Words and Things

A mumble never spoken out loud.

I’ve always had severe body image issues. I started gaining weight in 2nd grade. I remember my mom pointing my weight gain out to me and how that made me feel. Disgusting, horrible, hopeless, ugly, embarrassed, and, above all, incapable of being loved. Three years later, in the 5th grade, I was on my first diet. While I sat at the lunch table, watching my friends enjoy their various cafeteria and store bought junk food, I ate from my small Tupperware container filled with cut up fruits. I lost twenty pounds that year, but it still wasn’t enough.

You see, at an extremely young age, intense and abnormal focus was placed on my food intake. I believed that the most important thing in the world was to be beautiful, and to be beautiful you had to be thin, and to be thin you couldn’t eat. Calorie counting wasn’t a “diet” for me, it was an everyday normality. I always had a food journal where I would write down every little bit of food that I ingested and the amount of calories it contained. I’d sit there, doing the math, planning out the remainder of the day and what I could allow myself to eat.

As if my life didn’t already revolve around food (or lack thereof), I was diagnosed with type one diabetes at the age of 13. This unwelcomed disease meant that on top of calories, I’d now have to keep track of how many carbohydrates I consumed and inject myself with insulin in order to counteract the fact that my pancreas was dead. At the time, I would inject one unit of “fast-acting” insulin for every 10 carbohydrates I’d have. So, for a bagel, I would inject about 8 units of insulin. I’d also inject myself with “slow-acting” insulin to help stabilize my blood sugar levels over the course of the day; a task my pancreas could no longer perform.

Did I mention insulin makes you gain weight? Yeah, that was a fun discovery. I went through a long phase where I would refuse to take enough, or any, insulin in order to avoid weight gain (in the past few years I’ve come to learn that this is a semi-common issue in type one diabetic females—it’s called “diabulimia”). This inadvertently left me with a serious threat of deadly health complications. When my doctor told me I wouldn’t live to see 30, I knew I had to change my lifestyle.

I started watching my calorie intake more closely again, but also limited the amount of carbohydrates I’d eat, so my meals wouldn’t require much insulin. I also began running and exercising regularly. I soon noticed a difference in my attitude and the way I looked. But it still wasn’t enough.

So, here I am now, years later… And the struggle has grown substantially. I try to keep my calorie intake, at most, around 1,200 a day and I run 6 days a week (much longer amounts of time and distance than I used to). I often try to skip meals all together and find myself feeling a disturbing sense of pride when I’m hungry, to the point of stomach pains, yet deny myself food. My lunch typically consists of black coffee and celery. I try to find reasons to avoid going out to eat with anyone. I binge eat, locked in my room, hidden from the world, then feel an intense guilt and disgust come over me immediately afterwards. (I’ll usually run an extra amount or deny myself food the next day in order to appease my guilty conscious.) I often cancel plans in order to stay home and work out. If I don’t work out one night I, quite literally, feel as though I have gained twenty pounds by the next day. None of this is sane, I’m well aware of this, but I can’t rid myself of any of it.

I feel disgusting. I feel ashamed. I feel ugly. I feel fat. I am undesirable.

No one will love me until I love myself. Loving myself means being beautiful. Being beautiful means being skinny. Being skinny is something I will never be. I will never be enough.

4 weeks ago

A single moment.

A single moment. That’s all it takes. One decision or event can turn your whole world upside down.

I often find myself reflecting upon simpler times; although, I didn’t think they were so simple back then…

If I had stayed with him, in the comfortability of it all, would that have been okay? Would I have at least been satisfied?

If I had chosen to attend grad school in Indiana and obtain my PhD, would I be surrounded by more positive influences and happier events?

If I had never flown out to see him, to get my heart ripped out from my unsuspecting and trusting chest, would I be a warmer and more inviting person?

If I had never stuck up for myself, would I still spend every waking moment with them?

If she was still here, would she be proud of me?

If I had never met you, would I have been able to get through the past year’s struggles?

They say everything happens for a reason.

As painful and awful as life can be, I wouldn’t have changed a thing. Everything I’ve had to endure has made me stronger, wiser, better.

In the end, I win.

2 months ago

There’s a secret magic past world that you only notice when you’re looking back at it, and all I want to do is turn around.

Five. A solid, firm, and real number. Five months. Dear God, I cannot believe it’s been five months.

It feels like I’ve been existing within an array of realities. I constantly have to remind myself of what happened. I look in my favorites for her number, so I can call her and catch her up on life—but I can’t press send. She wouldn’t answer. I go to text her, asking if she wants to go on an impromptu trip to Disneyland with me—but I can’t text her. She won’t get it.

I’ve gone through many emotional phases in all of this, and I’m sure there’s more to come. I’m still sad; I’m still in denial; I’m still confused; and, God dammit, I am still angry. Too young, too full of life, and, still, she’s gone.

I continue to wear her bracelet every day, regardless of whether or not it matches what I’m wearing. I feel naked without it. I feel as if it’s some small way for me to still be connected with her. There’s not a day that passes where she doesn’t enter my mind, and not just once—multiple times, probably every hour or so. It can be exhausting, depressing, and heart wrenching; but it can also be uplifting.

There is one thing I’m still terrified of, however, and that’s a day where I am able to go 24 hours without thinking about her. Will this ever happen? I honestly don’t think so, and I really don’t want it to. I never want to forget her, what she meant to me, and what she did for me. I can only hope that I was half the friend to her that she was to me.

If there’s anything that I’ve learned from this experience, it’s that you need to live every damn day as if it were your last. I always admired the way that Lacey lived her life—so happy and carefree; she didn’t let a thing get in her way. I’ve proactively chosen to do the same, in small strides. There are things I do now that I wouldn’t have done before, things I say to people that I know I shouldn’t. But you know what? Fuck it. If I’m feeling something, I’m going to express it. If I want to do something, I’m going to do it. If I don’t take these risks and chances while I’m alive, then did I ever really live?

Life is a blessing with a fucked up sense of humor. I might as well play along.

2 months ago 1 note

Fools in love, are there any creatures more pathetic?

Why is the word “love” thrown around so casually?

I suppose that type of behavior is understandable, and even expected, in adolescent and teenage relationships; but when you’ve matured and have finally reached the point in your life where you can understand the depth of that godforsaken four-letter-word, then what excuse do you have for throwing it around?

With no real or honest reasoning behind it, men and women, alike, proclaim “love” for one another. What people don’t realize is the complete mess the word causes when it’s not truly meant.

Most people are offended by curse words, horribly inappropriate jokes, or slanderous comments. Me? I’m offended by love.

2 months ago

The big “C”… [take 2]

Sometimes I get tired.

I get tired of trying. I get tired of being optimistic. I get tired of the things I love being taken away from me. I get tired of being sick. I get tired of existing.

Then, unexpectedly, I find the strength to carry on.

I find the drive to continue living.

I remember all of the reasons for fighting; for never giving up.

I remember… Me.

Life is a constant struggle. It’s up to you, and you alone, to make sure it’s is worth it.

3 months ago 1 note

Stupid Cupid, you’re a real mean guy.

I will never understand why girls freak out over Valentine’s Day.

If you have a significant other, suddenly the pressure is on. He better find the right gift, know your ring size, take you to your favorite restaurant, and better not forget the roses.

If you’re unattached, you mope around feeling bitter and anti-love because everyone (and, oh yes, I do mean EV-ER-Y-ONE) has someone to call their Valentine; you’re the pathetic loser alone on this holiday.

I experienced my share of Valentine’s Days with a man I was head-over-heels in love with for 5 years. And you know what? I still didn’t care. I won’t lie, it was exciting initially simply because it was the first time I had ever had a real Valentine, but I soon realized it was vastly overrated.

I’ll never forget, he bought me a fish and a Fairly Odd Parents fish tank (I’ve always been a bit of a nerd, so even at 17 years old I was stoked about that) and I named the fish Cupid. Receiving a fish as a Valentine’s Day gift was… sort of strange, but it ended up being our first pet together and we continued to add to the collection over the course of our relationship. He also had 2 dozen roses delivered to my house, and continued to do so every Valentine’s Day despite the fact they’re overpriced and I frequently reminded him that sunflowers are my favorite (and much cheaper).

I can’t tell you what we did on Valentine’s Day or what gifts were exchanged over the years. Why? Because it was just like any other day. Instead of making a huge deal about Valentine’s Day each year, we loved each other EVERY day of the year. Love is meant to be shown, felt, and appreciated every moment of every day; not simply for a few hours a single day of the year, followed by a “thank you for the flowers and dinner, now you can bone me” end to the night.

You know what I want to do this Valentine’s Day? I want to wake up at 5am, go to work, get home, have dinner with my parents, go for a run, and cuddle in bed with my cat until I fall asleep. That’s the same thing I do just about every weeknight, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. Ladies, you don’t need a man to make you happy, or loved, or special, or beautiful. All you need to do is love yourself, and not just on February 14th.

If you absolutely must feel even the slightest bit of disappointment that you don’t have someone special to spend Valentine’s Day with, go out with some friends; treat yourself to your own candlelit dinner; take a relaxing shower; or simply go buy yourself that Marc Jacobs purse you’ve been eyeing all season (okay, MJ might be a bit out of our price range, so settle for a trip to Sephora). The point is, don’t feel bad about being alone tomorrow; instead, embrace it. No one can love you until you love yourself; and you should all love yourself truly and deeply.

Why?

Because you’re fabulous.

3 months ago 1 note

Looking for answers, committing murders along the way

I’ve spent the majority of my life trying to hide. Hide from the world, hide from myself, hide from emotions. I figured if I didn’t expose myself, I wouldn’t run the risk of getting hurt. Eventually the constant need to blend in with the crowd disappeared. I’m not sure if it was a new-found maturity, finally accepting the person I was, or simply a phase I grew out of. My personality was strong and bright, and I wanted the world to know who I was.

Time and time again, however, people disappointed me. They saw my openness as weakness. They planted themselves deep inside my every being, poisoning the blood running through my veins, until they were all I could see, hear, and breath. Then they left, taking pieces of me with them.

I think this is why I tend to ruin things now. I do it with full intent and purpose of pushing people away before they get too close; before I allow them to have any control over me. Once I begin to feel my grip loosening, I back away. It’s an ongoing battle I have with myself; do I leave or do I get left?

Then she left me, too. I think that was the final act, the last I could possibly take. I’d had people leave me countless amounts of times in the past, but never like this, never so… permanent. What’s worse is the constant reminder of the pain—the lack of presence. You eventually grow numb to the pain, simply because it’s always there. Then suddenly, without warning, the pain will shift every so slightly and it feels like the first night all over again.

I’m ashamed to admit it, but my faith, in every sense of the word, has disappeared completely, and has taken a lot of me with it. I’m desperately trying to find the girl I was last year, to bring her back. People liked her. And that’s all anyone really wants, isn’t it? To be liked.

3 months ago

Letting go…

I used to think that addicts were too wrapped up in their own emotions and problems to realize how their actions affect those around them. I’ve come to realize, however, that addicts simply do not care. They don’t care how their choices affect you. They don’t care about the fact that you can’t sleep at night. Every day, every night, every moment, in the back of your mind, you’re waiting for that call. The call that they’ve started using again. The call that they’re in jail. And, for anyone who loves an addict, the ultimate fear: the call that they’re dead. The financial, emotional, and physical burdens caused to others by an addict are continuous and something you simply cannot escape.

How do you help somebody that doesn’t want to be helped? After almost two years of severe ups and downs, I’ve come to realize… you can’t. It’s impossible. You will drive yourself mad, taking all positive relationships and aspects of your life as victims of your downfall—all because of another person’s dependence.

But, here’s the real question… How do you let go?

3 months ago 16 notes

People are lonely because they build walls instead of bridges.

When it comes to relationships, romantic or not, there’s always pain. No relationship can exist without eventually causing some sort of injury to one or more parties involved. The pain can turn agonizing, is never fully relieved, and takes pieces of you as evidence of its triumph.

In order to ease this pain, man created walls as a sort of defense mechanism. Walls, kept at the perfect height, are effective and only allow those most trustworthy and important within its barriers. These walls allow for the right amount of time to pass before an individual has proven themselves deserving of being let in.

Sometimes, however, the barriers created by these walls stack up too high for anyone to surpass. These walls are impenetrable, keeping all outsiders at a far distance. Relationships are tested, but to no avail; no one is able to get successfully through.

How does one survive with these walls? Built high and sturdy, the walls are meant to keep out the pain, but they keep out all other emotions as well. Happiness is unknown, love is forbidden, and trust in others is a myth. Life becomes empty and worthless within the protected barriers and the pain that you’ve fought so hard to keep out is still present, just found in different forms.

A small wall is beneficial and wise, but what do you do when you find yourself living within the unhealthy, extravagant walls? If no one else can save you and you’ve given up on saving yourself, where do you find hope?

4 months ago 21 notes

I thought he was so cute… Until I found out he enjoys getting his ass licked.

Isn’t it so exciting when you’re just starting to talk to a guy that you could potentially be interested in? The getting to know each other, the butterflies when he texts you, the nerves of picking out the perfect outfit you’ve probably worn a million times. He asks you out and picks you up, opening the door for you, and takes you to a nice dinner. Since you’re a vegetarian, he makes sure to pick somewhere that’s not overloaded with meat-only options. After hours of great conversation (which only felt like minutes), it’s time to head back home. Like a gentleman, he walks you up to the door and gives you a goodnight kiss, with no other motives or expectations. Shortly after leaving you, he sends you a simple text telling you that he had a wonderful time and can’t wait to see you again.

Yeah… Anyone else want to puke? Those scenarios just don’t happen. These days, a guy you’ve just met is almost guaranteed to be immediately asking for photos, details about your sex life, and telling you what he’d love to do to you—once given the chance. There’s never any mention of a first date, because your first date isn’t expected to go past the events that will be taking place in the bedroom. What happened to romance and the excitement of getting to know someone new? When did men begin to lose respect for women and decide it’s okay to treat them as mere objects? And when did it become a bad thing if a girl isn’t easy, doesn’t put out on the first date, and doesn’t send you nude photos? I guess she’s just a tease, right?

My sense of humor can be rather vulgar; I tell it like it is; I refuse to change myself or my view points for others; and I sure as Hell don’t censor myself. All because I’m comfortable making jokes about sex does not, will not, and should not ever give anyone the right to assume I’m a slut. You are in for a horribly rotten surprise if you believe otherwise. If guys these days only want a girl for her appearance and what she’ll do to them, rather than her brain; I’ll gladly stay single the rest of my life. Take it or leave it—and honestly, for most of the guys in my past, I wish that had left it. I love and respect myself far too much to play into their “perfect” mindless-role.

For now, the kitty collection continues…

4 months ago 6 notes

Another Year’s End

The end of a year brings about many emotions. Thoughts of what you’ve done, should have done, wished you hadn’t done. Remembering what you’ve lost, what you’ve gained, and what you’ve learned.

Since 2009, on New Year’s Eve I’ve toasted to the next year being better; and each year, despite my efforts, has been substantially worse than the last. This year was easily the most challenging and heartbreaking year I’ve yet to experience. I suffered a great deal of loss and pain, but I realize that through it all, I have become a better, wiser, and stronger person.

Instead of cursing 2011 and wishing for a better 2012, this year at midnight I will be thankful for what I’ve survived. There were many moments that I was on the verge of completely giving up. I didn’t see what the point of life was if it was only meant to be filled with pain. I felt lost and hopeless; at the very bottom of the blackest hole with no chance of digging my way out. Somehow, through all of the pain and sadness, I was able to find the beauty of it all; the things that make this, sometimes cruel, life worth living.

Rest in Peace:

Lacey Sue Paterson: You lived every day to its fullest and taught me so much about life. Knowing you has made me a better person and each day I am grateful for the years I was fortunate enough to call you my best friend, the Rob to my Big. Save a spot up there for me on the original Star Tours, right in between you and Captain Rex. I know we’ll be reunited one day. I will forever miss you, love you, and admire you.

Annie: You were my baby girl, the closest thing to a child I will ever know. You brought so much light into my life and helped me through a lot of rough times throughout the 4 years I had you. Thank you for being the happiest little girl in the world and for having the ability to always bring a smile to my face.

Rosie: Oh Rosie, you were such a sweet thing. Thank you for being so gentle, kind, and patient with all of the animals we brought into the house during your 9 years of life. You were absolutely beautiful, inside and out.

“Be always at war with your vices, at peace with your neighbors, and let each New Year find you a better man.” -Benjamin Franklin

Happy New Year.

4 months ago

Playing the hand I was dealt.

When I was 13 I was diagnosed with type one diabetes. As an adolescent the last thing you want is to be different from your peers. I was already different. Being at least 6 inches taller than all of my friends, including the guys, I stood out like a sore thumb. Now I had to explain to everyone why I had been in the ICU, missed over a week of school, was constantly pricking my finger to test my blood sugar levels, and why I was suddenly taking about 10 insulin injections a day. I was fearful of the stigma attached to being a diabetic.

It’s a common belief among the ignorant that there’s only one type of diabetes—the kind that you see in overweight, under active, and typically unhealthy adults. However, the type of diabetes I have effects less than 5% of the diabetic population, isn’t hereditary, and is considered an autoimmune disease. There is no cure for type one diabetes and statistics show that individuals with this type of diabetes lose an average of 15 years off their life expectancy. My pancreas, the organ that secretes insulin, was destroyed by auto antibodies, thus it’s dead weight. In order to survive, I have to take insulin injections for the rest of my life; unless, of course, a cure is found within my lifetime. I didn’t choose this disease and I sure as hell didn’t eat too many sweets to be damned with this.

In order to avoid dealing with these distinct features that made me different from other high schoolers, I ignored the problem. I wouldn’t pay attention to what I was eating, so I wouldn’t have to count carbs. I wouldn’t check my blood sugar, so I never knew when it was high or low. And I sure as Hell wouldn’t take my insulin when anyone was around, so I wouldn’t have to answer the questions or be the recipient of all the confused/disgusted looks. I’d take a little bit of insulin here or there, usually only when I was around my parents, so they thought I was actually being proactive with my health and managing my disease. This became my daily routine until I was faced with an ultimatum: fight to live or give up and die.

I remember that day distinctly, the day I decided to fight. My doctor entered the exam room with my chart in his hands. He announced what my recent lab results revealed; my A1C (laments terms: a blood test that gives the 3 month average of your blood glucose levels) was 13.7, when it was supposed to be around 5. Eyes still on my lab results, he nonchalantly said to me, “If you keep this up, you won’t live to see 30.” I froze. And when I got home? I bawled my eyes out. A slow suicide, that’s what I had been doing to myself. All in the name of fitting in with the crowd.

I started doing better, checking my blood sugar regularly throughout the day and taking the correct amount of insulin for each meal. As I should have expected, another problem presented itself: weight gain.

You see, insulin is a hormone that causes you to gain weight; the more weight you gain, the more insulin resistant you become; the more insulin resistant you are, the more insulin you have to take; and thus, a viscous cycle is born.

Rather than accept the weight gain as a result of becoming healthy; I viewed it as the enemy, a problem that had to be dealt with in the fastest and easiest way possible. My solution? Stop taking as much insulin for meals, even if it’s necessary; and stop correcting my high blood sugars with insulin, just ignore them unless they’re so dangerously high that my only other option would be hospitalization.

My solutions to the weight gain were unhealthy and caused my A1C to, once again, come back with high and unfavorable results. This time, however, I continued doing the damage to my body; desperate for the weight to come off. Some of it did, but if I was behaved with my insulin I would notice the weight come back within days.

This problem, medically referred to as Diabulimia (http://www.jdrf.org/index.cfm?page_id=107141), haunted me for years. Eventually, I realized my health should be the number one priority. Sure, I might not be a twig, but you better believe I run a faster mile and eat a healthier every-day diet than the twig I was longing to resemble.

Am I fully recovered from this eating disorder? (Yes, that’s what it’s medically considered.) No, and, to be quite honest, I don’t think I ever will be. It’s still something I struggle with each and every single day.

Fast forward to the present: I run religiously a minimum of 4-5 nights a week, I have been a vegetarian for 7 years and fill my diet with fruits, vegetables, beans, and other healthy choices (ethical reasons for the switch, but there’s no denying the health benefits as well), I rarely drink alcohol, and I quit smoking about a month ago. I keep a pretty positive attitude and try my best to be pleasant towards everyone I meet. And yet… I’m dying.

Let me create an image for you: When your blood sugar is high it’s like shards of glass are flowing through your veins, all over your body, creating severe and permanent damage. My adolescent years of denial, embarrassment, and rebellion really did a number on me; an irreversible one. My circulation is officially shitty; I heal dangerously slow, if at all; my eyesight is worsening; and yet, for once in my life, I can honestly say that I’m doing everything right. I understand now the consequences I have to endure from the way I was disrespecting my body. I accept the fact that I will have a very shortened lifespan and each day I come closer to my expiration. But you know what? For now, I’m alive. I’m going to continue to do the things I enjoy, which includes my (some would say obsessive) healthy live style. Some people would give up and say “Fuck it. I’m going to die soon anyways,” but that’s not who I’ve come to be.

Given the option, would I do it over? In a heartbeat. Standing out is now something that I’m proud of and embrace. If only I had been wise enough ten years ago to feel this way; I could have avoided the damage I’ve done to my body and been guaranteed a longer time on this planet. Instead, I’ll continue to live everyday like its my last, to it’s fullest, and with no regrets; because one day, sooner than I’d like to imagine, it will be.

5 months ago 9 notes