The Three-Letter Four-Letter Word

Sometimes when I'm depressed, I like to put on something nice. Not just cocktail party nice, ball gown nice.

Which is how I found myself in my bridesmaid's dress from my sister's wedding. It's this shiny, blue, floor length, strapless, gathered beauty. I love this dress, it's a real stunner. This sucker usually perks me right up, so I pulled it out of the closet, and threw it on.

And it did. Not. Fucking. Help.

Why?

Because it did. Not. Fucking. Fit.

I was able to get it on myself, but barely. And having to squeeze into something that no longer fits doesn't exactly lift ones spirits.

Spirits officially not lifted

I've struggled with my weight my entire life, with stints of anorexia and massive amounts of binge eating. As I'm finding out now, bipolar disorder might have a lot to do with that. There are a few new studies that think there's a possible link between the two. 

There was a stretch a few years ago that lasted 2 years in which, in retrospect, I think I was mildly manic; I lost 65 pounds. I worked out at least 12 hours a week and counted my calories obsessively. I was agitated and egotistical. All solid signs of mania.

Then I swung hard the other way, too depressed to move, not caring what I ate at all. And I gained all that back in what seemed like a heartbeat.

With my history of eating disorders, my therapist recommends NOT dieting. Which sounds great. Until you can't pack your ass into an old dress.

I usually don't think about it too much. In fact, I often believe that I'm thinner than I am. But when I catch myself in the mirror sometimes, or can't fit into something I own, the realization of my weight kicks in. And it kicks me hard, like down a flight of stairs hard.

The advice is always to act confident or people won't like you. That they'll judge you if you let that weakness show. So I go around pretending that I'm not fat. And maybe that's what other people do, too. Because in this society, fat is a four letter word. I wish people would just accept it as just a word, take the sting and stigma out. Instead, it's danced around and people say, "No, you're not, don't say that."

We both have eyeballs my friend. I know what you're trying to do but let's be honest.

I want to get to the point where my weight doesn't matter to me, when it's not my sole focus of self worth.

I'm getting closer. 

I'm not there yet.

I Haven't Been This Scared In A Long Time

Last week, I decided to quit my job.

Taking the next step in my life is scary, when I'm moving outside of your comfort zone. Breaking off from an industry that I've worked in for 14 years is an upheaval in itself, but I'm making it even more eventful.

I'm going back to school.

Waiting anxiously to meet with an advisor

The first time I went to college, I treated it just like I had treated high school; learn enough to pass, then forget it. Passing, that's the entire goal. My life also went into the shitter that first time around, with a nasty breakup and my then-undiagnosed bipolar brain going into full panic (or mixed manic depression, if you want the technical jargon) mode.

I was thrown under a bus, torn to bits, and I barely scraped myself out of the undercarriage in order to graduate. I hardly remember it, a blur, a smear of chaos and my twenty-something life ripped to shreds.

Now it's time for Take Two: I Really Care This Time.

I was already starting to reach the end of my dog grooming career. My body made protests every morning, with arms so numb I was unable to turn off my alarm clock. Constant aches in my elbows, my feet screaming from standing all day. My left wrist completely weak and unable to stabilize the old puppers on the grooming table.

That, combined with losing interest in the work, pushed me to decide to resign from my position at Animal House. A place very close to my heart, somewhere I was proud to work but just wasn't able to any longer.

I set out in search of a new job, but everything I found was just that; a job, another place to pass the time for who knows how long. I wasn't interested in any of it. 

I knew what needed to happen, but taking that big step was scary. I'd already done college once, and basically failed at it. I kept thinking I didn't deserve another chance; I'd blown it already, I was too old to start over, I'd had my go at it and now I had to suffer the consequences. 

The more I thought about it though, why not? Am I really past a place in my (hopefully) long life that I can't start over? I'm terrified, but this time I want to learn. I want to make a career, not just have a job. 

With the support of my incredible husband, I start classes for a bachelor's in psychology in a week. I push into the unfamiliar, put myself to the test, living on purpose outside of my comfort zone.