Category Archives: health

May 15, 2025 · 4:45 PM

10 Unpopular Fitness Truths

This is Part 2 of a post on fitness and nutrition. You can read the nutrition post here.

When I first started studying health sciences, it was the nutrition I was looking forward to. I honestly thought the exercise classes were something I would just have to slog through. But lo and behold, I soon found out that I loved them. Loved them. Aerobic exercise, strength training, flexibility, prescribing fitness programs, all of it. Unfortunately, it also didn’t take me long to realize that the fitness industry in general is…. problematic. I follow a few lovely and balanced fitness creators, but overall, the fitness world tends to be toxic and unhealthy. So much focus on diet culture, gatekeeping, and obsessing over certain body types (spoiler: you can be perfectly fit without washboard abs!)

I used to belong to a Facebook group for my gym, but I didn’t last very long. For one thing, the attitudes of the vast majority were incredibly frustrating, and for another, spaces like that tend not to like people like me very much. People berated themselves – and others – for not being a size four, not spending 3 hours in the gym, and not eating however they deem appropriate. Once there was a poor guy who was absolutely beside himself with self-flagellation because he got hungry and had a spoonful of peanut butter. He thought he’d undone all his progress in the gym. The comments were overwhelmingly something like this: “We all make mistakes!” “You just have to get back on track tomorrow!” “Run an extra mile to make up for it!” Because he had a normal human need for food and did something about it! People are oddly snotty about exercise. Just before I sat down to write this, I saw a post on Threads that said, “If you run with headphones, you don’t love running. You love distractions. Running is about being in your own head, not escaping it. Lose the headphones.” Which is beyond silly. Listen to music if you’d like. Listen to a podcast. Listen to an old episode of The Office. There are no rules.

But I digress. Here are 10 fitness facts that some people will argue are controversial (though they shouldn’t be)

1. There’s nothing magical about 10,000 steps. This one won’t die. There is no real reason to aim for 10,000 specifically. The 10,000 steps recommendation came from a company selling pedometers, not from actual science. Research suggests that the sweet spot is more like 6,500, but getting even 4,000 a day has tremendous health benefits over getting less. Yes, absolutely, prioritize moving throughout the day (see point 8), but there’s no need to overthink it. I’m a little embarrassed to say that there was a point in time that I paced around my bedroom at night if I hadn’t yet hit my 10,000 for the day. These days I get excited if I go to bed having logged 9,998, because I’m a rebel like that.

2. You can’t spot reduce fat. Please don’t be enticed by personal trainers or exercise programs that promise a snatched waist, or thinner arms, or a smaller butt. Exercise doesn’t work that way. Yes, you can strengthen individual and sets of muscles, but fat loss comes from burning more energy than you take in. You don’t get to decide where it comes from. Your body decides that. Some people’s weight loss first appears in their face. Some in their thighs. Others in their hips. Etc. And despite what your fellow gym goers may tell you, fat does NOT turn into muscle when you exercise. They are two entirely different types of tissue, and one turning into the other is physiologically impossible. What you can do is simultaneously strengthen your muscles and lose fat that’s over it (again, only if your energy output exceeds your input), revealing the muscle that’s underneath.

3. Walking is an underrated form of exercise. Here’s where I admit some bias, because I am a HUGE fan of walking. I love walking. So it makes me particularly crazy when people imply, or just come right out and declare, that walking doesn’t count as exercise. Of course it counts! Walking is a low-impact exercise that: strengthens bones and muscle, boosts heart health, aids in weight loss, increases endurance, improves mood and mental clarity, enhances sleep, and improves energy. I also love that it is so flexible in terms of what kind of workout it gives you. You can take a leisurely stroll, or you can get your sweat on by increasing speed/incline/distance. ANY exercise that gets your blood pumping and your heart beating faster has health benefits. You don’t have to run if you don’t like it.

4. There is no singular “look” of a fit person. Last year at this time, I was about 20 pounds lighter than I am right now. Why? Because I was depressed. Because I wasn’t eating right. Because I wasn’t prioritizing my physical health. Because I wasn’t taking care of myself. A friend I hadn’t seen in a while gushed over my body, complimenting me on getting in shape. I was absolutely not in shape. I am FAR more physically fit right now, the extra 20 pounds and all. Fit bodies come in all shapes and sizes. Some people have visible abs, some do not. Some have super-defined arms, some do not. Some are thin, some are not. Some of the strongest people I know live in larger bodies. Stop thinking you can judge someone’s physical fitness by their appearance.

5. Aerobic exercise, strength training, and stretching are all important for different reasons. “Focus on strength training!” “Prioritize cardio!” “All you need is yoga/pilates/stretching!” The fact is, they all serve distinct purposes, and they’re all important. Ideally, you should get a little bit of all three. Cardio improves heart and lung health, strengthens the entire body, boosts energy and endurance, enhances mood and can reduce anxiety/depression. It can also aid in weight maintenance. Strength training builds and preserves your muscle mass, increases bone density (important in preventing osteoporosis), boosts your metabolism, and improves your functional strength. This makes it easier to perform all your daily tasks. Stretching increases your range of motion and flexibility. It reduces your risk of injury. It promotes relaxation and stress relief. It soothes muscle tension and soreness. Again, there’s no reason to overthink this. Take a walk (or run or dance or swim or whatever you like) on most days. Lift heavy things or use your body weight around 3 times a week. Stretch before & after you exercise, and/or when you get up or before you go to bed, or anytime you feel like it.

6. You should aim for 150 – 300 minutes of moderate activity a week, but there is such a thing as too much! A good general rule of thumb is at least 150 minutes of moderate activity a week (any activity that raises your heart rate and makes you breathe a little harder, without losing the ability to speak) OR at least 75 minutes of vigorous activity (this is more challenging, causing a faster heartrate and deeper breathing, and difficulty carrying on a conversation without pausing for breath) You can also do any combination of the two. Keep in mind though that there can be too much of a good thing! Too much exercise causes undue additional stress on the body, creates diminishing returns, and increases your chance of injury. It also greatly increases your chances of an unhealthy and obsessive relationship with movement, and a host of physical issues, such as loss of menstrual cycles. It can cause mood swings, irritability, and depression. It can weaken the immune system, cause hormone and sleep disturbances, and weaken or plateau all the hard work you’ve done and progress you’ve made. Rest is so, so important! (see next point) If you’re not training for a marathon or an elite-level athlete, spending hours and hours in the gym is not only unnecessary, it’s dangerous and unhealthy. Balance, balance, balance.

7. Rest days are an important part of any fitness program, and should never be skipped. Your body needs the proper balance of movement, rest, and recovery. There is no prize at the end of your life for pushing it beyond what is healthy. Rest days are every bit as important as workout days!! Here’s why: stress + recovery = growth. Your muscles actually get stronger when they are at rest! You do the hard work in the gym – or wherever – and then when you rest, your muscles have a chance to repair and rebuild. Resting helps prevent injury, as constant strain increases your risk of things like strains, sprains, and stress fractures. It helps to reduce burnout and fatigue, and it supports a healthy immune system. It also conversely improves performance and helps your body to come back stronger with more energy, and ready to push harder during your next workout. Your body needs rest. When in doubt, always listen to your body.

8. Daily NEAT is important, and it all adds up. Non-Exercise Activity Thermogenesis (NEAT) is a vital part of your physical fitness and overall health. This includes any physical activity that isn’t intentional exercise such as walking around your house, cleaning, yard work, running errands, shopping, even fidgeting. Standing/walking around every hour or so (especially if you work a desk job) has significant benefits to your health and weight management. Inactivity and excessive sitting is linked to so many health problems! It is associated with a higher risk of all-cause mortality, it can raise the risk of cardiovascular disease, Type 2 diabetes, weight gain, musculoskeletal issues, back, shoulder, hip pain, depression & anxiety, and certain cancers. NEAT is just as important as dedicated workouts. Be mindful of how much you’re sitting.

9. Before and Afters don’t tell the whole story. I’d argue that they don’t tell much of a story at all. I am not a fan of people who promote their personal training, fitness programs, etc with Before and Afters. First, there’s no such thing as “After,” I guess unless the person is deceased. Any pictures you take are simply “During.” Photographers use certain poses, lighting, makeup, posture, smile, etc. to make the person appear smaller. (Ever seen someone do a demonstration of two photos five minutes apart, with all of the above manipulated? The person looks 20 pounds lighter.) These pictures say absolutely nothing about lifestyle, health, relationship with food or exercise, how the weight was lost, mental state, etc. Take them with a grain of salt.

And finally:

10. The purpose of exercise is muscle & bone strength, good heart & lung health, flexibility, balance, mobility. It helps you carry out daily activities. It extends your lifespan. It makes you feel better, both mentally and physically. All things considered, it plays just a small role in weight management. Don’t look to exercise (or at least solely exercise) as a means to lose weight, because you’ll likely be disappointed. And like nutrition, it’s just one important piece of your overall health.

Let exercise be important for its own sake.

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May 2, 2025 · 6:46 PM

10 Unpopular Diet & Nutrition Facts

It’s been a long time since I’ve written about this topic, but for context, nutrition has always been a soul interest of mine. The thing about nutrition, like any science, is that it’s a fluid, ever-changing pursuit. My own personal journey with food has run the gamut from a restrictive eating-disordered young adult, to a self-righteous “We only eat WHOLE foods,” to a merry-go-round of vegan… paleo… zone…grain-free…dairy-free…sugar-free…etc etc etc aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

Over time, diet culture became my arch-nemesis. I have grown in leaps and bounds since my first nutritional consultant certificate several years ago, to my Health Sciences degree which I just completed in December. I was so excited to get to study – for four years! – the things I was most interested in. I learned what real research meant (hint: it’s not the same thing as Googling.) I learned that eating can’t be separated from not just our physical health, but from our mental health as well. I learned that fear, shame, and guilt around food are worse for us than the foods themselves. I learned to listen to actual dieticians and other trained health professionals, not to a random shirtless dude screaming on TikTok while he eats a stick of butter.

*Note – I was originally going to make this about both fitness and nutrition, but it turned out I had too much to say and it was already beyond long enough. I had to cut out so many points and so much detail just to get it down to 10. Be on the lookout for a fitness post!*

DISCLAIMER: I 100% support the fact that everyone has full autonomy to eat however they like. If you are happy, I’m happy! This post is not meant to berate anyone who does or does not eat certain things, but rather to provide a counterpoint to the toxic and fear-mongering advice that is so prolific on social media right now. If you feel good with what you’re eating, great! But if you’re caught in a cycle of guilt, shame, yo-yo dieting, or confusion over what foods are “good” or “bad”, this post is for you.

1. Carbs are an important macronutrient. Your body needs carbs. Lots of them in fact! We only have three macronutrients: Carbs, protein, and fats. They all serve their own purpose. Protein is important for building and repairing the body’s tissues, such as muscle and bone. Fat is important for brain health, hormone production, and absorbing certain vitamins. It also helps keep you full. But carbs are important too, which is why it makes me so crazy that the whole low/no carb craze is still going strong! Carbs are the body and the brain’s preferred source of energy. Lack of sufficient carbs can cause a whole host of problems, including things like brain fog, lack of energy, fatigue, muscle breakdown, slowed metabolism, mood swings/anger/irritation, poor workout performance, electrolyte imbalances, low blood sugar, and hair loss and brittle nails. Are whole grains better? Whole grains provide more fiber, and more micronutrients. They promote heart health and healthy blood sugar levels. They also help to lower your risk of type 2 diabetes, some cancers, and stroke. But that doesn’t mean you have to, or should, avoid their white counterparts! Keep in mind too, that low-carb and no-carb diets that may be beneficial for those with certain medical needs can cause more harm than good to the general population. The Keto diet, for example, was developed to help treat children with epilepsy. It was never meant to be a weight loss plan, and many people experience health problems from trying it. And finally, no, carbs do not make you fat. There’s actually no singular specific food that makes you fat. Weight gain happens when your energy going in exceeds your energy going out. In other words, consuming more calories than your body uses. This is true if your extra calories come from carbs, protein, or fat. Carbs are not your enemy. *Note that there is a lot of nuance here. Weight gain can also be influenced by many other factors such as genetics, certain meds, medical conditions, your mental health, sleep habits, hormones, etc.*

    2. You aren’t “bad” if you eat, a cookie, a piece of pizza, a hamburger, etc. Food has no moral value. Yes, different foods provide different things, and yes, different foods are more or less nutrient dense. But that doesn’t make one “bad” and one “good”! I generally even distrust the word “healthy” when it comes to food. It means next to nothing in this context. What’s “healthy” for one person can send another to the hospital with anaphylaxis, cause a diabetic crisis, or set someone up for days of GI issues. When someone asks if something is healthy, my response is neutral facts, depending on age, interest, etc: “It’s got lots of fiber, potassium, B vitamins, monounsaturated fats….” Just facts. You’re allowed to eat food you enjoy. And you’re allowed to eat food solely for that enjoyment sometimes. No judgements, no shame.

    3. DIETS DON’T WORK. 95% of all diets fail. The vast majority of people who go on diets do not only fail to obtain sustainable weight loss, but also gain back more than they lost in the first place! We all know someone (or are that “someone” ourselves) who’s gone on diet after diet after diet for literal decades. If diets worked, why would we have to keep re-starting them? Diets are actually the biggest predictor of weight GAIN, not loss. They’re a major risk factor for disordered eating behaviors and full-blown eating disorders, and they can also come with a host of damaging and unpleasant physical and mental side effects. If you’re in the 5% that has achieved years-long weight loss, it’s likely because 1) you made sustainable life changes (NOT counting calories – but things like adding more movement, drinking more water, and getting better sleep, etc) or 2) you’re relying on disordered behaviors to keep your weight down.

    4. 1200 calories is not enough for the majority of adults – This dangerous recommendation just won’t go away. Just yesterday, I heard a guy say, “You can’t lose weight unless you cut down to 1200 calories a day!” That is false, and it is dangerous. Calories are fuel for our bodies and our brains, and if we don’t get enough, both will suffer. Not to get too science-y, but we all have a Basic Metabolic Rate (BMR) (There are lots of free calculators online). This is the amount of calories our bodies need just to keep our organs and body systems working correctly. The amount of calories you need just to… exist… even if you lay in bed all day. Once you get up and start moving around, go to work, do chores, exercise, etc, that number goes up. My BMR based on my height, weight, and age is just over 1400. But look how my daily caloric needs go up with activity (more energy out means more energy needs to go in):

    I am in the 2200 range. Which means that even if I reduced by 500 calories to create a deficit (a pretty standard and recommended amount to lose about 1 pound a week), I’d still need at least 1700 calories. Calorie needs are different day-to-day too, which is one of the (many) reasons that restrictive, one-size-fits-all diet plans do not work. We’re humans, not robots.

    5. Making something sugar/fat free doesn’t make it healthier – I don’t know about you, but my Facebook feed is full of “diet” recipes that gloat about being guilt-free, sugar-free, fat-free, low carb, low calorie, etc. Gah. Making those swaps doesn’t mean whatever it is healthier! It just means they’re lower in sugar, fat, etc. That’s it. And to make it that way, they have to trade one thing for another. This often means you’re just ingesting more chemicals, etc, than you would have otherwise. There’s nothing wrong with eating some butter. There’s nothing wrong with eating some sugar. There’s nothing wrong with eating carbs! (See point one). Plus, the non-diet options taste ever so much better!!

    Having said that:

    6. Your diet soda is not killing you – Here’s the deal with artificial sweeteners. The studies people use to villify them are old and were performed on rats. They gave rats hundreds of times what would be a “normal” dose. They shot it directly into their veins and eyeballs. Hardly a fair or relevant comparison. Current research suggests that these sweeteners are perfectly safe in normal amounts. Keep in mind that the dose makes the poison, too. This is true of anything you ingest, including caffeine, which most of us drink every day, and even water! It is highly unlikely that the average person would hit an unsafe limit of artificial sweeteners from diet sodas alone. You’re probably not drinking dozens of sodas a day (depending on the type of sweetener, you could drink up to 30 a day with no ill effects). You’re probably not a rat either.

    7. Your seed oils are not killing you either – Seed oils are one of the newer culinary villains, particularly among wellness influencers, keto/paleo proponents, and some fringe doctors. They claim them to be inflammatory, contributing to things like cancer, heart disease, and obesity. But it’s not supported by research. Most high-quality (human!) studies show seed oils to be safe, and some suggest they may even be beneficial. And again… the dose makes the poison. I know exactly zero people who chug vats of canola oil.

    8. Processed foods are important. Yes, really! For many, many people, processed foods are an integral part of a diet that keeps them fed, fueled, and full of energy. These foods are convenient, easy, affordable, accessible, and palatable. They are shelf stable, making them ideal for mass food production, especially for urban and low-income areas where fresh and local food isn’t always available, or during crises like natural disasters. They are often fortified with vitamins and minerals. They provide solutions for many people with allergies, medical conditions, and disabilities. The help with portion control for the people who get overwhelmed with larger amounts. They’re often deeply rooted in joy, culture, memories, and traditions. I think we all have a childhood favorite, and it’s okay to revisit it as an adult! Do unprocessed, whole foods generally provide more readily available nutrition and less filler? Of course. No one’s disputing this. But it’s always better to be fed. If the choice is between not eating and grabbing a packaged snack? I’ll grab the packaged snack every time.

    9. If you have working liver and kidneys, you don’t need a “cleanse” or “detox”. Your body has an intricate, well-oiled, and built-in system to filter, detox, and cleanse from unneeded things you eat. Your liver, kidneys, lungs, and skin all work together at this task, and barring any medical issues, they do it beautifully. Those teas, pills, tinctures, what-have-you that promise to rid your body of toxins or shrink your belly fat? Just a way for someone to make money off your insecurities. Don’t waste your money on these.

    10. Those sensitivity tests are a scam. I don’t mean allergy testing. I’m talking about those things you see advertised on the internet that claim they’ll give you a list of foods to avoid based on your individual constitution. These are not the same as allergy testing done by a doctor, and are incredibly flawed and inaccurate. Don’t waste your money on these either. If you have concerns, your best bet is to see a doctor.

    ________________________________________________

    Finally, keep in mind that nutrition is just a small piece of the overall picture of your health. Things like genetics, behaviors, movement, sleep, stress management, relationships, spirituality, social determinants (where you live, employment and socioeconomic status, education level, etc) all play roles in your individual health status. Fueling your body in a way that keeps you feeling strong, energized, and clear-headed is important, of course. But it should never come from a place of obsession, fear, guilt, or shame.

    It’s okay to eat.

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    February 18, 2023 · 2:05 PM

    Why I Don’t Compliment Weight Loss

    The pursuit of thinness is all around us. Whether it’s you, or a friend, or a loved one, or a coworker, or a random connection on Facebook, right now you likely know several people who are trying to lose weight. As a society, we love weight loss. We live for weight loss. People are heaped with praise as they lose. I am on a Facebook group for my gym, and recently saw before and after pictures from someone’s weight loss journey. She was very proud to have dieted and exercised her way from a size six to a size zero, and she was universally lauded in the comments. It’s as if the thinner you get, the better. While everyone has full autonomy to do what they’d like with their bodies, weight loss is not something I celebrate (Note: It’s not something I denigrate either) Here are a few reasons why:

    Smaller bodies aren’t inherently better than bigger bodies

    I know. Society tells us otherwise, but body sizes are neutral. Smaller is not “better.” People are meant to come in different shapes and sizes. Complimenting weight loss implies that there was something wrong with their larger body, and that they’re now improved in some way. People like to argue that smaller bodies are healthier bodies, and while certain individuals may improve certain conditions with weight loss, you have no way of knowing someone’s health status just by looking at them. Unless you have access to their medical records and bloodwork, you can’t make assumptions about a person’s health by seeing their body. If you could, all large people would be unhealthy, and all small people would be healthy. That’s simply not the case. Larger people can be healthy. Smaller people can be unhealthy. There is no “better” when it comes to body size.

    I may not be complimenting what I think I’m complimenting

    This is perhaps one of the biggest reasons I don’t default to compliments. We usually have no way of knowing how or why someone lost weight. I know far too many people who lost or are maintaining weight loss through starvation or other disordered behaviors. They should be given empathy and compassion to be sure, but not praise. Weight loss can come from a calorie deficit, but it can also come from:

    Illness

    Grief

    Depression

    Anxiety

    Stress

    Disordered behaviors or eating disorders

    What exactly are we doing when we praise weight loss in these situations? “Sorry you’re grieving, but hey! At least you lost weight.” I recently saw a post from a blogger I follow. She posted a selfie and acknowledged that she’d lost weight due to grief and stress. She’d recently experienced a death in the family, and was going through a difficult divorce. Most comments were kind and supportive, but one man said simply, “You look great! Keep it up!” Trauma, in any of its forms, is not something to celebrate.

    It’s likely temporary

    There are zero randomized control studies that show a sustained weight loss beyond two years after a diet. Yes, there are exceptions, but the vast majority of people will gain back the weight they lost. Diets don’t work. Weight fluctuates, especially when you get on a cycle of yo-yo dieting. I don’t like to think of people getting heaped with praise when they lose weight, then met with… silence… when they gain it back. As though their smaller body was better and praise-worthy, while their larger body is something to be ashamed of (see point number one).

    We shouldn’t be commenting on bodies at all

    Just as a general, blanket statement: We should all stop commenting on people’s bodies, even when we think we’re being complimentary. First, bodies are all different, and are meant to be different. Even if you and I did the exact same workouts and ate the exact same foods, you’d never have a body like mine, and I’d never have a body like yours. Bodies are meant to be different. Second, we have no idea what kind of insecurities and feelings someone has about their body and the way it looks. Judgemental and unkind comments obviously hurt, but innocent and well-intentioned comments can hurt too. They can also trigger or encourage unhealthy behaviors, and further things such as eating disorders. Finally, bodies are superficial. They say literally nothing about who we are as people. The safest, and kindest, option is to stop. Stop commenting when someone is thin. Stop commenting when someone is fat. Big boobs, small boobs, tall, short. Just stop.

    There are far more interesting things to compliment

    Weight is boring. I would much rather tell you how kind you are, or how funny, or smart, or strong. Those are the things that matter. I want to tell you that you’re a good friend, or an amazing mother, or a talented artist. If we absolutely must compliment appearances, what about the great new haircut, or the pretty manicure, or the new dress with pockets.

    ————————————————————————

    I want people to be healthy and happy. I want people to be healthy and happy so much that I’m going to school to learn how to help people to do exactly that (a Health Sciences degree, following a Psychology degree). Does weight loss automatically = health and happiness? No. But being a healthy weight for YOU, one that makes you comfortable and strong, able to live the life you want to live, and do the things you want to do, goes a long way.

    And that looks different for everyone.

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    March 6, 2018 · 3:25 PM

    Therapy Ends. Chapter Two Begins.

     

    The beauty is I’m learning how to face my beast
    Starting now to find some peace
    Set myself free

    Today, I don’t have to fall apart
    I don’t have to be afraid
    I don’t have to let the damage consume me,
    My shadow see through me

    Fear in itself
    Will reel you in
    And spit you out over and over again
    Believe in yourself and you will walk

    Fear in itself
    Will use you up and break you down
    like you were never enough

    I used to fall but now I get back up

    ~Fear, Blue October

    On May 23rd, 2016, I walked into therapy for the first time.  I’d seen a doctor, been diagnosed, and started meds  just a few weeks before that, but it’s that first day of therapy that I really remember.  Partly because I’d spent the better part of my adult life actively hating the very idea of therapy (I thought therapy was WEIRD.  I still think therapy’s weird.  My mind reels at the fact that there’s this human just walking around out there knowing my deepest darkest secrets, the ugliest parts of my psyche, my biggest fears, and my greatest aspirations.  All the big things, and all the little things, and everything in between.)  But even more than that was just the fact that, well, I was terrified.  Like, more terrified than I’d ever been of anything.  Ever.  The end.

    I wore my “Coffee is My Spirit Animal” t-shirt that day, because it was a favorite, and it made me less nervous.  I also had on pretty much every beaded bracelet I owned, for the same reason.  They gave me as much confidence and courage as possible on a day when I was having trouble mustering either one.  My fingernails were painted a very dark brown, a new favorite color (aptly) called Espresso.

    I was scared.  So, so scared.

    And now, I’m remembering.  Remembering it all with a detail and acuity that is making it hard to breathe.  You know how people say their life flashes before their eyes right before they die?  Well, it’s kind of like that, but … the opposite.  I’m not about to die.  I’m about to live.

    Therapy obviously wasn’t my whole life, but it was a very big part of it, at least for the past 21 months.

    And I hated it.  I did.  I hated therapy.  And I don’t feel bad saying that, because I never exactly made it a secret (to anyone, but least of all to my therapist).  Therapy was hard.  It hurt.  It brought me to my knees.  I spent more time being mad at my therapist than I think I’ve ever been at anyone that I wasn’t related to in my entire life.  Usually just because he was right, and said what I needed to hear but didn’t want to hear… but very occasionally for reasons that I felt were justified.  I got my feelings hurt.  I got my toes stepped on.  I constantly feared I was doing it “wrong”… that I’d say the wrong thing, or do the wrong thing, and that I’d screw up this professional relationship just as adeptly as I’d screwed up my personal relationships.  I wanted to quit so badly.  I wanted to quit all the time.  I fantasized about just not showing up one day, and sometimes accompanied said fantasy with a scathing letter just for good measure.  Some weeks, making myself drive to therapy took every single ounce of willpower in my body.  And some weeks?  Some weeks I had no willpower left.  I had nothing left.

    Because it had broken me.  Make no mistake: therapy broke me.

    But.

    It also put me back together.  It healed me.  It made me stronger.  It taught me things (about myself, about the people around me, about life) that no self-help book in the world ever could.   And it was cyclical, in that it made me filled with gratitude – SO VERY MUCH GRATITUDE – and then frustration, and then stubbornness, and then anger, and then gratitude some more.

    Last summer was my first try at leaving, but it didn’t take.  The timing was …. off,  I was spiraling into a deep depression even as we were trying to pick an end date, and my whole life just crashed and burned in what very nearly culminated in a hospital stay.

    And I’m glad it happened.

    I am.  I’m glad for it, and I’m glad for the hard, and for the very very hard, sessions that followed.  I just had more things to learn.  And I needed that time, and I needed those lessons.  It was all part of my story.

    Because the thing is, I’m not afraid of the darkness anymore. Therapy taught me not to be afraid anymore (Full disclosure:  Certain things do still touch on that fear.  When a celebrity dies by suicide?  It breaks that most tender part of my heart like none other.) But I’m stronger now.  I have tools now.  I know – like really, truly, deeply in my soul know – that even when the darkness comes, that I’ll eventually see the light again.  That I can keep putting one foot in front of the other.  That I can keep breathing.  That I can keep myself grounded in the moment.  That I can ignore and question and re-frame all the negative thoughts in my head.  That I am NOT those thoughts…. no matter how much my brain or the world or the other people in my life try to make me believe otherwise.  That those are just old stories, and that I can choose not to listen to them.  I can choose not to give them power.

    I’m okay now.  But you know what? I’m better than okay.  Because for the first time in my life, in my whole life, I accept me.  I like me, warts and bruised broken bits and all.  And really, those warts and bruised broken bits?  They’re beautiful, because they’ve made me “me”.  They’ve brought me here.  They’ve made me strong.

    I believe I can do the thing now.  And it doesn’t even matter what the “thing” is.  I believe I can do it.

    I believe in me.

    I believe I’m enough.

    I’ve learned about the importance of self-compassion in these past 21 months.  And of the importance of self-forgiveness (sweet baby Jesus, that’s a big one for me.)  I’ve learned what awareness looks like, and what a huge step that is in and of itself.  I’ve learned to take responsibility for me, and for MY issues, and leave everyone else to deal with their own.  I’ve learned to say, “no”, and I’ve learned to stop trying to please everyone else. I’ve learned to respond with curiosity, openness, acceptance, and love (or C.O.A.L., just one of many such tidy little acronyms that I used to decry as cheesy, but now turn to again and again.)  I’ve learned practical steps for panic attacks, for those negative voices that just. won’t. shut. up., and for taking care of myself even when I really really really don’t want to.  I’ve learned to question the validity of what my brain is trying to tell me at any given time, I’ve learned to stop taking everything so seriously, and I’ve learned that no matter how many times my brain fights me on this:  IT IS NOT ALWAYS MY FAULT.

    Therapy didn’t cure me, this much is true.  There’s no cure for bipolar.  But there’s also no cure for… life.  It’s going to have its hard moments, and it’s going to have its REALLY hard moments.  It’s going to have its “No.  Screw you.  I’m not getting out of my bed/putting on my pants/stopping feeling sorry for myself”  moments. But my God, it’s also going to have its beautiful moments! Its exquisitely perfect-in-all-their-imperfectly-gloriousness moments.  I think of those moments sometimes.  Of those perfectly beautiful moments of the past two years that I quite literally could have missed had I not kept going to therapy.  I’m still here.  I’m still here on the planet.  Which is a multifaceted accomplishment to be sure, but therapy played such a big role in that puzzle.  A role so big, that fills me with a gratitude so great that I almost don’t know what to do with it.  What are the words?  There can’t possibly be the right words, can there?

    My life tends to be one big example of irony, so now, right at the moment of the end of therapy, I’m finding myself in a bit of a downward rather than upward swing.  But unlike last summer, I’m not afraid of it.  I’m not.  I know that I’m strong. I know that I will see the light again.  And if I have to come back to that sentence a million times to remind me, I will.  I’ll see the light again.

    I’m excited for it.

    I’m hopeful.

    I’m optimistic (which, by the way, is a word that was not in my vocabulary for.. oh, 44 years)

    I owe that, and so very much more, to therapy.  And while I’ve consciously used the general term “therapy” rather than the more personal, and more accurate, “my therapist”, I can’t close this out without correcting that.  I mainly kept things generic because I didn’t feel like crying just yet, and there was zero chance at all that I could write this without crying.

    Tony.  My therapist’s name is Tony.  He taught me more than anyone’s ever taught me.  And he taught me the most important things, because, I mean…. what’s more important than LIFE?  I was a slow study sometimes too, and a stubborn one, and a… well, did you get the part about how angry I was all the time?  It must be noted though, that despite all the hard work, and the frustration, and the yuck factor, that there were days I actually enjoyed.  A lot of them in fact.  It feels important that I note that, lest you get the idea that it was 21 months of utter misery.  It wasn’t.  There were days we laughed, often at ourselves.  Days we bonded over silly things like Seinfeld.  Days I was allowed to see little bits of Human Tony instead of just Therapist Tony (those were some of my favorites).  Days we celebrated one of my small victories.  Days we celebrated my really big victories.  Days that I truly felt and knew and believed that he believed in me, that he believed I could do it, and that he believed that I could do it well.  Not because it was his job, and not because I was paying him to be there, but because human to human, he just DID.  I told him not too long ago that I wished that privacy laws didn’t preclude him from having a wall of success stories… because I really wanna see my face up there.  I want him to be able to tell people (again, in a vague way because… laws):  here was this girl who didn’t think she could do the thing …. BUT SHE DID.

    It was a Very. Big. Deal.  It was all a big deal. It was a big deal that I did it, and it is a very, very big deal that it has ended.  Because the whole point has always been to get me to a place where I didn’t feel I needed therapy anymore.

    And we did that.  I’m there.

    Today, on March 6th, 2018, I walked out of that therapy office for the last time.

    And I got in my car, turned on my music (which is always on shuffle), and in one final, serendipitous, post-therapy gift from the universe, the song that started playing was, “I’m Not Broken Anymore.”  I was fully prepared to cry… but all I could do was smile.

    And now?  Now I take what I learned – and what I worked so hard at; and will continue to work so hard at – and I move forward.  Move on to the next chapter of my life, and whatever that may bring.  And I’ll do it with the deepest and sincerest and most life-long gratitude to Tony, who not only helped me learn how to have a good quality of life, but who quite literally also saved it.

    ____________________________________________

     

    If your mental health isn’t what it should be please know when to seek professional help

    If you’re having thoughts of suicide, call the crisis helpline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255)

    You can also text START to 741-741 if you’d rather text than speak with someone on the phone

    If you’re in imminent danger to yourself, PLEASE go to the ER.

    You’re loved, and you’re worth it.

     

    3 Comments

    Filed under about me, anxiety, bipolar, depression, gratitude, health, mania, mental health

    July 25, 2016 · 11:02 AM

    Bipolar Is A Football Game

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    It’s been nearly three months since I began treatment for Bipolar Disorder.  Three months.  Which is …. a long time and also no time at all.  Most people, even those who were remarkably supportive in the beginning, have pretty much gone silent in my life by now.   And it’s not that I blame them.  I don’t.  I think that a general lack of understanding just makes them believe that I’d be “better” by now.  That I’d take a couple pills, go to a few therapy sessions, and voila.  All cured.  Or maybe it’s not that at all, and it’s the fact that life just goes on.  We’re all busy, we’re all involved in our own stuff.   We all have our own problems.  Truth be told, I think I’m a little jealous of those who’ve essentially stopped talking to me.  I wish that I could live in the oblivion, if even temporarily, of not having to think about it.  But I don’t get to take a break.  Bipolar is a cheap polyester Christmas sweater, permanently woven into every fiber of my being.

    But I’m still here, still working this all out, still finding my way through a mysterious world that is revealing more and more to me as I go.

    About a week ago, I started getting sick.  And then I got really sick… with something I’m pretty sure is the plague.  Or at the very least, dysentery.  So, so sick.  Sickness of any sort, of any duration, tends to throw me completely off my game.  My mind immediately bends toward what my therapist calls, “Catastrophic thinking.”  I’ll never feel well again.  I’ll never catch up on the housework.  I’ll never be able to do anything fun again.  I’ll lose all the momentum I’ve gained with exercise.

    This time though, the thing that most plagued me was the fact that I missed a concert (and meet & greet) that I was, so, SO looking forward.  The concert was A Great Big World and Matt Nathanson, two of my absolute all time favorites, but the part that I was looking forward to the  most was meeting Chad and Ian from GBW, so that I could see them in person, and put a face with my “won’t stop running” story.  (If you’re wondering what the heck that means, skim this post) I was looking forward to it so, so much.  So much.  The day of the concert, I woke up nauseous and light-headed, as I had for the last week.  I prayed I’d rally though, and for a little while I did.  I took a shower, got dressed, put on some makeup, started doing my hair…. and just the act of being up and about made me feel sicker and sicker as I went.  In hindsight, I could have made it through the concert – probably – and just felt 0ff while I was there.  But in the end, I couldn’t in good conscience risk having to leave early and ruining it for Tegan, (who’s eight at the time of this writing, rivals me as their biggest fan, and was looking forward to it every bit as much as I was)  So I stayed home, sent her off on a Daddy/daughter date, and nursed both my sickness and my bitter disappointment, curled up in a ball on the couch.

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    Do you see how freaking HAPPY she is?? I couldn’t forgive myself if I was the cause of her missing this. I’m so thrilled she got to meet them. And hearing her and Mike’s story of what they were like in person…. I just love them. I’ve never met them, but I love them.

    The next day, Sunday, saw me sliding, or SLAMMING as the case may be, into a deep depression.  The combination of being sick for a week; the forced and abrupt halt of the momentum I’d gathered with exercise, sleeping right, and faithfully taking my supplements; the house arrest; me being me; and the final nail of missing the concert just smashed me right into a Very Bad Place.    I knew I was feeling better physically – not good by any stretch, but better – while mentally I was withering.  Seeing this, Mike (mostly gently) made me get up, get out and go to the store with him.  After that he (again, mostly gently) convinced me to go the arena football game with him and the kids.   He would tell me later that what he was seeing in me scared him, and he didn’t want me to be alone.  Which scared me too.   Ordinarily I love Rattlers games, and look forward to going every week…. but yesterday, I didn’t want to be there.  Didn’t want to be here.  Didn’t want to be anywhere.  But I made myself do it, and I put on my blinged-out Rattlers shirt and my Mardi Gras beads, took a bunch of ibuprofen for my headache, and steeled myself for the trip.

    Now, a lot of people compare bipolar to a roller coaster.  And I mean, sure, it’s an apt enough (if grossly overused) description.  Ups, downs, twists, turns.  Blah, blah, blah, blah.

    Last night I realized that what it really is is a football game, one that starts before you even get there.

    We usually take the light rail when we’re going to any sort of sporting event downtown.  I hate the light rail.  It’s crowded, it smells funny, and it always makes me nauseous.  Which is apropos in its own right, but it’s not the way we traveled last night.  Last night we drove in and parked in the parking garage.

    And that’s where I first realized it, the moment I stepped out of the car.

    The parking garage is the depression.  It’s dark and spooky.  It’s the depths of hell, or at the very least, it’s Satan’s armpit.  It’s hot.  It’s steamy.  Like the light rail, it too smells funny.   But not ha-ha funny.  More like car exhaust and Mexican food farts and death.  It’s dirty, but not regular dirty.  There are stains on the floors (and the walls and in the corners and on all of civilization that managed to survive) that make you wonder if someone was recently murdered.  The stairwell seemingly takes you up and up and up, but its oppression is so heavy, so stifling, that it makes you doubt if you’re ever going to see the light of day again.

    Then suddenly you’re out, and there’s the burst of sun, so strong it takes your eyes a minute to adjust. You’re in the real world.  Those are the days in between the mania and depression, the days when you get a feeling for what it must be like to be a “normal” person.  They’re not particularly exciting, but they’re not particularly depressing either.  You exist in a state of sort of homeostasis.  A state of just being for a few minutes.  It’s a nice place to visit, but it’s a very short walk to the stadium.  Those days of normal are short lived.  Soon you’re at your destination.

    The stadium is the mania.  There is just So. Much. Going. On.  Your senses are all heightened, by sixty jillion percent.  There are the people, and the sounds, and the smells, and the relentlessly constantly whirling, swirling energy.  It’s exciting.  It’s exhilarating.  Unfortunately, what starts off as exciting and exhilarating eventually descends into overwhelming and scary.  You look for a corner to hide in, but no such corner exists.  The only option – if you can really call it that, since you have no other options – is to keep walking, right through the fray.

    The food is the mania and the depression. Sometimes, those over priced, fast food, ball park chicken tenders are the most juicy, succulent morsels of food you could ever put in your mouth, better than any meal you’d choose to order at a 5 star restaurant.  Other times, those very same chicken tenders taste like fried moist cardboard, sit like a rock in your stomach, and make you spend the rest of the game praying you’re not going to suddenly and violently have to vomit and have diarrhea.

    I never know which one I’m going to get.

    Your family and friends sitting beside you, they’re (and I kind of hesitate to say this, because I feel like it minimizes the huge role they actually play), but they’re the mood stabilizers.  They’re the right diet.  They’re regular exercise.  They’re 8 hours of sleep.  In other words, they don’t cure you.  They don’t make the ups and downs go away.  But they soften them.  They make them less intense.  They smooth out the edges.  They remind you to breathe when you’re anxious.  They hold your hand when you’re scared.  They give you light on the journey, and they make you laugh along the way.  Your friends and your family are the safe spot in the middle of the chaos around you.

    The game itself is the actual work of reaching, and maintaining, wellness.  It’s the therapy.  It’s the day-to-day changes you make to control your illness instead of letting it control you.  Of course you’re not actually watching the game… you’re playing, in every position.  Sometimes you’re the quarter back, calling the plays.  Sometimes you’re a receiver.  Sometimes you’re on defense.   And you’ve got a whole team of people ready to back you up.  There’s a defined set of plays, but you have to be able to read what’s going on, and adjust and tweak as you go.  You have to stay flexible, and think on your feet.  (And just as a football game often – usually, always – veers off from its best laid plans, so do medication, therapy, and all other aspects related to treatment.  You have to roll with it)  Sometimes the game is exciting.  It’s not just the touchdowns, but it’s the little moments – that are really big moments – along the way.  The thrill of an interception.  A sacked quarterback.  A recovered fumble.

    Sometimes it’s frustrating.  The missed PAT.   The tackles and fumbles and penalties…  sometimes a lot of penalties.    Sometimes there are fist fights (although if you’ve got good, classy teammates, they gently pull you away from the fight, use their bodies to block you from the heat, and make sure everyone stays safe).  Sometimes there are injuries.   Sometimes you need to call a time out.   Sometimes the game makes you sublimely happy, but half the time it just pisses you right the heck off.   Sometimes you’re down by 4 touchdowns, and you’re really discouraged and demoralized.  You can hear the taunts from the crowd.

    But wait.

    Sometimes there are cheers from the crowd too.  Sometimes the stadium is just FILLED with cheers.  Sometimes there’s an opening, and you manage to perfectly execute a really long pass, resulting in an epically beautiful touchdown.  It’s those kind of plays that make the entire game worth it.

    Win or lose, it is all So.  Much. Work.  At the end of the game you are spent, you are sweaty, and you are exhausted.  But no matter the final score, you learned something.  You gained something.  You got better, and stronger, and more experienced. You took another step toward the Arena Bowl.

    As for me, personally?  I’m still in the first quarter.  I have a lot of work ahead of me.  I’m continually trying to find that balance of giving 100% without burning myself out before I even get to half-time.

    And then, it’s over.  That brief visit to the land of normalcy, then you’re once again in the pits of hell.  AKA the parking garage.  AKA depression.

    Lather.

    Rinse.

    Repeat.

    On an endless loop, every day, forever.

    And the thing is, just like me on Sunday night, you don’t necessarily choose to go the football game.  But since you have to be there, you learn not to just make the most of it, but to embrace it.   You learn to squeeze every bit of enjoyment out of every little moment that you can.  You learn to appreciate the color and the joy and beauty that exist both in the middle of the game, and in the stillness between the plays.

    You learn to grab that football game by its balls (see what I did there?), you hold on for all you’re worth, and you tell your teammates, and you tell the crowd, and you tell the WORLD:

    “My game.  My rules.  And dammit, I’m gonna play to win.”

    6 Comments

    Filed under about me, anxiety, bipolar, depression, health, mental health

    July 2, 2016 · 8:27 PM

    Why I’m A Natural Health Dropout

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    I used to be very adamantly against pharmaceuticals.  I remember after the birth of my first son – 19 years ago – they offered me Tylenol with codeine and I declined.   Then they wanted me to take a stool softener, and I declined that too.   I was kind of obnoxious about it too, now that I think about it.  I didn’t need that stuff.  I had my supplements and my herbs (and if essential oils were as big a thing back then as they are now, I’m sure I would have used those too). I had my ideals.  I had my self-righteous resolve.

    Over the next several years, I would spend a lot of time studying, reading about, and learning about natural health and nutrition.  I took several courses, and I earned a handful of certificates.  I was passionate and motivated and… have I mentioned obnoxious yet?

    And then I got gall stones… in a gall bladder that eventually got inflamed and infected.  Then I got gall stones lodged in my bile duct.  Then I got pancreatitis.  Then I needed surgery.  Next was kidney stones, followed by hydronephrosis and a stent.  A couple of years later, it was two rather painful shoulder surgeries in as many years, one involving detaching my bicep and reattaching it on a different spot on my bone, held in place with a permanent metal screw.

    Suffice it to say, I made my peace with allopathic medicine.

    Over that tricky six year period, there were narcotics, there were muscle relaxants, there were antibiotics, there were anti-emetics, there were sleep aids.  Last year I tried, and eventually rejected, a medication prescribed for suspected fibromyalgia.  It’s not that I’m proud to say I took all of that… but I’m not ashamed of it either.  I made informed decisions, I took what I needed, and I took it all responsibly. At the time of this writing, I’m taking a mood stabilizer (which is making a world of difference for me) and am in the process of carefully weaning myself off of a benzodiazepine, prescribed during an acute time of crisis when I began treatment for bipolar disorder.  I’m not ashamed of that either.

    And the thing is, I never abandoned anything I learned when I studied natural health.  In fact, having bipolar and wanting to get well has necessitated my paying more attention to it than ever before.  I absolutely understand the importance of nutrition.  I know how inextricably our stress levels are tied to our health.  I’m exercising, six days a week.  I’m taking a careful supplement regimen, designed with the help of my doctor.  I’m meditating daily.  I’m not drinking any alcohol.  I’m using essential oils, for all kinds of things.   I’m working hard to develop better sleep patterns (even giving up watching TV in bed, one of my favorite things, in an effort to create healthier habits).  Self-care and natural health are wonderful things indeed.

    But there’s a balance.

    I don’t think I truly understood that balance until I went through my own health crises, and to an even greater extent until I was met with my former self, again and again, in the form of people whose version of “help” included chastising me for my choices.  There was the one who messaged me after my second shoulder surgery, not to offer up a “get well soon” but to lecture me about the dangers of prescription painkillers.   There was the one who, after I’d already had my gall bladder removed, told me why I should never have done it, and how I should have just healed it naturally instead.  There were the countless others, who no matter what the issue, were convinced that I just needed to take more supplements/get better sleep/eat more whole foods/take more walks in the sunshine.  I saw in real time the black and white thinking to which I myself had once subscribed.   I saw the danger of, and felt the sting of, polarity.  I saw how many people tried to shame me (and who continue to try to shame me) for not taking a solely natural approach.

    I saw judgment – So. Much. Judgment. – from family members to friends to strangers alike.

    That’s the natural health movement that leaves me with a bitter taste in my mouth.  That’s the natural health movement that I no longer want to be a part of.

    I can’t help but wonder what would happen if we just trusted one another to make informed decisions.  To learn not just about treating disease but about maintaining health.  To weigh the pros and cons of all our options.  To educate ourselves about natural remedies and pharmaceuticals both.  To learn about risks of side effects versus possible benefits.  To respect that my path to health is different from your path is different to your best friend’s neighbor’s path.  To completely remove shame from the equation. 

    And if you ever have to have your bicep drilled back into your humerus, I hope that your recovery goes as smoothly as possible.  I hope that you’re given all your options to control the pain, and that you make the choice that best works for you…. whether it’s a steady regimen of Vicodin or a thrice-daily walking meditation session in a sunny meadow.

    I promise not to judge you either way.

    5 Comments

    Filed under about me, health, natural health, nutrition

    April 21, 2016 · 1:57 PM

    Today, I Climbed A Mountain

    *Full disclosure* I actually climbed the mountain yesterday, but today flowed better. Also, it wasn’t really a “mountain” mountain. It was more like a hill.  Okay, technically it was rocks. I climbed a pile of rocks.

    Now that we have that out of the way…

    I climbed a mountain yesterday, and it was a long time coming.  May 3rd is just a few weeks away, and it marks the one year anniversary of when I finally went to the ER when the symptoms I’d been experiencing for months reached the point of unbearable, and thus began a year of the worst health (both mental and physical) I think I’ve ever experienced.  It was chest pains, lower back pain, and nausea that finally made me act, but it was crazy relentless unexplained bruising, swollen lymph nodes in my clavicle – and eventually in a whole bunch of other places, – chronic flu-like symptoms, exhaustion, dizziness, and a racing heart that would confound my doctor and send me all over the city to no less than a dozen specialists.

    In hindsight, it was most likely a panic attack that I had had that night we went to the ER (the first of MANY such panic attacks over the past year).  We’d gone out that evening to watch an arena football game, and I already wasn’t feeling well when we left the house.   The fear of any sort of medical event happening in public prompts my anxiety to kick in, and anxiety prompts my body to freak out, and a freaked out body does bad, bad things.  The worst part of the evening, besides the fact that it took the EMTS five tries to get the IV placed, was that my then 7 year old asked Mike if I was going to die.   I feel guilty about that, while simultaneously telling myself that it wasn’t my fault.  Could I have willed myself better if I’d tried hard enough?  I don’t know.

    Chronic illness and pain (most of which is still unexplained, though some can finally be attributed to disc issues) is exhausting.  And when I say, “exhausting”, I don’t mean very tiring.  I mean it sucks the actual life out of you, to the point that you’re a shell.  A human shell that can intellectually understand that things could be worse and that there is much to be thankful for…. but who is too lost in the muck and the mire to acknowledge it.

    What I’ve realized over the past few months though – again, through the magic of hindsight – is that it isn’t the physical symptoms that have been my undoing.   The much greater burden, beyond a shadow of doubt, is the depression and anxiety.  I’m not a stranger to either one, but the past year has seen them both reach heights that I didn’t know were possible.  Depression made me not care, about anything.  Anxiety made me care too much, about everything.  Too much, and not enough, all at the same time.  One made me unable to get out of bed, the other made me too afraid of being alone with my own thoughts not to.  In the past 12 months, I’ve gained and lost and gained again the same 30ish pounds, partly because eating/not eating helped with some of my physical symptoms, but mostly because I’m still that damaged 16 year old who believed that food – either restrictive, careful monitoring like a wrestler trying to make a weight class, OR eating ALL the things, all the time – was the answer.  To everything.

    I was hurt by friends who seemed to vanish when I needed them most, and pissed off at friends (and strangers) who offered solutions. Partly because unsolicited advice and people telling me what do make me crazy, but also because – and I’m not proud of it – I was pissed off at everyone.  And everything.

    Yes, I’ve been tested for Lyme disease.   Yes, I take vitamins.  Yes, they ruled out lupus.  NO, it’s not all in my head.  Yes, I do meditate. Yes, I understand the importance of sleep and nutrition.  Yes, I’ve tried an elimination diet.  Yes, I use essential oils.  Yes, I’ve looked into non-pharmaceutical solutions.  NO, I am not interested in your naturopathic doctor, or your liver flush, or the special drink that changed the life of your sister’s best friend’s coworker’s cousin’s ex-girlfriend. Leave me alone, leave me alone, LEAVE ME ALONE!    Wait, I can’t do this alone.  I take it back.  I need someone.  Please listen. Don’t leave me alone.  Come back!!!

    There was no winning with me.  If they didn’t keep their distance because they didn’t know how to deal with me, I just pushed ’em away myself.  Really, it’s a wonder if I have any friends left at all.

    I think one of the most painful paradoxes of depression (really, of mental illness in general)  is that it is excruciatingly difficult to interact with, to talk to, to be physically touched by others, at least in an authentic way …. and yet in equal measure lonely and terrifying to live in its self-created world of isolation.

    I don’t believe that my depression and anxiety caused my physical symptoms, and I don’t believe that my physical symptoms caused my depression and anxiety. But mental health and physical health are of course irrevocably yolked together, and as such I know that any attempts to address either one need to be multi-pronged.

    Which brings me (finally) back to my mountain.

    I have a friend who posts lots of pictures of her hikes… these amazing day-long adventures up in to the mountains (mountains-mountains) all over Phoenix and its surrounding cities.  I keep telling her – in my double-life, put-a-smile-on-my-face-and-pretend-I’m-not-falling-apart-inside alternate reality – that we should go hiking together sometime.  But in reality, I am not able to do that right now. Side note:  In yoga teacher training, which now feels like a lifetime ago, we had to give our teacher 25 cents every time she caught us saying, “I can’t”  After losing a few dollars each, most of us broke the habit.  Instead, we were told to say, and think, “Not today.”  It’s not that we CAN’T do it, it’s just that we can’t YET do it.   That stuck with me in a major way.  Lengthy mountain hikes are not my reality today.   Both because of my physical state (simple walks around the block render me out of commission for a day or days afterward), and because of the real possibility of a sudden mountainside panic attack that would leave me begging her to just go on without me.

    But I really do want to start hiking again.  The desert is my happy place.  I can breathe easier there than anywhere else.  The solitude and the wide open spaces feel healing, not oppressive.  In fact I’ve pretty much convinced myself if I ever moved back to New Hampshire (or anywhere else surrounded by trees), that I would effectively suffocate.   My mental health thanks me whenever I venture out into the desert.  Plus, I miss my old butt  regaining a higher level of physical fitness is good not just for my body, but also for every other area of my life.  I know this.  I do.

    And still, it took me a month of pep-talks to do it.  There’s a nature preserve that’s a five minute walk from my house, and I decided that I would start there. I’d gone for walks on its trails a few times in the past several weeks, but it had been years since I’d climbed to the top of its not-quite-a-mountain.  It suddenly became really important that I do so, as a literal AND symbolic first step.  But first I had to get there.

    It’s way too hot.

    It might hurt.

    I don’t have anything appropriate to wear.

    What if I trip on the loose rocks and fall and hit my head and knock myself unconscious?

    What if I’m not knocked unconscious, and think I’m fine, but later suffer a brain bleed?

    What if I’m near a drop-off and  get light-headed and can’t sit down fast enough to keep from toppling over the edge?

    What if I forget to pay attention to where I’m walking and I startle a rattle-snake who thinks he needs to bite me?  (In my defense, of the three live rattlesnakes we’ve come across in the ten years that we’ve lived in Phoenix, one of them was at that very park)

    What if I don’t bring enough water and I get dehydrated and can’t go on?  We like to joke about it because of the quote in The Breakfast Club, but I really do have a low tolerance for dehydration.

    What if I lose my cell service at the top, and have a medical emergency and can’t call anyone for help?

    Etc.

    There were a million reasons not to go, and two really really good ones to suck it up and make myself do it.  I deserve to practice self-care.  My kids deserve a healthy mother.  All the people who’ve suffered the collateral damage of my unintentionally treating them like shit for the past year deserve some atonement.  (I guess that’s three reasons.)

    Hiking to the top of that ridge wouldn’t cure me.  But it would be something.

    So I made myself go, and with each step I repeated a mantra that was more feelings than words.  If it had had words, they wouldn’t have been sweet and flowery, but more like:

    Screw you, depression.  Screw you, anxiety.  Screw you, bad discs and chronic migraines and muscle pain and achy joints.  Screw you fibromyalgia or chronic fatigue syndrome or whatever the hell else they want to call my mystery ailment this week.  You don’t get to make the decisions for me.   Not today.  All the way to the top, and all the way back down again.

    I wish that I could conclude this post with a mountaintop epiphany, or a defining moment of catharsis.  But, you know… sometimes life is epiphanies and defining moments, and sometimes life is just a red-faced, slightly overweight, sweaty middle-aged mom scrambling her way to the top of a rocky hill in Northern Phoenix on a random Wednesday in April.  A girl who felt okay for a moment, but who knows she still has a lot of work ahead of her.

    It took 45 minutes, to the top and back down.

    I climbed a mountain and I lived.

    Today my calves hurt, and I find it delightful because I haven’t done any sort of level of activity that would lead to sore calves for an entire year.  Delightful is good.  Delightful is rare.

    And now (if you’ve gotten this far, and if you have, thank you) it’s 12:45 in the afternoon, and I haven’t yet left the couch, but I will. Later I’ll take the 12 year old to football, and the 8 year old to the playground, and I’ll smile politely at the people around me, and they won’t know my secret.  They won’t know that I hurt, in so many different ways.  But they also won’t know my other secret.  They won’t know that I decided I’m stronger than all of it.  They won’t know that I climbed a mountain, or HOW MUCH FREAKING EFFORT it took to do it.  I sometimes often tell Mike how hard it is to be me, how hard it is to live inside my brain, and over the past year inside my body as well.  But I wouldn’t want to be anyone else.  I really wouldn’t. Because the wiring that makes me prone to depression and anxiety is the same wiring that makes me passionate, and creative, and someone who loves and lives and feels deeply.  It’s the same part of me that allows me to express myself through writing! I realized a long time ago that it’s kind of a package deal.

    I think there’s a sort of poetic and beautiful and bittersweet synchronicity to the fact that my least favorite part of my psyche comes inextricably linked with my favorite.  I wouldn’t take the magic pill (if such a pill existed) to take away all my problems, if the price was also taking away the very essence of who I am.

    So I have to resolve – again and again and again – to do the work I need to do to be well, whatever wellness is going to ultimately look like.  I can’t WILL myself well, this much is true.  But I can take steps, both literal and figurative, towards wellness.  I can.

    I CAN.

    I have the sore calves to prove it.

    P.S.  This article is the most apt description of depression that I’ve ever read.  He so eloquently puts into words what I’ve so often tried – and failed – to write myself.

    11 Comments

    Filed under about me, anxiety, depression, health, mental health

    September 21, 2015 · 4:24 PM

    Temporary

    Photo Credit: Ivo Ivov

    Photo Credit: Ivo Ivov

    I’ve been sick for the past six months.

    I’ll spare you my laundry list of symptoms, both because it’s boring and because I’m so tired of thinking about it, but they concerned my doctor enough to order a CT, an ultrasound, and blood work, and eventually led her to send me to an oncologist. HE was concerned enough to order still more blood work – 12 vials in fact – and a whole-body PET scan.

    None of the above gave us any answers.  On paper, I’m the healthiest sick person that ever lived.  My next step is an infectious disease doctor, not because anyone really thinks I have an infectious disease, but because they do the kind of detective work necessary to diagnose these weird and hard-to-figure-out whatever-the-heck-this-thing-is that’s been making my life miserable since last spring.

    It’s frustrating feeling terrible and limited every day and not knowing why.  It’s even more frustrating to feel like you’re going through it all alone.  This summer was truly one of the loneliest summers of my life.  And that doesn’t sound right, does it?  Feeling lonely in a house full of six people?  But it’s exactly how I’ve felt. And I’ve learned that feeling alone amongst other people is a far more harrowing feeling than feeling alone when you’re actually… well, alone.  I never feel lonely when I’m by myself.  But when I’m around other people?  I’ve become an expert at it.

    And I can never figure out if it’s actually real life  (Is it real?  Have I really created a life with so few people to support me when I need it?), or if it’s simply a product of manifestation….combined and created somewhere in the abyss of physical pain and the inevitable depression that comes with it.

    Whatever the case, I’ve been resting there:  Holding on tightly to the simultaneous frustration and safety of my own self-pity.

    I don’t recommend it.

    I have missed writing so very much (just one of many things I’ve missed in the past several months) but even when I have gotten the energy to sit at my computer, I put my fingers to the keyboard…… and there’s nothing there but a wordless, guttural whine.

    Then yesterday I finally heard something that helped, if only a tiny bit.  In a classic case of “the right thing at the right time,”  I was watching a movie with my groom, and what was meant to be entertainment ended up being inspiration.   Between me not feeling well, and him being exhausted from work, and the both of us spending all our spare minutes getting everything tied up for the conference, we’ve been desperately clinging to our lazy Saturday morning movie-while-we-drink-our-coffee dates whenever we can get them.  Anyway, yesterday we were watching this movie, and there was a scene where one of the characters, an angst-ridden teenager, was standing on the precipice of a cliff, contemplating ending his life.  His panicked family had all gathered around, and were literally trying to talk him down from the edge.  They were delivering a fairly standard issue, “you have so much to live for” motivational speech, and eventually told him,

    “Shit’s temporary!”*

    And in that moment, those words were the much-needed balm to my weary and battered soul. It’s temporary.  It’s ALL temporary.  And yes, I get that there’s nothing new or revelatory about that observation, but it was something that I’d forgotten…. and forgotten so deeply that I didn’t even remember that I’d forgotten it.  I’m always the first person to reassure new moms that their toddler’s frustrating experiments with biting or throwing or shoving things into the DVD player drawer is but a season.  It’s temporary.  Why on earth wouldn’t that apply to adults as well?

    Trials are temporary.  Frustrations are temporary.  LIFE is temporary.  And I needed the reminder to sit tight, put on my galoshes, and get out there and dance in the storm.  It’s a season, bringing whatever lessons it’s going to bring.

    I feel like I’ve spent so much time chasing things.  Chasing answers, chasing peace, chasing rest.  And I think that sometimes you need to just stop chasing.  Stop moving.  Just stop.  Stop and remember that it’s all just…. fleeting.  I’ll feel better, or I won’t.  But either way, it’s still temporary, because it’s ALL temporary.

    I don’t know what’s going to happen next for me, or this blog, or all my plans that have gotten put on hold with my health issues.  But for the first time in a long time, I’m pretty okay with not knowing.  And the next time I’m not okay (because I do know there will be a next time), the next time I give in to the stress and the fatigue and the frustration of it all, I hope I can remember that no matter what it is… whatever negative, stagnant yuck I’m feeling…

    that it’s only temporary.

    __________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

    *(Sorry I said shit.  Sorry I said it again)

     

    15 Comments

    Filed under about me, health, learning, life

    November 17, 2014 · 6:00 AM

    Healing

    surgerypics

    Just over three weeks ago, I had surgery on my shoulder.  It was a revision for a previous surgery, 2 years ago this month.  The whole thing started in May of 2012, and the only reason I’ll always remember that is that it was Mother’s Day weekend, and we’d spent the weekend camping with friends.  (Here’s the original post on that) There were better days here and there, but I basically haven’t had a pain free day for 2 1/2 years.

    This time around, he repaired some stuff from the first surgery – an anchor was rubbing every time I moved, so he removed that, as well as cleaned up new tears, scar tissue and arthritis that had developed.  He also did something called a biceps tenodesis, which basically means that he detached the bicep on one end, and literally moved it and reattached in a new place further down my arm to take the pressure off my shoulder.  I have a permanent metal button that’s holding it to the bone.  Crazy, right?  I know from experience that recovering from the work on the shoulder (the labrum, in this case) is no picnic, but it’s actually the bicep piece that’s going to be the most frustrating recovery, in the sense that it requires the most restriction – and patience! – to heal properly.

    I spent the first two weeks after the surgery on the couch…. taking painkillers, eating comfort food, and logging more hours canoodling with Netflix and Playon than I care to admit (I knew I’d reached a particular low when I started re-watching the original Melrose Place from the very first episode.)  It’s a frustrating feeling, having to be waited on. I’m not very good at it.  And the whole thing was compounded by the fact that it only took a couple of days before I was feeling sad, lonely, and embarrassingly sorry for myself.

    I was longing, literally longing, for someone to show up at the door with baked goods, or coffee, or just themselves, and sit and keep me company and give me something positive to chat about for awhile.  My sister, who scored some major good sister points, did exactly that a couple of times.  And when a dear out-of-state friend happened to be in town visiting another mutual friend, they stopped over as well, bearing cupcakes and hugs and conversation, just two days after the surgery.   And I did get one sweet card in the mail.  Other than that, it was pretty much radio silence (save for dire warnings about the addictive nature of the painkillers I was taking), from friends and family alike, and it made me…. mopey.   How hard is it to pick up a phone, I’d think, and send a get-well text?  Or ask if I needed anything?  

    I know;  self-pity is an undeniably unattractive thing, but it’s exactly what I felt.   I was a spectacle.  Moping around in my sweatpants and my sling, wearing the same shirt for days because it was just too much painful work to change it, hopped up on drugs (that I’ve since stopped taking, but at the time genuinely needed and got chastised like a unruly dog for taking). I was a zombie from not sleeping, so I tried the Ambien my doctor prescribed, which only caused a horrible reaction that kept me up all night  (I got chastised for taking that too.)  I was literally starting to gain weight – over the course of just two weeks! – because of my inactivity and the general volume of non-nutritive food I was eating.  My upper arm had a really weird, creepy looking new shape to it that I feared was permanent.   And to top it all off, I felt like I had no friends.

    (Ha.  I just re-read that last paragraph, and is it any wonder no one came to visit?  🙂 Who’d want to spend time with that miserable person? God bless my crazy sister.)

    Last Monday, I started physical therapy, which even though I knew it would be painful, was a huge positive step in my recovery.  For a lot of people, going to physical therapy reduces their pain…. but when you go to re-gain strength and range of motion after a surgery, it actually causes pain, at least in the beginning.  On a side note, it amazes me the movements we take for granted until we can’t do them anymore, like straightening out your elbow, or raising your arm up over your head.   Anyway, I decided on that first day that I would use that pain as a reminder of the healing that’s going on.  It’s truly amazing when you think about it…  tendons and muscles and bone, all slowly slowly knitting themselves back together.  Every day getting just a little bit stronger, every day getting just a little more flexible.  I never properly healed from the first surgery (or, I guess more accurately, I never had a break in between healing from the first one, and dealing with the subsequent problems it caused) but I know I can’t let that allow me to think I won’t properly heal from this one.   Being a revision, by its very nature it’s going to be “messier” than the first one.  In other words, I shouldn’t be expecting to reach 100%.  But 80% sounds wonderful right now.  And I’ll get there.  I will.

    Slowly, painfully, I’ll heal.

    And so it goes with my shoulder and my sorry, sad-sack attitude.  I’ll heal.  It’s funny how something as simple as a surgery and its accompanying rehab can suddenly propel a person (again) into full-fledged mid-life crisis mode, but that’s exactly what it’s done.   And it’s a good thing!  It’s time once again to look at my life, evaluate what’s important, what’s not, and work to eliminate the latter.   So as my shoulder and arm heal, so will the rest of me.  I guarantee it’ll be painful at times, just like with physical therapy, but the pain will eventually reveal something brighter, clearer, and stronger.  With each appointment, each ice pack, each Advil, each good night’s sleep, I’ll heal.  In the grand scheme of things, it’s but a blip.  I indulged myself for two weeks, and now it’s time to move on.

    To healing, even when it hurts.

     

    3 Comments

    Filed under about me, health, life

    January 5, 2013 · 11:09 AM

    I’m a Better Mom When My Kids Are Sick

    IMG_9138

    I had an uncomfortable realization yesterday.

    Spencer spent most of the day in the ER with a dislocated shoulder.  He is home now, put back together and sleeping comfortably, but yesterday was a long miserable day for him.   Mike brought him to the ER while I stayed home with the others feeling anxious and useless, unsure of what to do with myself.  As I’d imagine any parent would tell you, there are few things worse than knowing your children are in pain or sick or hurt in any way.  It was with great relief that I finally met him at the front door, smiling, whole (if a bit drugged up), and home where I could dote on him.

    So glad to have something to do after a day of waiting, I made sure he was comfortable on the couch and that he had the remotes controls he needed.  I fixed him some toast and put water on for tea.  I kept him company while he watched one of his favorite shows, I brought him ibuprofen when it was time, and I even helped him with his belt buckle when he admitted with a laugh that while he managed to get it UNdone with one hand to use the restroom, he couldn’t get it done again.   I was attentive, and I was patient, and I did it all gladly.  It made me happy to be able to do something, anything, to help him stay as comfortable as possible.

    In short, I was the kind of mom I should be striving to be all the time.

    It occurred to me on my third or fourth trip out of the living room to get him something that didn’t I have it backwards?  Not that we shouldn’t be so vigilant when there is an extra need, but shouldn’t that same level of patience, of compassion, and willingness to give be present when the kids are well?  Especially with kids like mine who are almost never sick?  And it’s not that I don’t think I’m a good mom.  It’s just that crises tend to make me a BETTER mom.  A more aware mom.  A more patient mom.  And if I can choose to bring that “extra” to my parenting when someone is sick or hurt, can’t I choose to do it all the time?  It’s not even a choice now that I think about it…. it’s just the default.  Someone is hurt, and out comes that “other” mom.  The one who isn’t irritable because she hasn’t been sleeping enough, the one who isn’t distracted with silly things like Facebook and housework and outstanding bills, the one who has all the love in the world and all the time in the world to give it.

    Yes, I’ve had it backwards, and I can change that.

    I don’t really do resolutions, but if I did, my new resolution would be this:   For this year… this week… this day… to make more of an effort to treat my kids – all my kids – as well as I’d treat them if they’d just spent the day in the ER.

    2 Comments

    Filed under about me, gentle parenting, health, kindness, mindful parenting, parenting, Spencer