Dirty Little Secret

I have a secret. It's something that disgusts me to my core, and I can't believe I'm going to expose myself like this. I'm sure once it's out in the universe, I'll hate myself even more, and I'll wish I had never posted this.

I need to get this out though, because I'm scared that my secret might be slowly killing me, and maybe, just maybe, spilling my guts will help me muster the strength to regain control over myself. For the umpteenth time.

I have a very unhealthy relationship with food, that started when I was 12 or 13 years old. I won't go into the how or why though, to protect the not so innocent. I ping-ponged back and forth between starving myself, and binging and purging throughout high school and college. 

I'm pretty sure a few people suspected, but nobody ever confronted me about it. Especially not my family, because in my family, we didn't discuss anything ugly or negative. We just pretended it didn't exist.  

I could go for periods of time without any issues, and then something would send me back down the rabbit hole. It would happen whenever I was stressed. Or depressed. Whenever I felt fat(ter than usual.) Or when I was feeling invisible, unwanted, or unworthy. Or if I failed at something. Oh, and that time my college ballet teacher said I needed to lose 15lbs, to increase my chances of being hired by a dance company.

After leaving college, and getting married, I had things mostly under control for a really long time- for years actually. 

Something shifted along the way though, and instead of my emotions and stressors causing me to starve myself, or binge and purge, I started overeating. 

And then I catapulted into full blown binge eating.

And I can't stop. 

I'm so out of control right now that I want to crawl into a hole and never come out. 

**********************

That's how this post started eight months ago. I've written, deleted, and re-written this so many times that I've lost count. And then I stopped writing because I was so horrified at the thought of confessing this to the world. I'm scared of being thought of as disgusting. Or even worse, being thought of as weak. Because isn't that what society thinks of overweight people? 

I'm really not even sure that anyone would actually care about my problem, because most people don't want to hear about the unpleasantness in someone else's life. 

But I decided that I needed to do this for myself. If anyone thinks less of me for something I've struggled with for the better part of 30 years, then so be it.

The other reason this took me so long to post, is that I was trying to get it all out, without sounding tragically hopeless and damaged beyond repair- which is ironic in itself, since at the time that I created this blog (a year and a half ago) I felt that I was broken beyond repair. I'm happy to be able to say that I no longer feel that way. 

Well, I'm still cracked around the edges, but who isn't?

Anywhoo, during the months that I struggled with writing every word of this post, a funny thing happened (funny weird, not funny haha.) It was the beginning of September, and my 43rd birthday was approaching. I decided to focus, and force myself to really dig down deep. I started remembering how I had fought so hard to overcome my problems so many years ago.  

And now it's December, and I haven't binged. 

Not.even.once.

I tried to last week though. I was having an emotional morning, and I went to the store, and, as if in autopilot, I navigated to the cookie aisle and grabbed one of my go-to emotional crutches. I added some healthy things to my basket, so I wouldn't appear to be some disgusting pig who was buying nothing but a package of Double Stuff Oreos. 

The cashier rang-up my items, and as she got to the cookies, I got self-conscious and anxious. 

The cashier commented on how delicious she remembered them being, and how she hadn't had Oreos, or any cookies, for years, because she tries to eat really healthy all the time. (I think people with that kind of self control must have something clinically wrong with them!)

I was horrified that she would think the cookies were for me, so I said something about how much my kids like them, making sure she understood they weren't mine!

The entire drive home, all I could think about were the cookies in my shopping bag. I got home, and tore into the package immediately. 

I ate three cookies, and then stood in my kitchen looking at the package in disbelief. There was no feeling of satisfaction. The cookies weren't filling up the gaping hole inside of me!

I stared at the package of Oreos for a few minutes, and the next thing I knew, I was dumping it into the trash! 

Although I've managed to not binge in the last four months, I still have my battles. I still hate my body and my appearance. I still think about food constantly. I still often eat in secret. I still avoid food in social settings. Actually, I do my best to avoid social settings altogether. For years now, I have avoided seeing old friends, and meeting new ones. 

And now, I have the overwhelming task of undoing all of the damage I have done to my body. Or at least as much of it as I can. 

I will probably always battle this demon, but for now, I'm winning. And I'm happy to be winning one day at a time. 

I See You

I know what you're feeling. 

I know you think you're invisible, but I see you. I notice more than you realize. 

You probably feel like nobody would ever speak to you if you didn't speak to them first. 

I know how hard you try to connect with people, only to feel shut out and unimportant, and like everyone else connects so easily. 

I know that the people you wish you could truly matter to, those whom you truly want to connect with, never seem to feel that way about you.

You go out of your way to show how much you care, to pay attention and be present, and it's never enough. So you try even harder, even though you know that whatever connection you do make won't be enough for you.  You'll want more than the others can give.

And then you pull away, and put on the armor that feels like your favorite pair of perfectly worn-in jeans.

I understand this all too well, because I've lived this my whole life. This is my reality every single day- the struggle of finding where I belong.

I wear the same mask as you- the one with bright colors, and a painted on smile. The one that belies the loneliness and fear that hides beneath. 

I've worn that mask for years, because letting anyone see the truth would make me feel weak and pathetic, and nobody wants to be around a pathetic mess. So I stand in the periphery, pretending I am content to be passed up and unseen by most. All the while wishing for what never seems to come my way.

Some days, it's just too much, and I just want someone to notice me, without me having to say a word. Some days I need to matter, and it's soul crushing when I don't. I tell myself that I don't care. But I do care. I care too much. 

It's not our fault, you know. We didn't do anything wrong. It was the  circumstances we were thrust into that filled our heads with the garbage we tell ourselves. 

It's the pain from the broken shards of our hearts that makes it almost impossible for us to open up and trust, even though we want to so badly. 

It's the years of feeling forgotten and invisible that has caused this insatiable need to be noticed.

Where we came from, and the things we've endured are not our fault. But we do control where we stand today, and where we are headed.

I am not a sum of the disappointments I felt growing up. I continually tell myself that I can no longer give the garbage in my head power over who or what I am today. 

I am no less than anybody else.

The biggest truth I have to constantly remind myself of, is that while I am in my head screaming that I want to be noticed, other people are in their heads, shoveling through their own piles of trash. 

I don't own pain and sadness. And when I feel like nobody sees me, I have to remind myself that it's not about me- that maybe their garbage is consuming them, just like mine is consuming me.

I am not any more damaged than anyone else in this world, and neither are you. 

We are all beautifully broken. 

Forgotten

I was raised by my dad and my stepmother. My stepmom has been a part of my life since just before my 2nd birthday, and I call her mom. 

My birth mother was in my life sporadically at best- she was an absentee mother. That I remember, I never even called her mommy or mom, I only called her by her first name. 

I would go years without hearing anything from her- no birthday cards, no letters, no phone calls. Nothing. Then, out of the blue, she would call, and promise to come see me, or tell me she was sending me a present, and time after time, I was disappointed.  

Sometimes she would ask me to come stay with her for awhile, and part of me desperately wanted to. She was a stranger to me though, and I was too scared... too hurt... too afraid of hurting the parents who raised me, to say that I wanted to go see her. It was an impossible situation for a child to be put in. 

I grew up feeling unwanted and unloved by the one person in the entire world who was supposed to love me beyond all else. I was pretty sure she didn't even remember when my birthday was. I learned early that I didn't matter, and that I was easily forgotten. 

I also have three (half) siblings who were raised by my birth mother- two of whom I hadn't seen for close to 30 years, and one who I had never met- until a weekend in 2008.

My maternal grandmother passed away on August 18, 2008. She was the only person on that side of my family who ever kept in touch with me. She would write me letters occasionally, and she sent me birthday and Christmas cards every year. She always included ten or twenty dollars, even after I reached adulthood. I told her she didn't need to, but she insisted that I buy myself a treat with the money. It was cute, and it meant everything to me that I was important to her.

One day, I received a call from a maternal aunt (whom I had never spoken to before) letting me know Grandma had passed away, and when the funeral would be. I was shocked that anyone even remembered that I existed, let alone thought to call to inform me. My aunt said she came across my phone number in Grandma's address book.

I felt sad and gave her my condolences, but I wasn't planning to go to the funeral. I had never been part of that family, and I felt like I would be an intruder during a private family time- their time to grieve and say goodbye. 

I had also just lost my Dad two months prior, and was still grieving over him. I felt a sharp pang of guilt at the thought of attending the funeral, and seeing that side of my family, as if it would be some sort of betrayal to him.

Things changed when the phone rang again, about an hour later. This time it was my older brother. I have vague memories of playing with my brother when we were small (we're 11 months apart) and I have a few photographs, but we hadn't seen or spoken to each other since 1980. The memories seemed more like a fading dream that I couldn't quite recall.

I always carried my brother in my heart, and so desperately wished he could be part of my life. I had hoped that he remembered me all those years, but I honestly figured that he had forgotten all about me. I assumed they had all forgotten about me. 

To say I was shocked when Nathan called is putting it mildly. He asked me if I would come to the funeral. I instantly wanted to go, but I didn't want to seem too eager. I told him I would consider it, but I couldn't make any promises.

After some careful consideration, and discussion with my husband, we decided to make the drive from San Diego to Phoenix. 

I was terrified to see the family I had lost so long ago- the family that seemed to have forgotten that I even existed. But I wanted to say goodbye to my grandmother. More than anything though, I wanted a glimpse of the family I had missed out on for so many years. 

I decided to go to the funeral, but I was just going to sit in the back and observe. I wasn't planning to speak to anyone, because I didn't want to cause any drama at an already emotional time. 

As I sat in the back of the chapel, I watched the people who filled the room. I searched their faces, looking for some resemblance to myself- looking for eyes and noses and hair like mine. I assumed I was related to a lot of them (which I was) but I didn't know a soul. It was such a strange feeling. 

And then I saw her. I recognized my birth mother instantly, and I was quickly able to piece together who my brothers and sister were.

I sat in my seat and watched my long lost family interact with each other- support each other, hold each other, and cry with each other. I felt numb, and sad, and so very lost.

I could see the love that they had for each other. A love that I had never been included in. It felt like a dagger right in my heart. 

I watched my birth mother hold and cuddle one of her granddaughters, and I felt a twinge of sadness and jealousy for a moment. Jealousy seemed an odd feeling for a 36 year old to be feeling, but I couldn't remember ever feeling that type of love and affection from her, and it was something that I had wanted from her for so long.

My heart broke as I watched Nathan sob uncontrollably as he stood over Grandma's casket. They were very close as he grew up. She was there for him a lot of times through his tumultuous childhood, when no one else was, including my birth mother. 

I waited until after the services were over, and then summoned the courage to introduce myself to Nathan. Actually, it was more like I was pulled to him. I had an overwhelming urge to comfort him, and I had no choice but to go to him. I was following behind him, and I called his name. He stopped and turned around, and said, "yeah, what?"  

His face showed no sign that he recognized me. For a split second, I considered just offering my condolences for his loss, and then racing to my car. I wanted out of there so badly!

Instead, I walked closer to him, and said "Hi. I'm Lisa." I could barely get my voice out. 

The little sister whom I had only met one time before was standing next to him, and she audibly gasped when I introduced myself. Nathan instantly bear-hugged me, and started sobbing again.

I also met my younger brother for the first time, and an aunt, and a couple of nieces. As we talked, my sister just kept grinning from ear to ear every time we made eye contact. It was heartwarming, and surprising, to see that she was happy to see me.

My birth mother was standing just a few feet away from this scene, where all four of her children were together for the very first time. But I couldn't go talk to her. I couldn't be the one to reach out to her. The hurt little girl inside of me needed her to come to me, to show me that she wanted me. I shouldn't have had to be the one to chase after her.

I stood there, both hoping and terrified that she would come to me, but instead she walked away. 

In that moment, I was slightly relieved that she didn't come over to me. I had no idea what I would have said to her anyways. Then I decided that I had made a mistake introducing myself.  I started to convince myself that I made an already upsetting time worse. I wished I had stayed in the shadows, and left quietly like I had planned.

But as we drove away from the cemetery, I was suddenly flooded with feelings of heartbreak and hurt. All of the feelings from my childhood, that had been kept under lock and key for so many years, came spilling out.

When she walked away from me that day, she showed me once again that I was unwanted and unworthy of her love. It was like being abandoned for a second time.

I found myself at a fork in the road that day. I had an opportunity to stay in touch with my siblings, and to finally get to know them.  Would I take the path that included my siblings, and possibly my birth mother? Or would I wait another 30 years to see them? I wanted to get to know my brothers and sister. I have always wanted to know them. The adults in our lives failed us though. It should have been important to them to make sure we had a relationship with each other.  

However, I wasn't sure I was ready to have my birth mother in my life, and I wasn't sure she even wanted to be in my life anyways.

I was terrified to take the risk, because I didn't know if my heart could survive more rejection from her.

Edited to add: Despite the unbelievably sad tone of this piece, this event was the beginning of my journey into forgiveness.  The path has been filled with bumps along the way, and moments that I wanted to give up- plus I discovered that forgiveness is often fluid. I have learned so much about myself, and I have become a better person, and a better mother, so I wouldn't change a thing that has happened.

Some Stuff I Hate

The last post I wrote was called "These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things."  It was fun, so I thought for this one, I would flip it, and give you a list of some stuff I hate.

So, without further ado...

I hate coffee. The smell, the taste... I can't stand any of it. If the aroma is especially strong, it sometimes makes me gag. Nothing like a good dry heave in Starbucks!

I despise the drop-off/pick-up line at my kids' schools. I refuse to drive into the parking lots at their schools, because the other parents (and the teenagers at the high school) drive like assholes. I park on the street and make the kids walk. I don't think it will kill them.

I deplore being lied to in any way. I really don't even like the little white lies people tell to try to spare someone's feelings.  I would rather you be brutally honest with me, instead of being fake.

I hate fake people.

Cauliflower and Brussels sprouts. Barf.

I loathe judgmental people. I know, I know... we all judge sometimes.  But if you're hateful and holier-than-thou in your judging of others, I really don't like you. Wait. Does that make me judgmental?

My lack of self confidence.

People who don't know how to turn the clicking sound off on their iPhone, and then type a dissertation on their phone in a quiet waiting room. Like the lady sitting across from me right now.

I have an extreme dislike for folding cold laundry. Actually, I cannot fold laundry unless it's warm. I'll restart the dryer over and over and over again if I have to. OCD anyone?

Hmmm... I'm sure there's more stuff I hate, but that's all I can think of for now.  So tell me, what do you hate?

These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things

(Did anyone else read the title in the singing voice of Julie Andrews?)

I stole the idea for this post from a funny lady who writes a blog called Never Fry Chicken When You're Naked. That's pretty good advice if you ask me. It's good advice even if you don't ask me.

Anywhooo... In no particular order, these are a few of my favorite things. 

Sleeping in on the weekend. Although, thanks to my minions, it rarely happens. But when it does, it's heavenly. 

Going to Target.... ALONE.  I get precious little time to myself. Shopping is pretty much it, and I don't even get to do that by myself very often.  So when I have the opportunity, I'll walk the aisles slowly and daydream about all the things I would buy for myself, if I wasn't buying 73 boxes of cereal and 194 boxes of granola bars. Tragic, I know. 

Reading a good book. 

Going to the fabric store. I'm still a beginner in the art of sewing, but I love walking through the fabric store. All the colors, patterns, and textures bring me so much joy. 

Listening to my kids laugh. And don't tell anyone, but I actually kinda like it when they're sarcastic little assholes to each other- as long as it's not mean spirited. 

Watching HGTV. My current addiction is Fixer Upper. Chip and Joanna Gaines make me want to move to Texas just to have them remodel a house for me. 

Hearing the flock of geese that fly over my house twice a day. 

My dogs- god they're dumber than a box of rocks! I love that they sleep on their backs with their bellies exposed to the world. Oh, and I love finding their tickle spots, and making their legs kick uncontrollably. 

I'm not really a breakfast person, but I do love a good omelette. I can't make them, which is fine, because breakfast always tastes better when someone else cooks it. Like at a restaurant. 

Road trips! There's just something about long car trips that appeals to me. Maybe it's the scenery. Maybe it's the silly car games. Maybe it's the snacks. Whatever it is, I wish we had time for more of them!

Genealogy. I started tracing my family tree after watching the very first episode of Who Do You Think You Are? and I became instantly hooked. It's the ultimate puzzle.  (Full disclosure, I got sidetracked for 3 hours today in the middle of this post, by an email from someone looking for help with their family tree...)

The smell of food being grilled. Unless it's coming from the neighbor's yard, because that's torturous. 

And finally, laughter. I love to laugh, even at myself. 

Celebrity Worship

I have never really understood celebrity worship.  Sure, when I was a kid, I crushed on Donny Osmond, Leif Garrett, Chachi, and Bo Duke.   Plus, I had this whole imaginary world in my head about Cher being my real mom.  When I got a little older, I was in love with Blackie (John Stamos during his General Hospital days, for you younguns!)   

However, by my teenage years, I outgrew that fangirl stuff, and I really didn't care about celebrities anymore. One time during high school I was at Magic Mountain with some friends, and they happened to notice Micky Dolenz standing across the walkway from us. For those of you born after about 1980, Micky Dolenz was in a band and tv show called The Monkees.  My friends walked over to where he was, and were acting like, well, a bunch of teenagers, oohing and ahhing over him.  I went and got in line for a churro.  

There were a couple of girls from my high school who became actresses (well, one was just modeling at the time, but started acting later, and has become very famous, and one I don't think did anything after graduation.)  Anyways, the whole school was gaga over them.  Me?  I thought it was cool for them, but I wasn't busting my ass trying to become bff's with them, like a lot of other people were.  Sure, they were nice girls- at least I think they were.  I wasn't cool enough to actually hang out with them or anything, but neither one of them ran away screaming when I crossed their paths!

I've gone through most of my adult years with a supreme lack of caring about the lives of most celebrities.  Living in Southern California the majority of my life, I've had opportunity to encounter celebrities quite a few times, and I just never really cared.  

Well, maybe except for that one time when I got to meet Mikhail Baryshnikov after seeing him perform. I got his autograph (the one and only autograph I have ever asked for) and I may have swooned just a little.  But come on, it was Baryshnikov!!

Don't get me wrong, there are certain people whose work I enjoy, so I'll see a movie, or watch a tv show specifically because they are in it.  And I'm happy to hear when good things happen in their lives, and saddened when bad things happen.  But that has pretty much always been the extent of my interest in the lives of celebrities.

It used to be that celebrities were out of reach for the common person.  We saw them on tv and in magazines, but there was a definite barrier between the famous and us regular folks.  Fans could write a letter to a fan club, and hope for a response, but it wasn't very likely to happen, and it surely would not come from the star themselves.  Social media has changed all of that though.  We can hear firsthand from our favorite stars, and many even interact with their fans on a regular basis. 

I was a bit shocked when I joined Twitter, and was actually responded to, and then followed by a few celebrities.  I don't follow many famous people, because ultimately I still really don't care.  The few whom I do follow and interact with, all bring more to the table than just promoting their latest projects, or showing off how utterly fabulous their lives are.  They share parts of themselves that make them seem just like you and I, or they use their fame in a positive way to help others.  Those are my kind of people!

However, I will admit that in the past year, being able to occasionally interact with these people whom I admire, I may have become ever so slightly star struck.  Not because they are famous though, but because of how they reach out and make a difference in the lives of others.  I have definitely gained a new understanding for celebrity worship. I get it a little more now.  At least some of it.  

What I will never, in a million years, understand, is the flip side of being able to communicate with celebrities through social media.  I cannot wrap my head around the people who spend time online and disparage, name call, insult, or flat out attack celebrities they despise.  I do not understand how somebody can treat another human being that way.  And I vehemently disagree with the idea that when someone is a public figure, they're "asking for it" by putting their lives on display.  I don't care if you dislike their music, acting, tv show they were on, sports team they played for, or the book they wrote!  So what if you adore their spouse's ex!?  How is berating another human being (famous or not) fulfilling and positive in your life?

Although I try to avoid it, I see this happen pretty much every day on social media- grown-ass adults acting like schoolyard punks, or members of the mean girls club.  And then we wonder why bullying seems to be on the rise among our youth?  Look at the example being set for them every time they log on to the internet!

I know I'm not going to change how people behave online, but it sickens me that so many people don't bat an eyelash as they insult another human being, and they actually take great joy in it.  It kind of makes me wonder if they would say such horrible things to someone's face. Or how they would feel if roles were reversed, or if it was someone they really cared for that was being treated in the same hateful manner.  

Another Layer of Paint

I don't know why I do it.  Every once in a while I take a risk, and force myself out of my comfort zone.  Then I lose control of my feelings and thoughts, and wish I had never done it.  All of the work I've done to keep myself in my tidy little box, behind a mountain of bricks, is undone in an instant.

My heart begins to feel things that I know can never be, and my imagination gets the best of me.  It's just like when I was a little girl, imagining the life I wish I had.  Conjuring up a reality that would never exist.

I begin to allow myself to think I'm more interesting, or more special, or more anything than I really am.  I stupidly think that I may matter somewhere outside of these four walls.

Then, very quickly, I realize what I've done, and I remember how invisible I actually am. Out of sight, out of mind.  I remember that I only exist in the periphery.  Always an outsider looking in.

The work to pull myself back inside of the fortress I've built starts over.  I have to fit my mask back into place.  I need to return to the safety, and comfort, and numbness provided by these barriers.  

I swear a thousand times that I will never remove my mask again, or leave the safety of the walls that surround me.  And stupidly I believe myself.  I believe that I can be stronger next time, and resist the urge to take the risk, no matter how sweet the reward may seem.

The reward is never there.  It's a mirage.  I know this, but sometimes my heart overpowers my head, and the vicious cycle repeats again.  Each time, I add another brick to my fortress, and to my mask, another layer of paint, more brilliant than the last, hoping it will be enough to protect me from myself next time.