What I Am

What I am is what I am. Are you what you are or what? - Edie Brickell with New Bohemiams

Each day something happens to embarrass me or frustrate or exhaust me. I am wondering when I will get enough negativity to want to change it all. My clothes don’t fit. My personality doesn’t fit. I barely know who I am sometimes. I have moments when I can still see myself as fun and outgoing, charismatic and likeable, even rare occasions when I can see some attractive qualities. Those occur less and less frequently. Now my focus rests on the lowness of my breasts, the fullness of my face, the expansion of my arms, the tautness of my skin, the gradual appearance of new skin flaws and stretch marks, the heaviness of my own chin, the uncontrollable wiggle of my own flesh, the hump of fat at the back of my neck.

I can think of situations in which all these circumstances would feel okay with me, a few of them even fun. Had some traumatic event befallen me, I could at least rationalize and understand. Perhaps the excuse of expecting a child could justify these changes too. But I am not abused, not traumatized and not pregnant. I am fat. Over the past few years I have yo-yoed and pendulumed, risen and fallen to extremes but clung tenaciously to my identity as a fat woman. I have been fascinated, actually, to experience the evolution of my new identity and the devolution of my old one. Not much has changed physically I suppose. At least nothing has catalyzed this new identity. There certainly have been resulting physical changes because of the fat. My posture, for starters, is remarkable. I have no ankles. The lumps that were once my ankles seem to have migrated North and transformed into loose fat that hangs below my moonpie face. I can’t put my finger on when exactly it happened but I cannot seem to sit or stand properly now – is it the weight of my chest pulling my shoulders down or the fear of attention that hunches me over my computer at work, at home? There is never enough anonymity now. I have lost interest in hair, clothes, jewelry… this is all fairly new. I still have moments but know I am losing the old self. I fear conversations much of the time, only because they involve eye contact and personal interaction which I presently loathe. Ohh, someone may notice that I am fat.

No acquaintances or friends would believe that I feel this way. The emotional labor of maintaining the façade is oppressive. The easy escape is sleep and then a meal – a massive meal. There must be something about the meal that I know is unhealthy. It is certainly not hunger I ache to satisfy. If I only knew what the real hunger was, I would be well on my way to higher existence and far better health.

I try to remind myself of the horrors of my size throughout the day, the way my chin overflows a turtleneck, the turmoil of a self pedicure without being able to draw my knees close enough to reach my toes, exhaustion at the top of the second flight of stairs. Instead of inspiring me, as a heavy woman knows, these thoughts merely inspire more eating, the comfort of bingeing. Punishment and self destruction abound, much of the time on an entirely unconscious level.

And then I remind myself that it's possible. Dum Spiro Spero. While I breathe, I hope. I relax and breathe and daydream and imagine. Then I eat some peas and take a walk.

Public Secrets

It's funny. I always try to pretend like I am not fat. I try to wear the same clothes that everyone else wears. Do my make-up, my hair. My nails. (Though I don't feel particularly interested in these rituals.) I pretend to be active. I mean, I own a bike. I eat normally in public. I don't talk about my weight, or my overweight. Well, before now I mean. Heh.

The thing is, I think a lot of people who are overweight do this. Deny. Pretend. Hide. It is a shameful feeling. I wanted to buy a tennis skirt. I am trying to make positive changes and I want to at least look like I belong on the court - to the extent I can. No dice. Nike, Fila, Adidas, the big sports companies - do you think they make sports clothes for people who want to get fit? Right, zip. You can only wear their clothes if you're already there. I was frustrated, embarrassed, hurt. Looked and looked and got a great site with allll sizes. www.adintennis.com Can't wait! I decided not to be ashamed when I told the woman who took my order my size and predicament. There is nothing I can do to change that I am not already doing. That, in itself, is a relief. She was kind, matter of fact and the skirt will be shipped tomorrow.

I don't have to apologize. I don't need to explain. I can't explain it anyway. The bottom line is that I let things get out of control. And I am getting things back under control. It is a long process. Tough at times and always worth it. Then, when I rule the world, there will be tennis skirts for EVERYone. He hee.

It is an odd feeling to be ashamed of fat. It isn't something that one can successfully hide. I am fat. My arms, my legs, my rear, my hands, my face. I can deny it and pretend all I want to. It is my dark secret. My private shame. And totally public. On a heavy person, do you ever notice that person's nails first? Yeah, me either. My size is the first and most obvious thing about me. So, instead of focusing my energy on trying in vain to fool people into seeing me thin, I am going to rechannel that onto actually becoming fit.

Favorite summer snack: sliced cucumbers in a ziploc. Yes, I put salt in there. Can't kick all my bad habits at once, Jeez!

Mission for long weekend: walk each day.

Follow Through

Follow through. It's not just for tennis apparently.

So I am sticking with tennis for now. I am really enjoying it and have just forced myself to ignore my inhibitions about what wiggles and jiggles and ripples when I chase a ball on the court. I care but I don't care. Underneath it all, I am still quite conscious of what others think of me, of the distinct possibility that watching me run grosses them out or makes them laugh or invites their pity. But I can't let those people (real or imagined) and thoughts as mean as the ones I think to myself - I can't let their opinions be more important that my health. I can't let the possibility that someone might laugh make it okay for me to stay unhappy and unhealthy. I have days where I really knock this home and feel its truth in my core. Then I have days where I am totally ruled by the what ifs. I guess long term the goal is to have more days of not caring about the what ifs than caring. Whew.

I could not be doing this without your support and encouragement. I hope I can encourage and inspire any of you who need it.

Hey, don't you just love the total dorkiness of these pictures?

Slow and Steady Wins the Race

Slowly but surely trying to get back in the groove. I promised to write this week. To exercise this week and to go a little easier on myself. This week. Just to see how it is. (And to see if I can actually do it.)

I took a decent blow last week when a close friend with whom I spent a chunk of my time left the country (permanently, it seems). I always get thrown for a major loop when people go out of my life in some form or another. I know I should be old enough and familiar enough with these events to digest such changes more gracefully but I never get accustomed to filling my time with me. So uncomfortable and lonely. Gag. Just don't feel like thinking about it. Will instead focus energy on willing the weather to cooperate for tennis tonight.

Thought for the day: Think. (Not about filling time with me though...not yet.) Just think about what I am doing. Eating. Saying to myself. Today's mission is to be more conscious of how I behave and misbehave in terms of nutrition and self' treatment. Don't count on me to master this one in a day! Thank you all so much for your encouragement and inspiration. When all is said and done, there will be a big party for all of us! With flaxcakes.

Epiphany?

Negative. Epiphany. Negative.
I wrote this on the bus a couple of days ago. I was frenzied, urgently needed to eat (and I don't mean hungry). As the words jerked furiously across the back of scrap papers the need to stuff, to injure, to sabotage began to dissolve. I was lighter. Just a little. There must be more...

I look around at the fat women on the bus, on the street, at the store. I compare myself - desperately trying to find all the ways in which I am different from them. She has a bad haircut. She doesn't wear anything flattering. She frowns. None of these distinctions matter. I am that fat women. She is me. And I hate her. I violently and viciously hate her. I hate her for what she is, for what she eats, for how she looks, what she is doing to herself. I hate her for not hiding all this. I hate her for showing me what I am. Lost. Sad. Alone. Furious. Hungry. Fat. Empty. Hollow. Hollow not like the usual hollow made with a careful trowel, hollow made by a reckless back hoe.
Your shirt bulges at the buttons. Your watch cuts into your wrist. You have fat rolls on your neck. You're greasy. You're lazy powerless worthless disgusting repulsive. You're me.

These are the hard days. The alone days where I don't figure it out and wallow. Baby steps mean a glass of water with junk food. Or a walk to the end of the block. A small smile. Pain rage hate. Paralyzing. A steady stream.

You know that woman on the bus. She is me. I want to have compassion for her but only can do so when I separate her from what I am. She is suffering. She has forgotten. She doesn't remember that she is more than the jiggly yellow fat tucked into folds and sags. I am more than the sum of my impotent, rippling parts. I am under here.

Thought for the day: you don't drown by falling in the water, you drown by staying there. - Edwin Louis Cole.

Weight today: 275.4. A.k.a. No progress.

Dum Spiro Spero

Home for the weekend (last) - fun and stressful like most family visits are. Got a lot of physical activity, cleaning the garage, cleaning the workshop, cleaning the dog, well, you get the idea. Cleaning clutter literally, I was able to devote some time to cleaning (or at least ruminating on) some emotional clutter.
I talked to a friend before leaving. He also has to tackle the THING. He shared empathetic and gentle words. It is always so easy to be kind to someone else with the THING. I am struggling to be at least as kind to myself. I did not know the South Carolina state motto, Dum Spiro Spero. It was perfect timing - as a LOT seems to be these days. While I breath, I hope.

One thing to read immediately: This month's issue of Oprah magazine. Wow. The article on binge eating felt like it was written just for me. I think it may feel like that for many. Following a binge, the author, Ann Lamott, writes "I felt like a manatee alone in an aquarium." It's funny, I have certainly long identified with the manatee. I am NOT alone. None of us is.

Home Again, Home Again (Jiggety Jig?)

To market, to market to buy (be?) a fat hog. Home again, home again, jiggety jog.

Looking forward to the scenery in good old South Carolina where I am heading for a short family visit. You know you're jealous.

Recovering from a hellish work week, I am back on track eating healthy today. All your encouragement is better than a burger. Or a binge! Thank you. Alas, weight is up a bit today. Just a pound. I will overdose on that delicious flax again to take care of that pound. Out out damn spot!

Redneck tip of the day: if you can't afford a pedicure right now and the polish from your old one is chipping, one word: Sharpie. The color doesn't even really need to be all that close.

Illusion/Delusion

One of the worst sabatoges is telling myself that I look glam then seeing the pictures that tell me I am delusional. I keep thinking my face must be changing. I am exercising, so my arms must be changing. This thing takes a loooong time. I have to get prepared and be sure I am in for the long haul. No instant gratification here. I looked at this and just thought "extra." That's what I am - extra body. Just extra excess.

Not overly encouraged today. Have been working crazy hours. Even if my gym were open at 1am, I probably wouldn't go then anyway. And missed tennis which was a big disappointment. The positive side is that I actually am missing exercise which is a good sign. Hopefully work will calm down a bit today and I can hit a well-earned pilates class.

Thought for getting through the morning: Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming. If you haven't watched Finding Nemo in a while, you should.

Karma rides a bicycle

These shoes will take me where I want to go.

Ah, karma.
I got up early yesterday and went for a bike ride with Carrie. I had replaced my old bicycle seat with a new wide seat to accommodate my own wide seat. It felt quite comfortable - at first, anyway. The night before, I prepared: got my water bottle ready, pumped the tires, dusted helmet.
Though we planned to leave at 9:00, we managed to actually get on the road by 10:00 (and were proud of the relative nearness of that to our planned departure time!)
The ride was pretty, the weather perfect - sunny and cool. The sky was so blue it looked like a cartoon. Mostly uneventful, the ride went down to the tip of Manhattan where we rested and I looked at the Statue of Liberty.
On the way home, all was going well until pop and click followed by a hiss. I am a novice rider but can recognize a flat tire without a lot of help. I had one. I also had no repair kit, no cell phone, no money, and no clue. Carrie did only slightly better: she had a phone. We laughed and laughed then had the bright idea to go to a taxi tire repair shop to inflate the tire, figuring it we could do just enough to make it home. Wrong.
We ended up at a gas station in hell's kitchen. The air machine cost $.50, which of course, we didn't have. Still laughing like animals, we had to ask the attendant to spot us two quarters. He seemed less than delighted to do so, telling us, "we don't fix. We don't fix." Oh, what a coincidence, Mr. Singh, neither do we.
Struggling (far less than adeptly) to get the air pump and the valve to communicate, we continued to laugh, beginning only then to recognize the futility of our plight. I tried to get Carrie to go without me, likening our measly bike ride to a climb of Mt. Everest; "you have to go on without me. Complete the mission."
Suddenly, a small dark D.J. appeared from the autoshop next door. He asked if we wanted help. No surprise, we did. He tried to get some air in the tire but "tire is bad." Not to worry, he told us, there was a bike shop a few blocks away. Still giggling, we told him thanks, we had no money so would walk.
So he offered us money. Five dollars at first, then ten, then twenty. When we agreed to take it and mail him a check, he took out a fifty. Panic hit us. I was thinking "dude, we are not doing whatever it is you want us to do to get that money." So we negotiated for the smaller sum, got the fifteen bucks and headed to the bike store. Then Carrie's chain came off. Which was just as funny as everything else.
At the bike store, we decided to get the tire fixed then ask how much thinking, if we don't have enough, we will be able to better bargain once the work is done. Grand total: $16.25. After hearing the story of the good samaritan D.J. and his fifteen dollar donation to my fitness cause, the nice clerk realized he actually meant to charge us $14.99. Whew.
Carrie and I will be signing up for a class on how to fix our own tires on the road.
Rodolfo, the generous gas station D.J., on the other hand, will be experiencing some high return on his excellent karma this week.

Idea to practice today: pay it forward.

15 Love

Still life of my life. What you see, microcosm of my weird collection of goods: pink guitar, gold dog evening bag, rod laver adidas tennis shoes and one triple threat racquet. With a mother as fabulously nutty as mine, there was probably no hope from the start.

Tennis lesson last night. First time on a court since summer camp as a child. I was so nervous before knowing that I would have to run in front of people infinitely more fit and experienced that I am. But, since the decision to do THE THING I have had to let go of worrying so much what other people thing. Otherwise, this won't happen... I can't be ruled by strangers' thoughts of me. If you don't like it, look away.

It was a BLAST! I am playing on Sunday with a girl in my glass. I am going to get active. Even if I have to totally trick myself. (hmmm. Does that work?) Some friends from the class went out after to watch Yankees/ Red Sox game - uh oh, Mexican. While I watched them sip their yummy looking margaritas, I felt proud to enjoy a light beer. I had a great time and went home NOT stuffed and NOT sabatoged. A great night. Baby steps.

Thanks for all the support!

15 Love. Love 15. Love all.

Flax On, Flax Off

1. Fabulous chandelier (ladels, whisks).
2. Uh, me.

Flax on, flax off. No karate kid here, no Mr. Miyagi, just a silly girl discovering health. I have now heard the wonders of flax heralded repeatedly so had to check out this wondergrain for myself. Marched in (oh so knowingly and confident) to the health food store. That place smells like cat food and wet heartworm pills. In other words, I couldn't wait to eat something that I bought there. Bought some flax meal and got talked into some fiber powder by a decidedly UN-health-conscious woman. It was chick peas, flax seeds, dates, and other fine natural goods all ground together for spinrkling on bananas. Well, I can use extra fiber. I mean, who can't? So, I mixed some with some grapefruit juice for breakfast. It was good, so good, in fact, that I sprinkled some on my salad at lunch and followed that with an afternoon snack of raspberries and yogurt a la fiber powder. I was feeling pretty smug about carefully working over a CUP of healthy fiber into my diet. Yay - and this was in addition to the fruit, juice and vegetables I already ate. Wouldn't you know - as if my frequent and emergency trips to the bathroom didn't clue me in - the recommended daily serving? 1 tablespoon. How many tablespoons are in a cup?

Flax on, flax off.

Today's weight: 274.6. Giddy UP!

Me and my maters

Oh. My pathetic window box tomato plant is having small success!

He hee. Off to the gym now. It only took me two hours of piddling to actually get ready to go. Amazing that I have to talk myself into something sooo good for me. Sure doesn't take as long to talk myself into ice cream or a few hours of tv. Or evil self-hating talk. Puuurfect.

Back from the gym and major rain storms. Good news to report: had fun at the gym, said nice things to myself (amen for no mirrors) and got a funny reward. At the gym, doing "wall" push-ups - and I promise, they work, I was thinking about my heart, how hard it has to work to keep me alive with my extra weight. How one tiny muscle must push blood to every cell that is me - even the fat ones. I decided that that's a lot to ask, especially for years and years. So I made a deal with my heart, service me for a year now as I learn to take care of you, then it will be my turn to service you... pump little heart, pump, just a few more months.

So, it was sprinkling when I left the gym. Then, nearly instantly, it was pouring. I didn't have anumbrella and hold umbreallas in general disdain (Claire says "because they're pessimisitic"). So I roamed the 'hood in soaked gym clothes and a baseball cap. When the bottem really dropped out, I stopped under some scaffolding to just watch people. I stood next to a garbage collector smoking a pipe. He was a sort of poncho clad Sherlock Holmes with a big rolling trash can. It was bizarre. "It's really raining," he said, taking a puff of his pipe - and confirming all that he had in common with Holmes. He grinned in a really freaky way (revealing serious JoJo Rottentooth)- you know, the way that makes one think, yeah, getting soaked isn't so bad. So I left. Weird stuff like that is a reward to me.

Another reward? An inspiring post from Ms. Britt Fick (comments, Day 1). Thanks for sharing tips that helped you Britt! And congratulations. :)

Eating idea for the day: Don't eat like a snake. (See comments, Day 1)

Keep on keeping on. This CAN happen.

So you got the link?

Speaking of pigs... wait, that was yesterday. This is Babe, no, not me, the pig. Babe lives on a berry farm in South Carolina and does tricks for Gatorade. Well, there's a little something we have in common. The tricks for Gatorade, not the berry farm.

So you got the link?
That means I either got brave or stupid enough (or both) to share this puppy. Thanks for checking this out...The idea is that I get help and encouragement from you and get you it from me and we get it from each other through comments and posts... I am planning to walk the path and show that this can happen, that it can be done - and that I can do it. I follow others who have succeeded and will be somewhere in the large pack of women who take control and work together to accomplish THE THING. And I plan to muster some serious entertainment value in the process. Passing that right along - for free! (If you don't think this is funny, perhaps www.thebestpageintheuniverse.com is more your speed. I warn you, it is crass and raunchy.)

The stars are aligning this time. (This time - we all know the feeling of "this time.") But it really has to be this time. MUST. Why else did I just expose the most vulnerable part of myself, the feature of me of which I am most painfully ashamed? Ahhh, to know it is temporary and that we have the strength to fix it.

276.8 Today

Cool, cheap trickto make yourself feel good today: bubbles. Wave the cheap plastic wand through the parking lot at the grocery store. Watch the colors swirl on a single bubble. Giggle. (Yes, people will stare. And?)

Happy Friday!

305

I am a pig. I can't just eat a cup of yogurt and be satisfied. I haaave to lick the top too. Just for that little extra bit. Do you do that? Am I the only one? What's up with that? Really, no need for that. Maybe I just like licking. Or maybe I am terrified that the lid yogurt is the last there will ever be. No more yogurt. Uck.
Okay, let's try to restate this in a more positve way.

Restatement attempt 1: Well, pigs aren't so bad. They are, after all, pink - oh lauded favorite color of bubble gum and my childhood bedroom. They are intelligent (moreso than many non-pigs that ride the New York city subway). And they get to eat all they time. and forget about manners. Downsides: mud, miniature legs, stinky.

Restatement attempt 2: I am sensual. I like to experience my yogurt in a meaningful way. I relish each taste... oh forget it. I am just going to see if I can stop licking the top. Enough. Done.

Onwards and downwards. So, the tip top jumping off point is 305. That is the point I either leave slowly or literally just jump. I chose and choose slowly. In September of 2004 was my highest high of my lowest low. 305 pounds. (The picture is from a friend's wedding. I look like I might be about to eat that child. Hoss. Nice cleavage. Call Guinnes - Four boobs. Ooh la la. Not for long.) Wow. More than 1/10 of a ton. More than two of my healthier friends. Appalling. Lots more later on how I may have gotten there. Much, much more on how I get away from there! Today, I focus on being hopeful that I can change. I intend to turn that hope into conviction. And then the conviction into results. Today I am 278.6. This is where we start this thing together. 278.6. Okay? (Okay. Oh, a little cheerleader coming out here!)

Went to Curves this morning. Thought of all of you who may eventually read this. Thought of the power of our combined struggles and the strength of how emotional it has been so far. Was inspired and happy. Stayed the requisite 30 minutes, slithered home in a cloud of my own fumes, showered (magically continued to sweat IN the shower), then walked to work. I imagined that I looked fit as I walked. I imagined that I looked glamorous - my idea of glamorous. Totally ignored my reflection in a window because it tried to tell me otherwise. I imagined...daydreaming it into being. Baby steps. And some humor.

Workout song for the day: Dare Me by the Pointer Sisters. "Baby make your move, step across the line... Come on and dare me."

Yummy food for the day: Acitivia Yogurt, prune flavored. Yes, prune. Go ahead, see if you don't think it's the best one too. A check of www.activia.com will tell you why this yogurt is better than the others. And lick the lid!