Bag Lady

Winter has set in and thus, so has my usual form of hibernation. You know the routine...any time the weather dips below 60 degrees I find any excuse in the book to stay inside...in sweats...or pajamas...and curl up next to whatever heat source I can find. I'm a Bunce and that's what we DO in winter. We hibernate. The part of me that likes...I dunno...doing stuff...shrivels up like a prune and crawls into the cracks in the radiator of the universe. And this is normal. I basically hide, like a hermit or the Unibomber, until April.

And this year's no different...but I have noticed myself taking it to an all new level of...bag lady.

While I do normally don sweats and layers in winter, this winter I have started to resemble the lady who pushes the grocery cart near the Safeway and if you get hear her she tells you to "go on 'bout your biznusss."

Let me paint this little picture for you. I have always liked collecting old sweatshirts and pajama pants, washed so that they're super soft and easy to sleep in. I had just previously had standards as to where and when I would wear said sweats and pajama pants. This year, not so much.

This year I have stepped up my game.

You see, last year my grandmother, yes I said grandmother, received a pair of sweatpants for Christmas. They were of the type you usually see grandmothers wear- tapered at the ankle, elastic waist with "room to move," and kind of a stonewashed look to them (if that makes any sense). Any hoot, they didn't fit her. And somehow, I ended up with them. And I wear them. A lot. Like every night when I get home from work. They're warm, they're comfy, and they're straight out of an episode of Full House.

So there's that.

Then there's my "slippers." You see, I use this term loosely. If by slippers you mean slip on fake ankle uggs that are on their fourth year, then yes, I wear slippers. Mind you, those slippers are often (always) paired with the fluffy socks that come in many different colors and styles that you can get in a bunch at WalMart for three for a dollar.

Are you starting to get a mental picture yet? Let me elaborate. In an effort to wear a perfect hybrid of warmth, comfort and UGLY, I also have found myself wearing the top to Mondo's long john's from when he was in high school that he used to go snowboarding in. How I stumbled upon this article of clothing is beyond me but somehow, as if some stroke of fate, it found it's way onto my body and thus, in my lounge-wear repertoire.

So, so far we have my grandmother's sweats, four-year old "slippers" paired with fluffy multi-colored striped socks and a drab grey top to an old pair of mens long johns. Got it? Because I am about to blow your mind.

Now for the grand finale of Bag Lady. The Robe.

My Mom has always worn a long fleece robe for as long as I can remember. And you know that saying, "girls always turn into their Mothers?" Well gosh darn it, it's true!

I too, have a long fleece robe. In fact, my Mom bought it for me. It's baby pink. PINK. I don't even like pink. But this robe? It was MADE to be the icing to my lounge-wear cake. It's long, it's fluffy, it's not flattering (especially when I'm bra-less...hello mosquito bites!) and it's UGLY. But it wraps my butterfly up in a perfect little ugly cocoon of glory.

And yes, all of this is embarrassing. And it is evidence that I have reached an all-time low. I also realize I am playing with fire in a marriage where I expect my other half to still think I'm "pretty." Because there is NOTHING pretty about this outfit. Add to it the fact that I recently cut off my hair and sometimes resemble a Hanson brother if it's not styled properly, I am truly risking wife abandonment, and it'd be warranted.

But the real risk is TRULY being mistaken for a Bag Lady. Because I realized one morning, very early, while I was walking Snoop, that I had somehow ended up OUTSIDE...in PUBLIC...in this outfit. I must've REALLY needed coffee because I hadn't even put on a coat or real shoes. Instead I was parading around my block in the outfit. All I needed was a shopping cart filled with miscellaneous items, a rolled up blanket and hunched shoulders.

Upon re-entry into the "safe zone" ( also known as my house) I sat down and had a Come to Jesus moment.

"Bethany...look at yourself. Look what you're wearing. The only thing missing is hair rollers and a cigarette. You've been wearing this outfit at home for three days. How have we sunk this low?"

There's really no explanation. No excuse. It's cold dammit. And my ugly lounge-wear is comfortable. Soft as a baby's bottom. It may have soy sauce stains and Benjamin hair all over it but it's COLD. And I am getting OLD. I mean for God's sake, there's a POLAR VORTEX out there, people! Right? Oh that was a while ago? Even so! It happened!

I digress. And submit myself to bag lady status for at least another 2 or 3 months. So if you'll excuse me, I need to go change. Into my lounge wear. And walk the dog.

Life Was My Writer's Block

You’ve probably noticed I’ve been….gone. I haven’t been writing. The blame is all mine for this crumbling of the texture of The Pecking Hen. I went through some shit. Some real shit. And when I was finally able to pull my head out of my ass long enough, I started to live again. It was a relief.

And, while I really never stopped following her on social media throughout the years, I started to become inspired by someone of an unexpected origin. 

Ali Arnone is an…acquaintance?...from college. We ran in the same circle but probably said two words to each other over those crazy years- most likely while vying to get the attention of the bartender at CVP (Justinian!) to order another drink. We knew OF each other. And frankly, it was a damn shame. Because as adults, we have both seen, through our blogs, that we are very similar in a lot of ways. And while I don’t claim to be a blogger of Ali’s echelon, (she’s gotten shout outs and posts on some big blog sites and has a huge reader base), we started to realize we had a kind of blogger/reader/woman kinship kind of thing going on as we would correspond about each other’s writing, etc. We could’ve been fast buddies if we could’ve just stepped out of that convoluted crowd we ran in for one minute to see each other for the similar beings we were! Now, as a real bonafide "adult" (please stifle your laughter), I have grown to consider Ali a friend and someone who I admire for her wit, wisdom and not to mention she's downright stunning. 

As you’ve probably guessed, Ali has a blog. A pretty amazing, honest, funny and frankly, damn good blog. And as the years have progressed and we both entered our…[insert whisper here]… ahem… thirties, she wrote more and more. As opposed to letting life get in the way of her writing, she did the opposite. She wrote more. And I have been hooked.

And when the haze of confusion and grief and soul-searching was lifted, I started to wonder where my writing voice had gone? Why had I allowed myself to stop writing?

So I reached out to Ali. I knew she would have the right words for me, and I was right. Below, you will find her brilliant words that struck my heart and gave me my gumption back.

So, thank you, Ali, for making the Hen get her “peck,” back;)

Q. Dear AA,

Life has kicked me in the ass and I have lost my blog voice! What can a blog-girl do to get her swag back on the keyboard?

Sincerely,

Life Was My Writer’s Block

A. 

Dear Life Was My Writer’s Block,

I’m so glad you wrote.  Our friendship is an interesting one; as we went to college together and frequented the same bars and parties but never really ‘hung out,’ if that makes sense.  But alas, social media has been used for good and the very thing you’re having trouble getting back into – BLOGGING – is the very reason we still stay in touch and have a bond ten years later.  We both have blogs and for the past year or so we've been following each other’s musings and exchanging emails to discuss posts, books we've read and just talkin’ shop.  If that doesn't show you the power of writing, I don’t know what will.

That said, I understand you’re in a writing rut.  This happens.  But I’m here to give a jump-start to that dead battery of yours, in an effort to give you just the right amount of juice you need to get going again.  Why?  Because writing is therapeutic.  And who doesn't need a little therapy?

For lack of a better term, you've had some shit luck.  You've gone through a terrible ordeal; one that no person and woman should have to endure in their lifetime.  As a result, you did what most people in your shoes would do and probably SHOULD do, which is vanish a bit.  You said peace out to Facebook, a move I admire and quite frankly do not have the gumption to pull off, and you stopped writing on Pecking Hen.  You mentioned to me that your blog and your writing had become “morose” and I don’t think that’s the kind of person you are or want to be.  I know you as a fun, free-spirited, kind and positive person.  But as I said…the shit luck.  It’ll certainly change a person and their demeanor.

But here’s why I think you need to start writing again.  I think you need to write because it will help.  Help others who have been in your shoes, help those who HAVEN’T been in your shoes to understand you better, and most importantly… help YOU.  Help you to move on and start fresh and crawl out of the rut.  Write because we need real women who deal with real-life experiences and don’t claim to shoot glitter out of their pores and live their lives in this gross and unattainable perfection.  Write for a support system.  Write because life – even the dirty, nasty, crappy parts – can be funny.   Write because you have a great job and husband and friends and family and dogs and a myriad of other things that inspire you.  DON’T write because you’re trying to forget and ignore the trials and tribulations of the past few years, but because you want to heal and grow from them.

Write because you’re good at it.

Write because I said so. J

Best of luck,

Your friend & fellow writer AA

You can read Ali’s musings on her blog at http://alia15.tumblr.com

Someone Else's Words...

Sometimes I don't know what to write to "update" people on how I feel. So, on this occasion, I will let someone else's words do it for me, even if the situation isn't identical, the emotions are:

"It's hard to write about grief at four years out. Hard to know what to write here.

I want to tell you that you will never forget your baby.

I want to tell you that you will find a way to move on, grow about the pain.

I want to be the beacon of hope ahead of you, the woman with the life that has not collapsed around the dark matter of the dying star; that I was not sucked in and lost, heavy as the universe and destroyed in a hopeless inward swirling soup of moulten grief.

I want to tell you that you won't forget, that cosmic clutter and home grown atoms seared themselves into your soul and cannot be unwritten.

It feels wrong to write of present grief here. It feels wrong to write of recovery. It feels wrong to be either - healed or unhealed.

I missed my slot here last month. Almost missed it this month.

Grief hauled at me, made me unreliable. I chose to fail to prove that grief had me in its grip and prove that I had outrun it. But the truth is I couldn't feel it. I was numb. No words came. To write badly is the ultimate betrayal of my boy.

I'm held back and pushed forward by grief, by loss, by the bundle of boy in the paper flat pictures, the boy I grew quite perfectly who couldn't live without tube and wire.

You might imagine that pulled in all directions is unfathomable pain but it seems to bring nothing but inertia and dulled senses.

You don't need me, I told myself, because I am both then and now and neither is helpful. At four years out grief absorbed is of no more use than grief worn smeared upon my person and slathered, unwelcome, on every interaction.

Do you want to know that grief is just as painful 4 years on? Do you want to know that 4 years on I cry most often because his loss is so familiar that somedays I do not think of him at all?

Do you want to know you will forget? Do you want to know you never will?

That is my apology. Grief is endless and full of ends. Grief is circular, linear, long and short, impossible and easy, ever present and constantly receeding.

I'm sorry I wasn't here."

Quoted from http://www.glowinthewoods.com/home/2014/8/17/sorry.html

Balance

Wow it's been a MINUTE! I have been a very bad blog girl. But here I am, ready to post again. It took me a while to want to post. Last you heard from me I was still stuck in the "whirlwind." Well guess what? I was stupid to think that whirlwind would stop. Why did I think that eventually everything would return to "normal?" Apparently that's not how it works. Things are always changing and one is continually trying to adjust. There are good days and there are bad days but for the most part you start to accept that you are just along for the ride and you better buckle up.

So how would I go about trying to fill you all in on these past months (year?). It'd be impossible and tedious. So, I will sum things up with a theme of sorts that describes what my focus has been. BALANCE. I have spent these past long months trying to balance myself physically, emotionally and socially.

Let's start with the first- physically. Apparently I inherited some not-so-desirable genes from my rents. And those genes have gotten in the way of some goals of mine- namely motherhood. And in these past few months I have been on a fun adventure of trying to navigate said genetics- a nightmare scavenger hunt if you will. Once the culprits were properly identified I then had to figure out how to change my diet and lifestyle to counterbalance (there's that word again) those suckers. First it was surgery- but you knew about that. And not just once, mind you, but multiple surgeries over the course of two years that have left me with the knowledge that could rival even the best MDs out there. 6 total. Yeah, I am best friends with demerol and the surgery nurses at GBMC.

But then there was the wake up call in the form of my endocrine system. I won't bore you with details but let's just sum that up by saying my shizz is effffeeeedddd up. Basically I had to go to Nutrition boot camp where I learned that carbs are the enemy and exercise was my most lethal weapon. And I stepped up to the plate. For months I barely touched a carb. And it showed as I started to shrink. I liked this. Sure, I missed pizza and fries and even regular coffee creamer but my waist size was so much more rewarding. Then I was told I had to find BALANCE. yep, there it is again. I had to find a way to tango with carbs in a healthy way.

Oh and have I mentioned the medicine? I was on a new regimen that, on occasion, would rock my intestinal world. Plans canceled last minute, etc. The pills themselves smell horrible and I felt like my life was now ruled by oblong-shaped assholes.

So I worked closer and closer to that elusive concept- balance, with my diet and exercise. I also discovered the cathartic benefits of my new love, kickboxing. LOVE. And love what it did to my arms.

And just when I thought I was walking steadily on that tightrope, balanced perfectly, I was told I had lost too much weight. WHAT?!?!! For a woman in her thirties is that even possible!?!?! Apparently, yes, yes it is. Because once you lose too much weight your body thinks you are living in late 1990s Somalia and your body stops behaving as it should. It, ahem, stops functioning like a lady, if you're picking up what I'm putting down. The exact opposite of what I needed to happen. Well shit.

"You'll need to gain 5 to 7 pounds," I was told. Then we can go from there. What!??!! Right in the middle of August with a pool-party bachelorette looming in the not-too-far future? You be talking crazy, doc. But she was right, I was too thin and I needed to admit it.

So there was the conundrum. How do I gain 5 pounds without giving up kickboxing (will NOT do) and becoming a regular at Five Guys (tempting)? And gain it all while still on the meds (albeit half-dose) and finding that "balance" with carbs and sugar? UGH. This "balancing act" is harder than I thought.

Now you must be thinking, "hey Bethany, why don't you STFU? You have to gain weight? Boo hoo!" And you'd be warranted.

But you must understand what is riding on this elusive game of balance: my ability to become a Mom. This has been an uphill battle since 2012 and I have suffered many a battle wound to prove how sensitive the situation is. Multiple losses. Six surgeries. Medications, tears, inability to feel comfortable in social situations, grief, etc. And this might not even be the answer. I could easily finally find that place of physical balance and still, something ELSE could be wrong.

But I am not one to give up. No matter what it takes. And if balance is indeed the key to success, I will continue to try to find it, even if I moan and complain that whole time. Believe me, I am aware of the other good things in my life- but this complex situation is sometimes enough to knock the wind out of me. Out of anyone for that matter.

And that's just the physical side of it. I haven't even gone into the emotional and social balancing act I am also constantly participating in.

But this is my challenge and that's what I am dealing with. There are worse things, yes, but a girl's gotta vent. And the whole point was an update, yes?

So there ya have it folks. At least one part of it. And at least I am back, blogging. Let's see if I can now weave in the blogging with everything else I am currently balancing;)

Oh hello Bethany!

Newsflash: Sometimes I am caught off guard. I know, I know. This is hard to believe. Ms. To-Do List and day planner is usually prepared for anything. But alas, there are moments when I am unprepared…surprised even.

One of those moments came the other day in an otherwise ordinary moment. I was reading twitter and some generic handle tweeted the question, "Do you really know yourself???" The three question marks were obviously to instill a sense of urgency and maybe panic in readers who would otherwise skim right over the tweet. And it worked. When there are three question marks or explanation marks or even capital letters one pays attention. It's the Achilles heel of those who are well-educated.

And so there I was, caught off-guard by a moment of internal struggle. DID I really know myself? I tried to brush the uneasy feeling inside away and go about my day but I kept returning to that ominous tweet with it's trickster question marks and would feel unsettled. Feeling unsettled isn't an usual feeling for me but usually I'm not left reeling by a casual twitter feed look-see.

So I started thinking. All my life I have allowed myself to be defined by other things. What social group I belonged to, what sport I played, where I lived, etc. Somehow, along the way I had started confusing my identity with those things.

As I mentioned in previous posts, I had come to a juncture in my life where I had started not to "fit in" in the places I had normally found comfortable. It wasn't any one's fault, it just happened. I have been forced, over these past couple years, to redefine myself and latch onto things I had previously considered "secondary." By secondary I mean those things about yourself or your life that you take for granted or think, "yeah but that's just how it's always been." You don't really consider those traits or circumstances to be the things that make you, you. You don't think of those things when you fill out silly questionnaires about yourself or make a "short bio."

My short bios always consisted of those things that externally defined me. "Hi I'm Bethany and I play lacrosse and love my friends and family…" and then reel off my various accomplishments or hobbies. But as that tweet forced me to question, did that really describe ME? Do I truly KNOW myself?

A more true bio would be one where you bare your soul and reveal the things that drive you, hinder you and allow you to dust yourself off when you've fallen. But how do you put those abstract things into words? How can one describe oneself with integrity when those traits are intangible? What if you have instead become defined by the moments and events in your life that have forced you to look inward and reevaluate?

"Hi I'm Bethany and I thought I had it figured out but turns out I don't…and that's okay. Because now I know how strong I am. I smile at the inane, appreciate those who can be vulnerable and I like to connect to the different parts of myself to get me through the unpredictable."

Let's be honest if you read the above on a profile about me you'd peg me as "one of those weirdos," right? But isn't the above truly more descriptive of who we are than the traditional listing of one's hobbies and accomplishments? Yes, you may be an executive at a large firm but who the hell ARE you?

Needless to say when I am confronted with the question, with multiple question marks trailing behind it, asking me if I know who I am, the unsettling feeling comes from the fact that I am torn- do I continue to describe and define myself by the tangible or the truly influential and defining intangible parts about myself that have started to become primary and no longer secondary in my life?

And does it even matter? It seems to me that digging deeper was what I was meant to do all along. So, the answer to that jarring tweet is yes, I know myself. I just can't DESCRIBE myself.

And there is a joy in realizing that you do, indeed, know yourself and that you like what you find. For the first time I am able to celebrate the "me" that doesn't look good on paper and cherish the parts of myself that can't be easily described in social media or a work seminar designed to "get to know one another."

For the first time I am able to say hello to myself genuinely. Say hello to ME and not my bio on paper. And that's something to celebrate.

Now for that twitter handle whose name I have now forgotten, I'd like to offer a "thank you." Thank you for asking the question that made me realize that I am not what I can put on paper (or the web). Mysterious-twitter-handle-I-have-now-forgotten, you must be some kind of philosophical genius. Keep the tweets coming! ;)

The Aftershock

November.

It's a word that used to mean cold weather and football. Turkey with gravy and boots.

Now it means darkness and gray. It means every time I write the date on a paper or make my agenda at work I am reminded. Reminded of that month last year and what it brought. The havoc it wreaked on my life and my spirit.

It is funny how the past year has played out. In fact, just reviewing my blog posts I have seen my transitions. Shock. Disbelief. Acceptance. Sadness. Courage. Bouts of recovery. More bumps in the road. More shock. Fear. Compulsion and delusion. Flashes of hope but mostly a numb march through my days.

And now I'm on the eve of November. For most of this summer and early fall I had convinced myself that I could somehow skip over November. Hell I thought I could just skip over all of the holiday season. But as the days become colder and the days shorter it's hitting home that November will come and I will have to FEEL every second of it. There isn't a distraction large enough to wipe away what November will bring.

And to make matters worse, I have been feeling a new "phase" in this process: something I call The Aftershock. For so long I was focused on making it to the "next step." In some cases it was going back to work or seeing friends for the first time after it all happened, in others it was making it through a surgery or a doctor's appointment.

Now all of that is over. The circle has come back around and there is no "next step," to focus on conquering. Now there is just... nothing. Nothing but me, my thoughts and ...November. My normal self would be thinking of ways to distract myself from this horrifying month but I am not my normal self. And I can't find Steelheart- she must be on vacation.

Instead of feeling relief that all the "hoops" have been jumped through, I am left feeling deflated and defeated. I feel almost worse-off now than I did in the couple months following November last year. The irony is not lost on me that I am having some kind of delayed response to it all. Sure, the earthquake that was November 8, 2012 wreaked epic destruction on my life, but the aftershock, the second wave, is hitting right about now. And on my Richter scale, this one's not far off from the original.

Perhaps it is because I thought that all the medical "hoops" I had to jump through would somehow wipe away the hurt in my heart. But last time I checked, no one took a scalpel or stitches and operated on my broken heart. It's not something you can fix with an operation or some R&R. It's a full blown War on Grief and you either man up or die trying.

Every time I think of November approaching I think of the old Wyclef (or was it the Fugees?) song "Gone til November." For some reason the tune to that song is in some way comforting. Except if I could change it, I would change the lyrics to "Gone through November." I'd like to just skip right over it. Take a calendar and snip that month right off.

But I can't. Because although the original earthquake was a full year ago, the aftershock is no joke. And I feel it shaking in my heart.

Breathe, Shake, Let It Go

Yes, I quoted Mase in my title. He may have been a corrupt hip hop artist turned preacher but the words make sense.

You see, since June, when I was given some relieving news, news that allowed me to decompress, to stop worrying, at least temporarily, I also was able to breathe again for the first time in a long time. If we're being honest, I breathed again since this time last summer, before I got pregnant with an ill-fated pregnancy and before my life became out of my own control. Since mid-June of this year I have slowly allowed myself to take deep breaths and relax a little.

Since then I have "pang" moments. Moments when I am somehow reminded of the pain I endured or moments where I allow myself to perseverate briefly. And then there are the moments where someone else gets good news that I am not eligible for and I have to swallow the "pang" of hurt and smile for them. Eventually, I do feel genuine happiness for them but first, before I can get there, I have to work through how their news reminds me of what I've lost and how I have suffered.

When that happens I take such solace now in the good things in my life that I have learned to revel in- my little house, my peaceful evenings with the pups, my job, although stressful is also such a blessing that keeps me connected to the word and makes me feel needed and purposeful. The fact that I have nothing keeping me from enjoying this amazing city on a summer night with my husband- taking in restaurant week and going to the dog park. All of these things bring me true happiness and I use them to battle the "pangs."

And you know what? I have allowed myself to absorb all those good things lately. During the last 6 months I knew that those good things were there but I was so blinded by my pain and fear that I could not truly enjoy them. Now I can. And I do. I don't pretend to, I really actually truly do. I am starting to let go of the fear that if I allow myself to enjoy something, it will somehow come back and bite me. That if I allow myself to be happy, I am not doing service to my loss and my grief. I have realized that it isn't fair to expect myself to waste my life wallowing in my pain. It forever changed me but that doesn't mean I can't still enjoy life's blessings where I can.

There is one other thing that I think made a huge difference in my ability to "shake it off." In one disgusted moment, I deleted my facebook account. I was so sick of constantly comparing myself to others and having Internet access to a parade of "my life is perfect" was hurting me. I also became disenchanted with how people do not post their truths on facebook. I know I am not the only one going through life's port-o-pot, but facebook sure made it seem like it. Everywhere I turned people were salving their wounds by posting pictures of their perfect houses or their perfect bodies or perfect relationships or announcing major milestones, etc. I drank that kool-aid for far too long until it started tasting spoiled. Honestly, I needed to detox myself from the endless stream of fakery and once I did, it was so refreshing!

No longer was I constantly exposing myself to endless self-promotion that ultimately played into my own insecurities. It was as if I had shined a light on one of the monsters in my closet and scared it away. I felt...lighter. My life was so much simpler. I took pictures because I WANTED THE PICTURE not because it would be a "good post" on facebook. I started to see myself in a true way, not  how I would appear on some one's newsfeed. I started to see friends not as an online profile but as a genuine person. Most importantly, I stopped comparing myself to the impossible perfection of what people were posting on facebook. Cue the breathing and the relaxing and the happiness.

If you have even the slightest inkling of simplifying your life, I recommend getting off "fake book." It truly helps.

Needless to say, eliminating facebook and simplifying how I interacted in the world was just one thing that helped me start to breathe again. I am sure that the good news from June also helped me along as well. But I think I had finished a lot of my processing and grieving and was just...ready to live again.

Last week my husband and I went to dinner during restaurant week and on our way out of the restaurant we saw some friends. I happily greeted them and remember thinking how I was genuinely happy in that moment- it was a beautiful night, we ran into good company, and I had just eaten a great meal. I then had a fleeting moment of panic- I wonder if they are thinking about what happened to me? Are they thinking I am acting too happy for what happened? Will anyone ever think of me normally again or will I forever wear the mark of what happened everywhere I go? I am still defined by what happened?...

Immediately my moment of happiness was once again threatened by what happened in November. But then, in the words of Mase, I decided to "breathe, shake, let it go." Who cares if I wear a scarlet letter because I am now the poster girl for miscarriage? I am "shaking it off." I am "letting it go." I am "simplifying." I am becoming...better. So if all they see when they look at me is my failures and my shortcomings, that's fine. Because I am starting to NOT see them anymore. And that's all that matters.

Breathe. Shake. Let it go. Wise words on my path to recovery. All thanks to Mase and Puff Daddy. Fitting;)