Still no baby here. My “due date” isn’t until April 5th so while I’m more than ready for his arrival and really uncomfortable I’m not worried. After all due dates are really just “guesstimates”. Babies come when they are ready not when they are “due”.

As I’m preparing for the birth of Thing 3, I decided I wanted to reminisce and reflect on my previous births. While my first birth was far from a tragedy, it was on some level traumatic and far from ideal. It left physical and mental scars that took time to heal. Perhaps in sharing my story someone else will feel less alone or less crazy or more hopeful or something. If anything it’s nice for me to look back and see how much I have learned and grown since the birth of Thing 1 and, of course, to remember falling in love with Thing 1 all over again.

The Prenatal Days – A Huge Bag of Mixed Emotions

I found out I was pregnant with Thing 1 about a month and a half after a trip to India where I had gotten really sick. I actually went to the doctor and asked for antibiotics because I thought I was still sick with a lingering stomach virus. The doctor advised me to wait over the weekend and if I didn’t feel better he would do some testing. A few days later, I took a pregnancy test and was surprised to find out out I was pregnant. It wasn’t particularly “good timing”. I was getting ready to move to a new town, finishing college, and on top of those things I was struggling with depression and had been recently diagnosed with a personality disorder (Borderline).

Emotional/Relational/Spiritual

It was a long 9 months. We had recently moved to Ventura from Santa Barbara and I had very few friends. Most of my days were spent at home crying. If you have ever faced the true despair that real depression brings you’ll understand what I mean. It’s more than a “bad day”. The days were long, lonely, and empty. During this time, I started going to therapy 2-3 times a week. These were dark days, probably some of the darkest of my life, but even in the midst of the darkness God gave me a few candles to guide my steps as He always does. First and most important was Brent. He was and will always be my best friend and my rock. We clung to each other through that dark tunnel and came out the other side stronger than before. Second, was my therapist and my parents who made therapy possible. I really don’t know if we would have made it through the darkness without them. Thirdly, we started going to a new church and the pastor’s wife took me under her wing. She would pick me up and take me with her while she “toodled around town”, i.e., ran errands. She listening without judgement to my endless lists of fears and worries.

For reasons I won’t go into, I really wanted a boy. The thought of having a girl terrified me more than the thought of giving birth itself. I prayed constantly that I would have a boy. Seeing that my mental state was where it was at the time, we decided it was best to not find out the gender. A few days before I went into labor I went to the mall and bought a pink dress because I figured I’d better start accepting the fact that my baby had a 50/50 chance of being a girl.

Physical

Back in those days I didn’t know much about health and nutrition. Prior to getting pregnant, I had been an unhealthy vegetarian who lived off of cereal, pasta, and canned lima beans. Once my pregnancy cravings kicked in all I wanted was meat and I never looked back.

During those 9 months I took eating for two literally. I remember sitting in class one day and eating a packs of peanut M&Ms, Kit-Kats, and Twizzlers, one right after another, when I noticed a girl staring at me. This is how I ate my entire pregnancy. I ate a full pint of ice cream almost daily. I didn’t get full blown gestational diabetes but did have to take the the long 3 hour test because of the results of my first test. It was no surprise that I put nearly 70 pounds on my 118 pound body.

Before I was pregnant exercise consisted of an occasional run around the track at college. I thought if I could run a mile it meant I was “healthy”. Once I was pregnant forget about running. I didn’t do any exercise until we joined the YMCA late in my pregnancy and I took up swimming a few days a week because it felt good to be weightless even if it meant swimming in a plaid tent.

Educational

Although childbirth is an act of nature, it is so important to educate ourselves especially at this point in time when many (most?) doctors want to turn it into a medical condition. Not to to mention how the media falsely portrays childbirth conditioning most women to think it “has” to be awful and painful. Like most new mothers, I took a class but was so TERRIFIED that I zoned out every time I was there to cope with my fear. I fully embraced that birth was going to be excruciatingly painful. Not only did the thought of giving birth scare me but it disgusted me as well. Of course I read What to Expect When Expecting which is the WORST pregnancy book out there but at the time I didn’t know any better. Unfortunately, my lack of education showed when it came time to birth.

The Birth – Classic Path to a C-Section

I went into labor on my own on April 21, 2000. I can’t remember much except that it hurt. HURT!  Of course, it did because that was what I was fully expecting to happen. If only I had listened and took the time to learn the pain management skills that were taught in my class. What would have been even more important would have been to take the time to work through my fears and preconceptions regarding birth. But I was where I was and that was at a place of fear.

What followed next was a classic path to a c-section. First, I went into the hospital too early at only a few centimeters dialated. Next, I asked for an epidural right away. I’m not 100% against epidurals (I do think it’s healthier for mama and baby to go without but so far I’ve never done that) but asking for one during early labor can slow it down which is exactly what happened. One intervention lead to the next. I was put on my back (not good) and since my labor slowed they gave me pitocin. Pitocin can make contractions unnaturally strong which can affect the baby’s heart rate. The pitocin, laying on my back, continuous fetal monitoring, and fear was a recipe for a c-section. After many hours of a slowed labor and a the baby’s heartrate going up and down, the doctor decided it was best to have a c-section.

I don’t blame my doctor’s decision. He is a great doctor and was wonderful during the c-section. They took me to the OR and upped my epidural. Brent came in and stayed at my head under the sheet looking at me with intense love and reassurance the entire time. I can’t imagine what it would have been like without him.

Before they cut me open, I remember asking my doctor if I was numb. He asked if I could feel him pinching my skin. I couldn’t so he proceeded with the surgery. The surgery didn’t hurt but I could feel pulling and tugging. Thing 1 came out and the doctor said, “It’s a boy.” For a moment, I forgot I was in the middle of surgery and was overcome with joy at having a boy! A BOY!!!!!! Our new little boy had a less than ideal apgar score and there was meconium staining so they took him to the NICU for observation.

I only got a glimpse of him, much less a chance to hold him, while they wheeled him by me in a cart. It would be 18 hours until I got to hold my baby. That was the worst part of the whole ordeal.

The next thing I knew I was given a shot and went out like a light. I woke up later in a recovery room and then later in the room I would stay in for 5 days. The only thing I can remember about the next few hours was being in the most pain I had ever been in in my life and pressing a button that gave me pain medicine. Oh and I was thirsty, so very thirsty, but they would only let me have ice chips.

The following day nurses came in to poke or prod me but I still had not seen my baby. Brent was going back and forth between me and the NICU. Finally, a midwife who owned the birth center where I had taken my childbirth class, was visiting someone in the hospital. She stopped to see me and found out I hadn’t seen my baby. Immediately, she went to the nurses and asked that I be able to see him. It wasn’t long before I was put into a wheelchair and taken to the NICU.

Thing 1 had his own room and was soooo big (Almost 10 pounds!) compared to all the other babies in the NICU. Although there was nothing wrong with him he was still under “observation”. It broke my heart that he had to lay there all alone when his mama was just down the hall. I didn’t know enough nor did I have the confidence at the time to question hospital protocol so I kept being wheeled down there every few hours to see him. Finally after a few days they released him to my room. Then a few days later I was released to go home.

For me, it had been a confusing, emotionally draining, and verging on traumatic five days.

Postpartum – Things Get Worse Before Better

Recovering from a c-section sucks. I don’t think I had ever or have since been so sore. It felt like someone had forced me to do 5 million sit-ups at gun point. But that was nothing compared to the emotional pain I felt at not being able to nurse my baby like I had planned.

Since Thing 1 had been immediately taken away from me, I had not got to nurse him much so my milk was sooo very slow to come in. When it did finally come in there wasn’t much. This isn’t uncommon for c-section moms. If you haven’t nursed a baby it’s hard to describe the desire to nourish them. It’s overwhelming and, for me, it defined the next few weeks of who I was. Since I wasn’t making enough milk I saw myself as a failure and became crazy obsessed with increasing my milk supply. After almost every feeding, I would pump for about an extra hour. This added up to 8-12 hours of pumping a day. It was painful physically but mentally excruciating. In hindsight, I was not well but we didn’t have much of a support system at the time nor did we know better.  Brent and I were fumbling along together. I, desperate to nourish my baby, was feeling like a failure and fighting postpartum depression. He, desperate to provide love and support to me, was taking care of our home on very little sleep.

Those few weeks after birth were long, dark, and lonely but eventually, my milk supply caught up with the demand. Well mostly, I still had to supplement with formula a little bit. I walked in my college graduation with a forced smile. My c-section healed and we eventually found our new normal as a family of three. Day by day, I fell in love with our new son a little more. In the process, my depression and severe emotional struggles faded to what would eventually become a memory.

What I learned – God Heals and Babies and Birth Matter

First, I learned that God heals. Not to get all “religious” on you but this is the only way I can put it. He not only healed my physical wounds but the emotional ones as well. Having our first son was a huge step taken towards wholeness. It may not have been what I had planned for my life but it turned out to be what God knew I needed. Fourteen years later, I can’t even begin to imagine my life without Thing 1. He is an amazing child and one of the best “surprises” I have ever been given.

Secondly, I learned the importance of educating myself about childbirth and facing my fears surrounding it. For many women, including myself, it’s not enough to read What to Expect When Expecting or go to any birth class. There were fears that needed addressing and I should have taken the time to learn about the possible consquences of interventions. I’ll never know what the birth could have been like had I not chosen my first intervention, the epidural. Perhaps I could have had a natural birth and breastfeeding would have gone more smoothly and not become the mental nightmare it was those first few weeks. Or not. I’ll never know.

People often say to mothers who have had a less than ideal birth, “At least you have a healthy baby”, as if that’s all that matters. While I understand the sentiment, it’s not the full picture. A healthy baby is not all that matters. Healthy babies are important but so are healthy mamas and positive birth experiences. 

I was determined that when the time came my second birth would not be a repeat of my first birth. In the meantime, I fell deeply in love my surprise baby, Thing 1.

Hugs and High Fives,
Jenn

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When it comes to people I love, I’m a major somewhat of a control freak.

Don’t believe me?

I have goodbye letters written to all my family members and directions on how to “run my funeral” if I should die an untimely death. Where to find pictures, who to contact to put together a slide show should Brent and I leap into the next realm together, who might want to share a few words. It’s all in a fire proof safe.

Told ya.

I did write all those letters and “directions” when Brent and I traveled to China, India, and South Africa to shoot a documentary without our children. But still…I don’t think “funeral directions” are something everyone writes. When my boys were little I would type hour by hour instructions for the babysitters. Don’t worry, I’m saving for their therapy.

Why?

Fear. I’m afraid of pain, loss, essentially I’m afraid of, losing control.

The thing is control is an illusion.

There are no guarantees no matter the precautions that are taken.

The reality is an apple a day may or may not keep the doctor away

For someone like me, it’s necessary to learn to loosen the the knot or else I’ll slowly strangle myself trying to “stay safe”.

For sanity, for peace, for health, it’s important to learn to let it go.

When I let it go my body relaxes and I can almost hear each cell breath a sigh of relief.

The older I grow the easier it becomes.

Let it go. It may or may not add years but it will certainly add happiness.

It takes practice but what a feeling.

Breathe deep and trust.

The sun always rises and always sets.

Let it go.

Hugs and High Fives,
Jenn

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The tide has come in and I’ve been stuck in the sand.  The current pulls me out to sea.  Grains of sand slip through my fingers as I try to grasp hold . Useless.  So I wait because the tide aways returns me to solid ground.

I look up from my  lonely place and see light.

 
(Source)

Hope.

Beauty.

A world outside myself.

It’s been a long rough week.  I’ll spare you the all-to-common details of the effects of a crappy economy, unwelcomed surprises, insecurities, and my baggage covered in cobwebs.

I’ll just say I’m thankful.

Thankful for cool breezes.

Thankful for Meow Cow’s purr.

Thankful for the strong arms of my husband.

Thankful for tangy glasses of kombucha.

Thankful for children.

Thankful for you.

Yes, life is good.  So very good even when it doesn’t feel it.

(I’m not a teenager in angst.  Really I’m not.)

Have a beautiful weekend.

Hugs and High Fives,
Jenn

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Source

Today I woke up feeling down.

Most of the time I feel like a girl enjoying the beach.  (The girl in my mind has smaller smoother thighs).  I run, skip, play, and work building sandcastles. Most of the time my life is pleasant and I enjoy the simplicity of my life.  I’m grateful. Occasionally, often without warning, the tide starts to come in wrecking my lovely sandcastles.  I panic, complain, question, and get angry.  I try to build a dam to stop the tide.  It doesn’t work.  I try to outrun the tide but I’m running in lead filled Uggs across sand.  Today rather than panic, fight, or run, I’m choosing to wait and trust.  Trusting my sandcastle is built on a rock and it won’t be washed away.

The tide will recede.  There will still be remnants and I will build again.

Source

I will laugh again.  I will play again.  I will see beauty again.

I will be stronger for it.

Source

Hugs and High Fives,
Jenn

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Today while reading about the history of  St. Patrick’s Day with my children, I learned the meaning behind the Irish flag.  The green and the orange symbolize opposing cultures while the white stands for the hope of unity, of peace.

Peace.

In my life there is division.  Two sides of me warring against the other.  I certainly don’t mean to trivialize the tumultuous history of a country nor do I mean to equate my small trials to those of  a nation.

The meaning of the flag simply moved me to a place of personal reflection.  I want to exist in the white, that place of hope.  I want to exist in peace and harmony within myself.  I want to silence the internal conflict, the perfectionism, and the out of reach expectations.  I want to shut the door on the all or nothing thinking that too often dominates my mind.  I want to call for an inner “truce”.

Hope you had a good St. Patrick’s day!  I’m partially Irish and the only thing green I ate was some lettuce.  :-O

Hugs and High Fives,
Jenn

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Feeling overwhelmed, frustrated, and sad.

Feeling “mental” despite the perfect weather.

I’d love to take off for the Sequoias today.

Brent working in our “wt” pop-up trailer with Simpler Times, Starbucks, a soda, and a McDonald’s cup.  Ahhh the contradictions.

I’ve never claimed to be perfect.

Instead of running away, I read Picking their Own Fruit from one of my FAVORITE blogs of all time Stuff White People Like and got a good laugh. It’s one of two blogs that after I found it (while searching for the perfect peacoat) I read the ENTIRE thing in two days. Warning: If you don’t like satire you might find it offensive.

(Sigh)

Instead of sitting around and feeling sorry for myself, I think I’ll put on a padded bra and an A-line dress.

Then I’ll go pick up my veggies from the CSA and try to be grateful for all the blessings I do have in my life.

Hugs and High Fives,
Jenn

Related Posts
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I Almost Punched Her in the Face

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I used to be a functional “psycho chick”.  I could hide it well until I got close to someone and I felt like I might be abandoned.  Once, I kept a boy who wanted to break up with me in my car all night long.  Every time he tried to get out of the car I would hurt myself.  After a long and painful night for both of us, I put my foot through the windshield.  Told ya I was crazy… and that was only the beginning of the crazy girl stuff.

This weekend marks 11 years since I met my husband and this is the story of how I went from psycho to princess.

Me.

I used to gel those swirls to my cheeks. Nice.

A funky girl with “issues”.  When I met Brent I was a 21 year old junior in college studying english lit and theatre.  I was lonely, insecure, and mentally ill but I was also creative, adventurous, and sincere.  I had moved out to California from Indiana at 18 because I wanted to be an actress and was trying to finish college in 3.5 years so I could move to LA or NYC. I should add that although I was crazy, you might doubt it from the outside. I also believed in God (the Jesus-y God) and had since I was in 7th grade.

Brent.

A quiet pensive guy who was also a bit lonely.  He had been a drummer in a band and was lucky enough to have toured the country and parts of the world.  When the band broke up he worked in the bookstore at my college, where he had graduated from 4 years earlier.   Although the college was small I had never met him.  A few months prior to our meeting he had gotten a job at a skate park where he was going to make skateboarding videos but ended up designing websites instead.  He too believed in God.

We were neighbors, literally living right next door to each other but didn’t know it.  Yet.

A week before we met.

I was in Scottsdale, AZ, visiting my grandparents.  I had lived in Scottsdale the summer before maxing out credits at the community college and ASU because, like I said, I wanted to graduate early so I could move to the city.   Every time I go to Scottsdale, I visit the church I went to that summer.  On this visit, a boy who I was friends with asked me if I wanted to hang out that night.  It was Valentine’s Day and I remember sitting in his living room, his perfect living room in his perfect middle class home, imagining what it would be like to be married to him.  It freaked me out.  Not a little.  A lot.  The thought made me feel like someone was locking me away in a dungeon filled with spitting cobras.  I’ve never been the princess-looking-for-the-knight-type of girl.  Too many issues I guess. Late that night after returning to my grandparents house I found myself kneeling on my bed, praying.  This was my prayer, “God if you want me to get married You better make it crystal clear because there is no way I am going to lock myself in a dungeon on my own.  Amen.”

The following weekend.

Have no idea how we got this photo but it’s from the night we met. (No I’m not wearing a jean jumper.)

My girlfriend and I were having a party at my house.  We had the best parties.  We would line our long hallway with butcher paper and tack boxes of crayons to the walls so people could draw.  We had muscians playing, belly dancing, poetry readings.  It was great fun.  That night, I was in the kitchen preparing for one of our parties. I was chopping away at the kitchen counter wearing red hair extensions that fell to my waist and homemade beaded  false eyelashes when my friend, Ed, poked his head through my front door.  With him was Brent.  Brent. Brent. Time froze.  Standing on my doorstep was the most beautiful human being I had ever seen.  I loved him that moment.  Maybe not deeply but I loved him and nobody will tell me otherwise.  Ed introduced us and just struck by Cupid’s arrow I mumbled the most clever of clever questions “What do you do?”.  His response, “I’m a filmmaker.”  Gaining my composure, I responded, “Reeeally, well I’m an actress” holding out my hand flirtatiously to be kissed.  True.  We were ridiculous.  That evening we had a magical time dancing and hanging out. I didn’t want the the night to end and I don’t think he did either. Finally, in the wee hours of the morning, he walked back over to his house…next door.  I stayed at mine.

The next evening.

Again he showed up on my doorstep.  He was trying to be chivalrous.  I opened my door wearing a black turtle neck and thick black glasses.  “Jenn?” he said?  Yes, it’s me.  We sat on my couch and talked for hours.  I had to ask what he thought about God.  Although I was crazy and had 5,698,000,000 issues to work through, I knew one thing that a relationship without God wasn’t going to work for me.  So I said, “What do you think about God?”  His answer, “What else is there?”  His simple answer rang deep within me in a place I can’t adequately describe.

A week later.

We were dancing slow and listening to music in his room.  In my head, like a dream, I saw us dancing in front of what felt like the feet of God.  Brent was kissing my head and drops of oil were forming.  The drops of oil were stacking up on top of one another, a glistening tower reaching up to God.  It may sound weird and I suppose it was but it was also beautiful.  So beautiful that I hugged him tightly.  In that moment, I heard these words, “You are holding your husband.”  It wasn’t an audible loud-speaker-booming-bluelight-special voice but I could hear it as certain as I am alive.  “You are holding your husband.”   It had been two weeks since I was on my knees in Arizona.

The next two months.

No I didn’t tell him about the dream or the voice.  I knew better.  I started praying and fasting every Monday and asking for “a sign”.  Over the next few months, the crazy girl began to come out. I found out there was a name for my mental condition, Borderline Personality Disorder. (That’s another post entirely.) I read a book on the disorder and while most people find labels restricting I found freedom.  Finally, I knew there were others who felt like me and while statistically the prognosis looked bleak I was determined to not lose what I had found in Brent.  How did Brent repond?  He continued to love me.

Somethings I’ll never understand.

He loved me through every up and down and honestly during that period of our lives there were more downs than ups.

I “surprised” him by handing 30 Promax bars from his ceiling with dental floss.

We had met at the tail end of February and it was now April.  In a few weeks, I was to leave for a month’s study in Israel.  After Israel, I was planning on spending 10 days in London by myself.  I had been there a few years earlier and fell in love with the city.  I teasingly said he should meet me in London.  The next day he surprised me by saying he had bought a plane ticket.  He also joked about getting married.  That’s it.  That was “my sign”.

I’m easy to please.

Israel

In the Dead Sea.

Israel was one of the most amazing places I have ever been.  I wandered the stones paths of old Jerusalem and swam at dawn in the Sea of Galilee pondering my faith and future. Still the ancient marvels of Petra (in Jordan) and the weighlessness of the Dead Sea could not compare with my thoughts of Brent. I counted the days, the hours, the minutes, until I would be able to feel his embrace again.  While in Israel, a friend and I discussed our thoughts of marriage.  I had not told a soul about the dream or the voice the night we danced in his room.  However I said, if I ever get married I want a single small solitaire to symbolize simplicity.

London (3 months after we met)

I had arrived in London a day before Brent was to arrive. One of the longest nights of my life was that night I spent alone in a bed and breakfast London (in King’s Cross nonetheless) waiting for the sun to rise.  London was what you’d expect from two young adventurous people in love.  We risked our lives by renting a car venturing out into the Cotswolds.  We put waaaaay too many amazing meals on the credit card.  We stayed up late dancing the night away.

We visited museums, famous sights, and cuddled on park benches.  We also got engaged.  One night he slipped away to call my parents to ask for permission. Late that night in a conversation he asked sweetly, “Will you marry me?”  I simply said, “Yes.”

It is the best thing I’ve ever said.

We were excited and couldn’t sleep.  Finally, in the early hours of the morning, we hopped on the tube and went down to the Thames river to walk and talk about the wedding we were now planning for December.  The sun was barely up.  Brent bought a muffin from a corner convenience store and we strolled happily along the Thames.  Just as Brent was about to bite into his muffin bird poop fell from the sky landed on it.  He looked at me and exclaimed in disgust, “A bird just shit on my muffin!”  Laughing, he threw it into the Thames.  I learned that day no matter how wonderful things are shit still happens.  It just does.  To everyone.

We can’t control the shit but we can choose our response.

Wrap Up.

Brent ended up buying me a ring in London.  The first one we saw in an little unassuming jewelry store on a random street.  It is a small simple solitaire that I love to this day and have no plans of ever replacing for something bigger.  We said our first vows to each other alone in a small church in the Cotswolds.  We ended up moving our “official” wedding from December to October. We had a small simple lovely wedding.

We used a Lego theme because from the first weeks of our meeting he always said, “We fit together like Legos”.  “Like Legos” is inscribed inside our wedding bands.

I never made it to LA or NYC to live full time like I had dreamed since childhood.  Thinking back on my mental state it was probably for the best and I married my soulmate.  I wouldn’t trade him for all the world.  

The bliss of marriage didn’t take away the cloud of mental illness in our life, in fact, in some ways it complicated it.  It would take 5 years of therapy, tears, hard work, perseverance, prayer, and unconditional love until I could confidently call myself healthy.  Even then depression would still creep back into my life from time to time. Once I combined all I had learned from therapy with healthy food, exercise, and faith that God loved me because I am me, I was able to step outside myself.  I was able to begin to see my potential and the potential of others.

The Playlist

Camping alone in the Sequoias last summer.

If you’ve made it this far thank you for taking the time to read the most important story of my life and my most vulnerable post to date.  At this point, you may be wondering what the hell any of this has to do with a playlist.  It does.  When Brent and I met 11 years ago this weekend, music was one of the first things we found we had in common.  Both of us had hundreds of cd’s many of the same ones: Radiohead, The Cure, Depeche Mode, Bjork, New Order, The Velvet Goldmine Soundtrack, The Smiths, Smashing Pumpkins, Led Zepplin, Nirvana, Portishead, Yo La Tango, Air, to name a few.

I love music.  All sorts of music from the more obscure to Britney Spears to Kiss.  (I’m sorry my love.)  I have playlists for certain moods or events.  In honor of meeting my soulmate, who has loved me for 11 years on my journey from psycho to princess (He makes me feel like one), I made a playlist based on our common cd collection.

Love Song – The Cure (Possibly the best love song ever.)

The Whole Shebang – Grant Lee Buffalo, Velvet Goldmine Soundtrack

We Carry On – Portis Head  

There is a Light That Never Goes Out – The Smiths

Violently Happy – Bjork (Best song title ever!)

It’s No Good  – Depeche Mode  

Street Spirit – Radiohead  

True Faith – New Order  

Autumn Sweater – Yo La Tengo  

Bullet with Butterfly Wings – Smashing Pumpkins  

Sexy Boy – Air  

You can listen to snippets of the entire playlist here.

Enjoy and thanks for reading.  Have a wonderful weekend.

Hugs and High Fives,
Jenn

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Journey with our family on the road at Newschool Nomads as we travel fulltime in RV through the United States!

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Was it easy? The first three months were horrible. I’m not gonna lie. I’d find myself watering at the mouth like a dog at the sight of gummy worms.  Or I’d hear myself cursing people in my head who dared to eat dessert in front of me.  But after a while it became much easier.  Much easier. I could get through the check out line at the grocery without having a nervous breakdown.  My family could order dessert and I wouldn’t question out of resentment why I stuck with a bunch of gluttons.  Now when everyone else eats dessert I’m happy with my tea.  Most of the time.

This year I learned to treat sugar like what it is for me, an addiction.  Not everyone has an addiction but I did. Some people can eat a piece of cake and be done.  I have one lovely friend who even keeps a basket of candy in her kitchen.  She tells me she has to throw it away because it goes bad.   I’d eat of of it in a day because the next day “I’d start a diet”. I tried the moderation thing but it just didn’t work with sugar.  I couldn’t have just one cookie or even 6, I’d have to have every one of the cookies.  I’d steal my candy.  I’d eat a 1/2 gallon of ice cream in one sitting.  I’d say “just one more” 30 times and stop only when whatever it was I was eating was gone or I felt like I had just swallowed 5 pounds of Play-doh.

But this past year, I accepted my addiction and did something about it.

The best part is not having that out of control feeling I’d get when I’d open a bag of Chips Ahoy cookies or see the dessert table at a party.  I felt helpless, like a slave to sweets.  I hated it.  And as I said earlier, I made my decision to live a refined sugar free life for a year when I was in the middle of one of my worst bouts of depression.  I’m certain sugar was contributing to my mood swings because after a few weeks the mood swings were far less severe.  And once I committed to a clean diet and exercise I started to experience hope and joy again.  Something that I had lived too many months without.

I’ve been contemplating for months about how I’m going to celebrate tonight.  Part of me wants to bring in the New Year with Ben and Jerry.  But after a lot of thought and reflection on the changes I’ve experienced I decided I’m going to go for another year without it.  Honestly, I’m too afraid of having that out of control feeling again.  If I was an alcoholic I wouldn’t want to celebrate a year of being sober with a drink.  Right?

Some people have asked me why don’t I do moderation.  The reason is simple.  I can’t.  At least not with sugar. At least not yet.  I’ve learned and accepted this about myself.  Maybe someday I will be able to bake cookies and actually have dough left to bake but until then sugar is my Song of the Siren.

Have a wonderful New Year’s Eve and be safe!

Hugs and High Fives,
Jenn

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The post Sweet Song of the Siren appeared first on Girl Heroes.

I worked up the courage to step on the scale yesterday morning. I had gained 3 pounds. As I said the other day, under “normal circumstances” this would be okay. No big deal. But with the competition coming up it is a big deal. My body fat is or WAS around 14-15% and the lower your body fat % the more you are going to see 3 pounds. I’m already a little nervous about how much fat is going to show under the stage lights. But clearly not nervous enough, seeing, I couldn’t keep myself from chomping on bagels while on vacation last week.

Anyway. I started to feel really down. I had originally planned on competing in October but decided to put it off another few weeks so I could lean down a little slower at what I considered to be a more reasonable pace. Now here I am in the same boat. Realizing this Garbage Girl took the opportunity to make me feel worse. Garbage Girl is my negative self talk and she loves nothing more than for me to feel bad about myself. Garbage Girl said I should quit. She called me a fool to think I could ever do this. She told me I’ll never be able to finish anything because I’m a quitter. She lied and said I was fat. I wanted to punch Garbage Girl in the face (and she thought that would be swell) but I decided it would hurt. So instead, I whined to a friend through email. My friend is competing in the show with me and knows a little too much about my eating habits. This was her response.

“We are NOT quitting. Suck it up and get moving. Tough love day. You have lost and you will continue to lose. It’s not about the judges or anyone else. It’s about a journey. So let’s kill these last 4 weeks with NO what if’s. Ok?”

I love it. Seriously. She put Garbage Girl in her place. You know what else I love, having good friends. Friends who remind you of who you are, who you want to be and, just as important, from where you have come. Friends who care enough about you to be honest without being hurtful. My friend reminded me of a number of things in this short little email. One, I want to change my habit of quitting things as soon as they get rough. Two, I have come a long way. I just have to look at my pictures. I have done what I set out to do…LOSE! And more importantly, I’ve had a mental overhaul. It’s been months since I’ve had a day where I couldn’t get out of bed because I was too depressed. Lastly, she reminded me that it’s the journey not the destination that matters. Something I really believe strongly in but Garbage Girl was yapping too loud for me to remember it.

Destinations can be fun and often rewarding but if we are only thinking of the reaching the destination we can miss the journey along the way. This includes reaching a specific weight on Evil Scale. There is a lot more to losing weight then numbers. It’s really more about losing old habits and thought patterns that keep us stuck. It’s important to learn about why we ended up where we are so we can look for the signs and have tools to cope when they appear. If we are so focused on the numbers and the cardio and the weights and the food…but unable to internalize the journey of how we got there…then I think we’ve missed out. And our chances of maintaining our health are lower. It’s easy to know what to do…but how to pass on cake at your co-workers going away party is a little more difficult. These are the things we learn on the journey.

This concept goes beyond weight loss. If we miss the journey then we’ve missed out on a lot of important lessons, opportunities to grow, chances to explore, relationships and well…life. I really believe life is about the journey and not the destination. If it was about the destination then why were we even born. Unless of course you think we are here by chance, in that case, I respect your opinion but it’s not mine. I think we all have a purpose and our purpose is not found in the destination it’s found in the journey. It’s taken me a while to internalize this and still I find myself wanting to define myself by my accomplishments or want to accomplish more in an attempt to define myself. But when Garbage Girl shuts up, which is rare, who I am is enough. A voyager made by God. This is a wonderful place to be and for a moment my friend helped me remember this and internalize it a little more.

Someday it will stick. I hope.

xoxo
j

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I was thinking about this time of my life last year. Honestly, I was a wreck. Unless you knew me well you might not have known but inside I was hurting and struggling with some severe depression due to some circumstances outside my control and faulty wiring in my brain. The thing with the faulty wiring is that I’ve learned over the years, through some intense therapy and hard work, that I can function really well IF I take care of myself. But this takes some serious discipline, a skill I greatly lack. For some, reason last year I wouldn’t take care of myself. I was eating crap all the time and I started to slack on my exercising. Unfortunately, this is a bad cycle and it’s hard to break, even when your not depressed but I think if your depressed it’s even harder. Because you know going to the gym will help your depression but since your depressed you can’t find the motivation to care. So as the months wore on, I felt worse and worse and eventually quit exercising all together and was eating crap all the time. My depression started to compound with a series of disappointing news. And then a friend who I had confided in used personal information to betray and hurt me. Although, my friend had given plenty of warning signs, the emotional pain sent me deeper into one of my worst bouts of depression. And after a few months I wasn’t sure who I had become. I was angry at my friend.  I was angry with God for not “fixing” my brain.  I was angry at the housing market. (I still am.) I was angry with my body. But most of all I was angry at myself.  One day I tried to pull on a pair of jeans that I had worked really hard to fit into after I had my kids but they wouldn’t button. I had to go out to the Goodwill box and get an old pair of jeans that I was planning on giving away because they were, at one time, too big. This was a very painful moment for me. I know weight shouldn’t matter so much and it’s what’s on the inside that really counts. And I believe that. I REALLY DO but the reality is we live in a culture that values beauty and for most people fat is not considered beautiful. I tried to tell myself that what I looked like didn’t matter. But the truth was, to me, it did.

It was time to get honest with myself and my choices. There were a lot of disappoints and hurt surrounding those months but I had chosen to console myself with food and apathy. I had chosen to abandon who I really was and what I believed was a healthy lifestyle. I was choosing to be angry instead of looking to the root of my problems.  I had to make a choice. Was I going to continue to console my feelings with food and get sadder and fatter or was I going to face my feelings? I decided I would start small and get back to the gym a few times a week. And I started watching my food.  I decided to quit eating sugar. Within days I started to feel better.  A few months later and a few pounds lighter I decided I needed more motivation if I was going to get in the best shape of my life. So I set a date to compete in a figure competition. And now a few months later, a year after one of my worst bouts of depression began, I feel like a new person. I knew cleaning up my diet and working my butt off in the gym would…well…shrink my butt. What I didn’t know was that this would end up being much more than a battle with fat. But it became a fight to dig up some of my old “moxie” that had been buried under hurt, self-doubt and depression.

If you struggle with depression and are reading this, I want you to know that I and many others know what you are going through. And as cliche as it may sound, it’s imperative, if you are not taking care of the basics, i.e., getting regular exercise and eating well, that you start to do so. Don’t wait. Start small. Start today. Most people can improve their depression if they take care of the basics and after you take care of the basics you’ll be amazed at how great you can feel. I’m not a doctor or psychologist by any means but as a fellow person, a friend, who has struggled with depression off and on, I’ve noticed a HUGE correlation with my mental well-being and my food and exercise habits. When I’m taking care of myself my body responds by taking care of me. Not that a healthy diet and exercise will solve EVERYTHING. It won’t but it sure can make a enormous difference.

Wow. I sat down intending to write about how excited I was to see 120 pounds on Evil Scale but realized that what I’m truly excited about is how great I feel due the the healthy lifestyle choices I’ve been committed to the last 6 months.  And I want you to know that no matter where you are on your journey that you’re awesome (yes I still say “awesome”) and that great things are ahead.

Hugs & High Fives
j

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