A picture is worth a thousand words. I looked at a picture of me taken this past Sunday at my nephew’s birthday party and only thought of one: GROTESQUE. Make that two: HORRIFYING AND GROTESQUE. 2010 is supposed to be the year I get healthy. And from the looks of it, failure is imminent. I’ve been slowly gaining weight for the past 5 years. But since quitting smoking on January 4th, I’ve put on about 15 extra pounds. And every bit of shows in that photo, taken without my knowing it, (of course, thanks mom) from the side, my back arched, my belly out, my chin down. My “flowy” shirt that is supposed to hide my rolls ballooning out around my midsection so that I look about 15 months pregnant, and let’s not forget the sleeves are bunched up under my armpits so that my arm now resembles the trunk of a tree, or a boa constrictor, or even a bowl of mashed potatoes. Lovely. Who invited the orca whale to the party? Did it eat Renee?
I hate pictures. I shrink away every time someone pulls out a camera these days. If I know a picture is being taken I crane my neck as far forward as it will go so that I can attempt to hide the globulous fluff that is my neck. I nearly pass out trying desperately to suck my stomach in, which is so far past being able to be “sucked in” it’s naïve to even assume I can. None of it works. Sure enough, as soon as the evil picture taker turns the camera around to show what a fine photographer they aren’t, I see her. It isn’t me. I don’t know who that is. The me I want to know looks nothing like that. The me I want to know is light as a feather, arms outstretched, her golden hair flowing out around her head like a halo, a smile from ear to ear, a twinkle in her eye. It’s so deflating.
I’ve started exercising a little. I walk Freckles every day around my subdivision. It’s taken 3 weeks just to be able to get around the block without searing pain that rips into my calves and shins seizing them up to the point where I think the only way I am making it back to the house is if I can somehow saddle up this dog and ride her home. She’s a Jack Russell/Beagle mix, who is losing weight like a champ, by the way. Me, not-so-much. In fact, so far I’ve lost 2 whole pounds. At this rate I might drop a pants size by Halloween.
Deep down I really wish I could just BE fat and BE happy and BE ok. I can go on for days about my unadulterated hatred of Heidi Montag and everything she represents, of boob jobs and rhinoplasty and lip implants and botox. I listen to my nine year old niece tell me she’s on a diet cause she needs to lose 40 lbs and I really want to kick myself for any contribution I may be making to her low body image. With my constant self deprecation, shrieking at photos, hiding from cameras, referring to myself as a whale. My sisters and I find fault with our bodies, our hair, our faces, like there is a reward for it. It’s not the way to live.
The truth is I should be comfortable in my own skin. I should be able to look in the mirror and see the me I want to know. I should look at a picture and think “That’s me!” instead of “That’s ME??”. Self acceptance, in spite of my weaknesses, or deficiencies, in spite of all the things I would like to change about myself, is more important than taking a pretty picture. Putting myself down has never given me any motivation whatsoever. Getting healthy isn’t just about quitting tobacco or losing weight. I have to get healthy within my own mind, or my spare tire doesn’t stand a chance.
“When you begin to accept yourself the way you are right now, you being a new life with new possibilities that did not exist before because you were so caught up in the struggle against reality that that was all you could do”
-Traveling Free, Many Evans.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
New Year. New Blog. New.... me? oh crap.
2010. It snuck up on me!! I had this bright idea to quit smoking and get healthy but I was in no hurry. Before I knew it, Shane and I were standing outside smoking our last Marlboro Ultra Light. I figure I can do this because I've done it before, see. I quit once for nine months. The difference is that back then I'm pretty sure I always knew I'd pick it back up again. I had been diagnosed with pseudo tumor cerebri, aka: the wonky eye, and then too, wanted to get healthy. Since wonky eye is a disease that affects young, fat, white girls in their child bearing years, I just wanted to be rid of it by any means possible. That way I could stop telling people who scratched their heads wondering: "what IS wonky eye?", that its because I was fat and hormonal and childless. Quitting smoking meant lower blood pressure, it meant I could run on a treadmill or go to step class at the gym and not hack and gag up my lungs in the corner. The wonky eye would go away, the explanation about what was wrong with me, would go away with it. And it did. And I was 30 lbs lighter, smoke free, and less one wonky-eye when I decided to start smoking again. One day sitting in traffic, I decided to stop the charade and just smoke like the chimney I was. That was 5 years ago.
Day One: I think I'm ok on my ride to work. No biggie, it takes an hour, sure, but I will just sing along to the radio or something. Bon Jovi crackles out from my old blown speakers. I'll be there for you, these five words I swear to you.. this is going to be ok. At work, things are not going so good. More than anything I am dizzy, lightheaded. My chatty coworker who has been off work for the past ten days, starts to tell me about her Christmas, her new year... I have no idea what she's saying. I can't think straight. My nose is running. My head is hurting. I want to lay down. I get an instant message from my smoke-buddy, she's about to go downstairs for a smoke. She wants to know if I've gone through with my plans to quit. I thought about what to say, telling her I really haven't QUIT quit, just cutting back, asking if she'd let me bum one. But I have to try. So I don't. I tell her I've quit for good. Cold Turkey. Eventually my cubicle feels like its shrinking in around me, about to swallow me up. I have to get of there, so I take the stairs down and peek outside at the smokers. Their backs are to me, they're standing in a semicircle, shoulders hunched, collars flipped up, hoods over their heads. Clearly they are freezing out there! Ha! Just look at their red noses, their fingers shaking! Well not me, not anymore! I turn on my heel and head back upstairs. I find myself downstairs looking out at them at least once an hour after that. Sure, they look cold, but I mean, come on, its not THAT bad. Just look at them, they don't seem to mind. If I go out there, I could ask.. It would just be the one time...No one will judge me, not out there. I can't stop myself from getting up, I can't sit still. I want nothing more than to smoke. I am completely unproductive. My concentration is crippled. The ride home seems to take 5 hours. I walk in the door hoping that Shane has caved in, that he gave up and bought a pack. In fact, I'm counting on it. But he didn't. I'm deflated, near tears. I can't do this. Maybe I should have tried a patch, pills, some disgusting nicotine gum. I'm in bed by 9 pm, telling myself that it will be ok, that someone at work will give me a cigarette tomorrow, and Shane will never have to know. I toss and turn there for an hour before finally falling asleep.
Day Two: Worse. Except the dizziness has faded. It's replaced with agitation. I feel like throwing something. I don't go look at the smokers at all. I can't stand the sight of them. Why me and not them? Who do they think THEY are? Word has spread that I'm trying to quit. Several annoying people ask me how it's going. I figure I might punch the next person who speaks to me in the mouth. I look up withdrawal symptoms online, something I had also done yesterday. The websites are encouraging. They list the ingredients in cigarettes, things like embalming fluid, toilet cleaner, rat poison. Gross. Next I read about tongue cancer. Ew. I get an anxiety attack, or a nic-fit, whatever you want to call it. It's embarrassing. People start to tell me to just smoke already. So I decide that I will and ask my trusty smoke-buddy for a smoke. She says no. NO. NO???!!! She's trying to do right by me. I can respect that. In fact, I REALLY respect that. I tell myself she's a darn good friend and I don't ask again. At home, Shane and I are fussy. I'm pretty sure he's hiding cigarettes somewhere in his office and is smoking them on the sly. I don't trust the look on his face. He doesn't seem miserable enough. He tells me we just have to make it past the third day. He says the toxins will have left our bodies. He says we can do it, we are strong, we are not torturing ourselves for nothing. I hope he's right. If he were to whip out a secret stash of cigarettes, however, I would be on them so fast his head would spin. Bedtime is 9 pm again, and sleep won't come easy. All I can think about is getting to work, where I will be surrounded by people who smoke and someone will give one to me. Heck, I'll even buy it for a quarter.
Day Three: I'm weak. I can't go to work. I will ruin everything. I will smoke. I take a sick day. I'll stay in bed. I'll make it through day three. I feel depressed. Like I'm mourning even. I loved cigarettes. They were like my security blanket, my therapy. My dependable friend. Sure, they are getting more and more expensive, sure they are filled with toilet cleaner and rat poison. Sure, they stink up my clothes and my hair and stain my teeth but is that any reason to look down on them? To demonize them? I mean lets just think about ALL the unhealthy things I do day after day, am I going to stop them too?? Its not like I'm going to get up and start exercising all of the sudden, stop eating french fries and brownies, stop sitting on my rump in front of the tv night after night!!! Wait, what? I am? Oh yeah. How could I forget? This is 2010, and its going to SUCK.
Day One: I think I'm ok on my ride to work. No biggie, it takes an hour, sure, but I will just sing along to the radio or something. Bon Jovi crackles out from my old blown speakers. I'll be there for you, these five words I swear to you.. this is going to be ok. At work, things are not going so good. More than anything I am dizzy, lightheaded. My chatty coworker who has been off work for the past ten days, starts to tell me about her Christmas, her new year... I have no idea what she's saying. I can't think straight. My nose is running. My head is hurting. I want to lay down. I get an instant message from my smoke-buddy, she's about to go downstairs for a smoke. She wants to know if I've gone through with my plans to quit. I thought about what to say, telling her I really haven't QUIT quit, just cutting back, asking if she'd let me bum one. But I have to try. So I don't. I tell her I've quit for good. Cold Turkey. Eventually my cubicle feels like its shrinking in around me, about to swallow me up. I have to get of there, so I take the stairs down and peek outside at the smokers. Their backs are to me, they're standing in a semicircle, shoulders hunched, collars flipped up, hoods over their heads. Clearly they are freezing out there! Ha! Just look at their red noses, their fingers shaking! Well not me, not anymore! I turn on my heel and head back upstairs. I find myself downstairs looking out at them at least once an hour after that. Sure, they look cold, but I mean, come on, its not THAT bad. Just look at them, they don't seem to mind. If I go out there, I could ask.. It would just be the one time...No one will judge me, not out there. I can't stop myself from getting up, I can't sit still. I want nothing more than to smoke. I am completely unproductive. My concentration is crippled. The ride home seems to take 5 hours. I walk in the door hoping that Shane has caved in, that he gave up and bought a pack. In fact, I'm counting on it. But he didn't. I'm deflated, near tears. I can't do this. Maybe I should have tried a patch, pills, some disgusting nicotine gum. I'm in bed by 9 pm, telling myself that it will be ok, that someone at work will give me a cigarette tomorrow, and Shane will never have to know. I toss and turn there for an hour before finally falling asleep.
Day Two: Worse. Except the dizziness has faded. It's replaced with agitation. I feel like throwing something. I don't go look at the smokers at all. I can't stand the sight of them. Why me and not them? Who do they think THEY are? Word has spread that I'm trying to quit. Several annoying people ask me how it's going. I figure I might punch the next person who speaks to me in the mouth. I look up withdrawal symptoms online, something I had also done yesterday. The websites are encouraging. They list the ingredients in cigarettes, things like embalming fluid, toilet cleaner, rat poison. Gross. Next I read about tongue cancer. Ew. I get an anxiety attack, or a nic-fit, whatever you want to call it. It's embarrassing. People start to tell me to just smoke already. So I decide that I will and ask my trusty smoke-buddy for a smoke. She says no. NO. NO???!!! She's trying to do right by me. I can respect that. In fact, I REALLY respect that. I tell myself she's a darn good friend and I don't ask again. At home, Shane and I are fussy. I'm pretty sure he's hiding cigarettes somewhere in his office and is smoking them on the sly. I don't trust the look on his face. He doesn't seem miserable enough. He tells me we just have to make it past the third day. He says the toxins will have left our bodies. He says we can do it, we are strong, we are not torturing ourselves for nothing. I hope he's right. If he were to whip out a secret stash of cigarettes, however, I would be on them so fast his head would spin. Bedtime is 9 pm again, and sleep won't come easy. All I can think about is getting to work, where I will be surrounded by people who smoke and someone will give one to me. Heck, I'll even buy it for a quarter.
Day Three: I'm weak. I can't go to work. I will ruin everything. I will smoke. I take a sick day. I'll stay in bed. I'll make it through day three. I feel depressed. Like I'm mourning even. I loved cigarettes. They were like my security blanket, my therapy. My dependable friend. Sure, they are getting more and more expensive, sure they are filled with toilet cleaner and rat poison. Sure, they stink up my clothes and my hair and stain my teeth but is that any reason to look down on them? To demonize them? I mean lets just think about ALL the unhealthy things I do day after day, am I going to stop them too?? Its not like I'm going to get up and start exercising all of the sudden, stop eating french fries and brownies, stop sitting on my rump in front of the tv night after night!!! Wait, what? I am? Oh yeah. How could I forget? This is 2010, and its going to SUCK.
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