Digging.

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?

On fire.

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.

At Home.

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.

Ch-ch-changes.

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.

Losing Count.

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?)

An Open Letter.

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.

The heart of the matter.

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.

Agent of Change.

So, at work, every available surface is PLASTERED with Weight Watchers flyers.  Thus far, I have resisted the impulse to rip them down, but only by this much. 

But after two weeks of seeing them every day, I have reached my breaking point.  I’m working on a flyer of my very own all about HAES.  And I’m going to be hanging one next to every damn WW flyer in the building.

The thing is, last year before I quit dieting, I had no ideathat not hating myself was even an option.  After all, my fat was completely the result of my Very Bad Couch-Sitting and Constant Donut-Eating.  All I had to do to fix it was control my calories in v. calories out with, well, chronic undereating and overexercising.  And if I still didn’t achieve thinness, then I just needed to try harder.  You know, eat less and move more, even if “eat less” really meant “attempt to starve” and “move more” meant “spend hours on the treadmill every day while ignoring friends, family, pets, sleep, and ONE’S OWN SANITY.”

But then I found out that my body wasn’t an object of shame.  I found out my health, which is a real and tangible thing, had meaning that was not relative to my pants size, an arbitrary and inconsistent thing.  I found out that exercise didn’t have to be punishment.  I found out that constant hunger was a sign of a problem, not a symbol of my virtue.  I found out that beauty isn’t a BMI.

I still have hard days.  But even on the hardest days, I still know the truth.  There’s no un-learning body acceptance.  Even when you want to ignore it because in a lot of ways it’s easier to go back to being a good-for-dieting fat girl, you can’t forget it for long because you know better now.  And the part of you that knows you deserve kindness and love?  It’s going to fight like hell to keep you from going back.

I’m a reserved and quiet person.  And so, I’m not much of an activist because I’m not quick with the talking and the smartness; I’m better at applauding from the sidelines.  But you know?  I can’t use that as an excuse.

Even I can wrangle a few flyers and a box of thumbtacks.  And that’s a start.

The Gift of Tiny Rage.

What’s been missing these last few weeks (months?) from my body-acceptance journey is my righteous anger.

Initially in my post-diet fervor, as more and more information about the failure rates of diets and the oppression of self-hatred and the, well, bullshit of The Obesity Crisis! washed over me like waves from the Sea of Sanity, I got really, really mad.

Really, really mad that I’d bought into the idea that my healthy, functioning body was failing when it resisted my efforts to starve it.  Really, really mad that I’d been led to believe that a size 12 was somehow not as good as a size 4.  Really, really mad that I was expected to live a life defined by persistent hunger and joint-crushing hours of exercise because that was the only way I could achieve a socially-acceptable body.  Really, really made that anyone anywhere believed they could dictate my worth by my weight.

That anger was powerful stuff.  It carried me over the fear of eating and not exercising hours a day, carried me through the shock of gaining weight as I got healthier.  Most importantly, it shifted the blame away from me.  It turns out I wasn’t unhappy because I was fat or fat-inclined; I was unhappy because I was failing to reach expectations that were expressly designed to be unreachable.

That anger gave me permission to take my ball and go home; I just didn’t have to play a game with cheater rules that I had no chance of winning;  the only way I win is by not playing, right?

Getting to stop playing made me feel better.  Feeling better made me less mad.  But after the anger went away, well…I lost my gatekeeper.  I lost my absolute certainty that I’d been lied to about my value as a woman being determined by my body.  And then I started to let the lies back in.

Little Dog, the keeper of my heart, the joy of my days, is a miniature dachshund.  He is imperious and independent and Knows His Own Mind; you will never convince Little Dog he is anything less than 18 kinds of awesome.  Question that awesomeness and he’ll unleash what we call Tiny Teckel* Rage.  It’s not violent, it’s not aggressive, but it’s entirely self-protecting; Little Dog knows he must always look out for Nr. Eine.

I want my Tiny Teckel Rage back.  I know what I’m worth; I don’t want to keep believing I have to doubt it. 

*It’s a dachshund thing.  We dig the word, but it’s completely inaccurate in terms of Little Dog.  Don’t tell him that, though; he will cut you.

Eat Something.

I have never really viewed my chronic restricted eating as the main issue in regards to my weight and body; the overexercising has been the thing that really worried me.  The proof of real, physical injury being done and the inability to stop myself was freakin’ scary.  The effects of not eating enough seemed subtle when compared to stress fractures that made me shuffle and limp.  Being hungry felt less serious than being broken.

But whenever I’m trying to regain my footing after a slip, the re-healing always starts with food.

Food.  Real food.  The kind that has, like, nutrients.  That doesn’t come in a 100-calorie pack.  That isn’t a wonder of modern chemistry.

Last night, I went to the store repeating my mantra: “Real food, real food, eat real food.”  I bought a lot, more than I’ll likely eat, but seeing it there in my kitchen calmed me.  It reminded me that I am a living-and-breathing woman who needs to eat.  I’m trying to remember that if I under-eat or eat food that is robbed of all its nutrients (including delicious, delicious fat), I’m not just taking that nutrition away from my thighs or ass.  I’m taking it away from my brain, my heart, my skin, my bones.  Every last cell in my body.  I’m weakening myself and I need to be strong.  Life is hard; I need to be strong.

For dinner, I had roasted chicken (and not the lean breast meat I normally eat although I find it dry and off-putting, but the drumsticks, my very favorite part!) and brown rice and grape tomatoes sauteed in garlicky olive oil and tossed with herbs.  I drank a glass of wine.  I felt…nourished.  In body and soul.

Today I had real yogurt sweetened with honey and I had to stir the thick cream on top into it and it tasted like love.  I savored it; I didn’t just choke down some 60-calorie faux-gurt to hold off my hunger as long as possible.  It made me feel like I was worth something to get to have such a lovely snack.

Here’s the thing: Last Wednesday, I passed out on a sidewalk.  The ambulance was called before I came to (or I would have managed to drag myself to my car and gotten away before anyone had a chance to get involved because OH MY GOD HOW EMBARRASSING TO PASS OUT ON A SIDEWALK), and the paramedics found something abnormal on my EKG. 

I’ve always been a fainter, and getting dizzy and having heart flutteriness has been normal-for-me, but apparently it’s not normal-for-everyone?  Anyway, I’m facing a few more checks just to make sure everything is okay (and I’m sure it is), but it’s driving home the reality of my body.

I am not a size or a weight or a BMI.  I am a flesh-and-bone-and-fluttery-heart person who needs to take real care of herself.

And that includes eating.  Pass the cheese!