No, that’s not me.  But it could be.  Sipping tea amidst a collection of unused, dusty exercise equipment.  Until today.

My beloved has been nudging me for a while now to start investing more effort into staying physically fit.  Unfortunately, I tend to use my weight as an excuse to not exercise.  It’s not that I’m overweight.  And that is exactly it.  I am not overweight.  As a matter of fact, I weigh less now than I did when we married 10 years ago.  I look healthy.  But, as I learned with my dental health, looks can be deceiving.  And it struck me when I was in the dentist office for my extraction consultation a couple of months back that a realization was beginning to brew.  The dental assistant asked what I was having done and I told her, “probably dentures.”  She took a step back and said, “but you have beautiful teeth.”  And some of them were quite beautiful.  Especially the ones attached to the partial.  And the ones that were $800 crowns.  Looks can be deceiving.

That moment during my dental appointment started my mind working on the bigger picture.  On the outside, I look healthy.  I look fit.  And although I don’t have the body of a 20-year-old, I am still surprisingly toned considering I don’t work at it.  As I said, looks can be deceiving.  I can’t run up the block without feeling as if I have just inhaled shrapnel.  A full day working out in the yard leaves me incredibly sore the following day.  That’s not right.  I don’t want people to say, “but you have a beautiful body.”  Well, okay, so I do.  But I also want to know that I have a healthy, fit, well maintained body beneath the exterior.  And that won’t happen sitting among the barbells, casually sipping tea.

So this morning, I dragged myself out of bed an hour early and stumbled down the stairs to the weight room.  Thankfully, I have the opportunity to have an insanely buff personal trainer whose level of fitness is incredibly motivating.  He’s inspiring, patient, and super cute.  And I have access to him 24 hours a day!  Just one of the perks of being married to him, I suppose!

I have decided that since I was able to happily and fully close the door on 2009, this is my year.  Do I dare recap 2009?  Yes, I dare.

Within the first week of 2009, I was told there was a high probability that I had breast cancer.  I was sent for a stereotactic biopsy and told that it was probably nothing.  The biopsy was painless, except for the fact that they do not allow deodorant and before I even got in my lovely yellow gown I smelled as if I had run a marathon in a desert.  There were 9 mammograms taken during the course of the biopsy.  Nine.  I thought my breast would never again inflate to its original size.

And then we waited.  And waited.  For THE CALL.  We worried and prayed and cried and planned for whatever might come our way.  When the phone rang two weeks later, my heart stopped.  Until I heard the surgeon say, “it’s benign.”  I cried some more.  The radiologist also phoned to congratulate me, something I found unusual until he said, “I look at this stuff all day.  When I reviewed your films, I knew you had DCIS.  It was evident.  But you didn’t.  You got a miracle.”

Throughout the year there were small setbacks, though none as dramatic as the breast issue.  The puppy ate raisins and had to have her stomach pumped (who knew they were deadly).  The puppy poked her eye out chasing a ball and we had the fear of her losing it but instead we merely had to wrestle her three times a day to add drops.

We had roof damage from hail storms, which really is a pain when you live where it either rains or snows much of the fall/winter months and sometimes in the summer.  We grew tired of emptying buckets so finally called the roofer.

And then there was THE DENTAL DRAMA.  This is where I hand out permission slips to gasp and maybe even roll your lip up in disgust.  The time had come to face the obvious.  After years and years of mandibular bone loss, I opted to betray my teeth rather than allowing them to betray me and cause me anymore pain.  They were quietly removed without a fight in preparation for those straight, white, perfect teeth in the form of a denture.  I had always wanted perfect teeth.  Who knew they would come at such a cost of my temporarily older-than-my-age appearance, self-esteem, self-respect, self-perception?

On the same day I was delivered THAT happy news, I was mauled from behind and thrown to the ground while walking my little bundle of cuteness.  The two possibilities that crossed my mind before I turned around, scrambling on thick ice left by the still present blizzard, was that I was being mugged in broad daylight or that a bear had made it’s way through the neighborhood.  It was neither, but rather a 250 pound St. Bernard barreling at me, frothing at the mouth, huge paws flying fast in the air.  Thankfully, the only casualty was my $250 cell phone.  Yes, Mr. Saint Bernard Owner, I am indeed pursuing reimbursement for that.

The close of the year was quiet.  Family issues on all sides resulted in more family issues on all sides.  Suffice to say, I did not pull down the Christmas box in 2009.

Yes.  This is my year.  I see 2010 before me with arms wide open.

My upcoming mammogram does not scare me.  I have learned to at least attempt radical acceptance.

The puppy is must less a puppy and generally prefers cuddling and finding easy trouble such as stealing socks, hiding bones, working on her cute begging face.

The roof has been replaced.  And it’s beautiful.

The broken cell phone has been replaced.  And we will ensure that the dog owner has every opportunity to graciously uphold his promise to replace it - unfortunately, it will have to take place downtown in an old building filled with judges and the like.

Family has been restored.  Virtual and real hugs have taken place, laughter is becoming more frequent among us all.  And “I’m so mad at him/her/them” has been quietly replaced with “I love you.”  Restoration is good.  The opportunity to start fresh is good.

This is my year.  At least, that is what I am hoping!

“I’d like the chef salad, please, with the oil and vinegar on the side. And the apple pie a la mode. . . . But I’d like the pie heated, and I don’t want the ice cream on top, I want it on the side. And I’d like strawberry instead of vanilla if you have it. If not, then no ice cream, just whipped cream, but only if it’s real. If it’s out of a can, then nothing.”  While that line from When Harry Met Sally once simply made me laugh at her picky order, I now see myself in that role.  And I’m not laughing.

Epiphany:  I am hard to please.

When did my world become all about me, all about making me comfortable?  How did I become so expectant of others to satisfy me in very specific ways.  I suppose it really doesn’t matter when.  Or how.  Or even why.  The fact is that I am never satisfied.  It is the antithesis of being joyful in hope.  Patient in affliction.  Faithful in prayer.  It is a hard truth to digest.

I want to be satisfied.  Not the type of satisfied that demands action from others to accommodate my selfish or self-righteous agenda, but the type of satisfied that reflects and embraces joy.  Patience.  Faith.  The kind of satisfied that accepts life on life’s terms, others for what they are.  I want to be satisfied in the knowledge that although God is in control, I am doing what he has called me to do.  Whatever he has called me to do.

I don’t want to yearn to be satisfied, demanding that everything is in the order that I expect it to be.  I want to be satisfied today with who I am, what I am and the blessings I have been given.  I want to end my day satisfied with the knowledge that I made the very best of my time.  I want to start the day satisfied that I have another blessed opportunity to change and grow - even if the means of that change and growth are uncomfortable.

Maybe, just maybe, I can graciously eat the apple pie cold with the ice cream on top.  Maybe I can be satisfied with the whipped cream just as it is.  Even if it comes in a can.

I’ve been struggling.  God has remained silent.  I have gone from being angry with Him and telling Him as much to not communicating with Him at all.  Isn’t communication a 2-way street?  Even with God?  Maybe I am just looking too hard for a burning bush.  Or maybe my struggle is much like Jacob wrestling with God?

Where I once believed that a struggle with faith is a crisis, I now see it as a season.  A valley.  If I don’t have that perspective, hope would be lost and I would never wrestle with my faith again.  But though my foundation of faith has some serious cracks and has been compromised in major ways, I still have faith to some degree.  It just has been rattled.  Earthquakes eventually have an end.  So must this.

I’ve struggled with faith lately.  A lot.  It happens.  But then I struggle with struggling with my faith.  It seems wrong even when it feels so incredibly justified.  Last night, I asked God where He was because I certainly can’t see any evidence that He is near.  Or at least I could not see such evidence last night.  He did not answer back.  At least not in a way that I can see or hear or touch.  And I need that tangible answer.  I do.  I’m not supposed to need or even want “proof” but lately I am not simply wanting that proof…I am needing it.

Okay, so I didn’t just “ask” God where He was.  I angrily demanded that He reveal Himself in the midst of my anger, confusion, pain and mental exhaustion.  I raged about injustices and lamented over unanswered prayers.

I’m struggling with my faith.  Still.  Are you there, God?

I remember when I was little…asking my dad to carry me when I grew tired.  He would scoop me up, even when I may have been just a little too big to be carried at all, and he would give me just enough respite to regain the strength to keep going on my own.  He would set me back down and straighten out my dress and say in a very confidant voice, “Okay, you can walk the rest of the way.”  And I did.  But I knew that if I grew weary, I could always look up and say, “carry me” and he would.

Now a grown up, I sometimes miss being able to be carried when I grow weary.  I have recently been facing a challenge that has kept me up most nights.  It has churned my stomach and left me feeling spent both emotionally and physically.  I suppose this is where faith comes in.  After all, an unchallenged faith is not really faith.  I suppose this is the blessed opportunity to be joyful in hope and patient in affliction.  I suppose that I should stop being such a child and just face the monsters, knowing I will come out the other side a little bit bruised but quite a bit stronger.

Still, I hear my heart whispering as I lay awake in the small hours of the morning, “carry me.”  And my God, being the merciful and loving Father that He is does just that.

…Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.

Joshua 1:9

If I were a painter, today my studio would be filled, wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling, with chaotic images of dark colors splattered across huge stretched canvas.  There would be paint splashed on my clothes and skin from having had maniacally expressed the extreme anxiety that I am feeling today.  Heart beating, brow sweating, stomach churning, fingers tingling.  Unless you have had such anxiety no amount of painting you a picture would suffice to help you understand.  If you have had such moments, you know precisely what the chaotic mess in the the studio would convey.

Since dumping Prozac, I have done well (for the most part) with the safety net of specialized therapy that truly has made me a much happier and more productive person.  It’s the anxiety that I still have yet to master, despite distress tolerance skills.  I can almost imagine myself being that disheveled girl rocking herself in the corner of a dark room.  Yes, the anxiety is that bad and yes, the need for instant soothing is acute.

Why the anxiety?  Why the absolute terror?  I made an appointment at the dentist.  You see, it only takes a few really traumatic dental encounters to scar you for life.  I’ll spare you the gory details of what I now view as very barbaric treatment, especially for the 1970s.  Suffice to say they were bad enough that the mere thought of simply calling to make an appointment takes me weeks of building courage and a full day of recovery.  Pathetic, I know.

I once listened to an Alfred Hitchcock album (yes, they made them way back when) which was narrated by the great Alfred Hitchcock himself.  There was a story told on that album that I no longer remember, save for one line in which Mr. Hitchcock uttered in his very convincing voice, “What’s done can’t be undone.”  Such it seems with my being terrified of the dentist and all that an appointment with one entails…such it seems with the appointment I just made.  And I still have two days to fight off anxiety at every level.

Despite the anxiety, wise mind tells me it won’t be half as bad as my mind is making it out to be.  Still, it sure would be therapeutic to be able to sling paint onto a canvas, painting a picture of what my anxiety might look like in the flesh.  Maybe then, I could face it once and for all and wash the canvas clean when I was done with it, little dribbles of terror swirling down into the drain.

I am a thinker.  I truly believe that I have made a hobby out of thinking.  This is not a good thing.  This was the case long before I began therapy and have been required to log my every mood and the steps I have taken on any given day to cope with things that most people simply cope with naturally.

So I started thinking about my thinking.  I have come to the conclusion that for the most part, it really gets in the way of a lot of progress in my life.  I am not talking about reasonable forethought or planning.  I am talking about that endless ruminating and analyzing that I tend to do.  For instance, there are days when I think for great lengths of time about what to post here and get so tired of thinking about it that I ditch posting altogether.

Thought overload is one thing when it comes to my website, but entirely something else when the same patterns carry over to my relationships, mainly my marriage.  There is a book on the market right now called How to Improve Your Marriage Without Talking About It. I have not read it but it totally makes sense to me.  Because you can talk an issue to death, but without actually DOING something about it the issue will still exist and will most likely continue to grow out of control.

In short, I need a new hobby.  I’m tired of thinking about thinking about things.  So I am setting out to improve my life without thinking about it.  so much.  I’m not going to sit and think about how nice things would be if only…I’m adopting the Nike philosophy.  Sometimes you just have to ditch the thinking and just do it.

What have you not done simply because you have lost the energy to do it
after investing too much time merely thinking about it?

I am not a Buddhist, nor do I ascribe to much of their belief system.  Some of the Buddhist philosophy, however, is incorporated into the form of therapy that I chose as part of my support network to help me make a smooth transition from legally numb to emotionally functional and healthy.

One such philosophy is that of Radical Acceptance.  And yes, it is as challenging as it sounds.  It involves accepting every moment just as it is, without making an effort to reject it simply because it doesn’t fit my agenda or my preference.  I struggle with the emphasis in this philosophy that to accept something is not the same as judging it as good.  It is merely acknowledging that “it is what it is” and making a conscious choice to respond in a way that is effective rather than fighting the reality of the moment and being miserable about it.

This has been a hard skill for me to grasp let alone master.  I have lived my entire life up until now based on feelings and have been quite uncomfortably comfortable in my passive-aggressive mind set.  Radical Acceptance flies in the very face of both being passive-aggressive and being lead through life by feelings (and Lord am I sick of FEELINGS) - either chasing them or running from them.

Today has been a great lesson in Radical Acceptance.  In short, I felt quite out of sorts.  I was weepy, anxious, distraught and feeling downright pitiful.  It has been my habit to feel one thing and then let it snowball into a humongous entity all its own with one emotion leading to another to another and yet another.  Feeling a twinge of anxiety would lead to judging why I am feeling anxious which leads to analyzing what I am judging as having had made me anxious which may have lead to feeling resentful that something or someone made me feel anxious and so on and so on.  Radical Acceptance now gives me the choice to simply stop at “I feel a twinge of anxiety.”

I have tried to wrap my brain around Radical Acceptance and up until today I simply could not.  And then it just clicked, as I wrestled with such a simply yet mind blowing complex philosophy.  Radical Acceptance does not mean that if I accept something it will change it or make it go away any more than refusing to accept something as it is will change it or make it go away.  It just means it is what it is.  If I accept that I will occasionally feel anxious, it does not have to lead to a panic attack.  Feeling sad or disappointed does not have to lead to full blown depression.

Radical Acceptance simply says, “well crap, there it is…now what are you going to do about it” rather than “Holy Sh*t, WTF, this isn’t right or fair or good or just and I can’t/won’t/shouldn’t have to tolerate this so I am going to cross my arms and just be miserable about it until someone or something fixes/changes/removes it!!!!”

All week I have been struggling with trying to understand and really get the concept of Radical Acceptance.  At this very moment, I can finally say I get it.

I had a crappy day.  It was what it was.  And I’m okay with that.

So much for my grand ideal of posting every day.  Or at least every other day.  It isn’t that I don’t have so very much to say and share….it’s just a matter of time.  My husband has always accused me of being very poor with time management.  I won’t argue but also must throw in that I do indeed try.  Because there really is not a single moment to be squandered.  To juggle work and home and marriage and health (physical, emotional, spiritual) is a huge undertaking.  Some days something is bound to fall through the cracks.  I truly do not know how people do it so well with children.  My recent objective is to have less of the important stuff fall through the cracks, even if that means missing days here.

A couple of months ago I started an advanced anatomy course.  I gave it all of one week before I quickly but confidently determined that it was not a wise choice.  It would have required an additional 3 hours of my day to invest in studies for the subsequent 3 months.  After that it would have been another course and then another in an effort to further piece together my education.  But to what end?   Sure, it’s only three hours a day for a short time…it’s just time.  But it isn’t just time.

You see, I am still pretty much riding with training wheels since kicking the Prozac habit.  When I made the decision to do that I also accepted responsibility for recognizing my limits and not stretching myself too thin.  Before Prozac, I lived my life by the drastic swing of the emotional pendulum - up and manic for a period of time during which I would indulge in irrational amounts of mental energy, taking on huge projects and making great strides and then burning out and eventually riding the pendulum down and over to the other side where I would be caught up in the momentum of irrational amounts of lethargy and depression, unable to take on much more than simply getting through the day.

The pendulum does not swing so drastically any more…I try to keep it as steady as possible.  And that requires not giving it too much momentum.  It requires keeping the weights balanced so I am not drawn to lose myself in one extreme or the other.  And for me, that boils down to being a matter of time and that time being evenly distributed.  I map out my days by priority, attempting to control the momentum of the pendulum; prayer time, home and family comes first, then work, followed by investing in myself through exercise, journaling or a relaxing activity, and ending the day with some time with my husband and time thanking God for the blessings of the day.  There is other stuff thrown in the mix of my day, but ultimately, at least while establishing new habits of coping and living a healthy life, it’s a matter of time.  I never realized what a gift time is until I realized how much of it I have wasted.

I may take that anatomy class again someday, when it doesn’t take so much effort for me gracefully balance the responsibilities I have been blessed with.  Who knows…I may even master those time management skills and find time to spend here at the prayground each and every day.

What about you?  Have you recognized your priorities and found ways to devote yourself to them wholeheartedly, or does the momentum of the pendulum inhibit you from spending quality time on the people and the blessings that truly matter?