Today’s Mini Goal: Don’t inhale my dinner. When I do this I never end up feeling full and then I eat a big huge dessert-snack right away. I feel like if I waited I might not even feel that hungry! Anyone have any tips here?
Reallllllllllly snacky today. I think yesterday’s run finally caught up to me. Blech. Lots of random cereal and chocolate chips. I hate feeling out of control or haphazard with my eating; why can’t I seem to follow a clear simple schedule? Ick.
Did a little yoga and walking today. Speed work tomorrow. Eats today were pretty boring so no pictures besides my yummy frozen yogurt. Believe it or not, I think I might be tired of my post-therapy froyo! Gasp! It may be time to search for a new treat. Hmmmm….
Therapy Monday (forewarning: this post is, perhaps, a bit heavy, but these are things I need to say. If you are feeling especially sensitive, feel free not to read this segment):
To start with, today is March 1st. I am sure you already knew this, but you don’t know what March 1st means in the Caronae mental health saga, now do you? March 1st means I have officially passed the one year post-breakdown mark. I am both filled with joy by this and weighed down by sadness for my former self — and indeed for the parts of me that are still burdened by darker things. I don’t remember exactly when my meltdown/trauma series occurred, but I do know that by the first week of March, I was home. In my mother’s arms. Taking walks through the frozen park with her. Watching movies snuggled up in my bed. Beginning the uncomfortable journey that therapy was (at that time). Discovering blogs in all my new found free time. Reading the newspaper if I pleased. But mostly, I was with my mother. It’s hard for me to admit how much I needed her then; I very sincerely believed that it was childish of me to need my mother as anything more than a friend. But, as my therapist noted a few weeks ago, we always need our mothers, until one of us is dead. And then we still need them.
I remember the things that happened to me around this time last year quite precisely; I suppose it’s ironic that I can’t date the events, but no matter. I remember one night digging my fingernails into my forearms until I had left deep purple trenches — holes that were almost a seaweed color. I also remember leaving puffy red lines on my skin from a plastic knife; I didn’t ever cut into my skin, I just pressed down hard. Very hard. I remember what shirt I wore to work on my last day. It was very old and from Old Navy with a pretty little pastel pattern on it. I wore it with my maroon Urban Outfitters skirt and tights and I thought I looked horrifically fat. I saw my dance teacher in a hallway and told her that I was “sick” and had to go home. She was one of the people I was more honest with. Other teachers I simply left behind; almost as if I was shedding them — I could only associate certain people with that terrible transition, and I am sure I can never let those people back into my life now. That’s okay though, they were mostly cranky professors. My friend Jonathon gave me a bag of oreos he didn’t want. Up until the very last second – the moment when my dad was parked illegally on 115th street shoveling my things into his car — I maintained that nothing was wrong. My boss had seemed rightfully concerned and I remember insisting I was just fine. I am not sure why it was so important for me to maintain this position; surely those who loved me would have wanted to help me through in whatever way they could. A part of me wanted to lie down naked in the center of Broadway, where the whole world could see me, and say, “yes, things are terribly wrong: I don’t sleep at night, I cry all day, I hate my body, I hate myself, I hate everything, nothing is happy anymore, I don’t know me now.” I remember precisely the weak smile I gave my boss when she asked how things were. That smile took everything out of me. Most simple actions, in fact, took everything out of me then. Today when I find myself unreasonably exhausted I remember to take a moment to remind myself that uncovering me — examining my emotions and my memories as I would examine an old, worn document — is not easy.
My first few months at home were tinged with pain and guilt. I won’t go over the reasons behind those feelings, but I now know that whatever happened and however I handled it, things were not my fault. I was not, and am not, a “wrong person” for going through what I went through.
I was telling my therapist about my mother’s mother today, and the few things I knew about her childhood and her own mother. In doing so, I realized that the women in my family seem to have passed down a rather burdensome set of feelings and experiences and ways of going about the world. Each time we raise a child, we infuse in them certain things, consciously and not. My grandmother’s mother died when she was very young, a toddler, I believe, and she was raised by an abusive, drunken father until she was a bit older; then he died. I know very few stories of my grandmother’s childhood, but I find this anecdote illustrative of the pain she must have endured (and eventually passed on, in a way, to her own children): when her mother (my great-grandmother) died, the family was very poor. Their apartment was cramped and resources were lacking. I believe there were only one or two beds for the parents and a large brood of children. The night she died, my great-grandmother’s dead body was put in the bed with my grandmother. I don’t really have anything to say about this story. For some reason, it reminds me of crocuses and other purple things. The point is; how dear my mother(s) have been to me and how real the traumas have been. At the same time, how much my grandmother and mother did their very best every single day with their own children. This duality of fierce motherhood and sincere emotional pain frightens me very much.
I am certain that I want to be a mother. My scars will always be with me. How do I go about not transferring them to my children? Is it inevitable? How will I ever be the mother that my mother and grandmother were? That, I am certain, my great-grandmother was too? Has my life been too ugly to ever merit motherhood?
Alright. I may have skipped doing my history readings so I could write all this, but that’s okay. I feel much lighter now. If you made it this far, thanks for bearing with me. This is a daily journey, and there is lots of confusion, sadness, joy, and uncertainty involved. My one pillar right now, in life and on this blog, is honesty; I have found honesty to be one of the most useful tools I have available to me. Especially in therapy. I always feel guilty if I don’t pipe up and share a story or a feeling that’s in my head at the moment, and so that is what I have done here, I suppose.
Anyone have any happy, joyous things to share? Or sad ones too? Remember, you can always email me if you have something you want to say but don’t feel comfortable leaving a comment. Believe it or not, I actually really do love talking to people!