More naked

Panic. I am panic tonight. I decided to wear my favourite shirt and it was too big. All of a sudden I felt terribly naked. I still feel it, more naked than just my skin would be. Isn't it ridiculous? All this time I thought that carrying extra weight was a sign of weakness, when really it's been the sign of an ongoing battle with my own body. As the extra me sort of whittles away, I'm left feeling exposed and unsafe. I'm not trying to lose weight, I'm just trying to create harmony and order in my thoughts and actions, and this is how my body has responded. I feel...what? I feel just as out of control of this as I did of my weight.

I had a childhood friend tell me once that she remembered me when I was 'thin and pretty'. I'm thinking to myself that I might always have been pretty. What does it mean?

I know for certain that my body and spirit have never responded to restriction with anything but rebellion. I know that I have never shamed myself into any lasting change. So maybe what scares me so intensely is that this feels like a greater change than weight shed. It feels more profound, like I am just touching the edges of some greater understanding.

In the meantime, I will notice myself being afraid and uncomfortable, and I will ask a husband to hug me, and I will do my best to let the fear go.

Mind full

I feel bruised today, not outside, but in. I've begun sessions in a mindful eating course, and it has kicked up a lot of very old stuff for me. We were discussing the basic human needs, based on someone's (whose name I can't remember) psychological model. First came survival, then security, then love and acceptance, then self-realization. Our group leader explained that each of these needs is first encountered and met in early childhood, and that having been put on a diet as a child threatens those needs, and makes it more difficult to meet them later in life. She also said that the more basic the need, the greater the emotional response to it. And I was sitting in that room, thinking that it's a miracle that I made it through with a personality at all. All of those needs were threatened all the time when I was little. It wasn't until I was adopted by the Lepards that I had any sort of foundation of security at all. I'm forty-two, for heavens' sake. Why does it still hurt to look back at that little girl? I mean, yes, I'm looking at present behaviors and working to make myself healthier. But oh, the issue of food and safety is still so intertwined. Add to that the IBS, where I'm not sure what I can eat or whether it will hurt, and I'm finding some very old wounds aching a bit.

I have had a LOT of therapy. Thank goodness. I have come so far that it just astonishes me some days. But this hurts, and I didn't expect it to. I expected it to be an intellectual process. Ha! Delusions of normality, I know. What I'm looking for is freedom from food as an emotional crutch. In many ways, it feels like my emotional eating is the last tie that binds me to that old childhood. Dieting wasn't just supposed to make me thin, it was used as a punishment. If I failed to meet weight-loss expectations, there was a beating. I don't own a scale, because when it gets to numbers, I get nuts. It's the same with good-food and bad-food. I'd like there to just be food. I'd like to eat what I want when I want it, and to know when I'm full. I'd like to know when I'm hungry for food and when I'm hungry for a hug. I'd like not to feel so bruised, but I feel it anyhow.

Sigh. I must be doing the right thing. I feel like crap.

I went for a beautiful hike today. I hike with the Community Recreational Initiatives Society (CRIS for short). There was a nippy little breeze, but in among the trees it was just perfect. It was good to be out, to connect to the world of snow and not have it be an inconvenience, or something I had to work around. It was just part of the day, and it was perfect for snowballs, too. I'm glad I went, but I'm kind of shocked at how tired I was afterwards. We were out for a couple hours; not on terribly challenging trails, but by the time we were done all I wanted was a nap. I feel so convalescent, which isn't unreasonable, I suppose. I've only been out of the hospital for a week or so. I'm finding it difficult to balance the needs of my IBS with those of my diabetes, but I'm going to be seeing a dietitian to help with that. Tonight it's just a little hard to be sick again, still, whatever. I'm trying to remember that even sick I do things that are good.

One of the things I've learned from CRIS is that I'm much more interested in finding out what I can do than in enumerating the things I can't. So, apparently I can hike for 2 hours in the snow, as long as I plan a nap. Unfortunately, I have set myself a whole list of things I 'should' be doing, regardless of how I feel. This is unproductive, but I seem to do it pretty regularly anyway. My house feels grubby, and I still don't quite feel up to the task of getting it not-grubby. Is it okay for me to be a little afraid of how tired I am? I guess it'll have to be. I'm torn, you see, between feeling crappy and knowing that I tend to stagnate in the winter. I know I sometimes don't do stuff because my mood is down, and that leads to more not doing, which leads into the Pit of Despair. Push, don't push...I keep waiting for this to get simpler.

The simplest fact of my life is that it's mine, I guess. I'll just have to do what I can.

So I watched 'Dorian Gray' last night. It was a good enough movie, but a horrible depiction of corrupted innocence, and there was a lot of sexual violence and degradation. Long story short, it gave me nightmares. I'm still shaking off the lingering discomfort, and avoiding bed. Yay for passionflower. I take it in tincture form when I get serious anxiety like this, and it works better than ativan ever did.

So the first thought I have is that normal people must not have nights like this. How nice it might be to be normal. The thought that follows is...well, I'd rather be me, actually. If this is part of the price for all the other things I am, I guess I'll pay it. I still struggle with a sort of blurry picture of 'should-be'. I'm never totally sure what I should-be, but I have a lingering certainty that I'm not it.

Screw should-be. Should-be is a lie, and a cruelty to myself. I can only be as I am, from day to day. Lots of days are better than today was, I know I'm more emotional than usual because I'm tired, and I know it will pass. I don't like how my left side feels when I'm overtired, I get a tingly sort of numbness on my left arm and up the side of my throat. It feels almost like pressure, and it winds my anxiety even tighter.

I wonder how recovered I'll ever be from that childhood of mine. It was a long time ago now, nearly thirty years. I've come a long way, but sometimes it still jumps up and snags me, drags me down and back. When it does, I fall back on my most basic of tools. I breathe, and I say 'I let this go'. It's part prayer, part assertion, part demand. I say it until it's true. When the next thing comes, I'll let that go, too.