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Accountability

When I sort of accidentally began this journey, accountability was a big thing for me. I talked about it. Owned it. Showed it. Through daily full body Instagram photos, I am holding myself accountable to myself and to (I’d like to think) the world for my fitness and health, whether I do or don’t meet my goals for that day, week or whatever.

Just recently, I’ve begun adding food pics to the mix, which I had been doing from time to time before, but that’s when I was flaky about it all and could easily have had a salad for lunch and fried chicken and mashed potatoes for dinner. You’d see the pretty picture of the salad, but you wouldn’t see and I wouldn’t speak of the fried chicken.

I guess it’s like the proverbial tree in the forest. If I eat it and no one’s around to witness it, does that mean it didn’t happen? Well, I knew that couldn’t last because even if I didn’t post pictures of every meal, I repeat, I post full body shots of myself every single day, so you would know something went awry, somewhere. I wouldn’t be telling the truth. I wouldn’t be telling my truth. And there are many parts to my truth.

The truth is, if this were five days ago, I’d have either a vodka cranberry or a glass of wine in my hand. And if I’m going to tell the truth, five days ago, I DID have a vodka cranberry in my hand, and followed it up with several more. And let’s just throw a couple of shots of tequila in there for sport, because that happened, too.

Also, a hangover happened, and though I’ve posted a vicious hangover selfie on Instagram, I made sure I got myself together before I posted my daily shot, and I still went walking/jogging.

I haven’t had a drink since Sunday and that’s in part because I’ve been thinking a lot about this accountability thing and also because a friend challenged me to a strict seven day fitness thingy that doesn’t allow for alcohol.

It’s been easy. Unbelievably easy until today, when my day wasn’t so good, when my relationship isn’t glowing that perfect glow, when I’m so annoyed/pissed/mad/sad that I just want to numb myself with a vodka neat or a whole bottle of wine. And yes, I can take down a whole bottle…and a half.

So, far I’m resisting. Sipping iced water and channeling this negative energy into new words and promoting Can’t Get Enough. And I think I’m able to resist mostly out of stubbornness and a small part of me thinks it may be an around about attempt at sabotage because my husband of course lives with me, knows my habits, my weaknesses and unfortunately, my triggers.

It’s good to get that off my chest. I’ll let  you know how it turns out tomorrow. Honestly.

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Walking and Writing

So, something happened. Not that thing discussed in extensive detail right below this post, but another thing, or to be more accurate, things.

I started walking again. Now, for those of you who don’t get here often, I haven’t been wheelchair bound or anything of the sort. But, due to an ankle fracture, broken bone in my foot and the general shitty-ness of Lyme disease, my afore established exercise regimen came to a screeching halt. That was four months ago.

I hadn’t made any solid plans to start up again, but on Wednesday when I decided to walk the dog (about ten minutes, three to four times a day) my husband decided to join me and make it a joint exercise effort. I was game, but I didn’t think we’d go as far as we did.

We wound up walking over three miles. It was midday, so it was pretty hot and it took us just over an hour. The dog wasn’t too happy about it, though. I, however, felt fantastic and decided that that day would be my Day 1.

Day 1 of how many you may ask? Well, I don’t have the answer, yet. I don’t want to jinx myself or set myself up for failure by setting hard goals, but what I have done is made myself accountable to my Instragram account, where every morning, before I do whatever workout I’m going to do (right now it’s walking) I post a picture of myself. And I’m talking full body shots. Nothing from the face up with clever angling that makes me look cuter and thinner.

This is the true definition of no filter. It is what it is. Take me as I am, and how I will be, at Day whatever.

Also, I’ve been at the writing table actually writing for the past three days, averaging 1100 or so words a day. It’s chapters for a novel I plan to pitch and it’s going just swell.

Now, I generally link to Facebook and Twitter when I post my daily picture, but if I forget, am in a hurry, or my mind is cloudy as usual, feel free to follow my Instagram account (@therealtenille) and watch my journey, day by day. And oh, cheer me on! Call me out! Keep me accountable!

Let’s do this.

Boundaries

lafyette

 

This is going to get personal, like, really personal. But that’s what we do here. Chat lightly, things get heavy, we promote a little.

I would categorize this one as a vent, except I’m not angry, and quite frankly, that worries me.

I may or may not have spoken here about boundaries. Specifically boundaries in a relationship. And sure, everyone has their own, whether expressed or unspoken.

Mine, however, have been blatantly expressed in the past, but now I find myself dealing with the same issue.

Specifically, I’m talking boundaries when it comes to being in contact with people other than your spouse/partner.

Where do you draw the line? At texting? At calling? At hanging out?

And to catch you up. The spouse is mine, the contact is via text (as far as I know) and he sort of told me as an afterthought.

The texter is a coworker. Remember those simultaneous dreams he and I had where I dreamed he was having an affair with a coworker and he dreamed I was having an affair with the neighbor? Weird, right? Well, the neighbor moved.

And his coworker, not someone he works closely with or even physically comes in contact with on a daily basis, texted him yesterday to “check on him.”

He’s on vacation. He’s not sick.

He’s simply not at work. And if he’s not at work, then guess what? He’s at home or somewhere with his wife, who would be doing the checking on if need be.

I didn’t say anything at first.

Because I try to be a cool, modern wife, you know. But the thing is, I wear my emotions on my sleeve, and at some point, I started to boil over.

He thinks it’s jealousy. I think it’s boundaries, plain and simple. If I’ve not met, formed any type of friendship with this woman, she does not get to have a part in our marriage that’s exclusive to only him, especially when I was here first.

But, maybe that’s just me.

In the end I gave my opinion and honestly, he seemed sort of sad, like I had taken away a favorite toy or something. He even told me to find a guy to text after I asked how he’d feel if he were in my shoes. WTF, right?

Now, mama didn’t raise no fool. I didn’t come out and say “stop this or else” because if he wanted to stop he would and if I told him to stop and he didn’t want to, guess what? He’d continue, only behind my back which would make it definitely look like something even if it’s nothing.

So what did I do? What any sane woman would do, of course. I friended her on Facebook. I’ve got the bitch on my radar and I’m watching the situation closely. That’s all I’m saying.

 

 

Instinct

tummy

This was a telling tweet. But I sent it out as I send most tweets, light heartedly, once it’s gone, it’s forgotten. Yes, it had started with a tummy ache, which with kids, is just another day at the office for a parent. I rubbed it, hugged him to make it all better and watched him sleep.

Then he couldn’t make it through the day in school the next day, and began to lose his appetite. And when the low grade fever appeared I figured was a stomach big than would just have to run his course.

But my boy who normally runs everywhere he goes couldn’t stand up straight. He walked hunched over and moaned in pain. He lay in my bed while I put up groceries, and then he let out a scream I will never forget. I dropped everything and drove him to the first hospital I could find, his twin sister in tow.

After six hours of labs, scans and tests, he was diagnosed with the one thing that I had pushed to the back oft mind as one of my outrageous hypochondriacal fears. It was his appendix, and it was ruptured.

It was the first time I felt the weight of being away from family and friends. The first time that I realized that my mom was now more than three hours away as opposed to just around the corner.

But mostly I realized that for two days I had dismissed my son’s pain as something far less serious than it was.

Not that I or anyone could have predicted or prevented it, but still, there’s that old mommy guilt. There’s the what ifs and the woulda, coulda, shouldas.

So today here we are, an emergency surgery later, on day six at the Children’s Hospital. He’s much better than he was before, but not well enough to go home.

I’m trying to make the best of it. Caring for him and reading and writing and keeping my fingers crossed that I can take him home soon.

And I guess that’s it. All I can say and all I can do. I appreciate the well wishes.

"I’m on Valium; Everything’s okay."

It’s been a running joke for me the last few months, how I would just love for my doctor to prescribe me Valium and make everything okay. I made light of it because I know that there is often a stigma attached to people relieving their stress, anxiety and depression with medication. I, however, have been doing so since my early twenties. My mother only just realized that I take anti-depressants and anxiety medication. She often asks why and if she contributed to the reason, but that’s neither here nor there at this point, so I simply tell her “no.”

And I can’t really blame any one person or thing unless it’s myself and my inability to properly express myself and not fear the consequences and repercussions. I over-compensate. I bend over backwards to make sure everyone else is happy and I rarely, if ever ask for help.

So, I took myself to the doctor last week and told him, without too much detail, the current height of my stress level. He recommended Ativan, but I insisted on Valium because I know better than anyone that I am, indeed, at that point.

He gave it to me. At first, it felt like I was taking a placebo. I wanted it to work and I wanted it to work fast. Turns out I had to adjust my dosage just a little and then…eureka.

I don’t want to depend on a pill to “deal,” but during a particularly tough time today, I popped one. It was either that or break down crying and have to leave my job because I was such a wreck.

But…I prefer this to my other self, where I scream and hit and cry and beg and beg for my voice to be heard to no avail. Right now, I’m still not being heard, I’m still being misunderstood, but…I kinda don’t give a fuck.

That in and of itself seems pretty harsh and cold, but I can’t continue being the only one who cares, the only one who feels anything, the only one who’s hurt. So, if it takes me having to pop a “happy” pill now and again to keep myself from saying or doing something I shouldn’t then, so be it.

I don’t care that my husband is not talking to me. I don’t care that when he does talk to me it’s with anger and resentment in his voice. I don’t care that he hasn’t fucked me and probably won’t anytime soon. I just don’t fucking care.

The mind boggling thing, though, is that if he has this massive misperception of me, if he thinks me to be this horrible person who doesn’t have his and our family’s best interest at heart, why the hell is he still here? Why is wasting his time and mine?

I am perfectly self-sufficient. I left home at 18 and never, ever looked back… well, except that one time in ’06, lol. Still. I can take care of me and mine. But, I don’t go around screaming this to him. I need him, absolutely, but in totally different ways than he realizes.

I need him to know and understand me. I need him to see and hear me. It’s been five years, why has this not happened yet? Or am I just too naïve to see and accept that it never will?