MERRY CHRISTMAS! May your day be filled with family & blessings & joy! Kass

precarious

Precarious:
From Merriam-Webster: Definition 3 (a ): dependent on chance circumstances, unknown conditions, or uncertain developments (b): characterized by a lack of security or stability that threatens with danger

I was catching up on Kellie Jo's blog and reading "Pressure Cooker", and I couldn't help think of this word. 

I need to go to work for a bit, but I'll be back to write more thoughts on this. 

decision

I have to make a decision.

Deciding to make a decision has me terrified. To make this decision will end my life as I know it. That is frightening.

To not make this decision will mean continuing to live a life in complete lunacy and fear. This is not fair to my children, nor to me.

The life I lead now is small, full of "crazy-making" and fear, confusion and frustration. I look in the mirror and I see a familiar face...it's not mine, but one from my past. One that I claimed that I be different than. I'm now her. I don't like it. I must do something. I have to decide.

Making this decision will take more courage, strength, and confidence than I believe that I can muster. I've never felt courageous. I am not strong. And I am certainly not confident.

I also have come to learn that I don't adapt to change well. Sure, while growing up, as a "military brat", I was forced into adaptation through a serious of continuous changes. I put on a good face and fake it quite well. But in reality, I don't truly adapt and resist change.

I like comfortable and familiar. "New" frightens me. "Different" perplexes me. But the familiar is no longer comfortable, or even healthy, maybe not even safe.

The next few days will be nerve wracking internally, combusting my synapses and every quivering nerve. I said I would make a plan. I had started. I haven't followed through. I now have to move that plan forward to the next level. I have to decide the next step...what, when, where, how...

I must do this and make a better life for my children, and before I find myself in a complete mental breakdown.

Take a deep breath...be strong, be courageous, be confident. Do it. Repeat this again...and act, I tell myself.

the ballerina

Petite, delicate, graceful, she dons her slippers over her pink tights. She stands, smooths out her black skirt over her black leotard, tucks back a strand of hair fallen from her perfectly formed chignon. With eagerness, she places her hands on the barre and begins.

The fluidity and passion in her movements hide the clumsy, undeveloped postures of her youthfulness. Her smile outshines the light in the room. Bending to and fro, rising and falling, reaching further and further, she repeats the motions numerous times. The music carries her movements, holds her up, as though encouraging her.

She steps away, inhales the room, then her toes barely touch the ground as she strides rapidly to the center of the room. She bounds into a long, sinewy, effortful leap. She seems to glide in the air for hours, landing only feet away. On pointed toe, tiny steps she takes around the room, twirls, then repeats the grand action once again.

She looks up to the looking glass wall. She smiles grandly, filled with pride. Then ends with a small, polite curtsey. And with that, one could could imagine the curtain fall and a roar of applause from beyond the four walls.

sabotage expanded

In sabotage, I shared just one example of how I experience sabotage in my life, my goals, my dreams.
This is certainly not a one time or first time event. There are many areas of my life where I seem to experience saboteurs, but in this particular area I battle the same saboteur repeatedly. This is constant. I doubt it will change.

I used to think it was self-sabotage, but I'm coming to recognize that, in this particular area of my life, I'm just giving-in to someone else's attempts at sabotaging my life, my goals, my dreams.

18 years ago, I was fit, healthy, skinny. I was a recovered anorexic, a fitness instructor, a body builder. I felt fantastic about life and myself.

17 years ago, he found me iresistable and physically attractive. he made the comment that he didn't like women who had muscles. He thought is was disgusting and unfeminine. I stopped body building. I stopped running when he complained it took my attention away from him, and that I made him look bad for not working out himself. .

16 years ago, I had a baby and started letting myself "go". He let me know that. He teased me about his ideal woman.

10 years ago, I tried to get myself "back." He made fun of me. He compared me to other women he thought were more attractive. He accused me of not finding him attractive or being unapproving of his appearance.

5 years ago, I gave up. He made me feel like a failure. He still compared me to other women he thought were more attractive. He gave his "ideal" description. I'll never measure up.

2 years ago, I compelled myself to begin again. He made fun of me. He accused me again of not being satisfied with who HE is. He told me how to do fix me. He bossed me around. And he sabotaged me.

I joined a women's only health club. He seemed supportive. After a few visits, caring for the children so I could go workout became an inconvenience, a burden. Slowly, I stopped going.

I dragged out my work out videos & got new equipment. I got a good start on these. Then I was in the way of someone else's time to watch TV. I disturbed him when I got up early to do these. It was an inconvenience when I asked for time in the evening. Slowly I began to pull away from this too.

I started walking, with a friend of mine. He said he wanted to go walking with me. Asked me why I walked with my friend not him? Said he wanted to walk with me and my friend. He and I walked a couple of times, and then he stopped. He'd say he'd want to go, but we wouldn't. He'd be annoyed when I'd say I was walking with my friend. He'd complain that I wasn't spending time with him. I haven't quit...but I'm not as dedicated as I want to be.

I started trying to eat healthier. He said I wasn't eating enough. Then he accused me of telling him how to eat, of not being satisfied with him. I stopped.

He decided to start dieting. I supported him by buying and fixing the foods he requested. Later, he was angry with me and accused me of "dictating" to him, controlling him. I stopped.

He started seeing a doctor and got pills. He told me again what he wanted to eat. He saw changes for himself. He told me I should go get the pills too. I declined. He persisted, I still declined.

I found a fun workout class to attend. He said "Go. Enjoy." I went. I was happy. He complained when I wasn't home with him. He made fun of the class. He made plans to interfere with my plans to go to my class. He made me feel I couldn't go. I stopped going.

I joined a weight loss support group with my friend. He seemed supportive. He congratulated me with my first success. He complained as I continued to go.

He doesn't like me to go when he's home from work. He wants me home for him.

He doesn't like me to go when he's at work, because the children will be home and need me.

He blocks me from buying the foods I know I should eat. I read the label, and he says, "just get what we usually get" or "i don't like that."


I keep surrendering to his sabotage. I keep lying down and allow him to shape me, control me, pressure me. This has to stop. I must anticipate the sabateur and gear up for battle. I must stand firm...no! I must RUN...dance!...partake of goodness...be strong!!

sabotage

Saboteur identified.

She ventures on her way home from a long days' work, a long commute on a bus, with no control over the timelyness or lack there of. The electronic leash buzzes again and flashes overwelmingly loud silent messages:

"Where are you?"

on the bus.

"What's for dinner?"

roast

"What roast?"

the 1 left to put in crock cuz i have ww tonite

"It's in the fridge."

no one started it?

"So what's for dinner?"

i'll figure it out when i get home


Three quarters of an hour passes, a short nap later. The electronic leash buzzes again and her chest gets tight.

"Where are you?"

not quite to town

"Dinners ready."

good.

"Should we wait for you?"

prolly not. i have ww tonite.

"So are you going to eat with us?"

i'd like to go weigh in

"So are you going to eat with us?"

ww tonite. shouldn't before i weigh in. not had good w-ins lately.

"We'll wait for you."

sure. fine. i'll come home & eat.

In front of her is a heaping plate of food, smothered in gravy. He is hovering nearby...watching her intently. Frowning as she picks at the food on the plate.

Inside she screams. She started attending Weight Watchers with a friend of hers almost two months ago, and has attended meetings every week. Hopeful of successful results around the corner, she keeps going. This routine on this day of the week is not a surprise or unplanned event. Weight Watchers meeting on this same day of the week at the same time. She rises at 3:30 am and before she leaves the house at 4:30 am, she is sure to make sure dinner is ready to be prepared. They know what to do...the crock pot is ready and waiting. Arriving home again at 5:30 pm, she has enough time to run home, change clothes, use the toilet and run back out the door.

It's 6:20 pm. "So are you going to Weight Watchers?" Um, no. I'm already late, she says, despondently. As he turns away, she swears she could see a hint of a smirk of smugness on his face.

sophistication

I think almost every little girl has wanted to grow up to be Grace Kelly. Beautiful, poised, elegant, sophisicated.


Long ago, I equated Sophistication with Wealth.


Growing up very much so lower-middle-class, at times even poor, I had often dreamed of the luxuries that many of my friends had: immaculate homes, pristine furnishings, the finest clothing, the opportunities to be in a plethora of extracurricular activities. Our home was clean, our furniture at times was second hand but in good condition, our clothes were plain yet functional, and extracurricular activities were limited to those that didn't interfere with the budget or the need to work.

Later, sophistication appeared as vast knowledge of the world.

I longed for the smooth words and wit of the intellectual. I envied those exposed to culture and arts; my world absorbed much of these only through books. It was words, expressions, lines, colors and history. I dreamed of travel and experiences out of my immediate grasp.

But at this stage of my life, almost mid-life, I've learned that sophistication is so much more, as defined in Webster's in the third definition: the process or result of becoming more complex, developed, or subtle.

It is the ability to handle life with grace and poise without drawing attention to yourself. It's wise choices and balanced relationships. What I notice most about the sophisticate, is the ability to make mistakes and not pull others into seedy drama. It is the ability to seem steadfast and appear unshaken dispite your circumstances, and the ability to not wallow in self pity.

For those how have endured any drama I have dragged them into, I extend my deepest apologies. I hereby endeavor to become more complex, to develop deeply as a person, and live life subtly.

breathe

Air. I like air. Air is good. Breathing is good, definitely a beneficial action for life.

Laugh if you will, but I don't take breathing for granted. Breathing is a precious act for me, as I have lived with asthma my whole life. Asthma at times has consumed my life, causing me to steer away or avoid things I might otherwise enjoy. Asthma steals my breath, my ability to ensure I can get enough air into my lungs. Asthma has caused my body to be depleted of oxygen, evident by blue lips and fingernails.

I have lived with asthma and breathing problems my entire life, but I did not discover my condition until I was an adult. My parents had withheld rather important information from me as grew up, but it's wasn't because they were mean. The asthma I suffered with as a small child eventually diminished. My parents were told I would outgrow it, and when I no longer showed apparent symptoms, they assumed I had done just that. But I hadn't.

I realize looking back that this silent suffocator, asthma, held me back as a young athlete. I was a runner, a strong runner, but one that would never reach my full potential. I would run and run, only to be stopped still by the inability to properly draw a breath. I would beat myself up, trying harder and harder. I thought I was simply out of shape, but no matter what I did, I could not get enough air to keep going. My asthma was rediscovered at age 18, when I was on a lunch break at work. I was found passed out, lips blue and nearly unresponsive. The doctors explained that I just wasn't getting the air I need. I had asthma.

I have my ups and downs with asthma, even on a treatment plan. I have discovered tricks, being now aware of my symptoms, to control the very bad attacks, even without medication. Taking deep slow breaths and exercises to strengthen my lungs often help. A jolt to my system...a sudden surge of adrenaline (usually involuntarily) or good stiff cup of coffee can often open up the airways quite quickly-but on the transverse can just easily take my breath away. I enjoy the air I breathe, whenever I can breathe it well.

Breathing is essential to life. Not just physically, but psychologically and emotionally as well. I'm discovering in my life that all to often I do not stop to breathe. I've filled up my life with small amounts of busy tasks, stifling responsibilities and clutter. Clutter is both physical and mental in my life. It is all of the stuff that surrounds me, buries me, suffocates me. It is all of the unimportant distractions and unnecessary multi-tasking I take on. It is all of the encumbered emotional baggage that I hold on to. All of this constricts my life-airways...not allowing me to breathe in the joy of life. I'm suffocating myself with cynicism, pessimism, doubt, anger, worry, self-defeatism... I'm allowing all of this to hold me back from my full potential.

It is time to unbury myself, clear the passageways to allow joy to stream into my life. I need to stop and breathe. Just breathe, because life to short to suffocate myself with what does not matter, won't matter in the end. It is going to take time, effort, and a good plan--just like living with asthma. It may take constant "jolt", a good figurative cup of joe each day to keep me going for a while, until it comes naturally... to just breathe.

crowded

The other day, while attending a business banquet, a co-worker made a rather snide comment regarding my choice to not stand in the buffet line (rather a mob of 300 bodies) waiting to get food. I sat at the table, risking cold and scanty scraps, risking appearing snobbish while sitting alone, until this mob dispersed. To put it simply, I don't like crowds. I really don't like crowds.

I've never liked the feeling of being crowded, closed in. It has taken me almost 25 years to learn to cope with this. Crowds, the feeling of tightness, much too closeness, shared air, touching, the growing amount of noise that come with crowds, is, to put it mildly, overwhelming for me.

My earliest memory of the uneasy sensations of being in crowds was in grade school. I was put into a closet size room with several classmates to work on a project. I do not remember how long I was in the that room, but I do remember how it felt. Stuffy, very warm, dirty. I remember my chest feeling tight, not being able to breath. I remember sweating, the dizziness and nauseousness. I remember bursting into tears.

I don't like crowds. I don't like being crowded. For this, I do not go to the movies on opening night of a new show. I don't go to the supermarket the Saturday on a payday week. I avoid Walmart at all costs, but most certainly on that dreaded Black Friday. If I do voluntarily venture out to a crowded event, such as a concert or amusement park, or semi-voluntarily attend large business meetings or seminars, I do tend to velcro myself, within reasonable & legal personal distance, to the closest being with whom I feel secure. This is often my husband or a good friend.

I've been told my "fear" is in my head, to get over it, to just deal with it. I've been given pills, exercises, and words of wisdom. I've had people make jokes at my expense, been excluded, or just looked at in a worrisome way. But it's not in my head. It envelopes my whole body before it ever reaches the voluntary portions of my brain.

I've learned to control myself well enough to know when to escape. There was a time, in a crowded shopping mall during an impressive sales event, that I collapsed. When I regained consciousness, I was so disoriented that I did not know where I was or how I got there. That was 20 years ago. You see, I feel the mind has a volatile urge to protect itself from the unwanted stimulation and sensations that come in too fast for it to process. If you don't stop or slow it down, the brain is just going to shut everything down and quickly.

For me, the warning signs are the fast breathing, the suffocating sensation, the sweat that beads up on the back of my neck and my upper lip, the ringing in my ears, the dizziness that comes just before I crumble into a pile on the ground. Out of courtesy, I've shared that "I don't like crowds" with others. Not because I really need their sympathy or understanding. It is because of what I don't tell them--what I really want to do before the fast breathing , sweat beads and ringing in my ears set in....

It is the skin crawling off my body sensation when someone else's breath touches me or an unknown body mistakenly brushes by, and the internal compulsion to explode into a super-sonic sprint towards the nearest exit, of which my eyes instinctively spots before my mind instructs it so, with the intent of finding the furthest dark and secluded corner, pressing my back into it making my body one with the wall, shielding my chest with my knees, wrapping my arms tightly around them, burying my face as though doing this makes me like an armadillo shielding itself with armor in an attempt at preventing the massive ocean of tears that inevitably arrives.

No, I don't like crowds. And if you don't mind, I'll wait until the buffet line is gone, better yet, I can eat later (because buffets...well, that's a whole 'nother story).

random thoughts of an unstable woman in disguise

This blog is the start of a journal of sorts. I have at various times, in the nearly four decades of my life, started journals. Each is incomplete; most have been lost. It has been years since I've put my thoughts down in writing, but it has been a long time since I've *needed* to. Today, I feel the need to write out my thoughts in order to process them. My thoughts run through my head so quickly that my hands cannot keep up, leaving those small muscles in incredible amounts of pain and an illegible mess of what should be skillfully intertwined letters. I have found typing allows me keep up with my thoughts, and my hands better appreciate it. They can almost keep up, as my fingers move at nearly 100 wpm these days.

You won't find profound musings and deep revelations, but just random thoughts of a woman trying to gain control of her life and mind. Thoughts that may offend, confuse, or even put off those who know me. I can't promise daily, weekly or even monthly writings. At best, you'll find randomness of an unknown schedule. I find writing therapeutic and a relief to the disguises that I find I must wear in the real world which sometimes hide the real me that is screaming to get out.

For those who know me, it is well known that I'm a pretty quiet person, but once you get me talking, I love to talk. Be forewarned, once the reading of the blog begins, there will be no shutting me up.