Getting Through the Holidays For Depressed People - A Practical Pessimist's Guide

This time, every year, there are many blogs and articles written to help us move through seasonal depression (or chronic depression) and survive the holidays. 

While well intentioned, so many of them give us advice that is impractical whilst in the throes of a major depression. The confusing and Herculean task of "practicing self-care" goes unheard for a lot of us. 

So, who am I? I am anti-holiday depression advice, so why should anyone listen to a damn thing I have to say?

You don't. You are a grown ass person. You can do, and not do, whatever the hell you want. I could end this blog right now on that note because that's the crux of it. But...

I am a survivor of childhood sexual abuse and assault as a young woman. I am a mother of three - the youngest having a variety of special needs. As a lifelong renter, I have moved at least 40 times in my life (and counting). We live paycheck to paycheck. I have been homeless. I have been hungry. I have autoimmune disease and chronic pain conditions. I have PTSD, Anxiety and Depression. I have been hospitalized twice in my life because of it. I am not qualified to tell you what to do - but I am qualified to say; I understand. 

Here's some advice you've probably heard already, and therefore can skip:

1) Plan Ahead

2) Prepare neutral responses when visiting relatives

3) Buy a S.A.D. lamp

4) Take CARE of yourself. Take a relaxing bath.

5) Eat well

6) Exercise

Ok, that is all good advice - if you can muster it. For some of us, peeling ourselves out of bed just to go to the bathroom is as much as we can get done in a day. The rest is just all too difficult. 

So here's my top three tips for anyone who is in that "should I get out of bed to pee?" category;

1) You Don't Have To Do The Holidays If You Don't Want To - (Stay with me on this, I know it's shocking).

When we were children, we had no choice. We had to schlepp to various relatives' houses to smile, interact, and be the harbingers of good cheer. As an adult, you don't have to. You can invite people to come see you, order a pizza, and call it good. You can also skip it altogether. It all depends on how much you'd like to see these people. If tapping out of Aunt Trudy's invitation causes you more stress, invite her over. Meet for lunch (if you can). Explain your depression and the fact that you are struggling. People understand more than we give them credit for.

But, if Aunt Trudy was a total bitch to you growing up, skip it. We are hardwired to keep up appearances - especially when it comes to family. The holidays reek of peacemaking and putting things behind you in an effort to patch things up with previously toxic people. Maybe you did this last year. But, after the New Year, did the relationship build? Did it get better? Or was it the same old shit? If the latter is true, don't put yourself through it again. It will be no worse than it already is. The holidays are the worst possible time to resolve complicated family bullshit. 

"But Morgen, what if my family doesn't know that I can't stand them?" Yes, that's a more difficult obstacle. In the spirit of self-preservation, you can always say you don't feel well. It's the truth after all. And, if you have a family who fakes it all anyway, they won't even question it. Remember - the goal is getting through the holidays in one piece. This is about survival and self-preservation. If you have kids, don't even think twice about using them as an excuse. Just use the phrase "stomach bug" and there will be no further questions. 

2) You Do Not Have To Go Gift Shopping - (No, you really don't)

The pressure of holiday shopping is a huge extra stress you don't need. If you can get it together to bake, do that and give treats as gifts. If like me, that just sounds like a lot of math, Amazon can be your best friend. You can send gifts and digital gift cards to nearly anywhere via email (they will do that for you). Because, also like me, searching for that option seems like work, you can find it here: Gift Cards . If you really can't afford any of those options and are able and willing to mobilize, a visit to help cook dinner or come late and help clean up after would be appreciated more than you probably realize.

3) Take Your Medication and Reach Out For Help If You Need It - (Seriously.)

It might seem like your medication isn't working because you feel like you've been hit by a truck. But it most likely is (because you're reading this and not on a ledge somewhere and that's pretty awesome). And, if you still feel horrible after the holidays, a call to your doctor to revisit your medication and dosage is in order. If you are not on medication, and you feel like you can't hold on, call your doctor ASAP. If you don't have a doctor, you can call any of the below resources and get immediate help. They will not judge you. They will not "tell" anyone. And, they will not send the white coats to your house to come and get you (unless you've really become completely unsafe to yourself in which case, let them. Fuck your pride and fuck the holidays. Save yourself. At the very least, there will be drugs and sleep and you won't have to cook or even get up to pee if you don't want to.)

Suicide Prevention Hotline

Pride Counseling (for the LGBTQ community)

AA

NAMI Helpline 

Salvation Army ( if you need help with bills, food, gifts for the kids, coats, etc..)

You can also dial "211" from anywhere, and reach a "warm line" to connect you to local services in your area. This one is also a great resource if you have children you are struggling to care for. I don't address this much in this blog because it would be 8,000 words, but reach out to them. You can get help with gifts, food, even childcare and housing resources if you are in crisis.

January is just around the corner. It's an important turning point as the cold dark of winter, and all that comes with it is on it's way out. 

Whatever rules or guilt which have been instilled in you about the holidays throughout your childhood no longer apply. You owe nothing to anyone but yourself. You are the most important thing. I know that is probably really hard to believe when you're feeling so bad, but it's true. There are people on standby 24 hours a day whose sole purpose is to talk to you and help you through it. Talk to them. If you have another depressed friend, hunker down and be depressed together and get each other through it. Allow yourself to stay in a cocoon on your couch binge watching mindless shit until the depression sees an opportunity to step out for a moment. Then, you make your escape into wellness again.

You will get through this. Chances are, you've survived heavier shit. Hang on. 

Now, here's a kitten doing pilates. 

The Victimization of Women in Romance Novels - When Fantasy Sends a Dangerous Message

About five years ago, I decided to participate in the NaNoWriMo writing challenge. The goal was to write 50,000 words in a month. As an aspiring writer, I jumped into this challenge with great fervor. Because I tend to be a little dark, I wanted to write something completely different than I had in my songwriting career - a love story. Yes! I would write a love story and it would be funny and edgy and awesome.

Taking inspiration from my Indian friends and my love of their culture, I typed out a story of a whirlwind romance between a scrappy, Philly girl and an Indian school teacher. She meets him on a train tour through the Indian countryside. I kind of figured she'd just have some vacation sex, see some sights, fly home and call it good.

But at the end of the novella, I felt like I needed to have closure with it - so I shopped it to publishers. I re-wrote the ending (because "happily ever after" endings did not mean vacation sex and back home to Netflix apparently), to create a conclusion that coincided with the standard for "happily ever after". She gets accidentally pregnant after being told she'd never have children, and he shows up on her doorstep just in time to save her from her own misery. It sold zero copies.

I had strayed far from what I intended it to be. I added more sex, I took some sex away. I made her strong, and then I made her needy and depressed wallowing in her own self-loathing. In the end, I was told, Asian -Caucasian relationships were not "interracial" enough.

And then they asked me for two more books. Which I wrote. I tried to take all critique and change the stories to suit the publishers’ needs. I tried to give them what they wanted while still trying to write interesting, strong female characters. All three books combined sold 5 copies in a 3 year period of time.

I saw that my publishers' most popular books were alien/human or shapeshifter/human romances. "BDSM" was growing ever more popular since "Fifty Shades of Grey" reared its ugly head in mainstream media. I did not think I had the energy to read the book, but I watched the movie.

By all accounts, Christian Grey, just like his “Twilight” counterpart, was an abusive, controlling, self-absorbed sadist. E.L. James had betrayed the BDSM community and set a dangerous new standard for what constitutes "romance" in literature. Disappointingly, so did one of my favorite authors, Anne Rice with her "Sleeping Beauty" series. Walt Disney would have been proud though. To her credit, she put the Disney princess' pseudo-sexual messages right out there in the open.

Side note: The original "Sleeping Beauty" story involved Aurora/ Briar Rose (or Talia in the original story) being raped while unconscious and being forced to carry and give birth to twins conceived of that rape. While still unconscious. Yup. Ok, g'nite, kids!

But, I digress. As I am so prone to do.

I embarked on an experiment. I wrote a very short story that was, intentionally, utter garbage. - or "Shit Lit", if you will. A Yeti - Human romance in the Himalayas. 100 copies were downloaded in less than a month's time. What the fuck is wrong with everyone?

I began to pay more attention to the quotes and titles for the new "romance" books by successful authors that peppered my Twitter feed on the daily.

"You were born to be mastered and owned by the men around you."

"I hiked up my dress as he forced himself between my legs."

"'Don't stop', she begged as she rubbed against his belt like a cat in heat."

"He pushed her down and ripped off her black silk panties."

"Is my little slave ready to be taken hard again?"

"The Bigfoot pounded harder and deeper into his little toy."

"Seven sexually sadistic dwarves turn a submissive princess into a quivering wet mess of hot, incoherent female flesh." (I am not fucking kidding)

"Ashamed."

And at least 7 books, just yesterday alone, featured the word "Claim" in their titles.

There was one book only which featured a woman in charge - and she was a succubus. Of course.

I know quite a few authors who do not write about abuse. They do not write about rape or sex with aliens and cyborgs. But they also do not write strong female characters either. As if there's no middle ground, one must write their erotica/romance heroines in terms of either abuse and slavery, or silly and befuddled.

All these authors are women. I am assuming, based on the comments and shares, that most of the readers are women too. So, what is happening?

With the emergence of the “Wonder Woman” movie and its record-breaking box office receipts, we were presented with a strong, female character - ehhhhh - seemingly. But, even in that story, there is an undertone of sexuality. The coy "I don't know anything about sex - ok, I know everything about sex" paradigm played out, albeit briefly, in the first 45 minutes of the movie. Patty Jenkins received props for not over sexualizing the Amazons, but they're still kind of sexualized. Does all female armor need to consist of short skirts? I would think keeping your legs protected during battle would be far more efficient.

We are marketing to women and still disrespecting them at the same time. We are creating a narrative which tells women (a-fucking-gain) that they need to be controlled. And women are throwing their money at them.

So, I can only surmise that rape culture has been so deeply-seeded that it's nearly become its own blood type. It binds itself to our DNA. It hides in the deepest parts of our hearts that long for love - for companionship. Some of us are accepting and paying for, our own victimization.

I cannot speak to lesbian erotica or romance because I have not read those authors. There seems to be fewer of them. But, I will. Because I need to know what the differences are between the two women - the woman who writes "Claimed by Her Master" and the woman who writes "Marcie's Lesbian Lover". F/F encounters I've read so far have been in the context of a threesome in which the aim was still pleasing a dominating man.

We are in dangerous times. We are fighting like it's the 1920's, and the President of the United States just told the victims of Roy Moore that he does not stand with them because tax reform.

I don't think we can wear the Pussy Hat and then go home and rent "Fifty Shades Darker". We cannot fight oppression and then oppress ourselves via Kindle on the way to work.

For me, as a budding author, I need to do some soul searching as well. I have watched all the "Twilight" movies. I do that when I want to clear my head of all thought. I know they're garbage. But I still watch. Why? And I would invite any woman who has read or watched any movie that has an undertone of abuse to ask themselves the same question.

We should be able to embrace our sexuality, and our right to porn and trashy romance novels, without yielding to a culture which attempts to dominate and control us. And, if you are the author of any of the above books, there is no judgment here from me. I got sucked into it too. I wrote things I didn't feel because I wanted the publishing deal and the fan base. But, in the end, I achieved nothing by selling out.

But you, E.L. James - you are not off the hook yet.

Why Women Will Be Saving America...Again

It seemed like it started with the Women's March. And then it seemed like it started with the James Woods allegations. Then, Harvey Weinstein. Then, Kevin Spacey. Charlie Sheen. CK Louis. Ray Moore. Al Franken. #MeToo.

But it didn't. It never started, because it never stopped. Since Eden, women have been fighting for equality. We've been fighting for the opportunity to be heard - to be treated like *gasp* equals.

Human history is written on the back of oppression. Women, regardless of color, religion, or economic status, have been a consistent target for as long as there's been written history.

We have been both the vessels for gods and kings, as well as demons. We have been made all-powerful and infantilized at the same time. Make up your minds.

During the Revolutionary War, women both held down the forts and defended them when the men grew weary from combat. During the Civil War, more than 400 women disguised themselves as men and went to battle. And, when we weren't doing that, we tended to the wounded and dying. We kept the homes safe. We emerged from The Antebellum with a nod of gratitude and sent back to the work of having babies and cleaning houses.

During WWI and WWII, women took over the roles of Police Officers, Switchboard Operators, Telegraphers, Mechanics, and Drivers - all while maintaining the home and raising children. During WWII, more than 100,000 women joined the Armed Forces. No accurate records were kept as to how many women were injured and killed during the wars, and when they were over, the surviving women holding down jobs in the previously male-dominated workforces were asked to step aside and hand those jobs back over to the men. We proved our strength, patriotism, and dedication, and yet, we had to fight for the right to vote. We were held political prisoners and subjected to torture, violence, and ridicule.

We railed. We starved ourselves. But, we won.

There exists this ongoing paradox of needing women desperately to benefit the U.S., to stuffing us back into our boxes when our country wants quiet. But there's never quiet - because women are not the problem. We are the solution.

In this era of "President Pussy Grabber" we have, once again, had to up our game and stand in unity. At least 16 women have come forward to speak out against Trump's abuse of women and children.
One by one, women have been coming forward with their stories of sexual assault by Hollywood bigwigs, politicians and other public figures. And one by one, we are discredited and re-victimized. Save for CK Louis and Al Franken, no apologies or acknowledgments have been made public. Therefore, it is assumed that we are all lying. Because it's so hard to believe that women are being victimized in America.

We are back to the never-ending beginning.

This blog won't be nearly long enough to cover all the injustice - all the hypocrisy. And, maybe that shouldn't be the point anyway. The point is, during times of extreme struggle in America, women have saved us. And, they are saving us again.

Recently, we have celebrated the public office appointments of two transgender women: Danica Roem and Andrea Jenkins. Oklahoma, notoriously "Red", won a Democratic seat in the state senate.
Other political heroes like Elizabeth Warren, Maxine Waters, and Claire Warner are railing against corruption and injustice. They are guarding the fort 2017 style.

This is what we do. We see shit going down and we march - we fight - we speak. That's been the case since Lilith first rebelled against Adam in Paradise. The difference this time is; we won't be going back into the box. This is a new Revolution. The current state of our country has woken the mama bear in all of us.

So, fifty years from now, history will remind a new generation of the time that women saved America again. Don't give up. Speak. Rail. Believe.

That's all I had to say.

The Epic Cucumber Battle

“What did you pack me for lunch?” demanded my eight-year-old. I hear this question every day. Despite the fact that I try to always pack him foods I know he likes, he will question my commitment to his eating lunch every single day. I feel my whole body tense as I prepare for what is sure to be another battle after a long night of night terrors and sleep violence.

“Don’t worry. I packed you all things you like”, I say with a smile, trying to avoid further conversation on the matter.

“But what did you pack??” he presses, growing more agitated by the minute.

I inhale deeply, and in one breathe I recite the list of foods hiding in that nutritional cul de sac of a lunch box.

Instantly, there is a cry of rebellion when he hears the word “cucumber”.

“CUCUMBER? I HATE CUCUMBER!” And so it begins. A full-on meltdown has ensued, despite the fact that not only did I pack cucumber on Tuesday, but he ate them all. This week alone, he has decided from day to day that he likes turkey sandwiches, hates turkey sandwiches - likes carrot sticks, is allergic to carrot sticks - loves pears, all fruit comes from the devil himself. If the lunch line didn’t give him “anxiety”, he could simply buy lunch at school. Which would be a huge relief for me. But alas, no.

He proceeds to slam the door with great force and lock himself in the bedroom, refusing to get dressed, until he has dismantled the lunchbox completely and replaced it with snacks he thinks I  am hiding from him ( I’m not.) There are tears. There is swearing. There is threatening.  At which point his father, who works 16 hours a day and has little to no one on one time with him and rarely does the morning routine, decides to pull rank and storm the bedroom in full old school mode.

Everyone is now screaming and yelling at each other at 7:45 in the morning - over cucumbers. One of many battles that will layout before me today.

He is off to school now, in full on tears, kicking and screaming along the way, and I, sleepless and shaking, attempt to begin my day.

I remind myself that I am not alone in this struggle. There are parents of Autistic children fighting similar wars all over the world right at this very moment. Maybe it’s about shoelaces - or a passive-aggressive clothing tag placed in just the wrong spot - or it’s a day that ends in “y”. Whatever it is, it’s real and it’s exhausting, and that parent is probably feeling as alone as I am right now. Lost. How will my child find his way in the world when we can’t even get through breakfast.

At five months old, we knew something was wrong. It took nearly eight years to even begin to flesh out a clear picture of this child’s issues. Because he has multiple disorders (Autism, Selective Mutism, Tourette’s Syndrome, ADHD, and DMDD), there have been more evaluations and tests than might be necessary for a child with a singular disability. One medication that might help one disorder, is contraindicated in another. The social worker at his pediatrician's office doubted that I had exhausted every resource possible for this kid. She said she would look into other options and get back to me. Two weeks later, she called me to confirm that she, herself, could find no resource that we hadn’t already tried and wished us “the best of luck” and that I should file for disability for him - which I did. It took me four hours of documenting reports, dates, and notes from over 20 doctors in what was absolutely the most difficult process I have ever gone through. That’s saying a lot. I am fluent in bureaucracy.

At least that advice was positive in some way. We have received far less effective or helpful advice from other well-meaning (and not so well-meaning) people. “He just needs an old-fashioned spanking”, “He needs a child psychiatrist (good luck finding one of those on Medicaid)”, “He needs Jesus/Church/Sports/Books/Medication/Military School/ Stronger Parenting/Consistency/Hospitalization/Chores/Manual Labor/Scared Straight/Love/An Earlier Bedtime/A Later Bedtime/A Dog/A Holistic Diet etc., etc. etc.

There was a study done on the effects of parenting a special needs child, and it was found that those parents experienced symptoms not uncommon to combat veterans. I totally get that to some extent. I find my hands trembling at the end of most days. I panic when I feel a battle coming on. I don’t sleep (even when he is not waking me up). I have nightmares.

And, for the most part, I am handling it alone. That’s the hardest part for me - feeling alone.

So, as I try to think of a conclusion to this little essay, I want to end with something positive and uplifting. I want to be able to say “Hey, this miracle saved our whole family”. But I can’t. What I can do, and what you hopefully, are getting, is that you are not alone. I am not alone. You will survive it all, and your child will too.

And, on the very bad days, even when your child is shrieking “I HATE you!” at the top of their lungs for all the neighborhood to hear, they love you. They do. They know they can come to you when they are sad, or when they are frustrated. They know it is you who will protect them, even from themselves. They know you are present, even when you don’t feel very present yourself.

You are doing an amazing job.

There are support groups for parents who are struggling. Click on the links below to get some help and support locally. Ask for help if you’re feeling overwhelmed. Inquire about respite care. Find playgroups and activities that are welcoming to children with special needs. Get resources if you’re struggling with depression and anxiety. It’s so easy to find ourselves feeling isolated. You don’t have to do this alone. Just like on an airplane when they tell you to put the oxygen mask on yourself before your child, you need to take care of yourself first. Hang on. We feel you.

For Parents of Children With Disabilities

Friendship Circle

Facebook Groups for Parents of Children With Special Needs

Bayada

Yes, But There Was Also Abuse

People have suggested to me more than once that I write a memoir of my life, as it has been fairly noteworthy.

One day, I sat down to do that and started with the story of the family meeting that occurred in my parent's apartment when I was nearly 10 years old after I had come forward with the abuse I was suffering at the hands of my step-grandfather. I recounted the horrified look on my aunt's face (the only face I can remember from that day), and being sent to another room with a sticker book to keep me occupied while the adults spoke in panicked whispers about what to do next.

I wrote three paragraphs and had to stop. How would I write an entire memoir when the first three paragraphs plunged me into a total state of anxiety? How could I put words to the complex emotions that occurred within a timeline blurred by age and mental self-preservation? I couldn't. It would not be therapeutic for me to re-live a life with story after story of sexual abuse, assault, and harassment.

There was just too much. As it is just too much for most women. I imagine. Do any of us not have a story of feeling unsafe? Do any of us not have a story of feeling pressured, ogled, shouted at, grabbed. Do any of us not have a story of being told to "smile more", "wear some makeup", or "do something with your hair"? Do any of us not have a story of being criticized for what we are wearing? Or what we are not wearing?

I doubt it.    

Because my own abuse began barely before the age of three, my entire identity was shaped around being a sexual object. It was shaped around not understanding boundaries. It was shaped around not knowing that I could say "no"- especially when "no" rarely worked anyway.

I was reading Amber Tamblyn's open letter to James Woods today. While men targeting young girls, especially in the context of the entertainment setting, isn't a new narrative, this one might have been the last proverbial straw for me. Woods' response falls in line with the usual - same old - same old - of male defenses. "She's lying"and "prove it" said with a tone of polite minimizing.

The responses to the Twitter thread were also standard. Men accusing her of needing the attention, lying, being a bitch. Of being too sensitive.

I've heard that one a lot too. Too sensitive. Yes, I'm too sensitive. But also, there was abuse.

It's just more "reasons" to excuse and ignore the fact that we live in a rape culture. We sexualize little girls from early on. "Pretty" becomes a thing you strive to be. As if that matters even remotely in developing a sense of self - of identity. We used to tell girls about being "pretty" more than we told them about being strong. We told them about being "good" and "obeying". We told them about being "quiet".

Little by little, we have been attempting changing that and failing. We create Legos "for girls" in pinks and purples. We engage them in sports and encourage them to join the sciences. But still, the focus is on how they can and should change while maintaining their female-ness. We teach them to speak up, and when they do, they have silenced again with "prove it". Besty DeVos recently undid protections for victims of assault on college campuses. So, once again, the conversation turns to "proving it".  Silencing it.

North Carolina says it's legal for a man to rape you if intercourse began, but you changed your mind at some point. If you are being hurt during sex, you have no right to retract your consent. That's horrible. Barbaric.

On our acceptance of abuse and dysfunction: A few months ago, my step-grandmother died. This woman was a facilitator for the abuse and rape that occurred not just with me, but with other young women in the family. She was a denier, a blamer, and the cause of so much pain and destruction. She did not commit the sexual abuse - but she helped. She did not protect us. I even remember her once giving me advice on how I could avoid it. At 7 years old, I was being blamed.

My mother attended the funeral of this woman. To "pay her respects". It broke my heart. I thought about my own daughter and what I would have done in the same situation. I would have attended the funeral to spit on her and to speak the truth of who she was. I would have represented my daughter. I would have testified.

But my mother, who also grew up in varying abuse and dysfunction, doesn't get it either. That's how deep our rape culture goes - hundreds of years of accepting because it's so common. The past is the past and we have to move on. We've become desensitized.  It's always someone other than the abuser's fault. My step-grandmother's obituary read "loving grandmother", "local school employee", "generous". Maybe - but there was also abuse.

Why isn't this the narrative yet? Why are we not countering the excuses with the facts, which are separate and absolute?

She was drunk - Yes, but there was also abuse.
She was wearing next to nothing - Yes, but there was also abuse.
She slept with a lot of people - Yes, but there was also abuse.
She didn't say anything - Yes, but there was also abuse.
She'd had sex with him before - Yes, but there was also abuse.
She's too sensitive/She can't take a joke - Yes, but there was also abuse.

She was walking around at that hour alone/she met him online/came to his hotel/came to the party/got in his car/said yes once before/slept with everybody/she was trans and didn't tell him/did drugs/was a prostitute/accused other people too/wasn't wearing a bra/wasn't wearing underwear/asked him to use a condom during the rape/she was out of control/she was mentally ill/she's trying to ruin him/she wants attention/she saw him again/she sexted him/she has kids by different fathers/she didn't leave/she didn't go to the police/she didn't go to the hospital. Yes, but there was also abuse.

#ButThereWasAlsoAbuse

From now on, that's my answer to it all. Because the discussion needs to stop being about the victim and what she did or didn't do and turn back to the abuse. We need to start believing women. We need to stop creating a reason why she "asked for it",  or why it's too late for her to speak out. We keep doing this as a society, and all it's doing is normalizing abuse and violence. We cannot have a reason to make abuse acceptable. We need to stop making women afraid to come forward because they won't be believed.

End of rant.

Find out how you can help

Fat Bottomed Girls, You Make the Rockin' World Go Round

Last week, our 20-something family counselor, after a conversation about health and weight in which I stated that I had resolved myself to the weight I'm at because I can't lose anymore, replied: "Sure you could. If you just TRIED harder". She then proceeded to tell me about calorie counting and exercise because, of course, at 44 years old I'd never heard of those things before.

When she volunteered her own height and weight, I commented to her that we were actually almost exactly the same. Looking perturbed at being compared to someone she clearly felt was overweight, she said: "Yes, but everybody is different. I have a lot of muscle because I exercise and lift weights".

Bitch, I'm about to lift weights right now and toss you out my fucking window. I was incensed. I was hurt. But, goddammit, I am okay with my weight and accept my womanly self completely so, FUCK HER.

But as the days went by, I saw that that little grenade of a comment was about to detonate inside me revealing the still very disordered and wounded self-image I've been carrying my whole life. Not only was her comment hurtful, it was mean considering I'd shared with her a lifelong battle with disordered eating and weight. And, even though she'd shared her own intense fear of "getting fat" with me, it did not make me feel better. It made me feel sad. Sad that this woman, who is college educated and serves as a counselor to families and troubled youth, was clearly just as fucked up as I was.

So, in the days that followed, as I obsessed about food, weighed myself several times a day, and studied all of my fat in the mirror while wondering how she saw me as so much larger than she, I decided to discontinue with her as our family counselor. Because she's not where I am. She has not had children. She has not grown human beings in her body. She has not gained 60 pounds or more while pregnant and then frantically tried to lose it all. She has not inhaled as much food as she could get her hands on while breastfeeding. She does not understand peri-menopause - or fibromyalgia - or autoimmune diseases. She does not understand depression or how fragile the rebuilt ego actually is. She does not understand the deep, lifelong effects of sexual abuse. She does not understand what it feels like to contemplate suicide because you hate your body. She does not understand the mental energy it takes to just be OKAY with yourself. She does not understand compassion.

Her Kent education and subsequent master's degree be damned, she is not educated enough or mentally well enough to counsel us.

So, to her I say; Do not give people diet advice when they didn't ask for it. Spend some time interning in eating disorder units. Talk to people who are struggling with food addictions and obesity. When someone is feeling bad about themselves, ask them about what else is going on for them instead of confirming what they already fear most about themselves - that they are wrong the way they are.

I also want to say to her; Thank you. Thank you for making me revisit this issue within myself. Thank you for triggering my disordered thinking so I could re-affirm for myself that I am fine the way I am. Thank you for making me remember that I was insane when I was caught in the cycle of starving, bingeing and purging. That no matter what the scale says, I have an obligation to my children to stay sane. I have an obligation to be well. Thank you for making me remember that I have normal cholesterol. I have normal blood pressure. I have normal blood sugar. Thank you for making me remember why I can't go back there again. Whatever the number on the scale reads.

And lastly, you can go fuck yourself.

 Love,
 Morgen and her big fat ass.



via GIPHY