As I explained to my counselor yesterday, I hate taking pills. I hate feeling dependent on synthetic crap to make me "work right." I hate needing medicine. I hate owning up to the fact that I have any disease or disorder. But I do: High blood pressure. Hypothyroidism. Diabetes.
I talked at length for most of our session to make clear the feelings I have about asking my doctor to go back to taking medicines that regulate my hormones and insulin output. I do take high blood pressure medicine without complaint...mostly because I feel horrid if I don't. The headaches and general discomfort have hammered that prescription into my daily life. I hate that, too.
But I went on and on about how I've been able to regulate the Diabetes AND increase thyroid activity by diet and exercise - not to mention that I've been truly consistent with neither for a year. Of course I didn't mention that part! Fortunately, I've been to this counselor regularly since before my mom died and she knows that while there was a good six months, once upon a time, when I DID do spectacularly well via diet and exercise (and was improving my BP and every other important regulated system in my body,) that time is past...and my attitude toward drug-taking is obsolete.
I tried to diffuse her argument, saying that I did it once so could do it again. Do you know want what she said to me? She said, "Isn't that interesting that you want to be healthy, but you want to do so on your own terms. You want everything to work out the way you want it to, but you're not willing to do the things you need to do for that to happen." I was quiet for the pause. "Isn't that what your mother tried to do?"
......
......
......
I can't say what I felt at that wallop, but I heard the truth. And in the span of only a few minutes, I relived the aching hours spent watching my mom's body disintegrate before my very eyes. That is what she tried to do. How much am I like her? And how do I stop before I become what she has become?
The question led me to a day long search for a physician who works with patients who experience metabolic syndromes like Diabetes and Hypothyroidism (and whose family history is full of heart disease and strokes and cancers).
I found someone who has a private practice over 2 hours north of where I live and I'm going to go see her. I've already sent her an email sort of outlining what is happening with me. My luck, she is taking new patients and can accommodate out of town people like me...and has done gobs and gobs of work to help individuals like me whose genetic predisposition is the suck.
So tonight/this morning I feel intensely mortal, delicate as tissue paper, and have not been able to sleep with all the worry over what my body is doing now. I am sorry it took such a jolt of awareness to make me look in the mirror that doesn't reflect Wendy: separate from her mom, but Wendy: the overlay on her mom's sad image. At least it took.
Friday, August 30, 2013
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
Ride the Wagon
You can imagine where I've been for the better part of a year - eating this and that, screwing around with diet and exercise, suffering grief, being angry, making myself too busy to pay attention to my grief...you name it. Then I shaped up again, decided to be "regular" and go the controlled diet and exercise routine. I lost a little. I gained a little. I lost a little. I plateaued. Calorie counting wasn't working for me...so I spiraled right back into carbs-loading and half-assed caring about myself and my weight.
In the back of my mind, though, there is this image of my mother lying in her hospital bed, alone but for a single roommate, with no one to help her get up and go to the restroom. It is a life she accepted because she was defeated by her diseases. It is a life I yelled at her for living. I cried at her for giving up. I begged her not to die. She wouldn't do anything - couldn't do anything - to help herself. It was too late. I didn't believe it, but she did. She argued no...but she had to believe it to resign to the arguments of rehab workers refused to lift her out of bed - it took too many people, she was too heavy, required an electronic lift, yadda yadda. Every time I fought for her, she fought against me. Why?
Why couldn't she just fucking help herself?
At the time I was doing my "damndest" to live a better life - strictly low carb, seeing amazingly great results. I didn't get why she didn't just STOP hurting herself by not trying. When she died, I was torn up. I hated her. I hated me. I hated fat. I hated disease. I hated my family. I hated mom's friends. I still have a lot of anger I am working through because I miss her SO much and her death feels like a needless, wasteful, horrific tragedy....like murder or suicide.
I've been seeing the same counselor for my own weight loss issues. Like I said, I let go of everything I worked hard to achieve after my mom died. I regained 30 of 50 lost pounds. I have to start over. Again. I hate starting over again. I hate that I quit.
My counselor showed me this:
In this I see how I treated my mother. I see how some people probably look at me. I see how it's possible she could not help herself. I see how I HAVE to help myself before I suffer the same fate. I have to get back on the low carb wagon and ride it like there's no tomorrow. There may not be.
In the back of my mind, though, there is this image of my mother lying in her hospital bed, alone but for a single roommate, with no one to help her get up and go to the restroom. It is a life she accepted because she was defeated by her diseases. It is a life I yelled at her for living. I cried at her for giving up. I begged her not to die. She wouldn't do anything - couldn't do anything - to help herself. It was too late. I didn't believe it, but she did. She argued no...but she had to believe it to resign to the arguments of rehab workers refused to lift her out of bed - it took too many people, she was too heavy, required an electronic lift, yadda yadda. Every time I fought for her, she fought against me. Why?
Why couldn't she just fucking help herself?
At the time I was doing my "damndest" to live a better life - strictly low carb, seeing amazingly great results. I didn't get why she didn't just STOP hurting herself by not trying. When she died, I was torn up. I hated her. I hated me. I hated fat. I hated disease. I hated my family. I hated mom's friends. I still have a lot of anger I am working through because I miss her SO much and her death feels like a needless, wasteful, horrific tragedy....like murder or suicide.
I've been seeing the same counselor for my own weight loss issues. Like I said, I let go of everything I worked hard to achieve after my mom died. I regained 30 of 50 lost pounds. I have to start over. Again. I hate starting over again. I hate that I quit.
My counselor showed me this:
In this I see how I treated my mother. I see how some people probably look at me. I see how it's possible she could not help herself. I see how I HAVE to help myself before I suffer the same fate. I have to get back on the low carb wagon and ride it like there's no tomorrow. There may not be.
Friday, June 21, 2013
Break Down and Break Through
My latest attempt to Live Well was hideous and embarrassing and absolutely essential. Read on!
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Responsible Me
What a wallop I took when I went north to revisit my mom's house in April. Imagine the desolation of being inside the house you grew up in without the main components: the people who lived there, too. A house without its family is a very empty space.
Add to this the insult of seeing the house my parents cared about trashed by a freeloader who wouldn't go until I forced them, six months after mom's death, after they lived there against even her final wishes and broke her house rules entirely. Yeah.
Imagine the anger that consumed me due to the outright lack of respect for my mom. Toss in some lies about my personal character (generated by utter shit the freeloader said to anyone who would listen to their gossip.)
Pour in the unshakeable feeling of helplessness. Stick the pot on a stove til the unattended mixture comes to a boil. Check to see if burned. Call the recipe "I hate my family," then feel sorry for yourself, ostracize yourself from them (as much as possible) and drop away from working toward your private achievements for the next few months. Mope. Fuss. Cry. Hate. Flair up. Soothe yourself with boredom and neglect.
But, eventually, you're going to be twenty pounds heavier and the stuff you worked for will start to feel impossible to attain. And then you're going to come to the most uncomfortable conclusion ever: You're responsible for all your shit. Your mood, your life, your schedule, your body, your attitude, your home, your surroundings, your love. The single saving grace in the hell of realizing you are completely alone in the darkest of times is that it ends with a flourish.
I am a month and a day away from having to say, "My mother died last year." Every day that closes in on June 24th brings that pang of "she's not here" that cannot be conveyed to anyone who hasn't felt a loss of this magnitude.
I've had so many emotions and pity parties and bounce-backs and moments of determination - really been all over the spectrum of high highs and low lows - just trying to get back to good. I was doing SO good in just everything and my love for my family was strong, vibrant, unbreakable I thought.
Today I struggle to forgive. I wish to forget. Yet God made me one of those realistic honest-to-a-fault people who can't pretend everything is well when it isn't. I ache to let go of responsibility that doesn't belong to me - stuff I keep obsessing over like my mom's house and belongings and what's going to happen and why isn't anyone helping and how can I save it and on and on and on. I'm not responsible for any of it.
I'm barely responsible for -me- because I spend so much energy trying to be responsible for my mom, my cousins, my uncles, my not-siblings, the bank, the government... when I'm not supposed to be. The past few months have been a hard lesson in learning what really is for me to do:
Take care of myself.
Raise my daughter.
Honor my mom however I can.
Respect my family members.
Take care of my home.
Enjoy my life.
Be still.
I am happy to share that I'm coming out of the long funk with better focus and understanding. I am still sad. I still feel so much pain when I think of "home," but I've gained knowledge that I can only be grateful for and try to keep in mind from this time onward: I matter. I matter to me. Fuck. all. else.
Add to this the insult of seeing the house my parents cared about trashed by a freeloader who wouldn't go until I forced them, six months after mom's death, after they lived there against even her final wishes and broke her house rules entirely. Yeah.
Imagine the anger that consumed me due to the outright lack of respect for my mom. Toss in some lies about my personal character (generated by utter shit the freeloader said to anyone who would listen to their gossip.)
Pour in the unshakeable feeling of helplessness. Stick the pot on a stove til the unattended mixture comes to a boil. Check to see if burned. Call the recipe "I hate my family," then feel sorry for yourself, ostracize yourself from them (as much as possible) and drop away from working toward your private achievements for the next few months. Mope. Fuss. Cry. Hate. Flair up. Soothe yourself with boredom and neglect.
But, eventually, you're going to be twenty pounds heavier and the stuff you worked for will start to feel impossible to attain. And then you're going to come to the most uncomfortable conclusion ever: You're responsible for all your shit. Your mood, your life, your schedule, your body, your attitude, your home, your surroundings, your love. The single saving grace in the hell of realizing you are completely alone in the darkest of times is that it ends with a flourish.
I am a month and a day away from having to say, "My mother died last year." Every day that closes in on June 24th brings that pang of "she's not here" that cannot be conveyed to anyone who hasn't felt a loss of this magnitude.
I've had so many emotions and pity parties and bounce-backs and moments of determination - really been all over the spectrum of high highs and low lows - just trying to get back to good. I was doing SO good in just everything and my love for my family was strong, vibrant, unbreakable I thought.
Today I struggle to forgive. I wish to forget. Yet God made me one of those realistic honest-to-a-fault people who can't pretend everything is well when it isn't. I ache to let go of responsibility that doesn't belong to me - stuff I keep obsessing over like my mom's house and belongings and what's going to happen and why isn't anyone helping and how can I save it and on and on and on. I'm not responsible for any of it.
I'm barely responsible for -me- because I spend so much energy trying to be responsible for my mom, my cousins, my uncles, my not-siblings, the bank, the government... when I'm not supposed to be. The past few months have been a hard lesson in learning what really is for me to do:
Take care of myself.
Raise my daughter.
Honor my mom however I can.
Respect my family members.
Take care of my home.
Enjoy my life.
Be still.
I am happy to share that I'm coming out of the long funk with better focus and understanding. I am still sad. I still feel so much pain when I think of "home," but I've gained knowledge that I can only be grateful for and try to keep in mind from this time onward: I matter. I matter to me. Fuck. all. else.
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