A timely re-post of "Santa isn't coming this year!"

Happy holiday season, everyone.  As the stress of shopping and baking and decorating and running around threatens to take over our holiday cheer and interrupt our peace and joy, I thought this piece (which I originally shared on December 12, 2011) was a timely re-post.  And some necessary food for thought.  Enjoy!

"Santa isn't coming this year!" 

(12/12/11)

Last year at this time, life was very much the same as it is today: It was just before Christmas. Red and green decorations erupted all over stores and offices and front lawns while lyrics intended to make me smile and glow (i.e. "Born in a stable" and "I am a poor boy, too") generated tears of sorrow and angst rather than celebratory smiles and endless joy.  They always do.  I'm not sure why, exactly.

I should probably clarify right away that, overall, I am not anti-Christmas.  I even love the story of Ebenezer Scrooge, not because he is an angry, nasty little miser, but because he eventually sees the beauty of humanity that often comes alive at this time of year - and more importantly, he realizes his own capacity for growth and compassion in the process.  I love that, despite the anger and hatred that often seem to permeate our world on a daily basis, this time of year inspires people to give  -- and not just material gifts, but time, and service, and genuine human connection.

But last year at this time, something out of the ordinary did happen, and I have found myself thinking about it over the last week or so, amidst all the twinkling and sparking and jingling.  I was in Plattsburgh visiting my family a few days before Christmas, and while my parents were at work and my brother was busy, I sat at Panera enjoying a hot coffee, an internet connection (much faster than my parents' dial-up), and a two-hour block of time to write.  The restaurant was packed, but I had been fortunate enough to find a corner table by an electrical outlet - my own little pre-Christmas miracle.  And since I was trapped in a writer's nightmare - time to write and nothing to write about - I was happy to watch groups of people parade by with their packages and their soup/salad combos and their animated conversations.  Something would give birth to an idea if I just sat.  And sipped.  And observed.  Patiently.

At about 2pm, a frazzled mother walked by with two very young, very tired children.  While the little boy screamed and cried, the little girl pulled on her mother and threw herself into chairs and tables to relieve the indescribable stress of childhood. Suddenly, without a word, the children switched roles - the little boy began slapping himself and falling into walls and garbage cans while the little girl started screaming and pleading for toys and cookies and princess shoes.  And then there was mom - loaded down with bags and soup bowls and sippy cups and a very large, ergonomically destructive purse.  She threatened to topple as she lumbered past me, and she almost seemed to prefer lying face down on a Panera floor to dealing with her very normal-for-their-age-and-situation kids.

As a childless woman of 37, I sympathized with the mom on some level, even as I wondered what would possess anyone to trek around town on the Friday before Christmas with two little ones who should have eaten lunch (and probably taken a nap) hours ago.  But I get it - daycare isn't always an option.  And isn't this, at least theoretically, supposed to be part of the seasonal joy?  Shopping and lunching with one's children, surrounded by the splendid wonder of Christmas tidings and lightly falling snow?

I'll save you some time on this one: The answer is No.

But I didn't realize it before that moment. Not really.  Let me be clear here  - I am generally not a "grass is greener" kind of person - only because I have found that, from afar, weeds tend to be greener than grass. It isn't til you are up close and personal with the lovely shade of "greener" that you realize it's non-grass, often covered in fertilizer, or waiting to be plucked and discarded from someone's carefully manicured lawn.  That being said, I do have a habit of romanticizing parenthood.  I've often wondered whether I made a mistake by choosing not to have children.  And then, something like this plays out in front of me and reminds me of the reality: Children are wonderful, beautiful miracles - a good thing since they are exhausting, and expensive, and an unending litany of needs and demands and anxiety-provoking behaviors.  They are, after all, human beings.

Of course, none of this logic hit me at that moment.  I was too caught up in the scene unfolding, the mother's eyes beginning to water, the children exploding in a cacophony of wails, the eyerolls and speedy exits of the other diners whose "tsk tsk" nods further condemned the already defeated mother as she plopped first the boy, then the girl into red, plastic booster seats and shoved them as close to the table as possible.  I didn't think things could possibly get worse, until I watched the little girl pick up her mother's bowl of soup and turn it over on top of the table.

Time stopped.  Noodles and chicken hit the floor, landing in puddles of their own broth.  The green ceramic bowl sat, inverted, in front of the victorious little girl whose Grinch-like grin curled her mouth upward and forced her eyebrows into a sinister arch.  I couldn't move.  I didn't know whether to help or look away or leave.  And shamefully, I admit, I was most curious to see how mom intended to handle a maneuver that would have paralyzed me.

And that was when it happened.  Mom yanked her little girl's arm, looked directly into the child's face, and screamed through the tears leaping two at a time out of her eyes: "SANTA ISN'T COMING THIS YEAR!"

All I could do was join in the collective gasp as everyone in the restaurant (who hadn't already retreated to the quiet parking lot) recoiled and immediately slapped a "Worst Mother of the Year" label on this woman's soul.  How could a mother say such a thing?  How would these children ever enjoy Christmas now?  What about a simple "Time Out" or going to bed without dessert?  Or what about feeding these children lunch at a decent hour and navigating the crowds with two children in tow a little more strategically?

But as I sat in judgment, another thought arrived, replacing the all-too-familiar critical voice of a non-parent:  This woman, this tired, overwhelmed, vilified woman, was Santa.  And she didn't get to go away to a toy shop and hang out with elves and show up once a year to be adored and idolized.  She was Santa every day.  Unless she was busy playing the role of Tooth Fairy.  Or Easter Bunny.  Or Nurse/Taxi/Chef/Coach/Teacher/Housekeeper/All-knowing, Never-sleeping, Rarely-eating ... Mom.

For a moment, I met her eyes and tried to tell her, with the nonverbal glance of a non-mom who would never speak her language, that I understood.  Not her situation, of course.  But her defeat.  And her desire to give up.  She glared at me as if to scream "What the hell do you know about my life?!" and she was, of course, very right.  I knew enough to know that I knew nothing. Not about her life, anyway.

At that moment, a Panera employee showed up with a broom and a pile of napkins - he could have been a knight on a white horse for all the fuss this mother made. She wept and thanked him and apologized over and over while she helped him clean her messy life off the table and floors.  Her children simply watched in silence.

It took me a year to write about this  - probably becase I felt some sense of voyeuristic shame as I watched it happen, refusing to look away, unable to walk away.  But as the holiday season continues to envelop us day by day, I am reminded that the spirit of Christmas is really what we make it.  Some of us play Santa.  Some of us play Scrooge.  Some of us bake and shop and wrap.  Some of us sing and party and travel.  But no matter what our roles and regardless of our beliefs, we all want Santa to show up with gifts.  And it is my hope that whether you are a four year old child in need of a nap, or a forty year old mother in need of a break, or even a kid from 1 to 92, that your Santa Claus knows where to find you.  My guess is, your gifts have already arrived, you just haven't gone looking for them yet.

May your holidays and your new year ahead be filled with happiness and peace ... and perhaps a warm bowl of chicken noodle soup.

Love, Hasky

Some thoughts on The Emotional Eater's Repair Manual, by Julie Simon.

I recently read and reviewed The Emotional Eater's Repair Manual, by Julie Simon.  It hits stands tomorrow (December 1, 2012) and I highly recommend it to anyone who ... eats.  Or doesn't, as the case may be.

You can go here for my full review and a brief description of the book.

Happy reading!
~~ Hasky

You shouldn't have to work to be happy. Or should you?

If you do nothing else for yourself today, commit to challenging - and getting out of the way of - those self-limiting stories of the past that you allow yourself to repeat and believe in.

Step 1: Figure out how theses stories are serving you even as they restrict you.  Because even when we engage in self-limiting (and in many cases self-destructive) behavior, we generally think there is something "in it" for us.  Something that is protecting us, comforting us, saving us from pain and sadness and illness and failure.

So, how do you identify one of these little (or big) self-saboteurs?  I've found that they tend to have a few common elements:

• They often begin with phrases like
• I always
• I never
• I can't
• I have to/I must
• I should/I shouldn't
• I need
• I won't
• I don't
• We often feel a sense of discomfort even as we are engaging in them, a sort of "I know I shouldn't eat this food" or "I always end up in self-destructive relationships."  Yet we pursue them anyway.  Because there is some thing that we believe we are getting from them.  Think about that. See if you can identify a few of these "faux rewards" and think about other, less self-limiting ways to achieve them (without what you have come to see as "just the price I pay for happiness.")

A few more tips and tricks:

Most of us have people in our lives who are willing - and often eager - to share their opinions about all the "unhealthy/destructive/incorrect" things we do, from our choice in careers and partners to where and how we live.  But think about the people in your life whose opinions you trust, who seem like sound, reasonable friends/family members, and (here's the catch) who don't routinely offer unsolicited opinions or advice, but who are generally willing to share their thoughts when asked (and who don't use the "You always/You never/You can't/You have to" phrases in the process.) Certainly don't act on their advice, no matter how well-intentioned, but listen to it.  Log it.  Refer to it often as you examine some of your choices and behaviors.  Don't have people like this in your life?  What about spiritual leaders, writers, historical figures whose lives appeal to you or whose words resonate deeply?  Read a passage or listen to a speech or interview, and really pay attention to the words and their meaning.  I actually enjoyed Gretchen Reuben's book The Happiness Project as a practical guide to self-evaluation and to a gradual, realistic pursuit of personal happiness.

Finally, sit down in a quiet place (ideally a beautiful room with a burning fireplace and soft music and unlimited time to think and write - but realistically a coffee shop, your car, a bathroom stall, wherever you can steal a few minutes with just yourself) and finish the following Happiness Statement

"I would be happiest if ______________________"

As you answer this, I strongly encourage you not to censor yourself.  You can answer this in one sentence or fifty + pages. Don't consider money, time, current or past obligations and schedules and lifestyle.  Yes, those are all considerations, but for now, to determine your happiness goal, just write.  And think.  And write some more.  In other words, don't limit.  Not just yet.  And remember, "Happiness" is not a goal we reach, but a never-ending journey we walk, twisting and turning, changing direction, speeding up and slowing down, not so much eager to arrive as we are content to remain on the path.

Care to share your sentence here?

Til next time,
~ Hasky

For more about happiness (and to help you write your own happiness statement):

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/michael-s-broder-phd/giving-back_b_1959722.html?utm_hp_ref=happiness

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/10/09/gps-guide-alison-sudol-a-fine-frenzy_n_1948443.html?utm_hp_ref=happiness

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/10/15/happiness-longevity_n_1968158.html?utm_hp_ref=happiness

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/10/08/motivational-videos-deepak-chopra_n_1937164.html?utm_hp_ref=happiness#slide=1597136

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/08/23/marlo-thomas-mondays-with-marlo-where-does-happiness-come-from-from-gretchen-rubin_n_1825814.html?utm_hp_ref=happiness

Sometimes a panic attack is just a panic attack ... I hope.

Today started like most of my days: Up at 4am, quick potty walk for Beckett, off fo the gym til 6:30am, back home, make lunch, feed Beckett, play with Beckett, walk Beckett, iron and laundry and dishes and commute to work by 9:15am.  I have always been a morning person.  And I love my routines. I never talk about the mental illness elephant in the room on this one - the fact is, I believe I need my routines. I cling to them as if Life were a car and my daily routine was the steering wheel not only guiding me from Point A to Point B, but guiding me there comfortably and predictably and with what I tell myself is absolute safety and security. Because, after all, if I can control my morning, I can control my world.  And nothing bad will happen.

The fact that this morning went as usual, right to the minute, made my 1:00 pm panic attack - the worst, most embarassing, most frightening one I have ever had - all the more surprising.  The truth is this:  I have anxiety disorder.  And PTSD.  The two are what I call 'linked but distinct" and I have spent a lot of time trying to live with them, knowing that kicking them to the curb isn't an option, but challenging them and recognizing them for what they are somehow disempowers them a bit.  But every now and then, I do get that abdominal twinge that tells me to leave whatever place I am in and go somewhere else.  Immediately.  And of course, I do just that, now that I have learned to put myself first in these situations, in the same way I would do whatever necessary to get insulin if I were diabetic.  In the same way I will go to any lengths to find my inhaler when I feel an asthma attack looming.  Anxiety is a medical condition, and it is one I have hidden for many years, occassionally revealing a funny little quirk about myself that makes people laugh (my obsessive WebMd googling, for example) or writing off a serious symptom as a minor character flaw (anorexia, anyone?).  I have recently started talking more about my struggles with eating, because those are visibly apparent, and I would  rather be upfont about what is really going on than to have people speculate that I have a more serious illness or, heaven forbid, take pleasure in misusing my body out of some kind of "I need to fit into a size zero" vanity situation.  But what is it about the mental piece of mental illness that scares us and embarasses us and silences us?

I am certainly not suggesting that everyone with any kind of mental health issue disclose the details - that is a personal decision and one with many considerations and a lot of self-searching involved.  But for me, there is some driving force urging me to simply, casually say "Yup, I struggle with this.  And it is what it is."  Yes, the blogosphere lends a level of comfort to this process that, say, a cup of coffee with a friend may not, though I am working my way up to that one, too. And I know this seems a strange topic for a blog that promises to look at the lighter side of life, but every now and then, it's ok to take a break. Or break a rule. Life is heavy. At the same time, I think honesty can lighten one's load sometimes - anxiety and all its associated symptoms from addiction to phobias to panic attacks to eventual physical illness is heavy.  Too heavy.  And it is an unnecessary weight added to the already painful and difficult experience of living in a world where fear and stress and constant worry are so exhausting that sometimes, many times, the promise of sleep each night is a reward for surviving another day.

So this afternoon, when I felt a strange spasm happening in my throat, when I felt that heavy feeling in my chest, when my inhaler and my deep breathing and my positive self-talk did nothing to help as my symptoms grew and seemed to take on a life of their own, I panicked about my panic - what I now believe was panic anyway - and I fled.  I grabbed my bag and staggered down the hall, down the elevator, and into the street in front of my office building.  I gasped and I heaved and I stuggled to swallow while my hands and feet grew numb and cold and my eyes went blurry.  I fell onto a bus stop bench and called an ambulance, promising myself this was panic and, as is a common panic symptom, believing I was dying.  Because nothing had happened at work.  Nothing had happened in my personal life.  Nothing had changed or triggered or set off the symptoms that I still believe will "work with me" if I keep them at bay.  Or keep them happy.  Surely, I reasoned, I was dying.

When the ambulance arrived, at the busiest intersection in Albany at the busiest time of day - think politicians, food vendors, a couple of kiddie field trips in the nearby park - I was relieved at first.   I sat on the bench while they strapped an oxygen mask to my face and a blood pressure cuff to my arm.  I let go of my body image issues while EMTs lifted my shirt and stuck electrodes to my stomach to read my heart rhythms.  I am amazed, at moments like this, that for all its awful qualities, panic is quite the antidote to pride and the quickest route to humility.  Still struggling to breathe, I climbed onto the stretcher and rode across the intersection, was stuffed into an ambulance, and
cried all the way to Albany Med while a kind EMT named Mark (Or Mike?  Matt?) told me that everything seemed to be looking good and that I was going to be ok.  "Don't worry," he assured me.  If he only knew.

At that point, my tears were coming from two places, really:  fear of what I worried was happening to me, and shame over what I suspected was actually happening to me.  Had I really just humiliated myself on the intersection of Swan and State streets, used necessary lifesaving resources that someone in an actual health crisis may have needed?  Had I walked out of my office with nothing more than an afterthought phone call ... all for this?  This illness I refuse to medicate and, until today, refused to even acknowledge to anyone other than my few closest friends and my therapist?

Yes, I had.

When I arrived at Albany Med, I was still struggling to breathe but feeling more and more like this was going to go the same way similar experiences had gone. Though worse and different than the others, it didn't seem to be a stroke ot a heart attack or some kind of major organ failure - since my heart rate and blood pressure were well within normal limits and my oxygen level was 100%.  (See, my ability to know all this proves that WebMd googling is useful on occassion.)  Still, I let the ambulance crew wheel me down the hall and take more vitals, check me in, and ask me some basic questions.  And then, just as I was in the middle of telling someone what health insurance I had, I watched the man on the stretcher in front of my shove the orderly standing over him.  "Chrissy!" the man started screaming, as he jumped off the stretcher and faced the commotion that was starting - unbeknownst to me - to erupt behind me.

And then I heard Chrissy.  She was a drooling, large black woman in a hospital gown, and she was angry.  I am pretty sure she was coming down from something, and as she screamed and threatened to kill people, to kill herself, to blow up the hospital, everyone came running. They flew past me - security guards, doctors, nurses, interns, medical students, I think even a janitor or two - jostling my bed in the process. Chrissy's boyfriend was headed toward her by now, begging the staff not to hurt her, while Chrissy continued to scream and wail and thrash and rip her hospital gown off her body.  While five staff grabbed and restrained the man, it took about ten to take Chrissy to the floor and stick a huge needle in her thigh while her boyfriend wailed and pleaded "Please don't hurt her!  She's mine!  She's mine!"  Turns out, he had tried to kill both Chrissy and himself this morning, and while his arms were laced with needle marks and razor slashes, Chrissy looked like she had been beaten and left for dead.  A few nurses asked me if I was ok, and all I could do was nod.  "I do this for a living," was all I could mumble.  And I used to.  Before I came to Albany for the safe desk job I have regretted since the day I took it.  I have seen domestic violence up close before, but never while I was stuck on a hospital bed, trapped in a locked down ER with no weapon or pepper spray to protect myself and no way to even get to my sandals, which I had kicked off so I wouldn't dirty the hospital's sheet.

It seemed to take forever to sedate both Chrissy and her boyfriend enough to get them to separate "pods," each guarded by armed security.  I was eventually wheeled back to my original place in the hall where I could listen to Chrissy "come to" every few minutes, at which point someone in charge at the desk behind me would order "5 more for Room B13."  And then all was quiet again.

As I lay there thinking about why I was here - I got angry.  At myself.  These two people were so damaged, so broken, and so beyond help, that the fact that I was there at all seeking treatment I likely didn't even need pissed me off.  I could understand the hospital staff's eye rolls and comments of "I'm so sick of this crap" and "Just send em' home and let em' duke this out."  I know I couldn't handle what they were trying to handle at that moment - in fact, I couldn't even handle a fraction of that,  one of the sad realities that sent me running for Albany seven years ago.  At the same time, I was sad.  I cried as I thought about where these two people were going to end up.  How they had ended up here.  What a good day versus a bad day was to them.  And what a luxury illness "anxiety" and "panic" must be to someone suffering the way they were obviously and painfully suffering.  I wished I could give them something.  I didn't know whether to watch and listen or pretend I was trying to give them something like privacy.

I contemplated walking out of the ER, more out of fear than guilt at that point.  But at that moment, the resident physician came over and apologized for "the drama" and said he would be with me shortly.  "No worries," I mumbled. I was the one who felt guilty.  I was the one who wanted to apologize.  But I couldn't make myself.

As I lay there for a few more minutes, realizing Chrissy must have been sedated again, I listened to a doctor talk to the woman on the stretcher in front of me - the stretcher Chrissy's boyfriend had been on before he was carted off to whatever isolation room would hold him.  Apparently, this woman in front of me had overdosed on something.  And the doctor was trying to figure out what she needed.

"Every time you do this, you come straight here," he told her.  "And I'm not sure what it is you want us to do for you."

"Well I don't know either," she whispered.

"Are you looking for help with your physical care or your mental health?" He was blunt.  Direct.

"Well, I don't know," she echoed herself.

"Are you coming here because you are looking for someone to talk to?" the doctor went on, cold but seemingly trying to identify what it was this woman was after.

"I guess I am," she finally admitted.  "My life is too hard.  And I need something.  I need someone.  I'm scared.  And as soon as I leave here and go home, everything feels bad again.  I don't want to die, I just want someone to know how much I want to die."

I didn't realize I was crying until a nurse stopped by and asked me if I was ok.  I told her I was fine, but I hurt.  I hurt for these people, these people in so much pain that they were never going to find the right band aid or antibiotic or xray to stop the bleeding or mend the break.  And I was one of them.  Not homicidal or suicidal or delusional or coming off a really rough high, but I was one of them nonetheless.  One of the misunderstood who believed that their pain was so real that others could see it, and help it, and make it stop.

As soon as the nurse walked away, I told myself that I was fine and I got up and walked out the front door.  I didn't stick around for the blood work and the xrays that would tell everyone what I pretty much already knew - I have anxiety disorder.  And a hospital ER was not the place I needed to be.  I calld a cab, got a ride to my car, and drove home to spend some time with Beckett.  My throat still feels odd, and my body still feels shaky, but all I can do is sit and wonder where Chrissy is right now.  Or where her boyfriend ended up.  Or whether the nameless woman whose face I couldn't see has overdosed again already.  Who are they and what will happen to them?  And who will care?

Well, even though I don't know them, even though I can't ever know what happens to them, I care.  I hope they find something like peace.  And compassion.  I refuse to believe that pain and illness and self-inflicted death is their fate.  It is certainly their option, but I hope - and I may even pray a little - that they find some reason to eventually get up and walk out of that hospital door because they can.  Because they have the ability to drive themselves home and get through another day and to know that they are worth that much.

Til next time
~~ Hasky

Lightening Up and Letting Go

I feel anxious when my dog Beckett refuses to eat.  I think this simultaneously makes perfect sense and no sense at all - which pretty much describes the mental duality of my existence.  While I prefer to hang out on the sensible end of the worry spectrum where most reasonable people would naturally become legitimately concerned about any living being who goes hungry for too long, I generally find myself as far away from this personal ideal as possible - somewhere between incapacitating anxiety and compulsive Googling of every symptom, both real and imagined, until I manage to transform the most inocuous symptoms into a life-threatening diagnosis.  For both my dog and me.

My fears are not entirely out of context.  After all, I am no more or less unique than anyone else when it comes to physical ailments.  I, too, have experienced my share of colds and flu bugs and pneumonia and strep throat.  Perhaps less common was the rare form of bacterial bone infection called osteomyelitis that I contracted first at age fifteen, then again at age thirty.  No known cause and --despite the necessary surgeries and months of intravenous antibiotics --  no guaranteed cure.  Certainly, that threatening osteomyelitis relapse clock often ticks in the back of my mind every now and then, but I have learned to hit the snooze button on my anxiety about a third recurrence, most of the time believing that worry will not stop the inevitable from happening.  In fact, worry is often a welcome sign for illness.

But here's where the challenge comes in. I am learning that while Beckett brings out the joyful, peaceful, calm person that I always suspected hid somewhere inside me, I often let his actions dictate my emotions.  And then I let my emotions drive my responses and define my behavior. Case in point: despite the fact that, for the past ten months, Beckett has eaten when he was hungry and stopped when he was satisfied, I put myself through daily stress and worry when he doesn't immediately empty his breakfast bowl as soon as I set it in front of him.  The difference now is awareness - I can at least see that I do this to both of us, and I am even starting to figure out why.

Because the truth is this: I am anorexic. In fact, I have been anorexic for most of my life.  Though I flirted with the vicious cycle of bulimia first, from ages 12-14, I eventually gave up the expensive, aggressive, all-consuming practice of bingeing and purging for the quiet and unassuming restriction of anorexia.  Most of my late high school years, all of my college years, and the majority of my adulthood so far  - my jobs, my relationships, my roles as friend and sister and daughter and student, and writer, and colleague and woman - have revolved around denial of food and feelings, and the guilt/fear/shame hybrid that has inevitably shown up any time I have given in to my appetites.  I have become a food restriction specialist, often pursuing starvation as if it were a career path, while developing an addiction to exercise that has left me with a resting heart rate of 42 bpm and more torn and damaged and constantly sore body parts than most eighty year-olds I know. (And before you ask, I actually know quite a few.)

I think it is precisely because of my lifelong marriage to food restriction and excess and elimination in its many indelicate forms, that I experience such intense worry every time I realize that Beckett is simply not going to eat whatever I have lovingly scooped into his stainless steel bowl.  The runt of his litter and a chronic sufferer of intestional parasites and digestive problems during his first few months of life, Beckett is no stranger to medical problems - or food aversions - of his own.  That said, when he refuses his special "sensitive stomach" dog food only to beg for the romaine lettuce and roasted green beans he can see me putting into my own lunch bag, I begin to suspect that he, too, is aware of the food games that I always thought only we humans played with one another - and with ourselves.  And while I do believe (as do most pet parents I know) that Beckett is far superior to any other canine on Earth, I don't think he prefers greens to kibble because he equates thinnness with perfection, which was always the logic at the center of my own preference for produce over carbohydrates. In fact, I don't believe Beckett thinks anything other than "I want green beans.  I like how they taste."  I think he employs the same instinctive logic when he whines for his sweet potato treats and "sits pretty" for his corn-free/wheat-free biscuits.  I don't think he ever worries or wonders whether one is more fattening or less healthy than the other.  I think, quite honestly, that he has a beautiful way of knowing what he wants and of doing everything in his power to give himself pleasure and enjoyment.

This was all on my mind this morning as I watched Beckett pick at a few pieces of dog food before deciding that he didn't feel like eating.  With a clean bill of health from the vet and a reputation for being a dietary diva, Beckett is medically fine and just ... being Beckett.  I constantly remind myself that when I recently took him on a ten-day trip to Cambridge, Massachusetts, he refused to eat for almost four days, until, on day five, he got hungry enough, and I think he felt settled enough, to start eating again.  And all was well.  Despite the fact that I had spent days worrying about his refusal to eat, in the end, he ate when his body was ready.  Sometimes experiences like this remind me of the half joking/half serious curse my mother placed on me when I was very young and very stubborn: "I hope that someday, when you have children, they behave exactly like you are behaving right now," she would say.  Even though my life plans these days no longer include children of my own, I sometimes chuckle at the reality that I ended up with a dog who is putting me through many of the very same challenges I threw at my parents - some funny and quite common, some serious and scary. Certainly, as much as I love Beckett and as central to my life as he has become, I do sometimes wonder if my worries about his health and his refusal to eat are any indication of the helplessness and grief my parents must have felt all those years, watching me refuse the very sustenance they tried to give me, using starvation as a form of communication when no words would suffice.  I am doubly blessed that not only does Beckett eventually chow down, he communicates with me in a language all his own. All the time.  And if I don't hear or understand him, it is because I am not listening.

A few years ago, I asked my mother about the impact my eating disorders had had on her, especially when I was younger and hospitalization and feeding tubes started to enter the conversation. I wanted to know why she had suddenly stopped trying to force the anorexia out of my body and out of our lives.  After using every approach from ignoring the problem to suffocating it, from letting me feed  myself to force-feeding me through guilt and coercion, one day, she simply stopped.  She thought about my question for awhile before answering: "Heather, I just let go."  Those five words said so much.  My mother had let go of my illness and given it entirely to me.  It was a gift really, of the oddest kind, perhaps, but a gift nonetheless.  I don't know if she realizes that she taught me, in the letting go, that I, too, was capable of letting go of the struggles while hanging on to what was really important.  And though health and wellness remain a challenge, I am constantly teaching myself the lesson of letting go of the unhealthy to make room for what serves me and enhances my life. Beckett, of course, is one of my best teachers, especially as I watch him burrow through his bowl full of dog food to find the veggies I have strategically buried underneath.

I have committed to giving Beckett the freedom to eat when he is hungry and the freedom to stop eating when he is satisfied. I have decided to simply allow him to listen to his body's signals and to help him respond to them when I can. I figure I can learn from him, as I so often do, about how this all works.  And maybe, on this journey to health and self-awareness, I will even be able to lighten up with myself a little.  Maybe, eventually, I will even learn to just let go.

Til next time
~~ Hasky

Lightening up with Beckett

A friend of mine recently posted the above picture on my Facebook wall.  While he and I saw each other evey day in highschool, it is only through the power of social media that we managed to reconnect after almost twenty years of lost contact.  Even so, this photograph reminded me that although many of us now choose to communicate our daily thoughts and actions in the form of posts and threads and tags and tweets, we often convey so much more than the standard "140 characters or less" restrictions allow us to type into tiny internet boxes.

The whole truth is, my recent journey through pet adoption has proven to be my greatest "Lighten Up" challenge to date -- and I have shared the daily details on Facebook.  Last fall, I wasn't sure I was ready for a puppy or could care for one by myself, so I debated and made my customary pro/con lists and researched and talked to other pet owners.  My allergies made the hypoallergenic poodle breed a wise and necessary choice, even though poodles, from what I was hearing, were "energetic" at best, "fiercely destructive" at worst.  But none of that seemed to matter the moment I saw my puppy on Petfinder.com -- I instantly knew I was going to bring him home.

Listed under the name "Aruba," the adorable little Schnoodle (Schnauzer/Poodle mix) I decided to name Beckett, after my favorite writer, was a rescue at a shelter about an hour from my home.  Although I expected him to have the customary tapeworms and fleas and hyper energy of most rescue dogs living in close quarters and fighting with other animals for food and attention, I had no idea what I was in for.  Beckett had hookworm.  Tapeworm.  Roundworm.  He suffered from what I would later learn was chronic Giardia, a nasty, hard to cure intestional parasite that led to a refusal to eat or sleep and caused frequent vomitting and diarrhea. He had difficulty with housetraining, a hatred of the crate I struggled to convince myself was not, in fact, abusive captivity, and more than anything, he was completely aware of my refusal to bond with him, so he seemed to take absolute pleasure in destroying our surroundings for sport.  I cried almost daily as his health deteriorated, his weight dropped, his energy came and went - mostly went - and my bank account reduced itself by hundreds of dollars every week.  At one point, my kitchen counter held seven bottles of prescription meds, only one of them mine.  (And therefore, only one of them covered by insurance.)  Basically, my attempt to lighten up, to rescue a beautiful animal and give him a loving home, to find companionship for myself, and to prove that I could unconditionally love and be loved by another living being, seemed to be failing.  I seemed to be failing.  And I was filled with regret and sadness. Yet no matter how often I thought about returning Beckett to the rescue, or how hard I tried to convince myself that he would be better off with a family of four in a huge home with a huge yard and a huge bank account, he was mine and I couldn't imagine giving up on him.  Or myself.

And then something happened.  Not to Beckett, but to me. It wasn't an "all of a sudden" sort of thing, more like a gradual shift that I only noticed once in awhile, when I stopped to realize I hadn't cried or indulged in one of my signature germophobic freak-outs in days. In the absence of lightening up, I was actually starting to grow up.  Even if only a little.  I began to look at my decision to adopt Beckett as a conscious choice I made, rather than something that was thrust upon me by an unidentifiable, unknown force. Before I got Beckett, I had fully intended for him to share my life, but when the four-legged reality actually walked into my house, I turned into a three year-old who refused to share her toys.  Her snacks.  Her space.  I gated him out of rooms, confined him to linoleum floors only, and structured his time in ways that would force the military to retaliate. I realized, after awhile, that my behavior was not likely to encourage better puppy behavior, and that, more than anything, Beckett's health crisis could not be all about me.  Not if I wanted us both to be stronger, happier, more peaceful beings. He was in pain and he wasn't getting better.  So I did more research.  I found a new, more proactive vet.  I started Beckett on a special diet and put him through seven rounds of Giardia meds (the last of which finally seems to have "taken" as his most recent tests were negative). I enrolled him in doggie daycare and made socializing him at the local park a priority of every weekend and most evenings. 

Sure, I did some crazy things, too, like resorting to puppy pampers to spare my carpets and furniture until the worst of the Giardia ran its course. 

And I learned my lesson the hard way about whether or not Beckett "really needed to be crated" while I was at work. 

But ultimately, I have learned - and am continuing to learn each day - that Beckett, like all puppies, craves boundaries. He does not want to make the rules, he wants to follow them. And, understandably, when left to his own devices, he will do whatever feels good in that moment, whether eating my walls or using my couch as his own personal bathroom


Today marks ten months since Beckett came into my life, and though I continue to grow up, Beckett has actually started to lighten me up as well.  He is a loving, tail-wagging example of how far we have both come, and of how much potential we both have to continue going forward together.  He effortlessly returns the unconditional love I now have for him, and he fancies himself my 25-pound bodyguard whether we are being approached by a 6-foot man in the park or ... a leaf.  Most of all, Beckett makes me laugh.  He makes me smile.  He makes me remember that I am capable and strong and full of love and compassion.

I am thankful every day for the faith I had in both of us, and for my determination to bring this little boy home.  Sharing my life is not so hard after all, and it is actually more rewarding than I ever imagined.

Do you have a funny or frustrating pet story?  How has your pet made your life better, crazier, more rewarding, more exhausting?   Share it all!

Until next time,
~~ Hasky

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