I quit taking antidepressants cold turkey over a year ago after a weekend out-of-town. I forgot to bring my pills with me and the withdrawals were debilitating: the dizziness; the nausea; The Rage. It was enough to have me committed. I knew then I needed to try something else. I wasn’t comfortable with the dependency my body had on these synthetic drugs.

I am in no way advocating for anyone else to stop taking their prescription medication on their own, just so you know…

In lieu of the medication I began working out (running, swimming and Jillian Michaels DVDs), taking regular vitamins (Vitamin D and One-a-Day) and made a conscious effort to cut the shit food from my diet – or at least minimize it. I very much believe that avoiding any and all junk food is a real contributor to binge eating and yo-yo dieting. It’s about moderation; learning to eat chips; pizza; ice cream in moderation is key. Or at least that’s what I tell myself; if I force myself to avoid that deliciously craptastic food then that’s all I can think of. Besides, for me, this wasn’t – and isn’t – about weight loss, but a lifestyle change. The fact that I’ve dropped almost 50 pounds is a bonus.

Within a few weeks of cutting the drugs and starting a regular workout routine , I noticed my attention span improve, my attention to detail increase dramatically (which is crucial in my role as a cost estimator) and I was no longer living in a drug-induced haze. Looking back, I really believe my lack of performance at work was related to living in this drug-induced fog which allowed me to just get by but not really function.

I still live with depression; that hasn’t changed. There are definitely days where I still fight the urge to stay in bed all day, to veg out on the computer and to answer to no one, but running has given me an outlet. It gives me space, time to think – TIME ALONE. Sure, I have the beat of the music to distract me from hyperventilating, but for the time I am hitting the pavement, it’s about me.

This all sounds so cliché, I know. I feel like I’m a fuckin’ Nike commercial or something.

Seriously though, I have really noticed my ability to handle stressful situations has improved, I am so much more level-headed than I was before (just don’t ask Mike, he’ll tell you I’m still the same old crazy bitch I’ve always been).

May 1st, I am running a half marathon with Karen Sugarpants. I will admit: I’m scared. I’m scared to fail. I know it’s not about winning; there are no delusions of grandeur here. I am not in this to win it; I am running for me. I have trained (as much as one can while working 60 hours a week and raising two small children) but I think because I have invested so much time and energy into this, I really want to meet my goal of finishing this thing RUNNING.

The past two weeks were pretty tough mentally. I have been sticking to the The 10% Rule – the Golden Rule of Running and not training beyond that point at all, until one unfortunate day when I didn’t manually check my route on Google Maps and relied solely on the GPS of my iPhone and Nike+ app. Well, the well-planned distance of 16.4km (10.3mi) was miscalculated by the GPS and became 19km (11.9mi) – which I only realized after hobbling home once I completed 3 additional kilometres. After that, just walking was painful. There was very little running because my knees ached so bad. I thought I was finished. I thought I had blown this whole race and wasn’t even going to be able to compete. I reached out to some friends on DailyMile and after realizing the distance I had put on my shoes in the past year (700km or 440mi), I was more than due for some new kicks.

Long story long: I bought new shoes; they feel great. Instantly my knees thanked me and I feel like I am back in the game.

I think I can finally say: I am ready.

Guys, I’m running a half marathon!

• No More Running on Empty
• Rejection, Dejection.
• In Stride

I had resigned myself to being The Fat Friend a long time ago. I have always been the largest of my group of friends. Maybe not always the heaviest, but the one with the broad shoulders and larger build, which always made me feel like I was The Fat Friend. It’s hard not to when all the girls were able to swap clothes with each other and I was the odd one out with no one to swap with.

As far too many others have, I’ve struggled, and continue to struggle, with my body image. No matter how hard I work, I still see that fat girl when I look in the mirror. I don’t know that she’ll ever go away. I don’t know that I want her to; she’s now my motivation. She keeps me moving, pushing to succeed.

After tipping the scales at 200 pounds, there was no question I had to do something. I starting running last spring (along with doing Jillian Michaels’ 30-day Shred) thinking it would be the “easy” and least expensive way to lose weight (which it is until you add in winter running gear and treadmills). In 2010, I covered 395 kilometers (245 miles) since March. Two hundred and forty-five miles. That blows my mind; and still, I don’t feel as though I have earned the right to call myself ‘a runner’.

I don’t know what it is, but I feel like it’s a merit badge I have to earn and it has to be handed down by a runner, otherwise I’m just a poseur wannabe.

A jogger.

Why is that?

To prove it to myself, that I am *gulp* a runner! I’ve signed up for a half marathon on May 1st with Karen. Maybe once I’ve successfully completed over 20-kilometers (13.1 miles), someone will pat me on the back and tell me, it’s okay, freak. You can call yourself a runner now.

Despite my hang-ups over being called a ‘runner’, I have run; and not only have I covered all that ground, I’ve learned to challenge myself again. I’ve pushed myself harder than I have in years, and I can finally, confidently say: it’s paying off.

It’s paying off.

Please excuse my teeth-brushing. I like to multi-task. Also? That twitter shirt? I couldn’t even squeeze into it in March, 2010.

I suck at taking self-portraits. They’re at different distances, but still, the change is noticeable now. When I shared the July pictures, I didn’t see the weight loss everyone else had begun to notice. I was so discouraged but kept plugging away.

I don’t weigh myself because it consumes me. I own a scale, but it doesn’t have a battery otherwise I become this compulsive freak I don’t even know. I simply use how my clothes fit to gauge how well I’ve been doing, and so far I’ve dropped from a size 16, borderline 18, to a size 10 (0r 12 depending on the brand); from an 1X/XL to a L/M – and a cup size , which I am none to pleased about. The last time I weighed myself (using my WiiFit) was in early-December, and at that time I was 27lbs lighter.

Though my main focus appears to be weight loss, it’s more about a lifestyle change. I wasn’t happy, and not just with my weight; I was a bystander watching life pass by. In many ways, I still am, but now I’m making a concerted effort to improve that.

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I’ve been reluctant to share my progress during this weight loss journey.

Okay, so not really, I mean, if you’ve been following my twitter feed you’ve likely witness diarrhea of the mouth when it comes to talking about working out.

After professing my love for Kristen Chase and Jillian Michaels’ 30-day Shred a year ago, I gave in to my emotional eating habits while I went through returning to work, daycare troubles, a move, bouts of depression, and everyday stresses only to gain an additional 10 pounds.

But even though I’ve shared so many ups and downs on this site, there’s something about sharing my progress in photos. That’s where I wig out. Pictures of progress are an ENTIRELY different issue for me. No matter how great my progress has been, like: I’m down almost 2 pant sizes and 17 pounds in the past 3 months; I can (FINALLY!) run 25 minutes (roughly 4km) without walking; I can swim laps (breast stroke) for an hour; I have more energy than I have in YEARS; I’ve been off antidepressants for almost six months; and I am happier, more positive than I have been in a long time, and I still feel like I could – should – have better results by now.

I’m not on The Biggest Loser, I’m not competing for anything; I’m doing this for me. For a lifestyle change, yet I feel like I should be seeing these drastic results.

Running and swimming – but especially running – have been huge releases for me. My stress levels are down, I’m sleeping better and – wait for it … I am ENJOYING working out. This is such a huge deal for me since the past 10 years I have lived a sedentary lifestyle.

But! - Oh the but! –  whenever I look at a progress picture, I see so much work which needs to be done. I hate that I focus on The Bad! and can’t (or don’t) revel in The Good! Mike gets frustrated with me when I point out the fact that my arm fat still dangles like the jowls of a Mastiff. He insists that if I don’t stop focusing on The Bad I will sabotage my progress, which I know is true, but is it possible to ever stop?

I digress.

I look at these images and barely see a difference.

I know I’ve done well. Damn well. Three months ago, I was in a completely different place in my life. I was wallowing in self pity, stressed to the max, bored with my life, and angry at everyone and everything –  not to mention 17 pounds heavier.

I keep trying to remind myself I didn’t get this big overnight. It took me 10 years, two pregnancies, bad food choices, no exercise and turning a blind eye to gain the almost 60 pounds I’ve been carrying.

I still have a lot of the same stress factors in my life, but I am managing them better. I now have this release for my frustration and stress.

I have something that is completely about me.

And I have results.

No matter how many times I dissect these photos and point out what work I still have, I know I have made progress; not only physically, but mentally.

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As a teenager, my relationship with my mother was anything but pleasant. Living in a home with the two of us must have been hell. Me, constantly wanting, her, constantly resisting. Typical mother, teenaged daughter-type relationship really.

Things became significantly more harried as I began to “date” an older boy. I say “date” because well, I was weeks from my sixteenth birthday, he just turned nineteen – and already had a girlfriend with whom he stayed while we “dated”.

I know. So wrong, but I was fifteen! I blame the Whore Moans hormones, because really? Hot older boy liked me!

My mom knew something was going on even though I insisted we were just friends. No matter how many times I tried to convince her otherwise, the evening phone calls which lasted HOURS upon HOURS screamed the opposite. The conversation about safe sex really never came, though there were instances which warranted it: sneaking out at night, coming in past curfew, wreaking of alcohol and cigarettes when I came home from “watching a movie at a friend’s house”. I thought I was living the high life. Then. Now, I think she knew I was reaching and was going to be hurt by this boy, but she let me learn. She let me test the waters and only when I stepped out of line was I reigned in and given a stern talking to.

I would push all limits. I would take advantage of her generosity. I would give less and expect more. I would ignore her rules.

My mom used to tell me she wished me a daughter. She wanted me to know what it was like; I don’t blame her.

Our relationship was pretty strained until I moved out at eighteen and went away to college. I think it was a blessing for both of us – and saved our relationship. As I’ve grown, had children of my own, I’ve come to realize the sacrifices she’s made for my brother and I. In retrospect I can see just how lenient she really was about many things – disobedience not being one of them. Like any parent, she did her best to raise polite, respectful children who knew right from wrong. And just like any child, I did my best to push her buttons and defy boundaries.

I see it in my children already. At almost five and two, they push, they defy, and they test.

Even though they’re boys, I think I have seen a glimpse into my future.

My mom just may get her wish.

Either that, or Karma really is a cruel, cruel bitch.

:::

This post was inspired by the book If You Knew Suzy by Katherine Rosman, which was our From Left to Write Book Club read for July. From Left to Write is a book club which was once part of the Silicon Valley Moms Blog family.

I have received no compensation except for a free copy of the book which I will giveaway to one lucky commentator. My copy is in mint condition with the expection of a few folded pages.

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I turned 29 on the 16th.

I’m indifferent about it.

I’m no longer a teenager, I’m not a fun! and party animal! twenty-year-old club-goer, and I’m not yet 30.

I’m in limbo. I’m at the point where there is really nothing considerably interesting about my age. I haven’t reached the Top of The Hill and I’m not Over The Hill. I’m just here, mid-point (okay, maybe not mid, but it feels like it) of my adult life.

I think I’m having my Quarter Life Crisis.

I’ve begun second guessing some major choices in my life, mainly my career and where I’m going – or not going – with it. Lately I feel as though I am stuck. I’m not going up, down or even laterally. I dread sitting at my desk, day in and day out. There’s nothing stimulating about my work anymore and I feel it’s because I’ve been pigeon-holed into a position that I really have no desire for. I feel as though I have to settle for it because of my children. Yes, I said it; and I know that’s such a shitty – and cliché – thing to say, but sometimes that’s how I feel, particularly in my office where I am currently the only parent who is the primary caregiver. Don’t get me wrong, they are very understanding (to a point), but I feel – actually, I know – that the fact my kids are my number one concern has held me back from opportunities which would have played a significant part in advancing my career. I don’t regret having my kids, or when I had them; they are the most important people in my life, but I would be lying if I said they didn’t affect the course my career has taken. It’s reality – especially for a woman in the construction industry, still one of the most manliest trades.

My company provides decent health care benefits and some great perks, and I fear that if I were to leave I wouldn’t receive the same benefits or compensation elsewhere. That in of itself scares me out of taking a chance and either going back to school or just looking for something different. If I were in my early twenties and still childless, I think I would be less concerned about being out of work, but I can’t possibly leave my job without something else. Not because we can’t downsize our bills, sell a car or divert some of our spending, but because *I* would panic daily HOURLY, about the future and what could/would/may happen if we were to be down to a single income family.

I want to find something that makes me happy again. Getting back into exercising regularly had made me realize that I haven’t seen myself in years. I have been just a shell. A miserable, lazy, self-conscious and bored person.

I want more.

I need more.

• Rejection, Dejection.
• On a Benylin High
• And The World Keeps Spinning

I have this overwhelming need for acceptance. I think it stems from all those volatile childhood friendships. You know the ones: you’re the best of friends fat the beginning of the school day and then by afternoon recess you’re left standing alone wondering what – over the past 5 hours – could have happened to create these turn of events.

I had have a few of those.

I think we all have at one time or another.

I remember clearly in elementary school I was often the one that sat on the swing, alone, at recess wondering what happened and why suddenly those whom were my best friends mere hours ago weren’t letting me in on their game of Four Square.

Dude, I was the Queen of Four Square. I could kick your motherfucking ass.

And maybe if I hadn’t projected that attitude of superiority, I would have played longer…

I digress.

As the years go on, I’ve noticed this urge for acceptance rear its ugly head to the point I am debilitated by the fear of rejection.

I don’t readily approach people because I worry they’ll think I’m overzealous, nutty, or invading their personal space.

I haven’t asked for a raise since my current boss started (six years ago) for fear he’s going to tell me I’m not worth what I’m asking for.

If When I speak up I feel as though my ideas are dismissed before I’ve had the opportunity to present them.

During my Professional Development session last fall, I was told I am “rather intimidating”. Which I totally laughed at (in my head) because I am the most self-loathing, self-conscious, self-deprecating person I know, and to be told I was intimidating? Well, it was another shot to this already fucked up brain of mine. Intimidating? Maybe my fear of rejection is projecting this unapproachable, INTIMIDATING image. An image which is turning people away and MAKING ME WONDERING WHAT I’VE DONE CAUSING ME TO BE ALONE ON THE SWING SET, AGAIN!!?

Fuck me sideways. It’s a never-ending mindfuck.

And how did this suddenly become about work?

Now that I’ve been regularly working out and running, pushing myself beyond the limits of my comfort zone, I’ve been finding myself stepping out in different areas of my life. One, for instance: I’ve been putting off accreditation in my field of work because I was scared to fail. (Work again? Really?) Worried that I wasn’t good enough and so I put off filling out the questionnaires and asking colleagues to supply reference to my abilities. For four years. I’ve been encouraged repeatedly to do it, but never had the inner strength to think that maybe I could be accepted.

But today I did.

It felt great to actually begin the process. I’ve paid the application fee and now there’s no turning back.

I mean, really? What’s the worst that could happen? They reject me?

*GULP*

• Half.
• I’ve Hit a Wall, or a Quarter-Life Crisis
• No More Running on Empty

That epiphany I had a couple weeks ago has manifested into a downright obsession.

I think about it all the time.

I am obsessed with working out.

WHO AM I!?

I am that 202 pound tubby that’s waddling her fat ass down the road three times a week to the Couch to 5k program (just because I love you link).

I am that out of shape “obese” fatty that’s been busting her ass at the 30-day Shred (affiliate link) three times a week.

I am that lazy sloth who has forgone all the sordid snacks and desserts which riddle my home. I am eating breakfast, I am watching my calorie and fat intake and I am trying so hard to change these horrible habits I’ve developed over the last ten years.

Because in ten years I have managed to increase my weight by 30%. Thirty-percent people: that doesn’t even seem possible or logical, but it’s been done.

I’ve gone from a size 29 to a size 16. I’ve ruined myself and I trying desperately to get me back.

Over the past two weeks I’ve been alternating between the 30-day Shred and running the Couch to 5k program for 6 days a week. Which yes, is a lot considering I’ve gone from a sloth-like existence to a fanatic in less than 14 days. But I was feeling great, it was all going well…

Last Friday I was a little too ambitious with my run and went an additional kilometer (half a mile) running. This, apparently, is a no-no according to the Golden Rule of Running which stipulates a runner is not to increase their distance or speed by more than 10% in order to avoid injury.

I was tired and felt fine when I got home, but I decided to go Saturday again, and that’s when I got shin splints.

I’ve never, in all my years *cough* of sports have felt the pain of shin splints like I did on Saturday. The agony. The defeat. The PAIN!

I saw my chiropractor on Thursday and she recommended resting and relaxing to let them heal. Let the swelling subside, look into a gait analysis (see how my body moves when I walk or run) and orthodotics to prevent further damage. Also? No running for now.

Any normal person would have taken this Golden Ticket and cashed that bitch in for some chips and some precious television watching time.

But I am not normal.

Apparently.

Because for some reason, as I mentioned before – I have become obsessed. I can’t stop. I am loving it and I want to keep going.

And honestly? I’m scared.

I’m scared if I stop and rest I am going to lose this momentum and I am going to be right back there on the couch mindlessly eating myself into oblivion while cheering on the latest tragedy to enter Celebrity Rehab.

I’m scared it’s going to be another 30% weight increase before I get to this place again.

If I stop, I feel like I will risk everything.

:::

I am taking it a little easier. No impact shredding and no running. It’s frustrating and annoying, and I’m pissed at myself. I have an appointment for a gait analysis and to get custom orthotics next Thursday.

• Half.
• No More Running on Empty
• The Wind

I finished repainting the stripes. They look fabulous! Like, fabulously fabulous. I am so happy with the outcome. I will post some pictures when I have an opportunity to take some shots. SOON! I swear!

Last week I was practically on my death bed. Monday, my first day off in ages, I woke up with what felt like shards of glass piercing my esophagus. I thought it was due to heavy snoring since I was utterly exhausted after working a night shift.

I have snored my entire life. I can remember at the age of nine or ten my brother came into my room and elbowed me in the chest in an effort to get me shut up because he saw it on a commercial. Needless to say, it wasn’t very effective.

Also, I still have a requisition in my purse for a sleep study but I keep putting it off because IZ SKEERED.

My throat continued to burn and the pain swiftly moved from shards of glass to swallowing a butcher knife. So off I went to the walk-in clinic. Dude, those places are like, the Devil’s Playground. Go in with a sore throat, come out with SARS and H1N1 with a side of The Herp. Everyone’s coughing all over each other, the chairs, the floor. It’s like a bunch of zombies – minus the brain matter and ooze – not nearly as awesome. Clearly.

I sat in that disease infested, snot covered, germy place for 2 and a half hours only to find out I had Strep Throat.

Which I passed to my 19 month old.

How then got massive explosive diarrhea from his medication.

So, you can imagine what my week was like.

Awesome.

Awesome with a side of Awesomer, really.

But! Before I went to the walk-in clinic; while I was infectious, yes. But! I didn’t know I was infectious! I thought I just snore REALLY! REALLY! badly. I went to the organic-grocery-store-type place and bought a bunch of natural shit to make me better. Since quitting my antidepressants I decided to try some natural methods to offset and combat my depression: Vitamin-D, Vitamin-B6, Iron Supplements, and I’ve noticed a HUGE difference already. Most notably, my energy level has increased tenfold. I’ve always been low on iron; so low I am anemic when I’m pregnant. And, I’m not pregnant, and NO LONGER DRAGGING ASS LIKE I HAVEN’T SLEPT IN MONTHS.

Yes, I have to yell. This is HUGE, people.

I have energy! and motivation! again. It’s FUCKIN’ GLORIOUS!

Not only that, but today? Today was my first day of Couch to 5K. Which I’m doing with my fellow fatty (it’s okay, she let’s me call her that) Mom-O-Matic.

We’re twittering it all, which so far have been through a mass of fat-related hash tags. (My favourite so far? #escapefromtubbietown) So, if you’re curious to see how we do, we’ll be blogging and twitter, so follow us!

I ran, people. I. RAN.

It wasn’t nearly as painful as I thought it was going to be. It actually felt better to run than walk near the end.

But overall? I’m working on my happy and seeing a change.

Really? That’s what I was striving for, so YAY!

And…

Just because I am.

(Also, Eddie Vedder is a God.)

• Reformed by the Revolution #foodrevolution
• I didn’t get this fat overnight, right?
• I am Officially Kristen Chase’s Bitch

Work is crazy nuts right now. It’s great since only a few months ago we were on a work share program and now we’re hiring new people because work’s picked up so fast. I am a Project Coordinator for a small (under 20 people) company. I’ve been with the company since its inception, May, 2003, and though I have been with the company longer than anyone else, I feel as though I am the least important member of the team. Two maternity leaves have seemingly pushed me to the outer rings where some days I find myself feeling as though I am quickly moving closer to dismissal.

Upon my return from my latest maternity leave there were a number of new staff members and a completely re-invented policy and procedure program. I struggled with balancing my home and work life while learning about my company as though I were a new employee. It was a little demoralizing and hard at best.

For the first two months back to work, I struggled. I struggled so hard with having both my children in daycare and pretty much working solely to pay for that daycare. After eight and a half years of dedicated work, I went back with my first two weeks broken up into part time shifts because daycare had messed up placement for Carter to return to a full time slot. I then missed numerous days to stay home and care for them as illness was rampant through the centre.

After all those years of dedication, I was called into my boss’ office and put on notice that I better shape up or I was out. It all came down to roughly three and a half weeks of REALLY shitty quality of work – or complete lack of work, never mind all those previous years of traveling and overtime.  I felt as though I was given the short end of the stick because I wasn’t on my game as soon as I stepped foot in the office after a year’s leave. And as truly terrifying and sad it would be to find myself out of work, I was (am) shockingly comfortable with the thought. I absolutely love the industry that I’m in and the experiences I have, I just miss my babies so much. Being downsized or laid-off, seems like it would be a godsend some days.

Since The Talk, things have improved drastically and I feel, after almost a year back to work, I am somewhat back in the loop. But still, for some reason I find myself feeling more and more susceptible. I keep feeling like any wrong move I make will be reason enough to hand me notice and get me out the door. I just don’t have the confidence in my job that I once had.

Paranoid. There’s really no other way to explain what I’ve been feeling. I am completely and utterly paranoid.

Never in all my life can I recount a moment that I’ve felt this way. I’ve dealt with extreme self consciousness – like walking down the “Senior Hall” in high school trying to avoid eye contact and falling on my face as I passed through what felt like a million pairs of eyes watching and judging.

But paranoia? Doesn’t even compare. It’s debilitating and soul crushing. Questioning every move I make on a daily, hour, minutely basis is tiring. So tiring.

• Fixture
• Of babes
• Hierarchy of Suckage*

I crave to write. I think about it constantly.

I dream of a finished office space, white furniture with wall-to-wall white shelving filled with my books and my magazines. I dream of pristine walls with a slight hint of turquoise. I dream of a wide open window with lightweight sheers and a white orchid sitting on the sill. I see myself sitting at a glass top desk, lightly tapping out my mediocrity for all of the Internet.

In my head, that space will make it all better. That space will bring me back to the spot where I want to write again. In that space I will work, providing others with their lovely writing spaces while I will begin to remember what it was like when I would write something I was proud of. Something. Anything.

But that space won’t relieve my mental block. That space won’t be a reality for a long, long while – if ever. That space, this space, seems to have met it’s end. Or at least it feels that way.

It’s been months since I’ve been able to write something that others can connect with. The more I read, the more I realize that the need to be really good at what you do is ever more prevalent. As parent blogging changes and morphs rapidly into blogging for marketing and sponsorship, those whom used to write personally are converting and only the strong remain unwavering.

I am wavering. I have no desire to chase sponsorships no matter how much I’d love to be at the next *it* conference. Yet like others, I want to be noticed, adored and READ. (If you’re a blogger and say you don’t care about those things, you’re lying to us and worst of all – yourself. No one puts themselves out on a public stage just because.) But I have long since passed the stage of promoting this site. There is no more clicking around traffic building sites or adding my site to all the “communities”. I don’t work on improving my SEO (search engine optimization), nor do I care how you found my blog.

This blog is now dying. Actually, I believe it’s been dead for a while.

I am no longer – what I believe to have been – a member of the blogging community. There is very little community. It’s a shark tank full of people looking to make a quick buck and get stuff and if you happen to step on some toes to do it? So be it. There are some great people whom I’ve kept in contact with, but for the most part, my blog reader and twitter feed has transcended into white noise. There are fewer voices with a message; there are even less with ones I want to hear. That’s not to say that your writing is falling on deaf ears, rather that it’s just getting hard to discern the heartfelt writing. With FTC regulations, disclosure statements and disclaimers on satirical writing, it just seems so contrived and fake, even though the intention is quite the opposite.

Transparency is a fickle bitch.

As much as we’re transparent about what we’re writing and saying online, it’s behind the scenes where we are the most clouded,  contrary and unethical. Talking about people, their actions, their writing, their reviews, their “free gifts”, their sell-out attitudes. I see no disclaimers on the hateful statements spewed back and forth, no transparency in the relationships we are pretending to have.

I am no different.

I’ve sat back and watched for months as I fought my own internal battle of facing the truth. I’ve sat back and debated whether or not I owe you, readers and friends, a statement regarding things that have happened behind the scenes. You know, in the name of transparency. Am I being dishonest with you by not speaking out? Am I making myself appear guilty by allowing those who have spoken out – albeit inaccurately – on my behalf? Because every. single. fucking. time. I take to this keyboard, I stall. I am paralyzed by thoughts of people thinking that everything I write from here on out is a fucking lie because of something they’ve heard elsewhere. I think about the links and the emails flying back and forth saying, Did you see what she wrote now? I can’t believe she said that. What a fuckin’ liar. She is dead to me. After all this and she has the nerve.. Why does she even bother?

Dearest friends have said to let it go. My wonderful and loyal friends have said it nothing to worry about and that I acted out of good faith and love. My good friends, the people THAT KNOW ME are right.

But what about the others? The ones that I concern myself with when they really have shown they deserve little of my time. Why? Why do I give even an iota of shit for what they think?

Because I am human.

I am just like you: I want acceptance, I want love, I want people to care about me too. I want forgiveness, friendship and relationships. Because I am human.

Without transparency I feel I am stifling myself. I can write here over and over that I don’t care what you think and that it’s time to move on, but the truth is I do care, and I can’t move on – because EVERY. FUCKING. TIME. I open this computer I think about the people who have (may have) heard something and are taking it verbatim. I think about the fact that no one has even ASKED my side. People I thought were friends have taken what they’ve heard as gospel and haven’t even given me a chance. It angers me, it hurts me and it’s not fair.

But it’s not only about me and my perceived conflicts. There are people who I KNOW have been talking shit about some people I care deeply for and then they are playing nice to their faces and telling them they have their backs when they definitely do not. I know they say they are friends and “would do anything for them”  and then have been calling them hurtful and hateful things behind their backs. You forget, my friends, the internet is very much like high school. Things are said and they DO get back to the people you’re talking about; even if you’re calling someone a “crazy bitch” in jest, it may not be perceived that way in some conversations.

I think we owe it to ourselves – as compassionate, responsible and caring adults to just cut the shit. If you don’t like someone or something they’ve said, so be it. Deal with it. Move on. But the name calling? The hurtful and evil comments about people you *think* you know are really getting us nowhere. Because at the end of the day, has it made your life *that* much better by saying such evil things about someone else? No. Does letting someone know “for their benefit” that a friend of theirs has wronged someone else? No. Because no matter what you say, they will continue to make their own decisions in life and your hurtful words of “concern” and “support” are only going to make you look like that fickle bitch, Transparency.

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