Secrets From A Fat.. SO?!

July 22nd 2011

Today has been my first day off in a week.  It feels wonderful to have two days off in a row again. I feel like I almost live at work. I know there are people who I work with who are putting twice the overtime that I am and I wonder how they deal with it. I love the hours I’m getting but it’s exhausting, mentally and physically. Chris gives me a back rub almost every night because of how tense I’ve become. I feel extremely lucky to have that support system, of having someone who will be there to try to help heal me both physically and emotionally when I’m struggling to just get through the day. I realize that sometimes I lean too heavily on him for that support, and I realize that I can’t have my cake and eat it too. I can’t preach that I am an individual who wants her freedom and expect to be emotionally coddled all the time. Because I’m afraid that if I rely too heavily on his support without learning how to also deal with things myself, if we were to breakup, that I would repeat history all over again. Still, that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the benefits that come with being a couple, like cuddling, kissing, free cooking and back rubs.

I woke up late this morning. I had a meeting with Ms. J, my future apartment manager but I kept hitting the snooze button on my phone. It wasn’t like I hadn’t had enough sleep, I had over eight hours, and my body felt physically ready to get up. But my head wasn’t. Emotionally I was still tired and kept forcing myself to go back to sleep till the very last possible moment. I called Ms. J to apologize that I would be over an hour late and rushed to get ready. I try to not to get resentful at Chris for being the one to have to constantly wake him up because, it reminds me of Tony. While Chris is generally easier to get out of bed, and less grumpy, I start to feel like his mother when I have to give “ten minute” warnings and I start to get resentful. But I try to remember the way I look at him every morning before I get out of bed. I remember how peaceful, how adorably cute he looks, and how my heart smiles that moment before I tangle myself out of bed. And I try not to get frustrated or feel like his mother when I have to give 10 minute warnings.

I was locked out of the bathroom and was halfway dressed. My bra was on the bathroom floor and I hadn’t put on any deodorant. But I was wearing the new jeans I had been aching for months over to buy. They don’t quite fit, I need to lose like ten more pounds to really fit them but not only could I squeeze into them, they made my butt look great. In the mean time, I missed a call from Ms. J, letting me know that she was able to find the name of the creditors I’ve been trying to hunt down all week. So while Chris was in the shower, I googled till I was able to find a number. I waited till Chris was done, got dressed and finally after some pacing around Chris’s apartment, finally got the nerve to call the creditors.

I argued on the phone, trying to sound reasonable and fair at the same time. I did my best to not sound like I was arguing or accusing them that they were in the wrong and like I was just trying to understand while getting my point across. The guy read a report as if I trashed my old apartment. Which I didn’t! He said there was $700 charged in new paint alone which I’m quoting “There goes your deposit”. He added that there was also new carpet, and went on further to accuse that because I had had a cat, that there was urine spray I was unable to detect. I wanted to scream that my cats were litter box trained and that I always kept it clean! I was angry but realized that by arguing with him, I wasn’t getting anywhere. Instead I gave him my information on where and how to contact me. I was firm that I wanted an itemized report mailed to me. And when.

I was fuming. I’m surprised I wasn’t shaking. Chris could see how upset I was. “It’s just not fair!!” I wanted to scream. I know life isn’t fair but I more felt taken advantage of. I wrote a quick email to my ex Tony and hustled out the door to catch the bus. As I was leaving the door I realized more than anything I wanted my mommy. I wanted my mommy the same way a five-year old does. Except, I mostly just wanted her to tell me that everything was going to be okay, that I could fight this, and that I was strong enough and that the bad guys wouldn’t win. Instead I got the opposite. Both my mother and my god mother told me I should just roll over, pay half of what the complex wanted, that I didn’t really have a case, and leave the other half for Tony to deal with. To just pay my half and let the rest be his problem. It was everything I didn’t want to hear.

I realized half way out the door I had forgotten the deposit money and had to retrace my steps. I told my mom I’d consider their words and would just wait till I got the itemized list. It felt pointless to disagree until I knew more. But it was very demoralizing. I’m a fighter naturally but having both Chris & my mom say the photos I had weren’t the right kind of proof, made me feel like my chances of having a case to ridiculous. We got on the bus and continued to talk about the outrageousness of it all. I walked into work, said hello to as many people as I could without feeling like I was flaunting my day off, my freedom, in front of them. I talked to Brett and a guy from Home & Electronics I had never met before while waiting in line. We talked about the game “your team” and my idea about converting it into a website. I felt shy the whole time I was there and acted like my butterfly self when I get shy, talking and flittering out before conversation get very far.

I smiled friendly at my coworker who helps me cash my paycheck and write a money order. Sometimes I wish I could talk to them more privately to prove to my gut that they are a genuinely nice person despite the controversy I’ve heard. I want to believe that they are genuinely nice and that my intuition isn’t off. It’s just so hard believing that this person is a jerk when the sources, to me, aren’t all that reliable. Oh well, I’m not one to believe gossip and rumors. I said goodbye and left the store.

I got a hot chocolate and cinnamon coffee cake at Starbucks to pass the time with Chris. I had told Ms. J that I would meet her around tweleve-thirty and felt bad about arriving early for a time I wasn’t sure she was okay with rescheduling. I teased Chris on the sugar intake in his coffee and finally nervously danced around Chris enough to go drop off the deposit money order. I retested the “short cut” to the apartments and knocked on the door. After not even five minutes, Ms. J opened the door to let us in.

I handed over the deposit immediately and apologized again for being late. I didn’t go into details why. I didn’t think it would look good to simply say “I didn’t feel like waking up.” Not knowing what to say, I apologized again, but this time for the whole application/old debtors disaster. We talked about that I felt like she appreciated my honesty and hard work for trying to get this resolved. I mostly just felt relief that I wasn’t being chewed out and denied application. I felt relief that she didn’t think I was just some bad person who went around trashing apartments and lying. Instead I felt warmth, understanding and compassion. She made me feel like I should fight this, and that she would give me time to fight the injustice. She gave me advice on what I could do, from an apartment manager’s point of view, and for the first time gave me confidence.

We eventually moved on and I tried to make sure that I had all my questions answered. I made sure I understood what would happen on August 1st, and how the deposit would be used to be taken off September’s rent. I shook her hand, thanked her again and Chris & I left. I had the biggest smile on my face when I left. It felt like everything was coming together despite the setback’s I was feeling. I felt like I didn’t just have Chris on my side but Ms. J’s too! We walked back to the main road and went into the used Card Shop to pick up the Becket. Tony had clearly indicated with his silence, even recently, that he did not care about ever having his baseball cards returned so I figured I’d price out the 200 odd baseball cards in my collection.

I entered the card store like a cowboy enters the saloon in a western movie. My boobs were my spurs and every male head (which was everyone in the store) turned as the door closed behind me. I definitely did not blend in. The walls were filled with inch to inch Magick game cards and the store screamed GEEK! I asked Chris to help me find the magazine and practically ran out of the store. Not that I have anything against geeks, I just felt really out of my element and uncomfortable. I didn’t want attention. I just wanted my baseball book and to get out of the store.

Chris & I walked to the bus stop and waited for the bus heading downtown. I felt relieved and ecstatic. In my mind I had accomplished so much. I had finally contacted the old apartments, gave them my contact information, gave the deposit to Ms. J and had figured out everything I needed to accomplish what I needed for the move. And I had the Becketit. I felt so accomplished I could scream in happiness! I emailed Tony back after seeing a response and promised to let him know more as I did. I was happy and bitter at the same time. Happy that everything was being resolved and bitter that I was the one who had to do all the work because Tony was sitting pretty, not ever having to worry about where he was going to live or how our debt affected only my life.

I didn’t have any other plans for the day but I didn’t want to go back to the apartment and do nothing. After talking out some ideas, I decided to take Chris to the Chinese Gardens. I hadn’t been since my first date with Mr. Monkey early in 2010 and I really felt cheated out on the experience then. We had been both so nervous that first date that we spent most of the time just focusing on each other and kind of ignoring the experience around us that I felt robbed of getting to knowing the history of the Chinese Gardens. So I took Chris, hoping to get into a silly touristy vibe.

We found the gardens after wandering around, mostly trusting my instincts and we found the place without having to ask for directions. I don’t know why I have to be the one wherever I go, whom ever I’m with, has to remind people “let’s just have fun”, “let’s just be spontaneous!” Because once Chris saw the place, he became hesitant. Yes, it was a little over priced but not by much. Especially not after I heard there was a tour group in an hour after we arrived. I really wanted to go. Chris, not so much.

I was able to get Chris to have some fun by slowing down and taking photos after his sour pus attitude at how much money I spent and how small it was compared to Charleston. While I do think he had fun wandering around and taking photos on our phones, we were pretty much done after a half hour. I wanted to stay for the tour group but I could tell Chris was really bored. And there’s nothing more enjoyable than listening to someone complain about how bored they are. Trust me, I know because, I can be one of those complainers lol. But I digress. I took Chris to a cheesy tourist store across the street, specifically not the one where Mr. Monkey bought me the tiny stone turtle. We browsed and I made mental notes of everything I wanted to buy when I had money to spend.

Call me a cheese ball but I really like buddha statues. In almost every statute, you can find Buddha smiling or laughing. And let’s be honest, who doesn’t like a bald happy fat man? Or maybe I just feel like I can relate my outwards appearance, minus the baldness, to Buddha. We rounded the corner to the House of Louie for lunch. Their lunch special wasn’t as good as August Moon on 23rd, but I didn’t think it quite deserved the fit Chris threw over the sweet n sour chicken. I didn’t think it was inedible. Or maybe it’s just my taste buds are just aren’t refined enough, to just eat whatever’s in front of me. I still felt like it was a waste of money, my money to just not eat the majority of his meal.

I went to the bathroom and looked at my clock, it was a little past the hour and had missed the tour by a few minutes. I paid and for a lack of knowing what to do, directed Chris to the direction of Pioneer Square. And together we got lost in the magic of the square. We wandered around in different locations, first up by Nordstrom and watched people playing chess and a street performer’s playing the cello. Then we wandered to the opposite corner by the court house and played Your Team for the majority of the time. We didn’t sit still in any location for very long and after awhile I began to get tired.

After what felt like the 20th lap Chris convinced me to to wander a little north west by the art museum where we found and watched for a few minutes some ballet dancers while they warmed up/performed for a show later that evening. I don’t know what I was expecting. I was having fun just exploring and wandering but I sort of wanted a final location/destination in sight. Not seeing one forth coming and knowing Chris wasn’t really up for what I wanted to do, going to Powell’s Books & seeing Harry Potter, I just convinced us to go home. We continued to play Your Team all along the Max and rested my head on his shoulder.

We stopped off for a slurpee at 7-11 before we went home. I felt guilty because I’ve been secretly not trying to drink soda and I felt like I was cheating with a coke slurpee. I beat myself up the whole way back about it and even more so for enjoying it. But after halfway back, Chris made me stop and to just enjoy the occasional treat. I knew he was right. I felt like even though my day wasn’t perfect, that I had fun and felt super accomplished for getting everything I had done. And that’s all we can really do, is take it one day at a time and try to do as much as we can.


Where Does the Good Go?

I’m  sorry I haven’t been writing much this month. I know I don’t owe apologies to anyone for that but I do feel as if I’m not only letting myself down by not writing, but the people who have been following me. I feel as if I have put myself on hold. I feel stuck. And if I’m being honest with myself, I haven’t put much of an effort into writing either.

I’ve had certain thoughts on my brain, thoughts I can’t really develop in blog form. So instead of writing out these thoughts and feeling a therapeutic release after posting them, they become blocked. Like a car stalled in traffic with now a huge pile up behind it. And I know that buildup, that mess, is my fault. There wouldn’t be a buildup of feelings if I would only stop walking away from the scene of the car wreck and instead pull myself under the hood and dealing with them.

At least I recognize that I’ve been running away. Maybe not so much only in blog form but in conversations to people as well. I’m used to holding back words and having unfinished business with friends or old lovers. Blogging has sort of been a small release from forgiving myself to unfinished business. Because in my head, I replay words I’d speak, sometimes shout, and even sometimes words I’d even like to yell.

For instance, I would tell one friend that while I love her dearly, that I wished her all the happiness in the world and genuinely consider her a good friend but, almost every time I talk to her, I want to curl up into the fetal position and cry. How every time I see her face, I can only relate it back to him. I would let her know how much I want her happy, support and be friends but how much talking to her hurts me. I would let her know I don’t want to be that person, someone who can’t let go and be genuinely happy but it’s hard. And I’m trying.

I would confess to an ex boyfriend that I have missed the bond of friendship that I thought we had while we dated. A bond I thought was stronger than anything in the world. I would confess to completely handling how things ended wrong, but that I was only a kid. I didn’t want to break your heart and honestly… I messed up. I would confess to feeling too over protective on who you dated to over compensate that guilt for how I handled things. I wanted you to date the Princess you always thought I was, but never actually was. I confess to wanting that bond to stay intact, to not let anything change – again that nievity- and still be your best friend. Because I honestly still needed a friend. I confess to getting angry because I felt like you abandoned me when I needed your friendship the most. For so long I reached out whenever I was in need and you were always there to grab my hand and then all of a sudden, you weren’t. And I was scared. And alone. I’d confess to still missing that bond and still wishing you were in my life. I confess to feeling conflicted to wanting to leave you and all those ugly feelings in the past to still wanting that utopia ideal of us being friends. Because deep down I confess to still caring. I wouldn’t be writing all of this if I didn’t.

And there are other confessions I’d make to people but those are the ones resting most heavily on my mind. But like Sara & Tegan say, Where does the good go? What do you do with the left over you? I have a million other distractions on top of this. I’m worried about if I’ll ever get to go back to school and how I’ll afford it. I’m worried about getting everything finalized together for finally moving in with Deyvn & Jack. I’m worried about having to fight back on an old apartment bogus charges that I just found out about. And then… I’m afraid of the reality of living with Deyvn & Jack. Right now it’s just a dream, a fantasy. But last night I just sat down and imagined myself in my new home and realized, shit! I’m scared! Everything is going to be permanently different and while that’s exciting, I’m also terrified out of my wits. It’s surreal. It’s like waking up the first morning after arriving at summer camp and realizing, damn! I’m not at home anymore!  I’m worried about getting everything ready for this move and I’m scared at the after math.

So where did the love go? I’ve let myself get so caught up in my insecurities instead of dealing with them that I’ve let them built them into a mountain! But just by writing down these feelings, make them easier to dig myself out from. And I think I need to process my feelings in a daily format for a while. I’ll do both, write in article style like I have been, where I have a point to make but mostly will be uninteresting nonsense as I confess to every whim I can jot down from my head. At least I’ll be writing in that journal style for awhile. Because sometimes you just realize that what once helped you before, isn’t providing that same emotional strength. So here’s to new “growth”.

Falling In Love at a Coffee Shop

I process emotions differently than most people. Like for instance, most of the time, before I become upset, I have to take time to process the events that had taken place. I have to have time to go back and re-visualize what exactly what just happened. Sometimes I’ll re-visualize the same scenario a hundred times. I have to have this time to process. I have to ask questions that begin with ‘what if’ and end with at least trying to see the other person’s perspective. When I’m caught in this in between of a frozen moment, I can tell you I’m fine, smile, and seem like everything’s okay. But inside, I’m numb. Inside, I haven’t allowed myself to process what you just told me. And why do I do this? I guess you could say part of the reason is that I am subconsciously self-conscious about the environment that’s around me and another part is that I’m not quite sure how to feel. Which is a good thing I guess because being in the front line of my over emotional self, there are very few survivors. It’s enough to make more than one man run away with his tail between his legs. So I put up a barrier so I can process my emotions alone, and rationally.

It’s enough to make a woman feel unloved, emotional, obsessed and quite frankly… nuts!

I have a different process of understanding information when I’m learning. Sometimes I’ll be reading a paragraph from a book I’m reading and, just not understand what it means. I’ll put the book down for a few days and subconsciously harp on it till I have that ‘ah-ha’ moment. I’ll subtly ask for second opinions from those around me and keep my eyes open for answer’s. At any given moment, I’m trying to process a hundred different ideas, thoughts and voices within just a day. I just want to know why and how, I just want to understand. I want that ‘ah-ha’ moment.

My ah-ha moment today was about food that loves you back. What? Your probably asking. Food that loves you back? Okay, Sarah, your probably thinking, you actually have lost it. Or maybe you’re not thinking anything and just waiting for me to get on with some cheesy monologue about how we’re all beautiful inside. Sorry, but this trip the train is not stopping there. I don’t really believe food can physically love you back. Or at least not love in the typical sense of the word love. A few years ago I read a book about how French women can take three bites of a dish and be satisfied. While I thought this was a gross exaggeration back then, and I still do, I understood the meaning behind it. When I take sinful bite of chocolate raspberry cheesecake or the first bite into an eclair, I black out into ecstasy. I let every flavor be savored and relished. I swallow and the moment’s gone. For a moment, just a moment, I’m utterly content. Then I want another bite. And another. And another. Eventually I become numb, not completely, but I still search for that sense of completeness I had within the first few bites.

It never happens. Sooner or later, I become full, but not with satisfaction. I don’t feel that love that I had with the first bite. A couple of days ago I read about cultivating a relationship with food. At first I didn’t understand. They wanted me to let food love me back. “Huh?” I thought. I didn’t think they were crazy, I just didn’t understand. I didn’t understand how someone could develop a relationship with food. If anything I thought I needed to break up with food instead of falling in love with it! But, what the hell, I thought. I’m game. I’ll give it a try.

At first I didn’t feel anything different. I felt like me. I didn’t feel like my hot pocket was loving me back and honestly I felt very silly. So I finished my hot pocket in silence while I caught up on my weekly TV shows and tried not to think about how my hot pocket was not in love with me. But what can I say, I’m stubborn. I wanted to understand because I felt like I had a vague notion that deep down inside of me, that I did know what this author was talking about. And because I’m stubborn. Obviously, food can’t physically love me back. I knew that. So I needed a different approach. When I eat a hot dog, or a frozen dinner, I never feel fully full, or satisfied. I feel bloated and full of empty calories. And so I sat back and though. When do I feel satisfied? When don’t I feel bloated and when do I feel contentedly full? And the answer to all of those questions popped up with Chris. Or Chris’s cooking to be more exact.

I feel full around Chris’s food. Maybe I’ll be a cornball and say I can feel the love Chris puts into his food but I think the answer is much simpler than that. Chris cook’s in a way that many of us have simply forgotten, with natural ingredients. He cooks with his soul, and not just in the impatient rush that I’m always in to just eat. When I eat his food, I eat it slowly and I enjoy it. Maybe not the same orgasmic level of a chocolate raspberry cheesecake but enjoyment all the same. I feel like Julia Robert’s in Eat Pray Love when I eat his food. I shake my head back and forth, smile with my eyes closed and make lots of mmmmm’ing noises. I can feel it nourishing my body the way a microwaved hot dog can’t. It’s not a feeling I can justly explain unless of course you’ve felt it. I guess you could ration it off as love. I asked myself, is this what the author meant by food loving you?

But I had to make sure, I had to cover my bases and I had to try this theory again. When my mom asked me if I wanted anything from a fast food restaurant, I said sure, thinking it would be a great opportunity to retry. I had felt nothing with the hot pocket’s and I had to know for sure what food loving you meant. I took the burger, fries and soda upstairs to my room and sat on my bed. I didn’t let my eyes glaze over and forget what I was putting in my body but actually tasted what I was eating. I ate the fries first and besides the unusual blandness I felt nothing. I didn’t feel any love but I didn’t feel well… anything! I tasted icky bland starch but I kept on eating. When those were done I started on the double cheese burger. I was a couple bites in when I realized I had to improvise a new tactic. Instead of waiting for the food to love me, I tried to love it. I took a bite and tried to love it and let it satisfy me the way the cheesecake did. But it never happened. That moment never came. And all I was left with was regret, shame and feeling bloated. I had tried to let the flavors of process meat and cheese satisfy me but in the end, it just didn’t do the job.

Letting the right food love you is like getting a heartfelt hug from a friend who you care about. And trying to make the wrong food achieve the same purpose is like letting a frienemy pick out your wardrobe. I know those are cheesy and weird examples but it’s the best way I know how to describe them. And I know that I need to find a way to make these choices more often. I know now that I need to develop a relationship with food. The rest will play out in time.

A Letter to the Not Thin Me

Dear Fatso,

I know that you like to sleep, because it feels so damn good most of the time, I know! But I would sincerely appreciate it if you would stop hitting the snooze alarm on my phone and wake the hell up! I have a lot of stuff that I would like to get done today but can’t because I can’t seem to pull your lazy butt outta this comfortable bed! I would also appreciate a little bit more energy in the mornings. I’m tired of just waking up and rushing to get ready for work instead of having time to do things.

I hate that you never have the energy to go out and do anything! I hate that you always make me yawn all day long and have bags under my eyes letting everyone see how tired I am. I know I don’t always make it easy but I feel as if I can’t win. I’m tired if I don’t sleep enough and I’m tired if I do. I feel as if I’m slowly getting more energy but common already, can’t we kick it up a notch?! I all but stopped drinking soda and I want those instant results!

I am sorry for poking fun and hating you over the years, when instead I should be loving every jiggle, every dimple and every curve. I’m sorry for thinking that you weren’t good enough. You are. And now that I see that, I think we can collaborate into becoming someone great. I just hope you see this and want to jump on board too. I know that your scared that your heart will get broken again. I know that you are afraid of letting other people see you. I know that you are afraid of people not accepting you. I know you want people to love you because your you, regardless of your weight. And I know that you use that weight as a tool to stick up your double chins and proudly dare for others to love you and your weight. People do.

 But here, see my hand and take it. I will walk with you and together we will face all the critics. You won’t go alone in this. We won’t go alone in this. Because believe it or not, I’m scared too. We have Chris and we are slowly letting friends and family into our lives outside this blog who care just as deeply and love you as much as I do. You will not be alone.

I just want to let you know that I’m sorry. I’m sorry for not listening. I’m sorry for ignoring you for so many years. You are beautiful, even when your hair is flying a million different directions because of frizz. Even when you cannot control it when it’s put back into a half bun. I want you to know that when I curl my hair, I curl it for you. I spend two hours of my time to show you how beautiful you are despite the weight. And the compliments you receive aren’t for me, they’re for you.

Together, we’ll do this. I’ll hold your hand on one side and Chris will be on the other. And I hope someday you will have the courage to take off your fat coat and come off to play. But there’s no hurry. No one’s dying, yet. I want us to start living but we can only do so one step at a time. And we will. And I know your trying. Everytime I pass by a mirror I start to see more and more of me in you and less of the you pretending to be me shine through. Just keep trying girl and don’t ever give up.

I love you fatso and someday there won’t ever be a need for me because you’ll have already changed. But I’ll still always be around to remind you to keep your stubborn lazy butt going.

Awaiting your reply,

Your “Thin” Alter Ego Lilly

Visions of Sugar Plums

When I was thirteen, I told myself that I would one day be rich. I didn’t know when that day would be, but I believed whole heartedly that it would happen. I believed it the way a VH1 celebrity brags about knowing they’d be famous in high school. Unlike most girls, I never wanted to marry into money. I wanted to be rich and successful on my own terms. And the funny thing is, even though I’m almost twenty-five, I still believe I will be.

I have dreams and ideas that I know will make me successful. These dreams have never been about the dollar signs, how much I can make profit, or even about being the best in the business. Being rich was just what would inevitably follow what would happen after becoming successful. I have the drive for what I want to do, and the passion to make it a reality. It’s not about claiming to be the best in the business but I know that I am talented and I know that my dreams make me happy. So being rich was just something I knew would one day happen to me because I could already see it happening to me.

Age 17 About 220lbs

But I’ve never once told myself I would be thin. I could never wrap my head around the vision. I’ve been fat for so many years, that I can’t even remember what it was like as a kid to slip on pants without a stomach being there in the way. I can’t even remember what it was like to slip on smaller fat clothes, clothes that are still fat, just to a lesser degree. But lesser fat me is an image I can picture because I’ve seen pictures of me what I used to look like. And that is the person I can strive to look like again, but never someone even at a thin 150lbs at my 5’6 frame.

I don’t know why I can’t have that same confidence about being thin as I do about someday being rich. I guess you could say, I always hoped being thin would happen but never really imagined happening. The same way when you buy a lottery ticket, you don’t really imagine winning, but you still buy a ticket anyway, just incase. I just kept being hopeful that without doing any real work involved, that my lucky number would come up!

But it’s not as simple as that. Life never is. The real reason why I’ve always known that I would someday be rich is because I know that I have the dedication and passion to put all the sweat, blood and tears into making them real. It never mattered to me how long it would take to make being rich a reality, because I saw myself at the end of that tunnel. Is it because I am having such trouble seeing myself at the end of that weight tunnel, I am subconsciously holding myself back? Their are questions I’m afraid of answering. I know some of those questions like, will a guy truly ever find me beautiful if he can’t love me fat?  are subconciously make me hold onto weight.

But, the more faith I instil in myself, the more I work through these questions and seem to just let go of all the nagging doubts. The more I seem to be coming out on top. Maybe it’s because I spend more time just trying to find an internal balance rather than obsessing about losing weight. I seem to find myself constantly wondering, did that get just smaller or am I imagining things? Of course I still think about weight and Chris has been great at keeping my mind upbeat and positive. I don’t know if it’s possible to think yourself thin, but I’m trying! I don’t have that vision of actually knowing I’ll be thin the same way the same way I know I’ll be rich, but who knows. Maybe one day I will!

Becoming Your Own Best Friend

I love how beautiful Portland get’s when it’s nice out. I love the way the sun shine entices Oregonians out of our holes, makes us rub our eyes and come out of hibernation. We whine and complain all year-long for this weather and once it appears, it’s like we’ve become reborn. Of course we’re still physically the same people but, suddenly, I’m no longer the only one smiling. When the majority of your year is covered in overcast and rain, you really learn to appreciate when the sun finally does decide to make an appearance.

I grew up in Los Angeles, which unless your from a country without TV or the Internet, is in California. I grew up in a single parent house hold and lived next door to my hippy, “peace, love and pot smoking”, grandparents my entire life. My house was built by my great grandpa who was an infamous rodeo cowboy. I had my whole world in this tiny protected little nook of Westwood. And I loved it. I knew their were kids who had it better than me and their were children who had it worse. I knew there were other lifestyles different from my own, not only in this city, but scattered all across country. But I couldn’t imagine a better world beyond the one I lived in and I never ever wanted to trade places.

When I got old enough, I was never afraid to just leave my house and go off and do something. I never had a shortage of things to do. Everything was in walking distance or a bus hop away. I could walk two blocks to my elementary school to play or reminisce. I would just start walking and spend hours exploring every inch of my neighborhood border’s until I hit a major street like Wilshire Blvd. I would walk up Wilshire to Westwood Blvd and to the left I could go to the Pet Store, 7-11, see a movie at CREST or spend countless hours in a nook inside of Boarder’s bookstore. I could even pop in to say hello to Maryilyn Monroe’s grave. To the right was Westwood Village, UCLA, countless movie theater’s, music stores and odd over priced stores like Ahh’s.  Sometimes I made the long trek to the Westwood Rex which was a park and community center. And if I was in the mood, I could hop a bus that went to Santa Monica and either go to Third Street Promenade or the Beach.

The point is, I wasn’t afraid to do things alone. I did them all the time by myself. And when I did do something with someone, it was usually just with my best friend Leah and sometimes Rori. I was alone, but I found a way to keep myself company. I found a way to be my own friend. I’m not saying this was the greatest of ideas as I probably should have been pushed to make more friends than spending so much time in my own little world. I probably should have been pushed the older I got to join more activities, to expand my ‘social network’. But at the same time, learning to be your own friend is a trait that I think is highly over looked.

After I moved to Portland, you could say I was slighty agoraphobic as I hated leaving my house. And while I was in still in high school my life consisted of school and home. With each neighborhood I moved to, I got to know the area a little bit, but not much further than the boarder’s of my neighborhood. By 2006 I had pretty much stopped trying to explore my neighborhoods. I learned enough to get by but I had barely gotten to know Portland. I didn’t do anything fun or touristy or make much of an effort to really try to get to know the city. I liked it, and I liked the people in it, but I didn’t let Portland become apart of me.

I did this because I was pretty much afraid. I was afraid of people seeing me. I was ashamed of how fat I was and too afraid to explore anything on my own. My mother didn’t have time for me and I didn’t have anyone besides Tony to talk to. So when Tony took the three-hour bus ride on Greyhound from Seattle, I always wanted to go out and do things. But we never did. We talked about them but all we ever did was going to a mall, watch a movie, go to dinner and come home. We spent the rest of the time in my room or living room inside the house. I’m not blaming him for our lack of activity, this wasn’t even his city!

And it wasn’t mine yet either. I could feel the heart of Portland, the way you feel the bass in a stereo but I couldn’t hear the music. I couldn’t hear the music within her that brought so many people alive. The trouble was, it wasn’t like she wasn’t extending her hand out, I was the one who just wasn’t open to be receptive to see it. For a small city, Portland offer’s a hundred great things to do and a hundred great people to meet everyday if you choose to take her up on it. It was just for the most part, I didn’t want to.

During my teenage years, there are very few experiences and memories I remember having of just enjoying my city. I remember the cute guy at Coffee People who whenever I ordered hot chocolate with my friend Miss V, he would do something fun and crazy like put gummy bears, whip cream and cinnamon without even having to ask (or pay extra) for it. I remember ditching class to go down to Powell’s books and spend hours loading my arms up with more books than my arms could carry. I remember sitting on a bench waiting for the 51 bus in front of what used to be known as PG&E Park and a woman walking up to me just to give me a flower for no reason.

Those are the moments that made me fall in love with Portland. Because I knew for a city, she is beautiful. Those are the moments I am constantly trying to recapture. Do you hold your breath as you go into a tunnel? Do you get butterflies in your stomach as you try to both concentrate on your wish and trying to ignore the uncomfortable sensation of not breathing? Do you try to hold on and make yourself hold out for just for a little longer. Then just when you think you can’t make it, you emerge from the darkness and into a light do you let out a silly sigh of relief? To me, that is Portland moments in a nutshell. She fills me with butterflies of excitement and I try to hold onto them for as long as I can till I’m about to explode.

What I don’t understand, why am I so afraid? This city accepts me, I fit in and I love it. I just don’t go exploring by myself anymore. I get afraid or I talk myself out of doing things I want to do. I talk myself into finishing a blog entry (which by the way was on the to-do list) instead of jumping cannonball style into a pool on the gorgeous first day of summer. I talk myself into staying in and playing video games instead of running errands because I don’t want to go by myself. There are afternoons where I want to just go downtown and photograph parts of Portland simply because I want to see the city through her eyes. But I don’t because I’m scared of how silly I will look to other people as a fat chick taking random pictures.

I get caught up in my own inadequacies and fears of being alone these days. What used to make me feel so secure, like in Los Angeles, no longer has that same effect. While I am finally learning to not only make new friends in Portland, but to start making plans to go out with those people, I seem to have forgotten how to be my own friend. I get too caught up with how I look to stranger’s. And the only defense I have to that is when I am out and about having a good time with somebody else. It’s like that extra person unintentionally acts like a shield barrier to where it’s easier to block everybody else.

So now that I have called myself out on the issue, I have no more excuses. I don’t want to be alone but I also don’t want to be afraid or simply just say I don’t feel like doing something because I don’t want to be by myself. Because what is so bad about being in my own company? Is it because when I have no one to try to charm and make smile, I get lost in my own thoughts. I think it’s time to start making my own memories, ones just for me. Ones like where I did in Los Angeles, hidden in a nook with a book at Boarder’s. That girl is still somewhere inside me, I just have to find her.

Can You Forgive If You Can’t Forget?

People have commented to me many times about how patient I am with others. I’ve also have, friends, family coworkers and, heck even customer’s ask a few times a week why I smile so much. They me ask what get’s me through the day to be able smile so much. I sort of touched an aspect of that a few days ago with my entry “Keep it Simple Stupid“. I explained that while I’m not a religious person (I don’t believe in God) love is a belief I can jump on board with. But love is a very broad topic. Part of love is being able to open your heart enough to forgive. Or as a great quote I read,

“Altruism, compassion, and forgiveness may be healing for both the giver and the recipient because giving to others with an open heart helps heal the isolation and loneliness that separate us from each other. When we forgive others, it doesn’t excuse their actions; it frees us from our own stress and suffering. These allow for deep levels of intimacy and community that are powerfully healing. When you meet hatred with love, and fear with hope, this transforms you, as well as those around you.”- Marianne Williamson

And love just feels good. Forgiving feels good. Remembering that other people’s flawed tendencies reminds me that they (like me) are human. Other people are stubborn, other people have bad days, other people are rude and sometimes other people are just plain selfish at times. These are behavior’s I can forgive because they are human. Yes, it bother’s me when I’m constantly interrupted or when people make me feel like my point of view isn’t right. But instead of getting mad at them, I take into account of the factors. Are they just normally overly dominate of a conversation or are they just in the heat of the moment excited? Am I making myself being heard or am I letting myself lay by the wayside. And when people insist that their point of view is the correct one I remember this, you can’t argue with a brick. The point is, people have flaws. And so do I. Sometimes I’m the one who interrupts too much and insist that my point of view is the right one. Sometimes I’m the one who doesn’t realize when I’m being rude. And I guess I just want people to forgive and love my flaws too.

But sometimes I’m just not able to practice what I preach and instead I foster a grudge. It doesn’t happen often but when grudges do happen, I can hold onto it for years. Like I said, it rarely get’s to that extreme, but it has. I don’t mean to and sometimes I can’t even remember why I’m holding onto said anger in the first place! All I can remember is just an intensely strong disdain for a particular person. Yes, I realize I’m being silly and yes I realize I’m being stubborn for not being the bigger person and moving on. I wish no ill will towards anyone but sometimes I just get sick and tired of always having to be the bigger person both physically and emotionally. So a grudge will happen.

Most of the time I am a rational person willing to try to see someone else’s perspective. But sometimes I just want to be selfish. When I’m in a rare fight with someone, sometimes it would be nice if the other person make the first attempt at reconciliation instead of me having to be the peace maker. Someone to stretch out their hand (metaphorically) and say, Sarah I’m sorry, let’s work this out.

This whole topic of forgiveness started playing on my mind when someone I have been holding a grudge towards, started simply acting nice to me again. It baffled me and yes, I was a little wary and pessimistic towards such a new-found generosity. Because that sort of behavior just doesn’t happen to me. Only people I ever care about hurt me. It used to be where I let just about anybody in, and I still do to an extent. But if I start to suspect that you aren’t as honest as you appear to be, I slam the door of my heart until I see otherwise.

But back to the topic. The point is, nobody does try to reach out. What happens, when you can see someone actually trying to in their own way reconcile? Do you trust them? Whose to say anything will be different this time around? Especially when the words you want to hear are not spoken and your needs fall short? Do you let this person in their own vain way attempt to woo you? And because you don’t hear the words you need to hear, can you forget the past?

Anytime I’ve ever gotten into a unpassable argument with someone, I always tried my best to just emotionally let go. Sometimes you just can’t win and sometimes you just can’t make someone want to be friends. Those are actions I am familiar with and are able to forgive. Like I know my ex Tony will never want to try to work things out and try to be friends. And even though that hurt more than I care to admit to, I have accepted and forgiven the consequences of that choice of his. I can’t make someone want to care, even if it breaks my heart. So if we were to go off that example, if he were to call and say he wanted to talk, could I forgive him again if I have trouble forgetting our past?

In any fight, there are two sides of a story. And after a while from most arguments, I eventually try to put myself in the shoes of the other person. I ask myself questions. Where was I being unreasonable and how were they? Why do I feel justified in making such accusations and was I right for pointing them out? Was I hitting below the belt? I’m not saying I’m perfect at this logic but I try. It get’s harder because I usually don’t the other person’s perspective so I don’t ever fully know where I hurt them and vice versa. So I try to realize when I’m being a little bit over dramatic, a bit too preachy or when I’ve crossed a line. I try to realize where I’m at fault but where they fall short as well. I feel like a crime scene investigator trying to piece back together a murder with only half of the clues.

And I will over analyze these thoughts, and perceived wrongs for ages until I can let go that they will never be resolved and I will never know what if. So in that aspect, I can let go and forgive the “what if”. I can forgive because like the number of licks to the center of a tootsiepop, we’ll never know. But what happens when someone does come back to try to make things right; in their own actions instead of words? I’m not sure. This is unfamiliar territory for me. Apart of me is wary, wondering what this person’s motives are, if it’s to truly be kind or because they are two faced.

It’s too soon for me to start to make up my mind. It’s in my nature to forgive and in honest truth, I want to reach out my hand in friendship but I’m afraid of being bit again. I’m afraid of my feelings being stomped on again and if I’m being honest here, I resent the fact they never once said that they were sorry. I want to forgive, but I’m having trouble forgetting.

If You Don’t Stand For Something….

I used to think, that unless I cocked my head ever so slightly in a photo, no matter how I smiled, that photo would come out ugly. I couldn’t seem to stand straight without feeling like a solider and I couldn’t make myself do a cheesy pose like put my hands on my hips without feeling ridiculous. So I stood there, cocked my head and smiled. Because it made me feel pretty.

I know some girls like to do crazy things to make themself feel sexy in a photo, like the duck face. If your unfamiliar with the duck face, it’s when a woman pucker’s her lips in order to give the appearance of bigger lips. Coming from a woman with some of the smallest lips on the planet, the duck face is not sexy. I find the look incredibly stupid and I think women look like idiots when they attempt to pull it off. But that’s just my opinion. I’m all for whatever makes a woman feel better about her image, even if it does look stupid.

But the point is, whither your cocking your head, puckering your lips, tilting the camera to the side for a up close face shot, or holding the camera slightly above your head, these camera tricks don’t really flatter the illusion we try so hard to maintain. Sure, sometimes they can look cute. But at times it’s also like you invent a person who doesn’t really exist.

I’ve surfed through enough people’s photos online, ones where they’re clearly being goofy and still thought, yeah okay that photo still looks like them. But I have also looked at photos where people are obviously trying so hard to take a perfect photograph of themself that they’ve done anything but. And I’ve cruelly laughed at those people. Mostly because I didn’t care much for them to begin with but also because it felt sinfully good to let the not often maliciousness out of my system by mocking their stupidity. I call it detoxing.

I’m starting to let myself grow out of that photo taking phase. Instead, I will usually ask Chris if he will take my photo. I like somebody else taking my photo because it let’s me see the perspective through somebody else’s eyes. No, I don’t like seeing my flaws all out there and exposed. For example, I hate my pale white flabby arms and double chin in that picture. But it let’s me know, “Hey, this is me. This isn’t somebody else I’m trying to pretend to be.”

To quote one of my favourite musicals Rent, “Take me baby, or leave me.” But I’m not asking anyone else to like what they see or to love me, I’m only asking for me to be able to do that. I’m asking myself to take what I see, or leave it. I choose to take it. And I don’t see how I, or anyone, can truly love themself if they don’t love the ugly in themself as well as the beautiful.

So girls, stop making the duck face! Stop making almost every photo of yourself just of your face and tits. Start loving yourself  and beliving that all your flaws, even the ones where one eye is half open and drool is piddling out of the corner of your mouth. Stop trying to make your virtual photo life better than your real one.

Don’t Think About Pink Elephants

First off, I can’t believe this is my thirtieth entry! I know thirty entries is not that many in the retrospect of blog entries, it’s roughly a month’s worth of entries, but it means something to me. It means that I have stuck with writing for four months instead of writing for a few weeks and giving up. What’s mostly been keeping me writing lately is not having the pressure to write everyday and writing when I feel inspired.

But today represents thirty entries of thoughts, ideas and most importantly, confessions I’m releasing. I’ve talked about my weight, boys, spilt guilty secrets, talked about my family, my not so impressive cooking skills, alter ego’s but, most of the time talked a lot of silly nonsense. And that’s only the gist of what’s been said in thirty entries! I just want to thank all the reader’s who have stuck with me so far and read all the entries but also welcome to the reader’s just tuning in. It really means so much that your here. I know not all my words have been pretty, or confessions people wanted to read, but I try to make up for it with my silliness. Thank you for those that stuck with me and watched me grow. I still have a lot of learning to do. So, with that being said, today’s blog entry.


In the movies, when one actor yells to another not to look down while crossing some dangerously high cliff or bridge, the immediate effect for the other actor is to look down and freak out. Donkey shrieked in fear, “Shrek, I’m looking down!”Well, that’s how I feel about food, particularly soda. I don’t know why I am so addicted to this particularly drink, but I suspect it has to do with the sugar. Because I don’t really like the taste of carbonation in any drink besides Coke, Pepsi and Apple Cider. I know, I’m weird, so sue me.

Drinking soda has gotten to be a problem. I crave it everyday. I don’t get headaches like I hear other people do when they cut the caffeine out of their diet but, I do feel a drain on my energy. I feel tired all the time. I feel sad, like I’m one of those girlfriend’s who abandon’s her best friend for her new boyfriend. I don’t think that thought can truly be felt by anyone except by those who have felt addiction. I start to miss soda and let it fill my every thought till I finally cave and tell myself ‘Oh just one won’t hurt.’

But,  it does hurt and it hurts because instead of letting the addiction fade out of my system, I reintroduce it and setup the cycle for addiction all over again. And it’s hard. It’s hard not to think about soda. It’s hard not to think about food. But like I promised myself last entry, I would talk when I was going through cravings. Although I don’t have much of a support system yet (I’m working on building that), I am letting myself feel the urges instead of repressing them. I am asking myself “why do I want this” and I am expressing the urge when I want to throw in the towel, with Chris.

And do you know what Chris tells me every time I tell him I want a soda?Don’t think about pink elephants.

“Huh?” I asked, not comprehending the first time.

“Don’t think about pink elephants,” he plainly tells me. “Now you can’t stop thinking about pink elephants.”

This wasn’t exactly true, I was thinking about pink elephants drinking soda, but his logic clicked. I still had the craving for forbidden food, but I was thinking about pink elephants. The point is, when you tell yourself not to do something, whether it’s not looking down or not thinking about pink elephants, it’s almost impossible to stop yourself.

Today I put this logic into practice when I almost bought myself a coke slurpee. I wanted that slurpee. I could feel my body tense in anticipation at the first cold caffeinated sweet sip and the sigh of relief afterwards. No, I did not just pull a Meg Ryan. But I let myself feel the craving and how badly I wanted it. Then I gave myself choices. What about orange juice? No, too expensive. What about apple juice? Same sugar quality as drinking a soda and twice the price at a convince store. Milk? Not while I have a cold. Water? Not in the mood. I told myself that I didn’t have the money to be spending almost three dollars on a drink I could get for half the price from a slurpee.

So, using the logic of not having something because it was too expensive or too much sugar, I walked past the soda section of 7-11 and to the juices, just to be proven wrong about what I told myself I couldn’t have. And lo and behold, there was an apple juice for cheaper than a slurpee would have been and made with real sugar and not high fructose corn syrup. Sure, it was in a much smaller quantity and not really that much cheaper, but it was good enough logic for me. I knew I didn’t need the massive size a slurpee would have brought, and for me, that was enough. It was enough of a reason to stick with my choice of apple juice.

Sure, it was sugar. But the point is, it wasn’t soda. It made it easier to resist the single can of Diet Pepsi I saw floating around for grabs in the break room at work. It made it easier to try to apply this logic to other parts of my life, and job. It made it easier when I get that craving again, I can ask myself why do I want this? How can I substitute this for a healthier choice? Then most importantly, think about pink elephants.

The Cost of Being Fat

Everything has value even the things Discover declares priceless. Because all things have worth. Nothing is priceless. And whither you label something priceless or worthless, what you label has value within itself.

So with that logic, what is the price of being fat? What does it cost and what is the value of fat? Like a bad house in a good neighborhood, does it’s equity decrease?  When I sit here and think about my life, the cost of being fat has run me up more than my food bill. Being fat has cost me my health, my happiness and my wallet. I have sacrificed memories and experiences all because of my weight. I’d say that’s a pretty high bill that I’ve accumulated. And while I wouldn’t necessarily say it has decreased my value, it seems to have decreased the value of my life. But how? I’ve always prided myself to be good with money but… how did I get into such a debt of fat?

To simply admit that eating is something out of my power to control is hard, to say the least. Because I’m the sort of person who is used to expecting the unexpected. For instance, there are many aspects of my life where I’ve just grown accustomed to not having control over. I can’t predict the weather, but I can bring my jacket incase it rains. I can’t foresee transit not running on schedule, but I can plan ahead to leave the house earlier than I have to so I am not late for work. I can’t control when I will get sick but I can take care of my body before and during a cold. I can take tons of cold medicine and get lots of rest so I will be healthy. I can’t control other people’s moods, but I can control them from affecting my day.

And admitting that I don’t have as much control over something as simple as what food I put in my body, leaves a very bitter taste in my mouth. Because I like to think that I am strong and, in many ways I am. I am strong enough to know that I am resilient to bounce back from all the mistakes I make. It’s not making mistakes that I’m afraid of because I know I am good at learning from those. It’s just hard for me to admit that I’m helpless. It’s hard to admit that I am helpless over resisting the temptation of food.

Because when I want to eat something, I either rationalize said food or I’ll just say, “hell with it” and eat it anyway. There is no middle ground. I can go a few days without a single soda and finally say “Oh, just one won’t hurt.” Then I’ll be thrown back into the same repeative pattern. I realize that half the battle is just recognizing this behavior, but it doesn’t make me feel much better. Because I pride myself for trying to be happy with my body and who I am, and most of the time I am. But being comfortable with who I am is still a new process for me.

And part of being comfortable with the new me is admitting I have flaws and tendencies that are not… pretty. A part of accepting who I am is admitting that I am helpless over my addiction with food. And a part of my addiction to food is just admitting to bad and reoccurring habits so I can take responsibility for my actions.

So please, without judgement, I admit to the following…

  • I admit to have spent more than $200 for only two weeks worth of groceries.
  • I admit to drinking a twelve pack of soda within two days.
  • I admit to avoiding formal events IE: Prom, dances, graduations, because I was embarrassed about literally having nothing formal to wear and being too embarrassed to shop for it.
  • I admit to not wearing the following clothing: shorts, dresses, bathing suits, skirts and any shirts with less than a three-quarter sleeve cut because I was self-conscious about my body.
  • If you are a woman and are, or have, ever been skinner than me, I have envied you.
  • If you are a woman and are, or have, been prettier than me, I have envied you. 
  • I admit to comparing myself to every girl I see.
  • I admit to avoiding people and letting people get too close because of being fat.
  • I admit to laying on my bed to try to zip up jeans that don’t fit, and cried over it.
  • I admit that every time my pants went up a size, to be in denial and blame the pant maker.
  • I admit to blaming a store for not being able to find anything in my size or not having a good selection.
  • I admit to eating food in my mother’s fridge simply because I knew it would go to waste if I didn’t eat it.
  • I admit to binge eating food to cover emotions I didn’t want to feel.
  • I admit to glaring with hatred every time has ordered water after I have ordered a large coke.
  • I admit to coming close to hating a person each time I see someone eating just a salad for a meal.
  • I admit to being jealous of every weight loss success story I hear. And like catching the bouquet at a wedding, I hope it will happen to me next.
  • I admit to eating after I’m full, just to clean my plate.
  • I admit to kissing men, just to feel attractive.
  • I’ve made the same New Years Resolution since I was fifteen. To lose weight.
  • I admit to being paranoid, wondering if people have gossiped about my weight.
  • I admit to taking diet pills as a teen because I thought they would be the ‘cure all’ magic.
  • I admit to trying to find my best angle in the mirror to hide body flaws like my chin, stomach and butt.
  • I admit to standing next to bigger people than me so I will seem skinnier.
  • I admit to destroying all photos of myself I deemed unflattering.
  • I admit to avoiding my photograph being taken because I was ashamed of my apperance.
  • I admit to using food simply as an activity.
  • I admit to spending hours at work just thinking about food. About what I was going to eat next, for dinner that day and brain storm ideas for meals for the week.

I’m almost positive I’m leaving things out, and I’ll make sure to add them as I go. I know just admitting to these tendacies won’t make them go away. Instead, I promise instead of trying to suppress these addictions that I will feel them, as much as they make my skin crawl, and feel them. I promise to build a support network so that when I am feeling jealous or craving a trigger food I will tell someone. Because I realize, I can’t do this on my own anymore. And the only way to get healthier is by letting myself get sick. The only way I can get stronger is by letting myself be weak. It’s a logic that feels a little queer to me but, I promise to try.

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