Fatigue.

 

It’s a cloudy day here, and a storm’s coming in. My body is weak, sore, and my eyelids are heavy. I’ve had some sleep issues for a while now, and have gone to bed late (or early in the a.m.) and woken up around 11 or 11:30, for a total of about 8 hours of interrupted sleep. So, really, more like 6 or 7 hours. My body tends to require 9 to feel rested enough. I’ll be trying an increased dosage of the new med tonight to see if it helps regulate my sleep patterns.

Meanwhile, five days to Christmas, and I still have lots of presents to make. So, I’m going to take today to knock them out (hopefully.) Since we’re unable to go to Louisiana to see Tom’s family this year, I’ll be sending the presents with my brother in law, who gets to play Santa.

Wishing you all a restful, renewing weekend!

Gentle hugs,

Chels

On losing a parent.

My dad was found in his home on Sunday, August 15, and I found out the following day. When I got the message from the ME’s office, I understood. I didn’t need to check the other message from my Aunt, saying that Dad died. I had just gotten in the car to make a Wendy’s run for my mom and I, and I immediately got back out. I needed to be with my mom. I walked back into her apartment, and blurted out “Dad died.”

Instantly, I was blank. Swiped clean of all motor and brain function. Somehow, I called the ME’s office back, and as the nice but gruff investigator told me he was afraid he had bad news, I found myself getting irritated. I know he was just doing his job, but didn’t he think I knew why the medical examiner’s office would be calling me about my dad? Didn’t he know I needed him to get to the point and tell me what the hell I was supposed to do?

How long had it been since I spoke with him? A couple of weeks. What health problems did he have? Yes, that makes sense. The coroner says hypertensive cardiac disease was the cause. He did tell me what I needed to do, and the office was open 24/7 to calls, and if I had any questions I could call, and I should contact the VA, and a funeral home, and sorry for your loss …

Everything blurs together. I talk to my aunt. The internal bleed my uncle has been suffering from is from cancer (which he now has for the second time in his life,) and they’re waiting on results from the biopsy. They won’t be able to do anything, physically, but they can help financially, and please keep us updated on whatever you decide. We trust you and support whatever decisions you make.

First, the apartment has to be cleaned out. The manager complains to me that the apartment smells, and I need to get the food out of the apartment as soon as I can, and she can give me until the end of the week, if that will help, and we can leave anything we can’t move or don’t want for her guys to move, and sorry for your loss, sweetie.

My husband goes with me the next day, and we can’t get into the apartment, because I’m not listed as an emergency contact. My uncle could come, though, or we could get a letter notarized saying we can enter the apartment. I have the urge to yell at the manager. I calmly say that I wish she’d mentioned this on the phone, and she says she assumed I had a key. I don’t explain that if I had a key, I wouldn’t have needed to call her to ask her all those questions in the first place before driving out there. “Is there anything else I should know,” I had asked. We walk out the door, I curse, and my husband, who now has my sanity in his hands, is calm and collected. He drives us to my aunt and uncle for another 25 minutes or so, and we get the one key my uncle has. We talk to the family. Everyone is sick. Everyone is struggling. Everyone prays for each other. Then, we go back.

I won’t describe the state of the apartment. I will say that it infuriates me that our poor, our elderly, our disabled, and our veterans are treated with such disrespect. We cover our faces with masks and peppermint oil, armed with sprays and scrubs and bags, and I’m numb until I’m suddenly crying over a photo, a handwritten song, a report card from 4th grade. The apartment was never in such a state when I visited before.

It takes us until the end of the week, 4 days total – Tuesday and Thursday, Saturday and Sunday. The neighbors flock and tell stories, give condolences. Most are sincere, a couple debatable. Most are desperate for a microwave, a blanket, a chair, and are you taking that with you? We give. Dad would have given, and we don’t have room in my small car and his small truck to move everything. They give to us. A hug, some tea – are you thirsty? Can we help you move anything? We use trash bags for trash and for keepsakes. We tread a path in the grass from the patio to our parking spaces. We’re an army of strangers, and I’m glad to know they were looking out for him when they could. We left a bed frame, a sleeper sofa, filing cabinets. We pile the rest in our garage for the estate sale later.

Then the funeral home, the cremation. My mom goes with me. We’re not allowed to identify him. We sign papers and hand over checks and cash, and this is much more expensive than I expected for a cremation. I buy a beautiful box for him. I go back for death certificates, for ashes. Ashes are much heavier than I expected.

I create a wreath, a memorial candle, a shadow box. I scan photos, and create online memorials, and notify friends and family. I speak with a pastor who I’ve never met, who was Dad’s pastor, and he says come have church and would you like me to ask the members to bring a covered dish? It’s a potluck memorial in a barn. Then a potluck picnic in a local park the next week. One for one set of friends and family, one for another.

I don’t sleep well. I don’t sit still well. There’s not much time to be still, anyway, and business is an effective distraction. I plan a yard sale. The neighbors ask, can they participate? Is that allowed? Why not. The internet says that “multiple family sales” attract more customers, and we need the money.

The dog seems to think I need extra licks on my face. It makes me laugh.

I zone out, going somewhere that makes up for the lack of stillness and rest. I miss chunks of conversations, paragraphs of things I’m supposed to be reading.

I’m handling this all so well, they say. They couldn’t do it. They’d be a mess.

I don’t tell most of them about the appointment with my new psychiatrist days after it happened, and that he prescribed a drug most often prescribed to people with PTSD and nightmares. It’ll assist the other med I’m taking, he says.

He’s right. And I have a lifetime to grieve.

Abercrombie & WhoGivesACrap

Overly sexualized ads geared at young people. Clothing that rarely fits a body that has curves, or that is tall, short, or anything other than built like an average-sized wooden dowel. The same 4 colors everywhere you look: blue, pink, red, green. (To be fair, there’s white, grey, black, and brown, too.) Often uninspired design. And now, this: http://elitedaily.com/news/world/abercrombie-fitch-ceo-explains-why-he-hates-fat-chicks/.

I mean, really. Does this guy want to run his business into the ground? What parent in their right mind could support this kind of business ethic? After all, it’s mostly parents buying clothing for their children, or giving money to children for them to buy the clothing, that keep this business going. Yes, we get it, your brand is exclusive. Every brand markets to a target audience. It’s smart to define your clients in a way that makes to you, so that you can better sell to them. It’s not smart to be a jerk.

That said, Abercrombie isn’t the only brand that seems to perpetuate the idea (mostly aimed toward women) that being thin is the only way to be beautiful, cool, wanted. They also perpetuate the idea that men have to be buff, virtually hairless, and tan. Goodness, aren’t we hard enough on ourselves already? We have to grow up too fast, go to college, get a degree, find a career path, marry, have beautiful children before a certain age, make more than a million dollars to be able to retire, enjoy an active lifestyle, eat healthfully, maintain and acceptable number of relationships, have interesting hobbies, and strive for youthful beauty at all costs the whole time? No thanks. I’m not buying it.

I think we could all use a little more of this in our world.

More of this.

And this.

This, too.

So, spread it around.

And, for goodness sake, genuinely compliment someone on something other than their physical beauty. It’s nice to be admired for the way you look, but we’re all so much more than that. We’re intelligent, emotional, passionate creatures that deserve to be recognized as beautiful for who we are.

Oh, also – shop at thrift stores if you’d like to stick it to the man. You can score Abercrombie & Fitch (and any of the other big brands that demand we submit and conform to their standards of beauty) for a fraction of the ridiculously high retail price, and support a worthy charity at the same time.

Gentle hugs,

Chels

Holidays, wallowdays.

The days are shorter, colder, and cloudier, and while I love Thanksgiving and Christmas, they sure come at a dreary time of year.

I’ll be doing my shopping this year at thrift stores, online, and from local artisans to cut down on the holiday rush, and spending lots of time with my family and PJs to combat the holiday blahs.

Gentle hugs,

Chels

 

Pet Peeves

I don’t know where the term came from, but “pet peeve” sounds so much cuter than the meaning. Those little, annoying, grating things … to paraphrase some well-written Incubus lyrics, it’s like chewing tin foil.

My list of pet peeves is pretty small. It used to be bigger, but then I grew up, and all that angst and anger at the world started to fade. I’ve always been a “why can’t we all get along” kind of girl, anyway. So, short as the list may be, here it is.

1. People who have a blatant disregard for rules, or think that they don’t apply to them.

Obviously, this one isn’t black and white. Rules can and should be bent or broken when the need arises, but all in all, rules are pretty important. It especially bothers me if someone is breaking a rule that’s meant to keep people safe. The teenager riding his skateboard the wrong way down the middle of a street lane, for instance, got a honk and a call to 911, because his response to my honk made it clear that he didn’t intend to stop. It especially, especially bothers me if the person doing the rule breaking is older than a teenager and should know better and who’s brain development and hormones should have leveled out enough by now to control the impulse even if they do know better. Obey traffic signs, please, people.

2. Loud snorting.

This one is much more specific. There are not many things that make my stomach churn, but snorting makes the list. I’m not talking about cute, funny snorts as the result of a laugh, or a sniffle with a cold. I’m talking that deep-down, sinus rattling, loogie inducing, why the heck is that necessary snort. You obviously have an unbalanced mucus to sinus cavity ratio and are in serious need of some Flonase or Mucinex. Please seek help.

3. When people say they “hate” something every few minutes.

If you’re agreeing with me about how bad something is, and you say, “Yeah, I hate that,” ok (and thank you for agreeing with me.) If you really, truly dislike something, hate is a nice, descriptive word to get your point across. If you hate everything and nearly everyone, however, and feel the need to voice it constantly, we cannot be friends. Even if you’re just saying you hate them when you really don’t. People who say they love everything may be annoying, but it’s much better than hating everything. Hate. Ick.

4. That I can only hear one or two notes of the music you’re playing in the other room or car.

I get it. You’re enjoying playing or listening to one of your favorite songs. I LOVE music. However, when it’s loud enough that I can hear it across a building, or on the road with all windows rolled up, but not loud enough so that I can hear most of the notes/beats, it drives me up a wall. Hearing the same one, two, or three notes out of an entire song is maddening. Even if I know the song, and can substitute what I can’t hear in my head. Bonkers, I tell you.

So, that’s about it. Nothing else I can think of has a big enough impact to mention. What are your biggest pet peeves?

Gentle hugs,

Chels

 

 

Insomnia. Friend or foe?

I just realized why it’s so often that I can’t go to sleep even though I’m beat. (Other than the fact that my sleep cycle changes at least 4 times a year, and I have a problem turning off my brain or ignoring certain pains.) It’s the quiet. The peaceful, dark quiet. It’s a rarity in my life right now, and I’m enjoying it every chance I can get.

Seriously, folks, I never thought I’d count sleep problems as a blessing. Right now, though, I’m listening to the dry leaves blowing in the wind outside my window, and reveling in the perfect quiet of the building. All day I’ve been on edge, despite my efforts to focus on gratitude, immerse myself in work, and talk to the people I love. It’s been one of those days that I could go from screaming to crying to laughing to silent within a matter of minutes. In case you’d like to know, it’s partly due to my hormones, which are easily scrambled, even by medication that’s supposed to be the same thing I was taking before that worked so well but cost nearly $100 a month. Anyway, I sit here, typing, listening to the most subtle sounds, and I realize that I’m calm. Ok, so maybe that’s part Elavil, but I’m not kidding when I say that I absolutely cannot get away from the noise in this place during the day. Not even in our apartment, old and thin-skinned as it is.

Here’s something you may know all to well or you may not know at all about FMS: symptoms include light and sound sensitivity. I got a double whammy of that with the epilepsy, I think. Even though I’ve become accustomed to the ringing phones, slamming doors, loud group conversation, other various (usually electronic) noises, and bright fluorescent lights,  it’s very clear to me once they’re gone how the unstoppable assault on my senses not only slowly chips away at my sanity, but affects me physically.

Unfortunately, due to the physical and mental limitations that have become my norm, leaving the apartment also replaces any energy I have with fatigue and anxiety. The grass is always greener. I guess some would say the grass is brown on both sides, but I’m for optimism all the way.

So, I sit here, soaking up the silence.

Close my eyes, let it lap at my feet like waves.

And drift out into a sea of rest.

Gentle hugs,

Chels

Cervix wars.

Note: If you are easily affected or worried by others’ medical stories like I am, and/or are going to have a biopsy or procedure similar to the LEEP, it’s okay to wait to read my story after it’s over, or to not read it at all. I promise. I’d rather commiserate with you than make you miserable!

I dub today LEEP Recuperation Day #3. Here’s what led up to it:

A story I don’t share much, because, honestly, I try not to think about it much, is the story about the invasion of my cervix by pre-cancerous cells. Really, some of my good friends don’t know much about the situation. Not that there’s much to tell. It’s something I’ve been dealing with for about 4 years now, and the 6 month checkups/colposcopies/biopsies have become pretty routine. Each time I get anxious, but my last couple of checkups have really taken the cake in that department.

Let’s call the first one the “false hope” incident. It went as follows: I contacted the women’s health center near my home (not the center that performs the colposcopies, but the one that requires a yearly well woman exam to ensure my birth control prescription gets renewed,) because I had just recently visited the dysplasia center, and wasn’t sure if I needed to make my well woman appointment or if I just needed to make an appointment to renew my prescription. A very sweet, well-meaning nurse informed me that I wouldn’t need to have another exam (sweet,) and I just needed to come in and talk with the doc about my prescription. She went on to ask how my last dysplasia appointment went, and I told her I was still waiting for results. She checked my chart, and was elated to tell me that the results were normal. Now, I tried not to get too excited, because, as you may already know, pap results can be normal while biopsy results may be abnormal at the same time. So, I explained I’d also had a biopsy, and asked if those were just the pap results. She assured me that “all of the test results came back normal,” and I was in complete shock. Seriously, I had to sit by myself in that quiet room for a few minutes for it to sink in. After the shock wore off, I was extremely excited, and shared the news with my family and some friends. For a few weeks, it felt like a baby elephant had been lifted off my shoulders. After 3 years, those low-to-medium grade precancerous cells had finally left my body! Then the results from the dysplasia clinic came in the mail. The results were (you probably guessed this, because you’re smart) abnormal, and I was a dangerous combination of crushed and very, very angry. Punching things angry. As I side note, I just want to say that kind of anger is okay, just as long as you don’t punch anything living; I don’t advise punching anything too hard, either. Fortunately, the office manager I spoke to at the women’s health center was incredibly sympathetic, and we had a conversation about how we both wished the results protocol was handled differently in the JPS system. I knew she couldn’t fix the problem, or the fact that I still had those nasty little cells, but it was helpful to have her to talk to. Sweet lady, whose name I’m sorry I don’t remember, I will always be thankful for you.

By the next 6 month appointment, I had come to terms with the results (again.) I thought things would continue on as they had for the past few years, which I was used to, and I reminded myself to think optimistically. There was a mantra of “the cells can still go away; they haven’t progressed” playing on repeat in my mind for a while. Then came the incident we’ll refer to as the “Why the *?&^ didn’t they tell me that?” incident. After the colposcopy and a particularly painful biopsy that was meant to remove the offending spot on my cervix, I thought, “Finally! Why didn’t they do this before?” When the doctor offered, I didn’t hesitate to say yes. An extra dose of pain was fine if it meant getting rid of the cloud of impending cancer hanging over my head. As usual, I waited weeks for the results, trying especially hard not to get too excited over the prospect of the dysplasia being gone for good. Let’s keep it real – I’m an optimist, but I’m not a fool. When the results came in the mail, though, what I read came out of left field. It was a notification to schedule a LEEP procedure to remove the pre-cancerous cells, and there was something scribbled in the margin about severe dysplasia.

Hang on. Can I just take a second and mention that, while I admit that I wouldn’t have the best penmanship in the world if I wrote that many notes in a day, I’d make darn sure that, if I was a doctor, I wrote patients’ test results and follow-up instructions clearly? Nothing incites a feeling of doom like getting an important message that may be really good or really not so good and not being able to read it. Dear reader, do everyone a favor. If you know a medical professional, or if you are a medical professional, could you please kindly but firmly remind your friend or yourself that legibility can either be sweet mercy or cruel torture? Thank you.

I called the clinic to clarify what my mail meant, thinking that my mild to moderate cells had gotten worse, and found out that the severe cells were in a different spot entirely. Now my not so threatening spot had a very threatening friend. No one had mentioned this to me during the actual exam, and since it’s a teaching hospital, they’re supposed to inform you of every little thing they do when they do it. In other words, someone should have said, “I’m going in for a second biopsy because I see a new area of dysplasia.” All I knew was that the doctor was trying to remove the original cells by performing a more extensive biopsy. All of a suddden, I got to experience a new procedure that involved way more slice and dice than what I was used to.

Needless to say, I was pretty upset. Not so much about the procedure, because it was something I’d talked about with my former doctor as a possible treatment. The LEEP procedure uses and electric loop to scoop out tissue and cauterize the area so that it will heal faster. In other words, they cut out the area, then burn it. If it sounds horrific, it’s because it is. I mean, if we’re going to compare it to other horrific things in the grand scheme, it’s not so bad. If you’re a woman reading this, though, you know that anything involving the maiming or removal of the physical symbols of your womanhood (breasts, reproductive organs, or genitalia) can be psychologically damaging. Frankly, another thing I just try not to think about. What I was so upset about was that, once again, I wasn’t given the correct information the first time around, and I felt violated. I spoke to another office manager, who was nice, but thought that she was talking to me because I was scared of the procedure. When I told her the reason I was upset, she really couldn’t do much but listen. At least she did that.

Fast forward to a few days ago. Fortunately, my husband was able to go with me to my appointment. Also fortunately, the wait wasn’t long, and the nurse and doctor were incredibly informative and asked several times if I had any questions. The nurse turned on one of the machines so I wouldn’t be surprised by the noise, and I had seen the familiar face of my doctor before in another visit. Unfortunately, the screen that magnified the area of the procedure was positioned so that the doctor could view it during the procedure, which means that it was also positioned for my viewing displeasure. I turned my head to the left and the nurse gave me a mask to squeeze for the numbing injection. The whole procedure was over in less than 10 minutes, and I was on my way home. After about 45 minutes, the numbing med wore off and I felt the full effects of the procedure. After taking the Tramadol prescribed for my fibromyalgia symptoms a couple of hours later, I was reminded of how well it works. These past couple of days have also been reminders of how blessed I am to be able to rest when I need to.

Today, 3 days later, I went to see The Amazing Spiderman and eat Mexican food with my husband and brother in law as an early birthday celebration. I have little to no pain from the procedure, I’m following the instructions the nurse handed me, and life is doing what it seems to do best. It’s going on.

Gentle hugs,

Chels

P.S. – If you would like good info about the LEEP procedure or any other procedure, I encourage you to ask for information from the clinic or hospital where you are a patient. You can also check out WebMD here. While there are plenty of medical discussion boards out there, I would recommend visiting them in moderation (or staying away altogether) unless you have a pressing question you forgot to ask your doctor who can’t be reached, or that isn’t explained on a credible website. My body, just like everyone else’s, is just that: mine. No one experience will be exactly the same as another. I sincerely hope yours is a good one!

I live under a rock (a confession.)

In my immediate defense, we don’t own a television, and we haven’t for quite a while now. We’re catching up on old (I mean old) episodes of The X Files currently on Hulu, following a brief stint of Firefly – awesome! – and The Finder.

Unless you live under a rock like me, you’ve heard that creepily catchy song, “Call Me, Maybe,” this summer. I seriously just heard it for the first time. Just now. Not that I hadn’t seen the snarky remarks on Facebook, and I even read an article about how it’s becoming a trend to create “business” cards with the chorus lyrics. I just didn’t feel compelled to listen to it. Honestly, though, it’s pretty catchy and I don’t hate it.

See, I’m the woman who appreciates but doesn’t give a hoot about owning the latest technology or participating in the latest fads. I’ve always kind of done my own thing, and if I like a trend, it’s usually because I like it, not because everyone else does. I dress the way I want. No kidding – I had a shirt made out of a rice sack in Jr. High that I wore holes in, and a pair of iridescent blue and orange genie pants in high school. By college, no one even made fun of me anymore. Friends of friends would snicker and say, “Who is that crazy chick?” and the people who knew me would reply with “Oh, that’s Chelsea; she’s cool. Don’t mess with her. She doesn’t care what you think, anyway.” Or something to that effect. I do take into account what other people think, because that’s important. So, I’m kind and polite, but when it comes to personal preferences, that’s just what they are – personal.

Who cares if I don’t have a smart phone? Well, to be truthful, I’ve been thinking of getting one for the business, but not because I want to play Angry Birds. Who cares if I like pop music? Just because I like hard rock doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the sticky sweet lyrics and catchy beats. I occasionaly sing Hanson songs to myself, okay? I also like hip hop, but I’m very aware that I only have a small amount of swagger. I’m also a big nerd, but I guess I’ve been considered moderately popular for a while now. Life is complicated. People are complicated. Labels are only natural, because we humans like to be able to define things, but I’m warning you – it depends on what day, sometimes even what hour you catch me, as to how you’ll define me. I’m a bit of a chameleon. Not fake, just empathetic and eclectic. I tend to pick up new skills quickly and at least try to adapt to new environments. I’m also very determined; it’s how I got through every math class I ever took with mostly B’s. That’s just me, and it’s totally fine if it’s not you.

I read both bizarre and mundane literature, I believe in and pray to God, and I’ll stand up for your rights and civil liberties. I’ll stand up for you if you’re a complete stranger, not just because that’s what I hope you’d do for me, but because it’s what is right. It doesn’t matter if you dress the way I do, have the same skin color, believe in the same God, are a different age, or speak a different language.

So, I’m going to go listen to the music I like, wear my favorite t-shirt, and clean my home. You, whatever you do today, know that I love you just the way you are. Oh, and if you need someone to call a manger or supervisor, I’m so your girl. Just don’t ask me the date, or about the newest song or last night’s show. I don’t get to watch it until the day after, anyway.

Gentle Hugs,

Chels

Nicotine is gross.

I have love for lots of smokers. I know that it’s an addiction that some people don’t want to quit, and I get that it’s really hard if you do. My mom and my grandmother quit after having heart attacks, and my husband quit while we were dating.

But ew. I’m so sick today (so is my Mom, and my hubby was sick last night.) My mom and hubby are former smokers, I’m a non-smoker, and we spent several hours in a bar for the fundraiser for our friends. (Which, by the way, was a huge success – yay!) Needless to say, there was little to do to get away from the smoke. We sat right by the fan, so the majority of the smoke was being blown away from us. And we still got sick.

My mom kept saying, “I can’t believe I used to smell like that all the time. I’m going to go home and take a shower.” We all did just that, and here we are. Now, Tom never really gets sick, so when his stomach was upset last night, it caught my attention. Honestly, I figured it was probably the combo of hot dog, Frito pie, and stromboli he ate yesterday. Then I woke up this morning with an upset stomach, feeling really sick, and so did my mom. She didn’t eat any of the food we ate, so we’ve all deduced that it was the large amount of smoke/nicotine that was absorbed into our systems.

So, for those of you who smoke, please just take a moment to consider how sick you’re making yourself and others around you. I know you know that “smoking is bad.” (If you didn’t know that, welcome to 2012.) But you may not realize just how bad it is for everyone else around you. I feel nauseous, have an upset stomach, have sensitive skin, and I’m short of breath and lethargic. Today makes me so thankful that my grandmother and mom didn’t smoke around me.

Bleck.

Gentle hugs,

Chels

Let’s get naked!

Wait! before you start taking off all your clothes, let me explain.

No, really – keep your shirt on … Please?

Ok, I was reading today’s yahoo article about makeup and airbrushing celebrities into obvlivion, and I was so excited to see something other than the “Stars Without Makeup!” articles you see floating around. I know that those “shocking” articles are supposed to make us non-celebrities feel better about ourselves, but why? If the intention is to show that stars look normal when they’re not being slathered with concealer and photomanipulated, fine. Everyone should definitely be aware that celebrities have a team of people to make them look their best. But is that the real intention? So often it seems to be to join in on comments of how “ugly” so-and-so looks without makeup. Isn’t that just perpetuating the cycle of unrealistic body image issues? If we’re looking at those photos and saying “Gross! Man, she should have put on some makeup!” aren’t we giving permission to the stylists, makeup artists, photographers, and photo editors to make them into someone they’re not? We’re giving them permission to create a false image that promotes dangerously unrealistic expectations about the size, shape, and color we should be, the way we should age, and the way our clothing should fit. We’re giving them and ourselves permission to de-humanize those people, because, after all, that’s “what they signed up for, anyway.” We’re saying that we don’t want to see them as real human beings, and we’re also saying that we’re not good enough “as is,” either.

No makeup, no touch ups. Just a good hairstyle, natural lighting, and a good photo of a very pretty Taylor Swift.

When I was in 7th grade, I had been very sick for a few years. My skin was grey, my hair was dull, and I weighed about 67 pounds. (A healthy weight would have been anywhere from around 95-115 pounds.) People assumed I was anorexic, of course, and there were all kinds of rumors going around about my health problems already. I tried to accept my body as it was, but, truthfully, I hated the way I looked. I just wanted to be healthy, and to gain some weight. The next year, as I began to get better, a doctor advised that I eat ice cream every day to help put on some pounds quickly. Best prescription ever, right? Well, a couple of years later, as a Sophomore in high school, I weighed about 135 pounds. I had reached my goal of gaining weight, and had gone past it. So, even though I was celebrating being well, I still didn’t like the way I looked. Most of all, I was addicted to sweets (still am, really,) and I honestly didn’t feel any healthier than I did when I was underweight.

The thing is, even though I began taking my yoga practice seriously, and have grown to maintain a healthy weight and a fairly healthy body image, I still struggle with it. I wonder if I’m too thin more often than I wonder if I’m too heavy, which I know goes against the grain as far as body image issues go. When I’m able to exercise regularly, my metabolism kicks into overdrive and I can get down to about 110 pounds. Stress also causes me to lose weight, rather than gain it (against the grain again, I know – my girlfriends give me a hard time for it) so right now I’m at 114. I still have that fear that if I lose too much weight, even if it’s completely natural for me, I’ll look sickly.

You see, it goes both ways. Women are scrutinized for being too heavy, but they’re also scrutinized for being too thin. I’m proud of all of the “embrace your curves” movements going on out there, but too often those images of beautiful, curvy women are next to images of very thin women with a caption that says something to the effect of “I’d rather be curvy than look anorexic.” Granted, many of those pictures show a thin woman that looks obviously unhealthy, and I know it’s meant to comment on the pressure women are under to be dangerously thin, but is that actually the message that comes across? To me, it says that you love your body, but … what? “Ew, that skinny girl is gross?”

It also goes both ways with beauty. You’re either wearing too much or too little makeup. You’re curvy, but you need to wear Spanx to make your clothing fit “right.” You’re pretty, but your butt or boobs aren’t big enough, or they’re too big, so they get airbrushed accordingly. It’s all so confusing, vain, and, really, pretty twisted.

Now, I’m not getting down on photographers, here. I appreciate photography as an art form, and support the use of photo editing to perfect a photograph. Using editing software to create light continuity, which can create a more even skin tone, or to enhance the richness of color, which can make the color of the model’s eyes seem brighter, those are things that help the photographer create a professional looking image. What’s unneccessary is using airbrushing to whittle away or enhance body parts, erase the natural lines of a face, and to create an image that is, simply put, a lie.

So, embrace your body. You don’t have to walk around letting it all hang out, but definitely flaunt your confidence. If you like to wear makeup, do it! Just know that the makeup only enhances your already beautiful self. If you want to acheive a healthier body, go for it. Just don’t let comparisons to fantastical images and expectations dictate what healthy means to you. And please, please don’t put any other body under the same type of scrutiny in an attempt to lift yourself up, because you’re only tearing them down in the process.

Gentle hugs,

Chels