A few weeks ago I did something that, for me, was a little bit brave. It was a bit of a turning point as well, a turning point in the way that I think about myself, the way that I view myself.
I changed my profile picture on Facebook.
I know that many of you are thinking, "How on earth does that make you brave?" because it is seemingly an innocuous thing. But for me, it was a little bit brave.
The picture that I had been using as my profile picture was "old" me. Pre-illness me. The me that I was before I was broken.
The lie that I told myself was that I wanted a daily reminder of the girl that I was trying to get back to, the girl I was trying to be again. That audacious, outgoing, flirty, sassy girl.
The truth was that I didn't want people to see me as I am, only as I was. The people I grew up with, the people I rarely see, the people I never see ... I wanted them to remember me as I had been.
I have been telling myself for so long that I want to get back to that girl, to be her again. I've chastised myself at every turn for not being able to be her again, for not being able to find that part of me. I've been angry, and sad, and hurt that she has been lost to me.
I've been yearning for someone who will see me, really see me, and all the while I was trying to hide. How could someone else see me when I couldn't even see myself?
I realized a long while ago that I don't actually want to be that girl again. She was great, don't get me wrong, but she was a bit of an idiot. She spent a lot of time doing what she was "supposed" to do, searching for what she was "supposed" to like, being what she was "supposed" to be. Looking back I can see exactly why happiness held only surface value for her, why she chose the wrong things, why no one saw her. She was so concerned with the "supposed" to that the "actually want" went unrecognized.
And she did it in all things.
I don't want to be that girl anymore.
I no longer want to keep doing what I've always done just because I once wanted to do it. Things change, wants change, needs change. I've changed.
Over that past year I have been recognizing, finally, things that I want, actually want. I've been noticing the things that I used to say that I wanted because I was "supposed" to want them, and realizing that I really don't want them. Probably never really did.
I chose a career that I love, still love, for the most part. But different aspects of my career have taken the focus from my original love, and that's OK. I had a moment a few months ago where I realized that my love had changed and I grieved. But then I celebrated, because I realized that something else makes me happier, something else makes me float. I don't have to do what I've always done, just because I've always done it. I can evolve into something new. And I have.
I have had a habit in my life of putting my focus on one thing, and then sticking to that one thing even after it proves to be other than what I want. I stick because I'm "supposed" to.
I'm done with that now.
I changed my picture to one that looks like me as I am because I want to be seen as I am, scary as that is. I don't want to be that girl anymore. I want to be me.
I am still outgoing, just nicer about it. I am flirty. I'm very sassy. And I'm still audacious. But I'm also a whole lot more, and I like who I am now.
I've been through some ups and downs with this process, sticking to something out of habit, but for the most part...
I see me. Finally.
And because I see me, someone else does too.
It's a little bit awkward writing about him here because I know that he will read this (hi, hot stuff!), but I won't say anything that I haven't already said to him, so I should be OK.
See, I met a man. He looks at me and sees. And I see him back.
I fell for him when he took me to a bookstore, though I didn't realize it until much later. He makes me giddy. He makes me happy. He makes me laugh.
His world is ... complicated, which makes this adventure with him less than simple, but I'm not going anywhere. I'm not sure exactly how I fit into his world, but I'm also not sure that I need to know that yet. We've been seeing each other for a little over three months, so we have time to figure those things out.
I see him as he is. He is open and honest with me, which can be terrifying at times but is so refreshing!
The more this man looks at me and sees, the more I want to see myself. As I am, not as I was. And the more I want to see him, too. I want to see all the sides of him, even the weird ones and the cranky ones, because together they make him. And he is amazing.
I wasn't expecting him. I wasn't prepared for him. But man am I glad I found him.
So a few weeks ago I changed my profile picture. It was a long overdue step in this process of self-acceptance, but that's OK. The world can see me as I am, finally.
Because I can see myself now.
And I see him.
Tuesday, July 28, 2015
Wednesday, June 10, 2015
Flirting
I'm a big flirt. I've always been a big flirt.
These last few years my flirtations have fallen on deaf ears for the most part. I smile at men on the street and their eyes slide right over me. I get saucy with a man at a bar or in a line and he suddenly has urgent messages on his phone.
And it's not just flirting and men! Women completely ignore me in conversation. I have asked random women to please hand me something or pass something my way and they simply glance at one another as though I were a ghost.
I can say, "Excuse me," to a person who is blocking my path and they look me up and down with a general look of distaste, then they shift about an inch. Really? You just looked at me and you think an inch is enough room? There is a general consensus that yes, an inch is plenty of room for my fat ass to squeeze through as an inch is usually all I am allowed.
Things like this have always bothered me, mostly because I have this aspect to my personality that makes people talk to me. Random people on the street will tell me their life story, people in line at a store will explain about their underwear problems, my seat-mate on a train will have no problem talking about their sex life. But if I make the approach, or if I am the one requesting, people often completely ignore me.
The amazing thing about being a fat woman is that the bigger you are the more invisible you become.
And this is especially true where flirting enters the picture.
It can be a little funny, watching a guy try not to visibly freak out when I flirt, watching him search for a hasty exit without being too rude. But only a little funny.
So I was completely caught by surprise when a man flirted with me on the train the other day! I didn't really know what to do with myself.
I have seen him before on the train and he always catches my eye and smiles. I hadn't really thought anything of it, until the other day.
We were standing in the scrum to get onto the train when I noticed that the man I was standing next to had his attention on me. I glanced up at him to find him looking directly at me, a slight look of surprise on his face, like he'd been looking for me and I just happened to appear.
"Hi!" he said with a smile.
"Hi!" I replied.
He then proceeded to block a path for me to get onto the train before him. I smiled and thanked him (it was quite gallant) and got on the train. I entered through the door on the left but I turned right to go into the opposite car. I found my way to a seat by the window. As I settled in I noticed that he had followed me into the opposite car and was just sitting in a seat a row away facing me, but positioned so that he could see me between the seats. I smiled at him again as our eyes met and we sat.
"Surely this is a coincidence," I thought. "He can't be following me."
But he was.
As the train made its way toward the city I settled in to enjoy my book. Every so often I would glance up to catch him looking at me. We were too far away to chat, but I always smiled. So did he.
When we finally arrived in the city he tried to remain seated while I made my way into the aisle but a very polite woman insisted that he go in front of her. When he reached the bottom of the short stairway in the train he turned to look for me and he smiled such a smile when he saw that I was looking at him. I actually blushed (I never blush).
As often happens in New York we were separated by the crowd heading up into Penn Station and we lost each other on the upper floors, try as we might to keep each other in our sights.
I must admit it was the most amazing feeling. To be flirted with and smiled at and to feel his energy flowing at me. The feeling stayed with me all day, making me giddy and effervescent. I couldn't put a finger on exactly what the feeling was, but I liked it.
Then yesterday I was dealing with one of the move-an-inch-out-of-the-way people, sighing as I tried to explain, yet again, that my body is too large to fit through that tiny space, and I realized what that feeling was. I have become so used to being invisible, so used to being derided and ignored, that I had forgotten what it felt like to be me.
That feeling that I felt was the feeling of being me.
I am the same me I have always been; the same flirt, the same sass, the same ... me. In all the illness and drugs, and with all this fat that I have become I had forgotten that feeling. I had forgotten what it felt like to get that kind of attention from strangers.
But a man flirted with me on the train. He made a path for me, smiled at me, made sure he always knew where I was. He reminded me that I like being me.
He smiled at me, and I remembered.
These last few years my flirtations have fallen on deaf ears for the most part. I smile at men on the street and their eyes slide right over me. I get saucy with a man at a bar or in a line and he suddenly has urgent messages on his phone.
And it's not just flirting and men! Women completely ignore me in conversation. I have asked random women to please hand me something or pass something my way and they simply glance at one another as though I were a ghost.
I can say, "Excuse me," to a person who is blocking my path and they look me up and down with a general look of distaste, then they shift about an inch. Really? You just looked at me and you think an inch is enough room? There is a general consensus that yes, an inch is plenty of room for my fat ass to squeeze through as an inch is usually all I am allowed.
Things like this have always bothered me, mostly because I have this aspect to my personality that makes people talk to me. Random people on the street will tell me their life story, people in line at a store will explain about their underwear problems, my seat-mate on a train will have no problem talking about their sex life. But if I make the approach, or if I am the one requesting, people often completely ignore me.
The amazing thing about being a fat woman is that the bigger you are the more invisible you become.
And this is especially true where flirting enters the picture.
It can be a little funny, watching a guy try not to visibly freak out when I flirt, watching him search for a hasty exit without being too rude. But only a little funny.
So I was completely caught by surprise when a man flirted with me on the train the other day! I didn't really know what to do with myself.
I have seen him before on the train and he always catches my eye and smiles. I hadn't really thought anything of it, until the other day.
We were standing in the scrum to get onto the train when I noticed that the man I was standing next to had his attention on me. I glanced up at him to find him looking directly at me, a slight look of surprise on his face, like he'd been looking for me and I just happened to appear.
"Hi!" he said with a smile.
"Hi!" I replied.
He then proceeded to block a path for me to get onto the train before him. I smiled and thanked him (it was quite gallant) and got on the train. I entered through the door on the left but I turned right to go into the opposite car. I found my way to a seat by the window. As I settled in I noticed that he had followed me into the opposite car and was just sitting in a seat a row away facing me, but positioned so that he could see me between the seats. I smiled at him again as our eyes met and we sat.
"Surely this is a coincidence," I thought. "He can't be following me."
But he was.
As the train made its way toward the city I settled in to enjoy my book. Every so often I would glance up to catch him looking at me. We were too far away to chat, but I always smiled. So did he.
When we finally arrived in the city he tried to remain seated while I made my way into the aisle but a very polite woman insisted that he go in front of her. When he reached the bottom of the short stairway in the train he turned to look for me and he smiled such a smile when he saw that I was looking at him. I actually blushed (I never blush).
As often happens in New York we were separated by the crowd heading up into Penn Station and we lost each other on the upper floors, try as we might to keep each other in our sights.
I must admit it was the most amazing feeling. To be flirted with and smiled at and to feel his energy flowing at me. The feeling stayed with me all day, making me giddy and effervescent. I couldn't put a finger on exactly what the feeling was, but I liked it.
Then yesterday I was dealing with one of the move-an-inch-out-of-the-way people, sighing as I tried to explain, yet again, that my body is too large to fit through that tiny space, and I realized what that feeling was. I have become so used to being invisible, so used to being derided and ignored, that I had forgotten what it felt like to be me.
That feeling that I felt was the feeling of being me.
I am the same me I have always been; the same flirt, the same sass, the same ... me. In all the illness and drugs, and with all this fat that I have become I had forgotten that feeling. I had forgotten what it felt like to get that kind of attention from strangers.
But a man flirted with me on the train. He made a path for me, smiled at me, made sure he always knew where I was. He reminded me that I like being me.
He smiled at me, and I remembered.
Tuesday, June 2, 2015
Nice
So it turns out that there are still nice men out there in the world.
He reached out to me a few weeks ago, chatting about our mutual commuter woes. He is one of the only men who didn't immediately jump to discussions of sex or lewdness, instead making me giggle about our shared interests.
When I sent him my standard just-to-let-you-know-I'm-fat-so-you-don't-freak-out-later text, he is the only man, so far, to respond with, "Why do you think I reached out to you?" I almost died.
We started chatting and agreed to meet for dinner at a local restaurant, at which we ended up laughing and talking for hours. It turns out, he is a complete gentleman.
We have gone on several dates since, chatting and laughing all the while. He is incredibly nice and he treats me really well. I'm not at all used to this. This is a whole new world for me.
First of all, he refuses to let me pay for dinner. He has taken me to some very nice places and he won't let me pay! Even when it had been decided prior to the date that I would be buying him dinner, he grabbed the check and wouldn't hear of it! What world is this?
He doesn't laugh at me when I go all Fan-Girl about a book or show, even going so far as to encourage it. And I am a super geeky Fan-Girl. My ex, while a Fan-Boy himself, thought it was a tad ridiculous for a chick to be such a fan.
This man didn't look askance at me when I explained that, while playing fantasy RPGs, I like to play as a thief, sneaking around and shooting foes from afar with my bow and arrow. He thought that that was a perfectly logical choice and didn't try to convince me otherwise. Most men think it odd that I like to play fantasy RPGs to begin with.
He doesn't think it strange that I like Marvel movies and shows, or that I can hold deep, philosophical discussions about Star Wars. He just goes with it.
He teases me in the best ways and makes me feel like a girl.
He loves my body! He prefers larger women and he thinks I'm sexy. He tells me that I'm "super cute." He says, "You are so hot!" And he means it! Baffling.
He sees me! He sees me and he likes me anyway.
But the best thing about this man, so far, is that he took me on the perfect date.
He picked me up in the late morning and we headed out to a place about 20 minutes from my house. He chose this place, he said, because on our second date he mentioned something called a gastro pub and I had never been to one. It was a lovely spot that used to be a train station so the architecture and ambiance were really cool. We talked and laughed with ease through the meal. As we exited the pub I pulled him close and briefly kissed him, a chaste moment to thank him for the meal. He smiled at me like I was the most amazing thing. I was really taken aback by his look, I don't think any man has ever looked at me like that before.
He took my hand and we started walking around the neighborhood a bit. As we came to a corner he said, "So, I really brought you here because I wanted you to see something. I want you opinion of it."
"OK," I said, totally curious.
We turned the corner and I came face to face with an honest-to-God, old-fashioned, beatnik-employees, hand-written-signage, get-lost-among-the-stacks bookstore! He brought me to a bookstore!!
I may have teared up a bit.
We went inside and began to explore. I was in awe, exclaiming about the smell of the books and the haphazard arrangements. I kept looking at him and saying, "You brought me to a bookstore!" It was amazing.
You have to understand, this man doesn't read for pleasure. We had talked about books for maybe two minutes on our first date and he could feel my passion for them, so he brought me to this wonderful place filled with books!
We wandered through the stacks, laughing about some of the titles we came across. I was giddy with delight. He stole kisses in the corners, hiding from the other shoppers like we were teenagers. It was unbelievable. And the way he looks at me! It's like he's never seen anything quite like me - half desire and half confusion or awe. I really like the way he looks at me.
I have never been on a date like this, where I was the consideration, I was the focus. He went out of his way to give me something he knew I would love. What world is this?
We spent the whole day together, talking, laughing, kissing, and it was amazing. This man, this man, took me on a perfect date.
We have seen each other a few times since that day, and will hopefully keep seeing each other. He really is so nice.
I called my best friend to tell her all about the date, about him, and how weird it is for a man to treat me like this. I was complaining that he wouldn't let me pay for dinner, even when it was the plan, and she just laughed.
She said, "Katy, it's about time that a man was nice to you. Now, you just have to calm the hell down and let him be nice to you!"
"But..."
"No... no, no... you have to let him. I know it's weird, but just let him. This is how real men behave."
His world is ... complicated ... but I like him. I really like him. I like how he treats me. I like that he's so nice to me. I like that he's gallant and won't let me pay for dinner (even though it was the plan!). But I'm not at all used to this kind of treatment.
I am especially not used to a man who looks at me and sees. He notices things, he remembers moments. He sees me and he likes me anyway.
And he brings me to bookstores.
I know that I haven't been doing this online dating thing for very long, and I know that I have met some ... interesting men (some serious doozies, I'll tell ya), but this man is different. He's kind, and intelligent, and thoughtful. He's funny and interesting. I find him fascinating.
And he seems to like me and he has no problem showing it, which is also new territory for me. He holds my hand, he kisses me, he touches my face. Seriously, what world is this?
I like this man.
I love spending time with him. I hope to have many, many more dates with him (and I will find a way to buy him dinner if it kills me!).
I don't want to rush into anything, I don't want to overwhelm either of us, so slow and steady it is.
I had no idea that there were men like this outside of fiction, at least men like this who also like me. But this man, this man, exists. And he is kind.
And so I will do my best to allow him to treat me well and I will go out of my way to treat him well in return. Of course the old insecurities resurface, the feeling that I don't actually deserve to be treated well or with respect due to my size or my past, but I'm trying to stomp them down as best I can. My best friend keeps pointing out that I believe that everyone deserves to be loved (which is true). Then she has to remind me that I am also an everyone.
I try to imagine that I deserve to be loved, that I too deserve happiness. Most of the time I just accept that I've done something, or been something than negated that option. This man makes me think that there my in fact still be hope for me.
He looks at me and sees.
And he likes me anyway.
He reached out to me a few weeks ago, chatting about our mutual commuter woes. He is one of the only men who didn't immediately jump to discussions of sex or lewdness, instead making me giggle about our shared interests.
When I sent him my standard just-to-let-you-know-I'm-fat-so-you-don't-freak-out-later text, he is the only man, so far, to respond with, "Why do you think I reached out to you?" I almost died.
We started chatting and agreed to meet for dinner at a local restaurant, at which we ended up laughing and talking for hours. It turns out, he is a complete gentleman.
We have gone on several dates since, chatting and laughing all the while. He is incredibly nice and he treats me really well. I'm not at all used to this. This is a whole new world for me.
First of all, he refuses to let me pay for dinner. He has taken me to some very nice places and he won't let me pay! Even when it had been decided prior to the date that I would be buying him dinner, he grabbed the check and wouldn't hear of it! What world is this?
He doesn't laugh at me when I go all Fan-Girl about a book or show, even going so far as to encourage it. And I am a super geeky Fan-Girl. My ex, while a Fan-Boy himself, thought it was a tad ridiculous for a chick to be such a fan.
This man didn't look askance at me when I explained that, while playing fantasy RPGs, I like to play as a thief, sneaking around and shooting foes from afar with my bow and arrow. He thought that that was a perfectly logical choice and didn't try to convince me otherwise. Most men think it odd that I like to play fantasy RPGs to begin with.
He doesn't think it strange that I like Marvel movies and shows, or that I can hold deep, philosophical discussions about Star Wars. He just goes with it.
He teases me in the best ways and makes me feel like a girl.
He loves my body! He prefers larger women and he thinks I'm sexy. He tells me that I'm "super cute." He says, "You are so hot!" And he means it! Baffling.
He sees me! He sees me and he likes me anyway.
But the best thing about this man, so far, is that he took me on the perfect date.
He picked me up in the late morning and we headed out to a place about 20 minutes from my house. He chose this place, he said, because on our second date he mentioned something called a gastro pub and I had never been to one. It was a lovely spot that used to be a train station so the architecture and ambiance were really cool. We talked and laughed with ease through the meal. As we exited the pub I pulled him close and briefly kissed him, a chaste moment to thank him for the meal. He smiled at me like I was the most amazing thing. I was really taken aback by his look, I don't think any man has ever looked at me like that before.
He took my hand and we started walking around the neighborhood a bit. As we came to a corner he said, "So, I really brought you here because I wanted you to see something. I want you opinion of it."
"OK," I said, totally curious.
We turned the corner and I came face to face with an honest-to-God, old-fashioned, beatnik-employees, hand-written-signage, get-lost-among-the-stacks bookstore! He brought me to a bookstore!!
I may have teared up a bit.
We went inside and began to explore. I was in awe, exclaiming about the smell of the books and the haphazard arrangements. I kept looking at him and saying, "You brought me to a bookstore!" It was amazing.
You have to understand, this man doesn't read for pleasure. We had talked about books for maybe two minutes on our first date and he could feel my passion for them, so he brought me to this wonderful place filled with books!
We wandered through the stacks, laughing about some of the titles we came across. I was giddy with delight. He stole kisses in the corners, hiding from the other shoppers like we were teenagers. It was unbelievable. And the way he looks at me! It's like he's never seen anything quite like me - half desire and half confusion or awe. I really like the way he looks at me.
I have never been on a date like this, where I was the consideration, I was the focus. He went out of his way to give me something he knew I would love. What world is this?
We spent the whole day together, talking, laughing, kissing, and it was amazing. This man, this man, took me on a perfect date.
We have seen each other a few times since that day, and will hopefully keep seeing each other. He really is so nice.
I called my best friend to tell her all about the date, about him, and how weird it is for a man to treat me like this. I was complaining that he wouldn't let me pay for dinner, even when it was the plan, and she just laughed.
She said, "Katy, it's about time that a man was nice to you. Now, you just have to calm the hell down and let him be nice to you!"
"But..."
"No... no, no... you have to let him. I know it's weird, but just let him. This is how real men behave."
His world is ... complicated ... but I like him. I really like him. I like how he treats me. I like that he's so nice to me. I like that he's gallant and won't let me pay for dinner (even though it was the plan!). But I'm not at all used to this kind of treatment.
I am especially not used to a man who looks at me and sees. He notices things, he remembers moments. He sees me and he likes me anyway.
And he brings me to bookstores.
I know that I haven't been doing this online dating thing for very long, and I know that I have met some ... interesting men (some serious doozies, I'll tell ya), but this man is different. He's kind, and intelligent, and thoughtful. He's funny and interesting. I find him fascinating.
And he seems to like me and he has no problem showing it, which is also new territory for me. He holds my hand, he kisses me, he touches my face. Seriously, what world is this?
I like this man.
I love spending time with him. I hope to have many, many more dates with him (and I will find a way to buy him dinner if it kills me!).
I don't want to rush into anything, I don't want to overwhelm either of us, so slow and steady it is.
I had no idea that there were men like this outside of fiction, at least men like this who also like me. But this man, this man, exists. And he is kind.
And so I will do my best to allow him to treat me well and I will go out of my way to treat him well in return. Of course the old insecurities resurface, the feeling that I don't actually deserve to be treated well or with respect due to my size or my past, but I'm trying to stomp them down as best I can. My best friend keeps pointing out that I believe that everyone deserves to be loved (which is true). Then she has to remind me that I am also an everyone.
I try to imagine that I deserve to be loved, that I too deserve happiness. Most of the time I just accept that I've done something, or been something than negated that option. This man makes me think that there my in fact still be hope for me.
He looks at me and sees.
And he likes me anyway.
Friday, May 15, 2015
Mixed Messages
So... I know it's been a minute since my last post, but I needed a break for a moment. If you read it then you know that my man from out of town and I had a huge fight and ended our relationship for a while and I needed to regroup.
I'm better now, and he has worked very hard to keep me in his life, so he gets one mulligan. He gets that one terrible reaction.
Now, I know that I am an extremely forgiving person (my best friend would say that I am way too forgiving, but I'm OK with that), and he really did react badly, but I'm giving him this one. We have spent a lot of time discussing what happened and why, how his reaction affected me, and why it will never happen again. We slowed way down, he's been working his ass off, so I have decided to give him another chance. Of all the men I've met and/or talked to, he is the one that I click with the most, so I'm going to take the gamble.
Life is more fun when you take chances on people.
I was a little trepidatious about explaining my forgiveness, but it's who I am.
But that's not really what I want to talk about today. I want to talk about clothes.
The weather is getting warmer and the clothes are getting smaller. For a girl like me, that is usually a terrifying notion. I don't want to show any more of my body than I have to, I don't want to make other people have to look at my body like that. It's just not fair to them, I mean, I don't have to look at me all day, other people do. It's OK if I'm miserable and hot so long as they don't have to look at my body, right? It's OK if I feel like shit in an outfit I don't like so that other people are spared the sight of my fat, right? It's OK for me to hide my personality in all black clothes on the hottest of days so that other people don't catch a glimpse of my displeasing form... right?
(Can you see the sarcasm dripping?)
In the last several months I have had a spring to my step, a light in my smile, mostly due to this online dating experiment. The men that I've met have all liked me in spite of my body, wanted to kiss me, hang out with me, play with me, even though my body is what it is, which is fat. A few of them even want me for all of me, my body included, which freaks me out a bit.
This new springiness and lightness have brought with them a girlishness as well. I am suddenly wearing heels again. I am wearing skirts (skirts I tell you!) and short ones! I have nice pants and cleavage bearing shirts. I am dressing like a girl and I like how it makes me feel. I feel pretty. I feel deserving. I feel ... like me.
At least until I get on Facebook.
Then I feel like shit.
I see pictures like this one...
... which make me think that maybe I shouldn't be wearing skirts. I mean, I don't have the body I want, I have the body I have. So I guess that when it's hot I should cover my legs so as not to offend other people. Right?
I constantly see posts calling out fat women for wearing Yoga pants or sleeveless shirts. What if that is the only thing that woman can wear? What if that outfit makes her feel fabulous? What if that woman was feeling like crap today and just wanted to chill in her Yoga pants while running errands? What if she is on her way to the gym for her daily workout/torture session, that she is doing her damnedest to improve her body, all unbeknownst to the random Facebook user who was offended that she dared wear Yoga pants outdoors?
And let's talk about the gym posts! Do you have any idea what it's like to be fat and walk into a gym? To be that brave? To face the eye rolling, scoffing, disgusted looks, and "helpful" suggestions on how to lose the weight from people you've never met before, and have probably never had a weight issue in their lives? Do you have any idea what it takes to do that?
I see posts every day on Facebook about some fat person at the gym (how dare they be fat at the gym!) on a treadmill in front of the Facebook poster, forcing the poster to look at their fat ass while running. Or, even worse, those who post a picture of someone at the gym, some random person doing their workout, trying to get healthy, who had the audacity to be fat at the gym, or to wear an outfit that was displeasing to the picture taker. What if that person in the all purple sweat suit loves purple, if purple makes them feel amazing, if wearing that all purple sweat suit is the thing that gets them through the workout? We all have that outfit, the one that makes us feel fabulous, or motivates us. We've all worn it. Hell, we've all worn it out of the house! That purple person probably knows they look a bit like Barney, but if that's what it takes to get them to the gym...
I see so many posts by obviously perfect people concerning the outfits or physique of someone fat or ridiculous in their perfect eyes. Those perfect people are so offended by fat people, ugly people, ungroomed people, that they feel the need to publicly shame them on Facebook. But because they don't actually know the object of their ridicule it can seem anonymous somehow.
And they don't know those people. They don't know their story. They don't know whether the object of ridicule just went through a massive illness that left them fat and scared. They don't know if the object just had some surgery that will force them into Yoga pants for a while. They don't know if the object just lost 60 pounds and is feeling amazing and proud, only to face their rolling eyes and awful Facebook posts. They just assume that the objects are lazy or stupid. They just assume that the object should should know better. But they don't know those people. They don't know.
But they do know me. Many of these same people who complain about fat people and lazy people, that bitch about someone's outfit or having to look at someone's icky body at the gym, those same people tell me I'm beautiful. They tell me that they love me, that I'm awesome. That I'm their favorite.
How can I possibly believe them?
How can I believe that if I suddenly decide to be brave enough to go to a gym that I won't end up a picture on their Facebook wall, pointing and laughing at the fat girl? How can I believe that when they ridicule fat people for wearing too little clothing that they don't actually mean me? How can I believe anything they say to me?
I mean it... how?
Because I don't believe them. If I have ever seen a post like that on someone's Facebook wall I assume that those are their true feelings about me, even if the post doesn't pertain to me. I assume that, when they are disgusted by fat people, they are also disgusted by me.
Because, guess what? I'm fat.
If you are a member of the Beautiful People, the Magazine People, the Fashion People, it doesn't give you the right to dictate what the rest of us can and can't wear or do. I'm sorry to break it to you.
If you're offended by my fat, don't look at it. If you're offended by my outfit, don't look at it. If you're offended that I am at your gym, don't go there.
I know I'm fat. You don't have to remind me. Everyone who is fat already knows it.
Posting about it on Facebook in order to make yourself feel better only serves to make you look like an asshole.
Everyone is only trying to get through the day in their own, individual way. Let them.
I feel great nowadays. I'm losing weight, wearing skirts, strutting in heels, and I like it. I'm far from where I'd like to be, but I'm here now, and I like me. All those Facebook posts from the Beautiful People only serve to make me never want to leave the house.
Because the crux of it all is that I'm still the me that I've always been, I'm just a well insulated me now. But if all you can see is the fat, then you are missing out on the person beneath. And it's a shame, because I kinda rock.
And if you are one of those perfect people who like to post on Facebook about the awful, Yoga-pant-wearing, heel-strutting, gym-going, "fatties" out there, then you should know that I will never believe another word you say to me about how much you like me, admire me, whatever.
And it's a shame.
Sorry, I got a little ranty there, but it is ridiculous. My people, my fellow "fatties" as others like to call us, should be able to wear whatever the hell we want to when we leave the house without the fear of ending up a meme on someone's Facebook wall. We should be able to go to the gym without fear of someone posting about the "fatty" on the next machine, or how they had to follow the "fatty" in their circuit. Because the gym is the place where we "fatties" are supposed to go in order to become a "thinny" right? I mean, isn't that the goal? Isn't that what all the complaining is about, that there are too many "fatties" out there ruining your view?
There are days that I just don't want to leave the house because I can't take the ridicule anymore. But there are other days that I just want to put on my short skirt, my high heels, and skip to work singing "Kiss my fat ass" all the way there.
Obviously today is one of the latter.
I implore you, though, to please think about what you post on your Facebook wall. If you are complaining about us "fatties" you'd better make sure that no one you love is one of us, because I guarantee you they are taking it personally. They aren't saying to themselves, "Well, I'm sure they mean everyone but me." They know that you are talking about them, and it hurts. And they won't believe you anymore when you tell them that you love them.
They just won't.
I'm better now, and he has worked very hard to keep me in his life, so he gets one mulligan. He gets that one terrible reaction.
Now, I know that I am an extremely forgiving person (my best friend would say that I am way too forgiving, but I'm OK with that), and he really did react badly, but I'm giving him this one. We have spent a lot of time discussing what happened and why, how his reaction affected me, and why it will never happen again. We slowed way down, he's been working his ass off, so I have decided to give him another chance. Of all the men I've met and/or talked to, he is the one that I click with the most, so I'm going to take the gamble.
Life is more fun when you take chances on people.
I was a little trepidatious about explaining my forgiveness, but it's who I am.
But that's not really what I want to talk about today. I want to talk about clothes.
The weather is getting warmer and the clothes are getting smaller. For a girl like me, that is usually a terrifying notion. I don't want to show any more of my body than I have to, I don't want to make other people have to look at my body like that. It's just not fair to them, I mean, I don't have to look at me all day, other people do. It's OK if I'm miserable and hot so long as they don't have to look at my body, right? It's OK if I feel like shit in an outfit I don't like so that other people are spared the sight of my fat, right? It's OK for me to hide my personality in all black clothes on the hottest of days so that other people don't catch a glimpse of my displeasing form... right?
(Can you see the sarcasm dripping?)
In the last several months I have had a spring to my step, a light in my smile, mostly due to this online dating experiment. The men that I've met have all liked me in spite of my body, wanted to kiss me, hang out with me, play with me, even though my body is what it is, which is fat. A few of them even want me for all of me, my body included, which freaks me out a bit.
This new springiness and lightness have brought with them a girlishness as well. I am suddenly wearing heels again. I am wearing skirts (skirts I tell you!) and short ones! I have nice pants and cleavage bearing shirts. I am dressing like a girl and I like how it makes me feel. I feel pretty. I feel deserving. I feel ... like me.
At least until I get on Facebook.
Then I feel like shit.
I see pictures like this one...
... which make me think that maybe I shouldn't be wearing skirts. I mean, I don't have the body I want, I have the body I have. So I guess that when it's hot I should cover my legs so as not to offend other people. Right?
I constantly see posts calling out fat women for wearing Yoga pants or sleeveless shirts. What if that is the only thing that woman can wear? What if that outfit makes her feel fabulous? What if that woman was feeling like crap today and just wanted to chill in her Yoga pants while running errands? What if she is on her way to the gym for her daily workout/torture session, that she is doing her damnedest to improve her body, all unbeknownst to the random Facebook user who was offended that she dared wear Yoga pants outdoors?
And let's talk about the gym posts! Do you have any idea what it's like to be fat and walk into a gym? To be that brave? To face the eye rolling, scoffing, disgusted looks, and "helpful" suggestions on how to lose the weight from people you've never met before, and have probably never had a weight issue in their lives? Do you have any idea what it takes to do that?
I see posts every day on Facebook about some fat person at the gym (how dare they be fat at the gym!) on a treadmill in front of the Facebook poster, forcing the poster to look at their fat ass while running. Or, even worse, those who post a picture of someone at the gym, some random person doing their workout, trying to get healthy, who had the audacity to be fat at the gym, or to wear an outfit that was displeasing to the picture taker. What if that person in the all purple sweat suit loves purple, if purple makes them feel amazing, if wearing that all purple sweat suit is the thing that gets them through the workout? We all have that outfit, the one that makes us feel fabulous, or motivates us. We've all worn it. Hell, we've all worn it out of the house! That purple person probably knows they look a bit like Barney, but if that's what it takes to get them to the gym...
I see so many posts by obviously perfect people concerning the outfits or physique of someone fat or ridiculous in their perfect eyes. Those perfect people are so offended by fat people, ugly people, ungroomed people, that they feel the need to publicly shame them on Facebook. But because they don't actually know the object of their ridicule it can seem anonymous somehow.
And they don't know those people. They don't know their story. They don't know whether the object of ridicule just went through a massive illness that left them fat and scared. They don't know if the object just had some surgery that will force them into Yoga pants for a while. They don't know if the object just lost 60 pounds and is feeling amazing and proud, only to face their rolling eyes and awful Facebook posts. They just assume that the objects are lazy or stupid. They just assume that the object should should know better. But they don't know those people. They don't know.
But they do know me. Many of these same people who complain about fat people and lazy people, that bitch about someone's outfit or having to look at someone's icky body at the gym, those same people tell me I'm beautiful. They tell me that they love me, that I'm awesome. That I'm their favorite.
How can I possibly believe them?
How can I believe that if I suddenly decide to be brave enough to go to a gym that I won't end up a picture on their Facebook wall, pointing and laughing at the fat girl? How can I believe that when they ridicule fat people for wearing too little clothing that they don't actually mean me? How can I believe anything they say to me?
I mean it... how?
Because I don't believe them. If I have ever seen a post like that on someone's Facebook wall I assume that those are their true feelings about me, even if the post doesn't pertain to me. I assume that, when they are disgusted by fat people, they are also disgusted by me.
Because, guess what? I'm fat.
If you are a member of the Beautiful People, the Magazine People, the Fashion People, it doesn't give you the right to dictate what the rest of us can and can't wear or do. I'm sorry to break it to you.
If you're offended by my fat, don't look at it. If you're offended by my outfit, don't look at it. If you're offended that I am at your gym, don't go there.
I know I'm fat. You don't have to remind me. Everyone who is fat already knows it.
Posting about it on Facebook in order to make yourself feel better only serves to make you look like an asshole.
Everyone is only trying to get through the day in their own, individual way. Let them.
I feel great nowadays. I'm losing weight, wearing skirts, strutting in heels, and I like it. I'm far from where I'd like to be, but I'm here now, and I like me. All those Facebook posts from the Beautiful People only serve to make me never want to leave the house.
Because the crux of it all is that I'm still the me that I've always been, I'm just a well insulated me now. But if all you can see is the fat, then you are missing out on the person beneath. And it's a shame, because I kinda rock.
And if you are one of those perfect people who like to post on Facebook about the awful, Yoga-pant-wearing, heel-strutting, gym-going, "fatties" out there, then you should know that I will never believe another word you say to me about how much you like me, admire me, whatever.
And it's a shame.
Sorry, I got a little ranty there, but it is ridiculous. My people, my fellow "fatties" as others like to call us, should be able to wear whatever the hell we want to when we leave the house without the fear of ending up a meme on someone's Facebook wall. We should be able to go to the gym without fear of someone posting about the "fatty" on the next machine, or how they had to follow the "fatty" in their circuit. Because the gym is the place where we "fatties" are supposed to go in order to become a "thinny" right? I mean, isn't that the goal? Isn't that what all the complaining is about, that there are too many "fatties" out there ruining your view?
There are days that I just don't want to leave the house because I can't take the ridicule anymore. But there are other days that I just want to put on my short skirt, my high heels, and skip to work singing "Kiss my fat ass" all the way there.
Obviously today is one of the latter.
I implore you, though, to please think about what you post on your Facebook wall. If you are complaining about us "fatties" you'd better make sure that no one you love is one of us, because I guarantee you they are taking it personally. They aren't saying to themselves, "Well, I'm sure they mean everyone but me." They know that you are talking about them, and it hurts. And they won't believe you anymore when you tell them that you love them.
They just won't.
Tuesday, March 24, 2015
Scratch
Last Friday was the first official day of Spring and it snowed.
It snowed a lot, actually. Several inches of snow were dumped on my life both actually and metaphorically.
See, on Friday everything fell apart and I have to start from scratch.
The fact that it snowed on the first day of Spring and the last day of my relationship with the man from another city is ironic, actually. He and I have been (supposedly) trying to meet for more than a month now, but each weekend his city was blanketed with several feet of snow. Sometimes more than several feet.
It was basically Snowmageddon up there making travel all but impossible and postponing our meeting again and again.
It was verifiable and everything. I couldn't blame him for not coming down amidst the white-out, nor could I be expected to go up there. So we settled for talking on the phone and texting every day. Neither of us were happy about it, or so it seemed, but it was our only option.
Or so it seemed.
Then, last Friday, the first day of Spring, the day when there were no more obstacles, he was going to come visiting. Originally we were supposed to meet the weekend before but something happened and we didn't. I told my best friend that if he and I didn't meet this week I was ending it. I told her this before he bailed on the first scheduled meeting last weekend. I informed her that if he and I didn't connect last week that I would be calling her, quite probably in hysterics, quite probably furious, be prepared.
I had a feeling.
He and I had made solid plans for Friday, the first day of Spring. He was coming to New York both to visit a friend and to meet me. In person. For real. No foolin'.
Ha.
The day began with texts about how excited he was to meet me, he couldn't wait to kiss me, he was going to leave around 1:00. Then he texted, "I'm so sorry that we couldn't meet last weekend. I hope nothing else happens."
Huh. What an odd thing to say.
My immediate thought was, "Yeah, he's not coming."
What I said was, "The only thing that's going to happen is that you are going to get in your car, drive to New York, and meet me."
He sent me a text at 1:00 to say that he was leaving.
At around 2:30 I received a, "Hey, watchadoing?" text.
Here it comes...
"I just got pulled over, ostensibly for speeding. He's running my plates now."
Uh-huh.
Then I got an onslaught of texts: "I can't wait to meet you." "I'm crazy about you." "I've never felt this way about any woman, ever." "I really feel in my heart that we are soul mates and will be in love for life." Blah, blah, blah.
Then, "OMG! You won't believe this!" he texted. He proceeded to tell me that he has an outstanding ticket from eight years ago that has gone to warrant. Because he was more than 50 miles from home they weren't going to tow his car, but he had to promise to go right to a courthouse and pay it or else.
Uh-huh.
I told him to call me when he got back on the road. I knew he wasn't coming and was just playing along at this point. I wanted to see how far it would go.
At around 6:30 he sent another text saying he paid everything but that it was going to take up to 36 hours to clear the system so he couldn't leave the state. Then he suggested that I come to him, meet him half-way, or "maybe most of the way," and we could spend time together.
Nope.
I then asked him a question. I should have asked this question months ago, but he got the benefit of the doubt due to the aforementioned Snowmageddon. I've been wanting to ask him this question for a few weeks, regardless of the weather. But I was giving him the benefit of the doubt.
"Do you have a secret that is keeping us from meeting? Some big thing that you're hiding? Has it been more than just random happenstance that has been keeping us apart? Are you married? Are you really a woman?"
That last part was tossed in there to try to add some levity to the moment. He didn't get it.
He replied with, "Am I really a woman? You are REALLY F*%$ED IN THE HEAD!"
Huh.
"It was an attempt at humor in an otherwise terrifying question. Do you have a secret?"
"And how am I supposed to be perpetuating this alleged secret? Am I supposed to be just stringing you along, manipulating your feelings, coming up with elaborate hoaxes to dash your hopes and break your heart?"
Well... since you spelled it out so nicely...
"I appreciate that you think this of me after so much time," he texted, "I don't want an apology so don't even say it."
Funny, I didn't apologize. Wasn't even thinking of apologizing. I wasn't wrong for asking the question.
"You impugned my integrity. The damage has been done," he sent.
Yes, I'd say it has.
I sent a quick text to my best friend who promptly called me.
There were tears. Lots of tears. And a lot of feeling stupid. He and I had been talking for months now, getting along so very well, how could I not have seen it? How could I not have known that it was all bullshit?
My roommate said, "Mother Nature was on his side! If there hadn't been so much snow you would have figured this out months ago!"
I think Mother Nature was on MY side, keeping me away from this man on purpose.
My best friend let me cry, reminded me of all the good I got out of this relationship (if we can even call it that). He made me feel good about myself. He let me feel pretty. He let me feel wanted.
I feel like an asshole, mostly because it was my ex all over again. Blaming me for asking a very real and warranted question. Getting defensive and trying to make me feel bad when they were in the wrong.
An innocent person responds to something like that by saying, "No. No secret. Just bad timing."
A guilty person responds with accusations and anger.
He never did answer the question, by the way. Which is telling.
I decided to allow myself to be sad on Saturday. I would sit at home, watch TV, do whatever, and be sad. I was going to stop being sad on Sunday. Dammit.
Then, Saturday night I received some more texts. Never a phone call, mind you, only texts.
"It's obviously late and we haven't spoken or texted... I'm still upset by yesterday, as I'm sure you are but for different reasons. I don't know what I want or where we're going... I know you were very upset and disappointed... as was I. It didn't justify the things you said or the accusations you made. And I saw a side of you that I didn't know existed and I didn't like very much."
Really...
I didn't reply. I made no accusations, simply asked a question. A long overdue question. One I have yet to get an answer to.
I continued my sad day, unhindered.
I awoke on Sunday to the following message: "I want your thoughts on where we go from here... And unlike yesterday, I expect and require responses to these texts."
Really...
So I thought about it for about twenty seconds then replied, "I saw a side of you that I don't like. I've been nothing but patient and understanding these last months, but there comes a time where patience becomes gullibility. A man who truly wants to be with me would move heaven and earth to do so, just as I would have done to be with you. Instead you blew me off at every turn. You got me to fall for you... but you've lost me, and I'm heartbroken."
"Good bye. Pictures will be deleted. We are done." That's it. Not even a little bit of fight, just done.
Yes, I'd say we are.
So, I will pick myself up, dust myself off, and start all over again. Again.
I'd say I dodged a bullet, but I just feel like an asshole.
I feel like an asshole for believing him. I feel like an asshole for wanting to believe him. I feel like an asshole for allowing it to continue for so long (my only justification is Snowmageddon, but still). I feel like an asshole for falling for my ex all over again. I also feel like an asshole for spending such time and energy on someone who, when it came down to the wire, didn't fight for me at all. Not even a little.
I basically just feel like an asshole.
But I'm done being sad.
My best friend thinks he's married. My roommate thinks hes a dick. My father thinks he's a predator.
I just think he's done, at least as far as I am concerned.
Also, I feel relieved.
I'm glad I found out this way rather than in person. I'm glad I found out now rather than later. I'm glad I found out that I'm still attracting men like this so that I can be on the lookout as I move on. I had thought that I'd have grown out of it by now.
I'm glad that I wasn't deeply invested before he showed this side of him.
I'm not glad, however, that I have to start from scratch.
Again.
But I will.
And I will be triumphant.
Dammit.
Right now, though, I'm just sad.
It snowed a lot, actually. Several inches of snow were dumped on my life both actually and metaphorically.
See, on Friday everything fell apart and I have to start from scratch.
The fact that it snowed on the first day of Spring and the last day of my relationship with the man from another city is ironic, actually. He and I have been (supposedly) trying to meet for more than a month now, but each weekend his city was blanketed with several feet of snow. Sometimes more than several feet.
It was basically Snowmageddon up there making travel all but impossible and postponing our meeting again and again.
It was verifiable and everything. I couldn't blame him for not coming down amidst the white-out, nor could I be expected to go up there. So we settled for talking on the phone and texting every day. Neither of us were happy about it, or so it seemed, but it was our only option.
Or so it seemed.
Then, last Friday, the first day of Spring, the day when there were no more obstacles, he was going to come visiting. Originally we were supposed to meet the weekend before but something happened and we didn't. I told my best friend that if he and I didn't meet this week I was ending it. I told her this before he bailed on the first scheduled meeting last weekend. I informed her that if he and I didn't connect last week that I would be calling her, quite probably in hysterics, quite probably furious, be prepared.
I had a feeling.
He and I had made solid plans for Friday, the first day of Spring. He was coming to New York both to visit a friend and to meet me. In person. For real. No foolin'.
Ha.
The day began with texts about how excited he was to meet me, he couldn't wait to kiss me, he was going to leave around 1:00. Then he texted, "I'm so sorry that we couldn't meet last weekend. I hope nothing else happens."
Huh. What an odd thing to say.
My immediate thought was, "Yeah, he's not coming."
What I said was, "The only thing that's going to happen is that you are going to get in your car, drive to New York, and meet me."
He sent me a text at 1:00 to say that he was leaving.
At around 2:30 I received a, "Hey, watchadoing?" text.
Here it comes...
"I just got pulled over, ostensibly for speeding. He's running my plates now."
Uh-huh.
Then I got an onslaught of texts: "I can't wait to meet you." "I'm crazy about you." "I've never felt this way about any woman, ever." "I really feel in my heart that we are soul mates and will be in love for life." Blah, blah, blah.
Then, "OMG! You won't believe this!" he texted. He proceeded to tell me that he has an outstanding ticket from eight years ago that has gone to warrant. Because he was more than 50 miles from home they weren't going to tow his car, but he had to promise to go right to a courthouse and pay it or else.
Uh-huh.
I told him to call me when he got back on the road. I knew he wasn't coming and was just playing along at this point. I wanted to see how far it would go.
At around 6:30 he sent another text saying he paid everything but that it was going to take up to 36 hours to clear the system so he couldn't leave the state. Then he suggested that I come to him, meet him half-way, or "maybe most of the way," and we could spend time together.
Nope.
I then asked him a question. I should have asked this question months ago, but he got the benefit of the doubt due to the aforementioned Snowmageddon. I've been wanting to ask him this question for a few weeks, regardless of the weather. But I was giving him the benefit of the doubt.
"Do you have a secret that is keeping us from meeting? Some big thing that you're hiding? Has it been more than just random happenstance that has been keeping us apart? Are you married? Are you really a woman?"
That last part was tossed in there to try to add some levity to the moment. He didn't get it.
He replied with, "Am I really a woman? You are REALLY F*%$ED IN THE HEAD!"
Huh.
"It was an attempt at humor in an otherwise terrifying question. Do you have a secret?"
"And how am I supposed to be perpetuating this alleged secret? Am I supposed to be just stringing you along, manipulating your feelings, coming up with elaborate hoaxes to dash your hopes and break your heart?"
Well... since you spelled it out so nicely...
"I appreciate that you think this of me after so much time," he texted, "I don't want an apology so don't even say it."
Funny, I didn't apologize. Wasn't even thinking of apologizing. I wasn't wrong for asking the question.
"You impugned my integrity. The damage has been done," he sent.
Yes, I'd say it has.
I sent a quick text to my best friend who promptly called me.
There were tears. Lots of tears. And a lot of feeling stupid. He and I had been talking for months now, getting along so very well, how could I not have seen it? How could I not have known that it was all bullshit?
My roommate said, "Mother Nature was on his side! If there hadn't been so much snow you would have figured this out months ago!"
I think Mother Nature was on MY side, keeping me away from this man on purpose.
My best friend let me cry, reminded me of all the good I got out of this relationship (if we can even call it that). He made me feel good about myself. He let me feel pretty. He let me feel wanted.
I feel like an asshole, mostly because it was my ex all over again. Blaming me for asking a very real and warranted question. Getting defensive and trying to make me feel bad when they were in the wrong.
An innocent person responds to something like that by saying, "No. No secret. Just bad timing."
A guilty person responds with accusations and anger.
He never did answer the question, by the way. Which is telling.
I decided to allow myself to be sad on Saturday. I would sit at home, watch TV, do whatever, and be sad. I was going to stop being sad on Sunday. Dammit.
Then, Saturday night I received some more texts. Never a phone call, mind you, only texts.
"It's obviously late and we haven't spoken or texted... I'm still upset by yesterday, as I'm sure you are but for different reasons. I don't know what I want or where we're going... I know you were very upset and disappointed... as was I. It didn't justify the things you said or the accusations you made. And I saw a side of you that I didn't know existed and I didn't like very much."
Really...
I didn't reply. I made no accusations, simply asked a question. A long overdue question. One I have yet to get an answer to.
I continued my sad day, unhindered.
I awoke on Sunday to the following message: "I want your thoughts on where we go from here... And unlike yesterday, I expect and require responses to these texts."
Really...
So I thought about it for about twenty seconds then replied, "I saw a side of you that I don't like. I've been nothing but patient and understanding these last months, but there comes a time where patience becomes gullibility. A man who truly wants to be with me would move heaven and earth to do so, just as I would have done to be with you. Instead you blew me off at every turn. You got me to fall for you... but you've lost me, and I'm heartbroken."
"Good bye. Pictures will be deleted. We are done." That's it. Not even a little bit of fight, just done.
Yes, I'd say we are.
So, I will pick myself up, dust myself off, and start all over again. Again.
I'd say I dodged a bullet, but I just feel like an asshole.
I feel like an asshole for believing him. I feel like an asshole for wanting to believe him. I feel like an asshole for allowing it to continue for so long (my only justification is Snowmageddon, but still). I feel like an asshole for falling for my ex all over again. I also feel like an asshole for spending such time and energy on someone who, when it came down to the wire, didn't fight for me at all. Not even a little.
I basically just feel like an asshole.
But I'm done being sad.
My best friend thinks he's married. My roommate thinks hes a dick. My father thinks he's a predator.
I just think he's done, at least as far as I am concerned.
Also, I feel relieved.
I'm glad I found out this way rather than in person. I'm glad I found out now rather than later. I'm glad I found out that I'm still attracting men like this so that I can be on the lookout as I move on. I had thought that I'd have grown out of it by now.
I'm glad that I wasn't deeply invested before he showed this side of him.
I'm not glad, however, that I have to start from scratch.
Again.
But I will.
And I will be triumphant.
Dammit.
Right now, though, I'm just sad.
Wednesday, February 25, 2015
Life.
Life happens.
People happen, illness happens, shit happens.
It just does. There's no getting around it.
Sometimes life happens hard. It floors you, knocks the wind out of you, then keeps on trucking.
Sometimes life happens soft, floating by in a gentle breeze.
But it happens whether you want it to or not.
Fifteen years ago life happened to me. I got sick. Sick in a way that I couldn't fathom. I was scared, the doctors were scared, my people were scared. They threw drugs at me, scared the crap out of me, took all of my money, and then left me to fend for myself.
I managed to get through it with the help of my people, but I didn't handle it very well. I didn't handle it very well at all, actually.
Eleven years ago it happened again, only this time they couldn't fix it. They threw more drugs at me, took the rest of my money, and told me to pray. We could see the fear in their eyes, see them fidget with uncertainty. The doctors would actually huddle up in my room, talking as though I wasn't there, throwing ideas at each other to try to find a way through it. To say it was scary is a vast understatement. And I didn't handle it well.
They gave me steroids, which are the devil's favorite candy. They took my spleen. They gave me chemo, which is what finally worked, eventually coaxing my body to work again. The result of this combination of drugs and surgeries was weight. Lots and lots of weight.
Now, I was never a skinny girl, but I was thin prior to getting sick the first time. Even after that first bout I was still proportional, still cute, still sexy. Still me.
After the second bout, though, everything was distorted. Everything. And I ran away. I ran away from everything and hid, and then I got stuck. I couldn't find my way back to being me. So I hid some more.
And I got even more stuck.
The more I hid the more stuck I was, the more stuck I became the more I hid. A vicious circle of fear and pain.
This illness that I have is still bubbling under the surface, though managed and "safe," if there is such a thing, and there are certain things that I must avoid if I want to keep it that way: aspirin, aspartame, alcohol, and quinine. These four, simple, everyday things could kill me if I have too much of them, or even a little of each in combination.
But I'm "safe" according to the medical people.
This safety is an illusion that, when I think of it for any period of time, can send me into a spiral of fear and tears. So I don't really think of it if I can help it.
My spiral of shame, dread, despair, and weight continued for far, far too long. But I was stuck and I couldn't see my way out.
My best friend tried to get me out of it. She yelled at me, cajoled me, coddled me, coaxed me, shook me, shocked me... but I couldn't see my way out. I just couldn't.
My friends tried to tell me that I was still me, still awesome, still worthy. It didn't work. Nothing worked. I was just headed down that rabbit hole and I was powerless to stop the descent.
Then, three years ago, I found myself sitting alone with a bottle of vodka in my hand. A large bottle. I remember thinking, "All I need to do is drink. It wouldn't really be killing myself. I would just be having a drink." Alcohol is probably the worst of the big four "must avoid" things in my life. Rationally I knew what I was about to do. Intellectually I knew what I was about to do. Emotionally I hadn't a clue what I was about to do.
So I picked up the phone and I called my best friend. I didn't tell her at the time that I was holding that bottle, but she could tell that this phone call was worse than the others. She told me to talk to someone, someone educated in talking to people, someone whose profession is talking to people and helping them wade through their shit.
I didn't want to go. "What if there are bears there?" I asked her.
"I promise that there won't be bears," she said.
I looked at that bottle and promised her that I would.
The next day I found someone to talk to. She listened to me cry, listened to me freak out, listened to my story of illness and fear. Then she looked at me and said, "That sucks. Doesn't that suck?"
"Well... yeah. It does suck. It really sucks."
"I can help you," she said. "Come back next week. I can help you."
So I went back the next week. And the week after that. And the week after that.
I didn't tell anyone about the bottle. I didn't feel shame about it, I just wanted to keep that option open. I told people, if I had to tell them something, that I was going to therapy for an eating disorder. It's not why I was going to therapy, not even close. But that's what I told them.
Then something extraordinary happened. I started to feel better. I had hope again. I laughed again. I started to see the world again, rather than just the space directly in front of me. The periphery came alive again.
A year after I began seeing my bear doctor (we call her the bear doctor because, as it turns out, she has a picture of a bear in her office so there WERE actually bears there!) I began to seek life again. I began to see my friends again, to audition with joy again, to walk the world with my eyes open again. My friends were so happy to see me, I began to get called back, I began to book gigs, I began to feel a part of things.
Six months after that I moved back home, back to New York. On a Friday, I reached out to a few friends asking if they knew of any day jobs, I had an interview on that Monday, and I started my new job a week and a half later.
I began to try to lose weight again, making very slow progress but progress nonetheless. Nine months after I started my job I began this online dating experience, terrified all the while. I have had dates. I have been kissed. I have met a man who makes me tingle.
I have also lost weight. The happier I become the more weight just drops off. I have started taking self-defense classes and can only see joy. Everywhere.
It gets better.
Life gets better. It floats. I float.
Three years ago I sat alone with a bottle of death. Today I am excited about the future. I can see a future! And it looks so good.
I still have that bottle, though I no longer see it as an option. It is a reminder. A reminder of how stuck I had been, how desperate I had become, how hopeless. And it is a reminder of strength, because I didn't open it. It is strength because I asked for help. I made that phone call, made that promise, found a bear doctor.
And I'm still here.
I have learned to ask for help. I don't have to do this shit alone! WE don't have to do this shit alone. Someone will be there, someone will listen, someone will make you promise.
There is joy to be found, and hope. And bears. It gets better.
I am living proof.
People happen, illness happens, shit happens.
It just does. There's no getting around it.
Sometimes life happens hard. It floors you, knocks the wind out of you, then keeps on trucking.
Sometimes life happens soft, floating by in a gentle breeze.
But it happens whether you want it to or not.
Fifteen years ago life happened to me. I got sick. Sick in a way that I couldn't fathom. I was scared, the doctors were scared, my people were scared. They threw drugs at me, scared the crap out of me, took all of my money, and then left me to fend for myself.
I managed to get through it with the help of my people, but I didn't handle it very well. I didn't handle it very well at all, actually.
Eleven years ago it happened again, only this time they couldn't fix it. They threw more drugs at me, took the rest of my money, and told me to pray. We could see the fear in their eyes, see them fidget with uncertainty. The doctors would actually huddle up in my room, talking as though I wasn't there, throwing ideas at each other to try to find a way through it. To say it was scary is a vast understatement. And I didn't handle it well.
They gave me steroids, which are the devil's favorite candy. They took my spleen. They gave me chemo, which is what finally worked, eventually coaxing my body to work again. The result of this combination of drugs and surgeries was weight. Lots and lots of weight.
Now, I was never a skinny girl, but I was thin prior to getting sick the first time. Even after that first bout I was still proportional, still cute, still sexy. Still me.
After the second bout, though, everything was distorted. Everything. And I ran away. I ran away from everything and hid, and then I got stuck. I couldn't find my way back to being me. So I hid some more.
And I got even more stuck.
The more I hid the more stuck I was, the more stuck I became the more I hid. A vicious circle of fear and pain.
This illness that I have is still bubbling under the surface, though managed and "safe," if there is such a thing, and there are certain things that I must avoid if I want to keep it that way: aspirin, aspartame, alcohol, and quinine. These four, simple, everyday things could kill me if I have too much of them, or even a little of each in combination.
But I'm "safe" according to the medical people.
This safety is an illusion that, when I think of it for any period of time, can send me into a spiral of fear and tears. So I don't really think of it if I can help it.
My spiral of shame, dread, despair, and weight continued for far, far too long. But I was stuck and I couldn't see my way out.
My best friend tried to get me out of it. She yelled at me, cajoled me, coddled me, coaxed me, shook me, shocked me... but I couldn't see my way out. I just couldn't.
My friends tried to tell me that I was still me, still awesome, still worthy. It didn't work. Nothing worked. I was just headed down that rabbit hole and I was powerless to stop the descent.
Then, three years ago, I found myself sitting alone with a bottle of vodka in my hand. A large bottle. I remember thinking, "All I need to do is drink. It wouldn't really be killing myself. I would just be having a drink." Alcohol is probably the worst of the big four "must avoid" things in my life. Rationally I knew what I was about to do. Intellectually I knew what I was about to do. Emotionally I hadn't a clue what I was about to do.
So I picked up the phone and I called my best friend. I didn't tell her at the time that I was holding that bottle, but she could tell that this phone call was worse than the others. She told me to talk to someone, someone educated in talking to people, someone whose profession is talking to people and helping them wade through their shit.
I didn't want to go. "What if there are bears there?" I asked her.
"I promise that there won't be bears," she said.
I looked at that bottle and promised her that I would.
The next day I found someone to talk to. She listened to me cry, listened to me freak out, listened to my story of illness and fear. Then she looked at me and said, "That sucks. Doesn't that suck?"
"Well... yeah. It does suck. It really sucks."
"I can help you," she said. "Come back next week. I can help you."
So I went back the next week. And the week after that. And the week after that.
I didn't tell anyone about the bottle. I didn't feel shame about it, I just wanted to keep that option open. I told people, if I had to tell them something, that I was going to therapy for an eating disorder. It's not why I was going to therapy, not even close. But that's what I told them.
Then something extraordinary happened. I started to feel better. I had hope again. I laughed again. I started to see the world again, rather than just the space directly in front of me. The periphery came alive again.
A year after I began seeing my bear doctor (we call her the bear doctor because, as it turns out, she has a picture of a bear in her office so there WERE actually bears there!) I began to seek life again. I began to see my friends again, to audition with joy again, to walk the world with my eyes open again. My friends were so happy to see me, I began to get called back, I began to book gigs, I began to feel a part of things.
Six months after that I moved back home, back to New York. On a Friday, I reached out to a few friends asking if they knew of any day jobs, I had an interview on that Monday, and I started my new job a week and a half later.
I began to try to lose weight again, making very slow progress but progress nonetheless. Nine months after I started my job I began this online dating experience, terrified all the while. I have had dates. I have been kissed. I have met a man who makes me tingle.
I have also lost weight. The happier I become the more weight just drops off. I have started taking self-defense classes and can only see joy. Everywhere.
It gets better.
Life gets better. It floats. I float.
Three years ago I sat alone with a bottle of death. Today I am excited about the future. I can see a future! And it looks so good.
I still have that bottle, though I no longer see it as an option. It is a reminder. A reminder of how stuck I had been, how desperate I had become, how hopeless. And it is a reminder of strength, because I didn't open it. It is strength because I asked for help. I made that phone call, made that promise, found a bear doctor.
And I'm still here.
I have learned to ask for help. I don't have to do this shit alone! WE don't have to do this shit alone. Someone will be there, someone will listen, someone will make you promise.
There is joy to be found, and hope. And bears. It gets better.
I am living proof.
Wednesday, February 4, 2015
Justice
I have been preoccupied with justice lately.
Not legal justice, or any kind of tangible equality, but rather things that are just.
Because things are not just, not equitable. And it's upsetting.
In my attempt to open my heart to new adventures, to attempt to find love in this body, I have had to reconcile a lot of things. For example, the person that people see in their mind when they meet me over the Internet or talk to me on the phone is hugely different than the person they see when they meet me in person. They can't imagine that my body looks the way it does because I am "so cool." I am now prepared for that look in their eyes when they realize that, yes, I am the same girl.
Part of the reason for that is that I'm a pretty awesome person, if I do say so myself. On paper, I am the perfect girlfriend: funny, loves sports, sexy, open, honest, laid back. In reality, all of those perfect aspects come in a plus sized package, which automatically disqualifies me in the eyes of many when it comes to dating. Which is a shame.
I have found this man from another city who loves the me that I am on paper, and on the phone. He loves talking to me, chatting with me, texting... I'm terrified that when we finally meet he will see the package and decide otherwise. He assures me that he isn't going anywhere no matter what, but I still have that fear.
And I am completely preoccupied with this fear. I shouldn't fear this!
I am a good person. I look around the world and see so many good people! All of us single, alone.
And then I look around the world and see so many assholes, all of them married, loved.
And it's not just!
This is not to say that every married person is an asshole, or that all good people are single, by any means - I am only speaking of a percentage of the population, but still!
How is it that the jerk I used to work with, who is a horrible person, really... just horrible... has a man who loves and dotes on her? She is mean, selfish, rude, and he adores her.
How is it that my dear friend, who is amazing and gorgeous, generous, funny... how is it that he is still single? Where is the man to dote on him?
My friend deserves to be loved. I deserve to be loved. So why has the Universe conspired to keep us wanting?
I get angry when I see my friends, my amazing friends who are all good people, that are single and lonely.
I get angrier when I see narcissists, egomaniacs, cheaters, liars... just assholes in general, all with loving, adoring partners.
Then I get sad. Truly, hopelessly sad, when I realize that I am without that partner.
It's not just.
If the world were just my gorgeous, generous friend would have a man that adores him. My friends, good people all, would love and be loved in return. I would love and be loved. And you know what? Even the assholes would be loved! Because everyone deserves to know what that feels like, to know what it is to be truly loved.
On my worst days I wonder if I do actually deserve it. If maybe I've done something in my life that negated my chance at love. That maybe I'm really a horrible, awful person that no one could possibly feel that emotion for. On these days I call my best friend who bitch slaps me from Georgia, which I appreciate. Or I cry at my roommate who reminds me that everyone deserves love, and that I am a part of the everyone.
Once I stop crying, though, I get angry again. Because everyone does deserve love, dammit! Even me.
My heart is with the man from out of town, though my frustrations abound that he is so far away. Perhaps, if things progress and we continue to feel this way something can be done about that. Until then, though, I will try to curb the fear and insecurities about us. I will continue to get giddy at the sound of his voice. I will continue to learn him, and to teach myself to him.
I will continue to work on my body, and my body image (which are two very different things, with very different points of view), and will continue to fight the good fight where they are concerned.
I will also continue to get angry about the injustice where love is concerned. Because everyone deserves to be loved. Good people, mean people, narcissistic people, self righteous people, wing-nuts, bizarre people, fat people, thin people, Christians, Atheists, Muslims, Jewish people, old people, young people, crazy people, introverts, extroverts, actors, writers, accountants... We are all a part of the everyone, and everyone deserves to be loved.
Everyone.
Dammit.
Not legal justice, or any kind of tangible equality, but rather things that are just.
Because things are not just, not equitable. And it's upsetting.
In my attempt to open my heart to new adventures, to attempt to find love in this body, I have had to reconcile a lot of things. For example, the person that people see in their mind when they meet me over the Internet or talk to me on the phone is hugely different than the person they see when they meet me in person. They can't imagine that my body looks the way it does because I am "so cool." I am now prepared for that look in their eyes when they realize that, yes, I am the same girl.
Part of the reason for that is that I'm a pretty awesome person, if I do say so myself. On paper, I am the perfect girlfriend: funny, loves sports, sexy, open, honest, laid back. In reality, all of those perfect aspects come in a plus sized package, which automatically disqualifies me in the eyes of many when it comes to dating. Which is a shame.
I have found this man from another city who loves the me that I am on paper, and on the phone. He loves talking to me, chatting with me, texting... I'm terrified that when we finally meet he will see the package and decide otherwise. He assures me that he isn't going anywhere no matter what, but I still have that fear.
And I am completely preoccupied with this fear. I shouldn't fear this!
I am a good person. I look around the world and see so many good people! All of us single, alone.
And then I look around the world and see so many assholes, all of them married, loved.
And it's not just!
This is not to say that every married person is an asshole, or that all good people are single, by any means - I am only speaking of a percentage of the population, but still!
How is it that the jerk I used to work with, who is a horrible person, really... just horrible... has a man who loves and dotes on her? She is mean, selfish, rude, and he adores her.
How is it that my dear friend, who is amazing and gorgeous, generous, funny... how is it that he is still single? Where is the man to dote on him?
My friend deserves to be loved. I deserve to be loved. So why has the Universe conspired to keep us wanting?
I get angry when I see my friends, my amazing friends who are all good people, that are single and lonely.
I get angrier when I see narcissists, egomaniacs, cheaters, liars... just assholes in general, all with loving, adoring partners.
Then I get sad. Truly, hopelessly sad, when I realize that I am without that partner.
It's not just.
If the world were just my gorgeous, generous friend would have a man that adores him. My friends, good people all, would love and be loved in return. I would love and be loved. And you know what? Even the assholes would be loved! Because everyone deserves to know what that feels like, to know what it is to be truly loved.
On my worst days I wonder if I do actually deserve it. If maybe I've done something in my life that negated my chance at love. That maybe I'm really a horrible, awful person that no one could possibly feel that emotion for. On these days I call my best friend who bitch slaps me from Georgia, which I appreciate. Or I cry at my roommate who reminds me that everyone deserves love, and that I am a part of the everyone.
Once I stop crying, though, I get angry again. Because everyone does deserve love, dammit! Even me.
My heart is with the man from out of town, though my frustrations abound that he is so far away. Perhaps, if things progress and we continue to feel this way something can be done about that. Until then, though, I will try to curb the fear and insecurities about us. I will continue to get giddy at the sound of his voice. I will continue to learn him, and to teach myself to him.
I will continue to work on my body, and my body image (which are two very different things, with very different points of view), and will continue to fight the good fight where they are concerned.
I will also continue to get angry about the injustice where love is concerned. Because everyone deserves to be loved. Good people, mean people, narcissistic people, self righteous people, wing-nuts, bizarre people, fat people, thin people, Christians, Atheists, Muslims, Jewish people, old people, young people, crazy people, introverts, extroverts, actors, writers, accountants... We are all a part of the everyone, and everyone deserves to be loved.
Everyone.
Dammit.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)