A Fat Girl Rant

My body is not a canvas on which you are allowed to paint your hopes and dreams, fears and insecurities, curiosity and envy.

My body is a sacred temple, subject to the will of the divine and to my own will only.

Why do I have to tell people this!? Why do I have to explain it to anybody?

And yet, I am reminded on a fairly regular basis of this simple fact: I live in a world in which women are not granted bodily autonomy or bodily integrity. Rather, I live in a world in which women's bodies are treated as public property and subject to the stated views of any and all who happen to see them.

I was reminded of this rather strongly when a woman at work, whose name I do not even know, asked (yet again) where I was in relation to my weight loss goals. As if it's ANY of her fucking business.

But there it was, that message, loud and clear: Your body is not yours and you have no right to maintaining boundaries concerning it.

Without really thinking, I answered honestly, "I'd still like to lose another 100 pounds."

To which she responded that this was ludicrous and I couldn't possibly be serious, it wouldn't be healthy.

Being tired and NOT wanting to invest any more energy AT ALL in this conversation, I simply answered her, "I'm not interested in being healthy. I'm interested in weighing 87 pounds. I know that doing so will result in my starving to death, and I'm okay with that."

The reality is, I am presently in no danger of starving to death. Furthermore, I do not know that I have the dedication to fully commit myself to doing so, even if I were within reach of such a goal.

While there are plenty of problems with a woman who stands 5'10" in height wanting to weigh 87 pounds, the reality is, a lot of those problems are a result of living in a world that treats women's bodies as objects for consumption.

They are systematically abused, broken, destroyed, policed, and no body is ever good enough.

When women aren't being overtly abused (beaten, molested, raped), women are being told that their bodies have to meet very specific standards which are ever-shifting and impossible to achieve.

Women are always either too fat or too thin. The online response to the winner of the television show, The Biggest Loser, amply demonstrated that this week. Not only do we treat all obese bodies as sources of entertainment (regardless of when or how one cheers on the competitors), but at the end of this season, the winner was subject to a significant online response when viewers felt she had lost too much weight and was no longer too fat. She had become too thin.

Women are always either too tall or too short.

Too young or too old.

Their hair is either too long or too short.

With too few highlights or too fried looking.

I could continue, though I'm sure others can fill out the list as they see fit.

The reality is, we live in a world in which women are granted neither bodily autonomy nor bodily integrity; a world in which women's bodies are not permitted to be their own; a world in which women are pressured constantly to be different than how and who they are because women as they are are never enough.

Some women go crazy trying to meet these ever-shifting, impossible-to-attain standards.

If all of this wasn't bad enough, you have the added pressure, when it comes to weight loss, of being an inspiration to others. As if this is some huge privilege and not a colossal fucking burden.

Because when people make your body their inspiration, they are seeking to make your body responsible for their accomplishing their goals. Every bite of food, every workout cut short, every time you do not work out until you collapse in exhaustion, you are one step closer to failure, and then where would they be?

It's too much pressure. Rather than leaving me feeling complimented and my efforts appreciated, their focus on my body leaves me wanting to eat less, work out more, and grow thin enough to disappear completely. Maybe then, my body will no longer draw their attention.

What does leave me feeling appreciated and complimented is when people remark upon my dedication and efforts;  when people tell me that they are proud that I committed to making healthier choices and continue to dedicate myself to those changes.

But my body....

My body is nobody's business.

My body is not a canvas on which you are allowed to paint your hopes and dreams, fears and insecurities, curiosity and envy.

My body is a sacred temple, subject to the will of the divine and to my own will only.

Another Fat Girl Rant

I have a friend who does not understand the depth of my frustration and pain as I continue to lose weight through healthier food choices and exercise.

In the past, I've had people assume that it's just the best thing ever and I must be loving my new body and the attention it brings me.

I'm in therapy because of my weight loss and the changes taking place in my body.

I cry about it. A lot.

I struggle to love and honor my body, sometimes over-training to the point of exhaustion, unable to function properly the next day, and yet I continue to work out anyway, because I'm willing to pay the physical cost of doing too much if I can avoid the emotional cost of doing less, even if intellectually I know my body needs a break and I am doing myself no favors by pushing myself beyond my limits.

Looking in the mirror, I see all of things that I still want to change about my body. I see all of the imperfections that could be perfected. I do not see the changes and how my body has gotten smaller, I only see how fat it still is and all the parts that do not look the way they are "supposed" to look.

Though self-loathing is hard enough to deal with in this fat-phobic culture in which we live, it is made even more difficult to stand against when well-meaning people make some of the most painfully degrading comments imaginable, with the intent of complimenting my weight loss.

"Wow!" said one woman, several years ago when I lost weight the first time.

"What?" I responded.

"I just got a glimpse of what a knock-out you're going to be if you keep losing weight."

Because my physical appearance is the only beautiful part of me, or at least the most important.

Though it was unrelated to this comment, I went on to regain 100 of the 150lbs I had lost.

Having re-lost that 100lbs and then a few more, I knew to expect the comments this time. I knew they were coming. I knew I would have to find a way to mentally re-frame them, because I cannot have the conversation in which I ask, "What is it you're really trying to communicate?" with every person I know. I wouldn't do it well and I do not want to alienate people who are simply trying to love me.

The remarks this time around are similar. I knew it was coming. I thought I would be prepared for it.

"I just can't get over how pretty you're becoming now that you've lost so much weight."

How pretty I'm becoming. Because I wasn't pretty before? My basic structure has stayed the same, there's just a bit less fat in my face.... Because beauty that comes closer to meeting the unrealistic physical standards in our society is more important than a beautiful spirit or beautiful acts or beautiful words?

"I just can't get over how beautiful you're getting! .... Do you think a man may be in your future?"

Because no one would want a fat woman? Because only the thin are deserving of love? Because my value as a human being is not only tied primarily to my appearance, but my ability to catch and keep a man?

Yes, I cry a lot about my weight loss and my changing body. Far more than I ever cried about being fat.

I spend more time looking in a mirror critiquing all of the parts that are not yet good enough. This, for the record, would be all of them.

The ironic part of all of this is that what motivated me initially to take better care of myself was not the insults or stares or abuse lobbed at me by our fat-phobic, fat-hating, fat-shaming culture.

Shame does NOT produce lasting change.

It was the unconditional love of my best friend who has always told me how beautiful I am at any size. It was her unconditional love and support and desire to not watch me die an early death that motivated me to take those first steps into greater health again.

And the frustrating response has been further body-shaming by a society that feels an intense need to control women by policing their bodies, always dictating that our value is wholly dependent on our appearance and relationship status, nothing else.

Now, as a thinker on the MBTI, I can tell you that if you want to capture my heart and get me excited and engaged, make me think. Start with the brain. Go hard-core intellectual on me.

The reverse holds true, and for that I am grateful.

If I am experiencing something emotionally and do not know how to process it, I'll intellectualize it and work through it, understanding it with my intellect so that I can discern why I'm having the emotional response I'm having or I can reset my emotional compass.

So, having looked at my body in the mirror (again) and having found all of the things I hate about my body (again) (and all of it), I decided to do some research. Surely there had to be resources somewhere. Surely, somewhere, some kind of scholarly article had been written about massive weight loss, the appearance of specific body regions, body dysmorphia, common experiences, and resources that help.

What I found in the first scholarly article returned in my search results was published on the National Institute of Health website. This is what I read:

Weight loss patients usually desire thighplasty. Hating their appearance, they hide under tent-like skirts and baggy pants. Panniculectomy further exposes the unsightliness. Repugnant odors emanate. Some are tormented by red chafed skin under folds. Sagging inner thighs couple with an overhanging abdominal apron and mons pubis rob self-esteem. The patients shun intimacy. (emphasis mine)

The article goes on to indicate that most patients really do want this surgery; doctors just need to convince them to accept the physical scars that will be apparent following the surgery.

Now, this was an article on a new technique for cosmetic surgery to address the issue of excess skin following massive weight loss. And maybe, given the fact that this is an article about cosmetic surgery, I ought to have expected the fat-shaming language used by the doctor who pioneered this particular technique.

But I didn't.

I read that paragraph in the medical literature and the conclusion I drew was not that I had made a choice to become healthier and this is commendable. The conclusion I drew was not that my physical appearance is the least important part of who I am. The conclusion I drew was not that I am valuable and worthy and loved and lovely no matter what.

What I read in that paragraph is that I am unsightly. What I read in that paragraph is that I am repugnant. What I read in that paragraph is that I am unworthy of self-esteem. What I read in that paragraph is that I should shun intimacy, because I used to be a gross, fat, disgusting human being and while I've lost a significant portion of my excess weight, my body still bears those marks and that is what speaks to my complete lack of value.

And of course, I have learned through years of body-shaming and verbal abuse that I should not expect empathy or compassion, because I brought this on myself by living most of my life 200 lbs overweight. It's my fault that my body looks like this, it is my fault that I do not have any value in this society, it is my fault that I will never be worthy of love or acceptance because I'm the one who made the choices that led me to this moment in the first place.

I wonder how differently this paragraph in the article would read if phrased as such:

Many patients report hating their appearance and using voluminous skirts and baggy pants to hide. Many patients also indicate that panniculectomy accentuates their thighs. Many patients also express concerns about odor from moisture and bacteria trapped between skin folds. Many patients indicate they feel robbed of self-esteem and they shun intimacy as a result. Thighplasty may be one method by which dignity and esteem can be restored to these patients, helping to foster body-confidence that may restore their ability to engage in intimacy again.

I called my best friend and told her that I want to excise large portions of my body and I'd like to start with my genitals.

To answer the question, "No. There will be no man in my future ever, because my genitals are ugly, disgusting, and no man would ever want to be intimate with me once they saw my lady-bits anyway."

I wish she had been in a place to have a conversation about the bigger issues, this incredible woman who loves me unconditionally and who truly believes I am beautiful no matter my size.

I am very fortunate, indeed, that I have several friends who will speak the truth to me.

I have several friends who will say to me, "Your value comes from God alone, not from your outward appearance," and "Hey, I value you a lot as a person no matter what size your body is!"

In a fat-phobic, fat-hating, body-shaming culture, I need to hear these messages far more than I need to hear how pretty I'm becoming. Even if I know what these people are trying to communicate is, "It's obvious that you are prioritizing your health and making self-care a real part of your life. I'm glad for you."

I wish that more people were aware of what their words communicate, and I wish they would make better choices to communicate unconditional love and acceptance rather than shame. Because unconditional love and acceptance are far more powerful at affecting change than shame will ever be.

Getting Real About Stuff

I know I have a few readers who manage to find my posts even when I do not share them via facebook. I fervently hope my family is not amongst them.

If we share DNA, STOP READING RIGHT NOW!!!!! Please.

*****

I struggle with disordered eating patterns. I do not have an eating disorder.

I eat healthy foods. I do not eat in a healthy way.

I use food to manage my emotions. I have to work really hard to use food to fuel my body.

People often ask me for my secret. "What are you doing? How have you lost so much?"

I tell them the truth: I eat a lot of vegetables, lean proteins, and legumes. With very rare exceptions, I do not eat processed food. If I cannot tell by looking at it what it was in nature, I'm not likely to put it in my mouth. I do not eat refined sugar.

I do not tell them that both my primary care physician and my therapist are concerned about how I talk about food.

People assume this is difficult or requires some enormous degree of discipline or will power.

I do not them the truth: it is simple. Quite easy, in fact.

I made a choice to change my eating habits. Having made that choice, all other options ceased to exist for me.

Because I have an incredibly high need for rules. I am rigidly structured. I have a high need for control.

That so much of my life in the last year has felt out of control (multiple deaths and multiple other traumas), it is not surprising to either myself or my therapist, that I have become rigidly structured and highly controlled in how I eat; in what I eat.

I started it as a way to manage my anxiety.

And it works.

Until it doesn't.

Because losing weight and the focus it has put on my body creates a whole new kind of anxiety.

As I discussed these disordered eating habits and the distorted thought processes that contribute to it, with my therapist yesterday, I made a startling discovery.

It really is possible to choke on your words.

Literally.

I also discovered the source of so much of my anxiety, so much of my need for control, so much of my desire for a rigidly structured life, so much of my inability to function in chaos and uncertainty.

I choked on the word "acceptable." It took me three tries to get the word out. I finally managed it, but barely.

We were talking about my food and body issues and my need for control and my distorted thought patterns and how to change those thought patterns.

"Is there any other way to do it? I mean, is there a trick to it? A shortcut? Or do I really just have to constantly re-affirm that my body is good and healthy? More than good, that it's okay. Do I really just need to retrain my brain, rewrite those tapes through repetition, that my body is acce...."

I took a breath. I cleared my throat. "Acce...."

I took a deep breath and blew it out. I cleared my throat again. "Ac...cept...able," I nearly whispered, as tears streamed down my face. "I know exactly what triggered it," I told my therapist.

I know the trigger that started me down this path, back in April. The words that remained unspoken that left me fighting waves of nausea on a daily basis, restricting calories, and increasing my physical activity in an effort to feel in control so that I would not feel like I will never be good enough, that I will never be valuable, that I will never be lovable, that I will never be worthy, that I am not acceptable for so many reasons. I had already lost 30 lbs in the previous 6 months by cutting sugar out of my life. I've since lost an additional 70 lbs.

New mental tape. New thoughts. Rewrite the script.

That's the hard work.

That's the part that takes effort.

Not eating sugar is ridiculously easy by comparison.

I am good enough.

I am valuable.

I am lovable.

I am loved.

I am worthy.

I am acce....

Still more work to be done.

How Humans are Like Lichens

It occurs to me that it is not at all inappropriate to liken humans to lichen.

(See what I did there?)

Lichens are composite organisms living in a symbiotic relationship. Fungus and either bacteria or algae.

Like so much in life, the whole is different than the sum of its parts.

It occurred to me that humans are like this. We are made up of two parts: a body and a mind.

The body is made of muscle, bone, tendons, ligaments, vital organs, and brain.

The mind is the part of you that carries the youness that make you you.

The body needs the mind for animation, like the captain of a ship.

The mind needs a body to live out its purpose.

Much as lichens are different than the composite of their parts, and much as different parts will get you different varieties of lichens, so too a person would be vastly different than they are if their mind resided in a different body. For the body is the vehicle through which the mind engages the world. Just as the mind drives the body, so our bodily experience of the world shapes our minds.

For the longest time, I believed that I was not my body. I separated my me-ness completely from my body. As I lost weight and regained weight, there was never a sense that I was different. Just that my vehicle had changed.

Yet during that time, I came to appreciate my body and how it existed in the world. I came to experience my me-ness within the particular body I have. I began to identify myself as not just a mind which happened to reside in this body; rather I began to think of myself as a whole person who was body and mind and different than the sum of those parts.

Losing weight again has left me feeling confused at times, as I feel like my body is a stranger, as though it does not belong to me, and I do not know myself because I do not know this body.

I cannot separate the two, however. So, I look to the whole and I acknowledge the ways my new body engages the world and all of the wonderful things I can experience differently now because I experience them in a different body.

And perhaps I will become more adaptable as a person because I must adapt to my new and different body. Maybe this will be a wonderful growth opportunity.

Or maybe not. Who knows.

Maybe I just like being likened to lichen.

An Open Letter to Leering Creepers

Dear Creeper:

Let me begin by saying that your actions this evening were not appreciated.

I love running. I try to do a bit of running each day. Most days I get a 1/2 mile in before work. On particularly good days when my knees aren't hurting and my shins aren't beginning to ache in a way that makes me wonder how I'll manage to get up the stairs at the end of my run, and when it's hot enough that I'm finally feeling warm just being in the sunshine but not so humid I feel like I'm swimming through the air, I can get in another 1 1/2 to 1 3/4 miles after work.

And that's what I was doing this evening.

In my running shorts (which I finally realize are NOT a fashion statement but serious exercise equipment) and my two-sizes-too-big cami and my beloved Brooks.

And this is where I was this evening, a half mile into my run, when you showed up.

I love running. For me, running is a meditative act. It is a time when I am fully present in the moment. All that matters is this moment, this breath, this step.

I love running. When I am running, I feel strong, confident, and powerful. I love those feelings even if I cannot yet carry them over into other areas of my life.

There are very few things that can pull me out of this meditative state. One is most certainly traffic, because body shame runs deep and is taught to women beginning in their girlhood and it is something we will likely battle for the remainder of our lives. I understand we have begun teaching this body shame to men and boys in recent years, and this makes me sad.

But, there you have it. A car on the roadway will usually snap me into a state of self-conscious awareness of what I might look like to the individual driving past and what might they be thinking and what business does a fat girl have running anyway, slightly thinner or not?

Because I am self-aware, because I know that this is where my mind tends to go; because I know that this is my struggle, I can acknowledge that vehicle on the roadway, I can acknowledge the feelings it evokes, and I can re-center myself on this moment, this foot fall, this breath before our paths actually cross.

Not so this evening.

Whereas most cars will continue on their way at 55 or 60 mph, crossing the center line to give me a wider berth, you slowed down to about 30 mph. And then, you turned your head and leered at me as you passed by.

Not cool.

Let me tell you a few things about myself so that you can know me more as a human being rather than merely as an object of your leering gaze.

Although I was mistaken for a high school student as little as a month ago, I'm 32 years old. (That many people remark upon my youthful appearance and believe that I must be younger than I am, if you're among those who cannot tell my true age, your leering makes you an even bigger creeper).

Because I am in my 30s, let me assure you, I am not working off a little extra baby fat. I've lost 98 lbs since I started making lifestyle changes 11 months ago. This weight loss has carried a heavy burden.

Beneath my short running shorts and two-sizes-too-big cami, I carry loose, saggy, and rather wrinkled extra skin that bears the marks of having recently been stretched over a great deal more body. Rather than my skin holding my body together, it seems that my body is holding onto my skin.

Furthermore, beneath that loose, saggy, wrinkled skin, I'm carrying another 88 lbs of wobbly, gelatinous, excess fat. And as I run, it wobbles and jiggles like Jell-o; the saggy fat filled pockets of skin across my abdomen swaying from side to side like a flesh-toned, silent metronome. You could pull out an instrument and time music to its swy. I'd recommend a funeral dirge, considering my incredibly slow pace.

Additionally, I am fully confident that were I one of those women who felt comfortable running in nothing but tiny shorts and a sports bra, rather than slowing down and leering, you would have instead averted your eyes, sped up, and fervently prayed, "Dear God Almighty, please burn that image from my retinas."

As it happens, your slowing down and leering not only pulled me out of my meditative state and evoked feelings of self-consciousness and body shame, it also left me feeling vulnerable, at best, weak and terrified, at worst. Which, given the culture in which we live, I imagine was, if not your intent, certainly an effect of which you cannot be unaware.

Having this effect on women does not make you strong, powerful, masculine, macho, or important. Engaging in these behaviors with the intent to frighten women makes you a bully; someone who is dangerous and threatening.

In the event that you are simply willfully ignorant of how your behaviors dehumanize and objectify women (and which, as a result, can be quite frightening to the women at whom you leer), you're just a garden variety douche-bag.

So, please, the next time you see me running along the side of the road, do not slow down, do not leer, do not watch me in your rear view mirror. Keep your eyes on the road! It's safer that way for you as a driver anyhow.

Do that and rather than being disgusted by and frightened of you, I might instead respect you and appreciate the respect you've shown me.

Sincerely,
A Slightly Thinner Fat Girl, running

Confessions of a Slightly Thinner Fat Girl, Part III

I focus on my body and the changes I feel.

I focus on my body and the changes I can see in the parts.  I still cannot see changes when I look at the whole.

Looking in the mirror, I visually carve my body into bits and pieces -- clavicles, ulnar processes, patellas, scapulae, zygomatic bones, hairline, double chin.

This segmenting of my body is disconcerting.  The idea that I am cutting myself into sections, if only visually, leaves me wondering about possible connections to my history of self-mutilation.

My therapist says I'm focusing on the changes in my body and may be losing sight of what hasn't changed -- who I am.  I know that she is right in this regard:  When I feel fear or panic or discomfort, I'm connecting my identity, my sense of self, to how I understand my body to appear/work rather than to who I know myself to be as a person.

Still, there are questions, concerns, fears, and anxiety about my body.

Who I am has not changed.  Yet, I still want my body to be the best possible body.  Not my best possible body, taking into account where I started and what I've been through.  I want the best possible body of all human bodies.

A friend of mine recently forwarded me a blog post about the recent resurgence of the modesty debate. This debate has not waned with the closing of summer as he had hoped, and so he threw in his two cents.

Now, I love my friend.  I appreciate him.  I have a great deal of respect for him.  He is simply amazing.

And I really appreciate his stance, particularly as a Christian leader, that we as a culture, particularly in the church, need to stop policing women's bodies.

What I had not anticipated in editing his post was feeling inadequate, unlovely, unworthy, worth less and deeply hurting because of the shape of my body, and in particular, the shape of specific parts of my body.

I'm not blaming my friend or his honesty.  In fact, that he would write so bluntly and that he consistently demonstrates himself to be a man of integrity is one of the reasons I count him among my closest friends.

That his truth was hurtful to me did serve as a signpost of work I still need to do.

I do not know if I will ever have the body I want.  I do plan to continue striving to reach a healthy weight and have a body that does all the things I want it to do, with ease.  I hope when I have transformed my current body into my new body, I will want the body I have.

What frustrates and frightens me in this, however, is the focus I find myself putting on making certain aspects of my body more "acceptable" and appealing.  Parts of my body that are not likely to be seen by anyone other than me.

I find myself considering what it might be like not just to cut up, segment, reduce my body to parts and pieces as I gaze at my reflection in the mirror, but rather wondering if it might be possible to cut up, segment, and reduce my body, in parts and pieces, under a surgeon's knife, in an effort to make there be less of me physically, in the hopes that it makes me more.

Breaking Through Barriers

Very few marketing campaigns are particularly memorable to me.  I wrote previously about Heinz ketchup and Timex watches, but those are rare exceptions.

Today, I am happy.  I am full of positive anticipation.  I am excited.  I am filled to the brim, overflowing, with joy!

And all of this anticipation, excitement, and joy remind me of...NBC.

Back in the late '80s and early '90s (when we had never had cable, and NBC was the only channel that came in half-way decent most days, and then there were the days when we didn't have electricity at all), NBC ran a Public Service Announcement campaign.  (Apparently these continue today, but I haven't watched TV on a regular basis in years).

I do not remember the specifics of any of the PSAs shown.  What I do remember is the Francis Bacon quote (Knowledge is power), the image of the shooting star, the jingle, and "The more you know...." followed by the peacock.

Francis Bacon stuck.  "The more you know" stuck.  There is nothing in this world that frustrates me so much as knowledge hoarding.  It drives me crazy.

And there is nothing that delights me so much as figuring things out, knowing and understanding, gaining knowledge so that I am empowered.

That is how I feel now.  Empowered.  And empowerment fills me with positive anticipation, excitement, and joy!

This past Monday, I wrote a blog about body memory and the struggle I've been having lately.  Now, many of my blog posts lately have been about body memory--PTSD and the issues triggered by weight loss, particularly proportionate body size differences, and how uncomfortable, fearful, and frustrated I feel when I'm in close proximity to men who are much larger than I am.

None of this, however, explained the underlying frustration, need for comfort, and absolute rage I was carrying with me all the time.  Until I figured it out on Sunday.  And I blogged about it on Monday morning.

Monday afternoon, I spent some time hanging with my bestie--an absolute rock star, a paragon of human kindness and love.  I shared with her this experience I had had with realizing the connection between my emotional experience and my current body size and Tim.

She understood the extraordinary response I was having to the changes in my body.  She asked how I thought I would respond when I reached a weight lighter than I've ever been in my adult life -- just 20 lbs away.  I honestly told her I did not know.  Trepidation was certainly on the menu, but other than that....

Then, I woke up on Tuesday.  And I smiled all the way to work.

At first, I couldn't quite figure out why.

Then, I realized, it's because I knew.  I knew why I was freaking out about my body.  Even though the reason I'm freaking out sucks and nothing will ever change it, just knowing why was enough to resolve the freak out.

Suddenly, I was HAPPY with my body.  I was THRILLED with the changes I was seeing.  I was DELIGHTED by the fact that even my STFG clothes from 6 years ago are getting to be a bit baggy on me.

More than knowing why I was freaking out, I realized that I know a few other things:

• It's okay to be angry with God
• I already survived Tim's death
• It's okay to still be sad
• It's okay to miss Tim
• I am loved

When I got home from work on Tuesday, I put on the Brooks I'd purchased Monday morning and I went for a run.

I realized a few more things on my run:

• I do not care that I cannot yet run for a particularly long distance
• I do not care that my stride is relatively short
• I do not care that I cannot yet run particularly fast

Because I've already survived the loss, and because it's okay to be angry with God, and because it's okay to still miss Tim, I also came to the realization that best way I can possibly honor Tim and honor my relationship with Tim is to become the woman God created me to be.

Tim and I were working on "clearing the roadblocks" in my path to success.  I remember after he died, when he visited me in a dream one night, as the dream was ending and he was leaving me, the last thing he said to me was this:  Do not let my death become another roadblock.

Becoming the woman God created me to be means becoming the woman I am called to be in all aspects of my life: emotional, mental, spiritual, and physical.

Running makes me happy.  I love it.  I have missed it.  I am happy to be back to it, even if I'm slow, and short-strided, and cannot go far.

What I'm most grateful for in this journey, though, is that while my body has always served me well (certainly much better than I have served my body) -- my body has always done what I have needed my body to do -- each day, my body does a little bit more of what I want it to do.

I'm breaking through all of those barriers.  It may not be fast.  It may not be easy.  I may not do it in a refined or pretty fashion.  But I know that I am not alone in this journey.

So, when I do lose another 20 lbs and my body is thinner, stronger, healthier than it has ever been, what I will be feeling is anticipation, empowerment, excitement, and JOY!

Body Memory from a Slightly Thinner Fat Girl

I am sitting in a coffee shop with my sister wanting a hug.  A hug from just about anyone in the world but her.

Do not misunderstand.  I love my sister.  I love when she hugs me.  But she's tiny. Six inches shorter than I am, with arms to match.

And I am anxious.  Filled to the brim with so much anxiety I can scarcely see straight, or breathe, or feel anything but anger and fear.

What I need in this moment is a tight, powerful, full-body, compressive hug.  Something that I feel through the whole of my body and which reminds me of where my newer, smaller body ends and the rest of the world begins.  Anything light will serve only to make me feel worse, not better.

TB has moved to Texas.  N has not just ended our dates, but despite his insistence that he would like to remain friends has not answered my call and has unfriended me on facebook.  Which is confusing in itself, but another story.

I reach out to K, but she does not get the message in time.

After my sister heads out, I finish up the work I have sitting before me, and I pack up to go home.

On the drive, my key fob brushes my knee and I feel as though flies are crawling over my entire body, their feather-light touch irritating and enraging me.

The circle-swirl paperclip I'm using to replace the lost screw in my sunglasses turns and brushes my temple, and I want to rip them off and throw them out the window.

I get home and try to take a few deep breaths, thinking perhaps if I can relax and read a good book, maybe I'll be okay.  But someone is making noise in the kitchen, and I want nothing more than charge downstairs and punch whoever it is in the face, because the sounds are driving me fucking insane!

I change into shorts, a t-shirt, my athletic shoes and I head out for a walk.  Someone lets the dog out five minutes after I leave and she shortly catches up with me.

I do not want her with me, walking in the middle of the road with cars whizzing by at 65mph, or walking closely enough to me that she brushes up against me, or strikes me with her tail.  I do not want her stopping in front of me for a bit of affection and tripping me up as I move purposefully up the hill.

I yell at her to go home, but she stays faithfully with me, rolling in mud puddles when she gets the chance, chasing the bird, frolicking in the corn fields when she isn't pacing the blacktop.

After two miles, I turn and head home.  I'm halfway there when I stop and begin to cry.  Great heaving sobs and tears stream down my face.  I just need a fucking tight compressive hug so that I can breathe freely.

Gasping for air, I pull up the hem of my shirt and sob into it, trying to stem the flood of tears.  Slowly, they subside and I wipe my face dry.

All I can feel is incredible fucking rage.  And I have no idea why that makes me cry in this moment.

As I continue on my way I remember very powerfully the feeling of my mother's arms around me, her whispering, "I'm sorry you're so sad," of feeling as though I might be okay again if I just let go, and her hasty retreat before I can even begin to appreciate her touch as she exits the van and heads into the house.  That was five and a half years ago, but suddenly I feel exactly the same.

"I haven't felt this way since Tim died," I say out loud.

I look down at my body.  The body I had when I met him.  A body that was 19 lbs lighter than it is now when he died.

Oh.

I see it now.  What my body has remembered all along.  Five years of consuming sugar and highly processed foods and gaining 115 lbs of fat silenced it, but could not make it forget.  It remembers.  Losing 96 lbs in the last 10 months has forced me to remember, too.

Yes, it lives in the body.

I miss his hugs.  I miss his smile.  I miss his laugh.  I miss the music he made, always with a song or a hum or a whistle.  I miss his touch, his hand on my arm as he made a point.  I miss knowing that I am safe and secure and deeply loved by this man.  I miss knowing that I have an advocate who will fight tooth and nail for me.  I miss knowing that there was a person in this world who could fix anything.

I remember that first morning, walking silently behind Michael and Kym, thinking to myself, "Whatever it is, Tim can fix it."

Sitting on the couch, both of them standing before me, as Kym said, "Tim Fauvell died last night."

"Tim can't fix that," was the only thought I had.

Today I am angry.  I am so incredibly fucking angry with God for taking him away from me.

Greeting the Stranger in My Skin

My father is giant. He must be at least ten feet tall. Even now that I am grown and am at least an inch taller than he is.

This is what I remember: hugging him when I was only tall enough to wrap my arms around his knees; sitting on his foot and wrapping my arms around his mid-calf, clinging desperately to him as he gave me a "ride" around the house; sitting on his shoulders and stretching up, up, up in an intense effort to touch the lintel of the doorway between the kitchen and dining room.

Today I can stretch up on my toes and touch the ceiling of my bedroom, another person's shoulders unnecessary.

My father worked construction and the shoulders on which I sat were ten feet wide and strong, built of solid ropes of muscle.

An abusive alcoholic, my father used his tall and broad muscular body as a weapon against those much smaller and weaker than himself. I do not remember when the physical abuse of my family members began. Perhaps it was always a part of our family culture.

Because of this, I have come to subconsciously equate size with power. It does not matter whether that size is height or width. It does not matter whether someone is larger than me because they are more overweight or because they have more muscle mass. The simple fact is, at some point, the difference between my own size and another's is intimidating at best and terrifying at worst.

Even with those I know and trust and love. Even with those with whom I am totally secure, totally confident, with whom I feel totally safe. My diminished size has left me feeling weak and vulnerable and those who were previously the same size or smaller than me, now being larger than me, evoke feelings of discomfort and anxiety.

My own body leaves me steeped in feelings of discomfort and anxiety.

Trauma lives in the body. It's like muscle memory: train a muscle to respond to stimuli in a particular way, and it will become second nature. 20,000 hours of practice is what it takes to master a skill. 20,000 hours of muscle training.

Trauma beats out training. It is kind of instantaneous. Traumatize the body and that trauma lives in the body and continues to function as part of that body. The body remembers that trauma.

As my body has shrunk, the traumas I have experienced have not. They continues to live and thrive within my body. It is like another entity sharing space, except the space is smaller, and because the trauma is not, the trauma has become proportionately larger. It feels huger and more significant. No amount of self-talk seems capable of silencing the voice of trauma.

The best I seem able to hope for is acknowledging its presence and redirecting the anxiety it provokes. The best I can hope for is being able to manage the symptoms, because the trauma will never go away. Like a broken bone, the fracture, though healed, will always be present.

Giants terrify me. Be they people or emotions or traumas. When faced with giants, I respond in the same way every time: terror, anxiety, flight.

In the world of fight or flight responses, I have never been a fighter. I have always been one to flee and hide.

What happens when one cannot run from the giant living in one's own skin? What does it means to live each day with that giant inside of oneself? How does one function in a near constant state of terror and anxiety?

How does one find peace and rest?

Can one learn new responses? Is it possible to re-frame the current experience, giving it new boundaries, new shape? Can one possibly divorce the current from the former and learn to interpret the current experience outside of trauma?

When I feel my body is changing and I do not know what it means, can I choose to rejoice in transformation rather than hide in fear? When I see the changes, can I choose to embrace them rather than mourn them?

When I feel alien in my own skin, can I welcome myself with hospitality, as I would a stranger, and extend an invitation to deeper knowledge? Can I learn to learn myself in the ways I might learn a new friend?

Can I choose to view these things as transformation and rejoice in a sense of renewal?

Will my new body perhaps one day be a body that does not know the trauma of my past?

I am a stranger in my own skin, and I am learning myself all over again. It is discomfiting not to know my own body, to feel such a divorce between my mind and my physical form. But, perhaps as I learn my body, my body will also learn me, and together something new and beautiful can be created.

Showering Slightly Thinner Fat Girl Style

I touch every part of my body in the shower.  I run my hands up my arms and over shoulders, down my breasts and ribcage and belly, my back and buttocks and legs.

I note how each portion of my body feels beneath my fingertips.

I do this because when I look at my whole self in the mirror, I cannot see changes.  It is only when I look at a piece, a part, catch an accidental glimpse that I see clearly how my body is different.  And it's disconcerting to see myself broken into pieces that are so different from their place in the whole.

Perhaps if I can feel the changes first, I will be able to see them in the whole.  Perhaps if I can feel how my body has changed, it won't be so frightening to see the differences in the parts.

As I run my hands over my shoulders, I begin to panic.  It is the first time I have felt the spine of my scapula.  It is distinct and I can feel how the head of my humorous rolls beneath my acromion.  "It's okay.  This is normal," I say out loud to try and calm myself.

I pause in my tactile examination.  I turn my back to the spray and breathe as it pounds against my back in a soothing rhythm.

That isn't quite right.  Normal is not a good term.  It is too subjective.  I take a deep breath and try again.  "It's okay.  This is healthy."

I take another deep breath and continue my shower, noting the increased definition in my arms, how much smaller my breasts are, how much less belly I have to lift to wash beneath as I look forward to a time when I won't have to lift it at all, how my skin now droops through my abdomen and my belly button seems to have almost disappeared beneath the loose and sagging skin, the bow of my ilium, how my thighs are smaller and how distinctly I can feel my greater trochanter, the boniness of my patella; I note the divot between my superior ulnar process and my pisiform as  I soap up and rinse off.

I wrap a towel around me and head upstairs, feeling how my hamstrings move beneath my hands.

Once in my room, I wrap my hair in a second towel.

Pausing in my routine, I head to the bathroom to fill my glass with water; I catch my reflection in the mirror above the sink.  In the early morning, with the eastern sun filling the room from behind me, for the first time in my life, my cheekbones are visible without the aid of fishy kisses.  "It's okay," I say out loud.  "This is healthy."  Then, to reinforce the message, I smile at myself.

The apples of my cheek stand out in stark contrast to the sharp distinction of my cheekbones when I smile.  Immediately, tears spring to my eyes and begin running down my cheeks.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, no longer smiling.  "It's okay," I say, taking a deep breath, holding it, releasing it.  "This is healthy.  I am safe."

I continue to breathe.

PTSD Related Body Issues of a Slightly Thinner Fat Girl

Things have been hard. And I was managing beautifully until Tuesday. Then, I took my dog for a walk in the morning. I started a weight routine. I looked in the mirror as I was getting ready for work when I got back.

What I saw there sent me into a panic. An overwhelming sense of "I can't...." What, precisely, I cannot, I do not know. I just know that I can't...something.

I went to work and cried for the first two hours as I steadily plugged away at my duties. Just before 9:00, I called my former therapist to make an appointment. I left a message for a callback.

On my first break, I tried again, but got voicemail again. This is not particularly surprising. I called TB. "Tell me everything will be okay?" I asked him. "I called my therapist to make an appointment, but I thought, in the meantime, what with you being a formerly fat kid, maybe you'd have a minute...."

"Yeah, I mean, I can't talk because I'm on my way to OKC with a group of sleeping high schoolers in the back of my van, but you're doing great. You'll get through this. And, you know, if you need to talk, I can certainly listen right now."

So, I cried, because I needed to and because I felt safe and it was good. And then we chatted about his trip to OKC and his impending week as a camp counselor, and he teased me about my use of gender neutral language, and just as I was about to ask my classic question ("Why are you so mean to me?"), I realized what he had done and I said, "Thank you for being mean to me."

My timer went off and I headed back to work.

About an hour later, my phone rang. My therapist was calling back. I high-tailed it off the floor and answered. "Do you do work with or can you recommend someone who does work with anxiety and body issues?" I asked.

She could work with that.

This is what is hard: My body feels different. It moves differently. It takes up less space. It requires less force. My legs literally move in a different way and my foot falls more softly as I walk. It feels foreign, alien to me. I am not at home in my body and this is terrifying.

Even this I might have been okay with. Even this I might have managed to handle. But....

I look in the mirror and I cannot see any changes, though others tell me it's obvious.

I know that I am a smaller size because I've had to purchase or dig out of my closet smaller articles of clothing. But when I look in the mirror, I still see myself as I was 86 pounds ago.

Except.... On Tuesday, my collar bones showed up. And I panicked. At work, I avoid looking at my hands because I know the changes in them are prominent as well.

I was already upset and frustrated and struggling, oh Lord, struggling with the way people treat me. "What did you do? Stop eating altogether?" one woman at church asked. "What do you eat?" inquired another. "Do you ever bother to eat all?" asked a woman at work.

"I eat every day!" I tell them. "I eat vegetables and legumes and lean protein every single day." I turned to another co-worker, pleading for an ally. "She sees meet eat regularly! We share meals a few times a week! She can tell you I eat!" I declared.

"Hmmmmm.... Yeah, I can only say that I see you eat about once a week," she replied.

Completely alone to justify my weight loss. Why!? Why do I have to justify my weight loss to anyone? I eat fresh vegetables. I eat hummus. I eat baked fish and chicken. On occasion, I eat steak, medium-rare with sauteed mushrooms and caramelized onion and blue cheese. I eat real food. And I walk at least 6 miles a day, at least 6 days a week, at a moderate level of intensity. I walk because it helps reduce anxiety. And in the last week, I've added a 25 minute weight routine 3 days a week.

Yes, the weight loss may appear significant to others, but I do not see it at all. But 86 pounds in more than 9 months is not that much. It's about 2lbs a week. And recommendations for healthy and effective weight loss is 1-2 lbs a week. I'm right there.

The constant interrogations would have sent me to therapy eventually, but it was the mirror. Those collarbones. I just.... I looked at my reflection, and I began to cry. "I can't...." I do not know what I cannot. I only know I can't.

The next night, Wednesday as I awaited my appointment the following morning, I began to question things.

What happens if I get down to my goal weight and I'm still not enough? What happens if I never do any better at work than what I'm doing now? What if I can't perform? What if I can't meet someone's expectations?

What does it mean that my sense of accomplishment is currently tied to my weight in a very loose fashion such that I see the two as linked, but recognize that they might not be linked the way I want them to be?

What does it mean that when I worry I won't be enough, what I'm asking is, "What if being thin isn't sufficient to make me good enough for the love and validation of a man generally, and probably of a particular man specifically?"

What does it say about my relationship with a particular man and my emotional boundaries that my weight loss at times is linked more to a desire win him over than about my desire to be healthier and to run again?  Even if my primary motivation is health, even if 98% of the time it's about being able to do the things, physically, I want to do (because I really want to run again), what about that 2%?

What if no man ever loves or validates me as a woman no matter how thin I get?

What if 129 isn't enough? What happens if 126 becomes the next best thing? They say when it comes to weight loss people should set an unrealistic goal because people become lazy and settle for "good enough." What if I don't settle for "good enough" at 150 or 162? What if I truly do become determined to beat my fucking body into submission if it's the last God damned thing I do?

What if, no longer made invisible by my fat, I really do strive to become thin enough to disappear entirely?

With a history of abuse: verbal, physical, emotional, sexual; with so many people who have so abusively used my body; with so many instances of being robbed of bodily integrity and the right to body autonomy; with so many moments in which someone who did not have a right to know my body, chose to steal that knowledge of my body, at the very fucking least, I should know my body. I have should have that. I should be able to know my own body. And I don't. And it's terrifying.

And with a history of witnessing profound abuse during my childhood from those who used their physical size to intimidate and attack those weaker than themselves, I have a sense of being more physically vulnerable the smaller I become.

With so much else going on in my life: six deaths in six months in the past year, changing roles and inconsistent expectations at work, interrogations by congregants and co-workers, changes to my body that are terrifying as my own physicality feels like a stranger to me.... Is it any wonder that I am so rigidly controlling of my diet and exercise?

But.... With food and exercise being the only things I can control, what if, at some point, they start controlling me?

On Friday, another co-worker engaged me about my weight loss. It was done in a safe way. She and I have discussed the trauma of body changes and she understands.

"Oh, hey!" she exclaimed. "You have collarbones!"

"Yep," I told her. "They showed up three days ago and became fairly prominent this morning."

And when I got home, I went for a walk.

Changing Shape and Body Relationships, Slightly Thinner Fat Girl Perspective

I don't feel safe with TB because I do not trust myself.

The last time I was with him, I was broken and at the end of my capacity to manage anything more, and then I asked for a hug. And I was sleep deprived, and exhausted, and tapped out, and overwhelmed, and I did not let go. Worse than not letting go, I nuzzled into his neck and told him how incredible he smelled. And still he hugged me, letting me end the hug when I was ready.

Let me just take a moment to acknowledge how completely, fucking inappropriate this was on my part. Boundary. Violation. Big time. I kind of suck as a human being.

So, there I am, and we're discussing his friend, and I mention that I don't feel safe with BG, and TB says he doesn't find him threatening, which surprises me, and he says, "Well, it's not as though I'm in danger of him raping me," and I think, "Well, yeah. That's basically it, right? The man is incredibly sexually threatening to me, and I do not feel safe with him. And whether this is justified and fair or not, I'm trusting my gut, because I have too much experience with what happens when I do not trust my gut and give people the benefit of the doubt."

And I do not feel totally safe with TB. But not because of who TB is. Rather because of how I respond to him.

But then, this weird thing happened.

We walked down to the gas station to get a Diet Coke.

And on the walk back, we were waiting for the light at the intersection. The intersection is in the middle of an incline, and he was standing toward the top of the incline, towering over me.

I was so incredibly uncomfortable with this. And it largely boils down to the weight I've lost. Suddenly, I was acutely aware of my slightly diminished stature. Because of my smaller size, despite being faster and more agile and likely stronger, I feel physically more vulnerable. Which in turn leaves me feeling more emotionally vulnerable.

Then, later in the weekend, TB was showing me a YouTube video on his tablet. I was seated in the big chair, and he sat on the arm, and was leaning over me holding the tablet, and again, I was acutely aware of how much smaller my body is now than it was when I first visited him 9 months ago, and when I first met him nearly two years ago.

He feels correspondingly huger.

Which is weird. Because I do not know what it means, this change in our physical relatedness.

When he hugs me, he feels stronger. Which means the hug feels safer and warmer. I feel more protected and more sheltered in those hugs.

And yet, when it's just a matter of his being over me, physically, it totally freaks me out. There is no good reason for this. No reason at all, really.

I mean, on the one hand, I do not trust myself to always be able to act with the utmost respect in regards to maintaining super strict boundaries. With good reason. See above. I suck.

This was different.

I did not feel even remotely threatened by his being physically over me. But I do feel less safe in one more way that I cannot totally make any sense of.

Rather than feeling threatened, I was just physically aware of him and me and our respective bodies in a way I haven't been before. And I do not know what that means or how to process it.

Whatever. It's weird.

And that's basically it.

Power Shopping, Slightly Thinner Fat Girl Style

I needed to update my wardrobe.

Mostly because everything I own is quickly becoming too large to be wearable. Some things I want to keep and I know I will have to find someone to do alterations. Others can just be thrown out because they are worn, stained, or have holes.

In the past couple of months I've picked up a variety of items as I've slowly begun to shrink. I have taken my mother shopping for wardrobe updates as well. In doing so, I have received a number of coupons. And, I earned a rebate check in the form of a merchandise voucher.

So, knowing that the coupons would expire in a week and the rebate check would expire at the end of the end of the month, I took my slightly thinner fat girl self to the plus size women's boutique and shopped.

And shopped.

And shopped.

And shopped.

I shopped for three hours straight.

Because I positively HATE the idea of purchasing anything full price, I started with their clearance rack, where everything was previously marked down AND would have an additional 40% taken off the lowest ticket price at the counter.

Then, I moved on to their sales racks -- $10 off this dress, $20 off these dresses, $10 off shorts.

The sales lady rang up my purchases and I read my total.

Not even close to using all of my coupons.

Off to the panties bins -- normally $16 a pair marked down to 5 for $25.

And the bra racks, normally $42 marked down to $20.

And that amazing dress I love, and, hey just in case something happens, why not have a second hanging in my closet. It'll save on wear and tear, too, since I'm likely to wear it whenever I get the chance.

And jewelry at buy 1 get 1 50% off, even though I rarely wear it. But I know this piece will go with the amazing dresses.

And their non-sale panties -- normally $16 a pair bundled at 3 for $30.

And socks.

FINALLY, some three hours later, I had used all of my coupons. I had used my merchandise voucher.

4 dresses
4 pairs of shorts (summer is here tomorrow)
1 skort
7 camis/knit shirts
13 pairs of panties
3 bras
1 pajama set
1 spanx
1 pair earrings
1 necklace
3 pairs socks

Then the saleswoman applied the coupons and applied the rebate check. In the end, I paid less than 1/4 of the list price on each item.

I believe I can safely cross "clothes shopping" off my list for at least the next year.

Confessions of a Slightly Thinner Fat Girl, Part II

Well meaning friends and co-workers have remarked on my weight loss. "You're getting so skinny!" they'll exclaim.

While I appreciate the encouragement and boost to my self-esteem, it is simply a fact that I am not getting skinny. I'm simply less fat.

I still have to shop at a plus-size women's boutique. I'm still two sizes into that boutique. Perhaps in another four months, I'll have to find a new boutique that caters to a different body type.

Even then, however, I will not be skinny. I will still be less fat and approaching something closer to merely overweight, rather than obese. I will be average.

It is also a fact that who I am has not changed at all in the last 60 pounds. All of the me that make me, well, me, is still here. Rattling around in that huge head and slightly less huge body of mine.

I will say, I suppose, that I am more prepared this time around. When I lost weight in grad school, I had never been so thin before, and it was traumatic.

I didn't know or understand my body. That was hugely disconcerting. The image in my head didn't match the image in the mirror and I had no idea who the person looking back at me was.

I was walking down the street one day and passed a newly constructed building on campus. The entire front wall of the building was glass. I happened to glance at the building and saw the reflection of a stunning woman walking close to me. I turned to see who she was, and only then realized that I had caught a glimpse of my own, much thinner, reflection. I ran into a ladies' room, locked myself in the first stall, sat on the toilet and cried.

I would go shopping and pick up clothing that was supposed to fit me (if a bit tightly) 4x, and find that hung off of me, and I would have to back for the 3x; nope, the 2x; nope, the 1x; nope, the XL.

I would sit on the floor of the dressing room in a panic, sobbing, because I did not know this body; and it was my body.

Where did my body go?

How did my body now engage the world?

What did it mean that my body was taking up so much less space? And yet had become so much more visible to others?

How did my body fill a space differently?

How did my body fit the world differently?

Why did I suddenly garner so much more attention?

Men smiled at me. Asked me for the time. When the next bus was expected. The quickest way to the train. All of this was weird.

Frightening were the men who would remark about their desire to engage physically with me.

I cried. A lot.

I haven't had that experience this time around.

I suppose in part because the change feels and looks much less dramatic to me, and because I am not yet thin enough to attract the gaze of men. I do not see any actual changes to my body. Before, when I lost weight, I lost it everywhere, but not everywhere all at once. When I regained it, I regained it disproportionately. The entire shape of my body had changed.

As I lose weight now, I seem to be losing it proportionately. My basic body shape has remained the same. I may be thinner, but the basic outline has not been altered. This makes it difficult for me to see the changes at all.

I know that my panties have fallen off, my pants are sagging, my shirts are baggy, and my breasts no longer fill out the cups of my bra as the band sits just above my waist. Therefore, I know I need to buy panties, pants, shirts, dresses, and bras that are all a size smaller. So, I remember to grab the next size down.

I look at my body in the mirror and I see great folds of fat that just kind of hang out. They've been hanging out for awhile. They'll continue to hang out for awhile longer. I do notice that my belly button is lower, that I have slightly more wrinkles in place of the fat. But it's still there.

Sometimes, I sigh and wonder why I was so terrified of my thinner body all those years ago rather than appreciative of it.

Mostly, I just look at my saggy fat and think, just X number of pounds to go and I can start running again! Because that was the biggest benefit to being a much thinner fat girl:  I could run.

None of that is what got me writing today, however.

Today, it is simply this:  I appreciate the compliments and attention. It means a lot to me that people have noticed the change.

Please remain cognizant, however, that my value is not inversely proportionate to my weight.

And remember to compliment my character occasionally as well. Because that will never change.

An Ode to Mom Jeans

Every once in awhile, one might find a snarky gossip column abusing women for their decision to wear high-waisted mom jeans.  They refer to it as a fashion faux-pas.  They write that it's not fashionable.  They tell us that women need to wear lower waisted jeans for a more flattering appearance.  Jessica Simpson is oft on the receiving end of such critiques.

Well, I'm here to disabuse you of the notion that high-waisted mom jeans serve no real function in the world of fashion.

High-waisted mom jeans are not now, nor have they ever been, nor will they ever be a fashion statement, positive, negative, or neutral.

High-waisted mom jeans are a vital containment devise for fat girls, a necessary vessel for keeping our fat rolls in check.

I know this because I am a fat girl.

I am once again a slightly thinner fat girl.  And I once again fit into my slightly thinner fat girl jeans.

As a fat girl, and not just an average fat girl, but at 5'10" a really tall, really fat fat girl, I know the importance of these jeans.

Having lost a pant size, I have been presented with two options:  purchase a belt or rifle through my wardrobe for smaller pants.

I went with the second.

I found three pair of wearable pants.  After a week, two pair were in the laundry, and I was left with one option:  bright red, low(er) waisted jeans with gold thread embroidery on the back (zippered) pockets.  These pants make a fashion statement.

That statement is this:  The last time I was a slightly thinner fat girl and unemployed, I desperately needed a pair of pants and these were on sale for $5.00.

That these pants sit lower on my hips than my traditional jeans is what sparked this blog.  Because as a tall girl with a long torso, it's difficult to find shirts that cover the gap betwixt the hem and waistband.  Let's be honest, people neither need nor want to see my jiggly fat rolls!

The single best method for keeping these jiggly rolls in line:  high-waisted mom jeans.  Every fat roll that falls below my waist is safely ensconced within my jeans.  Thus, they are neither jiggly nor visible to the rest of the world.  High-waisted mom jeans are worn as a favor to the world!

So, the next time you see a woman wearing this article of clothing, consider not whether it is trendy and fashionable.  Rather, be grateful that she has chosen to contain the jiggle, to keep the rolls in check, and to hide that extra wide expanse of flesh betwixt hem and waistband that no one needs to see anyway.

Confessions of a (Slightly Thinner) Fat Girl

Today, I missed my fat.

As a formerly very fat girl, who became an average girl, only to become a fat girl, and is now a slightly thinner fat girl, I knew this day was coming.

What was surprising was that it came so quickly. Seven weeks. That's all it took. Seven weeks and a guestimate of 35 pounds, and I miss my fat.

I remember the day I knew I had to make a change. It was my 24th birthday, and I awoke, unable to breathe. At 365 pounds, I was so heavy my weight was crushing me when I lay down. I woke up gasping for breath that day and knew that if I didn't make changes, I would die before the age of 30. Two years later, having made significant lifestyle changes including regular exercise and the consumption of primarily unprocessed foods, I had lost over 170 pounds.

Another two years later, following the loss of a significant loved one and some major trauma, and I had regained 115 pounds. Having been here before, I knew I would be here again. Last time, it took 18 months. This time, it took seven weeks.

I went shopping today. In general, I'm not a fan of shopping, and I usually find spending money to be an almost physically painful experience. Today, however, I enjoyed it. I needed panties that 1) fit and 2) aren't full of holes. I love lace and bows, polka-dots and ruffles. It was fruitful trip and I was delighted with my purchases.

As I walked home, a man leaving the post office looked at me. He scanned my body from head to foot to head and said, "Hey, gorgeous."

I would likely have had an excellent day had it stopped at that. Someone called me gorgeous, and it's not something one hears often.

But he didn't stop. As I continued on my way he called after me, "I sure would like to kiss you."

I felt visible. I felt exposed. I felt vulnerable. A complete stranger on the street saw me and spoke to me in a fashion that necessarily sexualized me.

As a fat girl, I was invisible. I was hidden. I was never vulnerable, and no one acknowledged that I had a sexuality. I was never spoken to on the street. I was never looked at in the face. If people looked at me (and they did), they openly stared at me from behind, their stares doing more emotional damage to my mother who often witnessed it than to me. As a fat girl, I was safe to walk down the street and know that no one would speak to me.

Today, a man on the street violated my sense of safety and security, verbally insinuating himself into my personal sphere, and he attacked my sense of dignity by sexually objectifying me. When I got home, I cried, and I talked to a friend about the experience.

Then, I put my panties away and played with my dog.

Today, for a brief moment, I missed my fat. Thanks to a good friend, I didn't miss it for long.