Five Tips to Stop Over Eating and Start Losing Weight

If you’re anything like me, or the me of old but the not-so-old-me-that-I-don’t-remember me, you know what it’s like to obsess over food. Obsess over weight. Over calories. Over good food versus bad food. Over punishing yourself for wrong choices. As a compulsive dieter and emotional eater you’ll understand what it’s like to go all day eating “good” foods, sticking to the plan you stayed up til midnight devising and promising to yourself that THIS TIME you will stick to it and then all of a sudden your face down in a pool of curve embracing carbs and the only way out is to eat your way through it all. I’ve been there. Often. Not too long ago in fact. I’ve found myself time and time again resisting food for most of the day, eating healthy meals and snacks and then WHAM! 3pm hits and it’s like the fridge automatically opens itself up and empties its full contents into my mouth leaving only the well meaning carrot sticks and grapes behind.

Food has been constantly on my mind for, at least, the past decade. At least. I have had a war with food for a long time and it has been torture! And for those of you that get it you will get that after the binge comes the guilt. Then with the guilt comes the feelings of being a failure and so therefore the intake of more food before finally the promises that tomorrow will be different. It’s tough. It’s a daily, fucked up, tough cycle. Something only first worlders have to whinge about which then makes us feel even shitter about the fact our problem is that there is too much food and yet somewhere else in the world children are starving!

Some of us use food like a drug. We become addicted to the short term joy it brings us. It’s like a security blanket. It keeps you safe. It never lets you down. The food is always there for you. The hollow fullness is always there to comfort youBut it’s not really. I made this discovery recently. Although I can admit that I’ve really known it for a very long time. I’ve also known the reasons why I have spent way too long overeating which is, ironically, to feel small. To stay insignificant. Because being small and insignificant meant I was safe and hidden. That my low self worth and insipid guilt of my past actions couldn’t be seen. That because of these past actions I must remain with my head bowed in an apologetic stance for the rest of my life. Not worthy. A failure. A fat failure.

In my recent revelations I’ve learnt some new ways to move beyond my decade+ long food struggle. I’ve seen the light so-to-speak and my entire day is NOT filled with food thoughts. I eat when I’m hungry. I eat what I want. I am smiling. I am happy. I am still considered overweight and my outer body doesn’t yet reflect my inner body but I’ve let my security blanket go and I want you to join me in the revolution of being in control of food.

So without further adieu here are my five tips.

1. Quit dieting. 

For food obsessors dieting is like putting a lit ciggie in a smokers mouth and telling them not to suck it in. Right? It’s torture! Dieting instantly fills you with a mix of hopefulness and dread even more so if you’ve been dieting on and off for years. Dieting means restriction, not having what you like – or think you like. Dieting means failure. Failures mean bingeing. Bingeing means you are back where you started. Get off the cycle! Ditch the diet books, like, seriously, throw those fuckers out don’t even try to sell them on Facebook Buy & Sell – they are not worth a cent! Steer clear of gossip magazines with a bikini clad celeb on the cover and the headline “How she lost 15kg overnight”. And run the fuck away from googling anything keto/paleo/atkins/dukan/cabbage soup diet related and unfollow all those instagram feeds where the motto is “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels”. None, and I will repeat this for you, NONE of these diets are helpful when you are obsessed with food, an emotional eater or compulsive dieter. I don’t say this to take away the hope for a slimmer you I tell you this because our “diet” begins in our minds and not with a restrictive food plan. So I am sorry but what works for your best mate, your father in law, your sisters-friends-mister isn’t the kind of diet you need. For most of us it’s a mind thing not a diet thing. Please remember that. 

2. Keep track. 

No not of your food! Keep track of your emotions. Your thoughts. When do you start obsessing? If you feel like it is all of the time, which was me, then think about when your food obsession is at its worst for you? Is it after dinner is finished? Is it after a session at the gym or is it, like me, the minute you get home from school pickup? We are a slave to our thoughts so recognising where they happen, when they are the strongest, what can set them off and what can ease them will really set a solid foundation of understanding your triggers. With understanding comes power and with power comes the confidence to move forward. We want to move forward because I sure as eggs don’t want to be an eighty year old woman still bitching and moaning about my weight. I want to fucken live a full and exciting life. Something I have been working on A LOT in the last 12 months and I have to say I like this moving forward trajectory thinga-me-bob.

live in the moment

3. Pull the Wonder Woman Pose. 

Yep it sounds silly and it’ll look silly too when you are standing all super powerfully in front of the fridge or in line at Maccas but guess what? It works. It is proven that standing in the Wonder Woman pose will give you more power and more confidence which then gives you the capability to make a better choice. Even if it’s assertiveness towards a kitchen appliance and all it’s contents or the pimply boy waiting to take your order. This power pose communicates not only to others but more importantly to yourself that you are serious and in control. You. Are. In. Control! Hold it for two minutes. Chest out, shoulders back, feet apart and fists on hips. Oh and remember to breath! You can also use a power pose while you are eating! Yes good posture will slow your eating. It’ll raise your awareness and it will make each mouthful mindful. Shoulders back. Head held high. Eat with purpose. Eat with control. Why? Because food does not control you. Wonder Woman is your girl! Channel her.

Wonder_Woman

4. Find your cheerleaders. 

Surround yourself with love and support. Find “your person”. Find your best supportive babe. That one person who will not judge you, the one who will stay neutral to how you are feeling now but will always offer encouragement for the steps ahead. Cheerleaders are the bomb. They get you. They also see you for who you truly are and they want you to love the absolute shit out of you as much as they do. It really is true. They can see all the good parts of you that you cannot see and they want you shine. So shine you fucking Goddess, SHINE!

Feel better

5. Enjoy food.

Don’t be scared of this one but learn to enjoy food again – for what it is. Food is fuel but food is also a part of daily life. We cannot just give it up, go cold turkey and wait for the shivers and shakes to stop. But food really needs to be put in its place and it is up to us to do it. See it for what it is. Tell yourself that because we are the lucky ones there will always be enough food. That chocolate will be there tomorrow and the next day and the next day. It doesn’t need to be hoed down in one go. It is not going anywhere. It will always be available. It is just chocolate. Don’t count calories. Don’t claim food as “good” or “bad” it’s just food. Once you tune into your body you will naturally gravitate to what makes you feel light and bright. It’ll take time but how long has it taken you to get to this point – with no success. 

Enjoy it all

What happens from here on in is a deeply personal transformation. Something that is not clearly visible to the eye but it is there. People will notice. The mental transformation, for us, is the most important stage. A body transformation cannot be sustained without a stable mental change. And let me tell you once your mental transformation begins the body transformation doesn’t have much significance anymore because you will learn along the way how amazing your body has been during the time of mental anguish you have just endured. You will recognise the strength your body has had to have over this time and how supportive it has been to you to keep getting up and trying again and again. Don’t blame your body. Thank it. What a gift you have been given. Now go. Go stand in that wonderful Wonder Woman pose. Because you, my friend, are not small and insignificant at all. You are purposeful and powerful.

Shine on Goddesses!

One love

DRK xx

Before & After – A Mental Transformation

Well this is going to be confronting & long. It’s going to be a case of personal oversharing including photos of me – yep, I’m totally freaking out here – but it has got to be said and it has got to be shared for clarification.


The photo on the right is me 4 years ago. Eating crap, exercising little (unless waddling is a recognised sport nowadays) and weighing the heaviest I have ever done in my entire life. Clearly I am also very pregnant, in fact I am 3 days overdue with my fifth devil spawn … and by devil spawn I mean my darling children. I was told during this pregnancy, around the halfway mark, by my doctor, that I was not to gain anymore weight. At that point in time I had only gained 5kg. By the time this photo was taken I had gained 10 in total. I’m such an over achiever … Actually thats a lie – I’ve never overachieved at anything. Let me tell you though that being told not to gain weight or even to consider losing some while pregnant by a professional really fucks with your head. Like really. Fucks. With. Your. Head.

The middle photo is of me at my slimmest – as an adult at least. Or as someone trying to be all adulty and stuff. This was me 6 months after giving birth to my fifth child and 6 weeks into a gruelling 500 calories a day supplement supported “detox”. I wasn’t allowed to exercise on this diet which is clear because there were no calories to spare. I cried many of those 42 days and would beat myself up when I ate an extra cracker or didn’t lose some gram of weight daily. Then at the end of all that, 10kg lighter, I still saw a fat, disfigured, heavy set woman. Although that is me smiling in the photo – posing even – in all honestly I had my daughter take at least 20 photos before I decided none of them were good enough to share and went into the bathroom to cry because I was just so fucking hideous. Which cracks me up now because I’d give my fifth child up (I’m kidding!) to look like that again but I wouldn’t ever want to go back to the way I felt emotionally and mentally at that moment in my life.

The photo on the left was taken 3 months ago. It’s a flattering photo of my current body & this is obvious to me because it’s the only full length photo I can find of myself recently. Which means that perhaps I don’t look like that in real life. Perhaps I am bigger and realistically I know I am. I know I am because I am pretty close to the weight I was in my pregnant photo. Yes the pregnant heifer on the right. The one who was warned to lose weight or face diabetes. I also know I am heavyset because categorically the BMI (or as I prefer to call it Bad Mother-fucking-mental-image Indicator) says I am either close to being obese or I’m too short for my weight.

BUT what it doesn’t tell you is that in the here and now I eat a well balanced diet including eating some form of crap once or twice a week because I love food that is sometimes not classified as “good” food. It doesn’t tell you that I’ve given up the torturous yo-yo dieting, self sabotaging and body hating. I no longer drink coffee because of the horrible reflux, the side-effect-city medication I took for it and the anxiety those little brown beans caused me. I seldom drink more than one or two glasses of alcohol a week, though if I do it’s more like 6 or 7 in one quick sitting as I’m a irregular try-hard party girl who prefers her jarmies, a good book and her bed. But most importantly what it doesn’t tell you is that I am mentally stronger than I have ever been in my entire I-feel-not-good-enough life.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not “cured” of this mental torture so many of us have and in all honesty I can say sometimes when I look in the mirror I don’t love what I see. Sometimes I look at photos and it looks as though I am smuggling food in my mouth. But I’m not. My cheeks are just chubbier than they once were which would have been cute 30-something years ago. What’s more confronting is that I know you guys see it too. You see the extra chin, the bigger belly, the fatter arms. And it’s there for all to see. I get it I see it too. But whats more important is what you don’t see. You don’t see the real difference between those three photos, those fragmented stages of my life. The difference that actually matters. And that is my mental state. My happiness.


I can now honestly say that 97% of my time is spent with me accepting my body. But don’t you dare confuse acceptance with defeat. I haven’t given up on my health. I am not “letting myself go”. My health is top of my priority list as I get to the halfway point of my life – assuming I live to 70-something. I don’t want to hear the “no excuses” tag line anymore because I do actually have them. I have a few of them. But I will not justify any of them to you because this is my body. My life. My mental state in question. My excuses. My reasons. My body. My life.

Mental health issues are torture. Be kind to others – you do not know their insides and if you did you would be a really valued member in the X-ray department. Stay focused… on yourself. Your own life. Your own happiness.

One love
DRK xxx

Gender Weight Loss Wars

Seriously this subject is probably one of the most annoying things in my life besides my husbands loud chewing and the kids toe nail/boogie picking. Don’t get me wrong I’ve come a long way in my weight issues and nowadays I actually don’t care about “the number” and I don’t even hate my body anymore. In fact I totally accept it and most days I quite like it. Sure it’s not a Ferrari but it’s a pretty economical and reliable station wagon and for that I am grateful.

BUT…. But. But. But.

How is it that a man says “I’m going on a diet!” To then not only have his food served, his meals planned, his shopping done for him BUT he also only quits one or two things – like beer or Coke (and instead takes up Vodka and Red Creaming Soda), eats pretty much as he usually does after the healthy food thing wears off a few days in, then does a gigantic crap one morning and magically loses 6kg! Boom! Goal weight in well under a fortnight motherfucker!

Yet…

A woman says “I’m eating healthy and changing my lifestyle!” It is a serious declaration. She gives up coffee, she gives up wine, she gives up sugar and flour and starchy carbs. She takes up green drinks that taste like cold vegetable soup mixed with the grass out the back, in fact she increases her intake of everything remotely green grass looking. She limits her portion sizes at meal times using a side plate to trick her brain, she drinks 2lt of filtered water and exercises for a minimum of 30 minutes every day. She meditates and cleanses her soul, keeps a food journal and dedicates most of her day in the kitchen preparing and cleaning up healthy meals for her and her family. She has never been ‘healthier’ yet she is constipated for 6 out of 7 days and when she’s not in the kitchen prepping/cooking/cleaning she is on the toilet urinating like some kind of wee God. She resists the urge to weigh in because it is about a lifestyle choice and not a number but surely 18 days of pure good health will harbour some results that are worth seeing….

Am I right?

Arrrr.. Nup! A measly 300g gone! How can that be! Lucky for him that I feel good about myself anyway. I’m not hangry which means he gets to live and I am ok with not losing a single kilo which is good because otherwise I might just have to lace his food with laxatives BUT then he would gloat even more over the diarrhoea weight loss. He actually would.

So what the fuck is happening here?

Well this is what it FEELS like is happening…

The Man body says, “Lets not fuck around mate! We got a piss up next week and we ain’t telling the boys we can’t drink coz we are on a diet. So process every fat cell in sight at lightening speed and drop an ungodly 2kg log on day 6! Job done!” Cue the naked mirror happy helicopter dance and bicep pashing…

The Woman body says, “Huh? What? We are trying to lose weight? Oh I thought you said wait! Wait and hold on to every fat cell and digested green bit until it is safe to let it go… Let it go.. Let it goooo… Oh but I can’t. Yes you can! Let’s do this! This is your time! No.. No.. I’m not ready… Oh but you are… But what if we need to reserve our fat cells for possible starvation? What the fuck are you on about?” and on and so forth…

What is ACTUALLY happening…

Simply put men have more muscle than women and the more muscle you have the more fat you burn. Hence the reason they shed it quicker.

Men also have 10 times more testosterone than women which increases their metabolism at a rate of 5-10% faster than women.

Women have oestrogen – which helps with the obvious procreation thing – but this funny little word makes it harder for us to burn fat after a meal. Yes it makes us hold onto it! Which is great if we are in the dark ages and food is scarce then hell we are going to be ok.

Women also have more cravings – I don’t know why but the research says so. Research also says we are more likely to turn to emotional eating – yay for us!

And this all must be true because I Googled it! So blame the testosterone/oestrogen you don’t have/have. Men may have the weight loss edge over us but we can do so much more than they can – like get aroused without anyone noticing, have multiple orgasms, wear mens clothes without anyone raising an eyebrow, multi-task and (for some of us blessed ones) we can push a gigantic baby out of our vagina.

So fuck the testosterone and their fast weight loss. Feel good inside and outside because that is all that really matters!

One love

DRK xxx

boob-tribute

Ain’t this the truth!

fitness-dog

I had to share this one – too funny!

 

Mittelschmerz is not a German Sausage

Mittelschmerz. It’s a fancy name that I’m pretty sure I’m not pronouncing properly … Mit.. Tel.. Sch.. Merz…. Sounds exotic! 

Where is this foreign place? Are there Germans there?

Well I’ve googled it and it’s definitely not a place. It’s not even the name of a tasty German sausage. It’s actually a really difficult to say medical word for ovulation pain. Yes they have a really difficult to say medical word for ovulation pain. Who knew?!

For those that don’t have ovulation pain this post may not interest you. For those that do – this is most definitely for you. I want you to know you’re not alone in your pain and frustration or in your search (every 17 days) to cure your regular bitch pain.

Let’s break it down, thanks to Mayo Clinic….

Definition

By Mayo Clinic Staff

Mittelschmerz is one-sided, lower abdominal pain associated with ovulation. German for “middle pain,” mittelschmerz occurs midway through a menstrual cycle — about 14 days before your next menstrual period.

In most cases, mittelschmerz doesn’t require medical attention. For minor mittelschmerz discomfort, over-the-counter pain relievers and home remedies are often effective. If your mittelschmerz pain is troublesome, your doctor may prescribe an oral contraceptive to stop ovulation and prevent midcycle pain.

For those who don’t have it let me give you a visual…

It’s 17 days since your last period started. You’ve shed bloody stuff from your lady bits for 7 days straight, you’ve cramped up, you’ve eaten shitloads of whatever your hands could get a hold of and every morning you’ve woken up wanting wear white pants and then you’ve restrained yourself from wearing white pants.  It’s been fun hasn’t it? Now you’re on your 10 days of peace and you will get to enjoy those 10 whole days of freedom-wearing-white-pants-if-you-want. 

Then it happens.

Day 17 arrives and you wake up with little wind-like pains. Nothing major. You have your coffee and breakfast (if you’re lucky) and your pains turn themselves up a notch. Did the milk in my coffee give me gas, am I lactose intolerant – you start thinking to yourself even though this has happened on Day 17(ish) on and off for the past 20+ years. 

The discomfort continues to intensify and before you know it you’re bent over like a motherfucker thinking is this appendicitis or the work of the devil himself? By the time you’re curled up in the foetal position you brain finally clicks over, slaps you across the face and reminds you it’s Day 17 and this is actually your monthly ovulation pain. Sometimes it doesn’t get to that point and you get through Day 17 just thinking you need a decent fart and then sometimes it’s so intense you vomit from the pain… as was the case for me 7 days ago and still suffering.

Countless doctors appointments as an adult and emergency hospital trips as a young girl have all ruled out anything sinister. I’ve been (mis)diagnosed as having acute and then chronic appendicitis, endometriosis, pelvic inflammatory disease, polycystic ovaries but not with polycystic ovarian syndrome coz I’m not obese or hairy and clearly have no problem having children. 

It’s just one of “those things” they say. Really? Really? Here take this hormone infested pill til menopause, they say. Even though I’ve had a DVT, even though they make me sick, even though they make me crazy, even though our family history says ‘no’ to the pill.

Mittelschmerz. We are not friends. You are the bane of my life and I wish you were just a yummy German sausage. Worse still is 10 days after you’ve entered my life, tortured me and stopped me from functioning like a normal human being you leave me and release yourself from my body and I’m back to day one of my cycle. 

Here we go again…..

Burn Those Mo-Fo Scales

A few years ago my weight made my day, literally.

If my weight was up my mood was down and by down I mean down in the fiery pits of sooky-la-la-hell. Picture hyperventilating, tragic tears, snot everywhere, kicking stuff like a tempered two-year-old and eventually a hurt toe or two, it’s a pretty sight huh?!

On the other end of the scale (pun intended) if my weight was down I was up. Up in the clouds, high on happiness and full of confidence. Seriously though the only difference between a good and bad weigh day was a cheat meal and a decent shit.

One particular down day, of which there were many as it seemed just breathing my own farts could make me gain, my husband threatened the life of my scales. So when my tears didn’t dry up after the umpteenth time of him describing how he saw me and that the scales couldn’t rate sexy or awesome he honoured that threat by taking it to the next level.

He kidnapped my scales!

Yep, kidnapped that silver-tongued weighing machine without so much as a ransom note and he threw it powerfully over his head and directly at the driveway beneath our first floor balcony. He then pulled out his keys, threw himself frustratedly into his car, turned the ignition and proceeded to drive over them. Not satisfied with the crunch he ripped it into reverse, drive, reverse – you get what I’m saying? And then when he felt sure the scales were unusable he parked his ute on it as a final triumphant winning move.

I was devastated. Silly I know but I really was! How was I going to judge my day from now on if I didn’t know how fat or not-too-fat I was? Did I really have to wake up and just be happy? Is that what the rest of the world did?

I’ve told this husband-car-smashing-scales story before but now I’m out the other side, not completely cured but living better than I have before, I see this story differently. I also see it as a must for all women, everywhere, who choose their mood in a negative way because they listened to this mean girl machine! She is a mean girl compacted, digitalised and she doesn’t even have to speak to make you feel shit about yourself. Who are you giving your power away to?!!! If you must give your wonderful womanly power away at least make them living breathing humans! And by ‘if you must give away your power” I mean DON’T FUCKING GIVE ANYONE YOUR POWER EVER! Living, breathing or machining.

It does not matter how much you paid for those scales. It does not matter what excuses you come up with. If you weigh yourself every day or as in my case back then three times a day then you go NOW and you get that mother-fucking number thingy and throw them at the driveway and reverse, drive, reserve, drive, repeat and park on them! And no I won’t pay for your punctured tyres be smart about it ladies cover it in cardboard if you have to. If you don’t have a car, get a hammer, don’t have a hammer, get a bat – but not the perfection bat because that’s imaginary. Throw them in a bonfire if you can’t beat them to death and stand there triumphantly watching them burn! DO something significant to those little gravity defining mofos!

Was my pep talk not enough? What are you still doing here? Can’t let go? You want more?

Well, here’s ten reasons why you should amputate those fuckers from your life:

1. The scales WILL NOT tell you who you really are! That bitch will never give you the answers you are looking for! No. NOT. EVER.

2. The scales will not tell you how your genetics influence your weight/height/body shape. They will not tell you whether you are a petite dainty babe or a complete glamazon or some beautiful specimen in between. It only gives you a number. JUST A NUMBER! Like this – 67 – or this – 84 – or this – 72.47567296 – …. Numbers! NOT genetic make-up. You’ve got your Dad’s legs, your Mums waistline and apparently your Great-Aunties nose … A scale can’t calculate that whole bundle of gloriousness!

3. The scales will not tell you how funny/smart/creative you are. They can’t tell you that you have a killer backhand in tennis, that your kids/husband/dogs think your laugh is the one of the best sounds to hear ever in this world or that, if there was such a thing, you would have earned a Masters Degree in parenting/kicking arse by now.

4. The scales just stress you the fuck out … Don’t they? Then why do it to yourself? We are smarter than that. We are worth more than that! Life CANNOT be defined by that!

5. The scales cannot tell you your ‘correct’ or your ‘ideal’ weight. Why? Because it’s a stupid fucking machine! A stupid fucking machine that someone invented to make you feel bad about yourself! And they continue to do so and they win! Why let them win?!

6. The scales tell you nothing about your actual state of health. Nothing! It may give you your body fat percentage or your hydration level but can it really? It doesn’t take your blood and then calculate your cholesterol. It doesn’t evaluate the arteries in your heart, your pancreas function or tell you that you have a fatty liver. Other machines do that. Let them make you feel bad – but only to make you do something positive about it!

7. The scales can actually hinder your efforts! How? Well, I’m sure you’ve heard the statement, and probably, like me, scoffed at it too, that “muscle weighs more than fat”…. It actually really does! So if you are exercising and eating well and your weight is not shifting (or it is going up) then could it be possible your shifting fat and building muscle? Could it!?! But no you see you’re weight has gone in the wrong direction and you throw in the towel, sit on the couch, crying into a bag of caramel popcorn and chocolate. Don’t worry I’ve done that too a billion times over!

8. The scales can’t and won’t tell you that you’re due for your period, if you ate a cheat meal last night or if you haven’t been to the toilet in a few days. It cannot tell you that you are retaining fluid or if you’ve lost centimetres off your waistline. A tape measure can, your clothes can but not that mean girl machine.

9. Weight is your gravitational pull. Your mass is your matter. But none of it matters if you’re healthy and balanced in life. Your scales will only tell you your physical earthly mass. Not the depth, the intensity or the worthiness of your mass. It cannot tell you that your laughter is contagious, your smile lights up the room like sunshine or that you look totally fucken hot right now even though the scale says a number that isn’t socially acceptable to you.

10. The scales will only confuse you, haunt you and give you reasons to whip out your perfection bat. It’s a mean girl disguised as a helpful health machine and it will take away your power – if you let it.

Who’s the one in charge of your health? 

Who’s the one in control of your body? 

Who is the only one who can change who tells who what to do?

I’ll give you a clue: it’s not the scales!

Wear it. Own it. Be it….. And by ‘it’ I mean YOU!

One love,
DRK xxx

729f2b847481e69c8f8513e0ac0422a7

Seven Days

We’ve discussed this before. We’ve had this conversation. But nothing is more real about this chat then it is right now. Because over the last three weeks while we have worried about our weight, yelled impatiently at our children, huffed and puffed out at the series of frustrating road users a man I know has been counting down his days. Not his days til Christmas or days til his next holiday but the days of his life.

Three weeks ago he was told he had a month to live and while we all can’t wait to get into bed at night only to wake up the next day bleary eyed can we even come close to imagining how those nights and those mornings clicked by way too quickly for him.

Yesterday marked one week to go. 7 days or there abouts. How fucken unfair. How frustrating. How absolutely devastating. I cannot even fathom how this feels for him, for anyone dealing with this same mortality. I cannot put into words what each day drawing to an end would feel like to this man. And I can’t tell you how sad I selfishly feel.

How do you grieve the life you had, that life you have to let go? How do you do that? How the fuck do you do that! How do you sum up your life and ‘tie up loose ends’ when the biggest loose end is that you don’t want to fucken die! You want to live! You want to fall in love again and again. You want to explore the world. You want to hug every member of your family. Thank every one of your friends for every moment you’ve ever shared. Say sorry. Take your kids on a spectacular holiday. Boldly quit your job and train for your dream job.

death-acceptance

One week.

Seven days.

IMG_3317

What is really important in that moment of severely shortened time? What becomes the main focus in your life? Who would you spend your time with? How would you feel?

I don’t write this to bring on guilt for those who have just cried about a frustrating yet precious child. Not written to bring shame for the materialistic lives we lead. Not to instil fear in our own mortality. Just words written for a man I know with seven days left on his life calendar. His LIFE calendar. Just words from my heart because I feel so sad. For him. For his family. For the “what ifs”. For the challenges and unfairness of it all. For the fact he has just written his own eulogy which is not done for premeditated fun but out of a requirement to him and his final words of life. LIFE.

So I ask of you be grateful today, if even only for a moment. Be gracious over the next seven days in a compassionate way to all those on this similar and terminal journey. What we take for granted is a blessing to others. Less whinging, more hugging.

One Love,
DRK xxx

let-go-of-balloons

 

Superwoman Reincarnated

What happens when you finally sort your mental shit out? Well not much apparently. The earth doesn’t explode into a billion delicious oreo cookie pieces. You don’t magically look any different. People don’t fall over each other to be around the new you. But blogging does become more difficult. Or perhaps just different.

My gripes, my vents, my deep personal and over shared thoughts are now silenced. I’ve dealt with them. I guess in a way they are still there, they always will be so the skeptics say but they are fainter than before and I can laugh way louder than them now. And so I do. I laugh louder. I laugh more. Which is nice and I’m proud of that.

Here have a 9 minute laugh on me…

I never thought I’d ever be able to say this but when I occasionally weigh myself these days I feel … Nothing. Nothing at all. Not even when I had to weigh myself at the hospital on Sunday in front of a complete stranger and in fact the worst kind of stranger – a woman stranger. This would have given me sweaty palms and high blood pressure if I had of been standing there as the old me. I would have begun to make excuses about having fallen off the wagon recently, having had a big night of pizza loving the night before, or the best and most used excuse of all time – having five kids! This particular excuse has always been used as a distraction and it’s worked every time. Ok so it was a little bit of an excuse too but that’s got to wearing thin considering my youngest is nearly 2.5! It definitely distracts people momentarily though as I apparently look way too young to have five kids. Not sure how I’m supposed to look – haggard or whore-ish perhaps?

Anyway…..

I proudly stood there on the scales with this complete female stranger hovering beside me, a nurse who ‘The New Me’ knew had seen much worse in her career like blood and guts and things stuck up peoples anal passages. Things way more exciting than the numbers the scale was about to announce. Finally the numbers stopped going up (and up and up) and I noticed I weighed +3kg more than I have EVER done before. I didn’t even get the chance to freak out before ‘The New Me’ rationalised this weight gain instantly clarifying that my body was wearing shoes, socks, jeans, singlet, bra, top, jumper and a puffer vest, yes a puffer vest! That’s a fair bit of extra kaygees right there. Best of all though, I didn’t feel ashamed of me or that number. I didn’t go home and cry. I didn’t go home and start a new diet – aka starvation-slash-binge-slash-newest-fad-diet-slash-starvation-again. I didn’t go home and look in the mirror so I could personally curse the ugly, fat reflection staring back at me. No. No I didn’t. I took my sick not-so-little baby home with my healthy and able body. I held him the entire five hours I was there in the hospital ED and I did that with my strong capable arms. I kissed his head. I wiped his tears. I lifted him in and out of his car seat and I carried him up our 9 stairs to get home. I cuddled him. I loved him. And not once did I think about that number again that day.

blog2

I love this about ‘The New Me’. I love that there is more liberation in my head. There’s more room for things to float freely. To be able to feel the real stuff without the added anxieties that a compacted thought system can make you feel. There’s more space to rationalise, to breathe, to just be in and enjoy the moment. Even if it’s a shitty moment. A moment where you worry about your sick kid. But let me break this down for you too – I am not a miracle. I am not magically cured and now living the perfect life in the perfect body of the perfect wife/mother/woman. My kids still drive me crazy and I am still known for yelling like a banshee. I argue with my non-perfect husband, I cry at silly ads on TV and wouldn’t you know it I bleed just like every human on this Earth. But now I don’t care what others think of me. I don’t care if they notice my spare tyre once carefully hidden beneath my top. I don’t care if they hate freckles, my nose stud, my tattoos. I don’t care if they like me or if they don’t. I only care about being me.

Blog

With my new found freedom of mind and with all that extra air in there I didn’t think I could blog again. I’m not sure how I can go from sharing all this crazy head stuff to not having anything mental left to share. I could use this blog to vent about my messy, noisy children, my frustrating yet totally loved husband, my treadmillish routined life BUT I think I’m going to offer more of myself to you than that. I’m feeling naughty and not afraid of the possibilities. I’m feeling brave! And I’m scared where this empty wild head leaves my blogging now but I know I will find my new groove, I can feel it feathering away inside me – like an internal tickle but not like an anal itch. It’s exciting, frightening and frustrating. It may take some time and we are all well aware of my patience (yep – zilch, nada, zip) but I’m one of the lucky ones who has time. So be patient my little super heroes, my fans, my followers, my friends and in the words of The Terminator, I’ll be back! And better than ever too!

blog4

One love,
DRK xxx