For most of my life, I have found myself at varying degrees of fatness. There was the cute, innocuous-enough baby-fat period that we all seem to go through-- the milk-fat, pudgy-cheeked, rolly-thighed infantile stage that invariably makes anyone with functioning fallopian tubes ovulate on the spot. There was the chubby girl period, where I remained soft as others grew lankily into their childhood bodies. But then came outright obesity-- an ugly word that turned what once seemed adorable into a clinical problem.
There have been leaner periods. I've pulled it together several times in my life, dropping sometimes as much as the 120 pounds that had separated my too-much body from normality. But my default body, much like my personality, has been big and soft. A white, fluffy marshmallow. Too much girl.
I had always cared that my body didn't fit the model for what a girl was supposed to look like. Often, I cared too much. But, ultimately, I've always had that stubborn streak that led me to defy what I knew to be in my best interest. Why should I let them make me feel like less for being... more? Why should I let anyone cut me down to size? I relied on the age-old adage: it's what's on the inside that counts. And I knew that my internal world was rich. I was smart. I was sweet. I was funny. Who cared what anyone else thought? The problem was... I did.
In December, I decided to make a change. It started with a friend and fellow EMT, who had recently begun to work on his own fitness by becoming nutritionally aware of different foods and their effects on his body. When we met, we were fast friends-- faster than I had imagined possible. We bonded over similar interests, sparkling conversation, and perhaps a deep need that I'd had in my life: his progress made me hunger for success of my own.
Almost four months later, I have lost 77 lbs, and I am feeling better than I have in years. The world has truly begun to open up to me. I am still not where I want to be, but every day, I find myself just a little bit further from the girl I was, and closer to the woman I am becoming. The difference is that the girl in me had always made it about pleasing others. The woman in me knows that this is a journey about me alone.
Tuesday, March 31, 2015
Monday, March 30, 2015
le divorce
I am getting divorced. Those are words I never supposed I'd have to write, growing up. Most little girls dream in great detail of their wedding day-- of meeting the Great Love of their life, and living happily ever after, as we are so conditioned to consider everything that comes after "I do". But I've yet to meet the little girl who dreams of her divorce-- of a world of irreconcilable differences, too-many tears over too-complicated decisions, and a daunting pile of paperwork. A world of who-did-what, and who-keeps-what. We played Barbie's Dream House, like thousands of other little girls-- but we always spent the time building a home, not dividing it. I played a mean game of house; I just never thought to role play equitable division of the assets.
Now, I need to scale back the drama for just a moment for some quick perspective: I've been witness to a number of sad, painful divorces, and I have to admit that I have a lot to feel lucky about. Ours is maybe the most mature I've encountered. The biggest stumbling blocks have been trying to convince the other to take things. Please take this. I don't need it, you take it. No, it's yours. We've maintained a close friendship throughout the process. A year ago, when I felt those first grudging pangs of bravery to voice the words that I could not get out of my head, our friendship was my first priority.
"Do you think," I choked out after a long talk with an old friend, "that if we were ever to separate, that we would still be friends?" It was that kind of non-committal, hypothetical question that I felt I had to hide behind. Just in case, I figured, the answer was no. I could suffer in silence; I was skilled at that. His friendship was that important to me. I supposed I could ride out an entire lifetime with that being enough. But, after 6 years with someone, it was very thinly veiled.
He paused for a moment, the way only someone so logical and measured could manage to respond. "I think we would."
Thus began the first of a series of long discussions. I told him I wasn't happy, and that I knew he wasn't, either. We had been young. We'd, quite simply, grown apart. I didn't think it really happened that way. I remembered hearing that same story so many times before from so many others, and thinking how weak it had sounded. If you loved someone, you loved them forever. If you really loved a person, the strength of that love would compel you to make every effort to grow together. Especially for a hopeless romantic like me, like I had always been. I would have done anything, made absolutely any concession for someone I loved. But I didn't account for the ways that love could change while you were busy leading your own respective lives. I'm a firm believer that love never dies, but there are many different kinds of love, and perhaps, it can transmute into something else-- something unrecognizable-- if you aren't paying close enough attention.
Every day for a couple of months, we checked in with each other, in talk after talk, stripping all we were separately and collectively down to a tiny core like a seemingly endless series of Russian nesting dolls. "Is it still what you want?" we would ask each other. "Are we really doing this?"
We made no mention of it to even those closest to us for several weeks, until we were certain enough of our own decisions to bring it before others. Although well-intentioned, they had their own visions for what our lives were supposed to look like, and it certainly bore no resemblance to the mess we were prepared to make. That time was, in some ways, the quiet first-trimester of our divorce-- probably the time when the emotions ran highest and every part of us screamed to be able to talk to absolutely everyone about this burgeoning thing that no one could see yet, but that was dominating our lives. But we simply weren't ready to let the world in on it yet.
The rest of the world has caught up, and it's been an eventful year. A year of many transitions, of many feelings. It's showed us both what we're made of, and it's made us different people. It's showed us that life-- and love-- goes on. It's been complicated, but we've navigated it with help from the biggest shared asset that we'll ever have: friendship. That's perhaps the only thing we can never divide.
Now, I need to scale back the drama for just a moment for some quick perspective: I've been witness to a number of sad, painful divorces, and I have to admit that I have a lot to feel lucky about. Ours is maybe the most mature I've encountered. The biggest stumbling blocks have been trying to convince the other to take things. Please take this. I don't need it, you take it. No, it's yours. We've maintained a close friendship throughout the process. A year ago, when I felt those first grudging pangs of bravery to voice the words that I could not get out of my head, our friendship was my first priority.
"Do you think," I choked out after a long talk with an old friend, "that if we were ever to separate, that we would still be friends?" It was that kind of non-committal, hypothetical question that I felt I had to hide behind. Just in case, I figured, the answer was no. I could suffer in silence; I was skilled at that. His friendship was that important to me. I supposed I could ride out an entire lifetime with that being enough. But, after 6 years with someone, it was very thinly veiled.
He paused for a moment, the way only someone so logical and measured could manage to respond. "I think we would."
Thus began the first of a series of long discussions. I told him I wasn't happy, and that I knew he wasn't, either. We had been young. We'd, quite simply, grown apart. I didn't think it really happened that way. I remembered hearing that same story so many times before from so many others, and thinking how weak it had sounded. If you loved someone, you loved them forever. If you really loved a person, the strength of that love would compel you to make every effort to grow together. Especially for a hopeless romantic like me, like I had always been. I would have done anything, made absolutely any concession for someone I loved. But I didn't account for the ways that love could change while you were busy leading your own respective lives. I'm a firm believer that love never dies, but there are many different kinds of love, and perhaps, it can transmute into something else-- something unrecognizable-- if you aren't paying close enough attention.
Every day for a couple of months, we checked in with each other, in talk after talk, stripping all we were separately and collectively down to a tiny core like a seemingly endless series of Russian nesting dolls. "Is it still what you want?" we would ask each other. "Are we really doing this?"
We made no mention of it to even those closest to us for several weeks, until we were certain enough of our own decisions to bring it before others. Although well-intentioned, they had their own visions for what our lives were supposed to look like, and it certainly bore no resemblance to the mess we were prepared to make. That time was, in some ways, the quiet first-trimester of our divorce-- probably the time when the emotions ran highest and every part of us screamed to be able to talk to absolutely everyone about this burgeoning thing that no one could see yet, but that was dominating our lives. But we simply weren't ready to let the world in on it yet.
The rest of the world has caught up, and it's been an eventful year. A year of many transitions, of many feelings. It's showed us both what we're made of, and it's made us different people. It's showed us that life-- and love-- goes on. It's been complicated, but we've navigated it with help from the biggest shared asset that we'll ever have: friendship. That's perhaps the only thing we can never divide.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)