The Whirling Fan

Don’t waste my magical writing time with nonsense.  Go to work.

It was a terrible day.  I screwed everything up. I forgot everything.  All my training evaded me.  All my plans fell to shit.  I got yelled at (or the disappointed, I told you, don’t do it again conversation with sternness enough that I am still quite quivery about the whole ordeal) and I am, ultimately, alone.

I mean, I have someone, but I can’t figure out how if this is the sort of having you have with someone who just happens to be taking the same bus you are.  A conversation that intimates nothing.  I want to know, to ask some authority, is this working or not working – what is real and what is just linguistic jiu-jitsu?  And are we all that safe either way?

Instead, I do what I do when I don’t know what to do.  I go and see my mother.  We don’t really talk about the events of the day because as soon as I come in the door after letting her know I needed to come for dinner because it had been a hard day and I had nothing really low-carb to eat, she says You Need to Be More Prepared!  And I won’t argue with the sentiment, because it’s true even if I find myself quite unable to knuckle down and open a laptop after a 10 hour day and face even one email with a questionably aggressive tone.  And they all feel a little bit aggressive these days.  Oh, gosh, it is just the wrong thing to say to a person after a day like this.

My mother.  I will not complain about her, but report this happening with more of a wry attitude rather than one of the usual frustration.   So of course, after feeding me the chicken and green chile and some jello with a heap of whipped cream and giving me her last two shakes in the whole of the world, she begins the quiz.

How long has it been for the diet?  How much weight so far? My answers: a week, and four pounds, six if you go back a bit, are satisfactory.  She gives me the rundown of how to do low-carb for the ninety-thousandth time.   This is not so much wry, is it?  I watch the news with her as we contemplate political eventualities.  I say I have to go.

She has no interest in J.  I have to bring him up if there’s to be any discussion and the discussion is more me venting about the surreal and frustrating nature of the thing.  She is both suspicious and entirely nonplussed.  Who he is and what he wants with me are of no import.  She’ll wait for me to sigh and offer something up, otherwise, it is entirely illegitimate and hell, she may be right.

Still, I leave, and the last thing I hear as I cross the threshold is “You’re getting your waist back again!”

Sigh.  I don’t know.

Pink in Eureka

Certain forms of hysteria have taken hold.  Perhaps because I made the step to get the blog running in some sort of functional form, I have begun to think I am smart about certain things.  This is not the case.

This is day two of going low-carb.  Low-carb = traditional Atkins, 20 carbs or so for the first two weeks, then, we evaluate how shit is going.  I feel better in a lot of ways already.  The scale, as ever, is fucking with me, but it says I lost 3 pounds (yes, we can hear the yelling of WATER WEIGHT from here) overnight.  I don’t know…I do know that it mattered to me to just start this.  To just do it so here I am.  Having had more vegetables today than I’ve had in eons.  More water.    And less food overall.

I still feel weird and tired (again, the shouting of transitioning and detoxing groggery can be heard for miles) and I have done bare minimums in terms of exercise.  But I did do it.  I did do it with nary a complaint.  I will do it again tomorrow.

I keep thinking about what I want.  That is one thing that my new job has really helped with.  The courses I’ve taken have impressed upon me that I need a plan and I need to work the plan. Goal setting and moving in slow, steady steps towards the future.  That you can actually say I want this big, overblown, challenging result and if you mete it out into little, manageable daily contributions, it would happen.   That’s the issue and that’s why I’ve spent so much time avoiding finishing any of these little, manageable steps.  So that I don’t end up somewhere I don’t want to be.

I’ve done this instead of deciding where I want to be and working really hard to make that happen.

I don’t know if I’ll write this way all the time, but I like that this all has just started and it isn’t January 1 and it isn’t a Monday (not yet).  It’s not a perfect takeoff (I don’t imagine I could even recognize it if it was), but it’s like how with every paycheck, I’m adding to savings, already it feels significant.  If I continue on, the possibility continues on.  If I keep clapping, Tink still glows.

So.  What I want is to be with him.  Not…necessarily in terms of trying to have a partnership on a level that demands that one of us move to where the other one lives, though that doesn’t faze me as it once did, but I want a weekend. I want a day of shared space.  Of mutual presence.  Of figuring out if the shit in my head is anything more than shit in my head.   Not putting carts before horses.  But this, all of this, tells me, I gotta keep on this diet on track if this is really what I want.  And I keep testing it and realizing that it is.

 

 

 

 

 

Viola D’Amore

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I meant, probably around when it first came out, to talk about the This American Life episode about fat.  I don’t know what else was going on at the time, the usual, I’m sure.  Double job fuckery, having just returned a few weeks ago from burying my grandfather, from burying a certain Camelot that had existed both in reality and in my mind since childhood, and, I think, the sudden and hardcore romantic interest of someone online.

I felt wild about it then, but it felt like this, forgive the horrible and discomfiting pun, huge box to unpack.  An undertaking to relate to these women who had opened their souls up to the whole world and within their souls is much that mine finds as kindred.   I wasn’t up to it and slowly, other posts took its place.

We were talking today after we celebrated my father’s birthday.  We talked about NPR and Serial and briefly about podcasts that the majority of which I hadn’t paid attention to.  We talked about Peaky Blinders and I made my pitch they should watch that.

I wanted to say as part of this flow of conversation – had you heard this particular episode?  This Tell Me I’m Fat episode which was something I felt charged about, felt ready to talk about.  My mother, my mother taking cancer medicine, my mother whom I adore, had earlier mentioned that she needed to lose five pounds.  That she wouldn’t feel okay until she lost five pounds.

Nobody looked at me.  Nobody didn’t look at me.  Nobody shook their index finger at me.  It occurs to me that nobody had to.  The message was so ready in my mind – I’d spent the day not eating anything, there wasn’t time, there wasn’t anything in the cupboards, and I wanted and it had made me the definition of hangry.  Worried about money and all out of whack, we had to run errands before I got food and ended up with a big burrito at nearly 4pm.  A choice made to just make all of the hyperactive pissant thoughts in my head stop in their tracks. Ravenous, I ate until I felt sick and gross.  Then, as though on a conveyor belt, my father’s birthday supper arrived at five.  Homemade spaghetti with garlic toast and wine.  A meal that is enshrined in my head as soothing, homey, wifely…real kitchen witchery.

I tried to explain how the garlic toast was my version of a madeleine – tried to explain Proust.  My mother nodded at my ramble and changed the subject.  Suddenly, it transported me into wave after wave of memory.  Joy, family cohesion, a time of weightless and worry-free childhood.

We watched the ballgame.  I felt waves of effusive agape in equal measure to the frustration I’d felt before.

Then, we had cake.   A big yellow Betty Crocker cake with cream cheese frosting and optional toasted coconut.  My sister’s boyfriend who does not care for desserts made one of those quasi-innocuous comments that I every so often wonder how exactly quasi they are meant – about how every time lately that we’re over there there seems to be cake.  Well, we said, swallowing another bite of the treacly frosting, there’s been a lot of birthdays lately.  For my part, I felt a fair amount of shame, sitting there, no makeup, nearly relaxed, nearly out of reach of my internal monologue and whammo, oh, you girls and your eating again.

I wanted to have the conversation with everyone about being okay and being seen and being registered as I am in this moment and being connected when I felt so loving and caring towards everyone.  That dissipated out of my hands.

But listening to it again now, I know I wouldn’t have liked the path the conversation would take.  No matter at what point.   I wanted to offer a tool for greater understanding of me.  Me, a zaftig person, or an overweight person, or a cute little pudgy darling, or a fat. person. and how maybe I was trying to be okay with myself…mentally, right now.  I was trying to say, think about me, hah, doing something so crazy, wow, as to just live.

When Lindy says, for the most part, she doesn’t see her fatness as likely to change.  That for the most part, fat people’s fatness doesn’t change no matter how valiantly they war against it.  That after holding space for that question to even exist…she’s struggled and struggled and eventually, somehow, found the place where she’s okay with that.

It blew me away. It felt like such an epic question to me.

When Elna Baker explains how the thin and fat versions of herself are in this conversation of worthiness and fear and pedaling as fast as you possibly can to keep these two versions of self separated despite how they long for one another…that’s something I want to share.  The profound nature of Roxane Gay finding herself outside these constructed barriers of fat levels that can use societal tools to subvert societal messages.  This idea of working as hard as you can to better yourself and if your body doesn’t hit a mark, you don’t make it.  You don’t get the gold medal.  You don’t get on the podium.  You don’t get some guy to hang out with you and complain about the type of TV you watch behind your back.

Sitting there, though,  I didn’t want this to be taboo.  I want it to be a shit that could be shot. Even as I think about dieting and weight loss for my own physical comfort, my own air in my own lungs, my own clothes on my own body…I want to say, hey, whatever you think of me…it could be okay if I knew what it was. Even as I contemplate what it means in this singles group if a guy talks about liking heavier girls?

Do I feel…appreciative of that, relieved, amused, disappointed, encouraged?  If you knew someone would look at you and want you, and they’re alright in your mind, do you go and chat them up?  Yes, the universe leans in and hollers, YES.  But for me, I feel profoundly less able to go towards someone who is moving towards me. I feel as though there’s that finger wagging I’ve been looking for.

And maybe that’s my problem.

I have needs in this world.  And being so bold as to breathe them out loud, to say, hey, I want happiness and I want it the way I want it and the way I want it is evolving every day in my own mind and I’ll let you know when we’re getting closer so long as you do the same…that seems like progress.

And if me saying something out loud complicates someone else’s reality, well…good.  It probably needed saying.

Spare Change

dirty-old-truck-1475644-639x503Okay.  So.  The thing in the way of my happiness is me.  If I am to gauge that I would experience a noticeably larger amount of happiness were I to follow up with my plans and attempt to struggle towards my dreams.

So, weight loss.  Right now.

I hesitate to write this because I certainly wouldn’t want anyone writing about my status when I’m working on myself, but my sister is doing great with her low-carb.  I don’t know how much or how little she’s lost, but she’s feeling good, she’s doing it and I can see a difference and I hardly pay any attention to anything.   There is, not an insignificant amount of jealousy, in that I feel bloated and starving and exhausted all the time and she seems, from the outside, alright.

And I am making no money at all, (so it seems) and running out and buying fast food and eating out at places that aren’t really in my poor person budget, acting in old habits, airporting as I defined yesterday.  Just thinking about the

I think, okay, vegetables.  And my whole body gets pissed off.  I get pissed off about everything that’s out of my control or seemingly so…my job situation, the fact that you can have one of these lingering powerful romantic interactions with someone and be strung along for weeks, my mom being sick and having to suffer to do what we can to destroy the sickness and getting messages from my vacationing sister about how I need to be reacting and behaving right now.  And in that space, being able to have a sandwich or a piece of pizza or four or five peanut butter cups to quash hunger and everything else attached to hunger, is magic.

It feels like sidestepping the effects of time.

Yesterday’s truth: There is no day outside of the chain of days, time does not stop and restart, we don’t escape life to some other place.  We just live in or out of fear.

This is the story of the fat people of the world.  Sometimes.  Some of them.  Of me. The Brene Brown bonafide truth that you feel freaked out and vulnerable and you do whatever you feel is necessary to excise those feelings.  Eating, when you’re scared of your own power, is this magical shield that is also a sword.  It just shuts off the thoughts for a while.  I feel like if I am vulnerable to my thoughts, I’ll lose ground, not gain it. Start panicking about driving which I’ve mostly avoided for the past three or four months.  I’ll look around and see what I’m currently half-blind to – real unhappiness with the treatment I accept, real fear, real sense of time slipping out of my hands.  It’s all the mental surgery I don’t get anesthesia for.

I’ve put forth this diatribe before.  I’ve danced the dance, lit the candles, stood very still and waited for signs to emerge.

Yet. At the bottom line, it’s will I do it or won’t I do it?  Right now, I don’t have the strength of will to curb things slightly.  Right now, I want a big act or nothing.

Hmm.

Cet endroit chaud et lumineux

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I’m hopeful that I can carry this post over to MyFitnessPal.  I just need to be present there.  I am also hopeful that the internet will remain connected long enough for me to draft and post this.  I’ve written every day – however, internet blackouts have kept those posts as word docs so I’ll edit them in soon.

Some of this will be replicated in earlier posts, but I don’t think I’ve given much detail there – if at all, so I will not have to mind repeating myself.

Today was Sunday.  A day of not being on-call.  A day of not being anyone’s employee but my own.  In that regard, I did one thing of significance.  I left the house.

It is odd.  You build a thing up in your mind as difficult and it builds its own little wall around the idea.  What was once simple and easy and done every single day, for me, can become the sort of issue that I wake up and find myself panicking over.  I have, of course, been travelling on my own – particularly lately as I have had to take those long drives into the old stomping grounds to perch myself on the old stomping lane for my little part-time job.  In some ways, I have been doing precisely the opposite of what an agoraphobe desires.  I’ve been in public, talking with people, driving, active.   But in my head, I’ve been doing what I can to not think of anything.

My grandfather passing, dear little Peanut having to leave this mortal realm to wherever kitties play beyond this life, getting this new job and how much it pricks the heart of my body issues, visiting my friends and then realizing the depth of their absence in my life, feeling profound deja vu with issues related to the current job, feeling tired all the time.  That was May.

Food, through this, and soda, too, has been this coping mechanism.  The great cure-all to make time pass, to make time stop.  To shut out all the shaming voices that I hear about the failures and frustrations I am experiencing right now.  And the other good tactics I know about, in my head, feel impossible.  It’s those walls that exist around them after avoiding them for a month.  Exercise felt like digging through a brick wall with my fingernails.  Writing down the fact that I had ice cream for breakfast and a brownie for late breakfast today still feels like I’m spitting in the wind.  I feel embarrassed, but at the same time, like I’m not ready to take off the bandaid.  Even if I don’t have the money right now to keep eating out for every meal.  I have to start paying attention.

But I told my parents about the job situation.  They didn’t flip out.  They didn’t catastrophize the way I did for them.  They absorbed it and supported me.  They did, as they do, start to think of ideas what to do, but not as though I needed to do them…more of a group brainstorm.  It was okay.

Somehow, telling them what was going on took a load off of my mind. I didn’t need to go get some extra food after seeing them to take off the edge of having spent so long thinking about these painful things.  I didn’t go buy a bottle of soda just for the craving.

So I feel, somehow, like I’ve done something right.

And on another note, bonne matin!

Lego My Ego

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I am going to try and do double duty as some kind people on MFP have noted my absence there and I am trying to both rev myself back up to start tracking again and empty my brain of all of the resistance I have.

Confessions:

I obviously did not track while away for the funeral and vacation.  I didn’t want to.  I didn’t want to think at all.   I don’t know if I wanted to float as idly as I did, but that’s what happened.

So I’ve drunk soda.  Quite a bit.  That’s happened after more than a year of not drinking it.  I think I’m still capable of turning on a dime and not drinking it again, because the return is infinitely diminished, but I have to actually make that turn and stop.
I have eaten…not great things.  Cupcakes and lava cakes and tacos and random hamburgers and basically hardly even a green thing at all.  My body doesn’t like that at all.  We just sort of ate out constantly, first because of the stress of the funeral, then because we were vacationing and everyone had that mantra of food feels good and there was a lot of good tasting food to be had.  The idea of ordering a salad or having a smaller portion honestly did not occur to me.
I did drink less coffee, if there’s anything to be said for doing that.
I didn’t eat as much as was physically possible if I can get any points for that.

I think the deal is…the new you.  The new iteration.  I’m back in my house, back in my patterns, back in my thinky-thinky brain and you’re just a nice guy I get to think about who likes my facebook pictures and posts and whose pictures and posts I am daring now and again to like.  You live very far away.  You’re not a threat to my creepy little existence.  You, unless I really fuck up wonderful, can’t make much of an impact except in one important little way.  You can make me feel good, like I exist, like I have a draw and a pull on another human being even if that pull isn’t any stronger than a refrigerator magnet.

So I need to get back into the diet.  There’s this impulse, like hey, you’d be more willing to be confident about this if you were confident about you.  Then, the impulse that he seems to just like me and he’s very far away so I don’t have to race.  But he didn’t even exist before and I wanted to do this then so what’s the deal, yo?

Ego.

I am just going to spend the next three days tracking whatever goes into my mouth.  I can do that.  I have done it before.  Then, tracking and adding back in the exercise and getting myself rolling.  Get back on the scale.  It’s not so terrible.  It’s just a habit I have to make by repeating the motions.

 

 

The Sweet Consumptive

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HEY YOU.

You know what you need to stop doing?  You need to stop putting caffeine in your body in the afternoon.  Sugary caffeine in your body 3-4-5p.m. ain’t doing you no favors when it comes to this whole chilling the fuck out situation…

So, okay.  My plan was to write on the short story and get that all sewn up and then gleefully post the word count here and go on to my other projects.  That, I don’t think is going to happen.  Still gonna try to work as so often after I refuse or think that tonight is not the night for it, some vision will bubble up to the surface, but this girl is jumpy and panicky for no reason.

Well, the reasons are that I exercised and I ate below my calorie counts for today – mostly by having a big lunch (or a lunch that filled me up at Panera that was good but full of salt and sugar) and then added a tall skinny caramel macchiato – my weapon of choice these days – and I saw that damn, that’s the calories I need all used up.  So I stopped with the eating (save for a few pretzels).  And now I am bouncing off the walls, trying to focus and freaking out that I can’t.
So that’s why this post is happening.   Sorry, I want to say.  But it’s really borne out of something good which is giving a damn about doing this when I have had all sorts of terrible impulses and giving up the trick vibes and I haven’t.  I’ve lost 14 pounds so far.  I started higher than ever before, I have further to go than ever before, but I’m still going.  I’m definitely still learning and the lessons become clearer all the time.

I am also hanging out in a MST3K dating facebook page group.  I don’t know.  The whole premise makes me laugh – not the idea of the group, which is a fine and sensible idea and I like, pretty exclusively the guys who are intelligent enough to find MST3K funny, but the idea of me being there is laughable.  Because it’s me being an encouraging force for people to chill the fuck out about being so goddamned desperate about finding out of this relatively tiny pool of people spread out all over the country.  It’s me being this sage voice of reason.  There’s worries about the ratio of men to women, who messages who and when and I…for my part, feel as though there’s no rush in the slightest.  People – men – have been kind to me, but I realize how much I’m hung up on Mr. Confusion’s style.  A man who can write to me like he could and I’m not…it’s all a probably terrible idea, but I’m staying on that road, too.

In the interim of all this, I found the time to get obsessed as hell with this short film set to Ane Brun’s music which I think is such a beautiful work of art…did I mention this yesterday? Perhaps I did.   You should watch it, oh my word.

I love it so much that the young man in the film who becomes the old man, totally mentally cast him in my story.

Okay.  I feel very obnoxious, so off I go.  Till tomorrow.