Good With Cheese

It all started when I read this post by Attrice. It kept rattling around my head for days and days, and resisted my best efforts to pretend I hadn’t read it.

Then I was snuggling with Little Dog a few days ago, kissing the tawny brown spots over his eyes and burying my face in his neck scruff, and I had a sudden, visceral connection about that warm wiggly body and the ground beef my husband was cooking in the kitchen. 

It was kind of ghastly.

I haven’t had any meat since then because I can’t quite shake that moment of horror.  And because a girl can’t live on salad alone, I’ve been looking at various vegetarian resources to see if I can handle a meat-free life.

Oh.  My.  Stars.  That is some head-exploding information out there.

In this process of figuring out how to love Megan-As-Whole-Person, I am trying to be kinder to myself; I’m learning how not to take in every negative message about what it means to be a woman and a non-dieter and fat to boot.  I’m working at making exercise a gift to my body, not a penance.  I’m focusing on feeding myself well, nourishing my body and my spirit with foods that make me feel my best.  Basically, I’m approaching myself with compassion and gentleness.

And honestly?  I’m having a hard time reconciling that path of compassion with the way I’ve always eaten.  Knowing what I know about the meat industry, knowing that pain isn’t only felt by those of us at the top of the food chain…well, I can’t quite stomach it any more.

What it comes down to is this:  I don’t want to bring any more violence against my body, and that includes violence that comes on the end of a fork.

Anyone have any good recipes?

I’m not much for the bad language.  That said, I’m not offended by most curse words as long as they’re not demeaning to any group of people other than assholes.  But I just don’t use those kinds of words in my everyday speech; it’s not a habit I’ve picked up.

But you know?  The single most useful phrase I’ve discovered while giving up dieting and body hatred and self-hatred is this:

Fuck that.

You’re not pretty because you’re fat?  Fuck that.

You’re not “a good girl” because you eat meals that are not portioned and calorie-counted and Pointed?  Fuck that.

You don’t deserve to love yourself because you have cellulite or wrinkles or gray  hair or a size 26 ass?  Fuck that.

You’re a quitter because you refuse to starve yourself any more?  Fuck that.

You’re too short?  Too tall?  Too wide-hipped?  Too big-chested?  Too loud?  Too quiet?  Too demanding?  Too hungry?  Too confident?  Too proud of yourself? 

Fuck that all.

That phrase has saved me in dressing rooms.  At grocery store checkouts.  While watching television.  When flipping through magazines.  On the doctor’s office scale.  When faced with packing up a closet filled with clothes that have become too small.

I like it because it very simply affirms what I’ve come to believe is true:

Anything that says you are not a worthy person just as you are right now is noise.

And fuck that.

My last two posts have reflected the drift I’m feeling lately, the move away from my body-acceptance journey toward one seeking a broader self-acceptance.  I feel like I’ve held the body image stuff in my hands for so long now, turned it over, examined it from all sides, lifted it to the light.  I think I know it pretty well.  But I also now know it’s just a puzzle piece, not the puzzle itself.

I am ready to pay more attention to who I am and how I am and why.  I want to learn things about myself beyond how many miles I can run or how I take my coffee.

I’ve always been disappointed with my natural inclinations.  I’ve fantasized about being strong and stubborn and courageous, carefree and brash and assertive.  I like the idea of those things, how powerful they sound.

But the truth of who I am?  It is not those things.  And that is okay.

I am quiet and cautious and safe.  I listen to both sides.  I frequently change my mind.  I wait until I am certain.  I look, then step gingerly off the edge, leaving the leaping to lords.  Security matters to me.

It all doesn’t sound very exciting; Wonder Woman doesn’t wait for safety nets.  But I am not Wonder Woman.  I am Megan.  I like to be prepared.

And you know?  Confidence isn’t always brash.  Smart isn’t always stubborn.  I can be my own version of those things.  The Wonder Woman type is only one variation.

I think self-improvement has its place.  There’s something to be said for becoming more well-read, or a better cook, or fluent in another language.  Those things are all awesome and worth doing.  But too often, we make goals of changing the fundamental traits of who we are.  We look at our brashness or shyness, our restlessness or stillness, and we see them as flaws to be overcome.  We focus on improving what is already acceptable and, in doing so, we tell ourselves over and over and over that we are not good enough.

Who you are?  How you are?  Those qualities and characteristics that are unique to you?

They are all good enough.

Be proud of them.  Love them.  Be proud of you.  Love you.

And happy Valentine’s day.

Because of this post, over the last few days in the fatosphere, a lot of bloggers and commenters have been posting letters to their 14-year-old selves. The letters have been beautiful and practical, heartbreaking and wise. And of course, they’ve made me think about what I would tell myself at 14.

But the honest truth? I don’t really remember fourteen. I don’t remember much of anything before I was sixteen. Most of what I do recall has a snapshot quality that makes me wonder if I remember it from actual life or from a photo album somewhere. There are a few memories that are jagged and sharp and vivid enough to make my cheeks burn with shame, but not many, and even fewer joyful ones.

I lived my childhood in fear. My earliest memory finds me at three, cowering in a corner of the dining room, my father’s fury burning across me like fire. My first suicide note was written in shaky, freshly-learned cursive in the third grade.

I was a terrified and terrorized child, and certain that I’d earned it.

It wasn’t until I was in my twenties that I could be alone in a room with my father.  I still struggle to make eye contact with him.

He will never apologize; I think his memory of my childhood is as fractured and self-protecting as my own.

He believes he was a good father.  I love him too much to tell him the truth.

But I believe there must be happy things in my childhood, hidden beneath the shifting silt of my fear.  I want to unearth them, to remember what I was like when I wasn’t afraid.

I want to rewrite my history.  Can that be done?

The farther I get from dieting, the better I can see what it gave me.

Oh, restrictive eating and the accompanying illusion of control, how you soothed me.  Oh, punishing and endless exercise, how you numbed and distracted me.  Oh, single-minded purpose of becoming smaller and smaller, how you turned my attention away from my broken places.

I am dissatisfied so much these day, so full of vinegar and fury; it spills everywhere across my life. 

It terrifies me.  It’s asking for sweeping changes, loud declarations, cleaned slates.  It would be so much easier to starve it into silence, to tire it out on the treadmill until it is limp and weary.

But I’ve learned self-punishment can’t be my sedative.  So I don’t self-punish to contain my rage; I let it seep into corners and across pages and I hope that by letting it out, it will let me go.

I have a spent a lifetime not being good enough.  I have spent a lifetime apologizing for being me.  For being not-pretty, not-clever, not-graceful, not-lovable.  Apologizing.  Diminishing.  Hoping that if I make myself small enough through word and deed, then I’ll be allowed to pass by unharmed. 

I made myself small for my father.  For my classmates.  For too many men.

And eventually for myself when I believed they were all right about me.

I don’t want to be small anymore.  I don’t want to be small in my own esteem, small in my body, small in my life.  I want vastness, fullness, depth and breadth.

More than just wanting though?  I believe I deserve it.

I am not apologizing anymore.

Fillyjonk has a great post up at Shapely Prose about why it’s important to treat your body with love and attention even if it’s not your ideal.  It’s good reading and really resonates with me.

I don’t put a lot of effort in dressing myself well.  I have lots of excuses: a wee clothing budget, a lack of shopping choices given where I live, a low tolerance for fluorescent lighting and dressing room mirrors. 

But my very, very biggest reason?  I’m not completely convinced that this is my real and permanent body.  I sometimes think that as I become better at intuitive eating, my weight will stabilize a bit lower.  Or that when spring comes and I can run outside more, I’ll drop back into a size 10.  Or that magic elves will come during the night and spirit away my thighs, and I’ll suddenly look really good in skinny jeans.

Honestly, though?  I stopped dieting in April, my body arrived at this weight in June, and I’ve not moved more than 4 or 5 pounds in either direction since.  That includes the times when I relapsed into calorie-counting, the periods of poor eating and no exercise, and lots of weeks of sensible food choices and rigorous workouts.  I’ve run the gamut of behaviors and my weight hasn’t left the 143 - 148 range (PMS-related bloating doesn’t count!).  That sounds at least semi-permanent, no?

Even if this changes six months from now, even if I shift into a size 14 or a size 10 or something else altogether, I need to treat my body like it’s my home, not a brief stop on the way to somewhere better.

If that means minor shopping trauma or scheduling a real haircut instead of just hacking at my hair in my bathroom or actually using the gift certificate for a manicure* that my husband got me instead of waiting for “a reason,” then that’s what I need to do.

This is home.  And there’s no place like it, right?

*I’ve never had a manicure.  Is that weird for a 31-year-old woman?  I’ve been working really hard at keeping my hands injury-free for the last 2 months and have been leaving my cuticles alone in preparation, but I’m still nervous.  There’s a good chance that no amount of primping will make my charwoman hands pretty and that would be rather sad-making.

I think I’m finally coming to terms with my belly.

 Of all the physical changes that have occurred when I gained weight again, my new belly has been the most challenging for me.  When I decided to stop dieting, I had a stomach that was pretty washboard-y.  I don’t carry much weight in my midsection, so by the time I got to my lowest weight, there wasn’t much fat left there at all; every muscle was visible.

Then I gained weight and I couldn’t see the muscle quite as well anymore and that made me feel a little uneasy, but I tried to think of it as a cute little curve, something to appreciate. 

And then I gained a little more weight and my belly actually…jiggled.  When I ran or did jumping jacks or played on the trampoline, the flesh of my stomach actually moved.

MOVED. 

FREAKED ME RIGHT OUT.

I couldn’t remember ever having a belly that jiggled (though, obviously, I must have because I used to weigh about 50 pounds more than I do right now, so…) and it made me feel out of place in my body.  I mean, fat ass, fat thighs…those I’ve always had.  But a fat little belly?  Where did that come from?

I tried to pretend it didn’t exist for a while.  I didn’t make eye contact with it in the mirror.  I worked at placing my waistband just so to minimize the jiggliness.

But you know?  It’s just a belly.  It just jiggles.  It doesn’t kick puppies or drive drunk or donate money to Republicans.

To have a flat stomach again, I’d have to live a life of less.  I’d have to stop giving myself food and rest and love.

And you know?  I really, really like those things.  So I think I can like my belly, too.

I’ve noticed a lovely thing happening more and more lately.

I’m forgetting the calorie counts of my every-day foods. 

I was toasting an English muffin yesterday morning and I realized I couldn’t remember if it had 130 calories or 140.  Or if my sausage-inspired soy patty was 80 or 100.

I’m not running tallies in my head as often, not looking at my food and seeing numbers.  I get to the end of most days and don’t know to the calorie what I’ve eaten and, better yet, it doesn’t even occur to me to try to calculate it before I decide whether or not I’m having dessert.

I’m sure I could ballpark it and be pretty close, but the not-knowing-for-sure?  It’s so….calming.

Even though I’ve tried to actively avoid calorie-counting since last April, to find that I’m no longer avoiding it but actually forgetting how to do it altogether, to discover that I’m letting those numbers slip out of my head, it makes me feel like the Secret Dieter is finally letting go of me. 

I’ve been trying to ignore her voice for months, but it’s like she’s beginning to stop talking so much.

She apparently thinks I’m a lost cause.

And I’m pretty okay with that.

(On a sidenote:  Am I crazy, or is it possible that my  hair texture has improved dramaticallysince I’ve stopped dieting?  It’s so…shiny!  Swingy!  I’m like a Breck Girl over here!  Is that the magic of nutrition at work?)

Dear Women I Work With,

To begin, I am not interested in what you are eating today unless you also brought some for me.

If you tell me about some kind of “dessert” you fashioned out of rice cakes, fat-free Cool Whip, and Splenda, don’t expect me to say it sounds good.  Because I won’t.  Because I’m not that good of a liar. 

I am not going to tell you that you are “good” for eating an apple no matter how much you fish for that.  I eat apples almost every day and I’ve yet to achieve sainthood, so I think there’s not actually a moral component to apple-eating.

I do not care that you lost five pounds.  That’s why I shrugged and said, “And?”  It’s not because I’m rude; it’s because I don’t think your worth is measured by your weight.

When you say you “shouldn’t” have that piece of chocolate, I will agree only if it turns out you stole it from either a small child or me.  Otherwise, it’s chocolate.  It’s delicious.  Get over yourself.

And lastly, this is an election year.  Our nation is at war.  The Super Bowl is this weekend.  The Oscars are coming up.  There are million things we can talk about besides how fat you think you are.

Please stop being so boring.

Sincerely,
Megan.

I am in a very good place with my body these past two weeks.  We are smitten; we pass notes in class, we hold hands on the couch while watching television, we smile when we meet in the mirror in the mornings.  It’s nice.

Between a holiday, a funeral, and a medical test, it’s been a crazy week for me and my body, with lots of meals eaten away from home and several exercise sessions missed and many long hours spent riding in the car.  I also had to wear heels for far too long and my toes have yet to forgive me.

But I’ve been pretty calm about it all.  I catch glimpses of my body on the way to the shower or as I change clothes and I’m not distressed by what I see.  It’s just my body, doing its thing.  And if that’s what my body looks like when I’m not getting to focus quite as much on myself and my preferred way of living, than it’s okay.

So I’m squishier than I usually am.  I’ll probably get less squishy as things calm back down and I get to eat, you know, vegetables again, when I get to run a few peaceful miles and sweat out some pent-up emotions, when I get to move back into my body, instead of just throwing 5-minute walks and ham sandwiches at it and trusting it’ll survive until I can pay attention again.

Or maybe I’ll stay this squishy, regardless of how I eat or exercise.  That’s okay, too.

I met my heart yesterday, during my very first echocardiogram.  I watched her on the screen, pumping away like a champion.  I listened to her strong beat and watched the valves swishing open and closed, and I may have fallen in love just a little bit.

She’s strong, and according to the doctor, completely normal.  And the technician who did the echo told me I have a beautiful aortal arch that she doesn’t usually see in adults; she said she spent a few extra moments admiring how lovely it was.  (That’s right: I really am pretty on the inside.)

I may wear a size 12 jeans, but my heart is healthy.  I may have fat thighs, but I’ll probably run 6 miles tonight because I am fit.  I may have abs that are blurry and not very defined now, but for this moment in time, my health is perfect.

I am well.  I am strong.  I’ll take that over thin any day.