I decided to sign up for Weight Watchers today. Not because of any resolutions for 2016, or because of any external pressure to create a "new me". I made the choice because, for me, it's time. Time to take control, do what's good for my body, my system, and my health. Yet, thanks to social media, I feel just as stigmatized for making this choice as I would (and have) for being overweight in the first place.
Just today, I saw a post by a body-love activist, wagging her finger at Weight Watchers and the diet industry for shaming women into believing they have to be thin to be "okay". I cringed as I read it, because while these activists believe they are promoting self-love and acceptance (which we all need), they are actually shaming people - mostly women - for dieting. How is that any better than the jack-asses who shame people for being fat?
Why can't we just leave each other alone? Let me make my choices, and if you don't agree with them, do so quietly, perhaps with your friends, not on a social network. You don't know what anyone's struggles are, or what made them choose to spend money on a program that they believe will help them regain control of their eating and their weight. You can't know.
Every day, I see posts preaching at me to love the body I'm in, to not be ashamed because I'm fat, to be grateful for what my body can do for me, and to hell with anyone who tries to tell me my size determines my worth. First, let me be clear: I'm all for self-acceptance, as self-loathing gets us nowhere. However, accepting the whole of one's self is not the same thing as wanting to make changes, to improve something about ourselves (be it our minds, moods, or physical make-up) because we want to continue to like and enjoy who we are. I can love who I am and hate the body I'm in. Who has the right to tell me that's not okay?
The activists and bloggers tell all of us fat girls to claim our bodies, to own our bodies, be proud of them and wear whatever we want and do whatever we want. And there are people who have, and can, own the body they live in. But some of us can't. Some of us have been betrayed in ways that make our bodies unsafe places. We can't love a body that has been used, violated, or perhaps attacked. There is no protection from that kind of vulnerability, so we find ways to hurt ourselves, to strike back against our bodies. Some of us eat, some of us drink, some of us abuse drugs, some of us won't eat at all. This is our way of revolting against that which we could not revolt in the past. We don't know any other way.
At some point, if we're lucky, we reach a point of awareness, and we recognize that damaging our bodies, treating them as though they are the "other", separate from ourselves, or even The Enemy, is not helping. It is not healing, either. We recognize that there is another way. Maybe more than one way. I have reached this point and I have chosen my path. I don't need anyone to tell me that it's okay to join Weight Watchers; I don't need anyone to tell me it's not okay, that I'm wasting my money and I'm just going to fail, or gain every pound back. I don't need anyone's permission to do what I think is right for myself. Nor would I need permission from anyone if I chose to remain overweight. The choices are mine. The actions are mine.
I don't want to rise up against the body-love movement as a premise - there is great merit in learning to accept and understand that every body is different and has its own story. But the movement does no service by shaming people into believing that they're doing something wrong by choosing to lose weight. If I don't like my body and I have the power and means to change it, why do they care?
At the same time, I wholeheartedly agree that the media has us programmed to believe that if we are fat, we are failures - at everything. That we're not enough. So they create standards which only a tiny fraction of the population can meet, leaving the rest of us feeling like failures. Commercials and ads for fad diets, weight loss programs, fitness centers, diet pills and products - they all shame us in one way or another until we feel so horrible about ourselves that we buy into the message either by eating ourselves into obesity or pouring money into something we think will "fix it".
Do I believe that Weight Watchers will save me? No. But I am willing to spend my money on it while I learn new ways of approaching food (and believe me, I've fought this concept for a long time), while I learn to be accountable to myself and a friend or two so I don't give up if my efforts seem futile, and find new ways of coping with life that don't involve food. That means I'm going to have to deal with some heavy shit, and that means I'm going to experience some heavy emotions. It's all part of the process, and that is what the industry doesn't say when they coax us into their programs. It isn't only about food.
I'm not doing this because I want others to like how I look - I am smart enough to know that no one else sees what I see - I am doing it because I want to like how I look. That's all that matters. So, thank you, body-love activists, I appreciate your intentions, but I don't need you to tell me how to love myself. Because this? My choice to use Weight Watchers as a starting point to lose weight and feel better about myself? It's about me. And it's none of your business.
Wednesday, December 30, 2015
Tuesday, July 14, 2015
Eye of the Beholder
The battle with myself and my body wages on. I am getting more and more uncomfortable in my own skin, horrified by my reflection, and angry with myself for letting things get this bad. (I feel like I've been here before...)
I made the decision a little over a month ago to start (again) by being more mindful of my food choices (usually factoring in whether or not this food or that food will end up making me sick). It was pretty easy, at first. I cut back on sugary snacks and desserts. I even managed to work a little bit of fruit into my day. I felt good about my choices and was happy to note that my intestinal issues were improving.
At my doctor's suggestion, I found a way to work some exercise into my life by using a pool that my friend graciously gave me access to in the evenings. I was elated after my first swim - proud of myself for getting there, getting in the pool, and getting it done. I felt strong and accomplished.
But I only made it back there one more time. I don't even think I made a conscious decision not to go back, I just...didn't. True, the fact that even swimming managed to irritate my injured foot seems like a good reason to continue not going, but people have pushed through injuries far worse than mine.
I've slipped off my better eating track a few times, and it has taken great effort to get back on it and not give up entirely. And still, I've somehow managed to shed a few pounds. My doctor is very pleased with the progress. I am...indifferent. I'm not thrilled with it, but I'm not ashamed of it either.
Having yet to really connect with my body, to know it in the way some people do (able to identify physical reaction, feelings, etc.), I feel as though I cannot make these changes out of love and appreciation for the body that gets me around every day. I do it because I'm scared. Obesity, and a last desperate attempt to rescue herself from it, killed my mother. I do not wish to suffer the same fate. Nor do I want to be that desperate. Ever.
I do, however, want more from this body. I want it to not object so much to using stairs. I want to be able to lift a leg to tie my shoe or paint my toes without the tightness in my muscles to make it nearly impossible. I just want my body to be capable and strong and not feel like a physical and emotional burden. I also want to stop being ashamed of it.
While photographing a wedding recently, I struggled, even as I ran around taking pictures, with an intense self-consciousness. I felt large, conspicuous and out of place. I felt as though every person there looked at me and saw nothing but a fat girl with a camera...as though my size diminishes my capabilities, skills, intelligence and my worthiness - my right to occupy space. And I know this is nothing more than a projection of my own beliefs about myself, but since that is tied to pain I'd rather leave untouched, I prefer to tell myself it's what everyone else believes about me.
I've talked to some friends about all of this, about how I feel about myself, how I don't feel attractive in any way, and part of the response I get is that the person they see is beautiful...and kind, caring, smart, funny, etc. But I can't let it in. I can't let myself believe that anyone could see a pretty/attractive person, because my weight, in my eyes, negates all of that.
Such is the level of my self-disgust.
There have been times in my life when I didn't feel this way - at least not as intensely as I do now. There were periods in my life when I wasn't painfully self-conscious; when I could look in the mirror or at a picture of myself without making sounds of disgust. I was just being me, without a great deal of concern for my size. And when I see pictures of myself from those periods, I can see the confidence in my posture, the light in my eyes, the brightness in my smile. I can see that I wanted, to an extent, to be seen. It didn't scare me.
So what happened? What made me so afraid of being seen?
I spent some time looking back at photos of myself over the last decade or so, thinking about the events of my life and how they contributed to the downfall of my self-esteem: the years I spent working in a job that made me miserable, made me feel that I was broken and useless; finding a man (at last) with whom I felt completely safe and as happy and confident as I can remember, then losing him because I wanted more than he could give; losing a job I was actually good at; losing a life-long friend because we'd simply grown apart and couldn't admit it until we reached the point that we could only hurt one another in order to walk away; moving away from the people I love most and then discovering that being "on my own" again was not what I actually needed; and the pain, sadness and effort of caring for an aging parent, which has brought up a lot of my unresolved grief. Is it these events, these losses, that have etched away at my confidence, my self-assuredness? Maybe. Maybe it's this stuff and more, things that happened a long time ago. I do know that despite what I say or how I present myself, I have not been this unsure of myself since high school.
I have close friends who, on journeys of their own, have found their way to self love & acceptance, who have reached the point of liking and loving themselves, knowing and loving their bodies, and letting all of that show. I 'm inspired to see them where they are now, especially knowing the lows from which they came.
I know my own journey will not look like theirs, but I do wonder where it will take me, how much it will hurt along the way, and who I'll find on the other side. What will she look like? Will she be happy? Will I love her? And, looking back to the journey, will she love me?
I made the decision a little over a month ago to start (again) by being more mindful of my food choices (usually factoring in whether or not this food or that food will end up making me sick). It was pretty easy, at first. I cut back on sugary snacks and desserts. I even managed to work a little bit of fruit into my day. I felt good about my choices and was happy to note that my intestinal issues were improving.
At my doctor's suggestion, I found a way to work some exercise into my life by using a pool that my friend graciously gave me access to in the evenings. I was elated after my first swim - proud of myself for getting there, getting in the pool, and getting it done. I felt strong and accomplished.
But I only made it back there one more time. I don't even think I made a conscious decision not to go back, I just...didn't. True, the fact that even swimming managed to irritate my injured foot seems like a good reason to continue not going, but people have pushed through injuries far worse than mine.
I've slipped off my better eating track a few times, and it has taken great effort to get back on it and not give up entirely. And still, I've somehow managed to shed a few pounds. My doctor is very pleased with the progress. I am...indifferent. I'm not thrilled with it, but I'm not ashamed of it either.
Having yet to really connect with my body, to know it in the way some people do (able to identify physical reaction, feelings, etc.), I feel as though I cannot make these changes out of love and appreciation for the body that gets me around every day. I do it because I'm scared. Obesity, and a last desperate attempt to rescue herself from it, killed my mother. I do not wish to suffer the same fate. Nor do I want to be that desperate. Ever.
I do, however, want more from this body. I want it to not object so much to using stairs. I want to be able to lift a leg to tie my shoe or paint my toes without the tightness in my muscles to make it nearly impossible. I just want my body to be capable and strong and not feel like a physical and emotional burden. I also want to stop being ashamed of it.
While photographing a wedding recently, I struggled, even as I ran around taking pictures, with an intense self-consciousness. I felt large, conspicuous and out of place. I felt as though every person there looked at me and saw nothing but a fat girl with a camera...as though my size diminishes my capabilities, skills, intelligence and my worthiness - my right to occupy space. And I know this is nothing more than a projection of my own beliefs about myself, but since that is tied to pain I'd rather leave untouched, I prefer to tell myself it's what everyone else believes about me.
I've talked to some friends about all of this, about how I feel about myself, how I don't feel attractive in any way, and part of the response I get is that the person they see is beautiful...and kind, caring, smart, funny, etc. But I can't let it in. I can't let myself believe that anyone could see a pretty/attractive person, because my weight, in my eyes, negates all of that.
Such is the level of my self-disgust.
There have been times in my life when I didn't feel this way - at least not as intensely as I do now. There were periods in my life when I wasn't painfully self-conscious; when I could look in the mirror or at a picture of myself without making sounds of disgust. I was just being me, without a great deal of concern for my size. And when I see pictures of myself from those periods, I can see the confidence in my posture, the light in my eyes, the brightness in my smile. I can see that I wanted, to an extent, to be seen. It didn't scare me.
So what happened? What made me so afraid of being seen?
I spent some time looking back at photos of myself over the last decade or so, thinking about the events of my life and how they contributed to the downfall of my self-esteem: the years I spent working in a job that made me miserable, made me feel that I was broken and useless; finding a man (at last) with whom I felt completely safe and as happy and confident as I can remember, then losing him because I wanted more than he could give; losing a job I was actually good at; losing a life-long friend because we'd simply grown apart and couldn't admit it until we reached the point that we could only hurt one another in order to walk away; moving away from the people I love most and then discovering that being "on my own" again was not what I actually needed; and the pain, sadness and effort of caring for an aging parent, which has brought up a lot of my unresolved grief. Is it these events, these losses, that have etched away at my confidence, my self-assuredness? Maybe. Maybe it's this stuff and more, things that happened a long time ago. I do know that despite what I say or how I present myself, I have not been this unsure of myself since high school.
I have close friends who, on journeys of their own, have found their way to self love & acceptance, who have reached the point of liking and loving themselves, knowing and loving their bodies, and letting all of that show. I 'm inspired to see them where they are now, especially knowing the lows from which they came.
I know my own journey will not look like theirs, but I do wonder where it will take me, how much it will hurt along the way, and who I'll find on the other side. What will she look like? Will she be happy? Will I love her? And, looking back to the journey, will she love me?
Sunday, May 24, 2015
How Can I Help Me?
I spent some time in my closet this morning, putting away all the clothes that don't fit anymore. Afterwards, I looked around, taking stock of what was left - it wasn't much. The handful of dresses I wear to work, trying desperately to rotate enough that my coworkers don't notice I'm wearing the same things over and over again. The few tops that don't hug my fat too tightly, that I can use to accentuate what body parts I'm not ashamed of. That doesn't leave me much. As I went through all of these clothes, I heard the familiar refrain in my head - "I just need to lose a few pounds and this will fit" - over and over again; the same song that's played in my head every year for the last twenty years. And the reality is that only a couple times in those twenty years have I actually lose weight and fit into my smaller clothes.
I spent the last few days of this week wondering what it will take to get me to really make some changes in my life, to embrace doing what's good for me not only in the moment but in the long run as well. I have lived most of my life for immediate gratification, making choices based on how my day went, how many thoughts I want to silence, how many feelings I want to squash. And the result is more than obvious.
I had my first visit with my new doctor this week, aiming to discover the source behind my continued and new gastro-intestinal issues, and was answered with the following: "Lose weight, reduce stress, and you'll feel better." And I left that appointment not only heavy with shame and embarrassment (because of course my doctor was young and petite and knows all about my life, my past, and problems, right?), but with an odd sense of unease. The voice inside my head, one of many, whispering, "See? That's why I didn't want to go to the doctor to begin with." Over and over again, I go to the doctor for genuine health concerns and over and over again, I am asked the same questions ("What are you eating?" "Do you exercise?" "Do you have a lot of stress in your life?" "Are you seeing a counselor/therapist?") and given the same speeches ("You need to change your diet." "Too many carbs." "Exercise will help." "Reduce your stress." "See a therapist.") without any regard for my actual situation. Does anyone ask why I eat the way I eat? Or why my stress level is so high, or why I am not seeing a therapist (i.e. they cost money that I don't currently have)? Or do they ask why it's hard for me to motivate myself to exercise? No. They just plug in the formula and spit out a solution without factoring in all the multiple parts of the equation.
The result is that I, like many people who are overweight, end up feeling ashamed, guilty, embarrassed and even more defeated.
A day or so after this appointment, a friend of mine tagged me in a post on Facebook by an overweight woman with knee pain, who was being diagnosed, talked to, and treated differently because of her weight. She raised the question - what of those with this same pain who are NOT overweight? How do you treat them? After reading this post I realized why I felt so icky after that appointment. This doctor had essentially assumed that the source of all my ails was my weight. Even on my worst days of low self-esteem I know that I am more than my weight - so why do doctors continuously treat us as though we aren't?
I am not saying, of course, that none of my issues are related to my weight. I understand that they are, to an extent. But I am a whole person, with a complex history and I don't appreciate that our health care system is not set up for a holistic approach to well-being.
All that being said, I know I do have to start making changes, because I do acknowledge that some things are a direct result of my weight. But I also acknowledge that it's harder than it seems to change 40 years of behavior. I've spent my life perfecting this system of damaging behavior and while I know it isn't actually helping me, I also know it isn't easy to just stop doing it.
But I also know that obesity is the reason my mother is not alive today. It is the reason she turned to a surgical solution - she felt powerless to fix the broken parts of her life and her soul and used food to quiet her own demons. She was robbed of the last few decades of her life because she refused to do the work. And I really don't want to follow in those steps. My mother was an admirable woman - a strong, loving, woman - but she was not perfect. Her attempts to save her own life came too late, and were not enough. I don't want to go down that road. I want to save my own life.
The reality is, though, that this stuff takes money and resources that I don't know I can get my hands on. My insurance is such that any provider that I see, other than my primary doctor, costs me $70 a visit. So on top of the psychiatrist who prescribes me the medications that keep me on a somewhat even emotional keel, I'd need a good therapist, a nutritionist, and who knows what else. My share of the premium for this less-than-ideal health insurance eats away at a good portion of my paycheck, so where am I to come up with the funds for all of these specialists? How can I get myself the help I need when it costs me more money than I have to spare?
I don't have the answers to those questions. I don't know what I am going to do for myself. But I think that at least talking about it helps a little. Maybe in doing so, I will find a few answers.
I spent the last few days of this week wondering what it will take to get me to really make some changes in my life, to embrace doing what's good for me not only in the moment but in the long run as well. I have lived most of my life for immediate gratification, making choices based on how my day went, how many thoughts I want to silence, how many feelings I want to squash. And the result is more than obvious.
I had my first visit with my new doctor this week, aiming to discover the source behind my continued and new gastro-intestinal issues, and was answered with the following: "Lose weight, reduce stress, and you'll feel better." And I left that appointment not only heavy with shame and embarrassment (because of course my doctor was young and petite and knows all about my life, my past, and problems, right?), but with an odd sense of unease. The voice inside my head, one of many, whispering, "See? That's why I didn't want to go to the doctor to begin with." Over and over again, I go to the doctor for genuine health concerns and over and over again, I am asked the same questions ("What are you eating?" "Do you exercise?" "Do you have a lot of stress in your life?" "Are you seeing a counselor/therapist?") and given the same speeches ("You need to change your diet." "Too many carbs." "Exercise will help." "Reduce your stress." "See a therapist.") without any regard for my actual situation. Does anyone ask why I eat the way I eat? Or why my stress level is so high, or why I am not seeing a therapist (i.e. they cost money that I don't currently have)? Or do they ask why it's hard for me to motivate myself to exercise? No. They just plug in the formula and spit out a solution without factoring in all the multiple parts of the equation.
The result is that I, like many people who are overweight, end up feeling ashamed, guilty, embarrassed and even more defeated.
A day or so after this appointment, a friend of mine tagged me in a post on Facebook by an overweight woman with knee pain, who was being diagnosed, talked to, and treated differently because of her weight. She raised the question - what of those with this same pain who are NOT overweight? How do you treat them? After reading this post I realized why I felt so icky after that appointment. This doctor had essentially assumed that the source of all my ails was my weight. Even on my worst days of low self-esteem I know that I am more than my weight - so why do doctors continuously treat us as though we aren't?
I am not saying, of course, that none of my issues are related to my weight. I understand that they are, to an extent. But I am a whole person, with a complex history and I don't appreciate that our health care system is not set up for a holistic approach to well-being.
All that being said, I know I do have to start making changes, because I do acknowledge that some things are a direct result of my weight. But I also acknowledge that it's harder than it seems to change 40 years of behavior. I've spent my life perfecting this system of damaging behavior and while I know it isn't actually helping me, I also know it isn't easy to just stop doing it.
But I also know that obesity is the reason my mother is not alive today. It is the reason she turned to a surgical solution - she felt powerless to fix the broken parts of her life and her soul and used food to quiet her own demons. She was robbed of the last few decades of her life because she refused to do the work. And I really don't want to follow in those steps. My mother was an admirable woman - a strong, loving, woman - but she was not perfect. Her attempts to save her own life came too late, and were not enough. I don't want to go down that road. I want to save my own life.
The reality is, though, that this stuff takes money and resources that I don't know I can get my hands on. My insurance is such that any provider that I see, other than my primary doctor, costs me $70 a visit. So on top of the psychiatrist who prescribes me the medications that keep me on a somewhat even emotional keel, I'd need a good therapist, a nutritionist, and who knows what else. My share of the premium for this less-than-ideal health insurance eats away at a good portion of my paycheck, so where am I to come up with the funds for all of these specialists? How can I get myself the help I need when it costs me more money than I have to spare?
I don't have the answers to those questions. I don't know what I am going to do for myself. But I think that at least talking about it helps a little. Maybe in doing so, I will find a few answers.
Sunday, April 19, 2015
The Only Thing I Have to Fear Is...Change
I'm scared. Scared of making changes, scared of staying right where I am, scared of facing the emotions and messages I've been hiding from for most of my life...scared of living, frankly. Yeah, I dream about really living and I wish for the day when my life really starts, but I'm starting to realize that as long as I sit here and hope for it, I remain stuck. It's a trick, really. A pattern we unknowingly fall into, thinking it's actually getting us somewhere, when in fact we are spinning our wheels, digging ourselves deeper into the mud pit of doing nothing.
I know it has to stop. I know it. But doing something about it? Pfft. Terrifying.
I've been giving a lot of thought lately to how to go about these changes. I need a plan, I know that much. A couple of days ago, I was certain I'd be joining Weight Watchers, and I started dreaming about what it would feel like to be successful at it. To see the weight come off. I did some research and even thought I could manage the monthly fee. But I couldn't pull the trigger just yet. It wasn't just about the money, though that's certainly a factor. I realized that what scared me was the rigidity of the diet plan. The focus on calories, points, choices...and sacrifice. Because although they brag about the flexibility of their plan, and how you can still eat what you want, there's always a price, and for me, price equals sacrifice. What would I have to give up?
And then it hit me: I'd have to give up comfort.
Now this is the dichotomy of my life - and, I'm certain, for anyone else who struggles with food addiction and weight loss - food is the thing that gives me comfort when life is too much to handle, but it's also the thing that makes life so hard. Living in a body that has limitations is NOT comfortable. But, it also helps me hide. I could go on about both sides of a dozen different coins but I think you get the point. Right now, one side doesn't necessarily outweigh the other so I can't find the motivation to actually do anything different.
Yet it's all I think about. What can I do? What should I do? What is going to work for me and what is going to make me unhappy? I do understand that the process of rebuilding my relationship with food isn't going to be comfortable - intellectually, anyway. Emotionally, I'm a scared little girl, clinging to her stuffed bunny with all her might, knowing that some big meanie is going to come snatch it out of her little hands. If someone takes food - my comfort, my salve, my drug - away from me, I will be exposed and alone. I might just have to face my demons and I don't feel equipped to do that.
Still, I'm thinking about what I can do to help ease myself into the changes. Focusing completely on food seems to go against my desire to not become obsessed with every damn thing I put in my mouth, so what if I focus on WHY I eat? A recent Facebook post by one of my favorite authors, Jen Lancaster, who has struggled with her weight for many years but recently found freedom not through a strict diet but through doing some real work on herself, inspired me to look more closely at that approach - fix the inside first. Look at the "why" and the "how" will come:
I've been giving a lot of thought lately to how to go about these changes. I need a plan, I know that much. A couple of days ago, I was certain I'd be joining Weight Watchers, and I started dreaming about what it would feel like to be successful at it. To see the weight come off. I did some research and even thought I could manage the monthly fee. But I couldn't pull the trigger just yet. It wasn't just about the money, though that's certainly a factor. I realized that what scared me was the rigidity of the diet plan. The focus on calories, points, choices...and sacrifice. Because although they brag about the flexibility of their plan, and how you can still eat what you want, there's always a price, and for me, price equals sacrifice. What would I have to give up?
And then it hit me: I'd have to give up comfort.
Now this is the dichotomy of my life - and, I'm certain, for anyone else who struggles with food addiction and weight loss - food is the thing that gives me comfort when life is too much to handle, but it's also the thing that makes life so hard. Living in a body that has limitations is NOT comfortable. But, it also helps me hide. I could go on about both sides of a dozen different coins but I think you get the point. Right now, one side doesn't necessarily outweigh the other so I can't find the motivation to actually do anything different.
Yet it's all I think about. What can I do? What should I do? What is going to work for me and what is going to make me unhappy? I do understand that the process of rebuilding my relationship with food isn't going to be comfortable - intellectually, anyway. Emotionally, I'm a scared little girl, clinging to her stuffed bunny with all her might, knowing that some big meanie is going to come snatch it out of her little hands. If someone takes food - my comfort, my salve, my drug - away from me, I will be exposed and alone. I might just have to face my demons and I don't feel equipped to do that.
Still, I'm thinking about what I can do to help ease myself into the changes. Focusing completely on food seems to go against my desire to not become obsessed with every damn thing I put in my mouth, so what if I focus on WHY I eat? A recent Facebook post by one of my favorite authors, Jen Lancaster, who has struggled with her weight for many years but recently found freedom not through a strict diet but through doing some real work on herself, inspired me to look more closely at that approach - fix the inside first. Look at the "why" and the "how" will come:
"First, I began to work with a nutritionist who specializes in demystifying and taking away food’s power. I cannot say enough nice things about Michelle at FatNutritionist.com. Her goal is not to get you thin; rather, she’s all about “getting you to a friendly place with food and your body.”
...My point here is that I laid the groundwork for weight loss long before I ever stepped into the gym. I had to figure out what in life would make me happy before I was in the mindset to make changes."
This spoke to me on many levels, some going very deep. I think I have always believed that fixing the insides first is the only way to make these changes as close to permanent as possible.
Of course, the impatient parts of me are all up in arms because they know that this approach takes time. And they want results NOW. Maybe not changes, as they're part of Team Eat For Comfort, but they certainly want me to fit more comfortably in my clothes.
I'm not totally delusional - I know that work will have to be done. I know I will have to examine my eating habits, be honest with myself about why I choose certain things, feel my feelings and make some sacrifices. I know I will have to get more active. There are parts of me that welcome those things and there are parts that are terrified. The only way I feel I can manage the excitement and the terror is to take a gentle approach to a major lifestyle change - and I know it won't happen overnight. But I also feel like I owe it to myself to try.
My next step is to do some research and try to draft a plan. And, yes, maybe make a couple of small changes to get myself started. Let's just see where this all leads, shall we? Stay tuned...
Saturday, March 14, 2015
Breaking the Cycle
The past few weeks have not been my best. In terms of the way I have been handling stress - which has a direct impact on how I treat and view myself - things have been a bit bleak. Nothing bad has happened, but I've been pressed for time, pushed out of my comfort zone, and haven't really had any time to decompress (which is vital for an introvert like me) - so I have defaulted to my standard coping mechanism: eating. Just the other night after work, I grabbed a six pack of cupcakes from the store, telling myself I needed them and I didn't care that I'd regret making that choice. After dinner, I ate two of them...and then came regret and shame, in a huge wave that washed over me, pushing me into an urgent need to find some way to absolve myself of the guilt, rid myself of the ugly feelings and self-judgment. I resolved to get rid of the remaining cupcakes, as if that would somehow erase what I had done. The next morning, I decided I would not get rid of the other cupcakes - because to do so grants them a kind of power over me that I am not okay with...and it only perpetuates this cycle of addictive behavior.
I'm not proud of myself for what I consider backward movement. I dislike how easy it is to rely on food (by which of course I mean "junk" food) to be my salve for any sort of uncomfortable feeling - as opposed to actually examining how I feel and being okay with whatever that is. I am scared that I will never be able to really change this behavior, to break this pattern and free myself of the burdens of self-hatred (because, in some ways, I believe I do actually still hate myself), and regularly make decisions based on self-love and self-respect. I sometimes wonder if I know what that kind of living would look like..and I wonder if that is what scares me -- the unknown.
What if this pattern I'm living in now is no different than the pattern that keeps battered women stuck in destructive relationships? I can say, based on my experience, that two things kept me stuck in an abusive relationship: 1) fear of the unknown, and 2) a solid belief that I didn't deserve any better (again, a belief formed by other trauma and also careful conditioning by the man I was involved with). So, is this situation with food really all that different?
Previously, I wrote about food as a Mean Girl, the friend who smiles to your face but crushes you first chance she gets - what about food as abuser? When I think about the pattern of behavior I experienced with an abusive partner, I see similarities - he seemed harmless in the beginning...charming, even. He made me feel special and made me really want to be with him. Over time, the deeper I got into the relationship, I started to lose myself (those parts that were incongruous to maintaining the status quo and balance) until I only knew him. Then, as I began to see clearly again, seeing who he really was and how he was hurting me (cutting me down, convincing me I was nothing without him, forcing me to give up who I was), I wanted out but I was afraid. Afraid he was right, afraid he would hurt me for real (physically) if I tried to get out. And then I realized that the only way I could be happy, could be okay was to get away, no matter what happened. So, I did it. It was scary, it took time, and it wasn't exactly easy, but I did it. And I'm stronger because of it...though it has taken me nearly 20 years to truly find my strength and myself.
So now I wonder, couldn't breaking up with my old, damaging eating habits be the same? Uncomfortable, painful, and certainly scary. But what have I got to gain from getting out of this relationship?
I'm going to have to spend some more time pondering this parallel, considering how much my current behaviors are actually not serving or helping me, and looking at how I might use that information to change the behaviors and, ultimately, the relationship. Unlike the ex-boyfriend, whom I could leave behind and live without, food is necessary. I can't stop eating, so I have to fix the problem and the relationship, recreating it until there is no shame, no guilt, and, most of all, no damage.
I'm not proud of myself for what I consider backward movement. I dislike how easy it is to rely on food (by which of course I mean "junk" food) to be my salve for any sort of uncomfortable feeling - as opposed to actually examining how I feel and being okay with whatever that is. I am scared that I will never be able to really change this behavior, to break this pattern and free myself of the burdens of self-hatred (because, in some ways, I believe I do actually still hate myself), and regularly make decisions based on self-love and self-respect. I sometimes wonder if I know what that kind of living would look like..and I wonder if that is what scares me -- the unknown.
What if this pattern I'm living in now is no different than the pattern that keeps battered women stuck in destructive relationships? I can say, based on my experience, that two things kept me stuck in an abusive relationship: 1) fear of the unknown, and 2) a solid belief that I didn't deserve any better (again, a belief formed by other trauma and also careful conditioning by the man I was involved with). So, is this situation with food really all that different?
Previously, I wrote about food as a Mean Girl, the friend who smiles to your face but crushes you first chance she gets - what about food as abuser? When I think about the pattern of behavior I experienced with an abusive partner, I see similarities - he seemed harmless in the beginning...charming, even. He made me feel special and made me really want to be with him. Over time, the deeper I got into the relationship, I started to lose myself (those parts that were incongruous to maintaining the status quo and balance) until I only knew him. Then, as I began to see clearly again, seeing who he really was and how he was hurting me (cutting me down, convincing me I was nothing without him, forcing me to give up who I was), I wanted out but I was afraid. Afraid he was right, afraid he would hurt me for real (physically) if I tried to get out. And then I realized that the only way I could be happy, could be okay was to get away, no matter what happened. So, I did it. It was scary, it took time, and it wasn't exactly easy, but I did it. And I'm stronger because of it...though it has taken me nearly 20 years to truly find my strength and myself.
So now I wonder, couldn't breaking up with my old, damaging eating habits be the same? Uncomfortable, painful, and certainly scary. But what have I got to gain from getting out of this relationship?
I'm going to have to spend some more time pondering this parallel, considering how much my current behaviors are actually not serving or helping me, and looking at how I might use that information to change the behaviors and, ultimately, the relationship. Unlike the ex-boyfriend, whom I could leave behind and live without, food is necessary. I can't stop eating, so I have to fix the problem and the relationship, recreating it until there is no shame, no guilt, and, most of all, no damage.
Saturday, February 21, 2015
Food as Friend?
In a conversation with a friend the other day, we were discussing how we turn to food as a way to deal with our pain (stress, boredom, depression, anxiety, loneliness, etc.) and I remembered a realization I'd had a few years ago - I eat because I am lonely. There is a hole inside of me, created by the notion that no one could ever know my pain, and built upon by loss, leaving a gaping hole in my soul. I fill the void with food. I feed it when I am sad, I feed it when I am scared, and I feed it when I am lonely (which, of course, is the love child of scared and sad). I eat because food doesn't judge me when I'm too lazy to get dressed and instead spend the day on the couch. Food doesn't hold back when I need comfort. Food doesn't leave me alone with my thoughts. Food doesn't leave me, period. Food is, and always has been, my most loyal companion.
In remembering this, I felt like I had once again stumbled onto this profound explanation, and, therefore, it would be easy to fix. But then my friend said something that explained the issue even better - and complicated everything: Food is more like one of those fake high school friends, the mean girl who smiles to your face, tells you you're her best friend, and then stabs you in the back first chance she gets. You adore her, you need her - even while you know she is going to hurt you.
This epiphany adds layers of complexity to the notion that food equals love. How twisted is my sense of love and comfort that I continually seek companionship from something that I know is only going to cause me pain? Do I think so little of myself that I believe it's okay to allow this?
The answer, it seems, is yes.
To be clear, I do not hate myself. At least not anymore. Like many people, my adolescence, and even my twenties, were fraught with the general angst of becoming, and it wasn't until recently that I've begun to embrace the person I've become...but that's a story for another time. The thing is, I've had some trauma in my life (much like many people I know) - a number of events that shaped how I perceived myself; relationships that tore me down to nothing but raw nerves, made me doubt my goodness as a human being, and my worthiness for love. I've come a long way in my journey to heal those wounds, but they're still there, and sometimes the jagged edges get torn open and the pain seeps out.
It is that pain that holds me back, even as it guides me toward healing. It is that pain that seeks comfort, in any form that comes. It is that pain that mutters, I'm not worthy.
I have lived nearly forty years making choices based on a twisted sense of self-worth, a need for immediate comfort and gratification (regardless of the consequences), and a deep-seated belief that I deserve this pain. All of these things have worked together to put me in a place of being uncomfortable in this body and knowing I need to make changes, but fearing a future without those sources of "comfort". How will I manage without cake to keep me company, without fast food to fill the void, without mindless eating to numb the pain? How will I stay grounded without these drugs, these salves? How am I going to function if I have to feel? How can I show the world who I am without hiding behind my weight? Will I be good enough, or will I fail, as usual, and turn back to food because it's all I have?
It's scary to be making choices based on how I want to feel later instead of how I feel right now. It's disconcerting to walk away from food, telling myself I don't need it, or it will only make me feel worse (physically and emotionally). I'm learning to choose with the long term in mind (because I love myself and I want to and deserve to feel good), and not the short term (because I hate my life, I hate myself and I just want to make this all go away). Is it easy? Yes and no. It's easier than I thought it would be, which I believe is a testament to how much I actually love myself. But it's also hard to break life-long habits, and I have moments when the pull is too strong for my new will, and I make a choice based on old beliefs. I'm learning to forgive myself, though, when that happens. I'm only human, after all. I'm not, and never will be, perfect. I'm okay, just as I am.
I'm wondering if I should do something ceremonious to bid farewell to old "friends", or if by doing so I give them too much power over me. With every choice I make, though, I am letting them go. Maybe that's ceremony enough.
In remembering this, I felt like I had once again stumbled onto this profound explanation, and, therefore, it would be easy to fix. But then my friend said something that explained the issue even better - and complicated everything: Food is more like one of those fake high school friends, the mean girl who smiles to your face, tells you you're her best friend, and then stabs you in the back first chance she gets. You adore her, you need her - even while you know she is going to hurt you.
This epiphany adds layers of complexity to the notion that food equals love. How twisted is my sense of love and comfort that I continually seek companionship from something that I know is only going to cause me pain? Do I think so little of myself that I believe it's okay to allow this?
The answer, it seems, is yes.
To be clear, I do not hate myself. At least not anymore. Like many people, my adolescence, and even my twenties, were fraught with the general angst of becoming, and it wasn't until recently that I've begun to embrace the person I've become...but that's a story for another time. The thing is, I've had some trauma in my life (much like many people I know) - a number of events that shaped how I perceived myself; relationships that tore me down to nothing but raw nerves, made me doubt my goodness as a human being, and my worthiness for love. I've come a long way in my journey to heal those wounds, but they're still there, and sometimes the jagged edges get torn open and the pain seeps out.
It is that pain that holds me back, even as it guides me toward healing. It is that pain that seeks comfort, in any form that comes. It is that pain that mutters, I'm not worthy.
I have lived nearly forty years making choices based on a twisted sense of self-worth, a need for immediate comfort and gratification (regardless of the consequences), and a deep-seated belief that I deserve this pain. All of these things have worked together to put me in a place of being uncomfortable in this body and knowing I need to make changes, but fearing a future without those sources of "comfort". How will I manage without cake to keep me company, without fast food to fill the void, without mindless eating to numb the pain? How will I stay grounded without these drugs, these salves? How am I going to function if I have to feel? How can I show the world who I am without hiding behind my weight? Will I be good enough, or will I fail, as usual, and turn back to food because it's all I have?
It's scary to be making choices based on how I want to feel later instead of how I feel right now. It's disconcerting to walk away from food, telling myself I don't need it, or it will only make me feel worse (physically and emotionally). I'm learning to choose with the long term in mind (because I love myself and I want to and deserve to feel good), and not the short term (because I hate my life, I hate myself and I just want to make this all go away). Is it easy? Yes and no. It's easier than I thought it would be, which I believe is a testament to how much I actually love myself. But it's also hard to break life-long habits, and I have moments when the pull is too strong for my new will, and I make a choice based on old beliefs. I'm learning to forgive myself, though, when that happens. I'm only human, after all. I'm not, and never will be, perfect. I'm okay, just as I am.
I'm wondering if I should do something ceremonious to bid farewell to old "friends", or if by doing so I give them too much power over me. With every choice I make, though, I am letting them go. Maybe that's ceremony enough.
Saturday, February 14, 2015
First Comes Love...Or Does It?
A friend of mine recently started a weight loss program, and my initial reaction was something like shock, and maybe a little terror. I felt judged somehow because SHE could no longer handle her eating and weight gain - and she is nowhere near my size. If it was that bad for her, what did that say about me? Was she as horrified by me as I am?
My way of handling it was to spout off my "firm" belief that body acceptance and love should come first, and weight loss would naturally follow. I silently criticized the notion of prescribed meals, telling myself that it was no way to learn how to eat - after all, that wasn't the way to manage one's relationship with food. And I sat back on my high horse, secretly waiting for the whole thing to blow up.
What I didn't see coming was that as she learned, very early on, what her triggers were and how this eating plan forced her to realize how she had been using food, I began to see parallels in my own eating habits. I began to see how all the junk I'd been preaching had been nothing but a bunch of fluff designed to distract me from reality: I have a problem with food. I am not alone in that, but it's still my problem. And as for the "first comes body love, then comes weight loss" idea, says who? What if, by doing things like exercising and eating better, for myself and my body out of respect and caring, I end up loving it and accepting it?
One of the things I have been afraid of is allowing myself to be motivated by shame. It might work in the short term (as evidenced by every fad diet and workout program ever advertised), but it doesn't get to the core of the issue - why we eat. So I have been seeking out other motivators, ones based on positive things like self-love and -acceptance. As I write this, I am still trying to find that formula, that motivation that speaks to my values and goals. But what I recently realized is that I don't have to find those things before I start making changes. It's possible that by doing it, by getting started and making value-based choices (rather than choosing for immediate gratification), the answers to the bigger questions might just find me. Maybe I have to be doing the work to be open and ready to receive the "answers".
And so I begin on this journey - one choice, one step, one change at a time. It's already uncomfortable, and I don't exactly like how it feels to be so damn mindful of every choice, but I'm here. I'm on the path.
My way of handling it was to spout off my "firm" belief that body acceptance and love should come first, and weight loss would naturally follow. I silently criticized the notion of prescribed meals, telling myself that it was no way to learn how to eat - after all, that wasn't the way to manage one's relationship with food. And I sat back on my high horse, secretly waiting for the whole thing to blow up.
What I didn't see coming was that as she learned, very early on, what her triggers were and how this eating plan forced her to realize how she had been using food, I began to see parallels in my own eating habits. I began to see how all the junk I'd been preaching had been nothing but a bunch of fluff designed to distract me from reality: I have a problem with food. I am not alone in that, but it's still my problem. And as for the "first comes body love, then comes weight loss" idea, says who? What if, by doing things like exercising and eating better, for myself and my body out of respect and caring, I end up loving it and accepting it?
One of the things I have been afraid of is allowing myself to be motivated by shame. It might work in the short term (as evidenced by every fad diet and workout program ever advertised), but it doesn't get to the core of the issue - why we eat. So I have been seeking out other motivators, ones based on positive things like self-love and -acceptance. As I write this, I am still trying to find that formula, that motivation that speaks to my values and goals. But what I recently realized is that I don't have to find those things before I start making changes. It's possible that by doing it, by getting started and making value-based choices (rather than choosing for immediate gratification), the answers to the bigger questions might just find me. Maybe I have to be doing the work to be open and ready to receive the "answers".
And so I begin on this journey - one choice, one step, one change at a time. It's already uncomfortable, and I don't exactly like how it feels to be so damn mindful of every choice, but I'm here. I'm on the path.
Monday, February 9, 2015
To Begin, Again
It's no secret that weight and body image have always been issues for me. I was chubby all through childhood, "plus-sized" in high school, and by the time I was twenty, I was seriously overweight. Now, facing forty head-on, I am the heaviest I have ever been and I'm giving a lot of thought to how best to deal with the problem of my weight, and what got me here.
About five years ago, I managed to lose thirty pounds and I felt really good about what I was able to accomplish - it took me about eighteen months and I was doing really well. Eating balanced meals, working out, and losing steadily. Then I hit an emotional pothole and everything came undone, including me. Crippling anxiety and severe depression ruled my life. I could barely work or go to school, I couldn't be around people without sinking into fits of panic, and I turned back to food to soothe my raw and aching nerves. Thirty pounds came back in just a couple of months, and more weight came with it.
I pulled myself out of that dark period, but the cost of it all was that I was not just back where I started, but even further behind. And, unfortunately, that weight has stayed with me for several years.
It's not easy for me to write this, knowing people will read it. I fear being judged by others the way I judge myself. Even with all my public talk about body acceptance, my own body and body image have been my private shame. But that's exactly why I wanted to do this - to break down the wall I keep trying to put around myself and stop using my embarrassment as a shield. To talk about the things that everyone who has ever struggled with their weight has ever thought, felt and experienced. To talk through the process of learning to love myself and treat myself and my body with respect, with the ultimate goal of getting healthier and more fit.
My ideas and ideals about how to reach that goal are somewhat fluid at this point and often easily influenced, so I thought that by working it out in a more public forum I can accomplish a few of things at once - getting past my shame, finding a path that works for me, and hopefully involving some friends and readers in the process so that we can all find our path.
I hope you'll take this journey with me, and interact with me as well. Through this blog, I plan to talk about what others are talking about (on Facebook, on TV, in magazines, etc.), The Body Love Movement, how society and the media define beauty, how to come to terms with myself, how to manage and redefine my relationship with food...an much more. Stay tuned! ;)
About five years ago, I managed to lose thirty pounds and I felt really good about what I was able to accomplish - it took me about eighteen months and I was doing really well. Eating balanced meals, working out, and losing steadily. Then I hit an emotional pothole and everything came undone, including me. Crippling anxiety and severe depression ruled my life. I could barely work or go to school, I couldn't be around people without sinking into fits of panic, and I turned back to food to soothe my raw and aching nerves. Thirty pounds came back in just a couple of months, and more weight came with it.
I pulled myself out of that dark period, but the cost of it all was that I was not just back where I started, but even further behind. And, unfortunately, that weight has stayed with me for several years.
It's not easy for me to write this, knowing people will read it. I fear being judged by others the way I judge myself. Even with all my public talk about body acceptance, my own body and body image have been my private shame. But that's exactly why I wanted to do this - to break down the wall I keep trying to put around myself and stop using my embarrassment as a shield. To talk about the things that everyone who has ever struggled with their weight has ever thought, felt and experienced. To talk through the process of learning to love myself and treat myself and my body with respect, with the ultimate goal of getting healthier and more fit.
My ideas and ideals about how to reach that goal are somewhat fluid at this point and often easily influenced, so I thought that by working it out in a more public forum I can accomplish a few of things at once - getting past my shame, finding a path that works for me, and hopefully involving some friends and readers in the process so that we can all find our path.
I hope you'll take this journey with me, and interact with me as well. Through this blog, I plan to talk about what others are talking about (on Facebook, on TV, in magazines, etc.), The Body Love Movement, how society and the media define beauty, how to come to terms with myself, how to manage and redefine my relationship with food...an much more. Stay tuned! ;)
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