How to Make a Mental Leap

It’s the title I’m putting on this post and I don’t know how to do it, but maybe if I assert that I already do know, I’ll figure it out.

I know that I have to suddenly become prepossessing.  I have to be able to be in charge.  I can’t dither, or dally, or leave a comma where it need not be.  I have to move mountains and light years and I’ve been given the direction that I should really have already pulled Fuji a few feet to the left.  Bare minimum.

I know this and I know I do not know how to do it.  I have been given kindly words by kind souls who believe or purport to believe in my skills, but I don’t know that those skills actually exist.  Maybe all of the lead-up to being in this job has been some sort of fever dream and I am awoke, ass on the pavement, blinking myself awake as though I’ve just been born.

What I thought was simple is not simple.  What I think is complex is meant to be the mental calculation of a moment.  It is humbling.

So I sat in a room and described how I felt I could do things better and one of those things is improving my connection to this level of work by improving my wardrobe and getting my hair cut.  I said I would do that, so I trotted out and spent a lot of money to have hair I like (though not the sort of hair that were I financially free I would choose.) Tomorrow, because the places I went today seemed to have inadequate quality fabric (though the sort of things I’d be perfectly happy to wear were I not shopping to look like I wanted to be employed where I am currently employed), we will go out into the world and buy something that upgrades some bit of old awful that I used to wear.

In the middle of this, J. is drifting in and out of consciousness on the phone with me as I encourage him to both sleep and eat at the same time because he hasn’t been doing either in a consistent way.  And he sounds pitiful and endearing and maybe a few hours earlier he’d told me I was beautiful so I think this is a good time to ask him to Thanksgiving.

I’d been thinking about this a while, but I still couched it in tentative terms.  Like, I know it’s forever away, and it’s so unlikely and dumb, but I wanted you to know that…like, the holidays are awful and hard and I don’t even know on the getting…but you’re invited to Thanksgiving.

An immediate thank you returns my volley.  An immediate “But I have to work the day after Thanksgiving.”  I say oh, okay.  There’s a few more encouraging blurts before I hang up the phone to go find the confident clothes that are going to transform my life.

I end up finding nothing.

Allemande Left

  • make bed
  • do laundry
  • grocery list
  • bathroom
  • charge phone
  • talk at some point to ser dude again
  • hope the washing machine did not break.  (Did not)

It is so strange to me that when you are journaling daily, you become hyper-aware of how the actions of the day will convert into text.  What you can get words out of, what has absorbed thought like a sponge and will provide a shower if you just twist a bit.  And what is dry as a bone and best left as forgotten as things half-remembered can be.  Now, not writing down the daily activities mean that this awareness comes with a burden attached.  I know when a happening is full of story and you can’t, not without physical pain, just mark down co-worker quit and leave it be at that.

Because I was not expecting that.  I was hoping for an exit that did not demand my awareness of yet another stratum on this tiramisu of drama.  But it makes sense that if I needed to go, everyone really does.  And it feels like Pisa is at a 45 degree angle now and nobody has the strings to pull it all the way aright.  So tomorrow requires just seven hours of…what, I don’t precisely know, because we’re not pulling a magnificent edifice back onto its foundations in seven hours, so I don’t know what lies between that and just throwing up my hands.

This is my parents’ work ethic – even if they’ve long said, just go – I am, so wildly grateful that I have a place to just go to.  Of course, there are other elements to this, other layers of mascarpone to dig through that I am not willing to share as they’re not mine to do so, but I am just glad that I am able to walk and not have myself in a blind panic about what is next.

So, yeah, I am grateful.  For so many things.   For the desire to write flowing through me, for how J. sounds when he says chicanery so casually there’s not even a chance to comment on it, for tacos that taste like those tacos do, for a spongy mind.

Off we go.

The Dismal Visionary


Who can say?  Not I.  Not I.

2017 is nigh.

I am inspired to do low-carb starting January 1.   It’s coming out of my own desire to do it and not, I believe, out of this sense of needing to have a resolution.  Not out of habit.  It’s, instead, coming out of my own personal sense of needing to start the year working on myself because I want to see improvement.  I want my life to be better, goddamnit, fabulous, even.  Not choosing food to serve as an external release valve on all of my emotions.  Of wanting to be able to get myself moved out of this limbo.  I know that there’s a big event coming on the 9th where food will be funky.  I know my birthday is coming again.  Yet, I want to do this.  I want to have a year-end change.  It’s time to start pulling out the motivational picture albums, the MyFitnessPal, the FitBit or some form of pedometer and get to be excited about progress again.

So, I can’t do it all at once.  But water, cutting carbs, tracking food and posting daily on MFP about it.  That’s a path towards something.  You will see me doing that, failing, upset, excited, not doing what you think I should, working really hard, being all over the map.  But this is my intention.

I also pledge not to eat out more than once a week.  That’s mostly about money, but I also eat so maniacally, it’s a way to help myself, too.

Just to reiterate, changes are going to happen here because…they have to.  I can’t do another year of just posting moaning screeds.  It’s a waste of my talents.  I need to read.  I so need to be reading so that the well has something other than marsh water to draw on.  I can’t do better unless I do differently, so the post will happen in essence via MFP or me writing.  I will be here weekly to spaz and cross-post, but it won’t be like it is now.

That scares the everloving shit out of me.  I might accidentally just post. I don’t know.

Computer Time
The reading and the writing and the not just spending whole days restarting Civ IV games.  I have to be conscious of how much time I cede to this thing.  Even just waiting for people to respond to messages.  It’s endless at times.  I mean, I love it, it’s comforting, but it chains my ass to the bed for ages.  I can’t be chained like this forever.  Nothing is forever.

Every day we start over.  The hand hangs out of the carriage and is grabbing in all directions.  But I am sure that I like myself better for just that little bit of trying I am doing.  So, I say how do you do, and I try and make jokes, and I try and express interest and comb my hair and buy (with gift certificates) new dresses and be cute and willing.  And we’ll see.



Spare Change

dirty-old-truck-1475644-639x503Okay.  So.  The thing in the way of my happiness is me.  If I am to gauge that I would experience a noticeably larger amount of happiness were I to follow up with my plans and attempt to struggle towards my dreams.

So, weight loss.  Right now.

I hesitate to write this because I certainly wouldn’t want anyone writing about my status when I’m working on myself, but my sister is doing great with her low-carb.  I don’t know how much or how little she’s lost, but she’s feeling good, she’s doing it and I can see a difference and I hardly pay any attention to anything.   There is, not an insignificant amount of jealousy, in that I feel bloated and starving and exhausted all the time and she seems, from the outside, alright.

And I am making no money at all, (so it seems) and running out and buying fast food and eating out at places that aren’t really in my poor person budget, acting in old habits, airporting as I defined yesterday.  Just thinking about the

I think, okay, vegetables.  And my whole body gets pissed off.  I get pissed off about everything that’s out of my control or seemingly so…my job situation, the fact that you can have one of these lingering powerful romantic interactions with someone and be strung along for weeks, my mom being sick and having to suffer to do what we can to destroy the sickness and getting messages from my vacationing sister about how I need to be reacting and behaving right now.  And in that space, being able to have a sandwich or a piece of pizza or four or five peanut butter cups to quash hunger and everything else attached to hunger, is magic.

It feels like sidestepping the effects of time.

Yesterday’s truth: There is no day outside of the chain of days, time does not stop and restart, we don’t escape life to some other place.  We just live in or out of fear.

This is the story of the fat people of the world.  Sometimes.  Some of them.  Of me. The Brene Brown bonafide truth that you feel freaked out and vulnerable and you do whatever you feel is necessary to excise those feelings.  Eating, when you’re scared of your own power, is this magical shield that is also a sword.  It just shuts off the thoughts for a while.  I feel like if I am vulnerable to my thoughts, I’ll lose ground, not gain it. Start panicking about driving which I’ve mostly avoided for the past three or four months.  I’ll look around and see what I’m currently half-blind to – real unhappiness with the treatment I accept, real fear, real sense of time slipping out of my hands.  It’s all the mental surgery I don’t get anesthesia for.

I’ve put forth this diatribe before.  I’ve danced the dance, lit the candles, stood very still and waited for signs to emerge.

Yet. At the bottom line, it’s will I do it or won’t I do it?  Right now, I don’t have the strength of will to curb things slightly.  Right now, I want a big act or nothing.


All Our Most Brilliant Friends Are Doubting Themselves


Little musical tribute to the far-flung slut coven.

I am so exceedingly glad there’s therapy tomorrow.  I want to dive into it.  I want to fucking wrap it around me like this magical hoodie. It has been ages since I’ve been able to just ball up all of the disparate arenas of struggle and hand them over, put them through the wash and get them hung up and flapping in the wind.

There’s laundry running now.  My suitcase is empty.  I’ve written.



I am grateful for the chance to do the things I need to do – see my family and say goodbye to my grandfather without having to really pull my life apart to get the time off.  To have a vacation that lets me travel a long distance and see a city I’d have no notion existed in the hilly, watery, artistic manner it does.  I’m grateful to have the strength to know, at least in one terrible instance, when there was no reason left to fight.  I am grateful that the weekend is not so far off and there’s some stability.  I’m grateful I have my mentor and people to lean on when I feel like I’m running off the rails.  I’m grateful that people still listen now and again when I talk.

I love that I have some confidence that even if there’s only thirty minutes left in the day, I can probably get this post done.  There’s enough love to make that happen.  I love that I have nice clean sheets to float into tonight.  I love that I have parents that look after me and worry about me even if they’re unaware of every detail of my life.  I love that I was able to slow my roll today and not eat everything in sight.  I love that I have this little curlique of interest I get to chase.  I love that the weather means I get to wear skirts.  I love that that I am working as hard as I possibly can.  I love that I’m thinking about myself for a bit and stabbing the guilt that comes with that in the face.

Wouldn’t it be nice if I could think of something astoundingly flirtatious and clever to say?  Wouldn’t it be nice if the right chap read it?  Wouldn’t it be grand if I could finish this draft and then get my editing hat on?  Wouldn’t it be nice if I really felt re-energized and re-engaged after therapy and work didn’t crumple me up afterwards?  Wouldn’t it be nice if I refused to be crumpled?  Wouldn’t it be nice if I could return bras 2 and three and use the money to go drink some coffee and write in my Seattle-purchased notebook character backgrounds and start to pull at some of these loose threads?  Wouldn’t it be nice if the two or three things I’m thinking are left undone got done tomorrow without strain or fury?  Wouldn’t it be nice if I drank a draught of Malibu and danced on the ceiling?



Lego My Ego


I am going to try and do double duty as some kind people on MFP have noted my absence there and I am trying to both rev myself back up to start tracking again and empty my brain of all of the resistance I have.


I obviously did not track while away for the funeral and vacation.  I didn’t want to.  I didn’t want to think at all.   I don’t know if I wanted to float as idly as I did, but that’s what happened.

So I’ve drunk soda.  Quite a bit.  That’s happened after more than a year of not drinking it.  I think I’m still capable of turning on a dime and not drinking it again, because the return is infinitely diminished, but I have to actually make that turn and stop.
I have eaten…not great things.  Cupcakes and lava cakes and tacos and random hamburgers and basically hardly even a green thing at all.  My body doesn’t like that at all.  We just sort of ate out constantly, first because of the stress of the funeral, then because we were vacationing and everyone had that mantra of food feels good and there was a lot of good tasting food to be had.  The idea of ordering a salad or having a smaller portion honestly did not occur to me.
I did drink less coffee, if there’s anything to be said for doing that.
I didn’t eat as much as was physically possible if I can get any points for that.

I think the deal is…the new you.  The new iteration.  I’m back in my house, back in my patterns, back in my thinky-thinky brain and you’re just a nice guy I get to think about who likes my facebook pictures and posts and whose pictures and posts I am daring now and again to like.  You live very far away.  You’re not a threat to my creepy little existence.  You, unless I really fuck up wonderful, can’t make much of an impact except in one important little way.  You can make me feel good, like I exist, like I have a draw and a pull on another human being even if that pull isn’t any stronger than a refrigerator magnet.

So I need to get back into the diet.  There’s this impulse, like hey, you’d be more willing to be confident about this if you were confident about you.  Then, the impulse that he seems to just like me and he’s very far away so I don’t have to race.  But he didn’t even exist before and I wanted to do this then so what’s the deal, yo?


I am just going to spend the next three days tracking whatever goes into my mouth.  I can do that.  I have done it before.  Then, tracking and adding back in the exercise and getting myself rolling.  Get back on the scale.  It’s not so terrible.  It’s just a habit I have to make by repeating the motions.



Suivez Le Singe!


 Why did you sell yourself to the illuminati, Ane?  Or didn’t you have any choice?

Had a curious thought today: what if instead of worrying that we never would get the room organized after pulling to all the summer clothes to pack, we just knew that eventually, we’d get it cleaned up?

If we just stopped hoping to be Mary Poppins and pulled down what we needed?  Trusted that we wouldn’t let the room be a mess forever, that things are going on now, and it’s not pass/fail question.

And a weight lifted.  We will get it packed.  I will keep on plugging with my diet.  I did my situps.  I will get on the bike for ten minutes.



Okay.  In case you missed the news, it was Sunday, all day.

I did some things like making a couple pancakes in the morning, and buying Chipotle (which I have to admit gave me a stomachache directly after I secretly rolled my eyes at the overzealous, smirky father in the line in front of me made a sly comment on their “issues.”) and I didn’t precisely track it.  I knew what it was, I thought about the calories.  I bought some cauliflower.  These things do not add up to weight loss.

I had half-decided that because of the trip, the nature of this dual trip…of grief and joy and me slingshotting around the map by both impulses, and the absolute absence of control regarding where my food will be coming from and what, precisely and exactly will be measured out and put into it, that I couldn’t do much in the way of dieting.  I also had these incredibly loose pants which one would think would make a girl excited as all hell, but just made me feel dread and peer in the mirror at myself as to how such a thing could occur and yet I would feel like such a lump.

But, I don’t know.  I am kind of into it today.  Now,  11:23p.m., the birthing hour, I am kind of into the idea of the fact that I’m trying to get my body a bit sharper, a bit more together.  I feel kind of like, okay, I can figure out that this is the loose pants OMG let’s eat burritos and die in a garbage fire moment.  This is a pre-set date on the calendar of my success.  This is a proscribed part of the way we get there.  If I turn back, I will see it again. I have seen it so many times before.  It’s the first boss fight, really, in this whole game I’m trying to play.  I will be here every time until I do something different about it.  There is no other script.

So. I am going to do more about it.  Better about it.  I am going to acknowledge this journey while I’m gone and not lock it up until I can perfectly handle it on my return home.  That will have its own vibes and stresses.  This is life.  So.  Yeah.

I have my reasons which I intended to elaborate on, but words got soaked up in the telling and so maybe tomorrow.  Maybe when there’s more to say because there’s not anything right now except pixie dust and a monkey to follow.