Tag Archives: Health

Platypus Update: It’s probably the Hormones, Right?


Depending on what I’m wearing, I get the unsolicited question, “How far along are you?”

Now, among people in the know, this does not faze me.  Nor does it bother me when strangers ask if I brought up the topic that I am pregnant.  However, if I have given no indication that I am pregnant (as far as I know), I have to fight the irrational response to be offended by the question.

Girls, you know why.

See, last year, I had an apron that was adorable but had the unintended side-effect of making me look preggers, especially to people who worked with me.  In such cases, the tentative question are you?  would sneak in and ruin my day.  What?  How could you think that?  I mean, I have a bit of a pudge, but that’s mostly the pocket of the apron and the fact that I have a high waistline.  Right?

Logically, I should never have felt offended by the question since it was never meant to offend.  Honestly, I should give mad props to anyone brave enough to pose the question even to someone they know because we have ALL felt mortified by the insinuation that we look so out of shape we must be harboring a human parasite in our wombs.  That kind of misunderstanding is hurtful for everyone.

And now that I am harboring said parasite, I have to turn off the part of my brain that’s all EFF YOU FOR THINKING I LOOK PREGNANT SINCE WE ALL KNOW THAT’S A HUGE INSULT TO A WOMAN.  Isn’t it weird how brains work?  I’ve been pregnant for 5 months now and I’m still in denial.

For instance, I had my second prenatal group meeting a couple weeks ago, which involved a brief check-up (blood pressure, weight, etc.) with the nurse and midwife.  An insidious part of my brain kept insisting that this is all a ruse and that when they went to listen to the heartbeat, it wouldn’t be there.  The universe is playing a massive trick on me.  My boobs are huge and I haven’t needed a tampon in nearly half a year, and yet…

I don’t look pregnant enough.  I haven’t felt it moving much.  I mean, a few butterflies, but that could just be indigestion.  I’m acting on faith that there is something in there that I can’t see or really feel, hanging out, sucking my energy and eating my food so that I feel like I’m always hungry and I absolutely can’t risk real hunger SINCE I WILL PROCEED TO EAT EVERYTHING.  I have to trust that there is a reason I can’t sleep comfortably, can’t stand for more than 30 min without my ribs hurting from holding up my boobs (did I mention they’re HUGE?!?), can’t go an hour without peeing, and can’t decide if what I’m feeling is my normal reaction to a situation or some over-blown hormone-induced response.

I spent the last two days trying to find a boob solution.  You ladies who have bazungas know what I’m talking about.  Finding a bra that fits is only half the battle.  It has to have enough support and has to be comfortable regardless of what you’re doing.  And it has to keep the ladies in check.  Bras are the bane of our existence and when we find one that works, we do NOT deviate.  However, my bras stop fitting month 1.

Things that I didn’t expect to happen the first trimester: frequent urination, mood swings, and bazungas.  Why is it that only thing I expected (morning sickness) wasn’t as bad as I thought while also being worse in unexpected ways?  Who called it “morning” sickness?  Was it a man?  I bet it was a man.

Did I mention that right before we found out about platypus I had just bought several new conventional and sports bras since it was time to replace my stock?  I bet I didn’t.  In June, I bought new bras bc reasons.  In July, they stopped fitting.  Ugh.  August, I went out and got a few more that offered more coverage, avoiding the nursing bras like the plague.  In October, they got bigger.  Now the problem isn’t the embarrassment of spilling out.  It’s the fact that part of my job involves being on my feet for 4 to 6 hours.  Which recently has started causing pain and not where I expected.

It feels like someone has taken rib-spreaders to my side, especially my right side right underneath my right boob.  And I LOVE how inadequate the solutions are for this problem.  Apparently, all I can do is buy more GORAM bras.

If you enter the lingerie department of any major store, you will find all kinds of solutions for hiding your tummy or back or thighs.  Because that’s what really matters to a woman: stuffing everything into an appeasing spandex shape underneath their business skirt or LBD.  What you won’t find is a section for “My boobs are temporarily too big and I just need a tank top that will help reign them in for the next few months until they stabilize enough for me to shell out money on nursing bras – also, it needs to be comfortable enough that I can sleep in it without cramping because this problem doesn’t seem to go away just because I’m not vertical.”  Seriously, that’s all I want.

What I don’t want is to spend hundreds of dollars repurchasing undergarments for the next 5 months.  Bras are expensive and I already have a whiny panic in the back of my head about all the stuff we have to buy for the human being we’re going to be putting up with for the next 18 years.  This is not when I want to be frivolously spending money on myself just because the industry thinks it’s more important to put my girls on display than to have them cinched in and supported.  I swear, if they focused more on back support than tummy control, well, they’d lose money because I wouldn’t have to keep buying more bras.

In the interim, I bought six new cheap sports bras to sleep in.  And I might start doubling up my camisoles.  Thank goodness it’s starting to cool off around here.

Okay, enough boob ranting.

Here’s something uncomfortable I don’t really want to put out there, but I’m going to or it will continue to scare me.

I don’t want to buy anything for platypus.  Earlier I said that I’m in denial still, which is very true.  I look at me in the mirror, I run my hand over my belly that won’t let me suck in my gut, I wonder if that was Platypus or just my imagination.  The topic comes up every day and it still doesn’t feel real.  Which might explain why I haven’t filled out the baby registry or done serious research on cribs and strollers.  It doesn’t, though.

The thought that makes me avoid making direct eye contact with the baby department is a nugget of paranoid fear.  Preparing for this baby is tempting Fate.  Picking out names, painting the nursery, fawning over baby clothes, all these acts are simply begging the universe to change its mind about this baby actually happening.  It doesn’t matter that I just heard its heartbeat a few weeks ago and next week we’re having the second sonogram.  If I make any decisions on the assumption that this is reality, the universe will kill my baby.

Okay, that’s the extreme dark end of the spectrum of this paranoia, I promise.

How about, if I commit to this then the joke will be up and it will all turn out to be some freakish mistake.  All the piss tests and blood tests and machines and symptoms will turn out to be a fluke.  And it’s too late for me to be okay about that because I picked out a breast pump system so I’m invested in this being real.

And I’m scared about it being real.  This is normal, I know.  So normal, in fact, that most of you will say that me not being scared about my first kid would be disconcerting.

What I’m trying to say, badly, is that there are so many things that can go wrong and I’m not sure I can handle it so I’m trying not to get attached to Platypus in order to protect myself.  And don’t say that nothing is going to go wrong.  It doesn’t have to be with this pregnancy or with its childhood or teenage years or adult life or even directly to Platypus.  Things go wrong because that is life.  And knowing that means I will fail this kid somehow.  I won’t respond the right way, say the right thing, make the right decision, whatever.  I will not be able to protect my kid from the world and I know, I know, I shouldn’t want to.  And I know that I have no control over whatever is going to happen and no amount of unhealthy denial about reality is going to change that fact.

So this is definitely the hormones talking.  That’s got to be it.  I’m going to eat some pudding, good night.

 

Stage: 21 weeks (2nd Trimester)

Weight: 145-ish

Boobs: More than a handful, according to Buddy

Mood: Not that great, a complete 180 from yesterday

 

Post Script:

Periodically, we hold little potlucks at work where people leave food in the break room that we shove into our faces during our 15 min breaks.  The last couple of days, the boss decided to do our Holiday potluck since the actual holidays are a freaking nightmare.  They also decided to have a mini-baby shower for me for lots of reasons, including Halloween being my favorite holiday and the other pregnant girl is further along than me (she actually quit right after they decided to do the baby shower, but they chose to do it anyway).

I got some wonderful gifts, all very practical and adorable and I don’t feel worthy of having such considerate and talented people to work with.  And it’s definitely the hormones that are making me tear up right now.

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Declawing Cats


I should not be writing right now for a few reasons.  First, I have had two very full glasses of wine (I am a lightweight).  Second, it is very late, and while I have the day off tomorrow I don’t like indulging this particular bad habit.  Third, I have been holding in a lot of anger.  And by holding in, I mean ranting to my husband and friends, but not writing it down.

I write for a lot of reasons, I think.  Sometimes things just don’t make sense in my head until I make them solid on paper/screen.  Other times, I can’t sleep because my brain won’t stop talking about something.  Rarely, I am genuinely inspired by the Muse of Fiction.  I’ve written to fulfill New Years Resolutions and personal vows and school requirements.  I write because I am a writer.  I am also a baker and a hooker (crochet) and a napper.  To that end, I bake food I shouldn’t eat and stuff it in the faces of people I know to validate my own irreplaceability in their lives.  I crochet projects that interest/challenge me to stave off boredom and half-heartedly sell them (or rather don’t sell them) on the internet.  I nap.  This is my life when I’m not working.

I think I’m averaging three times a day that someone remarks on the fact that my name is Jo and I work at Joann’s.  It blows their minds when I tell them my middle name is Ann.  I say the same jokes over and over again.  “It’s probably why they hired me.”  “My mom must have KNOWN.”  “I’m Undercover-Bossing it.”  They all love my St. Pat’s apron, which I made as Irish as possible without resorting to using potatoes.  I am either the best person with the brightest personality and the most charming customer service or I’m the rude girl who merely pointed to the part of the store you needed without holding your hand to take you there.  I try to be the former because a narcissist needs everyone to love them and I NEED YOU TO LOVE ME.  I’m sorry if I was rude.  I hope there was a reason and not just that I was tired from standing for 5 hours because Americans don’t believe you can work and sit at the same time.  Or that I hadn’t eaten all afternoon because I decided we were too busy for me to take my 15 min corporate-obligated break.  Or I’m dehydrated because I left my water at the register and the past 5 times I went up to grab it, someone needed my help.  But thank goodness I have a cute apron and a bubbly personality and gave you the coupon you didn’t have or the discount you misread because losing money is less important than losing customers but more important than staffing the store well enough to properly serve customers.

To be clear, I do like my job.  I meet amazing people.  I get to help people be creative, which is kind of what I want to do with my life anyway, just with books.  I am inspired everyday to buy more yarn and fabric and stretch the boundaries of my skills.  I want to learn to do everything and I want to teach people to do those skills which will while away the hours of the Zompac.

Here is very important advice for casual conversation with retail workers.  It doesn’t happen frequently at work, but among new friends and associates and strangers at parties, the conversation gets around to, “And what do you do?”  Often this is after conversations about education or crazy college stories, but here’s a template of one conversation I had a bit too frequently over the last few weeks.

“Yes, I have a Bachelors in English with a minor in Medieval/Renaissance Studies.”

“And what are you doing with that?”

“I work retail.”

“Why?”

“I needed a job.”

Anything you say after that which isn’t along the lines of, “Oh, okay, the economy, blah, blah, blah, change the subject,” is going to lead down a dark road.

What can I say?  I am registered on several job search sites.  I get multiple daily emails about jobs available in my area (within an hour commute).  Most are crap.  Many are not even related to the field I’m interested in.  I realize that Barnes & Noble sells books, but the Starbucks barista job has absolutely no relation to publishing.  Nor does a managerial position at Food Lion count as a writing position.  Or I could take one of the many jobs selling magazine subscriptions to strangers.  A few, a very few are worth applying to.  Some fall under the “I need a job” category.  Like, okay, I’m not sure this is the type of job I want, but it does involve writing, a salary, and a full-time position.  Just bite the bullet, send in your resume, and wait for them to never, ever respond.  Not even to say you aren’t qualified or we went with someone else.

So when asked why I’m not working in the field I want, there is a little voice that starts screaming.  I don’t know.  I don’t know why they don’t want me.  I don’t know what’s wrong with me that I’m not good enough when EVERYONE who has ever taught me has said that I am above average.  What am I doing wrong?  Why don’t they want me?  And the only answer I always seems to come up with is that I’m not trying hard enough.  I can’t possibly be trying hard enough because in this country, if you work hard and stay positive and pull on your bootstraps or whatever, the opportunities just pour down.

It’s probably true.  I don’t walk my resume into publishing houses nor do I plan to move to LA or NYC in order to get an unpaid internship that could easily be done via email.  I don’t write constantly and send submissions in everywhere.  I don’t email 10 resumes a day to different employers.  Would that help?  Maybe.  Should I pay someone to look over my resume?  Because 6.5 years in the Army and a Bachelors degree aren’t evidence enough that I’m worth an interview?  Or even a rejection email?

This is why I don’t blog as much.  What shall I write about?  There was some woman who expected us to open up nearly an hour after we closed so she could buy something because we were the only place that had it and she needed it that night.  Or the woman who waved me down like I was a taxi.  Or the questions about whether or not I have anyone to help me with the line, which imply that I simply love keeping people waiting while my coworkers lounge in the break room or something.  No, I’m alone here.  I called for help and no one can come because everyone else is busy helping other people.  Or asking me to find a fabric you saw 2 months ago but don’t have a number or even a picture of, but you just loooooved it so much.  Is that all your buttons?  Why don’t you sell this obscure thing I’m looking for?  What are your hours that I could easily find with a quick internet search?  Do you have this yarn I bought six months ago with this lot number?  Do you have a senior discount (after I have asked if they have military or teacher discounts, because I would absolutely not mention senior after saying those)?  That person wasn’t chipper enough ringing me up, I want to complain.  I don’t understand why I can’t get cash back for a return, even when I don’t have the receipt.  Why didn’t I get full price back for stuff I returned six months after I bought it?  Where does it say 90 days (on the big sign right above your head and on the receipt)?  Why do you have to handle my fabric (because you were trying to smuggle out $30 in remnants folded in your fleece)?  What do you mean you don’t have it?  It’s on your website.  Oh, it says online only.

And that is only the nasty 1% of our customers.  Everyone else is either a joy and a pleasure to see or they’re new and just need some hand-holding.

For new people:

  1. Please be patient.  There are a lot of draws on our attention (other customers, because stocking the store and cleaning up the messes inconsiderate people leave always come after customer service).  We will help as much as we can, HOWEVER, we are not personal shoppers and should not neglect the rest of the store unnecessarily.  We will because we want your positive experience to bring you back, but other customers will suffer.
  2. Please be prepared.  Know your measurements.  There is no average size for anything, not chairs, not showers, not blankets, not clothes, not ANYTHING.  We will help you, but without correct measurements the best we can do is make guesses which can lead to you buying the wrong amount of supplies.  This will unnecessarily complicate your project and make you less likely to take on another.
  3. No questions are stupid or silly or unusual.  Within six months of working there, I had already heard all the weirdest projects (#1 was a reusable feminine pad) and cut the most fabric (2 1/2 hours cutting 50 1.5-yd pieces of fleece).  Do not be embarrassed to ask me anything.  Dumb questions are things that could be directed to Google before stepping in the store.  If Google can’t help you, ask away.  Even if Google could help you but you don’t want to ask a faceless search engine, ASK AWAY.  I will answer with a smile and if I can’t answer your question, I will ask my colleagues.  And yes, if desperate, Google it.

For Regulars:

  1. We love seeing you because you understand how long it can take to cut fabric.  Your patience and understanding are a Godsend, especially when we are slammed and understaffed.
  2. When we aren’t busy, we want to see pictures of your projects because in a little way they are our projects, too.  We also want to talk about your families and upcoming events, but not politics.  When we are busy, we still want to see pictures but we may have to be walking and stocking at the same time.
  3. Have your coupons loaded before you get to the register.  If you need help, as all phones can be tricky even to the most experienced, just ask.  If there is a long line at the register, I’ve noticed my regulars engaging other customers in conversation.  I love you for that.  It makes the line less threatening to me AND less annoying for others.
  4. Please, please, please, go to the website and fill out customer reviews.  A lot of people will take the time to fill out a review for a bad experience (and yes, I want those too, because how else will I learn?).  Most won’t bother if they had a good experience.  Every once in a while, I want to hear someone say we did a good job.  I know we do a good job and I know we aren’t perfect.  When all you hear are the negative reviews even though all I hear in person is how wonderful I am, it’s very confusing.

I didn’t mean for this to be about work or about my failing job hunt or how much retail can suck.  I was going to make some nasty remarks about declawing cats and maybe something political.  But since I’ve been listening to audiobooks in the car, I haven’t felt the boiling need to spew about stuff that doesn’t affect me on the daily because I am white, cis-gender, military spouse with health care through the military, and no children (yet) for which the future death of the planet holds any threat.  For the time being, I can selfishly ignore the toxic waste that festers a mere 3 hours away, plotting to drain the swamp through the effective means of increasing the white supremacist alligator population.  And honestly, what more is there to say that hasn’t been ignored or called fake news by the people I most need to hear me?  The people who will listen already agree with me.  The people who will call me a bitch and a snowflake and naïve are rooting for a creature who lies to their faces on a daily basis, or has his flying monkeys do it for him.

Bottom line, don’t declaw your cats, except in cases of medical necessity (for the cat).  Declawing can actually increase aggression in cats, causing them to lash out by biting rather than scratching.  A cat bite is far more likely to send you to the emergency room than a scratch.  It is better to treat the cat for aggression, either by finding healthy outlets (play and personal territory), behavioral medication, or rehoming if you are unable to give them the attention they need.  Declawing a cat because you don’t want it to scratch your furniture/carpets/curtains is animal cruelty.  It’s not like removing fingernails.  It’s cutting off the top knuckle of their hands.  It is the equivalent of binding women’s feet (Google that if you don’t know what I’m talking about).  I will never care more about my carpets than I do about the living creatures I agreed to care for.

 

And now you know why I don’t drink and blog.

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You Cannot Hate Yourself Thin


Dear Mom,

You cannot hate yourself thin.

And I mean YOU, not the general you.

Lots of people hate themselves thin.  They have eating disorders, mental illnesses that distort how they view themselves to such an extreme that they torture themselves to reach an ideal that will never be achieved.  They will die before their twisted standards can be attained.

More accurately, no one can hate themselves healthy.  The difference between healthy and thin is not always apparent, especially in an image-obsessed culture.  Thin is an insignificant number on a scale.  Thin is visible ribs, flat stomach, stick arms.  Thin is fragile and weak.  Thin can’t raise five kids.  Thin is the opposite of Fat.  Fat=bad, Thin=good.

Healthy doesn’t rely on numbers to be true.  Healthy is how you feel.  Sleeping better, moving better, breathing better.  Being healthy is about loving yourself so much that you want to take care of yourself.  You’ve heard obnoxious people say how their body is a temple so they don’t want to eat that trash, right?  We all know them, so superior with their spinach smoothies and coordinated yoga pants.  Or are they kale smoothies?  Arugula?  Whatever.  Healthy is the opposite of Morbidly Obese.  Healthy is meeting great-grandchildren.  Morbidly Obese is “Mom, I’m afraid for your life.”  This is a new feeling for me with you.  I’m used to it with Dad.

Yes, obnoxious.  But right in an essential way.  Your body, yes YOURS, is a temple.  It is sacred.  And you perform sacrilege every day.  I grew up listening to you fat shame yourself.  I know you can’t help that.  I know your father contributed and that unburdening yourself from the judgements of parents (however well meaning) is impossible.  I know you hate being fat.  It frustrates you because it doesn’t seem to matter what you do, it doesn’t go away.  It doesn’t get better.  You’re still fat, you still hurt, and it works for everyone else, why the hell doesn’t it work for you?

I don’t know, because I’m too far away and way too busy to monitor you 24 hours a day.  But I have a few theories, because how could I not?

Regularity.  Do you work out consistently?  Same times and days every week?  Do you have sufficient recovery stretches?  Do you have established refueling rituals?  All of these things help.  Consistency means you can keep track of progress and regularly increase difficulty.  Knowing how to recover means making sure a good workout doesn’t knock you on your back the rest of the week.  And having rituals reinforces the habit.  Finish a workout, get an awesome protein smoothie to help repair muscles and boost energy.  And then have an ounce of dark chocolate, because damn it you deserve it.

I hate working out.  Hate it.  And I have excuses up to the moon to not do it.  I’m tired.  I work part-time, but the last few months I’ve have 30-hour weeks (part-time my ass).  And I have a migraine-a-week habit.  Migraine if I have a glass of wine.  Migraine if I have too much heavy dairy.  Migraine if I don’t drink enough water.  Migraine if I sweat for five seconds moving stock in the back room.  Migraine if I wake up in the morning.  Migraine if I wake up.  But definitely a migraine if I work out.  For the next day or three.  (I did finally talk to a doctor about my migraines and she gave me new drugs that make me a space cadet and don’t work.  I’m planning on following up soon for other options.)  Me working out happens under three conditions.  I’m angry.  I’m having an Up week.  I’m terrified.

You told us that Dad was skinny as a rail until his early twenties.  Dad is no longer skinny as a rail.  Your daughters have been living in abject terror of genetics for our entire lives.  I am not exaggerating.  I’m afraid that I will look at myself one day and see you and hate that I let myself do that to myself.

That is the truth.

And its not for the reasons you think.

This last summer, I had to help you get home.  I had to give you support when muscle failure trapped you on a public toilet.  I had to steady you into the shower and help you dress and undress.  You said I shouldn’t have to see you this way.  And I laughed.  You didn’t know you were insulting me.  I’m your daughter.  I’m the only one who has the right to see you this way (ok, me and the rest of your children and your husband).  From that body you hate came my life.  It’s not a duty to care for my Mom.  It’s a privilege.

You look at yourself with loathing and shame.  Because you’re fat.  I see my Mom.  I did not feel disgust or shame when I saw you.  I saw my Mom.  And I love my Mom and wished she loved herself more.  That is what I’m afraid of.  I’m afraid I will look at myself and see a fat, ugly slob instead of the strong, intelligent woman YOU raised me to be.  I won’t see a loving mother or a successful business woman or a talented leader.  All I’ll see is FAT, UGLY, WORTHLESS.

This is why I think you fail.  You work out because you hate being fat and nothing changes.  So when it comes time to eat, you either don’t or you eat whatever because it doesn’t matter.  I know you try to make smart food choices, because I read your blog.  But under everything you write, I see the self-hate.  Dieting is punishment.  It means you can’t eat.  One piece of pizza.  Half a glass of soda.  No cake.  And then you accidentally have bacon, eggs, and grits for breakfast.  Oops.

That’s not an oops.  That’s a choice.  And I am tired of your choices.

Your body is a temple.  And the startling change you expect from working out will not ever happen, not if you keep sh*tting in your temple.  Eating healthy is an act of self-love.  It is not a punishment.  Food is sacred.  It is magical and wonderful in so many ways.  It brings people together, builds families, makes friends.  And it should never be a loathsome experience.  Not ever.  Not even when you are surrounded by people you hate who are all arguing over religion and politics and the latest family scandal.  Food is how Jesus explained to his disciples how they could remember him.  Within you is the body and blood of Christ.  And it has to share space with junk food.

You want extreme change, you have to start with extreme change.  Which means NO pizza, NO soda, still NO cake, and ABSOLUTELY NO accidental bacon, eggs, and grits.  No baked potatoes or clam chowders or bagels or sweet tea.  No seconds.  Hell, no complex sugars or salt or red meat or starches or processed foods.  Just bread and water, with the part of bread being played by steamed broccoli.

Which sucks, sure.  But it isn’t hell.  It isn’t even Limbo.  You stayed with me and ate my food.  Did you suffer?  Did you starve?  No.  I am a good cook and I like good food.  I would never feed someone bad food.  It would be sinful.  I am also a realist.  I have weaknesses.  Bread is a big one (all those empty carbs).  And pasta.  And potatoes.  Lots of things cannot be in my home because I can’t trust myself to always make the right decisions.  (The list is one that my husband and I made together, since marriage is a partnership, not a dictatorship.)  I still indulge in all those things, but it happens much more rarely since I don’t have easy access.

There are a lot of things I don’t miss.  Excess salt and sugar in my diet is one.  Making a lot of my own food means I control what goes in it and I like being in control.  Sometimes this involves using slow cookers to make a week of meals in advance.  A hassle, yes.  But better than eating at Panera for the third day in a row.  I don’t miss the stomach bombs from fast food or the sluggishness from greasy chips or being bloated from over-salted premade dinners.  I don’t miss chain restaurants or drive-thrus.

I love myself.  So I taught myself that the foods I used to love just make me feel like crap.  And they don’t even taste good.

I slip up, true.  Five Guys, a piece of pizza from the grocery store, SO MANY DONUTS.  But when I sit down to steamed veggies and a chicken breast, I don’t wish it was a Big Mac and fries (vomit sounds).

I’ve noticed something, though, with your menus.  I don’t think you know what “healthy” food is.  A sandwich is not automatically healthy, nor is soup.  I think you need to have a nutritionist give you a full run down on the type of diet that would best suit you.  Which includes portion size and a template for daily meal planning.  Regularity is key here, too.  Keeping to a schedule, tracking your water intake, planning ahead so you can’t deviate from your diet.  And having cheat days.

One day a week, or maybe just one meal, where you can ignore some of your rules.  You can go out for dinner.  You can have seconds.  You can have bacon.  That one day breaks up the monotony.  Nothing kills a good habit faster than boredom.

And on your birthday you eat whatever the hell you want.

Then you go to the gym.  Not because you are guilty about what you ate, even if you did slip up.  And NOT because you hate yourself.  But because you want to be strong and healthy.  Because you want to be independent, not imprisoned by a wheelchair or walker when your body starts giving up.  Because you want to feel better.  Ask your trainer why she works out.  I bet she won’t say it’s because she’s a fat, ugly pig who deserves pain.

I know it isn’t easy to give up, that hate.  After a while, it’s your best friend.  The only one who has stayed with you, who knows the real you.  The rebukes come naturally.  FAT.  CLUMSY.  STUPID.  WORTHLESS.  UGLY.  A regular chant I have memorized.  I say those things now and it shocks me back to reality.

The fat doesn’t make you ugly.  Hate makes you ugly.  Especially to yourself.

I LOVE YOU.  I don’t see Fat.  I see Mom.  And I want to help you.  I just don’t know how.

I can’t make you love yourself.  I hope you’ll try, though.

Your loving daughter,

Me

 

P.S.  Dad, this goes double for you.

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