La La Land

So here's the thing. I haven't reviewed a movie in years. I guess with age and maturity comes the realization that my opinion is just that: my opinion, and who cares what I think about movies besides me? But several people asked for my review on this particular movie so I'm dusting off my laptop, my blog, and my thumbs (you know, like Siskel and Ebert). Also because after thinking about this movie every day since I watched it last week, I've finally processed my feels and sort of kind of figured out what I want to say about it.

These were the things that I thoroughly enjoyed about La La Land:

1. No sex, not a ton of language (just the token F word that all PG13 movies just cannot live without these days, don't get me started on that). Just a good, clean, wonderful, feel-good musical love story.
2. The music and dancing. I mean, seriously. How can you not love it? A modern day musical with a 50's feel (the wardrobe! the colors!) set to jazz, performed by two of the biggest Hollywood actors in the world? The music is so fun and catchy and gets stuck in your head and just makes you so happy and I could watch Emma and Ryan dance together in their B&W jazz shoes all. day. long. And, like Mia (Emma's character), I don't even like jazz. At all. (Don't tell Sebastian.)
3. The movie is a love letter to L.A. Which brings us to the main reason I loved this movie so much. My whole life I've been kind of obsessed with acting, movies, Southern California, celebrities, etc. All things Hollywood. Besides an author, the only thing I've ever wanted to be is an actress, and somewhere deep inside me lives that girl that longs to be on the big screen. So following Mia's often painful journey to making it in Hollywood resonated with me in a big way. More than that, though, was that less than two months ago my family and I took a vacation to L.A. for a week. Not a day goes by that I don't dream of the palm trees, the smells, the perfect weather, the beach, the theme parks, the food, the overall fairytale feeling of it (which is why its nickname, La La Land, is so accurate). I mentally go back to Anaheim, Hollywood, Santa Monica, and just smile. Somehow La La Land (the movie) perfectly captured the picturesque, dreamlike quality of Hollywood and portrays it exactly as I imagined it would be like to live there, as a struggling actress trying to make it. It intentionally sugarcoats L.A., cutting out the grit and grime that is prevalent through much of the sprawling city, showing only the bright, pretty, clean, fun version of Hollywood that most people envision in their disillusioned SoCal fantasies. And I love it. So many scenes with the Hollywood hills as the backdrop, pool parties in winter, dancing at twilight with the lights of the city lit up beneath them, the views breathtaking. It made me want to hop the next plane to LAX.  
4.  The ending. Read further for more on that. 

 ***** SPOILERS AHEAD!!!! CONTINUE AT YOUR OWN RISK!!!! *****

As you may know, the ending had a whole lot of people in an uproar. Most people loved the movie, hated the ending. Or hated the whole movie just because of the way it ended. Very few people were okay with the ending, and even fewer actually loved it. I'm in that last very small minority. Here's why:

First, let me thank my mom and my friend for "warning me" that they hated the ending. Note to all people who watch movies and talk about them to people who haven't seen them yet: If you say you hated the way a romance ended, you haven't just spoken in some uncrackable code. You basically just told everyone that the two love interests don't end up together. There's literally no other explanation for hating the ending of a romance. The end.

However, my thanks to them is actually genuine. Had I been expecting a happy ending, the fact that Mia and Sebastian go their separate ways at the end would have been a serious blow. But since I knew now not to expect a happy ending, I could just enjoy it for what it was. And what it was was AWESOME. Here's why: 

It's realistic. 100% realistic. Another thing that age and maturity have brought me is an appreciation for reality and less of an infatuation with romance and happy endings. Romance and love come in many forms and this ending was so one of them. The movie was based on two people fighting to achieve their dreams, dreams they wanted more than anything in the world. They both knew this. They both knew that love, however great it was, would take a backseat to their big break if they ever got it. Repeatedly they supported each other in working toward their goals, encouraging one another to choose opportunities of success over their relationship. And in the end, their goals won, as they should have in a movie all about people desperately reaching for their goals. Would it have been awesome if they both got exactly what they'd dreamt of for so long AND got each other? Yes! Would it have been realistic? Not at all! (Can you name one celebrity who's made it big AND has managed to keep a successful relationship?) It would have made for a very convenient happy ending purely for the sake of pleasing the masses. And that's just lame. 

BUT...if it's romance you're wanting, if you were just so invested in Seb and Mia's relationship that you just had to see that after everything, they still meant so much to each other, you got it. Although Mia winds up married to someone else (baby and all) after becoming a huge star, she and Sebastian share one of the most beautiful, romantic scenes together (without anyone cheating, imagine that!) in the form of a fantasy sequence. After stumbling unknowingly into Sebastian's jazz club with her husband, Mia sees him (Sebastian) at the piano and almost stops breathing. They look at each other. The club and everyone in it seems to cease existing in that moment. It's just the two of them. He begins to play their theme, the song he was playing on the piano the first time they met. Soon they are both transported into an alternate storyline, reliving each key scene in the movie as if everything had gone perfectly in their relationship and they'd stayed together. Mia envisioned him following her to Paris on her big break, marrying him instead and having a baby with him. It's beautiful, and emotional, and heartbreaking, and beautiful, and so very, very realistic. (And did I mention beautiful?) Who hasn't wondered what their life would be like if things had gone differently? Even the happiest person in the happiest marriage has wondered what their life might have been like if they'd ended up with someone else, or done things differently. 

The sequence ends. Sebastian stops playing. They're brought back to reality, to the club, where Mia and her husband get up to leave. But just before exiting the club Mia stops and turns around, looking at Sebastian. He looks up from the piano, right at her. One long, meaningful look that tells them both all they need to know: that what they shared was everything. That it meant something big and something real. That even though they didn't end up together they were so important in each other's lives, in pushing each other to realize their dreams. And, just like the last thing they told each other before Mia left for Paris, (effectively ending their relationship,) they would always love each other. He smiles at her. She smiles back. And they know everything is as it should be. 

Perfection. A magical ending that makes me swoon every time I think of it. I'm sure there's some deep meaning in the fact that a movie called La La Land prides itself in an ending based on reality (the director fought hard to keep his realistic ending and refused to change it even at the risk of never getting the movie made) and not some fairytale "they all lived happily ever after" but for now all I can say is it's ironic? I don't know, it's too much thinking for me. So I'll just enjoy it and tell the naysayers to watch it again. I hear people like it better the second time. 

And I'll just be here, listening to the soundtrack on repeat and dreaming of California.

I'd Like One Christmas Miracle, Please.

Christmas is tomorrow and to use a much overused phrase, I'm feeling all the feelings. It's going to be an interesting Christmas, for sure. I'm not really sure how to feel about it.

On the one hand, for the first time in months I feel amazing. Last September I started weaning myself off what I thought was an extra antidepressant I didn't need to be on. (You may remember me complaining about withdrawal. Often.) Well, turns out I really did need to be on it. Once the withdrawal symptoms finally subsided, new but equally unpleasant symptoms showed themselves. I was not in a good place. I was most often angry, bitter, annoyed, anxious, and often overwhelmed with feelings of hopelessness. I didn't get back on the medication right away for reasons I won't go into *coughObamacare* but finally I decided enough is enough and got back on it. Literally within a day I felt like a new person. Like my old self. I'd forgotten what it felt like to laugh and smile, to feel happy and normal, to want to get out of bed and do stuff, to get on Facebook and Instagram and smile at the posts and "like" them instead of rolling my eyes and thinking things I'm ashamed of. I am so eternally grateful for modern medicine and self-revelation that showed me what I needed to do.

Yet as I'm skipping through my sunny days now, I watch my own sweet mother spiral ever downward and I've never felt so scared and helpless in my life. Many of you know the severity of her struggles of late but many of you don't. I haven't spoken much publicly about it to respect her privacy, but as time goes on the secrecy just seems silly and frankly, she needs all the prayers and good thoughts she can get. Besides, if she had some serious physical, medical ailment, there would be no secrecy at all, so why should this be any different?

For the last month or more she has been being treated for severe depression at Sacred Heart in Spokane. She is home now but returns once a week for electroshock therapy treatments. So far she's had 12 with no sign of improvement and we're not sure what the next step is. We pray, we fast, we pray some more. We research online and talk to friends and family who've gone through similar things. We talk to doctors, psychiatrists, therapists, etc. We try it all. And when nothing changes, we try not to lose hope. But it's hard. It's so very, very hard.

So you see, I'm not sure what to feel about Christmas this year. How can I be excited and happy when my mom is suffering so agonizingly? What we need is an honest to goodness real life Christmas miracle. If you're the praying type, and feel so inclined, please pray for my angel mother. Maybe with enough prayers we can get that miracle after all.

The Happiest Depressed Person I Know

Warning: If you’re prone to feeling like people are “over-sharing” when they share deeply personal things online, feel free to stop reading now.

I’ve never kept my anxiety/depression a secret, but I’m not overly vocal about it, either.  I stopped being ashamed of it a long time ago.  I’ve made peace with the fact that it will be a lifelong struggle for me, that I will be on medication for the rest of my life just to feel…not normal, but as close to normal as I can get.  I’m okay with that.  But some people—a lot of people—don’t get it.  Mental illness still carries such a stigma, despite the growing numbers of people who suffer from it.  It’s still a taboo topic in society and often looked upon with pity, judgment, and misunderstanding.  Unless you’ve suffered from it yourself, or are close to someone who suffers from it, you just don’t get it.  You can’t.  And that’s not your fault.  But you can try.  Try to put yourself in their shoes.  In mine.

I was 14 when I was diagnosed with a chemical imbalance.  I had suffered from severe anxiety attacks my entire childhood but had no name to attach to them.  I just thought I was overly scared of things, things that seemed ridiculous to most people but were very real to me.  I had never heard of anxiety or panic attacks.  Depression was people who slept all the time and talked like Eeyore.  Mental illness was crazy people in psychiatric institutions.  My parents weren’t familiar enough with it either to be able to pinpoint what was wrong with me, or that anything was wrong with me beyond normal childhood fears.

But then puberty hit and with it, hormonal changes.  The chemicals in my brain couldn’t keep up, and the daunting task of starting high school put me over the edge.  I finally got bad enough that my mom saw the need to take me to a psychiatrist.  Here I received my fist diagnosis and a script for an antidepressant.  I learned what a panic attack was, and could finally put a name to the all-consuming, completely debilitating episodes that had plagued me my entire life.  Those times when hell had opened up and had threatened to suck me in.  There was a name for it.  I couldn’t believe it.

But I was angry.  I was scared.  I was in serious denial.  I just wanted to be like all the other kids and be normal and happy and free of stupid, embarrassing fears.  I was furious that I had to take a pill just to feel normal.  So I didn’t.  I only took it every three days when the withdrawal symptoms set in and I couldn’t handle the electric shocks in my brain and the way the room spun every time I moved.  I was young and stupid and didn’t understand that my brain needed that medicine like a diabetic needs insulin. 

I proceeded through high school this way; mostly ok, but totally unable to cope when things in my world went horribly wrong.  I couldn’t handle big changes, especially changes in relationships, and when that happened, I fell apart.  I bounced from therapist to therapist, getting no help at all.  One guy would talk about his other patients, then mutely stare out the window for 5 minutes.  Another one said I was doing too well on my medication and he couldn’t help me unless I stopped taking it and got some of my symptoms back.  After a trip to Seattle to have a psychiatrist tell me I was “textbook” and then proceed to relay everything I had told him in confidence to my mother, we gave up.  (I knew that last guy couldn’t be trusted when I saw a cartoon drawing pinned to his bulletin board in his office, the punchline being something about Prozac.)  I was done with therapists.

After high school, I got married and got pregnant and things went downhill again. (Pregnancy hormones and mental illness don’t mix well.)  I was a mess and my doctor switched my meds up.  That was when I learned that antidepressants only work for 5-10 years (sometimes less) and then your body decides it’s used to them and they stop working.  This was also the time my diagnosis was switched from “chemical imbalance” to “severe anxiety disorder” and “depression.”

My pregnancies were rough.  The second one rougher than the first.  I barely made it through, and only with the help of an increased dosage of meds and another one added for good measure.  After two miserable bouts of post-partum depression, I knew my body couldn’t do another pregnancy, and that’s something I struggle with every single day.

Moms with anxiety and depression raising young kids deserve some special award for bravery. (Dads too.) It was arguably the hardest thing I have ever done.  Lack of sleep, crying babies, sick kids, the constant demand for attention, is hard enough.  Throw in emotional instability and you have a recipe for disaster.  But here’s the thing:  we can still do it.  People do it every day.  And we’re still amazing parents.  My kids are older now and pretty self-sufficient but the challenge is not gone.  It’s just different. 

So here’s why I don’t talk about my anxiety/depression.  Because people like happy endings.  They don’t mind hearing your story if it’s in the past tense.  But the minute you admit you’re still smack in the middle of that story, things get awkward.  But to most sufferers of mental illness, the happy ending is not “and then I was cured. The end.” It’s “I get through every day, and some of those days are good, and some are crap, but I keep going and that’s something I’m proud of.”  And that’s the happy ending.

Also, remember how I said that people who don’t have it just don’t get it?  Those people like it when they can fit mental illness sufferers into a neat little package with a neat little label on it.  Bipolar.  Schizophrenic.  Manic depressive.  But guess what, Mr. Doctor In Seattle With Totally Unprofessional Cartoon On Wall?  There’s nothing textbook about me, or my illness.  You can’t file me away under one category and call it good.  Despite what my file says under “diagnosis,” I’m not anything that will make sense in anyone’s brain that hasn’t been there.

So what is it like to be in my shoes? I’ll give you an idea.

It’s standing in the middle of your kitchen, seeing the dirty dishes, and being so overwhelmed by the prospect of doing them that the only thing you can think to do is crawl back into bed.

It’s getting on Instagram and seeing all the pictures of fellow moms doing things like baking, and taking their kids to the pumpkin patch, and volunteering at the school, and dreaming about what that must be like, to just decide to do those things and actually be able to do them.

It’s being proud of yourself for showering and putting on real clothes that aren’t pajamas today.

It’s wondering how much longer until your kids start to call you out on things you and they both know you should be doing but aren’t, then realizing it’s already started happening.

It’s being so consumed with self-doubt and guilt and feelings of inadequacy that sometimes you can’t breathe.

It’s falling to your knees and pleading with God to “just feel normal.”

It’s feeling so unbelievably tired that your bones feel like they’re filled with metal instead of marrow, and your brain is full of sand, and the only thing you have energy enough to do is sleep.

It’s dreaming up different ways to try and make your family think you did something other than sleep all day without actually having to lie to them.

It’s thinking back to the days when you were young and carefree and your biggest worry was which CD to buy and wondering if you will ever, ever feel like that again.

It’s wondering why the little things that people do every day, the mundane tasks that they don’t have to work at doing, are like climbing Everest for you.

It’s worrying that even though you think you feel ok, you’re missing out on all the feelings that other people feel every day, because your medicine numbs you, and you’d have no way of ever knowing.

You may read these and think they sound like the statements a severely depressed person would make.  But you’d be wrong.  (At least in my case.) And that’s why I don’t fit into any one mold.  Because I’m a “happy” person.  Ask any of my friends and family members.  I’m talkative, friendly, outgoing.  I laugh and joke around and sing.  I know it seems impossible that that could be one person, but it’s true.  And that’s the beauty (ugliness?) of mental illness.  It doesn’t make any sense.  I don’t fit into the “depression” category.  I don’t even fit perfectly into the “anxiety” category.  I’m not bipolar, either, sleeping all day and moping around and then suddenly singing and dancing and cleaning my house.  I am ALL of these things at ALL the same time.  And when I’m happy and talkative, I’m not hiding my depression either.  It’s still there, just pushed to the back.  It’s all there—the good, the bad—all of it, always.  I am the happiest depressed person I know.

So please, please don’t read this and think, “Wow, I had no idea Alicia was doing so bad.  She needs help.”  I’m getting all the help I can get.  And I’m ok.  This is me.  It’s my life.  It’s always been my life and will always be my life and I will never give up hoping for something better but in the meantime I have to accept what is.

What is my purpose in telling you all of this?  Understanding.  Understanding for the person in your life who suffers from any mental illness.  Because I promise you there is someone.  Understand they are not less than.  Understand they can still be happy and act normal and they are not faking it.  Understand that things you take for granted being able to do every day are monumental feats for them to accomplish.  Understand that the best thing you can do for them is to listen when they want to talk about it, show compassion, and don’t try to fix them.  Because you can’t.  That is worth repeating: YOU CAN’T FIX THEM.  Trying will only make them resent you.  Tell them that you love them, no matter what, and you are so sorry they have to deal with stuff that you can’t even begin to imagine on a daily basis.  Make sure they know you are always there for them.  Most importantly, don’t judge.  Until you’ve been there, you can’t judge.  And if you have been there, then why would you judge??!!

Feel free to text/message/call/email me if you have questions or want to talk.  I am ALWAYS willing to talk about this, and I am always amazed at how many people suffer from it.  People who are suffering in silence, people who are scared to speak up because of the reasons I listed above.  To those I say, please know you are not alone. 

Let’s rid the world of the stigma that surrounds mental illness and start talking about it. 

Hi. I'm Alicia. I'm a Christian and I Love Gay People.

I have read two separate articles/blog posts today written by people in support of traditional marriage.  Both posts began with the authors saying how nervous they were to be writing about the topic, because of the side they happen to be on.  One said his fingers were literally trembling at his keyboard.

Why is that?

Why should we, or anyone for that matter, be so terrified to speak up about something in which we/they believe so strongly?  What are we so afraid of? 

Being judged?  Yes.

Being hated?  Yes.

Hurting the feelings of people we love and respect?  Absolutely.

Being called narrow-minded, hateful, bigoted?  Most definitely.

We have every reason to be scared.  Because so much of the world hates us right now.  Hates us for being religious, a word they spit out with disgust and venom.  Hates us for worshiping and following a God they see as a fairytale, or worse.  Hates us for being the "modern-day KKK," the proverbial white man on the bus ("religious person") making Rosa Parks ("gay person") move to the back.  Because she's lesser, not equal, not as good as us.  You laugh at the ridiculousness, I know, but the comparison has been made, and sadly enough, it's not the worst thing being said.

And yet, the hypocrisy is unbelievable.  Advocates of gay marriage stand on a platform of equality, acceptance, and LOVE FOR ALL*.  See fine print: *"All" encompasses only those who support gay marriage.  If you don't, you are a hateful, bigoted spawn of Satan who deserves to be beheaded. 

See the irony?

And here's the crazy part:  I DO LOVE ALL!!! 

Hi.  My name is Alicia.  I'm a Christian--a Mormon, nonetheless (gasp)--and I love gay people.  I love transgendered people.  I love everyone.  I even want everyone to be happy.  I want everyone to feel equal and no one to feel less-than or discriminated against.  Is this often a conflict with my belief that marriage is ordained by God and should only be between a man and a woman?

Every.  Single.  Day.

Because I know that by fighting to maintain that sacred definition of marriage, millions of people feel discriminated against.  Do I hate that?  Yes.  Does it mean I'm going to give up my belief, nay, my knowledge that marriage is ordained by God when done the way He intended?  Never in a million years.

So you see?  It's possible to disagree with someone's choices and beliefs and still feel love and compassion for them.  I know so many people don't want to believe that.  It's easier to get mad and feel angry and spew vitriol at those of us who believe differently than they do.  It's easier to refuse to believe that we still love and accept the very people who have made choices we don't agree with.  So weird, but, the very word "Christian" actually means "follower of Christ."  We strive to pattern our lives after Christ's.  And Christ was, is, and always will be the very definition of unconditional love.  Did he love that the woman being stoned had committed adultery?  Heck no.  Did he love the woman?  Without a doubt.  See?  It can be done.  And it is done.  By millions of Christians, every single day.

Are all Christians accepting and loving and not hateful toward gays?  No.  Does that mean all Christians should be lumped together into one big ball of hateful, narrow-minded, unaccepting people?  No.  Because that would be....yep, bigotry.

All I ask is for some fairness.  All I ask is to be given the same acceptance, tolerance, and love, despite my differing beliefs, that those on the opposing side are fighting so hard for.  I ask for the hypocrisy to stop and the equality that is so desired to be given to ALL people, including people like me, who oppose gay marriage.  Because that is true equality, is it not?

And lastly, I ask my fellow Christians, my fellow supporters of traditional marriage, to speak up too.  I plead with you to stop hiding behind your computer screens and quietly feeling anger and frustration and fear.  Because I know you want to speak up too, or, at least, you have things you'd love to say.  You wouldn't believe how many people have messaged me privately, ardently agreeing with me and saying they feel exactly the same way.  But why are they messaging me in private?! Why won't they speak out??  Because of fear, and because they, like me, know and love people that they would undoubtedly offend.  But I ask you this: Has my post about acceptance and love offended you?  Any of you?

The time for silence is over.  The time to speak is now.  Our side needs a voice too, and we are being drowned out by the opposition.  The world cannot know how strongly we feel about our convictions unless we tell it.  Not by bashing the opposing side but by stating our beliefs in a loving, Christlike way.  Because if we all truly acted in the name of love--as we are all claiming to--maybe we could start to see eye to eye.  And wouldn't that be a wonderful thing?

The Reality of Christmas

I love Christmas.  I love Christmastime.  I love December and winter and snow and traditions and celebrating the birth of our Savior.  I love everything about it.  So much so that every year I have the most perfect vision of what Christmas will be for me and my family.  And every year, without fail, that vision isn't realized.  And it hurts.  A lot.  Just once I want that Christmas that I have in my head.  The ones like in the movies and on every blasted news feed on my phone.

Social media has ruined Christmas for me.  In a way that has me thinking "bah humbug" with every scroll of my finger.  Every picture of every perfectly decorated Christmas tree and every perfectly executed tradition and every perfectly coordinated outfit for every perfect Christmas card photo has me becoming more bitter and heartbroken at the reality that is my Christmas, which is this:

Decorations are hauled down from the attic at best by December 3rd or 4th, but more realistically, the 5th or 6th.  By the time we actually pull said decorations out of their dusty bins and put them up around the house, a week has gone by and seven pockets on our advent will never be used.  The adorable advent that hangs on the wall with 25 pockets that, on the first year we had it, were each filled with a slip of paper that had a Christmas related activity that we would do that day: bake cookies, make Christmas cards, go see Christmas lights, etc.  That first year we diligently partook in every activity, no matter the strain on our time or bank account.  The second year, that advent gave me anxiety to look at but I had started a tradition and traditions can't be broken, right?  We did our best.  The third year (last year) I almost didn't take it out of the bin altogether.  I actually don't remember what we even put in the pockets.  This year I'm deciding between telling the kids it was eaten by mice or that some poor family needed it much more than we did.  

I used to spend days preparing handmade Christmas card (and hundreds of dollars, when all was said and done) with our latest family picture attached to send out to family and friends.  Over the years I simplified the card more and more until finally resorting to the ever classic Costco pre-made photo Christmas card, and even that died a painful death over two years ago.  Sending out Christmas cards of any kind are but a distant memory in this house.  Family picture with coordinating outfits? Ain't nobody got time for that!

Every year I have bold aspirations of wrapping as I buy.  Yet every Christmas Eve I am up till the wee hours of the morning watching the only Christmas movies I will watch that year as I wrap like an elf on crack.  Which means my tree skirt sits barren below my Christmas tree until literally Christmas morning.  My poor children make comments about how other families have their Christmas presents under their trees already and I snap back with some obnoxious comment about how only the kids who will actually never have any presents under their tree to open Christmas morning have the right to complain, while secretly feeling plagued with guilt at yet another Christmas failure on my part.

Oh, and the wrapping? In my head it's always going to look like this:

But in reality, it's always more like this:

We have no Christmas traditions, really, other than watching The Polar Express on Christmas Eve while drinking hot chocolate (and by we I mean the three of us that stay awake *coughbill*).  No new Christmas pajamas to unwrap, no caroling or traipsing up into the snow-covered mountains to cut down a fresh pine tree and go sledding...thank goodness the Elf on the Shelf came out after my kids were too old for it, or I would lie awake every night haunted by all the clever antics our little non-existent elf wasn't up to.

Please don't get me wrong.  I am in no way critiquing or making fun of or judging anyone who does any or all of these things or who has the perfect Christmas I dream of every year.  I'm just jealous, suffering from a hearty dose of good old fashioned, unadulterated envy.  I try and live vicariously through those who do have the picture perfect Christmas, to be happy that someone, somewhere, has it all together in the month of December.  But mostly I feel like this.

I won't give up.  Maybe, just maybe, one day my Christmas will look like my Pinterest board.  In the meantime, I make myself feel better by remembering that Christmas has nothing to do with decorations and traditions and positionable elves with questionable behavior.

"Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before! What if Christmas, he thought, doesn't come from a store. What if Christmas...perhaps...means a little bit more!” 

It has only to do with this.

 

And nothing more. 

Confessions of a Hypocrite

So...remember this?

Remember this comment I made in reference to above post?:

Yeah, so it turns out, I'm wrong. Well, there's a pretty good chance I am, anyway.  I was definitely taught a lesson in forming an opinion based on a few things I'd read and heard before learning all the facts. 

So here's my shameful secret that only a few people know: Within days of sharing that link on Facebook, I went gluten-free.

I know what you're thinking: What?! Hypocrite much?! Why yes, yes I am.  And I've never been happier to be proven wrong.  So here's the story:

The above-referenced post led to a heated debate (which I knew it would) and friends and family were quick to argue with me and tell why going GF had changed their lives.  One friend in particular, who is very passionate about this topic, ended up messaging me privately to apologize for her heated comment (which was completely unnecessary, but appreciated) and it started a discussion about GF.  I asked some questions, told more of my skepticism, and for days we went back and forth about the subject, with her sending me links and enlightening me more and more.  (She has done a TON of research on the topic so the girl definitely knows what she's talking about.) I looked up the links, read up on it, did my research (which is what I should have done before sharing the link above).  Normally I wouldn't have spent the time to do so, except for one thing: As I stated in one of my comments in that thread, I actually tested positive for Celiac Disease several years ago.  The blood test said I had it, the biopsy and endoscopy said I did not.  Well, here's the thing: I now know, through my research, that one must have gluten in their diet for the endoscopy to show the damage the gluten is causing to their stomach (if they do indeed have Celiac) and my doctor, who will remain nameless, told me to go off of gluten for a month and then have the endoscopy done.  The gastroenterologist who did my endoscopy knew I had been off gluten for a month and didn't say anything about it.  Long story short, I now know the test results were screwed up and I am not about to pay the money to go through it all again.

So my friend suggested going off of gluten one more time.  This would be my third time in about six years.  The first time was per my doctor's questionable orders, the second time was a year and a half ago when I was having crazy digestive issues.  Each time was for a month, and each time I didn't notice a difference.  My friend said a month wasn't enough, and I probably wasn't being careful enough with making sure everything I was eating was, in fact, gluten free.  Which was probably true.  So I decided to try it one last time, for at least three months, being super diligent about checking labels and not cheating, and see once and for all if gluten was causing my lifelong headaches and more recent digestive issues, which were worse than they'd ever been. 

It's been a month now, and I feel amazing.  My headaches have almost completely disappeared and my digestive issues are GONE.  But, I still wasn't convinced it was for sure the gluten.  After all, I was eating healthier and avoiding sugar for the most part.  (But not completely.) After a while I started feeling deprived as I watched everyone around me eat hamburgers and cake and all kinds of gluten-laden goodness so I started eating sugar if there was no gluten in it; you know, to make up for what I was missing out on.  (Hello, milkshakes.)  And I still felt great, so I knew it wasn't the sugar.  I was eating plenty of dairy, so I knew it wasn't that, either.  Still, I was not going to know for sure until my 3 months were up and I introduced gluten back into my diet.

And then last night happened.  I was sleeping restlessly so I got up to have some milk, which always helps, but I can't just drink plain milk without anything with it, because...gross.  And sitting in my fridge, staring back at me, screaming at me to eat them, were these amazing looking gourmet cupcakes the devil my friend had brought us.  Don't do it, Alicia, the voice in my head said.  Don't throw away the last month, you've worked too hard.  You'll regret it.  But then another voice said CUPCAKE and before I knew it I was sinking my teeth into the most delicious caramel, peanut butter-filled cupcake with caramel frosting.  Oh. My. Gosh, it was a-MAZING.  As I ate it, I knew one of two things would happen: nothing, which would make me question the no gluten thing but not give up on it since I've felt so good, or something, which would prove to me that my body hates it. 

I went back to bed and fell asleep.  Four hours later I woke up with what felt like a butcher knife in the side of my head.  I have not had that kind of headache in, well, a month.  Especially waking me up in the middle of the night.  And I knew there was no way it could be a coincidence.  And I knew it couldn't be the sugar, or any other ingredient in the cupcake, because the only thing in that cupcake that my body has not had in a month was gluten.  So there you have it.  My answer.  Which is incredibly bittersweet because on the one hand, I FINALLY know, after all these years, what has been causing my headaches and stomach issues.  But on the other hand....NO GLUTEN!!!! No cupcakes, donuts, cake, cookies, bread, pasta, and a million bajillion other things that have made up my diet my entire life and make me oh so happy.  It will be hard, I'm not gonna lie.  But it will be worth it.  I finally feel like a normal, healthy person.

So the reason I say there's a pretty good chance I'm wrong about my previous opinion, and not a definite one, is because there's still a chance I actually do have Celiac Disease, which would mean my self-discovery about gluten wouldn't prove anything about people who don't have Celiac responding to a GF diet.  But oh well.  Who cares?  Not me.  If all those people have found something that makes them feel better, then I'm happy for them, and who the heck am I to say anything about it?? 

So, add me to the list of "annoying" people asking "what's in that?" and requesting the allergy menu at restaurants.  I'm proud to join the club.

THIS MORMON SPEAKS OUT

Sometimes in my life there are things that I have a really hard time staying silent about.  I feel things so strongly, so passionately, that often I feel like if I can't get my feelings out there I'll explode.  Lately it seems like there are so many hot button topics flying around that have me feeling this way, and they all revolve around one thing: my religion.

I am Mormon.  I have been since the day I was born, but I like to think I was even before that.  I have never not been Mormon, and I know that because of this people think I am biased and unable to see outside of my little cushioned Mormon bubble.  And maybe this is true to some extent.  Obviously I only know what my life experiences have given me and allowed me to see and learn, including the things I have been taught every Sunday for 35 years, and every day in between those Sundays in my home.

But I am not an easy person to convince.  I am not a mindless, impressionable creature that just does something because I am told.  Sometimes I wish I was, because it would show great faith.  But I have always needed to know why, and how, and what will happen if I do, or don't.  I have always questioned everything, my entire life, and I don't just mean my religion.  When I was very young my mom was ironing clothes.  She told me not to touch the iron because it was hot and I would burn my finger.  I had absolutely no reason not to take her word for it, but a few minutes later the doorbell rang and my mom went to answer it.  The minute she was out of sight, I couldn't reach my little hand out fast enough to touch that iron.  I couldn't just take her word for it, I had to learn for myself.  And she was right.  It was hot.  And I burned my finger.

In high school some of my best friends were Catholic and we'd get into (mostly) friendly religious debates.  During one of these debates one friend I was particularly close to accused me and my Mormon friends of only believing what we believed because we'd been brainwashed our entire lives.  As I argued with him and demanded to know how it was any different with him and his religion, his words echoed in my brain, and stuck with me for a long time after, even now that he is no longer with us.  And I've never stopped pondering it.  It really got to me.  Was there truth to his words?  Do we all only believe what we believe because we've been told it by our parents and the people closest to us our entire lives?  If I'd been born into a Catholic family would I have been on the other side of those classroom arguments, calling out the Mormon kids on their "bizarre" beliefs?  I couldn't handle the thought.  I needed to believe I believe what I believe because I believe it, not just because I've never been told different.

My point is, I've always stepped back and taken a look at my beliefs from the outside.  I know how they appear to the world, now more than ever, with the Mormon religion under the microscope getting rotten tomatoes thrown at it day after day, so to speak.  Do you know how it feels to be a part of something that so much of the world hates?  Something that is so much a part of you you feel that you wouldn't be you without it?  Something you hold so dear to your heart that every time someone speaks ill of it you feel like a tiny part of your soul dies?  Well I do.  And for someone who cares so very, very much what people think of her, it's not easy, let me tell you.  So often I ask myself, "Can you do this?  When people start really, truly hating you for being who you are and believing what you do, can you stick it out?  Do you believe enough to stand by your church and not go running for the hills when the angry pitchfork-wielding mob comes?"  I want to believe I can, and I do, and I will.  Because I'm not stupid.  I know that day will come.  I know the day will come that even my belief in God will condemn me, and I want to be ready for that.

But mostly, I just want to be heard.  I want my weak little Mormon voice to be heard among all these other voices that are screaming and shouting and being heard 'round the world.  Because all anyone is hearing right now are those voices, Mormon and non-Mormon alike.  All they're hearing is "Mormon church is kicking out their own for wanting equal rights for women" and "Mormon church opposes gay marriage so obviously they hate gay people and don't want them to be happy" and every other possible negative thing that can be said about the Mormon church.  But what about what we have to say?  The scale is being tipped so far in the other direction, I think it's only fair that we be allowed to add a little weight to the side that's hanging high in the air.  Because what no one seems to be seeing is the inequality that is coming to pass in this fight for equality.  Am I really the only one who sees it?  Sometimes I feel like I am.

I got used to being in the minority for my beliefs a long time ago.  I've watched as the world shifted from accepting and loving of those with different lifestyles (a good thing) to taking it a step further and despising, judging, and condemning those of us who don't agree with certain aspects of those lifestyles (not a good thing).  I've watched as anger, hatred, and disgust became the common feeling amongst those fighting for equal rights, all in the the name of...love.  Seem backwards to you?  Because it sure does to me.  Fight for equal rights, sure.  Fight for everyone to be happy and loved and not judged.  I want all those things too, whether you believe me or not.  But please, please don't become a hypocrite by treating a group of people differently for their beliefs.  Because it won't be long (I promise you this) before we--those of us fighting for what we believe in, no matter how unpopular it is--will be the ones being treated as lesser people who don't deserve to be happy.  We will be the ones fighting for OUR rights to be equal.  And who will stand for us then?  Who will fight for OUR group that is being condemned for OUR beliefs?  It's a very thin line between fighting against someone for quote unquote "not loving" and becoming that person.  In the very, very near future, that line will no longer exist.  It's already beginning to disappear.

The bottom line is, I love my religion deeply.  Not just because it's all I've ever known, or because it's what my parents taught me or what I've been brainwashed to believe.  Because I look around at what else is out there, or I think about just not having it in my life at all, about what would happen if I walked away, and I feel sick.  I can't imagine the emptiness I would feel inside.  The happiness that would undoubtedly be sucked from my life, the uncertainty that would plague my very soul about so many things.  My religion is part of my chemical makeup, part of what makes me who I am.  I couldn't walk away from it any more than I could walk away from my heart, or my brain.  And the more people judge me, and push me, and argue with me for my beliefs, the harder my body wants to fight back.  Because that's what I do when something I love is attacked.  I fight back.  I defend.  I am fiercely loyal to the things in this life that I love.  And that will never change.

So now you've heard it, one little voice against a whole lot of big ones.  Maybe it will be heard, maybe it won't.  But at least I've said it.  And to answer the question of a recent attacker of my beliefs, THAT is how I sleep at night.

Transformation In A Move Theater

WARNING: It's about to get all sappy up in herrr.  Also, spoilers.

Today I went with some friends to see The Fault in Our Stars, a movie made from an amazing book about two teens dying of cancer who fall in love.  I know, sounds horribly depressing, but it's really not.  Sad, yes.  But the good kind of sad, where you sigh at the end and walk away feeling good because you truly felt.

But here's the thing: halfway through the movie I had a weird sort of revelation.  About myself.  You see, I am a self-proclaimed romantiholic.  A romance junkie.  I fiend for a good love story.  I always have, and I hope I always will.  I am a romantic through and through and nothing gets my heart pounding and my insides all crazy like a good love story.  Which is exactly what happened when I read The Fault in Our Stars.  I was all about Hazel Grace's and Augustus Waters's relationship.  I couldn't get enough of them falling in love, their ironic wit and cheese-less romance.  I pined through the entire thing and was all warm and fuzzy by the end.  Romantically fulfilled in every way.  And *SPOILER ALERT* when Gus dies, my heart broke because I was reading through Hazel's eyes; that was me reading his eulogy, knowing I'd lost the love of my life.

The movie was different.  Well, actually, the movie was pretty much exactly the same as the book, they mercifully stayed incredibly true to it which is so rare and so fantastic.  But it was different for me to watch it than to read it.  Why?  Because of Hazel's parents.  The book portrayed them as loving parents trying to cope with the inevitable death of their only child while simultaneously trying to take the best possible care of her while still encouraging her to get out there and life life while she still can.  They were good parents who obviously loved their daughter.

But in the movie, her parents (played by Laura Dern of Jurassic Park fame and some guy I'd never seen before who looked to be at least 10 years younger) were, well, amazing.  What didn't come across on page came across powerfully on screen and I ached for them.  I could feel every single emotion they felt dealing with this horrible, emotional roller coaster ride that could come crashing to an halt at any time.  As I watched them stand over their not-so-little girl anymore, trying to hide their tears but obviously falling apart on the inside, I found myself completely overcome with emotion, fighting back tears and swallowing a serious lump in my throat.  And that's when it hit me: I have transformed.  I didn't get choked up when Gus died, or when he told Hazel he loved her, or when they cried together after he told her he was dying.  No, I got choked up when Hazel's mom couldn't handle the fact that she couldn't afford to give her daughter her one dying wish.  When her dad carried her like a baby in his arms into the ER one night when she couldn't breathe and felt like her head was going to explode.  When it flashed back to a 13 year old Hazel in the hospital taking what they thought were her last breaths and they stood over her sobbing, telling her it was okay to let go.  I almost couldn't handle it, because I was them, and that 13 year old girl could have been my own sweet, precious, amazing 13 year old girl.

And that realization, that suddenly I was relating to the parents of the teen instead of the teen in love was kind of shocking.  When did that happen??  I'm not gonna lie, it was a little disconcerting.  Am I like, grown up now?  Or just...a parent of a teenager?  It's so bizarre, I still don't know what to make of it.  But it was eye-opening.  And so, so powerful.  And weird.

Anyway, my point is...I don't really know what my point is.  I guess one is that there are certain things that just cannot be portrayed on page like they can onscreen.  Another is that the actors were amazing and the filmmakers did a bang-up job of transforming the book to film.  And a third is that self-realization can hit you anywhere, even in a dark theater surrounded by your friends who are all crying except for you.  Because that, at least, is something about me that will probably never change.

The Story of My Journey to a Healthier Me, Part 2

Lately I've been kind of obsessing about food, and not in the usual way.  I guess the juice fast really got me thinking for the first time about what I put into my body and how it affects me.  What I've always known to be true (you eat junk, you feel like junk, and you get more junk in your trunk) is manifesting itself to me now more than ever.  It seems like every single thing I eat affects me almost instantly, which is probably the main reason it's always on my mind.

I am, by nature, a junk food addict.  I grew up on delicious homemade baked goods, white bread, Cheetos, pop, cookies, etc.  I honestly never thought about what I ate, and I never needed to. I was a skinny ninny.  It wasn't until middle school that a well-intended, health-conscious friend began pointing out the evils of my diet.  However, I didn't care.  Why should I, when I felt and looked great (besides the occasional headache)?  If anything, I wanted to be less skinny.  I was always self-conscious of my small frame, feeling like a little girl as other girls my age were sprouting upward and outward and getting curves I would just never have (until much later).  High school brought a new dynamic to my unhealthy diet, with off-campus lunches, a car, and money in my wallet.  I discovered fast food and a passionate love affair began. Still, though, I was skinny, and I was getting curves in the right places so I was beginning to love my body.  Why shouldn't I eat whatever I wanted?  My mom and sisters would walk in on me eating a second lunch after school each day, usually consisting of a corn dog, chips, and Fudge Stripe cookies and say, "One day that's gonna catch up with you." And I would obnoxiously take a bite of my cookie and say, "Then that's the day I'll worry about it." Despite my figure, I was growing increasingly tired each day and my headaches were occurring more frequently.  I attributed this to puberty and newly prescribed antidepressants.

It wasn't until after I graduated from high school that I began to gain weight.  I finally hit 100 pounds and gained the typical "Freshman 15," even though I was still living at home.  I lived on fast food.  And even though I was beginning to get stretch marks in places and some rolls in my stomach that I really wasn't happy about, I was still a size 4 and wasn't complaining much, other than wanting to sleep literally all. day. long. 

And then I got married and pregnant, and pregnancy + a diet of strictly deep fried foods and sugar don't mix well.  I gained 50 pounds, lost some of it after having my daughter, then got pregnant again and gained 80 more.  EIGHTY.  That was 10 years ago and I still have not lost it all. In fact, I've gained back all that I lost over the years and I'm the closest I've ever been to that second pregnancy weight than I ever have been since having my son.  And that is a terrifying, depressing thought. The weight, though, as much as I hate it, has become secondary to my health when it comes to the physical effects of my horrible diet.

Over the past 10 years my headaches have increased by an alarming amount.  After a solid year of unexplained nausea, I was tested for Celiac.  The blood test came back positive.  My doctor had me go off of gluten for a month before having an endoscopy scope of my insides done, which I now know was stupid for 2 reasons: 1) You need gluten in your system for the scope to see it and 2) a month probably wouldn't do anything anyway.  Needless to say, the scope and biopsy found no signs of Celiac, but showed definite signs of GERD (acid reflux), which would explain the chronic heartburn, nausea, and stomach pains, which were sometimes so severe I was doubled over in the fetal position, crying. When I was diagnosed, the gastroenterologist told me it could be diet controlled.  I went to my regular doctor and got a prescription for Prilosec.  Such an easier fix. When that wasn't enough, I had her add another one.  Now I could still eat whatever I wanted without the pain and heartburn.  But the nausea still came sometimes, and my headaches persisted.

Fast forward to now.  I have begun seeing an almost instant physical reaction after eating, whether it's a headache, nausea, or other digestive issues I will spare you the details of.  For a long time I attributed this to sugar, and the harder I tried to stay away from it, the more addicted I felt, the more helpless I felt in abstaining.  But then I began to realize it wasn't just the sugar.  It was all the garbage I was putting into my body, and all the good stuff I wasn't putting in.  Since then I have been educating myself on diet and health and what my body needs to function at its peak capacity.  I want to feel good.  I honestly don't remember what that feels like.  Of course I want to lose the weight and be skinny and look good in clothes and not cringe every summer when the pools open up, but that will come.  Right now I want to wake up with no headache.  I want to come home from work and not want to crash in bed.  I want to go a week without random nausea.  I want to be an example to my kids, who are already showing my propensity to eat all things that taste good but are not.  I fear for them.  And I fear for me.

And so I am determined to change.  I have resolved to change the way not only I eat, but my family as well.  I am going to get healthy.  How will I do this?  I will tell you eventually, in a third installment.

Smart People Can Be So Stupid

I kind of pride myself in being an easy-going person. I don't get worked up about a lot of things, I'm almost impossible to offend, and it takes a lot to really make me mad. I attribute this to many years of anxiety and depression. When you've spent most of your life fighting to feel good and normal, once you finally do, all the little irritations in life just don't really matter anymore. 

Don't get me wrong--I get road rage like nobody's business (Hey, you. Yeah, you. That stick next to your steering wheel? That's a blinker. You should try it sometime.)  Pushy salespeople make me want to karate chop them to the throat, and brand new purchased items that don't work the way they're supposed to bring out a special kind of crazy in me. To name a few. 

But the little every day interactions between people where someone says something in passing that rubs the other one the wrong way or even thoroughly ticks them off? Not so much for this gal. 

Until yesterday. 

There is someone I see on a daily basis who is not of my same religion (I'm a Mormon). We'll call her Jane. Jane is somewhat knowledgeable about said religion as she is surrounded by Mormons every day. She has often expressed her opinions to me on various points of doctrine and beliefs held by us, usually in a respectful, objective way, which I appreciate. Yesterday Jane struck up a conversation with me about a "friend" she has on Facebook who is LDS. This "friend," from Jane's description, sounds fairly obnoxious and not like someone I would get along with at all. She happens to be liberal, this "friend," and makes unintelligent comments on Facebook that do not reflect her in a positive light. The conversation about this "friend" ended with Jane saying, "It's people like her who give your religion a bad name."

Cue record needle scratching across surface of record as the music comes to a halt. Say what? My usually lukewarm blood began to boil almost instantly and I had to physically walk away. But in my head the conversation continued, one-sided: "I'm sorry," I said sarcastically. "Your obnoxious, self-centered 'friend' on Facebook gives my entire religion a bad name because she happens to belong to it?" None of the stuff this "friend" was ranting about online had anything whatsoever to do with being Mormon. Had it been, I could maybe, maybe see some tiny hint of justification in condemning an entire religion based on the actions of one stupid person. (But not really.) But to say that this person's idiotic and totally secular posts on Facebook reflected badly on her religion is the equivalent of me saying that Mel Gibson gives Australians a bad name for making anti-Semitic comments, or Tiger Woods gives golfers a bad name for cheating on his wife. Ridiculous? Yes! Because the two are. totally. unrelated. 

And it didn't end there. Jane picked it up today right where she'd left off, only now I'd had 24 hours to think about her ignorant statement, to stew over it, convince myself more and more how stupid of a statement it was for someone fairly intelligent to make. So when the subject was approached again, I was ready. In my most (forced) casual, non-argumentative tone, I said "You're going to find stupid people everywhere. It doesn't matter what religion they are." Then I proceeded to tell her that we Mormons have an unfair disadvantage. Because some parts of our beliefs are so well known throughout the world and very black and white, we've been dubbed as "supposed to be perfect." Then, when we're HUMAN and make a mistake, or even just do something completely normal that an outsider has decided "real" Mormons shouldn't do, then we're not "good" Mormons and we're disgracing our whole religion. Now, more than ever, the Mormon church is under a microscope. It's hard enough trying to live each day in a way that would never give anyone a reason to question our faith. But on top of that, now we're to be judged by our intelligence level, tact (or lack thereof), and overall persona portrayed on social networking sites? I'm calling it: Not Fair. Not Fair at all. 

The next time Jane says something stupid (and she will), I'm going to say, "It's people like you who give people who wear glasses a bad name." Bam. 

Thoughts? I'd love to hear them. 

Crime Don't Pay (Unless You're a Glass Company)

So Friday morning I stayed home from work, sick.  I slept all morning and woke up at around 10:30 to the sound of glass shattering. Very LOUD glass shattering.  Like, literally, it sounded like someone took every drinking glass out of my cupboard and threw them on my kitchen floor.  I jumped out of bed and ran through my house, trying to find the source of the noise, thinking maybe our light fixture above our kitchen table had suddenly and inexplicably dropped out of the ceiling.  It was intact.  I ran to the bathroom, because clearly a shattering of that magnitude would only happen on hard floor.  No glass there.  I turned to Payson's room, suddenly fearful for Rusty's life.  Although Payson's room has carpet, his tortoise's tank is definitely enough glass to make a loud crash.  Nope, Rusty was safe inside his shell inside his log inside his tank. I turned to Macy's room and saw a neighbor lady peering in the window on her cell phone.  My first thought: "She knows what the crash was.  She knows what's going on." My second thought: "Put some clothes on!!" I grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around myself while running to my front door.  But it wouldn't open.  I checked the deadbolt.  It was unlocked.  I checked the doorknob, locking and unlocking it.  It wouldn't turn.  "Somebody's done something to my doorknob so I can't get out!!" I thought in a panic.  I ran back to Macy's window and opened it, asking the neighbor lady what was going on.  She was standing with another neighbor guy.  They told me they had just called 911 after hearing the glass shatter and seeing a kid on a bike tear out of our backyard like a "bat out of hell," looking terrified.  It wasn't until THAT point that I finally put together what happened.  I ran to my backyard and saw Payson's window had been smashed in.

 And our garden rake directly below it.

The pictures don't do it justice at all, there was glass EVERYWHERE.  I ran back inside, threw on some clothes, and grabbed my phone to call Bill.  I ran back outside to my neighbors where they filled me in more.  As they did, I called Bill to COME HOME NOW.  At this point the cop showed up and asked questions, interviewed the neighbors who knew way more than I did, got a pretty detailed description of the dirty little delinquent, and took pictures.  He thought it was more likely that the kid used a rock to smash in the window, pointing to our play area filled with rocks smaller than ping pong balls.  I was skeptical as I eyed the rake laying below the window.  But, I'm not the cop, so I followed him in to Payson's room to "help him look for a rock" and that's when I saw the glass.  Everywhere.  All over both his bunk beds, clear across the room to his closet.  How had I missed it before?? In my bare feet?? As we looked (and found nothing), I told him how the creep had done something to our front door knob so it wouldn't work anymore.  As I said the words, it occurred to me that in my panic I may have been locking it when I thought I was unlocking it.  It would have already been unlocked since I had never left for the day.  I went to check it.  It was locked.  I had locked it trying to get out instead of unlocking it.  I felt a little sheepish.  Luckily he was a nice cop and said something about the crazy things we all do when we're in shock mode.  Thank you, nice cop man. 

Then Bill showed up and told us the kid must have used the rake because it had been over on our patio before (I KNEW it!).  The cop was on his walkie talkie the whole time and told us they'd found the bike in some yard a few streets over, abandoned, which was good for the people he'd stolen it from (we found out later he'd stolen it) and also good for the dogs they were about to send out to track him now that they had his scent and he was on foot.  Alas, they didn't find him, but they did find a woman living in a shed with multiple warrants, so that was a bonus.  (I really love my neighborhood, can I just tell you?) They told me she was unrelated but now I'm hearing that maybe she wasn't so much.  Anyway, after everything calmed down and the cop left, the neighbors left, and Bill reluctantly went back to work, I had a pretty decent headache from the stress and excitement of it all, not to mention the fact that I was already not feeling well (remember the reason I was home in the first place?).  I lay down on my couch and within minutes of Bill leaving, started hearing noises and booked it out of there, ran down three houses to my friend's house--pajamas, glasses and all.  (Turns out it was just the wind through Payson's busted window rattling his door that I'd forgotten Bill had closed.)

Later that afternoon Bill cleaned up the mess and boarded up the window really well.  Payson's room is as dark as a tomb, and will be till the glass people can repair it this next week.  But he's handling it fairly well, considering.  This is the child I've had to have multiple conversations with convincing him the chances of us ever getting broken into were slim to none.  And whose room does the would-be-burglar pick to break into, of all the windows in the house?  Payson's.  Thank you, you little delinquent punk.

Now that the excitement is over, we're just trying to feel safe in our house again.  It's not an easy thing to do when you feel so violated.  Payson's room is like this black crime scene, a constant reminder of what went down.  The scariest part for me, the part I try and fail not to think about all day long, is what would have happened if the guy hadn't been scared off.  If he'd been in Payson's room when I wandered in there trying to find the source of the noise.  Which leads me to tomorrow's post...till then...

The Story of My Journey To a Healthier Me, Part 1

I guess the best place to begin is at the beginning.  A few weeks ago my sister Amy and her husband John watched a documentary called Hungry For Change on Netflix.  They were so inspired by it that they did an instant overhaul of the way they ate.  Even their kids took a second look at what they were putting into their bodies.  Soon after, they watched another documentary called Fat, Sick, and Nearly Dead.  They convinced our parents to watch them as well, and soon both of them and my mom were all on a juice fast.  When they first told me about it I wasn't interested.  Good for them, but I could never do it.  Obviously they aren't as addicted to food as I am, I thought.  10 days of drinking their meals? They won't make it past the third day, I predicted.  But I was wrong.  They made it past the third day, all the way to the 10th, and then some.  When I heard their success stories, how good they felt, how much weight they'd lost and how not completely impossible it was, I started to think that maybe I could do it.  If they could, surely I could.  We are so similar in our physical and mental make-up.  My mom, my sisters and I have all struggled with the same dietary weaknesses, addictions, feelings of complete lack of self-control.  Reading success stories in magazines and online is one thing but to see my family actually do it is another.  I was ready to check this whole juice fast thing out. 

I don't have Netflix so I signed up for the month-long free trial just to watch the movies.  I knew watching them would make the difference.  I am one that likes to arm myself with information.  If I know the facts, I am more likely to stick to something.  I don't want to hear that I should do it, I need to know why I should do it.  And Hungry For Change answered that question for me, tenfold.  To be fair, it wasn't much of anything I didn't already know.  I've known for years that sugar is a "drug" comparable to cocaine, hence the sugar addiction.  I've known that our bodies store fat because they were designed to do so back in the caveman days when we had no food for winter.  I've known how horrible processed, manufactured foods are for our bodies.  But I needed the reminder, and it was definitely an eye-opener.  Then I moved on to Fat, Sick, and Nearly Dead.  (I definitely recommend watching the movies, and in the order I did.) This was a much different movie from Hungry For Change, not so much an informative documentary as a video journal of one man's (Joe Cross) quest to get healthy.  He chooses to do this by juice fasting, and he takes it to the extreme by doing it for 60 days while traveling across America.  It's fascinating and incredibly inspiring and it completely convinced me to to the 10 day juice fast.

Now, I had several things working for me when I started.  I was about a week behind my other family members who had finished their fast and transitioned into the "maintenance" part.  I had witnessed firsthand their success, and that made me know I could do it.  I give SERIOUS props to my sister and brother-in-law for doing it with no one to follow, but I guess doing it together probably helped them.  I couldn't have done it.  I don't think so, anyway.  Also, I did one really smart thing that came with an unintentional side-effect: I put it on Facebook.  I didn't do this for the purpose of holding myself accountable, but that's exactly what it did.  On Day 8 I was ready to be done but there was no way I was going to give up 2 days early with everyone cheering me on! Also, I had an incredibly supportive husband who, although he thought I was a little crazy and had zero interest in the fast himself, did everything he could to help me succeed.  Yay for supportive husbands!

And so I hit up Costco and bought a week's worth of fruits and vegetables.  (I was told this was the best deal, but now that I'm not juicing every single meal I buy smaller amounts at Winco or Walmart so the produce doesn't go bad before I can eat it.  This is recommended in Joe Cross's book.) And on Thursday, May 1st, I began my juice fast, or my "reboot" as Joe calls it.  It's not a diet.  It's a detox, a way to give your body a jump start to a healthier lifestyle.  It releases the toxins from inside you and gives your digestive system a break from having to break down all the crap you've been putting in it by giving it only raw, plant-based food in liquid form.  For 10 days (or however long you do the fast) your body is only getting the nutrients and vitamins it needs and none of the garbage.  To people like me who had only been giving my body garbage, it was a bit of a shock to my system.  Day 1 and Day 2 were pretty rough, with mild nausea, dizziness, and a pretty decent headache.  But they went away quickly and it wasn't long before I felt amazing.  My mind felt clear, I had energy during the day (unless I was overdue for a juice, then I got pretty sluggish), my desire for daily naps lessened significantly, my headaches disappeared completely, and most importantly, I felt better about myself than I ever had before.  I was finally treating my body the way it deserved and NEEDED to be treated. 

Don't get me wrong, it was never easy.  I felt hungry a lot of the time, but I got used to it.  I learned that not always feeling full isn't a bad thing.  It's okay to feel hungry.  When I began to feel too hungry (gnawing pains in my stomach, lightheaded) was when I knew it was time for a juice (I probably waited a little too long most times).  And once I drank one, I felt instantly full and satisfied and content.  For once I wasn't eating food as a hobby or obsession or addiction, for recreation or entertainment or a quick high.  I was eating purely to keep myself alive, but I wasn't starving.  I was giving my body just what it needed and nothing more.  And it got easier and easier the longer I went.  I missed food like crazy, but the anger and frustration at not getting to eat what I wanted was overwhelmingly trumped by all the positive things I was feeling, both physically and mentally.  And when I stepped on the scale on Day 10 and saw a ten pound loss, I almost thought about going longer.  Almost.

So for those of you who have asked, here are the specifics of my fast: I juiced three meals a day, and by "juiced" I mean I put raw fruits and vegetables into a juicer (this is totally different than a smoothie in a blender, the difference being the blender gives you every part of the food you put in, and I'm guessing is a bit more of a strain on your body to digest than just the juice.  Joe discusses this in his book but I haven't read much about the difference yet.) and drank just the juice that comes out.  I drank a large (roughly 25 oz) glass for every meal.  Now, Joe says to drink 4-7 a day, but you can really have as much as you want.  I could never seem to get more than 3 in.  Although they were good juices, they were still the same thing day in and day out and I like variety.  So I was happy with 3, and I wasn't starving on just 3.  My sister needed more, and that's just fine.  It's whatever works for you.  Joe recommends 80% veggies to 20% fruit.  This is where I failed, and I'm okay with that.  After making his Mean Green juice for my first few juices, I just couldn't do it anymore.  It wasn't horrible, but if I was going to get past those first few days, I needed to be enticed to make and drink the juice.  So I eliminated some of the greens and added more colorful vegetables (which he also recommends--"drink the rainbow") and fruits until the juices tasted like fruit juice to me.  I know I didn't do enough greens, but that's okay.  If I had I never would have made it 10 days.  I ended up doing this recipe more or less each day:

1 apple
1/3 cucumber
1 stalk celery
1 "coin" ginger root
1 or 2 handfuls of Power Mix (kale, spinach and chard, found at Costco)
1/2-1 orange, depending on how sweet I wanted it
1/2 lemon
1 carrot
From there the fruits I added varied, depending on what I had.  A few handfuls of blueberries, grapes, a pear, a few slices of mango, pineapple, etc.  Anything you want, that's the beauty of it.  I found one I liked and stuck with it, but there are tons of different recipes on his website.  

And that's what I had, every day, for 10 days.  That's the juice fast.  It doesn't have to be 10 days, it's whatever you want.  I did 10 because that's what my family members had done and I'm not sure where they got that number, but it was a good number.  Joe recommends anywhere from a week to 15 days, or however long you can make it if you can't do that long.

Now I am transitioning out of my juice fast and back into food, which I will talk about tomorrow, as this is already a long post.  Hope this answers the questions of those who have asked! Let me know if you have more, I am more than happy to help!