“True Mirror Image,” photography by Dolores Juhas (2010). Copyright (c) Dolores Juhas. All Rights Reserved.
So what happened after March 2009?
I decided enough was enough. I was sick, tired, self-pitying, angry at the world and at myself, and just generally feeling that I was inadequate that my existence was quite pointless.
I wasn’t able to participate fully in either my personal or professional live. It was hard. When I looked in the mirror, the image smiling back at me was still sad. I decided then that neither Fibromyalgia nor my mind nor my surrounding was going to stop me from finding a way to live.
I decided to do what I could do…take one step forward. I joined up with two other ladies to do a walk/run for 15 minutes for most mornings.
I decided to do Weight Watchers Online for three months to learn more about nutrition and to be inspired by others who were taking positive steps to make effective changes in their lives.
I decided to become vegetarian, slowly (and I mean very slowly) removing meat products from my life.
I decided to begin learning how to love myself as I was in that moment, not lament who I had been. I wasn’t always successful, and sometimes I still struggle with that.
I decided to become more natural with my medication, finding ways to decrease the amount of medications that I had to take. It took consulting with my doctors and taking time to research, but it was worth it.
I temporarily joined a Fibromyalgia Support Group (though I did not always find it supportive, especially when it came to improving my physical health).
I began to speak out more about my needs and take steps at work to make sure that others understood the nature of my illness.
Waiting, photography by April Rivers (Fall, 2010)
The Result?
After almost two years of doing this work, I found myself a bit more than 70 pounds lighter. My blood pressure which was unreasonably high was lower. My body that I could barely move most days began to move more. My mind was less foggy. I began to wake up to many realities of which I was not aware.
And finally, I became aware of something that I knew to be psychologically true…but never imagine I would ever experience. I became aware of the fact that people were angry about my changes.
I had to deal with rumours about my weight loss, i.e. how I lost weight, for whom I lost weight.
Of course, when you go from a larger size to a smaller size, you need new clothes. I was fortunate to receive some vintage clothing from April’s grandmother, which were more fitted to my figure. Wearing these clothing turned into gossip that I was trying to attract men…even though these people knew that I was married and highly committed to my marriage.
“The Revenge of Pride,” photography by Dolores Juhas (2010). Copyright (c) Dolores Juhas. All Rights Reserved.
There was also a humorous side to all of this (actually, I found the rumours humorous too). I discovered that suddenly people felt more comfortable giving me compliments. I even had someone say that they were surprised by how good I was looking lately.
Suddenly, too, many people were ready to chime in on my general appearance: how I should look, what I should wear, what my weight should be.
I guess you could say that losing the weight brought me both joy and distress. I was happy to be free from some of the physical difficulties posed by my weight gain…but I was equally distressed by the growing hostilities coming from various parts of my life. Still, I do not regret it.
And then…
I cut my hair and moved to Rome, which brought on a whole host of other issues, of which you can read about in earlier postings in my blog.
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Until Next Time,
D.
P.S. Check out School Psychologist and Professor Nina Ellis-Hervey regarding mind and body well-being. Link to her website here. Also visit her YouTube site “BeautifulBrownBabyDol“…You won’t regret it.
Self-portrait, August 2010, photography by Diedré M Blake
Preface:
Simply shocking…this article. I am taking a momentary pause from my hair issues to write about something that has really been on my mind lately: racism.
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From reading articles about racial profiling to even a Black woman being chased and threatened that she would be raped and lynched, I have had enough. Black women have been seemingly under blatant attack over the last few years…or better yet, centuries.
It seems that as Black women move up in society and make a place for ourselves, as we demand recognition for our work and our intelligence, as we endure hardships from inside and outside of our community, there are some who are trying their very best to stifle our voices and reduce us to those caricatures that plague mainstream media.
We are neither “hoes” nor are we “bitches” nor are we “mammies” nor are we “domineering,” nor are we “baby mammas,” nor are we “welfare queens,” nor are we any other form of degradation that many may want to lay at our doorsteps.
Indeed, consider us strong and proud women, who are unique in our self-expression and our external beauty; there is no shame in that. I hope you will agree.
—-
Here we go…
I am beginning to understand just how much in the “dark” I have been over the years. Sometimes I think that being from the Caribbean prevents and has prevented me from really understanding the mental and social plight that many people who look like me experience on a daily basis.
Recently I said to my partner, Matteo, that I see myself as being an extremely privileged Black woman. You may wonder why.
The reason is this: I grew up in a predominantly Black society until adolescence. I was never overtly taught about racism. It was only later in my early twenties that I came to understand that there was indeed a form of internalized racism going on in Jamaica.
That is, from childhood we are subliminally taught that those who were considered to have “pretty skin,” or “pretty hair,” or “pretty eyes” were those who had a lighter complexion, less coarse hair (think hair types 3c and above), and to have lighter coloured eyes (not dark brown like mine).
I remember blatantly hearing people who were very dark-skinned being referred to as “duppies” (ghosts) amongst other terms. Now back to my privilege.
For the love of the universe, I grew up listening to heavy metal, classical music, reggae, alternative rock, and country. I suppose I could add some more to that, but you get my point. 😉
The result of these characteristics is that I am a non-threatening entity to a potential dominant White majority. That is, I fit better into that world rather than in one that is dominated by people who look more like me–as I have often been accused by other Black people of being an “oreo,” i.e. Black on the outside, White on in the inside.
It is a sad thing to realize that because of all of these factors, I am shielded often from the prejudice that people who look like me face on a regular basis.
Even here in Italy, where racism is rampant, I was bluntly told that because I am perceivable “attractive,” then I would certainly not experience racism here.
What?? Let me state that again, I was told that Italians are only racist against Black people (or in my case, women), who they do not consider attractive. Really?? Okay…
This is not to say that I have not experience overt and covert racism as well as sexism. Indeed I have, both in my personal life and my professional life. I have been told things like “Oh, you aren’t ugly like other Black women;” “Oh, you are just like a man, intelligent.”
In high school in Florida, I had wanted to attend Berklee College of Music. The band director knew of my desire and had many times lauded me as an excellent musician…
I was, however, not given a letter of recommendation (even after multiple requests) , even though I had proven myself and was acknowledged as a multi-instrument composer and musician, who even led her own Baroque woodwind trio.
A more extreme example happened in college. I was directed not to file a complaint against a White student who assaulted me, because it would be difficult “for someone like me” to prove my case. Instead, I was moved to temporary housing.
While travelling as a student and even beyond, I was routinely stopped and search. Perhaps it is because I had
loc’s, (think marijuana), or
a Jamaican passport at the time (think hard drugs/marijuana), or
nowadays because I wear a head-wrap (think terrorist)–
although, I really should thank those airport personnel for the many head massages I have received as a result, and that one rather cute airport screener in London, who felt it was her personal duty to shove her hand down my pants. You know! 😉
I have been denied upward mobility in my career, by even being denied the possibility of my master’s thesis project being presented to and approved by an internal review board…
The result of this was a most necessary improvisation on my part and a scaled-down version of the project. It didn’t stop there.
Anyway, I could go on forever about the slights I have experienced…just like many other women of colour.
—-
You might be wondering why I am posting what could be perceived as a “rant.”
The reason is simple:
it is time for all people, regardless of socially-defined race and nationality, to wake up!
The colour of your skin, the organ that lies between your legs, the texture of your hair, the structure of your face, your height, your accent, your perceived physical endowments DO NOT dictate the state of your mind.
They do not dictate your capabilities.
They do not dictate your potential.
They do not dictate your intelligence.
They do not dictate whether or not you are a “good” or “bad” person.
Seriously, isn’t it about time that we stopped all of this tomfoolery? Why must we remain so divisive in our words and actions whether within or outside of our own “designated” groups?
I am afraid of the news that I see coming from various countries on the treatment of women who look like me (yes, I care about men too, but I am a woman first).
I am afraid that with the growing belief that racism no longer exists, we are becoming too complacent and letting our awareness slip noticing the everyday occurrences of racial/ethnic/sexual/gender/physical biases that are happening right in front of our very eyes.
Disclaimer:The following thoughts are simply my own. I do not and cannot speak on behalf of any particular group. These thoughts also address issues concerning weight fluctuations and its impact on self-esteem. If this type of topic causes discomfort, please do not continue reading. It took me a great deal of time to decide to address this issue…and thus, I do not do so lightly. I only hope to share some of the experiences in my life journey that have brought me to this point of whom I am, i.e. a person I love most dearly.
—–
Hair 101:
Since childhood I understood something quite clear about the value of hair as a woman. Perhaps it would be better to state, “as a Black woman.”
I understood that the relationship I would have with my hair would be one of constant struggle. I watched my mother, my sisters, aunts, and friends go through the battle of having to straighten their hair. Not only that, some even went to task of getting weaves, whether by sewing or glueing. All in an effort to have that ever-coveted “long, flowing, hair.” I didn’t understand it then, and it some ways I still don’t.
I only knew that,between my mother’s desire for me to grow my hair long and society’s expectation for me not to look androgynous, I could not cut my hair. Well…that was until I turned 15. 😉 What changed?
Acrylic on canvas, 9X12, 1998
Well, I began to embrace my sexuality.
While still living in Jamaica, at the age of 11, I knew that I was “different.” I write “different,” because at that time, I did not know the word “lesbian.” After all, I grew up in a highly patriarchal and homophobic society, and had beenand attending all-girls Catholic school for some years as well as living in a convent–even though that last point might make you wonder how I hadn’t learned the word. But enough kidding around. Seriously, I had no idea. I simply knew that I liked girls better than boys.
At the age of 13, I did have a pseudo-boyfriend…I suppose because it was expected of me. Still, I didn’t feel the expected spark or any type of magical feeling when I thought of or spoke with him. Of course, that would all change after I moved to America and met my first girlfriend at the age 15.
You see, when I moved to Florida, I was still struggling with my relationship with God/the Universe and my growing understanding that I was “different” (a.k.a lesbian). I spent time studying with the Jehovah Witness, the Mormons, and even the Moonies–yeah, I was that serious! ;).
I wrote letters to Catholic organizations, and even received a heartwarming pamphlet called “Pastoral Care for the Homosexual,” which basically told me that God/the Universe didn’t hate me, I just needed to remain celibate for the remainder of my life. Right.
After lots of studying, writing, many tears, I decided that these Christian religions had it all wrong. I believed, rightfully so, that God/the Universe doesn’t make any mistakes…and God/the Universe surely didn’t make one by creating me. So, I cut my hair…
Wait…I know it may seem like a leap. But you see, I was ready to claim my sexuality. I was ready to shed the heterosexual norm that had been dominating my existence up until that point.
—-
Homosexuality 101:
You see, I had somehow zoomed my way through Cass’ Sexual Orientation Identity Formation Model: going from identity confusion to identity pride. I cut my hair, donned some flannel (see above picture), bought Melissa Etheridge cassettes/CDs, learned Indigo Girls songs on my guitar, started pointing out every lesbian I could to my mother, cut out every article I could find about lesbians and/or lesbian life, signed up with various Youth LGBT organizations, and even began volunteering at L.U.C.H.A (an HIV/AIDS Care Centre). You get the picture.
With my decision to walk away from my Catholic/Christian faith, I no longer felt the need to pander to societal expectations. I didn’t have to concern myself with what it meant to be a “woman” or even a “Black woman” per se, because it seemed to have very little to do with me. I had simply to work on creating me, a “me” not bound by any restrictions of heterosexual society. In essence, I became a social” nomad, without a sense of belongingness.
—-
Weight 101:
At that young age, I hardly saw images of lesbians beyond the famous ones, singers and politicians. I didn’t see images of young lesbians like myself. If anything I understood that the lesbian community had long modeled itself on the heterosexual community, i.e. of having dominant/submissive role relationships a.k.a butch/femme. Of course, please understand, that that was in 90’s and also my exposure to the LGBQT community was very limited prior to going to university.
—-
So, what does any of this have to do with weight?
Well, the reality was (is) that in my household “long hair” was not the only concern, “being thin” was too.
References to how thin someone was or should be was a constant in my life growing up. Furthermore, I happened to be the tallest girl in the family as well as the thinnest (a result of both nature and nurture).
My weight was constantly observed and lauded (alongside my academic achievements). It is no wonder that there was and still is such a huge distance between my sisters and myself.
Being thin, however, had its advantages for me being a young lesbian. I wore masculine clothing with ease. I could look and was androgynous when I chose. I was more able to attract the attention of other young lesbians (whether out or not). In other words, I had chosen to externalize my sexuality in the most obvious way.
Again, this refers to that time and I am not saying that sexuality can only be externalized by dressing androgynously.
—-
College Years
Then something happened.
At the age of 17, I entered Stanford University. In a span of a year, I watched my hair grow by the miracle of extensions (braids), my academic abilities plummet, my weight increased by double digits, and my overall self-esteem shatter in fragments so microscopic that I was certain that I would never recover those pieces (which ended up working out okay after all…because that wasn’t actually self-esteem).
I returned home at a weight that I consider to be still below average. I was hardly overweight. The result of this gain, however, was the gift of my being signed up to take personal training sessions at a local gym. I went once or twice to appease the powers that be. Then I did the next best thing: I ran away.
Well, not really. I simply chose to spend a good portion of my summer vacation away from home. And I continued that practice all throughout college.
“Is This Your Weapon?” Acrylic on Canvas Board, 18X24, 1997
Interestingly enough, it was also at that time (after coming out to my mother on a cross-country road trip from California to Florida) that I decided to keep my extensions and try giving the heterosexual dating thing a try once again. And I did…to spectacular failure.
Many, many awful things happened that are best left undiscussed at this point.
The result was that by the time I returned to being true to myself, the damage that I had inflicted upon my body was quite severe. Thus, in the span of three years, I had gained upwards of 60 pounds and the number kept climbing up to and beyond graduation.
—-
Letting Go of/Creating The Image
I wore braids until mid-October 1999. I was living in Berlin at the time and my study abroad program had travelled for the weekend to Weimar to visit the city as well as to see the Buchenwald Concentration Camp and the Bauhaus School of Art and Architecture. It was during that trip that I decided to remove my braids and let my semi-formed loc’s embrace the air and light of day. 🙂
It was the best feeling in the world, i.e. letting go of something that was not naturally a part of myself.
My hair had grown long enough for me to be able to manage it and I was excited to see what it would do and how it would grow.
After graduating, as I stated before, my weight had already taken on a life of its own. I failed to take responsibility for it, using it instead as an emotional shield to warn people away from me. I decided then that I would do whatever it took to return to a healthy physical state.
Just as in my teenage years, I felt I had the freedom then to reinvent myself. And it would not be the last time.
In 2002, with the help of my eldest sister, I started working at fitness club. First, I started just as a desk attendant, but was happy to take tips from the trainers and also to have free use of the equipment.
In time, I became a personal trainer, fitness instructor, and a spokesperson for the fitness club. I became a fitter and healthier version of my former self. I was neither the thin/fragile-looking teenager, nor was I the heavy/tired-looking college student.
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Graduate School
2004 I entered graduate school with my hair, body, sexuality, and self-esteem intact. How I would leave it…that would be another thing.
All the discipline that I had learned while working as a trainer were tossed to the wayside and replaced with the discipline of study and working full-time to make ends meet. My long-time girlfriend from Florida had moved with me to Boston and our relationship grew further apart the more I worked and studied…until it finally dissolved.
In 2006 I graduated, and was elated to find myself already employed and dating the woman who would later become my life-partner, April. My health was steadily deteriorating just as steadily as my hair was growing. Finally in 2008, I was diagnosed with Fibromyalgia; and April and I married. It should have been the happiest day of my life. It wasn’t.
The night before my wedding had found me in the hospital, barely able to move, and suffering unbelievable amounts of pain. My wedding day was a medicated fog tinged with worries about the final details and dealing with family concerns. My weight too had been skyrocketing. Eventually by March 2009, I would reach my highest weight ever…193. What happened next would change my entire life…
This Cold Hard Floor: II, watercolour and ink painting by Diedré M. Blake, 2006
25.10.13, 13:37–Boiling water.
Freshly done Kanekalonbraids over my once-loc’ed short nappy hair. Hair type 4C, I am told. The nappiest of the nappy.
It’s a do-over: my hair, this post that I have written a million times over and over again in my mind.
Apparently, I am reembarking on a natural hair journey that I didn’t even know I had started almost twenty years ago. Back then, I only knew that I didn’t want chemicals being put my hair: no more Wave Nouveau, Jheri Curls, or relaxers.
At the age of 18, I knew that I needed to take a different path from those around me. I decided to grow my hair out to its natural state, and then to form loc’s. I suppose, now-a-days, one would say that I “transitioned” over the course of three years from processed to natural hair.
Okay, perhaps it didn’t take three years for the chemicals to come out. However, I did begin braiding my hair to waist-length in 1996. I finally stopped in mid-October 1999 when my natural hair had begun to loc’ (as I had wanted it to do) :). Thus, it was until mid-October 2013 that I wore my loc’s.
It may seem odd to some to say that loc’s have a life/history of their own…but really, they do. I understood this to be true in late November 2010.
Because when you wear loc’s, you trap something very important within them: memories.
My grief, my understood existence up until that point, all of it was symbolized by my hair. With his death, who I was then or thereafter became an enormous question mark.
I staring into a mirror then didn’t help me to make sense of what I saw. My grief was beyond recognizable thoughts or words.
All I could do then was cut and cut and cut and cut. With the fall of each loc’, I felt that I would find the strength to create a new path.
By the time I was finished, I recognized something that I had not realized before: I was free of a heavy burden that had been weighing upon me, i.e. my hair. Three pounds (3lbs) of hair had been removed from my head. I felt lighter, freer, even if I still remained in the depths of grief.
Fast-forward some two and a half months, and I find myself far from Boston. I am now in Rome, beginning this blog, and trying to discover who I am to become. My short loc’s are now a source of discomfort and comfort for me as they remind me of all that I had lost prior to my arrival in the Eternal City: my marriage, my beloved Petie, my job, my sense of home, and even myself. Yet still, those short loc’s spoke to me of the hope of starting anew. And so I tried to do just that…
Masque, acrylic painting by Diedré M. Blake, 2000
25.10.13, 13:44–Boiled Hair.
Strangely enough, even though I continued to cut my hair to cheek-length in the years following, I still wanted to continue presenting myself the way I always had before, i.e. when I had long loc’s. I still wanted to wear my high head wraps, and I did–it wasn’t the same.
Somewhere subconsciously, I understood (although I fought against it) that it would never be the same until my hair grew to its previous length. So, I stopped cutting my loc’s and decided to wait for them to grow. That was one year ago.
Rewind to about two weeks ago, at about 4:00 in the morning, on a Thursday, I sat in silence in my room. A comb in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other. One the bed: a bottle of conditioner and a bottle of water.
I had decided to take out my loc’s. I didn’t know if it could be done.
I wanted to keep as much of my hair as I could–doing a serious, shaved-headed “big chop” was not in the cards for me, but neither was waiting for my loc’s to grow out and loosen either. Thus, I turned to YouTube–who knew it was this useful–and I searched for “undoing” and “taking out” loc’s. Lo and behold, I found some very useful information.
I apologize for having taken such an extended time away from my blog. Although this not an unusual act for me, it was far longer than I had imagined it would be. I am in the midst of trying to understand how to repurpose my blog (and other social media outlets) as who I am has undergone a significant shift.
Carissimi Lettori:
mi dispiace che andavo via dal mio blog per tantissimo tempo. Nonostante non sia un’azione strana per me, questo tempo era più lungo che immaginavo sarebbe stato. Adesso sto provando a capire come migliore di usare il mio blog (e le altre reti sociali), perché chi io sono è mutata significativamente.
When I began this blog, I had no inkling of what I wanted it to be, outside of the idea that others thought it would be a useful forum through which I could share my experiences, especially living abroad. In general, I have aimed at writing about topics that would be useful for personal introspection, especially for women and those who have been diagnosed with fibromyalgia or other chronic Illnesses. Stepping forward, I intend to continue addressing such topics. The shift may come in the format of doing more literature reviews and adding more humour, because I have really learned how to smile in the last month (the picture above is old…so never mind that ;))
Quando cominciavo questo blog, non avevo il sentore della cosa che volevo il blog di essere, eccetto l’idea che le altre persone me avevano detto che un blog era un forum utile in cui potevo condividere le mie esperienze, soprattutto vivere all’estero. In generale, nel passato ho provato a scrivere sui temi che pensavo che erano utili per le donne e le persone che hanno la fibromyalgia o le malatie croniche. Nel futuro ho intenzione di continuare a dedicarmi a questi temi. Forse i cambi vengono nella forma di scrivere più spesso gli articoli sulla letteratura e usare dell’umorismo più spesso, perché ho imparato veramente durante il mese scorso come sorridere (va be’, la foto sopra è vecchia, così non importa ;))
imagesCAUNGZWA.jpg. Unknown source.
A small update about my life:
I returned to the U.S. after two plus years of being away. I had the opportunity to spend time with my family, which was much needed. My current partner acted as my travelling companion, and generally kept me out of trouble…as much as any person can manage to do that. I am now divorced–there really isn’t a less direct way of stating that. More importantly, my friendship with my former partner, April, continues to mean the world to me. And I am glad that we had the chance to spend time with her and her partner.
Un aggiornamento piccolo sulla mia vita:
sono ritornata in gli stati uniti dopo più di due anni. Avevo l’opportunità di passare il tempo con la mia famiglia che avevo bisogno di fare. Il mio compagno era con me e provava a fermarmi da causare i problemi per me stessa e, ovviamente, per le altre persone (ancora non lo so io se sia possibile in realtà, ma lui provava a farlo). Sono divorziata adesso–veramente, esiste un modo più discreto di dire questa cosa? Penso di no. Più importante è la mia amicizia con la mia ex compagna, April. L’amicizia continua a essere uno delle cose dell’importanza migliore nella mia vita. E sono felice che abbiamo avuto l’opportunità di passare il tempo insieme, cioè con lei e la sua compagna.
Unknown Source.
I continue to work on the revision of my novel. The progress has slowed somewhat with the start of school and, prior to that, my own struggles with apathy and anxiety (this is where managing perfection is key). I have, however, begun a new story that is really exciting my creativity and also helping my revision process.
Continuo a rivedere la bozza del mio romanzo. Il processo sta andando lentamente, soprattutto perché ho cominciato di nuovo a andare all’università e, prima, mi stavo davvero sforzando di fermarmi sentirmi apatica e ansiosa. Comunque ho cominciato a scrivere un racconto nuovo che mi sta causando a sentire di nuovo il mio senso della creatività e mi sta aiutando nel processo della revisione.
I have ultimately decided that returning to the U.S. after graduation is the next step to take. This chapter of my Roman story is coming to a close…though I have a strange but happy feeling that my journey with Rome is far from over.
Dopotutto ho deciso che il mio passo prossimo è ritornare negli stati uniti dopo la mia cerimonia di laurea. Questo capitolo del mio racconto romano sta cominciando a chiudere…nonostante abbia il sentimento distinto che la mia avventura con la Città Eterna continuerà ad essere un viaggio imprevedibile e lungo.
Unknown Source.
What’s next? Well, a post or two about my relationship with yarn…or rather, knitting. Or better still, why I admire author and knitter Stephanie Pearl-McPhee and how her words have been inspired me.
Per il futuro? Allora, un post (forse due) sulla mia relazione con il filato…ovvero il lavoro a maglia. Oppure molto meglio di dire il perchè mi ammiro l’autrice Stephanie Pearl-McPhee e come le sue parole mi hanno inspirato.
Some time ago, I wrote a post regarding a professor who asked me to do creative writing about my experience of having fibromyalgia (FMS). It is true that I have written poetry that deals with the subject, and even began a somewhat semi-autobiographical novel some years ago. Still, I remain uncertain of retaking such paths. Instead I am now considering what it would be like to write about my process of change, i.e. change towards improving my life.
The reality of living with FMS can be one that is punctuated by a series of losses: continuous loss of health, loss of self-perception, loss of self-esteem, loss of employment, loss of status, loss of friends, loss of family, loss of supports, etc. The list could go on ad infinitum.
On a weekly basis, I take time to research the latest developments in the treatment of fibromyalgia. Typically, the titles are filled with words such as “fight,” “battle,” or “war.” Of course, I understand the desire to motivate those who are living with FMS by using such words. Who amongst those of us with FMS, hasn’t felt as though fibromyalgia were waging war against our bodies, our minds, or even our very souls?
27/365: fractured reality/grace under pain (Photo credit: Samie Harding)
Still, why fight against? Why scream a battle cry? Why wage war? For what purpose? Our bodies are the spaces in which we exist daily. Why should we be in conflict with it?
Mother Teresa said, “I will never attend an anti-war rally; if you have a peace rally, invite me.” I am in agreement.
I choose never to be anti-fibromyalgia. I choose, instead, to be at peace with fibromyalgia. It is a part of who I am. It is living within my body. Thus, embracing, rather than rejecting it, is the obvious choice for me. It is a matter of shifting one’s mindset.
So, what is this next step? Beyond having shifted my mindset, I have decided to take the step that I have been utterly avoiding for a multitude of reasons. I have decided to become vegan and live gluten-free (I am already vegetarian). As some may know, animal bi-products as well as yeast and gluten can provoke digestive problems, especially for people with IBS, which many people with FMS experience.
End of Summer Still Life (Photo credit: mystuart)
Moreover, I am letting go of other foods that can create disharmony within me, such as nightshade fruits and vegetables that aggravate pain: tomatoes, potatoes (not sweet potatoes), eggplant, and sweet and spicy peppers–yes, I know I am living in Italy. 🙂
Will this be challenging? Perhaps. Is it the right time? Absolutely.
At the start of this post, I wrote that fibromyalgia can be about loss. Well, that was my mindset about taking this next step. I was focused on losing.
In my mind, all that I could see was that I would be losing, once again, more foods that I love (in this case: milk, bread, and the above-mentioned fruits and vegetables). Furthermore, the thought of having to “lose” certain foods felt too much like “dieting,” of which I am not a fan, i.e. unless absolutely necessary for medical reasons.
I could not see the gain. I could not see the invitation for living a peaceful life with my body, and thus with fibromyalgia.
Yes, it is true that FMS can push one to leave behind old and unhealthy patterns, even places and people. Yet still, it causes us to arrive at a new understanding of ourselves, learning and using new and healthier patterns, experiencing new internal and external places, and meet new people who can support us as we make our journey.
vegan food pyramid adapted from recommendations made in “A new food guide for North American vegetarians” (2003) from the American Dietetic Association (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I am excited to have taken this next step, and am doing so with the help of The Vegan Society that offers a mentor for 30 days (The Vegan Pledge). The next thirty days begin my journey towards a new way of eating and living. Over those days, I will update as I can, including places in Rome and in the U.S. that are vegan and gluten-free friendly.
Cheer me on, as well as yourself and others, on taking another step towards living peaceably with FMS!
Every now and again, I pick up Pema Chodron‘s book, The Places that Scare You, and read a chapter or two. Today, I turned to chapter twenty-two “The In-Between State,” which seems to aptly describe my present state of being. She writes that “[a]nxiety, heartbreak, and tenderness mark the in-between state. It’s the kind of place we usually want to avoid.”
Found via Google Images
She also explains that, in this state, one has already begun to reject those things, in which one once found pleasure. That is, in this in-between state, one begins to understand that the suffering that is being experienced is far greater than any pleasurable acts that one might have relied upon in the past to quell one’s fears.
Thus, what can one do in confronting such a state of being? Chrodon states that the answer lies in being able to stay in the middle. Specifically, she writes, “By not knowing, not hoping to know, and not acting like we know what’s happening, we begin to access our inner strength.”
The task, then, is to hold oneself in abeyance, even if the world seems to be demanding that a decision be made, or a step be taken. It is in standing still that allows one the opportunity to hear, with clarity, the inherent wisdom within. It is a wisdom that understands that there need not be judgements of good or bad, right or wrong, etc.
So, how am I handling my in-between state? Well, I am silently facing my many internal selves, and that are asking me to choose a direction–I am learning to sit with their uncertainties, their fears…my uncertainties, my fears… Until next time,D.
What I have come to realize is that I am a fairly happy person when I allow myself to be. What I have come, also, to realize is that I can be a fairly unhappy person when I allow myself to be. What does this all mean?
Living with fibromyalgia involves living with, not only pain, but uncertainty. One is never quite certain what the next day will bring. Will I be able to get up? Will I be able to function well? I believe it is the uncertainty that can create the opportunity for unhappiness to develop, especially if there are predisposing factors.
The point of this post today, however, is not to get into a heavy psychological discussion. Rather, I wanted to point out that what I have found/find/am finding most beneficial to me in maintaining/accessing my happiness is taking care of my body.
Thus, I would say to others, who are dealing with fibromyalgia or any challenges physically or emotionally, find a way to take care of the physical you. Treat your body as sacred. Find new ways to make your body feel at its best.
This time it’s green tea. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Lately, I have been doing green tea facials, which has left me feeling more peaceful and accomplished. It is a small thing, but an important part of what makes me feel happy at both the start and end of my day. By doing this one action of self-care, I know that, at least, in one way, I am taking good care of me.
Also, along with taking care of the outer body, there are many books about the types of food that help people with fibroymalgia to feel better, such as
Yes, having fibromyalgia can mean doubting the capabilities of your body on any given day. It may mean that you may disappoint others because you are unable to do things as you have once done or promised to do. Simply remember this, when all else fails, try to K.I.S.S. your life. That is, try to Keep It Simple and Sweet. And never forget that…
Your body does not define your worth.
However…
How you treat your body does define your self-worth
The invitations have already been sent. The preparations have already been made. Nevermind why you have been chosen. Nevermind why you cannot refuse. Fibromyalgia welcomes you…and asks you
“How shall you live this life?”
The house into which you have been welcomed provides an entrance but no exit. The walls upon which you now stare are absent of windows. There are stairs placed here and there, but that lead nowhere.
And still the question lingers,
“How shall you live this life?”
The daytime brings some light but never enough to provide sight. The nighttime brings the descent into the darkest parts of your being. There is limited sight. And what cannot be seen must be felt.
Now the words come to your mind once again,
“How shall you live this life?”
Through the cold and the warmth of passing seasons, you use what provisions you have brought with you. Through the cold and warmth of passing reason, you understand that these provisions are increasingly dwindling.
Seasons (Photo credit: *~Dawn~*)
Yet still, the demand persists,
“How shall you live this life?”
There are times when you hear knocking at doors that you can neither see, much less open. There are times when a ray of sunlight shines through the cracks of the wall, reminding you that there is something more than this experience.
27/365: fractured reality/grace under pain
(Photo credit: Samie Harding)
There are times when you cannot sleep. There are times when you cannot eat. There are times when you cannot move. There are times when you cannot remember. There are times when you simply cannot… anything.
Then suddenly everything changes one morning. You open your eyes to see that you have never left all that you once thought lost. You open your mind to feelings of hope and joy. You open your arms to embrace family and friends. You open yourself to experiencing life at its fullest.
Black (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Then suddenly everything changes one morning. You open your eyes to see nothing but the all-consuming darkness. You close your mind to feelings of hope and joy. You open your arms, only to close them around disconnection and doubt. You are closed to experiencing your life as you have known it. Thus…
By understanding that even in the darkness and emptiness of fibromyalgia, you can still find the tools to help you in reconstructing the house in which you now find yourself.
The reality is that no one can save you from fibromyalgia. No one can fix this house for you. No one else can live your life for you. There is no running away. There is no mental escape. There is only the fact that…
only you can make a home for yourself out of this house of fibromyaglia. And even the act of simply choosing to do so is the first step to finding the door.
Make this house of fibromyalgia your next Do-It-Yourself project, and have fun with it! Imagine what would make this house a home for you.
“Tu sei debole,” my Italian professor says pointedly to me. “Io sono forte. Quindi io vinco e tu perdi.”
It is a discussion on verismo and positivismo–the idea that we are what we are until we die and that there is nothing we can do to change it.
Debole…
Fibromyalgia is the body that will not rise, even when the mind commands it; the mind that will not rest, even when the body requires it; the emotions that rage; the emotions that calm–the pendulum of the self that swings wildly with the change of the weather…the change of the seasons.
Forte…
Fibromyalgia is the body that overcomes pain, even when the mind surrenders to it; the mind that overcomes suffering, even when the body submits to it; the thoughts that beseech; the thoughts that concede–the pendulum of the self that settles slowly with the transformation of self-perception…the formation of self-acceptance.
Write…
“I am a person who has a chronic illness,” I say to myself and others. “Fibromyalgia and I are not one and the same.”
My professor is staring at me. He can see that my movements are slow. I am in pain. It takes me a long time to rise from my seat, to pick up my books, to pick up my coat, to put my bag on my shoulders. It is not a good day. There have not been many good days since late autumn.
“Is it always like this?”
Shamefacedly, I raise my eyes to meet his. “Often enough these days.”
I have no excuses. I have learnt well enough by now that people will judge you as they will–but he isn’t judging me–and if the judgement is harsh, then you can only apologise for having disappointed–but he isn’t disappointed in me–and move on.
“Have you ever written about it?”
Found via Google Images
“I have tried in the past.” The question is not unfamiliar. Indeed, it was only a little over a year ago that another professor from the Creative Writing Program made the same inquiry. “I decided to take some space from it.”
It is momentary, the dance of excitement that control his features before coming to an abrupt halt. Here is an opportunity. I know it is an opportunity.
My mind already understands the words that have yet to be spoken to me. My mind has already resolved itself to the task that is to be required of me. My body feels heavier than before, the skin and flesh of my chest press too much against the bones that encase my lungs. My body feels more alive than before, my shoulders and my head are relieved of some invisible burden.
“Whenever you cannot be here,” he says before continuing to gather his things. “I want you to write about it. Write about your fibromyalgia.”
In this moment, he is teaching me something I had once learnt, seemingly long ago. He is teaching me that self-acceptance is a dynamic process that evolves from self-confrontation.
It is time once again to look in the mirror.
——
Thank you again to those of you who continued to visit my blog even though I have not posted in some time. More recently, I have been struggling with my FMS symptoms and have had to prioritize the tasks I needed to accomplish during each day. As such my writing fell temporarily to the wayside. I have decided to dedicate my blog writing to dealing with topics related to FMS until the end of May (which is the FMS Awareness month), including reviewing books as well as activities/tools that have helped and are helping me in my process.
Toward the within... 