Tag Archives: Writing

The science of being slightly nuts…

My marathon training has now entered week 6 of 16 weeks – so we have 10 to go before I actually try to run my first 26.2 miles (I did the math just in case you could not 😉)

I think I may have become a little deranged. My long run today is 14 miles. I need to complete this before the sun is high enough to strip the skin off my body or reduce me to a pool of water. My running prep is now thus…..

– wake up 5 am (Jesus it’s dark)

– eat a carefully planned oatmeal, with seeds, honey and banana. Complex carbs, simple sugars and protein (check) – as I may just starve on the way round – eating at 5 means. I have 90 mins to get that sucker down and not vomit at mile 6.

– drink a large, fully loaded coffee, a) to wake me up and b) to evacuate the colon and large intestine – so there will be no Paula Radcliffe’s happening mid run. (Google Paula Radcliffe London Marathon shit)

– as I’ll be running at temperatures between 80F and 95F with humidity – I need to drink 7 oz of water 90 mins before I leave. Hydration is key.

– charge headphones – as banging house tunes may be the only way to get through the last couple of miles. Or “We are the champions”, a la Queen. Please do not judge my over 40 year old tastes?!?

– sunglasses – check

– hat – check

– sunscreen – check

– no blister socks – check

– 4 water bottles filled with electrolyte water – check

– running belt – check

– fancy Brooks sneakers – check

– phone charged – check

– Garmin Fenix 5 charged – bugger I need to do that, hold on, – check

– now time to do stretch’s – I am now 41 I need to do this or I may just seize up and fall over. Not cool.

– energy gels for over mile 10, again I need everything I can to do this shit. – check

– oh and the important part, actually pull on shorts and a running top, I’m not sure the world is really ready for me running naked. 😂

Phew I think that’s it ….. Start running at exactly 6.30 am .

Who said this was simple ?

The cracks of aging….

They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but what if the beholder is YOU? And you really hate the way you look?

Its common knowledge I had body issues. As a child I was deemed an ugly duckling, but that was probably because I had an emaciated body and a skull for a head as my mind and body was ravaged, then abused by Mrs Anorexia. Well I got over that, but I have always been very critical about the way I look. Yes I am shallow, as shallow as a puddle. you would never drown in my puddle.

When I was younger I always knew I was not ugly, but I was never comfortable in my own skin to truly love myself. So in classic style I used to seek approval about the way I looked. I did not care it could be male or female I just needed the reassurance that you thought I was pretty. I always needed new clothes, a different hairstyle, a new cool lipstick to chase the you are fucking ugly demons away, to shut that part of me down, that personality trait is a very ugly part of me.

I wish that I did not care. I wish so hard for that. But in a land where most of my friends are having Botox, lip fillers, boob jobs, its so very tempting to join in. To join the my forehead does not move crowd. Part of me would like to grow old disgracefully and not go down that route.

I have entered the 2nd year of my forties and shit its all going south, the crows feet are deeper (I would almost say a crow would be very jealous of these feet), yes I can affectionately call them laughter lines, but believe me, superficial Kelly really wishes she had not laughed quite so much. The deep crevices beginning to channel their way down the sides of my mouth, could almost be called a continental divide, fuck why did I have to smoke for 10 years of my life (because I loved smoking that’s why).

I drink coffee, I drank alcohol to excess in my twenties, occasionally in my thirties and the yearly reminder of why not to do this in my forties. I dabbled in narcotics and naughty white powders, danced in dark club’s until dawn and have still not had a full night sleep since having Rugrats All of which have eroded and broken my three layers of epidermis. Regretfully awesome, to have had so much damn fun that something had to give. Hey but I consume blueberries, spinach and avocados, they should fix the damage, right? Right?

Technology does not help my withering confidence and increasing hatred of looking in a mirror. As HD photography highlights every tiny crack in my face, I find myself refusing to smile, turning my head to show my better side, to always wear sunglasses to hide those eyes, oh those deep set eyes of mine, how I despise you. But I keep taking selfies (oh dreaded selfie) over and over again, take, delete, take, delete, hoping that it is not true that somehow a pretty picture will come out and I am 20 again. Now every picture is just revealing what I do not want to see or know. Aging is a process I cannot stop and have to embrace so hard that it becomes something I love and not battle against (or at least suffocate) How? Answers on a postcard please. Or a Whats app. Whatever works.

My bathroom cupboard is bursting forth like a vomiting “Rosemary’s baby” of anti wrinkle creams, hoping that each will reverse the inevitable or at least putty fill the current cracks. Sadly, mending my face is not mending the way I think and feel, or the huge break in my mind to get a grip of. I really need to get a grip. I am bloody old for Christ sake, I need to not actually give a shit. Old people never give a shit about anything.

My husband gets better with age, I just get worse. How does that even work?

Trawling through Instagram, I cannot believe these 40 plus year old celebs look so amazing, young and so so so beautiful. I want to be a stronger, better person, to figure out how to erase the ugly glasses at which I judge the physicality of my being. I may just have to stop wearing my glasses, I look better blurry. 🙂

My kids call me old, yes I am old, being old makes me sad, what makes me angry is that I cannot rise above the aging process and not give a flying fuck. The key has to be to live like a puritan, never use a mirror and to never go out in the sun. But is the aspiration of a sagging youth worth not having fun or experiencing anything ever again. No it is not. I am at a stalemate and I need to win.

Clearly I just need to drink more water, as this seems to be the answer for everything 🙂

Or grow a very long fringe.

Or ALWAYS have my hair tied back for a DIY face lift.

Or just bathe in Kale.

Or if you know a good plastic surgeon or have discounts on Botox, please give me a call.

Anxie – tea and biscuits.

I wanted to share this – this picture is of me going through serious anxiety and repeated panic attacks. I look calm and together. Inside I am unraveling and panicking continuously. I think I am going to die… literally! and my mind is broken and fuzzy. The only thing that makes me keep some form of sanity are the kids. Today I have googled continuously the symptoms of a heart attack and any form of light that suggests I am ok? I know rationally it’s my anxiety and I need to breathe and focus and meditate and slow down. But when you are in a pit of overwhelming fear and confusion, it’s very hard to climb out. I can feel it lifting as I take those steps. But it will be a good week before I’m back to “normal”. I wanted to share this picture to show you, anxiety like any mental illness cannot be seen from the exterior. This is essentially a picture of me crumbled and destroyed and barely keeping my shit together… and you would never know. I don’t need sympathy but just an understanding that I am one of many and kindness is key to anyone struggling. #anxiety #mentalhealth #mentalhealthawareness

Flu, have an opinion?

With the current flu pandemic effecting most states, the topic of vaccinations and children, once again raises its head.

Whether you do or do not, get a trained medical professional to stick a needle into your kids arm or thigh and administer a clear (potentially life saving) liquid into your child’s tiny little body, that is your right to do so.  I have many friends who do not vaccinate and I have many friends who do.

It’s such a personal choice and we may not agree on each others choices, but its ours, we have to remember that. I vaccinate, my personal belief that, way over the idea of metals being placed in my kids bodies and the potential side effects, I would rather that, than them, getting flu or polio or some other eradicated, previously life threatening disease. You can tell me I am dumb or pour out some spiel from some study, by some person. But I will never not vaccinate, like I could never convince someone to vaccinate who has chosen not to. The fallacy or reality (as remember it has not ever been really proven) that they can cause autism is a chance I will (repeatedly) take if it saves my kids life and the life of a sick child or a child too young to be vaccinated. My eldest, which is common knowledge, has high functioning Autism. Was it his shots at birth that caused this, who the hell knows? Is it genetic, or the way he was born, we will never know? But, I feel he has a far better chance to best the odds if he ever gets sick, which currently he has not. He is brilliant and healthy.

The thing is I will vaccinate and take the supposed risks, as I believe there are far worse threats to my kids life, food dyes in food (banned in Europe) as its proven they cause hyperactivity and cancer. I will never ever let my kids drink a Gatorade, Froot loops, MnM’s – again my choice, my belief, my opinion, good or bad. My kids will always wear a bike helmet when they cycle, I avoid hard candy (coloring’s and choking threats) and the list continues.

We all do what is best for our children and we may never agree, but we must respect, I will always love a person for their hearts and kindness. You may believe in God, I believe in science. You may like Trump, I do not. You believe in the right to own a gun, I never will. I love you and and I may never agree with you, but I value your ideas and thoughts. As long as you are not a racist, chauvinist, a bigot or narcissist, I will always sit and wait for your side, your thought out idea and the argument for or against. I hope people can always do this and not be blinkered to shut down and push out friends for having opposing beliefs. It makes us unique. Listening, not accusing or shouting creates community and understanding, respect and kindness. I will always like/love a friend if they just have the ability to listen and not bombard, accuse or demean a thought or another person.

We all do our best by our children and our fear and love for them is what drives us to keep them happy, loved, well and safe. For me that is one thing and that includes a shot to the arm every year from Flu, to you that is not, to me that is science at its best, to you that is a money making machine. We will always beg to differ.

Beauty

Truly is in the eye of the beholder. We surely do not behold the beauty in ourselves, externally or internally. Women suck at liking themselves.

This evening I sat with 3 girlfriends, all unique, all beautiful in completely different ways and none of them could see it. Gorgeous smiles , kind hearts, rocking bodies, complete sexy packages and not one of them could see it and accept their awesomeness. What creates this self doubt and internal blindness. Society? Men? Religion? Other women? Who said beauty had to look a certain way? What makes that way beautiful ? I want to know? I want to see this perfection! Where is it? Who has it? All of us do? But none of us believe it see .,

It breaks my heart. That so much delight, is not beheld or loved by the person who owns it.

Why? and when will we find it? Secretly in our rooms when no one is watching? After taking 300 selfies to get the perfect shot, we’ve all done it?

Or never?

Or maybe?

But we need to see ourselves for what we are, The great, gross, beauty, banality of our being, accept, appreciate, not always love, but realize it is what makes us unique, one of a kind and no one else has this. It’s special and crazily wonderful.

For Cat ❤️

I finally dig yoga. Thank fuck.

These are the voyages of the star sprite Kelly – ise, to seek out new worlds and new civilizations, to boldly go where no mentally unstable girl has gone before – Cue muzak  Well it goes something like that, doesn’t it?

For 30 longish years I have waded through the the boggy recesses of my fucked up mind, pushing against the tide of blah blah blah, a whole messy bunch of mental failure and drear-some darkness. Sporadically punctuated by a few bright splashes of my real self. All shiny, exuberant and full of fun loving deliciousness. I have frequently and repeatedly been told I should meditate (which I am completely shite at) and do Yoga (with whom I have a long hate hate relationship with) Why? You ask. let me enlighten you…..

Tooooo damn slow.

Too much damn lycra.

Too many embarrassing, creepy (stolen from my current yoga instructor) deep breathing.

The music is too slow

Too expensive

I could go on. In short I would have rather gone to a spin class, with booming house music and sweated my ass off. Which is what I did for 30 years.

I did pregnancy yoga, but I got dizzy and still had to have the cesarean (3 times). I tried floaty, religousy yoga, well I do not believe in god (sorry to all my religious friends, he does not exist)  and that may have been helpful. I did the spiritual, incense laden, lets travel to India yoga, all very nice but to much arm pit hair and unwashed pony tails in a room (ahh now I know why there is so much incense). I tried, the fit, hot, rich mum yoga, but in short they are not at all friendly unless you drive a Range Rover and have an account at Lululemon, I drive a big fat Yukon, affectionately known as the Polar bear – she is a white car and I wear yoga gear that are Target specials.

So after those long years of  discovery bullshit, I walked in to “The Yoga Lab”. I sub sequentially found my yoga home. The people are friendly, but not obnoxious, the drop in fee is reasonable, they are trippy and enlightened, but not dippy and dull. The class is fast and the instructor admits to his own failures, the yoga is not pretty, but pushes me to work hard and challenges me both in my body and mind. The music is loud and big on the bass, it is hot and sweaty and not at one moment can my anxieties take over and defeat me. There is no time, all my energy is exhausted by my screaming muscles and my focused mind. Yes there is Lycra abound and the deep creepish breathing (I still struggle with that and want to punch the nearest person), no one is posing or prancing like a wanker, but it is dark and the energy is flowing and nothing can escape the room or enter it once that hour starts. We are taught to keep our joy and not give it away, to stand still and be, to not let life rob us of our internalization and freedom, we have to just be and to just be silent and still.

At last my eureka moment. I feel like I have finally understood this practice, or have I found a practice that has finally understood me. In that hour I only feel the sparks of my light, I feel like I am glowing and not hiding in the shade and shadows of the anxiety filled recesses of my psyche.

No one needs me or wants me in those carefully carved out moments, so I can only be who I am, who I am meant to be and that is Kelly.

Run Kelly Run!

There have always been three constant presences in my life, apart from my parents and brother of course. 1) A love of / obsession with making and eating banana bread, 2) an infatuation with “The Sound of Music” and with that comes the magnificent Julie Andrews and 3) a natural ability to run. 1 and 2 have never wavered in their prominence but 3 has.

I was a pretty decent runner as a child and was heavily involved in athletic training 2-3 times a week and then run meets on top. I did everything, from the hurdles and sprint to middle and long distance. Then at the grand old age of 10, I developed a pretty debilitating eating disorder (anorexia nervosa) and of course the running had to stop, as my body was actually eating my muscles to keep me alive and hence there was nothing left to actually run with. Sub sequentially, I was actually carried in to the local children’s hospital when I was 10 years old and left there for 4 months to vegetate. To sit on a bed and not move and there was definitely no running. Of course this quickly halted my running career and I never went back to it. I am not sure why? Maybe it was because it reminded me of a time when life was easier and achievable, light and free, not controlled and regimented (my own doing I may add). Then anorexia plunged that light into darkness and politely spat out a withered, haunted, less able version of myself. She may not have been who I really was, but I embraced her all the same with her long limbed gawkiness and not a muscle in sight. She was a safe way to look, not fat, but not dying, not muscular and manly looking, but lean and androgynous.  I still exercised, but it was mainly walking and swimming,  nothing that would require strength to be healthy or actually have muscle tone, as muscle weighs more than fat remember and weight = fatness in my warped, starved, fucked up mind. Years passed and I was happy in my sub existence and then suddenly my iron fist of control of my brain and its failings became weak and old issues gained some gusto and force and ate away at the grip I held. I was crumbling under their weight, but I needed to drive them back and become strong once more. Note; My brain lacks in serotonin and the best way to gain natural, kick you in the arse serotonin is through… ……. yes ……… exercise.

So, due to my mental struggles I discovered my body and mind needed more, it was craving to be pushed and forced away from safety and comfort, to become tired and exhausted, strengthened and liberated from its boundaries, to be crushed and rebuilt (wow now that was a dramatic sentence)

Therefore, 30 years on from pulling them off, 1 marriage and 3 kids later I am yanking on my running sneakers once more. Inspired by my ultra marathon runner husband and an innate need to push my body and earn 2 hours of quiet time, I’ve decided to sign up for a 1/2 marathon in January (baby steps) and then a 25K trail run (through the alligator infested Everglades) in February. Am I decidedly cool and inspired or fucking nuts, I’m not quite sure. As I had always vowed I would never do anything that may make me lose control of my bodily functions and really these may just do it. As in my world there is no hanging on when I need a shit, its now or a whole big mess to clear up. Now when running, I feel this could be a huge issue. So I may just have to take an enema a few hours before. People, this is a major fear of mine, so please be kind if I shit myself “Bridesmaids” style in the middle of Naples 5th Avenue, at mile 11.

My training is to be a cross train affair with 1 x 4 mile run, a yoga class, 1 swim in the week and then a long run at the weekend. Last weekend I completed 9 miles and I felt strong, it was an exhilarating feeling and actually made me cry as I never believed my body could still do this. Note this is the longest I have ever run, in my whole life and I did it alone, with my only company being a blog about cake baking. Did you know that before bicarbonate of soda and baking powder, that a cook may of had to beat eggs for 2 hours to get the same leavening effect. Now that is a a lot of beating by hand 🙂 The continuous pounding of my feet on the road, the slight discomfort of my knees, the ability to calm my breath and regulate it (I have anxiety) into rhythmic, steady breaths was empowering (I do hate this word, its kind of new age wanky), it settled me and pushed me into a space of meditation. Which I find I can never do sitting still with my eyes shut. I was alone, so I could notice the little things and sights, small details were prominent as manicured shrubbery and well built houses bobbed past to the steady pounding of my feet.

One hour and 30 minutes passed and I was sad to stop, the personal achievement overwhelmed me, yes I know its only 9 miles, but that is 9 miles, I never thought I could do. I must admit the amount of calories I burnt appealed to my suppressed anorexic self, the serotonin pumping through me sated the bitch I call anxiety, she is always looming with intent, my muscles were soft, stretched and fluid, when they are usually tightly wound and stiff. I felt good, my body beaten, but my mind rested and I remember my childhood, the need for this, my love of this and the sadness of those lost 30 years. I’ve felt so happy and calm and rested and driven. I am emerging from the years I left my self to fallow, curled up in my shell, protecting myself, scared to push the boundaries and crack that shell. A 10 yr old Kelly Dixon is in there, she is ready to come out and show you who she really was then and really is now in her older 40 year old form. She is no longer frightened or controlled, but open, raw and ready to just be. Not frightened or ashamed of who she is, the kooky, weird kid and now the kooky, weird adult. But you know what? I have missed her, she is resilient, sharp, honest and kind and I am proud of her. She will continue to run and run and push and finally break down everything she has built and reveal her vulnerable core, still 10 and waiting to truly live.

Next I will run 11 miles and then 13 and then who knows maybe I will double that – I had better buy some diapers 🙂

Wanted! – A better parent?

In a million, trillion years I am not a great parent, a goodish one, yes, a moderately passable one, yes-ish. So for me to achieve greatness, I have a long way to go. A super, loooooonnnngggg way. Like 30 thousand miles plus, of an arduous and highly lengthy journey. In reality I totally do not have my shit together in the semblance of any form of an acceptable package.

I swear too much in front of my kids, always with the caveat that, only I can do that and it is not until they leave my home can a “fuck you, you ass hole” ever pass their lips. After 5 pm, it is not the witching hour for my kids, but for me. Excessive noise, screaming and shouting, too much homework, will send me into a whirling dervish melt down, frenzy, maybe a little wall kick or two. I too am a mere human, with an extreme sensitivity to too many people and too much noise> Therefore, technically I am kinda buggered, that I gave birth to 3 boys, hence 2 kids too many and 2 boys too many, if any shred of sanity was going to survive. Swimming, counselling, lots of love, hugs and the occasional bottle of wine, will sooth the pain.

So then, it got me to thinking, would I be a better parent if I lived closer to my parents and family. If all that pressure was taken off my shoulders and I could drop them off for an afternoon or evening and decompress. So I could readjust and just be. Even pee without an audience would be awesome, “mama can I see your poo poo?” the resounding answer BTW is a ” HELL NO”. I feel there are so many positives for being closer to family and not living 5000 miles away. However, is it any easier for those who do live near their folks, are some decisions made for you, without you knowing, do you feel obliged to have to conform to family traditions that you may not like or even agree with? I do think a lot of guilt could also play a part on not wanting to conform, are there too many influences in the kids life, your life, too much can be as tiring as too little? That type of pressure must be immense.

However,I  do feel my kids miss out hugely on extended family, cousins and grandparents and I miss out on a web of love to fall back on. I believe, I would parent more effectively and a touch calmer maybe, if the support was there. I know for sure, I would be richer, if we did not have to pay babysitters just to get adult time. Yet on the flip side, my children get all of me, the good, bad and ugly. They understand my humanity and they also know, I am not always right and that I am flawed and love them until I hurt and that is OK, it is OK not to cope and cry and release their emotions, maybe that is why my house is SO LOUD, wild, raucous and emotional.

Yet, parenting is not a walk in the park, no matter what situation you are in. You are perpetually tired, stressed, bombarded emotionally from all angles, no kid is perfect and neither are we. We do the best we can with the village and tools provided to us. People ask  how you do it, but the answer for all, is you have to, there is no alternative, if we do not do it, who will? No one ever knows the full situation, of your life, what lies beneath the skin, at the core of you, its still you, a person, a parent, someone who needs love and care as well.

The up shot is, I think I would be a better mother if I were near my family, but I also do not dislike the way I do parent, I am constantly working at it, I have made all my own decisions for good and bad. This was my choice and I live with it every day and every day I do feel guilty for my kids that we are so far away, but, I remember they also have a quality of life, that we could not have provided for them in England. They have so many opportunities that I never had as a kid and I want them to play golf, tennis, hockey, learn to ski, sail boats etc etc, we could never have given them that back home, we just would not have had the money. We get to see daddy ever night, in the UK he would be commuting and never home. So I do not feel sorry for our choices, yet always,a little sad we are so far away, as I miss our families deeply ,their love, laughter and eccentricities.

However, to all parents, I say this. To those who do it alone, the single parent homes, the homes who also look after the grandparents, the homes with help, no help, money, no money, the homes where parents have their own issues, kids with disabilities, illnesses. Remember,we are all the same. Be kind to each other, help each other on this journey we are on, it can get long and it can be lonely, talk to each other, share the greatness and the shitness of your day, as we have all been there at some point.

We love our kids, we do our best, we fail, we succeed, we laugh, we cry, we do the fucking best job we can and then try to do it better and that is what parenting is all about.

 

 

POEM

Yesterday I quit Facebook,

Today I skipped my Prozac.

2 months ago I abstained from coffee,

Lets hope Mrs Anxiety does not come back.

My heart has not raced yet – Phew

My breathing remains long – Ahhhh

I have not broken down just yet – Woo Hoo

Not sure if I will stay strong.

Last week I thought I was Asperger s,

I think it will be my excuse.

For when I crumble and go nutty,

When I ramble and become obtuse.

The fear is mounting, I push it down,

What will happen with no drugs?

Thank Fuck, I still have alcohol,

Not an alcoholic yet, as I’m not hiding it in mugs.

The peace away from social media is lovely,

Functioning without SSRI s is divine.

I kinda really miss the coffee,

Not panicking is sublime.

I am not sure what I am,

or who I will become?

I never really fitted in to life,

But being odd is fun.

So good bye Facebook, you will be missed,

Prozac I am stronger than you.

Coffee, oh coffee, you are so so loved,

And Anxiety I will beat you too.

 

 

Some serious adulting.

The words parent and adulting or parent and tequila, cocktails and Prosecco should NEVER EVER be uttered in sequence in the same sentence, like ever. Therefore, one must assume that being a parent and pouring the above cocktail down your throat over a period of several hours is the stupidest thing I have ever done… STOP, you there, parent of three rambunctious tiny men, do not partake in the consumption of adult libations. ARE YOU FUCKING CRAZY? Yup, yes I am, and the shameful thing is, that through out the course of my currently 8 year mothering phase, I have repeated this mistake a good few times. Each time I want to grab, happy, dancing, drunk, mama off the party train and make that train reverse back over her several time, just too remind that mad bitch lurking inside her… THAT……

SHE IS (OLD) FORTY.

SHE IS A MOTHER OF THREE.

SHE IS AND WILL ALWAYS BEEN A LARRY LIGHTWEIGHT.

SHE MUST NEVER DRINK MORE THAN THREE DRINKS

HER PARENTS DO NOT LIVE IN THIS COUNTRY (no last minute babysitting request for you, you dumb ass, light weight)

AND OH….

YOU ARE A BLOODY MOTHER OF THREE (we never sleep in, we are always running amok and hollering as LOUD as we can, whilst being extremely needy and totally incapable of leaving you alone, while you die in the darkness, under your duvet) BOYS.

BUT….

The big kid, grown up, party in the city was oh so fun, we danced, we drunk cocktails, we danced, we did shots, we danced and we laughed, we went to bed at 2.30 am (gasp, I have only ever seen that time to administer love and attention to a small frightened, occasionally vomiting child), after a tactical vomit, I realize life has just been far too much fun this evening for said, naughty, insensible parent.

However, as the sun blossoms searingly over the horizon. I’m peeling apart my mascara caked eyes, shifting my aching, dancing legs and blearily peeking in to the bath room mirror. I sigh, as I look upon a, not so beautiful now, aging parent, who is hungover and is now painfully regretting her (this mama, does not party often) excitement of last night. The head ache BOOMS, the stomach churns and the room is a little hazy.  Flopping back on to the warm bed, staring at the oh so quiet ceiling, I know that a mere, 12 painfully loud, busy, unending hours separate me from resuming this position and getting to shut my throbbing eyes once more.

Survival mode kicks in. 30 minute run (kill or cure time), Bagel, Coffee, Tylenol, sunglasses and a shower. Provide each child with own I pad, and a family sized pack of Cheerios. Another parent fail (I currently do not give a flying F) I let them melt their brains, just so you know they will leave you well alone.

Remember to repeat as needed and chant the words “NEVER AGAIN”.

Well, until next time 😉