Everyone's doing it but me.

On-line dating has been a primary source for meeting people and arranging dates for the past several years. I have also wasted hours and hours reading profiles of strangers, sending carefully composed messages to men who had nice profiles and who rarely responded, and being perplexed as to why the only (okay, the vast majority) men who ever initiated contact with me on-line were either extremely unattractive or incredibly creepy.

One day I woke up and realized that everything about on-line dating made me feel as if I didn’t measure up. But measure up to what exactly? I’m still trying to figure that out. I have friends who on-line date regularly, successfully and who even seem to have fun with it.  I’m still not sure what I was doing wrong; but I do know that even after years of profile tweaks, following advice in articles about how to do it successfully, more profile edits by male and female friends, periods of actively sending out messages, or winks, or ratings usually followed by crickets and then periods of despair and petulant avoidance... I still rarely had positive experiences.

The realization that on-line dating failure was actually hurting my self-esteem was a particularly tough moment of truth. The fact that I could feel rejected by (perceived) legions of eligible men in cyber space, and that this feeling was affecting me so deeply shocked me.

In real life I am confident, sometimes overly so. I am fiercely independent. I think that I’m pretty. (We’re not supposed to say that. Ever. Are we?) Much of the wonder and fabulousness of being thirty-something is coming into my own ability to be true to myself at all times, knowing that people are free to take it or leave it, and understanding that the ones who choose to take it are the only ones who matter. 

Yet somehow, the cumulative effect of on-line dating has left me feeling less-than. Less than my friends who can easily book four dates with four normal guys, in the time it takes me to get a single message back from a non-creepster in my age range. Less than the hundreds of other girls in my neighborhood with profiles who all must be prettier/younger/wittier/friendlier/easier to match than me, and who are undoubtedly having fabulous dates all the time. Less than what I know I actually am.

Once I had this realization though, the action plan was clear. Complete and total demolition of every account I had ever created. Match. OK Cupid. E-Harmony. Chemistry. Obliterated.

I’ve opted out of cycle, and it actually feels pretty good. But, sometimes when I’m feeling particularly lonely I still contemplate logging back into an old account (They never let you actually fully delete them you know.) “just for fun” or “just to take a look”. This is when I take a deep breath and spend an hour organizing my closet, or re-folding all the clothes in my dresser, or giving myself a mani/pedi.  Channel ling my unrest into something that makes me feel good about myself, even if it’s a silly project, gets me in a positive mindset. Which is where I need to be here in the real world.

set backs, and steps forward

Right before I left for the Acadia Climbing trip on Memorial Day weekend I had my fourth follow-up visit with my new GI. It was disappointing, because I had been experiencing a resurgence of symptoms and we made two decisions: the first was to go back to a higher dose of prednisone and to lengthen the weaning off period, so that instead of 10 days between dropping dosage I will stay at each dosage for 14 days; the second was to start a the more aggressive level of long-term management medications.

(… yikes, is this really what my life, and my blog has become about…????)

At that time I also made a commitment to fully follow the diet recommendations; which up until that point I had been sort of, loosely obeying. Except for the part about not drinking alcohol, which I had decided to completely ignore… well, wait, I did cut back. A little. So for the past week and half I’ve been a carb loading, fiber avoiding, supplement taking, probiotic consuming, teetotaler.

Now, normally, I’m a glass of wine a nite kind of girl. Usually at this time of the school year I’m a two glasses of wine a nite kind of girl. (Countdown to summer vacation is on, but there’s just so much to do to get there.) I miss the variety of fruits and veggies and nuts in my diet, a lot, but I miss the wine (and sometimes gin) more. I’ve been to birthday parties, barbecues, and bars with friends all without consuming a drop. It’s taken a bit of self-restraint.

But you know what? Something is working.  I can’t say for sure if it’s one of the above, or the grand combination of all of the above factors, but it’s working.

My symptoms aren’t gone, but they are vastly improved. Right now the prednisone side-effects are more prevalent than the Crohn’s symptoms.  I feel almost… normal. For the first time in weeks my body is craving exercise.

I pulled out one of my home work out videos this weekend, and settled on an ab blast routine. Let me tell you… my abs have been the last thing that I have wanted to exercise, look at, think about in past few weeks. But prior to the Crohn’s diagnosis I was pretty damn proud to be rocking a four-pack. A result of the combination of core strength from climbing and my love of pilates mat work. So… two months ago I was completing the at home routine utilizing the modifications to make it harder (adding weights, straighter legs, etc.). Saturday I followed along with the ‘easy’ modifications, and I struggled to finish. But finish I did.

Now if I could only actually get myself to a yoga class…

I get by with a little help from my (girl)friends.

I spent my Memorial Day weekend on a three day climbing intensive course in Acadia National Park in Bar Harbor, Maine. It was pretty amazing, and I’m hoping that even without a high frequency of us, that I will retain most of my newly acquired knowledge of anchoring techniques and gear placement and knots and hitches.

And I’m glad that my body was cooperative for the weekend, and that I was able to make it through several eight hour days without experiencing any of the sort of Crohn’s symptoms that would be the worst to have while on the edge of the cliff in a national park, while in the company of a group of virtual strangers. This part of the trip feels like a small miracle. Maybe a small miracle of the Prednisone variety, as after meeting with my doctor on Thursday we re-upped my dosage due to symptom resurgence in the week prior.

There’s a lot more that could be said about either of the above. But there’s something even more important that I spent a lot of time thinking about, recently in general, and this weekend in particular.  Girl friends. Or you know, female friendship, if the term girlfriend has an air of ambiguity in your head.

This trip was planned with one of my closest girl friends, Jessie, and a new girl friend who we met through the climbing meet up group that I organize. And I can’t imagine having had better companionship for the weekend.

Girls, by whom I mean women, and their friendships – both in girlhood and womanhood, get a lot of bad media. Some of which is certainly deserved, and much of which there is a basis for. We can be, as Jessie put it, silent competitors – even with our best friends. We can be catty bitches. Judgmental. Back-stabbing. Queen bees and wannabes. I don’t know any adult woman who has not been on both the giving and receiving end of all of this, at one point or another.

I’ve struggled through much of my own adulthood with friendships, and in a variety of painful manners have lost several female friends who I had thought were too close to have the kinds of falling outs that led to our friend break-ups. But in the past few years I’ve been lucky enough to meet and become friends with some girls who seem to have transcended these dynamics. Women who truly care for one another, who are supportive and nurturing but who also won’t stand for unnecessary drama. Women who know how to boost me up, but who can still set limits, because honestly I sometimes still need them.

Without these ladies, my life today wouldn’t be half of what it is. I hope that over time as they make their recurring guest appearances here you will get to know and love them even half as well as I do, because they are truly spectacular

A new normal.

It’s been less than a month since the official Crohn’s-Colitis diagnosis landed, like a punch to the gut, out of nowhere.  I feel like in the past few weeks it’s been all I’ve talked about. I’m tired of talking about, but I also can’t stop myself from talking about it. I guess that, in counselor speak, I’m still processing.

I’m trying to keep as much normalcy in my life as possible.

I’m lucky that I’m in a position at work where I can have some control over my schedule. So that I’ve stopped scheduling morning meetings, and on the days when I’m late I’m able to just call in and let my boss know how late I’m going to be.  With only a few weeks left in this school year I am hopeful that I can make it through, and not become overly reliant on having extra time in the morning. I’ve gone from a typical day being at my desk by 7:15 or 7:30 to being there closer to 8:30 or 9:00. I know this still seems early; but in the world of public education starting before 8:00 is standard. That’s why we get the ‘perk’ of being out earlier than five.

I’ve been slowly adding physical activity back into my schedule. Starting with my greatest passion, climbing. I’m on a two day a week climbing schedule, which is what I was on before; although I had been planning to up to three days a week.  It’s hard to keep my own frustration in check, as even though I’m hitting up the gym with the same frequency my climbing is not as strong as it was. Of course it’s not. In my head that’s logical. But when I’m struggling to send a 5.8 route and watching my climbing pals progress on 5.10’s my jealous, competitive side rears her ugly little head. I have to remind myself that on some days for me, just making it to the gym is a victory. A thought that doesn’t bring me a whole lot of comfort. Who is this sick girl, and what has she done with the real me?

I’ve dropped fighter fitness classes. I’ve dropped my home work outs. And yoga. As my symptoms continue to decrease in intensity I’m evaluating what should be added back in. Yoga will be the next to come back. A few months ago I bought a groupon for five classes at a yoga studio that I’ve been excited to try. Since breaking up with my Bikram studio last year, most of my yoga practice has been at home, with just an occasional class. But I know that for my practice to be where I really want it to be that I need to start going to classes again regularly. So I’m going to start with one class a week, on top of the two days of climbing.

Three days a week of activity. It just seems like… so little. But then, kickball starts again next Thursday nite. And while I’ve always considered kickball more social than truly athletic, at least it’s another day that I will be on my feet and moving around for an hour or so. So, four days of light to moderate physical activity. I hope my body cooperates, because this is just the beginning of me taking control back from this disease.

Welcome Crohn's Disease.

My body is traitorous bitch. You’d never know it simply by looking though.

I admit it, it’s only the past couple years that I’ve started really taking as good care of her as I should. And my motivations, in the beginning at least, were not of the noblest form – although the desire to keep off this persistent ten pounds that took up residency shortly after thirty doesn’t seem like the worst reason.

I changed my diet. I changed my activity level.  And as I got into better and better shape amazing things started happening. My energy level increased. My migraines decreased. I found sports activities and hobbies that I enjoyed, that I craved participation in. Not to mention that I’ve met some of the most amazing people who also keep me motivated. I’ve become comfortable in my own skin, not just psychologically, but physically. Comfortable with my body, knowing of the things that it can achieve.

As I approached my mid-thirties I was in the best physical shape of my life. Thirty-five was a scary age for me for a lot of reasons, but none of them remotely related to my physical health or well-being.

I should have known better.

The very day after my 35^th birthday I had an ‘emergency’ colonoscopy because of unexplained bleeding. Diagnosis Crohn’s-Colitis. Happy birthday to me from a chronic auto-immune disease that I am now learning to manage; something that will be a lifelong process.

I know, I know, I know. There are so many worse things that it could be. And my life is so full of so many other blessings. I feel petty, sometimes, even complaining.

Then I wake up the next morning, and I’m wracked with stomach pain so bad that it brings me to tears.  And I force myself out of bed, and sometimes I fall back over immediately and I all can do is curl up my knees and lay there for another 15 minutes to half hour until it lessens, somewhat.  In the past two weeks I’ve been curled up in my bed, and on my bathroom floor, more times than I’ve been able to keep track of.  It feels as if someone has their hands inside of my gut and is wringing my intestines around.  After I’ve managed to drag myself out of bed for the day I will get this feeling several more times.

But it’s worse in the mornings, SO, SO much worse, which means that usually by the time I’ve gotten myself together enough to venture out of my house I can put on a brave face.  I can live my life, for a few hours, as if that morning didn’t happen. Or at least as if it wasn’t quite that bad. And I can pretend that I actually believe that maybe tomorrow will better.  I can pretend that my new found fear of mornings isn’t one of the things keeping me up at nite, in addition  to the miraculous and evil prednisone. I can use my anger, and my fear to motivate me to not lay in bed and just become a sick person. Because, most of all, that alternative is what I refuse to allow my own traitorous cells to do to me.

I'll Miss You 'Til I Meet You

Okay, I couldn't find a live video of Dar singing this, so I chose a youtube video that someone put together. I think those are Dr. Who clips. ??

For me for several years this has been the sad, yet sweet and hopeful refrain that I find I myself humming the morning after many a disappointing evening...

Dar Williams: I'll Miss You 'Til I Meet You

The Ex's Wedding

I am essentially a divorced woman. I don't say this out loud very often, and I never talk about it. It depresses me; and also I don't want to get into any angry, philosophical arguments with someone about the fact that I was never actually married to my Ex totally negates my feelings on the matter. I know that I am not actually a divorced woman; but I am in every sense but legally.
I met my Ex when I was 23, and he was 20. We started dating when I was 25, moved in less than six months later and lived together for the next six years. Combined households, bank accounts, joint decision making. We shared a car. We came this >< close to buying a condo together.

He supported me through grad school. I supported him through the beginning, difficult middle and near disastrous end of a PhD program, which he exited ABD, but sane. We lived in three cities and four apartments. I had friends who married and divorced and became married to other people in the span of our relationship.

I've been asked many times "What happened?" or "What went wrong?" And I think that usually even though I do my best to answer, the person asking the question never feels satisfied with what I have to say. When there's a break-up after such a long time together people want fireworks, they want sparks, and anger. Or at least resentment and heavy disappointment. For the longest time after our relationship ended the only negative feeling I carried that I attached to it was guilt. And even that was hard to explain, because I didn't do anything wrong when we were together, I didn't cheat, I didn't lie to him, I didn't take advantage financially or otherwise.

So the guilt that I have held on to is just to the guilt of not being able to be to him what I knew he wanted me to be.  He was, he is still, one of the best men who I have ever known. I have moments when I know without a doubt that I will never again be in a relationship with someone who is as good of a person as he is. He was always kind, and caring and even though there were times in our relationship when I was disappointed, or moments when I was angry none of that ever grew to be larger or more important than the love and respect that I had for him as a person.
I guess it's one of those cliches where everything that looks perfect on paper just never quite translated to real life. I felt like we spent our whole time together in anticipation of what would be next, leaving Buffalo, moving to Boston, starting grad school, ending grad school, moving into a bigger apartment... When I look back at those times it is so obvious to me that the whole reason we were always focused on the future is because we were never happy, truly happy, in our present.

Still, ultimately I became the one to end things between us; a step that was frightening and inconceivable after the amount of time we had spent together that I put it off for months, if not years, longer than I should have. And after that I felt overwhelming relief, and tremendous guilt. I always believed that it was somehow my fault, that I couldn't be everything that he expected, that I couldn't love him enough, or in the right way and that all of the reasons for this lay in my own dysfunction.

We stayed friends, which freaked everyone around us out way more than it did us. Our former mutual friends were uncomfortable when we were in a room together, but we were fine.

Then about a year ago, I got an e-mail from him. I knew he's been dating someone seriously, I knew they were moving in together - actually moving across the country together to Salt Lake City. He was excited, which didn't surprise me, he was always excited about whatever comes next. So here they were, and then this e-mail landed in my inbox and became a revelation. He was happy, he loved it in SLC, he never wanted to move again. He didn't know if I could understand, but he felt like for the first time in his life that he was exactly where he should be.

Of course I understood; and I finally understood something else. I wasn't the only one who was not as happy as  I should have been when we were together. It wasn't just me that the relationship didn't fit on, it was both of us. I was just the one who finally gathered the strength to do something about it; knowing, hoping that ultimately we could both end up with the true happiness we were looking for. Butterflies happy.

That's what I am still looking for; and what he has found. Yesterday he married the love of his life, back home in Buffalo. The pictures on facebook look beautiful, and everyone looks so happy in them. I wish I could have been there, but I understand that having one's ex at a wedding is strange, and would have created more drama than it was worth.

It's been four years since we split, and sometimes I miss how close our friendship used to be. I understand that the fading of our friendship over time is a necessary part of moving on, compounded by both the growing distance in time, and the larger than ever physical distance between us, but I also know that he still is, and will always be one of the people who understands me the best. A person who chose to know all of me, and loved me just the same. Seeing him happy makes me happy, and hopeful.

Mozel Tov!