Aug3

We all have that one friend (or two…or three…) who comes to us for support or advice, but doesn’t like what we have to say because it’s not what they want to hear. This is for them.

Dear You,

If I didn’t care so much about you, we’d be getting along soooooooooo much better right now. I wouldn’t ask the hard questions. I wouldn’t challenge you to open your mind to other points of view. I wouldn’t disagree. I wouldn’t push you to examine your choices. I’d just nod my head, commiserate, and feed you handfuls of sympathy while we ate chocolate chip cookies. Then I’d go about my merry life, and we’d repeat the pity party every month or 3 months or whatever. Lucky for you, though, you’ve got other people for that. You call them the friends that understand you, that don’t judge you, that are supportive of you no matter what. I call them enablers.

But, whatever. Po TAY toe, po TAH toe.

Just for the record, I choose these difficult, painful, awkward conversations with you because I want you to be happy. You’re not happy right now, or we wouldn’t be having this chat. Remember six months ago, when we went through this subject the first time? We hashed it out, and I kept throwing out options, and you kept saying “I can’t”. Remember? Yeah, you remember.

First, let’s clarify what it means when you say, “I can’t”. Hint: It’s rarely, truly “I can’t”.

“I can’t” means “I’m afraid of failing”

“I can’t” means “It’s scary”

“I can’t” means “It’s too hard”

“I can’t” means “I don’t think I’m strong enough”

“I can’t” means “I don’t know how”

“I can’t” means “I don’t want to”

“I can’t” means “I’ve kind of gotten comfortable in this mess”

And, yes, sometimes “I can’t”, even from you, means “I’d rather have sympathy than a solution”.

Put your dander back down….it’s true, you know it, I know it, and we’ve all taken the same stance at some point or another. Sometimes sympathy makes a pretty comforting blanket. I get that. Just remember, if you stay wrapped up in a blanket for too long, it starts to stink.

When you don’t want to think about it anymore, or debate the issues any longer, or get tired of saying “I can’t”, just be honest (at least with yourself) and say “this isn’t making me feel better, and I want to stop this conversation”.

Or, tell me you don’t want to think right now, you just want to vent. I’m cool with venting. It’s one of my favorite past times.

But when you get tired of me pointing out the differences between “can’t” and “won’t”, and you pull out the big conversation stopper: the uber condescending “You don’t understand”…. this pisses me off, my friend.

I understand, I just don’t agree.

I understand, I just don’t accept your excuse.

Don’t try to convince me that your life is so horrendously unfair, your situation so dire, your burdens so crushing that they’re beyond my comprehension. Don’t act like I’ve had some sort of charmed life that I’ve just skipped right through; that my path was without pitfalls or detours or painstaking decisions or effort. As a matter of fact, don’t even assume that my path was visible at first; I bushwhacked that sonofabitch.

When you start on me with the “Yes, but YOU can handle things like this” or “I’m not like you” or “It’s not as easy for me as it is for you”, I want to grab you by the back of the neck and slam your face into a brick wall. Sue me for taking tough love to a new level.

How dare you think that somehow I just *poof* was born with the mechanism to cope with crap.

I don’t understand? Seriously?

I don’t understand? I had a mother that regularly reminded me that she wished I’d never been born.

I don’t understand? When I was 6 and wanted to play with the other kids in my new neighborhood, one of them told me that they weren’t allowed to play with me because my family was “a bunch of nigger lovers”. I didn’t even know what that meant, I’m not even sure THEY knew what it meant, but I sure understood the ugliness that was dripping from it. (Peter Dodson, wherever you are, you made an indelible mark on me….and Tony Scalise, wherever you are, weeks after that, when Peter started throwing rocks at me while calling me that name, and the other kids laughed, your choice to go punch him in the face then invite me to ride bikes with you left an indelible mark on me as well.)

I don’t understand? When I was 19, a new mother to a little baby Amanda, I regained consciousness as I was going into a CAT scan, just to see my brother, a priest, giving me Last Rites. I asked him if I was going to die; he patted my head and told me to not be afraid. (Note: this answer to that question guarantees that you will, indeed, be afraid.)

I don’t understand? I’ve sat in my kitchen, having not eaten for days, and figured out how to feed 3 children with what was left in the pantry and refrigerator until the next payday came…and that’s while I was working 2 jobs.

I don’t understand? 16 year old me sat in a court room and pointed out a rapist to a jury while he glared and I held back vomit.

I don’t understand? I’ve sat shamefully in an Emergency Room, bloody, swollen and with broken bones in my face, while lying to a police officer, a nurse, and a doctor about how I fell down a flight of stairs, swearing that my boyfriend outside the room had nothing to do with it. None of them believed me. I repeated that award winning performance the next day at my job, and they didn’t believe me either.

I don’t understand? My life has been assaulted with death, divorce, infidelity, fear, poverty, alcoholism, rejection, failure, depression, and hatred. Some of those things through no fault of my own, but many as a result of my own choices.

Through it all, I had friends who commiserated with me. They listened to me cry, and brought me wine, hated the people I blamed for everything, and let it all be someone else’s fault. They had my back, and I had theirs. Oddly enough (or not), they were often in the same messes I was in. I was an expert in Pity Parties.

Thank God, I had other friends. The ones who listened to me cry, brought me wine, then forced me to figure out why these things were happening. They had the hard conversations, and got back in my face when I started the litany of “I can’t” responses. They pushed me. They believed in me. They reminded me that I deserved a better life than what I was giving myself.

Once I stopped being a victim, I promised I would be that kind of friend when the situation called for it. That’s what I try to be for you. Honestly, I will lose our relationship before I become one of the people that just watches you self-destruct. I will always listen to you. I will always have time for you. I will keep having those painful, awkward conversations. I will cheer you on while you fight through your challenges, and I will get in your face when you’re indulging your demons.

Because you’re worth fighting with….fighting for…..and fighting over.

Jul24

Why Some of Me is Never Coming Back

Posted on July 24, 2015 by Karma Farmer

I love having this little space to write in. Even if no one ever read a word of it, I would still write. It’s my place to ponder, rant, purge, verbally regurgitate, and pontificate. It gives me a window into my own history, a walk down memory lane, a recall button for emotions and events.

So why have I been missing? It’s not because I haven’t had anything in my head. My head is its usual cauldron of mental pot luck, chock full of everything from heart squeezing poignant moments, to exquisite frames of amusement, to guilt inducing rage-fueled fantasies of throat punches. You know those people who are emotionally flat? Yeah, I’m the opposite of that.

But I couldn’t write. Not coherently, anyway. And while I’m usually ok with just rambling down whatever path my keyboard takes, this was a different kind of jumbled. I’ve really only been able to focus on one thing: me.

I had to burn some vacation days between Christmas and New Years, and since my husband was in Canada (THAT’S a whole ‘nother blog topic), I got bored. I was cruising YouTube, and I watched a video documentary called FatHead. I’m not sure how I learned about it, but knowing that it was done by a comedian (Tom Naughton), and that it was a response to Morgan Spurlock’s shamelessly inaccurate Supersize Me gave me two reasons to sit back and click PLAY. So I did. I wasn’t disappointed: it was funny, and it made Spurlock look like a fool. But there was more to it. It made sense. I watched it again. And a 3rd time, because I figured that I’m kind of dense at times and really wanted to make sure I wasn’t missing something.

You can click the link below if you want to watch it.

FatHead The Documentary

Then I cried. For something like 3 days, give or take. Because, you see, weight is an issue for me. I could go with the common “I struggle with my weight” cliché, but that is entirely inaccurate. I surrender to my addiction to food. The referee already counted to 10. TKO, weight wins.

I eat to manage stress, and to celebrate, and to soothe. I justify that as acceptable because, you know, abusing food isn’t a big deal. I don’t drown my troubles in alcohol, I don’t use drugs, I don’t shop til I drop. I eat. Nothing comforts me more than a chocolate bar….or queso and chips…..or cheesecake…..or onion rings…..or hot bread out of the oven, slathered in butter. I love to share my addiction, too. For those I love, there are always big feasts full of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, French silk pie, or Mexican extravaganzas. “I love you… I made you a lasagna.” I’ve actually spoken those words to my middle child.

Just to clarify: if you allow food to be your security blanket and your demonstration of affection, you get fat. A little at a time. My clothing sizes eek up ever so slowly. Then I “diet” by eating salads with low fat dressing and low fat yogurt and boneless, skinless, flavorless chicken breasts with a baked potato with fat free sour cream. And I lose 2 lbs. in a week, but I’m starving. Then something triggers me, and I find myself eating an entire bag of Doritos or a hamburger and fries and I panic. My loved ones tell me that it’s ok, because they don’t want to see me upset. My husband brings me a candy bar because I’ve done really well and it’s ok to take a break for a minute. One Heath bar isn’t going to ruin my life.

The 2 lbs. not only comes back, but it made a 1/2 lb. baby while it was gone and brings it back, too… and my next pair of jeans is one size larger. Probably only because they’re “cut differently”, or because I want them a “little looser” in case they shrink when I wash them.. Whatever makes me feel better. I stop buying clothes I like, and start buying clothes that hide. I see photos from a recent birthday party and can’t believe that’s me in that picture. Eating cake. I go back to that salad and low fat dressing, and the cycle continues.

So, anyway, after practically memorizing FatHead, I started doing some additional research. I read, and read, and read some more. I verified. Then I pulled up the recently taken Christmas pictures, and looked at myself. Really looked. Cried some more. Dusted my bruised little self esteem off and said “ENOUGH”. So, I’ve been on a bit of a mission to concentrate on myself and my dysfunctional food relationship. (I actually just sang that in my head, to the tune of “Me and My Shadow”, and it doesn’t work at all.)

It’s so intense, that I can’t really concentrate on anything else besides the necessities: family and work. So, that’s why I’ve been missing.

“How much weight have you lost?” I get this question regularly. Here is my answer.

I’ve lost this much fat.

I’ve lost the equivalent of the world’s largest domestic cat.

I’ve lost this crate of grapefruit.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

I’ve lost this pile of leaves.

I’ve lost an average Wheaton Terrier.

I’ve lost this big fish.

I’ve lost this great big bag of dog food.

I’ve lost an entire 4 year old granddaughter. (That’s Allison…my real 4 year old granddaughter.)

And that’s not all.

I’ve lost the stigma of identifying myself as “fat”. I am not fat; I *have* fat, and I’m losing it. I’ve lost my confusion over how food works in my body. I’ve lost my shame in my shape. I’ve lost my urge to camouflage my size with oversize blouses and accessories. I’ve lost my fear of failing at this epic battle of Woman vs. Food.

I’ve lost the woman on the left, and I hope I never see her again. I’m still creating the woman on the right.

Jun1

If A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words…

Posted on June 1, 2015 by Karma Farmer

If A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words…

…then this post will save me a rant.

Parents, I feel for you. I really do. On the one hand, you want to provide your child with every advantage. On the other hand, sometimes it feels like when you do that, you’re feeding quite an unhealthy beast.

More than any other generation, today’s youth feels as though they have a right to things that used to be defined as wants, or even privileges. It’s all about gratification (the more immediate, the better!) and comfort.

Buck up, parents. Build character, not a video gaming collection. Teach them to be picky about their standards, not their food. Reward hard work rather than be held hostage by temper tantrums. Strive for excellence, not ease.

How about some reality?