Are you a painter? A wisher? A magic bean counter?

If you are a dreamer, come in

If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar, a hoper, a prayer, a magic-bean-buyer.  If you’re a pretender, come sit by my fire, for we have some flax-golden tales to spin. Come in! Come in!

–Shel Silverstein


Hump day writings

Fat clothes.

We all have them. For me the fat clothes represent so much. At there worse, they represent defeat. I didn’t win the battle of the bulge. In my kinder moments, the represent new goals.

Last year, thanks to the chemo diet, i lost a ton of weight. I think it was close to 40lbs.  Clothes were falling off of me. I could walk into the GAP and not dread finding a pair of pants. Internally, i would mock the plus size catalogs that i still came to the house. As i revamped my wardrobe, i spent a lot of time thinking about what to do with my fat clothes. Do i keep them? Is keeping them sending a signal to the universe that i wanted them back one day? If i donate them, then will be annoyed if i need them? Back and forth. Keep. Get rid of them.

I believed that i would never get fat again. Here, G-d gave me a free pass to get healthy and all i had to do was maintain it.

A funny thing happen. It turns out when you don’t eat (near the end of treatment there was so little i could tolerate without having stomach issues. I missed food so much) as soon as you can tolerate it, you lose all control. Like so many times in the past, i would have this line of thinking

“Oh, just this pig out today. One day isn’t going to hurt anything.” And then i would have the dreaded thought, “Tomorrow,i’ll be good.” Oh, and i still would have stomach issues. For some reason, despite my body saying STOP IT i was able to ignore it. Maybe it was my way of being pissy towards my body. With each binge, perhaps i was saying, ‘dude. YOU turned on me. YOU forgot to do YOUR job. Screw you.” Well guess who has the last word?

I am fourth months since my last treatment. My weight is basically back to were it was before i got diagnosis. I gained it all back. Fuck.

I thought that, since i was going to be weighed every 3 months at my check-ins that would be motivation to keep me honest.

So, here i am. Back to hating my body. Back to feeling my thighs rub together when i wear a skirt or a dress. Back to saying the little prayer ‘please fit, please fit’ as i put on a pair of pants. Back to feeling like i’m to fat to sit in a chair and wondering if those around me notice. Back to being so fucking angry at myself. How did i do this? I keep on saying–to myself and to anyone that will listen (mainly the husband) –i need a plan. Endlessly, i talk about how i want to eat better. I want to follow the micheal pollen approach towards food. Yet, have i read the book? Have i just started to do it? Yes and no. It’s all very half-ass.

I toy with the idea of doing a program like Jenny Craig or the like. I know the weight will come off (if it isn’t clear, this is not my first weight rodeo). The husband and i even talked about it. And i always get back to wanting to do it on my own. I don’t want to diet.  Maybe i’m in some weird denial, but i feel in my gut that diets don’t work for me. I mean, look at me. If diets worked–i wouldn’t be at this weight. Or is that just some fucked up logic, because i don’t want to do the work?

I do know this. I don’t want feel deprive. I don’t want always be thinking about food. The monkey chatter that occurs regarding food–it’s just exhausting. I want to live my life and food has it’s rightful place.

Early this week i listened to Isabel Fox’s vlog. In this vlog she invites viewers to ask themselves, what are the fat feelings really about. Duh. But, what stuck with me was that she posed this question: What else could you be thinking about right now? She followed that question with this: is there something going on that is making you feel anxious, nervous (and there is a third one which i can’t think of…)

Since then, i have started to adopt these questions. Particularly, the first one. When i am finding myself obsessing about food. “what to eat. i shouldn’t eat that. oh for fuck sake, i’m already back in the fat clothes, for dinner you will just eat a salad and on and on” i just asked myself, what can i  think of right now, instead of all of this. By asking myself this, i feel a awareness. Will it be the road to thin? No idea. Frankly seems to easy. But, it feels like a better start.

The cradle

I was going to delete all of my past posts-start fresh. But you know what? They aren’t half bad. So, they will stay.

The other evening the small human was melting. It was a long day and despite being almost 6, the witching hour is still very much in effect in our house. He was upset about something (truly can’t remember it now). When he gets upset, my extinct is to pull him up on my lap, have him rest his head on my chest and rock. He normally doesn’t oblige. And frankly, he doesn’t really fit. His legs, hang off. His feet dangle. His head doesn’t naturally fit on my chest like it use to. But this time, it all seemed to work and while he was in my lap we were able to have a wonderful talk. We did this for what seemed like eternity. Rocking, talking, giggling. I felt important. I felt successful. I felt joy.

Writing Prompt/Night

(This writing prompt is from Mama Kats)


I use to love sleep. I would relish it. My childhood bed was firm and cozy at the same time. I don’t remember ever having issues with sleep. The night was safe. The night brought peace and dreams.

When i went to college, i also don’t remember issues with the night. I had a few all-nighters but they were few and far between. My love affair with sleep continued. In my first apartment, I made my bedroom somewhat of an oasis. I had soft Laura Ashely sheets, with a mostiquo nest over the bed. I took blankets from home–one orange and black–clearly so very 1970s. I loved it because it connected me to my grandfather. The other blanket, was black and had a clown on it. Thinking of it now, the clown was more scary than cute. It screamed early 1990s. My mattress was cozy and the pillows were fluffy.

Throughout my married life, night continued to be my friend. I would sleep solid. I was indifferent to the night. It was there and it was fine.

Then came motherhood. One of the clearest moments is being up with the baby, the rest of the house was asleep–dog and husband. I was awake. The baby was awake. I felt rage. I felt trapped. I sat in the rocking chair, looking out to the dark. I hated that everyone was asleep. I decided that by 5 am, i could no longer be angry as half of the country was awake.

There are times that the night brings me anxiety. I hate the idea of being up, while the rest of the house is awake. There is nothing more lonely.  And because i fear being awake, i keep myself up with this fear. Over the years i have created horrible sleep habits (like watching tv, late into the night).

The peaceful night. This is my missing piece.