YOU are not ALONE

Because my self-esteem is completely tied to the number of hits a day I get, I, sometimes, (many times) go to Sitemeter and check on who's looking and for how long. Sometimes, the thing that will crack me up is someone googling "Dirty, Naughty Girls" and then they find my blog.

CREEPY.

Today, I noticed a girl had googled a topic that lead her to this blog and I looked closer to see what the topic was and...

IT BROKE MY HEART.

Because she googled, "I AM TOO FAT, NO ONE WILL EVER LOVE ME." (Which led her to my entry, "Oh, My God, You're So Fat! Congratulations") I wanted to jump through the computer and fly through the internet and land in her bedroom, living room, library, coffee shop, dorm room, where ever and GIVE HER A BIG FAT HUG.

Then we would sit down and have a CUP CAKE (Red Velvet) and I would say, "You are not alone."

I have felt that way at this weight. I have felt that way, 20 pounds lighter than this AND I HAVE FELT THAT WAY, five years ago, AT MY HIGH SCHOOL WEIGHT, on a work retreat, wearing the cutest TANK-INI with cherry blossoms and abs and Renne Zellweger arms and still FELT THAT WAY.

I even felt that way, AT MY HIGH SCHOOL DANCE, at a perfect weight, though still wearing a girdle EVEN THOUGH I attended the dance with my sort-of-cousin AND OBVIOUSLY WAS NOT looking to get any. (Though I did feel a little heat as we uncomfortably slow danced to some Whitney Houston song.)

It makes me sad that I so COULDN'T SEE MYSELF, even at the most perfect weight, that I had to continue the FEMALE TORTURE of dieting, gaining, hating myself, RINSE, REPEAT.

So of course, I want to save someone who is going through that. DON'T BE ME. I could DIE admitting this. But remember, when my shrink told me, "YOU ARE NOT YOUR BODY?" And I was like, "Yes, I am! I am my Body. I am my Fat! Every problem I have is because of this! (Dramatically grab BACK FAT in defiance) I'm outta here!" Maybe she was right.

Maybe I HAD TO THINK, "I AM MY BODY... I AM MY WEIGHT, I DON'T DESERVE HAPPINESS UNTIL I'M THIN," MAYBE I had to think that, I had to believe it, because if I didn't and I wasn't obsessed WITH ALL THINGS DIET & WEIGHT LOSS... I would really have to LIVE.

AND THAT'S WHAT REALLY SCARES ME.

So I would say to this girl, "You Are Not Your Body" and "Don't Stop Living and Doing The Things You Love Because You Got A Little Junk In Your Trunk." Have fun, people with ample bosoms and stomachs and thighs deserve FUN. Write in your journal, stay ON TOP OF THOSE EMOTIONS. Get a Girl Gang like I have that you can talk to. GO TO THERAPY, it's AWESOME. But don't isolate, don't get under the covers, DON'T PUT off LIVING because of your WEIGHT. Because you are not your body.

You'll get there, just like me, just like all of us. Because YOU are not alone.

YOU are not ALONE

Tell Me You Love Me

What's kind of a cool phenomenon is when ever I post about something SUPER SERIOUS, like my cousin passing away or my Mom's subsequent nervous breakdown or how I, a sitcom writer, plunged into a deep dark depression and became hooked on sleep meds (I swear, I could have my own LIFETIME movie, y'all) - when I write about stuff like that, NOT only do I get the most hits, but people will read for like, 30 minutes at a time.

A TON OF YOU.

But then no one will really comment. DO I SCARE YOU THAT MUCH? Is my honesty FREAKING YOU OUT?

Let me break it down. I'm started off really writing this for myself BUT reading the amazing comments over the last few months I realize, I AM YOU AND YOU ARE ME. We're all going through the same things.

If I can help more, I want to.

So tell me what you think. Even if it's anonymous. Even if it's, "You are really freaking me out right now." Or "It's not nice to talk about your mother that way." Or "WOULD YOU PLEASE TALK ABOUT SOMETHING ELSE????"

Cause, girls, I aim to please.

Tell Me You Love Me

How It All Began Part 4 "Grief, Despair & Ambien"

So when we last left off, it was two years ago and I had just heard the news of my cousin’s death, and in a state of unstoppable SOBBING, wondered and worried (but not in any particular order): how I would compose myself enough so I could go to work and not seem like an insane person; once I did compose myself enough and not resemble an insane person, how I would ever be FUNNY enough (I was on a sitcom as a writer at the time), as not to get FIRED; how was I ever going to keep my relationship afloat when I refused to be near my BF when I was CRYING, yet could not stop crying and

How I was ever going to face my aunt, uncle and cousin at the funeral WITHOUT ripping a hole of grief and pain in me that I wondered would ever heal.

I NEEDED DRUGS AND I NEED THEM BAD.

My favorite anti-depressant commercial is the one where they tell you, “Depression Hurts.” No shit. Then the lady takes her drugs and goes from a crying mute, rocking herself in the corner to a happy, zany, peppy person who’s PLAYING WITH A KITTEN. It was a commercial that I often made fun of.

Now I want to be like that lady. I want to feel good enough to play with a kitten.

I NEEDED DRUGS AND I NEED THEM BAD.

The doctor was kind enough to give me some anti-depressants. But I wanted sleeping pills (I WANTED IT ALL). He was a smart doctor and not about to give a girl who hadn’t showered, hair matted, was dressed in what can only be described as Pajamas as Daywear and who had cried so much she was heaving hiccups SLEEP MEDS that could kill her.

Good move. But when I have my mind set to something, I get it done. I now had not been to sleep in 36 hours and I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t take it because I couldn’t stand to be conscious that long, where I would have to play the tape of David’s murder over and over again in my head. I had to sleep, I felt off kilter and off balance and I knew going home for the funeral IT WOULD ONLY BE 100 times worse.

“Mom, you have to get me some sleeping pills.”

My Mom is a shrink. I know, it’s crazy.

Mom, “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

“MOM, GET ME THOSE PILLS! I’M FREAKING OUT!”

Mom, “I can’t write my own daughter a prescription.”

“THEN FIND SOMEONE WHO CAN! I CAN’T COME HOME IF I CAN’T SLEEP. PLEASE, MOM!”

And so she did it. And I slept as soon as I got home and the next night and the next and the next.

And that began my two year odyssey of being addicted to prescription sleep medication.

How It All Began Part 4
"Grief, Despair & Ambien"

How Could THIS Have Happened????

On Fridays, me and my friends go for a weigh in. We all want to GET SWIMSUIT SLIM, so it's great to go and root each other on.

Today, I had a feeling IT WAS NOT GOING TO BE PRETTY. And I was right and it wasn't.

You know when you step on the scale at WW and the woman reading your weight falls silent and gives you a case of "THE SAD EYES," the news is NOT going to be good.

In my case, IT WAS BRUTAL. I gained 5.8 pounds. I waited for her to rip my "Bravo" stickers from previous weeks off my card. She did not. She is a kind woman.

So there I was, putting my shoes and sweater back on, feeling ANGRY and DISAPPOINTED and MORTIFIED and EMBARRASSED.

HOW COULD THIS HAVE HAPPENED????

Well, I didn't weigh in in the three weeks I was away, where I could have noticed the uptick at 2 pounds and immediately addressed it. That's HOW IT COULD HAVE HAPPENED. And, how on vacation, I had to eat BAKED STUFFED SHRIMP (They don't make it this good anywhere!), eat at my favorite PIZZA place like four times (You can't get it this good on the West Coast!), then there was all the WINE and BEER, oh and "The Nutty Irishmen" (deliciously alcohol infused coffee) my sister E and I would drink at Sunday Brunches (We deserve it! We're on vacation!)

(CRINGING) Oh, and the Chinese Food (three times) where the Crab Rangoon (fried wontons with pillows of cream cheese and crab - that's low in fat and calories, right?) melts in your mouth (and apparently, lives on your THIGHS).

OH, THAT'S HOW IT HAPPENED.

The good news is I had dropped almost 4 pounds before, so it's not a HUGE SET BACK. The other good news is NOW THAT I KNOW HOW IT HAPPENED (eating too much, moving too little, not keeping my food journal), I KNOW HOW TO TAKE BACK CONTROL.

The weird thing is, YOU'D THINK THAT THE WEIGH IN would have me plunging under the covers, DIVING INTO THE DEPRESSION BED, but INSTEAD, it just makes ME WANT TO FIGHT HARDER.

It's not just about diets and weight. (Although, I SALIVATE "Crab Rangoon Style" thinking about zipping up my size 10 jeans.)

It's about wanting to treat my body like a tropical paradise instead of a stanky crack den. It's about HONORING a promise I made to myself. It's about BEING PRESENT and ACCOUNTABLE and REAL. It's about NOT GIVING UP when the news is BAD. It's about SETTING GOALS and having a BLAST while I ACHIEVE them. It's ABOUT CELEBRATING the BEST SELF I can be.

All the same things I want from LIFE.

How Could THIS Have Happened????

Let's Talk About Sex... Again

My Mom and I are having a tearful GOOD-BYE in the driveway yesterday.

ME: "Mom, don't cry, I'll be back soon."
MOM: "But we didn't even get a chance to look at the catalogues."

You know... for her vibrator.

I swear she said it as sincerely as if she was saying, "But we hardly had a chance to spend any time togther." ("LOOKING AT VIBRATOR CATALOGUES!")

So I'm back on the West Coast and a tad exhausted, though very happy NOT to be sleeping with a wormy Chihuahua in a twin bad anymore!

I have something good for tomorrow, I'll post then :)

Let's Talk About Sex... Again

Let's Talk About Sex

Let me set the scene. My mother and I are in the hospital waiting room before we go see my Grandmother. She says she has something she really wants to talk to me about.

Let me add that my mother has a Prayer Day for each of my family members and went to Church three times this week, once for Sunday, once for January 1, "The Feast of the Blessed Mother" and once January 6, "The Feast of the Epiphany." She is a GOOD GIRL. When she dies, she will be cannonized faster than Mother Theresa.

And... Action.

Mom: "I really want to talk to you about something."
Me: "Sure."
Mom: "I think I want a Vibrator."

Inner Dialogue: "Do Not Laugh. Do not laugh. Do not LAUGHHHHHHHHHHH."

Me: (tentatively) "Okay."
Mom: "And I would like you to help me pick one out."

INNER IMAGINATION: I pass out, I'm spayled face down on the waiting room floor. Nurse: "We've got a Code 51: Daughter down due to too much info about Mom's SEX LIFE! We need a crash cart and a time machine to erase the last five minutes of her life."

It's not over, folks. Mom has a CATALOGUE to show me.

Let's Talk About Sex

Why Depression Is the BEST Thing That EVER Happened To ME

I'm still here on the East Coast and I just picked up this book of my Mom's THAT REALLY BLEW MY MIND. It's called “Circle of Stones: Woman's Journey To Herself” by Judith Duerk.

Before this trip, when I looked back on my depression, all I saw of it WAS WASTED TIME IN BED. (And not the good kind of wasting time in bed.) I would beat myself up about those sad days, “I could have traveled, I could have written more, I should have worked out everyday!!!!”

THEN I READ THIS BOOK. And my mind got blow.

Here's why. This woman defines depression AS A GIFT. What? How can that be possible? How could a life in sweat pants, under the covers, crying, eating Cheetos and Doritos and missing out on life, BE A GIFT?

Here's what she writes in the book:

“It is often, finally, a woman's own pain and sadness that makes her change her life. FINALLY, it is impossible to deny her feelings any longer.

Depression comes as a gift, bringing the chance to strike root in a deeper ground inside oneself. Depression comes as a gift forcing you to listen to your TRUE SELF.”

Wow. And “wow” like, that's totally true. I have never been MORE AWAKE IN MY LIFE since my depression, MORE IN TOUCH WITH MY GUT, than since my depression, MORE AWARE OF WHAT I WANT TO DO WITH MY LIFE… even WITH THIS DAY than since my depression.

The book goes on, “What if a woman allowed herself to listen once again to her own sensitivities? To listen to the ways in which she is unhappy? What if she allowed herself to trust what her tears are trying to tell her?

What if a woman were to allow herself to trust her own unhappiness and TO MAKE LIFE CHANGES? What if she trusted her anger, her irritation, her illness, even her depression as SIGNS THAT HER OWN LIFE WAS CALLING TO HER?”

MIND. BLOWN.

After I read the book, I just started typing.

Depression called me, beckoned me, it said, “I know, it's hard to slow down. It would be so much easier to be moving 1,000 miles an hour, RUNNING HERE THERE AND EVERYWHERE, and never have to think about anything, including how UNHAPPY you are. But how did that work for your mother? Yeah… not so good, huh?

I know you want to be happy, SO JUST STOP. Lay down. I know you're scared because you don't like to be alone with your thoughts. I know it's going to feel like darkness, it will be scary. But in that aloneness and in that quiet, dark space, you will start to hear yourself. THE SELF that's in you. Can you hear it?

“Hey, it's me! WHY HAVE YOU BEEN IGNORING ME? There's things we gotta do! I mean, yeah, we gotta get over David's death and we gotta figure out why you always get into these bad relationships and confront some fears about your Mom. But then WE'RE GONNA GO LIVE IT UP!

“Remember how we used to go on ROAD TRIPS just because? Ooo, and how we'd go to CONCERTS that were sold out, all by ourselves, and scalp tickets and DANCE OUR FACES OFF? How about POOL HOPPING? Oh, and WEDDING CRASHING IN EXPENSIVE DRESSES from Saks Fifth Avenue with the tags still tucked in the back so we could return them???!!! WE USED TO LIVE, LIVE LIVE!!!!

Don't you miss that?”

YES, I DO. I HARDLY REMEMBER THAT GIRL.

“She's still there, you just got to listen to me, which is really you, and I'll have you two reunited in no time.”

SOUNDS GOOD TO ME.

Why Depression Is the BEST Thing That EVER Happened To ME

Why Wafting the Scent of Taco Bell Out of My Car is Essential to My Sanity

Let me start off my saying, I am NOTICABLY CHUNKY over this time last year. Let's say thirty pounds. Which considering I comforted myself with all things comfort food, comfort drink (adult beverages) and a lifestyle that can only be described as BEDRIDDEN, I'm almost proud to say IT'S ONLY THIRTY POUNDS. I mean, that is only, what, 2.5 pounds a month? After two years of sloth-like depression - I'D SAY CONGRATU-DAMN-LATIONS/

However, to my parents who value APPREARANCE (read: thin/skinny/emaciated-even-better) over all, I knew this 30 pounds was gonna be a BIG FAT PROBLEM. (Get it, “fat?” I know, I'll try harder.)

However, I, being the Manipulative Mind/Reverse Psychology Expert that I am (essential to my survival), decided to launch a pre-emptive strike in hopes I would NOT HAVE TO HEAR from my MOTHER about my chunky HIPS & THIGHS.

“Mom,” I said, “My friends and I all joined a weight loss club… I'm already down 3.2 pounds.” (True & True).

Apparently, after seeing me (Chunky Hips & Thighs & All), she couldn't hold her tongue (I thought after 24 hours I was in the clear… I'll never learn). I should have known when she came up to my room to “have private girl talk” that she was going to have something to say.

AND SHE DID.

Even after I said I was addressing it, even after I said I felt I had finally turned a corner and was getting back into working out (not true but I'M GONNA, I'M GONNA TURN THAT CORNER, even after I said I found this conversation kind of humiliating.

I said, “I think what I've been through the last two years, I'm not ashamed that I got depressed and gained this weight.”

She was lost in her own thoughts, “What are you ashamed about?” I said, “I SAID I'M NOT ASHAMED.” She said, “Everybody has problems.” “Really,” I said, “Everybody's cousin gets murdered?” (I know, bitchy, but her DISMISSIVENESS pushed me to the edge. And I did leave out, “And EVERYBODY'S Mom has a nervous breakdown a month after the trial?”

But she didn't even hear me. Instead she was busy turning the HUMILIATION DIAL from “I Really Think You're Being too Sensitive, Dear” TO “I Will Crush Your Self-Esteem into A Power Like Substance.”

She said, “Is this why your not dating much… BECAUSE OF HOW YOU LOOK?”

At that point, I was so blinded by my anger that it actually made me go deaf. I can't remember anything that was said after that.

NOW FOR THE PART OF THE STORY THAT INVOLVES DELCIOUS, SAVORY TACOS.

My Grandmother's in the hospital. My mother and I are going to visit her. I go to gas up the car. It's 1:30pm and I've only eaten a bowl of cereal. NOW THAT I HAVE THE FEAR OF GOD OF EATING IN FRONT OF MY MOTHER, (My older sister hasn't eaten in front of my mother in over 20 years. My mom sent her to fat camp two years in a row as a kid. My sister was maybe six or seven pounds overweight. Maybe.)

But I know I'm going to be hungry. We could be at the hospital for hours. That's when I see THE MECCA THAT IS TACO BELL. As I pull in front of the menu, my heart starts beating faster. “Mom will smell it on my breath!” “WHAT IF SHE CAN SMELL IT IN THE CAR?”

“Can I take your order please?” “Yes, um, what on the menu smells the least?” “Excuse me m'am?” “Would you say, a chulupa or a gordita smells more?” “Uh…a chulupa?” “Then I'll have the gordita.” “Can I get you some hot sauce with that?” “Dear, God, no! The scent of that will get trapped in the upholstery for months!”

I get my food and start driving home. It is raining. It is 20 degrees. Still, I drive with all four windows down. Rain is coming into the car, it's all over me and the seats.

I intermittently drive, take a bite of my gordita and WAVE ONE ARM AROUND TO GET THE SCENT OF DELICIOUS OUT OF THE CAR. I think it's working.

SHE'LL NEVER KNOW. I'M SOOOO SMART. I AM SOAKING WET. I am a grown woman who can't eat in front of her own mother. I feel ridiculous and stupid and angry all at the same time.

I SAID I WOULD NEVER BECOME THEM. I would not be “a sneak.” Like how my Mom said she quit smoking when I was twelve but she was still sneaking outside until I was 19. I would watch the orange glow of the cigarette and I would know. Or like my Dad. He hides a 30 pack of beer in his car and will only sneak in three or four at a time. He'll only drink it after she's gone to bed. The evidence goes in the recycle bin which he takes out. NO ONE IS THE WISER.

I don't want to be like that. I have every right to eat a 250 calorie bona fide taco with chicken (protein!), cheese (calcium!), sour cream (dairy!), lettuce and tomato (FIBER GALORE!). I could EAT TEN IF I WANT TO.

MY LIFE IS MY OWN.

MY LIFE IS MY OWN.

MY LIFE IS MY OWN. But only if I don't let myself become them.

Why Wafting the Scent of Taco Bell Out of My Car is Essential to My Sanity

An Amazing, Enlightening and A Little Bit Frightening New Year's Eve Dream

When you are in therapy, dreams mean everything. Once I had a dream that I was running away from wolves and masked men dressed in black. In the dream, I find a little girl. I grab her by the hand and at every threat, I SAVE HER. When I tell this to my shrink she says, "You know that little girl is you."

This is profound to me... that I am strong enough to save myself.

Now, I'm not in therapy but LAST NIGHT, New Year's Eve Night, I have this amazing dream that I feel WILL BE SOMEWHAT LIFE CHANGING. Here it is:

I dream I am doing laundry. I unscrew the top of the detergent and there are two stickers around the spout. One says something like, "Will not take tough stains out." I'm upset, I NEED MY TOUGH STAINS TAKEN OUT!!!

The other sticker says, "The help you give to other people will be your legacy." In the dream I smile, a smile so BIG & BRIGHT it wakes me and I realize, I SMILED MYSELF AWAKE. I have this feeling like, now I have NOT only found my PURPOSE but that their is some greater EXPECTATION of me. And it thrills me and scares me at the same time.

But mostly, I feel this RELIEF that now I know what to do with my life even IF I still have to figure out how.

An Amazing, Enlightening and A Little Bit Frightening New Year's Eve Dream

My Almost Nervous "Whole Foods" Breakdown

I could start to feel the dark stormy cloud coming over me again. It's an easy mathematical equation to know if you are depressed: “Are you asleep more than you are awake?” If the answer is yes, then you might be depressed.

I don't know what it could be.

Yes, you do. You started it by asking all those questions about your past, your mother's past, you couldn't leave well enough alone.

Oh, yeah, that might be it.

One thing that always makes me feel better is if I write. So I decided I'd go out and do a blog entry somewhere where there was internet. (Because we don't have it here, at my parents' house. If you can imagine a place where you have to wash yourself in a bucket and cook gruel in a pot in the fireplace, you pretty much have the technical advances of my parents house down. Oh, also, if you're coming by, bring a coat, you'll need to wear it indoors.)

First I try Panera Bread. No go. Then Border's Books. No go. You need T-Mobile there. “OH, I'M SORRY, DID THE THREE BUCKS I JUST SPENT FOR A CUP OF COFFEE NOT ENTITLE ME TO TEN MINUTES ON THE INTERNET!!!!”

That's what I would have said, had I spent three bucks on a cup of coffee. But I didn't.

So then I try Whole Foods. This is definitely going to work. I have used their internet before. Only it doesn't work. AND I CAN FEEL A RAGE BOILING UP IN ME like you would not believe.

I may be a lot of things. Eccentric, emotional, silly, high-strung, neurotic BUT I'm not usually a rage-a-holic-maniac type girl. OH, BUT RIGHT NOW I AM!

I seriously want to shake somebody. Or worse. I imagine (because I hate guns, so I would never think of shooting anyone with a real gun) that I have gun-like apparatus that instead of shooting bullets, IT SHOOTS FRUIT.

“Oh my God!,” they'll scream, “She's reloading in Produce.” Bam! Bam! Bam! I take down (and by “take down” I just mean “PELT IN THE BUTTOCKS with my fruit gun. It only leaves bruises in the shape of the fruit you were hit with AND AN INABILITY TO EVER EAT FRUIT SALAD AGAIN).

I reload with Grapefruits, that's how mad I am. I'm looking for the Manager who is responsible for my HARDSHIP of getting the on internet. I'm gonna get 'em, get 'em good.

The loud speaker comes on. “Maniac on aisle five.”

“Crap,” I think. “Now I'm gonna be on the news. Those bitches from high school will see me and think, 'She got so fat' and 'Did you even see what she was wearing?' “Please, like I could get past how bad her highlights are!”

I SNAP OUT OF MY FANTASY to see that BY SOME MIRACLE OF MIRACLES, that the INTERNET CONNECTION WORKS.

I write my blog and I check my Sitemeter to see how many people have been on the past few days. (I do this to see which entries people like best.)

The number of visitors is the hugest NUMBER since I started the sight. Maybe double the best number I've ever got.

That's when I start to cry (See? Emotional.) I just feel this amazing gratitude that people like my work, that they respond to it, that they see themselves in it. And also, I feel like a jerk that I was so close to having AN INSANE FIT over nothing, especially because I have EVERYTHING. (Okay, so maybe not a job... or a boyfriend... or any idea what's going to have to my family but... I'm figuring ALL THAT OUT. So, "EVERYTHING".)

And I also feel like a loser for wanting to shoot the lovely people at Whole Foods with my fruit gun.

My Almost Nervous "Whole Foods" Breakdown