I am disagreeing with someone important here. He thinks that disappointment is part of life, and that a kiddo should get used to it. I think there is truth to that, but I also think it is a person’s responsibility to keep, not only to their promises, but their word. You don’t talk up a trip to Disney World, or a puppy or anything to a ten year old without following through. It’s wrong, it’s a lie. And it’s ugly. The kid learns disappointment, as if life itself is not a series of disappointments, and the child learns not to trust anyone. Trust is given freely by children, as babies they trust their mommies will come when they are called for. As toddlers they learn the floor doesn’t move. As they get older, they realize some people will not tell them the truth, and that, despite other’s best efforts, that plans fall through. Disappointment comes organically, why should that net be thrown by your parents?

I think that has to be all for today. I’m headed to Weight Watchers, and I have watched my weight faithfully this week. I didn’t track my food, I ate viciously (I think, like I said, I didn’t track it.) and exercised twice. I am getting tired of this whole dieting regime, even though I know it’s worth it. Did you know, after thirty two pounds I am still at size 14? I can still shop at Fat Lady stores while I am five pounds away from “goal”. I guess it doesn’t matter. I look fine in them, and I’m not wearing a sash that says, “#1 Non-Fat Woman of Lane Bryant”. My mother says that I may have worn at fourteen before, but it was way too tight. Whatever, mother.

I was in a skit at my church last Sunday.  Every character had a mental illness of some kind.  I had PTSD.  It was not all that funny and the only reason I agreed to do it was because, “if you can’t laugh at yourself, who can you laugh at?”  I question my choice.  About five people in the congregation know about my mental health status, and the rest might have guessed but don’t know for sure.  There has been a part of me, for the last two-three months that wants to get up there and tell everyone the “truth” about me.  As I type I realize the “truth” is that I’m a wife and mother, a terrible dancer and a write an unpopular blog.  Oh yeah, I have bipolar (and OCD and ADD), too.  And a whole lot of a time it’s not a big deal.  When it is…

I have been working on a good description of bipolar disorder.  In 100 words or less describe what it means to be bipolar, OCD and ADD.  The bipolar kittens are a great word-picture.  I was talking to my mom and told her it meant you have all the pain, torture and sadness of your mother dying, for absolutely no reason at all.  It means that at times you understand the secrets of the universe.  OCD means I used to have to touch someone’s pretty scarf.  It’s not like I want to, it’s a great big have to.  My life will end if I do not touch that piece of fabric.  I must touch it.  As soon as possible.  And ADD means that my mind wanders off if you are not interesting enough.

They are “working” definitions that is, I’ll keep working on them.

She wanted to have girl time later, so I got my coat and took her out to the berm (levy) near our house. She wanted to talk about sex, so we did. I’m good at talking so people will talk more, so I didn’t reveal too much about our conjugal bed, only to insure her that, yes, things have changed, and yes, I was still attracted to her brother. Her brother is disgusted at the idea of my brother and I having conversations like that (which we don’t.)

More importantly than all of that was her sharing her thoughts on love and relationships. It interested me, yet I felt a little uneasy and since then I figured out why. Her idea is one of living in the moment. Does she believe that, that person is worth it and was worth the time you had together? If the answer is “yes” it doesn’t matter if he leaves you for another man or breaks up with you to move to Alaska and find his fortune. The idea is that you can wallow around in the other, good feeling moments without feeling bitter or angry.

My response was to think about it, and sort the truths from the baloney. This is what I came up with. When I enter a relationship, it is a commitment of some kind. Maybe the commitment is to speak to this man sitting next to me on a bus. Maybe it’s marriage, but they both require something. It’s up for the people involved to figure out what it is. I was reminded of this by T, my bff. Of course marriages require commitment – that’s the point, right? But what about friendships? Are they commitment driven?

Second grade started and Small came home with a new best friend. Her name was M and she is a beautiful, not too bright, little girl. She had been held back a year and she and her equally as intellectually equip brother were in the same class. I did not like this friendship because I didn’t think it was a good match. Also, we had invited them to two consecutive birthday parties where they did not come. It wasn’t that I was offended, really, who cares at a pool party? But I knew something would happen that would cause Small to get hurt. I didn’t say anything about it, who knows, maybe I should have. Small went to justice and bought BFF bracelets. I told her if they break up as BFFs that M gets to keep the bracelet. She agreed that was appropriate.

It was less than a week when I had a sobbing little daughter, crying so loudly and fiercely that she was gulping for air. M had picked another girl to be her partner in a school activity. It was over. M had promised she wouldn’t hurt Small and then she did. There was a commitment on Small’s side to be Best Friends Forever. It wasn’t a necklace for her, it was a way of life. She’s moved on to other BFFs and I like the girls (and boy) she is hanging out with now. They are smart and social and cute.

But what about T. Now, I know you are reading this, Mrs T, but I’m going to write about it anyway. It may have been a misunderstanding on my part, but if it was, it’s an interesting misunderstanding. I was talking away with Mrs T and she was chatting back. We’re a noisy pair, the two of us. At one point she said, “I don’t know if I am able to do this.” I am pretty sure she meant that she wasn’t sure she was able to commit to our friendship. She said that friends in her life were compartmentalized – people she walks with, people she plays Parcheesi with, people she sees at church. I was running over onto many areas of her life. Was this going to work?

I think my sister-in-laws philosophy would be to decide the in the person herself was worthy, believe him to be so, and to love them. She was to love them without expectations and when he leaves, he is gone.

I can’t do that. I am too much like Small. I enter a relationship, I expect, no need something from the other person. It’s not a form of manipulation, although I can see how it might be perceived that way. It’s my reality. If love is gentle, patient, kind and keeps no record of wrongs, doesn’t boast then I have to look at a relationship through those eyes. I think that gentleness can be evident to tall without commitment to a person individually, but I do not think that patience can exist without a commitment. I will be patient – also known as “long-suffering” with you. I may not like what you do, or honestly, always like you, but I will be patient with you. You are you, unalterably you, and, even though I might be as zany as thought possible, I will not be reckless with your soul. That is my commitment to you. If I bind myself to you, and things go south, it will be sad and I will be angry. I think that, in most cases, that is okay. It is part of it, ya know? I don’t have the soul of a reed where water and wind blow through me unfettered.

Feeling strangely centered, considering I am pointing out my own non-meditative state. Good bye for now.

I think things are working with T just fine now, thank you very much. She is busy and happy and lost all her excess weight. I am not the same kind of busy, but I have a lot to do, and some times I even do it. I like my friend very much. We are like teenagers. Once overweight teenagers with husbands who work and don’t go to school. And text each other all the time. And drink Peet’s coffee.

Life is good.

I’ve sort of been photographing the things Small and I have been buying for the card company. She and I are working together to make and sell cards. She is the owner of the business, and I am an employee. It’s working well. At least I think it is. I am doing most of the work, but people are thinking it’s cute and buying them. We have an order for a dozen and an order for twenty – my friends entire family is getting a CCC card.

I haven’t been involved with anything of note other than that. I have seven more pounds to lose, up from six and it feels like it will take forever and ever. I eat too much and I eat the wrong thing. I exercise twice a week. All of these things are telling me I do not want to drop the pounds. Six lousy pounds.

My sister in law in here and things are going very well, at least on my side of the room. She is very cute with her new short hair cut and was very sweet. She played with my daughter and after she and hubo went up to be, we stayed and chatted into the night. Pleasant.

So pleasant I went ahead and ate twice as much Coconut Bliss as everyone else and a Coconut Cupcake with a ton of frosting, and a ton of frosting. Buttercream with real butter and a hint of blue food coloring to differentiate between that and the Earth Balance frosting. It was like my nervous energy was suppressed until she left, then it was free to reign. I’m sure I’ve gained. My tummy feels flabby – a word I have never used to describe myself before. I feel as if it’s all back. I can’t relax in to the comfort of being overweight any more, because I find I’ve preferred being “lean”. I don’t like the words “fat” or “skinny” because they are so critical and so charged. You don’t use “skinny” to talk about a girl you find beautiful. In my experience, “fat” is not so wonderful of a descriptor either. I like lean – it reminds me of a race horse. Strong, powerful, glossy hair and well cared for nails. I would like that to describe me. Once a UC Berkeley football player told me I had legs like a race horse and I really liked that. “Overweight” hurts. The world famous psychiatrist described me as, “overweight” in his description of me and it stung. I didn’t do anything about becoming a healthy weight, but I didn’t like it. Years later, I’m no longer, in T’s words, hiding behind “a mound of fat”. I have an ordinary body now. Well, that’s not entirely true. I have an especially designed body, and I have more say over how it works and looks now than I did then. I wasn’t eating to gain weight, I was eating because I was hungry, or because Small was hungry. Or I was nervous or sad. There are always reasons to eat. I’m paring down those options, and that is why I am slim. “Slim” is not my favorite word to describe a body, either. “Slim” reminds me of a “slim volume” or “Virginia Slims”. I’m still wearing Lane Bryant Clothes. This surprises me, but my mom says that I was wearing my clothes too tight. So it’s a size 8 pair of Calvin Jeans, and a size 14/16 sweater. I have lost two cup sizes, so I’m a tad confused on how that can be so. When I lost all that weight training and completing the tri-athlon I wore an eight on the bottom and a 12 on the top. Maybe it’s my shoulders.

I sent my husband to the store to shop for this weekend. My sister-in-law’s flight has been delayed – she is arriving here today instead of yesterday. She is vegan. We have all sorts of fresh food and whole grains. My husband eats like a vegan with meat. He will have all the vegetables in the world and most of the fruits. He adds a large chunk of fish, beef, lamb, chicken and any other animal. He dreams of foie gras. We went to a restaurant on the way up to a family reunion, he had an ostrich burger. It would have been good, he’s enjoyed it before, but it was in the freezer too long. He likes meats. He has a wheat allergy, so he stays away from flour tortillas and the vegan cupcakes I made yesterday. Without out offending my vegan friends, I say with good authority that Earth Balance is the most disgusting thing I have ever eaten. The frosting was repulsive, so I made some good, honest butter cream frosting for the rest of us to eat. The rest of us meaning me. I never should have made that frosting. I think I ate four cupcakes, and I had a few spoonfuls of the frosting. Just to get the taste of Earth Balance out of my mouth. I easily stomach the fruits and veggies, and even tofu, but cannot hang with things like “tofurkey” or cheese substitutes.

I weigh Wednesdays at Weight Watchers and I am hoping I eat moderately for the rest of the week. I would be okay if I stayed the same. I would like to lose a pound, and maybe I can if I do the vegan thing for the next few days I can pull that off. But I need protein to help keep my bipolar steady. I know there are many options for vegan protein. Mix beans and rice, eat tofu, isn’t tempeh vegan, too?

Working out double today. I am going to lift weights – squats, push press and rows, and yoga. Everyone that is important has commented how stressed I am, so I’m going for the “stress” tape. When I haven’t exercised for a while, I get really angry and punch the air. This is not a “maybe” thing. It’s like all my adrenals and stress hormones get released. I hope it results in a more relaxed, even keeled Malakoa. My sister-in-law is coming to see us from a long plane ride away, and after a long phone call with her earlier this week I burst in to tears. She doesn’t mean to be mean and would probably be sad if she knew I was crying because of our conversation. Hubo got home at exactly the right time, so I was comforted.

I talked about the “home team” on the Gentle Christian Mothers’ board, “a speaker once told me and dh that “you are the home team. When you have children, they are on the home team. Other than that, no one else is going to ever be on your home team.” Every situation, every conflict should be based on the idea that it is your family first. No one is welcome to infiltrate your team. When the girls up and marry, they will be on their own home teams.

This means that my home team is me, Small and my husband. Not you. No friends. Not our siblings or our parents. I am going to remember this and be loyal to my home team and try to be kind to everyone.

Who ever knew I was so fat?

I remember one day during this journey, waking up and having a waist. A waist?!?! How long had it been. A friend pointed out that I have hips, too. I dropped two bra cup sizes. I went from 36-DD to 36-C. I really don’t care all that much, though. They fit in this new body, and belong back in the old Malakoa, she who was, “Hiding under a Mountain of Fat” that T affectionately called me once (after I no longer was).

How did I conquer the mountain? What were the toughest parts?

Briefly, because I have a house to clean, I will tell you. Number one, pay attention to what you are eating. Do this by writing it down, in Weight Watchers they call it, “tracking.” You may discover, as I did, you are eating close to 4,000 calories a day. In WW lingo is would be about 50 points. I ate a whole lot of everything, all the time. There was no stopping me. I have proof now, that there could be something stopping me, and her name is Malakoa.

Number two, go to Weight Watchers. I am serious, I didn’t want to go and fought it for a long time. Weight Watchers is good because you have to pay – invest in yourself. It’s good because you realize that you actually were a bridge troll, but those days are (mostly) numbered. You only get to weigh in once a week, so maybe you’ll tighten up the last few days before your weigh in. I think that’s okay. It’s a good plan and it helped me be not enormous. I denied myself nearly nothing. If I wanted a chocolate cake slice, you would find, at least part of one, in my belly. I ate ice cream, sometimes a lot of it. I had pizza. I could go on and on. I only lost about 1/2 pound a week, and I could have lost it faster, but I wasn’t willing to carry around measuring cups. Some people do. That works for them, and I’m sure if I did it, it would help me lose weight, too.

I need to get to it. More later.

Things keep getting switched up and I do not like that. I like to consider the facts, emotions and potential problems and develop a plan. Then I like to follow that plan, perhaps taking a slight detour to look at clearance racks or to use the restroom. When I create books or cards I like to pull out all the things I might consider using and look at them together for a while. Then I like to make whatever it is I’m making. Sometimes I put the things away; sometimes I don’t. This sort of organization soothes me and makes me be a better artist. That is not happening these days. It is dizzying.

Remember T? My sixty-something-bff? She and said relative got on the phone and talked for two hours. From what I understand the first hour was lovely and the second was spent proselytizing. Relative felt judged, which is really how it seems relative feels most of the time. Relative is Buddhist. I don’t know what happened during the conversation, but it sounds like T was judged, too. Part of the practice of Christianity involves sharing ones life and faith, and to obey God is telling the stories of what He has done in ours lives and at the cross. It’s an important, perhaps even mandatory thing to do, if one believes in Jesus. There are different platforms in which to do it. Friends and family members might bear the brunt of their loved ones religion, but it is essential for a Christian’s faith to grow. For some Christians this comes naturally, for others the challenge is praying for opportunities to share. Is all friendship a ruse to talk about Jesus? Of course not. Life itself is a chance to show off God’s love.

I was asked a few questions about Jesus the other day and I want to answer them here.

Why is there only one Jesus to save the world? Why are there not a dozen. How does one man do it all?

When a child dies, often the first question asked is, “Was he an only child?” If so, extra helpings of grief are measured out. It means that the family’s only treasure has been taken from there and that makes the situation all the more tragic. The triangular family in all it’s exclusivity is gone. When Jesus’ died, for a moment, God lost His only child. Yes, He could have sent more people, it would not be too difficult to send a fleet of fully God, fully human folks, but it was necessary. The only child, born of His mother, was a singular joy to His father, and that is why, I believe, there was only one Jesus.

BUT… The Body of Christ, which is the church, is Jesus on earth. The Bible tells us that we complete the sufferings of Christ. We also share His love, some of us desperately and passionately. (I do not count myself among those people, as much as I wish I was sometimes.) The book of 1 Corinthians tells us, “Just as a body, though one, has many parts, but all its many parts form one body, so it is with Christ. For we were all baptized by one Spirit so as to form one body—whether Jews or Gentiles, slave or free—and we were all given the one Spirit to drink. Even so the body is not made up of one part but of many.” There are a ton of verses about sharing in the sufferings of Christ – here are a few: http://www.biblegateway.com/quicksearch/?quicksearch=sufferings+of+christ&qs_version=NIV . God is here, and He is in me. He is in us as a group of believers – Saint Augustine said, “Let us rejoice then and give thanks that we have become not only Christians, but Christ himself. Do you understand and grasp, brethren, God’s grace toward us? Marvel and rejoice: we have become Christ. For if he is the head, we are the members; he and we together are the whole man…. the fullness of Christ then is the head and the members. But what does ‘head and members’ mean? Christ and the Church.”

I am too tired to write any more tonight.

This week, we get to take care of “Lucky”, our neighbor’s dog. He loves it here. We let him in the house, we take him on walk after walk and run and play and cuddle him. They will be home Thursday, and that is very sad. He is a charming fellow, and after we deciding making him sleep in the garage, like his owners do, was not going to work, he became a mild to moderately quiet dog. He doesn’t bark when someone comes to the door. He doesn’t knock anyone down. Of course, he is a doxie mix, and that is generally not something a small/medium dog can do. I want a dog so badly and love Lucky so much, it is really hard to give him back. I remind his mom we’d take him at anytime. Of course they love him, too. How could they give away their baby?

Maybe we can get “Lucky”. It’s not a miracle, it’s just a nice thing that could happen. (I believe that, the fact I am not dead after my medication error is a miracle.) I’m pro-miracle, but anti calling everything nice that happens to you a miracle. I don’t do it. I don’t have super passionate feelings about it, but think it’s an inaccurate view of life. I read somewhere that there are two ways to view life, one is that everything is sacred and a miracle or everything is not. I don’t believe that too much. I do believe I have been miracles; I believe I have felt them. Some times it is in the form of a phone call just at the right time, but I don’t think every phone call is a miracle, brought down by God.

But who cares what I believe? I’m alive and perhaps I shouldn’t be. I have seldom done anything so risky.

I went to the psychiatrist today.  (A psychiatrist is a MD who prescribes medication.)  She was shocked and horrified by my Inderal overdose.  ”We would both be in trouble,” she said, and spent the rest of our appointment reeling.  This was serious stuff.  ”It just wasn’t your time,” she said.  I had done a very dangerous thing.  I have mostly stayed cool about this stuff, but, to be honest, hearing from the doctor herself that it might have been the real end is oddly thrilling.  It’s like setting things up for a suicide attempt, some thing I’ve only almost one once.  It’s titillating.  There is so much grief and pain that comes before an attempt.  I didn’t have those feelings about taking all those pills.  It’s only now, in retrospect, almost a week later, that I’m really allowing myself to have any feelings about it.  I regret to say it’s kind of exciting.  I wish it was just that I felt relieved.  I don’t, not yet.  Maybe when I get my mind wrapped around it I’ll have another experience.

My husband says that I didn’t die, or get very sick, so there is nothing to say or do about it.  I could make myself think about this, or even believe it, but I don’t have that kind of maturity.  Not yet.