Secrets From A Fat.. SO?!

Archive for the month “May, 2011”

Two for Tea and Tea for Two

Every now and then, I play therapist with Chris. About a month ago, I demanded more than requested, “Tell me five things you like about yourself.”

It was a task I knew he wasn’t really comfortable with and didn’t know how to begin. And I knew that even as I helped him point all his wonderful qualities, that nothing I said that moment would truly stick. Because I’ve learned this, that if you can’t find qualities that you like about yourself, you will never be happy. No matter how much weight you lose, what clothes you wear or how much make up you cake on your face, if you don’t have qualities that you like about yourself, you will miss life. You will miss the sun shine on a beautiful day as your holed up in your room watching TV. You will miss opportunities to get out and bond with people. And when you’re in the company of others, you won’t truly enjoy yourself. Because what happens is that when you don’t like yourself, you both physically and emotionally wall yourself away.

I know this because I was that person, and sometimes I still am. Everytime I go home on the weekends to my mother’s house, I feel as if I’ve become Rip Van Winkle. Walking inside, I feel the calm air settle over me like pixie dust. My shoulders begin to sag and I lethargically make my way upstairs to my bedroom. I only emerge from my fortress of solitude when I’m rested but never fully rested. Sleep still lurks on the corner of my eyes and doesn’t escape until I’m about two blocks away from home, on my way to work. I can’t seem to motivate myself to do anything while I’m home. Boxes sit half packed all over my room, for my move with Devyn & Jack and a ton of little details that need to be taken care of are still left undone. I yank the curtains closed to block out the sunshine that’s trying to taunt me to come outside and curl up under the blankets all day. Even when I am over at Chris’s, I have realized that I have holed myself up. It might not happen as often or to the same drastic extent, but there have been days when I have had a long list of errands to do on a rare beautiful sunny day in Portland, and I find myself curled up on Chris’s couch playing Oblivion while Chris sleep’s the day away, simply because I didn’t feel like it.

Days like that happen because of the way I feel about myself. While days like that are happening less frequently, they still happen. I still hole myself away. I miss out on the sunshine I rather be playing in. But instead of wallowing in regret, I just remind myself that their is a tomorrow for another try. And as many tries as it takes to get it right. Maybe I am like a fly that doesn’t give up, banging into the light bulb over and over again. I may still miss out on opportunities, but because I believe in myself and because I like myself, I never doubt my capabilities of ever succeeding. And I’ve learned to just enjoy myself when I’m with others, instead of worrying about fitting in.

Like my mother is always snidely reminding me, I’m not a doctor and I didn’t go to medical school, but I do listen to my intuition. And I like to think that my intuition is sometimes as good as a doctor’s analyse. Just cheaper. I like to think that most of the time, I can read people’s emotions pretty well. Usually, because I just look at people. But just because I can usually read a person, doesn’t mean I know how to act about it. I can look at my mom, a few other friends, even a few coworkers and just know their sad. I know they’re hurting. I know that specifically, that they don’t like themselves. Most of the time I think anyone who just looks at another’s body language and uses their intuition would be able to tell too. Because it’s the little details people over look. Most of the time people are caught up in their own narcissistic problems to really care. But I do. But just because I care doesn’t mean I pry… most of the time.

If a person seems upset, distracted or bored, my first reaction is to play the clown.  My first reaction is to try to find a way to put a smile on their face. My second reaction is to watch and listen. I usually have a thousand of questions to ask but I don’t, because I don’t want to come across as nosy. Instead, I think the best question to ask is just, “Are you okay?” And I leave the offer open to talk to the recipient. Sometimes, like with Chris, I am a little bit more persistent and annoying because I know he won’t come easily come and ask for help.  But while I deeply want to know and I want to help, I can’t genuinely force someone to tell me what’s wrong. What I can do, is leave the offer on the table to talk. And I can hope the person I’m asking will take up the opportunity. Because a conversation is not just a dialogue. It’s not about one person being heard above more than the other. A conversation is about expressing, “I hear you.”

I’m not the girl you come to for advice, because I’m not good at giving someone answers on how to fix their problems. I’m great at listening. I’m great at understanding. But just because I understand, doesn’t mean I have the right words that a person wants to hear. It doesn’t seem to stop me from wanting to try to help. It doesn’t stop me from trying to unload a little bit of their burden unto my own. But in the end, am I a help or a hinderance? For as much as I keep wanting to inspire other’s to finding their own personal happiness, to have a little slice of my pie, I know that I can’t make anyone happy who doesn’t want to let them self be happy! I can’t make anyone to just instantly have the inspiration it takes from deep within to just let go. To let go and not care anymore about their insecurities, to dig up the strength to push yourself everyday and live in each moment. I can’t force someone to just let themself be happy.

We all have different insecurities. We all have different reasons why we hole ourselves up away from society and think it’s more fun to watch other people live theirs. We all have different regrets and different pasts. We all have different reasons to be sad. Someone I was very fond of once asked me a long time ago, why I always smile. And the answer is simple. Because I want to be happy.

Advertisements

Through With The Looking Glass

I’ve come along way to liking my reflection in the mirror. I’ve come a long way from not liking my reflection to feeling beautiful inside and out. But I still have my bad days. I still have many moments of self-doubt when I look in the mirror. I doubt that the person I see staring back is not the same girl staring in. Sometimes I get lost within my own eyes, staring myself down and demanding my true inner beauty come and outshine all my imperfections. I know she’s inside and sometimes it’s like I am banging on a locked door. Because I know if I can get her to come out, she can dazzle and distract everyone else from my insecure imperfections. Or at least attempt to.  

It’s funny how something as fragile as glass can shatter as something as fragile as self-esteem. It’s funny how the same mirror can make me feel utterly confident and bring me down to reality at the same time. I can look in the mirror in the morning and feel utterly dejected and unsexy. My eyebrows will feel too furry, my belly will feel nine months pregnant, and my eyes could fill enough sand bags to save the Titanic. Moments like that used to make me a wall flower for the rest of day. Sure, once I opened up to people the shyness wore off but I mostly remained guarded about people getting too close. Until this blog, I’ve been very careful about what I let people know about me, like leaving a trail of bread crumbs.

I still have moments of shyness although, I’m good about hiding it. Moments when I see faces I want to introduce myself to or when I hear a conversation I’m not sure how to invite myself into, I try not to let people see that. Instead, I am known as the girl whose really friendly and social butterfly. I pull up chairs and start conversations with people I don’t know; say hello to anyone for no reason except to say hi; the go getter girl whose not afraid to flirt with boys or be afraid of asking them out first. Which, if you were to look at an entry from just two months ago, you can see the same girl struggling to get out. It’s weird for me to think how much I have progressed in such a short period of time. I am still the same girl, fumbling her way around in the dark. Like Bilbo Baggins in Chapter Five of the Hobbit (Riddles in the Dark) “No great leap for a man, but a leap in the dark. Straight over Gollum’s head he jumped, seven feet forward and three in the air; indeed, had he known it, he only just missed cracking his skull on the low arch of the passage.”

When I started this blog, I took that leap in the dark. I’ve mostly been stumbling and trying to stay out of the cross hair’s of dwarves. Everyday I’ve been solving riddles in the dark about myself. Sometimes I falter and nearly get beheaded by an irate dwarf. But I exaggerate for creative licences. Just saying. Because if I can come so far in just two months, who knows where I can be in another two? Because as downtrodden and outcast as I can make myself feel, for no reason at all, I can come back to that same mirror that left me so rejected a few hours later and feel like a sex kitten. My imperfections which may have started out as a hinderance, have suddenly become an asset. My hair will have fallen out of its half bun at the right angle, my cheeks flushed and I’ll notice that my eyes sparkling full of life. All because I just decided not to give a damn how I felt earlier that morning. (Okay, and sometimes with a little help from the makeup fairy) And who knows, maybe I’m wrong but it’s just what I see. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve just pulled out a mirror from my purse when no one’s looking or took a quick nip into the bathroom because I just wanted to make sure I was imperfectly perfect put together.

But in truth a reflection be it by a mirror or sometimes by the camera on my phone, is only a handicap.  I went to the Rose Festival last Friday night with Chris to watch the opening night Fireworks. In truth I was feeling suhlubby (thanks auto correct for informing me that’s not a real word). I wasn’t feeling ugly but just tired and not particularly attractive. But we went to the fair anyway. Mostly to get out and have a good time since I had gotten called into work for another nine-hour shift the next day. Right before the fireworks, I decided to take some photos to remember by. I pulled Chris in close and snapped a badly aimed photo. And while a few months ago, the same photo would normally have left me over analyzing every flaw, it instantly had the opposite effect. Immediately, I pulled my hair out of its bun, shook my hair loose and just felt as good as I did inside. Because while I’ve gotten good at feeling beautiful inside, and slowly recognizing it outwardly, I still need that crutch to verify or deny the results. The mirror and camera phone are just a crutch to just get me walking again. I need to feel confident and trust myself that the inner beauty is reflecting outwards without constantly checking on the results. In essence, I’m through with the looking-glass.

I Am A Writer

Recently, I wrote an article about fighting negative stereotypes. I wrote about how labels don’t make up a person’s entire existence. And it’s true. For it takes many stereotypes, many labels to be all rolled up like a giant burrito to make a person who they are. But what about the good labels? What about the labels that have always been apart of you? The ones where you let others made you to believe you weren’t good enough to be labeled as.

One night a few days ago, I was riding the bus home with a coworker we’ll call… Coughdrop. On any given night, I will sometimes catch the bus with at least one of several coworkers but I always particularly enjoy Coughdrop’s company because of their laid back attitude. Because most of the time, I can convey the same message of warmth in a wordless hello, a nod and a smile, as I would to one of my more physically affectionate coworkers. So it wasn’t surprising to me, that while Coughdrop and I were standing at the bus stop, I randomly confessed a secret that I had only told one other person in my entire life. I am a writer.

Yes, I blog. And people I know I blog. People know I like to write and they know because I told them. Those aren’t secrets. But I have only said the words, I am a writer, to two people. Instead of telling people, “Oh, I’m a writer.” I say, “Oh, I just like to write.” Because the truth is, beyond bloging…  I have ideas for novels and short stories. They’re ones I’ve been working on for many years and very few people know about. And I don’t tell anyone because not only don’t I think they’re really all that good enough or great but because I don’t have a whole lot actually written. Not enough to really share with anyone. One of my story ideas is a romance murder mystery while another one is a spin on a classic Christmas Tale. I have a slightly sci-fi/fantasy spin on Beauty & the Beast and a complicated Greek Mythology twist brought into modern times and Zeus muse daughters. None of which are Pulitzer prize worthy so I figure… why brag about them?  So, I never thought of myself as a… writer. Even now, the label sounds foreign and strange to me. To be a writer, I always thought you had to have that passion, that drive, and dedication real writers had to have!

The label behind what a writer should be however, has different meanings. To me, writers are intellectuals or classics like Charles Dickens’, Jane Austin or Proust. To me writers of today are dedicated bloggers who write everyday just because they have something to say. Writers are the people who spend hours in coffee shops writing. You have Hollywood writers, journalists, editors, bloggers, and everyday people who struggle to get their work published. Because that’s what writers do… all the time. Writers are what they do and who they are because it’s their job or their dream. It was in turn, a stereotype I had placed on others.

So writing was just a label I never associated with myself. Because while I enjoy writing, because I don’t have that same dedication I let myself believe that I wasn’t a writer. But as I sat on that bus, and let the confession and my someday story ideas slip from my mouth into Coughdrop’s ears, I realized… I am a writer! While I might not have the same drive, or the right dedication that more serious writer’s may have, I do enjoy writing! I do have a semi-passion for it. My mind is constantly coming up with ideas to blog about. It’s just the ideas I scribble down from my notebook have a hard time making it passed the paper and into some sort of coherent thought. I can’t tell you why exactly I have such trouble, because I’m not exactly sure myself.

All I know is that, the more I write, the easier writing becomes and the more I enjoy it. I still may have trouble after a few days piecing my thoughts together, but the overall writing becomes easier. But the more I write, the less sleep I get. And I worry if I miss a day about how many more entries I have to make up. You could say I place too high of expectations upon myself of having to write every day. But when it comes down to it, I am a writer. And it’s a label I’m comfortable with. While writing may never be anything more than a hobby, I’m beginning to feel like labels can be a good thing. I’m beginning to realize that as long you love what you do and at some level have that passion (even if it doesn’t manifest into a profession) that it’s okay to let a label be a part of who you are. I’m probably not going to yell it up across the rooftop’s to people or brag about it in conversation. But for the first time, if the topic of writing comes up, I am no longer going to shyly say “Oh, I just like to write.”  Because I am a writer!

Great Expectations

Mother’s Day is coming up and I can’t say I’m really looking forward to it. My mother always told me that as long as I grew up to be happy, that she’ll be proud of me. But when check came to pay that bill, I can’t sit here and say I don’t think she ate those words without more than a little remorse. And probably a little indigestion.

I love my mother, of course I do. And there are many amazing qualities about her that do I love. My mother is an extremely resourceful, hard-working, quick-witted, loving and generous woman. But- And there’s always a but. Just like she always adds in with me. “Sarah, you know I love Tony but…”– there are always contingencies. I don’t think I’ve ever lived up to my mother’s expectations. I could start off with the fact that I dropped out of high school but I know it’s more than that.

To my mother, I’ve never been considered an equal. Because I don’t have a college education, my sources and knowledge are never good as her’s. I think my mother respects me when it comes to creative arts and working with electronics (she always says ‘Here Sarah, fix this.’ Or, ‘Sarah, I need you to fix the computer/install a program) but, I know she doesn’t respects me on the same level. She’s the one who has a “creative” daughter who writes fluff, and branches out and dabbles in various artistic adventures. But heaven forbid my vocabulary ever be as sophisticated, speak French as authentically, or be as poised as she. Sometimes I feel like my mom is like the white lace gloved lady and I’m a bull in a china shop.

My mother, and my god mother, always think they’re better than me. And it hurts. It’s unrealistic demands, these great expectations upon my shoulders. She thinks because I am the granddaughter of two doctors, the daughter of an engineer, the niece of two nurses, and the cousin to several prodigies, I should be as great as they. But I can only be me. And I know that disappoints her. I have no idea what my father thinks about me but, I’m not sure I want to know. When I tell her my plans for the future, she nods her head her head as if I were still a child telling her I was going to Mars. “Well, hurry up!” she passively tells me.

I suspect she doesn’t quite believe I’m capable of the pressure I’m setting myself up for. I think she hopes to be proven wrong but like asking an atheist about God, they’ll believe when they see. I’m not saying I don’t deserve some cynicism. I have failed a lot. I am not saying that because of all this, my mom doesn’t love me. I know she does. Just in her own warped hypocritical way. I think because my mom was brought up in such a strict love deprived family, expecting her to be perfect, that if she showered me with nothing but love growing up that I’d still turn out like her.

The problem with that theory is that you still need structure. You need inforced discipline, and a routine. And I didn’t have any of that growing up. Not even my diet was regular. There was a year in third grade where she enforced that my homework was done every night but that was more to spite a teacher’s crazy claims that I never turned my homework in. There was also a brief time in 7th grade she sent me to the Sylvan Learning Center to be tutored for math but that felt more like, “Fix her!” Other than that, it was always a mad dash to the art supply store to put together a clearly parent made project the night before it was due. I’m not blaming her but, I was only a kid. How am I supposed to know if the parent doesn’t lead by example?

Even after I was an adult and had dropped out of high school, instead of forcing me to grow up or helping fix the internal weight struggles, she just dragged me by the hand and just forced me into a different program on how to get a HS diploma. She made me feel like I couldn’t achieve anything with my life with just a GED. Apart of her was ashamed of what people would say. My mother should have had a career with public relations as she is very good at putting a positive spin on any negative press. I wasn’t a twenty year old bum who did nothing, I was finding myself.

Despite how ungrateful this entry is beginning to sound, my mother (and god mother) have helped me a lot. They have given me the time I needed to figure out how to get my life together. They gave me a roof over my head when I had nowhere to go. They have fed me, clothed me and given me countless rides to work even when I was simply too lazy to walk uphill to the bus stop. They even gave me the laptop from which I’m writing this entry on. And for that, I am forever grateful. I just don’t think, either my mom or my godmother has ever truly seen me. I don’t think they even hear me when I say thank you. In turn for all their “kindness” I’m expected to be at their beck and call to any whim they demand. I don’t argue the point that some sort of gratitude be paid back. I just rather help because I want to, not because I’m forced to.

The only person I think my mother (and god mother) see me as, is a spoiled, selfish, ungrateful lazy brat who takes and takes and takes from them. Maybe certain traits of that analyst were accurate at one point. If my mother didn’t think those things, then certainly my godmother does! I just can’t seem to find a way to show them how much I do love both my godmother and mother without being reminded of my past. In their eyes, there is no benefit of the doubt, I’m always lying or stealing. There are no more private mother quiet bonding time or special days just for us. I’m always on edge whenever my mother comes into my room to sit on my bed and talk. I fear that the news is never good. I fear what she wants from me.

I mentally separated myself from my mother and godmother about a year ago, after a bitter fight with my mom and calling me a knocked up w***e who didn’t care if I was living on the streets (which is obviously not true as I never came close to living on the streets). But the words hurt none the less. I used to love talking with them for hours and including them in my life.  I used to love confiding in my mom and my godmother. But whenever either of us tried, all we ended up doing was throwing our secrets at each other like grenades. It just wasn’t worth the heartbreak. It wasn’t worth being constantly told, I told you so. Now a days, we give each other the bare bones from yesterday’s news. It’s not the relationship I want, of course. But my mom is going through her midde age crisis, a selfish “me only time” phase and all I can do is sit back, sort through my own life and wait.

Stereotypes Killed the Humanity Star

If you read a book or wear glasses, you’re called a nerd. If you play sports, you’re called a jock. If your vocabulary is less than grammatically perfect, your called ghetto. If you’re a girl who likes to flirt, your considered a tease. If your blonde, you’re IQ is assumed to be around the average of a child’s. If your fat, you’re assumed to love cake (which is true).

I feel like I’m constantly trying to fight a losing battle of the stereotypes. I feel like I can’t be nice without the stereotype of, fat girls are nice. I feel like I can’t eat a burger without being judged. I feel like I can’t eat a cup of fruit without the curiosity of people wondering if I’m on a diet. I feel like because I’m not openly promiscuous, that I’m considered a good girl. When in truth, I am all of those things, too an extent.

Stereotypes have been around forever. Like cavemen are hairy and only speak in undistinguishable grunts. Romans have obscenely large noses and heathenism lifestyles. Victorians only worried about their personal stature. Woman in the sixties, always burned their bra.  If you had aids meant that you were gay or a junkie. There is much truth to steretoypes but they’re not the whole truth. A black person can love soul food but that doesn’t define their entire existance. For most of my life my hair was blonde. Does that mean I’m never aloud to pick up a book? I don’t think so.

I just don’t see why it has to be that black and white. We each are our own person. I could sit here and preach to everyone to be yourself. And while I know that story isn’t older than the Bible, it doesn’t mean you should be treated like an after school special of Full House. But I do ask a challenge from you  and I am curious to see who will rise to the occasion. I can already proudly say I already know a few people who are already this waaah -ducks as a box of moive theater popcorn is thrown and a heckler yells Get ON with it already!- Alright Alright! Sheesh!

I challenge you to go out of your way to get to know someone you see everyday, but don’t know much about. Especially if you don’t think you have anything in common with them. People are always wondering how I’m friends with so many different types of people and the only answer to that is, I don’t care about stereotypes! I don’t think I’m excluded to be in anyone’s social circle. I kinda just pull up my chair, sit next to you and pretend like we’ve been friends for ages. I know that whatever lays on the surface, something deeper and more beautiful remains. I know that things aren’t black and white and can’t ever stay so. The thing I love most about people is that I am constantly being proven wrong about what I thought I knew, most of the time in a good way. Sometimes I’m proven wrong about a person in a disapointing way, but not usually. And even then, I can accept the flaw(s) that just make them human. I may not like it, but I can accept it.

If their one thing I can teach myself, it’s learning how to accept myself. If their is one thing I can teach others, it’s accepting humanity.

My Love’s Too Big For You, My Love

My two favourite artists at the moment have to be Natasha Bedingfield and Ingrid Michaelson. As I was finishing up yesterday’s entry on letting your inner freak shine through, I was inspired. I was inspired by all the things I love about my friends. While listening to Natasha Beddingfield’s “Happy” and Ingrid Michaelson’s “Sort Of” I was inspired to write this post. It’s not done but when is it ever really complete?

I love being out doors on a bright sunny day no matter how hot or cold it is. I love it more when I’m out in nature, walking, hiking, splashing water with my feet in a creek. I love the way I can’t exactly fit as a city girl or country girl. I love walking downtown Portland late at night. I love feeling the stillness of the city is all for me. During the day I love the hustle and bustle of people getting on and off the Max by Pioneer Square. I love standing in the entrance of Powell’s Books and feel like I’ve come home. I love wondering the store for hours and filling my arms with more books than my arms can carry.

I love the smell of curry and spices. I love indian food and I love sushi. I love the smell of BBQ food. I love the smell of vanilla, fresh flowers and candles. I love how sunflowers stand so tall and proud. I love sitting outside and watching people. I love pushing the elevator button and I love the ding the bus makes when a stop requested (Unless of course I’m running late). I love watching acts of kindness strangers do unto others, like one stranger buying coffee for another stranger. I love that moment when you can sense other people’s troubles and hypothetically extending your arms out to comfort them.

I love when I first walk into work, head phones on, and see whose already there. I love when I get off work, calling out each cashier’s name and wishing them goodnight. I love that moment when you can make a customer really happy. I love when I can make my coworkers smile. I love sitting in the break room and being silly with coworkers, giggling over nonsense.

I love the butterflies of a first date or just before when you realize your about to kiss someone for the first time. I love it when the kiss is everything you expected. I love receiving back rubs and I love giving them. I love cuddling and I love being told I’m loved. I love telling people that I love them. I love it when I’m surprised with a hug from behind. I love the way genuine smile lights up a face and makes their eyes twinkle. I love laughter and I love laughing.

I love listening to random “Indie” bands or songs nobody has ever heard of (like the reference title). I love winning against racing video games. I love being competive and good winners. I love memorizing lyrics. I love meaningful quotes. I love playing Sudoku till my brain hurts. I love math and numbers and I love how inexplicably beautiful the english language can be. I love the french language as well as Russian, Japanese, and Italian. I love putting makeup on and curly hair.

Beatle Mania

My boyfriend is a Beatles fan. Not just a Beatles fan, but a Beatles nut. On our first date, he asked me who my favourite Beattle was.

“Ringo,” I easily replied in between sipping my iced chocolate frappuccino. We had met up at my favourite sushi restaurant and were now sitting outside on a bright summer day, drinking coffee (or at least he was) at the Starbucks across the street. I was surprised he hadn’t run away yet since I admit I looked a little strange. I was a two hundred eighty-six pound girl with very long slightly red, slightly blonde wavy hair trying my very best to look like a character from Mad Men. A very dear friend was throwing a birthday party in a few hours and I didn’t have time to go home and change.

“Ringo? What in the world do you see in Ringo?” I remember the expression on his face. It was a mixture of impressed, curiosity and utter dumbfounded.

“I love Ringo because Ringo is nobody‘s favourite. Don’t get me wrong, John is probably my next favourite but that’s probably because my school’s anthem was Imagine.” I think Chris almost spit out his coffee from laughter.

“You’re highschool song was Imagine?!”

“Yup, what can I say,” I nonchalantly shrug, tilt my head and smile. “I went to a freak school. It was awesome.”

As both of our laughter subsided, even though I didn’t know much about the Beatles at the time, and actually I still don’t, I could tell I made a lifetime friend. A fellow freak I guess you could say. A freak can always spot another freak. It doesn’t take special clothes, crazy hair or adorned body art to join the club. I think like the word fat, people take the word freak offensively. It’s just another forbidden F word to add to the list. Say it loud, say it proud! I am a freak! Okay, you probably didn’t just say it now as I didn’t while typing it. But I digress. I explained briefly on Things Mother Taught Me, about the fifth important thing was letting your freak flag fly!

I think that by growing up fat, a self-defense mechanism was giving an illusion of not giving a damn what people thought about me. Which is why I always stood up against drugs, smoking and drinking when my middle school friends were experimenting and I stuck my nose into a book. I was giving the illusion that I was raising my freak flag and that I didn’t care. Of course that’s only half-true. Of course I care… to an extent. Because who doesn’t want to be liked? Who wants to be thought negatively by anyone? That’s why when you watch most of Hollywood’s “behind the scene’s” you only hear “we’re one big happy family.” And maybe they are. Who knows, I’m not there to judge their actions. The only person I can account for is myself and the relationships I cultivate. But I do believe because of my background, I am more laid back about my “freakyness”.  My “freakness” has become a shell of armor.

My freak seems to also have developed a radar. Like Willy Wonka’s egg dectector, I can smell a rotton egg. But I can spot the good ones too. I can usually tell when your lying to me but I rarely call people out on it. It’s usually not worth the effort. I think apart of being a freak is accepting other freak’s flaws and short comings. Because we realize we’re not perfect either and we know expecting that from others is hypocritical. I love each freak for who they are. I love Chris’s rants about how Abby Road is technically the Beatle’s last album and not Let It Be. Because Let It Be was released after the band broke up but Abby Road was the last album the band recorded together in the studio. Even though he knows I have absolutely no imput in the matter except that love the triva knowledge.(See Chris, I DO pay attention… sometimes) And he accpets (most of the time) when I will randomly bite him.

I love the way my friends in their own way, are freaks too. Like a friend who will belt out I believe in miracles, you sexy thang, on stage in public during karaoke. I love how I know four people who hate mayo as much as a vampire hates holy water. I love how I know someone who actually owns a shake weight (and has yet to let me play with it!), I love how I know two people who have seen every episode of Star Wars and Star Trek. I love the way Chris yells Buttscratcher! I love the excitement a coworker gets over a videogame that has yet to be released. I could go on forever, but I think you get my point. Without these people, life would be very boring indeed. So what exactly is wrong with being a freak anyway?

A Spoonful of Medicine

-This entry is a little post dated-

I begrudgingly look down at the cup of fruit I’m eating for breakfast. I really don’t want to eat it because between the battle of fruits and veggies, I’ve always chosen my veggies. So while I imagine little faces on my fruit screaming “neener, neener, neener” at me, I know they’re the good medicine my body needs to be healthy. So I resentfully put the too bitter blackberry into my mouth, and slowly pick my way through. About halfway through my cup of fruit, I’m ready to throw in the towel. I feel full already but I push my way through because I know it’s an illusion. I’m about to start a nine our shift and I know what I just ate will burn off in about an hour. Besides, I just shelled out two-fifty on an already extremely tight budget. After watching my godmother and mother waste on food in a month is enough to feed a small impoverished village for a year (no exaggeration), I hate waste.

 When my much beloved cat Spice died last February, the vet pulled me aside and privately said, “A sign of a sick pet is when they stop grooming themselves.” And I remember how her furr had lost it’s shine, slightly matted on the side. I remember the sparkle had left her eyes. As I sit here this morning, my body trying to gag on a foreign concept of fresh fruit, I thought, couldn’t that same logic be applied to humans? Is it really that simple, that for years I haven’t put much of an effort into caring about simple things as styling my hair or putting makeup on because I was internally sick?  Besides the grapes and watermelon in this batch of food, my body is literally trying to reject the healthy food I’m putting in my mouth.

I think I’ve been sick for a long time. Like an ICU patient, I think I’ve finally been transfered out of intensive care and into rehab. The days I would take time to care about my apperance, usually fell to the first day my ex would be coming down to visit. Once every few months I’d get the urge to “doll myself up” and feel pretty. Shouldn’t that have been a sign? And if we’re going by that logic then am I starting to recover?  Because since my early preteens, most of the time I didn’t really care how I looked as I left the house. I mean I threw my hair back in the same ponytail that I still wear.  But now while most days I don’t style my hair, I do put makeup on and make an effort in my apperance. Does that mean I’m starting to fix the internal problems? It’s a good question.

I think so. I think when a person is internally sick, both the internal and external symptoms need to be treated. When we’re sick, we let ourselves go. We stop caring. We stop using over-indulgence as an occasional treat. We hide. From ourselves and everybody as well too. We pretend we don’t care. And when I say we, I really mean me. But maybe you too, who knows? All I know is that change is slow. Change takes time. All I can do is take one step at a time. I’m compromising with my body too. While it really doesn’t want to eat this cup of fruit, I reward it with a whole wheat bagel and a banana on my break. At lunch I pick up a turkey sandwhich instead of making a bee-line towards the deli and ask my body weither it wants a soda or a candy bar. Of course this is only just one day, one of my better days. But each day I’m trying. Each day I’m trying to get better.

Fat American

Fat American, shoveling a deep-fried Twinkie at the State Fair into their mouth. Fat American, sitting in her car eating her second double bacon cheese burger after coming through the drive through. Fat American, in a buffet line working on their second, no third, helping. Fat American, eating two microwave dinners in front of the TV. Fat American, Fat American, Fat American!!!

Fat people are stereotyped for loving food.Not just food itself but, food in gross proportions! And that food is usually deep-fried and smothered in either grease or chocolate. These are confessions of Fat Americans. We like to laugh at them, shake our heads and pretend that it doesn’t exist. Fat people like to pretend that the words said behind our back don’t really hurt. Fat people are paranoid that skinny people are all secretly judging us behind our backs.

Okay, maybe it’s just me. I’m not the spokes person for all fat people. I’ve never eaten a deep-fried Twinkie or candy bar of any sorts but I’ve been curious. The only thing stopping me is of course the deep repulsion of the actual deed. I don’t understand American’s sometimes. But despite not understanding them, I do admit to contributing to the stereotype. I have eaten with my mom in the drive through parking lot, I have made my way through more than a single helping at a buffet line and I have eaten two microwave dinners in front of not only the TV, but the computer too. I used to blow through $250 on groceries every two weeks when I lived in Seattle with my ex. That’s not counting the many times we ate out, the many middle of the night runs to 7-11 or the meals at his family’s. So it doesn’t surprise me that I gained so much weight, so quickly.

But, my eating habits could never been called normal. I grew up in a single parent house hold and for fifteen years I lived next door to the best grandparents a kid could ever ask for. But they resulted in weird eating habits. There was a small square diningroom table that we rarely ate meals at. Most of my meals consisted of frozen, instant or fast food. I’m not saying my mother never cooked, she is actually a really good one, but when you work forty to fifty hours a week (as much as seventy hours when I reached thirteen) it was just easier to pick something up or pop something in the microwave. I ate with my hippy grandparents a lot too but my grandma pretty much refused to cook. That left my grandpa with the majority of takeout menu’s we’d order from.

And I gained weight. By the time I was fifteen and a half, stepping off the plane into Portland, OR. I was a very insecure, size sixteen, just under two hundred pound girl. I had this sick distortion of who I thought I was in my head. I knew I wasn’t the fattest person in the world but I didn’t think anyone but the faceless friends I made on the net, anyone would truly love me. But I was wrong. I did make friends. I had a boyfriend who went from just someone I met online to a 3 hour-long distant relationship. And for  year I had the closest thing to a sister living with me. But I still wasn’t happy, I still didn’t think I was good enough. So I kept eating. I ate to fill the void that I thought was hunger, but what was really love. In five years I gained sixty pounds. After two more I gained twenty more.

I can’t simply sit here and explain to you what changed. I can’t say there was this one life altering defining moment. I had reached to what felt like my breaking point many times. Change didn’t happen over night. I’ve had to make many mistakes and come to live with the consequences of decisions I’ve made. I’m nowhere near the person I want to become but I’m starting to see her. I can see Lilly waving in the distance and I am ever running towards her. Sometimes I catch up to her but before I can catch my breath, she is teasingly darting out of my grasp. She reminds me not to give up, not to look back. Lilly reminds me that I’m not just a Fat American. She reminds me to keep running towards my dreams.

I’ve come a long way to losing even the weight I have, as of this morning, twenty-two pounds!!! As of this morning I am two-hundred and sixty-four pounds and I could not be more ecstatic. It feels like my dreams are starting to finally starting to happen. From moving into my own place, to losing weight, to going back to school for web design. I tease that I will be a millioniare by the time I’m thirty. I have my outline and if I can keep up the pace, I just might be. Where the only thing fat on me will be my wallet. So watch me run (not literally… yet) ever onwards towards my dreams. Because I’m running. I’m running and not looking back!

Not Ready to Make Nice

– We InterruptYour Regularly Scheduled Broadcast with an Important Message-

I’d like to start off that I am deeply upset that what I’m about to write even has to be written at all. I am very disappointed to all said parties involved. This is not the article I intended to post and “today’s” article has been postponed for tomorrow. Which pushes back the two other articles I spent all day working on today by two days as well. *Head bang in frustration* I could not say anything. I could slink back and cower because I’m embarrassed about what I write but the truth is, I’m not! I think this whole mess could have been avoided if people would stop acting like their in high school and start acting like a adults!

I don’t really feel like reiterating yesterday’s blog, I thought I had made myself perfectly clear. I’m a writer and sometimes I don’t realize when I cross a line. So if you have any problems with my blog, if they make you upset in any way, I would really rather hear it from you. Or simply just don’t read what I write! I would rather it not have to come to that, because I do like the people in my life being involved. This whole blog is a process. It’s a process of changing of how I view life, how I view myself, and those around me. I’m learning how to be a better person. I’m growing up!

I just don’t want if anyone winds up finding themselves mentioned in this blog to be hurt. I rather you come to me personally with your concerns, no matter how embarrassing or upset the situation is. I rather hear, “Sarah, I know you didn’t personally mean anything bad by what you said in so-and-so article, but what you said really upset me.” To me, that’s the mature way to handle a situation. I don’t want to hurt anyone and I rather have that awkward talk so issues can be wrinkled out. If your too embarrassed to say it too my face, than text or email it too me! My number is always on Facebook to be reached. If you don’t raise your issues, how am I ever to know? I’m not a mind reader! I can’t make everybody happy, but I think it’s possible to reach a compromise.

What I can’t respect is cowardice and running away from your problems. I can’t respect having my arm twisted and pulled from behind to have “a talk” with someone who shouldn’t even be involved! It’s just not professional. I’m not implying that I’m perfect either. Accidents and I make mistakes. But I own up to them and stare them down. I am constantly trying to fix my flaws. My flaw is that I talk too much. I put a little bit too much trust into the hands of many instead of few. I’m owning up to my mistakes, but what about yours? Take a good look in the mirror. I just can’t respect cowardice. I can’t respect running away from your problems.

As easy as it would be here to sit here and play the victim, I’m not going to. I know I hurt people as much as they hurt me. If I embarrass you, or have, I’m sorry for embarrassing doing so! And I feel horrible for that. I’m not sorry for what I write or how I feel. I’m not sorry for being upset or disappointed when situations aren’t handled right. And that is as close to an apology as anyone is ever going to get. I pride myself for being a friendly, talktive person, but that luster feels like it’s diminished. If you come to me and talk, I’ll talk and be nice to you of course. Because I’m tired of  (excuse the pun) always being the bigger person! I’m tired always being the one who goes up to others to smooth things out. No! Not this time. I am open to reconciliation and awkward talks. But not for once in my life I am not going to pretend everything is all fine and dandy. I am sorry, truely. I really did not mean to hurt anyone. And I hope someday you’re the one big enough to come forward.

Post Navigation