Three Reasons to Move

This lovely child, her twin sister and her older brother–my sister’s kids.

The End

I’ve been thinking for a while about what to title this post; what metaphorical phrase fits?  The bitter end?  The last straw?  I can’t make up my mind.  Perhaps just “the end” is best.

This weekend I sat alone in a theater, after getting the lamest of excuses from a friend I’d invited to come with me, watching The Invention of Lying.  I had heard that it pokes fun at religion–it does–but what I didn’t realize is that I would see  in the story a bitter truth about my own life.  Ricky Gervais’ character was desperately in love with Jennifer Garner’s character, yet she doesn’t consider him worthy of her because he’s fat.

When I say I was alone, I don’t just mean that I didn’t have a friend to see the movie with.  I’ve seen a movie every Friday since moving to my apartment, all of them alone.  But this Friday I was the only person in the theater.  It occurred to me that this is what my life is here in Virginia–sitting alone in a  dark, empty place.

I’m afraid that if I stay here I’m going to die.

When Hal died, I considered moving closer to my family, but although I would have them nearby, I wouldn’t have anyone or anything else, and I worried that I would miss my dojo and my friends.  But the best of my friends is dead, and I’ve left my dojo.

As I sat in the theater, depressed by the happy ending, I decided that the time has come to go to Colorado.  It’s said that home is a place where when you show up they have to take you in; I won’t exactly be going home (I grew up in Texas), nor will I be showing up on my sister’s front porch needing to be taken in.  I’ll be renting an apartment in Denver, I think.  Still, I’m sure the feeling will be much the same.

Formerly the martial artist. . . .

Tomorrow it will be a month since my sensei informed me that he would not promote me to black belt.  My plan has been to put a letter in the mail asking to be released from my contract.

But now I think that I have to screw up my nerve and actually go in and talk to him face to face.  I haven’t been able to do that because every time I thought about the possibility of  having to give up the martial arts for good, I’ve started to cry.  That’s something I don’t want to do in front of my sensei, but maybe in a week or so I’ll be ready.  Maybe.

It may seem silly to a lot of people to be so torn up over walking away from my dojo, but I think that other martial artists will know how I’m feeling now.  The martial arts is more than just a way to keep in shape and stay safe; it’s not quite a life way either.  It’s something in between, something that I can’t quite describe.  All I know is that for the last 10 years, a significant percentage of my thoughts have been occupied with how I can be a better martial artist.  It something I planned to be doing for the rest of my life–to take more classes, to teach others, to bring what I learn to other parts of my life.

Losing it leaves a hole in me, and I don’t know what I’m going to fill it with, especially with so many other holes in me right now.

I can’t let the martial arts go without at least looking my sensei in the eye and demanding to know why.

The Problem of Evil or the Necessity of Bad Things

I don’t want to make a habit of reproducing the articles I write for Examiner.com in this blog, but I thought this one was appropriate.

Yesterday this writer fielded phone calls and emails from friends and family who wanted to offer her comfort on the second anniversary of her husband’s death. While she was touched by their thoughtfulness, she let them know that yesterday wasn’t any different from any of the 730 days that came before; she grieved his loss on each of them.

Oddly, this writer spent most of the day thinking about how fortunate she was to have a husband whose loss is worth two years of mourning and likely many more. 

Some call cancer an evil, an affliction put here by Satan, who wants God’s children to suffer because he knows that our suffering pains God. Others say we brought cancer on ourselves when Adam and Eve disobeyed God and the human race fell from God’s grace. Those who are most likely to read this column tend to point out that God either has the ability to eliminate evil and won’t (making him evil himself) or cannot eliminate evil (making him not God-like). They see cancer as evidence that there is no deity because a deity could and would eliminate evil.

The world is certainly full of bad things; cancer is only one. What this writer knows is that no deity decided that her husband should develop cancer and no deity could take his cancer away. Cancer just happens to a certain number of people; some die. This writer’s husband, like all of us, was not so special that he could avoid being part of that grim lottery.

For every good thing, there must be a bad thing. This is a concept frequently discussed by philosophers, but no one who lives in this world can doubt that this is true. How can we appreciate a warm, sunny day if there were not cold, rainy days? How can we be grateful for a good night’s sleep if we didn’t occasionally experience insomnia? How can we know how rare and wonderful it is to find the other halves of ourselves if we didn’t realize how easily we can lose them to crime, accident or illness?

This writer prefers not to use the word evil because it’s a religious term; she prefers to talk about bad things. Yes, the world is full of them, but rather than wish we could eliminate them, we should be grateful for them. If not for the bad things, we not only couldn’t appreciate the good things, we wouldn’t even know they were good things.

The message for those who like to ponder the “problem of evil” is this: It’s not evidence that there is no deity, for if there is a deity, then bad things are a gift that deity has given to the world so that we can know what the good things are. However, bad things aren’t evidence that there must be a deity either, because they can be adequately explained and understood as an integral part of life–no deity required.

As to the myth of Adam and Eve and what happened when they ate the forbidden fruit, this writer will let others have the fun of arguing about that. Tomorrow she’s got to get on with the business of learning to live without her other half.

On Being High

This morning I went into the dentist’s office for a crown, and for the first time in two years needed a pretty hefty shot of Versed to keep my anxiety at bay.  The main reason was that in order to work on my top teeth, the dentist has to place my head lower than my feet, and that always makes me feel anxious. My anxiety level’s been rising lately.

(I was most concerned about a crisis my mentally ill sister was having and needed an Ativan to calm down after speaking to her briefly on Sunday night.  I learned yesterday that her crisis consists of being forced to make changes in her life that will greatly improve her situation–so her bad news was actually good news.)

I called my friend Sharon, about whom I made an entry a few days ago (the compassionate, well-intentioned woman), and asked her to pick me up from the dentist at 11:30 a.m. and take me home.  I felt very drunk and wobbly.  I thanked her, made myself a sandwich, then sat down to watch some TV and perhaps nap a little.  I was having friends over and needed to straighten up the house, finish assembling my new counter stools and and get a little work done at my desk.

I awoke a few minutes after 5 p.m.  My friends came over, and I continued with my experiment that I would be much more willing to take the time to cook a real meal if I have company while I do it.  It went well, and I was just asking them if they would drive me out to my dentist’s office to get my truck when Sharon showed up at my door.  It turns out that after bringing me home, I handed her the keys to my truck so she could pick it up later and bring it out to me.  I had no memory of any of  it!  Versed is known to cause amnesia.

This would seem to be the key to my survival–friends.  I saw friends last Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Sunday and tonight.  And I’ve felt great for the last several days.  If I don’t count having to give up karate, I’ve had more good days than bad the last month or so.  I can definitely thank my friends for that.

On Being No Help

I’ve felt pretty good the last couple of days.  Yesterday I thoroughly cleaned the apartment, and today I met with a friend for whom I might do some work, then had another friend, Janet, over for dinner and the season finale of Warehouse 13 in exchange for her help in assembling a couple of counter stools.  It’s a dumb show, really, which allows us to talk about plot, structure and dialogue.  We have a lot of fun getting together every week to do that.

(I must read over my recent posts to see if I’ve mentioned Janet.  She is a valuable friend for two reasons:  she will do all the talking if I decide I’d just like to be quiet and listen, and she doesn’t talk about my depression.  When I visit with Janet, I can pretend that I don’t have any problems.)

Anyway. . . .I’ve been ducking my sister’s calls.  I have a sister who is both mentally and physically ill, and she frequently calls.  Sometimes we can talk about current events or popular culture–just about anything because she’s an intelligent, well-informed woman–but more and more often in the past few months my sister has wanted to talk about her problems.  She would call me crying about some argument she had with my father or some difficulty she’s having with her doctors or just to lament the fact that her life isn’t what she’d like it to be.

After Cyd died, I begged her not to talk about these things anymore.  I told her that I’m having a hard enough time dealing with my own problems, that talking to her leaves me terribly depressed.  Even knowing this, she hasn’t been able to help burdening me with her “drama.”  As a result, it’s been weeks since I’ve picked up the phone when she called, even though I worry about how she’s doing.

Tonight, the phone rang, and I said to Janet, “It’s one of my sisters.”  She wanted to know how I knew, so to prove I was right, I picked up the phone without checking the display.  It was my mentally ill sister, who sounded depressed and on the verge of tears.  She didn’t want to talk about what’s going on in her life, but she needs a lawyer.

I have to call her tomorrow and hear the details.  That means tomorrow is going to be a bad day–and maybe the next couple of days, too.  I’m dreading that phone call.

I feel terribly selfish, but I worry about the shape I’m going to be in after talking to my sister.  Is it so wrong not to want to be depressed?  Or am I the worst sister ever?

Edit: After making this entry and going to bed, I experienced an anxiety-filled dream that forced me to get up after two hours and take a lorezapam.  I worry now that talking to my sister will bring on a waking anxiety attack.

Check My Links

Just a quick entry to say that I discovered today that another blogger has listed me among her links.  I looked at the rest of the list and found a couple that seem very relevant to my situation.  Please check them out on the right.  One is a book about body image issues and the other is about fat discrimination by healthcare professionals.

About That Scale

A couple of times a week, I write down what my weight will be at the beginning of each month if I can lose 10 pounds a month.  How many months will it take?  Where will I be then and what will I be doing?  What will I be able to do when I lose x number of pounds?  How should I reward myself for losing 10 pounds or 20 pound or 50 pounds?  When will I be able to fly without asking for a seatbelt extender?  When will I be able to ride a horse?  To run?

My reward at the end, when I finally get down to what people consider normal and healthy, is to arrange for plastic surgery.  Even then I won’t be good enough.

In the last week I’ve gained 10 pounds.

I Find My Voice (sort of)

After more than two weeks, after missing the progress test I was to take at the dojo tonight, I finally felt ready to send an email to my sensei explaining why I haven’t been in class.  It was a challenge to convey to him how I’d been hurt and why I think I’ve been unfairly treated in just a couple of short paragraphs, but I think I managed it.

Sensei:

I don’t know when or if I will return to the dojo.

Each time you give me a test invitation sheet, you call me into your office to tell me that I cannot be promoted to shodan until I lose weight.  It feels to me as if you want me to know that you’re doing me a favor by allowing me to test.  It’s very hurtful to hear you say to me the things that I say to myself whenever I look in the mirror–that I’m just not good enough and that no matter how hard I work, my goals are out of reach for no reason other than how I look.  Still, I accepted that limitation until I saw that you promoted another martial artist–one of far lesser skill–who is also obese.  She’s just not as obese as I am.

I’m trying hard to hang onto my will to live; there are days when I don’t think I’m going to make it.  Maybe it isn’t a wise decision to give up something that’s been a big part of my life for so many years, but I don’t know if my self-esteem can continue to take the battering.

Dorene
Adventures in Widowhood <cid:part1.09040404.02020008@aol.com>

I’m curious to see what his reaction will be.

###

There’s a quote from a book–I don’t remember which one.

“I’ve lived too long with the pain; I won’t know who I am without it.”

I’ve actually never read the book this is from, but I saw it in the signature of one of the members of the suicide forum.  I’ve been thinking about this quote a lot since the last time I was at the dojo.

I’ve been wondering what my life would be like if I threw out my bathroom scale and stopped letting my “weight problem” rule every second of every day.  What would it be like to march through my day with my head up instead of slinking around hoping not to see the judgmental looks on the faces of the people I encounter?  What would it be like to put my hand up the next time someone starts to offer me a diet program and say, “Stop!  There’s nothing wrong with me?”  What would it be like to actually believe that there wasn’t anything wrong with me, that I was good enough to have what I want?

I’d love to try it, but I worry about two things:

1.  I worry that I won’t know what to do with myself.  Who will I be if I’m not the fat woman who wishes she were a thin woman?

2.  I worry that I will gain weight if I stop obsessing about losing weight.  I don’t think I’ll be able to deal with that–it’s hard enough to be as heavy as I am; gaining weight will surely destroy me.

On the other hand, maybe I could actually start living my life.  Maybe I would have the time and mental energy to actually write something publishable, something important.

I suppose I can start small.  From now on, anyone who suggests a diet program or a book I should read about my hormones or any other pseudoscientific nonsense is going to get a rude reply from me.

###

I’m pretty sure that I’m going to be spending most of tomorrow in bed.

On Well-meaning People

Today I sat in the office of a kind, compassionate woman who urged me to talk about the difficult time I’ve been having the last couple of weeks.  I told her a little about my fears of being alone the rest of my life, of having to face all the potentially bad things that might happen to me without anyone’s help, of being hurt by my sensei.

She told me about a diet program I could try and encouraged me to walk for exercise.

She had other advice for me too, but I couldn’t listen to it because I was reeling from her assumption that all my problems stem from my weight, that I don’t do anything about it–or that I do the wrong things–and that I just need to try a little harder.

I’m trying so hard to hang onto the little bit of self-esteem that I have.  I’m trying not to hate myself every time I look in the mirror.  I’m trying to convince myself that I’m employable, talented, worthy of respect and love.  I’m trying to hang onto my will to live, and I’m not sure I’m going to be successful.

The last thing I needed to have intimated to me is that everything I say to myself on my worst days is true.