Nice day for a......

I was supposed to go to a wedding. A wedding in Mexico, in the soft white sand, at the base of the cliffs that hold the posh hotels and houses for the rich. A wedding that I knew about for months. A wedding for a friend from college who I was very, very close to.

I went through all of the motions, made the reservations, bought the dress, and then the week before came down with stomach pain that I couldn't explain but that demanded my attention. My therapist sometimes says that the body manifests what the mind won't admit, and while I still have the same pain I wonder if that's not the case. If I didn't literally make myself sick over the issue, force my body to make the choice that my mind refused to make. Made my body speak the sickness I like to pretend is getting better.

I just saw the pictures from that wedding, the happy, colorful pictures, the bright pink wedding tent, the vintage wedding dress, the soft pastel colors of the surf at sunset. It was like a giant anthropologie advertisement for the perfect wedding, the hip, attractive guests attired in colorful beaded gowns and smiling into the sunlight. The bride looked, in different photos, happy and thoughtful. The groom smiled from ear to ear throughout.

I had two thoughts upon looking at those photos: 1.) I should have fought to be there and 2.) I would have been the fattest person there. Neither of these thoughts make me especially proud.

Mexico was an obstacle for me, and one that I was not willing to overcome. I almost wrote "couldn't" but that's not technically true-I felt like shit, and while I was nervous about the unexplained pain I could have gone anyway. It did get better the next week. Instead, I jumped on the chance for a semi-sanctioned absence from the festivities. I usually try to be so emily-post correct, and canceling that late made me hate myself a little, but I comforted myself with the thought that my body just wasn't up for the trip. Maybe it wasn't, but I can't help thinking that if I were a different person, maybe a stronger person, I could have powered through, sunk my feet in the sand at that wedding, and stood up for my friend. Because that's what weddings represent for me: standing up for a person, bearing witness to marriage, sending strength and love to a person that means something to you. And I didn't do that for her. And I wanted to, but not enough.

I continue to lose weight, but the fact of the matter is I would still have been the heaviest person at the wedding. This would have made me self conscious. I don't know what else to say about that except that had I gone, and been looking over these same pictures, I know that while I might have cringed over a few unflattering shots I would also be infused with the confidence of having made it there, and been a part of something bigger and more important than my weight.

I'm trying to categorize what I'm feeling now: disgust that the sickness is bad again, anger that the things inside my head prevented me from attending an important event in the outside world, regret, supreme regret, for failing to support my friend. I don't know how to make this right.

She's in Argentina right now, and I hope she's having a great time. When she gets back, I will send her a nice present and maybe write a nice note, but I don't know if things will be the same. I would be pissed at me. I could justify it by saying we're not as close as we were, but the closeness we had most certainly warrents wedding attendance. She could not have been more gracious at my fumbled explanations, more graceful in her forgiveness, but I still wonder what the ramifications will be, because I'm always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Perhaps I flatter myself and she has already written off my absence as another example of my general crazyness, but who really knows? I don't want to be the cause of disappointment, and I certainly don't need to add fodder to the crazy fire.

I have another wedding to attend soon, one that I'm actually a part of. High heels will have to be worn, toast made, bridal shower thrown. It's in this country, which is a bonus. For weddings, I'm not 1/1; I would like to improve this average, and add to the general joyousness rather than anxiety of the occasion.

Like I always do, I'll try to delay thinking about that for as long as I can, but I know today my thoughts will be in Mexico, on what Might Have Been, on who I Might Have Been, about who I am now instead.

The Parent Trap

Today was my grandmother's birthday, and my mom was in a mood to talk. I don't often hear about this grandmother, who died long before I was born, but today I learned more about her life, and her death.

It's always jarring to see a parent step outside their parent role, to act out in displays of anger or emotion, passion or need. Much of a child's world is constructed on the strong pillars of parental presence; much of a child's self conception is constructed in line with or in defiance of these same displays. If you're lucky, as I was, the mask slips infrequently, and the parental presence is solid, comforting, dependable. Of course, with age, the balance shifts somewhat, and new relationships are forged, but I've always been thankful that my formative years were guarded by strong and loving parents.

Of course, when the mask does slip, it can be ugly, or frightening. I do not mean to suggest that effective or caring parents must have two faces, the benign and comforting parental face and the truer, less virtuous human face. It's a delicate balance, to be sure, and a part of me has always recognized my parents as human, fallible individuals. But when your parents cease to be parents, then a part of you is also less sure; when my father slipped into dementia and needed to be comforted like a child, the part of me who had been content to trust in his protection withered and died. It's a change, to forge adult relationships with your parents, and like all change I'm naturally hesitant and resistant to acknowledge its reality.

Tonight, I saw my mother as a daughter, a daughter who was deprived of her mother too soon, who longed to share motherhood with the woman who had raised her, to introduce her own children to this kind and loving force. Cancer has ravaged my family, on both sides, and I saw a daughter who, like I have been, was angry and railing against loss. My mother and I have often renegotiated our roles, and some have been less healthy than others, but I felt like this was a conversation among equals. I didn't cry during our discussion, but when she left the room I was filled with a fierce and frightening love. I felt a protectiveness against future hurt, and a thankfulness for having been protected.

I wasn't thinking about her mother tonight, but I'm definitely now thinking about my own.

Back to the daily grind

It's almost the start of a new school year, and I don't feel the traditional brew of excitement/apprehension that I usually feel. I'm not sure why; I was always one of those kids who could spend hours in the drugstore picking out the perfect new binder and obsessing over index cards, who relished the fresh start and new possibilities of a new year. I think it had to do with reinvention, the opportunity to be "someone else" for a few weeks before old patterns of behavior resurfaced, or people suddenly realized you were not who you were pretending to be. I think I'm too exhausted to pretend to be anything I'm not at this point.

What am I stressed out about now? I planned a scary trip; I actually have to make adult decisions about my heathcare; I'm getting mixed messages from my doctors; I'll actually need to find gainful employment in a few months; I'm going to be a bridesmaid soon, and I haven't magically shrunk a size or three (shock!).

I tend to deal with these problems by scheduling my stress, but avoidance can be stressful too. The good news is that I have lost weight, and my eating feels more in control. The bad news is that life is starting up again, and the freedom of the summer (and the ability to avoid my problems) is coming to an end.

I know this post isn't especially insightful, but I'm in that place before the action starts, where everything is deceptively quiet and calm. I'm not sure how the year will play out; I think I'll try to reign in my imagination and give myself the gift of a clean slate.

I remember when.....

Today while I was watching the news, on the 7th anniversary of 9/11 (the 7th!) someone asked me where I was on that morning. I was in college, and though someones cell phone rang in the middle of class we continued through, and I came home just in time to see the second plane hit the second tower on the small tv in my dorm room. Beyond the shock of it all, the horror and the terror, I remember that I felt comforted by the community around me, how I could just crawl into bed with my roommate and cry, how small knots of students would gather on the central green and just stand together, talking softly.

That is one of the things I remember most about that time, how my own anxiety was lessened by being a member of a community. That community is now stretched and scattered, and I haven't done a very good job of replicating that kind of support system. I was talking to one of those friends who I still wish lived right down the hall, and she was yelling at me (in the most supportive manner, of course) for being so hard on myself (I know this is a random and self concerned transition, but is there a way to gracefully segue between national tragedy and my own musings?). I don't think I've become harsher as time goes by; I've always been a pretty tough critic of myself. I think the difference is that I'm somewhat without community now, and I have plenty of time to dwell on my deficiencies because I'm not contributing anything positive. How to explain.....in a supportive community, you take and you gave back, and this leads to a kind of balance; I feel like now, I'm doing more taking (or avoiding contact all together) and less giving, and that hurts my self conception.

I guess it's like a kind of relational constipation (ha!)-I'm so inside myself, and my symptoms, and my sickness, that anything I can give comes from that poisoned well, so to speak. How can I expect to care for others or create positive output when I dwell in depression and negativity? What good can come from that dark place? Feeling sick, I guess being sick, for so long has made me incredibly selfish and self obsessed, partly out of self preservation/protection and partly because I haven't been able to force myself to look past and live past this uncomfortable and dispiriting reality.

So where to go from here? I'm trying to figure that out. And in that process, SQ, if I have to kick my ass a little to rouse myself from this place, maybe that's just the impetus I need. But thanks for looking out:)

Wash over me, wash through me, wash me away....

I haven't updated in a while, because I've been too wrapped up in my own misery. A few weeks ago, we were having a rainy stretch, and every night I would lay on the floor, and let me bones settle onto the floorboards as I listened to the water drip from leaves and eaves. I would close my eyes, and quiet my breath, and picture the rain washing over me, purifying me, healing me. Smoothing my jagged edges, wearing me down like sandstone, shaping me. I want so badly to be different.

Today was not a good day, just as it has not been a good few weeks. One of the reasons I've been so miserable is that being sick, feeling sick, often makes me go back on my word, canceling plans and commitments. I used to be pretty trustworthy: if I said I'd be there, I'd be there; if I said I'd do it, it would be done. Not so much anymore. So I've been trying to keep my commitments, which led me to class today, which I had to leave because I was panicked and sick and afraid and weak. Another promise broken. How can my life move forward? How can I use my training if I can't get through a class period? What does that leave for me?

I don't mean to toss out an entire field because of one bad day, but it raises ugly and uncomfortable questions about my fitness for this profession. You can't hide your anxiety when you're in front of a room full of students. You can't fake your way through a lesson plan in front of an audience. For the first time in a long time, my sickness became public, and it didn't feel good.

What is surprising, however, is that it also didn't feel bad. As I walked out of the building with my tail between my legs, I expected the traditional wave of self recrimination and self hatred to wash through me. I expected to cry, to feel anger, to feel pity, to feel. But it's been quiet, and that is discomfiting. Have I moved passed my hatred, or have I just given up? Either way, it all feels flat.

I haven't been sleeping well. Sometimes at night, when I'm trying to fall asleep, I want to kick a hole through the wall in my impotency, to feel, to release, to shake it off. Unfortunately, it hasn't been raining: I can't seem to do any of those things, and I can't seem to comfort myself in the dark.

Hello old friend

If I had paid more attention, I might have seen this coming. I might have felt it building inside me, incipient, electric: a storm brewing beneath my skin. If I had acknowledged the signs, I could have prepared: flooded my system with more chemicals, stayed alert, talked to someone. In the past it's come in different forms: angry, quick, sudden, enraged, gradual, jittery, manic. This time it slipped past my knowing, gently, to wind up at the edge of my consciousness, soft.

Today my eyes have smarted with unshed tears, my face contorted as unplayed emotions sweapt across my features, and it occured to me that this time the sadness is holding me in its arms, rocking me against the recent flood of sickness and defeat. It's so easy to turn my face inward, accept the scant comfort retreat provides, disengage myself completely from outside things and live cosseted by my emotions. I know, deep down, that this is a false and predatory comfort, a seeming help that is really delayed pain in disguise. I know this, and yet I lean into it, to forget for a few minutes, a few hours, a few days.

I don't mean to sound maudlin, or to frighten; it's just helpful to me to sound things out in print. There's an old "Tom and Jerry" cartoon where the duo sneak into a giant's lair and feast at his table, and Jerry jumps into a vat of jello and glides through it like a swimming pool. That's what this is like: the world is distorted, fractured, scary through the view; when you're mired in this place, movements are slow, hindered. On the other hand, at least you're someplace: you have a marker, even if it's at the bottom, and sometimes it can be comforting to stop frantically treading water and just float. Again, false comfort, but peaceful.

I don't know if I'm there yet, or just feeling around the edges; but lately it's like whispers of the past have been touching my shoulders as I walk through the house, familiar and suprisingly not frightening.

There is a ring I've long admired, by an artist who scrawls tiny phrases onto sterling; this one reads: the lowest ebb is the turning of the tide. It's a quote from some famous poet who probably offed himself in the throes of artistic passion, but I would love to believe that it's true. Sometimes, I pretend to wear the ring, use it as a touchstone, remind myself to move forward, keep moving forward. But I haven't bought the ring, because I don't trust its message, and in the deepest, quietest, truest part of myself, I wrap my arms around my body and fear that the tide won't turn.

Cloudy with a 75% chance of bitch

I haven't posted for a while because I've been curled in the fetal position on the couch for the past three (four?) days-hormones are kicking my ass. Venturing out of the house feels alien, and my body and mind feel slow, groggy. I haven't been sleeping well, and I feel bitter and irritated. I need to take some deep breaths and shake this off, because it feels like it's pulling me down.

I was watching the weather this morning at an earlier time than usual, and there was a new anchor/weatherman, and he was, wait for it, fat. Most of the anchor people, the anchor staff, if you will, are buffed, tanned, polished specimens of humanity, the women with aggressively highlighted hair and the men with veneers so severe their teeth look like Chiclets. I think this is the first time that I've ever seen an overweight news anchor, and I found to my horror that I was supremely annoyed to find his overweight body on the screen. He was forcefully jolly; he spouted annoying aphorisms like "live in the now!" when referring to the forecast, and most painfully, his suit jacket was at least a size too small and buttoned, so that all the world could see his discomfort. Stomach straining against the fabric, he kept making small tugs at his clothing, which was wrinkled and pulled.

I don't know what about the whole spectacle put me off, and then this afternoon I was stuck behind a bicyclist in town, and this particular bicyclist's ass and thighs spilled unbecomingly over her tiny bicycle seat. She was wearing spandex, and pedaling up a hill. Insert your own mental picture here.

Although I'm sure it actually happens with more regularity, this was the first time in a while that I was aware of my own self hatred, or at least self consciousness, spilling out and onto others. Who am I, of all people, to judge? And yet what I really wanted was these people to hide their fat: get a bigger jacket, don't wear spandex, people might notice. Perhaps I was really annoyed that these people were getting on with their lives and getting over their bodies, while I am not. I was just kind of struck by the nature of these thoughts, but I guess if I can't be kind to myself I certainly can't expect to extend that courtesy to others. With the anchorman, at least, was it a sense of misplaced empathy, that I could sense (or that I was projecting) his discomfort and felt a kind of anger and kinship?

I think it more likely to be a case of "what we hate about ourselves we hate about other people"-less noble but still. At the end of the day, I'd love to be annoyed by the weather man because he is annoying, and not because he's fat; or be peeved at the bicyclist because of her pert hand signals and slow progress up the hill, not because of her fat thighs. I'm judgemental by nature and tradition, but of all the judgements I made this one still surprised me today, and maybe it's a clear sign that I need to beat up on myself less, before I start to lash out at the people like me.