My husband and I arrived in Gulf Shores a day earlier than the rest of my dad's side of the family. We decided we would drive down on Friday because we were leaving a day early to come back for a music festival he was playing in Memphis. We got stuck in a hellacious (technical term) traffic jam because there is some major construction going on in Mobile on I-10. The GPS sent us the wrong way and it added an hour to our drive.
About 45 minutes from our hotel, my husband got a call from his brother. They don't talk super frequently, but he was so frustrated with the traffic (and the bitch GPS) that he just ignored the call until we got to the hotel. But before we arrived, I received a message from his wife that simply read, "Betty died today."
Betty is my husband's estranged mother. Estranged in the way that we have been together since 2010 and married since 2012 and I have never met her. Estranged in the way that he had to keep deciding every few years to cut ties with her because she was a toxic narcissist who manipulated his brother and half brother against him and each other. Estranged in the way you read about in psychology books regarding childhood trauma and the importance of maternal bonding (or lack thereof).
Since 2010, she has tried to come and go in his life whenever she wasn't the center of attention. Pale attempts at reestablishing a connection that hasn't existed since she abandoned him and his brother when he was 9. The first time I was supposed to meet her was his first time performing out, opening for a friend's band. She didn't show up. The next day, she posted a comment on his Facebook page about arriving too early.
My first instinct was to reply to her, "there's a really easy fucking way to remedy arriving early: you just sit your ass down and wait." But our relationship was new and we were still refusing to even call it a relationship. I didn't think it was my place to say that. I regret not saying it. I never ended up meeting her or having the opportunity to tell her what I thought of a woman like her and the damage she inflicted/continued to inflict upon other people; particularly her children.
I wasn't sure what repercussions to expect from that simple message, "Betty died today." Would he want to turn around and go back home after just arriving? He had decided two or three months ago that whenever her death arrived, he would not be attending her funeral. At the time it seemed like a far off proposition: a determination for his future self, certainly not something that would come so soon.
There was (again) some bullshit started among his brothers that I can only assume derived from her. There were some pretty hateful exchanges between us and his half brother. Then there were equally hateful things said between his brother and his half brother. My husband and I cut ties from his half brother and his mother (again) on social media, having only tentatively reestablished contact around a year before. It was the same cycle of coming and going that had happened every couple of years in the past.
At the first sight of the message, my husband seemed relieved. It was finally over. He firmly stated he would not be returning to Memphis for the service and that we would stay at the beach with my family. It was probably the best place for both of us. He had already decided not to go months ago, but being 7 hours away added an extra layer of finality to it. I hoped maybe some peace could be found watching the waves and thinking about it all to the soundtrack of sea birds and wind.
It was a hard week. It's hard being on vacation including 7 adult family members and a new baby anyhow. No matter the family or circumstance, everyone's expectations and routines are different. I watched my husband cycle through relief, sadness, melancholy, depression, anxiety, confusion, anger; did I miss anything? There were moments of peace and clarity, but always under a cloud.
We needed the vacation. We needed the relaxation, the break from life and working and responsibilities. I am not sure we got exactly what we needed, but I am glad we went. And I am glad we stayed. Seeing the collection of family members back in Memphis that were hanging out together in his absence (as if none of the hateful shit that was said a few months ago existed, as if the lifetime of her manipulation was imaginary), was some sort of online show of the ridiculous behavior that seems expected of families just because someone died.
This past Sunday, he performed at the music festival. Musically, his path over the past 8 years has been similar to the waves of the ocean. Opportunities coming and going, sometimes chaotic, sometimes slow, sometimes disappointing; always left to control that is not his. I was hopeful that his show would go well. The irony of her death coming a week before it is not lost on me. In the end, it seemed to be good for him; a distraction, if only temporary.
I have several friends who have had toxic mothers. I expect the death of Betty to be much like the others. The grief for the person who has died is not really the thing they felt. It is a grief for the relationship; the positive, motherly relationship that was never had. The death is just the end of the opportunity for reconciliation. But honestly, after a lifetime of this shit, what kind of reconciliation could you really have?
Betty will never know the damage she did to my husband. No one ever told her. It is not surprising that she was passing on abusive behavior of which she was once a victim. But she didn't have to do that. My husband is also a victim of abuse who is not passing it on to anyone else. You don't have to do that; you choose to do that. Everything in life is always a choice.
She chose herself and a revolving door of men (who didn't show up to her service, by the way) over her sons. The only thing my husband ever really wanted from her was for her to acknowledge what happened; even an apology was outside of the realm of expectations. But one super fun piece of an abusive narcissist is the gas-lighting. Nothing was her fault anyhow. What was there to admit to? What was there to apologize for?
I know that owning your own shit is not an easy process to work through. I was not abused as a child and just working through everything that goes on in my head has not been easy. I have people to call me out on my own bullshit that I am still blind to even now; though I consider myself to be fairly self aware. I feel like at least I am trying to change the script my life has followed so far.
I honestly hope that clarity came to her at the end of her physical life. I don't know that peace came to my husband on vacation, or will for some time. But I am personally relieved of the anxiety that goes along with the unknown of her periodic entrances and exits in our life together. What happens with his brothers remains to be seen. I think the lies and manipulation she used for years to pit them against each other is too deep-rooted for repair in some instances. I don't wish it to be that way, but there are some tangled webs you just cannot unweave.
Tuesday, June 26, 2018
Friday, June 8, 2018
Thoughts on Suicide... For Dave... Or Anyone Else Struggling...
Suicide is the 10th leading cause of death in the United States. Among them, the largest percentage of suicides for the last 10 years have been among people between the ages of 45 and 54. In the past two decades, suicide rates have increased over 25% across the US, over 30% in some states. This data is conservative at best; because of the stigma associated with self-harm, suicides are not reported that way unless they can be proven. I think you would be hard pressed to find a person that has not been touched by suicide in some way. They have a friend, a family member, a work colleague... everyone seems to know someone.
This morning, I heard the news about Anthony Bourdain committing suicide. It felt like a punch in the gut, that feeling that takes your breath away when you hear something you don't want to believe. That moment in time when you know life is just different from that point forward.
No Reservations and Parts Unknown were both shows that my husband and I used to watch together. The food was interesting, but the people and places that Tony visited, his interactions with them, the way he spoke and the words he used to describe everything were the heart of the story. He was a celebrity who seemed to "keep it real". He didn't shy away from intense conversations about himself, his struggles, his past, current problems in the places his visited; he laid it all out there. He was genuine and eloquent.
I think when most people hear of someone like him (or Kate Spade, or Robin Williams, or Chris Cornell, or Chester Bennington, or Kurt Cobain, or ...) committing suicide, their first thought is why or wondering what happened that precipitated this event. Some sort of speculation regarding their state of mind or whatever heartbreak must have prompted them to do such a thing. But that is not my first thought.
My first thought is my husband. How he struggles with depression and anxiety every day. How he talks about how hard it is to continue just living day-to-day. How his relationships in his family tend to be strained over systems of belief (politics, religion, racism, etc). How he finds it so difficult to make new friends, people who have things in common with him; anxious about coming across the wrong way, about just being himself. How sometimes he just can't leave the house. How his support system tends to be a party of one: me.
Therapists will tell you that you need to find your joy, your passion in life and live it as the cure-all for depression. That or take a magic pill. Their advice is that my husband needs to figure out what his purpose is to find a more fulfilling life. What the hell happened then to someone like Tony? These people who have enough resources to find their joy and live their passion in whatever way they like? And who at the end of the day, still couldn't find enough reason to just continue living?
I feel like it is just some sort of unattainable goal to keep you focused on some better future. Like, yeah, everything may be shitty right now, but you never know what could happen tomorrow that would make you happier. Tomorrow, you may meet your person: the one who will teach you everything about being loved. Tomorrow, you may make a new friend that makes the biggest difference in your life. Tomorrow, you may be in that new job, or new city, or new country, or whatever, that will finally be the place where you feel like yourself, like you fit in, like everything is right with the world. Tomorrow... just hold on until tomorrow.
But Tony was already living a dream. He was a best selling author. He was a world renowned chef. He was a world traveler. He had won pretty much every culinary award you can win. He was wealthy. He was well liked. He was an advocate for people who couldn't advocate for themselves. He talked freely about his life when he was a heroin addict. He was honest. He had a support system. He had a daughter.
Maybe he felt like he had already lived life in all of the ways he could? Maybe if he went to a therapist to talk about unhappiness, they wouldn't be able to tell him his life would be better if he just found his passion or his joy. He already had. He already did. What do you tell someone who has a life like that who is still unhappy?
Personally, I have thought about suicide before. I think everyone has thought about it at least once. What would the world be like without me in it? Once, I came too close to doing it after Nana died. I found a therapist after that. My reason for not going through with it? My dog Casper wouldn't have understood. That may sound kind of pathetic, but he was the only one for which a letter wouldn't change the confusion.
I don't think about suicide anymore. I don't think I am the poster child for happiness or a healthy life. If anything, this blog is a testament to the struggles I still have. But I have built a life with friends and family that make me feel like I have a place in the world. I think I was so enmeshed with Nana at the time that I didn't know what life outside of her was possible. But living through her death, and later almost dying myself, showed me I still have some life left in me after all.
But I still worry about my husband. Being an empath, I know he feels the weight of the world on his shoulders. Limiting the amount of time he spends reading news or world events or the general way people continue to wreck each other every day helps, but only partially. Tony was the kind of man with the kind of life and disposition my husband looked up to and aspired to be like. If the world is too much for Tony, where does that leave him?
If I have a continuing point of anxiety, it is that one day the world will be too much for him too. That I will come home and find that he has died alone and on purpose. That at the end of the day, although this life with me was arguably the best part of his life, that happiness was still elusive enough that he gave up on the search. It is the fear that plays out in the back of my mind particularly on a day like today. When someone who was one of his few idols gave up his own search.
The past few years have been a struggle for him. I know that being laid off from his long time job in 2015 was more difficult than he lets on. It isn't a financial burden for us for him to be a temporary house spouse and take care of our home and animals. If anything, I saw it as an opportunity for him to find himself and figure out if he actually wants to pursue music. But the next year was what I would have to call a mini breakdown, or perhaps a mid-life crisis of trying to figure some things out and not really knowing what to do with himself. He tried neuro-feedback, and although it helped with anxiety it didn't provide any answers.
When I almost died in December of 2016, the spiral was quick to morph into PTSD and a new level of anxiety I hadn't seen with him before. 2017 was spent in therapy working on coping mechanisms. He was afraid I was going to die. He kind of freaked every time I left the house by myself. "Come back to me," he would say with tears in his eyes. I could see the pain and fear there, but I couldn't fix it. I think surviving the colostomy reversal without complications last November put his mind more at ease, but he is still doing the work of recovery for himself.
He has everything to live for right now. To a lot of people, he probably has an enviable life. But at the end of the day, if you have clinical depression, circumstances are irrelevant. You just wake up some mornings overwhelmed with sadness that doesn't have a precursor, a trigger, or a source. There is nothing that happens the prior day that causes it. There is nothing that will force you out of it. I can only offer my love and support, watch him fight with himself, and worry if he will be alive when I get home.
All of this to say, today I am sad that Tony is no longer. I hope his family and close friends find closure in such a difficult situation. I hope his daughter grows up loving him and his memory. And I hope he has found peace.
Let the people you love, know that you love them. Sometimes, the persona that is strong and confident and happy and joyous is just that: a persona. Sometimes people are battling demons you can't see and they will never feel comfortable sharing with you. People need each other. Particularly the ones who by all appearances want to be left alone.
This morning, I heard the news about Anthony Bourdain committing suicide. It felt like a punch in the gut, that feeling that takes your breath away when you hear something you don't want to believe. That moment in time when you know life is just different from that point forward.
No Reservations and Parts Unknown were both shows that my husband and I used to watch together. The food was interesting, but the people and places that Tony visited, his interactions with them, the way he spoke and the words he used to describe everything were the heart of the story. He was a celebrity who seemed to "keep it real". He didn't shy away from intense conversations about himself, his struggles, his past, current problems in the places his visited; he laid it all out there. He was genuine and eloquent.
I think when most people hear of someone like him (or Kate Spade, or Robin Williams, or Chris Cornell, or Chester Bennington, or Kurt Cobain, or ...) committing suicide, their first thought is why or wondering what happened that precipitated this event. Some sort of speculation regarding their state of mind or whatever heartbreak must have prompted them to do such a thing. But that is not my first thought.
My first thought is my husband. How he struggles with depression and anxiety every day. How he talks about how hard it is to continue just living day-to-day. How his relationships in his family tend to be strained over systems of belief (politics, religion, racism, etc). How he finds it so difficult to make new friends, people who have things in common with him; anxious about coming across the wrong way, about just being himself. How sometimes he just can't leave the house. How his support system tends to be a party of one: me.
Therapists will tell you that you need to find your joy, your passion in life and live it as the cure-all for depression. That or take a magic pill. Their advice is that my husband needs to figure out what his purpose is to find a more fulfilling life. What the hell happened then to someone like Tony? These people who have enough resources to find their joy and live their passion in whatever way they like? And who at the end of the day, still couldn't find enough reason to just continue living?
I feel like it is just some sort of unattainable goal to keep you focused on some better future. Like, yeah, everything may be shitty right now, but you never know what could happen tomorrow that would make you happier. Tomorrow, you may meet your person: the one who will teach you everything about being loved. Tomorrow, you may make a new friend that makes the biggest difference in your life. Tomorrow, you may be in that new job, or new city, or new country, or whatever, that will finally be the place where you feel like yourself, like you fit in, like everything is right with the world. Tomorrow... just hold on until tomorrow.
But Tony was already living a dream. He was a best selling author. He was a world renowned chef. He was a world traveler. He had won pretty much every culinary award you can win. He was wealthy. He was well liked. He was an advocate for people who couldn't advocate for themselves. He talked freely about his life when he was a heroin addict. He was honest. He had a support system. He had a daughter.
Maybe he felt like he had already lived life in all of the ways he could? Maybe if he went to a therapist to talk about unhappiness, they wouldn't be able to tell him his life would be better if he just found his passion or his joy. He already had. He already did. What do you tell someone who has a life like that who is still unhappy?
Personally, I have thought about suicide before. I think everyone has thought about it at least once. What would the world be like without me in it? Once, I came too close to doing it after Nana died. I found a therapist after that. My reason for not going through with it? My dog Casper wouldn't have understood. That may sound kind of pathetic, but he was the only one for which a letter wouldn't change the confusion.
I don't think about suicide anymore. I don't think I am the poster child for happiness or a healthy life. If anything, this blog is a testament to the struggles I still have. But I have built a life with friends and family that make me feel like I have a place in the world. I think I was so enmeshed with Nana at the time that I didn't know what life outside of her was possible. But living through her death, and later almost dying myself, showed me I still have some life left in me after all.
But I still worry about my husband. Being an empath, I know he feels the weight of the world on his shoulders. Limiting the amount of time he spends reading news or world events or the general way people continue to wreck each other every day helps, but only partially. Tony was the kind of man with the kind of life and disposition my husband looked up to and aspired to be like. If the world is too much for Tony, where does that leave him?
If I have a continuing point of anxiety, it is that one day the world will be too much for him too. That I will come home and find that he has died alone and on purpose. That at the end of the day, although this life with me was arguably the best part of his life, that happiness was still elusive enough that he gave up on the search. It is the fear that plays out in the back of my mind particularly on a day like today. When someone who was one of his few idols gave up his own search.
The past few years have been a struggle for him. I know that being laid off from his long time job in 2015 was more difficult than he lets on. It isn't a financial burden for us for him to be a temporary house spouse and take care of our home and animals. If anything, I saw it as an opportunity for him to find himself and figure out if he actually wants to pursue music. But the next year was what I would have to call a mini breakdown, or perhaps a mid-life crisis of trying to figure some things out and not really knowing what to do with himself. He tried neuro-feedback, and although it helped with anxiety it didn't provide any answers.
When I almost died in December of 2016, the spiral was quick to morph into PTSD and a new level of anxiety I hadn't seen with him before. 2017 was spent in therapy working on coping mechanisms. He was afraid I was going to die. He kind of freaked every time I left the house by myself. "Come back to me," he would say with tears in his eyes. I could see the pain and fear there, but I couldn't fix it. I think surviving the colostomy reversal without complications last November put his mind more at ease, but he is still doing the work of recovery for himself.
He has everything to live for right now. To a lot of people, he probably has an enviable life. But at the end of the day, if you have clinical depression, circumstances are irrelevant. You just wake up some mornings overwhelmed with sadness that doesn't have a precursor, a trigger, or a source. There is nothing that happens the prior day that causes it. There is nothing that will force you out of it. I can only offer my love and support, watch him fight with himself, and worry if he will be alive when I get home.
All of this to say, today I am sad that Tony is no longer. I hope his family and close friends find closure in such a difficult situation. I hope his daughter grows up loving him and his memory. And I hope he has found peace.
Let the people you love, know that you love them. Sometimes, the persona that is strong and confident and happy and joyous is just that: a persona. Sometimes people are battling demons you can't see and they will never feel comfortable sharing with you. People need each other. Particularly the ones who by all appearances want to be left alone.
Wednesday, June 6, 2018
Fat Slob Of A Woman
Roseanne Barr was recently roasted for a racist tweet she posted. Some people were in an uproar (ie. you don't get to be a racist). Some people were defending her (ie. you get to be a racist if you want to because - free speech). ABC was quick to fire her. Trump was quick to make her predicament inexplicably about himself. The usual controversy.
In the 90's, at the height of her original show's popularity, she has stated her weight was around 350 pounds. She had gastric bypass surgery to lose weight, she had a tummy tuck, and in the last 4 years or so she adopted an eating/exercise plan and lost even more weight. If you search for old pictures of her, she was fat as a teenager. I would say my weight loss journey has a similar timeline to hers; though I would also say that is where my similarity to Roseanne Barr ends.
Here's where it gets weird for me. When the internet was in an uproar about the racist things she said, people immediately resorted to calling her fat. I read comment after comment on articles about her firing full of hateful tirades about her body. I even had a friend (whom I would consider to be one of the more open-minded people I know) refer to her as a "fat slob of a woman". People's go-to insult to her was to call her fat despite the fact that she is currently taking care of her body.
This goes back to what I have said over and over again: fat-shaming is one of the last hold-outs in socially acceptable discrimination and hate. I read those words on my friend's post "fat slob of a woman" and they reverberated through my mind (and continue to do so almost a week later). It changed my perception of this person in an instant. This open-minded, forgiveness-promoting, Jesus-loving, caring person said "fat slob of a woman". No one even mentioned that choice of words in the comments on that post. I was disappointed and hurt, but I kept my commentary to myself. I have learned through therapy that I am quick to fight another person's battle, but not so quick to do so for myself.
This brings to the forefront another aspect of fat-shaming that people seem to forget. If they will use this language to insult another person, it also applies to me and is also an insult to me. I can presume, that if in the future there is some heated exchange between someone like this and myself, that my size (former or current) would be hurled in my face as an insult, or used behind my back. You cannot use those words and then follow them up with "of course I'm not talking about you, Mary". Because yes you are. In the same way that you cannot use the "N-word" to refer to a specific person and not also imply that you would use that word to apply to all black people. In the same way that you cannot call one homosexual a "faggot", and insist that your hate speech isn't sweeping across the gay community in entirety.
Around a week ago, I was a witness to an entire conversation about someone else's body and recent weight gain. Disbelief that they had let themselves get so big despite the exercise they were known to typically participate in. Nonchalant commentary about how unhappy they must be to "allow" themselves to be in such a predicament. Speculation about the reasons why this happened. I failed at defending them against these comments or at expressing my sadness that this group of people would be like that in the first place. I picked up my phone and zoned out into another world and remained silent.
Well, I'm fucking sick of it and have arrived at a moment of clarity. If I would call someone out for being racist, or sexist, or misogynistic, or anti-gay, or anti-poor, or what-the-fuck-ever else, then I should be equally ready to go to battle for someone fat-shaming another person in front of me. I mean, I know why I don't. I don't want to immediately be the target of the same insults. I don't want to single myself out. But the thing is, if you would say that about someone else in front of me, you would say that about me to someone else. If you hate fat people enough to talk about another person's body like that, you definitely feel the same way about this fat person sitting right in front of you.
I am not going to claim innocence throughout my lifetime. I have spoken very hatefully about fat bodies in the past. Those words were directed at myself 99% of the time. Self-deprecating humor is the fat chick's instant back pocket joke. Here, let me point out all of my perceived flaws and laugh about them before you have the opportunity to point them out and laugh at me instead. Being a fat girl, I also gave myself lenience in commenting on fat people in general. Almost in a "I can speak for this community because I am part of this community" sort of way. I have commented on other people's diets and weight loss attempts in the past, which mostly came from a place of self-loathing that I couldn't be successful at losing weight myself. I can hold a mirror up to my flaws. I am self-aware if nothing else.
I have realized it was just as wrong of me as it was for anyone else. This is a commitment I am making to myself to reclaim my space and my voice. To learn to view my body more positively despite what a lot of people and society in general constantly projects about fat bodies. I am reclaiming the word "fat". It is just a description of my body, similar to thin, or petite, or tall, or broad. It doesn't equate to ugly or disgusting or some sort of failure. It is just an adjective. If you call me a "fat slob of a woman", I am going to take issue with the word "slob". I am fat. I have fat. But that doesn't make me less.
So to anyone reading this, this is fair notice. I am absolutely standing up for myself (and anyone who is the butt of the current fat joke) from now on. You can look me square in the eyes and say whatever hurtful shit you feel comfortable dishing to my face. But I will no longer silently sit by and try to make myself look smaller while you critique another person's body in their absence. I don't expect my future responses to this sort of behavior will be very kind. May the odds be ever in your favor.
In the 90's, at the height of her original show's popularity, she has stated her weight was around 350 pounds. She had gastric bypass surgery to lose weight, she had a tummy tuck, and in the last 4 years or so she adopted an eating/exercise plan and lost even more weight. If you search for old pictures of her, she was fat as a teenager. I would say my weight loss journey has a similar timeline to hers; though I would also say that is where my similarity to Roseanne Barr ends.
Here's where it gets weird for me. When the internet was in an uproar about the racist things she said, people immediately resorted to calling her fat. I read comment after comment on articles about her firing full of hateful tirades about her body. I even had a friend (whom I would consider to be one of the more open-minded people I know) refer to her as a "fat slob of a woman". People's go-to insult to her was to call her fat despite the fact that she is currently taking care of her body.
This goes back to what I have said over and over again: fat-shaming is one of the last hold-outs in socially acceptable discrimination and hate. I read those words on my friend's post "fat slob of a woman" and they reverberated through my mind (and continue to do so almost a week later). It changed my perception of this person in an instant. This open-minded, forgiveness-promoting, Jesus-loving, caring person said "fat slob of a woman". No one even mentioned that choice of words in the comments on that post. I was disappointed and hurt, but I kept my commentary to myself. I have learned through therapy that I am quick to fight another person's battle, but not so quick to do so for myself.
This brings to the forefront another aspect of fat-shaming that people seem to forget. If they will use this language to insult another person, it also applies to me and is also an insult to me. I can presume, that if in the future there is some heated exchange between someone like this and myself, that my size (former or current) would be hurled in my face as an insult, or used behind my back. You cannot use those words and then follow them up with "of course I'm not talking about you, Mary". Because yes you are. In the same way that you cannot use the "N-word" to refer to a specific person and not also imply that you would use that word to apply to all black people. In the same way that you cannot call one homosexual a "faggot", and insist that your hate speech isn't sweeping across the gay community in entirety.
Around a week ago, I was a witness to an entire conversation about someone else's body and recent weight gain. Disbelief that they had let themselves get so big despite the exercise they were known to typically participate in. Nonchalant commentary about how unhappy they must be to "allow" themselves to be in such a predicament. Speculation about the reasons why this happened. I failed at defending them against these comments or at expressing my sadness that this group of people would be like that in the first place. I picked up my phone and zoned out into another world and remained silent.
Well, I'm fucking sick of it and have arrived at a moment of clarity. If I would call someone out for being racist, or sexist, or misogynistic, or anti-gay, or anti-poor, or what-the-fuck-ever else, then I should be equally ready to go to battle for someone fat-shaming another person in front of me. I mean, I know why I don't. I don't want to immediately be the target of the same insults. I don't want to single myself out. But the thing is, if you would say that about someone else in front of me, you would say that about me to someone else. If you hate fat people enough to talk about another person's body like that, you definitely feel the same way about this fat person sitting right in front of you.
I am not going to claim innocence throughout my lifetime. I have spoken very hatefully about fat bodies in the past. Those words were directed at myself 99% of the time. Self-deprecating humor is the fat chick's instant back pocket joke. Here, let me point out all of my perceived flaws and laugh about them before you have the opportunity to point them out and laugh at me instead. Being a fat girl, I also gave myself lenience in commenting on fat people in general. Almost in a "I can speak for this community because I am part of this community" sort of way. I have commented on other people's diets and weight loss attempts in the past, which mostly came from a place of self-loathing that I couldn't be successful at losing weight myself. I can hold a mirror up to my flaws. I am self-aware if nothing else.
I have realized it was just as wrong of me as it was for anyone else. This is a commitment I am making to myself to reclaim my space and my voice. To learn to view my body more positively despite what a lot of people and society in general constantly projects about fat bodies. I am reclaiming the word "fat". It is just a description of my body, similar to thin, or petite, or tall, or broad. It doesn't equate to ugly or disgusting or some sort of failure. It is just an adjective. If you call me a "fat slob of a woman", I am going to take issue with the word "slob". I am fat. I have fat. But that doesn't make me less.
So to anyone reading this, this is fair notice. I am absolutely standing up for myself (and anyone who is the butt of the current fat joke) from now on. You can look me square in the eyes and say whatever hurtful shit you feel comfortable dishing to my face. But I will no longer silently sit by and try to make myself look smaller while you critique another person's body in their absence. I don't expect my future responses to this sort of behavior will be very kind. May the odds be ever in your favor.
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