I Feel Like A Guinea Pig

in
 
Pills.jpg

The last 4 days have been an absolute nightmare for me.  I don't feel like writing or reading or doing much of anything today.  I'm exhausted- exhausted but so relieved.  The awful roller-coaster of akathisia is over for the moment (akathisia is an agitated, climbing-the-walls feeling you can get on atypical antipsychotics).  I've been crying and lying down a lot, but my body feels relaxed and wiped out.  I saw my psychiatrist 5 days ago and I complained to him about "the bad feeling" I've been having at night: an awful, slightly agitated angst that kicks in a couple hours after I take my Latuda (an atypical antipsychotic).  I take it at dinner, because you have to eat at least 350 calories with it, and since I'm trying to do intermittent fasting, I finish eating by 6:30pm.  Basically, it's been feeling like a race against time to eat, take my pills, hopefully not feel too awful, and fall asleep as soon as possible.  When I feel this way, I can't watch TV or movies, read, browse online, or do anything to distract myself.  The only somewhat tolerable activity is crossword puzzles, but when I get stuck I lose my concentration and have to stop.  When I first reported this feeling to my doctor, we suspected it was a reaction to my body "running out" of Lamictal.  We tried splitting the dose into morning and evening, but nothing improved.  So this time he suspected that this could, in fact, be a form of akathisia from the Latuda and suggested moving it to a morning dose instead.  I took a half-dose that night, then a full dose in the morning for two days, then split the dose into morning and evening, and I'm now going back to just nighttime.  The plan is to eat a late night snack and take the drug right before going to sleep, throwing out intermittent fasting for the moment.  The agony of the days where I took a daytime dose was so intense, so invasive and bewildering, that I felt like I was losing my mind.  It was like the "bad feeling" was there all day long (the nights were actually OK- way better, in fact).  So the lesson learned was that yes, this feeling I've been having at night is probably akathisia from the surge of Latuda soon after I take it.  I'm probably sleeping through much of it (though not sleeping well), as opposed to the long, never-ending daytime-dose nightmares.  Yesterday I was on the phone with my husband for 6 hours while he was at work.  At one point I told him I was "having an emergency" and wanted to go to the hospital.  He suggested I take Klonopin and wait for it to kick in.  I did, and was able to sleep for a bit.  Then I had dinner and we did crosswords over the phone.  Today has been emotional and I'm really tired, but the relief of not taking the Latuda in the morning is phenomenal.  This is the kind of experience that is difficult to explain to people.  If someone asks how I'm doing and I say I'm going through medication changes, I usually get a blank stare and a change of subject.  But if you know what it's like, if you've been through or are going through it, you understand how complicated and difficult it can be.  To have your brain undergo chemical experiments is at times terrifying and traumatic.  You wonder if you can ever get yourself back.  You forget what it was like before the changes were made.  You find it impossible to describe how you feel, or to compare one day to the next.  I've been through so many medication changes over the years that it would be impossible to count them all.  This all adds up to a sense of trauma and you can't even explain exactly why you're traumatized.  I'm crying a lot today because I feel sorry for myself.  Not in a selfish way- if anything in a compassionate way.  Having compassion for myself has been impossible at times, but I think it's actually happening for me right now.  Now that the experiment is over, I actually have the perspective to see what hell I had to go through.  Having your brain play guinea pig is not a passive experience.  It usually doesn't take place in a controlled environment.  It shifts everything about the way you see the world and makes it hard to separate the symptoms from reality.  It makes you doubt yourself in an extreme way.  It makes you wonder what your reality is actually like.  Today I slept in a bit, exercised, went for a quick coffee, but got too tired to concentrate.  Matt and I came home, and he rubbed my feet and made me lunch.  I've been in bed since then, watching some YouTube, folding some laundry.  I'm relishing the relief.  But in the back of my head, I know that tonight I will have to face that feeling again.  Hopefully I will sleep right through the worst of it.  We left a message for my doctor asking how to proceed.  Perhaps the dose will come down a bit.  Perhaps I can escape "the bad feeling" for good.

Dieting and Deprivation

in ,
 
File Apr 24, 4 51 56 PM.jpg

I had my psychiatrist appointment yesterday and am pleased to report that I'm almost down to 200 lbs (it was 200 point something), and that there's a plan in place to address "the bad feeling," that awful mood that strikes between dinner and bedtime.  My doctor suggested switching one of my dinner time drugs to the morning to see if that helps, and also to take Klonopin in the afternoon as a preventative measure.  But back to the weight loss.  Talking about long-term plans for my eating and exercise got me thinking about diets and deprivation.  As much as I enjoy all of the foods I eat regularly on my diet, there are often times when I feel deprived.  Whenever my husband suggests getting takeout or a croissant at a cafe, I have to say no because I don't know exactly how many calories are in the food.  And when I think about the endgame of this whole dieting process, I wonder if that will ever be able to change.  There are times when I estimate calories based on Google searches of various foods, but there is usually quite a range for prepared foods.  My instincts and my history with food (and with binge-eating) tell me that any sense of deprivation is a bad thing and will only lead to dieting backlash.  After all, something like 97% of all dieters gain back the weight plus more when the diet ends.  So what is the plan for me?  Yesterday it occurred to me that restricting my calories might just be necessary for me to cope with my mental illness.  Like a diabetic, I might have to accept the "diet" as a necessary component of my continued health.  Eating without a plan seems to inevitably lead to bingeing for me, which leads to weight gain, which triggers my depression and suicidal ideation.  So perhaps my life does, in fact, depend on restricting my eating.  That's difficult for me to swallow.  There have been many times in my life when dieting seemed unhealthy psychologically.  One instance was following my first significant weight gain, around the time I had a breakdown and had to go home to live with my parents at age 27.  I soon found work in nearby Cape Cod and lived there for a time.  I vividly remember the spare meals of rice noodles and cabbage with cottage cheese for breakfast.  I remember running around the neighborhood, alternating between a relaxed jog and a forced sprint in an attempt to rev up my metabolism.  I also remember sporadic donut binges, eating half a dozen Krispy Kremes in a sitting.  After eating my entire day's calories in donuts, I would subsist on cabbage and broth to get through the night.  Another era of dieting occurred when I was living in New York.  I had recently left Overeaters Anonymous, which had left me quite thin, perhaps the thinnest in my adult life.  But I had fallen off the wagon and started bingeing and dieting again.  There was a point where I was eating about 1500 calories a day, then running to burn off about 600 of those calories, leaving me with a net total of 900 calories for the day.  I can't say that any of this behavior was healthy or even desirable, but certainly indicative of my strained relationship with food.  There have also been periods of time where I rejected dieting altogether.  I read feminist theory on how to restore one's eating from the damages dieting had done.  I "legalized" all foods, giving myself the freedom to eat any foods I wanted, worked to embrace my body at any size, and learned to cope with my emotions without using food to do so.  When I was younger, say in college and in my early-mid 20s, this system led to great success.  My weight stabilized and I could eat like a normal person.  But more recent attempts at this process have failed miserably, resulting only in weight gain, panic, and a return to dieting.  I don't feel my current state of mental health is sufficient to make this system work.  So this whole issue of whether or not to diet, and how to end a diet without undoing all the hard work, is a tough nut to crack.  Is dieting the answer or the enemy?  Perhaps if I look at it through the lens of exercise, I can see it more clearly.  I am gradually increasing my exercise in order to achieve a certain level of fitness: to be able to run for a half-hour three times a week, and lift weights three times a week.  Once I reach that goal, I plan to continue this routine ad infinitum.  Maybe this is the right way to think about the food - that while there is a goal to achieve, there must be a plan to continue the healthy regime.  And for me, it helps to think of it as necessary for my mental health.  Because if my eating is restricted indefinitely, I need a greater motivation than just maintaining my weight.  Because no particular weight has ever brought me happiness, but restricting my calories has brought me relief from some extreme symptoms of my illness.

Matcha Meltdown and Bad Days

in
 
Matcha+Latte.jpg

I"ve had a rough couple of days.  I've been having trouble sleeping, but this is more than that.  Basically, I was having a really good streak- exercising, going to the cafe, writing, and reading books.  Hardly any YouTube to speak of.  But then I had a bad day- couldn't concentrate on anything, couldn't get it together to write, felt furious with the barista for being a smug little bitch.  He was making me and Matt get these weird drinks because they don't have normal matcha and their coffee is shit.  And then I heard him talking about how he's going to Guatemala on some "origins" coffee sourcing trip.  The kid's about 17.  I hated him so much I couldn't get anything done after that.  Matt and I left and I managed to keep from saying anything snarky or rude- I mean, we go to this cafe a lot.  We want to be able to go back.  I went home, straight to bed, cried a lot.  Matt made me lunch, rubbed my feet, did some crossword puzzles with me.  Why did I get so pissed off?  Why did I sabotage the day? Because of some annoying 17-year-old?  Yup.  That kid thought he had life all figured out, just like I did when I was 17 and went to Kenya.  I don't remember being smug, but maybe I was.  Regardless, this kid embodied everything I wish I could get back from my youth: confidence, idealism, optimism.  It felt like he was throwing it in my face, and it hurt.  A lot.  So much that I turned hopeless and bed-ridden.  I stayed that way the next day, too.  Trouble sleeping, tried to get out the door to the cafe, then the sudden need to lie down with my coat on.  I couldn't face it.  This life that I've botched so badly.  These pathetic little tasks that I've set up for myself to do.  My habit tracker.  My blog.  My self-absorbed little world where I collapse and Matt saves me.  I found myself feeling like my rigid schedule was closing in on me.  8:30am: Get up. Drink coffee. 9am: Exercise, shower. 10am: Cafe, try to write.  1:30pm: Home for lunch, lie down or read. 5:30pm: Start cooking dinner. 6:30pm: Finish dinner. 8pm: Bed. Maybe a crossword puzzle. And then wake up and start all over again.  I did this every day when Matt was in Germany, and before, and since.  I apparently need 12 hours of sleep- and this is on the good meds.  Any less than that and I'm zonked.  Exercise is just so much work.  The only time I felt good was at the cafe.  Afternoons and evenings were spent warding off "the bad feeling," a horrible feeling that sets in every night after dinner.  It's not anxiety, sort of depression, completely awful.  But the time at the cafe, that was good.  I felt productive, creative, intelligent, thoughtful.  I relied on those couple of hours every day as the one good thing I get.  This little time slot where I could build up some self-worth.  But after that day with the smug kid, I felt like it was all gone.  I would never be able to rely on those hours at the cafe.  It would be a crapshoot like the rest of my day- Will I sleep through the night? Will I be able to exercise? Will I be able to eat the same thing today as every other day?  Will I be able to ward off the bad feeling?  Will I be able to check off everything on my habit tracker- like brush teeth, do skincare?  That time at the cafe felt like a sure thing and now it's not.  And so I shut down, felt hopeless, like I couldn't rely on ever feeling good again.  When there's so little time to work with, all I ask is that some of it is consistently positive.  Now it feels like that's gone- the magic is gone.  I've been jinxed.  Matt says, "It was one bad day.  Not every day will be the same."  I know he's right.  So I think I need to try to free things up a bit.  I tend to get very rigid: Minimalism, capsule wardrobe, meal schedule, diet, exercise.  And I have a hard time switching things up, letting things vary here or there.  Especially with diet or exercise, I am practically obsessive.  If I don't know how many calories are in it, I don't eat it.  I can't just randomly change my speed or time on the treadmill.  I have to stick to the schedule.  At what point does all of this rigidity become superstition?  I'm trying to ward off feeling bad all the time by keeping my rituals, keeping everything on time.  But the fact of the matter is that there is no guarantee, no special protection from feeling bad.  I'm still mentally ill- doing a bit better, but still sick.  And not every day can be as good as every other.  What may seem obvious to some is actually a scary thing for me, because a bad day for me can be a really bad day.  It can mean suicidal thoughts, self-harming thoughts, deep regret and remorse and hopelessness.  I know things can't always be perfect, but the chance of having a day that bad shouldn't even be on the table.  My doctor says my brain is slowly changing, even though I've been on the same meds for a while now.  I have to wait and let it heal.  Maybe at some point there will be a safeguard from the worst days.  But I'm still waiting, still waiting and watching and hoping.

My Wardrobe is Imploding

in ,
 

Since the pants epiphany and the purchase of three thrifted items (a draped sweater, a corduroy shirt, and a t-shirt), I am suddenly at a loss as to what’s happened to my capsule wardrobe. The first issue I see is that I saw my current weight as quick and temporary. I thought the weight would fall off as soon as I changed my medication, and that has not been the case. Thus, my thrown-together utilitarian capsule wardrobe was certainly not an expression of my soul. Looking at it now, I bemoan the cheap jeggings from Marshall’s. “I’m not a typical suburban housewife,” I scream in my head. “I’m cooler than this.” I really did used to be cool, confident, unusual. But all those years of trying to fit myself into the image of a musical theater bimbo or a stuffy-sexy opera singer ate away at my fashion identity. I started thinking in terms of “appropriateness” or sex appeal. Now I pretty much failed at all that anyway. I was once asked at a theater audition how I possibly could have been in a show on my resume— “were you a child?” they asked. I looked down at my white dance tights and my dress with the bow on the back and turned bright red. And then, years later, in opera auditions I was asked not once, but twice! — when I was due. What I thought were flattering empire-waist dresses were apparently reading as maternity frocks to the middle-aged men I was singing for. When I finally came to a point where I decided I was only wearing pants for auditions, I tore through my wardrobe, discarding dress after dress, all bought in hopes that “this will be the one” that will get me respect, get me taken seriously, and not prompt the pregnancy question. It was a relief to get rid of those demoralizing costumes. And it led to a later revelation that I abhor wearing dresses. They never look right on me, and often make me look like a giant baby. What I’m getting at is that I feel like I am going through yet another wardrobe crisis. The joggers I wear suddenly look like old sweatpants, and my shoes look teeny-tiny and all out of balance with the rest of my body. Even the basic crew-neck tees from ASOS look like boxy men’s shirts—something I’ve always found unflattering and avoided. I like loose-fitting, scoop-neck tops that show off my clavicles. Basically, my clothes look like they’re for someone who’s given up, who wears dark colors because they’re slimming, who sees themselves as nothing special. And that’s pretty spot-on for me as of late. Being debilitatingly depressed and cycling through nightmares of medications and symptoms makes you feel like giving up. It makes you feel like you’re nothing special because you can’t work, you can barely function, and look at all those not-so-special people out there working and functioning without a problem. And all this weight gain has made me want to be smaller, look slimmer, not get in anyone’s way. This weight gain seems impolite - “oh, I’m so sorry I’m so disgusting and that you have to look at me, so I just won’t leave the house.” I’ve been wanting to literally shrivel up and die. Not wanting my family to have to get a crane to get my dead body out of the house, I think I should lose some weight before I call it quits. It’s no wonder I hate my clothes. I’ve been hating myself for years now, and didn’t think I deserved anything better. But since the men’s pants—since that day in the dressing room, I’ve started to remember who I was, who I really am. It seems wasteful to revamp my wardrobe when I’m in the process of losing weight. But I’m fighting for my life here, and if some old men’s pants from the thrift store make me feel like I have a soul after all, then I’m damn well going to buy them. If the bright green shirt and the pale blue t-shirt and the burgundy sweater put a little life into me, then they’re worth buying, too. I want to be responsible, environmentally speaking, but first and foremost, I have to survive. And in some strange way, these new-to-me clothes are helping. I’m literally seeing myself differently. I’m taking my true identity into account when I dress myself for the day. And just as importantly, I’m getting dressed for the day. Things are looking up.

The Men's Pants Epiphany

in ,
 
Men's Pants (3).jpg

I went thrifting again.  This time at Salvation Army.  This time in the men's section.  I tried a few sweaters, but the one I liked had a smell that I suspect was permanent.  And then I tried a few pairs of men's trousers.  I was standing there in the god-awful plywood changing room full of dust bunnies, and that's when it clicked: this is who I am.  This is the person I used to be.  Full of confidence, conviction, idealism.  The person who didn't care what anyone thought. I realized that this decade-long saga with my weight, this tangent I've been on into the world of superficiality and blind convention has been just that: a tangent from the truth of who I am. 

Let me explain: I'll start at the beginning.  I was in 8th grade, getting dressed for I don't know what, when I went into my older brother's room, grabbed a pair of jeans and a leather jacket, and put them on.  I felt a thrill wearing those clothes.  I can't describe it any other way- it was the thrill of getting away with something.  I was no longer subject to the acid-washed Jordache jeans with the zippers at the ankles.  I was no longer a slightly disappointing size 7 at age 13.  I was a person.  The symbolism here is not lost on me: as women, we are viewed as objects, decoration.  As men, we are viewed as people, with thoughts and interests and ideas.  I was stepping into men's clothes, and into a sense of myself as a real person.  It was at that point that I stopped shopping in the junior's department and started wearing vintage or thrifted clothes exclusively.  The most significant purchase was a pair of too-big vintage combat boots that I wore all through high school.  This led to wearing men's pajamas as clothes, and a huge oversized ankle-length army topcoat with epaulets and gold buttons.  My best friend Liz and I would scour the local Savers for the best-fitting men's trousers and corduroys and jeans.  We gave little thought to what size they were, judging them simply on fit and our own personal aesthetic.  The summer between high school and college, I worked in the back room of Salvation Army, scoring all the coolest 70s vintage mumus and "hippie" dresses.  None of these had sizes that I took notice of.  Liz went to Greece and returned with a housecoat for me, like the old ladies would wear- sort of an apron-top for doing housework in.  I obviously loved it.  When I was 17 I went to Kenya for a volunteer work trip.  We layered long skirts right over our work pants.  There's a picture of me with an Adidas sweatshirt right over the top of that. 

1995_Summer_Africa Kenya Trip_0117.jpg

College was much like high school.  My new friend Kate and I would share our best men's pants or sweats.  We took dance class and so wore layers of dance clothes all day.  I remember my voice teacher reprimanding me for wearing these great vintage maroon sweatpants to my voice lesson.  He's the one who convinced me to stick to my opera major and drop the modern dance classes.  He's the one who convinced me that vegetarianism was not good for singers- that I needed to eat pork for strength.  And slowly but surely, my pursuit of a career as a classical singer started to chip away at all my previous convictions, especially that I was a singer and a dancer.  That I was a hippie and a vegetarian.  That I would not subject myself to fitting into stereotypes for women and what they should look like, how they should behave.  I started buying clothes at Banana Republic with my mom's credit card, thinking of it as a "business expense."  I wore a navy blue conservative suit with a long skirt for opera audition class and was told that I should "show some leg."  Over the years there were times where I returned to my old ways- especially those years I rode a bicycle.  That feeling of getting away with something came back.  I started eating raw foods and hanging out with countercultural types.  But then the other shoe started to drop.  I was sexually assaulted by a coworker at a gym where I did massage therapy.  Then I got "doored" on my bike (someone opened a car door into me as I rode past) and broke my finger.  Then I was sexually harassed and threatened with expulsion at my massage school.  Then I started gaining weight and dating someone more conventional.  Then I had a breakdown and went home to live with my parents.  Then I worked at a couple theaters that were very small-town conventional.  I started shaving my legs and dieting.  I moved to New York and got into Overeaters Anonymous, lost a lot of weight, passed as a thin person.  I went on a lot of auditions, wearing dresses or tight (women's) jeans.  I wore makeup and "did my hair."  I forgot who I was.  I got some jobs in musical theater.  I met my husband.  He helped me transition into singing opera again in hopes of me gaining more respect and more money, but it was more of the same.  Twice at auditions I was asked if I was pregnant.  I went on an endless search for an audition dress.  I had no idea who I was.  We moved out of the city.  I had breakdown after breakdown.  I read the book Women in Clothes.  I went thrifting.  I tried on these men's pants.  And, click: I remembered who I was.  All this time and energy spent on capsule wardrobes, and in one single moment, I realized everything was wrong.  All my clothes are wrong, and all my aspirations have been wrong.  I am much more than I thought I was.

Living With a Non-Minimalist

in ,
 
File Apr 24, 4 51 22 PM.jpg

I’m a very tidy person.  In addition to my passion for getting rid of stuff, I like having a little place for each of my things to go.  I like to restore my apartment to the point where all of my little riff-raff is put away and, most importantly, hidden.  I have one shelf on our living room bookshelves for my mini-office.  I keep my current notebooks and bullet journal at one end with a tiny Japanese teacup that holds one of my 3 pens (yes, I only have 3- one for my purse, one for my bedside, and one here).  I have about a dozen books for reading and reference, a wooden box of tarot cards, a picture frame with photos of my grandmother in her youth in a bikini.  I have less frequently-used notebooks tucked in at the far end along with a couple of folders with plastic sleeves where I keep magazine tear-outs or poems scribbled on scraps of paper.  And this is really everything I need.  It’s all tucked away on one little shelf and I love it that way. 

My husband has a drastically different system. The remaining 8 bookshelves are filled with his books, just a selection from the large collection he keeps in his office. Speaking of his office, I often lament its unbearable disarray, but in his eyes it’s functional and he knows where everything is. This seems to be a common claim from less-than-tidy people- that they know where everything is within the mess. But in this case I believe it’s actually true. The only times things get confusing are when I try to “help” get him organized; that’s when things tend to get lost. Aside from that though, there is just the occasional misplacing of a wallet or pair of headphones, or any frequently used item that leaves the house on a regular basis. And truly, my husband’s book collection is essential to his work- but it doesn’t make it any easier for me to live with. I can’t shake the fantasy of a life where items are returned to drawers and not strewn around on the counter or nightstand. I designate drawers in every room specifically for his things, hoping he’ll make use of them. But he forgets what’s in the drawers and then forgets to do things, like take his vitamins or finish reading a New Yorker. I periodically (pun intended) sort through his magazines with him, asking if any can be recycled or if he still plans to read them (he kindly humors me). And yet his nightstand is always overflowing despite the three large drawers it contains. (I myself have a tiny table with no drawers and a small felt bin underneath where I keep a pen, a weighted eye mask, a coaster, and sometimes my headphones. On the table is a box of tissues and sometimes my phone.) Aside from the magazines and books and toiletries that must be on the sink top in order to be found, there is the kitchen collection of appliances and gadgets which are rarely, if ever, used- probably because I insist on storing them away, and for Matt, out of sight is out of mind. For an enthusiastic minimalist like myself, there are days when I feel like I’m living in chaos. Everywhere I turn, I see little piles of stuff that seem to appear out of nowhere and then multiply. The meticulous care and thought I’ve put into arranging my things for the good of having a clean, impeccably tidy home feels wholly unreciprocated by my husband. Some part of me feels offended that the state of things can’t change. This is especially hard when I imagine that a tidier home would help the symptoms of my mental illness; whether this is true, I doubt greatly. But the real issue is that I’m not the only person to consider here; my husband is a person, too. He deserves to feel comfortable in our home without being constantly vigilant in hiding away his belongings. It’s easy enough for me to tidy things up if guests arrive, so when it’s just us, I have to concede to Matt on this one. So much of our life revolves around my needs, my problems. Matt has to rush to my side when my mood plummets, he has to tiptoe around my feelings with certain issues, and he is constantly vigilant of my needs and wishes. And so tidiness is one area where I must surrender constant control. I can at the very least let him decide for himself what goes on his nightstand, how many books he wants to own, or whether to keep the dream of breadmaking alive. Because while I may want to be a minimalist, I can’t become so obsessed as to interfere with him living his life. Now I have made efforts to convert him, and he’s let some things go. But the truth is, it’s not in his nature to live a stark, rigidly ordered existence. His organizing style may not please me aesthetically, but it does allow him to be incredibly creative and effective in his work and otherwise. So I take a deep breath, hold back my controlling nature, and try to focus on my own stuff, material or otherwise. I truly want a happy home, and if this helps achieve that end, I’m more than willing to oblige.

Closet Contents and The Weight-Change Capsule Wardrobe

in , , ,
 
Storage Bin.jpg

It’s been a rough week.  I fired my therapist (don’t ask), haven’t been leaving the house much, and haven’t had the wherewithal to do any reading or writing.  I have managed to exercise, shower, make my own dinner, do dishes, do a load of laundry, and watch about 60 hours of Youtube.  While it’s better than what I’ve been capable of at certain points in my life, it still feels pathetic, and hopelessness has crept back in. 

My latest coping mechanism is fixating on the state of my closet. For someone with a capsule wardrobe, I have a ton of stuff in there.  My closet acts as our linen closet, so there are extra pillows, bed sheets, and various quilts and blankets.  Then there’s my sewing machine, a box of sewing supplies, and some leftover muslin.  Then an acid-free box with my wedding outfit folded inside.  My shoes are on a rack set up on a shelf, and my bags are lined up on that same shelf as well.  I have a bin of packing cubes and reusable tote bags for travel.  On the floor is a tiny stool for meditation and a large cushion for curling up on on really bad days.  I have a chest of drawers that holds my pajamas, workout gear, socks, and underwear. 

And then there’s my dirty little secret: the clothes I keep in storage.  This is not seasonal storage, or cocktail dresses, or ski pants.  It is solely clothes that do not fit me right now – or more specifically, clothes that are too small.  I am near my highest weight ever right now, and I had to buy several items just to fill out the 25 item capsule I currently wear.  But only a year and a half ago, I weighed 152 pounds (I’m well over 200 now), and I spent a lot of time, money, and energy finding clothes that fit me at that weight.  My medications have played a big part in this weight fluctuation: Adderall helped me lose weight and Seroquel made me gain weight.  But now that I’m off of both these meds, I am hoping to get back to a lower weight; hence the saving and storing of all these too-small clothes. 

My weight has always fluctuated dramatically over the years, my lowest weight being around 125 and my new high being 224.  I’ve had clothes at every size in between and whenever my weight would change, I’d get rid of what didn’t fit.  It’s a common suggestion to get rid of anything that doesn’t fit, among minimalists and size-acceptance advocates alike.  But the irony often was that I’d ditch the skinny clothes and immediately lose weight.  Then I’d buy new skinny clothes, ditch whatever was too big, and immediately gain weight.  This cycle continued over and over again.  On a financial level as well as an environmental one, this is not a sustainable lifestyle. 

So this last time that I lost weight (a year and a half ago), I kept my fat clothes.  Only the ones I loved, but I kept a good amount and packed them away in a clear plastic bin on the top shelf of my closet.  And when I gained weight once again, it saved me time and money having these clothes on hand.  It’s hard to find things that fit at any size, so I was glad to not have to go shopping as my weight increased.  And then I saved the smaller clothes in turn, thinking I’d pull them out when my weight went down again. 

This seemed like a good system to me, and a good way to tell myself that I’m acceptable at any size, and deserve to wear clothes I love.  This approach is something I call “The Weight-Change Capsule Wardrobe.”  The strategy is to keep a small capsule of clothes for each size as opposed to each season.  25 items is plenty for me, since my lifestyle is largely uneventful.  And there is usually some crossover of items between sizes, so I don’t necessarily need 25 pieces in every size within a 100-pound range.  But it’s still a lot to store — daywear, pajamas, workout clothes, even jewelry — and it bothers me to have such a vast wardrobe of clothes that don’t fit.  I truly want to be a minimalist like the people I see on Youtube, with tiny wardrobes, vegan diets, and tiny bodies.  But I don’t know how realistic it is for me to assume my weight will never fluctuate again.  And the environmental waste produced by my ever-changing wardrobe is something I desperately want to avoid.

Lately, though, there’s a little voice inside my head saying, “This time will be different…” or “I won’t regain the weight, so I don’t have to keep the bigger clothes.” I imagine selling my larger clothes on Ebay as I continue down the scale.  And perhaps this really is the last time I have to go through this.  My meds are more stable, and I feel more committed to a reasonable diet and exercise regime for the long haul.  I lost 6 pounds last month according to my doctor, putting me 18 pounds below my highest weight of 224.  I’ve continued to increase the intensity of my exercise, limit my calories, and do intermittent fasting (which at the very least keeps me from snacking at night).  I still feel ”not myself” when I look in the mirror, but lately I’m a bit more hopeful that I’ll get there eventually.  And I’m eager to wear those too-small clothes up there, not because losing weight is the answer to all my problems, but because I love those clothes.  I carefully considered every purchase, searching tirelessly for just the right things, and spending more money than usual on quality pieces.  So for now, my closet is full, but I am where I am.

Our Minimalist Kitchen

in ,
 
File Apr 23, 9 03 14 PM.jpg

I went to therapy today and we discussed my previous session which my husband attended with me.  My therapist commented on how helpful it was to see us together, and I was glad she could see how much fun we have, how we make each other laugh.  She also remarked on what an asset it is for me to have that kind of support.  I am truly lucky that Matt has stuck by me, no matter what, and that he continues to do so, no matter what.  I could never repay everything he’s done for me, from helping me with my medications and doctors to simply comforting me in the worst days of my life. 

I was having a rough time a little over a year ago, when we were in Germany for his work.  My meds weren’t helping enough, and I spent every night sobbing in despair.  It was during this time that Matt started rubbing my feet to help me calm down.  He would massage my feet very deeply, using a wooden massage tool to get more leverage.  I can’t explain exactly why this was so effective, but it relieved me of my great despair.  I think the pleasant pain of the deep massage was intense enough to distract me from my emotional pain.  So every night, in our tiny attic apartment, up in the sleeping loft with the sloped ceiling, Matt would rub my feet.  Often for an hour or more he would do this, in between directing and designing an opera at the local opera house.  Where he found the energy I will never know, but such is his love for me that he did.  While life has dealt me a bad hand in terms of brain chemistry, I’ve been phenomenally lucky in love.  I can’t remember how or why this ritual of foot massages started, but I can say it has been extremely helpful in the throes of my illness.  I wholeheartedly recommend massage as a coping strategy for depression.  While medication and therapy are the obvious treatments, I think there is something valuable in finding pleasure in the midst of so much pain. 

In that tiny attic apartment, there was a tiny kitchen. We had a few plates and glasses which we supplemented with American-sized coffee mugs from the Euro shop. Every morning Matt would run out and buy croissants from the bakery on our street, and we’d eat them with blueberries and yogurt at our little table. For dinner we had no stove, so we would come up with creative ways to cook without one. We had an electric kettle, and so we made blanched vegetables, pasta, and couscous. We had a microwave, and could heat frozen chicken to go with it. It wasn’t much, but I loved that kitchen. It was truly a minimalist arrangement, and it somehow seemed less difficult to do dishes or prepare a meal. So when we got home, I tried to make over our kitchen into a more minimalist setting. I whittled down our dishes to just 4 plates, 2 bowls, 4 glasses, and 4 mugs. We have 4 saucers, and 2 large dishes for bigger meals. We have an electric kettle which we use with a set of metal nesting bowls with lids to blanche vegetables, make tofu or couscous. We got rid of our dish drying rack, which was always toppling over, and have a simple drainboard instead. You can only fit so many dishes on it, but we only have so many anyway. I sorted our silverware and cooking utensils, keeping all the essentials, but no more. Our dishes are on open shelves, and our few pots and pans hang on a pot rack. We make coffee “pourover” style, using the kettle and a plastic cone with paper filters. We of course have a stove, but the simple meals we invented are things I can manage on my own. I don’t get so overwhelmed that I can’t cook for myself. We usually dry all our dishes by hand and put everything away so it’s ready for our next meal. My husband actually enjoys cooking (I don’t), so of course he keeps some specialty items: a breadmaker, a crockpot, a small bin of gadgets. But they’re stored away so they’re not in our regular rotation. And there’s nothing without a purpose, no excess, and that has helped me manage my meals when he’s working (or when he’s not). I try to wash my dishes immediately with water when I can, leaving just a few things to scrub or soak. And just recently we gave up our cases of plastic water bottles for 2 metal reusable ones. We fill them from the tap, and so far it’s fine. We can’t figure out what’s worse- the tap water or the microplastics in bottled water- so we went for the simpler, cheaper choice and just hope for the best. Nothing’s perfect, but for me, simpler is definitely better.

Still In My Pajamas, and Exercise Update

in , , ,
 

While mental conditions for me are gradually improving (I’ve just recently embarked upon some therapy with a Clinical Psychologist/PhD), much of my time is still spent in my pajamas.  I thought I’d give a thorough inventory of my pajama capsule as it stands. 

There are 8 tops in total: 4 identical “boyfriend tees” from Old Navy in faded blue, and 4 “relaxed fit” tanks, also from Old Navy — 2 white, 1 black, and 1 grey.  All of these were chosen for their loose, comfortable fit, but also for the specific 100% slub cotton of which they are made.  I’ve found that the slub cotton from Old Navy — it has a slight texture to the weave — wears especially well through wash after wash.  Now, not all slub cotton is created equal. My Gap Factory T-shirts are clearly not of the same caliber. But these 8 Old Navy tops are holding up beautifully despite the frequent wear and washing.  Maybe other people don’t need 8 pajama tops, but when you’ve been debilitatingly depressed for a stretch of time, your priorities tend to shift, wardrobe-wise.

For bottoms, I have two pairs of sweatpants and three pairs of shorts.  One pair of pants is from Two by Vince Camuto; they are wide-leg and a lovely soft pink color.  I’ve yet to find an answer to the question of whether or not these are maternity pants — please contact me if you know — but I love them either way.  The other pants are drawstring, stretch-terry sweats from Andrea Jovine Woman.  I’ve had them for ages and they’re a little ragged, but certainly doing the job.  For shorts, I have 2 pairs of Old Navy cotton poplin sleep shorts with a ribbon drawstring waist.  Both are crisp white with a print: one pink paisley and one blue geometric.  The third pair of shorts is a real oldie but goodie — a men’s pair of XXL jersey pants that have been cut off into shorts.  I’ve had them for quite some time — Russell Athletic is made to last — and I don’t see much wear at all aside from a bit of fading.  Sometimes I layer a pair of pants over my shorts to hang around the house and then just wear the shorts to sleep in.

Three more items complete the capsule — 16 pieces in all? — a hoodie in black lightweight terry from Cable and Gauge, and a grey textured pullover hoodie from Lou and Grey by LOFT.  Both are great for layering as loungewear, especially when you need to answer the door sans bra.  And a pair of fleece slippers from Lands’ End.

Speaking of braless activities, my exercise routine has continued to improve and, more importantly, exist.  I’m still wearing my pajama tops to the gym with a zip-up fleece over the top, and that little bit of time saved from putting a bra on has proved crucial to my continued progress.

Tagging along with my husband on his gym visits is working well, and I’ve actually increased my weights so it takes more effort to power through.  Weight lifting in general has always seemed like a lazy activity compared to running — I mean, you’re sitting down much of the time.  But upping the weight does get my heart pounding between sets.  When at the gym, we do 3 or 4 machines, 3 sets each, alternating lats-biceps-back-legs or chest-triceps-legs depending on the day.  More machines than that would probably be too many for my level of mojo, so we leave it at that and walk on the treadmill for a few minutes.  We started out slow, at 2.5 with no incline for 7 minutes, and I’ve worked my way up to 3.0 at an incline of 4 for 10 minutes.  On days we don’t go to the gym, I just walk on our treadmill at home, also at 3.0 with an incline of 4 for 20 minutes and call it a day.

The plan is to continue increasing the intensity of my workouts so slowly that I hardly notice a thing.  For instance, next will be an incline of 5 or 6, and then maybe an increase of speed to 3.2, making a change each week until I’m walking uphill at a good clip.  This is where it’ll get exciting for me: after walking at a steep incline for so long, I’ll start building in a little running on a flat plane.  I’ve been agonizing over the idea of running, since it’s always been my go-to for weight loss, but it has felt impossible with my current mood and flagging fitness level.  Hopefully, it’ll just work in seamlessly with this strategy (my husband says that after the incline, running flat is a breeze for him), and I’ll be back up to speed in no time.  The major hurdle will be wrestling into a sports bra in order to do it.

My Habit Tracker and My Scarves

in , , ,
 

I started a bullet journal last year after hearing all about them on Youtube.  Doubling as both a calendar and an ongoing to-do list, I discovered some other features that have proved quite useful.  A bullet journal is great for all kinds of lists, like “All the Books I Want To Read This Year,” or “All the Clothes I Need for My Capsule Wardrobe.”   But my favorite function of the bullet journal has to be the Habit Tracker.  It’s not complicated; it’s basically just a chart with a row for each habit you want to do and a column for each day of the month.  Habit completed; check box.  For some people this may sound unnecessary or a little too Type-A, but I’ve adopted it as a way to track all the little things I do every day.  If you’re battling depression like I am, it’s a great way to give yourself credit for everything you’re able to achieve, and to not take anything for granted. 

Some items on my list:

  • Take pills

  • Shower

  • Wash dishes

  • Exercise

  • Brush teeth

  • Listen to audio book

There are days with lots of check marks and extra activities written in as well.  But there are also days when all I’ve checked off is “Take pills.”  For me, the idea is to recognize that each one of these tasks is an accomplishment, not an expectation.  Because sometimes as I start to get better and my depression begins to lift, I simultaneously increase my expectations for myself and forget how far I’ve come.  It also feels good to have a record of how I spend my days, especially for those times when I yell at myself for not accomplishing enough. 

A big part of coping with my depression involves grieving for the loss of time.  I look back at years of my life and am filled with regret for all the things I didn’t get to do.  I want that time back.  I want to hurry up and “make up for lost time.”  I panic at the thought of how far off track I am, wondering if I’ll ever be able to get back on.  This is where patience is key: the Habit Tracker helps me break everything down into small, achievable steps.  It reminds me to be patient, slow down, and keep building.  It tells me to celebrate small victories and be gentle with myself in defeat.  Today, I exercised.  Today, I went to the doctor.  Today, I got dressed.

Today I wore my favorite winter scarf- it’s a chunky, oversized, cable-knit scarf in grey cashmere.  It’s extremely long and wraps around twice so that I’m bundled up to my eyeballs on cold days.  After pinning numerous images of chunky scarves on Pinterest, I went onto Thredup to look for something to fit the bill.  This one was less than $20 and pre-loved, but it is 100% cashmere and says “Cruciani” on the label.  (No idea who Cruciani is, but it sounds Italian, and therefore, luxurious.)  It’s perfect to slouch around my shoulders when in drafty coffee shops or wrap around twice in cold weather.  I do have another winter scarf for less extreme weather; it’s a blush Calvin Klein logo scarf that I like to wrap once around my neck and then tuck an end under in front to cover that gap beneath my neck.  I wear it under my coat and then leave it on indoors, too, for a subtle bit of color with whatever I’m wearing.

For more formal occasions, I have two beautiful scarves that were gifts from my mother-in-law.  One is a delicate silk rectangle with a large-scale floral on a black background; the brand is Old Shanghai.  The other is a huge square of turquoise velvet with a burnout floral pattern; I’ve worn it as a shawl over an all-black look for dressy nights out. It’s from The Metropolitan Museum of Art gift shop; they have really beautiful things if you’ve never checked it out.

I even have a couple of scarves for spring and summer.  One is a sheer, white, woven frothy thing that looks great with my khaki anorak jacket.  The other I made from some remnant material from a duvet cover I was altering at the time.  The fabric is stiff for a scarf- it’s a blush, woven cotton with a damask pattern in gold- but it was far too lovely to be thrown away.  I’ve never seen a scarf quite like it, but I love the way it layers with more revealing summer clothes.

Is six scarves too many?  Maybe, but I do love (and wear) them all.  I love the slouchy look of a scarf; it’s an unexpected alternative to jewelry- a softer, subtler accessory.  Wearing one makes me feel protected, more self-possessed, gentler.  It adds color and texture to my otherwise monochromatic wardrobe.  It covers me up without drowning me in fabric, making me feel modest yet modern.

Dissolving Capsules, and Workout Updates

in , ,
 
File Apr 24, 4 50 49 PM.jpg

There’s been some gray area for me lately between capsules: my pajamas and workout gear are frequently overlapping, and both categories are seeping into my daytime wear. Now there have been many days where I’ve neglected to change into “real” clothes and just worn my pajamas all day. But I usually keep my workout wear and pajamas strictly separate. Blue pocket tees (4 of them) are for sleep, and gray tees (also 4) are for working out. But there has been a new development in my workout routine (or lack thereof) which is blurring those lines.

I had been walking on the treadmill in my office for an hour at a time rather sporadically over the past month or so. But then things ground to a halt once again and I barely moved beyond the couch or bed. I was overwhelmed at the thought of getting dressed in workout clothes, working out for a full hour, and then having to shower and wash said clothes.

I decided all of this would change on the first of the year, joining in the most cliched New Year’s Resolution there is: to start exercising every day. I decided to do a 30-day Yoga Challenge, and in addition would do one of the preset programs on the treadmill every day. I prepared, I researched, I laid out clothes. And on New Year’s Day, I did yoga. Now, I’ve done a good amount of yoga in my life. I’m experienced in working the classic poses. But being well over 200 lbs right now, I found yoga very, very different from when I was thin. My knees hurt, which is always a bad thing. I didn’t have the strength to hold myself up in downward dog or plank pose. And I had to keep stopping and resting during the warrior poses; my legs were shaking from bearing my body weight.

I finished the video 30 minutes later, despondent and hysterically crying. I felt so angry at this 90 lb waif touting “beginner” yoga with no regard for the fact that her students might not be 90 lbs as well. I flopped into bed and cried to my husband, a former ballet dancer, and he agreed that yoga teachers in general don’t seem to know how to teach people who are heavy, inflexible, or not already aware of their specific alignment needs. He talked me down, and suggested I rethink my fitness routine. We talked it over, and I decided I’d go with him to the gym every day where he works out for 15-20 minutes. He’d adjust the weights for me as we took turns on the machines, and we’d walk on the treadmills for 7 minutes. It was hard to see the point of such an easy workout, but a week into it, I’m starting to see the point. I’m way less overwhelmed at the thought of exercise, especially since the plan is to gradually increase the intensity without extending the time. So far, I know it’s definitely better than what I was doing before: absolutely nothing. It’s also getting me out of the house without really having to interact with other humans, a nice bonus. I just keep my hat and headphones on and never, ever make eye contact.

I think part of what’s working for me is:

  1. I don’t bother wearing a bra- just a heavy fleece over my T-shirt

  2. I wear my pajama T-shirt from the night before

  3. I don’t usually sweat enough to warrant a shower

  4. My workout pants can go a few days without being washed

One strange result of this new routine is that the clear delineation between my pajamas, workout clothes, and daytime clothes has all but disappeared. Right now I’m wearing workout socks and pants, a pajama top, and a pajama hoodie- and it’s the middle of the day. Maybe this dissolution of separate capsules is my own secret to regular exercise. Perhaps allowing my workout clothes into the rest of my life is making space for actually working out?

Running Into My Past, and Shoes

in , , ,
 

I’m sitting in a cafe, frozen with panic that I might see a woman I know. My husband saw her working here once and I honestly don’t know what I’d do if I ran into her. I had him go inside first to check if she was working but he didn’t see her, so we came in. And now I’m in a daze, sitting with my cup of tea, staring into space.

I knew her a few years ago, around the time we had our wedding, when we worked together at a different cafe. I was a different person then, three- no four years ago. Before TMS, before Ketamine, before Abilify when I worked in an office, then left and went on disability for mental illness. Before our last trip to Germany, before I gained all this weight, before this summer when I truly lost my mind. Maybe she wouldn’t recognize me? I’ve been through a lot. Maybe I look different enough to go unnoticed. I imagine how it would be if something else horrible had happened to me- cancer, or a miscarriage maybe. Would I feel so ashamed? So panicked that I can’t even order my own tea, so bewildered that I can’t think of anything to say to my husband?

I’ve had this kind of experience in the past- the worst thing in the world might be running into someone you haven’t seen in a while. I once ran into the composer of a show I’d been in- he’d known me when I was thin and “doing things.” I ran into him and another singer from the show. I had gained weight- a lot of weight. The singer said, “I almost didn’t recognize you!” Such tact.

The last time we were in Germany I dreaded running into people from the opera. I was no longer singing, no longer doing anything. And how could I explain it? How could I ever explain what had happened to me, why I’ve fallen so far?

Our wedding was around the time things started to go downhill. I wore green shoes with an antique cotton slip as a skirt and a custom-made blouson top, both white. I had a floral kimono jacket and a small blush clutch. A huge floral crown on my head, I smiled and gushed at all the guests, laughing and dancing. I don’t remember dancing since. I still have the green shoes- I love them. They are one of five pairs of heels that I own. Blush gladiator block-heel sandals, black sling-back cork wedges, and two pairs of identical pairs of peep-toe loafer-style heels, one black and one taupe. I don’t wear any of them. I hardly get dressed at all, never mind put on a pair of heels. But I love them all, they are all comfortable, and I imagine wearing them in the future. When I’m better. Which feels like never.

Instead I wear slip-on Supergas in gray or tan, snow boots from Lands’ End, ankleboots from Naturalizer. I have some tall wedge-heel boots from Sorel which get an occasional outing and some brown “Hobbit” shoes that I wear out of laziness, and for comfort. I have a pair of low-heeled boots with foldover cuffs in gray suede which I adore, but have suddenly become too small. Can you gain weight in your feet? Well, those will have to go, no matter how unique and perfect I think they are. They’re too tight to walk in. So I’m left with what- 11 pairs? Clearly I’m not so minimalist in this area. I’m not even all that practical- I mean, five pairs of heels that I don’t wear?

But keeping them means there’s hope for a future. The same way I kept my smaller clothes. It means there’s hope that maybe this extra weight will go away now that my meds have changed, now that I’m eating less, now that I don’t eat at night. Things are starting to shake loose, starting to open up. Small things, but painful ones- remembering who I was before the world closed in on me, came crashing down. What do I like to do? Who am I now without a career? Who am I without the hope of a fantastical future with fame and riches and the performing arts? But I read a book the other day; I left the house to go to a movie or for coffee. I bought and wrapped Christmas presents, however meager. And I cry every day in agony. Because at the same rate that I get better, my awareness of what I’ve lost grows. My abilities and my grief in tandem, alternately springing hope and slashing me down.

Today I Got Up Early, and What I Learned from the Discard Pile

in , ,
 

Today I woke up at 5:20 am and couldn’t fall back to sleep before the 6am alarm. I made a cup of tea and did what most “normal” people seem to do when they wake up: I scrolled through Instagram. My new phone is the super-duper one, and it’s huge, so I don’t go blind when I go online. But I honestly don’t understand what's so great about Instagram. How have I missed out on this massive cultural shift towards posting selfies as an alternative to communication? It feels a lot like the whole Facebook obsession I never got into. Although I’m pretty sure I logged in once in 2015 to acknowledge that my husband and I were, in fact, married. In 2013. You see where I’m coming from. But since deciding I want to start a blog (I know, like it’s 2006 or something), I thought that maybe a good way to get people to read it would be to post on Instagram. Hence the scrolling.

Now, I am still a beginner, following a few minimalists and fashion bloggers I found on Youtube, but I have yet to see the value in this forum. I know that a lot of effort goes into these photos, which I scarcely glance at for a second or two, at most. Am I just old? Well, yes, the answer is a resounding yes. But Will Smith is on there, and he’s older than me. But I digress.

I was saying that I woke up before 6am today and got my workout clothes on. Now, don’t be fooled. This has happened before, and no working out has commenced. But today was different. I laid in the dark for hours yesterday (I know, I should have been scrolling instead) trying to imagine what my ideal day would look like. It always involved waking up massively early and working out. Now, I made the mistake of relaying this to my husband, Matt, who suggested I make this dream a reality. I went to bed around 9:30pm last night, woke up early, had my tea, got dressed, and actually got on the treadmill to walk (crowd cheers). I felt smug as I showered— even a little sheepish. What depression? You just have to get up early and just do it! This explains so many Nike ads! This explains my father’s philosophy on everything!

I sat down to some Youtube and some more tea, and decided to wake up Matt. He was awake and scrolling when I came in. I snuggled under the covers and lost consciousness.


An hour later, my coffee was waiting by the bed in a travel mug. Oh, well! Just a little catnap! I only got eight hours last night, so that’s to be expected. I had breakfast and resumed my day. Matt showed me some template options on Squarespace for a half-hour or so. I ate lunch, washed the dishes, and watched more Youtube until Matt got back from the gym. When he returned, I started crying, saying “I’m ready to be all better. I’m so sick of this.” We went into the bedroom and I helped him fix a crossword puzzle. He rubbed my feet, got ready for work, and left. I fell asleep for two hours. Are you doing the math? 8 + 1 + 2 = 11. Yup. I’m up to 11 hours now, not feeling the Nike ad so much. These are the kind of shenanigans I must endure whenever I try to do something good, or proactive, etc. Now I’ve had more tea and have turned to a subject I have much more control over— my closet. Specifically, my discard pile.

I feel guilty looking at all of those t-shirts. I mean, technically, I could wear those Gap Factory ones some more, you know, until they had actual holes or whatever. And those LOFT swing tees are in perfect shape. I just, what, “don’t like them anymore?” Who am I, the Queen of England? Instead, I should keep them in my closet, not wear them for another year, and then get rid of them, like I do with dodgy cheeses. And this is where a capsule wardrobe becomes an act of defiance: an assertion of self-worth that shows confidence in one’s decisions. I will not wait for the cheese to mold. I will take life by the reins and purge! But let’s not be rash. There must be something we can learn from our past shopping mistakes. Here’s my list.

  1. Don’t buy multiples (like, more than two) of anything that isn’t tried and true. With the Gap Factory T-shirts, I bought six of them all at once. I tried one out, washed it, gave it the green light, and kept them all. I see now that this was a mistake. I started buying multiples because I’d been burned before: I’d find that mythical perfect T-shirt or pair of pants, only realizing its value once it had gone out of stock, never to be reissued again. This created scarcity mentality in me- the idea that there will never be enough. And the truth is, there will always be more T-shirts- maybe even better than your current favorite. We must trust in the universe to bring us the clothes we need! (Okay, that went too far.)

  2. Don’t buy anything without trying it on. OK, rookie mistake, I admit. But I thought those linen Gap joggers were the same as the twill ones I already had. And they’re the same size, and…and… Just don’t do it. They’re not the same and now you hate them.

  3. Don’t buy anything you think you can fix via sewing. Unless you’re a master seamstress, this is a fantasy we have that allows us to purchase clothes that don’t fit. The LOFT Lou and Grey cotton camisoles have straps that fall down, no matter how many times I stitch and unstitch them.

  4. High-low hems. Just don’t like them anymore. Something I once found profoundly “flattering” (translation: made me look thinner than I am) now deeply offends me. I think they look oddly childish, like Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? -style weird. There are so many styles that I see on other people and think, “that looks great.” But then on me, they are creepy and infantilizing. Puff sleeves are the number-one offender, followed by babydoll dresses, peasant tops, and any kind of bows.

Well, that sums up my most recent fashion blunders. The most baffling for me is the last one, where something you love all of a sudden looks wrong. Maybe it’s just age or “maturity,” but all the cherubic fashions I was drawn to my whole life (mostly for figure-flattering purposes) have rather suddenly lost their charm. Nothing to be done, I suppose, except to pass them on and try to adjust my shopping habits accordingly. C’est la vie.

Getting Back to Exercise, and My Capsule Workout Wardrobe

in , , ,
 

“Sedentary" is the word that best describes my current activity level. I walk around the apartment from room to room, but it’s certainly not the recommended 10,000 steps. There is also the occasional effort at walking on the treadmill. Over the past month or two, this has occurred twice a week at most, always for an hour at 3.0, so a distance of three miles. I have this thing with exercise where I need it to be the exact same workout every time. Not sure why that is, but to some extent, it has to do with not wanting to wash my workout clothes if I haven’t put out the full effort. My current “workout capsule” (if you can even call it that) consists of four sports bras, four t-shirts (all identical gray ones from Old Navy), a pair of boot-cut yoga pants, a pair of skinny joggers that feel more like pajama pants than gym pants, and a pair of fleece-lined joggers. I also have a Columbia zip-up fleece, and a pair of running shoes. It’s too cold to go outside in the workout gear that currently fits me, although in the past I’ve gone running in the snow in a double layer of Under Armor.

Running isn’t even an option right now, because running at this weight hurts my ankles. I have a fantasy that I walk on the treadmill every day and I film it, so I can make a time-lapse weight-loss video that goes viral and makes me rich. I also have the yoga fantasy where I become spiritually enlightened, as well as the weight-lifting fantasy where I become empowered by my own increased strength and muscle tone and start posting selfies on Instagram with inspirational quotes underneath. The reality of it is that I walk a twenty minute mile, and I rarely even do that. Sometimes I know there’s no way it’s going to happen. And sometimes I put the outfit on before sitting on the couch, trying to keep my hopes up, but eventually admitting that it’s not going to happen despite the outfit.

Earlier this year, in the midst of the worst violent rages and deepest depression I’ve known, I’d run every day. I found it mellowed me a bit in the evenings if I “got it out of my system” by running for thirty minutes, then walking briskly for another thirty. I tried to sustain this routine after getting on to some heavy meds, cutting back to half-hour runs, then half-hour walks, and eventually, nothing. I slept a solid twelve to fourteen hours a day, and was ravenous all the time, waking up in the middle of the night from hunger. My weight skyrocketed to heights I didn’t even know I was capable of sustaining. I lay in bed all day, and had twenty-four hour surveillance (suicide watch) from my husband and my mom. Exercise was no longer a part of my routine, but neither were the uncontrollable rages, the throwing things and hitting myself in the head. The meds leveled me into submission, and left me with a good fifty or sixty pounds to lose (I stopped weighing myself during this time). I’m grateful to report that I’ve weaned off those drugs, and am on much more tolerable ones now. But the weight certainly isn’t falling off. I limit my calories, and I limit the number of hours a day during which I eat (my doctor recommended this tactic). I can’t say whether it’s helped any with the weight, but it certainly resets your circadian rhythm. Now I wake up early, and go to bed pretty early, too. My husband and I jokingly refer to it as the “fruit fly” diet, since the theory originated with experiments with fruit flies. I believe the official term is “intermittent fasting.” Again, it’s questionable whether it actually helps with weight loss, but any edge I can get, I’ll take.

I feel overwhelmed and frequently despondent over my weight, despite following @bodyposipanda and trying to love myself as I am. It’s just that my mental image of myself is so drastically different from what I see in the mirror. I’m shocked every time I see myself with a double chin, a belly that folds over at the bottom, arms that look inflated with fat. I try to familiarize myself with what I see, try to remind myself that I’m a worthy human being with a body like this. And when I see other plus size women in fashionable clothes, impeccable hair and makeup, and joy emanating from their smiling faces, I want what they have. I want that kind of confidence and level of self care. But I’m just not there, and don’t know if I’ll ever be there. I’m fully aware that thinness does not equal happiness, and that all bodies deserve love and admiration. I just can’t seem to apply these statements to myself.

Depressed Again and Wardrobe Updates

in , , ,
 
Capsule Rack Cropped 1.jpg

I’m depressed again today, and the day has gone much like it did yesterday. I got stressed out trying to sort grapes for my breakfast. My husband took over for me. I’ve alternated bed and couch, watching Youtube videos or just lying in the dark. We did a camera test to look at possible setups for my own Youtube videos. I did, however, have a meltdown when I saw myself on camera. I guess I was under the impression that I was losing weight and feeling somewhat better lately. But my double chin and pissy attitude on camera showed otherwise. Around 4pm, I started sobbing. My husband came in and rubbed my feet in the dark bedroom. I felt despondent, yet consoled by this loving action.

I’ve been re-thinking the J. Crew T-shirts. Maybe I should keep the two white ones and layer them? But experience has taught me that buying too many multiples is a mistake. I also find the idea of having to wear both white T-shirts layered together excessively complicated.

My current T-shirts were bought in multiples. Six from Gap Factory, all pilled and worn out after six months and destined for textile recycling. And then the four swing tees from LOFT, one in electric blue that has been relegated to loungewear, and the three in neutral colors that I have become disenchanted with. The swing-style high-low hem thing is no longer working for me. It makes me feel very dramatic, and that seems an inappropriate feeling for a T-shirt, I think. Maybe if I called them “tops,” it would at least make more sense. But it doesn’t make me like them any more. They suddenly seem ridiculous- childish, even. It reminds me of the day I realized that I find puff sleeves and ruffles positively infantile. I eradicated all puffs and ruffles from my wardrobe immediately. This was also around the time I realized I hated dresses. So now I have, shockingly, no dresses at all.

At any rate, I do have five new T-shirts to replace the old ones. The 3-pack from ASOS in size 20 in gray, black, and white, and then the two navy Supima cotton tees in size 3X from J. Crew. I still stand by my argument in favor of these long-lasting gems, even though the white ones have been deemed redundant, too sheer, and too complicated to layer.

I’ve ousted a few other items from my wardrobe recently. Two black cotton camis by Lou & Grey at LOFT (the straps refused to stay up) and one pair of black linen joggers from Gap. I have some gray twill joggers from Gap that I love, and I had bought these linen ones thinking they were the same style. Unfortunately, I have come to admit that they are not, in fact, the same style. They have a more tapered leg, and contribute to my general sense that I am enormous. For the sake of the environment and my empty pocketbook, I have decided to list all of these items on Ebay. I set up a little Ebay store about a year and a half ago and I got really into selling thrifted items for a small profit. My husband was kind enough to do all the photography, so it is officially his business (though I did do much of the thrifting). At this point, I’ve stopped buying things to sell so I can focus more on blogging with what little energy I have. But it’s a great trick to be able to sell, and therefore recycle, any items I fall out of love with in my own wardrobe. And while they may not be designer brands, plus sizes do well regardless of brand, so I have that advantage as well. One last item that I’ll be selling is a black Vince cashmere sweater that I recently bought on Ebay. It turns out it’s not as soft as I had hoped, even after a good hand washing. But Vince is a sought-after brand on Ebay, so no great loss there.

This leaves the final roster of items left in my wardrobe as follows:

2 navy Supima cotton J. Crew tees

3 ASOS crew-neck tees (black, white, gray)

1 Cable & Gauge black and white striped tunic

1 oversized, silky, black tunic blouse (occasion wear)

2 black LOFT silky strappy camis

1 Vince gray cashmere sweater

1 Magaschoni black V-neck cashmere sweater

1 Cable & Gauge forest green sweater

1 purple-gray short sleeve cardigan

1 navy blue Gap men’s hoodie

1 Lands’ End black lightweight parka

1 Lauren Ralph Lauren black trench raincoat

2 pairs gray twill Gap joggers

1 pair dark blue D-Jeans jeggings

1 pair black D-jeans jeggings

1 pair black pull-on dress pants (occasion wear)

1 pair Lands’ End trouser jeans

1 pair Target linen-blend wide leg pants

2 pairs black Old Navy utility shorts

To see every item in my capsule wardrobe, click here.

Today I am Depressed, and J Crew T-Shirts

in , ,
 

Today I am too depressed to write kicky blog entries about clothes and minimalism. Today, I did not get dressed, I did not shower, and spent the day split between the couch and the bed. These days are frequent lately, though not every single day. I’ve had some decent days where I bought a new phone, had coffee with my dad, learned about using my husband’s camera, and even written some kicky blog entries. But I have chronic mental illness, and have been on disability for two years. I’m diagnosed with Bipolar II, and have tried a myriad of medications over the past ten years to cope with depression. I am not someone for whom medication is optional: it is a necessary part of my life. I experienced what it was like to be unmedicated this past spring and summer, and it was intolerable. I was violent, suicidal, and unrelentingly, savagely depressed. I never want to go back to that nightmare, so I take the medication my current doctor prescribes without fail. I have hope that my condition will continue to improve under his care, as it has already improved dramatically over the past few months. But today is one of those days where I can’t do much. I certainly can’t leave the house, and I am extremely frustrated by my limitations. I cry a lot. My husband cooks for me and rubs my feet, knowing there is nothing more he can do to help. And I feel ashamed, deeply ashamed of myself and my inability to “snap out of it” or “get my shit together.” I watch cleaning motivation videos on Youtube. I watch makeup tutorials and fashion hauls and lookbooks. I make a frozen pizza and watch Netflix. I want to be skinny and rich and famous. I want a drink, but of course I can’t have one on my medication. The highlight of my day is when the friendly neighborhood cat comes to the door, and I open a can of cat food for him. He sleeps on the chair while I lie on the couch, and it comforts me. Then he leaves, because he’s not my cat, and I’m allergic to cats, so I can’t have one.

I think about T-shirts a lot. I finally got the J. Crew ones in the mail, and they’re really good. The J. Crew Mercantile style is too big in the bust, but the Supima cotton ones in navy are perfect. I already kept the ASOS 3-pack, which are not quite as perfect, but are good solid staples, and you can’t beat the price at $24 for three. I have three LOFT swing tees that are in fine condition, but I have recently come to hate them. The high-low hem, the swing shape emphasizing my enormous belly… They look OK with skinny jeans, but with joggers, they are awful. So I am agonizing over whether to just suck it up and keep wearing them, or whether to let them go. I feel somewhat justified in going with the new ones instead, since I decided against the new J. Crew cashmere sweater. It was a classic cropped cardigan style that’s not at all boxy like it looked on the website- but boy, is that cashmere soft. So I guess I’ve rationalized the new moderately-priced J. Crew T-shirts, both navy blue, as the white is just too sheer. And here’s part of that rationalization: I once had four “tissue tees” from J. Crew. Green, pale blue, and two white. And they lasted 15 years. Yes, you heard that right: 15 years. So I suspect I won’t be replacing these T-shirts any time this year, or the next. Aside from my epic tissue tee experience, I also have Ebay to attest to the quality of J. Crew clothing. I’ve been selling thrifted clothing on eBay for a couple years, and one thing I’ve learned is that J. Crew items have resale value. And if something has resale value, it is either designer, trending, or downright durable. J. Crew falls into this last category, largely in part to their use of natural materials. Cotton, wool, leather, linen, and, of course, cashmere. Resale value is something I now consider when I buy any new or used clothing. If I change my mind about an item after a few wears, it’s good to be able to recoup some, if not all, of the original cost. And if the item becomes a favorite of mine, I’ll get to wear it myself for a very long time. It’s win-win. If I want to carry this logic even further, you could argue that all of this longevity in a garment is good for the environment, too. Whether I pass the item on to someone else or keep it for myself, these more durable items save all of us from contributing to the fast fashion machine we hear so much about. So while a brand like J. Crew may not seem to be the most ethical, sustainable company out there, I’d argue that the longevity of their garments should bump them up a notch or two. More on this in future.