RBRZ: It's just a Picture

 I grew up around pictures, with access to albums of photos taken by my grandfather, and lived next door to him where there was a photography studio on the 3rd floor of his house. My grandmother's house too, not just his, but he was the one who was all about photography. I think 30 years of pictures for House Beautiful, now showcased at the Huntington Library in LA, has always been a source of pride for me. And I remember being a young child, happy to be in front of his camera, happy to be spending time with him and feeling important because of his attention.

So why the life long aversion to being in pictures? When did it start? There are a couple of things that come to mind. An unflattering (to my eyes) photo of myself in an Ad that showed what a tomboy I was. No where was the feminine creature I thought girls should be. I must have been about 11, and I think I remember the photoshoot, and being happy, and the let down when I saw the picture. Back then digital wasn't even on the horizon, and I didn't see the results until he brought a pamphlet home with the picture. Me standing on a beautiful lush round lawn of green, looking for all the world like a dorky preteen. Even now remembering back, it's hard to find love for that young girl.

And then it occurs to me to look at this again, through the eyes of a child who has been molested, and is trying to look unappealing. Was I old enough at 11 to have put up a defense of appearance? It must have been around the same time; the memory of dancing naked on the bed and someone, my mother?, opening the bedroom door and telling us to put our clothes on. And then the separating of bedrooms, my brother next door and us girls rooming together. Of course the door between the rooms was a beautiful wood sliding door with no lock, so that must have been effective. (sarcasm?)  Anyway, most of my memories of molestation are from Summers at the lake.

Summers at the lake, I lived for them, and along with the bad stuff, there was so much good that maybe I just became really good at burying the bad. Because to lose one would be to lose the other?  Swimming, skiing, volleyball, and most of all the sailing, these were my joys. Lying in the sun, listening to the clink of the chains that moored the dock to the beach, these are the memories that give me comfort, this is one of the places I can go to meditate, the wind whispering to me from the tall tops of the pine trees. I could cry for missing these things.

But somewhere in there I began hiding from the camera. I remember standing in front of the tall mirror on the back of the bathroom door and admiring my form, my tan lines, my flat stomach. And then a memory of being back in the city, and standing on my mother's scale, and being appalled that I was 135 pounds. Hindsight being what it is I know that I was trim and athletic, full of lean muscle from always being outdoors, but at the time my perspective was not clear nor compassionate. How many of us looked a Twiggy and knew we would never be...good enough?

But I keep straying from where I wanted to go this morning, why the aversion to pictures? Because our first instructions in the BLE Reboot Rezoom include taking a picture of where we are when starting the class. And my rebel was in front and center asking why. And sort of nudging her aside is the part of me that wants to do this right, that wants to follow the coach whom I admire and respect. So even if it's kicking and screaming I am going to do it. Well, I am going to try, because the rebel may be winning this one. But I want to know why, I want to know the part of me who hates, yes hates, being in front of the camera.

Because I don't yet love myself? Because I am continually disappointed? Because I don't want a record of my failures, real or perceived?

It's going to be a long fucking day.

A GREAT BIG SIGH

Well, here I am again. Feeling defeated and discouraged and, well, really just a big "Oh Well did you really expect anything different in the long run?" But that is just the surface, underneath there is a part of me that 'knows' what to do and that this just means there is work to be done. Work I am too lazy to do? Work I feel shouldn't have to be done so it just makes me mad to think about what I should be doing? I mean really, why should it take so much work to just feel at peace? Because peace is not why we are here? Which brings me back to my childhood, and swinging on the front gate while I wonder why I have to be here again. Wondering why I can't just go back.

It's the same old question humanity has asked forever, why are we here? Except I knew in that moment of childhood clarity there was a somewhere I came from, someplace that was better, a place that I liked, and where I belonged. At a young age - 6? 7? 8? - I knew I didn't want to be here on earth and 'going through this again.' That feeling has followed me through life as I struggled to get through everyday things, and mostly doing a bad job of it.

I blamed myself for being lazy when I didn't live up to my own expectations, when I didn't have a career path to follow, when I didn't excel at the ordinary business of growing up.

While I try to believe I have forgiven myself for how my life has unfolded, mostly I know I failed and that is  probably the underlying reason for why I am back here in a place of regret and sadness with tears streaming down my face as I type. Sitting in my Mother's dining room, surrounded by beautiful things, I am a fish out of water. Voluminous soft black sweater keeping me warm, laptop humming away, I am anomaly in this space dedicated to delicate glassware, orchids, and ceramic creatures. A sort of analogy for my whole life.

And I see that the pity party has begun so another great big sigh leaves my body and I hitch up my big girl panties to once again start over. Because I am not certain I have fulfilled any purpose yet in this life, and just noticing the glimmering of a chance that there may be something I need to do before I can go back pulls my mind out of the gutter and makes me want to keep trying; the fucking Pollyanna game is once again afoot and I must sit here and be grateful for what brings joy to my life.

Okay, so maybe I'm drawing a blank on that at the moment with the huge exception of my grandkids. Every hug, every conversation, reminds me that love is everything, and that everything I have been has brought me to this place with them.  Maybe that is why depression is trying to sneak in - because I am planning to leave them and move South in September to be here full time for a while with Mom. It might be for the rest of her life, or maybe just a few months to spend a holiday season with her; she is 90 and I do feel we are running out of time. Time to connect, to get to know each other. But I don't anticipate that happening as we are both so set in our ways. I am hoping time together will ease us into some semblance of acceptance, but at the  moment all I can see is work. AFGO indeed.

So what started this early morning rant down pity lane? As usual it is my weight. I have not been Bright more than a day at a time lately, and since I was here on a visit last month I have gained 9 pounds. Amazing what the body can do!

But at least stepping on the scale made it clear that it is time to clear the decks, start fresh, and take care of myself. This being typed while there is cream in my mug of tea so of course I have already failed as it is not a Bright morning. My bad for not stopping to pick up oat milk, and for planning to use cream in the scalloped potatoes at Easter dinner. so there it was waiting for me in the fridge this morning.

As previously stated, I know what to do, I'm just lazy. Or at least there is a very strong part of me that uses that as an excuse, and that is the part I need to get to know, and THERE IT IS AGAIN; why all the work? Maybe there is an even bigger rebel part that I still need to work on first. And that is my trailhead for the parts work; why does having to do the work piss me off so much? If we are spiritual beings living a human experience to feel/grow/enrich our souls then why is such a strong part of me so resistant?

Another great big sigh.

I haven't journaled in a while, because I was writing so much crap as evidenced by the above jumble. But I need to start again, it being part of the work I am so resistant to doing. And I guess I should start by being grateful. For this quiet morning to reflect, for the hot mug of tea, for the ability to work remotely so I can be here.

One of the things Mom and I need to work on is how we will manage our meals. I have been eating at 8, 11 and 4 for years now, while she eats closer to 10, 2, and whenever. But we can do that in September,  for now I just need to navigate through the weekend. Forget that, I just need to plan a bright breakfast! I may have to run to the store a little earlier than anticipated this morning.

Funny how quickly I can go from 'why am I here' to grocery shopping, which I suppose is the magic of journaling.

I have a Bright Line Eating quote on a sticky, something I felt important as it lives just below the keypad of my laptop. "Choose what you want and pay for it; now in work or later in consequences."  This morning I saw the consequences of breaking my lines and lying to myself about how often I was doing it. And here we are, back to the WORK. A full circle moment. But at least now I am calm.

BLE: JFTFP

The pot roast for dinner was delicious, there is nothing like brussels sprouts cooked with a roast and I am glad there are enough leftovers for a few meals. I did use red potatoes and there are two small ones in each 10oz portion of veggies in the containers, but we don't have them often.

It was a busy day, more than I usually accomplish; shower, weekly meeting, shopping, cooking, cleaning, and I am not too unsatisfied with my pain level tonight. I was definitely moving better today which was a relief. I am hoping the level of pain continues to drop as I stay bright with my food.

Tomorrow's food (10oz veg lunch and dinner) 

•  b: spanish rice chaffle, fruit salad (banana, pear, grape, orange, blueberry)
•  l:  chopped salad, garbanzo beans & pepitias, bleu cheese dressing, fruit salad
• d: pot roast, carrots, brussels sprouts, onions, potato

I had quite a few little conversations with my parts today as temptations came and went. "Remember how great it felt this morning to wake up and know you were still bright." And, "I really want to know what it feels like to be in a smaller body, so let's not eat that." Then the classic, "I really want that too, but we don't have to eat it today - maybe tomorrow or next weekend I'll feel strong enough to splurge." Which is a flat out lie of course, but I fell for it.

At one point today I had to run to CVS to pick up some aluminum foil to cover the post roast, and found myself standing in the bakery isle. "Really?", I asked "Is anything here worth feeling like crap about yourself?" The answer was a resounding no and I left the store with only the foil under my arm, shaking my head at my foolishness.

The kids went to the pumpkin patch after dinner, and showed up at home later with pints of Ben and Jerry's to round out the evening. I read the labels, swooning a little over the Dulce de Leche, then left to sit in the living room and wait for Lego Masters to start. I am double dipping into my gratitude journal tonight to make sure I go to bed in the right frame of mind!

I really am enjoying how freeing it is to get up each morning not having to figure out my meals for the day. I guess I've done enough parts work that the rebel who just couldn't do that in the beginning has stepped out of the way.

And I'm not stressing about how many days and night's I've stayed bright. It's enough to know I was bright yesterday, bright today, and plan to be bright tomorrow. It feels like I am finally building my bright line identity by following the plan one day at a time, instead of being on a diet.

Tonight I'm sending a prayer out into the universe, 'please let this be my moment, please help me stay the course.'  And finally, 'please let me sleep tonight!' 

BLE: Doing the work - Bright Line Freedom

I am a Bright Liner

I want to have peace of mind around food

I want to walk without pain

I want to have better bloodwork

I want to wear size 12 jeans

I want to sleep better

Reading this list of why I want to lose weight, and checking off each day that I do read it in my gratitude journal is becoming a better habit. And I find myself repeating the list at odd times after first trying to remember what they are! Wait a minute, what was the first one? Oh yea, peace of mind. Then what? Hmmm...  and so on. And then repeating them in order. It's so crazy, it's as though a part of me doesn't want me to have access to this list so I actually won't remember why I want to lose weight.  

Which brings me to my parts work yesterday. I fought hard to not put just one more cookie in my mouth. There it was, sitting all alone on the counter in a snack cup - which makes me feel good now that I think about it that Cal can leave a cookie uneaten! Go him! Anyway, I reached out to my tough chick and asked, is this you that wants to eat the cookie? Because I really don't want it. But she just looked over to a younger child, slowly shaking her head. "This is you?" I ask the little girl quietly, and the memory surfaced unbidden. Her memory, her sadness, her need to fill.

It's easy to see that we have different parts inside of us, being born of trauma while our personalities were developing as babes and children - throughout our whole lives really. But to realize that they have distinct and separate personalities from our 'own true selves' is a little disturbing. They can highjack my brain? My thoughts? My intentions? Yes, it turns out they can.  I met this new one yesterday. She is about eleven years old, and writing 'dirty' words on the bathroom wall in lipstick. It's a vague memory, the actual deed, but what I remember most clearly is being lined up with my brother and sister and interrogated by our parents as to whom had done this thing - as if it was intended to hurt them.

I see now that I was screaming out for attention, for someone to notice that my brother was molesting me and to make it stop. Why we can't find words to just ask for help is beyond me to understand. I know as an adult that it's the most difficult thing in the world to speak truth to power to those closest to us. There must be a survival mechanism at work here that keeps the words from leaving our mouths. Don't rock the boat or you will be thrown off? I don't know why it's such a strong trait,  but it has done me a great disservice both in my childhood and in my more mature years. If only we could just speak plainly and truthfully more often. but I digress.

I thought briefly about apologizing to my mother and siblings, but there has been enough grief around this topic (the molestation, not the lipstick) and I have no wish to open this wound. I think realizing why I did it and forgiving that little girl who stood with her lips sealed instead of confessing under pressure is the important part of this revelation. Because I do forgive her. She tried hard in her own way to ask for help, and I have to respect that. No longer will I feel guilt for not confessing when pressed to do so. Could it really have been such a mystery? Didn't my parents suspect? No one ever reached out to me wondering why anyone would do such a thing. No. Just the interrogation, like we had done something horrible to them.  There is a relief in me, letting that go, loving that little girl and finally after a life of guilt letting her know I understand and forgive and accept what she did on our behalf. Don't get me wrong, it hasn't been a 'present' weight in my life - just a memory that would pop up from time to time that was filled with regret and extreme guilt that I wasn't able to tell the truth. Being more clear of mind and doing my parts work has let me really see the bigger picture this time the memory surfaced, that's all.

I go to this little girl, huddled on cold tile, straggly sun-kissed hair drooping around her face, and lift her chin. Wipe away her tears. Sit with her and hold her close. I let her know how brave she was, and how thankful I am she was strong enough to try to help. I let her know we are older now, and ready to leave all this behind us. We get up and take a walk outside around to the back of the house where my grandfather once had a garden. I show her the sunflowers growing tall and bright, and tell her my secret. "You can put your sorrows into the seeds of those flowers, and they will turn into little black birds and fly away. And you can stay and play in the garden whenever you want; we can be happy now." And I leave her there digging peacefully in the dirt, the sun shining on her face.

She is not the first part to release pain in that garden, and I can't help but wonder if there are more to come. And so the healing continues.

Today's food (10oz veg lunch and dinner) Yesterday was so good it's just a repeat

•  b: rice, beans & cheese, oranges
•  l:  chopped salad, meatballs, bleu cheese dressing, pears & blueberries
• d: soyrizo, chili corn mix, cream cheese

Another Bright night under my belt. Go Me.

Calm and Bright

I woke first to the sound of C crying, but have learned to trust that his needs will be met. Sure enough, I soon hear the little patter of his feet going down the hall to the bathroom.  Then it is my turn in the loo, and afterwards I head to the living room to turn off the porch light that had been streaming in through my bedroom window. Bypassing the little kitchen, I go back to bed and settle in to await sleep.

My second trip to the loo was a few hours later, and this time back in bed I felt 'awake', and snuggled in to arrange myself in the most relaxed and perfect pose I could manage. This is an old habit from childhood, where I knew that if I was lying in the perfect position, then...what, my dreams would come true? My wishes would be fulfilled? I can't recall exactly my objective other than these whimsical half formed ideas of 'things being better'. I can only assume this was a defense against the abuse of power I had been subjected to, this fantasy life that I so easily slipped into using ritual. I can look back and see it now, that at the time it was a creative solution to a seemingly impossible situation.

I spend a minute this morning seeking that part of me who was so courageous in putting up a defense against someone she loved. And I forgive her for the small acts of defiance; eating a bottle of aspirin, writing swear words on the bathroom wall in lipstick, then lying about it. I have never felt bad about the lying part, standing in front of parents who couldn't protect me and denying my acts of rebellion. I never pointed fingers until my sister needed an ally when I was in my twenties, and then I called my mother, and wrote my brother a letter, both times telling a small part of my story and making it clear they all had a duty to support my sister in any effort she required to help bring peace to her life. Because while I had gone on to marry and raise a family, she had spent her life in therapy.

In retrospect, food was my therapy. Like Elsa in Frozen, I had learned to hide away at a young age, keeping  myself small so as to not attract attention, and covering up my emotions with food. I tried running away once in my teens, and at the age of 19 I did finally leave home and move North where I would end up making a new life for myself. First to Berkeley, then San Francisco, then back across the bay to Pleasant Hill, and finally to settle in Livermore. Where I have been now for over 37 years. Years of battling weight gain, years of ignoring the physical signals of distress, years of failed battles, failed relationships, and finally the death of a child. And through it all I ate, the bread and butter of my youth remaining my faithful companion through it all.

I'm not sure why all of this is coming to the surface this morning. What I wanted to say was that I made myself comfortable in hopes of falling back asleep, and then breathed through the temptation to snack. Deep cleansing breaths, while I gently reminded myself that I was not going to eat. Followed by a more stern, " I am not going to eat tonight!" And I didn't. Waking for the third time I was relieved to have made it through the night and basked in the warmth of my bed as I fell back asleep for the last hour of rest.

I know, or at least I hope, that as I continue to lose weight I will also lose the wakeful nights. I could so use a solid night's sleep.

I am calm after a Bright night, my breakfast of beans, rice & cheese this morning was delicious, and my meals are planned for the rest of the day. One day at a time I will do this. And for the days I might fail, I have already forgiven myself. And for the days I might succeed, I gently reassure myself that this too will be okay; I do not need to be afraid. I am no longer a child that has to hide and make herself small inside a protective fat suit.

BLE: A Bright Night

"You are welcome here in Bright Line Eating, and I honour you using the bright lines in a way that serves you." SPT was ending a vlog on coffee when she said these words, adding "Each of us needs to notice what's true for us and be self-responsible."

The rebel in me loves that she has often said that there are no Bright Line Police. She shares a program that works, and it's up to us to pay attention and follow the program. If we deviate that is something we are responsible for, and I do deviate and I accept that responsibility. When I first started I didn't draw boundaries around quantities because I was afraid of fighting against restrictions. So for me a BLE day was one in which I didn't eat flour or sugar, and I only ate my three squares a day with no snacking. But also from the beginning I have weighed and measured all of my food except for fat. I use it sparingly to roast big pans of veggies, and I use a little extra salad dressing.  I knew this would mean a slower weight loss, and I was fine with that. But is this following the program in a way that serves me? Is not drawing the fourth bright line hurting my recovery from addiction, and keeping my brain from healing?

In light of yesterday's musings, I have to acknowledge that I have not come all the way in and sat all the way down. This is what the parts work is for, and why I am taking Bright Line Freedom. I  am learning to recognize when my rebel part is present, and my goal is to form a trusting relationship with that part so I can work on healing my inner demons - or wounded children as it's termed in IFS work. I need to work on my language! Inner demon is pretty judgmental and confrontational. I'll practice sticking to Rebel in future comments.  OMG, this reminds me! I have often in my life visualized the small angel and demon that would sit one on each of my shoulders and wreak havoc with my common sense when it came to matters of food. I now know the angel is a protector and the demon an indulger.

So my night was Bright last night. I lay in bed hearing Liz Gilbert saying from her Eat, Pray, Love audible book, 'just go back to bed, Liz'. And it helped I think. I also have a sticky note on my bedroom door that says that; just go back to bed. It also says, The Kitchen is Closed.  This is the crazy I want to leave behind. This is the madness that is part and parcel of food addiction. My own true self does not need to leave notes, she just goes about life being curious, compassionate, and clear. Living in those shoes more often is one of the benefits of healing a brain. And having had ice cream cake on my daughter's birthday led to a break that is hard to recover from and here it is six days later.

But I have one Bright day and night behind me, and I anticipate another one today. So far I have not eaten a sample of the cheesy bread I made for C in an attempt to get him to eat shredded cheese in a more productive manner. I did not pop in my mouth the chocolate covered pretzel piece that my granddaughter left on the kitchen counter. And I have prepped and weighed my dinner during C's naptime.

I didn't meditate this morning, but I did lay in bed breathing for a bit. Some would contend that was meditating, and that might be true, but it was just an accidental offshoot of a breathing exercise.

And I am just passing time until dinner, they call this white knuckling it. I can hardly wait for next week when my peace of mind should be back; it can't come too early.