I think one of the most eye-opening things that I have learned in the last few years is that if I have a problem in one area of my life, I can usually look to every other area and see the reflection of my problem staring back at me. And while this can be problematic, making the problem appear to be much bigger than it actually is, it's also quite helpful. It allows you to tackle the problem from so many different avenues that it doesn't take a lot of energy to come up with a game plan. As long as you know what problem you are actually dealing with.
We can see this in smaller scales when it comes to our everyday interactions with people. When I have had my pride bruised, I lash out at my husband. When I am stressed with housework, I'm short with the kids. But what about our Big Life Problems? What happens when they permeate our lives, creeping into the crevices of our day-to-day's in such a way that we don't even know they are there? Sometimes, it's obvious. A woman loses her husband and sinks into a depression. It affects her appetite, her relationships, her spiritual life. Everything. But sometimes, it's silent. Sometimes, it's not a wrecking ball, but a single chip in a windshield, and before you know it, your entire world is cracked and you aren't even sure where it started.
A woman has a child and feels like she can maybe do this motherhood thing, but there is also a chance that she could royally screw it up. In fact, the odds are against her. She is still a child herself. Then suddenly she has two children and feels completely overwhelmed. Her husband deploys and she is proven right; she can't do it. Then she moves to England where she meets Really Great Moms, and because comparison is dirty thief, it robs her of a little more of her backbone. She was right. She can't do it. Then suddenly she looks down and sees herself. She can't even take care of herself, how can she be expected to take care of children. She is still a child herself.
Is that where the chip started?
A girl goes off to college and she has no idea what to do with it. People ask her what she wants to major in; she has no plans. She is still a child, how can she decide that? Four years go by and she chooses a path. Is this the right one? How can she tell, when she is still a child? She graduates, and now she can Be Something. She marries the man who stole her heart. The Man. What does he see in her, this child that he chose? How can he see anything all when she can see nothing worth displaying?
Is that where the chip started?
A child. A child.
A child goes through life, always looking to her peers and thinking, I shouldn't be here. I'm not ready for this.
Where did the damn chip start?
I have a certain insecurity. I honestly don't know where it comes from or where it started. But in the last year I've seen its footprints everywhere. I've seen it in my parenting. I've seen it in the relationship with my husband. I've seen it in my relationship with food. I've seen it in my spiritual life. It's everywhere. So how do you deal with something that big? How do you solve a problem when the problem is all you see?
One step at a time. One decision at a time. One change at a time.
It can be overwhelming when you locate an underlying issue like that. It poisons everything, it reflects on everything. But as you start changing, as you start weeding, as you start healing, a little bit at a time, those good changes start reflecting too. They start seeping into other aspects of your life as well. They don't push the problem out; that crack will be there until you heal it. But it makes it manageable.
The most important thing is finding it. When you know it's there, everything is much less confusing. You can make a game plan. You can deal.
My game plan was to take control, take ownership. This is my life, this is my body. No one is responsible for me anymore except for me. It's time to grow up. Eventually, I will look into where my insecurities come from, but right now it's enough for me to know that they are there and that I can do something about them. I can heal the cracks, one at a time, in the order of my choosing, and in the process gain a greater understanding of who it is I am meant to be during this brief life of mine. Because the girl being dragged on the ground by life, beaten and sore from resisting, always looking back, that's not what this life is supposed to look like. And as the cracks are healed, it gets easier and easier to see that.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Saturday, June 2, 2012
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Run For Your Life
There are a lot of things that we can't change in this world. We can't avoid natural disasters. We can't heal all of the sick. We can't rescue all of the oppressed. We can't feed all of the hungry. We can't give water to all of the thirsty.
But we can help some of them.
It's so easy for me to go about my business in my day-to-day life, worrying about whether I am going to get any quiet time that day, whether my show recorded on the DVR, whether I have any of my favorite snack food left. I have no real problems. I sure think I do when things get chaotic and it feels like I am trying to do 1,000 things all at once. But I am not worried that my children will not eat, and I am not worried that my children will be poisoned by the only drinking water I can give them.
But there are mothers who are.
Over the last year and a half, I have come to appreciate how my body operates. I can feel it respond to the food I give it, feel it absorb the water I can pull from my tap whenever I please. Bodies need this nutrition, they need this water. They literally cannot live without it. So people will go to any length to be sure that they and their loved ones have it.
For me, that's turning on my sink. But for some in Africa, it's a hike that is miles long to an unsanitary water source. It's a hike that has to happen, making things like school impossible. It's a hike that brings with it, not the promise of life-giving water, but a russian roulette, a chance that this glass of water may be the one to kill you, but without which you would die anyway.
I've joined the people of Team World Vision in their fight against this solvable problem. $50 is all it takes to provide one person with clean water for the rest of their life. $50. For Christmas this year, I bought my daughter two games for her handheld gaming system. Each was worth $25. Fifty Dollars. I recently bought my son Toy Story birthday party supplies, which totaled around $50. FIFTY. DOLLARS. WATER FOR LIFE. It's astounding, and awesome, and totally doable.
We cannot change much in this world as individuals. But if five people give $10, a child that you will probably never meet, probably won't think of again after a few months, that child will have water. Clean water. And I assure you that he will think of you for the rest of his life. This is life-changing stuff! Life-saving!
If you want to help, you can. On October 14, I will be running the Perkins Great Eastern Half Marathon Run in Peterborough, UK. It's going to be ugly on my part, I assure you, but the discomfort I am sure to feel is not even comparable to the discomfort that some feel every moment of their sometimes very short lives. Click here and either choose to run with me and help raise money and awareness, or make a donation or pledge. No amount is too little. Even encouraging words are appreciated!
This life of ours is meant to be lived big. We cannot do that if we live only for ourselves. Our communities are everything, and that includes those that we have the ability to help even if we may never meet.
But we can help some of them.
It's so easy for me to go about my business in my day-to-day life, worrying about whether I am going to get any quiet time that day, whether my show recorded on the DVR, whether I have any of my favorite snack food left. I have no real problems. I sure think I do when things get chaotic and it feels like I am trying to do 1,000 things all at once. But I am not worried that my children will not eat, and I am not worried that my children will be poisoned by the only drinking water I can give them.
But there are mothers who are.
Over the last year and a half, I have come to appreciate how my body operates. I can feel it respond to the food I give it, feel it absorb the water I can pull from my tap whenever I please. Bodies need this nutrition, they need this water. They literally cannot live without it. So people will go to any length to be sure that they and their loved ones have it.
For me, that's turning on my sink. But for some in Africa, it's a hike that is miles long to an unsanitary water source. It's a hike that has to happen, making things like school impossible. It's a hike that brings with it, not the promise of life-giving water, but a russian roulette, a chance that this glass of water may be the one to kill you, but without which you would die anyway.
I've joined the people of Team World Vision in their fight against this solvable problem. $50 is all it takes to provide one person with clean water for the rest of their life. $50. For Christmas this year, I bought my daughter two games for her handheld gaming system. Each was worth $25. Fifty Dollars. I recently bought my son Toy Story birthday party supplies, which totaled around $50. FIFTY. DOLLARS. WATER FOR LIFE. It's astounding, and awesome, and totally doable.
We cannot change much in this world as individuals. But if five people give $10, a child that you will probably never meet, probably won't think of again after a few months, that child will have water. Clean water. And I assure you that he will think of you for the rest of his life. This is life-changing stuff! Life-saving!
If you want to help, you can. On October 14, I will be running the Perkins Great Eastern Half Marathon Run in Peterborough, UK. It's going to be ugly on my part, I assure you, but the discomfort I am sure to feel is not even comparable to the discomfort that some feel every moment of their sometimes very short lives. Click here and either choose to run with me and help raise money and awareness, or make a donation or pledge. No amount is too little. Even encouraging words are appreciated!
This life of ours is meant to be lived big. We cannot do that if we live only for ourselves. Our communities are everything, and that includes those that we have the ability to help even if we may never meet.
Control Freak.
I often wonder about how I was able to pack on so many pounds so quickly. Some of the weight can be attributed to baby-weight, but in reality, most of it came before Alex and after Eli. So there must be something else. I really do love to blame the babies, though. It's convenient. Everybody gains weight when they have children. It's expected. It's one of the small areas in the world of a Woman's Weight that has yet to be touched by Hollywood, try as they might to make it seem normal to lose it all within a month or two of childbirth. And then, sure, it's hard to lose it because now? You have a BABY. A baby that does THINGS. And takes TIME. And doesn't SLEEP. And gosh all I really want to do is just SLEEP.
But see, my problem was that when I popped Eli out, I weighed 175. At my biggest since having him, I was 207. That was not baby-weight, as much as I like to tell myself. That was 'Bout To Lose My Damn Mind weight. That was Things Done Hit The Fan weight. That was I've Lost Control Of Just About Every Other Aspect Of My Life So Of Course I Would Lose Control Of My Waistline weight.
Control is a funny thing. I think it's a part of human nature to crave it, even if you aren't a controlling person. I like to think that I am a go-with-the-flow kind of person (though, change can throw me if it's overwhelming... see my size 18 pants for further details). But I still need to feel like I control something. Anything. I need something that I can look at when everything else is spinning around in patternless craziness, and I can say that this... this is stable, this is under my control, I control this. And for a long time, that stable line that I thought I had was food. When the babies were crying and the husband was deployed and the moving boxes were being packed and the funerals were taking place, at the very least, I could control what I put in my mouth. And I said that. A lot. That I get to eat this huge bowl of ice cream after the kids go to bed because it was my reward. And I get to have this beer(s) because dang, it was a rough day. And I get to have six slices of pizza because, dude, can't you tell I'm freaking out? It was the One Thing I could control. I saw the weight coming on, but I didn't care, because I am a grown human and I get to decide what I eat. I was in survival mode. I just needed to survive. One day at a time.
And then we arrived in England. And life settled down. And the weight continued to creep on, albeit at a slower pace. And it brought me to a day that had me laying on the couch, crying because the reality of my situation finally caught up with me. My husband, who I love and appreciate more than I would ever be able to describe, sat in front of me on the floor and did not deny anything. But he did say that he knew that I had it in me somewhere to make the decision and to change. There was no sugar-coating, there was just an arm, a promise to do it together. To get healthy for the kids and for each other, yes, but mostly for ourselves. It was time.
Control is a funny thing. I thought I had control over the intake of food. But the complete opposite was true. It was controlling me, and it made me like it. Calling a person who sits down to huge portions and constant snacking and nasty food someone who is controlling their situation is like calling a person who is swerving down the road in their car someone who is controlling the steering wheel. I ate those things because I had no control. I ate that much because I had no control.
So that is what most of my journey has been so far. A lesson in control. I still fail sometimes. I don't blink twice when it comes to sweets, but man... I can't have an open bag of chips or box of crackers in my house. Because I lose my control. I give it up, I toss it aside. I close my eyes to the reality of my situation. But then it's done. And I open my eyes and decide to regain control. I make the decision to have control about 50 times a day. Every day. And sometimes it sucks. And sometimes I lose. But it's a decision. It's a choice. Every damn day.
But see, my problem was that when I popped Eli out, I weighed 175. At my biggest since having him, I was 207. That was not baby-weight, as much as I like to tell myself. That was 'Bout To Lose My Damn Mind weight. That was Things Done Hit The Fan weight. That was I've Lost Control Of Just About Every Other Aspect Of My Life So Of Course I Would Lose Control Of My Waistline weight.
Control is a funny thing. I think it's a part of human nature to crave it, even if you aren't a controlling person. I like to think that I am a go-with-the-flow kind of person (though, change can throw me if it's overwhelming... see my size 18 pants for further details). But I still need to feel like I control something. Anything. I need something that I can look at when everything else is spinning around in patternless craziness, and I can say that this... this is stable, this is under my control, I control this. And for a long time, that stable line that I thought I had was food. When the babies were crying and the husband was deployed and the moving boxes were being packed and the funerals were taking place, at the very least, I could control what I put in my mouth. And I said that. A lot. That I get to eat this huge bowl of ice cream after the kids go to bed because it was my reward. And I get to have this beer(s) because dang, it was a rough day. And I get to have six slices of pizza because, dude, can't you tell I'm freaking out? It was the One Thing I could control. I saw the weight coming on, but I didn't care, because I am a grown human and I get to decide what I eat. I was in survival mode. I just needed to survive. One day at a time.
And then we arrived in England. And life settled down. And the weight continued to creep on, albeit at a slower pace. And it brought me to a day that had me laying on the couch, crying because the reality of my situation finally caught up with me. My husband, who I love and appreciate more than I would ever be able to describe, sat in front of me on the floor and did not deny anything. But he did say that he knew that I had it in me somewhere to make the decision and to change. There was no sugar-coating, there was just an arm, a promise to do it together. To get healthy for the kids and for each other, yes, but mostly for ourselves. It was time.
Control is a funny thing. I thought I had control over the intake of food. But the complete opposite was true. It was controlling me, and it made me like it. Calling a person who sits down to huge portions and constant snacking and nasty food someone who is controlling their situation is like calling a person who is swerving down the road in their car someone who is controlling the steering wheel. I ate those things because I had no control. I ate that much because I had no control.
So that is what most of my journey has been so far. A lesson in control. I still fail sometimes. I don't blink twice when it comes to sweets, but man... I can't have an open bag of chips or box of crackers in my house. Because I lose my control. I give it up, I toss it aside. I close my eyes to the reality of my situation. But then it's done. And I open my eyes and decide to regain control. I make the decision to have control about 50 times a day. Every day. And sometimes it sucks. And sometimes I lose. But it's a decision. It's a choice. Every damn day.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Perspective. (Winning While Losing! Badly! With much Panting!)
I'm a runner.
I'm a RUNNER.
I RUN. For no other reason than to just RUN.
For quite a few years, I always said that I wished I could be a runner. I wish I could just run and run and come back all smiley and fit and bouncy cause I just RAN! 10 MILES! ENDORPHINS!
But I couldn't. Not me. I don't have the legs. I played softball, where all you have to do is run to first base. I don't have the lungs. I'd get all gaspy if I hit a double.
And then I decided that I still wanted to be a runner. Regardless. So I started. Then my husband knocked me up. I'm Pregnant! Can't Run! Followed closely by, I'm Overweight! Can't Run! For... a while. Then, back to Pregnant, then sauntered over to Obese (yahoo!).
But about a year ago, I decided that the freedom I saw in those people jogging on the paths, on the treadmill. I wanted that. So I looked at why I wasn't a runner. Did I have legs? Yep. Did they work? Yep. Did I have a husband who refused me time to spend on myself? Furthest thing from it.
No.More.Excuses.
So I ran. For 30 seconds, and then I got all gaspy. So I walked. Then ran. Then walked.
Slowly the time I ran increased. Then it would decrease if I let running fall by the wayside, as I did a few times. But then I'd pick it up again, dust my shoes off, and keep on going. I remember being SO EXCITED when I ran for 5 minutes. Five Minutes! I'm still proud of those first five minutes. The increase from 1 minute to 5 was by far the hardest one to date. I want to high-five obese me for those five minutes.
Anyway, I kept running, wondering when I could technically call myself a runner. I eventually did a 5k, in which I walked quite a bit and thought I might die once or twice, but I finished. In the middle of the pack no less. About 3 months later I did a 4k with my husband, and with him running by my side, urging me on, I walked less, and sprinted to the finish line, in the middle of the pack. Could I call myself a runner yet?
This past weekend I did my most recent race, a 10k, which is just over 6 miles. I estimated, at the pace I run, it would take me about an hour and half to finish. I run slowly. Very slowly. But I run. So I set a goal, One hour, Thirty minutes. Then I set an unrealistic goal: One hour, Twenty minutes. I told myself that I would be happy with either, and anything in between, and if for some reason it took me longer, that would be ok too, because I would finish.
Paul was running this one with me, but we agreed before hand that he would run at his pace and I would run at mine, and that we'd meet each other at the finish line. As we were stretching and waiting for the gun to go off, I glanced around and mentioned to Paul that everyone looked really serious. They had their worn-in shoes, their tight pants, strappy sunglasses. They looked like runners. I got a little nervous. Could I hang with this crowd?
We got in position, near the back, but not at the back... because... I mean, I'm not that slow. The gun went off, and the herd started moving, slowly as people picked up pace. But then, everyone kept getting faster. Paul kept getting faster. I was there, at my pace that would carry me through the entire 10 kilometers. But they just kept getting faster. Before I knew it, the only two people that were behind me were two women who were walking the 5k. I was at the back. The very back. I was that runner that runs by after you think everybody has passed. And this happened within two minutes of the race starting.
I kept running.
You know those running magazines? The ones full of advice about how to be a runner? There are always articles about your first race. What to expect. What to wear. And there is always, always, a comment about not being nervous about coming last. Because you know why? There will always be someone slower than you. You won't come in last. We aren't even going to give advice about what to do if you come last, because it won't happen!
Well. I ran. I passed about 5 people who couldn't keep up the crazy pace that the half-marathoners had set. But they all stopped at 5k. There were moments in the race where I was entirely alone for 10 minute long stretches, which had me wondering if I missed a marker. It got to the point where I was pretending that the woman pushing the stroller or the elderly couple walking along the path were in the race. PASSED YOU! CAN'T KEEP UP WITH THIS CAN YOU!?!?! Yes, I'm looking at you little bunny rabbit! You scamper off the path! I'm too fast for you! SCAMPER!
I went 5k without walking, just to see what my time would be. They had a water station there, so I was planning on stopping there anyway. I grabbed the water, drained it, kept running. About 5 minutes later, the water gave me a wicked cramp so I walked for another 2 minutes, then kept running. To the finish line. Along the way, I was getting passed by people who were doing the half-marathon, which meant that they had to do an additional loop of about 3 miles before circling back to the main course. Additional 3 miles. They were coming up so fast behind me that I was actually being startled by them. Then they would look back at me as I am wiping their dust from my face and yell, SCAMPER! Or maybe that was in my head.
So then I told myself that I was actually running the half-marathon, and so that meant I was at the front of the pack! Wahoo! Mind tricks!
I chugged. And I chugged. And I chugged. And then I saw the finish line. And then I saw my husband who had come back to cheer me on for the last bit. I passed him with a wiggle of my hand which was meant to say, I appreciate you and I love you but I can't stop because than I won't be able to start my legs again so meet me at the finish line so I can give you a high-five. He understood.
I crossed the finish line. In Dead Last. Last Place. Last. What now, Runner's World?!
I looked at my phone, which was substituting as my iPod/GPS/Timer. One hour, Eleven minutes. Nine minutes faster than my unrealistic goal. I killed it. Slaughtered it. And if that's what last place means? Blowing my goal out of the water and having so many personal bests in the matter of 71 minutes? I'll take it every time.
Because I am a runner.
I'm a RUNNER.
I RUN. For no other reason than to just RUN.
For quite a few years, I always said that I wished I could be a runner. I wish I could just run and run and come back all smiley and fit and bouncy cause I just RAN! 10 MILES! ENDORPHINS!
But I couldn't. Not me. I don't have the legs. I played softball, where all you have to do is run to first base. I don't have the lungs. I'd get all gaspy if I hit a double.
And then I decided that I still wanted to be a runner. Regardless. So I started. Then my husband knocked me up. I'm Pregnant! Can't Run! Followed closely by, I'm Overweight! Can't Run! For... a while. Then, back to Pregnant, then sauntered over to Obese (yahoo!).
But about a year ago, I decided that the freedom I saw in those people jogging on the paths, on the treadmill. I wanted that. So I looked at why I wasn't a runner. Did I have legs? Yep. Did they work? Yep. Did I have a husband who refused me time to spend on myself? Furthest thing from it.
No.More.Excuses.
So I ran. For 30 seconds, and then I got all gaspy. So I walked. Then ran. Then walked.
Slowly the time I ran increased. Then it would decrease if I let running fall by the wayside, as I did a few times. But then I'd pick it up again, dust my shoes off, and keep on going. I remember being SO EXCITED when I ran for 5 minutes. Five Minutes! I'm still proud of those first five minutes. The increase from 1 minute to 5 was by far the hardest one to date. I want to high-five obese me for those five minutes.
Anyway, I kept running, wondering when I could technically call myself a runner. I eventually did a 5k, in which I walked quite a bit and thought I might die once or twice, but I finished. In the middle of the pack no less. About 3 months later I did a 4k with my husband, and with him running by my side, urging me on, I walked less, and sprinted to the finish line, in the middle of the pack. Could I call myself a runner yet?
This past weekend I did my most recent race, a 10k, which is just over 6 miles. I estimated, at the pace I run, it would take me about an hour and half to finish. I run slowly. Very slowly. But I run. So I set a goal, One hour, Thirty minutes. Then I set an unrealistic goal: One hour, Twenty minutes. I told myself that I would be happy with either, and anything in between, and if for some reason it took me longer, that would be ok too, because I would finish.
Paul was running this one with me, but we agreed before hand that he would run at his pace and I would run at mine, and that we'd meet each other at the finish line. As we were stretching and waiting for the gun to go off, I glanced around and mentioned to Paul that everyone looked really serious. They had their worn-in shoes, their tight pants, strappy sunglasses. They looked like runners. I got a little nervous. Could I hang with this crowd?
We got in position, near the back, but not at the back... because... I mean, I'm not that slow. The gun went off, and the herd started moving, slowly as people picked up pace. But then, everyone kept getting faster. Paul kept getting faster. I was there, at my pace that would carry me through the entire 10 kilometers. But they just kept getting faster. Before I knew it, the only two people that were behind me were two women who were walking the 5k. I was at the back. The very back. I was that runner that runs by after you think everybody has passed. And this happened within two minutes of the race starting.
I kept running.
You know those running magazines? The ones full of advice about how to be a runner? There are always articles about your first race. What to expect. What to wear. And there is always, always, a comment about not being nervous about coming last. Because you know why? There will always be someone slower than you. You won't come in last. We aren't even going to give advice about what to do if you come last, because it won't happen!
Well. I ran. I passed about 5 people who couldn't keep up the crazy pace that the half-marathoners had set. But they all stopped at 5k. There were moments in the race where I was entirely alone for 10 minute long stretches, which had me wondering if I missed a marker. It got to the point where I was pretending that the woman pushing the stroller or the elderly couple walking along the path were in the race. PASSED YOU! CAN'T KEEP UP WITH THIS CAN YOU!?!?! Yes, I'm looking at you little bunny rabbit! You scamper off the path! I'm too fast for you! SCAMPER!
I went 5k without walking, just to see what my time would be. They had a water station there, so I was planning on stopping there anyway. I grabbed the water, drained it, kept running. About 5 minutes later, the water gave me a wicked cramp so I walked for another 2 minutes, then kept running. To the finish line. Along the way, I was getting passed by people who were doing the half-marathon, which meant that they had to do an additional loop of about 3 miles before circling back to the main course. Additional 3 miles. They were coming up so fast behind me that I was actually being startled by them. Then they would look back at me as I am wiping their dust from my face and yell, SCAMPER! Or maybe that was in my head.
So then I told myself that I was actually running the half-marathon, and so that meant I was at the front of the pack! Wahoo! Mind tricks!
I chugged. And I chugged. And I chugged. And then I saw the finish line. And then I saw my husband who had come back to cheer me on for the last bit. I passed him with a wiggle of my hand which was meant to say, I appreciate you and I love you but I can't stop because than I won't be able to start my legs again so meet me at the finish line so I can give you a high-five. He understood.
I crossed the finish line. In Dead Last. Last Place. Last. What now, Runner's World?!
I looked at my phone, which was substituting as my iPod/GPS/Timer. One hour, Eleven minutes. Nine minutes faster than my unrealistic goal. I killed it. Slaughtered it. And if that's what last place means? Blowing my goal out of the water and having so many personal bests in the matter of 71 minutes? I'll take it every time.
Because I am a runner.
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