the battle

I don't know where this became programmed into my head, but it did.

I'm not "full" until I'm sick...and then take about another 4 bites.

I've been better about not doing this, about being aware of my body, but so much for the last...I'm not even sure how long. Definitely since Phoenix, maybe longer. I became AWARE of it again tonight. I was scrounging around in the kitchen like a little mouse, searching for "what else" I could eat after dinner. And for some reason I actually paused and checked in with my body. My stomach was full. Very full. But I still wanted to eat. I argued with myself for a moment about what would be ok to eat, and the part that was aware that I didn't need, or want anything else finally won out. A small victory, but a victory none the less.

There will be many more battles. I know, because this is a battle I've fought many times. And I thought I had won the war. But somewhere/sometime, complacency stepped back in, and I "checked-out" when it came to putting things into my belly. So the battle begins anew, and I know how insidious the enemy is. Time to charge on.

Today was a good day...

Today was a good day.

Not sure what shifted, but who cares. I don't feel...insane. I've laughed today, I've had fun with friends, and I really didn't have any anxiety. The latter betting f'ing amazing.

I did fall off the wheat-wagon at a St. Patrick's Day party, and although I am sick, I'm not going to kick myself, and guilt myself to death, or get caught up in that all-or-none thinking that "well, I already screwed up, so whats the point? I'll just put both feet in the trough." It really is about living a clean-eating lifestyle. I can have a little bit of crap here and there and not think of it as "failure" any more than I would think of spilling a cup of coffee as failure. I mean really...if i spilled a cup of coffee, I wouldn't then spend the next 3 months intentionally spilling coffee to prove...what? how screwed up I am? How clumsy I am? What a failure I am? 

Nah, I had a brownie, I had a piece of bread. No big deal. Yeah, it made me sick, but the truth is; it was damn nice to not spend my time at the party going "Ugh, I can't eat anything here, woe is me." 

And another thing. It's really nice to go to an alcohol laden event and have people respect that I don't drink, and be supportive of the fact that I don't drink. AND it's nice to be at a primarily straight event and not have to worry about getting looks because I'm holding hands with my wife. Man, that is such an amazing thing. ABQ is pretty dang progressive, but there are still places where for our safety I have to be careful with personal space with my wife, so it is a huge relief to be able to just be, to let the defenses down.

Yeah, today was a good day.

Gratitude and Fear

I heard somewhere that "Gratitude and Fear cannot exist at the same time." Whether it is some magical phenomenon, or simply a way of shutting down a hyper-active amigdala, I don't know. But it seems to work when I can remember.

So here are some things I am grateful for in no particular order.
1. That my pup buries his nose under his paw when he sleeps, and it's mighty cute.
2. My very supportive wife, who has a good sense of humor.
3. My comfy bed.
4. Poop jokes.
5. The Coop carrying Beeler's Bacon Ends and Pieces.
6. Purple.
7. My Captain America pajama pants.
8. Trees.
9. Peaches fresh from the tree in the summer.
10. KISS

I was a huge KISS fan as a kid. They were like real-life super heroes in my eyes. I grew up and saw them as people eventually, but during my teen-age years they gave me ... something in those times where I had nothing. And I am grateful for that. Because truth be told, there were many times I lost hope as a teenager, and something always caught me by a thread on the seat of my pants and held me here. And although it's been hard, I am grateful to be here.

my boots

happily, the day did not go as expected. What I thought I would have to do, I did not, and although the issue is not wholly resolved, it is solvable in a way that I can live with...easily. I'm so f'ing relieved I could skip down the street, except I'm wearing my cowboy boots, and that would result in damaged ankles. Let me tell you about these boots. I love these boots. Not because they are particularly nice looking, or comfortable, but because they are a piece of me. What piece I'm not sure...hopefully more on that as we toodle down the page.

Back to the boots. In the community where I grew up, we all wore cowboy boots. Didn't matter what you were doing...they were standard issue for whatever the task. I didn't get my first pair of tennis shoes until I was in grade school where we were required to have tennis shoes for PE. Some times we got our new boots at the beginning of the new school year, sometimes we got them for Christmas.

When I got these, I hadn't gotten a new pair in a while...I didn't even have a pair. The previous year I had moved out of state with my mother. And we'd lost the ranch two years prior to that. And with losing the ranch, I lost myself, my direction, my sense that anything would ever be right again.

At the beginning of my senior year I'd moved back in with my father who was able to lease the ranch. I was back home. I got these boots at the beginning of my senior year of high school. I got a piece of my identity back. For the first few months I was back with my father he didn't drink around me; instead we hunted, we fished, we worked the horses. Really, for the first time; I got my dad.

Eventually, because of my own drinking, my dad started drinking around me again. It generally wasn't as bad as it had been before, but sometimes it was worse. We still did some things, but because of his addiction his life was cut short a few years later, and our relationship was rocky when he passed.

These boots have been with me 25 years. They've seen me through roundups, through brandings, and butcherings. They've walked me across the stage for my high school diploma which I thought I wouldn't bother getting. They were there when I buried my father, when I struggled with my own addiction, and when I fought my way through sobriety. They gave me strength, and bravado when I had no one at my back. They were with me through my bachelors degree, through coming out, through moving across the country. They accompanied me on starting a new life; one where I thought I wouldn't need these boots, but I did. They've hidden in the back of the closet, they've been shunned, but they've always been loved. They've been with me through the best of times, and through some of the worst of times. They have always been there.

At some point these boots became a metaphor for the best of my father and me. Our strength, our connection to the land, our work ethic, our heritage, our tenacity and fortitude. They are a metaphor for who I hoped I would grow up to be, not who I thought I would be. Hopefully I can live up to these boots.

Crazy, but thats how it goes...

Today I had my first appointment with my old, old therapist (M). It was good. Really good. I think we were both in a better, fresher place. I was able to be more expressive about what was happening with me, rather than skirtive of the issues, and she was much more grounded and able to see where I was at in the moment, instead of working with me as she needed to 10 years ago. I'm still eating the house in order to deal with what I need to tomorrow, but I was able to be in a better space for the most of the day, and I have some more tools to use in the mean time. And she was able to recognize just how strong my self-destructive potential is right now...which I haven't really admitted (until now) to anybody...and having someone know that that self-destructive side of myself is alive and well does indeed to a little of wind out of it's sails.

At least based on today's session, it feels like I can do some good work with M. There were some things that came up with the last therapist that she just was missing the mark on as far as holding the space for me to explore in the direction I needed to, but with M we were able to go exactly where we needed to...where I needed to. And to the credit of that last therapist; it was in our work that I was able to recognize some of those areas that were in my blind spot, but were sucking me dry. 

I also only slept about 3 hours last night. Seems like every couple weeks I have a 2-3 hour nighter. At least I'm consistent. But this really throws me off...emotionally, mentally, physically. And when I am trying so f'ing hard to get my life back on track it is really frustrating to have the setbacks that follow an extra bad night of sleep. Another setback, this one self induced, came as a result of the standing calf machine. I have crazy-strong calves, but I forget that I also have crazy f'ed up discs in my upper back, and I wound up further compressing a couple of those discs a few weeks ago during my work out and have had pinched nerves and subluxed vertebrae that won't stay put ever since.

My ability to stay positive got flushed down the toilet a while back, but I'm hoping my upcoming trip to PHX, and my first highland games of the season will start to shift some of the inner funk, and get me back on the Ozzy Crazy Train, and off the Destructo Crazy Train...and fast. In the mean time, good thing I've got my supportive, patient wife; and my big, dopey, sweet pup. And a weeks worth of my new favorite snack; bakers chocolate.

happy happy happy

It's funny how many comments I've heard about how "happy" and "energized" I appear. Funny because a) I've been having a bad run of anxiety for some time now, and rarely get my minimum of sleep requirements, and b) I'm f'ing disturbed. I lie awake at night wondering how, between depression and anxiety, I'm going to face the next work day. But I'm an old hand on putting on a "good face" to please the crowd when I'm under pressure...guess I'm better at it than I realized.

Which brings me to...there are certain situations in my life where I say to myself, "I would rather die that do that".  And I'm encountering one of those situations now. Now, don't get too excited...it's not a super-serious, "rather die", more like a thorn in your bra kind of thought, than a "i  need to act on this" kind of thought. So, how am I dealing with this? Food. Acting out. Shutting down. General spazziness. And I did call my old therapist to make an appointment.

My old, old therapist, not my recent old therapist. I love my old, old therapist. She's like a mom, kind of, in a therapist kind of way...but I was needing...new insight...or something like that. I got complacent in the relationship with my old, old therapist, I guess. But right now, I do need someone who knows me...who sees behind the "good face". Who knows my quietness reflects my level of disturbedness. Who knows to take me seriously. Who can see the unseen, hear the unspoken, speak what I didn't know I needed to hear.

That is all for now.