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.

Damage

My family and I moved from Oak Park to Villa Park in the summer of 1995. I got a job waiting tables at Chi-Chi's, and Javier got himself a job at the pizza place next door -- same restaurant as the one where we'd met, just a different location. I barely remember my time at that job, save for a few vague memories. The one night he had me followed, though, is still pretty clear in my head.

I got off work early one evening, and one of my co-workers asked for a ride. He was going to a friend's house that was right up the road and on my way home, so I dropped him off and headed home. When Javier got off work later that night, he came home and asked me how my night was. I told him it was fine, and he said, "so, you didn't give anyone a ride home?". 

I'm pretty sure my blood froze. I know my mind stopped working for a solid sixty seconds while I tried to process the information -- he'd been at work all night, so how could he know I gave anyone a ride home? Simple answer: he'd been spying on me.

And it wasn't the first time. I later found out that he knew about other things that had happened at work -- things he couldn't have known about unless he'd been watching me through the goddamn windows, or had people watching me and reporting back. 

He literally had eyes everywhere.

There was absolutely nothing I could hide from him. He'd already gone through my diary, my storage boxes, and now he was having me followed. I remember feeling angry that he didn't trust me, but deep down, there was fear. Was I afraid of what he'd find out? Was I afraid he'd leave? Was I afraid of something worse?

I still don't know the answer. I just know I was afraid. 

I left my job at Chi-Chi's after a few months and took a job as a bank teller. That job kept me afloat, emotionally, in ways I obviously couldn't have known at the time. But I was good at that job -- really good -- and it was the one thing he couldn't take away from me. In that building, I was strong, competent, confident, and relaxed. I had friends. I was me -- or, as much of me as I had left at that point.

It didn't take him long to become threatened, though. He started questioning my need to wear makeup to work, to wear perfume. He accused me of going out to meet other guys, when I was actually going in to the bank for an after-shift meeting. He looked for as many ways as he could to take away what little power I had. 

One of the easiest ways was for him to take control of my car. Again, it wasn't something we talked about or agreed upon. It just happened. One day that car was mine, and the next day I was borrowing my mom's minivan because he was off doing god-knows-what with my car. 

(Don't even get me started on the aching regret I carry, knowing my mother gave up a lot of her freedoms so I could still get around...I can't even think about that) 

I guess there were periods when I felt happy...I don't remember them anymore. I just have anecdotes, flashes of moments during which he chipped away at me, at all the things I thought I knew about myself. 

I'd always had issues with self-confidence, body image issues and stuff like that, but the one thing I got from Javier was a confirmation that I was attractive. Despite all the other crap he put me through, he managed to make me feel beautiful. I guess it was because he wanted me. Our mutual physical attraction was one thing that never came into question...until one night, as I was lying with him in bed in the most vulnerable way possible, feeling that wonderful afterglow, smiling as he traced a finger over my skin, and he said, "Why are you so fat?"

Well...twenty-plus years later, I still don't have sufficient words to describe what that felt like. 

But I do know the damage that was done in that single moment. And I'm still trying to recover from it.

Lessons Learned -- But Not the Way You'd Think

I don't remember how it happened, I just know that at some point, Javier had moved into our house. I never asked him, he never asked me, and I definitely did not ask my parents. We somehow went from him refusing to go into the house to us sneaking in late at night, crashing in the family room and getting him up and out before my dad left for work, to him just living there. 

I wish, so much, that I could go back and change that single event and spare myself two more years of disintegration and misery. But the story is what it is, and I can't undo a single bit of it.

Like many girls in high school, my bedroom walls had been papered with posters of the guys in my favorite bands (Motley Crue, Guns n' Roses, Poison, Metallica, etc.), but after I got back from my attempt at college, I took them all down. I was a grown up, and didn't need to have posters all over my walls. But I wasn't ready to get rid of them, so I carefully folded and put them away in a box, where they were safe.

Except nothing was safe with Javier living in our house; sleeping in my room. I came home one day and found him kneeling on the floor, with my journal open on the bed. He'd pulled it out from under my mattress and simply helped himself to my deepest thoughts dating back to when I was fourteen. When I came into the room, I asked him what he was doing and he looked at me and asked, "Who's Brandon?"

Brandon was a guy I'd worked with during my sophomore year, at a different restaurant. I'd had a huge crush on him at the time, so of course I wrote about him in my journal. The fact that my journal was private and the crush was more than three years old wasn't relevant for Javier, so he grilled me about Brandon, and about another guy Dave I'd had a brief thing for. He insisted I was still talking to them, that I still had feelings for them.

I was so busy defending myself against my adolescent -- and very personal --  feelings, musings, and wishes that I didn't have time to be angry with him for going through my things. I remember feeling a ball of panic and rage as I stood in that room, trying to make sense of such a personal attack.

And before I could grab a hold of that interrogation, Javier pulled out the posters I'd put away and laid into me about that. He didn't care that the posters were part of my past, he only cared that I kept them. They were pictures of other men, so why did I need them?  If they were off my walls, they should be thrown away. There was no room for argument.

So I took my posters, a valuable piece of my history, of my personality, and I threw them away.

I took my journal and, on the first day he wasn't around, hid it in a place I knew he wouldn't dare go looking. 

But the damage was done. My life was no longer mine, my history was slowly being erased, and I was losing pieces of myself every single day.

My best friend had come to work at the restaurant around the same time. I was thrilled, because I rarely got to see her, so this was our chance to hang out. But the thrill quickly turned into aggravation. Javier didn't like her, and she didn't like him. And I was caught in the middle.

She told me one day that her brother had been out at this all night diner in North Riverside (a town just south of where we lived) and he saw Javier in a booth with one of the bus boys from work and two women -- neither of whom were me. When I asked Javier about it, he denied everything, of course, and accused my best friend of being a whore. 

Yep. 

When I found out he was calling and sending flowers to one of the younger girls who worked up at the front desk (which was soul crushing, by the way. I can still remember the sinking in my chest, the weight of the sadness I felt at the time.), I waited until we were alone and asked him about it, as casually as I could. He didn't deny it. Instead he turned the whole thing on me and made me out to be the bad guy, so by the end of the conversation I was in tears, and I was apologizing to him. 

(As I write this, my stomach is turning itself into knots and I kind of want to go scream into a pillow.)

I decided that the best way to resolve the conflict was to quit my job. If I wasn't working there, he couldn't accuse me of flirting with the delivery drivers, or whatever transgressions he could invent. So I quit. He got to stay, though, and throw arrogant smirks at my best friend every chance he got.

I got to drive him to work every day and pick him up...but our relationship was still a secret so I couldn't just drop him off or pick him up outside the restaurant. Nope. I had to park two blocks away and wait for him. I was taking some courses at the local community college so I would usually pass the time studying until he came around the block and got in the car. It was a routine I was getting used to, even if I did think it was absurd.

One night, I was waiting for longer than usual, but I had my text book with me so I kept on studying, glancing up every few minutes to see if he was coming. Moments ticked by, and no Javier. I was starting to get annoyed, but I knew I wasn't allowed to be annoyed, so I just waited. I went back to my studies, and jumped out of my skin when he appeared from behind the car and slammed his hand on the window. 

When he came around to the passenger side, he started scolding me the second he opened the door. Why wasn't I paying attention? I shouldn't have been studying, anyone could have come up from behind and attacked me. How stupid could I be? And it didn't matter that I had been checking all of the mirrors every time I looked up to see if he was coming; the point was that I didn't see him. I had failed. Again.

You might be wondering if this was a set-up, and you'd be right. I'm fairly certain he had come out of work on time, came his usual way, saw me with my eyes on my book and decided to teach me a lesson. Well...frowned upon or not, I was fucking pissed.

Since I wasn't allowed to argue with him, the only way I could express my rage was to drive like an asshole. I was speeding down side streets, speeding down the main streets, but my mouth was firmly closed. Still, passive-aggression was actual aggression, so Javier told me to stop driving like that or he was going to walk home. At that point I didn't care if I'd ever see him again so I pulled over and let him out. He made some pithy comment to me about being safe before he closed the door and I sped off in a cloud of fury.

Of course, by the time I got home, the indignant rage had passed and all I had left was fear. Fear that he wouldn't come home, fear that he was gone for good. Fear that I had ruined everything. I remember crying to my mom and sister -- god bless them both for comforting me instead of telling me to kick his ass to the curb -- and then suddenly he was at the door. He was calm, quiet, and kind. Not contrite, because that would have meant he was wrong. No, he was just calm, as though that whole damn thing had never happened.

He'd won the game again. I'd learned two lessons that night, so of course he was smiling. Mission accomplished. Programming complete. 

Fool Me Once

There is a story I have wanted to tell for a long time, but never had the courage to share. It's not an uncommon story -- in fact it's probably more common than most of us realize. It's probably a story many people reading this can relate to, which is one of the reasons I hesitated to share it. Who wants to hear my story, when there are millions of women out there who've been through the same thing? What makes me and my experience so special?

Nothing makes it special, other than the fact that it's mine. It's part of my history, part of who I am, and maybe by sharing it I can help someone else -- how it helps isn't up to me, but if it changes just one person's view, or encourages just one person to demand better treatment, if it helps one person understand me a little bit more, then it's worth it.

Now comes the hard part. The soul-baring, vulnerable part of actually telling the story; of saying the words.*

I was still in high school when I met Javier. We both worked at a restaurant in Oak Park -- he was a cook/busboy and I worked the phones and the register. We worked in fairly close quarters, as the front counter and the kitchen were basically a single open space, so we interacted a lot. 

There was a slight language barrier, but I knew he was working hard at perfecting his English so communication wasn't a big deal, especially since it usually had to do with pizza orders and tables that needed to be cleaned.

After high school, I went away to college for a whopping six weeks and came back to work at the same restaurant. I started to befriend Javier and the other cooks -- we even went out to play pool a few times after work. Looking back, I have no idea why I thought that was a good idea. Or a safe idea. But I liked the attention. I liked being the only girl among them and I liked to flirt. 

Soon, it was just Javier and me playing pool, and it was even more thrilling because it felt like something "real". Having had no romantic relationships up to this point, having the attention of a cute guy -- who was a couple years older than me -- was exciting. The fact that I wasn't afraid of the attention made it even better. So, I hung out with him when he asked because it made me feel like I was important.

After we had sex for the first time -- which happened to be my first time ever -- I assumed what we had was an actual relationship, though as far as I know we never actually talked about it. It just became this thing we did, and since it felt normal to me, I never brought it up. I never asked for a label. I was happy to be inside the circle of people who'd had, or were currently in relationships. I could call a guy my boyfriend and mean it (not that I was allowed to, but still). 

But is it really a relationship if it can't be talked about it public? If our co-workers weren't allowed to know? If my friends weren't allowed to know? 

At the time, I didn't question it. I didn't question the fact that he never set foot inside our house. We'd go on dates to restaurants and parks that were way outside of Oak Park and then come back sit in my car outside the house for hours, but we never went inside. I guess the secrecy was part of the thrill for me, so I didn't even think to ask why.

Several months into our secret relationship, Javier and I went to a local park one night to hang out. I remember we were having a heated but friendly discussion about song lyrics -- I insisted he was wrong about the lyrics to "La Isla Bonita" by Madonna and he insisted I was wrong about the lyrics to "Come Undone" by Duran Duran -- and I thought it was funny that he was right about the English lyrics and I was right about the Spanish ones. We both laughed about it, and I remember feeling happy and content in that moment.

Oh, if only I'd known that would be one of the last times I could live in such ignorant bliss. 

When we were ready to leave, I realized my car keys were missing. I'd sworn they were right beside me on the playground equipment we'd been sitting on, but they were gone. I got up and hunted around -- in the dark, no less -- losing my mind because obviously we were stuck without the keys and we weren't supposed to be in the park at 1am anyway. A dozen thoughts about all the ways we could get into trouble scrambled around in my mind, and my panic was growing by the second. 

I no longer remember how I figured it out, but after all the frantic searching, I discovered that Javier had my keys in his pocket. The whole goddamn time. 

And he thought it was funny.

I was pissed. I made him give me the keys -- he thought it would be cute to play "keep away", because why not mess with the woman you've just pissed off? -- and went to the car. I wanted to drive home without him. I wanted to leave him in the park and let him figure out how to get to the damn train all by himself. But, lacking a solid spine, I let him in the car. I drove half a block, still mad as hell, and he made me stop the car. He wasn't going to put up with my anger, so he'd make his own way home. 

He got out of the car, leaving me speechless. And panicked. He was mad at me. Furious because I showed my temper, and instead of being pissed off about that, I found myself desperate to get him back in the car. I rolled down the window, driving alongside him as he made his way down the street, begging him to get in the car.

Begging. I was so afraid of him leaving me, of this being the end, that I literally forgot that he'd just fucking gas-lighted me and I had every right to be pissed off. I needed him to get back in the car, to kiss me and make up with me so I'd know I was okay. I was still wanted. 

And that, my friends, is how the next two years of my life began. Two years in which I gave away pieces of myself, again and again, because I didn't believe I could get anyone else. I was already convinced that I was lucky to have him, and that not having him was the worst thing that could happen to me.

I was so, so wrong.

Anyway, he got back in the car and I spent a ridiculous amount of time apologizing for my behavior. By the time I dropped him off at the train, all was right in my world. For a while, at least.

*In the interest of not making a novel out of this, I will continue this story in a series of posts, spread over the next several days.

Plot Twist

Nine months ago, I made an unfortunate choice in footwear as I dressed for work, and six hours later I was on my ass in the parking lot outside the office - mortified, terrified, and emotionally paralyzed. 

With a great deal of grit, I managed to get onto my feet, but quickly realized one of them was badly injured and I couldn't walk on it. The office was several hundred feet away, and there was no way I could hobble anywhere, so I just stood there, looking around, having no idea what to do.

Then someone who worked in a nearby building came along and went to fetch my office-mates. And as they came out to help, I still wondered what the hell had just happened. All I knew was that my foot had come out of that stupid damn shoe and gravity took care of the rest (imagine, if you will, something akin to a marionette ballet). And now that foot was swelling rapidly, pulsing with pain, and giving rise to panic. This had happened before - another injury, many years before, and I suddenly went stupid, completely unable to make a decision about what to do next.

Fortunately my co-workers had their wits about them, and one of them took me to a free-standing ER just down the road. I could have chosen to go to the other location on the north end of town, or I could have opted to go to the actual hospital, but I chose this one.

I had no idea that choice would change my life. 

I met a woman who worked with the University of Florida Arts in Medicine - she was visiting patients with an offer to play something for them on her guitar. She sang a beautiful rendition of Nora Jones' "Come Away With Me" and something inside me started to buzz. Some part of me that had been entertaining the idea of learning to play guitar was activated, but I brushed it off - because hello, I kind of had more pressing things to worry about (like how bad was the injury? How much was this stupid accident going to cost me? Would I be able to take my much-anticipated Colorado vacation in two weeks?). 

This lovely songstress stepped away for a bit but returned to sing another song for me (Miranda Lambert's "The House That Built Me"), and that part of me I'd just silenced started buzzing again, and this time I couldn't stop the words from coming out of my mouth. I shared with this perfect stranger a desire I didn't realize I'd had, and since I figured I'd never see her again it was okay to just be open about it. She smiled and told me to check out a page on Facebook - a group for and by women who sing and play guitar. We chatted some more, and when the Bringer of Pain (the person whose job it was to wrap my foot in a soft cast) came to ruin my day, this beautiful stranger slipped away again. 

I found the page on Facebook when I got home, joined the group, and forgot all about it. I was too busy bemoaning my fate to think about that chance meeting, or that part of me that really wanted to learn to play guitar.

I spent weeks trying to figure out what the lesson in all of this was. Was I supposed to learn to accept that I'm alone and I have to figure shit out (like how to get dressed, go to the bathroom, get off the couch, all while using only one leg) on my own? Was I supposed to learn how to ask for and accept help from others? Was it another form of self-sabotage -- an excuse not to get myself together and get active again? Or was it just a cruel twist of fate that put me in those stupid shoes that morning?

Turns out, it was none of the above. 

In the last two months, it's become clear to me that this accident wasn't about teaching me something (not directly, anyway). It was about putting me on a path. It was about finding the clarity I'd been chasing for years. It was about finding the people who would change me and my life in ways I'd never imagined possible.

That Facebook group got me into my very first guitar class, and in that class I met some truly phenomenal women, a few of whom have had a profound effect on me. They've changed how I see myself, how I see the world, how I see the power that I hold and don't use. They've led me to a place where I can break through barricades I've been putting up for myself my entire life; to a place where I have the courage to do some of the hardest self-work imaginable because I know on the other side is freedom. 

I've got both feet planted on that path now, and things are changing quickly. I have the clarity that's seemed, for ages, just out of my reach. I know where I'm going, and I know how to get there. 

And the cute but very heavy and dangerous sandals I put on last June turned out to be the best choice I could have made.

The Healing of Feeling

I've had a pretty good month, for the most part. I'm making good progress with Weight Watchers - almost ten pounds in less than a month - and I feel like I am getting used to both the process and the mentality of what makes the program work. I don't see any physical changes yet, but I know that takes time. I'm pleased to see the number on the scale going down, and I am surprised at how much better I feel after a month of eating a lot more fresh food.

I still have moments when my stress levels trigger strong urges to mindlessly graze on M&Ms or pieces of chocolate...and there have been times when I've given in. I'm only human, and it's a deeply ingrained reaction that is not going to be undone in 28 days. The best I can say about those incidents is that they don't last long and I can stop myself a whole lot sooner than I used to. But I swear there's muscle memory involved, and at times when I'm anxious or just plain frustrated, my hands twitch, my mouth waters, and my mind races in search of something to quiet the noise in my head.

For the most part, though, I don't act on the urge. Maybe it's because I don't have anything within reach that's powerful enough to numb what I'm feeling, maybe it's because I know I'll feel like garbage if I shove any of it in my mouth...most likely it's both.

The result of this is that, for the first time in very long time, I'm feeling. I'm feeling a lot of things - helplessness, frustration, fear, sadness, anger - all of the things that I'd squash with food the second I felt them coming. The other day I was thinking about this - this often crushing wave of emotion - and how awesome it is that I haven't been using food to push it away. And then it dawned on me that the reason I'm feeling at all is because I'm not using food for that purpose. The realization that I was actually eating (almost completely mindlessly) to prevent an uncomfortable or strong emotion was staggering. And now I that I'm not doing that, now that I eat merely to sustain my body through the day, to feed it and treat it kindly, all the feelings have presented themselves. It seems like a rush, a wave, a flood...but the reality is that they were always there. I just never gave them a chance to surface. I shut them up before they could really even make a peep. Putting it that way, it sort of sounds to me like I was being abusive to my own emotions - which, of course, means I was abusing myself.

Well, shit. No wonder I've hated myself for so damn long.

That's a pretty big epiphany. Is it the entire reason I've been treating myself so poorly for the better part of my life? No. But it's a big part of it. Many things - experiences, the internalization of some pretty cruel notions about myself - have taught me that I'm not worthy; that my body isn't worthy of respect and kindness. I've sought those validations from outside sources for nearly all of my life, and nearly always end up feeling disappointed and hollow. So I filled those spaces with food; thus perpetuating the cycle of self-hatred and, in a way, self-destruction.

I can't explain what switched inside of me, what made me decide that I was ready to face the things that come with such a major change in lifestyle. I know that I had no idea how complex and yet how simple it would be to make the changes and follow through. I had no idea how quickly all of the crap I'd stuffed down with food would bubble to the surface, or how that would make me feel. And even that part is complex, because while I'm steeped in frustration and anger and resentment I'm also aware, on some level, that I'm in control. My angry parts don't know that, nor do they care. But I know it. And when the wave passes I realize that I do know how to take care of myself afterward, how to self-soothe. I never realized that I knew how to do that without food.

Case in point: yesterday was a remarkably frustrating day and my agitation had me so frazzled that I couldn't think clearly at all. I just wanted to rage - but raging alone isn't satisfying, so I wanted an audience. One that would tell me how justified I was in my rage; how good it was to be mad and why everyone else was the problem. But I didn't have an audience. I had myself. So I walked away. I shut my work down, put on comfortable clothes, turned on my much-loved 80s Hair Band Station on Pandora and did something nice for myself. I cooked a great dinner made with fresh food. I danced around my kitchen, I did some air-drumming, I sang, and I let myself get taken back to my high school years, when life really was simple.

I carried this self-care through to today, when I went with a good friend to get out in the sun and take pictures. I went to my happy place and right now I feel good. I feel like myself. I feel like I am, inch by uncomfortable inch, getting back to the me I lost a long time ago. Actually, I think it's the me I always wanted to be but didn't know how. She's the one I've longed for, the one I searched for - in all the wrong places, over and over and over again - and she's the one who is going to kick my life into action. I like her. She's a cool chick. She isn't perfect, and never will be. But she's real. She's not hiding. She's ready to live. I can't wait to get to know her.

Twelve Days

It's been less than 14 days since I started Weight Watchers, and I swear it feels like I've been doing this for at least a month. Not that it's a bad thing, I just can't believe it hasn't even been two weeks. The good news is that I've shed a few pounds - a significant amount, if you consider the number of days I was actively on the plan when I weighed in last. But when I got on the scale yesterday, I felt...dissatisfied. I felt like all the tracking and eating healthier (much healthier and in much smaller quantities) would have (should have) yielded a greater loss. But, when you total up the pounds shed since January 2nd, it's pretty good. So, I wallowed in self-judgment for a day, but I feel better about it now.

But it isn't easy. My first week, I struggled with constant hunger, as I hadn't yet figured out what I could eat to keep me from being ravenous without blowing a decent portion of my daily point. I worried that I would always be hungry and that this would just be too damn hard to keep up. But I talked to a good friend who gave me tons of ideas for snacks and meals, and I took myself back to the grocery store, where I spent a sizable amount of money but came home with fresh food and lots of ideas.

Coming into my second week, I had plans, snacks and felt better about everything I was doing. I still do. But I know I have a long way to go. All day yesterday, in a crappy, crabby mood, I kept thinking about how badly I wanted to go home and binge. Dive into some comfort food - god, just give me some potatoes! - and soothe my ruffled and agitated parts. I wanted to tear open the bag of peanut M&Ms I bought before Christmas, still sitting in my desk drawer. I wanted to mindlessly ingest every piece until the screaming inside my head stopped. It was damn near all I could think about.

So clearly my relationship with food is still a little dysfunctional, but the fact that I did not give in to any of my urges is something I'm proud of. It feels like a major win - not only because I didn't waste precious points on candy and carbs, but because I was forced to sit with what I was feeling. I had to just accept my mood, and give myself some space to be crabby and impatient. Was it fun? No. Did I wish I had some food to silence the demons? Hell yes. But I lived. I made it through the day without sabotaging my progress. I made it through a bad mood and the kind of anxiety that makes me want to rip my skin off - without feeding it. Could I have done it if I didn't have to be accountable to a program on my phone that only I can actually see? Nope.

It's an uphill battle, I know. I have a lot of things to work through - my use of food as a silencer for my emotions, my utter lack of patience when it comes to making "real" progress (as defined by the parts of me that really enjoy self-loathing), my pickiness about eating vegetables, my fear of being hungry - just to name a few. I don't think anyone actually promised me this would be easy. I've got 40 years of baggage and bad habits to overcome, but I think I have finally reached the point where I know I'm worth the effort. I'm worth the struggle, because even though my size may not define me, I feel that it does not accurately represent me. I want my outside to match my inside, so that I can believe in what I see.

A lot of things have to change in order for me to get there, and I know it will take time. I have to keep reminding myself of that. I didn't get to this point overnight and I can't undo it overnight. All I need to do is take things one day at a time, sometimes one hour at a time. Looking at the big picture in this situation will only defeat me. And I intend to succeed.

Shame on You, Shame on Me

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.