A Decade Retrospective

When I look back at the past ten years, I am gob-smacked by the sheer intensity and  waves of stress and issues I had to deal with. 

Starting in 2010,  I lost 130 lbs.  I felt amazing. Yet at the same time, several things happened.  I had been going through perimenopause but didn’t know it;  my mother never went through it and I had no close aunts, grandmothers, older cousins, or older sisters  to learn from about it.  Suddenly I began to have  hormone swings like a teenager.  My libido skyrocketed even as my self-esteem plummeted.  This was already a Bad Thing  because I was in college with four kids, all of whom I was homeschooling and three of whom were teenagers going through their own hormonal angst.  Found out hubby is ADD.

2011 started with a bang;  my father’s second wife died and suddenly I had to take charge of him.  This father of whom I knew so little because once I became an adult and he remarried; he ignored me for the most part.  Thus began a whirlwind of stressful activity and responsibility for a man that was, I found, a selfish, often rude, grieving, lonely, asshole.

That year I traveled twice with my family and had my last period.  My husband and I moved my father 3 times.  The first time I stepped into his apartment, I wept because I had not been in any home of his  for more than 27  years.  Keeping my father from overdosing and harming himself was a huge and difficult task because I had to learn as I go that though he behaved like a toddler, he still had legal power.  I also learned that I could say no to him;  a difficult thing when it is your parent.

I lost what I thought was a close internet friend through their deliberate  subterfuge and gaslighting.  The grief was awful. 

In late 2011, I realized there was a name for what my mother and father did to me;   narcissistic personality.  I stopped all contact with my mother but still had to manage the care for my aggravating father.  Though my father gave me money to travel with my family, I felt guilty taking it because who takes money from a grieving, sick, disabled old man? 

2012 was still stressful because of my father, my weight creeping up, my menopause hormones, the changes in my libido and sex life, and my teenage kids.  My husband ended up in the hospital nearly bleeding to death and I had a 24+ hour brain black out called Transient Global Amnesia. My poor kids  went through a lot that year.  Still carried that guilt for letting my father help us financially.

Youngest and I were in an accident in the fall which caused them to be afraid;  I injured my right shoulder and it hurts still; even after religiously doing the physical therapy exercises.

2013 found me visiting my grandmother in order to bring her to visit my father, her only child.  He wanted her to come and she said she wanted to come so I flew out to her place to help her get ready to fly back with me and visit he son.   While there with her, I saw the neglect her local relatives had allowed her to live with and they came out and began questioning me as to what I was going to do with her. They were hostile to me.   

In the end, they and her local neighbors turned her against me to the point that she truly believed I was going to kidnap her.  I left deeply hurt and returned to find my father half believing her side of the events that happened.  When I told him what actually happened, he got depressed and even worse.  We had to move him yet again because people were not taking good care of him.  

Between that family betrayal and college and   homeschooling and teenagers, I managed to also take the family to visit New York but by this time, I had gained back 40 pounds and that weight made walking long distances hurt and depressed me.  This year we started teaching the twins how to drive. 

My youngest took an allergy medicine that caused  them to have horribly violent dreams and thoughts;  it was horrible for them  but once I stopped the meds, they got bettter.  

We got a new, black  kitten  but it was very sick and almost died. 

2014 saw me gaining  even more weight back despite my best efforts.  We had to move my father again but the new place was not any better than the last so after 2 weeks we moved him into a nursing home. 
At this point, he continued  harping about his money while at the same time pressuring me to let him help buy a house for me and my family.  I only relented when his social worker said he needed to do this to feel useful but the guilt ate me up.   So we looked for and bought house.  It is outside our local town,  in a more rural area that is more conservative but it was all we could afford.

 In three weeks, we all ripped up carpets, laid flooring, painted all rooms and ceilings but the laundry room and pantry room. Fixed stuff, too. Then in one week,  we  packed and moved  the tons of stuff this family of six people with at least 2 packrats had accumulated in the 16 years of living in various homes in the town.  

 By now, I had  zero interest in sex and my husband had less interest as well because he was over 60. I grieved my old self but also felt relief, too.

 I started teaching my youngest daughter how to drive. This new home was just far enough outside  the town (6 to 11 miles) that no one had any interest in visiting me.  I was so happy  to finally own a home of our own and proud of all the work my family and I had done  but no one local  seemed  at all  interested in sharing my happiness. 

2015 started out badly as well.  First my grandmother died, then my father died 3 weeks later.  I had to fly back to do the probate for my grandmother and come home to take care of burying my father.  The stress was  horrendous;  I was still in school.

Our finances took an immediate turn for the worse;  for four years my father’s money and generosity with it had meant less worries  for all of us (though tons of guilt for me).  Now we were back to being  one car repair or house repair away from being broke and unable to pay our expenses.  

The older three kids were in college by now and had  been taught how to drive in the previous years; they began taking on student loan debt to pay for college and to help with household expenses.

 That fall, my husband’s father died and his sister treated him and all of us horribly at the funeral. 

My second born came out as transgender and  was really angry at me for  my issues with menopause and  his feelings that I was not the parent he wanted me to be.  He was constantly attacking me and it came out that he was (and had been ) bullying his siblings and was especially mean to the youngest sibling. 

 I felt like my plate could not handle anything more;  I went into numb mode and just tried to keep going day to day.   I wondered why I had no grief over the  loss of my family members;  people would give me sympathy on the loss of my father and grandmother but little did they know I felt nothing but a partial relief at not having to manage my selfish father or worry about my religious grandmother. I inherited her money and it paid the bills for several months; not enough money to do much else. 

2016  saw my husband’s mother’s death in April;   his sister again treated all of us horribly and then we had to fight her legally to get  his inheritance.  That fell mostly on me and I was still in school;  also got second oldest’s name changed and started using different pronouns for him. 

I finally graduated with a master’s degree but  felt like I learned little for all the debt I got into in order to support my family without having to leave my kids alone to fend for themselves.  

This year also brought attention to all the shit women have been living with forever;  it hit me hard because for most of my life I had just ignored it but the #metoo movement brought it out front and center.  Then Trump got elected president.  I was shattered. 

My brother finally asked about our  father and I could then tell him he had died;  father had begged me to promise not to tell him and would get very depressed when I refused  so I promised and kept that promise.  Brother got really angry;  unjustified because he never asked about our father or cared  about his health or called him. So it was good riddance to him;  he and I were  ever at odds because of our mother’s narcissistic  triangulation.

2017 I had another episode of TGA but it was shorter.  Oldest son had to have his gallbladder out in ER surgery.  Trump assaults on all of us  just kept coming.

People I had been kind to figuratively stabbed me right in the face so I dropped most  local friends and curled up, cried a lot,  and became a recluse. 
Inheritance came in so we added a room so all the kids now have their own room.  

Isolation became my life;  my youngest  had zero interest in the local homeschool group because they were all little kids and my youngest was a teenager.  They broke up with their two  local teen friends because those friends began being rude and racist and homophobic.  So we  went nowhere. 

2018  my youngest  began having  psychological problems with  urinating.  Several ER and doctor visits  and  having an ER catheter found nothing.  They now cannot travel  long distances because of this issue.  They even have problems at home if they feel the least pressure to be somewhere or to be done in the bathroom because others need to use it.  My stress level just kept climbing.  We did take  them to Las Vegas to see their only remaining online friend and it was a worry for me the whole time.  The counseling in this town is shit.  So no way to get them help, either.

 I did get my heart looked at and tested and everything was good.  Then in the fall, youngest and I lost Medicaid because husband made   a bit more money and they no longer counted any of the older kids against that income.  We couldn’t afford the ACA, either.  The older three kids  were able to get Medicaid  for themselves, husband  got Medicare the previous fall so  four of us had healthcare.

2018 elections  were good but still not enough to get rid of McConnell and GOP in the Senate.

2019  was  a year of just hanging on; dealing with Trump shit,  rising costs, adult kids being so angry about the school load, youngest’s  angst,  and my weight topping out at only  15 lbs less than  what I weighed before losing 130 lbs.  At the end of the year, I did manage to lose 15 lbs but it has not budged since.  

I hurt more now, have less energy, still feel isolated and  am wishing we could just move away from this place.  I live in the red-voting area  near  the town but even in the blue voting town I found  progressives to be just as mean, nasty, and unfriendly as the red ones.  Hubby and I cannot keep up with this enormous yard and the adult kids are too busy and too lazy to want to help.

Youngest came out as non-binary and changed pronouns to they/their/them.  

All my kids seem to  have some kind of mental issue now;  social anxiety, difficulty urinating, learning issues, ADD, ADhD,  anger issues. They also seem less resilient than  hubby and I were at their age (despite hubby and I  being raised in abusive homes) and still are.  Was hoping 2020 would be better but……

2020 my youngest turned 18.  Oldest 3 will finally  graduate from  college this spring.  And then corona virus hit.  I am watching civilization fall apart around me in troughs and waves. Warren dropped out.  Then Bernie dropped out.  The grasping, hoarding, greed is astounding to see.

I am now 60, officially an old person.  I look like shit, I feel like shit, and I feel stuck.  Older kids planned on working after graduating but that’s out.  Hubby  is at home teaching but what will happen in the fall;  will he be able to keep his job?  Will they reopen and put him and all of us  at risk or will he be allowed to teach from home?  

So we are AGAIN in stasis.  It has been this way for YEARS.  And we cannot move  until hubby has logged ten years in teaching here for his public service loan forgiveness so not until 2022 or 2023.  

Oldest son is chomping at the bit to move  to VA when  his friends move in June  but this virus won’t be gone then, it probably won’t be safe to do much until they find a treatment or a vaccine and neither will be done this year.  So he is unhappy; and being an extrovert means he needs people to be happy. 

  We are all just trying to get through this last semester and then figure out what next.  Our van needs fixed;  probably the power steering but we can’t spend the money in case we may need it to live on in the fall nor are the  repair shops open and if they are, too risky to interact with people. 

God; just reading over this makes my head spin.  The stress levels we have endured are staggering. 

Were there good things in those 10 years?  Of course but the bad by far outnumbered the good.  Maybe the next post I will try to write the good things.  It  may be a lot  shorter post.

Where is that woman?

Where is that hopeful young woman

Stress weary and scarred

Mother to three young children

Landed in a beautiful mountain town

So full of hope?

Where is that slightly older woman

Feeling slightly less stressed, 

Reveling in her children, husband, 

Unable to fit in because low income but 

Still noticing the beauty around her?

Where is that now 40 something woman

Having  navigated school for her children

Having moved twice and settled in

Looking for friends  for herself

And her children?

Where is that middle aged woman

Who gave to the less fortunate

Worked so hard to cope through 

Almost being homeless 

With no one to call on for help?

Where is that getting older woman, 

Mother to four children

Moving too many times, 

Coping with husband’s job losses

Afraid for her children’s well being?

Where is that woman 

Still helping others, still being compassionate

Still working too hard for people 

And working very hard for her family

Still wondering where the friends are?

Where is that woman 

Betrayed by   people who  seemed like friends

Stressed  by family care and deaths

In the middle of menopause

Still homeschooling her four kids?

Where is that now late 50 something woman,

Slowed  by her body,

Tired in body, mind, and soul,

Alone and worn out,

No longer energetic enough to give,

Sad and now angry?

That woman is now 60. 

Wise, knowledgeable, experienced, intelligent, 

Alone,  tired, angry,

Emotionally bankrupt.

She can no longer give  or share, 

A product of age and mistreatment,

Swept aside and ignored by so many, 

The weary, wise hag. 

Invisible, enervated, and unwilling to give anymore. 

Humanity was more bankrupt of kindness, compassion, 

And integrity than she  ever imagined.

Her disappointment  is thick and dense and weighs on her heart. 

She still finds joy but only in her created family and nature.  

Humanity has failed her and every healer and giver.  

Humanity has squandered the gifts she and other givers have given

To the point that givers are tapped out. 

This is humanity’s loss; and it is a terrible loss indeed when the Givers 

cannot give anymore.

Jerusalem

Exerpt:

As I sat in the shared taxi, squished between the door and my mother, I looked out to the night sky.  I could see Orion and the stars so vividly.  These same stars looked down on my home an ocean away.  I was in a strange land after being in other strange lands.  After over twenty days spent walking among ancient Greek ruins and feeling my soul touch the lives of the past I was here, in Israel-Palestine, at night in a car on the way to Jerusalem.  I had no idea then that Jerusalem and my time there would change my life forever.

The taxi stopped at a small youth hostel on the street in front of a huge gate set in tall, crenelated stone walls that had creamy peach colored lights shining on them.  I stepped out and went up to the mezzanine;  it was lit by a garish fluorescent bulb.   There I met an older man and a young man. The young man had soft, curly brown hair; the kind that is springy and the curls were big instead of kinky.  His eyes were huge;  his eyelashes were dark and long.  He cocked his head, slid one foot outward to his left and angled his foot upward.  Then he smiled and his teeth were so white against his beautifully tanned skin.  He asked me if I would like a room.  He spoke English rather well.  My mother and I said we would take a room and we were given room 16 which faced the front of the building and had a private bathroom.   We fell asleep in the rough beds after using our own sheets to make them up.

The next morning, I awoke to the Muslim call to prayer;  it was the first time I had ever heard it.  The sun was just coming into the side window and it was rising over the Dome of the Rock;  a golden dome.  That call; it pulled my soul out of its moorings.  This was not like anywhere I had ever been.

 My mother and I dressed and went downstairs where the same young man met us and told us where to get breakfast nearby.  The bread was freshly baked, warm, with sesame seeds on it.  There was a hard boiled egg with it and some spices.  Hot mint tea with lots of sugar in a  small glass  came with it.   Then we went  down to Damascus gate; that same huge gate I had seen the night before.  Like all desert places, the sky was a piercing blue.  We entered between two huge, bullet-ridden doors into a darkness;  we turned left and then the light was back. That doorway passage had been filled with hanging dresses, trinkets, a money changer, and people going in and out that were dressed like no others I had ever seen.  Women with scarves on their heads, men in keffieyehs, children scampering and tourists of all kinds were coming and going.  As we passed back into the light, the way opened up and there were wide steps down into a market.  People with large trays of sweets on their heads walked among tourists; donkeys with kids on them carrying merchandise mingled with everyone.  On each side there were small shops that opened up to the step way.  Farther in there were several walkways that led off the main open area.  Each was shaded by their narrowness and the buildings built over them.

I had stepped out of time and into an Arabian Nights story.  I could smell the spices and see them in huge sacks along the one alley way.  The age of these streets, the stones, the walls, the very air was astonishing.   The sights, smells, tastes;  all were an explosion of the senses.  I was on overload and felt fully alive for the first time in my life.  I felt like a dormant flower opening for the first time, a chrysalis splitting to allow my new, butterfly self to emerge.  

A fire was lit in me then, a fire so strong, so fierce, so intense that it would rush through me and in me, burning  me inexorably into a new self, a new being, a new life.   I wanted to whirl and dance, scream a primal scream,  cry, laugh,  be silent.  My heart began to sing.   A  hitherto unknown, unexpressed,  nascent passion  grew in me;  feeling  at home in this place like nowhere before. 

I was  eighteen years old.

Exerpt:

We packed up my few belongings and got into a car.  As Jericho receded in the distance, we entered stark desert hills.  There were villages in these hills but mostly it was just desert.  What a strange and alien land I had chosen to make my home.  This land was ancient and covered in  the blood of many battles.  Religion was soaked into the land with that blood.  I could feel it permeate the very stones.

 I looked at the young man next to me.  I  thought for a fleeting moment that I must be stark raving mad to entrust my body, heart and soul to him;  he was a stranger to me  despite our passionate embraces and letters to one another.  Why on earth had I come?  The enormity of what I had done swept over me and I turned my head and looked out the car window.  The rational mind I once had  was muted but in moments like this, it came rushing back and questioned my choices with a harshness that was frightening.  So I buried it under the emotions that were in me.

I ignored the many warnings my mind had about this choice I was making.  Instead, I was moving headlong into a life I was ill prepared for.  Many years later, I realized I did so because of  the emotional starvation I endured in my  family.  Better to trust a stranger with my heart than to trust my family who had betrayed that trust  several times and, unbeknownst to me, would do so even more so and in even more devastating ways in the future. 

Limbo

It dawned on me yesterday that I have been in school for TEN years. No wonder I am feeling tired, listless, burned out. I wanted to write but I feel like no one will ever want to read it. I posted something recently in 3 places and in 2 of the places, people kind of jumped on me for it. It was information sharing and agreeing with the other posters. Only one out of three seemed to "get" what I was saying but even they had a negative response (not aimed at me though) about it.

This is why I sometimes think my name should have been Cassandra. I am also feeling older, unable to DO things I so wanted to do. Mostly things like using the knowledge and experience I have to be helpful to others. The thing is, it isn't because I can't do them but because if I do them, other people disregard them or actively attack me over them. No one wants information; not even helpful information, anymore. No one wants wisdom or experience; at least not from me. ::::::sigh:::::

In every job I have done, I gave and gave and was so kind  to everyone; always allowing them space to vent, being compassionate to them, never taking them personally when they would snap at me, always  validating them and their feelings.  Yet I was the one that got fired or let go.  The company would keep the whining ones, the non-productive ones, the crass ones, the troublemakers and dissonant ones but they would let me go despite my hard work and compassion and peacemaking efforts.  In all the years I worked outside the home, I never worked longer than 2 and a half years.  Perhaps my being a third culture person, raised in several cultures, made them feel uncomfortable.  Perhaps I was not petty enough, not greedy enough, not grasping enough, not  back-biting enough.  Perhaps they just feared my non-American ways of cooperating instead of competing.  I do not belong in my birth country and I felt it (and still feel it) every day. 

It feels deflating to have so much to offer and nowhere to offer it. To have a lot of energy but no one feels comfortable being around it. To have such helpful knowledge and experience and no one to hand it off to in order to help sucks. It is like watching someone being in pain and not having any way to alleviate it but only because the one in pain rejects the alleviation I have. I am an empath and the worst thing for an empath is to feel pain and not be able to do anything to try to alleviate it.

Every effort to make friends here (IRL) goes nowhere. People are just not interested. Even trying online hasn't worked. And I notice that I feel too old and tired to make the huge effort I used to in order to make friends; since menopause I have so little patience for the bullshit people do in relationships. I see it and have no energy or desire to deal with it.

So I feel like I am in limbo.  It is depressing. People are depressing. I used to love helping people but lately I am just tired. Tired of the onslaught, tired of the stupidity, tired of the pettiness, tired of the bullshittery, tired of the ignorance, tired of the meanness.

I am tired and fed up. Sorry to be a Debbie downer but it is what it is. I can't always be the up one for others; I have my down days and lately there have been a lot of them.

I need to leave this country;  I have no means to do so but if I had, I would take my family and go.  

Falling...falling....falling.....

Falling, falling, falling.....

into that deep well of pain,

into that quiet and tearful place,

into that emotional pain that is sharp and fierce and intense.

I am breathless, unheard, unimportant. 

I no longer feel the deep welling of compassion;
it is buried under an avalanche of  hate, indifference,  greed, selfishness, stupidity……

a limbo of  not knowing who I can be.

Compassion was breath for me, life, my essence.

It is still there but it is now smothered

under the dissonance of selfish,  mean, greedy, indifferent  people.

I  have no patience anymore.

No compassion for sycophants.

No patience for stupidity.

No time for  pettiness and discord.

No heart for  games or posturings.

No ear or mind  for  mean, uncaring, selfish people.

No  more of myself to give to people too busy

pushing and herding for position and voice.

No more of my soul to give to people who would

take and take and take until there's nothing left .

No more heart for the emotional vampires in life.

No more of any of me for those who cast aside caring people.

I suffer no fools, no willful ignorance, no hate, no greed.  Life is too short for all that drivel.

Where, oh where are the kind people, the smart people, the unafraid people who are open to new ideas,  new information,  new discoveries?

Where, oh where are the people who are not intimidated by smart people?

Where, oh where are the people who are not threatened by  intense, energetic, passionate people?

Where, oh where are the people who are not afraid of  people who are "different?"  Not the known "different" but the unknown "different?"

Where, oh where are the people who desire cooperation,  helping, sharing,  loving, giving, lifting up others?

Where oh where are the people who value knowledge, cherish wisdom, desire the voice of reason and experience?

Where, oh where are the compassionate healers, the givers,  the helpers, the listeners, the learners who are unafraid to learn?

Where, oh where are the people  who value and act with reciprocation, with giving back to others that which was given to them?

I  feel like I have lost myself.  

That self who was willing,

who was infinitely compassionate and patient,

who was a giver without reservation,

who loved deeply, broadly, passionately.

I feel like my wisdom, my compassion,

my love, my caring, my giving, my passion

has been tapped out, thrown away, trampled, used.
I am peopled out.
My faith in humanity seems gone.

I know there are good people.  My mind knows that.  I know they reside in my neighborhood,   in my area, in my town.  I just can't seem to connect with them. They don't want new friends,  new "different" people like me.  I don't fit in, I cannot speak their cultural language very well.

I have too many cultures inside me.

Sometimes being strong  and giving   hurts.

Sometimes being strong  and giving means being alone....always alone.

Sometimes being the strong, giving one means being taken for granted.

Sometimes being the strong, giving  one means needing time to  just fall apart,  time to disintegrate into tears and  curl up in a ball.

Sometimes being the strong, giving  one means being needy for once.

Strong, giving  people  need  compassion, too; need a space to be weak just for a while,  need time to  be vulnerable.

I am so tired and done with people.
Not just because of Trump;  this has been a long time coming. 
The cuddle hormone has left me since menopause and I feel a sorrow, a rage, a deadness in me.

This is the dark closet of my being;
leave me to it for a while.

I need this time for myself.

Eclipse in Pisces 2016

This IS uncomfortable. Damn but a lot is going on in Pisces and I AM a Pisces.

Just this morning I started listening to my favorite part of a Constance Denby album and burst into tears. I read that this time astrologically (because of the eclipse and because eclipses can be a defining line of going in one direction and then changing directions) I need to be deciding where I need to be going. It hit me that all the craziness that is my country has taken a toll on me emotionally and, dare I say it, psychically. I feel as though we are all under constant attack, attack of our femaleness, attack of our stability, attack of our kindness and integrity, attack on our sexuality, attack on our humanity.  This constant and palpable fear that so many others carry around is enormously emotionally taxing on sensitive, watery Pisces. I have been ignoring it (just as everyone else seems to be ignoring the insanity that is our country and world) and today it is as if all that welled up and overflowed in me. Reliving my family of origin life has opened that box I have kept locked and the hurt, pain, fear, sadness, is awful.

This way we have been living is so cognitively dissonant that it has become the norm, much like the occupation and terrorism a divided nation lives under until the people would rather keep the pain they know than to step out into a scary unknown and change. It is like being an abused child where the abuse seems never ending and there seems to be no way to cope but to pretend it isn't happening until the pretense cannot hold any longer because the abuse is just so horrible and you dissolve into mush under the weight of it.


The trauma is horrible and who is really talking about it? Oh people say we need change but who is really addressing the trauma that our nation is causing both here and abroad? This morning I felt that trauma like a huge weight and it made me leak it out in wracking sobs.


We have become a nation of the wounded walking abused;  survival is our aim  and pretense our panacea.

I want to go away; to a place where people are kinder, living without fear. Where people are SANE instead of insane. Where religion is kept private, as it should be and individual instead of as a hammer to beat others. Where people will understand me and not shun me. Where being wise, sensitive, insightful, compassionate and caring is not marginalized, where "different" people are welcomed and embraced. Where people  actively try to be kind to one another.  Once again, I feel like that child screaming that the emperor is naked and like Cassandra of Troy, no one, NO ONE wants to hear what I am saying.

Alas, is there any place on earth where that is still possible? 

This is Hell

I know how kids who are allergic to chocolate feel.  Chocolate tastes so good and allergic  kids want it but if they eat it they suffer bad consequences.  

This is me with ANY grains, legumes, potatoes, sugars.  Even cheeses.  My whole world is filled with all these  and I am not supposed to eat them ever again.  They are everywhere; ubiquitous.  It is like saying I can't breathe when air is all around me. There goes family holiday baking; holiday eating,  eating period.   Family events we all love get ruined when the food has  low or no carbs.  

A lifetime of having to resist and having to think of every bite I put into my mouth sucks.  It would mean never, EVER, eating  without  constant vigilance and resistance again.  EVER.  Staring down a life like that is daunting.  The alternative is being so fat I can't do things I like or feel comfortable.   My clothes are expensive, my sex life is diminished,  just doing things I used to do  takes a lot more effort; things hurt more.    This is what hell feels like.  And I am not alone.

It isn't about fat acceptance;  if I could be fat and still fit into bathroom stalls, seats on a plane,  walk  around for longer,  feel comfortable in public, not have back aches and knee aches,   sure, I could accept being this fat.  But I can't.  Hunger I can ignore but the cravings are another thing.  I feel trapped in a body that hates me. 

No fat person likes being fat;  there's no accommodation for fat people with the ADA and even the folks who fall under the ADA  have difficulty fitting into our able-centric world. Research states that diets don't work;  people's bodies physiologically change to make them regain the weight so  losers end up fighting their own bodies.  In fact, diets make things worse because after losing weight, losers have to eat LESS to keep it off;  less than a person that was the lower weight to begin with.  This  is why even post surgery folks regain;  their bodies adjust to living off less. Since gastric bypass folks eat 800 to 1000 calories a day post surgery;  that means they  have to eat less than that to keep the weight off!    How is that even healthy?

 Same research states that only 5% of losers actually manage to keep it off.  Lovely odds.  Of those 5%, they say they have to be constantly vigilant and watch EVERY BITE ALL THE TIME for the rest of their lives.  Most of them say they could only do it after the kids moved away or they got divorced because family members undermine you.     

So forgive me if I am feeling depressed because facing this is depressing.  

I feel a sense of grieving for the loss of a life I thought I would maybe get to have.  This grief is deep and real.  Even strong people like me go through these things;  we just usually hide it.  I am done with hiding it.  This is what I deal with every moment of every day, whether I show it or not.

The grief hurts and I can't get away from it because lugging around this fat body never lets me forget it.

If I did manage to change how my whole family eats (fat chance;  four of them are adults and would rail at that) then what would Halloween look like without carbs?  Thankgiving?  Christmas?  Birthdays?  Any get together with people?   How can we celebrate without carby food (and food in general)  being the centerpiece of that celebration?   How can we eat out without exposing ourselves to  carbs everywhere?  There are no low carb restaurants in my town;  how many are there where you live?  Weddings without cake,  picnics without sandwiches, Halloween without candy, Christmas without baking,  Mexican, Chinese, Italian, Greek, Thai  food without carbs.   Thanksgiving without stuffing, biscuits, mashed potatoes  and gravy  and desserts.   Just imagine life without all those things.  What does that even look like?  No more pasta, no more bread, no  more corn, no more rice, no more potatoes, no more sweets  EVER.

All in order to be thin enough to feel comfortable and fit into places, be able to do physical things, to walk around a lot, to live without pain and aches.  That's a pretty hard trade off when you think about it.  Everyone has to eat;  we don't have to fit or do physical things or walk around a lot every day, three times a day but we DO have to eat every day;  EVERY DAY.  

Life lessons

Things I have learned in my life:

being an aware person means being treated like crap sometimes because others are not as aware or they resent me for being aware

being happy means being  resented;  others have resented  me because I have  a happy marriage and family life

being smart is also resented;  people resent me for being smart.

My astrologer read my chart before she got to know me.  She told me that I would have trouble making and keeping friends and that my reason for being in this life was to be an example to others.  In some things I would actively and consciously share knowledge and in others, just being myself would piss off people because I am a perfectionist who is willing to work harder, longer, more carefully, and with more conscious thought  than most people.  She said I would  always be more aware, be a step (or several steps) ahead of people and they would resent me for that.  Just being myself pisses them off because they will feel like I am trying to show them up when  the truth is, I am just trying to live up to an inner standard I have set for myself. She said they will resent me because they are unwilling (or not conscious enough) to set the same high standards for themselves or to work for them so they will see me and feel less around me and resent me for it.

I  asked her why they wouldn't just do the same thing I do when I see someone who does it or knows it better than I;  learn from them and improve. She said they are lazy and don't want to do that; society has made it so that it is all about looking like one is on top whether they are or not.  Appearances are more important than substance so rather than admit to themselves that they need to learn something, they resent the person who knows more.

She also said the irony is, I would never feel like I was better than or smarter than others because I have this list of my flaws that is very long (she was right about that) and deep compassion  for others  but less so for myself.  She said I have a deep need  for love and approval.  So when people accuse me of acting like I know more than they do or of being bossy or  showing off, it will always hurts me because I just don't feel that at all;  I feel always inadequate compared to others.

This means I will feel betrayed by people I have become close to because  they will sometimes say I am being too pushy or too bossy or acting like I think I am better than they are.  This happens again and again; just as that astrologer said it would.  It hurts me deeply when it happens from people I trust or love.

Another life lesson I have learned is  how groups act.  Whenever I am in any group, I watch everyone and notice the niches they each choose (or are forced ) into.  I see the categories they inhabit;  the leader ones, the gentle sensitive ones, the blunt ones, the  critical ones, the sassy ones.  I tend to fall into the compassionate niche but sometimes I also share knowledge.  I have found that once a person occupies a niche either they put themselves into or others placed them in, they cannot deviate from it AT ALL or the group makes sure they know they have deviated.  The group is usually unaware of these dynamics;  they just react and pressure the person to get back into their expected behavior.   I see "the blunt one" get a free pass to be so but if anyone else does that they get scolded or  told that they are being "harsh" or "negative."

I watch people's actions, not just their words.  If I assume the group is that unaware or a person is that unaware,  that is based on their actions and words.  I  read their posts saying what they are doing or thinking and I see the lack of conscious awareness of themselves and others.  Does that ability to see it make me a bad person?   I didn't ask for this ability to see that.  Or sometimes, I  see an aware person compromised by some life-changing event in their life.  I didn't speak up once when I saw a train-wreck about to happen and sure enough, the train wreck happened and the person suffered in several ways.  I felt guilty for not speaking up but the reason I didn't speak up was because I watched the group and noticed that none of them did so and I didn't want to be the messenger everyone hates.  So my choices were to remain quiet and watch someone I love suffer badly or speak up and be lambasted by the group.  I chose the  former and now have guilt because of that.  This time I chose the latter and I am paying for it.  Either way I pay.  This sucks.

This kind of unfairness drives me crazy.  I have been on the receiving end of that unfairness and it hurts.

I rarely have friends I feel  I can trust my deepest self with.  I am a part of a group of women that, after 17 years or so, I felt I could mostly trust to be myself with.  Mostly;  never totally because of the damage I have lived with my whole life and my own awareness of my many flaws.    This group also has people in niches.  I feel close to them; closer than to anyone I have  ever been close to except my husband.  Yet I am always a little afraid, too because I think that at any time they will turn on me because this has happened to me before.  So I never feel totally accepted but I do feel more accepted with this group than with any other friends before.  Until this week.

I made some comments that were more blunt than usual and apparently some of the members went to  "the leader" and mentioned  that I was being "negative' lately.  They didn't come to me in private and ask what is up with me; which is what I would have done for them had the tables been turned.  They asked "the leader" who in turn asked me what was up because I was being negative.  She went  on to say I was coming off as though I didn't trust the other member to be smart enough.  I was coming off as though I knew better; I was hovering and acting like a mother.   There it is again;  that same accusation of me acting like I an better than others.  Despite my explaining myself and my public apology, I felt hurt.  Even more so when another person posted similar things but that was ok.   When I found out that several members had come to the "leader" about me, I felt betrayed.  I still feel betrayed.

People I thought of as smart,  compassionate,  and trustworthy  now seem petty and hurtful.  Yes, they probably still care about me and they had my best at heart but it still hurts that there is a double standard and that they didn't just ask me what was up (each one individually) instead of going to 'the leader" about it.  Nor did they cut me the same slack they cut others in the group who have been equally blunt at times or even harsh.  That's unfair.

Now I feel as though I cannot be helpful, share information, or give any advice  even though  the others do that.  Apparently I do it in an insulting way.    Others have been harsh to me but I just let it go because I realized they were probably having a bad week or day and gave them the benefit of the doubt.  Where was that same slack for me?   I don't feel like I am accepted in this group; maybe I never really was.  Maybe they do love me but to get that love I feel I have to be what they expect me  to be.  Where is the awareness of my feelings in  the group?  I feel judged in the group.   I already have trust issues;  now I don't feel the same trust with this group as I did.

People don't want knowledge or help.  I just have to remind myself of that I guess.  Feeling marginalized really hurts.  No wonder my kids feel less and less like they want to be around people.  People don't want to be aware, don't want to be thoughtful, don't want to  learn or know.   They seem to prefer to unconsciously  coast along for the most part.  I wish I could be like that sometimes;  it would be a lot less painful not knowing or seeing.

American or not......the journey home

When I was visiting Israel as a tourist, my American passport got me waived through checkpoints like a privileged elite.  I could go anywhere I wanted with little or no impediment or restraint.  After over 5 months of marriage to my young Palestinian husband, he finally got his papers done and his visa came and we began packing to go to my birth country.  

The first hurdle was the first checkpoint.   My American passport still helped me but Esam  and the other Palestinians were detained for about 30 minutes.  An hour later, we approached the first airport checkpoint.  The car stopped and we all had to get out.  Our bags were placed on a table and we were made to watch as the Israeli soldiers opened our bags and inspected them.  The soldiers asked me what I was doing with this Palestinian;.  I told them I was married to him.  They made snide remarks about that and began rifling through the suitcase.  They took my tampons out and opened one in front of me and asked what it was.  The smirks on their faces were awful;  I was very embarrassed  because I was not used to anyone making reference to any menstrual products openly in that way and they were jeering at me. 
After making  rude remarks about the sexual performance of my husband, they gave us our suitcases back and we got in the car and proceeded to the terminal security. 

 In the terminal, the security opened our bags, ate some of the Arabic sweets we had packed to give to family in New York,  and asked us all kinds of questions. One of them asked me why I married a boy with a little dick when I could have had a man.  I   was mortified.  I didn't know what to say.  They dragged out my underwear and laughed. They messed up the whole suitcase in their search. 

The men took Esam away  and took me to a small booth where two Israeli women frisked me and asked me why I was married to him.  I was getting scared then; terrified  they wouldn't let us board the plane home.  They began asking me all sorts of questions.   Did he promise me money? Did he kidnap me?  Did his family force me to marry him?  When I answered no to all of these they then told me he only married me for my money and to get to America.  They also asked why I  married  him instead of a good American?  When I said I  loved him they laughed at me and said "How can you love him, he is a boy?  He can't be good for you in bed."  I wanted  the floor to swallow me up at that point. 

They finally let me go and I was taken back to our bags. Esam  joined me after a few more minutes.  We were allowed to close our bags and check them.  Then we finally boarded the flight.  I was sort of in shock still.  While we were buckling in, Esam told me they strip searched him and he asked if they had done the same to me.  I told him how they questioned me and frisked me.  The humiliation was not something I had ever experienced in my life.  I realized just how sheltered my life had been and how his life had been oppressed from the time he was born.   I felt violated;   those people had deliberately wanted to hurt me and I was not used to that kind of abuse at the hands of people in those kinds of positions.  I had always felt protected by security;  now I just felt  dirty, afraid,  and small.  The thought came to me that my new husband grew up with that kind of demoralizing humiliation.  He experienced it on a regular basis;  all Palestinians  lived  marginalized lives under occupation.

As the plane lifted off, I was both glad and deeply sad to be leaving.  A part of my heart and soul were always going to be in the Old City and the Village of Jaba'a.   I was not looking forward to returning home because for me, my birth country didn't really feel like home.  My young husband was embarking on his first journey away from his homeland;  away from his family and everything familiar.  He would  be in a new culture, a new country, and in a new life.   I wondered if he would like my country;  he was so eager to  begin his new life there.  We held hands a lot during the flight;  two very young and inexperienced lovers beginning a new life.

Marriage.....in a different way

We got up and dressed.  I was going to a  religious judge to make the declaration of Islam to show that I had converted.  I would have to do this in order to marry my young Muslim Palestinian lover.   The chambers were in Ramallah so it would mean getting a ride in a produce truck and passing through an Israeli checkpoint.  My American passport gave me easy pass but my lover and his male relatives had to wait and be inspected and detained for a half an hour; a short time made so by my presence. because typically it would take more than an hour.  

We stopped in front of a typical Ramallah building and went up a couple flights of stairs.  We waited our turn and then I was to step up to a judge in a room filled with wooden floors, wooden furniture and a wooden desk-like table the judge sat behind.  It was a bit raised like many judge benches are.  The judge, Esam and I were the only ones in the room;  our voices echoed  in the quiet.  The judge was dressed in some robes with a wrapped thing around his head that I had seen on other Arabs.   He spoke to Esam  for a moment and then turned to me and said in English;  "Are you prepared to renounce your faith and become a Muslim?"  I replied "I have no organized faith; yes I am ready."  He then explained that Islam is not a religion that seeks converts; people must only choose it out of their own free will.  He asked me if I  was I being forced, bribed, pressured or coerced and I said I wasn't. He asked if I was converting out of my own free will.  I replied that I was.   He asked me if I understood the basic tenets of  Islam.  I said I did.  He asked me what those were and I  said in English that there is only one merciful God and Muhammad is His prophet.  He asked if I could say that in Arabic and, having rehearsed with   Esam, I said I could.  "Please state  the Shahada for me then" he said.  He was a wise and kindly man and I felt it in the tone of his words with me.  I took a breath and, in perfect pronunciation I said, "Ash hadu, la illaha, il Allah w ana Muhammad rasool Allah."  He was surprised that  I sounded like I had been speaking Arabic my whole life.  He complimented me on that and then stamped a small paper with a beautiful Arabic symbol and handed this to me.   I was now officially Muslim and  free to marry Esam. 

We left the building and walked to a jewelry store where Esam and his father bought us our wedding bands.  They were 22 karat gold bands etched with beautiful patterns.  

We got into another produce truck and began the drive to Kalendia where  the actual legal ceremony would take place.  After going through another checkpoint, we arrived at the Imam's home.  We were shown inside a  shadowed room where there were couch-seats all around the room and a table in the center.  The room was small and the tiles on the floor echoed our steps.

The  Imam greeted us and  Esam's father, older brother, paternal Uncle Mahmoud, and maternal Uncle Ali all joined us.  The Imam's wife served tea to everyone and some cakes and then left.  The Imam discussed with the men the marriage contract.  Ami Mahmoud represented me (because my father was not there) and though I didn't understand what they said, I realized they were working the marriage contract out and that I was at least being represented.  Then the Imam turned to me and asked me in English  how old I was.  I told him I was 19.  Then he asked me if I was coming to this marriage of my own  free will. I said I was.  Then he turned to Esam and in English ( for my benefit)  asked him the same questions.  Then after some more discussion, Esam and I signed the contract and the Imam told Esam to explain to me what it said.  Esam agreed to do so. The the Imam said  a prayer and when it was done, everyone placed their hands on their faces as though wiping them clean and they all said "Ameen"  which means "it is done"  or "so be it."  We all got up and  the men said their good-byes.  I had been told to be quiet through most of it so I  remained quiet and the Imam didn't shake my hand (nor did I offer it). 

The whole time I was sitting there the feeling I had was that this was another life, another place, another time.  When the prayer was over I could feel a sense of the gravity of the day, the momentousness of my words as I said I was coming of my own free will to this marriage.  Wasn't marriage forever?  I barely knew this young man; I felt a connection with him but would that connection withstand our cultural differences?

Esam got into the back seat of the produce truck and as we waited for the other members of his relatives to climb into the back truck bed (now empty of produce) he turned to me, took my hand,  and his eyes were shining.   He placed the wedding ring on my finger  then put his on.  He kept holding my hand as he said,  "Carrie, my heart will break;  I love you this day and  I wish I could run free  in the fields with you."    I didn't know what he meant by that but much later I would come to understand his heartfelt words and the restraints that held him back. We were both so very young.

He kept my hand in his as we returned to his home in the village.  His mother welcomed me home, calling me "daughter" in Arabic and hugged me. Fareedah also called me "sister" and hugged me. I felt so welcomed!  These people knew I was from another culture, another religion and another land but they treated me as though I was a well loved daughter and sister of the family.  There was food and then the preparations began.  For three days there would be celebrating, feasting and dancing to culminate with my "wedding" day.  Through out the merriment and celebrating, I never forgot his quiet and soulful words on our legal marriage day. 

The next morning, we were awakened by his mother.  He was in the middle of making love to me as she knocked on the door. He called out "wait!" as we finished. Then he got up and went out;  I said I needed time to dress and wash myself so he went out alone.  There were buckets of clean cold water in the room and a large, metal round shallow wash pan.  I washed myself   and I heard  several women (who had arrived that morning) calling out the door in  loud voices.  Later I was to learn they were  announcing  the wedding ceremony of Esam and I.  When I came out of the room, all these women crowded around me and ushered Esam out of the house to go celebrate with the men.  More women came and they sat me in the other room off the main front  room.  They took my hands  and washed them.   Then they used dough and made some symbols and placed these on my hands.  They put this green muddy stuff on both my hands and  told me to wait there as they served tea and food and sang and celebrated.  After about 45 minutes, they brought a bucket of cool water and another pan to catch the water and had me wash my hands  as they poured the water for me.   When the mud was washed off, my hands  were orange except for where the dough symbols had been.  I realized they had hennaed my hands.  Then I was served tea and food and fruit.  Everyone of the women were dressed in the most beautiful dresses with hand embroidered flowers and geometrical patterns on them. 

As the day waned, Esam returned and  showed his hands, they were also hennaed.   He said it is a custom for married people to have their hands hennaed and to have a month off after they marry.  He explained that we would be invited to dinner every night for a month to people's homes in the village.  It was not until late that everyone left and I finally had time with him alone.  He made love to me again; this was becoming an every night, every morning thing and I was enjoying it when I was able to climax;  that was hit or miss so often I felt frustrated.  

The next day was similar except for the henna;  the women came and the men stayed outside;  people celebrated  by just hanging around and eating all day.  The third day, I was awakened early and Esam and his relatives took me to Ramallah.  I was taken to a beauty shop to have my hair fixed and my face made up.  The problem was, I had very thin hair and they had trouble getting it to do what they wanted.  Also the make up they used was too dark for me;  my skin was really pale by then (it being spring) so I looked like a hooker in the dark blue eye shadow, black eye liner, black mascara, dark red rouge and dark red lipstick.  Then I was taken to a bridal shop where I tried on a few dresses until they found one that fit me.  It had beading and had those hoops beneath that made the whole dress bell out like an dress from the 1800's.  The veil came next and then I was taken back to the house. 

When we got back to the house, I could smell food (and I was getting hungry) but I was placed in the room I  had been sleeping in (which was actually Fareedah & Jemell's room) with a lot of young girls.  Meanwhile, the men were outside and the other room was festooned with decorations, a table and two chairs on the table were set up.  While I waited, the young teenage girls belly danced for me and their movements were enchanting. They had such innocent yet graceful  hip and belly movements but they were not in belly dancing costumes; just long shirts over pants with a long scarf tied around their hips.   Someone brought me food and water and I ate while the others sang and danced. 

Later, Esam came for me and we went outside to a car.  Ami Mahmoud led  me to the car (as representing my father) and Esam and I got into the back of the car.  Women of the village, dressed in their finest embroidered dresses and scarves danced around the car as it slowly made its way around the village and then came back.  When we came back, Esam handed me out and escorted me to the decorated room.  This was a symbol of me leaving my father and going to my husband's home. 

We got up on the chairs on the table and sat there while the room filled with women and chidlren of all ages.  They sang, danced and gave us money.  Then Esam took me down and we danced together; not slow dancing close but more like line dancers do and I whirled with my belled skirt and enjoyed the Arabic music and the clapping and stomping of feet.  Then Esam left to dance with the men  while young girls shyly took my hand and danced with me.  This went on long past dark (and Esam joined me several times).  Then everyone left and he and I went to bed in his brother's room for the last time.   In the darkness, he told me we needed to make a handkerchief of virginity to show the villagers.  It was fortunate that I was on my period because I could just put some blood on it in the morning and he would have it if needed.

The next morning, we were awakened at the crack of dawn with  several women insisting on seeing me.  Again, we were in the middle of making love (with the handkerchief under me) when they knocked and I asked Esam for time to at least wash and brush my hair and don my robe.  He inched out the door and told them I was shy and needed a bit of time. 

In a few minutes, I opened the door and found several women pinching my cheeks and making comments about me (which I gathered were flattering).   There were some questions going on but Esam kept putting them off until he finally disappeared into the room we shared and came back with a handkerchief with some blood  and semen on it. This seemed to satisfy the women but I was embarrassed.  Then they let me go back and get dressed.  

The rest of the day, we had no time alone and this went on for a month.  We only had time alone at night.  I told Esam that in my culture, newlyweds get time alone called the "honeymoon" to bond and be together without anyone else but he said in his culture people want to see the newlyweds  so we had visitors all day, every day for that month and spent every evening in someone's home eating until late.  Eventually I got used  to that and relaxed but I always wished we could have had more time to ourselves without the cultural constraints.