Day 31 Was Much More Fun

It's 20 til 10 and I'm ready to nod off.  And that's a good thing.
Yesterday was crap, but today ran a much better course.  I think getting some decent sleep, aided by a bit of Xanax and a beach towel over the window, was a huge help.

I spent all day on the couch, glued to the computer, but for a good cause.  I've been putting together some flyers, business cards, and a website to promote my business.  More on that later. 


I think there is a light at the end of this tunnel.  Depression might be a lying bastard, but I'll kick him in the teeth just yet.

30 Days: Worse For the Wear

30 days in.  No weight loss.  More weight gain.  Why?

Here's the answer

• cookies (gluten free doesn't make them calorie free)
• eggnog (can't handle diary well, but doesn't stop me from imbibing.  Mmmmmhhhhh, noggy goodness)
• depression 
• butternut squash mac and cheese (Swiss instead of cheddar makes its betta)
• anxieties 
• scones (they're not really that good, but does it stop me.  No!)
• little sleep (Because nothing says Christmas like 3 5' snowmen on a 2 ft lawn, just outside my bedroom window)
• rock through the car windshield which cancelled Christmas plans

I'm not the person I want to be.  I want to be so much more.  And right now my head is spinning with all the things I want to do, like map out my novel, clean my room, do some yoga, visit the library, and yet I want to curl up in bed and sleep for three days.

Maybe a good night's sleep and a cry would help.  Maybe I should sleep on the couch tonight, which is dark and tomb-like.  Maybe I'll feel better in the morning.

Four of Hearts

The scale seems to indicate that I lost weight, however I don't feel that I have. To tell you the truth I don't even remember what I weighed last week. All I know is that right now I feel really depressed and stressed about where I am.
Last week I had a blast on Thanksgiving. I met some new friends, I laughed really hard, learn some new references for MST 3K, and inhaled all sorts of yummy food. But when the hostess of Thanksgiving posted a picture today on FB, my immediate reaction was "I look like a fat cow."
I'm super stressed now more than ever. My Christmas plans have changed and I'm now guilt-tripping down to Florida for Christmas. So now not only am I worried that I can't financially afford this, I'm worried about the reception my weight will get. When I was down over the summer picking my son up from his summer vacation in Florida, I was rudely informed that I was fat and unhealthy.
Which comes as no surprise to me, both that the person acted that way and also, I know I'm overweight. Like all the women in my family I'm stress eater, and I tend to have a lot of stress in my life. Raising a son on my own and working full time isn't easy. I don't have the luxury to exercise whenever the mood strikes and my diet can be pretty shitty from being on the run all the time.
The problem is the people who point out my weight remember that as child and a teenager I was really active. I played soccer for 13 years, in addition to every other sport on the face of this earth. so when I was easily running 3 miles at each practice, it was no problem keeping the weight off.
But I'm not 16 anymore I'm going on 33. And yes I realize that I do need to get healthier. But its not going to make me feel more motivated to get in shape when it's pointed out that I'm fat.

Day One, Not Fun

Started the day with the best of intentions. Packed a balanced, nutritious lunch. And then got yelled at by the geriatric, female Scrooge I currently with for.  In front of my child.

Not. Cool.

So what was my response? Yell back? Risk an assault charge and punch her face? Grab my son's hand and peel rubber down the driveway?

The answer was none of the above. I spoke calmly but internally I ragged all damn day.

And being an emotional eater, I decided to dull my anger temporarily by eating an entire medium size veggie pizza for dinner. And now i'm angry at myself, not just her.

Hope day 2 goes better.

This Turkey is Stuffed

Today's feast was hosted by a lovely friend.  It was a memorable time; I drank some very yummy spiced wines, ate far too much pork/lamb sausage cornbread dressing, and lost count of how many times I laughed.

It was fantastic. I wish I could have stock-piled the leftovers, but I can't/didn't. If i'm going to be serious about getting rid of my excess giblets, pardon the pun, I've got to go cold turkey.

I should get to bed before my food baby settles and I decide that, yes I can find some room in my overstuffed stomach for some Halloween candy.

Today. It Sucked.

     "I see you like to color coordinate.  Does the carpet match the drapes?"


   "I like when women say whatever they want.  I might be married but I enjoy 'interesting" conversations."

  "Caroline, LinkedIn thinks you should connect with X (your rapist).

The P in PTSD is post.  As in after.  There is no time limit to how far removed this post situation might be.  It could be 14 years later when a deep-seated fear and hatred is triggered.

You don't expect an inappropriate remark to detonate a well of emotions that leaves you silently crying for 2 hours while you drive up and down I-95, while your child plays Angry Birds, fortunately unaware of the crazy train sitting in the driver's seat.

I don't put much effort into my looks.  Besides coloring my hair blue (which I realized today is nothing but an attempted security blanket), I don't style it very often.  I rarely wear make-up.  Now that the weather is warmer, I'm wearing long, flowy skirts that aren't all that flattering, but I feel comfortable in.

I don't set out with the intent on appearing like I'm sex on a stick.  I don't bathe in milk and honey.  I don't roll in pheromones.  At this point I would be a better spokesperson for The Cheesecake Factory than Abercrombie & Fitch.

Yet, I wind up in situations where complete strangers say the most inappropriate things to me.  And it terrifies me.  It makes me so angry and sad.  Like the only thing this person sees before them is a sexual object.

Once, I was nothing but a sexual object for someone, for 5 miserable months.  "You're incapable of having an intelligent conversation with me, but your body makes up for it."

I've admitted previously that I struggle with self-harm.  One of the reasons why self-harming is such a struggle for me to stop is because I secretly believe that the cuts, welts, and scars will be such a turn-off that if a person is really interested in me, it will be because of my sense of humor, my intelligence, or my inability to laugh silently.

For the love of God, I don't want strangers to assume that I'm comfortable with sexual innuendo because my bra cup overfloweth.

I'm so scared and so low right now that if acid were splashed in my face right now I'd probably be happy.  I feel like I'm 18 all over again, trying to believe that I am more than a hole for someone to fuck.  

I'm trying to tell myself that I'm not a bad person, that I wasn't asking for it then as much as I wasn't asking for it today.  And it's really hard to listen to it.

I can't get a hold of my therapist, so writing it out will have to do.  I haven't hurt myself in the last 2 hours, yea, so there's a win I suppose.

It's gotta be better tomorrow.  Or at least I'll fake it.  My little karate kid is going to test for his yellow belt and mommy's anxieties don't need to overshadow his big day.