sueeeus

I know the personal history theme is over, but I found this picture while digging through some old boxes of things. I’ve been on a sort of a downer lately, feeling anxious about things in general. Too much work. Not enough family time. Not enough baby time. Not enough me time. Thinking about self image and wondering why it is so easy to magnify the flaws and disregard the features. I’ve been feeling frustrated with myself for not being physically what I would like to be. Today, I would leap for joy to have the look that I had 25 years ago, in this picture. Yet in this picture, I remember the person I was then. And I had the same self image. I wasn’t satisfied. Oh if only. Such a tiresome and most shallow expression. Where is the thankfulness for all that is good in life So easily taken for granted.

I was nominated for Homecoming Queen that year, the fall of my Senior year. I don’t know why. I wasn’t crowned, and that didn’t bother me. I remember feeling so uneasy being the center of attention. I don’t like that feeling at all. I try to stand to make myself look as small as possible, so self-conscious of the midsection and the legs. My calves were so big I had to take my boots apart and re-sew the zippers in to give me a little more room, as much as I could possibly get. I was always in danger of them exploding from my legs. Now that would have been a sight! I’m the one next to the king. A bit heavy, and very much aware of it. Today, there is much more of me. A hundred pounds more. What an awful thing to put in writing. What a shameful thing. Four pounds a year for twenty five years. It can creep up on a person, and it wasn’t a bit hard. I actually wear it rather well, which isn’t necessarily a good thing. It makes the denial just that much easier. I wonder why the person in that picture couldn’t be happier with herself. How shallow was she There were probably people who would have loved to have her face, her skin, her eyes, maybe her hair. But she didn’t pay much attention to those features. They came with the package. She didn’t ask for them. They were just part of the genetic roulette. As were the legs. How foolish is it to let such a thing contribute so much to the total sum of self worth

Very foolish. Very shallow. There are some things in life that the girl in the picture can control. Self worth is a choice. What a shame that she keeps forgetting this. She flashes a toothy smile, tosses her head, and is on her way, pushing those thoughts behind her for another day.

I dreamt that I had sleep apnea and I was a doctor, looking at myself (you can do this in dreams, be more than one character), and I put the stethoscope to my chest and realized that I was missing 3 beats for every 4 beats, so I wasn’t getting enough oxygen to my brain, which explained why I so often wake up with excruciating headaches. I guess that also means I’m ¾ dead. I do get an inordinate number of headaches. I probably do have sleep apnea, actually, because I’m told I snore like a sailor, and sometimes I find that I wake myself up, choking and coughing. I should go get it checked out.

I had another dream that I belonged to this huge powerful company and everyone was in a big auditorium. There were food tables here and there and people were lining up to grab something before sitting down for whatever was to come. I wanted to get in line but somebody needed me, and when I could finally get to the table the meeting was about to start and I had to sit down, but it was too late anyway, because all the food packets were gone. One of my coworkers found me and told me about a design that another coworker was pushing, and he was very upset, saying it would be creating some troubles down the line because of inconsistencies between models. We need to keep options consistent across the board, for simplicity, for configuration control, and also to keep costs down. I told him not to worry, I completely understood, and I’d find my other coworker and let him know we had to work out the design requirements a bit more, to make it consistent. It meant a lot more work on our parts, up front, but it made things smoother in the end. Later, in the dream, it was like being on trial. I didn’t want to stand out or have any attention brought on me. People were being called accountable for things and they were made to be seen as they were. I cowered, hoping I’d not be called, but I was. And I was told I was a… …I stuttered and mumbled and tried to deny it, something about not being a Squished Piggy (really, it was just like that in the dream, literally those words), but the verdict came out as I felt my form change to that of a pig, and I was horrified to feel my nose change to a snout and the rest of me follow suit. So there it was, plain as a day. I’m a pig. I didn’t like that dream very well.

Another one. This one morphed from the pig dream. My company was on the verge of announcing a brand new product. The biggest personal transport ever. It might have even been meant for space travel, or something, but it was a gigantic ocean liner that had the hugest seating capacity; a great many abreast on the top deck. It was all hush hush. I might have had a premonition about it, that it was a doomed venture. It was perhaps a dream within a dream, but I saw several of these ocean liners on the high seas, being tossed to and fro by the gigantic waves, and they were straining and out of control, subject to the fury and whim of the sea. I awoke just as they were about to be clashed together on a huge wave. I was strapped into my seat and remember seeing part of the hull of another ship, painted a nice shiny blue. Part of it was silver, towards the top. There was work that needed to be done – some metal had to be spliced in, where there was corrosion, as though an old ocean liner had been used for the frame and parts were rusted out. It looked so out of place, to see rusted through patches on this sleek new ocean liner.

Note to self. Consider not having caffeine and/or chocolate after 6 p.m., because face it, it sometimes affects me.

There are times when I get wrapped up in the same old things, like a broken record, over and over again. There are times when I think I’ve grown beyond whatever the hang-up is (and it’s usually the same old thing or set of things), then something will happen and once again I’ll find myself back there, at square one. It amazes me that I can so swiftly find myself right back at the beginning, blind sided, if it were. I’ll struggle with the thoughts and feelings for a time, and then I’ll be over it. Until the next time. I find it quite tedious. And then, it occurs to me, that I might be hormonal. Yes, that’s it. It’s usually it. It’s such a copout, to blame the endocrine system, but there it is.

Why do I blog It’s a scary thing, to put ones thoughts out there in the public realm. People can read, have thoughts, pass judgments. It’s terrifying! I don’t want to be judged. I mean, I do, in one sense, want approval. Who doesn’t It’s one of my tedious themes. Then I get over myself for a while. Until the next time. But I’m not seeking the world’s approval. Really, I’m seeking my own. I would have liked to have had my parents’ approval, but history is what it is and they are who they are, I am who I am, and I did as much as I possibly could for as long as I could to gain their approval. Now I’m just wrestling with myself. I don’t think I’m alone in this. I think that being centered takes a lot of self discipline. I think that accepting oneself does as well. Maybe it’s easier for some than others. Especially if they don’t have whacked out hormones! Again, that’s a copout. But there is some truth to that, be that as it may.

All that said, I don’t write for an audience. I write to work my thoughts out. And it’s mostly crap, because that’s often what’s in my head. Note to self: practice more self-discipline.

I would like to see myself as my son sees me. To him, I am the most beautiful woman in the world. He sees me and sees the mama he loves and the one he depends upon. He doesn’t have any notions about my size, shape, or color. He sees who I am. He sees a fun person, a loving person, a kind person, a patient person, a caring person, and sometimes a stern person. I could stand to learn much from him. It’s called unconditional love. How I want to shake the conditioning of a lifetime. It’s such ugly baggage to be saddled with. And for what No good comes of it.

Because I am. I have a ribbon to prove it. Self-loathing is not all encompassing. I have some fine qualities that I appreciate in myself. However, I’m not wont to write about them. Journaling, and now, blogging, is usually where the troubles come out. Or the thrills. Moments of extremes. The daily grind is just that. Mundane. Who wants to write about it Who wants to read about it Although having the calm and mundane readily available to remind oneself of what is fine and good in life is somewhat valuable in the sense of bringing one’s perspective back to safer ground, rather than teetering on the extreme precipice, in danger of plummeting into depression from whence the recovery is an arduous task.

My extremes. The highs My Boo. Fun diversions and friendships discovered in the community of Blog. Triumphs in bargain hunting. Discoveries in general. The lows All the other drivel that takes place here. Alot of struggle coming to terms with the loss of my brother. Struggle over growing pains. Not just mine, but those of the people I love.

I have this poisoned mentality where I’ve somehow convinced myself that I have to wait to enjoy the things in life that people who don’t have weight problems get to enjoy. The beach. A tropical vacation. A cruise. Pampering. A night on the town. Dancing. Swimming. Shorts. Skirts. Heels. Shopping for clothes, period. It’s a sad and self-inflicted punishment. A poor body image is a prison. And it is poison. POISON! It’s an ugly self-loathing that is mostly undeserved. It doesn’t seem to be completely related to my actual weight. I’ve carried this diseased attitude around my entire life. I didn’t always look like a beached whale. But I must have thought I did. Looking back at old pictures, I wonder how I could possibly have been unhappy with how I looked. I looked good! By no means perfect. By no means Barbie or the girls in the media. Never frail. Always strong and sturdy. But always heavier than the average girl. And today Today I probably don’t truly look like a beached whale either, although much more so than the me of adolescence, some twenty five years ago.
Being accepted. It has alot to do with being accepted. Maybe I would have a healthy self image if I had been raised to feel wanted and accepted. I never cease to amaze myself that I can still be carrying thoughts like these around, when I’m an adult now. An adult! A D U L T. Over forty. FORTY! I would think I would have gotten over childhood by now.

I know better, but I don’t do better. I don’t know how to breach the void between knowing and doing. I can analyze it, intellectualize it, explain it. It boils down to caring what others think or might think. To elevating that over what I think. It’s a sick thing, to allow myself to let the imagined judgement of a total stranger, even, a nonexistent public, rob me of my living moments. It’s crazy. It’s stupid. But I still do it.

Today I found these words exploding from my being. Every time I hear a certain song I remember my brother and I cry, thinking of a young life that is over without experiencing Venice, Rome, Paris, Argentina. I sat at my desk all week long, completely wrapped up in the project I’m working on. I worked all day, every day, barely breaking for anything, through lunch, after quitting time, until the very last moment when I had to leave to get to daycare to collect my Boo. I get consumed in what I am doing, and while it means I’m super productive at work, it’s TOO MUCH. A life out of balance. It’s a character flaw. I need to learn how to put other things in focus, like allowing myself to take breaks, get some fresh air, take a walk, anything. STEP AWAY FROM THE COMPUTER. Something has to give, and what gives is my vessel, my body, my self. A desk job is not good for one’s physical condition. Cerebral fitness isn’t all that attractive, and I’m not so sure how healthy it is either. On the way home I see the sky is blue. The air is crisp. I feel it on my face before I get in my car. It feels so GOOD. I need to find some way to make a living that is more active. Because I want to LIVE! I want to BREATHE! I just don’t quite know what to do, though. Else I’d be doing it. So I simply say it.
I want to LIVE!
The words will have to do for now. When I picked up my beautiful boy this afternoon, I spun him around in circles a few times, this way and that, before putting him in the car. It was so crisp and cold, the cold air in his face took his breath away and he was delighted. We giggled for joy, breathing the air and spinning around. His wide open laugh with drool dribbling out is a beautiful sight to behold. Joy. It’s the picture of joy, and I love it, and savor it; am absolutely grateful to experience this moment of life. This is the kind of life I want to be living. Breathing! Dancing! Holding my boy!

A day is a day to live
Or a day is a day to die
Make time for hopes and dreams
Before another day goes by

It’s easy not to give it thought
To simply plod along
Since daily life must still be lived
And another day goes by

Waking, washing, working
Feeding, serving, resting
These are all the mundane things
Thus another day goes by

Soon the years have disappeared
Never to return
Oh to live with no regret
As every day goes by

A day is a day to live
And a day is a day to die
Now is the time for hopes and dreams
Now, before this day goes by

There aren’t very many women where I work. I’ve been the only woman in my group for many years. Recently, we hired another woman. I had a dream where she was one of the main characters. We stopped by her place for some reason, and she had one of those super cool industrial turned living quarters places. It had all these big pipes and valves running overhead and here and there, and was very spacious. It was relatively new to her, and I’m not sure she knew all the workings of the valves and plumbing. When I walked in, I also noticed she had the exact same furniture set that I inherited from my mom. Only hers was pristine, as though it were fresh off the showroom floor. Mine is in the garage, filled with cobwebs, chipped and scarred and battered and very well worn. I was very impressed with the condition of her furniture. Someone who was with us (it could have been me) fiddled with one of the valves, out of curiousity. What does this do It’s just a water valve. Or something. Suddenly, the room was filling with water. There were these manhole looking plugs in the floor and water was coming up quickly. She ended up with several inches of water on the entire floor before we were able to figure out the proper combination of valves to use to make everything drain and go back the way it was. These are some of the hazards with using an industrial space for a home, when the machinery hasn’t been disabled.

I don’t know what that dream is all about. I don’t even know her. She’s in my group, but not my subgroup, so I never see her and never speak with her, unless it’s group meeting day. Even so, we don’t interact unless work dictates a reason. Not that I wouldn’t be friendly. That’s just how things are at my office. We’re sort of autonomous.

I had another dream that featured my brother as a teenager. He had that sparkle in his eye. It was a good-natured sparkle, as though he were happy and amused by something. We were outside the house, maybe behind it, hanging out on the hill. In real life we seldom hung out together, because I was in college when he was in high school. Maybe I was actually my younger sister in the dream. Anyway, he was making jokes or teasing or just being pleasant. This dream was a happy dream, and it makes me happy and sad to think about it. I wish he could have stayed the kind of person he was in that dream. Happy. Maybe if he could have lived longer, he would have found that sparkle again. I miss him.

A part of me wants to think that the dream was his way of reaching out to me to tell me that he is okay now, and not to worry. All is well. If I could remember that dream more clearly, I might know. But the details of that dream escape me, and I’m left with wistfulness and sadness for the beautiful boy he was, and the troubled man he became. I wonder if the sadness will ever go away. I think of him every day. Every single day. More now than before, when he was alive, when I took for granted that he would always be here, at least as long as I would be here. I figured he’d get through the rough waters and things would settle down and all would be well again.

I had a recurring murderous dream that deeply disturbed me. I already wrote about it. I read somewhere that murderous dreams aren’t really about murder, but about changes in life and/or attitudes. I certainly hope so. Even so, those kinds of dreams shake me up. To the core.

It’s late. I should be sleeping. But I have so little me time. Not that I have anything in particular to write about. I’m a good waster of time. I just wasted a good half hour reading through previous posts. Of my own. I ponder a bit over why I would be entertained by day-to-day things that I posted previously. There have been times when I’ve gone through old journals and read them as well. Consuming quite alot of time in the process. I guess it’s not so odd. At least not for me.

Here’s something. I love sentence fragments! Okay, I don’t really. But I talk this way. Sometimes. And it’s kind of fun, even liberating, to write this way. I feel like I’m a kid getting away with something. Something devious. You see, my dad is a linguist. A genius, really, as far as language goes. At one time he could speak, read, and write in 14 languages. Later, he added a couple more, speaking only. I asked him to teach me French when I was a teenager. It didn’t last long. He wasn’t very patient with me. Later, I took a semester of French in college and did quite well. I was the second best in the class. Excellent pronunciation, I was told. I would have liked to have given it more time and become fluent.

Anyway. About language. My dad would constantly correct us. No split infinitives! No dangling participles! Blast! Bloody Barbarian! I don’t actually know what a split infinitive is, or a dangling participle. I know I’ve looked them up before, but I can never keep those definitions in my mind. I can’t keep any grammatical definitions in my mind, come to think of it. Except conjunctions. Know why Conjunction junction, what’s your function First person, second person, third person I guess I could figure out first person would be “I this, I that”, and maybe second person would be “she this, she that” Or “you this, you that” Is third person “Sueeeus this, Sueeeus that” I don’t know these things. I have a worn copy of Strunk and White that I consult if the need arises. But anyway, I don’t care! It’s my blog, and I’ll write the way I want to!

So. I was thinking about dreams and recurring dreams and dream analyses. With a little forboding I mustered up the courage to google dream analysis. According to the experts (insert grain of salt) dreams of murder are about radical change, or the death of an attitude or belief within yourself. I’ve been thinking of making radical changes in my diet. I’ve been daydreaming of making radical changes in my lifestyle. I haven’t actually done either.

I was thinking about those people who get bariatric surgery. It’s scary. One in a hundred DIE from it. The lap band is supposedly the safest and least invasive. Before I read about what a post-op lap band patient eats, I thought it would be the easy thing to do. Physically render oneself unable to overeat. So why not avoid the risk of death by surgery and try the diet alone I read up on the diet they have to follow post op. It’s basically liquid – protein shakes – for the first six weeks, then low carb after that. Needless to say, tiny portions all along. So it seems to me to be very much like what I would call a crash diet followed by an Atkins/South Beach/low carb/diabetic diet. All the experts say not to crash diet. It’s the worst thing. So how can the lap band be a good thing Crash dieting screws up your metabolism. Of course I know it’s true. I’ve done that before, more than once, and did hose my metabolism, more than once. The lap banders do lose the weight. Do they keep it off Do they hose their metabolisms

TV advertises wonder pills like Relacor, Cortislim and Zotrin. A little pill to make you happy and make you lose weight. They call it (Relacor) the happy pill. Can it be that easy I wish. But I don’t think so. I don’t trust it. People died from diet pill crazes. Ephedra I think it makes holes in your heart. I think one of my brother’s (still living) compromised his heart with that stuff. Scary!

The simple answer, although not so simple in execution (for me, anyway), is to eat right, in moderation, and exercise. When I went to Europe the first time, I backpacked for two months. I walked somewhere every day, went outside every day, and ate when I was hungry. I lost 20 lbs and toned up and looked the best I’ve looked in 20 years, all without even trying. That was twelve years ago. The office job is not so good on my waistline. Or my well-being. But it does allow for the roof over my head. With the job comes much stress. Without it would come more stress, but in a different flavor. I’m now daydreaming of a lifestyle and adventure something on the order of Under a Tuscan Sun.

Show and Tell, a fun diversion brought to Blogworld compliments of Blackbird.
I’m partial to Tiffany lamps. I love them! My sister gave me this one. Such an extravagant gift. I love it love it love it! My great grandfather made the little oak table upon which it rests.
This is a much less expensive dragonfly lamp. It’s a torchiere. There used to be a pair, but there was a little mishap not too long ago.

I even have more Tiffany lamps! Well, just a couple, hanging from the living room ceiling. A purposefully unmatched pair. This particular one did much to help my baby through his colic. For some reason, he loved to stare at it and it calmed him down. The other (no pic) is also a pendant, and much less busy, but in the same color scheme.

There is much color at Chez Piggy.