To my mother,

You may not remember me, but we met on this day exactly 45 years ago when you gave birth to me. We didn’t have much time together. I was whisked away; first to Foster Care and then to my adoptive parents.

I have thought a lot about you over the course of my life. I’ve wondered what kind of life you had after putting me up for adoption. Were you able to pursue your dreams, your passions? Have you led a happy, fulfilled life? Do I look like you and do I get my talent for talking with my hands from you?

Most of all, I just want to say thank you. 

I know from the limited information I received from the adoption agency that you were 21 when I was born, a young woman in college with her whole life ahead of her. Given the fact that I was born in an era when abortion was still illegal, I know your options were very limited. And quite honestly, I don’t blame you one iota for making the decision you made. I don’t think for one second it was an easy decision to make. After all, how could anyone casually give away something that grew inside of them for 9 months? You didn’t have to give me up, I know that. But you did so that I could have opportunities that you could not provide at your tender age.

I won’t say my life was perfect. It wasn’t. But that’s not your fault and I don’t resent you for it. Its not like you had any control over who ultimately took custody of me. You signed your rights away and hoped for the best, and that’s about all anyone could have done in your situation. I like to think those challenges made me a stronger person, but I also like to think my strength comes from you as well. After all, someone had to give me this stubborn streak!

You’re 66 now by my calculations. And I hope you went on to have other children, and maybe by now some grandchildren. And I hope that at some point over the last 45 years, you’ve thought now and then of me as I have thought of you. I hope your life has been rich, beautiful, prosperous and that you’ve been well loved, because you deserve nothing less.

*Pic is of me at age 2.

posted by dydan
Filed under: Uncategorized

Hooray, I didn’t die! Not that I thought I would, but any time someone is cutting into your body and removing parts its risky.

Surgery went very well. I cannot say enough kind things about my Dr and the staff at that hospital. They were extremely compassionate, efficient and helpful in ways I did not expect. The advantage of staying in a unit dedicated to bariatric patients was clear. Surprisingly, quite a few of my caregivers during my stay were former patients themselves. I got a lot of practical advice and tips, which was very helpful.

So…what’s it like having 80% of your stomach removed? Well…not nearly as bad as I thought it would be. My only other major surgery was my hysterectomy, and that experience ranks as the worst medical treatment I’ve ever had. I went into this surgery terrified that it was going to be equally hard on my body, only to find that it was not nearly as bad as I anticipated. I have 5 small incisions all between my breastbone and navel. Is there pain? Well sure there is! I freely admit that I am a big baby when it comes to pain, but honestly the meds have been great about taking the edge off.

I am 6 days post-op and right now I’m amazed at how well I feel. Yesterday I had enough energy to go out with the Mr to a few stores. I did a fair amount of walking around and getting in and out of the car without much problem. Course by time we got home I was exhausted and took a 3 hour nap, but I was pretty impressed that I even managed the outing at all.

Are things different? Very. I am still on a clear liquid diet because the insides are healing, so I am very limited in what I can have. I learned right out the gate that I can only take tiny, tiny sips of anything. Taking a big gulp is very uncomfortable. I told the Mr the other day that I understand now why babies need to be burped after feeding. The pressure I feel in my sternum when I take too big of a sip is unlike anything I have ever felt. I’m not allowed anything carbonated and I can see why. I would be in agony with that much air inside of me.

The next 3 weeks are all about resting and healing. I hit the wall of exhaustion pretty quick right now, so I am just listening to my body and letting it tell me what it needs. I am drinking as much water as I can and getting up and moving around quite a bit. The Dr’s lectures about the risk of blood clotting scared me enough that I’m doing everything I can to prevent that.

I still haven’t gone out to purchase a scale. The nurses all thought I was crazy when I told them I didn’t even own one until I explained to them that scales always made me feel too pressured. I’m beginning to re-think my position on that now that I’ve had surgery though. It would be nice to track my progress at home, the trick is not to obsess about it. I did get weighed in the hospital, but those numbers are pretty deceiving. The first night after surgery I had gained 3 pounds, but I was also pumped full of fluids from multiple IV lines and probably had a bit of swelling from surgery. The next day I had dropped those 3 pounds and was back to my pre-op weight.

Next week I go in to see the Dr to see how my healing is progressing. Assuming everything is good (and it should be) I will be allowed to transition to soft foods. It can’t come soon enough because right now I think everything I see looks amazing to eat. I’m sure that’s just my brain voicing its displeasure at not getting its way (for once!) but zomg if I see one more food commercial I think I will cry.

posted by dydan
Filed under: Uncategorized, Weight Loss Surgery

Well kiddies, I can’t be any more ready than I am right now for this surgery. Yesterday I had my pre-op check-in and final chance to chicken out. I handed over my FSA card to have the insurance copay taken out and that was that. A simple credit card transaction sealed the deal. Funny how such a tiny piece of plastic can have such an impact on my life at this point.

Moment of brain silliness at the Dr yesterday when the nurse weighed me. I saw a number that I have not seen in well over 10 years. I stood there just staring at it until the nurse said “You can step down now.” I looked at her and I said, “Is that number right?”  Because the fancy ass digital scale in a Bariatric Surgeon’s office can’t possibly be accurate, right? She just laughed and nodded, to which I said “Holy shit!” and she laughed even more. I’m fairly certain at this point my chart has all kinds of documentation about what a colorful character I am. My Nutritionist told me I was the highlight of her schedule whenever she saw my name because she knew she could “let her hair down” and be silly with me.

Since I started this journey, I’ve lost a total of 28 pounds. I’m thrilled with that number, and my friends are all giddy about it as well. But its not really all that meaningful to me. Its just a number. My chart is full of them and I’m sure they all have significance to my medical team, but not to me.

Part of it is what I call my weird body dysmorphia. When I was 18 and weighed 140 pounds, I felt like I was as huge as I am now. I look at those old pictures with envy now and wonder if I will ever see that number again. My Dr says that number is completely attainable and where he’d like to see me settle at.  I know the number I weigh at is not healthy. I know I’m morbidly obese, even if I hate to say so. But when I look in the mirror, I don’t think I look half as bad as I do when I see pictures of myself. Sure, some of that has to do with the camera adding weight to someone, but not that much weight. The difference I see if huge. I don’t know if this is something other people with weight issues struggle with. We don’t cover that at Fat Club.

What’s important to me right now is how I feel. All of me, not just my physical condition. There’s a lot of change going on with me, a lot of shifting of energy. I feel like every day is some  new epiphany I’m making about myself, about the Universe. You would think that would make for some fertile blogging, but I find myself struggling to find the words to describe what I’m experiencing. This is the most profound thing I’ve ever done with my life. The magnitude of it and its impact on everything I am is indescribable.  On the surface, it seems so trite to say that losing a little weight has this much significance to a person, but oh how it does. 

For me, its not the number, its not the weight. It is, but its not. Its what the weight represents to me – how I perceive it. I told Jared the other day (and he thinks I’m totally beyond weird about this) that I wanted someone in the OR to take a picture of the portion of my stomach they’ll be removing. I want to see it. I want to see the thing that I have fought with for decades, because of what it represents in my mind. Its the physical representation of abuse, of self-loathing and shame. And I’m not that girl anymore. I don’t need that in me anymore and as kooky as this sounds, I need to see that piece of my DNA laying on a table to release it once and for all.

Ok, yeah, I’m weird. If you don’t know that by now about me, you haven’t read the brochure. Stick around kids, I’m sure it will get even stranger.

Monday is my Hot Date with my Surgeon. I’m really glad that I chose him. His compassion and demeanor towards me has been unlike any experience I’ve ever had at the hands of a medical professional. He is the first Dr. I’ve ever had who did not look at me with That Look of pity and disgust. Whenever I see him, I never get the impression that he’s rushed or impatient. He has been more than eager to give me as much time as I needed with him to answer any of my questions, which I am sure at times bordered on OCD. As much as doctors terrify me (and zomg do they ever, hello PTSD!) I feel 100% ok with letting him do this surgery.

I got this!

posted by dydan
Filed under: Weight Loss Surgery

This is my brother-in-law, Asa. He is 22 years old. Cute as a button, ain’t he? Pictures can be deceiving. They give the appearance of normalcy. Asa may look like a handsome college student with his all-American face and those adorable dimples, but Asa will never go to college and Asa is not like you and I.

Asa has “Pervasive developmental disorder not otherwise specified” – otherwise known as Autism.

This last week, I’ve seen social media exploding with all sorts of memes for Autism Awareness Month. Light it up Blue, y’all! There’s no shortage of autism stories full of pictures of adorable cherub-like children, usually under the age of 5. I’m no stranger to marketing; I know these pictures of little kids are supposed to evoke sympathy and bring awareness to autism. But I think this marketing ploy does a great disservice to everyone involved. It gives the unrealistic impression that autism only affects cute little kids. As if somehow puberty will magically make the kid “grow out of it” and be a normal, functioning adult.

That is not how the world works. Look at Asa. He’s 22 years old. He has not “grown out of it” and he never, ever will. Looking at him, you’d never know that he is non-verbal and needs constant supervision.

But don’t feel sorry for Asa. He is not some mindless piece of meat. Just like the rest of us seemingly normal folks, he has his own wants, needs and desires. And while he may lack the ability to verbally tell people things, I’m constantly amazed at how he is often more direct that the so-called normal people capable of speech.

The first time I met Asa was at a Thanksgiving soiree with the family. After dinner the adults were cleaning up the kitchen. Asa had a bag of M&M’s on the kitchen table and he kept wandering in and out of the kitchen to grab a piece in between watching The Aristocats in the livingroom (its one of his favorite movies). I decided to engage with him a little bit and I asked him if I could have a piece of candy. In all honesty, I didn’t really care about the candy, I just wanted to interact with him. Asa looked at me, gave me a big smile, grabbed my hand and gently led me to the front door. My MIL was horrified, but all I could do was laugh at the simplicity of Asa’s actions. No mistaking the communication there, right? “Wait…you want my candy? Oh no lady, you gots to go!”

My MIL told me a story once about one of the many times the state decided to make her jump through their administrative hoops to justify giving Asa any kind of aid. They were at some office being evaluated and Asa was being administered all sorts of tests. With a kid like Asa, testing is hit or miss. He may not be in the mood to do it, he may not understand it. We don’t know since he can’t really tell us, so its all a guess. They had been there for a while and Asa was getting anxious to leave. When the tester busted out yet another puzzle, my MIL told Asa “Just try to do this one and then we can go, Asa.”  He took the puzzle pieces, slammed them all into place, shoved the puzzle at the tester, got up and walked out of the building.

His favorite thing to do when he sees us is what I call “playing school”. His development team is constantly working on improving his communication skills, so he always has some kind of book that requires you to finish spelling a word, or something simple like that. If you let him, Asa will spend hours pointing to pictures and making you write down what the picture is. And heaven forbid you try to change up the game or make up your own. He will “fire” you and go find another student. Its hilarious, really!

I am sure I’m not alone in wondering what goes on in his head. Often when we see him, he seems to be in his own little Universe and its a challenge to draw him into our world. Many times I see the frustration in his face when he cannot make his wishes known. Asa does communicate, but its very limited. He knows sign language, but he’s what I call a “sloppy signer”. Often times his signing is so rushed or sloppy that I will have to ask my MIL to translate for me.

Autistic kids grow up and become autistic adults, and that’s where Asa is. And sadly, the research money and aid money doesn’t go to people like him. Nobody wants to think that the cute little cherub kid in the Autism Awareness propaganda is going to have the same life expectancy as the non-autistic people. Nobody wants to think about how to provide services and support for someone like Asa for the next 70 years. My MIL Carole has had to struggle and fight for any little thing Asa has received and has had to do all of this alone for nearly all of Asa’s life. Single motherhood is never easy, but its even harder when one of your 3 kids needs 24/7 care. If there’s any heroine in all of this, its Carole for patiently walking this road the last 22 years.

posted by dydan
Filed under: Uncategorized

Being a child in the 1970′s is a vastly different experience than being a child these days. Back when we were kids, toys had a certain element of danger that modern toys don’t dare explore. Its led me to question more than once how we managed to make it to adulthood without being seriously maimed.

For example, look at the Erector Set. Looking at their benign and kid-friendly site, you’d have no idea that this was the childhood terror that it was in the 1970′s. Oh, but it was. This was a toy that was guaranteed to send you running to Mom for that stinging mercurochrome ointment and a Band-Aid. I’m convinced the set contained leftover parts from an abandoned WW2 tank making factory in Berlin. There was no way you could build a thing without the sharp pieces cutting into your skin. My parents got so tired of hearing us cry every time we played with the thing that they boxed it up and got us the safer Lincoln Logs instead. At least THOSE toys didn’t require a tetanaus shot!

Learning to ride a bike was equally dangerous. Being in a larger family meant that all 4 of us kids had to learn how to ride a bike on the same monstrosity with training wheels. I tried searching for hours for a picture of that bike on Google and the picture here was the closest I could find, which leads me to suspect that the bike we had was probably built with a demonic Erector Set.

The bike we had to learn on was hideous. It was green. And not that pretty kind of green. I’m talking the ugly green that the 1970′s was known for. The bike also had no coasting ability AT ALL. You just had to keep on a’peddling whether you wanted to or not. The chain had a tendency to slip, leading us to embrace the fine tradition of wearing a rubber band around your pant leg to keep your bike from eating your jeans.

Training bikes today have the magnificent feature of gradually raising the training wheels so the kid can learn balance over time. Our bike did not have this type of modern technology. The training wheels had 2 features: on or off. And once off, my Dad declared them off for good. There was a lot of falling over, a lot of skinned knees. Frankly I’m surprised we weren’t seen more often in the ER than we already were.

Oh yes, what’s childhood without a trip to the ER? (Or two, or three…)

My first visit was when I was 6. Our neighbor had this amazing contraption that you could sit on and spin around until you got dizzy and puked. Great fun for a kid, right? So, being the enterprising kid I am, I hop the fence and take a spin. Did you know that when you spin, if you lean back it feels like you are spinning faster? It does! Right up until my noggin banged into the fence post. And that was when I learned that head wounds bleed an awful lot. These days, that kind of ER trip would probably involve CPS questioning the parent and suggesting abuse, but back then it was pretty routine.

My older brother’s ER trips were legendary. He has a mild form of Cerebral Palsy and often got hurt in the attempt to be like a normal kid. The spills he took on bicycles would make you think he had been racing a Harley on gravel and he always had a knack for getting hurt a fair distance from home. We’d get some strange random caller telling us that he was hurt and my parents would have to go scoop him off the pavement and take him to the ER for the latest round of stitches. He’ll be 48 this year and he’s still a major bike nut, but he doesn’t wipe out so often.

I kinda feel sorry for kids these days. We wrap them in this cocoon of safety to the point of ridiculousness. Bumper bowling? Really? Learn how to bowl like I did – by throwing a lot of balls into the gutter! Helmets and pads to ride a bike down the street? Why don’t we just put a big bubble suit on the kid so they don’t bruise their tender flesh?

You can leave that Erector Set in the 70′s though.

posted by dydan
Filed under: Uncategorized

Last year, you’ll recall my feelings on the whole April Fool’s Day shenanigans.  This year, I want to talk about a different kind of Fool – The Fool we all are.

The Journey of the Fool is the path we all take in Life. It is the path we all take from the moment of our existence to enlightenment. I believe that its the process we all take for just about everything we do in our lives. Whatever the goal is, there’s the process of getting there. This process has been revered by ancient cultures and modern ones as well, even if most people aren’t aware of it.

I’ve been hosting a Daily Tarot over in the G+ Life Coaching Community for several months now and its really hit home to me how necessary the Fool’s Journey truly is. The last 8 months of my life has definitely been some of the deepest soul searching that I’ve ever done. I have mentioned more than once to my shrink how deeply transformative this whole pre-op process been. There are no words for me to adequately convey the impact this is having on my life and my self awareness.

I’ve been seeing The Fool come up a lot when I do Tarot readings for myself lately. The image on this card has been resonating so deeply with me that I’ve been seriously considering incorporating it into a tattoo. Its such a perfect metaphor for Life, isn’t it? Everything important balances on the edge of a precipice. Before us we see the endless expanse of the Great Unknown. We feel nervous, we feel excited and we step off that safe foundation. We make our leap into the world and hope we have the strength to hold ourselves up and not crash on the rocks below us.

Oh sure, we could choose not to take that step. But where’s the fun in that? We should always be growing, always striving to push ourselves past what we thought we were capable of. That doesn’t mean we’ll always be successful when we make that leap, but we’ll never know if we don’t try, right?

posted by dydan
Filed under: Uncategorized

This month, the coven has been working exclusively with Demeter. Its been an interesting ride for me, though I suspect my experience is vastly different than my sisters.

Demeter’s sad tale is well-known. Too well-known if you ask me. The more I researched her and read about her, the more I questioned why all the focus was on the loss of Persephone and Demeter’s reaction to it. There is a lot more to Demeter than the image of a woman consumed by her grief.

Demeter’s gift to mankind were agriculture and harvesting. Her importance to the Earth was second only to her mother, Gaia. Demeter was considered the most generous of the Gods, and she is unique among the Greek Gods as being the only one who was involved on a day-to-day basis in the lives of the common folk. Other Gods merely dabbled in the affairs of humans, or got involved when something suited their own agendas, or when they took a shine to a particular mortal.  Demeter, however, was truly the nurturer of humanity. Even when she was in the midst of her grief, she still embodied this nurturing spirit. While she searched for her daughter, she still helped humanity. There’s more than one tale of her nurturing and healing sick children.

And isn’t this very representative of the roles we women play in the world? We’re expected to be the nurturers, the healers. On any given day, we’re called to wear any number of titles: wife, mother, lover, nurse, maid, banker, taxi, chef. There’s always something that needs to be taken care of, always someone who needs something from us.

But what about our own needs? 

I’m finding the tale of Demeter’s grief to be more of a cautionary tale than something to marvel about. Here is a woman who let her grief consume her so fully that she ceased to have any care or passion about anything.  She left the freakin’ to Earth DIE, ok? How is that something to admire?

I’m finding these days that I am feeling very selfish with my time and energy. I am very close to getting my surgery and it seems like every day there is some challenge to keep me on track and keep me focused on what’s important. The by-product of this is that I look like I’m ignoring everyone else. I’m sure there’s plenty of folk out there who think I’m waltzing around with the attitude of “Fuck you, I don’t have time for you.”  I can assure you there’s no waltzing, and its not so much of an issue of time as it is an issue of having it in me to do anything outside of the essentials (work and my slew of Dr. appointments).

I don’t need to let myself go to the point that I let everything die around me like Demeter did. I focus on myself so that I can be better/stronger on the other side of this mountain I am on.

I cannot stress enough the importance of self care, regardless of what your life is like. If you do not take time to care for yourself, then you are dealing from a position of weakness. How can you help anyone if you cannot help yourself?

When you go on a commercial air flight, pay attention to the flight attendant pantomime show. I know its silly and boring, but really, pay attention. Especially when they get to the part about the oxygen masks. You will always hear them say that if you have children with you, you are to put your own mask on first before attending to your loved ones.  And it makes sense – how effective are you going to be at putting an oxygen mask on your panicked child if you are without air yourself? You’d black out before you did a lick of good for anyone, including yourself.

I can’t think of a better metaphor than that, y’know?

I’ve charged my girls (and myself) with spending the remainder of this lunar cycle focusing more on themselves. I’m asking them to take 30 minutes out of each day to do something that is solely for themselves. I think this is good for everyone, really. We have so many demands on our time and our energy all day long. Taking a mere 30 minutes to go for a quiet walk, read a book or just dwell in your own silence is therapeutic. And if someone finds that selfish of you, then I’d say they should look at their own needs to determine why they can’t live without you for 30 minutes out of 24 hours.

posted by dydan
Filed under: Uncategorized

I was reading some of my old LJ entries and I came across this. I barely remember writing it. Funny how it is when the Muse hits you…

Mother Oak

The air is still
Unusually quiet
Even greedy baby birds
Hold their breath
The scent of rain
Lingers teasingly
The clouds gather
Low and heavy
Full of promise
But still holding back
In the distance
Thunder faintly rumbles
A squirrel leaps
From branch
To branch
Eager to find
Her safe haven
At last, the cool breeze
Caresses branches
Like a lost love
The leaves rustle
In approval
As the first drops
Fall

posted by dydan
Filed under: Uncategorized

I’m near the end of my little sabbatical. Goodbye, vacation, you were oh so wonderful. I’m a little apprehensive about stepping back into the viper’s den of corporatedom, but at least now I feel a bit healthier and equipped to deal with it. My Shrink, bless her soul, has been amazing. She hasn’t been shy about calling me out on things, but she also offers plenty of validation on my thought processes and that’s been incredibly valuable to me.

I’ve been doing a lot of reading lately. Boring stuff like psychology and occult history, topped with the lusciousness of Joseph Campbell. These last few weeks have really illustrated to me how I am very much on a Hero’s Journey right now. When it comes down to it, I think all life is a Hero’s Journey. We take countless journeys in the course of our existence, some of them small things, but I think the ones that matter the most are the Big Things. The hardest journeys we take, I think, are the most meaningful in our lives. If it was something easy, we wouldn’t place the same value on it that we do when we accomplish something difficult.

That doesn’t mean I don’t wish the road was easier. Oh, do I ever!

I marvel a bit at how people perceive me, even people who I think know me pretty well. A few weeks ago, Jared was my moral support at a routine Dr visit. I was on the verge of a massive panic attack when I was getting a skin tag removed and I asked him to come stand by me and hold my hand. He teased me a little bit for it and later said he did so because he thought I was joking. On the surface, I did not look like I was distressed. On the inside? Honestly it was all I could do to keep myself from shrieking and fleeing the scene. Its a reminder to me that I need to speak up, but its also a reminder to other people as well – don’t assume everything is hunky dory. Stress manifests itself in many different ways. The last 6 weeks have taught me the importance of paying attention to the signs before they get out of hand.

I don’t have an official surgery date yet due to the insurance song and dance, but I’m roughly 6 or 8 weeks away from surgery. I’ve been casually shifting my eating habits to post-op ideals, but I haven’t been entirely diligent about it. Time to change that, for sure. On the up side, my water intake is fantastic. I should track how much I actually drink, but by my rough estimation (remembering how often I go to the Brita pitcher to refill it) I’m drinking at least 1/2 gallon of water per day. I’m getting very good at mad dashes to the bathroom, lemme tell ya.

But the food? Oh man…its still a struggle. I wish that I could accurately describe what it feels like having food cravings. Normal people may experience a feeling like “oh hey, I sure would like some chips right now!” and its no big deal if they even get chips or not. My brain? Its more like “OMG you must eat chips now before your stomach shrinks to nothingness! And how about a nice bowl of pasta too? Hurry up, we’re dying here!!” and its a very big deal to not have those things when I want them. I have even found myself going to the pantry on a food quest, even when I know damn well I don’t have those kind of unhealthy things in the house. Like the Food Fairy is going to just leave me a bag of Doritos? I’ve even done this more than once a day. My post-op friends tell me this sensation will not be an issue once I have surgery. I hope that’s true. I find it so ridiculous that I can be such a slave to these primal urges to feed. For fuck’s sake, I’m way stronger than this. Right?

My Shrink likes to remind me that yes, I am strong. But I’m also someone who has experienced some pretty serious trauma during my most formative years. Ah, child abuse – the gift that never stops giving. I struggle a lot with sharing my story here, which is why I’ve been on radio silence quite a bit the last few weeks. I don’t want people to feel sorry for me. Look at that poor fat girl…her mommy didn’t love her and now she can’t stop eating. I don’t want people to define me as that, even if there is some truth in that statement. I’d much rather people see me as the strong woman who lives a full, rich, happy life despite what her origins were.

But I also know if I remain silent about my experience, that’s not good either. It just perpetuates that cloak of secrecy and shame that abusers like to instill in their victims. My experience isn’t unique. The statistics on child abuse in this country certainly prove that. I hope that by speaking up, maybe my experience will  help someone going through the same thing. I wish that I had someone like myself when I was struggling in my late teens and early adulthood. I wish there was someone at that point in my life who could have shown me that despite having a bad beginning, its possible to go on past that and be happy.

Joseph Campbell said that if you were on a path, it was someone else’s path and you were not on the adventure. Well, I certainly feel like I am in some uncharted territory these days. I’m just plugging along, one foot in front of the other, day by day. Some days I feel like a complete failure, but thankfully I have more days where I feel like a winner. Regardless of how I feel, I know that its my own path that I am on, not one that has been defined by someone else. In the end, I think that’s the best any of us can hope for.

posted by dydan
Filed under: Uncategorized

What is your purpose?

So much of our identity as wrapped up in our purpose. Religions have debated this for centuries. For a lot of people, purpose is one of two things: what they do for a living, or the ever generic “get married, have kids, grow old and die” formula. I like to think there is a little more to life than either of those answers.

I’m doing a lot of self-evaluation right now, thanks to the impending bariatric surgery and my therapist. Work had been pretty stressful for me, prompting this little sabbatical I am currently on. I feel a lot more rested and stable, and I’m taking a long, hard look at work and how I will handle it when I return to the ranks of the wage slave. When I talk about work now, I find myself feeling downright angry about it.

And that, for me, is the bottom line. I’ve vehemently said for years that I am not my job. I do not identify myself in any way with what I do to pay the bills. It doesn’t inspire passion in me, it doesn’t fulfill me or make me feel like I’ve made some grand contribution to the advancement of humanity. Its not my purpose. And the fact that I am not doing what I am supposed to do is a big contributor to my depression and anxiety.

What is my purpose? What makes me feel fulfilled and happy? Well, it goes back to my theory about everyone being broken. I think my greatest skill lies in helping other people find the path from broken to whole. I’m not out fixing anyone, I’m helping them fix themselves. The method varies from person to person, but its there and its a journey we all need to take. When I’m involved in that process, it doesn’t feel like work in the traditional sense. It happens with my coven girls, it happens with close friends and sometimes even in casual encounters on G+. Its work that makes me feel like I am doing something meaningful for the world, even if it is just changing one heart at a time.

When I talk about what my purpose is, there is a definite change in how I feel and what I project. I’m happier, I’m confident; I’m everything that a career is supposed to give you.

Can you see why going back to being a phone jockey is so unappealing to me now? And yet, that’s exactly where I need to go back to if I want to be able to have such luxuries as a roof over my head and food in my pantry. Gee, no wonder work depresses me! Its not my purpose, and I resent that its my only option right now. The question then becomes: how do I get to a place where I can do what I know I am supposed to do?

There are a lot of practical, sound reasons to stay with my current employer. The pay is really good and the benefits are outstanding. I am one year away from being fully vested in the company’s pension plan. I’m good at what I do and my superiors clearly like me and are constantly trying to get me to consider moving up the career ladder. Its a stable company with a lot of potential for growth. All of these things in a time when people thank their lucky stars for finding employment make it very attractive to stay where I am. Its comfortable, its safe. But its not what makes me happy.

Doing what would make me happy, at least on a professional scale, is going to require planning. It will for sure require further education and that’s where I’m kinda stuck. I have several options, none of which are jumping out at me as THE option because every option has a major drawback.

1. I get a degree in Pastoral Counseling. That’s the closest degree I can find to what it is I want to do. Drawback: all of the programs in this area are Christian-centric. Kind of pointless getting that kind of degree if I am not Christian. The one Pagan oriented Pastoral Counseling program I know of is through Cherry Hill Seminary, which unfortunately at this time is not accredited. And since the laws in the state I live in require my degree to be through an accredited university, Cherry Hill is out for now.

2. I get a degree in Counseling, minus the Pastoral part. That degree would eliminate the religious aspect and would require a lot more schooling as my Bachelor’s is not in anything related to psychology. That’s a lot more schooling and tuition than I am willing to invest.

3. I go to Cherry Hill Seminary and get the Master of Divinity degree, or M.Div. This is a little more appealing to me since the law is pretty liberal when it comes to being a professional Minister. Cherry Hill’s lack of accreditation is not an issue in this scenario.

Regardless of what path I take, it will require a pretty serious financial investment as well as a lot of my time. I’m happy to put the time in, but the money is definitely a barrier. Financial aid is not an option here due to Cherry Hill’s lack of accreditation.

Depressing, ain’t it?

Whatever I decide, work will cease to be. I can’t see throwing myself into any higher education program while trying to maintain a 40+ hour a week work schedule and my non-work obligations. Since I really want to get that pension plan, I’m giving myself the next year to start working on my exit strategy. I’m in the midst of my own healing process and it would be foolish of me to make any more sweeping changes in my life other than what I’ve already taken on. Defeating the Fat Monster is already a full time job, I can’t add throwing myself into academia and expect that to be successful in the state I’m in.

posted by dydan
Filed under: Uncategorized