Filed under: doubt, emotions, Gardening, love, poetry, Uncategorized, writing
A sestina, written early in the relationship with the king of vacillant winds and discarded dreams.
It was my birthday when we met,
and I was first enveloped in your smoke.
We wandered, my skin burning, in the garden.
your friend trailed behind, embodying my doubts.
Compared to the maelstrom of my thoughts,
I barely said a word.
Perhaps I have way with words,
but only in subversive meetings
with myself where my thoughts
are suffocated in smoke
and doubt…
What do you care to grow in your garden?
Are you even a proper gardener?
Carefully choose your words
and silences. My doubts
are hungry and eager to meet
the man behind the smoke
usurping my productive thoughts.
Should I share the thoughts
I’ve etched into my garden
sand? Will they dissipate like the smoke
from your cigarettes and the words
from your mouth when our lips meet?
Can you cripple my doubt
or am I right in doubting
your capacity to calm my thoughts?
When you and my id have finally met,
will you still want our infested garden?
Will you cull it with your words
or gas it in a pesticide smoke?
I can tolerate the smoke.
I can breath in poisons and exhale the doubts
and come up with clever wording
for my thoughts,
but I let noxious weeds flourish in the garden.
They grow so tall our eyes cannot meet.
Words unspoken each meeting
planted this doubt in the garden…
and smoke does not slow the infestation of thoughts.
Filed under: emotions, love, poetry, writing | Tags: air, poetry, science, water
Oh king of vacillant winds and discarded dreams,
why did you come into mine?
I wanted to lose you in the vastness of my oceans,
but you are air…
my tidal words will never wash you out.
I drew your oxygen inside me
and your warmth excited me to vapor.
I saturated your willing currents
until their heat dissipated and I condensed into clouds
before my gravity forced me from you.
Now the sky is empty and I am scattered.
I can see the stars as fragments of myself
are swallowed into the blackness of the ground.
Constricted in darkness and dirt, I gather
while the earth absorbs my salt and poisons.
I carve streams as I sink into my rocky bed and
I rest, guarded from the influence of the surface.
Filed under: beauty, body image, Bullying, Confidence, emotions, essays, Internet, Journaling, opinion, Weight Issues, writing | Tags: body shaming, bullying, emotions, Fat, insults, thin, weight
“As a skinny girl I hate the bones are for dogs comment. I am naturally skinny to the point I have to work very hard to keep my weight up and steady!!! I love being skinnybut it’s hard… it’s mean and hurtful when we are called skin and bones, referenced to attracting only low class guys, or called anorexic. It’s not ok to insult a plus sized woman so it shouldn’t be ok to insult a skinny woman. I have nothing against plus sized ladies. All that matters is you’re happy and healthy. And for the record, my fiancé is not a dog or anywhere close to it!!!!” -Facebook User commenting on a plus sized model’s photo.
Dear (Thin) Facebook User,
First, let me say that I agree. People should refrain from voicing hurtful opinions about the weight of others regardless of which end of the spectrum that person occupies, period. Generally, that person is aware of what their body looks like, and doesn’t need your input on the matter. Such commentary accomplishes nothing except for boosting the ego of the perpetrator by putting down the target, often in the guise of snide concern. Making fun of a fat person and a making fun of a thin person are equally condemnable. Neither is O.K..
However, the way this sort of commentary hurts a thin person is often very different from the way it hurts an overweight individual. Barring very low self-esteem, eating disorders, or other mental disorders that distort body image, most thin people are generally comfortable with their bodies even if they are not entirely satisfied. The above user said herself that she loves being thin. While this is becoming true for a growing number of overweight/fat/plus-sized/choose-your-adjective individuals, a vast majority of them (should I say us?) are constantly uncomfortable in their own skin.
Overweight people, especially women, tend to face a lot of imagery in magazines, television, and movies telling them their size is not only not beautiful, but not acceptable or at best, something to mocked. While there are a growing number of non-traditional models, big girls tend to have to seek out imagery that positively represents bodies similar to their own. On the contrary, thin women regularly see imagery that reinforces and reassures them that their bodies are attractive even if they hear remarks to the opposite effect. Being inundated with this sort of exclusionary imagery tends to make overweight women, and the men who are attracted to them, unnecessarily aggressive toward the idea of thin being sexy. Often men attracted to fat women are seen as fetishists and the fat women themselves are seen as a fetish, further increasing their defensive nature.
It is true that thin women still face the same pressure that all women feel: to have the perfect boobs, an exaggerated waist, and round perky buttocks. Disparaging remarks about our bodies hurt no matter what size we are; few people don’t inwardly long to change their appearance. The main difference here is that the remarks of peers regarding weight are much less likely to encourage or perpetuate harmful behaviors in the average thin person.
Thin women, because they tend to feel more confident about their bodies, are more likely to recognize the commentary as ignorant and hateful, label the person dispensing it an asshole, and move on. But it is fairly common for overweight women to already have an inner monologue that tells us we are unattractive because we are fat, and though we may hide it at the time, the commentary validates our negative self-image. In women who are overweight despite vigilant diet and exercise, this can lead to starvation dieting or even encourage them to give up. In people who compulsively overeat, or eat for emotional reasons the implication is obvious.
In summation: Yes, thin Facebook user, the person who tells you to eat a cheeseburger or asks if you are anorexic is an asshole in the same way as the person who tells me I need Jenny Craig and asks me how I escaped SeaWorld. Yes, we both as women have to deal with insensitive assholes telling us that we don’t fit their ideal of beauty… But, unless you have a sense of worthlessness strongly linked to your weight…unless you have a loud inner-monologue that tells you that you are less than worthy because of how you look…please…don’t pretend you know how I feel.
Filed under: autobiography, emotions, Journaling | Tags: adulthood, growing up, maturity, passion
I wish someone had warned me that are no real grown-ups. With each year that passed after the age of 18, I kept waiting to cross that magical threshold into adulthood- real adulthood: That stage in my life where I would know exactly what to do with myself and am brimming with desire to go do it.
As I near the age of 28, it is becoming painfully obvious that adulthood is more of a fake-it-til-you-make-it sort of thing.
I used to say things like, “The 12 year-old me would be so angry at my lack of accomplishments, that she would kick my ass.”
Now I’m more inclined to think things like, “If I could talk to the 12 year-old me, I would gently tell her that her inflated expectations were making her judgmental and depressed.”
While some would say the difference in thinking is reflective of maturity, (and sometimes I say that too) part of me, age 12, believes it is merely a sign of defeat: An allowance to the world at large to steal my dreams away like lunch money.
Filed under: autobiography, Binge Eating, body image, cognitive theraphy, doubt, Emotional Eating, emotions, fear, love, self-help, Weight Gain, Weight Issues, Weight Loss, writing | Tags: College, life, Stress, Weight Gain, wieght loss
In my previous installments: “The Younger Years” and “Losing Weight the Wrong Way,” I shared how I had become a plus sized child and teenager before abruptly losing ~120lbs. within the span of 4 months via eating an extremely restrictive diet while over-exercising. Over the next couple years, I would attempt to get a handle on my disordered eating before ultimately failing.
After my friend had pointed out that I was showing signs of anorexia and non-purging bulimia, I tried to rectify my habits. After a few weeks of continuing my food journal, I still had a reluctance to eat more than 1,000 calories a day. Even if I didn’t write calorie amounts down, I was still doing estimations in my head. I concluded that I needed to stop keeping it. Instead, I focused on reasonable portion sizes, while still working out at least 6 hours a week. This strategy worked very well, and I managed to maintain a weight of roughly 145lbs. for roughly one year.
A photo of me with my fantabulous car in my senior year in high school.
I have to admit, that year was pretty great. Even though I still wasn’t totally happy with my appearance, I felt empowered. I did a lot of things I had previously been scared to do. I joined my high school’s Speech and One Act teams as well as participating in Quiz Bowl. I wore attention-getting clothes that my old self would have never worn.
I was still getting used to all the appreciative attention for my looks from the opposite sex, and often reacted to it badly. Example: While exiting a music store, some guy whistled at me. As it was unexpected, I laughed loudly and closed the door after me. Only after I left did I realize how mean that must have seemed.
Since that guy was obviously not quite a charmer, let me give another example: In my junior year, I was approached by the little sister of one of the few boys who had been nice to me all through grade school despite my weight. He had sent her to ask if I would go to a dance with him. Dumbstruck, I just kind of stood there blinking. She made a knowing face and said, “Ok.” Then she left, and I slowly parsed together what had happened. Although I certainly would have gone, I was too shy to say anything to either them after that.
Then, half way through my Senior year, I started dating a goth boy who fancied himself a romantic. He regularly took me to dinner, bought me little gifts, made me photo collages, and (this is the cincher) talked to my mom even though she’s so brain damaged she mostly only said no. (Unfortunatelymy mom’s condition hasn’t improved since then.) While I had dated previously, I think half of my motivation was just to be able to tell people I had a boyfriend. I never did really let my guard down around the guys I was seeing. However, the goth boy’s patient devotion and acceptance allowed me to let him into the tangled web of emotion I usually kept between myself and word document. He was the first to get my crazy. I still feel sorry for him.
One thing he did for me was help me embrace my body despite it’s imperfections. For the first time ever, I felt comfortable in a swimming suit.
While we dated, I gained 15lbs. We spent all of our spare time with each other, and although we went on long walks and got –ahem- other forms of exercise, all of the dining out went to my waist line. I went up a size, but I wasn’t too worried about it. My ideas of small portions steadily grew.
After graduation, I moved an hour andhalf away for college. Goth boy and I had made plans to get an apartment near campus, but those plans fell through after he failed to save enough money. As a result, I was poorly matched with my roommates. There were two girls from a private, Catholic high school, and a cheery former cheerleader. They all kept everything super-tidy in a specific way, loved reality tv, and country and pop music. I was in hell.
On the bright side, I got to dye my hair magenta.
Aside from a few bright spots and a wicked wardrobe, my first year in college wasn’t much fun. I was an outsider in my own home, I didn’t really have any friends going to the same school, and I got to see my boyfriend 3 times a month if I was lucky.Although I did get out occasionally with the help of a few area friends or my twin aunts who lived in the same city, it wasn’t frequently. I coped by immersing myself in class, books, cartoons and junk food. Some days I would forgo meals entirely in favor of junk food. Other days, I would I sit down with a half gallon of ice cream and a spoon, eat it all, and then purge. The change in eating habits didn’tshow, probably more due to the fact that walking was my primary mode of transportation (I had elected to leave my car at home to cut costs and the bus frightened me)than my burgeoning bulimia.
In my second year in college (I was 19), things had evened out a bit emotionally. I lost the boyfriend, brought my car from Dad’s place, got a work-study job in the library archives, had friends on campus, and had cool roommates whom I got along with reasonably well. Although I began smoking cigarettes and drinking occasionally around this time, I was generally more well-balanced, and as a result I mostly didn’t binge-eat. Between my work, school, social life, and romance, I didn’t have time to. Once again, dating led to poor food choices like fast food or sit down restaurants with enormous portions, but I managed to stay around 160 lbs.with an intermediate amount of exercise.
Things didn’t really start to go downhill until I was living alone for the first time in my third year of college, but the decline didn’t take long. I shared a story about my childhood clepto-mania with a party cohort I had idealized as a buddy flick-like friend. Long story short: After activating the bad influence, I carried on by myself, landed myself in legal hot water, lost my job, was sentenced to jail time, and moved (while still going to school) rather than deal with it. The resultant stress led me to binge everything: food, alcohol, cigarettes, basically anything enjoyable I could get my hands on.
An image depicting how my 20 year-old self felt about law and authority.
I am not sure exactly how long I was “on the lamb,” but it was only a few months. By the time I weighed in when I went to jail, I was something near 180lbs. (I was pretty stressed out, so I don’t remember an exact number.)
Contrary to popular opinion, I found it quite easy to lose weight in jail. The food was disgusting. I didn’t care how hungry I was, I found most of it inedible. I lost 15 pounds during my 28 day stay, but that weight came right back when I moved back to Dad’s house for the summer. Dad was understandably frustrated with me, as I had hidden the entire ordeal from him until I was physically in jail. I internalized ever little thing he said in anger. I felt worthless.
With the help of my generous Aunt Corrine, I returned to college in the Fall and proceeded to make a huge mess of everything about six months later.
Next Installment: Coming Soon
Filed under: beliefs, emotions, love, poetry, writing | Tags: emotions, Love, poetry, relationships, writing
Image via XTwistofFatex click for link.
Love is neither desperate nor disinterested;
there are no pedestals involved.
It does not beg for change and cry
when it does not come.
It (mostly) does not dwell on angry words
or spit them back.
It strives to be patient, attentive, and kind.
It focuses on passions and talents
and watches them grow.
Love is a dynamic work of art,
ending only when both put down the brush.
Filed under: autobiography, cognitive theraphy, emotions, self-help, Weight Issues, Weight Loss | Tags: Fat, high school, wieght loss
In the last installment, A History of Fatness: The Younger Years, I cut to the root of my emotional relationship with junk food. I shared how I spent the latter half of my childhood in the plus-sized section, and how I began to lose weight.
At first, my methods of weight loss were pretty sane. I began losing sometime in March, and at the beginning of May my average rate of weight-loss was a manageable and healthy 15lbs per month or about 2 pounds per week. I kept a food journal, I walked between 2 and 4 miles each day, and I did body weight resistance exercises 3 times a week.
Then, with the help of weight-loss books, I calculated my frame-size (medium framed at 5′ 6”) which based on bone positioning and created a goal of weighing 130 pounds (the lighter end of healthy for my frame size)… by my birthday. At the time, I weighed 220 lbs. I wanted to lose 90lbs in 2½ months.
In these photos, I weigh between 220 and 230lbs.
After school was out for the summer, it was crunch time in more ways than one. I made weight loss my main goal. In addition to the body weight resistance exercises, I began weight lifting and walking longer distances. I began calorie counting. I ate 1,200 calories each day, about 500 less than was recommended for weight-loss according to my books. I was obsessed with creating calorie deficits. I wasn’t satisfied in the morning unless I weighed at least a pound less than I had the previous day.
By the end of May, I weighed about 180 pounds, 50 pounds less than I did at the beginning of the month. The women’s size 16 jeans I previously would lay on the bed to squeeze into fit perfectly. Some were even baggy. My friends and family were impressed. No one worried that the weight was coming off too fast. They made every effort to encourage me. I, however, had hit something of a weight-loss plateau and was still 50 pounds from my goal-weight of 130 lbs and a month andhalf from my goal-date of my 16th birthday.
I made my diet more restrictive. I cut my daily consumption down to 800 calories with two, 1,000-calorie “cheat” days. I would spend somewhere around 4 hours each day walking ( I covered an average of 17 miles) in addition to an hour-long anaerobic work out. I would go to sleep exhausted and hungry.
On my birthday I was 10 pounds shy of my goal-weight. Although I was glad to no longer shop in the women’s plus-size section, I was wearing the largest size most store’s junior’s sections carried at the time- a size 13.
It is worth mentioning that my perception of my size at the time was skewed in part to the arbitrary sizing in womens‘ and teen girls’ clothing and my own refusal to admit to being any bigger than a size 16 when I was younger. At 250 lbs I was squeezing into size 16 pants when I probably should have been wearing a size 22. When I weighed 140, I wore a women’s size 10 or 12, but that translated to a junior’s 13..so basically I perceived a loss of 10 dress sizes as a loss of 3. Also, since I was wearing the largest junior’s size in most stores, I must still be fat.
Because of this thinking, it seemed like my aunt Corrine was almost more excited about my smaller body than I was. She bought me a new wardrobe that summer, marveling over how cute and tiny everything was. Even though I weighed 110 pounds less than I did in May, I still wasn’t happy with my body. I still hated how I looked in swimming suits. My belly was still lumpy, my arms were still flabby.I cut my calories further.
In this photo I weigh 140 lbs.
When school started, I imagined kids would whisper that I’d gotten liposuction. That didn’t happen. There were (almost) none of the mean comments I’d grown accustomed to. For the most part, the boys didn’t treat me much differently, but I wasn’t prepared for how differently the girls would treat me.
Even among friends, I was suddenly part of the group; I was invited on shopping excursions to neighboring cities, to water parks. Girls who had previously snubbed me treated me with respect. The older girl I mentioned in the previous post who bullied me, despite being a year behind in math class, decided I had become her mortal enemy. However, the most threatening things in her arsenal were telling me I dressed like “a hippy” and that I would marry for love and be poor while she would be a gold-digger. As usual, my biggest obstacle was internal.
In general I felt more confident about my body, but I couldn’t stop comparing it to other, thinner girls. Unable to obsessively exercise, I cut my calories to 500 or less a day. This behavior continued for a little longer than a month. I only managed to lose 15 pounds, and squeeze into a junior’s size 9.
Finally, one of my friends who had been quietly observing my altered eating habits at lunch talked to me. She said that she had also been exhibiting anorexic and non-purging bulimic behavior, and that her mother had pointed it out to her.
“You are skinny, Claire,” she said. “You have to eat.”
I managed to keep the weight off for several years in varying degrees of health. However, I never was really happy with myself. Eventually, my body began to reflect it.
Next installment: The Weight Crept Back and Brought Friends!
Filed under: beauty, emotions, essays, love, Weight Issues, writing | Tags: beauty, journaling, style, weight
Last night while getting groceries, the checker paid me a random compliment. She was a cute, short, thin young lady with what appeared to be natural light-red hair: the sort of girl who effortlessly looks good in unforgiving uniforms of form fitting white button-ups tucked into khaki pants, the sort of girl whose waist I stare at enviously.
“I love your look,” she told me, scanning my diet soda. “It’s probably a weird thing to say, but I think it every time I see you come in.”
“Thank you,” I said awkwardly, “I like compliments.” I was wearing form-fitting ripped jeans, (which have these wrinkles where my belly ends that I absolutely hate) a black camisole under a pink accented zipper hoody, lots of random bits of cat hair, and no make-up. I let my barely-brushed naturally curly hair frizz out under my skull and cross-bones bandanna.
She smiled, and related an instance in which she noted that her sister had gained some weight, and she said something about it, meaning it as a compliment. “It’s just that I’m so small,” she concluded, briefly glancing at my cleavage.
We continued talking while she finished scanning my items, and we smiled warmly at each other before I left.
Just because people don’t understand doesn’t mean you have to whisper into the bottle you keep in your mind.
Yes, there is a reason why you don’t share your feelings with others. They (being the supremely helpful people they are) like to give advice, not recognizing the need for understanding.
People keep giving you repair manuals, but broken things rarely fix themselves.
Your anger boils up inside you like hatchling spiders. You change the subject or bow out as gracefully as you can manage. Your thoughts are toxic. You replay insults hurled by oblivious friends. Desperately, you attempt to balance your thoughts, to not take it personally.
You started talking to feel better, but now you feel drained and helpless.
A blank page is a better conversation partner. It will patiently catalogue your feelings, and reflect them back to you. It will reserve judgement completely, politely waiting for you to come to your own conclusions.
Filed under: autobiography, emotions, love, self-help, writing | Tags: auto-biograhy, books, cerebral vasculitis, parents, self help, writing
The following is an excerpt from an auto-biography I’ve been working on. I find writing it to be painful, but therapeutic:
I keep a mental snap shot of all the people who are important to me. The one of my mother is just outside of the craft shed where she worked, cutting wood into the shapes of flowers or buildings or angels. She is a large woman with wild, curly brown hair hanging just past her shoulders. She is wearing a red t-shirt and black stretch pants with stirrups and dirty white sneakers. Her glasses cover and magnify the apples of her cheeks, her lips are spread in a smile, and her open arms welcome me for a hug.
…
I am 9, and most of my mother is dying. We are at Methodist Hospital in Omaha, I came with my Grandma.
Dad and mom’s twin sisters are here too. They all think I won’t understand, so they do not explain. Mostly, they look at me in pitied glances. When I ask what’s happening, they tell me that she’s in intensive care, and I can’t see her because I’m not 13. They also say, “You’re so brave.”
I sit alone in the waiting room, there is a lot of light, but all the colors are dark. The chair I sit in is stiff and dark blue, just like the sofa across from me. I’m trying to read.
A moment just a couple weeks previous refuses to leave my mind: My dad and I were walking toward her hospital room, and a nurse was helping her shuffle through the hall. When my dad said, “Look who’s up!” She turned to look at us. Her features were frozen and doll-like. She wasn’t my mom.
Presently, I push the thought aside and bury myself in my book.
The book is not a comforting one, it is a young adult horror novel about a boy’s father transforming into a plant-monster. It is told in the first person, so I feel like I am the “I” that is trapped on the pages.
Right now, there is nothing else.
Creatrixsblood's Weblog 