Goodbye Sweet Girl

 

This is Tasha Marie (also referred to as Posha…but not by me).  She died at 3:00 a.m. Monday morning.  It wasn’t a surprise.  We recently found out that, at 14 years of age (which my vet referred to as ANCIENT for a beagle…really dude?) she had Cushing Disease and possibly bladder cancer.  We chose to bring her home and let her life progress as long as she wasn’t in pain.  She wasn’t, but when she stopped eating on Saturday we knew the end was close.  Not only does Cushings make them ravenous but beagles are notoriously food driven.  Tasha Marie was no different.  She came into our lives at 11 lbs…she left at approximately 37 lbs.

I found Tasha on an adoption website known as Triangle Beagle Rescue of NC.  Beagles in the NC/SC area are often found in abundance in shelters because they’re bred for hunting and if they are no longer of use, they are quite literally thrown away.  In fact, Tasha was found in the mountains of NC, pulling a trash bag from a pond in which her puppies has been placed and tossed away, along with her.  She was only two years old.

When I called the shelter about adopting her they informed me that, unfortunately, all of the puppies had been adopted.  I laughed and said, “I don’t want the puppies!  I want that mom!”  Her drive to save her pups at all costs reminded me of me – we were perfect for each other.  She was only 11 lbs, had mange and ear mites and heartworm and I couldn’t have loved her more.

It never ocurred to me that our current dog and Tasha would not get along so I guess that’s why there was never an issue between them.  She came into our home and within a few days, it was like she had always been part of our family.  What was most surprising was that, in spite of the fact that she was a beagle and had been mistreated, there was never any food agression between the two.  And she REALLY liked to eat so we took that as a blessing.

At first she didn’t like men (understandable) and would curl up behind me in the chair to rest.  But soon she discovered how much we loved her and except for a fear of loud noises, settled into her spoiled, cushy life.  She was never very cuddly but when she was, it was on her terms.  When she was young (under say…10) she loved to curl up on my lap on cold mornings and snuggle.  She was so soft and her ears were like velvet.

She didn’t bark much but when she did it was that typical beagle baying and I loved it every time I heard it.  (In case you haven’t noticed, I love beagles.)  She was submissive but if need be, like in the case of her puppies, she could step up and be fierce.  Again, she reminded me of me.

She has left a huge hole in our family where a great deal of love resided.  The love remains but the overweight bundle of stinky dog has passed on.  I was sleeping downstairs with her for last few nights because I wanted to be around if she needed me.  Because of that, I was honored to be the first to hold her when she came into our family and the last to hold her when she left this world.

Rest in peace my sweet girl.  You will be in our hearts always.

Namaste

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I Can’t Get No…Mo-ti-vay-tion

My apologies to the Rolling Stones but I couldn’t resist.  And the rest of you can thank me for getting that song stuck in your head.

You’re welcome.

One of the things I hate most about being at a low point in my depression is the lack of motivation that comes over me about everything.  I can’t get motivated most days to get out of my living room chair much less do all the projects and activities that I should be doing.  I am always careful not to, as they say in AA, should all over myself, but this goes beyond that.  I know it’s depression when I can’t get motivated to do the things I love.  The things that should bring me joy just won’t right now. At least I don’t think they will – I don’t actually know because…you know…I am not motivated to actually DO them.

That’s part of the depression also…we have a complicated relationship.  Don’t judge.

The weather here this week is nothing short of glorious.  Low humidity and highs in the low 70’s.  It’s rare we see this weather this late in the spring so when it does appear, I usually jump at every chance to take advantage of it.  That means sitting outside in my swing or taking a walk after work or puttering around in my flower beds getting them spruced up for the growing season.

Now?  I’ve noped out of all of it.

Last night I came home from work.  Sat for a little while outside with the hubs…and then complained that the bugs were biting and returned inside to plop my butt in my chair and play on my phone and feel like crap because I KNOW I’m missing out on some gorgeous weather but…wait for it…I don’t care.

What the actual fuck?

And the crazy thing is that I REALLY DON’T CARE!  I don’t care that I’ve wasted this time.  I don’t care that a walk would be just what the doctor ordered (literally).  I don’t care that exercise and getting things done would improve my mood dramatically.

I don’t care about yoga.

Wait…what?

You heard me.  For the first time in my adult life I don’t care about hitting the mat, finding my zen or even just breathing properly.  I’m not sad about it.  I just don’t care.  I sit at work and think I’m going to go home and unroll my dusty mat and then I walk in the door and I just…don’t.

Even when I’ve been away from the mat over the years, I’ve never NOT wanted to be there.  In fact, there were times I would have rather been there than almost anywhere else in the world.  Now?  Not so much.

The last time I was in this deep the thing that sent me running to the proverbial couch was the fact that I had an opportunity to see my Redskins play here in Charlotte and I didn’t go.  I didn’t care to go.  That one even impressed my doctor.  He said that as much as I talk about my Skins – I must be depressed.  (Actually he said it in a much more clinical and professional manner but you get the drift.)

So I will go to see my therapist (every other week right now) and I will let the doctor adjust my meds and when I do my first down dog and extend my savasana because I love being in that space, you’ll be the first to know.

Namaste

 

 

On The Subject of Weight…Again

lasagne

Here I am again for the 142nd time talking about my weight.  I’m so bored with this topic.  You?  If so, you can skip this post because you’ve heard it all before.  I’ve got to stick around because I have some shit in my head that needs to come out.

In 2016 I lost 15 lbs. and managed to keep it off.

In 2017 I lost 15 more.

In the second half of 2018 I gained most of it back – about 20 lbs.  As soon as I hit the lowest number on the scale I’d seen in a decade, I fell off the wagon.

Really?  There’s some kind of message in there but I’ll be god damned if I can figure it out.  I remember how happy and light I felt and how it felt to see sizes I hadn’t seen in a long while and how good it felt to get rid of all my fat clothes.

Note to self:  do not give away fat clothes until you’re sure you’re not going to need them.  It’s expensive.  And stupid.  And sad.

And then poof!  The holidays brought with it a new round of depression which conveniently was drizzled with holiday calories in the form of cakes and candies and high fat high carb food and I decided that it would be a good time let my self hate shine and just eat my face off.  That old voice in my head that had been quiet for so long piped up to say, “It’s okay.  Just eat it.  You can always take the extra pounds off after in the new year.”

Fuck you old voice.  You suck.

God I am so sick of this roller coaster.  I told my therapist (and I’ve said this before on this blog) that I don’t necessarily want to be skinny, I just want to find peace with myself and food.  I want to like who I am enough to feed myself well and moderately exercise.  I’d like to want to extend my life that way.  I want to care and I want it to stick.

What I do not want is for the first thought I have when I wake up in the morning to be, “I wonder if my clothes will fit today.”  I do not want to be consumed with how I look and how I believe people are judging me.

Question:  It’s none of my business what people think so why do I care so much whether or not they are judging me about my weight?

Answer:  Because I am judging me about my weight which means everyone else must be as well.

I mean duh!

I’m smart enough to know that’s not a healthy way to think but not yet smart enough to know what to do about it.  But I digress.

I do not want to keep postponing my yearly physical because I don’t want the doctor to know how much weight I’ve gained back.  I do not want her to write, “Obesity” on my chart again and I do not want to come out of that office with a bad photocopy of The Mediterranean Diet which she has given me every year for the last 8 years with the exception of last year because, of course, I had everything under control.

Shit.

It’s a chicken and egg thing for me.  Does the reoccurrence of the depression create the weight gain or does the weight gain create the reoccurrence of the depression?  I think it’s the former but who really knows?  Not me…that’s for dang sure.

I ask the hubs not to bring crap in the house and in he comes with brownies, chocolate, goldfish and cookies.  Why?  Why does he insist on doing that?

Because he knows me.

He knows if it’s not there I’ll just go out and get it.  He knows that something is going on inside me right now that needs comfort and simply eliminating it won’t fix what’s wrong.  He knows I’ll be even more unhappy if I don’t have it than I am when I do have it so he brings it home.  There’s not a soul in that house forcing me to eat it but honest to Christ it gives me comfort to know it’s there.

What. The. Actual. Hell?

This goes deep people.  I feel like if I can crack this code I can maybe make some progress in mending what’s broken inside of me.  In healing that deep and wide hole in my soul that doesn’t seem to ever close.  Not with food, or cigarettes, or exercise, or alcohol, or back to food.  It just sits there begging to be healed.

How do I heal a chasm that’s been growing since I was a child?  The meds definitely help but clearly they aren’t the answer.  They only lift the fog enough for me to see that there are things I can do to actual heal this wound.  The only problem is that those things seem so vast and endless that I can’t get my brain around it all.  Plus, they’ve been written in another language and I haven’t figured out how to translate it into language that my heart can understand.

Hmmm…writing that last paragraph actually felt pretty good.  To put into words what I’ve been feeling for so long is kind of powerful.  The miracle of blogging strikes again!!!

Namaste

 

The Hardest Thing About Being a Mom

I really didn’t like being pregnant.  I know that’s not a very popular opinion and, if I were a YouTube influencer or had a following on Twitter (Twitter bores me…yet another unpopular opinion), I’d likely get a bunch of crap about it.  But I’m just one woman in the universe who did not like being pregnant all that much.  There you have it.  I kept thinking that once the baby was born everything would be okay.

And it was, except that if you’re doing your job right, from the moment they separate from your body, that’s all they do for the rest of your life.  They spend their entire lives trying to separate from you.

Which is exactly how it’s supposed to be.

For the first time since I had kids, I really wish that I had a normal mother/daughter reference from which I could draw guidance.   I don’t really know what a normal feeling is about letting them go – even though I’ve been doing it since the day Lori moved into her own place in Baltimore.  How am I supposed to do it?  I am constantly second guessing myself and wondering if I’ve done it right.

I stand between honoring my feelings of loss and longing, and letting them go with love and guidance.  I fight very hard not to let them know how much I miss them needing me, relying on me, letting me care for them.  I stand stoically by while they make plans for and move through their lives that, rightly, do not include me.  Many times they do not even seek advice and that’s okay…in fact, sometimes I like it better that way so that, if it doesn’t work out, they can’t blame me…but I’d be lying if I said I don’t miss it – even just a little.

For example, for the first time in…well…ever, Mother’s Day will have only one of my chicks at the table.  One is with my bonus son and his wife because said bonus son just graduated with his master’s degree from a college about 3 hours away.  It’s a long story but suffice to say he is exactly where he needs to be right now.  (And let me just say that the master’s degree for this bonus son is the best Mother’s Day gift ever.)

Another is on his way to board a cruise with his fiance who works for the cruise line (how cool is that…I mean…for reals).  They don’t get to see each other very much because of her job and the fact that he’s still in graduate school so this is a much needed week for them to reconnect.  Again, he is exactly where he needs to be.

The rest are just living their lives.  ‘Nuff said.

My mother guilted me every mother’s day to make it all about her even after I became a mom.  Of course no matter what I did it wasn’t good enough but that’s a story for another day.  I am left with trying so hard NOT to pass on any of that shit to my kids that I don’t know what the hell I should be 1. feeling and 2. doing about it.

Side note:  I found what I believe is going to be a great therapist.  She’ll be hearing about all of this.  You can bet your sweet ass on that.

Anyway, I think this is the hardest thing about being a mom.  Harder than putting the first on the school bus at the tender age of five.  Harder than being told, “I can do it!”  Harder than being told, “I don’t want to talk about it.”  Harder than finding out they are doing something or going somewhere they didn’t ask/tell you about first.  Harder than realizing that, if the world turns the way it’s supposed to, you are slowly being replaced in their hearts.  Harder than no longer being able to kiss the boo-boo and make it all better (I mean seriously…that one sucks so bad.)

This is where I get confused.  How am I supposed to feel about this?  I can tell you how I DO feel.

I feel left out.  I feel bereft.  I feel less needed.  I feel physical pain sometimes when I think about the fact that they are always leaving.  I feel lost.  Alone.  Confused.

But wait!  There’s more!

I also feel so fucking proud of these adults I’ve helped raise.  They are genuinely good people who make good, well thought out decisions.  They are kind.  They are generous.  They stand up for those who can’t.  They love unconditionally.  They lead by example.  They get their hearts broken and heal stronger.  They are well-balanced and successful.

Well shit – THERE’s the Mother’s Day gift!  These amazing young adults who have grown up to be all that – in spite of their crazy-ass mom.

At the end of the day, I don’t think I could be happier about these offspring.  And while the leaving is the hardest thing about being a mom, the result of that is the best because it means that they’re going to be okay.

And they will always know that I will always be here ready, to be their mom in whatever capacity they need.

BTW – check out the Google animation today.  It’s a pretty good representation about the different phases of motherhood.

So to all of the moms out there, happy mother’s day!  Celebrate yourself today.  We’re a pretty badass group.

Namaste