There is one piece of advice I unfailingly offer to any couple I know that is expecting a baby.
Be good to each other. Always, always, be good to each other. Make the time for each other, because your kid(s) isn’t(aren’t) just going to hand it to you. A relationship is not easy, and like a child, it needs care.
You may wonder if there’s a point to my stupid ramblings.
I assure you that there is. Right now, The Merry Wench is anything but merry. The Wench is actually rather unhappy, thanks to a series of conditions that have been ripe for the epic depressive shitstorm that I even said a few months ago would probably come my way.
My life is not one of coddling. I have not been sheltered from the world much, at all. That being said, Merry needs some sheltering right now and just isn’t finding any.
To be honest, I’m probably going to catch a lot of crap for this entry, but if I am ever going to turn this blog into a book deal, I must be honest because motherhood and wifery isn’t all peaches and sunshine. And before someone snottily points out that the Mister and I are not in posession of a piece of paper that puts us together in the eyes of the government, you can seriously take your self righteous proclaimation and shove it up your arse. I’ve been with the Mister for 5 years now, we have three children, we live together, we do everything married couples do. We just didn’t see fit to drop $20k on a wedding, and the courthouse is not an option right now for reasons that are none of your business.
Pardon me while I go pour a glass of wine so that I may adequately whine to you. I am a bitter, angry, hurt woman right now. I am exhausted, running on empty, as I still have no time to myself, nor anyone to watch all three of my kids for a couple hours. I have ceased to care about this, because, save for the occasional visit from my mama, I will get no relief and I must accept this, and profusely thank my mama when she visits.
Anyways, allow me to revisit a quite painful part of my past for a few, brief moments. I was teased when I was younger. Horribly. To the point that I often thought of just killing myself to make it all stop. This was in the days before YouTube and the It Gets Better Project, which should really start also supporting non-LGBT victims of bullying too, because I’d love to tell those kids it gets better too. Anyways. So rather than cry it out on the Web and find comfort with many kids going through the same shit I was…I comfort ate. I am an emotional eater, a comfort eater, a compulsive eater.
And I’m sorry, but if you’ve never gone through it, you really won’t ever understand. It is a disorder, and for me, it went hand in hand with another eating disorder I had, anorexia. While I was in high school, I kept adding the weight on, because I had to eat in addition to what I emotionally ate. My grandparents were not the type to let me starve myself. I hated throwing up, and I think that saved me from bulimia. But once I had moved away from home, I was able to control what I ate. The compulsive eating gave way to not eating at all. I had been given total control over something, for once, and I strong-armed myself into starvation. I went from carrying over 240lbs on my 5’8″ frame to 125lbs. I’m not a tiny boned girl. I have the stocky build of my Irish-German ancestors and on me, 125lbs looked like death was right around the corner. I managed to gain 15lbs to 140, and I looked good at that. Mr. Wench has never seen me at 125, and he seems to think that 125 would look good on me. I want to smack him every time he says that. But thankfully, he hasn’t said that in a while. He’s happily pointing out that I am gaining weight again.
Yes. My post-partum weight-loss, fueled by breastfeeding for the first two weeks, crashed and burned shortly after Thanksgiving. I blame myself for the return of my compulsive eating. But I harbor resentments in regards to my failed breastfeeding. I blame that my boobs hate me. I blame that I had no peaceful, quiet place to nurse. I hate that I didn’t have any help save for the help my mama and Aunt Dee gave me.
So yes, I started eating. Because I am hurting, I am frustrated, I am bored. I feel so fucking unattractive that it just kills me, and I ease that ache by eating. And if you’re going to say “Well, Merry, just put down the Twinkies”, you can shut up, because it’s OREOs, not Twinkies, and if compulsive eating didn’t involve some very real mental triggers, then they wouldn’t have so many fricking articles about how to develop different mechanisms to help compulsively eat healthy foods, now would they? My brain doesn’t want a piece of broccoli or a slice of fruit, my brain wants some f***ing chocolate.
But I’ll give it a shot. I have to. Not because anyone’s calling me a fatarse…ahem…or because I weight 240lbs, because I don’t, by any means, but I don’t want to get up to 240, or even 200, and I am dangerously close to that. I’m not going to try this because anyone finds me less attractive, or doesn’t tell me I’m pretty. I’m not doing it for you, or for my friends or family. I’m doing it for me, because at one point, I weighed 140lbs and I looked good, and gosh darnit, I feel like rubbing some attitudes about people’s opinion of my appearance right back in some faces. Eat pie and shut up. No, don’t eat pie. You don’t need it and neither do I.
Food for thought (because gosh darn it, Merry, put down the Oreo…): Insecurities are a house of cards…they help to make a beautiful structure when placed where they belong, but one wrong move and they just become an ugly mess.
Coming up tomorrow: Space issues the Big Family (not size wise, population wise, lol) has in the Tiny House, and how Merry attempts to deal.