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Last night the girls and I watched the season finale of America’s Nest Top Model cycle 13.  I’ve been sucked into ANTM marathons because I love my girls that much.  Well, that and I think Jay and Nigel are the hottest things on that show and make it all worth watching. (I don’t care what their sexual preference is.  They are delicious eye candy as far as I’m concerned)

The final two were disgustingly (read: I’m jealous) thin like most models are but this isn’t so much about their looks.  Anyone who’s watched ANTM knows, part of the final is to do a commercial.  A Cover Girl commercial.

This proved to be especially difficult for Laura because she’s dyslexic. How do I know?  Oh, she may have mentioned it,

20 bagillion times.

Every. Other. Sentence.

Now, don’t get  me wrong, I am not dismissing, belittling, blowing off dyslexia.  I understand it is a learning disorder.  But, if I’m not terribly misinformed, it can be overcome, to a degree.

Apparently Laura did not get the memo.

Every single sound bite they had of her had the word dyslexia in it at least once.

If she had one she would forever be known as The Dyslexic Model.

Why bring this up?

Simple.  She was using her disease as an excuse and it was her identity.  She *wanted* needed to be The Dyslexic Model.  It is who she is.

And that bothers me.  It bothers me that people get their identity from their disease.  Or from the drama that swirls around them.

Have you noticed there are just some people who’s life is constantly full of drama?  Know why?  They thrive off of it. They live for it.  They are it.  Without the drama, who are they?  They stir the pot to keep it going. The right word planted here, the carefully worded and timed comment there, and bam shit hits the fan and they are in the eye of the storm.

I was one of those people.

When I was first diagnosed with BPD, it was all I could think about.  It was the focus of my life.  It was the excuse for my behaviors, and it was my ‘claim to fame’ it was my identity.  Along with the BPD was the need to keep the drama around me going.  If there was a disagreement between two people, I was right there egging it on, stiring the pot.  My mania drove me to live in a world of drama and it fed off it.

There are people out there who are Drama Queens.  They have lived through horrible experiences and that is who they are.  They continue to relive it, because that is who they are.  They are that drama.  It gets the attention they need.  They blame their current behavior on their past.  They cling to it to garner the attention they seek. *ahem, Kettle here*

Maybe it’s true that the traits that irk us the most in others are the things we don’t like in ourselves.  I used to be one of those people.  I realized it (after being told a bagillion times, and being slapped upside the head with it at least a million more) and I try not to be.  I try to step back, and really look and decide do I need to be a part of this, or do I just *want* to be in the middle of it?

And then, I let them duke it out.

Wouldn’t it be nice if at birth we were all given a manual, a how to manual, and when we came up against something we weren’t sure how to handle, we could just look it up in the manual.

Like how exactly do you deal with moving out of your boyfriend’s house because you found your own?  I mean, that was the deal. I move in here until I could find a place I could afford.  I found my new house this week.  I’ve got a week to 10 days before it’s ready for me to move in.  So where is the chapter in that book that tells me how to transition from living with him to living alone?  Where’s the chapter that tells me he will still love me even when I’m not sleeping next to him every night?  Where to find the answers to questions such as “What’s for dinner? Where are my jeans? Can you help me with my homework?” when someone else has answered those questions for 2 months?  Where do I find the reasuring words “It’s all going to be ok. Nothing’s going to change?”

I sat down today, pen in hand and started to write all that was on my brain.  I’ve been in a funk for the past few days.  I thought it might be my medication, but even with a couple tweeks to my cocktail I’m still feeling out of sorts.  Then the thought occured to me that  maybe it’s not my cocktail that is off, maybe it’s the people around me. I mean, I can only take so many pills and if people are still assholes, well all the pills I swallow won’t change that fact.

I needed to vent, blow off steam, expell all I’ve been keeping inside just dump my brain if you will.  Rid myself of all this frustration I’ve been keeping inside.

Dear, well, you know who you are.  You make it your business to know everything.  Even things that are none of your business.  I used to share a lot of things with you, a lot of things about my life. Sure I’d been warned, but I ignored the warnings.  Then I figured out that you weren’t asking about my life because you actually cared, you were just asking because you were nosy.  My life is not 100% open for public consumption.  Burn me once, shame on  you. Burn me twice, shame on me. But don’t be pissed when I shut you out. It’s your problem.  I unfriended you and blocked you as well on Facebook.  I’m shutting you out.  I hate being used as a source of your gossip.

To the person who peppered me with F-bombs a few weeks ago.  I understand people’s need to vent about situations. But there is no need to drop that many eff bombs at me because you’re mad at something out of my control.  I could have helped but after that conversation I was a whole lot less than inclimed to lift a finger for you.  I could probably forgive and forget if you would just say “I’m sorry”.  Saying “It wasn’t directed at you” is not the same.  And because of all that, I refuse to grant you any personal favors.  You can not pepper me with f-bombs and expect me to be your BFF.

A few months a ago I wrote a blog post that  you didn’t agree with.  You jumped my shit, and you’re allowed to have an opinion different from mine.  I respect that.  What I don’t respect is you throwing things in my face that have nothing to do with what I wrote.  When you crossed that line I had nothing to lose.  I stopped pretending I accepted what you were doing in your life, when in fact I believed to my core that what you were doing was selfish, and disrespectful.  You blew up at me and then shut me out of your life.  I barely notice.  I still stand by every word I said.  Your guilt trip won’t work on me.

To my ex husband, telling the girls that you are ‘trying to save up child support’ is not the same as sending child support. It also sounds less authentic when you tell the girls you are going to remodle and add on to your house.  Oh and telling them you know that child support would make their life here so much easier, adds a rather pleasant touch to that whole bag of lies you’re trying to sell.   The only thing that money you’re saving in your pants pocket is supporting would be your balls if you actually still had them.

To everyone out there. When I am being quiet and not joining in it does not mean I’m in a downward spiral.  Sometimes I have nothing to say.  Sometimes I know it’s better to keep my mouth shut.  Sometimes I know I’m in a manic or depressive stage and that my perception of things is skewed so I stay quiet.

Unfortunately for you, this is not one of those times.

Every now and again something someone says or does or whatever reminds me of something from my past. (How’s that for a lot of somethings that amount to well, nothing?) So I travel back and wander peeking in various windows of my past.

Until I find some fucktard thing I did that could have turned out so different than it did. Like in a good way. As in nobody got hurt or died or lost good kind of way.

And I obsess about it.

And by obsess I mean, well obsess about it until I have worked up a really good guilt trip. And I begin to wonder why it is the people in charge of things like life, let me walk around unsupervised most of the time.

The girls’ dad and I used to have some whopper fights.  Violent and loud and break the furniture, holes in walls kind of fights.  At the time I used to think it was best to get the kids secured in a bedroom and then take him on to prove I wasn’t afraid of him.  Or the time he locked me and kids in their bedroom and stood outside telling them that I was a slut and a bitch and whatever else he could come up with.  I sat in that room and asked him what he was trying to prove and why was he doing this?

What Ishould have done, that time, and every time, was just ignored him and walked away.  I should have taken the kids and walked away.

I should have taken the higher ground.

I wonder now just how scared the girls will be in the future from the past I put them through.  I wonder what their future relationships will be like because of the things I did.

Or didn’t do.

What about all the manic episodes they have witnessed me go through? Will all the times we got in the vehicle and drove around town because I needed to be moving all the time will be etched in their minds forever?  I wonder if all the things they have witnessed in their life will have lasting effects on their life.

Of if they think less of me as a mother because of the episodes.

Will they grow up and remember a crazy mom with mental issues, or will they remember the calm happy normal years instead?

Will they grow up remembering the fights between their parents that they witnessed?  What about the violent fights their dad has had with the girlfriends he’s had since then?

I know we all have rough times in our childhoods.  I think my girls have had more than their share.

And I feel it’s my fault.

That somewhere along the line I failed them.

Things are better now.  I’m on medication. I’m half a state away from their father.  They don’t witness violence or mood swings every day.  They know who’s coming home to them every night.  They know that they will go to sleep and wake up in the same bed.

But is that enough to erase the evil, the stains of the past?

I can only hope.

Dear B,

Let’s be honest, yesterday sucked.  Big hairy sweaty balls sucked. Does it matter who said what to who?  Does it matter that my feelings were hurt and I gave you the cold shoulder all day?  Does it matter that the medicine the doctor gave me to help me sleep helps me sleep but turns me into a blubbering bitch who can’t stop crying.  Not so much. None of that matters really.  They are just minor details in the mess that we made of yesterday.

Last night I slept in the bedroom down the hall.  I thought one night apart might give us both a little space.  The offer was enough to bring down the walls we both had been holding up all day.  At the end of the day there was still I love you’s from both of us.

Both of us got our feelings hurt. Both of did the hurting. Neither of us was very nice, or forgiving of the other.  I just want to take a  minute to say I am sorry I was a cold shouldered, short tempered, weaping bitch to you yesterday. I hope that you can see behind all the ick from yesterday, and see the heart that beats beneath.  The heart that loves you.

All my love for the rest of my life,

Becky

*Disclaimer*  This post is all about me. (That sounds so pretentious doesn’t it?) This is not a judgment about anyone else.

How far back in my history do I go to find the beginning of this story I’m going to tell? 

Beginning in my high school years, I became very aware of my weight.  I had mono one year and lost a lot of weight.  When I returned to school, that was the topic of discussion, how much weight I had lost and how skinny I was.  That was the beginning of the love/hate relationship I have had with my body and the scale. 

I have been a whole 115 pounds or less since I graduated high school.  There have been 3 times I ever weighed more than that, and their names are Bo, Tate and Newt.  I was obsessed with losing that weight after they were born.  And I did. 

I have heard “You are too skinny” by more people than I care to remember for far longer than I care to admit.  But I *loved* being the tall skinny one.  I loved being able to wear cute clothes.  I know my parents hated it, but oh god I loved it.  And I would obsessively make sure I never weighed more than 115.  I would skip meals.  I would go days without eating.  All of this made so much easier by the stress I lived with while I was in a terrible marriage. 

Two years ago I was diagnosed with BPD which started my journey through the pharmaceutical jungle.  Or as my brother put it “Six Flags in your head without the price of admission”.  Yeah except not as fun. 

Trial and error and we have found a cocktail of medications that seem to work, for now.  The problem is, one of the side effects of one of the medications is weight gain.  My worst enemy, my nemesis.  The other problem?  I am mentally healthy now, so I don’t obsess about the food I eat.  So in getting well, I have gotten healthy, both mentally and physically.  I’ve gained some weight from the medications, but I am not an unhealthy weight. In fact, for the first time in my life I am probably the healthiest weight I’ve ever been.

But now, I look in the mirror and my once tight flat enviable abs, are soft and round and I hate them.  My hipbones that used to stick out, are now hidden. For the first time in my life I can actually fill out a bra, and a pair of jeans.  Everyone tells me I look so much healthier than I did before.

Everyone but the mirror. 

And my closet.

I broke down in my closet this morning because I stared at all of my clothes and none of them fit.  Not “didn’t fit the way I wanted them to fit.”  No, plain didn’t fit.  I couldn’t get my pants up past my thighs, or if I did, I couldn’t button/zip them.  I couldn’t even wear Brian’s pants (and I’ve *always* been able to wear his pants.  Yes, I could get into his pants, and now? Not so much)  So, not only was I faced with having to either call in fat to work or go to work naked, pale and flabby, I was faced with my greatest fear.

I am fat*.

For someone who used to pride herself on the fact that I had two complete wardrobes, spring/summer and fall/winter and had to change out closets and dressers twice a year, to be face to face with absolutely nothing to wear, was devastating. 

For the past few weeks I have been unable to stand at the mirror and do my hair without a tee shirt on.  I haven’t been in the pool once this summer because I couldn’t bear the thought of someone seeing me in a bikini.  The words “frumpy” ‘flabby’, pale, and uh, fat come to my mind.  Brian still tells me I’m healthy but ‘healthy’ is making me miserable.

I know some of this is due to the medications.  I know some of this is due to the fact we eat dinner so very late when Brian closes.  I know some of this is due to the fact I eat lunch from fast food joints every day because it’s easier.    I know some of this is due to the fact I don’t get up and do as much as I used to.  I know some of this is due to the fact I don’t exercise, because I’ve never had too.  I know I have to get up and do something about this, because it won’t go away on it’s own. 

My dad used to tell me it would catch up with me one day and I used to tell him I intended to outrun it for the rest of my life.  Guess I didn’t run fast enough. 

*By Fat, I mean my definition of fat.  I am by all medical standards and charts well within the healthy weight limits for my height.

I stole this idea from Britt.  If you’re not reading her blog, you should start.  And yes, she is aware I am pimping her out, and she’s not even paying me.

I love that no matter how much I want to give up, I continue to fight the fight to the end.

I love that I have the kind of relationship with my daughters I wish I had had with  my mother.

I love that this year I was able to buy a new-to-me car on my own.

I love that I only felt fat and frumpy in my too-young-and-too-small-for-me clothes. And when I finally got clothes that fit me, I didn’t feel or look fat and I felt pretty again.

I love that I have learned to pay attention to my moods and possible triggers, giving me a sense of control over my disease.

I love that I know how to cook a real meal if I have the time, the space, and the food to do it.

I love my sense of humor even if most people don’t get it.

I love that I am raising two very secure self aware caring beautiful girls who are so much more than I ever was at their age.

I love that all the hell and drama I’ve been through with their father has taught them to never be a doormat for anyone.

I love that I’m not afraid to ask questions in order to understand things better.

I love that I look for the story beneath the surface.And everyone has a story.

I love that I can see both sides of an argument.

I love that if someone I love is hurt, I am the one who can remain calm.

I love that I am good with names and faces.

I love that I remember the stupidest details about things.

I love that I finally got the diagnosis for my disease and got the treatment and medications I needed

I love that I believe what I believe and won’t compromise.

So what is it you love about you?

Have you ever been one of those people.  You know when you were way cooler in your mind than you were in real life.  When the image of you in your own head was so overblown.  When you look back now, you cringe inside.  We all have those memories when we were that person.

I was the girl who flirted with every guy at work.  Who had a smile and a wink and inuendo for everyone.  I wore the short skirts, flaunted the goods, and lapped up the compliments that were thrown my way.

I was the girl who would hang out in their offices, stop by just to say hi.  I would go to lunch with anyone who asked.  I wanted to believe I made them feel as special to me and I felt I was to them.

The women there talked about me.  A lot.  They tried to warn me.  They talked among themselves about my behavior.  I thought they were jealous.

They thought I was easy.

There were times I would go to lunch with someone and would be late coming back to work, if I came back at all.  At the time I thought I had plausible sounding reasons.  Looking back, I just appeared irresponsible.

There were other times I would have a beer or two or three at lunch and have a really good buzz going on when I came back.  I was convinced nobody could tell.  Looking back, I wonder how could they not?

I was convinced I was doing such a great job and they all loved me, that they would turn a blind eye while I surfed the web and goofed off at work.  After all, my work was getting done and don’t my legs look amazing in this skirt?

I should have been fired.  I am too this day surprized that I wasn’t.

I bring all this up because I know someone who is just like me back then.  Someone who is acting the same way, doing the same things, and people are talking, just like they did with me.  I want to sit them down and say “Hey here’s a reality check for you”.  But I can’t.  That lesson has to be learned, I can’t tell what I’ve learned, they have to learn it on their own.

We all have those periods in our life when we were that person.  I have lots of them.  We don’t always realize at the time what a douche we are, but they say hindsite is 20/20.

So when you were that person, who were you?

I have come to the conclusion it’s equally my medication’s fault and my own inability to stop shoveling food down my gullet that I have gained enough wait I am thoroughly disgusted when I look in the mirror. Maybe it’s just the fact I am now in my forties, not just forty like last year, now I am *in* my forties. My father used to tell me, you won’t be skinny like that forever, someday it’s going to catch up with you. I used to laugh him off. I mean, really, running after 2-3 kids, and trying to feed teenagers meant I didn’t have to worry about my weight. What little bit of food they left me, I could usually run off keeping up with them.

The past month or two, really since I started this whole new regimen of new medication, my clothes no longer fit. I am soft in places I don’t want to be soft (read my flat tight abs are now wrapped in bubble wrap). My thighs and butt have expanded faster than the wild west during the California gold rush. I have bigger muffin tops than most bakeries and folks, let me tell you, since I was 15 years old I have NEVER had a muffin top.

I have taken to wearing oversized shirts and pants instead of skirts because the legs that used to be my pride and joy are now more like pork and jelly. I have heard that fat looks better tan, but frankly I don’t care how tan I am (and I’ve stopped tanning altogether) or used to be, nothing can make me like what I see in the mirror.

Batman and Tate both have told me “Look you have a butt finally” and B has noticed I finally have breasts that are not just token breasts, but real breasts. That’s all well and good, but I also have jiggly thighs that rub together, a stomach I can’t stuff into my jeans and a whole wardrobe of clothes I can no longer squeeze into. The last time I had all of those things I was pregnant and had an excuse and none of it bothered me. Now, I don’t, I’m not, and it does.

It used to be easy enough accept the compliments I get/got whatever. Now, I don’t see anything it mirror but a body that has betrayed my mind and a mind that refuses to insist the body do something about it. It’s hard to look in the mirror now and reconcile the image in the mirror with the image in my head.

Is this truly my fate? Am I destined to no longer be the tiny skinny tight muscled person I was and loved? I mean, I can be honest here, the reason I was that person was because I would spend a great deal of my life starving myself or restricting what I eat to such an extreme. I am even angry that I no longer seem to have that willpower and self control to do what used to be second nature to me.

According to all the charts, I am at the weight I should be, I am at my Happy Weight. Funny, I don’t feel happy. I don’t feel pretty, I don’t feel like a woman, I don’t feel anything other than fat. I haven’t gotten into the pool at Batman’s at all this year because I couldn’t bring myself to be in a swimsuit in front of people, even family.

Maybe it’s just that for the first time in my life I am a ‘normal’ weight for my height and now I just have to wrap my mind around the fact that my body is healthy. Maybe with the medication my mind and my body are both healthy for the first time.

Is so, why am I so unhappy with myself?

She wrote the date.  August 2, 2009.   It had been three years.  Exactly three years.  It was crazy how she could remember dates.  Especially silly unimportant dates that were important to her.  The date of their first email (although she couldn’t remember which one of them sent it).  Their first phone conversation.  Their first weekend together.  The first time he said “I love you.” 

And the last time.  Their first argument.  The first time he broke her heart. Those dates she didn’t want to think about. 

If she asked him what today was, he would say “Sunday” because to him it was just another day. Dates didn’t mean much to him.  He knew if he asked her what day they met she could tell him.  He knew if he asked her what he wore their first weekend together, she could tell him that too. 

she sat out on the balcony that morning enjoying the sunrise.  As the early morning breeze caressed her skin, her mind drifted back in time.  Back to those first few weeks, when love was exciting and new and all your hopes and dreams seemed within reach.  Those days when love conquered all. 

She had known from the very beginning he was The One.  She knew it sounded crazy to everyone around them, but she knew it clear to the bottom of her soul.  He knew it too.  Three years later, she still believed it.  She was pretty sure he did too. 

He had just recently begun to say “I love you” to her again.  The past three years hadn’t been easy, but she never gave up, and here they were having gone full circle.  They had made plenty of mistakes along the way the first time around.  But here they were, back at the beginning, only smarter, wiser, better.

I honestly don’t know who sent the first email. It’s one of the things I regret, not keeping the first emails.  I have our first yahoo conversation dated August 2, 2006. I could tell you about phone calls while he camped with his kids, while I spent the day at the pool with mine.  I could tell you that we both knew beyond a shadow of a doubt from the very beginning we would be important to each other.   I could bore you with stories of day after day in our life.  I could put you to sleep with the details I remember.  Like what we wore or what played on the radio.  

None of that matters.  The details are insignificant.  What matters, what’s important to me is that three years ago I fell in love with a man, and three years later,  am still in love with him.  He’s tried to walk away and he couldn’t stay away.  He’s tried to throw me away but couldn’t follow through with it.  I’ve given him more reasons to leave than stay, and yet here we are.  Together.