I’ve been trying to write to you for months now. Things I should tell you follow behind me place to place like a trail of breadcrumbs, or a swarm of bill collectors. I type and delete, type and delete, type and delete, all the time my mouth so full of all I want to say I can barely swallow. But, here–I’ve made a start.
I’ve been thinking lately that maybe I shouldn’t have fought so hard to keep my uterus, when they found all those fibroids swarming inside me and I looked at the ultrasound and saw none of the usual things–no tiny heart, no nascent fingers, no promise. Just my blotted copybook of a uterus, colonized yet functionally empty. I didn’t know till then how much I wanted a child and though I knew I was running headlong toward the fertility cliff, that desire, that need roared up in me, desperate and hungered. And I’m telling you this not because you know what it’s like to not bear a child, but I suspect you know about hunger and need and how they can pulse inside you, a secret Morse code for which noone’s given you the handbook or answer key. But that was then–which is what we say about everything eventually, isn’t it? And now that I’ve stumbled off the fertility cliff and I find I don’t feel quite as “less than” as I thought I would, I’m wondering why all the fuss? True, I couldn’t quite bring myself to paint an infant onesie at a friend’s baby shower, but I was there and didn’t have to remind myself to smile so that counts as “this too has passed,” doesn’t it? What I’m really asking is how much of what I tell myself is true because it’s grown into fact and how much is true because it has to be, and is it also true that there’s a difference? is it true that that particular hunger has passed, or have I just numbed it by thinking of clever hashtags for perimenopause and by crafting loud comedic groanings about hot flashes? What matters more–what we know is true, what we say is true, what we need to be true? Or am I still asking the wrong question?
It’s hard to feel unbeautiful when Josh Groban has his mellifluous tongue (virtually) stuck in my ear. And also when I’m drinking a bottle of sauvignon blanc I bought at the corner store on my way home from work. Which may point to a certain type of single-woman-of-a-certain-age solitude but has nothing to do with if I am beautiful. But what does have to do with beauty? Why do I feel beautiful on one day and not another? Or in one hour of the day and none of the others? Or vice versa? Is it the clothes? Is it the makeup? Is it the way the sun feels on my shoulders? Is it remembering–as my sunglasses slide down my sweat-slicked nose one. more. time.–how giddy I was when I first tried on said sunglasses? Is it the precise torque of curls in my hair? Someone might answer–it’s confidence, but I’d counter that confidence is as fickle a beast as any, perhaps moreso, and there have been plenty of days I’ve felt gorgeous while still feeling insecure about something or the other. Is the question what makes me feel beautiful, or what makes me feel unbeautiful? Which set of answers is most useful? Do I then avoid at all costs the unbeautiful makers and surround myself as much as possible with the beautiful makers? Or can certain things fall in either camp depending on the phase of the moon, if the bus is late or not, how many times I hit the snooze button, if I’m listening to Jack White or Josh Groban on the way to work, if I’m reading a romance novel or staring into space, if the person sitting next to me is thin or fat and I feel comfortable or squished in the seat, if I’m late or on time, if I took a shower that morning or the night before, if I have five meetings that day or not even one, if my sister has made me laugh for the 1,000th time this year or the 1,000,000th, if I get light cheese on my pizza or none at all, if I watch Jeopardy or get so caught up on Facebook that I forget, if I want to write a blog that night or I don’t want to write a blog? If I can’t aspire to feeling beautiful every minute of every day because the conditions are mutable, unknowable, irreproducible, imprecise, what then do I aspire to that gets to the same place? Or is the question not whether or not I feel beautiful but rather how sensitive I am to that place in me where I feel beautiful most of the time and know enough to fake it the rest of the time? When I don’t feel beautiful, am I just making to much noise of all the wrong sorts? Is it not the appreciation of our peculiar and singular and wonderful beauties that changes, but our willingness to walk in those peculiar and singular and wonderful beauties? Is it a choice?
Nine Thoughts About my Body
1. Maybe I’m going about it all wrong. Maybe I should be trying to live fully in the curves and lumps, folds and flab of this body. What if I should stop trying to be less than? What if it is this fullness of flesh that makes the rest–intelligence, humor, compassion, kindness–possible?
2. Which part of me is the part you can’t possibly love? Or like? Or whisper your desire to? What part of me should I cut off to be the right shape and size for you to love?
3. No one loves a person’s thinness, do they?
4. They say the average size of the American woman is a size 14. I have always read that statistic as if I should be that woman. It’s impossible to believe that I’m not just any woman. This body right now is my average. The body I inevitably shape-shift back to. It is the thin me that is not average, that is abnormal.
5. No one doesn’t love a person because of their fatness, do they?
6. Yesterday I probably weighed 230 pounds. Yesterday I walked down the street and felt beautiful. You might say you don’t believe either is true. Which statement is it worse for you to not believe?
7. Fat and failure are assonant. Fat and failure are not synonymous. Fat and failure are relative. I need to claim my meaning not yours.
8. It is possible that I fear not what you think of my ownership of this body but what might happen if I truly owned this body? If I poked and prodded and probed it for what it could do. If I could no longer pretend this body means the same thing as impossible.
9. Is my body smarter than I am? Is it impossible for me to be thin outside because I’m not thin inside? I mean because I’m fecund. Because I’m always in bloom. Is this fat the only way my body knows to show me who I truly am?
These days it’s hard to beat back the shame. After working really hard to lose weight–again–I’ve gained back not all, but pretty darn close to all the weight. Again.
This time I was pretty sure I’d figured it out: I’m a person of worth. I matter. I’m beautiful. I’m beloved by many. I’m not that defenseless kid who didn’t have any way to comfort herself except for with food. I can self talk my way out of overeating. I can self talk my way into exercising. What I feel on the inside is powerful and positive enough to inform and affect how I look on the outside. Cake really doesn’t solve anything.
Which is all true. Sometimes. Just not enough days in a row to make a lasting difference.
Many people in my life have seen me go up and down numerous times since I first walked into a Weight Watchers meeting somewhere in Downtown Crossing, Boston circa 1990. I’m fairly certain that for most of them, the number on the scale is the least of the things they consider important about me. Still, I can’t help but wonder–how many times can a person fail at weight loss without having that sheen of failure glint from everything she touches?
I know I’m possibly being melodramatic. But I’m not sure what other words to put around the enormity of this latest failure. How to accurately reflect that part of the reason I’m struggling in my long-awaited voice lessons is because I have to stare at myself in the mirror while I sing.
It’s not exactly that I don’t like what I see in the mirror. It feels more complicated than that. I like my long (currently blonde) hair. I like that my fingers and toes are always manicured. I love that I pluck my brows myself now and I’ve learned (finally) how to wear blush. I love that I spend way too much money in Ulta because I truly enjoy playing with makeup each day, how it is sort of a costume, not for hiding my face, but for saying something about who I want to be that day. Who I want to be in this life.
Still, the mirror reflects my shame. I think it’s not even shame about being a certain number on the scale. It’s shame about being that certain number AGAIN. It’s shame about not being able to stick the landing though this last time I lost weight was almost entirely about figuring out ways to maintain as I know that’s where I always stumble.
What I have learned about myself over the past 18 months is that I can do the hard things. Perhaps that’s something I should have already known or that you’ve known all along but… So maintaining isn’t a hard thing. It’s a ____________________ thing.
I’m the woman with the answers. The idea generator. The woman with a plan. The problem solver. The fixer.
I’m the woman who doesn’t know how to fill in the blank.
And I don’t know how to just let go of that desire to lose weight either even though I imagine part of the issue is exactly that holding on.
What I do know is that I walked away from this project for so many days because I didn’t want to write about shame. I didn’t want to write about being fat again. I didn’t want your sympathy or advice. I don’t want your sympathy or your advice. I don’t want you to tell me I’m beautiful. I don’t want you to tell me about your friend or sister or cousin who had a really hard time keeping weight off and then tried X. I don’t want you to ask me if I’ve considered surgery or not eating after a certain hour or Jenny Craig? I think maybe I just want you to tell me it’s okay to be average. To be the same as the thousands of people who’ve walked this road as many times or even more than I have only to end up at the same place again. Maybe I want you to tell me it’s okay to feel ashamed. We all feel it about something or the other. Maybe I want you to tell me I don’t always have to try and find the silver lining or the happy ending. Maybe I just want you to give me a nice piece of cake.
What I can control about the appearance of my body: how full my fat cells are, what clothes I put on my body, what products I put on my body in terms of keeping my skin moisturized, protecting my skin from the sun, highlighting certain features or covering others (like pimples), if my hair looks curly or straight, where hair is visible on my body
What I can’t control about the appearance of my body: the shape of my buttocks, the length of my limbs, the prominence of my knees, where my calf muscles are attached to my ankles, the shape of my right eye, the keratoconus in my corneas, the diameter of my wrists, the predisposition of fat to gather first on certain areas of my body, the length of my torso, the average ratio of my waist to my hips, the nerve damage that changed the shape of my smile circa 1998, the archless planes of my feet, the length of my fingers
What I might change about my body surgically if I had the money and the procedure was medically feasible: the shape and vertical position of my breasts, where my calf muscles are attached to my ankles
When I like my body best: When I am naked, when I am wearing a black bra and black panties and smiling at myself in the mirror, when I like the lipstick I have on, when I have just finished plucking my eyebrows, when I am hugging someone I love, when I keep going on a long walk even though my feet hurt, when I take on a physical challenge even though I know I’ll look ridiculous doing whatever it is
When I like my body least: When I am PMSing or on my cycle and I have to go through 4 or 5 outfits to find something to wear because nothing fits and I hate everything in my closet, when it betrays me with asthmatic wheezing or an attack of vertigo or a cluster of fibroids, when I don’t take on a physical challenge because I’m too scared to look like “the fat girl,” when there’s not enough room in a restaurant for me to squeeze between chairs and I have to ask people to get up so I can get by, when I can’t get up on a bar stool cause it’s too tall and I’m too short
Who I blame for how I feel about my body: That’s a dumb question.
Whose body I want: Mine. It’s been through a lot. Almost died from pneumonia. Been hit by a car. Had a corneal transplant. Been slit open from just above the pubis to just above the belly button because of tumors. This body isn’t perfect but it’s a survivor. I could learn from it if let myself.
“Some tissue, such as bone, is especially dynamic. Each body structure has its own rate of reformation: the lining of the stomach renews itself in a week; the skin is entirely replaced in a month; the liver is regenerated in six weeks… after five years one can presume that the entire body is renewed, even to the very last atom.” — Larry Dossey, Space, Time, and Medicine*
This is the body that splayed itself o a cold thin table, offered up its soft belly to the surgeon’s finicky blade. This is not the same body that cowered in the kitchen, drowning in my mother’s rage: “I don’t care if it hurts your feelings to hear that you are ugly.” How many cells are left of the body that cuddled with mouther on the couch, her eyes wild with delight as she watched The Bachelor. This is almost the same body that woke up to an empty bed this morning. This will almost be the same body who wakes up tomorrow and stitches herself into a garment of grief. And the body five years from now, when there is nothing left of the hand that is writing this or the giddy mouth that kissed the famous author or the arms that held my father’s shrunken body which was not the same body he’d had the day before, the body now turned to ash and loss, my body of tomorrows, how will I recognize its electric arrival, how will I mourn its sweet shed skin?
* I borrowed this epigraph from Maureen Seaton’s “A Constant Dissolution of Molecules” for which this quote is also the epigraph.
10 Reasons to Be Fat
1. So your hands can’t reach all the way around when you try to hug me. So I can’t be trapped.
2. Cause nothing feels as good as cake tastes.
3. Everybody’s doing it.
4. Who doesn’t want invisibility as a superpower?
5. Who doesn’t want a permanent excuse from gym class (life)?
6. Sometimes despite your best intentions you grow up to be just like your mother in all the wrong ways.
7. Because I have neither the faintest idea what to do with a man (love) or to learn what to do with a man (love.)
8. Two words: portable fortress.
9. Four words: Scared not to be.
10. If you don’t love me like this, how will I know you really love me?