I'm having conflict again. Confidence, self esteem, diet thoughts. I keep getting close to the place where I can take care of myself - eat right, get some exercise, control the blood sugar, get off the meds, whatever. But something always seems to throw me at the last moment, upsets my balance. Perhaps I'm throwing things in my own way as a delaying tactic, at least some of the time, though this time I think it was purely accidental.
I did so good through DragonCon! My confidence was high, I went out and mingled with friends at meetups, did the Disney fairy photo shoot and some other costumes, wore my sundresses and short skirts without shame, I even talked to strangers and told a bully to fuck off late one drunk night. I even came out of it with a couple of photos of me that I really love. I felt good. I felt pretty. I got con crud, but I was even ready to wait that out and get started on taking care of blood sugar as soon as I felt well again.
So one night I was looking around, Googling for costume ideas and accidentally wound up on a pretty hateful fat shaming site. I read around at some posts and comments in growing horror. I quit the internet for the night, watched the Hobbit and tried to think about happy things, spent the next morning looking at pictures of adorable animals, just in case. I have pushed it into an appropriate pit and locked the door behind me. But....
The evil, lying voice woke up. The thing inside that hates me and tortures that little girl in there. It's trying to make me feel ashamed and disgusted with myself again. It makes me want to try the dieting hamster wheel again.
I joined a Facebook group for people who are trying to lose weight for DragonCon and for costuming. Mostly I'm lurking, waiting to see if it's going to be too triggery for me. Right now, it probably is, until the liar goes back to sleep. There's a lot of talk about pounds lost and "being good" which of course implies that there's a "being bad" too. Someone posted a music video called "I'm Sorry I Gained Weight." I didn't watch it.
Now I keep coming back to the thoughts of looking gross. Spilling food. Being clean enough. Wondering if I smell bad. Being ashamed of burps and farts and acne. I'm a little afraid of getting hungry. It doesn't help that I'm still sick and coughing and snotting, so I can't breathe and I get exhausted after doing the simplest things. Like. A. Fatass.
I need comfort but I'm sick, and I feel like I'm a needy burden on top of everything else. I have spent two days trying to convince myself that B isn't mad at me for some unknown thing. But he still touches me, he kissed my neck when he came up behind me this morning, he has held me and told me that he loves me. It's okay. It's just the lying voice again.
It tells me that if I eat - and eat and eat and eat - that it will go away and I won't have to hear it lying anymore, but that's a lie too. If I eat and get sick and hurt it will just shout louder about what a pathetic loser I am, wielding the proof that I am an out of control fatty. I could hurt myself and then just listen to it laugh and laugh, just like those people on that disgusting website. Think about the curve of my belly, taut and hard and full of pain. Bulging under my too big t-shirts, the ones I think hide my body, the ones littered with old stains of old binges. Sloppy and sickening.
Fuck that.
I have no room for that kind of pain any longer. I think - no, IT thinks that I deserve this pain, but I DO NOT.
What did I say about that bully at DragonCon? "If you want to make me cry you're going to have to do better than that." Fuck you evil, lying voice, 'cause you just aren't good enough to get me anymore.
Back to the beginning - where did I start? "I am good enough, I am smart enough, and GODDAMMIT, PEOPLE LIKE ME!"
Bring it.
Showing posts with label Self-hatred. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Self-hatred. Show all posts
Sunday, September 7, 2014
Saturday, February 15, 2014
NEDA Walk Orlando 2014 - My Binge Eating Disorder Speech
This morning we had the Nat'l Eating Disorder walk for awareness at Lake Eola in Orlando Florida. We almost got rained out, but it passed quickly and turned out to be a beautiful morning.
We had a lovely singer and then I got to do my little speech, about 9 minutes or so, about Binge Eating Disorder. If the video will post - I'm about to find out - here it is!
I didn't get nervous until it was time to walk out on the stage, and I spend the first 7 minutes or so shifting from side to side. Feel free to scream "Be still!" at the video-me as often as you like. Afterward I pretty much just hugged the first person that I saw so that I wouldn't start crying.
Okay, here's the YouTube link. It's too big to load to Blogger... NEDA Walk Orlando 2014 Speech
We had a lovely singer and then I got to do my little speech, about 9 minutes or so, about Binge Eating Disorder. If the video will post - I'm about to find out - here it is!
I didn't get nervous until it was time to walk out on the stage, and I spend the first 7 minutes or so shifting from side to side. Feel free to scream "Be still!" at the video-me as often as you like. Afterward I pretty much just hugged the first person that I saw so that I wouldn't start crying.
Okay, here's the YouTube link. It's too big to load to Blogger... NEDA Walk Orlando 2014 Speech
Saturday, June 15, 2013
Why This Fatty Quit Going to Your Gym: An Open Letter to Fitness Professionals
An Open Letter to Fitness Professionals
[Please note that this is my personal experience, and I can’t really presume to speak for all overweight people. I’m not an athlete, not even a “fat athlete,” though I understand that some people are. I currently participate in Health at Every Size and Intuitive Eating, but right now, today, I am Not Healthy. I am choosing to address that, but first...]
A few years back I used to go to the gym at my University, and I really liked it. Despite my weight, nearly 300 pounds, people left me alone and let me do my own thing. Within about a year there, I had lost over 50 pounds and had gone from barely being able to do 30 minutes on the treadmill to doing 30 minutes on three different machines plus a mile walk for warmup and cool down. But then I graduated and had to find a new gym.
I wasn’t worried about that. I had gotten used to the workouts and was ready for a change, a challenge. No one messed with me or picked on me, and I didn’t anticipate that a new place would be that much different. After all, we were all there to get healthy and were far too busy doing what we needed to do to worry about someone else’s workout.
What I hadn’t counted on were the trainers. Yes, my university had trainers too, but they were students in the fitness courses and I guess there just wasn’t a ton of money to worry about with amateur trainers, or maybe they were doing it for class credit. Either way, I just didn’t see much of them, and they never bothered me.
But out in the real world, things were different. Out in the real world, I met You.
I was ready to increase my workout. I was still doing my own workout three days a week and then I joined Zumba for a fourth, just for fun. I thought that starting to learn weight training would be a good idea. Even better, I got three free sessions with a trainer for signing up and to learn the equipment. Good enough, that sounded like a great idea.
It could have been the best thing that ever happened to my workouts, enriched my gym experience, and set me on a new path for achieving health. Except for You.
You took one look at me and apparently You knew my whole story. Surely I was a lazy and stupid fatty, joining the gym in January like all of the other fatties (I graduated in December), and had never ever set foot in a gym before. In fact, You knew me so well that You didn’t even need to bother to hear me when I tried to tell You about what I already did, what I was already capable of. What You did do was hand me a print-out of Your special, guaranteed to burn the fat right off workout plan. It didn’t matter that I had existing health problems - that’s why I was trying to get fit and lose weight in the first place - and that despite losing 50 pounds that I still have chronic bronchitis and have trouble breathing well during a workout.
You didn’t care about what I needed from a workout or from a trainer. What You cared about was shoving Your special, soon-to-be-famous program down my throat, whether it was good or safe for me. At any time when I tried to mention my own capabilities and limits, You let me know in no uncertain terms that what I had being doing was completely useless. If I wasn’t working out Your way, at Your suggested intensity, then I was wasting my time (and perhaps, by extension, Your time).
And I tried it. You were the expert, after all. So what if the past year of “wasting my time” had netted me a 50 pound loss? So what if it had worked and had kept me coming back? You had the training, the education, and the experience.
But I was miserable. I hated every workout, and every time You would pass by in the gym I would shrink, worried that I wasn’t doing it right. An entire year of healthy living and 50 pounds gone and suddenly it just wasn’t good enough anymore. *I* wasn’t good enough anymore. Within a couple of weeks I started skipping gym days because I hated it. I felt uncomfortable and self-conscious and worried the entire time during my workouts. Not long after that I just quit going altogether. Exercise was no longer fun, it was just hard and humiliating.
You convinced me that I wasn’t good enough. In truth, that part is my fault, because I let You do it. You reminded me that no matter what I did, no matter how hard I worked, no matter how much weight I lost, that I was still just a lazy, stupid fatty to people like You. I was still an object to be ridiculed and hated. And why should I bother to take care of something worthless?
A person will only stick with something they hate for so long, even if they are doing it for a good reason.
So after all this time, after I gave up on myself and haven’t been back to Your gym, to any gym, for years now, here’s the question I have for You and all the other Trainers and Fitness Experts and Gym Rats and Life Coaches... what’s actually better: The exercise that’s done perfectly or the exercise that I will actually do?
Dear Fitness Professionals, please please just listen and pay attention to me, the “disgusting” fatty (don’t think that I don’t know what you think of me). I can tell you what I am capable of today - it might be even more than You expect. I have a history. I got this way for a reason. It could be that I really *am* lazy and uninformed and spend all day stuffing my face with cake and cheese puffs. But it’s actually more complicated than that. Maybe I’m sick, maybe I got hurt, maybe I’m just broken. Or maybe, it’s just the way my body was made, maybe I’ve been fat since the day I was born, and trying to diet has just made me fatter and fatter.
I am unhealthy today, but I didn’t really plan it that way; I didn’t mean it. But at least now I’m here, in front of You at YOUR gym. Find out why. Find out what went wrong and what I need to fix it. And keep in mind that not every body needs the same thing fixed, nor do they need it fixed in the same way. Maybe I don’t need fixed at all, and I just came to you for advice or for a new challenge. But, for the love of crunches and cheese puffs, don’t assume that You know all about me by looking at the outside - find out what I NEED, and help me get that.
Image from http://www.stumptuous.com/no-fat-chicks
[Please note that this is my personal experience, and I can’t really presume to speak for all overweight people. I’m not an athlete, not even a “fat athlete,” though I understand that some people are. I currently participate in Health at Every Size and Intuitive Eating, but right now, today, I am Not Healthy. I am choosing to address that, but first...]
A few years back I used to go to the gym at my University, and I really liked it. Despite my weight, nearly 300 pounds, people left me alone and let me do my own thing. Within about a year there, I had lost over 50 pounds and had gone from barely being able to do 30 minutes on the treadmill to doing 30 minutes on three different machines plus a mile walk for warmup and cool down. But then I graduated and had to find a new gym.
I wasn’t worried about that. I had gotten used to the workouts and was ready for a change, a challenge. No one messed with me or picked on me, and I didn’t anticipate that a new place would be that much different. After all, we were all there to get healthy and were far too busy doing what we needed to do to worry about someone else’s workout.
What I hadn’t counted on were the trainers. Yes, my university had trainers too, but they were students in the fitness courses and I guess there just wasn’t a ton of money to worry about with amateur trainers, or maybe they were doing it for class credit. Either way, I just didn’t see much of them, and they never bothered me.
But out in the real world, things were different. Out in the real world, I met You.
I was ready to increase my workout. I was still doing my own workout three days a week and then I joined Zumba for a fourth, just for fun. I thought that starting to learn weight training would be a good idea. Even better, I got three free sessions with a trainer for signing up and to learn the equipment. Good enough, that sounded like a great idea.
It could have been the best thing that ever happened to my workouts, enriched my gym experience, and set me on a new path for achieving health. Except for You.
 |
| You don't get it both ways, you know. |
You didn’t care about what I needed from a workout or from a trainer. What You cared about was shoving Your special, soon-to-be-famous program down my throat, whether it was good or safe for me. At any time when I tried to mention my own capabilities and limits, You let me know in no uncertain terms that what I had being doing was completely useless. If I wasn’t working out Your way, at Your suggested intensity, then I was wasting my time (and perhaps, by extension, Your time).
And I tried it. You were the expert, after all. So what if the past year of “wasting my time” had netted me a 50 pound loss? So what if it had worked and had kept me coming back? You had the training, the education, and the experience.
But I was miserable. I hated every workout, and every time You would pass by in the gym I would shrink, worried that I wasn’t doing it right. An entire year of healthy living and 50 pounds gone and suddenly it just wasn’t good enough anymore. *I* wasn’t good enough anymore. Within a couple of weeks I started skipping gym days because I hated it. I felt uncomfortable and self-conscious and worried the entire time during my workouts. Not long after that I just quit going altogether. Exercise was no longer fun, it was just hard and humiliating.
You convinced me that I wasn’t good enough. In truth, that part is my fault, because I let You do it. You reminded me that no matter what I did, no matter how hard I worked, no matter how much weight I lost, that I was still just a lazy, stupid fatty to people like You. I was still an object to be ridiculed and hated. And why should I bother to take care of something worthless?
A person will only stick with something they hate for so long, even if they are doing it for a good reason.
So after all this time, after I gave up on myself and haven’t been back to Your gym, to any gym, for years now, here’s the question I have for You and all the other Trainers and Fitness Experts and Gym Rats and Life Coaches... what’s actually better: The exercise that’s done perfectly or the exercise that I will actually do?
Dear Fitness Professionals, please please just listen and pay attention to me, the “disgusting” fatty (don’t think that I don’t know what you think of me). I can tell you what I am capable of today - it might be even more than You expect. I have a history. I got this way for a reason. It could be that I really *am* lazy and uninformed and spend all day stuffing my face with cake and cheese puffs. But it’s actually more complicated than that. Maybe I’m sick, maybe I got hurt, maybe I’m just broken. Or maybe, it’s just the way my body was made, maybe I’ve been fat since the day I was born, and trying to diet has just made me fatter and fatter.
I am unhealthy today, but I didn’t really plan it that way; I didn’t mean it. But at least now I’m here, in front of You at YOUR gym. Find out why. Find out what went wrong and what I need to fix it. And keep in mind that not every body needs the same thing fixed, nor do they need it fixed in the same way. Maybe I don’t need fixed at all, and I just came to you for advice or for a new challenge. But, for the love of crunches and cheese puffs, don’t assume that You know all about me by looking at the outside - find out what I NEED, and help me get that.
Image from http://www.stumptuous.com/no-fat-chicks
Sunday, April 14, 2013
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.
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.
Now on Adios Barbie!
Happy news! Earlier this year I took a chance and applied for an internship at an online magazine called Adios Barbie, one that I had been following on Facebook for a while. They have been one of my favorite sources for body-positive information and uplifting articles. Well, I did get the internship and I am writing at least one article a month for them now.
My first article went up on the site this week and I am so proud that I could pop! Now, those of you who have been reading this blog all along (thank you, thank you!!) will have already seen most of the content of this article. I drew large portions of it from my very first blog post, by way of a kind of introduction of myself and Binge Eating Disorder to the Adios Barbie readers.
So, here's a link to the Adios Barbie version. Let me know what you think!
My first article went up on the site this week and I am so proud that I could pop! Now, those of you who have been reading this blog all along (thank you, thank you!!) will have already seen most of the content of this article. I drew large portions of it from my very first blog post, by way of a kind of introduction of myself and Binge Eating Disorder to the Adios Barbie readers.
So, here's a link to the Adios Barbie version. Let me know what you think!
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
The Opposite of Binge Eating
I have to admit that I never considered that there might be other eating disorders for fat folks than binge eating. This article about fat anorexics opened my eyes and I would like to share it with you. Please note that I haven't looked through this site much, other than the article I ran across today, so I can't recommend the entire site yet. (It does look a bit spammy to me.) Enjoy!
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Article Sharing Time!
I have a blog post in the works, but for today I found another article on Jezebel to share. The title gave me pause, but by the end of the article I was much less worried about it. Here's the link: "Losing Weight Won't Fill the Emptiness Inside. Only Cake Can Do That."
Please read the whole article in order to get past that awful title. Here's a section from the end:
Please read the whole article in order to get past that awful title. Here's a section from the end:
"I don't blame Attenberg for this, or at least I really actively try not to, but it does make me sad.
I went through a lot of my life dealing with the aftermath of chronic dieting and childhood teasing, and it's those things that attempted to make me feel less than whole, less than human. It wasn't some mysterious "hole" inside of me that I was trying to stuff with Cheetos, it was put there by a society that's unrelenting when it comes to women's bodies. And it wasn't something that I ever tried to cram with snack packs; if anything, it was something that I tried to dig out and make thinner, make smaller, make gone.
We can't reframe the way society thinks and feels about weight overnight; there will always be cheering when a fat woman (or probably any woman who doesn't suffer from visible anorexia) loses weight. But we can fight damn hard for the right to be comfortable in and with our own bodies, even if it's really, really
fucking hard."
Monday, October 15, 2012
Saturday, October 13, 2012
Surrounded
Okay, here’s the new lesson for the week... I am not alone! Quite often, when I’m down or angry or hopeless, I sit with it for too long, think about it too much, close myself off and eventually make it so much worse. I don’t reach out to anyone for help or guidance, someone who could lift my spirits or change my mind or help me figure out what’s going on. Take note of that word “don’t” because that’s the important part. It’s not that I can’t, it’s not that no one is there for me, but I just won’t reach out.
I’ve been thinking about this - yes, I think too much, even about thinking too much! - and I see that the problem is multi-layered. I want to handle it alone, because I think that I can. But also because I think that I ought to. I think that I ought to handle my depressive cycles alone because I don’t want to be a bother to anyone. I, and my issues, are not important, not worthy enough to take up anyone’s time.
But wait, there’s more!
I ought to handle my issues alone because I’m the caretaker. I’m not supposed to dump my crap on other people, I am here to help other people carry their crap. I am supposed to carry my crap and everyone else’s crap too. Right? And besides, admitting to even having issues means that I’m weak. That I feel stuff. That I’m not perfect. That I can’t handle everything, and do it all alone.
All of that is, of course, total bullshit.
That’s what is so nice about journaling. You get to put it out there in black and white, these things you kinda sorta think to yourself, maybe even subconsciously, and take a good hard look at it. And then you realize that you are full of shit.
Do I really think that I’m so much better than everyone else that I won’t ever get angry or depressed or upset or hurt? Do I really think that I’m so important to everyone that I alone carry all of their burdens for them? Do I really think that my loved ones would lose their minds if they find out that I am not perfect?
Well, of course not.
Oh, but that inner voice, the mean, frightened little voice, it is such a good liar. I don’t hear it as much as I used to, I think I even believed that it was gone there for a while, but apparently it just went deeper inside, and now it can only emerge when the darkness spreads and it feels confident enough to whisper to me again. When I’m stuck, when I’m depressed, when I feel alone in the deep dark hole, that’s when it comes to me - and it lies. ‘No one cares,’ it says. ‘No one wants to hear from you,’ it says. ‘No one needs to know that you’re hurting - they can use it against you,’ it says. ‘Suck it up, sister.’
So here is the lesson I need to remember now. I am surrounded. Not by darkness, not by despair. I am surrounded by love, and friendship, and support, and laughter (the good kind!), and kindness. All I have to do is look up.
I’ve been thinking about this - yes, I think too much, even about thinking too much! - and I see that the problem is multi-layered. I want to handle it alone, because I think that I can. But also because I think that I ought to. I think that I ought to handle my depressive cycles alone because I don’t want to be a bother to anyone. I, and my issues, are not important, not worthy enough to take up anyone’s time.
But wait, there’s more!
I ought to handle my issues alone because I’m the caretaker. I’m not supposed to dump my crap on other people, I am here to help other people carry their crap. I am supposed to carry my crap and everyone else’s crap too. Right? And besides, admitting to even having issues means that I’m weak. That I feel stuff. That I’m not perfect. That I can’t handle everything, and do it all alone.
All of that is, of course, total bullshit.
That’s what is so nice about journaling. You get to put it out there in black and white, these things you kinda sorta think to yourself, maybe even subconsciously, and take a good hard look at it. And then you realize that you are full of shit.
Do I really think that I’m so much better than everyone else that I won’t ever get angry or depressed or upset or hurt? Do I really think that I’m so important to everyone that I alone carry all of their burdens for them? Do I really think that my loved ones would lose their minds if they find out that I am not perfect?
Well, of course not.
Oh, but that inner voice, the mean, frightened little voice, it is such a good liar. I don’t hear it as much as I used to, I think I even believed that it was gone there for a while, but apparently it just went deeper inside, and now it can only emerge when the darkness spreads and it feels confident enough to whisper to me again. When I’m stuck, when I’m depressed, when I feel alone in the deep dark hole, that’s when it comes to me - and it lies. ‘No one cares,’ it says. ‘No one wants to hear from you,’ it says. ‘No one needs to know that you’re hurting - they can use it against you,’ it says. ‘Suck it up, sister.’
 |
| Surrounded! |
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Mirror Mirror
I found an article on the site Adios Barbie that I'd like to share today: In the Mirror.
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| What you see is not what you are. |
This also reminds me that I really need to set up links and other recommendations in the sidebar...
Monday, August 20, 2012
Nothing Ever Seemed So Hard
So, I guess I never did make it back to regular posting last week (or so) as I had planned. Unfortunately, I still haven’t quite worked out my need for perfection, so when I’m not doing it all right I tend to not want to talk (or write) about it. Well, there’s always something to work on, I suppose.
The good news is that I haven’t binged in weeks, so that’s not it. I haven’t really even overeaten, at least not for emotional reasons - I’m pretty sure I overdid it once or twice on foods that I just can’t lay off of (certain Chinese options, Indian Makhani, or Thai Red Curry). I don’t quite want to call them trigger foods, they aren’t quite like Doritos for me in that regard, but I just can’t resist eating until the plate is practically licked clean.
What I’ve really been feeling out of sorts about is my complete and total lack of interest in movement. I want to WANT to move, maybe that’s a start, but I can’t just sit around waiting to want to do it. The completely sedentary lifestyle is not healthy at any size. On the other hand, I don’t want to force myself to do something I hate because I “have to do it.” I have enjoyed some forms of exercise before and I know that if I can begin I will find pleasure in them again. But getting to the beginning.... “All I need’s a starting place, and nothing ever seemed so hard!” (Remember that video I posted, from Toad the Wet Sprocket?)
And so here’s my bit on starting from nothing...
I had been trying to make myself use our home treadmill, get on it at least two or three days a week for half an hour and walk at a comfortable pace. I succeeded about once per week, if that. Then I remembered something some friends of mine do when they are starting new goals: they begin with ridiculously easy goals for the first week. And then, if you find you can’t even manage that, cut the goal in half and try again. And maybe even once again, if it’s necessary. Make it SO ridiculous that it would be ridiculous to skip it. Then do that for a week. Next week, up your challenge just a little.
I started with the simplest thing I could think of - just get dressed out and stretch my calves. Today was Day One, and so far, so good. I got dressed out and did a bit of stretching, and then a bit more, and then hit the floor to get some good leg and back stretches (there’s one that feels so good for the sciatica). When I got up, I was feeling pretty fine so I did some funky little air-punches to the left and right. Yeah, I looked like an idiot, but only the cat noticed. Then for some reason I finished up by running in place for a count of 100. When that was done I stretched out those calves again and whaddya know, it had been half an hour.
Stretching is a great place to start, especially if you have spent your entire life ignoring or hating your body. Once upon a time I would wake up in the morning and do stretches and light calisthenics for nearly an hour every day - like everything else, I let it go in the depression. Like a precursor to yoga, simple stretching allows you to get to know your body, bit by bit, and learn what it is capable of. You learn what muscles feel like and how they move and connect. You figure out how far you can bend and what parts get in your way.
By the way, it’s okay to grab hold of that pooch and move it up or down or otherwise out of the way as you bend and flex. It’s a part of you. Quit pretending it doesn’t exist. Get to know it. Touch yourself and accept the fact that it is there. The embarrassment will fade with time.
Stretch everything. Head to toe. And I mean literally, fingers and toes, the arch of your foot, inner thighs, your neck and shoulder muscles, and the good old gluteus maximus. Eventually you learn your own body and you will discover that it is capable of more than you think. It moves, it supports; it’s graceful and it’s beautiful.
You will get better. In time you’ll find that you can reach to tie your own shoes again or that you don’t get that pinchy feeling in your hip or back when you’re walking or standing for a long time. Some hygienic necessities become easier to perform. Even better, eventually you might even want to walk more, because it doesn’t hurt so damn much. And besides, you’re already up and dressed out, right?
As I am not an exercise professional, I can’t tell you what to do or how to do it. Like everything else I talk about, do your research. Don’t just jump into it because you think stretching is so easy. Done improperly, you CAN hurt yourself. Some sources recommend against stretching first thing in the morning, like I used to do. You need to warm up your muscles, you need to breathe, and you need to know how to not stretch too far. Check the internet or the library, check with your doctor, or find a trainer if you can. When I started stretching seriously for the first time, many years ago, I picked up a book that I would still recommend: Stretching by Bob Anderson. It has been out for decades, so it should be easy to get at the library, too.
A last word about stretching... it can be very meditative too. You are focusing on your breath, counting slowly, moving gently. I haven’t tried this myself, but after taking a couple of yoga classes a while back, I can see the appeal of putting on some soothing music and adding some kind of aromatherapy to the session. That way you could meditate and move at the same time. Just a thought.
So that’s it. That’s what I’m doing to begin being healthy at my size - stand up, get dressed, stretch a little. It’s a ridiculously easy goal, and I can do that. So let’s move!
The good news is that I haven’t binged in weeks, so that’s not it. I haven’t really even overeaten, at least not for emotional reasons - I’m pretty sure I overdid it once or twice on foods that I just can’t lay off of (certain Chinese options, Indian Makhani, or Thai Red Curry). I don’t quite want to call them trigger foods, they aren’t quite like Doritos for me in that regard, but I just can’t resist eating until the plate is practically licked clean.
What I’ve really been feeling out of sorts about is my complete and total lack of interest in movement. I want to WANT to move, maybe that’s a start, but I can’t just sit around waiting to want to do it. The completely sedentary lifestyle is not healthy at any size. On the other hand, I don’t want to force myself to do something I hate because I “have to do it.” I have enjoyed some forms of exercise before and I know that if I can begin I will find pleasure in them again. But getting to the beginning.... “All I need’s a starting place, and nothing ever seemed so hard!” (Remember that video I posted, from Toad the Wet Sprocket?)
And so here’s my bit on starting from nothing...
I had been trying to make myself use our home treadmill, get on it at least two or three days a week for half an hour and walk at a comfortable pace. I succeeded about once per week, if that. Then I remembered something some friends of mine do when they are starting new goals: they begin with ridiculously easy goals for the first week. And then, if you find you can’t even manage that, cut the goal in half and try again. And maybe even once again, if it’s necessary. Make it SO ridiculous that it would be ridiculous to skip it. Then do that for a week. Next week, up your challenge just a little.
I started with the simplest thing I could think of - just get dressed out and stretch my calves. Today was Day One, and so far, so good. I got dressed out and did a bit of stretching, and then a bit more, and then hit the floor to get some good leg and back stretches (there’s one that feels so good for the sciatica). When I got up, I was feeling pretty fine so I did some funky little air-punches to the left and right. Yeah, I looked like an idiot, but only the cat noticed. Then for some reason I finished up by running in place for a count of 100. When that was done I stretched out those calves again and whaddya know, it had been half an hour.
Stretching is a great place to start, especially if you have spent your entire life ignoring or hating your body. Once upon a time I would wake up in the morning and do stretches and light calisthenics for nearly an hour every day - like everything else, I let it go in the depression. Like a precursor to yoga, simple stretching allows you to get to know your body, bit by bit, and learn what it is capable of. You learn what muscles feel like and how they move and connect. You figure out how far you can bend and what parts get in your way.
By the way, it’s okay to grab hold of that pooch and move it up or down or otherwise out of the way as you bend and flex. It’s a part of you. Quit pretending it doesn’t exist. Get to know it. Touch yourself and accept the fact that it is there. The embarrassment will fade with time.
Stretch everything. Head to toe. And I mean literally, fingers and toes, the arch of your foot, inner thighs, your neck and shoulder muscles, and the good old gluteus maximus. Eventually you learn your own body and you will discover that it is capable of more than you think. It moves, it supports; it’s graceful and it’s beautiful.
You will get better. In time you’ll find that you can reach to tie your own shoes again or that you don’t get that pinchy feeling in your hip or back when you’re walking or standing for a long time. Some hygienic necessities become easier to perform. Even better, eventually you might even want to walk more, because it doesn’t hurt so damn much. And besides, you’re already up and dressed out, right?
As I am not an exercise professional, I can’t tell you what to do or how to do it. Like everything else I talk about, do your research. Don’t just jump into it because you think stretching is so easy. Done improperly, you CAN hurt yourself. Some sources recommend against stretching first thing in the morning, like I used to do. You need to warm up your muscles, you need to breathe, and you need to know how to not stretch too far. Check the internet or the library, check with your doctor, or find a trainer if you can. When I started stretching seriously for the first time, many years ago, I picked up a book that I would still recommend: Stretching by Bob Anderson. It has been out for decades, so it should be easy to get at the library, too.
A last word about stretching... it can be very meditative too. You are focusing on your breath, counting slowly, moving gently. I haven’t tried this myself, but after taking a couple of yoga classes a while back, I can see the appeal of putting on some soothing music and adding some kind of aromatherapy to the session. That way you could meditate and move at the same time. Just a thought.
So that’s it. That’s what I’m doing to begin being healthy at my size - stand up, get dressed, stretch a little. It’s a ridiculously easy goal, and I can do that. So let’s move!
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
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."
My friend Cassie shared an article recently that I'd like to post here. Thanks, Cassie!
We'll Look Back and Laugh
As with most web articles, keep in mind that the comments are probably best not to be read. Some are positive, but some are filled with the usual "fat blaming" stuff that is harmful to us all. Enjoy!
We'll Look Back and Laugh
As with most web articles, keep in mind that the comments are probably best not to be read. Some are positive, but some are filled with the usual "fat blaming" stuff that is harmful to us all. Enjoy!
Sunday, July 22, 2012
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!
Internet calls girl fat and her response is...perfect!
Thursday, July 12, 2012
You Binge, You Learn
When I binge, I feel like crap. Not just physically, of course – there’s an emotional aftermath as well. Shame, guilt, revulsion, regret, anger, fear. In some cases that can even lead to additional bingeing; that is, you have an emotion like shame or anger that you don’t want to deal with, so you binge in the first place, then you are left with additional shame and anger afterward that you don’t want to deal with… and so on.
These emotions were always difficult to deal with, but never more so than when I was actually dieting. Here I am trying to do my best, to learn the rules of “good” foods and “bad” foods, but… food makes me feel guilty. And ashamed. And angry. After all of these years, even “good” food makes me a nervous wreck. What if I eat a salad and then it isn’t enough for me? Guilt. What if I order the plain chicken with veggies at the restaurant and those people at the next table smirk at me because they look at how fat I am and they know that dieting is just a waste of time for me? Shame. What if I eat the carrots and the celery and the apples for a snack and then a giant glass of water because that’s what I’m supposed to snack on and it’s supposed to make me feel full only it doesn’t and now I’m miserable and hungry and confused and that effing diet guru is a moron? Anger.
So, dieting makes me bingey, NOT dieting makes me bingey, and hey, bingeing makes me bingey. WTF?
What it boils down to is that there is no escape. Bingeing is here, it’s what I do. I can’t work around it, I can’t diet around it, I can’t talk myself out of it. All I can do is face it, maybe even face it down.
Bingeing is a conditioned response. I taught myself how to do it, as a way to make myself feel better, even if only for a little while, when emotions were too hard to handle. Maybe the first time it happened by accident, but soon I could do it on purpose, and after a while it became automatic, almost like taking some kind of drug. It was a helpful tool for a long time. When I was a child, with no way out and no way to release my fear, anger, or depression, it was an easy escape, a way to bear what could not be borne. It wasn’t a good coping mechanism, but it was the best one I had.
Bingeing was there for me. It’s what I did.
And that’s it, really. It isn’t evil, it isn’t bad, it isn’t good. It just is. It’s a tool. A crutch. Only… eventually you’re supposed to put aside the crutches and walk on your own. But I never did.
Until now.
I have learned that a binge is a sign of an unresolved issue. It’s a big flag waving in my face to say, “Hey, pay attention to this!” It’s some need that isn’t being met, some emotion that’s being stuffed away, some problem that I haven’t faced. My nutritionist tells me that binges are a gift. I found that hard to believe at first, but she’s right. Every time I have binged lately, it has taught me something new. I have learned to handle some emotions by dealing with them, for instance, by addressing a person who makes me angry and resolving the problem rather than stewing over it until I binge. But a month or so ago, I had a binge night and I found a different anger trigger that I had never worked on: unfocused anger, that is, anger with no specific target. I wasn’t mad AT anyone or ABOUT a particular thing. I had just had a crummy day, I was hot and grumpy, and I was just plain mad. I do not have a planned outlet for that; I wasn’t thinking about it, so I let it bubble inside until it took me over, and then I binged.
So, if you binge, you have a couple of ways of looking at it. You could beat yourself up, indulge in the shame and guilt and self-hate. That’s the easy path. The harder path, but eventually more rewarding one, is to evaluate the binge for what it is: a crutch, a signal….a gift. Learn from it, pick it to pieces and find out what happened. This is where having a support team is so very valuable, because often you cannot evaluate your own needs clearly. You get in your own way, maybe because you are resistant to change, maybe you are afraid, or maybe part of you doesn’t feel that you deserve to be helped or get better.
We all deserve to be healthy. You think you deserve this pain, but you don’t.
These emotions were always difficult to deal with, but never more so than when I was actually dieting. Here I am trying to do my best, to learn the rules of “good” foods and “bad” foods, but… food makes me feel guilty. And ashamed. And angry. After all of these years, even “good” food makes me a nervous wreck. What if I eat a salad and then it isn’t enough for me? Guilt. What if I order the plain chicken with veggies at the restaurant and those people at the next table smirk at me because they look at how fat I am and they know that dieting is just a waste of time for me? Shame. What if I eat the carrots and the celery and the apples for a snack and then a giant glass of water because that’s what I’m supposed to snack on and it’s supposed to make me feel full only it doesn’t and now I’m miserable and hungry and confused and that effing diet guru is a moron? Anger.
So, dieting makes me bingey, NOT dieting makes me bingey, and hey, bingeing makes me bingey. WTF?
What it boils down to is that there is no escape. Bingeing is here, it’s what I do. I can’t work around it, I can’t diet around it, I can’t talk myself out of it. All I can do is face it, maybe even face it down.
Bingeing is a conditioned response. I taught myself how to do it, as a way to make myself feel better, even if only for a little while, when emotions were too hard to handle. Maybe the first time it happened by accident, but soon I could do it on purpose, and after a while it became automatic, almost like taking some kind of drug. It was a helpful tool for a long time. When I was a child, with no way out and no way to release my fear, anger, or depression, it was an easy escape, a way to bear what could not be borne. It wasn’t a good coping mechanism, but it was the best one I had.
Bingeing was there for me. It’s what I did.
And that’s it, really. It isn’t evil, it isn’t bad, it isn’t good. It just is. It’s a tool. A crutch. Only… eventually you’re supposed to put aside the crutches and walk on your own. But I never did.
Until now.
I have learned that a binge is a sign of an unresolved issue. It’s a big flag waving in my face to say, “Hey, pay attention to this!” It’s some need that isn’t being met, some emotion that’s being stuffed away, some problem that I haven’t faced. My nutritionist tells me that binges are a gift. I found that hard to believe at first, but she’s right. Every time I have binged lately, it has taught me something new. I have learned to handle some emotions by dealing with them, for instance, by addressing a person who makes me angry and resolving the problem rather than stewing over it until I binge. But a month or so ago, I had a binge night and I found a different anger trigger that I had never worked on: unfocused anger, that is, anger with no specific target. I wasn’t mad AT anyone or ABOUT a particular thing. I had just had a crummy day, I was hot and grumpy, and I was just plain mad. I do not have a planned outlet for that; I wasn’t thinking about it, so I let it bubble inside until it took me over, and then I binged.
So, if you binge, you have a couple of ways of looking at it. You could beat yourself up, indulge in the shame and guilt and self-hate. That’s the easy path. The harder path, but eventually more rewarding one, is to evaluate the binge for what it is: a crutch, a signal….a gift. Learn from it, pick it to pieces and find out what happened. This is where having a support team is so very valuable, because often you cannot evaluate your own needs clearly. You get in your own way, maybe because you are resistant to change, maybe you are afraid, or maybe part of you doesn’t feel that you deserve to be helped or get better.
We all deserve to be healthy. You think you deserve this pain, but you don’t.
Saturday, July 7, 2012
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.
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.
Friday, June 22, 2012
One in Four Girls, One in Six Boys
I found a Slate article I wanted to share, from Emily Yoffe, who writes the Dear Prudence column. It's called My Molesters. I should say, WARNING: Trigger Alert. I think that this article will hit home for those of us who are what I call the In-Betweeners - we think our stories aren't "bad enough" to be painful, but they are.
We aren't alone. One in FOUR girls have been molested in some way. Look around your workplace. How many women is that standing around you right now? How many men?
We aren't alone. One in FOUR girls have been molested in some way. Look around your workplace. How many women is that standing around you right now? How many men?
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Stark Naked Man
And now that I have your attention, I'm sharing something wonderful I found on Facebook today... (Please note, that link is very NSFW.)
Here's a sample:
"I will not get into the things I’ve done out of self-hatred and shame and fear over the past decade or two. I will not repeat the deflections and lies I’ve said to women who’ve told me my body is sexy. You either know most of them already, or you don’t. Some folks will say I’m not fat enough to be doing this. Others will say I’m too fat to be doing this. Both groups can feel free to go piss up a rope. I’m not doing this for them, I’m doing it for me. And maybe for you."
Here's a sample:
"I will not get into the things I’ve done out of self-hatred and shame and fear over the past decade or two. I will not repeat the deflections and lies I’ve said to women who’ve told me my body is sexy. You either know most of them already, or you don’t. Some folks will say I’m not fat enough to be doing this. Others will say I’m too fat to be doing this. Both groups can feel free to go piss up a rope. I’m not doing this for them, I’m doing it for me. And maybe for you."
You go, mister!
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