With apologies to Elsa (that's a character from the Disney movie Frozen, in case you've -by some miracle - managed to avoid that movie AND that song, and no, you can't use the "I don't have kids" excuse. Neither do I, but *damn* that movie/song was EVERYwhere for a LONG while lol) for jacking her song lyrics, today's post is about letting go. Of the past, of dreams that are only making you sad, letting go of bitterness and anger and hatred - and letting go of that picture you have in your head of what your life "should" be. That's a big one for me. I'm going to be 38 this year (OUCH!), and I'm nowhere near where I "should" be. I'm not married. In fact, I've been single for so long that I'm not sure I'd know how to be in a relationship. I don't have kids, and it's looking more and more like that won't happen (and I know, there's still plenty of time, etc - but when you are staring down 40 and haven't even been on a *date* in years, it doesn't look good. And I'm entitled to my thoughts and feelings on the subject, anyway). I'm not working right now because of health issues. I'm just...I mean, from the outside looking in, I'm a total loser. (And, ok, from the inside looking out, some days I get overwhelmed with just how much of a loser I feel like I am.)
So that's where letting go comes in. Forgiveness. There is so much talk about forgiving people who have wronged you, not forgetting what they've done, not inviting them 'round for tea, necessarily, but forgiving them. Letting go of the anger and resentment that is only serving to hurt *you*. But you know what we don't talk nearly enough about? Forgiving *ourselves*. And while I've gotten much better at forgiving others - it seems to be a theme in my life these past couple of months - I'm not ABOUT to forgive myself. Oh, no. I hold myself to this ridiculously high standard where absolutely zero screw-ups will be tolerated. I don't get a break, or deserve one, ever. Then I screw up - as we do, because we're human - and the anger and guilt and shame seep right back in, higher than ever.
I've wasted my life to this point. No, really, I have. Since I was 13 years old, I've wasted my time and energy and youth on being fat. I've dedicated every thing I have to maintaining this body that lets me hide from people, from living life. It is miserably lonely and dull, but MAN have I perfected it, and it's so easy. I just glide through life with no expectations, no leaving my comfort zone, nothing that feels 'scary' or tough. And I'm content with that. I've been content with it, anyway. And I'm not *as* content with it as I was - sometimes I get these glimmers of "I don't want to be this way anymore" - but they get squashed by my certainty that it's too late for me to just now start living life. And I can't be talked out of that. Believe me, plenty of people have tried. "Oh, you're so young yet!" "Oh, you have plenty of time!" Yes, I suppose when you're 70, 38 seems young. But when you're 38 and haven't started the things you should've been doing at 18 and 20....well. (and besides - I can't deal in "maybe somedays". Yes, you have to have hope. You HAVE to. But there is a difference between hoping for a happy future and getting bogged down in pining for something that can never be.)
There is no going back. There is no way to relive my youth without letting my rapist win this time around. I can't go back to high school and be a normal teenage girl with friends and boys and parties. There is no way to redo college and be a normal 20-something. I have to live with the choices I made and all the things I missed. I have to live with knowing that if I just hadn't pissed my life away by hiding and being scared, I could be the person I want to be. I could have that job, that marriage, those babies. But I did this to myself. (and yes, I'm aware that there are no guarantees that I'd have those things if I'd been different. Let's just say my chances would've been DRAMATICALLY higher.) And even as my brain says "you can't change it", my heart says "...so let's drown you in guilt and shame and regret, forever".
It's a process, this forgiving myself. Some days - RARE days - I get it right, and I forget yesterday and just pick up today the best I can. Those are the days when I know that I can't dwell in coulda/shoulda/wouldas. That my life is what it is, and I need to make the best of THAT life, not waste more of it pining away for what might've been. Today is a perfect example of that. I'm fighting so hard to let go of the fact that I haven't walked for 4 days (working and travelling) and that this weekend, my food choices would indicate that I'd never heard the words Weight Watchers, let alone that I'm supposed to be following the program. I can't change what I did or didn't do, or what I ate. I can only watch what I eat today, and go get my sneakers on and walk. And I *will* go walk.
So if you feel like you're drowning under the weight of the past, unable to forgive yourself, think about this: your (my) prison door locks from the inside. All you have to do is turn the key and you're free to go! I'm not saying you won't wander back to your cell. I do -a lot. But I am saying it's worth the fight to have those moments of freedom, and when those moments start adding up and you find yourself with a whole day where you've LIVED instead of existed...it's the greatest thing.
Monday, August 11, 2014
Tuesday, August 5, 2014
The blogger formerly known as Adventures of a Cornfed Farm Princess...
Some of you reading this blog have been around a long time - long enough to remember me when I was blogging/Facebooking as Adventures of a Cornfed Farm Princess. Some of you are new, and only know my page as Teapots and Tiaras. I'm equally glad ALL of you are here!
So for those of you who know a lot of my story, this will either be a refresher or old news, but since there seems to be a lot of new people, I thought I'd share how this page came to be, and a bit about myself and the mission I once again find myself taking on.
When I started my page on Facebook, I was a miserable ball of anger and assholey behavior. That isn't me being mean, that's me being honest. If the lovely women who took me under their wings at the time weren't too kind to be that brutal, they'd tell you the same thing. I was AWFUL. I somehow had the random, incredible good luck to stumble across two FB pages: I Want A Dumpster Baby (now I Got A Dumpster Family) and Tripping While Standing Still - and the amazing, strong, talented, funny, beyond kind women behind those pages were lovely and generous enough to take on the challenge of being my friend. I did not (and sometimes still do not) make it easy for them.
My page started because at that time (nearly 3 years ago now!), I weighed nearly 450 pounds, and I had just started swimming every day, and in telling a story from my pool time to Tripping, she graciously invited me to guest post that story on her blog. She and Dumpster Mama encouraged me to start a page of my own, and I suddenly found myself surrounded by and encouraged by and loved by this amazing community of people who accepted me as-is, even knowing all my flaws.
I wish I could say that I stuck to that and succeeded and am now living at a healthy weight - but the truth is I am still nearly 450 pounds, and I'm trying once again to do something about it. I started walking and doing Weight Watchers on August 2nd (not a Monday! lol) and I am trying my best to just take each day as it comes.
You may be thinking "Holy shit, she's huge" - and you'd be right. I have that reaction to myself in the mirror some days ;) Or you may be wondering "How does someone let themselves go that far? Why would someone let themselves stay that big?" - again, valid. Or you may be thinking "Well, you just need to eat less and move more" - and, again, yes - although for me, it's not *quite* that simple. To get this big and stay this big, there has to be a huge emotional disconnect, and getting to the bottom of that is the only way to even *start* to lose weight.
To understand why I am the size that I am - and please note that I didn't say "why I am *who* I am", that is one major change that I've made, understanding that how big I am and who I am are not the same things at all - anyway, to understand, we have to back up a little. Put our behinds in the past, as Pumbaa would say. :)
Until I was 5 years old, I was tiny. Scrawny. Wore small toddler clothes because I was too skinny for kids clothes. Then my dad left. And never came back. We had to move. My mom had major surgery, with complications that nearly killed her. When she recovered, she went back to college on a more-than-full-time schedule, meaning she was at school all day and doing homework all evening. My world was upside-down, and I retreated into books to avoid the turmoil in my real world. Reading is fantastic - but I gave up playing outdoors, sports, any and all hobbies besides reading and watching tv. And of course, what goes better with a book or a movie than a snack? So now I was sedentary and eating more. The weight began to creep on. I went on my first diet when I was 10. Low-fat, low-sodium, low-flavor, but high in kids making fun of my lunches at school. I hated it and would sneak treats.
When I was 12, my sister left home. This was not done in typical "growing up and moving out" fashion, but in a traumatic, "got thrown out for stealing and drug use" way. I was devastated. My sister was my idol. She was everything I wasn't. Charming, funny, thin, gorgeous, and much older than me. I would've called her glamorous. She'd also been a 2nd mom to me when my own mom was so sick. So to have her leave that way, with no further contact, was brutal. I retreated again. Food and books became my friends again. I am the classic, text-book definition of an emotional eater.
The following year, my mom's mom got very sick. We moved back to mom's hometown to be closer to grandma. I started weight watchers and lost 80 pounds and was at a healthy weight (and felt great!) for the first time in a long time. Then, within the space of 3 months, two things happened. My grandma passed away, and I was sexually assaulted. I was grieving the loss of my grandma, and the assault just broke me. It stole my soul. The light in my eyes was extinguished and I was just a shell. Somewhere, subconsciously, I knew that the only way to make things right was to retreat again. I gained back the 80 pounds easily - much more easily than I'd lost it, of course - and then kept right on going. It wasn't anything I ever consciously thought or verbalized, but I knew that if I just kept getting bigger, people would leave me alone. I wouldn't have to get close to anyone just to lose them, I wouldn't have to worry about a man wanting to touch me...nothing. This fat body has served as a better suit of armor than you'd think possible. It still does.
It isn't easy being this big, but it is familiar and comfortable. It has taken me until the past couple of years to get beyond my abject terror of men. To get beyond thinking who I am and how big I am were the same thing. To realize that being alone is easier, yes, but it is also lonely and miserable and joy-stealing. I have made a ton of forward progress, and I feel like this time I'm ready. Who knows if that's true? But I hope it is, and I'm operating under the assumption that it is.
Workouts (right now, that's 1/2 mile walk each day) are hard for me. Beyond hard. Besides being this big, I have two massive abdominal hernias (imagine two heavy bowling balls hanging, unsupported, off of your stomach), arthritis, and PCOS which causes chronic fatigue and pain. I'm fighting an uphill battle on roller skates that want to roll backwards, basically. Weight loss is hard enough, and then I add all these things on top. It sounds pathetic to me that all I can do is 1/2 mile before I'm DYING. But I keep telling myself that it will get better, easier, and I will get stronger.
Mostly, I want you to know that you can do it! Whatever IT is. You can fight back - and we're in this together.
So for those of you who know a lot of my story, this will either be a refresher or old news, but since there seems to be a lot of new people, I thought I'd share how this page came to be, and a bit about myself and the mission I once again find myself taking on.
When I started my page on Facebook, I was a miserable ball of anger and assholey behavior. That isn't me being mean, that's me being honest. If the lovely women who took me under their wings at the time weren't too kind to be that brutal, they'd tell you the same thing. I was AWFUL. I somehow had the random, incredible good luck to stumble across two FB pages: I Want A Dumpster Baby (now I Got A Dumpster Family) and Tripping While Standing Still - and the amazing, strong, talented, funny, beyond kind women behind those pages were lovely and generous enough to take on the challenge of being my friend. I did not (and sometimes still do not) make it easy for them.
My page started because at that time (nearly 3 years ago now!), I weighed nearly 450 pounds, and I had just started swimming every day, and in telling a story from my pool time to Tripping, she graciously invited me to guest post that story on her blog. She and Dumpster Mama encouraged me to start a page of my own, and I suddenly found myself surrounded by and encouraged by and loved by this amazing community of people who accepted me as-is, even knowing all my flaws.
I wish I could say that I stuck to that and succeeded and am now living at a healthy weight - but the truth is I am still nearly 450 pounds, and I'm trying once again to do something about it. I started walking and doing Weight Watchers on August 2nd (not a Monday! lol) and I am trying my best to just take each day as it comes.
You may be thinking "Holy shit, she's huge" - and you'd be right. I have that reaction to myself in the mirror some days ;) Or you may be wondering "How does someone let themselves go that far? Why would someone let themselves stay that big?" - again, valid. Or you may be thinking "Well, you just need to eat less and move more" - and, again, yes - although for me, it's not *quite* that simple. To get this big and stay this big, there has to be a huge emotional disconnect, and getting to the bottom of that is the only way to even *start* to lose weight.
To understand why I am the size that I am - and please note that I didn't say "why I am *who* I am", that is one major change that I've made, understanding that how big I am and who I am are not the same things at all - anyway, to understand, we have to back up a little. Put our behinds in the past, as Pumbaa would say. :)
Until I was 5 years old, I was tiny. Scrawny. Wore small toddler clothes because I was too skinny for kids clothes. Then my dad left. And never came back. We had to move. My mom had major surgery, with complications that nearly killed her. When she recovered, she went back to college on a more-than-full-time schedule, meaning she was at school all day and doing homework all evening. My world was upside-down, and I retreated into books to avoid the turmoil in my real world. Reading is fantastic - but I gave up playing outdoors, sports, any and all hobbies besides reading and watching tv. And of course, what goes better with a book or a movie than a snack? So now I was sedentary and eating more. The weight began to creep on. I went on my first diet when I was 10. Low-fat, low-sodium, low-flavor, but high in kids making fun of my lunches at school. I hated it and would sneak treats.
When I was 12, my sister left home. This was not done in typical "growing up and moving out" fashion, but in a traumatic, "got thrown out for stealing and drug use" way. I was devastated. My sister was my idol. She was everything I wasn't. Charming, funny, thin, gorgeous, and much older than me. I would've called her glamorous. She'd also been a 2nd mom to me when my own mom was so sick. So to have her leave that way, with no further contact, was brutal. I retreated again. Food and books became my friends again. I am the classic, text-book definition of an emotional eater.
The following year, my mom's mom got very sick. We moved back to mom's hometown to be closer to grandma. I started weight watchers and lost 80 pounds and was at a healthy weight (and felt great!) for the first time in a long time. Then, within the space of 3 months, two things happened. My grandma passed away, and I was sexually assaulted. I was grieving the loss of my grandma, and the assault just broke me. It stole my soul. The light in my eyes was extinguished and I was just a shell. Somewhere, subconsciously, I knew that the only way to make things right was to retreat again. I gained back the 80 pounds easily - much more easily than I'd lost it, of course - and then kept right on going. It wasn't anything I ever consciously thought or verbalized, but I knew that if I just kept getting bigger, people would leave me alone. I wouldn't have to get close to anyone just to lose them, I wouldn't have to worry about a man wanting to touch me...nothing. This fat body has served as a better suit of armor than you'd think possible. It still does.
It isn't easy being this big, but it is familiar and comfortable. It has taken me until the past couple of years to get beyond my abject terror of men. To get beyond thinking who I am and how big I am were the same thing. To realize that being alone is easier, yes, but it is also lonely and miserable and joy-stealing. I have made a ton of forward progress, and I feel like this time I'm ready. Who knows if that's true? But I hope it is, and I'm operating under the assumption that it is.
Workouts (right now, that's 1/2 mile walk each day) are hard for me. Beyond hard. Besides being this big, I have two massive abdominal hernias (imagine two heavy bowling balls hanging, unsupported, off of your stomach), arthritis, and PCOS which causes chronic fatigue and pain. I'm fighting an uphill battle on roller skates that want to roll backwards, basically. Weight loss is hard enough, and then I add all these things on top. It sounds pathetic to me that all I can do is 1/2 mile before I'm DYING. But I keep telling myself that it will get better, easier, and I will get stronger.
Mostly, I want you to know that you can do it! Whatever IT is. You can fight back - and we're in this together.
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
Look at that lazy fat ass...
Those were the words I heard this morning. First thing through the front door of HyVee (that's a grocery store, for the non-Iowans in the crowd ;) )...all I want is to get my groceries, and I have to be confronted with ignorance.
What prompted their outburst? I had the nerve to make use of one of the motorized carts that the store provides. This is one of perhaps 5 times that I have ever done so, in any store. I have two good legs, and even if they are hurting (or my back/feet/whatever), I refuse to ride a cart when I can walk or even limp. I do not believe that being obese is a good excuse to be on disability, get a special parking permit, or use a motorized cart. I know, that's probably not going to go over well with some people, but FOR ME, that's how I feel.
I know what that person was thinking when they made their rude remark. They looked at me, saw my size, and assumed that I was just too lazy to walk through the store. The problem with that is - as it is with most assumptions - they were wrong. Could not have been more wrong. I took that cart because my toe is broken. It is swollen and painful and I'm really supposed to be sitting home with it elevated - but life goes on despite my broken toe (and nagging hip injury), and errands wait for no man. But they didn't know that. They don't know that I was there to buy healthy foods so I can get back to making good choices again. They don't know that I'm easing back into walking - again hampered by the broken toe and hip injury. I'm doing the best I can with what I've got, and shaming doesn't help anyone.
For some reason lately, there has been much discussion of fat people using scooters, fat people jacking up health care costs, basically fat people being the reason why we can't have nice things. And I'm tired of it. On one hand, I realize that yes, people are entitled to their opinions, and that if I don't like it I should lose weight. But on the other hand...maybe I'm entitled to a certain amount of dignity and being left the hell alone simply because I'm a fellow human being.
It's easy to look at a fat person on a scooter and make a snap judgment. But I will say this: LAZY people are lazy. Not fat people, not white/black/Mexican/whatever people...LAZY people. They do not want to put forth any effort. They wouldn't put forth effort if they were thinner/taller/a different color.
As a fat person who is seen annually for checkups, I can tell you that my health is no worse than (and in fact, it's sometimes better than) most people who are at a healthy weight. I see the doctor once a year - oh, except for that time when I had mono, strep throat, and a secondary bacterial infection in my mouth all at the same time...but my doctor assures me that wasn't because of my weight. ;) I don't smoke or drink or take drugs, I eat plenty of fruits and veggies and drink water and my cholesterol is really good. I'm not the one jacking up your health insurance rates, sorry.
A little compassion would go a LONG way. Don't pretend to know what someone else is going through, unless you actually ask them and know for sure what the situation is, you have no way of being informed enough to make a judgment. It really isn't hard to be kind and compassionate. It's much easier than being mean and nasty and judgmental.
What prompted their outburst? I had the nerve to make use of one of the motorized carts that the store provides. This is one of perhaps 5 times that I have ever done so, in any store. I have two good legs, and even if they are hurting (or my back/feet/whatever), I refuse to ride a cart when I can walk or even limp. I do not believe that being obese is a good excuse to be on disability, get a special parking permit, or use a motorized cart. I know, that's probably not going to go over well with some people, but FOR ME, that's how I feel.
I know what that person was thinking when they made their rude remark. They looked at me, saw my size, and assumed that I was just too lazy to walk through the store. The problem with that is - as it is with most assumptions - they were wrong. Could not have been more wrong. I took that cart because my toe is broken. It is swollen and painful and I'm really supposed to be sitting home with it elevated - but life goes on despite my broken toe (and nagging hip injury), and errands wait for no man. But they didn't know that. They don't know that I was there to buy healthy foods so I can get back to making good choices again. They don't know that I'm easing back into walking - again hampered by the broken toe and hip injury. I'm doing the best I can with what I've got, and shaming doesn't help anyone.
For some reason lately, there has been much discussion of fat people using scooters, fat people jacking up health care costs, basically fat people being the reason why we can't have nice things. And I'm tired of it. On one hand, I realize that yes, people are entitled to their opinions, and that if I don't like it I should lose weight. But on the other hand...maybe I'm entitled to a certain amount of dignity and being left the hell alone simply because I'm a fellow human being.
It's easy to look at a fat person on a scooter and make a snap judgment. But I will say this: LAZY people are lazy. Not fat people, not white/black/Mexican/whatever people...LAZY people. They do not want to put forth any effort. They wouldn't put forth effort if they were thinner/taller/a different color.
As a fat person who is seen annually for checkups, I can tell you that my health is no worse than (and in fact, it's sometimes better than) most people who are at a healthy weight. I see the doctor once a year - oh, except for that time when I had mono, strep throat, and a secondary bacterial infection in my mouth all at the same time...but my doctor assures me that wasn't because of my weight. ;) I don't smoke or drink or take drugs, I eat plenty of fruits and veggies and drink water and my cholesterol is really good. I'm not the one jacking up your health insurance rates, sorry.
A little compassion would go a LONG way. Don't pretend to know what someone else is going through, unless you actually ask them and know for sure what the situation is, you have no way of being informed enough to make a judgment. It really isn't hard to be kind and compassionate. It's much easier than being mean and nasty and judgmental.
Monday, February 10, 2014
Going off the rails on a crazy train...
[My apologies to Mr. Osbourne for jacking his song lyrics - but lately, my life can best be described as "my train has been derailed".]
This past week, I read a book by Ruby Gettinger. If you don't know who that is, she had a show on the Style network a few years ago, chronicling her weight loss journey. She started out over 700 lbs, and by the end of the book, at least, was down to 330. I want to share an excerpt from her book, first, and then I'll share what I'm thinking.
"When you're obese [Blogger's note: by obese, we are not referring to 10, 25, or even 100 lbs overweight. We are referring to people my size -400 lbs- and larger. The "super obese", if you will. Because while I don't want to pass judgment, and we are all fighting a fight, the battle is vastly different when you are 250 lbs and when you are nearing 500 lbs. That's just a fact. Now back to Ruby's words.] people treat you differently. They look down on you. I try to understand where they're coming from, I swear I do. I try not to judge them the way they judge me. I really do give people the benefit of the doubt. I try and imagine what it must be like to be them, looking at me. I know it has to be hard to see someone who is seven hundred pounds, or even four hundred pounds and understand. I can't sit anywhere I want; I do not move around fast. I am abnormal-looking in a society that doesn't have a lot of Rubys. I know when I walk into a room there has to be a little shock factor.
But I really wish people didn't make assumptions about me. They come to the conclusion that I am overindulging in foods. That I don't care about myself. That I'm slow or lazy or there's something wrong with me because I have let myself get into this situation. They can't grasp it. But once they get to know me, they are different; they see Ruby finally, and not her shell. I just want to tell them I know, I really know. I am just as confused as they are. I do not understand how I got here either. I wish they could walk my path with me, fit into my soul, and know where I've been. See how I've been trying to save myself for so long...But there is something I wish I could say to them before that. I just wish I could tell everyone 'When you look at a Ruby, please, please, please show some compassion and remind yourself that we all have our own Beast we battle. I just wear mine on the outside.'"
This sentence in particular had me sobbing: "See how I've been trying to save myself for so long." My whole life has been that particular fight. Trying to save myself. From abandonment by my dad. From anxiety when my mom became deathly ill not long after my dad left. From a world I felt I was better off shielding myself from. The pain of my sister's addiction and how it affected our family. To get my soul back after I was sexually assaulted at the age of 13. I responded to all of that by packing on more and more and more pounds, literally insulating myself from having to interact with (and get close to) other people. When I finally worked up the courage to join Weight Watchers the first time, I lost 80 pounds - and then the sexual assault happened. That sealed the deal for me. I quit WW and started putting the weight back on, slowly but surely year after year until I arrived where I am now - 450 pounds with two massive abdominal hernias that make it difficult or impossible for me to do what most would consider basic tasks. (If you don't know what hernias are/feel like - imagine having the biggest, heaviest bowling ball there is hanging unsupported off the front of you. That gives you a basic idea.)
Anyway. All of that to say that lately, I have given up even on the idea of saving myself. I've grown tired of the fight, tired of battling against something (my weight) that I do not honestly believe I can defeat. And I would love to say that this post is all about how motivated I am, how I'm not willing to just lay down and take it like a weak little bitch - but that wouldn't be entirely true. Or even mostly true. The *truth* is - I am overwhelmed. I am DROWNING in this, and I've forgotten how to swim back to shore. I wake up every day and just getting out of bed is a challenge - physically and mentally. Showering, dressing, going about a daily routine - all of it is difficult. And people tell me I am brave, that I am strong for getting up and doing it anyway - and while I appreciate their faith in me with all my heart - I also know that there is a fine line between bravery and stupidity. Is it really brave to go on doing what I'm doing? Or am I pathetic for not changing it?
Not to sound whiny, but my life (life. Ha. It's an existence, and not much of one at that) is difficult. I push through the challenges and do things anyway - I walk when my legs and back are killing me because I refuse to be in a wheelchair. I sit at the sink to do dishes, and sit on a rolling desk chair to sweep/scrub the floors because I can't stand that long, but the work must be done and I refuse to hire a housekeeper or caregiver. I shower every day despite how hard it is because I refuse to be THAT person who goes out in public smelling like trash day in August. I don't feel like I deserve accolades for that. I'm muddling through a situation that I should be working to fix. I'm ashamed of myself, of what I've become and what I continue to let myself be. I'm selling myself so short, cheating myself of the life I should have - and I wish I knew why I'm content to do that.
On the other hand: maybe I am a tiny bit brave, because I refuse to go to bed and stay there. I refuse to be house-bound. I *will* do my own shopping and I *will* go to the events I want to go to (despite my fear that there won't be a chair that I can fit in/sit on), and I will NOT lay down and wait to die. I just wish I didn't have this helpless feeling of not knowing where to begin to get better. I have tried diets, nutritionists, therapy, you name it, and none of it sinks in. I just go right back to doing what I've always done. But now it's gotten even more serious. My health is deteriorating. *I* am deteriorating. I'm going to die, sooner rather than later, and I know this. I will have a stroke, or a heart attack, or my body will merely give out from the cumulative effects of being this big for this long. I have no idea why that thought doesn't scare me straight - but it doesn't.
So I'll go on muddling, trying to figure things out, and praying that the day comes when I decide to save myself for real, from the one person who is trying the hardest to hurt me - ME.
This past week, I read a book by Ruby Gettinger. If you don't know who that is, she had a show on the Style network a few years ago, chronicling her weight loss journey. She started out over 700 lbs, and by the end of the book, at least, was down to 330. I want to share an excerpt from her book, first, and then I'll share what I'm thinking.
"When you're obese [Blogger's note: by obese, we are not referring to 10, 25, or even 100 lbs overweight. We are referring to people my size -400 lbs- and larger. The "super obese", if you will. Because while I don't want to pass judgment, and we are all fighting a fight, the battle is vastly different when you are 250 lbs and when you are nearing 500 lbs. That's just a fact. Now back to Ruby's words.] people treat you differently. They look down on you. I try to understand where they're coming from, I swear I do. I try not to judge them the way they judge me. I really do give people the benefit of the doubt. I try and imagine what it must be like to be them, looking at me. I know it has to be hard to see someone who is seven hundred pounds, or even four hundred pounds and understand. I can't sit anywhere I want; I do not move around fast. I am abnormal-looking in a society that doesn't have a lot of Rubys. I know when I walk into a room there has to be a little shock factor.
But I really wish people didn't make assumptions about me. They come to the conclusion that I am overindulging in foods. That I don't care about myself. That I'm slow or lazy or there's something wrong with me because I have let myself get into this situation. They can't grasp it. But once they get to know me, they are different; they see Ruby finally, and not her shell. I just want to tell them I know, I really know. I am just as confused as they are. I do not understand how I got here either. I wish they could walk my path with me, fit into my soul, and know where I've been. See how I've been trying to save myself for so long...But there is something I wish I could say to them before that. I just wish I could tell everyone 'When you look at a Ruby, please, please, please show some compassion and remind yourself that we all have our own Beast we battle. I just wear mine on the outside.'"
This sentence in particular had me sobbing: "See how I've been trying to save myself for so long." My whole life has been that particular fight. Trying to save myself. From abandonment by my dad. From anxiety when my mom became deathly ill not long after my dad left. From a world I felt I was better off shielding myself from. The pain of my sister's addiction and how it affected our family. To get my soul back after I was sexually assaulted at the age of 13. I responded to all of that by packing on more and more and more pounds, literally insulating myself from having to interact with (and get close to) other people. When I finally worked up the courage to join Weight Watchers the first time, I lost 80 pounds - and then the sexual assault happened. That sealed the deal for me. I quit WW and started putting the weight back on, slowly but surely year after year until I arrived where I am now - 450 pounds with two massive abdominal hernias that make it difficult or impossible for me to do what most would consider basic tasks. (If you don't know what hernias are/feel like - imagine having the biggest, heaviest bowling ball there is hanging unsupported off the front of you. That gives you a basic idea.)
Anyway. All of that to say that lately, I have given up even on the idea of saving myself. I've grown tired of the fight, tired of battling against something (my weight) that I do not honestly believe I can defeat. And I would love to say that this post is all about how motivated I am, how I'm not willing to just lay down and take it like a weak little bitch - but that wouldn't be entirely true. Or even mostly true. The *truth* is - I am overwhelmed. I am DROWNING in this, and I've forgotten how to swim back to shore. I wake up every day and just getting out of bed is a challenge - physically and mentally. Showering, dressing, going about a daily routine - all of it is difficult. And people tell me I am brave, that I am strong for getting up and doing it anyway - and while I appreciate their faith in me with all my heart - I also know that there is a fine line between bravery and stupidity. Is it really brave to go on doing what I'm doing? Or am I pathetic for not changing it?
Not to sound whiny, but my life (life. Ha. It's an existence, and not much of one at that) is difficult. I push through the challenges and do things anyway - I walk when my legs and back are killing me because I refuse to be in a wheelchair. I sit at the sink to do dishes, and sit on a rolling desk chair to sweep/scrub the floors because I can't stand that long, but the work must be done and I refuse to hire a housekeeper or caregiver. I shower every day despite how hard it is because I refuse to be THAT person who goes out in public smelling like trash day in August. I don't feel like I deserve accolades for that. I'm muddling through a situation that I should be working to fix. I'm ashamed of myself, of what I've become and what I continue to let myself be. I'm selling myself so short, cheating myself of the life I should have - and I wish I knew why I'm content to do that.
On the other hand: maybe I am a tiny bit brave, because I refuse to go to bed and stay there. I refuse to be house-bound. I *will* do my own shopping and I *will* go to the events I want to go to (despite my fear that there won't be a chair that I can fit in/sit on), and I will NOT lay down and wait to die. I just wish I didn't have this helpless feeling of not knowing where to begin to get better. I have tried diets, nutritionists, therapy, you name it, and none of it sinks in. I just go right back to doing what I've always done. But now it's gotten even more serious. My health is deteriorating. *I* am deteriorating. I'm going to die, sooner rather than later, and I know this. I will have a stroke, or a heart attack, or my body will merely give out from the cumulative effects of being this big for this long. I have no idea why that thought doesn't scare me straight - but it doesn't.
So I'll go on muddling, trying to figure things out, and praying that the day comes when I decide to save myself for real, from the one person who is trying the hardest to hurt me - ME.
Friday, January 3, 2014
How 'bout a slice of pie while I wait?
It wasn't the most ideal time for a major life change. Here she was, 50 years old. A wife. A mother. Well, an ex-wife, now. And her girls were grown and gone. Maybe it was the *perfect* time for a totally new experience.
So Maisie grew out her roots and had her dyed auburn hair cut into a closely cropped pixie, now snowy white. She packed up her life and hired movers, made arrangements for a place to stay - and made the trek from Texas to Montana.
She was a stranger in town, knew absolutely no one - and had no idea where to go from there. She lived on savings, spent a lot of time at the library, going for walks to get to know the town. Then one day she spotted an ad in the paper, looking for a "managing partner" for a restaurant. She'd had some food industry experience, and had nothing else to do, so she checked it out. They were really looking for someone to run the day-to-day operations of the restaurant, and so she jumped at the chance when they offered her the job.
She fell in love with her job (she never knew what each day would bring - sometimes she managed, sometimes she waitressed, cooked, washed dishes...but she loved the variety) and the people of the town, finally truly happy, free from her ex-husband and with no desire for a new relationship. Her independence was the most important thing in the world to her - until it wasn't.
Six months in to her new job, the town got hit by a major snowstorm. Maisie lived just a couple of blocks from the cafe, so she decided to walk over. Business was dead - until HE came in. 6'4, silvery gray hair, blue eyes that sparkled with -- was it humor? Mischief? Both? (It is both.) He sat down at the counter and studied his menu. He ordered breakfast and then said "How 'bout a slice of pie while I wait for my food?" And she knew. She just KNEW. Here was a man who not only would eat pie at breakfast time - but would eat dessert first. Something about that, about him and the way he carried himself, just about knocked her off her feet, as she says. And she knew she would love him. He asked her out before he left the cafe that day - and six months after that, they were married.
Joe and Maisie ended up moving to the city I live in (Joe has family here), and Maisie and I have been friends for almost 10 years. She invited me 'round for tea last weekend, and somewhere in the course of conversation (Maisie is one of those people that you just fall in love with, and can talk about anything with her) I told her that I felt old. That I'd just had my 37th birthday, and had nothing to show for my life - and that I've lost hope of any of that ever changing. So she told me the story of how she met Joe. I knew that they had met in Montana, but never the whole story of how she got there or how they met.
I listened to her, thinking "yeah, sure, that's nice but...not happening." And then she said the thing that has really stuck with me, the thing that I am trying desperately to cling to while I'm down here at the bottom of this hopeless, sad pit that I find myself in. "Honey, I know you're thinking that won't happen to you. But let me tell you this: your life isn't over until it's over. Every day that you wake up is another chance that something amazing will happen. Just because it didn't happen today doesn't mean it won't happen tomorrow."
HOPE. If today is rough, remember that tomorrow is a chance to try again.
HOPE. If today is rough, remember that tomorrow is a chance to try again.
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