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Surviving the Holidays
Part
V: The Seven Stages of the Holidays We're almost there. Home free. The end of the holiday season is in sight. Well, I should say the peak is in sight. I've been running around so much this holiday season that I almost forgot that it was in fact upon us. It is easy to get caught up in the whirlwind of it all without noticing what you're doing. And particularly, without grasping the true meaning of what it's all about. So I was thinking about the whole holiday thing and how stressful it really is. Generally speaking, it's one big drag. We go through stages of dealing with all the holiday stress. And I realized that these stages are very similar to the stages of grief. Check this out.
You know what I'm talking about. I'd say most of us are hitting stages 3-5 right about now. But I think I may be turning the corner to Hopelessness. So what do we do? How do the experts get people through the Grief stages? Or are they there simply to remind us of how miserable we are without really serving to comfort? Hell, I need some comfort right now dammit! This is what I propose. Make this list work for you instead of against you. Here's a new look at it.
Okay, I jest. However, the point I'm trying to make is that amidst the craziness, and the have-tos and gift-lists, remember to take some time to find your own truth. You know what I want for Christmas this year? I want to be able to make a choice for how I'm going to spend Christmas, and have that choice be okay with everyone. That's all I want. And it's the one thing I'm never able to get. Who cares about the gifts and the eggnog and pies. I mean, really. It's not about that. At least it shouldn't be. Everyone should be able to find their own meaning of the holiday spirit. We shouldn't be bound by rules and obligations. I'm not a particularly religious person. I'd like to think I'm occasionally spiritual. But I will say this. At Christmastime I do think about the meaning of the birth of Christ. Not so far as the biblical tale. More so in the sense of enlightenment. And the great sense of hope. Because hope is something we all need to feel after this year. When I was a little girl growing up in Belmont, I produced a tradition. Every Christmas I'd find a moment where I could be alone to sit in front of the Christmas tree. It started when I was very young. I'm not sure what inspired me but I was drawn to the idea of reflection. So there I was, flannel pj's, a stuffed animal or two and my tree. I'd sit for an hour or so and think about things. Damn, now that I think about it, I was pretty evolved, intellectually speaking, for a little kid. I don't know what the hell happened. This time spent with my Christmas tree has become a sacred tradition for me. I've kept it alive all these years. And it really does help me get back in touch with the magical spirit of the season. It gives me time to remember what meaning my life has to me. And I concoct lots of new dreams to fantasize about. This year, find your moment alone. And find your spirit. When you find yourself unable to muster up the strength to do what you really want to do, remember, there are no have-tos, in the big scheme of it all. What really matters, is our own truth. So go find yours. Peace to you all.
Part IV: Tapping
Into the Power Within back to top of series Part III: The
Simple Guide to Preventing Christmas Havoc My feet are throbbing and my hairstyle suggests that I have just walked out
of a tornado. My right hand feels numb from all of the Cards that I wrote out
over the weekend. My cats have knocked over our Christmas tree twice this week.
I cannot even count the number of ornaments that they mistook for cat toys. I
nearly electrocuted myself trying to hang up the lights outside and my calendar
is full of events that overlap with each other. I am desperately trying to wait
until I get onto my couch before I slip into that three-day coma that I so
desperately need. Oh, the holidays! The most frightening part of all of
this is that Christmas isn’t for another three weeks! I have made my mind up that this year I am going to do something different. I am going to just laugh. When things start to get nuts, I am going to step back and just laugh. By laughing at the insanity that has become the two month long holiday season, I might be able to actually enjoy the holidays. For example, every single night I come home to some kitten-created disaster. Either she has pulled down one of the stockings, ripped the lights off the tree or eaten the tree skirt. After a week of getting angry, I realized that I had to stop getting so worked up or I was going to have to deal with the humane society knocking at my door. I stepped back and took a deep breath. She is a kitten, she does not know any better. So, instead of getting angry I started laughing when my boyfriend calls the kitten “The Grinch” because he claims that she is trying to steal Christmas. I went and bought extra (really cheap) ornaments to replace the ornaments that I know she will break in the days to come. I will not take this seriously; all I can do is laugh. I’m not going to worry about the fact that Dad will not like anything that I get for him that isn’t on “his list”. Ugh...the dreaded list. Let me explain about “The List”. Every year after Thanksgiving dinner my father’s family exchanges Christmas lists. They are each several pages long and painfully detailed right down to the aisle in the store where the particular item can be found. For the last few years I have rebelled against this family tradition and tried to get my father something special. A wonderful surprise that wasn’t on his “list”. Well, I have also spent the last few Christmas morning’s watching my father trying to hide his disappointment and pretend to like the gift that I spent weeks searching for. This year I give up. I am just going to laugh about it and accept it. Why make it such a production when it is just not worth the stress. Dad & I will both be much happier if I stick to the list. There, stressor number one taken care of. See how easy that was? The other thing that I refuse to do this year is reflect. Nope, not gonna do it. I am not going to think back to how I spent the past year and wish I could change certain things. I will not think about friendships lost or opportunities that have disappeared. This year none of that really matters. While who and what was in my past has made me who I am today, it is those that are currently in my life that I am grateful for. I can’t do anything to change the past and I am just going to stop trying. Instead of continually trying to make amends with my old college roommate, I am just going to accept that that friendship is over. While it served it’s purpose at the time, we’ve grown and it was in a different directions. So be it. I am even going to do the unthinkable…not send her a Christmas card. Actually there are quite a few people that I am not sending Christmas cards to this year. Why write, “I hope that all is well and let’s get together soon.”? As horrible as it is, I don’t really care anymore how certain people are doing, nor would I like to get together soon. I write this every year out of guilt, nothing more. I am sure that they are just as happy to receive the card as I am to write it, so why continue the nonsense? But, I digress… Laughter, remembering the true meaning of the holiday season and being honest to ourselves is more important this year than ever. With all that is going on in the world, we all need to let go of the things that aren’t important and truly value the things that are. The gifts, the cards, the decorations…none of it really matters. What matters are the wonderful people that I do have in my life, not the things that I don’t. What I need to think about isn’t the past. I need to think about my “right now”. The superficial stuff just doesn’t seem important in the least. Last Wednesday night I left work at around ten. I was speeding to my mother’s house to pick up my irritated boyfriend who was locked out of my house. I was thinking about all of the gifts that I still need to get and how the lights in front of my house are lopsided. When I got to my mother’s house I dragged myself up to the front door full of resentments and “have to’s”. I walked in, dropped my bag on the floor, gave my boyfriend an unnecessary dirty look and said, “Let’s go.” Just then I heard a voice from upstairs say “Kiki?” I crept up the stairs to find my four year old cousin, Sean, standing at the doorway in his plaid PJ’s. He ran over to me and gave me the biggest hug that you could imagine. This sweet, innocent little boy didn’t care whether or not I had checked off all of the things on my to-do list for the day. He didn’t care about my broken ornaments. He was just happy to see me and give me a hug. I took him back into the bedroom and when I tucked him into bed, he gave me a kiss and said, “I love you, Kiki.” At that moment I was reminded about what is truly important during the holiday season. Family, love and true happiness. It’s amazing how the unconditional love of a child can really put things into perspective. So this season, I'm putting everything into perspective. All that have-to's
down in mustville, will just have to wahoo doray without me. back to top of series Part II: Dear...... Letters Home The left-over turkey has been eaten and the holiday season has officially begun! There are many events that occur, both public and personal, to mark the start of the holiday season. In my family it is the infamous "Gravy Debate" among my aunts and my mother. The fighting begins about a week prior to Thanksgiving and continues on for several days after. As soon as I hear "What is she talking about??? What's wrong with putting a splash of red wine in the gravy?" I know that the holidays and "family fun" are just around the corner. For many of us, spending the holidays with (or without) our families equals massive stress. It is for this reason that this week we are doing something a bit different on The Corner. The following are letters from members of our on-line group to members of their families. We all got a chance to finally say some of those things that may have held us back for so long. The purpose of this exercise was not to bash our families, it was to get out anything that needed to be said, yet hadn't. Good or Bad. For me, this was an extremely freeing task where I was able to put things into a different perspective and then move on. Everyone got a little something different out of the experience. Try writing your own. Share it with us if you'd like, or just do it for yourself. Either way, the feeling of relief and closure that you get is pretty unbelievable. Send your letters to kristen@paysonroad.com and we'll gladly post them. Hope everyone had a wonderful Thanksgiving! Kristen Herbert
Dear Mom, I look at you with nothing but the
greatest admiration. I know that for a long time things were hard for you, but
not once did you ever put anything before me and my sister. You gave so much of
yourself and were able to everything with grace, no matter how rough things were
at the time. It was your struggles and the way that you handled yourself in
those rough times that I remember. It was your actions at the most difficult of
times that I try to live up to. I hope that one day I can become half of the
woman that you are. You really are my role-model, as you are to so many in your
life. First of all, I want to say thank you for all you have done for me. I have had the luxury of growing up provided for, especially with school and the car. I appreciate those things more than I can tell you. I want you to know that I know you did the best you knew how to do when you parented me. I know you didn't have a good father to model from, and I admire you for choosing to be so different from him in a lot of ways. You are a hard worker, a responsible man, and I have seen you become a faithful man over the years. That's why nothing I'm going to say is meant to underestimate who you are and who you have worked so hard to become. I have a lot of hurt and baggage from some of the things you didn't give me. I have been desperate for unconditional love and acceptance. I have always felt the pressure from you to be a certain way, to act a certain way, that I didn't want to be, that wasn't ME. I am so pissed at you for making me audition for music. I hated every damn lesson, and I hate it how you always like you did me a phucking favor by forcing me to do that. I hate how you treat Mom. I hate you demeaned her for so long, I hate that you don't love her so I phucking don't know what love is between two people without conforming because that's what Mom has done. Do you have any idea? I just want you to apologize for not seeing me and for ignoring all of my desperate attempts to get your damn attention. I am so phucking mad at you for stealing my childhood--fear, control, was not for ME and you never noticed me. It's not all about you. I exist too. You don't even know who I am, and you don't even care who I am beyond what I phucking think. I am more than a damn brain that stores away info and gets good grades. I have more in my life than phucking ideas. I have wounds, and I have good memories, and I have great friends, I have interests, favorite things, and I have a faith that I have misunderstood for so long because I thought that God was just like you. God you have hurt me so much and I am so phucking mad and I'm fighting so hard to get better, to move past all the hurt that is you. Oh I am so phucking mad at you. Listen to me. Give me a phucking chance to breathe. You have missed who I am completely. You have not seen the good part of me--you always seemed to find the bad, the sin, the disappointing. I am reclaiming everything that you have stolen from me TODAY. I am ME. I am disarming your damn voice in my head right now. I don't forgive you yet, but maybe one day I will. You are human, not perfect, and I must take some of the responsibility for expecting you to be perfect. I am burying that idea of you TODAY. I do love you, Daddy. Dear Mom, Dear Gram, Dear Mom, I have so many things left unsaid. Thoughts and memories that eat away at my soul, that stay stuffed down so far, because I can't seem to find my voice when I am with you. Whenever I want to tell you something, I stop myself, knowing the outcome will only be my guilt. Where oh where do I start? When I was born? Or for the 25 years that have followed. I don't mean to sound so harsh, but there are so many more times you have let me down, than been there for me. I sometimes wonder if the fact that I was taken from you as a child has left us without a bond that would have otherwise been there. I resent that. From the very beginning you weren't there for me. And somewhere inside, I think I have always known that. There are huge parts of my life that are blank, and what I do remember leaves me feeling alone. Without a parent. And as if that weren't enough, you don't know who my dad is. Did it never occur to you that might be information I would want. I was just a little girl when you told me that my dad was either George, or some guy from Tahoe, whose name was Joe originally, and as the years progressed, you said you didn't really know his name. How insignificant that made me feel. I think back through the years, and all the times I felt like I was in the way, and I don't want to just rehash year after year. I know you love me mom. What I don't understand is how to get past the fact that you don't know how to show me. That is something I will have to do, and I guess my reason for writing this is to start that process. Through it all, I think what hurt the most were the years with Grandpa. He was so mean to me, and you never did anything about it. Instead you told me to just agree with him, even if I knew I wasn't wrong, because then he would be nice. You told me that I could just know I was right inside, I didn't have to express that to him. That was probably the worst lesson you ever tried to teach me. Thankfully, I didn't learn it well. Yes, that made my life a bit more difficult during those awful years with him, but I am still grateful that I didn't listen to you. Gosh, just in writing this, so many memories come out for me. I remember calling you at five in the morning, to let you know that I was with Rod, so that you wouldn't worry. How foolish I was to think you even noticed, much less cared. I remember walking back to the table, so embarrassed to tell them that you just got mad at me for waking you up, and that you told me next time not to call. Do you remember the day that I came home early from work, and asked you to go to Salmon Falls Bridge with me for a picnic? I do. I left work, went by the store, bought us sandwiches, and Crystal Geyser water(the sparkling kind I knew you liked) and came home, excited by the thought of spending some time with you, doing something special. I wanted the mother-daughter relationship many of my friends had with their moms. I also remember you telling me that you didn't feel like it. Some other time. Grandpa was in one of his moods, and he wouldn't like it if you left. I felt so deflated. I remember your attempts to stick up for me with Grandpa, only after several glasses of wine, and perhaps a brandy or two. You and he would scream at each other, but in the end, nothing ever changed, and I was still tormented by him. "You are fat, ugly, worthless. You don't care about anyone but yourself. You are a pig and lazy and good for nothing..." You might not have said those words to me, but he sure did, and your lack of support just reinforced his words. THAT DAMNED HOUSE! It was so important to you. And he dangled it on the end of his branch, enticing you with the thought that you may one day own it. What were you thinking? Did you really ever think you would own it?! It was his power, his control. More importantly, why was I less important than that damned house!! That is a fact. Its not my perception of it. When John came back into your life, when I was sixteen, Grandpa had a new candidate to be mean to. When John was fed up with it, what happened? We moved. Lesson learned. John was important to you. I was not. Mom, I didn't(and still don't) begrudge you your happiness. I wanted you to have someone to be with you. But damn it, he was mean to me, just like Grandpa. The difference with that was that I didn't take it from him. I found my voice, and used it to tell him to go to hell! You all but disappeared from my life, once I moved out. Only when I made the effort did we even speak. Ok, that may be my own perception here, I am sure that you called, but I am not far off. Mom, I don't remember my Halloween costumes from when I was young. I don't remember us ever going trick-or-treating together. Did we? I don't remember birthday parties beyond when I was six years old, and went to Chuck E. Cheese, and even that is just a foggy memory. Did I have them? Did you ever decorate our house, or make me a birthday cake, and sing to me? Please tell me if you did, because I sure don't remember. I remember being nine years old, and living in the ghetto. I remember that girl you met, Leslie Carlson. Boy was she a piece of work. I remember the endless nights of dart games and drunken people milling around. I remember her coming into my room, and crawling into the bed, smelling so bad like alcohol, I could barely breathe. She said she just needed to sleep, and that you told her she could come sleep in my room. Lying next to her, in that double bed with the oak headboard, I stayed so still, praying she would just quit talking. She went on and on about what a great kid I was, and how sad she was because she was fat, and no one loved her. Boy, I had almost forgotten about that night. Whatever happened to her? Whatever happened to my bed? You left Cassi to raise me. She was the closest thing to a parent I ever had, yet I fear that raising me left her drained. I can't fight her demons for her though, and that leaves me feeling guilty. When I was a teenager, it was Cassi that kept me sane. I had so much resentment toward you, and it was she who told me that I would have to let it go. You had done your best. I often wondered if it would really make a difference in my life, if you were to die. That wasn't from a lack of love. Of course I loved you. I still do. But I wondered if my daily life would be effected, because you were such a miniscule part of it. Well, I had the chance to find out, when you went into the hospital two years ago. I fought my hardest, to get you the help you needed to survive. You don't remember the endless hours spent fighting with your doctor, looking for other treatment options, all the while the clock was ticking. You were rapidly losing the feeling in your body, and no one was doing a damn thing. Cassi all but left me alone to fight the fight. And I did. I did the best I could, but you are still paralyzed. I couldn't save you. I wasn't good enough. That night of the surgery, the doctor came out and told us that he didn't have a lot of hope for you. I knew then that it would matter to me if you died. The 3 months you spent in the rehabilitation center, was the only time in my life that I felt so close to you. I also felt such a great amount of stress, making sure that you were well taken care of, and worrying about what was to come. But those days in your room, watching Lifetime movies, making your hair, putting makeup on you, just talking, are days I cherish. Its sad to think that nothing short of you being stuck in bed, unable to move, would give me the feeling that you cared. That was probably the clearest your brain has ever been. You weren't drinking or smoking. You were taking care of yourself. We were closer than ever. Still that wasn't enough. I wasn't enough. I had reservations about having Aunt Laurie come live with you. But I knew you wanted to go home, to the house you finally owned on your own. It was yours, and you weren't about to give up that freedom. I admired that, even if I thought it a bit naive. So I contacted the town, and went through all that work to get your house remodeled, only to hear how slow they were, or how they weren't doing things up to your standard. For goodness sakes, they were doing it for free. That house was a shack, with the sagging roof, ready to cave in at even the thought of another winter. It was all fixed, for free. Yet still when my decision was questioned by the almighty Grandpa, did you stick up for me? Did you tell him where to go? No you didn't, and the only place you told him to go was to the store, to buy you some cigarettes! You couldn't even be honest with me. Lying about your smoking. Never mind that I fought to save your life, and given the placement of your spinal cord injuries, you are much more susceptible to death with every puff you take. You lied to me about it! Where you so insecure about my love, so determined to please, that you would lie to me? How ironic would that be. When I told you of my ED, I felt so guilty. There you were, beside yourself with worry. You begged me to stop and I hung up the phone feeling like the worst daughter in the world. You said you wanted to know how I was doing and made me promise to get better. That was a year ago, and you have raised the topic exactly 2 times, just to make sure I am 'all better'. God, the value of being 'all better' in our household, is of more worth than Bill Gates. Once again, you choose to just take the path of least resistance. Live in denial. Pretend everything is ok. I CAN'T DO THAT! Just looking at this letter, I realize I could go on for pages and pages. It would all be the same thing. I remember the time you let me down. I remember the time I felt unloved. I don't feel worthy. I don't believe I can do anything I ever wanted. I wish you would have taught me to believe in myself. I wish you had learned to believe in yourself. I wish you would have taught me how to love. I wish you had loved yourself. I longed for the feeling of complete and utter trust that you would catch my fall. I still do. I wish you had taught me what a good man looked like, acted like. I wish you would have known that for yourself. Maybe you would have been a better teacher. I know you loved me. I know that you did the best you could. You fell short, very short, and I don't know how to get past that. How do I find my voice? Sure, I have said things to you. In the end, I feel guilty about it. You are always so quick with the tears, and the cries of the awful mother you know you are. You would never tell me that I am the awful one, yet I still walk away feeling that way. Is it wrong of me to speak my mind to you, knowing there is nothing you can do to change past events? What do you think of, when you lie in bed, unable to move, having watched the Lifetime Movie of the Week, for the tenth time? Do you conveniently forget the pain of my youth? Or are you too busy trying to forget the pain of your own? I know from my own experience with Grandpa, that your childhood could not have been the Leave it to Beaver fantasy I once thought it was. Does that mean I am destined to be phucked up, in the same ways you are? Will I ever learn the lessons you should have taught me as a child, and if not, how will I ever teach them to my own children? Please be the mother I have always wanted you to be, and guide me. Where do I go from here? Peace and Love Leslie Dear Family,(mom,dad,josh)
Dear Daddy,
Dear Mum, Remember when I moved to New York after college
with Jonathan? And I was looking for a job for so long. I was doing
PA work when I could get it on films. I was broke. I desperately
needed a full time regular gig. Finally, after months, I got an offer to
work for Elektra Video. It was an assistant position to the VP of
Production. I would have worked on the music videos. And it paid,
not great, but decent. I could live on it. Part I: Home
Bittersweet Home It's that time again, the holidays. The time that all of us bearing the tattooed Scarlet Eating Disorder Letter on our chest come to fear the most. Thanksgiving is bittersweet for me. For it marks the date of my recovery from my eating disorder. But on the other hand, it also marks the date of the start of it. Yes, I guess you could say I came full circle. So every year I'm faced with this conundrum - do I celebrate victory or do I mourn the past? Well, seemingly it's a no brainer. Of course I celebrate victory! But it is hard to completely forget where it all began. And recently I took a long trip down memory lane that brought me even closer to the beginning. Last week I went home. No, not home for
the holidays, although it resembled the experience - sparring matches with the
dysfunctional family, getting the inevitable holiday cold, having too much to
drink with my friends, eating continuously, getting in a car and driving
everywhere, oh and yes, changing a tire in the freezing cold, in the middle of
nowhere, Shirley, Mass to be specific. Yeah, it felt like the
holidays. Although I didn't go to a football game. I can think of
one friend who would chalk it up to - my crowning glory as a drama queen
rather than "seeming like the holidays". Nevertheless, it
evoked my weak spot for sentiment as I drifted into nostalgia. Jimmy and I reconnected over the past few years and on this trip we went on a pilgrimage down the (sadly) longer path to, this is your life. Starting with Aram's Diner in Cushing Sq. where we used to hang out sometimes after Jimmy finished his shift at Ben Franklin's 5 and Dime next door. He swears he doesn't remember working there. How could you forget working somewhere? Even the clerk remembered him. Ah, Jim, but you did work there. Just about the time I worked at the Brigham's across the street. That didn't last long. I think after I dropped a hotdog on the floor, put it back in the bun and served it to a customer, it was all over. Mr. Hotdog Eater, whoever you are, I am so sorry I made you eat that hotdog I dropped on the floor of Brigham's. It was my first day and I was afraid I'd get fired for dropping it. I guess at the time I didn't realize that serving a customer food from the floor was a worse offense. I know the floor was pretty clean cause I recently mopped it. But I'm still sorry. I hope you didn't get some incurable disease or intestinal problem, or worse. Okay, conscience clean. Jimmy and I cruised around Cushing Sq. which was
the square closest to where we both lived. It looks like a 50s town,
untouched by modern society. Many of the stores have remained the same for
decades. In fact, when I was 14 I remember a movie
company came to town to shoot a film in Cushing Sq. because it took place in the
50s and they needed something that looked authentic. This visit brought up so many vivid memories like this. Good memories. And Lord knows there were bad ones back then. But they weren't revealing themselves. We continued by stopping by our old high school, Belmont High. Oh my God, I can't believe we went back! But we did. We visited the auditorium where we had both participated in so many things, plays, musicals, chorus, band. It was a sweet moment for both of us. Strolling around the hallways we found the school had remained safely the same. Except for a few newly drawn murals and some up-to-date posters, it was fairly untouched. We were told even our principle, Foster Wright was still there. But we didn't go visit. We'd had enough visits to his office whilst in school. And I always thought he was kind of an ass. There were only one or two familiar teachers still holding out in the 16 years since we graduated. Just when we thought it was bad enough to discover that our former high school teachers had retired, (and were old!) the new teachers were younger than us. And not just a couple years younger, we babysat these kids. Now that's a slap in the face/ass cold water down your back. Yikes! Jimmy and I finished our homage to our youth by flipping through old yearbooks. As if the teacher thing hadn't depressed us enough. Although both of us were happy to report that we're now neither fat nor bald, just slightly less intelligent and shorter. After Jimmy left, I continued on my own. I went to my old neighborhood and walked around. I trudged up the Rez overlooking my old house. It was cold. A night like I remembered when I was a kid. Still and frigid. I could see my breath and didn't hear a sound. Rare that a car would pass through the silence. Looking down at my old house, I cried. I don't know why but it just brought out so many things. And yes, this house is on Payson Road. It's where it all began for me. Everything. I spent my entire youth in this house. My eating disorder was conceived there. I lost my virginity there. Fell in love for the first time in my driveway. Learned how to ride my purple banana seat bike. Buried my cat in the backyard. Lost my innocence when my father moved out. Wrote my first story. So much history. All of it. There was a lot pain growing up in that house but oh so much happiness too. And the culmination of all those memories just broke me down. I wept endlessly. And it was such a release. Cause I'm not a crier. I think part of me wanted to go back and see if I could fix some of the problems. I literally mourned the loss of my childhood. Wishing I could have another day of making out in my driveway and thinking that was all that mattered in life. I wished that I could go back and hold that little girl in my arms and tell her everything would be okay. And that she should never stop believing in her dreams. To steal a phrase from someone with far more insight than I, (Jenn Campbell), there is such a healing process that needs to happen with an eating disorder in regards to ones childhood and the loss that is there.....If anything, I think a part of recovery is learning that the "Big" Sarah has the strength to meet the needs of that little Sarah within. Well said Jenn. We take so many things for granted. After September 11, I think a lot of people had this realization. I took that town for granted and all the special things I had growing up. Because these memories are what great stories are made of. What I discovered about myself on this trip is that, deep down, I really miss the simplicity of growing up and the simplicity of my hometown. As a kid I had such big dreams, still do. And as I got older I couldn't wait to get out of Belmont, and Massachusetts for that matter. I wanted to go somewhere where greatness happened. But what I realize now, is that greatness happens there. It happens within the people you surround yourself with. And I was blessed, am blessed, to be surrounded by so many wonderful people. Going home for the holidays is tough. Who can say that growing up was perfect? And most people do deal with what I like to regard as the satiric family experience. So when we think about home, and facing the holiday drama it brings up a lot of anxiety. I was so nervous about going home, and I didn't even go for the holidays. But I felt all the tension that comes with. The fact that I hate to fly didn't help. But I gained something from this trip that I think I've overlooked before. Home is not heaven or hell. It's not an idyllic place that we build up as the protector. And its not the scary den of confusion and melodrama we worry about. It's gotta be somewhere in between. And for me, and everyone who struggles with an eating disorder, it's the in between that we have a hard time finding. So I'm trying to find that place, in the middle. And remember the smaller things that really made me smile. Things that so often these days we take for granted. We forget about them in a sea of fear, and fury trying to keep moving faster and faster through life. My advice to all of you heading home for this holiday, slow down, and remember the things that you have forgotten to appreciate. It's easy to look at home as the big bad devil. But when we do that we forget all the great things. This trip made me remember them. And I'm grateful for that. Be safe, be healthy, be happy - and be home, wherever you are.
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of series Remembering When I have always had trouble throwing out
old clothes, especially if there is a fond memory attached. So, when I was
invited to an 80’s costume party, believe me, I was prepared. To get me in the
mood I put on Roxanne by the Police, and headed down to the basement to
retrieve my memory box. While rummaging through some old Teen Beat
magazines, featuring Rob Lowe on almost every cover, I came across my 'old'
clothes.
Thank you for bringing me back!
October 19, 2001 Memories from Halloween's Past: A Collection of Stories - intro by Sarah Mason I've been working on my Orange belt, from our new BFC program. The program is pretty cool, if I do say so myself. It's designed as a reward/incentive program but it's based on the concepts of the Chinese Martial Art of Kung Fu. So as you go along you get a belt to mark your journey up the road to recovery. I'm on my Orange Belt which is the second step. In order to get a belt you have to do something from a list you create of things that make you happy or that helps you on your way to fulfilling your dreams. The idea being to take the focus of the disease itself and onto the good things about our lives that do make us happy. So, I was sitting on my porch having breakfast, just relaxing and taking a moment for myself - this being one of my happiness list items. I decided to write in my journal about my favorite memories of Halloween. Halloween has always been something that excited me. Many of my favorite childhood memories involve Halloween. After I finished my list I had such a smile on my face. It remained there all day. And I realized that everyone could benefit from this. I know I'm not the only one out there with a profound memory of the trick or treat holiday. Following is a collection of people's most significant Halloween memories. If you have one you would like to share, send in on over and we'll post it. Email, halloween_memories@paysonroad.com
But it affected me very dramatically because I really hadn't been aware of there being anything wrong with my body until he deflated me so cruely. From then on I dove into the world of diet obsession - a topic for another article. I was not bulimic yet. In fact at this point I was still relatively on a healthy diet path. And I lost quite a bit of weight by the beginning of my 8th grade year. I hadn't really dated yet. I had sort of dated at camp and then there was Michael Amato who I used to hang out with after school in Denise Mavillia's basement. I think we kissed maybe once or twice. In fact, we did and it was at a Halloween party in my basement. I made a pumpkin piñata. But I'm getting off the path onto another story... Point being, I wasn't a swinging hottie that had all the boys lining up to walk me home. At least, I wasn't aware of that being a priority in life. All of a sudden I was aware of the fact that in order to be a guy magnet, I had to lose weight. And I never really experienced what it was like to have someone notice me for beauty. I spent the summer between 7th and 8th grade shedding the pounds that John had so graciously pointed out to me. And by the start of 8th grade, I was looking a lot thinner, noticeably. My two best friends at the time, Jenny Howick and Andrea Fitzpatrick and I got together for Halloween. We thought we were so cool. We decided we would dress up as old movie legends. We raided my mother's basement where she kept boxes of her and her sister's old dresses from the 40s. Not sure who we were, I think Andrea was Greta Garbo and Jenny was Lauren Bacall. I was just, a 40s movie gal I guess. Cause I certainly didn't have the boobs for Marilyn. Nonetheless, there we were, all decked out and ready to go...somewhere. You know, I don't remember where we went. We were walking. My home town of Belmont, Massachusetts is only four square miles so it wasn't too tough to get around on foot. I think we walked up to the Middle School. There was something going on maybe it was a dance or party. Because I remember distinctly walking toward my house from the Middle School, which was just around the corner and up the street. I lived on Payson Road....ahhh now ya get it....and Payson Road was across from the Cambridge Reservoir which supplied all the water to Cambridge despite its geographical location in Belmont. It was totally cool to live there. It was this giant hill that in the winter we sled down. And it was always good for mock runaways as you could walk around it for an hour pouting till you got tired and cold and decided to get over it and go home. We walked past the rez talking about the usual 13 year old stuff...boys and probably at the time, Sean Cassidy. We were all pretty chilly - no coats only these silly little dresses. And we were made up as well. Looking back it frightens me. We looked like a troupe of former child beauty contestants still shootin for the crown. Jenny and Andrea were both very beautiful. Still are I'm sure. I never thought of myself as a pretty girl. Partially because, looks and beauty were not emphasized in my family and back East in general. Certainly not the way they are in LA. My parents never showered us with compliments. Even on my wedding day there were no good wishes of how beautiful I looked. So, I was pretty uncomfortable with the idea of being regarded as such and had never ever heard it before. So there were the three of us were, struttin our little stuff in these stupid high heels that we could barely walk in. When we saw this car parked along side the rez. There were three boys inside. And we could see even from a distance that they were not in our grade. They were much older, ooooooo, high school boys. None of us recognized them. But they looked damn cute. Cuter and cuter as we approached the car. We were nervous so none of us went out of our way to stray from the path. But I just had to have a look. So I turned my head and looked back at the front window and smiled. This incredibly cute boy stared out at it me in a way I had never experienced before. I thought I had done something wrong. He looked like he had visions of a ghost or something equally alarming. He jumped out of the car and started yelling at us. I recall him saying, "hey Blondie, what's your name! Don't go." I knew he was talking to me because I was the only blond. But I still was confused. We just kept walking. I turned back and said something like hi. I honestly don't remember exactly what I said. He yelled out, "How bout Gorgeous!" And I turned bright red. We kept walking. He eventually gave up and got back in the car. We reached my house and called it a night. I don't know why we didn't stop and talk to them. Maybe we were scared. Maybe we were trying to play it cool - doubtful that our thirteen year old intellect could maneuver that concept. But whatever the reason, we just walked on by. I never found out who that boy was. And I'm sure he never found out who I was. We wore the disguise well as it made us appear far older than we were so I'm sure he thought we were high school girls. I've never forgotten that moment and that night. And yes, the details are fuzzy but that moment when we passed by his car, I'll never forget it. I still remember his face in the window. And I've never regretted the outcome of the event. I think I enjoy the mystery of it all. Somehow if we had met, this memory would have changed. It wouldn't have been this sweet moment that I've cherished forever. It was truly a turning point in which I realized that maybe boys were attracted to me. This was a brand new discovery for me. I certainly did not get confirmation of any physical beauty from my family. And I'm still uncomfortable with my looks as someone who's struggled with body image issues for so many years. Even as I write this, the first thing that enters my mind is, be modest, are you sure you should tell this story it makes you sound like you think you're hot! You conceded b*tch! Chill Sarah Chill! I'm sharing this memory because I hold it so near and dear. It's really a coming of age story - A transition into a new stage of life. Not a loss of innocence because it was a happy affair. And it was really an indulging moment. Which is something I have always struggled with. The idea of being able to congratulate myself or feel good about something or delight in the idea of discovering something complimentary about myself. This moment was pure. It was pre-fear, pre-eating disorder angst. I was able to embrace it fully and hold onto it in my heart. Something that thereafter I was never fully able to do. I will always reflect upon this memory with a blissful smile. And remember that feeling of exuberance and excitement. Thank you, whoever you are, mystery boy. You gave me a memory that will always ignite my spirit. Here's some more shared memories. Please email me if you'd like to share yours, halloween_memories@paysonroad.com
In
this year of recovery, I have done so much soul searching. Whenever
I start an exercise that requires me
to think back to my childhood, I realize how little I remember of being a child.
I do have a lot of individual memories of my childhood, but at the same
time, there are so many things that have escaped me. This time was no
different. I remember exactly 3 costumes
from when I was a child. At 3 years
old, I was R2D2. When I was 4, I was a gypsy.
And then I don't
remember anything until I was 9, and I was a bumble bee. It makes me a bit frustrated that I don't remember
the night though and what we did. One
Halloween comes to mind, from when I was a bit older.
It was the Halloween of my 16th year.
my best friend was a French maid (complete with her size 2 figure) My
size 7 figure just wanted to disappear. I
chose a skeleton
costume. I liked that it was all black,
I thought it would make me look skinnier.
I think back
to that time, and I feel sad for that 16 year old girl, who didn't have a sense
of self. My body
naturally doesn't get much smaller than a size 7.
But instead of loving it, I spent the next few years abusing
it. This was long before I began to purge, instead
abusing it through exercise and diets.
Back
to Halloween. I remember stressing
so much, thinking
nothing would fit me, and I ended up choosing that costume, just wanting to hide
my body.
We went out trick or treating, and ended up at a friend's party. And everyone thought it looked so freaky,
but cool how I was able to hollow out my cheeks with the make-up.
I was by no means a skeleton,
but I remember one girl saying, "Dang, you look SO skinny". That made
my night. After
that year, I spent every year, finding the costume
that made me look the skinniest and hid all my flaws (perceived or real).
Mermaid one year, thief another
(all black, very slimming), cat (same thought) the next.
Taking the fun out of dressing up, each
year, just a little more. But
its not so silly. I am happy where
I am at, and being
Me, sounds like a great treat to myself for this Halloween.
I had to call my mom to see if she could provide me with Halloween memories of past. She said that Halloween was never that big of an event for us. She told me I always dressed up, but never made too big a deal about the day. She remembers dressing me as a gypsy when I was four, that I asked to be a gypsy, so I could wear all her long necklaces and scarves. I remember dressing as a cheerleader when I was 9 or 10, and my mom helped me make pom poms out of crepe paper. I'm pretty sure I went as a ghost one year, in a white sheet with holes for eyes (how original)! We also made candy apples each year, and used pillow cases to collect candy on our trick or treat journeys. We lived in the hills, so walking up and down the streets was hard, and we couldn't go too far down because the roads became too windy, with no safe sidewalks. My mom says she used to sort all her candy when |
