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.

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.

Christmas Cookies, Soup, and Addiction

I had forgotten about the planned holiday baking the girls were doing today, so the cooking of my soup will have to wait until tomorrow. Instead for dinner I had a luscious green salad, left over meatballs, and splurged on potato for my vegetable; sneaking potatoes into the microwave was much less intrusive in our small galley kitchen and I do love me some potato. 

It will be irritating to go back to work tomorrow after four days off, but I remember I am grateful for my job and the irritation slides off my shoulders; butter off of a hot knife. I'll be able to split my day and work more than usual in the morning since C is going in for treatment. This will also keep my mind off the hospital, and my little grandson being injected with the poison that is saving his life. BIG SIGH.

Tomorrow's food:

B: Oatmeal, pitted fresh cherries, cream cheese, flax, & pecans

L: Sausage, lentils, corn & peas, oranges

D: Black eyed pea\veggie soup - extra veggies instead of salad

The Christmas sugar cookies that were sitting next to me on the dining room table as I pitted cherries this evening didn't really tempt me at all. And they were so pretty, all iced and ready to pack up. They also made gingerbread cookies, fudge, mini-chocolate Bundt cakes, and R is in the kitchen now cooking up a batch of  English toffee. Pretty tins are ready to be filled, and a cousin is dropping by tomorrow afternoon to exchange goodies. The ones we receive will live in the garage so they are not on the kitchen counter. While I feel I can withstand the temptation, I am worried it will use up so much will power that it might instigate night eating, so we will take precautions.

Speaking of Christmas, I am missing one shipment that I hope will arrive before Christmas. I can barely imagine the deliveries this year with so many of us ordering presents online due to Covid. And compared to past seasons of giving, we have cut back quite a bit. It's a good thing, we all agree. It's just not the same browsing online as it is meandering through a small shop in town and finding just the right thing for someone on your list.

It was a productive day, and the two tubs and a crate of miscellanea have been sorted, then purged or packed away. I'm a little melancholy this evening, some of the items were memories I could do without. One in particular, the personal inventory my late husband made while in one of his many twelve-step recovery centers, we have plans to burn in the fire pit out back. Or maybe just the fireplace if this cold snap continues. But the history it reveals of how early his drug & alcohol use began, and the continuing use through our marriage and the raising of our kids, is so very disheartening. I mean, I knew he wasn't coming home after work, obviously, but I didn't realize he had been using heroin for fourteen years before we divorced. I thought it was just beer and codeine. But no, that was just the tip of the iceberg that sank us. And really, just beer and codeine? How co-dependent was I???

Deep Breath! Blowing out hard!  Feel the pain, let go of the story, embrace a new vision.

I am so grateful for my healthy daughter, for the grandkids that bring love and challenges into my life everyday, and for my SIL working his own program and being present for his family. So very grateful.

So I close on a positive note, and dream of a generation that is not plagued by addiction.

Delving into the Past: 25 - 55

Once upon a time...there was a woman who fell in love. At first glance there was a spark, and years later she would wonder if this was a sign it was meant to be or a warning. After a fairly quick 'courtship' that resulted in a pregnancy, they were married and soon parents of a beautiful little girl. Three years later they were joined by a little boy, and while it had become apparent that the young  man she had married was an addict, she so wanted her little family that she stayed and tried to make it work. A dozen years after that, she gave up and asked her husband to move out and filed papers to divorce. At that point in time she had been celebate for six years, sleeping most nights alone in the bedroom while he arrived home inebriated and nodding off from his heroin or codeine or whatever the flavour of drug had been that day, only to pass out on the couch. Or in the chair.

She loved her kids, and reflecting back on her life she would realize that raising her kids had been the most joyful part of her life, and she wouldn't change a thing because whatever she had or hadn't done in her past, it had brought these little angels into her life. But the divorce was hard on everybody, as it is wont to do, and while she was lonely and frustrated, it was the children who bore the brunt of the separation. For that she was sincerely sorry, because ultimately it influenced how her daughter saw relationships, and led to an early death for her son. Of course she couldn't know that for sure as there is no control group for a life, but in her heart she knew.

So after fifteen years they finally divorced, and craving companionship, she headed out into the world, looking for love in all the wrong places. She was heavier now, but met a man who made her feel her curves were beautiful. So beautiful, it turns out, that he wanted to introduce her to the world of S&M, and share her curves in that arena of domination and submission. In her defense, she was so tired of being in control herself that the idea of submitting to another's will was very seductive. After all, she had been mesmerized by the Story of O, and read Anne Rice's trilogy of erotic fiction with much enjoyment. She did not go blindly into this dark night, and wanting to please her new man did many things she would later wonder about.

But this story is about one particular memory of hers, and the feelings she endured instead of just saying enough. They had gone to a party, and met a wonderful couple much like themselves, and decided to meet up later for a lunch date. She had been much without friends since her divorce, and having another woman to talk with was wonderful. So they met for lunch, and afterwards while they were laying on the beach, chatting in the sun, the men decided it was time to become more intimate. While she liked these new friends well enough, she didn't really know them yet, and wasn't interested. Her man let her know in no uncertain terms how disappointed he was in her, and how she had led them all on. Yes, she should have been more savvy. Yes, she knew the possibility was there, but thought friendship would come first, and then sex. So naïve she was.

On the drive home she felt humiliated, and used, and really pissed off that she was being made to feel this way. This was not her first rodeo, she had more experience in this arena than he did, but she had her own values and perspectives that she now saw he didn't share. For him it was just the sex, Period. How disappointed she was, and disillusioned about everything. It was the beginning of the end, but there are many kinds of love, and there were many beautiful things in her life; it was years before she finally gave up.  It would take the death of her son to finally drive them apart, and even then it took years for the distance between them to build as her heart hardened against the world and she became the proverbial ice queen in bed.

Looking back at her past, she could see that another part had been born on that long ago drive home from the beach, a protector that would allow her to go on living in a relationship she knew was doomed. A part who knew that feelings could be squashed down with food. And another fifteen years was gone.

Delving into the past: 19

I think the cold weather is making me more hungry than usual, so dinner was early today. I keep telling myself it will just make for a longer fasting window tonight, assuming there is no snacking involved. I'm struggling a little with my body, because I'm feeling a little smaller, which historically is a trigger for me to eat. I'm hoping my new tools will get me through this; focusing on gratitude, being curious about why I feel like eating, and taking time to meditate even if it's for just a few minutes at a time each day.

I understand the connection, being in a right sized body has led to disaster in my past. Attracting the wrong sort of attention, being taken advantage of and even being abused at various times in my life. And not just when I was younger, and as embarrassing as it is to admit,  the older type of 'abuse' was just as devastating. Why I think it's time to write about this now I don't know. Maybe because this isn't a place my family will drop by and so I feel like it's a safe place to put some of it out in the world and maybe confront some old hurts. But I'm not sure where to start. Maybe tell it like a story, or a series of stories, and maybe find some peace in the telling.

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Once upon a time...there was a young girl who met an artist at her first year at college. He made her feel special in a new and exciting way, and by the end of the school year they had become very close. As usual, at the end of the term she left the city to spend the Summer in the mountains with her family. The Summers were where she felt like herself, where she was confident and had friends. But this Summer was to be different, and would change her life forever.

It was a trifecta for change, everything coming together in a force of nature that would push her out of her life and into the unknown. The first was discovering she was pregnant when she miscarried. The first of many throughout her life as it would turn out, but this first one was painful in more ways than one. The doctor she went to was brutal, doing a D&C without anesthesia and letting her know how irresponsible she had been. The second was going to a party with friends who were wanting to cheer her up, but the friends ended up drunk, and she stayed the night with them until they could drive her home in the morning. This was before cell phones, and the party house didn't have a phone line she could use, so of course everyone was worried about her and she knew she would be in much trouble when she got home. 

No one was at the house when she arrived back to the lake, so she called over to their friends to speak to her mother, who simply asked when she was going to get the rest of her things. Incredible. So she did get her things. She packed up her clothes, and ransacked the kitchen for two each of plates, glasses, and silverware and left with her friends never looking back.

She had been working and saving to buy a special guitar, but instead used this money to drive north with one of her friends to first Berkeley, and then on to San Francisco where she settled for a few years. This was a lonely time at first; finding work and a place to live. Humboldt House in SF was where she landed, a shared residence popular in the seventies, and where she met the man who would later take her to hot tub parties in Sausalito and introduce her to Swing Parties. She had always known she was attracted to women as well as men, and for the first time in her life found herself enjoying the attentions of both.

But the parties weren't enough for this new man, and he wanted more from her, and it is one of these nights she remembers with humiliation and anger. He had purchased her some very lacy and very sexy underthings, and one night asked her to model a slinky apricot slip. She didn't know he had ordered pizza, and when the doorbell rang she was asked to answer the door. Flustered and unsure of herself, she was too embarrassed to refuse, after all she had been pretending to be a woman of the world hadn't she?  So she answered the door while the man slipped down the hallway to watch from the shadows. But then she had to pay for the pizza, and looking around for her purse saw it had been placed on the floor at the far end of the couch, and that she was going to have to bend over to reach it.

Feeling betrayed and confused, she tried to pick up her purse as gracefully as possible, and when she turned around found that the delivery man had followed her into the room, and as she turned around he forced her to the couch. He knew an invitation when he saw it, a pretty young girl with no underwear on under her slip could only mean one thing. The weight of him was a hot and heavy pressure on her back as he laid her down on her stomach. Realizing what was about to happen, she yelled to stop and struggled to get off the couch. But he was strong, and there was no help coming from down the hallway. 'Hold still and it won't hurt' he said, 'This way it's safe for you'.  But she had always been stronger than most girls, and was able to finally get away before he penetrated her. Angry and humiliated, one would think that would be the end of this relationship. But instead she ate pizza until she passed out after hearing false apologies ad nauseum. It was just the first of a series of experiences that would shape her life. Swing parties, nude beaches, and finally the move across the bay from San Francisco to Pleasant Hill.

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I think of that 19 year old girl, alone in San Francisco, working to keep her head above water, and I send her love. And forgiveness for being naïve while trying to act like a grown up. The boyfriend had been eleven years my senior, but I had always seemed old for my age, and was sort of proud about that I think. Much to my detriment of course. It was during these years that we did a photo shoot for a book, "Meditations of the gift of sexuality". It was done through the San Francisco Institute of Sexuality, and some of the pictures also ended up in a college text book. I think I was in my forties when I realized I didn't want my children to come across the book and I threw it out.  Later I would regret that, but finding it listed online for sale I have never purchased it. I have some strong memories from that time, and may need to write more about them later.

I think that during the pizza experience, a part was born in me. A protector to shield me from the strong emotions so I could survive. At this point we had rented an apartment together, and I was not anxious to start out on my own again, so I adapted to survive.

Exhausted, I need some Tulsi Tea and a Hallmark movie - my drugs of choice at the moment.