Archive for the The Journey Category

As we drove to the country this past weekend, my husband told us about bears. “Us” included myself, Beastlet #2 and Beastlet #3. (Beastlet #1 was working since he is nearly a full grown beast.)

My husband said, “You do know that there are bears in southwest Missouri and they will kill you.”

I said, “The bears won’t come up close to the road where we are.”

He said, “Oh yes they will. And they have big teeth and claws(he hooked his fingers for emphasis and made growling noises.”

I said, “Okay, Smartie! So what are we supposed to do if we happen upon a bear? Should we lie down and play dead, like in cartoons?”

My husband looked at me like I had just proposed playing fiddle to lull the bear to sleep. So I said, “So should we run?”

He said, “Can you run 50 miles an hour?”

Sometimes I really want to bop my husband over the head with a blunt object, but I digress. He said, “Duh! You fight for your life! Be ruthless!” He paused for emphasis. “Stab it in the eyes. Punch it in the nose. But always remember that when hit a bear in the most sensitive spot on its body that he is going to be seriously angry at you so you had better make it count!”

I then calmly explained to him that he was scaring Beastlet #2 and Beastlet #3. And since our future plans involved camping outside in tents, in the dark, he had better stop talking about bears.

Upon my return to work today, I recalled our conversation. The thing is, I don’t really like Monday mornings. I’m usually tired, coffee deprived and don’t like going to work. My brain reverts to self-protection mode. I therefore begin to conjure any method of anesthetization that will ease my suffering and since my place of employment regularly produces a plethora of treats, delightful to the eye and extremely pleasing to the tooth, my brain hones in on the one thing I want most in this world…COOKIES. Immediately, frustration and shame washed over me as I begin the familiar argument.

I will go to the café and buy cookies.

You must not go to the café and buy cookies.

Sometimes I can successfully win the argument but frequently I lose, as evidenced by the tight pants I wore today(to torture myself to behave). I stood at my desk and fought back tears. Why am I so weak? Why can’t I just eat healthy snacks and be good? This craving bear is freakin’ huge! I am fighting for my life. Why can’t I be more ruthless?

Despair has been a familiar friend for the past few months as I battle serious depression. Food is a comfort and a trigger for more depression. I have chosen poorly more often than wisely in a desperate attempt to find some semblance of solace. I had lunch with a good friend last week and we discussed how certain foods accelerate depression but convexly are the things that offer the most comfort. The best tasting foods make us feel better in the moment but worse over time. She said to me, “I now understand why people take drugs. They just want relief from the continual pain.”

I live in a torturous cycle of depression which prompts my food addiction and throws me headlong into a snake infested pit of extreme mental agony. I’ll be honest, my situation frequently feels hopeless. Willpower is not an effective tool against weight gain at this point in time. The thirsty man cries out for relief in the form of water, but for me, food is a necessary curse. My quality of life hinges on how little or much I eat. The types of foods I eat determine not only whether I feel happy or sad, but whether I feel satisfied or wanting. Basically, pick your method of torture.

This morning as I mulled over all of these things, I recalled one of the key components to any recovery plan: accountability. I acknowledge my inability to refrain from indulgence and thereby recognize my great need for assistance. This morning help came in the form of a co-worker who walked with me to the café and made sure I did not buy cookies. Right now I am too weak to stand and I need someone to hold me up. I prayed for help, and God sent a friend.

I am so thankful for Tricia. She saved me. Today I am 100% cookie free. Was it embarrassing to have to ask for help? Yes! Was it necessary? Yes! Was I ruthless against the bear? YES! Today if you are fighting for your life, you need to do everything humanly possible to survive. That bear is going to eat you piece by piece if you don’t fight back. Whether you are struggling against addiction to food, alcohol, drugs, or any other manner of vice, I encourage you to be ruthless. Protect your life at any cost. Do not roll over and play dead. Gouge out the eyes and run like hell! Your life is too precious, too sacred to do anything less.

Believe it or not I can be very shy. I’m afraid to meet new people and I don’t like strangers staring at me. Maybe this is insecurity, but whatever the case may be, you would think this would deter me from stepping outside of my comfort zone. But this is actually not the case. I like to go new places and see fantastic things. If no one wants to go with me I will go by myself. I’m crazy that way.

So when I called the gymnastics studio to register my son and learned they had an adult tumbling class, I was curious.

“Do they take people who have never done gymnastics before?”

“Of course. Adults take this class all the time. It’s great!”(foreshadowing alert-gymnastics people say the word ‘great’ a lot but it means something very different than what I think it means)

My mind whirred with possibilities. When I was a little girl my friend took gymnastics. She invited me to come to class with her and I went one time. I will never forget the foam pit. I remember diving into with ecstasy. For some reason this memory was so glowingly wonderful that I promptly sang, “Sign me up!”

I spent the next two days thinking about little else than how wonderful that class was going to be. I invited friends on Facebook and arrived 15 minutes early. I wasn’t nervous or scared or worried. I simply thought, “Woo hoo!!”

So when they directed me down to the gym and I got to meet the other “adults” I was pretty jazzed. I envisioned 30 or 40-something year old men and women in leotards. Instead I met perky 20-somethings in short shorts. Evidently, the other “adults” that take tumbling are little more than children who have been gymnasticking(yes I made that word up) their whole lives.

The girls were so sweet. They told me their names but I’ve forgotten. I just remember their tiny waists and bare legs. They were stretching and there was no instructor yet.

“We’re stretching.” They said, as if I didn’t notice.

“Uh, okay.” I said.

“You should do what we do.” They nodded in unison.

“Uh, okay.” I said. Then I got about the business of bobbing and weaving while trying to stretch my legs for 10 minutes. This was decidedly not exciting.

Then the instructor arrived. “Hi, I’m Gene!” He was a middle-aged man with a large belly and did not appear to have ever done gymnastics in his life. But he was a jolly sort of fellow and I liked him immediately.

Thus began my lesson.

Evidently gymnastics does not start with summersaults, it begins with bridges. As in, “Margaret, do a bridge!”

“Um, excuse me?” I said.

One of the girls fell backwards and caught herself with her hands while her body was bent in an arch. I was intrigued. The second girl said, “You just kind-of fall into it.”

I scratched my chin and saw a vision in my mind of me falling backwards into a loud *splat*. I thought to myself, “that’s not going to happen” and then realized I accidentally said it out loud.

The instructor told me to lay down on my back and push up. I did. “Beautiful!” he said. Gene was very complimentary, although I am certain I looked similar to a beached porpoise flopping around aimlessly on blue foam beach as opposed to the lithe and graceful swan I wished to be.

The girls then taught me why gymnasts have super toned bodies. They are masters at self-torture. In between every fun mat exercise, think summersaults and more bridges, they do “floor work.” Floor work includes crunches with your legs raised(that was the easy one), rocking(I told them my bottom half was too big for this) and pushups.

“How many?” I asked innocently.

“20.” They said in unison while sounding like peppy cheerleaders.

I thought to myself, “That’s not gonna happen.” And then realized I accidentally said it out loud.

Gene said, “Just do as many as you can.”

I was determined to do 20 pushups but again, my bottom half is too big and I barely managed to eke out 10. I silently congratulated myself that having produced 3 children from my body, these girls knew little of real pain and thus I was stronger than them even if I couldn’t do 20 pushups.

Next we walked over to the mat and Gene asked me if I had ever done a cartwheel before. I chuckled. “Yeah, when I was like 10.”

He smiled, obviously unamused by my snarkiness. “Go for it.”

I looked at the matt and cocked my head to the left. Then I cocked my head to the right. Then I twisted around trying to figure out how best to approach the matt without breaking my elbows.

“Keep your arms straight.” Gene said. Notice the pudgy middle aged man did not demonstrate a cartwheel for me. He left that to the girls.

I managed to complete one cartwheel and they all exclaimed happily, “That was great!” as if I had just completed a perfect pike. Then each girl took turns doing round-offs with flips added in for fun while I stood there with my mouth hanging open. Unfortunately, as I was maneuvering around the mat on my wobbly legs, I slipped and fell into the foam pit. I very quickly realized it was not the happy place I remember it to be. I felt kind-of like a toothpick in a freshly baked angel food cake. I was just stuck there, sticking out of the top. I wasn’t really embarrassed, but it was certainly going to be challenging to climb out of it, which is, I suppose, the purpose of the pit. As I attempted to climb out I felt something like a hippopotamus rolling and snorting and trying desperately to get a foothold on a muddy riverbank. As Gene and the girls coached me I was determined not to ask for help. Eventually I got enough leverage to push out. I’ll admit it wasn’t pretty but I got it done.

Gene said, “Okay! Now let’s try a handstand.” I looked around and said, “Are you talking to me?” He just laughed. I did the same routine as the cartwheel, cocking my head to the side and twisting. He said, “Just keep your arms straight.” So I cleared my throat and went for it. I really don’t know what I was thinking would happen, but imagine my surprise when Gene grabbed my legs and held me there. Eventually he let me down. The girls exclaimed, “That was great!” And it was then that I realized… “great” means “we laugh at your petty attempts at gymnastics, oh fat middle-aged woman!”

Gene said, “Let’s do that again.” I gulped like a dying fish and tried again. Gene held my legs while the girls did crunches and push-ups. Still, I was very proud when on my third attempt I completed one handstand without Gene hugging my tree trunk legs. I quickly fell on my back and cracked my rumpus but that’s not the point. I shot the girls and evil look that said, “Do not tell me ‘that was great’ or I will push YOU into the foam pit and kick you in the head while you try to climb out.

After a few more crunches or pushups, I can’t remember which, Gene said, “Let’s try those cartwheels again. At this point I was feeling pretty confident. I might be slower than the girls but I was keeping up pretty well for my first class. After all, I am in pretty good shape. I work out a lot, and even though I’m a little rounder around the middle, I’m not afraid to try cartwheels. So I proudly pranced down the matt and did a few more cartwheels. But on the last one I felt something go horribly wrong in my left hip and when I landed the truth hit me like a balance beam to the noggin, “I just tore something.”

Now I expected Gene to say something like, “Oh, Dear! You better stop. Maybe you should go lay down in a corner. Or better yet, you should just go home. You made a good effort.” But that is not what Gene said. What Gene actually said was, “Oh, just go stretch it out over there.”

I am certain that I pouted. As I was pouting my way over to the stretching place the girls took turns flipping down the mat like regular Olympic athletes while Gene shouted, “You need more space between those flips!”

And I think I’ll just stop there. Try as I might, the tear in my hip did not “stretch out”. I finally had to tell Gene that I was done trying to be a gymnast. He encouraged me to come back and said the instructors would be completely willing to help me accomplish my goals, whatever they were.

“I don’t have any goals.” I said.

Gene frowned. I may as well have told him I liked to poke babies in the eyes for fun.

“Well, I’m not sure what we can do for you then.”

One of the girls said, “Do you have to work tomorrow?” I nodded and then she said, “Oh, that’s not good. You probably won’t be able to move in the morning.” I did not poke her in the eye but I was sorely tempted. I left the gym in a fairly sad state of mind.

When I arrived home my husband was waiting for me. He met me out in the front yard. “Well, did you survive?” Evidently he knew I was going to die and didn’t warn me. He knows how completely crazy I am whereas I live in a state of complete denial.

“It was ‘great!'” I said, and hobbled up the front stairs like the old woman I am.

The moral of this story is very simple, 39 year old women who love gymnastics but have never actually done gymnastics would be wise to stick to something more realistic, like watching Youtube videos of gymnasts rather than trying to actually be one. The sad thing is, I probably could have made a lot of money videotaping this exercise in foolishness. The clip of me falling in the foam pit would have been an instant classic!

Today I was standing in the break room and heating up my lunch. Sandwiched in between the microwaves and my clandestine toaster(toasters are strictly forbidden but I sneak mine in) are two vending machines. One holds ice cream bars and the other holds an assortment of candy. Each day I while stand and wait for my food to cook, I stare at the machines and contemplate my past. The machines used to torment me, but now I talk back to them.

“You are looking lovely today, oh machine of Blue Bunny ice cream. Your advertising is very colorful.”

“Thank you, Margaret. I am pretty sexy, if I do say so myself. Would you like to sample some of my wares?”

“Your offer is tempting.” I say. “In fact, I remember well what many of your ice cream treats taste like. Most of my food memories are very vivid. But no thank you. Not today.” I turn away and consider the conversation over.

“Psst. Margaret. You look very hungry. It’s been a while since you had a treat. My chocolate chip ice cream sandwiches are chewy and sweet. You should try one.”

I gaze back at the machine which is grinning like a demonic clown. “No, thank you. The thing is, all that so called food is a lie. In fact, there’s not much food in your food. I think I’ll pass.”

“But Margaret…”

“This conversation is over.” I say. And I finish making my lunch.

I have never once purchased anything from those vending machines because to me that is a full relapse. No matter how many poor food choices I make, there are certain lines I don’t cross. There are certain candies I never buy and there are certain fast food restaurants I will probably never eat at again. I have even gone so far as to take my children to places and sit quietly while they eat and I listen to my stomach growl.

I am having success again in controlling my urges to eat continually. I have lost 10 pounds and feel a lot more confident. Every day is not the struggle that it was. I haven’t had ice cream in a few weeks and I don’t miss it any more. I’m trying to be kind to my body and rest too. I tend to push myself too hard most of the time.

We visited the country over Independence Day. We worked really hard and it felt good to step away from the daily grind. In fact, I credit the trip with helping me break free from some of my more recent addictions(peanut butter cookies). Sometimes we all need to step away from our routines to gain clarity in our lives. It really helps!

We put up an outhouse, cut down a tree and stacked it up and I cooked a bunch of meals over the campfire. We slept in tents and washed in the Meramec River. It was glorious! On our final trip to the river I simply stood in the water and watched the creatures swim around my ankles. Various fish including perch, minnows and small bass tickled at my legs. There were several large tadpoles with legs and my favorite thing in the world, crawdads. I stood for such a long time watching all of these beautiful creatures that a large crawdad started pinching my feet. I poked his antennae and he backed off only to come back a minute later and start all over. In the 60 minutes we spent wading and watching I felt all of the trouble and trauma in my life slip away, as if carried off by the water never to return.

I find relief from all my worldly troubles in nature. There is something so pure about watching something I had no hand in creating, that is so breathtakingly beautiful, just be. Sitting in a camp chair watching the stars fall and the moon shine, we could almost forget the neighbors loud music and raucous fireworks at 1:00am.

Today I read a quote by one of my favorite authors, Dean Koontz. He wrote about growing up poor with his alcoholic father, “I always knew happiness was a choice.”

That is what I need to remember when my cravings come on so powerfully. I get to feeling awfully weak and low. I feel like I don’t have the strength to keep resisting and I can’t break my thought cycle of wanting to the point of desperation. But I have a weapon now. I will stop and remember the sheer bliss of standing in a cold river while the fish swam around my ankles. I will remember my boys splashing and giggling hysterically as they captured crawdads and tadpoles. I will sigh again and remember that happiness is a choice.