When I was a kid, I remember hearing adults talk about those who "don't know the value of a dollar." Fortunately, they weren't referring to me. The first born daughter of New England parents who had a strong "Protestant work ethic," I learned early on that things aren't just handed to me on a silver platter for the taking. Sometimes I remember wishing for that silver platter, that my life would have been so much easier...especially in my teens.
When I was 15, my first unofficial job (I got paid under the table) was making Blizzards, taking orders, and cleaning the dining area of the Dairy Queen with my (now ex) stepmother's family in Cherokee, North Carolina over the summer. Shortly after my 16th birthday, my mom practically pushed me out the door to get a part-time job. While my friends were having fun at a party on a Friday night, I was making Subway sandwiches and mopping the sticky floors to oldies tunes blasting from the speakers. A succession of customer service jobs ensued over the years, sometimes paying me so little that I had to work two jobs so I could pay my bills. I also had to get loans while in college and grad school, all the while wishing my parents could have helped me if only they were more financially secure themselves.
Having many bills and loans to pay back certainly isn't fun, but I have to say all these experiences have certainly taught me the value of a dollar. For one thing, no matter how stressed, embarrassed, or sad I feel about my financial situation not being what would make my life most comfortable (yet)....I am always taken care of in the overall scheme of things. If I really want something (within reason), I find a creative (or in some cases, practical) approach to help me get there. I see some people piss away money like it grows on trees (the same people who pay for expensive things they never use?), as if it's paper...which, it is...but lately I find that the more money I put into something, the more value I place on it. The quality of the product or experience changes in my mind's eye. It motivates me and pushes me beyond my comfort zone. And that, to me, is priceless.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Rehab, in the non-traditional sense
I grew up surrounded by emotional eaters. When there was chaos (divorce, remarriage, multiple moves, deaths, conflict, or just flat out stress or unhappiness/sadness), we stuffed our feelings deep down in our psyches by stuffing our faces with food...for comfort, for solace, for pain relief. I never saw my parents drink alcohol, smoke cigarettes, or take any drug more potent than a Tylenol. But food, that was the deadly enemy...lurking in the far reaches of the kitchen cabinets, the nooks and crannies of the refrigerator. My mom always bought the most delicious, though not always the most nutritious, food over the years. It always tempted me. I loved food in the moment I was eating it, and I hated how it made me feel about myself afterwards. Especially carbs, my ultimate drug of choice. I have overdosed on bread, pasta, and potato chips more times than I can remember in my lifetime.
Sometimes I think I can relate to my clients (who struggle with addiction and recovery) more than they could ever know, even if it's in a different way. Learning a whole new way of being and living your life is challenging, especially when you've never done it in the most healthy way before. Changing the relationship you have to yourself....your thoughts, feelings, behaviors, and shifting the way you view yourself (from insecure to confident and capable) takes dedication and tedious effort.
The whole term "rehabilitation" seems like a misnomer to me. How does one 'rehabilitate' when 'habilitation' was never present in your life? It's like saying reteach someone to go to school and learn when they have never gone to school in their lifetime. But I'll go with the cultural norm of this term as I ponder my experience.....
Today I was running on the treadmill, simultaneously proud of myself and pissed off that I had to push myself further by bumping up to a 3.0 incline so that my workout wouldn't be too easy. If I want to see changes, I have to set the stage for it. This is what I told myself, despite my misgivings. I continually looked at the time ticking away on the digital timer in front of me, trying not to think about how hard it was as I focused on my endurance. As I neared the remaining 3 minute cooldown, I had this epiphany: The gym is my rehab. In a sense, I am in recovery. I am still guilty of relapse (ie, I ate half a bag of potato chips one night last week when I was feeling incredibly stressed from overwhelming stuff I've been dealing with at work lately), but I am working on changing my overall lifestyle and more importantly, my self-worth. This takes time. I can't expect it to happen in 3 short months, just as people can't expect to never use alcohol or drugs ever ever again or snap their fingers and their lives are easier simply because they spent three months in a stringent, hard core inpatient rehab facility. That's silliness. You can change your environment, but you must ultimately change yourself. You are with you wherever you go, whether it's the gym, the kitchen, your home, or Timbuktu. I realized I have to give myself credit for the strides I have made thus far, instead of finding fault in what I haven't "attained" yet....a difficult thing to do for someone who is a super overachiever AND whose forte is NOT physical fitness, sports,etc.
Right now, I am in "rehab", an intensive outpatient 3-5 days a week structured environment that forces me to work on myself in a challenging and vulnerable way: the gym. It requires self-motivation, time, energy, and commitment. This is the hardest thing I have done in a long time, honestly harder than graduate school and almost as hard as counseling hardcore drug addicts at the crack of dawn for 6 days a week, two and a half years straight.
I have always been excellent at mental, intellectual pursuits....and for the most part, have tended to avoid physical ones. When I was a kid, I was the nice and smart fat girl. As a young adult, I was the down-to-earth, intelligent, witty, overweight, and intriguing risk taker with a great smile. Now in my thirties, I would like to see this negative physical image of myself disappear from the description of my self-identity...the aspect that says I'm not good enough because of my cellulite.
The most hurtful thing that has ever been said to me to date (by the first guy/boyfriend I ever slept with) was "You don't have the ideal body for sexual escapades." Try as I might, I cannot forget this years later. I have forgiven, but not forgotten. I remember it as vividly as if it just happened yesterday. I had read the email while on a break at work. My eyes filled with tears; I had to run to the back of the building to cry so no one would see that I was upset, broken even. It's bad enough when there's something you don't like about yourself, something you know is a weakness. You don't need someone else to rub salt in the wound. In retrospect, I realized Andrew was an asshole (who was more insecure with himself than anyone else)....but that part of me that never feels completely hot, or completely beautiful and desirable to men, the one that doesn't have that 'ideal' body....it's still there, waiting to be conquered. I'm working through it.
The gym is my new ally, my new comfort, my new solace. It welcomes me. It cheers me on. It motivates me. It brings out my beauty, as well as my strength (both mental, and physical). Even when it sometimes feels like an enemy, deep down I know it's a metaphorical friend who only wants what is best for me. It reminds me and rewards me in the little things when I least expect it....my new trainer touching my right shoulder that now feels strong and sculpted with muscle that wasn't there before. Brushing my hand over the top of my left thigh while driving in the car and smiling because I realize it feels firm. Walking confidently in my hot pink tights and black skirt, feeling sexy with my increasingly muscular legs. The muscular curve in my back. Feeling the definition of muscle that is slowly forming in my core. This keeps me going, keeps me moving towards ever more confidence and recognizing the beauty I am capable of possessing...and the beauty I have always possessed, no matter how many Andrews of the world I have or may encounter.
Sometimes I think I can relate to my clients (who struggle with addiction and recovery) more than they could ever know, even if it's in a different way. Learning a whole new way of being and living your life is challenging, especially when you've never done it in the most healthy way before. Changing the relationship you have to yourself....your thoughts, feelings, behaviors, and shifting the way you view yourself (from insecure to confident and capable) takes dedication and tedious effort.
The whole term "rehabilitation" seems like a misnomer to me. How does one 'rehabilitate' when 'habilitation' was never present in your life? It's like saying reteach someone to go to school and learn when they have never gone to school in their lifetime. But I'll go with the cultural norm of this term as I ponder my experience.....
Today I was running on the treadmill, simultaneously proud of myself and pissed off that I had to push myself further by bumping up to a 3.0 incline so that my workout wouldn't be too easy. If I want to see changes, I have to set the stage for it. This is what I told myself, despite my misgivings. I continually looked at the time ticking away on the digital timer in front of me, trying not to think about how hard it was as I focused on my endurance. As I neared the remaining 3 minute cooldown, I had this epiphany: The gym is my rehab. In a sense, I am in recovery. I am still guilty of relapse (ie, I ate half a bag of potato chips one night last week when I was feeling incredibly stressed from overwhelming stuff I've been dealing with at work lately), but I am working on changing my overall lifestyle and more importantly, my self-worth. This takes time. I can't expect it to happen in 3 short months, just as people can't expect to never use alcohol or drugs ever ever again or snap their fingers and their lives are easier simply because they spent three months in a stringent, hard core inpatient rehab facility. That's silliness. You can change your environment, but you must ultimately change yourself. You are with you wherever you go, whether it's the gym, the kitchen, your home, or Timbuktu. I realized I have to give myself credit for the strides I have made thus far, instead of finding fault in what I haven't "attained" yet....a difficult thing to do for someone who is a super overachiever AND whose forte is NOT physical fitness, sports,etc.
Right now, I am in "rehab", an intensive outpatient 3-5 days a week structured environment that forces me to work on myself in a challenging and vulnerable way: the gym. It requires self-motivation, time, energy, and commitment. This is the hardest thing I have done in a long time, honestly harder than graduate school and almost as hard as counseling hardcore drug addicts at the crack of dawn for 6 days a week, two and a half years straight.
I have always been excellent at mental, intellectual pursuits....and for the most part, have tended to avoid physical ones. When I was a kid, I was the nice and smart fat girl. As a young adult, I was the down-to-earth, intelligent, witty, overweight, and intriguing risk taker with a great smile. Now in my thirties, I would like to see this negative physical image of myself disappear from the description of my self-identity...the aspect that says I'm not good enough because of my cellulite.
The most hurtful thing that has ever been said to me to date (by the first guy/boyfriend I ever slept with) was "You don't have the ideal body for sexual escapades." Try as I might, I cannot forget this years later. I have forgiven, but not forgotten. I remember it as vividly as if it just happened yesterday. I had read the email while on a break at work. My eyes filled with tears; I had to run to the back of the building to cry so no one would see that I was upset, broken even. It's bad enough when there's something you don't like about yourself, something you know is a weakness. You don't need someone else to rub salt in the wound. In retrospect, I realized Andrew was an asshole (who was more insecure with himself than anyone else)....but that part of me that never feels completely hot, or completely beautiful and desirable to men, the one that doesn't have that 'ideal' body....it's still there, waiting to be conquered. I'm working through it.
The gym is my new ally, my new comfort, my new solace. It welcomes me. It cheers me on. It motivates me. It brings out my beauty, as well as my strength (both mental, and physical). Even when it sometimes feels like an enemy, deep down I know it's a metaphorical friend who only wants what is best for me. It reminds me and rewards me in the little things when I least expect it....my new trainer touching my right shoulder that now feels strong and sculpted with muscle that wasn't there before. Brushing my hand over the top of my left thigh while driving in the car and smiling because I realize it feels firm. Walking confidently in my hot pink tights and black skirt, feeling sexy with my increasingly muscular legs. The muscular curve in my back. Feeling the definition of muscle that is slowly forming in my core. This keeps me going, keeps me moving towards ever more confidence and recognizing the beauty I am capable of possessing...and the beauty I have always possessed, no matter how many Andrews of the world I have or may encounter.
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