Night time used to be my ED's favorite time.
Like most people, especially people with weird work schedules, I often used to look forward to the midnight hour as my only time to myself.
It was only then, when I was in college, and my roommate was asleep, or as I grew older, after Beard went to bed, that I felt I could breathe a sigh of relief and reflect on the day. Sometimes this meant reading, watching movies, or catching up on social media and weird blogs. Sometimes it meant getting done what little writing I had the energy left for.
One thing was certain though, it was always the right time for a binge.
See, when I was in the deep dark jungle of my anorectic behavior, I had a strict eating routine. I could only eat food at the two specific meal times I allowed myself. It had to be specific foods, and it had to be all consumed in a specific time frame.
Dinner was complete by 6pm, and I was not allowed to eat again until 8am the next morning.
Let's review for the cheap seats:
After a measly salad and one cookie (my "daily indulgence"), I was to go a minimum of fourteen hours without so much as a snack.
To do this, I kept myself busy. I was a member of a dozen clubs and I always had meetings to attend, events to plan, functions to organize, and then homework to do.
By ten or eleven at night, my stomach would be screaming for food, but to distract myself, I would begin an arduous circuit of visiting friends in their dorm rooms.
Often, they would be nuking ramen bowls, sharing pints of ice cream, or snacking on popcorn while watching movies, and I always declined, feeling lighter and more virtuous with every, "Oh no thank you," I stuttered through.
In the year and a half of my worst restricting, I recall three binges. At the time, they were monumental. Afterwards, to atone, I would tot up my calories for the day (I obsessively kept my calories between 800-1100 every day, my goal was always 950), and after a binge, they would often run as high as 1900 (remember, the average human, with no physical activity, requires about 2,000 calories every day, but to me, coming it that close to normal eating levels, was catastrophic), and I would berate myself for being so indulgent, so weak and pathetic. I would need to "make up" for those excess calories, and so the next day I would fast.
When the pendulum swung back, and it swung hard, I still couldn't shake that need to compensate for a binge. It became almost religious, the cleansing feeling I associated with lightheaded hunger after a day of not eating, and I would do every trick in the book to get through it.
Then, when night came, and I was all alone, the feelings of loneliness, worthlessness, and often the voice of reason too, finally came through.
"Why are you doing this?" my common sense would ask.
"To be better," was always my reply.
"But you're not," my ED would answer.
"But I want to be," I would say.
"You can't sleep this hungry you know," my common sense would counter.
"I know," I would say, already on my way to the kitchen.
"Just a little snack," my common sense would say, "something to get through until tomorrow. It's not good to go this long without food."
I would agree.
I would portion myself out something healthy, something I could call "good", and I would eat it.
At first, slowly, trying, with every ounce of my will power to make it last, to make it enough for an entire day of restriction.
The problem was, it was never enough, and my ED would seize on this little snack as it's moment to completely destroy me.
It would hit me with shame, with failure, with the sense that I couldn't even make it 24 hours without eating, then it would play it's trump card, "You've already fucked up" it would say "you might as well fuck up big."
And then I would basically turn into a werewolf and demolish the contents of my kitchen.
For a while I even stole food.
I already felt so guilty about what I was doing, it was my ED's reasoning to plan for the next day's atonement, while I was in the middle of a binge. My ED would make me eat every last crumb of something that wasn't mine, a roommate's, my Beard's, if I was at someone else's house, sometimes an entire box of cereal or a container of ice cream that even while I was doing it, I knew would get me in trouble. Someone was bound to find out and force me to face the consequences. My ED was counting on that shame to start the cycle over again, because it was shame that kept me fasting the next day.
My head was always blurry with these three voices. They constantly fought for dominion.
My ED wanted to rule. My common sense (what I now recognize was my body's natural hunger and fullness cues) was trying so hard to tell me what I needed as an organism, and my own voice, that felt silenced and unimportant compared to the others.
In the thirteen years that this disorder ruled my life, I never ate anything because I was hungry, because I wanted to, because it looked good.
Food was a loaded weapon, and I viewed it as the enemy. Either to be avoided at all costs, or used ritualistically to hurt myself.
It didn't matter what I did, my interaction with food never changed, and that's because my needs as a human being never changed.
I needed to eat to survive, and I was denying myself the means to do so.
It was that simple.
I overcomplicated it to the point of madness.
I raced around and around in my head trying to figure out
WHAT WAS WRONG WITH ME?
But in the end, it was the simplest thing of all.
I was fighting my body, and my body knew what was best for me.
Imagine caring for your body is like taking care of the cutest, sweetest puppy in the whole world.
It loves everything about life.
It wants to play, to go outside and romp around.
It hates being too cold, too wet, or too hot.
It loves eating when it's hungry because food tastes good, especially when it's full of the things you need most at that moment, protein or carbohydrates, fat and sugar, or vitamins and minerals.
The fact is, you would never deny a puppy food to punish it.
Even if it pooped on your floor every day.
Even if it bit your ankles, chewed your shoes, and tipped over the trash at every opportunity.
It would never occur to you to do something so cruel as to deny the creature food as punishment.
You might use other methods to discipline the animal, but because you love it, because it's just a baby doing what babies do, you never think to actually, willfully hurt it, which is what starving it would be.
Now apply this to your body.
This was a revolutionary concept to me.
I couldn't learn.
I couldn't improve.
I couldn't just be a better version of myself.
Because I was using food as a means of reward and punishment, which it has no business being.
I had to take everything I had taught myself about the meaning of food and throw it out the window.
My body was an adorable puppy, and when my stomach growled, it was the same as that puppy scratching at an empty food dish.
It may sound silly, but this metaphor saved my life.
When I started thinking of my body as something that deserved my care, something that I was put in charge of and deserved to be treated as well as it could be, I stopped hurting myself on purpose.
And that meant listening for those tummy growls.
It had been so long since I had actually responded to my body's hunger and fullness cues that it took me a really long time to be able to understand them. I had to look and listen for the obvious physical symptoms, because the more subtle ones couldn't get through to my brain at first.
If my stomach growled,
I ate something.
I reached for the thing that looked the best to me at that moment.
If it was a yogurt and a banana, then that's what I ate.
If it was tortilla chips and salsa, then that's what I ate.
If it was chocolate chips, then that's what I ate.
Nothing was off limits, it just had to be the honest answer to the question: What do you want the most right now?
If the answer was a glass of water, then I drank that, waited ten minutes, and if my stomach growled again, then I asked the question again.
I kept doing it.
And every time I finished eating the thing, I took ten minutes and then I asked, are you still hungry?
If the answer was yes, then I went back and got another thing.
If the answer was no, then I didn't
If the answer was, I can't tell, then I waited ten minutes more and asked again.
But there were never any foods off limits, and there was never a 'wrong' time to eat.
So for a long time, my body was confused.
It formed weird habits.
It craved foods I had previously denied myself.
I ate a lot of chocolate and peanut butter because those were huge trigger foods for me.
Then one day, I reached for the bag of chocolate chips, and my body said, "no, that's not what I want."
So I waited.
And instead, it directed me to the bananas, and the peanut butter, and the bread.
I made a peanut butter and banana sandwich, and it was exactly what I wanted.
And I didn't feel like I had to eat the rest of the peanut butter with a spoon afterwards because I knew that it was there if I wanted to do that. The question was, would that make me feel good? Was that really what my body wanted me to do?
Last night,
the baby got me up at 11pm. We'd been asleep for about two hours, and he wanted to nurse.
Since I've been going to bed early with the baby, my schedule's kept me away from my trigger time (the deep dark hours of night).
I've been either too tired to think about eating, too lazy, or not hungry.
Last night, I could see the trigger moment coming toward me as clearly as a pothole in the road.
I thought to myself:
It is 11pm.
Nobody is awake.
My stomach growled.
My ED said, "You should go binge on something you would not allow yourself today," which ten years ago, would have been everything, but the magic of listening to my body meant that I had an answer for it.
"But I allowed myself everything today. There's nothing I missed out on, or need to make up for."
My ED got quieter, "Yes, but..."
Instead, I asked my body, "Hey puppy, what sounds good to you right now?"
My body said, "The sweet potato pie leftover in the fridge from thanksgiving."
I said, "Okay."
So I got myself a slice of pie.
I had some plain yogurt in a container, and I liked the idea of a nice, tart, cool counterpart to the sweet richness of the pie, so I plopped a blob on top of the pie.
I ate it slowly, while the baby nursed, enjoying the feeling of the food filling my stomach.
I drank a glass of water, and about half an hour later, I went back to bed, and I slept wonderfully.
I remembered, as I lay there, the baby snoring next to me, how in the depths of my ED, I used to never be able to sleep when I was hungry, and then I was never able to sleep when I binged.
Both ways, I was so uncomfortable that all I could do was think obsessively about why why why I was doing this to myself.
Last night, I had a nice, happy tummy. I didn't feel overfull, and I didn't feel hungry.
I felt content.
And I fell back to sleep in no time flat.
Monday, November 28, 2016
Friday, November 25, 2016
EIGHT REAL REASONS TO BE HAPPY WHILE EVERYONE AROUND YOU FREAKS OUT
I recently read an article on a site that I should know better than to read (Ravishly).
It was titled 8 Things to Make You Feel Better About How Terrible The World Is.
In typical fluff piece fashion it included things like babies and puppies (yes, seriously). In delving for more emotional depth it cited clean water, food, and the internet (well duh, privilege of any kind is a creature comfort when times are scary), and then it got desperate and started listing things like full jars of nutella and leggings (dear god could we stop assuming all women want to do to feel better is binge eat their feelings?).
Now that I've pissed off a ton of people who love Ravishly, puppies, and cookie dough for dinner, I would like to counterpoint with 8 real things to make you feel better about how terrible the world is.
I'm going to avoid the obvious things like food, shelter, and family, because they are not givens for everyone, and even people who don't have the luxury of affordable healthy groceries and who might have to feed their kids mac and cheese, or people who had to move back in with their parents because they lost their jobs, or people who don't speak to their families due to abuse and trauma, or flat out loss, deserve to feel better during a time period when it seems like every adult I know has abandoned reason and logic and decided to hide under the bed.
1. People Are Actually Helping People
There are a shit ton of people supporting the effort to stop the DAPL.
If you would like to feel a little better about the world and can afford to donate, this is a great link to do so
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/help-standing-rock-sioux-dakota-access-pipeline_us_583480c9e4b000af95eca013?
If you are not in a position to afford to donate take a moment, realize that there is a multi-billion dollar corporation trying to do something truly horrible. It is being supported by the local law enforcement, BUT IT IS STILL BEING FOUGHT. The little guy, the guy who just wants clean drinking water for his family and respect for his sacred land, is standing tall right now and refusing to back down, and people are FLOCKING TO AID THE LITTLE GUY. If you can't be one of the flock, then appreciate that even though times are scary, people are still bonding together in the face of evil. This is a brave and beautiful example of human courage.
Take ten minutes, close your eyes, sit in a quiet room, and send them good vibes.
It may sound silly, but it's not. The people fighting the DAPL need good energy as much as they need everything else we can send them. So take a part of your day and direct good energy to them. It is a real, non-monetary, viable way of helping, and it should make you feel better too.
2. We Are Making a Difference
China is reducing it's air pollution.
This may sound distant and unrelated, but think about it.
Bejing has consistently ben reported to have the worst air quality in the entire world, but in 2015 there was a 16% drop in the most deadly air pollution over the city.
Read more in this article:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/china-air-pollution-2014_us_568e592ce4b0a2b6fb6ecb73
I find this heartening because if we can reverse something as precious as the poisoning of our air, then we can reverse a lot of environmental damage.
The point is to contribute to the solution a little bit, every day, not to contribute to the problem.
It doesn't matter where you live, but do your part.
Recycle your recyclables.
Walk distances shorter than a mile rather than driving them (and as a bonus, save on gas, and get a wee bit of fresh air!)
Turn off your lights and electronics when you aren't using them.
Compost if you can, and if you don't have the yard to do so, find out if there's someone in your neighborhood who needs compost, or if there's a community garden to which you can bring your compostable waste. If you're as lucky as I am, perhaps your town has a community compost pick up that you can sign up for.
It's small, but it's helping, and helping makes us feel less powerless, and when we feel like we can make a difference, we feel less afraid.
3. Body Positivity is Hitting the Mainstream
If you've read anything on this blog, you know I am a huge supporter and proponent of the body positivity movement.
I believe, (shockingly, radically) that people (especially women who have historically been conditioned to hate their bodies) are not allowed to love themselves at any and every incarnation of their health and size, but they SHOULD BE ENCOURAGED TO LOVE THEMSELVES PERIOD.
Why make this my business?
Whose business isn't this?
Sorry about the double negative there. What I mean is, if you have a body, you deserve to love it. You deserve to feel good about that body. You deserve to care for that body, to give it pleasure, and to experience everything the world has to offer you through that body.
The hatred most people internalize toward their physiques is not natural. It's only been thanks to the advent of modern advertising to sell us the notion that our bodies and lives are lacking unless we purchase products that has undermined several generations of people from enjoying any sensual pleasures their body can provide.
Until now that is!
This article cites how body positivity is gaining momentum and hopefully predicates a return to people just loving the shit out of themselves for who they are, to which I say HIP HIP FUCKING HOORAY!
http://time.com/4437468/women-body-image-obesity/
If you want further inspiring proof of BOPO gaining momentum, check out
http://www.themilitantbaker.com/
http://www.ashleygraham.com/
http://www.refinery29.com/2016/09/123724/afropunk-topless-woman-double-mastectomy
4. This Election Was An Old Man's Game. The Future Looks Better.
Hey, we know you're depressed about the President Elect. So am I.
But it was overwhelmingly the baby boomers who came out and put their ballots toward the fascist cheeto.
Millenials showed a strong Democratic majority with 1 in 10 18-29 year olds placing a third party vote.
This means that in the years to come, as the racist dinosaurs die out (and no, I'm not hating on baby boomers at large, just the overwhelming majority of them that put that troglodyte on the path to the white house), our generation will take the majority, and the stats say that we're all a hell of a lot more interested in a better future rather than a "great" regression.
And remember, millenials already outnumber baby boomers population wise so if we can nut up and show up in 2020, we can get back on a path that makes sense for this country.
Read more about it here:
http://www.bloomberg.com/news/articles/2016-11-09/what-this-election-taught-us-about-millennial-voters
5. There's More Coverage, but Violent Crimes Are Actually in Decline
It's easy with facebook's evil little headers, and the huffpo's leading headlines, along with the constant connectivity of modern life to feel overwhelmed by the violence and awfulness in this country, but homicides have actually declined in the last twenty years.
This is in no way supposed to overshadow or "make up for" the number of police brutality deaths, the misuse of power, the number of murders, or any time a human has used a gun to take the life of another human, but this article put things into perspective.
I don't know about anyone else, but back in the 90's the news was on in my house for an hour every night, and it was scary, and it was dark, but after that hour, we turned it off, and carried on with our lives.
I can't comment on whether or not it's better to be in the dark about the state of the world or whether blissful ignorance is a better state of being, but I can say that my parents were no less informed during that time period, and they weren't being bludgeoned by headlines designed as "clickbait" every time they turned the tv on. Every website, every social media outlet we log into, is trying to sell us the newest, freshest most dramatic horrible thing it can come up with, and if you're logging into a site several times a day, you're getting hit with horrible news that many times, so is it any wonder that we feel like things are so much worse than they really are?
I repeat, I'm not downplaying any of the violence that is or has occurred this year, I am only offering this article as a means to pose the idea that maybe things aren't the worst they've ever been, and we can take a breath.
https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/wonk/wp/2016/07/08/why-america-feels-so-violent-right-now/
6. Last Year Americans Were Record-Breakingly Generous
It may be a goofy thing to take note of, but in 2015 Americans were the most generous and charitable they had ever been.
https://givingusa.org/giving-usa-2016/
I don't know about you, but when I feel like all hope is lost, I like to see that people are still taking care of each other. While I know it's easy to say, "If I were rich, I'd give away tons of money," and it's much more difficult to reach into your pocket when you're say, clipping coupons, living paycheck to paycheck, or waiting on unemployment, but the fact of the matter is, it makes us feel good to help one another.
I've been truly inspired by folks who, rather than greet hatred with justifiable rage, are doing incredible things like buying dinner for their bigoted neighbors and then signing the check with their wishes for them to be more tolerant.
It's easy to get angry. It's easy to let a situation escalate, but the sourness, the leftover anger, and the wave of nauseating fear and guilt (just me?) that follows an altercation is never something that leaves us feeling better about the world.
If we show we can rise above, and keep looking out for one another, our moods alone will be brighter, more optimistic, and hopeful, and not only that, but perhaps we'll have made a difference to someone who was really struggling.
7. We Live In The Future
It's easy to take for granted.
iphones, iwatches, livestreaming, skype and facetime, online shopping, fitibits, and many other technological advances that are the norm today were inconceivable twenty years ago.
Maybe it's because I'm in my thirties, and I am dreading the day my kid looks at me and says
"Wait Mom, YOU WERE BORN BEFORE THERE WAS THE INTERNET?"
the same way I said to my parents,
"Wait, YOU WERE BORN BEFORE THERE WAS TELEVISION?"
It's crazy, but I say it, and I believe it. We live in the goddamn future.
If you take a look at any of the pop culture future touchstones of my childhood (Star Treks: Voyager and Deep Space Nine and Back to the Future), the crazed imaginings of those tv shows and films included things that seem ludicrous and funny now.
If you were to travel back in time to say 1996, however, and show the average person your iphone, they'd lose their mind!
A camera, phone, voice recorder, alarm, calendar, camcorder, stereo, digital library, with voice command and access to the worlds most expansive database?
They'd burn you as a witch in no time.
Every so often, think about that little flip phone you had about ten years ago. You know, the one that cost thirty cents a text, and think about how far we've come in just a decade.
It's pretty magical.
http://www.forbes.com/sites/jaysondemers/2016/08/03/the-top-7-technology-trends-dominating-2016/#5b9bd961de34
8. Modern Medicine Has Never Been More Effective
Back in April, doctor's discovered a new drug that could help target cancer cells in Leukemia patients without also wiping out healthy cells and thusly making the patient horribly ill while undergoing treatment for their cancer.
http://abcnews.go.com/Health/DrJohnson/story?id=117508&page=1
Along with this stunningly wonderful news 2 days ago this article was published in which scientists reveal they may have finally figured out a way to suppress the viral load in HIV positive patients to almost undetectable levels.
http://www.itechpost.com/articles/57635/20161124/cure-hiv-reduction-through-wonder-drug-now-possible-help-semen.htm
It will never cease to amaze me the leaps and bounds science takes every year in its efforts to treat the horrible diseases that plague we fragile humans.
It used to be a death sentence when the doctor gave you a cancer or and HIV diagnosis. I am so ecstatic to see the progress we are making against these illnesses. It seems not impossible that we will see viable cures within my lifetime, and that is something worth celebrating.
BONUS REASON:
Your Tribe Exists
This last one is a little hokey, but thanks to the magic of social media, and the somewhat endearing transparent trend of "letting one's freak flag fly" there is no reason why you, yes you, the person who feels incredibly alone and thinks there's nobody else out there like you in the whole wide world, can't find your tribe.
With the world wide web at your fingertips you can enter any interest you have and immediately be launched into a million different discussions about the finer points of your passion.
Before now, if you admitted you liked something gauche, you had to risk that you were going to get laughed out of the party by the neanderthals. But with the rise of popularity in things like Comic Cons, Horror Cons, hell even Rennaissance Fairs, and Rocky Horror fan clubs, there is no reason you can't get together with likeminded folks and revel in your collective weird.
I am not passing one iota of judgement.
In fact, if I had the time, I'd go to a couple of the events on this magical list:
http://costume.org/conventions.html
The point being, we live in an amazingly accepting age, with support, common interest groups, and conventions to suit every possible collection, hobby, tv or comic fandom, and enthusiast in existence.
In conclusion,
Here you have eight truly relevant reasons to be glad you live where you live right now in the time you are living.
It has never been a healthier, more friendly, generous, self accepting, hopeful time to be alive, and that's with all the stuff that people tell us is crappy going on!
Take heart, my friends.
We're all going to make it through this to that.
It was titled 8 Things to Make You Feel Better About How Terrible The World Is.
In typical fluff piece fashion it included things like babies and puppies (yes, seriously). In delving for more emotional depth it cited clean water, food, and the internet (well duh, privilege of any kind is a creature comfort when times are scary), and then it got desperate and started listing things like full jars of nutella and leggings (dear god could we stop assuming all women want to do to feel better is binge eat their feelings?).
Now that I've pissed off a ton of people who love Ravishly, puppies, and cookie dough for dinner, I would like to counterpoint with 8 real things to make you feel better about how terrible the world is.
I'm going to avoid the obvious things like food, shelter, and family, because they are not givens for everyone, and even people who don't have the luxury of affordable healthy groceries and who might have to feed their kids mac and cheese, or people who had to move back in with their parents because they lost their jobs, or people who don't speak to their families due to abuse and trauma, or flat out loss, deserve to feel better during a time period when it seems like every adult I know has abandoned reason and logic and decided to hide under the bed.
1. People Are Actually Helping People
There are a shit ton of people supporting the effort to stop the DAPL.
If you would like to feel a little better about the world and can afford to donate, this is a great link to do so
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/help-standing-rock-sioux-dakota-access-pipeline_us_583480c9e4b000af95eca013?
If you are not in a position to afford to donate take a moment, realize that there is a multi-billion dollar corporation trying to do something truly horrible. It is being supported by the local law enforcement, BUT IT IS STILL BEING FOUGHT. The little guy, the guy who just wants clean drinking water for his family and respect for his sacred land, is standing tall right now and refusing to back down, and people are FLOCKING TO AID THE LITTLE GUY. If you can't be one of the flock, then appreciate that even though times are scary, people are still bonding together in the face of evil. This is a brave and beautiful example of human courage.
Take ten minutes, close your eyes, sit in a quiet room, and send them good vibes.
It may sound silly, but it's not. The people fighting the DAPL need good energy as much as they need everything else we can send them. So take a part of your day and direct good energy to them. It is a real, non-monetary, viable way of helping, and it should make you feel better too.
2. We Are Making a Difference
China is reducing it's air pollution.
This may sound distant and unrelated, but think about it.
Bejing has consistently ben reported to have the worst air quality in the entire world, but in 2015 there was a 16% drop in the most deadly air pollution over the city.
Read more in this article:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/china-air-pollution-2014_us_568e592ce4b0a2b6fb6ecb73
I find this heartening because if we can reverse something as precious as the poisoning of our air, then we can reverse a lot of environmental damage.
The point is to contribute to the solution a little bit, every day, not to contribute to the problem.
It doesn't matter where you live, but do your part.
Recycle your recyclables.
Walk distances shorter than a mile rather than driving them (and as a bonus, save on gas, and get a wee bit of fresh air!)
Turn off your lights and electronics when you aren't using them.
Compost if you can, and if you don't have the yard to do so, find out if there's someone in your neighborhood who needs compost, or if there's a community garden to which you can bring your compostable waste. If you're as lucky as I am, perhaps your town has a community compost pick up that you can sign up for.
It's small, but it's helping, and helping makes us feel less powerless, and when we feel like we can make a difference, we feel less afraid.
3. Body Positivity is Hitting the Mainstream
If you've read anything on this blog, you know I am a huge supporter and proponent of the body positivity movement.
I believe, (shockingly, radically) that people (especially women who have historically been conditioned to hate their bodies) are not allowed to love themselves at any and every incarnation of their health and size, but they SHOULD BE ENCOURAGED TO LOVE THEMSELVES PERIOD.
Why make this my business?
Whose business isn't this?
Sorry about the double negative there. What I mean is, if you have a body, you deserve to love it. You deserve to feel good about that body. You deserve to care for that body, to give it pleasure, and to experience everything the world has to offer you through that body.
The hatred most people internalize toward their physiques is not natural. It's only been thanks to the advent of modern advertising to sell us the notion that our bodies and lives are lacking unless we purchase products that has undermined several generations of people from enjoying any sensual pleasures their body can provide.
Until now that is!
This article cites how body positivity is gaining momentum and hopefully predicates a return to people just loving the shit out of themselves for who they are, to which I say HIP HIP FUCKING HOORAY!
http://time.com/4437468/women-body-image-obesity/
If you want further inspiring proof of BOPO gaining momentum, check out
http://www.themilitantbaker.com/
http://www.ashleygraham.com/
http://www.refinery29.com/2016/09/123724/afropunk-topless-woman-double-mastectomy
4. This Election Was An Old Man's Game. The Future Looks Better.
Hey, we know you're depressed about the President Elect. So am I.
But it was overwhelmingly the baby boomers who came out and put their ballots toward the fascist cheeto.
Millenials showed a strong Democratic majority with 1 in 10 18-29 year olds placing a third party vote.
This means that in the years to come, as the racist dinosaurs die out (and no, I'm not hating on baby boomers at large, just the overwhelming majority of them that put that troglodyte on the path to the white house), our generation will take the majority, and the stats say that we're all a hell of a lot more interested in a better future rather than a "great" regression.
And remember, millenials already outnumber baby boomers population wise so if we can nut up and show up in 2020, we can get back on a path that makes sense for this country.
Read more about it here:
http://www.bloomberg.com/news/articles/2016-11-09/what-this-election-taught-us-about-millennial-voters
5. There's More Coverage, but Violent Crimes Are Actually in Decline
It's easy with facebook's evil little headers, and the huffpo's leading headlines, along with the constant connectivity of modern life to feel overwhelmed by the violence and awfulness in this country, but homicides have actually declined in the last twenty years.
This is in no way supposed to overshadow or "make up for" the number of police brutality deaths, the misuse of power, the number of murders, or any time a human has used a gun to take the life of another human, but this article put things into perspective.
I don't know about anyone else, but back in the 90's the news was on in my house for an hour every night, and it was scary, and it was dark, but after that hour, we turned it off, and carried on with our lives.
I can't comment on whether or not it's better to be in the dark about the state of the world or whether blissful ignorance is a better state of being, but I can say that my parents were no less informed during that time period, and they weren't being bludgeoned by headlines designed as "clickbait" every time they turned the tv on. Every website, every social media outlet we log into, is trying to sell us the newest, freshest most dramatic horrible thing it can come up with, and if you're logging into a site several times a day, you're getting hit with horrible news that many times, so is it any wonder that we feel like things are so much worse than they really are?
I repeat, I'm not downplaying any of the violence that is or has occurred this year, I am only offering this article as a means to pose the idea that maybe things aren't the worst they've ever been, and we can take a breath.
https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/wonk/wp/2016/07/08/why-america-feels-so-violent-right-now/
6. Last Year Americans Were Record-Breakingly Generous
It may be a goofy thing to take note of, but in 2015 Americans were the most generous and charitable they had ever been.
https://givingusa.org/giving-usa-2016/
I don't know about you, but when I feel like all hope is lost, I like to see that people are still taking care of each other. While I know it's easy to say, "If I were rich, I'd give away tons of money," and it's much more difficult to reach into your pocket when you're say, clipping coupons, living paycheck to paycheck, or waiting on unemployment, but the fact of the matter is, it makes us feel good to help one another.
I've been truly inspired by folks who, rather than greet hatred with justifiable rage, are doing incredible things like buying dinner for their bigoted neighbors and then signing the check with their wishes for them to be more tolerant.
It's easy to get angry. It's easy to let a situation escalate, but the sourness, the leftover anger, and the wave of nauseating fear and guilt (just me?) that follows an altercation is never something that leaves us feeling better about the world.
If we show we can rise above, and keep looking out for one another, our moods alone will be brighter, more optimistic, and hopeful, and not only that, but perhaps we'll have made a difference to someone who was really struggling.
7. We Live In The Future
It's easy to take for granted.
iphones, iwatches, livestreaming, skype and facetime, online shopping, fitibits, and many other technological advances that are the norm today were inconceivable twenty years ago.
Maybe it's because I'm in my thirties, and I am dreading the day my kid looks at me and says
"Wait Mom, YOU WERE BORN BEFORE THERE WAS THE INTERNET?"
the same way I said to my parents,
"Wait, YOU WERE BORN BEFORE THERE WAS TELEVISION?"
It's crazy, but I say it, and I believe it. We live in the goddamn future.
If you take a look at any of the pop culture future touchstones of my childhood (Star Treks: Voyager and Deep Space Nine and Back to the Future), the crazed imaginings of those tv shows and films included things that seem ludicrous and funny now.
If you were to travel back in time to say 1996, however, and show the average person your iphone, they'd lose their mind!
A camera, phone, voice recorder, alarm, calendar, camcorder, stereo, digital library, with voice command and access to the worlds most expansive database?
They'd burn you as a witch in no time.
Every so often, think about that little flip phone you had about ten years ago. You know, the one that cost thirty cents a text, and think about how far we've come in just a decade.
It's pretty magical.
http://www.forbes.com/sites/jaysondemers/2016/08/03/the-top-7-technology-trends-dominating-2016/#5b9bd961de34
8. Modern Medicine Has Never Been More Effective
Back in April, doctor's discovered a new drug that could help target cancer cells in Leukemia patients without also wiping out healthy cells and thusly making the patient horribly ill while undergoing treatment for their cancer.
http://abcnews.go.com/Health/DrJohnson/story?id=117508&page=1
Along with this stunningly wonderful news 2 days ago this article was published in which scientists reveal they may have finally figured out a way to suppress the viral load in HIV positive patients to almost undetectable levels.
http://www.itechpost.com/articles/57635/20161124/cure-hiv-reduction-through-wonder-drug-now-possible-help-semen.htm
It will never cease to amaze me the leaps and bounds science takes every year in its efforts to treat the horrible diseases that plague we fragile humans.
It used to be a death sentence when the doctor gave you a cancer or and HIV diagnosis. I am so ecstatic to see the progress we are making against these illnesses. It seems not impossible that we will see viable cures within my lifetime, and that is something worth celebrating.
BONUS REASON:
Your Tribe Exists
This last one is a little hokey, but thanks to the magic of social media, and the somewhat endearing transparent trend of "letting one's freak flag fly" there is no reason why you, yes you, the person who feels incredibly alone and thinks there's nobody else out there like you in the whole wide world, can't find your tribe.
With the world wide web at your fingertips you can enter any interest you have and immediately be launched into a million different discussions about the finer points of your passion.
Before now, if you admitted you liked something gauche, you had to risk that you were going to get laughed out of the party by the neanderthals. But with the rise of popularity in things like Comic Cons, Horror Cons, hell even Rennaissance Fairs, and Rocky Horror fan clubs, there is no reason you can't get together with likeminded folks and revel in your collective weird.
I am not passing one iota of judgement.
In fact, if I had the time, I'd go to a couple of the events on this magical list:
http://costume.org/conventions.html
The point being, we live in an amazingly accepting age, with support, common interest groups, and conventions to suit every possible collection, hobby, tv or comic fandom, and enthusiast in existence.
In conclusion,
Here you have eight truly relevant reasons to be glad you live where you live right now in the time you are living.
It has never been a healthier, more friendly, generous, self accepting, hopeful time to be alive, and that's with all the stuff that people tell us is crappy going on!
Take heart, my friends.
We're all going to make it through this to that.
Monday, November 21, 2016
The Sleepy Following Stars Hollowing
Let's be honest.
We're all a little obsessive.
Some of us understand obsession is a necessary means to an end. When used correctly, it acts as drive, ambition, and becomes the vision of the prize that keeps us working hard toward our dreams and aspirations. Without a little hint of obsession, we'd all be hummingbirds, zipping about never getting much accomplished.
There are others, however, who fall into the pit of obsession like an olympic diver.
We make a bunch of distracting arabesques and then slip silently into its depths with hardly a splash. In fact, we're so efficient, if you turn your head at the right moment, you'll miss our descent altogether and then wonder at how we can show up to the gatorade stand soaking wet.
I belong to that class of people mentioned in the latter paragraph.
I love a good obsession. When young, I equated obsession with passion, love, magic, creativity, and everything else good that I had no idea how to get hold onto.
As I got older, I realized it wasn't necessarily my friend, and for every extra mile it helped me run, paper it helped me finish, story it helped me conclude, or adventure it drove me to pursue, there was a number of nights I forfeited sleep and a decent meal; afternoons spent sobbing as I compared my progress to that of others in completely different circumstances of my own; events I should have enjoyed but instead spent fretting because I wasn't getting to do the thing I was obsessed with.
Since my child was born almost a year ago, I have had truck with a couple of obsessions.
Of course, I am obsessed with my baby. He's the best, so obviously, but there were also little side obsessions and those were and are how I keep my little brain buzzing during nightfeeds and teething tantrums.
I became obsessed with baking blogs: No surprise here. Once I went gluten free for the baby, I had to figure out how to sustain my muffin devotion (answer: creatively). I also liked the free wheat porn. Many a night I have had dreams of slow motion pizza slices and seductive donut burlesque.
I became obsessed with The Gilmore Girls: This may surprise no new mothers, but with a newborn/baby, I could not watch a movie or a television show that required any kind of attention span. I couldn't keep track of plot development, I never picked up on subtleties, nuances were lost on me, oscar worth performances went before my blurring eyes, and I began to hate everything on netflix. Stranger Things? Couldn't stand it. Why? Because it required attention, and I had none. All I could focus on was Winona Ryder's awful haircut and a strange new desire for eggo waffles. How I Met Your Mother, too noisy. No matter how low I had the volume, the jarring theme music woke up the sleeping baby, and I just couldn't risk it. Finally, one dismal midnight, I tried out the fast talking cutesy show set in Connecticut, and I HATED IT. Oh my goooooood how I hated it. The characters were so archetypical as to be insulting. The plots were transparent and boring. The relationships unrealistic, not to mention every single character is a variation of the exact same person. They all speak in the same vocabulary, cadence, and with the same over-educated sly referencing pretention, whether they were high school drop outs, octogenarians, blue collar workers, or societies elite, nobody had a distinguishing style.
At first, my hatred kept me going back, waiting for the show to reveal its "magic" the reason it became so phenomenally successful, but it never came. If nothing else, it got more boring as seasons continued constantly rehashing the same storylines and romantic interests. Then, one night, as I stuck a nip in the babe's face, I clicked on the show's episodes, and as it loaded, I saw i had somehow gotten all the way to the third season.
How had I watched forty odd episodes of something when I hated it, and more importantly, why couldn't I remember anything that had happened in them?
That's when it hit me, I could ignore it, and I didn't miss anything.
I could doze off while the baby nursed, blank out for fifteen minutes while I mentally composed the reasons Bastian could possibly be screaming so much. I could miss entire scenes, chunks of dialogue, and it never mattered.
I didn't care, and it was beautifully liberating.
I thought I was going to write a blog about how much the show is a giant, flagrant indication of everything wrong with our generation's white feminist movement: it's superficial, selfish, judgmental, and privileged. It purports itself to be for everyone when in reality it is very specifically designed for one demographic and its chardonnay swilling hoards.
Then I realized, it's not who watches the show and likes it, it's WHY they like it.
When I am capable of paying attention, I enjoy watching this version of a New England town the way I think people attend Disney's Epcot, knowing it's an utter forgery, that the characters are buffoons and caricatures (not to mention insulting stereotypes), and still taking a moment to marvel at the dedication to the flawed vision, not to mention pitying the ludicrousness of the facade that must be maintained.
I fear more for the show's devotees who love it in earnest. Who say they are "such a Rory" or some poor guy they know is "a total Dean." It makes me want to remind people that just because you are watching something does not mean you have to accept it's message.
In fact, as an independently thinking individual, it's important to engage with media (especially fictional media) with a shrewd and analytical mind. I'm not saying you can't just enjoy something for entertainment value, but don't forget to ask yourself why do I like this? Or What is the reason I keep coming back to this? Do I identify with a character or a storyline? Is it escapism from my completely serious life into a completely non-serious confectionary reality?
What keeps you coming back?
Usually I have to either think a story is fascinating, the characters are so clever and interesting I want to see what they'll do next, or I can't actually predict what is going to happen.
With GG, there has yet to be an episode whose storyline a seventh grader couldn't see coming a mile away, and so for me to tune out, or go braindead for ten minutes, I never miss anything critical, and when I return, there's always some pretty postcardy new englandness and some chatter warm and benign as a hollandaise sauce waiting to envelop some eggs and an english muffin and lie to me about it all being very distinguished and fancy.
I'm sure there are people who will read this who genuinely enjoy the program, and who will be super mad that I write about it so derisively, especially when the long awaited reunion that fans have been slobbering over is about to be released this Friday. I say to them,
"I do not fault you your enthusiasm. As someone who was made fun of for being obsessed with a lot of things deemed 'not cool' in her life, far be it from me to judge you one iota, but if you haven't stopped reading this yet and decided we can never be friends, let your take away be this:
Always ask yourself why you like something, and force yourself to answer. Sometimes it's not at all the reasons we think it is, and often we can surprise ourselves by what the investment in our favorite entertainment can reveal about our current emotional state."
Never let your obsessions go unchecked, lest they say something about you you are not willing to admit.
We're all a little obsessive.
Some of us understand obsession is a necessary means to an end. When used correctly, it acts as drive, ambition, and becomes the vision of the prize that keeps us working hard toward our dreams and aspirations. Without a little hint of obsession, we'd all be hummingbirds, zipping about never getting much accomplished.
There are others, however, who fall into the pit of obsession like an olympic diver.
We make a bunch of distracting arabesques and then slip silently into its depths with hardly a splash. In fact, we're so efficient, if you turn your head at the right moment, you'll miss our descent altogether and then wonder at how we can show up to the gatorade stand soaking wet.
I belong to that class of people mentioned in the latter paragraph.
I love a good obsession. When young, I equated obsession with passion, love, magic, creativity, and everything else good that I had no idea how to get hold onto.
As I got older, I realized it wasn't necessarily my friend, and for every extra mile it helped me run, paper it helped me finish, story it helped me conclude, or adventure it drove me to pursue, there was a number of nights I forfeited sleep and a decent meal; afternoons spent sobbing as I compared my progress to that of others in completely different circumstances of my own; events I should have enjoyed but instead spent fretting because I wasn't getting to do the thing I was obsessed with.
Since my child was born almost a year ago, I have had truck with a couple of obsessions.
Of course, I am obsessed with my baby. He's the best, so obviously, but there were also little side obsessions and those were and are how I keep my little brain buzzing during nightfeeds and teething tantrums.
I became obsessed with baking blogs: No surprise here. Once I went gluten free for the baby, I had to figure out how to sustain my muffin devotion (answer: creatively). I also liked the free wheat porn. Many a night I have had dreams of slow motion pizza slices and seductive donut burlesque.
I became obsessed with The Gilmore Girls: This may surprise no new mothers, but with a newborn/baby, I could not watch a movie or a television show that required any kind of attention span. I couldn't keep track of plot development, I never picked up on subtleties, nuances were lost on me, oscar worth performances went before my blurring eyes, and I began to hate everything on netflix. Stranger Things? Couldn't stand it. Why? Because it required attention, and I had none. All I could focus on was Winona Ryder's awful haircut and a strange new desire for eggo waffles. How I Met Your Mother, too noisy. No matter how low I had the volume, the jarring theme music woke up the sleeping baby, and I just couldn't risk it. Finally, one dismal midnight, I tried out the fast talking cutesy show set in Connecticut, and I HATED IT. Oh my goooooood how I hated it. The characters were so archetypical as to be insulting. The plots were transparent and boring. The relationships unrealistic, not to mention every single character is a variation of the exact same person. They all speak in the same vocabulary, cadence, and with the same over-educated sly referencing pretention, whether they were high school drop outs, octogenarians, blue collar workers, or societies elite, nobody had a distinguishing style.
At first, my hatred kept me going back, waiting for the show to reveal its "magic" the reason it became so phenomenally successful, but it never came. If nothing else, it got more boring as seasons continued constantly rehashing the same storylines and romantic interests. Then, one night, as I stuck a nip in the babe's face, I clicked on the show's episodes, and as it loaded, I saw i had somehow gotten all the way to the third season.
How had I watched forty odd episodes of something when I hated it, and more importantly, why couldn't I remember anything that had happened in them?
That's when it hit me, I could ignore it, and I didn't miss anything.
I could doze off while the baby nursed, blank out for fifteen minutes while I mentally composed the reasons Bastian could possibly be screaming so much. I could miss entire scenes, chunks of dialogue, and it never mattered.
I didn't care, and it was beautifully liberating.
I thought I was going to write a blog about how much the show is a giant, flagrant indication of everything wrong with our generation's white feminist movement: it's superficial, selfish, judgmental, and privileged. It purports itself to be for everyone when in reality it is very specifically designed for one demographic and its chardonnay swilling hoards.
Then I realized, it's not who watches the show and likes it, it's WHY they like it.
When I am capable of paying attention, I enjoy watching this version of a New England town the way I think people attend Disney's Epcot, knowing it's an utter forgery, that the characters are buffoons and caricatures (not to mention insulting stereotypes), and still taking a moment to marvel at the dedication to the flawed vision, not to mention pitying the ludicrousness of the facade that must be maintained.
I fear more for the show's devotees who love it in earnest. Who say they are "such a Rory" or some poor guy they know is "a total Dean." It makes me want to remind people that just because you are watching something does not mean you have to accept it's message.
In fact, as an independently thinking individual, it's important to engage with media (especially fictional media) with a shrewd and analytical mind. I'm not saying you can't just enjoy something for entertainment value, but don't forget to ask yourself why do I like this? Or What is the reason I keep coming back to this? Do I identify with a character or a storyline? Is it escapism from my completely serious life into a completely non-serious confectionary reality?
What keeps you coming back?
Usually I have to either think a story is fascinating, the characters are so clever and interesting I want to see what they'll do next, or I can't actually predict what is going to happen.
With GG, there has yet to be an episode whose storyline a seventh grader couldn't see coming a mile away, and so for me to tune out, or go braindead for ten minutes, I never miss anything critical, and when I return, there's always some pretty postcardy new englandness and some chatter warm and benign as a hollandaise sauce waiting to envelop some eggs and an english muffin and lie to me about it all being very distinguished and fancy.
I'm sure there are people who will read this who genuinely enjoy the program, and who will be super mad that I write about it so derisively, especially when the long awaited reunion that fans have been slobbering over is about to be released this Friday. I say to them,
"I do not fault you your enthusiasm. As someone who was made fun of for being obsessed with a lot of things deemed 'not cool' in her life, far be it from me to judge you one iota, but if you haven't stopped reading this yet and decided we can never be friends, let your take away be this:
Always ask yourself why you like something, and force yourself to answer. Sometimes it's not at all the reasons we think it is, and often we can surprise ourselves by what the investment in our favorite entertainment can reveal about our current emotional state."
Never let your obsessions go unchecked, lest they say something about you you are not willing to admit.
Wednesday, November 16, 2016
Crow! It's what's for Breakfast.
I have about 5 followers on Twitter.
Because of the lack of exposure, I tend to be a little more blunt on twitter. Nobody's paying attention, I think, I may as well say something incendiary, something a little naughty, a little more daring.
I mean, nobody's been paying attention for the last five years, who could possibly be looking now?
So last night, after spending about an hour on Instagram looking at accounts ranging from the super body positive and incredibly encouraging to the magnificently stylized ones that generally make me feel like crap about myself, I started thinking.
Now, we all know that thinking gets you into trouble in general, but let's add to that the fact that I was on my way to falling asleep with a baby nursing at my side, and I had a kind of long and emotional day (thanks to some shitty personal biz), and I just started thinking about all the things that women are sold to make themselves seem unnaturally pretty.
I thought about how acrylic finger nails, hair extensions, false eyelashes, photoshop phone apps, tummy control leggings, make up and all the other stuff marketed toward women by images that tell them if they leave the house in their "natural state" they aren't "good enough".
I realize this is my personal opinion.
I realize this is my personal opinion as a white, cis-gendered female, with a history of low self esteem.
I wasn't thinking about that though when I lazily pulled up my twitter account and decided to write the words:
Dear Women,
Fake eyelashes, hair extensions, and acrylic nails
are another way of saying 'I don't think I'm enough.'
I typed it because it was what I felt at that moment.
It was what I wish someone would say to me at that moment.
I was thinking I would say something along the lines of,
"Hey Girl, I know it's difficult to feel good enough about yourself in this world without a whole industry designed to sell you shit to make you look slightly better telling you that you need a bunch of items to accentuate what you naturally have already because that's not good enough."
But you know, 140 characters, tiredness, pigheadedness, whatever.
That's not what I typed.
I fell asleep and forgot I wrote the tweet.
Around three in the morning, when my baby got me up, I was settling him down, and I thought I'd diddle with the social media again to pass the time. I opened up Twitter and I was shocked. I had 17 notifications.
Again, I would like to repeat how few people actually follow me on there. 17 notifications is a big deal when you're used to oh...none.
So I curiously swiped through them, and I was shocked and dismayed when I saw that they were all from various people telling me what a jerk I was.
I looked at my tweet.
Yeah...it was a bit rude...
Then I looked at the responses.
One was a woman in the beauty industry who was angry because without things like false eyelashes, acrylics, and hair extensions, she'd be out of job.
Another was a feminist who very eloquently said I had no right to tell anyone what they do with their body, male, female, or otherwise.
Another was a person who quite simply posted a video of Kristen Bell flipping someone off.
Shut the fuck up. They said.
And you know what...
They were right.
I should have realized.
No matter how few your followers are,
no matter how ignored you feel,
your words matter, especially when discussing something as delicate as what women use to tell themselves "I am enough".
As long as they aren't hurting anyone, whatever anybody does to make themselves feel good is really none of my business.
I thought about how I have friends who've gone through chemo, who lost all their hair and for whom wigs and false eyelashes are a way of reminding themselves of their natural beauty.
I thought about how insensitive I was to those women.
I thought about children with Alopecia and how they deserve to wear whatever makes them feel better.
I thought about how there is no excuse to make anyone else feel bad about what they decide to do with their bodies. I mean, I've been calling myself a feminist since the 10th grade! This is stuff I already know! And yet, in the face of my own insecurities I decided to pass judgment, glib, unfair, prejudiced judgment. How many people have I seen do this exact same thing? Hundreds, and I've been disgusted by them.
I have stood next to girls who refuse to shave their legs, boys who love eyeliner, non-gender conforming individuals who practice self care and beauty regimens they have developed like armor to shield and protect themselves so that when they walk down the street, they feel good about themselves regardless of who does or does not approve.
I am so proud of anyone and everyone brave enough to wear and walk their truth, and far be it from me to tell them anything.
What I should have said in my tweet was that I felt the current standard of beauty put forth by the media in this country is impossible for the majority of women to reach.
What I should have said that the cult of youth, and the pressure to look a certain way are bogus measurements of anyone's worth.
What I should have said was that I am a human who has struggled with feeling like I am never going to be 'enough' and that sometimes means I pass judgement on people who adhere to that standard of beauty. I am not speaking for anybody else, just me, and sometimes I am wrong.
What's funny is my previous tweet (before the one that got the negative attention) was about how I wanted to see Dustin Hoffman's Hook and Bette Midler's Winnie Sanderson do battle, so if that's any reference point for how clever I think I am, there you go.
Anyway, I just wanted to say, I'm not going to delete the offending tweet because I think that would be easy. It would also be cowardly. I said something without thinking, and it ticked people off.
I feel awful about this, but it even hurt some people's feelings.
It stays up as a reminder to me not to be so glib, not to be so judgmental, and not to take for granted that even when you have very few people paying attention to what you say, you should never take for granted that those people deserve every consideration you would like given to yourself, your loved ones, your children.
Thanks for keeping me honest.
Friday, November 11, 2016
Survival of the Species
Today I want to talk about change.
I remember when my parents told us we were moving to America.
I was eight years old. I was nearing the end of Year 3 at my school. I was friends with every girl in my class, and I loved my life. I loved swim team. I loved birthday parties. I loved my house on the hill with the big tire swing and the dead tree. I loved my puppy, Shelly, and I loved the games I could play with my sisters roaming around the countryside where we lived.
The idea of leaving all of that to go someplace new, someplace foreign, where the people talked in strange, harsh sounding consonants, ate weird food, and called most things different names. A place where you didn't wear a uniform to go to school, and school had girls AND BOYS (GASP!). A place that had snow, and long winters, and strange wildlife that was all either brown or grey instead of the myriad colors I was used to. There were no kookaburras to laugh outside my window in the morning in America. There was no vegemite for toast.
There also was no other option.
I remember the month of preparation as a blur. We sold our house, almost all our furniture. We got rid of dishes I had eaten my first bites of food off of. We gave Shelly away to a family who could care for her. I said tearful goodbyes to my friends and my classmates. I remember getting on the plane and my parents telling us over and over that this wasn't the end, it was a transition. It was an adventure. It was change, and change was hard, but you ended up better afterward, stronger, wiser, and you knew something you couldn't possibly know before; you knew you could survive it.
For months after we moved to the states I would just sit in my room and cry. I went to bed and dreamed I was back in my room in Australia, the sweet smell of gum trees and pine pitch wafting through the window, then I would wake up, and I would realize where I really was, and it all seemed like a terrible joke.
My sister tried to run away. She'd get angry and pack a bag and just take off. She always swore she was going back home. Only once did she get as far as the on ramp for the highway. Then she turned around and came home. We know this, because my mother confessed -years later- that she had followed Alex in backyards and bushes the whole way to make sure she was all right. She watched her daughter wondering when she would have to jump out and stop her, and then the little girl decided on her own to go back, and she had to run to beat her back to the house.
It was a tough time for our family. The career opportunity that had convinced my Dad to pack up his family and take them halfway across the world dried up, and we were left in less than ideal financial circumstances. We had to move to Canada to be closer to my Mum's family while we figured things out, got back on our feet, and came back to America when I was thirteen.
I had a really hard time accepting the election results on Wednesday.
Like a lot of folks, I had assumed that the country was going to be divided, but it couldn't possible go in the direction that it did. I assumed that there couldn't be that many hateful people to vote. I assumed we were safe.
Over the past few days, as the reality of the next four years has settled in, I have thought about this new future and I have felt a kind of groundless, stomach churning fear I hadn't felt since that day, when at eight years of age, I stepped aboard my first plane to leave the place where I'd been born forever, and to trust that the future was a place I could accept, even if I was determined not to like it.
The most important thing I brought with me from Australia to the States was my family. It's corny, but we could use some well intentioned corniness right now, and it's true.
I remember my Dad saying houses weren't homes unless the people you loved were there. I remember my Mother saying we could be scared of this new world, and we could have all the problems in the world adjusting, but we had each other, and we loved each other and that was a lot more than most people had.
To this day, I attribute my ability to adapt, to go with the flow, to change plans on the turn of a dime, to this huge event in my life. I also attribute to it, my desire to survive, my desire to hold onto what really matters when times get hard, my insistence that love is the most courageous act a person can do.
Here we are, America. The world we knew is shattered. We can never go back there.
In this new world, there is much to be feared, there is much we need to prepare for, to learn, and to arm ourselves both with knowledge, but also with kindness, with compassion, and with love.
So I am concentrating on that.
I am concentrating on taking the best care of my family and my tribe in this new place. I am concentrating on accepting that this decision changes everything about this environment, but it does not change who I am, what matters to me, and what I will or will not tolerate.
I can adapt. I can evolve. I can hold fast, batten down the hatches, dig deep, and make due.
I can get through this to that.
I can accept that this decision was made without my permission and that it does not reflect my goals, values, or ideals. It is not easy, but I can accept this.
But know this,
you must accept that i am very very strong and very very clever, and I am resourceful, and I will use all of my power, my mind, and my love to withstand this change. I am determined to get to the other side of this with my loved ones and my dignity. I want to be able to look myself in the face in the mirror and say, "I am proud of you."
I am one of many who will do this.
I am one of millions who will emanate love and healing in the face of this change.
And I am living proof that this approach makes us stronger.
I am living proof that we will survive this, and learn from it to make sure that the next big change doesn't surprise us. In fact I am living proof that the next big change will be on my terms, our terms, the terms of love.
Hold fast.
Dig deep.
Make Due.
Batten down the hatches.
And love love love, in all the tiny and majestic ways that you can, love ferociously, love heroically, love incessantly, and without fear.
Love is how we change for the better.
I remember when my parents told us we were moving to America.
I was eight years old. I was nearing the end of Year 3 at my school. I was friends with every girl in my class, and I loved my life. I loved swim team. I loved birthday parties. I loved my house on the hill with the big tire swing and the dead tree. I loved my puppy, Shelly, and I loved the games I could play with my sisters roaming around the countryside where we lived.
The idea of leaving all of that to go someplace new, someplace foreign, where the people talked in strange, harsh sounding consonants, ate weird food, and called most things different names. A place where you didn't wear a uniform to go to school, and school had girls AND BOYS (GASP!). A place that had snow, and long winters, and strange wildlife that was all either brown or grey instead of the myriad colors I was used to. There were no kookaburras to laugh outside my window in the morning in America. There was no vegemite for toast.
There also was no other option.
I remember the month of preparation as a blur. We sold our house, almost all our furniture. We got rid of dishes I had eaten my first bites of food off of. We gave Shelly away to a family who could care for her. I said tearful goodbyes to my friends and my classmates. I remember getting on the plane and my parents telling us over and over that this wasn't the end, it was a transition. It was an adventure. It was change, and change was hard, but you ended up better afterward, stronger, wiser, and you knew something you couldn't possibly know before; you knew you could survive it.
For months after we moved to the states I would just sit in my room and cry. I went to bed and dreamed I was back in my room in Australia, the sweet smell of gum trees and pine pitch wafting through the window, then I would wake up, and I would realize where I really was, and it all seemed like a terrible joke.
My sister tried to run away. She'd get angry and pack a bag and just take off. She always swore she was going back home. Only once did she get as far as the on ramp for the highway. Then she turned around and came home. We know this, because my mother confessed -years later- that she had followed Alex in backyards and bushes the whole way to make sure she was all right. She watched her daughter wondering when she would have to jump out and stop her, and then the little girl decided on her own to go back, and she had to run to beat her back to the house.
It was a tough time for our family. The career opportunity that had convinced my Dad to pack up his family and take them halfway across the world dried up, and we were left in less than ideal financial circumstances. We had to move to Canada to be closer to my Mum's family while we figured things out, got back on our feet, and came back to America when I was thirteen.
I had a really hard time accepting the election results on Wednesday.
Like a lot of folks, I had assumed that the country was going to be divided, but it couldn't possible go in the direction that it did. I assumed that there couldn't be that many hateful people to vote. I assumed we were safe.
Over the past few days, as the reality of the next four years has settled in, I have thought about this new future and I have felt a kind of groundless, stomach churning fear I hadn't felt since that day, when at eight years of age, I stepped aboard my first plane to leave the place where I'd been born forever, and to trust that the future was a place I could accept, even if I was determined not to like it.
The most important thing I brought with me from Australia to the States was my family. It's corny, but we could use some well intentioned corniness right now, and it's true.
I remember my Dad saying houses weren't homes unless the people you loved were there. I remember my Mother saying we could be scared of this new world, and we could have all the problems in the world adjusting, but we had each other, and we loved each other and that was a lot more than most people had.
To this day, I attribute my ability to adapt, to go with the flow, to change plans on the turn of a dime, to this huge event in my life. I also attribute to it, my desire to survive, my desire to hold onto what really matters when times get hard, my insistence that love is the most courageous act a person can do.
Here we are, America. The world we knew is shattered. We can never go back there.
In this new world, there is much to be feared, there is much we need to prepare for, to learn, and to arm ourselves both with knowledge, but also with kindness, with compassion, and with love.
So I am concentrating on that.
I am concentrating on taking the best care of my family and my tribe in this new place. I am concentrating on accepting that this decision changes everything about this environment, but it does not change who I am, what matters to me, and what I will or will not tolerate.
I can adapt. I can evolve. I can hold fast, batten down the hatches, dig deep, and make due.
I can get through this to that.
I can accept that this decision was made without my permission and that it does not reflect my goals, values, or ideals. It is not easy, but I can accept this.
But know this,
you must accept that i am very very strong and very very clever, and I am resourceful, and I will use all of my power, my mind, and my love to withstand this change. I am determined to get to the other side of this with my loved ones and my dignity. I want to be able to look myself in the face in the mirror and say, "I am proud of you."
I am one of many who will do this.
I am one of millions who will emanate love and healing in the face of this change.
And I am living proof that this approach makes us stronger.
I am living proof that we will survive this, and learn from it to make sure that the next big change doesn't surprise us. In fact I am living proof that the next big change will be on my terms, our terms, the terms of love.
Hold fast.
Dig deep.
Make Due.
Batten down the hatches.
And love love love, in all the tiny and majestic ways that you can, love ferociously, love heroically, love incessantly, and without fear.
Love is how we change for the better.
Sunday, November 6, 2016
Pantsuit Fever
Can I take a minute to talk about NOT THE ELECTION?
Cool...
So, I'm going to assume that if you're one of the three people who read this blog (hi mom!) you probably know what you're doing Tuesday. You have either read a lot of stuff and avoided as much hoopla as possible; or perhaps you ate up every last crumb of hoopla, watched all of the debates in a cloud of disbelief, and still have no idea.
The first and last serious thing I will say about it is,
Please vote. Just show up and do it. Please.
Anyhoo, so the important topic.
Pantsuits.
Specifically HRC's Pantsuits (capitalization required).
There's been a lot of commentary on the Pantsuits, a lot of joking, a lot of friendly ribbing about their many colors, styles, and shoulder pad presence.
There's been the use of the Pantsuit as parody, as symbol, as solidarity, and as goofy fashion choice.
What nobody seems to be acknowledging is this:
WHAT THE FUCK ELSE IS SHE SUPPOSED TO WEAR?
Think about it.
When you're a male politician, you wear a suit.
You pick your color. You pick your tie. If you're feeling dapper, you have a pocket square. Maybe you choose a tighter fit, or a skinnier tie, or a single breast or a double breast. Maybe you get a slim leg trouser or a wide leg. Perhaps you get daring and go for pinstripes. There's lapel width to consider, collar starch levels, cuff links versus buttons, etc.
The point is. When you are a male politician, you wear a suit. One might even call it the official uniform of the position.
So why is it so weird that this woman who is running for President would wear a suit?
Why is it her Pantsuit, which has not changed much in the way of style but only in color, is the strange emblem of her candidacy?
Remember back in '08 when Obama was running for his historic role as the leader of the free world, and that amazing Shepard Fairey Hope Poster became his emblem? It represented hope and possibility. It became parodied, satirized, and ubiquitous in the same way as the Pantsuit, but it was a portrait of the man! It showed a serious contender for this role in the country's future. While not commissioned by the campaign the work of art obtained approval from Obama and became a symbol of the change this country was ready for. Wasn't there even a facebook app or something so you could change your profile picture to match the style of the poster?
Now, eight years later, we have another historic candidate running for the position. She has set her sights on becoming the first woman president, and I don't know...maybe it's because she's older than Obama, not as sexy (let's be honest sex sells everything), and has spent a considerable amount of time in the political limelight already for good or for worse, but the symbol chosen for her campaign is her OUTFIT. Her clothing, people. What the ever loving hell?
This is a wee opinion piece. It is not meant to convince anyone on whom to cast their ballot this Tuesday, but I believe the subject is a reflection of a serious discrepancy between two historic candidates.
But Jess! You might be yelling, the unofficial Trump emblem is his hair! The unofficial Bernie emblem was his receding hairline and glasses! These things are superficial too!
They are, yes, but there's been a long history of presidential candidates physicality being used both for or against them as suitable for the job. There's also this amazing thing that men are allowed to do in our society which is insist that their looks don't contribute to their ability to do a job, something women applying for employment anywhere are still somehow not allowed to do.
Sure, Trump's hair is parodied, but like Clinton, he's kind of embraced the the circus. Besides, it's been his look for decades.
HRC came to the Pantsuit game when she got serious about her public image as a politician. As FLOTUS she sort of put a nineties spin on the Jackie O wardrobe sporting matching jackets and skirts in many hues. She wore respectable hemlines and big sunglasses, pastels and boucle, but almost always a skirt. Funnily, if you compare HRC's wardrobe to anyone else's the closest political match is Margaret Thatcher, former British Prime Minister. Hmmmm...
Yet, since pursuing her own political career became the Clintons' goal, she has shifted to the suit.
Yes, just suit.
Why not Pantsuit?
Because last time I checked all suits came with pants. All of them, and being, as previously established, a suit is the unofficial uniform of the serious politician, what else was she going to wear if she wanted to be taken seriously?
If you enter the words Hillary Clinton Pantsuit into Google, your top search results are how much they cost, followed immediately by commentary on their variety of colors, and in third place an article on PopSugar addressing their Glamour.
Tell me, in the history of any Presidential candidate, have we ever demanded to know how much the dude was paying for his Armani?
Don't tell me Trump is showing up to a debate in a $400 Brooks Brothers situation, and how much were Obama's suits? George W.'s?
Nope. Nobody gives a crap if Joe Biden's wardrobe cost more than the annual budget of Iceland, but the minute a woman takes the stage as a serious political contender, all roads go directly to her clothes.
Personally, I don't care if the President wears a foil hat and a pair of leather chaps if he or she can do a decent job running the country.
Women police officers, women in the military, women in uniforms are assuming a position with a certain image to uphold. They don the clothing to maintain the authority, respect, and dignity of the position they hold. When a woman runs for President, it makes perfect sense for her to wear the uniform of the position for all those same reasons. Color, style, fit, cut, none of it has any more impact on her platforms than the little U.S. Flag pin on her lapel.
All the discussion of the Pantsuits does is reduce another powerful, professional woman to her fashion choices, which has always served as a great way to undermine any real potential of her being taken seriously. We can't possibly have a woman President! I mean, look at her!
Imagine how much flack she would have received if she'd kept wearing skirts? Nobody would take her seriously. She's be lambasted for "using her sexuality to sway votes" as if Obama shooting hoops in a dress shirt with the cuffs rolled up didn't make excellent use of his figure...
Anyway, while I understand people like the Pantsuit as symbol (I'm With Her flashmob reference anyone?), it saddens me that with so many slogans, images, and emblems to choose from in this historic race, the woman candidate has been boiled down to her boiled wool.
Maybe we should be looking at her resume, rather than her jacket label?
Just a thought.
Cool...
So, I'm going to assume that if you're one of the three people who read this blog (hi mom!) you probably know what you're doing Tuesday. You have either read a lot of stuff and avoided as much hoopla as possible; or perhaps you ate up every last crumb of hoopla, watched all of the debates in a cloud of disbelief, and still have no idea.
The first and last serious thing I will say about it is,
Please vote. Just show up and do it. Please.
Anyhoo, so the important topic.
Pantsuits.
Specifically HRC's Pantsuits (capitalization required).
There's been a lot of commentary on the Pantsuits, a lot of joking, a lot of friendly ribbing about their many colors, styles, and shoulder pad presence.
There's been the use of the Pantsuit as parody, as symbol, as solidarity, and as goofy fashion choice.
What nobody seems to be acknowledging is this:
WHAT THE FUCK ELSE IS SHE SUPPOSED TO WEAR?
Think about it.
When you're a male politician, you wear a suit.
You pick your color. You pick your tie. If you're feeling dapper, you have a pocket square. Maybe you choose a tighter fit, or a skinnier tie, or a single breast or a double breast. Maybe you get a slim leg trouser or a wide leg. Perhaps you get daring and go for pinstripes. There's lapel width to consider, collar starch levels, cuff links versus buttons, etc.
The point is. When you are a male politician, you wear a suit. One might even call it the official uniform of the position.
So why is it so weird that this woman who is running for President would wear a suit?
Why is it her Pantsuit, which has not changed much in the way of style but only in color, is the strange emblem of her candidacy?
Remember back in '08 when Obama was running for his historic role as the leader of the free world, and that amazing Shepard Fairey Hope Poster became his emblem? It represented hope and possibility. It became parodied, satirized, and ubiquitous in the same way as the Pantsuit, but it was a portrait of the man! It showed a serious contender for this role in the country's future. While not commissioned by the campaign the work of art obtained approval from Obama and became a symbol of the change this country was ready for. Wasn't there even a facebook app or something so you could change your profile picture to match the style of the poster?
Now, eight years later, we have another historic candidate running for the position. She has set her sights on becoming the first woman president, and I don't know...maybe it's because she's older than Obama, not as sexy (let's be honest sex sells everything), and has spent a considerable amount of time in the political limelight already for good or for worse, but the symbol chosen for her campaign is her OUTFIT. Her clothing, people. What the ever loving hell?
This is a wee opinion piece. It is not meant to convince anyone on whom to cast their ballot this Tuesday, but I believe the subject is a reflection of a serious discrepancy between two historic candidates.
But Jess! You might be yelling, the unofficial Trump emblem is his hair! The unofficial Bernie emblem was his receding hairline and glasses! These things are superficial too!
They are, yes, but there's been a long history of presidential candidates physicality being used both for or against them as suitable for the job. There's also this amazing thing that men are allowed to do in our society which is insist that their looks don't contribute to their ability to do a job, something women applying for employment anywhere are still somehow not allowed to do.
Sure, Trump's hair is parodied, but like Clinton, he's kind of embraced the the circus. Besides, it's been his look for decades.
HRC came to the Pantsuit game when she got serious about her public image as a politician. As FLOTUS she sort of put a nineties spin on the Jackie O wardrobe sporting matching jackets and skirts in many hues. She wore respectable hemlines and big sunglasses, pastels and boucle, but almost always a skirt. Funnily, if you compare HRC's wardrobe to anyone else's the closest political match is Margaret Thatcher, former British Prime Minister. Hmmmm...
Yet, since pursuing her own political career became the Clintons' goal, she has shifted to the suit.
Yes, just suit.
Why not Pantsuit?
Because last time I checked all suits came with pants. All of them, and being, as previously established, a suit is the unofficial uniform of the serious politician, what else was she going to wear if she wanted to be taken seriously?
If you enter the words Hillary Clinton Pantsuit into Google, your top search results are how much they cost, followed immediately by commentary on their variety of colors, and in third place an article on PopSugar addressing their Glamour.
Tell me, in the history of any Presidential candidate, have we ever demanded to know how much the dude was paying for his Armani?
Don't tell me Trump is showing up to a debate in a $400 Brooks Brothers situation, and how much were Obama's suits? George W.'s?
Nope. Nobody gives a crap if Joe Biden's wardrobe cost more than the annual budget of Iceland, but the minute a woman takes the stage as a serious political contender, all roads go directly to her clothes.
Personally, I don't care if the President wears a foil hat and a pair of leather chaps if he or she can do a decent job running the country.
Women police officers, women in the military, women in uniforms are assuming a position with a certain image to uphold. They don the clothing to maintain the authority, respect, and dignity of the position they hold. When a woman runs for President, it makes perfect sense for her to wear the uniform of the position for all those same reasons. Color, style, fit, cut, none of it has any more impact on her platforms than the little U.S. Flag pin on her lapel.
All the discussion of the Pantsuits does is reduce another powerful, professional woman to her fashion choices, which has always served as a great way to undermine any real potential of her being taken seriously. We can't possibly have a woman President! I mean, look at her!
Imagine how much flack she would have received if she'd kept wearing skirts? Nobody would take her seriously. She's be lambasted for "using her sexuality to sway votes" as if Obama shooting hoops in a dress shirt with the cuffs rolled up didn't make excellent use of his figure...
Anyway, while I understand people like the Pantsuit as symbol (I'm With Her flashmob reference anyone?), it saddens me that with so many slogans, images, and emblems to choose from in this historic race, the woman candidate has been boiled down to her boiled wool.
Maybe we should be looking at her resume, rather than her jacket label?
Just a thought.
Thursday, November 3, 2016
The Day I Became A Stereotype
Back when the babe was first old enough to play, do tummy time, and wasn't spending ten hours a day screaming with colic, I made a few goals/rules.
I was going to do as much stimulating, educational play as I could with him, at the very least three separate hour long sessions. We would not turn the television on during the day. I would only turn it on after 6pm, and then , only when he was nursing so it didn't damage his brain too much.
I was going to eat three balanced meals a day with him to encourage him to have healthy eating habits, and hopefully never develop the disordered relationship to food I struggled with for so long.
So my days are a lot less like my goals and a lot more like this.
5am-Baby wakes up and starts climbing and squealing. I rush him out of the bed before he can disturb my Beard too much, because he has to get up and go to work in an hour and a half. I sit at the computer and nurse the baby for forty five minutes or so, an episode of Supernatural on Netflix, typically.
5:45am: We rug up and take the dog out.
6am: I put the babe in his high chair with a toy while I make him breakfast, usual a few spoonfuls of pureed fruit and oatmeal. Between feeding bites of mush, I drink half a pot of coffee.
7am: I put the baby in the Pack and Play. He screams for ten minutes then sits and amuses himself for twenty. This cycle repeats for an hour. I scramble to use this hour to do work. The herrband leaves for work in there somewhere.
8am: I put the baby in his bouncer and shower. Sometimes I am ambitious and try to do mommy and me yoga videos from youtube. It's usually about ten minutes of frustration trying to keep the cat away from the baby and the baby away from stuffing whatever hideous thing he's pulled out of the carpet into his mouth. As soon as the big tears start and the howling begins I know it's nap time.
Nap time is my chance to get errands done and fresh air.
I strap the babe into the ergo, put my wet hair up in a bun and grab anything I can think of that needs doing, bills that need to be posted, library books that need returning, money traded for laundry quarters, whatever. I have to remember what it is while the baby struggles against the carrier and yells and sticks his fingers up my nose and in my eyes because he is crankiest right before napping.
I run out the door. Is the baby wearing a hat?
No.
Fuck.
I run back.
Put hat on baby.
Did I lock the door?
I have no idea.
I'm not going back.
If we get robbed we get robbed. I don't care anymore.
About ten minutes down the street, the baby falls into a heavy sleep, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I run my errands. If I'm feeling fancy, I buy a latte or a chai. I walk by the ocean and berate myself for not enjoying autumn more. I think about all the things I should be doing but am not. I wonder how I'm supposed to get a real job after taking a year off with the baby in a country that insists doing so indicates my laziness and unworthiness of gainful employment. I work myself up to and talk myself out of several panic attacks. Sometimes I call my Dad for help with that.
10am: Home again. The baby wakes.
Shit.
I haven't eaten anything yet today, and after all that coffee and running around I am ravenous.
Bung a banana and a yoghurt into the blender with a handful of twigs or cardboard bits or unidentifiable green shredded thingies scraped out of corners of freezer.
Drink concoction and chase it with large spoonful of peanut butter eaten directly from jar, all while baby is hanging from nipple.
Baby is really awake now and requires attention.
11am: try to do another hour's worth of work while he screams and briefly entertains himself in Pack and Play.
Noon: Strap baby back in high chair. Feed him puffs, sometimes bits of banana, or spoonfuls of yoghurt. Enjoy having my skin all to myself for ten minutes.
Herrband calls to check in. He reminds me of several things I was supposed to do today and have completely forgotten about (calling pediatrician to switch appointment date, email his mother about baby's changing clothing size, cancel this subscription to that thing). By the time the phone call and the reminding is done, I have a choice, get more work done while baby naps at boob (because he refuses to sleep anywhere else), or strap him back into the carrier and run out the door for another hour.
The decision always ends up being whatever gets the most done. If I need to do more work, then it's boob time. If I need to get groceries, or if the Beard has reminded me of an errand that I forgot to take care of that morning, then on goes the baby and out the door I fly.
A couple of times a week, I actually have nothing more to get done of a grown up nature, and I get to meet up with a friend. We get coffee, or lunch, and we walk a bit. If the baby wakes up, we play with him and I feel significantly less subhuman and lonely.
Most of my friends are still childless, however, and have exciting lives. I'm often by myself with the baby from the moment the herrband leaves until he walks through the door. There are some days that go by so quickly it's all I can do to keep up. Other days, I find myself sitting in front of the television, pinned down by a slumbering, nursing baby. I've already done everything I can think of, and my sleep deprived brain is rapidly disintegrating. I am physically incapable of napping, so I put on a movie.
I can't focus on the movie about half the time I'm watching it though because I am having terrible guilt about how none of my parenting goals have been accomplished. I am exposing my kid to too much screen time. I am not contributing enough to our household financially. I grocery shop twice a week. Food costs are stupefyingly high and somehow we still have a completely empty fridge, and I don't even buy organic!
I should buy organic anyway.
My kid is going to have three eyeballs because I am feeding him GMO infected, pesticide soaked food.
My kid is going to have three eyeballs, breasts, and be addicted to screens, and we will most likely be destitute and homeless all before his second birthday because I am a horrendous mother.
I decide I am the worst.
Sometimes this decision prompts me to read a chapter in a book I should have finished reading months ago, back when I read books quickly because I could concentrate on something for longer than three minutes. Most of the time, though, I just silently berate myself while the movie plays.
If there is any food nearby me, I inhale it because sitting still will always remind me how hungry I am. It could be a bag of chips, a bowl of fruit, or a thanksgiving turkey, if it's within arm's reach, I will destroy it.
I have become a stereotype I think.
I read the mommy blogs. I watch the clever Buzzfeed videos. I know it's all designed to make legions of women feel less guilty about not being able to live up to the shining paradigm of motherhood the media brainwashes us is the expected norm.
We're all supposed to be wearing leggings, embracing our postpartum bodies, letting our hormone addled emotions fly, whether we're in public or screaming unreasonably at our partners.
We're supposed to drink obscene quantities of coffee and joke about how we don't remember the last time we showered. We're supposed to go to yoga classes, but be terrible at them.
There's this terrifying mediocrity we're meant to aspire toward. This flawed ideal that can't be too flawed, but can't be too perfect because then you're not likable.
And maybe that's why I struggle with it so much.
I can't stand not showering. I really miss running when the weather is nice.
I hate how cloudy I feel when I'm really sleep deprived, and I hate how forgetful it makes me.
I am struggling with intuitive eating and listening to my body's cues because my body's cues do not take precedent over my baby's needs. This means that occasionally I find myself standing in front of my kid while he plays in the high chair funneling a bag of tortilla chips into my mouth because I forgot to eat all day.
Afterwards, the flush and rush of shame is the same as it always was when I was bingeing and restricting as a lifestyle, but I have to breathe and tell myself that it was my body's natural response to the situation and I am not going to go back into the depths of my ED just because I ate a bag of chips.
Then of course, I realize the baby has been screaming for the last ten minutes because he threw his spoon to the dog, (oh shit, did I remember to feed the dog today?) his diaper is wet, and I have been having a self hatred/self love stand off instead of being caretaker.
I soak in my guilt as I clean him up and change him and pour extra dog food in the bowl.
A lot of times, I can't fall asleep at night because of how guilty I feel.
Please tell me I'm not alone in this.
I'm so tired. I waited all day to be lying in the dark with my baby, in my bed. I have a solid four hours before he'll wake me up, and I. CAN'T. SLEEP.
My brain races through the day's activities playing them over and over and correcting all the decisions I made that it deems shitty.
That bill you were going to pay? You forgot it.
You watched The Little Prince instead of a documentary on climate change while the baby slept.
You didn't do the laundry.
You forgot to email your mother in law.
You baked cookies instead of making a proper lunch for the baby and let him eat cheerios while you had a hot cookie and a cup of tea for the first time in six months.
You didn't go outside.
You forgot the baby's hat when you went outside.
You got mad at your one friend who made plans with you because she forgot and scheduled a dentist's appointment for the one hour your baby was going to let you hang out with her. You want to forgive her because you would have done the exact same thing pre-baby.
You will never forgive her because you'd been looking forward to talking in full sentences to an actual grown up all week.
You picked a fight with your husband just because you missed him so much.
Sigh.
I finally fall asleep after looking at instagram for an hour to find inspiration for the baby's first birthday cake.
I am already dreaming about the cup of coffee I'll make myself in the morning.
I was going to do as much stimulating, educational play as I could with him, at the very least three separate hour long sessions. We would not turn the television on during the day. I would only turn it on after 6pm, and then , only when he was nursing so it didn't damage his brain too much.
I was going to eat three balanced meals a day with him to encourage him to have healthy eating habits, and hopefully never develop the disordered relationship to food I struggled with for so long.
So my days are a lot less like my goals and a lot more like this.
5am-Baby wakes up and starts climbing and squealing. I rush him out of the bed before he can disturb my Beard too much, because he has to get up and go to work in an hour and a half. I sit at the computer and nurse the baby for forty five minutes or so, an episode of Supernatural on Netflix, typically.
5:45am: We rug up and take the dog out.
6am: I put the babe in his high chair with a toy while I make him breakfast, usual a few spoonfuls of pureed fruit and oatmeal. Between feeding bites of mush, I drink half a pot of coffee.
7am: I put the baby in the Pack and Play. He screams for ten minutes then sits and amuses himself for twenty. This cycle repeats for an hour. I scramble to use this hour to do work. The herrband leaves for work in there somewhere.
8am: I put the baby in his bouncer and shower. Sometimes I am ambitious and try to do mommy and me yoga videos from youtube. It's usually about ten minutes of frustration trying to keep the cat away from the baby and the baby away from stuffing whatever hideous thing he's pulled out of the carpet into his mouth. As soon as the big tears start and the howling begins I know it's nap time.
Nap time is my chance to get errands done and fresh air.
I strap the babe into the ergo, put my wet hair up in a bun and grab anything I can think of that needs doing, bills that need to be posted, library books that need returning, money traded for laundry quarters, whatever. I have to remember what it is while the baby struggles against the carrier and yells and sticks his fingers up my nose and in my eyes because he is crankiest right before napping.
I run out the door. Is the baby wearing a hat?
No.
Fuck.
I run back.
Put hat on baby.
Did I lock the door?
I have no idea.
I'm not going back.
If we get robbed we get robbed. I don't care anymore.
About ten minutes down the street, the baby falls into a heavy sleep, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I run my errands. If I'm feeling fancy, I buy a latte or a chai. I walk by the ocean and berate myself for not enjoying autumn more. I think about all the things I should be doing but am not. I wonder how I'm supposed to get a real job after taking a year off with the baby in a country that insists doing so indicates my laziness and unworthiness of gainful employment. I work myself up to and talk myself out of several panic attacks. Sometimes I call my Dad for help with that.
10am: Home again. The baby wakes.
Shit.
I haven't eaten anything yet today, and after all that coffee and running around I am ravenous.
Bung a banana and a yoghurt into the blender with a handful of twigs or cardboard bits or unidentifiable green shredded thingies scraped out of corners of freezer.
Drink concoction and chase it with large spoonful of peanut butter eaten directly from jar, all while baby is hanging from nipple.
Baby is really awake now and requires attention.
11am: try to do another hour's worth of work while he screams and briefly entertains himself in Pack and Play.
Noon: Strap baby back in high chair. Feed him puffs, sometimes bits of banana, or spoonfuls of yoghurt. Enjoy having my skin all to myself for ten minutes.
Herrband calls to check in. He reminds me of several things I was supposed to do today and have completely forgotten about (calling pediatrician to switch appointment date, email his mother about baby's changing clothing size, cancel this subscription to that thing). By the time the phone call and the reminding is done, I have a choice, get more work done while baby naps at boob (because he refuses to sleep anywhere else), or strap him back into the carrier and run out the door for another hour.
The decision always ends up being whatever gets the most done. If I need to do more work, then it's boob time. If I need to get groceries, or if the Beard has reminded me of an errand that I forgot to take care of that morning, then on goes the baby and out the door I fly.
A couple of times a week, I actually have nothing more to get done of a grown up nature, and I get to meet up with a friend. We get coffee, or lunch, and we walk a bit. If the baby wakes up, we play with him and I feel significantly less subhuman and lonely.
Most of my friends are still childless, however, and have exciting lives. I'm often by myself with the baby from the moment the herrband leaves until he walks through the door. There are some days that go by so quickly it's all I can do to keep up. Other days, I find myself sitting in front of the television, pinned down by a slumbering, nursing baby. I've already done everything I can think of, and my sleep deprived brain is rapidly disintegrating. I am physically incapable of napping, so I put on a movie.
I can't focus on the movie about half the time I'm watching it though because I am having terrible guilt about how none of my parenting goals have been accomplished. I am exposing my kid to too much screen time. I am not contributing enough to our household financially. I grocery shop twice a week. Food costs are stupefyingly high and somehow we still have a completely empty fridge, and I don't even buy organic!
I should buy organic anyway.
My kid is going to have three eyeballs because I am feeding him GMO infected, pesticide soaked food.
My kid is going to have three eyeballs, breasts, and be addicted to screens, and we will most likely be destitute and homeless all before his second birthday because I am a horrendous mother.
I decide I am the worst.
Sometimes this decision prompts me to read a chapter in a book I should have finished reading months ago, back when I read books quickly because I could concentrate on something for longer than three minutes. Most of the time, though, I just silently berate myself while the movie plays.
If there is any food nearby me, I inhale it because sitting still will always remind me how hungry I am. It could be a bag of chips, a bowl of fruit, or a thanksgiving turkey, if it's within arm's reach, I will destroy it.
I have become a stereotype I think.
I read the mommy blogs. I watch the clever Buzzfeed videos. I know it's all designed to make legions of women feel less guilty about not being able to live up to the shining paradigm of motherhood the media brainwashes us is the expected norm.
We're all supposed to be wearing leggings, embracing our postpartum bodies, letting our hormone addled emotions fly, whether we're in public or screaming unreasonably at our partners.
We're supposed to drink obscene quantities of coffee and joke about how we don't remember the last time we showered. We're supposed to go to yoga classes, but be terrible at them.
There's this terrifying mediocrity we're meant to aspire toward. This flawed ideal that can't be too flawed, but can't be too perfect because then you're not likable.
And maybe that's why I struggle with it so much.
I can't stand not showering. I really miss running when the weather is nice.
I hate how cloudy I feel when I'm really sleep deprived, and I hate how forgetful it makes me.
I am struggling with intuitive eating and listening to my body's cues because my body's cues do not take precedent over my baby's needs. This means that occasionally I find myself standing in front of my kid while he plays in the high chair funneling a bag of tortilla chips into my mouth because I forgot to eat all day.
Afterwards, the flush and rush of shame is the same as it always was when I was bingeing and restricting as a lifestyle, but I have to breathe and tell myself that it was my body's natural response to the situation and I am not going to go back into the depths of my ED just because I ate a bag of chips.
Then of course, I realize the baby has been screaming for the last ten minutes because he threw his spoon to the dog, (oh shit, did I remember to feed the dog today?) his diaper is wet, and I have been having a self hatred/self love stand off instead of being caretaker.
I soak in my guilt as I clean him up and change him and pour extra dog food in the bowl.
A lot of times, I can't fall asleep at night because of how guilty I feel.
Please tell me I'm not alone in this.
I'm so tired. I waited all day to be lying in the dark with my baby, in my bed. I have a solid four hours before he'll wake me up, and I. CAN'T. SLEEP.
My brain races through the day's activities playing them over and over and correcting all the decisions I made that it deems shitty.
That bill you were going to pay? You forgot it.
You watched The Little Prince instead of a documentary on climate change while the baby slept.
You didn't do the laundry.
You forgot to email your mother in law.
You baked cookies instead of making a proper lunch for the baby and let him eat cheerios while you had a hot cookie and a cup of tea for the first time in six months.
You didn't go outside.
You forgot the baby's hat when you went outside.
You got mad at your one friend who made plans with you because she forgot and scheduled a dentist's appointment for the one hour your baby was going to let you hang out with her. You want to forgive her because you would have done the exact same thing pre-baby.
You will never forgive her because you'd been looking forward to talking in full sentences to an actual grown up all week.
You picked a fight with your husband just because you missed him so much.
Sigh.
I finally fall asleep after looking at instagram for an hour to find inspiration for the baby's first birthday cake.
I am already dreaming about the cup of coffee I'll make myself in the morning.
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