And That's Okay

It's been a weird couple of months.  Lots of questioning and checking in with myself.  Turns out, turning inwards yields lots of growth.  Instead of constantly judging myself for every little fucking thing, I've simply stopped and asked myself why.  Why does this feel uncomfortable?  Or stressful?  

For months I've been "wanting" to get back into yoga, but every time I'd plan on going, I felt anxious about it.  I kept beating myself up for not going, telling myself I was lazy and not putting my health first.  Just go!  But I kept finding excuses.  Yesterday morning I took a 50 minute meditation and yoga class online and loved it.  I asked myself why this was so much better than going to a yoga class and the answer was suddenly so clear.  Because I'm embarrassed to be red in the face and out of shape in front of so many other skinny people.  Rather than sinking into the poses, I was always paranoid about how I might lose my balance or not be able to do a pose (which happened many times).  It's not about being competitive or looking like a failure...it's about fitting all the stereotypes of a fat person.  And that sucks.  If I was skinny and fell out of a pose, I seriously don't think I'd care.  But because I'm fat, I worry that everyone is thinking about how my size is preventing me from being strong or flexible or able.  Now, I know what you're probably thinking, "fuck em! If anyone thinks something shitty about you because of your body, then they suck anyway."  I agree.  But I'm not quite there yet and that's okay, too.  

My friends were having a get-together at their home last weekend and they invited me over.  I hesitated to say yes, but I've said no so many times for various reasons that I felt I had to say yes this time.  I mean, my schedule was definitely open.  A few days before the gathering, I started to feel really anxious about it.  Then I asked myself why.  Let's see...because I prefer one-on-one or really small group hangouts, because I don't know who the hell will be there, because I don't want to look the way I look in front of other people.  Yes, holy shit, I'm a bit of an introvert!  This is something that I'd never really understood about myself because when I'm with people that I'm comfortable with, I'm loud and energetic.  And when I was younger, I wanted to be with people ALL the time.  It was my constant desire, and now I'm starting to think it was just an escape, but I'll dig into that another time.  But if I really think about it, I have always preferred to be on a sofa in my pjs with my bestest of friends over going to the hippest bar to pick up boys.  Okay, so I'm somewhat of an introvert and I'm shy with new people.  Cool.  I can work with this.  And I don't like feeling fat in front of new people most likely because I'm afraid they'll judge me for my body before they get to know me.  Well, a lot of my closest friends met me after I was already fat.  And the other ones stood by my side after I gained the weight.  So, maybe people don't really care what my body looks like after all.  I went to the gathering, met a bunch of new people.  They were awesome.  I stepped out of my comfort zone and played the fishbowl game.  I thought I was going to do horrible and let my team down.  I actually did pretty great, said some funny things, made these strangers laugh.  I had a good time.  And I was also uncomfortable at times.  And I was so grateful to be home at the end of the night.  And that's okay. 

I've never felt this "okay" with myself.  Ever.  It's wild.  I'm constantly doing things wrong and imperfectly, and sometimes I still treat myself like shit, but also sometimes I don't.  Sometimes I just observe without judgement.  Sometimes I give myself a little heart hug and have empathy for myself and totally understand why things feel really tough.  Isn't that beautiful?  

Mother's Day

Damn, Mother's Day was tough.  I'm still trying to process all my emotions from that day, so this may be a pretty rambling post.  Let's see, maybe a little back story to begin.  I was raised in an evangelical Christian family and I am not a Christian.  I've been open about it for about half of my life, but it hasn't been an easy ride.  It's not as simple as "let's agree to disagree" because evangelicals believe that if you're not a Christian, you go to hell.  My mom actually believes I'm going to hell.  She doesn't want to believe that, but she's convinced that it's true.  Some days I'm okay with that because I don't believe in hell, but other days I just want my mom's opinion of me to be that I'm wonderful and on the right track and if I died I wouldn't burn in eternal flame.  I want her to think that my relationship with my higher power is just as valid as hers.  Is that too much to ask?  That said, my mama is the actual sweetest person I know.  She's gentle and kind, and opens her heart and home to anyone and everyone, regardless of whether or not her religion agrees with their being.  There are very few people on earth with her ability to love, and I've yet to meet anyone with her patience.  She's my angel on earth and I thank the universe for her every second of every day.  But because we have such deep-rooted differences, we fight.  I so desperately want to have a connected and meaningful relationship with her, but there's tension there.  And she doesn't want to fight.  I don't think she even knows how to.  She shuts down quickly. And I'm relentless.  I want to get to the bottom of it, work out any kinks that remain, so we can get to the part where we just love each other for our differences.  But it never ends up that way.  We end up exhausted, in tears, and sick.  Fighting with my mama eats away at my soul.  The worst feeling ever.  After Trump was elected, our fights turned so toxic and I felt like I didn't even know her anymore.  How could someone so loving support someone so vile?  I couldn't understand.  And with lots of help from my therapist, I learned that I didn't have to.  

The first Mother's day after Trump's election was tough because the wounds were still so raw.  While I meant every word that I wrote in my mom's card, I still felt like a fraud.  I felt like I didn't deserve her because of my behavior over the past six months.  At that point, I decided that from now on, I would celebrate Mother's day with her each year by going to church with her.  I just didn't like the idea of her sitting alone in a church pew on Mother's day.  Last year, my mom and I attended church with my sister and, honestly, it wasn't bad.  Yes, I was a bit uncomfortable, but a woman spoke and gave a pretty feminist sermon about the importance of women in the bible.  I survived that one with ease.  This year, as Mother's day approached, I began to feel really anxious about attending church.  I said to my co-worker, "I have to wear a dress!"  She reminded me that I wear dresses almost every day.  That's true.  So why did this feel so foreign, so strange?  As we were planning the day, my mom very gracefully told me that I didn't have to go and she didn't want me to do anything I was uncomfortable with.  I wanted so badly to say thank you and not go.  But instead I said thank you and that I wanted to go so that I could be with her.  That's not true, but also not not true.  

Sitting in the church pews, I felt as though my skin was crawling.  I don't remember the last time I felt so uncomfortable.  The music, the demographic of attendees, the number of red shirts worn by the choir members.  (I'm not sure why I found red so offensive that day.  I assume because of Trump, but even I was wearing red glasses.)  As the church choir sang an embarrassingly uninspiring song, tears streamed down my cheeks.  I looked over at my mom and sister, and felt so lonely.  How was I even a part of this family?  I began to feel really claustrophobic.  Is my jacket shrinking?  I took deep breaths and did a few neck rolls.  The sermon was delivered by their pastor, a man.  Even on Mother's day, a woman's message wasn't heard.  Other than mentioning the holiday, the service was just a regular old sermon.  I kept zoning out, but came to when the pastor said something that sounded fucked up even in my day dream.  Internally I asked myself, "what did he say?" And then he literally said, "Let me repeat, I know in our culture, I'm supposed to say that you can find your own way, your own god.  But I can't do that.  Not if I love you."  I grabbed my pen out of my bag and jotted his words on the church bulletin.  My mom nudged my sister and pointed to me writing down that quote.  Within one second, I felt so many things.  I was angry at his words, annoyed at my mom's nudging, and a whole heap of sad.  I was sad for anyone in that room that may be of a different religion or who may be struggling with their prescribed faith.  I was sad for my younger self who struggled to grasp the idea of Christianity every single day.  No wonder I was scared, no wonder I was confused.  And no wonder my mom believes what she does.  She's being taught a binary message drenched in fear, and masked with love.  She's not a questioner, she's a believer.  I suddenly had so much compassion for her because I realized that she's been brainwashed.  She's been culturally conditioned to think inside the box, and here I've been shaming her for it.  The story that I made up in my head is that her nudging my sister was her saying, "well, there goes Mother's day.  We will definitely fight over this one."  I really do think that's what she was saying, and it broke my heart.  I don't want to fight.  I don't want to fight.  I don't want to fight.  But I do want to make change.  I felt a peace wash over me.  Let's handle this situation differently.  Let's not get angry.  Maybe I'm reading into this, but I feel like my mom actually saw me that day.  I think she saw my loneliness, my hurt, my sadness in my silence.  She saw me in a way that my angry words could never express.  She told me she loved me and I felt it in a way that I usually don't.  We didn't speak about our differences, but I felt her heart and I think we were truly connected that day through our stillness. 

I told her happy Mother's day and hugged her goodbye.  I couldn't get out of there quickly enough.  As I approached my car, I noticed the Human Right's Campaign equality sticker on the back of my car.  That faded blue and yellow sticker has symbolized my faith and love in humanity for a decade and a half.  I smiled as I climbed in, sighed and turned my music up.  Rilo Kiley tunes from my college days comforted my soul as the spring air blew through my hair.  This is how I worship.  This is my church.

In the week since Mother's day, I've found great solace in the Serenity prayer.  God (universe), grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, Courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.  There's no sense in trying to change my mom's beliefs anymore.  Just love her anyway.  And find comfort in knowing how safe I feel in my own beliefs.  

Internalized Shame

If you're anything like me, vulnerable people just crack your heart wide open.  I have so many lovebirds in my life who do that for me on a regular basis, and I couldn't live without them.  There are also people that I don't actually know who have nestled into my heart.  I'm sure there are many, but the two people who have stood out as of late are Marc Maron and Hannah Gadsby.

Maron Maron has been in my life for many moons, as I've begun most of my Mondays and Thursdays listening to him monologue (yes, I'm using the noun monologue as a verb here) about his mental and emotional state before his WTF interview du jour begins for more than half a decade.  He has divulged his anxiety and fears over love and friendship and body and career and relevancy in the world.  He has cussed and cried and yelled through his angst.  I welcomed him with open arms years ago, and his vulnerability honestly helped me make peace-ish with my own troubles.  Maron has a hot temper.  He gets angry.  He fucks up.  He hurts people.  Because he's human.  Accepting and loving him, not in spite of, but actually because of his faults has helped me accept and love myself more.  Well, it's still a work in progress, but I've at least warmed up to the idea.  To him, I'm a fan and a subscriber.  But to me, he's a teacher, a mentor, and a bit of a therapist.  He makes me laugh and he makes me cry.  It sounds insane (and maybe it is?!) but my virtual relationship with Marc Maron is a real part of my life.

Hannah Gadsby is a fairly newcomer in my life.  Last summer, Netflix sent me an email saying that they had added a comedy special that I might like.  Some woman named Hannah Gadsby had a show called Nanette.  Sure, let's try this while I fold clothes.  I clicked play and listened to the funny, touching stories she shared as I folded my underwear into little free-standing peaks like Marie Kondo taught me.  The laughter stopped about halfway through the show.  So did my folding.  Instead, I collapsed onto the bed, head in hands, as I soaked up her words, her story, her trauma.  Her life, actually.  I took on her pain, and by the time it was over I was shaking.  I've gone on to watch Nanette about once a month since last summer.  That's a lot.  But I crave it.  There are moments that I feel sadness and pain, and I cannot pinpoint what it is or where it's coming from.  And my next therapy appointment is too far away.  And my patience is wearing thin.  And my body tells me, watch Nanette; you'll learn something new, I promise.  And it's hard for me to understand how, but I truly always do.  I will always feel sad about the pain that was inflicted upon Hannah her whole life, but I will also feel gratitude for her courageous heart and willingness to share her story because her story has helped me, and so many others, navigate life after trauma.

Lately, the part of her story that has been etching away at my heart is the one about not coming out to her grandma.  She said she didn't come out to her grandma because, although Hannah has made peace with being gay on an intellectual level, she still carries a lot of internal shame from her adolescence.  In the state which she was raised, homosexuality was deemed not only a sin, but a crime.  It was li-ter-al-ly illegal to be gay throughout her formative years!  So, just like the majority of her culture, she too became homophobic.  She internalized the pain and fear, and grew to hate herself.  Sigh.  I mean, can we just pause for a minute to send Hannah some heart hugs?  Seriously, let's take a moment of silence for her and everyone else who was raised with a similar pain.

 - - - - - -

Okay, I'm back.  Deep breaths.  While my story is very different from Hannah's (and I am in no way, shape, or form comparing her trauma to mine), my pain emerged from engaging in hers.  In listening to her story, I found a whole new depth of the unbearable pain I've been carrying with me since childhood.   Let's see, how do I even put this into words.  My father had a hot temper.  He screamed.  He told us we wouldn't amount to anything.  He hit us.  He held us up by our necks.  He threw us down the stairs.  He tore our house apart.  He broke our spirits. But then he crawled into our bedrooms on his hands and knees, weeping, begging us to forgive him.  To love him.  He laid his head in my lap, I felt his tears stream down my legs.  I forgave him.  And I loved him.  Repeat, repeat, repeat.  The story gets worse because I also had a hot temper.  I screamed, I said "I hate you" to the people I loved the most, and many times, I turned to violence.  When words couldn't possibly express my anger or frustration, I clawed the shit out of my siblings.  I knocked things over.  And then I cried and cried and begged for forgiveness.  And they forgave me.  But not before telling me that I was crazy.  That I was acting like Dad.  I hated myself.  I mean, really fucking hated myself.  And by the time I was a teenager, I decided that I would never ever do the marriage thing.  My family and friends thought I was referring to fear of marriage because I didn't want to be a victim to the possible torture my spouse could cause.  No.  I swore off marriage and I swore off having a family of my own because I didn't want to victimize someone else.  I knew the pain my dad inflicted upon us, and now I knew I was capable of causing the same pain.  The thought of subjecting that torture on anyone else was enough to make me want to forego any personal happiness.  My fear wasn't that I'd unleash my demons and then my spouse would abandon me.  My fear was that I would unleash my demons and that my spouse would stay anyway.  Because they love me.  Because I'm their family.  Just like we stuck around with my dad.

In my early twenties, I had an epiphany.  The reason I acted the way I did, like the devil, is because that is what I was taught to do.  My mother didn't speak up about her anger.  She kept quiet and suffered silently in the shadows.  I viewed her silence as angelic.  I wanted so badly to be angelic.  To be quiet.  To swallow my anger.  But I couldn't.  I couldn't cower in the corner.  I couldn't pray my problems away.  I wanted to voice my emotions and I wanted things to change.  I wanted to fix our broken family.  Because the two examples I was given were so binary, the devil and the angel, I thought the only way to express myself was through the voice of the devil.   I was the devil.  I was my father.  And, like him, I hated myself.  That epiphany was almost half my life ago, but I still fear who I am.  I still hate myself because I cannot think my way out of this one.  I cannot filter this self-hatred through an intellectual netting.  I cannot rationalize my internal shame.  It's buried so deep that I may never find my way out.  The way I explained it to my therapist is that I feel like a sham.  I feel like I AM the devil, and every day that I come across as a normal, functioning human being, is because I'm good at pretending.  I feel like I have faked my way into living a somewhat normal life, with coworkers and friends.  And every day that I don't lose my shit, is a good day.  Hopefully I can make it through one more.  My therapist has ensured me time and time again that I am not the devil and I am not my father.  My behavior hardly resembles his and my solution doesn't resemble his at all.  He didn't work on himself.  I've been in therapy for a decade.  I work really hard to change.  I show up.  I dig deep.  And if I'm being honest, my behavior has changed, too.  But the shame is still there.  And it's loud.  And every single time someone tells me that they love me, my shame rears its ugly head.  I am not worthy of their love.  I'm not worthy of love at all.  My shame overpowers everything else, and it shakes me to my core.  But I'm still working hard, I'm still showing up, and I'm still holding out hope that one day, I'll give myself the space to love and be loved.

I don't know how to undo this pain.  I don't know how to unravel this shame.  But I do know that telling my story helps.  And I know that hearing the stories of others helps.  That's why these virtual relationships are real.  That's why Marc Maron and Hannah Gadsby are as real to me as my closest friends.  Their vulnerability is helping me make peace with myself.

ME!

I don't work on Fridays, and I'm starting to notice a pattern...I'm full of anxiety on my days off.  I'm not a workaholic and I don't wish I was at the office on Fridays.  But I do think that having this time off, alone, while everyone I know is at work is starting to fuck with me.  But I also know that I need to listen to this discomfort rather than distract myself from it.  Staying busy has always helped me feel like everything is okay.  I've always been busy.  Working a full-time job, and a part-time job, picking up odd jobs on the side, while in school full time.  This past year I've only worked one job, and the past ten months, I've only worked four days a week.  I have time and space for the first time in my life, and I don't know what to do with myself.   

Now that I have time, I'm sad to report that I've used that time to think, mostly about how much I loathe myself.  Last week was my fat body.  Today, my rosacea.  And that's just my looks.  I've also had time to think about how I don't make enough money, and how I should use this free time to get another job.  I've thought about how I lose control and slam doors and yell at loved ones when I don't know what else to do.  And my self-hatred for hurting loved ones will likely last a lifetime.  I'm not sure that I'll ever forgive myself for that.  

But then I come back around and have words with myself.  I remind myself that everyone's body is different, and that our narrow-minded society is the reason I think I should change.  That my best friend has acne and I think she's one of the most beautiful people in the world.  A lot of people think that.  And when I look at my closet door that cracked when I slammed it over and over again during an argument with my mother over the phone, I remember why I was mad.  I was mad that Donald Trump had been elected to be the president of the United States, the leader of the free world.  Even after he made fun of a disabled reporter.  Even after he claimed John McCain wasn't a war hero because he got captured.  Even after he admitted to sexually abusing vulnerable young women.  And that Christian women still voted for him in droves.  My mother voted for him.  I was upset.  I was enraged.  And while I do not condone rage, I understand where it stems from: control.  Or lack there of, actually.  I wanted to control the narrative.  I wanted to change the results.  I wanted to reach through the phone and shake my sweet, wonderful, loving, but clearly disillusioned mother and wake her up.  I wanted to make the world right.  My tactic was wrong, but my desire wasn't.  I'm a whole person.  I'm complicated.  I'm complex.  I love deeply.  I'm empathic.  I give a shit.  

And now it's time for me to change the narrative about me.  I am going to have to take great measures to correct what I view as valuable, worthy, beautiful, and loving.  I have to accept myself as human, and I have to learn to love my flaws just as I love the flaws in others.  When I put myself down for being fat, I put every other fat person down, too.  When I talk shit about my rosacea, I talk shit about every human that suffers from skin issues.  And when I shame myself for losing my shit over Trump's election, I discount all the humans that have suffered from his malignant policies.  Loving and accepting myself is a way of loving and accepting others.  And at this point in my life, loving others feels much more natural than loving myself.  

That said, Taylor Swift came out with a new song last night called ME!  The lyrics include the following lines: "I promise that you'll never find another like me.  Me. I'm the only one of me.  Baby, that's the fun of me.  You're the only one of you.  Baby, that's the fun of you.  And I promise that nobody's gonna love you like me."  This is a self-love anthem I can get behind.  I hope these catchy lyrics bury deep in my soul, so when I catch a glimpse of my flawed self, I'm reminded that my imperfections have helped shape who I am, and who knows...my imperfections may just lead to the greatest love story of my life.  

The Only Way Out Is Through

I started my day at Warby Parker looking for new glasses.  Every pair I tried on reminded me of how much I don’t like my face.  Then I caught a glimpse of my body in the mirror.  I was shocked.  I somehow always forget what my body looks like.  I suddenly realized that I had been there for over half an hour and none of the sales people had addressed me.  I began to pay attention, and noticed that everyone else received a greeting as they entered the store.  Could they even see me?  Was I invisible to them?  Or was I too visible?  Likely both.  I almost purchased a pair of glasses that I didn’t even like just so I could get out of there as quickly as possible without ever having to return.  But thankfully I had enough sense to put each pair away and walk out.

I arrived home anxious.  My stomach was growling, but my sadness overtook my taste buds, so I couldn’t even taste my lunch.  I changed clothes immediately, hoping to erase the memory of my reflection from my mind.  I dressed my body in loose clothing that would disguise my tummy and thighs.  Nobody is here to see me; I’m home alone, yet still hiding in shame.  It’s just one of those days.

Scrolling through Instagram in an attempt to distract myself, I see a picture of a heavy-set woman in her underwear.  A svelte man is on his knees, kissing the sagging skin of her belly.  I’m repulsed.  I’m so ashamed to admit that, because it seems like I’m judging her.  But I’m not.  All I can see is me in that picture.  And the thought of someone kissing my fat makes me cringe.  I hate myself.  I hate my fat.  Holy shit, I’m fat-phobic.  No matter how much I love people just as they are and no matter how much I love my friends, family, and strangers alike - not in spite of, but rather because of their flaws - deep down, I let the shape of my body define my worth.  And today I simply cannot accept myself as a fat woman.

I’ve felt incredibly lonely lately.  And I’ve actually been really grateful for it, because for most of my life, I was so disconnected from myself that I couldn’t gauge my emotions.  But in the past month or so, I’ve seen the world, myself included, through a different lens.  And my usual distractions aren’t working anymore…Netflix, Instagram, books, food, booze, busy-ness, company.  Nothing is clicking.  I just feel lonely.  And I think I’m starting to learn what this loneliness is.  I think I’m mourning the loss of the pretend life that I created in my mind.  My future life.  My skinny life.  The life where I have this amazing husband who cannot believe how lucky he is for finding me: this flawless, thin, gorgeous, even-tempered, interesting, smart, funny, goddess.  I really thought I was going to be her one day, and that my life would be pretty much perfect.  But she doesn’t exist.  Only I do.  And I’m so far from that goddess.  I have lumps and bumps, broken capillaries, a hot temper, and morning breath.  I have panic attacks, and sad days like today.  Who will ever love me? And further more, how could I ever let anyone love me?  The real me. I think that’s what I’m lonely for.  Not the absence of a person lying by my side every night, but the absence of my own acceptance of who I really am.  I’m lonely for me. 

On an intellectual level, I understand that the judge that lives in my mind isn’t real.  That she was created by the brainwashing of a capitalistic society that counts on me to hate myself so I will purchase their products to fix me.  My mind knows that I don’t need fixing because I’m actually not broken.  But my heart hasn’t caught up with my mind, yet.  My heart is still cloaked in shame for my human imperfections.  My heart is full of fear and sadness and self-hatred.  And there’s not a band-aid or quick-fix for this type of injury.  All I have is my story.  And I must keep sharing it, digging deeper into my pain, because, like Robert Frost taught us, the only way out, is through.

Panic Eating

In this time of learning to retrain my thoughts, I have discovered so many new things.  Like, when I’m stressed, I tend to shove food into my mouth as fast as humanly possible.  My best friend and I call this Panic Eating.  Recently, I lost my W-2 form while at Trader Joes, and of course jumped to the conclusion that someone had already stolen my identity and my life would be significantly more difficult from that point forward.  During my spiral, I ate three-fourths of a bag of these potato crispy things that I bought on a whim.  With only a handful left in the bag, I realized that I had not tasted a single bite of my snack.  I asked myself, “will polishing off the rest of this bag actually help my situation?  Will consuming these potato snacks solve any of my anxiety?”  Of course, the answer was “no.”  I knew that my anxiety was stemming from a heavy fear, and in not knowing how to deal with the stress, I turned to my bff, aka potatoes, for comfort.  I sat there for a minute, took a deep breath…then shoved my hand to the bottom of the bag, scraped up what remained and heaved them into my mouth.  There, at least I can throw this bag away and get it out of my house forever.

Ugh.  This journey is not easy, and it is certainly not straightforward.  I struggle every single day.  My old ways of thinking about food and body image pop up multiple times a day, sometimes setting up shop for hours at a time.  And lately my old habits of restricting have crept back in, too.  My therapist reminds me often that this tug of war between the old me and the new me is what healthy recovery looks like.  Deep breaths.  Onward.

Ps Hours later, I parted the red sea of grocery carts and found my little moleskine planner wedged between two carts.  My W-2 form was tucked neatly inside.  Crisis averted.

Black Magic

Right around the time I discovered that society had brainwashed all of us into believing that we had to look or act a certain way to be right in the world, I also came across this woman online who said she helps women learn to accept themselves just as they are.  So, naturally, I signed up for a consultation.  We spoke on the phone for one hour and forty-five minutes and she told me all the right things.  She understands where I'm at because a decade ago, she was feeling the same way, too.  We are each born with unique gifts and we are enough just as we are.  We don't need to diet, we just need to heal our relationships with food.  I told her my insecurities around weight and self-acceptance.  I cried.  That was embarrassing, since we'd only just met.  She met me with kindness and grace.  And then asked me if I really wanted change.  I mean really, really wanted change.  I swore yes - more than anything else in the world, I wanted to have a healthy relationship with my body.  She said she can help me, and she can do that at her discounted rate of $5,000.

Wait, what?  I froze.  Then told her that that was more than a tenth of my annual salary (I work in education).  She told me yes, this work takes resourcefulness.  I sat in a stupor for the rest of the night.  I drank two large glasses of wine and took a hot bath.  If she has the magic answer for me, then surely I can come up with the money.  My happiness is worth every penny.

But the more I sat with it, the more I realized that maybe I don't need her.  I mean, I got here on my own, right?  When I was ready for the message, the message came through!  These lessons that I'm now learning are nothing new for many people - and now that the veil has been lifted, I see sayings and pictures and shows and posts and interviews everywhere that represent my feelings exactly - but it's new for me.  And before I was ready to truly hear the message, body positivity was just a hope for someday in the far off future.  For the day that, you know, I was skinny again.

Maybe I'm a fool for passing up this unique opportunity.  Maybe I'm a fool for even taking the call to begin with.  I may never know.  However, I cannot help but think that there's got to be a way for me to find happiness without paying someone five grand.  I mean, I've been investing in magical cures to erase my fatness for decades now.  The magic pills, magic diets, magic cleanses, magic exercise plans - they never worked for me.  For once, I'm going to trust my gut and believe this magical method isn't the answer for me either.

Perfectly Human

Nobody is reading this right?  That's what I thought.  Which is the only reason I'm brave enough to post this journal to a "public" forum.

Anyway, I'm writing to say that I've recently learned something new.  At the ripe old age of thirty-five, I just learned that I am actually not that bad after all.  That although I am flawed - absolutely! - I am perfectly human.  And my humanness is nothing to be ashamed of.  I have spent close to three decades picking myself apart and telling myself I'm not good enough.  I have tried my best to modify almost every natural thing about my mind, body, and spirit.  And I've had enough.

I suddenly came upon this realization because in one week's time, I heard profound insight from people like Sam Smith, Aidy Bryant, and Jameela Jamil through various outlets.  Their stories awakened me to the reality of my fate:  I can either learn to love myself just as I am, or I can be at war with myself for the rest of my days.  And I choose love.  Or at least, I'm going to try.

I've been steadily gaining weight since I was seventeen years old.  And I have literally hated every second of it.  I keep thinking "when I lose the weight, then I'll be happy."  But is that even true?  Will I be happy?  Because when I was a size two, I wasn't happy with my body.  I hated the cellulite on the back of my thighs, the stretch marks on my hips, and the plumpness of my forearms (I know, right?!).  I also hated my frizzy hair and elongated nose.  Even if I manage to lose every ounce of fat that I have gained since being a teenager, what makes me think I'll like my body then?  I will still have cellulite and a hell of a lot more stretch marks.  Plus, now I'm close to twenty years older...so are my veins, wrinkles, and skin.  I have also picked apart my personality since I was a child.  I'm too loud.  I say ditzy things.  I get too heated.  I'm too emotional.  I'm not rich enough or smart enough or creative enough.

For most of my life I have taken a heavily beaten path, the one paved by society, the one that tells me I'm not enough.  But I recently spotted another route, one a bit less traveled.  A route of self discovery, self acceptance, and dare I say, self love.  It's not going to be easy, and most days, I will feel lost in the middle of nowhere.  But I have faith that my inner compass will point me in the right direction.  And if you've somehow stumbled upon this page, I'm more than happy to take you along with me.