“Enough”

I read some of my old journals the other day. You know, the kind where you use a pen and write words on paper. (I believe that’s considered retro now, that’s how old I have  become.) Entry after entry I talked about how I needed to lose weight. The pages were filled with body hatred and self-loathing, interspersed with boy drama. But the idea that I didn’t deserve love because I wasn’t thin, the notion that if I couldn’t get to a certain weight, nothing in my life would ever work out, was ever-present. It made me so sad to read. Because essentially I’ve spent my entire life feeling bad about my body.

I’m a week away from 40 and still haven’t figured out how to fully accept my size. I have wasted so much time and energy on this. I’ve been on every diet. I’ve been fatter; I’ve been thinner. I’ve gone to therapy. I’ve tried everything except self-acceptance. I would go out on a limb and say that one of the biggest regrets of my life is that I’ve never been able to look in the mirror and say, “I’m beautiful.”

The biggest bullshit lie I’ve ever swallowed is that thin equals beautiful. I’ve spent a lifetime unable to love myself or feel worthy of being loved because I am not thin “enough.” This message is delivered to us pretty much everywhere we look. I’ve found it reinforced in the media ad nauseum and in my relationships, particularly with some of the men I mistakenly chose to give my heart to. The guys who said I’d be “really hot” if I lost weight (but they’d still have sex with me) or who claimed they didn’t know what they’d say if a friend of theirs commented on my size (no one ever had) or who casually mentioned over dinner that his friends looked down on him because he dated me (because of my body) (I never met these friends and assume they were imaginary). I could go on but I don’t really want to fall into a shame spiral this early in the morning.

When I turned 30, I quit smoking. I was an “occasional smoker” I’d say, but then I was smoking on breaks at work and on my drive home and at parties and after dinner and well, I was a smoker. But on my 30th birthday I gave it up, finally, after many failed attempts. I thought about how I wanted to become a mom and be around for as long as I could for my kid I’d someday have and so I quit.

For my 40th birthday I’m giving myself another gift: I’m quitting body hatred. I’m not going to stop working out or eating vegetables or taking care of my health. I’m just going to drop the ridiculous guilt and shame cloud that I’ve lived my entire life under. My problem hasn’t been not knowing what to eat or how much to work out. Rather, I’ve been stuck in my body loathing, operating from a place of hate and embarrassment rather than self-love. It’s just that, you guys, I’m tired of feeling less than because I weigh more than someone told me I should. I’m fed up with it defining my worth. I’m over the bullshit and done living out the lie.

Happy birthday to me.

On Being Ready

When I was single, I used to curse my fate and wasted hours wondering why I couldn’t find someone to settle down with. For so many years I felt like not enough, an obvious outsider in the land of coupledom, the fifth wheel, that friend who was always going on dates but never really had a partner. But now that I am days away from marrying Mr. Darcy, almost three years into our relationship, I am glad it took me until I was 36 to find my Mr. Right and until I was 39 to get married.

You see, all that time I spent dating random guys (or as some would say “sowing my wild oats”), I learned a lot about myself, about relationships, and about love. So when I finally met Mr. Darcy, I was in a place where I was ready. I haven’t been bothered by any nagging regrets- did I live out my single days to their fullest? Why yes, yes I did. I have the stories to tell and the scars to prove it.

Every guy I dated before Mr. Darcy helped shape the woman I am today- for better or for worse- and I’m grateful for all of them, even the ones who broke my heart. Because in its breaking, I learned how resilient my heart is and it grew stronger every time. I have no regrets for the life I’ve led or the men I’ve shared it with. I even got lucky a few times and dated some really great guys who are now among my closest and best friends. In fact, three of them are coming to my wedding.

The other day as I walked through our old neighborhood, I kind of chuckled to myself. Six and a half years ago when I moved to Seattle, I wanted so desperately to fit into the scene there. The dirty emo hipsters with their tattoos and tight jeans and retro outfits, their late nights at bars and hangover breakfasts on Sundays. I wanted to be cool too. And maybe I was. Maybe I still am. But I realized then as I dodged smoking teens and street musicians and girls much younger, thinner, and hipper than I, that I’m so happy with my life. My suburban life with Mr. Darcy in a house we own, at jobs we like, surrounded by friends and family we love, the hope for a child alive inside of us, about to get married to one another. This is the dream I never thought would come true. It’s so much simpler than I ever thought and yet, more than I thought was possible for myself.

So many of you have been on this journey alongside me, reading my updates, and giving advice and support. It feels like forever ago and simultaneously like yesterday that I was lamenting my single life and my poor choices in men- so much so that my friends intervened with the Boyfriend Review Board. Remember that? Luckily Mr. Darcy (who was known as Bachelor #4 back then) passed with flying colors.

You guys? I’m getting married on Sunday. I can hardly believe this is happening to me.

Trying Hope & Worthiness On For Size

Sometimes I forget I have cancer. Like, hours will go by and I didn’t think about it. Those hours are a liberating while they exist but when I remember, I feel a metaphoric gut punch.

So that’s probably why I’ve been operating in a closed off mindset this past week. I’m not really allowing myself to feel anything about my cancer or my upcoming surgery. I’m on auto-pilot. It’s almost like I’ve settled into this new normal in which I am a person who has cancer. It’s still weird to say, “I have cancer.” It feels a little like cheating because I’m not sick outwardly. I don’t feel like I deserve to go around claiming it when there are people hooked up to chemo, losing their hair, battling fatigue and puking and not being able to work or play with their kids. I know I said we shouldn’t compare our worst things and here I am doing just that. I never said I wasn’t a hypocrite.

The surgery next Wednesday isn’t scaring me like last time probably because it’s a known thing to me now. I know where to go, what to expect, trust the hospital to deliver great care, and understand the process. I wouldn’t say I am looking forward to it but more that I want to move through this next part of surgery and recovery to get to the results part. As much as I am terrified of what the results will be, I have to face it.

But still, I’m having trouble really feeling hopeful. I feel like saying that out loud is a total jinx but it’s my current truth. I learned growing up that hoping just got you hurt. I’m trying to learn that you can hope and still get disappointing news and that doesn’t mean the hoping was hopeless. Does that make sense? Hope is a powerful tool to keep ones spirits afloat. It gives lightness to a heavy thing. It’s important to have, especially when shitty things are happening but the hardest to grasp when you’re in the muck of all the shit. I’m working on this daily though I don’t know if I’ll ever be “good” at it.

Another thing I’m not sure I’ll ever be “good” at is fully grasping that I matter to people just by being me. Take a look at this:

Cards of love and encouragement.

These cards that hang in my meditation room are a constant reminder that people care about me. Each one lifts my spirits and makes me pause to consider how I’ve been living under false assumptions.

In therapy, I work a lot on my sense of self-worth. I’ve operated under the notion that I had to do certain things or behave in particular ways, and hell, even look certain ways (thin) to be worthwhile. I’ve struggle with feeling worthy of love pretty much my entire life. And then the doctor finds some cancer in my cervix and WHAM! I’m flooded with love from friends near and far, friends that I only known through the internet, old friends I haven’t spoken to since elementary or high school who somehow remember me so clearly and so fondly – all which forces me to look at myself in a new way.

Sometimes I feel like Stuart Smalley with my “gosh darn it people like me!” realization. Other times I joke that this must be what attending your own funeral is like. I know it’s morbid but seriously, when else do you get to receive this kind of outpouring of love? It’s bigger and deeper than any birthday celebration.

I’m trying to digest all this. That I do impact people in a positive way. That I do matter to people (some of whom I’ve never met in person). That I am important in this world just by being little old me. I hate that I had to get cervical cancer to learn some of these important life lessons but I’m grateful nonetheless to be able to see myself and the world with new eyes and a more open heart.

I will always have fears, but I need not be my fear, for I have other places within myself from which to speak and act. -Parker J. Palmer

It’s Moving Day

Today is The Day.

Last night after packing for upwards of 8 hours (interspersed with a trip to our house and subsequently breaking our back door knob), I lost it. As in I broke down crying while attempting to help Mr. Darcy roll up a rug.

Seeing our apartment boxed up, the curtains taken down, the dust bunnies the size of Dash, shook me. I dislike chaos and miss the comfort of my routine. I spent 4 years making this apartment into a home and the prospect of starting over in a bigger place that we own is daunting. Eventually I will hopefully just feel excitement but right now I feel sad and a little lost.

I know it’s time to move on. Just like when I lived in The Cruz and decided to move here. It was hard to leave and I felt many mixed emotions but it was the best choice of my life. Look it where it led me? To this- engaged to a sweetheart, buying a house together, and planning our wedding. All my dreams are coming true. I’m so immensely grateful even while I am completely freaking out.

Speaking Truth, Facing Fear

One of the things that is hard about changing yourself is that you have to figure out how to be in relationship with people in a new way. This can prove to be especially challenging when it comes to relationships that have been around a long time. If the changes you’ve made upset the general make up of the status quo in the relationship, you’re going to need to have a chat with them. Or, you could just avoid the relationship. Which, telling you from experience, will only work for a short period of time and then you’re probably going to have to suck it up and talk.

You see, I have this mental list of people I need to have a sit down with. A Relationship Summit type of talk if you will. Because I no longer feel like I can comfortably exist in the confines of the relationship without speaking up about the truth of my feelings and my heart’s hope for the future of our relationship.

Am I looking forward to doing this? Um, no. Absolutely not. I’m pretty much postponing it for as long as I can and/or avoiding any deep conversation with these folks. I figure I will a) eventually get so uncomfortable, I will be forced to do it or b) they will call me out on being weird/different and I can’t lie my way out of it (Note: I am a terrible liar) or c) I find my bravery and just do it. C would be preferable.  Now if I could only find my bravery.

This weekend my mom and I had lunch. I will admit I was anxious about it because from my perspective, my mom and I have not been getting along for a couple of months years. Lately, I’ve been avoiding having any one-on-one time with her in an effort to keep a hard conversation at bay. I didn’t want to hurt her. I didn’t want to get hurt. Blah, blah, blah. I had a lot of reasons but really it all boiled down to fear.

My relationship with my mom isn’t one I go into here very often. She reads my blog (hi mom) and for the most part, I’ve found it easier to talk about my other parent, the one who passed away 19 years ago. I’ve spent a long time in the throes of my grief over my relationship with my dad and it’s just recently that I feel a sense of acceptance and peace with it which I guess is why I now feel like I can face my relationship with my mom.

Basically, my mom and I have some deep stuff to work out and there was no way it was going to get better or we were going to have the closeness I (we) want without a heart-to-heart. I’ve spent most of my life putting up a barrier between my family and me as a way of keeping me safe because I didn’t feel emotionally safe in the family. I acted like I had it covered, that I was strong, that I didn’t need anyone when in truth what I wanted and needed was the exact opposite. I have come off as angry and ferociously independent to the point that it has alienated me from them. My mom has given me space because she didn’t know what else to do. To her it seemed like that is what I wanted and that I didn’t like her or being around her.

The last thing I wanted was space. I can admit that now and did so to my mom over salads at a restaurant where hits from my high school years played over the speakers and I tried to hide that I was crying from the other diners.

I didn’t want that space. I wanted my mom to see I was hurting and stuck under a burden of pain that I didn’t know how to give voice to. My mom did the best she could in a difficult situation. I can empathize with her, especially now as a grown up trying to have a successful, healthy relationship with Mr. Darcy. Through tears we managed to talk through some very difficult subject matter. I really can’t recall ever telling my mom that my feelings were hurt before- maybe when I was a kid but not as an adult. But there I was, saying it, while “Tainted Love” played.

The thing is- I want to have a good relationship with my mom. I want us to enjoy each other. I don’t want to waste any more time being angry about stuff that can’t be changed. It turns out I just needed my mom to hear I was hurt and for her to acknowledge it and say “I’m sorry”. I don’t know if I could have had that conversation any earlier as much as I wish I hadn’t wasted time being mad or feeling hurt. Everything happens in its own time, right? I’m just grateful that we took that first step towards healing. I hope we can both continue to work on our relationship and have fun together again.

I’m pondering the other conversations I need to have and trying to work up the courage to start them. If I ultimately want closeness with people it’s going to take me being vulnerable and brave. I’m going to have to speak up. I’m going to have to acknowledge my feelings and my behavior. Because if I really am different, than this is part of the new me.

Money Matters

As a college student I managed to work low-paying jobs and live on the income from them and student loans but just barely. Because those things- my work-study job, my off-campus job, and my multiple student loans- only helped me pay for school, rent, and bills. Sometimes I struggled to buy groceries or gasoline. Going out was always a luxury. Travel was pretty much impossible.

And so I got some credit cards.

There were some months where the only way I could eat was to use my credit card. If any major expense came up- my car broke down, I owed money to the IRS, I got sick and had a doctor bill or needed new glasses- I used a credit card to pay for it or often had to borrow from my Mom. I had no savings account. When my first job after college told me about contributing to a 403b I laughed. I was like I NEED EVERY DOLLAR. Being smart with money was not something I was skilled in despite how hyper-aware I was of every single cent I earned and spent.

I lived in a state of financial lacking.

I was constantly stressed out by money. In my late 20′s during the height of my money woes, I was dating a guy who lived in San Francisco and worked for a reputable housewares store as a graphic designer. He rented a room in a nice house and wore Kenneth Cole. And there I was, 29, from a hippy, beach town in my thrift store jeans and Converse, driving a car I bought off my Mom. He often wanted to go out, travel, do things that were outside of my means. He also didn’t offer to pay for me so in order to keep up, I kept charging more on my credit cards- gas to get from The Cruz to SF, plane tickets to visit his family in Arizona, etc. It was stupid and ridiculous.

Around this time was when the hounding started- the constant calls from debt collectors. And when I stopped answering my phone.

The thing about being deep in debt is that it feels humiliating and paralyzing. I lived in a constant state of lack, of stress, of panic. Everyone needs money to live and I didn’t feel like I ever had enough. Dating a man who was elitist and who lived an hour and a half away didn’t help but all of my financial troubles started before I met him.

So, I finally caved, admitted I was in over my head and filed for bankruptcy.

I remember the day I had to go to “court”. I was a nervous wreck. Creditors could show up and contest it! What if I had to fight them in front of an audience? I was scared out of my mind but it turned out to be nothing. A man behind a folding table in a rented out hall (a makeshift court) asked me a few questions, asked if anyone was there to contest it (I held my breath, no one showed) and then had me sign something.

I vowed to myself that day that I would do money differently. No new credit cards (no company would give me one anyhow). Living within my means. I got a better paying job. I broke up with that guy in SF. Without the barrage of debt collection calls and the stack of bills filling my mailbox, I could breathe. It took years for me to get to a place where I felt financially stable.

Years later when I took my second job as an Apartment Manager I knew this was my opportunity to really change my relationship with money. In the four years I’ve been working as a building manager instead of paying rent, I’ve paid off my car, paid of 2 loans and 1 credit card I kept out of the bankruptcy. Any trip I’ve taken I have paid for out of pocket. Clothes, holiday gifts, car repairs, vet bills- all paid from my checking and/or savings account.

I thought by now I’d have thousands upon thousands saved up. That was a lofty dream. I thought when Mr. Darcy moved in we’d be able to save more but purchases like a new couch or trips back east have bitten into what we’ve saved. But the point is, we ARE saving. We have a cushion. And right now we’re focused on aggressively saving so we can get out of the apartment management business and into our own home. That’s a dream we hope to actualize before next summer. I am excited and scared for this next chapter.

Despite how much work managing the building has been at times, being able to not pay rent for the last almost-4-years has been a life changer. I don’t live in the mindset of not having enough. I’ve learned to budget and save. I just hope that when it comes time to pay a mortgage I’m solid enough in my financial footing to only minorly freak out. You know, like freak out in equal proportion to the act of buying a house (because, eeek!, that’s a big deal!).

I’ve come a long way even if I still wear Converse and shop at thrift stores.

My Reprieve

The only place I feel truly okay with my body is in dance class.

In the basement of an old building that smells of bagels and sweat, facing mirrored walls in front and to my right, in work out clothes, face red with exertion and a body glistening in perspiration, I feel my most beautiful.

Isn’t that wild?

It’s not because I look any different there. The sports bra, tank top and capri sweats are  not my best outfit. I’m wearing no make up and my bed head is barely tamed. If I scrutinize I can see the lumps and rolls beneath the black clothes. I catch a glimpse of my upper arm flesh flapping as I move. I occasionally compare how my body is shorter, squatter, rounder than the other bodies behind me and it bumps me off course. There are those moments where I start to squash my own spirit because I’ve let who others are diminish my own unique light and I forget sometimes that I am special.

I forget it more than I remember it.

But there in that dimly lit room with music pulsing and bodies moving in unison, I am able to do what I can’t seem to do anywhere else- forgive my supposed failures and connect back to my center. Maybe it’s because the space feels safe and accepting and it allows me to feel the same about myself for a brief hour. Maybe it’s because I stop being in my head and get to be in my body finally. Maybe it’s because I’m stripped down raw to my core and when I look at my reflection I finally can be kind. I spend the majority of every day harshly criticizing my looks. I waste hours upon hours belittling my body and cursing its shape. But then I walk into Dance Underground and I feel lighter. I take a deep breath. I see myself with my heart, not my mind. And I smile from the inside out.

Measuring

The sun was shining so we spent the day leisurely strolling our neighborhood, sipping tea while watching hipsters and their dogs, their ill-fitting clothing and bed head hair take to the streets. We went grocery shopping and filled our fridge and pantry, not worrying about the cost. We took ourselves out to a nice dinner, courtesy of a Group On deal, and sipped on a minty gin drink while discussing work and life. We laughed for a couple hours as we watched and listened to David Sedaris read from his latest book and his personal diary. Then we made our way to a wine bar for a little dessert.

I took a moment to check in with the world via Twitter while Mr. Darcy stepped out to take a call. I simultaneously discovered that Bin Laden had been killed and two friends of ours had gotten engaged. I sat there flooded with emotions. The din of the restaurant surrounded me. Two people next to me at the bar were discussing Osama and I chimed in briefly. Then I began to wonder what was taking Mr. Darcy so long. Something struck me in my gut. I recognized it as dread and in walked Mr. Darcy, his face a mix of shock and defeat. The caller did not share good news.

A day can go from sunshine and laughter to pulling the rug out from under you in less than 5 minutes. What was reality shifts like tectonic plates and your world gets tossed from here to there, breakables dropping, and your heart racing.

Deep breath.

He had been feeling ill at ease. Signs were pointing to it not being a good fit but we tried to talk them down, dismiss them and chalk them up to new job jitters and old neuroses. But his gut instinct had been right (aren’t they always?) and his new place of business ended his contract after a measly 2.5 weeks. They didn’t even give him a chance. Angry, shocked, embarrassed, sad- you name it, the emotions were tumbling around. I grabbed his hands and looked into his eyes, “We are going to be okay.”

Mr. Darcy is an amazingly talented artist who was put in a position that did not work to his strength at a job that clearly has some leadership issues. I know there is something better out there for him, a place that will provide him the space to flourish, not give him misdirection or make him doubt himself. Sometimes bigger isn’t always best. I don’t want him to doubt for one second that he’s not capable, strong, and worthy. I know I can’t make him feel anything but I will be there, standing beside him, because we are a team.

Sometimes life hands you a test and you have to smile at it, walk into the fear of it, holding  your love’s hand.

Under the Hood

I was driving home. It was late and there was traffic and the rain was enough to need the windshield wipers turned on. As I idled at a red light I saw some smoke around the hood of my car but I chalked it up to exhaust from the station wagon in front of me. I drove some more and came to another red light. I noticed the smoke again but it was dark and I was tired and so I thought maybe it was just mist. Yeah! YEAH! It was mist. That’s it.

I came to another light and checked my dashboard. My car was running closer to hot than to cold and I thought, “SHIT. That isn’t mist.”

I made it home without my car blowing up thank goodness. In the morning Mr. Darcy and I used our limited knowledge of mechanics to add more oil (I was low) and water (low again). With fingers and toes crossed I made my way towards work and the mechanic located directly across the street. The entire 12 minute drive there I talked nicely and encouragingly to my car. I told her how good she was and how she couldn’t quit on me now. We had so many more years and adventures ahead, I pleaded.

It needs to be said- I love my car. She’s been so good to me in the seven-ish years I have owned her. I’ve never really had any major work done on her except routine check ups. She’s been reliable and trustworthy. And just a few months ago I finally paid her off so she is mine, all mine.

I pulled into the mechanic’s parking lot with the car running very, very hot and frankly, I was losing my cool too.

I was walking up to the office when a mechanic walked out from the garage and asked if I need an oil change.

“Not exactly. My car is running really hot and I think it needs a check up. Do you guys do that?”

“Nah, we mainly do oil changes. What seems to be the problem?” As he walked up to me, he looked me up and down.

“Well, when I drive the gauge goes to the middle but when I idle it shoots up to hot. The warning light hasn’t come on yet but last night I thought I saw steam or smoke coming from under the hood.”

“Ahh, that sounds like your thermometer. I’ve seen that before.” He gives me a sly look.

“I used to take my car to Midas,” I said motioning across the lot to the vacant building. “Do you know anyone nearby? I probably shouldn’t drive it much, right?”

“Yeah you don’t want to drive it more than you have to. Down the road about a mile is a place called Triple B. We take all our cars there. They are good. They can take you today I bet. You tell him Jeremiah sent you.”

Sticking out my hand I said, “Thank you so much, Jeremiah. I’m Sizzle.* I really appreciate it.”

“Sizzle? That’s a beautiful name,” he gives me a penetrating look and holds onto my hand longer than a friendly handshake requires. “You tell them Jeremiah sent you. That you’re a loyal customer of mine. They’ll treat you right. Shouldn’t be more than $20 part sounds like.”

“Don’t tease me, Jeremiah. I’ve never gotten away with such a cheap fix from a mechanic!”

“Aw, he’ll take good care of you. And you come back here and tell me how it went.” Wink, wink. Nudge, nudge.

“I’ll definitely come to you guys for my next oil change. Thanks so much!” And I walk off towards my car feeling his eyes on me.

Do you think they charge extra for the flirting at that establishment?

I made it to the other shop and when the mechanic looked under my hood he cried out to me, “HOW LONG YOU BEEN DRIVING IT LIKE THIS?!”

“Just since last night! I promise! I didn’t notice it running hot or the steam until late last night.” I am sheepish and probably blushing. I don’t think he believed me. I started to doubt my finely tuned attention to detail.

“Your radiator is busted. Need a new one.”

“How much will that cost?” I wondered trepidatiously.

“About $200 plus have to flush the coolant and change the oil. Run you about . . . $369,” he shot off matter of factly.

OUCH.

Sighing heavily I said,“Alright, let’s do it.”

Six hours later and $400 later, I have my car back.  I was driving back to the office with the car heater on when I realized that the car heated up quickly. As in, I turned the heater on and within seconds my toes were toasty. I had been complaining for about a month that my car would take 15 minutes to actually get warm. I  know very little about cars but maybe if I’d gotten that problem checked I wouldn’t have had steam coming out from under my hood?

Oops.

I am grateful I have the means to afford a sudden bill like this. That I have a boyfriend who will get up early to look under my hood (not a euphemism). That I have a car that is reliable (Honda CRVs are awesome!). And that my car now gets warm in under a minute, not under 15.

*I used my real name, of course.

The Shame is a Sham

(The thoughts & feelings expressed in this post are reflective of my own personal experience and in no way are meant to speak for any and all overweight people.)

I read this great article on Friday. Actually, I read it aloud to Mr. Darcy as he drove us to the symphony.(Where neither of us fell completely asleep. We were just resting our eyes. Sincerely!) You should totally read the entire article but here are some snippets for context:

I have wanted to change this body my whole life. I have never wanted anything as much as I have wanted a new body. I am aware every day that other people find my body disgusting. I always thought that some day—when I finally stop failing—I will become smaller, and when I become smaller literally everything will get better (I’ve heard It Gets Better)! My life can begin! I will get the clothes that I want, the job that I want, the love that I want. It will be great! Think how great it will be to buy some pants or whatever at J. Crew. Oh, man. Pants. Instead, my body stays the same.

And this:

My question is, what if they try and try and try and still fail? What if they are still fat? What if they are fat forever? What do you do with them then? Do you really want millions of teenage girls to feel like they’re trapped in unsightly lard prisons that are ruining their lives, and on top of that it’s because of their own moral failure, and on top of that they are ruining America with the terribly expensive diabetes that they don’t even have yet? You know what’s shameful? A complete lack of empathy.

She says this great line: “Shame is a tool of oppression, not change.”

Can I get an AMEN?

I am grateful to Lindy for writing this article because she stands up for me, for herself and for all of us who are struggling to accept our bodies in a society that repeatedly bashes us over the head with “You are not good enough because you are fat” messages. I will probably get some flack for saying this but it feels true to me- fat oppression is the last allowable “ism”. Because all of us fatties made ourselves fat and it’s our fault for being fat and how dare we continue to be fat. And P.S. You are gross to look at.

Eating too many cupcakes is not the root cause of fatness. It goes much, much deeper than that. But we’re too busy shaming overweight people to see it or really do anything about it.

And yes, I said we. Because I’ve totally drank the Kool Aid.

I once read a blog post from some girl that stated that it’s gross to see two fat people dancing. That it was funny to her but not in a ha ha way where we’re all laughing. No. In the way that she is making fun of the fat people. Because how dare they move their fat bodies to music and force other people to see their chub rolling around a dance floor. HOW DARE YOU BE A PERSON, FATTY!

What. The. Fuck? I should have tit-punched that girl. I wish tit punches could be delivered electronically.

That is one small example in a mountain of examples I could give you where I come across messaging that America’s belief system is that fat people are horrible, lazy, disgusting people who should be ashamed. Who should fix themselves. Please, immediately, because fat is not nice to look at. MY EYES!

I have spent a lifetime absorbing messages that have forced me deeper into shame. I was ten when I can remember going on my first diet. I would work out in my room and not eat pancakes and walk around in a shroud of shame and sadness because I believe AT TEN YEARS OLD that I was not a worthwhile person because I was chubby.

I was not born believing this. I was taught this.

And then for the next 27 years I let the shame shape my perspective. I bought into it. I swallowed the messages. I agreed with you (the proverbial you that believes fat people are less than) that I am gross and unworthy. Your plan worked! And yet, wait, uh. . . Why am I still fat? OH RIGHT! BECAUSE SHAME IS NOT A WEIGHT LOSS TOOL.

Is being overweight unhealthy? To many degrees, it can be. So is eating a diet full of refined sugar. So is having a smoking habit. So is excessively drinking alcohol or coffee. So can  excessively exercising. We all do fucked up shit to our bodies in some way or another. And we tend to do these things from an emotional place. I know many thin people who eat crappy diets with no nutrients and who never exercise but they are deemed as “okay” because they are thin and thus, they pass.

I am so fucking done with this mentality. I’m done supporting people (myself included!) in the negative dissection of our bodies. The withholding of love until we get to a certain weight. To putting off doing things because The Shame is saying we can’t until we weigh X amount of pounds. I’m sick to death of hearing women tear themselves down about every supposed imperfection. So you have stretch marks. So you have some back fat. So your thighs rub together. So what? Where did you hear the message that you are not good enough, not pretty, if you have a flaw? Go back to that place or that person and say “shut the fuck up”. Because THESE THINGS DO NOT DEFINE YOUR WORTH.

I am telling myself this more than I am telling you this. But I bet you need to hear this too.

This is not an easy thing to do. To face the messaging and not get swept up in the mentality of being less than. But if we just sit by and complain about it but don’t speak out, how in the hell will it ever change? Women didn’t get the right to vote because they discussed it in passing over tea. Segregation didn’t end because some white guy in power was all, “This is wrong”. Gay marriage will one day be legal because people stand up and fight for it.

Please don’t be passive. You have a voice- use it. This is not a problem fat people need to solve. This is a problem we all have to work together on because it’s an attitude shift. If you hold ideas about fat people, where did they come from? Question the fatism.

We can all be radical if we start loving ourselves and our bodies.

They’ve told us it’s impossible. But it’s not.