Writing Prompt: Write about a first memory

Gravity

I am wordless but I know. Below me the floor is yellow squares with dark lines. I sit twisted in my chair staring. Staring down.

I am wordless but I know down and I want to know what down is. The food falls off my spoon, slips through my fingers, escapes my chair and goes down. I know down is different. It is different than my spoon, further than my fingers, separate from this chair. Something in down changes food from from blank to blank. I don't know what the change is, but I recognize that it occurs.

I am wordless yet I know this change. Over and over food goes down and becomes changed upon the yellow below.

I am wordless still, yet I have discovered gravity.

One of our writing prompts this week is to write our first memory of one of the elements. Haven't done that yet; but, it reminded me of my very earliest memory. I was quite young, this was before I had language. So at what age do kids get fascinated with throwing things from their high chairs onto the floor?

I also blog at: A Stitch In Time throughout the week and BlogHer on Mondays and Saturdays.

Tale of the Scale 5/22

Weight on the scale this morning: 133#

I am deeply happy today. I have been since early in walking Bay to Breakers on Sunday.

Most of the rest of this post is not going to be pretty; if you hold on to the end, though, I think you'll find a light at the end. But if you're having a bad day, or a bad week.. just skip this. It will be here when you're in a better place to read it.

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I was raised in an abusive household.

No, I was not physically beaten nor was I sexually abused. My father was emotionally absent most of the time; when he did contribute anything, it was to suggest that I settle for what I have as long as I am not UNHAPPY (Happy? Too high a goal to aim for). My mother emotionally and verbally abused me from the time I was little until she could not longer speak about 10 years ago.

What's this got to do with getting healthy?

When I venture in any activity where I might make positive changes in life, the old "scripts" from my childhood come back and play in head. Trying to defeat me. Daring me to ignore them and succeed.

And if you check back over the past two months of these Tales, you will read me saying I've grown complacent. What I really mean is that I reached the half way point to my goal. And I was no longer unhappy with my body. Not happy, but not unhappy. My father's lessons have been ringing loudly in ears:

If you look at your body first thing in the morning and you are not unhappy with its appearance, why not simply settle for where you are? Why work any harder to lose more? And, why, for goodness sake pay someone to teach you how to exercise? If you can't do that for yourself, maybe you shouldn't be trying at all.

Settle for what you've got. Why risk trying to be successful at something? It's not like it will get you more money (the standard by which every worthwhile activity is judged. Will it make you more money?) Accomplishments for their own sake are vain-glorious exercises.

So my exercise and eating right routine has been waged against this nearly constant rhythm inside my head.

Settle. You are not unhappy.

Why work so hard?
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Signing up for Bay to Breakers (walking in my first race) was another huge challenge to the ways things have been. I did about the same time I hit the half-way point. The script from my father got louder.

Settle. You are not unhappy.

Still I persisted. This past weekend my mother's voice decided to chime in because it looked like I was going to succeed inspite of my background.

You are a worthless whore!

You are a not unhappy worthless whore. Why bother to work any harder??

My mother's voice almost succeeded in making sure that I did not make it Sunday. How could a not unhappy worthless whore try to accomplish a simple task like walking 7.5 miles across a city with thousands of other people?

Yet Sunday morning I got up on time. I ate my oatmeal and banana. I got dressed. I drove to BART and joined a trainful of other people who were going to walk 7.5 miles across a city. Happy, worthwhile people.

I followed them to find my staging area, waited and eventually stepped over the START line.
As I walked through the city, it felt like a 50 pound weight flew up off my shoulders. My mother shut up! My father shut up!

I took back my power from the negative thoughts.

And I was suddenly so very deeply happy.

And I still am.

Another Moving Meditation on the Treadmill

Am I boring you yet? Too Bad. I'm working through a lot of things and this is a good way for me to firm it out.

Anyway, Wednesday spent some time again meditating on the treadmill. Trying to figure out exactly why I'm feeling that I've had some level of success in this get strong/lose weight adventure and I'm wondering why I've lost my mojo.

I know I get out of the bath in the morning, and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and I am not unhappy with the way I look. I could stay here and not be unhappy. Then I put clothes on, and the lose skin and belly fat re-arranges itself to present a less pleasing picture. And reality sets in.

But still...

It was at this point in the walk that I heard my father's voice saying the things he said my whole life: If you're kind of happy with the success you've had already, why bother working harder? Why not settle for what you've already done? It's enough.

"Settle" it should be my family's motto!!

Did you know that the messages that little girls get from the adult men in their lives are the keys to how these women will be as adults? Fathers, uncles, godfathers, etc. teach little girls how to act as a woman, what to expect from a man, and what to expect from herself.

I've spent my life hearing that I should settle for what's easy, what doesn't take hard work, what's at hand. When I aimed higher and didn't get it, my parents would tell me that I should set my standards lower.

We won't go into some of the nightmares created by THAT message.

Anyway, when I realized that it's father's voice that's holding me back, NOW I HAVE WAY TO ATTACK THE PROBLEM. It would be wonderful if I could find strong positive messages from my father or others to simply substitute for what I'm hearing. Yeah, that's not going to happen.
Instead, I am going to have to write my script and simply OUTSHOUT my father's practical but sorry teachings.

Working on the script today.

What would you say to yourself to motivate yourself through to success??

My Most Memorable Christmas

Back when I was a single adult, I didn't have enough to do with my time. Working full time, attending grad school part-time and keeping up my apartment? Not enough. So I also volunteered with my local Red Cross Disaster Team. One weekend a month I was on call. And holidays. As a single, I'd volunteer for the holidays so those with kids and lots of family could spend their time home.

So it was that in 1982 I was catching up on some sleep on Christmas Eve, when the expected phone call awoke me. The call to action, however, wasn't a local house fire. An apartment building about 1.5 hours away had a major fire; the local unit was overwhelmed and needed help. Over 100 units were affected to varying degrees with residents coping with fire damage, smoke damage and water damage.

A dozen of us arrived at our downtown Cleveland office by 6 am., where we grabbed supplies and piled into 2 vans for long drive. The sun was rising as we pulled into the apartment parking lot.

We told the story: residents had left the fireproof doors from the lobby to their hallways open to make it easier for visitors to come and go; unfortunately, their lobby Christmas tree caught fire and without the doors working as resistance to ripped through parts of the building. Those lucky residents in halls where the firedoors were kept closed had nothing but some light smoke damage; the others lost significant amounts of their material lives.

We had a short organizational meeting in the complexes community center: the building had been gone over by a damage assessment team so we could tell people the extent of their damage; the apartment management was opening up any vacant apartments in other complexes to house those whose were not moving back anytime soon.

For the next 10 hours, I sat at table talking to people. After getting their apartment number, I'd check the map and tell them the extent of their damage. None of the residents had been allowed back in.

To most residents, it was relief to hear that they only had some water and light smoke damage. I gave them sheets explaining how to clean things. Their lives would recover soon.

Other were told that they had likely lost everything. The renters without insurance (and really? Who actually gets renter's insurance?) were directed to charities for replacement furniture, to discount houses for clothing and household basics. We directed people to the places for new glasses and replacement prescriptions.

Many of the residents were thankful for the calm we provided, for the help, for the assurances. Some would try to argue that deserved more; we would explain that we had to follow guidelines.

One of my clearest memories was a young man who had placed an engagement ring under his girlfriend's tree. The apartment was totalled. I made a note to have people keep an eye out for the ring, but I doubt it would ever be found.

After we worked, our director kindly took us all out for a holiday meal. The locals located a restaurant that happily served us. We sat at one large table like the extended family were that day, sharing a meal and retelling the stories of the day before heading back into our van for the ride home.

I think I got home about 11 pm. Christmas night. Turned on my own tree, poured myself a glass of eggnog and sat thankful that I could return to a normal life.