It's been an interesting year.
Just about this time a year ago, I had a phone screen for a job that felt and sounded interesting. It would be a slight pay increase, but carry a nice title bump, and OMG the fringe benefits.
And, as I'd eventually find out, I'd move from a place where I felt like my concerns and ideas were constantly dismissed, to a place where I was seen as the National Treasure Princess who obviously knew all in the world of communications, and for the most part, was to be valued, and trusted, and never ever dismissed.
So I've spent the past almost year in a pretty fantastic place job-wise, and being grateful every day that I moved to a place where I am truly valued, and all I have to do is voice an opinion for that opinion to be heard. And listened to.
But, I've also spent most of that past year feeling dismissed.
One of my friends put it best when she said she suspected that former Dietitian was weirded out by the fact that I actually, you know, ate.
Because it's true. I do eat. But there are rules. And guidelines. And what I need from a dietitian is for someone to throw the data and the science at me, and help me to see how those rules and guidelines can change -- and to challenge me to do it without making me feel either like a failure, or like my concerns are simply not valid.
And that wasn't happening. To the contrary, it was more of fluff than even art, and certainly no science. (I once asked how she knew that this was the right amount of calories. She told me I hadn't gained weight. That's ... not what I needed to hear, especially when I did start holding on to every ounce of water weight like some sort of morphing jellyfish.) When I told her what my big triggers were, at the very first session, she listened at first ... and then implemented them anyway -- only stopping when Therapist 3.0 had a Come to Jesus talk with her and explained why these were legit issues, and that I wasn't just being difficult.
I don't suffer fools gladly. And more importantly, I don't tolerate someone not listening to my voice when I actually raise my opinion.
And I hit a point that when I realized that going to see her was actually serving as more of a trigger -- both because she wasn't listening, and was dismissing my concerns, and because I was leaving hating myself more for feeling like a failure.
So I did what any rational person would do and fired her via email the morning after our last session.
I have choices. And I can make them.
And my life is too valuable to spend it feeling dismissed.
It's almost embarrassing the number of times I've tried to get in my 10-mile run since the beginning of August.
There was the weather. It would rain. Or it would be miserable. And while I'll suck it up and push through if either of those conditions crops up while I'm running, I'm not going to *start* a 10-mile run in the rain.
Or there was my body. I'd go out, and my blood sugar would drop. Or I'd not even get out because I couldn't get stable. Or, even more frustrating, was going out, and getting either dizzy, or more frighteningly, starting to grey out. For the former, I'll push myself another mile to see if a snack and water clears things up, but for the latter, it's an instant Go to Jail Do Not Collect $200 card.
So I've been going out and getting all of these 5 mile runs in, and a nice number of 3-5 miles, but not actually hitting my 10 miles.
All the while, getting more and more frustrated and angry with myself that OMG I'm a failure because I can't do this mileage that I've done all these times before. And OMG I have a 10K coming up in September and WTF is wrong with me.
And then I got hit with the Death Cold.
First day of Death Cold, Labor Day, was the day I intended to go out for real and do that 10 miles. It was supposed to be perfect weather (which it was) and I was looking forward to it.
I ate breakfast (see, I try!) and after my two hours were up, tried to motivate myself into moving from the couch. Except that every time I stood up, I felt like I was going to hit the floor.
Crazy, but not stupid. Also: See previous rule of "If I am greying out, I do not run."
I kept hoping it would get better, but it didn't. So come 3:30 on Labor Day, when I still felt horrible, I called it done. And sat and sulked and cried and went to my sewing room.
And then woke up that Tuesday morning with a sore throat. Which progressed into full-fledged cold by Wednesday, and a sick day
And as much as I hate not working out, I also recognize that when I have exercise and illness-induced asthma on a good day, trying to combine the two together with Death Cold was just going to be a bad idea.
So. 10 miles. Still need to happen before Sept. 24, because I really don't want to do a 10K without covering the six miles recently first. And since I've done two half marathons, I know I *can* do 6.2 miles -- but more importantly, I want to do them well.
"You're not going to like what I'm going to say," Therapist 3.0 dropped on me shortly before she went on vacation.
She was recommending that I think about going to a treatment center, because there were concerns, and she described recovery as being a full-time job.
Which. Um, no. For myriad reasons, but also largely for economic reasons. Because I am not made of money, and I'm going through this world without a partner providing financial backup (and, really, at this point, because I'm also not FMLA eligible for another four months). I have good insurance and a good job, but there is no money tree in the garden, and I quite literally cannot afford this hit on my finances.
It doesn't matter what her justification (or anyone's justification) might be. The stark reality of the situation is that I literally cannot afford anything that has me leaving work (even on a leave of absence) for an extended time.
Which made me wonder. How on earth do people afford it all? Is this why eating issues are largely perceived as a Caucasian upper class problem? (And, it also made me wonder about how really, this would have been so much easier during that summer I was unemployed when a psychologist I saw strongly recommended inpatient. I had horrible insurance, but at least I had no financial obligations.)
That question reminded me of a link that someone in a Facebook group I read posted about the new Netflix series "To the Bone." (FWIW, no, I'm not watching it. Therapist 3.0 and I agreed that it likely wouldn't be the best idea, and instead, I'm waiting to see what other people think of it, and what she thinks of it if and when she sees it.)
One of the points that the article brought up in criticism of the series was the affordability factor -- largely, that dealing and treating this is expensive. Apparently the series makes it seem like this is all accessible, and the burden comes down on the patient for wanting to make it work.
But you know what? That's not the case.
Fun example time: I have good insurance and a fantastic job that pays me well, all things considering -- although I came to this job after almost a decade of being woefully underpaid. Supposedly, said insurance would cover 10 percent of a short-term (so less than 30 days ... ignoring the fact that the average residential length of stay is between 30 and 90) stay. OK, that's fine. I'd hit my out of pocket max pretty quickly.
But then, you have a situation where for an adult, or a young adult/someone living on their own who is working, you're supposed to magically make do without a salary. Sure, I've got short-term disability coverage. But the reality? That kicks in after 30 days. If you're new at a job, and you don't have 30 vacation or sick days banked, you're starting out not only dealing with that 10 percent OOP cost, but then having to make it work on whatever salary you can scrape to come in.
After the STD kicks in, it would cover 60 percent of my salary. Which. Sure, in an ideal world, I'd have the savings neatly tucked away to cover that 40 percent. But even that is to the ballpark of thousands a month, and heaven help me if a larger emergency came up. And if I don't have that emergency savings? Time to live off of credit cards and hope that all the bills get paid.
Sure, that's fantastic while dealing with a serious health issue.
Yes, I suppose if I wanted to, I could raid my IRA to cover it all. But then, the IRS will tax me, and because it's not a direct medical expense, I wouldn't be able to get the penalty waived. And then I'm in the hole come retirement.
And that's not even talking about the side economic costs that aren't direct medical expenses.
One outcomes study I read said that even people in a "normal"/healthy weight range gained weight during the course of IOP, inpatient, and other treatment programs. And inevitably, if you gain the weight to the level that they showed in the outcomes study, that involves going up a clothing size or three.
Eating disorder thoughts aside, that then means having to replace a wardrobe so that you're not dealing with clothes that you are quite literally too big to wear.
I've been through the wardrobe replacing time. The low end of the ballpark cost was in the $3,000 range. Sure, maybe I could do cheaper clothes by buying at thrift stores, but then you're compounding the issues of "nothing fits me anymore" with "I can't even afford clothes that are like the image I like to present." I have a professional job, and when you consider the number of sales and coupons that I stack, buying used clothes at a consignment store would actually be on par with waiting for sales and coupons. I can't just wear khakis and polos and figure it's all good. So then you're taking the patient, and in addition to having the weight gain, there's a situation where the clothes remain a painful and expensive situation that is either addressed shoddily, expensively (yay credit card debt), or not at all.
And I don't see how any of that is better than the current situation. Because I don't see how either having no clothes, or having so much credit card debt (because don't forget, I'm trying to then live off the credit cards while I have only 60 percent of my salary coming in) is going to improve any situation. It simply doesn't.
Talk about a load of barriers that would make anyone say, "No, this isn't worth it."
One of the magical things I love about living in the suburbs is the peach tree.
I credit my realtor with pointing it out when we first looked at the property back in 2013. At that point, my agriculture knowledge was basically "Vegetables grow outside and that's best." So when we walked outside, he made a comment along the lines of oh, there's a peach tree.
I figured it was ornamental. Because really, who on earth has their very own peach tree and lives just 20 minutes from the city?
That first year, I went away for a conference (to Atlanta, ironically) and came back to find a decent number of cute little peaches.
The second year was the year of the Polar Vortex. Whomp whomp. The poor buds froze before they even had a chance.
The third year, a handful again. Nothing substantial, but hey, I couldn't complain.
Nothing last year. I realized that maybe I was just going to get a harvest every other year. Cool. I could live with that.
This year? OMG. So many peaches.
It is by far the best harvest I've ever had. And indeed, this is the first year that I've seen the branches of the tree actually bend under the weight of all the fruit.
The first Peach Day this year? I picked 50 pounds worth of peaches. In one day, I picked more peaches than I've ever gotten from that tree.
These peaches will basically become my main source of fruit and fruit-related items over the fall and winter (the apple tree isn't quite up to snuff yet). Jam, ice cream, cobbler, and of course, regular frozen peaches.
The new few weekends will be loads of work for sure, but it's worth it.
I feel like what surprises people is the extent to which I am into gardening.
Especially when it's compounded with my usual concerns about summer, and then all of those concerns about food.
But what gardening has been successful in doing is getting be to be interested more in food as a concept.
I don't keep it a secret that yes, I do do food. But for me, the conflict comes in that I need to actually be interested in the food.
And if I don't buy in to something, or I'm not inspired by it, or it's not part of my normal-as-safe routine? Well, that's when part of the challenge comes in. Compounded by the fact that there are all of those complicated rules on top.
Including that whole "I don't like to eat out of season food" thing.
Like, it turns out that prosciutto and honeydew? It really is as fantastic a combination as Pinterest would have you believe. Which I probably wouldn't have discovered if I hadn't grown honeydew this year.
I've only eaten it before in my adult-on-my-own-food-buying-life as a fruit cup, and never would have thought to just buy a whole one in a store.
But picking it from the garden? That makes it harmless. I grew it from seed, and I know what it's been through, and I know that nothing's been added to it or sprayed on it beyond my usual maintenance.
The blackberries have been a fun experiment this year that actually provided me with breakfast throughout the year.
Because you've got to do something with 2.5 pounds of blackberries, so scones it is! Especially when I like baked goods. I know what's in these, and I know how many calories. They're safe.
Ditto with the peaches. I rarely bought them before when I lived in New York, since it's hard to get locally grown peaches up there. And when I did, I'd can and preserve them.
Now that I have a peach tree? Peach Day -- that day in the middle of August when the peaches are ready to go -- is one of the best times of the year. And then there's jam, and ice cream, and cobbler, and peaches to actually eat.
Gardening not only helps with the fruit consumption. It also means that throughout the year, I know there's stuff in my freezer that I can trust.
The eggplants and peppers are doing their things, and so are the tomatoes. Soon, it'll be at the point where I can prep stewed tomatoes and eggplant parm.
Food to keep me good through the winter, and until the season starts again next spring.
And thus I've upped the odds that if nothing else, there is at least something in my freezer that my garden has made brave and safe enough to eat.
Really, who doesn't?
Spending the day at the beach got me thinking about it again. How other people carry and wear suits. What their comfort level is. What styles are coming back. What styles really should go away.
In many ways, I thank my size as child and teen for making me likely less paranoid and less cautious about wearing a swimsuit in public.
I was never anything resembling petite. Not fat, by clinical standards, but not petite. I carry my weight in my torso. Bikinis were never a thing that could happen for me. And, when you're a not-petite person doing varsity swim, you quickly accept that OK, everyone's going to stare at the fat girl in the pool, so wear the damn suit and get over it.
Even after high school, it wasn't that I didn't care, as much as I accepted the reality. I was fat. But I liked to swim. So a swimsuit had to happen.
I switched to tankinis when I went on the pump. I'm cool with showing the pump and its tubing when I'm in the pool, but I don't want to be an on-display diabetic when I'm at the beach, or generally just relaxing.
And that's when a difference started happening.
For some reason, in my head, a one-piece racing suit is different. It's going to cling, and you're going to see lumps, and that's just the nature of a suit.
But tankinis by nature are tanks. They've got leeway to cover and drape, and thus, I had always bought them on the larger side.
Fast forward to this January. I knew that new tankinis needed to happen (so did new Speedos, but that's a different ball of drama and wax, since Speedo sizing is inconsistent ... but at least you know that going into it, and they do online returns easily). So I bought a few from Lands End during a sale, and figured that OK, lots of sizes, and return to Sears what didn't work.
Oy. For the first time in my life, I was confronted with the reality that OK, the hips are a 4, but the waist is an 8. And that the pictures on sale sites show people wearing suits that are much closer to their actual size than what I'd been wearing.
So I picked out a few, kept them, and promptly shoved them in a drawer.
Until the weekend of the Presque Isle Half Marathon. I went with what at the time felt like the best option, and tossed it in my bag.
Pro tip: When you try to wear a swimsuit after a half marathon with an upset stomach, where there is endless boob sweat, and everything hurts, no suit will ever feel sexy.
I came home and sulked.
And resolved to try it again.
So last Sunday, before going to the beach, I tried the options again. This time, I realized that OH, right, boob sweat. And found a combination that worked, and I happily put it on and went to the beach.
Where I proceeded to people watch. And saw that even though I feel like my torso must always be covered, there were lots of people with worse abs than I wearing bikinis, and seeming perfectly happy with it. None of them with pumps, of course, but with all of those lumps and bumps that I always feel are a public indicator of how fat I am.
And there were people who were bigger than I was wearing bikinis, and seeming to give absolute zero fucks.
Do I think I'll ever be comfortable in a bikini? No.
But I am envious of the people who can be.
The news drama -- well, drama lite, I suppose -- about "cosmopolitan bias" got me thinking again about that trip to Ohiopyle last month.
(And I'll put it out here: I detest the current administration. I'm not defending the use of the phrase or the tactic.)
I was on my way to a Venture Outdoors trip, and passed a sign on a realtor's office about buying a second home in that region.
The Laurel Highlands/Ohiopyle region is gorgeous. Honestly, having a home in the middle of that gorgeousness wouldn't be hard on the eyes.
But the thought that crossed my head?
"Yeah, but then I'd have to live here, and UGH."
The more I drove, the angrier I got. I kept thinking about how it's such a beautiful area, and it's currently so well protected, and OMG the people who live there surely can't appreciate it because OMG they voted for that idiot who wants to see the entire country go to a polluted wasteland again.
Well, there's my cosmopolitan bias for you.
You know something? I'll own it.
In certain areas of this state, I give some serious side eye and distrust to those who aren't from the metropolitan areas. It's not that I think they don't know any better, and I'm not saying that everyone is provincially minded. But I have a hard time grasping how you can live in a natural, gorgeous area ... and want to do absolutely nothing to protect it.
Which then eventually leads to me just getting grumpier and grumpier, knowing how those areas tend to vote, and then vowing and declaring that I may go there to hike and sunbathe, but only in small amounts, and I certainly would never live there.
I think it's the years of living in northern New York, coupled with the intense bullying in middle school, junior high school, and high school, that built this bias. When you're made to feel like it's a horrible outcast to be smart and want more, then you start harboring some serious distrust and downward looking at those who come from that background who treat you that way. Which eventually colors into how you interact with others from similar backgrounds.
AKA: How bias forms.
And really? I should know better. I should do better.
I can do better.
