#the constant dread that hoovered over me for 2 years is gone

[ask-twistedgravekeeper]

I wanna say thank you for the kind messages, asks and dms, it means a lot

I’ll be ok with some time, hopefully I will be able to come back sooner rather than later.

[level3bird]

the synapse gang

I backed my car into one of my spousal unit’s bicycles this morning in the garage. The bike fared very well with no noticeable damage; the car, unfortunately, got a small dent and a 4” scratch on the rear hatch door. I am not pleased. Our car is only a little over a year old and has less than 7900kms (4900 miles) on it. We’ve kept it new as and now I’m aggravated.

Ugh. Do over please.

I also woke up craving carbs.

This is only day 2 of the new HFLC eating plan that we’re due to be on indefinitely. After being diagnosed with liver disease and told that I must do something drastic if I want to reverse it (while I still can), it was suggested by my lovely doctor that I go low carb. A medical suggestion that struck fear into this little processed-foods loving soul. I’m the girl with the “I never met a carbohydrate I didn’t like” fridge magnet. So, seriously?

Nevertheless, because I don’t want to die early and sick like my mother did and I don’t want to be diabetic and I’d like to have more energy and less inflammation in all my joints, here I am measuring macros and avoiding carbs like they are cocaine.

Actually, I think avoiding carbs is harder than avoiding cocaine. At least, for me, sugar and carbs have proven to be stronger adversaries than all the pearly powder I lived to ingest. I mean, I am an emotional/comfort/boredom eater and I have consumed sugar and flour and processed white foods like it was my job. And I’ve got to eat, right?

I know there is also a psychological component that is most likely much more powerful than the physical component. Although, I can attest to a physical component as well. I’m sure some of you can relate to the low sugar vapours that you get when you haven’t had your crystalline fix. As such, I’m sure that the carb flu is on its way and from a physical perspective, I’ll have to hunker down to not spontaneously combust over this sugar detox business.

As for the psychological part of it, Jesus take the wheel! I’m reciting the Serenity Prayer on the regular and hoping that I’ll find a Sponsor who’ll be able to put up with my flavour of crazy. It’s complicated.

Last week, as part of the “Observation” phase of the Real Meal Revolution, the HFLC program I’m due to be on for at least a year, I tracked all that I ate and was surprised/not surprised to learn that I was eating about 10-15x the amount of carbohydrates a day that I should be. My macros basically came out to “all carbs, all the time.” I am a fiend for white powders, go figure.

I’ve known that I’ve had disordered eating for quite some time, but haven’t wanted to really look at the causes or the consequences of it. It has been easy to be in denial about it. I’m 5’11” and a corn-fed country girl and I’ve always carried the excess weight relatively well. And despite having been told by a prisoner when I worked as a guard at TDCJ that I looked like I could wrestle bears, I really haven’t had an issue with my size. Yes, I’m not thrilled I’m a size 22 (be happy to be a size 14/16 though), but I’ve always thought that fluffy was sexy and my beloved hasn’t ever complained about the curves.

So, it wasn’t really my Rubenesque size that threw the switch. It was science, first, and getting honest with myself, second. The results from the medical tests were confronting, the achy joints were bothersome and the getting out of breath easily was concerning, but it was the inability to stop turning to food for comfort that really got my attention. It was the constant ‘how do I avoid any feelings, for fuck’s sake I need an Aero Mint Chocolate bar or I might die’ moments that left me with no doubt that I’m as addicted to carbohydrates/sugar/super processed foods as much so, if not more, than I was addicted to cocaine and benzos.

Everything revolves around changing the way I’m feeling or avoiding having feelings. I couldn’t be more textbook if I tried. The shit gets real and I want to shove a lot of shitty food right in my pie-hole to numb me. Of course, I’ve ignored the obvious for a long time because I had the fallback position that at least I wasn’t hoovering up the Bolivian Marching Powder anymore or spending three/four days a week sat at a pill mill waiting for the beautiful trifecta.

This HFLC business is going to be a challenge, but I think, I hope, that I am up for it. And where I am lacking, I will throw myself into the program of Narcotics Anonymous to help me help myself. I know that addiction, a soul sickness that I have/had, is the problem and the rest is commentary on the problem. No different than the spending or the need for this tablet or that tablet or a few tablets to get me to sleep at night. It is all much of a muchness for someone like me.

The dots connect easily enough when you have no coping skills to fall back on or when you’re able to rank your various traumas on a scale of ‘that’s shit’ to ‘scorched earth’. Not an excuse, only an observation.

I woke about 4am this morning from a nightmare. It was one of those theme dreams that I periodically have - me and my father in some huge argument over something, raised voices, mean words, violence on the horizon. In this dream, I was in public, out on some type of outdoor plaza and there were lots of folks around and my father was reading me the riot act. In the dream, he was shouting so loud and saying the cruellest things, as he usually did in real life. I was being kicked out of my house or berated for being a shit parent or something like that. There are always variations on this dream, but they all follow the same general plot and I wake up stressed off my tits in a panic, feeling like I need to run, to get away.

I’ve had enough of them over the years that, fortunately, when they happen now, I wake up, have a look around, reach out and touch my husband and ground myself. I repeat a little mantra in my head that my beloved started back when the PTSD and nightmares were a holy terror – I say my address to myself. Tim used to calm me down when I was having the panic or the tears or just slipping away into dissociation by asking me where I was right at that moment. His point, I suppose, was to bring me back out of wherever it was that I’d disappeared to and to make me feel secure in the present moment where there wasn’t a threat or a traumatic memory. It still helps. I was able to get up and get some water and go back to sleep with little fanfare.

The thing is, it is all connected.  The nightmare, the carb cravings, the overwhelming feelings of loserdom that washed over me when I dinged the car. The little librarian in charge of the card catalogue of my mind is so adept at running through the file drawers in nano-seconds to be able to flag every incident where I’ve felt powerless, worthless, like an idiot or a failure. She can flag all the memories of fear and of violence, of need and desperation. And it is as if there is an invisible string connecting these associated memories and they are tied to the simplest of daily events and when something happens, like me bumping the car into the bike in the garage, the string is suddenly pulled tight and up goes every memory, strung across my mind like an evil version of Tibetan prayer flags.

I’ve always thought of it like my synapses were ganging up on me. Which is a logical observation. Unfortunately, when it happens, the dreaded ‘feelings’ occur and those are what I wish to avoid at all cost. I’m having to learn all over again how to sit with them and let them pass. It is not my strong suit.

Those unwanted feelings and their causative memories are the rallying cry to activate my addictions. And I think they are why I need a program for living, which for me, needs to be the 12-steps.

Working a program gives me a view as to how I get overwhelmed and how things devolve into chaos. It can give me the good sense to realise that my best intentions and well-laid plans don’t really and haven’t really worked for me. The steps show me that I need to be able to let go of the death grip I’ve always had on trying to control the uncontrollable – those things I cannot change. Working the steps and going to meetings keep me level and sane. I hear other people share their experiences and I see myself in them and I feel less alone. I listen to the way other people have dealt with the situations that vex me and that gives me an opportunity to try things another way. Going to Narcotics Anonymous helps me to get and stay honest with myself, gives me the tools I need to clear away the flotsam and jetsam so that I can see myself and my actions with clarity. Because, without that, I can’t make things better. I see my part in it all and the way I contribute to the festering of old wounds instead of the repair and healing of them.

And, if nothing else, it gives me hope that there is hope for me yet. It plants a flag in front of me that bears promises:

We are going to know a new freedom and a new happiness.

We will not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it.

We will comprehend the word serenity and we will know peace.

No matter how far down the scale we have gone, we will see how our experience can benefit others.

That feeling of uselessness and self-pity will disappear.

We will lose interest in selfish things and gain interest in our fellows.

Self-seeking will slip away.

Our whole attitude and outlook upon life will change.

Fear of people and of economic insecurity will leave us.

We will intuitively know how to handle situations which used to baffle us.

We will suddenly realize that [our Higher Power] is doing for us what we could not do for ourselves.

The program assures me, put in the work, and your life can be good, it can be (as they say) happy, joyous and free. 

And I need to be reminded of that, especially when the Synapse Gang gets on my tail.

[til-i-feel-whole-again]

the synapse gang

I backed my car into one of my spousal unit’s bicycles this morning in the garage. The bike fared very well with no noticeable damage; the car, unfortunately, got a small dent and a 4” scratch on the rear hatch door. I am not pleased. Our car is only a little over a year old and has less than 7900kms (4900 miles) on it. We’ve kept it new as and now I’m aggravated.

Ugh. Do over please.

I also woke up craving carbs.

This is only day 2 of the new HFLC eating plan that we’re due to be on indefinitely. After being diagnosed with liver disease and told that I must do something drastic if I want to reverse it (while I still can), it was suggested by my lovely doctor that I go low carb. A medical suggestion that struck fear into this little processed-foods loving soul. I’m the girl with the “I never met a carbohydrate I didn’t like” fridge magnet. So, seriously?

Nevertheless, because I don’t want to die early and sick like my mother did and I don’t want to be diabetic and I’d like to have more energy and less inflammation in all my joints, here I am measuring macros and avoiding carbs like they are cocaine.

Actually, I think avoiding carbs is harder than avoiding cocaine. At least, for me, sugar and carbs have proven to be stronger adversaries than all the pearly powder I lived to ingest. I mean, I am an emotional/comfort/boredom eater and I have consumed sugar and flour and processed white foods like it was my job. And I’ve got to eat, right?

I know there is also a psychological component that is most likely much more powerful than the physical component. Although, I can attest to a physical component as well. I’m sure some of you can relate to the low sugar vapours that you get when you haven’t had your crystalline fix. As such, I’m sure that the carb flu is on its way and from a physical perspective, I’ll have to hunker down to not spontaneously combust over this sugar detox business.

As for the psychological part of it, Jesus take the wheel! I’m reciting the Serenity Prayer on the regular and hoping that I’ll find a Sponsor who’ll be able to put up with my flavour of crazy. It’s complicated.

Last week, as part of the “Observation” phase of the Real Meal Revolution, the HFLC program I’m due to be on for at least a year, I tracked all that I ate and was surprised/not surprised to learn that I was eating about 10-15x the amount of carbohydrates a day that I should be. My macros basically came out to “all carbs, all the time.” I am a fiend for white powders, go figure.

I’ve known that I’ve had disordered eating for quite some time, but haven’t wanted to really look at the causes or the consequences of it. It has been easy to be in denial about it. I’m 5’11” and a corn-fed country girl and I’ve always carried the excess weight relatively well. And despite having been told by a prisoner when I worked as a guard at TDCJ that I looked like I could wrestle bears, I really haven’t had an issue with my size. Yes, I’m not thrilled I’m a size 22 (be happy to be a size 14/16 though), but I’ve always thought that fluffy was sexy and my beloved hasn’t ever complained about the curves.

So, it wasn’t really my Rubenesque size that threw the switch. It was science, first, and getting honest with myself, second. The results from the medical tests were confronting, the achy joints were bothersome and the getting out of breath easily was concerning, but it was the inability to stop turning to food for comfort that really got my attention. It was the constant ‘how do I avoid any feelings, for fuck’s sake I need an Aero Mint Chocolate bar or I might die’ moments that left me with no doubt that I’m as addicted to carbohydrates/sugar/super processed foods as much so, if not more, than I was addicted to cocaine and benzos.

Everything revolves around changing the way I’m feeling or avoiding having feelings. I couldn’t be more textbook if I tried. The shit gets real and I want to shove a lot of shitty food right in my pie-hole to numb me. Of course, I’ve ignored the obvious for a long time because I had the fallback position that at least I wasn’t hoovering up the Bolivian Marching Powder anymore or spending three/four days a week sat at a pill mill waiting for the beautiful trifecta.

This HFLC business is going to be a challenge, but I think, I hope, that I am up for it. And where I am lacking, I will throw myself into the program of Narcotics Anonymous to help me help myself. I know that addiction, a soul sickness that I have/had, is the problem and the rest is commentary on the problem. No different than the spending or the need for this tablet or that tablet or a few tablets to get me to sleep at night. It is all much of a muchness for someone like me.

The dots connect easily enough when you have no coping skills to fall back on or when you’re able to rank your various traumas on a scale of ‘that’s shit’ to ‘scorched earth’. Not an excuse, only an observation.

I woke about 4am this morning from a nightmare. It was one of those theme dreams that I periodically have - me and my father in some huge argument over something, raised voices, mean words, violence on the horizon. In this dream, I was in public, out on some type of outdoor plaza and there were lots of folks around and my father was reading me the riot act. In the dream, he was shouting so loud and saying the cruellest things, as he usually did in real life. I was being kicked out of my house or berated for being a shit parent or something like that. There are always variations on this dream, but they all follow the same general plot and I wake up stressed off my tits in a panic, feeling like I need to run, to get away.

I’ve had enough of them over the years that, fortunately, when they happen now, I wake up, have a look around, reach out and touch my husband and ground myself. I repeat a little mantra in my head that my beloved started back when the PTSD and nightmares were a holy terror – I say my address to myself. Tim used to calm me down when I was having the panic or the tears or just slipping away into dissociation by asking me where I was right at that moment. His point, I suppose, was to bring me back out of wherever it was that I’d disappeared to and to make me feel secure in the present moment where there wasn’t a threat or a traumatic memory. It still helps. I was able to get up and get some water and go back to sleep with little fanfare.

The thing is, it is all connected.  The nightmare, the carb cravings, the overwhelming feelings of loserdom that washed over me when I dinged the car. The little librarian in charge of the card catalogue of my mind is so adept at running through the file drawers in nano-seconds to be able to flag every incident where I’ve felt powerless, worthless, like an idiot or a failure. She can flag all the memories of fear and of violence, of need and desperation. And it is as if there is an invisible string connecting these associated memories and they are tied to the simplest of daily events and when something happens, like me bumping the car into the bike in the garage, the string is suddenly pulled tight and up goes every memory, strung across my mind like an evil version of Tibetan prayer flags.

I’ve always thought of it like my synapses were ganging up on me. Which is a logical observation. Unfortunately, when it happens, the dreaded ‘feelings’ occur and those are what I wish to avoid at all cost. I’m having to learn all over again how to sit with them and let them pass. It is not my strong suit.

Those unwanted feelings and their causative memories are the rallying cry to activate my addictions. And I think they are why I need a program for living, which for me, needs to be the 12-steps.

Working a program gives me a view as to how I get overwhelmed and how things devolve into chaos. It can give me the good sense to realise that my best intentions and well-laid plans don’t really and haven’t really worked for me. The steps show me that I need to be able to let go of the death grip I’ve always had on trying to control the uncontrollable – those things I cannot change. Working the steps and going to meetings keep me level and sane. I hear other people share their experiences and I see myself in them and I feel less alone. I listen to the way other people have dealt with the situations that vex me and that gives me an opportunity to try things another way. Going to Narcotics Anonymous helps me to get and stay honest with myself, gives me the tools I need to clear away the flotsam and jetsam so that I can see myself and my actions with clarity. Because, without that, I can’t make things better. I see my part in it all and the way I contribute to the festering of old wounds instead of the repair and healing of them.

And, if nothing else, it gives me hope that there is hope for me yet. It plants a flag in front of me that bears promises:

We are going to know a new freedom and a new happiness.

We will not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it.

We will comprehend the word serenity and we will know peace.

No matter how far down the scale we have gone, we will see how our experience can benefit others.

That feeling of uselessness and self-pity will disappear.

We will lose interest in selfish things and gain interest in our fellows.

Self-seeking will slip away.

Our whole attitude and outlook upon life will change.

Fear of people and of economic insecurity will leave us.

We will intuitively know how to handle situations which used to baffle us.

We will suddenly realize that [our Higher Power] is doing for us what we could not do for ourselves.

The program assures me, put in the work, and your life can be good, it can be (as they say) happy, joyous and free.

And I need to be reminded of that, especially when the Synapse Gang gets on my tail.