Two weeks ago I had a really bad meltdown. I became overwhelmed by the “fact” that I could never be anything but a mess.
Let’s go backward a bit. Many years ago, I saw a therapist who specialized in body image issues and eating disorders. I don’t want to brag, but therapists love me. #dontbejel I have pretty crippling body image issues. They have gotten better over time, but fat is fat. She was a good therapist and a lot of what she helped me with has stuck. The memory most prominent in my mind was that she commented on how I was one of the most self-assured fat people she had met.
She said it differently, of course, but that is what she meant. Most people with a lifetime of fat have self image issues that bleed into their sense of worth in other areas. I am fat. But you can bet your bazooka I also am smart, tough, funny, kind. There is not much anybody could say or do to convince me otherwise. That shit is hard-wired.
BUT – remind me that I am fat and I remind myself that I am pretty worthless despite being smart, tough, funny, kind. What kind of moron doesn’t stop being fat? A colossal moron. What type of dumb dumb is fat for 30+ years? A ginormous dumb dumb.
Yet fat I am. And I never stop being fat. Every day I am fat. Every day without end.
Yeah. So – I’m f’d. And then breakdown. That moment when I just couldn’t be in my skin anymore. I couldn’t survive one more moment with the failure that is me. No matter how loved I am, I don’t deserve to exist. No matter how smart, tough, funny, kind I am, I don’t deserve to exist.
Uh, hi, self pity, crazy, irrational train? Yes, one ticket please. Sigh.
Luckily I have a wonderful husband. Who never stops dragging me out of the ditch. We can do this. I can do this. I am worth all the love and the gifts I have been given with my brain, heart, soul. He forces me to believe it. (sidebar: I love marriage.)
The journey has been tough the last 2 weeks. I haven’t kept all of my eating commitments to myself. I have kept my exercise commitments to myself.
I have signed up for two dance classes. They seemed like such a good idea when I signed up – exercise + inspiration from Dr. Dance. But actually going is hard. But went I did. Afro aerobics earlier this week. Ballet tonight. I am proud. I am tired.
Baby steps. Baby ballerina steps. Bad-ass baby ballerina steps. I’m fat. But I am alive. And I dance. And I am smart, tough, funny, kind. And I survive.