Follow Up About my Doctors

So this is a follow up to my doctor’s post where I ranted about my nurse practioner and my therapist:

I realize looking back that I shouldn’t have written that blog. I have since deleted it because I wrote that blog in a place of anger and disappointment. Ultimately I found out, through some people, that my blog was like a temper tantrum… one that a three year old would throw.

I can understand how people would view my last entry as a tantrum and to those people I hurt or who were offended, I am deeply sorry.

So how do I solve this going forward? One, I’m never going back to the RN and I will make sure I see my regular doctor from now on and two, I realize that my therapist is the best thing that has happened for my mental health in over eight years. She is beyond patient and I appreciate her and without her, I wouldn’t be here. I said those things in anger and I shouldn’t have.

On to me… I don’t know how to deal with the way I am. I’m apparently just a giant child in a forty-four year old woman’s body. I feel like I have no sense of self, I don’t know how to take care of myself emotionally. I’m just a giant ball of fuckedupness.

I feel like there are a lot of times that I hurt and offend people and I don’t mean to do either. I’m impulsive and want to stand up for myself but never know the right way to do it and then fuck it up in the end anyway.

I’m embarrassed and angry and a whole bunch of other emotions about how I acted. I just can’t talk about it right now and I don’t think I will ever want to.

I guess ultimately, I clearly am at a standstill with both my physical and mental health and I don’t know if I will ever be ‘fixed.’ Maybe I have gone as far as I can go; maybe there is no hope for people like me.

Again I am sorry if I offended or hurt you; I shouldn’t have said those things about anyone but myself. I am the cause of my own misery and no one else is responsible for my sadness but myself. I have to heal myself and I can’t depend on anyone outside of me.

Until next time,

A three year old child

My Anxiety Filled Field Trip

So I have PTSD along with a slew of other mental illness. It’s like the DSM 5 threw up all over me.

Anyway, if you have already heard the story of why I have PTSD, feel free to skip ahead in the blog (seven paragraphs to be exact). If not, this is for those who may not know.

In 2013 my school had an active shooter drill. Many schools have shooter drills but this was only with the adults and it was during a professional development day.

The faculty was ushered into the theater and told that we were going to have an active drill and before we were asked to lock down, they would give us time to use the restroom.

So I went to the restroom and went back to grading artwork. Forty minutes pass and there is an announcement to lock down. The panic in the AP’s voice was intense. So I locked my door and went to the Photography darkroom and sat in the glow of the red lights alone.

A few minutes pass and I hear people desperately trying to get in. They were screaming, ‘he has a gun and they are going to fucking kill me.’ Then you would hear the power and the blast from the assault rifle. ‘Pop, pop.’ And then, silence.

After about forty or so minutes we were given the ‘all clear’ and asked to return to the theater.

I cried a bit but was ok. But we never debriefed the way we should have.

Then the next day I started having nightmares and anxiety at school. It was so bad that I would cry in the parking lot before school and in the bathroom or the closet at school. The part that scared me the most was the people pretending to die outside my door when I was directed not to open my door for any reason- just like in a real situation. I know it was just a drill but the thought of not being able to save all my students was too much. How could I tell a parent, ‘I couldn’t let your child in my classroom because the other twenty students would be in danger.’ The thought was relentless. The fear and the anxiety is real.

I am constantly hard on myself because it wasn’t real. But apparently your body can’t tell real from fake so all of the adrenaline and fear and anxiety of that day will forever stick with me. And that is how I developed PTSD.

I have been to the mall a handful of times since that day. I can’t do public places well without the support of my husband.

So at therapy on Thursday, I talked to my therapist about doing better so I can go to places without Joe and she has suggested going to the mall alone.

So here I am, in the food court, trying not to throw up. And this has been my experience and my thoughts since I got here:

1) I don’t remember driving here because I was so dissociated driving down the highway.

2) Why does that white dude need a backpack at the mall?

3) That kid with the long red hair looks sus. (Suspect for those without kids)

4) I heard a bang in the food court just to look up and see a janitor sweeping the floor with his dust pan.

5) OK, that guy is wearing a hood and sunglasses in the mall.

6) I am sitting as much to the outside as possible so I can see everything but if someone shoots from behind me, I’ll die.

7) The Chick fila I just ate isn’t sitting well. Not because it wasn’t the best chicken ever but because my stomach is flipping.

8) God forgive me but those boys look like gangsters.

9) Another white dude with a fucking backpack. White guys are the ones who mass murder everyone.

10) I realized I went to Barnes and Nobles and I was searching through all the books. Like, all of them. And then I realized that I am hiding in a book store.

11) I used to take my kids here on the weekends to play at the playground. I haven’t been here is so long. Now they are so big but what if I never see them again?

12) There is a sweet girl sitting at the next table over, eating her lunch. I just pictured me having to protect her if her mom gets shot. Hopefully I can make it out with her.

13) My head is literally swirling and I can’t ground myself to the present time.

14) I feel paralyzed. I can’t actually move.

15) I am never going to be able to work through this. There is just no hope.

I seriously feel hopeless. My therapist thinks I hide behind my blog. Why, I don’t understand but I feel like it is an open diary. I know I can’t be the only one with mental illness. I feel like if I can help one person; if one person can relate or feel like they aren’t alone, maybe I have done something with my little field trip to the mall.

Until next time,

I don’t remember signing this permission slip.

Is it Too Late to Say, ‘Go Fuck Yourself?’

The tears stream down my face These memories won’t erase.

You enter my mind and I wish I could turn back the hands of time.

To tell you to ‘go fuck yourself.’

How many years have past? These memories, they still last.

I think of what I could have said sometimes it gets stuck in my head.

My head starts to spin…’I should have said this. I could have said that…’ and I know now, I’ll never win.

Is it too late to tell you to ‘go fuck yourself?’

Nah.

‘Go fuck yourself.’

Has it been five or six years? I sit here and still have the same fears.

You made me feel worthless. You made me feel small. You were no therapist at all.

You took a vow and broke it with me. And in all these years you will never see

What you did.

Is it too late to say, ‘go fuck yourself?’

We did therapy over drinks. Why didn’t I ever think

That this is crazy?

One drink or ten? I never knew when to say when.

You’re right. I was old enough to make my own choice but you never gave me a voice.

You didn’t even diagnose me right. Maybe that’s why I was always in flight or fight?

Why didn’t you see the signs? That I was clearly Borderline.

It couldn’t have been more clear and that’s why I always needed you near; that’s why I lived in fear

Of being left.

And then that day in the bar. You handed me my biggest scar.

‘It can’t be this way. I can’t do this another day. Find another therapist,’ you say.

And you left me.

Alone.

At a bar.

Is it too late to say, ‘go fuck yourself?’

I take your advice and get a new therapist who is wicked nice.

She listens to the abuse of our relationship and tells me she has to make a report. This seems like the last resort.

I stop talking to her about you because I still care about what you do.

But why?

I tell you about the report and you scream and yell. This pain I feel is like living in hell.

You scream at me and tell me that I’m crazy and then tell me that they are going to come and take my babies.

You tell me to revoke what I said and tell the court I was lying instead.

It is clear that you don’t care about me and what you are doing to my mind. I clearly can’t rewind

What I said.

Fast forward to a few months down the road. Man, this story is getting old.

But I replay it.

Rewind. Play. Rewind. Play. Remember that time I told you I thought I was gay?

I told you I was bi and I liked girls and a guy. Shh. Don’t tell anyone I say because I really don’t know if I am gay.

I thought you would keep my secret but you just leaked it into a court of law. I can feel myself fall.

I feel my impending doom; my secrets were thrown around that room;

In front of an audience.

Is it too late to say, ‘go fuck yourself?’

The judge handed you a sentence, like she didn’t even meant it.

Six months of not practicing therapy and a fine. That’s where she drew the line.

I cry for you. I hurt for you. This was NEVER what I wanted to do.

Months go by but time moves slow. Here comes the biggest blow.

The board has reviewed the case and found that our years together were a waste.

They revoke your license.

I hear the news and I don’t know if I should cheer or cry. This was NEVER what I wanted for you; I feel like I want to die.

The pain you must felt, the tears you must have shed still leave me with overwhelming dread.

Years later I still feel bad and that makes me really fucking mad.

Because what you did to me could never be reversed. This memory is just a curse

That is on repeat.

Forever.

Is it too late to say, ‘go fuck yourself?’

Until next time,

Allison

Who Am I?

Who am I? I really don’t know. There are times when I can accept who I am and then there are other times that I don’t accept myself. Well, I don’t accept all parts of me.

It is easier for me to talk about having Borderline Personality Disorder than writing this blog. I have trusted you all on this journey with me and today the journey continues.

Growing up is hard and I feel like we never stop growing. We are always experiencing growing pains; whether we are ten or sixty, we are continuing our growth. We are constantly changing and it is hard to always accept the change.

Today I had therapy and it was a hard session, like most of them are and I finally admitted to myself and to my therapist that I am bi. Now if you are a true friend of mine, this doesn’t come as a complete shock to you, especially if i have been drinking. I love everyone; who doesn’t when they are drinking? But what is different in this moment is that I am being true and honest to myself without a single drop of alcohol. Honestly, alcohol might make this blog easier to write. Lol.

I think it is important for me to tell you that it is ok not to accept every part of you at this moment. Life is all about change and acceptance and growth. Honestly, it has take me forty-one years to admit my sexuality to myself and to say it out loud to a therapist. Now I am saying it to whoever is reading this. Growth is growth no matter how small the step.

My life is no different today than it was yesterday. I am in love with my husband and my children and if I had to do it all over again, I would still pick my husband every time. The difference today is that I am allowing that part of myself to be accepted. And accepted by me- no one else can tell me that it is unacceptable because ultimately I am the only opinion that matters. Love yourself. Accept yourself. Be yourself.

With great love,

Allison ❤

In My Head *Trigger Warning: Self-Harm*

***Trigger warning: Self-Harm***

The rage bubbles up like a once dormant volcano about to explode. There is nothing I can do fast enough to stop the feeling and I feel the warmth on my skin and the ringing in my ears- it’s going to happen; I am about to lose control. The rage inside me is hard to explain; it’s like an untamed wild animal that is trapped in a cage. There is nothing that necessarily provokes me; just everything and nothing all at once. As I break out of this cage, I feel more able to control what is going on in my head but I know that that is a lie.

The ringing in my ears isn’t even ringing, it is just a constant buzzing like bees swirling my head with their stingers at the ready. The warmth in my face is so hot that I feel like my skin is bubbling like cheese on a hot skillet. My stomach drops. I feel nothing and everything at once and I feel like I am plummeting down a roller coaster; no twists and turns, just a straight free fall. And then it hits me. I am watching my body punch the walls and release some of the rage. It’s like I just paid the matinee price on a Sunday afternoon. I am watching my body react like an Oscar winning movie except I am not dressed for the occasion. I watch myself punch walls and I can hear the bangs in my ears but I can’t stop my fist from punching.

As soon as the rage hits me, embarrassment and shame follow; kind of like my shadow at high noon. They follow me around taunting me and poking me; egging me on. The shame runs so deep that my mind goes to dark places. Part of my brain is telling me to hurt myself and the other part of my brain says that I am stronger than this; however, I don’t know which part of my brain is right. My thoughts bounce back and forth like a tennis match- back and forth, back and forth.

As the night draws to a close, my emotional level is low and I feel numb. I am literally in an emotional collapse. My body has gone from being revved up to being numb. I feel nothing. I watch the rest of the night just like I did with the matinee before but this time I don’t want to be a part of this movie. I am just too tired; the rage has come and drained what was left of me for the night and I start to fall asleep. I start to drift in and out of consciousness and when I wake in the morning I realize that I made the choice to live another day.

Until next time,

Allison

*If you are having suicidal thoughts text 741741 to talk to someone.

Thump, Thump… Thump, Thump… Thump, Thump… Beeeeeep…

The air escapes from my lungs at the sight of you; I finally can breathe. I have been holding my breath for too long. Just the sight of your face and your presence is enough for my broken heart to start beating again. It has been such a long and hard break that I haven’t been able to breathe since I saw you last.

No, I am not in love with you. And no, I don’t have any desire to be. I do love you but in a very different way. In your presence I can feel safe and I feel like I matter. My husband and my children make me feel solid but there are so many other places in my life that are empty and I cannot fill this void on my own with self-love and compassion; it is just too hard. When I am with you, I just feel more complete.

You may not know the extent of how much you mean to me. Everyday that goes by is one day closer to the end- the part where we say goodbye. I know you understand how I feel- I feel like everyone leaves me and I know you will be next. Not because I can’t be with you but because I don’t need to be with you and you need to move on to someone else.

I see that I am getting better and when I get better, we will see less of each other. You warned me that by doing so well, I may turn on myself and start sabotaging my own successes. Not on purpose you say. And I know that you are right but the shame of doing well and then starting over is too much.

I want to take that step forward- I swear I do. I want to know that I can stay in this state of stability. I want to make sure I can breathe on my own and that my heart, no matter how broken, will still beat without you.

With much love and respect,

Allison

The Double Standard

So the flu came to our house and it came right in time for Christmas. It was kind of like the family that you don’t want to see but they invite themselves over anyway and basically annoy everyone.

First our sons had the flu and then my husband received the precious gift of sickness. When I talk about him being sick, I mean the flu basically knocked him on his ass for a full twenty-four hours.

I made sure that the kids didn’t bother Joe and I personally checked on him to make sure he was still living.

Then I got sick. The first thing I did to acknowledge and celebrate my illness last night was to clean the bathtub. Then today, I slept for four straight hours just to bolt upright, a little wobbly from dizziness, to acknowledge my ‘laziness,’ and pull my dying body out of bed to help with the kids.

So why do we, as women, do this to ourselves? Why is it so important for us to take care of everyone else and never stop and think that, ‘I should be taking care of myself.’? It’s guilt. Plain and simple. We have grown up in a society where it is the woman’s ‘responsibility’ to take care of everyone else and to put herself last.

Tonight I was helping my daughter make bracelets for all of her little friends at school and quietly asked myself, ‘what the hell am I doing?’ I am putting everyone else’s needs ahead of my own and at this moment, I am putting other people’s kids ahead of my own sickness.

‘Oh, what colors did Brooke want? Dark Pink, light pink and medium pink… ok! <eyeroll>’

The result of this, at least for me, is to get angry and rage and that is exactly what happened. Imagine how wonderful and pleasant we would be as women if we just cared for ourselves the same way we care for the world.

So, as usual, I made a list:

1. It is ok to get sick and to take the time to get better.
2. It is ok to need a break, leave the world behind and get a massage.
3. It’s ok to not get it all done today but it is not ok to feel guilty about it.
4. It’s ok to make a frozen pizza for dinner.
5. It’s ok for the kids to have dinner in a bag if it means a little more sanity for yourself.
6. It’s ok to open a bottle of wine and it’s ok if the bottle is open before noon.
7. It’s ok to use paper plates as your fine china.
8. It is ok if the laundry doesn’t get washed. Just smell your kids before they leave the house.
9. It’s ok to turn up that rap music in your minivan and pretend like you are in high school again. Yeah, go ahead and get those hydraulics.
10. It is ok to talk to yourself like you are your best friend. It sounds extremely cheesy but my therapist tells me that all the time and she is right. If we are own best friend, we would be happier and I personally would rather be the happy one instead of making sure the world was happier first.

People will survive if you are not there but will you survive if you are not there for yourself?

Until next time,

It’s ok- pass the wine while listening to rap music in a massage session with some man that has rippling biceps.

Airing My Dirty Laundry

***Trigger Warning- Suicide***

You know, I thought long and hard about whether or not I wanted to write this blog. It took so long because I was ashamed and embarrassed about writing it and then I thought, ‘fuck it. Maybe it will help one person.’

So I have been going through a very difficult time. I would share that part with you but I stated to another party that I wouldn’t… people are so particular. <insert eyeroll>

But that part doesn’t matter. What does matter is that this particular situation broke me so badly that I have shattered into a million pieces. There are shards of my well-being all over the floor and I can’t seem to pick them all up. I have fallen back into old behaviors, the biggest one is self-harming.

This situation has destroyed a piece of me and I don’t think anyone that is involved really cares. I started scratching my arms till they bleed and over medicating my body. I am not self harming for attention; I am self harming because the pain inside is so severe that I don’t know how to get rid of it. The pain in my body is so deep that the only way to feel better is to harm myself and release some of that inner tension and inner pain.

On Thursday night, I contacted the suicide hotline so I could talk to someone. I thought about calling my best friend and even considered calling my therapist but I just couldn’t because I feel like I am such a burden to others. I am sick of hearing myself tell the same people how I feel and getting the same response. My pain runs so deep and dark that I don’t think it is fair to tell anyone how I really feel, so i decided to tell someone who didn’t know me; and that’s when I contacted the suicide hotline.

It felt good to get my issues and my pain off my chest. I could be honest about how I took too much medication and how I was considering taking the rest of the bottle. You see, people that want to commit suicide don’t want to do it to hurt themselves; they want to do it to get rid of the immense internal pain.

And let’s clear up some clich’es that I am sure you are thinking of already. Yes. I have an excellent family. Yes. I love my husband and love my children but in my twisted mind, I feel like they would be better off with someone healthier than me. Someone more patient. Someone happier. Someone smarter. Someone more beautiful. Someone skinner. Someone better.

I know what you are going to say, that I am perfect the way I am and I thank you for thinking that and for loving me for me but I don’t love me and that is my issue. A huge issue that I have been working on in therapy for close to three years.

So I contacted the suicide hotline and I thought it was anonymous but it’s not. Thirty minutes later, the police were knocking on my door. And as embarrassing as this encounter was, it was one that kept me from doing any more harm to my body or pushing myself just a little too much from not waking up. It saved me from me.

I was given two choices, to leave with the police voluntarily or involuntarily. I had to really balance my mind in that moment to realize that I didn’t really have a choice and I was going either way. I was taken down to the police car, patted down and took a taxi ride to the hospital.

Once there, they cut my drawstrings because I refused to wear their clothes and they gave me fuzzy socks. After check-in, I went to bed in nothing but a recliner.

The people at the hospital were friendly and even though I was scared to death, I still felt a sense of comfort surrounded by a large heaping pile of embarrassment and shame. I was hoping that I could connect with someone and someone would connect with me. Like having similar war stories, similar pain, similar feelings; a sign that I wasn’t alone.

The next day I ate a granola bar for breakfast and had a cup of coffee while gathered around the TV with other patients. I watched three movies that day. Three. There wasn’t a group or anyone to talk to; I met with the psychiatrist for ten minutes before I was discharged. I knew all the answers to get out of the hospital. I just wanted to go home.

The reason I am writing this is because:

1) I am grateful to the people that called the police from the suicide hotline, even if I did feel betrayed.

2) Mental health help, guidance and perception needs to change in America and people like me should get real help when we hit rock bottom.

3) Even though my mind is in dark places, my husband, kids, friends and my therapist, I will be forever grateful because they are the ones that make me feel like I can make it one more day, one more minute and one more second when all i want to do is slip away.

Until next time,

Allison

If you are suffering from suicidal thoughts, call the national suicide hotline at 1 800-273-8255 or text 741741.

A Dead End on Memory Lane

I can’t believe that it has been almost a year since we got the first verdict- they were taking away your license. I couldn’t believe it. I felt so bad then.

Here we are, almost a year later, and your appeal still resulted in revoking your license but now it is permanent. You can’t hurt me anymore or anyone else.

It’s funny because I read the new appeal documents and my memories came flooding back like an express train to D.C. Zipping, twisting and turning and never stopping until it reaches it’s final destination; the final destination floods my memories.

I still think about you. Every. Single. Day. Wondering if you are ok and thinking about the fun times we had but it was just the wrong time and the wrong circumstances and to be honest, I don’t know why I do that. It’s weird how the mind works.

I wonder if we would have ever been friends if you weren’t my therapist. Would I have met you in a coffee house or through friends or would we have just passed each other like so many other strangers on the street?

We should stroll down memory lane and remember those times. Everyone: raise your glass to these dual times I had with my therapist/friend…

Remember that time that you said that you wished I wasn’t married so we could hang out more? Oh man… I felt special.

Remember that time that you said I was a much better person when I was drunk? Haha… and people with Borderline Personality Disorder have a hard time with alcohol… that makes it especially humorous. Cool. Thanks.

Do you remember when you asked me if I did night time photography? And then remember that you asked me to follow around your ex-boyfriends wife to see if she was cheating on him? Man, I only wish I had that type of equipment.

Remember the time you asked to borrow $300 from me… yup, still your client but I didn’t mind because I trusted you.

Remember that time you said you were going to send me to the ‘crazy house,’ if I didn’t lie to the investigator for you? Do they have a bus that takes me there or should I grab an uber?

Oh, this was a good one! Remember when you told me that you were going to tell my boss that I was a ticking time bomb to get the other letter from me to retract what the state found out about us? <tick, tick, tick.>

Oh my… do you remember the time that we did sensory therapy on the beach and I was in a really bad place and you asked me to go to the bar with you but I said no? And then you made me go anyway and we got drunk and I didn’t get home till like 4am? Man, I am surprised my husband didn’t divorce me.

Remember the time you berated me for being suicidal and then never documented it in your notes? I wish someone listened to me then.

Oh. One of my favorites! Remember the time I contacted you to tell you that I was having panic attacks and didn’t want to go to school because I was afraid of the shooter drill and afraid of being shot and then you never wrote me back because you wanted to ‘teach me a lesson?’ Oh come on! You remember… you wanted to teach me a lesson on my fear of abandonment and have me realize that you would always be there for me? I am glad you were there a week later. Cool.

Remember when you left me at the restaurant because you said I had boundary issues? And then when I begged you not to leave but you got up and left me there to sit by myself? Funny right? Because someone with Borderline Personality Disorder has a fear of abandonment but there you left me which makes it extra hilarious.

And then remember when I thought it was the worst day of my life? Oh yea, you texted me to find another therapist? Oh God. I thought that that was going to be the worst day ever but it turned out the be the best part of my life because I found a new therapist; one that cares about me.

You see, I am still hurting and you are too. I am not stupid because I know you are. I know my blog is dripping with sarcasm but I am sincere with some parts. I do think about you every single day. You were a big part of my life. Sometimes a terrible part but a part that I have learned from.

I thought I had moved on but I guess I am still angry. I am a lot more healthier than I used to be and anger is just an emotion that gives us information. I guess my anger is telling me that I still think about you and I wish I didn’t because it still hurts. I wish I was the person I am now back then. I wish I was different, stronger and healthier.

I wish. I wish things were different.

Until next time,

I wish this nightmare was over for the both of us.

 

 

 

Dust Me Off and Hold Me Up.

So many of you know that I am in therapy. I go three times a week… it’s basically like I live there.

Once a week, I go to group therapy with five other amazing women. We are all different ages and come from different walks of life but there is one thing we all have in common- we are all a hot mess.

Honestly, I should adjust that phrase, we were all a hot mess. Our group of women have been together for well over a year and we have all made great strides together. We all have our moments but we pick each other up and support one another like a well fitted bra.

We have seen each other cry and rage but we have also seen each other take those important steps to become healthy. We have shared in each other’s joys and triumphs. Those joy and triumphs used to be few and far between but now, we are all within grasp of being healthy, normal women. Honestly, it’s the rest of you reading this that need to get their shit together. Our shit is so together that you would be amazed about where we once were.

So who do we thank for this? Well, first we thank each other, our two amazing and dedicated therapists and finally, we are learning to thank and love ourselves.

At the beginning of each session, we have a mindfulness activity to ground ourselves and to become aware of our own body sensations and our own thought process. On Wednesday, one of the women lead the mindfulness and this is what happened:

Mindfulness leader/client 1 holds up a ball and says, ‘we are going to pass this around the circle and say one descriptive word about this ball but we are not allowed to repeat any of the other words used by people before us.’

Client 2: ‘ok, whoa, this is heavy.’

Client 3: ‘yeah, this is solid.’

Client 4… aka: me: ‘umm, it has patterns.’

Therapist 1: ‘it’s a ball.’

Therapist 2: ‘it’s weighted.’

Client 5: ‘it’s round.’

Client 6: ‘it’s yellow and black.’

…back to the mindfulness leader/client 1: ‘this ball is ten pounds. Ten. You all described this ball as being heavy and weighted and that is all true. And it is also the exact amount of weight that Allison lost in these last two weeks.’

I was so dumbfounded because I wasn’t expecting to bring that up in our group. Not because I wasn’t proud but because I don’t like to be the center of attention. However, when client 1 brought this up to the group it was hard to take in because 1: I was flabbergasted and caught off guard and 2: I don’t celebrate my successes enough.

So think about this for a moment. When have we, especially as women, when have we celebrated our successes? When have we been proud of our accomplishments? When have we been proud of our hard work? I will tell you what… We aren’t. We don’t give ourselves enough credit or enough self love.

It takes true friends to show you off. It takes a true friend to celebrate your accomplishments even when you don’t feel like there is much to celebrate. It takes a true friend to show you the way and to help you take in what is good and decent about you. I am very thankful for client 1. I am thankful that she is a true friend that is going to pick me up, dust me off and show me off. I am thankful that she was so thoughtful and creative in this mindfulness exercise. It’s fantastic to surround yourself with people like client 1 and the rest of those wonderful women I surround myself with every week. 

So now it’s time. It’s wonderful to have those people in your life but it’s time to also be that friend to yourself.

Women, it is time to love yourself as much as we love others.

Until next time,

Dropping ten pounds like a boss and showing off one less fat roll.

This blog is dedicated to all the fabulous woman I surround myself with every Wednesday. Thank you J, D, S, and L. And R, thank you for picking me up, dusting me off and celebrating my small victory.

And to our two wonderful therapists, Colleen and Jess… Our lives wouldn’t be what they are right now without your love, guidance, patience and hard work. We know that we were hot messes when we started and you have helped us in ways we didn’t know were possible. We don’t owe you a drink, we owe you the whole damn liquor store for your hard work and dedication. Thank you for teaching us how to deal with life and how to deal with life’s idiots.

With love, client #4