Grateful

Every year at work, we have a different theme for student's to learn and for the community to adhere to. This year we are celebrating being grateful. Don't get me wrong--even though I may complain about my job, I am grateful for it. If I complain about my health, I am grateful that it is not worse.

Lately there have been many things popping up, convicting me that I have let my own standards fall by the wayside. Maybe its because of the growing depression and anxiety, or perhaps this is all causing it? To be honest, my family occupies most of my mind space, followed by school. It makes me feel like a bad friend, wife, and employee. I don't even feel like that great of a daughter.

Somebody like me usually tends to get caught up in the little details, the things from the past that won't leave. Anxiety is driven by these thoughts, man. Some days my past mistakes are the only things I can think about and they affect me greatly. I'm lucky that I have Justin to help me through these things but it should not be his problem, at least I think so.

Christmas and Thanksgiving always bring back memories that I cherish but have a hard time living through. I feel guilty for not being more grateful for my mom and all the work she did for us to have a fun Christmas. I feel guilty for not including a childhood bff in my life more after she moved away. I feel guilty about my family dynamics in general. Part of me feels like the true Christine is missing, while this adult person I've become is a total bitch. I'm working very hard to reverse this view of myself, whether it is true or not.

I'm trying to become more grateful than anything, holiday season or not. The experiences in the past have made me who I am. For every single fight, shopping trip, play date, movie outing, and ordinary day, I am grateful. Those days make me sad because they are gone, not what happened in them. The fact that so much has happened that has stolen some of the joy that childhood brought. I guess that's what every adult deals with at some point.

Hoping whoever reads this has a beautiful Thanksgiving, that you reflect on your life with gratitude, joy, and sorrow, but remember that it all helped you become who you are. That is a wonderful thing.

One year down, Infinity to go

Our first wedding anniversary is today!

I am tending to get mushier the older I get. I never thought I'd be like that to be honest. Perhaps I thought "strong silence" like my dad uses was how I would turn out, in order to not hurt or get hurt. Well, as much as my mom never wanted, I am much like her. She would cry reading Bible verses to me when I was very small. When I asked her why, she said because they were so beautiful. This is one thing that I have developed even more strongly in recent years and am maybe a little bit weepy as I write this.

Our wedding day had nothing to do with the good or bad decisions I made in planning. It had nothing to do with cake, flowers, dresses, or who sits where. It had and still has everything to do with us. I think that everyone would say it was us pretty much down to a t.

This past year has held such joy along with struggle. I get to see you every day, playing video games together until way too late, watching bad (and good) movies, planning our future kids' Christmas presents in the Toys R Us catalog. You support me more than anyone ever did, you love me more than ever has, and will continue to do so because that's who you are. You are the kindest person in the world and I hope part of the kindness rubs off onto me every day.

You are a talented artist but your talents do not stop there. There is nobody funnier or sillier than you! I cannot have bad karaoke dance parties in the car with anyone else nor would I want to. You know how to make me laugh when life gets too much. If anyone needs anything at all, you are always first to volunteer to help.

I remember our second date. This was the day I met the Young family, another benefit to being married to you!  It was Fourth of July, and we were sitting in the back of your dad's truck in the Joe T. Garcia's restaurant near downtown Ft. Worth. Traffic was terrible and this was the only spot we could find. It was clouded by trees, but that didn't really matter to either of us.

We talked about our greatest fears and wishes. I said that I wanted to leave a piece of me behind, scared of futility and all that philosophical nonsense. All you said you wanted was to be a good father. You told me how much you loved your dad and how you couldn't wait to pass all the knowledge on to someone else.

Talking about children so early didn't seem weird to me with you. You didn't judge me for my dreams, like so many others have. I knew that you were a good person with a heart of gold but it wasn't until that September that I knew that I wanted to be with you for all time.

After witnessing my mom's seizure and being alone in the hospital with her for hours, you kept calling and texting and asking if everything was okay. You said you'd leave work to be with me, something my father did not offer. I didn't want you to meet her like that or see me that way. We had only been dating barely two months at this point and I didn't want to scare you off either. You not only stuck with me through this, but the great depression and struggle that has followed me since.

There is nobody in the world that has showed me love like you. I remember thinking about it one day as we were driving and told you that you were the perfect example of what the Bible says about Jesus loving the church, the Bride and Bridegroom scenario. I love that you strive to be like Jesus even when others around you are not. This verse reminds me of you:

“A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another: just as I have loved you, you also are to love one another. By this all people will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” John 13:34-35

You show love and compassion everywhere you go and it is so beautiful to see it in action. You love your family, friends, people that you've never even met. You fill my heart with a gladness that is rare to find. You are precious to me. You are the Batman to my Robin and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Now that we've gotten the first year out of the way, let's get started on taking over the world. At least our small part of it, you know? We are destined for great things and if there's anyone that deserves it, its you.

I love you, Justin. 

Happy Anniversary! 

 

Why can't people just be NICE?

To quote the Princess herself, why can't people just be nice?!

This is how I'm feeling today.

Yep. I feel like I'm drifting between partial anger/rage and keeping myself fairly calm. Because it's Friday, I'm just telling myself I don't care.

Round 2: FIGHT!

Right now, I feel like my life is like Street Fighter II. I'm playing as Chun-Li and losing terribly to Blanka AND Dhalsim at the same time.  There are enemies coming at me from every single direction, and no matter what I do, they just come back. Maybe I'm more of Chun-Li embracing Blanka in defeat.

Lately, there are more up-hill battles than just regular, plain battles. There are fights with myself, my textbooks, my husband (not often, but only when I'm grouchy), and fights with my intellectual self. College at 27, in a freakin' Bachelor's program at that, is a lot tougher than it was at 22. I've gone into why I haven't finished already before, and am working on giving myself credit.

My husband and I had a talk about this one class that was the bane of my existence in the first quarter of Fall. Sci-Fi should be my thing, right? If anything, I love 1. books 2. science fiction 3. dystopian literature. Well, I did NOT love the professor, his teaching methods, and got way too defeated in my first quarter back as a full time student. Needless to say, I failed this course.

FAILED.

ME.

FAILED.

I did not set myself up for success. I can only blame my professor for his lack of attention to detail in describing assignments or giving timelines. What falls on me is not being in constant contact with him, or even just doing it all in advance like it seemed almost every person did.

This quarter is setting up to be a bit different. I'm forcing myself to stay up later every night in order to get my reading and discussion boards done. Discussion boards are the hardest for me! I know they are supposed to "mimic" classroom conversations, but I've always been the observer type. Well, except in English or art classes. I guess I do have some kind of teacher's pet mentality.

J and I rarely fight, and if we do its usually just pretend fighting. I'm not even kidding. That's something we do regularly, especially when we go to Toys R Us or Target. Slow motion fighting has it's place in adults lives, too.

When we actually do get into it, it's because he hates how I talk to myself. I know that I'm not kind to myself. For some reason, I've become more and more of a perfectionist but you wouldn't be able to tell by looking at me. I'm fat, not the sharpest dresser anymore, and will let my eyebrows run rampant for months.

I told him I felt stupid and defeated and like everything is battling against me to graduate. This is how I've felt for years now, and I think its true--not just because I say it, either. He, on the other hand, abhors that I talk this way to myself. With his overwhelmingly sweet and sincere concern for my sanity and all that, there's no way I can't help but listen and take heed to what he says to me.

We were in the car driving home from a really fun day. I think it was Saturday, where we had seen his parents, went apartment hunting, and had a jolly good time. Or, it was Sunday, which was just as wonderful. I checked my email and lo and behold, my class was over. WHAT. I thought the day the class ended was the following Tuesday, not the Friday prior. Crap. I had failed. FAILED. Partially because of my disorganized and over-saturated brain and partially because my professor was too lazy to correctly write the days things were due on the portal.

I was more than upset. I haven't ever failed anything so blatantly in my life. Sure, I failed math, but I just couldn't get my brain around the concepts. THIS? This was what I was born to do and love. What was wrong with me?

We had to stop at the apartment to grab something for some reason, so I went inside and came back defeated. Justin said he had a song to play for me. I knew what it was, because he always plays it when I have a bad day. It was also in our wedding, believe it or not.

It was one of my favorite songs from She and Him, called "Me and You". Of course, I start to cry. When I get this way, J comforts me with saying that I am still accomplishing my goal of finishing college. Stopping to worry about everything or judge myself only holds myself back. I need to appreciate what I am doing, that I am taking my life into my own hands. Sure, it's a little step at a time but success doesn't happen overnight. It takes hard work and determination and knowing you can do it. The thing I was lacking? The knowing-I-can-do-it part.

This is a game I'm determined to win. Calendar days, semesters or quarters, and birthdays don't matter. I will be the first child to graduate with a college degree in my family. It would make my mother so proud, and my dad, too. It would make me proudest of all.

I'm ready to battle on. Got a new game plan, my sweet husband taking care of me, and am working on the patience to treat myself with kindness while I go through this journey. It's time to dominate my fears and get this show on the road.

Stop hitting yourself.

Ah, self inflicted pain that is brought on by some other smug monkey. This sadly happens to be a place where I find myself quite often. No, I'm not literally being smacked by a gorilla in the forest or even remotely anyone in real life. I trust myself to go through my day, read a little bit on Reddit or Facebook, and move on.

This is not how I operate though. Some may say I suffer from low self-esteem, but my husband might say it ranges anywhere from slightly below average on a good day to buried six feet under on most. A lot of times I go on Facebook to get inspired and see what all my super creative and talented friends are up to. They're making movies, writing things, changing the world. You know, kid stuff. What am I doing at that very same moment?

Beating myself up for not doing the things they are doing. Probably not so much the exact task they have found themselves in but more that they are doing what they want and they love it. It satisfies them in the way that I would like to be satisfied, the way my heart desires to be filled. Where their tiny voice encourages them by saying "you can do it!" mine often says "you crazy girl, what are you thinking?" More often than not, that's what it says to me consistently.

Though I've spent most of my life fighting it and guarding myself from it, it seems as though its damn near impossible to flee comparisons in this day and age. I'm sure there are people who manage to avoid that at all costs, but maybe I'm not one of them. To me, all I want is to be happy and creative and appreciated for both of those things. But if I spend all my time comparing and doubting myself, am I really accomplishing anything at all?

Whoever reads this, let's complete a challenge together.

I'm going to try my hardest to swap a negative thought for a positive one.

Instead of thinking someone has already done what I want to do, I'm going to make a list of steps to complete my goals.

I will not listen to those voices who tell me why bother or bring up past failures to tease me.

My husband hates when I talk negatively to myself, and I hate that sometimes I let him see it. Really, my life should be lived that I do not do this kind of thing to myself, that I appreciate and am grateful for all God has blessed me with. A late bloomer by nature, I'm sure my time will come when I will have a chance to prove to myself (more than others at this point) that I can do what I set my mind to.

After all, if God is for me, who can be against me? (Romans 8:31)

My boss has told me that I need to give more credit to myself. It bothers her when I don't speak up in meetings or when I act like working on my degree is not important. How I act in those situations sometimes reflects my mood at the time, often when we have meetings my daily migraines have laid claim to my noggin. Other times its a result of believing all the stupid and mean things people have told me and I have believed.

I hope you'll complete this challenge with me. This is not something that I will say I will do for one week, or one month, or even one year. It is something I must put into practice daily for the rest of my life. Just have to keep pressing on to what I want and it will be mine. The first step, though, is to stop hitting myself.

Working on My Ish

I thought going back to college would be simple, even though it had been a few years since I had taken academic courses. I'd worked three jobs before, taken a full course load, and managed to exercise religiously every morning for a few years.

This time, it's different.

Yeah, there's this thing called time that passes and causes us to gain age, weight, and knowledge (to an extent), but I feel like my brain has died on the road to where I am today. It's out there somewhere on a road, lying dead next to an Armadillo.

The only job I have full time is, you know, working, wife-ing, and schooling. Oh, and daughter-ing, church-ing, cleaning, and artist-ing.

I am overthrown with exasperation to the nth degree. Like, I can't even.

Husband and I will both be pulling all-nighters in regards to our work. I have a paper, a test, an two essays. He has a freelance job he's doing because he wants to help me pay for my classes. That man is truly a saint to me.

I don't know what the answer is to this overwhelming situation. I know I only have a year at most left. But I feel like I cannot give my classes 100% or anything for that matter because there simply is too much going on in my life. This is where I find myself asking "What do I need to give up to make this work?"

If anyone has any ideas, I'll be hunched over this cup of coffee with headphones on and a textbook in my lap.

THAT's what my voice sounds like?

I always thought my voice sounded kind of cool, at least in my head. That's probably my first problem: being somewhat arrogant about something that doesn't really matter. Since I was little, I've loved the thought of radio broadcasting and acting, as I've written about the latter several times on this blog.

But there's one thing that might hinder me from ever getting VO work: my voice is annoying.

It's stupid, I know, but my voice is exceptionally annoying to me. I can't control what my tongue does, and when I do, it sounds more contrived than it did before. It makes me wonder if I would ever be able to get any kind of VO work ever. I'm sure I could get something, but I bet it won't be reading an audio book.

Justin has told me to try to take one day at a time and make each day great. I worked on my short film pre-production yesterday, and have tried to better myself by reading up on web series development this morning. I still feel like I'm lagging behind and maybe, just maybe, I'm forcing myself into a career that I would never be good in.

Yeah, I'm a defeatist by nature. Lately, though, life has been more sad than happy and I have felt more lame than anything else. Maybe I am forcing myself into being an actress and filmmaker for validation reasons. I love the art of it, but is that my sole motivation? I always like to think storytelling is why I'm in it, but sometimes I'm not quite sure.

I'll play this life out as my hobby, then go from there. Maybe I should pick up painting again or something. Maybe I should stop being so hard on my self for once.

Back to School, oh, and work

I cannot believe it is August 5th. AUGUST. FIFTH. WHAT. The time has certainly dragged and flown by simultaneously, as all holiday breaks do. It's been productive and stressful and a little bit lazy, which I definitely needed. I gained more weight than I lost, but I'm taking care of myself in more ways than I had previously.

June was full of school for me; my nephew graduated high school, I went back to college, taught a summer camp, and drove the bus for a bunch of camps for the first time. It was really fun, but I didn't have much time to sit or even think.

July was the opposite. I thought too much, which is usually my downward spiral into a funk. It's silly to have a funk in the summer time, but it happens to me every year, whether in school or not. Summer for me always meant exciting adventures with Mom, and staying up until midnight because Dad was building a LOT of crates for a job the next day. It was fun, but exhausting. Nowadays its mostly the latter.

My sister and her daughter came down this past week to help me clean up some of Dad's house. It was not easy, and we didn't seem to make a huge dent, but I'm glad that she was able to experience some of what I do, seeing Mom in the form she is, and both of us helping Dad to show that we love and support him.

Now on to the hardest time in our lives: COLLEGE.

I'm starting back on August 21, in the midst of orientation for work. I'm hopeful that I will be able to give 110% to both work and school and my family, but we will see. I just want to make sure that I get good grades. If I keep a 3.4 or higher, I could graduate with honors, which means graduate school may be more of a possibility than it was before.

Pushing through with the max loads should put me at graduating in December 2015. Only a year away :)

I'm praying that I will not lose my sanity or vision, and that I will finally have my life come together when I'm 28. Then,I can focus on storytelling, my career, and being able to support my family in a better way than I have been able to in the past.

punching doubt in the face part 1

Most of the time, I am a cautious person. I was not always this way, not in the least. There were times I attempted really stupid stunts on a trapeze in gymnastics class, ran around outside without shoes on (this is Texas; if you do this, you're taking your life into your own hands), and performed shows and sang songs for my family and whoever would happen to come by. I wrote stories, Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman themed no less, and burst into "there must be more than this provincial life!" countless times. Mostly at Target.

As I grew older, I realized that maybe some of the things I did were weird or stupid to some people. So, I started to hide the things I loved to do in order to not be made fun of my brother and to also seem "cool", whatever the hell that means. This all happened in middle school, mostly, where Sundays were filled with Gundam Wing fanfiction writing marathons, followed by repeatedly beating Ganon in Ocarina of Time because I finally knew how without the game guide. When high school hit, I knew I was weird. I became okay with it to an extent, as I had found a few other weirdos to hang out with me.

Was I popular? Nope, not at all. Was I witty, charming, and gorgeous? Not around those people. The kids in my senior class were forced together by parents who thought they were doing a great thing. See, I was homeschooled. I went to this thing called a co-op, which is basically classes once a week taught by parents or teachers making extra dough. We had prom, yearbook, Youth & Government (which was my jam), and AP art classes (my main jam).

I knew a lot of people because my mom did, but that did not mean I was friends with them. People that I knew in the homeschooling community will tell me stories of so-and-so having a kid or going into the military or whatever, and I feel bad because I only know their name. How many people could say that they knew mine?

EXT. AFTERNOON, LAKESIDE DOCK AT A BIBLE CAMP

CHRISTINE, being awkward and having social anxiety, sitting on top of a dock, staring into the sunset. Group photos of the 2006 senior class were just taken, and all her friends dissipated into smaller groups or fled to their cabins to finish Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. CHRISTINE is feeling lonely, even though surrounded by people. 

She thinks she is alone and starts to cry, pitying herself. 

So pathetic! 

Crying because she doesn't want to swim around "normal" sized people, because she would rather be playing video games, because she knows nobody will ask her to homecoming or prom, and one of her closest friends is dating the guy she likes.

JORDAN appears. CHRISTINE does not notice him, but should because every girl had a crush on him even though he was a jock. Eh, it was high school.

JORDAN

Hey, are you ok?

CHRISTINE

(turns from looking at literally nothing interesting) Uh, yeah. (sniffles) I'll be all right. 

JORDAN

Cool. (leaves dock, and doesn't speak to her again until graduation rehearsal, 9 months later)

CHRISTINE turns back to face the sunset, contemplating how she's going to survive life if she can't freakin' talk to anyone in her class.

END SCENE

Eight years later, I seem him at Chipotle. I look pretty much the same, though a bit plumper, and WAY more fashion conscious. I am also not carrying manga with me at all times, so that's cool. He turned around to look at me, searching with the whole I-think-I-know-her look, as I dodge glances, pretending to not even notice. I bet you $100 he does not remember my name. Why?

I was so shy and so cautious, perhaps due to depression. I have no idea. It could just be that fact that I was an awkward teenager who didn't want to go to swing dancing, dammit, but thought Nickel Mania might be fun instead. I spent 10 months trying to get to know these people, and only two of them I speak to on a regular basis and can call dear friends.

What happened to the charismatic child I once was? She got lost somewhere in the pubescent discord of adolescence.

She's back now.

Still a bit timid, I'm not afraid to tell people I am an actress or writer anymore. My husband keeps affirming that I am indeed a writer, that it is what I have always been. A storyteller, if you will. I love that title.

The person I denied being in fear of having friends or appearing a certain way is still there. What good did denying her do me? I was not enjoying life, creating friends, or making memories. I was hiding in my own head, which is not a bad thing. It just consumes me sometimes. 

The thing that killed that person I was is doubt.

The doubt that I had in high school, the doubt that anyone would like me, ask me to see a movie, that my art or writing was any good, that I had a chance at going to art school--this did nothing but hold me back. I feel as if I had pursued what I loved my life would be different, maybe not. Who knows, and what right do I have to plague myself with that question?

Doubt is a prison and an enemy. It captures the heart of someone, someone who was once brave, and steals it away to be locked in a dark tower. It changes your personality, your goals, your feelings about yourself and those around you. 

My husband sent me something on Facebook this morning that shed light on my struggle with doubt:

WOAH. No truer words have been spoken to me. Looking at my life, I realize that I have believed more in my doubts than my dreams. I never would let myself have a chance to fail because who wants to know what that's like? I've heard failure is pretty icky.

This is now saved to my desktop, and I am going to make a text painting with it. Yeah, I said I would be painting again. It feels good, man.

So here is to those doubts that took me on this path; from here on out, this is my show. This isn't what my brain says I can't do. It's now about what I want with my life because I have the ability to change it. Maybe I won't be singing in Target (highly probable, actually) or on Broadway, but I'm going to do what I want without labels or fuss or DOUBT. That ugly word is not going to haunt me anymore.

Three months, six years later

Apparently, it's been exactly three months since I've updated this blog. I have things that are in my drafts, that I hope to be able coherently finish one day soon. As for everything else, here is the run down of my life these past three months:
--workschool let out
--worked at Alamo Drafthouse for a month, but it was a lot to do with my summer course
--taught a summer camp to middle schoolers (oy!)
--took my first online summer course (and aced it, thankyouverymuch)
--drove the bus for some other summer camps
--husband and I put together an amazing dresser with this plan from Refinery29
--am still in the process of helping my parents do whatever the hell it is they're trying to do
--found/rescued/fostering (God help me) six kittens
--am finally going to be an extra in two different films this week!

The rest of the summer? I'm hoping it will bring me a lot of healing. It's not that I'm broken or damaged, it's just that I'm a little bit scratched up at the moment with some familial issues. Surely others have experienced what I am going through right now, but it feels like I am on an island, waiting on edge for that next big wave, hurricane, or volcano to come and pull me away from my sanity. Well, whatever is left of that really.

Summer is a complicated issue for my father to comprehend apparently. As soon as I was out of my workschool, I could set my watch by the time he calls each day. It ranges between 11:45 and 1:30, depending on my having called him earlier in the day or not. Sometimes I make the mistake of calling him at 11, just simply telling him something that is going on or that I would think he thought was interesting or that I love him. Just reminders.


It's usually then he will start his daily check-in, "Are you feeding Mommy today?" I very rarely let him ask me "What are you up to today?" It's very strenuous.

Reader, you may think I am selfish, not wanting to lunch with my mother daily. It's not that I don't enjoy it, not one bit. I like being able to be with her, love her, and make her laugh. Making her laugh is usually the best part of my day.

It's the fact that I live thirty minutes away, am trying to get things done this summer that I can't normally do (i.e. write my screenplays, audition for things, generally not be depressed), and make sure I take care of my self. The biggest factor is my brother.

My brother, friend, was temporarily living with us back in 2008, after a bad breakup with some crazy girl that he mooched off of, like he has done with all the girls. My brother, at one time full of passion and zeal for making art, has turned into a child-like man, hiding in his room, acting defensive, claiming he is oppressed and is being bullied by my father, who is his step-dad. They both bully each other, quite frankly, and I have had enough.

Mom is ill. I don't know if I've posted the story of how she came to be like she is, but the brief is she had a series of seizures/strokes, and a gigantic seizure three years ago that has left her with her faculties damaged. I am doing all I can in my power to make her proud; finishing college, working full time, being a good wife, being a good artist. Everyone else treats her as though she is barely human, adorable in her inability to function, and a pity party.

Brother claims he is watching her everyday, that is why he can't get a job. It's not due to his arrest a few years ago, surely, or his alcoholism or narcissism. Oh, no, it's not that at all. He's a martyr, saint, divine.

This is what gets me, my dearest friend, the fact that he is living in their home, rent free, alcohol drunk and precious mementos sold to strangers who come to our house, giving my brother cigarettes. The one who judges me for my being fat my whole life, yet has lost the battle to slovenliness. Who am I kidding? He has never fought a day in his life.

He has never appreciated her struggle and determination. I'm beginning to think nobody has in a long time.

I am not trying to make myself appear as a saint or martyr because I am not. I don't go visit her everyday, or bathe her, or take her out walking. I do it when I am mentally able to do it, because as soon as I leave, I must mourn my mother's loss yet again. The conversations I have with my father often lead to me chatting with her on the phone, and sometimes this is enough. Sometimes it makes her angry.

So, I'm sorry, but I won't be cleaning out the rest of my stuff for another week, and I won't be helping you clean out Brother's room, or the attic. Not yet. I'm tired of you relying on solely me to do all this, even when you yourself are sick. But that is an entry for another time, another state of mind. My heart is not yet prepared for more conversations on that.

the weight of worth part 1

I hate knowing the difference of how a fat person is treated rather than a skinny one. Granted, even when I was skinny, I wasn't the standard definition of the word. 180 pounds of muscle, and way less fat than normal, was heaven to me. Never had I felt freer, more positive, and more attractive.

Maybe I was then. I don't know.

My husband would be mad if he saw this, and he probably will read this so...yeah.

Sorry, babe.

When I was 21 or 22 (my memory is failing in my ripe old age), I decided to change things a little bit. I'd always been a bit heavier, probably the biggest girl in my graduating class (of 32). I never wanted to be "that" girl--the one who stood out as someone who was--gasp--different, who everyone said had a perfect, God-fearing heart, which was her main and only characteristic. Granted, that sounds like I would be offended to be a sweet and/or good person, but I was tired of people only seeing that part of myself.

So what did I do?

I went to a bootcamp.

You know, the kind of bootcamp where everyone gets up at an obscene hour to work out with a bunch of other strangers.

It was heaven.

I actually won the first month free. If I hadn't done that, I probably never would have started going to begin with. There was a display at the Galleria that had the bootcamp's logo, and a jar of whistles. If you guessed the correct amount of whistles in the jar--FREE MONTH OF SWEATY FUN.

Awesome.

Apparently my geusstimation skills are not as great as just being the only person to sign up. I won, but by default, and I didn't realize this until much later in the boot camp process.

I hated it at first. I convinced one of my best friends, Emily, to do it with me. We both had weird hours at our jobs, so getting up super early wouldn't mess up our schedules. For a long time, it was just me and her in the camp, running laps around the ice skating rink, or in the parking garage outside of Old Navy.

Emily dropped the bootcamp because of time restraints, I think, and eventually I would too. But not before I found the power that I had been granted from doing 300 squats. Oh, no.

I had power.

I had power of myself, what I thought about myself, and, most importantly, food. I ate only what I needed, and when I did want to indulge, I did so only a little bit. No more fast food, Dr. Pepper, or gobs of potatoes. I was healthy and sought out adventure.

This was when I started dating. Yes, I was 22 when I started this. There are probably many factors, like being fat, or not brushing my hair, or liking anime, or being a good Christian girl, that kept me from dating or being "dateable". I was not ashamed of any of these things, until I realized that maybe it meant I was dorky or something. Couldn't I change? Why was I waiting for permission to date? Not that anyone was seriously asking, anyway. And why was I waiting? True Love Waits basically taught me to sit around, and God would place a dude in my lap.

Not hardly.

I ventured into the scary world of online dating, since I was terrible at talking to guys in real life. The computer is such a great buffer. I went on a couple of dates with WEIRDOS, then finally met someone who I thought was "the one". He was everything I wanted (i.e. into video games, a musician, had a job, cute, etc.). He also came with some other things that I didn't really dig that much (communist leanings, bipolar disorder, former weed addict, kind of easy). Yikes.

We only dated for about two and a half months, and I ended things. A good friend of mine, Leslie, weighed in on my relationship with this dude and said that he didn't sound like that great of a guy, and that God had someone better for me.

Oh. My. God.

That haunted me for awhile. I decided to end things with him, because it was getting complicated. He lived far away, and kept getting in trouble at work for really stupid things. He had a lot of issues, and while this isn't meant to air his dirty laundry, they greatly affected me and maybe still do to this day. I was sad that I broke up with him, but probably because I had finally felt wanted.

I spent the next two years feeling "wanted" and "appreciated" because I thought I had found strength in my new physique. Even when I gained weight, it was still not so bad. I knew I was somewhat attractive, and that was all that guys wanted, right? That made me a woman. Not my creative abilities, loving heart, or desire to change the world. Just the fact that I was no longer in a size 16 jeans and straightened my hair on a regular basis.

This cycle of initial appreciation->desperation->negative thoughts->self-hate->binge eating had taken its toll on me. Right before I met my husband, I had had a rough spring. I had dated a guy that was obese, like pushing morbidly, who got drunk and would make fun of me. It only happened twice, but that was enough to get me to leave. I actually met my husband a week or so after cutting off communications with A-Hole.

Life has been so beautiful since.

Maybe I was meant to wait for my husband after all.

Justin has helped me realize that, even though he appreciates my physical qualities, despite my gaining about 30 pounds since we first met, he loves me because of WHO I AM. This does not mean my jean size, my bra size, or my bank account. It means my heart, my personality, my ability to make him laugh. It has nothing to do with my physical appearance, though he thinks that it doesn't hurt anything. Maybe it doesn't, but I'm so tired of trying to fight myself on this issue.

The reason I wrote this is so that you, dear reader, will find solace in the fact you are not alone. I'm sure you know this, and have heard it before, but it is so true. There are millions of girls who abandon their core beliefs for someone or something they always thought they desired, only to have it bite them in the butt.

You are beautiful.
You are a fighter.
You are strong.

Your appearance only matters if you let it. Granted, don't wear sweats to work or never brush your teeth or eat Chicken Express everyday for the rest of your life. We are temples and need to treat ourselves that way. I've decided to again embark on a journey of taking care of myself. In light of everything that's going on with my family, I have to in order to survive. It's not a matter of choice anymore.

I need to finally love myself in order for others to love and appreciate me.

That means...
the bank teller,
the nail technician,
the sales woman at JC Penney.

If they can see that I'm comfortable in my own skin,
that I love myself,
that I take care of all my needs,
they will be attracted to me in the most positive sense.

Here's to new beginnings, and redefining worth.

Let's all try to be a bit kinder to ourselves.
-c

Short: holding on

Author's Note: I wrote this for a class of mine in 2012. It was a nonfiction creative writing class. I never really did much nonfiction writing, except for on my livejournal (so embarrassing). I'd always thought I was great at capturing imaginary places until I realized what I needed to do was appreciate my own. Stop escaping.

So, this is an essay, not really a short story, about my mother and me and our favorite place--Valley View Mall. It might make you understand my fascination with that place a bit more.

And where my heart is at right now.

This post is unedited and unaltered, originally the essay I submitted to my professor.

                                                                                                                                                                

“Can we go home? It's depressing here.”
    This was our place. Valley View, so pleasant sounding with a twinge of reminiscence. Our mall, our place, one of many, where we spent much time daydreaming, comparison shopping, and general quality time, if that's what it could be boiled down to.
    My mom's short, walking frame caught up with my larger one as we passed JC Penney. We were holding hands, like we often do and always have. Her hands are no longer youthful, but they feel frail and delicate under my own that are larger, much like my father's. Even though it was summer, she is often a bit chilled. Wearing a pilled navy-blue yarn sweater, her infamous tan shirt and jeans, perhaps an old pair of mine, and her dirty walking shoes, she looked at me and said, “It just isn't the same. It's not fun anymore.”
    In the past, we lived for days like that. Our of adventure and discovery; finding something exciting not so close to home but never far away. We would often find ourselves at this mall, though. My mother had always had a hidden desire for finer things, as I discovered from our many trips to Dillard's and Foley's; the red stickers from a White Sale were all we needed to have something a little bit nicer at home. Discounted jewelry from Christmastime, or some Dockers that were the last pair in Dad's size, it was all there.
    As we would discover treasures buried within the bowels of department stores, we learned a lot about each other. Her secret obsession with some off-label dress company still hangs in her closet to this day; sparkly, beautiful, almost to the point of ridiculous, these dresses make her happy. We discussed much during our scouring sessions, lost among the racks of not-hardly-designer clothes for hours, or while munching ice cream under the shadowy, towering topiaries of giraffes near the food court.
    I only can recall bits and pieces of information, dangling somewhere between memories of rose pink carpeting, neon lights, and a parking garage. Never were our conversations very memorable—a “do you like this shirt?” from me and a “what do you want to be when you grow up?” from her. Though this was the case for our mall talk, it was not always this way for every conversation. Sitting in the front seat of our '88 Mercury wagon, seeing my mother's profile and wondering if I'd fit the same, asking her questions about what songs meant and what was she like when she was my age. I would put myself in her shoes in the story; her life so much grander than mine, in a time so much more fascinating.
    One of my favorite stories was the one about her name. Fay. She never really liked it, and to this day refuses to accept that it becomes her. Fairy-like, she would groan, as if the mere thought of her being mythical or magical was too much to bear.
    “You know who I was named after?” she asked me, her sly, crooked teeth and smooth, pale skin collaborated to give me a smile full of embarrassment and humor.
    “The nurse. The nurse who delivered me. My parents didn't really care, I guess, about my name. My daddy said he liked the sound of it, and there you go. I'm Fay Louise.”
    In the ignorance of my youth, I never thought my mother would be in the list of my best friends. Looking back now, through the perfect twenty-twenty of hindsight, this is gospel truth. Not only then, when she would take me by the hand, but especially now, when I must be the one to lead her.
    The realization of changing times came when my mom wanted to work again. My brother was gone, and I was about to graduate high school. She enjoyed our time together, but knew she was capable of more. I always knew she was. What I didn't know was the dire financial situation caused by the collapsing economy, basically ruining my father's business and causing my parents' to file bankruptcy for the second time. Though still employed, it was barely enough to get through. Depression was always lingering at the corner of our household after that, even when Mom decided it was best to try and help save our home.  
    Mom's stories of working in downtown Cincinnati when she was young sounded magical to me. Office buildings overlooking a great powerhouse, a city that employed and entertained many. Though in my youth they seemed ideal, I didn't understand the circumstances surrounding them. Her first marriage crumbled into dust while still in Ohio in her early 30s, with my brother as the only thing she held on to from the past. She told me she worked hard, sometimes two jobs, to provide for him. Sears, Sohio, Dayton Power & Light. All to provide a better life for my brother. He may not recall these things, or maybe never even asked, but they were striking to me. My mother was stronger than any other I had known; I'd never felt more proud. Nobody knew the next time they would see her strength and tenacity in such a bold way, and I almost wish I never had to experience it.
    She didn't enjoy her new job, per se, at some staffing company, typing on antiquated computers and sorting through files leftover from years past, smushed into some tiny, smelly corner. Always techno-savvy, DOS this, some Microsoft database that, she always knew what she was doing and how to do it. The year she went back to work, though, it seemed she couldn't keep up. I had noticed, but had my dad or my brother? They never really spent as much time with her as I had, even after I had started attending college. The people at work spent a lot of time with her, unfortunately. Mocking her minor flubs and flops, forgetfulness and shyness, her insecurity forced her to quit.
    After that, she tried working at Neiman Marcus' packing facility seasonally, and enjoyed it. But she wasn't as fast as the others and was laid off immediately after Christmas. That was the last holiday that was somewhat normal for us.
    The darkness settled in on our suburban lives when my mom's weapon for freedom was towed away by Chrysler. Tearful, she would hide in her room. My dad told me not to bother her, but I would. We would lay on the bed, watching Back to the Future in Spanish, my mom growing less jovial and more somber. Money was tighter than ever, food scarce; Mom had given up. Dad still fought for us, though, like he always had. But nothing broke his heart more than when Mom had to wait in line at the food bank. She was upset I couldn't go in to collect food with her, but we would make the best of waiting in line. She wanted to find a job, a really good one, but by this time, her memory was starting to disintegrate.
    Our days of gallivanting replaced with selling books at Half-Price for gas money, for me and for dad. Her creativity in the kitchen was gone; all that remained were nondescript meat products and freezer burned vegetables doused in butter substitute. Along with her gusto, her words started to vanish. They were there, in front of her. She would look as though she could see them, tangible in their distant glory. But she could never quite reach them.
    Her hair, always dyed some shade of red, now showed her grays mixed in with the brown. It grew longer and thinner than I'd ever witnessed, but her shoes and white crew socks always remained the same. The rosyness of her cheeks disappeared and were replaced with a sullen ash, reminiscent of a cadaver. Sudoku books piled up, her old way of writing still trapped in the rough pages. Reading had grown difficult over time; my father thought it was macular degeneration. I thought he was crazy.
    Last summer I had come to terms with my mother's state of being, whatever it was. I called it Alzheimer's, though no doctor had ever diagnosed her with such. Dad, ever in denial, refused to take her to the doctor. She didn't even want to go, becoming increasingly anti-social and a hermit. Money, the ever present issue, was always to blame. I feel as though nobody wanted to deal with it, especially him.
    “Can't you see? She's just like a child!” I yelled at my dad in my parents' bedroom. I escorted him back there in hopes to gain some kind of common ground, that he could see what I was seeing and maybe feel like I did. “It's not the same. It's never going to be the same.”
    “I know,” his bold voice sounded so small. “It's going to be different now. We just have to love her more than we've ever loved her before.”
    We would still go places, but it was not the same. The woman who held my hand and lead me through masses of people, at concerts or malls or wherever, now needed to be lead through the grocery store. The questions I had asked were irrelevant now, as she only wanted to ask repeatedly where I went to college, where was my dad, where was she. No longer allowed to drive, I would tote her about in my car, which how the seat belts worked was always a surprise. Raw chicken was left in the microwave for who knows how long, with hours spent trying to de-tangle balls of yarn. She had been trying to make the same Christmas blanket for years.
    Going to the movies was no longer a joyful experience; it was difficult to try and explain major plot details while others were in the theater. They didn’t know what was going on, and it was best to be avoided. Reading was out of the question, too. She tried writing, though; a skill which she tried to regain through writing my name in broken cursive on yellow legal pads, spread over the computer desk. Her days were filled with catnaps that would last for hours, John Wayne marathons, and repetitiously asking for details of my life and of what was going on in the world. Most of the time they were followed by soft, sweet tears from a woman who knows she used to know, but can’t anymore.    
    I decided to try and see if she would remember my birthday. It was my twenty-fourth, and I had hoped it would be a great one. As I got older, my mom and I would usually spend the day together; seeing a movie, shopping, baking a cake. Anything just to be together and celebrate. I moved out the previous summer, and decided I would come visit her for the big day. Maybe it would be a good day, the kind where she was competent enough to know where we were going and remember what she had for lunch.
    Walking up the driveway, I wasn't sure what to expect. If I rang the doorbell would she answer? Would she know what the day was? I rang the doorbell, and tried to smile. I thought, worst case scenario, this may be one of the last times I “celebrate” my birthday with this amazing woman; there is no time left to be sad about it but just to accept it. She opened the door in a stupor, not really able to focus and look me in the eye. She said she needed to go to the bathroom and get her wallet, and I said okay and that I would wait patiently. She came out, and I was excited, sort of. There was that sort of nagging dread, though, that my expectations were once again set way too high.
    We were on the way to Dallas, to antique, to adventure, to have some sort of normalcy in this crazy new life. I tried to hold a conversation with my ever-nauseated mother. Business passed us as I zoomed down the Tollway, fielding the same questions from Mom; the same where are we going, why, is it a special day? Upon telling her, yes, it was my birthday each time, she seemed sad that she’d forgotten and kept asking what kind of cake I’d like. These were always followed by me trying to tell her what was going in my life, what classes I was taking, but instead more and more questions arose.
    We pulled in to our destination, Lula B’s, while I hoped that this day would not be as tiring as I had anticipated. We went to the front door and noticed it was closed. I asked mom if she had been hungry, and she kept repeating no. I pulled out of the parking lot and decided we could drive around until the store opened at 11 am, just like old times. Mom and I on the hunt for some birthday treasures. Upon my yakking to my mom all the potential plans for the day at a stoplight, I noticed she was quiet…far too quiet. As the light turned green, so did my face; I turned to look at my mother’s immobile face.
    Her eyes were wide open, arms straight out in front of her in my tiny little Civic.
    “MOM!” I yelled, followed by “mother”, then finally “mommy. Thirty of the longest seconds later, she emerged from the electric shocks to her brain, struggling to find any words at all.
    “What?” she said gently as she stretched, as if waking from a nap.
    “Mom, what was that? Does dad know this happens?” I didn’t want to bombard her with questions, not yet. The liquid heat from my eyes would not stop, fear encompassing me. What had I just seen?
    She didn’t want to be taken to a hospital, because she never thought a thing was wrong. How many times had this happened without anyone noticing? She asked if we could stop as soon as she felt nauseous. We pulled into the parking lot of a home furnishing store, and just sat. She looked overcome. Everything I said, my soliloquy of hope of her healing, my anger at God,  and reminiscence, didn’t even pass through her ears, but hit like a brick wall. She didn’t look well, so I followed her wishes. We went home.
    After guiding her through the front door, she immediately excused herself to the bathroom; her retching was loud and strained. I pounded on my brother’s door, telling him that I must take mom to the hospital. He seemed nervous, but not as terrified as I felt. I called my dad, telling him of what happened, and he demanded she go to the emergency room. How funny, my mother and I spent another day in the hospital on a bright sunny September day, in the same city no less, of where I was born.
    I checked her in, grown-up me, trying not to crumble with my mother who didn’t know what was going on. I sent an e-mail before we left to my friends and church members asking for prayer. My pastor came, and she sat with us. Her gift of good humor helped Mom cope with her sickness, and me with my despair. She stayed with us through most of the day, through the catheter, the questions about what day it was and who was the President. Who I was. Scary questions that I didn’t know if I wanted the answer to.
    “Mrs. Hagen, what year is it?”
    “1987. It’s Christine’s birthday.”
    I tried to stay strong, but tears would not stop. My father was not with me, but at work. Persistently I begged him to come, that she needed him: I needed him. He finally stopped what he was doing, checked out of his denial, and came to help take care of Mom.  
    She was finally moved to a proper room, with a connected bathroom, television, and privacy. She liked that bed much better, and I liked that we could sit down for once. Three days total, she stayed. They did MRIs, CT scans, physical tests as well as mental. They gave her IV after IV of anti-seizure medication. So, that was what that was.
    After her first day, she became a little more like herself. Jokes about politicians with the nurse, complaining about the food like her normal self, little by little my Mom was returning to herself. Despite the electronic monitors glued to her skull, I thought she looked radiant as the life started to return back to her. The third day, though, was the day that brought us more hope than I’d experienced in a while.
    The doctor said that some wires were crossed, and that he wasn’t sure he thought it was Alzheimer’s. He said that something should’ve been done a long time ago, but that not all hope was lost. There were therapies, speech and writing, and that she maybe could recover. Not one hundred percent, but almost there.
    Having answered the discharge questions about the year and the month, she had to sign her release papers. I was nervous, and looked to my dad. He looked apprehensive to have her try to sign for herself, nudging me to move in closer.
    “Can I help you, Mom?” slowly tripped out of my mouth.
    “Nah, I’ve got it,” her typical response to me offering help.
    She grabbed the pen and took a moment to readjust her grip. Maybe a few times, even. She adjusted her glasses, like always, and scrunched up her face to where her nose was wrinkly. I was hoping this would work, that she would save herself the pain of failure.
    The pen, shaky and heavy, touched the paper. It coursed to map out the backwards “F” of my mother’s name, how she always wrote. It was a little rough, yet still flowery enough for me to know it was hers. She wrote her name for the first time in months. My dad and I about died of joy, if that’s such a thing.
    Months have passed, and hope is still in sight. We still sometimes go to our old places, like Valley View, but the change is too much. She acknowledged that maybe its failure is that we stopped going, that we are powerful enough to keep something afloat. We walk past our Dillard’s that closed many years ago, both of us reminiscing of more than a life full of consumerism; we miss our adventures and the countless hours spent together discovering much about the world around us.  
    Her despair is no longer all-consuming, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. There are good days still, amongst a sea of bad ones, where she prefers the comfort of a daytime talk show over venturing into the world. Mom can now answer the phone sometimes when I call. Even when she asks the same questions over again, I know she doesn’t mean anything by it and wishes she was the same. I’m just glad our conversations are getting easier, despite the occasional word or phrase departing her brain before it could pass through her lips.
    Despite all this transformation, if you will, my mother remains strong. She wouldn’t be the first to tell you, though, as she is still so modest. Her sense of humor and laugh, ever infectious, helps me to cope with all of this mess. She is more courageous, beautiful, and tenacious than I have ever recalled. I don’t mind holding her hand anymore, as long as it’s there to hold.
   

You are not your job.

I've come to terms with some things recently.

Believe it or not, I am fully into being an adult. As odd a confession this may seem, it hasn't hit me until I remembered I am married, have a car payment, and work 40 hours a week. My parents are aging, I am getting tired easier, and I discuss doing taxes with one of my best friends.

I know I am not conventionally thought of as old, and how that term, when applied to myself, offends people that are older than me. It's true that I feel and actually am older than I've ever been, of course, so that means there is a motivation more than ever to do what the heck I want to do before it isn't feasible.

On and off, I've been working on a documentary about my favorite childhood shopping mall. Unfortunately, it's seen better days and is scheduled for demolition within the next few years. It seemed like everything I've done--research, attempting to interview, the footage that I've managed to sneak--has been for nothing. I keep hitting brick walls every time I turn around. This leads me to take a break, reevaluate my angle, and see if I can get through in another way.

I enjoyed researching. Though painful at times, it reminded me of fun excursions with my family on random Saturdays or secretly shopping for Mom's Christmas present, stopping to get a root beer before heading home. Hunting for pictures, old television ads--this process is challenging. But I love it.

At work Monday, during our communal breakfast, I was sitting with some of my fellow faculty just hanging out, eating eggs and bacon. It had been a whole week of not seeing anyone and it was nice to catch up. Before you know it, our table is completely full, and I exchange hellos with some of the people that sit down next to me.

I get nervous talking to people often, even if they are my coworkers.

So, as I was talking to the people I previously joined, the newcomers start discussing this mall. They were speculating the future of it, using words like I think, and I've heard. Well, I thought I could offer some more concrete clarity, with the use of I know and I've seen.

Boy, was I naive.

I offered the three of them information, the scoop on what stores are planning what, the next plan for the entire area, and so on. I expected them to be impressed. Maybe I'm a nerd, but hey, this knowledge I've been storing up has finally been a necessity in me not looking like a freak. But of course I still look like a freak to them.

The nicest person in the group cocked her head. Her eyes became small, and she had a suggestive smirk on her face.

"So, how exactly do you know all this?"

I explain that I have been interested in the mall my whole life, and I was (and am) working on a documentary about the mall. It's always been a fascination of mine. What can I say? I like to know everything I can about the things that I like.

Well, as the words kept leaving my mouth, their eyes kept getting bigger; shocked, surprised, baffled. The Nice One finally says:

"You? But you work in the library? How would you know about doing that?"

I just half-smiled as they laughed. They continued talking, and I looked back at my empty plate.

I know I'm different. I thought this place was safe for someone who is different.

This got me thinking. Does there need to be a correlation between my work (library stuff) and my true passion (filmmaking)? Obviously, I would love to write, produce, act, direct, everything full time. Unfortunately, in Dallas it's not a likely reality for me any time soon. I know I am talented enough, there's just not much work here unless you 1. don't have a 40-hour-a-week job and 2. look like a pencil with huge boobs and blonde hair.

How dare you assume that because I hold a certain position many consider "boring" that I cannot hold any interest outside of our main product? I am a human, as are you. Do I think all she does is read about learning, watch documentaries about education, or tutor kids in her spare time? Absolutely not. It would be unfair of me to cheat her out of telling me about her life, showing me her character, if I assumed she did any of those things. Just because you enjoy your job, do it well, and want to keep doing it well, doesn't make it your life. It's not everything important about you.

If there is one message I want to get across, it is this:

YOU ARE NOT YOUR JOB.

I don't care if you're an astronaut,

an actress,

the President,

or a librarian.

You are not the job title given to you. You are not a salary, an income bracket, a tax deduction, a number, a parking space, or a briefcase.

You are a person. 

I have to remind myself of this daily now. My husband told me once, long ago when we first started dating, that I need to stop saying that I want to be an actress someday. If I want to be one, I am one. I am a writer. I am an artist, I am a film maker. I have had enough of people assuming my life goals for me, assuming that they know best when they obviously don't ask me, let alone talk to me, at all. 

I am not my job.

I am so much more.

 

Popped: short

I can stop when I want to.

Isn't that the lie all addicts tell themselves at some point? Maybe it's after that first sip, where they feel as though they are floating through air and are about to reach nirvana. Or, when they've realized, later on, what a mistake they've made and they're asking themselves how they can get out.

Are you there, God? It's me, the addict.

I've told myself I can quit, that I will quit, and that I should quit. If not for my health, for my figure. If not for my figure, my pocketbook. If not for my pocketbook, for the pure sake of being that counterculture person that everyone acts like they despise, but wishes they could be.

I am not this person.

As I sit here in my car, it's all I think about. I start my day off with the nectar of the gods, and slowly enjoy it through the rest of the day. At night, it only is partaken of if I have a certain type of dinner. Yes, I drink with fast food, which is probably the worst decision of all. As if I'm not already destroying myself.

My tongue tingles with the apprehension of something cool and refreshing. It hopes that I will listen to that part of my brain that says I am not strong enough to do what is best for myself, but what is most delicious.

The weight sitting on my frame, about average, I would suspect, feels like an unwelcome guest. I don't know if its visceral or the other term used in the media to make me feel disgusting. I don't know if my blood pressure is high, if I'm at risk of diabetes, or if I repel the opposite sex.

I am more than this.

But now as I sit here, thinking about if it's worth the money or not, I decide that it is. It's worth every drop of pleasure and regret. I could become healthy and break free from this demon, or I could embrace it. Life is short.

I turn off my car. I get out, and immediately feel a sense of excitement. Perhaps because I am going to do something taboo in front of people? That's most likely the cause of the restless butterflies in my gut. I pull open the door, the cool air brushing the little strands of hair away from my face, only to pull them back again like the tide. I look around. There are families here. Most likely they are judging me, I assume, as almost all people are judged as soon as you see them. Quantifiers, if you will, but they truly are judgments.

My purse feels heavy.

My stomach feels heavy.

My feet feel heavy.

I ignore the eyes fixated on me, my chubby exterior, and am doubting myself up until the very minute I hear--

“Welcome to McDonald's, what can I get for you?”

I act like nothing is wrong. It's a casual restaurant, and people come here all the time.

Nothing new.

“Hi, I'd, uh, like a large Dr. Pepper, please.”

Large. Why did I order a large?

“Is that all for you, ma'am?” the disinterested teenager responded.

“Um, could you make it half ice please?”

I see her eyes twitching, as though they are about to roll back into her head. “You mean, like, light ice?”

“Uh, yes.”

“Will that complete your order?”

I feel as though that is a rhetorical question. My order is never complete, as there will always be Dr. Pepper to drink and fries to eat.

“Yeah.”

“Your total is one-oh-eight.”

I pull out the exact change from my pocket. She didn't need to tell me how much it was. Of course I knew that.

I plop the change into her hand, adjust my glasses, fidget with my purse. There's no way this can bounce or be fake, so please, put it in the register already.

She counts out the change.

There is beeping, of course, and chaos behind the counter. I decide that it is best for me to step away from it. Maybe they'd forget about me. After all, I ordered just a drink.

“Here ya go.”

Her plastic covered finger nails grace the Styrofoam, and I am jealous. That is my job.

I grab it, and notice the men behind me in line for the first time. They glance at me briefly, but I do not think it is to judge. I think it is just a reaction. I think.

As I walk by the condiment table, I grab a straw. Tapping it on the counter, I am used to this routine. It is as if it is second nature, and before I know it, the straw is perfectly in the cup with my mouth securely vacuumed to it.

I am an addict.

But I can stop when I want to.

New directions (this is not a Glee reference)

Sometimes change is good. Hell, who am I trying to fool--I like change. I get bored with routines, then don't stick with whatever plan it was (losing weight, washing my clothes every day, writing my blog weekly). It's pretty pathetic. My mind is curious and wanders, so when it's satiated in some knowledge, it moves to the next.

For a long time I was fine with this. It meant I was creative or something, but to be honest it makes me feel lazy and like I have severe ADD. I don't want to believe either of those things about myself, so here's the deal.

My husband suggested I put some of the things I've been writing out here for the world to see. He likes them, and is maybe tired of being the guinea pig for all the stuff I write. A lot of it lately has to do with being fat in a superficial city, one that has more money than it knows what to do with. I've been writing for lots of projects, but this one is very near and dear to my heart.

So, with that, I'm going to make a promise to myself to write whenever inspiration hits and to not give up. I'm not the greatest writer, but I love doing it. It's what makes my soul feel alive, like the ultimate puzzle. It's figuring myself, the world, and my place in it out. Too corny or mushy? Sorry, I get that way sometimes. Not my fault.

I'm going to post a short story I wrote, and am thinking of turning into a web series. Maybe a short film. I'm not sure. But, it's personal. It's terrifying to me to have you, unnamed visitor, read.

Here's to 20forward part 2.

-ch

I didn't forget about you.

Promise.

New blog coming this weekend.

Resources for the Overwhelmed

If you're like me, you like to research things. How to write a screenplay? I only read the script for Juno like a million times. What area is cool, fun, and isn't brimming with crime? I found that after twenty or so apartment visits, looking at crime blotters, and lots and lots of prayer.

This ketogenic diet  is pretty confusing at times; can I have nut butters or not, how many carbs am I not supposed to eat, will I freakin' survive?

Well, I've been reading AMA (Ask Me Anything) on Reddit of people who have, in fact, not only survived but have lost significant amounts of weight and kept it off. They mention things like counting carbs, obvs, but also weighing food, taking pictures, and being creative with their meals.

Since I'm starting this crazy journey, I've decided to log all the websites I've been finding helpful in educating me on the health factors, as well as the amazing recipes and stories of those that have survived and conquered.

Here are those little corners of the web that are helping me in this journey.

/r/keto or /r/xxketo: These are two of my favorite resources. Reddit, in case you don't know, is an internet forum where people can come to share ideas, pictures, or links. These two subreddits have a LOT to offer, from inspirational stories (also check out /r/progresspics), recipe swaps, and food reviews.

Nerd Fitness leans more towards the Paleo route, but nonetheless is an amazing source of motivation and learning about weight loss in general. I'm actually starting the body weight exercise training on here. It's pretty simple...just don't let that fool you. They also use Lego guys in a bunch of the illustrations.

I Breathe, I'm Hungry has AMAZING recipes. I'm jealous I didn't come up with some of these but so excited to try them out. There are also sample eating plans on there.

Ruled.me has a little bit of everything! The science behind ketosis and the diet, eating plans, and recipes. I like how it is organized, and they use pictocharts. This has helped me a lot with planning on eating keto on a budget.

Caveman Keto is the epitome of the keto website. Everyone who is anyone will guide you to this site first, everyone on Reddit loves it, and he even replies on the /r/keto subreddit! Tons of great, easy beginning plans. In fact, when I first tried keto in August, I lost 8-10 lbs. just doing his 7 day meal plan alone. I just get bored of things fast, and didn't like having those huge casseroles all the time.

Those are the resources I'm relying on for the most part, but will post other websites I come across here. I'm going to put my starting pics/measurements up soon. Also, feel free to friend me on My Fitness Pal.

Woohoo!

-C

Boy, You're Gonna Carry That Weight

I did it. It was difficult to convince myself, to push myself to finish what I've started, but I did it.

I worked out.

You probably don't know this, but it's taken me the courage of a thousand lifetimes to decide to take care of myself, take control of my life, and start over again.

At 26, it's a bit different than it was at 24, than it was at 22. I feel the same on the inside, but my body cannot keep up with the 224 pounds of flesh stifling it. My body is all out of whack, along with a lot more personal stuff, and I'm sick of it. I don't have much youth left, though I may be acting fatalistic on this one, but I want to spend it healthy, happy, and doing the things I love with my husband.

I have so much more to live for now than I ever have before.

That also may be a tad bit dramatic...but I've decided that our future depends on me becoming healthy. There have been SO. MANY. EXCUSES. for me not to do this. If I do complete this task, though, all the excuses that I used simply won't exist anymore. At least in the same way.

So, here I am, sitting in my sweaty workout gear, thawing chicken in hopes to make a low carb, high fat meal (I'll probably write about that some other time), that will only be the first of many.

This time, I can do this