Self-care

Looking back on Facebook posts from this day last year, a piece of introspection caught my attention: http://jcenzo.blogspot.com/2016/01/the-way-i-am.html

In it I detailed a personal struggle of self-care, the hardest form of self-care there is: letting go of toxic people. 

It sounds on the surface like a simple thing, but in reality, for people like me, it’s arduous. 

I’m an only child, and while kind and friendly I’ve never been very outgoing. I have awkward tendencies. I have always been desperate for friends. So, once acquired, I tend to hold on to even the most toxic friendships because deep down I so badly want to be accepted and loved. 

Two and a half years ago, I was 7-8 months pregnant with our first child and that somehow finally offered me the clarity to say “enough”. I had a duty to myself and my child. I had to reduce the stress in my life. 

It wasn’t until after that I realized how toxic those friendships had really been. The weight that was lifted off me was a sudden and overwhelming relief. I felt like the first time in a long time, I could breath again. I no longer had to worry about what certain people thought of me or my actions. I was free. 

Today, I am 7-8 months pregnant with our second child. 

Over the weekend there was a baby shower that was everything a shower is supposed to be, full of loving friends who not only wanted to be there but wanted to help me in any way they could. They are genuinely exited for us and our family. I have a real support system this time around as opposed to a surface one. 

It is the hardest form of self-care. It is gut wrenching, panic inducing, and can take a long time to fully recover from it. But the rewards to your personal well-being are priceless. 

Servantless American cook

I hate cooking. I really do. Anything “from scratch” is typically exhausting and kitchen destroying in my view. I cook as an act of survival because myself and my family needs to eat. Some who view my “repertoire” might assume me to have a limited or unrefined palate — I don’t think that’s true. The fact of the matter is I greatly enjoy eating and trying new foods, I just do not enjoy preparing food. The addition of a toddler to the mix does nothing to help my apathy on the matter.

We are friends with many "foodies" and cooking enthusiasts. While on the one hand this grants the occasional opportunity to taste lovely things, it also leaves me with an irrational feeling of inadequacy or feeling judged. Not directly judged mind you — our friends would never be so rude or unkind. But reading things they share on social media on the subject often leave me saddened (this also falls under the “never read the comments” rule I keep forgetting to adhere to).

I cook with processed foods. I use things in jars, cans and boxes. Ingredients that are dried or frozen. Often on comments I see the ingredients I use being railed against: “I would never stoop so low as to using {blank}” and “I always {make my own, buy fresh, etc.}”.  While never directed at me personally, I still feel hurt. Rationally, I understand these statements are a matter of pride for those making them, but it still makes me feel “lesser than” for my cooking. 

I try to make relatively healthy, tasty food. It’s a task that’s only going to get harder as our baby gets older and (eventually) our family getting bigger. And I love you dearly, but friends who say “it’s really simple, you just…” do not understand — your idea of simple very rarely matches my own (bless your hearts all the same for wanting to help).

My point is this: Quick does not equal “lazy”. Simple and convenient does not equal “disgusting”. My type of cooking does not mean I’m uneducated or “lesser than”. And thus far I have not gotten a complaint on anything I make (that I myself deem a success). 

To the foodie world in general: by all means, be proud of what you’ve accomplished culinary wise, but please stop glaring down your nose at the rest of us — you are different than me, that by no means makes you better than me.

The way I am

Just over a year and a half later and I still blame myself. I still feel a pit in my stomach and occasionally feel like crying.

What happened, you may ask? It’s simple and yet incredibly complicated. I was myself. And it’s that same self which causes me to feel this way a year and half later. 

I am at my core insecure and socially awkward. I panic and worry about saying wrong thing. And despite many from outside saying I did nothing wrong, I still feel at fault. 

Over 7 months pregnant and I mishandled a delicate and emotional incident. People I thought were my friends assumed the worst of me, things I never on my worst day would have thought of them. Horrible words were hurled at me by one of them. I was told I was not a victim so don’t I dare act like it. 

True friends don’t do that. People that honestly care about you give you the benefit of the doubt. They think “that’s not like her, so it probably wasn’t meant that way.” And then they check, they ask, they don’t accuse. But no. I was a thoughtless, horrible person who should feel horrible — but we can totally still be friends as long as I had learned my lesson. And I actually agreed. At first.

Then I stepped back. I looked back over the previous months and even years and realized these people, these so called good friends had practically only ever contacted me if they needed something from me. Neither one checked in to just to say hi or see how I was doing, though I did that for them (and if I didn’t do that for them regularly, I was a bad friend). 

After days of council from people who really did care about me I came to realize I couldn’t continue with that negativity in my life. I was pregnant, about to be a mother and the stress was not good for me. So I stopped. I stopped checking in with one, and with the other I backed off and gave them the space they requested. And when I did that, the friendships ended. I felt an incredible weight lift off of me I and no idea I was carrying. 

And yet, just over a year and half later, at my weakest points, I still blame myself. I see bits of happiness I would be involved in if we were still friends and I wonder if there was something I could have or should have done to fix things.

I guess that’s just the way I am.

(artwork by Marie Esther, http://marie-esther.deviantart.com)

Crisis of faith

Warning, religious rant ahead…

In the last couple years, I have had a crisis of faith. I very rarely talk about my faith because it’s a hot button issue for many and for that reason I prefer to be an unknown entity.
I was raised to believe that being Christian meant following the teachings of Christ and living by his example. I was taught to be accepting, empathetic to the plight of others, give time or funds to causes that feed the hungry, heal the sick and injured, and/or clothe the poor — including outside the country. Turns out, a lot of Christians (particularly in the U.S.A.) believe otherwise. They believe that archaic cultural and patriarchal influences on the bible are more important than good works. To top that off, turns out if I don’t believe as they do I’m not technically a Christian, because a real Christian would follow “the book” blindly without regard for history.
They are incredibly self-centered rather than selfless, screaming about infringements on their right to be bigots and the supposed war on Christmas. Guess what? Not everything is about YOU. This is NOT a Christian nation, and no, your beliefs are not any more important than anyone else’s who lives here. And for the love of God (literally) educate yourselves — many of the current Christmas traditions (including the date) were appropriated from other faiths in order to make Christianity “fit” better for the cultures of those the church was recruiting to the faith. And that's OK. They are not all YOURS. Christmas has become a secular holiday — get over it. Let everyone celebrate as they see fit.
Stop acting like spoiled children. Your willful ignorance is what is killing this once great nation. Frankly I wish we could put you all in “time out” in a single state cut off from federal assistance of any kind until you learn to play well with others.

I am a Christian, but one of my own definition, and if you don’t like it tough — I don’t need or want you in my tribe anyway.

Mama

A few days ago, something startling happened. While listening to our child whining from her crib about her impending nap on the monitor, we heard something. We both stared at the little white box. And my husband said “I think she just said mama.” Then we heard it again. Definitely. Maybe. "Mama.”

After that it turned into a string of verbiage “Mama. (quieter: ma ma ma ma ma) Mama.” She started doing this again when my husband was watching her while I was at work. He said “Mama’s not here.” And she quietly stared at him, then resumed playing. Or switched to general whining.

At 7 1/2 months old I hesitate to assume this is her first word, her first real clear word. M noises are simple to make and it’s likely just a progression of that… right?

I’ve been struggling lately with my own personal concept of being a good mom. I have never been and organized person. I only cook because I like to eat. I like baking but detest the cleaning that comes after. My “mama” goals for myself include cooking more “homemade” meals, doing laundry more regularly, and cleaning more frequently.

My husband helps by keeping an eye on the baby, feeding the baby etc. while I tend to these chores.

So far, I’ve added two new recipes to my very limited repertoire. But on evenings when I do venture to “cook all the things” it comes with a completely destroyed kitchen. So one improvement makes another thing on my list more difficult. Add a screaming, teething baby and I tend to collapse in a chair and do none of “the things”. 

Mama.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled my baby loves me. I adore holding and cuddling her while she giggles. But I’m tired. And there is a ton of whining and screaming between giggle sessions.

“OK sweetie, repeat after me — Da-da."

Bless her heart

Hi! I’m the friend that means well. I suspect the term “bless her heart” or something of that nature is used in reference to me frequently. 

It’s amusing to me when people think I’m outgoing or social — I’m really not. I’m a mess in nearly all social situations. Particularly just before something begins. My palms sweat, I pace the floor. 

I constantly worry that my friends dislike me in some way. One social misstep or misspeak and I beat myself up for months. 

I’m the friend that means well. 

I suspect my husband is often puzzled as to why I’m so jubilant after we have friends over — it’s because I was reassured by their mere presence that there are people out there who like me and enjoy my company. I need that reassurance. I thrive off of it. If I go to long without it, the worry festers and makes me miserable. So I push myself to host gatherings, and leave the house and do things, so that I can breath again. So that I can get the validation I need and stop the voices of doubt in my head. 

Unfortunately, this often leads to my being taken advantage of or letting myself be mistreated in my constant desire to be liked, because I am the friend that means well.

This all feeds into my New Year Resolution: To stop dwelling on past hurts on a daily basis and focus more on the positives the future holds with my husband, daughter and our loved ones. I am tired of making myself sick over events from the past year that I can not fix or change. I’m tired of blaming myself when in truth I did nothing wrong. 

I am liked. 

I am loved. 

And that’s all that matters. 

Grandpa

My grandfather — my last living grandparent — passed away late yesterday afternoon.

I remember when I was in college trying to tell him what I was planning to do with my life. Journalism was never an acceptable venture in my grandfather’s mind. I could always be a waitress, “if you’re good at it you can make good tips ya know,” or even an onion farmer — anything but a “journalist.”

When I told him I was getting married and introduced him to my then fiancé, he said something along the lines of "Oh, that's nice" and proceeded to tell my husband all about the government and how my husband's job at DFAS actually works, as opposed to how my husband explained it to him.

To be blunt, my grandfather was a narcissistic bastard, a trait that only got worse with age. He was opinionated about everything. And lord knows he loved to pick fight. 

But in addition to all of that, he was also there for every play, every concert. He proudly took photos of my high school graduation, though no one ever saw them — I suspect the film is still in the camera wherever that ended up. He nursed me through countless ear infections and stomach bugs. He told me funny stories about his youth and fought with me over the black olives at Easter dinner.  He made me pancakes for supper and taught me how to play golf. When I was young, he did everything a grandfather should do, and for a girl with four grandmothers he was the only “grandpa” I felt fit the role. 

Simply put, I loved him. Despite everything, every negative comment or action, I loved him, and I know that he loved me in his own way— and perhaps that was enough.