My journey with decluttering

Five Minute Friday: Real

It’s that time of the week again, when we let our words fly and take shape for the fun of it.

1. Write for 5 minutes flat – no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking

2. Link back to The Gypsy Mama and invite others to join in.

3. Please visit the person who linked up before you & encourage them in their comments.

OK, are you ready? Give me your best five minutes on:

Real…

God never place us in any position in which we can not grow. We may fancy that He does. We may fear we are so impeded by fretting, petty cares that we are gaining nothing; but when we are not sending any branches upward, we may be sending roots downward. Perhaps in the time of our humiliation, when everything seems a failure, we are making the best kind of progress.- Elizabeth Prentiss

Sometimes I feel stuck. The days seem to repeat endlessly and each trial continues and each step feels as though I am retracing a path with tracks from my drifting heart . Sometimes I find myself in familiar surroundings and I wonder at how I have allowed myself to come back here. To this place that I thought I had moved beyond.

We talk of getting real. Of letting each other lean in close and see us as we are, the no makeup greasy ponytail girl staring into a full closet of clothes that no longer fit and deciding it’s not worth going out today.

The weight watchers name tag, Hello My Name is Alia sticker you found on the back of your jeans when you undressed at night and you realize you ran all of your errands since your meeting that morning with it stuck to your butt. And that one of those errands was buying ice cream and cake mix because you weighed in and the scale was mocking your hard work and you give up so easily.

Your toddler saying “Put me down you idiot,” at a homeschool ceremony while he struggles to get free of your grasp and you know he learned that word from you and your road rage. And you wonder how these kids of yours will ever turn out alright when they copy you so readily. And the worst parts always seem to come out.

And you feel like a failure. Again.

Some days you feel the draw of depression pulling you down. The invitation to stop caring. To stop trying and just close your eyes and your bed is calling you, it is pleading for you to stay. It would be so much easier. And you find yourself there again. In this place you’ve moved beyond and you know you don’t want to stay here. You know that this is where your heart goes to die. To be alone.

You want to be real but you also want to be loved. And sometimes you don’t feel the real is lovable. Sometimes the real is messy and pitiful or weak and broken.

Sometimes your real feels whiny and complaining and you know you should choose joy but what comes out sounds fake and syrupy and you don’t want to be that girl. The one who never seems real, with the platitudes and life lessons wrapped up neatly. The one who never lets the messy bits show.

So you choose to keep silent and alone and settle into this familiar place. Or you may choose to tell it all. To let the messy bits show and hope for the best, to set out on the path even if you’re not sure where you’ll end up.

Sometimes it is enough to say that I am a failing in these areas. And that God is at work. And that is good enough. The best, really. God knows our real, our ruts in the road from life’s ordeals, why would we try to hide them from the ones He’s put in our lives to help us find the way back? Our friends.

To all of my friends who cover my messy parts and still love me, I’m so blessed by each of you.

Comments: 14 Comments Category: Blogging, Decluttering, Depression, Relationship Tags: blogging, fat, five minute Fridays, friends, God, mom fail, self image

Decluttering Part Six: First I Was a Failure, Now I am a Quitter

I have a desire to be healed. To be made whole in the areas where I am not. To have the scars fade to pale flesh like stretch marks that snake across my soul and call to remembrance the growing pains and tearing of flesh that couldn’t quite keep up. The scars that only time fades but the joy of new life makes insignificant. God has called me to new life

I want to be healthy. Not a physical goal or fantasy but a desire to be free. To be able to instill good habits into my children. To be able to say with confidence that my fat suit has been shed no matter what size I am in. That I have struggled and flailed and failed but that I am walking in victory and grace.

I am a quitter. In the worst sense of the word. Sometimes it’s as if I have the attention span of an overstimulated toddler. There is always something new and shiny to play with and nothing ever comes to fruition because I quit before it is finished.

I believe that this time it will work. It hasn’t, as evidenced by the treadmill, the spin bike, the jogging stroller, the calorie monitor, the bike trailer, the millions of exercise videos, the blender, mixer, diet books, gym memberships, pots of cabbage soup, shakes, subscriptions to meal plans and any other shiny things that somehow convinced me that this was the key to my success.

I begin the list with the pros and cons. If there are enough pros and emotional excitement (shininess) , I forge ahead with determination. Cabbage soup for 30 days while losing 40 lbs. Sounds good till day 3 and more gas than any normal human should be capable of making.

Somewhere between the base camp and the trek up the mountain, I lose steam. I look to the summit, the distant far off place where I would plant my flag and it’s altogether too far. The incline and terrain are too brutal. The days too long and cold.

I start to wonder why I ever wanted to climb this stupid mountain in the first place.

After all, lots of people are perfectly content to stay below. They probably have enchiladas below and comfy beds and WiFi. Either way, this mountain climbing business is not for me.

And then, I quit, but instead of trekking back down the mountain, I sled down, gaining speed and crashing at the bottom with 20 extra pounds over my starting point and a bunch of uneaten Jenny Craig meals in the freezer.

Apparently, I’m more of a small hill kind of girl than a big mountain. Or maybe I’m a plateau girl. That’s even better. A bit steep at first but then it all levels out and you still have a decent view without the nosebleeds and altitude sickness.

Maybe the quitting is inevitable because I am attempting to climb Everest when I should really be looking for a nice hill with a paved trail.

Maybe it’s not so much in the revamping of all that is wrong but in the consistency of the steps I am taking.

Maybe my quitting is actually the right thing for me, because I’m always going about it all wrong.

Maybe the constant attempts to ascend the mountain unprepared have just left me increasingly weaker and more traumatized.

Maybe the view from the hill is good enough for now.

Maybe, I need to stop hating the process, stop hating the failures I feel and start embracing the journey. Step up into grace and take in the view from the plateau. Allow myself to notice the things that I can see from here and focus on those.

Everest can wait. I quit.

Do you have any mountains to quit? Hills to rest on? I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Comments: 23 Comments Category: Decluttering Tags: discipline, fat, mom fail, self image, stripped

Decluttering Part Five: I’m Failing My Kids

I can hear the soft rustle of her feet as she pads sleepily down the hall. I see tiny hands with chipped pink polish, lifting the blankets edge and then the softest wisp of a breathe on the side of my cheek as she nestles into the curve of my arm and settles where my heart beats. She is so beautiful to me. Her soft hair flowing over the pillow.

Kaia is beautiful

He pulls up on the bed, grasping with tiny fingers, a bounding cable of boy energy stretched long and flying toward us. He flops his head onto my shoulder and lets out a howl of chuckles, not like a girl but a deep thing floating from his lungs. He is all boy. This little man in my arms. I pull his body to mine. I feel his heart race with excitement as he jumps free and springs across the bed like a bounding creature.

Nehemiah swinging

And then there’s my oldest, on the cusp of manhood but still so much a boy. He doesn’t bound in like he used to. He sits more tentatively on the edge of the bed. Still wanting to join in but more reserved. He is finding his boundaries, his space. He’s not so quick to hug or snuggle. He carries his adolescent awkwardness with him at this age. I have to chase him down for affection but he is always ready for attention. For my time and praise.

Judah

He’s hurting. I can see it. He feels trapped and lost and is waiting for me to take the lead, after all, I’m his mom. I’ve taught him everything else from the time he was potty training with Thomas the Train undies to writing a persuasive essay in grammar.

But this, this I can’t teach. Haven’t learned.

I’m failing them. And I know that there is only so much we can do as moms. But then again, there is so much we can do as moms!

I see the areas where I am weak, where I struggle, and oh how it slices through me to see those same struggles and strongholds in my children’s lives. Food addiction and gluttony. Seeing it as comfort and overindulging. Piling my plate high when I should be turning to God for those empty and broken places which food never fills.

I don’t know how to change it.

How do you deal with flesh and need in your children’s lives when you haven’t even begun to deal with it in your own?

How do you set boundaries and help without it seeming like you are always judging or policing everything that goes into their mouths? Without making them feel worse than they already do?

How do you set an example when you are so weak? When you’ve tried and failed more times than you can count? When you can’t see your own worth and you hide behind your fat suit and hold people at a distance?

I watched my dad battle these demons all of his life and I know now, he wasn’t judging me as my weight ballooned as I made poor choices and he saw my health declining. He felt just as inadequate to help me as I do now as a mom watching my children imitate me.

I’m failing, guys. I know it. I am stripped bare and exposed. And all I can do is admit I am failing and I need help.