Tag Archives: OCD

Appetite

My body knew before I did. I woke every morning, for weeks, my stomach roiling and angry. I forced myself out of bed and tied my running shoes on and threw my body out into the freezing morning for my training. I ran 6 miles, 8, 10, 15, 18, on nothing to eat, only water and gels I forced down for the longer runs. I came home and stretched and took a shower and waited to be hungry. I just wasn’t. I’d make a smoothie and drink it down. I’d have a piece of toast. Or I’d just have nothing at all. I have posted before about how much I love eating, all types of food, how I would think about food when I’d first wake up, or on my commute to work, or mid-yoga class, when my mind was not supposed to be on anything at all. This was not me.

After we decided it was over, it got worse. My belts became bigger. I bought a size smaller, and then a size smaller. The pants I once spilled out of hung loosely. My sister, who hadn’t seen me in a while, told me my ass is gone, my prized bodily possession, but that I refuse to believe. It’s there still, and it is good. I did lose 20 pounds in about a month, however, and I now weigh less than what I lied about on my driver’s license. I am not an unhealthy weight, but the drastic nature of all of it is unhealthy. I know that. I had some baby carrots and a beer for dinner the other night. My dad, who has been through four divorces, told me that he lived on beer, coffee, and cigarettes for about a year when he divorced my mother. I’ve been sticking to beer and coffee, but cigarettes don’t sound half bad, either.

I wanted to make a life for my kids that was different than my life growing up. I have tried to be smart and practical and make all of the best decisions. It didn’t matter. I still somehow fucked everything up. My body knows. This probably sounds strange and irresponsible, but in some ways I can understand a little bit about eating disorders. There’s something a little intriguing and exhilarating about not caring about food anymore. I like to be in control, and I am not anymore, so I have been cleaning the house daily and not eating.

This whole experience has been like an episode of Out of This World, that terrible 80s show, when the teenaged protagonist, secretly an alien, would touch her fingers together and freeze the world around her so she could reassess the predicament in which she found herself.

out-of-this-world-tv-show-maureen-flannigan

In the weeks immediately following my moving out, I feel like an outsider, removed from the world in which I once lived, and the one that everyone else still seems to be a part of.  It has given me a sad and bizarre but almost comforting sense of clarity.

In that song “Crazy,” Gnarls Barkley sings,

                          I remember when I lost my mind

                          There was something so pleasant about that place.

                          Even your emotions had an echo

                          In so much space.

I know exactly what he means.

In the past week or so, my appetite has returned. I think about food again, all of the time, and I am always hungry. Before school let out, several students gave me baked goods for Christmas, and I eyed them in their square, holiday-themed plastic containers and thought, I will never eat all of this. But then I did. I ate orange scones, ginger cookies, lemon muffins, and brownies. I ate it all.

I’m still drinking too much beer, and I don’t sleep very well, or enough. But my appetite is back. My body knows. Things will be better.

Photo credit: http://www.fourthgradenothing.com/2012/01/out-of-this-world-tv-series.html

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , ,

write-off

Image

There have been a rash of burglaries on our quiet suburban street, and the neighbors are whispering suspicions in front of our kids. Who was that dark man in the white car parked outside your house the other morning? It was my brother-in-law, actually, and we were going for a nice suburban jog through these quiet suburban streets. Oh, okay, they say. We should all keep an eye out. Yes, we should. Thank you, I say.

I have a son who is an obsessive worrier. He’s also too smart to fool. The what ifs fire rapidly. What if someone breaks into our house? What if they steal our car? What if they kidnap me? What if they hurt me? What if…? It will be okay. It won’t happen. I promise you it won’t happen. Your dad and I would never let that happen. “But it’s always a possibility,” he says, effectively dismantling any assurance I could ever offer. That night, he runs screaming into our bed in the dark, early morning. I wrap my arms around him and rub his back and he settles into sleep. The next night, he does not want to go to bed, but we convince him that it will be okay. When he’s finally asleep, I sneak in and make sure the blinds are closed tight, that no lurker could see him if they tried.

All of this is to say that I am going to work and I am caring for my children, and I am not spending my days thinking mean thoughts about my stepmother or her son, my half-brother, Jaden.

My father was looking for a babysitter so he can spend a weekend with one of his lady friends. He is at my house for a visit this morning when my stepmother texts him. She doesn’t want my little brother to stay at my house. She is worried that I hate him, that I will be mean to him, that I think I am a better parent. The bar is set very low on that last one. I do not abuse my children. I do not hit my children with high heel shoes, or make them kneel on gravel, or tell them they are worthless, or force them to hug their uncle who touches them inappropriately, so, yes, at the very least, I am a little bit better. “I am concerned,” she says. She is concerned that I will damage him. Oh, the irony! I love my brother Jaden. I am only ever kind to him. He’s not even two years older than my eldest.

I interact with this woman a few times a year. I send her a text message on her birthday. I send her a card when her mother dies. It takes a tremendous effort to squeeze out these tiny kindnesses. This woman was physically and emotionally abusive to me for my entire childhood, and I have managed to say hello and even I love you and continued to call her Mom instead of Lucy at the biannual family gatherings.

For some reason, this was it. We are finished. Here is the dictionary definition of write-off: “an elimination of an item from the books of account.” Lucy, consider yourself written off.

Photo credit: http://www.carfinderservice.com/car-advice/5-steps-in-preparing-a-write-off-interest-for-taxes-on-a-car-loan

Tagged , , , , , , ,

inheritance

brainfromplanetarous

My kids can pretty much forget about inheriting any material wealth. Ryan and I both have MFAs in creative writing. In fact, they’ll be lucky if they don’t inherit any student loan debt. It’ll be an exciting race to the grave to pay those off. My talented friend Anthony has a funny and honest blog called My Gay Mom. He posted a couple of days ago about he and his wife’s decision not to have children because he doesn’t want to pass his bipolar II disorder onto them. This hit pretty close to home. Our first kid, Ben, had many developmental delays. At 20 months old, he could recognize and say every letter in the alphabet, but he couldn’t say “Mom.” He had obsessive tendencies, like lining up Tupperware containers for several hours at a time. He also had sensory processing issues. He had to sleep with paper towels pressed against his cheeks, and would crumble them into tiny balls every night. He couldn’t stand amusement parks or crowds. He didn’t truly begin talking until after he was 3 years old. A lot of that has fallen away, but he still gets some speech help, and it is clear that like Ryan and me, he has obsessive compulsive disorder. It is very difficult to watch your child suffer what you have suffered. You give him tools to try and help him manage it. You read books. You seek the help of professionals. But nothing takes it away.

We were certain things would be less difficult with our second child. The day he was born, it was clear we were naive. In fact, the very next day, Benjamin came down with the stomach flu. Elliott had severe jaundice and needed to be hospitalized. Then he had severe digestive problems, severe ear infections, severe sensory processing problems. A severe speech delay. He was ultimately diagnosed with autism. There was a period of three years that were almost unbearable.

Ryan and I have a genetic predisposition to have children who struggle with the things that many kids and parents never have to worry about. I’m not complaining. What I am saying is that sometimes it is difficult to know that we are the ones who gave these struggles to these people whom we love more than any other people in the world. And it is difficult to help them navigate through situations that we still have trouble navigating through. Of course, we have gotten better at understanding and managing our disorders as we’ve grown older, but put me in a crowd of people on a busy day at Disneyland, and watch me disintegrate. Still.

And now we’ve given a combination of our strange brains to our children. That is their inheritance.

Having children isn’t really a practical decision. One day, my uterus demanded babies, and we simply did as it commanded. We painted a room, and put a crib and lots of other baby-sized things in it, and I felt a tiny human grow and press against the inside of my body. It’s a terrifying and incredible process. We read some books and made some plans, and almost none of that prepared us for the actual experience. Now we have these extraordinary boys, and, like every parent, we watch as the combination of our strengths and flaws takes shape in them. I hope that we have given them more good than bad. I hope that we can teach them to, even on the very worst days, look up from whatever they struggle with and see that there is so much more.

Photo credit: http://www.monsterbashnews.com/pics/brainfromplanetarous.jpg

Tagged , , , ,
midnightpears

Just another WordPress.com site

The Winter Bites My Bones

Collected Poems of Dennis McHale, 1986-2013

A Birth Project

Transracial Adoption from one black girl's perspective

The guilty preacher man

Inspirations, Words & Visual-reflexions

terribleminds: chuck wendig

Chuck Wendig: Freelance Penmonkey

projectophile

\ˈprä-JECT-oh-fahyl\ (noun) 1. A lover of projects, especially those derived from scavenged materials and made more beautiful through paint, thread and sandpaper.

Return

Just another WordPress.com site

Another angry woman

Thoughts and rants from another angry woman

unkilleddarlings

Faulkner said, kill your darlings. I say, put them on the internet and let strangers read them.

MiscEtcetera v2

Random bits about libraries, digital culture, life, and writing

glass half full

This is my blog. I write a lot about autism, raising boys, and my own alcohol consumption. I also tend to cover topics like poop and toothpaste. You've been warned.

The War In My Brain

About Mental Health, Daily Struggles, My Cat, and Whatever Else Pops in My Head

Platform 9-3/4

A product of my boredom !

The Belle Jar

"Let me live, love and say it well in good sentences." - Sylvia Plath

Daniel Nester

writer, teacher, husband, dad, Queen fan, inappropriate, dilletante flâneur, Shader

a publisher of quality chapbooks

James Henry Dufresne

"To hold a pen is to be at war." -Voltaire

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 221 other followers

%d bloggers like this: