Changing the way I eat to change the way I feel

This isn’t something new for me, eating better to feel better. And I can’t say I’m a junk food addict or anything; the last “fast food” burger I had, or beef burger of any kind, was 3 years ago. I used to think that just eating the chicken pieces, all white meat!, or French fries no salt, was somehow saving me from unhealthy eating but… I was terribly wrong, and all of that went by the wayside even before that burger.

I’m once again shifting to a semi-radical diet change tomorrow, though it’s for rather different reasons than it used to be.
Shifting to a Paleo/SCD diet is not the hardest step for me to make, although no more grains of any kind is difficult in my head – the reality is that I feel horrible after a bowl of GF organic Oatmeal, or having 2 cups of rice instead of a small 1/2, and the two rice cakes as a snack actually seem to cause some serious discomfort (rice cakes?!). It’s not just wheat that bothers me, unfortunately. (It’s wheat, oats, rice, quinoa {ugh that stuff is the worst, I don’t care what everyone else says about it, inflamed for DAYS! No matter how it’s rinsed/prepared}, dairy, red meat, pork, sugar, syrups, honey, most fruits, legumes, beans, potatoes, sweet potatoes, and recently, an increasing number of raw vegetables)

Fortunately though, it seems that others have similar issues and so after weeks of collecting some wonderful recipe books and a refrigerator full of appropriate foods I’m ready to dive in. And cut out the grains.

I don’t have any sense that this will stop my IBS or Crohns – both of which I had tentative dx of 10+ years ago, though they couldn’t find many signs of either internally, because I don’t think I have something that fits so easily(sorry, I know if you have it, it’s not “easy”) into one diagnosis -as I’ve had two doctors remind me of this week alone. Which is hard enough in day to day life, it’s actually taken me out of the loop so to speak, rather efficiently.

But when I read these books most folks start with a phase 1, 2 and/or 3 for good measure, because they are trying to stop uncontrollable bathroom trips, diarrhea and stomach cramps – all of which I used to have. None of which I really have now. I get the stomach cramps, but nothing happens afterwards – which you might think is a relief, but it’s not, because whatever it is that is so upsetting my body? Won’t leave…

Now I have nothing at all. I actually, quite literally, have very minimal sensation or ability to even pass what my body is or isn’t able to process well. But that’s a different post I think (it’s not hirschprung’s, but it is familial; 4th generation here).

Now I’m just hoping to stop inflaming what little sense I have left in my digestive tract, and avoid a 2 week hospital stay with removal of any of my remaining internal organs. If my body isn’t so inflamed from the inside out, it can’t hurt, right?

Goals, anyone???

Here’s to better health, and a happier body.

Goodbye to You, The Death of Me

Why don’t I want to say goodbye? Send you a text and tell you sayonara.

Afraid I suppose, of your reaction, from 7,000 miles away.

Although honestly, I’m afraid of seeing you in person too.

I don’t want to see you.

I want to have a week free of you. Of your texts, of your phone calls, of your presence near me. Of wondering who you’re sleeping with tonight, of who’s touching you tomorrow.

While I hate to point fingers and label blame, the reality is that something about you, affects me more than nearly anyone else ever has. In such a repulsive way too.

I don’t just lie a little, about eating lunch here or liking that color shirt or .. whatever, perhaps even little lies are big lies, but.. the big lies, the really big lies, are all around me when you are here. And you don’t seem to care or notice.

How can you not care?

How can you be so disconnected from us all? That you don’t care if you lie with us, near us, to us, about us..

And why is it so hard to say goodbye to you in spite of this?! Am I really so frightened of what happens without? Without you? Without your support… without your hook into my life.

I guess that’s it, isn’t it. Am I ready to let go of all this space, all these things, to be free. If that is, indeed, what it takes. And will I be free, or will I just find your replacement, another you to teach lessons to another me.

I say I am ready; because living this way leaves me so pale, so… faded. Yet I can’t send you the text I want to, the email I think I should. Or find you where you are, and tell you the truth, my truth, a truth.

That I finally understand you will never, ever change, in this lifetime. That once burned shame on you, 25 times burned… holy shit, what am I doing with you?!

I am scared, of what your response will be more than anything. If I will have to watch my back, look over my shoulder, check my mail, watch every truck that goes by, just to see if it’s you lingering there.

Though perhaps our past should show me more of you and your behavior than anything else.

I thought I’d feel angrier at you right now, but maybe that’s having some space. Or maybe that’s me trying to protect myself. To shield myself from the truth of your lies.

That you would lie so much, that you would tell such things about me to others, to other women you sleep with, that you would treat me this way. A way that if you did it to my mother or my aunt, or my best friend, I would consider how to end you. But to me? To me.. I fail to defend myself.

Someday I will say goodbye, and the death of me now, will be the birth of me, then.

 

Camping in California (or Paranoid in Tentville)

As I lay there on the floor, having set up the tent, sleeping pad and sleeping bag for a test run, wishing the view through the vent was stars, not popcorn ceiling, I started to freak out a little bit.

The signs don’t say:

-Watch for mudslides

-Trail flooded (this one is a bit of a lie, the trail disappears, but that’s another post)

-Cute critters may be encountered

No, they say.. watch for ticks, mountain lions and rattlesnakes.

So while I lay there, cozy in my sleeping bag, I began to imagine the sound of the snake rattling me awake, or the feeling of it slithering by me as I dozed. How many ticks might be roaming the ground. And that purring I hear from outside the tent isn’t my dear kitty, but a wonderful sweet mountain lion smelling the tasty treat wrapped up inside.

Thankfully the fear passed and instead I felt as though I could finally fall into a deep restful sleep, there on the floor.

I don’t know what camping will bring, as I lay there alone, never lonely, but at the first sound of a hiss, mammal or reptilian, I’m skipping California and heading north…

Until then though, there’s so many places to see.

The fear driven life (Fear of Transformation)

transformation-butterfly

I needed, or wanted, or.. wanted and needed to write today, either, and, or I’m here, and lucky you!

I’ve been working through a lot of fear recently.

Fear that leaving my recent “occupation” to create my dream online and in the waking realm will be foolish. That I won’t be valuable outside of, well, the bedroom.

Fear that financially I should wait, or save up, or just suck it up (and ok, not entirely literally there) and sloooowly take one step at a time to get my new plan in motion.

Fear that if I don’t take steps on it now, it will fade away and be too late.

Fear that continuing down that other path would lead me to hate the world, or die of it, or both.

Fear that others will think this a silly idea of mine and won’t support it. (Though so far I’ve met amazing support)

Fear that I’m not taking care of others by taking care of myself.

I’ve been meditating, walking, talking (as my therapist can attest to, and my dear S.O.), thinking, pondering, letting go, waking up, moving on, and finally.. meeting myself in the place where I am truly terrified.

There is a crossroads within, in which several of me from the past are gathered, and they are afraid.

They are the me of my younger years, about 5-8 I’d say.

Afraid of speaking up, of making others uncomfortable with my truths.

Afraid of asking for more, never sure where food will come from or if the phone bill will be paid without my suffering.

Afraid because I feel unworthy.

Afraid that there may not even be a car, or a tent, to sleep in tomorrow.

Afraid that my stepfather will come back in our life, that she won’t be strong enough to say no.

fear

Though I’ve touched on it in other posts, I suppose the time has come within me, to say more.

When I was just a little girl (and actually I hear the song Que Sera start up in my head here.. oy), about 4 years old, and my mother married my stepfather, my life as a happy, cheery, upbeat child ended. Not only was he violent, and verbally abusive with a wicked alcohol problem, but somehow he found his way to know folks involved in child pornography and so this way, did I.

These are details I can’t go into, and perhaps I wouldn’t if I could, maybe, simply because I don’t recall much. I simply recall long car trips with him feeling so lost, so sad, wishing I could disappear or die. He’d tell my mom we were going to Disneyland, but we never made it that far.

I remember old warehouses, an abandoned artichoke factory I believe, dirty mattresses and cameras. And that, is about it.

My behavior changed, of course. I no longer loved to run around naked as a jay bird, happy with the sun on my skin. I hated to see photos of myself, particularly partially undressed (as most babies and toddlers are in pictures now and then), even a bathing suit was too much skin, even years later.. I destroyed every picture I could find like that. I stopped singing. I felt completely alone even surrounded by others.

During this time my mother was in a deep depression and my family was afraid (there’s that fear again) of speaking up and saying something that would upset her. She didn’t always find herself able to work, and so the income of my stepfather was all there was for a while, and some of that came from what I did I know.

But in this lack I was afraid.

Afraid of eating too much, of not being able to afford more, of not being worthy of more.

Afraid of only being worth someone elses pleasure, and not my own.

Afraid of his temper. (You couldn’t even wake him up.. my mother would prod him awake with a broom handle, they didn’t even sleep in the same bed)
Afraid of speaking up and making my family uncomfortable, or sad.

When I was 7 I started taking food from other kids lunch bags at school, my mother was baffled because she packed me a full lunch, but I was always hungry for more.

Eventually I went to see my own therapist, as I’d started to tell my mother I wished I could die.

After she finally left him around 8 years old, we were homeless for about a year. Occasionally we’d stay at a friends for a week or a month or so, but usually there were limits on how long we could stay. We often stayed at motels down by the beach, due to a voucher program at the time; funny how staying in one of the most beautiful places in the world could really be so dark and frightening.

My 9th birthday we were “camping”, because some friends had a tent and sleeping bags we could borrow. My friends didn’t know those particular details, but they showed up and we had a camping party.

I remember after my mother went to the food bank around this time, finding some exceptionally nice treat in the bag, and feeling like I had to eat it slowly, carefully, because I might not get it again, ever.

So much of this was created by my mothers own fears. Of being alone, of not being worthy, of not being good enough that someone like my stepfather, so bruised and battered, would change, or heal for her, of not being enough, of being successful on her own, of being deemed an unfit mother (I didn’t often go to the doctor, and was treated for many things at home).

And here I am, at 35, finding that my fear now? Is centered there.

Afraid that without giving my body away, I won’t be liked.

Afraid that I won’t be worthy of another income, of making it on my own, with my own business.

Afraid that asking for more, more money, more health, more food, more support, more guidance; is asking too much, and that I’m … selfish, and bad for even thinking of it.

Afraid to share my story, my stories, be they pleasant or otherwise, for fear of not saying it perfectly the way they want to hear it.

Afraid to share my dreams, should they be too grand, too bright, too filled with joy and life.

Afraid to stand on my own and be capable, powerful, loved. That the only way to survive is by the grace and gifts of others, not my own.

Yet here we sit, at this crossroads, my younger selves and I. I’m ready to move on. I’m ready to create a new world. After all, there is a new way to see this world and I can see it, live it, and breathe it; if only I can release the fear that doesn’t just slow me down, it holds me back, it drags me down under the water, so fast, and so fierce, so that I’m drowning with no way up.

I’ve been taking baby steps forward, beyond the fear. Though I feel it still, sometimes overwhelmingly so. I’ve run from it my whole life, hidden from it, treated it like the black sheep in the room and done whatever I had to do to keep my head above water, so that I didn’t have to face it.

So I sit with it, with them, and I allow that fear, their fears, to be acknowledged, to be loved, to be acceptable and worthy. There is nothing more I can do for them, but offer them all I am now, the knowledge, the love, the hope I have here, in this moment, that everything will be ok. That they can walk away from the fear and in to light.

eagle

And I leave with that, and lead with this, one of my favorite writings of all time:

Sometimes I feel that my life is a series of trapeze swings. I’m either hanging on to a trapeze bar or swinging along or, for a few moments in my life, I’m hurtling across space in between trapeze bars. Most of the time, I spend my life hanging on for dear life to my trapeze-bar- of-the-moment. It carries me along a certain steady rate of swing and I have the feeling that I’m in control of my life. I know most of the right questions and even some of the right answers.

But once in a while, as I’m merrily (or not so merrily) swinging along, I look ahead of me into the distance, and what do I see? I see another trapeze bar swinging toward me. It’s empty, and I know, in that place in me that knows, that this new trapeze bar has my name on it. It is my next step, my growth, my aliveness coming to get me. In my heart- of-hearts, I know that for me to grow, I must release my grip on the present, well-know bar to move to the new one.

Each time it happens to me, I hope (no, I pray) that I won’t have to grab the new one. But in my knowing place, I know that I must totally release my grasp on my old bar, and for some moment in time, I must hurtle across space before I can grab onto the new bar. Each time I am filled with terror. It doesn’t matter that in all my previous hurtles across the void of unknowing, I have always made it. Each time I am afraid I will miss, that I will be crushed on unseen rocks in the bottomless chasm between the bars.

But I do it anyway.

Perhaps this is the essence of what the mystics call the faith experience. No guarantee, no net, no insurance policy, but you do it anyway because somehow, to keep hanging onto that old bar is no longer on the list of alternatives. And so for an eternity that can last a microsecond or a thousand lifetimes, I soar across the dark void of “the past is gone, the future is not yet here.”

Its called transition. I have come to believe that it is the only place that real change occurs. I mean real change, not the pseudo-change that only lasts until the next time my old buttons get punched.

I have noticed that, in our culture, this transition zone is looked upon as “nothing”, a no-place between places. Sure the old trapeze-bar was real, and that new coming towards me, I hope, that’s real, too.

But the void in between? That’s just a scary, confusing, disorienting “nowhere” that must be gotten through as fast and as unconsciously as possible.

What a waste! I have a sneaking suspicion that the transition zone is the only real thing, and the bars are illusions we dream up to avoid the void, where the real change, the real growth occurs for us. Whether or not my hunch is true, it remains that the transition zones in our lives are incredibly rich places. They should be honored, even savored. Yes, with all the pain and fear and feelings of being out-of-control that can (but necessarily) accompany transitions, they are still the most alive, most growth-filled, passionate, expansive moments in our lives.

And so, transformation of fear may have nothing to do with making fear go away, but rather with giving ourselves permission to “hang out” in the transition between the trapeze bars. Transforming our need to grab that new bar, any bar, is allowing ourselves to dwell in the only place where change really happens. It can be terrifying. It can be enlightening, in the true sense of the word.

Hurtling through the void, we just may learn how to fly.

Butterfly-Released

Oh what tangled webs we weave… (The lies we tell)

when first we practice to deceive! – Sir Walter Scott

I’ve had Sir Walter Scotts quote running through my head today, and have loved it since I was a little girl. Though I didn’t always find it easy to apply to my life.

“If you tell the truth you don’t have to remember anything.” – Mark Twain

My mother was one of those, and still is for the most part, that is so affected by lying that she rarely will tell even the whitest of lies, or even a lie by omission. As she’s aged she’s less likely to find it as uncomfortable to lie by omission but telling a straight out lie is just not in her comfortably.

I, however, grew up lying. I lied, I lied a lot. It made other people happier if I didn’t speak the truth, my truth or the truth, it didn’t seem to matter.
So if I thought/believed that by lying someone else would be better off, I would do it, without a 2nd thought.

truthlies

Throughout my 20’s I learned (mostly through ridiculously angry fights with my partner) what I was doing, and how it was actually harming me. How I was repressing my truth, my light, my joy. For everyone else but me.
And how bitter I was becoming over it, how I was killing myself slowly, if not softly.

By the time I hit 30, lying became something I had to put energy in to, thought in to how or why or when. And I grew increasingly uncomfortable with the straight out lies, though I must admit the lies by omission are much easier to sneak by (myself).

At 35 I find I loathe lying, even by omission. I’m left so utterly uncomfortable by it that I feel nauseaous, even with a lie by omission.
I finally feel comfortable saying things such as, I really don’t want to eat there, or I really want to go home not out to a movie, or.. the little things, or so they seemed, that were actually quite big things over time.

masquerade

And when others inevitably show some irritation at me not doing what THEY want, I just don’t take it on anymore, it doesn’t worry me like it once did. Perhaps because now I see how much I began to hate the people I thought I was lying FOR. Making them happy in the moment was really just that, in the moment, and it didn’t last.
So I wasn’t happy, and they weren’t happy for long, so what was the point?

Considering my recent “career” choice, it is often necessary to not share everything, and even lie – for general safety of others around me. And I’ve come to hate what I do.

Not simply because of the omissions of my life, but because I’ve come to realize that most people lie. A lot.

Even the one other person in my life, aside from my mother, that I believed to always tell me the truth, even when I didn’t want to hear it; has been lying, a lot.
And another friend I love dearly, seems to lie habitually – and hey, I understand this, where it comes from, but.. it still hurts.
Neither of them knows how much I really know about the truth, or what I see to be the truth (the facts vs. their stories).

imagesKLC9CJ12

So I’m in a conundrum, allow them to continue their lies? Confront them? Never speak to them again? (I can’t imagine this last one really happening)
Am I lying by NOT telling them that I know what they are doing?

Yes, I do still find myself telling those “little white” lies and occ. lies by omission, so perhaps I have no ground to stand on, despite my efforts to be as honest as possible, as often as possible, especially with these two people.

I suppose it doesn’t mean I have to continue to be in their company, truthfully it makes me uncomfortable to be around others whom I know to lie (whether to me or to everyone else is not really the point, is it?), and I realize I’m lying to myself to believe that to ME they must be telling the truth all of the time.

Perhaps the only answer out of all of this, the only, well, truth, is to be true to myself, true to others, and let the rest go.

Knowing we’re all a little bit afraid of what happens when people discover our truths, and accepting that.

 

“Teach me to behave like the orange which, though crushed and bitten, fails not to impart its sweetness.

Battered by unkindness, bitten by carping criticism, or hewed with hard words and cruel behavior,

teach me yet to pour the unceasing sweetness of my Love.” – Paramhansa Yogananda

 

Otherwise, I might have to move out to the country, keep my critters as my only company, and become a hermit..

Well, that doesn’t sound so bad some days.

Holding on and Letting Go

As I’m heading in to my 5th colonoscopy (and 3rd upper endoscopy) tomorrow morning, with all of the fun prep involved (ahahahahahahaha… oh fark it, it sucks), I’ve been pondering the energetic reasons for finding myself here.

I’m not able to move things through my digestive system (so what am I not letting flow in my life?), except for an episode every 4-6 weeks of violent, uncontrolled, purging from both ends. If I don’t take laxatives, or large portions of enzymes and avoid a HUGE and growing list of foods, and an enema now and then.. I can go weeks without, well.. going.

At my last ER visit they discovered something in my lower left abdomen..

I’ve had digestive issues since I was at least 6 or 7 years old. When after a trip to that bastion of great cuisine, KFC, I ended up with what is still to this day the worst case of purging I’ve had, the toilet bowl was such a deep red, it was terrifying – I remember it nearly 30 years later, that and the intense pain and discomfort.

For whatever reasons my mother had at the time (fear of discovery of a home issues, my stepfather being so drunk she couldn’t leave, ?) I didn’t see the doctor right away, much less visit an ER.

When I was about 11 I noticed that I often had to “help” things along – I won’t go in to the details because it’s just not needed.

I’ve read about others who’ve had to do this as well, and recently my aunt told me that not only did my great-grandmother have serious issues (ending in colon cancer) but that my grandfather, and my aunt have had nearly the same exact troubles. So, hey, I’m not alone! Hmm.

However about 2 or 3 years ago I noticed it wasn’t just slow or sluggish or.. a sense that I needed to help my body move the waste out and on, but that I wasn’t feel ANYTHING at all at a certain point. In my lower left abdominal area to be precise.

And not long before this, I’d begun to have recurring dreams in which I’m shot in that area, usually leading to death. Or a fading of consciousness. They continued until last year, when I’d lost all sensation in that area.

It isn’t as though I feel I have to go, but I can’t. I don’t feel anything at all.

Which leads me to wondering what I’ve killed off inside myself, and what I’m holding on to, unable to let go of. Because I do believe it’s all tied in together.

And what is my family holding on to – what did I choose to take on and deal with? 4 generations having the same exact troubles.

Here I thought I was making such progress in letting go, in feeling worthy, yet it has become clear (or not so) that there’s still some deep work to open up to.

I was frightened of tomorrow for a while, terrified even, in part because of such uncertainty over what will be my 12th procedure/surgery where I fall asleep (are the odds still in my favor?). Also because I wonder what they will find, or won’t find. And what then?

Surgery would just be a temporary fix to what is obviously a hundred year problem (if not longer).

I want to heal the wound that has haunted my family. Free us from this bondage.

And someday? I’d love to be free to use the bathroom without delay, discomfort, or the nothing at all… I’d love to be well.

 

And then?

And then what? Stopping the Worry Demon

Lately I’ve had a few people ask me how I stopped the “What if” demon. She’s been in my family for generations and had a rather cozy spot in my life for so long, along with her brethren of friends.

Now I’ve read more positive thinking & self help books, articles, on line email threads, than I could count on all of my fingers and toes times.. 10. (Maybe more) And I’m not bashing them, they’ve all offered me something, in some way. Some, of course, far more so than others (“Feel the fear and do it anyway” – that title alone got me from 16-30).

However what has actually “cured” me, and saved the villagers of the small town living below the snowball that becomes an avalanche when I worry and get lost with the “what if” demon is this..

I simply take the fear and follow it through, quickly, simply, but honestly.

Example:

I’m out wearing a dark colored shirt, and I realize it’s covered in cat fur (white cat fur). I wonder what people think of me, what if they see it? what if they judge me for it? what if they don’t like me because I’m so untidy? What if I were out with a friend, how would they feel being seen with me? And … it begins.

So I take it from there. And then what?

They see it. And then what?

They judge it. And then what?

They care, or they don’t. And then what?

Do I care what they think? Possibly. And then what?

Well, why do I care? Will my friend be embarrassed? And then what?

Perhaps they won’t want to go out with me. And then what?

I’ll go out alone in the future. And then what?

I won’t mind who sees the fur, it’s my cat, I love her, I’m not harming anyone with a few cat hairs. And then what?

Ok, they judge me and give me a snide look or turn away. And then what?

I continue on my day, never to run in to this complete stranger again. And then what?

Now, this is how it goes with 90% of the worries I have, and 95% of the worries I hear from other people – so concerned with the approval of others, and their presentation to people they will never meet again that they get caught up in the what if game.

Even if it’s what if with people they know, co-workers, spouses, friends, lovers, parents..

So I’ll add in the positive way this event actually happened today, before going on.

Now..

I run in to someone I know, the cashier at the grocery store. And then what?

We actually get in to a wonderful conversation about our cats, I find out he’s a cat person and is very concerned with how my cats vet visit went. And then what?

I actually fell like I connected with someone, they cared, and I cared, and we were better for it.

 

Ok, so lets take it even further into the demon realm, and say it is someone I know. And then what?

They judge me, dislike me for being so unkempt and unpolished. And then what?

I don’t talk to them again, they won’t return my calls. And then what?

Lets be honest, anyone that doesn’t get me and my love of my cats, isn’t someone I really want to be friends or close acquaintances with – they can’t understand me or appreciate me. So I decide to move on. And then what?

Well… and then I make friends that do get me, that love cats, and dogs, that don’t mind a few cat hairs on their clothes and we have great, relaxing times together. And then what?

Perhaps it doesn’t go so well. Now this is where the demon really sinks her teeth in.

Perhaps I can’t find any new friends, perhaps they all seem to hate animals or my cat hair shirt. And then what?

 

Do I die? Does anyone die? Is my cat hurt in any way? Is this event so catastrophic that life itself ceases to exist because of this event?

 

No? Well then.. I move on, I let go, and the crazy, neurotic snowball that was building steam has suddenly disappeared. Poof!

There is no fuel for the fire.

My best friend hasn’t called me back, my husband hasn’t texted me, my boss didn’t smile at me as they normally do each day. And then what?

Do I die? Does anyone die? Is someone going to end up in the hospital because of this moment? (perhaps if I don’t stop the snowball, yes.. mental hospitals count) No?

Well then, move on.

Life is beautiful, and this particular turn of ours, on this merry go round of nuttiness – this act we play out on the stage that is called life. It’s short in the scheme of things.

Too short to be caught up in worry, in fear, in letting snowballs bury the poor villagers of the cute mountain town below.

So there’s my secret. Something I haven’t found in any book so far.

And then what? What then? Can I live with what happens next? Literally.. Yes? Good. Let’s move on.

Previous Older Entries

Veronica Yem

Ideas and Inspiration for Entertaining

Kel's Cafe of All Things Food

Eat, drink and be merry!

33andlostinlife

Just another WordPress.com site

bNomadic

Travel Around. Be Nomadic

Globe Dreaming

To travel is to live.

Domina Victoria Rage

Professional Seattle Dominatrix & BDSM Blogger

Just Visit Siena !

My Siena Guide

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 813 other followers

%d bloggers like this: