Judges and Sentences

This week's therapy section solidified a problem of mine that you've probably already pinpointed as a reader of this blog, and maybe I've even said it out loud before. But it bears repeating.

I live my life in constant fear of judgment.

It's ingrained in me, like a disease. A poison got into my veins a long time ago, and it's rotting me from the inside out.

When I walk into a room, I actually think everyone there is judging me. Is aware of me, and has an opinion about me, and it's negative. That's how self-centered I am. When I say something that I later regret, I obsess over it for days, months, even years, because I think it mattered to that person as much as it mattered to me. When I get an anonymous blog comment in my inbox, my heart skips a beat before I read it 'cause I'm afraid someone is going to say something judgy about me.

This fear of mine bleeds over into my day to day actions. I avoid things for fear of being judged. I don't go out, I'd rather stay in the safety of my bubble where no one but my bitch of a cat can have an opinion about me and what I do.

I confess, I haven't found my inner yoga monster yet. I know, I know. DON'T JUDGE ME. And that's it, that's what I'm scared of. Now that there are people at the studio who know me, I'm afraid. Afraid I'm not good enough. Like yoga is suddenly this competition and I'm the fat girl who's inevitably going to be picked last for Team Downward Dog.

It's a sickness. I've sentenced myself to solitude, 'cause I think everyone else already has.

This whole thing ties in to my desperate need to be liked, my history of being the new girl in school. It's hard for me to feel comfortable in new situations, to feel like I belong there. I feel like I'm an intruder, an outsider. Always.

Of course, the truth is that no one is focusing on me nearly as much as I'm focusing on myself. And if they are, their opinions of me say far more about them than they do about me, as that saying goes. So what is it that I'm so fearful of? Not being perceived as perfect, not being universally liked? Taking risks? Just...being?

I can't control what other people think. And I'll never know anyway, not really. So hopefully I can find some way to cure this cancer inside me, before it totally eats away at my self-confidence and potential for success.

Because deep down I like who I am. And I should accept that other people can like that person too.

My Solution

I've been slipping.

I have slipped.

I've found myself rediscovering old habits, old pains, old familiar secret shames.

I don't know why, I don't know what's changed. I want to change it back so badly. My mom has returned, my support system is in place. So what is it? WHAT IS IT?

Laziness?
Complacency?
Frustration?
Boredom?
Hunger?
Psychosis?

Of course, the thing is, this is natural. This is normal. I can't expect to just make some grand turnaround in the space of a few months, and never again meet the darkness that I've become so friendly with over the course of the last few years. Did I really think the addition of a few happy pills into my daily regimen and some therapy would make me an entirely different person? Did I think I was all better?

Ludicrous.

Healing is process. Health is ongoing. Change is gradual.

Deep breaths.

I can do this.

Spastically Shy

It may come as a surprise to those of you who have met me in person, but I'm actually incredibly shy.

I just hide it really, really well.

My personality is a lot like my writing---loud, all over the place, whimsical, witty. (Is my writing any of those things? I have no idea.) In new situations, I'm chatty, I make jokes, I laugh often and with great enthusiasm. I talk to strangers, I'm friendly to cashiers, I smile at people who cross my path.

But a lot of that is, if not quite an act, a "show", if you will. It helps covers up the fact that I'm petrified of being disliked, of people thinking I'm obnoxious, of being out of place in the world around me. I live in constant fear that who I am is not enough, or too much, so I work hard to overcompensate by being me, but on full blast. Nothing I do is inauthentic, it's just...practiced.

Wednesday in therapy the discussion turned to my childhood, because, of course, obviously much of my crazy finds its roots in sad little pudgy Taylor in her round purple glasses and Winnie-the-Pooh sweatshirt. As you know if you've stuck around my blog for awhile, I moved around a lot as a kid. Four times before the age of twelve, again in the middle of high school. I was always "the new girl". Always.

I spent my formative years constantly worrying about being liked. Trying to be liked. Thrust into new situations where I was the odd person out, always needing to prove myself, having to learn the new slang and what was cool and what wasn't. Always having to try to make people want to get to know me, try to be what they wanted. I've always been desperate to fit in, desperate to be liked and loved.

It's no surprise that living my childhood like that had an affect on who I am as an adult. I am still that desperate, needy twelve year old who just wants to be accepted. I am still unsure.

Just identifying this made me breath a sigh of relief, even though it should have been obvious all along. But it wasn't, really. I always wondered what it was that made me feel so different, what it was that made me feel so out of place and uncertain. And I think I've figured it out.

It physically hurts, to feel so goddamn socially awkward. To constantly worry about what I'm saying and doing. To spend my time obsessing over everything I've said and done. To wish so hard for people to like me, embrace me, open up to me.

But then, when people do, I'm totally oblivious to it, or I retreat, thinking they're just being nice for the sake of it.

I'm quite the conundrum.

I just want to be me, authentically, without this constant battle afterwards. I want to stop feeling like I'm constantly putting on a show, and just be my naturally sunny self without forcing it because I think it's what people want to see. I want to say what I feel and think without regretting it and wishing I could take it back. I want to just not give quite so many fucks.

Part of me thinks that, knowing that I am how I am, all I can do is move forward and try to change. Obviously I'm not happy as I am now, so I have to choose a different path. Maybe I can try to take a bit of a pause before I act. One problem I think I have is that I speak before I think, I rush to join in, aching for acceptance, then regret it immediately because I didn't think it through. If I do take that pause, speak less, quiet down, then maybe I can at least curtail some of my self-judgement, and know that no matter what I've said or done at least I gave it a little consideration beforehand.

But then the other part of me says, why should I have to change? So I talk a lot, I make random comments, I'm a bit of a spaz. Is there inherent badness in that? Maybe I just need to accept it, be me, and not care who doesn't like it.

I don't really know how to fix me. All I know is I want to be happier with me. And that's the first step.

Wanna Be, WannaWannaWanna Be

Here is one thing I know, after my hours and days and weeks and MONTHS of thinking about myself, writing, talking, OBSESSING.

All that I struggle with is wrapped up in wanting more than this. What I am. Who I am. I have this intense need to be something better, something different, more impressive and worthwhile and tangible than my current self. I just want, all the time.

And I think I know where some of this want comes from.

It's such a cliche, to constantly strive for the ideals streaming on every screen, flashing on every billboard, printed on every page. But they're ingrained. They're tattooed on my brain, my flesh, my being. My generation has been raised with a ridiculous amount of aspirational messages thrown at us every day, so many I don't even want to look up the statistic 'cause it'll make me depressed and really, what effect will the number have on my point in this post? You get my meaning, don't you?

My need to want comes from everything artificial that I've absorbed for so long that I don't even consciously recognize how ridiculous it all is, because it seems so natural it seems to me.

And thus, I aspire to perfection, always.

I used to want to be famous. You know this, I've mentioned it. I'm unoriginal that way. I wanted to act, to be a movie star, to have my face on the silver screen and plastered on the front of magazines. And all of that came from these messages as well. From puberty on (if not earlier), I wanted to be special and beautiful and sparkle like a princess in a modern day fairy tale. I thought that would be the happiest kind of life possible, to emulate these women whose lives seemed displayed for just that purpose, to make you want.

And it's not simply the physical things they had I wanted. Yes, I aspired to be beautiful and flawless, without fat or scar, toned and thin and healthy and fit. But I also wanted to be funny, and witty, and intelligent, and charismatic, and clumsy in a way that's adorably twee, and bumbling in a way that's charmingly quirky, and talk fast like a Gilmore, be brave like Buffy, irresistible like every romantic comedy lead.  I wanted to be the actresses that played my favorite characters, I wanted to be the characters themselves, I just wanted to be anyone but me.

I never measured up to these ideals. I still don't, and even though I've worked on killing my fantasies and no longer have any hopes or dreams of stardom, there's still that little part of me that wants everything to be different, better, perfect. I constantly fight with myself, catch myself running further ahead to a life I can't live yet, a person I can't be yet, or maybe ever. I always think that more is going to make me happy, but if I'm not happy with what I have now, what makes me think more will do it?

I know that I need to stop thinking I'm on a quest for total perfection. I mean, first of all, it's hilarious that this is my method of being considering I'm the furthest thing from perfect there is---it's like I rebel against my wants and run as far away from the idea of flawlessness as I can, in actuality. Just like I'm doing this week...mmhmm.

I've been striving for balance, for patience, for peace for so long. It's normal to have setbacks, and I've been having one these past two weeks. It's okay. I know what my problem is, and in that identification and self-awareness lies my resolution. 

I've stopped living for living, and have started living for the result again. I'm rushing, craving, wanting, aching to be further along than I am. Just a little bit more and I'll be better, happier. I'll get what I want. If I can just GET THERE. 

But I need to remember one very important thing that I think will solve this little storm of mine.

The Mistress of Weight Loss

In Malcolm Gladwell's book Outliers, he discusses the "10,000 hour rule", which is the simple concept that in order to master something, you must practice it for (surprise!) 10,000 hours.

Following this definition, I am a most definitely a goddamn master at losing weight.

I guarantee you that in my twenty five years on this planet I have spent at least 10,000 hours (which equates to approximately 417 full days, or 833 waking days, if I'm alert a measly 12 hours a day) thinking about weight loss. Reading about weight loss. Writing about weight loss. Working out, talking about working out, imagining working out, avoiding working out, lying about working out. Counting calories, points, grams, ounces, pounds, inches, bites, licks, tastes. Obsessing. Staring at myself in the mirror, windows, shadows, puddles. Thinking about my thighs, stomach, arms, fingers. The width of my hips, the expanse of my ass, the dimples in my flesh. Hating my own skin, scratching at it with fingers and thoughts. In my darkest hours, scouring the Internet for thinspo or tips on how to starve myself or make myself sick. Considering I started trying to lose weight when I was probably twelve, if not earlier than that, yeah...I'd say I hit 10,000 hours a looong time ago.

When I buckle down and just do it, as Nike would say, I am indeed the Mistress of Weight Loss. Last year I was down 50 pounds in six months, which is pretty impressive I would say. Back at the beginning of this year, January 2nd, I was 168.4, and last week's tracked weight (let's forget this week's downslide) puts me at a loss of 24.6 pounds this year. That's pretty good too, no?

Both of my therapists have asked me if I think I need or want to see a nutritionist, and I quite honestly said no. Because I know what to do. I know what I should eat, how much of it, things that grow and grains and good fats and protein, waterwaterwater, blahdiddlyblah. Some people don't have that kind of knowledge when they start out losing weight, and they're building from the ground up. Some have basic understanding, but need more guidance when it comes to balancing the food groups and making the best decisions for their body. Some people used to know everything they need to know, but need a refresher course.

Me? I have two best friends, one who is a dietitian and one who is one of the most naturally healthy people I know, and a mother who is robotically programmed to be fit and live a structured life, and I have a voracious appetite for reading every word on the Internet for whatever topic currently interests me at the time.

I know what to do be healthy.

When I buckle down, when I have the motivation and the drive and the grit and the mental stability, I am a master at losing weight.


No, of course, I don't know everything there is to know. I'm no dietitian, I eat too many Lean Cuisines and processed junk, I don't get my daily recommended servings every day and I don't always exercise. But I understand the concepts, and I know, I know how to get the pounds off. When I focus. When I'm committed.

So why am I not always committed?

Maybe, just maybe, one reason is because I know it can be too easy for me, because I know when it clicks I'm the cockiest bitch in the world, so I don't fear it enough. This past week when I've been off track, I've said to myself, "But it's okay, 'cause you can easily get back on the path when you need to."

That's not always true though, is it?

Everyone says losing weight is hard, and it is. I don't deny that at all, this entire blog is proof positive that losing weight is immensely difficult. But for me, it's all the mental aspects that make it so. When it comes right down to it, the science of it, the actual practicalities---eat this, do that, sweat, moderation, balance? I get it.

Easy peasy.

The hard is inside, not out.

What I've mastered is the things I can control, the tangibles. I like to think of myself as laid-back, and in many ways I am, but in others I'm actually quite the control freak and when it comes to weight loss I love having total authority over myself. Give me a structure like Weight Watchers, and when I am mentally balanced and not holding a ticket to the Crazy Train, I can work within it to find success. When I manage my choices and decisions, make lists and schedules and micromanage my routine, I feel empowered. I am not confused, I am not drifting, I am centered. 

But I can't manage my emotions, my thoughts, my impulses. When those are out of control, I am totally lost, and I have to try. And I'm no good at trying.

This is because I have no practice. I have not spent 10,000 hours controlling my self, my being, my emotions and behaviors. I've spent pretty much the majority of my life living at the mercy of my whims, swayed by my moods, up or down or every which way depending on the wind. I have no coping skills for how to stay the course when I'm feeling overwhelmed or stressed or sad or alone.

So that's what I need to work on. I've mastered the basics of it, the how and the way, and I know what I need to do to live a happy and a healthy life. What I need to learn now, what I need to practice and master is living that life even when it's hard, even when the darkness pulls me in another direction. I'm on my way there and I've already started logging my hours.

I'll be my own mistress soon.

Mama's Little Princess Bride

Last night in therapy, I cried a lot.

I don't always cry, despite the fact that I've taken to referring to it as my "cry hour". But I've struggled the past few days, and while I've been pretty gentle with myself, haven't been too vicious in my head, and haven't fully thrown myself off the cliffs of insanity, it's been hard.

Five minutes in, we kind of figured something out.

I miss my mommy.

It's so silly, I know. But it's also not. As I mentioned, my parents are on a cruise in Italia, so I've lost my daily chats with my mom. And that's basically my only constant comfort and contact with the world outside my head. Sure, I have friends I chat with online, my Biff to text, and people I talk to at work, but of course that's not the same as an actual conversation about your day and your feelings with someone who cares about you.

Yeah, I'm twentyfuckingfive and I really need my mommy.

Stupid Italy, TAKING HER AWAY FROM ME.

(And my daddy.)

I knew on Sunday that my little binge was fueled partially by loneliness, but I pushed away that realization the last couple of days. Together with my therapist we realized that could very well be a big component of my struggles this week. It's not so much that I just MISS MY MAMA, it's that I need that connection, that structure. I call her every morning when I drive to work and every evening on my way home, and usually speak to her at least one other time throughout the day, and I've been doing this for...years. Since I left home.

I even realized that maybe I sometimes subconsciously call her as a substitute for doing self-sabotaging things. Like Tuesday, I planned on lunch yoga, and instead around the time I would have left and got in the car to call her, I instead decided to eat chips and be a lazy cow. I can't guarantee there's a direct link but it's something to think about.

My therapist said maybe the reason I struggle so much with self-regulation is that I'm so used to having a primary relationship, my mother, as a steadying force. Without that this week, I have no one to call when I'm struggling. Obviously I need to work on my relationship with myself, but it's not necessarily a bad thing to rely on the support of a primary person in your life. It's just not always going to be my mama.

God, I'm going to be a gem of a bride, right?

S-S-Sabotage

Confession:

My eating has been eh the last few days.

And I haven't gone to yoga.

I could blame PMS, and I'm sure that's a factor, but really it's just an excuse. If I really truly wanted to stay strong, my hormones wouldn't knock me down. Clearly I wanted to engage in a little self-sabotage again this week, otherwise I wouldn't have.

One week on, on week off.

Two steps forward, one step back.

Achieve success, fuck it up.

Harrumph.

I haven't been that bad. It's just so frustrating when I feel like I lose control, find myself eating things that don't even taste good, things I know won't nourish me or make me feel healthy or vibrant. I chew and crunch and digest and I don't like it, I don't want it, but I do it anyway like I'm on some sort of autopilot.

It distresses me.

At some point I just give up, give in, give out. At some point I just let go. I don't know how to stop that cycle except brute force, which as we've learned with me, is pretty ineffective. I can't just yell at myself, "STOP, NO!", because as I do, I'm walking to the kitchen and I find myself with a cookie in hand.

Mmm. Cookie.

Sunday night, I ate all my weekly points. I spent the whole day alone, doing nothing, bailed on yoga, only left the house once. My favorite kind of day. But, by five or six, I started to feel unsettled, and lonely, and unfulfilled. And I knew what was happening, and I identified the feelings, and I knew the sudden onset of hunger I felt was not true hunger but just the need to fill some hole inside me.

But then I filled it anyway.

So, hey, I guess identifying what I was doing is half the battle, right? Even if I still did it? Being conscious of my negative habits is better than being a completely slave to them, at least.

And then, of course, I wake up Monday, and I feel a bit defeated, and then it just gets so hard. And I gave in.

So, what did I learn, then? Maybe I'm no longer fulfilled by days spent doing nothing? Maybe a day alone, with no human contact, will allow an emptiness to grow inside me?

Food for thought.

But not real food though. Please.

Timewarp: Fantasy and Imagination

Remember when we talked about killing my fantasies?

And remember how I'm still trying to do that?

Randomly last night I logged into my old WordPress account and rediscovered my blog from three years ago. There were only a few posts on there, and I think I'll share one of them with you soon, but what I have today was something in the depths of my draft folder.

It made me sad, a little. And happy. Happy sad.

I was newly twenty two when I wrote this, dating a boy who wasn't good for me, happy in life but unhappy in my body. Just a month after I wrote this, I would move to LA, and break up with the boyfriend, and things would start to change for me. Slowly. Gradually. They'd get worse before they'd get better, but they would.

But the imagination I talk about in this little essay, the fantasies I write about little Taylor having as she fell asleep at night...I've let those go now. Sure, there are others in their place, but...

Well.

Just read.

I'll be back.

(slightly edited for grammar)

I've been offered a job.

A really good job. A job working for a company that treats its employees well, working with people who seem to like me, for bosses who see potential in me and a future in the department. A job with benefits and good pay, in the town my parents live in, a cinematic picturesque beach town. A place where I have a boyfriend, a new puppy, a life and a home.

Yeah, so...I'm not taking it.

In theory, it's everything I want. Everything a person should want. Except that it's not.

My whole life, I've dreamed about how my life could be. Imagination is the one thing I have plenty of and I use it every night as I fall asleep, and I've imagined the paths my life could take. All these fantasies began the same way, with me moving to L.A., Hollywood, City of Angels, silicone-enhanced CokeTown, whatever you want to call it, it's the dream I've had since I was ten, maybe eleven, maybe nine.

There were a million things that could happen to me in L.A. in these daydreams, these fantasies, and really, there still are. I could do anything, be anything, try anything.

If I stay here, I'm giving up all those options.

And in all of these fantasies, I was thin.

First, can we say a collective "awww" for younger Taylor and her insecurities? Thanks.

It's so strange, reading something you wrote a few years ago. It seems like something separate from you, yet still familiar at the same time. And it makes me happy to know that I did give this girl what she wanted, I moved to LA for her and tried a few things.

But really, I've given up on the rest.

I used to have these really grand ideas about what I wanted my place in the world to be. Famous, important, artistic, powerful. Do all kids have that, or just ones like me? Regardless, not all of them carry it through to near-adulthood, willfully ignoring their limitations, my body and brain the only stopgaps on a path to world domination via screen or stage. 

There are certain things I will not, can not, and do not wish to ever be. Not anymore. But there is an entire universe full of other things I can imagine for myself. I am not limited to the bright lights of LA and the idea of fortune and fame. I can see a whole different world of happiness now, and that used to be my problem. I was limited in my thinking, my imagination only took me to one place when I let my mind wander. I couldn't see a happy future if I wasn't special in some way.

But you know, there are different ways to be special.

And my imagination is opening up that whole new world of possibilities to me. 

A Quirk

A couple of weeks ago, I pinpointed a quirk that I knew was hindering my progress. For whatever reason, I couldn't mentally reset until my official Weight Watchers week was over. Silly, but it was what it was, I accepted it instead of fighting it, and because of that I easily got back to my positive habits. Miraculous. So much easier.

I think I have another little quirk worked out.

I went to yoga on Friday, and yesterday. I was all set to go today, but my brain was already thinking ahead to tomorrow, and the rest of the week, and I was caught up in the idea of going every single day. And you know how I get when there's pressure...

So I thought to myself, what's a good way to stop this cycle I'm always putting myself in? How can I prevent myself from creating all this false pressure to do something I love to do anyway? With that anxiety, as we all know, comes the "should", and then I might just not.

Hmm. Maybe...I only go two days in a row at a time, for now?

It's a silly little thing, but I think it might work. Having an external limitation like that  (or maybe the better word is structure) is a way of keeping a lid on that anxiety, and then I have room to get excited about yoga, and miss it. Not going today allows me to go to bed tonight anxious in a good way, happy to wake up for my one of my favorite teacher's 6 AM class tomorrow, and not feel like there's any requirement hanging over my head, inflicted by, well, me.

I'm so weird.

But hey, at least I'm learning something about myself, and actively working to heal it and move past it. That's progress, right?

I want to quote a little Baron Baptiste from "Journey Into Power" of course, from the section where he's discussing some of the common mental mistakes people make in their yoga practice. In the part where he discusses people not understanding their resistance, he says: 

"Resistance can be a great teacher. It exposes your state of mind and being---your fears, attachments, and limiting beliefs. Then it's up to you to choose whether to continue protecting your existing patterns or expose them to the light."

The Punisher

Sometimes you just need your best friend to say exactly what you've been dancing around for months, in the clearest way, for you to really get it. 

"You punish yourself a lot, then when you fight back you wonder why."

Well.

WELL.

Isn't that just about the purest nugget of truth you've read on this blog in a long, long time?

I've thought variations on that same thing before, as I've been exploring my resistance to goals and challenges, thinking about how I try to force change on myself, why I struggle with the "shoulds" and the "musts" of life. But she just phrased it so succinctly and perfectly.

When I'm coming up with weekly goals or plans for self-improvement or lists of ways I want to be different, they're punishments. They don't come from a positive place. They're penalties for perceived misdeeds, for not being good enough. So of course I rebel against myself, against the negativity, it's what I do!

I've been much happier this week, without a pile of external to-dos weighing me down, without a ticking clock counting down to failure. 

That should tell me something.

Nice To Meet You

Another topic I discussed with my therapist last night was the fact that, as I continue to shrink, I'm going to have to deal with the fact that my traitorous brain is probably going to come up with new and exciting complaints about my body.

Part of me hoped I could/would be one of those magical unicorns that loves everything about their new self as they lose weight, but alas, that is apparently not to be. I've caught my mind more than once over the last week or so judging something I see in my shape, and there's something different every day. It's because I'm now at a weight I haven't spent significant time at in over five years, and I'm crossing the threshold where things really do start to change. Every pound actually matters.

Like, there was suddenly this dip in my hip yesterday where I haven't ever seen one before, and I was like, "What the fuck, hip, are you always gonna have a dip now?"

Stupid shit like that.

But what we decided is good that at least I'm catching my mean voice getting all judgmental, and I'm telling it to stop. I don't want to be perpetually self-critical, no matter what my size. I'm not just indulging it and accepting it as normal.

You know, though, it's also okay that I'm confused and curious and cautious about my new body. 'Cause, you know, it's new. I'll need some time to adjust and re-relate, just like I've had to in the past. As long as I'm still working towards positivity, and my ultimate goal is peace, it doesn't matter what else happens along my path. Body acceptance is a process, and as I continue working on loving myself for who I am and seeing myself clearly inside and out, I'll ultimately silence that mean mean voice.

I definitely had this in my room when I
was like, eleven.

Shine In The Storm

You know what's funny?

The last nine months have been full of so much angst and stress and struggle and pain, you would think I'd wish them away if I could. Reading back over my blog, a truly torturous task I can only assume, you would guess that I regret every binge and setback and backtrack, but as I discussed with my therapist tonight, I don't think I do.

Actually, I know I don't.

Today, I peeked at my scale (that's a lie. I didn't peek, I just weigh myself every day) and I was 143.8, which happens to be the exact weight I tracked last August 3rd, the lowest weight I saw last year and the lowest weight I've seen since I was a teenager.

(Granted, this is probably because I've chosen under-eating over binging as a way to deal with Tree's illness, but this is either here nor there.)

It took me nine months to get back here, but you know what? I learned a lot in those nine months. I wouldn't give up that knowledge for anything. And too, if I had lost all my weight in one go and reached some ideal number on the scale in the space of a year or so, I know I never would have maintained it, because I never would have seen it for what it really was, as I never would have seen myself for what I really am.

I may have been able to get "skinny", but I wouldn't have gotten happy, and I can almost guarantee you I would have gained most if not all of the weight back before I would have righted myself.

If I ever could have.

See, living this past nine months as I have, working towards mental health while inhabiting a body I could feel (mostly) comfortable in, I've been able to work towards clarity. Mindfulness. Perspective. Appreciation. All these things that will make me stronger and more balanced as I continue losing weight and becoming the person I want to be. I've taken the time to face my demons and battle them back. I've paused, and breathed, and looked inward.

Yes, it's been hard. I've cried and bitched and moaned and torn myself up, wishing I was further along on this journey. But this time has given me the chance to grow, and accept, and change. I'm better for the things I've gone through over the last year or so. Without this time I don't think I'd ever be able to maintain a healthy lifestyle, because the habits wouldn't be coming from within. As I quoted Baron Baptiste last week, I needed to shift my inner viewpoint, not just my habits, in order for anything to stick.

My world has transformed, and I like it much better this way. I like myself much better this way. And if it had to take an extra nine months for me to get here, then so be it. 

Oh Narcissus, My Captain

I talk about myself a lot on this blog.

I mean, that's what having a blog is for, right? Talking about yourself? Introspection? Posting things you like? I think most blogs are entirely filled with me me me, all the time, I I I, stories about your life, your style or tastes or whatever, your mistakes and past and present and future wants, hopes, dreams, dog, cat, job, husband, girlfriend, vagina, face, problems. I don't know.

I guess the point of this post was just to acknowledge that yes, I know. I am a bit of a narcissist.

But it's hard.

I spend the majority of my time obsessing about my body. What I put into it, what I'm doing with it, how long I lift my leg, how much I chew, blahblahblah. So when I see changes, and of course I see them, I look at myself in the mirror 50% of the day, it's hard not to get excited and want to share them with the world.

You guys are my world.

GROUP HUG.

So, I want to talk about it. Want to share. Want to ramble about my reflection in the mirror and post pictures of what I see. But then I get all self-judgy, like, is it too much to post these shots or talk about this, is it way too narcissistic, don't I have better content to share?

You know me, always the critic.

But I guess I'm wondering, is it so bad? Obviously, I'm not narcissistic in the true DSM definition, I'm just you know...losing weight and stoked on it. Is that soooo awful? Can't I be proud? Isn't that allowed?

I don't know. I think so. As long as I'm not strutting around like, I'm so better than you look at me I'm such HOT FUCKING SHIT, I think it's okay to take a little time on the blog to be like hey, check this out, I'm doing awesome.

HEY! Check this out.

I'm doing awesome.

I've back to an official 50 pounds loss from where I was last January. I'm officially no longer overweight according to my BMI. I'm almost too skinny for my skinny jeans.

And I finally see the difference.

Well, almost.

Deep and True Changes

I went home at lunch and read.

I know, right? I don't make any goals, then I go and do something productive. Go me.

I'm really enjoying my yoga book, even though I'm barely into it. It's just...a good read. It's not written on some spiritual, esoteric plane I can't access, and I feel like at some points the author is speaking directly to me.

Which, you know, the best self-help is like that. Heh.

I came across a section today that just grabbed me so hard, I had to reread it at least three times.

Let's recap.

"The reason it is so difficult for us to change is that we focus too much on the microcosmic steps, or the "program", and not enough on changing the perspective that landed us where we are in the first place. Deep and true changes come from the inside out, not the other way around.  

We can try all different kinds of techniques to transform ourselves, but unless we address the underlying structure, we are just moving the pieces around. We haven't made any lasting changes just by saying affirmations, or going on a diet, or superficially altering our habits. We've addressed the symptoms without going to the root. 

Affirmations change the thoughts but not the thinker. Diets change the eating patterns but not the eater. Willpower holds the negative actions in check for a little while but does not ultimately change the doer. If you only change what you do, all you get are temporary alterations to your actions. Shift your inner viewpoint, though, and your world transforms."

WHAT HAVE I BEEN TALKING ABOUT ALL WEEK?

I've been talking about trying to inflict artificial and arbitrary changes on myself in attempt to become this new person. I've been talking about trying to force myself to change from the outside in. I've been talking about shoving myself into little boxes, compartmentalizing, fragmenting, trying to be something I'm not by parceling out my personality and attempting to put the pieces of it back together.

Geeze, Baron. Get right to a girl's core, why dontcha?

And this, too:

"The physical aspect of power yoga will transform your body---of that there is no doubt. And who doesn't want a more powerful and peaceful body? The real question is do you just want a more powerful and peaceful body, or do you want a more powerful and peaceful life?"

We all know what I want. I know where to find it.

I can't wait to get to the yoga studio.

Switch Flip

I am feeling so much better today.

I knew I would. I knew I just needed the fresh new week to hit and I'd get my mojo back, my juju, my strength and smile.

Bad Taylor is gone, Good Taylor is back. Funny how it's so simply felt.

I had a healthy breakfast, and leftover salad for lunch, and I'll hit yoga tonight during my cleaning shift, and all will be well! I feel positive and powerful and prepared to face the week. I'm filled with love for myself instead of hate, I'm sending that love out into the world, and I choose to be happy today.

Progress. It's all about progress.

The Reset Button

You know my very favorite thing about Weight Watchers?

The reset button.

Every week, you get to hit it and start over. Bam. It's done. New week, new batch of weekly points, new chance to earn activity points and get your shit right. Wipe the slate clean. Tabula rasa.

My problem is, if I mess up, I can't really hit a mental reset until my Weight Watchers week is actually over. I'm sure I could if someone held a gun to my head, but you know, behaviorally, on my own, I just...can't. I tried today and I failed, I was tempted by the Wednesday lunch pasta and desserts, and my self-defeatist attitude.

It doesn't matter how long I've been at this, I still get stuck in the same self-destructive behaviors.

Self-demeaning.

Self-demolishing.

But I want to break that phone. Just break it.

It's such a cliche, the way my brain trips me up, when I stumble I want to fall, when I eat a little I think, might as well eat a lot.

I'm a case study in cray.

I know I'll try tomorrow, and maybe I'll succeed, but I'll probably fail. Maybe that's negative thinking, or maybe it's just realistic. I already know there will be booze and appetizers after work, so I know I'm in for a hard day.

But I also know on Friday, when my week starts over once again, I'll be infused with a fresh batch of motivation, and I'll be ready to face a new week with a new attitude.

This is what we decided in therapy tonight. Maybe I don't have to be so hard on myself about this one thing (well, all things, but this one thing in particular). Maybe I can allow myself this habit, this ritual or quirk, and know it works for me. I like symbolism, I love my new week and my fresh slate, and I need to let myself wait for that moment.

I just love my button, and I know on Friday, I will reset.

Scotland Yards of Ireland Issues

I was trying to find writing inspiration last night, and so I journeyed to my picture folder and found myself looking at photos from my first study abroad to Scotland the summer after my freshman year. I went with a group of students from Seattle for a theater festival in Edinburgh and I saw something crazy like 40ish plays in 20something days. It was one of the single most amazing experiences of my life.

But as I started going through the pictures, you know the very first complete memories that popped into mind?

During our first few days there, two things happened.

1) The very first night, we had gotten pizza and were chatting around the kitchen table. One of the girls interrupted me when I was telling a story and said something, I don't even remember WHAT it's been so many years, but along the lines of "Oh my god Taylor, you're loud!" or "be quieter!" or "you're screaming!" or some variation. I mean, we were drinking! So I shut my mouth like a fucking child and didn't talk for twenty minutes.

2) I was a nineteen year old know-nothing about alcohol, and I ordered the only beer on the menu I recognized at the first bar we went to---a Budweiser. Someone made the mistake of telling me that the bartender made fun of me for this, and I obsessed about that all night. And I'm sure everyone was like dude, shut up about the bartender.

I know right? I know. Sadness. I did better, for the most part, the rest of the trip, at least to my recollection, with containing my crazy.

It's a reoccurring theme in my life. Obsessing over what people think of me, to the detriment of my enjoyment of fabulous, once in a lifetime events.

Or not taking full advantage of these chances because of anxiety about being accepted by the group, or not having fun, or not having the energy because of my weight, or not being capable enough in some way or cool enough or mature enough or something. And then regretting not participating when it comes down to it.

That's what happened all too often on my second study abroad trip, three months in Belfast, Northern Ireland when I was twenty.

Look at me, hiding my chins
behind my cider.

If I were to pick out two memories from our first few nights there, they would be these:

1) When I rejected the invitation to hang out with the girls on my floor, and I never got invited again.

2) When I rejected the invitation to go hiking the first weekend with the group because I was too afraid I'd be fat and slow and make everyone wait for me, and I still look at everyone's pictures and wish I had seen that view.

There are other times on that trip that I pulled the same types of behaviors, nights I didn't go out to the pubs because I felt too fat or boring, days I couldn't muster the energy to participate in conversations because I felt like I didn't belong.

It makes me sad to think back on the amazing opportunities I had over the course of my life, and think that I didn't truly enjoy them the way that I should have, because I was too wrapped up inside my own head, a dark place at the time. Study abroad, college in general, even high school.

But what can you really do? I could fixate on the moments I missed out on, the things I didn't do and the memories I wish I had, or I could try to move past that and focus on all the awesome ones I do have. Of which there are A LOT. Both trips were two of the best times of my life, and I cannot even begin to catalogue the incredible nights I had. So why sit here and remember the most painful moments when I can remember the happy ones?

The past is the past and it makes you who you are. Every picture I have is a part of my story, and when I tell the whole thing some day it will be more interesting because of the good and the bad, the beautiful and the painful. I keep reminding myself not to regret, and of course it applies here.

I don't have to be a masochist. When I look at all my old photos, I don't have to let the bad memories resurface first.

Perfection and Passion

I can't expect everything to be perfect.

This is my realization of the day. I had an appointment with my drug doctor today, and the crux of it is, I'm not 100% happy right now. Things are feeling kind of...stagnant. And the question I'm asking myself is, should I be? Should a bunch of little pills be making me totally, completely, all-consumingly blissful?

Nope.

I have to work at happiness, too. I have to put in some effort, and do more. No, I don't need to put tons of pressure on myself and pile on the goals, and I need to calm my tits, but I do need to do more that makes me happy and feel good. And less that makes me...not.

Anti-depressants are supplemental, they're not all-powerful. I think a part of me is almost waiting for some switch to flip until I'm really ready to make the final change and charge towards being the kind of person I think I can be. Till I'm perfect. This super productive, impressive, yoga-fied goddess, on the go, full of energy, positive and powerful. I keep thinking the right combo of drugs in the right dosage will kick in and turn me into some mighty mistress of awesome, but the only thing that will turn me into that person is me, and my willpower.

(I should really read that damn book.)

But you know, I also don't have to be that person, right? Not totally and completely. It's okay to be who I am just naturally part of the time too, which is a kind of a lazy, self-involved, goofy homebody.

But only some of the time...

I think a lot of it comes down to passion, really. Rediscovering it, redirecting it. I know I'm a passionate person, I see it in the way I act and love and live, but all too often I let those passions drift towards the unhealthy, the indulgent, the detrimental, and away from the nurturing and the challenging. Because of fear, of course, and because I like the safe and the familiar.

And I'm lazy.

It's just so much easier to be lazy.

Whenever I try for something, I try for perfection. It's my ultimate problem, I've discussed it often in therapy. I always have this image in my head of the best way things could be, the best person I could be. I make plans and I make schedules, I fantasize, I imagine a world where this perfect me achieves this perfect ideal and things are so much happier then. That ultimate goal is never going to be attainable, so when I try and try and you know, fail as I am inevitably going to, I get frustrated and disappointed and I spiral into self-loathing.

I'm incredibly predictable.

You've seen this before, if you've been reading my blog long enough.

And this happens with everything.

So what is it that I'm waiting for? The perfect combination of motivation and happiness to launch me into...what? A disconnected yogi who meditates all day, never goes online at night, drinks nothing but water and tea and reads until her eyeballs fall out of her skull?

Who says I have to be that person?

Baby steps, folks. I can mix good habits with the more indulgent. I can find myself some balance. That's what yoga's all about anyway, balance. Not perfection. Not forcing yourself into habits that don't suit you yet, straining to find some sort of meaning amongst a Spartan life.

Not that there's not something to be gained in all these goals and challenges I've set for myself, I'm not saying that. I'm just saying that perhaps my motivation for it and my methods aren't the best right now. Maybe I don't have to be the best. And I don't have to be perfect.

All By Myself

Last week, my therapist let me know that she wouldn't be available for our Wednesday session. She offered to fit me in on another day, but I was like, "Oh, no, I'm fine, I'm not so crazy that I can't go a week without seeing you."

Well.

It's Wednesday, and I am in a mood.

A sad mood. A lonely mood. I am home, and all should be well, but I am just...morose.

Maybe it's that I'm sick. Maybe it's that I can't go to yoga. Maybe it's the weather, dreary but without the rain I love so much. Maybe it's the fact that I have no friends.

Someone love me?