Fighting to BE in the Moment

swimming pool (Photo credit: freefotouk)

So my new (two years now!) apartment has a swimming pool. And the weather is finally warm enough for me to get into it on a regular basis.

So why can't I just swim and enjoy it?

I find I am having a lot of trouble, these days, to keep the pool simply as an activity of fun and/or relaxation, rather than turning it into a chore.

Swimming is good exercise, we all know that, and I need to get in more exercise. So I am swimming laps, and I enjoy swimming laps, but I am trying not to let that become a chore. To have it become, "You must swim XX many laps."

I am trying to enjoy the texture and temperature of the cool water as my arms and legs move (ungracefully, but nobody's watching) through the water, the feel of it flowing through and around my fingers and toes, the faint smell of chlorine, the the shimmer of the water, the warmth of the sun on my face and back.

And that's another thing. The pool isn't heated, and like many apartments in SoCal, it's in an unnatural canyon. Between the shadow of the buildings on the east, and the ones on the west, the pool only gets direct sunlight for perhaps 5-6 hours each day, even in July, and the temps can drop as much as 30 degrees at night. So the water temperature tends to stay cool, even on days when the temperature reaches the 80's or 90's.

This means, since I am not a fan of the cold, I like to lie out long enough to get heated up, before getting into the water.  (Yes, I always use sunscreen. No, not always all over - later on I generally find a spot or three that I managed to miss.)

I lie out, get warm, or hot even, get in the pool and swim some laps till I am tired and/or cold, then repeat.

Can I simply lie in the sun, enjoy the rays sinking into my body with their vitamin D, slowly turning my skin from its natural corpselike white color to a faintly tan color?

No, I feel I have to do something, even when I am lying out. The other day I took pages with me for a speech I am rehearsing. Generally I take a book. Because otherwise how can I justify slicing out 1 1/2 to 3 hours, in the middle of a perfectly good day, when I could be writing/organizing/houseworking or Doing Something Productive?

Yeah, do ya think maybe I should learn something from these posts on workaholics? Yes, I have many Important Events coming up, that demand research and preparation.

And yet, it is still okay to set aside time for pure relaxation. Not just okay, but necessary. To kick back and tell that monkey mind just to hush.

I'm going to try to get in the pool a few evenings a week, plus at least one day this coming weekend,  when I will just BE poolside, and in the water.  Just to enjoy the water, and the sun, and the palm trees rustling in the wind.

I may take a book, if I am reading one that I enjoy, or I may not.

What do you do to beat back the "productive" vibe?

Your thoughts?

The Relationship Was Toast from the Beginning

Image via WikipediaNot that I realized this.

See, I'm a breakfast-y person.  I have been since back in the day on the pill, I had to take my pill and vitamins with food, otherwise they made me nauseated.  I had an irregular work schedule, so my lunch and dinner were always at different times, but I could always have breakfast before work.  Might just be a bagel and some orange juice, or a bowl of cereal, but I always eat something in the morning.

Later, when I would spend the night at (an early)  boyfriend's place, if I/we had work we'd get up early and make love, then he'd treat me to IHOP.  If we didn't have work he'd make us breakfast, then we'd go back to bed and make love some more.

With a brief break for the child-rearing years, I became addicted to the whole cycle of lovemaking/breakfast/more lovemaking.  Perhaps lingering in bed or on the couch, watching old movies and cuddling, long past noon.  All of my lovers enjoyed it too, until...

At first, when I began seeing OCPD ex, we would make love first thing in the morning - but he was still caring for his aged father, so he would have to get up, go bathe and feed him.  Later, he was still set in that routine of get up and get the day started.  We might make love (morning wood), we might even linger in bed for an hour or two on a Sunday morning watching TV, but he was not a breakfast-y person.

Not knowing about OCPD, I thought it would just be a matter of time to coax him into such a fun, sensual experience on the weekends.  Memories of loveplay in the kitchen, kissing and caresses and feeding one another tidbits while making omelettes or blueberry muffins...  Forget about it.  One person in the kitchen at a time.  He had no interest in sharing the kitchen with me if I was cooking, and it was a federal offense if he was cooking and I came in, playfully grabbed his butt or kissed him.

A lot of times he claimed queasiness in the morning, that if he ate anything he would get sick.  (Since he self-medicated his anxiety with copious amounts of alcohol, can you say hangover, boys & girls?)  Most of the time, if I wanted a weekend cooked breakfast, I ate alone.  Sometimes he would allow me to fix a weekend breakfast for him, too, but we always ate at the table, never in bed or at the couch.   No loveplay during food preparation, at the table, or afterwards.

I missed a lot of things I'd come to believe were a normal part of a love relationship, but this one was a biggie for me.

And frequently, even when he "allowed" me to make him breakfasts, he found fault with them anyway.  The eggs were over or underdone.  Or cold (which often happened because he would delay coming to the table).  I prepared too much food.  Once I made scrambled eggs with bits of bacon crumbled into them.  Though he'd never told me, I should have known he didn't like bacon, ever, in any form.

He didn't even like the way I buttered his toast.  Generously, with the butter extending all the way to the edges of the toast.  That meant he got icky butter on his fingers, so unpleasant!  I began, on breakfast mornings, to simply put out the butter dish and a knife, slap the dry toast on his plate, and let him butter his own damn toast.  That way, he could leave the edges dry the way he liked them.

Although I am not yet ready to take a new lover, I am back to enjoying breakfasts again.  Quickies during the week; on the weekends, perhaps a big eggwhite scramble with broccoli, cheese and tomato.  I don't have to buy the bread he preferred, but can experiment: double fiber, whole wheat, potato bread...   Sometimes I even put jam on my toast!
Image via Wikipedia

This morning, a work day, I had a decadent two slices of Cinnabon toast (cinnamon gave him heartburn, he said) with butter (Smart Start butter substitute) spread all the way to the edge, so that each bite was equally flavorful.

I enjoyed it, but it makes me wonder...  It's been a year and a half since I moved out.  When will I stop remembering and reacting to that relationship, every time I butter my damn toast?  I enjoyed it, I am grateful to be able to do it the way I want without criticism or disgusted looks, but shouldn't I be over emotionally reacting by now?

Or is this a good thing, part of mindful eating?  I don't feel I am there yet, I think the hurt/trauma is still taking up a bit too much real estate in my mind.

What do you think?  Should I be over this by now?  Do you have hurts/traumas that are taking you longer to get over than you think they should?


As always, I love and appreciate your feedback.

VD with the G-F

So, I was anticipating a rough VD, since it was my first since breaking up with OCPD bf.  And it was rough, in spots, but I tried to be pro-active and not let myself sink into too much unhealthy reminiscing and nostalgia.

Reality is, Valentines' Day with him was no great shakes.  I think once he cut roses from the garden and put them in a vase on the table for me.  He never, ever, sent flowers to me at work, and many years didn't even bother with a card.  More than a wee bit Demand-Resistant to the whole idea of making a fuss over his loved one for a "Hallmark Holiday."

So... I bought my own rose for my desk at work, and am still enjoying it.  (Though I did move it away from that corner where I could too easily knock it onto the floor.  In case that worried you.)

And I decided to get Carried Away a bit for the G-F, with all kinds of good-smelling stuff I wasn't "allowed" to use due to ex b-f's complaints about cologne and scented lotion.  And duckies.  The pink one even lights up! (For those of you thinking I'm both bi and moving waaaaay too fast - I found that while I feel somewhat uncomfortable treating myself well, I can manage it if I treat myself in the third person, like my own girlfriend.)

So, some new stinkum from Bath & Body works, plus I cashed in a gift card and showered g-f in Luscious Kisses from Victoria's Secret.

Over the weekend I knocked out a few chores that had been hanging over my head, which made me feel happy and relieved.  And which gave me permission to enjoy myself, though I'm trying to get past the silly notion that pleasure should be earned.

Worked on eating mindfully.  I fixed girlfriend some of our favorite meals, but tried to focus on appropriate sized portions, and stopping when/before being full, trying to tune into learning how to listen to the body, instead of just eating, eating, eating, because food is sitting there.  And trying to include lots of salad, green veggies, and healthy choices. 

Also bought Valentines' chocolate for her, all her favorites, though a small box.  We haven't inhaled them all yet, but are eating them 1-2 per night, totally savoring and enjoying each and every bite.

This mindful eating business is hard work, and I'm such a beginner, but I trust it's the right way to go in the long term.

Spent a fair amount of time with my favorite dysfunctional couple, Anne Boleyn and Henry VIII.  Their story is one I've been magnetically drawn to for most of my life.  Talk about an object lesson in 1) Passionate love doesn't always last forever, and 2) It's not usually healthy for a woman to lose her head over a man.

Theories abound on What Went Wrong.  Did either Anne or Henry have a Personality Disorder?  Because things went downhill pretty fast once the "chase" was over and they were officially married.  Much like what happens when a "non" moves in with a person with a PD.  Or were one or both of them simply drunk with power?

Certainly Anne exhibited some wild mood swings.  She was also pregnant and miscarrying during much of that time, and that in itself could account for her being so "highly strung."   Plus just a smidge of pressure from being surrounded all the time by people who hated her guts, and constant demands from those who wanted to use her to further their own interests.  We think about Diana, Princess of Wales, and how she was constantly hounded by paparazzi, but old-time royalty had people around them all the time.  Even the privies weren't private.

from Wikipedia Commons

One interesting novel, Threads by Nell Gavin, takes on the story as woven into a theory of reincarnation.  The idea is that people choose to be reborn into different families to work out unresolved karmic issues, and that Henry, Anne and Katherine had been married, siblings, parents and children in previous lifetimes.  I especially liked the section where Anne was an Egyptian whore, Katherine her young daughter, and Henry a transvestite man-whore who befriended them because he longed for children of his own.

This would explain a lot about 15th and 16th century men's fashion.

Watched some flicks - Carrie Fisher's entertaining Wishful Drinking, and Disney's Tinkerbell which I'd been wanting to see forever, because my favorite artist Loreena McKennitt had done most of the music and the narration.  As the intro ballad wafted me into the story, that's when I did my VD weeping - not sure if it was because I felt so moved by Loreena's gorgeous voice, or a little bit of sadness over ex b-f. 

Although ex b-f also really enjoys her music, and always claimed a love of animation, he was never willing to watch this movie with me, because...   because.  Who knows why? 

Every time I go down that rabbit hole of trying to make sense of the nonsensical, I simply get more lost.  When someone has a mental disorder, things don't make logical sense.   Yet those of us who love them may keep churning past actions or conversations in our minds, thinking we'll hit on some magical insight and we'll really "get" why they think and act the way they do.

I will never be able to understand his distorted thinking, and that's okay.  I don't have to.  I just need to figure out the way I think, and make healthy choices for me.

What healthy choices have you been making for you?

Tell me about it in the comments.