Understanding Fat Shaming

Note: I'm calling people "fat" on purpose in this post. First of all, I want to own that word. It isn't a cuss word for God's sake. Secondly, I want to evoke an emotional response. Fat has been used as a hurtful word. It's a word that makes strong people cry. Cry if you need to, but it's time for the truth.

I realize I've already made a post tonight, but after my post about self-love (which included body image), I had a conversation with one of my best friends. I know that he doesn't hate fat people, but he said some pretty ignorant things regarding fat people in our culture. This was just another effect of fat-shaming on us. Someone who really means no harm can say things that are very hurtful without understanding the reaction that understandably roars in response. So, I could go on about what fat-shaming is, how it affects people, how to fix it, etc. But I'm not going to do that. Because the person I talked to tonight understands all of that, but still doesn't understand. Instead I'm going to tell you a story. I'm going to tell you a story of a girl who's been fat for *most of* her life. I want to share my own fat-shaming history. Some of this will be news to you and shared for the first time, but I've come to realize that stories are heard while rants about the harmful effects of unhealthy societal expectations often fall upon ears accustomed to the sound. So here's my story.

As a five year-old, my step sister told me I was fat. She told me I needed to lose weight. She also told me I was a wuss because I was afraid to get my ears pierced, while her best friend's little sister who was only three had already done it. She told me I looked like a boy because of my short hair. She told me I couldn't touch her barbies because I would mess them up, and although my memory has served me the kindness to block it out, it's likely she molested me. She was about nine years older than I and she was skinny and pretty and cool. She constantly told me in new and creative ways that I wasn't okay. As an adult I can look back at that time and see a girl struggling with her parents' divorce, probably dealing with her own history of sexual abuse, and of course her own issues with self esteem. But at the time, someone who was older than me and knew so much more than me was telling me I was useless. It didn't matter what anyone else said, because people are nice, even when they don't mean it. I wasn't the kind of kid to be mean unprovoked (that came with puberty, haha), or ever hit below the belt like that. So I assumed that she must be right, and everyone else was being nice to spare my feelings.

Being a bipolar kid, I was really intense. I would constantly talk, usually about myself, I interrupted people, I argued too quickly, and I was completely oblivious to this behavior. So when I had a hard time making friends or people pulled away, I assumed it was because I was fat. Later, issues developed because I would see popular fat people, and I couldn't understand what was wrong with me. At St. Mary's we had uniforms. Until the fifth grade, girls wore plaid jumpers. Because in fifth grade girls began to wear navy skirts, the sizes stopped at what they thought a little fourth grader ought to wear. I was bigger than the rest of the little fourth graders. Only four girls were in my class at St. Mary's, and the other three were tiny. There was a new seating chart at school and I overheard some of the other girls complaining about it because they had to sit next to me. Completely unaware of my affect on people, I assumed this was because I was fat. It makes no sense, but to my young mind it made perfect sense. No one wanted to sit by me because I wasn't cool, which correlated directly with size. And I was deeply hurt by it.

By fifth grade I'd found my love of dance. Being big in the dancing world is incredibly difficult. You always have to be better than the best girl, because you're judged before the music even starts. My cheerleading uniforms had to be altered because the biggest size was too small for me. For someone trying to fit into a new school, I was convinced everyone knew mine was different. My best friend at the time who was dealing with her own self esteem issues as well (noticing a common theme?) would make side comments to me about the extra red fabric we'd snuck onto my uniform so it would fit. I would respond in a way that preserved her feelings while my own heart was breaking over it. I just wanted to be normal, and I had no idea how. I couldn't even wear the same clothes, because junior clothes were too small for me. I had to shop somewhere else. My dance team in junior high was called the Cubcadettes. After I joined (along with some other heavier girls), we were coined in the hallways as the "Chubcadettes." That made it ten-times harder to go perform on that floor. My mom, who was the coach, and I argued constantly because I was already so self-conscious about being a fat dancer that I didn't want anything else to make me look stupid. Often she was right (although to this day I think getting us pom outfits that looked like cheerleader uniforms was a bad idea), but my bipolar turned our conversations into battles. I was already scared.

In seventh grade, I started to lose weight. I worked out a lot and started seeing a doctor for weight loss with my parents. It was working for me. That year was the first year that I auditioned for and made UDA All Star. It was an audition hosted through UDA and UCA (Universal Dance/Cheer Associations) that gave you an opportunity to dance in the Philadelphia Thanksgiving Day Parade. I was so proud of myself when I received that medal. I wore it all day. Mom gave me shit for it calling me a Special Olympian, which genuinely hurt my feelings at the time, but I wasn't good at expressing that, really. I was just so proud because I truly thought my weight was going to get in the way of me winning that medal and it didn't. (Later I had a huge internal crisis when I considered that they may have only given it to me to prove they weren't fat-phobic, but that's a whole other story.) I went and performed in Philadelphia. It was a really cool experience and I got a lot out of it. I talked about it non-stop (again with the intensity that I'm sure drove people up the wall).

I came back, and during PE one day I was walking the track with the same friend who had made those comments about my cheerleading uniform. I'd been on TV, and she said that she had been with some boys (I'm not afraid to call out Abraham Huffington because he's still a dick). She told me Abe had said if they could find my station they wouldn't be able to miss me because of my huge ass. Again with the silent heart break. All I could think was I'm trying so hard. I will never be good enough for you people. I really was trying to lose weight and I was working my ass off to do it--way more than any of my peers did to maintain their tiny physiques. I cried about it in the bathroom between classes. I was truly hurt. People had said things about that friend to me, but I'd always kept them secret to spare her feelings. I had wished she'd done the same for me, but at the time I genuinely believed she thought she was being a good friend. Now I believe she may have used that as an excuse, but was looking for a way to bring me down. Perhaps out of jealousy, perhaps to shut me up about it, or perhaps both. But I do believe he said those things. In junior high (I think this is true of most girls; boys are oblivious), I was convinced people were always talking behind my back. Every now and then I'd find a moment of peace where I'd convince myself not to be so self-centered and to realize I was not the topic of everyone's conversation. But in this instance I was proven wrong. Being proven wrong one time will poison everything that follows.

This same friend also revealed to me that Sarah Simpson was calling me "Weight Watchers Dancer" behind my back. At the time, there was a Weight Watchers commercial with a plus-sized dancer. I guess that was supposed to be me. I was afraid to ever be around her again. I was so embarrassed. She was stick thin, a dancer, and everything I would never be. The only thing that made me feel better was being mean. Granted, my form of meanness never involved lying. I only told people how much of a bitch she'd been. I was so embarrassed that I wouldn't even use her words, but I'd say she was skinny and not that good of a dancer. I'd say she was mean and I didn't understand why people liked her... and people agreed with me. When my weight loss became more visible, she and her friend cooked up a rumor that I was bulimic. It was as if they were trying to say that, yeah she can be skinny, but only if she cheats. Again I was miserable. I worked my ASS of to lose weight. I was running, lifting weights, dance class, dance team, stretching and doing situps in my front room while I watched criminal minds... and they were going to say I was cheating? I was so pissed. But horribly, more than truly recognizing her cruelty, I continued that thought process: this is what everyone thinks. She's the only one enough of a bitch to say it out loud. And I felt worthless.

By 8th grade I'd lost a lot of weight. I was around 40 lbs lighter with a lot more muscle gained. I felt healthy. I still wanted to lose weight, but I was really proud of where I'd gotten. One day I dropped a bunch of stuff after the last bell. As he was passing, Dylan Reed mumbled, "like a cow" under his breath. I was done. I kept working out and eating right out of habit. But when the time stopped being readily available to hit the gym and the food not quite as accessible, I stopped caring. I didn't make the time or choose to eat healthy. What did it matter? I was never going to be skinny, no matter how hard I worked. I was never going to be as skinny as Sarah Simpson. She could eat all the pizza she wanted and look that way forever. She had it easy. Slowly, the weight crept back on. Cruel passing comments remained. Finding dance clothes to fit was still an issue. Changing in PE was devastating... High school.

On and off through high school I struggled with cutting, inappropriate relationships with boys, and all the other goodies bipolar brings to a hormonal teenage girl. I hated myself and I had no clue why. And I don't think I was ready to understand. I wasn't ready to say, I think I'm fat and I'm afraid no one likes me, because just the thought would make me cry. I didn't even like myself enough to really try to get to the bottom of why I was unhappy. College came and after an incredibly rough first year I began to truly find myself. My diagnosis with bipolar disorder gave me something I'd never really had before. For the first time I knew what was driving people away, and it had nothing to do with me being fat. I could acknowledge that the things I truly hated about myself were symptoms and not character traits. It was so freeing that I began to really come to terms with what it really meant to love myself. I learned that secrets are evil. The more you silently convince yourself you aren't worth it without consulting the people who love you, the less likely you are to succeed. Loving yourself is necessary to be healthy both physically and mentally.

So that's a story of fat-shaming. It took a mental health diagnosis and 19 years of struggle, but I learned that my body did not define me. I am smart, I can write, I can sing and dance, and I love children and books and Doctor Who and Harry Potter and and and... my size has so little to do with me. Granted, with the danger of generalizing I will state, that oftentimes, MY (not true for everyone) weight is a sign of how I'm doing emotionally. If I'm heavier it means I'm eating emotionally and I don't have the energy to work out. This is depression, folks. That is bad. But now that I know myself better, I know I'm not depressed because I'm fat. I gain weight when I'm depressed. And right now, after a year of self-discovery, I finally feel ready to tackle my health. But that's what it took for me. If I'd started any sooner, I wouldn't have been ready, and I'd have wound back up right where I started. Everyone has to find their own individual journey.

With that said. Fat-shaming is never okay. Ever. It is a sensitive topic because of the way it's been handled in the past and therefore must be handled sensitively now. Otherwise it's simply pointless. America is fat. Okay. Instead of making that broad and obvious statement, do something to teach kids about eating healthy. Tell them that loving your body is the first step to taking care of it. Tell them that it doesn't matter what someone else thinks of their bodies--they have to be their own champions. Okay? So shut up about the problem and be a solution. The solution isn't a lecture circuit. It's about appealing to people's emotions. Making them feel worth the effort. It's hard to understand what it's like to be fat in our culture unless you've been there, but hopefully this will give you a better idea of what it's like, and hopefully that will allow you to support healthier messages and to smash what hurts the people already struggling so painfully with self-hatred.

Before and After

My life has taken a turn for the positive. This isn't anything new. Because of bipolar I dip pretty low in the winter, and with spring I find myself fighting a little hypomania. Despite all the negative effects of hypomania, one of the better side effects is feeling productive. Granted, it always comes a little too late to be useful for school. But it gives me extremely narrow focus and a burst of energy to undertake and complete big projects. I've always been a girl with big dreams, and now I know exactly what that means. It means my huge wave of creativity and drive that hits me this time of year would fill my mind with new projects to start, and right around the time they should have come to fruition, I would hit a big, black block of depression. I would lose all the energy and passion that had once driven the idea with such force. I would convince myself my idea had been a bad one. It could have never been accomplished. But I know better now. I know I'm a little hypo right now. There's not a whole lot I can do about it, except to utilize it while I can.

I'm eating a vegan diet. The food is healthier, delicious, and I've really been proud of myself learning how to cook. Every meal I create feels like an accomplishment when two months ago I was still known as the girl who mistook 3 teaspoons for 3 cups of baking soda and accidentally bought 10 pounds of cous cous. I'm learning. Every new recipe I try is an opportunity to make a mistake, or try something new and fall in love with it. It's an experimental process and honestly fun. I feel like I'm doing something good for my body. And I know I'm doing good things for the environment, animals, and the world. I've found that changing your dietary habits is easier when you feel like someone's counting on you. And I've dedicated this lifestyle to so many causes that I can't possibly let any of them down. In Terre Haute it's nearly impossible to eat unhealthily as a vegan unless I eat nothing but Oreos. And let's be real, not even my sweet tooth could handle that.

I've started running. I began because I wanted to challenge the myth that vegans are weak and unhealthy. I want to be a runner. I'm never going to be an olympic runner, or even the person who wins a race, but I want to run like I mean it. Running is a kind of freedom. I tell myself I can't do it, and when I run down my country road, I tell myself about three times I'm going to quit and I never do. It's so fucking inspiring to prove yourself wrong. I haven't really implemented any other workouts yet, but I'd like to do some yoga to improve my flexibility for dance and to practice meditation which I hope may help center me when I'm feeling manic. I also find a lot of satisfaction in work out classes. What classes will I take? Well. None this summer because I have zero opportunity between camp, Europe, and vacation to take any exercise classes. But it's good to remember for when I begin to struggle again in the winter. But for now, I will keep running. Every day I will at least run a mile and walk a mile. No exceptions. When I get my Vegetarian/Vegan Student Fellowship up and running, I want to enter races together to make a point. We are healthy. We are strong. And I can't promote that truth unless I'm living it.

But here's the kicker folks: You can't be healthy unless you love yourself. A lot of people lose a lot of weight driven by self-loathing. This is true. But being skinny won't make you love yourself forever. After a while that negativity will come back to haunt you. You have to love yourself (your body is a pretty important part of you, by the way) before you can try to make that body healthy. You can't look after something you hate. You have to nourish your body and work your body because you love it so much that you want it to be strong. Loving yourself is just as much a part of overall health as looking fit. You have to sort out what's inside first.

So I take some issue with before and after pictures. The before pictures are always heart-breaking. The faces on those people reflect the self-hate that has driven them to this transformation. The after pictures display skinny or muscular bodies and smiling faces. The women have put on makeup and fixed their hair. The men pose, proudly showing off their new built bodies. But I know that they aren't happy--not really. Because when the high of pride has settled, they will be left with the same person inside that they began with. Self-love isn't earned by being skinny. So. I decided to do a before and after picture. But I'm smiling in my picture. I love my body as it is, but I've decided to start taking care of it, and I want to record the progress, because I'm proud of myself, as I should be. So here I am, right now, as I truly stand. I have fat, but I'm not fat. My size does not define me.

I'm not trying to lose weight. I'm just on a mission to prove to myself and the world that I love myself. What's your mission? What helps you get up early for that run or eat better? Let me know in the comments. :)

Peace.

Bring us Your Kids: I Believe in Summer Camp

I've had camp on the mind lately. I'm so pumped for the summer. I realized last night as I was falling asleep that I have a whole life to live before I can get sick on those familiar winding roads. I'll have finished the other half of this semester. I'll have sung in my concert and danced in the showcase. I'll have been to Paris and Berlin and back. I pictured myself doing all these things and I felt very alone. At ACA Midstates Conference I heard the term "nature deficit disorder" for the first time. I need to slow down. This is traditionally a really hard time of year for me. As some of you will recall, this time last year this blog was formed. I left behind Tbird's Train with all it's secrecy and darkness because I wanted a fresh start. I think thus far I've done significantly better. But this long winter weighs heavy on my soul. So many good things can happen to me before the summer comes, bringing the energy and community of Waycross with it. But I only see these days as an obstacle. Am I excited for the other things? Of course. I cannot wait to see Berlin again and to visit Paris for the first time. I love performing, and I'm excited for my shows. But... my heart is in a hammock strung between two trees outside a little red cabin. So, what can I do about it? I'm just going to have to tie the two together--camp and life.

When I come back from camp, I try to organize my life to look just like camp. Partly I'm holding on with desperate, sweaty fingers to the life I'm leaving behind, but partly I recognize the logic in a camp lifestyle. My bipolar mind requires structure. I need time for excitement and time for reflection. I need time for bonding and time for introspection. I need to get in touch with nature, and to turn off anything that requires a battery for just a while. I need breath. Simple. In. Out. When I come home from camp, I make myself a schedule as detailed, but not as dynamic and colorful as the ones I make for my campers. I hang my whistle by my door on a hook. I see it every time I enter or exit my room. It serves as a reminder. I am accepted--respected somewhere. And I'll be back soon. I want to recreate camp at school. Of course that isn't possible. Camp is a safe place. Someone got raped in the parking lot I always end up stuck in at 2:00 am on a Thursday night. Right? Camp is its own world. But at that conference I had another thought. Camp isn't a vacation. Camp isn't some trip you go on to get away from everything. In essence, you do, but not in the way we traditionally picture vacation. Camp strips away all the shit of everyday life to really give you the freedom to dig deep. Sure, it's fun. But who says self-discovery can't be fun? And if you dig really, really deep you may pull something to the surface. Maybe that something you find can change you on such a basic level, that when you leave that sacred place, you keep that thing--whatever it is.

We do a really incredible thing at camp. We give kids an opportunity unique to a camp setting in which to find themselves. Kids don't go outside anymore. They're far too entertained by what's inside. They're so overstimulated that they have learned to easily escape themselves. We let them push those things they hate within themselves to the very, very back of their minds. I say bring that shit up. Because there is nothing within a child that can make them unlovable. It's our job to show them that.  We teach kids to love themselves. I hate when people say, "how can other people love you if you don't love yourself?" Well. Fuck you, too. Not everyone has their shit together. Most of us don't. But everyone is worthy of love and compassion. That kid that is struggling the most--they're the one that needs love. For some people it just works the other way around. A kid needs to be loved before they know it's okay to love themselves. I will love the shit out of those kids

I will love the shit out of you.

Anyway. Here comes that wrap-up you've grown to know and love: Camp is a big fucking deal to me. And it should be to you too. Sending your kids to camp shouldn't be a matter of "if," but of "how." In an age of immediate satisfaction, depravity of nature, and real anxiety in children, one week of play, of meditation, and of unconditional love is golden and unseen. Bring us your kids. Because I believe that we can make a difference. I've seen it within myself. I've seen it within my campers. I believe in summer camp.

Black babies, cute animals, and depression

I hate negative Facebook posts. I think they're attention-seeking and childish. The same goes for Twitter and Instagram. But blogs are a little different. I had to convince myself of that. This is my heart unraveled and woven back into shape between little black letters on my laptop. This, this is me. This is what pisses me off, what make me laugh, what hurts me, and what brings happy moisture to my eye. This is my blog, dammit.

And I'm not happy right now. I don't taste when I try to eat. Laughing feels physically exhausting. I don't want to sing. I don't want to dance. I want to sleep. I don't even want to cuddle, if you can believe that. I don't want to be touched at all. I do kind of want hot tea, though.

In a sick kind of irony, I think I'm most creative at times like this. Stories are opening up in my mind. I just don't have the energy to write them down--to make them whole. I WANT to, but just not enough. I have things I need to accomplish. I WANT to do them; not enough. My day is heavy with all the shit that needs done, and it's weighing on my heart. Because instead of doing those things right now, I'm looking up pretty African American babies and cute animals on Pinterest. That's pretty much all I want to do. I don't want to talk to anyone. I want left alone.

Extremes

This week has been full of extreme highs and lows.

• Midterms stressed me out unnecessarily.
• Friends disappointed me.
• Friends faced struggles I wish I could make better.
• Nearly every time I walked outside I was rained on.
• I don't own an umbrella.
• The alcohol/hazing/sexual assault training I had to do was useless and hell to get into.

• I learned I may graduate early.
• The classes ahead of me are exciting and interesting.
• I'M GOING TO PARIS AND BERLIN NEXT SEMESTER!
• I had a thoroughly entertaining study session with my German class (although little studying was accomplished)
• I finally cleaned my room.
• All my exams went swimmingly.

This has been the ultimate bipolar week. The ups have been full of ecstasy, fast-talking, shaking, and jumping. The lows have been full of sleep, sleep, calls home, and sleep.

There have been no in betweens this week. It's been a constant roller coaster.

Unrestrained Hope--A Post on Living Without Fear

It's been awhile, friends. The week of Homecoming and the week prior to homecoming was packed full for Greeks and the enthusiastically involved like myself. I had the Chi Omega tent to worry about and affiliated alumnae events, I had Sycamore Sync, and Trike, and The Walk.I'm not old enough to participate yet, but I have to worry about not hitting drunk college students in matching shirts saying things like, "Walk Hard, Play Hard," and "Keep Calm and Walk On." It's kind of like an unsupervised herd of children walking down Wabash--except hyper-sexual and profane.

Sunday, work took me to Indianapolis with Kyle. Pleasantly, Mom brought Kairyn along, and I spent some time with them. I took pictures for Tanglewood Press. It was a good Sunday day after a long, long, long two weeks.

Last night I had my date. Some of you may notice that I removed my last post. I did so because I was asking questions I've managed to answer myself, now. This is something I never used to do... but the recentness of the post made the contrast to this post uncomfortable and confusing to those who follow me faithfully.

Last night I went on my date with Drew. I'm guessing a number of you didn't even know that was happening. Dinner, movie, and conversation. In one way or another I'm guarding myself from an acca-awkward situation in the future. Here I'm going to define my feelings on the past of that relationship, my fears regarding it, and how I picture it working. *Deep breath* Here we go.

Drew caused me a lot of heartache over the last year. I was pathetically and unrelentingly in love with him, and he did not love me. I'm not the type to have a million crushes on boys and fall in love willy-nilly. I've only said it about three boys now. And Drew was the second. Honestly he led me on. On the surface, he didn't. He never made any promises he couldn't keep. He never did anything directly unkind to me. But when I look back--he was leading me on. Because he still paid attention to me. For whatever reason, he let me love him. He could have shut me down, and he didn't. It was hard for a long time. But this summer, I did a lot of processing, and when the truth of that relationship revealed itself to me, I cut ties. It was a kind of passive decision. I was uninterested in talking to someone who was uninterested in me. It's a decision I made just in time for him to silently change his mind about me. When my only contact with him was via text messages that he sometimes responded to hours later, any interest he'd ever had felt distant and vague. He's not one to talk about his feelings.

In this time I dated Jacob--a jumbled kind of affair. And due to misunderstanding, Drew and I had no contact for two months. Acca-awkward.

In an odd series of events, we began speaking again. And this time there was actual speaking. With calls instead of texts and with long-winded Skype sessions. He apologized an awful lot.

So... fears.

• I'm afraid he wants to be with be because he's lonely. And that it doesn't really have anything to do with me.
• I'm afraid my history will confuse our relationship--that was a not-so-subtle topic last night.
• I'm afraid he'll be too scared. And this will all be a repeat of last year.

If we were to make this work. what would it look like?

• No commitments. Nothing is ever in stone.
• Personal academic achievement and work always come first--even if that calls for an end to all of it.
• There would be an equal contribution on the part of both parties to see one another. I don't like the idea of "make it work." This shouldn't be work. I know long distance is rough. It never lasts, whatever. I've seen in work with mature adults before. But I still have those same fears of long distance. But honestly? Haven't we been doing that for a year? Just with a paralyzing fear of the assumed commitment that walks hand-in-hand with labels. What I dream of? It's close. Just with a greater effort to spend time together. Just with a level of temporary commitment, which doesn't dictate decisions for the future, but rather enriches the experiences we have in that moment... those moments.
• I'm a realist. My level of idealism has shrunk more as I've grown and seen the exploits and failures of those in my life, (and my own, I suppose). I'm expecting nothing more than acknowledgment of love.

If those things do not happen, I can be okay with that. But I can be nothing more than a good friend. I refuse to chase. I'm over chasing. I'm over looking. If love wants me, love will find me. and I will give myself wholly to that feeling in that moment with no care of what lays before me. Endings are as natural as beginnings. I live without fear. Love cannot exist one-way, and it cannot exist if it is unspoken. Something as intangible as a feeling doesn't really mean anything unless it's expressed. It isn't even there. Think about that for a minute.


I won't have my heart broken if it never becomes something, and I won't have my heart broken if something develops, then fades. That's just life. Sadness over such things is inevitable--but I'm beyond the mess I used to live in. I'm just as happy by myself. But hope is as unrestrained as love in it's imaginary place in our minds. I'm giving it substance by saying it here. I hope something happens. I do.

It is what it is.

The Consequence and Magnificence

I'm having such a difficult time defining where I am emotionally right now. I've been starting on posts like this a lot lately, then reverting back to some social issue that pisses me off. There's been a lot of that lately, partially because I'm becoming more informed and I'm interested in the things I'm learning, but also because I'm defining myself. I'm in this watery state right now. I'm trying to shape myself; to stand up straight.

In that place it's kind of hard to define myself. I think I need to define my beliefs and values before I begin to define myself. Those are the things that define me, and without them I am shallow water.

This is my third week out of therapy. My counselor must be really sick. I suppose I could see someone in his absence, but I'm a picky client. I want someone good. And I want someone who I have a relationship with. I'm going to have to play catch up when he gets back anyway. And there's plenty of catching up to do. I was still dating Jacob (barely) when we last talked. Everything's changed since then. For better or for worse? Perhaps it was a neutral kind of change. I liked where I was at that time, but if it was a lie, then I don't want to be living there anyway, if that makes sense.

I'd say I'm generally happy where I am. I do stupid things still, and I regret a lot. But I'm better about finding perspective necessary to learn and move on. This attempt to define myself has helped to hold me responsible. I'm creating this person--or being true to this person--who expresses assertions to which I had not always adhered. But it's constantly on my mind now, and I'm fond of the person I'm discovering within myself. I want to be her. And I will.

So where am I emotionally? I think that those posts bitching about social issues are a pretty accurate picture. It's questions, it's (dis)beliefs, it's music... that's where I am. Those are all good things. I can't always be there. But that's the consequence and magnificence of sitting on the edge of the window sill.

Tbird's Window Sill

and full of the details we avoid so carefully...

I'm feeling really lonely right now. I want someone to sleep next to right now. I don't want anything beyond that, though. Do relationships like that exist? I haven't seen my therapist for two weeks now. He's been sick. I don't know what I'm going to tell him. Just when I thought I had it all figured out--what I'd say to him, that is--more rains down on me. I'm going to need to take a list. This is what it would look like:

1. Jacob
2. Unnamed boy
3. Some missed classes...
4. Loneliness
5. Regret

I want to talk about regret because it's been on my mind. I think regret is the fallback of people with bipolar. They fuck up in mania... regret. They disappear in depression... regret. And right now, just somewhere between, I have only my past to regret--although it's a pretty heavy history.

Bitches get stuff done.

Yesterday I was really down. Today, I'm still a little down, and I'm procrastinating, which until this moment I had not done this semester. Regardless I can feel the weight of yesterday's disappointments are a little lighter. I don't really feel the need to sleep right now. I'm a little anxious that I'll go to bed too late because I have to go home after the practice for recruitment tonight. I'll do laundry and some homework, and I'll keep Grandma company because I know she misses me... but the night will be long. This week is going to move so quickly, and I don't have time to be sick like I am.

I'm keeping in better touch with my camp family. They're going to keep me stable. Because right now I don't want to be depressed. I am going to fight the hell out of it, because I absolutely have to fix this. I won't let myself get to where I've been. I'm going to keep going to class. I'm going to keep studying. I'm going to keep in touch with those who keep me grounded. These are my promises to myself.

I've lost hope for a lot of things lately. But I still stand strong in my conviction that people are inherently good. We mess up all the time, but that doesn't mean we're bad. It means we are struggling. I will keep believing that. It's a belief that allows me to be vulnerable and get hurt; but it allows me to form relationships with far greater depth. My friends, those who I've trusted with the truth in me, will hold my hand while I do all of that. I don't need a boyfriend to hold my hand. People fall out of love all the time, and sudden disappearances will shake me--like it just did. If someone's going to hold my hand it needs to be someone I can count on for stability, and someone I respect enough to help in the very same way. Partners will come and go, and so will friends, really. But I have friends that I believe in right now. They've seen me at my worst, and they love me anyway. That takes great strength--genuineness always does.

I have a lot to do still. With my life, I mean. I have places to go and people to meet. I have things to accomplish! And I know I'm going to. And I'll do it "alone." But I'm not really alone. Just because I don't have a boyfriend doesn't mean I'm flying solo. It means I don't have a boyfriend. I have friends that will take care of me in ways a man never could. I'm too much of a bitch for a boyfriend anyway. But you know what? Bitches get stuff done.

I'm blogging like a manic right now. I have to. Bear with me. I'm going to get better and then this won't be so dreary.

This kid kept me honest this weekend.

Lord I'm 500 miles from my home.

I'm really sad today. I'm just sad in general right now. I'm thinking about a lot of things--dwelling really. I think I'm getting depressed again. I want to fight it, but I'm getting to that place where fighting it hurts more than living it. All I can do is keep going and keep on top of the things that need done. I'm kind of happy I have Chi Omega right now, because I have a reason to wake up and actually shower and take care of myself. Through recruitment we need to represent Chi Omega well. All I want to do is sleep.

So, apparently I wasn't a rebound. But the fact of the matter is I was too much for him. Right now he needs someone that doesn't need to be taken care of because he needs to take care of himself... whatever. It made me think, though: am I just too messed up for a relationship? I've already cut myself off from boys for a while now. I know how bad they are for me, and I know I was looking, which is never good. Love should come to me, I think. Today James said, "My grandma used to say that we live to find love, we don't love to find life. I think that's what you need." He's so right. And that resonated with me after a little time in the car gave me time to process that. I was looking. But I couldn't help but wonder if I am just too much for someone else to take care of. Am I so difficult that I'm one of those project relationships--will people take me on to try to fix me? Because I know how poorly those turn out. So, after that thought, the first thing I considered was just waiting. Maybe in time I'll have my life better together and I'll be good for someone. But then that disquieting word--maybe--slapped me in the face. What if I'm never better than I am right now? What if my whole life will be this roller coaster of ups and downs? What if when I need medication adjustments I become too much to take? What if I always struggle with self harm? What if I spend my whole life falling in love with people who are scared of me?

I thought of all these things as I was driving away from camp with NPR playing quietly in the background, only to make me feel less alone. I've never known someone with bipolar that had a positive, healthy romantic relationship. Bipolar people are great for some things. They are writers and actors. They're movers and shakers... but they never seem to have love. And that thought scares me. I'm working on being okay alone, which is hard, but I can't help but try to look to the future and hope that I find someone. I can't help but hope that I'll have that camp wedding I always dream of, and that I'll have babies that don't have to have bipolar disorder. I wouldn't wish this feeling on anyone right now.

He wanted me back Friday, after he dumped me Thursday. He told me that he missed me, Madeline Webster, Queen of the Gollywhops. He said I made him believe in love again. He said he'd made a terrible mistake, and he couldn't believe he'd let me go. But Wednesday night... he was with someone else. So I knew those feelings had to have a parallel conflict he didn't want me to see. So, against the calls of my heart, I said no. I said no even though he wanted me to believe that he wanted me. And today, Labor Day, four days later, he again doesn't want me. I see it was a wise decision to hold strong. Because no matter how much he "loves me," he doesn't love me enough to withstand my bipolar disorder. And maybe it's just the place he is in his life--I can accept that. But when love is real, none of that matters. When love is real, you can't imagine your life without someone. When love is real, you don't even consider loving someone else. When love is real, you're willing to take anything thrown your way: distance, stress, mental illness...

So, he dumped me Thursday. I'd planned on meeting his family this weekend, and so I hadn't signed up to work at Waycross for Family Camp. But when it happened, I knew I needed camp. I knew that I needed support, distraction, exercise, and music. So I emailed Eric, and he let me work, but I didn't get paid. I spent a total of $65 dollars in gas to get there and back and make my runs in Brown County. But I didn't even care. I was just so happy to be there. It was so good for me. The thought of Jacob still hurt a lot, but I managed to make it through the weekend with growth and a greater sense of peace. I think it'll take a while to heal now. I'm still very hateful towards him.

I'm maddest because he was the one that wanted to look so far ahead. Somehow that assured me, because he was willing to believe in long term when Drew wouldn't even commit to now. We seemed so good for each other. He promised to love me despite everything I was afraid he'd leave me for; everything I'm still afraid I'll be left for. And after rushing so quickly into things, he dumped me so quickly. I'm mad because even after he played on my emotions trying to get me back, he managed to change his mind so quickly again. I can exist as a fleeting thing. He can want me and not want me three times in the course of a weekend. I was mad because I felt deceived. But I have to catch myself when I'm mad at him for not wanting me. That really isn't fair. In that instance I'm not mad at him. I'm mad at my fear that no one will look far enough past my crazy to love me. Because honestly, at this point I'm not grieving him.

If he doesn't want me, he doesn't. And I have almost entirely retrained my brain to not want him anymore too. I can't even imagine myself ever being desperate enough to make that mistake. But I am grieving the hope I've lost. I think when I was looking, like I'd said before, I was looking for assurance that I was lovable despite my mood swings, and my scars, and my depression... and I thought I'd found that in Jacob. But I was wrong. And that's why it hurt so much. Because the very thing I was looking for in love, was the very reason I lost it.

I'm getting sick. My throat is sore, my head hurts... I'm just miserable really. I'm disgusting and I need a shower. I miss camp. But here I am, back at school, fretting about this homework I need to scan and email, and looking at the mess in my room fearing that I don't have the will to pick it up. It's going to take everything I have to shower and get to the library. I'm listening to Peter Paul & Mary, which is practically my camp soundtrack. 500 Miles just played. And I think it's true. I have no idea how many miles camp is from me right now, but it's too many. And not just camp, but those people who make camp what it is. They're my home too. And it's all so far away that it physically hurts. I feel it in my bones that there is where I belong. And soon I'll return to clear trails, or fix bikes, or work on the new archery field... and I'll find peace again. And maybe someday I'll learn to bring that peace home.

You've Got Mail and Oatmeal Cream Pies

I haven't blogged in a while. I just started my sophomore year here at ISU, you know. And I had a boyfriend. Had a boyfriend. It's funny how life happens that way. I was so over men, but some little part of my just wanted to belong to someone. And for the first time, I don't really want that at all. I'm about to honey badger all over the penis shit. I had to be hurt this way to see it, though.

I mean. I broke up with Kyle. I lived on that end, and it's shitty. Being Summer sucks. And Drew? I wanted him so, so badly. But I finally came to terms with the reality that he did not want me back--and time nor space would change that. And that broke my heart in one kind of way. It was a consistent throb that I became comfortable with; it began to feel normal. I was okay with the ache. It went from hurtful, to tolerable, to almost enjoyable... but with a little help from Ms. Beasley, I realized for the first time that I was being used. We were using each other really. I think a little more therapy will reveal the roles we played for one another. Who knows. But when I finally got there, I just kind of let go. One day I drove into town on a break, and I didn't text him the whole time. I didn't even think about it. It was kind of an epiphany. I was really over him.

And right now I want to text him so badly.

That's just a sign of how unhealthy that whole business was. And then Jacob. We moved way too quickly. I was a rebound. And some shy part of my brain knew that a long time ago, but I was just so excited that I ignored all of that. I was so happy to have found someone I had so much in common with, who promised to love me despite my crazy, who said nice things, and who bought me flowers... I was so happy that I ignored the shit in my brain warning me to slow down, to read him better before I opened up. But I kept thinking that with time, we'd grow close enough that the speed wouldn't make a difference. It would just end in the same place: a relationship. I thought the road there wouldn't make a difference...

And it's not that I'm so sad about the relationship. No good relationship ends in a breakup, right? But, I've never been broken up with before. It kind of took me off guard. I expected we'd talk it out and keep going... but I sensed what was coming. I didn't want to be drug around. I just yanked it out of his ass. If I'm not mistaken, he'd expected to get drunk and make an ass of himself so I'd do it for him. I sure can pick 'em.

And this is what I said to Shannon earlier while we watched You've Got Mail, ate oatmeal cream pies and pretzels, and drank warm Jones Sodas, I said, "it's not that I have bad taste. I like good guys. I like smart guys. I like really cool guys! I just don't like guys who like me." And she nodded. Because it's true. Jacob isn't a bad guy at all. And even though I'm pretty pissed at him right now, I know that will pass, and it'll be easier to acknowledge that he's not bad. He just didn't really like me that much. I'm glad it was over before I could get any more invested.

So. I know I'm coming across as pretty healthy right now. Maybe I am. But I'm crying as I type this. And I'd been trying to sleep for an hour before I finally decided to write instead. My heart was beating fast, like I'd been running, and I felt a little like punching something, which would not actually make me feel that much better. So I decided on this instead.

Tomorrow I'll go to Waycross. It's brilliant timing. He actually kind of broke up with me by saying that someone else was taking him home. The first thought I had was? Wtf? Did he just break up with me? and then I thought camp it is then, motherfuckers. I'm still pretty overwhelmed. I'm going to try to sleep again anyway. I'll probably have more to say tomorrow.

So as a good night:
"No one will remember you, Joe Fox. And maybe no one will remember me either. But plenty of people remember my mother. And they think she was fine, and that her store was something special. You are nothing but a suit."
Also: Thank you Kelsie Jo, Cydney, Mom, Shannon, and Sara. You all are my saving graces. I don't know what I'd do without you.
<3 Chicks before dicks.

So I freak out, then I remind myself to smile.

I need to keep my head on straight. Making lists makes me feel better. But just being should make me feel happy, you know? But transitions are hard. We all know that. GAHHH. So here's my list. Let's see if it makes me feel better.

• Buy school supplies
• Check to see if school books are posted for any classes
• Sort things to go to school.
• Lunch with Frau :)
• Meet up with Heidi
• Meet up with Sara
• The problem with the above 3 is that Mom doesn't have anything planned for the next week. I have no idea what my expectations are, so I can't tell them any dates. The time will come and go, and I won't get to see them.
•  Get a job
• Follow up on my applications
• Get organized on recruitment stuff--Call Jess
• Sleep

And now to make me feel better:

Anchor my ass!

Saving Kittens: a story of PTSD

^Me^

Today, while walking the dogs, Mom and I heard a loud meowing from the green behind the bridge. And when I looked, there, looking at me with helpless eyes, was a kitten. She was black and white, and she was freaking adorable. And she ran away, but then she came back to me, and she let me carry her all the way home.

We have 5 cats.

5 cats is too many cats.

I asked Facebook if anyone wanted her. They all said no by saying nothing. And while I waited I fell more and more in love with her. It may be a boy, actually. If it's a girl she's Myrna and if she's a boy she's Merlin. <--all of that gender-title-play was on purpose. I loved her. I let her play all around the house and I cried while I cleaned because I wanted her.

So, I walked the dogs with Kyle to see if she would go back home or run away. But she followed me the whole way out and the whole way back. BECAUSE SHE LOVED ME AND I WAS HER MOMMY! And then Grandma called to tell us that a woman at the beauty shop said she wanted a kitten.

So we took her there. I cried the whole way. I just wanted something so small and needy to love me for keepsies. And I cried about abandoning her like her mother. And I cried about wanting a baby. And I cried about being bad at transitions. And I just sobbed. Mascara down my cheeks, tear stains on my glasses sobbing. I made Kyle take her in, because I was scared she'd cry for me when I left her.

I was all, "I shouldn't have left therapy. I have PTSD."
Kyle gave me a look that said, "I think that is unlikely."
I cried some more. I know I'm going to camp on TUESDAY. I wouldn't have been able to care for the kitten. Then I'll go to school and I won't be able to take care of it there, either. I love you, Myrna/Merlin whatever. I love you so, so much. And I totally don't need you at all right now. </3

I'm on my period. Stop judging me.

Addiction, Anger, and Hope.

when addiction is involved

I really try to blog about twice a week, just because it's good for me, and I hate the thought of a visitor coming by to find at the top of the page that post which they read last. It's always so disappointing for me when the same happens on the blogs I follow. If I'm interested enough to go there, then I'm excited to read what they have to say! But I've been slipping lately.

I plan on writing a post about Books-A-Million and their Tea Party affiliation, but life has gotten in the way. It will come. I kept telling myself that would be my next post, and therefore wouldn't allow myself to write what I was feeling. I kept stalling. But no more. I'll go back to that in time, but for now, I have more pressing issues at hand. Following: the issues I take with my brother-in-law and my brother.

My brother-in-law has screwed up. Again. I love my sister, and I love her children, so I've been as kind as my patience allowed. But I'm reaching my breaking point. Patience with children is a skill I've worked very hard to develop within myself. Kindness to your partner is vital. And when you have dependents, it's important to take care of yourself. If you have a problem, then fix it. I have little tolerance for denial. Gambling away $2,000 in one night is not something to be taken lightly--good thing he's not my husband. Those are the things on my mind. Regardless of his douchebaggery towards me this semester. Which I'm not over, by the way. Even with the apology I never got, I'd take a while to move past that. Which is not a decision. Those are my feelings. Anyway. Regardless of that incident, I'm angry. I'm angry for my sister whom I love dearly. I'm angry for her life right now. When it rains, it pours. And she feels so strongly. That's part of what makes her such a good person--she can empathize. But it can break her. Carrying the weight of another can hurt so, so much. And now this? That was simply selfish on his part. I am done with him until he's gotten help and made the proper apologies to his family. Line=drawn.

Ian is hurting. I tend to distance myself from friends and family when it gets hard, because I don't want to be holding that hand when they slip... when they stop passing their windows. It scares me. And so I'd managed to "forget" about him. I'm not sure if intentional lack of consideration really counts as "forgetting" someone. I just stopped thinking about him. I refused to worry. What would come, would come. It is what it is.

But you can't really do that. No one can. I'm an expert and I couldn't do it for long. I'm going to take this part directly from my journal, because I don't think it's beneficial to me to write it all again.

We're out looking for him. On our way to Paris now. I brought Longbottom along, like a child, for some sort of security and comfort. I want something to hold if we don't bring him home. As a constant reminder of why I'm in this car, his socks and shoes are beside me. A cigarette is on the floor. Is he in Paris with no shoes? No one's talking much. Every time he disappeared before--every time he hurt himself--we talked about it. But there is a weighted silence in our throats. We're afraid to speak because someone may say that lifeless word: dead. He was alone this time. And somehow possibilities feel more possible when they're said aloud. 

*

A call from Paris. And it's Molly. Guilt in her tone. She did this. And so did Bonnie, and Jay, and Lindy... and he did it. He did it to himself. He did it to everyone. Barefoot. Broke. Hungover. Lost. No phone. No car. No... hope? But Mom: that's her word. That's her world. And I cannot deny her that. But I've denied it of myself.

*

We found him, bleary-eyed and sad in his trailer. And I was in some place between angry and relieved which is an uncomfortable mix of emotions. I kind of wanted to hug and hit him at the same time. I do love him. And I can't forget about him. And I just want happiness for him, and I know how foreign a feeling that is at the millionth dip; down, down. But he'll have it if he thinks he will. Happiness is a choice--it is not a circumstance. I kind of want to beat it into his head--like a physical understanding of what it feels like to love your life. I thought he was gone. He wasn't. We've another chance to fix it. And since I've stopped asking God to care, I'm going to pick up the slack. I will hold his demons in my capable heart, and I will defeat them. Kayla will defeat them. Mom will defeat them. Jim will defeat them. And Grandma will, too, even if she's a little hesitant. Happiness is a choice. But so is hope. I denied it of myself, and that hopelessness was unwarranted. I cannot do that again, because disappointment hurts only the blind while hopelessness is parallel to apathy. I'll keep my eyes wide open until we smash this mother fucker. Addiction be damned. I've taken the hope from you.

Addiction: It sucks
Anger: I've got it. And I'm kind of airing Darren's dirty laundry. But telling the truth should never bring shame. And so I have none.
Hope: Hear my message. Feel it. Because that was for me--I wrote it with no intentions of sharing it. But Mom's already made our story known, I've simply written subjectively. I brought emotion to what was information. This is for you now. It was mine, and I've made it yours, because so many of you have heartache. All of you do. No one lives without acquiring some demons. And I want you to know what it means to hope for something better. Because it's our job to make this place better. Have hope. Please have hope.

I'm a cock...

Why couldn't they have just said rooster?

but not in the penis way. But the title got your attention, right? It is my belief that only my really weird titles ever get views, so I'm alternating normal and weird titles as an experiment to test this theory. But I promise that the title has a lot to do with the actual story. It kind of is the story. I've been cycling through some of the family classics lately--the stories brought up to embarrass children through adulthood. These are the stories that are funny to everyone but the person they're about until that person just decides to get over their cockiness (heh heh) and laugh along. Because I was really weird and didn't have a lot of friends my age, I'm nearly always the subject of these stories. I'm also the youngest child, which means there were more people to remember my embarrassing moments, and mine are the most recent.

Today I went to Panda Garden with Kyle. Panda Garden is arguably the best Chinese food in Terre Haute, and I've been going since I was a baby. They even gave us a free meal once, because one time I packed a bag full of my old Burger King toys and handed them out to the waiters and waitresses. It was New Year's Eve, and their anniversary. Panda Garden and I are the same age. The owner was charmed (and who wouldn't be? I'm hella cute), and gave us our meal for free. That event, paired with the fact Panda Garden had the only vegetables I would eat, made it a frequent visit for the Markle-Thompson-Webster-Dunahee family.

Panda Garden had those placemats (I don't care what my internet spellcheck thinks. Placemats is totally one word), with the Chinese Zodiac on them and personality traits of each animal. I'm pretty sure most Chinese restaurants has those, actually, now that I think about it. Anyway, unfortunately, I'm a rooster. <--That's what I should have said over lunch with my family and my friend Brittany.

I was one of those kids who never really got sexual references until like... high school. Yeah. It wasn't until "that's what she said" became a regular part everyone's vocabulary that I understood any of it. Then I probably took it too far, because when you give a 14 year-old that phrase, when they've always been the last one to get innuendos, they're going to abuse it. And before I knew anything about "she," or anything, really, cock only meant rooster. At least to me.

And one day I said it a little too loudly, because I talk loudly all the time (now that I think of it. No one should have ever told me I was a cock based solely on how much, how quickly, and how loudly I speak). "I'm a cock." And Mom was like, "Maddie, don't say that so loud." And because I was sensitive about being a loudmouth, I said it louder to piss her off. And it went from there. And in the middle of my defiant rant that left everyone at the table and surrounding tables debilitating-ly uncomfortable, I said "Darren's a cock, Ian's a cock, I'm a cock..." and I wouldn't shut up.

I'm a cock
Ian's a cock
Darren's a cock
I'm a cock
I'm a cock
I'm a cock...

And Brittany was in that I'm not sure if I'm allowed to laugh so I'm just going to look really awkward and try not to really, really hard kind of place, and Mom desperately tried to make me shut up, which made me even more of a brat about it.

It wasn't until we got out to the car that Mom said, "Maddie. Cock is another word for penis."

And I was mortified.

And since my family has used that story any time Chinese food came into conversation, or anytime they possibly could in order to mortify me. It wasn't so much that I was embarrassed I'd said those things. It was more embarrassment that I was in like... 6th grade and still didn't know what cock meant. But now that I'm older, 6th grade sounds pretty damn young. AND I can totally blame my ignorance on Catholic school and the Disney Channel.

Not. My. Fault. It's also the combined effort of my parents that I'm a cock in the first place. In theory, this is basically everyone's fault but mine. I'm going to stick with that.

Slow down, you move too fast. You've got to make the mornin' last; on medication

Word Vomit

I'm dragging you on my bipolar roller coaster. Updownupdownfasterfasterfaster.

It's amazing to me how often I rush around, panicking without reason. I do wonder if I have anxiety. It's a co-morbid disorder, right? But quite frankly? I think bipolar and depression meds are plenty. I don't want to take any more. It's wearing on me--the drymouth, the nausea, the SEIZURES! (okay, there was only one, but still). I suppose that's better than being crazy.

Today I found some old, unhealthy comforts when I deep-cleaned my room. I just threw them away. I didn't even want them. I swear that's the only time that's ever happened to me. So I know the meds are working. I know it. But it doesn't make it any easier to put up with the side effects.

I peeked at *Tbird's Train a little bit ago, just to visit. I don't want to forget who I was. And I read some pretty sick stuff. And it shows me the power of secrets. Secrets are bad news, really. It's kind of like the Road Runner is this perfect bitch that I'm just trying to be. He's always ahead of me, and then here comes Wylie Coyote. He thinks he can catch up, and sooner or later, the ground runs out, and he falls      falls           falls... and if I'm on my medicine I can really slow down. I don't have to chase after that Road Runner. I am that Road Runner and I'm not even trying. Sometimes it's a let down that the Road Runner isn't as perfect as I thought. But it's still better than trying to keep up with myself.

I don't think I've ever had as hard of a semester in my life. First Ian. Then bipolar. Then IAN. And I think I need it adjusted now, because I'm going a little crazy. But it's hard to tell when my craziness is just normal, hormonal, teenage girl stuff, when it's a very natural reaction to the stresses at home, or when it's really my disorder pushing through my medication; becoming too much for it to hold back anymore. Like a gate... never mind. I'm done with the analogies. I'm infamously horrible at them.

I don't want to adjust anything until I know for sure. But how will I ever know? I'm worried about Ian. I really am. I love him so much. I don't know where he is. I don't know what kind of choices he's making (I'm assuming shitty ones). And he is not ready for any baby. I don't really care if that gets out at this point. Molly has my brother, and she's letting him kill himself. SHE'S PREGNANT. Not enough people read this for it to get out anyway. But still. That one spiteful action makes me feel a little better. In a week I'll shake my head at this week me, but right now I am really frustrated.

I've felt so guilty this whole time. I've turned him away from home twice. And both times it hurt like hell. Because I just want him home. I want him back here and I want him to be okay. I know it doesn't work like that. But he's so good. He's smart. He's a really good gift-giver. He's a hard worker. He's so much better than this cliche'. All I know is I miss him and rock bottom is nowhere in sight. I wish he knew how much I loved him and how much it hurt to lock the door in his face...




Traditional Word Vomit Wrap-Up:

1) I need to slow down. I need to be in the moment. I need to breathe and let everything else fall into place.

2) Despite the struggles with my side effects, my medicine is working. However adjustments may need to be made: Added anxiety medication and less Wellbutrin. But I'm worried about adjusting too quickly, because this may just be an emotional time and not an episode.

3) I'm really, really worried about Ian. I miss him and I'm scared of losing him. And I'm scared for his unborn child. Who's going to raise it? Kelly again? Then she deserves to know. This is why is why I'm pro-choice. This kid doesn't have a chance.

On family, broken hearts, and conflict--both internal and not

The sad stories aren't necessary to talk about the themes which they support. My family is tumultuous right now. I've always lived in a kind of bubble, free from the horrors my siblings had faced, and the bull that still occurred. I was left a little scarred by the near tangible absences in my childhood and the abuses I experienced--being a sensitive kid. But I never felt the pain of a neglectful mother. My mother loved me very much. And for all the craziness that happened around me, she was so strong. And then Jim came, and his love permeated my wall of hesitancy and guilt--Dad issues. I've never been much good with transitions. But through every transition, my mom and step-(now adoptive)dad were there for me. Mama and Papa. Through my bipolar messes, they helped me pick up the pieces--never judging or condemning me. It was always about the next step. My parents aren't the type to dwell on the past. The point of that really long paragraph: Although my family is a little jacked up, my immediate family protected me from much of the drama.

But I'm a grown up now.

My brother needed his family. I'd heard of his struggles in Texas, but there was a strong disconnect. I didn't know him. My biggest fear when he came home, was that I would love him--I would become accompanied and comfortable with him in my life, and then I'd watch him fall apart. There's nothing harder, really. Watching someone you love fall apart. And although that was a thought it my mind, I still wasn't in touch with what that meant to me. But then I watched him fall. He slipped first. And I wanted to be done. I wanted to back out completely, because I knew what came next... and it would be hard. But when I really had to, I tried to step up. I've listened to calls that I'm thankful I didn't have to make. I've heard my sister cry. I've seen my mother question herself, which has been hard. She always seems so confident and sure. I've seen Jim play a very new role. No one put a deadbolt on the door for me. My bipolar shit pales in comparison.

But we're dealing with an addict. Addiction is a deadly, deadly disease. It maims judgment, causes you to say things you don't mean, and it teaches you to lie to yourself and those you love. And here's the thing: I still have it easiest. I'm not the one making those hard calls. I'm not the one installing locks in the doors and rewriting the rules of my home. I'm not the one who has been berated on the phone by a crazed and false version of the brother whom I love. So I've tried to be strong. I've tried to speak kindly to my mama, who is conflicted and suffering while her clinical mind beats down the mother within her. I've tried to thank my papa again and again. I've tried to listen to my sister. Because there is nothing to say. We're all well aware of addiction and are well-acquainted with the mental health community. We know what's real. We know what to expect and what has to be done. But that doesn't make it hurt any less. Kayla feels so strongly. She feels everything on a greater scale than I do. The pain of others so greatly affects her.

And I've allowed myself to be woken up in the night. And I've talked my grandma down from many an anxious state. And I've faced locking him out in the rain or letting him back in. I've ignored him when he knocked on my window when he came home after his clearly-set curfew. I've handled situations my grandmother is too weak to face. And all the while I've suffered in my own way. But it's my responsibility, I think. Because everyone else is dealing with a very different part of his addiction. They utilize the powers they have, and I'm discovering the ones I have. And it's sad, but it's comforting in a way. I'm finding myself in this. It's such a cliche, but I'm building character. I'm looking for my boundaries--for what will drive me over the edge--and I haven't found it yet. I'm a lot stronger than I ever knew.

Today I picked up a homeless man. I was driving Kyle to school, and I probably wouldn't have done it alone. But I decided if I was strong enough to watch my brother die, then I was strong enough to give a guy a ride and buy him a cup of coffee from Burger King. And I'm learning that the career I've been considering is so much better suited for me than I had even known. Mental health is where I belong. I think all of this would have pushed me one way or the other.

But I love my brother so, so much. And I don't know where he is. And I don't know what he's doing. And I don't know if he'll ever come home. But I do want to know that he's okay. But I can't. I can only hope. And Kayla said it best: Now hearts are breaking. And the only way to build up a muscle that has been injured is the let it rest, and then use it again. It needs to practice. I need to love people I've never met, and to care about the people on whom I've wished ill. I need to feel compassion. I need to build my heart up again, because otherwise it's going to sit there and it's going to rot. It will become bitter and will stink with a putrid hatefulness that will permeate my whole body... my face. :/ And I just can't let that happen. Because I'm responsible for making sure that doesn't happen to anyone else. While they're handling addiction, I'm going to play lifeguard. I don't want anyone to slip under. I can't lose anyone else.

On Mindfulness, Structure, and Where They Fit

This came up in therapy: Mindfulness and Structure.

A description of my train of thought leading to these topics, and the way in which I've decided to apply them to my life, will follow.

I was talking about camp. I talk about camp all the time, because camp is wonderful. Camp is magic to everyone, but I wanted to explore why I am so happy at camp so that I can try to recreate that in the real world. It's a nearly impossible feat, but recreating moments that make sense in my home environment could make my life better.

I noted that at camp things slow down. I'm aware that's an everyone-thing. Nature slows you down. Just smelling camp (the septic tank included), my heart rate slows a little, and parts of my body, which I had been unconsciously tightening, released and the whole of my psyche sighs with relief--slowly, and calmly.

Camp is also a place (nearly) free of technology and social media. My phone is usually glued to my hand. Ignoring it for more than an hour is nearly impossible. Even in class, I have to put it on vibrate in my pocket so I'm aware of emails, facebook notifications, twitter notifications, texts, and calls. Putting it away is hard at first, but eventually, I feel freed. A ball and chain removed. And I'm running, exercising legs--sleeping from the weight of it.

What about those things make me happy? What about nature and the freedom from technology makes me so happy? It is mindfulness. I'm more aware of my body. I can tell you how I'm feeling with greater insight and honesty than I'm willing to give in the "real world." I can experience joy fully without another task hanging over my head; which brings me to my next topic.

I thrive on structure. I'm bipolar, dammit. I need to know when I'm supposed to be present and when I'm supposed to leave. I need to know when each task before me is going to be completed. At camp our time is strictly scheduled, counselors agree on times to complete tasks. I don't even mind volunteering for extra tasks in that kind of environment, because I don't feel intimidated by what's before me. I'm more scared of the things I'll have to face when I get home. But that's the thing: I don't have to face them until I get home.

But when all my work has been done, I need a clean and quite sparse area to calm down at the end of the day. I need ritual to slow down and settle my racing thoughts. (I need my stack to lay flat.) Chapel. At the end of every day, we take the campers to Chapel. I get a lesson. I sing. I hold still. I give kind looks to campers (favorite hobby--I always loved when people smiled at me). This gives me a chance to breathe. Then I go back to my cabin. I definitely prefer the whole area to be clean, but if it's not? I just want my things organized. That's it really. I need to keep myself together. I need to keep my self together. And camp creates a near-perfect environment to put me in a good frame of mind.

In my life. That mindfulness is hard to recreate. My mother lives on crisis. She works well under pressure. She moves quickly, she talks quickly, and she expects that from the people around her. But, although I can do all those things, I cannot do them and remain fully self-aware. I panic in crisis. Under pressure, I crumble. I move too quickly, and it puts me on edge. I talk too fast, and I don't have time to evaluate the things I say before they come out. All of that works for Mom. It just doesn't for me. She was the model I used for even the simplest of behaviors (like putting my clothes away), and it was a model that did not match my own needs.

Elaborating on the prior example: I find that I don't put my clothes away for a long time. The idea of putting them away overwhelms me, and even causes minor physical panic. But why? It's not a difficult task. It doesn't really take that long. But that panic scares me out of the task. I know that as I put my clothes away, I'm going to feel that panic full-force, and I'm scared of it. When I practice self-awareness, I can begin to realize that when I put clothes away, I do it too quickly. I do it sloppily because my muscles tense and I just want to stop; I treat it like a race. The panic will end if I can just finish. And when Mom nags me about it, it gets harder, because the pressure which I've already placed upon myself, has been doubled. Now I need to do it for someone else too.

I'm not mad at Mom for nagging me. I used to think I was. But I wasn't. I was mad at my own suppressed panic that rose to the surface with the reminder. I just wanted to forget it. And sadly, I try to combine those things. I pitifully try to create structure in my home. But everyone has to be in on that, and I just don't live among people who rely on structure the way I do. So I get grumpy and nervous when I'm reminded of the lack of structure. Not because I'm mad at my parents for lacking structure. But because I hate that I get panicked over something so silly. I try to do one thing at a time, because my bipolar mind wants so badly to place everything in order and live a more moderate life. But I live among people who want me to do what needs done when they need it done. In structured, Maddie-Land, we don't do that. We have a detailed to-do list, and no item below those before it is performed. We complete homework before we switch the wash, because we've already done the math to know that it will be done before I leave for my next activity. But here, no one knows when they're leaving. They wing it. Ugh.

But again. It's not their fault. It's a different lifestyle. It's a lifestyle that is almost detrimental to me, though. I cannot ask of someone to change their entire personality to suit my needs. Although I do in my frustration. And this doing of one thing to the next, hinders my ability to achieve mindfulness.  I'm really trying (okay this is the first day I've tried) to carry out my general tasks more thoughtfully. Like making my bed. I'd left it unmade this morning, and I wanted it fixed. I found that it didn't take any more time to do it slowly than it did when I rushed through, hardly breathing. I put away my clothes in that way as well. Again--same time. There's no reason for me to rush. It accomplishes nothing beyond seriously wearing on my mental health. Epiphany much? I got a lot done in my room, actually, because it didn't scare me anymore. Actually. Nothing really scared me.

Well. That's a lie. I'm always scared of things, just like anyone else. I worry about my brother, I worry about my sister, (both of them have a significant amount of my worry these days), I worry about Grandma, I worry that Mom bites off more than she can chew, I worry Jim doesn't feel heard, I worry about the election, and I worry that Kayla's children are going to grow up without me there. Because I miss them so much. And I worry I'm going to fail. But those are all things that feel out of my control. That's reasonable. Worrying about putting away my clothes was irrational; I see that now. But it will get better. Mostly because I'm aware of a significant issue. If I find myself getting irritable or anxious, I know one thing I can do to help myself. There's nothing I can do about the structure. There just isn't. But perhaps if I'm more mindful, then pushing through the discomfort of the uncertainty of my unstructured household will be a little easier.

Peace.