Sunday, February 8, 2015

Struggles

It still astounds me how one thing can effect everything.  There's a scene in the Disney movie Pocahontas (bear with me here - I watch a lot of Disney movies) with the Grandmother Willow Tree.  She's explaining to John Smith and Pocahontas how their actions can have a far reaching effect.  She does so by touching one of her vines gently to the water.  She tells them to watch the ripples.  They start out so small... but eventually touch every part of the lake.  One thing can effect everything.

It's been a little over 3 months since my Dad passed away.  It already seems like a lifetime.  And it has touched every part of my life.  In the 60's, my Dad was a professional baseball player.  He played in the San Diego Padres farm organization.  My son worshipped his Pop for many reasons, not the smallest of which was the fact that his grandfather played pro ball.  2 days after Dad died, we took my son to his baseball game.  As soon as we came over he rise and set eyes on the field, I burst into tears.  My Dad had never been able to see his very talented grandson play in person.  I will never watch one of Connor's games the same way again.

A week after he died, I tried to do something "normal".  I went to one of my favorite classes at my gym, a 75 minute killer class.  Thinking I could just loose myself in the sweat and difficulty and forget for just a few minutes.  Instead, I wound up fighting to hold it together half way through the class.  It was almost 2 months before I went back.

I'll hear a song on the radio and tear up.  Look at a particularly beautiful sunset.  Walk past the place where my husband asked Dad for permission to marry me.  Find an old voicemail, wishing me a happy birthday.  Realize that I will never have another birthday with a Daddy.  The opportunities to rip open the wound again are many, and usually quite unexpected.  I'm told all of that is a "normal" part of the grieving process.  Like that makes it suck any less spectacularly.

But these ripples touch even more places.  Almost 2 years ago now, I completed a life-changing weight loss journey.  I lost almost 80 pounds, going from 215 pounds to 138.  And I kept it off, continuing to fluctuate around the 140 mark, and I was thrilled with the me I had become.  Dad died October 23rd, 2014.  Enter grief, the holidays, grief, some traveling, and a little more grief.  I have always been an emotional eater.  Happy, sad, frustrated, tired, bored, excited - all reasons to eat.  I thought I tackled and defeated that monster during the loss of all that weight.  I was very wrong.  I got on the scale this morning and weighed 160 pounds.  Twenty pounds in just over 3 months.  Ripples.

I could chalk it up to the crap.  I lost 3 significant members of my family in 2014.  That alone would drive anyone to find comfort.  Some would say it's great that it didn't drive me to drink.  For me... food is my drug of choice.  So the fact that I didn't drown my grief in a bottle is no consolation.  But it's not just that.  We decided to move 300 miles away, to where we know next to no one.  We're selling our house.  We're moving my kids to where they have no friends (yet).  We're spending a buttload of money to get our house ready for someone else to fall in love with.  We don't have a house to move into, yet.  My husband doesn't even have a job where we're going.  He will before we move, or we won't move out of our area, but still.  All major stressors.  All "reasons" for that 20 pounds.  But none of that makes me feel any better, or any less fearful that I'm on a slippery slope back to 215 pounds.  My BFF told me that she wasn't worried.  That she knew this was just temporary... a coping mechanism.  And that when I was ready, I'd drop it without a problem, because that's how strong she knows I am.  Today, looking at 160 pounds on that scale, I don't feel that strong.  I feel... weak.  A little defeated.  Lost.

All I can hope, today, is that I can make it through today, faking being strong, so that I can wake up tomorrow and be a little closer to actually being strong.  You know...  "Fake it 'till you make it!"  Right?

Friday, January 30, 2015

Fear

Why are fear and excitement so closely intertwined?  It's as if, for certain things in life, we have to be afraid in order find it exciting.  Like there won't be an adrenaline rush in the absence of fear.  I love roller coasters.  I am scared every. single. time. I ride one.  Until we take the first big drop, then I'm just getting bugs in my teeth from smiling so hard.  And, I know this.  I know I have nothing to be afraid of, but it's still there.

As I get older, I find myself fearing different things.  When I was little, I was afraid of the bear in the attic.  Yes, I wholeheartedly believed there was a bear in my attic.  And my evil mom and step-father fostered that belief on every sleepover party I had.  But that's a post for another day.  I was afraid of getting lost.  I was afraid of falling overboard while we were under sail.  Kid things.  Things that were a big deal then, but seem almost silly now.  As an adult, my fears are different.  Bigger and badder.  Something happening to my kids.  To my husband.  Given the track record of my past year, loosing more loved ones ranks pretty damn high on my list of "grown-up" fears.  Change.

Most people that know me well would be surprised that "change" makes my short list.  But change is something almost everyone fears on some level, even if they don't like to admit it.  We get comfortable.  We like our lives, our personal routines.  Even those of us that live what seems like a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants kind of life can count on the consistency of their inconsistency.  Some of us struggle with even small change.  Yeesh, you should have heard the muttering when my son's Elementary school got a new Principal.  Others of us only pause when the change is huge, even when - or maybe especially when - the change is our own choice.

Because of the way I had lived my professional life for many many years, I pretty much isolated myself from forming many friendships.  I worked a million hours a week, and I worked by a policy that we didn't befriend our clients.  So, my friends were my co-workers.  One of whom was my husband.  There were a whopping 4 others.  Makes for a pretty small circle, right?  So, when I switched gears and, at the age of 34, became a Stay at Home Mom, I pretty much left my friends behind.

Most people also believe it's a cakewalk for me to make friends.  And that is certainly the case, sometimes.  I make acquaintances very easily.  But good friends?  The kind you can tell all of your stuff to?  The kind you can call or text at 1am for whatever crazy reason, and they're ok with that?  I gotta tell you...  That wasn't the easiest task at 34.  Everyone already has those friends.  They're not interviewing for another.  Don't get me wrong, I still had them...  they were just 1,500 miles away.  So, it took me a while, but I made them again.  I have friends that rise to that level here.  Several, actually.  And one, in particular, which pretty much falls in line with the norm, I'd guess.
So why would I want to go and choose major change into my life...  again?

I think my husband wonders that, too, God bless him.  But, it seems that, every so often in my life, I want that level of change.  I need that level of change.  So, here I go again...  A big change.  A new place, new people...  This time, I'll be in a "strange" town, and I won't be 34...  I'll be 40.  6 more years my peers have had to establish and solidify existing friendships.  That much older to be "interviewing" for new friends.  All while hoping I don't loose the old ones.  Which will happen with some - is already starting - because, like I said... people don't like change.

I hope Southern hospitality is all it's cracked up to be.  It would be nice to be welcomed with open arms and hearts.  It's getting rare these days.  And I fear this change.  Yup, even at (almost) 40, I'm afraid of not making friends.  I guess that "silly childhood fear" never goes away, does it?  But I suppose this level of change is like a roller coaster for me...  I know I have nothing to be afraid of, but it's still there.

It's said that bravery is not action in the absence of fear... but in spite of it.  So, I suppose moving 300 miles to a place where I know one person from the home I've known for over a decade makes me brave.  Here's hoping I can act it, too.