Festering

Whales outside my daughter's house. To give us all perspective. They arrive each June without fail, following the fish. All the way from South America. Sanity saving.

I am a political junkie. There, I've said. I think that if I don't monitor the news, terrible things will happen and catch me unaware - as if terrible things don't happen every single day and my awareness is not helping the situation in any way, shape or form.

I do other things, of course. But monitoring the news and posting and reading on Bluesky is not helping me. Or others. I need to pull away, skip headlines and hope for the best. I tell myself I'm pretty safe out on this remote rock on the Atlantic Ocean and it's not about me anyway, it's about the next generations following. We will survive these harrowing times. Or we won't. And there's very little anyone can do. The No Kings march in the USA was a prime lesson or how ineffective even massive marches in multiple cities and towns can be. they change absolutely nothing.

And with Carney caving to the Trump pressure and this appalling Big Awful Bill trying to get passed in the US government, things are going sideways on their axis with all of us helpless. 

Meanwhile climate change has us by the throat now on our way to extinction so does politics really matter?

I have lots of lovely items on the agenda, activities I could better enhance my outlook with. Some editing, some writing, some knitting, some social engagement.

I need to stop the other stuff eating me alive.

"Stay where my hands are" is where I need to be. Especially now.

Confession over and out - progress will be reported honestly.

Privilege

We take so much for granted don't we? At least I do. But now and again, more often than not, I become aware of how privileged I am. How good my life is. How I have opportunities to re-invent myself. How many lives I've lived. Opportunities and chances taken. Friendships solidified. Good health rescued.

I've visited my young friend twice now. She's still sober but needed help with other issues. So she went off for 28 days to learn about self-esteem and setting boundaries, and acceptance of herself.

And I get to see her companions in the treatment centre. All ages. All conditions, all stages of recovery. And my heart swells with love for them and for her. And I hope with all my heart that life will improve for them. That they will embrace this opportunity, this brand new life force and hold it tight so they don't drown.

And then feel privileged in turn. As I do, for being reborn as it were.

We go out for dinner, my wee friend and I. And she is full of hope and plans and nearly 4 months sober. I haul her back into the moment and talk expectations and ask her again, as I do every time I see her: "What's the most important thing in your life?" And her answer is uncertainty and contingent on others.

And I think: one of these days....

Rattled

(My dark side loves this picture, that is all)

It was a friend who pointed out to me that my fall had more serious effects than I was acknowledging and she reminded me to be more gentle and not to attempt so much.

I've always been wary of being one of the medical broadcast people, you know the ones, you meet them and you get chapter and verse of every single doctor visit, ache, pain, diagnosis, prognosis for the last 2 years. I'm not talking serious stuff here, just the ongoing physical setbacks in everyone's life. It's the ad nauseum reports I'm talking.

So I've kept shtum. But, yeah there have been skeletal challenges. So yeah, I am respecting my newfound - and hopefully temporary - limitations a wee bit more.

Which got me to thinking:

“I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”
― Maya Angelou

And I expect the feelings can be marvellous or downright awful when you think about it.

I try not to revisit a deep, hurtful family shunning. And clichés don't help: you know the ones "move beyond it," "their loss," blah-blah. Fine and dandy until it happens to you. The pain is always throbbing away in the background.

I focus on lovely stuff right now:

The unexpected success of a writers' workshop I'm conducting.
The thoughtful link a dear blog friend provided for a free publishing critique which had a cap of 1000 participants. I just made it under the wire.
A dinner invitation for tomorrow.
Today - a day I've put aside just for me to do with what I will. Finish the knitting project - photo soon - finalize Session 2 of the workshop, some baking, making yogurt, and staring off into space for as long as I want.

The Tribe

Sunset at Holyrood Pond - Newfoundland.

Once upon a time I decided to do something about my drinking, known as "The Failing" where I come from. The Failing was an exclusive classification given to drunken old priests in large stone mansions with a doddery old housekeeper cleaning up after them. Or a gawd-luv-'im bank manager soaking his braincells to mush every night in the pub while his wife and childer hid behind the curtains, starving and waiting for another smashup of the remaining sticks of furniture. Status was everything when it came to categorizing these swanky alcoholics.

A drunken woman wouldn't be spoken about in the same breath. She'd deserve a fresh gulp of air and a brand new paragraph full of words like "a drunken slut", or "she should cop herself on" or "her poor suffering husband should leave that terrible wan, the church would give him an annulment for sure, they'd understand."

The old double standard, still rampant to this day I'm sorry to say, especially out on this Rock where women die in droves from untreated alcoholism, too ashamed to make themselves visible in recovery houses or detox centres. Small island, endless gossip syndrome.

I hang around recovered alcoholics. They're my tribe since June 1986.

I've learned a lot about the disease. Yes, much of it is hereditary, some of it can be environmental. You get the old nature vs nurture argument. But the debating society can continue without me. I yam who(m)I yam. Whether it was because of grandparents or aunties having it, I really can't be arsed. I did once. But it's just a distraction from the recovery. The drinking is merely a symptom for all the emotional shyte underneath, festering, needing a regular airing. With those who understand completely.

All I know is if I walk into a function/party/wedding/funeral and one or two or three of my tribe are there we will seek each other out with an ESP that would astonish you and immediately zero in for an often silent hug before we move on.

Why? You might ask.

Because we live in spite of.

When so very many died because of.

My tribe.

My life.

Another One

I don't personally know these famous people who choose to die by their own hands. Alone. No goodbyes. Unable to go on. Unable to suffer another hour in addiction or depression or hopelessness or all three or even more.

Feeling their lives are worthless, placing no value on themselves or their gifts. Feeling their pain is unheard, their connection to others severed, strained, vanished.

Seeing no other way out. None.

Thinking everyone and everything shallow and hopeless, their lives one big sham. One never-ending pretence of laughing on the outside and dying inside. Wanting it over. Finished.

Nothing does the "trick": Expensive clinics or the love of a spouse or lover or child. Or grandchild. Or a parent, a sibling, a best friend.

This death. This death. I understand. I know how he felt.

And the extraordinary thing, the most extraordinary thing today, when the news was released: Two of my dearest family members in far flung countries reached out in a tight little circle to me to write communally about this. It was a group hug of the finest love. The awareness of each other and our common familial struggle with those demons of Robin Williams. And Philip Seymour Hoffman and so many others.

We three have been there. Their pain is our intimate.

And we can never, ever be complacent in our recovery.

RIP Sweet Robin.

Thanks for the laughs and the genius of your mind.

Food, Unglorious Food Part 4 - FINAL

Until I finally surrendered to the fact I was a food addict, there was no way out. I had struggled far too long, hoping at the end of each diet that I would then be normal. I could then get control of this never ending hunger and be able to mete out my treats, become a salad lover and run 5 miles a day. A magical new person on the outside.

I forgot or chose not to think about the inner me. The one who needed to change. I had been far too busy in changing the outer me, every single time.
Remind me. What was the definition of insanity again?

And I also knew I could not do it alone. Oh yes, everything was great for a while, charts on the wall marking the progress, calories eaten calories expended, measurements of right thigh, etc. Numbers. Meaningless numbers. That always brought me back, eventually, to the same person who needed to embark yet again, on the latest diet. What on earth would be a permanent way?

I had to let go of all the numbers. I was not a weight on a scale, or a dress size. I had a wardrobe of clothes that went from size 9 all the way to 24. Every morning I opened that closet and was reminded of what a failure I was. So everything that didn't fit me got thrown out and donated. Eight bags. I wept, but I threw. I was left with only clothes that fitted. And the most important thing of all. Underwear that fitted.

An aside

I've conducted self-esteem workshops on weekends with women and always ask the question, "Who's wearing lovely well-fitting underwear?". Inevitably, the answer is 3 or 4 out of 10. Only 35% of women honour themselves with nice underwear. Think about it!

I also had to recognise that the weight was only a symptom of underlying emotional issues. And believe it. And work on it.

I also had to really imagine how a person of my height would eat and behave, consistently if she was within the correct range of weight for her height. How would she eat, what would she eat, what kind of exercise would she partake in?

I then had to define a method of eating which would work for me. What particular foods seemed to trigger me? I was surprised when I wrote the trigger foods down:
Any kind of soft drink whether diet or not, cookies, cake, icecream, pastries, candies, popcorn.

I recognised that, for me, I could never use food as a reward, I could never take even a bite or sip of any of the above substances as I never knew what kind of binge would be set off. I had to be clear about my food intake. Weighing and measuring was not for me. But I learned from what others did. They had 3 moderate meals a day, no seconds, no snacks, and the meal had to fit on one plate, no piling.

I wanted to be relaxed around food and to do this I had to have clear boundaries. Breaking those boundaries would set me off again. I had to make exercise part of every day. I had to go to bed on time and get up on time. I knew I was not a gym person, though Maude knows, I tried. Walking or jogging does it for me. Gentle. I turned the old Nike ad on its head and said my motto is "Doing it. Just".

I needed to monitor my emotions meticulously as building up any kind of anger or resentment resulted in trying to stuff those feelings down. I needed to talk to others who understood, who were travelling the same path as I was. And I found them.
And the compulsion was lifted. And the food is peaceful now, way in the background of my life. Beyond anything I had ever hoped for.

I wear the world like a loose garment. I don't weigh anything including myself. I don't measure my journey in tape measures or scales or calorie counters. And I am living my dreams. Really and truly.

And if you're interested in more specifics on what I have done to bring me to this space and having this magical freedom from the food that enslaved me:
You can email me directly at: wisewebwomanathotmaildotcom and I will gladly answer any questions.