In My Defense: A Story About Wearing Leggings as Pants

I am a hypocrite about many things, but, most recently, I am a hypocrite for wearing leggings as pants.

When I was eleven years old, I lost ten-or-so pounds. As a general rule, losing weight when you're that young and already skinny is a really, really bad thing. So I was taken to the doctor, I had numerous blood tests, and guess what? All normal. Thyroid was normal. White blood cell count was normal. Kidney and liver functions were normal. Aside from being underweight, I was a perfectly healthy sixth grader with a high metabolism. The verdict? I was just doing more than I was used to. I was playing basketball, I was doing shows...basically, I was changing from a stationary kid into an active one. I tried to eat more.

A few years later, it happened again - I dropped about ten pounds for no apparent reason. Again, I had the same myriad of tests and blood work. Again, it was all normal, and the verdict remained: just active. I tried to eat more.

And lather, rinse, repeat at least twice more in my teen years. My doctor all but prescribed me milkshakes, and I tried to eat more. One of these instances had the unfortunate addition of my mother continuously telling me I was too skinny, giving me a complex, and as a result I avoided mirrors for a while. You've all heard body image stories, so I won't go into detail. My mother later apologized.

At age 21, after realizing that I was back down to 105 pounds and at the urging of my roommate, I decided to try another tactic; I got a gym membership and hired a trainer. It took me six months, but I gained six pounds! It was awesome! Here's where it starts to get a bit sour, though. For every excited, trying-to-keep-myself-motivated "Operation Weight Gain" post I made on various social media sites, there were a dozen "I wish I had your problem" or "I should be so lucky" responses. Seriously, folks? I understand that more people have trouble keeping weight off than on, but it's just the other side of a really sucky coin.

In the summer of 2012, I was again down to 105 pounds and pissed. In the last year, I have worked SO hard to gain weight in the form of muscle - and it's starting to pay off. I'm not sure where I am weight-wise, but I'm curvier, I'm stronger, I feel really good, and hey, I'm up two cup sizes and two pant sizes from where I was five years ago. SCORE!

I have spent too much time silently and not-so-silently judging girls who wear leggings as pants. I mean, really? Keep your ass covered.

I have an excuse - I can't afford to buy pants that fit properly. AND I AM SO EXCITED!

Although, let's be honest, it's not really that good of an excuse and most of the time I still try and keep my ass covered.

Sentence.

I don't really have anything of significance to write about, but in case you're trying to keep up, I am still alive, breathing, knitting, singing, and wielding a wrench.

Also, I'm marathoning Buffy.

"soul mates"

I recall a summer porch conversation with Sam regarding souls. The big question was whether or not there are a finite number of souls that get ripped to smaller and smaller pieces as more people are born. This would lead me to believe that, as far as "soul mates" go, there are thousands of them for every person. People who share pieces of your soul that you didn't know existed, let alone know you are missing.

You know how sometimes you befriend someone and you know almost instantly that the two of you were supposed to meet? That this other person has somehow managed to enter or reenter your life at exactly the right moment, whether you realize it at the time or not, is either a crazy twist of energy (others may refer to this as "fate" or "destiny") or unbelievable coincidence. I'm not sure how common a phenomenon that is, but I've gotta say, it's pretty freakin' cool.

I'm not sure where I really stand on the issue of souls, but whether they are or are not a thing, the connections people make with each other are completely wonderful.

"You are now in control of the parachute."

Ok, picture this:
You climb into a perfectly healthy airplane with 15-or-so other people. You squeeze in, put on your seat belt, and the plane takes off. It's a small plane, so the ride is a little bumpy, but really not bad. You stare out the window as you climb through the clouds - it's been a few years since you've flown and you'd forgotten how much you like takeoff. The proverbial seat belt sign is turned off, and you unbuckle and chat with the people around you. Before you know it, you're being strapped to a bearded Aussie named Steve while watching the door open and the people in front of you begin their 10,000 foot fall. Steve scoots the two of you up to the door, you cross your arms over your chest, lean out, and...

Post-jump is all you get. Pictures from them were too steep for us!
I am aware that we (unintentionally) look like Christmas.

HOLY SHIT YOU GUYS!
I JUMPED OUT OF A PLANE TODAY!

By "I", I mean "Rich and I".
By "Rich and I", I mean "Rich and Larry" and "Steve and I".

It was crazy. Brilliant. Incredible. Insert positive adjective here. There really are no words to describe how amazing the whole experience was. We weren't even sure we were going to get to go up because of the weather - it was pretty cloudy when we got there and they hadn't done a jump all day because of it. We were lucky enough to be able to sneak in during the one window of clear sky all day. They were so anxious to get people jumping that we (shh! don't tell!) ended up skipping the training video/mini class session and just went straight into action.

The view from the sky was beautiful! As soon as we got below the cloud cover we had a great view of Chicago and the lake (and Gary, but meh, it's Gary.) Remind me to wear a sports bra next time, though. As soon as he opened the chute I got all kinds of painfully smashed. Probably the most terrifying part - for me, anyway - was when Steve handed me a pair of yellow straps and then said, "You are now in control of the parachute." ARE YOU KIDDING ME? HOLY ADRENALINE, BATMAN! haha

I called my brother after we left - he's been more than a few times and loves it - and we decided to go next summer when he gets out of the Navy. I'm looking forward to once again hurling myself at the earth!

There may be another post to follow about how I lied on my paperwork and how I later realized that the adrenaline surge felt almost exactly like being manic. If I feel like writing one. Hah!

Next To Normal - Because No One Said Life Would Be Easy

I'm the ME/spot op for Next To Normal this month, opening this past Friday, and, I'll tell ya what, it has been kind of rough on me. Initially, I was really excited to be working on this particular show, given that it revolves around a bipolar woman, and that's something I can relate to. Now that we're through tech week and opening weekend and I've stopped crying during every show, I'm starting to realize just how challenging this experience is for me.

I was diagnosed with bipolar two years and five months ago. I've spent a fair bit of time over that period trying to figure out how to explain bipolar, explain why "I don't know" is a perfectly acceptable answer to "How are you?", explain why sometimes I renege on plans, don't answer the phone or call you back, don't follow through, avoid people, and then WHAM! A piece of theatre - which, if you know me, you know is pretty much my lifeblood - that, in act I, makes me feel like I'm watching a part of myself on the stage, explaining everything I've been trying to, in song.

In the past, theatre has been an escape. A chance to pretend to be someone else, to get lost in someone else's life for a while. With this show, it suddenly ceases to be that escape and instead becomes a very real interpretation of the life I actually live. While bipolar manifests differently in different people and Diana's is more severe than mine, she and I still share the fundamental highs and lows.

At one point in the show, Diana is seeing her psychiatrist for regular medication adjustments and reports to him that she doesn't feel anything. The doctor notes that this means she is stable - a comment that has repeatedly made audience members laugh. This is, I think, the only audience reaction to this show that has really bothered me. Are they laughing because they're uncomfortable, or do they actually find this sad truth to be funny? I've had a similar experience with my own doctor, and it's not even funny in hindsight. I've been on lithium (see previous post), I've tried drugs that work, drugs that don't work, drugs that give me rashes and headaches, I've seen counselors, done workbooks, I've taken myself off meds, put myself back on meds, and I've self medicated (though mostly with exercise, caffeine, and the chiropractor). I put a lot of work into trying to stay myself, haha.

People have spent a lot of time trying to talk to me about controlling my mood swings, and in doing this show, I've learned that, for me, it's not about controlling my highs and lows because, in all honesty, I can't. I am made acutely aware on a near daily basis just how little control I have over the comings and goings of my highs and lows. What's more important is how I react to and use these swings. I am lucky enough to have a fairly high level of self awareness, but I'm still learning how to manipulate my depression and hypomania into something more accessible and usable and I'm sure I will spend the rest of my life working on that task - something I'm finally coming to terms with.

All I can really say right now is thank you to the cast and crew of Next To Normal. In some small way you have all, even unknowingly, contributed to my betterment and sanity.

Falling Awake

Lately I've been feeling stuck part way between stable and depressed. I can't quite seem to boost myself out of the hole, even though I can see over the top just a little bit.

I've had that skin-stretched-back feeling in my face a lot lately, and last Friday night I had a panic attack when I tried to go grocery shopping. I couldn't even be in the Meijer perking lot - I started crying, curled up in Joey's front seat, and requested french fries. I've found that if I have a panic attack and I acquire food that I can eat slowly, it will help regulate my breathing and calm me down. Might not be the best way to help diffuse, but there are definitely worse things to pacify myself with than food.

And, of course, there's the insomnia. I'm so tired right now I want to cry, but I can't fall asleep! And at 2am, it's too late to take my sleeping meds. Tomorrow I might try taking them at 9pm or so and seeing what happens.

Seriously, 2:09am! My "falling asleep" has become "falling awake".

Kneading

I hate being depressed and unable to take care of myself. I hate needing people. I hate needing someone to say "hey, Carrie, let's go for a walk" and then walk with me for an hour without saying a word - because, let's be honest, who can do that?

Frankie, baby!

"Being an 18-karat manic depressive and having lived a life of violent emotional contradictions, I have an over-acute capacity for sadness as well as elation."
-Frank Sinatra