"Perfect Girls, Starving Daughters"

I'm learning that I can be chubby AND happy. Woah.

I mean, REALLY. I can't believe I can be totally honest and say that. I've let weight issues control my emotions for far too long. It's been keeping me from dwelling in my own life and fully enjoying all of these moments.

I still desire to be healthy and lose some pounds, but it's not an obsession that puts me into depression. At least, for now... This is a journey, after all, and I have been known to regress.

I think I owe a lot of this change to Courtney Martin who says in her book (Perfect Girls Starving Daughters) that there are so many of us - smart, talented, beautiful women who are wasting our talents and genius on our constant thinking about and working on our weight and eating issues. When someone asks, "How are you doing?" Our minds too often go immediately to how much we ate or how fat we feel to answer that question. We say things like, "I'm good, but I'm having a fat day." There are SO many other facets to us and we rate ourselves solely on this food thing. Courtney Martin finally brings light to how extreme and unnecessary it is to live this way. That just because it's been a normal right of passage for girls to go through this obsessiveness, doesn't mean it has to be normal any longer.

Thanks, Ms. Martin. You rock. : )

tired

I forgot how tired feels.

I guess a person can learn a lot when she's way past tired. Like that she shouldn't drive. And that she rambles. And that she can still be happy.

This wee baby is SO worth it...

vulnerable. end.

I think my brother thinks I’m way logical. And that he can say whatever thing he wants to me without me getting hurt. I do hold things deep down. I don’t show tears or hurt. I’m not transparent. I have to use words to say what I feel instead of just showing it.

I thought I’d never get married. Boys like vulnerable. A princess in a tower. My tower was disguised as confidence. I didn’t think I wanted to get married. I wanted to be left alone so no one would penetrate my safe fortress. I had heart-wrenching times when my future husband would grab my hand and attempt to pull me out of myself. I didn’t like the light – I wanted my dark and cozy room. I wanted no one to know what was going on in there. I held on tightly to the illusion that I had it all under control. Having someone try to make me leave that safety was excruciating. At one point, I was close to running like Jane Eyre did, through the countryside, sleeping in the fields and starving. North Dakota was one big field, ready to embrace me. Not kidding.

My sister thinks I’m a rock. Or knows that I’m trying to be a rock. We argued a few months ago. She said what was on her mind. I held back, not wanting to screw it up. She said she hated that she could see that I was in a rage, but that I wouldn’t just say what I wanted to say. I wasn’t in a rage. I was filled to the brim with deepest fear. Hating that we were fighting. Hating that I was coming out of my safe little room and having fulfilled what I thought would happen – that I would be awkward and wrong and stupid.

My mom knows I’m vulnerable, but also thinks I’m that logical rock. She shares her deepest fears and hurts with me. She sees on the outside that I can handle it. And then later, remembering that my outside doesn’t always reflect what I’m feeling, she apologizes.
“It’s ok. I’m fine!” Not wanting her to feel like she can’t share with me anymore.

I’m not sure what dad thinks of me exactly. I think if I knew that, I might know myself better. Guessing at what he thinks can be excruciating.

And what do I think of all of them…?
They are diverse, funny, passionate people. Filled with talent and love. All of them. The whole family. It’s considered “broken”, but the pieces that have been added to the family through re-marriage make the put-back-together pottery more beautiful.

vulnerable. Part 2.

There has been hurt and swirling passions and drama in my life. Sometimes it’s been acted out by people close to me. Sometimes by me. It all feels the same. The swirling passions of close friends and family are felt deeply by me at times. Sometimes it’s been overwhelming. There have been sleepless nights. Fitful dreams. Anger. Outrage. Hurt. And joy, too. Less remembered, the joy. It sticks in the heart – the hurt. Like thick pins. The hurt doesn’t have to be pulled to the surface to be remembered.

I don’t have any physical qualities inherited from my dad. Except my knuckles. This always makes me smile. I used to stare at my dad – his eyes, ears, nose, mouth, eyebrows – to try and figure out where I matched him. There was nothing I could see. I think I got his internal traits. A little of his awe-inspiring ability to be calm in almost all situations. To chuckle, even, when things go awry. On Father’s Day a few years ago, all of us kids held my dad’s hand during a church-ending prayer, and I noticed our knuckles. Such deep wrinkles that spread far beyond the hinge in both directions. I smiled and my insides grabbed violently onto the sameness. I’ve always wanted to be like my daddy.

I’ve always known I was my mamma’s. I came from her belly.

I have the same restless passion as mom. The same wild hair and the same desire to be wild. A tendency toward hyperbole (but also a rabid desire to reign that in). A lunatic’s tendency to follow what’s “best” rather than step on toes, but here and there, we both get so pushed into corners following that tendency that we eventually act out. For me, I get highlights or whack my hair off. Last year, deathly scared of being a receptionist the rest of my life, I walked off without giving a 2 week notice. That was extreme for “safe” me. And I never felt so very alive.

With the two parental extremes, I can see why, in my confusion and desire to control my environment, I act a little obsessive compulsive.

And also why they got divorced when I was six.

vulnerable. Part 1.

Perfectionism keeps me locked inside. Unable to speak. Fearful. It is most cowardly that I’m afraid of other people. Of their disapproval or, worse, their teasing laughter. In a movie the other day, a husband said to his crying and jealous wife, “We’re not in high school anymore.” She responded seriously through her tears, “We’re never out of high school.” True. How to break free? I am inspired by uncouth women. And old women who speak their minds. And women who lose weight. And women who are content – business women, housewives… it doesn’t matter. The contentment I find in others, however rare, is amazing. I do have moments of bliss. Not uninterrupted, though. There is in my nature a constant pulling and aching. A passion beneath the surface. It goes unfed – me not knowing what to feed it exactly. So I feed my stomach. And dawdle away the time. At times.

Confused at the raging between the passion and the longing to have peace and rest. Wanting to write thrilling stories and feeling mute all at once.

Baby girl!

Two days after my last post... labor began. And 9.5 hours later, a baby was here! Sounds easy, hey?
She's beautiful. Definitely a future knitter and coffee drinker... unless she's not. That'd be good, too. I hope she's totally confident to be totally herself. Always.

It's been nearly 3 weeks now. My days are full of nursing, changing diapers, and being in awe of my tiny girl. The nights are also full of the same. It's hard at first to wake up to feed and change her each time she stirs, but I sit right up, and I'm ready to go. In the dim nightlight-lit room, I sit cross-legged on the bed and watch quietly while she slurps up her meal. She doesn't cry much. Just enough. Sometimes she just wants to be snuggled, which is just fine with me.

What a sweetie.

blogging trouble

Blogging. *sigh*
What the heck.

My emotions are having a hard time with this blog thing.
There are so many things I'd love to write freely about, but people will read it! I mean, maybe only one or two people will read it, but still...!
And to just write about safe things like knitting or the weather... that's just... not really open and honest - the way writing should be.

I'll figure it all out one of these days.