crying and feminism

I am not the first person to talk about this. In fact, I am quite certain that Sex and the City covered this more adequately than I could or will. But this is an important topic: crying.

At some point, little boys become too old to not be considered male, and we subtly teach them that "crying is for girls." They receive this message in a number of ways . . . peer pressure, dad's showing their sons how to act, older brothers, messages in the media, and even out and out saying that it's not manly for boys to cry. The tacit message that gets delivered along with it is that it is ok for girls to cry.

Except it isn't.

At least not for me.

As far as girls go, I don't often turn to chik fliks, and I don't often cry. I'm just as happy at a live football or baseball game as I am getting a pedicure (one is exciting, one is relaxing. Why not have both?!). And I don't get my finger nails done, ever, because between the working out I do, and the breakage caused by my medical conditions, what's the point? Sure, I love to cook and I adore babies, but I'm not into pink, and I am waaaaaaay into zombies. The last time I had a girls night out, it was a girls night in (with killer amazing food) and we watched Dane Cook swear it up! Like I said in my post about sisters, I don't even really know how to use a curling iron! Sometimes it's hard to tell I am a girl.

When I was little, I went through a short few years, from maybe age 5 until age 8 where I desperately wanted to be girly. So much so that I lied to various parties about having to wear a dress, but I went through a time period twice as long as those three years where I refused to wear dresses, skirts, anything with flowers on it, anything pink or purple, and I wore instead boys jeans and t-shirts, and sweaters swiped from my brothers and dad. Somewhere in this time, I learned, and learned too well that crying was, "for babies and little girls," (just gotta LOVE how girls are compared to infants there, don't you?!) and I was bound and determined not to be one.

In my house growing up, feminism was not living well you see. It wasn't an intentional knock on women, but my dad had very definite ideas about gender roles. I don't think it was his plan to demean women or make his daughter feel that the world held fewer options for me, but he had grown up in a different family structure and a different time. (In point of fact, by acting as a shield from the rest of the world, and holding different expectations when it came to certain things, by holding doors and pulling out chairs, he truly believed he was showing respect for women, in the way he was raised.) He wanted either strong, smart, athletic sons or a nice little girl. I was neither. What came out of this dilemma was that I went back and forth between trying to be both, finally settling miraculously on just being myself. I'm not a pretty, nice, girl. It's not who I am. I'm not a mean person, in fact I consider myself pretty compassionate and giving, but I'm not the type of woman who tells white lies to smooth things over, who is quiet and careful, or who holds back strong opinions.

Growing up, there were two sets of rules for almost everything; some of these rules were spoken and some were not. For instance, there were spoken rules about what dressing modestly meant for me. The unspoken rule was that shorts were fine for my brothers because they were boys, but not for me. My brothers could play football, I should be a cheerleader. Spoken: girls can't play football. Unspoken: Isn't cool to be a cheerleader? Your cousin is! Look at how much fun that looks like! When it came time for dating and liking people, I wasn't (supposed to be) allowed to go out with someone on my own until I was 16. (As an incredibly verbal and responsible child I argued my way into a date with someone nice and harmless at 14 by reminding my parents how trustworthy I had been and wearing them down verbally). By the time my brothers were 16 my dad treated them like buddies who could talk about beer, football, and women and get a high five. Spoken: You can't date until you prove you can be responsible. Unspoken: Young women need to be protected while young men are basically grown ups.

Now, don't get me wrong, sometimes this incredibly well meaning sexism was in my favor. I was never asked to mow the lawn. If we were traveling, my brothers had to share a bed in the hotel, while I got my own. Come to think of it, while living at home, my brothers always had a shared room, and I always had my own.

Where the deep gap between us didn't benefit me was in my emotional development. In our household crying was for, "little girls and babies," and even when I was a little girl, I was told that crying was disruptive, manipulative and just made everything more complicated. I learned that lesson and learned it well. I learned it so well that there have been long periods of my life where I have gone without crying ever. There was a three year period from the end of eighth grade into 11th where I cried . . . never. Not when I dislocated my knee, not when somebody died, not when my beloved drama coach yelled at me. Crying was for babies and little girls, and my tears were on lock-down. Of course, my feelings had to come out somewhere, and they did, and honestly, it was probably worse.

I don't do that anymore. I cry at the Google Chrome commercial (like, seriously, I've seen it more than 12 times and it still lays me out), I cried numerous times while reading and seeing The Help, I cry when great art and music move me, especially when things are harmonized gorgeously or when something catches me by surprise (don't laugh, but when the big animals enter during The Lion King, on Broadway, it slays me. The amount of art it takes to make something look that good, to build the elephants and make them move, or make a giraffe, combined with my knowing just enough about theater to know some of the effort it took, and the swelling music - - fuhgeddabowdit. Kleenex time!). These seem to be socially accepted venues for tears. I still do not cry when undergoing painful procedures (I am allergic to pain killers so I've had three surgeries in the past 5 years and sucked it up), I did not cry during any of the four knee dislocations I had in 2010, and I work really really hard not to cry when my feelings are wounded. If there's a backlog of crying that needs to take place, well I can always go watch Sophie on the Google chrome commercial or if I need more release than that I usually go looking for it in Steel Magnolias, Love Actually, or Life as a house.

Because if crying is manipulative, disruptive and makes everything more complicated it should be done alone, right? Wrong, but that is the lesson I learned too well.

I consider it bad manners to cry, or get upset. And, I hate to say this so baldly, but when it is still very much a man's world, at least in the line of business I work in, figuring out what the manners, expectations, and social norms are is tres important. On the one hand, I was flat out told at one point (by someone who was not my supervisor and had no right to evaluate me) that I should be a, "nicer girl. Like _____ who is more quiet and doesn't have such a strong personality." On the other hand, there were men in my office at the time who literally screamed and swore at clients or who called people into the conference room (despite not having any authority to do so) and threw tantrums, yelling in their faces. (Meanwhile, it was me and two women who carried all of the workload because neither of those two men did anything approaching their share, or even showed up sometimes!) Spoken: We expect you to be nicer because you have ovaries. Unspoken: It's ok for men to have strong personalities, and even to be verbally abusive, disrespectful, and inappropriate, but women should be "nice."

I hate all that "sugar and spice" crap but apparently I buy into it on some level because I ended up feeling so bad about myself in that office that it made it hard to get out of bed in the morning. When I finally couldn't take it anymore after weeks and months of working 70-80 hours to keep the office afloat and being treated like crap by these two men daily, and cried because things were so awful I was told, albeit very compassionately, that I needed to leave the office and "compose myself." It was completely baffling to me - somehow I was supposed to be a nicer (read: softer, more emotional, thoughtful) woman, but when letting my guard down meant that I had to feel how awful things were, I was asked not to rejoin my supervisor or the conversation until I was "composed" (harder, guard up, more staunch). This was after I had only two tears fall and reached for one tissue. (I hadn't like gone to pieces or something, with snot dripping down my face.)

So, when I found myself in tears twice yesterday, I felt like a failure. In the first instance, it was completely justified personal stuff. I hate being lied to and then manipulated to believe it is ok, and the level of frustration I was at made it ok. It was hard that it was at 7am, but that is life. What sucked was that I felt that somehow I had to keep my feelings and my crying from the other person . . . even though their dishonesty was the direct cause. I took a shower and tried to move on. Fast forward to later in the day at work. I met with a client to discuss some future options she is looking into. Our meeting had come to a close when she told me her husband was on the way. Her husband has no professional connection to the company, but since having a strong personal relationship often paves the way for better professional outcomes in my job, as a courtesy, I waited for him. He immediately began questioning me, rudely I might add, and although I remained calm, he seemed to get more and more agitated. What started as a simple conversation about one very finite and definable thing became his need to vent about every frustration he has had on his wife's behalf for five years. I sympathized, but when it got personal, and when it got to the point that I couldn't say anything without him cutting me off and yelling some more, I was done. So I tried to keep things as professional as possible while also ending the conversation. I tried to end the conversation a second time, while staying calm. Finally, I had to just say, "I'm sorry, but this is getting very personal. Thanks for your time, goodbye." And walk away.

What was heartbreaking is that this is a client who I have bent over backwards for. I have worked more weekends in order to help this person than anyone else. I have made special trips by to drop off and pick up things from her. I have run her business in her absence and I have collaborated closely with her on a weekly basis for two straight years, even if it meant talking to her on the phone during my lunch hour, discussing things on a weekend or holiday, or fitting it in on a day where I was also giving time to multiple other people at their disparate locations. I add hours to my workweek for her. Her husband yells at me. As a result of our work together, her business has grown significantly in all measures that we use. It felt so disrespectful to me. And so unappreciative of both my hard work and his wife's. So, I walked away, kept my head high, knowing he had seen the tears building (aghhhhhhhh!), shed three tears in my car, and then drove to another parking lot a block or so away so I could cry openly.

I hate that he got those tears out of me, and as one of my friends remarked, I hate that that husband "won" by getting that much of a rise out of me. (Another friend wisely commented that he must be feeling very powerless in order to need to bully me in this way, especially since he knows I had no hand in creating the issue frustrating him. More than anything, I should pity him and show him mercy.) But what I hate most is that I was vulnerable enough to be seen crying twice in one day. Never mind the circumstances.

Yet, what was I supposed to do? Keep it inside and be bitter? Stuff it down and not feel it? Wait for it to come out in other and more unhealthy ways? I feel, honestly, that in a feminist world, women are stuck between a rock and a hard place when it comes to crying. We can't be respected if we do cry, but if we don't and we become too "mannish" my experience is that the adjectives used to describe us are very unflattering, although those same characteristics are accolades for men. And aside from all that, I obviously have personal damage when it comes to crying and being open and hurting.

What does this have to do with Empty Calories? Maybe nothing. I didn't eat addictively to cope with this, though I had a long stare down with some popcorn. I went running. It didn't make me feel better but I did it. I guess if anything, being honest about my emotions is the only way out of the tangle of things I do when I'm not feeling my emotions. On some level I should be patting myself on the back for crying, instead of burying my head in a box of Cheezits. But instead, I am blogging and still trying to make sense of how to be ok with it all. I started writing this last night. All I wanted to do was come home and pull a blanket around me and watch TV, but my cable is out so instead I pulled a blanket around me and went to sleep . . . at like 9pm! So, here we are this morning . . . hopefully I will be able to find more peace in myself today

on the road again

I am on the road a lot. Normally I spend about 10 hours a week in my car. In September that usually goes up to about 12-14 hours a week. This year, because I am doing extra jobs and part of opening a new center I'm looking at being in my car 14-16 hours a week.

I've talked about this before - there are good and bad things about my car time. Today on my drive to the new center I caught up on two work phone calls and listened to some truly stress releasing music. On my drive back, I talked to a wonderful friend who I haven't seen for a long time. I have plans to see her in two months and we're so excited. Since the last time we were together, she created a whole new person in her family!! (As a fun sidenote: the was the surrogate sister of my ex-fiance. I feel truly lucky that when that relationship went south, she worked to maintain a friendship with both parties. And when he didn't reciprocate . . . she and her family just kept me!!)

The downsides to my car time are truly bummers. For one thing, almost every drive I make for work is 60-90 minutes. I drink about 90 - 100 oz of water a day so I have to pee every 90 - 120 minutes. You can do the math on how that works with my drives. I get killer farmer's tan. I lose all kinds of time and plans to traffic. But, hands down, worst of all is what it does to me and eating.

In the ideal world of losing weight, people schedule three meals two or three small snacks a day trying to spread them out across their waking hours trying to put more calories  into the first half of the day and then taper off in the second half. So, like for me, I'm usually awake for 16-18 hours. I need to eat within 15 minutes of getting up because of my hypoglycemia. So, a good schedule for me would be:

Hour one - breakfast of yogurt, oatmeal, V8 and/or hard boiled egg, lots of water
Hour two - herbal tea
Hour three - small snack (piece of fruit, almonds), lots of water
Hour four - water and/or diet soda
Hour six - Lunch (tuna, sashimi, leftover kale salad or brussel sprouts, maybe a lowfat string cheese; lots of protein and veggies with . . . you guessed it, lots of water)
Hour seven - mint water (it's my way of making myself feel like I got something really good, while also staying hydrated)
Hour eight or nine - small snack and/or protein shake, lots of water
Hour ten - lots of water and/or diet soda
Hour eleven or twelve - small dinner = all veggies and protein, lots of water
Hour fourteenish - very small snack, lots of water

This seems like it's so reasonable and easy, yes?

No.

How my life really goes is so much weirder than this. I get up, eat the first half of my breakfast. These days because I've been getting so used to getting up eeeeeaaaa-heeaaaaarly I either then go walking, or go into the office to get some emails done. Then in hour twoish I eat the second half of my breakfast. I still drink a metric shit-ton of water. Then I have to shower fast and get some more work done. Then I have to shove a bunch of stuff in my messenger bag, throw all my stuff in my gym bag, and pack between 50-70 oz of water. Often, if I have a meeting somewhere around 1 to 2pm I have to drive during lunch. Then I work for the next 4 hours or so, and then get to drive some more, go to the gym, eat dinner too late, catch up on more emails, and then fall asleep while watching or reading something. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Plus, the road has other hazards. There are Starbucks (and when they introduced cupcakes, that became a place of doom. Plus, now it is Pumpkin Latte season. Danger Will Robinson!), bagel places, places that sell really good fried food, gas stations with candy bars . . . it's all out there. Over and over and over I drive down the road.

It's far too easy to fall into that trap. And there are almost no good choices on the road, or if there are, you have to work really hard to get at them. There are salads, but they often don't have protein. There is protein, but it is often of a dubious source, or fried. And everywhere, everywhere lurks cheaper, more convenient sources of corn syrup and carbs.

So, I'm trying really hard to master the fine art of eating lunch in my car. But, this chic hasn't eaten at a McDonald's or Burger King in more than 12 years (which made driving across the country 3+ years ago REALLY interesting, I'll tell you). And I'm not going to start now when I'm trying really hard to eat healthier and lose weight. My new quest is to find the perfect healthy lunch en route.

So far, the best I've done is to cut a grilled chicken breast into strips (like chicken fingers, but not fried), put some cherry tomatoes into a bag, cut up some raw broccoli or cauliflower and put all of it in a rectangle tuperware with a small cup of low cal dressing. I drive, and dip. I think it's legal. At least, it's less dangerous than driving and texting.

It's also far less dangerous for me than what is out there. So, yes, it's another bag to carry, in addition to the gym bag, the work bag, the purse, and the 50-70 oz of water, I've now added lunch and a baggy full of snacks (snap peas, almonds, and protein shakes anyone? I'm always strapping).

This is hard. It's really hard. I want to eat normal things like a normal person. I want to decide to get a bagel sandwich. I want to not have to second guess myself. But, I want to be thinner faster more than I want those things. I want new habits and the ability to trust myself more even than clothes in smaller sizes. So, I'll live with the greasy fingers, the need to keep paper towels in my car, and flossing in a parking lot to get rid of the little broccoli pieces that like to take up residence.

I also know that it's not completely possible to keep the world out by structuring everything. Sometimes, in the moment, I want that pumpkin latte more than I want anything else. And I also know that real people who wear clothes four sizes smaller than me also give into the Pumpkin Latte (or popcorn, or Cheezits, or donut) occasionally. With that in mind, I too have to be able to eat those things, but then be a normal person and not keep eating, well . . . everything.

This isn't about controlling everything. It is about keeping things in check where I can. I learned a tough lesson going from my Seattle trip straight into being on the road and a business trip last week. I did GREAT on vacation with exercise and eating and then came back and was thrown into a see of business lunches and dinners out with my boss. ACK! It wasn't good, and even though I still fought for time to exercise, my weight crept up. Like, in a matter of hours. I mean days, of course, but not very many days. 3 days. 72 hours. It went by so fast. I was so tired, and so not in the driver's seat in either the rental car in Salt Lake City, or metaphorically. So, if we ended up at a steak house, that's where we ended up.

I have to be a normal person who does those things and then still goes running. I have to be able to eat a piece of bread and not fall all to pieces. I have to be able to be social and allow the dinner to be about business, not about my incredibly difficult eating. So, I went to the steak house. I ate the bread. And then I went running.

So, I have to be a normal person, yes, but I have to get to normal. Right now that means taking advantage of the times that I can control things, and setting that structure so I can learn a new normal. That means that I have to make choices ahead of time whenever I can. And here, in Colorado, even if my schedule is insane, I can. So I do. And I did. Chicken and broccoli tomorrow! Yaaaaaaaaaaayyy!

1 down, 3 to go

This has been coming for a few weeks, but I've put it off. I was hoping to procrastinate it further. But, today my time had come. Yes, today I could no longer elude this difficult chore.

Shopping.

I typically go in to a shopping trip with a lot of hope and expectation and come out sweaty, defeated, and feeling as bad as if I had just been beaten with a truckload of underwire bras. Shopping is WORK. Literally, shopping takes walking, contorting, and carrying a significant amount of stuff. Shopping is that much work for everyone, sure. But shopping for someone like me is also emotional work. When you don't look like the pictures a funny thing happens . . . no matter how many cool clothes you put on, you still don't look like the pictures! More to the point, in my case, I am short. My legs are short even for a short person (which means, yes, my torso is long), my feet are flat, my arms and thighs are muscular, my hips are so wide that it's kind of unbelievable that I haven't had kids, my chest is large and I'm flat out just not built for clothes. Yet, of course, I cannot go around without clothes. So, shopping usually makes me feel like I must be a deformed person. I try on pants and think, it's great that they're 25% off because I'll have to pay to get them hemmed. I try on dresses and feel like I'd be better off wearing a sheet. I try on shorts and want to laugh and point at the girl in the mirror even though I know that she is I.

In ascending order from awful to horrifying torture, the things I least like to shop for are:

• Shorts - I despise the pairs of underwear that girls are wearing these days and calling "shorts" and anything longer comes down way past my knees because I have disproportionately short legs
• Gloves - I have midget fingers too
• Exercise pants - I need something that will not ride up, but will also not drop off my hips when I'm doing squats and I need those pants to magically also not be too long on my legs.
• Tank tops. These are a crucial layer to have in the wardrobe of a Coloradan. A nice way to add some warmth without making something bulky, and also, help make something that shows "too much" more professional. I crave to have tanks and camisoles in every hue in the rainbow. But ones with shelf-bras - no. And the ones that are build to lie long and flat on girls with Barbie's measurements, also no.
• Jeans and business pants - will they fit my hips and thighs? Will they drag on the ground? Will I spend the same amount I paid to buy them to have them altered? Will they make my midsection look massive? Nobody knows. It's like spinning the wheel of chance every time. And sizes are not consistent so that so doesn't help.
• Anything with buttons - I've been trying to figure out if there is a nice way to say this; if there is I don't know it. I have some special gifts and endowments. The kind that sometimes mean random strangers ask me out before they know my name. Anything with buttons is a major ordeal
• Dresses. Ugh. Who came up with this plan of one piece of fabric that is somehow supposed to flatter all different parts of my body? And if they have buttons, see above. I actually love dresses, but hate trying to find them
• Bras. I would buy stock in the company that realizes that for someone with "gifts" having a bra that is a color other than white, beige, or black and is also a good fit, support and comfortable is worth its weight in gold.
• Bathing suits. This is not even a pure body image issue in terms of seeing more of myself. Bathing suits are sized for a whole body. This does not always take into account my "gifts" or the fact that my torso is longer than average. It's the worst.

This means that the only kind of shopping I really enjoy is shopping for socks, shoes, new glasses, makeup, and jewelery. And the stuff I REALLY like in those categories requires some serious bank! I have champagne tastes. Yes, even in socks. I like really nice ones made out of bamboo, or awesome athletic-esque fibers.

The last time I shopped for real it was to buy as many skirts as I could find that would meet my corporate dress code and also cover up my knee braces. And let me tell you, THAT fashion statement was worth forgetting.

But today, my time had come. Two weeks ago I pulled the belt in tighter. Last weekend, I discovered that my "good" pair of jeans could come up and down my bod without unbuttoning. This morning, I had to try on 4 pairs of pants before settling on a pair I used to wear two years ago. And so today, as I drove past the outlet mall, it had to be done.

I walked in with dread. I walked out with an awesome sweatshirt-jacket, a tank top, two shirt-type things, and . . . drumroll . . . a pair of jeans. Not just a pair of jeans. A pair of jeans one size down.

Excuse me for a minute:

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT!

I kept on trying on jeans in the last size. all different styles, cuts, and colors and thinking, "God, these look awful!." And then the light bulb went off. Christie, if your old jeans that are too big are from this store then maybe new jeans need to be in a new size.

I won't lie, my first instinct was to jump up and down and yell out in glee. But since I didn't want to scare the nice people in Eddie Bauer, I held off. My second instinct was to buy three new pairs of jeans in various styles in color, in order to celebrate the new size. I didn't follow this impulse either.

I  had to realize that this is what I hope is the first of many changes. I'm thrilled to have achieved this milestone, but this is the beginning, not the end. I'm psyched to be one size down and get some positive feedback. I'd feel accomplished to be down two sizes, and happy to be down three. But my target is really to be down four sizes. One down, three more to go. So I held off on splurging and bought one pair. But that one pair feels like . . . it feels better than the fanciest dress I've ever worn. It made me really excited to go running tonight and get up and go walking tomorrow.

It makes me aim for heading back to the outlet store in a couple of months for the next size down. These jeans are the emblem of having a moment today where I said, "this might actually be doable." It's the first time in almost two years that I have felt this is something I have the power to do something about. Two years ago, I was feeling thinner and active, but progressing so slowly that it was hard to stick with it. Then, I busted both my knees in quick succession and the wheels really came off the cart. I will never take for granted the ability to work out  and use my whole body again. I did a full year of PT, brace wearing, procedures, more PT, and being so, so limited in what I could do, that I should really be grateful every time I can now run, swim, walk, or do way too many squats to get a good sweat going, instead of complaining. I need to remember that there are too many people out there who would happily sweat and go through significant pain just to take a few steps. I need to remember how hard it was to join their club for even one year. And I need to savor each time I put on these jeans as a reminder that I do have the ability to choose how this struggle will go. The time will pass either way, so it can go by and I can gain weight, or it can go by and I can lose it. That's up to me.

In the meantime, these are awesome dark-wash boot cut jeans that are clearly intended to be worn with my boots or red shoes. So, I obviously need some awesome black or red shirts to wear with them but red is not the "in" color this year. So, if anyone knows where I should look for that, I'm open to suggestions.

walking in the mornings

Remember this post where I talked about all the walking I did in Seattle? Well, it wasn't something I was ready to give up, so I have been fighting to find time to walk a few mornings a week. Last week, on my one day in Colorado between Seattle and Utah, this meant getting up at 5:30am in the rain. On Thursday, I got to the airport early so that in addition to walking through security and to my gate, I had time to walk the entire terminal (with all my shit on my back! Sherpa!) so that I was walking continuously for 30 minutes before my flight. On Saturday it meant hopping into some sneakers and walking for a quick 30 minutes before my hair appointment, and then being OK with not washing my hair and wearing a baseball cap. This morning, I had this awesome plan. Since I have to pick up a rental car today (company policy about mileage vs. rentals given driving a certain distance in one day), and since I have learned that the only way to have good rental selection is to be there between 7:15 and 8:15am I had to be up early anyways (which is always super awesome, because rental car days are the days I drive longer distances and work even later. Sigh) I thought I'd get 30-45 minutes of walking in first thing.and the rental place is near the creek path I used to live on, so I parked in a visitor spot and then . . . realized that there's been tons of construction going on over there and I kind of had to off-road it and hoof it up a hill to GET to the path. So worth it though.

I am trying really hard to walk for 30-45 minutes three times a week as well as going to at least one Bar Method class a week in addition to my assigned cardio and resistance workouts and my 1-2 hours of swimming each week. For most of my friends, they can lose or maintain weight and gain muscle by working out three days a week for an hour or an hour and a half, maybe actually sweating 4-5 hours a week.If I do my assigned 5 hours a week (which is not assigned as time as much as it is assigned as tasks. "Do this resistance workout," or "your cardio is to run X amount"), it's not enough

What I'm finding out is that if I do just what my trainer gives me, it adds up to 5-6 hours a week, and then with the swimming, I'm up around 7-8 hours. But my body is different. I take steroids as part of my "maintenance" program for asthma (year round, 365 days . . . not when I'm sick), and this conspires with my hypoglycemia and other endocrine issues and the damaging effects of stress and cortisol on weight and before you know it, I'm killing myself to lose .5 pounds each week. It's just not satisfying to give up everything, and fight back the food cravings and addictive tendencies, and work out 5-6 hours a week with the best possible result being half a pound loss. And then, of course, it starts eating away at me on the inside and I don't want to try so hard. I want to say, "Screw it! Why shouldn't I have pizza?"

My sister and I were talking at some point in the last year about how hard I have to work to be this fat (my word, not hers!) but not get fatter and I said, "If I wasn't willing to work this hard, I would be the 400 pound woman that has to be cut out of her house." It sounds like an exaggeration, but I think there's real truth to it. I work really hard to be one of the heaviest people I know, and that gets emotionally hard to maintain. So, I'm tacking some extras on.

Now, of course I also know people who train waaaaa-hhaaay harder than me. I have one brother who completes triathalons and does yoga like a pro, and another who runs 15-30 miles a week, goes to jujitsu 2-5 times a week, as well as lifting. They do hours and hours of training each day. They also have like 4% body fat, and that is not my goal. Not only would that be unrealistic for me, it's not what I want. I want to feel I can build a lifestyle of "eating right" (which of course means discovering what that is for me, since it is different for everyone) and enjoying exercise, maintain a healthy weight to within 5 pounds of that goal point, and still be able to be social when friends are going out. I want to shop more easily. I want to look good in jeans. I want to like myself more, not be model-skinny.

So, I got up and walked. Everyone else, I'm sure, wonders why I didn't just get up and run, and get that out of the way. Well, for one, then I would run this morning, think, "Oh good, that's done," and then not do extra. It would then be my cardio assignment from my trainer, not my challenge to myself to do more. The bigger issue is that I can wake up early drink some water, eat a yogurt and go walking. I cannnot do the same with running. Running burns more calories than walking does and as a hypoglycemic, I wake up "in the hole" with my blood sugar. If I eat, and then run within the hour, I'm often not only deeper in hypoglycemic debt, I'm sick from it, making it take longer for me to eat, drink, and rest enough to feel like a human being again.

I can do it, but it takes an enormous amount of planning, and getting up even earlier. I did it in Utah, in fact, on Friday. I knew we had a day of meetings and travel planned, and that if I was going to get one of my assigned runs or resistance workouts in, I'd have to do it before I met my supervisor for breakfast. But this meant that I had to have a breakfast before that breakfast with him (protein shake, lots of water, apple, 4 crackers) and time to digest it so that there was enough raw goods for my body to work with. I got up at 4:30. It was appalling.

The other issue with getting my "real" cardio out of the way in the mornings is that the normal foot cramps I get at any time I'm running are intensified in the mornings to the point of make me want to lay down and die. I think this may be because I'm not as well hydrated in the morning after a night of sleep than I am in the evening after a day of drinking 100 oz of water. Whatever the case, I was limping for the rest of the morning on Friday, and I know I was that crazy person talking to herself on the treadmill. I was mumbling something like, "You don't have to like it, just have to do it. Finish strong. Doesn't have to be fast, just don't be last. Picture the zombie. Run from the zombie. " It was not a pretty sight, and honestly, not one of my better runs. (Not that any of them are awesome, but some are better than others.) I get those foot cramps walking in the morning too, but not nearly as badly!

Finally, I hates running. I hates it, precious! I like walking. I like seeing how beautiful Colorado is at sunrise. I like de-stressing and getting my head on straight before I have to interact with people, do my job, or make any hard decisions. So, for now, I'm trying for 60-90 minutes of walking in addition to my "assignments" plus swimming, and one class a week if I can swing it.

Pros, so far:

• I've been feeling more motivated about exercise, in general. Like almost to a "exercise is fun!" kinda place. I'm going to try really hard not to become too much like an aerobics, "Ok, everyone, let's turn it up!" kinda girl.
• Being able to take home some of the good-Christie feelings from Seattle has worked so far
• There isn't less stress in my life, certainly. This is my busiest month at work, I'm starting up with my incredibly scary-but-in-a-good-way singing class again, and obviously dealing with some relationship sadness and quandries. But I feel less strung out
• When I woke up this morning, I had this glimpse of myself in the mirror and thought, sleepily, "Thin." Full disclosure, it was 5:50 am, I had no glasses on, and surely it was some kind of visual illusion born of tiredness and the flattering exercise pants I wear but having that thought about myself, even for a sleepy moment, was pretty cool.

Cons, so far

• I suck at getting up early and doing things with that time. I know I will mess up this schedule at some point and have to fight not to turn that into a slippery slope
• I am missing sleep - about 60-90 minutes of it every time I work a walk or a Bar Method class in. Right now I'm not more tired though, I'm actually more energetic. So, right now I'm just missing the comfort and cozy of sleep. I love to sleep.
• I am getting fidgety when sitting at work. I was having a hard time at all of the sit-down meetings and lunches I was in in Utah. Sitting still for too long has become un-fun for me. In the long run, wanting to be more active and less sedentary is a good thing, but right now it's a little annoying and distracting for me when I'm trying to focus.
  

 So, it's not a case of which one is better for me; walking or running? They are both good for me in different ways and for now, at least, this is the best way to work them both in.

In other news, I think I am going to try an start posting milestones such as changes in measurements, clothes in different sizes, resolve to walk away from cravings, weight lost, and other good changes in my life. Just have to figure out how to format the blog to do that.

a break or a break up?

I'm realizing that when I told him that he couldn't be a person in my life, and that we couldn't even speak unless he was getting help in an ongoing and committed way, I left a lot of things open.

In the past we have taken breaks, and even broken up. But we've never had a prohibition on contacting each other or speaking. So this is new. I could treat this like a break, and see what happens . . . in my heart of hearts, if I'm being 200% truthful, I am hoping that I'll do that, get my head right and give him the space and time to do the same. Wouldn't it be great if he called me in a week or so (or-tomorrow-or-tomorrow!) and said,"I know I can't do this on my own. I'm getting help and I'd like to figure out if there's a way that works for both of us so that I could have your support too."

But even if I hold out for that, a break could easily turn into a break up. I know he is afraid of letting me down again. I know he feels wounded that I have not given him credit for the small steps towards change he feels he has made. It is completely within reason that he would decide that after a year and a half and all of the ups and downs, it is safer for his heart to just walk away.

So, there is a reservoir of hope that I'm living with, but also a ditch of despair I'm preparing myself for. Because regardless of my decisions and feelings and wants and needs, regardless of what position I take on this, it could end in break up anyways. Many of my friends would even argue that it SHOULD end in break up now, and that I've given him more chances than he has earned.

My friends' opinions matter to me, because I know that my tendency to see the good in someone and exclude the bad skews my perspective, I know that I am loyal to a fault and often to my own detriment, and finally, because I know that when I love, I have so often lost because of these two characteristics. It was sad and interesting last night to hear my good friend say that since she had known me (a full 12 months of my relationship with him) she has never thought of me as having a boyfriend, she has always thought of me as being single.

There is a large part of me that thinks it is awful for me to be missing him this much, to have walked away and cut him off at the moment that he might need help most, and to be so uncertain of how to handle myself next. That part of me jumps up and down inside my head and says, This is not what people who love each other do! How could you do this??! But the larger part of me thinks, you were missing him all the time anyways because as the disease of his addiction progressed, he had less and less to give you, and, besides, you never saw him! At least this way you can miss him and get better . . . and move on if you have to.

But see that last part? That's the part of me hedging my bets. that's the part of me that still believes that everything happens for a reason, and that things could still work, and that we could both get to a better place and try again. that's the part of me that picks up my phone every day with my finger on his contact inf ready to dial. That's the part of me resisting giving up.

As anyone who knows me can tell you, I'm bad at giving up on anything. I don't stop, I don't quit, I don't give in. I don't accept less, I just do and give more. I'm especially bad at giving up on people. Once I fully close the door on someone (such as my second ex-fiance who I moved to CO for . . . we don't even use his name anymore. He is referred to as "Assjack."), it doesn't open again. Once the trust has run out it's gone. There's no reserve somewhere else. But like the sand in a timer, it runs out extremely slowly, eeking out a tiny grain at a time. It takes forever for me to convince myself that I need to shut it down. In all rationality, I should have given up on Assjack much sooner. There had been many instances where he expected me to put him first but wouldn't even discuss doing the same for me. There had been many indications that he was pathologically selfish and dishonest. But I clung on, believing in the good. I honestly wasn't 100% sure it was over until the day I filed a restraining order against him. Most people would have thrown in the towel (and then shredded it) at least 6 months before that.

The work that it will take me to give up on this person, now, today, is just too hard and too sad to do right away. So, while I appreciate my friends standing by me and reminding me that I deserve better, while I know I have given him more than enough chances, and while I think that anyone taking odds on this would have good reason to bet on BREAK UP rather than a break, I know other things too. I know that most of my friends who are in loving and amazing relationships and marriages now had to make sacrifices, wade through complications, and even endure long moments of loss of trust and overwhelming hurt and uncertainty with the very person they are happily, ecstatically with today. I know couples who are beautifully, happily together where there has been cheating and forgiveness, I know couples who got together while one or both were in another relationship at the time, I know that love is not always clean. And that it's probably not meant to be easy. I just don't know if this line in the sand is temporary, or permanent.

The work I would have to do to make it permanent is the black-Eeyore cloud over me every time I think about him. It's the tears I've held back for days. It's the times I've presented a tough resolve as I've talked to others about where we are at and why I made this decision, and the feeling of lying as I put on that show, knowing all the while that as soon as I stop telling that story to that person, I will be contemplating a call or email to him again. It's knowing that I have caved and contacted. I am that girl on on Intervention who is that sad and woven into the addiction that she can't walk away. It feels pathetic.

But the idea of walking away fully, and working to feel nothing for him seems so unthinkable to me right now. The last time I had to do it with someone I lost so much in the process. I lost the ability to help that person and be there for them, I lost my belief that you can get a gut feeling that you are right with that person and go with it or feel a spark and think it means something, I lost weeks and days and nights of not sleeping, of lying on the couch feeling crushing pain, I lost $1200. It really blew.

I don't want to be there again. I know I can do it, because I've done it before, but being down that hole is so tiring to climb out of. Is it worse than being down this one? I just don't know.

Talking about holes makes me think of my all time favorite show of ever, ever, ever (my love truly knows no bounds for this work of brilliance: The West WingThe West Wing.

"This guy's walking down the street when he falls in a hole. The walls are so steep he can't get out.

"A doctor passes by and the guy shouts up, 'Hey you. Can you help me out?' The doctor writes a prescription, throws it down in the hole and moves on.

"Then a priest comes along and the guy shouts up, 'Father, I'm down in this hole can you help me out?' The priest writes out a prayer, throws it down in the hole and moves on

"Then a friend walks by, 'Hey, Joe, it's me can you help me out?' And the friend jumps in the hole. Our guy says, 'Are you stupid? Now we're both down here.' The friend says, 'Yeah, but I've been down here before and I know the way out.'"

The character speaking here is talking to someone who had been lying and concealing a very serious psychological issue, and he is speaking from his own perspective of having survived his own trauma and addiction, and recovered. I think I need people who have been down this hole before, because I'm lost.

I know some things that help: meetings, exercise (especially when making exercise dates with friends or going to a class, reading, cooking, singing, music in general, journaling, blogging and friends. I also know things that pretend to help, but ultimately end up being not only Empty Calories but giving me more to dig out from: pizza, ice cream, lying on the couch and doing nothing, and in general trying not to feel my feelings.

I also, as I'm weighing my options here, think of this quote, from The Mexican:
Samantha: I have to ask you a question. It's a good one so think about it. If two people love each other, but they just can't seem to get it together, when do you get to that point of enough is enough?
Jerry: Never.

So, no decisions yet, but just trying to sit with my feelings and understand them. On a good note, no destructive behavior yet either. I have spent the weekend getting my house and head back in order, catching up on sleep, exercising, and avoiding eating addictively. In fact I cooked some seriously healthy stuff this weekend.

Note to readers: yes, I know this is the 10th anniversary of 9/11. And yes  I know that my relationship issues and musings probably seem small and petty compared to the meaning of this day. I'm not NOT remembering 9/11, I just prefer to remember it in my own way, privately. And I'm not sure that blogging my memories or thoughts on it will help me or anyone else right now. Frankly, I've been a little overwhelmed by all the media attention to this over the last week leading up to today, so I am remembering, but avoiding imbibing or participating in the media storm surrounding it today.

new suitcase, same old baggage

About two months after I got hired for this job, I realized that when the company had said to me that I would need to travel for some trainings a couple of times, what they really meant was that I would be in a hotel and/or on a plane about once ever 4-6 weeks. After "graduating" training, the travel schedule changed. But honestly, it's still intense at times. Between personal travel to see the "family I choose" and work travel, I am usually on a plane about once every 6-8 weeks and sometimes twice, and I'm often in a hotel about once every 4-6 weeks. It's a good thing that practicality and need won out over the poor-graduate student sensibilities I had when I started this job. Yes, it's true, for my first two trips in 2006 I used a rapidly disintegrating gym bag. Worse than how it looked and how inefficient it was, it was uncomfortable to carry! So, one week, I'd had it. I got myself over to a store and bought a Wenger.

They're well made, and I estimate I got about 60-75 trips out of mine. But they don't last forever. Last week in Seattle I noticed that mine was really on it' last legs. I had only one zipper left on the whole bag that still had a zipper pull, and other portions of the bag were fraying, losing structure, and in general becoming less useful.

So, after landing in Denver on Tuesday night this week, I got my dying luggage, got my car, and drove directly to a store to buy a new one.

I bought another Wenger. It's a decent suitcase, and though it might not be the best, I didn't see anything better that suited my needs for portability and size. I bought the upgrade, actually - it has a hard case bottom and a soft top so it's expandable, but hopefully a bit more durable. It also had four wheels instead of two. I carried both suitcases in, emptied one, did laundry, and began filling the new one up right away knowing that in less than 36 hours I would be headed back to Denver airport for this trip.

I like the new suitcase. Good job so far. But of course, I bought the suitcase, not anything new to put in it. Same shoes. Same toothbrush. Same toiletries bag.

Different suitcase, same baggage. I wonder how much of the same shit I pack with me every day. Like, I leave notes for myself on the inside of my front door to make sure I don't forget things. I am often on the road by 8am and not home again until 12+ hours later so I need to have my office equipment, handouts or materials, snacks, water, etc. There's usually a note on my door saying something like, "Gym bag + headphones!" If I am really concerned about leaving valuable things behind I'll leave them sitting in front of the door, such that I cannot pass through it without stepping on them.

But, of course, there are things I don't put on the list. They come with me as a given. I don't have to write a note to remind me to bring my purse, or my keys. So what other things do I carry with me without realizing it? What other baggage? Do I walk out the door feeling doomed to repeat bad patterns with food? Do I bring pessimism that makes me negative, or optimism that may make my expectations unrealistic? Do I bring the seeds of making bad decisions out the front door, without ever putting them on "the list?" Do I bring the worry that I might be unworthy of better things?

I saw a poster once that said, "Relationships: you are the common link in all of your failed relationships."

And I am. With the run down I gave yesterday, it's pretty clear that while I believe I am an awesomely supportive, loving, and fun girlfriend (One of my best friends from grad school and I used to talk about relationships a lot and we both agreed, we were giving and nice and fun and just all around GREAT at treating someone right and therefore or girlfriend abilities were rockin'), I don't have the best track record in finding who to offer that to. So what does that really mean about my girlfriend abilities? And worse, about my future? When I enter into caring about someone and making room for them in my life, I wonder what I take with me that spells "certain doom. " The kind of doom that others see . . . and then tell me about AFTER it's over (as was the case repeatedly after my second engagement - the relationship I moved to CO for - failed. After hearing, "Oh, I never liked him," or "I didn't think he was good enough for you," for the 13th time I finally said, ""Yeah, next time, pick a messenger to get shot and TELL ME. Obviously I don't know what the FRAK I'm doing").

What could I pack differently? Could I find a wellspring of confidence and conviction? What about the serenity and patience to let my feelings catch up with me (perhaps the subject for another post but, I am really, really not good at processing my emotions on the spot. It sometimes takes days for me to realize something made me angry, for instance) so I had some feelings to go on. What about the wisdom and courage to say, "I see the good in you, but your brand of the-not-so-good isn't a great fit for me."What about the ability to know when to say no, the ability to walk away, the feeling that it is ok for me to say, "This _______ (job, relationship, task, food) isn't working for me."

I worry that because I don't see myself clearly (both literally and figuratively), and because I do carry things with me without questioning them (my purse, my inhaler, my need for structure, my rigid expectation that everyone is better looking than me, my unstoppable nerdiness, my ability to love someone like it's my job and to see the good in them, even when the bad may outweigh the good) that I carry the good with the bad, unexamined. If I can't separate the baggage out into what is clean clothes, what is dirty, and what needs to be retired and left behind, then I will keep carrying all of it. Doesn't that mean I will keep repeating the same patterns then? That the Empty Calories will never take up residence elsewhere? that it will be that much harder to eat the salad instead of the french fries (I had a salad today, and it was SO GOOD. Whew!), to find the balance of work and play, to be ready to be with someone who is prepared to be good to me, to be really happy and satisfied in a way that allows for the fact that I might not be happy about everything at one time.

I'd like to get there. But to a certain degree, it's become comfortable to carry around a LOT. My stories. My fears. My insecurities. My deep-seated need to be loyal to a fault and beyond. My tiny deoderant that I've only ever needed to use once in the last 4 months. Why do I assume that I need to take all of these things with me?

It's probably time to "trim the fat." It's time to drop the things I don't need (fries, extra weight, concerns I won't be good enough, belief that this is all I deserve, and . . . well, I might keep the deoderant. It's pretty cute.) and replace them with things I do. It's just hard, sometimes, to sift through the piles.

With that, I am off to unpack. For the second time this week.

If nothing ever changes, then nothing ever changes

Are you all ready for some raw, painful, honesty? I am WICKED tired from vacationing, sprinting across the mountains, giving a long presentation, laundry, packing, and then sprinting back across the mountains for a business trip. Not to mention a long day at work out here today and some deep and difficult feelings. So, I don't know if I can be moderate tonight. You've been warned.

I have been engaged twice. (Though I estimate I have been proposed to over 500 times. But that is a funny story, and I'm not in a funny mood tonight. So, another time) And I have called both betrothals off. In the first case, I was young, but ready for the challenges of combining our young lives and moving forward. He was lovely, and funny, and smart, but perhaps not as ready to deal with reality and responsibility as I had estimated. Looking back, he was an interesting choice for me. I felt very connected to him, until I didn't. 20/20 hindsight - what I see is someone who was my friend, maybe my best friend for a long time, and who I felt fortunate to also have romantic feelings for . . . but kind of in that order. When it ended, and during the time leading up to it ending, I was desperate to seek ways to make things better. But once it ended, I felt . . . peaceful. We broke up, and about 20 minutes later went to Target and saw a movie. He went back to being my friend, and although our lives took different paths, we are still friendLY today. So, I am now, and was then, ok with letting go of that hope for something more that had existed when we made those promises because in it's place, I got to stop fighting with my friend and nurture that friendship again.

I then dated a handful of people (one at a time, not all at once! I am most def a serial monogamist) who took up various space in my heart. Some of them were people I felt very close to, while there were others who impressed or intrigued me but who I didn't feel as attached to. All of them were interesting learning experiences.

Right around the time I was thinking that having these learning experiences was getting a bit draining and that I should probably focus energy on me instead of on people who might or might not be worth the trouble, I met someone. (In the movie version this is accompanied by a sigh and a swoon) He was a difficult personality, he probably still is. But, we connected very easily and quickly. It felt . . . well, it felt like it was supposed to be. And so, when we discovered we both wanted to go somewhere with this feeling despite the logistics of me being in NJ and him going abroad for a year, we just went for it. Looking back, there were a lot of warning signs. For instance, the fact that he proposed to two women who were bad for him, stole from him, took advantage of him, but couldn't commit to me fully and couldn't understand how asking me to do more, be more, and give more to the relationship was unfair in the face of his hesitation. Warning signs? Umm, more like neon signs.

But at the time, I just loved him and decided that, "love is patient, love is kind," blah, blah etc. Of course I realize that a real love, a true, mature, lasting love, is one that may not always be kind, but that when it is, it is about both people being patient and giving and kind. And he . . . well he did it on an as-needed basis. Talking about him usually takes me several minutes because the story of how our relationship died a terrible death is also the story of how we got engaged, how I ended up in CO, and how unfortunate it was to lose a parent and come home to losing a fiance. I have resentments about how I was taken advantage of, and how he attempts to continue to use me and pawn his life off on other people, but I am not longer bitter about the loss of the relationship. Mostly, I'm grateful that we didn't get married and have kids. Because . . . it got baaaaaaaaaaaaad. And looking back, he was someone who I had strong romantic feelings for and strong attraction to, but who I only sometimes felt was a good friend. When he was, he WAS but when he wasn't everything was awry. So, it's not a surprise that we were so out of synch that he would choose the worst possible moment in the recorded history-of-Christie to punk out.

In the wake of these failed engagements, and two other eye-opening non-engaged relationships  I became tough. It takes work to crack this pistachio, and it's unclear to me if the nut inside is what others consider worth it. (Not everyone likes the pistachio, after all.) I was wary, picky, and had some pretty high standards. I wanted someone who would be nice to my mother, even when I was frustrated with her. Someone who didn't scorn religion, but wasn't fanatical either. Someone who was equally comfortable with fun of different varieties like cooking dinner at home, a live baseball game, the symphony, game night with my friends, perusing a book store. Someone who would find my bad habit of kicking my shoes off in weird corners of the house endearing, someone who would happily let me swipe their tee-shirt to sleep in. Someone who would challenge me, but support me. Someone smart but also wise. Someone who would make me laugh. Someone who would forgive my faults and be honest about theirs. Someone who would be my friend AND romantic partner, in equal measure.

I found it in an unlikely candidate. And between having been burned so badly before leaving me scarred and wary, and being unsure that this person was the fit I had been looking for, well it took me quite awhile to admit that I felt as much as I did. I hung back for awhile. And right when I thought, "Well, maybe . . . " he freaked out. Not auspicious, huh? I know.

What followed was several months of two steps forward, three steps back. And because I understood the desire to not jump in too quickly, I hung in there. Also, it was unclear exactly what the issues and concerns were for a while. Despite being a pretty good scientist, there seemed to be so many pre-correlated variables that it took a long time to see the pattern of difficulty for what it was. By then, I had begun to respond badly to his destructive cycle, and, I was tired. We broke up and I was at peace with it because we were friends. I lost my lover, but not my friend and I was content with that.

He most definitely was NOT satisfied with that and waged a serious campaign to get back together. Gradually, he won my trust back. I had concerns, but I thought, "No one is perfect. Certainly not me. And in all of my friends' relationships, they faced serious shit at different points in their relationships and then got to where they are today. So I'm not going to close myself off from what this could be just because it was a wobbly start. "

Things were great for maybe 3 months. And then the old issues returned. I doubted myself at first when I started to feel tat things weren't right, but in the end I had to face that his issues were not under his control.

He is an addict. He is a destructive, throw-it-all-out-the-window-for-his-fix addict. He is someone for whom an hour of escape is worth almost any consequences. He is far more comfortable with apology and contrition than giving up his means to numbing out.

Now, I have dated someone who was diagnosed with mental illness while we were together, someone who I suspected of having a borderline personality, a recovering alcoholic with 9 years of sobriety, and someone who was hospitalized for manic-depressive disorder. I know from issues! And I also know that the chinks in someone's armor don't have to be downfalls and dealbreakers, they can be beautiful and part of what makes someone who they are.

And I know I have my own issues . . . Ahem! Popcorn! Cheezits! I can't really pretend to be on a high-horse, eh?

If I'm being really searching in how I dig up the truth here, I have a lot of people in my life who are addicts. I'm not going to name them, because their stories aren't mine to tell. I think it's enough for my story to say that I have seen addiction up close. It's not some mysterious species that I need help identifying; I've seen it often. I think I know the difference between flirting with dangerous or deviant behavior for the hell of it and the tail-spin addiction. I know what it looks like to medicate or escape and how that can lead to but isn't always the same as being out of control.  I have seen what it does to people to stop driving their habit, and to start being driven by it, and I've seen what it can do to the people who love them. It isn't addiction as-seen-on-TV where there is foreshadowing, and then a conflict, and then a denouement where everyone cries, realizes their flaws, makes up and gets healthy.

It's secrecy, and lies, and broken promises, and boundaries that aren't respected and are then abandoned as too hard to maintain and conversations that are avoided. It's things falling apart in darkly quiet non-communications that are insidiously violent and rip trust and happiness and options to shreds. It's bone-crushing denial. It's people getting sicker and sicker in how they cope and understand and make decisions, and not just the addict, but the people who love the addict also.

So, it shocked me to discover that my friend, my partner, my boyfriend was an addict too, and worse, I had been drawn into it without thinking twice. I had never experienced being loved for just exactly who I was so I didn't want to see anything else but the grace and wonder of that. It was intoxicating. And to be fair to both of us, his addiction isn't what is depicted on TV and one that is often not recognized or talked about. It was easy to not see it, and hard to discern the pattern. When it became clear that this person was deeply, darkly, desperately out of control, I fought back and fought back HARD. Kind of like when you feel a light tickling on your leg, and think nothing of it, push it to the back of your mind, and then when you look down and see a spider, jump up, sweep it to the floor, and kill it viciously. I sprang into this kind of response, and, you know, in hindsight it probably wasn't very gentle or compassionate to him or to our relationship. But that's what I did.

I pointed it out, I intervened, I asked for help, I got help, I asked him to get help, I understood when that was difficult to go out and do right away, I offered counseling as an option for him/us, I had long talks, I went to my own meetings, I gave him space, I helped him find some resources for a meeting for him, I told him I didn't care what option he picked but that a commitment to getting help was a pre-req for spending time with me, I cooked dinners so that we could talk about how that was going for him. I, I, I. Y'all are smart and will say, "well, what did HE do? "

He agreed he was out of control. He agreed he needed help. He agreed to get it. He went to three meetings in ten weeks and skipped the rest. He agreed to go back or try other meetings. He agreed to look at other options. He agreed to do things to restore my trust in them and then promptly didn't do them.

I asked for us to not be together but to be friends, then to take a break from seeing each other. I believed him over and over.

And over.

And finally when he had shirked getting help for yet another week, when he had made a promise and then in three swift hours broken it, and when he had lied to me again all in the same week I said, "You are stubborn and have a strong will. If you wanted to address this you would."

He said many things but what it boiled down to was that he felt he should be able to do it without help (even though he hadn't been able to so far . . . ), he felt that the discomfort and dissatisfaction of the three meetings he attended entitled him to quit going, and in that decision he hadn't considered at all the promise he made to me to get help. He expressed ambivalence about changing his life saying on the one hand he sees he has become a less good person than he liked to think of himself as and wants to correct that course, and on the other hand he wants to not have to. He said he feels he has failed. I sympathized but said, "I don't know any addicts who decided to get better who found it easy or who did it alone. It's not that you have failed. It's that you haven't truly tried yet." I said it without yelling or crying.

What came next was a vague and resentful nod towards doing what I was asking as a way of making things better and "sucking it up" so that it would be possible for us to see each other. And I don't want to be anyone's crappy obligation. It became clear that he couldn't report any changes he had made or was willing to make, when it was clear that he wasn't prepared to make any kind of comittment or action plan to try anything on his own behalf, much less mine, I had to STOP.

I'll say it again because it's important. I don't want to be anyone's crappy obligation. I don't want to be a chore. I want to be someone's everything. And maybe even more relevant to this situation, I don't want my needs and the needs of the relationship to be confused with his need for recovery. I don't want my feelings to become his motivation. He has to want to get better. And if he wants to be with me, he has to want our relationship be a part of his life. Those are two separate things, but easy to confuse.

So, I took a deep breath and said, "If nothing ever changes, then nothing ever changes. This will keep being the same unless we make changes. " I said other things too, but you get the gist. "You are completely untrustworthy. So, I can't talk to you unless you are getting help of some kind. I can't be your friend or your girlfriend. I can't have you be a person in my life unless and until that happens. I love you, but I can't do it anymore. "

I am so, so, so scared that he's reading this. I'm scared he's not. I'm scared that cutting off contact will be his excuse to not get help. I lose my breath a little when I think he could feel I gave up on him and then give up on me. I'm sad when I think that this means I could just never hear from him again. What if he never gets help? What if he does but doesn't call me? What if I found someone who was both my friend and my partner but too broken to be either? What if I'm the one who is broken and some large part of this is my fault?

I don't know the answers to any of that. I know that I couldn't keep signing up to be sick with him. I know that it's hard that it happened over the phone after two weeks of not seeing him. I know that in my heart of hearts I am hoping, hoping, hoping (praying) that in just a few days he will call me and say, "I'm getting help and I want to talk to you now." I know that, above all, I had to change because I couldn't keep being a part of what he was spiraling into and I know that if I hadn't changed, it would have stayed the same. I know I deserve to be more than someone's crappy obligation and he deserves a chance to get better. And I hope he knows that too.

I miss my boyfriend, but I miss my friend too.

So. Yes. Heavy. don't be surprised if there are lots of musings on addiction in the weeks to come. I was having those thoughts anyways, but now they are percolating to the front of the line.