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Be Where Your Feet Are...
Apr 3 2009 11:35AM

Be Where Your Feet Are…

Sounds simple enough, right? So why do I have such a hard time letting go of the past? Why can’t I just live in the moment?

I know that I should just let certain things go, but I just can’t. I hear the harsh words repeated over and over and I can’t make myself believe that they mean nothing. I don’t know how to live my life without these painful memories. I want to forget, but I can’t. How many times can my husband and my therapist tell me that I’m a good person? Will I ever believe that I’m good enough? So many questions that I have no answer to.

Maybe the kids on the playground were right…maybe my nasty cousin was right…maybe my own mother was right. When I look at their lives now, my mind knows that they were wrong, but someone needs to explain that to my heart.

“You’re ugly.” “Your voice is funny.” “Your chin is too pointy.” “I couldn’t enjoy Disney because Donna was always crying.” “Donna is my shadow.” “Donna looks like Teen Wolf.” “Donna looks like Rod Stewart.” “Donna is white trash.” “Donna looks like a dog.” “Donna, did you gain weight?”

Don’t tell me I should just “Get over it”. That simple phrase can send me into a tailspin. Try living my life for just one day with these thoughts and memories, and maybe you wouldn’t be so quick to tell me to “Get over it”.

Yeah, I know, it all sounds so ridiculous. I should just “Get over it”. For years, I couldn’t listen to a Rod Stewart song without cringing…I’ve gotten over that. I’ve never seen Teen Wolf. I still hate the sound of my own voice. I hate looking in the mirror.

People in my life wonder why I love animals so much. Why? Because they love me unconditionally…whether I’m fat or skinny, whether my hair looks good or not, whether I’m in a bad mood or a good mood. They don’t have the words to hurt me. They don’t claim to love me, but then make fun of me or complain that I’m too needy or sensitive. How would you like it if your own mother told you that she needed space from you? That’s one of the ultimate betrayals to me. And now that same woman wonders why I won’t bring a child into this world. Maybe because I don’t want to repeat the same patterns. Maybe because I don’t want to hurt my child the way my mother has hurt me. Any time I’ve ever made the effort to get closer to her, she has made it clear that she didn’t have the time for me. She did have the time for her other children though. The ones that were planned, not me, her “accident”. She also wonders why I don’t visit and why our phone calls are once every one to two weeks and last for about two minutes. I have nothing left to say to her. I’m “over it”.

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Confessions of a Failed Vegetarian
Mar 26 2009 11:25AM

So about two years ago I started doing a lot of research on animal cruelty in factory farms. I've always loved animals, but I must admit, that I never really thought about the treatment of cows, chickens, pigs, turkeys, etc. I'm embarrassed to say that, but it is the truth. To put it nicely, I was appalled by some of my findings about how horribly animals are treated and could not believe how ignorant I had been all of my life. I then began researching how to become a vegetarian. I even reached out to some of the ladies on the boards for suggestions on how to do this.

I bought several vegetarian cookbooks and, to my surprise, some of the recipes were delicious and my DH even enjoyed them! I would like to add that I did not remove all animal products from my diet...I was still eating most dairy products and fish. Anyway, I did keep this up for about two months or so, but then failed miserably. I cannot believe how much I began to crave red meat, chicken, pork, etc. I feel incredibly guilty about this, but I could not sustain the pescatorian (sp?) lifestyle. I would love to try it again, but my fear of failure is preventing me from this.

For the time being, I do make an effort to donate to animal-based charities, buy products that are NOT tested on animals, adopt/rescue our pets, etc., but I do wish there was more that I could do.

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