Through a Different Lens

 

There’s a lot of buzz lately about body positivity, body neutrality, and how those contribute to self-love. While I understand the value of both of those concepts, I also understand that it’s not as easy as looking at other people – with bodies that don’t fit our societal standards of beautiful or even acceptable – and desensitizing ourselves to them so we can begin to view our bodies as “okay” or “beautiful”. Yes, seeing our shapes and sizes normalized in magazines, ads, TV, and movies (without judgment or stereotyping) helps us accept our own size – to a point. But to truly view ourselves, our bodies, as we are, we need to look at ourselves.

I’ve been overweight all my life. Granted, what I considered overweight (or “fat”) when I was in my teens was actually quite normal, but that’s kind of the point. I didn’t measure up (or down) to what the other girls in school looked like, and therefore I was overweight and not worthy of a boyfriend of popularity, or, simply, acceptance.

As I got older and lived through an emotionally abuse relationship, I put on more weight. Now, in my mid-forties, I am the heaviest I’ve ever been, and as I struggle with that reality, I am also self-aware enough to know that what I see in the mirror isn’t exactly what everyone else sees.

You may have heard that photographers hate being photographed, and it’s true. There’s a reason we prefer to be behind the camera, rather than in front of it. But how can we, in good conscience, tell our clients how beautiful they are, hype them up during their session, or claim to understand their body issues if we haven’t been in their shoes? Personally, I can’t.

So I make it a point to hire another photographer at least once a year to take my picture. Sometimes it’s just for fun, and sometimes it’s for professional reasons – headshots, branding pics, etc.

Last summer, I modeled for a friend who needed to update her portfolio. We decided a beach photo shoot would be fun, and I had some dresses I’d been wanting to wear so I figured this was the perfect time to do so.

The shoot itself was a mixed bag. There were moments when I felt so awkward and weird I wanted to just quit, and there were moments when I was able to let go of all the limiting self-talk and just be. I felt graceful and beautiful and free.

And then I got the photos.

Parts of me were horrified. Other parts felt deep, deep shame and embarrassment. There was nothing beautiful or graceful about the woman I saw in those pictures. She was fat. Ugly, even. And utterly unworthy of feeling good about herself.

I hated how my prominent my freckles were, I hated how my eye makeup had flaked beneath my eyes, I hated the way my nostrils flared when I was deep in thought. I hated how the wind kicked up my dress and made me look even bigger than I was.

My immediate thought, once the shock wore off, was to send some samples to friends and family and hope they’d tell me that what I saw and thought wasn’t true. That desperate need for external validation was overwhelming and I was close – really, really close – to acting on my insecurities. But I didn’t. Instead, I put it all away. I gave myself time to feel that shame and regret – both of which were valid and deserved time to just be.

I went back through the photos a few days later. This time I found a few I didn’t hate so much. And the next time I went through them, I found a few more. I started to see myself as a person, as someone who was lost in a moment of bliss as she stood on the beach with the breeze blowing past her. I saw someone who didn’t care what anyone thought about her or what she looked like. I saw a woman embracing a few moments of bliss.

Did I see beauty? Sure. I saw bright green eyes with an unfocused gaze, I saw a knowing, sassy smirk. I saw pretty painted lips and a genuine smile. But what soothed me wasn’t the aesthetic. I found peace in the person I saw in those pictures, in the experience she was having.

There are still a few shots I’m not happy with, but I don’t think anyone is happy with every photo that’s ever been taken of them. But what’s meaningful to me is that not only can I see the beauty in myself – what other people see – I can see the person I am and the light she emanates.

I think we all deserve that.

All That I Am

I was going to tell the rest of the story -- how Javier finally disappeared from my life and I was free to move on. I was going to write about the years it took me to regain what I lost; about how many times I repeated this pattern of giving myself away for the sake of keeping a guy who wasn't anywhere near good enough for me. 

I was going to reflect on the damage, but I changed my mind. 

I believe there was purpose in telling the story, in sharing it with the world instead of holding it inside the bubble wrap of shame and regret. I believe that going back to those pivotal moments was clarifying for me, and I even believe that reliving the period after we broke up -- those months he spent terrorizing me for what seemed like sport -- was important for me to do, even though I had a hard time with it. I didn't like being in that place of fear again -- a place I had deliberately avoided for a very long time. But allowing myself to do so gave me a new perspective, even as I processed the pain. 

I don't live there anymore. I haven't for a very long time.

I had a deeply transformative experience this weekend that shifted my intention as to how I want to approach the end of this particular project, so instead of sharing anything more about the man who abused me, I am going to examine and celebrate the woman I have become.

I am a woman who knows herself -- smart, sassy, moody, sensitive, empathic, irritable, impatient, funny, uncertain, and sometimes incredibly insecure. I have learned to accept and own all of those aspects of myself, and as I become aware of the many other sides of Nancy, I will welcome them, too. 

I am a woman with a passionate and creative mind, who sees a picture in everyday things, who stops a hundred times along the way (wherever that is) to capture that secret world, that story, that magic. I have a vision of doing wildly creative photo shoots that express the worlds inside my soul, the colors and shapes and moods that live inside my mind. 

I am a writer, a storyteller with the ability to take my readers to places they've never been, to experience things in a new way; a passion for creating characters that live beyond the page, characters that people (including me) talk about as though they were real. I believe in what I do, and I will not give up on my vision of sharing those stories and those characters with the world.

I am a musician -- sharing that passion with my mother and holding the intention to share her talent, in my own way. By pushing myself to learn a new instrument, I have discovered a love for music and creation I never dreamed I'd have. By pushing myself outside my comfort zone, I am growing as a musician every week, I am finding the voice I never knew I had. I'm finding power I never knew I had.

I am a woman with a soul that longs to travel. To go wherever the Universe takes me, knowing I have a home, a sanctuary, to return to. 

I am a woman who is discovering what it means to have faith. To connect with something far greater than myself, to believe in its possibilities, to believe in what's possible when I work with this power, rather than against it. 

I am developing a new relationship with my body. Experiences early in my life taught me that it wasn't to be trusted, to be cared for, and certainly not loved, but I am working on changing all of that. I am learning that there is no reason to punish or shame this body, and there are many reasons to love it, just as it is. 

I am loved. For so much of my life, I truly doubted that I could be. I felt I couldn't possibly deserve the kind of love that came without condition, without qualification -- and even then I felt I couldn't live up to whatever those might be. I was confused when people said they loved me. In my head I kept asking, why? Who am I to deserve their love? But now I know. And I know this because I love me. I have made peace with the parts of me I abandoned a long time ago, found forgiveness and love and trust in them -- and they in me -- and now I understand what it is to be loved. Now I believe it when people say "I love you". I feel it. 

I am the woman one man tried to hold me back from being. But I found my wings. I claimed my power. I am the warrior, and the victory is mine.

Every Breath You Take...

It's funny how the reality of a situation can completely escape you when it's actually happening, and be so glaringly obviousr in hindsight.

I had a stalker and I didn't fully realize it.

I was afraid, sure, and I knew he was playing games with me, but I didn't slap the "stalker" label on it for another until months later. 

After the break-in/remote control games, I started hearing noises outside my window at night. Tiny clicks against the window that were loud enough to wake me up, but also soft enough to make me wonder if I was imagining things. I started to question my own sanity. 

I couldn't enjoy my freedom because I felt like there were eyes on me all the time. The bank I worked in was all glass windows -- top to bottom -- and there were moments I was convinced Javier was out there watching.

He called one of the direct numbers to the teller line one January night, asking for me. I'd already asked my co-workers to screen any calls that came in for me, so I didn't have to talk to him, but they told me it was him. I was agitated for the rest of the shift, and when we all left at seven that night, I was glad to be out of that fish-bowl of a bank building.

It was really cold that night, so most of us sat in our cars to let them warm up a little before driving. I was the last to leave -- but I didn't leave soon enough. The second I was alone in that parking lot, a car I didn't know turned in and sped toward me. I held my breath when it stopped right beside me, the driver's side right next to mine. The window came down, and there he was. Smiling at me, like we'd made plans to meet in a dark parking lot on a freezing cold night.

I asked him why he was there, and he said, "to see you, and to give you this." 

He handed me two greeting card envelopes. I looked at them, then back up at him. He was still smiling. 

What was his angle? What did he want from me? And why the hell was he bringing me greeting cards?

I opened the first one. There was some kind romantic picture on the front -- white roses with a soft-glow filter or something corny like that -- and a message that said, "Ever get the feeling that someone is thinking about you?" And on the inside, "Well, it's me."

He's sitting in that car watching me with that ridiculous fucking smile on his face, only his eyes had changed, and I had to fight the urge to vomit all over the inside of my car. I didn't open the second card -- I couldn't. I didn't want to know what fresh hell awaited me inside of it. The only thing I could do was tell him to leave me alone and drive away as fast as I could.

When I got home (sick, scared, and sad) the driveway was dark, but both my parents' cars were in their usual spaces. I didn't understand how they could forget to leave the garage and porch lights on for me, knowing I was coming home after dark. Furious, I marched into the house and started yelling. Didn't they know anyone could be out there waiting for me? Didn't they care about my safety?

They both looked at me like I'd grown two heads and shrugged. Nothing to worry about, we lived in a safe neighborhood, everything was fine.

No, I insisted, everything was not fine. Javier was out there, following me, watching me, calling me, playing games with me, and, now, showing up at my work. Still, I got the blank stares. Finally, I waved the cards at them, and said "now tell me I don't have anything to worry about."

I remember my mother's face when she was finished looking at the cards. There was regret in her eyes. Sorrow. And a little bit of fury.

I think my dad just went into ostrich mode. He didn't have a thing to say.

Once again, I was living in fear. I didn't want to go anywhere alone -- not even work. But I couldn't tell all of my co-workers that my crazy ex wouldn't leave me alone. I was embarrassed...and probably a little worried that by saying the words out loud, his behavior would only get worse. 

I finally had to admit how dangerous things had become when he called the house one night later that month. I guess I thought he wouldn't be that bold, given the chances my dad might answer the phone, but he was, and I was the lucky fool who answered.

Again, he acted like we were still together. Just a "hey, how's it going?" kind of call. Except this time, I had reached my breaking point. My mom and my sister happened to be in the room with me, looking on with curiosity and concern when I started crying, and then holding my hands when I started yelling. 

I told Javier this had to stop. He couldn't call me anymore, he couldn't show up at my job, and he absolutely could not bring me greeting cards or any other damn thing. He had to leave me alone. The relationship was over, and he had to stay out of my life.

It took so much energy to say those words, to stand -- literally -- on my own two feet and demand my life back. But I did it. And I thought he'd heard me. I thought we were in agreement.

But ground shook beneath me once more when he said, "okay, so when can we talk again?"

Which One of Us is the Crazy One?

It took two and a half months for Javier to move out. For nearly ten weeks, I fought an internal battle between my impatience that he wouldn't leave and my fear of pressuring or forcing him to do so. It had taken so much energy and courage just to ask him to leave; I felt like pushing him was more than I could manage.

Meanwhile, my parents threatened daily to toss his shit out on the lawn -- and a part of me loved the idea, but I knew he could just as easily bring it all back inside (no, I did not get the key back from him the day we broke up, something I certainly regret).

He finally left in August. I don't remember the day, if there was any kind of pomp and circumstance to the moment, or if he did it while I was out of the house. No clue. I just know that one fine August day, he was gone.

Well...he was out of our house, anyway.

I don't remember anymore when it started -- the phone calls, the random appearances at our house -- but I do remember being annoyed. I wanted him gone for good and he was like some stupid mismatched sock that just kept showing up. 

One evening he came to the house again, said he wanted to talk to me. At this point, I had no interest in anything he had to say but he was insistent and seemed sincere so I agreed to sit out on the porch and listen to whatever he wanted to say.

He went on an on about this girl he was living with (yes, you read that right -- not even three months out of my house and he was living with another woman), and how he felt like she didn't trust him. She was listening to his phone calls, accusing him of being with other girls, the whole nine yards. Inside I was screaming, but I managed to simply take a breath, look him in the eye, and ask, "Well, how does it feel?"

He gave me that blank look, like he didn't understand the question, so I rephrased it. 

"It doesn't feel good, does it? Living with someone who treats you like that?"

He only shook his head and changed the subject. I don't know if he was playing me or not --  hoping for a specific reaction, lying to my face, maybe both. I just know I was done with all of it and didn't have it in me to play along.

Early one evening that December, my mom and I decided to go Christmas shopping -- it was one of our favorite things to do, aside from decorating -- while my dad was off at a choral group rehearsal. We were gone for maybe two hours, and when we got back we engaged in another favorite activity: dessert and evening TV. 

But when I went to turn on the cable box, the remote was missing. It was always either on the coffee table by the couch, or the on the tray table beside mom's chair, but it was in neither place -- or in any other not-at-all-logical place. It was just gone. 

Giving up the search, I went into my bedroom and grabbed the remote for my TV and we went on with our night, making a point to remember to ask dad if he'd for some reason run off with the remote. 

A week later, I got a call from my mom at work. She wanted to know where I'd found the cable remote for the living room. Thinking she'd lost a marble or two I reminded her that we were using the one from my room, but she said "no, your remote is in your room. The one with the sticker (which was the living room remote) is right here on the tray table."

Once again, my body went cold. "We need to change the locks," I told her.

My mom gave a half-laugh, half-sigh. "The locksmith is already here."

I hung up, feeling like my life had just been turned upside down -- again.

What bothered me more than knowing Javier had likely made a copy of the house key before he left; more than the very clear understanding that he was not done messing with my head; was the fact that my mother was in the house when he entered.

She and I both knew that the night before the temporary remote was in the living room, so if the "right" remote was back in its place when she came downstairs the next morning at eleven o'clock, he'd come into the house some time after my dad and I left for work, knowing what time my mother habitually came downstairs.

It's hard to find the right word for what I was feeling. Horrified, terrified, furious. All of those but none of those. It was just too much.

The safety, the sanctuary I'd found in my parents' home after two and half years of living in fear, had been violated once again. 

And it wasn't over yet. 

Tell Me Lies, Tell Me Sweet Little Lies

Once I realized I wanted out of my relationship with Javier, the only thing stopping me from getting out was...well, him.

For months -- to be honest, it might have only been weeks -- I did everything I could think of to piss him off, to start fights so I could yell out in righteous indignation, "yeah, well too bad, this is over!" 

...Or something way cooler and stronger than that.

In all seriousness, though, I did everything I could think of. I smoked cigarettes, I went out "whoring" with my best friend (which is to say I went and hung out at her house or maybe went out to dinner, but in his eyes the only possible thing she and I could be doing was whoring around), I wore perfume to work, I demanded to use my car -- all in hopes of getting him mad enough to yell at me.

But it didn't work. I'm convinced he knew what I was up to and refused to take the bait. Wily bastard.

But then things changed -- again -- and I realized the game, such as it was, had changed.

I no longer remember the how or why, but I do remember standing in front of my bathroom mirror (maybe I was getting ready for work or something?) and Javier came in.  There was conversation, and it ended in a kiss -- only this wasn't a normal kiss. He took my bottom lip between his teeth, and held on. I tried to pull away, but he wouldn't let go. I whimpered, begged (as much as I could with my lip caught between his teeth), to no avail.

Finally, I dug my nails into his shoulder and he let go. As I checked my lip for blood, I looked up at him and I swear to God, the dude was smiling. Smiling. 

Taking pleasure from my pain, amusement from my panic. Satisfaction from knowing he still had the power.

It was in that moment that I realized that if I let this go on, he wouldn't stop at a playful nip. Next time, it could be my arm he was twisting...or my face he was bruising because I failed to fall in line with his agenda. Or, worse, simply because it was fun.

That is when I knew I had to end it, by any means necessary.

Turned out that tears were the means, as much as I loathed myself for resorting to them.

It was Memorial Day. My parents were out at a party, and I was alone watching Forget Paris while I folded laundry. Javier came home from wherever he'd been, and asked how I was doing (literally the most attentive thing he'd said or done in weeks). I looked at him, I thought about what I needed, and I let my system take over.

I cried.

Yep. I admit that I resorted to tears.

And you know what? It worked.

I set the laundry down and we went into my bedroom to talk. I told him I wasn't happy and I didn't feel like he cared about me. I told him I thought we should break up.  

There was a long pause, after which he sighed, looked at me and said, "I have to admit I don't feel the same way about you that I used to."

Riiiight. Like that ship hadn't sailed at least a year ago.

I'd like to be able to say that I gave him a week to get himself and his shit out of our house, but I was not that strong. I told him to take his time, and as spineless as that was, I felt good knowing that he understood that he needed to leave and that our relationship was over. I felt like I had climbed the mountain, reached the summit, and planted MY flag.

Oh, you silly, silly girl.

He might have been ready to end the relationship but he wasn't so quick to give up the perks.

First words out of his mouth after the agreement that he'd move out: "I guess this means you want your car back..."

No, asshat, you should keep it. I don't need my independence, and I really enjoy worrying about you getting arrested for driving my car without a license.

And, then, of course, when all was said and done, he figured what better way to seal this amicable end than to initiate sex?

Maybe he figured one last round for old time's sake? Or maybe he figured I'd get so wrapped up in the rapture that I'd forget I'd just told him to move out.

I'm betting on the latter.

Unfortunately, I didn't have the stones to tell him that, to his face, in the moment. Instead, I lied about having an "affliction" and scurried out of the room.

Even still...I did it. I ended it. I was about to be free.

At least that's what I told myself as I strolled out of the room. I couldn't have known it was nowhere near the end. 

Feels Like the End

Some time around my twenty-first birthday, I started to recognize that this relationship wasn't normal -- or healthy. I started to think about what my life would be like without Javier in it.

I'd slide open the closet door, look at my side, then look at his and let myself imagine what it would be like to have the whole thing to myself. A shiver would run through me, and I'd quickly slide it closed, just in case he came into the room and managed to read my mind.

I would write about it in my journal -- a Word document on a floppy disk I hid in my parents' office -- imagining what my life might look like without him in it. The places I could go, the things I could do. It was both exhilarating and terrifying. 

I was afraid to want it, so I never spoke about it. Hell, I was afraid to write about it in my journal -- not so much because I thought he might read it, but because saying the words, even to myself, made it real. And making it real meant having to do something, and I knew I wasn't ready.

So I went about my life, such as it was, getting unhappier by the day. He was growing more and more distant, which made me -- the very well programmed and conditioned part at least -- try harder to make him happy. He only grew colder, leaving me feeling desperate, frustrated, and terribly alone.

Late one night I sat in bed reading while he played his beloved video game. We were a foot and a half away from each other but the distance between us felt like a chasm. I couldn't take it. I just wanted to go to sleep.

Knowing I wouldn't be able to sleep with the video game going, I decided to leave him to it and try to sleep on the couch

I headed out of the room, then turned back, standing in the doorway. "Let me know when you're done, okay?" 

"What for?" His eyes never left the TV screen.

"So I can come back in and sleep."

He shrugged. "I really don't give a shit if you come back in here or not."

I couldn't tell you if more words were exchanged, if I stood there in stunned silence, or if I simply walked away. I only remember being curled up on the couch, sobbing, feeling like my insides had been ripped out. 

I couldn't take the pain, so I went upstairs to my parents' bedroom to find my mom. It was dark, but I knew she was awake, so I staggered into the room, breath hitching, hoping I wouldn't wake my dad.

Too late.

I told them what happened, and my mom held onto me while I cried. "He doesn't love me," I whimpered, as though it were a real surprise. I knew he didn't love me. But knowing he didn't care...that hurt unlike anything I'd ever felt before. 

I told them I knew it was time to break up with Javier, but I didn't know how. My dad, sitting on the edge of the bed, grumbled, "I can make it real easy."

"No, Daddy, don't, " I pleaded. I knew damn well my dad wasn't about to just go downstairs, yell "GET OUT" and wait for Javier to vacate the premises. What he had in mind involved violence and a hefty prison term. 

I didn't want my father in prison, and I didn't want any violence. But more than either of those things, I didn't want anyone else fighting my fight. 

The relationship was mine to end. I was ready.

Unfortunately, I had no idea how hard it would be to end it.

Wicked Games

Most of what I remember about the bulk of my two-and-a-half year relationship is a collection of moments. Feelings that are mixed up in the past and the present. Sometimes I am not sure if the moment is a memory or a reflection. Is it me, living the moment, at the tender age of 19 or 20, or is it me, now, with the wisdom of 43 years, looking back?

When I see myself standing in the foyer of our Oak Park home, staring at the closed door to the family room, paralyzed with fear, is that me? Or her? I don't know. I do know I'm afraid of opening the door. Because on the other side of it is Javier, with a giant white Valentine's Day bear, presented with flourish because I was upset with him for something and he wanted to make me feel better (which, of course, is to say that he was hoping a big stupid stuffed animal would make me forget he pissed me off or made me sad). And if I open that door, I'm letting him back in. I'm saying it's okay that he hurt me; it's okay for him to bribe me with gifts; to make me feel like a fool for having feelings. 

Yes, I opened the door. And again some time later, when he "braved" the rain to walk to our house, just to see me, and when I opened the door he said, "You see how much I love you?" Only that was a lie. A platitude, a fucking ploy to get me to let him in. He was banking on me getting so wrapped up in the words "I love you" that I'd forget everything else. 

Did I believe that he loved me? I wish I could answer that. I can't connect to any emotions other than fear and confusion. 

Looking back, though, I know he didn't. He was a sociopath and he was playing with me. Playing games with my sanity, because it was fun. 

For example, one night he left with my car, without telling me where was going (or, you know, inviting me, his live-in girlfriend, along), and stayed out well past midnight. He didn't have an actual driver's license, so every time he left with my car I worried something would happen and he'd end up in jail. The later it got, the more frantic I became. I couldn't sleep. I remember pacing my room at three a.m., wondering if anyone would even know to call me if he got pulled over, or got into an accident. I worried about what my parents would say once they found out I'd let him drive my car without a license. I worried about everything.

Sometime around 3:30, he came home. I was in bed, but not asleep, and I remember very clearly looking up to see him in the bedroom doorway, waiting. I flew out of bed in a rage, yelling at him for not calling me, for staying out all goddamn night, for having no consideration for me at all. He made a single lame excuse about not calling (he couldn't find a phone), I called bullshit and kept on yelling. And the whole time, he just watched me. No regret, no apologies. Only amusement.

He thought it was funny that I was mad. Funny. 

Another night, we got in a fight about something, and I was furious. Angrier than I'd ever been, maybe. He never yelled, just spoke to me quietly in condescending tones, which only made me yell even more. At one point in the argument, we went into our bedroom and closed the door in my face. He was done, the conversation was over, and I was left on the other side of the door, raging in a way I'd never raged before. I slammed my fist into the door, over and over, screaming at him, hating him, and he didn't even react. He didn't shout back telling me to shut up, he didn't open the door, he did nothing. He got the satisfaction of pissing me off, and I got a bruised hand and a battered psyche. 

It was all a game for him. How far could he push me? What new and inventive ways could he find to get a rise out of me? I played into it every time. He'd gone from punishing me for getting angry (like he'd done in the beginning) to making a game out of pissing me off. 

The man was making me crazy. He was making it so I never had solid ground to stand on, so I never knew which end was up, or even who I was. 

He was taking me apart.