever, even once, thinking like this is nearly unfathomable to me. I don't get it; I wish I did. I do TOTALLY GET how sick this sounds, how sick it is that these thoughts take up so much space in my mind. And it isn't as if I've done nothing about this demon and what sometimes seems aa battalion of others: Therapy, lotsa therapy, treatment for addiction(s), 12 step recovery, more therapy, trauma work. This list is endless. And yet, here I am and here IT is, lurking or looming daily. There has to be something else out there I've missed somehow. One psychiatrist I worked with is convinced suicidal ideation is an addiction in and of itself. I don't know. What I do know is I would like to be rid of it.

I don't remember the first time I thought about it. I do not remember an incident or situation that helped conjure up such an idea. I just know I can only vaguely remember a time it wasn't in my mind. And I am ashamed. Ashamed that the thoughts are such a part of my life and take up so much space in what is already a chaotic area. I can and have filled reams of paper with gratitude lists. None of this makes sense.

I follow two blogs written by women facing serious issues that affect every aspect of their lives on a daily basis. The blog Queen of Spain's objective at its beginning provided social media strategist Erin Kotecki Vest's a wide-reaching resource upon which to make "the most impact in  the quickly-evolving new media landscape." The last couple of years, however,  Erin's primary topic has been her continuing struggle with lupus and the effects this horrific disease has on her life and the life of her family, friends, and career. I'm not sure how I came upon her blog, but in one of the first entries I read, she finds herself trying on bathing suits in the department store dressing room as she deals with the weight-gain caused by the very medicine meant to help save her life. She is exhausted and She has had enough.  Tears for her loss, her struggle, and for my own shame at being someone in good enough health and facing issues only brought about by my own actions overwhelmed me as she spoke of the body she had had only months before and how it had changed, and of her own sense of shame at the feelings she considered vain and not so relevant in light of her health. I read every entry in her blog that night and am still reading each time she posts. Her primary concern is her family and her ability to be the mom/wife they deserve. And when I read Erin's words, I am able to recognize how skewed my thinking is and I pray for some degree, no matter how small, of the courage she must summon every day. Her insight and her fight are incredible.

Yet, I still fight this self-destructive voice in my head determined to remind me just how bad I am, how defective is my very soul.

A couple of months ago, I followed a twitter link to Diary of a Mad Woman, a blog started by a 43 year old widow raising 3 young children after her husband's suicide. Her honest posts filled with the pain and confusion of her family's loss and her struggle to get through each day with both tears and laughter landed me right on my ass. Here is the perspective, the world, that is left behind after suicide.  There is nothing more sobering. Again, I read the entire blog in one sitting. I sent it to my friends to read. I read it to my oldest daughter. I put it out there on every social media site I know. And to the degree I know how, I've settled her words next to that voice in my head, that destructive voice that lurks and lunges with words of condemnation and self-hate.

I don't know why this seemed important enough that I write it down. I only know it has been rattling in and around my mind for days now. Sometimes just putting it out there will take away some of the power. And regarding my fear my red ink pen will be triggered, I refuse to do anything other than a spell check before posting, regardless who else, if anyone, readcs it.

Love Dousing

Alex Blackwell is the founder of  The Bridgemaker, a site which houses his blog on personal growth and change. It has an amazing following and offers readers huge doses of hope and motivation. Today's post deals with moments of truth, or as Alex puts it, those moments when you "felt love pour all over you."
I do have some of those moments, despite the occasional conviction that I do not. Alex refers to a lip-synching performance, which reminded me of one of my own. I was Whoopi Goldberg in her Sister Act role leading a group of nuns/teachers in Hail Holy Queen in a stadium full of 7th-12th graders. It was an incredible feeling. But then my head goes to what happened a few years later and how I don't teach in that district anymore and why. Nothing about that feels good or anything remotely like love pouring over me. Why can't I just stop at goodness? Instead, I choose to beat myself down with rest of the story. He also talks about removing those demon claws and claiming our own power to do just that. I've had some success removing claws, and I definitely think it's time for some more extracting. I mean how do I know, really, how the rest of the story really goes? I'm in it. Every day is part of the rest of the story and for the longest time, to what extent I have control over it, my role in the story involves self-sabotage and downright emotional and verbal abuse to self. No way would I say the things to someone else that I say to myself. It's gotta stop, or at least slow down.
Truth is, I have many moments when I felt love pour all over me. Every time I perform and the audience is responding, it is a spiritual experience rich with love. Then there are those family moments like when one of my teen-age daughters randomly does or says something that lets me know I'm not always a huge, embarrassing burden to bear. Or when my ex-husband encourages me despite all the reasons I've given him to do otherwise. So, I'm going to work on declawing demons and practicing a little self-love. Thank you, Mr. Alex Blackwell, for helping me to remember all those amazing love dousings.

Is sex addiction real?

An article in yesterday's Chicago Tribune Is sex addiction real?, written by Alexia Elajalde-Ruiz, explores this addiction from a perspective that is different from the celebrity media and many other outlets that tend to find sex and love addiction hilarious. It is not. In my experience (I am terrie in the article), the vast majority of days in my addiction began with me being mad as hell I woke up, again, and ended as I was praying that I would die in my sleep this time...or succeed at suicide or have a car accident that killed only me. I did try that one; I failed. obviously. I like the way the reporter discusses the DSM's take on this addiction and the move to classify this as something other than hyper-arousal. For me, there was nothing 'arousal' about it. There was, though, plenty of vigilant, hypervigilant. The kind of vigilance that comes with living double, triple lives, having a family, a job, and wanting to die simulataneously. I make NO excuses for my behavior and poor choices. I paid many consequences, though I deserved many more. God's grace was with me the entire time; but it is only through looking back that I'm able to see this. I've been in recovery from sla since 2006. Had I known what sex and love addiction was the 5 years I lived that horrific life, I like to think I woulda/coulda done some things differently. My behavior hurt A LOTLOTLOT of people. Sometimes I do wish I could have a do-over. Other times, I can't imagine being where I am today without having had that experience. "We will neither regret the past or shut the door on it" (Bill Wilson). I am not completely there, yet. There are days when I do regret the past and many more nights. There are also days I am grateful for where this journey has brought me so far.
Regardless, I am grateful for the opportunity to be interviewed for the article and for the unbiased, straightforward manner in which the reporter presents it.

Fake the Day

I don't like the kind of days when nothing is wrong, not a thing out of place in what has become my life, but I still feel like shit. It feels like failing. When I have a sick kid or a flat tire, those fairly benign situations can throw a little wrenching into what is otherwise a perfectly fine day. Days like this one, though, perfect weather, no flat tires, no sick kids, not even having to totally stress about money at this very moment, have not one thing about them that I can connect to this freakin' funk. So I'm going to write even though I don't want to write. I'm going to sit in this coffee shop and drink coffee, eat a bagel, and fake myself into a better place. F'kin get over yourself, girl. Geezus.

sad

I want my family back.

Willing, Worthy, and Whiny

I have seen a therapist almost every week for the last 6 years of my life. Scattered in among those six years have been a few short 'in-house' stays, a 6 week stint in a treatment center for addiction, and most recently, 2 months in an incredible facility where I worked on nasty trauma issues. There's more but that's enough to show some degree of willingness to do some work. But lately, the worthy question comes up more and more. If I've been working on the chaos in my head for so long and still feel so pathetic, gross, useless, evil (you get the idea), what's the point in continuing to throw money hand over fist? I do have kids, after all. Kids who want and need a gajillion different things. I'm not even working right now, for God's sake. And whose fault is that? MINE. Not only am I not working, but I seem to have very little desire to find a job. I can't imagine being sane and grounded enough to work. It is too easy to forget that I taught school for 25 years, even though I was crazy as hell a lot of the time. These days it is no small thing when I make it to a once a week tutoring appointment.

I can't remember ever liking myself. I am starting to think all the therapy in the world isn't going to help much if I  continue this self-loathing. Quite honestly, I do not know how to think of myself any other way. Some really awesome people have tried to help me, but so far I haven't been able to think too well of myself for more than a few minutes every now and again.

For someone so smart, I sure am slow.

Nightmares All Day Long

     I know nightmares get their name because they occur at night (or whenever you do your extended slumbering), but, for me, the nightmariest nightmares are not over when my own screams jolt me awake. They tend to hang around like a bad cold that I just can't shake all through the day. Even if I can't exactly remember what subconscious horrific event led to yet another hollerin' for my daddy fit, the fear and foreboding which comes with it can yuck my whole day. It isn't enough that my awake (i tried alert, but that's just plain lyin') mind is hellbent on darkness and hypervigilance, but I get to survive those nightmariesh (idk) days living out night hell as well.
God. I.am.tired.of.my.mind.