So I came out again last night.
It seems that I will be doing this a lot in the next few months. This one was easy. I came out to my coven. Three (out of four) of my coven sisters are gay, and were as sympathetic, understanding, and loving as you could imagine.
I really needed that.
Even though I was with a small group of people that I trust completely, it was still hard. I started babbling at one point, and ended up talking in circles a little bit. But it happened, and it was really heartening. I can do this! I can do this!
Of course, coming out to my parents will be a totally different experience.
We shared a beautiful ritual, and then I played my guitar for them, for the first time ever.
Last night N and I had a serious, and hilarious heart-to-heart. Emotionally, I have been preparing for these changes for a few months now. He hasn't had the same amount of time to absorb things, and he is, naturally, grieving. Except, when I grieve, I react a lot differently than he is. I tend to cry a lot, and write, and seek a lot of time to myself, which is the story of my summer. He wants answers. He wants to understand. He doesn't react with the same emotional force, although I know he's hurting. It's the reserve he's always had, the reserve that began to divide us long ago.
He needs to analyze everything. So he starts asking me, again, about the first time I had feelings for a woman. And the next time, and the next and then he tells me that he can't figure out why I just didn't tell him in the first place. Well, I was in denial, and all of the social conditioning, and the risk of losing my family, yadda, yadda. So he's okay with all that. But he really feels like he needs to start moving on, meeting new people, perhaps dating again.
I want you to be happy, I tell him. I want you to meet new people and start dating. Let's do what we can to make it happen. He thanks me, because he feels that he needs to start moving ahead and building a life for himself.
Listen, I can't even begin to think about dating yet. WTF? I need some time, please. But apparently, he needs to move on. Which is fine with me, as I have no emotional investment, no jealousy, nothing. As long as our daughter is in no way involved, I'm happy to have him do whatever he wants.
This conversation is taking place at 1:00 in the morning, while we are both lying in bed, being very careful not to touch each other, as we have not yet changed the sleeping arrangements.
Surreal.
On Wednesday morning I'm leaving for a five day writer's workshop in Michigan. I am so excited!!! I have been looking forward to this all summer. Through all the chaos that has become my life, I have never been so creatively charged as I am now. I think that good things will arise from my experiences there - I already know that I'm about to meet some fantastic people.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Thursday, August 7, 2008
a moment of awareness
Life has thrown a lot of stuff at me over the past few days. I'm managing, although sometimes I am aware that I'm starting to compartmentalize things again. Put that feeling away for later, I tell myself, and then I put the box in the back of the closet where I may never find it again.
When you're being strong for someone else's sake, it's easy to talk yourself back into that numb state. But it only lasts as long as you're in the hospital, sitting by your brother's bedside as the nurses initiate hypothermia protocol, in order to minimize the impact of the heart stoppage. Once you've done your bit, and you're free to go home, reality begins to bite at you again. Not like a gnat, or mosquito, more like a large dog that's been chasing you down the road and telling you not to kid yourself anymore.
My dreams have been filled with dogs lately. Sometimes they are just there, and I know they are protecting me. Sometimes I dream about my dog with his beautiful eyes. Last night I was poop-scooping after a dog I'd never seen before. Like most of my dream dogs, he was a Lab. Someday I will have more than one dog.
My brother is slowly getting better. His short-term memory seems to be improving. When I wrote my last post, he was still unconscious, we didn't know if or when he would wake up. And then there was a day of agony, when he had to be told repeatedly that he'd been in an accident. If someone wasn't with him, he would panic, because he didn't know why he was there. Yesterday, when I saw him, he was tired and weak, so unlike himself, but he had a grasp on what was going on. They're moving him out of ICU as soon as a bed becomes available on another unit. My sister-in-law slept at home for the first time, two nights ago. His recovery will be long, and no one really knows what the long-term prognosis is yet, but he is with us, and there is a chance that he will lead some kind of normal life.
In the midst of all this, I am dealing with my own issues, somewhere, somehow in my few minutes at home, in the seconds I grab on the phone. While we were camping, I told him a bit more. He has a way of drawing out the truth, and the truth is that I am queer, and that I cannot be with him any more, for that and other reasons. And over the few days we've had since returning, we have had conversations about next steps. These are painful, heart-wrenching exchanges for both of us, not angry, not disrespectful, but a sad acknowledgment that our relationship as a couple is over.
We are friends, we are co-parents, we care about each other. This is important and heartening for me, because we can work together to make our transitions easier. Materially, for now, nothing changes. It would be silly to sell the house now, and we would end up with nothing. In two years, urban property values will skyrocket, as people who are car-dependent move away from the suburbs and back to the city. E needs the stability of home and school, and I need to finish my degree. I will not compromise this time, I will not make practical and safe choices for the sake of feeing safe - my goal, when we moved to this city, was to get my degree and I am going to finish it. Our house is large enough that we can share the space - I have turned M's old bedroom into an office, and I can easily convert it to a bedroom and still have room for a desk.
I think it will work. I can't see this lasting longer than a year, or two. As long as it takes me to finish, and decide what my next steps will be. And in the meantime, E can have both her parents near her, and we can make a slow, gradual transition.
In all the chaos, over the weekend, I had a few moments when I realized that I seriously underestimate my family. On Sunday, we were all together in the ICU waiting room. My sister and her husband. My youngest brother and his wife. My nieces and nephews. My brother the priest, or should I say, monastic brother. He wore his brown robes, looked imposing as usual, and did not try to spout platitudes, for which I am grateful. He traveled from northern Quebec to be with us. We were all there, my parents, my SIL's family, my best friend from high school, and it was chaotic and noisy and there was so much damn love in the room that I thought I would explode. Sure, there was friction, and not everything went as planned, but we were there, together.
So, if we can all come together in a time of crisis, and be there for each other, what makes me think that my family wouldn't do the same for me??? They may not understand me, they may not agree with my lifestyle, but they love me just the same. I can tell them who I am, they will accept me for who I am (after the shock wears off) and we will all be better for it.
Sunday night, when I came home from the hospital, I watched Amy Ray TV. I am becoming obsessed. I heard Rabbit Foot for the first time, and it seemed to capture everything that I had been feeling since Friday. I sat in front of the computer with my headphones on, watched the same video three times, and wept. I needed the release so badly.
Thank you Amy. And thank you, my wonderful, strange family, for teaching me so much about who we are.
For some reason, I can't add the widget, but you can watch Amy perform the song here.
When you're being strong for someone else's sake, it's easy to talk yourself back into that numb state. But it only lasts as long as you're in the hospital, sitting by your brother's bedside as the nurses initiate hypothermia protocol, in order to minimize the impact of the heart stoppage. Once you've done your bit, and you're free to go home, reality begins to bite at you again. Not like a gnat, or mosquito, more like a large dog that's been chasing you down the road and telling you not to kid yourself anymore.
My dreams have been filled with dogs lately. Sometimes they are just there, and I know they are protecting me. Sometimes I dream about my dog with his beautiful eyes. Last night I was poop-scooping after a dog I'd never seen before. Like most of my dream dogs, he was a Lab. Someday I will have more than one dog.
My brother is slowly getting better. His short-term memory seems to be improving. When I wrote my last post, he was still unconscious, we didn't know if or when he would wake up. And then there was a day of agony, when he had to be told repeatedly that he'd been in an accident. If someone wasn't with him, he would panic, because he didn't know why he was there. Yesterday, when I saw him, he was tired and weak, so unlike himself, but he had a grasp on what was going on. They're moving him out of ICU as soon as a bed becomes available on another unit. My sister-in-law slept at home for the first time, two nights ago. His recovery will be long, and no one really knows what the long-term prognosis is yet, but he is with us, and there is a chance that he will lead some kind of normal life.
In the midst of all this, I am dealing with my own issues, somewhere, somehow in my few minutes at home, in the seconds I grab on the phone. While we were camping, I told him a bit more. He has a way of drawing out the truth, and the truth is that I am queer, and that I cannot be with him any more, for that and other reasons. And over the few days we've had since returning, we have had conversations about next steps. These are painful, heart-wrenching exchanges for both of us, not angry, not disrespectful, but a sad acknowledgment that our relationship as a couple is over.
We are friends, we are co-parents, we care about each other. This is important and heartening for me, because we can work together to make our transitions easier. Materially, for now, nothing changes. It would be silly to sell the house now, and we would end up with nothing. In two years, urban property values will skyrocket, as people who are car-dependent move away from the suburbs and back to the city. E needs the stability of home and school, and I need to finish my degree. I will not compromise this time, I will not make practical and safe choices for the sake of feeing safe - my goal, when we moved to this city, was to get my degree and I am going to finish it. Our house is large enough that we can share the space - I have turned M's old bedroom into an office, and I can easily convert it to a bedroom and still have room for a desk.
I think it will work. I can't see this lasting longer than a year, or two. As long as it takes me to finish, and decide what my next steps will be. And in the meantime, E can have both her parents near her, and we can make a slow, gradual transition.
In all the chaos, over the weekend, I had a few moments when I realized that I seriously underestimate my family. On Sunday, we were all together in the ICU waiting room. My sister and her husband. My youngest brother and his wife. My nieces and nephews. My brother the priest, or should I say, monastic brother. He wore his brown robes, looked imposing as usual, and did not try to spout platitudes, for which I am grateful. He traveled from northern Quebec to be with us. We were all there, my parents, my SIL's family, my best friend from high school, and it was chaotic and noisy and there was so much damn love in the room that I thought I would explode. Sure, there was friction, and not everything went as planned, but we were there, together.
So, if we can all come together in a time of crisis, and be there for each other, what makes me think that my family wouldn't do the same for me??? They may not understand me, they may not agree with my lifestyle, but they love me just the same. I can tell them who I am, they will accept me for who I am (after the shock wears off) and we will all be better for it.
Sunday night, when I came home from the hospital, I watched Amy Ray TV. I am becoming obsessed. I heard Rabbit Foot for the first time, and it seemed to capture everything that I had been feeling since Friday. I sat in front of the computer with my headphones on, watched the same video three times, and wept. I needed the release so badly.
Thank you Amy. And thank you, my wonderful, strange family, for teaching me so much about who we are.
For some reason, I can't add the widget, but you can watch Amy perform the song here.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
12:40 a.m.
And its not like I have insomnia or anything.
I'm sitting in a hospital in SW Ontario. Having not been in a waiting room in a long time, it's interesting to note that there is a computer and internet access here. Anything to take my mind off....
It was better when my family was here. It was easier when my SIL needed the support. But she's in the trauma unit with my brother and I'm supposed to be sleeping. Or resting, because nobody really sleeps when they're in a waiting room, do they? Fortunately I've had limited experience with these sorts of things.
My brother always got away with everything when we were kids. He was the one who got everyone else in trouble, but managed to stay clean (until middle brother took over, but then again he never really did anything wrong). He had (and has) a wicked sense of humour and a mostly positive attitude about everything. He would hide my things and watch me look for them. He once filled an eggshelll with water and broke it over my head. He knows how to organize people to do his work for him.
When we were both in a minor car accident, when he was three and I was five, his nose started to bleed. The nice lady who helped us gave him a cookie, but I didn't get one. I rubbed my nose and complained a lot, but that didn't help.
When we were older, he would save his money and buy things that he knew I wanted in order to make me jealous. He admitted to this many years later.
He was eighteen when he had a serious car accident that could have taken his life. He managed to get through with a lot of broken bones, but no internal injuries.
We have always been close. He drives me crazy. I love him.
Today he was electrocuted at work. We won't know for at least another twenty-four hours, how much, if any brain damage he has sustained. It is hard to look at him, so still and quiet. I gather my strength and send him what healing energy I can. I wait quietly, and I do things to keep busy. Make phone calls, offer to drive, sit and wait.
Sit and wait.
I hope that his good fortune and strength are with him. I can't bear the thought of him being any different than he's always been.
I'm sitting in a hospital in SW Ontario. Having not been in a waiting room in a long time, it's interesting to note that there is a computer and internet access here. Anything to take my mind off....
It was better when my family was here. It was easier when my SIL needed the support. But she's in the trauma unit with my brother and I'm supposed to be sleeping. Or resting, because nobody really sleeps when they're in a waiting room, do they? Fortunately I've had limited experience with these sorts of things.
My brother always got away with everything when we were kids. He was the one who got everyone else in trouble, but managed to stay clean (until middle brother took over, but then again he never really did anything wrong). He had (and has) a wicked sense of humour and a mostly positive attitude about everything. He would hide my things and watch me look for them. He once filled an eggshelll with water and broke it over my head. He knows how to organize people to do his work for him.
When we were both in a minor car accident, when he was three and I was five, his nose started to bleed. The nice lady who helped us gave him a cookie, but I didn't get one. I rubbed my nose and complained a lot, but that didn't help.
When we were older, he would save his money and buy things that he knew I wanted in order to make me jealous. He admitted to this many years later.
He was eighteen when he had a serious car accident that could have taken his life. He managed to get through with a lot of broken bones, but no internal injuries.
We have always been close. He drives me crazy. I love him.
Today he was electrocuted at work. We won't know for at least another twenty-four hours, how much, if any brain damage he has sustained. It is hard to look at him, so still and quiet. I gather my strength and send him what healing energy I can. I wait quietly, and I do things to keep busy. Make phone calls, offer to drive, sit and wait.
Sit and wait.
I hope that his good fortune and strength are with him. I can't bear the thought of him being any different than he's always been.
Monday, July 28, 2008
not camping
Really, we're not.
We're Kamping. (my sister coined this valuable phrase).We'll probably end up sandwiched between two enormous motor homes on a site with no shade. This is as close as we can get to camping without actually killing each other.
Do I sound excited, or what?
I haven't had time to put my thoughts on paper since last Thursday. There is so much sadness in my heart right now. I can't stay. I can't not stay.
It would be great if we were roommates, or best friends. I get through things by pretending that's what we are. It would be easier if things were hard. Really.
I'll think for a while "It will be okay. I can do this." But the minute he touches me, something inside me shrinks. That's the only way to explain it. Mind you, this is not a new feeling - since Emily was born, I've been slowly losing my drive, and I've been at best a passive participant in things sexual. I thought that there was something wrong with me, that I was frigid, or that my drive was lower than normal. You know, getting older and all that.
Now that I've acknowledged my sexual identity, the thought of being with him is not appealing. I wish it was. I try. But I can't bring myself to...and I feel guilty about it, and I try harder and it gets worse.
Things have to change. I know what this means. I hope that we can find a way to make the transition for E as smooth and comfortable as humanly possible. And if we can make some arrangement where we can live in the same house, aleit separately for a time, so much the better. I don't know.
The good thing is that we are good friends. And I can talk to him about this - I think. It will be the hardest thing to tell him, and I know it has to happen, but I keep putting it off. How? How do you break someone's heart?
We're Kamping. (my sister coined this valuable phrase).We'll probably end up sandwiched between two enormous motor homes on a site with no shade. This is as close as we can get to camping without actually killing each other.
Do I sound excited, or what?
I haven't had time to put my thoughts on paper since last Thursday. There is so much sadness in my heart right now. I can't stay. I can't not stay.
It would be great if we were roommates, or best friends. I get through things by pretending that's what we are. It would be easier if things were hard. Really.
I'll think for a while "It will be okay. I can do this." But the minute he touches me, something inside me shrinks. That's the only way to explain it. Mind you, this is not a new feeling - since Emily was born, I've been slowly losing my drive, and I've been at best a passive participant in things sexual. I thought that there was something wrong with me, that I was frigid, or that my drive was lower than normal. You know, getting older and all that.
Now that I've acknowledged my sexual identity, the thought of being with him is not appealing. I wish it was. I try. But I can't bring myself to...and I feel guilty about it, and I try harder and it gets worse.
Things have to change. I know what this means. I hope that we can find a way to make the transition for E as smooth and comfortable as humanly possible. And if we can make some arrangement where we can live in the same house, aleit separately for a time, so much the better. I don't know.
The good thing is that we are good friends. And I can talk to him about this - I think. It will be the hardest thing to tell him, and I know it has to happen, but I keep putting it off. How? How do you break someone's heart?
Friday, July 25, 2008
never too late
holy s***
I think I just wrote a song.
I'm 43. I've never written a song before. But that's how what was inside came out.
Wow.
I think I just wrote a song.
I'm 43. I've never written a song before. But that's how what was inside came out.
Wow.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
random notes
I have a few things on my brain
The YMCA has got to be one of the best places in the world to write. Don't ask me why. It's busy, crowded (especially in the summer when there's all kinds of camps going on) and not particularly quiet. But on Wednesday afternoons when E goes to Fun Factory, I can turn out some of the best stuff. An added bonus; The cafeteria (not run by a corporation, but by a nice lady and her daughter) will serve me my food and beverages in washable dishes instead of plastic and styrofoam. I should be working out on Wednesday afternoons, but in the summer I'd rather hike, and I do resistance work at home.
Resolved:I will not read the Toronto Sun while at Tim Horton's drinking my coffee. Or any other time. My blood pressure goes up when I look at the cover. But it's like the playboy magazines that my uncle used to stash in his outhouse - I can't not look. First I read an article about how the Ontario OPP commissioner threatened native activist Shawn Brant during a 2007 blockade. We know this now because a publication ban on evidence in his trial has finally been lifted - the OPP wiretapped his phones, and the calls were recorded. Then I read an opinion piece which branded Brant, and Omar Khadr as terrorists - both of them. And the columnist who wrote the opinion used every bigoted, biased word he could think of in the telling of his story.
For those of you who don't know, Khadr has been held at Guantanamo since 2002. He was captured at the age of 15. But for some reason, in spite of the fact that he was brainwashed and indoctrinated, he is not a child soldier. Another column in the same paper noted that Khadr should be grateful to the US government for providing him with three square meals a day, which he would not have gotten at home.
Can you see why my blood started boiling by the time I got to page 16? And then I closed it and put it back on the shelf, never to be held between my hands again. I'll read the Auto Trader in a bored moment before I pick up that rag again.
There was an amazing thunderstorm last night. I love storms. This one was particularly awesome, with the clouds building and darkening in the northwest for a long time before it broke. There were a few rumbles of thunder, and then the dog and I went out for a walk. We walked very quickly, and made it to the cemetery just at that magic moment when the wind suddenly starts to pick up. Just a bit, and then stronger. You know at that point that the rain will start any minute, but it's impossible to go in, not when the clouds are rolling and the thunder is rumbling in the air. When the drops started to fall we ran home and watched the storm from the front porch. I discovered yesterday that I can run. I haven't tried to run since I was in ninth grade.
The storm was heavy and quick, with rain and hail pounding the streets and my garden. Branches came down, and for only the second time in my life, I was strongly inclined to go to the basement. I would not be surprised to hear that a tornado touched down somewhere last night.
Today my sunflowers are intact, but all sitting at crazy angles. I've been accused of trying to grow a meadow in my front yard. I'd say that's fair. There is a cherry tree somewhere between the flowers, but it's too small to see.
I took my first beans out of the garden today. My garden is a princely 6 feet by 8 feet, which is literally all the room I have. We have a very small yard. I'd like a farm, someplace where I can actually grow enough to feed my family. But I still have three kinds of basil! And enough tomatoes to feed the neighbourhood.
Monday, July 21, 2008
the skin i'm in
I stepped on the scale this morning.
I weigh under 200 pounds for the first time in, like, forever.Seriously. I think I was probably over 200 for most of high school, certainly since having my first child almost 19 years ago.
I've lost 100 pounds in 9 1/2 months.
Okay, breathe.
It's exciting and euphoric and scary as hell. I look good. The problem is that most of the time when I look in the mirror, I don't recognize the person looking back. Who is she, this woman who actually has shape, who has decided that she's not going to hide anymore?
Well, she used to look like this:
And now she looks like this:
When I thought, a year ago, about what I might look like, I figured I'd look like me, only smaller. With wrinkly, old skin because your skin, they tell you, might be loose when you lose the weight. That didn't happen, probably because I've been working with weights. I have curve, and definition. My hair got curly instead of falling out. My skin is clear. You can see my eyes. I've lost two cup sizes and have gone from a 24/26 to a 14/16.
Like I said, sometimes I don't recognize myself.
I thought I knew what I signed up for when I had the surgery - I thought I was prepared for the emotional changes that weight loss would bring.
I wasn't.
More than a year ago, the sisters in my coven and I went on a weekend away, to a cottage on Georgian Bay, to hang out, eat, do ritual, bond a little more. At least that was the idea. It mostly worked. Except that I have a very thin skin when it comes to a few things, and I took exception to what one of my lovely sisters was telling me, in her effort to be honest, to draw me out.
"You're a hider", she told me. "When I read your words, I think "wordsmith." When I talk to you, it's like your someone else entirely, that you've hidden yourself so well that you might never come out. And what I'd really like is for the person who's inside to come out and play for a little while."
Naturally, I took great umbrage over what she had to say. Why can't I have a different writing voice? Of course I'm not as interesting in person as I am through my words. Who is?
The thing is, she was right.
I've never been comfortable in my own skin, not since I was an abused child, not since I was confused, very early on, about my own identity. I didn't want the skin, didn't want the shape, didn't want to be noticed. I hid behind my weight, behind my books, behind a curtain of overpowering shyness that was close to some kind of social aphasia. Over the years, I learned social skills, small talk, how to dial a phone and talk to someone, how to meet new people without experiencing overwhelming anxiety. But I hid the most important parts of me away from just about everyone. I told myself pretty lies about how I was comfortable with who I was. It took extreme physical discomfort to realize that if I wanted to live, I had to actually live. Take the risk of losing the pounds that protected me and isolated me.
And food numbed me out. When you don't want to feel, when you're afraid of experiencing the full range of human emotions because you just might feel pain, food is a great way to go. It numbs you and it helps you hide. it makes you invisible. It physically satisfies you. Now when I have eaten too much, I don't like the numb sensation that goes along with it. I eat less in order to avoid it. But a year ago, I couldn't stop, even though I could barely make it around the block and my knees wouldn't support my body weight anymore.
I wasn't making a conscious decision to change all of this when I had the surgery last October. But subconsciously, I think I knew.
And coming out (or starting to) was definitely a conscious decision. I don't know where it will lead. I'm willing to take the risks, in order to experience the things I have been missing all along. I have a feeling that another year from now I will have experienced even greater, more powerful changes. Maybe I'll fall in love.
Maybe I'll be able to tell people that my first real love was a girl I met when I was a camp counselor in high school.
Maybe I will be even more open to touch than I am now.
Maybe I will finally be comfortable in the skin I'm in.
I'm willing to move from my safe, comfortable and emotionally dry hiding spot, and take the risks that will lead me to new, strange, wonderful places.
At last.
I weigh under 200 pounds for the first time in, like, forever.Seriously. I think I was probably over 200 for most of high school, certainly since having my first child almost 19 years ago.
I've lost 100 pounds in 9 1/2 months.
Okay, breathe.
It's exciting and euphoric and scary as hell. I look good. The problem is that most of the time when I look in the mirror, I don't recognize the person looking back. Who is she, this woman who actually has shape, who has decided that she's not going to hide anymore?
Well, she used to look like this:
And now she looks like this:
When I thought, a year ago, about what I might look like, I figured I'd look like me, only smaller. With wrinkly, old skin because your skin, they tell you, might be loose when you lose the weight. That didn't happen, probably because I've been working with weights. I have curve, and definition. My hair got curly instead of falling out. My skin is clear. You can see my eyes. I've lost two cup sizes and have gone from a 24/26 to a 14/16.
Like I said, sometimes I don't recognize myself.
I thought I knew what I signed up for when I had the surgery - I thought I was prepared for the emotional changes that weight loss would bring.
I wasn't.
More than a year ago, the sisters in my coven and I went on a weekend away, to a cottage on Georgian Bay, to hang out, eat, do ritual, bond a little more. At least that was the idea. It mostly worked. Except that I have a very thin skin when it comes to a few things, and I took exception to what one of my lovely sisters was telling me, in her effort to be honest, to draw me out.
"You're a hider", she told me. "When I read your words, I think "wordsmith." When I talk to you, it's like your someone else entirely, that you've hidden yourself so well that you might never come out. And what I'd really like is for the person who's inside to come out and play for a little while."
Naturally, I took great umbrage over what she had to say. Why can't I have a different writing voice? Of course I'm not as interesting in person as I am through my words. Who is?
The thing is, she was right.
I've never been comfortable in my own skin, not since I was an abused child, not since I was confused, very early on, about my own identity. I didn't want the skin, didn't want the shape, didn't want to be noticed. I hid behind my weight, behind my books, behind a curtain of overpowering shyness that was close to some kind of social aphasia. Over the years, I learned social skills, small talk, how to dial a phone and talk to someone, how to meet new people without experiencing overwhelming anxiety. But I hid the most important parts of me away from just about everyone. I told myself pretty lies about how I was comfortable with who I was. It took extreme physical discomfort to realize that if I wanted to live, I had to actually live. Take the risk of losing the pounds that protected me and isolated me.
And food numbed me out. When you don't want to feel, when you're afraid of experiencing the full range of human emotions because you just might feel pain, food is a great way to go. It numbs you and it helps you hide. it makes you invisible. It physically satisfies you. Now when I have eaten too much, I don't like the numb sensation that goes along with it. I eat less in order to avoid it. But a year ago, I couldn't stop, even though I could barely make it around the block and my knees wouldn't support my body weight anymore.
I wasn't making a conscious decision to change all of this when I had the surgery last October. But subconsciously, I think I knew.
And coming out (or starting to) was definitely a conscious decision. I don't know where it will lead. I'm willing to take the risks, in order to experience the things I have been missing all along. I have a feeling that another year from now I will have experienced even greater, more powerful changes. Maybe I'll fall in love.
Maybe I'll be able to tell people that my first real love was a girl I met when I was a camp counselor in high school.
Maybe I will be even more open to touch than I am now.
Maybe I will finally be comfortable in the skin I'm in.
I'm willing to move from my safe, comfortable and emotionally dry hiding spot, and take the risks that will lead me to new, strange, wonderful places.
At last.
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