Oh Immune System Where Are You? And Lungs??? Knock it off.

When I was a kid. I was sick almost constantly. Whenever I got anything it would go live in my lungs for a while. It was my normal for my mom or dad to spend the night or take shifts in my room holding me up so I could breathe. It was normal to cough until I vomited. It was normal to take more meds than an elderly person. This was my normal. Staying in when it was too cold. Swallowing pills as a preschooler-- all my normal.

My lungs still suck and whenever I get sick- it goes to my lungs and lives there, for what seems to be forever. I still cough with enough force that I sometimes throw up. But it is not as bad as it was-- by a lot. Now, after I am sick for a few days and coughing my stomach hurts! As a kid my stomach muscles were so strong- all the coughing in the world would not make me sore.

As previously discussed- I have an eating disorder, I am maintaining my weight (sometimes white knuckling it) but there is the aftermath of the time that I was in the midst of it.  My immune system is one thing that was pretty much destroyed.  And it sucks being sick.  My normal is sick. The good thing is my kids have great immune systems and usually act as Typhoid Mary.  I'd much rather be sick than them.

Because, looking back, I cannot imagine the frustration, helplessness, and desperation when I was sick so much that my parents felt. When my kids are sick, I would literally give my left arm to take it for them.  How many times have parents prayed to which ever G-d they choose to please please please let them take whatever is ailing their kids.

And it took me being a parent for me to see how much my parents must have begged for the same.  Let them take the bad tasting medicine. Let them stay up all night coughing. Let them get stuck again. Anything...just make the kid better.

So, thanks Mom and Dad for staying up with me so many nights.  Taking me to endless doctors. Cleaning up when I threw up. Waiting in boring hospitals for another chest x-ray to be read. For teaching me to swallow pills.  For convincing me to take the bad tasting medicine- even the truly awful stuff.

I can't imagine what you went through- but thank you for doing everything you could.

Utah anniversary

The night before, Thursday, I came home from Mock Trial team and spread my work out on the floor in the formal living, no one went in there so I could set to work on the mountains of projects I had to complete. My boyfriend called.  He was older than me, my parents didn’t like that. We argued. I knew something was up.  I didn’t know what.

I was sick. I was scared. I was hiding. I was running to try and find something- someone safe.  He was angry- he knew I was not telling him things. I couldn’t tell him. I was terrified.  Everything was so terrifying. Feelings were/are scary. They can’t be reasoned with they can’t be controlled.

My brother came home from work- he was staying with us while he was separated from his wife. We sat down for ‘dinner’.  Which was tense. Always tense. Eggshells. One wrong word, glance, putting a fork down too hard and it would erupt into screaming and crying- saying awful things- just to hurt the other person- hurt them as much as I was hurting. I felt so empty so scared so alone. I felt everything and nothing at once.

Back to homework. I had a final paper to revise, AP physics to prepare for. Exams were next week.

I went to bed.

Set my alarm, made sure that my riding crop was under my pillow. I was terrified of my dad. I was scared- and my flimsy riding crop was all the protection I could muster. I passed out into a dreamless sleep.

The next bit gets a little fuzzy

I woke up. I think it was my parents at my bedroom door—with 2 strangers. I was told that I was going to Utah today—like now. At 4 am.

My mind raced- how could I stop this. How could this not happen. How could I stop it? I thought of saying I was pregnant- even though I hadn’t slept with anyone- but Illinois law said that a pregnant minor was emancipated from her parents. Then again, I wasn’t 100% sure of that and my brother was a lawyer- he would have planned for that reaction.  Also, I was so thin- there is no way anyone would believe I was pregnant. My body could barely support me not another person too.

I realized at some point- that if I left- I may not like it- but I would be away. My parents could not hurt me so much every day. I wouldn’t have to see them an know I was a giant fuck up just ruining their lives maybe this could be ok. I agreed to go. But I asked about my group presentation that I had to present tomorrow… and what about finals? It would all be worked out they said.

I had a few moments to change- supervised. Go to the bathroom- supervised. I would have killed myself then. I would have just to not be so terrified.

I got dressed. Jeans, size 0- too big. A pink camisole. A black wool cardigan with pink roses.  I could take very little: I took my violin, my stuffed bear Tasha (whom later in Utah I would hold and inhale the scent of home) and my favorite book- Pride and Prejudice.  I asked to say good bye to my dog- Fred. My brother had him out for a walk. So I said good bye to my cat- Miss Meow. My parents asked to say goodbye to me, I told them to fuck off.

It was very cold. There was three feet of snow on the ground. We took off for O’hare- me and two escorts. Later I learned how good I had it.  Other girls were drugged and taken. Others were handcuffed and taken. I went on my own.

On the airplane the escorts were nice to me- this was their profession. Taking girls to treatment so they may—just may survive whatever demons live in them.  They gave me a letter my mom wrote to me. At first I was too mad.  Too angry to read it- but as we passed over the Midwest curiosity got me. I read it. And lost what little composure I had. Everything everything came spilling out overflowing in a mess of tears. I was angry and so very hurt—and scared… but being hurt and scared but you on the defense- and that was an untenable position for me- anger was safer. But there comes a time when anger can’t hold everything back. My time for that was somewhere over Nebraska.  I still have the letter.

They offered breakfast. A Danish. Orange Juice. Fat. Calories. Hell no.

When we landed I was handed off to Danielle and Matt. At first Danielle intimidated me- but later I grew to love her- she was the only one who could help me with my calculus. 

What do you do, 4 days after your 17th birthday when you are sent across the country- with no notice- to a treatment center so maybe, maybe I could survive this and come out the other side?

What do you do when for as long as you can remember you have been not good enough- convinced your parents hated you- then get sent away? Seems to confirm everything I had thought.

I felt more alone then than I had ever felt. But a sense of odd relief. I wouldn’t have to see my parents and know I was letting them down.  Hear the frustrated sighs, the disappointment.

The indignity got worse over the next few days and weeks—and I told myself that worst case scenario I would be there for 361 days- at which point I would become legally an adult.  Seriously, it got bad.

One of the worst parts was it confirmed my worst fears. That I was not good enough to be part of our family- so they simply got rid of me- remember 17 year olds – especially 17 year olds who are starving aren’t the best at critical thought.

Going to Utah sucked. It was awful. But it saved my life. I still have my old therapist’s (Alan) email and phone number in my phone- and yes- when things are really shitty- I call him and 16 years later? He still answers me. The man is a saint.

Now- I still don’t let people get close to me. I don’t do feelings well.  I prefer things that can me reasoned with and logiced  (new word, just made it up) out.  Feelings are too messy. Too much.

So today, I am a hot crying sobbing mess- and tomorrow it will be worse.

I am still friends with a lot of the girls who I got to know there- we had very different lives- but they were the first to help put me back together when I fell apart. 

 Now, so many years later- I lose it around my  'anniversary' both going and coming.  I try and keep terribly busy- to keep the tears away, to try and hold it together.  Inevitably, I fall to pieces a few time. A sobbing snotty mess. I can still smell the same smells feel the same feelings. Its like it is happening all over again.

I want to throw things, cry, have someone hold me and tell me its over, never will happen again-- and maybe pry my shoulders out of my ears- someone to be there to help stem the anxiety and fear.

Oh Dear. Utah. Scary. brain dump

This past September was the 15th anniversary of coming back from Utah.  This has been the first year that I have not spent the day curled up in a fetal position waiting for the day to pass.  I actually only realized the date when I had yet another one of my nightmares about Utah.  Yes, I still have them with some regularity.

This morning, I looked at Princess and almost died. She is growing- up, she is not my little girl who chases geese and loves to swing at the park. It dawned on me, when I was her age I was already in the midst of an eating disorder.  A diagnosable eating disorder.

She is such an amazing person, smart, caring, strong, thoughtful, and kind.  I never want her to hurt like that.  I never want her to feel like she is not not enough just as she is.  She is special and unique and fantastic.  How can I protect her from this?  How can I keep her safe from that trip in a fun-house mirror. 

I'll never be thin

Since I was in preschool I have thought I was fat.  I looked in the mirror at my ballet class and saw my stomach not be the right shape.  I cried and felt awful when my ballet teacher said I wasn't built for it (I resolved to change my body and work hard-- I was 8).

As time went on I became more displeased with my body.  I was angry with it, embarrassed by it, and disgusted by it.  So quite naturally I developed an eating disorder.

Now that I am in my 30s I still long to be thin-  but now I realize that I will not have a slender body.  I have a muscular body.  I build muscle quickly, and I am finally learning to appreciate this.  As a pole dancer, my strength and ability to build muscle come in extremely handy here.

Sometimes I find it hard to appreciate my body for what it is able to do-- but I need to keep reminding myself of what I can do, not what I can't.

A day with out antianxiety meds

When I was a teenager there was clearly something wrong with me.  I would get furious, not angry- furious- for no good reason.  I couldn't sleep well.  My thoughts were racing. I had an eating disorder. In short I was nuts.

My parents tried to get me help, and like any teen I fought them tooth and nail.  The doctors tried to tell my parents that I was bipolar. I am not.  I don't lay around in bed unable to move-- just the opposite. My head and thoughts move so fast I can't move.  It is like being pulled in a thousand and three directions at the same time and you can't even begin to figure out what your thinking because your brain has already moved on to 10 new things.

While your at it totally innocuous thoughts become worst case scenarios in seconds. If I were a super hero I would be Worst Case Scenario Girl: able to jump from nothing to catastrophe in seconds.

Finally, as an adult- I found a doctor and explained my thought process. He looked at me and said I had severe anxiety.  He prescribed meds for that.  The first time I took them, I was wary, but then they too effect and it was amazing.  I wondered, "is this how normal people feel all the time?" My brain and thoughts stopped racing.  I stopped having to work my self up to being able to handle the stress of grocery shopping.  Picking a brand of OJ was no longer a 10 minute debate.  I didn't snap at my husband.  I didn't get so frustrated with everything.  Life was so much more enjoyable.

The day before yesterday, I ran out of meds.  I was only out for a day.  But in that day- my behavior change was obvious.  It was not good.  Thankfully, I got my meds right away and by the next day I had managed to regulate a bit more. 

I am not ashamed of my anxiety and panic disorder.  I am not ashamed of my asthma or kidney issues or my blood issue. They are medical issues that can be treated and when treated I am fine.

This being mental health awareness week I feel the need to speak about how anxiety does not always look like a panic attack.. it can... but it can look a lot of other ways to.

I am not reliant exclusively on meds either.  I exercise a lot- but for times like this, when I need to rest and recover- they are a freaking gift from science (and G-d)

Anxiety in my head

Do you have anxiety?  I do.

Living with anxiety is like living in a pressure cooker.  My thoughts race so fast that I can't put words to them or slow them down long enough to even breath.  My heart races, breathing quickens, and muscles tense- and that is an average day- being engulfed in a sense of terror for no reason feeling like I could lose my mind and jump out of my skin. 

When I found my current doctor, I was suffering from this pretty acutely.  Thankfully, this was an easy one for him to pin down and immediately started me on meds to help calm my mind.  I do not advocate going on medications for every little thing, but there are times when they are necessary.  Sometimes it is a short term thing sometimes it is a long term one, which ever it is- its ok.

People should not feel stigmatized because they are sick.  Whether the sick is a brain thing or a kidney thing or whatever.  It is no ones fault.  Sick is just sick- and sick people need care- not judgement. So I will be very open about my experiences- maybe so others will not feel stigmatized or alone.

When I started the meds and they started working, it was like my head was quieter.  My brain and thoughts slowed to what must be a normal speed. It was amazing to feel that.  Is this what normal people feel like all the time?  I could sit still, I didn't twitch.  I could sleep.  It was like someone stopped pressing fast forward in my head.

Now, especially during stressful times I have break through anxiety and I need to tweak my meds and work on meditation a bit more but now more than ever I don't feel a fight or flight response when the doorbell rings.

Pole Dancing

Did you think I would stay away? NEVER.

My wrist still hurts a bit, and I have had to learn to not put too much stress on it, I also have had to adjust the tricks I can do to respect my wrists limitations- it is frustrating because I am used to being able to will my body to do what I want it to do.  I could always work hard enough and push hard enough I would be able to get my body, or brain, or whatever to bend to my will.

(me stubborn?? NEVER)

But now I have learned and am continuing to learn I need to respect my wrist's boundaries.  Its a process.  I have to regain my strength and flexibility.

I have gotten my Ayesha, pencil, brass monkey, pole sit back.  I and working on my cartwheel balance- I just need time to work on it- stopping when upside down is a challenge and supporting your body on your arms- away from your body.

Last night after a lot of practice I got my Dove back.  Next up- Superman fall.  

I have had a lot of questions about why I keep coming back-- or how.

Here's the thing.  Pole dancing is mine. My time. My thing. I love it.  I am proud of my body.  Even if I never lose another pound or always have some jiggle. My body is pretty amazing.  It has come through hell. Sickness. Injury. Childbirth. And yet. Is pretty great.  That feeling.  That feeling of accomplishment is why I come back.

Feeling connected to myself.  Feeling proud of myself.  Feeling happy. That is why I come back.
I would love to be able to share my absolute passion with other women.  This is one reason I am so proud to be an Ambassador for Tease. 

Its the 2 step!

One forward, backwards. sideways, throw in a few front-rolls, maybe some back-rolls for fun....

It is the Eating Disorder Dance. Some days are better than others, some days I feel trapped in my mirror looking at things that are growing in ways I do not want them to grow.

Then I forget to eat. Not hungry. What? Food? Who needs it--- why am I shaking?
Eat. Panic. Sweat. Real anxiety over eating.

Then the culmination. I weigh myself. I never weigh myself. Ever. I consciously avoid knowing my weight. It becomes and obsession. When I obsess over that number I become a mathematician of caloric content.

After a few weeks of backstepping, I am coming out of it again. Remembering. It really is a coping mechanism. Get overwhelmed? Compensate with food.