The Difference

When syncing my fitbit this morning I saw this tile and I thought something was entered wrong - but it isn't. This is correct. And I can't believe it. I haven't really been watching the scale this time; it's not my priority. But I've been occasionally stepping on it and logging my weight just to keep all my progress documented. In December, before starting with Nicole but starting to take steps on my own to improve my health, I weighed 202 lbs and it was all fat. I set my initial goal at 165; still a little heavy for my height but in a much healthier range. Today I weigh 178 lbs. I have lost 25 pounds. I have lost more weight than I can (currently) dumbbell curl. And a LOT more of that 178 lbs is muscle. This is the difference between being motivated by shame and being motivated by self-love. I am no longer ashamed of my 202 lb body; that body kept me going through the hardest year of my life, and I love her and am grateful for her. I didn't change my habits to punish her for not being good enough. I changed my habits to make her feel better and live a longer, more fun-filled life. There are many significant changes I have undergone since December. I got effective treatment for my depression and I am in complete recovery. I am accepting help from my loved ones who offer it, instead of pushing them away out of fear of being a burden. I have my house together. I'm going out and being social again. I have self-confidence that I never knew was even an option for me. I think I'm pretty great; you're welcome to disagree, and that no longer keeps me from believing it about myself. As I sit here with all my animals, about to start my work-from-home day, I feel so much gratitude for the people who didn't give up on me. Thank you for knowing that there was strength in me when I was crumbling. Thank you for holding me up even when I was pulling away. Thank you for stopping my fall, it very well may have killed me without you. I love you all so much more than I have the eloquence to express with words. I am the most fortunate woman on Earth.

Expectations

Last night I looked down at myself and saw that I am back at my fattest ever. I knew before I stepped on the scale this morning.

I have a long list of  excuses. Two breakups that were more painful for me than I expected; a new relationship that is both wonderful and challenging; huge devastating family illnesses; the death of my Mama; my daughter moving out on her own; depression; anxiety; money problems; exhaustion...

Of course the expected thing for me to say here is that I can't blame my weight gain on these things, and I have to take responsibility for my self care and stop making excuses. But you know what?

That is bullshit and I think many of us know it.

We are our experiences. We all respond to pain and stresses in our own ways, and we all do what it takes to ease the pain. For some people, taking control and making long-term changes and knowing that they are making progress eases the pain. Others of us respond to short-term fixes. That doesn't make us weak, it is simply a different way of coping. We need to feel that pleasure in that moment, because our despair can't wait for the long term reward. It may not be as healthy, but it is what our bodies push us to do. I refuse to continue to feel shame for taking care of my mental health in the way that worked for me for the past two years. Food was my medicine, and it worked for a while.

Now I am in therapy. I am working through my mental health issues with a professional, and will probably begin a medication regimen soon. I am finally ready to try to deal with my problems with other coping mechanisms, and wean myself from my dependence on comfort food.

I have hopes, but my hopes are different from my expectations.

I expect to start out like gangbusters, eating perfectly healthy and exercising consistently for a few days, maybe a week, then become overwhelmed and start the steep downward slope back to square one. This is my most common story.

I hope to find motivation to push through the period of being overwhelmed, and steer myself back onto the path when I veer off plan, and focus on getting my blood pressure numbers down and building strength and improving my cardiovascular endurance and caring about the health aspects of these changes. That is what I hope.

I have to come at this from a place of caring about my health, and not from a place of self loathing. In the past, I have hated myself so much for being fat. I have hated myself for being weak. I have felt shame and guilt and anger toward myself for having all the knowledge I need, and still making decisions that keep me fat. The most important thing for me right now is to learn to let go of all that hate. That hate has prevented me from taking care of my body for so many years. It is my number one obstacle.

It isn't going to go away overnight. I don't know whether I will make it this time, or if I will let the hate tear me down and stop me in my tracks again. I just don't know.

Right now I want to lose weight. I want to get the extra pounds off my knees because I am tired of the pain. I want to lower my resting heart rate. I want to lower my blood pressure. I know how important it is for me to focus on these goals, the goals that come from self love; and ignore the goals that my head screams at me from that place of self loathing (look better in a swimsuit; take up less space; be sexier; look more desirable).

As far as I know, the only person who has ever hated me just because I'm fat is me. It will be a long road to stop that hatred, but I am working on it. This morning I weighed 202 lbs. And I am more than that number. Whether or not I successfully control that number, It does not control me.

Lucidity

Last night I had a dream that I was with my Mama. We were in the back bedroom of her house, a very familiar and normal place for us to be. We were going through old clothes, looking for a particular green dress. She had gone to all the closets in the house and brought all the dresses to that bedroom for us to search through.

It felt so natural to be in that room with Mama. I was so happy, and so at peace. There was not anything in the world, nothing imaginable, that I would have rather been doing than sitting right there in the floor of that bedroom of muted pinks and smoky grays, soaking in all the beautiful energy that could only be obtained by being in the presence of my precious, loving Mama.

Then as we put aside one particularly terrible dress (why did I even have that one, Mom?), I realized that Mama shouldn't be able to do all this work. Last time I saw her, she was so very sick...last time I saw her, she was unable to get up to even go to the bathroom...last time I saw her - 

No.

Last time I saw her, she was in her casket. My Mama is dead. This is a dream.

In the past when I have had a realization that I'm in a dream, it had been the greatest thing ever. 

I'm in a dream! I can do anything I want! I can fly. 

But there was no joy in this sudden lucidity. This time, it meant that my time with Mama was coming to an end once more. 

My Mama is dead.

So I sat there in the dream and I continued to sort through all the dresses, trying so hard to find the green one that Mama was looking for. I told Mama I love her. That made her smile.

Although I was sad to know it was a dream, I was so very grateful to have the perception of those precious few moments. I clung desperately to the time I had with her, knowing it was fleeting. I looked at her hard. I watched the way she picked up each dress. I listened to the carefree remarks she had about each one. I soaked up everything about being near her, close enough to touch. 

Please don't wake up yet please please please don't wake up yet please please oh please don't let my alarm go off. Not yet. Not for a long time. Pleasepleaseplease

In the end, the alarm squawked its horrible, stupid song. My eyes opened and I greeted the morning with my usual grumpy demeanor, but this morning it was also layered with thick sadness. The dream was over. Mama was gone. Again.

It was a dream, and I could have done anything imaginable.

I can fly. 

And the thing I wanted more than anything in the world was to have that time with my Mama.

Contemporary Popular Music Sucks. But This Isn't Why.

I've been seeing this very well done video shared on Facebook a lot lately:

Now let me begin by saying that I am no fan of contemporary country music. You have to go pretty far back to find many country songs I like at all (think Johnny Cash and Dolly Parton). But this video does not demonstrate a valid reason to hate country music.

"But it PROVES that all country sounds alike, Nena!"

No, it doesn't. All it proves is that these six songs are all in the same genre, they contain similar themes in their lyrics, and the person who put this together is really, really good at electronic mixing (like, REALLY good - this is super impressive). That's it.

I don't know all these songs; like I said, I don't like contemporary country. But I feel pretty certain that in order to get this mix, this person had to manipulate tempos and keys, and make very precise cuts and splices. These six songs most likely are not actually identical.

Why do these songs fit together so well? Because they are all country. There is a reason we classify music into genres; it's because music of the same genre has consistencies among the different tunes. That is what makes it recognizable as country, rock, pop, classical, baroque, rap, Irish traditional, etc. Once you are familiar with a particular genre of music, you can recognize it very quickly, even if it's a song you have never heard. And if you have a very sensitive ear and a lot of patience, you can do a mash-up like the one in this video with almost any genre of music ever.

I'm serious. For example:

Or how about this...anyone want to claim that Beethoven was just a hack and all his stuff sounded the same?

My point is, yes, popular music today is becoming very canned and lazy. But don't base your judgement on one cleverly constructed mashup. There are tons of reasons to hate [insert music genre you dislike here]. Rant about one of the real reasons.

Cooking: Veggie Dumpling Soup

Occasionally I will cook something that turns out so well, I have to share it. My veggie dumpling soup made with homemade veggie broth is one of those things.

The key to the soup is to start with an amazing broth; the key to the broth is to make it homemade. To make a veggie dumpling soup that rivals any pot of chicken and dumplings, your broth has to be rich and flavorful. Otherwise, people will be asking for the chicken.

In my quest to develop a vegetable broth that will satisfy the most avid of carnivores, I have discovered a few things that make a huge impact:

• Lightly caramelizing the onions and softening the garlic in hot oil before adding water;
• Chopping the veggies into small pieces rather than leaving them in large chunks; and
• Using generous quantities of FRESH or FROZEN HERBS. Dried ones just do not give the same flavor. Don't ignore this one; it is a dealbreaker.

The following is not an exact recipe, but rather a guideline. When doing this type of cooking, I don't measure exactly or do it the same way twice. If there are other veggies you want to add to the broth or the final soup, by all means add them. I'm already thinking of new veggies to add next time I make it (mushrooms, parsnips, kale...)

Step 1: Make the broth

Better-than-chicken Veggie Broth:

Olive oil to coat pot
2 yellow onions, peeled and chopped
4-5 cloves garlic, peeled and smashed
3-4 medium carrots, peeled and chopped
4 stalks of celery, chopped
2 small potatoes, peeled and chopped
2-3 scallions, chopped
Fresh or frozen (not dried) herbs; I used rosemary, thyme, sage, and oregano
1 Tbsp whole peppercorns
Salt

In large stock pot, heat olive oil to medium-high heat. Add chopped onions to hot oil and let them sweat and begin to gently caramelize. Add the smashed garlic and continue to heat until garlic begins to soften (don't let the garlic brown). Add the carrots, celery, potatoes, and scallions and add enough filtered water to cover with about an inch of water above the veggies, and return to heat. Add herbs and peppercorns. Bring to a gentle boil, then reduce heat to a simmer, cover, and let cook for an hour. Taste and add salt as needed. Simmer very low for about another hour. Strain and discard the vegetables, unless you have a good use for them elsewhere. I don't recommend using them in the final soup, because you have purposely just cooked all the flavor out of them. They won't be good in it, trust me.

Step 2: Make the dumplings

Dumplings are easy. The following recipe makes a small batch, enough for 2-3 people with leftovers. It can be doubled to make more. Measurements are approximate.

1 cup all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 Tblsp baking powder
2 Tblsp shortening or butter
Lukewarm water

Combine dry ingredients. Cut in shortening with a fork. Add water a little at a time until mixture comes together as a ball. Knead the dough a few times to get a nice doughey texture.

How I form the dumplings depends on my mood. Sometimes I make little dumpling balls, sometimes I roll the dough out and cut little dumpling squares or strips. Just make them whatever shape you want. I try to keep them small to be sure they steam all the way through.

If this recipe makes more dumplings than you want to use at once, they can be frozen and used later.

Step 3: Make the soup

I'm not giving quantities here because I don't know how much soup you want to make. You could make a bowlful or you could make enough for a large family, just eyeball it.

Broth
Some of your favorite soup veggies (carrots, onion, celery, leeks, mushrooms, parsnips, corn, spinach, kale...whatever you like)
Dumplings

Heat the broth, add the chopped veggies, and cook until they begin to soften. Bring to a good, strong boil and add the dumplings. I also add the excess flour and dough crumbs from my cutting board. Boil gently for about 20 minutes, or until the dumplings are plump and cooked through.


Now serve this to your friends and family, both meat-eating and vegetarian. They will love it!

To My Daughter, Turning 18

All the things I can think to say are the same things that have been said by millions of mothers throughout time.

It has gone so fast.

I remember the day you were born.

I can't believe my baby is grown up.

These ideas are tenacious because they are true; but the endless repetition has stripped them of their depth of meaning. We hear the words, and we recognize the sentiment, but the enormity of the emotions I'm feeling right now is lost in our familiarity with the phrases.

So instead of searching for new words to describe these universal ideas, I will tell a story. This is the story of me raising my child.

The moment I found out I was going to have you, my only thought was

I'm not ready for this.

I was 23. I was barely able to responsibly take care of myself; I had no idea about how to be an adult. I had no confidence in my ability to care for something as important as a child. I was so scared. I HAD JUST KILLED AN ALOE PLANT FOR FUCK'S SAKE.

Time went on, and I became more comfortable with my upcoming new role in life. I did prenatal-safe exercise like water aerobics. I ate healthy food. I avoided anything that could hurt you, all the way down to caffeine. Taking care of my body became important to me, because it was by direct proxy taking care of yours. I read everything I could get my hands on about pregnancy and infant care and parenting. I vomited a lot. Seriously, I vomited for nine months.

But gastronomical issues aside, it was an amazing nine months. I was fascinated whenever I would feel you move. I giggled when you got the hiccups (when the doctor told me that was what those tiny spasms in my belly were, it was the cutest thing that had ever happened on the planet). I thrilled at how you would kick and move when I played my horn. I talked to you. I sang to you. I began to understand just how much I already loved you.

Then, on the morning of August 14, 1996, I held you in my arms and looked into your eyes for the first time. And I fell more deeply in love than I could have ever imagined.

You were not the only one born in that room at that moment. Your Mother was also born. I was no longer merely the woman called Nena; I was something so much more. I was Your Mother.

I whispered in your ear. The first thing you heard outside of the womb was my voice telling you your True Name. Did you ever know that I did that? You have a name that only you and I know. It was a very hippie, new-agey thing for me to do. But I wanted us to have something special, something no one else in the world shared, right from the very beginning.

And, as it so relentlessly does, time continued to move forward. You ate; you pooped; you cried; you slept. You held my heart in your tiny hands. I fed you, cleaned you, held you, read to you, sang to you, and watched you grow. In the blink of an eye, you were smiling; laughing; making sounds; walking; speaking; drawing; reading; counting; writing; going to school; discovering favorite stories, tv shows, songs, and toys; finding your talents; establishing friendships; experiencing heartbreak; enduring pain; finding your passions; driving; dating...

Graduating.

Turning 18.

Leaving home.

I have watched you wave goodbye and had to let go so many times already. I remember all the letting-gos: the first time I dropped you off at preschool; your first day of kindergarten; the first time you rode the school bus; your first sleepover at a friend's; your first summer camp; your first rave; your first date; the first time you drove somewhere on your own.

Your graduation.

And now, adulthood. Today I let go of the child, and embrace my adult daughter. And very soon I will wave a very big goodbye as I watch you drive away with your things, leaving the nest of your childhood home and beginning to build a life of your own. It will be the most difficult moment of my life. And also one of the proudest.

I know that this is what is supposed to happen. This is the desired outcome. You have grown up. That is what children do.

But I have to admit, I am so scared. I am scared of not knowing whether you are safe. Or hurting. I am scared of not knowing if you are getting enough sleep. Or eating right. I'm scared of not knowing when you are home safe at night. I'm scared of not seeing you often. I'm scared of my new role as a supporting character in your story.

But my story of raising my child has come to an end, and it is time for a new story. It is time for you to tell your own story. I hope with all my heart that it is exactly the story you want it to be. And I hope that I am always a part of it. Words are not adequate to illustrate how intensely and purely I love you. My entire life is you, and I am so grateful for the story you have given me.

And as many good stories do, my story has come full circle; because in closing, my only thought is

I'm not ready for this.

On Suicide

Today, we lost someone who gave laughter, deep thought, and joy to many people.

Robin Williams was an American comedian and actor who was dearly beloved by nearly all of my generation, as well as the generations before and after mine.

He was timeless.

Even the people who parodied him and made fun of him realized that they were making fun of something that may have been utterly absurd and mockable; yet it still drew people in and made them laugh. Robin had a style. Sometimes his style was the result of being incredibly high and having no sense of stream of consciousness; but it was still always his own style. He could be imitated, but never replicated. He was very, literally, unique.

I followed Robin's struggle for years. I was always very interested when he submitted to rehab; was released and considered clean; was being treated for mental illnesses such as depression or anxiety; was given a clean bill of health.

I paid attention to his comedy during these different reported phases of his life. I knew that the media couldn't know exactly when these things were actually happening (counseling, rehab, psychiatric treatment, etc.), but they gave me as much of a timeline as I could have as an outsider. And I saw the patterns. And I understood them. I understood them so terribly well.

I knew Robin was going to do this.

I didn't know when. I didn't know how. But I saw very clearly the tortured man he was.

Robin loved his family. He loved his wife, his exes, his children. He wanted a clean, happy way to connect with them, and he could not find it. His life became unmanageable, and the things that were most important to him were out of reach. He loved his career, but it was secondary to his family, and yet it was requiring all his time. And even when he took a break, he found that the disconnect had become too vast.

I understand his decision.

Sometimes, even when you have a good life, there is pain that is too much to endure. Sometimes you realize that you are never going to be able to provide the comfort and happiness to those you love that you so very much want to give. Sometimes, you realize that you have fulfilled your evolutionary requirement, and you are done.

Sometimes it is not selfish.

And those of us who are hurt and distressed by the decision need to just shut the fuck up with the judgement. Yes, we are hurt. It is ok to be hurt, and it is ok to be angry. But let's stop with the judgement and the name calling. We have no way to know how much pain he was feeling. This was Robin's life. This was his decision. He owed nothing to you.

Nothing.