More human

I am finally sitting at my desk at work. Finally. *deep breath, wheeze*
Funny, because my boss is out today.

I decided to stop fighting with the illness and start working with it -- and yesterday it calmed down and let me actually have fun when Lena came over. We went to Dirk and Vanessa's for dinner and played with the ferrets. Silly ferrets.
Lena showed me how she danced, which I thought was the most beautiful thing I had seen in a while. She taught me a little bit of belly dancing. I am now ferociously determined to do anything and everything to get in shape, the best shape possible, I want muscles sleek and toned and powerful and shaped. I had a violent moment of relapse when the wall-length mirror showed me my body. But Dirk said something that struck me as very potent -- we should stop trying to change our bodies and work with them. The curvy, the lithe, the lean, the tall, the skinny, the short, the toned, the taut, the wiry, the voluptuous. I noticed the difference when I caught the reflection of our bodies dancing together in the mirror -- we danced close like lovers first, then side by side. And I realized that Lena's body was naturally toned, taut, wiry, slender and long like a sylph. Plus, she is younger, she is turning 20 on Sunday, her body is still evolving. But my body would not be like that because I am built Italian-Russian, even small-boned would have curves. I shouldn't envy Lena her figure, I should love my own and learn to work with it. I can still have the muscle and tone I want. So I will work and work and exercise the right way, and by summer I hope to be able to dance with Lena in those sinuous, flexing, graceful ballerina motions that captivated me last night.

I had my first cup of coffee in two weeks. Vanilla latte. It was wonderful.

This is one of the best things I have ever read.

It made me cry.
I have the book. This is the entire first chapter. I deliberately searched for this online so I can share it.
( Excerpt from Eating In The Light Of The Moon by Anita Johnston, Ph.D )

Making the bad thoughts stop

I remember when I was very young. I didn't need friends. I had my books, my toys, my other worlds and the universes in my head that spilled out onto paper.
I remember when I was in school and they all made so much fun. They ridiculed my looks, my words, my smarts, my movements. Wallflower. Victim. Red ink on the forehead: Kick Me. In seventh grade I went to the dance dressed in a long white skirt and a peasant blouse, with red lipstick and black eyeliner and I looked stunning, but I sat at the corner table like a good mouse. The cutest boy in our grade asked me to dance, but I found out he only did it because they dared him to. I didn't think it was possible for me to have friends.
I remember the summer after I turned fourteen, when I started blossoming. Fresh spring face, look at her, who is that girl? The boy at the beach asked me out. Our beach date two days later, and he had me on his lap and he wanted to kiss me. He talked about when we'd get married. He hugged me and told me he loved me. Love! I started shaking and asked him to take me home. I cried in the shower. The next day he called and said he had bought a diamond ring. I decided I didn't want to ever love anyone.
I remember college and realizing that people actually liked me. These girls who called me up and came to me and took me out, the gay men who taught me to dance. I had fun, what was this? I made a best friend, even. What was this?
I remember when the best friend told me about a trio of men she had befriended, and she wanted to set me up with the quiet artist. I remembered stuttering and pulling away and thinking, no. I remember suddenly being too curious and that first instant message and smiling because his mood was partly cloudy with a chance of sun. I remember the phone and his voice and my heart racing and I thought, this is nice, I could get used to this.
I remember the other man, the betrayal, the heartbreak that I took too hard, realizing that I had almost loved, not daring to want it again.
I remember later in summer, the quiet artist and me on the phone every day. At the end of August the possibility of boyfriend/girlfriend. Smiling. Maybe okay. And then October, that phone call that changed everything, the midnight when I finally whispered it, "I love you." And he replied, "I love you." And then I cried for hours. How quickly we fall in love when we are not paying attention.
I remember next sumer looking in the full length mirror and seeing how skinny I had gotten over the summer vacation with my new boyfriend, I liked it too much. Going back to college and the food poisoning, and then the sickness, the head disease. I remember that he still held me and loved me and slipped inside me at night with promises, but then he said he loved me so much and he didn't want to build a doll sized coffin, I had to stop this, I was dying, he loved me and I had to get better. And I loved him so much that I started trying. I loved. Gods, I loved. I broke that silly teenage vow and I loved.
I remember the summer day my good friend told me that I had gained weight and I looked good, and I agreed. But it wasn't enough. It was exactly four years later and it was still a breakthrough but it wasn't enough. I didn't break through until well after my wedding (and I remember thinking, he's still marrying me, I'm still okay but maybe not, but he loves me he loves he loves).
I remember when I finally got the point that I had friends, many friends, more friends than I ever had, who all loved me so much it was stronger than heartbreak and hurt. And they would call me up and come get me and take me out and love me, they would love me. And they love me. And they teach me to love myself.

So now, I remember a thought. Just now. I am staring at this bowl of pasta and wondering why I bothered because I'm only going to eat one bite. I am getting too big, I must go down. (Why? Why? Why?) But the rest of me is yelling, fool, fool, listen to the stomach. Small bites, but the whole bowl, and you had better finish it or no chocolate. And I laugh, I have to laugh because I am funny sometimes.

Thoughts. Just thoughts. I will start reading the book tonight.

Ohhhhhhhhhh

Note to self:
When having a complex partial seizure, it is best to actually be coherent when calling the husband (who is three states away) and asking him to "Talk to me, just talk, I just need you to talk to me."
Because I scared the ever-living fucking hell out of that man like nothing has ever scared him.
Adam must have thought I was hurt, dying, something, something, he must have thought someone had died.
And I couldn't say the word, I was unable to say "I am having a seizure, seizure" because my brain wouldn't let me, and when I did manage to yell it I started crying hysterically, and Adam was panicked, and oh it was a clusterfuck mess of sheer panic.
The triggers had been stress and my period. I explained this, the relationship between hormonal surges and seizures. He was still worried.
He even wrote a whole journal post describing his feelings. In his LJ.
And me, getting so defensive, he thinks I don't take it seriously, that I don't consider the real risks to my health; I was alone tonight, when it happened, and what if I hadn't come out of it -- what if I had died... and I became belligerent and said that it wouldn't happen, and back and forth What If, and I was tired and I am tired, and I had scared him, hundreds of miles away and he could do nothing, nothing but hang on the phone, cling to the phone while his wife was falling apart and he couldn't touch her and he couldn't figure out what was wrong until that word, that one word that I had so much trouble saying. Fucking aphasia.
I have a doctor's appointment next week anyway, gyno stuff. I will mention this. It will all be fine.

And you, husband, dear Adam, I love you so much it burns. You reach the sun even higher than me.
More and more each day.