Positive? Positive.

Tonight my dietitian asked me to find something positive in my world.  I was quickly and easily able to rattle off all sorts of positives, yet they ALL had to do with school.  There were two exceptions to that rule-- the peanut and the Pup.  While they both bring me lots of joy and add oodles of positivity to my world, the rest?  All at school.

No matter what happens at school, I find the positive.  I look for and find the silver linings.  The lessons.  The learning experiences.  A student fails at a task or project?  I help them find the learnings, and figure out what they can do differently to reach a different outcome next time.  A colleague feels unsuccessful with an attempt at a new tool or lesson approach?  We sit down and find the parts that felt awesome, and build from there.  Just today, a colleague tried something brand new, and it only sorta worked.  She was not a happy camper, and felt very much defeated.  With her team, we worked to remind her of the successes in the experience, the positives.

I'm great at helping others get there, reach the positive place.  What about me?

Nope.  I suck at it.  At least I suck at it for now.  (In other words, I'm not there, yet.)

Why is it so hard?  I get that I'm not alone in the self-inflicted negative self-talk.  I know that many, many others are challenged by this.  But I'm talking me, here.  And I need to figure out how to shift my perspective.

Example.  Horrible stomach ache for nearly a week.  Like, bubbly, volcanic eruptions that keep me close to the porcelain throne.  After about a half hour (I think, I don't keep track of time during sessions) chatting with my dietitian, she asked me if I still had a stomach ache.  Surprisingly (at least to me) it had subsided dramatically.  Why?  Cause she, like my therapist, has a knack for getting me out of my head.  Which I need. 

Inside my head, the positive island is tiny, and frequently empty.  The negative island is always hopping.  Sure, there are a few other islands -- school, pup, Aunt-hood, knowledge, creativity -- but the one I seem to spend the most time on is negative island.  (If you don't get the whole island thing, go watch Inside Out.  Trust me, it will be worth it.)  While my finances and schedule won't allow for daily visits to dietitian island and therapist island, the goal isn't to rely on them for getting me out of my head.  The goal is to take what I'm learning through them and apply it to me outside of my time with them.

Perspective shift - from my world outside of school is negative and sucks, to my world is full of tiny bits of positive every where I go - is required.  If only it were as easy as shifting from park to reverse....

P.S.  I did find something positive that wasn't connected to school -- I have a new toothbrush that I love!  For me that's big, cause the dentist and I don't get along well, but my teeth and this new toothbrush?  Awesome!

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

The upside to living in apartment style condos that share common walls is that your neighbors can hear a lot.  The downside to living in apartment style condos that share common walls is that your neighbors can hear a lot.

On one hand, one might find comfort in knowing if something happened and help was desperately needed, shouting for help would elicit responses from those nearby.  Or if there was an overflowing toilet or a broken pipe or something, neighbors would notice the noise, and get in touch ASAP, with either you or someone who could help.  On the other hand, privacy?

Babysat the peanut the other night, getting home at 9:30.  Chilled for a bit, crawling into bed around 10:00, and snuggling in for some reading with the Pup before drifting off to dreamland.  I had just fallen asleep, so comfy in my bed, when I heard the buzzer of a door.  A glance at the clock said that it was 11:24.  I figured it was in my dream, so I stayed put.  But the door buzzer kept buzzing.  And it was definitely mine, based on the loudness.

My heart stopped for a moment, I'm sure, as I started panicking.  I mean, who on earth would be ringing my door buzzer at that late hour?!  Everyone knows I'm an early-to-bed kind of girl!  My heart continued racing as I got out of bed to peek out the window and see if there was anything out of the norm in the parking lot.  Nope.  More panic.

More panic followed by loud footsteps thundering up the stairs.  And the the knocks came.  On my door.  Inside the building.

Mind you, part of why I like my condo is because the exterior door is there.  It means anyone getting into the building has one safety feature before getting into individual units.  So as I stood in the hallway in my pajamas, clutching the Pup, I desperately wished I had fastened the chain lock before I went to bed.  I've gotten lax on doing so since the scary neighbor moved away.

After the knocks grew more persistent, I held my finger poised over the "emergency" dial on my phone.  I had to do something.  The knocking wasn't going to stop.  I was frozen in panic.  And then to make things worse, a flashlight started shining in through the crack by the door handle.

My mind was racing with every single bad thought possible.  Literally.  From the cereal rapist to the drunk neighbor to the pissed off parent and everything in between.  I can't begin to explain how freaked out I was.  So I was kinda shocked when I called out and asked who was there without screaming or crying or vomiting.

Turns out, calling 911 wouldn't have made a difference.  Cause they were at my door.

Guess one of my neighbors heard my water running, and was worried because it had been running for over an hour.  So apparently she called the police to come and check.  Ironically, (or not) I had been in bed for well over an hour when she called, meaning she only *thought* she heard my water running.  It wasn't.

Maybe I should feel grateful that she was looking out for me.  That would probably be an easier feeling to stomach than the fear and anxiety I've been swallowing instead.  Being woken up like that completely freaked me out.  I didn't get much sleep afterward.  I was flooded by fears - imagined and real - that kept playing over and over and over again.

Why did this warrant a post?  Cause my therapist and I have been working very, very hard at helping me find safety in my world, a world that I find to be far too unsafe for me.  I have found safety in teaching, in my classroom at my old school and now in my building at my new school.  I've always felt safest in my teaching world.  The rest of the world, my house included, doesn't always feel so safe.  It's going to take a lot of effort to not let this incident derail the progress.  (And maybe because I'm still feeling *that* unsettled and needed to share.  Either way.)

My Anxious Heart

"Depression is when you can't feel at all. Anxiety is when you feel too much. Having both is a constant war within your own mind. Having both means never winning." 

Katie Crawford, My Anxious Heart

Photo Credit

A friend sent me the link to this article about My Anxious Heart, a photo series depicting anxiety and depression with photography instead of just words.  While I found all the photos in the series so spot on and relateable, it was the quote above that got me. 

On top of the eating disorder, which is thankfully under control these days, both anxiety and depression reside inside me.  There are days where my depression is so thick I can't lift my head from my pillow in the morning.  There are days when my anxiety is so strong walking from the bedroom to the living room has me short of breath.

Sometimes I miss the numbness the eating disorder provided, it was a more tolerable numbness than the one depression carries.  Depression numb is being in the dark with no light in sight, where as the eating disorder numb is more dissociative.  Both leave me feeling rather care-less.

I struggle with lots of things I see on Facebook, and I actually stopped reading the newspaper and watching the news nearly two years ago.  Why?  Because I feel too much.  Because I'd see a story about a town in need, and my heart would break for the citizens of the town.  I'd see a story about a child who won the battle with cancer, and my heart would crack open even further for the pain they had to go through.  Feeling so much, so intensely, leaves me gasping for breath.

I don't like that I agree with the author, that "having both means never winning," but I do.  I feel like the delicate balance, the grey area, so to speak, is so hard to find, and once it's found, it is nearly impossible to stay for long.  Being in one extreme, depression, is no better than the other extreme, anxiety, at least for me.  I aim to reside in the grey area.

And yet, it seems impossibly elusive.
(That's what the depression says.)

And the idea of the grey area is terrifying.
(That's the anxiety talking.)

Still, I plug on.  I see my therapist twice a week and my dietitian once a week and the rest of my team as needed and I plug on.  They haven't given up.  So I won't either.

Secrets II

I've spent my whole life trying to figure out who I was.  In doing so, I became a chameleon with an eating disorder.  There was something so deeply wrong with me, I had to do whatever it took to keep that buried and away from the world.  And I did so at any cost.

I was young, just around my first decade of life, when I realized there was something that "wrong" with me.  A secret that could NEVER escape lived in my head, and I spent every moment in public ensuring the protection of that secret.  I got good at it, too.  It was like an invisible armor that automatically dropped on me as I left my bedroom, and was magically removed when I returned.

My eating issues developed around 13.  This secret became more scary around that time, too.  By 16 it became so scary that I started the roller coaster of dieting.  I had to starve it to death.

More than 20 years later, that secret is no longer buried as deep.  It's still secret.  It's still something I can't speak.  But it no longer holds me hostage.

My therapist holds the secret.  So does my dietitian.  One of my BFFs knows, too.  Sharing this secret with them has made it a little easier for me to carry myself.  I'm still afraid to tell anyone else, yet the lightness that came from sharing with the few above?  That they all still like me? 

Secrets are insanely scary.  Holding them and sharing them, actually.  I was so afraid to even acknowledge my own secret, much less share it with anyone, for fear that the world would hate me even more than I hated myself.

I don't know what I'd do with out my treatment team.  I've worked with therapists on and off much of my life, but nothing compares the support I have now.  Secrets may stay hidden from the rest of the world, but having my team to share with?  I wish everyone could have the chance for a relationship this therapeutic, it's the best gift I've ever given myself.  Between my dietitian and therapist, I've never felt so optimistic.

I wish everyone could have someone to hold the horrid secrets that keep us captive in our own minds.  As bad as my secret felt, it is held differently by my team than by me.  Secrets don't need to destroy me anymore.  Sharing them won't make me explode.  It won't end my world.

Sharing them only makes me stronger.

Tomorrow

Something weird has been happening.  

I am considering making two major life adjustments in the coming months.

I transitioned (fairly smoothly) from my dietitian of 3.5 years to my new one, 

who, like my therapist, is now stuck with me for the duration of her career.

I'm cooking real food at least twice a week.

I'm eating more veggies than I ever before.

(Yes, I know, I've been a vegetarian who doesn't like veggies.)

My career is blossoming at a rate with which I can hardly keep up.

And this week has been one of the busiest, most chaotic weeks of the year.  

Yet.  

Here it is.

Sunday.

A much needed one, as I finally have a day where I can stay 

in my jammies all day and snuggle with the Pup. 

And I'm sitting on the couch watching my favorite team play spring ball.

And I am thinking of the errands I want need to run.

Sunday afternoon.  In my jammies.

And yet I'm readying to go grocery shopping - my least favorite shopping behind clothes.

This is all positive, good, growth.  

At least that's what my therapist said.

So why do I feel like a stranger in my own world right now?

Positive movement = massive tears?

I know it's not gonna be instantaneous.

But when am I gonna be able to enjoy the positive?

When is it gonna stop feeding the depression?

Melancholy may make a good friend,

but I don't know how much more of it I can take.

Wish vs Reality

Perception.  Perspective.  Whatever you want to call it, sometimes mine is off.

Good news is that at least I'm now starting to recognize when it's presenting an inaccurate picture!  If only that could happen a bit more frequently....

Here's an example.  (Disclaimer: I am not a Trekkie, though I did enjoy the two most recent films.)  My therapist and I were talking about emotions and how some people are better able to manage theirs, while others (like me) are managed BY their emotions.  She suggested I watch Star Trek (yeah, she's that awesome, you can be jealous) and pay close attention to Kirk and Spock.

So I did. 

And as my therapist and I reflected on the movie, I realized that I am such a Kirk - my emotions are ever-present, driving much of my day.  However, Spock, on the other hand, is pretty darn emotionless, living among an acute sense of logic.  (Reminds me of Sheldon!)

I want to be Spock.

Reality is, a balance of both Kirk's emotions and Spock's lack of emotions would be more appropriate to strive for, but, with my extreme "Kirk-like" emotion, even if I shoot for Spock's opposite extreme, I'd likely end up in the middle.

Here's another one.  Earlier this week as I was walking out of my house, I gave my usual cursory glance to make sure everything was set.  This time, though, I noticed that while I got rid of loads and loads of excessive "stuff" over the past two years, I still have more to get rid of.  In my mind, I see myself as a minimalist.  My house says otherwise, though.  No, I'm not by any means a hoarder.  I can't stand the pileup of superfluous stuff.  I'm more of a pack rat.  Kinda comes with the teaching territory, you never know when that really cool plastic take out container might come in handy.

Years into therapy, I can now see that my perception of myself and my world is very much twisted and, well, pretty messed up.  Knowing this, though, is going to help me change the prescription of my lenses, so to speak, and help me see reality as it is, not as I wish it to be.  Thank g-d there's still years of therapy to come......!

From the Outside In

Have you ever gone window shopping?  I find it to be especially fun during the holiday season, when all the displays are lit up and full of magic and sparkle.  Now, with the internet, it's even easier to "window" shop from anywhere in the world - including, well, including places that one wouldn't generally think of as a place to shop.

Have you ever thought about window shopping as an "inside" job?  Let me explain.  I've always been a people watcher.  Always.  I'm intrigued by how people interact in the world, especially since that's an area of struggle for me (social interaction, that is.)  Even more, though, is the fact that I am constantly "window shopping" styles and such.

See, I'm not a fan of myself.  Or, at this point, it'd be more honest to say that I'm not a fan of my body and how it looks.  At all.  Which is actually my motive for people watching.  I figure that if I observe enough people out in the world, maybe I'll find some style or something that I do like, and that I think I could pull off.

Outside.  I know, you can't judge a book by it's cover.  You can't judge a person by their clothing.  I get it. 

Except.  In my mind, other people always seem to be able to "pull it off" so much better than I imagine I'd be able to.  I mean, I love the idea of boots and skinny pants.  I've seen so many people who can totally rock that look.  I just don't believe I could make it work.  At least, on the inside, I've convinced myself that I can't pull it off.  Nor can I pull off tunics, or ballet flats, or a plethora of other bits of clothing and style that I find to be fantastic on others, yet, imagine they'd be hideous on me. 

And if I'm going to be completely honest, when it comes down to it, I just plain feel like an outsider in my own skin.  It's as if the person I am on the inside isn't worthy of looking nice on the outside.

Yes.  I do understand that isn't true.  Or at least my therapist continues to remind me that isn't true.  I guess the more accurate statement would be that I don't like my outside, and I'm just starting to like my inside. 

So now it's time for a different kind of window shopping.  This time, I'm gonna have to try to shop my insides in an effort to embrace my outsides.......

Gee whiz, do I love challenges like this!! {ugh}

Sources of my Smiles

Every day when I walk through the door at home, I am greeted with the biggest (or smallest, technically) source of my smiles.  The Pup.  He is always there, waiting, full of kisses and wiggles and cuddles.  I love coming home to him and the smiles he brings me.

Since the peanut arrived last July, wow.  Smiles galore!  Whether I'm experiencing the giggles, the grins, the raspberries, the shrieks, the claps, whatever it is that peanut is doing, my heart smiles.  Big, warm, smiles.

My students make me smile, too.  I love watching them grow and learn and overcome challenges they thought to be impossible.  I love going to conferences and sharing my students experiences with my peers.  That makes me smile from the inside out.  (Now, if only politics would get the h#$% out of schools, there would be even more smiles there.)

My........ well........ I guess she's now my former dietitian. She made me smile too. She gave great hugs.  Great hugs.  And knowing how grounding they are for me, she greeted me with one and said farewell with one.  I'm really going to miss her.  I hope, that even though she no longer works with me, our old emails will wrap me up in a hug and bring forth smiles.

My therapist makes me smile at least once a session.  Sometimes I'm smiling through tears.  Sometimes I'm smiling cause I've made her laugh.  Sometimes it's cause I've annoyed her.  Sometimes I'm smiling because she's right, and I don't want to admit it.  Mostly, though, I smile because I know she cares.  I don't always feel like people care about me, but knowing she does.... on those really bad days, just hearing her voice makes my heart smile a little, no matter what's going on.

The reason for this post, though, is one that took me quite by surprise.

I've been working with my new dietitian for less than a month.  One of the hardest tasks that she's "encouraged" is daily communication of my food log.  Which means that I send her an email each evening with the day's food log and the tentative menu for the next day.  Doesn't sound hard, I know.  But for me?  It's been a kind of torturous tasks.  It feels selfish to be emailing someone daily, especially knowing they'll respond to each and every email.

This past week, though, I realized how much I look forward to her replies.  Like, really look forward to them.  Don't get me wrong, we're not talking therapy via email, just a few sentences that acknowledge what I sent her, encourage whatever needs encouraging and question whatever needs questioning.  I didn't realize it, and I doubt she has either, but it has become one of the highlights of my day.  As hard as it has been to click send, it's the exact opposite when it comes to clicking read.  Maybe one day, it will just be a smile, and not a smile riddled with guilt for taking up her time outside of the office.  Right?

What Doesn't Show

Today was a pretty awesome day.  Though I was out of the house on this Saturday morning well before I'm even out of bed on a week day, the workshop I attended was worth it.  There is something kind of magical about spending three hours collaborating with colleagues on who have also chosen to give up their Saturday morning to learn and share!  I've gone to enough of these workshops over the years that when I walk in, it's almost like a reunion - hugs and hellos to those you see at each workshop and have become friendly with, maintaining a connection between workshops via social networking. 

Today in particular, I participated in a session that overflowed with ideas and energy and enthusiasm in regards to STEAM education - that is, science, technology, engineering, arts, mathematics.  It was such a lively conversation we went well over time trading ideas and encouragement.  For me, somewhat of an outlier in my building who does things slightly, well, slightly different, it is almost necessary for me to connect like this as often as possible.  It's as if the support from my peers at these workshops reinforce that while what I do in the classroom may be drastically different than what others do in my school, it's awesome.

Outwardly, the day looked like it was a fantastic one.  After a lively and satisfying morning workshop I went home for a light lunch and a long nap with the Pup. 

Inside...... Inside it was and continues to be a very different story.

I'm in the middle of another depressive episode.  This one's been percolating for almost six weeks.  That's what happens with recurrent major depression.  All is relatively neutral for a while, and then slowly the blues start floating in, getting heavier and heavier with each passing day.  Before you know it, the world has turned dark, and you're once again drowning in oxygen. 

It can be challenging, appearing completely neutral, and even "happy" on the outside, while on the inside you're praying that no one will be able to tell that you wish you had never woken up.  No one realizes how you've been beating yourself up for the last twenty minutes because you don't deserve the compliment someone paid you earlier, and that you continue to cringe with each positive word sent your direction. No one can tell that you feel a fraud, and you fight tears when someone acknowledges your skills.

Daily.  I live with these thoughts daily.  When I'm not mid-episode, things are a little less dramatic, a little less dark, and a little easier to manage.  When things are like this, mid-episode tragedy, everything is harder.  Episode triggers vary, and I can never tell what will send me into the darkness until I'm already there.  Depression like this absolutely sucks.  At least for me, therapy is an absolute must, and on most days, the secret to my survival on the dark days depression delivers.

(A peek into my world that rarely sees light outside the walls of my treatment team's offices.)

Comparisons

I watched the cutest piece the other day showing groups of kids freestyle dancing.  That always makes me smile.  That clip was followed by a commercial showing a design rehabber and construction guru looking fit beyond words, driving a back-hoe.  Changing channels found a home-cook turned tv chef talking about a delicious Thanksgiving dish his family loves.  A few channels later the screen was filled with a DIY-er sharing simple yet beautiful home improvement projects.  Then landscape artists.  Swimmers gliding across the pool filled the screen next.  Then an unplugged concert by a pianist with a beautiful voice.  There were more channels, too, full of talents and gifts and knowledge.

Sounds like a pretty typical weekend morning, right?  Well, at least for me it is.  It's a nice treat to get up and be able to couch it for a little bit before beginning the day, which is vastly different from weekday mornings.

I hadn't realized it before that morning how much I *still* want to be someone I'm not.

I wish I could dance.  It looks like fun, despite the fact that I tend to trip over my own feet.  I wish I knew how to design and build and woodwork - I loved it as a kid, but now?  I value my fingers, thank you very much.  Cooking?  Yeah, right.  Home decorating?  I wish.  My house looks almost exactly the same as it did when I moved in ten years ago.  Landscaping?  Heck, I wish I could keep a plant alive or grow some herbs and veggies, much less put the pond into the yard that I've wanted to do since childhood.  And I still kick myself for quitting music lessons when I was a kid.  I'm envious of those who can play an instrument, it sounds so beautiful.  Throw in singing, too?  You've got me.  I'm turning green on the inside.  And not a day goes by that I don't miss the athletics I used to participate in on a regular basis.

I have my own gifts and talents.  I know that.  My therapist reminds me of them fairly regularly, too, as I often forget that I do have things to offer the world.  I see the talents of others to be much more valuable than my own.  Instead, I see myself as too clumsy to dance, to weak to do anything requiring sustained physical exertion, as far from a homemaker as possible, too lazy to pick up any athletics, and when it comes to music?  I see myself as selfish for quitting lessons as a child.

Sounds pretty grim, I know.  So is the work I'm doing to change that.  Cause you know what?  One of these days, I'm going to feel good enough.

I'm going to feel good enough.

I'm going to feel like my gifts and talents are good enough offerings for the world.  More than that, I'm going to feel like I'm valuable, just as I am.

Running

I run a lot even though I don't use my feet.
I realize that now.
I run when things are uncomfortable.
I run from change.
I run out of fear.
I run from sadness.
I run from anger.
I run from hurt and pain and discomfort.

And I run from my head.
My own thoughts.
And that's the hardest running of all.

Therapy.
In my mind, major disaster session,
though my therapist said all was fine.
The time to talk will come when the words are ready.
No time limits.
No pressure.

Except all of this pressure from me.

I tried to talk I really did try I came close too.
At one point I had wandered off into silence for a bit.
She asked if we were done for the day.
I couldn't answer in words,
but I did un-bury my face and uncurl myself from ball on the chair that I had become.

Then the tears came.
Lots of them.
So uncomfortable.
I tried.
The words were on my tongue but they couldn't escape.
It just wasn't happening, no matter how much I wanted to speak them.
I told Her I wish she had was a mind reader.
She laughed. Not that easy she said.

She's right.

Maybe next time.

I can't hold this secret for much longer.

Maybe next time........
Maybe next time.........

Shopping

I.  Hate.  Shopping.

Like, I really, really hate shopping.  It is WAY too challenging to find anything off the rack that fits my weirdly assembled body.  I mean, I have to get petite pants shortened!  To make matters worse, I thought I was pretty set for seasonal wardrobes.  Last year I was determined to buy enough pieces to put together enough outfits for each season that I'd be set for at least a few years, only needing to add a piece here or there.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

I pulled out my spring work clothes this week.  Nothing fits.  Nothing.  (Except my shoes.)

I'd like to say it's because I've gained back all the weight plus some that I lost during the peak of my eating disorder.  

But that's not the case.  Not even close.  (Which I suppose is a good thing?)

This week, a big conversation in therapy was body image, and how much I hate my body.  What my therapist pointed out is that my body is dealing with two medical conditions that impact my size.  I never thought of it that way.  That my body isn't the size I *want* it to be because of my medical conditions.

But it's absolutely true.

I have Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome (PCOS) which often causes cysts to grow and painful swelling of those girl parts inside.  I also have Irritable Bowl Syndrome (IBS) which causes inflammation in my abdomen, as well as painful bloating.  Add to that a half-dozen food allergies, all which cause that bloat to expand even more, and well.......... my abdominal area has a lot going on.

I was telling my therapist that even when I was in my early twenties, and super, super active (we're talking 14 hours a day of intense physical labor/activity), I was a teeny-tiny size, but I still had a huge beer gut.  I don't drink beer.  Ever.

That's when she reminded me that I have a medical condition that creates bloating and swelling in my belly.  This means that when I try on an outfit in the evening and lay said outfit out for work, it doesn't necessarily fit in the morning.  This means that all the spring clothes I had last year that fit and were flattering, aren't cutting it this year.

This means, that next time someone asks, "When are you due?" instead of saying nothing (or wanting to punch them) I can explain that I have medical issues that cause my stomach to bloat and expand, and no, I'm not pregnant.  Not gonna be easy, but it's worth a try.

This means that my goal for finding clothes is going to have to be different.  Instead of looking for clothes that fit, I'm now going to have to start looking for clothes that will make me feel good when I'm wearing them, no matter how bloated my belly is at that moment.  And let me tell you how impossible that task feels.  But I don't really have a choice.  I mean, I can squeeze myself into clothes that are way too uncomfortable, and that I feel super self-conscious in, or I can buy new clothes.  Neither sounds appealing, but I suppose trying to find a more flexible wardrobe will be easier than standing in my closet, crying for 20 minutes every morning as I try to find something that fits and feels ok.

The eating part of the eating disorder may be leveling out, but all the rest?  The body stuff?  That's a long journey ahead, and one I'm not looking forward to.