Keep on Keepin' On

I started this blog a little while ago and must have been interrupted and then forgot about it because it seems "publishable", by my own definition and standards. I'm not going to change anything about it. I'm going to leave it as it sat, I'm going to publish it. It is harsh and ugly, but it is true. Normally I stumble across old blogs that I didn't finish and just redline the shit out of them. But this one continues to be fitting, appropriate, and timely.

I am one of four siblings. I've always felt I was the "melting pot". I'm not the rebel, but I stepped out of line and got in trouble. I'm not the smartest one, but I achieved things academically I wouldn't have bet on. I'm not the prettiest one, but if I put a little effort into it I can look nice. I used to be the athletic one though. I played and loved soccer. My parents put me in tennis. I played basketball and volleyball, and even achieved my red belt in Tae Kwon Do. In high school, the girls track coach tried to recruit me to run sprints, but the season coincided with soccer and that was where my heart was. I'm not saying by any means that I was an all star at any of this. What I'm saying is that I was active. I was comfortable pushing myself physically. I thrived on being competitive. But what was stronger and more competitive was the way I saw my own body. My siblings have always been thin. Until my sister had kids who got into track, she wasn't a runner. Now she's a triathlete and a track coach. My other sister got into yoga and Kung-fu and became a solid machine. And they look beautiful doing it. As I grew, had kids, encountered stress, my back became a problem. One year ago, we found out I'd broken my back; twice. I had slowed down greatly by then because I'd been fighting pain along with kidney problems for a long time. And, it showed. I think. Nine weeks ago I had lumbar fusion. Any activity I was involved in came to a screeching halt. My world became sleep, narcotics, physical therapy, and lots of feeling lonesome for my family who was still very much on the go. I have forever described myself as the "meaty" kid in our family. I've always had a bit...more. It became a problem at about 14. At 30 years old, after looking into the eyes of my beautiful girls, I guessed that I was worth the effort it would take to get well. It took 4 years of intense therapy, dietitians, therapists, psychiatrists, weekly weigh ins, and an exceedingly patient physician. But, I did it; I got 'healthy'. While it was still a daily internal battle to make the right choices, I stayed on track for the most part. I even stopped comparing myself to my siblings. Then came this lumbar fracture diagnosis which, at the time, was the best news I'd heard in forever. I cried extremely happy tears. I had almost convinced myself it was all in my head and then someone told me it really, truly wasn't. Coming back from a lumbar fusion is hard on every level you can imagine but, for me, the worst of it is losing muscle, gaining weight, and feeling like everyone is looking at you because it's that obvious. I am not ok with my body and I'm in a position where there is just not a whole hell of a lot I can do about it. I eat healthy, but my activity level has dropped so much my whole system is out of whack. 'Get on a treadmill', 'go for a walk outside', 'there are little things you can do that will make a big difference'. Really? Because I can't lift more than a half gallon of milk, I can't walk further than a half mile on a great day without having crippling pain that night or the next day, I can't kick a ball or throw a ball, can't expose my incision to the chemicals in public pools, no housework or lawn care. I can't even carry the girls' backpacks from the kitchen to the front door without my back becoming one big, snarled mass of spasming muscle. So, the plan is to get my back healed and ok and then take on the cosmetics. But, it really doesn't take much to push a recovered anorexic off the deep end, and that's where I am now. Every thing I eat is a number, every shirt that fits strange or pants that seem all of a sudden not to be mine make me promise myself I'll stop eating. Every damn Victoria's Secret catalog that finds it's way to my house and every well paid, personal trainer toting superstar that shows up on TV looking fabulous at my age and beyond makes me feel just lousy. Sad and frustrated. Angry and stuck and full of "f**k it, I can't possibly screw up something held together by rods and screws and cages! I'm going to run and run and run until I'm me again. Me who offends other women because my disappearing hips no longer hold my pants up and I look as though I'm intentionally advertising my chosen underwear designer, me who loses her hair and sleeps all the time and never feels happy even when I hit that weight goal of double digits only. Me, whose little girls look up to, emulate, and see in themselves. Me. Who will feel exactly what I feel in this moment even when I weigh 97 pounds. Me, who sees the WOMEN who weigh more, carry themselves better, and turn the heads of men everywhere." It is a hard place to be. I hate it. I will continue trying to sort through my head and eat to be healthy and understand that this is my struggle right now. And there are other people whose struggles are more dangerous, more sad, more lonely, or less surmountable. I'll keep you posted. After all, it's only been a year since I last blogged. ;)