Thank you.
Thank you for being the rock that this family is built on. Thank you for being the glue that holds us together.
You taught us to recycle long before being environmentally conscious was a thing. You taught me that safety is important, and you taught this by example. I can't even get in a car without doing up my seatbelt, and I don't even have to think about it. Life jackets in the water. Helmets for riding bikes. Awareness of the potential danger in all things.
With an Autistic son, these are even more important, and may have saved my child's life.
Thank you.
For your tireless prayer and concern for me and the family I have made. For your worry and anxiety and concern for the children you raised and now make their own way in the world.
Thank you.
For the way you love my children, and the joy you find in them, and the joy you build in them.
Thank you.
For the way you love and support my father, who with his physical and otherwise ailments, is not always the easiest person to love, or support, or care for.
Thank you.
You taught me what it is to be a feminist, long before I ever thought to explore such things. You were always strong and capable. With your four daughters, you showed us that together we could do anything a man could do. (It sometimes took us longer, but we got the job done. We found a way.) You taught me that doing daily chores could be an act of love, and that doing the 'pink' jobs around the house made you no less of a strong, capable, intelligent woman. You taught me quiet grace. (Though that lesson didn't really take with me. I am in turns either very loud, or silent. And graceful has never been my strong suit.)
Thank you.
You taught me compassion, and responsibility to those who have less. You taught me that accepting help when you very much need it does not make you lesser, and you taught me to pay that help forward whenever you are able.
Thank you.
You taught me to be kind to animals, and you taught me patience and forbearance in the face of daily frustrations. You taught me that carrying a child within you is not necessary in order to love it as your own.
You showed me that love is hard, and messy, and painful, and oh-so-very-worth all of those things.
And you show me this every day.
Thank you.
I love you so very, very much.
With all my love,
-Nan
Tuesday, June 30, 2015
Thursday, April 2, 2015
Horse Crazy
I've been horse crazy for as long as I can remember. My favourite book as a little girl was "Little Black - A Pony" by Walter Farley. (If you recognise the author's name, he also wrote the Black Stallion books, all of which I read in my tweens.)
I read every book I could get my hands on about horses. I mooched horse time off my friends who had them, and stored away every minute like it was the rarest treasure. In my mid-teens I spent every moment I could out at one friend's house. They always had plenty of horses in various states of training and were kind enough to let me help. I'm pretty sure I've spent more time training horses from the ground than I have actually riding them.
I was never allowed to have one of my own. My parents couldn't afford it. As an adult I understand that much better. Horses are expensive. From the purchase price to either boarding fees or fencing and shelter, to vet bills, farrier fees and the cost of accumulating tack. It adds up. So I completely understand that I couldn't have a horse of my own.
Life happens, and as an adult I became busy with working and dating and playing video games in my spare time. My horse-craziness became a sort of forgotten thing, aside from longing looks into paddocks as I drove by. But it never quite went away.
Then I had kids, and got married, and discovered one of my children was Autistic. My children became my life. They still are, and always will be. The first few years after we realised what was 'wrong' with Noah were a struggle just to figure out how to get by.
But we worked it out, and I'd say we have a pretty good system now. Sean's in grade 1 and doing well. He's already reading chapter books, and has plenty of friends. Noah is in grade 3, and is doing a modified workload, but is doing his work at grade level in every subject but English and Social Studies. His reading comprehension is still pretty far behind. He's been fully toilet trained for over a year (he's 8 and a half years old now) and has started speaking conversationally. So the kids are doing well.
A few years ago I started thinking about getting us a family horse. I wanted my kids to grow up with one. But as I stated before, horses are expensive. So I thought about it in the back of my mind, and I waited. Derek doesn't care about having a horse either way. He did say it would be my responsibility to pay and care for any horse I got. Which I think is fair.
Then sometime in the last year or two I got the idea to get a Fjord horse. They're a large, sturdy pony, that generally have a sweet and calm temperament. They're technically pony-sized, but are large and strong enough to easily carry an adult. Having seen the attitude problems some ponies develop when children ride them, even as a teenager I'd always said if my future kids ever had a pony, it would have to be big enough for me to ride, if only for the occasional attitude adjustment. Also, Fjords are a Norwegian breed, and my husband's ancestry is strongly Norwegian, so I thought Derek would like that connection, and we could use it to educate our kids on their heritage.
So sometime this past fall, I decided that when I get the money saved, I'm going to buy a Norwegian Fjord pony. I wanted a gelding between 6 and 8 years old, so he would be old enough to have mellowed out from the teenage years, and I could trust him with the kids.
I know, I know. Where's this going, you ask. Bear with me. I've almost gotten to the point.
So my family went out to visit a cousin of mine and her family out on their farm, to introduce them to my brother- and sister-in-law who've recently moved here from back east. The farm had chickens, and goats, and horses.
So of course while I was interested in the chickens and goats, what I really wanted to do was go see the horses. There were four of them, and two were Fjords, so of course I paid special attention to them. The only one of those four horses that had any interest whatsoever in me was a 9-year-old gelding named Indy. While the other three shied away or just ignored me, he stood there, grazing on roots while I scratched him. He was a sweetie, and I was smitten. The horses all belonged to my cousin's in-laws, so I told my cousin in passing that if they ever wanted to sell him, to give me a call. She said they might actually be thinking of it, so I mentally calculated how much I could save up in three months to a year.
(I don't think I've mentioned this in my blog, but I've been back working part-time, self-employed as a mobile Massage Therapist for two years now. So I make my own money. It's not much, but it's nice contributing to the family funds.)
I didn't tell a soul this, but later that day, the best way I could have described it is that he felt like he was already mine.
Two days later I got a message from my cousin. She'd spoken to her father-in-law and he said I could have him. No cost.
I cried. (Hell, I'm crying right now just thinking about it.)
I found out later that how it happened is that her father-in-law came out to the farm, and out of the blue, said something along the lines of, "I'm just going to get rid of those two geldings.". (By 'get rid of' he meant 'sell at auction'.) Her response was, "Well, my cousin said she wanted him." And his was, "She can have him."
I got permission from my friend (who lives only minutes away from me) to board him at her house. I got permission from my husband to actually get him. It took me two weeks to arrange for a trailer to move him, and I spent those entire two weeks terrified the owner would change his mind.
But one of my brothers-in-law borrowed his dad's horse trailer and drove out with me to pick him up. I found out that he'd had a saddle on him and had a person on him while being led around, but he hadn't been handled in a while. It took some doing to get him in the trailer. He's stubborn. And strong. The owner was just happy to have someone who'd give him a good home and lots of attention. Both of which I am more than happy to provide.
Hopefully in a year he'll be trained enough to start therapeutic riding for Noah, but I'm planning on taking the training slow. I want Indy to work with me, and want to. That takes time and patience.
So, long story short, I now have a horse. More specifically, this one:
Isn't he beautiful?
So now I'm in the process of acclimatising him to being handled on a regular basis before I start training him to ride. I've been out every day to catch him and brush him and handle his hooves.
He's a sweetie. Comes trotting up to the gate even from across the field when I call his name. He loves cookies. Keeps trying to pick my pockets. We're working on that. And he's getting along with the other three geldings where he's staying.
We have a lot of work ahead of us, but as far as I'm concerned, God sent me this horse. So it's going to work out fine.
The eight-year-old in me is screaming and crying and jumping up and down. I've waited so long for this. The day finally came.
Love,
-Nan
P.S. I'll probably be writing a lot more about Indy in the future. I'm still writing, working on my second book. (The first will never see the light of day. More on that later.)
I read every book I could get my hands on about horses. I mooched horse time off my friends who had them, and stored away every minute like it was the rarest treasure. In my mid-teens I spent every moment I could out at one friend's house. They always had plenty of horses in various states of training and were kind enough to let me help. I'm pretty sure I've spent more time training horses from the ground than I have actually riding them.
I was never allowed to have one of my own. My parents couldn't afford it. As an adult I understand that much better. Horses are expensive. From the purchase price to either boarding fees or fencing and shelter, to vet bills, farrier fees and the cost of accumulating tack. It adds up. So I completely understand that I couldn't have a horse of my own.
Life happens, and as an adult I became busy with working and dating and playing video games in my spare time. My horse-craziness became a sort of forgotten thing, aside from longing looks into paddocks as I drove by. But it never quite went away.
Then I had kids, and got married, and discovered one of my children was Autistic. My children became my life. They still are, and always will be. The first few years after we realised what was 'wrong' with Noah were a struggle just to figure out how to get by.
But we worked it out, and I'd say we have a pretty good system now. Sean's in grade 1 and doing well. He's already reading chapter books, and has plenty of friends. Noah is in grade 3, and is doing a modified workload, but is doing his work at grade level in every subject but English and Social Studies. His reading comprehension is still pretty far behind. He's been fully toilet trained for over a year (he's 8 and a half years old now) and has started speaking conversationally. So the kids are doing well.
A few years ago I started thinking about getting us a family horse. I wanted my kids to grow up with one. But as I stated before, horses are expensive. So I thought about it in the back of my mind, and I waited. Derek doesn't care about having a horse either way. He did say it would be my responsibility to pay and care for any horse I got. Which I think is fair.
Then sometime in the last year or two I got the idea to get a Fjord horse. They're a large, sturdy pony, that generally have a sweet and calm temperament. They're technically pony-sized, but are large and strong enough to easily carry an adult. Having seen the attitude problems some ponies develop when children ride them, even as a teenager I'd always said if my future kids ever had a pony, it would have to be big enough for me to ride, if only for the occasional attitude adjustment. Also, Fjords are a Norwegian breed, and my husband's ancestry is strongly Norwegian, so I thought Derek would like that connection, and we could use it to educate our kids on their heritage.
So sometime this past fall, I decided that when I get the money saved, I'm going to buy a Norwegian Fjord pony. I wanted a gelding between 6 and 8 years old, so he would be old enough to have mellowed out from the teenage years, and I could trust him with the kids.
I know, I know. Where's this going, you ask. Bear with me. I've almost gotten to the point.
So my family went out to visit a cousin of mine and her family out on their farm, to introduce them to my brother- and sister-in-law who've recently moved here from back east. The farm had chickens, and goats, and horses.
So of course while I was interested in the chickens and goats, what I really wanted to do was go see the horses. There were four of them, and two were Fjords, so of course I paid special attention to them. The only one of those four horses that had any interest whatsoever in me was a 9-year-old gelding named Indy. While the other three shied away or just ignored me, he stood there, grazing on roots while I scratched him. He was a sweetie, and I was smitten. The horses all belonged to my cousin's in-laws, so I told my cousin in passing that if they ever wanted to sell him, to give me a call. She said they might actually be thinking of it, so I mentally calculated how much I could save up in three months to a year.
(I don't think I've mentioned this in my blog, but I've been back working part-time, self-employed as a mobile Massage Therapist for two years now. So I make my own money. It's not much, but it's nice contributing to the family funds.)
I didn't tell a soul this, but later that day, the best way I could have described it is that he felt like he was already mine.
Two days later I got a message from my cousin. She'd spoken to her father-in-law and he said I could have him. No cost.
I cried. (Hell, I'm crying right now just thinking about it.)
I found out later that how it happened is that her father-in-law came out to the farm, and out of the blue, said something along the lines of, "I'm just going to get rid of those two geldings.". (By 'get rid of' he meant 'sell at auction'.) Her response was, "Well, my cousin said she wanted him." And his was, "She can have him."
I got permission from my friend (who lives only minutes away from me) to board him at her house. I got permission from my husband to actually get him. It took me two weeks to arrange for a trailer to move him, and I spent those entire two weeks terrified the owner would change his mind.
But one of my brothers-in-law borrowed his dad's horse trailer and drove out with me to pick him up. I found out that he'd had a saddle on him and had a person on him while being led around, but he hadn't been handled in a while. It took some doing to get him in the trailer. He's stubborn. And strong. The owner was just happy to have someone who'd give him a good home and lots of attention. Both of which I am more than happy to provide.
Hopefully in a year he'll be trained enough to start therapeutic riding for Noah, but I'm planning on taking the training slow. I want Indy to work with me, and want to. That takes time and patience.
So, long story short, I now have a horse. More specifically, this one:
So now I'm in the process of acclimatising him to being handled on a regular basis before I start training him to ride. I've been out every day to catch him and brush him and handle his hooves.
He's a sweetie. Comes trotting up to the gate even from across the field when I call his name. He loves cookies. Keeps trying to pick my pockets. We're working on that. And he's getting along with the other three geldings where he's staying.
We have a lot of work ahead of us, but as far as I'm concerned, God sent me this horse. So it's going to work out fine.
The eight-year-old in me is screaming and crying and jumping up and down. I've waited so long for this. The day finally came.
Love,
-Nan
P.S. I'll probably be writing a lot more about Indy in the future. I'm still writing, working on my second book. (The first will never see the light of day. More on that later.)
Friday, January 9, 2015
Special Needs Parent
I call myself a Special Needs Parent. Not because I have special needs, but because I have a child with them. I prefer the term "Special Needs Parent" because it helps me to relate to more than just other parents dealing with Autism.
Every parent with a child with special needs can relate to each other on some basic level. The frustration, the isolation, the guilt that comes with having a child who is "different".
There's the blame that other people put on you, whether for somehow making your child the way they are, or with dealing with their disability poorly.
I've had to hold my tongue and fists to keep from getting in an altercation with a distant relative over how to handle the fact that my Autistic child didn't want to stand for a family picture.
I've heard the other kids at school talk about meeting up at each other's houses to play. My child, who barely speaks and has been toilet trained for only one year at the age of 8, has never had that.
I thank God that I had two children a year and a half apart, because it means that Noah has someone to play with. Most of the time he prefers to play by himself anyways.
Seeing other mothers greet each other with affection and familiarity as they wait for school to close.
Having strangers come into the house for therapy, and having to cancel on social outings because of these appointments. Having to be ready to leave any situation if Noah can't handle it, and often myself or Derek miss out on events because one of us will take Noah for a walk, so the other can stay and enjoy themselves.
Fighting with the government for services and funding. Losing and replacing staff and therapists, and dealing with the long process of getting a new person up to speed on Noah's progress. Never mind getting Noah to the point where he will actually participate with the new person.
These are things Special Needs Parents have to deal with. I'm not even going into the physical strain of having a child with a physical disability, because while I can see and understand that it's hard, I have never lived that. I'm ashamed to admit it, but sometimes I thank God that Noah doesn't have physical limitations as well. Some days I am thankful that Noah has Autism instead of a serious illness. It's terrible, but at times it's what gets me through. Whatever I have to deal with on a daily basis, I know that dealing with a sick or dying child could be so much worse.
But here's one thing I think I've done right, and am still doing right: I accept my child, and love my child, as he is. And I do not shy away from the fact that he is different. I do not shy away from telling people that he is Autistic. Because that is an integral part of who he is as a person.
Maybe it's because I've always felt like I was different, and I've come to embrace that about myself. Maybe it's the other way around: I came to accept myself after accepting Noah. I couldn't tell you either way.
Here's some unsolicited advice: If you think there is something 'off' about your child, talk to your doctor. If you think your child is normal, but people keep telling you they think something is wrong, talk to your doctor. You as a parent have great instincts, but sometimes you want your child to be normal so badly that you can't see that they're not.
You are doing your child a disservice by not embracing their uniqueness. And you can embrace your child's uniqueness while still getting them the help that they need to succeed. Noah's speech and psychology aren't to turn him into a normal child. They're meant to help him be the best Noah he can be. They've helped him to make eye contact, hug, and speak. They and his Occupational Therapist and his aides over the years were instrumental in teaching him to dress himself, in toilet training, and in following directions. These are things that are integral to his success, and that I'm not sure I could have taught him without help.
Noah was diagnosed at the age of four, but he was receiving services to treat his Autism for over a year before that, because he got into a preschool program for children with speech delay. Early intervention is key. But so is acceptance.
It's okay that your child is different. It's awesome that your child is different. Don't deny them the chance to be themselves out of a need for them to be normal. Normal is boring anyways.
And don't be afraid or ashamed to tell others that your child is different, and in what way. You'd be shocked at the amount of people I've connected to because I was brave enough to speak about my child's Autism like it was not something to be feared. I've been able to give advice, ask advice, and just to commiserate with people just like me, all because I've embraced that part of my identity is now that of a Special Needs Parent. Yes. I capitalise it. Because it's important.
Another thing: It's okay for other people to know your child as different, or Autistic, or disabled. I tell people that Noah is Autistic as often as I can. Not because I want pity, but because if someone, whether it is a child or an adult, is going to label him, I want them to label him correctly.
Noah is exceptionally well-behaved (for the most part) for someone with Autism. He has his moments, and they're not fun or pretty, but those moments are the exception, not the rule. I would rather someone know him as Autistic, than think of him as badly behaved, belligerent, or a bully. I don't believe that should excuse his bad behaviours, but I do believe that it can help people to understand why he does some things, and give him a little more leeway because of that.
I know the prospect of being a Special Needs Parent can be terrifying. I was there. But it is so much better than to pretend to be a Normal Parent, and have people mislabel your child.
If you think there's something wrong with your child, get them checked. It is very likely that you're being paranoid, and your child is just fine. But make sure, just in case. There are people out there waiting to help any special needs child to be the best they can be. And if you're one of those people who are about to become a capitalised "Special Needs Parent", there's nothing more they'd love than to help your child succeed.
Don't fight it. This person is your child. A diagnosis of some sort or other doesn't change who they are as a person. You loved them before doctors started using big words when referring to them. That doesn't change. And if you ever feel the need to reach out to another Special Needs Parent, send me a message. I'm always willing to talk.
Love,
-Nan
Every parent with a child with special needs can relate to each other on some basic level. The frustration, the isolation, the guilt that comes with having a child who is "different".
There's the blame that other people put on you, whether for somehow making your child the way they are, or with dealing with their disability poorly.
I've had to hold my tongue and fists to keep from getting in an altercation with a distant relative over how to handle the fact that my Autistic child didn't want to stand for a family picture.
I've heard the other kids at school talk about meeting up at each other's houses to play. My child, who barely speaks and has been toilet trained for only one year at the age of 8, has never had that.
I thank God that I had two children a year and a half apart, because it means that Noah has someone to play with. Most of the time he prefers to play by himself anyways.
Seeing other mothers greet each other with affection and familiarity as they wait for school to close.
Having strangers come into the house for therapy, and having to cancel on social outings because of these appointments. Having to be ready to leave any situation if Noah can't handle it, and often myself or Derek miss out on events because one of us will take Noah for a walk, so the other can stay and enjoy themselves.
Fighting with the government for services and funding. Losing and replacing staff and therapists, and dealing with the long process of getting a new person up to speed on Noah's progress. Never mind getting Noah to the point where he will actually participate with the new person.
These are things Special Needs Parents have to deal with. I'm not even going into the physical strain of having a child with a physical disability, because while I can see and understand that it's hard, I have never lived that. I'm ashamed to admit it, but sometimes I thank God that Noah doesn't have physical limitations as well. Some days I am thankful that Noah has Autism instead of a serious illness. It's terrible, but at times it's what gets me through. Whatever I have to deal with on a daily basis, I know that dealing with a sick or dying child could be so much worse.
But here's one thing I think I've done right, and am still doing right: I accept my child, and love my child, as he is. And I do not shy away from the fact that he is different. I do not shy away from telling people that he is Autistic. Because that is an integral part of who he is as a person.
Maybe it's because I've always felt like I was different, and I've come to embrace that about myself. Maybe it's the other way around: I came to accept myself after accepting Noah. I couldn't tell you either way.
Here's some unsolicited advice: If you think there is something 'off' about your child, talk to your doctor. If you think your child is normal, but people keep telling you they think something is wrong, talk to your doctor. You as a parent have great instincts, but sometimes you want your child to be normal so badly that you can't see that they're not.
You are doing your child a disservice by not embracing their uniqueness. And you can embrace your child's uniqueness while still getting them the help that they need to succeed. Noah's speech and psychology aren't to turn him into a normal child. They're meant to help him be the best Noah he can be. They've helped him to make eye contact, hug, and speak. They and his Occupational Therapist and his aides over the years were instrumental in teaching him to dress himself, in toilet training, and in following directions. These are things that are integral to his success, and that I'm not sure I could have taught him without help.
Noah was diagnosed at the age of four, but he was receiving services to treat his Autism for over a year before that, because he got into a preschool program for children with speech delay. Early intervention is key. But so is acceptance.
It's okay that your child is different. It's awesome that your child is different. Don't deny them the chance to be themselves out of a need for them to be normal. Normal is boring anyways.
And don't be afraid or ashamed to tell others that your child is different, and in what way. You'd be shocked at the amount of people I've connected to because I was brave enough to speak about my child's Autism like it was not something to be feared. I've been able to give advice, ask advice, and just to commiserate with people just like me, all because I've embraced that part of my identity is now that of a Special Needs Parent. Yes. I capitalise it. Because it's important.
Another thing: It's okay for other people to know your child as different, or Autistic, or disabled. I tell people that Noah is Autistic as often as I can. Not because I want pity, but because if someone, whether it is a child or an adult, is going to label him, I want them to label him correctly.
Noah is exceptionally well-behaved (for the most part) for someone with Autism. He has his moments, and they're not fun or pretty, but those moments are the exception, not the rule. I would rather someone know him as Autistic, than think of him as badly behaved, belligerent, or a bully. I don't believe that should excuse his bad behaviours, but I do believe that it can help people to understand why he does some things, and give him a little more leeway because of that.
I know the prospect of being a Special Needs Parent can be terrifying. I was there. But it is so much better than to pretend to be a Normal Parent, and have people mislabel your child.
If you think there's something wrong with your child, get them checked. It is very likely that you're being paranoid, and your child is just fine. But make sure, just in case. There are people out there waiting to help any special needs child to be the best they can be. And if you're one of those people who are about to become a capitalised "Special Needs Parent", there's nothing more they'd love than to help your child succeed.
Don't fight it. This person is your child. A diagnosis of some sort or other doesn't change who they are as a person. You loved them before doctors started using big words when referring to them. That doesn't change. And if you ever feel the need to reach out to another Special Needs Parent, send me a message. I'm always willing to talk.
Love,
-Nan
Saturday, March 22, 2014
On Writing a Novel
So I finished the first draft of my novel last night. 193 consecutive days of writing. 260 pages. Just under 110,000 words.
I printed it off as I finished each chapter, so I actually have full hard copy of the entire thing. It felt more real when I could see the pages stacked together. Now it's going to sit in a drawer for two months before I go back to fix it.
It needs a lot of fixing. I'm not even sure if I think it's publishable. If I don't think it's a good book by the time I'm done editing, I won't even try to publish it. And that's okay. I can chalk it up to experience and move on with the next book. I have ideas for a couple more romance novels and a short urban fantasy series I'm not ready to tackle yet. That series I may never be brave enough to tackle. We'll see.
I am very proud of myself, though I don't really feel like I 'finished' anything, really. The real work starts in two months when I take the jumbled-up, rambling mess I completed last night and turn it into something worth reading.
It's going to be a long and sometimes painful process. I'm okay with that. Everything I do now, whether reading, writing or editing, has the potential to make me a better writer if I let it. Everything I encounter in my life is now fodder for my internal printing press. Those of you who know me, you have been warned.
I realised only recently that I started out with a lot of good habits. (I did it completely by accident, believe me!) From day one I've been logging my progress in a journal. I write the date, how many consecutive days I've been writing, and what chapter I worked on. Any stray thoughts about the process go into the journal as well. This helps keep me honest, and gives me something to refer back to in the future if I'm stuck, or just curious about how my process has evolved.
I write every single day. I went from not writing fiction for fifteen years to writing every day. I decided to develop a habit out of it, and I did.
I write at the same time every day. I discovered early on that I can't write and parent at the same time. It just makes me frustrated and stifles my creative energy. Better to just do it after they're in bed.
I started just with the goal of writing something every day. A couple of months ago I changed that to a 400 word per day minimum. That's one page. I discovered that my inspiration hits somewhere between 350 and 400 words. So the first few hundred I find difficult, but once I hit 400 or so, I often find I don't stop until I've hit 800. Or 1,000. Or more, some days. I found the quota keeps me pushing past the hard part into the headspace where the words come more easily, and more naturally.
I would like to eventually write for a living. It's a big dream, and one that may never work out, but it's my dream. And regardless of whether I'm successful or not as an Author, I am a Writer. I'm going to keep writing, because it feeds my soul.
Hopefully that will also translate into more blog posts. I stayed away from blogging at first because I wasn't sure how to make enough time to write a novel and blog. I've got the timing figured out much better now so I think I can manage both. We'll see. I'm terrible at maintaining this thing. Maybe I'll add a quota for blogging too.
Thanks for continuing to check my blog out, despite my sporadic posting.
Love,
-Nan
I printed it off as I finished each chapter, so I actually have full hard copy of the entire thing. It felt more real when I could see the pages stacked together. Now it's going to sit in a drawer for two months before I go back to fix it.
It needs a lot of fixing. I'm not even sure if I think it's publishable. If I don't think it's a good book by the time I'm done editing, I won't even try to publish it. And that's okay. I can chalk it up to experience and move on with the next book. I have ideas for a couple more romance novels and a short urban fantasy series I'm not ready to tackle yet. That series I may never be brave enough to tackle. We'll see.
I am very proud of myself, though I don't really feel like I 'finished' anything, really. The real work starts in two months when I take the jumbled-up, rambling mess I completed last night and turn it into something worth reading.
It's going to be a long and sometimes painful process. I'm okay with that. Everything I do now, whether reading, writing or editing, has the potential to make me a better writer if I let it. Everything I encounter in my life is now fodder for my internal printing press. Those of you who know me, you have been warned.
I realised only recently that I started out with a lot of good habits. (I did it completely by accident, believe me!) From day one I've been logging my progress in a journal. I write the date, how many consecutive days I've been writing, and what chapter I worked on. Any stray thoughts about the process go into the journal as well. This helps keep me honest, and gives me something to refer back to in the future if I'm stuck, or just curious about how my process has evolved.
I write every single day. I went from not writing fiction for fifteen years to writing every day. I decided to develop a habit out of it, and I did.
I write at the same time every day. I discovered early on that I can't write and parent at the same time. It just makes me frustrated and stifles my creative energy. Better to just do it after they're in bed.
I started just with the goal of writing something every day. A couple of months ago I changed that to a 400 word per day minimum. That's one page. I discovered that my inspiration hits somewhere between 350 and 400 words. So the first few hundred I find difficult, but once I hit 400 or so, I often find I don't stop until I've hit 800. Or 1,000. Or more, some days. I found the quota keeps me pushing past the hard part into the headspace where the words come more easily, and more naturally.
I would like to eventually write for a living. It's a big dream, and one that may never work out, but it's my dream. And regardless of whether I'm successful or not as an Author, I am a Writer. I'm going to keep writing, because it feeds my soul.
Hopefully that will also translate into more blog posts. I stayed away from blogging at first because I wasn't sure how to make enough time to write a novel and blog. I've got the timing figured out much better now so I think I can manage both. We'll see. I'm terrible at maintaining this thing. Maybe I'll add a quota for blogging too.
Thanks for continuing to check my blog out, despite my sporadic posting.
Love,
-Nan
Saturday, January 11, 2014
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
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
Friday, September 13, 2013
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
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
Thursday, August 2, 2012
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
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
Saturday, June 9, 2012
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:
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
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
Thursday, June 7, 2012
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 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
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
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
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
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
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