Taking a Paige from Lyme Disease

Many might not know but I spent my junior year of high school in Wilton, Connecticut. It was a total game changer for this island girl. Saw my first snow fall, had to stop speaking pidgin, had to wear pants and shoes. Was a great year; I made some amazing friends that I still hold close to me today. One of the things I had to become super aware of was deer ticks and Lyme Disease.

In Hawaii our dogs always had ticks but in Connecticut the ticks were sometimes the size of a freckle and carried one hell of a punch. I remember my aunt freaking out because she found a tick on my cousin and they had to save the tick and send it out for testing. I remember a friend had to get an IV put in her arm and once a day she clutched a ball of medicine as it hooked into her IV. I remember being scared. The worst thing you caught in Hawaii was sings from Portuguese man-o-war or catching Leptospirosis from swimming in some stagnate water.  For my friends living with Lyme Disease a tick bite turned into lifetime of medications, treatments, therapy and struggles.

But what is Lyme Disease? It’s a bacteria. It can be cured with early detection but for a long time doctors kind of ignored it as a valid illness. It mirrors so many minor things like the flu or a cold or even allergies. It starts with a rash from the tick bite, fever, headache, fatigue. These symptoms are easily overlooked and ignored and the longer the proper diagnosis stalls the more it takes over. Your joints, heart, central nervous system. After months of not being treated the symptoms become chronic and severe it can cause widespread pain and numbness throughout the body, paraparesis, chronic fatigue, arthritis, inflammation of the brain and spinal cord, and a myriad of other symptoms that make everyday life not only a challenge but some days impossible.

There’s a vaccine out now and there’s antibiotics but for those diagnosed late. For some where the disease has found it’s home inside their bodies the treatments seem endless, expensive and exhausting. Lyme Disease grips tightly. It grips tightly and it spreads. People with Chronic Lyme Disease can pass it onto their children.

I’m writing about Lyme Disease not because I have it, not because it was a passing thought about my past but because I have friends. Yes, I know, it’s hard to believe. I have a lot of friends diagnosed too late who are suffering through the effects of Chronic Lyme Disease.  It breaks my heart to see them strain. To know they are getting IVs put in, needle pokes daily, to hear the fatigue in their lives.

I have one friend in particular whose strength astounds me. Her name is Paige. She has 2 beautiful children and her diagnosis of Lyme Disease was give years too late. She has good days and bad days. She has gone through a divorce and raises her two kids lovingly.  Paige’s struggles are constant and her worry, pain and hardships are real. There is no option of giving up for her.  Living with her disease, fighting through her divorce she has gotten hit with another shattering blow. Both of her two wonderful children also have Lyme Disease. It took a lot of time and effort for her to get her children tested and diagnosed. Paige is a beautiful, strong, independent woman. Me saying it doesn’t make it true but me knowing her since 11^th grade, watching her daily exertions of being a single mom with Lyme Disease and still being a drop dead gorgeous, smart woman is just awe inspiring.

Paige has been through a lot and she’s only 29. I’m writing this as a call, as a hope,as a voice that my friends and family who read this might take the time to understand this disease and help a very brave woman. The treatment to help her is a staggering amount of money. If you can find it in your hearts and souls please take the time to give this mother some much needed relief. Please visit and donate on this site. 

Help Paige

This is Paige with her beautiful Children Sienna and Caleb.

HER Life

It was when her perceived world shifted that she began to understand. Life was not about money or love or her dogs. Life was about breathing and putting her feet in front of her. Recognizing that they are her feet and they’re weird and unique and hers. Worlds shift and crumble and shake and fall apart. Worlds are formed and melted in a day. They’re fluid. She was fluid. She had to be willing to feel the tides, taste the wind, see the obstacles and smell the decay. Everything was temporary except for her will, which carried her out the door.

She dragged her feet. She dreaded her steps. Slow but willing her feet met the ground one step at a time. Her life was not what she wanted but it was the life she made. No one had a life exactly like hers. In many people’s eyes, she was a failure. She knew this. It was an accepted fact.  Living with the fact didn’t make it any easier but she continued down the path she made. Her low pay, working several jobs and still not making ends meet. People saw her degrees, her hard work, as trash. That’s okay. She used it as temporary fuel. Burned her papers to keep her warm for the hour, for that one job interview, for that one moment. People suggested changes, other career paths. They suggested she read books and follow what their sister’s daughter’s cousin did who now makes such a substantial amount of money more than her. She smiled, said “Thank You.” Moved on, moved away. Maybe her life isn’t measured in dollars and cents. Maybe it’s not measured in children or careers. It’s not measured in coffee spoons and sawdust restaurant with oyster shells.

Her life is measured in cooking meals, not elaborate meals, not fancy meals but meals made with her heart for people who appreciate it. Her life is measured in hikes and long walks with her dogs and kindred spirits. Measured in laughs and smiles and singing.  Measured in conversations and debates. It’s measure in kisses and hugs and feelings and ideas and expressions. Her life is her own. Her world is being torn down and rebuilt daily.  She takes the pieces of her world and tries to reconfigure them. Daily. To see if there is another way. Out.

One Year Older

The day before my actual 30^th Birthday I was a mess. I was a pile of insecurities and to be honest I’m still that blubbering pile. I don’t know what it was but being 30 seemed like the worst idea my body ever had. Before my weekend trip to Vegas to celebrate this monumental turning of the clock, I would have spit venom and cynical mayhem over my 30^th birthday. I work 2 dead end jobs. I have no career. I gave up on writing aka my dream. I have no children. No House. No immediate big picture plan to get me to a better place. I’ve got an amazing husband who is also struggling and some dogs. I’m in debt, can’t pay my bills and struggle with medical conditions to lose weight. I fail, daily, to see the beauty in myself or my self worth. This was my year in review prior to Friday.

However, over the weekend I had friends who flew in from all over the country to celebrate with me and to re-assure me. Our lives are our own. There are twists and turns, backtracking and leaps forward. It’s not always linear. It’s not always point a to point b. I’ve got to accept that just because at 30 I’m not where I wanted my life to be that it doesn’t mean it will ALWAYS be that way. 

I have noticed little changes in myself and I like it. I find my energy cannot even be used for hate, envy or jealousy. I don't talk about anyone or anything. If I see a stunning woman walking down the street I don't try to pick apart little things to bring her down instead I find myself mentally complimenting her and smiling. Where do all these cute shoes live and how can I afford them? 

I’m making no grand announcement. No, I’m not going to go back to school and change my life. No, I’m not going to re-dedicate myself to my writing. I’m struggling. I don’t see an end in sight. My days are accounted for down to the minute. My weeks are exactly the same and right now having that routine, that normalcy, that pinpoint knowledge that I know exactly what is coming and when, it’s comforting. Right now I don’t have to think and it has allowed me some calm. I honestly can't even find the time to care about anything outside of my bubble. GMOs, Religion, Politics. Don't care. I budget and buy what I can afford. I eat what my body allows me. I understand that I could be a "better" person if I made my own laundry detergent, dog food, clothes, etc. If I spent more time researching the foods I should buy instead of just buying what is available and affordable. I'm doing everything to the best of my abilities and I'm okay with my life and what I eat. How I shop and what I spend my money on does not concern you. Spending time with my friends reminded me that I am loved and that I am good no matter what.

I expected a lot out of myself by the time I hit 30. The only person who seems to be disappointed in me, is me.

Letter to Myself

Dear Josh,

We are memories, dust. We are random skin flakes, fabric and dirt. We are cobwebs and filth. We collect in corners. We wait. I wish it would have ended better but there was no other way for it to end. Suicide threats and bruised ribs. Heartache, betrayal, alcohol. I take full responsibility for my disloyalty. I cheated on you. I left you for someone else whom I then married. That's aching betrayal. That’s destruction.

For over 2 years we had our moments. We should have broken up long before we dug our trenches and weathered the war. No one but us understood why we were together.  Why we ignored everything around us.

That first night. We were trapped. We were 3 hours from home, staying with friends for a wedding. I was almost asleep. You were drunk. You wrapped your hands so tightly around my neck. I couldn't even scream. I was too shocked to try. Your eyes were so sad. I thought those blue daggers were going to be the last thing I ever saw. We were dying. First my edges got blurry and I stopped fighting I didn't break eye contact, not once. It was strange but at that moment right before the world went black I felt we were the same. For a fleeting pause, we switched place, you were the one dying. When my eyes fluttered open the next day I drew in a sucking, ravenous breath and exhaled tears. I ran to the bathroom and puked. I avoided you all day at our friends' house. I wore out our welcome because I didn't want to spend 3 hours in a car with you. Your eyes were still so sad.

My pulse raced. My hands shook as we got in the car. Every movement you made – to change the radio station or check your phone – caused a violent shift in my position. Over the course of 3 hours you won me back. You shouldn't have.

Loving you was exhausting. You made me feel so different. You lavished attention. You made me confident and beautiful and needed. Then you'd drink. Every night. I would explain away your behavior in public. I defended you. People asked me why, I had no real answer. I loved you. It was enough. I was skilled at reading you. I knew when we went home or went to bed what was going to happen. The nights I'd wake up to your hands around my throat. Fingers tightening. I knew better. I stayed. I stayed for those blue eyes and those meaningful words and that hard body. I stayed because I felt no one would ever love me so desperately, deeply, suffocating as you. I stayed because you stayed. Because dust is unseen.

Illness after strange ailment after injury befell me while we dated. My body was fully rejecting what we were. I didn't listen. Until my Colposcopy. I was scared and turned to you for the downpour of your addiction. You said,

"I just want you to know, if it's cancer or something serious, I'm not going to stick around. I can't watch you die slowly."

My world with you got fuzzy and faded to black. I could feel your fingers on my neck only this time your eyes, your beautiful blue eyes, were hard. You tried to backpedal when everything cleared. I should have ended it then. Instead we lingered. Dust on the air. We flitted. We fell. We became stagnant. Listless.

I broke your heart then. Smashed it into pieces with someone new. We should have separated then, completely. My guilt let me cling to you. Until I picked you up from the bar and brought you home. Your anger was palpable. It spilled over. I didn't believe I would survive this time. You pinned me to the wall and then the ground. You put your full weight into it. I still have the shirt you ripped when I tried to get away. Suddenly, though, it all shifted. You were the one dying.  I scurried to a corner, shaking, my phone smashed or thrown. The neighbors didn't even call the cops. I know I screamed this time. I know I begged for help. We crawled together to bed. After you begged me to kill you. After you turned a blade on yourself and I had to save you. I let you hold me one last time.

We are dust. We are molecules. We are memories in a faded, weathered photo album. Yellow pages turning in on themselves. I was happy forgetting you but you were never really forgotten cobwebs get rebuilt, wars leave scars. Your accident, where you died twice. Created an unexpected ripple effect for me. I contacted you, because I could watch you die slowly. Through our interactions I realized you still had a grip on my neck. You would say key phrases that would embed themselves under my skin. Burrow in my brain. One of us will always be dying. My only option. My only choice. Is to dust.

Being the Brown Sheep

I’m an Arciero girl. To you, that means nothing. In my family, it's like a scarlet A. I'm not the black sheep of my sisters, not by a long shot. In all actuality, I'm not convinced any of the Arciero girls are even a white sheep. Maybe Nani. Probably Nani. It's Nani. I'm the brown sheep. Maybe I'm spotted. Maybe I'm a swirl. Either way, odds are stacked up against me. I was a horrible teen who made a lot of mistakes. I pulled away from all forms of religion. I lost my mother, I had a miscarriage, a drug addiction, I got married at 18 and I put all of this dirty laundry out over the interwebs. I'm easily visible to my family. I'm easily accessible and I'm very easily judged.

I take this with a grain of salt. I’m not willing to pull back on my writing, my “public-ness.” I'm not willing to change who I am to appeal to my family. I’m not Catholic. I curse a lot. I struggle. I complain. I've done horrible things in my past. Family sometimes doesn't hear the last three words of that last sentence. IN MY PAST.  My past is not who I am. It shaped me, it guided me but it doesn't dictate the person I am today. My life experiences were hard. I was scared, unsure, confused, lost.  I was lost. I made decisions based on passion and random actions. I WAS A TEENAGER. Yes, I got married at 18 but it allowed me a lot of insight and it helped me refocus my life. I graduated from college with an associate's and a bachelor's degree. I graduated magna cum laude. I’m the only Arciero girl to move off the island of Oahu. I'm the only Arciero girl who tries her best not to ask her dad for money (he’s buying me a plane ticket home for Thanksgiving). I’m trying my best. I do what I can and I am a good person. I’m a caring person. I’m a loving person.

The trail of lives I've touched ALL OVER THE UNITED STATES shows me, and no one else, that I am good because these people are good. I hold my friends a lot closer than some of my family. I am extremely close to some of my family members and I am grateful for that. For the ones who judge me on my past and not my efforts for my future, they aren't taking the time to know me. To understand me. To allow me to make mistakes. To see why I am public, why I need to hammer these words out on a keyboard. I love my family unconditionally but I love myself more. If you have issues with my life, my beliefs, my actions or reactions: talk to me privately or better yet don’t tell me. Those issues are yours I have my own issues and my family shouldn't be one of them. I make my dad proud. I make my Tutu (grandmother) proud. I love my baby sister deeply. Their views of me are the only ones that concern me. 

All I am is a reflection of the lives I've entwined. I’m a tree, growing near a calm lake. There are storms. There is rain. There are droughts. There is sunshine. My branches grow far. I've got vines, bird nests, even a spot in my chest for squirrels. I'm taking in the bad and trying to put out the good. I've worked hard to grow this tall. I won’t be cut down. I'm an Arciero girl. 

My Tutu is 92 in this picture. 

So Be It

Thank you all for the love, encouragement and support with my “The Smaller Version of Me” post. However, the bottom line is it doesn't matter how you see me; it matters how I see me. That post was not intended to show me sitting on the end of a dock, with a bucket of worms and throwing a lure into the waters of the Internet. It was me, being honest with me.

I've accepted I will probably not get below 185. I’m okay with it. I've given up hope on it. In the grand scheme of life that is not the number that matters. It doesn't mean I’m going to diminish my physical activities. It doesn't mean I’ll stop my work out routine. It doesn't mean I won’t try new things in the future.  

I am no longer looking for ways to “lose weight” or “trick my body” or become someone I’m not. This is what my body wants this is what my body gets. I have far too many other things stressing me out than the number on the scale. I’m going to throw out the scale. Screw the scale. That being said I’m not accepting advice on products or what might work. I don’t care if it does work. I've accepted myself; given me some much needed TLC and mirror pep talks. I've accepted my little beer belly, my cellulite thighs, my somewhat jiggly arms and in fact admire them. They’re me. A part of me that I may never change and that is okay. I’m done trying. I've been this weight and this shape for a year. It’s done. I’m moving past it.

All that being said I follow several blogs/women on ye olde Facebook – “This is Not a Diet - it's your life.” She lost 124 pounds – no pills, rules, plans, shots, surgery or supplements and has kept the weight off for 3 years. “Go Kaleo” She lost 80 pounds and is now a personal trainer and a nutrition and weight management coach. “Fit Mama Training” She lost a total of 90 pounds and grew with her body to love and nourish it. These ladies are great and inspirational and honest. However they all have weight loss stories.  Not everyone (read: ME) has a happy weight loss story that has catalyzed their healthy life and body acceptance. So what about the rest of us? I know I’m not as famous as these women but I've toyed with the idea of creating a Facebook page for the rest of us.

What that means is there are a lot of frustrated women who can’t lose weight for whatever various reasons. While the women above offer great advice about loving and accepting your body, their bodies have gone through massive changes. It’s hard for some of us to take that advice when the scale hasn't budged in a year. I want to create a safe haven where people can vent about whatever their health issues or weight issues or food issues are and vent to someone who’s stuck like them versus someone who has lost basically their unborn twin that was living inside of them. I have a special diet for medical reasons it would be a place for anyone to share recipes for their particular special diets, share motivational images or ideas or just to say “hey, I walked a mile today, haven’t done that in a while.” I love following those 3 women but I have no weight loss story and yet I’m inspired by myself. I think I’ll take a poll on whether you think I should do this or if it will just be another page lost in the hogwash of Facebook.  If you've made it this far, respond via comments on here or Facebook or even MFP. Once again thank all of you for the support, love and advice but I've accepted myself you should too. 

The Smaller Version of Me

There is no smaller version of me. Today I admit that I am what I am and that’s all that I am or will ever be. Given my recent months of pure insanity I've decided that I need to stop chasing some unattainable smaller version of myself. It was a nice focal point to get me through some hard times. I always felt my weight was the one thing I could control. At a time in my life where I had NO control, it was a nice thought that if nothing else I could change my outer appearance to the strong woman I know is on the inside.  Some bodies are just not meant to change no matter what you think. Even when I had a personal trainer he told me: You have to work with what you are given. You can’t compare yourself to anyone. I’m relatively healthy at this point. Yes. Right now my stomach feels like I swallowed a bowling ball and it hurts to take deep breaths but that’s because this past weekend I went against all reasoning and ate all the things my doctor told me not to.

I've tried to lose weight for nearly 2 years. I've really made no great weight loss and maintained it. I started at 195 in Jan 2012. When I was running an insane amount I got down to 169 in July 2012. Since then the weight slowly crept back up to 185 within the year. Why? No real answers there. Speculation? Sure, I had to stop running because of my knees. We moved to California where both of us aren't making enough for me to buy groceries on anything but a credit card with the hope that on my next paycheck I’ll be able to pay off the groceries. My job is a joke. Our new dog, Princess Vespa, refuses to be house broken, and chews up my underwear, shoes, the garbage or anything she can get her mouth on plus she has been sick pretty much monthly, hooray vet bills. Tim is unhappy with his choice of employment. Neither one of us is happy with the move. I've been diagnosed with PCOS while we try to start a family. I've also been diagnosed with overly producing yeast so a sever shift in my diet has taken place (gone are the days of carefree eating). What does this all add up to? An overproduction of worry and a buildup of STRESS.

What feeds stress? More stress and worry so instead of trying to shove myself into the smaller version of me with the hopes that it will happen I’m just going to come out of the box. Stop stressing on my looks. I work very hard at my job, diet and exercise. I do Pilates 3 days a week, kickboxing 2 days a week, I walk the dogs about 5 hours a week, do strength training 2-3 days a week for a minimum of an hour and occasionally throw in a spinning class here or there. As far as my physical health goes there's really nothing more I can do. I'm tired of poking myself with sticks and fighting the inevitable. After almost a year of being the same weight even through diet shifts, exercise routine shifts and every other type of shift you can imagine, I'm done trying.

I yam what I yam and that’s all that I yam.

P.S. People have suggested seeing another doctor. Financially right now that is not a possibility. The doctor who diagnosed my PCOS gave me a copy of all my blood work. I've had 2 sets of blood work done in the past month I have no hormone, thyroid or vitamin D issues.  Regardless of getting a second opinion my blood test results will not change.