About Me. So much of what I do to connect with people, is online. Most of my involvement, FaceBook, Twitter, blogging, expects that users create a profile. I always find this task daunting and cringe when I am faced with this. My previous blogs were not at WordPress and I decided since I am embracing the concept of reinvention, I thought a new blog, with a new host, would be a good idea. Until I found the blank section to talk about myself! (I picked WordPress because a dear friend of mine uses it and copying someone is the highest form of flattery. She’ll know I’m talking about her.)
One of the biggest things that I struggle with when faced with the About Me Challenge is that “in real life”, I show different parts of myself to different people. Some things I “hide” of my own choosing, and others not. I am a medical assistant in a professional cardiology practice. They don’t allow visible facial piercing and I last fall, I chose to have my nose pierced. I love it. It’s for me and me only and I am glad I did it. However, everyday I must hide it with a band-aid. Is it that big of a deal/hassle? No. It is somewhat metaphorical though, of all the things/feelings/personality traits that I have hidden away for years…
I was adopted at the age of 4 weeks. My first mom was young, 16, and mainly in part due to lack of family support, was forced (literally) to give me away. I know that the common verbage is “give up a child for adoption”. It sounds less harsh and makes it sounds less wounding. That’s all fine and good, but having been told as a very young person that I was given away (because I don’t care what flowery language is used, that is all a very young person can grasp of such an adult concept) I was changed forever. Who knows if my insecurities would have been inherent if I was raised by my family I am genetically related to. I don’t. I can only make my own assumptions about what led to how I feel now. Intellectually, I 100% understand why my first mom couldn’t raise me. I get it. I do. I know her and she is a large part of my adult life. None of the intellect and logic can replace the void and empty feeling that I had when I was young. Time and time again, it’s been made clear that I should get over being an adopted child. For some reason, many people aren’t shy about telling others what they should do and how to feel. In an effort not to hurt my family members that played large roles in my growing up and are close to me now, I’ve gotten quieter about what happened to me (yes, children given up for adoptions are victims) to keep the peace and help others assuage their guilt and heal. I want healing for all of us. I just don’t want to have to deny this huge part of my past, present and future.
There is much, much more to me than being an adopted child, but that’s where it started. I am the daughter to my adoptive parents, and they loving grandparents to my children. I have 2 boys. The older one was born when I was single, 20 and attending college. The younger one was born a year after I married my husband of 8+ years, whom I met online. We live in small, rural town in Central Oregon with 2 cats, 2 dogs, 27 chickens and 5 turkens. I love to read, write, crochet, stamp, play the Rock Band Guitar on the Wii, LetterBox and sleep in on the weekends! For the last 4 years, I’ve worked in a cardiology office in Bend. I love most of my patients and work hard. My boss tells me to lower my expectations for myself because I often get the “forbidden overtime”. Struggling with codependence trips me up in my job sometimes. I’m working on boundaries and leaving on time so I can be with my family, who are my first priority. I hate my 45 minute commute and look forward to when we can move into Bend.
I’m a far girl trapped in a now skinny body. From 2008-2010 I lost 60 pounds. It has had a huge (no pun intended) impact on my self-esteem, confidence, and interactions with people. Much of what I write about in regards to being reinvented will include the topic of my weight loss and physical changes. I still look in the mirror, all this time later, and startle at the reflection I see staring back at me. I originally started losing weight for medical reasons and it was like a snowball. Unfortunately, I easily fell into an old pattern of restricting meals for my emotional benefit. My disordered eating isn’t about feeling my bones stick out or wearing my size 4 jeans. It is about control. When I feel like there are things in my life that I can’t control, the doctor I work for is moody or running behind, the weather is bad and the roads are slick making it take a long time to get to daycare, my husband’s work schedule is screwy and it dumps more stuff on my responsibility list, skipping meals makes me feel like I can DO something. It’s twisted and not right. It’s dangerous and bad for my health. I have finally been willing to face this fact and I’m working on it. Last week, I had breakfast 2 out of 5 days. A HUGE accomplishment. I give my husband a lot of credit for having a very frank, (figuratively) in my face confrontation about it. I’m talking about it, not to brag or get sympathy but to force myself to be open and honest and have full disclosure. I hid, denied and lashed out when my disordered eating was talked about. I’m committed to not doing it anymore. Like an addiction or poor coping method, I can’t fix it in a day. I expect for many years, it will take a conscious effort for me to intentionally eat breakfast and lunch because my “hungry” doesn’t work right. I’m working on it. Talking about it is a big step for me.
There is much more to me. Over time and through experiences, parts of my past will particiapte in what parts of me are on the surface. Some traits serve me well and some traits seem to make me serve them. Two things that won’t change are my love for the Lord and my love for my family and friends. I’d like to add love of myself to that list. That’s really my goal in reinventing myself. Not to reinvent myself physically or intellectually but to find within myself the ability to love myself.
Anything else you want to know About Me? Just ask.
With love, Rebecca