Thought of The Day: Catching Up

On Facebook I've been posting little "Thought of the Day" posts. I've done several days worth now, and I thought I'd also start them here on the blog as a way to post more frequently. The past couple of days have been images for some reason. I just find these things that speak to me in the morning and go back to it a number of times during the day to remember something good.

Yesterday, 12/8/2014.

And today's, 12/9/2014.

Pieces of Me

So I found this thing, this letter I wrote to myself in my journal just about a year ago, March 2012. Early in that month I had an episode of Bell's Palsy and was still dealing with a droopy face, pain, and all kinds of trouble with simple stupid things like eating and talking.

This one is kind of special. It isn't really about being fat. It's actually about just being. Maybe even about just being enough.



Here goes...

Can you imagine the things I've been saying to myself? Freak, gimp, ugly, monstrous? The self-hate and self-pity are pretty much back full force. I have let the pity party go on for a couple of days now, but I think I'm getting tired of it.

But those thoughts stick with me. I went to bed and had a good long cry. I just let myself feel my feelings(!). Pity, yes, but also anger, and fear, and sadness, and shame. I have depleted myself; I am sick, as sick as I've ever been, broken and stressed out and just finished. I make myself smaller to make other people feel bigger. I have spent my whole life chipping off pieces of myself to shape into something acceptable to someone else. I don't think that there are many more pieces left. I'm a shell. I am afraid that I am too sick to ever get well again.

I am sad for the little girl inside who is so lost and alone among these little statues of me that I keep creating. I'm ashamed that I found her too unworthy to just let her be.

So I'm angry. I'm angry at me for doing this to myself, angry at everyone else for letting me do it. I'm angry that people need me to be something for them. I'm angry that they need me to be "less than." I'm angry that different people need me to be different things; I'm angry that the same people sometimes need me to be conflicting things. I can't be pretty, and perfect, and normal and also broken enough to not be scary.

Because I would be scary. I AM scary, if I were to let these people see all of me at once. A lot of it is luck or hard work, but I'm actually kind of awesome. I'm smart, I'm talented, I'm nice, I have a great life, a great partner, a great job. I have enough. I have the things I need to get by and I have a few really great people who I have chosen to be in my life. I'm stronger than I let on and I'm better at a lot of things than I seem to be. But I compartmentalize those things because I want everyone to feel bigger than me. All of me at once is too much.

Yes, I am big. I am huge. I am more than meets the eye. I have hated this body for so long, not realizing how it has served me, protected me, and even housed all those beautiful little statues that I trade in and out as needed: Perfect Daughter, Perfect Sister, Perfect Wife, Perfect Diet Girl. I am just as big as I've needed to be to hold all those pieces of all that amazing stuff that is me. I have earned every fat cell, every wrinkle, every grey hair, every scab, every scar, every damage, every bit of broken heart. I have done all of this to myself in order to survive. I am a museum of wonderful and horrible things.

I can no longer be everything to everyone, but I am everything I need to be and that's going to have to be enough for all of them. Because I'm done tearing myself down and building smaller, more acceptable versions of myself. Any future building to be done will be done in order to support me, sustain me, and heal me.

Sticks and Stones

There's a site I like a lot, I get updates from them on Facebook, called Upworthy. They've gotten quite popular on FB and Twitter, so maybe you already know about them. Anyway, this video has been going around for a couple of days. I finally watched it today and... it is very powerful. And painful. And wonderful.

It's a spoken word poem performed by the author and illustrated by many. Please watch

Also, here's more information on the poet and poem via his website and Facebook page.

Sometimes a Dress is Just a Dress

I think I binged last week...

You know how I always write: "Recovery is cyclical, not linear." Well, yeah, thanks for the reminder!

It wasn't quite as bad as "the good old days," but it definitely had the character, the hallmarks of a binge. Afterward I felt full and sick and full of regret, but I never got to pain or numbness and even the overfull feeling passed quickly, within an hour, instead of keeping me awake all night. Partially I can blame it on getting wrapped up in something that was playing on TV in the restaurant - they were showing the NAACP Image Awards, no volume, but the captioning was on and I just get caught up in reading whenever you stick text in front of my face. But the lack of attention, the lack of being in the moment was not all of it.

I've been dealing a bit with self-image again. It seems that it's one thing to deal with my body unchallenged, when I am surrounded by my wonderful and supportive network and filling my days with positive thoughts and people and images. It's another thing altogether when the dress I've been drooling over for months finally arrives and is SO not the size I thought it would be. (Apparently a 3x is not a 3x is not a 3x. Who knew?) I thought at worst it would be a size too small and I could work it out, get it altered somehow. However, the difference between a 3x = 28 and 3x = 18 is, shall we say, insurmountable. (And hey look, it's also an algebra problem!)

Bummer.

Now, rationally, I know that it was just a mistake, I should have paid more attention to the sizing chart. But of course, that's not what the voice in my head understood. It cranked up the old voice track, crackling and popping with disuse, but still there all the same: Stupid to hope. That's what you get for thinking you'll be pretty, for wanting something cute. Stupid...ugly...FATASS.

So, I reacted on instinct for a few days, depression, a binge, tearing myself to pieces. Going back to the old coping mechanism is still so damned easy. And here I was, thinking it was all over, that I had been "fixed." Sort of.

However...

Now I know. Now I'm stronger. Now I know that even if I fall into this damned hole again, I have the tools to get out of it. A week ago I could SAY that I had the tools, now I'm sure that I do. I let that fucking dress hang in my closet for exactly two days. Then I said goodbye to it (and to that voice), packed it, taped it, and it's ready to go back for my refund. I leaned on my beloved and treated myself kindly, reminded myself that I am okay, I'm splendid, thank you very much, cute dress or no cute dress.

Joy Division

The thing about all of this introspection is that you can find odd new things about yourself all of the time that you might not even believe if someone else told you. I have spent all of this time reminding myself that I’m worthy of love and happiness and every darn thing that every other person is worthy of. And most of the time, I seem to believe it, but still…

Driving home from work a few days ago I was feeling strangely fine, listening to my iPod and singing, really quite happy. Traffic was light (for a change). I was bopping around in my seat and smiling. Then, up ahead, I noticed three teenage boys on the sidewalk, and that I would be passing them in seconds. Somehow my entire demeanor suddenly changed, before I could even think about it. My smile disappeared, replaced with a serious, worried expression. Something in my chest contracted a little. I whizzed past them without incident, of course – after all, what could they do or say to me in my car for Pete’s sake?

I was disturbed by my reaction. Yes, teenage boys have been the bane of my existence since I was a child, but I’m a middle-aged lady these days and besides, I’m SAFE now. What the hell?

Of course, me being me, I had to analyze it for a while. It seemed to me that *I* still believe that I am allowed to be happy. It wasn’t guilt. It felt more like fear…. I wanted to hide my joy. I didn’t want to be – what? Sneered at, belittled, attacked? For smiling? For joy?

I don’t like that feeling.

I saw an image this morning that reminded me of this idea again. As soon as I saw it, I felt almost offended, and definitely fearful. Here’s the image.

I couldn’t help but think that this beautiful woman was doing a terrible thing. Not the eating, not the enjoyment, but that she was doing it so *publicly*. How could she put herself out there for other people to see, to be so vulnerable, so open to ridicule and attack?

And it was more than just having her picture taken and posted publicly, it was her expression of joy, of the joy of cake and her body and her life all at the same time. I visit a couple of body acceptance sites that post pictures of beautiful, brave fat people all of the time, so it wasn’t her body. It was the joy and the eating. How could she bear to do that?

How can I bear to do that?

Closing notes: The image above was found via Ragen Chastain from the Facebook site, 1 Million Vaginas. Other fat-positive sites I like - most images are Not Safe for Work!! - are Adipositivity and Uppity Fatty. Enjoy!

The Beauty of Different

I found a nifty video on Upworthy today that I want to share. It's three minutes long and put together by artist Karen Walrond. Check that out here: The Beauty of Different. Apparently there is also a book...

Her website is here, though I haven't quite been able to check out her 1,000 Faces gallery quite yet because my computer can't seem to handle so many open tabs at one time!

Recovering the Storyteller

I am back from a long Labor Day weekend at my favorite geek convention, DragonCon in Atlanta, Georgia. We had a great time and this year my eating situation was the best ever! I attended a wonderful writing workshop presented by Michael Stackpole and Aaron Allston for most of the weekend. I feel like my creativity and passion has been reignited and I’m looking forward to writing fiction again for the first time in years.

As a writer and a storyteller, I often find it easier to express myself in these long, kind of weird analogies. And sometimes I run across creative tales, poems, or analogies that sink right into my heart; they stay with me and speak to me as I journey. I keep copies of them on my desktop so that I can get to them easily when I need them again.

One of them was the poem about a hole in the sidewalk, oddly enough entitled: “There’s a Hole in my Sidewalk” by Portia Nelson.

Chapter 1 

I walk down the street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I fall in. I am lost… I am helpless. It isn’t my fault. It takes forever to find a way out.

Chapter 2 

I walk down the street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I pretend that I don’t see it. I fall in again. I can’t believe I am in this same place. But, it isn’t my fault. It still takes a long time to get out.

Chapter 3 

I walk down the same street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I see it is there. I still fall in … it’s a habit … but, my eyes are open. I know where I am. It is my fault. I get out immediately.

Chapter 4 

I walk down the same street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I walk around it.

Chapter 5 

I walk down another street.

Another big favorite is The Desiderata, by Max Ehrmann, which I won’t repost entirely here because it is quite long. My favorite line of all is this:

Beyond a wholesome discipline, 

be gentle with yourself. 

You are a child of the universe 

no less than the trees and the stars; 

you have a right to be here.

And finally, a very nice analogy was blogged by the comedian Margaret Cho earlier this year. Here’s the part I loved the best, I loved it so much that I pasted it into a background and it pops up on my computer desktop from time to time as an image:

“I fly my flag of self-esteem for all those who have been told they were ugly and fat and hurt and shamed and violated and abused for the way they look and told time and time again that they were ‘different’ and therefore unlovable. Come to me and I will tell you and show you how beautiful and loved you are and you will see it and feel it and know it and then look in the mirror and truly believe it. If you are offended by my anger and my might at defending my borders and my people you do not deserve entry into my beloved and magnificent country.”

Here’s a link to an article about it on the magazine site, Jezebel, and to Margaret Cho's original blog, but be warned that the language is coarse and raw and honest. 

And as for me? Well, here’s a metaphor I came up with in July of last year, still pretty new to the recovery thing but facing the long coming year of caring for my dying father. It was tough, it set me back, but like so much of the ebb and flow of recovery, it taught me to take care of myself, to be stronger, and to hold on. Here’s what I wrote:

“I didn’t like who I had become, and I am in the process of pushing her out and emptying the house of all her shit. What’s left is an empty space for me to fix up, redecorate, and move into. But the cool thing is that I can put whatever I want back in here. I can keep the stuff that was good, get rid of anything I don’t need, and bring in new things if I want to. 

I get to start over.”

Recovering Grace, One Meal at a Time

For tonight, back to the present for a bit. I had a Very Good Thing happen tonight and I'm proud of me!

First, I have been obsessing less and less over food as time has gone by. I don't exactly forget to eat, but I don't actively think about it constantly so I am occasionally surprised by hunger, sometimes intense hunger. (Um, and while that sounds good, it isn't necessarily good - intense hunger can lead to some intense eating, if one isn't prepared to slow down and think before consumption.) Today was one of those days, but I managed to take a moment and figure out what I wanted vs. what I had on hand to make, and didn't binge or overeat from it.

But second, and even more surprising, was what happened after dinner tonight. I had my meal and I was fairly full, not uncomfortably so, but full. Beloved husband wanted to go out for ice cream and I agreed. I got two scoops of something yummy and it was truly blissful, but... I scraped my way through the first couple of layers and then - well, I was just done. It was delicious and I might have kept going but it occurred to me that I didn't want to be overstuffed and miserable. That I was content with what I had already had and that I didn't have to finish it. It wasn't guilt or the shoulda/wouldas or getting to the state that I call "stuffed stupid." I made a choice to not be unhappy.

It has taken me so long to have this moment, to have this moment and realize that I was having it. That I have come this far and that I can keep going, and that I'm really going to be okay.

These moments rock.

And would you believe that it actually gets better? Because, yeah, it really does...

I have just come off of a really rough week. Three dentist visits, three days in a row, two separate root canals, hours of pain and then pain meds which made me sick and anxious and which have apparently hampered the effects of my antidepressant. (That's why you try to avoid taking NSAIDs on these kinds of meds.) I have been deeply depressed since last week. Like, not being able to sleep depressed, not wanting to get off of the couch depressed. And on top of that I was experimenting with reducing my dose by half a pill for the past couple of weeks anyway. Oh, so depressed...

I have been craving comfort food. I have prepared it, too, and gone out for it sometimes, and kept it to sane portions. I have not binged. It hasn't really even occurred to me to do so. Today I spent the first half of the day staring off into space and wondering why I can't cry and when faced with two giant scoops of chocolate peanut butter buckeye, I chose to not be (physically) miserable.

Can you be both depressed and proud at the same time? Apparently, yes you can.

Whatever I Fear

I'm also sharing a video of a song that has been on my mind lately. To quote Toad the West Sprocket: "We expect these things to change by waking up and suddenly there they are. And all I need is a starting place, but nothing ever seemed so hard."

Watch This Awesome Video

Found a link to a great video response to internet trolls who fat shame! Check it out...

Internet calls girl fat and her response is...perfect!

Get Out of My Head

There are two things in my head at the moment, and I’m not sure which one I want to talk about first. Well, they are at least marginally related, so maybe I’ll segue somehow… Here goes.

Here’s what “normal” people don’t get about having an ED – keeping in mind that not every fat person has an eating disorder and not everyone with an eating disorder is fat – it isn’t just the eating that’s disordered, because my thoughts about eating are also disordered. For all of these years I have been CONSUMED with thoughts about eating (pun kind of intended). And I’m not talking about cravings, or at least not just about cravings. I have had a constant dialog going on in my head about eating – Am I hungry? When did I eat last? Do I deserve to be hungry yet? What time is it? What have I eaten today? Did it have too many carbs, is that why I’m hungry already? When can I eat again? I should eat more protein. Haven’t we already been to the Chinese place this week – will they be suspicious if we go again today? Is that weird? I shouldn’t have that, it has sugar in it. What should we have for dinner tonight? What should I order? Is anything thawed out at home? What’s wrong with my tummy – am I hungry or sick? I ate fruit for a snack, so that was good. I shouldn’t order the cheeseburger, what will the waitress think?

That was my normal, every day, all the time. These weren’t just occasional thoughts, like someone might have while say, actually contemplating what to do AT dinnertime. It was constant, day and night, if I wasn’t actively thinking about something else, like work or school or taking a cat to the vet. I would even wake up in the middle of the night, itemizing every bite of yesterday and wondering what I’d do about tomorrow.

I sort of realized that it wasn’t normal a couple of years ago – that probably most people didn’t walk around constantly analyzing and criticizing their hunger. See, out of all the times I’ve ever taken cold medicine, twice (and only twice, ever) it has managed to suppress my appetite. Driving home one day (with cold medicine brain) I happened to notice the time and I was hit with the realization that I ALWAYS know what time it is, because I ALWAYS know how long it has been since I ate and how long it will be until I can eat again. So I realized that I hadn’t been thinking about eating. The voice track was gone, or at least sluggish and quiet. For the first time I realized that I HAD a voice track. And that NOT having a voice track was better. I felt free. I felt… normal.

So that’s what “normal” people don’t get. You just can’t explain obsession to someone who doesn’t have that voice track. I don’t think about eating all the time because I’m fat, I think about eating all the time because my brain is effing broken. It’s stuck in a loop. I don’t think about food because I have insatiable cravings, and I don’t always crave junk food, and I don’t binge every single time I eat. But I do always, always, always have to think about eating. Because my brain won’t shut up.

And that sucks.

Of course, you might have noticed that I said, “That was my normal…” I’ve been in recovery for a year and just recently, that voice track has gone. Mostly. I’m thinking about it now, because it came for a visit today. I’ve been depressed for a few days here lately, and that’s a time when old habits try to creep back in and take over. It’s easier to do what you are used to doing, harder to hold on to new things when the grip is less certain.

But… I HATE that voice track and I don’t want it back.

This recovery thing, it’s hard. I know that some people try to do it on their own, and I sincerely wish them luck. I tried that path, and it didn’t work for me. So once again, I want to encourage others, if this stuff sounds familiar to you, to get help. Get a support team. I know that not everyone can afford therapy and insurance doesn’t usually cover much or any of it. But at a minimum… please see what might be out there. Join a support group, read the books, join a website, and LISTEN to the people who have been here before you.

You can’t wake up every morning and just decide that you aren’t going to binge anymore. That’s just like starting a diet. You can’t depend on willpower alone. It isn’t about your will, or mind over food matter. It’s you fighting every neuron, every hormone, every instinct, every thought, every emotion, every voice track, every jackass, every “helpful well meaning” stranger, every bite, every scent, every craving, every setback, every panic attack, every disaster, every slight, every phone that never rang, every phone that did ring…. Well, you get it.

You can’t fight every minute of every day without something, someone to back you up, to help you find and USE new coping mechanisms. It’s exhausting, and eventually you get fucked. Because you are fine and good, and you don’t deserve this pain, and you are capable and strong, but you are not SUPERHUMAN. You need to talk to someone else, someone who can physically talk back to you and help you figure out what’s real and what’s not, what matters and what doesn’t, what can change and what you have to accept.

Because believe me, when all you can hear in your own head is some broken voice track, it will never tell you anything new.

This Is Not a Picture of a Cat

See?

I don't actually know where this originated from, but I stole it from my niece's Facebook page because I thought it was timely and important for me.

I've had a difficult couple of weeks, hence the light posting lately. Beyond even handling my father's death, I have encountered some exceptionally rude people who have made me feel uncomfortable and ashamed. One comment and some staring and I'm back to feeling like a freak.

So now, I could (and I did, for a while) focus on being angry, and hurt. I could focus on the fact that it's unfair, and that those guys are mean jerks. And they are, that much is true.

But...

They are also sad and pathetic. And I could, if I reach for it, just about feel sorry for them. Pity them. They aren't happy either. They are so unhappy that they feel the need to reach out and make someone else just as miserable. And, unlike me, they could never be anything but sad, pathetic, unhappy jerks. These men, and so many other people like them, making asses of themselves in public places or trolling the internet looking for someone to belittle and insult...are nothing.

They have a very limited view of beauty, very narrow, short-lived, brief, transitory, impermanent. Their love and happiness share the same short span. Because no matter how hard anyone tries to contain it, beauty expands and grows. It grows up, it grows old, it grows out, sometimes. So when only THIS type of beauty makes someone happy, makes them love it, then in an instant it grows beyond their narrow view and is no longer viable. And so they have to move on, to the next beautiful thing and the next, because they are wearing blinders. Because nothing ever satisfies. There is no way for them to ever find love and happiness because they cannot see it.

They believe they are superior. I believe they are pathetic.

Thought for the Day

Found on Facebook. Thanks, D!

The Wagon Only Goes in Circles

The problem with dieting is that it doesn't actually get you anywhere, at least not for long. On the wagon, off the wagon, whatever, it doesn't matter because the wagon isn't really going anywhere – it just goes round and round and round in the same circle. A few pounds up, a few pounds down; up, down, up, down, round and round and round she goes...

So the next hardest thing I had to do in recovery – after the “love yourself” thing, which I'm still working on – was to walk away from the wagon. Not just get off of The Diet Wagon (no problem, I've done that a thousand times) but turn my back on it and leave it behind.

Wait... No more diets? Ever? That's crazy talk! How am I supposed to lose weight?

Well, come to think of it, have you ever actually “lost weight” on all these diets you've been doing? I mean, really lost it, gone forever, never to be found again?

Ummm.... no. Haven't you noticed, I do weigh almost 300 pounds. Diets aren't helping me. They are, in fact, having exactly the opposite effect of what I intended. I'm fatter. Every year I just get fatter. Perhaps it's my fault. I'm a failure, weak. I can't stick to a diet.

Really? What about all that “love yourself” stuff you've been going on about? You're strong, capable, you have a successful marriage, you finished your degree, your employers love you because you work hard and exceed expectations. Your friends and loved ones know that they can count on you because you do what you say you will. Straight A student forever (except for that pesky Astrophysics thing). You get shit done, girl.

Yeah, but....

Nope. I ain't buying it. You could handle work, school, home, homework, and still went to the gym three times a week for two hours a day. What really happened?

What happened? Pain. Pain happened.
Sadness. Unbearable sadness. Hate. Anger. Fear. Emptiness.

Ah... emptiness. How do you fill the void? Dull the pain? Drown the anger the hate and the fear? What do you do, what have you always done?

I stuff it. I fill it up and cover it over with food. Until I can't feel it, until I can't move. Until I don't care.

Until you don't care about what?

About how I look. How people treat me. The things strangers say, like they have the right. About how far I still have to go, how fat I still am, how fat I'm gonna get. About how miserable I always feel, and hungry and frustrated and angry and scared. About how no matter how much weight I lose I'm never going to feel good again, I'm always going to be ugly and weird and frightened inside.

So dieting doesn't make you thin, and it doesn't make you happy. In fact, it makes things worse. It makes you FEEL worse. You keep getting on this wagon and going off full speed, trying to hang on, but then you fall off and you're still in the same damn place. It's like it always drops you off at the all-you-can-eat binge cafe, no matter how long you managed to hold on this time. No matter how far away you try to get on that wagon, you always come back.

Maybe it is time to turn your back on the wagon and face the real problem. Stay on your own two feet, keep your balance, and begin to deal with these things you are afraid of. Food doesn't do it. Diets don't do it. Only you can do it. So fuck the wagon... stand up and fight!

How Life Works

Recently I spoke to someone dear to me, and she expressed the idea that “maybe only 10%” of her problems came from her parental issues and that the rest was about things that happened after she grew up. At the time I couldn't figure out how to fully express my response to that, so I let it go. But it has been on my mind ever since.

So, I want to bring together a couple of the things I've been talking about for the past week or two. First, the sense of being broken that arises when your childhood wasn't particularly good (who knows, maybe it was really really bad, or maybe it wasn't The Worst Thing Ever) and second, the sense of self-hatred that comes along with it. Because I believe that the real deal is this – maybe it isn't literally about the things that happened to you; maybe it's about how you learned to respond to those things, and what those things made you believe about yourself. It's about what those events taught you about How Life Works.

One of the big problems that comes from this borrowed sense of How Life Works is the inability to accept that you deserve anything better. For me, and perhaps for the women I am closest to in my life, we became unable to choose or to make decisions for ourselves based on a “best outcome.” We accepted what came into and out of our lives without really thinking about it or about what we wanted – because what we wanted didn't really matter.

As always, I can't speak for you or even for my own sisters, but as for me... well, I learned early enough that a man, ANY man, even a bad one, was better than no man. So I accepted the first one that came along, the first one to pay some attention to me. Was he a good man? Was he good FOR me? Was the relationship healthy for me? I never even asked. But I didn't have to make that decision, anyway, because I had no right to choose between good or bad. I didn't deserve any better than whatever I got.

And honestly? I got lucky. I had a couple of loser boyfriends after high school, but they drifted away before anything really unfortunate happened. I got married in my mid-twenties to a nice enough guy. He was harmless, if useless; he was a child, not a partner, and I was a surrogate mother at best. But I didn't really CHOOSE him. He just showed up, he liked me, and since I took care of him, he just assumed I would marry him and then I did. I don't think he ever even officially asked – he just introduced me one day to his mother as the woman he was going to marry. He wasn't a bad guy, but in the end he wasn't the right guy... only I never bothered to make that decision at the beginning. I clearly remember thinking that this was my one and only chance. That surely, no one else would ever want to marry me. It didn't matter that he wasn't right, just that he had showed up.

This pattern of not-choosing, of not-deciding, is so insidious. And such a relief! Your life just happens, and you just go along with it, and nothing is ever your fault. You never chose it, so in a way, you didn't do it. You aren't responsible. And really, deep inside you know it, even if you won't admit it, that when it all goes wrong it's really what you deserved all along anyway.

So think about it, even if just for a little while. What did your family teach you about How Life Works? Mine taught us that you hold on to the hand you've been given. No matter what. Even if you don't like it, because what you want or like or need is not important. What's important is that you accept what you are given and try to make the best of it. And then you wait. You wait for it to get good or you wait for something to go so bad, so very very wrong, that the hand you hold is literally taken away from you. And then it's over, but it's okay because you did your best, you got what you deserved, and it still isn't your fault. Because you don't get to choose and that's How Life Works.

Except.... that’s all bullshit. What I want matters. What I need matters. I matter.

I can choose, and I choose to take care of myself. I can choose, and I choose to give of myself to people who are worthy of it. I can choose, and I choose to be loved. I can choose, and I choose to protect myself from those who would do me harm. I can choose, and sometimes I choose you over me - but sometimes I must choose me. Because I matter, and that’s how life works.

Womanifesto!

Found this on Facebook, so I'm sure everyone has already seen it...