Reining it in

I love that my hair is long enough to pull up into the perfect messy bun.  No strays or stragglers.

I love that I opened this window on my left side and a burst of warm summer wind hit me in the face like a pleasant surprise.

I love that my Pandora is playing all the songs I like so I don’t have to waste any skips.

I love that my dog always knows just when I need her to snuggle up against me and be my friend.

I love that my babies are running through my house having fun despite me yelling at them to knock it off.

I know I will miss their mess and noise someday and I only need a moment of intentional gratitude to sober me.

I love that when I stop and take notice, I am overwhelmed with things to say thank you for.

The hardest thing about being a realist is that you’re really only a pessimist in disguise.

To halt myself from traveling down the familiar gloomy tracks and force instead a stroll down a brighter path…

Well, I’m more comfortable sitting in the shade.

My disappointment hangs from my body,

heavy and always inconvenient.

Protecting me from pain but hard to ignore…and if I’m being honest it only makes it worse.

But I am told to be in the light as He is in the light…

and I was.

Spent the fullness of time feeling welcomed and alive.

Now here we are again, and back to being the last resort.

Wasn’t quite ready to come home to the norm.

I have amends to make and bridges to burn, like calories…and we all know how good I am at that.

Frames and galleries of words that crowd my heart, and the space is getting limited in these chambers.

Bolted with hardware and welded to my arteries.

This kind of blockage requires a skilled surgeon.

Blood pumping through paths I’ve carved out to survive.

A masterpiece.
A bypass of emotion.

Today is a new day that has been made for my gain,

taking a new route and a fresh way.

I will choose gratitude.

What other choice do I have?!

I love that I have mastered the art of coming full circle, even when it seems pointless.

I love that a deep breath and honest words can set my focus strait.

I love that I will turn off this computer and leave the tears behind and get back to living.

Excuse my ramblings today. I just needed to rein it in.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Poem for You

It’s Dave Matthews weather again and no one knows that more than me, but you.

My heart curls up in a sour knot because I know you are far away.

Don’t you know that things aren’t right without you?

The world keeps moving, plans are made.

And still, you are missing.

What helps mend the bond that has been torn?

Turning each of us into beasts.

Who are we when we lose our minds to rage?

Scared and afraid to lose our grips and cause more pain.

I miss you.

Just down the road, but a million miles away and ten thousand apologies apart.

How do you speak what can not be said?

 

Recognitions can be dealt, but it falls flat.

Corrections can be made, but they seem empty.

Words meant to soften,
are received sharp, and quick like a knife.

 

Of course, instrumental solos are our native language.

So, lets reconcile to the sounds of violins and saxophones.

Lets remember the trumpets and horns.

Lets close our eyes and listen carefully to the details that elude us in conversation.

Appreciate what always weaves us back together

 

 

 

 

Realology

 

 
The real me.

I don’t think you can handle the real me.I don’t think I can handle the real me, which is why I spend so much time and energy trying to dress, suppress and cover.

The real me keeps up with Kardashians and enjoys every ignorant drop of pop-culture, and  I know you do too…or they wouldn’t be rich. We all watch.  The real me has been known to set the DVR…don’t want to miss any rubbish.  The real me watches all the awards shows, red carpets and live coverage even though I pretend like I’m above it.

The real me sings “laa laa laa laa, wait till I get my money right” while I type this.  Because sometimes, the real me listens to some dirty, filthy rap and hip hop.

It’s poetry.

I love it.

Can’t help it.

I’m jealous of it.  Its art.

It is.

It’s real and raw and I can’t help but appreciate.

The real me has the mouth of a sailor. I try not to, but sometimes…you just gotta…I’m tired of pretending I don’t.

I have the sense of humor of 8 fraternity brothers.  Every damn lewd thing under the sun I think is hilarious and it’s probably extremely inappropriate.

The REAL me likes a good love scene in a movie. You won’t catch me blushing or turning away.  Bring it on, I’m not afraid.  My husband has no complaints.  He knows the real, real me and luckily he loves me anyway.

The real me thinks its funny.

SO funny!

The real me can take a joke and surely throw one your way.  The real me will likely make fun of you, it’s an unfortunate self survival technique.  Because making fun of myself is what has kept me alive.  It has saved me.  It’s what I know..so I also know how to apologize.  They go hand in hand.

The real me likes to get tipsy every now and then when my kids aren’t around.  Tie one on and have a silly good time.  Sing oldies at the top of my lungs and laugh at everything.  I like a margarita or a simple beer…which is a sin nowadays.  Everyone is a beer snob and expert.  Maybe I’m just insecure and lame because I feel like the fancy beer tastes terrible.  The real me won’t care because if she drinks enough (which is rare) she likes to smoke a cigar.  The really sweet and cheap ones from the gas station.  The real, deep down me wont feel gross, guilty or in trouble…because she has nothing to hide.  

 

The real me knows..that God already knows.  

 

He already knows the real me that sneaks leftovers from the fridge when everyone is asleep.  An extra scoop here, a bite there.  The real me that over eats to stuff down the urge to go ahead and just be the real me, and let it all hang out.  The real me that loses battles against pastries, bagels,calories and food journals.  Clean eating plans that fall short despite how hard I try or how firm my resolve.   So I try, but I want to have my cake and eat it too..and show no evidence of it.

Don’t we all?

The real me questions God and the bible and if this whole thing isn’t just a big scam.

The real me wonders if I’ve been brainwashed all along.

The real me knows I can’t say these things out loud because (gasp) what would everyone think?

Well, the real me doesn’t need your prayers.

God is always here for me, however that works.  The real me knows that God is real and loves, even the real and raw hidden me.

 

The real me needed your true friendship …you know the kind that you thought you had already given to me and then bailed on when you found out that I was TOO much?

The real me has few real friends.. you wouldn’t approve of.

We laugh at crazy stuff and talk about the dark things that crowd the soul with the practice of keeping them silent…but when they reach the light of day the power hold they had on me fall to the ground like a pile of rusty chains.

Hold on, there’s more.

The real me likes to be alone, but its hard to do things alone.

The real me wishes she could beg for help but she wont because shes prideful.  So,so, so prideful.

I’d rather die than ask you for help again.  Ever again.

The real me wishes I could say that to your face but I wont.  I know that deep down, the real me isn’t that polite.  The real me would shrug and keep walking because the real me doesn’t pretend like everythings fine. The real me is so damn tired of taking the fall.  So tired of taking the blame .  So tired of being responsible. So tired of being at fault.

But the real me cant say that out loud.  We must always keep up appearances.

 

The real me has secrets and regrets.

Darkness. Beyond what you could even imagine.

The real me has carried it a long time.

The real me is so sorry,  You wouldn’t believe how sorry! I could never express. It’s buried too deep.  But the real me is on her way to freedom.  Digging these old things up and letting them go.  So, let go and just let the real me hang on out there…good, bad and ugly, this is what it is.

We’ll see whose still standing here after.

We are all liars, thieves and pretenders.

What would be the harm if we just sat in our discomfort and exposed who really are and what we really feel?

So lets just get real.

Realology.

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Greatness awaits!

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My daughter stepped on the scale in my bathroom today while I was cleaning. It was a golden moment from the heavens that I almost missed by being distracted by my own thoughts and busyness.

She stepped on it and said,”Ok mama, let’s see how great I am!”

What.

The.

Heck.

My face still might be slightly numb.
Seriously.
Men may not get this post, but I know women will.

For many of us ladies, the scale represents so many vile things. It boasts the measurement of our worth (or so we’ve learned from somewhere) and it doesn’t lie, right? It can’t be tricked or cheated like the number that we’ve put on our drivers licenses. The scale will expose all of your secret rendezvous with the drive thru, the left overs and the chocolate chip cookies that you thought were safe from the public eye, late in the night.

For me, the scale has been an electric source of regular shame and resentment of myself. A constant pang of disappointment and a truly humiliating reality check of my life as a fat woman.

Not that I would need any help with that. There are plenty of places to look if you want to be “fat shamed”. The internet is riddled with people upset by the mere sight of fat people. How dare we wander into the light of day? How dare we try to dress in whatever might fit and try to run errands or go grocery shopping for our families? Obviously, obscene obese people in public have put themselves out there to be a public mockery, right? They deserve to have strangers secretly take their pictures and post them up on public forums to ridicule and judge them without mercy, right?

Even the “positive” and “motivating” messages and memes can sting a little. “Thinspiration” has become an actual thing. Pinterest boards are wrought with sayings like,” sweat is your fat crying” or “pain is fat crying”. “These burpees and push-ups will make your fat cry”.

Boo.

Why is it that I’m supposed to wanna make my fat cry?

Sounds weird.

Sounds like more hate.
I’m tired of all the hate!
And, I’m damn sure sick of crying!
Leave people alone!

Actually, I’d love for my fat to just politely excuse itself, apologize for lingering so long, and be on its way.
Put that on your Pinterest.

Yeah right!

I know it takes hard work and discipline to be healthy. I’m trying everyday to get there. It’s a long road, but health is my goal. I’m NOT one of these “fat acceptance” gals. I do not accept being unhealthy and miserable. I do not accept self loathing. I do not believe that anyone who is over weight (especially REALLY overweight like me) can be 100% happy with themselves.

Sorry.
I don’t buy that baloney for one second.

It hurts. It’s actually, physically uncomfortable and causes pain. It’s hard to move and do the things you want. It’s embarrassing. I don’t believe that fat is fabulous.
But, I’m beginning to believe you can be fabulous while being fat…and loving yourself regardless of what your struggling through, and that is what I am trying to learn.

That is why, what my daughter said today was so golden.

It’s not because the number on the scale should measure how “great” we are…the subtle lesson was in her innocent approach to the whole thing. She’s not yet learned what “the scale” even means or represents. She’s not yet poisoned by the beauty=worth lie.

She just knows that she’s great.

She is great!

And I pray with all of my heart and soul that that is how it stays for her. That she would see herself as great no matter what comes her way or what challenges she will have to struggle through.

And may it start with me…because I know she is watching.

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An invalid writer is confronted with truth

I could possibly bore everyone I know with writing another unimportant blog post.
This fear has stunned me into a writing coma where I have slept for months,
waiting to feel a spark of inspiration that didn’t feel forced.

Why is it so quiet when it snows?
Is it because the cold hard truth makes you hold your breath and stand still?

Tell the truth?

Well here it is:

I want to make something meaningful.
Craft words and phrases of art.
Powerful.
Inspirational.

The point is to move souls…
Evoke motion…to see if anyone gets me?!
Really gets me?

Im just another copy cat, trying hard to lead the way.
At the end of the day, I just want to be someone important.
I want to be triumphant.
Beautiful.
Exciting.
I want an epic destiny.
I want to climb to the climax of this movie with a powerful score, and blow everyone’s minds with my tenacity.

How selfish, how selfish, how selfish.

The grip of control is tight with its counterfeit…and here I am again worried about me, me me.

My mind swirls with thoughts that are hard to package and share.
I guess thats why I’m a writer.

Lose myself to chance?
Ok.

Pen to paper spilling.
Pushing me to dig deeper.
Urging me forward and I’m forced to keep up.
Stumbling across the page with my words.

I fight against what comes naturally because that’s what good girls are taught to do.

When really, lets just get real…

I’d slice throats if I had to.
I’d steal if I thought God wouldn’t care.
My darkness is ever present.
Can’t trust my instinct because its always going to be sinful.

I’ve been paralyzed on this mat for a year.
Writhing in bitter pain and pity.
Laying here waiting for a miracle.

“Get up and walk.”

Warm light of love starting to thaw my frozen heart.

Praying that this time I’ll trust and obey,
to spring up off of this bed and be healed.


“One man was there who had been an invalid for thirty-eight years. When Jesus saw him lying there and knew that he had already been there a long time, he said to him, “Do you want to be healed?” The sick man answered him, “Sir, I have no one to put me into the pool when the water is stirred up, and while I am going another steps down before me.” Jesus said to him, “Get up, take up your bed, and walk.” And at once the man was healed, and he took up his bed and walked.” (John 5:5-9 ESV)

Truth dump

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I recently took a break from Facebook over the weekend.
So much happening around us, it’s hard being constantly bombarded with bad news and attitudes. I feel like my life and the lives around me are caught up in an intense tornado of chaos and drama.
Feeling like I need to be strong leaves me lonely sometimes.

I hate when I feel this way. I seem like such a whiner. Maybe that’s why I haven’t felt much like writing lately?
Pressing on despite how it feels.
It’s all exhausting.

Heavy lids.
Heavy limbs.
Heavy thoughts.
Lugging.
Feels like I need work done under the hood again.
Scrubbing.
Like I have thick molasses oil in my veins…
pulling me down into the melancholy resistance that keeps me…
Quiet.
Struggle.
Tired.
Fail.
Again and again and again.
Lord, rescue me from the despair of myself…again.
It hurts.
I distract.
I numb.
I sleep.
Wake up and repeat.
Depression is merciless.
It won’t let up.
Let up!
Give me a break!
I don’t want it to run off on others.
Contagious.
I know people with worse problems.
I’m not allowed to cry.
But today I fully feel all of my own tears.
Hot and revealing.
Can’t hide.

Telling the truth is hard work.

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Peace out!

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So I’ve decided to act on some come conviction I’ve been feeling lately revolving the amount of time I am spending online. It may be distracting me and keeping me from learning some deep lessons…or at least helps me avoid them REALLY well. I had been feeling like I needed to scale back on Facebook time but kept excusing my self because I just plain didn’t wanna. This remarkable video clip came to me and pressed in…

After that, it made me start to evaluate if I was “using” my online activity as an escape as much as I use food.

Yesterday, I could run no further from the truth after reading the BRILLIANT post by Glennon over at Momestary. Please please please read:

http://momastery.com/blog/2013/09/26/6-reasons-social-media-dangerous/

I made the decision last night that I am being called to lay down the “check-in” obsession and BE STILL.

I removed my Facebook app and Instagram apps from my phone but will still continue to blog and post my blog on the Realology page. Other than that, I’m on a freeze.

It’s hard to admit feeling out if control in this area! What about you? Is this something you struggle with?

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A few weeks ago…

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The following is a journal entry I wrote almost three weeks ago right before leaving for camp. I had been really struggling since my “sober” living had crashed and burned.
I had no intention of sharing this on my blog publicly, but I’ve been healing and learning such good things that in order to share in some of my joy you’d have to appreciate the depth of the REAL (gotta keep it real over here!) depression I was digging myself into:

I see myself in the reflection of my friends sunglasses and my heart sinks because it reminds me that I am much much bigger in real life than I think I am in my head.

Wow.
I really am THAT big?

The past few weeks have been the first time in my life I have felt different and actually fearful in public. People can be truly cruel and I am shocked sometimes by what people have the balls to say to my face. At least have the decency to laugh behind my back.
I am terrified of my upcoming camp and family reunion commitments but at this point I cant get out of either of them.

Timidness is an interesting feeling as an extrovert, not a feeling I have been accustomed to. It seems a new level of social anxiety has set in.
I feel paranoid constantly that someone’s cell phone is turning me into a fat person gif.

Gulping down (no pun intended) the harsh reality that the things I used to get away with as a “normal fat girl” (like squeezing into booths, behind steering wheels and movie theater seats) are becoming almost impossible as the obese (morbidly, technically) woman I have allowed myself to become. I am quickly running out of things I can get away with. It is so frustrating because each attempt at weight loss seems to only catapult me into a new level of miserable fat-ness. Gaining more weight and losing only hope.

Outings out with family are more and
more unpleasant because I know I am an embarrassment. We went strolling about for my sisters birthday a few days ago and I couldn’t wait to get back to the car.

That isn’t me!!

I grow more understanding of recluses who hide away in their homes with each jaunt out. I understand what motivates people to stow away inside dark rooms enjoying the relationships they’ve made with television characters because they are one sided and can’t look at you with condescending sympathy. People look, gawk and stare in real life. It’s much less awkward and painful just to stay home. My hubs thinks I’m paranoid…but he just doesn’t know the reality of the harassment I’ve encountered.
I’m glad he doesn’t.
It would be that much more shameful.

My bones are groaning for a change.

My time is running out before my
body starts to turn on me. The person I am on the inside is full of energy and life and doesn’t match this person I’ve become on the outside.

This isn’t me.

31 years old is too old to be tempting fate. My peeps need me.
My hearts desperate prayer is to put an end to this madness and be the version of me I am supposed to be.

So why do I continually find myself getting worse and worse?

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Why “Life of Pi” is a must watch for the spiritual traveler

“Even when God seemed to have abandoned me, he was watching. Even when he seemed indifferent to my suffering, he was watching. And when I was beyond all hope of saving, he gave me rest. Then he gave me a sign to continue my journey.”
– Pi Patel, Life of Pi

I have been haunted by the movie “Life of Pi” since I watched it a few nights ago. It was a beautiful movie just to look at but the content embedded within the story I found to be equally as beautiful. It has been out for quite awhile now, so I think it’ll be safe to talk about, but in case you haven’t yet seen it I’ll announce a *spoiler alert* just in case.

The movie begins with an adult Pi settling in to share his story with a young writer who is promised that by hearing…he would surely believe in God. He starts with sharing that as boy he had spent a great amount of time reconciling his faith between three different religions. Hinduism, Christianity and Islam. Finding value in all three and eventually taking nuggets of each as a foundation of his own faith. He says,” I came to faith through Hinduism, and I found God’s love through Christ. But God wasn’t finished with me yet. God works in mysterious ways, and so it was he introduced himself again. This time by the name of Allah. — Allāhu Akbar. My Arabic was never very good, but the sound and feel of the words brought me closer to God. In performing salah (prayer), the ground I touched became holy ground, and I found a feeling of serenity and brotherhood…Faith is a house with many rooms.”
The Young writer asks,”But no room for doubt?”
“Oh plenty, on every floor. Doubt is useful, it keeps faith a living thing. After all, you cannot know the strength of your faith until it is tested.” He replies.

Essentially, the movie then tells two stories of what happens to an adolescent Pi after being the only human surviving a ship wreck. The longer version that he narrates takes up most of the movie and is full of adventure, sharing a boat with an adult bengal tiger, stunning beauty, courage and overcoming the intense difficulty of loss and loneliness that he had to face at sea. When he is finally rescued, the investigators having to find an official cause for the sunken ship have a hard time believing his story. They reject it completely. So, he ends up telling them another story that parallels much of the first but with more realistic and dark details. The movie ends with the open ended question of which story was true? Had he only shared the second story to tell them what he thought they wanted to hear? Was the first story a figment of his imagination to help him deal with the harsh realities of what he had gone through? As the movie came to a close, the adult Pi asked the young writer with whom he was sharing which story he preferred. The young writer answers as I’m sure most of us would,” The one with the tiger, thats the better story. ” And Pi answers,” Thank you. And so it goes with God.”

I interpreted that as meaning that we can look at our lives and circumstances in many ways, perspective can make or break us. I think the same is true with God. We all look at God in many ways. Some can see Him as guiding us and aiding us through the storms in our lives, providing beauty and rest in between the difficulty to Him being indifferent or even non-existant. Some have even been taught to see him as wrathful and disgusted with us, only merely tolerating some of whom he has chosen to glorify himself. As a Christian, I found this struggle with faith to be a fascinating theme throughout the movie. Probably more so at this time in my life because I could resonate so well with Pi and his struggle of seeking the truth of his faith. He had many different influences but his character never stopped genuinely seeking God. It was very moving to me.

I have gotten myself into some trouble for using the word “interpretation” when discussing my own faith with well intentioned peeps. It seems that sometimes in church culture there is no room to stretch out and examine these kinds of thoughts. I think sometimes we all forget that we are all working out our faith in fear and trembling from drastically different points of view. I think that God is big enough to handle that.
I guess the big lesson learned for me in all of this is to be as respectful of other peoples spiritual journeys as I would want them to be towards mine. I ought not to make judgements or assumptions about things that aren’t my business. My business should be about loving people as Jesus commanded, “I give you a new commandment: that you love one another, just as I have loved you, so you too should love one another. By this shall everyone know that you are My disciples, if you love one another.” (John 13:34-35) I also mustn’t rely on other peoples interpretations of an experience I am having first hand. God created me to view him through my eyes and my heart and the perspective is mine alone.
Fortunately for me, my view just keeps getting bigger and bigger.

Why I am not a mommy blogger

I have resisted the term “mommy blogger”.

I kind of hate it.

Not that I have anything against “mommy bloggers”, I just don’t want to be labeled one. But then I have to ask myself why? Is it because I feel the term leaves so much out about who these women might be as human beings? Maybe, knowing all my inadequacies keeps me from feeling worthy to dub myself as such, implying some sort of expertise in the field…which I am far from?

Perhaps? Who knows.

It makes me sound like a jerk for insinuating that there might be more to a woman than just her being a “mommy”. (GASP!) Many of the faith based mommy blogs are so…well…sweet.
They are nice.
Lovely.
They are perfectly color coordinated. They are filled with triumphs as moms and tender accounts of motherhood. And it seems, all of them beaming with spiritual maturity. Some women find these inspirational, I find them to be more of bright gleaming light on my insufficiencies, stained carpets and frumpy clothes.
I am not well put together or polished. I have dirty dishes and unidentified smells going on around here. (My project after writing this post, lucky me.) No matter how hard I try, I am not organized or scheduled. I sometimes long to be. This could very well be my aversion to the “mommy blog” world. That perfectly cleaned, frosted and accessorized realm of the Internet that bids the “mommy” to come on in and have a cup of coffee while we swap some tips on how to be awesome?

I’m just not invited to that party.
I’d have nothing to wear.
My attempts at making hand made invitations to perfectly themed birthday parties to impress my friends lasted about 2 1/2 years or so…my poor second child will never know of these sorts of grand affairs and she is perfectly content with her Walmart birthday cakes, thank you very much.
My scrapbooks? Don’t even ask.

The truth is I am a mommy and I also am (for whatever its worth) a blogger.

I have talked very openly here about my battle with food addiction/recovery and self esteem. Sharing this process of learning how to genuinely love myself and be kind to myself. (Still working on that one!) I’ve grappled with beauty and body issues. And YES, I’ve confessed much about my efforts as a mommy and a wife.
But also as a sister, friend and daughter.
I want evaluate my life for REALS and look upon my friendships and relationships in a real way. In hopes of growth.
Not just because I am a mom, but because I am a human being trying to get it right with this one life I get to live.

Throughout all of this I’ve been constantly examining my faith. Steadily combing out all of these different layers of my life with fine toothed bristles of honesty, especially where my faith is concerned. If there is anything I can say about myself, it is that I DO NOT want to be a phony. This might put some people off…but this is REALOLOGY, so we gotsta keep it real.

I was set free recently and resonated with Rachel Held Evans when she wrote in her book, A Year of Biblical Womanhood, “As a Christian, my highest calling is not motherhood; my highest calling is to follow Christ.”

Wow. Stop.

That’s all I really need to hear to get me through the rest of this day. What a wonderful reminder that despite all of the different denominations and camps…controversies, interpretations and commentaries and yes, even bloggers, there is but one thing I am called to as a woman of faith…

Jesus replied, “‘You must love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your soul, and all your mind.’ This is the first and greatest commandment. A second is equally important: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’”
(Matthew 22:37-39 NLT)

Love God.
Love people.
Love myself.

Okie dokie.

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#mygirl was the official photographer for my club @anytimefitness_northreno free workout event today...she got some great action shots and video...but this sneaky selfie she took is my fave.  #mybaby #mydaughter❤️ #thosefreckles

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