Black Holes

You don't need to be in space to find yourself devoured by a black hole; sometimes the one in your heart is enough to swallow you up.

But, thanks to friends, I'm clawing up and out -- or through to the other side. Or however one escapes a black hole.

Which is entirely the point: However you have to escape a black hole, just do it.

Today's Funk: When Practical Is A Punishment

Struggling post divorce is typical. Loss, disappointment, trying to be capable, strong and wise in front of your children... And financial devastation.

Each and every one made worse when the whole mess is a result of domestic violence.

The result: Some days, I just don't feel up to being, well, me.

I would just bury my face in my dog's fur and cry (his coat absorbed many tears of mine over the years), let his sweet gaze fill me with comfort and hope, but I had to put my beloved dog to sleep a year ago.

I miss him desperately.

I have tried to cope with the loss of him. I have coped with hope. The hope that this year was the year I might get a puppy for Christmas, but, well, practicality is often a punishment, if not it's own hell.

There's still a girl dog here; but she doesn't give a hoot for me. Despite my having raised her from a pup nearly a year before moving in with the current (and last!) husband, this dog is his dog, not mine. She brings me no comfort. She only demands things from me -- actually stops snuggling or playing with my husband to come get me to take her out to go potty!

She is not my dog.

I miss my dog.

You know, I have a certificate for a companion therapy animal. It's supposed to prevent a loss of housing and whatnot for having a pet; protection for the discrimination against the anxiety ridden and/or depressed. But the certificate does not provide a dog or money for a dog. (It's never just the cost of the dog, but the ongoing costs.) Nor does it make the dog I have become a therapy animal or even my companion. Stupid dog can't read. And probably wouldn't care even if she could.

I had no illusions about really finding a puppy under the imaginary Christmas tree. I know the balance in the old bank account. I just hoped that somehow one would find it's way there, my very own Christmas miracle. But there wasn't -- either a Christmas miracle or a puppy.

I was OK. Resigned enough not to pout, anyway. But then today...

Papers were delivered regarding court action on an old medical bill. Horror! Shame! I swallowed them under the usual calm-headed practicality of a survivor who knows that you just have to keep struggling, comforting myself with the fact that this bill, while more than we have now, is something we can accomplish. Eventually. (If only the car would stop needing repairs, if only those other "bumps" in the road of life wouldn't set us back each month, threatening to return me to my post-traumatic induced agoraphobic-dressed bed. The thing, induced by violence, that led to the companion animal certificate.)

And then, not 10 minutes later, the phone rang. "Hello! We have Basset Hound puppies -- and there's a male available for you!"

I then did the worst thing possible: I went to look at pictures of the pups online.

How can something so cute knock you to your knees? Make you want to vomit? Make you cry with all the self-pity of a self-absorbed teenage girl? Force you to humble yourself with a "Dear Diary" entry online -- or risk balling all the way into the family dinner time, alarming all?


I blame no one else. I should have said, "No, thank you, not this time," and got off the phone.

I should not even have asked, "How much?" (In some perverted twist of irony, the exact same price as the medical bill -- and both available/due within similar time frame, give or take a week, as puppies, not claims, are flexible with their dates.)

I should not have gone to look at them.

I broke my own heart.

The good news, if you can call it that, is that the bad news of the medical bill situation has me too sober to even kid myself into the dream -- which means that now hubby won't be forced into playing The Bad Cop, forced to introduce dreaming me to the sad reality that we cannot afford a puppy.

He, however, can console himself with his dog.

Me?

I guess I just get to take his dog out before it pees on the carpet and makes more work for me.

And blog to vent so that I don't end up scaring, scarring, the children. Or stuck in my bed. Again.

Your Bra Matters

I've written before about bras and depression -- or, more accurately, how not wearing a bra, feeling sloppy, can make you feel depressed. Improperly fitting bras also negatively affect your mental and physical well-being, which is something that bra coach Ali Cudby has noted and we've discussed in interviews.

I've interviewed Ali, as has co-blogger here, Deanna, at her other site (part one, part two). And I'm giving away signed copies of Ali's new book, Busted! The FabFoundations Guide To Bras That Fit, Flatter and Feel Fantastic. Enter the contest here!

Something Simple & Positive #2

Ten minutes of scrubbing the walls, light switches, handrails, in a hallway can easily turn into 30 once you start looking. But do 10 minutes now; get to the rest, or another spot, the next day (or even later the same day when you find yourself with a burst of energy -- once you start moving, you’d be surprised how your body itches to have you move again!)

Not only will you get that heart rate up and clean the house, but you’ll really start to feel better about yourself as you chip-away at the overwhelming household, your weight, your depression.

Brave Enough To Say It

In talking with the other bloggers here, we all were lamenting our weight. Not that that's anything new for women in our culture. But in our cases, we all put on weight once the enormity and depression of it all hit us. Part of the point of this blog is to document our individual processes in trying to (among other things) lose the ugly weight. (Ugly not only because it's fat, but because it is a heavy reminder of sadness that we literally lug around everywhere; in losing it, we let go of the past. We hope.)

Being as it was my idea to start this blog, I'm going to be brave enough to put a number on it.

228

I have never weighed that much in my life; not even when pregnant.

It's nearly 100 pounds overweight -- and I'm not saying that based on some height-weight chart; that's what I used to weigh, after my first child.

Now, since I've been so brave as to say this, the rest of the girls promise to chime in with their simple little tips on weight loss.

(We all will note our progress as things go along too.)

Surviving The Cold Numbness (Or How Slips Saved My Life)

Sometime after Crisis Mode, the Cold Numbness of Survival creeps in. You'd think there'd be a marked difference to note, a precise precarious moment when survival mode relaxes or hardens into this blank place of isolation and waiting... But if there is a moment to pinpoint, I didn't notice it.

Some point after the heated frenzy action of police involvement, divorce process, financial assistance, counseling, and the concerned reactions of family and friends, you find you and your frozen heart settling into Life As You Now Know It. Aside from the daily grind of Be Brave And Carry-On For Your Kids, life becomes filled with The Silent Tundra Of Waiting.

You wait for the next day to ease the physical pains. You wait for all the seeds you've planted and forms you've filled out to bear some fruit.You wait for the cold-sweats to go away and leave you alone. You wait for the grades and calls from school to assist you in the evaluation of how well your kids are adjusting. You wait for the nightmares to stop. You wait for the wheels of justice to reach a decision. You wait for the sorrow and grief of loss to pass. You wait for the phone to ring with news -- or at least a call from someone to care how you're doing. You wait for the fear to dissipate. You wait for the weight of the world on your shoulders to lessen. You wait for the next day to bring a little sunshine.

Most of your waiting is done alone.  Even if you're around other people, you find yourself wearing that stupid Brave Face -- or risking annoying and alienating others by being The Downer; this in and of itself is an isolating experience.

It's no wonder when each day that the sunshine doesn't come along to warm you, you, if not die a little, find yourself becoming a frozen hard little thing. At least on the inside. The outside is a different beast.

For some of us, the weight we lost during Crisis Mode returns... And more of it too.  It's not because we are eating too much; quite the opposite. But whatever we eat clings to us like the ick and fear we feel we are already coated in.

It's like our body is trying to insulate us from the cold.  It has the added benefit of keeping male attentions at bay; we don't trust them near us and the fat removes us from the part of the population they'd prey on.  (Although, some predators look for the extra flesh as a sign of being the weakest in the herd, so it's not a guarantee of safety; nothing is, really.)

So there you are one night, alone on the sofa after the kids are in bed, fighting off tears and fears and feeling as disconnected from yourself as you can get.  You catch the image of yourself reflected in the TV screen and hardly recognize yourself.

Your clothes don't fit -- at least not like they used to. You are all soft and puffy on the outside, but hard and brittle on the inside. You laugh a bitter laugh at yourself, at those shadows that are always around you -- the echoes of their accusations that you are hyper-sexual.  (That's a very common accusation thrown at women in court; nothing is as scary as a woman who owns her sexuality nor as inappropriate a parent.)  You? This blob on the sofa ready to crack and fall apart? Hyper-sexual? Ha!

But your laughter snaps into tears as you realize you haven't felt like a woman in ages... There's nothing soft about you anymore, not even your tears. But then they, like you, have to fight and force themselves into existence.

Sure, you have your reasons for becoming like this. But the understandable situation is not tolerable.

Your hands seem tied. You have so few resources -- and the children should come first. But you also know that you need to do more than survive if they are to thrive. ...If your goal is for each of them to safely, happily be themselves, how do you best teach this?  By example.  But that leads back to so few resources. And you're constantly judged for how you use your resources...

You cry harder; the hot anguish of desire and the pain of futility colliding once again in your heart.

After one such long hard cry on the sofa I asked myself what my happier self would look like.  I couldn't wave away the weight, in pounds or sadness, but I could feel better somehow... Right? And that's when I lit upon the idea of lingerie.

As long as I've been an adult, I've enjoyed the feeling of lingerie.  It was something that, no matter my income level or sexual status, I've always treated myself to.  Something that makes me feel alive and glad to be female.

I knew that going to try on my favorite pieces would be another devastating debilitating exercise for my ego, so I gave myself permission to take $5 and got to the thrift store the next day.  With $5 I knew I could get at least one vintage slip.  And while I couldn't wear that under my daily mom attire, I would be able to wear it while cleaning and lounging around the house.  It would be modest enough not to cause any sort of a ruckus in court etc. It would give me something to look forward to. It was something that would feel far more luxurious and pretty than it cost. It would help me to once again enjoy feeling female.

It did.

Just  putting a nylon slip on is relaxing; it feels like cool water poured over parched dirty skin. When you wear it, it slinks and slides, reminding you of your female curves. More then just a reminder of your sensual nature, you are reminded of your other womanly ways: your warm generous spirit, your resilient strength, your ability to nourish and nurture -- including yourself.


The slinky nylon gently washed away the aches and pains of my abusive and abrasive life and, at the same time, stroked the female fires -- not (only) in a lusty way, but in the deeper ways, the things you need to be restored and fed in order to feel anything akin to arousal.  You have to love and trust yourself, life itself, first. The sensual nature of the slip reminded me to love and forgive myself, nourished my soul so that I had more to give my children (and later a new husband).

You see, with the slip I was romancing myself.  After the years of his abuse, his hatred and belittling of me and womankind, after the beatings, in person with his fists and those blows delivered by the court, I was once again celebrating my womanhood. 

I do credit slips with helping me find my way back from the dark frozen place. I'm not all the way back or healed, but I continue to wear slips and other lingerie and celebrate myself as a woman.


It was a simple $1.49 cent thrift store slip; but it saved my life. Give one a try yourself and see what it can do for you.

Ugly Gross Truths About Depression

There are a lot of ugly things no one tells you about depression.

I'm not talking about the emotional pains, but the physical gross things that go on -- or, rather, the physical gross things that occur because of what things don't go on.

When you're depressed, you don't don't practice a lot of self care in any sense of the term. You know you don't. You know it's a symptom. But for many mothers, you hide this even from yourself with the Super Mom mentality of putting your kids first.

No longer doing your hair? You tell yourself you just don't have the time for that stuff; frou-frou isn't a real priority. And maybe that's the truth... But it's a slippery slope that ends up with you not washing your hair either.

No longer taking a shower? You tell yourself -- and "brag" to others -- that you're just too-too busy! Some days you rationalize it as saving water, saving money, saving the environment. Some days you even flatter yourself that your skin is too delicate, too dry, so you skip days to protect it -- at least until you can afford that pricey lotion to combat the dryness from so many showers.  ...Only anytime you get a few extra bucks you don't buy yourself that lotion; you take the kids out to eat instead.  And you've got body lotions laying around, somewhere... You just don't care to put that much effort into finding them or applying them. You just don't care to put that much effort into yourself.

Oh, you take showers when you have to; to show up at work, appointments for the kids, etc. But if you work at or from home, or have a few days or weeks when the most you need to do is dash to the store, you let it -- yourself -- go.

I know all this because I do it.

I'm not proud of it. It makes me cringe to recognize and admit it. Even if I'm not alone.

Once I had a girlfriend; neither of us were acknowledging that we were depressed. We used to make ourselves feel better by competing over who had gone the longest without a shower, who had gone the longest in the same outfit, etc. Sad cries for help, really.

But if I'm going to get better, I have to admit my problems.

Even if those problems are the result of past traumas. Even if the problems are forgivable under the circumstances.

Because if I don't admit them, I can't address them; and if I can't address them, I'll be victim to them. And I can't afford to continue to be a victim.

I'm a mom. I have people to take care of. And that starts with me.

Like they tell you on planes, you have to put the oxygen mask on yourself first, then assist the children.

Life is like a giant plane that way. We have to take care of ourselves first so that we will be around to care for our children and others.