zzzoloft

[zzzoloft]

“She’s special!” “Everyone’s special!”

TW: RELIGION & RELIOUS ABUSE

I’ve been wondering for a while how to believe I have something unique to offer while honoring the specialness of others as well. Honestly, I’ve often been accelerated by a belief that I’m special and I don’t know how to hold it while there are so many other people who are more capable or talented. What will allow me to finally be something? What will allow me to claim anything in this life? How can I keep going without entitlement? Is it entitlement to walk a different path? Maybe.

So many inspirational quotes or just philosophies in general focus on a hierarchy. Focus on being different or special or the best. What does it mean to be like everyone else? That you don’t deserve anything? Feels like Capitalism.

And not that I should have to justify anything, but some people read my introspective posts and think I’m trying to differentiate myself. Maybe that’s partially true, and I bet you do the same in some of your own actions. I have always felt, or maybe was taught, that we liberate others by sharing these things. So if you don’t relate, then it’s not for you! But someone else could feel seen when they read this, and that’s a big motivation for me. I know what it’s like to feel seen by the words of someone else.

My parents were considerate enough to drop religion when they raised us. They knew firsthand the damage that the church causes and the (possibly more insidious) damage caused by the dedication to church over family. Yet the trauma inevitably gets inherited. The Catholic guilt, the Protestant judgment. Maybe the belief in a God would have softened the blow. I envy those that feel there’s always a hand to hold, always a path to follow, always a rule to obey. I even envy the community - learning how to function with people always around and in your business. I don’t envy the abuse that gets excused and buried, goes unspoken but feels heavy and obvious, and seems more contagious in its denial than being addressed. 

I think I grew up being told I was special. Told I was a lot of things. I didn’t understand any of it or know what to do with it. I think I knew what I was told but knew what I felt. Told I was special but felt forgotten. I think I felt lost. I just kept following the challenges of school without knowing why or where I was going. I guess it was a privilege to never be told to be anything. 

I’ve been looking for some sort of path or label. Some sort of structure for belief. I can’t say I’m any one thing. I can always say I’m trying. I can say I’m eclectic. Being drawn to the arcane and occult while simultaneously possessing a skepticism that leaves me cringing at a good portion of the content. 

And it’s occurred to me now that I’ve been roleplaying the functions of a human while feeling around in the darkness of another dimension. Seeking truth, seeking a philosophy that fits, maybe seeking an identity. So while I perform my human tasks in this dimension, this awareness of another realm I can’t see has been casting a dark filter over my reality. It’s hard to be fully present this way. Maybe this statement here makes you cringe like I do when I hear people refer to themselves as Empaths or Psychics. But it feels right to me, as I’m sure those titles do to those who bestow themselves with them. 

[zzzoloft]

2019 was a year full of grief and it took me getting out to see it.

I blamed myself for everything. I'm getting worse and that's why nobody likes me. I've worked so hard but I am just bound to repeat and repeat and repeat this cycle. I am a bad person. I am wrong. I should go back to starving, to agreeable, to small. Pain is better than being left out.

I spent time blaming others. She used me and I knew that she would. That's all I'm ever good for.

And the whole time I just thought My depression is so bad. But it's always so bad, isn't it? This HAS to be a personality disorder. Why won't my therapist just say that I am borderline, so I have to stop wondering why I keep failing at connection? I try to be a good person. I want people to know I care. But I am treated like an asshole, so I must be an asshole. (Honestly I couldn't see the people standing by me, because I only saw the people who were upset with me, or done with me, or hurting me.)

I kept pushing because there was nothing else to do. Could I call myself a human? No. But I was functioning and I didn't fuck anything up too badly. Can't say I didn't try on some of the darker days.

2019 felt like a decade. I lost family. I lost friends. Some by choice. Most by the effects of that choice. And I felt like I made a mistake so many times because I was so lonely. I considered going back to abusive and hurtful connections because I felt so alone.

It's a new year now, and those empty spaces aren't so painful to see. The little efforts toward something new for myself, the tiny hopes I could cling to are turning into something real. Something different. Those spots might be empty but I am no longer stuck staring at them. Now I can turn away to a new day, and be the person I want to be.

[zzzoloft]

What a Year it has Been

It’s fairly often that I refer to myself as a forgetful person, or a person who doesn’t know much. Maybe what I mean is that I don’t have a brain that naturally retains exact statistics, or that I don’t feel as privy to common knowledge taught in school or popular literature. I was talented in mathematics and English composition as a child, and I didn’t fare as well in Science or History. Contradictory to my strength in English composition was (is) my weakness in reading comprehension. There was an awareness that truth changes, statistics change, facts change. I found, and find, it hard to keep up. When one thing might be true for one time or one region or one set group of people, there’s always more to the picture - and sometimes less. Studies come out and disprove another, and we’re left to argue those old facts VS new.

As of late, I have realized that I’ve had a lot of retention of other types of knowledge more abstract - social, psychological, emotional, artistic, linguistic. While I’ve always been aware of the vast knowledge I don’t possess, and the amount of it I never will, I think I’ve failed to see the way that what I did read and did understand was shaping my reality. Neglecting my gifts to focus on my shortcomings, as many of us do. As I learn, the possibilities, the undiscovered universes grow - and simultaneously, my feeling of entitlement to speak has begun to close in on itself. Sometimes it’s a fear of doing harm in ignorance, or being seen as harmful (cancel culture), sometimes it’s my awareness that there are better voices to be heard - voices that have been silenced or dismissed for a long time. I love that about now, I love that about social media. There’s no learning I enjoy better than emotional learning, straight from the source. How have society, events, upbringings, surroundings, had an effect on the speaker. This is the knowledge that stays in my subconscious mind, that continues to mold my views and the way in which I approach the world, a topic, or not.

This has been a year where I speak and learn about things I am passionate about. In that, I have noticed the silence of many of those around me. Sometimes I’ll be attacked for standing up for something I believe in. Sometimes I’ll receive more opposition than validation. In the past this would have made me feel wrong. Honestly, my first impulse is to feel wrong. Majority Rules. And I do make sure to check myself. This year, I have literally had the thought, “Maybe it IS wrong to care about others?” Then I realized how absurd that thought is - to me. To me, that is absolutely untrue. This doesn’t make it untrue for others, as you can see just about anywhere now. Maybe for some it is wrong to care about others, although I feel that’s a symptom of a scarcity mentality. Don’t be fooled, because some of the most privileged people are functioning from a mindset of scarcity IE: If other people don’t stay marginalized, I will lose my privileges. They aren’t necessarily wrong. I believe they are wrong to think that not everyone can have what they need, and to not realize that everyone would mentally and emotionally function better in a society with more equality. We are born for connection, and not just with those who have the same income, car, skin color, education. Those things would be less valuable in a society where we aren’t defined by our class. We’re under the impression that the rich and powerful are happy. Sure, it’s easier to be entertained when you have the means, but in a society where you’re constantly fearing that your buoy of wealth will be taken away and you’ll be drowning with everyone else doesn’t sound conducive to stability.

This year I’ve allowed myself:

To grimace when I feel it

To be silent when asked to validate something I disagree with

To end a conversation I don’t want to be in

To let things unfold as they will, to stop fighting for what I want when it comes to the free will of others

To be supportive without cosigning

To trust my gut feelings over my need to be empathetic 

To not fight every person who is disrespectful or uses their social/financial hierarchy over others and keep my energy for myself

To give when I can

To adapt to the times

To look at the bigger picture

And lastly, maybe most importantly for self-growth, to stand in an uncomfortable place that isn’t always popular or validated, because it feels right for me and how I want to contribute to the world. 

As much as a day is another day, a year is another year, I did come to a resolution for 2020: to affiliate myself with more diverse and inclusive companies and businesses in the coming year. I’m putting that out into the universe now, and doing my part to put it into works. 

[zzzoloft]

People whose happiness relies on a fragile scaffolding of denial are threatened by people who want to talk about the harsh realities of life. Validation and comfort is denied to those speaking out about the truths that trigger existential fears causes the speaker to be labeled as negative, weak, struggling, or unwell. Maybe someone who delves deeper does have an aura of darkness, and maybe you see them shake and falter while you keep an even keel about you. Who is weak one, the one who takes the journey into the darkness and bares the scars and tired eyes, or the one who will not ever venture into the dark?

[zzzoloft]

Ink Reflux

Do you ever feel like you must act a certain way? Maybe you think about how you’re acting sometimes, and realize you do it most of the day. “They” say it’s important to keep plans when you’re feeling bad. I feel as though I’m speaking one sentence while thinking another. Small-talking while I choke down a thick, gelatinous black ink that won’t stop rising up my throat. Another gross bodily function to pretend isn’t happening. Doesn’t it correlate with our words? We hide our humanity to make ourselves tolerable to other humans. Smile when I’m frowning. “Good, how are you?” when I’m thinking death might be easier than telling my loved ones to just give up on me. Sometimes it feels the greatest apology would be to get rid of myself. I feel poison, but some people still want to keep consuming me. Does alcohol feel sad when you binge on it and then try to cheat your way out of a hangover? I tell you I’m bad, you say I’m good and fun. But when it’s time to pay my toll you just accept it and forget it next time you decide to associate with me. 

Eventually most people get better. They distance themselves or leave. They pick the parts of me they want to keep. The part of me that congratulates them or lifts them up or tells them jokes. The part of me that feels inferior and will always look at them as something greater unless they’re currently pissing me off. Because I really do want you all to feel empowered to live your lives authentically. With or without me. They may keep the parts of me that serve as a means to make them feel better about their appearance, career, their level of knowledge, their desirability, their popularity or their lack of friends. And when I write shit like this, their better judgment. Maybe they keep me around to give a fuck, so they can say things to see a look of pain flash over my face before I say something supportive. So they can do things and know that it hits my heart like a knife. And when I care it’s really there. I try to pull it out of me but I wake up with a shortness of breath and a tightness in my chest when I lose someone. I frantically apologize and try to make it better. I ruin it again. Remember that scene in Edward Scissorhands where he saves the kid from getting hit by a car but then frantically tears him up with his hands trying to comfort him? I do sometimes feel like fleeing back to my old black castle, far from the colorful cookie-cutter town. Because the damage is more important than the intention. It’s tangible. And you can see the pattern.

I’ve ruined friendships since I was a kid. My mom once yelled at me for playing in her room with our neighbors. She said we could never do that again. I told my neighbors we couldn’t be friends. Was I evil at 7? I like to think I just didn’t know better, but maybe I already had a knack for making things worse. Keeping things black or white because I couldn’t process grey, couldn’t emotionally handle it. Maybe in my mind, setting boundaries was the same as being useless as a friend.

My next best friend was spending the night, and started playing with my sister and I felt excluded. She and my sister were staying up playing NeoPets into the night and I wanted to go to sleep on the foldout couch with my friend and make weird faces in the dark and talk about random stuff. My friend wanted to stay up with my sister. I woke up my mom and told her, and my mom yelled at them. I was embarrassed but grateful my mom stood up for me, or so I thought. That friend never came over again. This was the Summer before 6th grade. My mom helped me make my friend an apology gift. A little paper box that had once held my mom’s business cards, I cut up pictures of me and my friend and glued them around the box. My mom gave me a necklace with a gold-dipped seashell on the end. My mom didn’t like jewelry much, and my friend seemed to like the beach. Her mom took us there a few times, at least. I’m sure I packed in a long apology note written in a sparkly Jelly Roll pen. I had a new acquaintance deliver the gift to my old best friend since they were in a class together. My new acquaintance said that my friend made a scene and threw it all away in front of everyone. I remember walking up to my old friend at some point either before or after this at middle school. I was alone and she had a new friend on each side. The message was clear. I wasn’t going to fit the mold of the new friend group she had in mind.  

As a teen I was used by friends. A house where there were no rules and adults never checked on us. A ride to a gas station or drug dealer’s house if “we” needed it. A friend to make fun of and exclude when you weren’t feeling as popular or desirable as you wanted to. A friend whose stepdad had drugs to sell them. Those “friends” always needed to be high or have access to dick to have a good time. My company was never enough. I cut off contact with Friend B when Friend A told me that friend B molested her own nephew when Friend A was spending the night. I kept Friend A around until my mid-twenties when she betrayed me for about the 20th time and I realized, I was her life-line and she was the fucking disaster waiting to strike any time I built some semblance of a life. Who knew if what she said about Friend B was even true. 

As I got older I found some friends that seemed to actually have things in common with me. They were funny and creative and loved music the way that I did. I lived my life in a free-love type way back then and made myself more enemies. The mirage of fitting in was just that, an illusion. There never was a real place for me. I was always too sad, too fat, too slutty. I’m sure there’s more I did wrong. I felt aloof. I felt hungry. I felt seen for the first time in so many ways. I tried to take it all in. I hurt people in my ambitions for love and attention. 

I spent the next 5 years or so weaving in and out of old close friendships and chasing men who mostly didn’t want me. I would meet people I admired and be way too scared to approach them or be near them. They were too smart, too composed, always too “something”. 

I learned that people didn’t like the artistic and reckless version of me. I became too ashamed to ever talk about my belief in myself again.  That was for perfectly talented people who deserved it. Or, that was for naive people. That was for people who spend their life dreaming and amounting to nothing. I “got my shit together”. I learned to hide things. I changed my goals to boring and safe. 

My next group of friends was inherited and I realized the first thing people wanted to know was what I went to school for and where, or what advanced literature did I want to discuss over craft beers? I spent about a year or two shutting the fuck up in case somebody found out how dumb and uneducated I was/am. Slowly I discovered there were a few people in the group who didn’t care or accidentally overlooked my shortcomings, liked artsy things and dancing and getting drunk and embarrassing. These are my favorites. 

I still feel there’s a part of me that isn’t home anywhere. A part of me that comes out in the worst ways at the worst times. I feel like flashes of my worst thoughts, the ones that scare me, are the first I let out at people when I lose control. I don’t try too hard to justify them because that could reveal even more of my struggles or flaws. I just pretend they never happened. People want to read into the way you explain things or don’t. Some people just accept you either way, knowing that the ghouls in your mind get along with some of theirs. Most people won’t say it out loud or validate you about that, they’ll share a few years later that they related to that thing you posted. That thing that you thought nobody read and since writing is the way you try to express yourself, made you feel rejected and lonely again. I guess I hoped that if I shared only neutral or positive thoughts with people that I would suddenly be likable or popular. But it remains that I usually have 2-3 people willing to tolerate my shit, or maybe they really do understand.

It’s taken me until 30 to realize I can’t swing back into a special place with people of the past. It might feel like it for a day or a week. Other people move on. I can’t expect that I can just suddenly be important and vulnerable with old friends. This took far too long to click with me, I was always expecting more from people than I deserved. It was more painful not seeing that there was something between enemies and best friends, and wondering why I couldn’t get the latter to click into place like it used to. It’s liberating to know we can just exist in mutual support and peace. 

I see those quotes that say the beautiful souls are the ones that are broken and choose to be soft instead. I became bitter and hard. Those quotes make me feel fucking useless. 

[zzzoloft]

Poem

She likes fields of flowers and cemeteries the same

She never feels misunderstood or to blame

Standing in the sun

Standing in the rain

It's the faces

The faces cause pain

The glares

The thorns of human language

Left to pull out of her brain

Humans give the soreness in her chest

The forest never denies her breath

[Treats her the same on her good and bad days]

People pour out their anger instead of their pain

They will repeat this again and again

Like it was a gift to the earth

She finds it hard not lie in the puddles of ink

That spurts from their mouths

She sees a snare in a smile

She freezes and waits for her badness to end

The earth takes her in once again

[zzzoloft]

When Your Best is not Good Enough

I bet you’d expect this post to wrap up with the end-all, be-all advice about rejection and how to make it a super power. I don’t have the answers, nor the audacity to pretend anyone should be prepared to re-mold their rejections into a magical balloon animal at the moment it is crashing toward them. 

It was 2008. I wore a black pencil skirt that went past my knees, and a button-up, 3/4 length sleeved indigo blouse. It must’ve been Spring or Summer. I drove my white, ‘92 Corolla down to a chiropractor’s office in La Jolla and somehow found parking.

Tonight I had an interview, and then after that, I had to make it up to LA from San Diego, find the hotel my classmates were in, share a room with a student I hardly knew, and compete in a Students of Free Enterprise competition in LA the following morning.

At the time, I was going to community college and felt optimistic, I was probably playing in a band, I was running and walking in the mornings, and I was dating the first man who ever treated me right. Because after the last guy, I told myself, “No more fuckboys.” Or whatever word meant fuckboys in 2008. In addition, my classmates and I were teaching things like ethics and how to use a checking account to underprivileged teens and adults. I look back at the person I was, and I am proud! She had been through so much at that point. That story is for another time.

I walked into the chiropractor’s office and sat down. Several people were already there waiting in maybe a cleared out treatment room or a waiting room. The room filled until there was no sitting room left, many people standing. I would say over 30 people. I reassured myself that there were several positions open. 

A middle-aged, short, arrogant brunette and otherwise unremarkable man walked into the room and started talking about how his practice and chiropractics were life-changing, cured depression, etc. He went on like this for an hour or 2. I kept imagining the time as the sky grew darker but knew better than to check my phone. I’d never driven to LA on my own and traffic was horrible there. An accident from the year before was fresh and still weighing heavily on me. My dad offered to drive but does that make me irresponsible? Would I have to wake up my classmate when I got to the hotel? Would we have to share a bed? We’d definitely share a bathroom. It’s just one day... Just one day.

Throughout his speech we got to know some of the candidates. Women and men of all ages and education levels filled the room. Women who could be models. Women with Masters. Probably women who looked like models and also had Masters. 

It seemed like an eternity until I got called into his small office. I’m not sure my ass even hit the chair in front of his desk. I handed him the application, with about 6-8 different job postings and all but one checked. I made a joke, “I didn’t check the personal assistant one because I’m not a great driver.” (Driving was one of the top requirements for the assistant, I could see myself more as office staff.

The man held out his hand to shake mine and said, “Well, don’t get in any wrecks, then.” 

I remember the smugness on his face then. 

It was that easy? To waste 3 hours of someone’s time, and dismiss them like that? All interview advice aside, you can’t call this a fair shot at all. He might as well have just seen me and said “leave” and I wish he had done that before 8pm.

I hate to know myself well enough that  I forced a feminine laugh, shook his hand, smiled, and thanked him for meeting with me. Thanked him. I was so flabbergasted by this rejection that I had no idea how to act. I wish I would have called him a prick and knocked some shit over, but I know I wouldn’t even do that, now. 

On the way out, 2 of his receptionist girls called me from behind their front desk window and reminded me to sign up for the free back adjustment. I smiled at them and was like “Heck, yeah!” knowing I would not let that man anywhere near my body, but signing my name would be somehow keeping my dignity  - showing I didn’t run out and give up immediately. Their eyes met mine. I smiled and shook and tried to act enthusiastic. I saw pity in their eyes. What else did I see? Was I jealous of them? They must be perfect to be work here. After all, one sentence threw me out the door after 3 hours of waiting. Was it my own pity for them? They must. be. perfect. to work here.

That night, I had my boyfriend over to help me pack and say goodbye. But I never left. I didn’t drive to LA or have my dad drive me to LA. I texted my disappointed classmate that I wouldn’t be making it. I stopped showing up to all of my classes and dropped all of my extra school responsibilities, like taking pictures for class and organizing groups. I dropped all of my classes and  returned the teacher’s camera when I knew I wouldnt have to see him. After all, I had fought so hard to get to a place where I felt good enough. It was so fragile, that one bad interview sent it all crumbling down. Truth is I was feeling overloaded before the interview. I wondered how I could keep being this person. I was never a leader. I was never respected by my peers. I was never inspiring or responsible or any of those things in hindsight I was.

I used this rejection to reject myself from everything I had been involved with. 

Every new opportunity that involves impressing strangers really scares me. It’s so easy to be written-off. Every goal I try for, I have to remind myself that if it doesn’t work, or someone tries to tell me I’m not good enough, that I can NOT let it all come crumbling down. That I must hold it together. My teachers believed in me, my classmates believed in me, many of my friends and family, did, too. In my mind, the words of random chiropractor outweighed all of that and I ended my happy story and replaced it with the old one, the one where I was nothing.

Your best can only be your best. For whatever reason, someone else may think your best isn’t good enough. You should consider that a blessing and not a judgment of your worth. When you feel like giving up or hiding, take a break instead. 

Every time I have a new or scary opportunity, one where I feel out of place. I can’t help but run this rejection through my mind. If I could go back, I wouldn’t change my course or be a victim, I would tell that man that he’s super inconsiderate and uptight, and hopefully knock over a bunch of pens on my way out.

[zzzoloft]

I'm Used to Him

I'm used to him.

*Man in black hooded cloak only appears against black sky as he floats upward about 20-30 feet*

I feel myself rising into the sky to meet him - lifted by him. Parallel to him. Out of control. He is in control. I can't tell if I feel power or fear - something in between. He floats, graceful and still. I shift clumsily in the air like I'm swimming with one arm. Like my legs forgot how to motion without ground just beneath them.

I can't see his face, if he has one at all.

A red light is shining somewhere and reflects diaganolly across the wet asphalt, and I see his shape by just the absence of the light... there - along his side. Where his left arm should be.

I know there is a question or a command [pending].

To meet him is pain. To fall is the same.

My shirt is soaked and my heart is pounding. How hard did it rain? I run my fingers along the wrinkles of fabric and water trickles down...

My feet in shiny boots that never fit right are dangling below, and I wonder, "are they 'me'?" Water drips along their pointed toes creating branches where dust had been. "I meant to be someone who cleaned their shoes. People clean their shoes." ('you can tell a lot about someone by their shoes...' well, you mustn't think much of me, then.)

I look up. He's still suspending me here and I reach across my shirt again, feeling surprisingly open.

I'm pleased at my helplessness. Defeat is Nirvana.

He draws me near. He is steady and stiff. He says no words but he breathes.

I become a thing I don't understand. Warm, contorted, a pulsing sacrifice. Shame & power simultaneously wash over me as I lose myself. A trade of pleasure for life could only be a trap for my slaughter and consumption at his hands. Followed by humiliation at his words. But floating there, him holding me, I believed he loved me. I believed he created me. I tell myself this, yet felt the need to do what I could not to fall.

My teeth bit my cheek as it slapped the street. A red diagonal line shines, complete.

I'm used to him.

#nightmare #death #depression #darkness #reaper

[zzzoloft]

How You’re Making Your Fat Friends Uncomfortable When Eating, and How to Not

Disclaimer: This piece is not to attack thin people, but to point out how you are indirectly hurting the fat people you care about with comments that may seem harmless to you. Even when not directly announcing, “Fat is gross. You are gross,” there are many ways you still convey this message to the humans around you. If you don’t care about hurting the fat people in your life, please reevaluate why you dehumanize people in larger bodies. After that, google Concern Trolling and see if that sums up your immediate response.

Yesterday I hosted a little get-together and I knew while making a dessert dip that there would be uncomfortable comments made about it. 

Even while buying a double pack of peanut butter at Costco, I was told by a family member “That’s TOO much...”. My heart started pounding and I smiled uncomfortably and bit my tongue. My husband, seemingly unbothered, replied “We’re using it for Mochi’s [our dog’s] birthday cake and a dip we are making for her party.” Shopping with other people around is hard enough, there were a couple of items I would’ve looked at longer if we hadn’t been shopping with thin family members. I already know that my family buys into a lot of weight stigma and fatphobia and other diet culture bullshit. And these are the progressive ones. I understand - they benefit from thin privilege and life feels better when people treat you better. To me it kind of highlights that middle ground, though - can people who buy into diet culture truly respect their fat loved ones? There’s always an underlying you should be like me - here’s what you can do tone, involuntary or not. There’s never the consideration that their fat loved ones would benefit from some true acceptance and might be working on accepting their body as it is. 

These are the things being said around food at social events that are reinforcing diet culture and making your fat friends (and some thin friends) feel bad. 

I’m so glad I earned this by [insert vigorous exercise here] today!

I need to walk away because I could eat this whole thing! [which would be disgusting and the world would end!]

My [size 2] belly is already growing, I really shouldn’t!

I’m glad I had a healthy breakfast or I couldn’t have this!

I would never have this in my house!

I am SOOO full (after two bites, while other people are still enjoying their food. You can say no to any food. You can walk away from a food table and say this elsewhere. Don’t say this to people who are still eating. This is just as annoying as people who announce when they are drunk every two seconds while you’re trying to enjoy a party, only it is often used by a woman to show how little she needs to eat to be full - sosoqt!)

This is WAY over my *points* limit. [Awesome, Helen. You are such a bad ass, Helen.]

I can’t believe I had pasta and NOW THIS! 

I’m so bad!

I’ll have to make up for this tomorrow.

How can you eat something so sweet?!

I feel guilty from all that sugar.

This is so unhealthy.

I’m SO fat!!! [size 5 person proclaims]

I don’t usually eat junk.

I’m getting so fat :( 

I’m gonna get [”obese”, diabetes, a heart attack]

Guilt and shame inducing comments are the stat-quo for any gathering involving food. You hear it in the office, you hear it when out to dinner with friends, you heart it at parties. 

Hopefully it goes without saying that “I’m too full” is a perfect response to an unwanted food offer, but announcing it out of nowhere makes it weird.

Here are some things you can say around a demonized food (or any food) that aren’t awkward as fuck for everyone who may have food issues [a.k.a. everyone in this god damn country.]

Yum!

*Silence while not choosing that food if you choose not to eat the food, moving onto another food you like*

This tastes good!

*Silence while hating the food you’ve tried, throwing it away, and trying something else*

Thank you for making this.

Have you guys ever tried [other food item]

I want to try this with [insert other food item - IE foot long hot dog]

*Chewing and swallowing*

I really enjoy [insert album or movie]

There it is, folks! You can totally enjoy food and not bash yourself about it out loud! When you bash yourself, you’re bashing others, you’re making people uncomfortable, and you’re continuing the moralization of food items. If kale and cleansing are your thing, I promise one evening of enjoying different foods at a party is not going to kill you (it may give you heartburn or diarrhea or a feeling of joy you won’t reach until the next time you have carbs).

Remember folks, health is not a virtue. 

Here’s the recipe for the dip btw. It was a hit - served it with chocolate & regular graham crackers, pretzel thins, and green apple slices:

Reese’s Peanut Butter Fluff 

[zzzoloft]

The Storm and I

The night started out pleasant. Was it Summer, or was it just my existing in the Scottsdale/Phoenix area of Arizona? In perpetual Summer?

I can’t remember if we intended to meet with her but she was there. At the time I lived with my (now ex) boyfriend and his sister. Housing was super affordable. I worked at a mall for around minimum wage, and sure I didn’t have a bunch of fancy stuff, but I remember feeling within my means. Like I had clothes that properly served as self-expression. Like I could afford blended mochas on my lunch breaks. Like I dyed and cut my hair on a whim and it was never a cause of stress. While I found Arizona unforgivably hot and boring, it was a good place to eat, drink, and spend time inside, in the comfort of air conditioning. 

That brings us back to that night. 

I think I ordered a soft pretzel. It was a cute restaurant for sure - something a little classier than we typically chose. High ceilings, large windows where the sun beamed in onto the wood floors. Cocktails were had. I was sitting with my boyfriend and his sister - the three of us were a gang of sorts - and her older coworker. I can’t remember if the coworker had already or was going to take his sister on a tropical vacation. I think that was a thing. And I think that gave me a strange feeling. Why would someone who worked for a hotel take another hotel employee on vacation, all expenses paid? Now that I’m older, I would probably accept any free getaway, no questions asked. But at the time, I think the thought of this left me uneasy.

She had a drink or two with us there. She had long curly black hair, caramel skin, she was stunning. She smiled at me. Although she was sun-warn and probably in her 60s, she still radiated a young and playful beauty. She was fun, and I can only imagine her in her younger years.

I’m not sure how or why this happened, but we ended up back at her house. I didn’t know her story. If I wasn’t already wary of going to a near-strangers’ home, this may have been the night that solidified the fear in me of such a situation.

She insisted we kept having more wine, maybe other things. We sat at her kitchen table. The room was a familiar type. The white tablecloth had been pressed at some point, then folded and put away. You could smells the dust and the years it spent in the cupboard, but it was still placed out in a symbol that always felt like a status or a threat. A message that “We don’t spill here. We don’t make mistakes. Meals are business, a place to prove yourself, not a place of pleasure and joy. You’re not rich enough to sit here.” Looking back, those tablecloths were always a thick and rough material. So maybe they truly used the tablecloths because they expected spills and truly just wanted to protect their table with some cloth. Maybe I’m the uppity one, since a kid, feeling put off by tablecloths used any other time than a party or holiday.

The dinner table itself and the china cabinet added to my feelings of suffocation and discomfort. They were sturdy, dark wood with a polished finish. Maybe it was the contradicting energies of heavy oak and delicate porcelain. The oak weighs you down and the china tells you not to move, lest you break something of great value and absolutely no use.

I spilled and broke a lot of things as a kid. Afterward I was told or asked why I did it. I was a klutz. I needed attention. I wanted to. I myself remember it just happening. I don’t remember trying. But I took the words to heart and thought that maybe I do do this on purpose. Maybe I am destructive. Bad. My family would make jokes and had a word for my accidents after a while. I believe my oldest brother coined the term to make these situations lighter when I knocked over my milk at the dinner table. So we could laugh rather than us all basking in my mother’s complete disapproval of me.

I remember standing in the kitchen of my preschool. There were ducks we got to play with and care for. One time, we all got to choose an egg, and hand it to the “teacher”. She would label it, and that would be our duckling. I dropped mine while handing it to her, and it cracked on the floor. She was so sad and upset, seemingly at me, not just the situation. I remember feeling horribly, and wondering if I did it on purpose. I’m not sure I even understood what it meant until I saw her reaction. I don’t think I got another opportunity after that. Did I mean to take away that duckling’s chance at life? If I did, I am very bad. Why else would I drop it when nobody else did? ...Did anybody else drop theirs?

I hate the feelings in the dining rooms of much-older, well-off navy wives. Did I always hate them this much or was it this night?

We continued to drink from the old bottles as she eagerly poured us more and more. She walked me through the outdated, carpeted hallways of her home and showed me pictures of her husband and shared with me that he was deceased. She shed a tear off and on. Then we sat back down at her dining room table.

An occasional clap of thunder shook in the distance.

My mouth tasted both sweet and bitter. Almost like a syrup made of raisins had been running down my tongue and into my throat. I can’t remember all I had to drink. It all began to taste the same. The woman and I spoke deeply. She seemed spiritual in an intense and personal way, not in the social, church on Sundays way. We were several drinks in, but I must’ve been 21 or 22. This could be a party she’s played out for a long time. Just a different woman across from her. Tonight it was me.

It began to rain. And so did tears fall from her eyes, down her weathered cheeks. I remember the pain in her eyes. They pulled tears from my eyes, too. Empathy tells you to take pity on those with pain in their eyes, but I’ve learned there can be a lot of terror to come from people with such eyes. Broken people are capable of great destruction. Like me. 

I’m not sure how open I was with her. I think I was talking about my love for my boyfriend and how my love life had been in the past. I had brought it up with regret in my voice. I don’t remember what all I had said, when she looked me directly in my eyes, a frown across her mouth, as she interrupted me. She said to me in a deep, shaking voice, “You were... a slut.” 

It wasn’t a question of whether she understood. It was a statement. There was a finality in her voice, anger even. She dragged out the final word and hit the ‘t’ hard. To feel as though someone was looking into your soul, someone you felt must be old and wise, and have them cast what felt like a final judgment. 

I began to cry. Admittedly in the embarrassing way one does when they’ve consumed too much alcohol. My boyfriend and his sister fell silent. That cast a separate pain that squeezed in on me from both sides. “Why... would you say that to someone?” I asked her. I don’t remember what else was said but I was not okay. I believe we left shortly.

My boyfriend and his sister tried to calm me down on the drive home, but I spent the night wailing, screaming. I felt cursed by her tone. Cursed by her stare. Cursed by those sad, sad eyes. Cursed by her words. The rain poured down all around the car and I was protecting myself with my voice as if its sheer volume served as a force-field. My voice reached a primal power and depth that scared even me. I couldn’t stop. When we got home, I locked myself in a closet and sobbed and screamed into the night. “Why didn’t you stand up for me?” It seemed to shake the house. I was louder than the lightning. I was one with it. The storm and I.

That was the night I met the darkness.

[zzzoloft]

Body Acceptance(?)

TW: Diet talk; Clothing Size

*Also a disclaimer to acknowledge my privilege as a small-fat person, and my ability to shop at the clothes offered at Target.*

I’ve been in dire need of some new clothes, but I’ve been in such a strange phase with my body.

About a year or so ago, my therapist started to slowly mention things to me like Intuitive Eating (IE) and Health at Every Size (HAES). Now I wonder how hard she had to hold back her eye-rolling while I ventured through months of off-and-on keto, excessive exercise plans, and then intermittent fasting. Not to mention all of the fatphobic language I used in reference to myself, and how much I based my life around what size of pants I could button over my belly in the sad and dusty fitting room of H&M.

I bought the Intuitive Eating book. I started it and never finished it, putting it aside for another time. Even so, I’ve tried to incorporate the principles in my own way - eat what I like, when I want, including times when I may not be physically hungry, since eating is a common method to self-soothe. Stop labeling foods as good and bad, let my body choose, and stop making food a moral issue. 

That’s been relatively easy for me, considering I have yoyo’d back and forth between major restricting paired with exhausting workouts, then back to the Fuck-It Diet and cocooning in blankets for months at a time. When I wasn’t dieting, I loved food and trying new foods. One of my favorite things is the novelty of walking into a new bakery or cafe and trying a drink or pastry I’ve never heard of before. I’ve also had a pretty big issue with binge-eating and even eating out of guilt or responsibility to the person who made the food - which resulted in eating things I didn’t even like. The same goes for dieting. I ate so many foods that made me feel bad or sick, for weeks and months on end, because it was supposed to be “good” for me. It’s to the point where I can be grocery shopping and realize I’m buying the “healthy” version of something - a version I don’t even ENJOY, or I’m buying a food or a quantity of a certain food, just because I find it filling and I want to feel stuffed, which I associated with feeling “better” for so long. (I am not saying I never binge-eat. Part of Intuitive Eating is accepting that binge-eating is a very valid coping mechanism when we are feeling low or exhausted.) 

In addition to the Intuitive Eating, I’ve been listening to/reading Fat Activism content, pinning Plus Size models on my Pinterest as well as following them on Instagram, because I’ve been idolizing fae-like thin girls who have never been and may never be, in a body like mine - and that goes both ways. I came out of the womb two years after my sister, with already thicker thighs. Honestly, this lead to a lot of jealousy in my younger years, and a lot of self hatred.  “Clearly we have the same GENES, why am I the ‘bad’ one? It must be all my fault.” Unfortunately the message of guilt, shame and inferiority were ingrained with comments from family, friends, society at large. Granted my mother was pre-diabetic when she was carrying me, and I grew up loving all foods while my sister was a picky eater in her young years. As adults, my sister and I talked about how it seems like I grow muscle a lot faster, while she dedicated a lot of time (and joy) in a weight-lifting regimen. Maybe these things are true, maybe it’s all conditional. But despite life’s changes, we’ve stayed in our relative body shapes and sizes. The inferiority due to my size was so internalized that deep down I still wonder when I’m going to start secretly restricting again and/or over-exercising, so that I can pretend to accept myself while still assimilating.  If other people commit their lives to counting their (and everyone else’s) calories, well, then I owe that to the world or I don’t deserve happiness, respect, sexual satisfaction, inclusion, and so many things denied to fat women and fat people in general. I have to shrink to fit through the metaphorical threshold into a life where I get the privileges of small-bodied women, a world where I know I’m better treated, because I shrank myself before and every interaction changed. If I could just do it a little more this time, I could be “one of those girls” - the cool girls, the pretty girls, the seemingly effortlessly likable girls. The girls that make men feel strong and masculine. The girls I always fear should be replacing me at any moment.

Because of the yoyo-ing, and because I’m still in the Fuck-It part of Intuitive Eating (eating ALL THE THINGS that I told myself were off limits or bad) I’m not even sure what my natural size is. I’ve been putting off clothes shopping, but my stomach issues cause me pain every day, and after lunch, I become so bloated that my pants and leggings, however stretchy, become so tight and begin digging into my stomach. I end up literally counting the minutes until work is over so I can go home and take off my fucking pants. As a big girl, I’ve learned that I prefer wearing tight clothes over hiding my shape. I thought it to be more “flattering” in the common meaning - making me look smaller than drape-y tops and dresses typically marketed to fat women so they could better shield themselves from ridicule by literally hiding themselves - another thing I’ve spent far too much time doing. It’s been a several-month-long internal dilemma - can I keep wearing “cute” clothes, or do I HAVE to get things that don’t suck in my thighs and stomach fat so that I can feel physically comfortable? 

Honestly, I’m not fully convinced of the latter part yet. I couldn’t convince myself that saving myself from physical pain might be more important than hiding my stomach or slimming myself, because honestly, there are still some parts of me that I literally fear showing. It’s like having even more “private parts” to be in a culture that is so fatphobic. I can keep hitting like and drooling at all of the fat babes on my instagram feed, but god forbid I myself step out of the house with VBO (visible belly outline), or not smoothing out my cellulite and lower belly with some good ol’ tights!! It even feels vulnerable to admit those things, not that I think I’m fooling anyone, but just the fact that I try so hard to the point my internal organs are probably out of place from all of the compressing I put them through. I’m still assimilating like this. 

Yesterday I went to Target, preparing myself that if a size doesn’t fit or look good, I don’t have to say “fuck that” - I can grab the next size up. As a teen I was most likely having panic attacks every time I had to shop in the plus-size section of a store. I squeezed and fell out of my straight-sized clothes because it saved me the shame of needing accommodation, the shame of otherness associated with shopping in different stores or sections than my classmates and my sister. I don’t recall how my mother felt, as a larger woman who from what I remembered said only mean things about her own body and was constantly trying new diets, but I felt she was ashamed in having to be there with me as well. Maybe this was just how I felt, since her clothes always fit her body, which shows she must have been shopping for her size, which wasn’t straight. Maybe culturally it seemed okay for a mom in her 40s to shop at Lane Bryant and the like, but unacceptable - a shameful failure on her and my part - to JUST make me, a kid, “normal”.

When shopping yesterday, I filled my cart with clothes all around the 12-16 range, and prepared myself to know that although that was my range before, it may be different now, it may be larger. I’ve stopped weighing myself so it really could be anywhere. Size 16 is when I used to tell myself ‘no’ and leave the store upset. I couldn’t accept my size, I couldn’t accept a stupid fucking number because culturally it determined my worth as a woman. Among all of the other stumbling blocks in my life, there was this one giant failure I always felt looming over my head that seemed to matter most in social interactions, job interviews, at school - my body size - and all of the connotations made from it.

On top of finding a ton of cute clothes to try, the dressing room attendant helped me carry them all into the fitting room, and informed me there was no item limit - BLESSED, amirite?!  (I even met a nice tatted up mom with her small baby who complimented the earrings I had picked out when I apologized for thinking she was the attendant and talking to her as-so, out of the corner of my eye. She was straight-sized and told me she had a hard day of clothes-trying-on, because she didn’t know what she liked anymore. I told her I am about to turn 30 and I completely understand. Do I still like my ripped tights, booty shorts, and crop tops? Do I want to look like a snazzy bitch in a blazer and heels now?! It’s always validating to me when a thin women talks about similar issues. It’s not just me hating trying on clothes. That was a missed connection, so if you know her - get me in touch!) I despise trying on clothes, I get all sweaty and my throat starts to hurt and I seem to get all of my phonecalls and texts while I’m trying to get myself through the daunting task of zippers, buttons, turning shit right-side out, trying different combinations of clothes, and hanging them all back up in the right direction for the store employees since I’m not a heathen.

I found far too many choices for my budget, I had a huge “YES” pile, an even bigger “Maybe/Different size?!” pile, and just a few items in my “Ew/Yuck/Why is this a fabric?!” pile. The biggest change of all for me was that I put comfort first. I don’t care if my ass looked nice, if my romper made me look a few months pregnant, if a dress was cinched right at the waist to highlight my thinnest area on my body. I twirled in the dresses and strutted around in the pants, imagining and acting out scenarios from sunlight and day-drinking to sitting at my desk at the end of the day, and made sure each choice held up. And I managed to find too many items to afford, but enough to get me moving forward toward a life of accepting my body in the range it tends to buoy around, rather than the body I have when I’m treating myself like a prisoner. 

This was one huge step in the right direction, and I can’t wait to appear in clothes that fit me, rather than clothes that mold me.

[zzzoloft]

Why I Cancelled my own Birthday Party

I feel like a real, royal asshole. 

Yesterday at work I got excited! Wow, it’s already my party! I have Friday off, and my advising meeting for school that morning. I think I’ll grab myself coffee that morning, even, as a treat for starting school again! Tonight I should shop for clothes for my meeting, and for the show I’m going to in Denver on Saturday. That will be fun! ...But getting to the Loveland Target will be scary since I hate the roads there and I’ve never even driven them. And I should make sure the clothes I get are also work appropriate since I need new work clothes and can’t spend money on myself after this. Maybe I won’t drive to Target, I’ll go to Foothills. It’s less crowded and there are like 3 or 4 stores I could shop in. It didn’t take long for those thoughts to spiral downward. I don’t know what to wear. I shouldn’t spend money. I don’t even care about looking good actually. Screw shopping altogether. And why care about the stuff I have upcoming? My life won’t change. I always do this. Start to think my shit’s getting together, thinking I’m a “bad bitch” and then quitting/sabotaging/cancelling it all because my life won’t change. I will always be like “this”.

So I went straight home after work. I was in my room, trying to take a nap to maybe help my mood since I’ve been sleep-deprived for weeks now. I didn’t think I’d be able to fall asleep between my medication-induced-insomnia as of late and my social anxiety as of... always?! My thoughts began to make no sense and my mind started to wonder why I was thinking about these fictional scenarios, and I felt gratitude because that’s how I know I’m about to fall asleep when I’m having trouble getting there. Then I hear a shaking in the distance. Not a train this time, my husband’s new surround sound in his office/gaming room. Not mad at him. Just kind of knew something would stop me from sleeping. I’ve just accepted it lately, because I increased the only antidepressant that works for me. My two choices lately are insomnia and complacency or the can’t-get-myself-to-work type depression. Yay. 

At this point I made the mistake of looking at my phone. I already didn’t feel like I had enough time for anything, and people were asking when I’d be places and if I could meet earlier. Some people cancelling. All things I would appreciate on any other day except for this dreadful day - the day of my own Birthday Party. Today the notifications set off my anxiety.

I haven’t been paying attention for long but I know I go into any Birthday Party believing that nobody will show up. Or one person will, and then I will have to apologize that I’m not cool and that my party isn’t fun. I’m not sure if I had a traumatic birthday ever as a kid. We usually had pool parties (because April is actually warm in San Diego) that always had a bunch of kids there, my parents grilled hot dogs, and we got to eat potato chips and drink grape soda which was a rarity in my house. At the end of the day when we were all sleepy from swimming for far too long, we got to eat cake and I got to open cool shit like Barbies and Lisa Frank stationary. 

But being a kid is easy. You don’t give a SHIT. Nothing stopped my large belly, boobs that would never really develop, and giant thighs from getting into an awkward bathing suit and having a goddamn blast doing backflips off the diving board and pretending to be a mermaid at the bottom of the pool, and even doing that weird nose-plugging thing I do with my face (by bringing my lips up to my nose). Kids drank the soda, ate the chips, and jumped in and out of the pool, going absolutely crazy! Back then I don’t think I cared about making a connection on my birthday. I had fun with everyone and I didn’t put a lot of pressure on myself to impress, entertain, or make sure everyone enjoyed themselves. 

As I get older, I do feel that way. I feel sad when my security blanket people can’t or don’t come. I feel sad when my husband doesn’t enjoy the activity I planned. I feel sad because I can’t hold a conversation and I spend most of my time depressed. I’m convinced that none of the people who CHOOSE to be there like me, that it’s all just a social obligation, because I go to their bday events. I feel incapable of entertaining anyone, even myself. 

I thought about wearing a costume to my skating party, putting on extravagant makeup and maybe even a wig. That excited me for a while, but then I started to think about it - I really only like myself when I’m in costume. Last year I thought the same thing as I was putting on my costume for my usual skating party - “People probably think it’s weird that I look way better like this”. “This” being covered in makeup, fake lashes, tight clothes, wigs with cooler and bigger hair than I could ever have. Is it for fun? Is it for attention? Is it to feel attractive, just for a few hours? Aaand suddenly, I don’t want to dress up, and I don’t even want to try. And I feel bad for myself. I see myself sulking at my bday, with my unruly, outgrown pixie and my tired face, plopping along and trying to make small talk. Me, at my party, just feeling like I do everyday. Homely. Out of place. Nothing useful to say. Unimportant. Unable to connect. Incapable of building comfortable and lasting friendships. And incapable of accepting that some, if not all, of the friends that do come, are coming because they actually like me for some reason. Frumpy ol’ me. And then I just get to feeling guilty and unappreciative.

I’d be skating too fast for most of my friends (the ones who aren’t sitting down or having issues with the shitty rental skates) and feeling awkward when having to speak. Maybe I always choose the skating rink for my birthday because I can go fast and have an excuse to fuck off from all social obligation. People can entertain themselves. 

Then I think back to Josh’s birthday last Summer. It was the first get-together we had at our new house. I sobbed the night before. Thinking that nobody liked us, nobody would like our house, nobody would come, nobody would have a good time. Just a crippling, deep anxiety and despair placed itself on my chest until I cried it all out. I talked to my therapist about this and now I remember her saying “and this may happen again, but you’ll expect it.” Josh's party turned out great. I felt so much warmth from our friends and that our house was enough, everything would all be okay.

So when I found myself with these thoughts all over again, I let myself just have a good, hard cry. I know that things often turn out better than how I anticipate them. It’s most likely I would’ve ended up having a good time, feeling loved and appreciated, and feeling great from skating. But I’m turning 30 this year, and I’m wondering if I need to reevaluate why I throw parties that make me cry beforehand, why I feel so grey these days and try to use my birthday as a time to shine, why I don’t just spend the day alone, living a day exactly how I would with no input from other people. Maybe that’s just part of growing up, or maybe the depression is just more real right now than usual.

I spent my night in the tub, eating hot Cheetos, and maybe that was the birthday plan I desired all along.

[zzzoloft]

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