HYC: Week 12 - Struggling

I'm in a rough place, peeps.  I did not work out once last week because of my back.  I comfort-ate like crap.  I've gained weight, but I knew that before I stepped on the scale - I can feel it in how tight and uncomfortable the waist of my jeans is when I sit down.  I spent Saturday morning with my massage therapist and my chiropractor; taking Taryl's suggestion, I asked about monthly maintenance appointments.  They both said that I don't need to come in that often and that every 6-8 weeks should be sufficient (especially if I add in the yoga DVD Dr. C's been suggesting for YEARS).  I actually felt optimistic about my back and managing pain for the first time in, well, ever.

I felt good enough that I contemplated throwing the DVD in on Saturday, but Dr. C generally cautions me to take it easy for 24 hours after an adjustment, so I resisted the urge.  Last night, I was reading the back cover of said DVD and felt intimidated by it: even though Dr. C assured me that I - the not-even-close-to-an-"athlete" - could do it, I was highly skeptical and worried about hurting myself, so I grabbed the beginner's DVD instead (I have half a dozen Rodney Yee yoga DVDs that I've never used...  *shame face*).  I started with the poses section, figuring that it would be best to make sure I'm actually doin' it right.

I've tried a beginner's yoga DVD before (different one) and was very disappointed with it: it expected the "beginner" to know all the poses already - there was very little instruction on what to do, why, or how.  I inevitably ended up frustrated because I didn't "get" it, and quit.  This time, I promised myself I'd keep an open mind (I *really* want to LIKE yoga) and not beat myself up if I wasn't "perfect" out of the gate, and that I'd stop if my back started to hurt.  I had to stop 20 minutes in.

I was mostly okay with my "performance" (*snort*) right afterward; it wasn't until I had a conversation with two well-meaning friends on facebook (and they DID mean well!  I knew that last night, and I still know that now!  It was 100% my issues that caused my meltdown) that I started my usual beating myself up.  "Of course you did it WRONG!  What makes you think YOU'D be able to do this, you big, fat, lazy, slob of a failure?  You can't go to a class to learn proper techniques first: you don't know what you're doing and you're disgusting - you'll make a fool of yourself!"

It turned into a conversation with Chebbar in which I talked about how awful it was to realize that YOU'RE the reason you hate your body and yourself: *I* did this to myself.  *I* got me here.  It's hard to reconcile hating yourself and realizing that you're the cause.  He asked me point-blank what if this is it?  What if this body is the body I'll have for the rest of my life?  What if it never changes?  Is that so bad?

Last night, I'm ashamed to admit that I said yes, it IS bad - it's awful.  This morning, I looked myself in the eye (via the mirror) and told myself much differently: this is the body I have right this very minute, so this is the body I'm going to appreciate (if I can't bring myself to love it) for everything it DOES do for me and everything it allows me to do.  No one loves me less because of how I look or what shape I am: I won't allow myself to indulge in such ridiculous self-pity.

(I honestly don't know what I'd do without Chebbar.  I am so blessed to have him in my life, cheering me on, holding me up, and loving me when I'm hating myself.)

It's so frustrating that meltdowns like this don't spur me on to go run a 5k after eating nothing but carrot sticks and lettuce leaves, and instead make me want to dive head-first into a bucket o'ice cream because "I'm a big, fat, pig anyhow."  However, small victory?  I didn't.  I resisted the urge to comfort-eat last night.  And I've resolved to try the yoga DVD again tomorrow (I'm doing the elliptical tonight - I know I can do THAT).

I know a very, very large part of my snotty tears has to do with the health issues and family drama going on at the moment - for some reason, after getting the bad news on Sunday, I stopped myself mid-cry.  I'd guess last night was just spill-over of pent up sadness and fear and grief and anger.  At the same time, it helped me take a good, hard look at how I see myself and where I'd like to go from here.  It's still tough, and it will likely continue to be a tough journey: it took a lot of years of self-loathing to get me here, so I can't expect to turn it around overnight.

Doing what is right for ME (an update)

I'm starting to hate the telephone.  All it ever seems to do is bring bad news.

We decided to be spontaneous yesterday, hop in the car, and go for a drive.  Normally, Sundays are reserved for bumming around the house - relaxing between loads of laundry and other chores - which we refer to as "Sweatpant Sundays" because that IS our Sunday best.  Normally, we try our very best to get all of our out-of-the-house errands done on Saturdays so we can stay at home on Sundays.  Yesterday was different, for some reason.

When we got home four hours later, there was a message from Mom on the answering machine from three hours earlier (yes, we still use and answering machine - I'm cheap: shut it).  With Mom, you always have to pay attention to what she doesn't say.  I tried the house, but got no answer, so I called her cell phone.

Nick had gone to see Gramps with a bunch of other family members because they were also having a meeting with the doctors, and they wanted someone to be able to relay information to Mom and I (yes, I'm shocked, too).  When Nick called Mom to update her, the poor bugger kept breaking down.  Gramps has a bleed on the brain which caused a stroke; the blood thinners they gave him to break up the clot caused yet another heart attack; he's also still battling pneumonia.  The doctors used the phrase "permanent vegetative state" and advised the family to "be prepared to make a decision" (apparently Gramps made his wishes on this subject known long ago: there will be no persistent vegetative state).  He went from sitting up and eating solid food earlier last week, to being unable to speak or comprehend speech.  He is heavily sedated. 

Mom wanted to go see Gramps, but she didn't want a repeat of last time; she asked Nick to call her once they were all on their way home, because she'd know it was "safe."  Mom and Brad were on their way to see him when I got her on her cell.  She mentioned that it was safe if I wanted to meet them out there; I told her that the dippy-hippie in me felt like I wasn't meant to see him: I told her that we had been a mere half hour away from the hospital and could've been there in no time if she'd called my cell phone (instead of leaving a message at the house) - at that point, we were back home and now an hour and a half away.  She didn't sound overly impressed with my decision to stay home.

When I got off the phone, Chebbar offered to drive us right back out, but I said no.  I instantly felt guilty because I know that's not what was expected of me by Mom, Nick, Taylor...  I was wracked with "shoulds."  (Interestingly enough, I'm doing this challenge, and this week's exercise is to be obligation-free and eliminate the "shoulds" and "have-tos" by rephrasing them to "want-tos" or eliminating them entirely if we don't want to fulfill said obligation.)  I told him that I had made my peace with Gramps when we last saw him; while I knew there was little chance of a repeat of the last time, I wasn't going to willingly and knowingly put myself in the position for yet another potential hurtful scene with Grandmonster and Donna.

As soon as I stated out loud that I didn't want to go and that I was not going to feel guilty about my choice (nor allow anyone else to guilt trip me), I felt like a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders.  In the course of the conversation, Chebbar said something to the effect of "one 'bad' person down... "  I shook my head and told him that I wasn't interested in that negativity anymore: I realized that I've forgiven all three of them, and all I want at this point is peace and comfort for them (while recognizing that a) I don't want that to come from me, and b) it doesn't have to come from me). 

That exchange showed me just how negative and toxic I've let my hurt and anger towards those people make me - the fact that Chebbar's first thought was that I'd be glad to think in terms of knocking off the "bad" people one by one made me sad and ashamed: that is NOT the person I want to be.  That's not the person I am.  I'm not sure which of the many books I've read in the last little while stated this, but I do recall very clearly the author's position that making changes - whether it's attitude, putting yourself first, whatever - will likely be difficult for your loved ones to wrap their heads around, especially if you've been one way for a long time.  I'm in a place where... it's not that it doesn't *matter* to me, but I'm okay with having to deal with my family's confusion at my new perspective(s).

I don't wish them (Gramps, Grandmonster, or Donna) ill.  I'm worried about my brother and sister; I'm very worried about my mom - I can't imagine knowing you're losing the father who hasn't spoken to you in ten years, who made no move to protect you for 40 years.  I hope we're ALL able to find peace and comfort with our chosen family.

My dirty little secret

Not to be confused with the post of a similar name I wrote 100 years ago.

I have a secret.  Well, I guess it's not that secret since I just mentioned it in a comment on Band Back Together. 

I pick at my skin.  The slightest bump, lump, or imperfection is subject to my finger nails; I work at said imperfection until it no longer mars my skin.  Unfortunately, this generally comes with a small amount of blood, which results in a scab, which protrudes from my skin and generally will receive further picking (because apparently I don't know when to leave well enough alone, dammit). 

Skin picking is formally known as dermatillomania.  There are a number of different kinds of dermatillomania - skin, scalp, acne, etc - and numerous reasons why people pick at their skin: for some people it's borne of boredom, while for others it's more of a compulsion.

I have worried and fussed over my skin for about six years now.  Every time I get a bad flare-up that sends me to the ends of the earth searching for miracle cures (which really isn't that often), I forget that said flares eventually end and my skin goes back to (semi)normal.  Until that occurs, I obsessively examine my face for new blackheads, pimples, and clogged pores.  Well, let's be honest: I'm looking for imperfections every time I look in the mirror.  I try to leave well enough alone, but...

However.  I've ended up with some wicked scabs.  Scars.  Hell, I actually bruised the tip of my nose after a vigorous attempt at blackhead extraction.  The worst part?  The only reason I even knew is because a coworker asked what was "wrong" with my nose: I hadn't even noticed I'd bruised myself.  My arms, shoulders, back, and scalp are also subject to my ever-roving fingernails - anywhere a patch of dry skin or little bump might be found.  And once I find one?  I'm pretty unable to keep my hands off myself.

The "secret" part lies in my... favourite (for lack of a better word) place to pick: my ears.  The scabs just inside my ear aren't easily visible, you see.  People aren't walking around peering in my ear canals.  And I get away with it, for the most part.  Chebbar will give me shit if he catches me, but that just means I'm more furtive about my picking, often doing it when he's not around (in the car on the way to work seems to be a favourite).

It's a perfection thing.  I'm sure it started because I felt something that needed to be gotten rid of - I've seen visible blackheads in other people's ears and it kinda squicks me out, so I was probably trying to get rid of the imperfection.

It's a control thing.  I get to choose when/where I pick.  I have myself fooled into thinking I have control over whether or not I pick, and that I can stop picking whenever I want.

It's a comfort thing.  I know this will sound strange considering I've picked until one ear is raw and I almost always draw blood, but I think it ties into the control bit.  As well, I do it when I'm anxious, stressed, or uncomfortable.

It's rather bizarre to have a habit that feels completely out of your control.  I'll tell myself that I'm just going to SEE (okay, feel) if my ears are scabby, but the next thing I know, I'm bleeding.  I'll tell myself that I'm ONLY going to pick IF the scabs "feel loose," but the next thing I know, I'm bleeding.  I'll tell myself that I'm NOT going to pick AT ALL today, but the next thing I know, I'm bleeding.  Even as I'm picking and it's starting to hurt and my brain is telling me to STOP, I pick until the next thing I know, I'm bleeding.  Or I'll be picking when the boss comes up to my desk and I tilt my head to hide the fact that I literally cannot stop picking even just until he goes away.  It is RIDICULOUS.  It makes me feel like a freak, but a secret freak unless you catch me mid-pick.

Well, until today.  For some reason, I felt the need to say it out loud.  Maybe so other pickers know they're not alone?  I'm not sure.  I do feel a little lighter for unburdening myself, though.

Because clearly I win at life

This morning during my usual perusal of what needed to picked/squeezed/extracted/otherwise tortured on my face, I was making a *ahem* withdrawal by squeezing at the bridge of my nose when PING! my nose ring went SHOOTING OUT OF MY FACE.  Seriously: that thing made air!  I didn't have my damned contacts in yet, so Chebbar had to stop getting dressed to help me find the little bastard.  It was funny.

And then tonight, because I'm such a classy broad, I licked pizza sauce off my iPod, even though my napkin was sitting right there.  What?  It made sense at the time.

I will...

...find peace within myself
...be more mindful
...live more authentically
...react calmly
...think positively instead of automatically assuming the worst
...learn to roll with the punches and go with the flow
...have confidence/belief/trust in myself and my abilities
...stand up for myself in a respectful manner

HYC: Week 11

I wasn't doing too badly last week before the whole lifting a motorcycle incident (yeah, I'm She-Ra: be jealous), but my back is pretty well buggered.  I saw a doctor last Thursday who prescribed a muscle relaxant, ice, and two days off work.  He also told me to file a claim with ICBC.  Unfortunately, because I wasn't injured a) in the accident or b) by my vehicle (apparently even if I'd banged my head on the door getting out of the car to help, I would've been covered - RIDICULOUS), I am not covered under this accident: I was doing a Good Samaritan act and was hurt in the process - too bad so sad for me.  I'm just freaking lucky that I'll still be paid for my time off and that I have prescription/chiropractic/massage therapy coverage through Chebbar's school.

I had a LOT of time to think on my four-day weekend.  After the conversation with Mom that didn't go as I would have liked, I even more determined to continue working to find and be unapologetically me.  This will include respecting myself and my body:

• I will move my body with intention as often as possible, as my body is happier and works better when it is moved regularly
• I will listen to my body, recognize my limitations, and not push myself to injury
• I will not deprive my body, of fresh produce OR ice cream
• I will continue to meditate because god does it feel good
• I will make time every day to do something that fulfills me in some way - write, draw, read, sing, dance
• I will do little things that feel like a million bucks like moisturizing and painting my toes
• I will work on positive thoughts and optimism instead of drowning in negativity and thinking the worst
• I will stop comparing myself to others, especially since I don't know everyone else's story
• I will do my damnedest to be confident in myself and my abilities so I won't be so afraid to speak my truth

How do you respect yourself and/or your body?

Bullet-pointed bullshit

• I was feeling left out, excluded, butt-hurt, and cranky yesterday, so I stepped away from the source, hoping I'd feel better in the morning.  Nope: still feeling all of those things with a side order of overwhelmed, confused, insecure, and fuck-this-I-quit.  I'm 99% certain it was an oversight and I'm just being over-sensitive, but unfortunately that 1% is a loud mofo.
• My grandfather has had a second heart attack, is back on life support, and is on a dialysis machine because his kidneys are failing.  We only discovered this because I was curious about my cousin's vaguebooking and texted my siblings who were in the dark.  So much for them keeping us in the loop.
• I was "volunteered" to give my mom the news.  During the course of the conversation, I mentioned that I was fairly certain I wouldn't be going to a funeral: I honestly thought that he wouldn't recover when we went to the hospital, so I said what I had to say and made my peace that day.  Going to the (still theoretical) funeral would only give those two harpies (and the assorted family members who have shunned us as black sheep without ever asking for our side of the story) another opportunity to hurt me, so I have no interest in putting myself in that position.  Mom was less than happy with my decision (she actually sounded a little panicked, so it was likely a safety-in-numbers thing), and told me I should go "just to spite them."  I couldn't figure out how to tell her that I have zero interest in willingly participating in such negativity.
• I'm turning into a dippy-hippie who reads self-help books and blogs about self-improvement and how to achieve "zen" and meditates and is trying to get back in tough with her creative side.  I fear how people will react to these changes, but that will be on them: this feels RIGHT for me.
• My back isn't as sore as it was on Friday, but I've been icing the crap out of it and taking it easy (while still moving so it doesn't lock up).  I stopped taking the muscle relaxants Saturday night just to see; I'll be taking them to work with me, since I can't take the ice pack (no freezer at work to keep it cold).
• I'm cleaning out my closet and dresser drawers.  Now that the shit that doesn't fit well has been removed, all of a sudden I have WAY fewer clothes, so that's (not)awesome.
• I'm going to miss the damned dog when he goes home today.  :(
• I feel like I  need a good cry, but I don't WANT to cry.  *sigh*

Puppysitting!

We're dog sitting this weekend.  Sort of.  Chebbar's dog lives with Pops because we can't have pets in our apartment building.  However, considering the strata council president has a toddler in our 19+ building, we sort of *ahem* threw caution to the wind.

He's an Aussie Shepherd that is super friendly and liable to lick you to death.  He's built like me and carries his weight in his butt - he can knock me over just by leaning against my legs.  He's normally a big, hairy fluffball, but he was shaved recently.  I luff him.

 My new couch mate

 Oh, nothing.  Just chillin'.

Pretty boy. <3

Note to self: No, you CAN'T lift a Harley

I thought I was going to be late to work this morning due to road construction.  However, that's not what made me late.

Traffic made it through that just fine, only to come to a literal screeching halt.  The driver of the silver SUV in front of me must not have felt he could stop in time because one minute he was there, and the next he was in the slow lane.  I thought for sure I was going to cream the CRV that was now leading the pack - my anti-lock brakes locked, my tires squealed, my purse and lunch kit went flying into the wheel well, and my whole body tensed.

The lady jumped out of the CRV and flew down the highway.  I got out to see what was going on.  When I got around her truck, I saw a motorcycle glove and pair of sunglasses right in front of her bumper.  For a split second, I thought the driver was underneath the truck.  My whole body went numb until my eyes caught site of the motorcycle up ahead lying on its side.  The gentleman I'd seen riding it earlier was stumbling around.

Apparently a Cavalier pulled in front of him; the CRV lady didn't think the other woman had cut the biker off, but she said it was definitely close.  The guy braked hard and the bike went down.  He slid along the road long enough that the bottom of his back pocket was completely chewed away by the pavement, leaving his wallet dangling.  He had a small gash on his forehead (that was bleeding like crazy, of course), and was complaining of shoulder pain (I'm assuming it took the weight of him and the bike in the fall), but insisted he was okay.

Another SUV going eastbound stopped on the opposite side of the meridian; I later learned that at least one of the occupants was a police office.  The lady in that SUV took off her sweater to cover the gent, then asked if anyone had a blanket - I ran back to the car, thankful that I've been too lazy to take it in the house.  She then went up to talk to the driver of the Cavalier who was absolutely hysterical.

The gentleman was worried about his bike and asked that someone move it out of the road - he was worried about the damage because the poor guy had just had a custom paint job done.  The guy driving the silver SUV that had been in front of me went and grabbed the handle bars, then asked for help.  I didn't even think about the fact that my back has been giving me pain for the past week and that I'm waiting on an appointment with my chiropractor: I grabbed the back end of the Harley and hefted it up.  As we tried to roll it over to the shoulder, my foot slipped in a puddle of oil? gas? a combination of the two?  I could still smell it once I got to work.

A fire truck showed up within minutes (we weren't far from a station) followed very quickly by an ambulance and RCMP officers.  The gentleman was in good spirits and got up off the ground and onto the stretcher on his own steam.  At that point, I gave the police office my name and phone number (no statement since I hadn't really seen anything) and headed back to my car.

I held it together until I was past the accident scene, then broke down sobbing.  The harder I cried, the more I beat myself up.  I felt ridiculous!  An emergency happens, and all I can do is shake like a leaf and CRY?  Seriously?  I hate that my natural reaction to 99% of LIFE is to cry.  Hate it hard.

I was at work for maybe an hour before giving up and going home - I was in so much pain, I could hardly breathe.  Chebbar ended up coming home at lunch and took me to the walk-in clinic.  The doctor told me to take the rest of the day and tomorrow off and prescribed a muscle relaxant.  He also told me to call ICBC because, even though I wasn't part of the accident, I was injured at the scene of the accident.  Now I have to call the RCMP to see if I can get the case number.  I called my boss, but his phone died halfway through the conversation, so of course now I'm doing the whole he's-pissed-I'm-missing-ANOTHER-day-of-work guilt thing.  Pppbbblllttt.

Mental Health Blog Day

Did you know that May is Mental Health Month?  Mental Health is something that has grown near and dear to my heart since my depression diagnosis last September: I do my best to speak openly about what I'm experiencing, offer support to those facing similar things, and attempt to educate others on what depression is and means (mostly that it's not a laughing matter).

In conjunction with Band Back Together and Your Mind Your Body's Mental Health Blog Day, I'm blogging for mental health.

My name is Chibi, and I am the face of depression and generalized anxiety disorder.

You can support Mental Health Blog Day by posting on your blog with Your Mind Your Body's badge (code here), and/or link up with Band Back Together (here).  You can also use the hashtag #mhblogday on Twitter.