Things can get pretty heavy when you are opening yourself up in order to deal with things. Allowing yourself to be vulnerable can mean bringing up a lot of fears and insecurities. Because of this, I'd like to lighten the mood and taking one day each week to reflect on something I am truly thankful for.
So, today I am thankful for my body.
I am what the media and society refer to as "plus size". I'm fortunate, because unlike a lot of strong, healthy and athletic women out there, I actually belong in this category. My weight, like my moods, is a bit of a roller coaster, but at least it's got some level of consistency. Since I was around 17 years old, I've been fluctuating between a size 13 and 15.
I used to feel an incredible amount of shame in that until I began to look at myself in a way that was realistic. I am 5' 11"; I have broad shoulders, large biceps and what Jerry Seinfeld would refer to as "man hands". I'd consider myself to be fairly proportionate, maybe not as much as I'd like but everything fits together all right. My size has never once prevented me from doing something like riding an amusement park ride or riding in a car or airplane. It's actually been a hugely advantages part of my being. Working in a coffee shop or retail setting that is mainly female dominated, my simple ability to reach things made me an integral part of the team. I'm also quite strong for a woman. While my work out routine doesn't involve weight lifting, I am able to lift toilets and install them on my own. I'm able to carry sheets of dry wall upstairs without a partner. I'm able to wield saws to cut down walls and dig post holes to build porches. Rather than being ashamed of my size--my bigness--I relish in my ability to do things, to work hard and accomplish a physical, tangible task.
When I wear clothes that fit me and flatter me, I love the way I look. I truly love my curves, my stretch marks, my cellulite and scars. They are all a part of me--of my body.
The human body is incredible, really. Each sense in and of itself is a miracle, something that proves our ability for such immense pleasure and joy. The way chocolate melts across your tongue into pure sweetness, the sound of a lover's laugh, the feeling of silk against a freshly shaved leg. All of those fantastic things that make life worth living we experience through this amazing meat suit.
I love my body for helping me get from point A to point B--for being reliable. I love my body for telling me what it needs, because learning how to listen to it has been essential to my health and well-being.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to promote a sedentary lifestyle or obesity or anything, I'm just promoting the "radical" notion that one can love themselves no matte their shape or size.
When I make jokes about my size or call myself fat in jest, there's always somebody who feels that this is a cry for attention--that I need reassurance or that I'm fishing for a compliment. "No," they say, "you're just tall." And while that's true, I'm also fat. Whatever. I mean, let's address the elephant in the room here....it's fine. I'm quite aware of what I look like, probably more so than you, so just trust me on this one. I appreciate what they are doing, but at the same time, I wonder why it's bad to be fat. Why does this word have such a stigma? Why do we give it so much power?
There are all kinds of things you can be in life that are terrible. You can be mean, manipulative, cruel, uncaring.... I mean, I could sit here and list things, but I'm sure you understand my point. When you look at the big picture in life, is being fat really a big deal?
Yeah, I could use other, sexier words to describe myself; curvy, chubby, voluptuous, plus size, but I choose fat because I want to take it back. I want to dispel this belief that being fat means you are lazy or unmotivated or that you have low self-esteem, because that's not at all how it is. That's not how it has to be, any way.
I'm in good health. Or at least my doctor says so. While he says I need to kick the cigarettes (because I fell off the wagon hard when stress hit), I have no other real risk factors in my life. I don't drink, I eat healthy, and while I am a few pounds overweight, I am not in danger of diabetes or high cholesterol any more than a slimmer person with a similar lifestyle.
And so I love my body. I accept my body. I appreciate everything that it's able to do and everywhere it's able to take me to go.
I encourage you to do the same thing, regardless of what size you are. Embrace yourself; your body is a temple and you deserve your love and affection just as much as anyone in the world.
Showing posts with label support. Show all posts
Showing posts with label support. Show all posts
1.30.2015
Marital Relations.
The end of last year--losing so many people we cared about in such a small time frame--was incredibly difficult on my marriage. Despite the fact that we have been together and present for each other's traumas, it is difficult to understand the individualized experience of another person. I often find myself trying to push my grief aside, thinking "Well, no matter what happened, you didn't lose your mother...You need to be strong for your husband." My husband, meanwhile, told me his thought process is similar; he finds himself pushing aside his emotions, thinking "She just lost two people, now she has to hold your hand through this. You need to be stronger for her."
While this is a form of distraction--an easy way not to focus on the barrage of insane emotions these losses have brought up--it has also made me open my eyes to one of the most difficult conflicts I've ever faced: how to balance my need for support with my marital oath to be a supporter.
In the beginning, when our wounds were still fresh and we were flitting in and out of denial, we encountered a level of tension that we'd never felt in our relationship before. We were each in a highly emotional, vulnerable state. We each felt as though we'd been locked in dark rooms, and as we searched for a way out, we became more and more frantic.... Unable to handle our own feelings, we put all of our effort into ignoring them. My husband withdrew emotionally--thinking that refusing to acknowledge his grief might prevent him from experiencing it--and I threw myself into my every day life with a vigor, trying to wrap myself up in a blanket of routine and monotony.
Suddenly, and for the first time in our relationship, it felt like we were no longer partners. It was as if he was standing a few feet away from me, but I was unable to reach him because the earth was splitting apart between us. I felt scared and helpless and powerless as I watched this great divide grow into the grand canyon.
I wish I could say that we recognized the need to communicate immediately, but we were both so wrapped up in our own experience of loss that we were unable to see clearly or think rationally. Instead of turning to each other for support, we turned inward.
We each found ourselves in a place of righteous indignation; each of us bitter with the other for failing to see our desperation and misery, for being unable to save each other. Our home, usually filled with laughter, was quiet. We each clung to our side of the bed at night, making the distance between us palpable.
We went on that way for a couple of the most miserable months of our marriage until one day it all just came out. I don't remember exactly what spurred the conversation, but all of a sudden we were speaking to each other again and finally saying things that mattered. Instead of talking about what to make for dinner or what had happened at work or what we'd heard on the news that day, we began talking about what we were feeling--what we were experiencing.
It turned out to be the the same.
We discussed how hurt and lost and unsupported and alone we felt; how scared we were about the growing space between us. We talked about how we had no idea how to proceed--how to sort through everything and heal. We were finally able to take off our bandages and be vulnerable with each other.
I wish I could say that every day since that conversation has been perfect, that we've figured out how to balance our personal needs with the needs of the other, but the truth is that this is new territory and we still stumble frequently. What I've learned, however, is that I need to take my husband's hand when I'm falling. I've learned that I need to share with him in order to create safe space for him to share.
Yes, the earth is still cracked between us and there still is some distance to overcome, but now that we've built the bridge, it's just a matter of making our way across...
I'm not sure how long it'll take us, but I do know that we'll get there. While I wish things could've played out differently---that we had more time with our loved ones, that we'd been able to process each experience individually instead of sifting through a pile of grief--but I can't get hung up on all of that. I have an obligation to myself and my husband to get through this in a way that is healthy. I have no choice but to accept life despite the terms and conditions in the fine print.
I've learned that our love is stronger than we ever knew and that honesty, vulnerability, empathy and compassion have a lot to do with that. I've learned that grief makes you do and feel some fucked up things--things that aren't even close to the scope of reality. I've also gained a lot of perspective; I've realized that every day my loved ones are breathing is a day to celebrate. I've realized that in the scope of life and death, not a whole lot really matters.... The important things are the people you are surrounded by--the people who let you lean on them when the world gets dark, the people who love you despite the fact that humans can be pretty unlovable sometimes. Cherish them. Appreciate them. Don't take them for granted. Everything and everyone is finite.
While this is a form of distraction--an easy way not to focus on the barrage of insane emotions these losses have brought up--it has also made me open my eyes to one of the most difficult conflicts I've ever faced: how to balance my need for support with my marital oath to be a supporter.
In the beginning, when our wounds were still fresh and we were flitting in and out of denial, we encountered a level of tension that we'd never felt in our relationship before. We were each in a highly emotional, vulnerable state. We each felt as though we'd been locked in dark rooms, and as we searched for a way out, we became more and more frantic.... Unable to handle our own feelings, we put all of our effort into ignoring them. My husband withdrew emotionally--thinking that refusing to acknowledge his grief might prevent him from experiencing it--and I threw myself into my every day life with a vigor, trying to wrap myself up in a blanket of routine and monotony.
Suddenly, and for the first time in our relationship, it felt like we were no longer partners. It was as if he was standing a few feet away from me, but I was unable to reach him because the earth was splitting apart between us. I felt scared and helpless and powerless as I watched this great divide grow into the grand canyon.
I wish I could say that we recognized the need to communicate immediately, but we were both so wrapped up in our own experience of loss that we were unable to see clearly or think rationally. Instead of turning to each other for support, we turned inward.
We each found ourselves in a place of righteous indignation; each of us bitter with the other for failing to see our desperation and misery, for being unable to save each other. Our home, usually filled with laughter, was quiet. We each clung to our side of the bed at night, making the distance between us palpable.
We went on that way for a couple of the most miserable months of our marriage until one day it all just came out. I don't remember exactly what spurred the conversation, but all of a sudden we were speaking to each other again and finally saying things that mattered. Instead of talking about what to make for dinner or what had happened at work or what we'd heard on the news that day, we began talking about what we were feeling--what we were experiencing.
It turned out to be the the same.
We discussed how hurt and lost and unsupported and alone we felt; how scared we were about the growing space between us. We talked about how we had no idea how to proceed--how to sort through everything and heal. We were finally able to take off our bandages and be vulnerable with each other.
I wish I could say that every day since that conversation has been perfect, that we've figured out how to balance our personal needs with the needs of the other, but the truth is that this is new territory and we still stumble frequently. What I've learned, however, is that I need to take my husband's hand when I'm falling. I've learned that I need to share with him in order to create safe space for him to share.
Yes, the earth is still cracked between us and there still is some distance to overcome, but now that we've built the bridge, it's just a matter of making our way across...
 |
| We probably should have went with a more sturdy model, huh? |
I've learned that our love is stronger than we ever knew and that honesty, vulnerability, empathy and compassion have a lot to do with that. I've learned that grief makes you do and feel some fucked up things--things that aren't even close to the scope of reality. I've also gained a lot of perspective; I've realized that every day my loved ones are breathing is a day to celebrate. I've realized that in the scope of life and death, not a whole lot really matters.... The important things are the people you are surrounded by--the people who let you lean on them when the world gets dark, the people who love you despite the fact that humans can be pretty unlovable sometimes. Cherish them. Appreciate them. Don't take them for granted. Everything and everyone is finite.
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