"You Need To Jump Out of An Airplane" & Other Wack-A-Do Advice from my Younger Sister

The thing in my family is we never tell the truth about anything. We smile... at trips to the hospital, to people's funerals, at awkward moments at the dinner table when certain members of the family are obviously having a nervous breakdown. Pass the cheesecake please!

But my sister and I have this New Pact to tell each other the truth. It started when my cousin died and then when my Mom had her, "bad time" as she likes to call it. (Um... my idea of having a "bad time" involves cramps from my period and not being rushed to an emergency room.) I will one day tell the story of how Me & E (my awesome, fastastically cool younger sister) came up with the idea of the New Pact. But I feel like I'm getting off the topic of MY SECRET FEAR OF FAT GIRL JEANS.

So, in honoring the New Pact where we tell the truth, one day I told E, "I'm depressed, I'm not myself, I'm in some kind of funk." E was quiet for a second, I knew she was coming up with a plan which I knew would be better than my plan of laying in bed WITH OLD "US" MAGAZINES I had stolen from my dentist ("Tori & Dean: Inn Love." Rivetting!) E said, "Here's what you need to do: YOU NEED TO JUMP OUT OF AN AIRPLANE." Now it was my time to be silent as a "You are a moron" bell went off in my head.) She must be talking methaphorically, I thought, that I need more adventure in my life, that I need to face my fears, that I need to do something wild and spontaneous and unpredictable. The airplane must symbolize all that stuff because she can't really be expecting me to jump out of a plane. On a Saturday. When I am laying in bed and have all this important "US" magaqzine reading to do.

"E," I said, "Do you mean... metaphorically jump out of a plane? E signed, clearly frustrated. "No, I meant REALLY JUMP OUT OF A PLANE."

See, this is where we differ, where we don't see eye to eye. I AM NOT JUMPING OUT OF A frickin' PLANE. That was months ago. Just to torture me, my sister sent me photos of her JUMPING OUT OF A PLANE, signed, "Wish you were here."

One day, I will jump out of a plane. It's on my life list. It's a goal. But here's the thing: I can't go from a place where it's too overwhelming for me to shampoo AND condition my hair to a place where I am jumping out of things and possibly PLUMMENTING TO MY DEATH. That is too scary to me. But I can do something else that scares me TODAY and I'm doing it. I'm naming my fear, I'm staring it down AND I'M WRITING IT HERE SO THAT I CAN'T GET OUT OF IT. It's SOMETHING THAT SCARES ME somewhere between the level of seeing an ex-boyfriend at a party with his new hot girlfriend and jumping out of an airplane.

Here it is: I am going shopping for fat girl jeans. That's it. The delusion is over. I'm chunky. You guys know I gave up sweat pants but the truth is, like any TRUE JUNKY, I've been using again. First, it was just cotton pants with a zipper, then it WAS THE HARD STUFF, straight up sweats. With holes... disguised with long t-shirts. I'm so ashamed.

So now, I face the truth. It's not going to be pretty there at the mall. In the big girl section. But I have to do it OR I'll never get truly clean. I'll let you know how it goes. Thank you for letting me share.

"You Need To Jump Out of An Airplane" & Other Wack-A-Do Advice from my Younger Sister

Breaking Up (With Your Therapist) Is Hard To Do

Here's the thing. I have been in therapy for a very long time. Okay, relatively long. Like three years. I can't even remember why I would have even started going back then since I had my dream job, a sexy boyfriend, had just dropped forty pounds and fit into my skinny jeans and had a Louis Vuitton bag that even though it was fake, looked very real. But I digress, two years ago, things GOT HAIRY as many of you know. All things mentioned above (except for the Louis Vuitton bag which could be yours for the low, low price of $50 dollars) went away. So I plucked down on the therapist's flowery couch and went to work. For two years. Sometimes one a week, sometimes twice. I talked and I talked and I talked and I talked. And now, I am done talking.

I'm kind of like the guy that lost interest months ago but has just been hanging around because I don't know how to get out. My last few sessions, I just acted like I had nothing to talk about and hoped that SHE WOULD INITIATE THE BREAK-UP. But nooooo. She's not having it. She is just that into me. Now I'm trying another classic GUY MOVE. I'm going to act really busy. It's just too impossible to get together. Hopefully she will become frustrated, disappointed by my lack of commitment and I can just fade away. Guys are so smart.

Why can't I be honest? I don't know. I would explore that in Thursday's session but unfortunately, I'm canceling tonight on voice mail when I know she won't be around to answer her phone.

Breaking Up (With Your Therapist) Is Hard To Do

For David, Who I (Double) Love & Miss

I can still remeber when my Aunt brought Baby David home. That's what we called him. Because he was a baby and his name was David. He was my cousin and the first Grandson in our generation... and we are Italian so that is very important. When people ask me what I remember about David, I lie. I lie because I don't want to say, "I remember that he loved bees and was fearless and would catch them by their wings... And I remember that I wrote a check for his funeral." Of all the things I thought when we were kids playing together (that he was bugging me, that if he stuck a bee in my face one more time there would be hell to pay, that I loved even though he wasn't much younger than me he would sit on my lap), I never thought, "I'm going to be writing a check for your funeral." I can still remember when the conversation was had, when the idea was floated. I jumped at the chance. It would make me feel better for the fact that my life was perfect, my sisters were alive and now there could be nice sandwiches and an open bar after the funeral. After the funeral you have for your baby cousin who is fearless who plays with bees and sits on your lap.

The idea of writing a check - who cares - it was not about the money but it was a pinnacle moment of: I AM A GROWN-UP. People die on me. And then I help pay for their funerals. "Don't tell anyone," I was told. It will make people feel bad, less than, fill-in-the-blank. When I was writing that check all I could think of was, "What else will I help pay for? Who else's eyes will I look into and have no idea they might be gone one day and all I will have left of them is a canceled check and a debit on my Bank of America card?

David's two year anniversary was yesterday. All I could think of was, exactly two years ago today, before the accident, before the police called my father thinking he was David's father to tell him the news, before my father had to call my uncle and tell him David was dead, before I called my father and had to hear the news, before I had to take out my red sparkly monkey check book holder that is not very grown-up, but obviously now was being used for grown-up things... my life was perfect.

Once it got turned on it's side and shook up and down and was never the same because of the things that happened and the things I know and the check I wrote. But I'm still standing. Sometimes barely. Sometimes I am laying down. For really long periods of time. Sometimes I am crying in bed and I am howling so loud that my dog howls with me... which makes me laugh and I stop and I comfort him and he comforts me. I am looking for the hope and the silver lining and the wrap-up sentence that UPLIFTS us all and INSPIRES us to move FORWARD. But today, I know none. Tomorrow, I hope tomorrow will be different.

For David, Who I (Double) Love & Miss

Quote O' The Day

This comes from awesomely vivacious reader Megan: ""Most people don't know there are angels whose only job is to make sure you don't get too comfortable & fall asleep & miss your life."

Quote O' The Day

Oh, My God! You're So Fat! Congratulations!

I wish someone said that to me. I mean, of course, I would go running into the next room and probably burst into tears and then need to eat three candy bars and a Xanax to feel better. But I wish someone said that to me. Four or five years ago, I lost a lot of weight, maybe sixty pounds. People would see me and exclaim, "Oh, my God, you got so skinny." "Look, at you, you're like half a person." (Really?) My point is, when someone loses weight, everyone has something to say about it. But when we gain it, we just get the "quick up and down" glance and a tight smile.

Two years ago, my cousin passed away... then I lost my job... oh, and my boyfriend and I broke up, then my Mom got sick. I didn't so much start eating everything in sight as I took to my bed and I just stopped moving. Except FOR MY ASS, that was moving, GETTING BIGGER EVERY DAY. But no one said anything. I guess it's not really polite to say, "What's that noise? Oh, it's your thighs rubbing together!" But I wish it was... I mean, I'm a sensitive gal and I would never want to hurt a friend's feelings but if I see one of my friend's ass spread like mine did, or if I start to notice she only has one outfit and it's sweatpants (AND REMEMBER, SWEAT PANTS ARE NOT YOUR FRIEND), I'm going to say something. I'm going ask if they are okay.

I'm going to have my pockets stuffed with Hershey kisses and Xanax and approach that tough conversation, "I couldn't help but notice, that you have a double chin and a muffin top is dangerously peeking over your pants, wanna talk?" Because sometimes fat is a sign of something bigger... of someone who can't express they need a helping hand. So be that hand, all you can do is get yelled at. But I would rather be yelled at than thinking one of my friends was suffering and I didn't even approach them with Xanax and candy and a ear to listen.

Oh, My God! You're So Fat! Congratulations!

Quote O' The Day

One of our beautiful readers left this in the comments section but it's SO PROFOUND, it's stepping right to the front.

"The upside of falling into depression or dealing with any disappointment is that there is nowhere to go but up. A return to the 'simple things'."

Amazing! Thank you :)

Quote O' The Day

Depression Confession

You know what totally stinks? Figuring out you're not perfect. See, I had this whole idea that if I started this journey of digging myself out from underneath a landslide of grief, sadness, over-whelm-ed-ness (yes, I make up words) and lost-ed-ness, I would immdiately get a job, lose 30 pounds, never eat another bad thing for me, run 18 miles a day and meet a great guy. "When you name it, you claim it." So there I was in my apartment, day five into doing anything and everything I can to get out of this damn funk and... I was still chunky. No guy knocked at my door. I ate garlic bread... a lot of it. There might of been chocolate too, but that memory is unclear - DUE TO ALL THE WINE I DRANK. WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME? Oh, yeah... I'm not perfect.

Everytime I set myself up for perfection, I fail, beat myself up and where does that lead... THAT LEADS TO BED. And not in a sexy way.

I had the best example for perfection growing up. My Mom. She held down a full time job, went to Church twice a week, did everything in the house that needed to be done, volunteered endlessly (she used to take a blind woman for ice skating lessons - can you spell SAINT?) She could be freaking out at us for something we didn't do two seconds before we walked into a party but the second we walked through the door, the pagent smile came on, then the wave. It was like she flipped a switch, "EVERY THING IN MY LIFE IS PERFECT." But it wasn't perfect. She lost her own Mom to cancer at 19, my Dad had spent at least 20 years of my life sick - he had a heart transplant and years later a kidney transplant, my cousin Michael died when I was fourteen and David died just two years ago. But she was perfect. I can't remember her crying through any of it.

But that didn't last for long. My mother... and I'm really not trying to be flip here... literally, blew a gasket in December. All that perfect, all that stored up, pent up emotion exploded just days after Christmas. We took her to the hospital. We debated committing her. She was babbling all her family secrets because in her nervous breakdown state, there was no edit button. I said to my sister after: "She has spent our whole lives keeping all that in. And now, in ten minutes... it's out." Amazing. It made me sad to know she has been holding down the pain all along, all alone.

So here I am. I'm not perfect. And I AM TRYING SO HARD TO GET TO A PLACE WHERE I'M OKAY ABOUT THAT. If I harness all the time I try to be perfect and x (times it) by the time I beat myself up for not being perfect, that equals A LOT OF TIME where I could be doing something sooooo much better. Like blogging. Like reading the sweet replies people send me to let me know they are digging my journey. Ooo, and for cup cakes. Okay, maybe not cup cakes... a bath. A bath with no negative, beat-me-up dialogue going through my head. Because hey, I'm not perfect so why would I waste my time on that?

Depression Confession

What Would Wonder Woman Do?

Today as I was hurrying off to nowhere, I pondered my breakfast choices and I couldn't help but wonder - WHAT DOES WONDER WOMAN EAT FOR BREAKFAST? Why Wonder Woman? 'Cause she rocks, she wears thigh high boots and a cinched belt. And if that weren't enough, she wears a crown which only like Madonna in the 80's and women with really high self-esteem ever wear. I bet Wonder Woman isn't racing into Starbucks to get a muffin or a deli to get a scooped out bagel and some cream cheese or wolfing down a handful of cheese nips and a Diet Coke at her desk. C'MON, SHE'S WONDER WOMAN! She fights crime, she can't be all weighed down by a big fat scone and then not be able to get that golden lasso up over her head. She can't be flying her invisible plane and fall alseep at the instruments because she had french toast. Lately, I've been eating what I would call "slow down food" - definition: food that slows me down. I was shocked when I started researching and saw what we put in our mouths plays a huge role in how we feel. Which at first bummed me out. DID I CONTRIBUTE TO MY OWN DEPRESSION? Um... yeah. THE GOOD NEWS... I can play a big part of getting out of it. I took a serious inventory of what I've been eating lately. All I had to do was pick up the discarded wrappers off the floor of my Jeep. (Hey, who said honesty was pretty?) I bet Wonder Woman doesn't eat Snack Wells, or Doritos or McDonalds fries. SO IF I WANT TO KICK ASS LIKE WONDER WOMAN and fight off "bummed-outted-ness" I have to eat like I think she would.

Right now, I have to be gentle, I'm not all about being perfect and going on some crazy diet. But I am going to start eating more veggies and fruits and way more water. Later on I'll get to eliminating some stuff (processed sugar and refined carbs). In the meantime, here are the vitamins I need that are going to help me with my MOOD: B vitamins, folic acid, vitamin D, iron, magnesium, selenium, zinc and calcium. I'm going to take a good woman's mult-vitamin until I can reserach the best foods to find them in. This morning I made a shake of spinach, blueberries, rasberries, yogurt, ice, flaxseed and a scoop of whey protein (you can get it at a health food store). It was loaded with all my vitamins and minerals and I felt pretty damn proud of myself! Not ready for thigh high boots or a cinched belt just yet, but I'm on my way :)

What Would Wonder Woman Do?

Sweat Pants & the City

Here's the deal. Ever since I got kinda sorta (really) down-in-the-dumpers, I've made an odd fashion choice. I wear Sweat pants. Like 24/7. I have fancy sweat pants (dark gray and flarred at the bottom so they look like real pants), brown, pink (capris), light blue and white (special occasion). Sweat pants have become an extension of my bed - roomy, comfy and cotton-y. Sweat pants are denial, just like taking to your bed is denial. Sweat pants deny that you've gained five pounds, then ten, then fifteen. Though the fact that I got holes in the butt and thighs of my sweats - GAP sweats so less - should have tipped me off that there WAS A MAJOR PROBLEM.

A few years ago there was this cool trend of ladies wearing matching Juciy Couture velvet sweat suits. THEY WERE "SUITS" 'cause they were glamourous and and if you call 'em SUITS then nobody will think twice about paying $200 bucks for them (All though they should! They really really should! Have these women not seen the inside of a Target?) Anyway, those cute girls with the tight butts and tiny dogs in their matching SWEAT SUITS and giant sun glasses looked like they were on the RUN, they were GOING PLACES. They were so busy... THEY ONLY HAD TIME FOR SWEAT SUITS. Maybe that's what I hoped to imitate. Maybe that's the life I thought I could portray. But really, today, looking at myself in "hole-y" pink sweats and a big green t-shirt that looks like it needed to be washed two meals ago, no make-up and a snarly pony tail, I had to wonder... am I fooling anyone? I GOT OUT OF BED AND THAT'S A BIG "YAY!" but did the wearing of the sweat pants mean I had just taken my bed outside, so to speak? Maybe.

So what am I doing with my first offcial day out of my depression bed? Well, I guess it's rounding up the hole-y sweats for a ceremonial burning! Sweat pants be gone! If I'm striving to not be depressed, I have to dress like it, right? Are you walking around in big-baggy-don't-notice-me-clothes? Maybe there's some things you want to get rid of, too. It can serve so many purposes. 1) Let's say good-bye to the old us! 2) Let's donate these clothes to someone that might need them more than us 3) Let's "fake it 'til we make it" - by dressing in fitted, well maintained clothes maybe we'll feel more connected to ourselves. And more connected to the world! Don't you feel more like smiling at a stranger when you're dressed in a confident way? Weird, I always looked down when I was wearing sweats, hoping no one would notice me. I don't want that anymore.

Sweat Pants & the City

Super, Wonderfully, Fantastically, Incredibly Intoxicated

Okay. Fine. Drunk. No, not drunk. Intoxicated. Intoxicated is two beers (fine, three) + Bliss. So it's intoxicated and not drunk. Here's the deal: I'm starting my new life. A new life that requires me to not be in bed but to be out, about and really live. Here's one of the first tips I'm going to pass on so you can start to make your life more groovy. ASK FOR HELP. That's what I did tonight and it totally paid off. I "rang the alarm" as Beyonce would say (though I'm not totally sure of the definition, I think it means to let everybody know something). So I let my girls know: I NEED SOME COMPANY. I pondered as I called and emailed, "How do you say, I'm depressed, I need my girls?" The thing about sometimes being depressed is you can't creatively think on your feet (i.e. lie). So I went with a more different approach: THE TRUTH. "Hey, what's up, it's me. Listen... I'm depressed and I need my girls." Wow. It felt freeing, weird, exciting. And you know what? No one really asked questions, no one freaked out. They just showed up, one by one at this cool little bar (with couches, which is very important, because I am going from my bed life, and I'm not quite ready for "sitting" life, so a couch is a very non-threatening way to start. And we drank and laughed and looked at boys and gossiped and I THOUGHT: I'M SO LUCKY... BECAUSE I'M NOT ALONE. And I don't know if I knew that yesterday. So go ahead... try it. You don't even need to have beer. You can go out for... pudding. Pudding is good. You don't even have to talk about why you feel down. I didn't. I just needed to know I had friends. That = Bliss.

Super, Wonderfully, Fantastically, Incredibly Intoxicated