Stop and Think

I have voted in every election cycle since I turned eighteen. I believe we have a responsibility to voice our choice as citizens. That being said, this is the most frightening election I have seen in those subsequent thirty-four years.

I am a registered Republican. I have also been registered as a Democrat in my younger years. Whatever party, I feel that I vote for the person’s policies and programs, not by party. I must say, this year, morals, ethics, and other issues are crawling into my decision.

Since I am registered as a Republican, I will deal with that party’s front runner; Donald Trump. At first, his running was quite a joke. Then, it got serious. Mr. Trump does have a certain appeal for those of us that are completely frustrated with the past several administrations. His frankness came off as blunt honesty at first. I have seen that turn into crass bullying of the other candidates, people that don’t agree with him, and numerous other types of people.

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How about this example of his crude attack on a journalist that happens to have a physical disability? Was it rude? Yes. Did his supporters laugh? Yes. He didn’t alienate his mass audience with this, just a percentage of our population with disabilities.

He has choice words for women and for those that speak against him, his returns are vile and caustic. You may not like Rosie O’Donnell, but she is not the only woman of which he has spoken about in a degrading manner. Instead of commenting on a female opponent’s record, he talked about how ugly she was to him. Women are babes, chicks, and bimbos. Is this how you speak about your Mothers, Wives, or Daughters? Our schools have a zero tolerance for bullying, we have programs in schools, churches and public forums against bullying and yet, we support it with passion in a presidential candidate? nelson

I try not to judge another’s relationship with God or their religion. In full disclosure, I consider myself a Christian. That meaning I believe and follow the Bible and the teachings of Jesus Christ. Mr. Trump states emphatically that he is a Christian, no, a GOOD Christian. I have just a couple of comments regarding that statement.

I, personally,  hope to be a worthy Christian. I am not perfect. I stumble every day to live up to the example that Christ set for us to follow. I ask forgiveness almost every day for fallacies in my character and walk. Mr. Trump stunned me in an interview when he stated that he was a good Christian and feels like he has never done anything to ask forgiveness for. I can’t imagine a person that has not sinned with the exception of Jesus Christ.

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There is a quote from the Bible that says “For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?” Mark 8:36 KJV. Now think, what is the focus of most of Mr. Trump’s speeches? Winning. Winning a deal, winning voters, winning the election, etc. He surrounds himself with luxury, as much gold as he can, beautiful and powerful people, and whatever he can that will help him win what he wants.

What does he want now? To rule over us. What if we disagree? “Well, he’ll pay for that.” was his response when Senator John McCain and former Governor Mitt Romney spoke out against him. When he was asked if that was a threat, he denied it was a threat. Have you ever heard the phrase ‘That wasn’t a threat, it was a promise.’  That’s what I heard in my mind as he denied the threat. In fact, when he was asked about Governor Romney’s comments he also added that when the Governor ran for President, he would have gotten down on his knees for Trump’s endorsement. I shan’t  explain the allusion he was making, but needless to say, Mr. Trump has not proven himself a statesman, let alone a gentleman. We have also been assured that his phallus is of satisfactory size. I have never needed to know how a candidate is endowed to make a political decision.

Mr. Trump claims he is an amazing businessman. What he neglects to say is how many of his business ventures have ended in bankruptcy, leaving others holding the debt. He says he loves the uneducated. Well, of course he does, they don’t research his claims, look into the details of his dealings or life. They say the devil is in the details and that’s where Mr. Trump lives, but not how he speaks.

I will end this blog post here. There are many other issues to bring up, comparisons to leaders of other times that could be made, but I just wanted to deal with now. Please, go back and look at his statements, how he has done business, where his priorities have been and where we stand as a people in those priorities. That’s all I ask. God bless this country and help bring us to his will (God’s).

Sympathy for Trump

 

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Never Again?

My Husband loves to play Call of Duty on Xbox Live. When he is on there and he doesn’t have his headphones on, you can hear the trash talk from the players. Last night, I was amazed and appalled more than usual. These were kids, probably tweens or younger spouting anti-semitic jokes and comments rather than the usual sexual and racial ridiculousness. Then, as I was listening, a younger boy that had lead the Holocaust jokes, asked a timid question: “Do you really think the Holocaust happened?” One of the younger players answered him. “I don’t know. I guess.” 907014-holocaust-survivor

That really floored me. Growing up, we learned about the Holocaust and I never once questioned whether or not it really happened. What was the difference between my understanding of history and his? I’ve pondered this in the back of my head all night and this morning. Here is what I have come up with so far. Let me know what you think.

I was born in 1963. A lot of our teachers, parents, and grandparents either participated in the war or were old enough to have heard stories first hand. Some grew up watching the footage in the movie houses and heard reports on the radio. I personally know at least one man that was in France during WWII. I have heard horror stories from not only that war, but the “conflicts” since. We watched actual footage from the events and the movies we saw were stylized and did not show the gruesome realities of war. We knew the difference between the reality of war and movies.holoccaust

What about today’s children? They are inundated with graphic images on a daily basis. From TV, movies, and video games. I looked up some pictures of the Holocaust and it struck me that in black and white, they could resemble actors from the Walking Dead. How confusing it must be for children to try to discern the horrific images and details of the Holocaust from the images they see on a daily basis. The numbers of the victims are difficult for adults to wrap their minds around, let alone children.holocaust-men

Survivors of the Holocaust are almost all gone now. Our WWII Veteran numbers are diminishing. The stories at the feet of people that lived these horrors are no more. Stories at the feet of our elders are pretty much gone altogether. Technology has replaced the quality time spent with our older relatives. We have lost so much with the technological advancements that were pushed for during the time period following WWII.

I don’t know how to make someone understand what is real and what isn’t in the world. This is how horrors of the Holocaust will be repeated in the future. Not that it will be forgotten, but it will be enveloped in the psyche of horror fantasy that are everyday images and just seen, not felt.World-War-2-Holocaust-Memorial-Day-_60

God forgive us all when that happens.

“Tea for this man’s breasts! Anything else, sir?”

I know I have rambled on prior to this about my problems with my body. Well, just hang on a minute, we aren’t done yet! We have yet to discuss the feet.

Feet. I can’t say that word without my upper lip curling up. One of God’s most marvelous and hideous creations all at the same time. Ah, but you say sheepishly “but my feet look okay” as you twist them about from the sofa footrest. Yeah, I paint up my toenails. I wore rings on my toes long before it was popular. I’ve tried whoring them up for years, to no avail. Well, you go right ahead and think yours are pretty Sugar, but just don’t ask the lady that does your pedicure to be honest with you.

Speaking of pedicures, what kind of level of hell must you put yourself in to touch people’s feet all day? God knows where they’ve been! At least in our time you have a better idea that they may at least have the semblance of clean. Most body parts were disgusting in the “time before regular bathing”, but feet… I just shivered thinking about the mud, feces (of all species), and fungus that must have decorated the feet of our ancestors.

Thank God for the invention of the shoe. A place to protect those necessary planks of flesh from the everyday hazards of life. Once mostly provided to soldiers, and aristocrats there came the two uses of shoes, utilitarian and art. The Japanese took the hatred of the female foot to a whole new level. They can try and tell me it was for beauty that they bound the feet of young girls, but I think it had more to do with power and sexual fetishes (shiver).

I may be biased toward the lack of beauty of the foot. I was allocated a couple of flat, long, narrow slabs of flesh with caterpillars wiggling from the front of them and asked to call them “feet”. I wear size 12 shoes. When I was younger they were 12AA. You can breathe now. I am used to sucking the air out of a room when I give my shoe size. My feet have always been larger than normal, but they did stop growing in eighth grade. Yep, that’s right folks, I had size 12 feet in eighth grade. I didn’t need a personal space zone, I just kept you at the end of my foot!

That’s right folks, don’t be jealous. These babies to the left here were my shoes in eighth grade. Kelso Earth shoes. My Mom told me that they were good leather and would last for years (can you hear the echo? years…years….years). I must say they were better than the Buster Brown oxfords with the steel arch supports I had earlier in life. The thing I could never figure out was why I needed steel arch supports (yeah, they were as comfortable as they sound) when I didn’t have arches.  My feet sounded like a duck when I walked in shallow water and the imprint was the same as well. The only time I thought my feet looked ok was when I was in bell bottoms and you could only see the toes of my shoes.

I have worn many ugly shoes because there were no alternatives for my size. Then one day, there were shoes, attractive ones even, appearing on shelves and websites for my size and even larger! What kind of shift in the evolutionary process could account for this sudden increase of options? Transvestites.

God love them all. From the $20 trick on the boulevard to “Executive Transvestites” like Eddie Izzard they all have one thing in common. Well, maybe more than one, but they all wear SHOES! The more transvestites and transexuals became acclimated into our society, the more shoe options I have! Now here is the rub. Girls, we need to talk about what kinds of shoes we need to have out there for ALL of us!

Now, we all know that almost everyone would give their second caterpillar for a pair of Christian Louboutin shoes, but we all can’t wear them! I have been relegated too close to the ground for too many years to be able to balance on those things. I like to call them “in the air” shoes. Hold them up high so you can admire them during boring sex.

You may say I’m not correct about the reason for this societal shift, but I believe the only reason things could move this fast is because men are behind it. How many things have women come up with and fought to obtain for many years to have a man decide “hey, that’s a good idea I’ve come up with” and it become written in stone!!!!

What I need now is for you readers to spread the word to your friends and colleagues that may be either openly or closeted transvestites. The words are “cute flats”. Really, I need cute flats. Ones with realistic toe boxes and a space for the widest part of your foot that is true to human dimensions. Oh, while you are at it, no more damn kitten heels. Why don’t you just put a pebble under my shoe and ask me to fall down? Really, I do fall down in kitten heels. I may have even killed a kitten once that way. Balance is not my forte.

The worst was when I was planning our wedding. I had a dress, I had the jewelry, I had the boa constrictor that would keep me in the dress and all the crinoline necessary. What I didn’t have were shoes. I found a pair of cream colored, pointed toed flats with a great buckle on them in a catalog. I called to order them and they were out. They didn’t know when or if they would get them again. I could see the name on the instep of the shoe in the catalog. I did some sleuthing, called the company in New York, I’m sure they still have my name written on the “crazy” list, and the catalog company called me and they got more shoes in stock! Hmm…wonder why. They came in the mail. I was so excited! I gingerly unwrapped them and slipped them on my feet like I was Cinderella. They were hideous! My feet looked nine feet long and I practically tripped over the pointed toe because it had to be so long! I sent them back.

I found a pair of  cream colored pumps.  Not too excited about them, but they looked better than the second pair of flats I found (red, pointed toe, buckle..I know.). I also purchased a pair of leather ballet slippers in case I didn’t want to wear the shoes all night long. We got the pictures taken before the wedding. I wore the heels and my feet were killing me. We got to the wedding hall and I put the ballet slippers on. I hated them. They were very uncomfortable. I got married barefoot. My bridesmaids took off their shoes as well. I guess no one was surprised when they found out I had done that. Most people that really know me, know I hate shoes.

Seasons pass

He shut his eyes. June dawns, July noons, August evenings over, finished, done, and gone forever with only the sense of it all left here in his head. Now, a whole autumn, a white winter, a cool and greening spring to figure sums and totals of summer past. And if he should forget, the dandelion wine stood in the cellar, numbered huge for each and every day. He would go there often, stare straight into the sun until he could stare no more, then close his eyes and consider the burned spots, the fleeting scars left dancing on his warm eyelids; arranging, rearranging each fire and reflection until the pattern was clear….

So thinking, he slept.

And, sleeping, put an end to Summer, 1928. – Ray Bradbury, Dandelion Wine

Our landscaping skills are minimal. The lawn is mowed, but other than that, we aren’t very good with it. We live about a block off of a highway with an open lot between us and about 10 miles of open fields. Trying to fight the dandelions is a losing battle. There was only one year where we had a fighting chance. The summer my Husband’s Grandfather spent a couple of weeks with us. That man would go out in the yard and spend hours patiently digging around the base of the flowers and pulling them out by the dozens. We told him he didn’t have to do it, but it seemed to be a challenge from Nature to go out there and get rid of them.

I always liked dandelions. I have always been so intrigued by their tenacity to survive. They emerge from the green below us with a reflection of the sun above and when their life cycle is almost over, they reach out and send their seedlings out into the wind, into the world to survive and carry on their legacy. It’s a natural metaphor for our own lives.

We got the call at about 11:18 pm last night. Calls at that time of night are calls you don’t really want to answer. My Husband’s Grandpa, Mahlon Miller, went home to God last night. He was 96 years old. The past few years he had been living in Arizona. Will’s Aunt and her family lives there and the it was nice that they were able to enjoy his last years with them. Illinois winters apparently aren’t good on old bones as I’m beginning to notice myself even now.

I’m very glad we got to spend the time we did with him when he stayed with us a few times. My maternal Grandfather died before my parents were married and my paternal Grandpa died when I was a teenager, so it was nice to be able to enjoy spend time with him. He was an integral part of our wedding. He helped me pick out my wedding dress (you can see it in the about me section). He was so sweet. When I put on the dress, his peacock blue eyes lit up and that small, sweet smile crossed his lips. I knew this was the right one.

He always wanted to be doing something. When he came here, my Husband had someone to play with. We had a pool table and they both played. The topper we had for the table had an insert where one side was for ping pong and the other for “air” hockey. The evenings were spent playing any of those games, watching Wheel of Fortune and playing cards.

The days were spent in the shop where my Husband carries out the work of his Grandpa’s passion. Clocks. Wil, my Husband, used to tell me stories about Grandpa’s house. Legend has it that everywhere there was a spot on the wall, there was a clock. I can’t imagine!

When Grandpa downsized for the first time, Wil received a couple of clocks from him. One was a clock his Grandpa built. Wil said he watched him build the case. Grandpa was a plumber by trade, but it sounds like he was a jack of many trades. Grandpa didn’t really work on the movements, but liked to tinker with them. When we tried to get the clock Grandpa gave him worked on, we had a very difficult time finding someone to work on it. Wil decided if he was going to collect them, he needed to work on them.

There was born Willy’s Tick-Tock Clock Shop and later www.willygoodclocks.com. He sought out and found training and used his business background to develop a business plan. He left his position as a Nursing Home Administrator and began a clock repair business. A couple of years after he started the business, we built the other half of the workshop into a showroom to sell new clocks and he built the website. I still worked outside the home, but we did put my graphic arts skills to work developing our first signage.

Grandpa never got to see the final result before he moved to Arizona, but when he was here with us he was in the shop. Grandpa would watch Wil work, play solitaire and get our dog Friday in trouble. I know Wil loved that time with his Grandpa and will cherish those memories.

There is so much about Grandpa that could be told, but some of it, he kept to himself. He was a good husband, father, brother and friend. He was a plumber and landlord. He was also like many men of his age, a soldier. Again, like many other soldiers of World War II, he didn’t want to talk about his experiences very often or for very long. He was in the Navy on the smallest air craft carrier in the fleet. When I looked up his ship, the Talugi (I may have misspelled it), but the ship was a both Normandy and Iwo Jima. That ship saw many things and so did Grandpa, but we will never know much about that.

Arrangements have not been made as yet, but the coming together to celebrate a life long and well lived will be of mixed feelings. The good memories of Grandpa will live on as long as people that knew him are still here as well. Here at our house, one of his dandelion seeds took hold though my Husband and his clock business. Seasons pass and time goes on, but we still continue through those we love in one way or another.

God’s speed Grandpa.

It figures

“Well life has a funny way of sneaking up on you
When you think everything’s okay and everything’s going right
And life has a funny way of helping you out when
You think everything’s gone wrong and everything blows up
In your face” – Alanis Morissette, Ironic

I think everyone gets songs stuck in their head sometimes. I believe sometimes the song is supposed to point you to, mean or warn you of something. At other times I think God is just playing the most annoying song game and you are it.

If you have never played the most annoying song game, you must try it with family, friends and co-workers. Before you just run out flailing your arms spouting off song titles, stop and consider strategy. You must develop your arsenal of either horrible or catchy songs and they must be songs that the general public will readily recognize and flinch when they hear it. Not to offend anyone, but some of the most powerful ones in my arsenal are; “Mickey” by Toni Basil, “Barbie” by Aqua, and “Dancing Queen” by Abba. You see, you already hate me!

You must consider your target’s preferred genre. You can’t throw out a dance song to a person that loves country music, unless perhaps you can use “Cotton Eye Joe” by Rednex. What you don’t want to happen is to get pawned at a game you started. You can play this game without anyone catching on for a while if you are really good. Walk past someone humming one of your chosen songs. If the song is good and they are paying attention, you will find them sometime later cursing either you or the fact they can’t get the song out of their head and they don’t know where it came from! In the infamous words of Charlie Sheen, “Winning!”.

This song came to mind this evening while we were watching an ABC “News” program about one spouse murdering another. I’ve always told my Husband “To his death do we part”, so one must do the research. Anyhoo, this spouse either gave the other spouse ethyl glycol to poison them or took it themselves to make the other spouse pay. Kill yourself, that’ll teach them!

We had a wonderful dog that died because of ethyl glycol poisoning. She just gave the dried spot of anti-freeze in a neighboring lot a lick or two and her life was short from there. It is a quite painful death that we did not allow her to have, but the result is the same in the end and a story for another time. From my understanding ethyl glycol moves through your system very quickly and basically crystallizes your internal organs. The kidneys shutting down quickly and a horrible death follows.

I had gallstones back in 1994 or 95. Time passes quickly and I can’t always keep up. I had a few episodes of acute attacks and decided the gall bladder and I needed to part ways. It seemed to me it was trying to leave anyway. When you get to the emergency room at 2:30 am, one of the first things they ask you is “Can you rate your pain on a scale of 1 to 10?” I always reserve 10 for childbirth, so I could never rate pain at a 10. I’ve never had a child, but logistically, I have seen a newborn and am familiar with the area they push and tear their way through and that’s gotta hurt to an 11.

In triage they also ask the location of the pain and what it feels like. In this short experience in writing the blog, people have commented on my descriptive nature. Imagine having me in the room telling you about my pain. My gall bladder pain presented as if I was in the movie “Alien” when the damned thing comes out of Kane’s chest like a Jack-in-a-box from hell. That usually either got me stares or “Wait here, I’ll get you a room”. Apparently the calcium crystals formed stones and were blocking my duct on a whim. Well, we got rid of that problem pretty quick, but found a bigger one.

My lymph nodes in my chest cavity were swollen when I had my pre-op chest x-ray. There were several differential diagnoses listed when the report came back such as Castles’ Disease, Hodgkin’s Disease, and Sarcoidosis. My maternal Grandfather had died of Hodgkin’s Disease before my parents were married. The other two I had never heard of before. The plan was to remove a lymph node from my groin area and do a biopsy.

That was the most fun surgery I have ever experienced. I was awake and the surgeon allowed me to bring in a thunderstorm CD (thunderstorms relax me) and a chime ball I could roll between my hands. I think those really helped me relax and the Demerol/Vistral shot in the rump was pretty sweet as well. We talked through the procedure and the nurses kept feeling my toes and saying I was the most relaxed person they had ever seen. The tufts of smoke from the cauterizing scalpel amused me and when I asked to see my lymph node, it looked like a piece of stew meat! That made me giggle until the drug wore off. Then I hurt.

The biopsy came back as Sarcoidosis. So, being me, I went to the hospital library and looked it up. At the time, I wished I had cancer. “Sarc” as we “Sarkies” like to call it, is systemic, but can effect any organ/system at any time if feels like it. Basically, the body is paranoid and sees enemies everywhere and rallies the troops (helper T cells) until they form giant cells and literally change the architecture of organs by crystallizing.

Ninety percent of people diagnosed with Sarcoidosis have it in their lymph nodes and lungs. It effects my lungs, lymph nodes, skin, kidneys (hypercaluria causing kidney stones), and more than likely, but unconfirmed, nervous system. Treatment options for Sarcoid are usually Steroids or Methotrexate, both immune system lowering medicaitons. I was on steroids for several years, but when I was planning my wedding, I didn’t want the “balloon face” I had been developing and switched to Methotrexate. I have been on that since 2004.

Some lucky people will spontaneously go into remission. Not me. We have tried to lower medication a couple of times, but it really wants to stay with me. The prognosis for survival with sarcoid has been reported at about 20 years post-diagnosis. My 20 years will come around in 2015. I want to have a big party then as a celebration of beating the odds.

If you haven’t noticed there was a word that appeared throughout this post. I’ll wait while you find it.

My Mom tells me that when she was pregnant with me, they went back and forth over what to name me. She wanted to name me Cindy Lou or something like that and my Dad wanted to name me Tokana. Yeah, I don’t really see a compromise there either. I was probably rolling in my embryonic fluids listening to those discussions. So, at the baby shower, a hat was passed around for suggestions on what to name me. The slip of paper Mom pulled out was Crystal. They liked it and gave it to me. It was pretty unusual when I was younger and you would never find it on bracelets, tags or other jewelry. Then one day, I was taken aback my women calling my name in stores and finding them yelling at small girls. Hmmm. Then, it seemed like every time Jerry Springer had a hooker or stripper on her name was, you guessed it, Crystal.

Well, I just figured out how ironic is was that some mysterious person would pick the name Crystal and that is what this disease does to my body, crystallize it.  “Well life has a funny way of sneaking up on you….”

Say goodnight Gracie.

Pink beets and lilacs

I never learned how to clean house, just ask my Husband. I’m still trying to learn as I go. I still can’t figure out how to get corners and edges clean. I am always in awe when I go to houses and it looks like the builder just gave them the keys. How do they do that?

We didn’t have corners or edges in our house growing up. Mom will probably be upset if she reads this, so sorry Mom. Mom is a hoarder. I remember it gradually increasing as we got older. When Mom sold makeup, most of it stayed in our spare room. Then, it was mostly clutter. The clutter grew and grew because there was always something better to do like read, garden, nap, etc. Don’t think Mom didn’t work hard. We were up, dressed, fed, off to school and we had evening meals and entertainment in the evening. In the summer, she and Dad would plant a huge garden, at least a 1/4 acre. She would plan and shop seed catalogs in the winter and start seedlings to plant when it was time to get a head start on the season.

It wasn’t a meandering garden with walking paths and benches. It was a working garden. A garden that allowed us to eat fruits and vegetables in both summer and winter. There were mounds of potatoes, asparagus, cucumbers, green beans, zucchini, sweet corn, radishes, lettuce of several varieties, beets, onions, cabbage, peas, and usually about 100 tomato plants. We had rows of blackberry bushes, apple trees, pear tree, cherry trees, rhubarb, and a strawberry patch that would take up about half the home I live in now. There was always something to plant, water, weed, pick, prepare or put up. Mom could grow anything. I can kill Aloe Vera.

I really do miss having the fresh vegetables and fruit. There is nothing like being able to walk out in the yard and eat a ripe tomato like an apple, or an apple like an apple for that matter. It all made me itch. Tomato vines and green bean bushes were the worst. I would have to go in and scrub down after helping with the garden. I have to admit I wasn’t a lot of help in the garden most times. I remember picking beets one year and cutting off the tops to wash the beets. If you know anything about beets, if you cut them, they bleed. We had pink pickled beets that year and I had pink arms up to my elbows for about a day.

Mom and Dad would stay out in the sun for hours. They could tan so easily. I never enjoyed the sun and heat. I would burn, peel and emerge just a pale with more freckles. As a kid, for those few minutes or hours I would help in the garden, I just knew that I was being subjected to the same punishment as a prisoner in a Mississippi chain gang. The good times were sitting under the huge maple tree just away from the garden in the cool, soft grass helping Mom shell peas. She would talk about helping her family with gardening and other stories and we would extricate the peas from the shells. That was a nice time. That is the only fondness I have for peas.

The one thing I was glad Mom collected was books. There was always something to read. We had collections of children’s books, classic stories, mystery novels, gardening books, drawers of old National Geographics, and a set of Encyclopedias I won from a grocery store one time. A lot of the books were in the stairwell room, which was my bedroom at one time and then there was a front porch room where we had a long shelf near the ceiling full of books. I had my bedroom in there one spring and summer. That was my favorite bedroom of all time.

The porch was a long, narrow room that was lined with casement windows along the front and two on the side. The walls were horizontal bead board with a dark stain. I had an old, full size, iron pipe bed frame that had been painted dark, but the paint had worn off and the metal was smooth. Dad got rid of that bed and I still am on the search for a queen size one to put in our guest room, just for the memories. My favorite cover was a chenille blanket. I still love chenille. Outside the room at the time was an old cherry tree and an old-fashioned purple lilac bush. In the spring, I would open all of the windows for the cool air and to hear the wind in the trees and burrow into multiple blankets to fend off the deep night cold. In the morning, I would awake to the birds beginning their morning routines and the sweet smells of the blooming cherry tree and then later, the perfume of the lilac flowers. I didn’t think life could get better and during those moments, it couldn’t and never did.

Big girls need love too

“Fat girls need loving too. . . Ya they do but they don’t deserve it.” That was a Facebook status from someone I know not too long ago. I don’t know where the sentiment came from or the background information, but I think its a pretty common idea. What I do have to say about it though is, duh, like most of us haven’t been already informed of how unworthy we are for our whole lives.

When I was very little, before six or so, in pictures I seem to be of an average weight. I was beautiful. I didn’t know what I was supposed to be and I was anything I wanted to be. I was an opera singer, I was a dancer, I was a princess, and I loved it. Once I started school, I found out I was fat. Not by a Doctor mind you, but by classmates. I was also the tallest in my class, so I was big and fat.

That couldn’t be. I was who I wanted to be, I knew I was beautiful. They must be wrong. It became harder for us to find clothes for me in the regular department. Why couldn’t I wear the pretty clothes? Why is everything I have to wear so ugly? Because I was fat. I wasn’t good enough to wear pretty clothes.

I fought it. Then a relative that was too touchy/kissy when I was a very little girl decided to touch and point out all my body parts that were too fat and tell me that no one would ever love me if I was fat. I received my first message that touching the fat was fine, but it was the inside of me that was somehow damaged by the fat that made me unlovable.

It is supposed to be a wonderful time to go stay with your Grandparents. My Grandma and Step-Grandpa lived several hours away in another state. Sometimes I would go by myself and sometimes I would go with a cousin. I was always weighed daily after breakfast. Breakfast consisted of pancakes, sausage, cereal, and milk. If I was by myself, it was better. If my cousin was there (I don’t know if she ever knew), I was always judged by her weight. FYI, this cousin was very thin and went on to be on every homecoming court in her school career. I would never be enough, good enough, lovely enough, pretty enough, smart enough and all because I was tainted. I didn’t need a mark on my forehead, I was a walking billboard for my damaged humanity.

This went on for years. The weighing and touching stopped as I got older, but I was still reminded that I would never be anything and no one would ever want me. It seemed that everywhere I turned this idea was reinforced. My nickname in grade school was “Diesel”. I suppose it was because I was supposed to be as big as a semi-tractor. High school was just hell. It may be for most people, but add all of the stresses of those years, a somewhat turbulent home and add being a walking poster child for fat.

I traveled through my young adult years in a blur. I had good friends, I still do, but there is always a part of me even still that just knows that one day they will see through the layers of fat and find the poisoned insides or they will begin to tell me what I have always been told by people that were supposed to love me.

I went through strings of men that only wanted the outside of me. That just reinforced the lessons of my youth. My soul ached for someone that would want the inside of me, that would somehow see there is beauty in me that just can’t be seen on the outside. It never seemed like it would happen, so I just kept letting myself be damaged again and again. I’m not happy about it, but the first person that told me I was beautiful was a married man. I didn’t know that at the time. Not only was I beautiful, he was interested in my mind. It could happen! Of course, that didn’t happen, but I didn’t want to go back to the way life used to be.

I met my husband through work connections. We went to lunch and stayed there for two hours talking. He took me to dinner and a blues band that weekend. He asked me to go walking with him. We went hiking. He never once during that period made a pass at me, he wanted to know me. I made the first move. He is the most solid, honest, loving man I have ever known and I now have what I knew I could have in life. Someone who loves me, the inside, the part that has been stomped on, beaten up, tainted, but refused to stop screaming out that “I shine with the light that God gave me”. Now, if I can ever get rid of the weight of the world that kept layering itself on me, I can also have the rest of what I never had. But, the point is, I am beautiful.

So, for all you big girls out there, you not only deserve love, you DEMAND it. Not from the durges out there that will take advantage, but hold out for the one that will love your soul first. Never give up.