We’ve been traveling for the last 12 days. In the midst of what felt like a never ending winter (when the plane left Halifax there was still at least 3 feet of snow on the ground), we headed for the west coast and have been firmly planted in your typical Northwest environment (think more rain than your remember but oh that sun feels so damn good even if you only see it for a few days).
I’ve spent more time outside in the last 12 days than I have been able to for the last 5 months. It’s been literally running from building to building dodging the next incoming snowstorm or watching any Netflix marathon show you can think of because it’s too damn cold to even think about going outside.
With all this recent time on my hands and the major changes that left me with said time on my hands, you’d think I’d be thrilled to spend endless hours on this laptop. Pouring my heart out through my fingertips. Getting back to all that soul searching that I seem to stop doing when I returned to working full time.
But to be totally honest with you, I’ve been avoiding not only the laptop in general but I think more importantly the blog. This blog…the HDD blog…The Carver blog. All of them. All of me. I can’t pinpoint why and I’m not even sure if I want to know why. I feel sort of lost in my endeavors. I feel lost in food. I feel lost in movement. I feel lost in gender. It’s not like I don’t think about shit. I think about (pretty much anything you can think of) all the time. I just don’t know if I want to take whats happening in my head (not that it’s anything life changing) and try and make sense of it here. Before I was all about “look at what I’m trying to do” and you were like “hey, we see what you’re trying to do and we’re here because we’re trying to do the same thing” and I was like “Awesome, let’s go out and kick some ass together” and you were like “fucking hell yes, let’s do this!!!” and then we all proceeded to get some shit done.
But now I feel like I’m so far removed from the “We” that mucking through the going’s on in my own thoughts without having to put them into words, into this blog and hitting publish feels okay most days. I struggle with the direction of this blog because I struggle with the direction of my being.
And here’s the kicker; while I’m not okay with the immediate decisions regarding food and movement (as in I want to hammer down my emotional eating again and kick up the notch in my Crossfit journey), I’m okay with not sharing them with the world. At least not like it used to be.
Being in the big city (you can argue that Halifax is a city, but let’s be honest it’s quite small compared to Vancouver) while Mimi has been working has afforded me some time to walk around the city and get swallowed by reality. I feel like I’ve been missing an important component to this journey called life and that component is a feeling of survival. Of wanting to fight for my little place in the world. I’ve been more grateful to having a few dollars in change in my pocket after walking around this concrete jungle than I have in a very long time. You forget to be grateful for what little you possess. That is until you’re hit in the face with the smell of urine in the early morning as you walk by a dozen people sleeping on the streets and you’ve barely gone a few blocks.
Don’t let me fool you. Mimi and I are staying in a very nice condo that’s been paid for. We’re in the middle of downtown Vancouver. We’ve eaten well. We’ve paid for our Crossfit workouts and sat and had fancy drinks while watching the world go by. By no means are we suffering.
The other day I left said condo and walked up the street to find some food. Not a hundred feet from the building entrance was a really cool performer. I can’t even begin to try and explain his contraption but it involved stilts, bagpipes and some pretty kick ass beatboxing. I had a $10 bill in my pocket and after standing there for a while I felt a little guilty because I didn’t want to leave without leaving something but for fuck sake $10 was a lot of money and it felt weird asking him if I could make change.
Just as I was getting ready to leave, find a Tim Horton’s, buy some coffee, grab the change and return to leave this guy a few coins in his bucket, another person walked into my view. I didn’t really register this person but knew right away he wasn’t “all there” just by his behavior and his appearance. I didn’t notice he had a coffee in his hand until I realized he was spilling most of it all over himself while supposedly enjoying the music of the performer. Right around the same time I began to stop watching the performer to take notice of the guy who would make me more grateful than I’ve been in a long time, the performer turns to said person and says “You’re drinking my coffee”…
He’s not all there. This coffee spilling, dancing wildly, enjoying the fuck out of the moment guy. This guy, that probably goes unnoticed by the throngs of people that forget to be thankful. Forget to be grateful for their gym memberships. Forget to be grateful for their fancy drinks on a Friday night. Forget to be grateful for the $10 in their pocket. For the bad food choices. For the ability to get up in the morning and work. For the chance to kiss those you love goodnight and sleep in the comforts of a bed. With covers. And pillows.
All of a sudden he pulls out a $20 and apologizes to the performer for drinking his coffee. It was like being knocked off my feet but I’m still standing. He didn’t do it because he was trying to be nice. He didn’t have the mental capacity to understand his actions. He just pulled out what was in his pocket and gave it to the performer because…well just because I suppose. You could see the performer was uncomfortable. He knew this guy wasn’t all there but you know when you’re performing on the streets possibly trying to scrap enough money for food AND rent you may not be so willing to struggle with the idea of not taking advantage of those less fortunate in their mental capacity.
I have a lot of my own mental struggles. Most days I have to deal with some sort of melt down regarding my Aspergers. Either it’s too loud, or too bright, or a simple choice has to be made in the moment that I can’t make and in a split second it feels like everything is going to come crashing down and I’m left on the verge of tears feeling stupid because for fuck sake I’m an adult.
As the performer’s music takes a turn for the quiet I approach him. I look him in the eyes and explain to him that I’m going to give him the $10 in my pocket. I want him to put it in his pocket because I don’t want someone to be enticed to grab his bucket and run off. I also explain to him I’m going to take out the $20 and return it to the not so dancing wildly any longer but still spilling his “you took my coffee” coffee guy.
He doesn’t resist. He doesn’t argue. Maybe in his gratefulness for his ability to bring me joy in his bagpipe rendition of Star Wars, he knows it the right thing. There’s plenty of money in his bucket put there by people who will forget the minute or two they spent standing there taking notice of the dancing coffee guy and laughing to themselves because he looked ridiculous but feeling totally uncomfortable as he put a lot of money in the bucket. Money that should have fed him. Money that should stay in his pocket. Money that no one else retrieved and gave back to him because they don’t realize how close we are to being right where he is.
My mental health in tacked.
The performer’s Karma in tacked.
Both of us grateful for our little space in this world.
And how about one more for shits and giggles.
Okay, let’s get this post started.
Life has been crazy…You only have to look at the lack of posts to see that the time I spend blogging has dwindled down to almost non-existent. In between working full time nights at Costco to rushing home to fall into bed before midnight to getting up at 6a to make sure Mimi and I get to break a sweat before taking her to work then rushing home again to spend a few hours preparing for my day (think mostly making sure I eat breakfast and lay down with Old Man Chester for an hour with enough time to pack my lunch/shower/and do any food prep for dinner for Mimi/laundry/shopping BLAH BLAH BLAH) there has literally been no motivation to think about putting my thoughts down.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m constantly in my head. But I think for the past 6-8 months the thought of sitting down in front of my computer has been mentally exhausting because I’ve been so physically exhausted and didn’t really even know it.
That all changed this last week and for once I’m actually looking forward to putting those thoughts into full length sentences and those full length sentences into a blog post even if it’s a short one.
If you’ve been following along the ever LifeChangingJourney that is me via Facebook or IG then you know that last week was my last day at Costco and while it was a difficult decision, it was one long in coming but I didn’t have the courage it took to take that leap of faith to leave. In all honesty though, it wasn’t just about a leap of faith. Working at Costco the last 18 months has been far more about fulfilling my emotional needs than my financial needs (though that twice monthly check no matter how small was a big help).
When I first moved here, I couldn’t work. I depended on Mimi for pretty much everything. To put food on the table. To put gas in my car. To put new clothes on my back. I spent a lot of time alone and by alone I mean I spent a lot of time stalking my local coffee shops for free wifi and running a shit ton while training for my first Marathon and subsequently my second and third marathon. I was lonely. I felt like a burden and to know me is to know I take my financial responsibilities very seriously.
It was a time of learning. Learning that it’s okay to rely on someone financially when the time is necessary. Most of my working life I was used to being the “money” maker in the relationship. Not the sole provider but always significantly more than my counterpart. Coming to Halifax, meant not only was I NOT the primary provider I was barely a financial provider. Of course Mimi is going to argue that I didn’t need to put money into the proverbial pot to be a contributing member to the relationship but my relationship with money is deep seeded and it took a lot to find my self worth when I couldn’t pay for something on my own.
Then after a long 15 month wait, I got my permanent residency approved and within 3 days went to work. Not as an interpreter but as a sandwich maker. Taking that job (and any job at that point) was more important than taking the time to plan my entrance back into the world of interpreting. All the loneliness felt spending hour after hour day after day with myself was suddenly washed away. It didn’t matter that I made barely above minimum wage. I was working. I was being social. I was making friends. And it may have been small but that paycheck felt like a million dollars.
Then an amazing turn of events led me to Costco. It’s not easy to get a job in that company but I did and it was everything but glamorous. Rolling hotdogs and sticking my hands elbow deep in dirty dish water and leaky trash bags furthered my desire to return to interpreting but by that time I was so entrenched in my need to provide a little more financially that I put it on the back back back burner and turned it way down low…
But then something happened: I loved my job there. I loved everything about working at Costco. Even on days when I would leave practically in tears from exhaustion/frustration and realizing my Asperger was way more apparent than even I understood, I loved it. I loved the fast paced, the lifting of heavy things. It was like all my hard work in losing weight and getting stronger was finally being used to it’s capacity and I felt important.
And I loved my co-workers. It gave me the social satisfaction that I longed for in parallel play unlike anything I’d experienced before. Just the right about of “we’re in the same space” with the perfect amount of “I’m in my space…you’re in your space”. But that pull to return to interpreting…my one true love started to get a little hot on that back burner and the universe decided to get involved.
For the past couple of months Mimi and I started to play around with the idea of me leaving Costco. The timing before us was about as perfect as anyone could ask for. Financially speaking we were practically debt free. Mimi’s own life events of changing her career path meant that we were in a position that I *could* let go of the full time night position and begin to return to my profession even if just on a part time basis. Our opposite schedules had taken it’s toll on us. Her waiting up for me to get home and my falling out of bed a few hours later to get her to work just so we could see each other for a few moments each day was just a little more than we could handle. But making the final decision to leave my position wasn’t coming as easy as I thought.
In the end, we both knew it was time. It was time we focused on our potentials rather than what was comfortable. It was time we both let go of what we know and go towards the unknown and not just step into, but rather jump head first towards that leap of faith that we can do things that are really scary and we can be successful if we trust ourselves.
The process of change has been slow. I left my position first (last Wednesday) with Mimi following along at the end of the month. Everything about everything changes for us. It’s scary but it’s really fucking exciting too. I’m a little too involved in my own head of what if’s (what if there isn’t enough work for me? What if there won’t be enough money financially? What if I miss my job at Costco too much) but I’m taking a lot of deep breaths and slowing down as much as possible. Yes, everything is changing but it’s not changing overnight and I have time to adjust to all the small changes that eventually add up to big changes.
Right now, it’s catching up on sleep. It’s retraining myself not to cook in such large amounts because I don’t have to think about packing 10 lunches each week in addition to making sure we’re not eating the same thing day in and day out. It’s letting go of counting calories because the physical aspect of my work is changing so maybe stuffing my face with 2500 calories each day isn’t necessary but also making sure I eat since I know I can get into that “we don’t have the money, so don’t eat the calories” (oh hello there deep seeded money issues).
It’s also learning how to be around each other again. We used to hardly have any time together so it was usually jam packed trying to get all the things done before one of us had to go to work. It’s almost like learning to live with each other. Our spaces are no longer Mine and Hers but once again Ours and it’s going to take some time to figure out how to fill the free time we so desperately missed (this damn snow doesn’t help either grrrrrrrrr).
So here I am. Slowly working my way back to interpreting. Dressing up professionally, rather than wondering what food item dried on my steel toed boots from the night before. Wondering if Mimi and I will have enough to talk about during our nights together because we actually can spend THE ENTIRE DAY together. Excited about being able to go back to the West Coast more but worried about how I’m going to pay for the tickets to get there. Oh the brain never ceases to worry lol.
Here’s to letting changes happen.
(and maybe blogging more about them!)
So here we go…
The beginning of 2015 and the beginning of all those New Year’s Resolutions.
By now some of those resolutions have already been laid to rest, 2 weeks in to the new year. Maybe it was too much too soon. Maybe there isn’t enough hours in the day for all those resolutions to stay a priority when work, family, bills and (insert whatever else gets in the way here).
5 years ago, I was just on my journey to losing weight (and changing everything about my life). I don’t remember saying it was a New Year’s resolution. It was just a simple decision to stay away from the elevator and track calories. A very very simple version of watching the calories that were going in because there wasn’t enough calories going out.
It was never a declaration of “I’m going to lose 100+ pounds”. I knew I was morbidly obese. I knew my food was shitty. I knew that there wasn’t enough moving throughout my day. I just promised myself I would take the elevator up but not down (because it was too hard to walk up the three floors) and if I was willing to log the calories of something then I could eat it, but that I had to log every thing that went into my mouth.
I remember thinking this was more difficult than I was prepared for. Just that little change felt hard and that was a wake up call for me. I wasn’t getting healthier as I aged…I was getting fatter. I was getting more and more unhealthy with each passing year both physically and emotionally. I always thought “there’s still time” but then I turned 40 and I didn’t have nearly as much time as I thought I did.
Then those little changes got pretty easy. Instead of just taking the stairs down to the car at the end of my shift, I was taking them up as well. The food choices became just a little easier when the toxins of fast food were allowed to leave my body and the diet coke intake was replaced with crystal delight (still not *that* good for you but heading in the right direction). Those first few pounds that came off weren’t really celebrated because I’d lost weight in the past. But I hadn’t really stayed in the moment with those other pounds. I made myself sick. I took pills. Never did I incorporate looking at my food and moving just a little more.
As all those little changes got easier and easier I started to challenge myself. I didn’t want to be on the Wii earning my fried chicken leg icon (you remember those right?) any longer. I was down 20 pounds and walking my dogs early in the morning. I was walking during my lunch. I was parking my car in the farthest parking spot I could find. I was carrying my grocery bags instead of trekking them in a cart. I was looking at labels. I was moving in the right direction for the first time in my life and it didn’t feel like a temporary thing. I acknowledge that I was 270 pounds and in order to get down to a healthy weight I was going to need to lose over 100 pounds but now I was almost 1/4 of the way there.
I shuffled a little faster than a walk. I did it for 30 seconds. I had that copper taste in my mouth. My throat burned. I coughed for a long time afterwards. I threw up. I pushed myself for what seemed like the longest 30 seconds in my life but you know what I felt?
My heart working.
My muscles burning.
Sweat coming off my face.
My breath coming fast.
I felt alive.
If a later version of me had been standing there and said to me “you have no idea what’s coming…marathons, ironmans, crossfit. muscles, triple digit weight loss, single letter clothing sizes“, I think I would have spit in my own face for telling me such lies when I was 250 pounds and puking because I couldn’t run for even half a minute. Even though I had no idea what was coming, I was always moving in the right direction.
It was five years ago I was struggling to walk up a flight of stairs.
It was five years ago I was crying over the food I was eating because all I wanted to do was bury my face in a Jack in the Box burger, and a vanilla shake.
I can’t imagine going back to the old me but I know that person is always lurking in the background. People wonder why I’m so adamant about my food and how much I move. It’s because I have too this adamant in order to make this a lifestyle that takes me into my old age. This was never about trying to look good for the beach or to get back to a high school body. This was always about finding the potential in me. In believing that for the first time in my life I could commit to a change until that change became the norm.
I do what I do in order to stay alive.
I don’t want to be depressed.
I don’t want to be morbidly obese.
I don’t want to watch life pass me because I’m on the sidelines.
I do this because I want people to know that weight loss and taking control of your life is not just a dream or a resolution that gets forgotten about 2 weeks in to the new year. It’s real. It’s possible and it doesn’t have to start by changing everything at once….
It can start with just a flight of stairs.
A glass of water.
A 30 second shuffle.
Small changes can lead to some amazing things…
Get up and get after them.
So many things are coming to an end for us. After what seems like the longest three years ever and all that has encompassed our relationship (the accident, the pain, the recovery, the long ass legal battle) is about to be finished for good. Three years we’ve been waiting and jumping through hoops to appease the legality of the matter. Three years we’ve been learning to live with pain and grow from pain. We’ve been puppets to doctors, both on their side and our side. We’ve been validated and repudiated. Believed in and felt lied too.
To say our house is full of emotions is an understatement. When the “normal” is about to change and you are about to be released from the constraints of what you think you should be doing versus what you want to be doing, all can seem a little overwhelming.
That’s our house right now. Overwhelmed. Excited. Relieved. Anticipating. Thankful.
And for me, still angry.
I’m still angry that Mimi has had to endure the physical pain for the last (and first) 3 years of our marriage. I’m angry that she’s had to be the one jumping through the hoops and learning to live with what is now probably going to transition into chronic pain. But more than angry I’m relieved beyond anything I can begin to describe. For the first time since our being together in the same country, this whole accident business won’t be hanging over our heads in one way or another. Be it an appointment, or paperwork or just plain waiting to hear something from someone about anything.
A few weeks ago we were sitting down to a meal and out of the blue she said “I feel like pre-accident Mimi”…Meaning in her head, that mental stuff that the accident brought was non-existent. I may have not been the one physically struck by the very large truck but we’ve both suffered over the last three years and what I missed most was her. I missed that chest-thumping let’s get shit done about her. Working through Depression is tough. I know from personal experience. Being the spouse of someone under that dark cloud is just as tough. I know this too now, from personal experience. To watch her struggle not only with the physical self but with the mental self as well was at times heart wrenching. To see the person you love become someone else at the fault of a complete stranger can bring about your own dark cloud and I don’t know about you but one dark cloud in a family is one too many.
I’m not going to lie. When she said “I feel like pre-accident Mimi”, I cried like a baby. No seriously. It wasn’t the reaction either of us were expecting but it was just there. I’ve been waiting for a long time to hear her say that and part of me had resigned myself to never hearing those words. The dark clouds have moved on and with the end of the legal battle just days away, life is feeling pretty awesome right now.
This past month Red took a HUGE leap out of her comfort zone and joined a women’s only introduction to Crossfit. It was her idea. Inside, I was like a kid on Christmas unwrapping that new bike you’ve been dreaming about. The one you circled in the Sears catalog and left it lying around for your parents to see. Outside I was cool and collected “If you think you want too, then sure“. You don’t have to spend much time with me to know how much I love Crossfit. To be honest any physical activity pretty much makes me pretty happy but there is something about Crossfit that goes beyond the happy feeling. All the sweat left on the floor is a testament to the hard work I’ve put into my life. The muscles I didn’t know existed, proof that I’m committed to taking care of my body because for so long I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about myself. Even the littlest progress is BIG progress and there is always something to improve.
She’s been next to me in a few classes and it is freaking amazing.
Three years I’ve been waiting for this time. Approaching the rack with our weights. Getting stronger together. Learning that just because you can’t do something today doesn’t mean you won’t be able to do it tomorrow. If not tomorrow….soon. I love watching the struggle that she experiences because in the Crossfit box, we all struggle. Not one single person doesn’t understand even if our struggles aren’t the same. I love seeing her name and time under mine and knowing it won’t be long before we’re racing to beat the other’s time and high fiving when it’s all over.
So to the man that was driving the truck that day, three long years ago; I’m still angry but my wife is lifting the fuck out of some heavy shit and for that I’m extremely happy.
Let’s talk about Carbs, Baby.
Let’s talk about how we feed.
Let’s talk about all the good things, and the bad things that we eat.
Let’s talk ahhhbout Carbs.
Let’s talk about Carbs, Baby.
Before I begin this post let me preface everything by saying the following: I am not a dietitian nor do I claim to be one. This post is my own shit. Not a doctor’s shit (though I think lots of times doctors don’t know enough about nutrition to even shake a damn stick at) and definitely not someone who actually went to school and knows their food shit cause they’ll tell you pretty much the same thing I’m going to tell you but I’m giving it to you for free because I don’t have to pay an exorbitant amount towards a tuition payment.
Okay so let’s begin…
When I sit down for break(s) at work I get a lot of questions about my food. My lunch box is a super sized black and decker lunch bag big enough to hold two full meals plus two sets of snacks, a huge jar of veggies and another jar (or two) of fruits. It’s big enough that most times I have to sling it over my shoulder to carry it because it is that heavy.
The other day someone commented that it must take a long time to prep something that extensive everyday. It does. I consider my food prep/intake a part time job. I spend many of my days off prepping food for the coming work days and I keep track of everything that goes into the bag (and into my mouth) via MyFitnessPal. I put a lot of time into my food because I want to be one of those people that can say they’ve maintained their weight loss for the long haul and by long haul I mean for a life time.
*side note* I am officially 4 years in maintenance as of this month. Every year that goes by my chances of being a successful weight loss person gets smaller and smaller and I’m not going down without a fight.
One of the main questions I get asked is about my *diet* specifically and what I eat on a daily basis. I usually give them a spiel about eating a mostly Paleo diet and that my intake of grains and sugars are very limited.
“You don’t eat pasta?”
“You don’t eat cereals?”
“You don’t eat breads?”
“How do you do it?”
The better question to ask is “Why do you do it?”
The conversation usually ends with the inevitable “I couldn’t give up my breads or pastas” to which I always say “Yes you can” and when you go for long periods of time without them and then eat them you’ll understand why they’re not good for you on a daily basis.
The other day someone commented that they’ve lost 100 pounds eating a low carb diet and it forced me to stop what I was doing and take a deep breath. I’m really excited to hear this person say they lost a shit ton of weight but that term “low carb” always erks me. And when you don’t know that I too have lost a shit ton of weight and take my food very seriously talking to me about “low” anything isn’t going to win you any brownie points (no matter how tasty you might think it is)…
People wonder how to lose weight. People wonder how to keep it off. They say they work out all the time but the weight doesn’t budge or they plateau. No matter how hard you try you can’t out exercise your food intake. It’s not even a diet…It’s how you understand the food you eat, the relationship you build with said food and how it becomes a life long endeavor.
So I turn to this person and say “Low carb?…what kind of carbs are you eating?“
They go on to explain to me that they’ve stopped eating pastas, and breads. They’re intake of carbs include sweet potatoes and green leafy goodness. They’re intake of sugar is way down. And they only eat a certain amount of carbs in a day…
*light bulb above my the head*
I say to this person “You’re not on a low carb diet” (and you can see the instant look of WTF coming across their face).
“You’re on a RIGHT carb diet”
Low carb diets are bullshit. Yes I said it. BULLSHIT. Again let me remind you I’m not a dietitian. Here’s how I look at food in it’s basic form: “Good” Carbs for your brain. Protein for your muscles. “Good” Fats for your cells. We can talk about it more in depth with macro/micro nutrients but I think as long as you have that understanding of why we eat foods (to fuel and not use as a crutch for emotions – even good emotions), then you’re about 75% of the way there to being successful at weight loss.
When I first started to really looking at my food I fell into that low carb, low fat mentality. The lower the carb amount = good. The lower the fat amount = good. The lower the both of them was in a particular food = fanfuckingtastic and GetInMyMouthRightNowCauseImGonnaLoseThisWeightMotherFucker. But it meant I was still opening boxes and putting things in the microwave that came frozen for my local food store. I still didn’t understand what I was doing. All I knew was that if it was low in something that must be a good thing right?
Taking the time to understand the difference between low carb and right carb is what really solidified my success. The same goes with eating Fat (YOU EAT FAT?!?…you bet your sweet ass I do)…Understanding when to eat a carb, how much of a carb to eat and what kind of carb to eat means that you’re filling that life long tool box of weight loss / maintenance with knowledge and we all know that the more you know…well the more you know.
I’m not here to preach that because the foods you eat are not the same as mine you’ll never lose the weight. I know why I don’t eat certain food. I know how my body systematically reacts to what I put into it. What I want you to take away from this post is if you’re serious about weight loss then you need to be serious about food. Take a few minutes (or hours or days or a lifetime) and learn about Carbohydrates (do you know the difference between simple carb vs. complex carb). Do you know the function of a carb and the Glycemic Index of certain carbs? Can you name a source of carb that doesn’t include your favorite pasta dish? Do you know how a carb breaks down into glucose and what the hell is glucose? Do you know that your brain mainly functions because of the carbs you eat and if you’ve been feeling light headed or “out of sorts” lately it’s probably due to the type of carbs or lack of carbs (i.e. low carb dieting) that happening.
My food is a part time job because my life is a full time job.
My body. My mental health. My ability to lift heavy shit or run multiple miles. All of these things come down to being sustainable and 100% of that depends on the food I eat.
Pretty much everything we do comes down to the food we eat. It will either help us or hinder us. I of course prefer the helping ability that food offers and for that it means I have to get in my kitchen and learn some shit. Teach myself some things. Understand a lot of things, even if just the simplest of basic knowledge…
Low carb = no
RIGHT carb = YES!
The last 8 weeks of my life have been a little out of sorts. I like schedules. I like knowing what I’m doing, where I’m going and in what time frame I’m doing and going. Whether it’s an Asperger thing or not (though I suspect it is), having a schedule reduces a severe amount of anxiety.
For the last 8 weeks there has been nothing even remotely close to a schedule. Off work for most of that time because of gallbladder surgery, throw in a long-ass road trip and not being able to get to a Crossfit class for the entire 8 weeks and I can feel my mental strength get a little wobbly and my physical strength tucker out much sooner.
Return to work, only to be there for a week and turn what was supposed to be a 3 day “vacation” trip to Toronto to be with Mimi when she received her award in to a 9 day official vacation with a short stop over in Toronto but let me fill 3 of those vacation days with interpreting work so I didn’t really take a vacation, just got paid to stay home from one job while I worked another job.
Hopefully this show I like to call LIFE, will resume it’s regular schedule this week. No vacations until January (Yay for babies!), I go back to Costco tomorrow and resume my nightly shifts. I, #fingerscrossed, go back to Crossfit this week and get back to making the hashtag #trexloveslifting a daily part of my vocabulary.
I can physically feel this non-scheduled life weighing me down.
Today, after spending the better part of the day drowning in a swarm of Jr. High School kids I thought a nice run would help me feel better. This, after I literally tore my apartment apart looking for my iPod shuffle…which by the way did I mention when I forget where I put something (cause everything has a place…again that’s the Asperger), it throws me for a loop? Not a “oh I’ll find it later” loop…no it feels like a screeching halt, nothing is right, everything is out of place, I’ll never run again, where the fuck did I put it, hit myself in the head so I can release the anxiety kind of loop. I misplaced it, panicked. Looked for it. Was up at night thinking about it. Panicked some more. Then methodically looked in every nook and cranny until there it was nestled in a coat pocket (which I never leave it in a pocket of any kind so I must have been totally distracted) and my first thought: Let’s go for a run and clear my head because after spending 6 hours with a few hundred 13 year olds, the auditory sensory was way overloaded.
The only problem about this run? It totally sucked. I know the first mile usually sucks ass. The body has to warm up. Lungs have to adjust. A rhythm has to be found. The body warmed up. The lungs adjusted….other than that it pretty much blew chunks. I kept telling myself how tired I was and how out of shape I was. How I didn’t have the endurance. I had to walk a lot more than I wanted and each time I did that damn voice kept nagging at me:
It took a lot for me to keep going. I had to remind myself that not every run is fantastic. In fact sometimes it’s good to have a super shitty shuffling of the feet. To stop and want to quit knowing that you can’t because you’re too far from home and the only way back is to suck it up and do the best you can.
I have to remember that it wasn’t that long ago (though it feels like a lifetime – and sometimes not even my life ago) running for just a few minutes left me winded for the better part of the day. Some days just feel harder than others. I abused my body for a long time. Most of my adult life really. I didn’t care about what I was putting in it and I certainly didn’t care what my body was putting out in the physical sense. Preferring to leave a little sweat on the ground rather than watching a CSI marathon only truly began happening 3 1/2 years ago.
On days when I don’t feel as fast or as strong as other people I try to remember that this body is a work in progress. Some days I’m going to feel like I’m at the front of the pack. Some days I’m going to feel like I’m eating dust at the back of the pack.
AT LEAST I AM PART OF THE PACK.
Today’s run left me feeling cranky but I’d rather be cranky, sweaty and in need of a long hot shower than sitting on the couch at 270 pounds, watching a CSI marathon doing nothing but slowly eating myself to death.
For a couple of weeks I’ve been wanting to sit down at my laptop and write some mind blowing blog about how to save the world from all that ails us. I’ve looked at my trusty (closed) laptop, collecting dust and think “Today is the day”…Only to find other things to occupy my mind and push blogging off for another day (week…month)
I’ve wondered if it’s time to pack in the old click click click of the keyboard and let the journey that is life changing settle along side the dust. Life is no longer about weight loss and depression. Days of training for Marathons/Triathlons/Walking around the block are sort of on hold and while I do miss stepping up to a starting line, I’m in a good place about it these days.
Red and I continue to take long hard looks at the food we’ve been eating and how it really does effect us not just physically (down to the cellular level) but also emotionally but do I want to blog about that? Not really. Cooking and posting the shit ton of pictures on IG (cause you know I do love the perfectly placed egg with the perfectly picked amaro filter) along with the daily IG post about struggling to hit the pavement or complete the necessary lifts without breaking down in the middle of my crossfit box and I find my need for blogging just not as important.
I was having a conversation the other day with a friend about this sort of general “lacking in the blogging community” and it got me thinking about it was like in the beginning. I always think there’s going to be this influx of “I’M GONNA LOSE THIS WEIGHT AND BLOG THE ENTIRE JOURNEY”. Someone, somewhere is sitting down to wordpress as we speak (or read) and trying to come up with the perfect blog name or how to come up with something catchy with the word “weigh” interchanged with “way” or whatever (weightever…see what I did there?). Then the weight comes off and the struggle to lose becomes the struggle to keep it off and then some where a long the line a few of us (because we all know the statistics) the struggle is no longer a struggle but rather just a way of life. It takes 21 days to form a good habit and after 1400+ days I’d have to say I think the habits are sticking around for good (#fingerscrossed – and sidenote; I love throwing out a hashtag where it’s not wanted).
So then the focus becomes something else and blogging just sort of dies down. For me the focus has become about gender. It’s one thing to realize at 40, it’s time to lose weight or die obese. It’s a whole other ballpark to realize that hidden under all that fat was some seriously suppressed gender shit and oh hey you’re not fat anymore so BOOM, now it’s time to get all confused about that body you’ve worked hard to slim down and make healthier.
I want to blog about it but this shit feels real personal. Being obese is personal of course. But it’s different. You can go out your front door and find camaraderie at your local gym. You can hashtag to your heart’s content and find like minded people to motivate/inspire you to do another pushup or run another mile. You can read blog after blog about all the feelings that you’re feeling while trying to decide between eating a whole pizza or going to the gym.
When I started losing weight I had a focus. A goal. Blogging helped me get there. I wasn’t afraid to talk about some pretty personal stuff because millions of people are trying to lose weight right this very moment and about half of them are going to understand exactly what I’m saying when I’m blogging about fitting into smaller clothes, dealing with food addiction, mental health and/or earning my first race medal with snot all over my t-shirt because I couldn’t stop crying that I’d actually finished.
Now I’m thinking about things like “should I buy a binder so that I can hide my boobs?” and “how is it possible that I can feel like a boy but start my fucking period?” I don’t have the same community I did losing weight because I’m not hyper focused to rush into a men’s restroom and show off my ability to pee standing upright (no I don’t have that ability). I look for people sharing my experiences and it’s like walking into a dark room with no light switch within reach. And even if I did find that very small community somewhere I’m not sure where I would fit it. How I feel today is not how I feel tomorrow is not how I felt a week ago wearing my fly as fuck bowtie and did you see how flat chested I looked in my sharp button down and vest (hellooooooooo Carver).
So blogging has to take another turn for me. It has to be really personal now. Sharing what may or may not be understood. My life changed when I lost the weight. It changes again as I figure out this gender stuff. This time it feels more lonely. Like words are thrown out but nobody is there to catch them. I’m not saying it’s not out there. I’m not the only biologically born female turned life-chosen-more-male-than-female-today-but-it-could-be-different-an-hour-from-now, out there. But I can’t go to my local non-existent trans gym and look around for like minded (like bodied) people. And even if I could, I don’t know that I would have the courage to go…
There’s a lot of “swimming up stream” with this whole (life changing) journey of gender-what-the-hell-is-going-on? Oppressing myself because I’m too confused in my noggin straddles the everyday oppression of just being a part of the everyday. I think that’s why it’s hard(er) to blog about it because at the end of the day there aren’t going to be too many people that can say “I remember when (insert random experience) happened to me and here’s what I did”. My friends/family support me beyond my expectations (another blog post I suppose) but there isn’t that understanding I seek.
The “I totally get it when you feel pissed off someone called you a lady because they looked at your boobs to figure out your gender and you’re fucking tired of being called a lady so maybe you should just cut off your boobs, take testosterone and call it a day“?
not so much.
I’m one week post gall bladder surgery.
It hasn’t been easy.
I didn’t poop for three days after.
I’ve eaten more ice cream, pudding, sugar, processed foods in the 4 days post surgery than I did 4 month’s prior to surgery. I haven’t had a decent sneeze, cough or laugh since leaving the hospital and a 20 minute walk at a pace even my dear departed grammy could surpass requires a 2 hour lay down afterwards.
But it’s done.
And recovery is well on it’s way.
Since I am one week AGB (After Gall Bladder), that means I am also week without “social” media. No Facebook. No Twitter. No Instagram and small amounts of time on the inter
suckyoursoulnet. It’s been fucking hard. I spend a lot of time sitting on the couch with phone in hand looking at manulife claims and the weather. I continually check my Canada Post app for mail I know only comes every two weeks but maybe (just maybe) they’ll send my paystub 13 days early and if that’s the case then I better check….hmmmmmm nothing.
Let me check again.
If I was able to work, many unoccupied hours would of course be occupied by lifting heavy bags of dog food or ginormous packs of toilet paper rolls and maybe this social break of the media would pass a little easier. But work is still many weeks away and I’m in no rush to push my recovery in order to take away the boredom of living in quieter times at the moment.
I’ve spent a lot of time on my deck, on my couch, on my bed and at the dining room table doing something I used to do for hours at a time growing up and long before I owned my first computer: Reading. In 6 days (and really just 5 days since I didn’t do anything after the surgery but moan and groan and shove soft foods into my mouth in between doses of pain medication), I’ve already devoured one book (The Green Rider by Kristen Britain) and halfway through The Signature of All Things by Elizabeth Gilbert with other books piled next to my bed waiting to be opened…
I miss doing that. Instead of getting lost in what other people are posting, what videos they’re watching and commentating on the world events, I’m getting lost in between the pages of books that have been pushed aside.
I thought I would really miss the media that is social but I think what I’m missing (though still not an appropriate choice of words) is just filling my time with something to do. I’ve got quite a few more weeks of practice before being released back to work so everyday right now is a practice in just being with me.
It also gives me time to get my food back in order.
I had all these “expectations” of what my food would look like after they poked me in my belly and removed my gall bladder. I figured I’d eat a few puddings the first day and call it good. Maybe throw in some toast here and there just to give my tum tums something to do while my brain was all fogged up with medication. Except that’s not really how it went. I ate things I just don’t normally eat (think mac and cheese / lots of ice cream / Greek Yogurt / crunchy snacky bowls of chips) and while it doesn’t sound that bad considering I did have a piece of my insides removed, I was eating to soothe the pain and probably in turn making the pain worse because now I was asking my body to process foods I’ve not had in quite some time.
grilled eggplant, ham, egg and swiss chard
But a week has gone by since the surgery and slowly I’m cleaning up my food again. I’ve been paying very close attention to calorie intake (lowering it for the duration of recovery) and am amazed at how much 1800 calories of processed boxed food compares to 1800 calories of local, prepared in my own kitchen food, and how badly I crave more food when it’s weaved with sugar and ingredients I can’t pronounce.
Life is quiet right now and I’m trying to enjoy the forced relaxation/recovery for the next five weeks.
The other day I was driving Mimi to work and as always we drive pretty much the same route. To know me is to know that I’m always looking out for the universe’s “little messages” on how to view life and how to keep moving forward in this life of changes journey. We drove past a private school advertising that it still had openings even though the school year is well under way…”It’s never too late to apply” is what its reader board said.
It’s never too late to apply.
I’ve been thinking of late how many times I wanted to make changes in my life that would lead me down a more congruent path of who I felt I was inside and yet each time I had those fleeting thoughts of change, I kept pushing them off to the side. Either feeling I was never going to be successful or that I would start later when I had more time. Be it weight loss, becoming an interpreter or exploring my gender identity. When I turned 30 and returned to school I thought I was too late to become an interpreter. My classmates 10 years prior were literally elbow deep in the field and here I was trying to get my foot in the door. When I turned 40 and seriously began thinking about weight loss, I thought I was too late. I thought I was destined to be morbidly obese for my entire life. I had looked in the mirror and decided that fat I carried on my body was going to accompany me to my grave. At 44 as I begin seriously questioning my gender I sometimes feel that I’m too late.
Funny thing about thinking it’s too late; You’re either right or your wrong but you won’t know unless you apply. As a certified interpreter (and a pretty damn good interpreter if I might toot my own horn), I don’t think I was too late. Going into my 4th year of 100+ pound weight loss maintenance I don’t think I was too late. Making small changes from Tara to T to Carver still feel a bit late but maybe never too late. These little changes of forward movement have brought me closer to the person inside and give me the courage to keep looking forward, to keep advocating, to keep changing…
To keep applying.
Applying doesn’t mean success. It just means trying. You can apply yourself to anything and fail. A job. A marriage. Weight loss. Running a marathon. Changing the food you eat. Changing the gender of the biological female body you are attached too. But the trick I think is to stop focusing on the “success” part of the process and focus on the applying part of the process. Maybe you’ll never run that marathon you’ve had your eye on but are you strapping on some running shoes and getting your heart rate up? SUCCESS! Maybe you won’t lose that 50/100/200 pounds you so desperately want to lose but are you whole-heartedly making healthier choices with food? SUCCESS!
I may never reach the full understanding of what my gender is supposed to look like but right now even the smallest changes feel like Big Big changes and in those small (big) applied changes I feel giant success. Just like in almost everything I do, I can’t keep pushing the “try” aside thinking it’s too late.
It’s never too late.
You’ve heard about people doing it.
Going off the grid.
Taking a break from social media. Unplugging from the electronics and plugging into the environment around them. I’ve been doing it a while with this blog. Not a whole lot to say it seems but in reality a million things racing through my mind at any given time. Upping my workouts to get from 175 back down to 165 while focusing on building muscles. Going from working part time in the wee hours of the morning to working full time late late late into the the night. Dealing with questions of “why do they call you Tee now?”, and that sideways look of “I don’t understand what you mean by it’s a less gender specific name.” Moving from a centrally located, this place is too big for us dwelling, to a much smaller, we’re gonna need to get rid of a lot of stuff not so much centrally located, but the building is cheaper and brand spanking new and figuring out schedules, driving routes and the occasional “oh hey we actually get to spend a few hours together this evening”.
Throw on top of it, tomorrow morning. Gall bladder surgery. Long in coming and put off for way too long, it snuck up on us much faster than we anticipated and with all the changes that’s been happening in just the last month (read above) I’m taking this as my opportunity to really get the fuck off the grid for a bit and get back to some serious “stay in the moment” living.
Six weeks. That’s the recovery period. No crossfit. No work. No running (you see my priorities right?). Six long weeks. I’m freaked out by the idea of not working out for that long. Yes I can go for long walks but that’s pretty much it. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve gone that long without breaking some sort of sweat?….
December of 2009.
When I weighed 270 pounds. When I didn’t care about things like weight loss, food macros, and accomplishing things like marathons and half ironmans. When I was more concerned about whether my shit was going to sell at auction on World of Warcraft rather than what WOD was going to be at crossfit. When I was more concerned about whether I had enough time to stop in at Jack in the Box before work rather than do I have enough time to make my own almond butter or juice for the week or can I prep for dinners this week before heading to work. When I was way more concerned about making sure I had enough soda pop and chips stocked away in my work drawer for the long day of sitting in a cubicle rather than making sure I had enough calories in my lunch box for the long day of lifting pallets of 50 pound dog food or air conditioners.
So you can sort of understand my apprehension over the next six weeks. Finding a balance. A balance of rest and recovery. A balance of staying in the moment and taking care of the Tee that is, instead of being fearful of becoming the Tara that was. Six weeks doesn’t seem like a long time but in this world of weight loss, maintenance, moving and eating it sort of seems like a very long time.
Part of that recovery includes the proverbial jump on the “off the grid” band wagon. It seems pointless to have time wasting shit on my phone since I already know all my free time over the next 45 days or so would be spent looking at status updates, instagram pictures, playing games, looking at crossfit wods and the occasional 140 character tweets. I’m not really “involved” much these days any how. I throw a few things out there into the social media pool but mostly in the corner watching the “world go by” that doesn’t really affect me instead of being a part of my immediate world that absolutely affects me.
I’ll be reading a shit ton (you should see my pile of books that I don’t read because I want to play farmville instead). I’ll be walking a lot (very very slowly at first) and getting to know my neighborhood. I’ll be hanging out with what’s going on here instead of wondering what the hell is going on out there. REST and RECOVERY on all aspects of what’s happening in my life.
After the six weeks?
Well we’ll just have to see how this goes and then decide…
I’ve been very contemplative lately
(Oh really? Just lately T? Cause you are kind of contemplative all of the time)
Yhea that’s true.
I think about a lot of stuff.
A lot of the time.
Whether I’m thinking about Crossfit and how to lift more efficiently (read: Faster) or weight loss (how do I get back down to 165 and is that really a good thing?), or Aspergers (how is it going to manifest itself today) or Gender (did I just swing my hips on purpose…oh for fuck sake do I feel like a girl or a boy today? Quick flex! Okay back to feeling like a boy), I’m always thinking.
We’re moving very soon and I spend a lot of time thinking about whether this is going to work and if we’re going to be moving again this time next year. This is the third time in as many years that Mimi and I have packed our things into (not so small) cardboard boxes and hauled them from one location to another in hopes this…this is the place. The place we love. The place we feel safe. The place that feels like our own. When I moved here from the west coast I came with few belongings. However you’d be surprised what you can stuff into a Honda Element. That being said, most of “our” stuff was still mostly “her” stuff with a little “my” stuff thrown in to the mix. Not having a job the first year and a half means that when you want to buy new “our” stuff it’s very seldom new and comes with a mix of “that used to be someone else’s” stuff.
Our home is a mish mash of stuff. Problem is we’re downsizing in space and that means all that stuff has to be thoughtfully and carefully decided whether it will remain “hers, mine, it used to be their’s but now it’s our” stuff. We’re moving not out of necessity (because we love our neighborhood and more importantly our friends that reside above us) but rather because we both agree that we deserve to live somewhere that we love and we want the people we pay money too to love the space we rent as much as we do. That’s not happening where we are…it wasn’t happening where we were before this place. Both times the owners had their emotional baggage sort of get in the way of keeping their property in a “man this place is LOVED” upkeep. Where we are now is especially upsetting because, as we both come from living with bouts of debilitating depression, we know what it looks like when others are also experiencing that dark cloud. Our living space is a direct correlation to the owner’s mental health and to be totally honest, it’s a pretty dark cloud that’s settled around us.
One of the things we’ve done in preparation for this new move (and to make this new space feels like OURS) is letting go of old furniture/items and replacing them with brand spanking new furniture/items. We have things we’ve purchased months ago sitting in our living room untouched so that when we walk into our new space at the end of the month it will feel like Christmas in July. A new couch. A new dining room set. New (and color coordinating) bathroom set. New (and color coordinating) dishes and kitchen items…
The hard part is letting go of all the old stuff.
And that’s what I’ve been thinking about lately. Letting go. Having to look at something and HEARTFULLY decide whether I’m keeping something because it brings me joy or rather keeping it because I’m trying to hold on to something…anything. A memory. A feeling. An emotion that keeps me tied to a particular person or event. What I’m finding is those things that I think I hold dear to my heart are in fact keeping me attached to a memory/feeling I’m afraid to let go of or I keep something for fear that I’ll lose an attachment to a person.
My mother’s china.
My mother’s teacup/saucers.
Children’s books I bought with Mitch.
Magazines that I brought from the West Coast.
Emotional Chains that I’ve refused to break because I think it then detaches me from people/places that I miss. They take up space. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve used the china since my mother died 25 years ago. The layer of dust on the teacups thicker than the memory of looking at them as a child wondering why she kept them locked away instead of drinking tea with them. Children’s books unread because when I look at them I’m slammed against a brick wall of guilt wondering if Mitch is still angry with me and hoping he’s taking good care of Penny. Magazines that sat unread with the never ending “One of these days I’m going to actually use a recipe out of the latest issue” promise that 99% of the time was never kept.
It’s really fucking hard to let go. You look at something and think “okay this time is different…this time I’ll use (insert something…anything…here) more. I won’t let it sit. I won’t put it back in the box (lifting lid) and forget about it (placing it back in the box…)”
I think weight loss is the same process of letting go. My relationship with food as a child held fast into my adulthood because I was afraid to let go. I was afraid to shed the fat that was the emotional chain that bound me to memories. Memories that food made me feel safe…while simultaneously making me feel so shitty about myself that the only thing I could do was continue to shove more food into my mouth. Then finding some relief by shoving a spoon down my throat so I could start the vicious cycle again.
Funny thing; every time I decide to let something go, I’m wracked with guilt until it leaves my life at which point I’m so relieved I can’t believe I held on to a particular thing for so long. My fat included. I remember after lugging around a huge antique Victrola and the hundreds of records for the first 10 years after my mother died I decided enough was enough. I cried for weeks leading up to selling it. Maybe I would play it more (I never played it). Maybe I could just keep it for a little longer (and possibly lug it up another 5 floors if I move). Then I found a very sweet woman who was buying it for her husband because he gave his to another family member and in the end missed it so much but didn’t have the heart to ask for it back. As she drove away with my mother’s beloved Victrola she took with it all the memories that left me feeling guilty. My mother would be angry (T, she died 10 years ago), What if I want to play it later (really T? You used to swear at that thing almost daily)…That woman emptied a space that I could fill with something I loved (like a big wooden chair that was such an eye sore but that I LOVED beyond words)…
The same things happened when I finally broke up with my fat. I was letting go of my memories of “not good enough“, “you’ll never do it“, “you’re too lazy“, “you are NOT worth it” and as each pound left, it took those memories with it. Giving me permission to fill that space with “holy shit you are finishing a marathon…a half iron man…did you just fucking double under 50 times in a row….LIFT THAT FUCKING HEAVY WEIGHT LIKE NO ONE’S EFFING BUSINESS!!!!!!!”
In this process of moving I’m being gentle in my process of letting go. Breaking emotional chains that take up space that is now reserved for who I am today and the relationship I choose to have with Mimi. The magazines have gone to a new home and I bet the new reader is perusing each page deciding which recipe to try first. The China is up for sale in hopes that a new family will set a beautiful table and sit together in ways that I longed for as a child because my new family has helped me forged new stronger chains of memories. Those children’s books will probably stay just because I have a feeling there’s a few itty bittys in my life that will sit for hours as I read them (forging the best chains of attachments I can think of)…the tea sets will probably go after the move is over and I can take the proper pictures (I boxed them up in that “wellllllllll….maybe I’ll use them……oh for fuck sake!” mode of thinking)…I know they need to find a new home.
As we unpack at the end of the month, in our new place (which by the way is a brand new building that was just completed this month. Read: no one will have ever touched anything in our apartment except for us) the new things that are replacing the things of old are for making new memories because I’ve allowed myself to free up space…
Both in Heart