Sheesh. I have been planning a big, long, drawn out, teary version of where this story is going. Here’s the cliff notes: Its going where its going. I accept my daughter for who she is. Something I never had done unto me. She knows how I feel. I voice it CLEARLY, MANY, MANY TIMES OVER. She is going to do what she wants. I am not giving in, but I cannot control this, or her. That is the pain and joy of it. It is running its course without my hand written and notated syllabus. Period. She is a smart girl. She is a little #whitepeopleproblemsentitledteenager right now too, but she will have to live through this in order to become the amazing woman she intends on being.
I told her I had a dream she took her shirt off and she was bones.
She said, I wish I was bones.
I said, me too.
Fuck it. We all wish we were skinny. Period. Its bred into us as females. Its a terrible fate. She is an actress. She is at a good weight still, she has too many people around her who care, and she just needs to move on with life, get out of fucking high school and do her thing.
We (My son and I) went to see her at work. She is a performer at Casa Bonita…
google for your pleasure…made famous via South Park and also, living in Colorado, it is almost a childhood requirement that you have been here with anyone who visits Colorado or if you have had a child birthday party EVER…so we snuck in and we are watching her show, and my son was like ‘She loves this.’ Then I knew she was going to be okay.
She’s being dumb and bratty and sad and stubborn right now, and all I can do is say to her, ‘How do you want me to help you?’ That’s all I can do. She knows I know what she’s doing, that she has lost some weight, that I disagree that her dad and I ruined her life by sending her to treatment, that I don’t want to hear her whiny ass, but that I will walk through fire for her, that I think the therapy is stupid and slow but that she can’t give up. I wish she had some Kick Ass Cognitive Pirate Therapist and not some mealy mouthed quiet nerdy chick. This is life. I am fighting the fight from where I can. She’s not six. She’s not disabled in any way. She has depression and doesn’t want to take anything because she said it makes her feel NOTHING. She’s not incorrect there. We talk, we are open, we are honest, its all I can do.
We go to movies, go shopping, she wears a wig and jumps off of cliffs at work, the sun comes up, life goes on. It is weird having been this super important MOM for so many years, so much so, that I didn’t realize how much of ME was in the meaning and definition of MOM…that when it begins to dwindle, I don’t know who I am. Never anticipated this.
Today I ran in the park, did stairs, made whole wheat pasta spaghetti, drank water, came home and added my sixpence to my Albert Nobbs pile of money and went to bed. MyFitnessPal told me that if I keep doing this shit I will lose 17 pounds in five weeks. WTF does it know? I worked, I drove my squeaky car, I put some money in the bank and made some appointments for next week. I LIVE IN THE CITY. I AM LOVED. I HAVE DONE THIS.