Murderer

When I was three years old, my parents got me my first pet. It was a hamster. I named her Tootoose. 

Over the years, I had several hamsters as they don't have very long lifespans. I had Appetite, Sammy, and Barnie - who turned out to be a girl which I found out because she and Appetite had babies together .... which they ate ... Great way to learn the circle of life. But I digress. 

My first hamster was Tootoose. I liked to hold her. But I was also scared of her. I liked her little toes and the way they tickled my palms. 

One evening, I was holding Tootoose and she bit me. 

I was three. 

My immediate reaction was to squeeze her. 

Hard.  

I was three. 

I put her back in her cage. I was so angry. That might have been the last time that I allowed myself to express my anger. To even feel my anger. Because, within minutes of putting her back in the cage, she began to bleed from her mouth. I'm sure it was just a little bit of blood. But to my three year old brain it was gushing. 

I remember crying. I remember my Dad trying to comfort me. He wanted to hug me. To make me feel better. And I wouldn't let him. I was a murderer and didn't deserve to be hugged. 

I don't remember ever being hugged again after that day. My parents certainly don't hug me now. Which makes sense because I am a murderer. 

Recently, I told Nosy Nora this story and she asked where my parents were when this happened. They were in the kitchen and I was in the living room. I was often left to fend for myself. 

Nosy Nora asked if I realized that it was my parents fault that I killed my hamster. 

What what? 

She pointed out the obvious ... That a three year old shouldn't be left alone, unsupervised, with a small animal. I had never thought of that. Ever. 

If I think about a three year old, I would never allow them to handle an animal by themselves. Animals bite. And scratch. And run away. And die. And children haven't learned to control their physical reactions to upsetting or painful stimuli. 

Somehow I considered myself to be different. Somehow my own three year old self was responsible, independent, mature. 

It never once occurred to me in the last 35 years that it wasn't my fault that I killed my hamster. It was my parents fault. 

When I think back to that moment when I saw the hamster dying, I think about my heart breaking. I think about how I wanted to punish myself for my murder. Punish myself for hurting a living creature. Punish myself for my lack of self control. I deserved to be punished. I deserved consequences for my action. 

I continued to punish myself for 35 years. I promised myself I would never cause harm to living creatures again. 

By 7, I was calling myself a pacifist. By 12, I was adhering to the pagan belief of do as ye may yet harm none. And still I punished myself for what I believed to be a murder. I was trapped in my own framing of an event by a three year old brain. 

And then, after 35 years, Nosy Nora absolved me of my murderous ways by helping me to understand that it was my parents fault for not supervising me. 

So I have forgiven myself. 

And I deserve hugs. 

What have you been holding onto? What do you need to forgive yourself for? 

Be kind to yourself, 

xoxo

...

Asking for support

For many years I felt alone. 

Most of my life in fact. 

I felt like I wasn't allowed to have emotions, let alone express them. So I held everything inside. 

The pain of holding in my emotions led me to self-medicate. I turned to food, and drugs, and purging, and shame. 

I was afraid to ask for help. 

When I was 13, I wanted nothing more than to die. And I told no one. I was afraid that no one could possibly understand my pain. That I would be laughed at. Scorned. That i would be punished for not being able to suck it up and to survive on my own. 

So I suffered in silence. 

As I got older, things only got worse. I had more access to drugs. I had money to spend. I had more privacy for my bingeing and purging. 

I was so afraid to ask for help. Asking for help meant that I was weak. It meant that I would be judged. It meant that I would be deserted. Abandoned. I would be even more alone. So I said nothing. 

I was afraid. 

And time continued to pass me by. I felt trapped by my own fears and sadness. I was afraid of everything. I never wanted to carry a purse because someone might steal it. I couldn't have the car windows open because someone could reach in and take what was on the front passenger seat, or worse, attack me. I couldn't walk alone because I might be raped. I was afraid of the tires falling off my car. I was afraid that I would fall down the stairs. I was afraid that my house would burn down. 

I was trapped by my anxiety. In a prison of fears. 

So I focused on solving other people's problems. I put everyone's needs ahead of my own. I joined a million committees. I took extra courses at university. I took on 3 jobs. 

And this continued into my adult life. Focusing on other people's problems. Helping everyone else. Taking on their emotions until I felt like I was being stretched in 10 directions at one time. 

And then one day, I had enough. Enough of being scared. Enough of holding in all my feelings. Enough of taking care of everyone else and not taking care of myself. I knew that if I didn't ask for help that I was going to snap. 

I needed support. 

So ... I went online and looked up therapists. I looked through profiles, reading about different modalities. But to be honest, I was mostly looking at the photos. Trying to decide who looked kind. Who looked like they wouldn't judge me. Whose eyes I could trust. 

I chose Nosy Nora. 

At first I was resistant. Asking for support was scary. It meant giving myself over to someone else. Opening up and talking about those pesky things called "feelings" and it was hard. She kept asking me about feelings. I actually had to google a list of feeling words. Write them down. Refer to them. So that I had words to choose from. 

It got easier over time. As I got to know her, I grew to trust her. And I started to learn that it was ok to share my feelings. That it was okay to ask for help. 

The more I began to ask Nosy Nora for support, the harder it became. I felt so needy. I felt like a burden. I felt like I was too much. (Sometimes I still do) But the more she supported me, the more I began to realize that it was okay to need support. She kept telling me that everyone needs each other. That no one can go through life alone. 

So slowly, I let myself be vulnerable and I began to open up to friends. I began to ask for support. And shockingly to me .... I got it. 

People were willing to listen. People were willing to be with me. No matter how messed up I was. 

Because I was able to ask for support, I was able to face my darkness. To open myself up. To share my secrets. To tell my story. To start this blog. To use my experiences to help other people. To share with the world that we are not alone. 

As Nosy Nora says, we all need each other (even if I still often struggle to accept that and feel like my need is a burden). 

The more I ask for support, the more I find it. In unexpected places. The more I share my story, the more love I receive. 

And even when I feel completely alone, I am not. 

Thank goodness for friendship. For love. For my spouse. For my colleagues. For my friends. 

Thank goodness for support. And for hugs. 

If you feel alone. Ask for help. It's okay. I promise. 

Be kind to yourself, 

xoxo

...

Shame Cycle

I am caught in a vicious shame cycle. 

I start to feel good about myself. So I panic. I try to identify what is feeling good. And I try to recreate that. I haven't been eating bread. So that must be it. Obviously. 

So I don't eat any bread. And I'm feeling good. 

I can conquer the world. I'm unstoppable. And I don't eat bread. 

Which makes me want bread. But I won't cheat on myself. So I don't eat bread. Until all I can think about is eating bread. So I buy some and eat 2 slices. 

And then that's it. 

I'm a fucking idiot who has screwed up her life because obviously it was not eating bread that had been making things good. And I've already screwed it up by eating those 2 slices, so why not 2 more. And while we are at it, I'll have a few cookies. Okay maybe 5. And now I've really messed up and ruined everything. So I eat a bag of chips. Followed by 9 danishes. 

Then why stop? There's ice cream in the freezer. So let's eat that right out of the carton standing in the kitchen. 

At that point in the binge there are no thoughts. There is only numbness and the automatic muscle memory of lifting hand to mouth, chewing fast, without thinking. Swallowing. Fast. Gulping down the food. Maybe if I can make the food disappear then I can disappear with it. Or at least my feelings can. 

At some point the trance breaks and I am left with wrappers and crumbs and a very full belly and mounds of guilt and shame. 

Them comes the struggle. The tears begin. I am a disappointment. I am a loser. I am out of control. My life is shit. I'm useless. Worthless. Undeserving. 

Then the anger. How could I have done this? Why I am I so stupid? Why can't I stop myself? Why do I do this over and over again? Who is the boss of my body? How am I such an idiot? 

And there is only one way to end the physical discomfort along with the shame. I need to empty myself of these feelings that I have shoved deep down inside of me with piles of food. 

So I go up to the bathroom, close the door, put my hair in a ponytail and crouch down over the toilet. 

And then comes the release. The purging of all that is bad and rotten and dark and secretive inside of me. It all comes out and I can flush it away. 

For a few minutes. 

Then reality sets back in. The reality of being weak. The reality of being stuck in this eating disordered way of thinking. And the shame comes back. Stronger than ever. 

Because I know better. 

So I promise myself that I'm not going to do that anymore. I'm going to be "good". I'm going to take care of myself. I'm going to eat right and exercise and I am going to feel good. When I want to binge I am going to do something active instead. When I want to purge I am going to email nosy Nora and tell her all the things I am thinking and feeling. What she aptly named "word vomit". I'm going to go to therapy and talk about my feelings. So I have no reasons to binge or to purge. 

Then I start to feel good. And I panic. What is making me feel good? And what happens if I lose this shred of happiness. What am I doing different? And how can I keep doing it? 

And the cycle repeats. 

Restricting. Rebelling. Shaming. Restricting. Rebelling. Shaming. 

There must be a way to climb out of this hole. To break the cycle. To break the chains that hold me in this pattern of shame and blame. 

When I find the way out, I'll let you know. In the meanwhile, I will keep hanging on and I hope that you can too. 

Be kind to yourself, 

xoxo

...

Thirteen

Being 13 is never easy. Hormones start raging. You hate everyone. You hate yourself. Nothing seems to go right. 

13 was especially difficult for me. Many things happened to me that year. This is what 13 was like: 

Be kind to yourself, and to the 13 year old self inside of you, 

xoxo

...

Beauty

I have been studying bodies. Curvy bodies. Voluptuous bodies. Round bodies. Plus-sized bodies. Bodies you don't see in magazines, billboards, movies, or the centrefold of playboy. I have been studying their folds, their creases, their curves, their shadows, their light. This is what I have learned: 

Be kind to yourself, and to your body,

xoxo

...

Words through art

I haven't blogged in a really long time. I miss it. A lot. 

I have discovered that sometimes images say more than words. So I have decided to blog with my art work. Oil pastels and oil paint. They speak for me when I have no words. 

Be kind to yourself, 

xoxo

...