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.
Wednesday, June 19, 2019
Tuesday, June 18, 2019
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.
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.
Saturday, March 16, 2019
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.
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.
Saturday, January 30, 2016
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.
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.
Thursday, January 14, 2016
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 30, 2015
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.
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.
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?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)