I am the fat girl running.

I sort of want to write this deep meaningful thing about being fat and getting back to running, but mostly, I just want to grin from ear to ear.  I want to smile, and jump up and down (scratch that, my knees couldn’t do that) and scream at the top of my lungs that I am fast, super fast, super awesome, and I am going to kick ass, repeatedly.

Today, after years, years, of not doing it, of thinking I couldn’t do it, of recovering from surgeries, planned and unplanned.  After years of babies, then toddlers who didn’t sleep. Years after I got my act together and lost a lot of weight, enough to reduce my risk and lead to a healthy pregnancy with a big ass healthy baby, I may just be doing it again.

I fear writing that.  I have thought I was there, thought I was back on track again, only to fail.  I let other shit get in my way, let my own brain hurt my chances and I gave up, too quickly.

Who knows, maybe it will happen again.  Maybe I will get sick, maybe I will get depressed and eat ice cream instead of running.  But now, right now, in this moment, I need to enjoy this.  I need to celebrate this, I need to feel like I’m winning.

I haven’t felt like that very much lately. I haven’t felt like I was even getting a little ahead.  I felt behind, and falling fast.  I had to remind myself, multiple times a day, that it wouldn’t last, that dark clouds move on, that things get better.

I remember now, what running, what getting faster feels like.  Before it feels like old joints, and sore muscles, it feels like struggle and then triumph.

I am so very very grateful for where I live, just blocks off of some of the most awesome (and relatively hill free) running trails in the city.  I am grateful for every smile and hello from people on the trails (the teenage boys that grin back sort of make my day).  I grateful for the good shoes I can afford that I am sure have helped me out.  I grateful for spandex, seriously.  The compression tights I got may be life changing because I can tell I am recovering better.  I am grateful for the chance to do this.  To show my girls that fitness happens at any size.  I am grateful that one of them is old enough to do races with me, even silly ones in costumes.

I am so very happy that I am able to do this and that it is helping me.

 

Posted in All About Me, Fitness, Shredheads | 2 Comments

I like to Rick-Roll myself

I recently redid my running/exercising music list.  I am pretty sure MTV is to blame.  I watched the VMA’s because I like to watch train wrecks followed by Beyonce’ (seriously, how cute was her daughter and husband?), and ended up downloading a bunch of current pop music.  I won’t even apologize for the Taylor Swift, given what I saw, she is pretty much the best thing current I can play for the kids.

In the course of the downloads, Apple suggested I get some Rick Astley.  So I did.  So now when I am out huffing and puffing and jogging slower than a fast walker, I occasionally get Rick-Rolled. It makes me giggle.

I wish I wasn’t always at war with myself, struggling with self hatred and my desire to just be a bad ass who doesn’t give a fuck.  I think I am getting better, but there are days, when it seems like I can’t win.  If a little goofy music (I also have a little Right Set Fred and Spice Girls in the mix) can help me remember that life isn’t as serious as it feels sometimes, then that is a small price to pay.  (like six bucks on iTunes for all of the silly really).

 

 

 

 

 

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Funk

“I just want to have fun again!”

The moment I said it, I knew it was one of those universal parenting truths that you think, but that should never pass your lips.  Like “I miss being able to go more than two hours without peeing.”

Some days I wonder if I was really cut out for being parent, like somehow the universe got it wrong and maybe my my PCOS should have meant no kids and I should be vacationing in Europe right now.  I know that this is passing, that the funk I’m in won’t last forever and being a mom will be fun again.  Right now though, I totally get how some moms can just walk away from their kids.

I’ve been in a funk since before my birthday.  I sort of figured that it would all be better in September.  So far I’m zero for one.  I am sure that it doesn’t help that my therapist is on maternity leave until January.

 

 

Posted in Crazy, Family | 2 Comments

I should be writing about my relationship with my father….

So I tried writing about race and realized that I have already said everything before.  I mean, I have things to say, I just need to figure out what the hell they are.

What I really need write about though is the crap with my dad.  Because I promised my therapist I would.

Recently my dad was interviewed by my hometown paper.  Talking about the impact of MST (Military Sexual Trauma) on him, on his life, and his dealings with the VA.  It is a great, it is powerful to talk about something that doesn’t make the news, but that impacts so many.  It is so good that it is getting out there.

There is something missing though.  There nothing, not one fucking word, about how he fucked up my life, my brother’s life, my mom’s life.  It is nothing but a goddamn ego stroke to him. Nothing about how his PTSD left me with anxiety, unable to handle confrontation without cowering.   Nothing about how as a child I tiptoed around my own house at night for fear of him waking up and yelling, screaming, calling names, belittling me.  Nothing about how he would try to make it better with shallow gestures that I thought were meaningful until the next time.

He posted it on facebook and was met with oo’s and ahh’s about how brave he is, and it took everything, all of my self control, to not tell his adoring fans to fuck off.

I spent a long time trying to convince myself that everyone had a crappy childhood.  That we were all just lying to each other about how good things were, how it really sucked.

Now that I’m older, I’m done lying about it.   I just want it acknowledged.  As publicly as he is willing to talk about his MST & PTSD.  I want a “I have PTSD, my CO raped me, and I fucked up my kids because of it”. That seems fair.

It isn’t going to cure my anxiety.  It isn’t going to make my fear of confrontation go away.  It is going to make the panic attacks stop.  It isn’t going to magically make me happy.  But it matters to me.  Maybe if his talking about his experience can help other vets, then maybe his being honest about being an asshole can help some other kid who had a dad who blew up at nothing, who verbally abused them.

I know I’m all over the map about it, but I have to get it out.  Because I can’t tell him to piss off, that he should be talking about what he did.

I’m trying to have compassion.  But still balance my need to figure out my own mental health, with the fact that I am realistic about how he’s going to likely be the first grandparent to go.  How it matters to me that my kids know him, this new him, the one I didn’t get.

All I wanted him to say was yes, he was hurt, and because he was hurt, he hurt other people to.  Because it being all about him still is just too much like tiptoeing around as kid.

Posted in but it needs to be said., Crazy, Family | 1 Comment