onceafatgirl

Peace is better than chocolate

Archive for the tag “self-love”

13 Oct 2012
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Love, hold the onions

I wrote my first entry for what would become this blog on January 2nd of this year. I didn’t know at the time that it would become “Onceafatgirl.” (Or maybe I did somewhere in my heart.) But it was the 6th Anniversary of having my eating under control. And I was still thinking and living as if I were walking around in a 300 lb body. Growing up with food issues can mess with your head. Once a fat girl, always a fat girl. No matter what you look like on the outside. And I knew that it was time to let go of thoughts, feelings, and beliefs that had become obsolete.

And so far, this has been a year of healing and spiritual growth. Writing this blog has been a gift to me. What I wanted most was to be willing to take risks with my heart. I had always kept my life small. Been highly risk averse. Unwilling to risk rejection. Or humiliation. Especially in romance. And that kept me lonely. So here I am. For 10 months I have been telling you my dark secrets and painful truths. I keep my self-censorship to a minimum. I keep it honest. I make it intimate.

And when it comes to men and romance, I did, indeed, take a few risks. I am proud of myself. But instead of getting bolder and more sure of myself, instead of letting each risk be a reference to the fact that I survived it, I started out bold and got more and more timid. I started to get scared. I started to doubt.

And then BOOM! All of a sudden I find myself back where I was in January. Feeling small. Feeling my life constrict around me. Feeling lonely and ashamed. Unlovable. Unworthy. Burdensome. Broken.

And this has come up again now because I had to give up some food. And some serious fat girl issues got unearthed. Yes, even though I have maintained strict boundaries around food and my eating for over six and a half years.

See, what occurs to me is maybe a giant plate of deep-fried onions once or twice a week made it ok that I was lonely. And when that got taken away suddenly I was still lonely but I didn’t have the onions anymore to make it ok. So of course I just wanted my onions back. But maybe if I think about it, I don’t want them back. Maybe I should stop wanting things that make it ok that I’m lonely. And maybe I should stop finding ways to be ok with being lonely. Maybe I don’t want onions. Maybe I want love.

What I’m saying might not make sense to you. Maybe you have spent your life knowing that you deserve love. And maybe you have never put something between you and your fellow human beings. But food was my best friend and my lover for the first 28 years of my life. And then even in the past 6+ years, with strict boundaries around my food, I allowed it to be my comfort. And as soon as my comfort food was taken away, I felt vulnerable. Shamed. Punished. Growing up, food was how I convinced myself that I could survive without love. But it was also the reason I felt like I would never be loved.

There is something I am noted for in my work life. “Quality information.” I can be counted on to give it, and I am always grateful to receive it. But that is not true of me with men. With romance I always want to avoid information. Or at least keep the information I seek irrelevant. I never want to look at the truth. It’s too scary! Because I am absolutely positive that no man will ever be interested in me. That has been something I have “known” for as long as I can remember. So I don’t seek quality information. I don’t ask the relevant questions. I just answer the questions myself. Always with the answer that I am most afraid of. Always telling myself that no man is interested in me. You would think I would just ask them! When I answer for them, I never stand a chance.

It’s almost like when I was fat and I would make a fat joke about myself before someone else would do it. I’m rejecting myself on every man’s behalf first. I won’t give them the satisfaction.

Which just goes to show how warped I am. I’m not interested in jerks. I don’t like arrogant or obnoxious human beings at all. And certainly not to date. If I like a man, it’s safe to say that rejecting me would not bring him satisfaction.

I know that fear of humiliation is part of being human. It doesn’t make me different or special. And when I am paralysed with fear of rejection, it’s because I’m thinking that I have something to lose. Maybe I do. But I need to stop aching. And crying. So let’s try this again. I want to take risks with my heart. This time without giant plates of deep-fried onions.

I call a do-over. Starting…now.

Posted in Inspiration, Life, Relationships and tagged , , , , , , , , , ,
28 Sep 2012

Does Lady Gaga understand that revolutions are complicated?…and usually bloody…

I really thought I was gonna stay away from talking about Lady Gaga, and stick with my own story. But it was either this or talk about how my love is a burden and no one is ever going to want it…So Lady Gaga it is!

If you don’t already know, Lady Gaga has come out about struggling with anorexia and bulimia since she was 15. She said she did it to “inspire bravery. and BREED some m$therf—ing COMPASSION.” She wants to start a “Body Revolution” of self acceptance.

Um…Yay? I feel like I should be psyched. Because she’s bringing light to the conversation I want to bring into the light. So why does it feel so yucky to me? Am I really jealous of a superstar? Not for her money, fame, or status, but because she has a built in audience and she’s talking about “my thing”? Really, Kate?
Or is it maybe that she posted “fat” (?) pictures of herself in her underwear and she doesn’t have a single stretch mark, while I am covered in them. And she does have a flat stomach, while I have a big round belly and flaps of skin that embarrass me. Maybe it’s because I look at her stick-it-to-the-man, 25 lbs-heavier-than-her-usual-Hollywood-standard photos and note that her body is still so much closer to the American standard of beauty than my own. And really, is still within the perimeter of that standard. Maybe blurs the edges. But just barely. And that made me feel even worse about myself. When I have already been dealing with my body image issues for weeks. If Lady Gaga’s “fat” body isn’t good enough, mine is a disgusting blob of ugly. Who would ever love that?
Yes I understand that she was feeling shamed by the media for gaining 25 lbs. And that she was making a point. I am willing to believe that it was meant as an act of bravery. Defiance of “the system.” And yes, I think it is gross, wrong, and even evil to express opinions about another person’s body. Even if you are in the media and she is in the public eye. Yes, I know she’s there by choice. It doesn’t matter to me. She’s a human being. That body is her only vehicle. And it belongs to her alone. It should be respected.
But I have a hard time forgetting that her practically naked image has been shaming women for years. Regular women in regular bodies. Me, by the way. She has been shaming me. Hasn’t she been selling skinny as sexy for the past several years? Am I supposed to forget that she has been part of the money-making, ideal-woman-image machine? She is certainly a victim. I won’t begrudge her that. But isn’t she also a perpetrator?
Or maybe I’m feeling jealous and yucky because she’s selling a “quick fix” to an issue that has complicated my entire life. Not only is she talking about my issue, but she’s totally half-assing it.
Does she really think we can just “out” our perceived body flaws and as a human collective we will stop judging one another? And stop hating ourselves? Will we also stop photoshopping the hell out of women in ads to sell an impossible image? And will we stop buying that image? And stop buying it for our daughters? Will we join hands around the world and sing “What the World Needs Now Is Love” too?
And will Lady Gaga declare that her body is beautiful exactly the way it is and be able to believe it? I mean really believe it. Will she stop starving herself (if she does that)? Will she stop making herself throw up (if she does that)? My point is, she’s claiming some serious eating and body disorders. So whatever her issues are, will she stop engaging in the behaviors that make up her personal brand of disordered eating? And will she be able to share that with her community so that they can find some relief? And peace?
I know that eating disorders are no joke. I know that anorexics and bulimics suffer. And that must include Lady Gaga, for all of her money and fame. That it is not about what one looks like on the outside. Or what one has. Or has accomplished. I know that eating disorders are equal opportunity destroyers. That it is the head and heart that go crazy. I know the kind of self-hatred that you have to experience to torture yourself with food. And starvation. And all of the other awful things there are to do to oneself. I know because I have tried a bunch of them personally. And that in many ways, it is this kind of eating disorder that is more damaging than run of the mill, get fat, compulsive eating/binge eating.
At least it was for me. Being fat was hard. Not being able to stop eating was deeply humiliating. And living in a big body was shameful and exhausting. But the exhaustion of the body was nothing compared to the exhaustion of acting on the whims of the bulimic girl in my head. The scheming and worrying. The hiding. I lived in constant action and panic. It was imperative that nobody should ever find out my secret. That I am a fat girl. That I have no will power. That I can’t stop eating. That I am unworthy of love and I will never be good enough. That I am an utter and detestable failure as a human being. My fat girl let it all be out in the open. But my bulimic girl wanted to hide it. She would go to any lengths. To her, my life was a lie, and every day I lived in a socially acceptable body was one more day she managed to fool the world into thinking I had any value as a person.
I have had my eating, as well as my eating disorders, under control for over six years now. I have more peace and freedom than I ever had in my life. My worst day living within my food boundaries is better than my best day with no boundaries and my eating out of control. But none of it is solved for me. I have to cultivate it. I have to honor myself every day. I have to have integrity in my life. I have to have integrity around eating. It remains intensely complicated in spite of all that I have accomplished around peace, self-love and food.
Yes I had to learn to love myself so that I could get some peace and love around my food and my body. But part of that love is in actions of self-care and honor. Actions! Every single day! And it’s still f*cking hard to love myself!
So yes. Declare your self-love to the world. Yes, out yourself for your stretch marks. Or that your breasts are two different sizes. Or that your thighs rub together. Or that you make yourself throw up your food. But what are you going to do to take care of yourself? What are you going to do to hold the demons at bay every day? What are you going to do to not fall into the hole of punishment and torture and despair? How are you going to let go of self-hatred? Because that f*cker is sneaky. And regardless of where it originates, it does not live outside of the self. As much as I would like to blame the beauty and fashion industries. Advertising and society. Self-hatred lives in the boys and girls (men and women) who are taking drastic, dangerous, and harmful actions just to feel worthy of showing up in the world.
I really don’t want to be a hater. But I’m angry. Because today’s publicity opp is not going to stop anorexia and bulimia from living on in actual human beings (who don’t have millions of fans). I want to know what comes next for them. What do you say to the girl who wants to love herself, but can’t. And feels like a failure? And are you willing to be honest about the actual struggle? Because it’s hard to be honest about the actual struggle, Lady Gaga! It can be deeply embarrassing. And shockingly unglamourous. I know. I’ve been doing it for about 10 months. And it’s scary!
I will say that I am grateful that somebody has brought about a call for self-acceptance and love. But I would like it to be a responsible, empowering, honest call. Maybe sh*t’s about to get real. But I think I could handle that. I could be on board. In fact, if that’s the case, I say Viva la Revolucion!
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11 Aug 2012

PowerPoint presentations in Heaven and other self-inflicted Hells

This week I have been eating to be satisfied. Not to be skinny. And it has been fantastic! It has made me peaceful. And happy. Grounded. Free. And in an unexpected twist, it illuminated a tricky little bit of eating disorder thinking that had been lurking (creepily) in the dark, seedy parts of my mind. Letting go of my obsession with my appearance, and taking care of feeling nourished and physically comfortable gave me some important insight into the way I see myself and my value.

I was looking in the mirror shortly after a particularly satisfying meal. (Yes, on purpose. Why was I even doing that in the first place, you ask?  Because apparently I will go out of my way to look at my body in unflattering states. I may as well have run right out to the nearest dressing room and tried on bathing suits with horizontal stripes under fluorescent lighting.) I was scrutinizing my stomach. And I had a thought. “Well at least you’re happy. Because no man is going to want you this way. You’re not even trying to be the prettiest you can be.”

But I was fed. And calm. And my head was clear. And I could distinguish the basic premises of this thinking. And um…ewwwwww!

First, in order to be the prettiest I can be, I have to be the thinnest I can be (to within 3 lbs. I don’t know where “3 lbs” came from. It’s arbitrary. But it lives in my head like it’s based on something important.) Also, being the thinnest I can be doesn’t automatically make me the prettiest I can be. A equals B, but B does not always equal A. Second, what I look like is a major factor in whether or not I am worthy and/or enough. It’s like there is a graph or chart somewhere, (Where, I’m not sure. Heaven? Outer space? Probably wherever Plato’s Forms reside.) that has quantified my looks. And there is a line that delineates pretty from ugly. Or maybe just good enough from not good enough. Dropping below this line is an automatic fail. A deal-breaker, if you will. It automatically renders me unworthy of love.

I also want to say that the beauty line is high. Besides being thin, there is manicured, pedicured, shaved, plucked, tan (in summer), nicely dressed, in heels, with clear skin, and a cute hairstyle (up in summer, down in winter).

And then there is attitude and personality graph. Happy, grateful, nurturing, helpful, honorable, kind, generous, peaceful, loving. And always learning from my mistakes.

And here’s what makes it extra twisted. I even know that perfection is not an option. It’s like my eating disorder brain is pretending it’s giving me a break. It’s telling me it has all kinds of room for my humanity. And in a way it does. It is ok for me to fail. It’s ok for me to mess up or do something wrong. Or be mean. Or selfish. It’s ok to not look my best at all times. It is ok for me to fall below the lines on my graphs. As a person. As an individual. As a lone human being. I can clean it up and carry on. God still loves me. My family and friends still love me. I still love me and respect myself.

But if I ever want to be loved as a woman, by a man, I had better be doing every conceivable thing I can possibly do to the point of utter exhaustion to be as close to perfect as is humanly possible. I had better not let a man see me fall below. Ever. Maintaining myself above my “good enough” lines is the only way that I will ever deserve love. Or at least convince a man that I deserve it. That is how I can earn love. Through perseverance and hard work.
And wow is that exhausting. And am I ever exhausted. And does it ever make sense that I have always preferred a fortress and loneliness. Because the standard I have been holding myself to is unsustainable. At least for me. And I am trying to separate that fact from the assumption that naturally follows in my head. Therefore you will never earn love so you will never be loved.
Yes I know that love is not something you earn. That it’s something you inspire simply by being alive, and accept simply by being open to it. I guess my heart hasn’t gotten that memo yet. And my eating disorder brain doesn’t believe that could possibly be true.
But this is the other thing I know. (Are you paying attention, eating disorder brain? This is for your benefit.) I have lived a life where I did not do “the work” and i have lived a life where I have done “the work”. And I did a lot of work. Good work. Quality work. And I have yet to inspire the kind of love I am looking for. So clearly “the work” is not the answer. And what I would like to know, really know, is that I could be loved. Human. With bushy eyebrows and hairy legs. Crying. Angry. Impatient. Saying mean things. I would like to know that the same way I know that I respect myself. I would like to know that like I know that I am a woman of honor and integrity.
And also, I would like to know how to welcome it when it shows up.
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21 Apr 2012

How the Kate got her stripes

Since I told you all about my irrational body image issues in my last post, I decided it’s time to write about my rational ones. I decided to talk about “what is so” about my body, so it seemed like a good idea to mention the things I am embarrassed about. Still. At least sometimes. Even after going from 300 lbs to 133ish.

Let’s start with my knock-knees. This is not a genetic trait. It is something I did to myself. First, and nobody’s “fault”, I was born with a club foot. To remedy this, doctors put me in various hip-to-toe casts as a baby. They were changed regularly, of course. But this still stunted the growth of my right leg, which is now an inch shorter than my left. Then, growing up fat, my thighs were so big that they kept my feet and knees from ever meeting. Walking and standing while carrying so much excess weight as I was growing made my longer, left leg grow crooked. The femur has a slight bend to the right, the tibia and fibula an exaggerated bend to the left. When I lost my weight, and my thighs got thin, it turned out that when my knees touch, my feet are still six inches apart. When I bring my feet together, my left knee overlaps my right. This embarrasses me. I don’t know why. Maybe because I did it to myself. I wear heels to make it less obvious. And I have a modified “supermodel” walk so that my knees don’t bang together.

But even more embarrassing to me is my skin. I have a lot of it. A crap-load more than I need. It hangs. And it is covered with stretch marks. And there is nothing natural to do about it. The most noticeable places are my arms, breasts, belly, and upper thighs.

I was in a tank top at the playground the other day, and the 3-year-old I take care of said, “Kate, look!” And she pointed to my under-arm. “You have stripes!”

I said, “It’s true. I do.”

“Why?”

I said, “That’s a long story.”

She asked, “Do you have it at home?”

“Do I have what at home?”

She said, “The book. With the story of why you have stripes.”

I read a great analogy once about skin after a huge weight loss. It said that if you take a garbage bag, and stuff it too full of cans, when you take the cans out, the bag is still stretched out of shape. Even if you do it slowly, one can at a time. It is not that I lost my weight too fast. It is that I got so fat at all. I realize that skin is a living organ. That it’s different from a plastic bag. And, indeed, my skin is not still the skin of a 300 lb woman on a thin woman’s body. It has bounced back quite a bit, to be sure. But I still have plenty of extra. And after years of being thin, it is clear to me that it’s never going to go away entirely and leave me with a lean, smooth, tight body.

And I worry about what other people think of that. I would be lying if I said I didn’t. I am afraid of having my body judged. Partly because I’m very protective of it. It’s mine. It has been very good to me. And partly because I am ashamed of having done to it what I did. I scarred it. And I am afraid of owning that. And being reminded of that. Especially if it’s because someone else brought it up because they saw something they found unattractive. (No, I don’t mean the 3-year-old. She loves me just the way I am.)

I have worn a bathing suit in public maybe 4 times in the past 20 years. Always with my family at a hotel pool. Never comfortably. Not even since I got thin.

Being with a man, actually just the thought of being with a man, can bring up a lot of insecurity about my body. I have learned that if a man wants to see you naked, he’s never disappointed if he gets to. But knowing this has never made it easier to take off my clothes in front of one. And I have always wanted to apologize for my body. As if skin and stretch marks make me the booby prize. As if any man wouldn’t be damn lucky to be with a beautiful, intelligent, fascinating, and incredibly sexy woman. All of which I am. If I do say so myself…

But here’s the interesting part of it for me. The truth is that when I am alone with my naked body, I think it is positively beautiful. Saggy boobs, belly flap and all. It is certainly not “conventionally” pretty, but conventional has never occurred to me as all that pretty in the first place. My body is interesting. And womanly. It has a history. And I love it.

As I said, there is nothing natural to do about “fixing” my skin. But there is, of course, something to do about it. Plastic surgery. And I don’t want to. It’s not that I’ve never considered it. It’s not that I’ve never thought it would be nice to wear a bikini to the beach without worrying about the shape of my stomach. Or a backless dress, which can only be worn bra-less. (Which is just not a possibility when you’ve gone from a 44DDD to a 34D…and straight down…) And my step-mother even offered to help me pay for the plastic surgery if it was something I decided to do. But when it comes down to me and me, my relationship with my own body, I like it just the way it is. Flawed, weird, interesting, and beautiful as hell. It’s me. It is exactly who I am. And I don’t need to forget that, or deny it, or pretend that it’s not.

What I’d like more than surgery, is to wear my bikini in public. In my gorgeous, sexy, flawed body. Without shame or embarrassment. Baby steps, Kate…

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