I feel pretty

I walked by a store yesterday that sold skin care products – I unknowingly engaged in conversation that led to a skin care demonstration and the gal tried selling me $300 worth of skin care products, all the while commentingn that I had great genetics because I didn’t look my age. Umm, did I miss something here?

I used to be excellent and so consistent with my workouts, until my stress level reached the fan and the shit spread for miles in the last year+. When I was a kid, I had all the confidence in the world in my looks and thought I was beautiful. As a teenager I still recognized that I could catch people’s attention, but I lost a little of my personal mojo. I started gaining weight after high school and kept thinking I had a pretty face, but didn’t really like myself from the neck down.

Then I found exercise in my mid-twenties and loved how it made me feel. I had times when I loved my body, even after having kids, because I was in shape and I was skinny. Then I’d go through stressful patches and put on weight again. Then I’d lose it again. And so on and so on, into the weight yo-yo program I go. Ugh.

Then in my mid-thirties I was in the best shape of my life and of course shit hit the fan and my life imploded. And I gained 30 lbs in a year. So many colorful words for this.

But I’ve recently gotten back into my healthy habits and have been feeling, dare I say, sexy again! I went shopping for clothes to wear for my conference in Hawaii, where I currently am, and the clothes all fit! So I had the choice of what I wanted to wear vs what actually fit me, which is what I had gotten used to have happening.

Which brings me to the story of the skin care products. So while this woman was trying to talk me into buying expensive skin care products because I needed to start taking care of myself, she asked me how old I was. I answer that I’m 39, and she stops for a moment and looks at me surprised, and comments on how good my skin looks. Duh, I don’t need your skin care products. I was just being nice and talking to the other woman in front of the store that was giving me a sample packet of your products. I didn’t realize I was getting sucked in to try to spend money because you know I’m here for a conference.

And tonight I put on a sexy dress and went to an awards banquet. And I felt pretty. And before the banquet I sat on the beach in a swim suit and didn’t care that there were young chicks all over with thong bikinis and their asses hanging out. Because I feel pretty, and I don’t look my age, even without your $300 skin care products.

Am I 13 or 39?

Running down the hall for the front of the building, trying to get out the front doors before they can reach me and punch me in the back, pull my hair, or push me. Hearing them yell at me, call me names, talk about me as I walk past them in a busy hallway. Listening to them on the other end of the phone as they say I better be scared because they’re going to kill me. They called me a whore, a slut, ugly, stupid. I had only even kissed one boy by this time, I was at the top of my class. But I ended up in the principal’s office trying to defend myself from these attacks, and no one believed me…

This is all so very real in my memory. I can see it all as it happened. I was 13 years old, in one of the most impressionable times of my life. I had all the confidence in the world up to this point. I had written an essay about my dream car for English class – it was going to be a black Mustang convertible with red racing stripes, and a license plate that read “GODDESS”…because I was THAT sure of myself. I was a straight A student, very naïve, didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t drink, I didn’t do drugs, I didn’t sleep with boys, I didn’t dress provocatively. But my best friend that I had since preschool started being friends with the girls who came from the juvenile detention home, and she started doing drugs and drinking with them, and she wasn’t happy that I wouldn’t join her, so she joined them in attacking me instead.

I loved school, I loved my friends…up to that point. I lost most of my friends, including my best friend. It had been instilled in me that in our family, we didn’t fight. So I didn’t fight. I ran. And I cried. And that made them pick on me even more, because I didn’t fight back. I became an easy target.

My mom asked me what I had done to have them treat me like this, because it didn’t make sense that it would start out of nowhere. None of it made sense. The school principal didn’t believe that things like this could be happening on school property. The sheriff, who was also a friend of the family, said there’s no way these girls would do something like that, because they’re trying to improve their lives… so what?… I must be lying??

All of the adults in my life that I trusted were questioning me. My parents chose to do open enrollment at the end of the school year and transfer me to the school in a neighboring district. I never got picked on again like that. In fact, the first year I was there, I was voted in as Snow Queen for our snow days celebration, then I was voted in for class officer. But I never got over the initial insult… Transferring to another school, while it was the best thing for me, helped me further cement the idea that running away was always the best option. Fight or flight, right? I couldn’t fight, so I flew, I ran.

With the help of my therapist, we’ve identified that this was a changing point in my life. I went from a carefree, confident kid to a people-pleasing, indecisive one. I put on a face of confidence, but any bit of critique knocked me down. I’ve never cared for confrontation, and I didn’t know how to stand up for myself. I knew how to run. That started a destructive time in my life and led to some decisions that I can never take back…but that’s a whole other conversation…

At 39, I have triggers that send me back to that school hallway and I feel like that same little 13-year-old who couldn’t defend herself and had people saying and doing awful things to her. My heart starts racing, I have panic attacks. I get sick to my stomach when I have to have adult conversations. I get upset and I cry, because that’s all I’ve known. But with the help of my therapist, I’m slowly gaining my confidence back. I’m slowly getting to the point that those memories are just that – memories – and they no longer control me. I am not the things those people said I was – I never have been. I’m learning to speak my feelings, and realize that the world doesn’t end when I voice my opinion, and it’s possible to have calm conversations with differing points of view – everything doesn’t have to be an argument.

Why do I share this? Because I’m working on shame resilience. I’m working on fixing me rather than putting bandaids on my injuries. And I’m hopeful that by sharing my experiences, it will help even one other person to feel like they can share their experiences and realize they are not bound by them. You are not the awful things mean people say about you. You are worthy, you are valuable, you are deserving – of something so much more than what you think you are. I’m looking forward to a time in the not-too-distant future where I can have passing thoughts of junior high that don’t set off a panic attack, and I’m able to just be me. Because I like 39-year-old me.

Stress is stress is stress…

Stress can do awful things to a body. But did you know your body sees all stresses the same? Good stress (eustress) and bad stress (distress)…they all have the same effect.

In the last couple years, I’ve had most of the major life events happen in very close succession. My marriage took a nosedive. I got separated, I had a job change (lost one job and found another, but had a few weeks in between), my father had a heart attack, I moved out of the house, I started dating, and finally the divorce. All the while, my children were having behavior issues. And there was drama in my family.

So even with the positives, my body still wasn’t sure what to do. Starting to date can be scary, and I’m thankful I had the opportunity to start dating someone I already knew – a friend from high school. Thank you social media for keeping us in touch! I guess that was my version of online dating? 😉

Moving out on my own was scary, but it was nice to have a place of my own. Having the opportunity to put things where I wanted, eat when I wanted, exercise when I wanted, do things with the kids on our own time when they were with me. But I don’t have my kids all the time. And that SUCKS! I went from full time mom to part time mom, and that’s my least favorite of all! But I digress…

My mojo started fading, even with all the exciting good things that were happening. I started gaining weight, I got injured – a lot, I found it hard to get up and exercise. After months of looking for a house, I finally found one, and I started moving in this past weekend – yay!! And that’s an entirely different post…BUT I feel awful that I haven’t been able to do much for the moving. Because I’ve been SICK!

I started getting sick before Christmas. Pretty sure I had the flu, despite getting the flu shot back in October. I started feeling better and got to enjoy most of Christmas. Then I went back to work and this past weekend started getting really sick again! So I fall asleep on the couch and can’t help unpack. I sleep many hours of the day. And the cough and head congestion won’t stop. And I’ve had it! But it’s not through with me yet. Because even the good stress of moving into my own home and out of an apartment is still stress. And my body is still revolting. This too shall pass, right?

God helps those who help themselves…

Whether you believe in God or not, most people believe there is something bigger than us. Since I was raised in the church, I’ll refer to this higher power as God, but feel free to substitute the word of your choice (in your head) as you read this.

I had a lovely conversation with a patient and his priest today. The priest offered to step out but the patient and family invited him to stay. We talked about his symptoms and diagnosis and treatment. And as I was about to leave, he says to me, “Now I’ll ask you the same question we {pointing to the priest} were just discussing…Why?” Meaning, why did he get injured and end up in the hospital. That’s always an interesting question to try to answer.

I am a firm believer that things happen for a reason. Often we don’t know the reason, or it may show itself much later. So we discussed this, and we were all in agreement that we may never know. Then I threw out another option. “Maybe this happened to force you to slow down because you’re always going and going and don’t know how to ask for help”… well there’s a concept. His priest pointed at his nose as if to say “you nailed it”. You see, this man is in his 80s and still acting as if he’s in his 20s. That’s not to say that he CAN’T do everything anymore, but maybe he SHOULDN’T. Remember the old saying “It takes a village”? Well, back in the day, no one person was expected to do everything. The village came together to get things done. These days we’re all trying to do everything ourselves, and we get down on ourselves if we can’t do it all. But we weren’t MEANT to!

Yes, there’s a phrase, “God helps those who help themselves”, but that doesn’t mean we have to do it ALL ourselves. Maybe we just need to find the help we need, or accept the help that is offered. For years I tried to do it all. I thought I HAD to. I felt there was no other option at times. And I pushed myself to the limit. And I burned out. These days I’m trying to be more accepting when help is offered. I’m trying to NOT do it all myself. Because I’m trying to honor myself. What if we all did that a little more. What if we could rely on each other like we’re meant to. Maybe health issues wouldn’t have to come along to force us to slow down. Now, there will always be job security for me, because that’s not really what causes illness…but what if?

Is it Thanksgiving or Christmas?

Christmas has been so commercialized that we try to teach our children to be thankful and remember the reason for the season – do you buy that?

As a mom, I struggle with this. I want to teach my children to be grateful for what they have and to not throw a fit when they don’t have the same number of presents as each other, or others are getting presents and they aren’t…but at the same time I don’t want them to feel like they aren’t appreciated or loved or that they weren’t good enough to deserve gifts.

At my core, Christmas is by far my favorite holiday. And while, yes, I do enjoy getting presents, that’s not why I love this holiday. I love it for all the lights, the beautiful music, the time with family, all the yummy treats we make, and the beautiful snow. Yes, I live in Minnesota, where we dream of white Christmases, and we usually aren’t disappointed. I’m disappointed this year – ugh – but that could be a whole post by itself. I love singing the music and listening to the music and just having it play in my home while I’m wrapping or cleaning up. I used to sing in the church choir, and I LOVED the Christmas services best of all the music we did in the year.

So it shouldn’t be hard for me to teach them the real reason for the season, right? Even though it’s pretty much been proven that December 24 wasn’t really Jesus’ birthday based on the alignment of the stars and the weather in Bethlehem at that time of year, and really the holiday has been taken over by commercialism. It’s all about the gifts – who’s getting what…how much money can you spend…you better take out a loan to cover Christmas. Yowzers. Bank accounts are feeling some serious strain this time of year.

But my children have expectations based on social norms. And just like it’s taking me a bit of therapy to undo the emotional injuries I’ve sustained in my life, it’s going to take time to unlearn societal norms for my children. Baby steps. In the meantime, we’ll put on our matching family jammies and go through the hoops of Santa this year, because my children still believe. But, Santa doesn’t get to claim the more expensive presents – I’m taking credit for those! I’m thankful I had the ability to at least get a few of the things on their lists!

To post or Not to post…that is the question

Do you remember the days of 35mm film, or did I just age myself?

I was in a conversation the other day where we were talking about the pros and cons of digital vs 35mm photography. Which do you prefer?

Back in the days of 35mm, you couldn’t see what you just took a picture of. It may not be perfect. (Bite your nails and pray that at least ONE picture turned out!) You had 24, maybe even 36 chances to get a picture of what you wanted, then you had to take the roll of film out of the camera, take it to the drug store, and wait about a week to see what turned out. You could ask for duplicate prints if you wanted to share. And there were times I got duplicates of fuzzy pictures with not a single photo I could use, and nothing to show for my day with the camera. I also had a time where we learned we were about 25 feet from a giant bull moose in the mountains when we opened the door of our tent as the sun was starting to come up. My flash went off and all that turned out in the picture (weeks later) was the reflection of the flash off the moose’s eyes…two little yellow dots with a black background. Ugh!

You also had to be careful not to let the film get too hot or cold, or get exposed to light, and you better take care of those negatives in case you wanted to reprint something or get something enlarged! And those precious photos you took went directly into a hard cover album so you could share them and keep them forever, regardless if they were “perfect”.

Fast forward to today – we all have digital cameras, or even better, our phones! We snap as many pictures as we want and then proceed to stare at the camera or phone for a while (even in the presence of our friends or family) to choose the perfect images. And if everyone wasn’t smiling in the picture? Well, delete that one and start over. Candid shots? A thing of the past. Why actually GET candid shots when you can MAKE it look candid? And how about those precious hundreds of photos on your phone? Are you going to print them and put them in a photo album? Oh HELL no, just post the few perfect ones on social media and move along. But keep the 1000s of photos right there on your phone, because you can just get a memory card to keep them or, better yet, buy more storage on your device so they can continue to sit there forever.

And how “real” are those photos you post? You make sure the lighting is just right, everyone’s smiles are perfect, the hair is just right, suck the gut in, stick the boobs out…there you go, post THAT one! Success! Now you look just like the cover of that magazine you passed by earlier in the day. Because heaven forbid you post the picture that has a shirt on the floor behind you, or a hair out of place, or you catch someone mid-laugh with that real twinkle in their eye. And heaven forbid you post a picture without makeup, or a bra, and that sweaty workout selfie? Fix your ponytail first so it’s straight. Pull your top straight so your rolls don’t show…

What’s the point to all of this? We’re all striving for some form of “perfect” that doesn’t exist. My perfect and your perfect likely aren’t the same. You and I probably don’t drink the same adult beverage. Maybe you don’t even drink an adult beverage – gasp! For years I posted only “perfect” images. My ex and I would pose for several selfies (because who asks a STRANGER to take a picture for you anymore?) while on “date night”, while we kept checking our watches to see if it was too early to pick the kids up from their “parents night out” activity, because we apparently couldn’t figure out what to do as a couple for the whole 4 hours of their activity. Perfect happy couple? Of course! Don’t these smiles show that everything is perfect? The best real smiles we had were back in 35mm days when we stared at each other dreamily. Sure we had more recent real smiles, but it wasn’t all rainbows and butterflies either.

And my workout photos? I had my remote on my write and I could take video after video or photo after photo, then would spend the next 10 minutes (my “cool down”) sorting through to find the ones where my belly rolls didn’t show, my granny arms weren’t evident, I didn’t have a goofy look on my face…and I would post the best. Now I post the goofy ones. Because those are real. And sometimes when my kids are working out with me, they do the most adorable things, and there’s no way I could delete those videos or pictures just because I don’t look perfect. Those are the ones I have to share, because they’re precious. Real life is precious. We should post more of that.

The blame game

Why does there always have to be someone to blame?

My 9-year-old commented the other night that he “wonders what daddy’s take is on the divorce”. He knows my version, but he was told there’s more to the story.

I could have taken a nasty “it’s all his fault” approach. Instead I had told the kids it was nobody’s fault, which is really the truth. But I guess at the same time, we were both at fault. I said we both took each other for granted and grew apart and that we didn’t work out anymore. At which my middle child once responded “but you DO both work out”…yes we exercise but we didn’t work TOGETHER anymore. We didn’t grow together. We became two separate people living in the same home. On social media we looked perfect, because we had an image to uphold. I didn’t post a picture unless it was perfect. I didn’t post workout pictures where you could see my rolls. I didn’t post a picture with bad hair. I didn’t post a picture that didn’t make us look happy. But, that’s a topic for another post…

Why does there need to be more to the story? Why does it have to be someone’s fault? Why can’t we admit that neither of us held up our ends of the marriage? We’re all adults here, except the kids. Let’s let the kids be kids.

Hello there!

Let me introduce myself…I am a mother of 3 crazy boys, work full time, would rather spend more time in nature…oh yeah, and I’ve been divorced twice. How’s that for a blind introduction?

I’ve had a crazy past couple of years, which it turns out actually has been longer than a couple years. While doing a lot of reading for personal development, I realized I wasn’t where I wanted to be in life. I tried to get my partner in crime to grow with me, but instead we grew apart – badly. And I ended up in therapy. How am I the one to end up in therapy? Who knows, but I’m glad I did. I learned that my troubles started long before husband #2 came into the picture…even long before husband #1!

Adulting is hard. Parenting is hard. Spousing (is that even a word??) is even harder. I’m about to embark on a journey that I’m hoping will help at least one other person out there on the word wide interweb. I’m sure I’m not the only one who has struggled with perfectionism, wondered if she was a good enough mom/wife/sister/daughter…wondered if she made the right choices…wondered how in the world she got where she is… Am I??

If you are even a little bit intrigued as to what kind of stories I might share, please bookmark my page, share as you see fit with other stressed out mamas out there, sit back with a glass of wine, or beer, or tea or coffee or water…and read on…