codependency

The journey of self-care

“For to see the end from the beginning is a sign that it’s already finished. It’s just a matter of walking it out to completion.“
Dorothy E. Young

I read this on another Tiny Pepper’s NanoPoblano 2018 blog the other day.

It struck me with its profundity. It seemed quite biblical.

  • I can’t see the end of this journey I’m on. I see the transformation pictures of other women who started out my weight and judgy, cynical, self-defeating thoughts start popping in my brain like popcorn. Thoughts like:
    • How skinny is skinny enough?!?
      I could never get THAT small.
      That’s just too thin.

    The fact of the matter is that it doesn’t matter what their size is and it’s not mandated that I get that small and have my body look like theirs. Their journey is different than mine. Their whys are probably different than mine. They are different from me. We are all unique and special in our own way. So are our journeys.

    We do have something in common, though, other than our need/desire to lose weight.

    Learning how to care for ourselves well is key to making it through to the end of this stage of our life’s journey AND not having to go through this stage again.

    Ultimately, many self-care habits and routines are going to vary as much as those of us on this journey do. However, the basics are all the same:

    • Nutrition
    • Activity
    • Rest
    • Relaxation
    • Passionate purpose

    There are some internal prerequisites to achieve those basics. The first of which is deciding that you have value, that your life matters, and your needs are as important as anyone else’s needs.

    That belief in one’s own value leads to the second prerequisite: boundaries. What are those?

    • The ability to say, “No,” to unreasonable demands and requests, is a key boundary.
    • The ability to decide how to deal with and whether to take the criticisms, snide & snarky remarks, manipulation, and verbal abusiveness, all of which are so prevalent in our lives.
    • The ability to stand up for one’s self and assert the right to exist, breathe, and occupy the space you’re in, unapologetically.

    These are the foundation of this journey of healing, recovery, and growth we’re all on. Once those things are in place, as much is possible, then, self-care is possible. Once caring for and about oneself is primary, then, belief in our own abilities comes next and we become unstoppable…even if we can’t see the end from the beginning, at first.

    This is the 4th post for

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    NanoPoblano – November 2018 Daily Blog Challenge

    🤔 You’ve probably noticed, or maybe not, how dormant my blog has been for a long while. Periodically, I try to jumpstart my writing by doing a daily blog post challenge. This is another such effort.

    The past few times I started a challenge, I haven’t been able to do the full month before…life. My hope and my plan is to incorporate my life into this month’s effort.

    By that I mean I’m going to bring y’all up to speed with the things that have been going on in my life this year, especially the past couple of months:

    • Parenting
    • Autism
    • ADHD
    • Bipolar 2 disorder
    • PTSD
    • WW (formerly Weight Watchers)
    • Binge Eating Disorder & Compulsive Eating

    are among the things I’ll write about. There may even be a haiku or two and other poetry tossed into the mix.

    Welcome and thanks for joining me on this journey.

    Click above to find other NanoPoblano bloggers.

    Writing Prompt: Photo Challenge & Word of the week.

    Packing It In

    We’ve lived like this
    for far too long.
    We no longer kiss.
    With you, I’m always wrong.

    You have too much anger,
    I’m too sad.
    We’ve lost our anchor.
    Together, we’re bad.

    This negativity can’t last.
    I want you as friend, not foe.
    I think our time is past.
    It’s time to let go.

    What’s next will be hard.
    It will be rough.
    We’ve both been scarred,
    but, we’re tough.

    I know you see what I see.
    There’s nothing left to say.
    This is what needs to be.
    We must go our own way.


    Word of the week: packing

    Writing Prompt: Predictive Text Poem

    One of my fellow #PoetsOfInstagram issued the challenge to use only predictive text to write something. I was quite surprised this came out of it. It’s like a reminder to myself.

    One-sided Conversation

    Do you want us both in the way we are? I just don’t think I can understand how you can do this. Yes, I know that you’re going through a lot. Yes, I’m sorry about the last time we were there. Yes, I know you have a good feeling about your life. I just don’t want to be with you.

    Obsession vs Mindfulness

    So, there’s this guy…

    We “met” online about three weeks ago, then met in person a few days after that. He’s legitimately in the military and was visiting home, on leave. Less than 36 hours after meeting in person, he was back on base…the length of our two states away.

    I can’t stop thinking about him. We message, chat, or FaceTime daily. I find myself checking the apps we communicate on, almost constantly. I have to stop myself from sending WAY too many messages. In other words, I’m obsessed. I feel consumed by this and, at the moment, I feel powerless against it.

    It’s especially frustrating because I know this “relationship” isn’t going anywhere significant. It’s just for now and worth appreciating what it is, without constantly thinking about when it’s over (future focus) or why it even happened (past focus). Most “now” focus, unless we happen to be interacting, is spent worrying if my obsession is actually bleeding through and making him not want to be with me…the twisted story in my head.

    I’m beginning to suspect that part of what is driving this is my favorite PTSD coping mechanism, avoidance. According to my (recently former) therapist, something else that can be making this so intense are the layers and layers of unresolved, unprocessed feelings from past experiences.

    Whatever the reason, all I know is that thoughts associated with him are intrusive and are consuming my ability to focus on anything else…including my attempts at mindfulness.

    I’m learning that part of mindfulness isn’t fighting the thoughts, but to observe them, acknowledge them, and come back to the present without self-judgment.

    Letting go of self-judgment…how does one DO that?

    At any rate, I observed myself obsessing over this guy most of the day. The exceptions were when I was in physical therapy…that demanded my complete attention…and when I was zoning out on food. But, not even my self-harm with food was completely successful in avoiding the thoughts.

    I guess my mindfulness practice today was to observe the amount of time, energy, and attention this obsession is consuming.

    The following graphics are the poetry spawned by this…the order is most recent to oldest:

    Eating Myself Sick (pt. 2)

    Yesterday, I started writing about my most recent downward spiral into a binge eating episode. Now, for the rest of the story.

    Two days ago was “Family Fun Friday” at my daughter’s school. Her dad decided he wanted to go and would pick us up, to go as a family, at 7:30 am. Every night my daughter doesn’t go to sleep before 10 pm, no matter how hard I try. Every morning, it’s a fight to get her awake, dressed, and out the door by 8:30 in time to catch her bus. It was very stressful knowing I not only had to have her up and ready an hour earlier, but, that I would also be in his presence, with his moodiness and anger over his current circumstances and belief that I’m to blame for the situation he’s in because I left the relationship nearly two years ago.

    There was no time for a healthy or filling breakfast. So, I wound up eating two half pieces of pastry and half a muffin, along with a large cup of coffee with several creamers, while we were at the school. After we left and were on our way to where I volunteer weekly, less than two miles from his place, the arguing and criticism started. Then, he expected me to use his truck to go do my volunteering at the church. That way, I would go back with him when he picked our daughter up from school. No, thank you.

    I wound up at his place, but, I didn’t take his truck. So, the angry texts started coming. Emotional manipulation and empty threats of a non-violent, but psychologically traumatizing nature started coming. Intellectually, I knew that the threats were empty, that his beliefs weren’t my truths, and that I’m not responsible for making him feel better. However, it didn’t stop the PTSD sensations of severe anxiety and overwhelm from taking over. I was jittery. My emotions were in turmoil. I couldn’t stop thinking of the “what if’s” and trying to formulate plans against them.

    Anxiety at that level completely shuts down my ability and desire to eat anything. This effect results in a binge later. When I left the building and took the hour long transit trip home, I was okay. As I got off the bus and started approaching my home, I could feel the tension and anxiety rising. So, I decided that I was going to go do something else with safe people for the night, and left almost as soon as I got home. Then, something happened that triggered my sense of obligation, and my fatigue was so extreme, I just went back home.

    I made a healthy-ish choice for eating, which sort of satisfied the nutritional hunger. Time to relax and self-soothe. Catch up on recorded shows and try to knit a scarf for my son’s birthday, three days away.

    However, as the evening went on, both a physical and mental/emotional hunger grew. Unfortunately, I happend to have a little bit of cash. I checked the balance of my SNAP benefits. I could go get something to eat at the grocery store and make a healthier choice between Popeye’s and Safeway. I got dressed and went out the door. As I got closer to the bus stop to go to the grocery store, the aching in my thighs from all the walking I’d done this week and the overwhelming fatigue washed through me. Then I saw the bus go by.

    I checked to see when the next one would come. Nine minutes. Not much time at all, but too long to sit and wait in the chilly night at the bus stop. Okay. Keep moving and walk to the next bus stop. Check the time. Five more minutes. Look up. A yellow, orange, and red beacon in the night – Popeye’s. It’s just a minute’s walk, then I can sit down. When I leave, I’ll still be close enough to walk home.

    $6.99 special: Two tenders and four shrimp, a side, and a drink. Sounds good. Coke, please. Yes, honey for the biscuit! Do you have butter? Oh, it’s REAL? Even better. Cajun fries for the side. Thank you for the coupons.

    Sit by myself, put my headphones on, and start watching a recorded show on my phone. A text from the ex. An update on our daughter and her complaining of a headache and upset tummy. More criticism for not updating him during the week or having her call him.

    Mmmm. That honey and butter on that biscuit sure is good. The rest though, meh, but I eat it anyway.

    In comes a group of women. Loud laughter and conversation. Friends having a night in on a food run. On the outside, looking in. Thoughts and emotions swirling on the inside. Calm and still on the outside. I look down and see the coupons I’ll never use.

    “Do you guys eat here a lot?”

    “Mmmhmm,” head nods.

    “Do you want my coupons? I’ll never use them. Oh, sorry, they’re sticky from the honey.”

    Home again. Anxious again. Minor relationonal skirmish. Isolation. Knit and watch t.v.

    Knock, knock, knock. “Come in.”

    “Here. I ordered late night pizza,” two slices of pizza and a hunk of cheese filled bread in a small, long Domino’s box.

    Gone.

    5:00 a.m. nausea.

    When self-soothing turns into self-abuse, it’s time to admit there’s a problem…again.

    “Hi. My name is Lillian. I’m a food addict.”

    Now, to figure out how to unravel and disconnect the eating from the PTSD and my relationships before I kill myself with food.

    Eating myself sick (pt. 1)

    I guess it’s time to get back to recovery basics, when it comes to my eating.

    Yesterday was hard. It was the perfect storm of hormonal cycles, PTSD triggers, and physical exhaustion. Truthfully, the eating spiral started while I was working on my food plan and trying to figure out how to make it work.

    The rationalizations and justifications of, “I’m starting tomorrow, so I’ll enjoy this bacon, egg, potato burrito with country gravy and a Coke for breakfast, now,” and, “After all, you’re not supposed to go shopping on an empty stomach, right?” were the first steps on the slippery slope of my binge eating disorder.

    Eating has been my consistent “go to” for self-soothing/self-medicating ever since I was a pre-adolescent. It started after I told my mom about my step-dad having molested me for the previous two years and we wound up going and living with my grandmother.

    Dolly Madison Donut Gems in the morning for breakfast before school. Extra chocolate milk at school for lunch. Burger King on the way home from school with my mom. Snack or dinner while visiting grandma at the cafeteria she worked evenings at, during her lunch break. KFC when grandma got home after 9 p.m. from her job. Neither mom or grandma knew how much or how often I was eating. It was offered and I accepted. It replaced the “love and affection” I’d lost when my step-dad stopped paying attention to me  – which was the whole, warped reason I told my mom in the first place.

    Getting fed was the way I felt like I was cared about and mattered…at home. At school, it was definitely self-soothing to drink that second chocolate milk. We’d moved several times during that year and I wound up in an inner city school in Houston. There was a large Latino population, a slightly smaller Black population, and a small White population. I didn’t fit into any of them. I talked White, was obviously a “half-breed” Latina, and obviously not Black. it was 1980, in Texas. Mixing races was very much frowned upon. Add into it that I was the “new kid” in sixth grade. I was either ignored or shunned, depending on which group of students I tried to interact with. So, I ate alone. That second chocolate milk and seconds on food, if it was available, filled in the interminable time between the end of one class and the beginning of the next, otherwise known as lunch and recess.

    If I focused on how good the food tasted and how it filled me up, then I didn’t have to pay attention to the taunting or the isolation.

    After school, mom would meet me in front and we would walk home, just talking about our days. These are vague memories, at best. However, I know that I enjoyed that time with her. Whenever, she could, she’d take me to the Burger King that was between the school and the apartment we shared with my grandma. Sitting there and eating my Whopper Jr. with fries and soda, extended my time with her. Time that was easy and uncomplicated. Time when I felt like she saw me and that I was loved.

    Snack/dinner at Picadilly Cafeteria, where grandma worked, was usually an obligation kind of thing. Mom didn’t want grandma to know she’d fed me at BK. So, on those days, I’d have a snack – usally fried okra. I love the taste and texture of fried okra done right. Other days, when we hadn’t stopped at BK, I’d get a full meal. Mom and grandma, sitting with me while I ate, having quiet and easy conversation. Those were our family time meals.

    Grandma LOVED Kentucky Fried Chicken, Original Recipe! My memory tells me she came home with a bucket nearly every night. My adult reasoning says it couldn’t have been nearly that often. Anyway, I was usually still awake, despite it being close to 10 p.m. If I was awake, the smell of the chicken was so good and grandma was so sure I hadn’t had enough to eat. So, I would eat…again.

    So, food was how I knew I was loved. Food was how I received comfort and suffered through rejection and isolation. Eating was a deception and obligation for emotional safety. It was never about nourishment or health. It was always about emotion and relationships.

    I suppose not much has changed on that front. On Thursday night, despite having eaten two very healthy and sustaining meals, one of which I stopped eating when I was satiated, that good ‘ole Southern comfort food got brought into my Trauma Recovery and Empowerment Model group and I filled my plate. I overfilled it! Homemade mac ‘n cheese, homemade potato salad, greens & ham, and fried fish were irristable.

    This was the fourth time I’d been in this room with these women, many of whom are African American, all of whom have experienced significant DV trauma. Some are recovering from substance addictions. None of whom did I feel a connection to. I was always uncomfortable in this room, with these women. All I could see was why I didn’t fit with them and the reasons why they wouldn’t feel like I should be there with them. I guess I was mentally back in that sixth-grade school yard in Houston.

    But, that food! It was common ground. I was sitting at a table with a Latina and a White girl, surrounded by Black women. All of these women are so strong and so inspiring and I’d been so intimidated and unsure that I could be accepted by them. I ate, everything, after stating I’d gotten way too much and that I probably couldn’t finish it all.

    Well, I finished it after a particular topic came up while we were eating and I got triggered into sharing a very painful memory of loss from five and a half years ago. Then, I ate a piece of homemade apple pie for desert.

    Sorry this is so long. If you’re still reading, thanks for hanging in there. To be continued tomorrow.