…you woke up one day and realized, you were lost? Would you know how you got there? Would you know what to do or where to go? Journey with me as I walk through the steps of self-actualization in an effort to recover a bit of my former self and forge the new me. This…should...be…interesting.
It was 1994 and my next door neighbor came over to pick apples from my small orchard. I could tell there was something on her mind. It was only a matter of time before it came out.
And now, not quite two decades later and I’m still haunting the halls of my home but this time from an entirely different part of the state and an entirely different life. I seem to have a knack for getting lost either in the past or the future. And now thanks to having watched Return of the Jedi one too many times, I now have Yoda talking to me at exactly 1:13 am.
Yoda: “All his life has he looked away… to the future, to the horizon. Never his mind on where he was.” Yup, that’d be me. Either always looking back or looking forward. And ya know, this would be so much easier if I weren’t such an attached mother. I never thought I’d be like this. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I love that Dolly, Buddy and Bubba are all grown up and doing well on their own. At 26, 24 and 20 years of age they better be or I didn’t do a very good job in raising them. But do they have to live so far away? Okay, I’ll be fair. I’m the one who moved away.
It was either that or miss out on marrying the love of my life. Fifteen and a half months ago I took a leap of faith. A most startling one. I married and moved 4.5 hours away from two of my children and 6.5 hours away from the other. I know there are worse things and far worse distances but you just don’t get it. These kids are my life. And the funny thing is (well funny as in odd not really humorous) at the age of 18 I didn’t want to have kids. I thought I’d be a wretched mother. Yet from the moment my Dolly was born, I was hooked. The thing is: it takes my breath away that she actually grew up. Remember those days when you wondered if your kids would ever grow up? Well, they do and so fast (oh how I hated it when my mother said, “Don’t blink or they’ll be grown and gone”). I just want to know how she went from this (left to right) to this:
My baby doll
Isn’t she just amazing!? She’s loving, talented, funny and so devoted. There isn’t anything she wouldn’t do for me. I wish I had the time to scan and upload all the notes she’s left me over the years. The cards, the slips of paper left on my pillow, and the wonderful text messages that she sends are all a part of who she is.
Grown up Dolly
She’s bounced back from some very hard times and proven she’s tougher than steel. And you know what the best thing about her is? She’s the best part of me. Now don’t laugh at me…I know it’s egotistical and all but I’m just so grateful she didn’t pick up the worst part of me. (well, not that I can see anyway) To me, she’s about as perfect as they come. Ambitious too.
I remember when she was about six years old, we had quite a few fruit trees in the back of our home. She went out and picked the apricots and then set about making a sign to put out front so she could sell them. There she sat hour after hour with her folding chair, table and sign. Recently while visiting her, she told me how she remembered that day and when people didn’t stop I went out and painted a bit more legible sign for her and she managed to have success then.
We’ve always been like that, my Dolly and me. We work well as a team and I can tell you there’s no end to my pride in the fact that she’s working at the company I started with her dad. She’s got business and success in her blood.
Probably one of my most favorite moments is watching her dance. It always takes me back to when she was 3 and I had dressed her up in a very pretty blue satin dressed and she kept twirling and twirling and saying “Look at me Mommy, it sparkles.”
And then there’s Buddy. Oh my gosh, my beautiful brown-eyed boy. You know what? He grew up too. Have a look:
6 months old and stole my heart
Hard to believe that just yesterday, I had all the answers to his problems and now, more often than not he has answers for mine. (sure he does! Just ask him!) But he wouldn’t be my Buddy if he didn’t do his best to make his mom happy no matter what the situation is. It seems like yesterday we were sitting on the back staircase of our 100 year old Victorian home having a chat. I believe he was about 9 at the time. We agreed to meet there every day after school so he could talk to me about how it went. I was separated from his dad at the time and things were a bit rough for all of us. I asked him how his day went and he said it was good.
Grown up
Then in Buddy fashion he said while holding his hands open: “So Mom,” He opened his arms to me, ” How are things going for you?” And then there was that time when I had started to date after the divorce and I asked him if he minded if I had a boyfriend. His response after a thoughtful moment: “No, just don’t take us to the same restaurants.” I’m telling you, never a dull moment with a 9 year old going on 30.
The time flies and here I am still lost in the past. I know, it’s a totally empty nester thing to do and as soon as I’m done showing you my youngest, I promise I’ll try to come to a conclusion about what’s going on with me but right now– I just can’t help myself.
I’ve always said that Dolly was the yellow in my day. Just being around her was having the sunlight on my face. Buddy, he’s always been that quiet warmth in my day. You know, the magical hug kind of boy. Now Bubba, he’s the laughter in my day. Right from the beginning. I have to admit, there’s nothing like your youngest. I’m quite certain you know what I’m talking about (or maybe not). But, I’m talking about my Bubba. One of the most fun kids on the planet. He’s genuinely funny. He loves to make people laugh and if he can’t make you laugh, well– he’ll get out his guitar and play until all the worries and sorrows just fall away. Here’s my baby:
Baby Bubba
Bubba’s always been an amiable boy. Liked by the kids at school and pretty much anyone he comes into contact with. He goes the extra mile for his friends and this last Christmas, when I phoned him all teary-eyed because I missed him so much (last year I didn’t get him for one holiday), he drove 4.5 hours to get here just to spend Christmas Eve (arrived at 9 pm) and Christmas morning (and left at 10 am) and drove another 4.5 hours home. Which means he spent 9 hours driving only to spend about 7 waking hours with me.
You’d think that being a single mom would have been hard but somehow, we managed to make our own routine. Like the time when he talked me into going across three state lines just so we could play lotto. It took us three hours to get there, we hung out for about an hour and three hours to get back and the entire way there and back all we did was talk about how we were going to spend that money when we won the whole thing. He talked about how he was going to give 1 million dollars each to his brother, sister and his dad and he and I’d get 1.5 each and about how much easier life would be for all of us. Most people would be figuring on how they were going to spend it (or not) on themselves and leave others out of the equation but not my Bubba. His heart is as big as all outdoors
Bubba G.
He’s got dreams, my Bubba and I know that one day, he’s going to reach them. Just like his big sister and brother. I know I said it earlier but I’ll restate: My kids are the best part of me. They are the joy in my life and I can promise you that there’s only ONE thing that could have gotten me to move so far away from them and that’s my Greg.
If you can imagine the kindest soul on the planet, that’d be my Greg. I never tire of his company and he makes me laugh in spite of myself. I would go to the ends of the earth for this man and let me tell you, some days, it feels like I have. (see Lost in Resolution)
my Greg
There’s not a selfish bone in his body and there isn’t anything he wouldn’t or doesn’t do for me. We’ve both seen hard times and its amazing the conviction we have to letting that all slip behind us and attempt to live in the present. Except for me of course, when I’m having one of my crying jags about how much I miss my kids. To which my darling husband says, “We’ll see them soon, I promise.” And he keeps his word. The way he loves and cares about my children is something I have no words to describe. I wish I was more like him and I endeavor to be so every day.
So now that I’ve gone on and on and yes ON, I think I’ll head for bed. That is until the next time I’ve found myself lost again for some reason or another but for now, I feel a bit more grounded and although I’m still overly emotional about my kids growing up and all that, I’ve got one thing on my side: all three of them have cars and they KNOW how to drive. (hint hint)
my year
Oh no! Not another blog post about New Year resolutions!
Not to worry, this is about a tradition and my implementation of it. And maybe……..you’ll join me. My newlywed husband (he’s a keeper) told me of a family tradition that his mother taught them. It is simply; that what you do on New Years Day is what you’ll be doing all year, so eat good (including deserts) do what you enjoy doing with people you like and kick up your feet and relax (as explained by my sister-in-law, Coralie) . You see, New Year’s doesn’t have to always be about making resolutions (although we should resolve to do better each year about those things that matter to us) but it just might be about being committed to living what we want in our lives and enjoying that all year-long.
This year, 2012; that spectacular year in which the Mayan calendar, is supposed to end, I’m going to focus on me and remember what’s important to me. How selfish of me, right?
Maybe, but then again, maybe not. It seems like my entire life I’ve devoted myself to making others happy and while that might sound like the typical trite whining of “woes me” it happens to be true. My happiness depended on everyone around me being okay. I’m a problem solver. Give me a problem and *snap of a finger* it’s fixed. Oh, I guess that makes me a fixer too.
None of this is anyone’s fault but my own. I could go on about how I became co-dependent in my mother’s house (discovered this in 1998 when I read Melody Beattie’s books, Codependent No more and Beyond Codependency) but, the fact is, I know better now. I’ve known better since 1998 when I finished those two books and yet, here I am still trying to make everyone happy so I can be happy that I made them happy.
Yes that’s me. The all-powerful Kim, capable of leaping loads of laundry with a single bound, chief cook and bottle washer (nobody does it better—HEY did you just hear Bond music or was that just me?), great listener, best advice giver, queen of the rag quilt, mediator, broadest shoulders to lean on, consummate smoother-overer with mega endurance on little to no sleep. And those are just a few of the expectations I’ve assigned myself. Including feeling guilt ridden when things don’t work out for someone else the way they expect or want it too. I should be able to fix anything and somehow by golly I’ll get the job done.
In the past I became very adept at “pulling a rabbit out of my hat” to save the day but lately, the rabbits have become might scarce. As my children are now grown and living so far away from me, I can’t just give out my magical hugs (I have it on good authority they are indeed magic) and fix things. And to be honest, they’ve let me know in quite blunt terms that they can handle their own problems for the most part. My husband, with the exception of cooking (though when he does its fabulous) is quite capable of taking care of himself.
It appears that I spent a good portion of 2011 worrying about things I really didn’t need to. Or so it would seem. I’ve known better for some time (since 1998) that I needed to focus on me. Four years ago, my beautiful daughter said to me, “Mom, you’re so good at helping everyone else, when are you going to take care of you?” About two months ago while recovering from a total abdominal hysterectomy I was watching Oprah’s Life Class when I heard her say the words, “When we know better, we do better.” Although inspiring the words hit so close to home they stung. I’ve also been watching Dr. Oz and his continual efforts to transform (Transformation Nation Million Dollar You) our country’s health problems and I have to say, “Alright already, I get it, I get it! I’m important.”
In light of this new perspective and given my mother-in-laws wonderful tradition, I’m committed (no I’m not writing this from the state mental institution) to making this MY year. I started this morning. Here’s how the day started:
I languished in bed with hubby (yes, we slept in, it’s a holiday!), looked at facebook, played angry birds (Oh my gosh can you say addicted?) and enjoyed the slower pace.
After we got up, I toasted some left over homemade blueberry waffles for my sweetheart and then made my breakfast (gluten-free). Sometimes I just skip breakfast (don’t start) but in the decision to do what’s important to me, look at what I had:
Total Yum
Scrambled eggs: 2 large (hormone and antibiotic free, they only cost .02 more per egg) eggs beaten, previously cooked and drained ground sausage, a little cheddar cheese (and I do mean little).
1/2 orange (I am reintroducing citrus into my diet to see if I can tolerate the acids.
16 ounces of water
supplements: chewable calcium and vitamin D, milk thistle (for my liver now that I have no gall bladder), potassium, anti-oxidant, cranberry supplement for urinary function, B-12 and iodide (I use sea salt which doesn’t contain iodide).
So that’s breakfast, I’ll be winging my dietary habits as I’ve always obsessed over them so for now, it’s just eating good clean foods. I cook from scratch and while it takes a bit longer, I’m happy to eat at home.
For Christmas, my love gave me a pedometer. I love it! It helps me to step it up on a daily routine. I’m used to my treadmill but I can’t always take an hour break to walk three miles so now, I get up from my computer and walk around the house a few times. It’s amazing.
This year, I am going to be outside more. I want the sunlight. I’m hoping if I get up and go out in the early hours when the sun is up that my insomnia will go away. I’ve heard that simply doing that much can change your complete sleeping schedule. Let’s hope that’s the truth.
As of today, no more complaining about finishing my degree. I love learning. And yeah, it’s freaking hard but that doesn’t make me love it less. I’m finishing it.
I’m a writer. So that’s what I’m going to do every day. WRITE. Maybe it will only be in this blog at first but I have several projects in the works. One that started in May of 1996 and even if it never graces the eyes of a publishing house, I will have finished something I started. (Okay so I’ve got a finished novel that needs editing but this story needs to be completed)
For now, that’s it. Eating and sleeping the way I want, being more active out-of-doors, studies and writing. Of course it goes without saying that I’ll still probably obsess over my loved ones and I’ll spend as much time as I can with them when I can BUT, this year…I’m spending time with me. 
Inspired by several friends who have been making great strides this last year in regards to their health and after watching many episodes of Dr.OZ; I asked for a pedometer for Christmas. It’s been perhaps one of the most valuable gifts I’ve gotten in a long time. I began my adventure into being more active the 26th. My results were illuminating. I managed to get in 1 mile without much effort. However, that wasn’t good enough. At least not for me. So today I developed a new plan.
Upon rising I immediately clipped my pedometer to my pajama pants. That’s right, I had fun lounging around today in my pjs but that doesn’t mean I didn’t get things done. Oh, I was impressed enough about how easy it was to get 1000 steps but then I had an idea. I set the timer on my oven (no this idea isn’t half baked) so that every sixty minutes I would get up from my desk and walk around the house.
To my pleasant surprise, hubby got up and walked with me. We even grabbed some light weights and swung our arms as we walked for a better work out. At one point in the track we formed from room to room we stopped and did some light weight lifting and then carried on our way. By the time the clock struck 6 pm I had walked 2 miles just by getting up every hour or when I got a phone call and walked my little track through the office to the dinning room and kitchen and on through to our bedroom and back in a sorta wobbly figure 8.
It was fun and easily accomplished. I believe it was done with so much ease because the counting of my steps actually motivated me to do more and do better.
I have goals…many of them. In addition to walking my way to fitness I’m implementing Dr.Oz’s 7-day Belly Workout. The routines look easy enough to do. Heck I even remember some of them from my youth. So here’s to me and you…getting fit and stronger in 2012
Today, I want to engage you in a conversation about cliche.
I’m not talking about those dreary writing cliches but rather those tidy little things we say to one another when we either don’t know what to say to someone or frankly [Scarlett] we just don’t give a damn. Let’s be truthful shall we? Since when do any of the following cliches really make a difference:
Those are just a few off the top of my head. Let’s take a closer look, shall we?
1. What doesn’t kill you will make you stronger?
So prove that to me because from where I stand, that’s faulty logic. If something doesn’t kill us it’s because it doesn’t have the power to do so. If it did…let’s face it..it would. Just because we aren’t dead doesn’t mean that by default we are stronger for surviving. It means we aren’t dead. Oh…I know…you are thinking but we can CHOOSE to be stronger for our difficulties that don’t end our life. Okay, maybe that’s true. That’s a reasonable approach to take and yet, how many times have you or someone you know said that to a loved one or friend who was struggling and you had no idea what to say to them? And rather than take time out to help them through the process of finding an actual answer you dismissed them with a trite little diddy in the hopes of escaping more conversation that didn’t concern you.
2. You can get through this, you’re a survivor.
Alright, I’ve survived but what you aren’t addressing is this: Am I thriving? Life shouldn’t just be about survival though it most certainly is a part of getting through all the bumps and rocky places we trudge through. Living is more than survival. It’s about joy, fulfillment, self-actualization, love, learning and growth. Again, how is telling me that I’m a survivor helping me?
3. You need to understand that they are mean to you because they are jealous of you.
Sure, many times this is true. But then, sometimes people are mean because we aren’t so nice to them. And sometimes they are mean because they are mean and they like being mean. And since when do we need to understand why someone is mean to us as if that excuses their bad behavior? I recently had an interview with a man whom I respect. He wanted me to understand why someone had been so cruel and aggressive towards me. He asked me to understand them for my own sake and to forgive them. I wanted to shout at him (I didn’t, you can be proud of me, my children). After all, I don’t go around lashing out at others in an effort to feel better about myself. Instead, I asked him why the suffering of someone else was more important than my own? Understanding that the person is jealous, petty and down right malicious because of their own bad choices doesn’t make me feel sorry for them. In fact, I think they need to suffer the consequences of their actions and if I, do as others and give them a pass because they are “suffering”, then I’m enabling them in their bad behavior and only encouraging them to do it some more.
4. Be the bigger person.
Well, given the difficulty with my weight, I’m already that but I’m quite certain that’s not what people are referring to. This is meant to mean, that even in the face of abject hatred and 
aggression, I’m to extend a hand of friendship to my enemy. Let me just ask: Would we tell someone who has been stabbed by another person, “It’s okay, you go hang out with them and befriend them. Don’t mind the repeated stabbings, they just have issues.” Now…now don’t tell me it’s not the same thing. Because it soooo freaking is! We wouldn’t dream of putting ourselves in harms way by walking out into the middle of rush hour traffic but for the sake of societal customs we expect ourselves and others to “turn the other cheek”. I don’t know about you, but I’m sick of being slapped.
5. We all need to have a sense of humor (even when grossly offensive things are said).
And we’ve come full circle again. I realize that in today’s age, sometimes we can be a little too PC (Politically Correct is yet another cliche…and no don’t get me started). I agree, we can be oversensitive at times. YET, I don’t think that’s a bad thing and here’s why: It helps to keep the socially backward in check and remind us that people have feelings. People like me (yes me) who don’t think it’s funny when a university professor spouts off in class by saying, “I think all fat people should be put in the cargo hold.” Really? (Excuse me, do you mind being on hold while I phone my attorney to see if that’s actionable and let’s see how much of a sense of humor you, my learned professor and certain of my fellow students are expelled for your offensive discussions)
6. God will never give you more than you can handle.
Are they God? Obviously we all know that they are not. It’s not God who is being obnoxious, insensitive, cruel, maniacal, manipulative, menacing, and down right vicious. God has nothing to do with those actions. No my cupcakes, that’s us. We are the ones who need to own up to the things we do to other people and stop trying to pass them off as “Life’s trials”.
7. You need to see things from the other person’s perspective.
Oh yeah? Who says? They? Well let me tell you a little bit about what I’ve learned from “they”. They don’t care if I see things from their perspective because they aren’t interested in me understanding them. They are only interested in them (another form of they). I once had a therapist (yes, I’ve gotten help) who told me that 95% of what we spend our day thinking about is ourselves and 5% about others. I’ll tell you what, that opened my mind to a lot of possibilities. In particular when he also added “So what they say and do isn’t really about you, but all about them.”
Or is that yet just another cliche?I think I’ve probably given you enough to contemplate for today but let me part with this simple message:
STOP FREAKING PLACATING OTHERS.
If you really care (I know some of us really do) then put down your digital device and listen to them and at the end of it all, if all you can say is, “I’m sorry I don’t know what to say to help but I care and I’ll listen to you when ever you need me to and by the way, here’s a magic hug (my kids and hubby give the best ones), well then, at least you were HONEST about it.
Learn, really learn that giving out platitudes shows how LITTLE we care and reveals a side of us we probably don’t want to be seen.
Moments like this are rare, far and few between when I find the courage to talk about what it really means to be me. Not what it means to be a mother, sister, daughter, and wife but just me. Living in my skin, walking day to day and finding the strength to view the past and then let go. That’s what this post is about. Today, I openly share what I’ve only hinted at in the past.
Some of you may or may not know of my aversion to cameras and mirrors. I’ve watched as it’s been confusing and difficult for family and friends to understand my blatant refusal to be photographed in recent years. I watch with envy as others without hesitation stand in a group photo or even a snapshot of a moment. My worst enemy has been my mirror. I approach it every day with trepidation wondering what horrors it will show me.
My friends and loved ones insist that I’m beautiful. To that I can only say, humbly, thank you. Forgive me if I don’t believe you. The truth is…I don’t know what you see. Ever since I can remember I’ve had difficulty with seeing photos of myself or looking in the mirror. Literally…what you see, I do not see. I see someone whose features are twisted like that of a mirror in a fun house and someone who weighs over 300 pounds. The frightening thing is, I’ve had no accidents or incidents to cause disfigurement and I don’t weigh anything close to the images in my mind. In recent years the more anxious and difficult my life is, the worse it gets.
For me each day begins with a game not dis-similar to Russian Roulette. What will Kim see today? Will I notice my post-menopausal tummy or will I see someone who is slimming down…slowly but surely? When I look in my bathroom mirror will I notice the hyper-pigmentation spots on my right cheek and the enlarged pores on my nose or I will I notice the rich brown color of my eyes and the naturally graceful curve of my eyebrows? How about the roots of my hair? Is my hair getting thinner? How bad are the fine lines forming around my eyes? Do my ears and nose stick out today as overly large or will I see them as my husband does? Do my teeth slope inward too much? Are they too yellow? Where’s my whitener? Will I smile and think how my face lights up when I do or will I think it makes my cheeks look too fat? Are my lips receding as I get older? Are my clothes doing their job of hiding my excess weight and if so, are they frumpy? Why do I have to have such muscular legs? Why can’t I have bigger hips and a smaller waist? What’s happening to my bust? Does my bra show? Are my breasts too big or too small? Was the breast reduction enough? Do I need to have implants to keep them perky? Do I feel acceptable enough to attend that activity with friends or family tonight? Will they hate me because I’m fat? Will I be listened to or dismissed because they are all thin and I’m not? Throughout the day I constantly check my hips and stomach and the padding under my arms to see if they are smaller or bigger that day. And there are times when I don’t have the nerve to face the world and tumble into anxiety or panic attacks when forced to attend events I feel insecure about.
Welcome to Body Dismorphic Disorder. You may have heard of it. It’s the same disorder that Michael Jackson suffered from. As my son explained to me, it goes along a spectrum. From mild to severe. I’m fortunate that it isn’t anywhere near as severe as Michael Jackson. It’s probably a good thing I loathe and fear surgery. However, in 1997 and 1999 I did elect to have two procedures to correct what I felt were hideous defects in my appearance (Upper eyelids tucked and a breast reduction).
I wish I could tell you this started back in 1989 when I was diagnosed with Anorexia Nervosa. Or when I was diagnosed in 1999 with Anorexia Athletica but I’ve come to understand that it started back when I was 8 years old.
The day it began is forever burned in my memory. I was at the pool with my father, step-mother, and two brothers. My father kept repeating to me how I was chubby. He poked fun at me repeatedly. In fairness I remember my step-mother scolding him but that didn’t stop him. Every time he came to visit or each summer vacation when I went to visit him, he would harp on me about my wei
ght. For his obsessive behavior, you’d think I actually was a chubby little girl, adolescent and teen. I wasn’t. His words were so powerful and it allowed my brothers to do what most brothers do and that was to torment me and reinforce his neurosis by calling me fatty the entire time I grew up.
And so….I tumbled into the abyss, lost in my father’s obsession.
Please indulge me while I show you some photographs. (I couldn’t find the swimming pool one, I swear I had one but the first photos I could find start at age 10. (to the left, I was so proud)
At age 12, I was already 5’3″ tall, had 
measurements of 34-24-34, I wore a B size cup and I weighed, (wait for it, it’s shocking) a whopping 105 pounds! According to a doctor’s chart I was 10 pounds underweight. Do you think my father could see that? No. He lectured me on how I wore the same size clothing as my step-mother, who at the time weighed 115 pounds. He reasoned that I was only 12 and not allowed to have matured so quickly, therefore, I was fat.
It didn’t help that my “best friends” had fathers and brothers who made remarks about their prematurely developed friend. One father complained when my friend got her first bra saying she might as well use a band-aid for her mosquito-bite sized breasts and how she wasn’t as developed as I was. In defense my friends resorted to mocking and viciousness, claiming they’d have boobs too if they were fat like me. In my seventh grade photo to the right, do I look fat to you? Yeah, I don’t th
ink so either. Not NOW anyway.
In the black and white photo on the left I’m 13 years old and according to my father, chubby. In the one below (ya gotta love photos from the 70′s they turn pink over the years) I’m 14, don’t ask me how much I weighed, I didn’t care.
The summer I turned 15, I arrived in New York to spend a month with my father and was immediately put on a diet. I had stretched to 5″5 and I weighed in at 144 “You’re obese.” he said. “Look at your arms, they are as big as one of my thighs.”
My weight was posted on the refrigerator for everyone to see and I was forced to weigh in front of him every morning. At night when the family was having dessert, when I’d ask if I could have some too, I’d be told, “No, you can’t have any because you are fat.” I dropped to 124 pounds over two months and when I left to go home to South Dakota his parting words to me were, “Don’t forget, you still have to lose another 9 pounds.”
Every phone call from then on started out with, “Hi, How are you? How’s your weight?” By my junior year in high school whenever my mother said my dad was on the phone, I’d break out into a sweat and get sick to my stomach waiting for it to be my turn to talk with him.
The photo on the left is my 10th grade school picture and the one to the right of it is my 11th grade year. By the 11th grade year I’d rose to an unacceptable weight of 136 pounds and I stayed there through my senior year. At 5.5″ tall, I’d say that’s pretty damn good.
But tell that to a 17 year old girl who is facing the world with her father’s words echoing in her mind, “You’re fat, you’ll always be fat.”
Did they really think that reverse psychology was such a great thing back in those days? Isn’t that just mean and manipulative?
Where my father left off at, my first husband
picked up, complaining about my 148 pounds (5’5.5″) on our wedding day. He repeated to me, my father’s words upon seeing our wedding photos that day. “You’re so beautiful, if you just lost another 25 pounds, you’d be Hollywood beautiful.”
Pardon me while the 53 year old in me gapes at the photo of me on the left (with my mom who looked fabulous, btw) and say, “Excuse me, mr-exhusband, but Hollywood has NOTHING on that 25 year old bride. Then again, at the time, when I saw my wedding photos I cried, thinking I looked like obese.
Okay so now you’ve seen the evidence that I wasn’t fat growing up. And yes, that’ s me in the photo at the beginning. (taken in 2004 when I weighed roughly 210 pounds) I hid from that photo thinking I was so hideous and today all I can think of is how beautifully done my hair was and what a light I had about me. And believe it or not, no matter how logically I write about my disorder and in looking back I can see I wasn’t fat, but no matter how much i know that, I still can’t see the here and now.
If by now you are wondering what this post is all about, let me help you by spelling it out now. This is my way of telling the Kim that is me NOW, that what I see in these photos, the beautiful child and beautiful woman exists today. She’s right here. I don’t have to be lost in the past or let my disorder rule the day. I can wrestle those demons into silence and remember, that no one is perfect. And that’s really okay.
I told a friend today, “You are not a number” and I went on to list all of her admirable traits. I think it’s about time that I let go of the past, give myself the same encouragement I gave her, while recognizing that my father wasn’t perfect. He had his own demons to slay and he just didn’t know any better.
But to you, reading this today, I ask you, what part does body image play in your life? Does it affect you to the extent that it does me? Are you passing this on to your children, spouse, siblings, parents or friends? Please examine not only your self talk but how you talk to your children and grandchildren. Point out their strengths don’t pick at them. Keep in mind that being thin might be genetically easier for you. Don’t judge them. If you are concerned about their physical well-being, go do something that’s a fun physical activity with them. Lead by example.
As for me, I’m free now. I know that I can be what I want to be. As Oprah said in one of her life classes, “When you know better, you do better.” I know better. I’m doing better.
Does this mean I’ll make an appearance in photos any time soon? Maybe. But on my terms. When I am ready. I’m getting there.
If you get a chance, I’d like you to stop by a site. Miss Representation. The world is upside down and it’s hardly news that many of us suffer from Body Dismorphic Disorder in our own ways. Look at what the media and Hollywood portrait. Please join me in a pledge today that you will begin to see this as a serious issue. Do something about it. Let your voice count. Start with you and your family. When we break the cycle of abuse, whether self-inflicted or inflicted by organizations or others, we create a new world for those who come after us. It’s worth it!
Times come and go but the constant that remains in my life is this pervasive feeling that somehow I’ve managed to get lost…
Again.
Displaced by the merging of lives amid relocation to unfamiliar scenery, I wander within my thoughts to find a landmark to help me find my way.
The incessant bickering battlefield of a life that never belonged to me in the first place, creeps through the borders of the peace I had once acquired and I tremble in fear that the quiet may never return.
Lost and found co-exist in a mixture of blessings and tribulation that confounds me beyond my reasoning. Chaos reigns over moments of clarity and dis-spells any optimism that life will settle into the silence that exists between the dawn and waking, before the world stirs and I am lost once again in the activity of survival. Yet…
I attempt to retreat to the safety of the fortress of my choosing. Surrounded by majestic beauty, the cliffs of clay are all that anchor me to a new life I’ve fought to find and keep. 
Like their crags and jagged crevices I am wearied by elements as they batter and rail against my determination to withstand controversy.
Still, I am inspired to believe that perhaps the answer is as simple as their unspoken example to…
Stand…
Silent…
Resolute…
Immovable….
In the belief that… I belong right where I am.
Here…now…and forever.
We stood, the four of us (my three children and I, to one side and peered into the bars of the cell as we listened to the quiet African voice, reciting for us the story and conditions of Nelson Mandela’s incarceration at Robben Island. Unaided by a microphone the tour guide’s soft voice carried with it a reverence and solemnity that we all felt.
This was hallowed ground for many a South Africa. I stood fixed looking at the tiny dimensions, trying to comprehend what it must have been like to live in such a small space for 18 years. It seemed to me then and ever since that day in April of 1999, that any difficulties or challenges I might face in my life are mere petty complaints and trivial issues on my part.
Imagine being trapped on an island with a view of freedom (Table Mountain and Cape Town in the photo to the right) just out of reach.
To know that you were considered a terrorist by a minority that held in it’s hands the power of life and death but also knowing that you fought as a freedom fighter for an oppressed majority.
Not long ago I watched the movie, Invictus with Morgan Freeman and Matt Damon. I wept as I listened to the words of a poem that Nelson Mandela recited to give himself courage.
I want to post those words here as they inspire me today and will forever more. They are as follows:
Invictus
by William Ernest Henley (1849-1903)
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloodied, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
On the boat trip back from Robben Island to the Victoria and Alfred Waterfront, one of the attendants insisted he take our photo. The waters were a bit rough that day but we quietly humble after our visit to see where our beloved Nelson Mandela spent so much of his time forging his will and determination to make a difference, not only for the people of South Africa but to be a voice to be heard around the globe.
May it be said of us, that we will face our fell circumstances with such faith and courage as he has demonstrated for us. May we persevere with an unfailing sense of purpose to find our place in this world and raise our voices with messages of hope.
As writers we often talk about finding the voice of our characters and I am reminded that just as important as that is, we must find our own voice in our daily lives. Contemplating beyond the obvious of the mechanism we use for speech, voice is a reflection of everything we think and feel. Experiences throughout our lives can help us find a way to express our voice or they can silence us. In my own life, I became a willing participant in the silence. But…
I wasn’t always that way. No…at one time, I was very free in expression and thought. Without intimidation or censoring, I spoke my mind. I’ve always been articulate but eventually not always open. It’s what happens when we grow up…right?
So who is the girl in the photo below?
That’d be me. 27 years ago. I remember her and I marvel at everything 
she was and everything she stood for. She spoke the plain truth and always managed to be compassionate at the same time.
I look back to those days and I remember..how unaffected I was. Life in my eyes was miraculous. It never occurred to me that I should filter my thoughts as they were always positive and filled with wonder.
Yet, there came a time when I could no longer shared my thoughts and feelings as openly. It didn’t happen all at once. It was an erosion of conviction and confidence that took place over a period of 18 years. My story isn’t uncommon but consider, we tend to think of it as maturing and I realize now, I was a better communicator back then, than I am today. No second guessing, no worrying about what someone might think, I was just me.In the world of the politically correct speak-ease, for the sake of everyone smiling and in pursuit of amiable connections, I have learned to filter everything. I’ve even observed that with things like twitter and facebook, we ramble on about everything and yet nothing and we lose the most important thing that our voice can bring us…
…Strong, deeper and lasting relationships.
So why do we post so much on these social media networks? Isn’t that being heard–using our voice?
Unfortunately, for many, it’s just a tool to fill the void. To put a bandage on what’s really affecting us: our lack of meaningful communication, our emptiness when we have silenced our own thoughts for the sake of peace and to comfort our loneliness. Being “connected” gives us a sense of belonging that’s shallow and momentary. I have found it to be flat–without dimension or individuality.
So, I think I’ll take a page from my former self and be more involved in the tangible and somewhat tenuous world and see what the ages has added to the voice that is uniquely me.
I think I’ve spent most of my life running from who I am. I’ve never felt I measured up, nor that I ever could. Getting lost in the shuffle of what we call this mortal existence is a bit confusing and messy sometimes.
Life just… is.
I find myself more reminiscent today. I chalk it up to Joni Mitchell and her music that takes me back to the 60′s and 70′s when I was just a girl, struggling to grow up in my mother’s home.
Last night while I watched the movie, Life As A House, I realized that I looked at my mother through the larger-than-life lens of a child. Her father, my grandfather had been a Mason and my mother belonged to the Daughters of Job. By virtue of the title alone one can surmise that when my mother set her mind to something, she never gave up.
In recent months as I hit the two year mark since I had full-time employment, I’ve received comments from others saying, “I don’t know how you do it. I would have given up by now.” And my thoughts always drift to my mother. She never hesitated to tell me that I could do anything, be anything if I wanted it bad enough.
It was my birthday last week but my youngest boy, wise teenager that he is, probably sensed I needed the present he thoughtfully picked out for me and gave it to me a week before my actual birthday. He gave me the poster depicted below: Persistence.
The quote along the bottom is from Ralph Waldo Emerson and reads:
“Challenges are what make life interesting; overcoming them is what makes life meaningful.”
I was laying on the couch at the time with a bad back injury and his well timed gift brought me to tears. My son knows just how discouraging the last two years of unemployment have been and the toll it’s taken on his mom. His gift served to remind me not only to hang in there but of a long standing family tradition of taking everything as it comes and never giving up.
Amazingly enough, three days later, I got a call telling me that I was being offered a full-time job.
Sometimes we think we stand alone in this life. Our children grow and leave home, but then when we need them most, they do come to our side. We are never alone in the love our families share.
I’m proud of my children. I think they are proud of me. We’ve been through so much together and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt, this victory belongs to all of us, the Fabulous Four.
And I like think that my mom would be proud of me too.
Whenever I feel I’ve lost my way, I come back to my children. All three of them.
And I remember, three important truths:
1. I love my children.
2. They love me.
3. Nothing will ever change that.
They are my anchor and they are also my rudder–so to speak. When life seems more than I can handle and I’ve disconnected in an effort to isolate myself from the fear that seems to permeate every fibre of my being, I stop–I listen–and I remember.
When I first divorced and we moved to our new home nestled against the mountainside overlooking the Salt Lake Valley, there was a sense of freedom that all four of us felt. It was a time of redefining who we were as a family and each of us in turn as individuals. The challenge though daunting was not more than we could handle.
Still there were times when the pressure was about to explode and take all of us with it. That was when we took matters into our own hands, locked the doors, turned off the phones and cranked the volume up on the CD player.
I’m talking lip syncing and dancing to…
…dare I say it?
Backstreet Boys.
Yes, I said, Backstreet Boys. Because back then, in 1998 they were the coolest thing on this planet in the eyes of my three children; ages 13, 11, and 7.
This was the fireplace in my family room back 13 years ago. Tonight:
I want you to imagine if you will, each of us taking turns on our very own little stage, performing for each other and giggling ourselves sick. The center of the red carpet was our spot light. A hair brush our microphone and we sang…
…at the top of our lungs. We mimicked the moves we saw on MTV and our fears and sorrows vanished in the joy of the moment. Gone–the thoughts of failure–abandonment and isolation. Suddenly–
life was…
MAGIC!
And the four of us, dubbed ourselves–
The Fabulous Four
and we were
LARGER THAN LIFE!
Now tell me that listening to that video and imagining my children and I dancing our way through those troubled times, doesn’t make you smile.
Go on, I dare you!
