Category — Motivation

The other day, I wrote about woundedness, and how we carry our scars and injuries with us forever. My mom read it and commented that she absolutely remembered the event with the gravel, and then reminded me about the time I’d fallen while picking lemons. She wondered if I’d end up writing about THAT particular experience. “Yes,” I assured her, I was sure I would.

And so I am.

I suppose I’d better tell you what happened, before I launch into my lesson.

I was about 12 and my bicycle was my car. I rode it EVERYWHERE — from sun-up to sundown. I rode to school…the mall…the beach…heck, my best friend, Denise, and I rode in American Diabetes Association Bike-a-Thons! I loved my bike, because it gave me wings and freedom.

I was an extremely confident rider. I could jump up and down curbs, ride with no hands, put my feet up on the handle bars and fly down hills. And, except for the time Denise and I ran in to each other in front of the popular girls, right by school, and she called me a “bitch” (which I’d never been called before, so I was shocked), life was very good on my bike. [Okay, in my defense, she WAS reading Star Wars and not watching where she was going, so I think that gives her some liability. Don't you?]

But, as usual…I digress.

One particular summer’s day, Denise and I were bored. So, we decided that it would be great fun to go pick lemons from the tree that backed up to the alleyway, right by the supermarket. We were going to sell fresh-squeezed lemonade. We reasoned that the people who owned the tree would never notice a few lemons missing from it, especially since it faced the alley. We were quite stealthy about whole event…I think we dressed in black, or something…even though it was broad daylight.

Anyway, we arrived at the tree and realized that it was much, much taller than we’d remembered. Plus, it was behind a very tall brick wall. I wanna say the wall was a good 7 feet high. I didn’t worry too much, as I knew my trusty bike would save the day. I’d simply lean it against the wall, stand on the seat and then reeeeeeeaaaaacccch for some lemons.

Easy.

I took great pains to put safety first.

I put the kickstand down.
Turned the handlebars TOWARD the wall (so the bike wouldn’t move forward, duh.)
Propped the entire bike against the wall and….
Climbed…
Onto….
The…
Seat.

Good. No problem. I was almost within arm’s reach of the biggest lemons you’ve ever seen. We were going to make a KILLING selling homemade lemonade. I was convinced.

But, I had to….reeeeaecccchhhhh. A. Little. More. Just when I’d grasped the biggest of the lemons with my finger tips…The bike began to shudder and slip from under me.

Uh-oh.

Bike, meet ground.
Arm, meet brick wall.
Cari, meet asphalt (again)
I ended up with a perfect line of scratches on my inner arm…from armpit to palm.

Oh. My. God. It hurt.

But I wasn’t going to cry.

I scrambled back onto my (damn) bike and attempted to ride home with one hand. Did I mention I had hand breaks? Did I mention the rear breaks are on the right side and that is the arm I injured?

Not a pretty picture. And Denise? Well…quite honestly, in between laughing, she was very little help. Oh well, we were 12, what did we know? In those days, we laughed at calamity, like when my gym bag got stuck between the spoke and the wheel, launching poor Virginia face-first from my handlebars. Yes, she broke her nose, and yes…we stifled laughter because it just wasn’t right. But it was funny.

Anyway, back to my catastrophe: Denise decided I could make it home myself (and she hated tears), so I went my way and she went hers, and somehow I made it home where I dropped my bike on the front lawn, wearily climbed the front porch stairs, stepped across the threshold, saw my mom…and promptly burst into tears.

Well, one look at my injury and she knew this was too big a job for her nursing skills. Time for the big guns. Time for Dad-the-Trauma-Medic. I swear to you, if we’d HAD broomsticks, he’d have splinted my arm on both sides with them…fortunately, we didn’t, so he had to immobilize my arm with 3 miles of gauze and a liberal slathering of triple-antibiotic goop.

And, yes, I had to babysit two bratty boys that night, but THAT is not the point of this story.

The real point is this: Sometimes, we get so focused on the goal, that we forget to make smart choices and we end up OVERREACHING. (You had NO idea where I was going with this, did you?)

Think about the number on the scale. We get so focused on that (damn) number, that we forget everything we know about healthy living and just…well…prop our bike against the brick wall and tell ourselves nothing matters but the big lemon….the big goal!

Well, here’s the bitter truth: Sometimes, that lemon isn’t worth the price you have to pay to get it. Sometimes, there is a smarter way to achieve a more reasonable goal (I dunno…maybe I could have bought packets of Countrytime Lemonade and saved myself a mountain of juicing?)

And, I’m still guilty of this. Sometimes, in my Bariatric After Life™, I overreach when I am setting professional goals. Yes, I’ve told you that I struggle with perfectionism, and I’m usually pretty good about it, but old habits die hard, and sometimes I slide back into nasty behaviors (like setting unrealistic expectations).

Sounds a bit like overreaching, doesn’t it?

Guess what? I get scraped up when my goals are unrealistic. I get scraped up when I don’t pay attention and don’t make wise choices. I get scraped up when I lose site of everything but that big goal…that big old SOUR lemon.

You know, I carried those scars for a really long time…they were long lines that looked like someone had dragged a fork, clear down my arm. They reminded me of my poor choice, on my bike…in the alley…behind the supermarket.

Ironically, now I have new scars on my inner arm…and you know what? They also remind me of times I overreached. I ate too much and thought I was going to be “okay” because I didn’t “look” like I weighed as much as I weighed. Just one more plate of this or that. Just one…more…reach.

You know…that little memory made me think that I need to pick my bike up off the front lawn and point it away from the lemon tree. I need to pedal it toward something healthy and good and fun. Like…THE BEACH! I need to coast by the coast! LOL.

The way I see it, life will GIVE me plenty of “lemons” so there’s no need to overreach to pick them myself! Are you guilty of overreaching sometimes? Have you focused on the “big lemon” to the exclusion of healthy choices? Have you gotten scraped up by not thinking things through…?

You aren’t alone.

Now, about that lemonade stand…

When I was a little urchin, I loved riding my bike — especially on vacation. My dad would pack our bikes (mine and my big brother’s) and we were free to fly along the roads at the campgrounds. We typically camped in places like Big Sur or Big Basin — places with big trees and lots of greenery. But, sometimes, we’d camp by the beach, which oddly enough in southern California, does NOT mean you pitch your tent in the sand. No, lots of beach campgrounds here are actually set BACK from the surf and sand in manmade gravel wonderlands. I can still hear the sound the tires made as they slowly moved through the park to get to a site.

One particular summer’s day – I must have been about 6 — my brother and I were riding our bikes on the gravel path and my bike tire caught a big rock. DOWN I went. I’m cringing now at the mere thought of it. I landed on my knee and the blood began flowing immediately — almost as quickly as the tears. Fortunately, I was not that far from the RV, so I managed to hobble over for some urgent care from my mom. Only…my mom wasn’t in the motor home; my dad was. Well he, (being an ex-Navy man which, for some unknown reason qualified him to be a trauma medic) grabbed the first-aid kit and got to work on my knee. Now, I don’t know if you recall first aid kits back in the day, but ours included such things as:

• Gauze
• Band-Aids
• Unguentine
• Alcohol
• Peroxide
• Bactine (I loved the smell of that stuff)
• Ace Bandage
• Tongue Depressors
• Tweezers
• Nail Brush <– I am convinced it was a wire brush
• Smelling Salts

In other words, we were well-prepared for any emergency situation.

I sat down and, in between sobs, managed to sputter out the entire, tragic event to my dad who, by the way, seemed curiously disinterested in the part about my knee connecting with the gravel, and more interested in how he was going to extract said-gravel from my knee. I thought it would be okay to leave the little rocks in there, but he was adamant that this would prohibit healing.

So…after irrigating it with some *benign* fluid…acid, I think…he got down to the business of scrubbing my wound with a wire brush. I’m serious. This is how I remember it: Acid and a wire brush. Once my knee was suitably disinfected, it was time to wrap it up. Not wanting me to incur any sort of nasty infection, my dad (in his infinite wisdom) felt it best to completely immobilize my leg with a combination of gauze, tongue depressors and an ace bandage.

I looked like Captain Hook.

BUT, I was patched up, good to go and ready to ride my bike again. Not so easy, considering I couldn’t bend my knee.

A little aside: As a direct result of this incident, I incorrectly learned from my dad that “more is always better” and liberally applied this philosophy to all areas of my life. True.

Okay, back to the bike.

I think I managed to pedal an entire three rotations when…down I went. Again.

If you thought the waterworks were flowing after the FIRST fall, you can only imagine the second one. I now had gravel embedded clear down to my patella. I’m convinced of this. I probably STILL have gravel in there. All I know is, the first aid kit came back out…along with the acid and the wire brush…and I was bandaged from stem to stern and my bike riding days (at least for that trip) were over.

Now, why a I telling you about my double-knee injury? Well, a few days ago I was driving home from work, when it hit me: You never completely recover from a serious injury. There is always a scar.

In the case of my knee, I still bear the scars of that day…nearly 40 years ago. Granted, they have faded, and I can bend my knee without any difficulty now, but I will never forget the event. When I ride my bike the thought of falling and scraping my knee on the asphalt is still there…way in the back of my mind. In other words, I am affected.

Think about that: If a fall from my bike — well, two falls, really — can be that injurious to the body AND mind, imagine what abuse can do to a soul? What sort of injuries did I sustain repeatedly falling off of the diet wagon, instead of a bike?

What about traumatic events, like abuse and addiction? Yes, they leave scars, and those types of injuries affect a person’s ability to function “normally” ever again – if there is such a thing as “normal.”

In my Bariatric After Life,™ I think I have learned to function around my injuries and my addictions, but I do “favor” the old wounds. At this point, it’s out of habit, more than necessity, but like an old sports injury that flairs up when it rains, I do remember the pain.

Which brings me to the idea of recovery from morbid obesity. Talk about SCARS! My shrinkles tell the whole story. It’s true. Sometimes I am angered and disgusted by my loose skin, and I go to that dark place of pain where I blame myself for my condition. But, then…I remember that I can function just fine — yes, even with the shrinkles — and I put my clothes on and welcome the day with arms wide open.

Speaking of which, those arms went through hell to get where they are today. Yes, I said, “hell.” 2-1/2 years ago, I had reconstructive surgery to remove the “bat wings” that I couldn’t accept. That’s pretty major surgery, trust me, and I am left with scars…minor, really, considering the extent of the operation — but they are there, and you know what? There are nights where they just hurt, or they just itch (and I can’t find the place to scratch because the nerves are still a little scrambled.) It can be frustrating and sometimes, I just want to cry when i remember what I’ve gone through. But I don’t. Instead, I take a good look at my arms and my body and realize that I am one of the lucky ones. I can function normally. I don’t look disfigured to the world, and I am blessed — despite my injuries, or maybe because of them. Either way, I bear the scars — emotional and physical — of the ravages of my obesity, and I must never forget my past,

I have come a long way on my journey.

Yes, I was hurt…
…when kids said mean things about me
…when people judged me because of my weight
…when I judged myself because of my weight
…when I medicated the pain with food

But guess what? I have healed — even though I have scars.

My wounds — emotional, physical and spiritual — are like a roadmap from my past, but I don’t need to ever travel those roads again. The road ahead of me might be made of gravel, and I will probably fall and get scraped up again, but I have my first aid kit (with lots of gauze and an ace bandage), and I know that I have many loving people in my life who are willing to “scrub my wounds,” and set me back on the path of wellness.

Yes, sometimes it feels like they are using a wire brush and acid, but I now understand:  Healing Hurts.

I’ll leave you with this:

• Take time to heal
• Be kind to yourself
• Wounds leave scars

HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY

I’m a patriot. I think I bleed red, white & blue, and I love flying my flags on the front of the house. I cry when I hear “Proud to Be an American” (God Bless the USA) and I adore fireworks. I “oooh” and “ahhh” louder than just about anyone around me, and I’m not embarrassed. I LOVE my country. I love my freedom. I love my independence.

Yes, these are pink fireworks

But…I know that the freedoms and independence I enjoy were not really free at all. Men and women died to ensure that these God-given privileges could be mine. People made tremendous sacrifices and committed to do what they knew was right in their heart of hearts.

The parallels between my American Life and my Bariatric After Life™ are undeniable, only, in this case, I am the one who fought and sacrificed for my freedoms. I am the one who was willing to die for my independence from obesity. I am the one who committed to do what I knew was right in my heart of hearts.

What does this all mean to me?

• I get to OOOH and AHHH over the greatest fireworks display EVER — and I do it every day!
• I OOOH that I get to climb onto the back of the motorcycle with MexiKen and not worry about my butt hanging off the seat!
• I AHHH that I get to put on a tank top because it’s hot, and I don’t have to worry about my arms flapping in the wind.
• I OOOH that I have the energy to do what needs to be done.
• I AHHH that a holiday does NOT have to revolve around food to have fun.

There are just so many freedoms, it’s hard to pick them out. Every day, I have independence from the horrible grip Fibromyalgia had on my life. Every day I get to inspire and motivate others who are looking for their own freedoms in the Bariatric After Life.

You know what? Gastric bypass surgery gave me the chance to fly my flag, celebrate my health and share my freedoms with others. That’s because I no longer live in FATVILLE.

I am a Fabulous resident of FABVILLE.

My flag is pink with a high-heeled shoe and I am the mayor.
WAIT! No I’m not…I’m Royalty. Yes, I am the Princess of Fabville (Her Royal Thinness, and Duchess of Pink).

OFFICIAL FLAG OF FABVILLE

You know what? You’re welcome to live here with me and be a princess (or prince) yourself – IF you’re willing to live by these laws:

1. Positivity Rules
2. Celebrate Life
3. Love Yourself
4. Be The Real You
5. Live Healthy
6. Love Pink (or whatever color makes you happy)
7. No “F-Words” (Fail, Fear, Fat)

LET (FABULOUS) FREEDOM RING!

Happy Independence Day! Muah :-*

Even though I’ve *been through this before,* this time it’s an entirely different experience. Suffice it to say, GRADUATE SCHOOL IS NOT FOR WIMPS. Why do the words, “That which doesn’t kill us…” keep echoing through my head? Just because I’m not DEAD yet, doesn’t mean the APA Style requirements won’t eventually finish me off. ~ End Rant

Tonight, I uploaded a response to a question about a bunch of theories on morality and development and stuff. We were supposed to discuss these things as if we actually understood them but sadly…I am terrible at making people believe I know things that I don’t know. I am terrible at pretending I am knowledgable about things I am am not knowledgable about. Before I can pontificate, I have to know like, 10 times more than the person I’m pontificating to.

I think it’s a rule…or an algorithm, or something…

Logically, I can’t know less, and I can’t know just a little more. No. I MUST KNOW VOLUMES MORE THAN MY AUDIENCE (Apparently, so I can distill it down to 250 words. Yes. TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY WORDS.)

Okay, so tonight I did that. I waxed poetic. I critiqued. I pondered. I moralized. I questioned. I asserted. I clarified.

I made incredibly strong points.

I clicked “POST”

And then…I realized that I was utterly, completely, profoundly, thoroughly, wholly, perfectly…confused and…I. MADE. MISTAKES.

UGH.

UNDO! UNDO! UNDO!!!!

Did I mention that I am a reforming overachiever and recovering perfectionist? I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned that like….10,000 times, but in case I didn’t, you should know that doing something wrong does not sit well with me and the idea of not knowing how to do everything better than the person who is supposed to be teaching it to me can be downright discombobulating.

Dumb, right?

Alright…I have a reason. I mean, it’s bad enough that I wrote something that isn’t right, but the fact that it is now online (forever) in the virtual classroom (forever) for the entire world to see (forever) is positively mortifying. (Okay, there are only 30 people in my class, but security breaches happen…) Anyway, you have NO IDEA how desperately I want to go in and press “DELETE.” I want to scream “OMG YES!!!!” when it politely asks me, “Are you sure you wish to delete this post?”

Exactly where is that damned “I DIDN’T MEAN TO POST THAT” button, anyway?

Okay. Calm down. Time for some cleansing yoga breathing through my medial chakras (or something like that…)

Since there is NOT an undo, redo, do-over, evaporate, disappear, or unpost button, I must find the lesson in this traumatic experience. That is my only hope.

Fortunately, there is ALWAYS a lesson.

Think about it: Why am I back in school? Is it because I might need to actually LEARN SOMETHING? Is it because I am a glutton for punishment? Is there a purpose to this whole exercise?

• Maybe I am in school to learn something.
• Maybe learning involves making mistakes so that someone can give me guidance.
• Maybe I have to make mistakes in order to learn.

Hey, as much as I love it when the professor says, “I am envious of your writing ability” that type of feedback is not going to make me smarter.  But…my guess is, after this week’s assignment, the bloom will officially be off the rose and my professor will no longer be “envious.” Unless he is envious of the amazingly bold way I make mistakes, because I definitely believed what I wrote…even if I didn’t believe I was wrong when I wrote it.

Which brings me back to the point of this message (yes, there is a point): What can I learn from this icky experience?

If I Already Knew Everything, Wouldn’t Have Anything to Learn.

• If I already knew everything…I wouldn’t need therapy.
• If I already knew everything…I wouldn’t need support.
• If I already knew everything…there would be a framed certificate on my wall with a bunch of letters after my name
• If I already knew everything…I wouldn’t battle my obesity every day.
• If I already knew everything…My life would be boring! LOL.

You know what? I’m glad I’m a student (both of life and of university) because I really do love to learn…I just don’t like to make mistakes. But, as I posted on one of my Facebook statuses earlier in the week, I’d rather make a mistake and fail, than fail because I was afraid of making a mistake.

I’ll leave it here:

1. I turned in an assignment which has mistakes in it.
2. My professor will probably give me a lower grade (ouch)
3. HOWEVER: He will also give me feedback so that I don’t have to make the same mistake twice. <– There’s the lesson!

I have a sneaking suspicion that this lesson is bigger than just how I feel about school. This is a lesson for my Bariatric After Life™.

• Don’t be afraid to learn.
• Don’t be afraid to make mistakes.
• Don’t be afraid to LEARN FROM THOSE MISTAKES.

Alright…I’ve gotta run because I have another paper to write. I’d better get ready for more learning opportunities, because I guarantee you, there will be mistakes – LOL.

When our daughter was young, we began to notice a pattern where she would completely ignore warnings that something was amiss, and then be utterly shocked when everything went wrong.

[Note: She will be positively mortified that I'm telling you this, but it's important, and SOMEONE has to learn from her mistakes. Remember, daughter, your mama loves you ]

Okay, anyway…That’s when I coined the phrase “THE PLANE IS CRASHING SYNDROME.” For example, she would not turn in her homework assignments. Ever. And then she’d be shocked by her low grade. Or, she’d mistreat a friend for a really long time, and then be surprised when that friend told her off.

Hannah would say, “I can’t believe how low my grade is! I really thought I was going to get a C or a B…” and the teacher’s comment on the report card would say, “missing homework assignments.”

So, we’d say, “Hannah, why didn’t you turn in your homework assignments?” She’d give all sorts of answers, like: “I forgot.” or “I thought I did.” or (my personal favorite): “I DID TURN THEM IN!” Uh-huh. Right. The teacher just lost them. ALL of them. Or, with the friend who suddenly decided she was finished with the abuse (typically, this would happen on a camping trip or at a birthday party — you know, someplace super-appropriate for a meltdown.) Hannah never ceased to be caught COMPLETELY OFF-GUARD (after all, the revelation had came out of NOWHERE!)

MexiKen and I caught onto the pattern pretty quickly and we began to have conversations that sounded like this:

Me: “Hannah. You aren’t turning in your homework assignments and your grade is going to b WAY lower than you expected.”

Hannah: “Mom, don’t worry about it. I’ve got it covered. It’s fine.” (Insert eye-rolling and exasperated sighs here.)

Me: “Hannah. It is NOT fine. You do NOT have it covered. THE PLANE IS CRASHING. The cockpit warn sirens are sounding, every light on the instrumentation panel is on, you are in a nosedive, there is smoke in the cabin, and the engine fell off the wing. THINGS ARE NOT FINE.”

Hannah: “Yes they are fine. Life is good. Stop worrying about stuff…”

And then…the plane would crash and Hannah would get a horrible grade and she would come to us (disconsolate as ever): “I cannot believe I got an F! How did this happen? I NEVER SAW IT COMING.“

On the inside, I was screaming:

“YES!YouDidSeeItComingBecauseITOLDYouItWasComing!

Okay, I can already hear you grousing and feeling sorry for my child. It’s true: I am not an easy parent, but either she’s an underachiever or I’m an overdemander….

Anyway, on the outside, the conversation sounded like this:

Me: “Hannah. The plane crashed. I warned you that it was crashing. I warned you to put out the fires and take it off autopilot. I told you to grab the stick and pull UP.”

Hannah: “Yeah…I know…”

And the next day, she would *forget* to turn her homework in, and her plane would be in a fresh new nosedive.

• She got a speeding ticket that she didn’t pay: “Hannah. You MUST go to traffic school for this or it will go to warrant.” (The plane is crashing .)
• She got several parking tickets at school that she didn’t pay: “Hannah, if you KNOW that there is no parking there, why do you keep parking there and when are you going to pay the tickets, because they DOUBLE if you don’t pay them right away?” (The plane is crashing).

Guess what? Her tickets doubled…and her ticket got her in A HEAP OF TROUBLE (and cost a fortune) and…well…THE PLANE CRASHED.
Guess what else? Hannah was COMPLETELY SHOCKED.

MexiKen and I are secretly hoping that this recent scare has at least caused her to consider evasive maneuvers when her plane is crashing…but we aren’t sure. Yet. Ahhh, a parent’s work is never done…

Okay, so Hannah aside, how does this relate to the Bariatric After Life™? (Long row to hoe, wouldn’t you agree??)

Well. that’s simple, really: THE PLANE IS CRASHING SYNDROME happens when you start to regain weight, but do nothing about it. You ignore it and hope it will go away. (The plane is crashing). You stay away from the scale because you don’t want to know what it says. (The plane is crashing). You can’t fit into your clothes anymore because they are now too tight. (The plane is crashing.) You stop working out and measuring your food. You stop journaling and getting support from others.

YOUR.
PLANE.
IS.
CRASHING.

And one day…you wake up (20? 30? 40? 50 pounds later…?) and exclaim: OH MY GOD! I AM FAT! I HAVE REGAINED MY WEIGHT! WHY DIDN’T I SEE THIS COMING?!”

And that, my friends, is The Plane is Crashing Syndrome — in action.

SO, here are my (loaded) questions of the day:

• Is your plane crashing?
• Are you ignoring ALL of the warning signs?
• Do you see smoke?
• Are the sirens blaring?
• Are you feeling sluggish and yucky?
• Do you feel out of control?
• Are you still on auto-pilot?

If the answer is “yes,” (to any of the above) – take evasive action NOW and do NOT attempt a water landing. We all know how those usually turn out, and it’s not pretty.

Grab hold of the stick and pull back with all your might. [Okay, okay, you pilots out there will tell me that if you are in a death dive, you're supposed to either let go of the stick, or push it far forward, or something like that, but just work with me here. It's my analogy, and I'm going to fly my plane the way *I* want to ]

Has your oxygen mask dropped from the ceiling? Put it on.
Are you using your seat cushion as a flotation device? Grab it and hold on for dear life.
Is your life vest on (but not inflated until you leave the plane)? Be prepared to yank on that cord if necessary. Locate your nearest emergency exit, then remember that your life vest is equipped with a lighted beacon so that if…heaven forbid — your plane does make an unplanned water landing, those of us in the bariatric community WILL be able to find you and help get you to dry land.

You will survive this. I promise. As long as you pay attention.

Is your Bariatric After Life on course or do you need a little intervention from air traffic control? Let me know…

We hear it all the time: Life is about choices.

In my case, perhaps the biggest CHOICE of my life was the one I made when I CHOSE to have gastric bypass surgery in 2007. At the time, I didn’t really know that I was choosing more than just surgery or weight loss; I was choosing a complete and total lifestyle change, as well as emotional upheaval that would expose a food addiction and require intensive therapy.

I can already hear you asking, “Okay, so if you knew then what you know now, would you still make the same CHOICE to have surgery?”

• Absolutely
• Unequivocally
• Certifiably
• 100% YES

“Even if you KNEW it was going to be this hard?”

(See above answers and add exclamation points)

So, I CHOSE to enter the Bariatric After Life™, and then I CHOSE to start a blog…and then I CHOSE to start a Youtube Channel (remember Gastric Bypass Barbie?) and then I CHOSE to start a Facebook page. Of course, since I’m “all about excess,” I also chose to attend Obesity Related conferences around the country and become a motivational speaker. All of those things are commitments that take time…time (it might and HAS been argued) that I really don’t have.

But I am PASSIONATE about my Bariatric After Life, and I am PASSIONATE to help others thrive and ACCEPT the CHOICE they also made when they had surgery. Interestingly…I don’t view my commitment to inspire, motivate and educate others as a choice at all. At least, not a choice *I* made. No. I feel that the choice was made for me…on some deep level that is super hard to explain (so I won’t even try, LOL).

Alright, so recapping, I made a choice to have surgery, and then I (did or didn’t) CHOOSE to share my Bariatric After Life with the world. Got it.

But, then I CHOSE to return to graduate school.

Oh boy…Now, there’s a choice I’m still questioning. But that is not exactly the reason for my post today.

Since I CHOSE all of these things, I have NO RIGHT to complain to anyone about the time that they take. I am not entitled to lament that I “have no life” and don’t get to “relax and enjoy my weekends with MexiKen.” It is not okay for me to snipe and whine about how “tough my life is,” or how “nobody understands.”

You know what? It’s not anyone else’s job to understand, tolerate, or indulge the choices I make. While it IS super important for my family to support me, even they can’t entirely grasp the true meaning (or wisdom?) of my choices…but they love me, and do their very best to be patient while I CHOOSE to chain myself to my computer — LOL.

So, the point is, I hear a lot of complaints from a lot of people — the very same people who claim that life is about choices — and it’s withering.

You know what? Life IS about choices, but it’s YOUR choice to live with those choices; it is not my responsibility to make you feel better about your burdens, because you know what? I’m going to tell you the same thing I tell myself: If you don’t like the choices you made, change what you can and accept the rest.

Does this sound harsh and uncompassionate? It shouldn’t. It SHOULD sound like someone who supports anyone who lives up to their own promises.

If you CHOSE to have weight loss surgery, then you CHOSE to live with all of the consequences. Anything that you add to that super-teeny-bariatric-sized plate is up to you, and if you find you’ve piled too much on it, then it might be time to take some off. But, please…don’t tell me how miserable you are about what’s on thta plate; scoop some off and enjoy what’s left.

Life IS a choice. So is a positive attitude. I CHOOSE both…even on those days when life has piled a bunch of lemons on my plate.

CHOOSE LIFE, people.

I now return you to the celebration of your BARIATRIC AFTER LIFE!

“A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds” ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson:

I am impetuous. Not as much as I used to be, but I still have an impetuous *streak.* Hey, it’s genetic. It’s in my DNA. My daddy was wildly impetuous (one of the things that alternately drove me crazy and endeared me to him at the same time.) There is something great about being impetuous (because it makes you unpredictable and spontaneous.) There is also something not-so-great about being impetuous (because it makes you unpredictable and spontaneous.)

In the Bariatric After Life™ you have to plan (yes, even your spur-of-the-moment-spontenaity), so being impetuous (at least about food) is kinda discouraged. Unless, of course, you can “off-handedly” pack protein bars and *forget* you have them; but that’s a skill which requires a great deal of practice, mental dexterity, and loss of memory.

Anyway, I’m pretty sure this “impetuosity” is what aided and abetted my obesity in the first place. I say that, because phrases like, “that sounds yummy,” “why not,” and “a little bit won’t hurt” (common to the impetuous person’s everyday vocabulary) are NOT things a planned eater says. Don’t you remember $100,000 Pyramid, that game show with Dick Clark?

Person looking at the Pyramid:

• “I didn’t pack any food, so let’s hit the drive-thru.”
• “Yes, I’d like to super-size my order (no telling when I’ll be able to eat again.)”
• “I’ve never tried double-fudge-with-a-caramel-twist-triple-layer-cake, but it sure sounds good! Bring it on!”
• I don’t know if they have a gym at the hotel because I haven’t booked the hotel yet. Who needs tennis shoes?”
• I’m sure they’ll have a bathing suit that fits…”

Person with their back to the Pyramid:

• “THINGS A CONTROL FREAK SAYS!”

[Buzzer Sound]

Am I saying that my life was a gameshow before surgery? A little, but I never won, unless you consider a Spiegel Crockpot® and a year’s supply of Turtle Wax winning.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve toyed with accepting or rejecting the idea of routinization. When I was a little urchin (like 3 or 4), I’d watch my dad get ready to go to work. I’d crawl under the covers (because the bed was still warm from where he and my mom had slept), and watch him tie his tie…put on his socks and shoes…tie his shoes…put on his tie bar…put on his suit jacket…and apply a coating of Old Spice cologne. I was utterly fascinated by this routine as he never deviated from it.

I love how the bed sorta “shook” as he was bending over to tie his shoes.

I love how he’d give me a big smooch on my cheek before heading out to the living room with his briefcase to load up his pocket with change, his wallet and the car keys (they were located in his drop leaf desk by the front door.)

I remember thinking to myself, “Wow! My dad is amazing. He remembers to do the same thing every day. I wonder if *I’ll* ever be able to do that.”

And, of course, one day, I “was” able to do that. Only…by this time, I rejected the idea of routine as being “uncreative” and “overly-structured.” I did not want to be beholden to any sort of mandatory procedure in order to live my life. I was simply NOT going to run my life by the clock on the wall or the alarm on the nightstand.

Guess what? I was late to school.

A lot.

I was always trying to decide what to wear…at the last minute, instead of deciding the night before.

I never had time to pack a lunch. And, it only got worse when I became a working girl. I ran my pantyhose in my haste to get out the door. I left my dress shoes at home and had to don my Converse hi-top sneakers until I could overpay for a pair of professional shoes at lunch (yes, this really happened). I was *forced* to go out to eat and spend money I didn’t have.

On and on went the circus I called my life.

And then I got married…and our daughter was born. And suddenly, the need for routine was even MORE important. There were bedtimes to schedule, nighttime stories to read, meals to plan, diaper bags to pack…bottles to fill.

I rebelled. Somehow, I wanted my daughter to schedule herself. Oh, and that meant NOT waking up in the middle of the night. Yes, it’s true, that is how selfish and stubborn I was.

In retrospect, that type of thinking clearly informed my poor lifestyle choices, unhealthy eating habits, and general (lack of) life planning. I was subject to the whims and vagaries of life…I was floating along in the flotsam and jetsam , complaining all the while that things just “happen” to me and I have no control over any of them.

Well, 4 years ago, I took control. I began my weight loss journey. I began to plan, measure and schedule my eating. I began to exercise. I developed A ROUTINE (gasp!). I became the thing I always fought, yet secretly adored.

Guess what happened? I began to lose weight. I began to get healthy. I began to live.

It’s not the routine that makes you boring, uncreative or hamstrung. It is the ABSENCE of the routine. At least, that’s what *I* think…and this is coming from an impetuous planner. We are responsible for our plans, dreams, goals and living, and there is nothing wrong with consistency.

HOWEVER: We must learn to live life on LIFE’S terms…and having a routine makes life a lot more “doable.”

Oh, do I have a routine now? Maddeningly, yes! LOL. I’m up at pretty much the same time every morning (5:30 a.m. — me….the night owl). I make my cinnamon coffee and stagger to my computer to check emails, do Facebook, catch-up with friends, blog, then spend quality time with Enrique (my elliptical), dash to the shower, do my hair and makeup, get dressed (by the way, I still don’t always plan what I’m going to wear in advance!) Next, it’s a race to the kitchen to make my protein shake and throw some mason jars of cottage cheese and Greek Yogurt into ONE of my FOUR bags…then out to the car, onto to the freeway, and to the office.

By 9:30 a.m.

Trust me when I say, I have lived an entire LIFETIME everyday before anyone at work ever sees my shiny face (and impossibly, impeccably fluffy hair). Could I make things run a little smoother in the morning by having my lunch fully packed and my clothes laid out? Sure. But, that would rob me of what little impetuosity I crave, and I can’t become a foregone conclusion…what would my dad say?

PS — I’m off-schedule because this blog took me 10-minutes longer to format than I planned!

I’ve been hanging around the online bariatric community for about four years now, and in that time, I’ve witnessed a steady stream of – what I will nicely deem “misperceptions,” but really want to call rubbish – masquerading as unquestionable truth. These “opinions” are upheld as universally held fact (dare I say, worshipped as dogmatic gospel) and very few people dare to disagree with them. Heaven forbid they be labeled a bariatric heretic. (*GASP!*)

It drives me bonkers.

Let me share a few of these with you, so you’ll know what I mean:

• Vitamins and supplements are very expensive.
• Quality protein products cost a lot of money.
• It is more expensive to eat healthy food, than it is to eat junk.
• Eating right takes more preparation and planning than eating on the run.
• I can’t afford to attend weight loss surgery support conferences and retreats.
• I don’t have money to buy and read books that others recommend.

I don’t know about you, but in my “before life,” I did a lot of things without questioning their cost, value or healthiness.

I would go to 7-11 every morning and purchase (on average):

(1) large French Vanilla Cappuccino
(1) package of yellow Zingers
(1) bag of Rold Gold Pretzels
(2) 2 Diet Pepsis (in the bottle)
(1) Hostess Apple (or Cherry) Pie.

Total cost: About $8.00

If I didn’t go there, then I would drive-thru Krispy Kreme so I could buy a box of HOT donuts “for the office.” Naturallly, I’d buy TWO boxes (because it was “so much cheaper that way,”) and then I proceed to eat “one of everything” and “two of whatever I liked the best.” That would mean:

(1) Glazed
(1) Chocolate bar
(1) Powdered Lemon Filled
(1) Powdered Raspberry Filled
(1) Whatever else I found

Total Cost: About $8.00

For lunch, I would drive-thru Carl’s, El Pollo Loco, Taco Bell/Pizza Hut, McDonald’s or Jack-in-the-Box.

I’d buy:
(1) Fajita Pita Combo (Large)
(2) Tacos
(1) Carrot Cake

Total cost: About $8.00

For dinner, we’d go out for dinner as a family. By, “out,” I mean, one of the fast food giants.

Total cost: About $20.00

Not including MexiKen’s food, OR my daughter’s food, I would spend — AT MINIMUM — $36.00 per DAY on JUNK. There were no vitamins or supplements in there. No salads or healthy food. And I certainly didn’t work out (who had time?)

At a cost of $180/week (or $720 month — CONSERVATIVELY), I was killing myself the “cheap and easy way.”

And…the clothing? Plus size clothes are not cheap, and neither are the undergarments.

• Pants? $36/pair
• Tops? $20/each (casual)
• Business clothing? $75/outfit
• Bras (46DD)? $48/each (and they didn’t last that long).
• Panties ($20/3 pair)

It was not uncommon for me to plunk down between $250 and $300 per shopping trip — which I did about 3 or 4 times per year. Of course, I had to constantly replace my clothing because a) I wore the same things day in and day out, so they wore out quickly, or b) I outgrew them, so they didn’t fit anymore.

How about quality reading material? Well, after forking over $200 at the grocery store for things like four, 12-packs of Diet Pepsi, chips, frozen dinners, cookies and “convenient stuff” (that wouldn’t go bad), I would typically toss a $3.50 People Magazine into the cart (because I needed to keep up on the important news of the week.) If we were going on vacation, I’d buy 3-4 of them (so I’d have something to do in camp while everyone else was busy hiking, biking or doing active things.)

And, let’s not mention the spending spree for vacation goodies! Red Vines (red licorice in the tub), Oreo Double-Stuff cookies, junk cereal, chips and dip. Hamburger and hot dog buns, bacon, sausage, pancakes, more diet drinks, peanuts, popcorn, ice cream…and marshmallows.

It was not uncommon to swipe the ATM card for $800 in food for a 2-week road trip — which didn’t account for trips to the gasoline station mini-mart.

So, you see, I never thought twice about the “necessities” of life. I never asked myself, “Is this hamburger combo WORTH $6.00?”…I never said, “Gosh, $0.50 more to go super-size…that’s a lot of money for a few more fries and a big drink cup.” I never said, “how will reading this gossip rag improve my life?”

The bottom line was, I didn’t QUESTION the wisdom of my expenses because I WANTED what I WANTED.

So, what has changed in my Bariatric After Life™? Well, I’ll be honest, I don’t QUESTION the money I spend taking care of my needs, because I know the value of what I’m doing for myself. I don’t ask whether $30 for 12 Protein Blitz drinks is “too expensive,” because I know that those bottles will last me 2 weeks. I don’t grouse about the $25 price tag on that TUB of Protein Powder, because I know it will yield 15 drinks! I don’t complain about the $8.00 for 6 cartons of unsweetened vanilla Almond Breeze, because I know that milk would cost me $3.50 for a half gallon! I don’t complain about the cost of my Revival Soy chips, or my Oh Yeah Protein Bars. I don’t get upset about my Labrada Lean Body on the Go RTD’s, and I ESPECIALLY don’t complain about my VITAMINS AND SUPPLEMENTS. How can I? What sense does it make for me to complain about a $15 bottle of multivitamins that will last me a solid month? How can I be unhappy about spending $45 to attend an Obesity Help conference FOR AN ENTIRE WEEKEND? Yes, there are hotel expenses, but they are so minimal, especially compared to the gas I used to pour into my motorhome!

The point is, life is all about PERSPECTIVE. What price do I put on my health? It is actually CHEAPER to live now than it EVER was in my before life. I am spending far less money and getting far MORE for the effort.

I hear a lot of people justify their expenses by saying they finally believe they are worth it. (Meaning that they now have personal value, so whatever money they spend on themselves is valid.) That’s completely true — but you know what? Now that I’m not spending money on People Magazines, and Hostess bakery treats, I have a lot MORE money to spend on fresh produce and inspirational books. Now that I don’t have to spend so much money on a SINGLE pair of pants, I can opt to wait for sales, or buy THREE for the price of one (and know that they will fit me next year). And the bras? Yeah, same price, but they last longer (and are way prettier!)

Perhaps this is a bit of a rant, but you know what? I am tired of hearing people complain about how “expensive” things are in the bariatric world.

They aren’t.

Things are no more expensive NOW, than were the hamburgers, french fries, sodas, crap magazines and plus size clothing we used to buy without so much as a backward glance or second thought. I’m so OVER people complaining that they don’t want to pay $20 (per year) to help support an advocacy group that is fighting for US. I’m tired of people grousing that $9.95 for a magazine subscription is “pricey.”

And the vitamins and supplements? We should have been taking those before, and we’d have been a whole lot healthier, so complaining about the expense now is a bit silly. The money we save in doctor’s visits ALONE justifies those purchases at the Vitamin Shoppe and Vitacost.com!

And don’t get me started on books. If you don’t have the money, you can always go to the library or borrow a book from a friend.

So, you see…It all boils down to ATTITUDE. Do you WANT to be healthy? Do you WANT to live a longer, happier life? How much is that worth to YOU? Is it worth the price of a McRib, fries and a diet coke? How about a chocolate frosty from Wendy’s? Is it worth that? Is it worth a big old slab of butter cream cake or a massive chocolate chip cookie from BJ’s?

My answer is YES, but I can’t speak for you.

If I sound cranky, it’s because I am. I’m tired of hearing people complaining about stuff that isn’t true. I’m tired of people peddling lies to justify…what? Bad behavior?

It’s time to for a change in attitude…all around. It’s time for an investment in our future. You can agree with me, or you can keep complaining. That’s your choice. As for me? I’m the one who’s spending a fortune on a graduate degree, so what do I know?

I’ll say it again: It’s all about perspective.

What do you think…?

I originally wrote this last June (for Gastric Bypass Barbie). Fortunately, I am not in “possession” of the extra 8-10 pounds I was lamenting about back then (at least not for now), but the message is still vital. I hope you enjoy this little Walk Down Memory Lane:

Fantasizing, Romanticizing & Giganticizing

Last night, I climbed into bed and my brain immediately switched into “overdrive.” Now, I realize that this is not a good place to be when I should be sleeping, but, next to the shower, it is where I do some of my very best thinking.

So, here’s where this posting all began: The word “romanticizing” popped into my head, because this is what I have been guilty of doing lately. You see, I have been wrestling with a few extra pounds (a reality which does not make me happy, but does give me something to work on!) Anyway, the more I thought about those pounds, the more i realized that there are a host of “IZING” words that could quickly consume and overwhelm my successful Bariatric After Life™– if I let them.

Let me explain:

As a pre- and early post-op, I would spend my days FANTASIZING about what I would look like when I lost the weight. I spent a bunch of time pouring over “Befores and Afters,” marveling at the monumental differences people experienced; wondering if I would ever reach that same goal, and if I did, what I would look like. Essentially, I was living in fantasyland every free moment I had.

Don’t get me wrong, fantasizing is not a bad thing, as long as it is based in some sort of reality, and involves a solid plan for achieving it. I think i was pretty realistic in my planning, because my original goal was very generous and, ultimately, more-than achievable.

Well, as a post-op, I blew past my original goal, to the tune of about 40 pounds, and found myself in a scrawny, skinny, meatless body with jutting bones, sunken eyes and cheeks. At the time, I KNEW that I was too thin and KNEW that my body would rebound to a healthier weight. But, somewhere inside, I was having this battle between what I KNEW was healthy, and what I actually LOOKED like.

As I remove my rose-tinted glasses and look back at myself with honest eyes, I can assure you that MexiKen did not love the way my little body looked — I had lost all of my curves, had no butt, and couldn’t fit grown-up people clothes. I looked silly in my baggy things and was constantly lamenting that I couldn’t wear some of the pretty clothes I was finding on the racks. Size 4′s weren’t just too big – they LITERALLY slid down to my ankles. It really was not pretty.

But, over time, I regained a little weight, those size 4′s began to fit properly, and I started “filling out.” Eventually, I settled in at a comfortable size 6 — a good place for my 5’8″ frame. I had a little butt and a few curves and no one complained that I was too skinny (or too fat). I looked healthy and felt great. Except that I kept going and overshot my “ideal” by about 8-10 pounds. Now, this is unacceptable, because I find myself outside of my new comfort zone, where things don’t quite fit as comfortably anymore.

It occurs to me, that what I have been doing is ROMANTICIZING my previous underweight status. I have been whispering sweet nothings into my brain, convincing myself that being a size 2 was wonderful, because nothing was ever tight or binding, and whatever I tried on always fit. Of course, I know this is NOT true, but this is how romanticizing works. You forget the realities, hardships, disappointments and struggles, and recast them as happy, glowing, glorious times.

Fortunately, I have not allowed myself to marinate in that kind of stinking thinking, because it is not only counterproductive — it is a LIE.

But, where do I go if I can’t romanticize or fantasize? Well, if you’re unhealthy, and fighting a few extra pounds, you can quickly begin to GIGANTICIZE. This is what happens when you start to tell yourself that you are a “big, fat loser.” You begin to exaggerate the reality of your body and what the scale is reporting, and start obsessing over weight regain. When giganticizing happens, you panic and your fat head runs the show. After all, you gained 5 or 10 pounds and now you are GIGANTIC.

Clearly, you can see the downside of this thinking, because it is neither productive nor empowering.

But, if you aren’t careful, giganticizing quickly turns to MINIMIZING. As in, “I *only* have 5 or 10 extra pounds. I’ve lost 150 or 160, and I’m fine with this weight regain. It’s not a big deal, and I’m sure I can lose it, if I want to.” In other words, you can quickly MINIMIZE the scope of the problem by using old criteria as your gage. “I used to weigh 316 pounds; I’m nowhere NEAR that now, so why is this a problem?”

Well, that brings me to the 4th “izing” word: RATIONALIZING. If you allow yourself to move into rationalizing, you are on a slippery slope to inevitable weight regain. Why? Because rationalizing goes hand-in-hand with apathy and denial. When you rationalize, you are actually telling yourself RATIONAL LIES.

So, what is the solution to this destructive “izing“?

Here are 5 little steps to replace BAD “izing” words with GOOD “izing” words!

Step 1: RECOGNIZE
Realize that you have a problem; that things aren’t going the way you want them to go, and you need to DO something before it is too late.

Step 2: VISUALIZE
Make some decisions about your recovery. What do you WANT the rest of your life to look like? What do you feel is a good and realistic weight for you to maintain? How will your body look and feel? Formulate that vision, then make that your goal.

STEP 3: LEGITIMIZE
Is your vision reasonable, achievable, and maintainable? Is it LEGITIMATE? If it is, then cement that vision in your mind; make it tangible, real and worthy and don’t let ANYONE or anything distract you from accomplishing it. Make it your driving force.

STEP 4: EMPHASIZE
Opposite of minimizing, in this step, you begin EMPHASIZING the legitimate vision you have created for yourself. You must make it a priority. Here, you are saying, “This is my goal and I will accept no less. All of my thoughts and actions must reinforce this vision to ensure it becomes and remains my reality.”

STEP 5: EXERCISE
No, I don’t just mean going to the gym or taking regular walks (although that is a part of it.) There’s more to this step than that. Here, you must EXERCISE good choices, healthy lifestyle habits, and positive thinking, in order to achieve and maintain your vision. This step is the most important of ALL of the steps, because it involves both mental AND physical exercise. It is a DOING word that involves meaningful and positive ACTIONS.

Do you find yourself “izing“? Perhaps you are guilty of Catastrophizing (a word I didn’t use above, but might be true?) — Perhaps you are blowing your situation so far out of proportion, you feel that you have no hope.

Well, there is ALWAYS HOPE — I know this, because I am a living, breathing, walking miracle, and people who are given the gift of a second chance at life have no right to be HOPELESS.

Here’s the bottom line: You can choose to FANTASIZE, ROMANTICIZE, GIGANTICIZE, MINIMIZE and RATIONALIZE until you find yourself regaining weight and losing control, OR, you can follow the 5 easy steps, and REGAIN CONTROL of your Bariatric After Life™.

Start MAXIMIZING your potential. Don’t MARGINALIZE your healthy life. Get started, get focused, and take charge of what matters most.

I know I DID.

What do you think of when you see the word “FORGIVE”? If you’re like most people, it elicits some pretty strong emotions — and not necessarily GOOD ones. I think it’s because the word “FORGIVE” is so…messy and fraught with misunderstanding. Let me see if I can shed a little light on the matter:

According to Wikipedia: Forgiveness (the act of forgiving) is typically defined as the process of concluding resentment, indignation or anger as a result of a perceived offense, difference or mistake, or ceasing to demand punishment or restitution.[1] The Oxford English Dictionary defines forgiveness as ‘to grant free pardon and to give up all claim on account of an offense or debt’.

In reading that definition (which is one of hundreds, by the way), I am struck by the fact that it is a process. In other words, it is not a one-time deal. It’s not black and white or yes and no. It is a lot like…grieving. The interesting thing is, it ENDS when resentment, indignation and anger are released. It ENDS when we stop expecting payback, punishment, or justice. it ends with US.

Right about now, you’re probably thinking, “A lot of people have done really crappy stuff to me, and i haven’t forgiven them; now you’re expecting me to just give it all up and act like it never happened???”

In a word: YES and NO. <-- that's two words…

You know what? I have learned that forgiveness begins with ME. I have a much harder time forgiving others when I am consumed with shame and guilt over things I have done. So, the first step in achieving, what i like to call PEACE, is forgiving myself for the role I played in the offense. Did I do something to encourage the situation? Did I create the problem? I might not have, or I might NOT have, but either way, i need to examine it. If I find that i am to blame, the first step is to forgive myself. Sounds much easier than it is -- TRUST ME -- but surprisingly, once I do that, then granting complete forgiveness to others is much, much easier. Maybe it's because i stop looking for 'justice' or 'punishment'…or maybe it's because i realize that, in the grand scheme of things, MUCH of what consumes me is not as big as I want to believe it is.

Again, this only becomes clear to me when i get out of my own way and forgive myself.

But, I've gotta warn you….you can't take forgiveness BACK. At least not in my book. You might say, “But, what if they do it to me again?” Well, ever the philosopher, I’ve learned that the old saying is true: ‘Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.’

If I do the work to absolutely forgive myself and the other person or persons, then the offense really shouldn’t be able to happen again. I shouldn’t be injured again, because i should have learned to steer clear of the circumstances that created the problem in the first place.

Maybe that’s simplistic, and I’m sure some will be able to find all sorts of ways to re-offend or be re-offended, but I am not speaking about capital offenses here. i am talking about things like gossip, misinformation, bad behavior, conceit and things like that. The other stuff…the über-big stuff…that’s above my pay grade, and definitely requires divine intervention.

This message is about the small stuff that only seems big, until we whittle it down to size and accept it for what it really is. As a recovering drama queen, i can tell you, i had a KNACK for blowing the tiniest infraction out of proportion. BOY, could I ever hold a grudge! Oh, and I was pretty good at exacting permanent emotional wounds. Of course, this always fell under the heading of ‘righteous indignation,” so i never had to feel like I was to blame. I had a very ‘it’s your own damned fault,’ attitude most of the time. I was like, “Hey, if you walk into the meat grinder, you can’t blame me.”

Nice.

Unfortunately (or fortunately, as I see it), a big part of recovery through the 12-step program has been acknowledging my role in things; accepting my part of the blame, and making amends.

Let me just say: THIS SUCKS.

Sometimes, I make amends for things that people don’t even remember.

Sidebar: How stupid did I feel for apologizing to an ex-boyfriend for something he swears didn’t happen? Kudos to him for his short-term memory, but I apologized (whether he thought I needed to or not!) and I’ve never looked back. End sidebar.

Not to be outdone in the “forgiving the forgotten unforgivable” department, I’ve been the recipient of some of these sorts of apologies. It’s a strange feeling to accept “payment” for something I don’t feel I deserve. But, I’ve learn to do it gracefully, because it is a gift to the person who is asking for it, and it feels good when someone accepts it from me.

And…guess what? You can give yourself that same gift. (Ahhhh, it always comes back to YOU.)

One of the greatest gifts I ever gave myself — after gastric bypass surgery and therapy — was the ability to forgive. Anger, resentment, disappointment, shame, blame, embarrassment…these are all aspects of holding a grudge and they have no role in recovery. i don’t know about you, but when I feel wronged, I can’t breathe. I hold my breath and my face gets hot and…well…forgiveness is a breath of fresh air. it’s the ability to exhale completely. It’s the ability to be at peace with myself and others.

I’ve been doing a lot of work forgiving myself so I can forgive others and, you know what? It’s like a muscle. The more i use it, the better and stronger I am at it. I actually LIKE forgiving others, because i know I’m giving them a gift…whether they open it or not.

If I hurt you, please let me know so I can examine my role in it, and ask forgiveness. There’s no room for ego here, as that only stands in the way of my peace and healing, and goodness knows, I don’t need to stick myself with that!

Is this something you struggle with? Do you have problems forgiving others? Do you think it’s because you can’t forgive yourself? Only you can answer for sure, but I will tell you…a little soul-searching goes a long way.