It would be completely unfair to finally come back to my blog months after my last post with a lengthy update full of excuses as to why I stopped writing. To make it very simple with little to no shame, I got really depressed and I didn't feel like writing. Depressed, you might ask? Why would I be depressed? After all, last I wrote, my husband was on his way home! Isn't that one gigantic ball of reason to do nothing but write about how absolutely happy I was? Probably for some people, yes. But for me, I struggled. For the past two months, I've struggled intensely but I've realized that isn't a reason to stop writing. So starting this week, I'm going to sit down at least once a week and write a post about the bigger events that have happened since I abandoned my little blog on May 1st. Here's to getting back on the writing wagon, y'all.
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
Almost there...
There are so many things I haven't written about but that I've felt over the past few months. I've struggled with this deployment in a multitude of ways and in others, I've conquered the waiting game in stride.
But tonight, there aren't many words needed. I fully intend to pick my blog back up in the next few weeks and begin documenting our journey of marriage, but the next time I do, it will be a different kind of post.
Right now, E is on his way home from work. I've been waiting a year to say that and it feels weird to type and sounds even more odd rolling off my tongue. Within a matter of days, not months, my better half will no longer be an ocean apart, and not much longer after that, he'll be right where he belongs... he'll be home.
But tonight, there aren't many words needed. I fully intend to pick my blog back up in the next few weeks and begin documenting our journey of marriage, but the next time I do, it will be a different kind of post.
Right now, E is on his way home from work. I've been waiting a year to say that and it feels weird to type and sounds even more odd rolling off my tongue. Within a matter of days, not months, my better half will no longer be an ocean apart, and not much longer after that, he'll be right where he belongs... he'll be home.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
Soon.
So many changes are coming my way in the next 50-65 days... and I've been so overwhelmed by them all that I can't quite articulate what's even happening in my life right now. The last bit of this deployment has been the absolute hardest but the end is in sight and that's really all that matters I suppose. Hearing from my husband is still the highlight of my week most of the time, but with each phone call comes more emotion than before. We're so close to homecoming but still, so far away from it all.
Saturday, March 2, 2013
I'll never come to terms with that.
I'll never be okay with...
...not having friends.
...living in this town.
...not getting a chance to start over.
...staying at my job.
...being alone every weekend.
...being someone people pity.
...losing zero weight in a month.
...having no one to talk to.
Like seriously. I'll never fully come to terms with any of that.
...not having friends.
...living in this town.
...not getting a chance to start over.
...staying at my job.
...being alone every weekend.
...being someone people pity.
...losing zero weight in a month.
...having no one to talk to.
Like seriously. I'll never fully come to terms with any of that.
Thursday, February 21, 2013
He Told Me I Was Fat
It's no secret that I've struggled with my weight for a really long time. In high school, I struggled with an eating disorder and since I can remember, I've always been a yo-yo dieter. Liquid diets? Tried 'em. Slim Fast diet? Done it. South Beach? Well, I attempted it. You name it, I've at least researched the hell out of it.
Why? Simply because I'm the word no one wants me to say out loud, but they're thinking it inside their head.
And I don't have to wonder why. I can tell you why. Because when I was 8 years old in the third grade, a boy named J.R. told me that I was fat. I know exactly where I was standing, I remember exactly what I was wearing: blue jeans, a long sleeved white tshirt and a yellow vest. I don't think I'll ever forget that day.
And ever since, I've known. Before that day, I was clueless. If you looked at me now you might not believe me, but until the summer before middle school, I was easily the tallest kid in my class. I towered over the girls and the boys had to look up to me just a little by default. I hit puberty early on in life and while my flat-chested friends joked about stuffing their training bras with tissue paper, I logically decided that if I could just figure out how, I'd trade my body with them in a heartbeat.
Looking back at my third grade self, I can most confidently assure you that I was not, even by my own critically high standards, fat. I was very tall and my body was developing much differently than my peers. I was six months older than most of my classmates and those six months made a big difference - no pun intended. I was active in sports, cheered for the Startown Tigers and played softball for the "purple" team - whatever that was.
My stomach was flat but you couldn't see that under the baggy clothes I started to wear. My legs were toned but I never wore shorts because, fat girls don't wear shorts. I began to despise gym because I just knew they would make fun of me for trying to do the things small people did. I had long legs and I could run swiftly, but I was terrified to. So I didn't.
And from that very moment in third grade when a boy told me exactly what I was, I became that.
I knew that boys would not be attracted to me because I wasn't thin enough and I was just too tall. I knew that fat girls didn't play sports, so just after I nailed my back handspring for the first time, I stopped cheering. I didn't have anyone at home telling me to play outside, so I didn't. I was a latchkey kid, I did what I wanted to and I did what I thought I was supposed to do.
By the time I was old enough to know any better, the damage was done. I began to fit the lifestyle of what I had been told I was. So when I looked in the mirror one day and saw that I had gained a lot of weight, I wasn't surprised. I thought I looked like I had always looked; I thought this was how I was supposed to look, according to J.R.
As an adult, I do know better. I know that eating right and staying active are important things to do. But the struggle for someone who grew up knowing what she was is real. It isn't as easy as just do it. There's a mental block that takes time to get over. About a year ago I actually got a message from J.R. on facebook. He apologized for what he said; he remembered. As vivid as I held onto the image of finding out that I was fat, he held onto the guilt of letting me know.
It's been 14 years since my struggle with weight began, and I can't blame the little kid in my third grade class for who I am today. I am my own person and I do make my own choices. I put myself in the position that I'm in today, but I can't help but wonder...
...what if I had never been told that what I was, was fat?
...what if someone would have looked me in the eye and told me that I was beautiful?
Why? Simply because I'm the word no one wants me to say out loud, but they're thinking it inside their head.
And I don't have to wonder why. I can tell you why. Because when I was 8 years old in the third grade, a boy named J.R. told me that I was fat. I know exactly where I was standing, I remember exactly what I was wearing: blue jeans, a long sleeved white tshirt and a yellow vest. I don't think I'll ever forget that day.
And ever since, I've known. Before that day, I was clueless. If you looked at me now you might not believe me, but until the summer before middle school, I was easily the tallest kid in my class. I towered over the girls and the boys had to look up to me just a little by default. I hit puberty early on in life and while my flat-chested friends joked about stuffing their training bras with tissue paper, I logically decided that if I could just figure out how, I'd trade my body with them in a heartbeat.
Looking back at my third grade self, I can most confidently assure you that I was not, even by my own critically high standards, fat. I was very tall and my body was developing much differently than my peers. I was six months older than most of my classmates and those six months made a big difference - no pun intended. I was active in sports, cheered for the Startown Tigers and played softball for the "purple" team - whatever that was.
My stomach was flat but you couldn't see that under the baggy clothes I started to wear. My legs were toned but I never wore shorts because, fat girls don't wear shorts. I began to despise gym because I just knew they would make fun of me for trying to do the things small people did. I had long legs and I could run swiftly, but I was terrified to. So I didn't.
And from that very moment in third grade when a boy told me exactly what I was, I became that.
I knew that boys would not be attracted to me because I wasn't thin enough and I was just too tall. I knew that fat girls didn't play sports, so just after I nailed my back handspring for the first time, I stopped cheering. I didn't have anyone at home telling me to play outside, so I didn't. I was a latchkey kid, I did what I wanted to and I did what I thought I was supposed to do.
By the time I was old enough to know any better, the damage was done. I began to fit the lifestyle of what I had been told I was. So when I looked in the mirror one day and saw that I had gained a lot of weight, I wasn't surprised. I thought I looked like I had always looked; I thought this was how I was supposed to look, according to J.R.
As an adult, I do know better. I know that eating right and staying active are important things to do. But the struggle for someone who grew up knowing what she was is real. It isn't as easy as just do it. There's a mental block that takes time to get over. About a year ago I actually got a message from J.R. on facebook. He apologized for what he said; he remembered. As vivid as I held onto the image of finding out that I was fat, he held onto the guilt of letting me know.
It's been 14 years since my struggle with weight began, and I can't blame the little kid in my third grade class for who I am today. I am my own person and I do make my own choices. I put myself in the position that I'm in today, but I can't help but wonder...
...what if I had never been told that what I was, was fat?
...what if someone would have looked me in the eye and told me that I was beautiful?
Sunday, February 17, 2013
New Year Rewind
2013 and I got off to a pretty rocky start.
For some crazy reason, I convinced myself that once the clock struck midnight on January 1st, the year would fly and my husband would be home just like that. I counted and recounted the marbles in my homemade countdown jars, I checked the pie chart and percentage of deployment left on my iPhone like it was my job, and I realized that January wasn't magical; by the first of the year, we still had months and months to go.
I began working out fiercely again in January but by the end of the month, I had lost just a few more pounds. I cried when I stepped on the scale because even though I managed to hit my first real goal, I realized how far I had to go. Few people who really mattered even noticed I had lost thirty pounds and I found myself asking, "Is it really worth it?" My brain knew that it was, but my heart wasn't sure. I felt like I had failed already; I simply didn't want to have to acknowledge that it was just too much.
I became, if it's possible, more sensitive than normal. On the day my best friend left to go back to college, I cried in my office because I didn't want him to go. For the first time during this entire deployment, when E would call, I would break down in tears when he had to get off the phone. I cried myself to sleep more nights than I didn't and when one of my board members came into my office and asked me how my husband was doing - you guessed it - the tears wouldn't stop falling.
January was, by no stretch of the imagination, rough. And when February rolled around, I wasn't given much of a break. Within two weeks I had been diagnosed with the flu, an upper respiratory infection, strep throat, pink eye and last but certainly not least, mono. At first I was irritated and then slowly, I became sad. I cried in my doctor's office saying simply, I don't want to feel like this anymore. On my last visit, my doctor looked me in the eyes and said, "You aren't sleeping. Your immune system is shot and your anxiety is pushing you over the edge. Are you sure you don't want to try..." and I stopped him. No, I don't want to try anti-anxiety medication. I don't want to take anything for depression.
I knew that pills weren't the answer. I needed to get back on track; but I still didn't get back on track.
February kept rolling and as Valentine's day approached, I became proud of myself for staying so strong. My sweet E had sent flowers that arrived a week early, and we talked almost every day for a week. Once the 14th showed up, I was actually excited. My love my be 7,000 miles away but I still got butterflies knowing that I was sharing yet another Valentine's day with my E. But that night, after I was done with my shower and I was getting ready for bed, the restaurant below my apartment started their live jazz for the holiday. The saxophone started, the romantic melody of Shania Twain's You're Still The One floated into my bathroom and I was finally brought to tears. I so missed my husband; spending the night alone was not ideal.
But I kept going. I finally started to feel better and I geared up for my fourth big night at work. Jon Reep was coming to the NCA and the show was sold out. I always panic before these shows, and being so new to my job I feel like I have everything to prove and even more to lose. I was beyond ecstatic when I found out my best friend would be coming home and coming to the show. In hindsight, I honestly don't know what I would have done without him last night. Or any night, quite honestly, but that's an entirely different post.
The show went off without a hitch and I did not realize that by tonight I would have learned and grown in ways unimaginable. Opening for Jon Reep was Brian Kiley, a comedian from Tennessee. Before the show, I talked with Kiley and shared jokes with him back stage. I introduced him, but his own request, to an audience of 500 people as Krispy Kreme Donut's Sexiest Man Alive. After the show, we talked again and as a joke, he autographed a piece of paper for me where he had written the one-liner that I used to break the ice before his arrival on stage. He was delightful.
Tonight, I learned that as Brian was driving on I40 in the early hours of the morning, he was killed by a drunk driver. Just like that. Gone.
Anyone who knows me knows that death is my least favorite thing. Not only is it my biggest fear, but it's my biggest anxiety trigger. It's been almost two years and I still haven't fully recovered from seeing my sweet pug be put down at 14 years old. To remember Brian's voice, to remember shaking his hand, to have been the last person to introduce him on stage and to have been the last person he ever signed an autograph for, well, is quite simply overwhelming. As I learned of his passing, I sat in shock before the tears fell. Life is so short. I thought I knew this. I should know this.
From never forgetting the death of Spc. Trevor Pinnick to being faced with terrifying possibility of what war could do to my own husband, I thought I realized just how short life was. Perhaps I did but I got immune to the idea. Tonight, I am harshly reminded that once again, life is so short.
So 2013, I am ready for you to begin. I know we had a rocky start and I'm well aware I can't rewind you (not that I'd add back 48 days to the Deployment Countdown anyway), but I want to really start you.
So February 18th, let's do this. Tomorrow is it. We're in the final leg of this deployment and there's no use in giving up now. I have more pounds to lose and more of myself to find, and I can do this.
Happy New Year to me.
For some crazy reason, I convinced myself that once the clock struck midnight on January 1st, the year would fly and my husband would be home just like that. I counted and recounted the marbles in my homemade countdown jars, I checked the pie chart and percentage of deployment left on my iPhone like it was my job, and I realized that January wasn't magical; by the first of the year, we still had months and months to go.
I began working out fiercely again in January but by the end of the month, I had lost just a few more pounds. I cried when I stepped on the scale because even though I managed to hit my first real goal, I realized how far I had to go. Few people who really mattered even noticed I had lost thirty pounds and I found myself asking, "Is it really worth it?" My brain knew that it was, but my heart wasn't sure. I felt like I had failed already; I simply didn't want to have to acknowledge that it was just too much.
I became, if it's possible, more sensitive than normal. On the day my best friend left to go back to college, I cried in my office because I didn't want him to go. For the first time during this entire deployment, when E would call, I would break down in tears when he had to get off the phone. I cried myself to sleep more nights than I didn't and when one of my board members came into my office and asked me how my husband was doing - you guessed it - the tears wouldn't stop falling.
January was, by no stretch of the imagination, rough. And when February rolled around, I wasn't given much of a break. Within two weeks I had been diagnosed with the flu, an upper respiratory infection, strep throat, pink eye and last but certainly not least, mono. At first I was irritated and then slowly, I became sad. I cried in my doctor's office saying simply, I don't want to feel like this anymore. On my last visit, my doctor looked me in the eyes and said, "You aren't sleeping. Your immune system is shot and your anxiety is pushing you over the edge. Are you sure you don't want to try..." and I stopped him. No, I don't want to try anti-anxiety medication. I don't want to take anything for depression.
I knew that pills weren't the answer. I needed to get back on track; but I still didn't get back on track.
February kept rolling and as Valentine's day approached, I became proud of myself for staying so strong. My sweet E had sent flowers that arrived a week early, and we talked almost every day for a week. Once the 14th showed up, I was actually excited. My love my be 7,000 miles away but I still got butterflies knowing that I was sharing yet another Valentine's day with my E. But that night, after I was done with my shower and I was getting ready for bed, the restaurant below my apartment started their live jazz for the holiday. The saxophone started, the romantic melody of Shania Twain's You're Still The One floated into my bathroom and I was finally brought to tears. I so missed my husband; spending the night alone was not ideal.
But I kept going. I finally started to feel better and I geared up for my fourth big night at work. Jon Reep was coming to the NCA and the show was sold out. I always panic before these shows, and being so new to my job I feel like I have everything to prove and even more to lose. I was beyond ecstatic when I found out my best friend would be coming home and coming to the show. In hindsight, I honestly don't know what I would have done without him last night. Or any night, quite honestly, but that's an entirely different post.
The show went off without a hitch and I did not realize that by tonight I would have learned and grown in ways unimaginable. Opening for Jon Reep was Brian Kiley, a comedian from Tennessee. Before the show, I talked with Kiley and shared jokes with him back stage. I introduced him, but his own request, to an audience of 500 people as Krispy Kreme Donut's Sexiest Man Alive. After the show, we talked again and as a joke, he autographed a piece of paper for me where he had written the one-liner that I used to break the ice before his arrival on stage. He was delightful.
Tonight, I learned that as Brian was driving on I40 in the early hours of the morning, he was killed by a drunk driver. Just like that. Gone.
Anyone who knows me knows that death is my least favorite thing. Not only is it my biggest fear, but it's my biggest anxiety trigger. It's been almost two years and I still haven't fully recovered from seeing my sweet pug be put down at 14 years old. To remember Brian's voice, to remember shaking his hand, to have been the last person to introduce him on stage and to have been the last person he ever signed an autograph for, well, is quite simply overwhelming. As I learned of his passing, I sat in shock before the tears fell. Life is so short. I thought I knew this. I should know this.
From never forgetting the death of Spc. Trevor Pinnick to being faced with terrifying possibility of what war could do to my own husband, I thought I realized just how short life was. Perhaps I did but I got immune to the idea. Tonight, I am harshly reminded that once again, life is so short.
So 2013, I am ready for you to begin. I know we had a rocky start and I'm well aware I can't rewind you (not that I'd add back 48 days to the Deployment Countdown anyway), but I want to really start you.
So February 18th, let's do this. Tomorrow is it. We're in the final leg of this deployment and there's no use in giving up now. I have more pounds to lose and more of myself to find, and I can do this.
Happy New Year to me.
Sunday, January 27, 2013
Consider Yourself Forgiven.
Hey you. Yes, you. The one who will probably never see this, right there sitting beside the man who I thought caused all of this. You. Definitely, most definitely you.
First of all, hi. How are you? I most sincerely hope you're doing really, really well. Contrary to what society tells us to believe about people we may dislike, be angry with, etc., I do not believe that anyone deserves to not be doing well in life.
A couple of days ago, I saw you for the first time since this whole thing started. I say thing because I'm still sort of confused about what it even is or was. I can't call it a fight, really. We didn't fight. It isn't a disagreement because we didn't disagree about anything. I can't call it a break up because I don't think you break up with your friends. See? It's confusing and I can't figure out what the word is so I'm going with thing, so just humor me.
So for the first time in six months I saw you with your husband and son while I ran to the store forI can't remember. I looked like straight shit because I had just come from the gym, and from the 10 second glance I got of you, you looked really, really nice. I mean that. So, as I'm standing here in Target wondering why 1) I went out in public looking like a bum and 2) why I cared so much about whether or not you saw me looking like a bum, I got really, really emotional. I mean, it just hit me like nothing else.
My gut reaction was, "oh my gosh there she is there she is go apologize and fix it and -" yeah, that lasted about twenty seconds before I ran over my foot with my shopping cart and called my best friend. Because then, I got really really angry and wanted to run over your foot. I mean not seriously, but metaphorically.
So I call my best friend, and he's talking me down off this emotional cliff I've climbed up on while I distract myself long enough to find some of what I need. But then, because let's face it: I can't multitask and I need to find the right nuts for Ethan, I hang up. And I'm glancing at the 890982345 different choices Target offers for nuts and I start crying. I know, predictable, right? Because I cry about everything. A lady who knows exactly where her nuts are looks at me like I'm crazy as she hurriedly selects a jar and ushers her child forward so as not to make eye contact with my emotional self. Awesome.
Anyway. So I'm not 100% sure if you saw me but that part, I've discovered, is completely irrelevant. And I promise you, this is going somewhere.
Believe it or not, I've managed to not think about you or this thing much. Or at least, not until I saw you that night. Since that night, I've sort of thought about it a lot because, let's face it: I'm pretty crazy at the moment* *thanks deployment.
And four pretty great things have come out of it. And it's ended really, really well for me. So I wanted to tell you what those things are because, well, really, I have you to thank for them.
1) For six months I've been super, crazy angry with your husband. And only a smidgen angry with you and that has been silly. You, as you have always been, are extremely intelligent and you have 100% control over yourself. You have made the decisions, not him.
2) You were never really my friend. This part was especially shitty to realize. And definitely not one of my best friends. Best friends do not: cheat, lie, manipulate, intentionally hurt, let others tear down, ignore, or sacrifice their friends. All of these things should have been gigantic, flashing neon signs in my direction that I was friends with someone who was not really my friend. But I was obviously not paying attention. ANYWAY.
3) My gut reaction is to always apologize even when whatever it is, isn't my fault. Because I hate having fights or arguments or things with people. But here's the thing: I'm totally not sorry this time. I think God heard the wheels in my head turning and was like, "Bitch please, I'm going to make you roll over your own foot so you snap out of it because you. are. not. apologizing. this. time." And it was a painful little lesson but I learned it. I'm not going to ever apologize to you for being a freaking awesome friend. I'm sorry you didn't REALIZE how awesome I was, but I'm not sorry that you threw it all away.
4) Okay, number three is pretty huge for me. Ready? I completely forgive you. I forgive you for all of this. I forgive you for that time you lied to your parents about the voicemail on the answering machine and blamed it on my husband which was literally years ago. I forgive you for all those times you used me as a cover up for doing things you should not have been doing. I forgive you for all of the lies and half-truths that I know about, and even the ones I don't. I forgive you for not telling me how your husband felt about me and my own husband, even when you knew. I forgive you for dropping me like a bad habit three days before my husband deployed. I forgive you for the lack of explanation. I forgive you for not having the guts to tell people the truth about why I'm not around anymore.
For the all the back stabbing.
For all the lying.
For disrespecting my husband and I.
For taking advantage of our generosity.
Everything, I swear, I forgive you.
First of all, hi. How are you? I most sincerely hope you're doing really, really well. Contrary to what society tells us to believe about people we may dislike, be angry with, etc., I do not believe that anyone deserves to not be doing well in life.
A couple of days ago, I saw you for the first time since this whole thing started. I say thing because I'm still sort of confused about what it even is or was. I can't call it a fight, really. We didn't fight. It isn't a disagreement because we didn't disagree about anything. I can't call it a break up because I don't think you break up with your friends. See? It's confusing and I can't figure out what the word is so I'm going with thing, so just humor me.
So for the first time in six months I saw you with your husband and son while I ran to the store for
My gut reaction was, "oh my gosh there she is there she is go apologize and fix it and -" yeah, that lasted about twenty seconds before I ran over my foot with my shopping cart and called my best friend. Because then, I got really really angry and wanted to run over your foot. I mean not seriously, but metaphorically.
So I call my best friend, and he's talking me down off this emotional cliff I've climbed up on while I distract myself long enough to find some of what I need. But then, because let's face it: I can't multitask and I need to find the right nuts for Ethan, I hang up. And I'm glancing at the 890982345 different choices Target offers for nuts and I start crying. I know, predictable, right? Because I cry about everything. A lady who knows exactly where her nuts are looks at me like I'm crazy as she hurriedly selects a jar and ushers her child forward so as not to make eye contact with my emotional self. Awesome.
Anyway. So I'm not 100% sure if you saw me but that part, I've discovered, is completely irrelevant. And I promise you, this is going somewhere.
Believe it or not, I've managed to not think about you or this thing much. Or at least, not until I saw you that night. Since that night, I've sort of thought about it a lot because, let's face it: I'm pretty crazy at the moment* *thanks deployment.
And four pretty great things have come out of it. And it's ended really, really well for me. So I wanted to tell you what those things are because, well, really, I have you to thank for them.
1) For six months I've been super, crazy angry with your husband. And only a smidgen angry with you and that has been silly. You, as you have always been, are extremely intelligent and you have 100% control over yourself. You have made the decisions, not him.
2) You were never really my friend. This part was especially shitty to realize. And definitely not one of my best friends. Best friends do not: cheat, lie, manipulate, intentionally hurt, let others tear down, ignore, or sacrifice their friends. All of these things should have been gigantic, flashing neon signs in my direction that I was friends with someone who was not really my friend. But I was obviously not paying attention. ANYWAY.
3) My gut reaction is to always apologize even when whatever it is, isn't my fault. Because I hate having fights or arguments or things with people. But here's the thing: I'm totally not sorry this time. I think God heard the wheels in my head turning and was like, "Bitch please, I'm going to make you roll over your own foot so you snap out of it because you. are. not. apologizing. this. time." And it was a painful little lesson but I learned it. I'm not going to ever apologize to you for being a freaking awesome friend. I'm sorry you didn't REALIZE how awesome I was, but I'm not sorry that you threw it all away.
4) Okay, number three is pretty huge for me. Ready? I completely forgive you. I forgive you for all of this. I forgive you for that time you lied to your parents about the voicemail on the answering machine and blamed it on my husband which was literally years ago. I forgive you for all those times you used me as a cover up for doing things you should not have been doing. I forgive you for all of the lies and half-truths that I know about, and even the ones I don't. I forgive you for not telling me how your husband felt about me and my own husband, even when you knew. I forgive you for dropping me like a bad habit three days before my husband deployed. I forgive you for the lack of explanation. I forgive you for not having the guts to tell people the truth about why I'm not around anymore.
For the all the back stabbing.
For all the lying.
For disrespecting my husband and I.
For taking advantage of our generosity.
Everything, I swear, I forgive you.
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