Question of the Day: Personal Olympics

Today’s question is:

If you could turn any activity into an Olympic sport, what would you have a good chance at winning a medal for?

I really would make this easier on myself if I picked questions that I could answer without too much introspection.

If it didn’t have to be an activity, I would pick resilience because I have gotten back on my metaphorical feet more times than I can count, but the question asks specifically for an activity.


Seriously, it’s like, 10 minutes later and I’m still thinking about this.

Part of the problem is that I’m determined not to pick something that’s a veiled put down. I’m not going to go for the quick and dirty ones like “napping” or “procrastination” or some other thing that isn’t really a skill. (Although I wish I had the ability to really nap instead of cat nap.)

I want to pick something I’m actually good at, because I do have talents and I deserve to pat myself on the back for them.

I have a hard time with that concept.

I spend far too much time putting myself down and belittling my strengths.

Oooooh, I’ve got it!

Being a homemaker.

I could win an Olympic medal for being a homemaker.

But not because I have the cleanest house (believe me, I don’t, it’s a cluttered clusterfuck most of the time), or because dinner is like something from a 5 star restaurant, or because the laundry baskets are always empty.

I could win a medal because I enjoy it and because I’m always striving to take care of the people I love through taking care of our environment, and feeding us amazing food, and making sure we have clean clothes to wear.

I could win a medal because it’s the way I show love, and I have so much love to show.

Awwww, I got all mushy-gushy lovey-dovey.

So, what about you? Think outside of the box and try not to put yourself down.

If you could turn any activity into an Olympic sport, what would you have a good chance at winning a medal for?


Shining light on all my dark splotches

This is a Really Real Mental Health Post.

I just left therapy where we talked a lot about body image and why I am no longer able to be body positive like I once was.

I am pissed off at the body I inhabit.  I hate the skin that I am in.

At one point I worked out and I felt stronger, I lost weight, I felt I had control and was able to change the shape of this body of mine.

Now I have no control.

Medications have taken that control from me.

The same medication that reduced my suicidal thoughts has increased my weight and changed the distribution of my weight so that my abdomen is larger.

I am pissed off at the body I inhabit.  I hate the skin I am in.

I have an auto-inflammatory condition called hidradenitis suppurativa.

It causes painful abscesses, wounds, and tracts to develop in hair follicles and sweat glands in my underarms, breasts and groin.  When they heal they leave behind scar tissue.

My body is attacking itself.

I am pissed off at the body I inhabit. I hate the skin I am in.

Parker once asked me if I had to tell people I had HS. She was affirming that it was something to be ashamed of, something to hide.

I am afraid of sex, afraid of being seen naked because I’m fat and covered in sores and scar tissue. I can’t imagine that anyone, even Wonder Woman, would want to look at me. I hide my body. I have to fight against my own brain whenever I undress in front of her.

I am pissed off at the body I inhabit. I hate the skin I am in.

Even clothed I hate looking at myself in the mirror, my clothes no longer fit correctly, I’ve had to buy larger shirts. All I can see is my rolls and my fat. I see the parts of me that don’t fit in seats correctly.

“You’re pull up two chairs kinda big” is what my father once said.

I am pissed off at the body I inhabit. I hate the skin I am in.

I miss the days when I felt strong. I miss feeling beautiful.

I want to love the body I inhabit. Why can’t I love the skin I am in?

Maybe shining light on all of these dark thoughts is the beginning to loving myself again.


I Can Feel It Coming In The Air Tonight

This is a Really Real Mental Health Post.

It all starts with this feeling.

In my gut.

In my chest.

In the back of my throat.

Behind my eyes.

I start to notice.

Things that would evoke empathy cause me to become annoyed.

I want to lash out.

I want to be willful and uncooperative.

I feel like a tantrum is about to explode from my body.

But it all starts with that feeling.

That feeling scares me.

What will follow.

Can I stop it here, before it goes any further.

Can I stop the spiral before it truly starts.

Wonder Woman asks if I want to talk and I spend a few minutes on the phone walking in circles in front of the library.  It’s helpful to hear her voice.  She’s the calm to my chaos in times like this.

I remember a time that 17 year old me would spend hours on a payphone in front of the college library.  I was grounded from the phone at home so I’d skip my college class to spend time on the phone with my boyfriend or my girlfriend or maybe both.

I remember that I got this same feeling back then.

It started the same way.

I remember seeing the same cycles, instinctively knowing when they were going to get worse but not knowing what to do about it.

I’m no longer that 17 year old kid.

I have a lot more skills, a lot more tools.  I have a much better support system and I no longer have to hide at a payphone to reach them.

I can feel that feeling.

In my gut.

In my chest.

In the back of my throat.

Behind my eyes.

But it doesn’t mean I’m going to spiral again.

It just means it’s a good time to practice my skills.

Things Are Cool

This is a Really Real Relationship Post.

We just don’t fight.

I’m becoming more comfortable with that.

In the last 2 weeks we’ve, unexpectedly, spent 12 hours in the airport, we’ve had some really difficult talks about difficult relationship topics, and we’ve brought up the AC units from the basement (we’re in a second story apartment here).

We just don’t fight.

We talk.

It still feels strange to do unwanted and difficult things and not have an attitude of resentment making the whole thing more difficult.

It still feels strange to spend days worrying about a conversation and then have that conversation go smoothly, with resolutions to problems planned out.  And then to have follow through.

It still feels strange to be allowed to be myself, my stubborn, head strong, gotta do it my way even if it won’t work, self.  And to have someone there to happily try it another way when that doesn’t work.

It still feels strange to not fight.

I try to script out conversations in my head ahead of time, it’s an anxiety thing, and often those conversations include the fights that I “know” are going to happen.   Blame games and one upping and screaming just to let off tension that doesn’t even relate to the situation at hand.

But it’s not reality.

Reality is, we communicate to the best of our ability, which for me is sometimes much harder then I ever realized.  It’s hard to speak up and say what I need instead of expecting her to just know.

But communication goes so well in our relationship.

Wonder Woman and I have something beautiful.

And it’s pretty cool.

But that might just be the air conditioners we just put in.

Just to watch her breathe.

This is a Really Real Widow Post.

I had a bad dream this morning.

I won’t go into details, but in it I became a sorta kinda widow this time around.

The kinda widow that isn’t really a widow, because she looses her fiancee. So what are you when you don’t lose a spouse because you aren’t married yet, but the person you were supposed to marry, dies.

And I woke up gasping, because this can’t happen to me twice.  I can’t lose “the love of my life” twice in one life, and I rolled over to watch her breathe (I’ve done that on so many other occasions), but she’s not home.

So for just a second I thought of calling her at 6 in the morning just to hear her voice on the other end of the phone.

But, that would be rude.  And that would be letting anxiety win.

This is life as a widow.  Early morning dreams of death and dying and of it happening again.

Life as a widow is really meaning it when I need to know you got there safely because I know what my anxiety will be doing until I have that confirmation.

Life as a widow is stopping at the doorway to our room some mornings just to watch her breathe.

It doesn’t happen as often anymore.  I have it under better under control.  My brain feels more secure in the fact that Wonder Woman will still be alive when I wake up.  That she will come home safely after work each night.

I panic less often, reaching for her warmth to feel her chest rise and fall.

But when it happens and she’s not home I’m left gasping at 6 am.  How do I really know this wasn’t some sign.

How do I know she’s she’s still okay.

Oh look.

She just commented on something on Facebook.

Crisis averted.