A Really Exceptional Top-Coat

January 15th, 2016

Perhaps I should thank Dr. W (ED therapist) for her suggestion last fall that I cease my daily gym routine.  Of course suggestion implies that it was merely a passive attempt at potentially useful advice, when in reality it was a very authoritative ban on my standard gym routine.  Even still, it’s because of her being all shouty about it, that I am avoiding the newly resolved peeps pouring into the gym.  And I think this is the first year in ages that I haven’t set out with some weight related resolution.

Instead of some grand goal of transforming my body and my life this year, I’ve chosen to *know* me.  To identify who I am at the core.

Dr. W and the gals have been harassing me since my induction into group to identify my “authentic self”.  This inquiry into who I really am seriously tested my fondness for these ladies.  I’ve always resented the suggestion that because I wear heels to sporting events (only baby wedges, folks), generally have gobs of jewelry hanging from my body, am never without a base-coat of makeup, and will send my kid into the gas station if I’m not “dressed”, means that I’m trying to impress who the hell ever.  But here’s the thing, I’m thinking these people might be on to something.  I mean, I know that’s why they exist, to know stuff and be useful, but obviously I’m not known for logical thinking.

I’ve relapsed in my recovery for two months now.  I’ve completely reverted to my previous way of thinking.  Restrictive eating, obsessing over food and binging and purging.  Christmas damn near killed me.  Holidays are typically hard for ED sufferers.  But as a mom, it destroyed my heart not to have my littles for Christmas.  This is the part that no one accounts for when they nonchalantly consider divorcing the spouse they no longer feel connected to.  To those people, specifically my much younger, first-time-wife-self, I would like to connect my fist with…. Read More

I miss him

September 29, 2015

My fingers are numb. My earlobes are tingling. I have chills and my hands are sweaty. In spite of my attempts at deep breathing, I feel breathless and light headed. Google says it’s an anxiety attack. I felt it just last week on #3’s birthday, when we went to Lagoon for the last time as a family. I told him that I wanted to work on us. I wanted to go to counseling to see how to fix us, what to expect and what the next steps would be. Less than 6 hours later, everything changed. For the second time in two years, any hope of my family being…not what it once was, but maybe what I’d always wanted it to be, was completely shattered. Right now, I can’t even write about the events of that following day. As my heart palpitates so furiously I can hear the blood pumping in my ears, I wonder how I’ll make it through this day. I can’t even think about getting through the week yet.   Read More

That was a shit idea

September 18, 2015

TGIF. Except not because it’s a weekend that I don’t have my kids. And there is a school group walking just outside my office window, hand in hand, escorted by teachers and parents. They’re walking towards the train station holding ice cream cones just purchased from the A&W up the street. I’ll assume it was a field trip that they’ll excitedly tell their moms about later today. It makes my heart ache and, in spite of my breathing, my gut is wrenching at the thought of my sweet baby not coming home until Sunday night. And that I’ll do this again in two weeks and on Christmas. And it’s early in my grieving and recovery process. Technically it’s ridiculously late and long overdue.

On January 18th, 2014, I watched the life I had hoped to live for the rest of forever manifest itself as a devastating and humiliating pretense. My sometimes failing memory can perfectly recall the hours leading up to that Saturday evening in his truck on our way to see Nut Job as a family of 4. Though I rarely let myself go there, I remember vividly the conversation about, the text messages exchanged between and the pictures from my husband’s girlfriend. Oh God, I can’t live through this. Please not again, I am desperate not to lose another family, another husband, another life. Even typing this, a year and a half later, I stop, place my hand on my chest and focus on bringing the air into my nose and feeling it expand my chest. Repeat. Read More