You Are Not Alone

My car was sliding on ice and off the highway and I thought about my heart rate and realized that wasn’t the best use of my mental efforts during that time, and chastised myself, the ADHD, questioned ADHD’s existence, and back to blaming myself for poorly timed self awareness before the car stopped spinning. I turned on my hazards so the car behind me didn’t hit me.

Dogs are so simple. Sometimes I envy the trees.

I remember wondering what it would be like to be blind. I can’t close my eyes and be blind, that’s different. Trees don’t see the backs of their eyelids like I do.

I remember watching the 2am trees Christmas Morning 1993, too excited to sleep. They were blue and swaying. I wondered if they knew it was Christmas, I wondered if they knew they were cold, I wondered if they knew I was watching them. I wondered if they were watching me. I put my hand under my bed and tried to imagine seeing without eyes, but I knew I wouldn’t understand.

What is anxiety?
That's a real question.
I want to know.

They say children don't develop an ego until about 7.
Before then, instead of “I am sad” it’s just “SAD!”
Instead of “I want that” it’s just “THAT!”

A guy once, at a conference I was speaking at, said I was the most self aware person he’s ever talked to. I was surprised at how seen that made me feel.
I don’t feel seen often.
This is me trying.  

They said I have anxiety and I believed them but I didn’t want to do anything about it so they left me alone.

When I was a kid, I used to call it “The Story”
I would tell people, in 3rd grade, that I write stories in my head. And I bounce back and forth between the actor and the author. I would tell that that I think I am spending more time as the author because the actor keeps checking in to make sure everything is ok.

Is that anxiety?

I started getting nervous about how often I would notice my own existence. But, even more, when I asked the other 4th graders about the authors in their heads, and no one had much to say on the topic.

I didn’t know how concerned I was supposed to be with fitting in with everyone else. I was trying to figure out how I fit in with own mind.

I stopped asking them within a few months.
I guess this is an attempt to ask again.

Last week, the girl was dancing at the concert, to a bouncy sounding song about suicide.
God, she annoyed me. “Do you even know what this song is about?”
But who is happier, her or me?
Her and her also dancing boyfriend, taking selfies, numb to the intensity of the moment.
I was alone.

I wish they never told me I was smart. Don’t tell children that.
I looked around at all the other kids, and finally understood why the rest of the world wasn’t like me, but now the only thing more scary than my own mind is needing people.

I used to talk to the people who were running my version of The Truman Show.
I wish I’d not seen that movie when I was 10.
I remember being certain of absolutely nothing except that I am alone.

But this helps.

“I have been told sometimes the most healing thing we can do is remind ourselves over, and over, and over, other people feel this too.”
-Andrea Gibson

So,  I think about you when I’m afraid to share this.
I see you.

Trying To Try

Trying To Try

I coach people of all ages in a wide variety of levels of fitness and sport. But my niche seems to be working with insecure teenagers.

I love it.

Probably because I was one of them: a perfectionist with lots of energy, who was a little bit bigger than the other girls, and clumsy, built for strength, but never super fit and very insecure. I wanted nothing more than to be an athletic person. I never dreamt of being a figure skater, or a competitive volleyball player, I just wanted to move beautifully in my body, a goal I still strive for today.

These kids I work with, they remind me every day, to say the same things I say to them, to myself.

I’ve worked with this incredibly bright 12 year old girl, we will call her Tina, for almost 4 years now. When we first started, she would come in everyday and tell me about something that hurts her, or why she is so tired, or cannot do what was planned for the day. I remember asking her to do 5 burpees for a warmup, which ended up taking about 17 minutes because she would, in the most almost impressively sloppy way, make her way to one knee...whine about something...another knee...whine...hand goes down...ask for water...whine...have a coughing fit...NEED WATER...you get the point.

It’s so hard to explain that if you just do the 5 burpees, and don’t spend so much energy focused on how much you don’t want to do it, it would be over, you would be a tad more fit, I would be a happier coach, and you would have more fun.

She didn’t want to do it because she was afraid of being really bad at it.

She wanted to be fit. She hated exercise, but she kept WANTING to be good at it. And she kept coming to her sessions. She actually asked her mom for private lessons, so she could get better, but not have the pressure of the group classes.

That’s the first thing I ask kids the first day I work with them. “Did you want to come, or did your parents make you?”

It changes the way I coach them.

I work with lots of kids who so strongly hate exercise, but still want to come. They are trying to get better, they just didn't know how to get out of their own way.

How do I teach kids to get out of their own way and embrace the already-good-enoughness of themselves?

We adults do this too. Self imposed limitations...most athletes, teachers, artists, parents, anyone who has ever wanted to be good at something, we know, that rabbit hole goes deep.

I like to call the first of many turnarounds Tina and I had, “Trying to try.”

It requires a ton of self reflection to differentiate between “trying” and “trying to try”

Now, one could get real philosophical with this concept. I still struggle with it daily. Tina would say all the time “I am trying, it's just….”

We moved into her asking herself ‘Am I trying to get better at this?’ or

‘Am I trying to try to get better at this?’

I use this all the time now---for myself and for my athletes/clients. Sometimes I don’t yet know how to try. Sometimes I make choices that don’t serve me because I don’t know how to make better ones yet. But just as yelling, judging, and belittling Tina for her “excuses” would have only pushed her away, I know now, that trying to try is still trying. And that deserves compassion and curiosity and space to grow.

“I am trying to watch my calories, it’s just I had a stressful day and I really want these cookies!”

Who doesn’t know what I’m talking about?

I was about 3 years into CrossFit and still couldn’t do one double under (an advanced movement where the jump rope goes under your feet twice for every jump) before I realized I wasn’t trying. I would go outside and futz around, and get annoyed and upset with myself. Mostly, I wanted everyone to see how hard I was working on getting them. That was more important to me than actually being able to do them. I was only trying to try. Once I realized that, I started trying and I got them eventually. Getting out of your own way is hard.

Tina and I came up with a system of categories:

“Trying” is putting in effort, to the best of your understanding

“Trying to try” is showing up but still resisting

“Not trying” is actively and consciously not investing in your goal

There is a lot of space for self-awareness between trying and not trying.

Most of us, have to try to try before we learn to trust ourselves enough to try.

And, wherever you are, that will always be enough.

Apathy

Thursday, November 8th. Ventura county is being evacuated for fire. The same county where early this morning, at Borderline Bar & Grill in Thousand Oaks, Calif a man walked in with a gun and killed 11 people and then himself. That means that there are people who, yesterday lost a loved one, and now have to evacuate their homes, in the same day. I wonder where they go? I wonder how their nervous system deals with something like this; the mere survival mode they must feel. Numb to the trauma of it all.

I wondered where I would go. I only thought about them for a moment before my depression came roaring back because I am upset at the world for not liking my stories about me.

I was seeking validation, outside on my patio overlooking Baker Beach, on a sunny Thursday mid-morning, taking a bikini yoga photo. Validation that proved, not necessarily that I am pretty, but just that I just exist. The Golden Gate Bridge was visible and I turned my camera toward it in the background. I didn’t get a photo that made me feel attractive enough to get the attention I craved before the fog horns started. When I looked up it was only hazy. No fog. I was bummed. I wanted the sunshine. I have been fighting this depression hard...or trouble surrendering into it; I haven't figured out the difference yet.

The sun helps and it’s going away.

I didn’t know it was smoke.

It was almost time to go back to work. I had a few hours of free time, and I spent the majority of the time taking selfies. Superficial, and obvious, I was desperate enough to not care. I dismissed thoughts of how hypocritical I might be. I knew self care had to come in likes on Instagram today. A solo patio yoga session—usually enough to pick me up, just isn’t enough today. I need people to tell me they see me, and I didn’t care how cheap the solicitation. I posted a few photos of me in positions I thought people would be impressed by, and I looked ok, and I went to work. The likes rolled in.

I took one really unattractive, unposed, sitting down photo on my IG stories, at attempt to ‘keep it real’ or something like that. Belly roles, pimples, the red marks on my chest and neck from Jiu Jitsu, armpit hair---all visible. Usually, I love how imperfect I get to be. To be a good role model for girls, when they aren’t perfect. But, today, I felt the need to be imperfectly…perfect… you know what I mean? The more attractive photos that made their way to my actual IG page validated this. Here is proof: I am frumpy, chubby, hairy, and flawed, but I CAN be pretty.

Look. See. There I am, being pretty, in this beautiful location.

Likes. Likes. Likes.

But I’m still mad at you world.

You know why?

Four people liked my blog post last week. Four

You know how much time and effort I put into that?

It was emotionally taxing, vulnerable, insightful, clever.

I hated it, and I worked and edited it, and met with a coach and eventually, I liked it.

Four.

The world owes me more.

Art owes me more.

This isn’t fair.

I’m better than this.

I’m mad at you.

I’m mad at art.

I’m mad at myself for wondering.

I’m mad at all the artists I love who valiantly explain, via press releases, to crying, screaming audiences about how they had played shows to two people, and how that seemed so heroic, and necessary.

This seems so dismal.

I’m mad that I want to give up. I’m mad that I don’t wanna do this anymore. I’m mad that I don’t want to share this with you anymore.

I’m mad that just knowing someone read something I write gives me so much joy. I’m mad that I deserve joy. I’m mad that I am concerned about joy while people’s houses are burning down, and people are being shot.

I’m mad that whenever I write, the subject becomes the predicate.

Always.

I hate writing.

Why do we share our art?

I’m mad that I need feedback.

I’m mad that I need revisions.

I’m mad that it’s not perfect as is,

as it pours out of my stupid little pathetic brain, I hate, it’s not enough.

I’m mad I have to change it for you.

I’m mad about how right other people are.

I hate having to rely on other people.

I hate that I need you.

I hate how this is sounding like a poem.

I hate that I don’t know what a poem is.

I hate that I don’t know what a poem isn’t.

The way this feels.

The way this feels.

I hate, so much, how wonderful this feels, and then have to turn it in.

To you.

You stupid people who just prefer an ass photo.

I hate giving you that.

I hate that I am just like you.

I hate that my mom says she would read my stuff if it wasn’t so long but she likes it anyway.

I hate all the things I wrote that I love that I can’t share because I am not good enough.

Why can’t I love them if I don’t share them?

Why do we need to share our art?

I hate where this is going. I hate imagining what you are thinking.

This is my favorite thing, you are ruining it.

Predicting everything you will say is wrong about this.

Predicting what you will say you like, and what I will know you lied about.

Predicting everything you won’t say.

Predicting it as I am writing it.

Predicting you don’t care.

Apathy

Predicting silence.

How can something be so horrible before it exists?

This is who I think I am.

I’m afraid of not being good at it.

I’m afraid of the hard work I know has to happen.

I’m mad at myself that I don’t have the growth mindset yet to be ok with the growth I need.

I’m afraid of not being who I hope I am.

I hate being afraid.

I hate that the world is burning and I’m still begging you,

please like this.

91K

“Don’t let my ghost drag you down
If you don’t see me around
It doesn’t mean that I failed
Yea, I’m doing well
I got some roses to smell
I hope you smile when I’m gone
It means I had the strength to move on
To find another story to tell
To answer the bell
I got some roses to smell.”

— George Watsky, Roses

The number one regret of dying people is that they worked too much.

I don’t think this is news for most of us. Most people believe it.  Most alive people would agree they very rarely feel alive in their life---never really being ok with it, but never really knowing what to do about it. Always working toward happiness, but very seldomly getting there. It’s amazing that we live in a society that we have to try so, so, so hard, to just enjoy our lives. Happiness is kinda sold to us. Marketed with a very high price point because we are taught our whole lives that we have to earn this feeling of aliveness.

It’s late February 2018, I had my daunting to do list, one of which I specifically was not looking forward to, but with Tax Day steadily approaching I begrudgingly settled in, with a rare hour or two of free time, to start to fill out my taxes. When I was in college, I would get money back every year. I received generous grants for college, for being from a household below the poverty level,  and would get returns for interest paid on student loans. Rather linearly, I’ve received less money back, and then, about 26, I broken even, and have had to actually pay going forward. For 2017, I was surprised to have reached a new income bracket, and therefore, had to pay much more than usual. The fact that I kinda hate the government right now, and have to pay them more money, hurt, but I quickly forgot about it when I saw the number of how much I made that year.

91k. I stared at my computer screen. “No.” I actually vocalized out loud.

It seemed wrong. I checked to make sure I wasn’t looking at someone else’s account. I rechecked the math 10 times. I divided that by 12 to see a monthly average. I compared it to last year, another big jump. I compared it to what I think my mom makes, more than she would ever see. I felt badly for her helping me with a flight home for Christmas last year. And then I realized I was late for improv rehearsal and had to run out. In the Tenderloin, in San Francisco, rushing past people with their dogs, and blankets, and gifted takeout food, and tents, sleeping on the street. I was terrified of one of them asking me for money. How could I say no? 91k. That’s so much money. I have so much money.  How could I say I don’t have any money to give them?

My brain still spinning, I welcomed the distraction of rehearsal, but as soon as I left the shock of my income weighed even heavier.

Every charity I didn’t give to. The time I went to the thrift store, and the cashier thought the  backpack I was buying was already mine, and didn’t ring it up, and I didn’t say anything. The times when I was petty and split the cost of appetizers.

Laying in bed that night, statements like “I am a wealthy person. I make more money than the average American. I have an obligation to help people. I am financially privileged.”

It felt icky. I felt like a superhero who didn’t want their power. All of it felt so, just not who I wanted to be.

I tried to be proud. I remembered the day, in 2001, when I came home and saw the pink sticker on my front door, explaining that we had to be out of the house I had lived in my whole life, in 3 days. The $650 a month for rent my father couldn’t come up with. The fact that that number, $650, is burned into my memory, because my dad talked about it every single month. The conversation my dad had with the guy at the EconoLodge to try to convince them that he would pay soon. Me sitting in my dad’s 1989 velvet red Chevy van, with however much of my 14 years of life I could fit into 3 days of frenetic packing. It was about 2 am because we had until midnight, when the cops would came to escort us out, to keep packing, and we needed every second. I was a freshman in high school, and it was finals week. I had an Algebra final the next day. I was a good student and got good grades. I knew this was how poverty works in cycles. I knew other kids had comfy chairs to sit in to study that same night.

I always felt confident that I wasn’t going to end up like my parents, but I didn’t really ever dream I would see 91k. Looking back now, I never really had aspirations to have a lot of money. I always wanted to pursue adventure, excitement, and meaning out of my life.

Back in my bed, home from rehearsal I was trying to sleep. It was dark, I was burning a $14 candle because I liked the Woodwick ones that crackle a little. I pictured the other kids around the world who couldn’t study because they didn’t have a home.  I thought about the money I had spent on expensive yoga pants, or fancy beer because I didn’t even look at the price tag, buying organic bananas, which cost twice as much, even though I know organic bananas are no different than conventional bananas because I don't eat the peel, all because I didn’t have anything else to do with my money. I wished I could just give the kids the money instead.

My eyes watered. I don’t want it. Let them have it. How do I give it to them? Crying, as I finally drifted to sleep.

Up very early the next day to rush to work, it all felt so dumb---so unnecessary. I thought about all the hours at work I put in to make all this money I didn’t want. All the free time I missed out on, and stress I had about making sure I made enough money. The bewilderment of watching my bank account going up, but not having much I wanted to do with it.

Is this the American Dream? Is this a rags to riches story? It didn’t feel like it.

My career reached a point where I knew I was working more than I actually needed to, but I really loved my job. I would get emails from parents, of children who were being shamed by their PE teacher, girls who absolutely hated moving and exercising when we first met, begging for a second or third day of the week, kids who told their parents they had to quit gymnastics because they don’t look like the other kids in leotards, boys who couldn’t deal with the toxic masculinity of high school sports, but want to exercise, how could I say no? My schedule was beyond full. The parents were really happy with the kids’ increase in confidence and health, and were sending their friends’ kids.

Let’s review:

I came up from a poor family, I created a career that I absolutely love. I know my work is adding positivity in the world, and is financially successful. I live in my dream city that I handpicked, and I live on a beach, and see the water everyday. I am in an amazing improv troupe that challenges me artistically.

I had created a dream life.

No really, my first real coach, and one of the most influential mentors to me as a young adult, took me to breakfast once, in like 2012, and asked me what my dream life looks like. That’s nearly exactly what I told him. And now I had it.

And I felt like I was drowning in it.

Seeing that number on my tax return, really shook me. As many times as I checked the name, I knew it wasn’t really me. It felt wrong. I knew I wasn't living my life. But I couldn’t understand what was missing.

Sundays I work like 11 hours straight, they are always long, rewarding, challenging, and emotionally exhausting days of giving myself to my teen and youth clients. I don’t get breaks, not because I don’t want to have them, but because I’m trying to squeeze in appointments to serve as many kids as possible. Whenever I get a last minute cancellation, I am always really happy to leave and get some sun and food, neither of which I have much access to on Sundays.

One Sunday, a few Sundays after I submitted my 2017 taxes, I had a cancellation, and headed over to this ACAI bowl place across the street from my work. It was such a beautiful day, the sun was bright and it was warm. When I got there, there was a sign on the door: “Went Surfing. Sorry. Had to.” I’m not sure I have ever been more jealous of someone in my life. I stared at the door, the sign. The lightness of it. The lights turned off inside. The strategic choice to potentially piss off customers. The fact that they dismissed those thoughts, that I, as someone who runs a business, know they had to have considered. The fact that the handwriting was in highlighter, curvy, large and friendly, I suspected it was a woman’s handwriting. I pictured her surfing. I pictured her being the CEO of a company that sells ACAI bowls. I pictured her being able to be both. I saw myself in the reflection of the door. I felt the sun nearly invite me into it. I knew I had to go back inside soon. I realized what’s wrong. It really seemed so obvious. I want to go surfing.

I had been so busy building this dream career and life, I forgot to have the time to enjoy it.

The balance that this ACAI bowl company owner/ surfer was able to find inspired me, as I hurried back to work, without an ACAI bowl, but with a new outlook, I knew I had to make some really big, really scary changes in my life.

My friend who is a parent, and I recently had a conversation about healing. He argued that parents often put so much of their efforts into healing their children, they don’t realize how harmful of a cycle they are creating by giving up on healing themselves.

I cannot help these kids if I have nothing to give. I cannot fake it. I don’t want to fake it. I don’t want to be someone who tells them what to do but hasn’t done it. I want to be someone who is actually successful and gets to share my thoughts with them and hold space for them. I want to be a real role model of a successful life, not just on paper. Not just on my tax returns.

I am so thankful for these kids. If it wasn’t for them, and trying to be my best for them, I don’t know if I would have the energy to try to change. After putting so much effort into creating this seemingly perfect life, admitting it’s not balanced was hard.

I see it in them too. So many kids tell me about how they are so stressed about achieving goals that they don’t have the time, or the empowerment to truly wonder if they really even care about. Fourth graders losing sleep about an assignment at school that they are convinced will determine if they get into the college of their parent’s dreams.

Whose definition of success are you pursuing?

This is something I ask kids at work a lot.

I knew I had to really ask myself this too.

When I explained, over breakfast, to my first coach, years ago, what I wanted. I definitely didn’t picture being this busy.

I definitely imagined a lot of surfing. And poetry, and hiking, swimming, long slow workouts, yoga, books, biking, cafe’s, trains and trips, theatre, dancing, mountain biking, writing, jumping off cliffs, meditation, creating, wandering around the city aimlessly, wandering around other cities aimlessly, falling in love, falling out of love, taking lots of random classes about things I’ll never understand, sleeping in, watching sunsets, Sunday brunch, fancy diners, dive sushi places, going on midnight walks…

But I let myself believe those things would come when I had earned them.

That’s the American Dream that’s being sold to us right now.

Whose definition of success are you pursuing?

Feeling alive is a birthright.

Doing the things that make you feel alive should be the majority of your life.

Nothing else really makes sense to me.

I do not want to spend my life building something that I don’t ever get to play with.

Or I only get to play with for a few exhausted hours every weekend.

I would argue that’s the meaning of life: To be alive.

Jobs, and money, cars, clothes, titles, and responsibilities---those are just the buy-ins.

How expensive is your life?

“You see what we are doing is we are bringing up children, and educating them, to live the sort of lives we are living, in order that they may justify themselves, and find satisfaction in life, by bringing up their children, to bring up their children, to bring up their children...it’s all retching, no vomit, it never gets there.

And so, therefore, it’s so important to ask this question: What do I desire? What makes you alive? And you do that.”

— Alan Watts

I love my job. I’m proud of what I have created, however, I’m starting the very challenging process of backing away some, because in order for me to be a happy person, and a real example for these kids, I have to define my own success, and sometimes, I have to take the day off from them and go surfing.

Behavior Modification

Behavior Modification

and being thrust back into reality

When I was in the yoga ashram, I realized there is a lot about my life that I want to/need to change/improve/grow. I made a list. For a while, the list felt like the reason I was there. The list went something like:

1) 20 minute meditation, 2 times a day

2) run at least a mile every morning

3) notice and appreciate your food, chew slower, take your time

4) don't require fullness or emotional support from every meal

5) eat less meat

6) go to Sanga every week

7) Study more zen shit

8) bike everywhere

9) stop trying to “fix” everyone and just “hold space” for them

10) write everyday

11) quit your job and enjoy your life

Well, it’s been about 2 months. Here’s how I’m doing:

1) I have been meditating...more…than…before. I have been putting it off a lot. I really love doing it, and I know it helps...everything, but man it’s hard to just make myself sit down and do it. I would say I average about 40 minutes a week, not day.

2) In the morning, I’ve went on one walk, and zero runs. In all fairness, I sprained my calf about 3 days back from the yoga training, so I welcomed that excuse to not run. It’s 90 percent healed now, and I have been adding some half mile runs to my day, and a few 1 mile runs after workouts, but not in the mornings, before my day, like I had hoped for.

3) I haven’t noticed or appreciated my food at all. I have noticed I forgot to appreciate my food while I was eating it, but that didn’t slow me down, it just added a little shame to my food.

4)The portions at the yoga ashram were much smaller than I would give myself. I’m gonna go ahead say I haven’t done this yet.  I’ve done quite the opposite. I am now, fully aware that I can stop earlier, and eat more bland foods, and not be ultra excited about every meal, but I am not yet able to apply that to my daily food choices.

5) I have had less meat. I’ve only had meat maybe 6 or 7 times since I have been back. I’ve done eggs, Greek yogurt, and cheese some, but I am significantly more vegetarian than before. I’ve been doing a lot of beans, nuts, and seeds. Outside of farting, I’m pretty happy with this.

6) I started going to the San Francisco Zen Center. It is lovely. Well, I went to the introduction session and then 2 zazen sits, and 2 dharma talks, but stuff keeps coming up on Saturday mornings.

7) I did! I do! I read a few more Audiobooks. I always feel better when I study zen. It grounds me. It’s interesting.

8) I started this the first month with a bang! I was biking everywhere, and then one day about a month ago, I was really tired and got really mad at a hill, and walked my bike. I decided I would run to work, and knock out my goal of running more. I liked the idea, but I haven’t done it yet, and I stopped biking to work as a result.

9) <<Sigh>> <<Heavy Sigh>> This is so hard. Trying to decide or quantify how successful I have been at this is also hard. This one is going to take some time. I think I could grow in the not-trying-to-fix MYSELF area first. I have built some awareness there, I know that.

10) Not everyday. But today! <<smiley face>>

11) …..

umm….this is my blog for next week.

(Fuckin’...cliff hanger mic drop, Chelsea! Nice!)

The take home is that nearly all these feel like failures, to be honest.  When I picture the arbitrary ideal life I dreamt when I wrote these, my real life just doesn’t look like that, and it’s easy to call that a failure. Being mean to yourself about how slow your progress is, doesn’t help. Actually, it usually stops your momentum. And keeping the ever so slow momentum in the direction you want to go is always more important than speed.

Rape

I asked my writing coach where to start this story. We are working on show, don’t tell. Umm...should I give details about young people and rape? Do people wanna read that? Do people want to relive their own traumas?

I’m trying to write a story about a story I don’t really understand yet.

I was 15. I was at a party. I said no for 4 hours, but I was too afraid of him to say it like I meant it. I said no, and he said “Relax. It’s just this, it’s just that. Don’t be so goody goody.”  He said I had no reason not to, but I was too afraid to leave. I blamed myself for lying to my parents about what I was doing, for going to a party when I was 15. They warned us about this in health classes, you know? Besides, If I left, where would I go? My friends were all drunk or asleep, and I wasn’t old enough to drive.

Eventually, he got what he wanted from me.

OK. That’s not a lot of details, Chelsea.

Well. I think about half of the population can very easily fill in the blanks because this story is pretty commonplace for women.

He told all my friends because he was dating someone in my friends circle.  He knew I would be blamed for it, not him, because I had had a few beers, and that’s how power dynamics work with teenage girls. In high school, when people are sexual, girls are always whores, and boys are always studs.

When my friends asked me if I slept with him, I did exactly what I promised myself I would do while it was happening:  Deny. Deny. Deny.

No one believed me when I said it never happened. I was one of the last girls to still be a virgin, so they were happy to have me join the whore club. It made them feel better about choices they didn’t really feel great about making. I never really questioned why all the girls in my high school tended to feel horrible about themselves after sleeping with someone.

Most of the girls I grew up with had been sexually assaulted at some point, too. So reflecting guilt and shame back and forth was normal. There was always hope you weren’t a trashy, used up whore, if another girl was being talked about the next day.

I went further and further into denial. I was mad at myself for letting it happen. I closed off all ability to talk with my friends about dating. I was pretty deep into my eating disorders and body dysmorphia at the time, so I just put my sexuality into the category of ‘things I don’t associate with.’

My first boyfriend and I had been dating for a while when he “found out.” He was bragging to his friends about taking my virginity when one of the other guys told him he heard I had slept with someone two years before. My first sexual encounter had always felt like a scandal that was my fault. Like I did something I wasn’t supposed to do, and like I needed to hide it. So I denied it for 2 years, and called myself a virgin. My boyfriend was 3 years older, so he had missed the aforementioned gossip. I told him I was a virgin when we met and didn’t sleep with him for about 10 months. When he found out, he came home to me, crying and fuming, his face bright red, calling me a worthless fucking whore. He told me he could tell I was a whore when he slept with me. He said I was all loose and should be ashamed. I was. He threw glass cups at me, broke his expensive PlayStation, screamed, cried, broke up with me. He decided he wanted to get back together a few days later, but told me how much I owed him for lying. He told me he didn’t know if he could stand the sight of me because all his friends think he’s a chump now. He said I was lucky he loved me.

I always denied. I couldn’t admit it, but he knew I was guilty, I had slept with someone before him, I wasn’t a virgin. I let it happen because I was a whore.

Looking back now, I really, truly thought I deserved everything he was saying to me, and he was right, the shame had really been settling in. I felt guilty to see him cry, and to know I had caused him pain.

I hated intimacy with him. I hated him. I hated intimacy with anything, especially myself. But I knew how broken I was. I knew I didn’t deserve better and I knew I owed it to him to pretend like I liked it.

I remember, in 8th grade, we watched this video in Sex Ed that related female virgins to a new piece of gum, and girls that had had sex to a chewed piece. The video argued that no one would want to marry a chewed-up piece of gum.

There was no mention of male virginity.

For the next 12 years or so, I was busy having eating disorders and wishing I didn’t exist. I wasn’t having a lot of sex. I dated more people I didn’t like. I had worse interactions with men in my 20’s, and I continued to blame myself for not being lovable.  Honestly, some of this stuff, I just can’t talk about yet. There is just too much fear for me to share some of my other stories; the newer ones, about men who manipulated me, threatened me, depleted me, emotionally abused, or coerced me.

I would tell you about it if I could.  But I’m not ready yet.

I haven’t yet decided how much of this is my fault. You see, that’s the thing.

I have a really fucked up relationship with intimacy now, at 30 years old. Not just sex, but even trust, relationships, and connections.. And pleasure. Pleasure, the reason most people have sex, is just not something I have ever felt safe enough to be able to tune in to when I am with a partner.

Writing about my eating disorders is so much easier than this, because I kinda...fixed that. I haven’t come anywhere close to fixing this, I’m just now starting to understand where it comes from.

About 3 years ago, when I learned about consent, I came to the realization that I was raped when I was 15.  It wasn’t just me being a whore, who was easy, and couldn’t resist, having sex with someone when I didn’t want to. I was physically forced into it.  And I honestly had no idea I was raped until then.

Recently, I made a vague post on Facebook:

I felt really odd after posting that. Everyone kept commenting like, “You are so brave, I am so sorry” and all I could feel was shame and guilt that I’d burdened them with my sorrow. I didn’t feel like a needed them to feel bad for me. I imagined conservative people posting memes about women who are intentionally victimizing themselves. My brother always tells me I like to play the victim.  I wondered if I was doing that. I didn’t feel heroic, or brave. I felt like a person who a shitty thing happened to, but it was a long time ago, and is very common.

That day after I made that Facebook post, coincidentally, I was registered for a workshop about somatic connection to sexuality and intimacy.  When I first arrived, there were lots of people, and chairs. I sat down in the middle, and waited for a friend I had invited along. A man came and sat down next to me. He asked me small talk questions about how I was involved there. The chairs were close together and I was nervous.  I felt hot. I didn’t want him to be close to me. I moved a chair over, and he apologized for being in my space. I felt bad for making him feel rejected by honoring my space.

I ended up sitting on the ground, in a back jack in the front, next to my friend. The small talk guy, at my 5:00, kept smiling at me. I wondered if, men, in an environment of women who are “looking for sexual enlightenment” are turned on. Do they think all women here are horny and easy?  I refused to make eye contact with him.

We were asked to close our eyes, do some breath work and notice what we noticed. This was a big moment for me.  I was concerned about the 5:00 guy, so it took me a moment to let that go, , and breathe into my own body.  I realized, I was scared of him. I took a few more breaths, and thought “I’m scared of men.” I imagine they are all trying to take advantage of me.

We did a few connection exercises where we were very randomly paired. I was always disappointed to be paired with a man.  Of course, I was paired with 5:00 guy at some point, and I blamed him for creating that. Was that true? Had he made that happen?  Or was I making that up?

The whole time I was partners with him, I pretended he was someone else.

Honestly, this feels too similar to every relationship I’ve been in with a man.

Later, we were asked to imagine our ideal sexual situation. I shuttered. I pulled away. I had so deeply given up hope of that being possible, that forcing myself to imagine it, felt... unsafe.

After a few partnered connection experiences, we sat back down and were, once again, prompted to concentrate on, and imagine an ideal romantic/sexual situation. I tried to really allow myself to believe it was possible, and shame came right up, screaming at me about how broken I was.  But I had been meditating a lot, and really connecting with my compulsion to self shame, so I was able to recognize it. Once I let the shame be ok, and I allowed myself to be broken and exhausted, I just cried. I cried because I saw, maybe for the first time, the possibility of feeling truly safe in my body.

After the first draft of this blog, when I talk about the workshop, my writing coach makes a comment like “Isn’t it ironic that this man, during THIS time, at a sex positive environment like that, decided that was a good time to be creepy!”

“No, no. You misunderstood. He didn’t do anything. I was afraid of him, that’s the point, my brain is fucked up!”

“No! She explained, he made you uncomfortable, it’s not your fault!” She demanded.

Is that true? I don’t know if I believe her.  Was I manifesting his creepy? Or was he creepy and I’m attuned to that.  I truly haven’t yet decided. Either way, I am clearly in a pattern of blaming myself.

I don't know, man.  I really don’t.

So  here I am, as broken as I’ve ever been, staring at this screen acknowledging that I am broken. And you may be too.

It’s recently become so obvious that it’s not the physical trauma itself, but the internalized shame, fear, and lack of self worth that is a result of my rape that makes my sexual assault matter so much to me.  

Especially when it happens at a young age.  Because of my first sexual experience, I have never had any intimate relationships that weren’t grounded in fear.

I know, intellectually, my rape, and other sexual assaults I’ve experienced weren’t my fault, and I shouldn’t feel guilty for them.  But my body doesn’t know that. The cells in my body don’t yet believe that. The nausea I get when I think about certain people in my life reading this doesn’t believe that.  I still want to protect some people who harmed me, because I don’t wanna shake things up. But since Dr. Ford did, I see that I kinda have to too. But I don’t want to.

So, as we asked before, do people want to hear stories about rape?  No, of course they don’t. But I kinda have to tell mine.  

I’m still in a lot of denial.  I would so much rather just pretend this didn’t happen.  Writing the word “rape” hurts. I don’t want to.

I heard Dr. Ford say she didn’t want to give her testimony, and I knew what she meant.  And I believed her.

I’m trying to come up with a point to this post. I guess the point is that a lot of my rape still feels like it’s my fault.  And intellectually, I know it’s not, but it still FEELS like it's my fault.

There is nothing wrong with me

I have always bragged about my sleeping habits. If I have any sleeping problems it was because I didn’t have enough time to sleep. I’m also a very, very deep sleeper. Nothing wakes me up. Beer makes me tired. I tried drugs for fun once, I just fell asleep. I don’t really watch movies because I fall asleep. I can sleep 12 hours straight, I wake up to pee and maybe eat, and go right back to sleep, I take daily naps in my noisy, sunny, San Francisco apartment. I often have a coffee, and then go back to sleep.

You get the point.

I “couldn’t sleep” twice ever, both were because I had to be up really early and tried to force myself to sleep. The next day, both times, I was fine, because I knew it was brain playing tricks on me and the next night would be fine, and it always was.

Last week, in bed, on my phone, I had a very mild disagreement with someone in the comments section of a Facebook post. I recognized how dumb that was, and put my phone away. I noticed my throat and jaw close up a little form this interaction, again this was all very mild. This happens to me in traffic or if someone starts talking about Star Wars. If you have been following me, you know that I have this weird tension thing I do that gives me pain in my throat when I am nervous. I found this particular throat tightening interesting, because I was becoming more and more acutely aware of where and how I am allowing stress in my body. It was a good thing; an awareness---a curiosity. But the thought popped up in my head, “That was dumb to do right before bed, it could keep me up!”

I rolled over and noticed I didn’t fall asleep instantly. My throat hurt more. I noticed it more. I felt annoyed at myself. I had to be up early, so I dismissed those thoughts. And about 4 seconds later noticed I STILL haven't fallen asleep! What the fuck!? It was only like 9pm, but I had to be up at 4:30 so I had to go to bed early. I was feeling pulled to look at my phone again, but I knew that was a bad idea. But I was bored laying in bed and thought I would just play on my phone for a few minutes until I felt tired. Two hours later, I still didn’t really feel tired, I was just mad at myself. And I noticed my throat getting tighter. I was thinking “Crap, now I only have like 5 hours left to sleep.”

I got more mad at myself. I rolled over and closed my eyes. I felt my throat clench. I tried to count my breathing. That usually works. I don’t remember anything about how shallow my breath was, coming in or out, I just remember counting quickly, knowing I should make it to sleep before 50. I did notice how comfy I felt. And I used that to shame myself for not having any reason to not fall asleep. I reached 50, and I looked at the clock. Fuck. Like 4 hours. I closed my eyes and fumed. I insisted on sleep, no more counting! I was pissed, but of course, I didn’t fall asleep right away. A watched pot never boils, huh? In about 30 seconds, I realized I have a real problem and I can’t sleep. I turned on guided meditation. And it ended. I turned on Audible with the sleep timer, and the 20 minutes ended. 3 hours until I have to wake up. I don’t know what to do! My brain was screaming “Danger, Danger! Fix this problem!”

My body was pumped with adrenaline. It felt a lot like a 5 hour meditation again. It felt like energy swirling and screaming, and demanding to get out, out of a body it was trapped in. But this time I wasn’t meditating, I was just existing. I went on a walk outside. I wanted to run but I was barefoot. I came in and knew I was just being dramatic, and stressing my body out. So I read a book to relax. It worked. I felt more relaxed and I got into the story and got to forget about this stupid body and brain I was trapped in for a moment. And I put the book down, and had a dream for about 20 minutes until my alarm went off and I got up for work.

Luckily, I didn’t have a lot to do that day. I had two classes early in the morning and then nothing until about 3pm. I had a few things planned during the day but cancelled them. I was planning to nap all day.

When I got home, like 9am I felt reassured that I was fine, and I knew I was just being dramatic, and needed to relax. I meditated, and then laid in bed and started reading. I once again, got lost in the book, but I didn’t really get tired. After about 3 hours of reading, I put the book down and tried to sleep and didn’t instantly fall asleep. I was sure to not count my breaths, as that didn’t work last time. “What’s wrong with me?!” I thought “I should be so tired!” But the fear of not being tired was not allowing me to be tired. And I started doing all my tricks again, books, TV, walks, smoked pot, ate more food, begrudgingly counted my breaths again. I was starting to get really worried, but it was time to go back to work. I was actually, very happy to be back to work, as it gave me something to do to distract me from my brain.

That night. Night 2. The same thing. Tactic after tactic after failed tactic.  Full on crazy this time though. I was so mad, and scared, and desperate. But managed to pass out with a complete headache about 4 am and was able to sleep until 7am. I had slept about 4 hours and 20 minutes sleep in the last 48 hours.

Friday, after work, I meditated. I knew my fears of not being able to sleep were keeping me awake. I knew I had to extinguish the fears.

I didn’t nap all day intentionally, welcoming to break from trying, so I could be extra tired. I went to the store and got NyQuil and Benadryl. I made a half ass attempt to research how much is too much, so I didn’t overdose and die, because I wanted to stay only slightly under that number. I took my first Benadryl directly after work, as I was driving home, and a few more of both in the process. I ordered a huge dessert and hamburger from UberEats and it was at my door by the time I got home, because overeating always makes me sleepy. I took a bath and read my book, and felt relaxed and sleepy. I laid in bed, pretending I wasn’t terrified of what it might be like to be an insomniac. I kept dismissing the thoughts of how horrible this might be to have this problem every night. I imagined my friends who do. But I couldn’t think about them because I was trying to pretend I wasn’t scared, because I knew it was the “What if’s” that were keeping me up. Have you ever tried to not think about a purple elephant? Have you ever done it while a purple elephant is charging at you? I was really, really scared. And I still couldn’t sleep. Tactics. Tactics. Tactics. Anger. Fear. Hours. My brain hurt so much. I had taken so, so many sleeping medications.

You know when you start to fall asleep and you just kinda see pictures moving in your head, like the start of a dream? Every time I got there, my ego screamed in victory, but then the pictured disappeared. This happened for hours. It’s got to be one of the worst feelings; knowing you are stressing about nothing, and the stress is creating a problem, but you can’t stop stressing about the problem because you are so afraid of the problem.

Other people fight with their brain like this too right? I always wonder when “I” fight with my brain, which one is “me”?

I meditated. I decided to give myself a solid 40 min meditation. I hadn’t really meditated much as a tactic because it is time consuming. I previously did a few 5 min meditations, and breath awareness, but they were always an attempt to fix the problem. I decided to meditate on reality. What is really here?

About 20 min into my meditation, I realized nothing is wrong. Fear is trying to protect me. But I’m ok. And I don’t need to be afraid of fear, it’s well intended.

There is nothing wrong with me. I realized when my 40 min alarm went off. I haven’t really tried just laying in my bed and letting myself be afraid. It’s ok that I am afraid.

And I fell asleep.

“You will find, therefore, that if you get with reality, all sorts of delusions disappear. But you must remember that the secret to all this is not to be afraid of fear. When you can really allow yourself to really be afraid, and you don’t resist the experience, you are truly beginning to master fear. But when you refuse to be afraid, you are resisting fear, and that simply sets up a vicious circle of being afraid of fear, and being afraid of being afraid of fear. If then, you try, to obliterate fear, you are working in the wrong way. To attack fear is the strengthen it....You don’t have to let go because...there is nothing to hold onto.”

— Alan Watts

AMBITION IS A WHORE

“Ambition’s a champ.

But he’s also a whore.

Drunk or sober.

We always want more.

I always want more.

I always want more.”

—“Funny Little Creatures,” Nothing Moore, 2017

I was laying in bed, on my phone,  and I saw this guy on Instagram talking about a one-leg balancing challenge. It looked fun, and I wanted to see where I was in relation to him. So, I put on sweatpants and tried balancing in the living room. Of course, I set up my phone so I could record myself and, if I did well, put the video on my Instagram. The first time I did it, I was trying to put my gaze on something and not move, like they say to. But I had to close my eyes, so that didn’t work too well. And then I did it again, and really wanted to notice the weight distribution in my feet. I also decided not to be dramatic, and attempted not to overcompensate leaning. I did much better, and the takeaway message was to not overcompensate. I knew that from balancing drills I’ve done in the past.

This blog is about overcompensating.

I’ve been talking about my laryngitis a lot. It’s partially from overuse at theatre and coaching, but mostly due to stress and tension in my throat muscles. I convinced myself I had cancer or some serious medical condition. When I went to the doctor, and he confirmed it was strictly muscle tension, I relaxed knowing I wasn’t going to die from laryngitis. And the fear of laryngitis’ existence subsided some. Before when I had throat pain, I would freak out and give myself more tension and throat pain. Now, I remind myself that it’s just stress saying hello, and I’m OK. I still have some pain, but honestly, I’m better. The pain isn’t as bad as the opposition to it was.

Let’s talk about cold.

I was walking with my friend Mark, in San Francisco, and we were cold. It was about 57 degrees fahrenheit, and maybe 8pm. He complained about the cold, and I said something like, “It’s not the cold itself that’s so bad, it’s the resistance to the cold.” We breathed and relaxed. Felt the cold, and it really wasn’t really that bad. It was a slightly uncomfortable skin temperature, but we’d both dealt with worse. The cold air on our skin sharply contracted the warm blood underneath. It was my wishing it wasn’t cold that hurt. It was hiding from the cold, it was trying to make the cold not touch our skin that felt uncomfortable. It was overcompensating.  Well, it is cold. Wishing it different won’t help.

Let’s talk about reality.

I study zen—well, kinda. I read a lot about it. And I sit in meditation (zazen) sometimes and I go to group zazen and talks sometimes. I have a lot of hangups about saying I am a student of zen, but that’s just my imposter syndrome. Anyway, I firmly believe reality isn’t as bad as we are afraid it is. I also don’t think reality is as good as we hope it is. It just kinda is.

I think we overcompensate.

Have sadness? Endless ambition to fix the problem!

Have happiness? Cling to the ever elusive state so much that we lose it!

Feeling unfulfilled? You must be in a wrong relationship, career, need a new Tesla or whatever.

Ambition is a whore.

Life is really fucking cool, but it’s also kinda mundane. Sometimes life hurts, and sometimes it’s fun, and usually it’s worth it, but usually it’s just OK.

I got “it’s OK” tattooed on my body when I was at the yoga ashram—because it is. It’s not better than OK, no matter how much you wish it were, and it’s not worse that OK, because it just is what it is. Wishing it weren’t cold won’t help. Being afraid of diseases that aren’t there won’t prevent them. And thinking life should always be happy might end brief moments of real happiness. Wishing it were different than it is won’t ever change how OK it is.

It’s just OK.

Most of life is just OK.

Spend some time today being OK with how OK it is. And if you can’t yet, that’s OK too.

But, Why?

She had one tooth, and a huge smile, standing, excited, by the tiny round table in the lobby, after we walked the red carpet and watched the documentary, Beauty is The Beast, at the GRRRL LIVE 2018 event in Las Vegas. The event brought together women who are passionate about body positivity, the radical concept that our bodies are good things.

She told me she was hit, and her teeth were knocked out. I thought she was a boxer, so I thought that her having knocked-out teeth was cool.

Instead, she is a survivor of domestic abuse.

I tried to apologize for the lightness of my response, but she wasn’t much interested; instead she asked me how I fit in at GRRRL LIVE.

“I run a program for girls. Our main focus is on body positivity and focusing on–”

“But why?” she interrupted.

Everyone here could tell the story of what they do. It was refreshing to be asked why this matters to me instead.

That weekend in Vegas, in late April, eventually convinced me that my fear– of restarting my blog and helping as many girls as possible– was because of some voices in my head that were telling me I’m not smart enough, organized enough, or business-minded enough to do it.

So, here I go again.

I suppose why is a good place to start.

I wrote some blogs back in the day. It’s always been something I’ve wanted to do again. I got some negative feedback to an already severely wounded and guarded writer’s brain. As I grew in my professional practice, I realized a lot of what I had written was judgy, dogmatic, and orthorexic. I deleted my blog. I actually haven’t wanted to re-read them until just recently– and now I can’t remember my password.

Oh well. I tried a few other times to start blogs and vlogs, memoirs, and poetry classes. Judgment and growth. Lots of fear. I’m not sure how this post is different, but it feels like it is. Maybe it’s not. Maybe posts that aren’t posted aren’t worthless anymore.

Stay with me.

I was in 2rd grade, and my mom took me to Old Navy to get a swimsuit for a last-day-of-school pool party. My mom lectured me that the size on the tag didn’t matter, but all I knew was mine was bigger than my friends. I hated to hear her say the word “tankini” like it was fun, like it was a good thing. I decided to not go to the pool party. I told my mom I had a stomach ache.

In 3th grade, I gave my food away, and the teachers said they were concerned I wasn’t eating. I told them I already ate, and I told myself I was on a diet, but really I just wasn’t eating. Not eating is surprisingly easy when you start before puberty.

In 4th grade, a girl told me she threw up after she ate. I wanted to tell her she shouldn’t do that, and that that it is bad for you, but instead I asked her if it worked. She said yes, and I was jealous, so I didn’t say anything.

I checked out a book from the library about Anorexia and Bulimia and used them as a reference guide.

In 5th grade, at the 4th of July celebration, my friends made a circle around me, so no one would see me as we walked, together, to the mall to get me new pants. I had taken a handful of my friend’s grandma’s laxatives a few hours before. I had heard that taking laxatives would make you skinny, but I didn’t tell my friends that. I just told them I had a stomach ache.

I had to get a physical before 6th grade, so I could play sports. At the top right corner of this sheet of paper, to have your doctor fill out was “WT:______” 162.8.

That number, 10 years later, almost killed me. The number itself. Trying to get below there. I never did. I never will. Most people aren’t smaller than they ever were in 5th grade, but, fuck, did I try.

I folded up my paper. I decided, I would never, ever let any of my friends, coaches, or teachers see this number. This number was my fault. It is a representation of my weakness, and I will never let anyone know how weak I was. (Today, I am 30 years old, and eight people, in total, have seen my number. Two were medical professionals, five were weighing me in for a weightlifting competition, and one was on accident. I’m still hung up on the number. My therapist and I talked about it yesterday. I’m still working on it.)

My mom took this. I think it was 2nd or 3rd grade. I remember sucking it in and being mad she was taking my photo.

When I was in 6th grade, my older brother, who had been studying Taekwondo for many years, was trying to get his black belt. He wasn’t allowed to eat for three days, as a fast was a requirement for the test. My mom was terrified. She weighed him everyday and checked his temperature and blood pressure. He had lost a few pounds in the three days, and achieved his black belt. I was amazed at how easy that was.

I remember the day I decided to stop eating. I ate on Sundays and sometimes Wednesdays, and I liked it. I liked how black and white it was. I liked how in control I was. I liked having a secret. I liked the pain in my stomach. It was evidence that change was happening. I liked watching the scale go down.

In 7th grade, I went back to school, and everyone told me I looked skinny. I loved it. The first time I was told I looked skinny, I was wearing a white t-shirt with red buttons on the sleeves. It became my favorite shirt. I started to crave people telling me I looked skinny. I got worried when they didn’t.

Later in 7th grade, I stopped hearing that I looked skinny. I started volleyball, and I started working out. I gained some muscle mass rather easily, when I was trying to shrink. I got my period and started gaining the hips and breasts that often come with being fourteen. My hunger became hard to deal with; my brain was losing its battle with my body– and I gave up the battle with the mirror.

By 8th grade, being in control of my life meant not eating, and, with hormones and puberty and sports and stress, not eating stopped being an option. I lost the battle with being in control of my body, and now I was losing my mind. I blamed myself: My brain was weak, and my body was the punching bag. My binges got intense. My restrictions became more important. They started to be all I cared about.

By 10th grade, I was numb. I took pain pills to not feel my hunger. I turned mirrors around, pissed that mirrors existed. I refused pictures. I hated when my friends would make me go out, because that was just longer I had to be awake. I associated awake with hungry. It was better to sleep. I did all my homework, got straight A’s, did my workouts, worked full-time, relentlessly studied exercise and nutrition books in secret. I was a happy, pleasant girl at school, and I felt absolutely out of control with every aspect of my life.

In 11th grade, I was obsessed with working out. I woke up at 4:30 am before school to work 5:00 am to 7:30 am, as a lifeguard, making $7.00 an hour. Then I would do an hour of cardio before school. I managed some time on strength machines at night. I never felt like I knew what I was doing. I saved up enough money to afford to hire a trainer, who had me keep a food journal.

7th grade volleyball.

I made an honest attempt to stop my restrictive eating and increased my meals to 4 to 5 times a week, becoming obsessed, however, with only eating healthy food. I found balance hard. It was much easier to not eat than to avoid the cheesecake biscuit from the vending machine at work. I lied to my trainer about what I ate. I always found it so disheartening that I was paying her to help me, but I was lying. I was a fraud. I wasn’t trying hard enough, and I knew it. This was all my fault.  Not because I wanted to lie– I didn’t– but because I couldn’t bring myself to write things down on paper and have to look at it. And to have to wait for her response. (That one certainly took awhile to understand.)

One day, I had a binge. I’d completely lost count of how many candy bars I’d eaten. I told her. I said, “I was having a good weekend, but I had a binge on Saturday.” It took her an eternity to respond. When she did, she said, “God. Don’t do that again. Do you know how far back this sets us?” I thought, “I never wanted to in the first place,” but I only said it in my head.

I decided to study nutrition and fitness in college, because I imagined, there is no way I could be a fat dietitian who works out everyday. Literally, I could not have cared less about my career at the time. I just didn’t care about anything other than losing weight and allowing myself to exist again.

“I got so, so scared”

College sucked, but it distracted me from hunger. Being busy makes it easy to not eat. I went back and forth from not eating for 3 to 5 days at a time and then binging like crazy on “eating days” to obsessive calorie counting and following My Plate recommendations, which was the new, updated version of the Center for Nutrition Policy and Promotion’s Food Guide Pyramid. I tried to run a lot. I’d spend hours on the elliptical. I’d try to burn off every calorie I consumed. I gained weight. I got scared. I feared my inevitable morbid obesity and my complete lack of control. I got so, so scared.

I think I was my heaviest when I graduated college. I developed a disassociation with my body. Body Dysmorphia, which I was eventually diagnosed with, is a disconnect between the brain and body. I stopped existing in my body. I became imprisoned in it. I developed habits to not look at or feel my body. I hated the folds in my skin so much that they hurt when they touched each other, so I found positions to not let it happen. It would be almost seven years before I would be able to put my own hand on my stomach again. I wore hoodies and jeans or sweatpants only. I stopped letting people see me. “I will do whatever it takes; I have to fix myself” was the first thought in the morning and last thought at night and, eventually, my only thought.

22 years old: I joined a new gym. I got a new trainer. Some girl at work did it and lost weight. I had so many bad experiences with trainers, but I was willing to try anything. I didn’t know what else to do. We did some powerlifting. I kinda felt strong, and I kinda liked that. For the first time, exercise had a purpose besides weight loss– the first positive in my life in so many years.

23: I went to CrossFit, and I signed up after the first day. The intensity absorbed me, imprisoned me, dominated me, consumed me.

I loved it.

I loved punishing myself. I loved leaving drenched in sweat and dirt. The angry music. How much it hurt. I loved putting everything into something. I’d never done that before. I felt like I existed for the first time.

Up to this point, my life had had no art, no creativity, no direction, no purpose, no awe. Honestly, I think my first CrossFit workout was the first time I’d ever felt alive.

I needed more. I intensely hated myself, and I had found an instant way to punish myself.

In 2011, with CrossFit came the Paleo diet dogma. I quickly developed a deep hatred for the conventional information I had learned about food and exercise in school. I felt betrayed, alone, taken advantage of. I hated everyone, especially the college and the government for sabotaging me. I was ready to fight– I had found the solution. I had light at the end of the tunnel, this long, dark, terrifying tunnel I had been sludging through my entire life. I finally understood why I couldn’t lose weight: I had to lift weights and to eat like a Paleolithic human would. Not cardio, Food Guide Pyramids, or not eating at all. How silly I’d been! My angst for, really, anything conventional grew. At the same time, my determination to rid myself from myself grew exponentially.

I was obsessed. I did months of paleo and CrossFit; small changes that weren’t enough. Clothes that hurt to exist in. Workouts I was never good enough at.

I wasn’t working hard enough. More workouts. More nutrition books. More classes. More lifting.

Paleo to Primal eating to Whole30 to no gluten to organic to high fat to low fat, low carb, no carb, carb cycling to intermittent fasting. Meat only, counting macros, a diet called Complete Human Nutrition. My orthorexia grew. More Branched Chain Amino Acids, and eating meditation, diet coaches, hippie diet gurus and macro kings, doing what my friends did, and doing what they didn’t do.

I spent all my time, money and energy on researching or weighing food or doing whatever strange protocols the diet called for. I didn’t change much. (In retrospect, I was probably doing fine, I was just desperate and impatient. I think about this a lot now, when I’m feeling desperate for proof of results.)

“I was at war.”

I decided to stop eating again. I don’t remember when I decided to try anorexia again. It was never much of a cerebral process. I just couldn’t handle the stress of food anymore. It happened organically. Only, this time, I knew it was bad for me, but I didn’t have control of it.

I spent months only eating two or three days of the week. When I did eat, I continued the yo-yo diet game of which diet plan I was on. I was so desperate for that feeling of figuring out what I had been doing wrong, why I was so broken– OH! So that’s what I’m doing wrong! Ok, I finally found the  REAL answer!

I had dreams having of cancer or major illness that was causing my weight gain. I would wake up disappointed to not have cancer, because I still didn’t have a reason why I was still fat. These feelings scared me: I woke up deeply disappointed that my dream of having cancer wasn’t real. I knew I had lost my mind to my pursuit.

The body dysmorphia never went away; it turns out it never will. When I started CrossFit, I finally gained some hope. I could finally, for the first time in my life, imagine myself existing in my body. But as my failures keep coming up, over and over and over, the dysmorphia made its dissent on me in a way only life-shattering desperation could allow for.

This time it wasn’t gradual. About a year after I thought I’d figured it all out, my brain attempted a complete breakup with my body. I wasn’t at war with my body, anymore; I was in denial that I had one, in denial that the body I lived in was mine.

Still 23 years old: Not eating was easy after that. I liked the pain. The pain was the enemy screaming as I burned him with my torch. The pain was me winning the war over my body. I was at war.

The binges were caloric enough that I was no longer in a deficit, although I spent nearly every moment hungry and in pain.

I may have lost some weight, but I really don’t know. My memory is just stamped with failure, not of any objective information.  I didn’t look at, notice, feel, or measure my body whatsoever. There was zero acknowledgment of my body’s existence. I gave up on fighting my body, I had murdered it. I won the war. But it felt nothing like victory, and everything like complete isolation.

Binging. Denial. Restriction. Isolation. Months and months.

I wish I could say that was rock bottom. It was. I couldn’t get much lower, but somehow I kept finding a little hope, but then losing it again, at a new rock bottom. Over and over. Rock bottoms are bullshit. There are just too many rocks.  

The details of this year of my life are blurry. Everything I did was an attempt to lose weight. Nothing else mattered. I was too tired and exhausted to care, but I didn’t know how to stop.

My old powerlifting coach was 19 years older than me. He was covered in tattoos, coercion, abuse, secrets, warrants, cocaine, and a depression much darker and deeper than mine. I hated my small town life, my boring job, and my routine existence. I was terrified to end up just like everyone else. At one point he was interesting, in a world that just seemed so not, so I followed him, mostly to see where I landed.

I had overheard him tell some woman that wanted to lose a couple pounds that he had a steroid she could take, and she would lose 20 pounds of fat in a couple weeks. I was pissed that such a thing existed. I was pissed because it could be so easy for someone. I was so mad at the woman receiving it, at him for never asking me if I wanted any, at myself for being around him and not knowing how to get away from him. I was mad that he let me hear about it. I was mad that he had no idea how much pain I was in. I was mad that if he did know, he would try to find a way to make it about him.

I couldn’t sleep. I had dreams that I took the pill, and I was skinny. I dreamed almost every night of being skinny. I dreamed of touching my stomach and feeling muscle. I still have that dream sometimes. I dreamed of looking in the mirror again. I dreamed of wearing clothes that weren’t baggy and hot. I imagined summers without being forced to wear a hoodie. I wished to never be so so hot but unable to take my hoodie off again.  I imagined myself in a sports bra.

I imagined not ever having the episodes where I had to go home because I just couldn’t be seen— and these were happening more and more, consuming my sick days at work. When I got home, I still had to exist, and I didn’t want to. I still had to feel the weight of my body. Seeing number in my head of what my weight might be, as I would notice the heaviness of my steps on the floor. Watching the shower reflect of parts of me that were too big. Deciding which way water would hit me if I were different. Lying in bed and feeling the weight of my chest compress my lungs, afraid of how heavy they might get, and how much my lungs could support. Knowing that sleep apnea was right around the corner if I DONT FUCKING FIGURE OUT HOW TO STOP BEING A FAT WORTHLESS PIECE OF SHIT. I dreamt of no longer falling in and out of lying in bed for days, without rest, and no comfortable positions. The belly fat that flops to the side, the way my breasts separate when I’m on my back, feeling the folds of my skin when I sat up. Days when my body existed were good days. Bad days were being only a brain, because my body didn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t be there anymore.

I took the pills. I lost weight. It was possible. In a way, that may have saved me. I’m not sure I could have found any hope otherwise. I know I wouldn’t have committed suicide. I know that. But, man–

I don’t remember why or how I stopped. I’ve been really, really racking my memory to try to remember, but I can’t. It’s not in there. I was checked out. And I was in denial about all of this for some 7 years. Looking back, I’m surprised I was able to stop, however. An indication now of how truly strong I am. Maybe, really, it wasn’t about the weight loss as much as it was just regaining some control. Once I had that, I was just ok enough to keep breathing.

All I remember is that I took them for about 2 weeks, and they were hidden in my closet for years after. Two years later, when I told another boyfriend about it, he tried to use it against me when we broke up. They were still in my closet and I’d take them out and look at them sometimes.  They always reminded me I was both strong and weak, and I’d put them away.They were with me until I moved to California, some 5 years later. And I threw them away because I didn’t need my safety belt anymore. I was strong enough on my own. And I forgave myself.

I broke up with another abusive boyfriend. He left behind a book Hardcore Zen, Punk Rock, Monster Movies, and The Truth about Reality on my bookshelf. It would be another year before I read it.

“I found my why”

24 was, unfortunately, a lot like 23, only sans abusive boyfriends. Weaving in and out of hunger and hope. Disconnections, binge and restriction, turning over new leaves and losing my body to dysmorphia, wishing I’d lose my mind instead.

Crying into jars of almond butter in the grocery store parking lot. Spooning it out with my fingers, in my car, head tilted down so no one could see me. I was binging. My fingers and tongue were swollen from the influx of calories. My skin around my abdomen felt like a corset. It was almost midnight, and I wouldn’t be eating again for days. I couldn’t stop binging, no matter how much eating hurt.

Some days were better: Doing the math. Calculating every drop, weighing and measuring. Hours in the grocery store, planning every once. This was the Chelsea I presented to the world.

I had lots of very healthy, ripped friends. I was begging, pleading, bargaining with the vanilla cake at the party to not win. I know where this goes. I don’t have just one piece of cake. That’s not something I do. If I have one piece of cake, I’m bad. I’ve done bad. And once I’m bad, I can’t stop myself. I called it The Fuck It Bucket. Binges that happen on days when I am supposed to be eating normally, always result in not eating for days.

Not eating for days when you’ve been eating lately hurts. Hunger hurts when you care, when you have hope. Hunger doesn’t hurt as much without hope.

The secrets. The lies. The hiding. The isolation. The loneliness.

Cut to me on the bathroom floor (this is a true story) about 25, with a coffee enema up my ass– it was supposed to flush my liver and help me lose weight. (You think I’m joking when I said I’d try anything.) I saw the book my boyfriend had left behind, Hardcore Zen, Punk Rock, Monster Movies, and The Truth about Reality, and I had 20 more minutes of the enema, so I started reading it.

Brad Warner, the author, spoke of enlightenment and how wonderful it is and how it’s totally bullshit. (I also believe enlightenment is bullshit, but that’s for a different blog.) As I read, I learned about impermanence, about how nothing exists independently of itself. I looked up, and everything looked different. I could never and would never go back to who I was before I understood that. It’s hard to summarize, but basically, I saw that nothing really matters, and we are all one thing. I got a symbol of emptiness tattooed on my wrist that night.

I think it started with the book Intuitive Eating. Then Eat The Food, a Facebook community group for people in various forms of disordered eating recovery, and then Health at Every Size, a body positive social movement.

Eventually, right before I turned 26, I got a therapist. I’m still in therapy.  

At about 26, I went past a car reflection, and I actually saw myself. Pragmatically, judgment free, just saw how I was and who I was and how I existed without bias. I’ve had body dysmorphia most of my life. I looked up, and there I was. I saw me. I gasped. It was me. “There I am!”

I stopped dieting. I ate what I wanted.

I stopped stressing about when I eat junk food. It’s ok.

I had mental breakdowns about losing everything I learned, or it not being real. And going back into The Fuck It Bucket after a treat.

Restrictions were more and more controlled, binges got slightly smaller.

I was lifting, and I made a video of myself, to watch my form, and I liked the way I looked. That had never happened to me before.

 27: I wore clothes I liked. Not clothes that hide me. I had a style. I liked clothes for the first time.

 I took my shirt off in yoga, and I felt good.

 I wore a tight shirt and wasn’t ready.

 The scale went up and down.

 I stopped blaming myself.

 I got off the scale.

 28: Someone told me I was sexy and I believed them.

I wore a bikini and practiced confidence.

I had horrible binge eating/restriction relapses.

29: I wanted to eat healthy foods. Like, did it because I wanted to. I exercise because I like it.

I worried a lot about losing everything.

I wore a bikini and didn’t think about it.

 I saw weight loss pills, and they still seemed enticing.

 A 13-year-old girl at work told me she never felt ok with herself until she met me.

I found my why.

30: I realized I am in complete control over my choices.

I feel empowered by my food choices.

I see so much of my former self in so many young girls I’ve worked with, and I know I am doing the best I know how to positively impact them.

I had a thought creep into my head that I might be losing it, and I immediately knew it wasn’t true.

I realized writing is a bigger mental challenge to me than my relationship with food.

I wrote this.

AT GRRRL: LIVE 2018

Yoga Teacher Training

Day 1:

I felt kinda dizzy and car sick on the bus. Could I be hungover from having two beers the night before? Most likely, yes. Mostly, I was tired and nervous, and the bus was bumpy. As I was changing buses, a soft, gentle voice asked me if I was going to yoga.  I was instantly bummed to have to small talk, and not be able to sleep on the bus. The gentle voice, I eventually discovered, belonged to a woman named Sharon, who was one of the most kind, funny, positive people I’d ever met. I later confessed to her I was unhappy to see her initially, but my comment was poorly timed, and I don’t think she understood what I meant.

My throat started hurting. I was mad at myself for being stressed.

When we arrived I was really tired. I was just not in the mood to be nice to people and be spiritual right now. We were asked to put our white clothes on which was something I didn’t understand. Actually, I still don’t. Why we have to wear all white was never explained to me. It’s hard for me to respect things I don’t understand, so I subconsciously rebelled.

The night before the 5am wake up call for the bus,  Joey, my brother, and I had probably the first real conversation we have ever had, and I drank two beers after that. He told me that I think I know more than everyone else. I wrote in my journal that I should ask about the white clothes, but I never did.

How silly of me; following rules I don’t understand.

Why is conformist the worst thing imaginable?

I wrote in my journal during celebration music; chanting they called Kirtan. I hated it. I always hated repetitive music. And this was like 30 min of the same couple words, over and over again, and I didn’t know what any of it meant. People were really into it and it bothered me. I tried to decide if I believed them, or they were faking it.

I don’t like trusting people. Also, I’m hungry. My throat hurts. This is all dumb.

No it’s not. Instantly retracted.

I'm gonna have to learn to trust people this month. I hate being told what to do. I hate not being in charge.

I have been dealing with a chronic form of Laryngitis, from vocal cord overuse, for over 9 months. It started with pain in my temples, eyes, jaw, and what I thought was sinus pressure, and turned, eventually, into throat pain, when I talk, and then just constantly. The doctor said it was from coaching over clanging barbells and music and weird noises in improv, and I kinda believed him. The speech pathologist was mean, and judgmental, and unhelpful. She told me I need to get a microphone at work. When I told her I would work on it, but it’s just not really possible right now, she said “Well, do you care about your health of not?”

I hired a vocal cord specialist, working with something called The Alexander Technique, who told me that I hold my tension in my temples and throat. I half believed her, maybe a little more than the doctor. We did some techniques to help me relax but I get nervous when anyone touches me. She taught me that I live my life in peak muscular tension, and don’t really know how to relax my muscles. I believed that fully. I walk around like I am waiting for the world to attack me. She told me we have a lot more work to do as I left for yoga. I believed her.

The chanting is going to be hard for me. I was really, really hoping they were done soon, like the whole time. But they just kept going. I tried to sing to pretend, but my voice hurts. First thing tomorrow, more chanting, but without musical instruments this time. Um. Ok.

I told her that I won’t be able to chant and she seemed cool. I had to keep telling myself not to wish it was different than it is. This is going to take patience. Honestly, I really don’t want to be here. I’m not excited about this. They keep asking me if I’m exited. I keep smiling awkwardly.

Day 2:

The morning mantra was really hard. I was really hot and my throat really hurt. I know that my assumption of what is happening, will manifest, but I can’t pretend to be happy right now. The sounds were so annoying. The other students were trying, but I know they didn’t like it either. There’s no way they did. Why am I being forced to pretend like I like this? Why am I so rude?”

I hate not having an identity. I hate dressing like everyone else. If I hate being like everyone else, does that mean that I hate everyone else? I think the answer is yes. Why am I so angry? Why do I have to hate normal people? Why am I proud of that?”

I like not having to talk in the morning.

I’m craving intensity.

I like not having my phone. It’s nice

Writing in this journal is more clarity than anything else right now.

I wanna play

Day 3:

Nutrition talk. I might have to poop soon.

Day 4:

What if I didn’t rebel?

I really, really thought about this one.

Day 5:

During morning Japa (chanting) this morning my throat hurt so much, so I didn’t even try. I tried to breath in for 4, hold 2, breath out for 6, hold 2. It was ok. I more or less did this the entire 40 minutes.

I decided to give up coffee. This seemed like a good place/time to do it. It seems like the more caffeine I have, the more my throat hurts.

To treat yourself well-increase tendencies that reduce fear.

We learned about Equanimity. I felt personally attacked. I wrote in my workbook, “I hope that isn’t true” under the descriptions.  And I went on a run listening to Rage Against The Machine, and running sprints instead of having lunch. Just to prove that intensity is a good thing. I felt better. I felt right. I felt justified.

Day 6:

Everything you try to change in another person is a distraction from you trying to change yourself.

I don’t trust what they tell me.

We don’t fix people. They aren’t broken

I had a really bad headache that afternoon. We did Yoga Nidra, which is laying on the ground somewhere between dreamstate and awake. The teacher will read a script that helps students to focus on a body scan, and then visualizations. We did it in class together to each other, in like 15 min segments, and I really enjoyed it. It’s like intentionally daydreaming. I’m good at that! But my headache distracted me slightly. We had dinner, pureed vegetables in a cup again.  Then we had to drag bolsters, props, blocks and mats across the facility for the Yoga Nidra class that was open to the public held that evening. My head was pounding by then. The old, familiar caffeine withdrawal. I knew this headache well.

During the public Yoga Nidra class, the first 15-20 min was very enjoyable, as before, but soon after, my head felt like it was becoming the floor. So much pressure on the bone on the back of my head. Then my nose, and eyes felt heavy like they were sinking into my head. My tailbone was being bulldozed by the hard floor, thin yoga mat and blanket beneath me. My fingers tingle and twitch. My abdominal muscles contract. Everything about my body wanted to move.  An absolute refusal of stillness. I have never been this still in my life. My brain hurt. It needed out. It needed out of this body and it was pushing out of my nose, throat, and eyes, I could feel it. Spirals of energy poured into my muscles. Stay still, stay still, I pleaded with my body to relax, but it was an angry unruly child. Everyone was so still.

I tried to count the ceiling tiles to distract me, but all I could visualize was my bag of skin I was stuck in, and stampedes on energy surging through my insides. When my muscles refused to move they made their way to my brain. Every bit of energy in the entire world was clearly swirling in my brain eventually and was pouring out of my throat, eyes, and nose.  I held my breath for as long as I could so my lungs would hurt. I was mad at myself for giving my muscles and brain enough oxygen to keep doing this to me. I daydream of killing them. Drowning my muscles and brain in a refusal to inhale. I tiled my head slowly so I could see my watch without anyone knowing I was moving. I had about 50 minutes left.

Day 7:

We watched a sciencey YouTube short documentary about involution. It was kinda interesting, but I was having trouble connecting the dots. I’d watched lots of documentaries like this before, and I didn’t really hear anything I didn’t already know. At least I thought.

I was suddenly asked by the lead teacher what I learned from it, “I don’t know.” I replied unconfidently. My brain searched for some something to say that wasn’t a lie, but appeased the question. I had nothing. I stared at her. I felt like she understood I didn’t want to lie.

I cried in bed that night because everyone probably thinks I’m a dick.

Day 8:

I have been running every morning, before Japa, and that is becoming increasingly important for me. People think I am running for some sort of physiological benefit. Nope. It’s me being in charge of myself; an opportunity to make choices. But mostly, I really, really, actually enjoy running. I need some dopamine during all this dull.

Ok, starting to get more into it.

Things I need for happiness:

-Mental Stimulus

-Physical movement

-Inspiring possibilities

-loud, angry music”

I’m having trouble letting go of the “enlightenment” thing. I don’t believe in that. But does them believing in that harm them, or me, or society? Why am I so obsessed with letting everyone know about my beliefs. Why does staying quiet feel so horrible?

I wrote “There is no justice in the world and there never was” over and over and over in my notebook while we learned about Brahmavihara Limetta. (I have no idea what Brahmavihara Limetta is, for obvious reasons, it’s just written at the top of my notebook above my repetitions.)

The line is from “Soldier’s Poem” a Muse song. I listened to it once when I was biking to improv. I realized, in that moment on my bike, that human injustices are only human, and therefore really limited. And that I can never actually understand universal karma. It was reassuring, yet deeply pessimistic. It made me feel not alone. Somehow realizing how little I matter has always felt comforting to me.

I haven't really had any problems with not having caffeine after the headache during Yoga Nidra. I’m surprised.

Day 9:

We had some breathing exercises and were supposed to journal on them. I was distracted by my throat hurting. I was really mad at myself for not focusing. Like really, really mad. I went into a downward spiral of being sure I was self sabotaging.

Day 10:

“I can’t fight off my own arrogance”

Day 11:

We learned the difference in stretching vs. relaxing muscles. I thought it was interesting, but still felt resistant to new information.

Avoidance is just as addictive as grasping.

One of our talks on grasping resonated with me in a way that felt slightly safer than before. I felt some self compassion. I wanted to relax into it. But I didn’t know how.

I am just as underwhelmed as I knew I would be. I’m really bored. I wanna say I should be ok with being bored, but I don’t want to wish it different than it is. But I do wish it different than it is. Some of this is actually ok. I just want to be in control. I’m fully aware that this journal makes no sense, but putting the pen to the paper makes me feel like me. I get a choice here. I can write whatever I want. I am free here.

I’m not sure if I don’t like to admit I’m bored, or if I don’t like the fact that I’m bored, or that I’m not bored. I am. I’m having a lot of trouble forcing myself to like this. I’m blaming it on the headache and throat. I feel better when I’m distracted.

I thought of my kids at work. When they get nervous about how hard a workout is. They think something is wrong with them---they aren’t good enough to do it. Or they want something to be wrong with them so they don’t have to find out if they are good enough.  I always tell them “This is hard. It’s supposed to be hard. It’s just hard. You are safe. Let things that are challenging, be challenging.

I’m appreciative of this experience. But I need some intensity.

Day 12:

I didn’t realize I liked my life so much as to miss it this much. I really wanna go home.

But that’s ok. It’s supposed to be hard. It’s just hard. It’s ok.

The Kirtan went long, like an hour, and I was so hungry. Waiting and waiting for it to be over, finally it was. And the dinner was a cup of green soup. I was bummed. I genuinely convinced myself it might be something else after 12 days of cups of soup for diner. I know I was more bummed because I spent an hour day dreaming about eating, and the food was just not anything exciting.

This really well intended random woman said something like “There is so much more to fill up on than food. The magnificent sunlight today!”

It really pissed me off. I know that I don’t have a perfect relationship with food, I don’t need shamed for that. Turns out, it was one of the other student’s birthday, and they had saved me a tiny, wonderful, vegan cupcake. I brought it back into the student center and the random woman goes “Where did you get that!?” The other girls said, lovingly teasing her “Are you jealous!?” and I said “No, she is filled up on sunshine!”  She laughed and I felt so pleased. She said I was spicy and reminded her of her daughter. I said “Don’t fuck with me” in my head but I felt her genuine appreciation for me. I finally kinda feel like, I’m not perfect, but I’m ok.

Maybe the cupcake helped.

I tell you what, during my binge eating days, I could have never imagined one tiny little vegan cupcake could give me a little hope of self value.

Maybe there is hope for me to not hate myself one day.

I talked to my very close friend River that night, and he was just a beacon of light. He later text me that “This is hard, but that’s ok” A reminder. A reminder that love exists. And that I have support.  

Day 13:

Complicated humans are meant to deal with complicated things.

I realize I should embrace being here. I’m here anyway. It’s going to be much more fun if I don’t force myself to hate it. But I don’t know how to trust them.

I have questions that I don’t want to ask. I don’t wanna be the girl that talks a lot, but I don’t wanna smile and nod. That’s not how I can enjoy being here. I don’t feel good enough here. I want to feel seen, but don’t like who I am in their eyes. I’m very worried.

Am I saying things looking for opportunities to convey who I want them to think I am? Or am I just trying to express myself? I’m having trouble with making conclusions. I don’t trust myself. Maybe in an effort to not judge them, I refuse to like or dislike them. I’m scared of things I don’t categorize. And if I can’t decide how safe I am with them, I can’t be me.

Day 14:

I don’t trust any of these people. I can’t let them change me. I don’t want to be like this. I won’t let myself actually enjoy moments. What makes me so untrusting? I believe in their good intentions, I do. Maybe enjoying the moment can be a choice? Why am I so stubborn?

Being excited is exciting. I’d been waking up really unsure about what I could be excited about recently. It feels a lot like depression. Almost half way.

Day 15:

Today was a silent day. I’ve liked the silence in the morning so far, so I wasn’t upset about that at all. I’ve got enough going on between my own two ears for plenty of conversation. We did Japa, morning mantra, and then we had our Asana practice, silent oatmeal, this is all the same as every morning.

We were told to meet in the meditation hall next. We started meditation with no instruction. It was just “Sit up tall. Close your eyes.”  

Silence

“Are we getting instruction? How long are we going to be here? Whatever, Chelsea, just be here.” The voices in my head bargained.

I counted my breath. I lost track a few times. I looked around. Thoughts swirled in my head. I changed positions a few times. But all in all, it felt undramatic and eventually I got to 200 breaths. After 200 breaths is usually when we end Japa, which is about about 45 minutes.

I looked at my watch. “Ok, we must be doing an hour. That’s fine.” The next 15 minutes I allowed myself to just kinda think about things. I watched images dance of clouds, shadows, thoughts of home, concern about my body, boredom. I noticed and said hello and goodbye to thoughts. Hello to keep it friendly, goodbye because I don’t need to fall into the story of my thoughts right now. I knew we would end soon. The hour came, and I remembered that our Asana classes are usually 75 minutes, so that must be what’s happening. By that time, I was feeling bored and my body was doing that thing where the energy is circling in my skin, trying to find a way out from the bag it’s trapped in. For now, the energy was just curious, but I felt a fury coming, and I got worried. Images of fear flocked into my brain.

Once, in middle school, me and the rest of the volleyball team got in trouble for spray painting our mascot on the opposing team’s vending machine in their locker room. I had nothing to do with it, but our coach didn’t know that. “Run.” She said. “How long?” We asked. “Until I say stop.” We ran laps around the gym that seemed so large when I was 13. I remember lap 8 being so sure we’d be done at lap 10, and then at 10, 15. At 15, 20. Somewhere around 22 the fear was stronger than the pain in my lungs and legs. I felt nauseous. I looked around for excuses to quit, even though I knew I never would. I had a deep fear of inadequacy and would fight with everything I could to prove it wrong.  I begged for evidence that we were almost done. I was so mad at my teammates for not faking more fatigue than they truly had. They seemed to be doing ok. I hated myself for not being as fit as them. I HATED MYSELF FOR NOT BEING AS FIT AS THEM. I don’t know if you have ever had an anxiety attack during extremely challenging physical strain, but it’s been a common theme throughout my life, and there is honestly nothing else like it.

After 75 minutes of meditation passed, I gave up. I decided not be angry with myself for how hard this was, and how not good at it I was. I decided I was a victim, and that felt more safe. I lost my posture. I opened my eyes, I tapped on the floor with index finger, I counted the ceiling tiles, I quizzed myself on the figures on the mantle, and I made shit up when I didn’t know who they were. I looked around at everyone else. It seemed like some were asleep, some were miserable, and some had also given up. I waited, surly we would be done in an hour and a half. It’s irresponsible to leave us in here longer than that.

1:28 in... so close. 1:29:30 I stared at the second hand on my watch. As an hour and a half came I was relieved, finally it’s here. 1:32...1:34. Heat. Anger. Fear. Heavy sigh. Heat. 1:37. Fuck! This is dumb! This is irresponsible!

This is war.

This was our first real silent meditation. We’d done chanting and Japa, and yoga Nidra, body scans, and breath check ins and shit, but not just sitting in silence. I’ve been practicing ZaZen (zen meditation) for 6 years, and I’ve never sat for 2 hours. And I’ve never sat without clear communication of how long I would be expected to do it. Two hours, for the first time, in my opinion, even know, in retrospect, my rational, not as scared opinion, was too much. But that’s just my opinion. And everyone always has opinions.

But in this moment, I was the personification of anger. Not fair. Not beneficial. Torture. Off putting. The opposite of empowering. Fear. Heat. Heat. HEAT. Anger.

I always know anger. It always sits somewhere between my spine and my stomach and feels like a fire.

I growled at everyone and everything under my breath. Thoughts rushed in my head about my own self righteousness. Cycles of not being in control of my experience, me thinking I know more than everyone else, me wanting to be ok with being wrong, and being uncomfortable, but me knowing that I absolutely was not ok with it right now. Layers of self-hatred being my compulsion when I notice something I don’t like about myself. Although I’d given up, the anger in my brain hurt. The waves of heat and energy condensed and now sat heavily on my brain and throat. My throat hurt so much. I hated these walls of my body that imprisoned me. This air, everyone around me, the smell, the statues were mocking me. Self shame.

I had to leave.

But I knew I wouldn’t. My need to be perfect was the only thing stronger than my anger.

I wanted to run. I wanted to get this energy out. It was in my jaw and ears, my ears wanted loud, angry aggressive music, my legs wanted to run, my jaw wanted to scream, my fist clenched in anger. I blamed everyone. And I hated myself for not being able to do this.

I held my breath. I wanted to punished my brain for it’s attack on me. I kinda liked the pain, and that terrified me. I remembered when I used to punish my stomach for controlling me. I feared being that girl again. I wasn’t better, my whole life has been a waste of time. I’m not recovered. Here I am again wanting to hurt myself. I wanted to hurt myself because I was mad that I can’t pretend. I wanted to hurt other people because they broke me. Here I am, doing something I strongly disagree with, with no real explanation why, and letting it ruin me.

It ended, and we had lunch, and I was still really, really angry.

I went on a run and I was still really, really angry.

Then, we had to do it again for another 2 hours and I was even more angry.

Day 16

I have anger. I am an angry person. I think “it’s ok” helps.

Growth mindset.

It’s ok to realize something and not be able to fix it right away.

God. It feels so good to write. These words need out. They hurt when they stay in my brain. It frees me from me. And yet, I am afraid to see the real me. Because it’s not good enough? Fuck that. I’ve never actually thought that. I’ve always really liked me. Do I  like me more than I like anyone else? What’s going on here? What am I afraid of? What is this perfectness I am striving for?

I realized. This is the same thing I try to show my kids at work everyday. How perfect they already are. I’m not there yet either, guys. Who told us how untrue our perfectness is? Why did we believe them?

I stopped writing because I couldn’t stop crying. That’s never happened before. The tears usually fuel the pen. I couldn’t see. I’m crying now, retelling this story.

God. To all my perfectionist kids. They are so hard on themselves.

You are ok. It’s ok, it’s ok. IT'S OK.

IT’S OK TO WANT TO CHANGE. IT DOESN’T MEAN YOU ARE NOT ENOUGH NOW.

YOU. ARE. PERFECT. NOW.

Day 17

I tried to write a poem. It went like this:

“I was jealous. I dropped it. No one wins. No one wins following rules they don’t understand. No one wins if the goal isn’t fun. Maybe. Maybe, the point in life is to have fun. That sure seems more in the moment. I feel self righteous. That wasn’t the theme. I guess this won’t be a poem, Chelsea. Way to fuck up another one.

You aren’t the only one who hears words that mean nothing, Chelsea.

Mind your business.

Write about it

Be your own friend

How do I learn things I don’t like about myself with compassion?”

Are you constantly running to catch up to an arbitrary ideal?”

Day 18

So, yoga perceives humans as windows to see itself? Am I a vessel?

A step up from asking what’s the meaning of life ---What’s the meaning of existence? Why is there something rather than nothing?

These aren’t my ideas.

Day 19

The unit on surrender, today was a huge turning point for me.

One of my favorite poets was once interviewed and asked to explain his poem. He said something that always stuck with me. Something like “I’ve already told the story, as beautifully as I know how.”

A slightly more successful poem:

Surrender

Write a peaceful poem

Convince yourself it’s ok

I’m looking back at this in my future dreams

The light in the window

I begged it for help

I begged it for entertainment

Convinced I had to stand firm against what is

It is only what it is

It’s ok

I can’t relax

My throat hurts

It’s ok

I’m only surviving

How long is it going to be you against the world?

These people are trying to love me

And I won’t let them

I won’t let people love me

I won’t let people love me

I won’t let people love me

How do I fix that?

Am I supposed to fix that, or am I supposed to surrender to it?

I’m not opposed to fear

I am here with it

Ok

Surrender

How do I believe?

Maybe stop trying?

You are fine

Nothing is broken

There is nothing you need to fix

Close your eyes

Feel

Allow

Surrender

Surrender

Surrender

I closed my eyes and tried to feel the embrace of the group. Everyone was singing and chanting. I felt joy. It felt present, but not a part of me. It was energetic. I tried to let go of stories.

What if you believed it? But I don’t. But what if you did? But I don’t.

Day 20

On Not Wanting

All the white

But I want color

When there is mantra, I want a punk song,

Just like it

We repeat it too, you know

Maybe “we” isn’t exclusive

I’m in knots

But I miss it

But I’m in knots

Maybe little knots

Maybe I want color

But

This is about not wanting

The inner, huh?

I don’t like being told what to do

But thanks for loving me anyway

Letting that go, I reflect

To you: I do see you. I do

To me: I do see you. I do

Maybe “we” isn’t exclusive

We, are keeping this

I read that poem out loud to the class, because I wanted to, although I didn’t feel super safe doing it. I knew that was my problem, not theirs. I felt obligated to apologize about it, because I wasn’t sure if people understood how truly positive it was to me.

Day 21

Why do I have to be correct? Does that matter? He has his opinions, and I have my opinions. It is not my responsibility to teach people my beliefs. Or save them. Or further, it’s not my right to be right and them wrong. It’s just what it is. And whatever ultimate universal truth may or may not exist, isn’t my place to define for someone else. You can’t expect people, or even want people to be different than who they are. Just listen. And focus on what you believe. And love.

Ok

That helps

Day 22

The economic benefit is there, if you do the right thing.

I believe this. I do. And that scares me, because it implies faith. Who is keeping track? Is this faith? Faith in what? Is this God? I have faith in goodness and I surrender to not knowing exactly what that means. That’s my faith today. That’s good.

Day 23

I have let go of the thoughts of “They are forcing me to do this.”

“Enjoy or die” -Johnny Rotten

The opposite of doubt is someone believing in you.

The training lasted 28 days.

The last 5 days weren’t perfect. I still cried a lot. But I started to understand how to surrender on day 23, and that just seems like a good place to end.

Core Values and CrossFit

Life values I’ve learned from CrossFit and why I want to introduce CrossFit to everyone:

Integrity…Goals…Excuses…Confidence…Truth…Equality…etc, etc…

It’s weird when I try to explain to people how much I’ve learned about life from a nutrition/fitness program….maybe I can explain a little better…

When I first made my blog about my personal challenge of this 30 day diet, I said that it was hard for me to post this so publicly but doing so helps keep me accountable.

So there I was a few days later, sizing up my (whatever I wanted to eat), looking for an excuse to make it ok, I realized I would have to push back the entire experiment, admit failure to everyone and look like a weak person. I didn’t want to do that. I didn’t want to look like a weak person after making such a strong and public declaration. And I have people who read my blog tell me they respect my will power. I didn’t want to let them down. I knew, if I’m going to eat this, I’m just going to have to lie about it. I have to appear like a person of integrity.

WAIT….
Why am I aspiring to LOOK like a strong willed person? Why am I aspiring to LOOK like a person of integrity? I don’t want that. I want to BE a person of integrity.

Because, people sense genuine, and people know bullshit.

I sucked at double unders. It took me about a year and a half to get more than 3 together. I would complain about them, how I’m not meant to be good at them, how they were just never going to come to me, everyone knew I hated them. I went to Rogue and got a custom rope. I would “work” on them after the WOD. I would do a few, stand around, do a few, talk to the homeless people, try a few more, look around, get pissed off, and then call it a day. Then one day it started raining, I was in the parking lot across the street from the gym fumbling around with my rope, and it was a pretty quiet day. A few people were working out but no one was really outside or walking around to see me. I had no one to validate the fact that I was trying to be better at double unders. I had no reason to continue.

Hmmm…wait a minute. Why am I more concerned that people SEE ME attempting these than I am actually getting them down? I’m faking it! I’m just looking for people to validate that it’s not my fault I suck at these, and It’s ok, at least I’m trying. I got pissed at myself. I was shocked and embarrassed of my own childish behavior and excuses I didn’t even realize I was making. Do I want to be a good athlete, or do I want to appear like a dedicated athlete? …because I’m sure as shit not becoming a better athlete from standing around here trying to make people feel sorry for me, and feeling sorry for myself.

Feeling sorry for yourself or encouraging other people to feel sorry for you is completely and utterly pointless.

I emailed someone I respect a lot about diet, my biggest vice. I needed help. It just wasn’t working for me. I need his secrets. He said ‘cool, tell me what you’re eating and I’ll get back to you.’ I quickly logged on my online food journals and erased all the McDonalds I ate 3 weeks ago. I left some stuff out; moments of weakness I didn’t want documented, for myself or others, on display. And I waited; I waited for him to say “I don’t know, man, everything looks good. Poor you, you are doing all the right things.”

…and I waited. And I waited and about 6 weeks later I hadn’t heard from him and I finally was able to email him to admit I was a fraud. He forced me, unknowingly, to self-reflect on my diet. It wasn’t his secret knowledge I needed. It was someone to call my bullshit. I wanted people to feel sorry for me because I felt sorry for myself. I just wanted my efforts validated, and that was getting me NO WHERE.

So I called my own bullshit.

Ask yourself, have I really, truly done EVERYTHING POSSIBLE to achieve my goal. If I were to look back on what it is that DIDN’T get me there, and eliminated it, would I be successful? Is it worth it? Do I want that thing that is standing in my way more than I want my goal?

And if you ever get there, if you can look back and say I have tired 100% absolute hardest I know how and didn’t achieve my goal, you were never supposed to. Either that or life is forcing you to further educate yourself. Challenges are a gift. Embrace what you learned and move on.

Don’t feel sorry for yourself. Don’t want other people to feel sorry for you either. As coy as you think you might be, you’re probably just annoying. Don’t get jealous, get better. Life’s not fair, deal with it. Learn to recognize excuses. They are sometimes hidden. And be you. Don’t lie to others or yourself.  Fuck people who judge you. They don’t matter. Friends are always quality over quantity. Don’t fill up your life with bullshit; it takes away from the awesome. And you only have so much time.

Being true to who you are, being truthful to yourself and others, being happy with who you are---it is liberating. And people know. You can’t fake being a genuine person. It just doesn’t ever work.

Fruit Loops

I drove to the store to go get it knowing all and well that if I turned around everything would be ok. But I didn’t. I kept going. I willed myself to turn around. I thought gum, coffee, diet coke even. Something other than what I’m about to do…please. But I kept driving.

I drove to the store. Power walked to the candy isle. Grabbed what I wanted quickly. I really don’t care what it is. There was no line that could be fast enough. I felt it in my hand and knew what it would taste like. My mouth was watering. I paid for it and opened it. It was in my mouth before I was out the door. I got to candy bar number 2 by the time I got to my car. I looked around; really hoping no one was able to see me. How embarrassing. However, I knew perfectly well I wouldn’t take the time to move my car before I allowed myself to indulge into the 5th and 6th candy bars/pastries/cookies in my hands to hide.

I looked at it and said I don’t want to do this. This is going to be horrible. I don’t want to start over. I don’t want the consequences. I am going to beat myself up about this. I wish so bad I didn’t have this as I finished ever last bite of whatever was in my bag.

You can never have enough. I wanted more but I knew it was over. Now to sit and wait. Wait for the guilt. The conclusions I’ll drawl. The failure; self-hatred. The mirror the next morning. Remembering this feeling next time I get a craving. Next time I beat it. Next time I don’t.

Comparing this feeling to the last time I had it.

Then fear. Fear I’ll never succeed. Fear I’ll never be able to do this. Fear that I don’t have control of my choices. Fear this will happen again in an hour. Fear that tomorrow won’t be better. Fear of how this will affect my workouts. Fear of those jeans. Fear of the mirror.

I don’t miss it when it’s not here. I really don’t. I don’t miss having just a bite. And I don’t crave ice cream after not having it for 4 months. Day 94 is a million times easier than day 1.

Now please, tell me, how I’m depriving myself from NOT having what everyone else is having. Tell me about how I’m not living a happy fulfilled life because I don’t eat dessert. Tell me everything in moderation, please.

What I have is an addiction. This isn’t normal. This isn’t healthy. This is sickness.

I’ve read studies where mice starved to death because they were unwilling to walk across a bed of broken glass to get to their normal rat food. But then the scientists gave them fruit loops and they were willing to walk across to get to fruit loops when they weren’t even hungry. That’s not normal. Fruit loops aren’t normal.

These Frankin-foods are saturated with addictive features your body just doesn’t know how to handle. Your DNA sees these foods as HIGHLY rewardive. Your body thinks Fruit Loops is the best thing that’s ever happened to you. And you give your body this immense reward every 3 hours if you follow the Standard American Diet. (Fruit loops for breakfast, protein bar for snack, pasta for lunch…etc) So how sad are you going to feel when you stop this? How easy is it for you to just give up most of what creates your highest Serotonin (happy hormones)? It’s not easy. And it’s not all willpower. It’s not all your fault. Your instincts are strong, stronger than your willpower. You can only fight them off so long before you break.

That’s why you have instincts. If instincts were easy to ignore there would be no point in them. Your body is a wonderful, amazing, powerful thing and it’s just trying to help you feel better. You’re the one fucking it up. Respect your body. You have no idea of its capabilities until you stop limiting yourself.

So when you get sad, your body demands something happy; something good. Some crave sex, drugs, gambling, money, but most crave Fruit Loops. You don’t crave the taste of fruit loops any more than you could crave the foods that are good for you. You just crave reward. So reward yourself with something that’s real. That’s the cure. Reward yourself with something that’s not been injected into your veins, against your knowledge, by an extremely jaded food system….something that’s not causing the demise of your health and personal/ psychological well-being.

Sounds a little dramatic, I know. But it’s not. You ARE brainwashed.
“They” purposely create these foods to leave you wanting more. Don’t believe me yet? Watch the video I have linked. There is a multi-billion dollar company that other food companies contract, that’s sole purpose is to make stuff taste good and make people want to eat more of them. They make flavors that are over stimulating but end abruptly to make you want more. These flavors are in everything processed. It isn’t even on the food label because it is in such small quantities the USDA doesn’t require it to be.

You know your body better than I do. If you’re happy with your relationship with food, you’re probably not reading this anyway. But if you’re not, you probably have an addiction.

“The salt slide” –A term derived from McDonalds in 1972 by CEO Walastein to describe the tendency of customers to scrape the French fry box for any remainders of food, or salt granules, no matter how full they were or the portion size before adopting the concept of “Super Size.”

Your Greatest Enemy is Within

“This ability to conquer oneself is no doubt the most precious of all things sports bestows on us” ”

— Olga Korbut, Olympic gymnast

“This ability to conquer oneself is no doubt the most precious of all things sports bestows on us” -Olga Korbut, Olympic gymnast

I have a 16 year old black lab named Violet. She doesn’t walk well and I think she has developed some type of old age induced-dog version of exercise related asthma. Sometimes she goes on long walks. She is excited to go but get tired quickly. She walks, stops for air, and walks a little further. Sometimes she looks up at me and I can tell she is pleading ‘How much further?’ When she gets home she collapses on the floor, sucking wind, drinks some water and usually goes to sleep.

I couldn’t help but relate to her.

I’ve never liked running. I’ve never understood why anyone does. But before I started CrossFit and knew better, I thought running long distances was good for me. So I would get up and run and I ran less than a mile and it took forever and it wasn’t fun. And then I ran 5 miles and it took forever and it wasn’t fun. And I wasn’t getting anywhere with my fitness goals. Running distances (anything over a mile) is all about perseverance and not giving up, not really fitness ability.  Mental Strength.

I used to wonder why people needed to train to run 10K’s, half marathons, etc. As long as you’re not concerned with your time, then just don’t stop. Done. To me, running 400 meters sucks, and it’s not fun and it hurts, and running 7 miles sucks, and it’s not fun and it hurts. But running 1 mile is a lot like running 7 miles, only longer.

And 250 pounds on your back is not light. It’s heavy, awkward and uncomfortable. It still goes down quick and comes up slow. 250 pounds feels a lot like 350 pounds, only heavier.

But my head takes over. I’ve fallen under the bar. I’ve scrapped 300 pounds down my back. I’ve been alone and stuck on a box I couldn’t get off of. I know failing isn’t fun and often hurts. I get scared. My mind says I’m not sure and therefore my muscles say FUCK NO. They already decided. They are waiting on the slightest discomfort to let the fear win. Mental Strength.

I’ve never stepped up to a bar and wondered if I could make it and did. You have to know.

So I’m taking stuff out to my truck, yesterday and WHOA Violet stood up for no reason! (She is 16 -she doesn’t normally do that.) I let her outside with me. She slowly walked down 3 steps, looked around, walked about 5 feet to the mailbox, sniffed it, and walked back up to the front door. I let her in. She collapsed on the floor, drooling and panting. YOU FAKER! It was her routine; it’s what she’s used to doing. She forgot she hadn’t walked for 2 hours like she has before.  To Violet, walking 10 feet is a lot like walking for 2 hours, only quicker.

The difference is the ability to tell yourself; your body to STFU. I got this. Obviously, it’s a lot harder than you’d think.

Nutrition: My Theory

(Before you read this, I need to note that this is from 2013? or so and I’m not this person at all anymore, and these view points aren’t mine anymore. I really doubt anyone will read this anyway. But just sayin’)

Everyone has their own version of the truth. Here’s mine:

Your body needs calories. We didn’t evolve to what we are today by forgetting to eat, or not having enough to eat. A long time ago, humans who forgot to eat, or didn’t pursue enough food, died and probably didn’t pass on as many genes as the people who pursued food more aggressively. We evolved to want food and in the right amounts. Only the hungry survive.
Trying to restrict your calories to lose weight is like trying to not sleep to take on a second job. It’s just not going to work for too long. You’re going to crash. You can’t say that’s ill willpower. Don’t do this to yourself.

This is why conventional advice to ‘eat less, move more’ is arrogantly over simplified and ineffective.

Carbs create insulin.

Reduce/ manage insulin spikes that cause a surge of calories to be stored for later use by managing carbohydrate intake. The body sees high blood sugar as a medical emergency and will do everything it can to throw those calories somewhere to get them out of your bloodstream ASAP and it does that by changing it to triglycerides and storing it as fat.

This is why excessive carbohydrate intake causes high triglycerides which cause heart problems much more effectively than dietary fat intake.

Also, the carbs cause inflammation in the arteries, making the arterial walls swollen and therefore smaller passage way. Inflammation causes leaky gut, high blood pressure and increased toxicity due to increased gut permeability. Coupled with high intake of toxins (chemicals, artificial food, pesticides, pollution, Frankin foods) is a recipe for increased cancerous cellular division.

When your body has an “emergency” like high blood sugar or toxicity this takes priority; much higher priority than normal maintenance like muscle growth and repair.

People with higher metabolisms and/or lower body fat can handle more carbohydrates. This is why there is no perfect diet. Everyone has different needs.

Carbs are immediate energy. It’s either used or stored. If you are more concerned with having more energy (i.e.an already lean endurance athlete) then eat carbs. If you are more concerned with fat loss, eat less carbs.
Insulin is, literally, the hormone that allows energy to enter the fat cells. Without insulin, fat storage is impossible. (This, however, isn’t the same as the release of energy from the fat cells)

Ask your muscles to take the calories instead of fat cells by strength training.

Fat provides energy too, just without the insulin spike. Extra fat will be stored as fat, don’t get me wrong…but it isn’t rushed into your fat cells in an emergency situation like carbs are.

And breaking down fat (ketone bodies) for energy is a little bit longer process than breaking down sugar. (remember the immediate energy thing) That’s why, your first trip down Paleo path makes you feel like a sloth. But don’t forget how wonderful and adaptive your body is. If you ask it to do this more often, it will become much more efficient at it. But if you constantly have carbs in your system ready and willing to provide immediate energy your body will always burn them off first, preserving fat for after they are gone.

A ketogenic diet (<30-50g of carbs a day) fells like crap the first month or so, but after that your energy delivery is much more consistent and you are burning fat like a motherf’er. But most people quit on the 2nd week of feeling like crap and ungodly strong carb cravings. And one cheat and your back to burning sugar and you start over. However, someone who spends the majority of their life as a fat burner as opposed to a sugar burner will have a much easier transition back to ketosis after a cheat. I know this, trust me, I’ve talked to many people who were able to achieve this, have a monthly or so cheat, and be back into ketosis in 1-3 days. This is my goal (at least for right now) of where I would like to be.

Exercise is a great way to burn calories but your body is smart. You will want and need to eat more when you train more. The more frequent, intense and/or high volume the exercise the more you will want/need to eat. You can’t change that. You probably won’t replenish ALL of the calories you’ve burned, so yes, exercise (cardio/metabolic conditioning) does help reduce body fat but much less effectively than proper nutrition and redirecting calories to muscle (strength training). (Notice I said body fat loss and not body weight loss.)

But don’t negate the importance of exercise. It’s very good for your heart and provides endorphins. And if you think mood/stress/sleep doesn’t affect weight loss you need to do your homework.

I also feel the need to touch on Leptin resistance. Leptin is the hormone released in the hypothalamus to tell you that you’ve had enough to eat when you’ve had enough to eat. Insulin blocks Leptin and this causes Leptin Resistence. With high insulin, the message can’t be transferred and you over eat. This isn’t a theory. It’s a fact, and it’s very recently discovered, actually. Look it up. Most people who binge eat have Leptin Resistance.

Medium chain triglycerides (i.e. coconut products and ghee) are a very easy to break down fat. Basically the structure cannot and will not be stored as body fat because of the nature of how fast it breaks down. Much like a carb but without the insulin spike, and won’t convert to body fat! Basically they are a carb like structure without the negative effects of carbs and will provide immediate and concentrated energy. They will also help to reduce your carb cravings and help prevent glycogenesis (converting protein to glucose) when in a reduced carbohydrate state.

Omega 3 to Omega 6 ratio is huge! Take Omega 3 supplementation and eat quality omega 3 sources. Generic and cheap “Fish oil” is usually omega 3-6-9 and defeats the purpose of the supplementation. Saturated fats (animal fats) are omega 6’s. There is nothing wrong with saturated fat as long as it is from quality sources and you are consuming more omega 3’s than Omega 6’s.

Carbs, over-eating in general, not exercising, inflammation and not having enough omega 3’s in your diet cause heart disease and/or high cholesterol, not dietary cholesterol/ animal fat and/or saturated fat. Do the research; it’s there. And EAT THE FUCKING YOKE!

I know, I know… the American Heart Association disagrees…and they have made awesome advancements in the field of preventing heart disease and obesity and all but…..(I’m being sarcastic)

As for trans-fat, they fuck everything up. I suggest you eat nothing fried ever under any circumstance no matter what. And vegetables oils are bad too…and soy is the devil; full of estrogen and GMO.

Buy Organic, don’t support Monsanto, Round-up or cancer. Seriously, that shit is NOT safe. Again, do the research. Monsanto owns some 98% of the food supply. They have money. They know people. They pass laws.
Try to eat quality meat as much as possible. Always buy organic/hormone free/pesticide free and try to buy animals that ate food that they are supposed to eat. Full fat grass fed beef is good for you. Taco bell meat it not. The way they raise these animals and crops (especially imported fish) is really gross and unhealthy. This is where all the ‘meat it bad’ data comes from. Not from quality meat. DO YOUR HOMEWORK.

Last thing: I intermittently fast. I can’t decide if I think it’s a good thing or not, but I’m self-experimenting with it and hope to have some sort of conclusion in the future. I like to be able to eat larger portions too. I do think anyone struggling with psychological eating issue (and these are probably WAY more common than you’d imagine) could benefit from periods of fasting. It helps you to identify habit/boredom/sadness/whatever vs. hungry. And many studies have shown health benefits of periods of fasting. I’m sure cave people fasted, just not intentionally.

The most important thing is that you not trust people. Research, experiment, try, think about…keep an open mind. Don’t believe what I say, just consider it. Everybody talks. Most people have good intentions but are just reiterating what someone else told them and are too arrogant, lazy, naive or close minded to investigate. Don’t be that guy. If you’ve read this, you clearly have an interest in your health…good for you. Now go do something about it.

My First Year As A Yogi

Some things aren’t very good at being described. Writing, in fact, ideas transcending time and space on paper (and now in digital pixels) is an art; a practice. But some things are just better felt.

My yoga practice started about the same time as my Zen practice, my radical acceptance practice. Embodied; It became me, all of it together. That feeling, the indescribable one, good or bad and everywhere else in between, that’s my practice.

ZaZen is not what happens to you when you are sitting. Self-acceptance is not lying to yourself about how Ok you are.  Yoga is not what happens to you when you are breathing. And lifting weights is not standing up with a barbell on your back.

It’s just a feeling.