I Was Diagnosed with a Rare Disease

On Thursday, I had what I thought was going to be a routine annual eye exam: I would go in, question whether option 1 or 2 was really clearer, panic that I tell them the wrong thing and end up with the wrong prescription, and order new contacts. What I got from an optometrist who is not my normal optometrist (who honestly reminded me of my dentist so I felt kind of more comfortable with her) is that there is bleeding in one of my eyes (at my horrified expression she assured me it's nothing I would notice) and that when she was looking at my eyes with the really bright light, there were spots she could see through my iris. You're not supposed to have holes in your iris. She diagnosed me with pigment dispersion syndrome, a rare disease that only affects about 1% of the population. The pigment from my iris is flaking off into my aqueous humor and can eventually block the drainage in the back of my eye, increasing intraocular pressure and resulting in glaucoma. A type of glaucoma that develops way earlier than other forms of glaucoma. I meet a few of the risk factors: myopia, age, and I am White. It's in the very early stages right now. She didn't link the bleeding to this so I'll go back in 3 months for her to check on the bleeding issue, and in 6 months to check my IOP and check on my optic nerve to make sure there is no damage. But there's nothing I can do, no treatment or preventative. The only treatments are for when it progresses into glaucoma, if it does (fingers crossed mine doesn't). After my appointment, I Googled like crazy, disassociated for a minute, drove back to work in tears and cried for a minute in my car. I ate my feelings that night. I needed a couple days to process. A guy I have been talking to let me word vomit at him via text and he said "that sucks but at least it's not fatal" and that's something I have to remember. It's not fatal.

My eyes are my biggest vanity, despite the disfiguring scar I have on the right side. I love my blue-grey chameleon eyes that I can make look blue or green based on what eyeshadow I wear. I've always been complimented on my eyes. While my astigmatism prevents me from seeing without corrective lenses and from wearing fun SFX contacts, I've never felt betrayed by them like I did the other day. I eat well, I exercise. Exercise may even be my eye's undoing: running--an exercise I love-- can cause further flaking of the pigments. At this point, if I experience blurring after exercise, I need to let my optometrist know, but she hasn't told me not to change anything. 

The hardest part of this is the lack of control I have over it. When my cholesterol was high and I felt like shit all the time, I changed my lifestyle and started eating better and exercising. When my bipolar disorder had me in its clutches and medication wasn't working, I started this blog. But this? I can't do anything and that makes me feel a little helpless. I hate it.
 

A Different Type of Body Dysmorphia

 I am, like most women, at odds with my body and how it looks in regard to my weight, and I do body check a lot. But something that actually gives me a little more distress is my skin. Never mind the acne, although I hate it, it's not my problem. My problem is that I actually have too much blank skin at this phase in my life and I hate it to the point I almost got a tattoo on impulse a couple weeks ago (thankfully I didn't because I had an even better idea of what to do with the space). In my mind's eye, how I actually picture myself, is so much more heavily tattooed than I actually am, and it sucks to look in the mirror and be dissatisfied with what I see because I can't realistically afford the work right now. When I look at the picture to the right, which is a Snapchat filter, I like what I see. I want a full throat tattoo, I've warmed to the idea of a chest piece. My neck and right arm are shamefully bare. I have nothing on my legs, my back. I don't even know if you can classify this as body dysmorphia, and I would hesitate to anyway, because body dysmorphic disorder is a real problem people have, but maybe it's somewhere in the spectrum of that? All I know is that the more tattoo work I get done, the more me I feel. 

A Very Feminist and Animist Poem About Hiking

 How does hiking make me feel;

My thick thighs trembling

with

each

step

My calves rock hard, tense

   crashing against each other

Sweat starting, pricking my scalp

Down the back of my neck

My back

Glowing on my rounded shoulders, glinting on collarbones

Long hair like a veil sweeping it away

I like my own smell

My own odeur 

The primal scent

Mixing with the sunscreen that is sliding off, never enough

Until I am nut brown,

Freckled 

On my shoulders

My forearms bronze

Saying hello to every

Rock

Tree

Mushroom

Bird

Animal

Like they are old friends

     (they are,  my inner animist says)

You have known them before you were born and you will know them after you die and you will know them 

forever.

When I menstruate during a hike

I feel

Female with a capital F

Part of a cosmic womanhood

Embraced and swallowed by the 

Earth

Small

Insignificant

Strong

But

Easily crushed

Like the insects I swat away

Little drops of blood swelling, given to the Earth

I am She and She is Me and we are together intertwined in the woods

Trying to find Cultural Heritage

 I am obsessed with Native TikTok. I love watching the dancers show off their regalia and dances, I love the history lessons, the bannock/frybread recipes, the sharing of culture, and the comedy? The comedy is pure fire. I soak it up and want more. I think I glom onto things like this, and other platforms where people share their culture, because I feel like, as a white person, I don't have that cultural connection. I did a 23&me kit as part of a mental illness study and it just confirmed what I already knew: largely British Isles and French/German (I always used to say French but the borders have been ever-changing throughout history) with my mother's people emigrating from Canada to the United States within the past century or so. And I cling to that French-Canadian side because it's something. I've even written about my French-Canadian heritage before and felt a great connection to it when I went to Quebec a couple years ago.

But while I claim my French-Canadian heritage, what do I really have to celebrate it? Tourtiere pie and a family recipe for molasses cookies. A specific way of saying French last names and some words. But... that's it. And it still feels hollow. I don't really know where I'm going with this, in my head I was thinking this would be a much more thought-out and detailed post but... I feel like I'm grasping, the same way I'm trying to grasp a cultural identity. 

Does anyone else have this problem as a mixed-heritage white person in the United States?

Accepting my Demons, One at a Time

 This is one of my favorite pictures of me, despite it being about 5 years old now and I have since grown my hair out and retired the piercings. Most of my selfies are taken from a strategic angle from above, but this one, I am actually looking down. And I think that's it. I think that's why I like it. But why? 

For a little back story, I took this in my first year of graduate school. I had actually done the makeup because I was doing a presentation in a class and (I think) going out with classmates after. At that time, I was newly single, and had started doing domme work for extra money. My specialty was humiliation and verbal abuse; I never touched a single submissive, it was all done via text, with the exception of a few sessions with a local guy that was into feet. I had always identified myself as being a "switch," someone who was okay being dominated or dominating, and I based this on my limited experience being dominated by a man, and being dominant to the point of being pretty sadistic with a woman that I neither liked or was attracted to. Being a domme taught me a lot about myself. A big thing I learned is that I do not like being dominated outside of a little light ropework and some spanking. I am too dominant and aggressive a person-- albeit introverted-- to submit to anyone, let alone a man. I like dominating men and treating them like shit. I've gotten a lot of compliments on my style and take pride in getting to know my submissive to make their session personal and extra painful. 

But this blog post isn't about me as a domme or sex work (but reminder that sex work is legitimate work) but about how I view men. It took years for me to examine my feelings, wrestling with it through the shambles of a long-distance relationship, and as I carefully constructed responses to decline advances from men when I really wanted to decline them in the most condescending, abusive way possible, I had an epiphany: I don't respect most men. It's a hard thing to admit. When men try to white-knight me, when they send unsolicited dick pics, when they position themselves as "nice guys," (spoiler alert, self-described nice guys aren't nice at all), when they apologize unnecessarily, all I can think of is grinding them under the proverbial heel of my cruelty, and I see, in my head, the picture of me that is above, looking down, cold, indifferent to the viewer, beautiful and untouchable. They are pathetic, and I have power over them. 

As you can imagine, this does not lend itself well to meeting people, especially when you're lonely. It is, however, something I am constantly mindful of when interacting with people. It's not all men, as I said, just most feel so pathetic and unworthy of any time or effort beyond charging them for it. I do make an effort to make meaningful connections, and I can typically tell within a very short time frame if someone falls into category A or category B. I know this is something that seems horrible, why would I admit this, let alone publicly? Because I am, and have always been, a firm believer in introspection, understanding oneself, understanding the why behind the feeling or thought, and either making a modification/learning from it, or accepting it as a facet of who I am. And here we are, the learning and acceptance phase. I once wrote in a long-defunct online journal that people can't hurt me with what I know and accept to be true, and I still believe that.

On Strong Female Friendships

I am a woman that has a hard time forming meaningful female friendships. Not to sound like one of those cringey "I don't get along with women, they're all drama," people, but my issue is having a hard time relating to other women. I'm a middle-aged woman that neither has not wants (or likes) children, I'm happy being alone, and like to talk about stuff that other people find uncomfortable (death and dying, anyone?). I have interests that women my age typically don't. I also have this toxic tendency to fall quickly and madly into (platonic) love with girls that sweep me off my feet with how fun and spontaneous they are. I usually find these girls and befriend them when I am manic, and when the high of the shopping trips, dinners, and platonic cuddling wears off, I realize that they are really bad, toxic people for me. The last such friend like this I had ended up selling prescription drugs and fucked up my taxes to the tune of $1200 that I had to pay back during a period of unemployment. 

Making and maintaining friendships as an adult woman is exhausting and sometimes very frustrating, when I feel like I'm the one always trying to make plans, make connections, so I'm grateful when I can find that rare unicorn of a friend that reaches out, checks in, accepts and appreciates me for who I am, and is content to sit in silence instead of filling the void with useless chatter. A rare friend, indeed, that I can have fun with, hang out with, and not feel exhausted by. I feel like I don't express my appreciation for those few friends enough, and today I realized, as I went on a "cemetery crawl" with my friend Kate, that she is one of those friends that I can always count on, and because we both have our issues, we can be flexible with each other if one is having a bad mental health or physical health day. We can have long meaningful conversations over coffee at Starbucks and have mutual interests we can explore together, but we can be silly and irreverent too without leaving our encounter feeling exhausted by the other. I am so grateful for our friendship, especially at times when I sorely needed distraction from the pain of everyday life. Thank you, Thing 1, for being a unicorn.

September and October are Manic Months

I realized today, and I'm not entirely sure what made me realize it-- perhaps a Facebook memory triggered the thought-- that I am typically manic in September and October. I have no idea why, since I hate Fall, but it's a recognizable pattern in me. Even today, although I spent most of the day on the couch, my mind was going a mile a minute with ideas of things I could do (sexy photoshoot in my room! cleaning! exercise! baking!) and ultimately doing none of them (okay I did go for a run). I can look back at old Facebook posts and there it is, some tell of a manic episode. And maybe it was spending all morning scrolling through online shopping sites for Halloween accessories that made me recognize this. I've been extremely hypersexual which is honestly frustrating since I haven't seen my partner in almost a year and sometimes a vibrator just doesn't cut it. Why am I so hypersexual this time of year? Is it because September 1st is the start of Halloween for me, and it makes me think of demons and vampires, which makes me thinking of biting, which is one of my fetishes? Inside I feel like a succubus needing to sink her fangs and claws into her partner. I've been spending money and impulse shopping (and again, buying sexy things). All I want to do is shop, lately. And I've been listening to electronic music more, which isn't a manic thing per se, but in the Fall months I usually listen to metal more than anything. I've also been experiencing the more negative side of my mania, which is irritability, but thankfully no rage. Recognizing my manic periods (and patterns) helps me to self-regulate. Understanding that I'm manic can help me not act inappropriately and also keep myself out of situations that would trigger a rage episode. I can't do much about the hypersexuality but at least I don't use a vibrator that uses batteries any more.

What Hiking 100 miles in 108 Days Taught Me

Looking at the Bigelow range from Flagstaff Lake

Since all travel was restricted this year due to COVID-19, I decided in May that I was going to hike 100 miles this year, and I even took vacation time to go hike in order to beat the crowds. I didn't set a time limit for completion, and didn't disqualify duplicate hikes (you can see I visited some trails a couple times). If it was a mountain or a forest trail, the miles were counted and it went in the journal. I bought a state park pass (and used it all of two times, ha) so that I could take advantage of some of Maine's state parks. As a result of this goal, I hiked more mountains than ever before-- a total of 7, although I didn't summit all of them-- and even did some with my sister (we just won't discuss how every time I hike with her I fall). I really challenged myself to do harder, longer hikes, and as a result I beat last year's highest peak twice: first with Rumford Whitecap (which was also my sister's new highest) and then Mt. Zircon at 2,240 feet, which doesn't sound very high to experienced hikers and mountain climbers, but it was 452 feet higher than my last year's highest. So what did all this hiking teach me, if anything?

From the overlook on Borestone

• I will whine the entire way up a mountain, especially when it's steep, but I love the way my legs feel. I love the feeling of used muscles, and how they're a little tired after a rest.
• I really belong in nature. I feel most alive when I'm out in the woods
• I also really prefer being alone. I do enjoy hiking with my sister, but sometimes I just want it to be me and the forest. I get annoyed when I can hear other people on the trail.
• Hiking on day 1 or 2 of my period is fucking amazing for cramps. Honestly. I'm on my period now and wish I could've skipped out on work to go hike because I've been having miserable cramps.
• I am capable of doing more than I give myself or my ability credit for
• I can and will take a fun goal and have destructive, obsessive thoughts about it
• I'd like to upgrade my backpack to one that has a waist/hip strap for better support
• Water is heavy and bottles are hard to arrange in a backpack so that they are comfortable, and I want to eventually upgrade to a bladder
• I really can't trust any dog, especially a loose one, that I see on the trail (I got bitten)
• I feel real and true joy and gratitude for nature, which I have expressed before

Just because I've reached my 100 mile goal, I'm not done hiking. I plan on hiking until it gets too miserable out to continue, but I don't plan on winter hikes. No thank you. Plus, I don't want to invest in winter gear. What I will need to invest in is some blaze orange if I'm going to hike this fall, since some public lands allow hunting, and I don't want to be mistaken for a deer. Will I set goals for next year? Probably. I don't know if I will increase the mile count, but one thing I'd like to do is learn to camp so I can do some multi-day hikes, perhaps along sections of the Appalacian Trail or the Maine Huts and Trails network. I also want to try more challenging mountains and take advantage more of the state parks (and Acadia, which I've never been to, in my whole life of being a Mainer). One thing I do know is that I want to spend as much time out in the woods as I can for as long as I can, and that hiking is going to be a permanent lifestyle choice going forward.

Thornback Woman

I am 40 years old.
My tits sag.
Losing weight gets harder each year.
I have grey hairs.
I am unmarried, and childfree.
I have gone beyond "spinster" to "thornback" and while this term used to be derogatory, I think reclaiming it and owning it gives me power.

I have always had a love/hate relationship with my body. I think most women do, since we are indoctrinated and brainwashed at an early age to live up to an ideal, that our bodies are dirty, that we must be thin/pretty/feminine/delicate perfect enough for society to deem us worthy, and even then, we aren't. I've been overweight probably since puberty. I had C-cup breasts at 14 and was fully in a D-cup by the time I was 18. Even now I wear a DD, but it's hard to tell what my actual size is due to recent weight loss. They sag, anyway, and this is one of the recent body image crises I've endured.

Why is loving an accepting your body seen as a sign of radical feminism? Shouldn't it just be... the norm? Shouldn't we just love our saggy bits, jiggly bits, and wrinkly greying bits alongside our smooth and firm bits, muscular bits, and sleek bits? When I hit 40 I thought I just wouldn't care any more, but I honestly do care-- I care that my partner finds me attractive, I care that the world finds me attractive, I care that my body can do things, I care about how my clothes look. It's infinitesimally harder to not care than to care. So what if caring wasn't so bad, and not caring shouldn't be the end goal? Like, my tits may sag but they're healthy, my hair may be greying but it's long and shiny, weight comes off slowly but I have curves and a soft belly that reminds me of ancient artworks. I'm 40 and unmarried but I still go out and do what I want to do.

People worry a lot about me hiking solo but as an animist, I never feel like I am alone. These hikes give me time to reconnect with my spirituality, and reconnect with myself. I often spend my hikes in awe of what my body can accomplish, reveling in the tired muscles that seem to bounce back after a rest to eat and drink to carry me onward. Today, I went on a hike and, for the first time in my entire 40 years of existence, peed outside. I was terribly worried I would get it all over myself, but you know, I didn't. I actually watched the stream of urine and marveled that our bodies are made to do this. We're so disconnected from some of the functions of our bodies by modern convenience-- toilets hide our waste process, sanitary products disconnect us from our menstrual cycle. These things are unclean and not to be marveled at. But, despite being voluntarily sterilized 5 years ago and generally being uncomfortable every 22 days, it is a beautiful, holy process that was once revered for the sacred event it was. I may grumble about my cramps and weight gain each month, but deep down, my menstrual blood makes me feel powerful.

It has been a struggle to love these things about me-- sagging breasts, menstruation, grey hairs-- but more and more as I get older, I do love them, even if the relationship with my body is still difficult, my body is strong and amazing. Women get more powerful as they get older. I am a thornback woman, and I can't wait until I can call myself a crone.

Black Lives Matter

This has been a very heavy week. With the murder of George Floyd, things have been overwhelming in the world, but it's not a new occurrence and I've written about the murder of an innocent black man at the hands of the police before, and since that post, I've grown more and thought more about racial injustice in this country. I fully support the protests that are happening everywhere because shit has got to change in this country. This country was built on the genocide of indigenous people, the back of Africans that were stolen from their homes, the railroads built by Asian immigrants that were treated no better than slaves. We have a dirty, bloody history of violence and subjugation of nonwhites that is shameful. I've also taken the time to learn more about performative allyship and really stopped to think about what it means to be actively anti-racist. As a white, middle-class woman, I have no place to tell the black community how to feel, protest, mourn, or express themselves. All I can do is shut up and listen and take direction. To educate myself (because it is not on black people, or even my black friends to do that for me). It is my job as to use my nonmarginalized, privileged status to help others. I've also stopped caring about white feelings and have been plucking people off my friends list that use coded, racist language ("thugs"), respond with "all lives matter/police lives matter," or actively praise that shitbag in the White House.

During #BlackoutTuesday, I found myself disappointed. I went to graduate school in part to fight for social justice, especially after my own struggles with poverty and healthcare inequity. To see so many of my former classmates post their black square and then... nothing was, to say the least, disappointing. I did not post a square, but instead I took the time to look at the different charity funds that were set up, to read about performative allyship, to donate, and also to listen to the experiences of black people on social media. I reported hate speech on social media, including anyone who used "alllivesmatter" as a response to the Black Lives Matter movement. I read pieces written by journalists who had been shot at and gassed by the police and subsequently arrested. I also watched clip after clip of unchecked police brutality on peaceful demonstrators. It made me sick, it made me angry, and it made me frustrated with people who constantly respond with "nOt aLL cOpS!" Yes all cops. Because for every cop that beats, murders, or rapes a black person, hispanic person, indigenous person, there are the members of the force that turned a blind eye, who were complicit by doing absolutely nothing to make change. No amount of pro-cop propaganda (look at these cops dancing with kids on the sidewalk! look at these cops kneeling with the protesters!) will make me think that the police force in America is anything but a deeply corrupt institution that needs to be defunded, deconstructed, and replaced with social services that help support communities, to be healthy, safe, with access to equal educational opportunities, access to healthy food, mental health and substance use services, and healthcare, especially predominantly poor communities.

As an ally, it's my place to actively call out racism. It's my place to support and amplify black voices. It's my place to vote out corruption. It's my place to use my privilege as a means to help those that don't have it. I don't say all of this for asspats. I say all of this because as white people, we have never had to fear simply walking down the street, jogging, sleeping in our beds, going to the store, just because of our skin color. Our mothers didn't have to teach us from an early age how to act around police to avoid being assaulted or killed. It breaks my heart when my niece tells me that her best friend says "thank god my son is so light skinned" because fuck that shouldn't even be a concern for a mother with a school-aged child.

Remember, white people, this is not about you, or your feelings. If you go to the protests, remember, you're there to support, so shut up and listen and do as you're told. Have real and frank conversations with your families. Don't brag about donating (I hated to even mention it because I don't like talking about charitable gifts because I don't do it for praise), but don't be silent when it matters the most: when confronting systemic racism in the world around you and when it comes time to vote. Confront your own privilege and make yourself uncomfortable. 

If you are in the position to and want to donate money, here is a huge list to choose from. If you want to step outside of performative allyship and be better, here is an article that can steer you in the right direction. And another list of resources. Don't know how to talk to your kids about what's happening? Here's a resource that may help.

Hiking as Animist

As you may have noticed over the last few posts, my mental health has been up and down and I desperately needed a break, so I used Memorial weekend to give myself a vacation. I took the Friday prior, and then the Tuesday and Wednesday (today) following off, with my main goal of getting the hell out of town and into the woods as much as possible. My mood was immediately lifted as I drove through northern Somerset county to one of my favorite short hikes: Moxie Falls. But even on a Friday morning, it was too peoplely. I wanted someplace remote and to myself. I took a chance and a 67 mile detour (which was a lovely drive, as all of Maine is) to the Maine Huts and Trails trailhead at Flagstaff lake (see photo above, with the view of Bigelow Mountain). It was completely empty. There was one other vehicle in the parking lot, but not a person to be seen or heard. No children. No dogs. Just me, the forest, and the lake.

I am in my spirituality 100% of the time, especially in the forest. I feel an overwhelming gratitude and joy when I am in nature. My phone is filled with pictures of rocks, mushrooms (so many mushrooms!), flowers, trees, water... pictures I take for myself, pictures I can't help taking because I love each and every thing I take a picture of. I apologize to moss when I step on it, I thank the wind for cooling me, ask the trees for support and grounding, ask the rocks to help me ascend or descend. As an animist, these are all beings with spirits, and they are friends. I found myself thanking the water for nurturing the plants and trees, but most of all, I found myself thanking the Mother for all of it. The earth. The progenitor of all life.

Sometimes I share the pictures I take, but to most, they're pretty nature pictures, or weird pictures of rocks and mushrooms. It's hard to truly show someone the world as I view it, because it's a feeling, deep down, of being part of it, of respecting it and treating trees and stones like old friends. The inexplicable pull toward running fresh water. The smell of trees. The smell of sunlight. A photo can't really capture all of that, but when I look back at them, I can remember it, and feel that joy again. It's like looking at pictures of old friends, because they really are old friends to me. Every hike in a new place is an opportunity to meet new friends, and I find myself stopping often to take their pictures and talk to them. I take the opportunity also to be in awe, to feel small in the world, to understand that in the end, I am insignificant, that I am but part of a cycle of life, death, and rebirth, and when I die, my body will feed trees and plants, which will feed animals and insects, and my spirit will go wherever our ancestors go. There is no permanence in death when you're an animist. There is just a cycle.

When I shared a picture of a waterfall on my Instagram yesterday, I wrote "There's something about waterfalls, that makes me want to open up and be swallowed by them, devoured by the powerful water until I don't know where I begin or end, only that I'm part of something unfettered and more ancient than I am" and that is a thought that runs through my mind often. Running water draws me, and I don't have complete thoughts on it yet to write more on. Maybe later when I meditate on it.

Sunday Bread

Every Saturday morning for the past month, I get up, have some sort of breakfast, and put together a no-knead bread dough to set aside. On Sunday morning, I bake. Bread was never a regular part of my diet, but having good bread, that I made by my own hand, has been a comfort. Toast fried in olive oil and rubbed with garlic, topped with fried eggs has been my dinner a few nights. Not all of my loaves have been successful; my first loaf was dense and didn't rise well. My loaf from last week was sloppy, sticky, dense, and also didn't rise well. It was tasty and chewy, but I didn't reach for it. But like all things, success and failure are learning tools. 

A lot of the articles about the recent boom in bread making during quarantine (note: you're not under quarantine) talk about the soothing nature of baking, how it's calming and helps de-stress. For me, it's helping to abate my need to hoard food. If you've been following this blog for any amount of time, or have read back, you know I've struggled with food insecurity in the past, but I have persevered with the skills I've learned from my mother to make a nutritious, filling meal from little more than bones. 

My depression has been bad lately. I want to travel and I can't. I want to see my partner, take care of him, make sure he has nutritious meals and I can't. Feeling powerless isn't something I deal well with, so I've been trying to funnel those feelings into other avenues. I still dream of a house in the woods. I bought a foraging guide and a mushroom identification guide. I've planned some time off so that I can run off to the mountains and hike for a while. When I picture myself living in the woods, I am still making Sunday Bread. It's an infinitely comforting thought, even if my life takes me in a different direction and I never have the house in the woods. Barring travel, there will be Sunday Bread every week, into perpetuity. 

Food Privilege

Today while I was at the auto dealership having my car worked on, I chatted with some friends via messenger about food. I admitted to a friend a certain smugness I felt, that I could relate to some vegans in that smugness, that meat processing plants were shutting down and meat was starting to become scarce, that I wanted to say, in my smugness "you don't need meat," but I don't say it out loud, because I have a really huge amount of food privilege and I understand that. Also I feel saddened that the demand for meat products has caused workers in the meat plants to become ill and die, and lose jobs, because I am still a compassionate person, despite a lot of empathy fatigue I've been feeling lately.

I am very, very fortunate that I am still working, that I am financially able to still access the specialty foods I buy (including being able to wait for my preferred brand of tofu to be back in stock at the grocery store, which of all things, I never expected to be sold out for two weeks), to be fussy about brands, and that my dietary choices are just that-- a choice. I am flexitarian because I choose to be, but not because of underlying health conditions, unlike a friend of mine who is vegetarian under doctor's orders and has been looking for nearly a month for red lentils that aren't astronomically high in price due to gouging (I offered her the little bit I had in a jar in my cupboard). I don't live in a food desert, and I have my own transportation to get to and from the grocery store. I have a huge amount of privilege, and I need to always be aware of that. When I first started writing this blog, I was experiencing some food insecurity. I did have food stamps, access to fresh vegetables and eggs from my sister, and I learned to make my food stretch, but looking back, I wrote some really cringey, privileged shit. It's important that I recognize that, and also recognize my food privilege now.

Sharing food is a love language for me. Nothing makes me happier than to cook for someone I care about. In the past, I have given food from my cupboard freely to friends in need, no questions asked and no expectation of repayment, and when there has been a food drive, I donated.  I have enough food. I have lots of potatoes and sweet potatoes, rice and lentils, and canned beans. I'm always happy to share what I have if my friends are having a hard time. I'm willing to make a pot of soup if someone brings their own containers for me to fill, and help people with recipes to use what they have on hand, because I'm good at throwing recipes together (I'd say maybe I should be on Chopped but I don't think they have the dishwashing budget to have me on the show). In the spirit of food sharing, I'm going to put my recipe for lentil soup below. Wine and sumac are optional, blending is optional. Switch up the cooking fats if need be. I strongly recommend the turmeric, though, so that's a spice I would recommend investing in. It doesn't look pretty but it's tasty and nutritious. I can usually get about 5 servings from it.

Lentil Soup

1 medium onion, fine dice

3 carrots, fine dice

1 sweet potato, small dice

2 stalks celery, fine dice

4 large cloves garlic, minced

1 cup small green lentils

¼ cup white wine

1 carton chicken or veggie stock

2 cups water

1 bay leaf

1 tsp dried thyme, crushed

½ tsp dried oregano, crushed

1/4 tsp turmeric

½ tsp sumac

¼ tsp black pepper

1 tsp seasoning salt

1 tbsp butter

1 tbsp olive oil

Heat butter and olive oil on medium. Add onion, sweat for 3 mins. Add garlic, cook until fragrant, 1 min. Add celery, carrots, and sweet potato, cook for a couple minutes. Add wine. Add lentils and all seasonings except salt. Add broth and water and let cook for 40 minutes. Add salt, taste, adjust seasoning as needed. Blend 2 cups of soup (or more to taste) and add back to pot.

Quiet

Sometimes emotional regulation is hard. It's something I have to do daily, ever since I made the decision to not be medicated for my bipolar disorder. Small things will still set me off, like the noise of motorcycles or trucks with loud exhaust, screaming children, my neighbors doing yardwork.

But then there is quiet. Warm rays of sunshine that Calypso curls up and naps in, the sound of birds outside, the stillness of everything. It's calming. The peace of being able to sit on my couch in silence, reading manga, with no one bothering me, no phone ringing, no one (not even my cats right now) demanding my attention.

Lately I've found myself annoyed with everyone. Annoyed with people calling their situation a "quarantine" or a "lockdown" (it is neither) and acting like they can't leave their house. Annoyed with stakeholders that call me for stupid shit. Annoyed with coworkers that are working from home but still manage to step on my toes while I bust my ass in the office. Annoyed at people complaining about being home when I would love, love the break and the rest.

The quiet is welcome. Because of all those people working from home at my office, it has been blissfully quiet. I've even turned the ringer of my phone down because I can actually hear it with no one there. When I come home I enjoy the quiet, especially on nice days when I have the kitchen window open while cooking dinner, listening to the sounds of birds heading to bed. Quiet afternoons on the weekend, curled up with my cats in a sunbeam. Quiet is a blessing.

I Miss the Gym

Pre outdoor run selfie

My gym has been understandably closed for weeks, and I miss it. I never thought I'd be that person that works out, the gym bro who talks about her gains, who complains when she has to miss a day, but I am. Going to the gym has been stress relief for me, has shown me that my body is capable of amazing things. Yes, I can walk outside (except today because it's fucking snowing) and I have been, and while I don't enjoy it, I can run outside. Being outside is great for my mental and spiritual health. But damn, I miss running on a treadmill, where it's easier and I can go at my normal pace for 45 minutes instead of having to do intervals of uncertain pacing and watching out for traffic at the same time. I miss doing leg presses and my hip abduction/adduction exercises. I even miss my dreaded and loathed shoulder presses. I miss the satisfying feeling of muscles that have been used and are tired. Doing exercises with 5 pound weights along with a YouTube video in my living room just isn't the same. And in some way, I miss the people that I see that I never interact with: strangely, slightly androgynous guy (he used to be one of those hold the side of the treadmill and flail legs as fast as possible people), sweaty running blonde, tall skinny running guy, shorter skinny running guy, elliptical girl who does grandiose arm stretches, all the older folks that work out in their poly-knits, and the staff. I hope they're all okay. I hope they're not losing their gains. I hope they're all healthy and safe and have enough toilet paper and food.

I'm Exhausted

Here's a picture I took of Skogafoss in Iceland. It's relaxing to look at.

I finish my work day completely exhausted every day these days. Today I was one of 5 people (4, later on after one left at noon) in the office that normally has about 21 people working in it. Because I am in charge of death, and a supervisor of my unit, I need to be there. Honestly, I'm glad to be there because working from home in my role is difficult, especially these days. But man, the heaviness of it all is so exhausting. My job hasn't really changed so much as how other people's jobs have been changed affects how my day goes. Where the medical examiner's office may send amendments to death certificates throughout the day, I am now seeing them done in big batches. Many funeral directors are working from home so there are challenges with reaching people. Communication is done widely through email and today I found myself directing an assignment for a staff member that isn't mine (none of my staff are in the office). When there were more staff in the office, the atmosphere was tense, negative, and heavy. It's hard to focus when it's like that. It's exhausting. I'm exhausted.

What's frustrating is that I have no real outlet. I came to love the gym and the stress relief it brought. This entire week the weather has been kind of garbage and I haven't wanted to go for walks, and running through the neighborhood isn't relaxing or enjoyable. Yesterday after I put my laptop away I made myself do an 11 minute weight workout because I needed to move my body, but I didn't enjoy it.

Barring exercise, I will probably be using this blog more. These are difficult, stressful times. I have a lot of resilience, but I can't help but recognize that my need to hoard food-- much like I did during my past food insecurity, back in the beginnings of this blog-- is starting to rear it's ugly head again. I have to remind myself that yes, that full canister of rolled oats, plus what is in the jar is enough. I have more cans of black beans than I know what to do with. I should probably give up bananas because they ripen too quickly. I don't need more tuna. You get it. My response to situations out of my control is to take stock of things, make lists, but it also triggers those feelings of food insecurity and financial hardship, both of which I no longer am experiencing. It's irrational, and recognizing that, writing it down, helps.

I'll be fine, and the weather will improve enough eventually so I can go running on my preferred trails. But man, I tell you, when all this is over I am running off to Iceland for a bit I think, because I know by then I will really, really need a break.

Apathy in the Face of Catastrophe

It is very hard to admit to something that makes you sound like a bad person, but after all, the purpose of this blog is and has always been to examine and understand my mental illness, especially as I move through life and the challenges that come from it, whether under my control or not. People keep checking in on me during this pandemic (gentle readers of the future, I am referencing COVID-19), asking me how I'm holding up, and I just shrug and say "I'm fine." I feel apathetic, maybe a little annoyed. Yes, I am worried. I'm worried about my immune-compromised mother who also has lung issues, my aunt with COPD, my father with heart disease. I'm worried about my partner who is a healthcare provider in a hospital with confirmed cases. I am not particularly worried for me. I am not working from home, as I'm an essential employee, and my annoyance springs at all the hand wringing in the office and the whining about not being able to work from home. My staff are contractors and the concerns they have about the stability of their jobs are valid, but they've gotten all the information I have at this point.

And maybe that's it. I get multiple daily emails from my governing agency (remember I have my master's degree in Public Health and work for a department in my state's CDC) and sometimes the guidance is contradictory (Work from home! No, we want you all in the office! Here's how you can work from home!). Between that, and the media saturation, I am just so... apathetic. I'm tired. I come home from work exhausted just from the atmosphere at work. Right now I'm in a holding pattern with it; we have had no fatalities yet due to COVID-19 so I have no guidance to provide to healthcare providers or funeral homes in how the death certificates should be filled out (when it happens, I am prepared), so it's just been business as usual for me.

Why do I feel this way? Why do I feel apathetic and annoyed in the face of global pandemic? I've been reflecting on this for a few days, and I think I'm falling back into patterns of coping strategy I used to employ when I was going through what I affectionately call the Great Depression of 2012, back when I started this thing. Back then, everything was terrible and catastrophic, so when something new happened, my first response was to process, analyze, dissect, and compartmentalize. I allowed myself an emotional response after, usually more of a release, and then I was done. I had processed everything, knew what I needed or needed to do, and was done with it. And this is how I think I'm responding now. As a public health worker, I've been reading about COVID-19 for months now, I've digested the available information, examined it in relation to my job, identified the vulnerable people in my life, and compartmentalized it away neatly in my mind, and am done. I know what needs to be done, what my role is, and what should happen. And now I just don't care (but I really do, this is such a difficult thing to explain).

I'm annoyed that travel is uncertain.

I'm annoyed that I can't get a tattoo as therapy.

I'm annoyed that my birthday plans have all been canceled.

I'm annoyed by all the inconveniences, like having to order out and that the grocery shelves are empty.

I'm annoyed that the gym is closed.

And if I hear one more (online) impassioned plea that "We'Re ALL iN tHiS tOgEthEr!" I may scream. My particular disdain for that phrase comes from a time that someone used it in an attack against my sister for not closing her daycare (yes, she is complying with all guidance from the CDC and yes, I went off on that person). I don't have a sense of community. I don't want to participate in virtual karaoke, I don't want to "come together." I just want to sleep through it all.

My Demons Are Always With Me

I just got home about a half hour ago from a roughly 3 mile run at the gym. It felt great, and I feel strong, but I didn't start my day feeling that way. I weigh myself every day and track in a spreadsheet, but I take my "official" weight on Fridays, which gets logged in my fitness trackers. I had been on the 187 plateau for weeks and was feeling super discouraged, so when I got down to 184 last night I was excited to finally be making downward progress. Then I weighed myself this morning: 185.5. There is nothing like gaining a pound from the previous night and only losing a pound in a week to demoralize you, especially when early in the weight loss efforts 2-3 pounds a week was the norm. I go to the gym, I run, I do resistance training. I eat a vegan diet. It was so disheartening and frustrating that it triggered some massive self image issues with me today. I felt fat, I felt unattractive, and every time I went to the bathroom, I made myself look in the full-length mirror so that I could see that I wasn't fat, and there had been no real change in my body overnight, and I had to remind myself that today is supposed to be the first day of my period (supposed to) and I always retain or gain weight around days one and two. After coming home from work and eating chips because I was feeling self-destructive, I thought I can just do 1100 calories today it's fine. But that line of thinking is dangerous and even I, who preaches to people that food is fuel, that there is no such thing as bad food or good food, can fall into disordered thinking about food from time to time. I am not anorexic, bulimic, or orthoexic (I do log all of my food and count calories, but I eat what I want) and if you are, please seek help. Thankfully, I am self-aware enough to recognize my patterns of destructive thinking and made myself go cook a delicious, healthy dinner, and then I immediately went to the gym.

My body is strong. I felt powerful while running. But I also need to realize that while exercise helps my mental health, I still live with bipolar disorder, and intrusive thoughts, depression, and mania in their many incarnations are always going to be with me, and I need to pay special attention to my moods when I make the decisions I do when it comes to weight loss. I almost didn't go to the gym tonight because I felt so bad about myself, I was going to take a rest day, be "gentle" with myself, and lay on the couch. Instead, after eating my nutritious, tasty dinner, I snapped out of it, realized I was walking the path of self-sabotage and self-loathing, and got my workout clothes on and went.

I've had self-image issues since puberty. I'd always been overweight, had acne, and didn't feel attractive. I was a late bloomer with relationships so it took my first serious relationship at 27 and being told that I was beautiful and desirable to actually believe it. But even with that confidence, self-loathing and negative body image still lurk, and when my mood dips, or I don't feel great, or I don't see the result I want to see on the scale, they come to the fore and I go back to feeling like shit about my body again. Just like with my manic or depressive episodes, I need to be self-aware of these times and overcome them. These are feelings that will always be with me, and I accept that, but it is in my power to overcome them when they rise to the surface.

Humans are the animal kingdom's best endurance runners, and I aim to live up to that. Negative body image be damned.

2019 Retrospecticus

Last year, I set out on the new year with some goals (not resolutions) in mind, mostly around exploring the world around me. And I did a lot of that. I actively started trying to lose weight in February because one of the things I really wanted to do in Iceland was ride the Icelandic horse, so I started walking, even when it was cold or I was grumpy, I went out and walked, and even a mile was so hard and my legs were so sore at first. But I kept at it, and changed the way I ate from less Western diet to more flexitarian and whole food based. When the local hospital's class booklet came out and I saw one of my old coworkers was leading a Couch to 5k class over a 12 w

eek period starting in April, I signed up, and it was hard at first, but as I lost weight and gained muscle and endurance, I found that I really, really like running; it's great stress relief. I still can't run a solid 5k but I have kept up with running, even now in the depths of winter on a treadmill. As of this writing I've lost about 52 pounds.

One of the goals I had written in my failed bullet journal (I need to stop doing those, I'm too lazy to keep up with it) was to explore more trails in Maine. I started small and local. I was already running on the Rail Trail in Augusta, and with the help of Pokemon Go (yes, really), Maine TrailFinder (PLEASE make an app!), and Alltrails, I had the incentive and opportunity to visit new places. There was nothing more liberating than researching a trail, putting on my gear, and hopping in my car for a new adventure in the woods. This was also monumentally helpful not only for my mental health, but my spiritual health. While my bullet journal page only lists the trails in Maine I hiked, I did several more outside of the state, including a 9.5 mile loop in Illinois where I got to meet so many beautiful burr oaks, and Þingellir National Park in Iceland.

 

Y'all.

I climbed three mountains this summer, including a 1,700 foot mountain I had always gazed at from the car as a child. I also hiked the rim of a volcanic crater. This has only fueled my desire to hike more and challenging peaks.

Travel was really the big goal I had this year, and I managed to visit two countries and visit a state I had never been to. My dream vacation of Iceland was finally a reality, and as you can see in the (terrible, horrible) picture of me, I did get to ride the Icelandic horse, as uncooperative as he was sometimes during the ride. My sister and I did the typical tourist trip: Golden Circle, Reynisfjara Beach and Vik, and so many waterfalls. We only had a week but we fell completely in love with the country and we're tentatively planning the next, longer trip for 2023. Before the adventures in Iceland, however, I embarked on my first solo international travel to Quebec, which, in my entire 39 years living in Maine, had never visited. I blogged about that trip after I returned, because I came back filled with emotions. You can read about that trip here. My final travel of the year, which was a little bit last-minute, was a trip to Illinois not only to visit my heart, but to go to finally see my favorite band in concert: motherfucking Tool. I'd waited over 20 years to see them live and it was worth the ticket and airfare. Illinois was quite lovely and I want very badly to go back, for multiple reasons.

I've worked really hard to improve myself. I'm proud of my weight loss, I'm proud of myself for traveling solo, for learning to be okay by myself. I've worked hard on being less negative (it's still difficult, sometimes, when I have a bad bipolar day) and am continuing on working on being a better person (my jealousy was rightfully called out). I took the leap and applied for a post-graduate certificate program, and am working toward paying down debt so that I can plan for the future.

In 2020 I will turn 40. It's never too late to do the thing, to challenge yourself, to make changes. I welcome all that comes in the coming year.

Learning to be Alone: My First International Solo Trip

Basilique de Ste-Anne de Beaupre

Take the word "international" with a grain of salt, since my first international solo trip was to Canada, and that's just a 4 hour drive, but I crossed a country border, so I guess it counts. For a very long time, I always put off traveling unless I had someone to go with me (and indeed, my trip to Iceland in a couple weeks will be with my sister) because I was always too timid to go on my own. Recently emboldened not only by a job that had me travel all over the state last year, but my own desire to explore more of what is out there, I impulse-booked a trip to Quebec for the 4th and 5th of July. I don't do fireworks or parades, and it was a perfect long weekend to take a trip and still have some home time.

Nana, my mom, and my gradfather,
who died long before I was born

Quebec, I thought, is easy, all I need to do is go up route 201 and keep going, how different can it be? I was a little nervous at the border, but I had nothing to hide and wasn't smuggling anything, and after being handed back my passport I was waved forward to continue on my journey. I have to admit, part of my desire recently to go to Canada is that Canadian Tim Horton's has a vegan breakfast sandwich made with a Beyond Meat sausage and I've been eating plant based lately-- my quick review is that it was fucking delicious if a bit challenging to get since I don't speak French. My first real goal was to go to the Basilica of Saint Anne of Beaupre (Basilique de Ste-Anne de Beaupre if you want it in French). So why would I, someone who uses the label of "animistic shaman," want to go to a Catholic place of worship? I have a few reasons. First, I am, according to 23andme, 31% French and German. My great-grand parents on my mother's side moved from Quebec to Maine (I think, I have to verify this), and you could tell my Nana grew up speaking French when you listened to her speak. I always felt a pull to Quebec, to see where my mother's side came from. And Ste-Anne? I once had a baptism bracelet of Catholic saints from Ste-Anne. Sadly, I think it's gone forever. I looked for one in the souvenir shop but they didn't have any like it. And for my last reason of wanting to go to the basilica: the tremendous amount of architecture and art to behold. And there was an overwhelming amount. I have to admit, after I left the interior and found a shady place to sit outside, I felt a bit emotional and overwhelmed. I reflected on my heritage, my Nana who passed away in 2008, and how little I know about that side of my family genealogically.

Across the road I saw a bunch of statues, and thought it was a cemetery. Well, there were gravestones there, but more interestingly, the entire stations of the cross in huge bronze statues, rendered in such lifelike detail. The path to go to each station wound up a hill (and it was very, very hot, thankfully I had water with me) and there was a woman praying/reflecting ahead of me, so I took my time and gave her space (there were a lot of pokestops so I played Pokemon Go-- if I'm going to pay for international data on my phone, I'mma use it, okay?) but made my way through all of them, snapping pictures as I went.

That's a bridge above, with people on it

My hotel check-in wasn't until 5 and it was, at that point, only about 2 or 2:30 when I was done at the basilica. Pulling up the comments on the solo travel Reddit thread I had made, I looked up Montmorency Falls. Here's a pro tip: if you're using Google Maps to navigate, give it a specific address, because when I typed in "Montmorency," it took me up a very, very steep hill on winding roadways into a residential neighborhood in Boischatel--which is the right town-- but not actually near the parking lot I needed to go to. Once I got that figured out, I paid for parking and drove down, down to the parking lot. As I pulled in, I looked up and yelled "HOLY SHIT" because the waterfall was right there (I also had this same response when I crested the hill and saw the Basilica of Ste-Anne, too, and "Oh wow!" crossing the St. Lawrence river over a huge bridge). The falls were massive (and again, if you want it in French, it's Chute de Montmorency) and there were stairs zig-zagging up a nearby hillside, that connected to a bridge, that connected to another bridge that crossed the falls. No thank you. They also offered gondola rides and ziplining, but I like to have my feet firmly planted on the ground. I did go close enough to get wet (it felt so good though) and then walked up a couple of sets of stairs to go back down instead of backtracking. There were a ton of people there and it was extremely hot. I had toyed with going to Old Quebec City after, but my legs felt really wobbly and I realized I hadn't gone pee since the basilica, so I went back to my car and sucked down almost half of my water bottle in one go. I hadn't been good about keeping hydrated in the heat, especially with my activity level, so I decided to go to the hotel and see if I could check in early.

Surprise! My booking said 5 but the hotel starts check-in at 4 so I was able to get settled and start looking for someplace to eat. I should mention here I have been eating vegan for a week (hence my excitement over the Tim Horton's vegan breakfast sandwich) and wanted to stick with it, but all the restaurants within walking distance (I didn't want to drive, I'd been in my car all day and the Quebecois are fucking crazy drivers) had really pathetic options for vegans or vegetarians, so I opted to go to the hotel restaurant across the street from my hotel, and got a veggie pizza and a glass of wine, both of which were delicious. After some Googling, I realized my hotel was in a hotel district that caters mostly toward business travel, so next time I'll try a different location. It was good, though, but their continental breakfast was bagels, toast, English muffins, cereal, and coffee. Some pathetic canned fruit. The coffee was really good though.

Fairmont le Chateau Frontenac

Wanting to beat the heat and the crowds. I decided to get up early to go to the Old City. I paid an exorbitant amount for 3 hours of parking at Place D'Youville and headed off. I didn't have a definite goal in mind, except to see the famed Chateau Frontenac. I wandered around, took pictures, and found myself on La Promenade des Gouverneurs where I had a stunning view of the St. Lawrence river and a pretty nice view of the Chateau. At the end of the promenade, there are stairs that lead to the Plains of Abraham but also a fernuncular, which people online told me to take, but I took the stairs.

All 310 stairs. In writing, that doesn't seem so bad. In humid, mid-80's sunny weather, it was torture. But I walked all of them and... was a little disappointed? I was expecting more, maybe I didn't go in the right place once I got to the top, but it was just a park, being set up for a festival. I followed the trail down until the Citadel (which I didn't go explore) and wandered back into the city (which is great for Pokemon Go) to find a seat and rest my legs. I walked over to the Notre Dame du Quebec (which was under construction and I wasn't sure if the sanctuary was open), found a cafe to rest and have a cold drink, and headed back to my car to go home.

Cities are fun to visit, but man, my battery drained quickly. I will say, though, I wasn't as terrified of city driving as I thought. When I first entered the country, I was doing the speed limit. I paid attention to the other drivers, and started to drive like them (albeit a little less recklessly) which involved changing lanes constantly, going 10-15KM/h over the limit, and not really stopping at stop signs. One thing I didn't see at all were police (except on my way out, at construction zones-- there was a lot of construction) and I didn't hear any sirens, which I expected. I spent a lot of time correcting the voice of Google Map's French accent on street names (I have very little French but my accent was always good) and developing my inner monologue.

I know there is probably a lot more to see, and I'd love to go back some time. This trip has assured me that I can enjoy a trip solo, because I can go at my pace, go where I want, play Pokemon Go while I walk if I want, and eat wherever I want.  This makes me really optimistic for Denmark next year.