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?
