Homebody, Recluse, or “I just hate going ‘home’ for the holidays,”?

 

who would want to leave this glorious rocky beach?   :)

who would want to leave this glorious rocky beach? 🙂

In therapy this week, I talked about the visceral reaction I feel when ever I cross over the mountains and start heading down into my ‘hometown.’ And by hometown I mean the place my parents live, where my sister lives, where I spent 8-12 grade and tried like hell to get out of. There was college, and then 1 year post-India where I lived there, and hated it just as much. And so I rarely go, even though my parents beg me to visit. I grit my teeth and maybe manage a summer trip, for two days, and then there’s “the holidays,” of which this year Thanksgiving AND Christmas fall on the visiting rotation…so this’ll be three trips in a year. I’m not looking forward to it.

Eastern Washington feels like hell to me. But my therapist said a few things that stood out, like when she asked if I was  “homebody,” and then mentioned that it sounded like I was replaying an old story in my visits ‘home’ for the holidays (or any other time of year, for that matter). And it got me thinking…am I a homebody? I sure drag my feet when it comes to visiting my in-law’s cabin 6 hours away for Christmas, because it’s snowy and trapped feeling with 8 people in a house all sleeping on hide-a-beds and playing Trivial Pursuit into the wee hours of the morning. Sure I like routine, but who doesn’t?

And yet, I’m jumping at the chance to visit one of my college buds in Albuquerque in January. And maybe flying to New York solo in May for a conference. I know my anxiety tends to fill me pre-event, but I find that I’m actually pretty chill when I visit friends and do other adventurous type things. Sure I used to joke about becoming a Montana recluse, but for the most part I’m a pretty social introvert who likes doing things, but I also like routine. What I hate is “going home.” Why? Because my home is right here, dammit!

So I realized, with the help of my therapist, that I have, indeed, been playing out an old story. The time when I was 13 and my family “took a vote,” to move across the mountains to a new place called Eastern Washington. The vote that wasn’t fair, because it put me in the position of choosing to stay, in Seattle, with a depressed mom and a dad we never saw (because he had worked in Eastern Washington for a year already, commuting home on the weekends), and a role of surrogate mom, taking care of my younger siblings OR move to a place I didn’t know in hopes that our family could be together again. Of course I chose the latter, because the weight of raising my siblings and dealing with my mother’s sadness was too heavy for my young perfectionist shoulders. And yet, the move, to a new place, with new rules and an equally depressed mother (since she, too, was leaving her home, where she was raised) did nothing for me.

I entered 8th grade and adolescence with a dark cloud hanging above me. My anxiety and depression flared up, but instead of recognizing it for what it was, I was labelled angry and withdrawn. Who wouldn’t be? They had left their home, their friends, the comfort of the evergreen trees and the known smells of wet bark after it rains. And now, as an adult, I am back, in the place I’ve known to be home, in my heart, since I was born. Why would I ever want to leave? Why would I choose, willingly, to make that drive again, across the mountains and into the valley of despair? But, like my therapist said, the adult Self can say, “this is for 2 days. this is not home, and isn’t home, you can return home in 2 days. you are choosing to visit, not to stay.” But that trapped, clawing claustrophobia of a teenage sense of dread, like being sent to juvey or exile, is still living in me whenever I even think of visiting. I do it, out of obligation, but the question, “why don’t you and Boof move back home?” puts me in defense mode. I always angrily say, “we are home. Seattle IS HOME.” But it falls on deaf ears.

Maybe I am a homebody. Maybe I am tied to Seattle in a way I can’t explain and I’m working to heal the trauma of having had to leave in those formational years. I’ve been back for 7, and adding up all the time I lived here as a child/pre-teen plus my adult years, it far outweighs those blip-on-the-radar moments of highschool. And yet I feel scarred and changed by the whole ordeal, and never want to go back. But I will go back. Because Thanksgiving happens in two weeks. Are you ready?

Will the sun come out tomorrow?

I have no idea. But the sun is out today and my mood is that contentedly happy sun-napping-cat feeling. You know the one. And just like I know that my nervous-breakdown crazy feelings are complicated by the time of year/horribly raining weather/darkness/crazy schedule, it’s moments like today where I realize all the little things that make me super happy.

Like the fact that Potamus slept through the night last night. Why yes, the first time in almost 22 months, and I couldn’t be more proud. The fact that he did it IN HIS OWN BED, even better! I’m also ignoring that sleeping through the night meant waking up at 5 (because we were then able to get him to snuggle in bed with us until…wait for it….NINE A.M.!). Yeah, that’s right, adding it up (taking into account his 5-5:45 am crying in our bed jag), I got 11 hours of sleep. Sleep feels amazing. In that book I mentioned yesterday, she said that research shows that parents are about 5 months behind in sleep by year 2 of their child’s life. That’s about how it feels. So getting 8 uninterrupted hours PLUS 3 snuggled up…feels freaking awesome.

Family time. I’ve seen Boof so little the last few weeks that it’s nice to just get to do stuff together. Boring family stuff, like daycare open house, and dog-training. And eating Chipotle. That was yummy too. And stealing kisses in the kitchen while Potamus is eating his blueberries. It’s just being around my husband that calms me, makes me feel like I’m not alone in the world of insanity. We don’t even have to have any deep conversations, just existing in the same breathing space.

And the weather. Hot dang I love fall. I mean, the leaves are turning, if you stand really still the sun warms you (but you still need a sweater), and it feels crisp and new and exciting. Normally fall is like this until November, but then it’s Thanksgiving and looking forward to Christmas so that I can get through the dreary rainy season. So the record rainfall has seriously cramped my style lately. It feels good to sit in my big comfy chair with the sunshine beaming through the window.

 

Winter Pills

I have the prescription. It’s sitting in my car, and is good for 5 months of refills. It will get me through the winter, with only needing to see my doctor again once as spring approaches. And truthfully, while it sounds like crazyville, I have some leftover pills from my previous prescription that haven’t expired and so I could get started even before I get this prescription filled. But I’m holding off. Holding off at the request of my new therapist, who is a psychologist, and one that I’m clearly trying to impress with my perfect-counseling-client skills.

Yes, I recognize the crazy.

Because she she said it could be SAD and that a ‘happy light’ might be really beneficial. And it’s advice that my massage therapist had recommended a long time ago, and something I’ve just known from my own counseling practice. Happy lights give a special wavelength to the brain to increase energy. To simulate, at a really low level, the sun which is absent from the Seattle-gray skies. And while I’ve been using it for a week, and can maybe tell a tiny little difference in energy, that could also be attributed to yoga, and getting more sleep.

But it hasn’t taken away the feeling that everything is falling apart. And I know that not everything is falling apart, because I haven’t gone over the cliff yet. There is still this rationale brain happening that looks around and sees that we are in a very calm place right now. My marriage is being strengthened by many really good conversations and carving out time for each other, my mommy guilt over doing things for myself in the evenings (yoga/therapy/girls night) is next to nil, and my work is feeling pretty smooth. And yet I feel one blink away from sobbing. Not tearing up at some misty-eyed news, but full on ugly cry, with mascara dripping down my nose. Holding it together feels entirely too exhausting, but what other choice do I have? A nervous breakdown is not something that will really fit into my schedule.

So maybe I’ll get the prescription. Or maybe I’ll keep on hanging on by a thread for a little while longer, because this happy light and herbs can make my brain better, right?

 

The space between

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Sometimes depression is like bathroom mold, slowly growing over time, until one day you climb into your shower and think “yuck, where did this come from?” This process could take weeks to months before I notice. Other times it slams into me all at once, like the unexpected flash flood we’re experiencing here in Western WA. But then there are times where depression happens in the space between those two extremes. Sorta slow, but also sorta fast, and it’s as if there’s this warning light going off in my brain saying “watch out, it’s coming!” But it couldn’t possibly be coming, the warning signs have not been present, there’s been no trigger (except the end of summer) and by all accounts I should just ‘get it together’ and ‘suck it up’ and ‘work through it.’

I rationalize, by saying, “you’re tired, you’re stressed about work starting next week, you’re angry that your partner is being less-than-helpful-and-borderline-selfish, and your child is in the terrible-twos-four-months-early.” Lots of excuses. But the gray foggy gloom has been creeping, rolling in, like something in a bad horror film.

Things yesterday that did not make me feel better:

-pre-meditating my skipping yoga to justify a nap (that didn’t happen)

-playing endless games of Candy Crush on my phone, and paying for cheats and more levels…that’ll bite me in the ass

-watching 4 hours of trashy television

-driving to the outlet mall and trying on clothes. even buying two cute things didn’t take away the gray

-buying $12.95 worth of fudge

-getting $0.40 off a gallon of gas at Safeway because I used my parent’s phone # (don’t worry, they don’t get their gas at Safeway)

The part of me that hasn’t been completely taken over by this recent emergence is waffling back and forth…do I do something now (i.e. medication) since therapy is ending on Saturday? Do I wait and see if this is just a transition phase with the weather being crappy and the nerves of a soon-to-be-back-to-work-mama? I’m feeling very victimy overall and also like I really want to cry but won’t let myself. The six minutes of stillness meditation yesterday left me starting to cry, so I distracted myself with other things. My counselor brain knows that isn’t what I should do…

How do you tell the difference between a bad mood and lingering depression? Or the difference between being nervous and having anxiety? What things lift you out of the funk?

An Introverts Dilemma

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I’ve known forever that I’m an “introvert,” but I do love learning about this aspect of myself, and having conversations with others in my life. Because often I feel torn, as in, I feel like I make my life harder for myself in a lot of ways tempered with the thought that “this is who I am, I can’t change it.” And this recent bout of musings was brought on by the Huffington Post article 23 Signs You’re Secretly an Introvert. Now, we all know it’s not really a secret with me, but I wanted to address a few of them…

You find small talk incredibly cumbersome.

It wasn’t until I took an “anger management” communications course after college that I learned about the function of small talk. Before that it felt trivial and stupid and shallow. Once I learned that every culture has it’s own version of small talk, and that it’s an actually valid thing, I have grown to…well, not quite appreciate it, or even really understand it, but at least I participate in it…at least for a few minutes.

You have low blood pressure.

Yes. Yes I do. How did you know? But, I’m curious…what does that really have to do with anything?

You have a constantly running inner monologue

I am married to an extrovert (though it’s interesting, because I actually do more ‘social’ things), and we got into this great discussion last night about this running inner monologue. Because…yeah…he doesn’t have it. Sure he thinks about things, but then Boof said, “when I’m done thinking about something, like what I need to do tomorrow, I just stop.” Um, excuse me? You just….stop? The discussion went down a long winded rabbit trail about inner silence (he labels it boring, I label it as peaceful/fucking scary), about how our brains work so differently. I admitted to him that my new trick to fall asleep is saying random words in my head until I fall asleep, it goes something like this: truck, kangaroo, pumpkin, pink, love, scary, force, night, dove, poop, lice, crow, fog, door. His response? “That sounds stressful.”

Yeah. I guess so. But it’s how my brain works.

Which then left me wondering if introverts are more prone to anxiety, because it seems there is a fine line between my inner monologue and my inner monologue being influenced by a whirling dervish. Because that inner monologue is often my worst enemy. But then again, I rarely get bored.

And this conversation also makes me think about previous conversations with Boof about our brain, on the subject of dreams, he takes the perspective of the person, as if watching a movie. I see out of the character in the movie’s eyes, but I’m also the omniscient narrator a lot, too. Also, when reading, he doesn’t see pictures, he hears the words being read and it’s distracting because the words are a half second behind his eyes, so it’s like being in stereo. Makes me think about how we are all wired differently…

Are you an introvert or an extrovert? Reading the article were you surprised by any of the categories? When dreaming do you see yourself, see out of your own eyes (as if watching a movie, or participating in the action) or are you from the perspective of the narrator? Do you dream in black/white or color? When reading do you see pictures, hear the words or something else?

Cover Up Those Boobs!

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I’m basically a wreck.

Last night I half-joked in a crazy sleep deprived stupor “maybe if I bash his head into the wall he’ll stop crying.” Boof immediately snapped “that’s not even funny to joke about.”

I know. I know it’s not funny. I wasn’t trying to be funny. I was trying to prove a point that I am exhausted and a sick kid who can’t sleep any way but being held is not helping the matter. I try really hard to be the mom I want to be, but sometimes I just have to admit that I am fucking exhausted. Fucking exhausted.

I don’t know how other nursing mother’s do it, or if their children are just amazing at the whole sleep thing, but Potamus sucks at sleeping. Seriously. He sucks without me, and he’s only marginally better with me present. I read those things about human development and bonding and attachment and psychology and I know that, in the grand scheme of things, I am doing a really good thing for Potamus. But I am also concerned that I am losing myself slowly into a pit of black or white thinking about nursing. It’s been 17 months, over 3500 nursing sessions to date, and frankly, I am exhausted.

I also love nursing. Really love it. Love the bonding time with Potamus and the way in which it easily calms him down. But I need more than 2-3 hours of sleep at a time. Because, there’s only been a handful of times, in 17 months that I have gotten more than 4 hours of sleep in a row. Actually, it’s been twice, and it was one 6 hour stretch (that he slept, I only slept for 5) and one five hour stretch. The only time I’ve napped for as long as I need has been twice, in the past two months. On paper it looks like I’m getting 6-7 hours of sleep a night, but it is so chopped up and full of movement (from room to room) that I don’t think I’ve had a full sleep cycle in a few months. I’m hypervigilant about NOT sleeping, for example this afternoon I barely let myself get sleepy during naptime, because once I started to doze, after 30 minutes, he was awake, crying, and I couldn’t get him back to sleep…nor could I go back to sleep. It’s causing me to be crazy. I literally feel crazy.

So I think about weaning.

I wonder, is it even worth it anymore?

When I don’t have thoughts of dashing my kid against the fireplace, it’s thoughts of running away, not telling anybody, and sleeping in a hotel bed for a week. I’m literally that exhausted. And we’re crazily thinking of having another kid. I just might freak out.

It’s a chicken-and-egg problem..I’m so tired that the thought of beginning to wean in anything other than cold-turkey is exhausting. Putting up with tantrums and slow progression and figuring out alternatives (especially when we can’t figure out alternatives to even food). I read an article entitled 12 Tips for Gentle Weaning and thought there were some really good suggestions. I think I’ve been wishy washing on the whole weaning issue, wanting it to be solely child-led, but I’m wondering if I’m becoming a doormat in this relationship. It’s been easier to just give in then stand up for myself and what I need in a moment.

While I’ve noticed that we’ve cut back some, it hasn’t really been consistent…I give mixed messages, like when it says don’t offer, don’t refuse. Whoa, that’s pretty mind-blowing. I offer all the time, especially at night. I flop down and whip it out. There have even been times when he hasn’t even moved toward the boob and I think “um, what? he doesn’t want to nurse?” Wowzers, I have some things to work on.

And, I had to laugh, at the “cover up your boobs,” (okay, it just says cover up), but holy crumb cakes, a nursling can be triggered to nurse for up.to.a.year post weaning. Wow. I feel that I know so little about this whole process. I guess I just assumed that one day it would just stop…and that I wouldn’t miss it, and he wouldn’t miss it, and bam bam bam we’d be on our way. I guess if it was hard to start, with weeks of struggle and crying and feeling totally overwhelmed, then the end of a good thing is going to be hard for both of us. But I hadn’t even though that what I am wearing could possibly be contributing to him prolonging the nursing. I’ve just been wearing skimpy tanktops because I had gotten so accustomed to needing to whip it out quickly.

But then I also wonder…if he was just a better sleeper…if we did different routines at night when he wakes up sad, would that help? I don’t want to make any rash decisions based on being exhausted…but I don’t think I’ll be less exhausted until I, at least, explore the option of him sleeping better. I just don’t know. I’m all sorts of muddled in the head. I know he’s sick-ish, and teething, and don’t want to just freak out irrationally, but I am so tired. I just want a kid who sleeps for more than 3 hours at a time, you know? I keep hoping and waiting and hoping it’ll happen, but it’s not, and so I think I need to do something different.

Suggestions?

When everything around you is annoying…

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maybe it’s you that has a problem?

I don’t know if that’s a fact, but yesterday we got home from the in-law’s and I was kvetching about EVERYTHING. Seriously. I know that we’ve been doing Sunday dinner at the in-laws every week for FIVE years, and that I’ve had similar spells where I am just done with it. And then we always come back, it’s something about family that keeps sucking us back in. Sigh. So after complaining about the time of dinner (always later than intended) and the purposelessness I feel sitting around their house on Sunday (I could be doing other things! OR we could be doing other things, together, like playing games or talking or SOMETHING!), it then spiralled into complaining about my mother-in-law trying to feed Potamus Teddy Grahams at dinner, though she knows how hard we’ve been working to get him to eat things OTHER THAN COOKIES. Ugh. And the awkward interactions with Potamus by Auntie and Grandpa, it just spiralled into a ball of too-muchness that I could handle.

So we were trying to get a plan for how we want to break this annoying cycle, and I then started ranting on about my own sister and her boyfriend and complaining about the dinner we had on Saturday and it was just like…

Dude, Monk-Monk, get a grip. If this much stuff is annoying you, then it’s probably your issue, and not those other things.

Boof didn’t actually say that, it was something that I thought and then said aloud. But it’s probably a combination…annoying things PLUS my reaction to them. I’ve never been one to really hide my emotions. And I’m not easily persuaded out of a mood if I’m moody. Fortunately I haven’t actually been that annoyed with Potamus, but even Boof has been getting on my nerves. Like, for example, last Friday when we were supposed to be spending his birthday dinner at a nice restuarant, I was annoyed with him ALL DAY. Except…well…he wasn’t actually home. I had all of these imaginary annoying conversations in my head about how frustrated I was over this or that, and none of it was actually real. And yet, I was annoyed nonetheless.

So, what to do?

I mean, I’ve thought of going back to therapy this summer, when I have a little more time, but what should I be doing NOW when it seems like everything is annoying me. Am I focusing on the wrong things? Are things really annoying? HELP!

Advice dear bloggy readers? What do you do when it seems like anyone and everyone/everything is just annoying?

 

 

Motherhood with Mental Illness…or Introverted Parentingis hard…or how I yelled at my kid because I was being a cranky-pants.

This is the face of a mentally ill mother…

A few days after posting a happy-clappy sunshine post about how WONDERFUL motherhood has been lately, I had one of those 0-60 moments where I just couldnotfreakingdealwithitanymore. Granted, I think some of my frustration stemmed from an awesome weekend of hanging out with friends. I forget, as an introvert, that sometimes even just hanging out in small groups of friends can be exhausting and paired with not going to be early (because of aforementioned hanging out), I go through some moments where I am worn thin and don’t even realize it (because I’ve been having fun). It was a really lovely weekend, overall, I managed to behave myself at Easter dinner and participate in mind-numbing small-talk with Boof’s second cousins, and watched Potamus dance to music and explore their boxes of toys, and ate some yummy food.

And then 8:30 pm hit and Potamus wasn’t asleep. Well, after a struggle, where I told him stories and explained how sleep would help, and did his progressive muscle relaxation, and nursed him, and snuggled him, and rubbed his back, he was asleep. And I sneaked out to watch a much needed episode of Millionaire Matchmaker. Five minutes in he was crying, unconsolably, and Boof was off getting gas for his car, so I was alone, and tired and tried to get him to fall back asleep but it kept getting worse until I yelled:

JUST STOP!

My very embarassed and rational Monday-morning mind hates admitting that AND acknowledges that shouting at a screaming toddler doesn’t actually make the situation better. Ever.

In order to put a stop to my self-shaming, I told Boof what I had done. And I looked my son in the eye, this morning, and told him I was sorry. He might not understand what I was saying, but it was something I needed to do. He was in his high chair and I said,

“buddy, I’m sorry about last night. I yelled at you and that wasn’t fair. You weren’t doing anything wrong, you were trying to tell me something (he was majorly hungry, scarfing down yogurt and crackers when Boof came home and I handed Potamus to him). I’m sorry that I scared you and that you were sad and didn’t understand what was going on.”

I almost started to cry in this apology, looking in his eyes when I said it, and I felt so humble before this quizzical toddler. He looked like he understood what I was saying, and while I’m not sure it will curb all yelling, it was a moment that made think about how I will speak to him in the future. There was something about getting down, looking him in the eye and realizing, again, that he is a person with thoughts and feelings and my crazy frustration level at his inability to communicate is NOT OKAY.

When I step back, and try to analyze the “whys” of what happened, I wonder…is it because of my depression/anxiety? Is it because I’m a burnt-out itnrovert at the end of a long weekend and I need to do some more self-care before I do self-implosion? Am I just a struggling mom who isn’t perfect? A combination of all three? Do I just have ridiculous expectations of myself? Do other mothers yell at their toddlers when they are frustrated?

 

Blackout Anger

When you drink so much that you blackout, that experience where the events that happen the night before are hazy (at best) or absent altogether, you might have a drinking problem. And there is something you can do about it. But what happens when you have sometimes moments of rage that you can’t remember but vague details the next day? How do you stop THAT from happening?

I used to watch crime shows where some defendant in a murder trial would claim ‘I can’t remember anything,’ from the horrible murder, and the audience (and jury) tend to scoff at such assertions. But, while not on the level of murder, I’ve had instances of anger/rage that I haven’t remembered much the next day, which is scary as fuck.

Like, last night for instance (it always happens at night), where I was exhausted and had been in bed for about 45 minutes before Potamus woke up. And that’s when I have to rely on Boof for the rest of the memory, because I don’t remember much except one encounter with my fist and a wall and yelling ‘Potamus! GO TO SLEEP!” I was asleep, myself, and with earplugs in I couldn’t hear much to begin with. Boof said I was initially very concerned about Potamus crying (Boof was changing him because he had peed through his diaper) and he wouldn’t stop. I guess I was concerned and sweet and then went to pee and punched the wall twice and slammed a few doors. And then there was yelling, but that was 30 minutes later. And then Boof told me to go back to bed, and I woke up at 2am because Potamus was crying, and I found him out on the couch, asleep in Boof’s arms (who was also asleep).

I don’t remember any of that. Except yelling that 1 time. I don’t remember hitting the wall with my hand or cussing Boof out or the fact that it wasn’t a 30 second ‘grumble grumble’ encounter. Becuase I was asleep.

What’s strange is that I had read several articles yesterday on sleep deprivation in moms (or parents) and the importance of communication. When Boof and I debriefed this morning he was shocked to hear my account of the events. He said that I am ‘an amazing mom 99% of the time, but when I see you like that, it’s time for me to step in, to save you from you,’ which I definitely agreed to. Because I don’t even know I’m doing it. Honestly. I was asleep.

Though I do know that my frustration level is not always that great, and I could work on better coping tools for when I am awake and withit and able to make mindful choices. But what do I do about these other times? I get scared that I might do something to hurt myself or my child in moments like that where I am not totally aware, because in my head I say ‘well, that’s never happened when Boof isn’t there,’ but I guess I can’t 100% be sure of that, you know?

Oreos, goldfish crackers and suicidal thoughts

I am not in a good place. The past few days have been filled with little sleep and lots of coughing/hacking/wheezing. This cruddy cold has really taken a toll on me. Last night I slept from 8-10 and then was up until 3:30 AM coughing/throwing up mucous and contemplating death. There’s nothing scarier than being so full of pain from sickness that I begin to think of ways out of LIFE. It is irrational, and in the light of day the anger/fear/complete exhaustion with the current situation, is gone…but those hours that I laid in bed, coughing and thinking of all the ways I could off myself is scary. I know that Boof was lying right next to me, and I believe I would have woken him up if I had gone beyond thinking to action (like trying to take a bunch of sleeping pills), so I believe I was safe, but it is scary the depths of my mind.

I think I should refrain from watching news shows (such as the story of Mindy McCready’s suicide yesterday) before I go to bed. I think the emotions of news stories crawl inside me and get mixed up with my own feelings. I am worried that my sickness is going to be bronchitis because of my asthma, and am hopeful that I won’t have to begin using inhalers again. yogic breathing has controlled it for over 7 years, but this feels so crappy that I would welcome the shaky albuterol feeling.

Part of my exhaustion is due to a lack of nutrition in the past few days. Being sick has decreased my appetite for anything other than goldfish crackers and oreos. Which basically sums up the past week of eating, even before I was sick. Something happened in my quest toward dairy-free and veganish eating., and I can’t quite explain what. But my momentum toward trying new foods and packing healthy salad lunches with Israeli couscous and garbanzo beans and olives, went back to my old habits of simply eating snacks all day and letting my blood sugar get so low it crashes and I get crabby and can’t think through a simple task like picking something for dinner.

While I’ve maintained my mostly-dairy free diet, it isn’t with enthusiasm or even mindful awareness. And the choices of dairy or nothing has tended toward nothing, which has left me zombie-like. I can’t seem to regulate my emotions and begin to re-pick healthy choices that will leave me full of energy. What I’ve mostly eaten is oreos (vegan) and goldfish crackers (not). It is this strange metaphor of my life boiled down into two little snacks. I also realize that I make these choices as if I were 5 years old, and can’t seem to figure out how to make adult eating choices, let alone figure out what the hell to feed my child beyond tortellini with red sauce.