The C-Word

Somehow, I managed to not realize how exhausting worry is.

As I lay on an exam table - feet in stirrups and stripped from the waist down - I writhed my hands together and listened to the reproductive endocrinologist talk me through the procedures she was preparing for, the C-word continued to dance in my head. Her nurse had gone to search for the results from my Pap test two weeks ago that would give us an idea of what the heck was going on with me. 

You see, two weeks ago my doctor prepared me for a possible cancer diagnosis and I was freaking RIGHT out. And by no fault but my own,  I've skipped every Pap smear I was supposed to be having because I was terrified of hearing I had another abnormal result. Hearing once that I had an abnormal result was scary enough.  I don't know why I thought not having another test was the answer, but there ya go.

This is about the perfect time for me to tell you: get your Pap tests done. Seriously. I will never miss another one.

Then the Pap result arrived and it was normal. Perfect even. I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing one possible problem was gone and then felt my breath catch in my chest because the list of possible problems was endless. 

The doctor sat on her stool and wheeled over to the end of the table and I couldn't help but wonder what exactly motivates one to spend their career looking at people's vaginas. She flipped on the light, patted me on the leg and launched into an explanation of what was about to go down (no pun intended).

Swab. Colposcopy. Vinegar test. You passed. Swab. OH! I think we found the problem - you've got a cutesy little polyp hanging out there. Sorry polyp, we're getting rid of you.

Then she likened my cervix to a donut, told me we wouldn't be doing any freezing, counted backwards from ten before "snipping" and then asked how my sex life was. I'm pretty sure I'd befriend this woman under other circumstances, because she was the coolest lady ever. And then she showed me the "cutesy" polyp, which was roughly the size of the top of my pinky. I didn't think it was cute. That polyp is an asshole.

After losing a little part of myself that's (hopefully) been the reason I've been in big pain for weeks, I walked out of the exam room feeling 100 pounds lighter. And about an hour later, I barely had the energy to stand.

It's shocking the way your body reacts to stress. I would have expected to have felt so alive - so energized - by this good news, but instead I was zonked. Some coffee and a new outfit were a good start to re-energizing, but all I wanted to do was nap. And hug F. And call Mr. Hockey Coach and then hug him. And just bask in the awesomeness of knowing I don't have cervical cancer.

Before saying goodbye, my doc looked at me and took my hand, explaining how things would be playing out. In 2 days, she'll have results back from the swabs. The polyp she removed will take 6 weeks to be analyzed, but she's confident it's just a blob of nothingness. No news is good news, and she thinks I'm great but hopes she won't have to call. She gave me her card and told me to call if I had any questions and then assured me I'd be OK, that I was young and healthy. I'm OK. I'm OK. I'm OK.

And apparently my cervix is beautiful. So there's that.

Searching

Every now and again, I venture into the world of my blog analytics and learn something new.

For example: 33 per cent of my daily audience is reading me via Safari browsers, and Apple products make up the vast majority of the Operating Systems clicking in with iPhones coming a close second at 24 per cent to Macintosh at 25 per cent. 

Why am I telling you this? Because I learned something terrifying the last time I decided to find out who's reading me and how they found me.

Most people make it to my blog by typing in the web address or my new domain (which, by the way, just redirects you here) or by typing my blog address into Google. But as you know, sometimes when you Google something you come across some interesting stuff. And alarmingly, a lot of people are landing on my blog lately by searching "how to be anorexic". 

That makes me incredibly sad. My Accidentally Anorexic post is in my top-five most viewed. 

I'll be the first person to tell you that I've got body image issues. It wouldn't take a genius to figure out that I've got some disordered eating habits. Between stress and work and the stress of work and raising a kid, I often don't have time to realize I'm hungry and with that totally unhealthy habit, I find myself suddenly 11 pounds lighter and feeling like shit. I call it "accidentally anorexic" because I don't mean to let myself go hungry, it just happens and it's unhealthy and I know that. So I often force myself to eat, even if it's just a salad and half a sandwich, a handful of granola or an egg on toast. And we all know about my habit of calling myself this F-word. 

It pains me to think that someone has turned to Google and typed the words "how to be anorexic". I mean, why would they? Are they looking for tips, motivation, support? Are they just trying to understand how someone can be anorexic? I typed it. The first three results broke my heart and I wondered how many beautiful, young girls and boys have typed those words and read those results and become lost in a disease that has the highest death rate of any known mental illness. 

If you're reading this post today because your Google search directed you here, please go back to Google and search Eating Disorder Help and follow those results. Take care of yourself, and be well. 

Confessions of a (recovering) Sun Worshiper

It has been snowing all day long.

I've spent most of the day on the couch with F, watching movies and occasionally glancing out the window and wistfully dreaming of summer. And tanning. Laying in the sun, basking in the glow and the warmth and the awesome. It won't be summer for a long time. That's why there's tanning beds though, right? You lay in the bed and feel the warmth and you just soak it all up and have 15 minutes of summertime anytime.

Except that I forced myself to give up tanning. 

And it hasn't been easy. I'm beginning to tire juuuuuust a little bit from the Oh my gosh, you're so pale comments because then I have to be all Sorry, I naturally look like a vampire and was willingly subjecting myself to premature aging and skin cancer so that I looked normal and then shit gets awkward, yo. 

But seriously. Tanning was kind of like cigarettes to me (and there's a habit I really don't need to kick again). I loved laying in the bed for my 15 minutes of warmth and seeing my tan lines form. Until I started noticing that my bronzed skin was getting a little, ahem, speckle-y to the point that my beloved freckles were becoming rather large spots and I was seeing laugh lines even when I'm not laughing. And that's about the time I realized that I was fast-fowarding my skin to being 60 before I hit 30, and ain't nobody got time for that.

So I quit. Cold turkey. I marched my bronzed self to a Shopper's Drug Mart around the corner and I bought sunscreen, and a Retin-A cream and I vowed to take better care of my skin. The same way I vowed to put out that last cigarette. The same way I make the decision to eat well and exercise. And kind of like my efforts to stay thin-ish and (almost) in shape, it was my vanity that led me both in and out of that tanning bed.I decided I needed to take it one step further though, and I put all of my self-tanner in a box and put it away because I think the root of my problem lies in that I didn't feel pretty without a tan. 

And I still kind of don't. But I will.

And I will continue to miss the summertime sun and the warmth. But in just a few months, my sunscreen and I will hit the beach again. And I'll enjoy my book in the grass, and build castles in the sand and protect my skin the way I should have in the first place.

Breaking Bad (Habits)

I have a confession to make: I take absolutely terrible care of my skin. 

Or, at least, I have been taking terrible care of my skin. I'm trying really hard to better myself, but there are some habits that are just so hard to break. With summer now far behind me (according to the temperatures, anyway), the days of lounging in the sun and sweating in the humid air have been replaced with dark mornings and cold, dry winds. My skin started to feel the difference before I had really clued in, and with my new, heavy moisturizer comes the turning of a new leaf. It's time to take better care of my skin. In just over two weeks since completely overhauling the way I treat my skin, I see a huge difference.

First up on my list of things to do was quit tanning. Quit. Gone. Bye-bye. After years of chasing a golden glow, I've decided that the only glow I'm getting has to come from a bottle. My pale, freckle-covered skin was beginning to show my bad habit a little too much, with clusters of freckles that looked like dark spots and a few more laugh lines than I wanted cropping up. Defense is the best offence here, people, and I don't want the skin of a 40-year-old before I hit 30. I quit tanning 3 weeks ago. I'm now looking pale and loving it.

Yes, I consider this "tanned".

Next, I had to stop going to sleep with makeup on. This was going to be harder. Although my initial thought was to rush out and grab some make-up removing wipes, I had not one, not two but three full-sized bottles of Neutragena face cleansers that needed some attention, so I've been using those instead. In practice, my new night-time regime takes all of 5 minutes. Twice a week I use a gentle scrub to remove all the dead skin. Stay tuned for a review on my Neutragena Pore-Minimizing products - they're ahhh-mazing.

Pale is the new tan.

Then after reading oodles of reviews and speaking directly to a dermatologist, I decided to start using a Retinol cream, beginning with twice a week, in conjunction with a heavy nighttime moisturizer and eye cream. I'm not quite ready to move on to a third time per week, but I've noticed my skin has become much brighter and smoother already. I'll be reviewing my Neostrata Anti-Wrinkle Night Complex soon!

One of my worst skin-care habits is picking at blemishes. I can't. stop. touching. them. AHH! As soon as a pimple begins, I'm on it with tweezers or fingers. One of the bonuses of tanning was that my acne completely disappeared, but I picked up a Tanda Zap and I'm having really great results so far. I'm sorry to say you'll have to wait for that review, too!

Between now and December, I'll be reviewing a beauty product a week! I'll also take some additional photos to show you the progress in my skin, from the blemishes to the fading of my tan and "dark spots". I don't know what kind of damage my skin has already suffered, but I know that I'm going to be more aware and more conscientious in the future... and will look 30 forever. 

... Or something like that.

Fat (part 2)

I am the problem.

I've been a part of many conversations bashing the media and Hollywood in particular for the skinny-obsession, and I've stood in a different light in lots of these. Sometimes, I feel like it's our job as individuals and as parents to remind ourselves and teach our children about the importance of healthy eating, exercise and body image. Sometimes, I want to karate chop the media and the fashion world for creating this skin-n-bones monster in the first place, but then I glance at my workout playlist on my iPhone and remember it's called "Get Skinny".

Yup. It's a thing. I dread standing on the scale at work, and yet it's become a compulsion because I'm feeding the monster (no pun intended...) that I hate.

"Please be less than..."

And I remember dancing around in the Gap fitting room because the 00 pants fit me, or the times I've skipped a meal (or several) because I felt fat.

I remember the times I've eaten something and felt guilty. I remember the time I let the word "fat" fly out of my mouth like a derogatory word, because although I'm an advocate of loving your body, I'm terrified of gaining an ounce.

I am the problem. I'm a part of it.

Fat is another four letter word to me, and it's one that I wish I could help my toddler unlearn. Because, like his Mommy accidentally taught him, F uses FAT to describe things he doesn't like because he's 3 and it makes perfect sense to him, just like I would use gross, ugly or smelly to describe something I'm not really feelin'.

But then, I remember the time that F asked me if he was fat, because he learned it from me.

So, we can sit around and bitch at the media and build a cross to crucify the media, and then force-feed a bunch of stick-thin models and actresses a bunch of cheeseburgers but that's not the fix. I love my Mom, and she's a wonderful friend and mother and role model, but she's also where I learned to stand in the mirror and say "I look fat". The world isn't always going to be what we like. We can't control every message out there, but we can control our own. It's time I change my message.

I caught myself in the nick of time tonight.

"What are you doing?" F asked as I set up my Wii Zumba, strapping on my belt and stretching a bit. When I told him I was exercising he asked why... and do you know what I started to say? So I won't be fat. I'm glad I caught myself, because that's not why I should be exercising, and that's not what I want my amazing 3 year old to hear.

"So I can be strong and healthy."

Because that is the type of child I want to raise.

My Secret to Thin

Today at work, a colleague asked me what my secret to staying thin was.

Well, here it comes:

THERE IS NO SECRET.

It's called hard work and eating well, and it's been around for centuries. That, and I'm naturally petite. But mostly, it's hard work. It's spending a little more at the grocery store because I buy fresh vegetables and fruit. It's dragging my tired ass outside in 30 degree heat to walk/jog with F and the dog. It's squats and lunges and push ups and tricep dips on the counter and moving as much as I can every day. 

I sit in an office from 7:30 am until 4:30 pm almost every day, sometimes later. I don't have a gym membership. I have two sets of free weights, 5lb and 8lb, a 46-pound-toddler, and a yoga mat. I have stairs in my building, two feet and a set of lungs to breathe in some air. It's all you really need. 

That, and a little motivation.

I'd love to have more time in my day to devote to spending an hour in the gym. I'd love to have the money to shell out on a gym membership. I wish I owned a bike. But right now I don't, so I do my best to make it all work.

I'm not a personal trainer or a nutritionist. I'm hardly an expert on health and wellness, but I know my body. I know my limits. That's where it all begins. Know your body. Know your limits. Know what works for you and what doesn't, where you're beginning and where you want to go.

In the meantime, want to burn a few extra calories this Wednesday?

Park further from the mall/store/office and walk. Don't drive a car? Get off the bus a couple of stops earlier and walk the rest of the way.

Tired of sitting in the office? Get up and walk around. Take 100 steps every couple of hours. Do a set of push ups on the corner of your desk, followed by a few tricep dips. Do it every couple of hours. It adds up.

Squeeze in a few sun salutations today, or better yet - make a 10-minute yoga practice your new wake up. You won't find a better alarm than a work out. You can thank me when you realize it only took one cup of coffee to get you going after that.

These are easy ways to incorporate a little movement into your day-to-day life, without cutting out a chunk of time that could otherwise be spent, you know, living. 

More important than anything else, love your body. Own it. We're all shaped differently, just like we all look different and like different things. We're not all supposed to be the same height, weight, shape.  Take care of yourself. Treat your body with respect, feed yourself good food and don't forget to give yourself a break now and then.

Painted

Ten.

That's how old I was when I first discovered stretch marks all over my inner thighs. Angry-looking and purple, I didn't know what they were. I hated them. For years, I refused to wear shorts. Even in the heat of summer, I wore jeans or Capri pants. By the time I was a pre-teen, stretch marks covered my thighs and the first few faint ones made their appearances on my butt and hips.

As I got older, though, they faded and around the time I hit junior high they were less-visible. I let myself wear shorts again. Dresses. Skirts. Bathing suits. For about eight months of the year, you can barely spot them - even if I am bare-legged - because they fade into the pale milkiness of my skin. During the summer, they stand out silvery against my tanned skin but it doesn't bother me any more.

When the first stretch marks from pregnancy appeared on my stomach and sides, I collapsed into tears. I was only two weeks away from my due date. From the bottom of my bellybutton to the top of a pair of bikini-cut underpants, my tummy is soft, a little stretchy, and painted with a few dozen stretch marks. I hated them for a while too, but they don't bother me either.

I wouldn't have F without them.

Sure, I'd love to have been one of the women who gets off easy and doesn't get a single stretch mark throughout her pregnancy - or, if you're my cousin, through multiple pregnancies - but I wasn't. For the first year after F was born, I donned a one-piece bathing suit. But now I wear bikinis.

Today, at the beach, one of the few mums who spoke with me exclaimed that she'd never wear a bikini or show her "mummy tummy" in public the way I do. She said she was too self-conscious. In her retro-inspired one-piece, this girl could have been on the front of a magazine. But, with a sarong around her waist to cover her "dimply thighs" (her words, not mine), she barely had the confidence to take off the layers she'd previously worn.

I busted my ass off (literally) to lose weight and get in shape. My stomach may never be tight and firm like it used to be, but I'm strong and I'm healthy and I've got something better than six-pack abs to show for it.

Accidentally Anorexic

According to the National Eating Disorder Information Centre (www.NEDIC.ca), 1.5% of Canadian women between the ages of 15 and 24 has or has had an eating disorder.

That is a shocking number, especially considering that 10% of the population suffering from Anorexia Nervosa will die within ten years of the onset of the disease – the highest mortality rate of any psychiatric disease. As parents, women and society as a whole, we’re now realizing that children are learning unhealthy, “mainstream” attitudes towards food and weight at a young age – no doubt thanks to the fashion industry’s stick thin models, photo-shopped images and the rapidly shrinking waistlines of actresses and singers . At 25, I am acutely aware of my body image, my weight, and healthy eating practices. I also count calories, mentally beat myself up, have “I’m so fat” thoughts and consider myself to be an accidental anorexic.

How do you become an accidental anorexic?  you may be thinking.
 
It’s actually very easy, and you may have even done it before. It may have begun with the best intentions, a diet or exercise regime to help you peel off that extra layer around your tummy before summer vacation, or it may have begun accidentally through illness or injury. If you’ve ever lost a lot of weight in a short time, you may have experienced the wave of “holy cow, you look so good!” comments that boost your ego and leave you feeling a type of high that comes only from a rush of excitement and pleasure, and the next thing you know it's all you can think about.
 
I consider that feeling of "I'm so thin" to be my heroin and I experience it every time I try on an article of my clothing that is too big, or buy a size small shirt or size 0 pants. I hadn’t been either of those sizes since high school and I have totally lost myself into the obsession of staying tiny. It's an addiction in every sense of the word.
 My obsession began many years ago, as a pre-teen gymnast and swimming lessons pupil. Spandex onesies on the gymnastics mat and tankini-style bathing suits in the pool highlighted my pre-pubescent body’s rapid changes. By the time I was 13, I had mastered the art of skipping breakfast AND lunch and managed to survive. At 15, it escalated. My parents were either oblivious or thought ignoring it would be best – kind of like I try to ignore Finley’s occasional outbursts. I could control my food intake and I could control my own body.

Until I turned 16, skipped meals were the norm for me. No one noticed. No one worried.
 

I grew out of the bad eating habits and grew into myself, at 16, as a basketball player, member of committees and lead in the high school musicals. Life settled. Food settled. I settled. University saw a resurgence of bad habits and anxiety, self-loathing and body-image issues. It wasn’t until I found myself pregnant that I let go of the negativity I had held onto for so long. My body was incredible enough to support another human being: what is more beautiful than that?

Fast forward to January 2012 and I’m watching my life fall down around me as my husband and I separate after nearly five years together, but only six months of marriage. It was devastating, and instead of coping or grieving, I micromanaged my diet.

I exercised because I could control the expenditure of energy and it occupied my time and my mind. I drank coffee, ate salads and counted calories like it was my job.

My Irritable Bowel Syndrome flared up thanks to the overwhelming stress I was under, and the pounds washed off faster than you can say “separation”. Over 40 pounds lighter, I felt amazing but I looked sickly. I’ve put weight back on since then, and while I reasonably know that I needed it to be healthy, I still wish I was 10 pounds thinner.

At 5’4, I weigh in at 120 pounds. My Body Mass Index, though certainly not the best indicator of health, is on the low end of the normal range. The thought of weighing over 120 pounds sends me into a frenzy of shameful worrying. I know better. I don’t believe my value is equated to the size of my jeans or the number on the scale, and yet I’ve let that number knock me down.

The truth is that, even in size 0 jeans, the skin on my tummy is soft and a little squishy, it is painted with stretch marks and I’ve noticed a dimple or two coming on my thighs. My boobs aren’t as perky – or as big – as they once were and my thighs aren’t as toned as I’d like them to be but I’m healthy. I’m strong. Being 10 pounds thinner isn’t going to make me a better person. It won’t pay off my bills or improve my marks at school. An extra 10 pounds won’t make me a bad mom, or keep me from getting my dream job.

Not too long ago, the Canadian Women’s Foundation tweeted this alarming news: “In Grade Six, 36% of girls say they are self-confident, but by Grade Ten this has plummeted to only 14%.”

It’s time we change that. It’s time we change how we look at ourselves. It’s time to change how we look at our bodies. It’s time to teach our daughters that all shapes and sizes are beautiful, that healthy is beautiful. It’s time we teach our sons that a woman’s value is not equated to her physical appearance but mostly, it’s time we teach ourselves that.

Be strong. Be positive. Love your beautiful body.

Fat

Let me start by saying this: Reasonably, I know that I am not fat.

Actually, I am far from fat. But I have a lot of body hangups, as do most women I know. I often forget that I had a baby, and even though I slip into my size 0 pants every day, I often feel like I'm roughly the size of a rhinoceros. I try hard not to let the soft skin on my belly or the stretch marks that paint my stomach, hips and thighs get to me but every now and again it breaks me down and I stand in the mirror exclaiming words that I know aren't true, but perfectly describe how I feel:

I'm so fat today.

I promised Red I'd never ask him if I look fat - mostly because I'm secretly terrified he might say yes, but also because I think it would drive him crazy if he had to deal with my constant body hangups. More often than not, I keep the comments to  myself - mentally berating myself for my own perceived flaws - but every now and again, I've let it slip. Other than the fact that I'm beating myself up, it's never occurred to me that saying those words could have a profound impact on anyone.

Until I heard my beautiful, healthy, rambunctious three-year-old say "Mommy, am I fat?"

As heart-breaking as it is for me to look at beautiful men and women beat themselves up over the ridiculous idea of beauty that our society has created, it doesn't shine a light to the fact that my three-year-old could have possibly felt that he should ask that question.

It's the result of every time I've asked my mother, "Do I look fat in these jeans?"

It's the result of every time I've explained that I'm working out because "Mommy's fat".

It's the result of every time I've stood in the mirror and said "I'm fat" to myself, when I didn't think he was paying attention.

And it's not OK. 

I've become a part of the monster that I complain about. The monster that lets our children grow up feeling insecure about their bodies, highlights flaws and airbrushes over imperfections to create an idea of beauty that is impossible, unattainable and completely unnatural. It needs to stop.

Am I going to be able to completely eradicate my body hang-ups overnight? No. I'm not. It's going to take work, and I may never get over them. I may never get rid of that soft layer of post-baby fat that covers my belly. I'll wear my stretchmarks until the day I die. 

But I will be more conscious of what I say in front of those impressionable little ears, and that begins now.

Off Kilter

I need to start taking my own advice.

This past spring and summer, I busied myself by creating a wellness program which I had planned to be running this winter - but not even I can be in two places at once, and the drive from Halifax to St. Ann's Bay is just a leeeeeeeeeetle bit too long to do twice a week. Instead, the St. Ann's Bay Health Group Society has invited me to speak at Wednesday's morning's Senior's Lunch. As I skimmed through my own program, the program I lived and breathed for four months, I'm realizing that I need to get my shit together, because I have not followed a single piece of my own advice in well over a month.

Simple things, like eating, have gone to the wayside as I tend to completely lose my appetite (and the motivation to make food) when I'm feeling stressed. I forget to drink my 6-8 glasses of water a day - the same 6-8 glasses that I used to genuinely miss when I didn't get them. Aside from walking the dog, wandering around my apartment and a couple of well-deserve, Wii-golf victory danceoffs, I've not even cut out the time for some physical activity. My sleeping patterns suck too.

And I'm not too proud to admit that I ate popcorn for lunch on Sunday. Go ahead and judge.

We're all guilty of it though, whether we want to admit it or not. We're quick to point out the flaws and shortcomings of our neighbours and friends, we give great advice on everything from chores to time management, relationships to healthy lifestyles and we contradict every word of it by doing the complete opposite. Practice what you preach, my mother would say.

It's time for me to get back on track. Starting with a glass of water right...after I finish my wine.

Empty

I finally ran out of steam today.

This month has been one of the most emotionally draining I've ever experienced, falling only behind the month that I lost two family members and welcomed F to our lives. The move to Halifax would have been anxiety-ridden enough, but the series of upsets, next-to-impossible events that have occured and the absence of F has weighed heavily on me. In the past eight weeks, I have made seven round-trip drives between Cape Breton and Halifax. I've moved into an apartment, and then into another. I've had my life stolen from me, lived in a hotel for a week and managed to get to school every day. I have met about fifty new people, thirty dogs, walked all around the city, been out on dates, drank too much, slept too little, been up at 5:00am and spent hours on the phone with F, the police, my family, friends, lawyers and everyone in between. I even spent a week sitting on the floor watching my television, using my iPhone data plan for internet and drinking out of paper cups because I had nothing else. It was an experience, and instead of sitting down and relaxing for a little while, I pushed on through.

I forget to settle down, sometimes. I stretch myself too thin, sign up for everything and forget to take care of myself. I'll skip meals, skimp on sleep, try to carry more than I can physically lift and ultimately, I crash and burn. The worst part? I know it's coming. I know I need to slow down and sometimes, I even need to stop. I need to eat, sleep and relax here and there. I can't fuel my body on coffee alone, or run on four hours of sleep a night. I have sat in my classroom feeling shaky and foggy. I have spent afternoons curled up on my sofa watching a movie, unable to keep my eyes open and yet I'll go out for a glass of wine or meet a friend for coffee at 7:00pm. Don't stop. Keep going. Keep up the pace.

It has become a compulsion, an addiction and I fear the fall out I may face if I do slow down. What if I stop and can't start again? What if I slow down and fall behind? What if I sit, and can't stand up again? It's not even logical and it's driving me crazy. It's sucking the life out of me, and I can't possibly keep it up. I'm empty.

I know I'm not alone in this. We are all guilty of forgetting about our wellbeing. We get busy as parents, take our work home and push through our exhaustion for a bigger or better paycheque. We spread ourselves so thin that we lose our zest, our flavour as individuals. It all goes back to an inability to say "no", a fear of being inadequate and a sense of needing more for me.

My challenge is simple, and I hope you will join me:

Choose one day a week as your day. Do the bare minimum that day. If it's work, go to work. If it's school, go to school. Make simple meals: take something out of the freezer, or make it leftover day. Stay in. Set your bedtime one hour earlier. If possible, turn off your mobile phone - even if only for one hour. Take a bath, read for pleasure or meditate. Do a quick, simple yoga practice if you can. Light candles. Rest, recover, rejuvenate. It does not make you a failure. It doesn't make you selfish, lazy or weak. It makes you aware of your limits and gives you the opportunity to heal.

Stay strong and be positive!

XO

Good Families

You've probably read Good Families Don't by Robert Munsch.

This post really has very little to do with that book, outside of this line: "Good families like ours don't have farts. What would the neighbours say?" 

I can remember my mom reading it to me as a kid, and then to my brother. He thought it was hilarious, naturally: what little boy or girl isn't sent into a fit of giggles over the word fart? I can't remember if I found it hilarious, but the line above really haunts me today. The truth is that good families DO. Good families have all manner of "farts", those little bits we don't want the whole world to know. They have arguments, disagreements and full-blown fights. Pretty well every family has the weird aunt, uncle or cousin that they absolutely dread at holiday parties. Good families have bad things happen to them, they have a member or two who they don't necessarily get along with. Good families have mental illness and addiction, too.

I know mine does as sure as I'm sitting here. I've been diagnosed with mental illness. *Looks around* Wow - the ceiling didn't just collapse, and the sky is still up there. Mental illness doesn't make a family "bad" or make a person "crazy", and yet we all avoid discussing it like it's some form of contagion that's going to tear apart our perfect little world. Can we get over that already?

I'm tired of the way my own depression has been swept under the rug. "It's normal to feel down" or "You could never let things go" are the two comments I hear most often. Yes, it is normal to feel down. It is normal and healthy and only to be expected that you experience feelings of sadness, loneliness and anxiety from time to time. It is not normal when you can't cope with them. It is unhealthy to bury them underneath everything else so you can get up and get moving every day. And, letting things go isn't as easy as dropping a hot potato - sometimes, things eat away at you inspite of your best efforts to move on.

We've all seen that person standing in the "Self Help" aisle at Chapters, trying their best to be inconspicuous and feigning surprise at their being there should someone they know comes along and see them reading the inserts. There's nothing wrong with self help. But sometimes, self help doesn't help. I know that first hand. When I was overwhelmed with the negative feelings that came from the breakdown of my relationship, I didn't cope. I got busy. I volunteered and exercised and tried to rebound. My irritable bowel syndrome became so unmanageable that I had to mircromanage my diet. I went back to work and I buried myself in the responsibilies of managing a dining room. I threw myself into making friends, making a healthy lifestyle and putting on a brave face until it all came crumbling down around me, the fascade of a happy person.

I found myself sitting in the doctor's office waiting room, fearful that someone would recognize me. I sat shaking on the inside, tapping my foot and forcing myself to hold back the tears that were threatening to start up again at any moment. After spending 24 hours completely hysterical, I felt like the only thing keeping me from bursting was my skin. I sat in his office feeling out of control but worse than that, I felt embarassed. I'm almost mad at myself for feeling embarassed. I know better. I went to school to work with people who feel out of control. I pride myself on open-mindedness and my desire to help people. But there I was, eyes red and swollen from crying, feeling absolutely crazy. My family doctor walked in and hit the nail on the head within minutes. He's been there - he survived divorce.

"You need someone to talk to. You need to work on your coping skills. You're going to get through this, but it's obvious you're dealing with depression here."

He was right and I felt instantaneous relief - someone understood, finally. Someone realized that I wasn't feeling sorry for myself, I wasn't trying to dwell on the negative. I haven't had the opportunity to meet with my therapist yet, but I've made progress already - I've found better coping skills. This blog itself is a coping mechanism. I've been able to pinpoint both the negative feelings and the cause of them. I love being a mom, but I also felt burdened. I had been tired, sad, angry and resentful because John was free to do as he wished and I was home raising our child. I have felt worthless and undeserving of happiness. I have felt things I don't even understand - and that's a part of my depression. Some days are really great and some days are really not, but I try every day to put on a brave face for Finley and my family.

Mental illness is more than feeling sad. Everyone with depression doesn't sit around crying all day. Everyone who suffers from an anxiety disorder doesn't sit behind drawn curtains biting their nails all day. Mental illness hits all over, regardless of age, wealth, occupation, race or gender. Mental health is important - it's as important as your regular physical or pap smear. You shouldn't feel dirty or ashamed if you feel like you need to reach out to someone, so don't.

Be strong and stay postive.

The First Step

Any time I have ever run into a brick wall an obstacle, however big or small, my entire family always suggested taking things "one step at a time". Being of the overzealous type, I stubbornly figured I could leap over things without consequences. Admittedly, I have come back like a bad dog, tail between my legs and brokenhearted many, many times.

"She has to make her own mistakes," they would say, "Live and learn". Looking back, I feel like shaking myself for continually making the same mistake over and over. I am my own worst enemy most of the time, but I'd like to think my ability to see this counts for something.

A year ago, I walked down the aisle, made promises and vowed vows in front of God, family and friends. Today, I'm sitting alone in my bedroom, separated from my husband and feeling like I can take over the world. The first few weeks were horrible. I lost my appetite, my zest for life and I felt like a ghost of myself. My son was the glue that held me together.

One day, in the midst of feeling sorry for myself, I had decided to clean up the TV room. Plates were piling up, the floor was unswept, coffee mugs were everywhere, toys on the floor. It turned into a clean up of my entire house, one end to the other. In the process of cleaning, I came across a box filled with Wii accessories and games - namely, Zumba. I stood like a bump on a log staring at the game. He had bought it for me. I thought seriously about throwing it out, but decided to put on some tights and a sports bra, and give it a go. I fell in love.

The following week, when I went to the grocery store I stocked up on eggs, fresh vegetables, milk, and tofu. I had fed my broken heart enough crap. It was time to treat my body right. And guess what? It helped me heal.

As I lost weight, I gained confidence and respect for myself. I felt strong, jubilant and alive again. The best part? I could turn on Zumba, blast the volume and just dance. Sometimes my son joined in, sometimes he watched and other times, he ignored me altogether. I fed my body the way I fed my son and my stomach aches lessened. So did my heartaches.

In the midst of our busy lives, it is so easy to put our health and wellness on the backburner to attend to the "important" things, like our careers and our homes. We work towards strong, healthy, caring relationships with our partners, our parents, our children anad our friends - but what about with ourselves?

I loved J very much on our wedding day, and a part of me always will. Were it not for our relationship, inspite of it's many downs and fewer ups, I would not have F. I would not have become the person I am today. While I am wary of saying our marriage a mistake, I am able to say that we were both trying to do the right thing for the wrong reasons. I don't believe we were ever meant to be together, but we tried. Am I sorry we got married? A little, but what I'm really sorry for was forgetting who I am, who I want to be and what I want and need from life.

The first step towards getting yourself to where you want to be does not have to happen from a dark place, like mine did. The first step might seem like the biggest one you will ever take, and it will feel that way, but as you make your baby steps, you'll find them growing as you grow and transform into the person you want to be.

Me, 20 pounds down in April. Now, in September I am down 38 pounds and feeling amazing!

Be strong, stay positive and love yourself.