Sex: We've Got it all Wrong

This is something that's been in my head and on my heart for a while.  It's going to be unpopular with Christians.  Just a heads-up.  You can choose to stop reading now, but please don't judge me without reading the entire post.

A little background information:

I was born into a strong Catholic family, and my family went to church every Sunday.  They still do, for that matter.  I was raised on Christian beliefs, one of them being that I should wait until marriage before having sex.  This was encouraged at my Catholic junior high and high schools as well.  To be sure, there are many benefits to waiting until marriage.  I'm not going to list them because I'm sure you already know.

I had the distinction of being born before my parents were married, so I also grew up with the knowledge that while sex outside of marriage was a sin, it was not a sin that would get me cast out of my family.  My grandparents were upset to find that my parents were pregnant with me, but they demonstrated true Christian love in choosing not to turn their backs on their children.  I knew that I would receive the same treatment should I ever end up in the same situation.

Good thing too, because my firstborn Noah was 8 1/2 months old when his father and I walked down the aisle.  But I'm getting ahead of myself.

My husband Derek was not my first sexual partner.  He knows this, as we discussed such things early in our relationship.  I won't go into excessive detail, but there were a few before he came along.  He asked me to add that I wasn't his first, either.

After I had sex for the first time at the age of 18, I found it all-too-easy to go down the same road with the next guy I dated, and thus started a vicious cycle.

I was lonely, and I tried to combat that in a very unhealthy way.  I was sexually active, and I felt very guilty for committing that sin.  But that guilt led me to distance myself from my faith, and from the people who loved me and treated me well.

To clarify: I was never in an abusive relationship.  I was just in a string of unhealthy ones.  Much of this was my own fault.

It took me a long time before I became strong enough in myself to be comfortable being alone, and to not settle for a relationship that did not meet my emotional needs.  I did not meet my husband until after I reached this point.  I don't think we would still be together if I hadn't.

I really think society and Christianity have it all wrong in what they teach and demonstrate about sex.  This idea that sex outside of marriage is bad and a sin has led to sex in general being treated as bad, or taboo, or naughty.  So instead of understanding our own needs and seeking to have them met in a healthy way, if we happen to fall short of the ideal (which unfortunately many of us, Christian or no, do) we simply continue down that road with no idea of how to change.

This idea that sex is bad or naughty has led to a few skewed perceptions on the human body.  It's tragic if you really look at it.  The human body is something to be hidden away to keep from inciting bad feelings.  We aren't allowed to view a person's body as beautiful without seeing it as sexual as well.  There's no real reason that we shouldn't be able to view a woman's breasts in the same way that we view a man's chest; as something nice to look at, but not necessarily something sexual or titillating.

This, in turn, has led to the appalling view that one of the essential and beautiful things in the world is wrong and should not be done in public.  The essential function of breasts is to feed babies.  They serve no other useful purpose.  (Believe me.  I have them.  They're often more trouble than they're worth.)  A woman feeding her child in public should be honoured as a beautiful life-giving bonding experience.  There is nothing in the process that involves sex in any way.

The human form has become something that it is only allowable to discuss in a sexual fashion.  The idea that it is beautiful in and of itself, like a flower or a sunrise or a bird in flight has become a foreign concept, because our attitudes about sex have come to be reflected on our bodies.

Sex is good.  Sex is fun.  Sex is necessary to continue the species.  That's why God made it good and fun.  But I think it's time we stopped our focus on it as a sin.

Yup.  There's the controversy.

I think if we spoke more openly about sex to our children we would have less of an epidemic of promiscuity in the world.  It sounds backwards, but it really isn't.

If you grow up not being allowed to drink alcohol, you sneak out and do it behind your parents' back.  You may end up drinking with people who could take advantage of you (in any number of ways).  You may drink and drive.  You may drink too much and pass out with alcohol poisoning surrounded by people who don't know the signs that you are in a life-threatening situation.

But if (like I did) you have parents who buy your alcohol for you and allow you to invite friends (with their parent's permission) over for a drinking party, you can learn how to drink safely with the supervision of people who care about you and won't allow the situation to get out of hand.

I'm not suggesting you throw sex parties for your kids.  That's ridiculous.

What I am saying is that we need to talk more openly about sex and consent.  I think we should teach our sons to respect themselves and their bodies.  We should teach our sons and daughters that sex is good and fun, but it is best with someone who unequivocally wants to have sex with you, and who you unequivocally want to have sex with.

I will teach my sons that if a girl is throwing herself at them when she's drunk at a party, the end emotional backlash is not worth the pleasure.  Same goes if she's really emotional.  My sons will be taught that anything other than a sober, direct "Yes I want to have sex with you" means no.

When two people who really want each other can come together as one, it is a beautiful and rare thing.  I wish I'd known that years ago, when I was filling emotional emptiness with sex.  It was rarely worth it.  A few moments of pleasure were not worth the recriminations and guilt that followed for months afterward.  Or the fear that I might be pregnant with a man I hardly know.  Or wondering if I'd contracted an STI.

True, all of these things could have been avoided if I'd waited until marriage.  But so many people do not wait to have sex.  I think we should teach all people to respect others, their bodies and respect their emotions and their needs.  Sex should be included in this discussion.

If my kids have a question about sex I want them to come to me, not go to their friends or God forbid, Google it.  <shudder>

I think society should focus less on the sinfulness of sex and more on honest, meaningful relationships.  I wish people respected themselves enough to not have sex when it's wrong for them, and to enter into sexual relationships with honesty and respect and openness.

I think using the words sex and sin in the same sentence gives people the wrong impression of what sex is, and what it is for.  It is beautiful.  It is intimate.  It is a gift.  It, and the human body, should not be treated as something giggled over or leered at like adolescents.  We're smarter and more mature than that.

I wish that people in general could see it that way.  I hope I can teach my children that having sex is not the problem.  It's having sex for the wrong reasons, or with the wrong attitude, or an attitude of disrespect; for yourself, your partner, or the act in general; is the problem.

Love,
        -Nan

Writing Again

First of all, sorry for the incredibly long hiatus.

I could give you a whole bunch of reasons why I haven't posted in over a year, but they'd just amount to excuses so I'm going to skip that part and just get to the point.

I'm sorry  I left you with that tirade about romance novels as my last post.  It was kind of random and really unconnected to anything I'd written before.  Well it's not going to feel unconnected anymore!

Ironically enough, what I'm writing today actually relates to that post rather directly.  And I did not plan it that way.

 Please go back and read What's Wrong With What We're Reading. It gives some really good context for what I have to say today.

Well, I started writing again.

All the writing I have done since high school has been in the form of a couple talks I gave at a religious retreat and anything I've posted here.  That's it.

I don't think I've done any creative writing since grade school.  Which is a terrible shame, because I write fictional stories and situations in my head all the time.  And I've been doing this for over two decades.

I write original stories, or I explore situations that never got to happen with my favourite characters in books, TV shows, and even video games.  (For those of you who don't know, this is called "fanfiction", or fanfic for short.  Theres a website, Fanfiction.net that has thousands of them.)  It's rare that I don't have some scenario or other playing in the back of my head.

I have never made any attempts to get any of those stories down on paper.  Until this week.  They just roll around in my head until they get to some resolution, or I move on to a new story.

Four days ago I finally sat down and started writing a novel.  An original work about characters that I created.

I cannot even begin to discribe to you how much this terrifies me.  This is the one thing I have always wanted to do with my life.  I love my children.  I feel that I was called to be a mom.  I think I'm pretty good at it, where my specific children are concerned.  I was called to be a wife.  I am less good at that, but I'm working on it.

But writing, and maybe making a living at it, that is my dream.  If I could do anything in the world, I would write fiction.  And I just finally took the first step towards maybe, just maybe, being able to do that.

I know it's not actually that likely I will be able to do be a professional Novelist.  A lot of things need to align in my favour if this dream is going to become a reality.  But dammit, I am going to try.  And trying something that scares you and failing is so much better than never trying at all.

I'm a little embarassed that I'm writing a romance novel.  Or I was until I re-read my last post.  If you want to know why I'm writing my book, it's all in there.  I want to write the cure to the bad romance novel.

I want to write a book that shows people what a good, strong, loving and healthy relationship between two people looks like.  I don't know if I'm going to succeed.  I don't know if there's a publisher out there who will actually be interested in what I'm writing even if I do.

I started this blog to get some practice with writing on a more regular basis, and to maybe find my voice, on the page.  That's why I called it "Finding My Voice".  (I freely admit I've been rather abyssmal at the getting regular practice part.)

If this blog is Finding My Voice, then writing a novel is Screaming Out Loud.

I've been working on the novel every day for four days.  I am very aware that four days isn't very much, as far as establishing habits is concerned.  But it's a start.  I've also been writing in a red journal, by hand, trying to keep track of my thoughts and ideas as to the book, my characters and my writing process.  It is my hope that it'll help on those days when the words don't come easy.

And I can tell you from the times I sat down to write a post and didn't finish it, that sometimes the words really don't come easy.

This particular story has been rolling around in my head for almost a year now.  I know the basic plot.  I know the characters.  I know how everything is supposed to work out in the end.  It's putting it all down on paper that's the hard part.  I have entire scenes that I have to write based on a single vague sentence.  Not even I will know how they turn out until I actually write them.

So expect to see a lot more posts on my writing process and how the novel is coming.  Hopefully keeping more of a life-focus on writing my novel will keep me posting back here on a far more regular basis.  (No promises.  I am undependable.)

I just had to come here and tell you what I'm up to now.

Hopefully see you soon.

Love,
      -Nan
                          

What's Wrong With What We're Reading

First of all, I apologise for the excessive alliteration in the title for this post.  But it fit, so I used it.

I am very much an escapist.  I read a great deal.  I love fantasy novels, romance, and urban fantasy novels. Occasionally I will stray from these genres, but not too often.  The problem is, I find so few books that are actually worth reading.  I like a complex, heart-wrenching book that has a happy ending.  But if I don't have the heart of a writer, I certainly have the heart of a critic.

There are a number of reasons I will stop reading a book.  (Or even refuse to pick it up in the first place, for that matter.)  I'm gonna first give you a list of my reading pet-peeves before getting into my main point, which specifically pertains to romance novels.

I hate it when an author makes their character do something that character simply wouldn't do.  I tried reading a book once where this 23-year-old virgin went out to meet a guy on a blind date and she was so turned on by this guy that she practically jumped him right there in the bar, and then proceeded to go home with this stranger and do precisely that.  Before she went out that night she'd had no intention of having sex with anyone.  Needless to say, right about the time she lost her virginity I stopped reading.  I hate it when authors put their characters in contrived situations and don't allow said characters to respond in a way that actually makes sense for them.

I hate weak-willed female characters.  With a fiery, burning passion, actually.  That whole wilting-flower, damsel-in-distress thing just does not fly with me.

I hate it when someone tries to write a fantasy-style book or series without setting down a strict set of internally logical rules.  People should do fantastic things in fantasy novels.  But they still have to make sense in the context of the story.  It's not an excuse to allow your characters to do strange and unbelievable things with no consequences or reasoning why and how they are able to do such things.

I hate it when characters are too perfect.  There are a number of specific examples that I could give you but each would require their own paragraph to explain and I think this post is going to run long, as is.  Suffice it to say, almost every man in any romance novel you ever read fits this bill.  The man is tall, handsome and muscular.  He's very capable, never scared (unless the Damsel is in distress) and he never freaks out at situations that would have you and me in a padded room in under six seconds.  If he gets beat up, shot or stabbed he can shrug it off like a mosquito bite.  But manlier.  He never whines about his injuries unless he's trying to deliberately manipulate sympathy out of a girl.  You get the picture.  No real man, or human being for that matter, is like that.  People feel pain.  They whine.  They fart.  They have imperfect bodies and bad hair and they act like they've lost a finger when they get a paper cut.  (Seriously though, those things effing hurt!)  People have flaws.  Even the ones that look perfect.

I abhor (see?  I found a new word!  Thesaurus to the rescue!) it when one character's secret past pain is revealed to another character through some sort of mystic dream where the dreamer gets to experience that pain as if it happened to them.  Really, really abhor.  This is the kind of contrived plot device that creates false intimacy.  When two people get to know each other well enough, they choose to tell each other about their past; the good the bad and the ugly.  It is choosing to share this pain that creates said intimacy.  Think of something that scarred you emotionally at least ten years ago.  Now imagine that someone you are just coming to care for gets to see that entire event in living color, before you feel comfortable sharing it with them.  Makes you feel kind of violated, don't it?  It would color that person's entire view of you, and they would have no concept of what happened after that which helped or allowed you to cope and move on from that event.  Because the fact that you're here and sitting in front of a computer and not in that padded room I mentioned earlier tells me that you found a way to get through this traumatic experience. They would think that pain was the central fact of your existence, and maybe it is, but it's had time to scar and though it's part of you, it isn't all of you.  This plot device brings people closer together whithout ever earning it, whether through plot or character development.

And finally I can get to my original point. 

A little backstory here.  I just read a book.  And I was completely and utterly horrified and disgusted by it's portrayal of so-called romantic behavior.

The guy started out as a selfish jerk.  (I actually liked this more realistic portrayal of a leading man, to be completely honest.  I found it refreshing.)  He actually became gradually less of a jerk as the story progressed.  Right up until he started having feelings for the girl.  Then he turned into a creepy controlling nutcase.

He kept thinking of spanking the girl whenever she did something he didn't like.  He even turned her over his knee and spanked her bare butt in one scene.  She was very turned on.  His behavior in this scene seemed to be made completely okay because she found it sexually arousing.  (FYI I don't actually think spanking in the fetish, sexy sort of way is a bad thing, in theory.  But deliberately humiliating your significant other, treating them like a child, and physically raising a hand to them as a form of punishment?  Not.  Okay.)  Yes the scene was kind of sexy but in a very disturbing this is wrong sort of way.  They had a strange, aquaintances-with-benefits deal while living on separate sides of a split rented house.  Then after she broke up with him, while she was medicated and passed out, he moved all her stuff out of her apartment and into his, and then changed the locks on her apartment.  (My thoughts at this point were of the "What the FUCK?!" variety.  But with more expletives.)  Now the guy did actually own the house she was renting half of, but I know a thing or two about tennant rights and I'm pretty darn sure that he could be arrested and charged with any number of things for this behavior pretty much anywhere in North America.  Most of the world probably, if you added in the abduction and theft, come to think of it.

So then she threatened to move out completely and he just told her that he'd buy the house next to where she'd move to.  She called him a stalker, but secretly she was amused by his statement.  What.  The.  Fuck.  The fact that he finally declared his love for her made all of his controlling and manipulative behavior all okay.  It just showed her how much he loved her and couldn't live without her.  See previous bolded statement.  They both lived happily ever after.  In the book, that is. 

In real life, he starts beating her within three months.  She tries to leave him and he puts her in the hospital, telling her if she ever tries again he'll kill her.  But it's all her fault because he loves her so much and she just makes him so angry.

This is my major pet peeve with romance novels.  They portray men as big and strong and necessary for a woman's survival and wellbeing, and women as weak and stupid.  Or if a woman is strong and smart, the act of falling in love causes all her muscles to atrophy and her brain to be lobotomised, rendering her weak and maleable so the man can feel strong and smart.  Basically, you are a woman, and therefore weak.  Apparently a strong intelligent woman is a threat to any man's masculinity and therefore if you want to find real passion and love you need to be weak so your man can feel strong.

The real problem with this is that many lonely readers don't have the critical thinking skills or real-life experience to see that this is the opposite of what we should want out of a relationship.  These books tell us that we should find a man who we can't live without.  That this passion for another person should outweigh our very will to live.  And worse yet, these books imply that anything less isn't real love.  Which is a load of bullshit.

I am no expert on love.  My five-year marriage is far from perfect.  My husband is far from the dark-haired-blue-eyed-tall-and-lean-but-ripped ideal I held in my head for the perfect man.  I am also far from the ideal he held in his head before he met me.  But he is an excellent match for me personality wise, and he is very handsome and intelligent and funny and most of the time he puts up with my many, many personality quirks with the kind of patience that would awe a saint.

If he died I would be devastated.  It would take me a long time to get over the love of my life, my other half.  But I would survive.  Likewise for him if I died.  We've actually discussed this possibility.  We both agree that the other should move on and get remarried, should tragedy strike.  I don't want my (potential) death to keep the man I love from a happy and full life.  If there was a woman out there who could care for and love the man and children I left behind, then they have my blessing.  The people I love deserve to be happy, even without me.

You see, love doesn't make you weak.  It doesn't crush your spirit and render you incapable.  Love makes you stronger.  It pushes you, tests your limits and forges two people into two even stronger people, who are separate but yet an inextricable part of each other.  A man who loves you will support your dreams, (Within reason.  If you love him you'll make sure the dreams you pursue don't crush him in the process.) help you forge new dreams and stand behind you but let you be in a position to fall, and fail, ready to help you back up again.  He doesn't put you in a protective bubble that keeps you from harm and failure.  Love doesn't do that.  That's not love, it's fear.  If a man wants to protect you so much that you feel smothered, it's because he's afraid of losing you.  He doesn't trust himself to be able to go on if something happens to you, or you leave.  Real love trusts the other person to be able to fight their own battles when they need to, and trusts themselves to be able to go on should the worst happen.  A real man actually feels stronger and more intelligent when he is supported by a woman who is strong and intelligent enough to challenge him.  Likewise a real woman.  We don't need a weak man to make us feel strong, and we don't need a strong man to make us feel capable.

I really, really wish more women (and men) knew that.  And these books that misportray the ideal that we should strive for are the very opposite of helpful. 

If you want to read some books that I believe do it right, check out the Cassie Palmer series by Karen Chance.  One of the main character's love interests surrounds her in bodyguards to keep her safe.  The other is teaching her how to fight, watching her back all the while.  Guess which one I'm hoping gets the girl?

Thanks for hanging in there for my bitter tirade.

Love,
       -Nan

Update: My Shiny Bald Head

Decided to just bite the bullet and shave my head tonight.  It terrified me.  I very much expected to hate it.  (As mentioned in my last post.)

But guess what?  I don't! 

I'm not going to keep it this way because the upkeep is horrid, but I am now bald as a cue ball and I still haven't hit the point where I no longer like how it looks.  And my husband keeps grinning at me and just told me that he likes it like this!  He did a great job of the back half that I couldn't see.  No nicks, either.

This is a progression of my hair starting three years ago:

May 2009:

May 2011:

July 2011:

 February 2012:

March 2012:

June 12, 2012 (yesterday):

What do you think of it?

I guess now I'm going to have to find something else that scares me. 

Love,
       -Nan

I'm A Woman And I Cut All My Hair Off

I Haven't Lost My Mind

No, really.

Honestly.

Just because my hair is now an eighth of an inch long does not mean I've had a nervous breakdown.  It doesn't mean that I'm turning into Britney Spears.  <shudder>  I have not become a lesbian or a radical extremist and my husband has not shaved my head in an effort to control me.  (In point of fact, I shaved it myself twice without his help.  He was only there to help the third time and that was only to make sure I didn't look like I had mange.  Thanks, hon!)

This was not a spur-of-the-moment decision for me.  I've had a pixie cut since last July.  I've been getting it cut shorter and shorter since then.  I had my hairdresser cut it with the clippers the first time I went to a buzz cut.  I wasn't sure how short I should go and I trust her, so I let her do it.  I only lost 1-2 inches of hair that time.  So it's not like I just one day hacked off a foot and a half of hair.

While I understand (and appreciate!) the concern some people have for my well-being, I feel that concern is misplaced.  I am well aware that cutting your hair off can be a form of self-mutilation and a desperate cry for help.  That is simply not the case here.

The truth is that this kind of started about 5 years ago.  I'll start a few years before that to give you the back story.  I used to have long hair, down to mid-back when I was in high school.  Shortly after I graduated I had it cut to shoulder length.  I liked it for about three weeks.  And then I hated it.  I spent the next few years cutting it as seldom as I dared in order to grow it back.  My hair kind of became my security blanket, though I didn't know it at the time.  It was the one thing I held onto through multiple broken hearts and a very frustrating time in my life.

It wasn't until after I married my husband Derek, that I began to want to cut it shorter.  I'd had the same long hair ever since I met him and I never did much with it.  It was really quite boring.  So I decided to cut it shorter.  And I liked it.  Derek wasn't fond of the bangs, but that was his baggage from someone he used to know who had low self-esteem and used her bangs to hide behind.  But he preferred it shorter, too.  I suddenly was getting compliments all the time.  It was something I wasn't used to, but I very much enjoyed the attention.

And after that I kept letting my stylist cut it shorter and shorter until it reached jaw length.  And then I got one haircut that I didn't like.  I went back and got it fixed the next day.  It was short.  Not a pixie cut, but shorter than jaw length.  And though I liked it, it made me want to try a pixie cut.  I was sooo excited to get that pixie cut for my 30th birthday!  And I looooooved it.  Even my dad, who hates it when I cut my hair shorter, said it suited me.  Everyone I spoke to told me, "It's so you!"  (Which I privately think is code for "I don't like it, but you sure seem to!".  But that's besides the point because I loved it.  And I am probably just projecting my insecurities.)

So over five years, my hair has gotten shorter and shorter.  And with one pointed exception, I loved it more the shorter it got.  The pixie cuts even got shorter and shorter.  And somewhere in the last year, I decided that since I keep liking it shorter and shorter, I was going to have to figure out where the line is where I don't like it anymore.  So I decided to go all the way.  See that picture up there?  I took that after I buzzed it with a #2 guard.  I used a #1 guard last night, so it's even shorter now.  And I have yet to get to the point where I actually dislike how it looks.

But after that first buzz cut, you would not believe the feedback I've been getting.  Friends have asked me if I'm turning into Britney Spears or losing my mind.  Family members have flat out asked me why I would do such a thing.  My grandfather jokingly asked me how the Chemo was coming.  (Note:  I wish I could say that I chose to shave my head for some noble reason, like a friend or family member lost all their hair, or I'm raising money for cancer research.  Those are excellent and noble reasons to shave your head.  My reasons are entirely selfish.  I just wanted to know what it was like.)

I don't even really mind the comments, or the strange looks I've gotten.  Actually, shaving my head has taught me a valuable lesson about myself.  I've spent my entire life trying to fit in.  I lived in fear that someone (or everyone) would see how weird I was and know what a terrible job I'm doing trying to be normal.  (Truth be known, I now think the joke's on me and that everyone's always known.)  By shaving my head, I finally did something that's very not-normal.  It's out there and it's very visible.  Many people don't approve.  And

I.

Don't.

Care!

I like it.  I actually really like it.  It's easy to take care of.  It's cool in the summer.  I love the way it feels against the palm of my hand.  I love that I can't get bedhead or hathead and that I can drive down the highway with the window open and my hair doesn't whip me in the face.  I love that I can give a massage and my hair is completely and utterly out of my way, instead of sticking to my face when I'm trying to concentrate.  It stays out of my face when I go swimming and I can be out of the pool and dressed in 10 minutes.  I can go for a run without it sticking to the back of my neck.  (As of last night, it is a little cold, though.  When the weather isn't warm, I have to wear a toque.  I wore one to bed last night.)

When I think of a bald woman, I see someone who's strong, like a woman in the military.  I see courage, like someone who is fighting cancer.  I see someone beautiful who chooses to redefine themselves.  Like Evey Hammond in "V for Vendetta".  (It doesn't hurt that Natalie Portman is absolutely gorgeous as a bald woman.)  That's what the words "bald woman" mean to me.

Being bald has changed my perception of myself.  I am redefining my own beauty.  My femininity does not come from my hair, or even from my breasts or my uterus.  Likewise with my beauty.  Those things come from within, from the essence of my being.  And somehow by stripping myself of the feminine vanity that is my hair, I have made myself feel both more feminine, and more essentially and inately beautiful than I have ever been in my life.  It has inspired me to be more me.  Because regardless of what anyone else thinks, I am beautiful and intelligent and talented and loving and very, very strange, and I should walk down the street with my head held high and own all of those things.  If I can be accepting of myself, it really doesn't matter what anyone else thinks.

It is very freeing to strip myself of this excess.  I will be shaving my head bald, with a razor, soon.  Probably only once.  I fully expect to hate the way it looks.  But I can wear hats, and the hair will grow back.  It should take maybe a couple of weeks for my hair to reach the length it is now.  But I can't come this far and not go all the way.  I need to see where this takes me.

Maybe this fall I'll grow it back.  It does get rather cold here in the winter.  I think I could use the extra insulation.  But maybe I won't.  I kind of like it as it is right now.  I do believe I may become openly eccentric.  I think it's time I became Odd and Proud.  I can be bald and still be a good person, a good mom.  Who knows what else I can do?  I think I'm gonna find out. <evil snicker>

(Side note: a huge thank-you to my husband Derek who has taken my experiment in image and self-esteem completely in stride.  I don't think he loves my hair the same way I do, but he doesn't hate it either.  Or at least he's smart enough to keep it to himself if he does.)

Love,
     -Nan

Reconciling With Myself

I've summed up the entire journey of self-improvement I embarked upon a year and a half ago:
Self-reconciliation.

I've discovered that it's not really about the weight loss or the depression or the anxiety or the anger.  They're all very important parts, but they're only part of it.  It's really about knowing myself better, and liking myself better. 

The funny thing is that it's not even about liking every aspect of myself.  It's about refusing to beat myself up about the stuff I don't like.  Instead of the negative self-talk that's been a staple of my diet for almost 30 years, I face the things I don't like and choose to change them.  If there's something I don't like about myself , it has no place in my life.  That negativity turns into a black hole and swallows all the good things.  So it's my job to make those black holes as small or nonexistent as possible.

I came to this realisation in a strange and roundabout way.

Bear with me here; it's gonna get a little convoluted.

It all started with the water aerobics.  You see, I am afraid of water.  I had a bad experience when I was 7 years old, and I've been afraid of deep water ever since.  So there's always this edge of fear and panic when I'm in water that's over my head.

When I started water aerobics, I couldn't do the shallow classes because I have problems with my lower back and knees.  I needed low-to-no-impact exercise.  So I was forced to do the deep water class.  This wasn't actually a huge problem for my confidence because you use a floatation belt when in the class.  You can sit quite comfortably in the water and not have to do anything to keep your head above the surface.

So going to these classes twice a week actually built up my confidence in the water by giving me the opportunity to enjoy it without fear.  I had my "safety net" floatation belt the entire time, so I got to let go of the worry that I could drown.  And going twice a week, I got quite good at it.  So I decided to make it harder.  I would go and pick out a belt for myself, and leave it at the edge of the pool, going until I got tired enough to need the belt.  That plan lasted exactly three classes, because by the third time I tried it, I actually went the entire 50-minute class without the belt!

(For the record, I went to the class twice a week for about six months before I tried this, so I was very familiar with the exercises by the time I made the attempt.  It was not a rash or poorly thought out decision on my part.)

So suddenly I could actually "swim" for an entire hour in the deep end without any floatation device, and I was so focused on getting the best out of my workout, that I didn't have time for fear.

So I conquered one of my greatest fears over the last year, without actually meaning to do so.

And I discovered that I actually love the water.  I love being on it, I love being in it.  I love swimming, floating, and just plain treading water.  My entire life I've separated myself from something that was always meant to be a part of me because I was afraid.  This was a life-changing revelation for me.

Somewhere inside me was an emotional block made of fear, and it kept me from realising something that is actually a core part of my being.  Water makes me feel calm, at peace, and completely free.  I became a different person when I realised that: calmer and more peaceful and content.

I discovered that I need to dissect my life, and bring all of my fears and faults and mistakes to the surface.  I need to face the things that scare me, cut out the parts of myself that I don't like, and I need to rebuild myself as I should be.  I need to reconcile myself, to myself, and in the process, create the me I should always have been.

So to that end, I've got a few things in the works that I've done, or I'm planning on doing, that scare me.  I went and had boudoir photos done.  (Thanks, Maj!)  In an effort to face my own body issues and learn to love myself, I had to expose myself, with all my flaws and stretch marks.  I haven't seen all the pics yet, but I liked what I saw briefly.  I am beautiful.  And anyone who disagrees can go ahead and do so, because their opinion just doesn't matter.  I'm entering at least one 10k race this year.  I will very likely shave my head bald by summer.  Just because.  And I'm going to try wall climbing.  I hate heights.

So my current state of happiness and contentment with my life really has little to do with the fact that I'm not depressed anymore, and that I've lost almost 25lbs in 16 months.  It actually happened the other way around.  When I began to accept myself and make the effort to change what I didn't like, the weight started to come off, and the depression faded.  I feel like right now, I am the best person I have ever been, and there's still soooo much room for improvement.  So I'm going to keep trying to do better, to be better.

My failures are valuable lessons learned.  My successes are signposts directing me towards a better life.  And my life, right now, is better than I could have imagined even a year ago.  And by God, it's only going to get better.

Love,
      -Nan

Not-Resolutions

I don't make New Year's resolutions.  Never have.  I don't see why my goal-setting should be tied to the rolling over of a number.  So I don't make em.

That being said, I still have goals for this coming year.  And I did a not-bad job of meeting my goals last year.

I didn't meet my weight loss goal.  But I did lose 20lbs over the course of the year.  I did start a fitness regime that I kept at and maintained.  (For the most part.)  And when I fell off the wagon and gained 7lbs back, I got back on the wagon and lost them again, getting back into my workouts.  I started going for counselling for my depression and anxiety.  I have become a more positive and capable person.  I turned 30.  And I freaking love it.

So that's what I did last year.  This is what I've got planned for the one ahead:

I am getting into a stress management group/class to help me deal with my anger and temper issues.  I'm tired of yelling all the time.  My husband and my kids, and my dog, and I deserve better.  So this is me trying to do better.

I am running three miles a day, three times a week.  (That's the aim, anyway.  Some weeks I do better than others.)  I'm training to run 6 miles in 75 minutes.  Me and my sisters are going to run a marathon as a relay team in June, so I have to run between 8 and 12 km (depending on which leg I do).  I am very nervous/excited about this race.  It will be my first race, and doing it with all of my sisters is a great show of solidarity for the four of us, and a great celebration of our individual fitness and weight loss successes over the last few years.

I am done with being anxious and depressed.  Done.  This doesn't mean I will never have to deal with these issues of mental health.  Far from it, in fact.  I will always have to deal with them.  They're a part of who I am.  But I'm done with letting my issues push me around.  And regular exercise is helping to keep my anxieties in check.

I recently became hooked on Florence + the Machine.  Specifically the song "Shake it Out".  It's my anti-anxiety theme song.  I am inspired by lines like:

I'm tired of dragging that horse around/
tonight I'm gonna bury that horse in the ground

I like to keep my issues strong/
it's always darkest before the dawn

Anxiety and depression are my "horse" and this year with running and fitness I am going to bury that horse.  I am tired of dragging the weight, figuratively and literally.  So this year I start off by looking back at the successes of last year, and forward with a positive attitude at what I can do with this one.  Hope yours has started out as well and if you need any pointers on weight loss and getting started with fitness, let me know.  I've learned a few tricks.

Love,
      -Nan

Exciting New Things

Well, the new things aren't really that new anymore, but they're new since my last post.

I'm going to have to separate this into sections by person because there's lots to cover.


Sean

Sean started preschool in late September through a government program that helps speech-delayed kids catch up before starting school.  He's in the same place that his brother was for the last two years so it's very familiar to us.  He absolutely loves it there, and his speech has been improving by leaps and bounds!  (He was assessed a few months ago and rated in the 5th percentile.  This means that 19 out of twenty kids his age have better speaking skills.)

He knows his entire alphabet at three and a half years old.  He can actually sound out and read some three- and four-letter words.  We've got him doing some preschool video games on his brother's Ipad, which seem to be helping him to learn basic reading skills.  It also makes him feel a little less left out where the fun Ipad his brother always gets to use is concerned.


Derek

My husband has been insanely busy at work lately.  They lost two experienced people in the space of a week in late August, (one got another job, the other had a baby and is now on maternity leave) and when you combine that with the busiest fall his department has ever seen what you get is lots of overtime and not much time at home with the family.  But he's home every night and every weekend so we still get to see much more of Derek than many families do their fathers and husbands.

Noah

Lots and lots and lots has happened since my last post!  Noah got approved for government funding for an aide to come to the house to do therapy, as well as 4 hours a month each of speech therapy and occupational therapy.  The process was surprisingly painless and not too terribly long.  We got more services than we really thought we could ever get.

Noah started Kindergarten in September.  I don't have details but I think he kind of freaked out the staff on the first day.  We thought that being in two full days a week might be too much for him and it was suggested that Noah attend four half-days instead.  (I was against this idea because it would mean that we were deciding to hold Noah back to repeat Kindergarten, and we'd be deciding that just as he started!  I wasn't against the idea of him being held back alltogether, but I did think some more time was necessary to make that decision.)  He actually settled in very quickly and that whole idea was scrapped  by October.  Which makes me very happy, of course!  Noah has a full-time aide who works just with him, one-on-one, to help him integrate with the class and transition between activities.

Noah's home aide comes over on the three days a week he's not in school.  She's here for three hours each of those days.  We're seeing some good progress on his self-help and living skills, but his speech is still very poor for his age.  (We believe this is part of the reason Sean is so far behind.)

So now Noah has an aide for school, a (different) aide for home, a speech therapist for school, a different speech therapist for home and an occupational therapist who sees Noah both at the school and in our home (which is great, because Lisa is the same therapist who saw Noah in preschool last year, and she's the only familiar face we've had starting out this school year).

Things have gotten kind of hectic. 

A really nice recent development in Noah's ongoing therapy is that most of his team have recently gotten training in what is called "R & R" therapy.  It stands for "Reference and Regulate".  It's a newly developed system created specifically for Autistic individuals.  It teaches how to make eye contact and read facial cues and body language.  Noah was actually doing this therapy for the last half of last year at preschool, and when he finally started to catch on to it, it was incredible!  He learned to make good eye contact and was communicating much better.  I'm very excited about him starting this therapy again.

Aaaand....
Noah has started to read.  We started him on some learning programs on the computer and Ipad, because he's so fixated on electronics.  He can sound out words, and read simple sentences.  He can sight read over three dozen words.  He'll be turning five a the end of this month.

So lots and lots of progress on the Noah front.  One or two years of this kind of intensive therapy should help him immeasurably in the future.

And last but not least...


Me

(I saved the best for last.)

I noticed that I'd been depressed for about three months in August.  So I've been going to counselling every two to three weeks since then.  It's really nice to have someone who you can talk to who just gives you ideas on how to make things better and doesn't judge. 

I threw my back out.  Couldn't bend over, etc.  I've been going to physiotherapy once a week since then.  I haven't been able to go jogging, but the physio has helped.  My strength is back and I'm almost entirely pain-free.

Despite this, I have been watching what I eat and I've lost the five pounds I gained back recently.  I just hit the "lost a full 20 lbs this year" milestone two days ago!  I'm going to try to lose another 10 to 20 lbs by next summer.

I had to get an Iphone to remind me of my appointments because between Noah and I, we've got a lot of appointments all of a sudden and I was starting to flake out and forget them.  Those stupid little gadgets are freaking addictive!  Books on my phone?!  How am I ever supposed to get anything done now?


So that's my life over the last 2+ months.  I've been busy and avoiding this blog.  I've been thinking about writing a novel and it's been making me nervous and I think that's been making me neglect Finding My Voice.  I give you no excuses.  Thanks for tuning in!

Love,
       -Nan

Eva-monster and the Miracle of the Loose Leash

I got a miracle today.  An honest-to-God, miracle.  Most would say it's not really that big a deal, but for me, it's huge!

I took Eva for a 5 km jog today.  It was the first time in a couple of months.  We used to go jogging on a more regular basis but with the torrential downpour that whas the entirety of July, my falling off the wagon exercise-wise, and the addition of a bike contraption which allows Eva to run along beside my bicycle without pulling me over (yay!) we haven't been jogging for a while.

Side note: I know I don't exercise my dog enough.  But between the bike, jogging, and going to my parents' acreage and running around all day with the dogs, she's still getting quite a bit.  And I'm working on getting out with her more often.

I'm gonna go back a bit here.  I've had Eva ever since she was about 10 weeks old.  She's been a part of my family for over 2 years now.  She's been through three different obedience classes and two agility ones.  (You wouldn't believe how fast she is when you can keep her focused.)  And through all that, she still pulls on-leash.  All the time.  Now, she doesn't pull nearly as hard as she used to, but she still pulls.  Two years, and she still pulls.   Argh...

I've used a no-pull harness with her.  (She's outgrown it now.)  I use a partial choke collar so she can only pull so hard before she has to ease up.  Also the sound of the collar clinking helps when I shake the leash before she hits the end, so she can tell better when she's about to hit the pulling point.  But she still pulls.  I freely admit that if I'd walked her more as a puppy I probably wouldn't have this problem.  But I can't go back, so no point dwelling on it.

So today we're going for a jog.  She's excited and wants to run, so she's out there at the very end of that leash.  And then this weird thing starts happening: every so often, she eases up and drops back just a little, for a few seconds.  I am quick to give her a "Good girl, Eva!" of encouragement, because this kind of volunteered behavior should be acknowledged.  And she starts doing it more often, and for longer and longer.  By the time we get to the cool-down walk at the end, she's walking with a slack leash about half the time.  And when she starts pulling, all it takes is for me to say "Easy..." softly for her to slow down and stop pulling.

She still pulls like crazy when she gets excited, but at her more mellow times, she seems to remember that a slack leash is a good thing, and that has me extatic.

So that's my miracle.  After two years, multiple classes, and many hours of walking and jogging while on-leash, she gets it.  My crazy, high-energy dog can settle down enough to enjoy her walks instead of trying to plow through them  Yay!

Love,
      -Nan

In Stitches

I have recently been initiated into an aspect of parenting I would much rather have forgone, thank you very much.

I'm sure many parents have gone through the process of taking their child to emergency for any number of reasons, and I'm sure many are far, far worse than my son's injury.  I am so very sorry you had to go through that.

But this is my story, and the first time your child is injured badly enough to go to the hospital is terrifying, no matter how minor the injury.

Derek's cousin got married a couple of weeks ago.  (Beautiful wedding!  Congratulations to Miranda and Jeff!)  They had an outdoor wedding at a campground, and many of the attendees were camped out there for the weekend.  Ourselves included. 

So there we were with our spiffy new (and by new, I mean it's older than I am, but we just bought it) motorhome, me and Derek and the kids.  And Noah, of course, was having a little trouble coping with all the bustle and change in routine.  So I decided to put him and his brother to bed close to his normal bed time.  We were camped a few minutes walk from the day-use area where the wedding reception was being held.

So I've got Noah and Sean tucked up in bed in the bunk above the cab in the motorhome.  (They sleep in the top bunk because it means it's much less likely that Noah can get out and wander at night.)  Derek's off at the day use area having fun with his relatives.  (We had agreed on this beforehand; he knows his family much better than I do, and he doesn't get to see them very often.  So that night was a party-your-heart-out night for Derek.)

I've just finished tidying up the camp and settling in for a long boring night by the fire with one of my favourite books, when I hear thud, THUD. 

Now you parents in the crowd know that there are thuds, and there are THUDS.  The former is an indication that one or more of your children is misbehaving and is in for a talking-to.  The latter is a clanging alarm bell on the inside of your skull screaming that something is wrong.

So I ran into that camper so fast I had Noah in my arms before he was even crying.  Noah had fallen from the over-cab bunk.  (Sean wasn't even phased by his brother's trauma.)  There was blood, and at first I thought he'd split his lip, but then he tilted his head back.  My thoughts: Oh, that's gonna need stitches.  His chin was split open and the wound was gaping.  That wasn't gonna get fixed with a band-aid.

So I fish out my cell phone and call my husband, telling him, "Noah fell out of the top bunk and he's gonna need stitches."

"I'll be right there."

Those few seconds of trying to keep Noah calm while not panicking, myself, were some of the longest of my life.

He arrives, takes Noah from me.  Noah is quiet now, just making this soft keening sound that alerts us that he's upset and doesn't know what's going on.  Derek turns to me and says, "He's gonna need stitches."

This trips my Sarcasm Circuits, and he gets The Look.  I think: That's what I said, stupid.  I'm pretty sure I didn't say it out loud.  At least I hope I didn't.

Derek's mom and sister-in-law arrive on the scene.  His mom gives us directions to the hospital and says she'll watch Sean.  His brother's wife, Jessica tells us to keep him awake because he may have a concussion.  He is very drowsy at this point, and the accident happened about five minutes earlier.  So we are concerned.  I drive, being as Derek's been drinking, and he rides in the back and keeps Noah awake.

So a fifteen minute drive to a town I don't know, to find a hospital I've never been to in the dark.  The emergency waiting room is empty.  (Thank God!)  They check him out, informed that Noah is autistic.

They give him some medicine so he won't remember being stitched.  (I don't know if this is standard procedure for stitching children or because he's autistic, but I sure appreciated that.)  And after taking the medication, he promptly falls asleep.  He wakes up and it takes four people to hold him when they give him the freezing needle.  And he promptly falls asleep again.  Doesn't even move when they start cleaning the wound.  So Derek and I opt to not watch our baby being poked and stitched, and go to the waiting room.  A few minutes later he has a perfect row of eight tiny stitches under his chin.  They did a beautiful job stitching him.

He shows no symptoms of concussion, and we are allowed to take him back to the camp.

He sleeps like the dead until 9 a.m. the next morning, and is babbling a mile a minute from the moment he wakes up.  He doesn't seem bothered at all by the dressing on his chin, and doesn't seem to be in any pain.  Looks like he's gonna be fine.

So the stitches are out now.  He's going to have a scar there, but the whole ordeal was, in retrospect, not all that bad.  And not nearly as bad as it could have been.  Thank God!

So that was my traumatic induction into the your-child-has-been-injured-and-needs-to-go-to-hospital club.  I hope you never have to join it.

Love,
     -Nan

P.S.  A big thank-you to all the staff at the Fort Saint John hospital.  You were calm, competent and empathetic.  You made a bad experience into a much more tolerable one.  God bless you!

P.P.S.  And also to my sister Candice (a registered nurse) for taking out the stitches while by some miracle keeping Noah calm.  You truly have a gift, sister.