Celebrating Life – The Anniversary of My Decision to LIVE

Tomorrow is an important anniversary for me. I will celebrate one year of learning to love life again.

Sometimes depression creeps in unnoticed. We keep on doing the things we need to do, but we stop caring about the things that used to matter to us. We may continue to care about others, but we stop caring about ourselves. For me, it was like that. I can’t point to an event that triggered it. I don’t know why things changed. I just know that in the days and weeks leading up to March 9, 2014, I was in a dangerous place. I didn’t think anybody really cared.

You see, at over 300 pounds I was having a lot of health issues. Daily life was difficult. Losing half of my body weight seemed like an impossible task to contemplate. I was having “heart palpitations” and began to feel as if I was about to lose consciousness on more than one occasion. I came to believe that I was dying. Rather than seek medical help, I decided to let nature take its course. I wasn’t about to take steps to actively end my life, but I didn’t want to make the effort to save it. I guess you’d call it passive suicide. My overeating and inactivity were robbing me of life in a very real way, and I didn’t care enough to stop it.

I wish I could tell you what, exactly, flipped the switch in my head. On March 9, 2014, I made up my mind to call my doctor and ask him to prescribe an antidepressant medication. It was a Sunday. The office was closed, but I made up my mind.

I called first thing on Monday morning. My doctor was out of the office for the week, but I had a prescription bottle and an appointment for the next week before noon that day. Opening the bottle and putting the first pill in my mouth, I felt both a sense of failure for not being strong enough and a sense of relief that maybe, just maybe I could feel better.

I have a group of online friends who I have “talked” with in various places for 7-8 years. They are my invisible (not imaginary) friends. I have plants they sent to my dad’s funeral to prove they exist. I confessed to them my feelings of failure over needing medicine.

I confided in them about the tremendous loneliness and the feelings of isolation I was experiencing. One of them suggested I try running. I chuckled at the thought. I tried going to the gym the next day. I had a panic attack. I couldn’t do it. I was afraid of judgment. I made my husband turn around and take me home.

A fellow attorney practicing in another part of the state (not one of the previously mentioned group of invisible friends) who I have never met in real life sent me a message suggesting we virtually work out / run together and sign up for a race.

The “Arthur” video began showing up in my facebook feed over and over. I’d watched it dozens of times before. I’d even purchased the DDP Yoga videos in 2012, shed quite a few pounds, and did a great job of learning to get off the floor (a skill I’d retained) before eventually giving up and going back to my old ways and regaining nearly every pound I had lost.

I watched the video again. This time, when Arthur began running, the tears streamed down my face.

I’ve learned in my life that when I start getting the same message over and over from different sources, God is trying to tell me something. I listened. I decided that if I wanted to live badly enough to put medicine in my body, then I wanted to live badly enough to take back my life. If Arthur could learn to walk again, and learn to run, then so could I.

Those of you who have followed me the past year know how the rest of the story goes. I started walking, and then I began running slowly on the treadmill. I got over the fear of the gym and added weights to my workout. I hit the yoga mat and did some DDPYoga. I swam laps. I posted on Facebook (a lot).

Soon the weather warmed and the outdoors called. I ran on the high school track. I ran through town. I ran on trails. I ran on the beach. Although I sometimes took Jimi the Wonder Dood with me, usually this was time to myself. I started seeing the wonder in nature- in leaves and waves and birds. I talked to God. He talked back in rustling leaves and wind on my face. He talked to me through “cheers” when friends “liked” my runs on Facebook.

It wasn’t quick or easy. I still had days when sadness pressed on my heart and made it difficult to do anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary. Slowly, though, I returned to the land of the living. I stopped just going through the motions. I devoted more time to getting my soul back in order through prayer, meditation and lots and lots of sweat.

The popular adage says that when life hands you lemons, make lemonade. I’m making lemonade and trying to give it away. One year ago I really didn’t care if I lived or died. One year ago, I thought that nobody cared. One year ago I couldn’t have dreamed how wonderful life is today.

I still take those pills. I take another for my thyroid and one for my blood pressure. It’s part of my daily routine. The pills didn’t fix me. I had to do that myself with a lot of help from God and my friends and family. I still run. I still get sad once in a while. It’s no longer overwhelming.

I’m a little frightened to post this, but I feel it is necessary. It’s scary to admit that you struggle with depression. I worry that it could hurt me professionally. I fear that people will think less of me if they know that I have problems just like anyone else. I believe that we need to move beyond the stigma that mental health issues hold. I believe that if people in pain knew how many people suffer with them, people would be more inclined to seek help before it becomes easier to think about dying than to think about living.

Writing this blog post is me making lemonade. It’s not the “koolaid,” if it’s not your thing – move on.

I don’t believe that God tests us like Job in the Old Testament, but I do think that he gives us opportunities to understand and help others when we face trials. I think that he gives us the grace to move through our challenges if we ask. I think that when we are taught lessons paid for with blood, sweat and tears, it is only right to share the lessons that we have learned.

Please don’t give up. Don’t passively wait for your vices and problems to kill you. If you are depressed, there is hope. Medicine is not shameful. Therapy is not shameful.

Don’t be afraid to ask for help. Don’t be afraid of failure. Don’t be afraid of judgment. Never, ever give up.

Today, I celebrate the life I have been given. I am excited to see what the next 365 days holds. I am a work in progress. Next year you will see another brand new me. I can’t wait.

To those of you who have “liked,” “commented,” or “shared” my writing in the past, thank you for encouraging me. To those of you who are new to this page, welcome. Thank you for giving me an opportunity to share with you.

Today, I am celebrating life. Welcome to the party.

~Be~

The Bus of Shame (or, The Saddest Ride at Walt Disney World!)

Posted by BecomingBetty

Last Sunday, I had the great pleasure of participating in RunDisney’s Princess Half Marathon at Walt Disney World Resort. I lined up at 4:30 a.m. in a parking lot at Epcot Center with about 15,000 of my fellow runners for the happiest half marathon on the plant.

On the long walk to Corral “N,” we passed a large truck with the label “mass casualty response unit.” This was more than a little disconcerting. Still, although the air was chilly and I hadn’t had my coffee, I lined up and excitedly waited for the first group to be released at 5:30 a.m. As you may have gathered, it takes some time to release nearly 15,000 runners on a course. Consequently, I was still waiting to begin my run for another hour. I spent that time reflecting on the journey that had brought me to where I was.

I thought back to the day in March 2014 when I took my first steps in several years on the treadmill. I was elated when I finished my first mile. Soon I traveled to a running store and purchased “real” running shoes and downloaded an handful of running apps. Although I often felt slower than a herd of turtles stampeding through peanut butter, I kept going.

A few months later my lovely “bonus daughter” (also a runner), told me she was planning to run the Princess Half Marathon. Although I knew it was a lofty goal for me, I registered and began training. Over the course of 2014 and early 2015, I logged over 400 miles. Sometimes life got in the way, and between unexpected life events and illnesses, I missed out on several significant blocks of training. As the race date approached, I knew that I could go the distance, but my times were still slow, and I knew it was questionable whether I would be able to maintain the required minimum pace, although I was doing well on my training runs on the nice flat, climate-controlled indoor track.

I obsessively checked my training times, read blogs about the wicked “balloon ladies,” (the pace group for the 16 minute/mile). I crafted my tutu, packed my bags and felt moderately confident that I wouldn’t be “swept” and have to ride the “bus of shame” back to the finish line instead of running through the happiest finish line on earth.

By the time my corral was called, I was cold and my feet hurt from standing in one place. My timing app wasn’t working right, my glasses were fogged and smeared so I couldn’t read the screen anyhow, my earbuds were malfunctioning, and I had absolutely no clue what my pace was. I just knew it felt slow.

I had a blast running among other “princesses” (and a few princes) wearing tutus (the princes, too!). I pumped my fist as I ran by the speakers playing the theme from Rocky. I sang along to “Don’t Stop Believing” and I smiled my way into the Magic Kingdom. As I passed through the park, I remembered the long, long lines at the porta potties I’d passed, and I popped into a “real” bathroom. Still blissfully unaware of my pace, I readjusted my tutu, washed and dried my hands and popped open a packet of caffeinated jelly beans.

As I joined the pack of princesses, I heard the news – the balloon ladies had passed by. My trip to the bathroom had cost me precious minutes, and now I had to try to fight my way through the pack of princesses to catch up. I flew through Cinderella’s castle and as I exited the park again, I spotted the balloons waaaaay up ahead of me.

I tried my hardest to pick up the pace. The news filtered through the pack that we had until Mile 8 to catch up, or we would be swept – transported to the finish. I tried hard to weave through the other back of the pack princesses. I could see the balloons getting closer. We passed by several security people and I overheard one tell the other, “the race is over for these ones, whether they like it or not.” I passed by a woman sobbing loudly. I asked if she was okay, and she answered through tears that she was okay, just devastated that she wasn’t finishing.

I pushed harder even though I knew I was wearing myself out with 5 miles left to go. I could see Milepost 8, and I could see the balloons. As the balloons passed the mile marker, two large buses pulled across the road. Medics were there to help those who needed assistance, and we were asked to board the bus.

The driver told us each, “great job.” The ride back to Epcot seemed to take a very long time. There wasn’t a smile to be seen. We had been swept. We were on the vehicle that had been dubbed “The Bus of Shame” by numerous bloggers. My heart sunk. My Facebook was broadcasting my splits to my friends. I really thought I could do it. I had failed to reach my goal. I was sad.

As we exited the vehicle, some of the wonderful volunteers staffing the event met us with high fives and medals. Although we had not finished the 13.1 miles, they draped a shining medal around each of our necks. They showed us where to get our bananas, our drinks and our snack boxes.

I wandered over to the “real” finish line for a few minutes and watched the crowd cheer for those who were finishing. My heart sunk into my shoes, and I moped my way back to the bus that would return me to my hotel for a much needed shower.

I called my husband, and told him I’d only made it 8 miles. I posted on Facebook that I’d only made it 8 miles. I waited for my bonus daughter (who finished! Yay for her!!!) Then, I took a nap.

Naps fix almost everything – especially attitudes.

My high school friend, Lyle, posted one of my statuses from early 2014 on my wall – one where I was overjoyed that I was able to run for a handful of minutes without stopping. It was at that moment that I realized there was absolutely no shame in having been swept after 8 miles.

I thought back to my first 10K race in September. I finished dead last, but I was thrilled to have finished. That race was only 6.2 miles. My Disney run was 2 miles longer (more if you count the long hike to the corrals before it even began!)

Since I started running in March 2014, I’ve completed four 5K races and a 10K. Yesterday I finished my 500th mile. I’ve run on trails and tracks and through parking lots. I’ve had scores of wonderful experiences and only a handful of negatives. Best of all, I’ve lost over 70 pounds, I’ve regained the ability to physically do many things that I couldn’t dream of for a number of years, and I’ve made new friends and reconnected with old ones.

Although that bus ride was still the saddest ride at Walt Disney World, there is no “Bus of Shame.” Every back of the pack princess on that bus was someone who set a lofty goal and spent many hours training getting to mile 8. While I apologize to the runners who had to fight their way through the pack in order to pass me, I’m so glad that I tried. I’ll be back next year, and I may even wear a tiara.

They Call it the Present Because it’s a Gift

Posted by BecomingBetty

There is no time like the present. I really mean that. Right now is the time to start doing whatever it is that you know that you need to do but have been avoiding. You may think it’s too big. You may think you’re not ready. Whatever idea it is that you have in your head that’s holding you back, get RID of it.

I’ve spent pretty much my entire adult life being overweight, obese, or morbidly obese. I’ve used every excuse out there. I can justify anything. I’m the master procrastinator. I’d go see my doctor and he’d bug me about my weight. My line was always, “One thing at a time. I’ll deal with (fill in the blank), and then I’ll work on the weight.”

I dealt with the broken leg, the thyroid, the illness and death of several people close to me, undergrad, law school, setting up a law practice, and countless crises that come with the territory of being a wife, mother and human being. When I had bloodwork, my numbers were good. Although I was borderline hypertensive, my A1C and lipids were good. I prided myself on being “healthy fat.” I had a love affair with Ballreich’s potato chips and anything sweet or salty.

Just about a year ago I was sitting at my office conference table with three friends who were in my Rotary Club. We were discussing what needed to happen and how to get things rolling. As one of my colleagues was talking, I realized that the room was fading. I broke into a cold sweat. My heart was doing weird jumpy things, and I couldn’t concentrate. I considered asking one of my friends to call my husband to take me to the hospital. I was feeling that strange. However, I said nothing. I concluded the meeting, went upstairs to my office and collapsed into my chair. I was chilled and clammy. I wondered if I was sick or dying, and at the moment, I wasn’t sure if I cared. Life wasn’t much fun. I had a hard time moving on the best of days. I was tired of watching the people who I cared about get sick and die.

Whatever happened was happening to me passed. I went about my business and finished up the day. I didn’t pass out, die, or get sicker. I also didn’t say anything to anyone about what had happened. In retrospect, it was probably an anxiety attack, but in that moment it felt like death was knocking at the door.

I got up the next morning and realized that something had to change. I had put off going to the doctor because I didn’t want to have the conversation about my weight. I hadn’t been on a scale in months. I don’t know exactly how heavy I was, but it was a big scary number, and it was only one of my problems.

I posted in a Facebook group full of ladies I met on another internet site that I was having some troubles in my life that had me feeling very discouraged. One of those ladies suggested I look for a group called Moms Run This Town. She said that not only would I feel better getting some running in, but the other ladies would be great listeners as I worked through my issues. I thanked her, and laughed silently at the thought of me running anywhere.

Over the course of the next week or two, more people suggested I try running. One offered to train with me for a 5K race. Although we lived miles apart, and the training together would be virtual, I agreed to give it a try. That night I put on my walking shoes and dusted off the treadmill. I walked a mile. It took a good, long time, but it felt good.

I remembered a line from The Shawshank Redemption. Red said, “get busy living, or get busy dying.” I decided to get busy living. I’d been just simply going through the motions for far too long.

When I first started exercising, it felt like I would never be able to “run” a mile without stopping. In those first weeks, I spent lots of time holding on to the side rails of the treadmill and supporting a good part of my weight with my arms. Still, I faithfully got on that treadmill night after night.

Time passed, and I got up the courage to go to a running store for a pair of real running shoes. They didn’t laugh at me. I didn’t get sarcastic comments or rude remarks. I left the store with a box with a pair of shoes that cost a good chunk of change and I vowed not to let them gather dust in the closet. I vowed that if God would just let me live long enough to undo some of the damage I had done to my body, I would enjoy life again.

As I progressed, I left the safety of the house for the high school track and then trails at local parks. I began participating in 5K and 10K races. I marvelled as a doe and fawn watched me run. I came alive listening to the sounds of nature. I began looking for new places to run. I visited parks and neighborhoods in my town that I had never been to in the 15 years that I have lived here.

I’ve listened to music of every genre, waved at hundreds of strangers, learned to enjoy a good sweaty run, and I’ve enjoyed (nearly) every moment of it. I’ve learned that chocolate tastes better if you have to run a mile to earn a piece, and that potato chips are still my kryptonite.

Since that day in March 2014, I have run over 450 miles. Today, I ran a half marathon on the indoor track at my gym. In two weeks, I will repeat that feat at Walt Disney World dressed as Ursula from The Little Mermaid. I can hardly wait. I’m still 100 pounds overweight, but I can run a half marathon.

I’ve done a lot of reviewing the past year. What does it have to do with the present? I’m still here. I’m healthier than I’ve been in years. I’m happier than I’ve been in years. My life is still not perfect, but life is sweeter because I received a wakeup call. Only when I thought that I might possibly be dying did I realize how sweet life really is. I don’t take my life for granted any longer. I want to live long enough to dance at the grandchildren’s weddings. I want to jump out of a perfectly good airplane on my 65th birthday. None of those experiences are promised. Life is sweet and it can be cut short in a moment. When you “get busy living,” every moment, even the sad ones, is a gift.

I don’t know what you’re struggling with. I don’t know what battle you are waging and which side is winning. I do know that whatever you want to happen, there is no better time than right now to start doing something about it. If you want to lose weight, get up and walk right now. Don’t wait until Monday to start your exercise program. If you want to write a book, grab your pen and write an outline. If you want to learn to play Rhapsody in Blue, get up and play the first page as slow as you have to play it to get all of the fingers in the right place.

If you want to run a half marathon, put one on the calendar. Pay the registration. Recruit a partner.

There is no time like the present. Tomorrow is not promised. You will never regret starting right now. A year from now you’ll wonder why you waited so long. I promise.

Don’t Be Ashamed of Your Story

Posted by BecomingBetty

I didn’t come up with this title on my own. It hit me smack between my eyes first thing this morning as I reviewed my Facebook feed. I thank Kara Louisell for sharing it. Check out her FB page for lots of inspiration. https://www.facebook.com/karalouisell?fref=photo

I shared this image on my own Facebook feed this morning. I’ve made a lot of changes in my life in the past 10 months or so. As a result, I’ve shed a bunch of weight. I’ve run over 350 miles. I’ve learned new ways to deal with sadness. I’ve begun reaching out to others, learning to delegate, and being kinder to myself. I’ve chronicled those changes and shared them here and on my Facebook page along the way.

I’m not normally an attention-seeker. I’m a little bit uncomfortable being in the public eye. I like to work behind he scenes. I’m the person who doesn’t generally strike up a conversation, but I enjoy it immensely once given the opportunity to engage. I’m naturally quick to discount a compliment and I still don’t like the way I look. I’m my own worst critic.

I’ve become one of those annoying people who “checks in” at the gym on Facebook. My nike+ app tells my friends when I start a run and how far I go. I’ve posted pictures *eek* spandex, covered in sweat, painted up, covered in colored powder, and generally having fun while being less than necessarily “proper.”

A long-time friend posted something recently about people who stay the course without need for praise from others as opposed to people who do things half-way and seek applause. I pray that I’m not the person that friend had in mind. I share these changes because many have shared privately that I am inspiring them to change, too.

I am very uncomfortable being anyone’s inspiration. I know how fallible I am. I know how often I stray from my health diet and eat potato chips. I am very aware when I skip a workout to go shopping or watch TV. I’m imperfect. I’m still overweight. I mess up. I don’t FEEL very inspirational.

Perhaps that imperfection – the humanity – is what inspires? I have lost 75 pounds through sheer determination despite going through down spells, having injuries, and just feeling grumpy some days. I’m not a fitness model. I haven’t reached my goal weight. I finish last at most races that I run. My flaws are myriad – but my sincerity is real.

When people started telling me that I INSPIRE them, I wanted to tell them not to be absurd. But, just as I learned to accept a compliment graciously, I’m learning to accept that I have no right to tell another person what (or who) is “good enough” to inspire her.

My story is complicated and colorful. I’ve been through a lot of challenges, and despite it all I’ve managed to carry on. I’ve made decisions that I’m not proud of, but I am proud of where those decisions have brought me. Perhaps that’s why I have been given the gift of being able to inspire others.

I’ve made a decision not to be ashamed of my story. It’s mine to tell – all mine. It’s different from your story. Perhaps it will inspire you to change. Perhaps it will inspire you to block me on Facebook. I just write what I know.

It isn’t all about you

Posted by BecomingBetty

It’s sometimes difficult to look at the big picture. I’ve often been guilty of seeing only how something affects me and not how the same circumstance affects those around me. It’s human nature. I don’t wear the other person’s shoes, so it’s not always easy to know how they feel. At the same time, not knowing what is plaguing others, it’s easy to misinterpret bad moods, scowls and just plain lack of friendliness as a personal assault when it’s quite possible that the person is actually distracted or consumed by events that have absolutely nothing to do with me.

Nearly two decades ago a very wise woman listened to my complaint of the day and said, “Betty, it’s not all about you.” I was taken aback. I felt attacked. I was pouring out my heart to someone who was there to listen, and she had the NERVE to tell me that my pain wasn’t about me. Seconds later, she said, again, “It’s not all about you... and you can be so glad it isn’t.”

I learned all about “Jesus Christ Syndrome” from that wise woman. She told me that I “take on the sins of the world.” I really do tend to blame myself for a lot of things. I say “I’m sorry” a lot. My friend once challenged me to go an entire week without apologizing to anyone for anything (I didn’t make it).

This morning I had a reminder that “it’s not all about me.”

My husband and I go to the gym together. I had a rough start last year. Actually, I had a (couple of) false start(s) last year. I was extremely obese, self conscious, and absolutely sure that everyone would be starting at me at the gym. I invented errands to do on the way to the gym and the errands gave me opportunities to become very upset with my poor husband about something dumb and as a result, I had an excuse to demand that he take me back home without setting foot in the gym.

After two of those incident, I finally made it past the front desk. The staff were smiling and the other members were not staring at me. I had a good time and it soon became a habit. I’ve been going regularly now for about 6 months, and until recently I’ve never had a negative experience. Recently, though, things changed.

There is a male staff member at the gym whose actions today reminded me that it isn’t all about me. I smile a lot and I say good morning to just about everyone. It’s just how I am. This guy never smiles back. Sometimes, when I am walking my warm-up laps around the track, he stands in the middle of the track to watch Fox news. He never smiles. He rarely makes eye contact. He exudes contempt.

I was really very happy this morning. Think about Tigger from Winnie the Pooh, and you’ll get a good idea of how bouncy I was feeling. I was jamming out to Time Warp, Funky Town, and other favorite tunes as I walked around the track when I came upon Mr. Muscles directly in my path. I gave him a big smile and said, “good morning!” He looked right at me, locked eyes for an uncomfortable second or two and said NOTHING.

I checked my clothing for stains. I sniffed to see if I smelled funny. I ran my fingers through my hair, made sure that I was walking the correct direction around the track, checked my shoes for dog poop and concluded that I was okay, but that he either has a problem with women in general or just with fat women. Whatever caused him to stare me down was obviously my fault. I wondered what I did wrong. I finished the workout avoiding all possibility of making eye contact with him. I lost the bounce in my step, and felt my Tigger mood transition to Eeyore.

I finished my workout and dashed down the steps, collected my belongings from the locker room and got in the car. Once we were in the safety of our car, I turned to my husband and asked him if he had noticed the tall blonde staff member wearing the Lifeguard shirt. He said he knew who I was talking to. I told him that I thought I must have irritated him because he wouldn’t even say “Good Morning.” He chuckled and said, “it’s not about you – it’s him.” Darling Hubby, too, had tried to engage Mr. Muscles. He didn’t get as far as I did because Mr. Muscles wouldn’t even make eye contact.

Darling Hubby said, “It’s obvious that guy doesn’t like his job. He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t like the members. He doesn’t like the work. He probably won’t be here long.”

I don’t know if Darling Hubby is right on all accounts or not. Mr. Muscles may work at the gym for a long time, but I do think he’s likely correct in stating that Mr. Muscles isn’t a happy guy. It’s not all about me, and I’m so glad it isn’t!

Today was a good reminder that it’s not all about me. Just as nobody else is responsible for my happiness, I’m not likely to single-handedly ruin someone else’s day very often – especially not a stranger.

One key to my happiness is to live my life trying to do the right thing. The words below have often been attributed to Mother Teresa. I don’t know if she actually said them, but I love them.

People are often unreasonable, irrational, and self-centered. Forgive them anyway.

If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives. Be kind anyway.

If you are successful, you will win some unfaithful friends and some genuine enemies. Succeed anyway.

If you are honest and sincere people may deceive you. Be honest and sincere anyway.

What you spend years creating, others could destroy overnight. Create anyway.

If you find serenity and happiness, some may be jealous. Be happy anyway.

The good you do today, will often be forgotten. Do good anyway.

Give the best you have, and it will never be enough. Give your best anyway.

In the final analysis, it is between you and God. It was never between you and them anyway.

It’s not all about you, and aren’t you glad it isn’t?

Everybody has a story

Posted by BecomingBetty

I’ve never attended a twelve-step meeting, but I’m familiar with the one day at a time concept. I have often used it, or variations (one semester at a time, one month at a time…you get the idea) to deal with difficult or stressful events. I got through law school 16 weeks at a time. I told myself that I could do anything for 16 weeks, and having resolved to do so, I finished on schedule.

I started making some big changes in my life in March. There was no plan. I was afraid that I was going to die. I had a couple of scary medical events. I was hypertensive, morbidly obese, and full of excuses. With a thyroid disorder, a busted up leg, severe arthritis, COPD and likely close to type II diabetes, I was a mess and convinced that my sedentary lifestyle and obesity were beyond my control.

One day in February I was in a meeting in my conference room and the room began to get black around the edges while a ringing in my ears got louder and louder. I didn’t pass out. The event passed and I lived in far that it might repeat itself. Soon thereafter, I was walking through the grocery store with my husband when I broke into a cold sweat. I could feel my heart beating, and I couldn’t wait to get back home to crawl into bed and see if I lived until morning.

This pattern repeated itself a few times over the course of a few weeks. I did not seek medical attention because I was convinced that my physician would scold me about my weight. I had a gym membership that had been unused for at least 9 months. Several times I got dressed for the gym only to have a panic attack on the way there and scream at my husband until he drove me back home. I was convinced people would stare. I was convinced people would laugh. I was convinced that people would find me disgusting – and tell me so.

One day, I hit rock bottom. My health was scaring me. I was short-tempered, my family was bewildered, and I was depressed. I went to the doctor. He added a prescription for an anti-depressant to my list of meds and told me I needed to lose weight. I said I would (like I had each time I saw him over the many years before), and scheduled my follow up visit.

The next day, I decided it was time to “get busy living, or get busy dying.” I dusted off the treadmill (we won’t talk about the thickness of the dust layer) and took a step. I don’t remember how long it took me, but I walked a mile that first day. I went back the next day and tried jogging a little bit. I was thrilled when I was able to “sprint” 2.5 mph for 30 seconds. Day after day, I went back to the treadmill, and was amazed at the difference those 20, 30 or 40 minutes made in my attitude.

I began to share those little successes with my facebook friends. I found a iPhone app that tracked my runs. My feet starting hurting, and I asked my facebook friends to help me pick out a pair of running shoes. I received scores of comments and suggestions from runners and walkers who are scattered all over the country. Boosted by their well wishes, and filled with a sense that this time would be different, I entered a running store and plunked down $120 for my first pair of running shoes. On that day I posted a photo of my new kicks and decided “I am a runner.”

Having found the confidence to walk into a store for athletes without being met with scorn or laughter, I resolved to try the gym again. Armed with my new shoes, I made it through the door and through a circuit without anyone laughing, pointing, or (to my knowledge) posting a picture of my backside to their flickr account.

I have a hugely supportive circle of family and friends. They have “liked” and commented on my runs (which makes my phone cheer), they have put up with me posting photos of myself in spandex, shining with sweat and holding up a medal. I began posting for accountability’s sake, and along the way I have received many messages telling me to keep posting because I have inspired my friends to make changes in their own lives.

As I share my story, those friends keep telling me to write a book. I love the idea, but didn’t know where to begin. I finally know where the book is coming from. I am a survivor. I am a fighter. I am a listener. I am changing my life one day at a time, one step at a time, and one mile at a time.

My name is Betty. This is my story. It’s still being played out. I want to help you become the person you were meant to be. I can’t tell you how to do it, but I can tell you how I’m going about it, and perhaps you will find inspiration to do the same.

Every story has to have a beginning. You may see parts of mine in flashback, but for now, we’ll start here: “Once upon a time there was an unhappy woman who was scared of life. She was sick, and tired, and didn’t know where to turn. This is the story of how she took her life back.”

Simple Gifts

Posted by BecomingBetty

Years ago I read a book called “The Five Love Languages” by Dr. Gary Chapman. Through Dr. Chapman’s book, I learned several valuable lessons about myself and about my relationships, both past and present. I learned that my primary love language is gifts. I love to give gifts. It is one of the primary ways that I show others that I love them. I love to receive gifts, too. When someone takes the time to find and give me something that they feel I would enjoy, it makes me feel quite cared for.

My husband is not naturally a “gifts” person. He is an “acts of service person,” meaning he expresses his love by doing for others. (He makes me coffee every morning and does all of my laundry for me). He feels loved when I make him dinner or do work that benefits his office.

We recently had a conversation about our love languages. Somehow, I had failed previously to convey that a gift need not be expensive or complicated to make me feel loved. I gave him the example of the french-milled “real” soaps that I love. While they may be expensive for “just soap,” in the grand scheme of gifts, they are a BARGAIN at $3.00 – $5.00. I had a new bar of soap in my hands moments later, and I have enjoyed it immensely.

A sales rep that I had not seen in many years learned from my secretary that I can’t eat gluten, so her usual gift of bagels was something that I could not consume. She took the time to ask my secretary what I enjoy. My secretary told her that I love tea, and gave her some examples of the types of tea that I enjoy. The sales rep came to our appointment with a beautiful gift bag full of some of my favorite teas. I felt cared for. It cemented my relationship with her company.

Speaking of secretaries…I have the best. Knowing my love for tea, she lovingly trots across the parking lot to the little coffee shop across the street on a regular basis to bring me back a hot cup of earl gray or English breakfast tea. Although I have a huge stash of tea here at the office, she brings me a cup that someone else prepared.

As our family has grown, a large part of our family Christmas has become the exchange of homemade gifts. I’ve enjoyed homemade cheesecake, homemade vanilla extract, gorgeous plates of cookies, gluten-free brownies, handcrafted wine, and lovingly crocheted doilies and afghans.

There is no greater way for me to relax than to sit in the “zen den” that my husband lovingly created just for me and wrap myself in the loving hug of an afghan crocheted by my mother while sipping a cup of tea brewed from a gift out of a teacup chosen just for me.

Thoughtful gifts are becoming a lost art as gift cards become a common place item. I’ve been guilty many times of dashing to the store at the last minute for a fistful of plastic cards. This year I’m going to remember to keep it simple and give thoughtful gifts that my loved ones can enjoy throughout the year.

While there’s nothing wrong with presenting an elaborate or expensive gift if your budget supports it, I love the simple gifts. Kids… you’re off the hook!

Serendipity – God’s appointments

Posted by BecomingBetty

I wanted to write this post yesterday, but I was having a “first world problem.” I am writing this on a brand new (to me) computer that my oldest son configured for me right before he left the house without giving me the password. He knows most of my “usual” passwords, and I thought I had tried them all. I texted him, and I called him, and after no answer, I gave up and I enjoyed my evening. This morning when he told me the actual password, I couldn’t believe I hadn’t tried it. It was so obvious (knowing me).

I dubbed yesterday “self-care Saturday.” The planned activities centered around taking care of myself. I planned time in my “zen den” drinking a pot of tea (check). I planned coffee time with my dear husband (check). I planned a workout at the gym (check), I planned a haircut (nope) and the big daddy… I planned a 5-mile run.

It was far too beautiful to run indoors on the treadmill. The high school stadium was in use all day and all evening, so that was out of the question. I decided to run through the beautiful neighborhoods in my quaint home town. Although I have lived here for 15 years, there is so much that I haven’t seen because I am a creature of habit.

I ran to my office where my husband was mowing the lawn and re-hydrated. I ran through all of the roads in the Lagoons, and ran along the beach where my shoes promptly filled with sand. I found a conveniently-located bench and removed my shoes to shake out the sand, sat to enjoy the view, and decided to run a neighborhood I had never explored. I didn’t mean to spend 1.5 miles there, but I did, and after another run across the sand (and another stop at another bench to shake out the sand and enjoy the waves), I headed back for my office for more water (and a bag of jelly belly sport beans) and headed toward home.

Knowing I was later than I was expected home already, I called my husband and let him know where I was and what route I was taking home. I’m not sure why I did that, because I usually like to plan my route on the fly depending on how I am feeling. On my way back, I briefly thought about taking Exchange Street instead of Douglas Street like I had planned. I kept running past Exchange, and as I turned South onto Decatur, a car pulled up to the stop sign, and the driver called out, “Excuse me, is your name Betty?”

I turned and answered “yes,” and proceeded to have a conversation with the driver, who knew me from this blog. She’s a darling woman who has touched so many lives herself, and I was blessed with the opportunity to meet her face to face because I explored a new neighborhood, added 1.5 miles to my route, and followed the route I told my husband I would follow home. Now that we have met, I hope to hear more of her story.

I was walking (jogging) on a cloud the next leg of the journey. As I passed by the high school, I was flagged down by another person (this one on foot). She said, “I have seen you all over town today, and I just have to meet you.” She was looking for the 6th grade football game (it turns out she was in the wrong place for it). We had a wonderful conversation for 5-10 minutes. She told me about some of the obstacles she has had to overcome and I shared some of my story. When we parted ways, I felt that I had made yet another new friend.

I reached home and my husband was hard at work cutting up a huge tree limb (actually bigger than many trees) that fell down a short while back. I decided to blog about my experience, but it was not to be, so I spent some more time in my “fortress of peace,” my “zen den,” and fell asleep with a smile on my face.

I awoke to the sound of a high school marching band (the Festival of Bands was starting just a block away), and went out to tell dear husband that he didn’t have to cut the whole tree up in one day. I persuaded him to join me in the hot tub to listen to the bands, and I told him about the wonderful day that I had, the chance meetings, the new friends, and the experience of serendipity that made it all so special. If I had to define serendipity, I would deem it “a happy coincidence.” When my life is moving in the right direction, though, it seems these happy coincidences happen with such frequency that they don’t seem coincidental at all. I often end up learning valuable lessons from the people I meet when serendipity takes over.

In order for these meetings to happen, I had to deviate from my planned 5 mile run and run 7 miles. I had to get sand in my shoes (twice) and take time to enjoy the beautiful beach (twice). I had to run the direction that I had told my husband I would run instead of turning a block earlier like I decided I wanted to.

As I concluded the paragraph above, I received a beautiful message on Facebook from the woman I met on Douglas Street. It seems that she would not normally have been there at that time, either. She, too, remarked on the serendipity of the moment. She shared that a friend of hers calls these moments “God’s appointments.” I think she is right. We were destined to meet, and I look forward to getting to know her. Had I known the password to this machine and blogged this yesterday when I intended to, I would have done so without the benefit of knowing how truly serendipitous my meeting was yesterday.

This blog started out as a way to “just write what [I] know” because I truly enjoy writing. The fact that even one other person has found it a blessing makes me truly grateful for the ability to write. I’m off, now, to a local festival where I hope I will have the opportunity to listen when I am led, and to keep more of God’s appointments. Serendipity is the word for today.

It’s a journey, not a destination

Posted by BecomingBetty

I’ve been neglecting this blog for a while. I’ve had a few “when life hands you lemons” moments, and seemed to have lost my recipe for lemonade at the time when I needed it most. Yesterday one of those moments happened, and I was reminded that although we have no control over many of the things that happen to us, how we react to them is 100% within our control. I’m sad to say that I didn’t react to some of those things the way that I wish I would have, but I learned a powerful lesson.

Whatever the goal, be it fitness, happiness, or health – it is a journey, not a destination. If you think that you can achieve any of those without continuing to work at it, you’ve lost the battle.

Those of you who know me in real life know that weight has been a lifelong struggle. I’ve gained and lost hundreds of pounds over the last 30 years. Each time, I looked at the weight loss as a project, thinking that once I reached my destination I would be free and happy and the problems that got me to an unhealthy weight would miraculously be cured and I wouldn’t have to struggle.

This past March, I reached a crisis point in my life. Some of the stressors were within my control, but many were not. My health was bad. My mood was depressed. My life seemed to be spinning madly out of control. I was not fit, healthy or happy. In desperation, I turned to diet and exercise because those were two things that I could control. By taking control of what I could control, I was able to better deal with the aspects of my life that were beyond my control. I had an outlet for that stress and negativity. This time, instead of dieting, I am focusing on remaking my life. I know that to be happy and healthy, I must fuel my body with healthy foods and get plenty of exercise. This isn’t a “fix,” it is a journey that will never end. If it ends, the trip is back to an unhappy, unhealthy place.

I have spent part of this journey sharing my story with others through Facebook and on this blog. Sharing keeps me accountable, but I hope that it also shows others that depression, obesity, arthritis, auto-immune disease and a host of other problems are not insurmountable. My journey began when someone else shared their journey and I was inspired to make a change.

On the days when I put in the work (eating clean, exercising, practicing thankfulness and being kind), I enjoy happiness. I enjoy the benefits of increased health and stamina. On the days when I slip back into my old habits and cure hurt feelings with potato chips and lash out at the person who I perceive hurt me, I wallow in pain. The emotional pain becomes physical pain as my body becomes inflamed and my joints hurt, which makes me put off exercise, and throws my whole system into a mess.

I cannot claim that happiness is merely a choice for everyone. Some people are suffering so much that telling them to “choose to be happy,” minimizes their pain. I do not want to do that. For me, though, happiness began with a choice, and it depends on me making the right choice every time I am confronted by something that makes me want to crawl back into the hole that I created for myself.

Fitness is a journey (one that I’m enjoying more and more as I progress). Happiness is a journey (one that is becoming easier day by day). Some days the journey seems solitary. Other days I am surrounded by people who inspire my every step. I am not content to just keep doing what I am doing. I want to be fitter, happier and healthier than I am today. I am doing this for myself, but if I can inspire others by sharing what I learn that is a bonus.

I am learning to reach out and reconnect with others. The journey does not have to be solitary (and it’s much more fun when there are companions!

We all need goals, but they are mere milestones on our journey. When we reach one, there must be another to look for or we will lose our way. The journey never ends. Thank you for joining me on this step of the way.

Take the [Lunch] Bucket Challenge!

Posted by BecomingBetty

I was thrilled recently to learn that the Vermilion, Ohio chapter of the Salvation Army will be launching a backpack program for students in January of 2015. For those of you unfamiliar with the concept, a backpack program supplies children from households that are food insecure (not enough money to ensure enough food is in the house) with a backpack that is filled with food items for the child to consume on the weekend when there are no school lunches and breakfasts.

Second Harvest Food Bank partners with several local charities that sponsor backpack programs in other nearby school systems. A donation to Second Harvest or to Vermilion Salvation Army for the backpack program is a great way to get this project started.

The Ice Bucket Challenge has gotten a lot of press lately. Thousands of people have taken the challenge to either donate to a charity that funds ALS research or to douse themselves with a bucket of ice water (or both!) Whether you think the idea is ingenious or lame, there’s no question that the challenge has raised millions for ALS charities and raised awareness of the illness and its challenges.

September is Hunger Action Month. I’ve turned my Facebook Profile orange for hunger awareness. Those of you who know me already are aware that fighting hunger is an issue that is important to me – especially as it relates to children who are hungry.

For the month of September, I’m starting the Lunch Bucket Challenge. I will not eat at restaurants / fast food for the month of September. Instead, I will eat lunch at home or pack it in my lunch container and donate the savings to a local hunger program at the end of the month. Each day I will photograph my lunch and ask others to join me in this challenge.

Wednesday September 3, 2014

Seasoned grilled chicken with strawberries, blueberries, mushrooms, sliced almonds and honeyed goat cheese on a bed of romaine lettuce with a blush raspberry vinaigrette dressing (prepared and consumed at home).

I will be posting details shortly about a second fundraising initiative for hunger. Please check back for details!