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.