Sifting. That's what I'm doing these days; a lot of sifting. Lately, there seems to be no shortage of topics to ponder, mull over, analyze, filter through and file away in tidy compartments for later reference. Mostly, I find myself focusing on my desire to gain a sense of health and vitality that has escaped me lately. I do not feel well. I do not feel like I'm living my best life, and I'm desperately tired of juggling shame and sadness and anger for the many obstacles that are not of my own creation; that juggling begets a weariness I've had to shoulder that has started to become a crutch to avoid the obstacles that I am, indeed, responsible for perpetuating by avoiding some unsavory truths I struggle to embrace about my existence.
Some facts: I'm 38. I'm freshly single, mere months out of five and a half years of struggle and strife with a woman I hope to be friends with again one day. I work in electoral politics and I can't stomach it anymore. I haven't had a good night's sleep in 28 years, no bullshit. I have degenerative arthritis in my left ankle that could certainly be classified as a legitimate disability if my pride would allow for such classifications. I have a cluster of autoimmune diseases: Hashimoto's thyroiditis, vitiligo, and a sparkly-fresh diagnosis of Celiac disease. I am morbidly obese, and I have been since I was a preteen. I had the Lap-Band surgery eight years ago, which promptly failed due to faulty installation, but I managed to lose 90 pounds anyway. Then I managed to gain back 120 pounds in the last five years. My blood sugar, blood pressure, cholesterol, and pulse-ox are inexplicably and thankfully perfect. I can't absorb vitamins D or B12, the latter of which begin presenting neurologically because my levels fell so critically low. My hair has started falling out, and thus, I have a new routine of crying in the shower. Great genetics have blessed me in regards to good skin, a hungry mind, and yeah, a touch of beauty, even for a fat girl. [I also inherited my stepmother's sarcasm. I'm easy on the eyes, full stop.]
A recent burst of understanding has led me to see that this piecemeal bio is not a random collection of facts and stats that stand alone, but an interconnected web of conditions that cannot be taken as separate issues to tackle. I feel old beyond my years, fixating on my health like a person twice my age, but it's hard to disconnect from the aches, pains, and worries, and get on with things like the smart, creative, driven, social, active, popular early-middle-aged woman that I am. My dance card is full, and I'm exhausted. And so, this evening, as I stood in the shower and cried over the chunk of my lovely curly hair that I held in my hand, I promised myself that I'd remember that moment in all of its brutally horrifying clarity--something to hang onto when I falter and start thinking about how I miss breve lattes and flour tortillas and cake from the Hayes Barton Pharmacy, how maybe it wouldn't be so bad to let myself have those treats, just once, just today.
Because the reality is that I can't have those things anymore, probably not ever again. I've been about 85% compliant on the Autoimmune Protocol for eight months, since I was diagnosed with Hashis, and if I understand correctly, 85% equates to healthier choices that, while positive, won't amount to true healing unless I can commit to 100%. And man, that is hard, a giant, bitter horse pill for a lifelong emotional eater to swallow. After four-plus years of therapy, the emotional eating is very much more controlled than it ever has been, but I'm a food addict, and like any other addict, the risk of relapse is always looming, forever and ever, amen. But that handful of hair tonight...that was Real with a capital R, a symptom of Celiac, along with the loss of enamel on my teeth, that I can't willfully ignore any longer, not if I want to live a happy, vibrant, full life.
Some more facts: I badly want to learn to kiteboard. My first solo art show opens in the spring of next year. A mural project in my booming town is interested in showcasing my work. I'm in pre-production for a documentary film that lights me on fire every time I think of it. One of my best friends of 25 years wants to produce a radio show with me on a local radio station. There's a book inside of me that I've been thinking about for the last six years which simply must come out of my head, and soon. My family is supportive and amazing, and we all like and love one another fiercely. My friends are an incredible, expansive bunch of the most hilarious, interesting, intelligent, talented people I've ever met. I live in a perfect little house with an amazing screened in porch and a big yard that my two crazy cats roll around in all day long. The gratitude I feel every day for the rich abundance of gifts life has given me are humbling and motivating to do better, be my best self.
Which is exactly why I'm going to come here and write about my journey to better health and a greater understanding of all that goes into obtaining my best life, instead of standing in the shower and crying over handfuls of hair. My hair will probably grow back. I can live without breve lattes. Happiness and fulfillment are achievable goals, if I'm willing to put in the hard work. Nothing worthwhile was ever easy, I hear.
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