I'm not. Logically, I know this. 114 lbs. Size 4. And that's after 4 kids and a whole lot of brownies. Most of the time I can carry on like every day is normal and I don't think about her. Something about this time of year. Or maybe it's been going on for so long that it's all one long string of it and I didn't notice.
But here I am. Today I decided that I need to go back to food check ins and accountability. The signs have been popping up and it's becoming more and more apparent. I am abusing food again. Today, I sat at my desk and thought about what I was doing to myself again as I stared at 2 mandarin oranges and a cup of oatmeal. Sounds healthy. Like I'm eating clean. Eating the right foods. Except, I'm not. And I have to come to grips with it.
The last year I've dealt with swollen lymph nodes, increased illnesses, hair falling out, intolerance to cold, sluggish/run down feeling. I saw my doctor, an ENT, and an infectious disease specialist and no one had answers. Until I started craving really odd things - like chalk. On one more visit with my doctor and one more round of blood work - I have a severe zinc deficiency. I've starved my body of essential protein and have made myself sick. I was eating "negative calorie" foods. In the back of my mind, I knew I wouldn't gain weight if I stuck to fruits and veggies. This has been second nature for well over the last year and a half.
I ate a lot over the holidays. I thought that I could be okay with some Pilates, some cardio, some light weight lifting. But it's becoming obsessive. I have been skipping lunch to go work out, rather than eat. And not eating to replace the lost calories. But the thought of food annoys me. It's wasted time. Time I could be getting "fit". Working on burning fat, sculpting some decent abs, bikini ready arms, and that ever desirable inner thigh gap.
This is not how I want to die. (I have an actual list of ways that I do not want to die. Seriously. This is on it. Along with water, fire, wind, falling out of buildings) I have this amazing life now. A life that I didn't have a year ago. A wonderful husband, wonderful kids, wonderful family, wonderful friends, wonderful home, wonderful job, wonderful life. I'm happy every day. But when I look at a plate of food, I mentally start taking notes about what's in it and is it "clean", is it full of fat, am I going to gain weight.... Sometimes, I can eat and not think about it. But lately, the last few weeks, that's drifting further from reality. Even today, I was supposed to have a meeting with The Middle Son's school for additional IEP review. And all I could think of was how I was going to fit my lunchtime work out in if I had to miss time at work. I was relieved when it got rescheduled. That meant I could go to the gym. This. Is. NOT. Okay.
I hate making the people I love think that they are not enough to fix me. I'm broken. I know what it's like to look at my kiddo when he's having a meltdown and punching himself in the face and I'm so totally helpless. I cannot quell that, only hold his hand back and try to stop him. That's what this must be like for them. Even though I am acutely aware of it, I am still doing it. Because there's a reward. Someone will tell me how good I look for being a 36 year old mother of 4. They will ask what my secret is and how I do it. And I can't bring myself to say that it's "anorexia". I just bask in the glow of the results of my crazy train.
So, here is step 1. Again. I'm admitting I have a problem. Again.
Showing posts with label broken. Show all posts
Showing posts with label broken. Show all posts
Monday, February 23, 2015
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Freedom
When I was a little girl.. around 7 or so... my biological mother met a man who would change me. I was not just your average straight "A" student. In the 2nd grade I was promoted to 3rd. I was under evaluation for the gifted programs. I had a pink bedroom. I loved to dress up and look pretty. E.T. lived in my closet. Riding bikes was my favorite pastime. I loved Little House on the Prairie. My shoes always had to match my dress. My hair was brushed every day. I read my Bible every night. My "parents" made me feel like the smartest, most beautiful girl in the world. I'd had my share of rough patches but overall - I was the smart, pretty girl that everyone loved. And I felt worthy.
This man came along and wooed my (bio) mother. She hadn't been with anyone since my (bio) father left when I was 3. She was putty in his hands. Things moved rather quickly from there. Dates quickly became an engagement. The warning signs were there and my parents fought with my (bio) mom. They noticed hickies on my neck. Bite marks. All of a sudden I wasn't an outgoing little girl anymore. I stopped doing my homework. I withdrew. He liked to hit me a lot and call me names that I didn't understand. But he liked to kiss me too. I didn't understand those either.
My (bio) mother stopped letting me see my parents due to these fights. They fought for custody. Instead it ended with visitation every other weekend. Then my (bio) mom just stopped picking me up. One day during the summer of 1986 I was outside playing with my friends. I hadn't seen (bio) mom in a long time. Felt like ages when you are that little. I looked up and saw her smiling face. And I ran to her with no shoes on. Then she ran with me. He was in a car around the corner waiting with his green teeth and his crooked smile that made my stomach turn. I cried but it didn't matter. He made it very clear what would happen to me if my "wetback" mouth didn't shut up. I cried for hours anyway. He tied me to a chair in the living room of my mom's apartment that night. He beat me so badly that I stopped crying. Just so it would end. I don't know how long I was in that chair. My mom came home later and got me out.
Lots of days were like this. I was able to go home a few times. There were lots of fights. My parents - him - my (bio) mom - him - police..... It didn't matter. Nothing saved me. By this time I had a baby sister, Bean. She was beautiful. And squirmy. And I didn't know what to do with her but mom would have to work. So I took care of her. Our parents would send us toys and he'd sell them. They would call and he'd hang up. They'd come to see me at school but I wasn't there anymore. Angie was left in my arms a majority of the time. Looking back I can't remember how I did it. There are lots of memories there. None of which I think I can share. But I was smart enough to try to get help. Unfortunately, my voice wasn't heard in time. My sisters suffered. I suffered.
Several years later he served time in prison for what he did. A year. Seems rather short for stealing the innocence of 3 little girls. The damage was done. I shut down. I had nightmares where he was trying to rape me again. If I had a boyfriend I'd have flashbacks and get confused as to who was kissing me. Killing myself seemed like the only way out. I tried. My parents couldn't help. He came to our house once. He called often. In response I'd cut my arms. He stole my self confidence. He robbed me of my self esteem, my self worth. Even now - 25 years later- the damage is still at the surface. I still feel it. He got his karmic repercussions quite a bit over the last few years but nothing in comparison.
Have you ever taken a narcotic pain killer - for a toothache or some such malady - and actually felt the pain leave your body? You know, that instant that the pain you had is gone? That's what I felt when I read his name in the obituary section of today's paper. I'll never get back what was taken. But I'll sleep better knowing I no longer share oxygen with him. He will never lay eyes on my sisters, my (bio) mom, my kids - anything again. I may put on a pretty dress, make a nice dinner and pour a glass of wine and toast to FREEDOM.
This man came along and wooed my (bio) mother. She hadn't been with anyone since my (bio) father left when I was 3. She was putty in his hands. Things moved rather quickly from there. Dates quickly became an engagement. The warning signs were there and my parents fought with my (bio) mom. They noticed hickies on my neck. Bite marks. All of a sudden I wasn't an outgoing little girl anymore. I stopped doing my homework. I withdrew. He liked to hit me a lot and call me names that I didn't understand. But he liked to kiss me too. I didn't understand those either.
My (bio) mother stopped letting me see my parents due to these fights. They fought for custody. Instead it ended with visitation every other weekend. Then my (bio) mom just stopped picking me up. One day during the summer of 1986 I was outside playing with my friends. I hadn't seen (bio) mom in a long time. Felt like ages when you are that little. I looked up and saw her smiling face. And I ran to her with no shoes on. Then she ran with me. He was in a car around the corner waiting with his green teeth and his crooked smile that made my stomach turn. I cried but it didn't matter. He made it very clear what would happen to me if my "wetback" mouth didn't shut up. I cried for hours anyway. He tied me to a chair in the living room of my mom's apartment that night. He beat me so badly that I stopped crying. Just so it would end. I don't know how long I was in that chair. My mom came home later and got me out.
Lots of days were like this. I was able to go home a few times. There were lots of fights. My parents - him - my (bio) mom - him - police..... It didn't matter. Nothing saved me. By this time I had a baby sister, Bean. She was beautiful. And squirmy. And I didn't know what to do with her but mom would have to work. So I took care of her. Our parents would send us toys and he'd sell them. They would call and he'd hang up. They'd come to see me at school but I wasn't there anymore. Angie was left in my arms a majority of the time. Looking back I can't remember how I did it. There are lots of memories there. None of which I think I can share. But I was smart enough to try to get help. Unfortunately, my voice wasn't heard in time. My sisters suffered. I suffered.
Several years later he served time in prison for what he did. A year. Seems rather short for stealing the innocence of 3 little girls. The damage was done. I shut down. I had nightmares where he was trying to rape me again. If I had a boyfriend I'd have flashbacks and get confused as to who was kissing me. Killing myself seemed like the only way out. I tried. My parents couldn't help. He came to our house once. He called often. In response I'd cut my arms. He stole my self confidence. He robbed me of my self esteem, my self worth. Even now - 25 years later- the damage is still at the surface. I still feel it. He got his karmic repercussions quite a bit over the last few years but nothing in comparison.
Have you ever taken a narcotic pain killer - for a toothache or some such malady - and actually felt the pain leave your body? You know, that instant that the pain you had is gone? That's what I felt when I read his name in the obituary section of today's paper. I'll never get back what was taken. But I'll sleep better knowing I no longer share oxygen with him. He will never lay eyes on my sisters, my (bio) mom, my kids - anything again. I may put on a pretty dress, make a nice dinner and pour a glass of wine and toast to FREEDOM.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
"Plese"
Yes, I am aware of it's misspelling. There's a reason for it and you will understand by the end. You know it means "Please".
When we say "please" we are usually trying to be polite and get something in exchange. We are taught from a young age (well, we should be at least) that it's the "magic word" and it will get you what you want. All you have to do is use it. I imagine that I say "please" about 100+ times a day. "[Youngest Boy], please don't wipe that booger on the couch" or "[Middle Son], please put on underwear" or "[Oldest], please stop making 'Your Mom' jokes with your brothers" to the generic "Please pick up your toys" and an occasional "Bitch PLEASE!". As a parent you want to instill politeness in your children. So you teach them to use it.
My kids are generally pretty good about using it. Most of the time it goes unnoticed or unmentioned and sometimes taken for granted. I'm probably guilty of not enough praise and a little more emphasis on the negative than I should. Guess it's part of parenthood. There are times where Youngest Boy will look at me with those big blue eyes and in his sweet, yet devilish voice and ask for an Uncrustable. I'll hold it in my hand and say "What do you say?" and he will respond with a "Please" knowing that satisfaction is just a word away. He will snatch it from my hand and skip off to some remote location of his room where he is not supposed to have food and consume it. His belly will be full - all because he said it.
Every time we go to the store the kids ask me for trips down the toy aisle. They don't necessarily want something (ok, who am I kidding?). They like to look and dream about toys I can't afford to give them. They start in with their insincere "please" fest. Begging me for 1 more godforsaken Beyblade or just 1 more Toy Story figure - I'll hear "please" no less than 712 times per child. Sometimes I feel bad because I don't have enough money to give them these little things. The way that they say "please" tugs at my heartstrings. But then I remind myself that I provide them with much, much more. Clothing, food, shelter, love, Eddie Izzard... you know, the important things.
On Monday morning my little Tabasco (the last nickname my dad was able to grant before he died) and Youngest Boy started their 6 day visit with their father. Mini-Me has been spared somewhat for now. Maybe a little longer if I can manage it. Middle Son has been having the worst time with the divorce. He was very close with his father. That closeness was lost over the last year that Ex Douchebag chose to stay out of his life. He has kind of clung to me in the process in ways that he hadn't before. We've bonded in a different way. He was apprehensive about this stay. He saw his father not only leave him and his 2 brothers but his unborn sister too. I can tell him that it'll be okay til I'm blue but actions have spoken much louder than words. He's not ever been away from me for more than a day or 2 since he was born. That's 8 years of togetherness. His lifetime. He and I have kept in touch through texting and calls. I got to see him yesterday for a few minutes at his therapy session. He looked down, withdrawn and sad. I wanted to hold him and run out the door to take him home.
Around 7:30 last night I got a text from him asking if he can come home. I explained that this was his time with Daddy and that he would be back in my arms in no time. I tried to tell him that this time apart was going to fly by and that he'll have fun, Daddy loves him and will take good care of him. In my mind I saw him standing there, in that hallway outside of his therapists door - with that sullen look on his face and the tears welling up in those precious brown eyes. I started to cry. He couldn't hear me or see me. But I felt for him. His fear, his anxiety - that hopeless feeling of wanting so badly to go home. For a minute I was in his heart - confused and scared. Several minutes went by and my phone emitted the "I like turtles" alert letting me know that I had an incoming text again. I looked down and next to his name and picture of his beautiful smile taken during a much happier moment and saw the painful pleading of a little boy who wanted his mommy -
"Plese"
When we say "please" we are usually trying to be polite and get something in exchange. We are taught from a young age (well, we should be at least) that it's the "magic word" and it will get you what you want. All you have to do is use it. I imagine that I say "please" about 100+ times a day. "[Youngest Boy], please don't wipe that booger on the couch" or "[Middle Son], please put on underwear" or "[Oldest], please stop making 'Your Mom' jokes with your brothers" to the generic "Please pick up your toys" and an occasional "Bitch PLEASE!". As a parent you want to instill politeness in your children. So you teach them to use it.
My kids are generally pretty good about using it. Most of the time it goes unnoticed or unmentioned and sometimes taken for granted. I'm probably guilty of not enough praise and a little more emphasis on the negative than I should. Guess it's part of parenthood. There are times where Youngest Boy will look at me with those big blue eyes and in his sweet, yet devilish voice and ask for an Uncrustable. I'll hold it in my hand and say "What do you say?" and he will respond with a "Please" knowing that satisfaction is just a word away. He will snatch it from my hand and skip off to some remote location of his room where he is not supposed to have food and consume it. His belly will be full - all because he said it.
Every time we go to the store the kids ask me for trips down the toy aisle. They don't necessarily want something (ok, who am I kidding?). They like to look and dream about toys I can't afford to give them. They start in with their insincere "please" fest. Begging me for 1 more godforsaken Beyblade or just 1 more Toy Story figure - I'll hear "please" no less than 712 times per child. Sometimes I feel bad because I don't have enough money to give them these little things. The way that they say "please" tugs at my heartstrings. But then I remind myself that I provide them with much, much more. Clothing, food, shelter, love, Eddie Izzard... you know, the important things.
On Monday morning my little Tabasco (the last nickname my dad was able to grant before he died) and Youngest Boy started their 6 day visit with their father. Mini-Me has been spared somewhat for now. Maybe a little longer if I can manage it. Middle Son has been having the worst time with the divorce. He was very close with his father. That closeness was lost over the last year that Ex Douchebag chose to stay out of his life. He has kind of clung to me in the process in ways that he hadn't before. We've bonded in a different way. He was apprehensive about this stay. He saw his father not only leave him and his 2 brothers but his unborn sister too. I can tell him that it'll be okay til I'm blue but actions have spoken much louder than words. He's not ever been away from me for more than a day or 2 since he was born. That's 8 years of togetherness. His lifetime. He and I have kept in touch through texting and calls. I got to see him yesterday for a few minutes at his therapy session. He looked down, withdrawn and sad. I wanted to hold him and run out the door to take him home.
Around 7:30 last night I got a text from him asking if he can come home. I explained that this was his time with Daddy and that he would be back in my arms in no time. I tried to tell him that this time apart was going to fly by and that he'll have fun, Daddy loves him and will take good care of him. In my mind I saw him standing there, in that hallway outside of his therapists door - with that sullen look on his face and the tears welling up in those precious brown eyes. I started to cry. He couldn't hear me or see me. But I felt for him. His fear, his anxiety - that hopeless feeling of wanting so badly to go home. For a minute I was in his heart - confused and scared. Several minutes went by and my phone emitted the "I like turtles" alert letting me know that I had an incoming text again. I looked down and next to his name and picture of his beautiful smile taken during a much happier moment and saw the painful pleading of a little boy who wanted his mommy -
"Plese"
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Til Death Do Us Part - or infidelity
I'm 32. I have 4 children - 3 boys and a girl. I've been with my husband for 11 years. And 2 weeks ago - he sent me divorce papers. Apparently, I'm not as fun as a teenager. Grown up life proved to be too much. He cheated, I cheated, then he cheated again and hasn't stopped yet. He left December 11, 2009. The boys and I have been left to deal with the ups and downs, cleaning up the messes and get on with life. So this is me - getting on with my life. Reluctantly.
My sons - The Oldest (14), The Middle Son (7) and The Youngest Boy (3) have been my reasons for carrying on and have provided solace when I didn't think it was possible. The 4 of us have formed this little tribe - unbreakable and delicate at the same time. In August 2010 we welcomed Mini-Me- my daughter- into the world. So go- do the math. Yep - he left 8 days after the "+" sign. But hey - we're not the first ones to go through this and we surely aren't the last. Together we have faced some interesting and frustrating obstacles. I don't know where I'd be without them.
My friends have been there for me at all hours of the night. Helping me analyze every text, call, email, visit and communication over the last 10 or so months. Up to now I'd never been the type to cry. Let alone cry uncontrollably. Definetly not the type to cry uncontrollably on people. Oh and never in public. Boy how things change. Used to be a time where I was always right. My gut was never, ever wrong. It's been an adjustment! Not only is my gut wrong but I've been more wrong than I have ever thought possible.
Anyway - my family, friends, therapist and even soon-to-be ex husband always said I should write. It's always been my dream. I don't want to pen the next Angela's Ashes or anything, nor do I want fame & fortune (at least not until the divorce is final, haha) - I just want to get it out. Sometimes it's funny. Sometimes it's angry. Sometimes it's torn, confused, hurt, tearful or astounded. It's always something. Maybe somewhere someone else will find this in the vast internet and get some inspiration.
My sons - The Oldest (14), The Middle Son (7) and The Youngest Boy (3) have been my reasons for carrying on and have provided solace when I didn't think it was possible. The 4 of us have formed this little tribe - unbreakable and delicate at the same time. In August 2010 we welcomed Mini-Me- my daughter- into the world. So go- do the math. Yep - he left 8 days after the "+" sign. But hey - we're not the first ones to go through this and we surely aren't the last. Together we have faced some interesting and frustrating obstacles. I don't know where I'd be without them.
My friends have been there for me at all hours of the night. Helping me analyze every text, call, email, visit and communication over the last 10 or so months. Up to now I'd never been the type to cry. Let alone cry uncontrollably. Definetly not the type to cry uncontrollably on people. Oh and never in public. Boy how things change. Used to be a time where I was always right. My gut was never, ever wrong. It's been an adjustment! Not only is my gut wrong but I've been more wrong than I have ever thought possible.
Anyway - my family, friends, therapist and even soon-to-be ex husband always said I should write. It's always been my dream. I don't want to pen the next Angela's Ashes or anything, nor do I want fame & fortune (at least not until the divorce is final, haha) - I just want to get it out. Sometimes it's funny. Sometimes it's angry. Sometimes it's torn, confused, hurt, tearful or astounded. It's always something. Maybe somewhere someone else will find this in the vast internet and get some inspiration.
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