Frantically Groping for Inspiration

I haven't written in a while.

I think it's been a devastating lack of inspiration, or an adept suppression of any unnecessary thought patterns. Which under normal circumstance is a healthy coping mechanism, until all of a sudden, like the breaking of a dam, my thoughts start taking over again. And then the only things I can do to stop them is high intensity cardio or writing. So here I am. All Orange-Theoried and blogging.

It's been a school year of questioning my purpose, and my success at achieving my purpose over the last 11 years (and the last, say, 60 years of American history). The statement that every day feels like a battle doesn't really fully describe the magnitude of the problem I have on my hands at the moment.

I think I've been talking too much. I don't know how to stop, though. I feel like every person I can retain as an audience needs to hear the message. But the ones who listen to me already agree. How do you unify a fundamentally inequitable system? How do we recover from the fundamental lack of understanding that people with disabilities are PEOPLE and to participate in the world the way non-disabled people can requires stuff. And stuff requires effort. I feel like it's 1953 and we are on the verge of another civil rights movement right here in MDUSD. But its fucking 2018. What the fuck.

Just Eat the Damn Pizza: A Small Woman's Perspective on Body Image Issues

So I saw a movie the other night. "Embrace" is the story of one amazing woman's journey through the roller coaster of self-image. It was thoroughly inspiring and insightful and I enjoyed every minute of it. But it reminded me of something that hangs over my head every single day.

I'm small. Petite. Athletic. Fit. Slim. Whatever you want to call it. And that means I'm not allowed to participate in conversations about body image.

Seriously.

Any comments about size or image or fat or bodies around other women is met with glares, eye rolling, heavy sighs, and general auras of resentment. My feelings and experience immediately become negated and I stop participating.

So since I can't talk to most other women about any of this without feeling stupid and insulting to them, I'm going to write about it here. This is MY perspective. I understand the importance of having other peoples' perspectives, and that does help to keep things under control, but it doesn't detract from my personal struggle which is real, and I think, noteworthy, even if no one else does.

I've spent the last 26 years of my life struggling with body image issues. Since I was 12 years old and the doctor told me I had high cholesterol, I started scrutinizing product labels, cutting out fatty food from my diet, living in a constant state of stress that I was making poor food choices. Granted, I was literally a toothpick at that stage in my life, winning physical fitness awards at school and dancing competitively. Ridiculous, right???? Well that was only the start of it.

Being a dancer is a generally bad idea for most women. It causes so many irreconcilable body issues, with the never-ending glances in the mirror, the constant badgering to "tuck your tail under" (I can't, that's my frickin' ass and yes it sticks out behind me), comparisons to the other anorexic ballerinas you spend so much time with, the measurement of your body and costume-sizing..... and on and on. I love dancing more than basically anything in the world (besides my family of course) but I have spent 32 years looking at myself in that damn mirror.

Then there was Grandma, Rest in Peace. The first time she saw me when I came home from Freshman year of college at Thanksgiving, the first words out of her mouth were, "Oh! Did your butt get bigger?" No joke. Yes, Grandma, my butt got bigger. It's called the Freshman 15. It's called, I'm a normal woman and look I even kind of have boobs now. It's called leave me the fuck alone I'm actually happy right now. And there I went again. I went back to college and learned how to use the weight machines and treadmills and elliptical machines at the gym. Oh and I was still dancing 3 days per week. Grandma didn't mean any harm, I don't think, but these statements in women's formative years and times of life literally fucks them up for, well, 20 years or so.

Then there was my stint as a vegetarian. In grad school, having made a staunch decision years before to never weigh myself but to attempt to gauge my fitness by how I felt and generally looked, I realized I was buying clothes that were bigger than before. So I decided to become a vegetarian to solve that problem. I didn't really care about meat anyways. And I lost probably 10 pounds that way, landing at about 2 pounds more than I weigh right now. I was ok with that and I decided that my "happy" weight was 125. Now I know it's more around 117-119 but that comes later. My year in grad school was amazing, inspiring, and life-altering. I discovered Buddhism, my purpose in life (compassion and service to people with disabilities), I lived alone for the first time, and I made the insane decision to move back to Australia to snag back that cute Aussie boy I'd been with 2 years before (happy ending there!). And it was the year I weighed the most I ever have (aside from pregnancy).

Speed forward 5 years. I wanted a baby. Husband wasn't ready. I decided to exert control over my life in the only way I knew how: by obsessively counting calories. I had never counted calories before, but there were neat websites who would do it for you if you just entered your intake and output. It was awesome. That is until I started telling myself to ignore that nauseous feeling I get when I'm hungry and just keep going. I called it, "Practicing hunger." How fucked up is that??? I would set goals for myself of how few calories I would have in a day. Don't worry, the lowest I ever consumed in a day was 1100. But I was also exercising 6/7 days in the week. I bought new pants and was showing them off to a friend who then said, "Where's your butt?" I had a strange combined sense of pride and fear. What was I doing????? It's VERY easy to see how quickly things can get out of control.

Then one morning husband was ready to start baby-making. Hallelujah. And I knew from obsessive research that super skinny people had a harder time getting pregnant. So I started eating full-fat yogurt and using more olive oil. After 8 months of trying and nothing happening, my mom got diagnosed with cancer. Well stress really does a number on one's body. So I was eating ok but in a constant state of fight or flight, which I believe suppressed whatever hormones are required for making someone get/stay pregnant. Finally I'm eating right and then this cancer shit comes along. Mommy passed away 4 months later and I got pregnant less than one month after that. I think deep down I blame my body issues for the fact that my mother never got to meet a grandchild. That sucks.

Fast forward to baby #2: extreme postpartum anxiety (that's a thing, who knew?). I went back to barely being able to eat. I lost the baby weight very quickly, which of course led to an inundation of, "Oh my gosh how did you lose the weight so fast?" and "wow you look amazing!" No one knew (and I wasn't allowed to say) that I would literally gag when I tried to eat and my insides were all twisted up from anxiety about parenting 2 tiny children. And that's why I got skinny that time. I dealt with it and got better. For a while.

Fast forward 17 months. Little dude is at the tail end of nursing and the girl child is finally over her daily unbelievable tantrums. And I started dry-heaving every. single. morning. I spent every morning in bed before I had to get up spinning mentally out of control. I would struggle to breathe and calm myself down while in the shower. And by the time I had to eat breakfast, if I could eat at all, I was choking it down and then promptly throwing it up. I knew this was anxiety. And this time is was serious. I got down to my lowest adult weight--111, which was very skinny for me. And yet, I would still look in the mirror and examine my sunken cheeks and prominent cheekbones and think, "Well at least I'm skinny." What the fuck?!? I could barely function at home or at work and the bright side of my life was that I was skinny. Anyways. Medication, therapy, blah blah blah and it has all been worked out.

So now I'm as fine as I've ever been since age 12 when the food paranoia/obsession started. I still have a love/hate relationship with food (mostly hate, honestly), but I have systems now to keep things under control. And I don't have time to spend obsessing about anything except preparing everything for the next day. My job is extremely stressful, my kids are extremely amazing, my husband is extremely loving, my house is extremely beautiful, and my body is extremely amazing. And I don't look at my entire naked body in the mirror. Ever. My measure of pride is what my body can DO. I made 2 incredible children and delivered them both without any drugs. I can do some awesome yoga tricks. I can run pretty fast, for a person who hates running. I can dance and do the splits and jump and turn and exude emotion through all of it. My body is STRONG. And I am actually grateful for it. Finally.

That's a long story. I've never told any human on earth all of this. Because I never felt like I was justified in doing so. But I've been through a lot. Just because I have this fit body doesn't mean I can't share the body issues that bigger women speak about. And don't assume that I haven't struggled as much as the next person to get and keep this body. Yes I have good metabolism, and good genes, and I naturally enjoy exercise. But it's taken this whole story for me to get to this point in my life of "as close to acceptance as I'm going to be" of my imperfect beautiful body.

Body image conversations need to include ALL bodies. Just sayin'.

And now back to this pizza.

For Marin's Mother, One Year Later

I'll never forget the phone call for the rest of my life. I knew something was horribly horribly wrong. As I answered, my heart sank into my stomach. Somehow I knew what you were going to say. With some kind of inhuman strength, you told me you had to decide to let go of your sweet baby Marin. After 13 days of fighting like a champion, she couldn't hold on any more. I had no words of consolation. What do you say to a mother about to lose their only child? There's nothing to say. There's no consolation. Only empathy, or at least sympathy. When we hung up, I wept and wept and Addy brought me the Oma Judy angel necklace and I believed, for a minute, again, in something spiritual and beyond us. To have something to hold onto that represented my mother's spirit, and could somehow connect to Marin's spirit was so powerful, and to come from my own daughter was perfection.

For those 12 days, we saw you frequently. We did laundry, we watched you eat, we watched you make milk for your baby. Every day I wished there was more I could do. No amount of chicken or detergent could solve the problem you had. It is hard to feel helpless when your best friend's heart is breaking. I didn't meet Marin in person, but I felt like I knew her. I still do. Seeing you those days made me love her deeply, because you did. You do.

Then the worst day. I waited for the news, wishing I could do something, anything, to ease the pain or make this nightmare end. When the text came from Paul, I began weeping. Stepping out into the busy hallway of the first day of school, I cried out for our friend. I told her what happened. We embraced in this hallway, amid naive high-schoolers. I didn't stop crying for a long time. I shared the message with our team, who so passionately worried about you, and Mike, for whom we were all passionately worrying. The moments passed in surreality. No way this could be true. But it was. It is.

The last year has been tumultuous to say the least. I am nothing but proud of your strength and courage every day of your life. I'm in awe of your self-analysis and the extreme dedication to healing. Very few can understand what you are actually feeling through this, both then and now, but I feel like this has been an immense year of growth and self-discovery. And I feel privileged to be here next to you as you wade slowly through it.

I have visions of you. And there's a baby. And she's yours. The images are so vivid and so real that I know they are true. She's not Marin. No one will ever be. But there is a baby. And she's also yours. I can't predict the future, and I'm not trying to. The feeling is very convincing though. The faith is strong. The spirituality is strong. No God, no Jesus. But there is Oma Judy. And there is Marin. And there is Grandma. And now there is Grandpa. In whatever realm of reality they exist, they are never far away, when we think of them and mourn them and mostly, when we celebrate them.

Hold on, my friend. Though the days shall, as they say, pass, this will not. It must not. We hold Marin so close in our hearts in everything we do; for what she taught us (love, gratitude, fragility, mortality), what she continues to teach us (inspiration, hope), and what the future holds (sister, brother). She taught you what love feels like. And the most excruciating loneliness on earth. And you keep going. You keep learning. You keep evolving. Every day you are stronger. Every day I learn from you.

My eyes are wet with tears, of course. No words can actually express the depth of emotion here. It's enough just to say her name. And feel it echo in your head and in your heart..... forever...... Marin......

A Mother to Me

Mother's Day has been a day of mixed emotions for the last five years. In the same year I mourned my own mother's passing, I celebrated the life of my own child growing inside me. There was never a year without mothering of some sort. It has only been recently that I've been burdened by the question, "But who mothers me when I need a mommy?" What I've realized over these years is that in the absence of my own physical mother, so many others are working to fill the hole.

I've always had a few people at work who I think of as my "work mommy"--someone who I consider a mentor, a confidant, and who I know genuinely cares about me and has my back. I still have someone at work like that, and I'm grateful for her every day. This is mothering to me.

The obvious mothers in my life are my own family.  My Auntie, my Oma, my cousin Mari, my mother-in-law. Though I don't have daily or even really regular contact with these amazing women, they are all there for me when I need them, unconditionally. This is mothering to me.

In a different way, my strong female friends fill the mother hole for me. So many of them who understand me the way my mom did, and who have known me for so long and through so much, who have listened to me blabber and cry and question and contemplate. These women who mother alongside me and reassure me of my own mothering capabilities when I doubt myself and have no mother to go to for reassurance or guidance. We mother together. We are the village of the future, raising amazing people together through strong powerful motherhood. This is mothering to me.

In the last few days, Adelaide has started saying things like she can't wait to be the one to do things for me. She wants to cook for me and do the laundry. She has been commenting on how much I do for everyone. At this moment she is orchestrating a bacon-smelling extravaganza, in true mother fashion. She is already a caregiver for Joseph, and for all of us. It amazes me how much her spirit is my mother's. When she was conceived mere weeks after my mother died, I knew her spirit was in this child. But now that she is growing into this person, I know it for a fact.

The full circle is being drawn and I am in the center of it. Surrounded by the love and spirit of the mothers and mother-spirits in my life. Safe, and protected. Looked-after with compassion and concern. I am not without a mother. I am the mother. We are all mother. Today I will not mourn the absent. I will celebrate the mother-ness and completeness of my amazing life.

Thank you my beautiful women.

In Memory of Mike Kullman

Colleague, Friend, Behavior Analyst

Mike passed this morning at 4am in peace, Kathy said. Just a few months ago he was in the office complaining of indigestion and fatigue. Two useless rounds of chemo later, the cancer metastasized all over his body. Within a week he couldn’t walk. That was three weeks ago. There’s no rhyme or reason to why bad things happen to good people, and everyone who knows Mike knows he is nothing if not “good people.” I’m writing in tribute to him, to never forget his purpose, his legacy, and to somehow keep a place-holder in this ridiculous gaping hole that is now left in our amazing team.

Sitting in a coffee shop, Mike’s favorite place to get stuff done (he couldn’t stand the chaos and drama of the office and preferred his book closet at Gregory Gardens, or a cozy coffee shop), I remember his favorite drink: medium (grande) coffee with skim milk. He never deviated from that (except on his birthday when he would splurge with a mocha). We frequently met at the Starbucks near Sun Terrace, to catch up on the issues around his caseload, to ponder questions of supervision and behavior analysis, and to lean on each other for support.

He gave me a run for my money as a supervisor. He taught me to stand up for myself. He taught me that you have to say what you think unapologetically when you feel strongly about it. And he felt strongly about many things, most of all, doing the RIGHT thing for CHILDREN. At the root of his passion was his drive to serve kids ethically. As much as we bickered about caseload minutia, he motivated me to be a more compassionate and thoughtful supervisor, but also how to hold the line even through complaint. Through this relationship, we both felt mutual respect. He told me on many occasions that he has stayed longer in this job than any job he has ever had. Because of me. He told other behaviorists, if it weren’t for me, he would have split. He spoke often of retirement. I would see him in my mind’s eye spending all of his time riding the Harley, fixing up his cars, and maybe consulting with us from time to time to solve our most challenging behavior-analytic issues. His time was cut short. He retired on Monday. He died on Thursday.

Mike will always be remembered at the preschools for his annual appearance as Santa Claus. He relished this more than anything. And that’s saying a lot for a Jewish guy. In my second-to-last visit with him, we shared pictures of his preschoolers on his knee as Santa, and he was moved to tears. It was too much. Mike’s love for the children was always evident. Who knew a big hairy biker hippy could be such a softy? (All of us did.)

Mike’s treasured program was CEP at Sun Terrace. He felt at home in the mental health world. He felt he could go back to his roots in counseling and bring the support of behavior analysis to this world. Our next project together was going to be to “breech” the entire MDUSD Mental Health Collaborative. He was ready and excited to take it on, and the sites literally asked, “When can he start!?” Sadly, Mike never got the chance to embark on this journey with us. Our team will carry on that goal as we move forward, in his spirit and his honor.

Mike and I shared many things: a love of coffee, being a nonconformist/hippy at heart, being sorta Jewish (though he never did bring me those famous potato pancakes), a passion for clinically-sound behavior analysis, and most of all, DATA. His nickname was GraphMan, dubbed so by a sarcastic principal, but the nickname stuck, and suited him well. Mr. Mike, GraphMan. Always could be counted on for some STIP data, or a collaborator in the interpretation of your ABC data. He reminded us all to always be behavior-analytic, even in the face of sarcasm. And to wear the labels with pride, knowing every second he was doing the right thing for the children.

Every time we go to Diggers Diner, we will see Mike and have a spot for him at our table. Gregory Gardens will always have a room where he did his best work. Sun Terrace has a chair for him at their meeting table. Our behaviorist office hasn’t housed him for several years, but his absence is devastating. We will fill our space with his books and the knowledge he kept on paper. There will be no replacement for the knowledge, wisdom, and experience Mike had to share, and that is what we will miss the most. He made us all better behavior analysts. He made me a better supervisor. He made teachers better. He made children smile. He improved the quality of life of everyone he touched.

And yesterday, in his last hours, he held my hand so tight and looked me in the eye, and I know he knew it was me, and I know he was happy. Kathy said in his ear, “Mike, you have done everything you can do now. Lorien will take care of everything else now. You have done your work for the children.” I think closure was achieved for her and for him. Now it’s my job to fulfill the expectation and to carry on the legacy in our department. Literally big biker boots to fill with my little size 7’s. But I’m going to give it my darndest. And with the impressive team standing beside me, we’ve got this made.

Dead-Head, gearhead, bikey, hippy,teddy bear, Santa, GraphMan, Mr. Mike, Educational Consultation and Behavior Management Specialist, professor, friend, mentor, father, husband, brother, son….. Mike was many things to many people. What an honor to have known him.

Rest in Peace Mr. Mike

Today I aimed for joy

In yoga, you begin every practice by setting an intention. In the past weeks since I have been regularly practicing again, I have chosen things like "patience," "calm," "peace," "strength," etc. So today I chose joy. Because I wondered if I am capable of reaching that. In my previous practices, I have achieved those intentions, but did I achieve joy today? Do I even remember what actual joy feels like?

Since my episode last year with anxiety, I have been so focused on just being "ok" and "just keeping going" and "just getting through it." I think I've achieved and surpassed the ability to just be ok with just being ok. Now I want more. This month of "no grumping" has been so eye-opening. I've mastered the art of keeping the grump at bay, making room for new feelings, beyond just coping and fighting the grump. It's time for joy! I can find joy through gratitude, but it seems different to just think thoughts of joy without actual feeling the difference. Not being grumpy and just being ok is a very stagnant feeling.  I do believe that there must be downs in order to appreciate the ups, but can I just be up now? Or can the downs be things unrelated to stress or grumpiness? I don't know. 

So I think I am a step (or vinyasa) closer to finding actual joy. I'm not there yet. I wonder if Zoloft has something to do with it. I have relied so heavily on it to just stay sane and deal with life, but am I now at the point of compromising other emotions and feelings in favor of maintaining that controlled calm? What is the trade-off? I feel happy. I feel content. I feel satisfied. But is there joy? I don't know. Perhaps joy isn't a feeling that can just be summoned. Perhaps I need to let the feelings of contentedness and gratitude grow into joy. Perhaps the things I have been feeling content and grateful for can become things that make me joyful. 

Maybe my new mantra and intention every day in life is not just to find gratitude. I think joy begins with gratitude. So now I've mastered gratitude. Now I'm aiming for joy. On we go....

A Letter to the Parents Hanging Around at Drop-Off

I don't know you. But I'm not gonna lie--I'm jealous of you. Standing around chatting in your yoga pants after dropping your children off at school while I scurry back to my mom-van to rush, yet again, to my stress-case of a job. After spending every waking moment of my with-children time rushing to and fro and fro and to and back again, all I want is a stretch of time, uninterrupted by necessities, BY MYSELF. Like you. Standing around in my yoga pants, talking to adults about whatever fanciful, meaningless thing might pop into one's head. And even as I sit writing this, when I am supposed to be writing a report for my stress-case job, I feel guilty for daring to take work-day morning time to vent something for my own mental health.

But I implore you, parents hanging around at drop-off, don't look at me with pity, as the line between my eyebrow deepens with intensifying fret. Because my mom-van takes me places where I can change the world. Not just for myself, but for EVERYONE who lives in it. And though I'm not wearing yoga pants, I'm bending over backwards to incite change in this unfair world; to advocate for the under-dog, stand up for those who cannot stand, and to speak words of love and justice on behalf of those who cannot speak. While you stand around chatting about your next girls' spa weekend, I am creating the future for all of our children, including the ones you just dropped off at school.

So I'm ok with that. Jealous and all.

Now back to work.