Health Archives - Page 4 of 11

Please Love Me, The Syndrome

by BethMarch 4, 2016November 21, 2021Family / Health / mommy blogs / Religion

Dave and I at my sister, Brenda's wedding, October, 1999. — Dave and I at my sister, Brenda’s wedding, October, 1999. (I was 8 months pregnant.)

Note: I am not a psychiatrist, nor do I play one on tv. Keep in mind that my dad is a psychologist. Enjoy.

I am stealing that phrase from Dr. Gabor Maté. After posting about being “all in” yesterday, my friend nailed it and suggested I watch his Youtube Video titled, “When The Body Says No: Mind/Body Unity and the Stress-Disease Connection.” Seeing as how I have the attention span of a fly, in bits and pieces I have been watching Dr Maté’s talk since then. The concept of the Please-Love-Me syndrome is sticking with me most. The Please Love Me Syndrome is apparently an adaptive result of say some sort of stressor, like a rage-ful dad (his words). Consequently, because we want to please our (rageful) parent and because we crave their love, we learn to adapt, inevitably hiding our authentic selves. To a child this literally translate to the following coping mechanism:

“I will do whatever it takes for you to love me, or better, I will suppress who I am so you will love me and attach.”

My adult translation: “At all costs, I will take your shit.”

Pushing his please-love-me theory further, Dr. Maté suggests that when we repress our authentic self, we also stress our physical selves out, which he asserts leads to disease. Again my translation is the following: So to gain your asshole — that is to say, rage-ful — dad’s acceptance (love) we learn to suppress who we are, and then we get sick. Eventually all that adaptive, stress-based self-suppression makes us sick. Weird I had a lot of stomach aches as a child. I have indigestion just thinking about my past. And now I have Celiac disease. Does correlation equal causation? Hmmmm. Obviously the correlation here is that we suppress ourselves because we fear making our mean dad mad (fear rejection). Eventually our adaptive please-love-me behavior becomes so reflexive that it transfers to our other relationships and literally becomes who we are. I am living proof.

Minneapolis, MN: My sister, Brenda's, wedding, October, 1999 — Minneapolis, MN: My sister, Brenda’s, wedding, October, 1999

Consequently, as I search for meaning and search for Beth, Dr. Maté’s words resonate. The need to please has literally informed everything. For instance, I have a knack for being attracted to smart, creative, funny, dynamic, super intense, unpredictable, and oh, very cruel, self-obsessed humans (all characteristics I would use to describe my dad). Often I am lucky and I find friends (and spouses) who share most of the traits (minus the douchebag ones). At times I have wondered if my please-love-me behavior has morphed into some sort of crazy addiction. Meaning, I get a buzz off of your approval as much as your disapproval. In fact your disapproval only makes me try harder. Further, when I do attract a rageful beast, my please-love-me behavior becomes all-consuming, often spinning out of control. I never get it. Rageful beasts are never satisfied and simply feed off of rejecting all the please-love-me fools caught in their net.

Pushing the mean dad analogy further, I found it interesting that Dr. Maté used a rageful dad as an example. I kind of get it. Do we all have mean dads? No. In fact, Dave is the opposite of mean. He is kind, invested, esteem-promoting and knows his boys. Sadly, in contrast to Dave, my dad was anything but esteem-promoting. What I remember about my dad, which is not much, is that he always seemed disappointed, more specifically, disappointed in me. When it was my weekend to go to his house (yes, my parents were divorced), I never saw my dad. My brother had my dad’s attention, and I was pawned off to my stepmother, his second wife, and yes, they are divorced now too. When I was not with my stepmom, I spent my time far away in the basement where I was asked to remain. Ergo, (because I have been dying to use this transitional word), in my dad’s basement, I slept, watched television and entertained myself. I always loved when my brother came downstairs. Eventually I stopped going to my dad’s. It would make sense (at least to me) that my brother would continue his weekend visits. He did. My brother also tells me that things were not much better for him. I do not disagree.

My awesome sister, Brenda, and I at her wedding, October, 1999, Minneapolis, MN. (Yes. I am super duper pregnant in this photo. My sister is gorgeous!)

My relationship with my dad came down to the following conversation he had with my mom. I think it was a gift. My dad firmly stated that he only wanted my three children, and that I was unwanted. Yes, I heard him say these words. Remember land lines? Well, I was on one phone while my mom was on the other. My guess is my dad had no clue I was listening. I was. My mom had no idea he would say what he did. I know her heart dropped when she heard him say,

“I don’t want Beth.”

I know she wanted to grab the phone away from my ear. I was in another part of the house. Instead, I continued to quietly listen.

Here it is. I am the youngest child. I could never figure out my dad’s beef with me. In truth, I know his beef was with my mom. With her not present, I became the puppy he could kick. I always felt his rejection. I still feel his rejection. It is cruel and it is abrupt. The only way I could survive him (the beast) is if I let go and shut the door. I did. Ok. Sure, it took me several years to get the clue that my dad did not want me. Again I think it was a phone call. He called my therapist at the time a “shrink,” and since my dad was, ironically, in the mental health profession himself, his choice of that particular condescending term was deliberate. And as Eli most humorously conveys,

“Hey mom, condescending means ‘to talk down to.’”

My dad talked down to me and I was done. I did what I do to most beasts. I scream. I short-circuit. I swear and then I hang up, lock myself in my room, or go for a very long walk. And if we are really being truthful and I am, please know that I will always, always hope for the beast’s approval, LOVE, forgiveness, acceptance, and (for what I don’t know, but I still want it). For now, I have learned to live without it.

My dad is now seventy-five. My last memory of seeing him in the flesh was nearly seventeen years ago and after the phone call when I hung up on him. He flew to Minnesota (so did I) for my sister Brenda’s wedding. I was approximately eight months pregnant with Kyle, and at the point where I should not be flying. I flew anyway.

After the ceremony, my dad walked over to me. He and I said very few words to each other, yet I felt joyous, as if we were long lost friends. As he spoke, he placed his hand on my large, pregnant belly. I stood there and his hand remained, firmly on my stomach. I was consumed with his hand placement and wondered,

“Will he like who I have turned out to be?”

In that moment, I adapted.

Duality is interesting. In a flash I also saw how his behavior as my parent had informed all of my decisions as an adult. I knew I did not want to be him, but I really wanted him to like and accept me. I found his hand repellant, wanted it off of my belly and away from my unborn son, yet I felt elated while I basked in his approving touch. Because I did not feel comfortable asking him to take it off, his hand remained. Standing there I felt forced to think about us. I thought about him as a father. I was not him. I am not him. In those seconds it was clear. I knew I wanted to be different. I wanted to be a part of my child’s life. I also felt proud and peaceful. I take my marriage seriously. I did not marry because it was the next step in a religious expectation. Instead I married someone I liked, loved and felt really good about marrying (I love Dave). I resolved to have kids when I wanted to have them. I resolved to not blame my kids, but to take responsibility as the parent. I resolved to be patient and remember that I am the teacher. I resolved to take responsibility and I resolved to apologize when I screw up. And when I had Kyle and Eli, I resolved never ever to reject them. I never will. Those boys are my heart and soul. Each day with them serves as a reminder of what my dad has missed – his choice, not mine.

He took his hand away and we have not spoken since.

Dave and baby Kyle, Salt Lake City, Utah early 2000.

Kyle and I at my friend, Melanie’s wedding, Atlanta, Georgia, May, 2000

As I wind this post down I keep thinking,

“If only all my problems, including my please-love-me affliction, were because of my bad relationship with my father. If only…”

Unfortunately life is not that simple. I get that. So for me being “all in” also means facing all of me. Here is how I picture myself. I am mummy wrapped in layers (years-worth) of gauze. Now I think my life’s journey is about ripping off that gauze. Honestly, I am a little overwhelmed. I am wrapped in so much gauze that I look like a big, fluffy mummy. I am certain (because I already have) that as I peel away that I will find scars, pain, scabs, blood and unhealed wounds. Most days I would much rather remain a fluffy, protected, gauze-y creature (fence-bound). I also know that my desperate please-love-me behavior wants to remain hidden. Yet when I muster the courage, I must admit that gauze removing rocks. It is always those times when I start to unwrap when I am reminded of the love and support and strength that envelops my world!

Eli and I, Banff National Park, Canada, July 2004

The boys and I, Banff National Park, Canada, July 2004

And all exposed I feel grateful. I am grateful I get to be Kyle and Eli’s mom. And I am grateful I have a partner who does not freak out if I tell you we had a fight. I am also grateful Dave supports my quest, or maybe he simply prefers human Beths to gauze-wrapped mummies.

PS. The best part of being a wife and a mom is that I get to be a part of Dave, Kyle and Eli’s amazing journey. I would not trade this gift for anything.

All In

by BethMarch 2, 2016March 3, 2016Family / Health

I spend most of my life on the proverbial fence. So when I actually (try to) go all in I am always clunky and awkward. I over explain. I definitely lack finesse. I get so nervous that I lose my train of thought. It is true. I am so not cool. Consequently, when I decide to speak up or stand up, my words and actions often result in an unfortunate mess of hurt feelings, tears and confusion (yours and mine).

Today I would like to thank Dave. After I tried to go “all in,” he suggested I go back to bed. When I suggested that my string of words were my attempt to hold my ground, he cynically responded,

“As if you ever having a problem speaking up for yourself.”

I have not spoken since. I have sent him three emails. He has not responded. He is sitting maybe ten feet away. We still haven’t spoken. Maybe that is where I will remain.

I hate fighting. And today, Dave and I fought. Our fight was dumb — really. And in my attempt to resolve misunderstanding, I made it worse (of course). And of course I take all responsibility for things going sideways. I always do. I think that stems from my abandonment issues. Thank you dad!

I am alone. I feel all alone. I do not want to be alone. And because I do not want to be alone, I accommodate. I want you to like me. I do not think that is so bad. See, I hate being mad. I hate when people hate me. And because I hate being hated, I safely remain fence-bound.

Running and thinking I look like a zombie. Maybe I am.

Truth is I think this whole accommodating-sitting-on-the-fence thing is killing me. In all aspects of my life (religion, family, friends, you name it), I firmly sit on the fence. I give people way too much power. And years of giving you my power has left me with nothing. I am vacant.

As a result, my bottom is bruised (from the fence posts) and I have been depressed. I am usually not depressed. In fact, most of the time, the fence actually works. Yet, for the past month the fence has only caused me discomfort. Like I said, I have been depressed. In my attempt to swim to the surface, I keep writing. I keep trying to post what I write, and then I feel foolish for ever thinking my words should see the light of day. It is so weird. And because I wonder if a public forum is the right place for these words, I have done the more sane and practical thing: I have spoken to Dave and a few close friends about being depressed. Additionally (and because this is not my first dark rodeo), each day I walk and run. In some ways exercising away the sad has worked. In fact, yesterday I did yard work. I even forced Dave and Eli to join me. We worked for hours and ended our work with laughter.

But after fighting with Dave I feel blue (again). Sure, I realize that I could medicate my sorrow. I have medicated my sorrow before. Antidepressants do work. That being said, no antidepressant or therapist will ameliorate my compelling need to please, or better, my compelling need to not disappoint. Oddly, through all of it, I somehow think, I, myself, have the power to resolve all conflicts, make all people love me, and to make it all better. If I serve and help away the sad, I will be ok, right? Wrong.

Bottom line is this: until I force myself off of the fence, I will not (consistently) feel good about me. Until I force myself to stand up for Beth (not just talk loud and say a lot of words), my feelings will keep getting hurt. Better, I will let things that should not be such a big deal be a big deal. I get it. My self-esteem should be tethered to my heart and not a fence post.

I only have me. Dave will be mad or not mad. I cannot change Dave. I can love Dave. In fact, 99% of the time Dave is my greatest champion.

Dave usually bikes along while I run. I really enjoy doing this together.

Ultimately I believe the way out of my pain is actually to go all in and feel a shitload of pain. I need to realize that I will make you mad. I will be clunky. I will lose my train of thought. I will embarrass you. I will ask you questions you do not want to answer. I will force you to look up and listen. Nevertheless, I need to let myself be ok with your frustration. And then I need to align myself with people who are ok with me. Come on, am I really that bad? Wait. Don’t answer that [wink wink].

Maybe It Is About What We Leave Behind

by BethFebruary 15, 2016March 30, 2016Family / Health / Travel

Bryce Canyon National Park with friends, January, 2016

On January 31,2016, our friend, Stephen Jones, was caught unexpectedly in an avalanche. He had all the necessary gear, knowledge and experience. He had his avalanche beacon. He was on familiar terrain. His family knew where he would be, and he knew the backcountry well. All of Steve’s preparations made no difference. The snow is mighty and the avalanche was powerful. And I am certain I am not the only one who desperately hates that the mountain Steve was skiing defeated him.

Saturday, as I sat at Steve’s funeral, and as the tears rolled freely, over and over I heard the words,

“Steve always had an opinion. Steve cared about everyone! Steve was generous, enthusiastic, outspoken, freakishly intelligent, driven and mostly. Steve was devoted to his wife Melissa and their children.” Steve’s mom brought the crowd to tears as she declared, “Melissa, once Steve realized what was happening, I am certain his first thoughts were, Melissa, I am sorry.”

Dave and I have been doing a lot of talking about our passionately opinionated and brave friend, Steve. I have been doing a lot of processing. Honestly, Steve’s presence was intensely bright, and I often find myself saying,

“I cannot believe he is gone.”

Dave always responds with, “I can’t either.”

I think it is common knowledge among those who knew Steve that he would not have been fully able to be Steve without Melissa, his amazing wife. She is gorgeous (inside and out), generous, kind, and grounded. She also affirmed Steve’s seemingly crazy, ambitious dreams right into realities. In his mid-forties, for instance, Steve took up ultra-running. Last summer, at age forty-nine, he ran two 200-mile races, five weeks apart. Melissa was there, encouraging him through his solo, unsupported endeavors.

That is what I love about both Steve and Melissa. They cheer for all of us. Steve wanted you to feel his joy (hence his strong advice),

“Beth, you have the best trails behind your house. Get out and see them.”

Melissa generously offered that I publicly share as many Steve photos as I want.

“If it helps lessen the pain,” she said, “then I say do it.”

So I will.

First, it is important to note that I overflow with a paralyzing amount of empathy. I want to help people. I always have. I am incredibly clumsy when it comes to the juncture between following my dreams and my huge impulse not to step on your toes. Yet, as lame as I can be to myself (like not following dreams), I am really good at helping others fulfill their own (dreams, that is). Ask Dave, I am a most excellent second-hand-dream-fulfiller, unifier, matchmaker and cheerleader. It gives me impossible joy to bring people together. When it comes to my family or my friends (even in those times when I am uncomfortable or afraid), I am devoted. I am loyal. I will step aside for their needs. When you need something, I love to find it. I will apologize (even when I don’t need to). When I know you are hurting, I am there. I will stand by your side.

Mostly, with those I love, I will NOT remain neutral. I will NOT stand on the sidelines. I will always take a risk. And I always have. Being a good friend has always been my super power, or at least, I think it has. Ok. Wait. This is not a post to tell you how awesome I am. I am not, awesome, that is. I am no saint. I do hurt feelings (often). Ask Dave and the boys. For starters, I swear (and swear more when I am trying to stop). I yell and I am often late to pick-up. Nevertheless, I remain solid.

Us, Playa Del Carmen, Mexico, January, 2016 — Us, Playa Del Carmen, Mexico, December, 2015

This week, a week, when I am full of reflection, and in a world where life is brief, and bright stars burn out, I have concluded that I would rather be an outspoken Steve Jones, or a generous Melissa, than someone who stands aside. I admire how Steve and Melissa treat those they love. And through them, I have been reminded that I would rather be someone who unconventionally goes out of her way, rather than someone who refuses. I would rather be what Steve was for me and Melissa still is: a friend who persistently tries to push me out of my Seasonal-Affected-Disorder blues, a friend who pays attention, and a friend who generously allows me to share because it helps me heal. In the end, (yes, the real end), I want to be remembered as someone who gave a shit, someone who was not afraid to speak up, someone who cared deeply, and someone who was not afraid to get involved.

But to be remembered that way, I must actually be that way.

Steve and his son a few years back on a school field with Kyle and Eli.

How Can I Stop Time?

by BethFebruary 6, 2016February 8, 2016Family / Health / People I know

The top of Rob's Trail, Park City, Ut — The top of Rob’s Trail, Park City, Utah

Forward: This has been week filled with heartbreaking news. Monday evening, February 1, I began this post. At the time I did not know that our most awesome friend Steve had died, or about the sudden illness and passing of my mom’s and Harvey’s sweet and beloved, grandson, Nick.

Dave, Kyle, Eli and I wish both of their families much peace now as they move through their grief.

…I also want to thank Melissa, Steve’s wife. You have graciously allowed us all to share our feelings, photos and thoughts. Thank you, my friend!

xo Jeff

Melissa’s words: “I say share away if it makes you feel any less pain.”

—

Rob's Trail, the back side of the canyons Ski Resort, Park City, Utah — Rob’s Trail, the back side of the canyons Ski Resort, Park City, Utah

The following was written Monday, February 1, 2016:

Right now my thoughts are an anxiety-induced brain-coma of disconnects, intentional denials and lost trains of thoughts. I am certain my brain coma is a result of our current living reality: Our new home is covered in a mish-mash of unpacked boxes, unfinished construction, doors that need paint and door hardware and a toilet that need installing. I am certain my circuits persist in shorting because of things like the large, bright green, trash-filled dumpster in our driveway. Each and every time I go to back up, I literally forget how to back up.

“Do I turn the wheel to the left or to the right?” I ask and yes, out loud.

As I inch my way past that green monster, I am certain I will smash into it, or at least rip off my side mirror. Adding to my brain dumpster-PTSD is the part where I feel completely and totally emotionally exposed. Of course we are in a new neighborhood. It is a place where houses are close together and there are new people to meet and new people who will judge me. Vulnerable indeed. Facilitating this exposed vulnerability is the fact that our giant windows need blinds! And here is why: Often it is only until I am well into our well-lit kitchen, which houses a very large, uncovered picture window, that I look out at the dark outside while standing in the bright inside that I connect the dots.

“Beth, run! Hide. YOU ARE IN YOUR UNDERWEAR!”

No. It never occurs to me to turn off the lights.

In truth, new-house living is a gift, and the fact that we have this giant trash can at our disposal is super cool. Why I think (know) my brain is in a painful fog is the reality that as each moment passes, my time raising these amazing boys is growing way too short.

Consequently, whether a moment is soul-crushing, over-exposing, disconnected, boring, or ultimate glee, I always, always, always want to push the pause button.

I plead,

“Why can’t I hold all the moments a little longer? Why?”

Ok. I know the answer. If we stop time for me, we have to stop it for everyone, and if we stop time for people living now, it would not be fair to all those who have lived before us, (and yes) or those who will live after us, or some other inequity I have not considered.

Nevertheless, damn you, Time! I want you to stop, at least pause long enough for me to catch my breath (or back out of the driveway without smashing my car).

And Time, if you will not stop, or even pause, perhaps you will slow down long enough so I can find a way to hold on.

Kyle and our dinner ;) — Kyle and our dinner 😉

Here is the moment I am now in: I need to go grocery shopping – bad. In fact, I just placed two bags of frozen corn in the microwave. Yes, I am calling two bags of frozen corn dinner. As I type, I am sitting at our new kitchen island. Music is playing. The boys are milling around me. I ask Dave about my new ski boots. I bought them earlier today.

“Are they in the car?” I say.

“No. I brought them into the garage.” Dave responds.

We eat our frozen corn (dinner). I read out loud what I have written so far. As I read, Dave walks to the refrigerator, pulls out a package of tortillas, grabs the cast iron pan, turns on a burner and says,

“Anyone want a burrito?”

The boys start watching YouTube. I say, “Is that a Fail video?”

In unison (and by unison I include Dave), they respond, “It’s a Win video.”

Eli does not want beans in his burrito.

Dave, Kyle and Eli eating dinner and watching YouTube

As the boys watch their video, Eli says,

“I want to do that,” followed by Kyle, “I so want to do that.” (Because I am writing this, I have no idea what “that” is.)

They turn down the volume so I can listen to my music on my new…

“What kind of speaker is it?” I ask Dave.

Both Kyle and Dave answer,

“It’s a UE Boom.”

Kyle sings along with the Avett Brothers, “January Wedding.”

Dave affirms, “Ok, Eli, I am giving you a minimal amount of beans.”

Eli protests, “I want zero amount of beans!”

To which Dave insists, “You won’t even notice the beans.”

All this bean talk takes place as Kyle sings,

“In January, we’re getting married.”

Then he flips his burrito-dilla.

Dave asks, “Eli, do you want tomatoes on yours?”

Eli demands, “No, I want cheese!”

Quesadilla-crisis averted, I hear Dave say something. It takes a few seconds to realize that he is actually talking to me:

“Do you want to go to the grocery store tonight?” He repeats himself — this time talking a little louder, “Beth, do you want to go to the grocery store tonight?”

Before I can answer, Kyle looks at Dave and says,

“Ok. Dad. I am going to make the ultimate, ultimate burrito.”

Delighted Dave responds,

“Maybe it’s the penultimate burrito. Maybe it is the last before the last.”

Instead of giving Dave an answer about the grocery store I say,

“A penultimate burrito? What? What? What?”

Because Eli is still watching YouTube “win” videos, he offers this most excellent non sequitur,

“He duct-taped it to his feet.”

Dave follows with an equally non-connected response,

“mmmm.”

Kyle's pent-ultimate burrito — Kyle’s penultimate burrito

Kyle is finishes cooking what is now a burrito, walks over to Dave and says,

“Dad. Dad. Look. Cheese in between.”

Eli walks to the freezer and asks,

“Mom, can I have a fruit bar?”

Dave implores,

“Let me know if you want to go to the grocery store, Beth.”

I say,

“Let’s go now. I want to be back to put the boys to bed.”

Now at the store, together, we walk the aisles. Then we separate — me, for butter and yogurt, and Dave for ice cream. We reconnect, pay and leave.

Dave and I, The Canyons Ski Resort. One of the last times I went skiing. — Dave and me, The Canyons Ski Resort. One of the last times I went skiing.

On the way home we talk about my new ski boots. I am certain Dave does not realize how terrified I am to ski now.

Ok here is the background: Years ago I tore (nearly severed) this muscle in my leg/foot called the Peronus Longus. The muscle runs down the calf, wraps around your foot and connects in between the big toe and whatever you call the toe next to the big toe. And if you ski, you know that you need to be able to work your big toe and that toe next to it to turn your boot in your ski. I healed and even got special ski boots that were supposed to make it easier.

I remember the moment. I was in my new ski boots, and was on the steepest part of Saddleback (Canyons Ski Resort Blue run). It was the end of the day and the run was hard ice. I kept slipping and sliding as my boys skied past me and urged,

“Mom, Mom, come on!”

It was then that I realized that in those slick conditions, I could only turn to the right. I was confused and trying to work out how I could get down the mountain on right-turns only. I made my way to the edge. I stopped and began taking my skis off. I was convinced that I could just walk down. When Dave realized what I was doing, he emphatically stated,

“Beth, you cannot walk down! It is not safe. You need to ski!”

I stood there — immobile. It was cold, dark and the mountain was closing for the day. My friend, Jodi, whisked by and offered to ski all the kids down, (her three and my two –yes, she is a saint). Dave remained, steadfast in his resolve.

“Dave, my foot will not turn my ski!” I cried (yes, real tears).

I was embarrassed. I was terrified. After many painful moments, Dave slowly coaxed me down that mountain.

I have not been back, skiing, that is.

Now years later, with my special ski boots stolen (which I have used as a reason not to ski), and my crazy foot rehabbed, Dave sensed it was time. So on Monday morning, February 1, Dave declared,

“I am taking you to buy new ski boots today!”

My new ski boots. I will call them Steve.

I will admit had no interest in buying new ski boots. Come on, I have better things to do, right? There is a house to unpack and a toilet to install!

Dave would not accept my excuses. We made our way to our local Level Nine Sports, spent hours trying on ski boots with Christian, the very cool former ski racer from New England. Apparently the Fishers with an insole stabilize my foot. It felt like a Christmas miracle. My fear washed away and my trust came back because as I stood in my new boots, I connected.

“Dave, I can turn my foot!” I exclaimed!

Afterward: Of course I did not know Steve was killed in an avalanche on Sunday, January 30. Search and Rescue would not find his body until Tuesday, February 2. It was not out of the ordinary that as I tried on my boots my thoughts and our conversation leaned in the direction of our friend, Stephen Jones. Steve impacted a lot of us. He was bold, outspoken and fearless. He loved the snow, winter and skiing. Most people had no idea that I was so afraid of the snow. Steve noticed. So way back when I injured my foot, he repeatedly insisted I contacted Alan, Miss Diane’s magic carpet guy so I could rehab my foot and “safely” get my confidence back. His caring was also married with a lot of opinion. Consequently, for years, Steve pestered me about not loving the snow. I honestly think he got a thrill out of harassing me. Mostly, I am certain he was convinced that he could win bring me to the snow-loving side.

On Monday, February 1, 2016, he came very close.

Today I struggle with how to articulate moments, time, loss, and the impact others have on us. Oddly I was struggling a lot Monday (before I knew about Steve or Nick). Loss, time-stopping, and moment catching consumed my thoughts. During the week, my friend Beth (who also knows Steve) and I were talking about the impact others have on us. She mentioned tapestries and threads; and how each of us are threads that are woven together. Once connected, we ripple through each other’s lives. These ripples create things like the need to buy new ski boots out of the blue. As we talked I started thinking that maybe these ripples are the way we stop time.

Monday, February 1, is the day I stopped worrying about boxes, giant dumpsters and uninstalled toilets. It was the day I took a break, spent hours talking the upside of snow, and gratefully found ski boots that fit properly. Mostly, Monday, February 1, is the day I stopped being afraid, afraid to ski, that is.

So right now, and after a very sad week, I would like to think that as Steve left this world, the moment he left me is February 1, 2016, the day I bought my new ski boots. Of course I am grateful!

Keeping My Moments Here is the Best I Can Do

by BethApril 2, 2014June 30, 2014Family / Health6 Comments

I have journals scattered to the four corners, online and offline; handwritten words that are letter-dotted with twelve-year-old-girl-bubble hearts, dramatic monologues of my first (second, third and fourth) broken heart, billions of blog entries, and some that are typed (yes, with that old fashioned instrument one calls a typewriter). As the snow falls in April, and I try to write my two college papers (yes, I am back in college and that is another story I need to tell), in my classic avoidance-styled behavior, instead of doing what I need to do, I think about last night. I should have been putting Eli (12) Kyle (14) to bed (because it was late and that’s where they were supposed to be), instead I kept them up so we could watch old family videos. Damn you, David Adams! Damn you, for converting our old videos to digital. I love these videos and I cannot stop watching them. I cannot stop watching as little Eli holds a brown paper bag over his hand, and when asked, in his raspy little two-year-old voice, he responds, “This is Angry Puppet.” Eli laughs, crumples Angry Puppet into a ball, and when asked what he is doing, Eli quickly throws Angry Puppet, bows his head, and switches to a somber tone, “he is sad because he misses his mommy.” Five-year-old Kyle comes into frame. He announces, “I am going to do one of my latest styles.” In the background you hear Eli, “I am stepping on this.” Kyle runs across the dining room floor, landing sweet-breakdance-move after sweet-breakdance-move. He stops, literally spits on each hand, we all laugh, and watch as Kyle does his sweet-breakdance-move again. A few moves later five-year-old Kyle tells me, “my hands are sticky.” “That’s awesome!” Fourteen-year-old Kyle responds.

Yes, I wanted to reach into those videos and will myself back right to the moment where the boys were outside playing in the crazy flower sprinkler. And yes, that flower sprinkler was crazy. Hooked onto the hose, it whipped all over the place, squirting water indiscriminately. The boys spent hours entertaining themselves and hiding from that thing. I wanted to be there and I wanted to hold on to the moment I was already in. Picture my hands outstretched, one reaching back and one holding, holding hard onto now. That is how I picture it. So I held those moments the best I could. I let the boys, one snuggled up on each side (thank god they still snuggle), stay up a little longer, and listened as they deconstructed their young selves. I feel selfish and I feel grateful. I know this. Each minute I spend with Kyle and Eli I am blown away with how lucky I am. It has not been easy having children, yet somehow Kyle and Eli snuck through all of my infertility madness. Wait. Let me correct myself. If any of you know either Kyle or Eli, there was no sneaking in through my defective-infertile me. My boys are smart, strong, bad-asses. They fought. They fought to be here and I am so freaking grateful. I am blown away. They fought to be here and I get to be a mom.

“Mom, my leg hurts. Mom, Mom, I need to go to bed!” Eli was done and wanted to go to bed. “Mom, really. My leg hurts. I am tired.” We packed up my laptop, the boys headed to their room slapping each other, when a very tired Eli began saying something about having to sleep in the same room as Kyle. “Can he just go away? Kyle, Kyle, sleep in mom’s bed.” Between houses and moves, we are temporarily in an apartment, Dave is still commuting to San Francisco, and with limited space the boys are sharing a room. I’d say a good 87% of the time they love it. Last night Eli simply wanted Kyle to shut up and go away. “Mom, really, I cannot sleep in the same room as him.” To this I responded with, and as I pointed to my middle, “Hey, you used to live in here.” It made no sense, except it broke into the moment of crabbiness I created by letting my boys stay up too late. I need to say this. My boys are awesome. They are sweet, kind, funny, and smart. Yes, they fight, but they also look out for each other. Their bond has never changed. I love my boys, and I do not understand why I get to love them so much and then send them on their way. It is brutal, this love. They were both in bed, I shut the door because Kyle yelled from his bed, “Mom, please, SHUT IT ALL THE WAY!” I shut the door ALL THE WAY, and as I walked away, I heard them laughing.

Tagged : Journals

Thoughts while taking a shower: comparing, body image, Anorexia

by BethFebruary 16, 2014May 28, 2015Health / My Three Cents1 Comment

It is so dumb.

I stood in the shower, and in that moment away from everything, what snuck into my relaxed brain space is the woman who always asks me how old I am. “Why does she do that?” I thought. “Why does it matter that every single time I see her she asks?” I am not kidding. She asks me every single time and then does this whole restate thing, “You are how old again?” I always answer to which she responds, “I am younger than you.” Why does it matter? And really, if I am going to point the finger at her, I had to wonder, “Why does it bother me?” Is it that she asks or, is it that whole incessant drilling-restate-comparing-each other bit? I do not like getting blindsided and sucked into the vortex where I am forced to compare, especially because before she reminded me that I was older than she is, our ages did not matter.

I stood there naked, my hair pulled back, hot water pounding my body, and in that moment of complete exposure and soothing relief, I could not stop thinking about her need to put me in a place juxtaposed to her.

Trying not to get my hair wet, yet thinking that this shower time was somehow therapeutic, my mind untethered, I let the ball roll. It is not the big stuff that gets me. When I take a second to catch my breath, these trying-to-understand-why thoughts race into my quiet, years-of-therapy, and defenseless spaces. I promise. It is always worse with hormones [wink, wink]. Happy Day 1 to me! I am a rock when the world falls apart, but someone reminding, and reminding me how I stack up next to them is a conversation I hide from every single time. Fully immersed, I wondered, “why do women always seem so consumed with the exterior? Why do they base their worth on how they look next to another woman?” I thought about the other day in class. I pictured it. There I sat, and next to me sat the only other old lady [wink, wink] in class. She has six kids, which are her world. I know this because every single class period she looks at me and says, “my kids are very important to me. They are my world.” She also talks a lot about her hair. As I sat in class she up-and-down-glanced me, me, the one all-dressed-in-black-with-the-exception-of-my-very-bright-yellow-green-with-bright-pink-accents-tennis-shoes and said, “you don’t like to wear color, do you?” All I could think is, “why the hell does it matter, what a weird question, and why are you drawing attention to the color of my clothes?” My response as I now noticed her black shoes, “maybe we are opposites.” Then and completely catching me off guard, she waited for me after class, “maybe she likes friends who feel less than, and if they don’t, she finds a way to get them there first,” I thought, and maybe women, women who seem to have it all, like six beautiful and very important children, really do not feel like they do, and how they find a moment of feeling better is to intentionally or unintentionally size us up.

Between rinsing off the soap and deciding if I should use the yummy-smelling shower gel (of course I did) these comparing-oneself-to-others thoughts were making me feel a little anxious so I did what these kind of thoughts make me do and jumped right into the obvious correlating issue: the female body image.

I remembered the extremely thin woman I saw at Starbucks the other day. She was so out-of-place frail that I cannot forget where I was when our paths crossed. I thought about all the people I know who struggle with eating issues. Society can be such a bitch to us women. Then I thought about the one eating issue I have never quite understood: Anorexia. Being a person who desperately wants to understand, I often stop here when it comes to food issues, body image, and why. I understand over eating. I understand looking in the mirror and hating what I see. I have never understood why women starve or exercise themselves into emaciated, slow death. I remember the girl in high school. She wasn’t the most popular, but certainly not the least. She was smart, kind and started at an acceptable and very average weight. I remember watching the positive attention she initially received as the pounds came off, and also watched the positive attention fade right along with her size, until eventually she was hospitalized, nearly dying because she would not eat. Why? She was beautiful. Why was her brain making her do this?

It is crazy. We all know the women, the women who have gone too far, and because Anorexia is a disease where body-image-perception is severely distorted, the diseased person cannot see how distorted they have become, and if they do, they cannot stop, and if they do, they replace weight loss with another thing they must control, at least, that is what I have been told. I had a friend who struggled with Anorexia tell me something about the unhealthy relationship with food, and the power it had over her, and it is about letting go of that power. Because really thin people are obvious to our human eye, Anorexia is an easy way to see life off balance. We know the women with faces covered in the eating-disorder-indicative-downy-fur, baggy clothes, especially when you know they were exercising from sun up to sun down. I recently saw one of those women at the grocery store and all I wanted to do is offer her a granola bar. I knew it wouldn’t help. I felt really sad and wanted to ask her, “why are you doing this to yourself?”

Oddly there are even moments I wish I had the competitive genetic, focus behaviors and drive that seems to accompany the Anorexic. Many Anorexics I know push themselves to the highest level of success. The competitive insecurity that seems to walk hand in hand with that particular eating disorder is something that not only breaks my heart, is also an essential driving force, which can bring a person to the heights of great achievement. Even when “cured,” I have watched a severe eating disorder morph into some sort of other competition, comparing-one-self-to-another-disorder. I think it is harder to see the life off balance when someone being-too-thin is not the issue.

Maybe I sound super insensitive, or just super dumb. In truth, and like I have mentioned, I have mountains of compassion for anyone who struggles with body image, addiction or any comparing-oneself-to-another issue. I know the soul crushing pain of feeling less than and I would not wish that suffocating space on anyone. And in the interest of full disclosure, it is true. When I was fifteen I binge ate and barfed for a time. Not often, but often enough for me to think it is worth mentioning here. Thank God for my ADD-ness, because I lost interest very quickly and moved on. It took one person to say, “stop doing that,” and I was done. I feel lucky. Seriously. I know I am. I am grateful that my own biological switch was not completely turned that way.

Even now I am not sure what to do when I watch loved binge eat a bag of Skittles, or watch others count every single calorie they consume, some going as far as to drink alcohol solely based on its calorie content, or walking around with a bag of carrots at-all-times just in case of the temptation to cheat. It bothers me when friends ask me about the weight I want to lose when I have not thought about it myself, and it confounds me when I see a friend get their weight under control only to move to another competitive, obsessive issue. I want to remind them that they are good enough with their beautiful families, their beautiful parenting, their fame, their accomplishments, and every other awesome part of them. And this is where I think all that comparing stuff fits right back in, and if I sit back long enough, let the warm water calm me, I actually see it is not me, and really how self-centered to ever think it was? I do not know if it is even them? I think it is their biology, and the control that biology has over their soul.

Maybe that is it. The crazy part about that all-consuming body image issue, and the obsessive issues it can morph into (like competitions, excessive righteousness, being number one), is its power. The woman, who keeps asking, really does not care how old I am; she cares that she is getting old. The woman in class does not mind that I wear a lot of black; she is worried that she is wearing too much color. I have known many Anorexics, and simply people terribly off balance (which I have been myself – off balance, that is), and I think it is incredibly hard to see past the pain of them — what a shitty card to have been dealt.

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Category: Health