onceafatgirl

Peace is better than chocolate

Archive for the tag “self-love”

02 Mar 2013

It’s not you, it’s me. Oh no. I’m wrong. It’s totally you.

The first thing I want to note is that I did not weigh myself yesterday (March 1st). I did not make the decision for myself. I have a select group of people with whom I discuss my food boundaries. And one specific friend who helps me make decisions about my food and how I deal with my body and body issues. And she said that it made sense to skip weighing myself this month. That it seemed punitive to get on the scale. She said that the amount of torment I was experiencing far outweighed the benefit of following my rule of weighing myself on the first of every month.

It’s not forever. I will get back on the scale on April 1st. But for this month I’m grateful to not have to worry about the number. And to have not made the decision myself.

When I make decisions about my food and my body by myself, I can get confused, paranoid, ashamed. Crazy. And even if the decision is right and good, I don’t know it. Because I don’t trust myself around food. (And I shouldn’t.) I don’t trust myself to know what I look like. (And I shouldn’t do that either.) These are the things I am sick about. But I also don’t go around asking advice from any and everyone either. A select group of people who have experience in this area. And one friend to help me make final decisions. I trust her. I don’t expect her to have the perfect answer to my troubles every time. But when I go along with her and trust her, I don’t have to question and second guess myself into insanity.

The other thing that’s on my mind this week is my Good Girl. She’s been popping up this week. Or perhaps I should say that I am noticing the places I have been letting her slip by in my life. And what I am realizing is that there is a deeper level of Good-Girl-ery that I hadn’t been aware of until now. And I don’t like it.

Yesterday, I came home from work and was making dinner, when I realized that one of my knives was not where I left it. And then I realized that it was not in the kitchen at all. And I was pissed. I was banging-cabinets-and-swearing-pissed.

What I really was, of course, was scared. When my food or my utensils are out of order, I feel unsafe. I feel violated. I feel crazy and out of control.

I was taught early on in life to feel bad about getting angry over having my boundaries crossed. To be ashamed of expressing my anger. I think many people are taught that. To be ashamed of being so “selfish”. It’s just a knife, Kate.

And even though I do get angry, and even though my body has a physical reaction, instead of honoring my feelings, I have been feeling bad about getting so upset over a knife. (Or a pot. Or a spatula. Don’t even ask me about the time I came home and found my roommate cooking a kind of food I don’t eat in my antique cast iron skillet…)

And people in my life want me to “calm down”. They want to run interference. They want to explain me. Explain for me. They want to soften my harshness. “For my own good.” “You can’t live like that.” What will the neighbors think?

And I often take that on myself. Want to apologize for my crazy. And for getting so upset. You know, the old “it’s not you, it’s me.”

But guess what? It’s you! You took my knife. When there are plenty of knives in the house. You took it (which you shouldn’t have done in the first place), and then you left the house without putting it back. You live with me and see with your own eyes that I maintain strict boundaries around my food. Every day. You see me treat my food, my cook ware and my utensils with love and respect. And yet you took my knife? So wait, why am I apologizing for being angry? Right! It’s so not me. It’s definitely you!

Yes, I can imagine that my kitchen stuff looks very appealing. Things that are loved and cared for the way I care for mine look inviting. Your stuff could look like that too if you took as much care of your own.

When I was telling the story of the knife to my friend, (the one who helps me make decisions around my food) I was telling her all the ways that I am not selfish. And she stopped me. She said “Selfish is not a dirty word. It means interested in ourselves.” And I thought, Yes! I know this! I believe this! This is right!

I feel like part of it is that my issue is food. It occurs in the world like such a minor “problem”. And cook ware? Utensils? How could that stuff be so important? But it is important! It is very important to me. And I want to stop agreeing with people who tell me that thinking so makes me petty. Or cruel. Or in some way bad.

I was even going to end this post by telling you about all of the ways that I am generous. And all of the ways being selfish actually makes me a better person. But I’m not going to do that.

I care about myself. I want to take care of myself. I want to put my own needs first. Unapologetically. It turns out it’s my life. I have to be able to live with myself. And if you want to live with me, it would behoove you not to touch my food or my utensils. Period.

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23 Feb 2013
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That actions have consequences, and other things that piss me off

I’m having an interesting week with my body. I have been continuing to think it’s beautiful. Loving the way it curves. Really enjoying how big and round my butt is. No seriously. I’ve never had a butt before. I carried all my weight up front when I was fat. I’m not trying to escape my body. I’m not disowning or disparaging it.

But then, weigh day is coming up again. Like it does once a month. So I am attempting to stay off the roller coaster that has me worry myself sick, and then be devastated by any weight gain anyway. Even just writing this I am starting to panic.

I want to start being in control of my body again. I want it to go back to making some semblance of sense. Eat less, walk more, lose weight. Or at least even out. At least stop gaining.

I wonder how much of the panic and unhappiness is the lack of control. How much is about feeling crazy. And wanting to explain all the time that I haven’t eaten sugar! I’m not eating compulsively! I haven’t done anything wrong!

Because I feel like I look like I’ve been doing something wrong.

When I was eating compulsively, it felt like a moral issue. Eating the way I did felt wrong. Shameful. If I were a good person, I would be able to control my eating. And that I couldn’t control my eating, that I was weak and pathetic, or just plain bad, was written all over my body. And here I am, being incredibly “good”. In fact, some people think my boundaries are “extreme”. And I feel like my body is saying I’ve been bad. I feel like I have gained more weight than is natural.

Of course, it is natural. It is what happens when people stop smoking. And I was a heavy smoker. My poor body surely doesn’t know what the hell is going on. It’s doing the best it can. It’s built to survive. That’s how life works. It’s the nature of evolution. The body that is best equipped to survive goes on to produce survival-equipped offspring. Humans have been around for a while now. So it’s probably safe to assume that the human body has learned a few tricks. And I’m sure my body is doing its best to keep me alive.

But that feels so incredibly unfair. I want everybody to know it’s not my fault!

But that, of course, is not exactly true either. I was a heavy smoker for 20 years. I can’t expect that doing a drug 20 times a day for most of that 20 years isn’t going to affect my body. It’s like saying “I wish actions didn’t have consequences.” Um…Ok, Kate. Good luck with that. And wouldn’t I be pissed if my body didn’t get healthier because I quit. How interesting that I want it to all work out the way I want.

But I have also been thinking about beauty culture in America. And how standards have gotten more and more narrow throughout my lifetime. And that as we as a population have continued to get fatter, we have glorified skinnier and skinnier woman. Women who are so skinny that their bodies stop working. Women who only exist in photographs, because even the model was “too fat” to represent the clothing line, shoe line, makeup line.

I keep saying that the amount of weight I have gained (27.4 lbs from June 1st to Feb 1st) is a lot for a girl with eating and body image disorders. I have just exclaimed to you that it’s not fair! I weighed 300 lbs. I completely changed my life to get into a healthy, beautiful body. I did my time. I paid my dues. I should be exempt from this.

But I am not the only one who is in a body they wish were different. I am not the only one who feels less than. Who feels judged. Who feels her body isn’t “perfect enough to be beautiful.” Welcome to being a woman in media saturated 2013 in America, Kate.

I never wonder why I bother maintaining my food boundaries. Even in the face of gaining so much weight. My weight certainly has something to do with why I keep boundaries around my eating, but I mostly do it to stay sane and clear-headed. I do it so I can keep on liking and respecting myself. I do it because it affords me dignity. I know that food makes me crazy. That I am bad at life when I am eating sugar. Plus I know that this weight gain has to stop at some point. Where as if I were eating compulsively, it would never stop. Screw 9 months. The way I eat when I’m eating compulsively, I can gain 30 lbs in two weeks.

So let me tell you what I would like. I would like to stop pitying myself. I would like to stop comparing myself. Even just to myself a year ago. I’d like to be grateful that I quit smoking with ease. That I have not struggled or relapsed. I would like to be grateful that I have gotten through the hardest part. And most importantly, I would like to remember that I am incredibly lucky to have a solution to my food problems. When so many women don’t. And that while my food is under control, I stand a chance to love my body. And myself. And my life. While so many women can’t.

I don’t know what will happen this week. Or on weigh day. And I don’t want to be too hard on myself. Because I have a serious problem with eating and body image disorders. Which is not trivial, or shameful, or something I can just “get over.” And I do a fantastic job of living in the solution every day. But I want to have a good attitude. I want gratitude and humility. I want to love my life the way it is. And I want to be an example of that. Of self-love and grace. So I’m telling you now, that what I want is to love my body as much on weigh day as I do today. And maybe, just maybe, because I have told you, I can have that.

Posted in beauty, Body image, Inspiration, Life and tagged , , , , , , , , , , ,
17 Feb 2013

My other body is a Porsche

The few weeks before this week were filled with all sorts of insights and revelations. They were exciting and moving. But, as happens in life, the new and exciting makes way for the practical. Don’t get me wrong. Things really have changed. And I have used my new information to make some changes. But life goes on. It’s like that Zen saying. Before Enlightenment, chop wood, carry water. After Enlightenment, chop wood, carry water.

I have been making a point to be in my body. To feel every feeling and experience every sensation. The way my clothes feel. The way my stomach feels after my meals. What it feels like when I wake up and I’m hungry. The way an emotion registers physically. How I feel in my skin.

I have also been looking at it in the mirror. Not to scrutinize. Not to look at it to make declarations about what “needs work”. I have even chosen not to suck in my stomach. Not to distort or imagine my body in some other form than the one in which it exists.

I have decided to celebrate it. To admire it. To love it. To enjoy it. To enjoy the physical experiences of being alive. Not just the intellectual. To think it’s beautiful. Now. Right this moment. And I do. It’s beautiful. I love it. Most of the time. Which is a pretty good start.

I also changed my Facebook profile picture to one of me in the body I’m in now. (I might change it again. To a different picture of me right now. A friend said it’s cute and pretty, but not very sexy. And, you know…That’s a big part of how I identify myself.)

I hadn’t wanted to change my picture. I hadn’t wanted to exhibit my weight gain. I was thinking I would wait until I at least started to lose weight again. But to intentionally not post a picture of myself the way I look now felt like hiding and manipulating. It felt yucky. I can go many months without changing my picture and not think twice about it. But this time I wanted to specifically not do it. On purpose. So I pulled a Jedi mind trick on myself and changed it anyway.

And it worked. Putting up the new picture eliminated a lot of my worry and anxiety. The truth was out. There was nothing left to struggle against.

I even took some pictures of myself in my sexy underwear. (No! Not for Facebook! I don’t need to be that sexy! Good Lord! Get your mind out of the gutter! They are just for me.) And I’m hot. Seriously. And taking them made me feel hot.

All of these little actions have helped me stop thinking negative thoughts. When I notice myself having a negative thought about my body, I stop having that thought. I cut it off. Like I cut off thoughts about cake. Instead, I have a thought about how beautiful and sexy my body is. I create the new thought.

It’s something I understand now. That if I do something, take an action, that is different from what I have been doing (and usually different from what I want to do), it opens up an opportunity to change my thinking. When I change my thinking, it opens up an opportunity to act differently.

It’s scary to me how I pass judgment my body. And I wonder in some ways who I am judging it for. Who is telling me it’s not good enough. And why am I agreeing? Because I have been seeing it as beautiful. And basically, because I have been choosing to.

But first, actually, I had to stop running away from it. I had to make a choice to let myself be me in this body.

Of course, there wasn’t any other option. It is my body. I am me in it. But I have been spending many months disconnecting in my head. And this is reminiscent of how I thought about myself when I was fat and eating compulsively. I was not my body. I was my ideas. My personality. I was so much better than my broken, gross body. It was just this unfortunate card I was dealt.

I once heard a woman say that when she was fat, she carried around a picture of herself when she was thin, and would show it to people and say, “This is what I really look like.”

Since I gained this 27.4 lbs when I quit smoking, I have been doing something like that.

My real body is in the shop and this is just the loaner they gave me. I mean, it’s ugly, but it gets me around.

Um…Ewww. That’s repulsive of me. It’s so disrespectful of my body. And my journey. It’s such an eff you to God and Life. Not to mention a blatant denial of reality.

Plus, being disconnected from reality has been making me miserable. Just like it did when I was fat. And when I stop fighting what is so and surrender to life, everything always feels better. My experience is always better.

I don’t know how I will feel next week. But for now it feels right not to identify as my mind, my thoughts, my personality. To remember that I am my body. And my body is me. And that there is nothing wrong.

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09 Feb 2013

I have a confession. I did not pop out of Zeus’s head fully grown 7 years ago…

So oh wow, oh boy, and here we go. This week’s post is about my past, and my body, and the fat girl I was growing up. Who is me. And from whom I have spent the past 7 years distancing myself.

It seems that my fortress, my youth and adolescence, and my body, then and now and a year ago, are all tangled up together. And that I won’t be ready for love until I come to terms with the fact that I am the same person that I have always been. Which I have been dying to forget.

Here’s a little of the ugly truth. The girl I was didn’t believe she was worthy of being loved. And I have never believed she was worthy of being loved either. And for the past 7 years, I have considered her the obstacle I overcame. I have always considered her a burden to others. I assumed she never made an impact. I considered her not worth knowing, or remembering. I considered her not worth caring about. And I am just starting to realize now that when I end up back in touch with people from my past (Thanks Facebook!) I assume that they had no love or interest in the girl I was then. But that they would probably like this new, improved Kate. This beautiful, intelligent, sexy woman. Who did this really impressive thing. She lost the weight of an entire person! Who wouldn’t want to know me? I’m awesome. Now, anyway…

Sure, a few old friends have told me they missed me. Liked me so much then. Were happy to be back in touch with their friend Kate. But I never had to let it sink in. They’re women. They’re kind. I could love them and be touched without ever having to look very hard at that part of my life.

And then recently something happened that changed everything. I got a letter.

It was from a man from my adolescence. Well, now he’s a man. He was an adolescent back then too. And he was important to me. He was my friend.

When we got back in touch via Facebook, I figured he didn’t really remember me. 20 years. Why would he? I was just some girl. Plus I was “the fat girl.” What was there to remember? Who was she to care about? But I was very happy to introduce this new me to him.

But the letter he sent me was to say that he did remember me. Then. As I was. Yes, fat. Yes, weird and insecure. But his friend. And the point was that he remembered saying something hurtful to me. Not maliciously. But hurtful none the less. And he was apologizing. He was asking my forgiveness.

There are two things about this that have had a significant effect on me. And made me look at that relationship I have to my younger self.

Of course, I forgave my old friend. His apology was sincere and touching. It was vulnerable and unselfish. There was no reason to hold a grudge. But it took me a long time before it even occurred to me to think about that teenage girl. You know, me. I was worried about him not feeling bad. I was very much interested in him knowing that he was forgiven. But I didn’t give a thought to her. I never bothered to worry about her heart.

But Eventually, I did think about her. And when I did, I was overwhelmed with her pain.

Good Lord, I lived in constant pain growing up. And my life was colored by the underlying belief that I was a burden. That my love had no value. So yes, I had loved him so much. He had been so special to me. But it had seemed inevitable that eventually he would realize that I was unworthy of his care. I already walked around knowing that I was unworthy. I was just waiting for the sign that the other guy knew it too.

But maybe even more significant for me was that he was not apologizing to 35-year-old Kate. He was not apologizing to the beautiful, sexy, eloquent, confident (for the most part) woman in a thin body. He was apologizing to the fat, unhappy, self-loathing 14-year-old girl who had been his friend. Because she had been his friend.

I can’t remember a time, before I got my eating under control, that I didn’t hate myself. Really. I hated myself all the time all my life. And a huge part of that was about being fat. And being aware of the fact that I was fat. Growing up, it was constantly taking up a corner of my mind. I spent every moment of my life aware of it. It was the definition of me. Anything else that you could have said about me, that I was smart, and funny, and generous, and a good singer, and had really long hair, came after being fat. First I was fat. Everything else was incidental.

It’s hard to think of myself then as somebody’s friend. It’s hard to imagine meaning anything to anyone. It’s also hard to think of myself then as me. And I think maybe this friend understands, better than me, that that girl and myself are the same person. I think maybe it’s so much clearer to everybody who has known me than it is to me.

A friend told me that I have been feeling stuck because I am smart. And I have been letting my brain try to run away from my body. And she’s right. I can see it in how I have been dealing with this weight gain. I keep saying “You’re not my real body. Go away. Are you gone yet? No? Go away. You’re ugly and gross. You’re not mine. Are you gone yet?” In other words, if my body is not what I think it should be, I disown it. It’s not mine, it’s not me. It’s not good enough. I deserve better. Are you gone yet?

When I changed, I changed so comprehensively, and so quickly, that I was able to pretend that I am not the same as that fat girl I was growing up. And I probably needed to do that. At first, anyway. I had to get my feet planted firmly in my new way of living. In many ways I had to walk away from her in order to change.

And I do not regret changing. I do not regret getting a handle on my eating disorders. I do not regret stopping a lot of dishonest and unhealthy behaviors that were part of my addictive and disordered eating. I do not regret the confidence and peace that I have now, that I never had then.

But I can’t pretend she is not me anymore. I don’t understand the how or the why, I’m not clear on the logistics, but I know in my heart that somehow, loving her is the key to finding love. I don’t have to be her, but I have to stop denying that she is me. And I have to consider the idea that she was loved. Maybe she didn’t love herself. And maybe I didn’t love her. But somebody did. Maybe lots of people. Maybe more people than either of us ever knew.

If you ask me today, right now, what am I afraid of, the answer is “everything”. I’m afraid of being alone. I’m afraid of being in a relationship. I’m afraid of never being loved by a man. I’m afraid of finding out that I am incapable of being loved by a man. I’m afraid of being loved by a man. I’m afraid of being rejected. I’m afraid of having my heart-broken. I’m afraid of existing my whole life without taking a risk. I’m afraid of getting the end of my life and never having lived. But maybe right now, for the first time ever in my whole life, I am not afraid of being mistaken for that girl. And I’m not afraid of acknowledging that it wouldn’t be a mistake.

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27 Jan 2013

No, I didn’t change my hair. I just got a view of myself through a hole in the space-time continuum

Just briefly I want to note that this coming Friday, I am going to have to weigh myself. And I am afraid. Of three things. Gaining weight. Being wrong about my metabolism kicking back in. And having to admit to you that I was wrong. I am afraid of being fat again. And that the idea of me starting to get smaller is all in my head. And what you will think of me if it is. And not just you. Everyone I have told. I worry a lot about being wrong. I always have. I used to lie and manipulate to make myself seem less wrong. Now I don’t. But it still makes me feel oogie.

The truth is that my metabolism may have kicked in and I still won’t have lost any weight. Rational Kate knows that after a person quits smoking, their metabolism slows way down. Then it speeds back up again. That it is simply a matter of time. And waiting. And for me that means waiting without crossing my food boundaries. But Rational Kate hasn’t been given the floor too often lately at the committee meetings in my head. So she just sits there. And occasionally makes an objection when Bulimic Girl, and Sugar Addict Girl start to get unruly and insist that it’s time to do something (drastic, most likely futile, and certainly unhealthy) before I get FAT! Rational Kate is biding her time. She knows this, too, shall pass. And that when it does she’ll get to be in charge again.

But what I really want to talk about today is change. Because I am different today. Different than I was just a few days ago.

When I was growing up, I believed in predestination. And I didn’t even know it. When, in High School, I was reading American Literature of the Puritanical variety, I would have told you that I believed in Free Will. That a person had the opportunity to make of their life whatever they chose. I would have told you that I believed in the American Dream. That if a person who lived in a free country was willing to work and strive, he or she could do or be or make anything.

But I didn’t really believe. I believed I was broken. I believed I was genetically, and irreversibly fat. I believed I would be “ok” without ever having to do much because I was born smart and capable. Born to smart, capable, middle-class people. I unwittingly believed that with some minor potential variations, my life was already set in stone.

There were so many things that seemed either inevitable or impossible. I believed my fear. I never thought anything was worth taking a risk. I “had to” eat compulsively. And I could never ever give up eating sugar.

But somewhere inside, there was the wish to be free from being fat. And even more importantly, to be free from not being able to stop eating. (Or at least it would eventually become clear that dealing with the uncontrollable eating was more important. I am sure at the time, I thought being fat was the bigger problem.)

It was such a conflict for me. To want so much to be able to eat in a way that was not embarrassing. To be able to manage my weight. But God, sugar was my best friend. Sugar made life bearable. (It also made it unbearable, but it made bearable in the short-term, what it ultimately made unbearable in the long-term. It was like paying off a credit card with another credit card. Needless to say, it was bad economics.)

And then I stopped eating sugar.

What I learned from quitting sugar is that my life seemed to be set in stone because I kept making the same sugar-induced, fear-based choices over and over. And that having this commitment to abstain from sugar, no matter what, changed the course of my life.

When I say it changed the course of my life, I mean that the path I chose was more than just “no sugar.” I chose to be present and honest and growing. Continually. So I have been constantly changing for the past seven years.

But sometimes that growth comes in a big spurt.

In the past four days, I have been told repeatedly that I am a different person all of a sudden. That my energy is different. That I am more free. But also that it has manifested physically. Not just that I am more beautiful. (Though that has come up. It really never gets old, people…Feel free to keep saying it.) But that my face is different. My skin. Did I change my hair? (No.) “Since I saw you last week.”

I’ll tell you what I think it may be. I think that maybe I am available to fall in love. Not just wanting and willing but able. In a way that I have never been before in my whole 35 years. Because for the first time ever, I can say my truth to men. I am willing to be rejected as a burden. I am willing to be disparaged for my intensity. I’m starting to understand that I have been afraid of scaring men with my big feelings and my big energy and my big heart. And I’m starting to understand that there are men in the world for whom my intensity, integrity, and power are a thrill, and a gift. An asset. That there will be men who think that these traits are what make me a catch. But no, it won’t be all of them. Some will indeed be scared away. And have opinions. And things to say.

But my job is not to win over men who think I’m too intense by being less intense.

In one 24 hour period this week, I was given a powerful opportunity to communicate with 3 significant men from my past. One from my fat and food addicted childhood when I was invisible and believed that I was destined to be alone. One from when I was hot and sexy, all face and body, but everything substantial was unavailable and protected by my invisible fortress (as opposed to my fortress of fat). And the one that made me realize for the first time that I wanted something more than to be a face and body in a fortress. That I wanted to do the work to dismantle my fortress and be intimate. (I would venture that he’s also one who would probably like me more if I weren’t so intense…)

In that 24 hours, I said things that I was afraid to say. Things that six months ago I would have refrained from saying. For fear of being considered selfish or obnoxious. Or just too much. But I think that’s why it all happened at once. Like God ripped some sort hole in space-time for me so I could get a composite view of my life with men up until now. And understand that it was time to start using my voice to let them know who I am. And know that it is not just ok to express myself, but necessary if what I want is love. I got to say what I needed to say, without regard to how it was received. I got to experience the importance of speaking. Not just talking. The kind of offering that is vulnerable and intimate.

After I gave up sugar and got control of my eating, it took about a year and a half to get clear-headed and confident. And to believe that I was not actually born to be fat. That it was possible for me to reach and maintain a healthy weight that made me feel good about myself. And to know that I don’t have to be out of control with food as long as I don’t put sugar in my body. And to realize that I am really beautiful. But it took seven years to get here. Ready to take a look at love. But really it’s bigger than that. I believe…No, I trust that God would not have given me so much love if He never expected to give me the opportunity to use it. Maybe He’s been waiting for me to get out of my own way. Or maybe He hasn’t been waiting at all. Maybe God thinks seven years is warp speed in human terms and while it has felt like an eternity to me, maybe God thinks I’m right on time…

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19 Jan 2013
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How I gave up chasing unattainable tail

At the beginning of fall, I bought two new pairs of jeans. I packed away the jeans that I wore every day last winter, and stuck them under my bed. I knew there was nothing to do about gaining weight. I knew I was going to have to wear clothes that fit me this winter. And that last year’s jeans weren’t them.

When I noticed that my metabolism was starting to kick back in and my body seemed to stop getting bigger and start moving in the other direction, I decided I wanted to see how far away I was from my last year’s body. Or more accurately, how far I had to go to get back into last year’s body. I went under my bed, pulled out the jeans and tried them on.

I didn’t think I had any expectations, but it became very clear very quickly that I had indeed. I pulled the jeans up. And that was it. That was as far as it got. There was nothing else to do, except take them back off again. I gained 24.4 lbs from June to January. And apparently, 23.4 of it settled between my waist and my knees.

Thank God I didn’t do this a month ago. I don’t know what I would have done. To myself. I really don’t think I would have been able to handle it. It is a blessing that I waited until I started producing dopamine again. (Thanks God! Good looking out!)

Very quickly and without tears (yet), I realized that I might never get back into those jeans. Or that body. (Since then I have cried about it a few times. I’m crying about it now. But it’s not despair. It’s mourning.)

If I have a lament, it’s that I didn’t know that I was skinny when I was skinny. I knew I loved that body. That I was comfortable in it. But I was skinny. And I didn’t know because I’m a fat girl. And skinny is something I can never be. It is incompatible with my existence. My mind has never been able to wrap itself around the idea. Which is a shame, because I would have liked to have enjoyed the experience.

And then I had an epiphany of sorts. And I took a bold action. Yesterday, I got rid of last year’s pants. I put them in a donation box. I made a decision. A really freaking empowering decision. I will not chase that body. It was a good body. It was beautiful. But it’s in the past.

There are things that I like better about this body compared to that one. I’m more hourglass than I was a year ago. Last year’s body was more pear-shaped. My hips have always been kind of square, and now they are round. I really like the curve from my waist to my hips right now. It’s beautiful. And I have a butt, which has not always been the case.

Oh, right! And I was poisoning that body. It’s not a moral issue for me. I am not lashing myself over having been a smoker. But it is probably safe to say that in the long run, the body I’m not poisoning with cigarettes will end up more beautiful than the body I was.

I like that I have given up the idea that there is a specific mould I’m supposed to fit into to (literally). It gives me a certain amount of freedom to let me be in the body I’m in now. And to let it go where it’s going to go from here. And to let me see the beauty of my body as it unfolds. Instead of stubbornly insisting that my beauty can only exist in a form that doesn’t exist anymore.

And it turns out that stores are still carrying jeans. If I do lose a lot of weight (I’m still keeping my fingers crossed for that, of course…) and need to buy some new ones next fall (I don’t wear pants in the summer), chances are good that there will be a pair or two that fit next year’s body.

Posted in beauty, Body image, Inspiration, Life and tagged , , , , , , , , ,
29 Dec 2012
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It turns out 2012 *was* a good year! Good thing I decided to go back and check!

Like you (probably), I have been looking back on 2012

When I first started thinking about it, I was thinking that 2012 has been a difficult year. Or at least a painful one. But when I go all the way back, and start looking at the beginning of the year, I remember that it has been pretty extraordinary. And that some amazing things happened.

Life threw a lot at me this year. It threw me some curveballs. It threw me a couple of bones. It threw me some parties. And it threw me in the lake a few times. But whatever it threw me, I caught it.

Maybe the most noteworthy thing that happened this year is that I kept showing up. Over and over. When it was hard. And when I didn’t want to. And when I was scared. I showed up anyway. I showed up because I want to be the person who shows up. And I think I maybe figured out this year that I could. That I was capable. Which I never thought I was before.

I have changed in the past 12 months. It has been subtle and gradual, but so consistent that I am not the person I was on December 29, 2011.

The first thing I did this year was start this blog. (Ok, the first first thing I did this year was shout “Happy New Year” on a dance floor. But on January 2nd, I started writing this blog.) When I started, I was filled with shame and fear. And secrets. About the ways that I felt and the things that I thought. Especially about myself. And they were poisoning me. And keeping me stuck. And keeping my life small.

Now I am still easily overwhelmed. And I need to take things slow and in small bites and baby steps. But I have kept at writing. And I keep writing this blog every week. And I am ever closer to shameless. And I am so much more gentle with myself than I have ever been in my life. And I have some room to be human and imperfect. So thank you. Because I got (keep getting) this gift for myself by writing for you.

And I am proud that I have kept my word to you and to myself. That I write every week. That I tell the truth. That I keep it honest and intimate. That I do it because I do it. That how I “feel about” writing is irrelevant. It has been a moving experience. To be a writer. Not to want to be a writer. When I grow up. Or when I have time. Or when inspiration strikes. To be a writer by virtue of writing. Putting in the time and the thought. The key strokes. And to know that I’m pretty good at it.

I quit smoking this year. I let go of an unhealthy work relationship. I paid my taxes. I started crocheting again. (I’m even making myself a sweater dress at the moment. Ambitious much, Kate?)

But the most important thing I did this year was fall in love.

No, it didn’t end up going anywhere. And it sure didn’t end well for me. But while I was in it, it was pretty spectacular. I was filled with excitement, and tenderness. I was motivated to be a better person. A better woman! And I was inspired to pray and wish and hope for someone else’s happiness. Maybe the best part was just knowing that my heart isn’t atrophied from lack of use. Or maybe the best part was figuring out that I am not so ashamed of myself anymore that I want to hide away from love, for fear of being belittled as unworthy, or exposed as a fraud. Or maybe the best part is that on this side of it, love and partnership and commitment look a few steps further from impossible and a few steps closer to obtainable.

Thanks for being a part of my 2012. You made it special. I hope we get together a whole bunch in 2013. And, of course…HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!

You can share my blog. You can follow me on twitter @onceafatgirl5

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23 Dec 2012

It’s a good thing I’m not my boyfriend, because I’d have to break up with myself

I’m wondering if you are as sick of hearing me talk about how much I hate my body as I am sick of telling you. And of hating it. But it’s what’s on the table this week. So here goes…

As I have mentioned before, my eating and body image disorders are irrational. And knowing that does not make me rational. I cannot simply say “Well, that’s irrational,” and then start thinking like a normal person. But there is sometimes some relief to be found in distinguishing and pointing out the irrationality. To being able to laugh at the bad logic and false beliefs. Or at least use the knowledge that something is false to change the channel in my head. Not let those kinds of thoughts become bigger, louder and more daunting. Not let them repeat on an endless loop in my brain.

And I have also mentioned before that there are conflicting, often opposite, thoughts and concepts about myself and my life that live side by side in my understanding. And right now, I am kind of immersed in one of my dual realities.

I hate my body. I feel like I can’t say it enough. I hate it. It’s fat. It’s grotesque. It is a neon sign blinking THIS WOMAN IS BROKEN. THIS WOMAN IS UNWORTHY. THIS WOMAN DOES NOT DESERVE LOVE. My body is ugly and I am ugly and no man could possibly find me attractive.

But they do. More than ever before. And entirely differently. There is something akin to reverence in the way that they look at me. Strangers. Men sneaking glances at me when they think I’m not looking. Men smiling nervously at me, struggling to say something. Men who seem to say “who me?” when I smile at them on the street or the subway.

And if there is an opportunity, I try to find my reflection to see what they are seeing. And Holy Mother of God! I’m positively, undeniably stunning! I can see it too. It’s true. I am better looking at 35 than I have ever been. Ever in my entire life. And that’s sayin’ somethin’. When I turned 30 and woke up from the fog of sugar withdrawal, it occurred to me that I was, in fact, a beautiful woman. And all of a sudden, five and a half years later, I am out of my own league.

Did I mention that I am hideous? Fat and misshapen and totally unloveable?

The truth is actually that I am beautiful. And not “somewhere in between” my two concepts of myself. I am absolutely as beautiful as I have been telling you I am. Drop dead, knock out, gorgeous. (If you are laughing at, or shocked by my willingness to “toot my own horn”, I’ll just say that I am sure that there is nothing wrong with knowing and acknowledging my beauty. I find no shame in it. I don’t believe in false modesty. It’s for pre-teen girls and people fishing for compliments, of which I am neither.)

So I have to look at what this hatred is. Because yes, I have gained 24 lbs in the past 6 months. And yes, I have gone from a size 6 to a size 8. But I am comparing myself to obese women, thinking I look like them. I am breaking down in hysterical sobs at the sight of my body in the mirror. I am being more cruelly critical of myself than is healthy or just. I see women who I know are bigger than me (because we’re friends and I know what size they are), and they do not occur to me as fat or ugly. They are beautiful and healthy. It is obvious that there is nothing “wrong” with their bodies. If I were a boyfriend, I’d tell myself to dump my abusive ass.

It has occurred to me that I am using this weight gain as an excuse to hate my body. As if I have been waiting and wanting to hate it for years. As if when I stopped eating compulsively, and got a beautiful, normal, healthy body, I became a sheriff and my body was the bad guy who had crossed state lines. Fine. You got past me this time. But I’ll be watching you. And if you set so much as one toe out of line, I’ll see you hang. I have been waiting for my body to disappoint me so I could go back to despising it and myself.

I don’t know why. And I don’t know what to do about it.

I want this to stop being an issue already. I am exhausted. What I want is to go into hibernation, and wake up when all of this is resolved. Because this obsession with my body is overwhelming me. Try to love my body. Let myself hate my body. Stop thinking about my body. Buy new clothes for this body. Stop caring about how I dress for now. Meet men who think I’m beautiful the way I am right now. Don’t try to meet anyone until I feel attractive again.

My biggest fear is that I will be stuck here. I don’t just mean in this body (though I definitely fear that too). I am afraid that I will never get past this self-hatred, and that I will never allow myself to be loved. Because the one thing I understand fully is that this all comes back to love. That I want to love and be loved and that I am afraid that will never happen for me. I did all of this work to be a better person so that I could be someone I was proud of. And someone I could be proud to offer as a woman and a partner. And I am afraid that I have come as far as I am capable of going. And that it’s just not far enough. And maybe I needed a scapegoat. Someone or something to blame for not being loveable. And maybe my body is it.

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08 Dec 2012

Is it just as judgy to judge people for judging?

I’m a little less body-miserable these past few days. Maybe it’s because, with weigh day behind me for the rest of the month, I put my body hatred it in its compartment. Maybe it’s because I have hope that by next weigh day, my metabolism will have started regulating itself again, and I will start losing this weight I have gained. Or maybe it’s starting to seep in that I am not, in fact, grotesquely fat in this body, and that I can have some peace if I can surrender to it being what it is. (That last one’s a stretch, but I believe in miracles.)

My big issue this week is how aware I am of people giving me unsolicited opinions and advice. And how offensive I find it. And how aggressive it makes me feel. (Not act…Ok, maybe a little. But I have managed to keep my clever and cruel remarks to myself.)

There is a saying I love. “If you want what I have, do what I do.”

I keep hearing from people who do not have what I want.

For example, I do not want health and lifestyle advice from a morbidly obese girl more than 10 years my junior.

I do not want to be told that my quitting smoking is “really for the best” by a woman I never see smile. And who looks something between bored and disgusted. Always.

I am glad that I quit smoking. For all of the pain that has come with it, there has been a new clarity and a deeper level of self-love, self-awareness, and self-confidence. I love that, even though it has not been an easy six months. But I don’t want other people telling me what is best for me. I like to decide that for myself.

And today, I can. When I got control of my food, I stopped doubting myself. I could trust my eyes and ears. I could trust my thoughts. I could trust my assessment of situations. I stopped wondering if I had it all wrong and was doing it all wrong.

And another thing I lost when I got control of the food, was the need to get it all right. (Ok, that’s a bit of an exaggeration. There are still things that I get very angry at myself for getting wrong.) But every day that I don’t eat compulsively, I have a lot more room for my humanity. And for everybody else’s.

And even one more thing is that I stopped feeling the need to give other people advice. I stopped needing to show that I had all the answers. That I was so smart. I started to understand the value of minding my own business! Who knew!?!? (By the way, I had zero answers when I was eating all the time. I sure hope nobody was actually taking the advice I kept forcing on people…Oh well. Too late now…)

So why am I so upset with people giving me their unsolicited opinions and advice? Why can’t I have room for their judgment? Why can’t I let it roll off my back?

I think because cigarettes were how I numbed the feeling that other people didn’t like me. Didn’t approve of me. Didn’t think I was doing it right or well. Didn’t think I was good enough. Being judged hurt. And cigarettes made that pain go away. It was a kind of manufactured indifference.

But now I have to acquire a new coping mechanism. And I don’t think I want it to include indifference. But I don’t want to own someone else’s judgment of me either. I need to figure out what that’s going to look like. Because I don’t know.

What I do know is that I don’t want to judge those who judge me for judging. I want to acknowledge their right to have thoughts and opinions about me and my actions. And know that those thoughts and opinions are none of my business. Even if they insist on telling me. I want to have room for their humanity, whether their words come from love or spite. I want to be protected by my confidence and personal sense of security. I want to learn to love my fellow human beings. Not because they deserve it. Because I do.

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11 Nov 2012

I’m sorry, I’m too busy to go out of my way to not give you the satisfaction

I have been unhappy lately. For a long time actually. Months now. On and off since I quit smoking in June. Pretty consistently since August. Generally blue. Occasionally in a lot of emotional pain. Occasionally just raw and irritable. And invariably thinking. Thinking and worrying and puzzling and solving and predicting and planning and scrapping and reformulating and worrying some more.

 

I am purging a lot of old pain. It’s hard to squeeze out of my chest and throat area. It burns. Letting it go is interesting. I’m not used to it. It’s the kind of thing I’ve been holding in since I was 4. For the most part, it comes in a huge wave and dissipates. It sneaks up on me and it suddenly occurs to me that I’m going to cry. And then it occurs to me that I am holding it in. Holding it back. And I don’t want to do that anymore. Hold it in. Deny that I’m an emotional, cry-baby, wussy-girl. I am. I am not cool. I am not too hip to care. I care. So I cry. And my face gets all red and blotchy for a minute. Maybe two. And my eyes get glassy and wet. And then it’s done, passed. And maybe a person or two on the street or subway noticed. Maybe.

 

I have been humiliated a few times recently too. I was the butt of the joke for an entire bus full of people during the snowstorm this week. With my train not running and taking an unfamiliar route home, I waited for an hour in the snow for the wrong bus. In retrospect, a few of the buses that would have taken me home passed by. When I realized I was on the wrong bus, and asked the driver to let me off, everyone began to laugh. Tell other passengers who hadn’t heard. The hardest was the little old lady in the front cackling about how stupid I was not to have asked. I was shocked by how delighted people were by my difficulty. How they thoroughly enjoyed my pain.

 

But there is something that I have given up. Not letting them see me cry. Not giving people the satisfaction of seeing that they got to me. I don’t care if they see. I don’t care if they enjoy it. I don’t care if they get off on my hurt heart. If I need to cry I will cry. I’ll do it with dignity too. Because I do not cry because I am weak. I do not cry because I am pathetic. I cry because nobody gets to tell me how to deal with my feelings. Nobody gets to tell me not to be so sensitive. And if someone enjoys my tears, that’s none of my business. But I can pity them for that. More than I pity myself for feeling the pain.

 

I do not enjoy other people’s pain. I feel it too easily. It seems too real. I actually have to work every day at not taking on other people’s pain. I have to remind myself that just because there is suffering in the world does not mean I cannot have peace and joy and love. That just because the world does not have peace does not mean that I cannot have peace. I have to remind myself that peace begins with me. Inside.

 

I love my empathy. I am honored to be a compassionate woman with a big sensitive heart. I don’t love everything that comes with it, but I don’t see it as a weakness. And I don’t need to hide it because some people are jerks.

 

Because I used to have a surefire way of not being affected by the sadism of jerks. I smoked it. Or ate it. Or somehow got high enough that it couldn’t scrape at me. But here I am, right on the ground. Well within reach to be scraped and scratched. Too available to get by unscathed. Though, really, getting by unscathed because I was too effed up to be available wasn’t exactly the cat’s pajamas either. Or I wouldn’t have gone through all the pain I have to get here. Present. Available. Hurtable.

 

The other thing that has me unhappy is trying to acclimate to a new level of confidence and self-love. I have a new understanding of what I deserve. What I am worth. And here I am in a life built by a woman who liked herself less.

 

It’s even funny to think about how I am in so much pain because I went from being a woman who liked herself a lot, to a woman who likes herself even more. I was already so impressed by my honesty, integrity, honor. Was already overjoyed to wake up every day with such dignity and self-respect. Had already done so much incredible work on myself. And yet the gap between this new understanding of myself and my life, and the (still pretty fantastic) life I was living six months ago makes for heartache. And sadness.

 

So I’m unhappy. But let me tell you what I am not. Depressed. And that’s important to note. Because when I was eating compulsively and addictively eating sugar, I was depressed. Always. The level of self-hatred I lived with was staggering. I hated myself so consistently for so long that I didn’t even know I hated myself until it stopped when I quit sugar. I felt crazy on sugar. I was crazy. I had no hope. I lived in the depths of despair.

 

But today I am not in despair. I know that this will pass. It’s just a difficult stretch. A very long, difficult stretch of unhappiness. And yes, I wish it would hurry along. Because I miss being fun and funny and easy to be around. But everything in its own time.

 

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