The SURFy-ness of me

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And so it has been a while…

 

I started a new therapy.

It is hard.

It is physically hard and thinkingly hard.

I hope it will be worth it.

 

My parents have been experiencing significant health issues.  My mother spending her time in a local hospital and in my care (at my home).  My father spending some of his time in my care, but most of his time in his own care (in another state, in my parent’s home) because that is how he rolls.

 

My sweet bear, SonHerisme, continues on with his own bittersweet  growth and development.  He is eight-years-old. He is growing his luscious hair for his buddy with cancer, or to be a “real Jedi.”  It all depends on which time of day you ask him about it.  He thinks it is hilarious when people (adults) think he is a girl.  We wear the same shoe size.  GAH ACK BLAG*&^%$#!

 

MrexH exists far away, elsewhere.

 

I am a single parent.

 

I am a generationally sandwiched caretaker.

 

I am unemployed.

 

I use an iPhone AND I accept food stamps/Medicaid *GASP*

 

Not intriguing/sexy enough for you?

 

How about the following:

 

Instead of trapping you in my web of positive spin of myself, I’ll begin with faults and we can grow our relationship from there.

 

SURF (Single, Unidentified Race, Female) – the worst kind (according to When Harry met Sally – look it up, it’s now considered ‘classic’), as I am high maintenance who believes she is low maintenance, so good luck with that.  I also cannot fake orgasm like Meg Ryan (again, When Harry met Sally – Nora Ephron is always worth it).

I do not understand feet on pillows where your head should be, or street clothes purposefully on a bed where you sleep.

I do not trust most commercial dining places.  I would rather eat questionable yogurt from the bottom of my purse, than a salad from Ruby Tuesday Longhorn Applebees Fridays Outback Cracker Barrel Macaroni Grill allotherplacessimilarexactlythesameinnature eateries.  I love America.  I love workers.  I am afraid of our food practices – like a-fear-t afraid in a way that people are afraid of snakes.

In a similar, but stronger vein, I am afraid of any incarceration.  Which leads me to believe that I was a terrible person in many of my past lives, which caused me to be horrifically incarcerated in many of my past lives.  Therefore, I acknowledge the possibility that I am sketchy at best in this life. I also wish you luck with that.

Zoos and baths worry me and I avoid them (I do shower, I’m not that naturally minded).

Microfiber is disgusting – stop gifting it!  I know that my house is a freaking mess, but I will not use your microfiber cloth anywhere EVER, so just stop. Please and thank you.

I love piles and piles and piles of books.  Books are my comfort food. (currently reading)

About every week or so, I drag my sheets across my wood floors as I take them to the basement, and otherwise behave as if my floors are self-cleaning.

I like responsible open fires, hyggelig (Danish, now I’m showing you how cool I am), notecards, water/sauna/swimming/lakes/oceans (I know it is ironic since I detest baths), books, animals, cooking, traveling, writing (duh), being outside in nature (not Jay Gruen level, I go gently), live music, live performances of almost any kind, thinking, listening to my sweet bear, seasons, and wind (not that kind).

I am an out-of-the-box problem solver in more than a resume filler way.  For example:  Need a birthday gift for a young person/neighbor/classmate AND your vintage auto-clutch baby blue VW accelerator pedal popped off, again?!?  No problem!  Purchase a Barbie/large Action Doll from Target and unwrap it from the packaging.  Re-wrap the doll in remnant fancy tissue paper/gift bag (from the microfiber gift you recently received), place gift bag in backseat of VW.  Take the unbelievably irritating and strong twisties that were holding the doll in the packaging with you as you yogic twist yourself into a position to see the accelerator pedal.  Wrap the twisties around the accelerator’s hook coming from the floorboard.  Carefully jam the twistie wrapped hook through the loop on the bottom of the accelerator pedal.  Twist that twistie as tightly as you can to prevent the hook from escaping the loop.  Carry on driving your VW with acceleration confidence in style, and deliver the doll.  Viola!

 

Be sure and recommend me to your friends, now that you know how absolutely dreamy I am.  If they speak softly, or not at all, I’ll probably like them best too.

 

The bottom line is that this SURFy is tired and wondering if everyone else is too.

 

Love, Ms. Herisme xoxo

Brain vs Stomach

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This is an epic showcase showdown…

 

Confession #703

I like to cook stuff.

I like to eat stuff.

 

Food hates me SO much, but I adore it.

 

I adore everything about it.

I like researching it.

I like planning for it and around it.

I like going to the market and finding the perfect it.

I like cleaning it.

I like chopping it.

I like cooking it.

I like setting the table for it.

I like sharing it (or not).

I like eating it.

I like cleaning up after it.

I like leftovering it.

I like reinventing it for the next time (or not).

 

Food and I have never seen eye-to-eye, or rather, body-to-body.

I think that food should nourish all of the senses. 

Food thinks that my body, in particular my stomach, is a stupid dumb jerk that it does not want to spend time with, and so it begs to escape that hell-hole as quickly as possible.  It does not even take time to phone a friend.  It just wants out asap.  If it cannot be accommodated, then it tells my body to punish me further (hives, headaches, nausea, fatigue, cramping, inflammation, super fat storage, intestinal upset, etc – you know, the usual).

 

I do have some allergies and sensitivities, and I avoid those triggers as much as possible.  However, these nasty side effects of my eating can occur even when eating something I have successfully eaten before.

 

It’s anxiety.

Anxiety makes my stomach a hell hole for food.

 

I want my stomach to be a healthy respite for food.

I want my body to enjoy the experience as much as my brain tells me that I do.

 

Our stomachs have been compared to being our second brain – and mine certainly lives up to that description.  Anything my brain rejects because it is too scary, nasty, unpleasant, or terrifying, I know it sends away to let my stomach deal with it.  My brain is Scarlett O’Hara making clothes out of curtains, and my stomach is always “tomorrow,” when Rhett leaves, Scarlett is childless, broke, and the house is crumbling.

 

What I am trying to say is that I like cooking a big turkey, and I missed out on doing so for Thanksgiving.  I’m going to cook one for Christmas Eve.

 

I am also trying to say that I have found a new therapist, and will begin Somatic Experiencing to heal through this process.

 

I hope that my stomach can learn better communication with food, and not piss it off so much.

 

I hope that my brain can more effectively deal with situations and processing emotions, so that it may communicate appropriately with my stomach.

 

If you see me in clothes made from my curtains, please feel free to call me on it.  If they are green velvet with gold tassels, please contact my mother asap.

 

I hope that you all are handling the holiday season well (for those ‘in’ it).  Expectations, internal and external, are sometimes difficult to reconcile with reality (hello, anxiety).

 

If you are not moving well through the holidays, please find support for you – you are worth it!

If you are finding the season hopeless and desperate, please call a national hotline:

Domestic Violence Hotline 1.800.799.7233

Suicide Prevention Hotline 1.800.273.8255

Love, Ms. Herisme xo