"Raising My Rainbow" -- a book review

I read another great memoir this week. Hooray for memoirists! Raising My Rainbow: Adventures in Raising a Fabulous, Gender Creative Son by Lori Duron is sweet, and nurturing, and real. It's honest, and ... well ... I'd want to be her friend if I knew her in real life.

When her son, at age three, found a Barbie, Lori and Matt Duron's life changed forever. As well as their two sons'. What follows are years of self-doubt, unconditional love, and the angst of whether or not he can bring his "girl" toys with him when he leaves the house.

It was life-affirming to read about her advocacy, the friends they surrounded their little family with, and the joy that beamed out from little C.J.'s face when he was dancing in an all girls ballet/tap class with a sparkly tutu on.

It's a story about love, first and foremost. It's a story about the minutia of decisions parents need to make when the challenges arise, as they always do. It's a story about acceptance, and providing the best for your child.

I recommend this book to all.

Five stars.

It's Been a Red Flag Month

It's hard to talk about my depression, because -- on the outside -- it seems so trivial. I don't have clinical depression, I'm not high-risk for needing medication, I'm not suicidal, and I function -- with all outward appearances -- normally. However, as with everybody, I'm sure, there are seasonal times, hormonal times, or times during the year where your life seems to be running too fast to keep up with, and you just get a wee bit depressed as a result. That's the kind of depression that I'm talking about. It's the self-resolving kind. But for the month or two that it's around, it's a bitch.

I have learned over the years to identify my "red flags" that tell me when I'm in that depressive place. For instance, this morning all I wanted to do was knit and watch Little House on the Prairie. Not a normal response to waking up in the morning. When I start seeing those red flags pop up in my every day life, I want to take steps to remedy whatever is out of balance. I don't know if it would, but I fear that if I didn't change whatever was creating that mild depression, that I would settle into something much deeper and harder to get rid of.

My red flags are things like wanting to sleep a lot, or watching two movies in one night. All by themselves, they are harmless. There's nothing wrong with wanting to sleep for nine hours -- if you're trying to catch up on some lost sleep. There's nothing wrong with watching two movies in one night -- if you're having a movie marathon with friends, or if the only way you can get your son to get off the computer, widen his horizons, and socialize with you is promising to watch something he wants, if he'll then watch something you want to watch. It is a problem -- for me -- when I'm offered a night out with my loverloverman and I opt to stay home by myself and watch Gosford Park and three episodes of West Wing.

I also recognize that my red flags are not going to be someone else's red flags. This comes in handy when I'm trying to avoid diagnosing people with depression, especially my own children -- teenagers who only want to watch YouTube, sleep for twelve hours a day, and not come out of the their rooms, or even bathe. I have to constantly remind myself that they are teenagers, not depressed.

Also, I'm not the center of the universe. If I'm feeling depressed, that doesn't mean that everyone around me is.

I drug myself out of bed this morning at 9 am. Later than I normally wake up. I missed a yoga class. Again. And I didn't really feel all that bad about it. It was kind of a relief. "Oh darn. Too late for yoga." And that's happened, like, four times in the last two months. Also, different than normal for me. More red flags. So, after I did the dishes and made my bed, I pulled out my journal and started writing down things that I'm doing or feeling lately that are making me a little nervous.

RED FLAGS

1. Feeling mildly overwhelmed (like I have too much to do)
2. Tired (back to needing at least nine hours of sleep a night). Just wanting to sleep. I want to get things done but have marginal energy to do them.
3. In pain -- sacroilliac joint (unrelated, but contributing)
4. Not wanting to go out (prefer to stay in with the snuggly dogs and tea. And a book.)
5. Not wanting to go to yoga (my preferred exercise regimen)
6. Worried about money (again, unrelated, but contributing to overall emotional/physical malaise.)
7. Not wanting to work.

I think it's safe to say that I'm having a Red Flag Day. (Actually, more of a Red Flag Month, or two, but who's counting?)

Having had an up close and personal relationship with my mild depression starting to descend into something darker during my last romantic relationship (two years of long distance), I was euphoric to be in a new one that actually bypassed my seasonal February blahs. (Every February for years. It's weird.) I even warned my new boyfriend that during Februarys I would need extra hugs, and maybe I'd shed some extravagant big fat tears. He said the same was true for him in March. Good. We knew where we stood. BUT. Other than a random day here and there, neither one of us got depressed! Bliss.

Now. Here I am in frickin' August, which has NEVER been a trigger month for me, feeling all redflaggy. I'm actually not too worried about it, despite it just feeling shitty. I'm not concerned that I'll trip into the darker kind of depression, because I believe I know the cause. And that just makes everything much easier to handle. I know the cause; I know how to make it go away.

This time around it's medical.

I went in for my regular three month blood test (I have Hashimoto's Disease -- hypothyroidism), and my levels are low. Time to up the meds. My doctor wrote me a new prescription, but it's wicked expensive so I'm going to finish off what I already have (which isn't working well, but it's better than nothing). Within a week or two, when I start taking the new one, I'll feel much better.

Also, my iron levels are too low right now. I had it checked in June, coming out at 12.8 and my doctor likes to see it above 13 at the very least. Since then I've run out of my supplements, and only just started taking them again. Two months being deficient in iron can also make me tired.

And another thing. I ran out of my liquid vitamin D3 that I take a lot of, due to a deficiency, and only just found some more for sale two days ago. It's been a good long while since I had me some vitamin D3.

Turns out I'm low on everything! Which definitely puts my whole system out of whack, causing fatigue and depression most notably. Hashimoto's symptoms include muscle weakness and pain, too. I wonder if my low levels are contributing to my SI joint pain. It's been locked up, fixed, locked up, and fixed again, but still causing me a lot of discomfort.

So yay! I'm depressed for medical reasons! This is very good news to me. It means I'm not lame. It means I'm not going to stay depressed. It means: things will start looking up, I'll get more accomplished, I'll be able to stomach being social again, I'll stop wanting to knit, and I'll be able to function with less sleep. Win/Win.

I just need to wait another two weeks. Mid-September will be grand.

Mirror Mirror Off the Wall -- a book review

To order this book...

Mirror Mirror Off the Wall -- how I learned to love my body by not looking at it for a year
By Kjerstin Gruys

Published: May 2013

Summary: A "choice feminist," and recovering anorexic, fed up with pre-wedding jitters and expectations, decides to abstain from mirrors and other reflective surfaces for a year.

Review: This is a feel good book. And the only reason I didn't run straight to my laptop and look up her blog, under the same title, was because I read it on an airplane.

The hero of the story is intelligent, has complex and interesting life experiences, and is always learning, researching, listing, planning, and analyzing. She admits her flaws and never sounds like she's wallowing in self-pity. When she breaks down, she feels it, calms down, finds the beauty in it, and blogs about it.

Kjerstin learns a lot about herself during this year (each month has its own chapter, for the most part), and I really felt good about myself -- inspired and encouraged in learning from, and adopting, some of her epiphanies into my own life. It's definitely a book I'd love my teenaged daughter to read, if only so she can see what a healthy body image requires.

The author mixes in some of her research on gender equality and feminism, but not in a heavy-handed way. More in a quirky "I didn't know that!" way.

This was a GREAT memoir because: it took me to a world I'd never been before (fashion, bridal consumerism, eating disorder recovery, and living a year with no mirrors); it was told in an engaging writing style that kept me turning the pages; that I identified with the protagonist (5'5", 155 pounds, a blogger/writer, a compulsive list-maker, "I am alternatively a student and a teacher, a reader and a writer, a glamazon bombshell, and a no-makeup-Mondays all-natural kinda gal."); and that she had some epic epiphanies that I won't spoil for you. Plus, I learned something new, and it was coupled with the inspiration to "try it on my own."

Also, I loved her focus on one healthy habit a week, rather than trying to eliminate a "bad" thing. I think focusing on drinking more bottles of water for a week will be easier to succeed at then eliminating the chocolate I eat every night.

4 out of 5 stars.
I recommend this book to others.

The Lullaby of Polish Girls -- a review

Dagmara Dominczyk’s The Lullaby of Polish Girls has a great title – one that enticed me to request it from the Early Reviewers Club. There doesn’t, however, seem to be a lullaby quality to the novel, nor references to lullabies – literal or figurative. I’m not sure why the author chose it. Nevertheless, I’m glad it got me to open the book.

The novel is told from three different character points of view, and in three different time lines.

Three Polish women have separate personal obstacles to their happiness. They all know each other, but were separated in their teenage years and are estranged through geographic distance, and lifestyle. The novel weaves in their separate stories, going back to when they were children and had first met each other, to when they were teenagers and young adults, up to the present.

The story ends with a poignant reunion, but not before each woman grows in strength to the point that they are able to solve their own immediate disasters.

I was really glad that the novel ended this way. It’s empowering to read that they all individually “fixed” themselves first before reuniting.

Yes, camaraderie is lovely, and being part of a community of friends is the only way I want to live my life, but knowing that each woman had personal strength and courage to make it by herself separate from her friends is important.

The characters were real. The author did a great job at separating them with distinctive voices. I did have trouble with the multiple time lines. Dominczyk was careful to identify in which year the setting was taking place, which town they’re in, and which character was speaking. But still I struggled with matching the adult characters with their adolescent counterparts. Was Anna, the adult, the one who did such-and-such when she was a teenager? Or was that Justyna?

I liked the interspersing of Polish words, even though I don’t know any Polish. It added flavor and color to scenes that might’ve sagged without it. I also got a kick out of knowing that anyone from Poland reading this would get extra pleasure, glee, and resonance from seeing those words.

Dagmara Dominczyk writes well and develops her characters with flaws and fears – just like real people. The Lullaby of Polish Girls is worth reading if you like family or friend dynamics, well-developed characters, Poland, or stories with unique time lines.

3 out of 5 stars; I liked this book, but probably won’t read it again.

Found Poem ~ "In My Dream"

I was looking around the house today for a blank journal to use in an art class I'm taking next week, and I discovered what looks like a poem. Since I don't consider myself a poet, I can only assume it wasn't first intended as a poem, and just turned out that way -- like a kitchen concoction that turns out way different than you expected, but is still good.

My only disappointment in the poem is ... I don't remember who I was writing about. Also, it's a little "flowery."

Enjoy,
Or not.

In My Dream

In my dream, you were my soul coach,

Writing down my words faster than I could.

Recording words and ideas

Plummeting from the sky,

Or my lips.

Sometimes they'd float by in bubbles,

Iridescent with purple glint,

And you'd reach out with calm,

Like swamp water slippery with waiting crocodiles,

And pluck them from in front of you.

In my dream, you'd hold up the thought

And clear your throat,

Examining it for flaws.

You'd exclaim/proclaim it sound

And write it down

And then give it a kiss.

In my dream, you heard a hoard of elephants,

Stampeding through your mind,

Interrupting your thoughts and dreams,

And you were angry.

But then you help up your own thought,

And cleared your throat,

Examined it for flaws.

You exclaimed/proclaimed it sound

And wrote it down.

And then gave it a kiss --

No longer labeled as anger.

In my dream, you wear brown cowboy boots

And leap and stomp and laugh and plead

With eyes of brown and green and blue --

Mirrors of angst and joy,

Pleasure and guilt and desire.

In my dream you hide from, what,

I don't know.

Sometimes it is yourself and

Sometimes it is me, but

Always it reminds me of fear.

Distrust in a child's countenance,

When he is trying so very hard to 

Understand this grown-up world,

And meets with disbelief at the

Strangeness of it.

In my dream, you are

3 and 20 and 48.

And 14.

All ages of knowledge

And import.

In my dream, you are 

Alone

Or with me

But always you smile

And always you

Journey.

I Know It's Summer When I Stop Writing

I once wrote how I knew it was winter. Perhaps it's time to write about how I know it's summer. And it really has nothing to do with bar-b-ques and heat waves.

It's summer when I have bursts of energy to clean and to organize -- which steals not only my writing time, but my impetus. Where I learn to brew kombucha, pick roses and plums from my backyard. It's summer when I only grumble and rant about my teenagers playing WoW and Minecraft non-stop for hours on end, rather than giving them time limits -- because what else would they do while I'm massaging clients, taking yoga classes, or working in the garden?

Summer time is for not thinking big thoughts, stuffing them instead while I busywork through the day, taking advantage of the light. The skin-peeling consequence of that, is that if I don't allow myself to think them, I can't write them down either. And then THAT starts a cycle of writer's block.

I know this pattern.

I breathe it.
At least twice a year.

(I wonder if it correlates to when the seasons change, or if it happens when my life twists and alters course.)

Summer is for new business ventures, self-publishing books, and splashing merrily in the waves of a nine-month-old romantic relationship with my Turk. Summer is the time to break up dog fights with hoses, and walk the neighborhoods looking for those same cherished doggies when firecrackerfear compels them to jump out windows and push through six-inch openings in fences and find their way to the other house they live at, all by themselves.

I know it's summer when I fold my laundry and wish that I had a clothesline to capture the scent of sun.  When ants and fruit flies invade my compost bucket under the sink, and no amount of bait alleviates the swarms. When sneezing doesn't make people shrink back from your germs: It's just allergies.

I know it's summer when my arms itch for no reason, except maybe ambient pollen. When I make jam from the raspberries in my yard. When I surprise myself with gardening prowess. I know it's summer when doggies sleep on the bare hardwood floors in my house instead of upholstered squishy green couches.

When I envy the neighbors' gardens and flower beds.

When I think of all manner of things to do BUT write.

I can't write because I'm not caught up with the housework, and I don't want to leave it for another four days before I get back to it. (I clean in spurts.) I can't write because I often over extend myself, not just in summer, but it feels like I do it more in this season. So much so that come 3 o'clock in the afternoon, I'm bushed. Extra sunlight be damned. All I want to do in the afternoon is read. So I trick myself into reading books that are "good for me." Non-fiction mostly. Or that one novel I need to read for the Early Reviewers Club.

Summer is for looking at my knitting bag with wist and longing, because knitting is for winter days by the fire.

Summer is for remembering to stay hydrated, but then peeing every forty-five minutes until I'm bored with it.

I know it's summer when I only find out I have a fruit tree in the yard by almost stepping in the too-ripe ones on the sidewalk in front of my house.

If Summer isn't for big thoughts, it's for big PLANS. So many plans that I effectively gouge out huge slabs of writing time and just watch them fritter to the floor. Camping for a week, a conference for a long weekend, a flight out of state to take my children to their grandmother's place, and music festivals with costumes.

Summer is here when I take an art class for a day, sleep with the door open because it's so hot I'm counting on the dogs to scare away any intruders, and finally getting around to taking my first Spanish lesson.

I know it's summer when I meet new friends at cookouts and birthday parties. When I feel inspired to change things up. To build a chicken gate for the run that has no chickens yet. And to run yet another errand. It's a season of feeling euphoria, and then worry that the euphoria might be manic, and thinking I should probably write about it, but instead allow the weather and my productiveness to give me an artificial high so that I forget about that reason I'm not writing.

I wonder if Autumn is the season to write.

Ain't Yoga Practice Somethin'?

Today I felt wronged and a little bit humiliated, so I thought perhaps I should say something about it.

Or I could just chalk it up to yoga practice.
Something I needed to experience today.

At any rate, I really didn't feel called to go yoga today, but since I have a work/study program with the studio I attend, I felt obligated to go to class. It's actually in the job description to go three times a week, minimum. I had skipped my regular day because I'd rented a rototiller and spent the day doing yardwork. I couldn't do it during the week because of work, and I couldn't do it on Sunday, because the rental place was closed. I made up my Saturday class by going in today -- Sunday.

Anyway, I often will let the instructor know prior to class if anything is going on for me in body or spirit that might affect my practice that day. For instance, last week I was sick. I told the instructor and she said to take it easy, drink a lot of water, and sit out of the postures as I needed to. It's pretty standard advice, so this morning when the teacher asked how I was, I routinely said, "Fine."

The truth is, I am fine. However, I'm on my third day of fasting (for cleansing purposes), had an extremely restricted diet (only fruits and veggies) for three days prior to that, was sick the week before (as previously stated), AND had a sunburn from the yardwork. Any one of those things could affect my hot yoga practice that day, and I had all of them. But I knew what my body could take and I knew what I was supposed to do. "Take it easy, drink lots of water, and sit out of the postures as I needed to." And I was pretty sure I'd need to. I feel healthy, but weak, from my illness, fasting preparation, and actual fasting. Plus I may have overdid it on the yardwork. I had had a mild headache and dizziness the day before, and planned on sitting out of one of each of the two sets we did in class -- in effect, doing half the class. I felt that was appropriate for what I could handle that day.

Class started.

We begin each class with a breathing exercise. I did both sets of that. Deep breathing is good. And I was just out of bed, so I had some energy. First set of the first posture -- made it through, but felt light-headed coming out of it. I did as planned, and stood out of the second set.

I didn't fidget. I didn't drink water. I didn't look around.
I wasn't distracting anyone.

I did the same thing for the next two postures. Participated in one set, stood out of the second.

Fourth posture, and the beginning of the balancing series -- the most difficult part of the whole class for me, three postures of varying difficulty balanced on one leg. I did the first set, and promptly felt dizzy enough to bend over slightly with my hands on my knees (still looking in the mirror) to avoid falling over. Suffice it to say I stood out of the second set -- until the instructor said, "Please join in, Valerie." I was mildly surprised. I don't mind being singled out in class. In fact, I've told the instructors to please do so if I need a correction. I don't want my muscles to remember a posture incorrectly. It's harder to un-learn it that way. And then who doesn't love to be commended in class for a great posture, or effort. But this was undermining my own body knowledge. In the teacher's defense, she had no idea what I was going through physically, and was probably only trying to encourage me.

There is, however, a fine line between encouraging someone to try harder, and bullying them or humiliating them to continue when it would be in the student's best interest to not go any further.

I've heard multiple teachers address this encouragement factor way more delicately than my instructor today. The way to phrase it would be, "Valerie, please join in if you can."

Despite her slightly rude way of getting me to participate, I did attempt the second set. And the two sets after that. Against my will. And I was starting to get a headache.

After one set of triangle pose, I sat down on my knees and drank water for the second set. The person to the right and behind me was doing the same thing. Just sayin'.

I forget when it happened again, but shortly after that, on another I'm-too-weak/headachey/dizzy-so-I'm-sitting-out-of-the-second-set, she made an example of me again. Only this time I'm sure everyone could hear the annoyance in her voice. "Come on, Valerie. Please join in."

I'm sorry if I don't live up to her expectations. And, again, she had no way of knowing what was going on for me that day, but that's kinda the point. I would think yoga teachers, of all people, would know that students show up to class every day with the body they have. We all perform differently, we're all at different stages in our practice, and, as I said earlier, a lot depends on how you'll do in yoga that day.

I've spent years actively working on being self-compassionate, and telling myself to not feel guilty for taking a sick day when I need one, or sitting out of a yoga pose when I'm seeing black stars in front of my face and my hearing dims. I've spent years actively working on not caring what others think of me, my methods, or my lifestyle and value structure. Of being enough. Of being myself and being okay with it. Of trusting myself.

The great part of being a bodyworker (I'm a licensed massage therapist), of someone who receives monthly chiropractic care, and who practices yoga regularly is that I've developed a really awesome body awareness. Body awareness, self-compassion, self-respect, (as well as determination, will-power, balance, no more back pain, and better posture) are all things I've gained from having a regular yoga practice. I know what my body can take. I am not a slacker.

But by the second time I was admonished in a half-hour period for not participating, I started crying. Second-guessing myself. Was I not trying hard enough? Was I not good enough?

And then I got mad.

I don't have to be good enough for her.
I have to be good enough for ME.

And I am. I go into every class with an open mind, a willing body, and a desire to do well. I give whatever I have with me that day to the yoga. Nothing less.

How dare she insinuate that I wasn't?

Unfortunately, the rest of the yoga class was a mixture of too much time spent thinking of the instructor's insensitivity, and of my weakness in caring what she thought -- because I finished the class doing both sets of everything, and leaving it with a headache, and totally exhausted in a flu-like sort of way.

At the end of class I was sorry that I'd gone. And that's only happened one other time in the four or five years I've been taking this class. I laid in the room, barely moving, until everyone else had left, took my shower, and left -- without talking to anyone. I was afraid the instructor would confront me again about my performance in class, and I'd cry in front of her, further shaming myself.

I'm going to write an email to the owner, and let her know about the incident, and request that perhaps she could educate that particular instructor on how to encourage participation in less shameful ways. I'm sure she didn't mean anything by it, but it stung nonetheless.

After the benefit of a few hours to contemplate it, I think that today I had the opportunity to re-learn and remember that I know who I am and what my limits are. That despite eternal expectations, I know what is best for me, and that I can trust my own judgement.

So, thank you, Yoga Instructor, for teaching me that lesson today.