In my young adult life time, I have had encounters with a total of four counselors/psychologists. My choice to visit the "shrink" was indeed just that - a choice that I made for myself.
No I didn't grow up in an abusive home or suffer severe trauma. My parents never got divorced; and if they ever exchanged a cross word with one another it was always carefully out of earshot from my brothers and I. My childhood is filled with rich memories of summers with my cousins and holiday meals with my grandparents. The only behavior that even remotely resembles abuse would be the occasional smackdown received from my brothers per usual (most call this sibling rivalry).
Growing up however, I simply didn't know how to communicate my own fears/worries/anxieties very openly due to my own hellacious knack for self-sabotage. Eventually, as a young adult, I felt more at ease sorting through the demise with someone if they were paid to listen to me. And even with the exchange of a copay, it wasn't an easy thing to articulate.
I've often considered this to be a curious thing about myself, particularly because of the very line of work I am in. Then again, perhaps that's the irony of it all... I listen because I want to be listened to. How narcissistic that seems? Until I realized that to be listened to is actually, believe it or not, a basic human need; even for those of us who think we don't need it.
My initial decision to "shrink it up" took place in college. What I know and understand now to be anxiety and overwhelming yet vague amounts of insecurity, were at the time, thoughts and feelings that dictated my very existence. I needed a safe place to talk, share and be fully realized into the stigma of "mental." After all, taking the plunge to "talk" to a professional certainly makes you mental, right? It has been through my process of "shrinkage" conversations, that I realized that I am so incredibly normal.
Exhibit A: Only after about 3 visits with Counselor 1, I became the listener. Sometimes, while learning about active listening, body language and quiet ques in my graduate courses, it's probably not the best scenario to apply these when visiting with a counselor who's just as human as you are. I mean, this guy was quirky, socially awkward and just plain odd. That last visit I had with him, I walked out realizing that I just gave this guy advice... and I'm paying HIM to counsel.
So I stopped.
Exhibit B: Counselor 2 discovered in our visits that I am a Minister of sorts. This lead to what I like to call, "The Confessional." This happens sometimes with people who, upon learning my trade, morph into "sinners" and feel the need to either apologize, share excuses or clam up completely. However, not being fully schooled in this response as a young 26 year old, I was offering active listening to my counselor, as she shared with me childhood stories of religious baggage, dogmatic abuses, and the general sense of "I'll never be enough."
Wait... there's a reason why I pay to talk... because I don't really elsehwere. And I don't really here.
So I stopped.
Exhibit C: Counselor 3 was an intellectual of sorts; categorizing and implementing outlines for a "healthier' behavorial practice. I can appreciate this. However, a conflict of interest arose upon the discovery that this counselor also provided shrinkage services to various folks I knew... the very folks I was having the most difficulty with. Meh... safe place gone buh bye.
So I stopped.
Last and Final Exhibit D: Counselor 4 socked it to me. She was a sounding board that reflected back to me the very normalcies I presented. I was bemused by my own lack of awareness that I was aware. Basically, I paid her for the validation that I am human, flawed, wonderful and in need of a little time to heal. Only, I wasn't giving myself credit that I had it in me. This wonderful lady offered me tools to be simply human.
Tools that I have encouraged in others.
Tools that we all have access to.
And with that... I stopped. Grateful, and free of co-pays.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Deep Thoughts with Rachel Luck
Every morning I am intentional about setting aside some time for meditative purposes. If you are thinking that meditation is a practice that requires incense, soft music and sitting indian style for an hour, I would invite you to reconsider.
See, Rachel's school of meditation varies from day to day. Sometimes it IS sitting indian style listening to music; but not for an hour. Maybe 10 or 15 minutes. Sometimes I am sitting on the floor just enjoying the company of my dogs. Sometimes it's sipping on my coffee on the back porch. Meditation, for me, is less about the "act" and more about the focus.
For those of you who don't know what an inner dialogue is, you will quickly learn that you have one when you focus on being in the moment. I'm not talking about distractions, I'm talking about the conversations you have with yourself; sometimes the thoughts that you aren't even aware that you have.
The joy in this practice is not only learning to be more self-aware of what you are telling yourself, but also to develop the skill of looking at your inner dialogue with a sort of objective eye.
I would like share my morning meditation with you.
Ok Rachel, let's focus on the breath. Feel the coolness of the breath going into the nostril, and the warmth going out. Man this is nice. I have come such a long way from months ago. I couldn't even sit still much less focus on breathing. Whoops... let's focus on breathing.
Oooh, its chilly outside when i'm sitting still like this. Should I have put on another coat? Breathe Rachel.
Okay fine, open up your eyes and just observe the tree, the sky, the rutted backyard that appears much more aesthetically pleasing in the dark. See? One with your little piece of nature. Those traffic lights are really bright.
Breathe.
Ah yes, I so enjoy being present and in the moment in my sacred mornings. Is that someone pulling in my driveway? Huh... it's just a car getting on the off ramp. That's odd. I've never noticed that before.
Breathe.
Breathing... in... out... calm... relax. I just feel so loved by the universe. MAN that traffic light is distracting! Where is Lilly? Oh I'm sure she's in the yard and I just can't see her because it's dark. I am really humbled that I have grown so much spiritually. I wonder if it is like an age thing? I mean, Liz in Eat Pray Love was in her mid-thirties. I know friends who have talked about life-changing events in their thirties.
Er, Jesus was killed at 32 right? That's my age. Dude that blows.
Done. My only reprieve is laughing; at myself. It's a great thing that I am the only one who can hear my own thoughts. I would offend so many people without the intent of seeming irreverent or insensitive. Luckily, when you can see the humor in yourself, it makes every meditation an adventure.
I'll do it again tomorrow.
See, Rachel's school of meditation varies from day to day. Sometimes it IS sitting indian style listening to music; but not for an hour. Maybe 10 or 15 minutes. Sometimes I am sitting on the floor just enjoying the company of my dogs. Sometimes it's sipping on my coffee on the back porch. Meditation, for me, is less about the "act" and more about the focus.
For those of you who don't know what an inner dialogue is, you will quickly learn that you have one when you focus on being in the moment. I'm not talking about distractions, I'm talking about the conversations you have with yourself; sometimes the thoughts that you aren't even aware that you have.
The joy in this practice is not only learning to be more self-aware of what you are telling yourself, but also to develop the skill of looking at your inner dialogue with a sort of objective eye.
I would like share my morning meditation with you.
Ok Rachel, let's focus on the breath. Feel the coolness of the breath going into the nostril, and the warmth going out. Man this is nice. I have come such a long way from months ago. I couldn't even sit still much less focus on breathing. Whoops... let's focus on breathing.
Oooh, its chilly outside when i'm sitting still like this. Should I have put on another coat? Breathe Rachel.
Okay fine, open up your eyes and just observe the tree, the sky, the rutted backyard that appears much more aesthetically pleasing in the dark. See? One with your little piece of nature. Those traffic lights are really bright.
Breathe.
Ah yes, I so enjoy being present and in the moment in my sacred mornings. Is that someone pulling in my driveway? Huh... it's just a car getting on the off ramp. That's odd. I've never noticed that before.
Breathe.
Breathing... in... out... calm... relax. I just feel so loved by the universe. MAN that traffic light is distracting! Where is Lilly? Oh I'm sure she's in the yard and I just can't see her because it's dark. I am really humbled that I have grown so much spiritually. I wonder if it is like an age thing? I mean, Liz in Eat Pray Love was in her mid-thirties. I know friends who have talked about life-changing events in their thirties.
Er, Jesus was killed at 32 right? That's my age. Dude that blows.
Done. My only reprieve is laughing; at myself. It's a great thing that I am the only one who can hear my own thoughts. I would offend so many people without the intent of seeming irreverent or insensitive. Luckily, when you can see the humor in yourself, it makes every meditation an adventure.
I'll do it again tomorrow.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
So you call yourself 2011.
I call you "Year of Succubus."
However, it is not in vain. I have learned a lot from you, what with the changes that not only I have experienced personally, but also in the changes and adjustments that I have observed in the lives of those around me. Whether it's loss of employment, the loss of important people in our lives, loss of identity, loss of hope, loss of respect for corporate institutons (hello Occupy!), I have experienced some and observed others.
Once upon a time, I would be the very first to say that everything happens for a reason. And while I suppose I could still say it, I also realize that I would only be saying it to make myself feel better. Assuming that everything has a "reason" provides, for me, a sense that everything has its context and place. Everything has its label on the shelf for later reference and reflection.
On this side of things, I believe a more truthful statement is not so much that everything happens for a reason; but rather that things happen. And when "things" happen, the reason as to "why" or "why not" is less important than the response we give to it.
I have come to the understanding that it is in my response, my reaction, that I have discovered the most about Rachel. And it is only Rachel who can do anything about Rachel. No matter where I go, Rachel always seem to be there. No matter what mirror I look in or what reflection I see while window shopping, I am constantly reminded that I am always there with Rachel. Distractions help lift the immediacy of things, but distractions will fade away soon enough. And what am I stuck with?
Rachel.
Fortunately, as 2011 comes to a close, I no longer feel "stuck" with myself. After a series of hard lessons, brutal honesty and an ongoing awareness that I have tremendous room to grow, I have actually begun to be "okay" with me. I have felt some scarey things this year... things that I didn't know I was capable of feeling. Things that I knew I could not ignore or else I would rot from the inside out. I gave myself permission to feel and be human. I gave myself permission to address all of the junk in my proverbial trunk... to yell and kick and scream within the safe confines of my own santuary. I have learned to breath and focus and shake off the cancer of worry and anxiety over situations that haven't even happened. I have learned to be present, to be in the moment, and manifest a sense of peace and calm in a way that allows me to fully participate in the life around me.
I am more aware of the interactions with others. I am aware of boundaries and responsibility for my own actions as opposed to absorbing the daggers of another. I have learned that is it possible to be free from the muck and myre of self-loathing and the vague sense of always being "less-than." I have come to terms with the cliche that the truth shall set you free. And this truth begins with my own relationship to myself.
I have learned to be Rachel with all of her quirks and mannerisms and talents. I have learned that I am passionate about many things and a natural optimist. I have learned to be aware of myself... to find my voice... and to find a balance that begins with me.
It is precisely this balance that I choose to use as my surfboard on the wave into 2012. I wish to shake off the dust of 2011, to wash myself clean of the grudges and the heartaches, and surf on into the wild blue yonder.
I hope you will join me.
However, it is not in vain. I have learned a lot from you, what with the changes that not only I have experienced personally, but also in the changes and adjustments that I have observed in the lives of those around me. Whether it's loss of employment, the loss of important people in our lives, loss of identity, loss of hope, loss of respect for corporate institutons (hello Occupy!), I have experienced some and observed others.
Once upon a time, I would be the very first to say that everything happens for a reason. And while I suppose I could still say it, I also realize that I would only be saying it to make myself feel better. Assuming that everything has a "reason" provides, for me, a sense that everything has its context and place. Everything has its label on the shelf for later reference and reflection.
On this side of things, I believe a more truthful statement is not so much that everything happens for a reason; but rather that things happen. And when "things" happen, the reason as to "why" or "why not" is less important than the response we give to it.
I have come to the understanding that it is in my response, my reaction, that I have discovered the most about Rachel. And it is only Rachel who can do anything about Rachel. No matter where I go, Rachel always seem to be there. No matter what mirror I look in or what reflection I see while window shopping, I am constantly reminded that I am always there with Rachel. Distractions help lift the immediacy of things, but distractions will fade away soon enough. And what am I stuck with?
Rachel.
Fortunately, as 2011 comes to a close, I no longer feel "stuck" with myself. After a series of hard lessons, brutal honesty and an ongoing awareness that I have tremendous room to grow, I have actually begun to be "okay" with me. I have felt some scarey things this year... things that I didn't know I was capable of feeling. Things that I knew I could not ignore or else I would rot from the inside out. I gave myself permission to feel and be human. I gave myself permission to address all of the junk in my proverbial trunk... to yell and kick and scream within the safe confines of my own santuary. I have learned to breath and focus and shake off the cancer of worry and anxiety over situations that haven't even happened. I have learned to be present, to be in the moment, and manifest a sense of peace and calm in a way that allows me to fully participate in the life around me.
I am more aware of the interactions with others. I am aware of boundaries and responsibility for my own actions as opposed to absorbing the daggers of another. I have learned that is it possible to be free from the muck and myre of self-loathing and the vague sense of always being "less-than." I have come to terms with the cliche that the truth shall set you free. And this truth begins with my own relationship to myself.
I have learned to be Rachel with all of her quirks and mannerisms and talents. I have learned that I am passionate about many things and a natural optimist. I have learned to be aware of myself... to find my voice... and to find a balance that begins with me.
It is precisely this balance that I choose to use as my surfboard on the wave into 2012. I wish to shake off the dust of 2011, to wash myself clean of the grudges and the heartaches, and surf on into the wild blue yonder.
I hope you will join me.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Sick Day Revisited
Allow me to take just a few minutes from staring at my computer regarding work-related stuff and continue staring at my computer to address what some may call a "felicitious" endeavor of blogging. Either way, I'm staring at the computer screen with a medicine-induced glaze of zombie-esque decorum. Tissue anyone?
Ignoring the plague-filled year of 2008 (flu, strep, shingles and cysts - oh my), I rarely use time off from work due to "sickness". Especially now that I have a job that I love, coworkers that I enjoy and a certain rapport and reputation that I prefer to maintain with my PT's and colleagues... or maybe it's ego... I just don't want to slow down and "get behind" in progress. I pride myself on my organization and administrative skills. And I've been healthier all around. But once in a while, the "bug" gets me and I am forced to take my own respite, hunker down, and take a little compassion on myself.
I don't know about you, but when I think of staying home sick, I picture cat naps, cozy blankets, mindless movies and lots of fluids. I imagine soft angelic light surrounding me with the gentle nudgings of "shhh... relax... all is well... get some rest" all about my person. And it's true for the first couple hours.
It has been my experience, as of late, that once the clock hits 3pm or so, I start to feel less than okay and more antcy. I start to feel increasingly sad and bored. Then I start to think of all the work that I COULD be doing:
Should I go ahead and check my voice mails? I'm sure I have atleast 30 new ones just waiting to be heard.
What is this going to mean for my work out routine? I'm going to get fat! I can't get fat... I've worked so hard!!
And the dogs are driving me nuts. They haven't gotten their walk today.
The trash needs to be taken out. Ugh, I don't feel like taking it out.
I wish my mom were here... so she could baby me. Rachel shut up, your 32.
Is it time to take my antibiotic yet?
Where's my juice? Damn, it's empty.
I'm so bored, I wish I had someone to talk to. I'm lonely. Where are all my friends? Why don't they care?? They're working Rachel. Get over yourself.
I should try to sleep.
Toss.
Turn.
Sigh.
Toss.
Where's my book? Meh, not interested.
This blanket is NOT cozy. It just gets tangled up.
I should really think about getting Christmas presents. I'm broke. Which is why I should be WORKING!
Where's my work phone? Yep 30 voice mails.
Oh I can't get off the couch. Where's the remote? Judge Judy... great distraction. But she's so mean!!
I want my mom.
My nose hurts.
It's now 5:30pm. Melissa brings me some chicken soup and brief encouragement via conversation. She can't stay. Oh but I want her to hang out with me. :( Rachel you're sick. She has things to do. Take the Benadryl she gave you. Be grateful for the visit. Swallow it down.
It's 7pm. My head feels very heavy. I can't keep my eyes open. YES. This is what I've been longing for all day.
Make my way upstairs.
Did I feed the dogs?
Crawl in the bed, set the alarm.
Did I turn the fan on?
Oh Rachel just shut up and rela.....
The end.
Ignoring the plague-filled year of 2008 (flu, strep, shingles and cysts - oh my), I rarely use time off from work due to "sickness". Especially now that I have a job that I love, coworkers that I enjoy and a certain rapport and reputation that I prefer to maintain with my PT's and colleagues... or maybe it's ego... I just don't want to slow down and "get behind" in progress. I pride myself on my organization and administrative skills. And I've been healthier all around. But once in a while, the "bug" gets me and I am forced to take my own respite, hunker down, and take a little compassion on myself.
I don't know about you, but when I think of staying home sick, I picture cat naps, cozy blankets, mindless movies and lots of fluids. I imagine soft angelic light surrounding me with the gentle nudgings of "shhh... relax... all is well... get some rest" all about my person. And it's true for the first couple hours.
It has been my experience, as of late, that once the clock hits 3pm or so, I start to feel less than okay and more antcy. I start to feel increasingly sad and bored. Then I start to think of all the work that I COULD be doing:
Should I go ahead and check my voice mails? I'm sure I have atleast 30 new ones just waiting to be heard.
What is this going to mean for my work out routine? I'm going to get fat! I can't get fat... I've worked so hard!!
And the dogs are driving me nuts. They haven't gotten their walk today.
The trash needs to be taken out. Ugh, I don't feel like taking it out.
I wish my mom were here... so she could baby me. Rachel shut up, your 32.
Is it time to take my antibiotic yet?
Where's my juice? Damn, it's empty.
I'm so bored, I wish I had someone to talk to. I'm lonely. Where are all my friends? Why don't they care?? They're working Rachel. Get over yourself.
I should try to sleep.
Toss.
Turn.
Sigh.
Toss.
Where's my book? Meh, not interested.
This blanket is NOT cozy. It just gets tangled up.
I should really think about getting Christmas presents. I'm broke. Which is why I should be WORKING!
Where's my work phone? Yep 30 voice mails.
Oh I can't get off the couch. Where's the remote? Judge Judy... great distraction. But she's so mean!!
I want my mom.
My nose hurts.
It's now 5:30pm. Melissa brings me some chicken soup and brief encouragement via conversation. She can't stay. Oh but I want her to hang out with me. :( Rachel you're sick. She has things to do. Take the Benadryl she gave you. Be grateful for the visit. Swallow it down.
It's 7pm. My head feels very heavy. I can't keep my eyes open. YES. This is what I've been longing for all day.
Make my way upstairs.
Did I feed the dogs?
Crawl in the bed, set the alarm.
Did I turn the fan on?
Oh Rachel just shut up and rela.....
The end.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Mighty Malts Malted Milk Balls
It was a cold winter's afternoon in 2003. Buies Creek, North Carolina... an abundance of cotton fields and brick pathways. Tucked ever so sweetly in Reardon apartment 22 D, sat two budding artists, just busting at the seams with creative energy and skill. Too much cabin fever mixed with a plethora of Dr. Perky lead these two brilliantly bored minds into a spiral of creative genius. For, within their sacred pantry of processed goods, there sat a towering box of the sweet confectionery known as the Might Malts Malted Milk Balls. Taken aback by this amazing find, the two artists were destined to create the following tribute, played to the tune of Stephen Lynch's "Lullaby". I hope this doesn't hurt you as much as it hurt them.
My tummy is growling,
And I want something to eat.
My mind says be healthy,
But my head says eat something sweet.
Why can't I have you to myself, today?
I gaze at your lily white box, and say....
CHORUS:
You are my Mighty Malts Malted Milk Balls.
And you'll never fail me when my sweet tooth calls.
Bon-bons and ho-hoes and ding dongs
No they aren't for me;
Cuz you're a bonus pack and ten percent free.
I open the carton
And see to my delight
The little chocolate candies
That comfort in the night.
Why can I have just one serving of ten?
I would like more to eat my friend.
(Chorus)
(collaboration by Erin Tucker and Rachel E. Luck)
My tummy is growling,
And I want something to eat.
My mind says be healthy,
But my head says eat something sweet.
Why can't I have you to myself, today?
I gaze at your lily white box, and say....
CHORUS:
You are my Mighty Malts Malted Milk Balls.
And you'll never fail me when my sweet tooth calls.
Bon-bons and ho-hoes and ding dongs
No they aren't for me;
Cuz you're a bonus pack and ten percent free.
I open the carton
And see to my delight
The little chocolate candies
That comfort in the night.
Why can I have just one serving of ten?
I would like more to eat my friend.
(Chorus)
(collaboration by Erin Tucker and Rachel E. Luck)
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Happy Friggin Holidays
Christmas is one those grand times of year in which folks dress up like eskimos and eat too much and roast chestnuts and hang tinsel on a gaudy fake tree. I mean, I love the holiday myself. This is evidenced by that fact that the garland on my mantle has been appropriately arranged since the Saturday following Thanksgiving. My tree was likewise decorated and presents wrapped within 48 hours of the gluttonous feast. Black Friday is the holiday that follows that other one in which we're supposed to be thankful and such.
Part of the splendor that comes with the advent season is obviously the music. Whether it be carols or hymns or new Holiday creations, the music serves as a catalyst for warm, fuzzy feelings, baking cookies, and putting up lights... in some cases, more lights than necessary.
This season, I have become ensconced with the music... listening to it in my car, while I wash dishes, while I'm fixing breakfast, while I'm at the office. For the most part, holiday melodies do provide the warm fuzzies for my psyche.
However - comma - there are some songs that I have come to discover are less-than-jolly. Indeed, some are downright sinister, not by virtue of the song, but rather by virtue of the artist behind it. Allow me to elaborate.
Mariah Carey - in most every song she sings with the intent of merriment and joy, I rather find myself picturing demented elves dancing around with smiles too wide to comfortably fit their little faces. I find it to be full of noise and distraction and too much vibrato. Mariah Carey does not create for me a sense of cozy and happy. Rather, I grow withdrawn and scared. I wish to run home, grab my neatly placed stocking that has been hung by the chimney with care, and pull it over my head.
Amy Grant - oh Amy... "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" has become the most nauseating song of the season. I don't question her artistic ability to create music. But I do question her gag reflex and solarplexis when she covers this song. I am left with impression that she is on the verge of throwing up a little in her mouth when recalling that her loved ones are neeeeeaaaaarrrrr.
So this is Christmas. And what have YOU done? - well, I am going to change that channel temporarly. That's what I am going to do. This song is not conducive to wrapping up in a cozy snuggie and watching It's A Wonderful Life. Rather this song makes me feel guilty about that extra helping of mashed potatoes I had. I feel less-than-okay about not paying that extra dollar to the Make A Wish Foundation when checking out at Food Lion. I feel selfish for using 2 ply toilet paper and encouraging the further destruction of trees for a more enjoyable bathroom experience. I am reminded of the the starving kids Grandmother always told me about when I wouldn't finish all of my vegetables. No thanks. Blinders please. It's Christmas for crying out loud!
Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time - not when this song is on. It's choppy and not fluid. This song stresses me out. I can't relax. I do not have a wonderful Christmas time when this is playing. It lies to me.
Give me some Nat King Cole and Michael Buble. Give me those instrumental classics and big band era feel-goods. Give me that good time feeling with images of utopia and good will. Allow me to dance in the oblivion that everyone is drinking cocoa and sledding and eating and sleeping in warm beds. Now that is a happy friggin holiday.
Part of the splendor that comes with the advent season is obviously the music. Whether it be carols or hymns or new Holiday creations, the music serves as a catalyst for warm, fuzzy feelings, baking cookies, and putting up lights... in some cases, more lights than necessary.
This season, I have become ensconced with the music... listening to it in my car, while I wash dishes, while I'm fixing breakfast, while I'm at the office. For the most part, holiday melodies do provide the warm fuzzies for my psyche.
However - comma - there are some songs that I have come to discover are less-than-jolly. Indeed, some are downright sinister, not by virtue of the song, but rather by virtue of the artist behind it. Allow me to elaborate.
Mariah Carey - in most every song she sings with the intent of merriment and joy, I rather find myself picturing demented elves dancing around with smiles too wide to comfortably fit their little faces. I find it to be full of noise and distraction and too much vibrato. Mariah Carey does not create for me a sense of cozy and happy. Rather, I grow withdrawn and scared. I wish to run home, grab my neatly placed stocking that has been hung by the chimney with care, and pull it over my head.
Amy Grant - oh Amy... "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" has become the most nauseating song of the season. I don't question her artistic ability to create music. But I do question her gag reflex and solarplexis when she covers this song. I am left with impression that she is on the verge of throwing up a little in her mouth when recalling that her loved ones are neeeeeaaaaarrrrr.
So this is Christmas. And what have YOU done? - well, I am going to change that channel temporarly. That's what I am going to do. This song is not conducive to wrapping up in a cozy snuggie and watching It's A Wonderful Life. Rather this song makes me feel guilty about that extra helping of mashed potatoes I had. I feel less-than-okay about not paying that extra dollar to the Make A Wish Foundation when checking out at Food Lion. I feel selfish for using 2 ply toilet paper and encouraging the further destruction of trees for a more enjoyable bathroom experience. I am reminded of the the starving kids Grandmother always told me about when I wouldn't finish all of my vegetables. No thanks. Blinders please. It's Christmas for crying out loud!
Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time - not when this song is on. It's choppy and not fluid. This song stresses me out. I can't relax. I do not have a wonderful Christmas time when this is playing. It lies to me.
Give me some Nat King Cole and Michael Buble. Give me those instrumental classics and big band era feel-goods. Give me that good time feeling with images of utopia and good will. Allow me to dance in the oblivion that everyone is drinking cocoa and sledding and eating and sleeping in warm beds. Now that is a happy friggin holiday.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Calories Count
It would seem to me that calorie counting has worked in the past when I starved myself on less than 1200 calories a day. I have no idea where I got the discipline and the energy to adhere to such a strict regime. To couple it with weight lifting and vigorous exercise, I managed to drop every bit of 60 pounds. "You're too thin" some would say. It's true, I was thin... and toned... and really hot.
But somewhere along the line I lapsed... I ceased weight lifting after ripping apart my tendons. I lost the discipline to exercise as my energy turned towards other issues and anxieties. And due to the anxieties and issues I lost sight of all caloric discipline.
Calories count for something. Weight gain set aside, calories come in a variety of sugary-sweet and savory packages. Calories not only function as a digestable energy source for normal body functions. Calories also become a therapist of sorts... adhering to your very emotional needs of comfort and security. How interesting it is that when not looking, calories count and become bigger in number. Before you know it, it is the calories that you intake which become the bigger source of discomfort and insecurity.
Tis a constant struggle... eat this not that... have only one not two... burn more eat less. I jog. I watch what I eat. And I watch my weight fluctuate. I blame it on the thyroid while turning a blind eye to the extra cookie I'm cramming down my throat. But it's just SO good.
But somewhere along the line I lapsed... I ceased weight lifting after ripping apart my tendons. I lost the discipline to exercise as my energy turned towards other issues and anxieties. And due to the anxieties and issues I lost sight of all caloric discipline.
Calories count for something. Weight gain set aside, calories come in a variety of sugary-sweet and savory packages. Calories not only function as a digestable energy source for normal body functions. Calories also become a therapist of sorts... adhering to your very emotional needs of comfort and security. How interesting it is that when not looking, calories count and become bigger in number. Before you know it, it is the calories that you intake which become the bigger source of discomfort and insecurity.
Tis a constant struggle... eat this not that... have only one not two... burn more eat less. I jog. I watch what I eat. And I watch my weight fluctuate. I blame it on the thyroid while turning a blind eye to the extra cookie I'm cramming down my throat. But it's just SO good.
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