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.