Maze

Life is but a journey, that’s what people say.

Life is but navigating, a complicated maze.

There is a distinct beginning, and definitely an end.

Life is not a straight line, but has many curves and bends.

We climb up many mountains and fall down deep ravines.

Experience love and heart break, and all the things between .

One attempts to avoid the sadness of feeling loss and shame.

But hold it tight and accept it, the sun will grace the rain.

Without the hurt we feel no pain, but that will make us numb.

To joy, to love, to kindness and a multitude of fun.

The shadows of a high wall, where the destinations obscured.

Fate is what you create, opinions are blurred.

Life is but a journey I’ll always disagree.

Life is what you make it , to live to love , to be free.

Do not let someone tell you, you have to box it in.

Or where you should be going , or where you should begin.

Natures seeds that’s your life and that is what you’re sowing.

Only you can control the path by, living, accepting flowing .

Life is but a journey, that’s what people say.

Life is but navigating, a complicated maze.

The day I stopped being normal! By Kelly Dixon.

“Normal” my least favorite word, as who even defined normal? Who decided that when people follow the same pattern, that is the normal? What if that is the “weird” and I am the normal. Essentially we are all a little crazy, some people just hide it better than others.

I remember the day I crossed the divide and hugged my presumed insanity.

I was 8/9 years old standing in the unheated school pool, freezing. I peered down at my blue swimsuit clad child’s belly and thought, “I am fat.” That was the day I slid off the cliff of childlike normalcy into the crashing ocean of crazy town, and it continued to consume me for the next 10 years of my life.

I have never been shy about telling people I am / was an anorexic, it is not something I hide, it is also not the first thing I blurt out, but it is an intrinsic part of me. It has single handedly created my personality. I am not ashamed of it, I actually do not wish I had never had it, I mean I cannot change what was. People need to know why I do not follow their sense of normalcy, why I am a little bit kooky. People need to realize that If you have never had an eating disorder, you truly will never understand the body dysmorphia, the power and control, refusing food thrust upon me, being force fed, the happiness I felt when I could see my bones protruding aggressively from all parts of my body, picking myself apart in a mirror through dark eyes, sunken back in a face that was a skull. A skull that sat like a bobble head on my emaciated 10 year old body, and all I saw was rolls of flesh, spilling on to the floor. You will never understand the relief I felt punching my stomach, scratching my arms and bruising my knuckles releasing the anger that filled my shrinking torso. I was a 10 year old child when I was at my first worst, I was eating an apple a day and no clothes fit me and I was struggling to move. The day I finally reached out for help to my parents in 1987, my father had to carry me into the Children’s ward of Maidstone Hospital, where he gently deposited me on a sickly, green covered bed, and that is where I stayed for the next 4 months. Unbeknownst to me the doctors had told my parents if I didn’t go into hospital I had about 2 weeks left to live. To be honest I didn’t care, because at age 10 I secretly was over living, it hurt too much, it consumed all of my day, and all I wanted to do was hide from the panic, the hate and the loathing I had for myself. The loathing that is still a wisp of a shadow in my 40 + year old body today.

What I have never told people, is that as soon as I came out of hospital I went back to my old ways. I was a master at hiding my food, it was stashed in shoes, under my arms, snuck down toilets. Where at age 11 a teacher was monitoring me constantly, and that was life until I reached my second “worst”, and I finally was admitted into a newly created eating disorder home for children. Kelly Krystina Dixon age 13 was the second group of inmates. I was there for a whole 5 months, hidden away from my family and friends. I never went back to “normal” I created a whole new me that embraced her madness.

You may call me crazy, weird, nuts, mad, hey go ahead. Because it was at age 8 when I first acknowledged the sanity shift. It has taken me 30 years to love it, that was not an easy acceptance. Because, at age 8 I stopped being like my peers, I was the difficult, unstable, the weird, emaciated loner kid that no one knew what to do with. They tried to understand me , to help me. They locked me up, sent me to therapy, force fed me, shouted at me, sobbed at me, begged me, pleaded with me. Sadly or thankfully, I have a force inside me that is unmovable by others, only when I decide, can a change be made. From that pivotal moment, when my young eyes caught sight of that swimsuit clad belly, there truly was no going back to pre crazy Kelly age 7 1/2, she was gone, destroyed, extinguished maybe she never really existed. I promise you she did, she really was there, and she was stolen.

I have spoken a lot about my eating from the moment I started to get better, but the early years are shaded, I actually have never written the details, the pain, the anger, the hatred I had. The eternal feeling of hunger, the hair on my arms as my body tried to keep warm, the fact my body was eating its muscle to stay alive, the hair on my head was a fine cloud of wisp, my heart rate was so low, just to keep me in this world. I have never discussed, the fights, the fits, the throwing of food, the night running of a small child as she desperately tried to waste calories in a sleeping hospital, the fact I was never allowed off my bed for a whole month to conserve calories, the fact all my sport was taken away from me for years, the perpetual bone chilling cold, because I did not have enough fat to keep warm in summer. No one knows apart from me, my parents and my brother. Who have always been by my side, my army of warriors, who loved me.

What know one knows is I have never written this down, that I am now sobbing at my desk as I sit back in that dark hole of child hell, of fear, of nothingness. I didn’t care if I died, but of course something in me so desperately wanted to live, wanted to fight, wanted to sit back in the sun, and be a child who had friends and fitted.

This has been a good thing to “share”, it may not be what many want to hear or read, but eating disorders are here and they are everywhere in varying guises. They provide a destructive safety net / control in a place where you have no control.

So, please take this as you will. No I am not normal, and I never will be. I will be open, wild, honest, true, believe in the magical, raw and blunt. I do believe that I am also kind and I would truly help anyone in need, I am the person who stops the car to help the lady cross the road, to smile at the person alone on the bench, to hug a stranger crying, and tell people I love them. I know what it feels like to be alone, laughed at in the school, bullied in the playground, in life and constantly told I am weird. But, if weird is not normal then maybe that’s ok by me.

If you don’t like my “different” it is ok to walk away.

Hey, I’m not stupid! Says the mother…..

I was listening to a podcast today and they were discussing, how no one ever recognizes raising kids, or being a carer as a full time job. That it should be celebrated, appreciated and quantified in value. Yet, I am not writing this piece from the stand point of “hey look at how hard this job is”, or how much work I do, everyday, all day and night. As a parent you also do the night shift. Check me out – I am a warrior against bad dreams and bed wetting.

What I want to share is the silent shame that seems to be woven intrinsically into being a full time mum. At age 32 I became pregnant with my first child, at the time I was a project manager for a media company. I am also a 2:1 graduate with a Sports Science Degree, and have been a top 10% student for my whole schooling career. In the past I have been a fashion buyer for department stores and Levi’s Europe, an assistant Pastry Chef, blogger and recruiter.

BUT as soon as that wiggly single sperm fertilized that big ass mama egg, I became a “mother”. On a dime I decided to give up work, and work hard at being a mum. In that single moment all my education, and my entire career just faded away. From then on, all people would see, was a disheveled woman with kids!!! With snot on her shoulder and a small, dirty handprint on her thigh. All they can see is a bearer of screaming infants, and not the intelligent being that lays dormant beneath. I basically became a walking womb! A person who could not do both, who could not parent and hold down a paid job simultaneously. DO not get me wrong I tried to do both, but I crumbled, I was up working at 5 am and starting again at 9 pm and trying to parent in between. I could not do either job well, and I was failing miserably.

Today I cried when I heard that podcast, because, I do feel like life has kind of passed me by when it comes to work. I am a 44 year old mother of 3. Seriously no one wants me, when you read the numbers. When people cast their eyes in my direction and look me up and down, I want to scream, “PLEASE see me, I am smart, I have ideas, I can create and be creative, Hey hey hey I can still do mental arithmetic in my head, go on, go on, test me.

Yet, why? Why do I feel like I need to hang my head as I mumble, yes I am a full time mum, full time care giver. Is it my own internal shame of working failure, or did society create this. “Oh you don’t work”??? What you settled into the homemaker role, what a cop out. “Dumb bitch” !!! I am not going to sit here and list all the shit I do every day. The continuous work I do as a parent of three. I hold my hand up high, yes I took the role willingly, but that does not make me unintelligent, so why do I have this driving need to make sure people know I have a brain

I will admit at times I feel so unbelievably lost. A languishing amoeba floating in a sea of meal planning, bed making, wound cleaning and ferrying small humans around. Yes I am single cell creature fighting to be more. Yet life right now just doesn’t see me, I am an aging shadow that no longer has the time to be fleshed out.

What do I want to be when I grow up? I still want to be an architect, a painter, an antiques buyer, museum curator, a historian, a writer, a sneaker designer, a run shoe tester, a gallery curator, a merchandiser…….

I still have work dreams. However, as a sit up at 2 am cradling a small frightened child on my lap, stroking his hair and telling him mummy loves him, I do know I have the right job. I was made to be a boy mum, a strong mum, a fair mum, a loving mum, a mum who will always be there….. To pick you up, take you to the dentist, to hold your hand, to take you to the zoo, to rush you to hospital, to clean a bloody knee, to make you pancakes in the morning, to bring a forgotten lunch, to see your first steps, your first smile, to hear the words mama first, to have your warm arms around my neck and your face buried in my hair, just loving you. I was made to love you.

Yes, that may not tell the world my IQ, but that makes me amazing to them, to the little people I created. It grants me the time to watch them blossom and grow, forge their own path. AND that is why I gave up work, I gave up so I could be everything to my children. AND I must stop feeling guilty about that.

That is who I am and will always be, a mama, a mother, a mum, their mom, mummy…

Love ME

BOYS BOYS BOYS

“Make sure you raise your boys right!”

OK? What does that even mean? What is exactly “right”?

To be kind / clear up their plates / not be an abuser / give to charity / not drink to excess / learn to cook a three course meal / to not touch small children inappropriately / to not be a racist / help the elderly with their shopping. Clearly “all of the above”, yes?

What exactly do you mean? Please clarify.

As a mother of three strong, independent, loving, smart, athletic, caring, sensitive, creative boys, over the years I have either read or have been told the above sentence multiple times, always from the mothers of all girls. Every time I smile with a grimace, nod my head mechanically and secretly want to come back with “well please can you do a good job with your girls” .

What you mean to say is please make sure your son, is not an alcoholic, chauvinistic, wife beating, raping , pedophile, Correct, is that what you want to say to me over coffee?

The thing that shocks me is that, in today’s modern society, apparently all men are born bad. That unbeknownst to them, my boys have been placed in a :”box” before they have even had their first wet dream, I mean who knows, blimey they could be homosexual, would that then make it all ok?

The thing that hurts most is, I am a female, and as a woman, I want to be treated equally, kindly, with love, to not be raped, abused, beaten or touched inappropriately. Like many, I have not escaped all scenarios, and I am a product of some very unfortunate moments when a man did bad things to me. So, please excuse me while I damn well make sure my beautifully caring boys are raised to treat women as their equal. I also have taught my boys, that none of the above sentence is OK to happen to them either. That none of the above is acceptable to happen to them AT ALL! They too are worthy of love, kindness, and to be treated equally. They are the good guys too.

Firstly, let me say OUT LOUD, that my husband and I love them with every part of our souls, my kids know they are loved and are worthy of unconditional love.

We are teaching them –

Everyone has feelings. That kindness above all things will get them far in the world. To love with passion. That other peoples feelings should be respected, but do not have to be taken if inappropriate. That NO means NO in all aspects, for them and for others.

We are also working on the idea women are different anatomically but equal. That women are the bearers of life and that is pretty damn magical. What is more, a small boy needs to know that his mama carried him for 9 months, she fed him from her body, she kept, and will always keep him safe. Your mama made you.

What do you mean “raise them right” ?

I AM , I do not need anyone judging my small child or me, before he has even developed his own feelings, thoughts, likes and dislikes. You have judged my son because he has a penis, because he is male. Men are not the bad guys, society is, poverty is, the government is, a failed system is. “THEY are not born EVIL” All children are born GOOD, clean, wholesome and pure. We were all children once. Please remember that.

As parents we all have a responsibility to our children to be the best parents that we can be. To nurture, support, listen to and love them. Please, stop making my boy start his life on the back foot, constantly trying to prove he is worthy of the sex he was given. He is worthy, he is human, he has feelings, he has fears, he is a child

So, in answer to this ambiguous phrase, YES he will be raised “right” because, to receive kindness, love, compassion, help, you too must give, you must listen and be listened too. As absolutely no one should ever be put in a box, and told who they are, before they have even be able to make a choice.

My boys are good and a penis doesn’t change that. Choices do.

Love “a mother of boys”

Not “Another” Mother runner!

As a mother and a runner, there is something really damn annoying about the title of “mother runner”! It is an over used rhyme, for runners who happen to be mothers. To be a runner and a mother are actually two very separate things for me. Both elements / roles are extremely important, commanding equal positioning in the genetic fabric of my soul, my being, my sanity.

Each have single handedly created a very resilient human being, blossoming from my core. Each have taught me love, deep deep happiness, a sense of order, and a sense of relief. In equal measures they have also driven me bat shit crazy and forced me to look at the reality of my failure. Of missing expectations and grounding myself in the limitations of my “Now”! Not that this has to be continuous, but it grants me the time and space to sit in the moment and to feel, taste, tangibly experience loss and pain, in a safe and controlled way.

Motherhood has been my making, yet, so has running. However, they are not part of the same thing, they are not joined or rhymed or even belong together. But they can flow in harmony, rubbing together with a slight friction that creates the “spark” that is my drive and superhuman powers to dig in and welcome the ability to feel extremely uncomfortable in wilding emotions and pain for long, excruciatingly long periods of time.

Although the Mother runner phrase is ridiculously over used, and even slapped across tee shirts, to be a mother and a runner with goals makes me an outlier, an outsider, a juggler. I cannot make the 7am run or the 8am run, I cannot take naps after a 60 mile week, I like many run on a perpetual empty, I cannot stay and chat, I have to run, pack up and haul ass back to the fold of wild boys, school, runs, packed lunches and activities. PTO commitments, work, dinner planning, shopping, washing, cleaning, folding, doctors appointments. I work fucking hard in my over scheduled life to carve out a daily 1-2 hour slot to run, to train and to not impact my home life. That does not make me a mother runner, but a “Mutha Fucking Runner!”

But, there are others, other mothers running in those twilight hours, alone and dedicated. Other Mother fucking Runners” all juggling, all exhausted, all so badass and dedicated to managing time to have the ability to leave, alone. Propelling ourselves forward, stride after stride. Stride, arm swing, breath, sweat, inhale, exhale – repeat over and over and over again. We run together at 5am pushing each other with a strength and understanding no one else can provide. We hold each other up and listen in those dark morning hours, just waiting for the sunrise to peek above the horizon, beckoning, calling us home. As the light hits the trees we crouch in tiny groups stretching, pulling off sneakers, guzzling water, moving inwards, shedding our runner skin as the mother once again returns, all business as she kisses small children awake, drinks coffee, busying whilst listening for the waffles to pop.

Wake up children! The Mother has returned.

INHALE

The light burns my retinas, as I step out from the gloom that has been 18 months of a global pandemic. I squint against the glare of freedom and safety. Yet I am hesitant to embrace, my arms hang stiffly by my side and my mask dangles from my ears, I am a deer caught in the headlights of something that feels foreign and unreal.

What do you mean I can hug you? WHAT I can press my lips to your cheek and leave my mark upon you? Can I? Do you want me to? Do I want to? Can you give me Covid (oh wait I have had it, can I get it again?, but can I?).

When you step forward, mask less, arms stretched wide and pull me to you, the warmth feels seductive, but I repel against you, my body recoils, it feels wrong to be close, but oh how I need that human contact again. I crave it and hate it in equal measures. I feel unprotected, vulnerable, foreign, exposed, like life can see me naked and is attacking each cell hard and fast.

My anxiety is currently high, I am on edge, my breathing is out of synch, I feel raw, I teeter on the edge of a panic attack. I hold my mask tight in my hand and breathe, I lung breathe, belly breathe, I breathe fast, I breathe slow, I am mask less. I can breathe, the air is fresh, and does not smell of my washing detergent. I can smell spring, another persons skin, flowers, wet grass, rain rolling in, I can inhale and exhale.

Inhale, exhale!

Hand hold, hug, kiss, stand indoors with friends, I am alive, I can be, I can see the light at the end of the tunnel and I feel so naked. Covid was my excuse to step back, to not be, to be alone and now I have to be sociable, tangible and touchable…….

Inhale

I am exposed……….

The end is nigh – take that how you need!

Packed Panties, My Amazon Crime!

Yes people, today this 44 year old slummy mummy of three sunk to new lows!?!

Today, I bought a 3 pack panty set on Amazon; that’s knickers to you Brits. Just let the horror of this action sink in a little… Yes, I am a shameful human, the antonym of sexiness and desirability. But, am I?

As a female who was never blessed with womanly curves, or bountiful breasts, I actually never graduated out of the teenage section of Victoria Secrets. I was frequently mistaken for a boy until I turned 17 and finally discovered how to apply mascara. I also figured out how to dress my boyish frame, all legs and arms, broad shoulders and nothing much else. I am not sure I got the full shot of Estrogen at birth. I was a month early, maybe that bit came in month 9 who knows.

So, rather than seduction, femininity or prettiness, underwear has been functional all my life. A tool to make sure I didn’t soil my shorts, and a fighting chance at pretending I had boobs with padded bras and chicken fillets. I am a lowly 32A a 30B on really good day. I ask you what is the point of a lace bralette, if I cannot even get a bra to look good, as they sit poorly on my frame, dig into my ribs, they itch and hurt so much I end up throwing them off. Slowly over the years I gave up trying! I graduated to functional, basic, Calvin Klein cotton, multi pack hipster panties (does that make me a late 90s hipster?). They were the way forward. They did not itch, they do not make me sweat, they wash well and occasionally I can buy them in cool colors, they are cheaper and I mean who sees them these days. My husband, that is it! AND I am sure he would have divorced me by now, or bought me new underwear if he was remotely bothered.

Yes, I bought packed underwear from Amazon, the consumer beast. I should be ashamed, but I am not. When did underwear become a vessel to show off my body, when it is meant to hide the bits, no-one is allowed to see; as ruled by society. They are there to keep my clothes clean and support a chest that for most women would hurt without a good bra. They can look pretty and sexy or clean lined and functional, whatever you need. Years ago I decided no amount of lace or peep hole would improve the frame I have. I most certainly do not need any support. I actually think I look better naked, or with all my clothes on. The in between is most certainly not a good option.

Therefore, when my packed panties arrive, I will be happy. I will have some nice (the worlds most banal word) comfy (shit I said the word comfy, yup I am officially over 40), functional (my body is now treated like a machine not a seduction tool) and breathable cotton under crackers. Calvin Klein is synonymous to the late 90’s when I made that change, so I am a loyal follower.

Who knows, maybe, I’ll just extend commando Sundays to the rest of the week as I hit my 50s, what the heck.

Love a woman eagerly awaiting packed knickers / panties from Amazon!

“Because, I’m Way Less Sad!”

I heard this song for the first time the other day by AJR. See, this bitch is totally down with the kids. Although my 11 year old did tell me that my “tennis ball” curved peak baseball cap needs to be straight. I am not allowed to wear it backwards, as I am ancient, and calling someone a “crazy cat” is just embarrassing!!!! Well it was good enough for Hendrix!

But I side track. The point is I heard this song and I fell back into the no mans land that was my early 20s. I was alone in London, in a high fought after job (I was a Denim / Menswear Fashion buyer; well assistant), poorly paid, and renting with strangers, who were usually crazy, most certainly not “friends”. But Martin, if you are are reading this, or James or Helen, you were good friends, and I love you all for protecting me during some of this destructive time.

As the song states, “No I ain’t happy yet? But, I’m way less sad.”

That was my life. I bounced from work, to pub, to party, to a strangers bed on occasion. I drank too much, I fell over often, as my slightly starved body was not a great consumer of alcohol. I occasionally dabbled in narcotics, to keep up with the big kids. Inside I was so so empty, solitary and sad. The social friends, the parties, the drugs, the alcohol as the song goes did not make happy now, but they did make me “way less sad.” It felt like I was drifting unconsciously through a sea of noise. Cruising through London, searching with a dim light. Searching for some connection, for my soul to be lit and to let it flourish. The dirty city was bright, pulsating and alive, I fed off its energy for years and then I fizzled out. My job was going nowhere, no man wanting anything past my outward appearance, once they got my lanky legs wrapped around them and the morning sun rose, they disappeared. Or if they found out my inside was a cavern of honest emotion, compared to the superficial shell of my 23 year old body, they floated on by.

I continued, I lived, I had some awesome fun in those hedonistic nights of dancing, loud music, dark bars and city sunrises. Yes for brief moments I felt like I was on fire, my brain and body glowed from the energy of the throng. “I was way less sad” …….. “And I’m not dead yet, so I guess I’ll be alright”! Then daylight, the hangover, the loss, the sickly London morning, shone a grey tinge on my dingy room. As I lay staring at the ceiling, hollow, aching and distraught.

The song makes me cry, it brings back the ache of a lost child in a crowded city. It reminds me of my stuck youth languishing, caught on its hedonistic rollercoaster.

Then one night a boy walked into a pub. I was caught in its clutches, swallowed by a sea of people. He walked in, with his floppy hair, big grin, and kind heart, he scooped up my soul and blew life back in. “Joy” had finally arrived.

“Yes, I feel happy now.”

A letter to the man….

Who decides to walk his dog at 6am.

To the man who then decides to skulk over to the track, where I run alone in the sleepy dullness of a rising dawn.

To the man who makes the choice to watch me as I run past, and walk right around the edge of the track as I gradually move to the center.

To the man who loiters around my pile of water bottle, jacket, gloves and keys.

To the man who has his hood up as he circles the track with his dog.

To the man who doesn’t smile, to the man who circles, to the man with the hood and hidden face. To the man who makes my palms sweat, my heart race. To the man who makes me eyes dart, frantically looking for escape routes, who makes me formulate plans. To the man who makes me hold my pepper spray tight in a shaking hand.

I keep on running, running too fast, running in flight, ready to run away.

To the man who finally walks away with his dog, as another person enters the field.

To the man who was probably innocent of all the crimes I imagined him of.

A letter to the man….. Please think about your actions so I can feel safe.

To the man, I say “sorry it has to be this way.”

Love “a mother of boys.”