What the hell is the point in a long life if you live it in misery? And no, I'm not talking about suicide, or people who are just plain melancholy.
They've switched my birth control because I was showing possible warning signs of blood clots, and have a family history of circulatory problems. I have spent the last two weeks bubbling with hormones, and popping tums because my stomach is a sewer. Last night, I protested out loud "I'll do the two months of guinea pigging, but if this keeps up, I'm switching back. I'd rather die from a blood clot than live like this, and I'm not being dramatic!"
I mean it. I am not about to subject myself to nausea, indigestion, and over all moodiness just because my other stuff MIGHT cause a blood clot. I didn't start taking painkillers because I couldn't handle the pain. What I couldn't handle was the nausea, indigestion, and overall moodiness!
I have been an absolute nightmare to live with. I've taken to throwing things, slamming doors, and swearing out loud when I have a temper flare. Then, when the temper dies down, I apologise to the people around me and then go sulk in my room, overwhelmed by the guilt of what I've just done. I've spent two weeks calling myself stupid, idiotic, childish, and even a coward.
I should be able to handle this! But with everything that I'm already dealing with...Add to that the stress of trying to keep up on my cellphone bill, meds, and rent on the pittance that OW provides...Trying to make plans to go and visit my family for two weeks at Christmas...The house being topsy turvy because one of the roommates is moving out...
I've been thoroughly disappointed and disgusted with myself at every turn. Temper tantrums quickly followed by bouts of depression. I actually caught myself seriously contemplating suicide for the first time in my existence. Sure, I've asked myself 'Do you think it's bad enough that you'd end it?' and generally I scoff and laugh at the preposterous idea. But yesterday, while crying my heart out in the shower, I caught myself staring that the razor and applying logic to the idea, listing reasons why it was in fact the right thing to do. I proceeded to cuss a blue streak, call myself a dirty rotten coward, and then finish washing and get out of the shower.
It took me 24 hrs to talk to someone about it. I actually considered calling the Suicide Help Line because I am the type of person who hates to be a burden on the people around me. I figured if I called someone who's job it was to listen to this sort of thing...But I ended up talking to a friend, instead. I had to laugh when I was informed that this was a thing that was actually expected, considering all that I'm going through. I suppose that makes a certain kind of sense. We can't be strong forever.
I want to be clear that I was not, and am not threatening to kill myself. The fact that I was reasoning it out in my head scared the shit out of me. I didn't keep it to myself for those 24 hrs because I didn't want anyone to stop me. I didn't tell anyone because I couldn't bear the thought of adding that sort of burden to someone else's shoulders. I felt, and still feel, a certain amount of guilt for having the thought to begin with. I am not a quitter. Nor am I a coward. I have strong feelings on the topic of suicide, as do some of my friends. I felt embarrassed to have even thought it, never mind to have admitted it out loud, and now, in a public forum.
That bullshit aside, I need to smarten the hell up. I need to stop being so negative. I need to stop lashing out. I need to be a better friend and roommate. I need to go back to being a better person. I have to stop doing the things that trigger that guilt within me, so that I can pull myself up by the bootstraps and out of this mire of depression.
I know that I'm depressed. Have known for quite some time, and had been doing certain things to keep myself stable. Raging hormones have upped the difficulty level by several degrees. But I can do this. I can survive this and anything else my body, my meds, and my doctors throw at me. They say that the proof of the pudding is in the eating. Well despite all of this kerfuffle, I've lost 8 lbs this month and am below 160 lbs for the first time in over 5 years!
I can do this.
I will survive.
I will live a full and happy life.
Friday, 30 November 2012
Monday, 19 November 2012
Mental Health: II
During the last two years of my first relationship, it was a known fact that I was miserable. However, I was also comfortable. I knew what every day would bring. I am not a person who thrives on change. In that time, there were several conversations about where I would go, what I would do. The where, was always to the Hamilton Boy. We'll call him D, for simplicity's sake.
D was my second long term, common law relationship. I had known him through the entire seven years of my previous relationship, having met him through a friend. She in turn, had met him at a Christian Youth Retreat. We became fast friends via the Internet, sending instant messages, emails, the occasional web cam chat, and even letters. I connected with him on a level that I had never connected with anyone, other than family.
We had many things in common. He had younger siblings, he had grown up largely in Small Town, Southern Ontario, he loved to read, and he was a Gamer. D was also an artist, and a computer tech and programmer.
In the two and a half years that we were together, we were equal parts blissfully happy and devastatingly miserable. As has become my pattern, I tried to stick with it, even when it had devolved to misery.
Many of you will be thinking that it was the 'Honeymoon Phase'. If only it were that simple. Unfortunately, the man I had fallen in love with was Bi-Polar, and borderline schizophrenic. And yes, I knew this from the start. Go ahead, yell at the monitor and shake your head at me. I'm sort of used to it by now.
About a year after we got together, we decided he needed to quit his job. His boss had a health problem that was causing him to be harsh, demanding and unreasonable with his staff and D was coming home everyday more and more pissed off. It was beginning to wear on our relationship. I had just started working full time at the Café, and was fully capable of supporting the pair of us on my minimum-wage-plus-tips income. After all, I had spent 4 years running a household on just that which also included insurance and gas for the vehicle. D and I had no such expenses to worry about. If anything, I was in fact ahead of the game in this scenario.
He quit his job, and things were better. He was excited to be focusing on his art and his computer tech and programming, even registering his own business. He even had a couple of road trips to nearby towns for a few days at a time to do technical work. But things weren't going as quickly as he'd have liked. I was still the breadwinner. His male ego just couldn't handle it. Thus he began a majour bout of depression.
My first relationship was strife with very loud, long and drawn out arguments, not because I was the sort not to let things go (in fact, back then I was largely anti confrontational), but because my partner (let's call him A) was the sort that argued as a way to relieve stress. He would literally change his position on whatever we were discussing until our conversation eventually devolved into an argument. He would then push my buttons until I raised my voice. The arguments often wouldn't end until I was crying myself sick in a corner. It was at this point that he would come to his senses and apologise. No matter how many times it happened, I couldn't see to stop before then, and he wouldn't stop until then. Looking back, I honestly think that he was sadistic, and while he may feel some remorse for what it was doing to me, his guilt did not outweigh his need for that rush of power that he got from turning an otherwise strong girl into a simpering puddle of jelly.
Because of what I had gone through with A, I took my anticonfrontationalism to new heights. In his depressed state, D was the sort of person who, when I tried to have a calm, rational discussion about something that I thought was a point of contention between us, he would automatically get defensive and make himself out to be the victim of an attack. The minute he raised his hackles, and his voice, I would drop it. And so all of the little things that come up between a couple could not be dealt with, were simply swept under the emotional carpet. As a result, he grew more and more distant as his own mental health declined, and I just kept going though the motions.
I remember the moment that I realised that it was over. He was walking around in the living room in nothing but a pair of Atari PJ pants. There was something about the way they clung to his frame that always lit a fire within me. I had always had a bit of an over active libido, so as I sat there watching him, and feeling nothing, no stir, no spark, no heat, I knew. I looked up at him, eyes deadpan, and told him so.
He looked crestfallen. It was the first time I had seen any emotion other than irritation on his face in well over a month. He even teared up. He sat down on the couch and we held each other as we talked about it. We should have ended it right there. We should have laid our frayed relationship to rest. But we loved each other so much. We wanted to try to make it work.
He professed that he wanted to fix things. To make it up to me. But he was setting me up. He just wanted to find a way to make it my fault, or at least that's how it seems now. Whether this was his intention or not, is largely besides the point now. The damage was done. For five months, he dragged me through the gutters, blaming me for everything as he became more and more delusional. We would kiss and make up, and he would forget, and go right back to being vexed with me.
One day at the end of April, he got pissy about something, again forgetting that we had made up, and when I tried to actually address the issue, he turned around and drove his fist through the wall behind me.
Now I may be the kind of idiot who will allow long term mental and emotional abuse to the point of brainwashing, but I will not stand for physical abuse. I went from the jelly spined creature that I had become over the years of abuse from A and then D, to the iron willed, empowered woman that my mother had always hoped I would be. He was told in no uncertain terms that this would be the last time I put up with his circular bullshit. The next time that he 'forgot', I was packing his shit and he was going to his mother's.
A couple of weeks later, while he was at his mother's over mother's day weekend to help plant some flowers in the garden, it happened again. He must have known I would end it, then. He avoided my phone calls, my texts and my emails. I wanted to speak to him over the phone to be sure that it sunk in that we were over. Instead, I received a scathing email from him, telling me what a horrible human being I was, and all of the reasons that he was ending it. Most of which were complete fabrications of his delusional state.
Needless to say, I shot off a response thanking him for painting me as the monster and told him he really needed to get his head on straight. Agreed that it was over, and told him I would have his things packed in time for a friend to drop them off to him.
Ending that relationship was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. Leaving A was just a matter of realising that I was no longer in love with him and that I could only grow as a person by leaving him and leaving my comfort zone. But I was still very much in love with D. For the first time in my life, I suffered a truly broken heart.
D was my second long term, common law relationship. I had known him through the entire seven years of my previous relationship, having met him through a friend. She in turn, had met him at a Christian Youth Retreat. We became fast friends via the Internet, sending instant messages, emails, the occasional web cam chat, and even letters. I connected with him on a level that I had never connected with anyone, other than family.
We had many things in common. He had younger siblings, he had grown up largely in Small Town, Southern Ontario, he loved to read, and he was a Gamer. D was also an artist, and a computer tech and programmer.
In the two and a half years that we were together, we were equal parts blissfully happy and devastatingly miserable. As has become my pattern, I tried to stick with it, even when it had devolved to misery.
Many of you will be thinking that it was the 'Honeymoon Phase'. If only it were that simple. Unfortunately, the man I had fallen in love with was Bi-Polar, and borderline schizophrenic. And yes, I knew this from the start. Go ahead, yell at the monitor and shake your head at me. I'm sort of used to it by now.
About a year after we got together, we decided he needed to quit his job. His boss had a health problem that was causing him to be harsh, demanding and unreasonable with his staff and D was coming home everyday more and more pissed off. It was beginning to wear on our relationship. I had just started working full time at the Café, and was fully capable of supporting the pair of us on my minimum-wage-plus-tips income. After all, I had spent 4 years running a household on just that which also included insurance and gas for the vehicle. D and I had no such expenses to worry about. If anything, I was in fact ahead of the game in this scenario.
He quit his job, and things were better. He was excited to be focusing on his art and his computer tech and programming, even registering his own business. He even had a couple of road trips to nearby towns for a few days at a time to do technical work. But things weren't going as quickly as he'd have liked. I was still the breadwinner. His male ego just couldn't handle it. Thus he began a majour bout of depression.
My first relationship was strife with very loud, long and drawn out arguments, not because I was the sort not to let things go (in fact, back then I was largely anti confrontational), but because my partner (let's call him A) was the sort that argued as a way to relieve stress. He would literally change his position on whatever we were discussing until our conversation eventually devolved into an argument. He would then push my buttons until I raised my voice. The arguments often wouldn't end until I was crying myself sick in a corner. It was at this point that he would come to his senses and apologise. No matter how many times it happened, I couldn't see to stop before then, and he wouldn't stop until then. Looking back, I honestly think that he was sadistic, and while he may feel some remorse for what it was doing to me, his guilt did not outweigh his need for that rush of power that he got from turning an otherwise strong girl into a simpering puddle of jelly.
Because of what I had gone through with A, I took my anticonfrontationalism to new heights. In his depressed state, D was the sort of person who, when I tried to have a calm, rational discussion about something that I thought was a point of contention between us, he would automatically get defensive and make himself out to be the victim of an attack. The minute he raised his hackles, and his voice, I would drop it. And so all of the little things that come up between a couple could not be dealt with, were simply swept under the emotional carpet. As a result, he grew more and more distant as his own mental health declined, and I just kept going though the motions.
I remember the moment that I realised that it was over. He was walking around in the living room in nothing but a pair of Atari PJ pants. There was something about the way they clung to his frame that always lit a fire within me. I had always had a bit of an over active libido, so as I sat there watching him, and feeling nothing, no stir, no spark, no heat, I knew. I looked up at him, eyes deadpan, and told him so.
He looked crestfallen. It was the first time I had seen any emotion other than irritation on his face in well over a month. He even teared up. He sat down on the couch and we held each other as we talked about it. We should have ended it right there. We should have laid our frayed relationship to rest. But we loved each other so much. We wanted to try to make it work.
He professed that he wanted to fix things. To make it up to me. But he was setting me up. He just wanted to find a way to make it my fault, or at least that's how it seems now. Whether this was his intention or not, is largely besides the point now. The damage was done. For five months, he dragged me through the gutters, blaming me for everything as he became more and more delusional. We would kiss and make up, and he would forget, and go right back to being vexed with me.
One day at the end of April, he got pissy about something, again forgetting that we had made up, and when I tried to actually address the issue, he turned around and drove his fist through the wall behind me.
Now I may be the kind of idiot who will allow long term mental and emotional abuse to the point of brainwashing, but I will not stand for physical abuse. I went from the jelly spined creature that I had become over the years of abuse from A and then D, to the iron willed, empowered woman that my mother had always hoped I would be. He was told in no uncertain terms that this would be the last time I put up with his circular bullshit. The next time that he 'forgot', I was packing his shit and he was going to his mother's.
A couple of weeks later, while he was at his mother's over mother's day weekend to help plant some flowers in the garden, it happened again. He must have known I would end it, then. He avoided my phone calls, my texts and my emails. I wanted to speak to him over the phone to be sure that it sunk in that we were over. Instead, I received a scathing email from him, telling me what a horrible human being I was, and all of the reasons that he was ending it. Most of which were complete fabrications of his delusional state.
Needless to say, I shot off a response thanking him for painting me as the monster and told him he really needed to get his head on straight. Agreed that it was over, and told him I would have his things packed in time for a friend to drop them off to him.
Ending that relationship was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. Leaving A was just a matter of realising that I was no longer in love with him and that I could only grow as a person by leaving him and leaving my comfort zone. But I was still very much in love with D. For the first time in my life, I suffered a truly broken heart.
Monday, 29 October 2012
Mental Health: I
Something that I've heard repeatedly during this whole thing has been, "You are so strong, I have no idea how you do what you do and still stay sane!" Well, for starters, that's assuming that you consider my baseline mental state to fall within the realm of 'sane'. Many do not.
But in all seriousness, sanity is what you make it. To date, I haven't been dealing, I've been coping. There is a significant difference. The biggest distinction between the two being that the second is largely hiding from the problem, while the first is actually working through it. In my opinion, coping over the long term is not a good thing for one's mental health.
We all have different coping methods. I've cycled through throwing myself into different things, some more destructive than others. There's been work, alcohol, intimacy, Gaming (D&D, MTG, console gaming, LARP, etc.), and most recently, housework.
My employers certainly appreciated me throwing myself into my work. I became the person they could expect to show up early, and not complain about leaving late. The person who was available for on-call, shift swapping, and extra shifts.
Alcohol, I have to be extra careful with. Partly because I have what I refer to as an addictive personality, and partly because the pills that I take magnify the affect of the alcohol. (Before you have a coronary, read the disclaimer in Physical Health: II) Makes me a cheap drunk which, to me, is not a bad thing. *wink*
As for intimacy, well, lets just say that I haven't been in a monogamous relationship since 2010, and leave it at that, shall we?
That leads us to Gaming. Gaming has become my little obsession. There was a time that I was participating in three to five Dungeons & Dragons games a week, doing a Vampire live action role play game once a month, not to mention between-game session stuff via email. And that was before I quit my job...
During the couple of months before my health forced me into the ranks of the unemployed,when at home I would spend my time sleeping, or playing the Xbox 360. My three favourite games were BioShock, Bulletstorm, and Borderlands. These were the kind of point and shoot games that I could play even when I was exhausted from the pain and lack of sleep (This is back when the pain and nightmares meant I was averaging four hours a night of sleep. More on the nightmares later). I played through Bulletstorm, BioShock 2, and the last half of Borderlands in the last two months before I moved to London, leaving the Xbox behind.
I've traded it in for Magic the Gathering (MTG) with my housemates, three of whom are fellow Gamers, and each have several of their own decks. I have one that was built for me that I've tweaked, and three that I've built myself. I'm also back to computer games. Things like Diablo II: Lord of Destruction, Torchlight, and Torchlight II, all of which I play with one of my housemates when he has time, or on my own between housework. Part of this Mystery Disease is not being able to sit for extended periods of time without excruciating pain in my back and shoulders. If I can find a comfortable enough chair, and an outlet for my electric heat wrap, I'm good for an hour or two at a time. After that, I have to get up and stretch, but it's still a really long time for me to be stationary. I prefer to be mobile every half hour, which makes movies at a theatre a killer. I've also dabbled with other console games, as we have a PS2, and a Wii, which, as I understand it, plays any of the Nintendo, disc based games.
Which leads us up to housework. I've mentioned in other posts that I have ADHD as well as OCD. I live with four other people, and am the only one not gainfully employed. This means, in my mind, that there is no good reason that I shouldn't be doing the lion's share of the housework. I am one of those few special (read insane) people who actually enjoy housework and find it relaxing. I am considered by most to be a very industrious person. The problem is that I am accustomed to being able to work all day outside the home, come home and do housework, go be social, and come back for more housework. It has taken me some time, and several physical breakdowns, to find a balance between my mental health and my physical health, as far as housework goes.
On that note, let's talk about good days and bad days.
A bad day means that I am limited to things like putting the dishes away, and sweeping the floors, and even those are a struggle, because I am nearly completely numb in my left side. It means needing my cane if I leave the house, and using the railings and likely the walls, to keep myself upright on the stairs, and being overtly conscious of how many trips up and down I take. I often camp out on the ground floor and don't go up or down stairs until bedtime.
My worst days also include left/right confusion between my brain and my body (meaning to do something with the left hand or foot, and having the right respond instead, and vica verca), the inability to string more than a few words together without stuttering horribly, the occasional loss of a line of thought, and huge holes in my generally ample vocabulary. These are generally days when no one hears from me. I hole up in bed watching movies or in front of my computer playing simple RPG's.
A good day immediately following a bad day feels like a gift from the Gods. Even though my baseline keeps sinking, anything better than a bad day is fine by me! Though it leaves me struggling not to overdo things around the house, or going for walks, or social stuff. I have to remember that though I may feel like Superwoman by comparison to the previous day, overdoing it will land me right back on the couch, if not the hospital (which thus far, I have avoided).
My current struggle: Find a long term solution that resembles dealing rather than simply coping.
But in all seriousness, sanity is what you make it. To date, I haven't been dealing, I've been coping. There is a significant difference. The biggest distinction between the two being that the second is largely hiding from the problem, while the first is actually working through it. In my opinion, coping over the long term is not a good thing for one's mental health.
We all have different coping methods. I've cycled through throwing myself into different things, some more destructive than others. There's been work, alcohol, intimacy, Gaming (D&D, MTG, console gaming, LARP, etc.), and most recently, housework.
My employers certainly appreciated me throwing myself into my work. I became the person they could expect to show up early, and not complain about leaving late. The person who was available for on-call, shift swapping, and extra shifts.
Alcohol, I have to be extra careful with. Partly because I have what I refer to as an addictive personality, and partly because the pills that I take magnify the affect of the alcohol. (Before you have a coronary, read the disclaimer in Physical Health: II) Makes me a cheap drunk which, to me, is not a bad thing. *wink*
As for intimacy, well, lets just say that I haven't been in a monogamous relationship since 2010, and leave it at that, shall we?
That leads us to Gaming. Gaming has become my little obsession. There was a time that I was participating in three to five Dungeons & Dragons games a week, doing a Vampire live action role play game once a month, not to mention between-game session stuff via email. And that was before I quit my job...
During the couple of months before my health forced me into the ranks of the unemployed,when at home I would spend my time sleeping, or playing the Xbox 360. My three favourite games were BioShock, Bulletstorm, and Borderlands. These were the kind of point and shoot games that I could play even when I was exhausted from the pain and lack of sleep (This is back when the pain and nightmares meant I was averaging four hours a night of sleep. More on the nightmares later). I played through Bulletstorm, BioShock 2, and the last half of Borderlands in the last two months before I moved to London, leaving the Xbox behind.
I've traded it in for Magic the Gathering (MTG) with my housemates, three of whom are fellow Gamers, and each have several of their own decks. I have one that was built for me that I've tweaked, and three that I've built myself. I'm also back to computer games. Things like Diablo II: Lord of Destruction, Torchlight, and Torchlight II, all of which I play with one of my housemates when he has time, or on my own between housework. Part of this Mystery Disease is not being able to sit for extended periods of time without excruciating pain in my back and shoulders. If I can find a comfortable enough chair, and an outlet for my electric heat wrap, I'm good for an hour or two at a time. After that, I have to get up and stretch, but it's still a really long time for me to be stationary. I prefer to be mobile every half hour, which makes movies at a theatre a killer. I've also dabbled with other console games, as we have a PS2, and a Wii, which, as I understand it, plays any of the Nintendo, disc based games.
Which leads us up to housework. I've mentioned in other posts that I have ADHD as well as OCD. I live with four other people, and am the only one not gainfully employed. This means, in my mind, that there is no good reason that I shouldn't be doing the lion's share of the housework. I am one of those few special (read insane) people who actually enjoy housework and find it relaxing. I am considered by most to be a very industrious person. The problem is that I am accustomed to being able to work all day outside the home, come home and do housework, go be social, and come back for more housework. It has taken me some time, and several physical breakdowns, to find a balance between my mental health and my physical health, as far as housework goes.
On that note, let's talk about good days and bad days.
A bad day means that I am limited to things like putting the dishes away, and sweeping the floors, and even those are a struggle, because I am nearly completely numb in my left side. It means needing my cane if I leave the house, and using the railings and likely the walls, to keep myself upright on the stairs, and being overtly conscious of how many trips up and down I take. I often camp out on the ground floor and don't go up or down stairs until bedtime.
My worst days also include left/right confusion between my brain and my body (meaning to do something with the left hand or foot, and having the right respond instead, and vica verca), the inability to string more than a few words together without stuttering horribly, the occasional loss of a line of thought, and huge holes in my generally ample vocabulary. These are generally days when no one hears from me. I hole up in bed watching movies or in front of my computer playing simple RPG's.
A good day immediately following a bad day feels like a gift from the Gods. Even though my baseline keeps sinking, anything better than a bad day is fine by me! Though it leaves me struggling not to overdo things around the house, or going for walks, or social stuff. I have to remember that though I may feel like Superwoman by comparison to the previous day, overdoing it will land me right back on the couch, if not the hospital (which thus far, I have avoided).
My current struggle: Find a long term solution that resembles dealing rather than simply coping.
Friday, 19 October 2012
Mythic Weight Loss
NOTE: This started as a comment on a friend's Blog post.
http://boudicabooks.org/2012/09/18/what-is-dieting/
Dieting is one of those things that varies from person to person. Some people's metabolism just works a little differently, some people have underlying health issues that contribute to what they can/should eat. Some people are allergic to vegetables. Okay, so maybe they just eat like they were...
When I was working/living on a hobby farm and participating in Track & Field and going to the gym every Friday night with The Guys, my metabolism was insane. On a weekend, I would start my chores early and then come in and make breakfast. A ten egg omelet with half a tin of brown beans, chunks of cheddar cheese, diced green olives and whatever leftover meat and veggies there were from the night before, accompanied by two slices of thick, home made, whole wheat bread. After which I returned to chores.
Lunch was usually two sandwiches thicker than my hand, with fruits or vegetables, and supper was what you would imagine on a farm; meat and potatoes wit ha side of veggies. All through high school, I was 135 lbs soaking wet, 145 when I actually took my weight training seriously or in the fall when it was time to spend evenings and weekends splitting and stacking cord wood.
Some people gain weight when stressed, no matter what they eat or don't eat. Some people lose weight when stressed, no matter what they eat or don't eat. Some people naturally or purposely have a high fibre diet that helps to make them feel full and pass waste quickly and efficiently.
I tend to lose weight when stressed, because I stop eating, but gain when depressed, because that's all I do. Due to the amount of pain killers I take on a good day, never mind a bad day, Benefibre or a high fibre diet are a necessary evil, lending to my ability to feel full, and therefor not feel the need for seconds, or dessert.
Some people think cutting out all other junk except that 'one thing' is the way to go. For others, it's Fad diets. Some people drink more and eat less. Some people stop eating dessert. Some vie for low carbs, and some for less sugar. Most people do not realise that building muscle mass actually increases your weight, so depending on how their work out is structured, they're right, they won't lose weight. But that's what you get for being obsessed with numbers.
I grew up in a house where junk food was only around on special occasions, and dessert was pretty much the same. Our version of a treat was either one of Mom's good-for-you baked goods, or something we called Moo (see post script). I of course picked up the habit of junk food and dessert when I moved out on my own, but the novelty soon wore off and, these days, I often don't even think of dessert (if you come over for a meal and expect dessert, you might want to bring your own ;) ).
I am still very muscular, despite having to largely adjust my physical exertions. My arms are getting a little too scrawny for my likings, but the stairs in this house ensure that my legs are still tree trunks. Any weight loss that I do that is also accompanied by an exercise plan often leads to very few pounds lost, though I suddenly develop the need to wear a belt with all of my new jeans. I'm aiming for around 145lbs because I know that that is approximately the weight I should be when I've lost the extra chub on my arms, thighs, face and belly that I'd like to see gone. If I get rid of that before hitting that number, so be it. 145 is a guideline, not a requirement.
Here's the part where you're going to want to tell me to get off of my high horse.
The one thing that every diet needs to succeed is will power. Go ask the strongest, most determined people you know how they've lost weight and they'll give you a line that seems so simple that you just want to grab them and shake them.
For me, this was as simple as drinking lots of water, taking a fibre supplement, and changing my habit of sitting down to eat a full meal at meal time because it was the thing to do. I now have a small breakfast when I get up (typically about a third of a cup of cereal with milk and a yogurt cup, or a pouch of instant oatmeal), followed by small snacks through out the day. This changes slightly for 5 days starting on the 23rd day in a 28 day cycle, when my body decides that it wants a full meal, high in iron, and some chocolate, which I typically try to avoid, knowing that its my Kryptonite.
When all else fails, go with routine. Find a way to make dieting/exercising part of your routine.
However, speaking as one of those strong, determined people who has managed to lose weight and keep it off (so far), I can also attest to the fact that sometimes you've got to try a few different things before you find what works for you. I've been struggling with my weight for the last two years. Often, my weight gain was related to a decline in my mental or physical health. Now that I've finally got both of those more or less in hand, Ta da! Started at 175lbs and I'm now down to 161 in 80 days.
Bottom line. Dieting is not a myth, its just a boat load of misconception.
PS: Moo is Jell-O made with milk in place of cold water. Let the hot mixture cool first, or it gives it a gritty texture. But definitely try it! It gives the Jell-O a dessert quality. Though I'm not a fan of the Grape Moo
http://boudicabooks.org/2012/09/18/what-is-dieting/
Dieting is one of those things that varies from person to person. Some people's metabolism just works a little differently, some people have underlying health issues that contribute to what they can/should eat. Some people are allergic to vegetables. Okay, so maybe they just eat like they were...
When I was working/living on a hobby farm and participating in Track & Field and going to the gym every Friday night with The Guys, my metabolism was insane. On a weekend, I would start my chores early and then come in and make breakfast. A ten egg omelet with half a tin of brown beans, chunks of cheddar cheese, diced green olives and whatever leftover meat and veggies there were from the night before, accompanied by two slices of thick, home made, whole wheat bread. After which I returned to chores.
Lunch was usually two sandwiches thicker than my hand, with fruits or vegetables, and supper was what you would imagine on a farm; meat and potatoes wit ha side of veggies. All through high school, I was 135 lbs soaking wet, 145 when I actually took my weight training seriously or in the fall when it was time to spend evenings and weekends splitting and stacking cord wood.
Some people gain weight when stressed, no matter what they eat or don't eat. Some people lose weight when stressed, no matter what they eat or don't eat. Some people naturally or purposely have a high fibre diet that helps to make them feel full and pass waste quickly and efficiently.
I tend to lose weight when stressed, because I stop eating, but gain when depressed, because that's all I do. Due to the amount of pain killers I take on a good day, never mind a bad day, Benefibre or a high fibre diet are a necessary evil, lending to my ability to feel full, and therefor not feel the need for seconds, or dessert.
Some people think cutting out all other junk except that 'one thing' is the way to go. For others, it's Fad diets. Some people drink more and eat less. Some people stop eating dessert. Some vie for low carbs, and some for less sugar. Most people do not realise that building muscle mass actually increases your weight, so depending on how their work out is structured, they're right, they won't lose weight. But that's what you get for being obsessed with numbers.
I grew up in a house where junk food was only around on special occasions, and dessert was pretty much the same. Our version of a treat was either one of Mom's good-for-you baked goods, or something we called Moo (see post script). I of course picked up the habit of junk food and dessert when I moved out on my own, but the novelty soon wore off and, these days, I often don't even think of dessert (if you come over for a meal and expect dessert, you might want to bring your own ;) ).
I am still very muscular, despite having to largely adjust my physical exertions. My arms are getting a little too scrawny for my likings, but the stairs in this house ensure that my legs are still tree trunks. Any weight loss that I do that is also accompanied by an exercise plan often leads to very few pounds lost, though I suddenly develop the need to wear a belt with all of my new jeans. I'm aiming for around 145lbs because I know that that is approximately the weight I should be when I've lost the extra chub on my arms, thighs, face and belly that I'd like to see gone. If I get rid of that before hitting that number, so be it. 145 is a guideline, not a requirement.
Here's the part where you're going to want to tell me to get off of my high horse.
The one thing that every diet needs to succeed is will power. Go ask the strongest, most determined people you know how they've lost weight and they'll give you a line that seems so simple that you just want to grab them and shake them.
For me, this was as simple as drinking lots of water, taking a fibre supplement, and changing my habit of sitting down to eat a full meal at meal time because it was the thing to do. I now have a small breakfast when I get up (typically about a third of a cup of cereal with milk and a yogurt cup, or a pouch of instant oatmeal), followed by small snacks through out the day. This changes slightly for 5 days starting on the 23rd day in a 28 day cycle, when my body decides that it wants a full meal, high in iron, and some chocolate, which I typically try to avoid, knowing that its my Kryptonite.
When all else fails, go with routine. Find a way to make dieting/exercising part of your routine.
However, speaking as one of those strong, determined people who has managed to lose weight and keep it off (so far), I can also attest to the fact that sometimes you've got to try a few different things before you find what works for you. I've been struggling with my weight for the last two years. Often, my weight gain was related to a decline in my mental or physical health. Now that I've finally got both of those more or less in hand, Ta da! Started at 175lbs and I'm now down to 161 in 80 days.
Bottom line. Dieting is not a myth, its just a boat load of misconception.
PS: Moo is Jell-O made with milk in place of cold water. Let the hot mixture cool first, or it gives it a gritty texture. But definitely try it! It gives the Jell-O a dessert quality. Though I'm not a fan of the Grape Moo
Wednesday, 17 October 2012
The Pursuit of Happiness
NOTE: This began as a comment on a friend's Blog post.
http://boudicabooks.org/2012/10/16/the-pursuit-of-happiness/
Happiness of self Vs. Happiness of Family, eh? Alright *rolls up sleeves*
I had spent the ages of 18-24 trying to make my Family (parents, siblings, spouse, inlaws) happy. It took two Common Law marriages and subsequent breakups and breakdowns for me to finally stop putting someone else's, anyone else's happiness above my own. It took all of that to finally learn to be just a tiny bit self serving. Which, by the way, is a very healthy thing to be.
I have always been the type of person to be able to seek joy in the small things. Like a good book, my favourite movie, a comfy sweater, Mom's best recipes, or simply a piece of music (I'm currently listening to a play list entitled 'Celtic Christmas' despite it being October) however, it took a lot of effort to figure out how to make myself truly happy. For me, this was surrounding myself with friends who think I'm crazy but support me every step of the way, while never afraid to tell me when I'm being ridiculous. It was finding a job that I enjoyed, excelled in and through which I could help others. It was finding things to do in my off time that were rewarding and fulfilling, and avoiding ever having the feeling of just 'putting in time', be that at work, or at play.
Faced with the reality of my declining health (See my posts on Physical Health), I have been confronted with the challenge of finding other ways of being helpful, useful and productive. I have struggled with the balance of putting my own needs, mentally, emotionally, and physically, above the 'demands' of those around me.
I've always had a pretty good grip on reality and the concept of mortality, but watching my uncle suffer through stage four lymphoma has certainly brought into perspective the fact that each moment is precious and that we should not put our happiness off until tomorrow. Granted that there are always things that require patience, but instant gratification has also become a selfish trend in our society.
Now to answer Victoria's question about personal happiness vs. happiness of the family unit.
You are part, if not half, of the Family Unit. If you're not happy, the Family is not happy. You smile and nod and go through the motions, but meanwhile, there is an undercurrent of unsatisfaction and frustration. And we all know what the inevitable end of that is. It may not be the destruction of a family, but the blow ups that occur when the scale suddenly tips too far to the side of frustration are cataclysmic. It can sometimes takes days, weeks, even months for the ripples to fade.
I'd like to say that we are all guilty of putting ourselves on the back burner at one time or another but I think 'we' in this case, is probably only a very specific category of people. That's a topic for another day.
Bottom line. You can't make anyone else truly happy if you're not happy yourself. Unhappiness is just as contagious as Happiness. Some people just have a better buffer against the scowls they pass on the street. Just as almost no one can resist a smile when confronted with one. So smile bright when you mean it, and learn to admit that you simply aren't happy instead of taking up the 'smile and nod' habit. You'll be better for it in the long run.
http://boudicabooks.org/2012/10/16/the-pursuit-of-happiness/
Happiness of self Vs. Happiness of Family, eh? Alright *rolls up sleeves*
I had spent the ages of 18-24 trying to make my Family (parents, siblings, spouse, inlaws) happy. It took two Common Law marriages and subsequent breakups and breakdowns for me to finally stop putting someone else's, anyone else's happiness above my own. It took all of that to finally learn to be just a tiny bit self serving. Which, by the way, is a very healthy thing to be.
I have always been the type of person to be able to seek joy in the small things. Like a good book, my favourite movie, a comfy sweater, Mom's best recipes, or simply a piece of music (I'm currently listening to a play list entitled 'Celtic Christmas' despite it being October) however, it took a lot of effort to figure out how to make myself truly happy. For me, this was surrounding myself with friends who think I'm crazy but support me every step of the way, while never afraid to tell me when I'm being ridiculous. It was finding a job that I enjoyed, excelled in and through which I could help others. It was finding things to do in my off time that were rewarding and fulfilling, and avoiding ever having the feeling of just 'putting in time', be that at work, or at play.
Faced with the reality of my declining health (See my posts on Physical Health), I have been confronted with the challenge of finding other ways of being helpful, useful and productive. I have struggled with the balance of putting my own needs, mentally, emotionally, and physically, above the 'demands' of those around me.
I've always had a pretty good grip on reality and the concept of mortality, but watching my uncle suffer through stage four lymphoma has certainly brought into perspective the fact that each moment is precious and that we should not put our happiness off until tomorrow. Granted that there are always things that require patience, but instant gratification has also become a selfish trend in our society.
Now to answer Victoria's question about personal happiness vs. happiness of the family unit.
You are part, if not half, of the Family Unit. If you're not happy, the Family is not happy. You smile and nod and go through the motions, but meanwhile, there is an undercurrent of unsatisfaction and frustration. And we all know what the inevitable end of that is. It may not be the destruction of a family, but the blow ups that occur when the scale suddenly tips too far to the side of frustration are cataclysmic. It can sometimes takes days, weeks, even months for the ripples to fade.
I'd like to say that we are all guilty of putting ourselves on the back burner at one time or another but I think 'we' in this case, is probably only a very specific category of people. That's a topic for another day.
Bottom line. You can't make anyone else truly happy if you're not happy yourself. Unhappiness is just as contagious as Happiness. Some people just have a better buffer against the scowls they pass on the street. Just as almost no one can resist a smile when confronted with one. So smile bright when you mean it, and learn to admit that you simply aren't happy instead of taking up the 'smile and nod' habit. You'll be better for it in the long run.
Friday, 14 September 2012
Physical Health: II
Let me begin by saying that my current Family Doctor is the second awesomest Doctor that I have ever had the pleasure of being the patient of. He treats me like a person, not a number, and asks me questions and gives me options and detailed explanations. He even takes my input and researches it to get a better idea of what information I've been looking at. Two thumb's WAY up! For the sake of clarity, let's call him Dr. R.
So Dr. R. listened to my history and my hesitant request for a painkiller stronger than over the counter, with a specific request to start with what I called 'baby pills', and nodded along as he typed up some notes and reached for his 'scrip pad. He gave me a small prescription for two different things. One a pain killer (tramadol), the other an anti inflammatory (naproxen). He gave a strict regimen of how to take it for the first little while, just to get a handle on the pain. Two weeks later I had a follow up after an x-ray. The results of which, low and behold, showed no evidence of the DDD previously diagnosed by the doctor (see previous entry). Not unheard of, but certainly unusual. An MRI was the next logical step, and so that was booked, and my pain killer regimen varied slightly. Now he wanted me to only take them as needed, but before the nausea set in, and to still supplement with my over the counter choices, just being careful not to mix the naproxen with other anti inflammatories.
At work, I was a new person. My direct supervisor noticed the change immediately with the new medication. She said the change in my face alone was remarkable. Weeks went by, and I was able to cope with the pain by rotating my new pills, supplementing them with a stiff drink once at home.
Now hold up! Yes, I get that the common perception is to never mix alcohol and pills. I am not advocating that anyone or everyone do this. However, the particular combination of my pills and alcohol was conferred with my doctor. He brought to my attention the risks, which are intensifying the affects, including side affect, of the pills and alcohol. Fine. So one drink is like three. I'm no lightweight, I can handle that. And I'm apt to be groggy. Fine, I only drink at home, or when very well supervised. No going out on the town with the guys. Ten Four. And yes, I'm aware of the possibilities of liver damage. What do you think all of these pain killers are doing in that department? If I have a choice between one pill and one shot or four pills or four shots, I'm going to choose the former. Thank you for your concern, now can we move on? Great.
So a few weeks go by, and the MRI results come back. Still no sign of DDD, nor of anything else significant, for that matter. And now we're back at square one...Where do we go from here? We wait. Until the symptoms change or worsen, we've got nothing to go with. Alright. I'm not exactly happy, but I can accept that. The pills are working, and therefore, so am I, so I'm not going crazy quite yet.
Couple of months down the road and the 'baby painkillers' aren't working as well. I'm back in the same boat of missing work due to the pain. Add to that, the beginnings of neurological symptoms such as confusion, short term memory loss, loss of sensation in left side of face, hand, arm and leg. Oh, and blackouts, lets not forget the blackouts. And all of this comes days after I've applied for a promotion. Go figure.
So I haul myself back down to Dr. R's office. He listens to my worsening symptoms with a growing concern. The simple fact that I am so young and experiencing such sudden and aggressive onset of neurological symptoms has him at a loss, but definitely concerned. He gives me a prescription for Lyrica to add to my daily regimen of pills. He explained the drug as a pain modifier. It's supposed to change how my body interprets the pain. I can still feel things like heat and cold and sharp, so I'm not likely to accidentally injure myself, but the radiating pain in my back is dulled to a background murmur.
At this point I am taking four vitamin D, a vitamin B12, a multivitamin, and one Lyrica first thing in the morning. Another Lyica later in the day, and , as needed, up to three half tablets of Tramadol, up to two Naproxen, and up to three robax platinum. How's that for a cocktail?
The Lyica comes in many dose sizes. I am currently on the second lowest possible dose. It's not likely that my body will grow a tolerance for the drug, so we should only need to increase the dose if my pain levels rise, which, is likely, considering the trend. And I'm not a fan of the idea of narcotic pain killers, so I'm more than happy to just let the Lyrica do it's thing, for now. And it has. It's been a Godsend. The Lyrica allowed me to go back to work again, this time for a few more months. I felt energised and ready to take on the world. I've given up the idea of a promotion, but I have volunteered for the closing shift, with a special note from Dr. R that limits my hours to 2 p.m. to 9:30 p.m. Being an experienced senior employee, this left me as essentially the after hours acting management. There was always at least one more manager available, and usually two, but I did some of the leg work while they were able to get to paperwork that had piled up on their desks all day. It was the perfect balance for me. I got to do all the fun stuff that my promotion would have involved, without the added headache.
But eventually, even the Lyrica wasn't quite enough. It's unclear if some of my symptoms are caused/magnified by the Lyrica, as they were already there before I started taking the pills, but the neurological stuff finally got bad enough that I couldn't be at work. I was having a hard time remembering things, I had to default back to little tricks that I'd used while still in training, and had a stack of scribbled notes surrounding my workstation. I got to the point where I could no longer answer a question from another agent while still working on my own assignment (something that I had had no issues with, prior), and sometimes, to the point of having to put my customer on hold just to gather my thoughts and remember how to use the computer systems and where to find the solutions to the problems they were experiencing. The best way that I can describe it is that if felt like I was slowly going senile.
But I'll leave those types of details for the section on Mental Health.
So I typed up my letter of resignation, and headed to my Boss' office after a chat with my Team Leader. My TL was sympathetic. She knew how much I loved my job and what it meant for me mentally and physically to be quitting. My Boss was at a loss. It just so happened that we were friends outside of work as well, so he knew the struggle I'd been going through. He joked around, telling me that he could only accept it if it were written in three languages. I smiled and warned him that at least one of them would be Klingon. When I finally left his office, I was nearly in tears. Giving four weeks notice for a job that I loved, was one of the hardest things I've ever done.
And as it would happen, I didn't even make the four weeks. Two weeks later, the symptoms had gotten so bad that I had to quit on the spot. I spent a week packing and sitting on the couch watching TV and playing video games, before moving to London. I was moving to a bigger home with friends that would be able to play nurse to me during my rough periods. Same rent, and I already had a network of friends there, so all in all, it was a good move.
So Dr. R. listened to my history and my hesitant request for a painkiller stronger than over the counter, with a specific request to start with what I called 'baby pills', and nodded along as he typed up some notes and reached for his 'scrip pad. He gave me a small prescription for two different things. One a pain killer (tramadol), the other an anti inflammatory (naproxen). He gave a strict regimen of how to take it for the first little while, just to get a handle on the pain. Two weeks later I had a follow up after an x-ray. The results of which, low and behold, showed no evidence of the DDD previously diagnosed by the doctor (see previous entry). Not unheard of, but certainly unusual. An MRI was the next logical step, and so that was booked, and my pain killer regimen varied slightly. Now he wanted me to only take them as needed, but before the nausea set in, and to still supplement with my over the counter choices, just being careful not to mix the naproxen with other anti inflammatories.
At work, I was a new person. My direct supervisor noticed the change immediately with the new medication. She said the change in my face alone was remarkable. Weeks went by, and I was able to cope with the pain by rotating my new pills, supplementing them with a stiff drink once at home.
Now hold up! Yes, I get that the common perception is to never mix alcohol and pills. I am not advocating that anyone or everyone do this. However, the particular combination of my pills and alcohol was conferred with my doctor. He brought to my attention the risks, which are intensifying the affects, including side affect, of the pills and alcohol. Fine. So one drink is like three. I'm no lightweight, I can handle that. And I'm apt to be groggy. Fine, I only drink at home, or when very well supervised. No going out on the town with the guys. Ten Four. And yes, I'm aware of the possibilities of liver damage. What do you think all of these pain killers are doing in that department? If I have a choice between one pill and one shot or four pills or four shots, I'm going to choose the former. Thank you for your concern, now can we move on? Great.
So a few weeks go by, and the MRI results come back. Still no sign of DDD, nor of anything else significant, for that matter. And now we're back at square one...Where do we go from here? We wait. Until the symptoms change or worsen, we've got nothing to go with. Alright. I'm not exactly happy, but I can accept that. The pills are working, and therefore, so am I, so I'm not going crazy quite yet.
Couple of months down the road and the 'baby painkillers' aren't working as well. I'm back in the same boat of missing work due to the pain. Add to that, the beginnings of neurological symptoms such as confusion, short term memory loss, loss of sensation in left side of face, hand, arm and leg. Oh, and blackouts, lets not forget the blackouts. And all of this comes days after I've applied for a promotion. Go figure.
So I haul myself back down to Dr. R's office. He listens to my worsening symptoms with a growing concern. The simple fact that I am so young and experiencing such sudden and aggressive onset of neurological symptoms has him at a loss, but definitely concerned. He gives me a prescription for Lyrica to add to my daily regimen of pills. He explained the drug as a pain modifier. It's supposed to change how my body interprets the pain. I can still feel things like heat and cold and sharp, so I'm not likely to accidentally injure myself, but the radiating pain in my back is dulled to a background murmur.
At this point I am taking four vitamin D, a vitamin B12, a multivitamin, and one Lyrica first thing in the morning. Another Lyica later in the day, and , as needed, up to three half tablets of Tramadol, up to two Naproxen, and up to three robax platinum. How's that for a cocktail?
The Lyica comes in many dose sizes. I am currently on the second lowest possible dose. It's not likely that my body will grow a tolerance for the drug, so we should only need to increase the dose if my pain levels rise, which, is likely, considering the trend. And I'm not a fan of the idea of narcotic pain killers, so I'm more than happy to just let the Lyrica do it's thing, for now. And it has. It's been a Godsend. The Lyrica allowed me to go back to work again, this time for a few more months. I felt energised and ready to take on the world. I've given up the idea of a promotion, but I have volunteered for the closing shift, with a special note from Dr. R that limits my hours to 2 p.m. to 9:30 p.m. Being an experienced senior employee, this left me as essentially the after hours acting management. There was always at least one more manager available, and usually two, but I did some of the leg work while they were able to get to paperwork that had piled up on their desks all day. It was the perfect balance for me. I got to do all the fun stuff that my promotion would have involved, without the added headache.
But eventually, even the Lyrica wasn't quite enough. It's unclear if some of my symptoms are caused/magnified by the Lyrica, as they were already there before I started taking the pills, but the neurological stuff finally got bad enough that I couldn't be at work. I was having a hard time remembering things, I had to default back to little tricks that I'd used while still in training, and had a stack of scribbled notes surrounding my workstation. I got to the point where I could no longer answer a question from another agent while still working on my own assignment (something that I had had no issues with, prior), and sometimes, to the point of having to put my customer on hold just to gather my thoughts and remember how to use the computer systems and where to find the solutions to the problems they were experiencing. The best way that I can describe it is that if felt like I was slowly going senile.
But I'll leave those types of details for the section on Mental Health.
So I typed up my letter of resignation, and headed to my Boss' office after a chat with my Team Leader. My TL was sympathetic. She knew how much I loved my job and what it meant for me mentally and physically to be quitting. My Boss was at a loss. It just so happened that we were friends outside of work as well, so he knew the struggle I'd been going through. He joked around, telling me that he could only accept it if it were written in three languages. I smiled and warned him that at least one of them would be Klingon. When I finally left his office, I was nearly in tears. Giving four weeks notice for a job that I loved, was one of the hardest things I've ever done.
And as it would happen, I didn't even make the four weeks. Two weeks later, the symptoms had gotten so bad that I had to quit on the spot. I spent a week packing and sitting on the couch watching TV and playing video games, before moving to London. I was moving to a bigger home with friends that would be able to play nurse to me during my rough periods. Same rent, and I already had a network of friends there, so all in all, it was a good move.
Sunday, 2 September 2012
Spiritual Health: I
Have you ever been hungry to the point where you feel like you're wasting away but nothing seems appetising? Nothing seems like it could possibly fill the void?
I've spent the better part of my adult life feeling something like that.
My parents were never what you would call religious. My Dad ruled the home with an iron fist and filled it with books and learning, Mom guided us through our emotional ups and downs and taught us the fundamentals of how to live independent lives, and they both taught us to respect the world around us. The closest thing to Christ we had in our home was the birch bark Nativity scene that the neighbours gave us one year shortly after we moved North.
I had an aunt and uncle that were catholic, and they used to take me to church, when I was just wee, and to my uncle's despair, I would sing along with the hymns at the top of my lungs. I don't remember this, but it's one of my favourite stories. Love you, Uncle G. *innocent grin*
Later, I had friends who attended church. A difficult thing to avoid in Small Town, Northern Ontario. I mostly remember the singing. It wasn't until I was in high school that I started attending church on a somewhat regular basis. I spent most weekends at my best friend's house and her family attended church every Sunday. Theirs was a branch of the Good Shepherd Church, as, it happens, was the one other friend with whom I attended church around age 11.
Good Shepherd was a good place for me to get my feet wet with the whole God/Christ thing. Unfortunately, I stopped attending after a particularly poor move on the part of the pastor. He offended a lot of people that day, and I was simply too young to forgive him and give him a second chance. I never went back.
My first boyfriend, later fiancé, was a Jehovah's Witness. Well, his parents were, anyway. He and I used to have some interesting conversations about the Bible. And I'd even have similar conversations with his parents from time to time.
It's funny, but it wasn't until I walked away from a 7 year relationship and hit the bottom of my emotional well that I actively sought the Church. I was working at a small café in Middle of Nowhere, Southern Ontario, and a group of ladies started coming in for early tea before the lunch crowd trickled in. On their third visit, they finally approached me with The Good Word. Turns out that they, too, were JW's...
Now, I should mention, here, that I have a very biased opinion of JW's. In my eyes, the embody everything that is wrong with Christianity. I'm not saying this to start a debate, I just think it's important in order to understand the progress of my Walk. Anyway, back to my story...
Something made me actually listen to what they had to say instead of just politely declining. And the next thing I knew, I was agreeing to a Bible study every morning before the café got busy. At a time when I had just walked away from my life, my home, and was even temporarily estranged from my family, this was exactly what I needed. Between those ladies and their Bible Study, my new boyfriends, and the wonderful woman for whom I was working, I managed to find my feet again, to reach out and regain my life, find new friends and a new support system, and even find the patience to wait out the storm until I could go back to the arms and lives of my family.
I've spent the better part of my adult life feeling something like that.
My parents were never what you would call religious. My Dad ruled the home with an iron fist and filled it with books and learning, Mom guided us through our emotional ups and downs and taught us the fundamentals of how to live independent lives, and they both taught us to respect the world around us. The closest thing to Christ we had in our home was the birch bark Nativity scene that the neighbours gave us one year shortly after we moved North.
I had an aunt and uncle that were catholic, and they used to take me to church, when I was just wee, and to my uncle's despair, I would sing along with the hymns at the top of my lungs. I don't remember this, but it's one of my favourite stories. Love you, Uncle G. *innocent grin*
Later, I had friends who attended church. A difficult thing to avoid in Small Town, Northern Ontario. I mostly remember the singing. It wasn't until I was in high school that I started attending church on a somewhat regular basis. I spent most weekends at my best friend's house and her family attended church every Sunday. Theirs was a branch of the Good Shepherd Church, as, it happens, was the one other friend with whom I attended church around age 11.
Good Shepherd was a good place for me to get my feet wet with the whole God/Christ thing. Unfortunately, I stopped attending after a particularly poor move on the part of the pastor. He offended a lot of people that day, and I was simply too young to forgive him and give him a second chance. I never went back.
My first boyfriend, later fiancé, was a Jehovah's Witness. Well, his parents were, anyway. He and I used to have some interesting conversations about the Bible. And I'd even have similar conversations with his parents from time to time.
It's funny, but it wasn't until I walked away from a 7 year relationship and hit the bottom of my emotional well that I actively sought the Church. I was working at a small café in Middle of Nowhere, Southern Ontario, and a group of ladies started coming in for early tea before the lunch crowd trickled in. On their third visit, they finally approached me with The Good Word. Turns out that they, too, were JW's...
Now, I should mention, here, that I have a very biased opinion of JW's. In my eyes, the embody everything that is wrong with Christianity. I'm not saying this to start a debate, I just think it's important in order to understand the progress of my Walk. Anyway, back to my story...
Something made me actually listen to what they had to say instead of just politely declining. And the next thing I knew, I was agreeing to a Bible study every morning before the café got busy. At a time when I had just walked away from my life, my home, and was even temporarily estranged from my family, this was exactly what I needed. Between those ladies and their Bible Study, my new boyfriends, and the wonderful woman for whom I was working, I managed to find my feet again, to reach out and regain my life, find new friends and a new support system, and even find the patience to wait out the storm until I could go back to the arms and lives of my family.
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