I wanted to be a photographer, but told myself I would never grasp the technical side of it, not realizing that the other jobs I would take and not be as passionate about will also require tackling scary stuff, like numbers.

One of my photos.

I wanted to be a writer but I was holding off on writing anything not realizing that I didn’t necessarily have to have AN IDEA first. I just had to sit down and write.

I wanted to be the one to have written White Teeth, but realizing that I had just found my writing voice in somebody else’s work, I thought I might as well just shut up.

I wanted to be this boy’s girlfriend in elementary school. I knew that he liked me and thought that that in and of its own was enough, not realizing I was wrong and that even boys need reassurance.

I wanted to be more popular in high school not realizing that the only thing that stood in my way was my crippling fear of people and their judgement.

I wanted to find out what I would look like and who would I be as an adult not realizing that the idyllic environment, the place I would keep going back to in my dreams as a grown up was going to be none other than my elementary school yard.

I really wanted to study was Art History in university, but took on Educational Psychology in addition, not realizing that I was trying to prove something and ended up transferring to full time Art History after 3 semesters anyway.

I wanted to learn to cook like my mom not realizing that it would take some practice.

I wanted to not be surprised, thinking I didn’t like surprises, not realizing it’s just the bad ones that I don’t like.

When I was younger and older I’ve made a lot of decisions based on fear. Fear of judgement, fear of failure, fear of guilt, fear of change.  When I was younger, I’ve often given up without trying and then judged myself for that not realizing that I’ve also made other decisions based on will, intuition and my values.

When I was younger I thought I was indecisive but at grade 2 I’ve made a decision to transfer to the newly established Arts School that opened up in my city and I made it happen.

I thought I wasn’t capable of functioning as a grown up without my mother by my side or looking over my shoulder but then I became the driving force behind our move across continents and made that happen.

I was timid and thought that friends would always end up choosing me instead of the other way around, until I moved continents and realized that I can build relationships from scratch and maintain long distance ones.

Fear didn’t get me far. But it did take me in circles, taking me on a much longer route toward the same destination. I want more of my decisions to be dictated by my gut, my will and values of fulfilment through creativity and family and a pursuit of harmony. I’m realizing I’m about to take the first steps.

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This has been a Finish the Sentence Friday post. Please visit our charming hosts:

Janine at Janine’s Confessions of a Mommyaholic

Kate at Can I Get Another Bottle of Whine

Stephanie at Mommy, For Real

Dawn at Dawn’s Disaster

I’ve been thinking about my last post & the idea of looking inside.

They say the body knows & it does, it’s true.

It’s an early warning system- one that helps us know the difference between what’s good for us & what’s not.

It’s triggered by people, places and events & has nothing short of an infallible memory.

You’d think being a dancer I’d be really good at reading my body’s signals, but for a long time I wasn’t.

To me, my body was an instrument, a machine. There were no so such things as biomechanics or human kinetics when I started dancing & I remember thinking, more than once, “but my muscles & bones don’t GO that way.” So I forced them rather than risk the wrath of a choreographer.

I’d always get a warning twinge or a cramp. They were signs to stop- I rarely read them- usually only when I was injured. Most times I read them as a sign to try harder.

It didn’t just happen in the studio either- it happened all the time in relationships & still can. It can be a friend, family member, professional peer- it doesn’t matter. When my spirit is at risk, when I’m forcing myself to believe everything is OK when its not, my body knows it way before my mind does.

We all know the feeling when something’s not right, when something doesn’t make sense or when we’ve allowed our boundaries to be trespassed.

It’s an alert that comes as a gut feeling, heaviness, or those rushes of fight, flight or freeze adrenalin. I think of it as a kind of embodied intuition & it means to be paid attention to. Forcing ourselves not to, is just asking for trouble.

How can we learn what the body knows? First thing is to notice & question. What is this? Where am I feeling this (heart, shoulders, throat- it can be anywhere) & then to ask, why might I be feeling this? What does it mean?

Then, stay with the answers & explore them. Especially the ones we don’t like- the ones that unsettle us.

They’re the ones that help us adapt & change & bring us back to who we really are. They’re the ones that keep us safe, sound & strong.

Your body really does know, so take a few minutes, look inside & ask.

(image: ravenessences.com- Embodied Intuition)

Not thick, not curvy, not big-boned…..Fat. I am fat for a lot of reasons: a chronic pain illness that frequently limits my mobility, several years of meds for said illness that are notorious for packing on pounds, an overwhelming case of “Fat Girl Mentality” and the food/shame spirals that go with it, and A LOT of bad choices on my part. Please note that these are reasons, not excuses. I fully acknowledge my part in this process, and in making that acknowledgement I finally realized something…. I don’t give a flying fuck if I’m fat or not.

Almost all of my self-esteem issues and body hatred have been pounded into me through the years by the people and world around me. I’ve been ashamed because I was TOLD to be ashamed. I thought I was worthless, because I was TOLD that fat equals worthless. I have spent my life embarrassed by the fact that my body needs food in order to continue functioning,  I grew up with a mother who hid in the basement eating cookies right after forcing me wear a girdle and control-top tights. I was 11… and I wasn’t fat. In my head, however, I was enormous. Now, I’m 43 and I say Fuck That, I’m not playing anymore.

To be clear, I’m not saying that I want to be fat, just that I don’t care if I am. Would I like to lose weight? Of course I would, not only would it be better for my health, it would make pain management easier. Am I going to spend the next 43 years of my life beating myself up if I don’t lose weight? No. Because it doesn’t matter. The size of my ass has nothing to do with who I am…. It took me a long time to learn that…. The size of my ass has NOTHING to do with who I am. What an amazing thing… Being bigger doesn’t mean I’m less of a person…. It just means that I’m bigger. That’s all…. I’m not bad, I’m not worthless, I’m not expendable…. I’m. Just. Bigger. Huh….I wonder why it took me so long to get it…..

Part Two : Why It Took Me So Long To Get It……

I have a truly amazing group of friends… They are snarky and talented, artsy, smart, and unbelievably weird, and they have never given me anything but unconditional love and support….Yet, I have never fully embraced it… because I didn’t think I deserved it. I didn’t even like myself, how could I possibly take in unconditional love from someone else? I’ve always done my best to give it, but take it…Not so much. So, I tried to change that…and change me… I read books, and websites, and inspirational quotes about self-acceptance, and I learned something. Self-acceptance is bullshit.

Acceptance in human psychology is a person’s assent to the reality of a situation, recognizing a process or condition (often a negative or uncomfortable situation) without attempting to change it, protest, or exit. I didn’t need to ACCEPT the fact that I hated myself and my body, I needed to change it. I had spent my entire life life accepting the perceived flaws and weaknesses that I was told I had. I had accepted the fact that these things existed because I was fat. Now, some asshole, who had just made $40 off of my book purchase, was telling me that I needed to accept the fact that I hated myself, because that is the only way I could ever be happy….. Again, Fuck That.

Since I decided that self-acceptance wasn’t for me, I decided that Self-Love was the way to go. So, I made some coffee, sat back and took a good hard look at myself, and that was when I realized that my body, at any size, is amazing. Seriously, This body has given me the best Daughter I could ever imagine. It allows me to create art….I can draw, I can paint, and I can create things that other people can’t. I can hug the people I love. I can type this Blog and let these things out of my head. I can pick things up with my monkey toes and I have some pretty awesome boobs…..What’s not to love?   Most incredible though, was the fact that “Fat” affected none of these things…. it was a non-entity. It. Didn’t. Matter. It doesn’t matter.

A few months ago I made a self-depreciating fat joke on FaceBook, and was called out for by a friend who said,

“Bert, you really do need to stop with the fat jokes. You’re perfect just the way you are.”

It took me a while to see it, but she’s right….. I am.

“Treat yourself to greater life.  Don’t assume that you can’t do it…Assume that you can do it, and then proceed to do it.”

An otherwise innocuous post share from a friend (male, not that it should matter) about this woman’s experience as a plus size woman with a body positive attitude apparently unleashed a world of thoughts about body-shaming. And how, as a “big girl” and a woman who cares about her health and appearance, yet never had any hopes of ever fitting the cultural ideal, how that is crushing sometimes. But not always for the reasons you might expect.

The thing that might seem weird to some is: I am just fine with my weight. (GASP!)

Its *other people* who don’t seem to be fine with it.

I don’t remember when it started. Before I was a preteen, definitely.

Hearing my mom and grandma talk over coffee when they thought I was sleeping: its a shame she’s heavy, someone said, with big sighs all around.

My disappointment at not being able to shop at the 5-7-9 store at the mall (for only clothes in that size range): “Can’t you even wear a nine?” said my “friend” as a teenager.

My dad calling me The Walrus repeatedly as I struggled to learn to waterski and had trouble pulling myself back into the boat over and over.

The high school boyfriend who dumped me and then when pressed, his friend told me it was because I was too fat (did you not see me when you asked me out?).

The college coworker who told me “you’d be a knockout if you were about 20 pounds lighter” and expected me to take it as a compliment.

My ex-husband’s grandmother who took me aside and requested “Don’t you gain anymore weight now, y’hear?” as if it were a kindness to remind me that my self worth depended on my dress size. And then I could tell you about how *that* didn’t get me, I didn’t cry then, but after we left the gathering and my drunk aunt in law called and told me that Grandma had announced what she’d said to me to the entire family…then I cried. I shut myself in the bathroom and cried all night.

I could tell you hundreds more of these *personal* things that I’ve experienced, and you know what? I’d bet most everyone else can too, about something. But this weight hate pervades more than just our psyches: its as if sometimes I really feel I’m being judged and deemed unworthy to physically take up as much space as my body dares as a woman.

When I walk down the sidewalk and *I* always get knocked into, as if I, driving the “bigger vehicle” must always be the first to yield space to the more socially acceptable pedestrian. As if I should be automatically expected to walk behind my companion.

When I go to a website or a store to shop and I reach blindly for the back of the rack, just hoping they’ll have something that will do, or noticing that although they advertise an extended size range, my size and many above are always out of stock.

When I pay good money for an airline ticket and must actually force myself into a seat, and wonder at what point an extra couple of inches in that seatbelt strap would have forced the airline to go bankrupt. And worry about my health and safety while I’m flying because I’m trying so hard not to move or be an inconvenience to my seatmates or traveling companion.

When I do find an article of clothing to fit my curves, yet it flows past my wrists or stops above my navel as if the person designing it didn’t seem to realize that just because I’m larger *around* I’m not necessarily taller or with longer appendages than my more socially accepted cohorts.

When I’ve tried everything short of diet pills and development of an eating disorder to fix it, and still got body-shamed even at my lowest attained weight. I saved my favorite dress from when I was that size. I felt so good in it. And I felt so bad when I could no longer fit into it. And what gives: all the slaving away and hours at the gym and eating what seemed like nothing but spinach, all to fit into a dress?

I finally threw it out last year.

Why *I* hurt when I accept myself but feel that the space I consume both physically and with my personality offends others…that’s something more for *me* to work on.

But the space we drive between us with these subtle and not so subtle messages doesn’t need to be there, either in our commercialism or our relationships. And shaming’s not just for the overweight! There are plenty of campaigns out there about “real women” that shame women for NOT being overweight. I was a real woman at that lowest weight, and I’ll be a real woman if I gain more! If you identify with being a woman, you’re a REAL WOMAN. A real human. Real.

As a person who chooses now only to surround myself with those who do accept and support me, (or challenge me when they don’t instead of mock me): less and less does this affect my daily life. But when greater society smacks you in the face (or belly, or hips) over and over again, it sure does wear you down. And I’m tired of also hearing “you’re not THAT big”, which almost makes it worse, like some elephant in the room or like I live in some no-man’s-land between “normal” women’s clothes that don’t fit and “plus” clothes that don’t fit either. I can’t win! But I am damn glad I learned to sew!

My weight affects *my* health. That’s pretty much it. If it offends your business, I’ll be glad to take my money elsewhere. If it offends your eyes, I suggest you head in the other direction and quit expecting ME to get out of the way.

I have a very complicated relationship with breasts. I was enchanted by the top drawer of my mother’s dresser where she kept her bras, garter belts (back in the days before pantyhose), and those fascinating bits of foam cups that women inserted in their padded bras in the 60s. I couldn’t imagine the purpose of those foam pads, but I loved how squishy they were. I loved the feel of my mother’s thickly padded breasts and have a distinct memory of sitting in her lap while she read a book and poking at her breasts to feel how they bounced back like a memory foam pillow. Obviously, she did not encourage this behavior.

When my own breasts started developing at a very young age, I was the first in my 4th grade elementary class to have to wear a bra. I can remember standing in line for recess as my elementary school playground nemesis, Glenn E, looked pointedly at my bra straps through my white cotton blouse and accused me of wearing a bra. Humiliated with the thought of being different, I denied it, swearing that those were the straps to my slip. Being the pervy 9-year-old boy he was, he pressed the point.

“I’ll bet you stuff.”

Naive innocent that I was, I asked, “Stuff what?”

“Tissues,” he responded with a condescending, know-it-all tone.

I struggled to comprehend where exactly I would be stuffing tissues. Since I often had head colds and sinus drainage, I put two and two together and came up with six. “In my nose?”

He rolled his eyes at me in the way only an Italian Jersey boy can do. The girl next to me in line cupped her hand and whispered in my ear.

“In your bra!”

I looked at the ground and prayed for the earth to swallow me up.

I learned that having breasts early and generously was a double-edged sword. I fixated on them, comparing my own to the lack of or rapidly growing abundance of those of my classmates. I absorbed the idolatry of a boob-adoring culture and developed over-weening pride over the one part of my body that nature had given me with some grace. I was awkwardly tall for my age, had a poor complexion, had razor straight hair in a time of afros and naturals, was pigeon-toed, wore glasses from age 8, and lacked coordination and athletic ability. Having boobs compensated for a world of woes.

At age 13, I got contact lenses, I stopped getting taller (at 5’7″), and I finally walked straight-toed thanks to years of ballet class. I was actually pretty! I was still a klutz but I didn’t mind so much getting picked last for teams in gym class. I had boobs!

I have a memory of standing in front of the bathroom mirror, arms up and behind my head, turning left and right, admiring my breasts, their shape, the way they moved with me, the direction the nipples pointed. At 15, I remember thinking that I would need to eventually worry about them sagging because of their fullness, that I would have to do push-ups and upper body exercise, but that was a far off worry.

At age 20, I had that conversation in the mirror again. I was still beautiful (and a klutz), still got away with going braless occasionally, but was already showing signs of dark depressive periods and emotional eating binges. My ass was wider, my belly rounder, but my boobs were still beautiful and perfect.

At 25, I was unhappily married and 100 pounds overweight. I didn’t look at myself in the mirror more than absolutely necessary. A stranger had taken over my body and I didn’t like her at all.

At 30, after shedding one husband, 50 pounds, and acquiring a new husband and a baby, my breasts were utilitarian, full of milk, inconveniently either aching, itching, or dripping.

At 35, after two babies and nearly 5 years of almost constant breast-feeding (yes, I was one of those moms), my breasts were sad and sagging, with distorted nipples causes by avid sucking mouths. My love-hate relationship with my breasts had definitely gone over to the dark side.

Now I’m 52. I have never gotten a handle on using food to cope with my distress nor have I ever developed a love of exercise or the discipline of movement (still a klutz), so I carry the weight of two adult people on my bones. I have been quietly despairing about my body and my addictive eating habits a long time but I’m pretty good at rationalizations and lying to myself. As mentioned here and here, I have long practice at martyring myself and judging others rather than seeing the truth with compassionate eyes.

After my hopes and fantasy of a long-distance relationship came to an end, after self-flagellating for my own imperfections, while looking for someone else to blame, I got very angry at everyone out there who has boobs and bodies more beautiful than my own. That’s a lot of women to be angry at.

I had an internal rant going about how our culture objectifies women and sets an unreasonable ideal for beauty (which is true but not germane to my own despair). That, I projected, was the cause of all my woes, why I can’t find a relationship, and why I am rejected. It’s a valid feminist point of view, but there’s just one problem with it.

It’s not true. Not for me anyway.

The reason I get rejected and can’t find a relationship and have all these woes goes back to that self-hating, awkward, four-eyed, pigeon-toed, graceless little girl. I hate my body. How could I allow anyone else to love me or want me when I can’t love myself?

I can’t look in the mirror for more than a few seconds. The internal dialogue I have when I do is very harsh. I haven’t felt pretty or desirable in a long time.

This self-loathing I have is coloring every aspect of my life. I have been thinking about death a lot these past few days. I’m not suicidal, and I am house sitting for 11 cats and a dog right now, so dying would be very inconvenient (and messy). But my emotional pain is so deep right now that I can’t seem to find a way out of it – even prayer, my last-ditch comfort – is not working. It does seem, objectively, that death would be a welcome relief from this constant pain.

I tell myself that it is time to get off my lazy ass and do something about this excess poundage I’m hauling around. I just don’t have any faith left in my ability to execute any plan, diet, or exercise routine. I have tried and failed so many times that trying seems fruitless. It’s the classic dilemma of the depressive. Sunshine and exercise would make me feel better, but if I could motivate myself to get sunshine and exercise, I wouldn’t be depressed.

To get back on topic, what does all this pity-partying have to do with breasts? I have been unkind. Unkind in my thoughts, unkind in my words. There are beautiful women, kind, loving, gracious, talented women, that I have been harboring deep resentment towards because the men I have wanted enjoy looking at their breasts. I have been the mean girl, spiteful, resentful, judgmental. I can’t bear being this person.

The truth is, I want to do that, too, love my body enough to show it, post my pictures on my blog on Boobday, put my once beautiful breasts on display, love my boobs again. I want to love myself.

I just don’t know how.

So a few days ago I did my second outfit of the day photo shoot with my wonderful friend Volta. There’s a big field of wild flowers across the street from where I work and she thought it would be a great place to stage my photos. I’ve only seen the field from driving by on my way home, and I was completely in awe of how beautiful it was in person. I could totally see myself going over there just to relax and enjoy nature. It’s interesting how we pass up this kind of simple beauty because we’re just too busy to literally stop and smell the flowers. That’s a goal of mine, I want to slow down. I want to enjoy the moment and stop looking forward to what’s going on the next day or week. There are so many wonderful things that happen every day that I must pass up because I’m stuck in the go-go-go state of mind.

My second photo shoot was so much fun for me, despite still being completely awkward in front of the camera. At one point Volta said, “Maybe we should research some poses for next time” Ha! I agree! My pose knowledge doesn’t go much further than self portraits in front of the bathroom mirror. I guess I should visit some fashion blogs to get some ideas. I’m still getting used to seeing how I look in photos too. Because I’ve literally spent years avoiding the camera (ducking behind people, throwing my hands in front of my face and screaming “No photos!!!!” like a crazed celebrity) I really don’t know what I truly look like. I think it’s different seeing yourself in pictures as oppose to a mirror. Proportions feel so different and I’m not sure which one is more true of how the world sees me. When I first looked at the photos my initial reaction was “OH MY GOD, LOOK HOW BIG MY (insert random body part) I LOOK LIKE A (insert random large mammal).” After flipping through them a few more times I started to get used to my shape, the curves of my body. Then I began to think that I really didn’t look as bad as my initial judgements. I started to notice things like my smile, the way my hair shined in the light. I want to begin to focus on those things first instead of letting my inner critic insult every inch of me. I know this will take time, but I’m hoping that with every photo I can start to accept myself a little more. So for myself I want to start acknowledging one thing that I like about myself from the photos. And for this set, I have to say I like it when I smile. I look so much better when I smile, I look joyful and confident. And that is how I really want the world to see me. When Volta emailed me the photos she wrote “I love the ones where you smile the most!” And you know what, I agree. I think I’ll make it a priority to start smiling more and enjoy the summer flowers.

Now onto my outfit!

For this outfit I tried two things out of my comfort zone, super skinny jeans and a sheer blouse. I really love the pattern on this shirt, it reminds me of something very art deco. I hope to add more things like it to my wardrobe.

Top- Worthington by JCPenney, Jeans- Skinny jeans by JCP brand, Shoes- old (outlet store), Bracelet- vintage from my grandmother

Photos by my beautiful friend Volta of Notecard Poetry

Every moment of our lives is historical. This is the stuff of legends. A hundred thousand, thousand, moments strung together like pearls.

These moments are your life, your actions, your choices, your reactions.What do you have to show for all your experiences? Are you creating a precious string of wisdom, or is your life knotted with pettiness and trivialities?

I can’t say that I’m “fearlessly” pursuing my happiness, but I can absolutely say that I am COURAGEOUSLY pursuing my happiness, and that’s something I can be proud to share with my Future Someone.

“What matters is what you think about yourself. You must find the part in life that fits you and then give up acting; your profession is being… Emotional honesty and self-acceptance lead to better physical health.”

I give myself permission to be me.

Next step… I give myself permission to try to be a better me.

We all have strengths and weaknesses when performing our duties as parents. But any change that will happen will be in an area I deem weak, on my own terms, in my own time. I alone have the ability to decide what area I can, or even if I want to, do better.

Inspiration for change comes in many forms. Sometimes it’s triggered by the uneasiness I have after an interaction with my daughter. Other times it’s triggered by something Ross is concerned about. Seeing something in another parent that brings pangs of jealousy (or disbelief) is also an opportunity to self-evaluate, and possibly to try to adopt more of that coveted characteristic (or replace the ones I don’t care for).

I give myself permission to try to be a better version of myself in parenthood (some of my current personal goals are to learn how to better manage my emotions when disciplining, choose approaches that best suit Gabi and Emma’s different personalities, discover strategies to effectively demonstrate my unconditional love to both of them). If I set myself specific goals in the workplace, I should equally do so in my personal relationships, and especially with my children.

So I propose that we create concrete plans to help improve those areas we think need work. Yes, tomorrow is a fresh day, but if we repeat yesterday’s mistakes, then how will the cycle break? Could evaluating and improving ourselves lead us to a stronger relationship with our child(ren)??? The first step in making changes is identifying what we want to change (we will continue discussing the art of self-awareness next week too). Perhaps we can take some steps here by asking questions and sharing insights.

What small and specific goals can you set for yourself in order to become a better version of yourself as a parent?

Symbolism is very powerful if you believe. It is everywhere. But you have to know how to look for it. Today, as I wrote earlier, I saw a hawk capture a mouse and it was a very powerful message. So powerful, I actually wrote about it at work. I never do that. But the symbolism was too strong.  Rising Hawk, a fellow blogger and guide, has explained to me the powerful symbol a hawk represents. I would see them in the sky, but never paid much attention until I read his book and started talking to him via email. You can catch his writing at http://risinghawkspeaks.wordpress.com/. Since then I have seen hawks almost every day, except when I was all strung out. They would disappear. One time when I was really have a bad time, a friend and I were walking and stopped. Not just stopped, I was halted. I tried to move forward but the draw to turn around was too great and so we did. I spun around and there was the huge female hawk that was devouring a small animal, which I could not see. I saw her pull some stringy piece from her meal and she slowly turned her head and looked directly at me. She was maybe fifteen feet away at most. She just looked at me for a while and then turned back to her victim. As if it was suddenly not important, she spread her massive wings and took flight. My friend and I were in awe. I had no idea they were that big as that is a close as I have ever gotten to a raptor in the wild.

Today’s hawk was significantly important because I have been experiencing a real bad reaction. I reacted to something that was said to protect me, but I heard failure and weakness. I filtered from the past when people always would tell me I was oversensitive. The comments from the past were total criticism and meant to hurt, and so when I heard this current message, it cut me to the core. I reacted so quickly and felt all my hypersensitive organs go immediately into a fight response, which is interesting because I usually go to a freeze. My body flooded with adrenalin and for the past two days, I have been nauseous and dizzy. It was bad. I spent last night in total agony from charlie horses which was strange because the night before I slept fine. It was a delayed reaction compounded, I am sure, by the impact of building a totally disproportionate response that was accelerating. For the last two days, I have not thought about much else and my body is reacting in very unhealthy ways. When I am in the thick of it, I perseverate which makes everything much worse. And because I have not slept, well I am really a mess. On top of it all, I have to act like nothing is wrong all day when I really want to go to a closet and cry.

The comment out of context and without history will make little sense. It boils down to the reality of my ability to cope with tragedy and misery. I am hyper sensitive. No doubt about it. I have been my whole life. I have been told by several reliable people I am empathic. Choose to believe or not, my intuition is very strong and usually right. I am not going to go into a huge dissertation on empathic abilities. It is what it is. But I have a dream, well several, to do something to help people heal. Since I work in the health field, you would think that was a natural. But not so unless you are a clinician and as it has been pointed out to me by several people in a consistent manner, I am not a clinician, scientist, therapist or nurse. This latest comment was that I suffer too much. And in the clearer context, I think he meant to say I would suffer along with anyone I was trying to help. I immediately heard I was a failure, and unable to do something I really wanted to do. I think it was meant that the person did not want me to get hurt or be hurt by the pain of others. I immediately denied it and went on a rampage, raising my voice and poking the person in the chest. Not smart, as he could have broken me in two in a second. I was gone and although it sounds like I am not taking responsibility for my actions, which were inexcusable, I was out of control in a minute. I took a false sense of strength and stormed out into the whirlwind I have been ever since. At first I thought I had achieved something wondrous and now that time has passed, I realize my folly on many counts. And I am sorry. But I think it may be too late.

Back to the mouse in the hawk’s talons: as I passed the pair up in the tree I totally felt my stomach have that pang I get when I am reacting to something painful. I felt the mouse’s anguish or in other words, I empathized with the prey. Not that I was going to do anything about it, I just felt this very strong pull in my gut. It was suffering and so was I. The reality of my friend being right was not wasted on me. I was alone in the car, switching from laughing to crying. I thought of his face when I admitted he was right and how I would joke how he always is….. but I do not think I am going to get that chance.

So circling back around to the beginning of my post on face plants: I came home tonight after a full day. It was not a bad day at work, just full. But since I had not slept and I was still feeling dizzy and ill, I should have paid attention to what I was doing. I was out in my garden rearranging something and I turned to step up on to the back deck. I totally missed it and went down.

I have to write about the sensation. I have been so tight and afraid of falling that it had compounded my ability to move freely for years. It stopped me from playing tennis, a game I love. So the fact that I fell was not entirely a bad thing. It meant I was not afraid of movement. As I hit the deck with my foot, there was a moment when I thought, opps….nope I am ok,… no I am not…. and slowly as a crane tipping over, I went down. It was really in slow motion in my head. I felt my knee make contact first and I am paying big time for that. Then slowly down on my belly to my boobs I went and then stopped short of actually having my face hit the deck. I did a complete and thorough face plant. I was fine, once I got the breath I knocked out of me back. I slowly inventoried myself before I moved. I turned and was able to get up with my husband’s help who said he watched it happen. He said it was not slow. I hobble over to my chair and applied a bag of peas to my knee. It was then the realization of what had just transpired hit me. I did a real face plant and started laughing. Humor, the remedy for all pain: God’s medicine for what ails you.

As I am sitting here typing this, I am alternating crying with boughts of laughter. I think the laughter is winning. I hurt, oh yeah, no joke about that. I tore my knee up pretty good and I will have a huge bruise by morning. My back hurts from the jolt. But I am ok. I fell and actually the sensation of the free fall still remains with me. It was actually a neat sensation as I was totally not afraid. I just let it happen. I needed to release a huge pocket of fear. I literally knocked the crap out of myself. The symbolism is not wasted. I really hope I do not do this anymore, face plants real or metaphoric.

I just wish I could get the pain in my heart to stop hurting.

I then stopped for a light to turn. Right in front of me a hawk swooped down from a tree into the water gulley next to the road. I lost my breath. In a second or two, she surfaced with a small rodent in her talons. I was at first amazed that this had been thrust in front of me so obviously. I was impressed with the ease of the capture and preciseness of the attack. As I turned and rode past, I could see the small animal struggling with its fate.

Then it hit me. I felt for the small animal. I empathized with its situation. I got the lesson.

It’s not always helpful.

There was nothing particularly extraordinary about yesterday’s blog. My musings were as honest as ever. But as I read it back, I found myself feeling very exposed. I got to the paragraph about CBT and the unopened box of anti-depressants and then the bit about anxiety and my past history of overeating. Oh dear, I thought. Have I been too open? Have I shot myself in the foot?

After more than two years of blogging, there are very few skeletons left in my closet. And my openness about my personal battles doesn’t seem to have done me any harm to date. In fact, ever since I’ve started being me – in print, on television and wherever I get the chance – my career has flourished in a new direction and I’ve had lots of amazing opportunities to write and talk about what I truly care about. I tried incredibly hard to get into television as a news reporter but once I quit and started to write about things close to my heart, the doors to the TV studios opened without me having to knock them down.

And it’s not only my career that’s flourished. I’ve flourished too – no longer shackled by a 5-day-a-week, 10-hour-a-day, stressful job working to someone else’s schedule and writing according to a pre-set agenda. It’s great being able to work on projects I feel passionate about and to set my own pace, although that’s not always easy.

But, as I read that post, I suddenly thought, what if people judge me? Or more to the point, what if publishers judge me?

Because within minutes of me filing yesterday’s blog, my agent sent off my book proposal – The Baby Gap – to a collection of the country’s top publishers. I immediately imagined them reading my blog (do they really have time?) and judging my writing, my thought processes, my honest admissions of my failings and occasional mood swings and deciding I wasn’t fit for the task ahead. Of course, it hasn’t escaped me that many a writer has found success by sharing their struggles with the world. But I’m afraid it won’t work out that way for me.

But at this point, I guess I have a choice – and it’s a very familiar one. To trust that it’s OK to be me or to believe that it isn’t. To continue to be open or to find ways to hide. To share my truth or to censor myself. To have faith that the outcome of all this will be exactly as it’s meant to be or to try and manipulate things to turn out the way I think I want them to.

It’s about believing in myself holistically and embracing all of me – my creative abilities, my dedication to my work, my thoroughness and my passion, but also my struggles, my ups and downs, my peculiar (unique rather than odd) personality and my moments of self-doubt. It’s about staying true to myself and believing in my journey, including the detours and the bumps in the road.

If I do that, what can possibly go wrong?

For the last few summers I’ve pulled out my plastic containers of summer clothes and created a “disappointment” pile. I’d dump everything onto my bed, pick out the questionables, and hold my breath while I tried to squeeze into a pair of shorts – only to toss them on the floor. The “not ready to part with” pile. The “reality check” pile. The “denail isn’t just a river in Egypt” pile.

Oh- “the” pile…

Last year I pulled out the usual suspects and threw them into a “hopefully fit into by the end of the summer?” pile instead. I was just beginning my journey, and looked at my clothes with a new glimmer of hope. And much to my excitement, I did fit into them by the end of the summer- even with a little room to spare. As the leaves began to change I once again packed them away- curious to see what it would look like when we met again.

Well here we are- a whole year later. I timidly opened the boxes, and began to pull out the usual suspects. I held my breath and stepped into a pair of shorts which buttoned… and then promptly slid down my legs. My “disappointment” pile suddenly become a “way too big” pile. A “look what you did!” pile. A “hard work pays off” pile. And this year instead of throwing them back into the bin I packed them up into plastic bags- and sent them out the door. Sorry guys, but you’re not welcome here anymore!

That would be me -sausaged into a pair of shorts two summers ago. And then when I tried them on this year.

When I first began my search for a healthy lifestyle I had this mental image in my head of what I would look like when I achieved my fitness nirvana. I imagined a girl with no curves, with spaghetti arms and straight hips. In my mind- that was the goal to aspire towards. 63 (on a good day) pounds later I realize that mental image… well it pretty much means jack shit. I’m still a work in progress- but I’m okay accepting that I will never been that skeletal girl that flashed through my head way back when. Don’t be mistaken- there are still days when I get dressed and think “God do my hips look wide!” or “Oh hey there muffin top – where did you come from?”. Unfortunately it’s only natural for us to pick ourselves apart.

Progress is a good thing PS. My apologies for the cat photobomb.

But 90% of the time I wake up and am still shocked when I look in the mirror. For so long what seemed impossible is just simply normal- this is me. I am finally at a place where I am happy to get dressed in the morning, comfortable and confident with the person I am. I will never take for granted the body that I now live in, and what I did to get here. I think about all of the amazing things that my body is capabale of doing now- even if I’m not wearing a size zero. My hips and thighs might be bigger than I’d like them to be, but my legs are strong and are able to push through miles of running. My arms might not look like a piece of dry spaghetti, but they can lift heavy weights and power through laps in the pool. They couldn’t do these things before.

Oh bathing suit season… you still suck, and probably always will!

This summer I am looking forward to celebrating the new Kathleen: the one who loves to be active, who will be busy running races and riding her bike, and is excited for pretty new summer clothes in much smaller sizes. No need to hide herself in layers anymore for the worst is over…. this girl’s got a body she should be proud of

]]> http://13degreez.wordpress.com/2013/05/15/relationships/ Wed, 15 May 2013 11:00:38 +0000 Tracy http://13degreez.wordpress.com/2013/05/15/relationships/

Why are most of our relationships so complicated with the opposite sex?

Perhaps there should be a dictionary for Menglish and Womenglish? After all, we have one for the English language and most others on this planet.

We believe we’re communicating our wants and needs. Sometimes, we think we’re right and the other is wrong.

How about if no one was wrong? What if it’s a lack of understanding….not necessarily of the other person, but of ourselves?

What if we believe we need something that we can’t define, and put it on the other person to fulfill?

Often, we have a picture in our head of what our relationship is supposed to look like, usually it has nothing to do with reality.

When we struggle in the relationship with the other person, we are trying to get a certain outcome…our outcome, not necessarily what is best for the relationship…but again, what we want to fill in the cracks or to satisfy our need.

It comes back to ourselves no matter if you’re male or female.

We may communicate differently, but the bottom line is–if we aren’t honest with ourselves, how can we possibly believe the results are going to be fulfilling?

We’re always going to want more when we are unclear as to why we feel how we do.

We’re going to blame our partner, if we haven’t become responsible for our own emotional state.

To be honest, authentic, true to ourselves requires us to move beneath our beliefs, our patterns and our protection to find what it is we truly want and need….and then it is up to us to fill it for ourselves first.

When we are aware of what we really want, it’s our responsibility to take care of it for ourselves. 

And what we really want is love and acceptance. 

Of course, we have to do that for us first, right? Otherwise how can we possibly know what it feels like to be loved by someone else?

Once we decide to really love and accept ourselves just as we are, we’ve certain beliefs and patterns, which make it a bit difficult to be consistent in our feelings.

Sometimes the walls we have built out of fear block our connection to our feelings of love. And fear can show in a number of ways from the beliefs we carry ourselves (we’re not good enough, unloveable, wrong, etc..) to the ways we act, speak and listen.

When we bring the person who we’re in a relationship with into the mix, they will more than likely trigger those beliefs and fears into overdrive. I equate the extremes it creates to that feeling, we’re outside of our bodies.

We take what is triggered and blame all men or all women. It’s not the case, we may speak different languages, because we process our reality differently, but it’s not a sex thing.

It’s a trigger thing, which depending on our level of awareness can make the language barrier even wider.

Our differences in communication become weapons when we feel we’re not being heard or again, getting what we THINK want.

What can we do?

There’s plenty of advice I can offer, tools that work in creating clarity, communication and understanding. It’s a matter of putting these things into action, not waiting for the other person to figure it out and taking responsibility for how we feel.

First. Stop whatever struggle you are engaged in with another. If you pause, and take a breath, you can see how much energy is tied up physically in that battle.

Second. If you stop the struggle for a moment, try to find a sense of calm, because it’s time to dig deeper. If you can’t get to total calm, go for a walk or do some other activity to release some anxiety.

Third. If you have a sense of calm, it’s time for the question, “What do I need right now?”

And whatever it is, no matter if it makes you vulnerable or you feel like you’re swallowing your pride, admit whatever it is to yourself, but at least…ASK. You deserve to ask. You deserve to ask yourself first to fulfill the request and then ask another.

Fourth. The inner critic, voices of old beliefs and protective walls.

These stand in between you and what you want. You can’t conquer them in one day, but get to know them…make friends with them. See what stories they tell you and bit by bit, allow them to go on their merry way. Don’t hold onto them any longer than necessary.

Fifth. You are flawed, he or she is flawed…we’re all flawed and no matter if it is Menglish or Womenglish…learn to speak the language without taking it personally.

If you want more tips, check out a FREE teleseminar I am doing on May 30th at 5 p.m. PST. You can watch this video, which explains in some detail what the seminar is about…or you can just sign up by clicking here and then scrolling to the bottom of the page.

FREE Teleseminar on Relationships

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I’ve been in a slump. The “I wills” have been recycled as frequently as I change my underwear, and I have been unmotivated to pursue anything.

I’ve fallen back into the vicious cycle of sleep/travel/work, and a whole lot of nothing else.  I’ve neglected my health, my boyfriend, my family, my friends…. I think even my cat is starting to feel a little neglected.  I’ve made no time for fun.

During my hour long bus ride home from work last night, I came across a little writing.  These mere nineteen lines have lit a little spark in me and the remnants of past, motivated Annie seem a little closer in reach. 

I came across this writing at the right time.

This small writing has made me realise two things.

1. Time is precious; too precious to waste feeling unhappy and miserable. 
2. Time is not always utilised effectively. We have twenty-four hours in a day, seven to eight of which should be spent sleeping.  That leaves us with a spare fifteen to sixteen hours to do whatever the heck we want to do. 

I for one am going to be utilising my time a lot more effectively!  I’m going to use those sixty minutes on the bus to learn, to read, to write, to telephone my loved ones, to dream and to create.

I am going to leave my stresses at the door.  Life is too short to be miserable.

I am going to spend a lot more quality time with the people who make me happy.  My boyfriend, my family, my friends and… yes, my cat.

I am going to exercise and nourish my body.  I have invested too much of my time feeling horrible about my health and my body already.

I am going to pursue my dreams, no matter how crazy they may be.

I encourage you to do all of the above and more.  Do what makes you happy.

You never know when the ‘time’ bank might close your account.

Annie xxx